Dear Readers,
The fiction presented in the first issue of The Medulla Review offers the reader ten different worlds of experience, yet, like a tuft of grass defying concrete, the worlds are connected through indefinable yearning, the grinding feeling of wanting but not quite having. From pre-birth to old age, the stories brazen out our need for understanding, love, loss, and—like the inevitability of trains—death. They are at once subjective and projective. They don’t merely scratch the surface, but rather, they dig a raw, bloody place that will leave beautiful holograms of scars all over your mind. These voices are screaming. They are surreal. They are like no others.
From the first submission I received, I felt astounded by the quality of fiction submitted to The Medulla Review. I am humbled by these authors, and truly in awe of their work. It is an honor for me to present their voices to you here.
Sincerely,
Jennifer Hollie Bowles
Fiction Editor
Special thanks to guest poetry editor Gindy Elizabeth Houston for the beautiful cover art!
LINKS TO FLASH FICTION: Full of surreal symbolism, this story is as intriguing as its title: The Egg Famine and the Man in Love Razor sharp with bite and flow --- this is flash at its best. “Squeamish as a child, I’d hated to hear hearts beat.” There’s just something about lobotomies and abandonment: Two concise, surreal flash fiction pieces that aim straight for the jugular. This writer speaks directly from the womb. “Like history, it seems to swallow them for a moment, but then it brushes past…” Yes! Yes! This story matches the fiction aesthetic of The Medulla Review with precision. “If Susan had white feathers like these swans she could launch into the sky, holding me in her claws, taking me all over the place.” Taste, smell, touch, feel—and then repel—everyday sensations through a multi-colored, looping lens. This story has an incurable condition of cerebral-surrealism, and it is possibly the finest piece of surreal fiction I’ve ever read. “Rain drops edge across the windshield, leaving crooked trails of oil and saline, and fall to the pavement, dissolving in the microscopic cracks on the ground, bleeding little by little towards the center of the earth.” Wow! This submission was about the most pleasant fucking surprise I've ever had, and to think it was just nesting in my inbox. What it says without saying and inside of what it's saying is beyond labeling and -isms. The Master Avant-Garde Writer blurs pretensions, style, genre—and perhaps your mind. Edgy, straightforward yet layered: If this story tweaked my shit any harder, I'd have to publish it twice! This writer has balls. Period. “I think the father cut the umbilical cord with his teeth. It went a long way towards explaining her inability to smile.” This story is brimming with fine writing and surreal spirituality. “We were both dreams then when we first met…” This story is brilliant. Exquisite. “…sitting on a cloud ruminating on a cloud you are floating on a cloud you are becoming a cloud…”
LINKS TO FICTION:
Richard Kostelanetz: