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Volume 32, #2, Fall 2016

ZYZZYVA Volume 32, #2, Fall 2016

Our Fall issue, replete with fiction, nonfiction, and poetry:

A wide-ranging and revealing conversation between Andrew Foster Altschul and Geoffrey and Tobias Wolff, on writing, memory, and the craft of memoir.

Lori Ostlund’s “A Little Customer Service”: A waitress questions the value of services rendered when she finds herself in the bed—and the distressed home—of a rich, carefree customer.

Ann Cummin’s “Divination”: The burden of a brother toiling the land, serving his no-account father.

Adrienne Celt’s “Big Boss Bitch”: They were certain they’d found the perfect female candidate for president. Then she started thinking on her own.

Mark Chiusano’s “The Better Future Project”: Even amid the work of political protest in the YouTube age, unrequited love can’t be ignored.

A trio of poems from a striking emerging voice, Kaveh Akbar; as well as new stories from Kathleen Alcott, Earle McCartney, and Fatima Bhutto; and nonfiction from Peter Orner (on encountering the work of Alvaro Mutis in Zapatista Chiapas) and Brad Wetherell (on his complicated relationship with a woman he tutors in English in Prague).

Plus a portfolio from artist Kota Ezawa, and poetry from Christopher J. Adamson, Mary Cisper, Mallory Imler Powell, Austen Leah Rosenfeld, Adam Scheffler, and Judith Skillman.

You can order a copy of No. 107 here, or purchase a subscription to ZYZZYVA and we’ll start you off by shipping you the Fall issue.

‘Artificial Islands’ by Earle McCartney, ZYZZYVA No. 107, Fall Issue

fall-2016-1Oh, I have suffered with those that I saw suffer! A brave vessel, who had, no doubt, some noble creature in her, dashed all to pieces! —Miranda, The Tempest

The day began with the smell of coffee and the sound of my father knocking around in the kitchen. I pulled aside the curtain to find the big dipper shining bright above the meadow, a pearly patch of sky marking the spot where the sun was about to come up. I listened. Refrigerator door. Rummaged silverware. A sheet of tinfoil ripped from the roll. My father was making sandwiches. I screamed.

The rabbit ears on my TV trembled. This was my brother, Richard, walking like he wanted everyone to know where he was at all times. The door swung open and there he stood, fully dressed, backlit, a hostile figure made of darkness.

“Spider,” he said. “Wake up.”

I made a show of shielding my eyes from the light. “I’m awake.”

“Good,” he said. “Then go back to sleep.”

“But I’m up now.”

“It’s early,” he said. “You were screaming.”

“I was?”

He examined with disgust the segment of my room laid bare by the light from the hall. With his foot, he closed a book that sat open on the  floor. “I’ve got a big day ahead of me,” he said. “Go back to sleep. No more shouting. No more nightmares.”

But I had no intention of going back to sleep. I counted to a thousand, giving Richard time to settle into breakfast and to tell my father that I’d had another nightmare—I’d been having them all summer, ever since my grandfather died—and then I pulled out my ponytail, rubbed my hands all over my hair to make myself look extra unsettled, and joined my brother and father in the kitchen.

My father leaned against the counter sipping coffee from a teacup, the portable radio at his elbow murmuring the marine weather forecast. Richard held his face about an inch above his cereal bowl, mouth open, spoon in hand. From his frozen expression, I knew that he could see what I was up to.

“Miranda, honey,” my father said. “Are you OK?”

“I’m fine,” I said. “I’ll be all right.”

“No, no, no, no, no,” Richard said.

“But I don’t think I can get back to sleep.”

“No, no, no!”

My father glanced at the stairway. You could run a lawnmower through the kitchen without waking my mother, but still he lowered his voice to say, “You know what? Why don’t you come shark fishing with us after all.”

Richard put down his spoon with a clatter. Before he could argue, I ran upstairs to get dressed. I’d laid out everything the night before: bathing suit, shorts and shirt, baseball cap, old sneakers. From under my pillow, I retrieved my lucky pen knife. Richard could have trumped me by waking up our mother, who’d already declared that nothing good could come of letting an eleven-year-old insomniac go shark fishing. But I knew Richard wouldn’t tell. He was my older brother and a constant adversary, but he was also a man of honor.

