Creative Writing Commons^™

Finally, Serge Patch, Turner Capehart

The Oval

No abstract provided.

Buffalo Jump, Josh Wagner

The Oval

No abstract provided.

Disgust., James Burkhart

The Oval

No abstract provided.

Hardspeak, Matt Hassler

The Oval

No abstract provided.

Et Cetera, Marshall University

Et Cetera

Founded in 1953, Et Cetera is an annual literary magazine that publishes the creative writing and artwork of Marshall University students and affiliates. Et Cetera is free to the Marshall University community.

Et Cetera welcomes submissions in literary and film criticism, poetry, short stories, drama, all types of creative non-fiction, photography, and art.

2011 Winter Quiz And Quill Magazine, Otterbein English Department

Quiz and Quill

No abstract provided.

The Poet, In One Last Desperate Attempt To Please His Public, Lays On The Blarney, Louis Phillips

Bryant Literary Review

The words in this poem are quite ordinary.

Bride And Groom, Charles Harper Webb

Bryant Literary Review

Piece by piece, the china slips from soapy hands.

Friends drop the crystal wine-glasses;

Morning Report With Other Disturbances, Stephen R. Roberts

Bryant Literary Review

You might want to head to work a bit early this morning.

Sowing The Seeds, Janet Proulx

Bryant Literary Review

Grandfather would sit in a rocker by the window

smoking a pipe and gazing upon his bountiful garden

Evolving, Kelli Allen

The Lindenwood Review: a journal of literary prose

No abstract provided.

I Feel In Your Absence All Rain, Jenn Monroe

The Lindenwood Review: a journal of literary prose

No abstract provided.

Face Down Days, William Stratton

The Lindenwood Review: a journal of literary prose

No abstract provided.

Papa, Scott Walmsley

Bryant Literary Review

His crow's feet walked a thousand miles

His dark bags carried all his treasures.

Leonard Cohen Sings All Night, John Tustin

Bryant Literary Review

Leonard Cohen sings all night

on my miserable wet black drive

Waiting For The Sun, Nina Bennett

Bryant Literary Review

Venice Beach is smaller than I imagined,

not large enough to hold its history

Nights When Father Jived With Demon Rum, Madelyn Garner

Bryant Literary Review

Dogs yelped. Mother spat blood. Which explains

the slamming of doors, clawing through back room windows,

Bingo, Seth Benton

Bryant Literary Review

Mosquitoes spatter the wall

beside us as the sweet rot

smell of marsh at low tide

Small Fires, Keith Alexander

Bryant Literary Review

Ryszard turns in a clearing

with a finger to his lips.

It is fall, dead fall, ssssh,

Interruption, Keith Alexander

Bryant Literary Review

A cow in the meat yard opened its mouth

and out poured the voice of Bessie Smith.

The Lion Cub Raised By A Terrier, David Starkey

Bryant Literary Review

reminds me of the porcupine

reared by a manatee, the raven

The Hippo At The Bronx Zoo, Circa 1965, James Arthur Anderson

Bryant Literary Review

The mouth opens like a dumpster lid

and, trained to toss, we all comply,

Love Letter To My Imaginary Man (After Pamela Alexander), Christine Graf

Bryant Literary Review

Next time you walk by my bedroom

in your hulk of spectral dust

with a gust of Thor and thunder, stop

Horses, Gladys Goldberg

Bryant Literary Review

The sorrel who eats carrots

from my hand

A drift of gold in his thick mane,

The Whale Remained For Rebecca, Floyd Cheung

Bryant Literary Review

Of course they took your iPod,

those fabulously large sunglasses,

A Walk On The Old Road, Wendy Smith-Stenhouse

Bryant Literary Review

It's cold

but I stay

standing in the road

The Ashland Bump, Dan Sieg

Bryant Literary Review

There was a quick rise and dip

in Ashland Street,

I never cared much why.

Memo To Mean Girls Everywhere, Nancy Craven

Bryant Literary Review

After you sign-on to U-Stream, and watch the backs of classmates whose fronts you no longer recognize

Why I Cannot Love Picasso, Devon Miller-Duggan

Bryant Literary Review

Sure, he gets that everything is broken

And still charged with lusts.

Gospel, Brady Rhoades

Bryant Literary Review

On French Hill, night falls and you sit on the slope

in your shanty clothes,