Summer 2025

Issue No. 23: Power

Dear Reader,

Every time I sat down to write this Editor's note, I found myself intimidated by the task at hand. I was struck, as I often am, by the power that words can have. It's one of the reasons that people in precarious positions of power like to burn books. Ideas strike sparks in the mind, which can flame into full-fledged beliefs and feelings. Creative writing challenges us to think about the world around us, to think critically, and to consider the viewpoints of others. Stories engender empathy, and in a political climate where the two sides of the aisle feel so far apart, empathy is one of the most powerful tools we have to bring people together. To tell a story is to wield power in a way that only we as wordsmiths can.

When we chose the theme of Power for this issue, we did not do so lightly. We wanted people to really grapple with the idea of it, in all its forms: abuse of power, lack of power, both internal and external powers. Each piece in this issue was chosen by our editorial team because they embodied the theme in their own way. I hope that as you read this issue, you confront your own ideas about power and about the world. I hope you flex your empathy muscles. It’s one of the most powerful things you can do.

Sincerely, 

Katie Blue-Pugh

Editor-in-Chief

This issue of Stonecoast Review is dedicated to
Zoe Kaplan,
whose warm presence touched us all
and who will be sorely missed.

Please consider donating to
The Zoe Sarah Kaplan Memorial Award
in her honor

fiction Stonecoast Review fiction Stonecoast Review

A Fine Young Man

The office of Mr. Peter Jameson, manager of the country club, reeks of authority. Dark wood walls. Marble-top desk. Hovering indoor tree, most likely fake. Mr. Jameson speaks to us with a hint of apology, referring to Zander’s confusion about what is and isn’t allowed.

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Old Meats and No Service

Rayan hasn’t slept. Last night, as he scraped wiry hairs from his chin with a straight razor before his chipped and frameless bathroom mirror, two chimes rang through his apartment: the first from his microwave, announcing his dinner of pre-buttered popcorn, and the second from his laptop, waiting open on the standing desk that doubles as his kitchen table.

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Celebrants

We filed out of the cab at 7 p.m. sharp, cradling lukewarm bottles of Sauvignon Blanc, store-bought eclairs transferred to porcelain platters, cold cuts smothered in cling film.

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Woundwood

I was finishing up a late-night pee when I heard the tinkle of glass smashing downstairs. Then, the patio door, sliding open with its customary squeal. I rushed back to the bedroom and shook Sean, the snore catching in his throat.

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