Beth Ann Fennelly Awarded Fall 2015 Orlando Creative Nonfiction Prize
Beth Ann Fennelly Awarded Fall 2015 Orlando Creative Nonfiction Prize Congratulations to Beth Ann Fennelly on the selection of her essay, “Goner” for the Fall 2015 Orlando Nonfiction Prize! “Goner” will be published in Issue No. 19 of The Los Angeles Review. “The arc [of ‘Goner’] is clear and well developed. The author uses ecclesiastical language to great effect, as it immediately establishes that this...
Leigh Claire Schmidli Awarded Fall 2015 Orlando Short Fiction Prize
Leigh Claire Schmidli Awarded Fall 2015 Orlando Short Fiction Prize Congratulations to Leigh Claire Schmidli on the selection of her short story “Grow Heavy” for the Fall 2015 Orlando Short Fiction Prize! “Grow Heavy” will be published in Issue 19 of The Los Angeles Review. “Subtle, tender, poignant, this story delivers an emotional wallop in just a few pages. A gorgeous evocation of loneliness, of the delicate...
Allison Adair Awarded Fall 2015 Orlando Poetry Prize
Allison Adair Awarded Fall 2015 Orlando Poetry Prize Congratulations to Allison Adair on the selection of her poem, “Flight Theory” for the Fall 2015 Orlando Poetry Prize! “Flight Theory” will be published in Issue 19 of the Los Angeles Review. “[FLIGHT THEORY] pulled me into the poet’s experience from the first two lines: You turn off the lights this time/ and lie still, a body shifting from its country…...
“Lake as Body,” by Denise Leto
The salamander, black with red spots climbed into her mouth with its pods, its sticky pods and it pulled at her lips: replenished, stricken. Losing the larger frame of sound she was unable to speak, her voice seized in grainy rivulets, lesser dams. The salamander swam beneath her tongue it was gorgeous and frightened or frightening— she wasn’t certain. It kept being a world in there so she wouldn’t swallow its slick skin hiding in...
“Letter to my Sister in a Mental Hospital,” by Julia Laxer
Snow falls, building like thrush on the freeway. Black palate, no answers. A daddy calls you by name, but you hear soap opera in his voice, see the frazzled tangle of memory in crepe lines. Do you see past our eyes to something else? Answers I cannot ask, you can’t afford, anger. Snow falls. Snow falls, and I call to ask if you can go outside, if you can taste the cold too, taste it in numbers or letters or shivers?...
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The Q: In this moment, how will I claim my artistic power?
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