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



Brian Cooney

Planes crash with depressing infrequency.
Repetition of falling feathers, dun
Dutch feet, makes us forget there was only
One Icarus. He lived fast and died young.
I wonder if he inspired a spree
Of Greek jumpers, the way Werther blew out
The brains of European kids, if he,
Pre-sex, androgynous, was the last shout
On Sappho’s tongue as she broke up into
A thousand shards that we’d puzzle over,
Mazes where the tiptoeing Minotaur
Never strikes, just waits, out of sight, hovers,
Drags it out, you stumbling around with torch
Fizzling like the sun foundering in the sea.


Komfort Kats


Thomas Mundt

The news of the latest Pain Event arrived via Carrier Pigeon, Komfort Kats’ sophisticated electronic messaging system. Carrier Pigeon could also be used to place delivery orders but doing so during Business Hours was frowned upon. Komfort Kats had Strict Policies that governed these practices.

The Pain Event was in New Jersey. Something about the loss of several houseboats to Raging Blazers, the absolute worst phylum of fire. Grease-related, no doubt. People were always leaving lard in pans, Komfort Kats learned over time.

Taxpayers were displaced, forced to live with Close Friends or Formerly-Estranged Loved Ones. Their spirits were heavy, tethered to sorrow by circumstance. Traditional remedies like Legal Tender Infusions or Playful Clowning cut neither the mustard nor the horseradish.

Only the services of Komfort Kats would do.


Komfort Kats’ preferred method of travel was helicopter. Man, did they love the all the Blade Whirring! They listened to it on Noise-Cancelling Headphones, tiny ones, during their flights. White Noise helped them focus, but not while they read White Noise. Komfort Kats started a Book Club and a Team Member picked DeLillo. All that racket piped through their pointy ears and into their peabrains via their PortaJukes™ did not increase concentration, not one bit. Management was notified accordingly.

Senior Komfort Kats got window seats. Sometimes they mewed when they could see the Natural Disasters or Rampage Zones to which they were being dispatched. With oval eyes they saw The Depths of Despair, felt The Hurt cut through their silky coats like a Stiff Breeze. They often held paws to get through it all because they did not have hang-ups about Same-Sex Affection. Komfort Kats always found that particular issue among humans obnoxious.

Entry-Level Komfort Kats were crated. There were plenty of holes in the wood to allow for Adequate Breathing. The recent passing of Prop 483 made sure of that.


Continue Reading . . .


I Lose Track of the Variables


Joannie Stangeland

Say stress to test how wood
or bone will fail, fatigue
for cracks in steel. What breaks
by degrees—a simple math.

The small worries lodge
in my body’s nests, where neck
marries shoulder to skull,
sure pockets of last week
lingering, a shoulder hunched,
a wrist pinched, tension circling

the space between our surfaces.
Some days as long
as the no-man’s land
we walked between borders.

How to ease our boundaries,
our words unfolding
after the fiercest spring winds
have stripped the tulips.

Our hauntings, osmotic, transfuse
this diaphanous membrane—
what we voice, what’s swallowed
when we say weary and mean you,
no and mean home.

How to know which straw’s
the last, slanting
in winter light to settle?

We bring our angers, our hands empty.
We bring our translations,
hunt for the formula,
tempered by our years.

We chart the distance between stars
in light years and angles.
The telescope opened the night’s world,
a closer look at the stories,
new truths to prove.

Remember the loaf and fish
that increased beyond counting?
Abundance means you don’t have to measure.
Trust means you don’t have to test.