A Protective Impulse

A Protective Impulse

We want to believe that there is nothing natural about numbers. These ciphers are our perfect projections, whom we marshal and archive, in endless right angles. Though they have pores and spines, the tables we fashion for them are not carcasses or skeletons, not birds shorn of feathers and skin. read more
GMR

Recent Posts

Origin Story

This afternoon, Iris’s mother plans to swallow a pill that will dissolved her thyroid gland, cure her hyperactive metabolic disorder, and turn her, temporarily, radioactive. She will lift the white pill over her blushed lips and open her teeth so that the chalky capsule can dissolve in her arteries and turn her blue veins nuclear. read more

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Green Mountains Review, based at Johnson State College in Vermont, is a biannual, award-winning literary magazine publishing poetry, fiction, creative nonfiction, literary essays, interviews, and book reviews by both well-known writers and promising newcomers.

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The Empty Space in Front of Your Hand

The Empty Space in Front of Your Hand

Michel was an old and charming man as only an old and charming painter in a Parisian atelier can be. He was our neighbor. Whenever we ran into each other in the courtyard and spoke, I let him touch my hands and in the summer even my bare shoulders. This was a huge thing for me, although I didn’t know at the time whether it meant a compromise or a victory. Michel was also my second novel read more
Vespers

Vespers

I’m not sure what it is about this place that cinches my gut shut whenever I’m here. Maybe it’s the history. 1906, Loma Prieta, the Oakland Hills—even the whole dot-com business. read more
Graceline

Graceline

Somewhere along the line you make a few meetings, pay a few bills, show up to work on time, and think you deserve more. Somewhere along the line you can’t recognize the men crowded in wheelchairs and grocery carts below the overpass that gets you where you need to go....

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Orlando

Orlando

In memory of last week's shooting, Orlando-based writer Nathan Holic presents the following graphic memoirs. read more
Three Poems

Three Poems

They’re feeding while we sleep. Conifers, acorns, sweet clover. Crepuscular. They must tell each other stories in whatever tongue they speak. Each fawn makes its own distinct bleat. Does the mouth makes a sound for gun, arrow, berry, or flee? Arrested between the bramble and the suburban street read more
The Scientist

The Scientist

With a trembling smile, the scientist sat facing her beakers and test-tubes. She had long ago turned her bedroom into a chemistry lab and surrounding her was a deranged rainbow—hundreds of chemicals that mixed in the right proportions could spew forth neon clouds or explode the ten-story apartment building entirely. read more
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