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Day One of our 2018 #WTWRITES National Poetry Month Prompt Challenge! Check our social media every day for new prompts written with love by the WT staff.


OPEN STAFF POSITIONS: PAID BOOK REVIEWERS & READERS FOR 2018 SPOTLIGHT SERIES

We are currently seeking Book Reviewers who wish to analyze and discuss newly-released contemporary literature through lenses that challenge the Western literary canon. We look for an ability to critically analyze literary work with a distinct, electric creative voice, and a commitment to community. 

We are seeking poetry, prose, and visual art submission readers for our 2018 Summer Spotlight feature: DISPATCHES FROM THE STARS. DISPATCHES seeks to reimagine citizenship and sanctuary for folks at the intersection of migration and race, particularly through the lens of particularly through the lens of Afrofuturism, magical realism, & speculative poetry/prose.


 

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What a joy it is to announce the first cohort of the Winter Tangerine Fellowship!

Our 2018 fellows are Siaara Freeman, Lyrik Courtney, Golden, kiki nicole, & Yujane Chen!

These writers marvel and shimmer. Their writing is bold and luminous, and the urgency and insight of their work undeniably moved us. 

Click here for more info on our fellows & excerpts from their work.


 
When you cannot find your reflection, you resort to touch. You feel for your left arm with your right fingers, all five of them. Each one drags across the bumps on your skin. Once you have confirmed that your left arm is there and your right fingers are touching it, you lose one of your earlobes or your whole neck. Your body is constantly looking for itself, remembering itself. It’s nothing like people who lose their limbs but you still think of your lost body parts as ghostly, weightless, always at risk of floating away from you forever.

from REAL BODIES, Laura Chow Reeve


Perséfone’s fingers are thin and long, like La Calle Septima, one of the main streets in Bogotá, Colombia, where her family is originally from. She used to play the cello. I saw it one night soon after we began hanging out—body buried in a black bag—tossed in a back ditch of her bedroom, a thin stream of dust coating the shell. That night, I didn't ask about it. If I had, she might have shut down and uploaded herself into the dust of satellites, unreturned texts and trails of indecipherable emojis.

I always thought that a cello looks like a swan: a long slender neck curving into rounded hips. Perséfone, a girl with the gravest of expressions, could be either the cello buried in her bedroom, resplendent but untouched, an instrument with no voice; or the swan sailing across the water, alone and determined.

— from Perséphone in the Summer, Mónica Teresa Ortiz