POETRY By Jillian Hanson When you can do nothing what can you do? —Zen Koan   i. Sit in the nothing. Talk to nothing. Do nothing. See what nothing offers, prob­a­bly nothing. Offer nothing some­thing, since you are not nothing. Offer nothing your whole pres­ence, the…

Stonecoast Review The Lit­er­ary Journal of the Stonecoast MFA at the Uni­ver­si­ty of South­ern Maine War Birds Fiction By Jen­nifer Lee GI Joe 1945  The trucks parade down Con­sti­tu­tion Avenue. I have prac­ticed the steely glint in my eye, holding my beak par­al­lel to the horizon…

POETRY By Thomas Osatchoff I had a dream that I asked Duterte what fruit and veg­etable pickers will do after their jobs become auto­mat­ed. He said they will be rock pickers. I said, but can’t rock picking also be auto­mat­ed? He said yes, but every­one needs…

POETRY By Ife­oluwa Ayan­dele I know a door that leads to some­where in the dark and walking right through  the door is like walking through a house   filled with the void of a ghost. I am outside  my own body & my grief grows like…

CREATIVE NONFICTION By David Blis­tein In the fall of 1965, my family moved into a small, gray-shin­­gled house in Prov­i­dence, Rhode Island, whose main dis­tin­guish­ing feature was a bright yellow front door. It was in a mixed neigh­bor­hood, which—in the 1960s, in that part of…

POETRY By Linda Michel-Cassidy Recla­ma­tion   A whale appears in the bay ahead of sched­ule and far from the Pacific.   Because we ache  for wonder these days, we think this a good sign,   an omen of a new begin­ning or some such non­sense, despite her showing ribs. …

FICTION By Erin Jourdan Ksjhe was trying to sleep but the smoke from the fires was every­where. He went to his com­put­er and tried to appease it by typing fire, fire fire fire fire fire fire fire fire into the box. I see you. I…

POETRY By Tatiana Retivov There is a country where my voice must hold its daily reck­on­ing and ques­tion this alle­giance to the spirit of the cross­roads who has scat­tered what remains too hor­ri­ble for lan­guage and placed a skull over a stump to guard his wretched bound­aries. I…

CREATIVE NONFICTION by Rina Palumbo  I see myself walking on hard-packed snow, from the fields and towards the river. It is over­cast and just before sunset, only shades of grey above and white below. I see myself walking in a black coat with the hood…

POETRY By Jason Kahler Not on purpose. She makes the house payment one week and makes the same mort­gage payment the next week. Words come harder now, like the wood of the Scrab­ble tiles but less glossy. The rules slip away: no con­trac­tions, no proper…