We are pleased to announce the 2015 Christine Eldin Memorial Fellowship longlist.
by Seth Sawyers
In the station a black woman with thick braids played the cello. I thought she was good, but I don’t know if she really was good, because what do I know about the cello?
by Siobhan Adcock
My mother has a cult following. It’s not as big as my father’s, because her band hasn’t sold as many records as his.
by Julia Lynn Rubin
When I look at the sky, I don’t see color. The man in the rabbit suit doesn’t either. I know this because I asked him one summer, when the air smelled like burning pavement.
by Emile DeWeaver
A mother-of-pearl mirror-stand, rolled rugs from Damascus, and other brick-a-brac from when I went through my I’m-gay-but-proud-to-be-Syrian bullshit fill the shadows in my garage.
by Simon Perchik
Here, there, the way silence / tows you below the waterline / and though you are alone / you’re not sure where her name / is floating on the surface / or what’s left
by Heather Dobbins
She hasn’t taken off her swimsuit all summer. She is two hands / across her middle. I know that from throwing her: one foot / on my thigh, the other in my palm. Up, over, splash.
by Michael Lauchlan
Among students, I drink the same / coffee I drank at home an hour / ago—which is not some philosophical metaphor.
by Mathew Javidi
If I could go back, / I would have clutched my tongue, / not let it pirouette into / the soft, dim spotlight of / your living room
by Isabella David McCaffrey
Autofiction is technically new, but now it’s been identified as a trend—like cat eyeliner then or wearing winter white. When the masses catch on, is it no longer cool?
by Diane Payne
After making the one hundred mile drive with my daughter for the Breast MRI appointment, she takes off to meet an old friend who is a medical student at the hospital.
by Jim Krosschell
Lately, as I’ve progressed from little walks around the living room to real walks around the block, the neighborhood seems to be different.
by Randy Osborne
“I don’t expect you to remember me,” she says. The Atlanta bar is loud around us. She’s maybe late 30s, with dark hair and eyes, apple cheeks, a certain kind of defiance about the lips.
by Stephen Parrish
I once made changes to a story that I suspected were wrong, changes an editor demanded. Years later, I’m sure they were wrong. Because my guts tell me so.
The founders of The Lascaux Review have launched a new literary journal. Easy Street picks up where Lascaux lets off—with reviews and interviews, columns and industry news, even debates and (just for fun) horoscopes.
The Lascaux Prize in Flash Fiction is open for submissions. $1000 for 1000 words.
Congratulations to Mathew Javidi, winner of the 2014 Lascaux Prize in Poetry! He earns $1000 and a spot in the 2015 anthology with his poem titled “Sefeed.”
by David W. Berner
Casey and Graham heard me talk about the details of the trip, about my purpose for taking on the challenge of it, and an itinerary based on the travels written about in Kerouac’s book. Although neither had heard much of anything about Kerouac . . .
by Eli Glasman
When I got back to the house it was nearly midday. My father and Talya were still at synagogue. Normally we had coffee and cake for breakfast on Shabbat, but I’d left too early, so there was a piece left for me on the bench.
by Karen Paul Holmes
Why do knots form by themselves? / In my blow dryer cord, / cell phone charger, / dog leashes. / What Boy Scout crept into the dark / to practice right over left / around and through?
by Jodi Picoult
One day when I was seven I came home from school to find that my mother had redecorated my bedroom. My shelf of stuffed animals was gone, replaced with all the books on math and science she had used in college.
by Hélène Cardona
Wind, who yearns to be savored, offers / me three cups overflowing / with eternity, daemon of insight. / The opportune encounter enraptures quintessential / distress, ruffles estranged quietude . . .