Columns

Dear Leo # 4

How to talk to dead writers—and get them to talk back (aka another off-the-rails-column-by-dear-leo) by Leonora Desar My favorite writer is Ned Vizzini. There’s this book, It’s Kind of a Funny Story. It’s sitting here right now. It has a yellow cover and a map of a...

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Dear Leo # 3

Dylan McKay is Not that Into Me Or using your lit mag crush to be a better writer By Leonora Desar            I’m obsessed with a certain magazine. Let’s call him Dylan—after Dylan McKay, the hot surfer boy on 90210. I was obsessed with Dylan. I am obsessed with this...

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Dear Leo # 2

Even If It Was Crap This column is now officially four days late. Actually, make that 11. It was my idea to do one of these every three weeks. This would give me a deadline. I would HAVE to write something, even if it was crap. There are about 13 (an unlucky 13) of...

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Dear Leo # 1

How to deal with being a failed writer, writing to get in someone’s pants, writing with the blood, and a bunch of other stuff by Leonora Desar Truth alert! (Usually I write fiction and I lie.) The other week I spoke to my friend’s class. Then I wrote them this...

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Electric Storm by Kathryn Aldridge-Morris

It’s been twenty minutes since the first bolt of lightning ripped a scar through the purple night sky. Since my mother said to swim in the rain ― it’s fun. Since her boyfriend Colin said he’d join us― to check we’re ok.

Morse Code by Elizabeth Cabrera

The old man fell asleep in his car, his nostrils pressed softly against the steering wheel, but the car kept going, because the old man’s foot was not asleep, was still pressing down hard, and later they would say, it’s not really his fault, he’s such an old man.

Fulfilling by Fiona McKay

Kate is not ‘imagining it’. There are small tufts of pale fluff on her neck, and no, it’s not ‘just a tissue in the washing machine’ as John suggests. There’s nothing drifting off his shirts, nothing clinging to Ella’s favourite black top, Josh’s Minecraft t-shirts. It’s more solid than tissue, just on her clothes. And only she can see it.

Amelia Earhart Knew Seven Latin Words for Fire by Joe Kapitan

Ignis, the flaming wreckage, bubbling rubber, liquified cloth, her skin charred and blistering, acrid smoke, the tiny thunders of survival’s kicks

Bog Iron by Shane Larkin

We make stops on the way to our bog plot to look at the little skeletons. Dad tells me about them. Curlews and skylarks in dancing poses. Tiny skulls.

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