* A.L. Major *
The weather in Michigan this winter is stubbornly cold. March has arrived, but spring seems distant. Used to be on days of obstinate gray, I would curl up on my sofa and read a great novel, but lately I can only read a few pages before the author’s beautiful prose charges my insecurities about my own writing. Instead of relaxing I’m analyzing every sentence, thinking again of that scene I need to fix, and then I’m worrying that I’ll never finish and I will be a failure. So instead after I’ve finished writing for the day, I wrap myself in a fleece blanket, and I watch a movie, often a romantic comedy.
* fiction by Amber Burke *
In the white bathroom light, she can see all the orange hairs poking out of her arms and her legs. She stares at the ring on her finger, the ring Bruce bought her last night on an installment plan, gold-gold with a fleck of diamond inside a flower shape.
* Gina Balibrera *
For my part, I remember regularly, systemically, intruding upon my little sister’s dreamstate. The idea occurred to me one night as she snored in the pull-out trundle beneath my twin bed. A perfect motor inside of her. Four years younger than me, I could pick her up whenever I felt like it, and I would. That night I lifted her into the closet, placed her gently amongst the sneakers, and shut the door, hopped back onto my bed. She awoke with a start, a snort, a gasp.
Natalie Bakopoulos on what makes one Greek, Harry Mark Petrakis on life in Greece today, Bob Brunk on setting a Samuel Beckett poem to music, Ilan Stavans on Andrés Serrano’s Piss Christ, Eric Torgersen on the Rilke of spiritual seekers.
Fiction by George Choundas, Amber Burke, D. Seth Horton, Jill Logan, Jennifer Moses, Tony Tulathimutte
Poetry by Anne Barngrover, Karen Kevorkian, Campbell McGrath, Rachel Richardson
* fiction by Rebecca Makkai *
It was the first two boys in the classroom at 8:25 who started tapping the glass of the cage. “Kirby’s dead!” one of them shouted—later she couldn’t remember who it was, though she was sure Michael Curtis had been in the class that year, and he’d have been the type to shout, the type for drama. “He’s like this,” Michael said, lolling his tongue out and choking himself.