We’ve gotten an early start with our Winter 2013 issue which you can find at the top of the column to the right. We want to thank particularly Denise Duhamel, Cathryn Hankla, Bruce Smith, Nin Andrews, Teresa Svoboda and Randall Mann for their contributions, solicited by one of our new Associate Editors, Diann Blakely, and anointed by our long time poetry editors Angela Ball and Julia Johnson
BlipMagazine has changed its name to New World Writing after the great literary magazine of the 1950’s. They were, of course, thinking of world writing, whereas we are thinking more of the (perpetually) new world. We hesitated in any case, as it is a grand old name and we are perhaps insufficiently grand. Still, with some squinting, we are in the ballpark
I Won’t Get Lost
On the bus, the guy wants to know where he should go tonight. He’s in from San Diego, sleeping on a stranger’s couch. The strangers are at work and he’s wandering the city by himself.
I explain the difference between East and West 6th—hipster versus drunken college student, older versus maybe underage.
I hear the East Side’s dangerous, he says.
To make last cookies, you first must make not-last cookies—Chocolate-Almond Biscotti, packed in a large tea tin. These you must give to your father to give to his sister at Christmastime, his sister having stayed home in New York City, as she was too ill to visit Boston for the holiday.
Of course, you can’t go so far as to call this a batch of “everyday” cookies, because your aunt is so sick
Recently some folks have objected to having their work turned down via form letter. We regret that this is a necessary expedient, but there it is. We want to alert all authors who may be submitting work to BLIP that it is our standard practice to notify contributors whose work we are not using via this mechanism. If one of our editors knows an author personally, there may be an added personal note
Lots of crap phony registrations have befallen us & so we have erased all registrations and stopped registering folk. Taking the ball by the horns. Please forgive if you were a genuine registrant and were erased. Means nothing. Personal.
The new issue is online now, comprised mostly of pieces we’ve published since the Summer 2012 issue. We’re featuring Robert Pawlowski, Bob Hicok, George Saunders, Bobbie Ann Mason, Peggy Price, Christine Sneed, Marcy Dermansky and others. Access the issue from the link above or just find the pieces below in the sequence of their original publication on BLIP.
At Litquake 2012, San Francisco’s literary festival, discover flash fiction with a sampler of readings from seven beloved authors and teachers of the short-short form. Blending poetry and prose, these tiny, truffle-like stories are filled with a rare, delicious urgency. Moderated by Meg Pokrass, author of Damn Sure
We are reading fiction, nonfiction and poetry. If you’d like to submit, please follow the link below, leave a short bio note and anything else we might need to know. We are happy to read work of any kind, any length. Many thanks for your interest.
Our friends at Mississippi Review have published, under the fine editorial hand of Julia Mae Johnson, an anthology of thirty years of stories, poems, essays and interviews published in MR when Frederick Barthelme was its editor. Though the 880 page volume doesn’t try to be a complete record, it is an engaging tasting menu of the adventurous work published in the magazine 1977–2010
Sitting beside a suffering, hyperventilating zebra (really a horse with stripes) was not new to the women in my family. My mother had experienced it, as had my grandmother and my grandmother’s grandmother. Now it was my turn
“For every pot there is a lid,” my mother said before she died. Nobody knew why she said it or why only females cried.
Here it was again, a life and death moment in the animal
We’ve just put up a new section of a new novel from Mary Grimm along with an interview in which Mary talks about publishing on the Web, e-books, and other topics that might be of interest to our readers. Click the following link to visit Mary Grimm.
I still don’t love you; my arm fell off.
I see my ex at the grocery, pecking at fruit, those new mini-watermelons. I catch the back of her head, her red hair, from the automatic doors, her purple tee from two years ago’s 5K for dystrophy. One change: Her left arm is gone, the short sleeve tied into a knot at the shoulder.