Over breakfast, Jillian refused to go to the funeral. “It will be boring,” she said.
Her brown hair was messily escaping from yesterday’s ponytail and dipped into her cereal. Colette allowed herself to be distracted long enough to minister to the errant hair with a bobby pin, grabbed from a basket of trinkets she kept near the telephone. Her daughter’s funny freckled little face, still puckered by baby fat, looked up at this gesture with an expression hovering between wistfulness and resentment.
Colette kept a hand holding Jillian’s head tilted back, so she could look into her light brown eyes. “You really don’t want to go?”
Jillian shook back and forth, no. Continue reading
It’s your birthday. You sit in your room finishing your homework and listening to music while you wait for him to come over. The television is on the Disney channel, but the volume is down. Your room is very small, and all of the furniture in it is made of wicker. You’re beginning to feel like you’re sleeping in the dollhouse tucked away in your closet. Your mom wants you to donate the dollhouse somewhere, tells you about all the extra closet space you could have, but you can’t bring yourself to do it. Continue reading
Adam’s Rib was located near the office where we spent our days cursing the stock market and counting down the hours, where Robert, Peter, Wess and I no longer sold high-end real estate. Wess referred to the bar simply as “The Chain” although to my knowledge it belonged to no franchise.
“Nooo,” Robert said—this was ritual, “not The Chain.” Robert’s ex-wife was Jane. But after an hour or two of Scotch, she became “Chain.”
Adam’s Rib was mahogany and soft light, no clocks, no televisions and never crowded. Dark and cool in the summer. Its bartender, Derik, had become our friend. At that time, about the only things we hadn’t lost were our companionship and one corner of the bar. Continue reading
Henry had put on a few pounds as he aged, but he maintained them intentionally, believing the fat storage would come in handy when The Disaster struck. He knew that soon, any moment, there could be a plague of pests, glacial flooding, and drought. He did his best in everyday life to prevent these things. He had the right light bulbs and bought recycled toilet paper and had an inflatable raft. He even composted his tea bags and recycled the wrappers. Henry took the bus and rode his bike sometimes, but he knew that his own actions were just a drop in the near-empty environmentally-minded social bucket. His fellow man’s wastefulness meant he had to conserve all the more. So, when his mother called him and told him she was concerned about his weight, he snapped. Continue reading
The title says it all. Euphony is back with a new staff and a new online series for the fall. Check back weekly for our new web exclusive content (and a new web layout on top of all that)! As always, we look forward for another year of new submissions and thank our readers for their steadfast devotion. Remember, this year, we’re implementing our first opportunity to deliver copies of the magazines to your door. Click here for details.
Feel free to send us your pieces, comments, and questions to email@example.com!
The Spring 2012 Issue is here! Our electronic copy is available in PDF form. Just click the image below to download the file. As a quick reminder, for those who would like print copies of next year’s issues, we offer home delivery with a donation of $20 or more.
Our Spring Issue is on its way and will be released shortly. In the mean time, Euphony has two announcements to share with our readers:
- We’re offering 1-year home delivery of our printed issues, beginning with Winter 2013. With a donation of $20 or more, you’ll receive a copy of both our winter and spring magazine upon publication. Orders can be processed online by clicking here.
- Submissions received after May 1st will be reviewed in the following academic year, beginning in October. We still welcome you to send pieces throughout the summer, but a response may be delayed.
As always, if you have questions, feel free to send us an email.
It was a sweltering day. August hot. Carpenter bees hovered in the still air. Flags hung limp and field crickets chirped in the tall dry grass. The boy was farther from home than he should be, more than a mile away, tromping through an unmowed hayfield. A small black dog ran alongside him, tongue drooping in the heat, burrs caught in his fur. Continue reading
It’s that time of year again. Euphony is preparing to publish its Spring 2012 issue and we’re looking for a cover! We invite anyone who works with photography or any other visual art medium to enter out Spring 2012 Cover contest.
Send your images to firstname.lastname@example.org by Friday, April 20th. Each entry should be related to the theme of spring (at least tangentially). You are welcome to submit multiple entries. As the contest name indicates, the selected submission will appear as the cover of our next issue, and the winner will also receive contributor copies. We look forward to reviewing your submissions.
We are in a small room in the attic of the church. Most of the time it is used for Bible study, but once a week it’s where the support group meets. We talk, we compare symptoms, we complain about drug reactions, we cry. Like each one of us at this meeting, Sandy has a tumor roosting in her head, tucked in the lining around her brain. She’s been here before, maybe ten or eleven times after her first craniotomy. She’s a mess because she has to have a second. The tumor grew back, bigger than before.
Sandy’s whole name is Sandra Dee. She says not too many people remember that there was once a Sandra Dee who was an actor, an ingenue, a movie star. Sandy is from the generation that knows that, not mine. She’s nervous. She rubs her temple. She fingers the bumps on her forehead. She massages the skin that covers titanium screws around the keyhole in her skull. I broke that habit. I tell her it will be okay. After all, she’s still here. She recovered once. She’ll recover again. At least this time, she knows what she is facing. Not like the first time. The first time, nobody knows what’s coming.