Gulf Coast Online Exclusives


Tinderbatrachus

Mirri Glasson-Darling

We think that Tinder is just for fun, swiping like in a videogame, like the 1980s game Frogger where the frog hops across the freeway and tries to avoid getting flattened by cars—this is how we feel about dating.


Poetry, Fiction, & Nonfiction   

A Door, Prone, Crushing a Field of Flowers

Michael Schmeltzer

I am at my threshold. / The dirt of our daughter. / The mole of her squirming body.

Night Moves

Ella Marilla

At 1am, 2am, the across-the-road-guy decides to start shooting stuff. Cans or nothing maybe. Ten shots each time. After each ten you think he's all out.…

Can I Have a Hug First?

Mary Paula Hunter

As a witness should I run to her? Make sure she's not suffering a stroke or an aneurysm? I pictured a headline demanding the whereabouts of a witness who'd left the scene of a potential homicide.

Crocuses

Alexandra Salerno

The house had a pointed, skinny frame, like a too-tall man. It was a pus-yellow clapboard, perverse against the snow. “Perfect,” Celia said...

From the Archives

On Seeing

Robin Romm

            Recently, I was talking to my friend, Camas, at a party when the subject of our college admittance essays came up. I haven’t done a lot of…

COMPARTMENTALIZATION, OR, SOME THOUGHTS ON BOXES

Katie Bellamy Mitchell

Two sides of what used to be one wooden box hang on the walls of the Smart Gallery in Chicago. At first glance they are unremarkable: vaguely Italian-looking landscapes populated by two vaguely Italian-looking lovers, all flowing hair and slit silk. In the panel on the left, a woman lies improbably across some rocky ground—perhaps sleeping or dead—while a man leans on his staff and peers over her with a neutral expression. In the panel on the right, in front of a section of silvery sea, the same woman stands apart from the man who reaches toward her. His mouth is open. Her hands cross upwards into two woody stems and blossom into the unmistakable broccoli-floret silhouette of a tree: Daphne, turning into a laurel to escape the god Apollo.

A-Side, B-Side

Dylan Brown

He had kept the bulk of his music library, which covered every genre from obscure Sub-Saharan drum tracks recorded on cell-phones to honey-tongued R&B to Norwegian black metal, in his parents' basement. It was the only place, he had argued, that could support the weight of it all.

Interview with 2012 Barthelme Prize Winner Josie Sigler

Josie Sigler

"And what does being safe mean? (Besides having to practically get naked to be allowed to get on a plane? Besides dropping bombs?)"...

From the Blog

Strategies of Art Making

A friend in England asked me just recently whether I thought her work had become too much like 'the last cry of a dinosaur.' I thought not, but it made…

I Hate a Rainy Night

Thursday, August 24, 2017 Hurricane preparation begins with a conversation about a small claims court case involving a batch of botched edible underwear.…