It’s Time for Submission Blitz 2020!

We, Women Who Submit, want to celebrate the last eight years of submissions, rejections, and acceptances with one giant nationwide online submission party.

We are inviting all women and non-binary writers around the country to submit to at least one tier-one journal (Or maybe five!) on September 12, 2020. Let’s inundate these top journals with our best work and shake up their slush piles!

How to Participate:

  1. Mark yourself as going on Submission Blitz Facebook Event Page.
  2. Before the day, study this list of tier-one journals with links to submission guidelines curated by Tisha Marie Reichle-Aguilera
  3. On September 12, 2020 submit to at least one tier one magazines from where ever you are in the world
  4. Notify us on Facebook Event Page in the comments, on Twitter, or Instagram (@womenwhosubmit), so we can celebrate you with lots of claps and cheers
  5. Follow the stories on Instagram throughout the day for encouraging words and tips from members
Continue reading “It’s Time for Submission Blitz 2020!”

WWS Publication Roundup for July

This is my first post as the new publication roundups editor. Thank you, Laura Warrell, for being such a fantastic editor for the past four and a half years.

For many of us, it’s been difficult to stay focused on writing during the ongoing crises that define our everyday lives. Time and again, Women Who Submit has been a touchstone, a reminder that creativity matters; that our words make a difference in the world.

To witness WWS members continue to submit their work and publish far and wide is an inspiration. So let’s join in celebrating this month’s literary successes of our community members!


Congratulations to Donna Spruijt-Metz, whose poem “Pebbles Along the Labyrinth- Psalm 31” was published by The Cortland Review, along with an audio recording.

Listening for mercy – 
           I place                           pebbles

along the labyrinth  –  smooth

           in YOUR hand

against
           the cutting nets
                                   of trust

Congratulations to Amy Shimshon-Santo, whose chapbook of erasure poems, Endless Bowls of Sky, was published this month by Placeholder’s Press’s Flashbulb!

Check out Li Yun Alvarado’s poem “To the White Parenting ‘Expert'” published by La Parent as part of “LA Parents Weigh in on Racism:”

My naivete: the
presumption
that your concern

for designing presence
& peace included

peace for black babies.

For Tammy Delatorre, her essay “I Want to Fuck Your Poem” appeared in the Los Angeles Review.

Everything you said about poetry, I wanted to get naked with. You quoted the immortals: W.H. Auden saying we’re making a “verbal object,” Carl Sandburg claiming a poem was “an echo asking a shadow to dance,” and Howard Nemerov stating that poetry was “a means of seeing invisible things and saying unspeakable things about them.”

Check out Xochitl-Julisa Bermejo’s essay “Forget About the Rap Star and Choose Me,” out now in PANK.

At 32 I fell for a man I met through OK Cupid. Still a couple of years before the dating app deluge, I joined the site determined to end my history with short-lived, non-boyfriends.

Congrats to Tanya Ko Hong, whose poems “Journey (여행)” and “What I Really Want (내가 간절히 원하는 것은)” were published this month in The Global Korean Literature Magazine (Anthology 3).

Congratulations Arielle Silver, whose musical album and companion book, both titled “A Thousand Tiny Torches,” were released this month.

From Colette Sartor, the interview “Excerpt & Q&A: ONCE REMOVED by Colette Sartor” was published by Angels Flight literary west.

Now, more than a century later, I find myself amidst a deadly pandemic, worried about keeping my family safe while staying afloat financially. I dread that we will wind up where my grandmother’s family did: ravaged by loss, fighting to rebuild in the outbreak’s aftermath.

Also from Colette, the interview “Cultural Attunement and ‘Otherness’: A Conversation with Aimee Liu” appeared in The Rumpus.

Liu’s novel succeeds not just as fine-tuned historical fiction but also as an insightful portrait of individuals determined to understand and embrace the humanity of all. The book is set within the context of the British colonial system’s arrogant dehumanization of anyone perceived as “other.”

Congrats to Soleil David, whose poem “Xyliphius sofiae” appeared in Coal Hill Review.

