Congratulations, Class of July, 2017!

The MFA Program for Writers at Warren Wilson College

Class of July 2017:

Mark Elber (poetry)

Esme Franklin (poetry)

Sarah Gauch (fiction)

Amy Lin (fiction)

Leigh Lucas (poetry)

Trish Marshall (poetry)

Micah Matthews (fiction)

Amanda Newell (poetry)

Tiana Nobile (poetry)

Laura Otis (fiction)

Andrew Peterson (fiction)

Maya Phillips (poetry)

Blake Reemstma (poetry)

Susan Jo Russell (poetry)

David Saltzman (fiction)

Nomi Stone (poetry)

Peter Schireson (poetry)



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“A Little Something” by Dawn Abeita (fiction, ’96)

A story by Dawn Abeita (fiction, ’96) appears in Four Way Review:


A Little Something

A Wednesday like any day: Up, coffee with a little something, comfortable yet professional, flat shoes. The news says a woman was raped behind a garbage bin; a man jumped off a bridge but failed to die; there is a low pressure system making the grey weather hang on interminably. Unlock the apartment door, 8F, lock it behind. The hallway is as blank and narrow as a hotel’s. Only two exits: the stairwell, the elevator. The sky hangs too early over the trees as if trying to smother them. [ . . . continue reading here.]

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“Menu” by Dilruba Ahmed (poetry, ’09)

A sequence of poems by Dilruba Ahmed (poetry, ’09) appear in The American Journal of Poetry:



Preventative Measures

Inoculation sampler.
Includes two flu strains
each with 13% efficacy.
Duration of effectiveness
not guaranteed. But
with our prices, why not
sample both? Great for all ages.

Chief Concerns



. . . continue reading here.

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“Laundromat Report” by Sally Molini (poetry, ’04)

A poem by Sally Molini (poetry, ’04) appears in The American Journal of Poetry:


Laudromat Report


At Whale of a Wash

the daily all-day news cringe –

overhead TV loud

with political ir-rationales

and sly ditzy spins,

hot air blowing

. . . continue reading here.

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“I Am Not America” by David Prather (poetry, ’99)

A poem from David Prather (poetry, ’99) appears in The American Journal of Poetry:


I Am Not America


I am not the assassination of Harvey Milk or Martin Luther King, Jr. I am not
the battered body of Matthew Shepard or the bloated form of Emmett Till.

I look over my shoulder and you are there, framed by a shattered window
in an abandoned building. Or you are there driving a rusted hunk of junk

over potholes, the starving mouths of the earth beneath our feet. I hate
to admit that I am under the influence and driving home during the witching



. . . continue reading here.

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“Villains” by Eric Rampson

A story by Eric Rampson (Fiction ’16) appears in the Summer 2017 edition of MATADOR REVIEW.


My dad crippled a guy on TV last night. Broke his neck with a snap so loud the mics picked it up. He was howling, my dad, when he did it—an animal sound from somewhere high up in his chest. The guy twitched a few times and then laid still while my dad stood over him, all heaving breath and crazy eyes, hair wild and wet with sweat.

Across the ass of my dad’s shiny red spandex trunks it read “Señor Sinister” in Gothic script black as his leather boots and wristbands, his hair, his thick goatee. The guy with the broken neck was in a silvery singlet, waves and waves of thick blonde hair, a pair of aviator shades, skewed from impact, across his eyes, his robe fluttering like a flag from the post in his corner, “ALL-AMERICAN ALAN” on the back in star-spangled letters.

Those aren’t their real names. My dad is Vito. All-American Alan is actually Albin. He’s Polish. My dad’s Italian, mostly.

The crowd was silent for a full minute, waiting for All-American Alan to get up and when he didn’t, the booing and hissing started, scattered here and there at first but pretty soon everyone got into it, plastic beer cups sailing from the cheap seats, and my dad ran off like a frightened coyote.

Read the rest of the story here:  Villains

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