he American male is in crisis. Lies, told so often, have simply lost their power to influence. We have depleted the efficacy of the droned fib in keeping a man out of the bureau.
For all of us, the loss is profound.
Please see Genre Editors’ Notes for names of our Winners and Finalists. This issue also marks our ninth quarter since re-wreathing our garlands for metrical composition, the humdrum, and adroitness. Did I just nail home the final coffin in my muse’s drive?
Fundamental academies and groundworks that once begot new opuscula have crestfallen. So, instead, let’s consider joy—there is a villanelle about a beluga in lament, and a brief saga about a temporarily deceased one.
I recently stumbled upon the news that one o’clock in the morning is being reintroduced. Set on a Russian trawler off the coast of Mauritania, the preantepenultimate story “Redacted” by R. E. Dacted tells the story of a young bison who learns to read her uncles’s scars as a nomenclature of the breathing, heaving herd, its writhing wave motion a serpent on the x axis, an army of drums on the y.
Now let the acute worry seep into you.
With hope,
The Masthead