Winter by Christian Calderon

This is the sign of winter. It falls from the sky, this over-sized unwritten crystalline white page. Branches with arthritis hold coconut ice-cream. Racine city has been whited out. The traffic signals are eaten out too, except for one. It shows its shy T. The S, O, and P are drowned. It is too late. I offer a minute of silence, but the neighbor’s mechanical animal doesn’t believe in solemnities. It makes a furious tron-tron sound as it sucks and spits sandy white matter. It tells me, “Shut up! I work on behalf of biped beings. They need to walk.”

Out Of The Cornfields And Onto The Streets by Emily Talapa

It was summer in Hammond, Wisconsin and the sky was like a wash of pale blue. It was only like a six-minute drive to the BP in town, but I inched above the speed limit, sky roof wide open. The warm manure-wind gushing into the car was like a suffocating hug from a trusted uncle. I passed two dairy cows wading through swaying weeds. They had knobby knees and sloping hipbones. I honked my horn and they lifted their heads. I liked doing that. A couple minutes later, I pulled up to the gas station, determined for some glazed Little Debbie Mini Donuts.