Hey, y’all! (I am writing this after spending the weekend in Georgia, and the lilt slips into my speech within hours of landing at the Charlotte Douglas International Airport. Every time. As does, inevitably, a biscuit from Bojangles.)
Onward: the BIG news here is that Talk Vomit’s summer submissions are open. There are updated submission guidelines, and, also, a theme: girlhood. You can find deets at the bolded link. I’m always thrilled to read themed submissions but I am particularly eager to read these. As always, themes can be interpreted however you’d like. Submissions will remain open until May 15.
Secondly, work is still underway on the spring edition (theme: revelation), and as dizzying as it is to open summer submissions while still working on spring, pre-orders for spring are available! And they’ll remain discounted to $13 until pre-orders end. Looking at Talk Vomit’s production schedule right now, pre-orders will close on April 7. APRIL 7. April 7. ApRiL 7. I order enough Talk Vomits + a small number of extras based on how many pre-orders come in, so, please take this as a gentle reminder that pre-ordering is the only way to guarantee yourself a print copy! AND every single dollar that comes in goes right back to our writers, or else paying the fees associated with keeping TV online (the website, domain, etc.). (The same goes for supporting us via Substack!) Here’s the cover, in case you missed it:
You can secure your $13 copy of Talk Vomit here.
What’s on deck?
A critical essay about the relationship between Taylor Swift’s original albums vs. her re-releases. Are they re-makes, or are they something new entirely, and should they be treated as such?
A biblically bookended (and woven) examination of a deeply rooted faith background scrambling a brain experiencing abuse
A lyrical fuck you to a shitty family member
A psychological horror short story about being late to pick your child up from daycare
An essay about an emotionally fraught journey across Boston’s Fenway neighborhood to seek refuge with a friend
A deeply humorous first-person account of growing up in the shadow of a wiley brother while searching for one’s footing and voice (and humiliating people in your life along the way — but don’t worry, this one’s endearing)
A girlhood missive about searching for mermaids with a big-dreaming pal
A review of Anita de Monte Laughs Last and also probably that review of Good Material
An interview with another lit mag editor
I’m really really excited about this one. Please, if you love Talk Vomit and believe in what we do, consider buying a print copy. I will airmail you a kiss, if you do!
I’m leaving you with a short, humorous/sweet story from our winter edition, by writer Lori D’Angelo. Enjoy. :)
Happy Holidays
by Lori D’Angelo
For Halloween, I dressed up as Tom’s ex-girlfriend, handcuffs and all. He did not appreciate the costume.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“Louise,” I said.
He said that’s not what he had in mind when he said do scary. He told me to get out. I took my police uniform and went.
For Christmas, I suggested that Derek’s dad should carve the turkey even though both his dad’s arms had been amputated in the war.
“What is wrong with you?” he asked me.
“Nothing,” I said, “I have both my arms.”
I already had my/his bag—a monogrammed rolling duffle from L.L. Bean—packed. I took the carving knife and all the knives. They could get creative with forks.
For Valentine’s Day, I got Jacob the gift I thought every man would want—a woman who was willing to have sex with him on demand. She had a clean bill of health and copy of her latest round of STD tests to prove it. I had her jump out of a cake at the Day’s Inn on Orange Avenue. She was wearing a leotard covered in hearts.
“Just go,” Jacob said.
I took his car and left him stranded with the lady of the night. I wondered if he got my money’s worth.
For Memorial Day, I got Lowell a copy of Leaves of Grass and read him “Oh Captain, My Captain.” His great-uncle had been a Confederate soldier. The glory of the Old South was all he talked about. His home was draped in Confederate flags. But my ex Lowell, despite his name, was no poet, so I had to explain. It took him a while to be offended. Finally, he was. Then, breathing more freely, I could leave. I did a mock Rebel Yell as I drove off.
For Labor Day, I gave Ty a copy of his last bad evaluation before he was fired. He shed tears. That almost never happened. I walked away before he could say more. For this one, I almost felt bad. And then, unsurprisingly, I was alone.
On New Year’s Eve, Tom showed up on my doorstep. He was sad and naked in the rain. I knew who he was though I wasn’t sure why he had returned. They never did. Still, he had seen me at my worst.
“Come in, I guess,” I said, cracking the door.
And, as we drank the drugstore champagne he had brought, I told him the story of the year.
Lori D’Angelo is a grant recipient from the Elizabeth George Foundation and an alumna of the Community of Writers at Squaw Valley. Recent work has appeared in Bullshit Lit, Chaotic Merge, Ellipsis Zine, Idle Ink, Litmora, Rejection Letters, Thin Veil Press, and Voidspace. Find her on Twitter and Bluesky @sclly21 or Instagram and Threads at lori.dangelo1.