With the new season beginning, and new submissions already beginning to flow in, we thought we would begin the season with a formal introduction of the Fall 2017 editors. We’re … Continue Reading The New Editors of Fall 2017
By Hannah Calkin
During my teenage years I lost
My belief in Fairy Tales and pixie dust
But came to see myself as Persephone:
Legend of beauty, freedom, and imprisonment.
A dynamic dichotomy of all sorts.
by Zach Roberge
Au revoir Le Mans. Au revoir France. I pause a moment before leaning in slowly and kissing your left cheek followed by your right. We embrace then I leave out the door, waving goodbye.
by Tyrel Kessinger
After my wife leaves for work, I round up my two daughters and we head to the backyard, an old raggedy quilt in hand. For a July morning in Kentucky it’s, quite surprisingly, a very pleasant one. Far too nice to not be taking advantage. My youngest daughter occupies the quilt with me under the shade of the one tree I can name, our Japanese Maple.
by Savannah Leigh
The two old men stood at the corner where Briar Avenue met Second Street. Bickering, they hovered over a phone, the faint glow of a maternity shop’s window display washing over them.
Aujourd’hui, je me suis réveillé, me suis levé, m’a assis sur le canapé et j’ai passé une journée tranquille au Mans en train de ne rien faire.
Every second week in July, UMF staff and students work practically twenty-four hours a day to run a writing camp and workshop for high school students. Longfellow Young Writers’ Workshop … Continue Reading Longfellow
by Michael Crane
My father left my mother today. He caught a taxi to the airport and boarded a plane to Mexico. This confused my mother as she didn’t believe he knew anyone there. I was my parent’s only child and close to my father as any daughter could be. I stayed with my mother for six weeks.
The other day I bought bread. Not sliced bread and not bread that’s been stored on a shelf for days on end. I bought a fresh baguette that had been baked in store. I paid less than 1 euro, and to pair, I picked up fromage a tartinare, which is a garlic cheese spread.
By Brent Fisk
The first time I married I was eight.
I thought my grandmother would forbid it,
but she let the ceremony play out beneath an apple tree.
A rooster was my best man, but he flew
into a locust tree and would not come down when called.
I had a magical night bar hopping with a group of non-French people who were spending time in Le Mans, same as me. We’d decided the night was called, “Drunk Day,” and it started at the bar, O Brassin Belge, though I was told its nickname was, The Belgian Bar.
Le Mans puts on a show called, La Nuit Des Chimeres from July until September. It is a light show which uses projection mapping on the historical landmarks of Le Mans to tell the story of the chimera.
by Edmund Sandoval
Is there ever a time to think of poetry? Of poets? Of the rivers of the delta? There are no Pyramids in Southern Illinois. Yet, Cairo. She called. She came over.
by David Rodriguez
I’m never replacing my shoes.
These blue vegans may have
hallux holes and squeak, may
stay wet for days and seam-split
before I’ve worn the soles all the
way, but their reliability is enabling.
This is a short recording from a local park down the street. The park has walkways, sitting areas, a large fountain with smaller spouts for children to play among, a playground with swings and slides, and slopes of soft, grassy hills which I sat on while recording this audio.
by Michael Brasier
I furiously slipped on my shoes and hurried to the front room where my parents were putting on their jackets. The weather radar was on TV. A mass of red with arrows pointing in our direction on the map. A storm was quickly approaching.