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Abigail Chabitnoy Reading Two Poems Appearing in Volume 70 of Grub Street

 

 

 

You can read Abigail’s poems “A FOUR-PART APOLOGY FOR MY CONTINUED BEING”, “A PERSISTENT DREAM OF LARGE BODIES  OF WATER & EVERYTHING THAT MIGHT BE WAITING WITHIN”, and “A PRONG OR SHARP POINT SUCH AS THAT ON A FORK, OR ANTLER” in Volume 70 of Grub Street, out now. You can also view her poetry comic on pages 150-154 of Volume 70. Click here to view Volume 70.

 

Abigail Chabitnoy is the author of How to Dress a Fish (Wesleyan 2019), winner of the 2020 Colorado Book Award for Poetry and shortlisted in the international category of the 2020 Griffin Prize for Poetry. She was a 2016 Peripheral Poets fellow and her poems have appeared in Hayden’s Ferry Review, Boston Review, Tin House, Gulf Coast, Lit Hub,  Red Ink, and elsewhere. She is a Koniag descendant and member of the Tangirnaq Native Village in Kodiak, and currently she is on faculty at the Institute of American Indian Arts and the Denver Lighthouse Writers Workshop.

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Chelsea Harlan Reading “The Leopard Slug” Appearing in Volume 70 of Grub Street

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You can read Chelsea’s poem “The Leopard Slug” in Volume 70 of Grub Street, out now. Click here to view Volume 70.

 

Chelsea Harlan holds a B.A. from Bennington College and an M.F.A. in poetry from Brooklyn College, where she was a Truman Capote Fellow. Her poems are forthcoming or have appeared in Sixth Finch, Hobart, Cold Mountain Review, The Greensboro Review, The American Poetry Review, and elsewhere. She is the co-author of the chapbook Mummy (Montez Press, 2019), and the recipient of the 2019-2020 Mikrokosmos Poetry Prize judged by sam sax. She lives in Brooklyn.[/et_pb_text][/et_pb_column]
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Chloë Williams on “Fireworks from Floor 9” in Volume 70 of Grub Street

 

You can view Chloe’s piece “Fireworks from Floor 9” in Volume 70 of Grub Street, out now. Click here to view Volume 70.

 

Chloë Williams is a West Virginian writer, filmmaker, and photographer. She has work published in Maelstrom magazine and the Our Minds Our Future anthology. Her work reflects her travels around her home state, as well as in Baltimore and Leeds, England.

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Leah Bushman on “In My Nightmares I am Calling Jeff Bezos ‘Daddy'” in Volume 70 of Grub Street

 

You can read Leah’s poem “In My Nightmares I am Calling Jeff Bezos ‘Daddy'” in Volume 70 of Grub Street, out now. Click here to view Volume 70. You can also read Leah’s poems “Between Sternum and Stomach” and “Our Sockets Won’t Stop Bleeding” on Grub Street‘s website. For the first poem, click here. For the second poem, click here.

 

Leah Bushman is a nature gazer and animal lover who rarely takes life seriously. This is her first publication. A Towson University graduate with a B.S. in English, she can be found on social media at @leahbushman.

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Wen Wen Yang Reading “Ink Stains” Appearing in Volume 70 of Grub Street

You can view Wen Wen Yang’s pieces “Ink Stains” and “Lukewarm” in Volume 70 of Grub Street, out now. Click here to view Volume 70. Below, you can listen to a reading of “Ink Stains” by Wen Wen Yang.

 

 

Wen Wen Yang was born and raised in the Bronx, New York. She graduated from Barnard College, Columbia University, with a degree in English and creative writing. You can find her flash fiction “The Fox Spirit’s Retelling” in the anthology Remapping Wonderland: Classic Fairytales Retold by People of Color.

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KKUURRTT Reading “Live 4 The Livestream” Appearing in Volume 70 of Grub Street

 

You can read KKUURRTT’s piece “Live 4 The Livestream” in Volume 70 of Grub Street, out now. Click here to view Volume 70.

 

KKUURRTT is glad you read his thing. His novel, Good at Drugs, is forthcoming from Alien Buddha Press. He can be found on Twitter at @wwwkurtcom.

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Mak Sisson on “The Woman Who Wanted to Plant Turnips” in Volume 70 of Grub Street

 

 

You can read Mak’s poem “The Woman Who Wanted to Plant Turnips” in Volume 70 of Grub Street, out now. Click here to view Volume 70. You can also read Mak’s poem “The Days the Deer Died” on Grub Street‘s website here, and Mak’s nonfiction piece “List of Symptoms of Something I Cannot Name That I Have Taped to my Fridge” here.

 

Mak Sisson is a graduate student at the University of Montana, studying environmental science and natural resource journalism. She aspires to save the planet and write about the environment, however local or global it may be. Her nonfiction, which appears in volume 69 of Grub Street, received first place nationally in alternative story form from the Columbia Scholastic Press Association. She currently works as a science writer for Modern Treatise.

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Naomi Rogers on “For The Missing 545” in Volume 70 of Grub Street

 

 

You can view Naomi’s piece “For The Missing 545 (in honor of the lost children who were separated at the border due to the Trump administration’s immigration policy)” in Volume 70 of Grub Street, out now. Click here to view Volume 70.

 

Naomi Rogers is a Towson University student working toward a degree in gerontology and a minor in creative writing. She was recently published in Ligeia magazine and intends to continue to embark on creative projects while bettering the lives of older adults.

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Chelsea Ayensu-Peters on “Don’t Wanna Wear” and “Undies and Lavender” in Volume 70 of Grub Street

 

You can view Chelsea’s pieces “Don’t Wanna Wear” and “Undies and Lavender” in Volume 70 of Grub Street, out now. Click here to view Volume 70. You can also view Chelsea’s piece “Glasses” on Grub Street’s website here.

 

Chelsea Ayensu-Peters is a sophomore at Towson University. Her art centers on drawing and painting. She draws character designs, and whatever ideas come to mind, but she hasn’t developed any consistent themes in her art. She’s still improving her style, so anything can change in the future.

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Exclusive Poetry Feature: “The Woman Sitting Across Me On The Subway” by Angie Kang

The Woman Sitting Across Me On The Subway

is made of clay and she keeps sweating, making the entire car smell like earth and salt and

change. She unwraps her shawl and reties it around her head to keep its domical shape, but

the fibers dig into the clay and leave an imprint. I try not to stare. I think it’s brave to go out

being so pliable and raw, so blatantly unfinished and proudly in progress. It does no good to

go into the kiln before you’re ready to be cremated. Dry clay dust is toxic and once inhaled

settles in your lungs in silty layers until the breath is choked out of you.

 

Angie Kang is an illustrator and writer living in Providence, Rhode Island. Her writing has been published or is forthcoming in Narrative, Porter House Review, Lunch Ticket, Hobart, and others. Find more of her work at www.angiekang.net, or on instagram @anqiekanq.