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Art, Fiction, Film, Poetry, Theatre, & Other Imaginings
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 Artist Statement
When my mom dropped me off in Richmond, Virginia with no mattress and no phone (due to my own poor planning) I ran out the back door to bike around my new city. My transfer experience to VCU was absent of name tags, guided tours, or pep rallies but nevertheless I was determined to enjoy my first year as a VCU undergraduate. I biked, walked, and soon skateboarded throughout Richmond finding porches filled with personal art and bird of paradise plants next to painted porch swings. My local 7-11s had colorful and abstract murals painted on their side brick walls and the bridge I parked on near my new home was spray-painted with "BLM" tags and stickers promoting pop-up art shows. My eyes were never bored.
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By Edith Gallagher  My hearing is not what it used to be. But when Mike and Jimmy talk about replacing me
with a bus, I’m as perky as when the city first placed the tracks for the 23 Trolley Line. Sometimes when I drift off to sleep at the Depot, I try to picture the people who dropped their coins into the box next to Hank whose been with me from the start. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
 “Can you believe,
64 rapes last year?” “Reported,” I say, the word evaporating in weak wind through the window, testimonies trapped in white space. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
 Artist Bio & StatementValentín Sánchez-Stoddard (they/them), founder of Little Sánchez Studio, is a Queer and Trans Salvadoran-American visual artist and community worker currently living in Philadelphia. Their work primarily weaves together their bicultural upbringing that are tested in a contemporary landscape of political unrest, passed-down intergenerational trauma and their own place in the larger narrative of immigration/borderlands.  The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
By Audrey Garrett Illustration by Audrey Garrett On the cold wet tiles of the sink, I spit my last thought and turned off the light. The hospital bed was warm, and you kept the light on before 7 p.m. and the hall light on after 9 p.m. No one was in our room during the 8 o’clock meal. I drenched my salad with Thousand Island dressing, and you lifted your back in pain as you put the tray down. We shared the ketchup. You have worn that watch for seven years now, and I can’t tell the time any more without looking outside in the morning after or before the ceiling told me to stop staring. We climb the stairs together to remind my body it didn’t always need lab tubes, and you have worn wrinkly glue bottomed socks in solidarity for two hours today. I wish the doctors put a clipboard at the end of my bed. Then I could feel checked off by the doctors most days. Then they could leave a note to my parents to bring a better sleeping bag next time, and for them to pick me up in the morning. I slept with you last night, and you left your car running the day we met during rehearsal. It was a soggy day and I liked talking to the valet coat lady who I now know is called a concierge. Please don’t leave me, not until the morning. I waited for two days to not get worried.
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By Amy Lee    The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Editor's note: This piece was originally published in Claw & Blossom.  The American kneeled on the patio, feeding stale tortilla crumbs to the restless ants during the first morning of her research trip. Was this the same species that enslaved ants of other species? She had read about them in one of the science magazines she had torn off of a library shelf. This was during what had become a daily dash from her apartment on St. Nicholas Avenue, up the infamous 145th Street hill, to City College. All of these dusk trips blurred together in the American’s harried mind. Like a nun’s early morning devotion, the trips became a ritual, even if she was barely awake to remember the beginning of any of them. She needed to cram in a few hours of research before her first class. Often, she arrived just as the security guard unlocked the front door. Apart from the greetings of mourning doves, campus was silent.
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By Adedeji Raphael  We heard the sun growls as the summer announced its coming
When the winter crawled back into hibernation As we watch the daisies sprout and and the buds bloom. We held each other's hands and wished the days remember the glory we sought Before our hearts entwined and our shades dispersed. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
 of changing my identity in another continent
like a fugitive or a fuji apple not green or red The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
By Steven McCrystal  There is a team that smacks my arse
But over the lockdown this has been a bit of a farce |