I, a human being with eyes that swim
in aqueous humor, hold a hand out

in absolute darkness and cannot see it.

From Désirée Zamorano, her short story “Norma” was published by PANK.

She could not stop being his mother; he made his own decisions. That was how it should be. What she needed to do was sip and enjoy the wine, his presence, their shared meal. She did not need the addition of the locura in her mind. Calmate, she told herself. To be a parent was to have expectations. To be an adult was to release them.

Congratulations to Laura Warrell, who published her essay “Writing While Black” in the Los Angeles Review of Books.

To write as a Black person in America is to sustain a barrage of gut punches from a community and industry that don’t do a great job transcending the larger inequities of the culture surrounding them. Writing is difficult and publishing hellish, but the path for Black writers is laden with unique indignities.

Congratulations Lisbeth Coiman on publishing her poem “A Rosary for Venezuela” in La Bloga.

I am a radical atheist relearning to pray.
Kneeling to conjure devotion, I hold my motherland between the palms of my hands, to protect her against all evils. My words, the beads of the rosary slipping through my fingers.

Also from Lisbeth, the poem “Allyship,” published by Cultural Weekly.

Identify the hair root-cause of self-hatred
Mother washing my hair with chamomile tea
To make it blonde
But she only made me a “bachaca”
“Yellow”
All throughout my childhood
I never understood why
A woman who despised Black people
Married the son of a Black woman

Congratulations to Melissa Chadburn, who published “The Archive” in The Paris Review Daily.

One quiet spring morning, as a plague engulfs America, I awake, brew coffee, and shuffle to my computer. Outside my windows, a cordillera of snow-thatched roofs. I feel rooted, glooming in grief and rage. The need to stay in place. In the place of our wreckage. In other homes, I imagine children in nightshirts, and daddy flipping pancakes, and some things still good. Meanwhile, the world continues to break in the ways that it has always been broken.

Breathe and Push: A Meditation on Time

By Noriko Nakada

Time works in such interesting ways, especially right now.

In early March, when I could see the shut down coming, I imagined staying at home for weeks at a time. Trusting our fridge and pantry would hold, I hoarded books. I’d have time to read! I’d read all the books! I bought more so I wouldn’t run out. So far this quarantine has lasted twelve books.  

On March 8, 2020, I ran the LA marathon’s 26.2 miles in under five hours. I thought I’d keep running during the safer at home order. What a great way to recover and stay in shape. So far, I’ve run 75 total miles in quarantine.

Time is funny during a pandemic. When school was in session for my students, my children, and for me, I woke up early, got in hours and hours of teaching, and planning, and grading. We were so busy, but it felt like wheels spinning in a cage. School has been out for six weeks. The wheels are still spinning.

The Deschutes river rushes past lava rock and pine.
Water and time flow along the Deschutes River in Central Oregon.

There is time to write this summer. Time to submit work, revise, query, edit. Two hours each morning: Women Who Submit Writing Alone Together for 120 minutes. Sometimes those minutes are enough. Sometimes the minutes stretch into 180 or 240. Suddenly, there aren’t enough minutes to do it all.

If you record a reading and it’s less than a minute, it might be too short. If you record a reading of an essay and it’s longer than a minute, it might be too long. Everyone wants recorded readings. Time them carefully.

The pendulum of time swings back and forth. One day, I do absolutely nothing. The day stretches. The kids turn rotten and the avocados become overripe. I fill the day with nothing and nothing and more nothing. I read the news and fill with anxiety. I do nothing. The next day I’m up early: exercise, make breakfast, start bread, drink coffee, write, revise, help kids with their work, edit, read, fold dough, make lunch, check the news, make donations, answers emails, play with kids, bake cupcakes with the kids, pull weeds, write a letter, make dinner, bake bread, go for a walk, wipe down the counters again, write, check the news, read, sleep. And then the pendulum swings back and again and again and again and again.

