Tag: Four Way Review
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A SERIES OF WINDOWS by Alex McElroy
Heejoung took the job as a flight attendant because she wanted to see the world. It has been three years. She has seen the world. Its major cities have blurred together. Bangkok’s floating paper lanterns are superimposed onto Singapore’s harbor. She calls this place Hong Kong—no, she calls it HKG. Her life becomes simple. An…
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LADIES’ NIGHT AT THE GUN RANGE by Lara Markstein
The women waited for Olivia. Perched on their lawn chairs beneath the dogwood, which blossomed in leathery white bursts, Nel thought they looked more like they were waiting for their youth. Leanne had slathered on so much foundation she resembled an overripe tangerine, and Connie stank of French perfume. Nel regretted wearing new capris. The…
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Three Poems by Melissa Ginsburg
THE JOB Not being stupid I took what was offered: the job was waiting and I did it with sand and mirrors, in glitter while I paced. I waited, I fell in love with waiting …
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Three Poems by Craig Morgan Teicher
REGRET Beckoned by the things you’d go back for but can’t, you push on, dragging the past behind like a vestigial tail, out of use but undeniably a living part of you, the thing, really, by which you define yourself: lizardo, can-kicker, backward-glancer tripping over a ripple in the road…
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Take Four:An Interview with C. Dale Young
In the second installment of our new interview series, “Take Four,” we talk to contributor C. Dale Young about his new work in short fiction, the subtle differences between poetry and prose, and the alchemy of characterization.
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Take Four:An Interview with Paul Lisicky
In the first installment of our new interview series, “Take Four,” we talk to contributor Paul Lisicky about his short story “Lent” and his latest collection from Four Way Books. In between issues, we’ll keep the conversation going as more contributors share their thoughts on recent work, current projects and the challenges of writing well.…
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TWO POEMS by Megan Peak
—In your bed, I lie open to all the ways you have me: husked, sown, ruined. You hover above, right hand burgeoning like a mushroom, white, trembling. Outside the pine seeds slip from their cones, plummet toward the ground. After you strike, I don’t try
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THE SHATTER OF BIRDS by Javier Zamora
after Abuelita Javiercito, you’re leaving me tomorrow when our tortilla-and-milk breaths will whisper te amo. When I’ll pray the sun won’t devour your northbound steps. I’m giving you this conch swallowed with this delta’s waves and the sound of sand absorbing.
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TO MY POLISH AUNTS by Mary Kovaleski Byrnes
After Ginsberg Skin pale and pocked with moles, your names pulled from Slavic litanies, were strong enough for farm work, had the taste of whole milk: Bertha, Elsie, Hannah, in your kitchens, I sat on wooden chairs, one eye looking out for the coal-grayed cats