Contributed By: Kevin J.B. O'Connor
So the birds turned to stone mid-air
and fell on the Earl’s head,
is that right? On the oxen’s rumps
and the palanquins.
Or was it the apparitions hanging
in the ice—
shagged osiers that struck
them dead,
a current livid among the roots,
transmogrified by the black sun,
itself frozen—like a dark cherry,
a chariot of unknown souls?
Return to table of contents for Issue 12 Winter 2018.
The nightingale is plucking out its feathers. So what if it pulls them all out? I bought you a flower. You said it had faded. It fades. So what? Are you done judging me or…
8:15 Splendidly beautiful day: intense sun and blue sky. Big cloud of smoke at town hall. Nine guerrillas on the corner. Indigenous Tzeltals all. Nothing on the radio: “They smashed the station to pieces,“ Dora reports.…
Okla Elliott: Since one of my goals for doing this editors forum is to promote literary journals and hopefully garner subscriptions for the journals involved here and others, could you discuss what you think editors and writers could be doing to increase readership of literary journals? For example, one tactic I’ve used is to require workshop […]
Triumph at last—you’re in. Mowing the lawn brings this into focus. His father has no time to squander nor his mother any space. She enjoyed it. She kissed you goodbye. Overrunning a rock, the blades halt. The scent of barbecue and fresh cut grass balances his stinging eyes and pinkened neck. The phone rings. Her […]
My father once told me that movies like Blazing Saddles or The Producers just simply could not be made anymore. Try pitching something like “Springtime for Hitler” for the first time to a movie exec and see how well it goes, even if they are willing to do a remake of The Producers. Might as well call your pitch “The […]