We drove to the marina with Butch’s boat looming in the rear window, jostling over every bump, seeming as impatient as we were to get where we were going. While Butch backed the trailer down the ramp, Richard and I crossed the gangway to the floating dock. With great satisfaction, I watched Richard run his hand along the rail, unsure of his sea legs. He took up a position at the dock’s edge, knees bent, hands out, looking ready to receive a hiked football. The boat came squealing down the rubber rollers, but before it got to Richard, Butch stepped in and took hold of a cleat on the stern. I caught Richard frowning at Butch’s back like he was considering pushing him in.

He came and stood next to me, distancing himself from the temptation. “You’re going to be hot in that stupid getup,” he said.

I wore black shorts, black sneakers, a black hat, a black T-shirt. I always wore black.

“I’ll be fine,” I said. “I like to be sweaty.”

“It’s my birthday,” he said, “and you’re dressed like a freak.”

“What does your birthday have to do with it?”

“You shouldn’t even be here. Do you have any idea how dangerous these sharks are? Butch, tell her how scared she should be.”

“We’ll be lucky to make it home in one piece.”

The boat lifted off the trailer, and the name Melody bobbed in front of me. My father hoisted himself onto the dock and handed Richard a rope that he’d tied to the bow. To me he said, “Don’t listen to these jokers. They’re just trying to frighten you.” His soggy loafers slapped against the planks as he and Butch loaded the coolers.

Richard sulked. He sighed. He cast the rope back and forth like a whip, like he meant to teach the water a lesson.

Butch said, “Cheer up, Junior. Without your sister here, you’d have nobody to terrorize.”

When my father offered me a hand, I ignored it and jumped aboard. I took a seat on the little shelf between the gunwale and the engine cover, where I could watch the water behind the stern begin to boil. Butch took hold of a corner of the cabin and shoved us off, his calves bulging as he walked the boat down the dock like a strongman pushing a railroad car. As we cleared the end, he leaped aboard and stood on the prow, tenting his hand above his eyes to gaze across the flat, grassy meadow. Through the early morning haze, I could just make out what he was looking at: the cooling tower for the nuclear reactor on Artificial Island. It sat on the horizon ten miles away, disgorging a crooked column of clouds.

“Is that sucker spooky or what?”

As Butch spoke, my father spun the helm to bring us around. Butch regained his balance by grabbing the aerial. “Christ, Dick,” he said. “It’s too early for a swim.”

He climbed down to take the wheel and offered me a wicked look—me alone, not my father or brother. I was his audience. I could see that. And having me as an audience, along with the thrill of nearly falling overboard, seemed to inject Butch full of something wild. He cracked open two beers, and before we’d reached the end of the no-wake zone, he floored the throttle. Melody reared back and roared. I held onto the gunwale as we jumped through the last line of floats and entered the maze of the meadowlands. We cleaved the slicks, shattered through the shallows, flew around bends with chop pounding the hydroplaning hull like it was shooting it full of rivets.

Everything—the islands, the foxtails, the old pilings, the dead trees—moved past us faster than the cooling tower, which squatted on the horizon like a cauldron, its row of white warning lights winking at me. Butch saw me looking, gave it a nod and yelled, “I always feel like it’s watching me!” Then he cut a turn so close to a buoy that I could have reached out and had my arm ripped off.

When I looked again, the cooling tower had dissolved in the haze. We left the meadow for the bay, and the world’s ragged edges fell back. There was a sudden opening into brightness. The horizon was a line pulled tight, dividing blue from blue—and as we hit the chop in the open water, much of that blue turned white. The inboard screamed as it dug in, and a jet of white water leapt up behind us, crumbled from the top to spin and scatter. Butch squinted at me through a rainbow in the vapors, smiled, and opened up the throttle even further.

Between the walls of froth and the lifting cabin I could still make out a segment of horizon. I used it to steady myself as we lifted and plunged. As I watched, a long, low shape, black above red, materialized out of the haze. A supertanker. We were nearing the shipping lanes. Now, yes, I was afraid. Long after we’d left the enormous ship behind us, we hit its wake. Melody was a cabin cruiser, maybe twenty feet long, no bigger than my bedroom. As we dove into each trough, the plunge sent plumes of hard water soaring out to fizz against the next rising swell. On the deeper dives, my body left the seat, and the physical disorientation felt like madness. Butch laughed, clenching a doused cigarette between his teeth. My father gripped the canopy prop as he sipped from a dripping can of beer, beads of water quivering on his glasses and in his moustache. Richard stuck his arms into the spray to splash saltwater on his face. I held onto the gunwale for dear life.

