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102 pages

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Description

• Anthology of diverse, contemporary, cutting edge fiction, nonfiction, poetry, and reviews, stemming from Los Angeles and streaming outward nationwide

• Short entries and diversity of authors’ voice make for quick, stimulating read

• Quirky, unusual, often controversial subject matter

Sujets

Poetry

Informations

Publié par	Red Hen Press
Date de parution	30 mai 2023
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781636280486
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0500€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

The Los Angeles Review (ISSN 1543-3536) is published by Red Hen Press.
Copyright © 2023 by Red Hen Press
The Los Angeles Review is published annually. The editors welcome electronic submissions of fiction, nonfiction, poetry, book reviews, profiles, and interviews. Please go to www.losangelesreview.org for guidelines and reading periods. All rights revert to author on publication.
Subscription rates for individuals: US $20.00 per year. Libraries and institutions: $24.00 per year. Subscriptions outside the US add $10.00 per year for air mail. Classroom and bookstore discounts available. Remittance to be made by money order or by a check drawn on a US bank.
Visit us online at www.losangelesreview.org .
Book design by Mark E. Cull
Cover design and artwork by Van Chung
ISBN: 978-1-63628-047-9
Acknowledgments: The works and ideas published in the Los Angeles Review belong to the individuals to whom such works and ideas are attributed, and do not necessarily represent or express the opinions of Red Hen Press, any of its advisors or other individuals associated with the publication of this journal. Certain works herein have been previously published and are reprinted by permission of the author and/or publisher.
The National Endowment for the Arts, the Los Angeles County Arts Commission, the Ahmanson Foundation, the Dwight Stuart Youth Fund, the Max Factor Family Foundation, the Pasadena Tournament of Roses Foundation, the Pasadena Arts Culture Commission and the City of Pasadena Cultural Affairs Division, the City of Los Angeles Department of Cultural Affairs, the Audrey Sydney Irmas Charitable Foundation, the Kinder Morgan Foundation, the Meta George Rosenberg Foundation, the Allergan Foundation, the Riordan Foundation, Amazon Literary Partnership, and the Mara W. Breech Foundation partially support Red Hen Press.
CONTENTS
To Our Readers
Kate Gale
AWARDS
Mexican Shoots Himself In The Chest
Stanley Delgado
The Blues, Reproductive
Aurielle Marie
A Redbone s Reality
Ren e Ozburn
How To Tell That Guy You ve Been Dating, Your Boyfriend, Or Your Friend (Whom You re Actually In Love With) You Have A Disability
Lillie Lainoff
FICTION
Pablo
Jim Peterson
$1.59 Per
Holly Richmond
You Might Hesitate
Eva Dunsky
The Scrap Eaters
Rose Hunter
POETRY
Ode To Getting Distracted In Church
Alejandro P rez
Father Dreams Of Gibran
Lory Bedikian
Gardening, A Mother Gives A Daughter A Lesson On Mass Loss
Caitlin Roach
Devil Looks At A Thistle
Charlie Clark
Antlers
Jennifer K. Sweeney
Open Heart
Lauren Camp
The Mother
Lindsay Stewart
The Wheat Field
Matthew Gellman
An Abecedarian To Mother s Tongue
Meher Manda
Poet
Miguel Murphy
You ll Be Given Love
Norma Liliana Valdez
Byrd Mass for Four Voices
Patrick Donnelly
Spaceship Earth
Catherine Pierce
Still Life Of Second-Line
Lizabeth Yandel
Unfeathered
Marlys West
Weeks After My Brother Overdoses
Kerrin McCadden
NONFICTION
Houston: Encore For Woody Shaw
Stephanie Dickinson
Undone
Kristin Gibson
Rolling
Clea Bierman
TRANSLATION
Two Poems From The City Within You
Karla Marrufo Huchim
TRANSLATED BY ALLISON A. DEFREESE
Four Poems
Khal Torabully
TRANSLATED BY NANCY NAOMI CARLSON
Through The Moors, Through Dachau
Michaela Maria M ller
TRANSLATED BY JOE KROLL
Two Poems
Johannes Bobrowski
TRANSLATED BY LUKE SWENSON
Four Poems
Gemma Gorga
TRANSLATED BY SHARON DOLIN
BOOK REVIEWS
View
by Glen Pourciau
REVIEWED BY CHARLOTTE KUPSH
Be Recorder
by Carmen Gim nez Smith
REVIEWED BY EMILY P REZ
If They Come For Us
by Fatimah Asghar
REVIEWED BY RONNIE K. STEPHENS
Birnam Wood
by Jos Manuel Cardona
TRANSLATED BY H L NE CARDONA
REVIEWED BY SIDNEY WADE
Vanishing Acts
by Brian Barker
REVIEWED BY ROY WHITE
CONTRIBUTOR NOTES
TO OUR READERS
Kate Gale

