Melinda Jane – The Poet Mj’s “Kit” is a structurally unique piece in antilang., a micro-novel written in verse. Jump to page 25 of the new issue and see the full arc unfold.Melinda Jane – The Poet Mj: writer, spoken word artist with explorations in soundscapes, improv music in the performing arts. Poems in Thirty West Publishing, The Mozzie, Rambutan, and more.
Jessica Mehta’s poem “Savagery” opens antilang. no. 2 and sets the bold, political, and powerful tone that many of our emergent contributors carry on throughout the issue. Read her other poem, “Orygun,” and the rest of the issue by clicking the excerpt below.Jessica Mehta is a multi-award-winning poet, storyteller, and author of 13 books. She’s a member of the Cherokee Nation and has been awarded numerous poet-in-residency positions around the world. Currently, she is a Halcyon Art Labs fellow and working on her PhD in Creative Writing at the University of Exeter. Her next poetry collection, Savagery, is forthcoming with Airlie Press in 2019.
Our second last preview before we launch antilang. no. 2 is “Borealis,” a flash fic by Steve Passey that instantly locates and characterizes its narrator with a distinct voice. This story is a perfect lead-in to fall, when the auroras become more frequent and visible in the chill evenings.
Steve Passey is originally from Southern Alberta. He is the author of the collection Forty-Five Minutes of Unstoppable Rock and the chapbook “The Coachella Madrigals,” among many others.
While an audio collection of short readings does lend itself quite well to poetry, we also have some fiction appearing in our first volume of soundbite.
Clocking in at a whopping three minutes and eighteen seconds, Chris Kelly’s excerpt from his novel A Kid Called Chatter is the longest piece forthcoming in soundbite. And in just three days (!) you’ll also be able to read his poetry in antilang. no. 2.
We’re coming at you with another preview with just 2 days until our antilang. launch!
Anastasia Jill (Anna Keeler) is a queer poet and fiction writer living in the southern United States. She is a current editor for the Smaeralit Anthology. Her work has been published or is upcoming with Poets.org, Lunch Ticket, FIVE:2:ONE, Ambit Magazine, apt, Into the Void Magazine, 2River, and more.
Read her poem “Kick it” here and be sure to check out soundbite for more of her work (also launching September 5th)!
Allison Iriye’s bio says that she is a recent University of Calgary graduate who writes about the people in (and out) of her life. But what this fails to mention is her time spent on the Nōditorial (Nōd Magazine’s editing team), where she met and worked alongside our editor Allie. Allison now spends her time chasing various creative projects, baking for loved ones, and winding up in trouble.
Jordan and Allie first heard Allison read this poem at Nōd Magazine’s spring launch and, as it was not among her work published in that magazine, solicited it for soundbite as Allison’s recitation of the poem adds to its strength.
Part 2 of our double-feature is a lyric poem by David Martin, which appears in antilang. and is titled “Loess.” David Martin works as a literacy instructor in Calgary and his poetry has been awarded the CBC Poetry Prize. If you haven’t already checked out his debut collection, Tar Swan (published earlier this year by NeWest), then go do that now! antilang. will still be featuring his work when you get back! We are thrilled to have this and one other poem by David in our second issue.
The first of our long weekend double-feature previews!
Lip Manegio’s “survival of the tomboy,” after Canadian performer Ivan Coyote’s 2016 Tomboy Survival Guide, is a spoken word piece that walks the hinterlands of flash fic and prose poetry. Lip Manegio is a queer, trans nonbinary poet from Boston working towards a BFA in creative writing at Emerson College. Their work has appeared in or is forthcoming from Flypaper Magazine, Crab Fat Magazine, Freezeray Poetry, the minnesota review, and elsewhere.
And we’re very excited that elsewhere includes two other pieces appearing in antilang. no. 2!
Hello! About a month ago we started our monthly writing contests for our donors on Patreon and promised to post our top 3 picks on our blog–we only have 1 contest entry for this month, but it’s really good. The first contest has closed and the second is launching later today (bonus round: if you start donating before Wednesday you’ll get a hard-copy of antilang. no. 1 and get to participate in the writing contest!).
