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Annie Ernaux wins Nobel Prize in Literature
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This Isn’t Silverlake Anymore

This Isn’t Silverlake Anymore

by Neil McCarthy
I hear the slightly scratched voice of Joan Baez coming from / the record player singing about the junipers in the pale moonlight, / applause erupting like hailstones on a corrugated iron roof.
Hearsay

Hearsay

by Carla Ferreira
They say in Avignon people dance on the bridge / that was either unfinished or fell apart— / no one remembers those folk stories anymore.
A Letter to Nick Ut

A Letter to Nick Ut

by Samantha Storey
Of all the images to come out of Saigon, your photo of the naked girl running toward the camera is the iconic one.
The Spoken World

The Spoken World

by Brett Garcia Rose
Here are the rules: You must begin every sentence or phrase with a vowel. Any word beginning with a consonant is considered high risk and must be preceded without pause by a vowel ending in a higher tonality.
Last Time at the Arch Street Tavern

Last Time at the Arch Street Tavern

by Gail C. DiMaggio
Another Monday in another February and the streets outside / are shiny with sleet, speckled with litter. Everything / diminishes—sumac and elm, Dad’s old Buick. Lust.
The Reincarnation of the Seagull

The Reincarnation of the Seagull

by Lisa Pellegrini
Before he was a seagull / he was the bed of the ocean / its stronghold and place of / penance, a tenderfoot of sorts.
Watching Snow Falling in a Mirror

Watching Snow Falling in a Mirror

by Timothy Walsh
From where I sit, the mirror on the opposite wall / shows the outside world / through the window behind me.
I Keep

I Keep

by Ian Hilgendorf
I doodled your name a thousand times a day. Even before I seen you, I knew you was made like on a potting wheel, formed together by the fires of my womb.
How We Made Gravity About Us

How We Made Gravity About Us

by Matthew J. Robinson
Although we died the moment we met, / we believed we could shun nothingness / by getting married, act as a paradigm / for those just beyond giving up.
The Triumph

The Triumph

by Frank Scozzari
Mowambi was breathing hard, panting like a wild animal, his leathery face wincing in the hot African sun. He had been hit cleanly through the side, the wound causing numbness in his abdomen.
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:

by Jennifer Givhan

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Open Contests

Best Writing Contests of 2022, recommended by Reedsy

Lascaux Vol 9

by Stephen Parrish, with the editors of The Lascaux Review