Get all the literary magazines published this year. Spring 2019, Summer 2019, and Autumn 2019.
Spring 2019: Atmosphere Edition
The hum of fluorescent lights in your second home. The thrum of the AC in the vents. Or the breeze in the leaves of the trees around you. The weightlessness of the snow in the white mountains. The lightness of the clouds in the sky. The moment time stops after the slam of a bedroom door. The unfamiliarity of a stranger’s bedroom. The tingle of a nicotine high. The preemptive hit to your pride before your face hits the pavement. The red of a sunset that reminds you of home. The heat radiating from your forehead. The thump of the rhythmic bass that shakes your whole being. The contrasting clarity of mind after a breakup.
You’re the type of person for whom the atmosphere vibrates.
Summer 2019: Summer Daze Edition
The sun is making a long, grand exit, lighting up the atmosphere in pink, orange, red fires. You can feel the sweat on your skin sticking to the concrete below you. The air feels heavy, lingering in the air, dispelled by only a slight, warm breeze that blows every few moments. You breathe it in as it rushes by. From the distance you can hear a booming, constant and arbitrary, from all directions around you. It sounds like the world has gone to war, like there will only be endless destruction tomorrow morning—and maybe there will be. There will be burn marks on the sidewalk and profanities written in chalk on driveways. But today is a joyous day for everyone to partake in. You look up to the sky and see it explode, stars that are almost close enough to touch, smoke billowing away into our already tattered atmosphere. Fireworks glimmer in the heat, light bursting for a moment and then dissipating, as if it never existed. This is summer daze.
Autumn 2019: Autumn Gloom Edition
You stroll home, the warm air turning bitter, just a little, just enough to force you indoors. The sky melts into the darkness on a cold autumn evening. You open your front door, keys clattering on the kitchen counter, boots thudding on the floor. A piercing whistle from the stove, the tinker of ceramic on the counter, the pouring of hot water into your mug, steam fogging up your glasses. You take your cup of tea and sit by the windowsill, watching the sky turn black, your reflection in the window becoming more and more visible. It’s in this quiet moment that you can hear yourself think.
The past is a dream. A story we tell ourselves to save us from heartbreak, from grief. When the trees lose their life, scattering their burnt orange leaves across the ground below, we remember. There is loss in life. There is always loss. None of this is permanent. But all of it is beautiful.
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