Member-only story
Reports from a Small Press Burnout: An Introduction to Spork
A couple years ago, I read about a literary journal called Spork on the internet. Spork was published in Tucson, where I live. I ordered one, sent them cash and a letter. I heard nothing, received nothing, and eventually forgot about it. Recently I came across this same journal again on the internet, somebody saying how great it was, the wonderful, cutting-edge Spork, and how it was changing the world. I thought, “Hey, what the fuck happened to my copy?” I found an email address and wrote to Spork and explained the situation. They’re right here in Tucson, after all. Yesterday morning, around 10, I heard a thud against my front door. It was quite vicious. It “knocked me out of my comfort zone,” so to speak. I opened the door and found a copy of Spork on the cracked cement stoop. Whoever had hurled it against my door didn’t want to stay and have a beer, I guess.
The literary journal Spork is durable, with cardboard covers, stiff paper and stitching as strong as marlin line. Unfortunately, its toughness is a gross overcompensation for the sugar-crystal writing inside. Two professors could tug-of-war with it all day and get nowhere.
The journal starts on page 1,647 because, you know, it’s all a part of the endless continuum, dude. Richard Siken, the editor, opens with a post-modernist interpretation of Hansel and…
