41.2 Fall 2012
Our first ever full online issue in its entirety! Highlights include our 2011 contest winners and runners-up judged by Matthea Harvey (Poetry), David Means (Fiction), and Mary Roach (Nonfiction).
Visual Art Heather Evans Smith
I want my photographs to tell stories. And I want stories that come from moments of life, like a still from an old movie. Movement and pain and the simple joys of being alive are frozen in time.
Blog Bryan Koen
By now this burgeoning genre of editorial writing, in which we rationalize a shift away from print media, has become familiar enough that we can anticipate its rhetorical moves, and I don’t want to waste time with that. It wasn’t a difficult decision and I don’t feel sentimental about the way we used to do it.
Nonfiction Priscilla Kinter
Soil and leaves filled the empty human spaces, and always the buzzing of insects. Spider silk and dust and feathers and carapaces accumulated to build soil, to make new ground for the first seedlings of oak or mulberry that would push through the glass of those stone-walled greenhouses, reaching through broken windows to the sun, pushing through warped floor for the damp and earthy root cellar.
Nonfiction Alice Lowe
When Don says, “Wow, she’s good,” I muster up a grudging agreement, but I can taste the bitter wilted greens of envy. I’m already lamenting my lack of musical ability; now I feel dowdy, too—my chocolate brown sweater, the lush cashmere that I love for its tactile elegance, seems drab, its rich earthy hue muddied like the path we’d mucked through in the downpour.
On the tips of bare toes, arm stretched so far it hurt, I placed the final red brick. This was the top of my tower. I had more Legos, but I could only reach so high. I stepped back to see what I had created.
It should have been a moment of triumph. But looking at the little red block at the top of my tower I wanted it taller. It wasn’t even a want. I felt no desire. I simply sensed that I had, within me, the ability to make it taller.
Nonfiction Rachel Toliver
I used to be a young girl, only 18, who had left the East—where I had neither much sinned nor been much sinned to—but had been often tired, and often had been the girl who did not raise palms when the others raised palms, who did not flay under a spirit-hook
Wilma clutched her empty lunch sack and watched the jellyfish bob and sway out of rhythm with the Andean flute music the aquarium played on Mondays. It was her seventh visit to the jellies exhibit in almost as many days working here as an administrative assistant in one of the research labs. She always sought the moon jellies first. With their pale translucence, they reminded her of the negligees her aunt Gina used to sell in a little shop back home.