Wire Fences
︎︎︎ Leah Marie Johnson
︎ June 26, 2025
We might want to say hello to the cows as we pass them. We might want to introduce and feel seen by the brush as we move past. It seems only obvious that we tip our hats to the sun every morning when we wake, and say goodnight to the moon even though it will not dream. We want so badly to treat those around us well. We are good to others so we can be good to ourselves, and yet we still do not treat ourselves with as much kindness as that we bestow unto the birdfeeder. Regular maintenance is just taking care of something, unless you feed it poison. I always used half sugar and half water. My father taught me that. Don’t talk to me about golf courses. We want to say something bigger than what we know how, but we are trapped in this language as much as cattle are trapped behind wire fences. So when we say hello to them isn’t it just confusing to them? I tried to say “I love you” to the mountain and it laughed at me. The shadows made it look like it was sticking its tongue out at me. I laughed along with it. So we can’t really speak to each other but we can try. We can’t nurture each other but we can always attempt to. I love how much we want to. I love how much we care. I love how on our hard days we feel guilt because we want to treat ourselves nicer. And I hate how the spider in the shower has no good ending.
Leah Marie Johnson is a poet in California.
Little Witness
︎︎︎ Madison Murray
︎ June 24, 2025
I like to watch my dog
my dad
a leaf
make a
decision.
my dad
a leaf
make a
decision.
Madison Murray is a writer and artist from Salem, Massachusetts. She is the author of "My Gaping Masshole" (2025). Her writing has been published in Stone of Madness Press, Dirt Child, BULLSHIT Lit, The Blood Pudding, and Quiet Lightning, among others.
Checkpoint
︎︎︎ Sam Forster
︎ June 23, 2025
She holds her child
the way you hold
a breath underwater.
The soldier waves them through
with a flick —
not evil,
just practiced.
All violence becomes choreography
if you rehearse it long enough.
the way you hold
a breath underwater.
The soldier waves them through
with a flick —
not evil,
just practiced.
All violence becomes choreography
if you rehearse it long enough.
Sam Forster is a political journalist, war correspondent, and poet from Edmonton, Canada.
Invisible Cities
︎︎︎ Gideon Leek
︎ June 20, 2025
Back when I lived in New York,
everyone talked about moving.
“I’m going to grad school in Montana.”
“There’s a job for me in Ohio.”
“My uncle has a fishing boat in Alaska.”
None of them understood.
You don’t have to go far.
You don’t need a small town—
to disappear, to isolate, to reinvent yourself.
You just need to leave New York.
Trust me,
Philadelphia and Chicago are remote.
It’ll feel like breathing on the moon.
everyone talked about moving.
“I’m going to grad school in Montana.”
“There’s a job for me in Ohio.”
“My uncle has a fishing boat in Alaska.”
None of them understood.
You don’t have to go far.
You don’t need a small town—
to disappear, to isolate, to reinvent yourself.
You just need to leave New York.
Trust me,
Philadelphia and Chicago are remote.
It’ll feel like breathing on the moon.
Gideon Leek is a Brooklyn-based writer.
Son-&-Mom
︎︎︎ Sam Berman
︎ June 19, 2025
I sat in front of her.
Little.
Small and a bit bothered that she wanted to keep me there like that.
Little.
Small and a bit bothered that she wanted to keep me there like that.
Sam Berman is a short story writer who lives in Boise, Idaho. He is the director of Storyfort, a literary festival held during Treefort Music Fest every March in Boise, Idaho.