GMR

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Green Mountains Review, based at Northern Vermont University, is an annual, 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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Review of Stories for Boys: A Memoir by Gregory Martin

Review of Stories for Boys: A Memoir by Gregory Martin

. . . Martin’s father went upstairs and swallowed a bottle of pills, landing him later that night in the local intensive care unit. He came out of his coma and confronted Martin, once he’d arrived at his father’s bedside, with two astonishing confessions. First, when Martin’s father was a young boy, his father had sexually abused him over the course of ten years, between the ages four and fourteen. When Martin tried to comfort him, his father said, “I’m not done.”

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You Don’t Put Flowers In Poems

You Don’t Put Flowers In Poems

JEFFREY HARRISON is the author of four full-length books of poems—most recently Incomplete Knowledge (Four Way Books), which was runner-up for the Poets’ Prize in 2008—as well as of The Names of Things (2006), a selection published by the Waywiser Press in the U.K.

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Sunday Knife

Sunday Knife

Look sharp and you’ll notice the groove in the blade, what you call the “ricasso,” which lightens the metal without weakening the structure. I promise you this workhorse will hold an edge and do you proud. It’s item JB 92, “The Gunny,” a genuine bargain at just $26.50, and don’t be dragging your feet tonight.

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A Visit From the Snake Man

A Visit From the Snake Man

TERI YOUMANS GRIMM is the author of Dirt Eaters, published by the University Press of Florida. Her writing has also appeared in Prairie Schooner, Indiana Review, Connecticut Review, South Dakota Review, Sugar House Review and Homegrown in Florida: An Anthology of Florida Childhoods, among other publications. She currently teaches in the low-res MFA program at the University of Nebraska.

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This Place Is a Dump

This Place Is a Dump

Mitch and I had hefted the sofa onto the front steps to angle it through the door when a woman in a yellow convertible that had likely been a good-looking car about fifteen years ago screeched into the driveway.

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It Means Bread

It Means Bread

The language I want to speak will be like bumper cars for the dead. It’ll grow lianas in the jungle gym. It has a wail like you’ve never heard before. There’s a flock of black storks fuming hospital in that wail.

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