Through all this, I kept my free hand clenched around the opening to my hip pocket, pressing my pen knife tight against my thigh. The movement of the boat, all the soaring and plunging, had me worried that my knife might fall overboard. My grandfather had given me that knife the day he died. I never should have brought it with me.

 Order your copy of Issue No. 107.

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‘Kabul’ by Fatima Bhutto, ZYZZYVA No. 107, Fall Issue

fall-2016-1At first, when the doctor told Soraya, she did not believe her. The vomiting, the taste of metal on her tongue, the way her toes had swollen, making her feet look fat and ugly—all those things should have told her.

Told her for what? She had been trying to keep him; since she felt him slipping away from her, losing interest, she had been trying to fall pregnant with his child.

“Are you sure?” Soraya asked the doctor in the small, white office. The doctor wore a headscarf tightly around her moon-shaped face and her hands smelled of the talcum powder from her gloves. Two months, maybe three. The doctor did not look at Soraya when she spoke. She lowered her eyes. She knew the girl was young; there was no wedding ring on her finger. The doctor eyed the slim girl lying down. She had no thickness around her hips, no strength in her to bear a child.

Soraya’s mother sat on a plastic chair at the foot of the plastic bed and clapped her hands together.

Shukar,” Mrs. Azizullah said, tilting her head toward the cracked ceiling. Her short brown hair was set in round curls and not a strand moved as she spoke to God through the ceiling fan. “Shukar, now we have him.”

“You see how his eyes drift when you speak to him now?” Soraya’s mother had warned her. “You see how he has that far away thinking face on? He’s thinking of her, of the woman he left at home.”

“Not at home, madar,” Soraya corrected. “He met her after he had left his home.”

“Home not at home. Girl not a girl. Doesn’t matter. You see, look at him. He is thinking of someone else.” Get pregnant, her mother said. Get pregnant before he leaves you.

They all knew he would leave her anyway.

*

Soraya first saw him on the balcony of his house, one story tall. He was standing against the black metal railing, holding a glass of cold tea in his hand. Soraya was walking past with a girlfriend. She saw him immediately. She knew he was foreign. Tall, handsome, and foreign.

Soraya smiled. “Slow down,” she whispered to her friend. “Shoo,” Paro said, hushing Soraya for interrupting her story.

Soraya stopped and bent to the ground, as though to tie her laces, her long hair grazing the dust. “Stop walking,” she repeated to her girlfriend through clenched teeth.

“What are you doing?” Paro said, looking down as Soraya’s hands danced above her bony feet, ticking the skin. “You mental or what?”

But the man on the balcony couldn’t see from up there whether Soraya’s shoes had laces woven through them or not. (They did not.)

“Shoo,” Soraya whispered back, a softness in her voice. “I just want him to see me.”

He saw her.

She slept with him that night. The first time they talked, the first time he walked her home, the first time she told him her name and he, Sheryar, told her his, was also the first time she let him kiss her, touch her, her long hair between them.

“I can’t breathe,” he said, moving a handful of her dark hair from his mouth as she writhed her body over him.

“Can you feel me?” she asked, moving against him.

Everywhere, he replied, parting her hair and pushing it to the side.

*

It had been two years that he was away from home. First two years, then three, and then before he could count to four the years started jumping, two at a time until—by the time he landed up in Kabul—it had been seven, eight years.

“Don’t come back,” Sheryar’s mother said on the poor telephone line from home. “Don’t come back just yet,” Sheryar’s mother said to her son in exile. It wasn’t safe for him here. It wasn’t safe for a young man. Stay abroad, she said, echoing thousands of other mothers who thought abroad was close enough for people to return from. Like other mothers, she didn’t know that after five years or ten, abroad was too far a distance to breach.

