Author Archives: Chloe Seim

“Slowness” (excerpted), A Short Story by Amrita De from Issue 2

The summer with Avyan had a before and after: before his widowed father came to visit and—afterward. I was an out-of-work graduate student in the sixth year of my doctoral program in Political Science, slicing my life thin and watching the end of a relationship slowly burn out, like a curtain winded by an errant candle.

Snarl’s First Poetry & Prose Contests

We are delighted to announce that Snarl will host our very first Prose and Poetry Contests starting December 1st, 2021. Submissions will close on January 31st, 2022. Any writer residing in the US and who identifies as marginalized, whether due to their economic status, race, ethnicity, gender identity, sexual orientation, disability, incarceration or immigrant status, or otherContinue reading “Snarl’s First Poetry & Prose Contests”

Issue 2: Fall 2021 Coming Soon!

Our second print issue is due out in early November! Snarl: Fall 2021 is now available for pre-order on Submittable. This issue includes great fiction, nonfiction, poetry, and artwork by talented creators across the US, Canada, and the world. Pre-order your copy now! You can read more about the issue here. Issue 2 Cover SneakContinue reading “Issue 2: Fall 2021 Coming Soon!”

“On the Desire for an Accompanied Death,” a Poem by Jessica Moore

Take all your heavensand line them uphere is what you havewhat to bring with you—these apple blossomsthese striated winter skiesyour mother in the flowerbedsyour teethsplitting the name of the girlin the red windbreakerinto halvesyour shallow footprints in the foliar carpetdisordered and roaming. oh whiskey-eyed sunoh landscape after a wildfirein a dream we go softy intoContinue reading ““On the Desire for an Accompanied Death,” a Poem by Jessica Moore”

“Speak, Plastic,” a Poem by Jade Hidle

Sữa: milk. (Watch the dip of your tongue–Sửa: to fix.) Curdle rinsed. Empty plastic gallons windchimed against your collected hollow aluminum. Cans creased sharp. Sliced your and mother’s fingerprints. Stung to grip the bag.  Big enough to float.  Gravity-less smile on cartoon Earth. Revolving wheels crush and haybale. Overalled, the attendant opened our bag to sortContinue reading ““Speak, Plastic,” a Poem by Jade Hidle”

“I Remember My Mother Dancing,” an Essay by Manju Prasad

I remember my mother dancing. I remember craning my neck to see her, tilting my head so far back that my eyes were in line with my heels, for when I was short and round and two-years-old, my mother was tall and translucent, and very beautiful and would have been twenty-one-years-old.