This has been a year of great awakening for America and for the world. The human suffering and forced hibernation of COVID juxtaposed with the police brutality and protests of last summer brought the challenges of inequality into stark relief. More than ever, we find ourselves thinking about the way all of us want to participate in change. Writers are active change makers.
At the Los Angeles Review , we work in the vineyard of stories, and we believe that stories and language can help redefine the world. The poems, tales, and creative nonfiction in this issue speak to our ongoing conversation with the evolving landscape, as each of us in our own way is also working toward change. The writers we present in this issue, both emerging and established, join us in that journey.
Each of us is adept at overcoming the challenges necessary to create an extraordinary world, and each day brings us closer to the world we want to see. We invite you to read this work-to invite the words of creators, writers, and artists into your life-and to realize your own marvelous world.
AWARDS
MEXICAN SHOOTS HIMSELF IN THE CHEST
Stanley Delgado

Flash Fiction
Judge: Brittany McLaughlin
Netta says Alessandra killed herself. We re in bed, Lily asleep with her nose buried in my armpit. Netta stares at the ceiling. I don t even know an Alessandra.
My cousin, remember? A little fat. Dentist. Single.
I tickle Lily s neck, just to make sure she s not awake; five-year-olds shouldn t hear about this stuff.
Well, yeah, Netta says. It was an overdose.
We re both quiet for a while, pretending to fall asleep. I had a friend who overdosed, once. But he survived it. Marco with the sad eyes who laughed a lot.
Not a lot of Mexicans kill themselves, Netta says.
What?
Alessandra is one. But I can t think of a lot.
I don t bother thinking about it, I say. Lily spent the whole day piling her toys in our room. Teddy bears, baby dolls. All of it. And who s going to clean it?
Name a famous Mexican who s killed themselves.
I can t.
She grabs her phone. Siri, name Mexicans who have killed themselves.
A little pink-and-green spiral pulses on the screen, thinking . . .
I don t know how to respond to that.
Ha! she shouts, I flinch. She starts tapping, typing.
Calm down, Lily s sleeping, I say. I pull the blanket just over her ears and see the bits of dried chocolate milk on the little hairs of her upper lip. Tomorrow she will learn how to clean up after herself.
Wikipedia says only five Mexican celebrities have killed themselves. Four girls, one guy.
Ever? I could name five Hollywood actors from like last year.
Pina Pellicer? Netta says.
Don t know her.
Sleeping pills. Lucha Reyes? The mother of ranchera music, apparently.
Kinda familiar.
Wikipedia says, Acute intoxication by unknown substances.
Unknown . . . ? I look around the room. I don t want to look at Netta, talking about this. I see Lily s baby doll, the one that keeps its eyes open unless you cradle it in your arms and put its head back. Its eyes are open, blue, staring at the ceiling.
Lupe Velez: Seconal. But it says it could ve been murder.
Lily is sleeping, I say.
The last one! Miroslava. Seconal, too.
Miroslava? Doesn t sound Mexican.
It isn t! Netta acts like this is all just gossip. It says she was born in Czechoslovakia and her parents moved to Mexico, to escape the Nazis. Her big break was winning a beauty contest.
She wasn t even Mexican, and she won?
I pull the blanket up to my chin, covering Lily s entire head. How can I sleep comfortably while making sure Lily doesn t suffocate, I m thinking.
Well, that was depressing, Netta says. She shuts her phone off.
I push the blanket back down under Lily s ears. Didn t you say there were five?
Oh. Yeah, huh. She looks at her phone again. There we go, last one: Pedro Armendariz. Shot himself in the chest. Never heard of him. She shuts her phone off but doesn t fall asleep. I can hear her blinking. So I hold her hand.
I actually have heard of him, though, just a little. He studied law, journalism, stage-acting. Maybe I saw a documentary? I don t know why I know, just one of those things. His big break was reciting Hamlet to a crowd of tourists, and a filmmaker just happened to be there. He must ve said something like, Stick with me, kid, and you ll go straight to the top. At least Pedro shot himself in the chest, and not the head. Anything but the face. They probably dressed him up real nice for the funeral. I m sure the casket was wide, wide open.
THE BLUES, REPRODUCTIVE
Aurielle Marie

Poetry
Judge: Matty Layne Glasgow
See my hands? They strong hands. They hold worlds, they break men open with a snap. My hands is strong hands and I learned them from my mother s mother. She had a pinch that could end a nerve, could bruise steel with her hands. Somehow not strong enough to live forever, but she shole did live. I see her in her grave turning over when she hear my mother tell me she too had an abortion. My mother tell me our strong hands held a small bloody part of her, and let it go. My mother s hands checked the time it wasn t time, that s that on that. My mother & my grandmother gave me my hands. My mother my grandmother gave me timeliness. I am the daughter of the daughter of the clock. I am the incarnate of a just hour. I am the first born my mother was meant to have. She tells me so, every morning. I make up the difference, I hang tough. I will tell my daughter one day what it felt like to sever, the choice I held to make a way for her. I will hand her our inheritance, our punctual strength. I will tell her what it means to be churned in the dirt by loss. I will tell my daughter to question everything asking to be housed in her. If it ever isn t time, I will love her and the empty ache. My mother taught me how now the men have come for my mother. I will teach my daughter, and then the men will come for me. The men don t know what they do not know. The men s clocks are too late, or very early. The men think it is a time before my grandmother, and my grandmother isn t here