Dear Lonely Riot Writers and Readers, March 5th, 2018. 12:07 pm. We consider our magazine defunct. We want to apologize especially to those writers who’ve submitted to us. Our wait this past year was long and very long, while we attempted to organize. We believe we’ve addressed by email all the incredibly saintly patient submissions we were waiting on. Again, apologies for the intense waiting period. We shutter this fun little project for the reason of lack of editors. It’s difficult to go through an open submission process with only a few hands on deck, and rather than trying to [Read more]
We’re taking the holidays off, and will be back with you all in February next year. Don’t get too antsy without our stories; enjoy! -ALR Crew
Yeah, mincemeat, and he had about ten kilograms of it. He couldn’t very well eat it all and he didn’t know what to do with it. And he didn’t know how he came by it either.
At times she puts away her age
as if vengeful for time’s waning
She recovers the stitch and keeps knitting. Despite her comment, she sings two bars from the Happy Days theme. “Sunday, Monday, Happy Days. Tuesday, Wednesday, Happy Days.” She puts down her knitting, “It’s Wednesday,” she remembers. “We have to attend the hangings.”
For months I led Victor Frankenstein on a mad chase, from Switzerland to Italy to Russia to the Arctic Ocean. Then a storm separated us and, in the distance, I watched a passing ship rescue my creator and leave me for dead.
Look out, November! We’re coming for you.
Alas! We’re juggling editors right now. We’ve got to announce a leave of absence of unknown length… great apologies! We’ve contacted all our writers we’re capable of contacting, and we appreciate you fellow readers who’ve come aboard with us. We’ll let you know when we come back into it, which we’re hoping we will, and will be later this year. Thanks again! ALR Eds.
The day is so hot the sky itself might be melting when the girl and her father meet at the outdoor table of the tacky beachside restaurant three minutes off Greenwood Lake Turnpike. It’s a Tuesday, late in the evening but still a long way from sunset. She twists at the stem of the headless sunflower, the top of it left carelessly on the table beside the empty plastic vase. He fiddles with the corner of where the label meets on a bottle of Yuengling.
“So,” she says.
He waits. She adds nothing. The strap of her white sundress slides off her shoulder, and goes ignored.
“So,” he says. “It’s been a long time.”
People are looking at us.
Seema’s face was at the window, ten year old eyes surveying the world, button nose squashed against the tinted glass.
They’re not looking at us, honey. They’re looking at the car.