Without further adieu, Erin Vance’s “Happy Hour”
After she let the rhubarb rot with its roots still anchored in the garden, Aoife filled the prescription. The pharmacist’s ivory coat was stiff like rawhide. He handed her the medication. Aoife plodded home along the dirt road, breathing the dust until her chest felt tight and her head spun. Meclizine hydrochloride. Take two tablets at onset of vertigo symptoms. If dizziness and nausea persists, take one tablet each hour, not exceeding thirteen in a period of twenty-four hours. Do not operate heavy machinery or drink alcohol while taking this medication.
Aoife swallowed hard and coaxed saliva to the front of her mouth. The medication was fetid, chalky. The tablets stuck to the sides of her tongue, began to dissolve as she choked them down her throat. Aoife rounded the corner to the house she shared with her mother, to the porch, to the overgrown garden, the decrepit oasis where the mosquitos were still leeching the blood from her mother’s hands. Aoife’s mother sat on the porch in a pink housedress, a gin and tonic in one hand, the other lingering over a jar of Arbequina Gourmet Stuffed Olives. Aoife’s mother had a proclivity for the anchovy stuffed ones. Aoife liked them because the image of the goddess Mnemosyne was transposed onto the label in faux-gold leaf. Aoife kissed her mother’s forehead, the white hair soft like feather grass. She dropped the paper bag from the pharmacy on a table and went inside to mix herself a drink. Three o’clock meant gin and olives. It was three forty-five. Just enough time to have two or three gins before four o’clock ushered in vodka and soda crackers.
Aoife settled in a plastic chair next to her mother and flung her dirty sandals off the porch. The two women sat in a dry sort of silence, the air around them astringent, smelling slightly of formaldehyde or insulation. Aoife refilled her glass, and her mother’s. Her hands were clammy from the condensation. A pigeon impaled itself on a metal spike, upon which had previously hosted a citronella candle until it melted off in the sun. The macabre interlude prompted Aoife to bring the vodka onto the porch. She sucked on unsalted soda crackers, her head spinning again. She wondered if she should take more of the medication. She popped two tablets into her mouth. They were lost in the wet sludge of crackers and vodka and saliva. The pigeon twitched. It let out a sound that was half-squawk, half-scream, a multi-lingual death growl. It was only three feet away from where Aoife and her mother sat. Aoife sucked on a cube of sugar, filtering vodka through the cube as it dissolved. The bird whirled around on the stake, like a child swinging a hoop around on a stick. It made Aoife dizzy. It wasn’t really whirling. It couldn’t be. She wondered if she should take more of the medication.
Aoife stood to refill her mother’s glass. Her feet were wet. They’d been damp for a long time. She picked up the crystal glass and it splashed onto her hand, stinging where she chewed the skin away from her nail beds. The astringent vapours coated her body. Aoife felt unclean. She turned to the pigeon on the stake. Flies were swarming it. They formed a big, black cloud. Aoife cried out and they were gone. The pigeon was gone, too. Not even its bones remained.
Aoife wondered if her mother had also seen the bird, had also seen it whirl and disappear. Her mother was silent. Aoife sat. The plastic chair dragged against the wood with her weight. Aoife closed her eyes against the spinning afternoon. When she opened them, the sun had set. Out of the corner of her eye the porch light bounced off of the pink fibres of her mother’s housedress. She wondered if she was an amnesiac and brought the drink, still stiff in her hand to her lips. The liquid was warm. Her mouth buzzed with fruit flies. Aoife wretched. She flung herself onto the ground. She writhed, spitting and gagging, tearing at her lips, scraping her cheeks and tongue with her jagged nails. Her head was full of bugs. Aoife ran screaming, straight into the stake. It caught her in the neck. A pigeon cooed in the distance. She gasped, but did not struggle. She fell and closed her eyes, clutching the wound, and went to sleep.
Her mother did not stir.