“The limited news footage on our black and white TV portrays a nation struck with grief, a feeling of betrayal hanging darkly over it. There are women on TV, wailing loudly, beating their chests, mourning the loss of Indira, their guardian angel. There are angry men filling the air with cries of “Khoon ka badla khoon” – Blood will avenge blood. “

“I am sick of the I that seeks, that asked if I should find a new audience, and when you didn’t respond, I knew you:

a)     weren’t sure,

b)     won’t try,

c)     will never see me.

d)     all of the above.”

“This is about juxtaposition. Juxtaposition is like when two people care about each other but it doesn’t work out. It’s about when a cacophonous word comes up against another word. An apology to your shadow self. It’s about resistance art.”

“When my husband and I met, he worked the graveyard shift at a Shell gas station. I’d drop in before I went to bed with a thick letter I’d written. Sometimes I’d include a mix tape, mostly Ani Difranco. Once it was a copy of The Bell Jar, tucked into a manila envelope. I didn’t want him to see the cover, in case his face fell—a book?”

Former contributor Martin Ott (32.1) has a new book of poetry coming out this week. In our latest interview, we talked with him about the collection's inspiration, his other new projects, and what's next on his writing journey.

“But when I woke up the next morning there was only one left, his rounded fishhook eyes blinking, his terrifyingly translucent body pulsing as if the whole thing were his heart. I convinced myself that there had only ever been one goldfish, that it was perfectly normal for two separate but similar beings to melt into each other and become one without either having died.”

“They say holding a gun increases a man’s testosterone. And mentalization, not being able to think about what’s inside your mind and what’s inside the mind of another.”

“Letters, weeks filing past / between them, long-necked like vees / of geese. Which outpost? / Which outpost? You pouring sand”

“1. I’ll start with the petty: the spelling, the grammar, the incorrect dates, etc. I was not sure whether it would ever hold up in court. I asked him if he didn’t want to at least correct the spelling of my name. He said it was fine. The DMV wouldn’t accept it for a number of reasons, which led to other complications. He told me many times that he was unable to spell because he had once been a lifeguard. “

Past contributor Erin Adair-Hodges has a new book out from Pitt Poetry Series. Let's All Die Happy was the winner of the 2016 Agnes Lynch Starrett prize. Two of the poems from the new book, "I Would Have Listened to Rush" and "Ode to my Dishwasher," first appeared in issue 35.2 of The Pinch. 

“If someone would have just cleaned it up, it would taken five seconds and we could all have gotten back to work. But, of course, if someone had just cleaned it up we would be living in an alternate universe in which the people who work in this office are competent, considerate, and capable of operating something with as many moving parts as a fucking sponge.”

“one or two sentences from the essay”

Hunter Choate's story "Mirror Box" was recently listed as a Distinguished Story in The Best American Short Stories 2017. The story first appeared in issue 36.1 of The Pinch, and it captivated our staff with its flawless writing and powerful storytelling. Recently, we spoke with Hunter about how it felt to receive this distinction, as well as what inspires his stories, and where his writing's headed next.

 “Sometimes  the  mundane things are themost helpful.  A bigger stage and better equipment.  Trajectories and linesof  flight.  More  silence. “

“or they fall out with the barest pressure, when i apply lipstick or when i brush them, when i touch the gum line it gives like bubble yum soft and wet but no stick my mouth a plump soil overrun with hard teeth my words must grow around, i gather them until my mouth is lush, i throw them into the sky like rice at a wedding”

“If there’s an online petition, sign, comment, and send as a private message to friends who should be more aware of important issues. Persist in commenting and sharing until weak from hunger, it’s time to go to Mr. Holmes Bakehouse for a midmorning croissant.”

“Owl unlocked the door before the sun rose, started the coffee, hot dog roller, and pizza lamp, mopped the floor, flipped the sign, stood behind the register in a cocoon of cigarette cartons, sweet tobacco behind its barrier of cellophane, a cold plastic spike through the nose.”

“ Autopay & deposits in my knuckles, fingers filled with shards of angry bones. Whipped not buttercreamed. Short on the sides & back. High & tight. A fraction of a percentage. Same difference. One size fits & starts, fits some but not all. Batteries & piggy banks & bottled water, pickled & canned. Nothing missed: a six pence, a threepenny opera, an ounce of blow, of gold, of plug nickels, of dollars penniless down to the cent. “