Episodic Literary Magazine

Last night the submission period for Issue 5 closed.  Thank you to all who submitted!  

We will be taking a hiatus from the Episodes series while we prepare for the final edits and release of the spring issue.  Submissions may continue to come in for those through this blog, however they will not be addressed until mid-April at the earliest.  

life blurred by, carrying me in a bus, humming along in early morning hours, where i saw the sun rising. trees almost fell on top of me, glistening in the sun, swaying from its beauty, and catching itself in the rain drops. life blurred by, carrying me in a bus, silently swimming on the blacktop roads, with stars glimmering way up high.

A single glimpse of a wildflower field sitting beside your house. Is it out of place? Standing alone, looking pretty and significant yet unnoticed, and noticed occasionally. That flower you see year after year, coming back from under heavy winter and finding enough life within it to grow. That flower is most at home in a field with others just like it, who are colorful and strong and longing to be collected.

"each day proves to us that we can be made new–– from the sun lifting its hands over the horizon sharing its light to the blankets of shadows it pulls over us every evening and each day again”

Hello to you, too!  We won't put a copyright symbol with any pieces in the magazine, so having it in your submission is really neither here nor there.  At the front of every issue we have a copyright statement that rights are reserved to the artists.  In our FAQ we also address this, stating that we hold first publication rights only, meaning that if your piece is submitted and accepted elsewhere (you can do that if another publication allows it) that it should be mentioned somewhere there that we published that piece first.  Hopefully I explained that clearly enough. 

I wandered in between the twists and turns of tree limbs, limbs and  branches stretched out towards the skies. Roots and leaves took the place of a well-built wooden bridge. Sunlight poured down as two lovers laughed and held hands below its reach. There was no compass, just an old map to follow. Colors changing on leaves made me feel like I could change too. I could walk into a new season just from following one end of the woods to the other. After drinking everything in–from blue skies to gray clouds to green abundance to bare limbs–I was made new.

I tried pomegranate seeds for the first time last week.  I had heard good things about these small, curious, lovely-colored berries, still I felt unprepared for the delightful bursts of flavor, popping one by one in my mouth.  I texted my song-writing cousin immediately: pomegranate seeds, please write me a song about pomegranate seeds.  It gave us both a nice laugh.  It made my otherwise tiresome night.

What an absolutely beautiful little moment: the first tastes of a new favorite fruit.

Sometimes this is exactly what home is like. A house, walls and a roof that keeps out the rain, windows that don’t break under the wind. The way you fall in love with the sunlight draping itself over the porch. That pot of flowers, growing and smiling to itself. Those steps, welcoming others to sit, ready to gaze with you at the neighbors passing by on feet and by car. Or is it? Sometimes home isn’t this, and home is not a house at all. it is rather a fragile castle, a person with limbs and skin, eager to hold your hand. Home is feeling the breath swell up in your lungs, or the sunlight glittering in your lover’s eyes.

There are times when the actual experience of leaving something makes you wish desperately that you could stay, and then there are times when the leaving reminds you a hundred times over why exactly you had to leave in the first place.  - Shauna Niequist

You led me to a field where stars look down on all the daisies and daffodils. I gathered them in my hands, twisted and tied them together, put a crown on my head and you called me beautiful. I led you to the river where you’ve taken me before. I fell in love with washing my dirty feet. You taught me how to walk on holy dirt. We walked and danced on that perfect soil, until the sun shone it's face in the sky and our faces mirrored it's light.

To quote Mumford & Sons: “How fickle my word count and how woozy my eyes.”  Going a little over is no cause for worry.  If your story captures our editors’ attentions we’ll gladly overlook the technicality.