And here it is! Issue Five already! We are so excited that the Devilfish Review survived into its second year of life. It has been amazing to work with our contributors to bring you another fantastic offering. I think you’ll be pleased with what we’ve put together for you. Nothing but the best for our readers!
Spring has finally come, and with it our fifth issue, the first of our second year. Personally, this spring is a weird mixture of firsts and lasts, and saying hello to things I thought were gone, and saying goodbye to things that seemed neverending. (I’m looking at you, my last Minnesota winter.) So here is a set of stories with a bit of time in them. We never read with a theme in mind, but one usually becomes apparent in retrospect. That’s the best thing about literature. The stories you need find you. Thank you to all of our authors, for giving us the stories we needed.
Pitman House by Will Weisser - Ethan Harkness cared little about others’ approval. He loved the silence of the night, free of phone rings and engine rumbles, and after hundreds of years of being alive, he had decided such indulgences were worth the loss of propriety.
Paradox by Bridget A. Natale - It was a clear day, which might be why nobody thought to look up. If it had been overcast or windy or something, one of us might have looked up at some point and seen it. Maybe then Alek would still be alive.
Every Preceding Thursday by Alex Friedman - I first noticed that Thursdays no longer counted for me during the end of the Fall semester. When I told them about the situation with my no-call-no-show days off, the administration of the College of Science did not laugh at me. Instead they designated the situation as a possible non-employee threat.
Death’s Door by Emma McMorran - It’s not the fear so much as the waiting that gets to you in the end. Fear is finite: one cannot remain indefinitely afraid, even in the most dire of circumstances. No, I know my fate, that I am both doomed and damned.
A Sunday Brunch in Amber by Kelly Ann Kiehl - It was not our turn to have a baby. It was a dry year, nobody’s turn to have a child. Yet, here I was, seven weeks pregnant. My only thought as I lay in bed, my head whirring with the ceiling fan above me: I cannot have this child. It will kill someone.