From my window, I look out at Montpelier’s empty streets, trying to tune out the COVID-19 news updates that ping and bing on my phone, asking myself why this all feels so eerily familiar. I know this jumble of emotions. Fear, helplessness, despair, and also the sense that we’re all in this together.
Surrealism is a flight against Oblivion. Taking to the winds of Memory on the magical wings of the supra-real. Reality through an extraordinary idea of Reality. What creates memory and what creates forgetfulness, surrealism asks us to ask ourselves.
She’d say, Someday you’ll go on without me. She worked the back of the box. From underneath. Where the saw couldn’t reach. Her name was Ruby. We had nothing in common but our long skinny feet.
When I was a child I believed the farm where I grew up was a living being. As a living being, it had a heart. The location of the heart was obvious to me, though it seemed I was the only one who knew. I didn’t tell anyone.
When the door behind me pushes open and before the thin figure of the piano player arrives, in that slimmest moment, a drift of intermission music sneaks out, an old, fast, sassy tune.
Given the unspeakable nature of their differences, / they decided to settle their divorce in mime court.
Mink stoles and sparkling eyes—sparkling, / really—and hair curled to nearly edible
Amina Cain’s collection, Creature (Dorothy Project, 2013), owes great debts to the writing of Marguerite Duras and Clarice Lispector. Cain samples bits of their prose, and elsewhere mimics and tweaks their styles.
Hendrix jamming at the edge of volcanic expansion in the ‘60s skips ahead to 2039 night-swimming through the fossil-flamed continuum.
The editors are very pleased to announce the winners and top finalists of the third annual Neil Shepard Prizes in Fiction and Poetry, as well as of the inaugural Neil Shepard Prize in Creative Nonfiction.