Stone Circle Review

Angry at the Last Days of August—

by Susan Barry-Schulz

the way they slid without sound
from the edge of the calendar—blanksquared days, blurred and flurried
on the hardwood floor.Angry at the early-changed trees—each
deepening hue, each crumpledcurl, each brittle brown star leaving
me felled and further from hislast smile, last text, last breath.
Don’t at least me or better placeme. I am clock-stopped. Buckled
and changed. Don’t try to auroraborealis me. Don’t hunter moon
or comet me. I dig my heels deepinto the high heat of September,
refuse these frosted blades of grass,these ever-changing constellations.
Deny slick piles of pine needlesrolling under my feet, fat acorns
at the curb, the V of geese retreatinghigh above the empty tennis courts—
shouting your name a thousandtimes into the swiftly darkening sky.
A pin drop in lieu of a reply.

Susan Barry-Schulz is a first generation Estonian-American poet and visual artist who grew up just outside of Buffalo, NY. She practiced as a physical therapist for many years before becoming disabled by chronic illness in 2020. Her work has been nominated for multiple Pushcart Prizes and Best of the Net awards and has appeared in The Westchester Review, Rust & Moth, SoFLoPoJO, and in many other print and online journals and anthologies.

The Editor2026-07-19T10:32:25-04:00July 19, 2026|

Under the Blaze of August

by Charles Hensler

Someone was playing Clair de Lune
all night. Large flocks of small birds
today, heading west. A silhouette
at the door. An appointment
to make a portrait of every bone, each one
to be revealed, brought blinking
into the light. Under the blaze of August
the car simmers in the driveway. The late sun
ricochets off the pearl-grey hood, through
one eye and out the other, finding every seam.
When I was a boy I melted the hands
of my plastic glow-in-the-dark watch
under the small sun of a hot lamp, believing
I could burn endless light
into every hour.

Charles Hensler lives and writes in the Pacific Northwest. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in North American Review, Epiphany, JMWW, Emerge Literary Journal, Rust & Moth, The Shore, Parentheses, One Art, Stone Circle Review and others.

The Editor2026-07-18T10:30:43-04:00July 18, 2026|

Alma Mater Omnium Vulpes

by Laila Amado

According to the book I’ll bring home from the library tomorrow, time is nothing but a rotating spiral. This is the year of the fox, the fifth of nine hundred cycles. Last summer, I stepped off the platform in a university town, and the train moved on, wheels chugging along the steel rails; my pockets juggled loose change and torn up paper, and I didn’t know how or why or whatever, and whatnot, and why shouldn’t I be a student of celestial mechanics, ancient philosophy, and the language of outdated machines? Up on the ceiling, in the auditorium where voices echo, where you said, “You cannot seriously think that the quantum entanglement in a curvature of spacetime is the way forward for our relationship to progress,” and I said, “Why the hell not?” and someone in the row behind us said shh, and the lecturer cleared his throat and continued as if nothing had happened, in that auditorium, up on the ceiling, unkindness of ravens spans the stars. Down in the town, clouds unravel on the spires built to uphold the fog and falling sky. Shadows stretch from campus to the river. Time hurries back across the quad. Fingers searching for the truth find lies, quips, quivers, candy wraps, and leeches in the mud. Dawn spills citron. College dorm rooms smell of fear and easy prey. I see a vixen in the mirror, bloodied feathers stuck to my lower lip.

Laila Amado is a nomadic writer of very short fiction and occasional poetry. Her works have appeared in Swamp Pink, HAD, the Deadlands, and elsewhere. In her writing-free time, she can be found staring at the sea. The sea, occasionally, stares back. Follow her on Bluesky @amadolaila.bsky.social and on Instagram @laila_amado.

The Editor2026-07-12T11:11:30-04:00July 12, 2026|

Book of Agenesis

by Valerie Tirado

Ask me where it hurts and I’ll sing
from the mouth of a dehiscent wound,
where God once thought it wise
to cleave flesh holy.
Only now, with palms pressed
against unsuturing skin,
do I recall the hour of her genesis
as if unfolding again
before me: the silverblade
nearing my flank; the piercing sharp
and flat notes of bonebreaking;
the fashioning of rib into chisel,
to etch her marrow from mine.
Only now, on the eve
of her wake, can I hear the crimson
chorus coursing from me—
Of all the ribs, why not take
from those in rungs above,
those soldered as one?
Why take from the pair
at the pit of a cage,
those ossified in exile
from their mirror halves?

Valerie Tirado is a Cuban-American writer from Miami, Florida. Her work has appeared in wildness, Bodega Magazine, and The McNeese Review’s Boudin. She currently lives in New York City, where she works in translational cancer research.

The Editor2026-07-11T11:51:43-04:00July 11, 2026|

Conditions

by Jan Hassmann

An autumn toll from Mum, in tears.
Dad’s got another thing.

You’d think past years of gleaning
and three kids in the arts,
a man can let down sleeves
and guard.

But only seasons ripen without toil,
and bitter soil feeds only prudence.

Dragging droughts drink deeper draughts!
is what dads say,
and a father’s wisdom never falters.

The rain barrel is full,
and the wasps are thriving,
feasting on the lustrous wine.

Jan Hassmann toils in Plovdiv, Bulgaria. His words have appeared in HAD, Maudlin House, BULL, Revolution John, Blood & Honey and elsewhere. He’s on X: @ItsJanHassmann.

The Editor2026-07-05T10:43:57-04:00July 5, 2026|