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The Things We Think But Never Say to a Stranger
To the brown curly-haired librarian, with the “she/they” pronoun pin Who works so diligently at my university’s library Did you notice...
Taro Williams


growing fruit.
on days playing from dawn to dusk, on long sidewalks observing the sun descend and our shadows elongate. banana slugs radiantly a lit...
Amritha York


ODE TO THE BLACK SEA
I stand on a beach in Bulgaria facing east My line of sight travels a hawk’s path ending up in Georgia roosting in the mountains of...
A. Daniyal


groan daughter, baby bird
slice feels like one of those words whose sound matches its description I see this for the first time when I slice the soft flesh on...
Ellie Mota


SQUID Literary & Arts Launch Party
Details and photos from our launch party at Cafe Rond-Point in February 2025
Lori Noel


The Journey Travelled and The Road Ahead
Our individual uniqueness is what separates us from all others Our shared humanity is what unites us with all others Our lives are...
Jim Upton


ash street
when we were small, the house next door set ablaze and choked the evening air—we sat on the street and watched the flames lick along...
Ari Zimmerman


So, This Happened This Morning
I bought a bagel and a banana at the train station on my way to work. As I walked on the platform the banana fell out of my pocket....
James Hawes


The Body Bored of Sleep
there are only so many ways you can lay positions to sprawl places for legs to go back, side side, front the body knows them well and it...
SIMON WILLIAM LYNCH WELLWOOD


Kit Kats and Iced Caps
Now Time is precious and limited. After a full day of college courses and working part-time at the town sandwich shop, Reyna was finally...
Ryan Jones-Symonds


Book Analysis: Wound from the Mouth of a Wound: Medusa’s Curse as a Trans Allegory
An Analysis of the Book by Torrin A. Greathouse, by Concordia Uniervsity student Sophie Dufresne
Sophie Dufresne


False Alarms
Part 1 I draw a full swirl of intestines tucked in bed on my shower door...
Lucia De Luca


The Stolen Motorcycle of My Subconscious
The night my son was born I had a dream
and in that dream I stole a motorcycle, it
was black and the chassis was made of
painted bones.
James Hawes


Love in the Time of Chat GPT
I could be funny and clever Blue in the face, producing love letters Scratch out words, tear out pages
Clara Frey


The Artist
He wore a perfectly practiced nonchalance. Democratic — self-proclaimed. I took his brooding as thoughtfulness, his theatrics as...
Christina Papadatos-Dupont


Quitting your job and Going on a road trip from Orlando to Reno
This poem is from a collection of poems that explores the themes of the ever-changing cinematographic landscape from across North America.
Taro Williams


Adiós - Part III: Closure enough
Tania began heading back the old familiar road, but then she glanced back at the church as her final glimpse of hope. Maybe someone there...
María Carla Rosales Gerpe
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