The Indicator

PROSE

  • The Perfect Man
    MACKENZIE DUNSON
    A row of homes. Perfect homes, like they were pasted from the pages of a catalog. Sprawling white picket fences ran over the hills, connecting the houses in a puzzle, endlessly together…Continue Reading The Perfect Man
  • Island of Reverence 
    WILLOW DELP
    The dictionary is wrong. The dictionary is written by parents and upright magistrates and kings all ill-acquainted with true reverence, the reverence that makes you sob and beg and wail and grove…Continue Reading Island of Reverence 
  • Wonderful
    ANNIKA BAJAJ
    Swinging my legs in technicolor, fourth-grade, all-purpose classrooms with history on one side and “World Weather Map” on the other, I stared down the boy sitting across from me…Continue Reading Wonderful
  • Hymn
    ELEANOR WALSH
    And when I hear false my tongue twists G-o-d / But in street lights I see / The moons all around me / Foxes follow me home to you / I pull the Priestess / Your lips are red / The ring I lost months ago…Continue Reading Hymn
  • Orphic Overture LXXXI
    FAHIM ZAMAN
    I met him the night before / In that signature diner / Where all the cars go to die / Where green stars hide inside / With the man who wears the suit. // Who has milk and cookies, and waits till / The Beatles plays on the radio …Continue Reading Orphic Overture LXXXI
  • stuplimity
    GABBY AVENA
    the tree kneels / at the pond the tree / kneels to touch the / pond touch neither the / tree nor the pond / which the tree wants / touching your fingers / which cannot touch…Continue Reading stuplimity

POETRY

a digital art piece of a vogue cover with a laughing, bloody person in front

Featured Fiction

MACKENZIE DUNSON
I took a deep inhale, as my head tilted towards the sky, as I felt His hands on my shoulder and breath on my ear, perfect, He said, I know that you can make it perfect. He uttered my name. I shuddered, embodying the praise, receiving it in my mind, my soul.

His words pushed me towards the door.

Art Gallery

Learn more about our art here!

Featured Poem

AIDAN COOPER
all the times i let my teeth ferment in my spit without brushing before bed,
the bits scabbed over by fiber, in neat pairs…
separate under skin, i’ve never used a nutcracker,
i break my own jaw

a collage of pieces within colored circles that radiate outwards

Full Issues