In Ruth Ozeki’s novel A Tale for the Time Being, she writes of the now: “But in the time it takes to say now, now is already over. It’s already then.” How quickly the now becomes then. As we swim in this river of days, they flow past us and disappear. We float on these moments, however we measure them: in minutes or hours, in pages or poems. The days rush into weeks and weeks into months. July is almost over and August will arrive. 2020 is already half over. It’s taken about three minutes to read this. Thanks for sharing your time.

Now, what do we do next?

headshot of racially ambiguous writer Noriko Nakada

Noriko Nakada writes, parents, and teaches eighth grade English at Emerson Middle School in Los Angeles. She is the author of the Through Eyes Like Mine memoir series. Excerpts, essays, and poetry have been published in Kartika, Catapult, Meridian, Compose, and Hippocampus. She is spending her time in quarantine perfecting sourdough, biscuits, and pie crust. She has two kids so she answers approximately three thousand questions a day. 

STORYTELLING IN ACTION – Egg, Larva, Pupa, Imago

WHEW. It’s crazy times out there, amirite? 

Just when we were thinking it couldn’t be any worse (partisan here: remember the GW Bush years?) society, the economy, the planets, Nature, LIFE serve as reminders that, as Event Horizon, one of THE classic 90s horror films states, “Hell is only a word; The reality is much, much worse.” (If you enjoy a bit of rotfl gore, click through here for the clip. If not, definitely stay away!)

I’m being a bit glib, as I don’t really believe in Hell as such, and therefore have no post-mortem fear of it. But that aside, the hits just keep on coming.

Example: when I was dreaming about my future in an upstairs classroom of a building constructed in 1928 in pre-summer Pomona during the 1990s, it did not include a debilitating sciatica issue. Nor did I envision a future earning money via food and grocery delivery while I was racking up loans for grad school 10+ years ago. But here (the royal) We are. 

I’d also never conceived that I might *really* enjoy hiking or have an inclination to keep plants alive. Which I do, and have. 

Hiking was a thing that people with money or dads who lived at home did so I knew it wasn’t for me. It wasn’t until I was fired unceremoniously from a job I didn’t love last year that I discovered all the trails – specifically trails I *haven’t* seen posted on social media – near me. It was the first time I was able to “Yes, And…” being fired. I’d never been super active in my life because I hate competition and I don’t believe in “no pain, no gain.” The two are not correlative by any means. But once I’d been convinced that hiking was just walking in the woods and that I wouldn’t need to scale a mountain, I decided to try it out. 

And it was the beginning of me. The beginning of a new era/phase/stage of development. I’d reached middle age and had been so focused on how far I hadn’t gotten and on the idea that what I *had* learned hadn’t done much for me. Hiking was much more of a mental and spiritual journey than it was a physical one, and it was a huge physical journey. I have been in therapy for most of my life and there were things in hiking I learned about myself that I don’t know I could have learned through talk therapy alone. The skills I learned negotiating my way across a tiny stream that my friend jumped across all gazelle-like were the skills I used to negotiate my way to the bathroom when my sciatica pain was so bad I could barely move. 

Last year, I lost a job, then I lost mobility. I didn’t feel like I should have lost either. “I have a Master’s Degree – why don’t I have a job? Why can’t I keep a job?” And “I’m only 43, I should be able to move. I shouldn’t be in this much pain!” It really was a crazy amount of pain. Consistent pain for eight months which kept me literally grounded. 

The week after I was set free from that job, I started taking a medicinal plant workshop. I may not have been the best student, but showing up was what I could manage at the time. And I’m so grateful for the opportunity to learn those things while I was learning to hike. It was a hard shift away from the “outside” world with which I’ve had such a complicated relationship for as along as I’ve been in therapy/have been told I needed it. 

I learned to make some preventative medicines for allergies, an amazing salve for muscle and nerve pain, and what it means to *really* pay attention. It turns out that the huge tree outside my bedroom window that I’ve been staring at for 11.5 years is a Eucalyptus tree. Eucalyptus, among its many amazing uses, is great for respiratory issues. 

I have asthma, which is a chronic inflammatory issue based in the lungs. Some suggested causes are allergens and stress. I learned in my herbal medicine class that addiction and asthma are afflictions related to loneliness/abandonment. I also learned that the left lung is smaller than the right, as it has to share space with our heart. Sometimes when the heart is sick, it affects the lungs. I also learned that the lungs are the place in the body where we most hold onto grief. 