So Sheryar stayed away. He studied law as an undergraduate and did well. With the money his mother sent him, he passed the bar. But then his visa ran out, so he left London behind. London, where he had burgers and milkshakes in Covent Garden on Sundays and danced at Annabel’s on Fridays. Where he bought food from greengrocers who wore green-and-white striped aprons. London, where everyone was a migrant of some kind, where everyone was a refugee far from home.

But Sheryar’s visa finished and he could not get a new one, not without going home. So he travelled south slowly, stopping in Italy, in Greece, and in Istanbul for three of those long seven or eight years, and where he met a girl and fell in love.

Even now, when he thought of Ela, his chest constricted. He felt her absence in the hollow between his third and fourth ribs.

“Was there someone before me?”Soraya asked when she caught Sheryar drifting. She watched as Sheryar turned his body away from her, as he crossed his legs to create space between them, and ran his fingers across the crown of his head in slow circles.

He drank whiskey at night and when he had too many, he sucked on a cube of sugar, holding it in his teeth until it melted into small grains on his tongue.

“Are you thinking of her?” Soraya asked questions like this only to hear him lie, which he always did, too kind to tell her yes. Yes, he was thinking of her. Yes, there was someone before. Yes, yes to everything Ela.

Sheryar shook his head and bit down on a sugar cube.

“Good,” Soraya said, holding her stomach before she even knew. “Good because you can’t leave me now. It’s too late.”

You can’t leave behind a family.

Order your copy of Issue No. 107. 

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‘Big Boss Bitch’ by Adrienne Celt, ZYZZYVA No. 107, Fall Issue

fall-2016-1The woman began as an idea, as so many women do. She couldn’t be entirely beautiful, because that would stretch credibility too far. She couldn’t be ugly, either, though. A face with just enough lines that on a man it would be called rugged or handsome; but let’s put a little makeup on to smooth the edges, hmm? For clothing a pantsuit, and sometimes a skirt. Recognizable brands made invisible through smart cuts and conservative hemlines. And let’s make sure she smiles. A little razzle-dazzle. You can see how her husband found her pretty, once.

We picked out our woman in Oklahoma. Six weeks of traveling throughout the MiddleWest before we got results. Casting would’ve been easier in California or New York, but these days people always look for the provenance, and why include an elitist factor that will just have to be explained away? This girl screams Real America, the way a cheerleader would in the last quarter of the game. She was runner-up Homecoming Queen, 1979. Now she helps her dad run a cattle ranch; the grass is so green it’s blue, so blue the horizon bleeds into the sky.

That is, she helped her dad. Until she started helping us.

We picked her up off the street. She was walking around looking for a leather worker to repair a pair of stirrups. “He switched storefronts,” she said. “Can you believe it? Same sign, same everything, but move it down a block and a half and I can’t pick the damn place out. Been coming The Sheridan Press here for the past twenty years.” Her laughter was self-effacing, aw-shucks, and revealed a few too many smile lines beside the eyes. But these could be handled with a deft concealer brush. We asked if there was someplace we could go talk. About what? she wanted to know. A proposition. What kind? Well. How would she like to serve her country?

*

It doesn’t take a lot of persuading to get someone to accept a mantle of power. We were counting on that. And also on the fact that she wouldn’t read too far into the fine print before signing on the dotted line, and didn’t have too many ideas for what needed to change in our great nation. General concepts, inarticulable feelings: great. A new day for America. Stand up for the little guy. It was convenient that she still used male pronouns; not everyone does. Even people you don’t expect to be vehicles for inclusivity slip and say “they” instead of “he,” though the grammar books won’t back them up. One less thing we would have to coach her on. She teared up a little when we told her she was just what the country needed, and that, too, is a talent that can’t always be taught. Just enough emotion at just the right moment. Powerful, but soft. Like a blanket that’s put through the wash a hundred times, a thousand.

*

Our job is to give the people what they’re clamoring for. In moderation, of course. Figure out what they desire and then turn it into something they actually need, like those terrible chocolate chip cookies your mom makes with grated zucchini inside. The people wanted a woman, but they didn’t understand in what capacity. So many different kinds out there, and only us to find the right one. Welcome, open, elusive, chagrined. She wanted to be president, but only after we told her so.

