A poem by alum Laura Van Prooyen (poetry, ’10) appears at The Collagist:
What bounces back sticks like a bone in the throat.
I don’t accept
that my Delivery to the following recipient
failed permanently.
Continue reading online…
We are pleased to announce that the 2016 Alumni Conference is slated to be held June 22 through June 28 at our home campus in beautiful Swannanoa, where we’ll be joining Program students, faculty, and friends on the evening of the 28th for the Program’s 40th Anniversary Gala. Otherwise we’ll be gathering for our usual fare: fiction, poetry, and mixed workshops, manuscript reviews and roundtables for detailed consideration of longer works, classes, panels, caucuses and, of course, the best reading series (and the best audience) you’ll ever have. Not to mention the hiking trails, Snake Lake, Asheville scene, unbelievable dinner companions, gatherings formal and informal, and Dancing. Oh yeah, and writing time. And writers, every one of us. Read more
A story by alum Ian Randall Wilson (poetry, ’02) appears at Hollywood Dementia:
The legal case all hinged on a semicolon. Any fool could see it, and Champs was no fool. Not at $1,750 an hour and a big retainer. Why didn’t he see it?
It wasn’t as if one word glittered more than another, obscuring what was true. His hand trembled with that telltale shake, but he could still read. It was a matter of outcomes. Clients paid for them. Lawyers produced them. One way or another.
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A poem by alum Laura Van Prooyen (poetry, ’10) appears at Prairie Schooner:
When I steady your step on the stairs, you ask not once but twice
where we’re going—to the car, to the store, Mom, remember?
You laugh and say you thought we’d be walking and we are,
right into the part of your brain where you’ll lose me, lose
the child who picked all 43 tulips you waited a solid Chicago winter
to watch bloom. Lose the girl who pedaled her Schwinn
up and back the U-shaped driveway while you fried bacon
behind the evergreens in an electric pan so the house wouldn’t smell.
Continue reading online…
A story by alum Erin Stalcup appears at Menacing Hedge:
If you want to marry me, the phlebotomist said to the chemist, you must complete these tasks.
Get me limonite, hematite, and goethite, for me to dye my dress to a halcyon gilt.
Gather me ebony, mahogany, and teak, for me to fashion a crown.
Dig me up bronze, alabaster, and onyx, for me to craft ornaments to adorn me.
I’ll need graphite and ash for my lashes, lapis lazuli and cobalt for my lids, the fruit of prickly pears for my lips.
Brew me chartreuse, absinthe, and claret for our feast.
Continue reading online…
“Sinewy Modifiers in Tracy K. Smith’s ‘The Museum of Obsolescence’,” an essay by alum Jennifer Givhan (poetry, ’15) appears at Red Paint Hill:
Upon first reading Tracy K. Smith’s poem “The Museum of Obsolescence,” I was engaged by the musical sound and texture of her lines. In fact, my favorite lines in the entire collection Life on Mars are from this poem: “Our faulty eyes, our telltale heat, hearts / Ticking through our shirts. We’re here / To titter at the gimcracks, the naïve tools / The replicas of replicas stacked like bricks” (6-9). I love what Smith does with sound (assonance and consonance) and her diction is perfect; I had to look up several words, such as “gimcracks,” and wrote a list of all the words she used that I loved for their richness of sound and texture, their denotative and connotative potential, and that I want to try to incorporate into my own personal lexicon. However, as much as I appreciated the word choice in this poem, I wanted to dig deeper to figure out what kept the poem as a whole from being merely a stale metaphor or trope, a preachy environmentalist call to action.
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A poem by alum Daye Phillippo (poetry, ’14) appears at Cider Press Review:
Angel above the closet door, prone
in flight among stars, trumpet to lip,
long white gown and chestnut hair flowing,
ribbon of old rose trailing beneath
so as not to become entangled in wings.
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A story by alum Kathy Bratkowski (fiction, ’02) appears at Drunken Monkeys:
Like always, it’s Luis who unloads our boxes from the trunk of the Escort. He knows our names; every Saturday that we’re at Goodwill, he is too. His supervisor starts to approach our car but Luis rushes to get to us first.
“I’ll open the trunk,” I say, and jump out to have a better look at Luis. His arms are tanned to the color of pecan wood from working outdoors at the donation dock. “Hey, Monica,” he says. “Ma’am,” he nods to my mother through her open window. “Can I get you a receipt, Mrs. Evans?”
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A story by alum Laura Moretz (fiction, ’15) appears at r.kv.r.y. Quarterly:
By the counter where the nurse gave out B vitamins and detox meds, Deirdre watched two EMTs wheel in a fifty-something man on a stretcher, his skin a scary yellow. Fenwick stepped close. “You’re next, baby,” he said, “if you don’t stop.”
Deirdre wrinkled her nose. Fenwick’s sweet deodorant made her nauseous. The EMTs bumped the gurney over the doorsill and into a room and she wondered if Fenwick—she’d seen him at AA meetings before—was stalking her. A certified recovery counselor, and not much taller than a dwarf, he’d asked her at Hope House, first thing: “Are you one of us?” She’d said, “No,” and he’d been needling her ever since. Deirdre looked toward where the gurney had gone.
“Show’s over,” the charge nurse said.
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