The U.S. culture is not one that honors grief much less death as a part of life. It has dissociated itself from these basic life facts in an effort to delude itself into thinking it is godhead. But It. Is. Not. Some needed to be reminded; some have never forgotten. With all that is going on in this country, in this state, in this city, in this house, in this body, paying attention to the stage of development and nurturing it is key. We are not godhead; we are Life and Death and everything in between.

Why I Will No Longer Advise Poets Against Publishing on Social Media

Because Elijah McClain was just going home.

Because Breonna Taylor was home.

Because Dominique Rem’mie Fells deserved everything she hoped for.

Because George Floyd called for his mama.

Because news reports call Andrés Guardado a man, but he was barely on his way to becoming one.

Because over 130,000 people have died of Covid in the US, and people still call it just the flu.

Because Carlos Gregorio Hernandez Vasquez died of the flu on a cold cement floor with no family to comfort him.

Because Toyin Salau needed refuge.

Because Vanessa Guillen needed help.

Because Óscar Alberto Martínez Ramírez and his daughter, Angie Valeria needed a chance.

Because Sandra Bland didn’t kill herself.

Because Tȟuŋkášila Šákpe was stolen from the Lakota.

Because Standing Rock protects the water.

Because Flint still doesn’t have clean water.

Because all people have to do is wear masks and wash their hands.

Because for some words can’t ever be clean enough for their standards.

Because Elijah McClain said, That’s my house. I was just going home.

Writing on a Budget: Immigrants, Community, and Allyship

By Lisbeth Coiman

Like a long distance runner, I travel solo at a fast pace, between villages, delivering my message:

Latinx immigrants are here to stay. We are an increasingly large group of people in all shades of brown, with complex identities product of the ethnic amalgamation that the process of colonization brought upon us.

Shelf with books by Black writers
What does your bookshelf tell about you?
Continue reading “Writing on a Budget: Immigrants, Community, and Allyship”

A WWS Publication Roundup for June

It has been a pleasure doing this publication roundup for the last 4.5 years. It’s allowed me to stay connected to this amazing community and inspired me to keep trying to publish. Though this will be my last roundup, I look forward to seeing all of you virtually and in the real world soon. Happy writing! Laura

Congratulations to T.M. Semrad who had 4 poems published at isacoustic! From “Absent Affirmation, a selfie, my mother’s doppelganger, deleted:”

I celebrate father, hold up
his present, my face an aching grin
to give him a gift who gifted me. Later,
when I am grown,
he and I will walk together
alone

From Lituo Huang‘s “Lake View” at Malarkey Books:

I had heard other trains on other nights—as a child in Indiana when the house our rented room was in abutted the track, I’d be jolted awake by the train passing by the open window until the child I was grew used to the sound and added it to a dream—a black crow overhead would open its beak and out came the shriek of the train, first louder and louder and then diminishing with a distorted pitch as it taxied away on the physics of the air.

Check out Lituo‘s poem, “The 101 at Benton” at Dust Poetry!

From Janel Pineda‘s “Rain” at LitHub:

the first time I ask Tana why she left El Salvador,
me dice: porque allá llueve mucho. its waters too vast and devious,
too quick to wash away everything she’s worked for.

From Cybele Garcia Kohel‘s “Acknowledgement: On Race and Land” at Cultural Weekly:

Our country is burning. Again. There is so much happening, it is difficult to find a place to start. The news is constantly turning, cycling. The protests, which give me hope, illuminate the stories of America we have for too long denied. Perhaps I could begin with the election of a tyrant, the subsequent wave (or resurgence) of fascism and racism, and finally a pandemic, which instead of becoming a great equalizer or unifying force, has served to magnify the inequities in America. 

From “June 24, 2010” by S. Evan Stubblefield at Past Ten:

The hills I drive past are as red as heat. The sky is muddy, and there are few cars on the road. The coolant in my air conditioning is low and my windows have to be cranked down by hand. That was my dad’s idea. “If your car ever ends up in the water,” he said. “You can just roll down the glass and get out.” But I-5 is all almond trees, citrus groves, gas stations, and cows. No ocean anywhere.

