PROSE
From Fictive Dream: Delirium by John C. Mannone.
“The brick-lumps sifted through the black morph into swarms of fire ants with glassy-grit teeth.” (Delirium)
From Spelk: Letters to Dead People by Foster Trecost.
“I sometimes write letters to my father, but he doesn’t read them.”
“How do you know?”
“Because dead people can’t read letters.” (Letters to Dead People)
From The Drabble: Dreams of Unspecified Crimes by Howie Good.
“I think it was Freud who said dreams are the day’s dark residue.” (Dreams of Unspecified Crimes)
VERSE
From Caliath: To Taste of Salt by João-Maria.
“What’s it like to bow up?, that rotten soliphsism of yours by which suns dawn merely to candle your rooms…” (To Taste of Salt)
ESSAYS
From Art & Crit: “The Death of the Author” Debunked by Eric Wayne.
The belief that “the author is dead” is one of the unquestioned bad ideas that has become gospel in the art world. It’s usually just asserted — along with its companion notions that originality is impossible, and the artist’s intent is irrelevant — as if to deny it is as hopelessly naive as denying evolution. (Wayne)
From New Pop Lit: Do Awards Matter? by Karl Wenclas.
Awards ceremonies, like hall of fames– sports, music, and otherwise– are in reality highly successful PR appendages to their particular industry. (Wenclas)
