No Bullshit Review

We publish lit that doesn't mess around.

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When my eyes won’t weep for the world, I hear the hiss of metaphysics at my feet—

- Sean Thomas Dougherty, “Tears for Saint Catherine,” in All You Ask for is Longing (2014)

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When my eyes won't weep for the world, I hear the hiss of metaphysics at my feet--

- Sean Thomas Dougherty, "Tears for Saint Catherine," in All You Ask for is Longing (2014)

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What 9/11 Means to Me - Anonymous

It’s difficult to explain what exactly 9/11 has meant to me over the past 13 years. I’ve felt pride, and I’ve felt anger. I’ve cried for friends I’ve lost. I’ve reflected and written about it in my journal nearly every year. But when I hear the words--nine, eleven--it is not thoughts or even distinct feelings that flood my mind. It is the brief moments along the journey since that day:

It’s the friends’ weddings that quickly followed 9/11, the weddings before reporting for duty in a nation at war. It is honoring the memory of one friend who introduced me to Metallica, the friend who would get up extra-early and talk about how much he loved his girlfriend, how much he wanted to marry her.

It’s the senior year biology class spent debating whether or not there would be a draft and the looks on the boys’ faces as we talked--some philosophical, some resolved, some scared.

It’s pizza nights in the ROTC common area, hot chocolate service fundraisers in the freezing cold, weekend ‘Allo, ‘Allo marathons with my roommate, inventing new late-night gym workouts, and fraternity movie nights featuring 300 (and the fruit subsequently used in bad-ass sword training).

It’s the KIA memorial list Dr. R-- used to show at the beginning of class and the nights spent in the back of the bar remembering the friends on that list, as well as the friends lost after their time downrange had ended.

It’s Skyping over holidays and funny Facebook posts and late-night phone calls. It’s long talks in the car and long walks on the beach, staring at the surf as if it could answer me. And it’s that one night in a friend’s garage when I realized that I could feel something besides numb.

It’s watching friends’ children grow up in a country where it’s taken for granted that a kids’ park is safe from attack, where a young woman can study math and science, where parents can raise their children in any faith and talk openly about their political views.

It’s the heart that holds the gun, the heart called to serve those it doesn’t know: the young soldier in Ramadi whose compassion gave a family hope for a better life, the Grand Theft Auto buddy who explored questions of morality while we tested the game’s limits for helicopter travel, the aid worker building better lives on America’s streets as well as those streets that don’t show up on Google Earth.

It’s pieces of artwork from a broken heart, poems written to understand what can’t be understood, songs about our flag and those who fight for it. It’s the unwritten songs carried in heavy hearts.

It’s the calling to a life of purpose over and over again. It’s the memorial runs and the 9/11s that slip past unnoticed while helping someone in need. 

But most of all, when I think of 9/11, I am reminded of love. I see the faces of the friends I’ve lost since that day, the faces of those who are still fighting, the faces of those who have struggled, those who have been physically or mentally injured--and the love of their families that shines through such adversity. I see friends who come into our lives and the time we have with them--whether one moment or a lifetime--and the love that we find along our journeys.

To love found along the journey: I want to tell you that I was scared (even after listening to Blink-182’s “Dammit”) and how the anticipation and adrenaline coursed through my veins like the anticipation and adrenaline coursing through me when I knew that we had won our state championship. I want to tell you about the little girl dying in my arms, her own as thin as my thumbs. I want to tell you why I cried during the National Anthem and why I don’t talk about it-- even with you. I want to tell you about the enormity of mankind-- but no one needs to know those details unnecessarily. I want to tell you how I got the scar on my shoulder and how metal heats up like a pot in a kiln and flies as fast as lightning. I want to tell you that when I woke up in a cold sweat last night and finally got my bearings again, I saw you curled up beside me. And I knew I would be okay.

[timeshaiku]

A haiku from the article: If Scotland Goes, Then Britain Too?

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It's always about power.

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Update on the No BS War Project

We have received our first couple of submissions for the project! We will be posting these to the front page, and they will also be collected at the link in the side bar:

The War Project

Keep them coming!

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A Challenge / Project

Send in your War.

Your writing your poems your remembrances. It being the anniversary of Sept. 11th, we should recognize all aspects of this mess we find ourselves in.

We will collect and post.

Who knows, maybe we'll do a special issue.

Send them to: [email protected] as an attachment. Keep it under 750 words.

We will keep taking submissions through December 31.

[howitzerliterarysociety-deactiv]

If your New Chivalry doesn’t include in its framework complete acceptance of women’s sexuality independent of male assumptions…then it’s not new. It’s old school control. Opening a car door doesn’t cut it.

(via howitzerliterarysociety)

[cindymayweather-deactivated2019]

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NDT Know of What he Speaks.

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The plague you have thus far survived. They didn't. Nothing that they did in bed that you didn't.

- from Frank Bidart's "For the AIDS Dead" in Metaphysical Dog: Poems

[ericmrwebb]

Putting together the August issue

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This belongs here.

[arianareines]

ELEVEN STARS OVER ANDALUSIA by mahmoud darwish at IT’S GET BETTER on 20 july 2014, during the first 2014 massacre in shejiya

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Listen. Listen.

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One last thing – the cafeteria is disgusting. Dionysus is in charge, but all his interns drink themselves blind most of the day. They’re worse than a frat house.

- from "Working on Mars" by Ian T. Couch in the August issue of No Bullshit Review

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October Issue Cover Up for Grabs

We're looking for a Cover image for the next issue. B&W.

Send it to us: Submissions

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Contributor Bios for August 2014

Find all the bios, excerpts, and goodies for the August 2014 issue here! Click the title of the post!

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Contributor Bio - Alejandro Escudé

Alejandro Escudé is the winner of the 2012 Sacramento Poetry Center Award. His winning manuscript, My Earthbound Eye, was published in September 2013. He received a master’s degree in creative writing from U.C. Davis and teaches high school English in Santa Monica, California. He is also a recent Pushcart Prize nominee and, among other journals, his poems have appeared in California Quarterly, Main Street Rag, Phoebe, Poet Lore, Rattle, as well as in an anthology entitled How to Be This Man, published by Swan Scythe Press. Originally from Argentina, he lives with his wife and two kids in Los Angeles, California. You can find more information about him and his work on alejandroescude.com.

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Contributor Bio - Thomas Kearnes

Thomas Kearnes holds an MA in Screenwriting from the University of Texas at Austin. His two collections are "Pretend I'm Not Here" (Musa Publishing) and "Promiscuous" (JMS Publishing). His fiction has appeared in Litro, The Adroit Journal, The Ampersand Review, PANK, Word Riot, Eclectica, SmokeLong Quarterly, wigleaf, Storyglossia, A cappella Zoo, Spork, The Pedestal, Digital Americana Magazine and elsewhere. His work has also appeared in several LGBT venues, such as Diverse Voices Quarterly, Diverse Arts Project, Educe Journal, and the Best Gay Stories series. He is studying to become a drug dependency counselor. He lives near Houston.