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Ascending
“I let my turtle out, its eyes the pallid skin Of the moon, its tiny body heaving across Mountains. It reaches the sea, looks up at me, Foam curdling on its dimpled shell. I pick It up, pressing its head under the waves.”
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“I let my turtle out, its eyes the pallid skin Of the moon, its tiny body heaving across Mountains. It reaches the sea, looks up at me, Foam curdling on its dimpled shell. I pick It up, pressing its head under the waves.”
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Read the latest issue with authors from around the world.



An interview with Austrian novelist Florian Gantner on haunting images, language, mistrust, and why literature must trust the intelligence of its readers.



A woman reenters the dating world after decades alone, only to discover that like a seed, she can grow only into herself.

Fancy formatting in poetry flatters mediocrity. Real verse lives in the voice, not on the page.

A woman’s sleepless night spirals into horror and revelation when a deer impales itself on a backyard tree and her husband is nowhere to be found. “She screamed his name…