From Hazel Kight Witham‘s “The Power of Story:” Interview with Jared Seide On How Listening To Each Other Can Restore Our Humanity at The Sun:

Seide: We knew the twenty-year anniversary of the Rwandan genocide was going to be a big one, so Bernie Glassman [co-founder of Zen Peacemakers] asked me to help support a Bearing Witness retreat, which would be an opportunity for people from Europe and the U.S., as well as Rwanda and other African nations, to come and participate in five days of bearing witness to the atrocities. Bernie had been leading similar retreats to Auschwitz for two decades.

From Elline Lipkin‘s “Remembering Eavan Boland: ‘I Was a Voice’” at The Los Angeles Review:

When I picked up Boland’s first book of prose, Object Lessons: The Life of The Woman and the Poet in Our Times, I didn’t devour this book so much as I inhaled it.  Here was a woman writing eloquently about unnamed issues I knew were real, articulating the ambitions of many other female poets who were also stymied by invisible barriers, the press of tradition, and the need to know their voices mattered.

From “For All the Girls: On Jaquira Díaz’s Ordinary Girls,” a book review by Anita Gill at Entropy:

Memoirs play with time. Through narration and reflection, the past meets up with the present, allowing the writer to give a closer eye to why what happened still remains so vivid. Díaz utilizes this manipulation of time and takes artistic license. She identifies several moments and brings them together like an accordion. “There was a time, before my mother’s illness, before my parents divorced, before we left Puerto Rico for Miami Beach, when we were happy. It was after Alaina was born, after Mami had gone back to work at the factory, after I’d started school and learned to read.” In an equal amount of befores and afters, she uses just the right moments to capture a lifetime.

Congratulations to Tanya Ko Hong who translated 4 poems by Na Hye-Sok at Lunch Ticket! From “The Doll’s House:”

Playing with my doll
makes me happy and later
I become my father’s doll
and later my husband’s
I make them happy
I become their comfort

Congratulations to Dinah Berland whose Fugue for a New Life came out in June!

Congratulations to Desiree Kannel whose book Lucky John was released this month!

Check out Ann Tweedy‘s 3 poems published in Golden Handcuffs Review!

Breathe and Push: A Letter to Students in the Spring of 2020

By Rosalyn Montgomery

Dear Students,

Navy, white and gold graphic of the text Class of 2020 with the C wearing a cap.

I have thought long and hard about my decision to address the newest example of police brutality against Black men and women in America that has resulted in the worldwide protests. Sometimes the only way that I can deal with the rage that these images evoke in me is to become numb as a defense mechanism. Far too many times these occurrences flood our timelines for a few weeks, and then are gone until the next incident. I worry about myself, but more than that, I am constantly worried about my family and you, my students. I pray that the world can see the joy and light that I see in your faces daily. I see you for the individual qualities that you bring to the classroom. I see your excitement but also your pain and struggle. Quiet, loud, extroverted, introverted, disengaged, actively participating, Black, White, Asian, Latinx, Pacific Islander, Native American, Multiracial, Gay, Straight, Bi or Curious, I see you and advocate for you. I want nothing more than to protect you as you figure out who you are as you pass through the awkward years of middle school. You have enough to deal with becoming yourself without having to deal with images of abuse due to immigration status, race, gender identity, sexual orientation, oh and on top of all of that, a worldwide pandemic that has isolated you from friends and loved ones for months.

The last time Los Angeles was awakened by a civil unrest was in 1992. I was a couple of years older than you are now. I remember how that impacted me and the many emotions that I didn’t know how to express. I experienced all three stress responses: fight, flight and freeze. I felt powerful from the rage but also completely helpless against a system that continuously exhibited disdain for me and my people. The far too often attacks on character either through explicit statements or with microaggression based on implicit biases adds to the stress of trying to exist in peace. 

