We've only been up a little over a week and already we've had an overwhelming number of submissions. I'm pleased to say the majority have been wonderful to read.
LiteralMinded is working on a new site: new format, new writers, forums, and much more. Some of you who have sent submissions but were not published will receive an email very soon informing you when LM will be open for submissions. Many great writers, but the content isn't what I'm looking for.
I started this zine because I read pieces from writers whose work should be visible. If you are a good writer and can give me something different each week, I'll take it.
Although we've had a great response by way of submissions and viewers, I want to clarify what I am looking for when it comes to publishing those pieces.
I like dark pieces. I'm not into vampires, or goth, or the supernatural. When I pick up a book of poetry or a piece of fiction, I want to look inside and see the darkness we all have within us.
I like writers who are so true to themselves and what they know that when I read one of their pieces it's like thumbing open a rib and climbing inside.
You might be a great inspirational writer or technically sound, but I want to showcase work that is gutsy and edgy and poetic or shows me what other writers have been writing around for years. It has to be real and honest.
Thanks for all the submissions, views, and comments. I hope I continue to receive the quality of work I have seen so far.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
I Thought We Had A Friend In The Diamond Business by Thomas Sullivan
The jewelry ad glitters and gleams
Sparks of light radiate off an oversized polished diamond
The jumbo rock perches atop a pure silver band
Beckoning the fortunate in an insolvent world.
The pitch emanates from a huge callout bubble
“Make her ex-boyfriend hate you even more”
When did getting people to hate each other become a marketing strategy?
Maybe with Cheney, Iraq, and Halliburton.
I thought we had a friend in the diamond business.
When you see her ex on the street in front of Saks
He won’t look down at your fiancé’s hand and hate you
He’ll smile at you with silent gratitude
For helping him dodge a serious bullet.
Thomas Sullivan writes short essays from his home in the Pacific Northwest. His writing has recently appeared in a number of webzines and magazines, including Eleventh Transmission (Canada), Lit-Up Magazine,The Short Humour Site (UK), and Backhand Stories. Thomas was a finalist at the 2008 Pacific Northwest Writers Association contest for his memoir Life In The Slow Lane, which recounts a hair-raising summer spent teaching driver’s education. Contact the author at tmpsull@hotmail.com.
Sparks of light radiate off an oversized polished diamond
The jumbo rock perches atop a pure silver band
Beckoning the fortunate in an insolvent world.
The pitch emanates from a huge callout bubble
“Make her ex-boyfriend hate you even more”
When did getting people to hate each other become a marketing strategy?
Maybe with Cheney, Iraq, and Halliburton.
I thought we had a friend in the diamond business.
When you see her ex on the street in front of Saks
He won’t look down at your fiancé’s hand and hate you
He’ll smile at you with silent gratitude
For helping him dodge a serious bullet.
Thomas Sullivan writes short essays from his home in the Pacific Northwest. His writing has recently appeared in a number of webzines and magazines, including Eleventh Transmission (Canada), Lit-Up Magazine,The Short Humour Site (UK), and Backhand Stories. Thomas was a finalist at the 2008 Pacific Northwest Writers Association contest for his memoir Life In The Slow Lane, which recounts a hair-raising summer spent teaching driver’s education. Contact the author at tmpsull@hotmail.com.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Collapsed Dependencies by Matt Douros
He was a tall, thin, rakish figure with a long face and nose, and skin almost pale as paper. Though young, there were a great many creases radiating down from the corners of his lips like cracks in mud. And he wore black. All black: shining black leather shoes, a black suit with a black shirt and tie. Hair? Black. Eyes? Well, they were a dark-chocolate sort of brown, but you may as well call that black, too.
The children, filthy and playing in the rusted hulks of a thousand broken cars that were scattered throughout most of the streets in the city adored the fellow. Children do tend to love the strangeness of anachronisms they don't recognize, after all.
None of the children knew his name, and there was a legend that he didn't know his name, either. As a representative of another time, they called him by names of things from the vast and growing linguistic tumor of antiquated vocabulary. "Lighthouse," they called him, for his height and the stark contrast of his skin and his garb. "Bard," they called him, for his habit of wandering and the ease with which he'd tell a tale.
He had many other names, and some were only whispered. There was also a legend that he was a ghost, because nobody, not even the adults, ever saw him eat, or sleep, or take a piss. Even the children were afraid to ask him if he truly was a ghost. These were very superstitious times.
Instead, the children took the role of paranormal investigators. They would ask him questions to see if they might imagine some his personal insights--reflections of the distant past. They might ask, "Bard, what happened when the net went down?"
He would look then into the child's eyes and something would change, almost imperceptibly. Those with keener perceptions would later say that, while his lips would always maintain that dour expression, in those moments his eyes would smile. His voice was clear, sharp, deep, and precise as he recited:
"The dark day the net went down,
It used its lips and tongue.
Only clergy wore fixed frowns,
As the whole world did moan and cu--"
"That has nothing to do with the Great Crash!" the child might cry. "Tell us of the old times! Of the net!"
"Mm. I just told you more about the net than you realize," he would look then to a shattered tower of rubble on the horizon, and add, mostly to himself, "It's lucky for me that my little poem is going to go over your head for a few years."
Faces bent under the pressure of confusion and changed subjects would follow, "Ma says I'm growing like a weed." The child would then pause and wrinkle up his face in the melodrama of his transparent manipulation as he would probe, "What's a weed?"
The man would reply, "It's a plant people may use to make themselves relaxed and stupid."
Incredulous responses, being the domain of children no matter what era you're living in tends to produce things like, "Why would people want to be stupid?"
