Fiction
Nonfiction
Poetry
Contests
Flash
Resources
Things I Did Not Learn From Dead White Male Authors
by Jennifer Zobair
I have loved books by white, male authors. I have stayed up all night with them, avoided studying for the bar exam with them, sought refuge from broken hearts or unrealized dreams with them.
The Three Graces of Ana Lydia Vega
by Alison McMahan
Recently my husband and I celebrated our wedding anniversary, spending the day at the Vizcaya Museum and Gardens, originally a palatial Miami home built in 1916 by industrialist John Deering.
The Difference Between Being a Slut & a Racist: Pocahottie Hottentot
by Ruth Hopkins
Ahh, yes. Halloween is just around the corner. Time for pumpkin carving, Trick-Or-Treating, and women dressed like two-dollar hookers wearing headdresses.
Waves
by William Ogden Haynes
That bowl, whose waves long ago gently caressed / the scent of Sunday dinners, finally washed up / in the swampy cul-de-sac of my kitchen counter.
Lilac
by Alexis Misko
I feel the kind of sticky / I should feel if this were Georgia, / if I were in an Alice Walker novel / with a fist full of blackberries / staining my southern grin.
How to Pay Respects to a Serial Killer
by Robert S. King
Follow the script and the scripture. / Even the biography of the damned / is told with sobbing compassion.
Three Bedrooms in New Jersey
by Tina Barry
One autumn, a neighbor removed the hanging seats from his daughter’s swing set and trussed a deer he had shot to the top bar. I could smell it as I lay in bed.
Orchard Avocation
by William Ford
I’m a laid off mooch / of a prof using up fuel / to cut grass close / around apple trees / where voles eat roots / and breed and breed / deep in the grass, hidden / from fox and hawks.
Memories of David Foster Wallace
Following is a transcript of a memorial service held for David Foster Wallace on 26 October 2008 at Underwood Park in Normal, Illinois.
Roadtrip
by Jane Flett
I lean forward to your ear, touch my lips to the point where the hair curls over your lobe, and I wonder about falling inside. I purse them like a kiss and I whisper road trip.
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:
You Are Leaving the American Sector
by Rebecca Foust
Open Contests
by Stephen Parrish, with the editors of The Lascaux Review
