• Fiction

    Get the Cat

    by Kirby Hobley Get straggled along after the other little cats jumbling down the path. “Don’t stray!” the line leader reminded. “It’s dangerous,” she threatened. But the evening wind was whipping at his fur in fits and starts. It bothered his whiskers and tousled his thoughts. He itched to let it blow him up into the treetops. Get was afraid of nothing and the forest believed him. It wiggled, promising mischief, so, without a moment of consideration, he disappeared into its tangles. The forest was pleased to have a willing subject and slathered its affection on him. It worked its sappy fingertips into his fur and tickled his heart with…

  • Nonfiction


    by Isabella Valdez My brother died in a field. He was ten years old and alone, wandering somewhere between my aunt’s and grandma’s houses in southern Michigan. Every summer, for the trip down, my parents would wake us, guide us drowsy to the car, and play the radio until we drifted back to sleep. My older sister hated the town, a small and tired place so unlike the distant city where she grew up. But my brother and I loved it. In the country there’s room to breathe; there, the air is alive and houses are separated by miles of forests rather than rows of fence. The lack of people…

  • Poetry

    J. Stalin

    by Allen Ginnett I met J. Stalin. Do you know who Stalin is? A West Oakland rapper; he rapped with the Jacka. But let me tell you how I started listening to Stalin, once upon a time in East Anchorage. When I got back to Alaska from junior college and a failed music video experiment, life started taking a different route. Mobbin’ E.A., blowin’ kush, slappin’ music is what I’m talking about. I laughed when I first heard about J. Stalin. Who is this rapper with generic, ghetto name? My friend, P, first put me on Stalin. Me and J. Miz was mobbin’ heavy to that Gas Nation and Prenuptial…

  • Poetry

    Alaska Love

    by Patricia Pierce Arrived broken, I thrive now, a transplant, a sourdough. Thirty-one years after the Last Frontier stole my heart, Nowhere else fills that space. Released into the wild, I, like salmon, swim away. Disappearing into the depths of rural Alaska, I decorate the outhouse with postcards; Haul water; split wood; I grow. Mountains, like the North Star, guide my travel. Beyond roads, onto islands, into tundra. Adventures outnumber adversities. Memories of each I respect. Slowly, I heal, accept mistakes, and embrace my scars. With family few and friends plenty, I am proud to have survived a place most unforgiving. Ripples from glacial waterways rush my fingertips; Northern Lights illuminate…

  • Poetry

    Fur Rondy

    by Allen Ginnett Fur Rondy, Fur Rondy, Why must I go? Is it to show… This “blissful” life we live in the snow? Is it the determination of human beings To be right at home in the cold? No. The rickety carnival rides light up like a beacon, People, downtown, in the cold for no reason. Everyone knows that this is the season, The time to come face to face with the elitist. Jesus. Save these dogs from an inhumane ritual… A tradition who’s mission is habitual, No one seems to have an issue, though. Fur Rondy, Why must I pretend to like you? The answer is I’m Alaskan, just…

  • Poetry

    Star Shower

    by Emily Garlock Sitting in anticipation, waiting to take off to places I’ve never been, the rain drips outside my window, leaving streaks on the glass. The plane stirs, the rain blowing against its side, slowly. And as we go faster the drops collect like shooting stars, trailing faster and faster. A show for my eyes alone. The plane ascends and the stars fade, peeling off the pane, leaving a dark sky, and the reflection of a girl waiting to be swept away too.

  • Poetry

    An Icy Canvas

    by Emily Garlock I hit the ground with a scratch, followed by a smooth glide. The moonlight guides me. I memorize the cracks, Calculate avoidance. Once on solid surface, I twirl like the needle of a compass. To the foot or brain I am a metal blade; but the ice shows the magic I’ve created: art that will disappear behind the next snowfall, art that exists only for now. 

  • Nonfiction

    The Doctor

    by Chris Davies My grandson, Jay, and I are waved through the Joint Base Elmendorf-Richardson gate for our first medical appointment together. He sees the hospital lights stabbing through the arctic-morning ice fog and starts to keen. Prenatal alcohol exposure might have taken his speech, but there’s nothing wrong with his smarts. This is a place of intrusive hands, of cold metal, of steely pricks.I lob comforting words back to him and attempt to quell my anxiety as we squish into a parking space. He requires prying from his car seat. I take his hand, and the tears start as we slog towards the hospital. I wish I were chasing…

  • Nonfiction


    by Chris Davis Jay’s disability lies scattered somewhere between Anchorage and Nome on the Fetal Alcohol Spectrum. The alcohol took my three-year-old grandson’s speech, in-utero, but spared his strength and wisdom. We are casing a deserted playground- a rusty jewel ensconced in a crown of birch and fireweed on a sun-dappled afternoon.  Jay loves it here. No child gates or fragile knick-knacks. No firm Grandpa voice. I follow him to the swings then sit in one, rocking it back and forth. “This is how you swing, Jay.” I try to place him onto the swing, but he resists. He rests his chest against the seat, pushes himself up with his…