CONFESSIONS OF A WINGMAN by Kyle Lung
July 27, 2022
Well first they sent chimps into space. Then men. And now they say humans will not walk on mars. I’ve heard they’re saving that for robots.
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J DAVID OSBORNE on film with Rebecca Gransden
July 26, 2022
I’ve always been confused about books that attempt to tell a straightforward, filmic plot through the written word. Isn’t that just a less-good version of a medium that already exists? Instead, why not adopt film’s self-confidence?
STUDIO by Trevor Wing
July 25, 2022
We signed a 72 and ¾ month lease for our studio. The market is tough in San Diego.
INEVITABLE HOLMES by Oli Johns
July 22, 2022
Sherlock Holmes Sherlock Holmes Sherlock Holmes Sherlock Holmes Sherlock Holmes Sherlock Holmes.
MYSTERY AWAITS: A REVIEW OF CRAIG RODGERS’ “FRANCIS TOP’S GRAND DESIGN” by Kristin Cleaveland
July 21, 2022
There is an otherworldly quality to many of these tales, a blurring of edges that gives the impression that the stories’ events take place somewhere between waking and sleeping.
THE PRIVATE MUSEUM OF MISS MARGARET by Zhu Yue translated by Jianan Qian and Alyssa Asquith
July 20, 2022
Like some unmarried and childless women, she is aloof, arrogant, and easily annoyed. But this takes nothing away from her great charitable contributions.
MONROE LAWRENCE IN CONVERSATION WITH VI KHI NAO
July 19, 2022
VI KHI NAO: Almond was mentioned quite a few times on page four of About to Be Young. Can you tell me about your relationship with this edible oval nutty thing? When I was in Spain, eating pistachio ice cream for lunch, dinner, and breakfast, the ice cream maker kept repeating “almond,” and “almond” over and over to imply the almond tree growing in the winter months a few hours from Granada. It reminded me of your poem that begins with “Oh God” and ends “crying almond, almond, almond into the night.” Will the poets in my
TRAPPED AIR by Corey Miller
July 18, 2022
I stand naked at my bedroom window as the community arrives, unhitching buggies next to the barn and freeing their horses within the pasture fencing. It’s Father’s turn to host church. My hands find the tumbled smooth surface of the yellow citrine, amplifying the power of the sun, torrential and vitalizing. My altar, the top of the maple dresser Father built, is aligned with crystals. Each one unique, delivering its effects to the possessor. The dresser stores my bonnets and dresses, different hues of pink and gray. Sundays are always black. None with pockets; Amish don’t believe in secrets. The Radiant Rider-Waite
RABBITS OUT BACK IN THE BURN PILE by Nat Baldwin
July 15, 2022
If we found him we dragged him back up the hill into the house. Our faces would burn if we did not do this. Sometimes, even if we dragged him back to where he belonged, we would still get punished.