• Fiction, Online Feature
    Alanna Schubach

    The second thing we were famous for was how we looked together. An old lady stopped us once in the IHOP parking lot. “One of each,” she marveled.

    “Excuse me?” our mom said.

    “Light, dark, and medium.” The old lady pointed to me, then Walt, then our mom.

    Walt giggled, delighted for the attention from someone who wasn’t Mom or Grandma, but I, sensing our mom stiffen, kept my face still.

    “Do they have different fathers?” the old lady asked.

    Podcast

    A new episode of the Sewanee Review Podcast featuring Katie Kitamura is now available.

    Review, The Conglomerate
    Tara K. Menon

    In the rare moments of hope, the novel suggests that beauty and solace are to be found in intimacy and friendship. In many ways, this is where Rooney is most convincing: amidst global despair, maybe the only place to find comfort is in our personal relationships. For all the glib quips, self-ironizing, and existential angst, Beautiful World is a sincere, entertaining novel with a happy ending. Is this enough?

    Craft Lecture
    Michael Robbins

    So it’s not just that poets love trees, which we already knew, but that, to paraphrase Colin Tudge in his natural history of The Tree: no trees, no civilization. They’re everywhere in art because they’re everywhere in human existence—trees gave us shelter, fuel, boats, drugs, food, weapons, tools, places of worship. And, of course, paper, on which to write poems.

    Poetry
    Emily Jungmin Yoon

    Every day, I labor to hope
    that the ocean stays unskinned
    of its ice and you always have water
    to spare.

    Nonfiction
    Katie Moulton

    When I first heard “The Middle” as a ninety-eight-pound, barely-kissed fifteen-year-old, it sounded retro yet unmanipulated—a squeaky-clean nonconformity we could take for our own. 

    Poetry
    Kwame Dawes

    History is easier when seen close
    up, the detail is in the moment, then.
    And this is the look of our lives,
    stare long enough, all tangential
    narratives become annoying
    blurs, feathery inconveniences.

    Nonfiction
    Ryan Bradley

    What was it about these places that drew people to them? That drew me to them? Armchair travel, sure. But, also, something more. These places swallowed people up. I wanted to visit them all. Instead, I did the next best thing: I added and added to the list.

    Fiction
    Taryn Bowe

    A plane cut through the stars above. For a moment, Jenna wondered where it was going, how far it had come, where it would take her if it beamed down a chute of light and suddenly sucked her up.

    Fiction
    Jen Logan Meyer

    Later, we would know these items by their proper names and what they were meant to summon. But because we happened upon these items when we were eleven, maybe twelve, we were on our own to make sense of these secreted collections, which rendered our mothers mysterious and complex—frightening and enthralling at once.

    Fiction
    Buku Sarkar

    Aunt B came every week, at the exact same time, into a living room taken over by evening’s shadows. Yet she never relented. She came with a blatant hope, a desperateness, at the dark end of daylight, only to turn around disappointed and sadly make her way back—to once again endure her own life.

    Fiction
    Lea Carpenter

    People say equality is what matters in a marriage but that’s not the case, is it. What matters is respect. And for him I had respect for days. I knew he would never aim the gun at me.

    Poetry
    Phillip B. Williams

    Woundwondered, they circle

    you: headless monument erosion had—
    before they thought they knew you though did not—
    claimed.

    Poetry
    Stephanie McCarter

    When morning lights the world, Venus and Juno
    and Hymen come together for the wedding.
    And the boy Iphis now has his Ianthe. 

    Poetry
    Victoria Chang

    The great mystery
    is whether I love you or
    I just love mourning.

    Web Design and Development by Riverworks Marketing