Walter scampered off the school bus and flung himself into his aunt’s ready arms.
“I got first in the practice race!”
“Congratulations!” Laura ruffled his brown hair, which smelled of sun and salt, warm vinyl and bruised grass. Like the last dash of summer.
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.
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”
As a journal that pays semi-professional rates and always has a free submission option, our need for financial support is great. Funds raised on GoFundMe will go toward paying creators for their work (whether published in Snarl Online or in print), covering print costs for the print issue, and more.
When men envision the future,
polyester-clad chest over wrought-iron frame echoing
like the long, hollow hold of a wooden boat,
they see
little ray guns, shiny,
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”
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. 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.
I follow you as you follow the one above you.
You take the cliff, the trees, the deer on your wings.
I am behind you watching the ground over which we fly.
If you turn
your attention
to the Mississippi
river, you’ll see
the closeted
Snarl