Gulf Coast - A Journal of Literature and Fine Arts
Home
Current Issue
Past Issues
Subscribe
Submit
Reading Series
Contests
About
Blog
Online Exclusive
Contact
Contact Gulf Coast Magazine
Donate to Gulf Coast
Visit the Houston Indie Book Festival (new window)
Gulf Coast is on Facebook (new window)Gulf Coast is on Twitter (new window)
Exposition
Elizabeth Whittlesey
"...everyone honestly thought if something happened
in the snow, nobody saw it."  [more]
Shelter
Alan Heathcock
"The fresh air turbine slowly spun, scraps of pale dawn light flashing through the blades and trickling down into the storm shelter. Mazzy Ottestad pulled the covers to her little sisterís chin. She brushed the hair from Ava Lynnís face, watched the girlís eyes flit beneath their lids. Then Ava Lynn shifted and Mazzy carefully rolled off the bunk. Sleep had been elusive since Mazzy had been called home from the Army, just after the last storm, but night after night she lay beside her sister because the girl said she couldnít sleep without her there."  [more]
Where We Went and What We Did There
JR Fenn
Winner, 2013 Gulf Coast Prize in Nonfiction

"We come to find something and we donít know what it is. We leave you behind in the places we come from. We leave you in your glossy cars that trickle through hive cities wrapped in smog. We leave you in suburbs that spill in viral tracts across the farmland. We leave you lost in cavernous stores and recycled air. We leave you confused about where we have gone."  [more]
Fugue for the Sky Burial of Your Father
M.K. Foster
Winner, 2013 Gulf Coast Prize in Poetry

"Because he lived above the tree line, they could not / burn him. They could not / bury him because the ground would not break. So they / stitched him into his bedclothes, / carried him up the mountain, and let the bodybreakers / do the rest, let them / carve arm from arm from torso from arm from torso from / leg and leg and / leave the rest intact..."  [more]
Power and Light
Alexander Lumans
Winner, 2013 Gulf Coast Prize in Fiction

"Iíve seen too many other folks hold on to their dead for weeks after, years even. They keep a seat for them at the table; they ask them to pass the butter. They never let go. I refused to go on that way: my hands grabbing the shirttails of Daddyís spirit so he wonít leave us. He is dead and that is that. What he left behind is a bunch of honeybees. I have the uncommon sense that they will swell, and spread, and cover this land, and outlive us all."  [more]
Gulf Coast: A Journal of Literature and Fine Arts Centerforward Web Services Squidz Ink Design