Issue Number
Pacifica Literary Review


Matt Muth

Managing Editor

Courtney Johnson

Paul Vega (Prose)

Sarina Sheth (Poetry)

Fiction Editors

Rachael Armstrong

Lyndsay Field

Chelsea Werner-Jatzke

Poetry Editors

Kate Henry

Willie James


Ryan Diaz

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Issue 01

Issue 04


Genevieve Hudson

Date Book

Maxim Loskutoff

Medicine Lake

Nicolete Polek


Nathan Poole

They Were Calling to One Another

Travis A. Sharp

Selected Ru(m)inations


Ace Boggess

“When Will You Be Off Paper?”

Brian Cooney


Brittany Dennison

Pocket Dial

Sarah Feldman

Orpheus, Singing

Kevin Honold

That the Soul Takes the Shape of the Body

The Girl’s Letter to the Moon

Clay Jar of Wine

Dane Karnick

To What’s Missing

Ron McFarland

Battle Hardened


Jon Garaizar


Lance Hewison


Niki Waters


Cover Art

Jon Garaizar



Caitlin Johnson

I. Pfc/Army
He was
an alcoholic, even at that
young age. Spoiled, aimless,
eyes out of focus
no matter where his gaze settled.

II. PO2/Navy
Honorably discharged
but learned nothing about
discipline. Knew only
about sailors’ knots
& escaping out to sea.

III. A1C/Air Force
Bored, always moving
his hands to keep his mind
from wandering into
dark places where he might
have to face the world’s truth.

IV. Sgt/Army
This secretive, mysterious
paratrooper was not afraid
to jump, but I wonder
if he could ever
pull the cord.

V. SSgt/Army
His scope on the distance,
scouting because he can’t stop.
Every attempt I make
to draw him back into me
works momentarily, then fails.




Monera Mason

The epidemic was pulmonary in nature. Will spent hours in the dark scan room amid blue white ghost images of ribcages.

Miriam’s ribs were loaded into the computer. Comparison data, the 5th scan in 3 months. There was promise. Infection clearing. This presentation he had seen before, hope only to be ravaged.

Just a tech.

I’m just a tech.

Some people, cases, images adhered to him.

Images, really.

Miriam was a horrible woman, sauerkraut and pickled. Bitter at the fact she couldn’t pay her way out, indignant that she got claustrophobic. And the machine was noisy. No love there. But her ribs. This illness.

His curiosity was piqued. What if he could unlock this mystery. What would a life outside the obscurity of the 400 square foot glassed chamber feel like. He took the longest files, the patients who had survived at least three scans, the ones that turned. Certainly there must be a pattern. Some way to make sense of it all. Looking for anomalies, he overlaid images. Spots that made for a theory. Certainly brute force worked before: Edison tried hundreds of materials before unlocking the right filament.

First, it seemed like chickenscratch, the random striations of bone. Yet there was a screen flicker of recognition. Something here, but not.

He enhanced the area.

He trapped the lines and dialed down the white. He inverted.

Yes. Absolutely familiar but still removed.

Continue Reading . . .


Wild Flowers


Kara Daly

sprinkle a little baking soda
baby I’ll get the evil right out of you
not because I’m a woman
but because I know
how to love something clean
and I don’t take no shit
not from no man
no stains on the stovetop

god gave me a body with which
to grow life not because
I’m a woman
but because I know how
to hold on—long
before I was born I said, yes god
I’ll hold another human
I’ll carry them all, give
me their trespasses, forgive
me their sins, lead them
through this body, relieve
them of this mind—

and every month my body
gathers like wild flowers
this world’s grief
and weeps