Back from summer break, we’re excited to start reading your submissions! To get a sense of what we’re looking for, read our 2018-19 print edition. It’s now online. Click on this ugly link to start reading our beautiful issue: http://webapps.towson.edu/ec/publications/grubstreet/2019/issue1/index.html
You see, my parents were always picky about their food. They wouldn’t eat this, they wouldn’t eat that. Very choosy. Which sometimes got them in trouble. That’s why it was particularly peculiar on Thanksgiving Day that they ate the whole meal themselves. My mother does not like turkey, but she ate the thing whole… My
By Alexa Smith, 2018-19 Fiction Editor I performed a speedy pre-scan of Beth Ann Fennelly’s 52 micro-memoirs, Heating and Cooling. I stopped at page 63. The word Beyoncé caught my eye at the top right-hand side of the page. I knew this book and I would be great friends. I was curious to see where
I have a gynecologist appointment today. I’m scared, strangely. And I’m just now realizing that I’m not scared of my doctor per say, or the sterile smell, or the plethora of expired magazines, or the bubbled-bellies of the women sitting next to me, or the crinkle of the paper under my naked lower half, or
I am writing to ask if you’d like to dance again in the kitchen. I have never been much for a phone call, as you know. I was thinking I could bring boas and peacock flumes for our shoulders and the waists of our pants. All the times you’ve tried to teach me the Charleston
The photo above was taken on West North Avenue in Baltimore City—right outside of Mondawmin. I was pursuing a photo series of the artist Iandry, a 2009 MICA graduate whose art decorates the city. He was painting the “Wall of Wisdom,” a mural which consists of six portraits of historical change makers: Frederick Douglass, Matthew
Let’s speak of the grizzly bear in the middle of the room. Thick black rambutan branches dripping citrus under the sun. What extra powers are suppressed beneath? Lulling opponents to sleep with each bend against the wind. Hope is lost if you stare directly into the void because by then, arms will outstretch to consume
A swing brushes the cement low, in slow motion, as if drawn through night’s deep syrup, as if burdened, holding the dark ball of a child hidden in the twilight’s smeary sleight of hand. They must be there: it’s some trick of the bare winter branches and sallow moonlight. Their shivering laughter rattles like dead
I’ve been a huge fan of Kyle Dargan’s poetry ever since I first read Honest Engine, his fourth collection of poetry, for a school internship. This was my introduction to Dargan, who I now consider one of the most important young voices in poetry in the D.C. area, and maybe anywhere. In addition to writing
One: Evan Nicholls can live in it. He can wave to an orgy of cows under the field oak. Nod to the bull on the hill. Sleep back in the steel bed, by nobody or somebody. Two: Evan Nicholls can kill in it. Probably on accident, a person or himself. The mathematics of