FORTH Magazine

FORTH was created to explore, examine, and expose the work of both established and up-and-coming artists and writers. Through these digital pages, we take readers into the world of the author, the mind of the poet, the vision of the artist, to gain a unique perspective of the often intriguing, sometimes haunting, always strange, little worlds of our most innovative creators. Our mission is to support writers and artists by exposing their work and exploring their lives, and to maintain a recurring set of innovative writers and journalists that you'll only see in our pages. Our content isn't classical or traditional. We publish short format writing for the modern reader and contemporary art that challenges the modern onlooker. Founded in Los Angeles, CA in 2009, FORTH represents art and literature in a way that resonates with an evolving need for interactive media. The West Coast is on the scene. Welcome and enjoy!
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Upbringing: Poetry by Kaitlyn O’Malley

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Moscow I was born in a city Built like its Russian nesting dolls, Increasing ten-fold in complexity, Every layer, at its core – Perplexity is the hallmark Of someone who breathes the Motherland. I was born with chai-laced blood And hair like borscht brewed fresh From babushka’s garden, Build sturdy like Taiga birch, Where forests…

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The ground is alive: Poetry by Brent Cronin

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I Haunt Nature   Hard white oak perfect for burning Thick branch snaps like a thigh Arrange the kindling just so Flames dull in the sunlight They won’t find me.   The ground is alive out here Finger trap squiggling worm Feel him slide down throat A man should eat when he can Especially when…

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Sun Gazing: Poetry by Greg Hill

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Summer’s Last   Her soft hand wound its way toward his back, tracing little swirls there. “It’s beautiful,”   she whispered gently into the cooler air. The sun’s top edge blinked above grassy dunes, and in a moment,   dissolved into the peach-hued sky. He breathed deeply, letting the flavor of salt pique a month…

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Marrow for Marrow: Nonfiction by Anna Moorhouse

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In the hospital, a few weeks before my grandmother died, she stopped speaking English. It was only French from then on, in whispers, through a ventilator mask. Colombe had never been a confident student of the English language, wading in only reluctantly after moving with her husband, my grandfather, across the country. Jacques worked in…

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