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Microreview: Allegra Hyde’s Of This New World

Of This New World by Allegra Hyde (University of Iowa Press, 2016)

At the end of “Free Love,” the third story in Allegra Hyde’s award-winning collection, the narrator, Almond, reflects on her lingering sense of alienation in her grandmother’s household: “But I still feel strung out, loose, like a fish on land, or a girl on the moon, or a flower no one recognizes taking root in an unexpected place” (39). This line encapsulates the ambivalent condition of the collection’s protagonists: They are unrecognizable flowers, girls on the moon, struggling to feel anchored as their quests for utopia falter.

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Listen to “Five Kinds of Dolls” by Amy Blakemore

We are delighted to feature “Five Kinds of Dolls” on the Bluecast! This work of nonfiction appears in the IR 38.2 Winter 2016 issue.

Listen to Amy read “Five Kinds of Dolls” here.

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Amy Victoria Blakemore lives and works in Hartford, CT. Her short story “Previously, Sparrows” was the winner of the 2014 Kenyon Review Short Fiction Prize, and her work has also appeared in PANK, the Susquehanna Review, and Cleaver Magazine. She is a proud alum of the Kenyon and Tin House Summer Workshops. In addition to pursuing a Masters of American Studies at Trinity College, she is currently at work on her first novella. 

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IR Online: Table of Contents

Indiana Review Online 2016: An Undergraduate Project

Lost or Found

To read the introduction to the issue and view the masthead, click here.

S . . . . . . . . . . . . .  . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Sarah Purow-Ruderman

Portrait of a Boy. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Katarina Merlini

Lake Winnebago . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Hannah-Marie Nelson

Wuthering . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Indigo Baloch

Hay Fire 
Public Gardens . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Nora Sullivan

A Hundred Magnificent Shades of Red . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Navid Saedi

stain . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Bria Goeller

Magnitude 7.1 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Brian Czyzyk

Two Blankees and a Pillow . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Anastasia McCray

The Only Thing You Can’t Undo Is Knowing . . . . . . . . . . Mallory Hasty

Trust . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Charlee R. Moseley

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IR Online: Masthead and Letter from the Editor

 

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Dear reader,

Here it is. The 2016 edition of Indiana Review Undergraduate Online! The W280 Literary Editing and Publishing class at Indiana University-Bloomington is proud to have found these literary gems hidden within “under-bed altars” in order to create something more than just a literary journal or a “book of nonsense with dynamite attached.” We wanted to compile works that evoked the sense of loss and discovery that all undergraduate students face as they move on from the “temple of childhood” to discover who they are and who they want to be.

We encouraged writing that looked beyond the literal interpretation of the theme of Lost or Found, and happily, we were rewarded. Before us were works ranging from the loss of crushed beer cans or the loss of a single, yellowed suicide note, to works about discovery, whether that was gaining newfound trust or learning how to mother “fearsome,” infant-shaped “creatures.”

Just as we stood witness to a man, who thought he could no longer trust another, look into his lover’s eyes and see “truth in them,” we found poetry and short fiction that dove into deeper meanings, tested boundaries, and challenged traditional forms and ideas. Thus, this issue represents a wide range of contemporary undergraduate writing under the umbrella of a unifying theme.

We hope you enjoy reading this collection of works, and that you end up either lost or found – or perhaps both – between its pages.

IR Online

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IR Online Fiction: “S” by Sarah Purow-Ruderman

In the deep grotto behind the house, S was blowing on my wrists and scalp and in between my toes where it tickled. S that tickles, I whispered. When the words came out of my mouth, they were eaten by the bat that swooped down and then settled under S’s armpit. Shh, S said. Shhhhhhhhh, S said. Her shh went rushing through my ears and down into the catacombs where the people lay, and it moved their chests up and down like bellows blowing on a flame.

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