Dream House

by Carl Scharwath




Carl  Scharwath, has appeared globally with 100+ magazines selecting his poetry, short stories, essays or art photography. He won the National Poetry Contest award for Writers One Flight Up. His first  poetry book is Journey To Become Forgotten (Kind of a Hurricane  Press). Carl is a dedicated runner and 2nd degree black- belt

Fabrice Poussin: Three Photographs






Death of the Artist




Home Once




Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University. Most of the time he feels like a newborn in a strange world moving at the speed of light.  In consequence he is still exploring his surroundings and finding more and more intriguing details about everything he sees. He believes it is good to create a home within one’s own creative mind.  

Isabella Barricklow: Two Poems



There is a word for the exact moment that you are suddenly very aware of your own heartbeat.

It sounds like the syncopated syllables of bare feet on sidewalk,

rain falling on piles of brown leaves

in November.


There is no word for caring intensely about the molecular makeup of the ground in front of you.


There is a word for the hypothetical conversations that you play out in your head.

All the things you would say to your legs if they would listen:

Why are you so pale?

What is the point of running

if you’re not going to get any thinner?

How do we make each other



There is no word for loss.


There is a word for the feeling of frustration that you can only inhabit one place at a time.

You have to be in the kitchen

or out of it,

you can only put out one fire at once

but you have enough water

to turn them all to piles of smoking char.


There is a word for the feeling of being inside during a thunderstorm.

You think you might know it, but even when

you are pressed into bodies so sweaty

that their beads of salt sting your eyes,

there is no one to ask,

you are still



There is no word for you. But they choose one anyway.



where i’m from


it doesn’t ever



the only coffee brand is called “thunder”

and we sprinkle the grounds

on our morning

grapefruit halves.


where i’m from, all our pants

are spandex

or leather leggings.


our favorite color is red


like the reflection of a wolf’s eyes at night.


we don’t let anyone call us baby.


where i’m from there is no wine,

only whiskey.

we collect the bottles and throw them

at our windows,

enjoy the spiderweb splatter.

the glass can’t protest,

is compelled to

destroy itself


every time.


where i’m from we have knives

tattooed on our shoulders,


for every time

we’ve bled out.


we light fires by squeezing

our fists and

fry eggs

in our palms.


i collect the egg shells.


in this world they are illegal fractures,

fragile pieces

that no longer fit.


i keep them hidden

in my pillowcase


next to a brown-edged peony petal

and a bluebird’s cobalt feather.


Isabella Barricklow is an undergraduate student at Central Michigan University who loves all things Spanish, social justice, and dark-chocolate flavored. She has been published before in The Central Review.

James Croal Jackson: Southbound in February (poetry)

Southbound in February


Almost swerved to Akron

to delay our southbound silence

before another car skidded into steel.

We smoked exhaust

with sedans which scrunched

around us. Wiper squeals

revealed hymnal landscapes

through murky glass.

I revel in footprints buried by snow

yet do not know what–

if our black tires composed

cadenzas in the slickening slush,

ambulance’s red, beating

bongos thumping toward us

–what we could have said

that would have ever been enough.


James Croal Jackson graduated from Baldwin Wallace University with degrees in Film and Creative Writing. After moving to Los Angeles to pursue film, he realized he would rather pursue poetry. His work has since been published in magazines including The Bitter Oleander, Rust + Moth, and OxMag. Find him online at jimjakk.com.