#faulkner

THE DEADLINE'S OVER

We might not be as awful as the prophet of the river but we do wonder where had your submission gone off to.

Because the zine is really a celebration of artists it can't be done without you. If you couldn't make it for the initial deadline you can send your piece over to [email protected]

until 20th July, 6 pm UTC+1

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The river rises!

art: @rak0wisko

William Faulkner, Eudora Welty, and Richard Wright beamed the brightest in my childhood memory. I was too young for their work then, but as I sat in that linoleum-tiled library with its metal bookshelves and strong fluorescent lighting, that map, along with the books lining the shelves, transformed the space into something expansive and precious. I sat at those long tables and sank into story; their authors transported me so completely that I tasted the food the characters ate, the tea they drank, and felt every little tic of terror or joy or sadness they felt. Writers were magic-workers. They spun tales from the ether, wrote narratives so riveting that I often felt a kind of overwhelming longing as I read. I could already sense the worlds they constructed, already felt so much with the characters; why couldn’t I just step through from my world into theirs? Even at the tender age of eight, I knew I was poor and Black in Mississippi, and that meant eating WIC-issued cornflakes and never being sated by them. That meant being too hot for most of the year, and being too cold the rest because we didn’t have any central climate control in any of our homes...Reading offered respite from all of this.

fandom: the silt verses

Ways to approach the poll if the character isn’t a royal: