Amanda Gorman’s inaugural poem was wonderful
500 industry pros say don’t publish books by Trump staff
Foundry Lit founding partner taken to court
Obama memoir tops 2020 bestseller list
Writer Beware: 2020 in Review
Oh happy day: Trump finally concedes election
Recent Fiction
The Company of Shallow Holes, by Dino Parenti
One unremarkable March day, a man began puncturing random holes in his withered pasture with a post-hole digger.
Recent Poetry
Ecru, by Oak Morse
We were all one beautiful blend / of mama’s love. My brother, / the color of ecru, the other one / sepia, and me, ebony.
Recent CNF
Playground Doctrine, by Myna Chang
In the grit of a 1975 farm town, 9-year-old girls weigh about 60 pounds, even wicked little girls with bad women for mommas.
Two Poems
by Karen Paul Holmes
When fifteen hours of Wagner’s Ring draws to a close, please Siegfried, don’t take the potion making you forget Brünnhilde.
Spoiled
by Michael Mark
My father puts the milk carton / on the kitchen table. Declares, She bought it—before.
Aim
by Rebecca Foust
If Pastor Dale’s deer-stand was built as a place from which to squeeze a hair trigger, it also ladled up a grand view of the valley below, thick with hickory, sycamore, and elm.
Freddy Krueger is Not Real: the Dream of a Burn Survivor
by Dina Peone
One night in my mid-teens, I was under the covers in my sister’s bedroom, deep asleep, while flames spread from a nearby candle.
Bystander
by Jen Bergmark
Technically, you needed only one eye to take a photo, but you needed the other to see.
Across the Street
by Lee Martin
Over the next few weeks, a series of strange and unsettling incidents occurred. On more than one night, Glory was jarred from sleep by angry shouts coming from across the street.
Some Things Are Decided Before You Are Born
by Marissa Glover
Doctors cannot tell you when you’re born / how many pitches your arm contains.
Foal
by Lois P. Jones
In your next life you will be / birthed in needles / of hoarfrost, your eyes still / in the blue gauze between
The Mourner’s Song
by Roy White
You can die in January if you want, / and lots of people do, but this far north, / nobody gets into the ground till spring.
Songs We Play When We Pretend We’re Ourselves
by Benjamin Thomas
There’s a piano player in the restaurant on the night Zoe tells you she’s pregnant.
Book du jour
by Sarah Freligh
Open Contests
by Stephen Parrish, with the editors of The Lascaux Review
The Lascaux Prize Volume Six
