The gulls flew south into the valley that fall, gossamer fog tied to their tails, and were caught up in the walnut trees like the memory of some destructive force—the ash that turned everything concrete when the mountains caught fire, or pools of condensation left by half-empty bottles after a fight. I sat on the hood of our yellow rusted Pinto and watched them arrive, the gulls, and they live in every drawing I made that year, childish bruised lipstick stains circling the Sierras.
We drove in circles through the valley that fall, watching the light all turn fluorescent, and I bit my lip when mother hit Route 6, heading north instead of our street. She shook me awake at the cape, bought two coffees, and didn’t brush the sand from her jeans. On the hood of the Pinto she poured from her bottle into both paper cups, and we watched the sun being born from its place just out in the water.
Check out the write-up of the journal in The Writer.
Matter Press recently released titles from Meg Boscov, Abby Frucht, Robert McBrearty, Tori Bond, Kathy Fish, and Christopher Allen. Click here.
Matter Press is now offering private flash fiction workshops and critiques of flash fiction collections here.
Poetry, creative nonfiction, and fiction/prose poetry submissions are now open. The reading period for standard submissions closes again December 15, 2023. Submit here.
11/27 • Michael Mark
12/04 • Helen Beer
12/11 • Rachel Rodman
12/18 • Betsy Robinson
12/25 • Trish Hopkinson
12/31 • Kim Chinquee
01/01 • Jill Michelle