An excerpt from the essay “The Extraordinary Final Act of A Tribe Called Quest” by Nick Fox (fiction, ’09) in Waxwing:

The Extraordinary Final Act of A Tribe Called Quest

If you grew up on the sound of A Tribe Called Quest, you must have secretly hoped there would be one more album. Something, even if it was just a compilation of sorts, or a clearing of the vaults. But you had to believe that one day the group would find a way to clear out the bad air, walk back into the studio, and give us something we couldn’t see coming.

The years ticked off. Reunion tours and one-offs came and went, ending in statements that this was the last Tribe show. That’s a wrap. The group is done. Statements only to be followed by another tour, another show.

In March of 2016, news of the end came. Malik Taylor, better known as Phife Dawg, had passed away after a lifelong battle with diabetes. Without Phife, there was no Tribe. What they’d produced would be all there was, and there would be no final act. […continue reading here]

An excerpt from “Old Fools” by Francine Conley (poetry, ’14) published at Fogged Clarity:

Old Fools

You fool, I said, to not look me in the eye.
I used to wait for the serenade. Now I’m waiting
for some lover who takes pictures of himself
alone in his room
to notice, beck and call, to thicken
my milk. Some nights I go bustle my balling gown
from a gray gull closet, then wait to be asked to dance. But he’s too busy
taking pictures of himself to see me in the room,
disco ball bleating silver specks––I’m the smudge in the corner
by the keg clutching a restless flock of Grey-Lag geese,
the quick flighty types who hiss. Kiss me
and up we go. Then a six-foot drop
to the ground where we peck and doodle. Imagine the double dance I can do
with my geese, my orange beak and me. Wait a second. [….continue reading here]

An excerpt from “Appalachians Run Amok” by Adrian Blevins (poetry, ’02), from her book, Appalachians Run Amok, and featured at Two Sylvias Press:

Appalachians Run Amok

Another thing the Appalachians don’t like to talk about
is the creepy extent to which they adore the way they talk
alone in the shower & just walking around in their bandanas
versus how much they obviously meanwhile sort of also
secretly hate the high notes of their own hill-kitschy prattle,
especially if we’re talking halfway psychedelic Appalachians
from mid-century America born in 1937 in Southwest Virginia,
& as it happens we are talking halfway psychedelic Appalachians
from mid-century America born in 1937 in Southwest Virginia
as we are talking as usual about my father who worked so hard
to assimilate & become a mutt when he traded in his wind-up radio
for certain unnamed urbanites & fake movie stars in the theatres
& bars of Richmond, Virginia, where Daddy went to college […continue reading here]

An excerpt from the poem “The Sand Dollar Inn” by Beverly Bie Brahic (poetry, ’06), from her new book, The Hotel Eden, as well as published in the current issue of Poetry Ireland, and available at Poetry Daily:

“The Sand Dollar Inn”

Here, engraved in someone else’s
name, is a bench where we can sit
and watch the waves go in and out.
Lean back, sop up the horizontal sun
trawling west across Georgia Strait.
Why don’t I leave you here?[…continue reading here]

An excerpt from the flash fiction story, “At First Blush,” by Peter Schireson (poetry, ’17) in Vestal Review:

“At First Blush”

At first, it’s a straightforward portrait, the subject viewed with detached scrutiny from the waist up. Adamantly upright posture, well-cut jacket, background in soft focus, all combine to give the portrait a photographic quality. Studied more closely, the image is less clear-cut. Viewed from one angle, the subject is a man, delicately traced in meditation. […continue reading here]