Meet Our Guest Editors for Issue 193, April-June 2021

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Meg Eden is the author of Drowning in the Floating World, a collection of poems that immerses us into the Japanese natural disaster known as 3/11: the 2011 Tōhoku earthquake and tsunami, and subsequent Fukushima Daiichi nuclear disaster. Meg’s father has worked in Japan for more than half her life, so she considers Japan her second home. Her work is published in magazines including Prairie Schooner, Poetry Northwest, Crab Orchard Review, RHINO and CV2. She teaches creative writing at Anne Arundel Community College and the MA program at Southern New Hampshire University. She is the author of five poetry chapbooks and the novel Post-High School Reality Quest (2017). She runs the Magfest MAGES Library blog, which posts accessible academic articles about video games. 

Read “Town Hall” from Drowning in the Floating World by Meg Eden

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Kate Hill Cantrill is the author of Walk Back from Monkey School, a collection of short and flash-fiction. She has been awarded fellowships from The Corporation of Yaddo, The Jentel Artists' Colony, the Virginia Center for Creative Arts, and the James A. Michener fund. She has taught fiction writing at The University of the Arts, The University of Texas, and the Sackett Street Workshop in Brooklyn, where she lived for ten years and ran the Rabbit Tales Reading and Performance Series and hosted the How To Build A Fire Storytelling Series. She is presently looking for a home for two novels as she continues to go back to visit her love of the short story. She splits her time between Philadelphia and South Jersey.

Read “Walk Back from Monkey School,” the title story from Kate’s debut story collection.


Town Hall

 
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Walk Back from Monkey School

And hold the clammy hand of Jimmy, and kick the leaves so that their musk floats up and sneezes you, and move too fast so that your Mom-mom frets, your Mom-mom pleads, “Slow down, you two!” And think of how she’ll say it later: “Their vigor turns me sixes and sevens”; and wonder if the term refers to your young age, and recall that you were only two when back you slammed into her teeth, slammed through her lip with just the bulbous baldness of your head, and how she cried and ran away, and how she returned each Autumn day, to walk with you and the neighbor boy after school—the school she named for monkeys.

Kick fast again into those leaves, with Jimmy who you know you love, because he smells so thick with play, because he stands as tall as you, because your Mom-mom sees those tiny devils in his smile. Let Mom-mom shuffle up behind you, her spine all twisted as a phone cord, her lovely fingers aching forward, her watered eyes paining, Please, into your head.

And when Jimmy moves away that day, sit on the high back of the sofa, hold your hand out for his Skittles, say nothing more than “See you later.” But when Mom-mom goes that final time,

so small she sits inside your own cupped palm, just push her up into the sky, and blow behind her, sending leaves and bits of air along. And miss them both: the air, the leaving.