Hello, Dear Chum, As you may have noticed, we’ve had a submissions makeover. Eyes up here, please. Yes, we’ve been changing some things. For one thing, we’re now accepting submissions through Submittable. For…
Jim: The river has always been my happy place. Any river. Anywhere. However, one specific region always comes to mind: the Dora, MO area, where there are as many watering holes as names…
They portaged into the Minnesota wilderness for six hours that day. They carried the heavy canoe through the narrow, wooded trails, sometimes a mile or more, until they could put it into the…
The final piece is our dying. Not hurried to or gotten through, Not flinched from though if so That’s part of it too. As if the end of the river Wasn’t a falls…
She places one foot down, then the other, gleaming blades meet glistening ice. After a few tentative strides, she stretches her legs, then pushes, soon finding her rhythm, propelling her forward, away from…
is a momentous affair. Veneration drives steaming bodies into revelrous, unsurvivable throngs. Humidity compounds, heat makes us suffer, and wind-whipped children play house on the sand. I’ve walked all the way here with…
Poet extraordinaire and all-around good guy, Marcus Cafagña, has seen his poetry published in hundreds of magazines across the country, including AGNI, Witness, Poetry Magazine, Ploughshares, American Poetry Review, and on and on…
Chipmunks have reentered my stone walls and flitter-twitch across the open grass guessing that a thing as grossly large as me cannot be a healthy coexistence. They dart into the spaces between rocks,…
Ho ho ho-ly mackerel, it’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas! Gridlock as far as the eye can see. The smell of burning money in the air. There’s a negativity scene at…
Hello, Dear Chum, Thanks for stopping by! It’s good to see you. It’s been a busy year—but the year isn’t over yet! We’re roughly a month away from the release of Issue 4,…
Dear Writer, Today I am reminded why we write and that the how of it is irrelevant when it comes to doing the deed. Sure, there are a great many qualities effective works…
Beowulf’s last word means most eager for glory,though the gulf coast toad seeks anonymityand crickets juicy as mangos. Wartedlike some goblin dumpling, your soft stone sits in moss-slick ditches, your eyelidshelming black mirrors…
2006 “What are you worried about?” my mother asks me across the patio table. She looks at my father for reassurance, who studies his stein. Charred fragments of the forest float down from…
It’s that time of year, friends! No, I don’t mean fall. I don’t mean Halloween. Certainly not Christmas! Best of the Net nominations! Unfortunately, Issue 1.3 came out a little later than expected…
The poet in the November gardenseeks words that rhyme with spring. Lumps of marigold,browns of spent peony underfoot. On the poet’s tongue, rebirth.On the garden’s veil, a hint of tomorrow’s frost. The garden folds its arms…
In an Ursula LeGuin story written in the seventies and set in an unspecified future time, Manhattan is under eleven feet of water at low tide, and oyster beds occupy San Francisco’s Ghirardelli…
The methodology for his laundrystill makes me laugh and cringe and laugh againthat I am no longer faced with the moundsof heavy denim, wool river driverswith seed-sized burn holes and necklines fraying,air-drying from…
FEATURED IN SKIPJACK REVIEW, ISSUE #2 For this special, Bugs-themed issue of Skipjack Review, we set out on a quest to have a heart to heart with an Ozarks entomology expert. But where…
The last cicada is sputtering out.Probably a male calling for a mateas autumn moves in. The buzz starts and stopsand pushes forward like an old crank car.This year, no tidal wave of cicada…
We should have known – whenpollution turned the sun purpleand even the honest horizonshazed over – that we were trappedbetween the two halves ofthe last summer solstice.“Half day, half night,part Earth, part sky”was…
Mullet has passed. Mullet was the color of a circus peanut and too shy to enjoy being enjoyed. Mullet’s heart misfired. Mullet’s death made eighteen people cry. Mullet’s name was a housewarming gift…
I’m going to let you in on a little secret: Most of the time, good writing is a total accident. Don’t get me wrong, if you show up and put in the work,…
Ope here, Holy mackerel! Make it stop! By all means, don’t stop sending submissions, but, please, no more bugs! We’ve got bugs coming out of our ears. Big bugs. Little bugs. Burrowing bugs.…
The only thing richer than the history and folklore of the Ozarks is the soil beneath its people’s feet. The region’s lush splendor is with special thanks to its many rivers and lakes,…
Sterile, she rides the airheavy with ingredientsfor new generationsof cotton and serviceberry,stamens and pistilsunable to touchwithout caresses ofa third party,and drunk, finds warmpillows inside purple petals. CJ Emerson is an writer and artist…
Japanese beetles hummed about my head, their iridescent thoraxes reflecting the summer sun. I closed my eyes and decided they were humming in the key of C sharp. I stood in their chorus…
In the land of the Lotus Eaters, it’s easy to lose sight of what’s important to us because we spend so much of our lives in support of responsibilities which, let’s be honest,…
Someone’s doing archaeology in the sand againdigging up old saltworks, a meeting house,taverns with motels on top.With little brushes, they reveal the bonesof stranded pilot whales:The stench must have hung for months,the things-that-feast-on-whales…
Remember that time you came overand ate all of the corn and tomatoeswe had set out for dinnerbefore we could even offerit to you, and, smiling at me,one golden kernel stuck overan incisor,…
Ope here, Get in here! Come on in, you’ll catch a cold! Close the door behind you. Have a sit! Take a seat. Gosh, it’s been a while, huh? We have a lot…
A journal of arts, environment, and spiritual currents
the water and the gills 