It’s time to stop revising! The deadline is looming: November 15, 2017.
To submit your manuscript, please click here.
The Levis Prize is named for Larry Levis (1946-1996), an award-winning poet and much-beloved MFA Program for Writers faculty member. Levis Prizes will be awarded to two alumni completing first books, one in poetry and one in fiction.
(Here’s the link: https://friendsofwriters.submittable.com/submit/88762/larry-levis-post-graduate-stipends)
2016-17 Beebe Fellow Alain Park at his Warren Wilson campus reading, Oct. 27, 2016.
A short story by Alain Douglas park (fiction, ’13) appears in The American Literary Review:
I Don’t Want Anything to Happen; I Want Something to Happen
Wednesday night, already dark, I fully intended to ask my lovely teenage daughter something quick about dinner, but she blew by me, dumped her green army bag on the tiles and headed to the bathroom. I’d been standing there awhile, smoking at the sink, trying to figure out what to make.
Hey, ClaireBear, good to see you, I said to the air, which, wouldn’t you know it, didn’t say anything back.
A typical scene since Claire’s moved in, because she doesn’t want to live with her mom right now, because her mom is getting remarried and Claire can’t stand the creep. I said, sure, I got room, I’ll take the couch. It’s no bother. And most days it isn’t. I don’t see her all that much. I see her green army bag more than her. It’s tattered and covered with safety pins and Sharpie and has been one of my best friends lately.
Last Wednesday when she came in, she tossed my little friend right into the cardboard boxes I’d brought home from the restaurant and stacked in the middle of the kitchen. … continue reading here.
Three poems with audio by Rebecca Foust (poetry, ’10) appear in The Cortland Review:
Parts of Speech
We came to a grove and you drew me in;
I wondered about our right to wander
where we would in that wood of old pine,
my hand in yours and yours in mine.
Fair was the raiment of cloud overhead.
Or it was not fair, or it was just
… to continue reading “Parts of Speech,” and to read “Let Deer” and “Moose, Bear and the Moon,” click here.
A story by Eric Rampson (fiction, ’16) appears in Typishly:
The Ornamental Hermit
Editor’s background note for the uninitiated: Wikipedia tells us that “ornamental hermits were hermits encouraged to live in purpose built hermitages, follies, grottoes, or rockeries on the estates of wealthy land-owners, primarily during the 18th century. Such hermits would be encouraged to dress like druids and remain permanently on-site, where they could be fed, cared-for and consulted for advice or viewed for entertainment.”
To: The Ornamental Hermit
I hope this email finds you well. Diane and I are very much enjoying Tahiti—there is a pool directly outside the front door of our cabin while the beautiful sliding doors at the back open onto a flat wooden deck suspended over pale blue crystalline water warm as syrup and deep enough to dive into.
Your emotional state, I must admit, is less of a hope and more the reason I’m writing to you, sitting on that same flat deck, the waves lapping gently below me while Diane (who has agreed to wear high-heels with her bikini, at least around the cabin) suns herself in front of me, on her stomach, feet in the air behind her, ankles crossed. She is still so very lovely. And the high-heels? I don’t need to explain their effect, do I?
And that’s the problem. There was a time, back when we hired you, when you first moved into the grotto and the moss coloring the stones of your hut was still that fake, painted-on stuff, back then I would most certainly have had to explain the effect of a high-heel shoe not just on the leg of a beautiful woman but on the heart, mind, and baser instincts of the modern man. But it seems now that you understand perfectly what I mean.
Well maybe not a high-heel, specifically, but, you know, about the sexual, romantic power of the fairer sex.
… continue reading here.
Two poems by Paul Otremba appear in The Account:
The New Republic of California
I was not remembering the Republic—the cooked egg expertly peeled and split,
a more perfect union toppled by a hair—because that was love they split.
It’s a problem with the math, being told to pick points on a map, then to imagine
your body in towns you’ll never visit, the distance constantly split.
On this side, a landscape of prisons, pox, slumping extractions of minerals;
on that side, prayer groups and quarterly projections, so hardly a good split.
. . . continue reading here.