When I read about the one girl who studies orangutans suddenly my passion for apes knows no cage-like containment. Another young woman travels widely in the summer and there I am zip-lining alongside her above Cozumel’s white sands. When they hate black licorice, I swear to ne’er eat it again. They all like Mad Men–
One morning he asked me to show him “the whole thing,” meaning all of the things I did to get ready in the morning: the makeup and blow-drying, how I stood and perfected a curved wing of eyeliner. This was during the short period of time when we were together. This was during the even
“The box is only temporary.” – SYLVIA PLATH Dear Laura, The sun is finally out but it hasn’t made today any warmer. Not that it matters much inside this house, your oldest sister’s house. I’m surrounded by stacks of musty books. They’ve been accumulating like casualties from the war inside my mind. I’ve arranged them
By Morgan Middleton, 2018-19 editor-in-chief Honesty? What does it mean? More importantly, what does it feel like? To me, it feels like Little Fiction and Big Truths. The moment I read the journal’s title, I felt inclined to click. Because to me, and I’m sure to many other young writers and editors, there is a
Sometimes my brother decides not to breathe. I yelled at him last Saturday over bread and he dropped a piece of slightly roasted fish in my cup of water. I can hear the storm outside. In summer lonely and buzzing I braid yellow shoelaces like friendship bracelets around my ankles. Feet swelled up
By Miguel Gracia, 2018-19 managing editor I knew that I needed to read Fence from the moment that I saw its bright pink cover. I thought it was eccentric and intriguing, and that is exactly what the Spring/Winter 2015 issue of Fence is, from cover to cover. The front cover features a poem called “Front and
By Natalie Jeffery, 2018-19 managing editor I always looked forward to the number candle placed atop my birthday cake. The years without it always left me with a twinge of disappointment. Sadly, individual memories of birthdays and cakes and candles from childhood have begun to dissolve; however, the memory of loving this one type of
I was born to be gawked at and lauded: “How pretty!” they say, and I grit my teeth, my multi- cultural smile hiding fangs as they marvel at my skin. This body of intertwining complexity confounds them, so I prepare to be seen in halves as if I am the part that splits their hair.