A Publication of Rowan University's 
Master of Arts in Writing Graduate Program 

---

SPRING 2015: print & digital issue coming March 1st

---

FEATURE: Flash Glass

Flash is often defined by what it isn't: it isn't more than 500 words, it isn't a full narrative, it isn't plot or character or just a poems without line breaks. Flash, however, is an opportunity.

click to read more

Stone Heavy and Immaculate
by Anna Ivey

Two Dogs
by Joel Wayne

---

FALL 2014: print & digital issue

READ | BUY

---

fiction

Aspic Bayberry Cathedral
Stan Lee Werlin

credit: Darrell Darwent via Flickr

It’s almost midnight when they leave the beach, tired, thirsty, still too high from the freely flowing weed. They’re jammed into Ed’s aging blue Volkswagen, Lisbeth up front, Jonathan and Denise crowbarred into the tiny back seat as they head onto the Mid-Cape Highway for the trip back to Manhattan from Truro. Each of them has finals in the morning, so they’re looking at an all night drive to get there on time. There’s no choice. The Beatles are on the radio. Sometimes the Stones, Jefferson Airplane, The Doors, Jimi Hendrix. The era of psychedelic rock has just begun and the dope is like an accelerant for them, heightening the rhythm, the chords, the weighty, counterculture lyrics of so many songs they hear and play endlessly. One pill makes you larger, and one pill makes you small, and the ones that mother gives you, don’t do anything at all.

---

READ MORE

---

nonfiction 

Where The Tension Lies
Katharine Kress

credit: Daniel Oines via Flickr

It was the two years during which I read the New York Times everyday but could never remember what it said. I wanted to memorize it all. But instead I could remember only Matthew Arnold and his "Dover Beach" and the mechanistic sadness that weighted his chest: You hear the grating roar/Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling…Begin, and cease, and then again begin,/With tremulous cadence slow, and bring/The eternal note of sadness in.

I felt a strong desire, too, to run everyday on the elevated university indoor track. I ran around in ovals and could not keep the time or look down past the guard rail into the empty space and would, sometimes, after moving as fast as I could for as long as I could, begin to cry. And maybe because of all of that or maybe because of something else, my heart began to hurt.

---

READ MORE

---

art

see more art | see more photography

---

fall 2014 | read online

fall 2014 | buy print or download

Glassworks Fall 2014

Issue 9: a magazine of literature and art

HIGHLIGHTS 

reviewsws

El Paso Days
Elroy Bode
by Leslie Martinelli

---

Wanting It
Diana Whitney
by Carly Szabo

---

---

opinion 

The Coming Successes of Literature, and How They May (or May Not) All Include Bondage
by Kevin Coopersmith

---

Someone Talked: Spoilers in the Modern Age
                                by Andrew Bates

---

---

poetry

Crows
Sean Brendan-Brown

When I was a boy
everyone shot crows--
God-given right--
though I was sorry

for them I thought them
malevolent too, all black
and bloody; one night dad
brought home six babies,

caged them with plywood,
staples and chicken-wire.
The crows made no noise.
I fed them toast & scraps;

the cage remained a week
then suddenly it was empty--
I pressed my face into wire--
the screen smelled of crow, rust,

bread and bacon drippings.
Released, they must have cawed
excitement; I envied their wings,
their undisguised hatred and committed

cold black eyes which held my own
when I fed them peanuts. They
scorned my sympathy and jabbed
my fingers without apology.

                                                         READ FULL ISSUE

---

My Mother's Flowers
Rachel Lake

I spend the afternoon in my mother’s flower
beds, dipping Iris seeds into shallow holes,
soil rich and black and peppered with worms.
The blossoms will be full this year, because

the dirt I used came from behind the shed
where my father left the head of a deer
to putrefy in the sun. Flesh falls to soil,
to sprout, to flowers my mother cuts for the table.

My mother sleeps as if she is praying,
nails sprigs of dried lavender in every room.
“Are your dreams too vivid?”
She asks, reading the warning label

on a bottle. My mother fell into depression again,
slid into the well of it, then came up dripping
and licking her fingers.

                                                         READ FULL ISSUE

---

looking glass
meta-discursive reflections by:

Scott Beal | Chrystal Berche | Timothy B. Dodd | Ruth Foley | Kimberly McClintock | Martha Silano | Stan Lee Werlin

---

interview

So, Sing On: 
An Interview with Ernest Hilbert 
by Stephanie Kohler & Brian Maloney 

---

Make a Difference: An Interview with Chris Rakunas
by Jason Cantrell, 
Steve Royek  & 
Christina Schillaci

---

---

Glassworks Apprentice Community Outreach