Through the years with each new murder at the hands of police or “stand your ground laws,” I could feel the pressure building to another  eruption that inevitably happened two weeks ago. I would like to be optimistic that this time it will be different. So far, the evidence is suggesting that this time may be different. Maybe since people were confined at home and couldn’t turn away, they finally see and understand what Black people have tried to explain about mistreatment and the systemic racism found in the police, healthcare, and school systems of our country.

I hope and pray that when you are my age, you will not have to tell future generations experiencing yet another civil unrest the story of  “When I was your age…” My parents told me of Marquette Frye  in 1967, my story in 1992 was LaTasha Harlins & Rodney King, and in 2020 it is George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, Ahmaud Arberry and too many others to name. I believe that your generation can break this cycle. You are open to an entire world through social media to share experiences and understand each other. Learn and become who you are so that you can celebrate and respect the similarities and differences of others. You have shown that you can adapt and survive anything. To quote one of my favorite cartoons, “I believe that you have the power to change the world” (Avatar the Last Airbender).

Congratulations on all of your accomplishments. I am so proud of each and every one of you. It has been my pleasure to be your science teacher. 

Sincerely,

Ms. R. Montgomery

Author photo of Rosalyn Montgomery

I majored in Biology and graduated from California State University Dominguez Hills. My first teaching position was at Crenshaw High School in South Los Angeles. I left the field of teaching to work in a pathology lab at Harbor UCLA Medical Center.  I spent three years studying the effects of alcohol induced hypoxia due to binge drinking on the liver of rats and mice.  I left the field of research and returned to teaching to answer a calling.  After my experience at Crenshaw, I wanted to reach students earlier in their academic careers.  I received my preliminary teaching credential in biological sciences from UCLA Center X with a Social Justice emphasis. I taught at Bret Harte Middle School in South Los Angeles for 12 years.  I am currently teaching at Emerson Community Charter Middle School in the Westwood area of Los Angeles.  I believe that everyone can learn if given a fair opportunity. I try to instill a love for learning and a need for students to stay socially aware.

WWS for Black Lives Matter

A neutral tone fence in front of a construction site and a yellow construction vehicle. "Black Lives Matter" is spray painted across the fence in red, with "BLM" in black.

Written by Ryane Nicole Granados, Edited by Lauren Eggert-Crowe, and Resources by Ashley Perez

It is with a heavy heart that we find ourselves in a position, once again, to draft a statement in support of Black lives and to denounce police brutality, while reaffirming our commitment to fighting anti-Black racism. We know members of our community are tired. The exhaustion is a soul deep weariness from a lifetime of saying name after name of those murdered in the name of hate. 

The ongoing, tragic killings of unarmed Black men and women, including most recently, George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, Ahmaud Arbery, and Tony McDade have continued to expose our society as a system built to oppress and harm Black people while perpetuating white supremacy.

As a result, Women Who Submit stands in solidarity with the #BlackLivesMatter movement. Some of our members are Black mothers and daughters and spouses and artists and educators and activists, and their very existence in a world determined to deny them their humanity is revolutionary. We recognize their revolution. 

One action we can take immediately is to make our solidarity visible through our art, activism and our voices. If you are protesting, let us know and we will spread the word. If you are writing, let us encourage you to submit because your words matter. If you are tired, let us help you carry on because the more of us who mobilize, the greater our impact will be. 

Black writers’ lives matter. Black readers’ lives matter. Black children’s lives matter. Black women’s lives matter. All Black lives matter, now and always.

We believe in a world that values community over policing. We want to build a society that invests in education, housing, healthcare and the arts, not an ever-expanding and dominating police presence. We lend our time and energy to the work of building a network of resources that nourish the community and uplift Black lives.

Resistance is a collection of small and grand acts by people who care. Women Who Submit leadership and membership are resisting by attending protests, donating to organizations that support Black lives, making calls to legislators, demanding independent prosecutions in unlawful killings and supporting bailout efforts for protestors. Below is a list of organizations that need your dollars, and as we search for additional ways to help bolster the fight, we also share the following collection of works and resources that we have found helpful in these troubling times.

