UChicago's Oldest Literary Magazine
“Weltpolitik” is the runner-up of Euphony‘s 2025 prose contest, which has a theme of “Endings.” Sophomore year was relieved by a few brief trips to her in DC or me in Chicago. But generally, I drifted into a naive possessiveness as our relationship, conceived in long-distance, continued to be long-distance. Our fights made no sense, […]
Read More Prose: “Weltpolitik,” by Noah LeeNight relaxes its eastern hand
Dawn inches forth, Quiet a vigil keeps.
The house about me now is still.
I sort through words while my lady yet sleeps.
The ceramic Aztec mask on my wall is one of my few physical reminders of a Chilean uncle who died in exile in Mexico City almost two decades ago, two weeks after I informed him of the death of his favorite sister, my mother, some two thousand miles away. The other reminders are fading images […]
Read More Prose: “Archaeology,” by Ronald FinkI.
In the fall morning sky, high above the white glaze
of the brown mountain range, a raven would fly.
She’d flutter then plunge through the dawn light and fog
over fields filled with songs of the killdeer and dove –
One unseasonably warm Saturday in late January Val’s phone rang. He picked up the receiver and said an unsuspecting “Hello.” Carrie said, simply, “Hi.” He’d thought she had damned him by now for his silence, his necessary relinquishment. “How are you?” she asked. “Uh . . . well, I think.” He smelled roses, the scent […]
Read More Prose: “The Glimmering Woods,” by Richard JacobsBustling check-in desk, suited men. Orderly queue –
duty free sake. Vexed boy humpfed away.
Eleventh hour tannoy inspirits discomfort. She lays
Japanese Red Army’s blasting cap. Oyster-white
peripheries shock to black
I came to Imlil to return to myself, to put an end to the nervous estrangement that had taken hold of me in the windless dust of Marrakech. That which cannot be seen nor grasped, and thus cannot be proven, is there nonetheless. I swear it. It’s as if the whole city sucks and exsufflates […]
Read More Prose: “Djinns of the River,” by Jordan GabrielHe puts himself
at the head
of the long table
in front of the
killer whale-sized
The old man stood at the edge of the park, the curb meeting the grass behind him, and ran a hand through his graying hair. The place was destroyed. Trees lay toppled onto their sides, dirtied roots bared. Clumps of grass protruded from the earth, pivoted unnaturally towards the sky. Leaves and sawdust and acorns […]
Read More Prose: “The Storm,” by Grant GaugashThey say the throat is scornful
holding onto soft, slow blurs of wavering crows
with wings of mud and beaks cool as rock, weighting
they lust. Will it bruise you, when nothing is left moral?
In these unknown times, the lilacs sang
Euphony Journal 