Issue #12 - "Water" - We're now closed to submissions until January. See the pieces we've posted so far for our fascinating "Water" theme.
A few more will be added each month until the end of the year.
Writing Suggestions & Editorial Reveals prompted by this issue.
Scroll down & sign up for our monthly updates!
Eastern Iowa Review's 2019 Best Lyric Prose Plus print anthology is now available! Choice selections from Issues 1-6 & 8. You can find it on Amazon.
One reader said this: "I love the format, the layout, and just the feel of it. It's a beautiful book. But more than that, I've loved the content! It's really full of great writing. I find the landscapes, the people, and the words of the different pieces to be so powerful. I can't think of another anthology that I liked this much. I consistently enjoyed all of the pieces, which, considering how varied they are, is really something."
Feel free to share your thoughts about the collection by emailing us at contact @ portyonderpress.com.
A few more will be added each month until the end of the year.
Writing Suggestions & Editorial Reveals prompted by this issue.
Scroll down & sign up for our monthly updates!
Eastern Iowa Review's 2019 Best Lyric Prose Plus print anthology is now available! Choice selections from Issues 1-6 & 8. You can find it on Amazon.
One reader said this: "I love the format, the layout, and just the feel of it. It's a beautiful book. But more than that, I've loved the content! It's really full of great writing. I find the landscapes, the people, and the words of the different pieces to be so powerful. I can't think of another anthology that I liked this much. I consistently enjoyed all of the pieces, which, considering how varied they are, is really something."
Feel free to share your thoughts about the collection by emailing us at contact @ portyonderpress.com.
ISSUE 12 - "WATER"
(SEPTEMBER SELECTIONS)
Ingrid Andersson's "Something Like Salvation" (prose poem)
Faithful old limbs half-naked before a basin of water, wash rag in hand, my immigrant mother performs her daily ablution. I know that later, every drop of the graywater will be re-used to slake her heirloom flowers, or if her recycled rain drums are full, to flush her off-the-meter toilet. Read more
Mike Lewis-Beck's "Love Letters in the Sand" (fiction)
I took the little shovel from the lost sand bucket and began writing in the sand. The shovel was meant just for shoveling but, as a lettering tool, it served me well. I could make Q tails or cross Ts or form half-circles for the Bs. Sometimes I went to the shoreline to get water in the bucket, in order to wet small mounds for dots, like over an I. I tried not to go for water too often since it scared the plovers. Read more
Michelle Cadiz's "the ocean is a woman" (prose poem)
can you acknowledge me fully? not the facets of light, shattering glass refracted, the pieces taken apart. no rage, no bounty - this roiling undertow is careless in its direction. can you acknowledge me fully? without imposition, without projection, these currents are boundless and indifferent. there is no malice in the tempests or in the stillness, no love. can you acknowledge me fully? Read more
Giles Goodland's "Watering" (prose poem)
Late-afternoon light angles on a web. I can’t make sense of the route the ant is taking: will it clamber the rose or enter the crevice between paving stones. The lawn is chapped. Bee-bombs ply, summer-fuddled, heat-stupid. Some purpose drives them to the next stop, as water travels through my hands. The whirring shapes I make are wavery, Tex Avery. Read more
Steven Harvey's "Folly Beach" (creative nonfiction)
I rose before everyone, and walked toward the surf, a wave whipping up spray at the beach and spreading across sand in a headlong sweep, feathering out at the edges and churning at the rim, but when I pulled a notebook from my pocket, scribbling ‘spindrift’ in the margin, the wave disappeared leaving nothing but a sheen on the shore as a parting kiss. Read more
Fiona Murphy McCormack's "Waveforms" (fiction)
He nipped her flesh. As if its very existence bothered him. Stretched his hands along its extensive expanse. Grabbed her by the belly, bulging between his fingers. As though he were modelling clay. She sat at her computer, not looking up from the writing she was working on. ‘You can choose to take this as an insult or a compliment.’ ‘Okay.’ ‘You’d be beautiful if you lost a few stone.’ Read more
Faithful old limbs half-naked before a basin of water, wash rag in hand, my immigrant mother performs her daily ablution. I know that later, every drop of the graywater will be re-used to slake her heirloom flowers, or if her recycled rain drums are full, to flush her off-the-meter toilet. Read more
Mike Lewis-Beck's "Love Letters in the Sand" (fiction)
I took the little shovel from the lost sand bucket and began writing in the sand. The shovel was meant just for shoveling but, as a lettering tool, it served me well. I could make Q tails or cross Ts or form half-circles for the Bs. Sometimes I went to the shoreline to get water in the bucket, in order to wet small mounds for dots, like over an I. I tried not to go for water too often since it scared the plovers. Read more
Michelle Cadiz's "the ocean is a woman" (prose poem)
can you acknowledge me fully? not the facets of light, shattering glass refracted, the pieces taken apart. no rage, no bounty - this roiling undertow is careless in its direction. can you acknowledge me fully? without imposition, without projection, these currents are boundless and indifferent. there is no malice in the tempests or in the stillness, no love. can you acknowledge me fully? Read more
Giles Goodland's "Watering" (prose poem)
Late-afternoon light angles on a web. I can’t make sense of the route the ant is taking: will it clamber the rose or enter the crevice between paving stones. The lawn is chapped. Bee-bombs ply, summer-fuddled, heat-stupid. Some purpose drives them to the next stop, as water travels through my hands. The whirring shapes I make are wavery, Tex Avery. Read more
Steven Harvey's "Folly Beach" (creative nonfiction)
I rose before everyone, and walked toward the surf, a wave whipping up spray at the beach and spreading across sand in a headlong sweep, feathering out at the edges and churning at the rim, but when I pulled a notebook from my pocket, scribbling ‘spindrift’ in the margin, the wave disappeared leaving nothing but a sheen on the shore as a parting kiss. Read more
Fiona Murphy McCormack's "Waveforms" (fiction)
He nipped her flesh. As if its very existence bothered him. Stretched his hands along its extensive expanse. Grabbed her by the belly, bulging between his fingers. As though he were modelling clay. She sat at her computer, not looking up from the writing she was working on. ‘You can choose to take this as an insult or a compliment.’ ‘Okay.’ ‘You’d be beautiful if you lost a few stone.’ Read more
From a reader: "Eastern Iowa Review is such a fantastic magazine. It offers whimsy, music, and reassurance that somehow the luminous will prevail. As such, it brings solace. Thank you for bringing it to life, Chila." (July 2020)
