VISUAL ART Whitney Ball, “Unknown Depths.”  This photo orig­i­nal­ly appeared in Stonecoast Review Issue 17. 

By Terence Patrick Hughes  Plenty of folks in town had died at all ages and all times of day or night, some grue­some, some passive, and every one of them referred to after­ward as having been ‘too good’ or ‘too young’, or on rare occasions…

by Amy Martin This story orig­i­nal­ly appeared in Stonecoast Review Issue 17.   BOUNTY A rural road some­where in the Amer­i­can South or Midwest in a not-too-distant future. From BLACK, sound of a SIREN, then cop cher­ries flash. A teenage girl in a field hockey uniform appears…

Stonecoast Review Issue 17 is avail­able for pur­chase here. You can also visit the link on the “archive” page. We are exceed­ing­ly proud of this issue, which con­tains poems, screen­writ­ing, short stories, and more. But no matter the format, the tales told in Stonecoast Review…

By Gideon Emmanuel A boy asked his mother one night how  it is to survive in a  country where sur­vival is a furnace & his body like a metal goes  through it every time an invis­i­ble hand pulls the trigger    hard  to break life’s rules and…

By Bill Cook  I move in the pond, my arms too heavy to lift. I feel the spray from my older sister’s squirt-gun hitting me in the face. She’s fifteen and has a boyfriend before dad puts his foot down. She won’t talk to me about…

by Jenny Hykes Jiang I live in a house of dish clatter, coal smoke, rust-colored salve, plas­ticine praying hands and sheets bleached with sun­light, smelling of lye. I live in a house of my mother and my mother’s mother and her mother. Their red sea, moon and…

Story by Lyndon Nicholas.  Image by Patrick Hendry. Douen I heave it out of me, through the stomach, the intes­tine, the throat, the mouth. It comes out in waves of fabric covered in stomach fluids, flowing, balling up into a knot on the floor, darkening…

By Rachel Marie Pat­ter­son I haul away cedar drawers soaked with mouse urine, scrub the kitchen with mint oil, while my daugh­ters run head­long toward rusted nails. In this house, I dream of deer ticks and stable flies, the back door propped open, minia­ture blonde heads facedown…

by Ron Riekki My father showed me a photo of bodies hanging, pointed, pointed again, said, That’s us; I didn’t know what he meant. That, he said, would have been us. Except we were here now, the north north­ern woods of the north so north…