“They say / seven men and heavy ropes were needed / to bring me up. The gulls, they say, / cloud-hovered around the squalling, / unfurred thing, but never pecked. / They say they couldn’t find a priest or / even minister to baptize me.” Poet Devon Miller-Duggan makes her Fabulist debut with this haunting, vivid prose poem of sea changes rich and strange.
Gaurav Monga’s marvelous and strange fragments have the feel of being found as a sheaf of unbound, unnumbered pages in a yellowing envelope, laying perhaps on an otherwise empty shelf at the back on an abandoned safe-deposit vault. They tell of a lost city of self, ancient excavations, and half-glimpsed memory.
Jen Burke Anderson returns to The Fabulist with this biting little satire of our app-driven virtual society, and the blithe replacement of authentic human connections with market-driven user experiences.
“I was originally trying to come back with names for a person that idealizes the romantic past. Many words didn’t quite capture the feeling I was looking for, but The Atavist did — even though most people don’t recognize the word or its meaning. And that’s okay — we’ll help define it!”
“Carnations, Pigeons,” by Bainbridge Island poet Amanda Williamsen, finds a hapless heroine drifting skyward each night, her heaviness draining from her head like sand. Mornings, she wakes startled, fallen, back in bed. She wonders if her problem might be gas.
“There once was a polar bear who roamed the great north accompanied by the clouds, his closest friends.” In two new 100-word stories, California author Heather Bourbeau builds a bridge between myth and time.