The top 10 lies authors tell themselves
Looks like Pablo Neruda was poisoned
HarperCollins union ratifies new contract
State of the strike at HarperCollins
Amazon is changing its ebook return policy
It’s the school’s loss, not Emma’s
Fiction
Nonfiction
Poetry
Cafe
Flash
Resources
Hidden in the Bone
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.
Face Value
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.
Red Apple
by Rustin Larson
I soak my sleeve in water just to foul things up a bit, / Create a small level of misery, to keep the defense / Honest.
Garden Constellations
by Amie Sharp
The yard looks still. / Winds riffle green-coin / leaves, slim white-preened bark.
The Hideaway Motel in Altoona, Pennsylvania
by Lauren Hall
Mrs. Norris begins the afterlife in room 3B, the wheels of an empty suitcase skittering behind her. She takes her crossword puzzle to a café and bides her time.
Five Poems
by Simon Perchik
Though it’s familiar this flower / doesn’t recognize the breeze / wriggling out the ground / as that distance without any footsteps
Orbiting, Day 271
by Bradley Potts
“There is a 2.43% probability of survival. How would you like to proceed, Jay?” Blue Jay, flutter and fly, away from the crows. That gloating, hateful blue engulfs my tiny window.
Sunday
by Lee Martin
A porch swing sways, and the chains in the eyehooks screwed into the rafters let out their lazy creaks as if this is a day of rest for them, too. Or nearly so.
Puddles Like Pillows
by Suzanne Conboy-Hill
Things began disappearing round about March. Just little things—a newspaper left on a bench, or a sandwich wrapper—and not blown away or tumbled into a corner, just gone.
Threnody for Paul Morphy
by Brian Glaser
The flowers are everywhere, pungent and bright. / It could be autumn, eighteen-fifty-seven.
It all began around a campfire…
Beautiful language
is meant to be heard as well as read, and in fact words were vocalized eons before they were ever committed to clay or parchment. Storytelling began around campfires. We seek prose and poetry that continue the tradition.
Contributor Spotlight:
Other Places, Other Times
by Robert Wexelblatt
Open Contests
Lascaux Vol 9
by Stephen Parrish, with the editors of The Lascaux Review
