Editor In Chief
In a scene in the film Dead Poets Society, Todd Anderson, a quiet boy attending the conservative Welton Academy, spends the evening hours writing and rewriting a poem for his English class, taught by the enigmatic Mr. Keating. The problem is, as so many of us writers can attest to, nothing ever seems quite right - and so Todd, frustrated, tears up the sheet of paper and . . .
Under laughing dome of blue
We are born to look up
And be blinded
The screaming prophecies
Do not echo when minded
And all the mornings of the year
Let this journal be a collection of prophecies; it provides the best it can.
Former Genre Editor
Writing is one of the most, if not the most, solitary art forms. If this period of quarantine has shown us anything it is that being alone is the best condition for doubts to sprout and grow. For that reason, it is imperative that a writer have the validation of sharing their work. A platform for their first attempts, their midnight rambles, their three year long projects to be read . . .