by Chloe Maron The state of the American publishing industry is one that fosters a brutal type of competition, self-doubt, and loneliness that makes it hard to dream of even the simplest victories. Spots available to hopeful writers remain limited as the industry cannibalizes itself in the name of profit….
by Blake Kilgore I teach my students the SocraticMethod – questions on questions, thepickaxe, the shovel, the digging down, downto the truth. An honorable path, onethat can lead to some light. I also introduce Mithridates, the Pontic Kingwho drank poisons, day after day,against fear of lovers, assassins,anyone who might harm…
by James Croal Jackson we need not gatherrice in the trash stickywith friends’ handsstill friends their handsa question of study whatwe collect with these rakesour long limbs in themuddy puddle of breath
by Rachel Lawrence Godfrey I look at the devastation that is my hotel room floor. I am tired and groggy. The Salat al-fajr dawn muazzin woke me, and I tossed and turned until it was real morning. I am still in-between time zones; not here long enough to be local…
by David Sapp On occasion this distant memory surfaces at curious moments. I’m unsure why. However random and peculiar, I suppose the event, over fifty years ago, had some significance for my young mind. One night when I was six or seven, in my pajamas after my bath but before…
by D.R. James Life has been a grand migrationto where you are today! –well known wisdom I didn’t know! Otherwise,when those raggedy squadronsclamored overhead last evening— three V’s disarrayedlike frayed arrow feathers, their leaders insistent as clownswith braying horns, honkingfor plane geometry— I would have…
by James Croal Jackson The blue plaster walls are crackingwhich we should have been able to see as long asthis house has stood. I catch us looking different directions on the highway, cars zippingthrough; we nearly collide something cosmic. Meaning our souls are ready to ascendfrom our bodies to some…
by Peter Mladinic My dog’s life with eyes closed seemsmore comfortable than with eyes open,I thought, this summer morning, recallinga fall afternoon I looked into those eyesand saw eternity, and felt eternity’s warmth.What is forever? That momentthat not even memory will bring back.
by David Sapp Jim and I certainly weren’t colleagues. He finished a pharmacy degree, and I was an art school dropout – and couldn’t afford Kenyon. I drove a twenty-year-old Ford. He had a flashy new sportscar. He counted pills. I stocked shelves. He said, “That’s a pretty big word…
by Phibby Venable blue ridges, path loose with mud,a halo of fog grayingin a new daythe old womanlaid out her firethe night before,in the rusted woodstove,that still spokeout flames each morning,and sang out cold,as she listened, trembling the newspaper toward warmthe old woman, always in smoke and daydreams, worn outand…