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.
Be at Her House
︎︎︎ Chloe B
︎ June 18, 2025
Dear John,
I’ve moved away. I’m looking for that diamond-shaped floor
tile
in the mall, the one that made you think of the carnival, real
far
away. I parked my car outside. The windows look different
here
at night.
Dear John,
My eyes burn hot, and the light in the stairway has cracked.
It’s
been difficult seeing through the flare but I find myself
standing
under it. I’m trying to be strong and warm to the touch, a
spiral
on the ceiling.
Dear John,
I’m thinking of how I would look at you while I say these
things.
I’ve moved away. I’m looking for that diamond-shaped floor
tile
in the mall, the one that made you think of the carnival, real
far
away. I parked my car outside. The windows look different
here
at night.
Dear John,
My eyes burn hot, and the light in the stairway has cracked.
It’s
been difficult seeing through the flare but I find myself
standing
under it. I’m trying to be strong and warm to the touch, a
spiral
on the ceiling.
Dear John,
I’m thinking of how I would look at you while I say these
things.
Chloe B likes to make images.
Future wife
︎︎︎ Jack Ludkey
︎ June 16, 2025
My friend is looking for his wife
He doesn’t know what she looks like
He looks for her in every woman
She could be anyone
Behind the hair
And freckles
And soft peach fuzz
It’s hard to know where she is
She’s not hiding
If she was hiding he would know where to look
Under the bed
She would be simple like that
Or behind the open door
If she was feeling cheeky
Or behind the curtain
where her socks matches the wallpaper
He had searched these places before
But he double checked
More often than not
He doesn’t know what she looks like
He looks for her in every woman
She could be anyone
Behind the hair
And freckles
And soft peach fuzz
It’s hard to know where she is
She’s not hiding
If she was hiding he would know where to look
Under the bed
She would be simple like that
Or behind the open door
If she was feeling cheeky
Or behind the curtain
where her socks matches the wallpaper
He had searched these places before
But he double checked
More often than not
Jack Ludkey is a writer, director, and poet based in New York City, originally from Madison, Wisconsin.
Also by Jack: Untitled