By Annelida K SmithVail I walk past the raven carcass again. Every time, I am somehow surprised it is still there, but why wouldn’t it be? It’s at the edge of the forest, out of the way of people, but right by a road that animals prefer to avoid. I imagine the raven’s spirit spreading its wings, flying joyfully from the site of its death. I imagine its body breaking down, becoming a part of the land. I imagine, but all I can see is a corpse, wings splayed out, bones exposed, a record of death and nothing more.

By Annelida K SmithVail Lynn stepped into the room and froze. Katie was staring at the wall again, finger-tracing shapes in the air, lips moving as though muttering—but she was silent. She slowly turned her head to her mother, and Lynn’s stomach churned. She’d heard stories of changelings, the creatures that faeries leave in place of stolen children. Reminding herself that she didn’t believe in such things, Lynn steeled herself and looked into her daughter’s eyes. Katie’s pupils were dilated so wide. Her mouth quirked up, shifted to speak, and Lynn recoiled. When she looked again at her daughter, Lynn’s expression was silent.

By Super Swiper Swipe left, swipe right The Tinder game I could play all night  Why do all these guys insist on telling me their height? The profiles on this app truly give me a fright Even though some people can be quite polite, I’ll tell you the truth: I’m not interested in any of them, all right? Because it doesn’t matter what they write, The bottom line is I can’t stand this site Yet when I get bored and want to cure my lonely plight,  I hop back on the app thinking maybe I just might

By Anonymous On the darkest and most chaotic days, we tend to stray away from our roots. In these days, it is only right to live as a flower. To do this is to remember where we are rooted, to stand tall, let our pollen plant new seeds, and let our petals come and go as we grow.

By Anonymous In life, you’re faced with obstacles, some that allow for your scuba gear to remain intact and some that send you spiraling to the bottom. For Mia, she was sent spiraling to the bottom, and still she forced her way back to the top. Now she kayaks upon the surface of the water, thankful for how strong she has become. No obstacle is too big to overcome or too small to work for.

By Maria Capezio Crookes We got out of the car with a water bottle, knife, gun, gloves (just in case), and 2-5 gallon buckets from a builder supply store. At the head of the trail, we saw them: another group with a bucket, but without all the gear that makes you local. “Great day for berry picking!” someone in the other group said. “Shame about the bears…” I said, almost in a whisper. They exchanged concerned looks, as my companion—unnoticed—placed a bear warning sign that we had printed at home. We filled our buckets with delicious berries, unbothered, in the secrecy of our berry picking spot. No tourists in sight.…

By Maria Capezio Crookes Cuppies & Joe was our chosen coffee spot to meet after work. Our friendship was born in the front office of an elementary school and grew thanks to caffeine, terrible coworkers, a resignation, and the need for someone to listen to us. Like any plant that you feed coffee grounds, our friendship grew fast. The coffee dates became movie nights, babysitting, and a matching tattoo that I swore I would never get. There are 4,000 miles between us, and coffee doesn’t taste the same without her.

By R.E. Lowrance Hoar frost melts softly under my prints. The air filters the same sleepy blue as my mind. Tree roots sleep at my feet, and gold reflects off the mountain’s winter coat. Alizarin crimson fades around the edges of new snow. My skin takes on a hint of green beneath the fur of my hat and it’s more apparent here than anywhere. The frost nips and herds, the path carries on, endless. After so long in the cold, the woods and wild, the hearth tempts me not. I live for glass on my eyelashes, the scent of pine on my nose, and a quiet mind soothed in blue.…

By R.E. Lowrance Chrystal paths Of blue and gold Turn dark On where I step. Walk not our path, They seem to say, New snow is hard to lay. But I know why They cry out so, I know why they weep. For paths like them Get no regard From those they wish to keep.

Corinna Cook I sleep on a plush couch in front of the woodstove under the mounted head of a bison. The bison’s head is beautiful and enormous and probably haunted. I believe I could fit my whole body into it. Some folding is all it would take: bent knees, abdomen pressed to thighs, chin tucked, arms hugging. I imagine rivers of muscle from which the bison’s head was severed. In my fetal position, curled up inside its skull, I’m rocked left and right, alone with every choice I’ve ever made. The ungulate nibbles and chews, crunches and slurps, while the woodstove hisses and grows, eventually, dim.