With the eyes of a cat playing with a trapped mouse, the man would say, "Life is sometimes fun when it isn't clouded with questions."
"You sayin you want me to stop pestin you with questions?"
"Only if I run out of answers."
"Oh," the child would say, and the man's eyes would flicker and he would turn and walk away without a word. Depending on the size and nature of the crowd that would then be dispersing, there might be some further pondering of the mystery of the strange man from a time long gone. Or maybe children would launch themselves into playing in a shared fantasy prompted by such ancient recollections, as children sometimes do.
The children, filthy and playing in the rusted hulks of a thousand broken cars that were scattered throughout most of the streets in the city adored the fellow. Children do tend to love the strangeness of anachronisms they don't recognize, after all.
None of the children knew his name, and there was a legend that he didn't know his name, either. As a representative of another time, they called him by names of things from the vast and growing linguistic tumor of antiquated vocabulary. "Lighthouse," they called him, for his height and the stark contrast of his skin and his garb. "Bard," they called him, for his habit of wandering and the ease with which he'd tell a tale.
He had many other names, and some were only whispered. There was also a legend that he was a ghost, because nobody, not even the adults, ever saw him eat, or sleep, or take a piss. Even the children were afraid to ask him if he truly was a ghost. These were very superstitious times.
Instead, the children took the role of paranormal investigators. They would ask him questions to see if they might imagine some his personal insights--reflections of the distant past. They might ask, "Bard, what happened when the net went down?"
He would look then into the child's eyes and something would change, almost imperceptibly. Those with keener perceptions would later say that, while his lips would always maintain that dour expression, in those moments his eyes would smile. His voice was clear, sharp, deep, and precise as he recited:
"The dark day the net went down,
It used its lips and tongue.
Only clergy wore fixed frowns,
As the whole world did moan and cu--"
"That has nothing to do with the Great Crash!" the child might cry. "Tell us of the old times! Of the net!"
"Mm. I just told you more about the net than you realize," he would look then to a shattered tower of rubble on the horizon, and add, mostly to himself, "It's lucky for me that my little poem is going to go over your head for a few years."
Faces bent under the pressure of confusion and changed subjects would follow, "Ma says I'm growing like a weed." The child would then pause and wrinkle up his face in the melodrama of his transparent manipulation as he would probe, "What's a weed?"
The man would reply, "It's a plant people may use to make themselves relaxed and stupid."
Incredulous responses, being the domain of children no matter what era you're living in tends to produce things like, "Why would people want to be stupid?"
With the eyes of a cat playing with a trapped mouse, the man would say, "Life is sometimes fun when it isn't clouded with questions."
"You sayin you want me to stop pestin you with questions?"
"Only if I run out of answers."
"Oh," the child would say, and the man's eyes would flicker and he would turn and walk away without a word. Depending on the size and nature of the crowd that would then be dispersing, there might be some further pondering of the mystery of the strange man from a time long gone. Or maybe children would launch themselves into playing in a shared fantasy prompted by such ancient recollections, as children sometimes do.
Friday, November 28, 2008
No Regrets by Scot Young
Scot Young couldn't write a creative bio if his life depended on it.
Recent rumors of his death were blogged to sell his work and
should not really be taken seriously.
Thursday, November 27, 2008
Worst by Mikael Covey
the mom
holds up
a photo
of her dead
girl
Nikki’s Fund
the caption
reads
in
front page
news
for students
who need
money and
a reason
not to
kill
themselves
I hope
you’re feeling
better Nik
imagining
your mom
with your
dead photo
funds
your name
and
nothing
nothing
nothing
of her
girl
who went
away
Mikael Covey is editor of Lit Up Magazine. His writing has appeared in a number of on-line and print journals, including Storyglossia, 3AM Magazine, Laura Hird Showcase, Word Riot, and Dogmatika.
holds up
a photo
of her dead
girl
Nikki’s Fund
the caption
reads
in
front page
news
for students
who need
money and
a reason
not to
kill
themselves
I hope
you’re feeling
better Nik
imagining
your mom
with your
dead photo
funds
your name
and
nothing
nothing
nothing
of her
girl
who went
away
Mikael Covey is editor of Lit Up Magazine. His writing has appeared in a number of on-line and print journals, including Storyglossia, 3AM Magazine, Laura Hird Showcase, Word Riot, and Dogmatika.
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Photo by Richard Batka
I'm a 26 year old IT worker in Bloomington, Indiana. I just graduated last May with a degree in Kinesiology, though my interests are wide-spread. I enjoy martial arts, triathlons, pretty much anything outdoors, philosophy, physics, psychology and of course, photography. I have been photographing seriously for the last 4 years, but I am just starting to send out portfolios to art galleries. My photography is strongly based off my moods and views of the world, and my goal is to communicate a mood, emotion or sense of atmosphere to the viewer.
In a Kansas City Walk-Up by Lisa Winett
housed in the corner
i never see it change position,
its sensitivity to climate,
nuances of atmosphere,
as though i lived amongst subtle genius.
assuring the appropriateness of sleevelessness,
i recognize devotion.
1996-1997
Lisa Winett was born in Herrington, Ks. in 1971. She received her Bachelors of Fine Arts in Art History at the University of Kansas. She writes, and acts.
i never see it change position,
its sensitivity to climate,
nuances of atmosphere,
as though i lived amongst subtle genius.
assuring the appropriateness of sleevelessness,
i recognize devotion.
1996-1997
Lisa Winett was born in Herrington, Ks. in 1971. She received her Bachelors of Fine Arts in Art History at the University of Kansas. She writes, and acts.
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