PLURAL

PLURAL is an online journal that caters to fiction, nonfiction, and criticism geared towards prose.
guernicamag:


My father committed his when he was twenty-eight, just three months after I was born. And a grisly one it was too. The victim was some shook-looking fossil of a pensioner shuffling out of eleven o’clock mass in Carrigallen, which is where we called home until after the trial. It’s a tiny backward kip of a place, lashed to the side of a cliff just north of Glinsk, on the tip of the Erris peninsula, that the wind slices through no matter what kind of a day it is on the other side of the sign:
Failte Chuig an… / Abandon all hope ye who enter…
There’d be no need to go out of your way to bypass it even, because no road—main, bog, botharin or otherwise—will take you within an ass’s roar of the boundary, unless you really have a mind to get there. The “Grieving Corner,” my mother used to call it, and she’d be deadly serious, knowing full well the reasons why. She was by no means the only one either. You would want to be at least three towns over before you’d chance taking the piss out of the town and its murderous rumors, whispers that hung like mustard gas over every square inch of the place. Even then there’d be few enough takers. As it stands, there isn’t a guidebook in print that’ll make reference to it, I’ll put money on that right now, even from where I am.
But there was a time when it wasn’t the worst, I suppose.

Our Fathers by Dan Sheehan - Guernica / A Magazine of Art & Politics
Image by David Shrigley, Unfinished Letter , Steel. 500mm x 400mm x 2mm.

guernicamag:

My father committed his when he was twenty-eight, just three months after I was born. And a grisly one it was too. The victim was some shook-looking fossil of a pensioner shuffling out of eleven o’clock mass in Carrigallen, which is where we called home until after the trial. It’s a tiny backward kip of a place, lashed to the side of a cliff just north of Glinsk, on the tip of the Erris peninsula, that the wind slices through no matter what kind of a day it is on the other side of the sign:

Failte Chuig an… / Abandon all hope ye who enter…

There’d be no need to go out of your way to bypass it even, because no road—main, bog, botharin or otherwise—will take you within an ass’s roar of the boundary, unless you really have a mind to get there. The “Grieving Corner,” my mother used to call it, and she’d be deadly serious, knowing full well the reasons why. She was by no means the only one either. You would want to be at least three towns over before you’d chance taking the piss out of the town and its murderous rumors, whispers that hung like mustard gas over every square inch of the place. Even then there’d be few enough takers. As it stands, there isn’t a guidebook in print that’ll make reference to it, I’ll put money on that right now, even from where I am.

But there was a time when it wasn’t the worst, I suppose.

Our Fathers by Dan Sheehan - Guernica / A Magazine of Art & Politics

Image by David ShrigleyUnfinished Letter , Steel. 500mm x 400mm x 2mm.

You are neither here nor there,
A hurry through which known and strange things pass
As big soft buffetings come at the car sideways
And catch the heart off guard and blow it open

—Seamus Heaney, from “Postscript” (via the-final-sentence)

(Source: hiddenshores, via the-final-sentence)

All her life she had believed in something more, in the mystery that shape-shifted at the edge of her senses. It was the flutter of moth wings on glass and the promise of river nymphs in the dappled creek beds. It was the smell of oak trees on the summer evening she fell in love, and the way the dawn threw itself across the cow pond and turned the water to light.

—Eowyn Ivey, The Snow Child (via feellng)

(Source: feellng)

Even this late it happens:
the coming of love, the coming of light.
You wake and the candles are lit as if by themselves,
stars gather, dreams pour into your pillows,
sending up warm bouquets of air.
Even this late the bones of the body shine
and tomorrow’s dust flares into breath.

—Mark Strand (via observando)

It’s the path of least resistance to reading, which is why even now that I’ve realized it, I haven’t been inclined to do anything about it. There hasn’t been any great and conscious rush back to physical books over digital. It just seems to have stopped being one-over-the-other all of a sudden. I’m happy to take books either way, which is a completely new experience.

—from Accidentally Going Digital by Peter Damien (via bookriot)

theparisreview:

“This late-night walking is the one thing about the city that’s most saturated my work.” Ansel Elkins, our poet-in-residence at the Standard, East Village, talks to The New Yorker about her experience.
Illustration: Tom Bachtell.

theparisreview:

“This late-night walking is the one thing about the city that’s most saturated my work.” Ansel Elkins, our poet-in-residence at the Standard, East Village, talks to The New Yorker about her experience.

Illustration: Tom Bachtell.

(via yeahwriters)

theparisreview:

“It’s the story of what it means to live in a cultural climate that stifles almost every creative impulse, and why it so often seems we should stop trying.”

Dan Piepenbring on Cory Arcangel’s new book, Working on My Novel, a compilation of tweets from people who are putatively at work on novels.