UChicago's Oldest Literary Magazine
Me: Hey, I didn’t get the proofreading job.
Clara: Oh, I’m sorry, Bert. Keep applying, okay?
Me: Yeah, thanks. I got another interview for a college admissions essay editor. It’s in a week and a half. It’s also remote, but this one’s full-time, at least for a while…
Ten minutes ago lightning struck Lake Ontario.
The bolt edged the crown of a neighbour’s birch tree
then craned a hard vertical plunge over the shore cliff.
The starlings, dug into their cliffside holes,
Read More Poetry: “April 14th One Week After Week One,” by Terry TrowbridgeI live under my boyfriend’s bed. It’s not the most ideal living arrangement. He thought it would be the most cost effective way for us to live together and still have our own personal space since Chicago has been getting more expensive lately. We’re both in law school and neither of us wanted to take […]
Read More Prose: “I Live Under My Boyfriend’s Bed,” by Meredith RiggsDave Sutton had been in Nagasaki a little over two months when his Japanese teacher finally invited him over for dinner. Dave had been getting ten to twenty minutes of extra conversation practice during lunch time with him after his morning classes every school day. Slowly they had built a rapport. Dave was in Nagasaki […]
Read More Prose: “Plastic Memories,” by Daniel ClausenSince we looked at each other and couldn’t
make much of anything.
How are we ever supposed to
with hands unable to hold more than
“Death Cannot Part Them” is the winner of Euphony‘s 2025 prose contest, which has a theme of “Endings.” Ellis shook herself from her tangled bed sheets and rushed to snatch the shrill telephone from its hook. It had been ringing nonstop all morning; savagely disrupting the precious few hours of sleep she’d managed. The only […]
Read More Prose: “Death Cannot Part Them,” by Maiah JezekOne night, a cold night, he drove through the dark, investigating the convenience of a plain of
no rocks or cavities, of the mildest undulations, the gentlest of seas, for this was an oceanic
On Saturday evenings time ends but we keep going.
The furniture runs out and the empty rooms go on without it.
Not empty– full of sadness and weird pain, appetites that don’t know what they want but insist that it’s something.
He has been living on the edge of the desert for nearly fourteen years. There is very little to distract him. A truck stop and a gas station, about a mile down the road. A small strip of shops a further mile in the same direction. North of there, nothing for a good four hundred […]
Read More Prose: “The End of Craftsmanship,” by Arthur Mandalfor Bernice Gardner, may she RIP
Ringed around the rosy twilight park,
A cocoon on a leaf falls through the dark.
It lands on wet asphalt streets above the bulwark
Euphony Journal 