Issue 146

Summer & Fall 2014

  • Issue 146 opens with Brian Bouldrey's beautiful and devastating video essay "Dead Christ." Hans Holbein’s painting The Body of the Dead Christ in the Tomb (a detail of which also serves as the issue’s cover art) acts as a gateway for Bouldrey to explore death and grief, pain and suffering, love and hope. “You out there, watching with me, hear me in the dark, and remind me I’m alive,” Bouldrey says.

    If there’s a unifying theme for Issue 146 it’s that pulsing desire to be heard in the dark. The fiction, nonfiction, and poetry in this issue are provocative and gut-wrenching, illuminating the trappings of existence in unique ways. Mystery, pain, grief, joy, love, hope abound.

    Wherever you’re reading Issue 146, whether in bed or beside a stranger on the train, when you’re finished and you've exhaled, allow whoever’s near to wonder where you’ve been and how you’ve changed—come alive—after TriQuarterly.

    Cheers,
    Adrienne Gunn
    Managing Editor: Adrienne Gunn
    Assistant Managing Editor: Noelle Havens
    Faculty Advisor: Susan Harris
    Literary Editor: S.L. Wisenberg
    Director of Planning: Reginald Gibbons
    Film Editor: John Bresland
    Fiction Editors: Carrie Muehle, Dan Schuld, Ankur Thakkar, Stephanie Tran
    Nonfiction Editor: Karen Zemanick
    Poetry Editor: C. Russell Price
    Social Media Editor: Ankur Thakkar
    Copy Editor: Lys Ann Weiss
    Media Architect: Harlan Wallach
    Technical Advisors: Alex Miner, Rodolfo Vieira, Nick Gertonson
    Undergraduate Intern: Brooke Wanser


    Staff: Ahsan Awan, Rebecca Bald, Jen Companik, Jim Davis, Jennifer Deeter, JL Deher-Lesaint, Aaron DeLee, Jesse Eagle, Jeshua Enriquez, Dan Fliegel, Dane Hamann, Ish Harris-Wolff, Beth Herbert, Alex Higley, Martha Holloway, Barbara Tsai Jones, Katharine Kruse, Jen Lawrence, Adam Lizakowski, Robin Morrissey, Marina Mularz, Troy Parks, Amber Peckham, Miyako Pleines, Lydia Pudzianowski, Nate Renie, Mark Rentfro, Paula Root, Caitlin Sellnow, Michi Smith, Megan Sullivan, Adam Talaski, Myra Thompson, Ted Wesenberg, Carol Zsolnay

Image from Dead Christ

Nonfiction David Bradley Nonfiction David Bradley

Eulogy for Nigger

DETROIT. Hundreds of onlookers cheered… as the National Association of Colored People put to rest a long-standing expression of racism by holding a public burial for the N-word . . . Two Percheron horses pulled a pine box adorned with . . . a black ribbon printed with a derivation of the word. The coffin is to be placed at historically black Detroit Memorial Park Cemetery. —Associated Press, July 9, 2007

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Nonfiction Jaquira Díaz Nonfiction Jaquira Díaz

Reflections, While Sitting in Traffic

How I remember your voice on the phone but not the last thing I said to you, the last thing you said to me, how I didn’t leave my husband, how I went back to Miami last summer and was having tostones at La Granja when I saw your brother sitting there having pollo con papas, how he didn’t even recognize me, how he looked older, like a man with a job, how you would be proud to see this man, to know him…

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Nonfiction Kent Meyers Nonfiction Kent Meyers

The Western Uncanny

Let us say you are walking near a wetland where red-winged blackbirds nest. You are absorbed in conversation, in a human and social world. Then, over your head and just behind it, the air creases and rips. How do you know—before you even know—to duck, to avoid?

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Nonfiction David Lazar Nonfiction David Lazar

Who’s Afraid of Helen of Troy

If I hear you once more say the word love, I’ll take the imaginary child, his hair gleaming on my shield, or reflected in your Subaru’s window, and present him on a platinum platter for the Cyclops to devour for the world’s amusement. This is commensurate with the nature of my powers and the natural state of a healthy relationship, not to mention the good of the polity.

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Nonfiction Paula Carter Nonfiction Paula Carter

Ictalurus Punctatus

The mouth alone must be over a foot wide, and the fan-like tail is kicking up mud some four feet away. My father says no, it is only three feet. He was a chemist and is careful with his measurements. Still, those whiskers, tangling with the sedge along the shallow banks of the Hennepin Canal, I half expect to turn into whips.

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