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[In this issue, a] porous, osmium idiopath zip[s up a] hunger [for] boisterous mozzarella [and] elsewhere [in] Boomtown [shouts], "yay!"

Prose by: 
Sarah Hansen
Michael O'Leary
Andrew Wickenden

Poetry by: 
Aaron Anstett
Bridget G. Dooley
Zaccaria Fulton
Dave Harrity
Katrina Schaag

Art by: 
James Whitefox Lyons

A sample from within:

from "You Can't Imagine" 
by Michael P. O'Leary

...After what seemed like an hour, some rain clouds had powered in from the south and it didn’t look pretty.  On my way back to the city, in the opposite direction down Imperial, there was that girl. Dogface. I stopped again.

Hey, sweetheart, what’s the matter? Did you get into a fight with somebody? A boyfriend? It’s wicked chilly out.

She made eye contact with me this time but was still quiet. She searched her pockets for some cigarettes. Her hands were shaking a bit, and when she found one she dropped it on the ground.

I’ve just been driving around. I could use some company. Why don’t you get in? It’s nice and warm in here.

She rubbed her bare goose-bumped arms, and her teeth were even chattering a bit.

What’s your name, sweetheart? I’m really concerned about you being out here all by yourself.

She stared down at the broken glass on the dirt sidewalk, her Barbie hair in her eyes. She managed to pull out another cigarette and a lighter.

Have you had anything to eat, sweetheart? You know you can die from exposure? Ha ha. Hey, we’re just two lonely people out here . . . is something bothering you?—because I’ve been having a real bad day. You can’t imagine.

By the time she had positioned her lighter on the cigarette, heavy rain drops started to fall. They started coming down hard, and her lighter sizzled out, and the cigarette already was wet. She didn’t even look up at the sky. She let the cigarette drop to the ground, walked around to my passenger door, and then got in, her arms folded and face blank.