* Lillian Li *
Here are the things about me that you could glean from a quick glimpse at my search history:
I hurt my calf kickboxing and I want to do something about it. I have a crush on my kickboxing instructor and I maybe want to do something about it. I am learning how to cook quinoa. I have finished only a fraction of my taxes. I don’t know if I have health insurance. I am still learning how to cook quinoa.
* Kevin Haworth *
Many of my beginning fiction students believe that once they’ve figured out the ending to a story, they are ready to begin writing. But those of us with more experience know the traps involved in that kind of thinking. Writing toward a preconceived ending—writing deterministically, in other words—can help you finish a draft. But it can just as quickly lead to airless, overly managed stories. Only by opening up the story, again and again, can we really find its territory. Probabilistic fiction, so to speak.
Jerry Dennis looks at the history of confining birds, Zhanna Slor comments on her family, Brenda Hood comments on hers, Stefanie Wortman discovers her namesake’s life in the Warsaw Ghetto and beyond, Mukund Belliappa explores the coolie experience in the former British Empire, Josh Lambert reviews books on the history of publishing.
Poetry by Rachel Morgenstern-Clarren, Kyle McCord, Alison Prine, Jack Ridl, Jennifer Sperry Steinorth, Elizabeth Schmuhl, Kara Van De Graaf, Cindy Veach, Sara Wallace.
Fiction by Dariel Suarez, Rachel Groves, Katherine L. Hester, Victoria Lancelotta.
* fiction by Courtney Sender, excerpted from MQR 53:2, Spring 2014 * Look, the truth of the way of the world is that David loves Moira enough to move to the middle of Nothing, England, for her, and Moira doesn’t love David enough to pick up the goddamned phone.
All David wants to do is warn her:
* Gina Balibrera *
She seemed to have read everything, and thus I imagined that she lived, as Joyce wrote, near to the wild heart of life, in Ireland attending Joyce conferences in her fabulous boots, dipping down to Southern Spain to write in the sun with a bottle of wine and cavort with beautiful intellectuals, writing dazzling papers on international flights, and having her hair deep conditioned and brushed in the meantime. Hers was the life that would be mine in the next decade. In my thirties, I thought to myself, I will have read everything and I will have a chestnut mane. During one of her lectures I made an idle note to read every volume of In Search of Lost Time over the summer.