Build yourself a time capsule. Fill it up with the excess portion of your disappointment and disgust. Stuff it with the nausea induced by their unending, towering lies. Pour in the words you need to remember. You will need these things later, and you will be glad to have them close at hand. They will be buried there, right there, not two inches down. In the meantime, you will need to be strange and find strange ways to fight. Those who can will resist, and those who can’t will persist.
When the time comes—in eight months, in two years, in four years—your capsule will be ready to be unearthed. When you pry it open, you’ll find that the things that you saved have intermingled and coalesced. They have become a monster, a golem at your command. You will unleash it, and it will drag you uphill. You will look down at where you languished, and then, then you will not fail to act.
~Bram Shay, Editor
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Posted in Fiction, Nonfiction, Poetry | Tagged Bram Shay, Fiction, illness, meteor, old age, poems, poetry, politics, Prose, room | Leave a Comment »
Let’s say the lyric poet, among many definitions, is also a kind of translator, at least that she faces a similar challenge: the task of rendering in one tongue some experience beforehand first articulated, first heard, in another. But where the translator pivots between at least two culturally recognized languages, the lyric poet moves no less complexly between, say, interior and exterior idioms, between the image and the imagination, or between the just-at-first private articulations of her intellectual and emotional self, for which no perfect language exists, and into this thing called “English,” called “grammar,” or a “poem.” Who knows? Though we do know that any such crossings as I’ve described must probably reveal, unless we labor not to see it, the gaps between, the imprecisions, the failures and silences, and thus also makes apparent the very real difficulty involved in such a project. The trick, though, is to make that difficulty sing. I’d say Camille Rankine, in Incorrect Merciful Impulses, her debut collection, sings the point succinctly and, for that, most profoundly when she writes: “I am trying to tell you / something but my mouth / won’t move” (from “On the Motion of Animals”). Continue Reading »
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Blessed Reposed by Douglas G. Campbell
The Cupboard is not where we store our politics (though you could probably infer where we stand after a relatively superficial skim), so I’m not referring to the U.S. presidential race when I say that it’s been a difficult summer. Some people are safer than ever, golden parachutes and all; others are living through violence that would not be out of place in the medieval era. If there’s a bright spot, it’s the collective human urge to catch the colorful, preposterous creatures planted in your immediate virtual environment. I’m talking, of course, about Pokémon Go and the way it’s injected the prosaic backdrop of our cities and suburbs (there’s room for improvement in rural areas, I hear) with life and whimsy. Yes, it’s artificial, but we’d never hoof five-kilometer laps around our neighborhoods to look at the same tired scenery, would we?
I won’t make the obvious analogy between a goofy monster hovering over your cracked sidewalk and the effect literature has of remaking the trusty old human experience. I’m taking a different angle with the fact that the monsters in your proximity have a shelf life of about 15 minutes before they’re rotated out for a new crop. It’s mortality (our pet obsession) at its finest: a quest—largely meaningless—to acquire all of the spoils we see. We will never succeed. But we might just spend enough time at it to run down the clock.
~T.M De Vos, Editor
Evidence by Catherine Arra
Threshold by Gary Beck
Unfinished Business at the Halfway House by Jean Berrett
How long before I… by SuzAnne C. Cole
Without by Alexis Fedorjaczenko
An Unconventional Breaking and from Anger this Motivation by A.J. Huffman
Suicide by Gayle Newby
Elegy by Sharon Scholl
Return and Stranded on Horn Island by Richard Weaver
Far from Heaven by Scarlett Gray
Resurrection by Howard Brown
The Visible Man by Beth Sherman
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Posted in Fiction, Nonfiction, Poetry | Tagged anatomy, Bram Shay, death, Fiction, Fluffernutter, magic, mental illness, mortality, poems, poetry, Pokémon, Pokemon Go, Prose, running down the clock, Selective Service, sex workers, suburban, suicide, T.M. De Vos, urban | 1 Comment »
Shamar Hill: I’m curious about your background and how you came to writing.
Ploi Pirapokin: I came to writing primarily because I loved reading and wanted to be in conversation with the authors I read. My father had always boasted about having read every book in the library at university and 6-year-old me wanted to do the exact same thing. I grew up speaking Thai and Cantonese but was enrolled in an international school where we were only allowed to speak English. So to catch up with my native English-speaking friends, I went to the public library and picked up a few books every week to build upon my vocabulary. If I came across a word that I didn’t know the definition of, I’d leave it and see how it sounds with the rest of the sentence. I learned English that way – through repeating sounds, phrases, and sentence structures – and eventually through Michael Jackson, Whitney Houston and Mariah Carey’s music. It was only when I started writing fiction seriously that I began to care about finding the most precise, accurate word and/or phrasing to depict what I was describing, but even then, I would care about how it sounded within the sentence and if the rhythm was off, or the tone wasn’t quite right, I’d rewrite the sentence. Continue Reading »
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One remembers. One forgets. Snow drifts down and specks the tops of things. A man crosses the street to buy a sleeve of scratch cards from a kiosk. All the newspaper headlines are gloomy and ecstatic. A cheap pack of cigarettes now costs twelve bucks. Running into an old friend is like two roads converging in a wood. Turns out, one was just the long way around.
Today, we leave winter behind with an issue full of cacophony and bad sense. We leap into tales of ill-fated scuffles and ill-conceived plans, and we explore cave spaces and gorges and spare rooms and hospitals. We ask how one is supposed to know the right way to act at a party, and we wonder, and the end of the day, if politics comes down to a button and a smile.
~Bram Shay, Editor
There Ought to Be a Manual by C. Wade Bentley
Burning Wishes by Guiseppe Getto
One Poem by Couri Johnson
Spare Room by Suzanne Richter
Evil Wise Girl by Dvorah Telushkin
Bad Creatures by Ana Prundaru
Muslim Apologies by Alia Hussain Vancrown
Cambridge Close by Raquel Moran
Of Masters and Marionettes by Faith Thomas
The Magician by Dylan Henderson
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Posted in Fiction, Nonfiction, Poetry | Tagged Bram Shay, creatures, Fiction, god, magic, mental illness, poems, poetry, Prose, room | Leave a Comment »
Three illuminating images of people from Adam Kluger and places from Fabrice Poussin: The Gallery
And for more art from our past contributors, please visit our archives: The Museum
Posted in Art | Tagged Art, artwork, Bram Shay, drawings, faces, photography, shadows | Leave a Comment »
David St. John chose a fitting title for Larry Levis’ posthumous collection: The Darkening Trapeze. Most of these terrifying yet dazzling poems were written in the last two years before his unexpected death in 1996, at the age of forty-nine. The title phrase is pulled from “Elegy with a Darkening Trapeze inside it” which is one of two Elegy poems that were not included in Levis’ 1997 posthumous collection, Elegy. In the afterward, the editor of The Darkening Trapeze, David St. John, explains that Levis was inspired by the film auteur Federico Fellini, whose movies such as La Strada, often feature the circus. Continue Reading »
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