FICTION | NONFICTION | POETRY |
TRANSLATION
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OUR LATEST ISSUE
INTERVIEWS WRITERS WE PUBLISH
he never smiles, only glares at the camera
like he’s looking right into your soul,
and wanting you.
there is no liquid like grief—
the moon pulls it all,
and my body responds,
begins to bleed.
Cheeks wet with tears, I croak—Jessica, you are the biggest fucking cunt in Somerville.
She giggles like a female alien, inhales serenely, and says Thank you.
I put on my suit every day for work.
It takes three hours.
Welcome to Epiphany's Annual Fete! Join us for a night of glamour and giving back at The Urbane Arts Club. Get ready for an evening filled with live music, delicious hors d'oeuvres, an open bar with literary-themed cocktails, and exciting raffles and auctions. Dress to impress and mingle with fellow supporters of the arts.
“It’s like the menu was created for those of us born with skeletal and jaw problems. Clam chowder, broiled cod, boiled carrots—foods that deliver without crunch. I notice they’ve added occasion meals available year-round, like Thanksgiving turkey with gravy, yellow birthday cake with chocolate frosting, and corned beef St. Patrick’s Day stew.”
The stars have no proof / of life but smolder regardless, maggots / feasting on the sky’s vast corpse, and like them / you were science before you were fiction.
“Enter Max. Max was strong, with a sleek neck and green eyes, and an impossibly tiny waist—you know the type: unsurprised to find the world at his feet. Aaron met him in New Jersey, coming back from his twice-annual visit to his sister’s in Cherry Hill, and within twenty minutes he’d asked Max to come home—to live.”
“the dog was lucky enough to catch
it mid-air, the bird flying low
searching for worms
or seed. The burial
is quick, without
ceremony. Some preservation…”
“A couple of years ago, you invited me to edit one of your issues, and that was a very different experience. For the first time I was not the one asking to be published. I was the one reading submissions of people who would like to be published. And being on this side of the process, I took the job very seriously. I wanted to do for writers what other writers and editors had done for me.”
“I think what's important is to look at your own obsessions, whether it's a family tale that you remember and wonder about, like some missing great grandmother whom you’ve heard stories about, or maybe something happened in your town years ago, and you thought, well, that's a weird story. Some people find their material in a newspaper or a magazine. Ask yourself: What's the story you tell a lot?”
“His face was haggard, scattered with gray stubble and damp with sweat. In the air between them was the musky odor of bourbon. “I am weary with my moaning,” he moaned. “All night I make my bed swim.” He looked at her, and even as she looked away, Kate was sure his gaze was lingering on her breasts.”
“In high school and college, Uma Shastri was good at math and economics because she studied hard. But with a field hockey stick or a tennis racquet in her hand, her body slid to all the right places without conscious thought.”
"My stories often start with some image or moment that stays with me... It could be something I experienced, or a conversation I overheard, or the way someone looked at someone else… I will usually just start writing toward that image or moment and build from there."
“despite not being real
Them and them
the conspirators
and the voices
but more the voices
which I waited for”
“When my husband says divorce, / I start decorating the interior / of my cardboard tent, stock / it with cans of SpaghettiOs / and Bumble Bee (flip-topped), / re-do my hair into a wild Einstein / without the Nobel or any theories / about relativity…”
Join Epiphany Magazine, No, Dear Magazine, and the New School Writing MFA for a night of readings from NYC writers. Hosted in the backroom speakeasy of the iconic LA venue Cole's French Dip.
