Best of the Net 2015 Nominations

We are thrilled to present our nominations for the 2015 Best of the Net anthology. We are honored to have published this great work and to be able to further support these authors.

Fiction

—The Truth About Pompeii, by Courtney Preiss: http://sundoglit.com/courtney-preiss/

—The Evidence of Where We No Longer Live, by Kelsie Hahn: http://sundoglit.com/kelsie-hahn/

Nonfiction

—In the Driveway; the Heart Unveiled, by Marcia Aldrich: http://sundoglit.com/marcia-aldrich/

—Date and Time of Loss, by Christine Hyung-Oak Lee: http://sundoglit.com/christine-hyung-oak-lee/

Poetry

—The Black Ice Weaves Itself Like Leaves, by Michael Cooper: http://sundoglit.com/Michael-Cooper/

—And Nail, by Dalton Day: http://sundoglit.com/Dalton-Day/

—Heteroglossia, by Lindsay Illich: http://sundoglit.com/lindsay-illich/

—Proof, by Emily O’Neill: http://sundoglit.com/emily-oneill/

—poem from Dear Sal, by Jeremy Radin: http://sundoglit.com/jeremy-radin/

—Mother, by Lindsay Wilson: http://sundoglit.com/lindsay-wilson/

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Best Worst Year: Episode 97 (Or, Place to Be)

Pour a cheap Malbec into the frying pan. You scrape the morning away from the cast iron surface with a spoon, beneath the boiling glaze. Vapor smells like burning oak and chocolate roses with a fatty roundedness to the scent. You can feel humidity in your fingers, it seeps into bone and joint—inflammation and ache. You have your mother’s hands—at the cusp of an arthritic wither. You have seen the future in bird-wrists and bone sculpture. She was the first artist you knew—bone china canvas, a painter’s palette of soy sauce, cumin, and ginger. Medium of rice and egg wrappers, the undertow folded into edible origami.

reduction
doctors inject
Cortisone in your mother’s neck

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Best Worst Year: Episode 96 (Or, My Own Private Revolution Summer)

When history is written by publicists and Rock n Roll Hall of Fame inductees, crumbs come easy off the table. Friday night in record stores instead of bars–late nights flipping sides over a Fisher turntable–you divine your kind with a single-mindedness reserved for the truly devoted or the the utterly alone. At sixteen, one can be mistaken for the other. Twenty-plus years later, such distinctions are harder to reconcile. Yet, there are kindred spirits rising off dusty grooves who will tell you otherwise. You have committed the lives of your saints to an apocryphal text, written by the glow of computer monitor. At best, Robyn Hitchcock described you as a “love letter lost in the mail for thirty years.” And who are you to argue? If the legend is true, somewhere in Memphis there is a warehouse full of your proof, still tied to escrow by a bad debt between a distributor and your supposed saviour. Sealed in plastic, there are ripples of promise held in your starless circle of sky.

Blood in the treeline
violet bruise of
sunset Continue reading

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