I can’t believe I thought you were cute telling me you stuttered. We’d been going out for a month. You acted like you were letting me in on a secret. You acted like you were letting me in on a secret. You must have forgotten trying to say your name to my Uncle Jack. He gave me grief about it for weeks, how you looked at the ceiling and bit your lip. x
Nonfiction by Timothy L. Marsh
The children surge from the bus, all squeals and skips in their wonderful youth. They strike the ground and stun the air, flow up and over the parking lot, plunge into Cabot Tower—thirty sets of fuel-injected legs firing on all summer cylinders.
with Khadijah Queen
Inspired by the principles of the traditional Japanese tea ceremony, MKMT is a direct response to Pop art and its aftershocks, in that the separation between the art work and the viewer, is non-existent. People become the art that they are witnessing. Dividing lines disappear. The viewer is an essential component, rather than a passive consumer of the work.
Poetry by LaToya Jordan
Our Father, who art in Heaven,
However he be: drunk, sober, slipping strippers dollar bills, belligerent with a large group of men who look like him, I pray the Lord his soul to keep.
The Splinter Generation is dedicated to providing a venue for aspiring and established artists. We accept contributions of work in any fine art medium including painting, drawing, performance art, video, printmaking, photography, textiles and sculpture. Literary comics also welcome. We have no prescribed style and will consider both representational and abstract work. However, the work should speak to the overall generational theme of the journal, whether directly or indirectly. x
Poetry by Kristine Ong Muslim
This cold has taught me
about the nature of souls.
Although I have known
a long time ago that the body
is meant to be a sieve for
Poetry by Talia Reed
at 5:30 in the afternoon she fumbled out of the dark bedroom,
into a kitchen.
an example of highly unusual fauna.
she googled the word kerosene…
Poetry by Diego Báez
What besides the white roofs of school buses,
powder blue power plants alongside oxbow lakes,
unmanned aircraft and empty envelopes?
Purple martins in the smoke of Blue Ridge
Poetry by Sharon Cicilian
Over Easter brunch her mother-in-law inquired,
Why haven’t you given me any grandbabies yet?
The eyes of her in-laws fixated on her. She smiled,
When Zooey says I do, I close my eyes and watch dark clouds drift across my eyelids. On the sidelines in my sky blue dress, I clutch my bouquet of tulips, my hands beginning to sweat. I wish I could see her face, but I’m confronted instead with the elegant knot of her hair, remembering how I braided it for years, all our sleepover nights. A few curls fall on her neck and blow slightly toward me in a goodbye wave. p
The Splinter Generation is excited to invite you to our latest event celebrating the newest metamorphosis of our site from one-time collection to ongoing live journal. Since the summer we have been working hard to bring you new and exciting…
“One of the things I really wanted to do in the book was to hold the audience responsible at the same time as hold the woman responsible.”
“I think poets are rock stars. I don’t know why they don’t think they are.”
“Something I’ve been doing since the book has been “finished” is thinking about how the book isn’t finished.”