University of San Francisco's Student-Run Literary Magazine
by Caelan Beard Dear Rie, Today I found the album you brought over with you from Holland. There are photos of you laughing along country fields with your friends, and tangled together in a pile on the beach. You look like you had fun. Your gang of five litters much of the album, which I’d… Continue reading Dear Rie
by Daniel Webre Everywhere I looked, I could see ships’ sails. Odd for a parking lot with no water. I thought at first that a show was in progress, like the ones the old men hold on Saturdays with their classic cars. Since these were sails, I’d expected boats, but there were none. Instead, the… Continue reading Sails
—Lorne Balfe, from The Last Man on the Moon by Maya Jacyszyn I've never pictured heaven with a front porch, or much of heaven really, but it comes to me now clearly. There are no clouds. Why do paintings always show clouds? And so much light? I suppose upward means clouds and light, but up… Continue reading Sitting on God’s Front Porch
by Caitlin Upshall He called it the color of envy. The old tales say that it was once his color. His armies wore it while they conquered the world. But soon, the armies became the rebels, and the world grew smaller behind tall walls. The rebels used the color as the only mockery they could… Continue reading Remember Your Blue
by Alejandra Pena February 23, 2021 at 9:36 A.M. I stop living and I start again in a matter of minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, but not years. Never years. Death is fleeting. Death has to make its mark and return to haunt. It enclouds and it overwhelms. Death hovers over with the promise that… Continue reading Self Portrait in Colors
by Clay Hobson Somewhere at the edge of Virginia, there is a house with faded yellow paint flaking away at the corners. In one of its dimly lit rooms, there is a little boy sitting with his legs pretzeled underneath himself with all the sharp edges of barbed wire, fingers tracing patterns through the carpet… Continue reading Myosotis
by Catherine Stansfield I've learned that every day is the day you died each moment, the phone call, empty on my side as a parking lot at dusk, when the sun sets and the masses clear and the deer have already crossed the sea of asphalt in search of green instead of three staring eyes—headlights… Continue reading One Year Later
by Clay Glaus All Bucko could do was watch the dark silver-colored clouds gather above him and hear the crackle of thunder as a storm began to form, making it too dangerous to fly for the day. He was a Canadian goose who had spent the past couple of days making the journey southward to… Continue reading Lonesome Journey
by Travis Stephens She ladles dressing on the salad with a distracted profligacy; it is called Green Goddess, and I drop two cherry tomatoes to the floor. Or are they grape tomatoes? Tiny orbs of seed and acid, like the scrotum of summer, perhaps, or the tiny budding breasts of memory. Or fruit. Not a… Continue reading Pomp & Circumstance
by Peter Bauer The sun grew fat and sank nearer to the horizon. The desert sky bloomed into oranges and purples. In this desert, hidden in the hills and noble cacti, an unnatural structure protruded from the earth: It was a radio tower, set up alongside a recreational vehicle and an old Subaru, some 20… Continue reading King of the Cacti
Ignatian Literary Magazine 