Posts Categorized: Nonfiction

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2015-2016 Indiana Review Online Features

Indiana Review Online Features

Fiction
Marie-Helene Bertino . . . . . . Sometimes You Break Their Hearts, Sometimes They Break Yours
Elise Burke . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Sorry For Crashing Your Party and Possibly Killing Your Horse
Catherine Carberry . . . . . . . . Campfire Sing-Alongs for Opposite Orphans
Julie Hensley . . . . . . . . . . . . . Seeing Red
Joseph Kim . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Superstar
Matt Sadler . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Blue Christmas

Poetry
Hannah Gamble . . . . . . . . . . In a Time of War
Keetje Kuipers . . . . . . . . . . . Some Advice for Both of Us
Rebecca Lehmann . . . . . . . . Bucolic Calling
Jamaal May . . . . . . . . . . . . . Athazagoraphobia (Fear of Being Ignored)
Aimee Nezhukumatathil . . . When All of My Cousins Are Married
Richard Siken . . . . . . . . . . . . Three Proofs

Nonfiction
Kate Birch . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . One More Artificial Organ
Jackson Blair . . . . . . . . . . . . . Glacier
Judith Hertog . . . . . . . . . . . . Matzevah
Jacob Newberry . . . . . . . . . . The Night Is Filled With Orchards, Every Night
Kathleen Rooney. . . . . . . . . . An Open Letter to World War I Soldier Alexander Bradley Burns of Downers Grove, Illinois on the Occasion of My Father’s Retirement After Six Years in the United States Air Force Reserves, plus Twenty More in the U.S. Army Reserves

Graphic Memoir
Alexander Rothman . . . . . . . What Is Comics Poetry?

 

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Online Feature: “Glacier” by Jackson Blair

 

The way through the world is more difficult to find than the way beyond it.

—Wallace Stevens

My office is configured in such a way that I’m blind to coworkers who appear at my door. Each day I sit like a parked car in a cul-de-sac, my backside positioned toward visitors, a situation that forces me to discriminate between the surprisingly varied sounds they make. Thus, I’ve come to recognize knockers by their knocks, foot-draggers by the scuff of their feet, and in one case, a person by a quick intake of breath, followed by a long pause, as with a case of apnea. Read more…

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Interview with 2016 Blue Light Reader Matthew Gavin Frank

We’re honored to have Matthew Gavin Frank read at our 2016 Blue LightAuthor Pic Food 1 Reading here in Bloomington, IN in just one week. To celebrate, we asked Matt a few questions about how he started writing (it’s a great story), his experience designing menus for Julia Roberts’s private parties (no kidding), his research process (some of which was even unintentional!), and if he believes in sea monsters. We hope you enjoy his responses as much as we do, and that you’ll come on out to hear him read from his work at our annual Blue Light Reading at The Bishop March 5 at 7 PM. Read more…

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Online Feature: “Matzevah” by Judith Hertog

 

I laughed a lot at my father’s funeral. The evening before the ceremony, I stayed up late with my mother and our friends Bart and Ruth, trying to compose an appropriate eulogy. My little sisters, who had just turned eleven, had fallen asleep on the couch. When we tried out the speeches we came up with, they sounded so pathetically silly – “Thank you all for coming, Mike regrets not being able to be here himself…” “Mike has led a full and satisfying life…” “Every life must end, and so did Mike’s…” – that we couldn’t recite them without being overcome by giggles. The funeral itself felt like an absurdist play. The procession from the funeral hall to the grave took so long and was so abruptly twisty that I thought the master of ceremonies had lost his way. As we slowly proceeded along the winding gravel paths between the neat rows of graves, passing through somber islands of conifer trees and along stone walls that sheltered the dead from the hustle of Amsterdam, I imagined the master of ceremonies’ rising panic at the realization that he didn’t remember the location of the grave and was leading the dead man and the solemn line of mourners in a haphazard walk through forgotten corners of the cemetery. Read more…

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Online Feature: “One More Artificial Organ” by Kate Birch

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On a bookshelf next to my mother’s bed there was a prototype of the Jarvik 7 artificial heart. Sometimes when she was downstairs fixing dinner or folding laundry I would sit on her carpeted floor and tear that heart apart with a defiant rip of Velcro, balancing the meshy chambers in my upturned palms before I pieced them back together. Afterwards, I’d place the heart back inside its dusty outline and move on, shuffling through her dresser drawers, hungry for secrets.

In the bedside table there was a pack of Trojan condoms covered by a drawing that my father sketched of my mother’s “lovely foot” and under that was the perpetual calendar whose thin metal wheel I could spin like a fortune teller, predicting the future.

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