When we speak we are afraid our words will not be heard or welcomed. But when we are silent we are still afraid. So it is better to speak–Audre Lorde

Black Lives Matter

Roxane Gay: Remember, No One is Coming to Save Us

Teachers Must Hold Themselves Accountable for Dismantling Racial Oppression

Black Lives Matter: A Playlist of Powerful StoryCorps Interviews

Ways to help Black Lives Matter

Directory of Community Bail Funds

Black Visions Collective

Campaign Zero

Reclaim The Block

Mental Health Resources for Black Folx:

Other Mental Health Resources:

Work for Non-Black People of Color and White folxs to do:

 

Tips on Resistance Beyond Protesting & Thoughts on Protest:

 

Anti-Racist Education Resources:

 

Actions to Take:

 

Support Black Owned Business:

A WWS Publication Roundup for May

We hope you and your loved ones are well during these challenging times, and that these literary successes from women in our community bring some hope and joy.

From Anita Gill‘s “Banghra” at The Offing:

As laughter echoed in the lobby of the Katzen Arts Center, I began to ponder collective nouns. If a group of crows is a murder and a group of owls is a parliament, what would the term be for a group of undergraduates? No word came to mind, so I christened the gathered American University students a “headache.” 

From Toni Ann Johnson‘s “The Megnas” at Vida:

We knew about the Arringtons before they got here. Irv Silverman tap-tapped on our back door the day the moving truck driver refused to venture up his black diamond-run driveway. Irv asked if the guy could use ours. Of course we were accommodating. We were good neighbors. Ours stretched down from Oakland Avenue in the back, instead of up from Stage Road in the front, and it was a bunny hill compared to his. So, the driver came that way and the truck pulled onto Irv’s property from ours. There was never a “for sale” sign and Irv waited until then, when it was obvious, to tell us he was moving.

From “Avenging Angel” by Désirée Zamorano at the Los Angeles Review of Books:

When we first meet Lily Wong, the protagonist of Tori Eldridge’s The Ninja Daughter, she is in an empty, desolate building, hanging from a platform, sardonically addressing her Ukrainian tormentor in a bid to extend her life and interrupt the pain of his swinging rope.

Congratulations to Désirée whose story, “Habia Una Vez,” was published at Crab Creek Review!

Congratulations to Noriko Nakada who had two poems, “Family Haiku” and “Meditation on the Morning Spent at the Soccer Field,” published at The Tiger Moth Review! From “Family Haiku”:

Our Family Name / translated into English / means in rice field, to
flee Okinawa’s / smattering of rocky isles / overrun with pests.
Sail amber waves for / land in America where / anything will grow.

Congratulations to Lituo Huang who had two poems, “Prize” and “05.09.2020,” published at Decameron Writing Series. From “Prize”:

The first time I saw the claw machine, I was at a guy’s birthday party. The guy was someone my sister had dated a few times. The party was at Dave and Buster’s because the guy was turning twenty-one. I went even though I was thirty-one and hadn’t been invited.

From Carla Sameth‘s “What to Read When You Need to See Someone Else’s Light and Darkness” at The Rumpus:

Already imperfect, memory is often fragmented and fragile with trauma, making telling our stories more elusive. Just as life does not usually move in a straightforward, organized narrative, my stories were not always moving toward a linear, traditional format. In fact, while I was working on my manuscript, I found that its main characters kept messing up my story arc. Sometimes writing in alternative forms can help to excavate this material, so this is one of the things I looked for in my reading.

The books below were my friends on the road to publishing One Day on the Gold Line, waiting on my bookshelves whenever I needed their company.

More congrats to Carla whose poems, “Each Day” and “Not Hand in Hand,” were published in Sheltering in Place at Staring Problem Press!

Congrats to Karin Aurino who had two poems, “My Name is Wife” and “My Man Stayed with Me,” published at North Dakota Quarterly!

Check out Sarine Balian‘s “1840” at The Coachella Review!

Congrats to Lauren Eggert-Crowe whose poem “I Have Not Taken Proper Advantage of Scorpio Season” was published in Gigantic Sequins!