Archive for “Literature”

Literature

“Lulu and Me” — a short story by Arya Jenkins

     The winter I ran away, I moved into a garret in Provincetown, where I wrote poetry under the light of a candle far into the wee hours. Out my window, two stories up, I could see snow glistening on slanted rooftops that led like an uneven staircase to the bay. Below me, a twisted narrow path led to Commercial Street, peaceful and stark as an unwritten page. It was 1973 and I had run to the end of the world as I knew it to find freedom.

       I knew Provincetown from spending summers with my dad and Grandma Tess in her cottage in Truro. It seemed she’d lived most of her life since Grandpa’s passing as a beachcomber. I liked following behind her when we collected

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Literature

“Pink Rain” — a poem by Robert Nisbet

It’s like talking of a lemon light, a blue mist,
a pale moonlight. In this case a pink rain.

It was something to do with Christmas
and I was leaving the supermarket,
buzzed, bugged, by muzak’s soothe and slink.

I walked out, into December,

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Literature

Submit your stories for the 47th Short Fiction Contest

Heads up to all interested short fiction writers…The deadline for submitting your story for consideration in our 47th Short Fiction Contest is January 31. Contest details are found here.

The winner of our 46th Contest was Julie Parks.  Her story, “Cotton Candy on Alto Sax,” can be read by clicking here.  This story was one of six short stories/poems nominated for the prestigious Pushcart Prize.  You can view those nominations by clicking here.

Three other entrants during the contest were also published recently on

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Literature

“Icarus” — a short story by Ian MacAgy

     Near the end of high school I thought myself sophisticated, a fan of Pink Floyd and King Crimson and Kevin Ayers, but at a Weather Report Concert in 1972 I had a nearly religious conversion.  It was as though a stranger had run up to me and said, “hold this for minute” and ran off. Then the music exploded. I had never heard anything like this. Everything changed. 

      It was as though I grew hair in secret places and a new appendage.  I became a different creature.  After that night few of my suburban DC white friends’ guitar and lyrics-oriented ears could hear what mine could; the joy and heartbreak in this unfamiliar and ebonic timbre, this canvas painted in horn, acoustic bass, and polyrhythm; this blues, this brokenness, this homesickness.   

     There it was, though, for anyone who had ears for it—there, in the absence of verse, in the uncertainty and unpredictability of lengthy solos, in the timelessness of power beyond the moment from which

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