I’m very pleased to announce that Rachel Farrell has accepted the position of MQR Blog and Social Media Editor.
Rachel is well known at the journal, having served as an intern here while working on her MFA (Fiction, ’13) and afterward as an assistant editor. I have long appreciated and enjoyed Rachel’s intelligence, good humor, creativity, and managerial skills.
Her work has appeared in The Hairpin, McSweeney’s Internet Tendency, Ninth Letter, and Pank. She comes to us with considerable experience in social media, having previously served as the Senior Manager of Print and Online Media for Cision US in Chicago, a global PR and marketing company.
At last our new online purchasing system is up and running. Once again you can subscribe to MQR online–there’s still time to order our Winter issue–and for the first time you can now order individual issues online as well.
Prepare for the next blast of cold and snow–browse our online store and order enough fascinating reading to last you till spring. Then curl up with MQR and your beverage of choice, and you’ll forget all about the weather.
* nonfiction by John Felstiner from MQR 53:4 Fall 2014 * I lift up a slim item of frayed, folded pages: a letter, an airmail letter. It’s World War II V ∙ ∙ ∙ — MAIL which I remember well, though less intimately than I recall the newsprint, foil, flimsy War Ration Books, V-Garden carrots, countless crayon sketches of US and RAF planes soaring above flame-drenched landscapes. Also an early stab of grief and loss: April 12, 1945, Franklin Delano Roosevelt dies.
Stephen Burt examines Laurence Goldstein’s review of Los Angeles poetry, Andrew Bush delves into Nancy Willard and Eric Lindbloom’s The River that Runs Two Ways, Yoon Choi encounters her heritage, Rebecca McKanna loses her virginity, and John Felstiner remembers an elusive figure from his childhood. Fiction by Liliana Colanzi, Claudine Guertin, Toni Mirosevich, Valerie Miner. […]
* poetry by Kara Van De Graf from MQR 53:3, Summer 2014 *
From the grandmother of my grandmother, it lives
at the footboard of the bed, passed down to me
by my own mother. As a child, I traced
the blonde-wood petals of flowers, the garden
etched with dark walnut vines. And below,
near a lip of scrollwork, two narrow drawers kept
in check by a key. It was only when I slid
the drawers from their runners that I noticed