The campaign trail was a dream. A few hiccups in the primaries from those on our side of the aisle who couldn’t see the bigger picture. But once we hit the main stage, things clicked into place. Sometimes after giving a speech she’d start to walk away from the mic and then turn around, flashing a last grin for the cameras. We hoped it would trigger some vestigial supermodel response, a little glimmer of unattainable warmth between the thighs. The newspapers called her a strong woman and a force to be reckoned with, and she was quickly spoofed by variety shows and ambitious comedians. Her name was in the headlines every day. We hardly had to try.

*

Now, we aren’t sure exactly when people started looking to their politicians and expecting to see a mirror, but these days that’s the game we’re playing. Everyone knows it. People turn on the TV and want their better selves reflected back. It can be a boon: much easier to find someone folksy than a genuine visionary, a policy miracle. An empathetic, systematic, deep-digging go-getter with both eyes on the prize. Not to mention the grace to get through all those interminable dinners with foreign dignitaries while carrying off couture.Even a well-fitted tux can start to feel restrictive after a few roulades de marmelade avec une glace vanille, if you know what we mean.

(As a side note, this is one area of diplomacy we identified early on in which women actually shine brighter. They have generations of experience saying, No, it looks lovely, but I couldn’t possibly, well maybe just one bite. Like how women do well in submarines because they’re designed, as it were, for interpersonal conflict resolution. It’s a scientifically proven element of nurturing.)

But the mirror. The mirror. At last the country figured out that anyone could hold one, and they began to get tetchy about it.They wanted to project their dreams into the nethersphere by ticking off a box in a booth—which we admit is a beautiful idea. But it takes planning to make it work. People drop mirrors all the time. They crack.We needed something scratch proof, not too heavy, classically designed. The pride of Inola High School, OK, and a prize-winning member of 4-h. Pliable, friable, and a decent physical specimen. Don’t judge: they look at physical fitness when choosing the crew for those submarines, too.

There were no problems to speak of until we got her into the office, and even then we were distracted by the early flurry of activity. An indepth special with a bevy of design blogs showing off the new Oval and discussing her selections from the National Gallery. A sit-down with the most sentimental evening news anchor talking about how young she was when she lost her mom, and her own struggles with raising three children at the same time as managing so many heads of cattle. “Heads of state, now,” the anchor joked. Madame President laughed, that same unpretentious chuckle that made our knees weak outside the Stop-n-Chop cafe.

Still, we should’ve seen the signs—no one wants to talk about family planning right after dinner, while sipping a postprandial highball. Her target demographic was people with televisions; there were certain types of female she could be for them, but not every type. Maternal, yes, but only a mama bear when it came to protecting the country from outside threats of the sort we’d earmarked. Easier to pretend that she’d never had a period or bought a box of Tampax—that was one benefit of a post-menopausal candidate, even if it lost us points on sexual charisma. Better to let her appeal be a little bit confusing. A girl in a mink coat who smells like dad’s cigar. A show-jumper who doffs her cap at the end of the rodeo and lets her hair tumble down onto her shoulders while she sweats.

One day, in a meeting with the Joint Chiefs of Staff, she made a joke about breastfeeding in the War Room. Afterward, there was whispering in the hallways, interns giggling in pantyhose and bad suits. We snapped and told them to get back to work, and they did—but all the girls had a little extra pep in their step. Some unrecognizable jus as they imagined, even as a gag, something they’d never before thought possible. The boys looked nervous. We couldn’t blame them.

When we talked to the president about taking care with what she said around impressionable young staffers, she didn’t share our concerns. “Kids,” she snorted. Her mannish laugh relaxed us. The distinct impression she gave was of someone thinking something dirty, but not quite ready to say it out loud. Still, when we complimented her brooch she gave us a strange look—one we’d never seen before. It didn’t get any better when we said it must be hell to spend so much time in heels. “Hmm,” she said. Then she told us she wanted to go on Crossfire.

She stretched her concept so slowly that, at first, we didn’t even notice. The morning of the White House Christmas Party she walked into a briefing without any makeup, and snapped at a page who told her she looked tired. “Have to show up as a clean slate before they make me camera-ready,” she said. “Boy, are they going to layer it on. Damned if I’m going to wash my face twice just to give you the illusion I’m well-rested.” Little things added up, and we brushed them off, as we would the dandruff on her shoulder. Lovingly. Sometimes with Scotch tape, or one of those lint rollers they sell in the impulse aisle at Target, though she smacked our hands away. At a rally we’d been careful to position as “church-going” instead of specifically “pro-life,” she made everyone cry with her story about a hometown girl getting pregnant too young and still graduating from high school on time. But then, at the last minute, she turned thoughtful. “I remember,” she said, “how that girl came up and told me she felt like her body didn’t belong to her anymore. She thought life was sacred, of course, but she asked me, isn’t my life a little sacred, too? And I said, Oh honey.” The room was quiet. Then the president smiled, to tentative applause.

