Girlhood is remembered as a freezepop staining my fingers red, a scalp sunburn hidden underneath a camp bandana, and the grit of gravel stuck in a scraped knee.

I’ve stopped worrying about people who don’t understand my work. It’s much more rewarding to find people that do and cultivate that niche. If you’re willing to write it, then chances are someone is going to love to read it.

Without being truly inclusive, how can we, as a field of professionals, claim to promote and see all voices, all perspectives, all experiences?

Our February collection features a range of wonderful pieces from a talented group of contributors. Despite the diversity in genre and form, it’s impossible to ignore the emphasis on human connection, exploring what it means to face loneliness. Through these stories, we are launched from earth into space and dragged back down again. After our travels, we arrive back in a place that feels the same, yet changed.

The machine needs us, not the other way around.

Here today, we're pleased to present to you these captivating, curious, and vividly moving works by Leath Tonino, Joel Gordon, Sarah Lilius, Michelle Disler, Michael Moreth, and Judith Skillman. Settle in with your blankets and a mug of tea for some winter reading as the cold rolls in, and we hope you enjoy this Issue's collection.

Does that mean I’m a subpar writer? I don’t think so. I think it’s simply a result of how my brain works. As with many neurodivergent folks, I find it difficult to stick to a strict routine and work every single day. I need some variation and time to recharge.

Let us reach into the depths of our relationship with this small planet and at the very least show that we cared enough to write about her over and over and over again.

For this first Issue of Volume 15, our Editors and their readers have curated a trio of literary works that illuminate the emotions we pin to the inanimate and the mundane, all while offering some insight as to how we can move forward in the world today.

It’s a heavy burden, but one we can’t seem to shake, to dip into that moonlit pond by the cavern, and resurface with a living poem—the messy made heard and seen.