—after Darwish Bright wind in a fleeting summer and the leaves are white, white and the sun is a ball of plated gold. Don’t say that I know a field of high cotton. I know nothing of my country that has stumbled from the mountains to the sea except my father’s coat and the spine… Read more »
Posts By: Tim Lepczyk
What matters are the writers and their work, without their dedication and creativity, Scintilla, wouldn’t exist. The inspiration for the magazine came from my love of writing and a desire to work with writers. I looked around at publications I loved and thought, I wish I could be involved. It’s easy to put up barriers and… Read more »
Rachel has her MA in creative writing from the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. She lives in Lincoln, Nebraska, with her husband and their 4-year-old peekapoo.
My mother once said that the women went mad from the sound of the wind on the rocks. She warned me: never wait for that scream at the door. But still I lie awake in the dark, imagining each howl a silhouette on my stoop, a stranger’s step, your hand a-sail up my leg. The… Read more »
Melissa Fondakowski is a freelance writer whose reviews, articles, poetry and fiction have been published in magazines and journals including Girlfriends Magazine, Curve Magazine, The San Francisco Chronicle, Lodestar Quarterly, and Many Mountains Moving. Her poetry chapbook, “Impatiens,” was the winner of the 2001 Sow’s Ear Review poetry chapbook competition and was published in 2002…. Read more »
Take me with you into the bath the water so hot hives rise from some dark epitome— read my Braille with your scalloped fingers, all the secrets of my skin revealed in every shiver and chill, all the inky secrets of my soul bleeding through my thin vellum— grip me like the Harlequin a hungry… Read more »
It fit me like a barrel, the thicket of woven wool with a teddy bear sewn on front. It was the kind of sweater you hoped never to get. I picked it out myself both from the store and tonight, for the dance. I spied K’s circle of girls at mid-court in low and strobe… Read more »
Eric Heyne teaches American literature and critical theory at the University of Alaska Fairbanks (http://www.alaska.edu/english/people/faculty/heyne/).
That particular silver light slanting off the aspen leaves, evoking olive groves rinsed in Iberian sunlight and spread out to dry against the windy frame of plowed red fields, utterly out of place in the subarctic, is left in the wake of leaf miners scraping meals from the green of whole groves and hills, weakening… Read more »
D.R. James’s poems have appeared in various magazines and three chapbooks (Finishing Line and Pudding House). His first full-length collection, Since Everything Is All I’ve Got, is forthcoming in 2011 from March Street Press. He lives in Holland, Michigan, where he has been teaching writing and literature at Hope College for 25 years.
In the shadows of the backyard, swung vertical, on edge, like a topsail puffed taut in a wind, the hammock has unloaded a pillow, half-glasses, and an autobiography. They lie scattered at my father’s feet. He died a year ago, strung between retirement and the monitors that told his family the waiting was over. Now… Read more »
The stillness fills with all the sounds that were covered by the wind: the slow trickle of water seeping between roots gathering, dripping from leaves, the celebration songs of frogs in the field, the lilting call of the robin in the darkness, and the massive silence of the skies still flowing with patches of black… Read more »
Elizabeth McBride writes from Grand Ledge, Michigan. Her poetry has appeared in Dunes Review, Red River Review, Third Wednesday, Seeding the Snow, Scintilla, Poetry Breakfast, and the SCBWI-MI Bulletin. She is a Fellow of the National Writing Project, an Affiliate of Amherst Writers and Artists, and is deeply appreciative of the teaching and insight that… Read more »
With the sound of a buzzer, breakfast is done. The onions, peppers that were cut, the eggs that were broken, the bread that was sliced is now toasted. We sit back together, cloth napkins in our laps, and take that first aromatic sip of tea. For the next half hour, nothing comes between us. No… Read more »
The big blue chairs rise from the weeds. Majestic in their ease of triumph. Backs straight, aligned, they define the day’s light with their shadows.
Ben has a degree in English Writing from Knox College, is a contributing editor to River Stix, and is a member of The Haiku Foundation. His poems appear in The Heron’s Nest, Acorn, Shamrock, Glint, The Cape Rock, Roadrunner and Haiku Ramblings. Learn more about Ben at http://sites.google.com/site/benmoellergaa/
Linda Nemec Foster is the author of nine collections of poetry including Amber Necklace from Gdansk (finalist for the Ohio Book Award in Poetry) and Listen to the Landscape (short-listed for the Michigan Notable Book Award). Her most recent book, Talking Diamonds, was selected by ForeWord Magazine as a finalist for the 2010 Book of the Year. Foster’s poems have also been… Read more »
Dear Ms. Nemec Foster: As I clean and clear my office for someone new to occupy, I think how the years have gotten away from me. I think how long it has taken me to write this letter, even though I suspect “word-of-mouth” may have reached you about my attempt to change your grade. The… Read more »
A man I know walks down the road behind his house. All year, he wears a scarf and stocking cap. When he nears our place, the dogs bark. I know there is always grape jelly on his shelf. He told me. And he also told me at night he thinks about birds. Sometimes he decides… Read more »
Jack Ridl is the author of the collections Broken Symmetry, co-winner of The Society of Midland Authors Best Book of Poetry Award and Losing Season, named Best Sports Book of the Year by The International Institute of Sport. His next collection, Practicing to Walk Like a Heron will be published by Wayne State University Press… Read more »
The lilies we transplanted last week seem to be doing well. It’s been hot and dry, but they are fine. My wife’s father didn’t recognize her when she visited him yesterday. He is now refusing to take a shower. “I’m not interested any more in being wet.” We skipped going to the fireworks on the… Read more »
–The last words of Henry David Thoreau Why not “It’s been a good life. I sucked out lots of marrow”? Why not “The cabin was cold, but I got a book out of it”? Or how about “Wolf. Settler.” “Honeybee. Loner.” Or “Why all those beans?” Or “My god, I kept track of everything except… Read more »
Colors. Imogene heard colors, or rather, she saw them—little bursts of bright yellows, pea greens, and aquamarines. With every sound that filtered through her eardrum, Imogene saw a color to match. She first noticed her power as a little girl: With the back and forth, sway and repeat of the wooden swing in the backyard,… Read more »
The sky this morning won’t give up its rain. The trees stand perfectly still, leaves up, praying for it. The flowers bow down in the grayness while birds do what birds always do. The air feels wet as if the molecules could spontaneously burst into droplets. We’ve let the asparagus grow wild, a good two… Read more »