It wasn’t so much the things she did: pummeling Congress for weeks until they introduced a bill to enforce the testing of rape kits; visiting with dignitaries in flats instead of the shoes that slimmed her ankles; taking meetings while her husband was out of town, so he couldn’t offer a veneer of approval for those—not us!—who thought he should. No. It was the fact that she wouldn’t listen to us when we offered gentle corrections. “The American people don’t want—” we began. And she said, “Hogwash. My name’s the one they checked off in the voting box.” Later that week she  gave a national radio address with no lipstick. Yes, it was radio, but we were all in the room, and a photographer was present. On our request, he shot the whole event without film.

OK, we thought. OK. We can fix this. We pep-talked our reflections, slapped ourselves on the cheek to stimulate creative thinking without that jittery aftereffect you get from too much coffee. We did a little bit of cocaine. At about 4:00 a.m. one of us lay back on the couch and looked up at the ceiling, making one of those fingerboxes people use when they want to indicate they’re looking through a camera. Directorial as all hell. What if, he said, we had her, but it wasn’t her?

We all laughed. The pot had really loosened us up, and only made a few of us too sleepy. The caverns of our minds were open, the walls throbbing and glistening with portent. Potential. I mean, the directorial one continued, we have the tech, right? For some reason this was a really funny sentence and we all started giggling again, and couldn’t put a lid on it for at least fifteen minutes, at which point the room grew silent as the gravity of the idea settled over our shoulders.

We did have the tech. We were pretty sure.

Order your copy of Issue No. 107.

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‘Portrait of the Alcoholic with Relapse Fantasy’ by Kaveh Akbar, ZYZZYVA No. 107, Fall Issue

You’re in a car and crying and amazed
at how bad it feels to do bad things. Then

you’re in a hotel bathroom with blood
on your undershirt and the smell of a too—

chlorinated pool outside. You know
one hundred ways to pray to the gods

rippling beneath that water. Confess, tangle,
pass through. Once your room is dark

they come inside, dripping wet. When you show
them the burnt place on your arm,

they show you the bands of flesh cut
from their thighs. You suck their tongues,

trace the blisters under their wings. It’s so lucky,
this living forever all at once. When you turn

on the lights, you’re inconsolably
glad. You could stop this whenever, but why?

Order your copy of Issue No. 107. 

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In the Fall Issue

Our Fall issue, replete with fiction, nonfiction, and poetry:

A wide-ranging and revealing conversation between Andrew Foster Altschul and Geoffrey and Tobias Wolff, on writing, memory, and the craft of memoir.

Lori Ostlund’s “A Little Customer Service”: A waitress questions the value of services rendered when she finds herself in the bed—and the distressed home—of a rich, carefree customer.

Ann Cummin’s “Divination”: The burden of a brother toiling the land, serving his no-account father.

Adrienne Celt’s “Big Boss Bitch”: They were certain they’d found the perfect female candidate for president. Then she started thinking on her own.

Mark Chiusano’s “The Better Future Project”: Even amid the work of political protest in the YouTube age, unrequited love can’t be ignored.

A trio of poems from a striking emerging voice, Kaveh Akbar; as well as new stories from Kathleen Alcott, Earle McCartney, and Fatima Bhutto; and nonfiction from Peter Orner (on encountering the work of Alvaro Mutis in Zapatista Chiapas) and Brad Wetherell (on his complicated relationship with a woman he tutors in English in Prague).

Plus a portfolio from artist Kota Ezawa, and poetry from Christopher J. Adamson, Mary Cisper, Mallory Imler Powell, Austen Leah Rosenfeld, Adam Scheffler, and Judith Skillman.

You can order a copy of No. 107 here, or purchase a subscription to ZYZZYVA and we’ll start you off by shipping you the Fall issue.

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