Issue 18

FICTION By Jane Snyder What kind of world was it, Dave won­dered, where a woman could put herself above a man? He was ready for this one. “Whoa there, Sis,” he said when he felt her hand cup his gen­i­tals under the jump­suit. “You play, you pay.” She…

POETRY By Luke Johnson and Megan Mer­chant For I,   I thought of you and bullets and the husk of ruin we are feeding our chil­dren, saying swallow, it will make you strong, in the end, but I know. When I sat the other day with…

Stonecoast Review is proud to publish the works of many tal­ent­ed pho­tog­ra­phers, illus­tra­tors, and visual artists of every kind. Here are the pieces that made Stonecoast Review Issue 18…   Spider Dance, by Sarah-Jane Crowson Out-Reach, by Larena Nellies-Ortiz Sisters, by Terry Brinkman agents against…

GENRE FICTION By Robert E. Stutts “How like a winter hath my absence been / From thee…” ~William Shake­speare, Sonnet 97 She will be gone. The world is white this time of year, every moment of space filled up with cold and want and waiting. In this…

DRAMATIC WORK By Emma Watkins   A man stands among several play­sets. A play kitchen. A play school. A play vet­eri­nar­i­an. A play pizze­ria and food deliv­ery stand. None of them come above his waist.    ARTHUR: I make little worlds. I’m less inter­est­ed in big ones.…

DRAMATIC WORK By Gregory Von Dare A ten-minute sci-fi comedy about serious stuff.   CAST: TODD: A nerdy guy in his mid-30s. Average height and build. Kind of an annoy­ing voice. GINNY:  She is ath­let­ic and moves with the fluid grace of a dancer. Early 20s. Excited…

POETRY By Neil Flatman  Late sun longing through the knuck­les of the black­thorns by the pond; a lan­guorous spark. The copper heads of ferns bow down with what remain­ing dignity they hold. Autumn’s flown; longer days dis­solved fast as a winter breath. Surely that’s the memory,…

POETRY By Gary English Juarez tethers me like a balero with a bridge instead of string. I tread Stanton’s crammed path over the near-water­­less Rio Grande. I could have walked its dehy­drat­ed bed. Tanned leather’s weath­ered smell infuses the mercado’s air. Piñatas, penuche. Day of the Dead disguises,…

POETRY By Moham­mad Razai Ren­dezvous (I) Last night in my dream you smiled in a way that meant more than friend­ship, so I am check­ing if that’s what you mean. We fre­quent that lamp-lit cobbled street, slalom­ing in some misty labyrinth so hazy I’m waiting for…

POETRY By Kim­ber­ly Ann Priest “Paula, my watch is gone.” GREGORY in Gaslight, 1944 It’s this way: after doing several loads of laundry, or dusting every inch of slight surface in a home’s several rooms, that you start to lose track of one thing or another—…