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LIT Monthly Writing Prompt: May Edition and Tribute to Paul Auster
by Charlotte Slivka, Editor in Chief
Dear LIT community,
Spring has sprung and it is as if the trees were in a race to sprout their leaves. After the first pinks of Magnolia and Cherry trees, then the yellows of Forsythia, followed by that brazen and bold purple of the Eastern Redbuds, the new green leaves seem to have shocked their way to the surface just within the last few days. It’s dizzying and disorienting to think of barren winter as a back door slam, but here we are in our bare feet on cold earth and new grass.
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From the Walls of The New School to The MET: Revisiting Thomas Hart Benton’s America Today
by Vicky Oliver, Nonfiction Editor
photo by the author
Thomas Hart Benton’s ten-panel mural, painted with egg tempera and oil glazing over Permalba on a gesso ground linen mounted to wood panels with a honeycomb interior. Originally painted in 1930-1931 for the New School, America Today now resides at the MET.At the New School, we write stories. Whether we are setting down our pasts or conjuring a future world or are just trying to capture what is happening right now in the present,
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New! LIT Monthly Writing Prompt: April Edition
Happy poetry month everyone!
Here at LIT we are starting a new series of monthly writing prompts. This month’s prompt is from our nonfiction editor Vicky Oliver:
Write about a time when you were lost and how you found your way home.
The hero’s journey is sometimes a parable on the transformation of being: old habits and emotional reactions that are shed out of necessity as they become stumbling blocks to the journey. The old ways are replaced by new strengths or new ideas that have been germinating out of sight, waiting to come into play as fresh discoveries in a moment of crisis,
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Parade
by Tad Tuleja
I do not often see the faces of the dead. But sometimes, in a lucid dream, they tug at my memory, reminding me of what I have gained and what I have lost. In the hour of the wolf one October morning, the chill just whisking down from Alberta to Texas, I am half awake in the darkness and watching a parade.
I am five or six years old and sitting on the curb, just near the spot where Livingston Avenue runs into George Street. The parades come down Livingston from the high school,
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Benign Madness
by Joyce Lee
You know the insanity has always been there, hidden within the stories, secreted from the norm.
It’s there when, as a child, you sit by the lake with your younger cousins, weaving stories of sun fairies and shadow gnomes that dance on the wind-kissed water. They giggle and ask for more, and it’s just a story to them, but you see defined essences latent in the alternating sparkles and shadows, skimming the skin of your reality even as they skitter across the surface of the water, a refined actuality that soothes and satisfies,
