Reporting | Alaska Features Fall 2016 | Part I

For those of you who wonder sometimes what LinkedIn is good for, I have a cool story bro. I have a LinkedIn page — it’s fairly inactive, like my FaceBook page. I don’t actually GO there, but if someone is connected there I would 1) seem active and 2) be easy to contact if someone wanted […]

Fiction | White Plastic Chair | The Airgonaut

Time from pellet to chair was miraculous: less than one minute, confirmed.

3:16th of an inch thick, praise God.

NaNoWriMo Serial Novel | The Wolf and the Windlestraw | 6 Sept ’16

The patterns of the Oriental carpet beneath her swirled a moment, and the spirits within Jane purred, distant motors warming for a coming race.

Review: Curing Time by Tim Swink

Earlier this summer, Annie Proulx explored the monetization of forests in her epic Barkskins. Swink left me pondering: what’s the next step for that tobacco land in North Carolina?

Review: Vestal Review Issue 49

Vestal Review “remains a viable and exciting place for flash fiction writers. The editors are clearly looking for variety and craft, and have a wide and welcoming reach for this issue.”

Hybrid: How to Read DeLillo | The Collapsar

My aunt opened her door and put a foot out and paid cash. She did not kiss rings or wear slippers. She did not use a prayer rug. And yet, she was saved. The dishes are clean and orderly.

Mothers + Sons | 31 May 2016 | The Airgonaut

From the pharmacy on Holland Street, to the haul up Mountain Avenue, then down the hill on Valley Road, along the old Leni Lenape trails through the woods, where the nut sedge shudders and the mamas stow their fawns, there is a box of Playboys from the 1980s.

Podcast: “Rewards” | No Extra Words Episode #48

When I was small, coins and bracelets, rings and musket shot would shake out of my beach towel and picnic blanket when we returned to the Chevrolet.

Flash Reprint: Upfurler | Flash Fiction Net | 10 May 2016

Nominee: Best Small Fictions 2017 | From a distance, upfurlers shimmered like a murmuration, gently hovered there, like some air current snapped a soft blanket below their soft forms; their tears plocked down, but wore away to nothing before anyone could know.

Anne Elizabeth Weisgerber

Writer, Editor, Teacher

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