Columns

Dear Leo #12

Keanuland! A disorganized column about staying organized by Leonora Desar Warning! This is not a sexy column. If you are looking for zaniness, genius writing prompts, or personal confession you will not find it here (much). I only wrote this because my deadline is...

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Dear Leo #11

French Fry MFA And getting on your “dark and twisty—” by Leonora Desar Dear Leo, I am a failure. A charlatan. I call myself a writer, but I spend most of my time on Twitter, drafting tweets (and this is on a good day). I had some success a few years ago, but now I am...

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Dear Leo #10

When I Was a Teenaged Witch and other stories practical advice by Leonora Desar Preface to a crafty blog entry Dear Leo, Nobody loves me. I mean, people love me, like my boyfriend and my cat, but they’re kind of under obligation. The folks that count—the...

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Dear Leo #9

The Misfits How writing outsiders can make you truly, truly outrageous by Leonora Desar I am not talking about the punk rock band. I am not talking about a Flannery O’Conner character, or even the Misfits, the rival all-girl group in my favorite 80’s cartoon ever, Jem...

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Dear Leo #8

Betty and Veronica— or how opposites attract (the reader) by Leonora Desar Opposites are in. This is in the tradition not only of Paula Abdul, but of film, literature, comics, TV shows. Infomercials, probably, too. There’s Betty and Veronica (Archie). Mike and Eleven...

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On the Morning Dance Floor by Alex Juffer

Jakey, face pressed to the window and eyes cupped into makeshift binoculars, could see Mrs. Claddagh sitting perched on her couch, speaking to herself.

Blue-naped Parrots See More Than They Say by Judy Darley

I date Brodie while I’m visiting Seattle. He shares a draughty old house with a bunch of roommates, including a blue-naped parrot who lives in a big cage looking out at a treehouse.

After by Claudia Monpere

and after and after and nothing changes, just the names of the children. This one drew birds wearing hats. That one had an orange juice popsicle for an imaginary friend.

The Bronze Medal by Vincent James Perrone

She wants to meet the pig—snout down, paraded through the town square of sodden earth and
stump dimples, now trailed by serpentine line of freshly showered farmer with tomato noses and
breath prematurely soured from all that auctioneer talk.

The Subtle Light by Hetty Mosforth

Word of mouth gets him the job and gets him past the gatehouse. He tramps towards the house like a stray dog, turrets and crenelations coming into focus.

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