That is Zack Torres flying through the air. He REALLY wanted to be a high school All American. Only the top 15 are labeled such. Guess what place he is trying for here?
Today, I did a YASSO 800 workout. This is a key workout for any marathoner. Mine went:
800 @ 6:00 mile pace. repeat.
800 @ 5:56 mile pace. repeat.
800 @ 5:52 mile pace. repeat
800 @ 5:27 mile pace.
I felt the good tired afterward. The leg thard, the snow of fatigue.
I like literary magazines. It’s not because Hemingway and Elizabeth Bishop and T.S Eliot all first published in lit mag pages, it’s simply because the freshest writing out there is in lit mags, especially the online ones (though even print mags are loosening up, allowing for hybrid texts, nontraditional structures, and so on.)
I’d like to spend a life reading lit mags and drinking beer in the morning, but I simply can’t.
Usually, every mag has some nacho chips, some glow shards, some sidewalks, then a few clunker-dunks. But that’s expected.
The latest issue of elimae has broken ye-old mold. I can honestly say it’s one of the tightest, highest quality issues I have seen out in a good while. Just about every piece plugs into the air and slashes all big hands, screaming. I glee. Seriously glee.
It makes my lungs fill and spill. Makes me feel good about where this is all heading. Makes me want leave a powerful gas heater on high. Etc.
Duck Sauce by Mike Topp is one of these texts you just read and think, “I wish I had written that.”
Kim Chinquee dials up five new fictions (here is the actual phone she uses to store her flash fictions).
What I like about Kim’s work lately is it is starting to swerve a bit, to get even edgier, a more sensuous clarity. It’s always been damn good. But I think she’s pushing the possibilities further. The realism has gone scarlet, blue, gold; and we are better off for it.
This is the type of essay we need more of. Thank you, Jen Michalski, whomever you are (or are not).
Lastly, I’ll highlight Roadkill by Chris Major.
Go ahead, click on all the rest. Elimae is always a good read, but I think this issue went exponential on all our asses. I’m telling you the entire issue should win some kind of award. Maybe heroin? Or a flying car?
I wrote on a grant all day today. Writing a grant is like being a wadded up glue booger in the inappropriate dream of the guy who lives above you, you know, Mr. Thumper.
Sometimes I feel my head is a potato.
I feel like this right now: