No, everyone gets notified. When you get notified doesn’t matter. We accept on a rolling basis. There’s not one day when we send out all our acceptances or our declines. If Person A get an email from us today and Person B gets email from us in two weeks, it doesn’t mean that Person A’s piece has a better chance of being accepted, or that it’s better. It literally means that we got to it faster. We’re going to get to everyone, don’t worry!

Hi! Nope, we have not gotten back to everyone yet. If you haven’t received notice by now, it means nothing. We’ve sent out some acceptances and some declines, and we’ll be sending out more acceptances and declines in the coming weeks. When you get notified doesn’t mean anything. :]

I think I am leaking-

Imagine:
A woman pours her heart into a bowl
and feeds it to her cat. The heart
becomes a liquid thing-  like heat,
a shocking,

but not so shocking red,
like my mother’s lipstick, like the first drop
of blood, like the tone of a poem
written all wrong.

Sometimes I look at people I don’t know
and think “I could love you”. My ribs tremble
with survivor’s guilt, and the branches of my
wrists spell out my future.

I think I am leaking-
and this is the sound of fragility.

We are capable of kissing
bruises and watching mothers cry
over lost children, who are not actually lost,
but hiding;

under the kitchen sink,
or in the upstairs closet, or in the concave
that is the human heart,

plucking ribcage songs.

My name isn’t Annie and I don’t write.

If I were pretentious, I would say I bleed, as if by putting together words in a fairly coherent manner, I am emptying myself, I am leaking, I am hollowing out, becoming a shell. If my name were Annie, I would say that I bleed. I would walk barefoot on the beach and smile when I step into glass. I would know more about the ocean, the migration of fish, the feeding habits of coral. I would know more about the relationship between sharks and blood.

I would be allergic to bumblebees. I would be allergic to Spring. I wouldn’t write. I would bleed- but not in a metaphoric sense, I would have thin skin, I would be delicate and precious and shining. My lips would taste like fiber glass- my throat would be coated in it. Food would go down faster and I’d find it easier to smile at a mirror.

I would believe in God but not religion, and I would tell my mother that I love her every Sunday and that would be enough. I wouldn’t write. My middle name would be May but I would be allergic to Spring. If I were Annie, I would knit and I wouldn’t notice the lines of my knuckles, I wouldn’t press softly at the bruises on my thighs, I wouldn’t think of the world in a logical, tangible sense. I would be a metaphor, a literary device. I wouldn’t be real and I would not write.

It’s hovering somewhere around 5% right now. We received 1149 submissions for the first issue. :]