University of San Francisco's Student-Run Literary Magazine
by Sarah Carolan TW: Drowning The peninsula claimed over two hundred ships in as many years. Victims would run afoul on hidden shoals or be driven off course by unpredictable gales. Others overestimated their maneuverability within the narrow, limestone-filled straits. But only one shipwreck, Griffin Lyons, captured Kat’s attention, and she blamed his demise on… Continue reading Lion of the Lake
by Angela Townsend If my world shrinks to all that my arms can carry, Monsieur Dupont shall be saved. Along with my mother’s quilts and my hard drive, I will salvage the wiry Gund hedgehog from 1986. He is six inches of plush and polyfill. He is an important Frenchman. He is language and longing… Continue reading Monsieur Dupont
by Erik Peters We sit on the terrace. Evening gathers in the arid valley at our feet, pooling in the dells. Mexico City, a distant memory veiled in industrial haze, lies just over the next ridge. Birdsong fills the darkling air—flock and family exchanging the day’s news. In the village below, life is as it… Continue reading Mexican Elegy
by Christine Roland Every Sunday when I was in grade school, Mom stuffed me into pilled tights and a bib collar dress, pinned my hair in a headache-inducing bun, and brought me with her to the 10 a.m. service. Just me. We hardly saw my older sister, who was aging out of high school, and… Continue reading It Was Not God
by Joshua Monroe After making love, he usually went straight to his desk by the bed, typed away on his refurbished typewriter. An heirloom from one of his clients—he mentioned that once. While he typed, apparently unaware of the previous moments and of my cheeks, still flushed, I liked to imagine he was writing a… Continue reading The Typist
by Leslie Benigni The woods bring me back to myself and to myself I shall go, not wider but deeper. Doing things for myself, such a formerly unknown thing, to help myself be myself, doing things for myself. The woods give me respite and recharge. Off on a journey to the woods to nowhere, a… Continue reading November Reeling
by Sam Moe The night after my grandmother’s funeral, while I’m half-asleep on her faded gold couch in the living room, where below our fourth-floor apartment are people screaming, and singing, and laughing, in the distance there are sirens and more laughter—I hear someone—or something—lean into my ear and sigh once, loudly. * Ghosts. Poltergeists.… Continue reading Ghost City
by Sura K. Hassan I “Run, run for the Sun.” One of the shortcomings of growing up in the dry, scorching, crumbling desert city that is Karachi was the inability to escape from the ever-present, nauseatingly-bright sun. My poor, dear mother, maternal aunt, and even grandmothers all tried to do something about the permanent tan… Continue reading Seven Things Nana Used to Say
by R. H. Nicholson Father Francis Paganini was dead. He had collapsed in the rectory kitchen while drinking a glass of water as he cooled down from playing basketball with the fifth-grade boys at St. Joseph of Arimathea School. A youthful, vigorous man of deep faith, whose unbound energy was contagious among his parishioners, Father… Continue reading Father Frank’s Funeral
by Elaine Ferrell Gabrielle was sixteen to my thirteen. She openly smoked, drank on the sly, and was often in trouble with her parents. I worshiped her. I admired Gabby’s lanky posture, for I was short and slouchy. I revered her long, straight hair, since my own was curly, tangled, and wild. Lamenting my boring… Continue reading Chasing Gabby
Ignatian Literary Magazine 