Robert Edward Sullivan
Ebbing

Robert Edward Sullivan - Ebbing

Fiction
Robert Edward Sullivan is from the Midwest (Iowa and Michigan) but now lives in Oregon. He holds an MFA from… Read more »
Leslie Anne Jones
Foreigner Manager

Leslie Anne Jones - Foreigner Manager

Fiction
Leslie Anne Jones was born and raised in Anchorage, Alaska. Dark winters, big glaciers, neighborhood moose—all that stuff. She spent… Read more »
Dan Malakoff
Standstill

Dan Malakoff - Standstill

Fiction
Dan Malakoff’s short fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in Pleiades, Prick of the Spindle, The Long Story, Ellipsis, River… Read more »
Therese Borkenhagen
The Amazon

Therese Borkenhagen - The Amazon

Fiction
Therese Borkenhagen is a freelance writer and translator from Oslo, Norway. She completed her BA and MA in English Literature… Read more »
Maxine Rosaler
The Girl from Texas

Maxine Rosaler - The Girl from Texas

Fiction
Maxine Rosaler’s fiction and nonfiction has appeared in or is scheduled to appear in The Southern Review, Glimmer Train, Witness,… Read more »
Scott Sikes
The Widow’s Daughter

Scott Sikes - The Widow’s Daughter

Fiction
This is Scott Sikes’ first published work. He is thrilled and also keeping his day job, which he loves. He… Read more »
Nick Almeida
Watchdog

Nick Almeida - Watchdog

Fiction
Nick Almeida is an MFA candidate at the Michener Center for Writers in Austin, Texas. He holds an MA from… Read more »

Watchdog

Nick Almeida

Our mother had a tattoo. A blue dog under her shoulder blade, no bigger than the pit of a plum. When she let us, we ran our fingers over it and howled.

She cooped herself in her bedroom for quiet, lights out, hours at a time. We were animals. When he got home from the job site, Pap told us, Shut up. You’re making her nuts. Most of the time she hid it, but in summer she let the dog out. We saw it sweat in the sunshine, bound to her back by a bright bra strap. Later, she left for Montana with Neal—the man from the computer, Pap called him—and the dog went too. In time, we left. Some of us for jobs, or school, or nothing at all. Some of us forgot about our mother and her dog.

Our sister had a tattoo but never showed us. She deployed and our brother forwarded us a video she’d made for Thanksgiving. Deek Roomy. Arabic for turkey. When she turned and laughed, there it was. A little dog behind her ear. I imagined that was where a helmet might rest. She turned up later, quieter than our mother had… Read more »