In this issue

A Grown Man Cry

Creative Non-Fiction by Megan Gartrell

I first saw a grown man cry at my Grandpa’s funeral. It was late November, on a Saturday. Leaves were fading from orange to gray and the air thick with cold. There had not been snow yet, but the ground was frozen. I was nineteen, wedged against four sisters and six cousins on a hard, wooden pew. My Nana sang in the Lutheran choir so the funeral was down the road from our usual Baptist house of worship. The Lutheran church had huge, flat grey stones covering the outside like a medieval castle; all that was missing was a moat and drawbridge. In the interior hung heavy purple curtains beside banners that depicted Christ’s resurrection in crimson paint. Drafts of wind jabbed at us through the ceiling cracks and I remember shivering despite the heat from my sister Alexis’ shoulder.

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Bear Legged

Short Fiction by Curran Dobbs

It doesn’t happen like in the movies. There are no storm clouds, no lightening flashes, and no ominous music. There certainly weren’t any when it happened to me. I had walked home from school cheerily, with a childish innocence I foolishly took for granted. The door to the house seemed to welcome me. My sister, Margaret, was sitting at the kitchen table reading a book. She didn’t even look up as I passed her, grabbed a banana from the bowl, and headed up the stairs. The door to my room was ajar, and I nudged it open with my elbow. I stopped. Horror. It was Root Bear, loyal teddy, best friend. His legs were torn off. This had to be the handiwork of the family dog, Chewbarka. I lifted Root Bear tenderly and looked deep into his brown furry face. His mouth hung open. He must’ve been in shock. He would be though. He had lost a lot of stuffing.

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