Archive for the 2020 Literary Anthology Category

Arts funding is a precious commodity, and funding for nonprofit literary publishing is really scarce. So when I received an email in spring 2019 that an anonymous donor was interested in partnering with a college English department to publish an anthology of Connecticut writers, I thought I

I pull my lilac linen shirt out of the washer and shake it to ease out the wrinkles. Then, I drape it over my arm while I load the rest of the damp clothes into the dryer. I shut the door, set the dryer to permanent press,

Just beyond the quarry wall resembling Stonehenge a molten lava sky is effortlessly showcased before you like burning embers the remains of a lofty fire a séance for the end of a decade you tell me that you never understood God’s artistry until you witnessed your first

A solstice moon, almost full. Waning gibbous. Some stars. Not many. City lights, streetlights, illuminate the sky, the pavement. An empty space near the emergency room entrance. Blue lights. Red lights. Soft noises of blunted crisis. Mute sadness seeps through the sliding doors and granulates in the

“Once upon a time, there were three very different little girls…who grew up to be three very different women. But they have three things in common: They’re brilliant, they’re beautiful, and they work for me. My name is Charlie.”  – Charlie’s Angels the movie, 2000 1. On

“At 4 a.m. the Cook jumped overboard having lain in the Moon all night he was out of his head.” —Charles W. Morgan, logbook, July 8, 1846 Drowsy orb, the hue of dried sea salts,  froths forth the opaque tides we sail upon, each season passes  unheeded

“The charismatic firefly faces extinction.” Late-arriving guest of dusky backyard barbecues, she turned heads, then— darting in and out the arborvitae hedgerow (thinning in places, but still more hedge than gap) and now she’s back to grabbing headlines Clickbait. “Her flashing abdomen attracts and signals suitors.” Not

A hand shot through, reversing the doors. Four riders entered—polite nods, thank-yous— varying in age, size, and color. But when I murmured an elevator of women just loudly enough to be heard, faces lifted and brightened, heads nodded, soft chuckles tumbled about. Then, the one who’d stopped

It is the winter of 2009. I wake on Christina’s back porch, a temporary refuge now that I’ve left my husband. I am homeless and nearly friendless. This space with its long row of windows only permits the twin bed, a fit like ribs around lungs. There

Losing Dad to Alzheimer’s is like having my heart cut out with a butter knife. The hurt is dull, slow, and constant. Sometimes, the knife hits a nerve; the pain becomes a raging flood pouring into an abyss. Like the time Mom and I visit and there