Do you feel like your entire body is an exposed nerve?

We’re getting released from forced isolation. 15 months of solitary confinement. Fear, our constant — and maybe only — companion. We’re alive. But what does it mean to be alive? Do we remember? Did we know before?

Things aren’t as we left them. People have moved, changed, rearranged. We have, too. How did we keep up with the pace before?

Every day brings joy and disorientation. There is a hug, a reunion. There is a moment where you wonder why someone’s face appears strange and realize it’s because they aren’t wearing a mask. Someone stands too close. A panic as you enter a crowded room.

How can we stand it?

Thomas Mann, one of my most beloved authors, said, “And if man fails to feel, it is an eruption of divine disgrace … a cosmic catastrophe, a horror that never leaves the mind.”

We have to feel it.

A year ago we started this journal. Working on it throughout the pandemic has brought me much joy and companionship. I was moved by the stories and poems I had the honor to share, by the trust authors around the world placed in our fledgling publication.

I can’t wait to keep going.

Issue #5 unleashes a torrent of great and terrible things. From underwater slums to saints to barbicide sickness, these 12 authors are about to make you feel all sorts of sensations. All accompanied by the photographic genius of our own Consulting Editor Philip Shelley.

Let’s dive in.

Meagan Masterman

Issue 5, June 2021

An Alcoholic’s Guide to Life

Part 1: Catchphrases It’s your job to say the right lines. Don’t forget:...

Beneath the Salt

Throughout my pregnancy, I would read all I could on the do’s and...

Celebration Time

Coin Flip

When my husband, Vale, and I arrive in Gulfport, my brother, Chris, does...

Four poems

sudden authority. The blue shade of barbicide has always been my favorite color. ...

Good boy

I think of my poems as dogs. Are you a good boy? Yes, you...

Kevlar: Four Poems

DIRGE OF THE BEDDING RITE look what's bringing grace inonly to be set...

My Latest Dude Poem

If only I could pattern a raftfrom red flags, safely sailthrough bullshit and...


She was a fainter. Like a less graceful Snow White minus the dwarves....

That’s All, Folks

The guy was on fire. His whole body was so engulfed in flames...

Two poems

During the Pottery Class Boom of 2018-19 Several weeks into ceramics class &...


Until they were two years old, Randall had lived in Oran’s armpit. Not...

Whiskey Tit Journal’s Raison D’Être

Issue 4

Issue 3

Issue 2

Issue 1