by Allie Burke
Its been at least twelve hours since I read the last page of this book, and I’m still reeling. This novel is like when you lose your grasp on reality for just a moment and you have to ask yourself what the fuck just happened. It’s a mindfuck for sure. I still haven’t figured out the ending – I heard from other readers the ending was like WTF – but I wasn’t expecting that. You’re so focused on the big reveal during the whole thing that Mann pulls a fast one on you with what seems like no effort at all; it is so seamless. I still don’t quite understand what happened. I considered asking the author myself since she is a personal friend of mine, but truth be told I’m kind of embarrassed that I don’t have it figured out yet. I’ll get it I’m sure, even if I have to read it again.
Continue reading Prisoned by Marni Mann
by Grace Carpenter
He sits in front of her like some kind of Buddha, legs folded on the carpet, slightly protruding belly just visible through the folds of his loose shirt. She’s fond of that belly, the way it jiggles happily when he laughs and bounces around when he runs shirtless, jumping off cliffs or chasing her with a feather duster. His belly is playful and free. She needs that.
Continue reading Takeout
It has been exactly one year since I made my dream of having an expressive outlet that still cared about the quality of literary writing into a reality, and The OCH Literary Society is still my most celebrated accomplishment, to date.
Continue reading Happy Anniversary: The OCH Magazine Celebrates One Year as The Society
My reality is destroyed.
It’s never been this bad. I didn’t even know it could get this bad. I commented on a post on Facebook earlier today, just to look back at it later and wonder if it was even me who had commented. If it was me, how the hell did I do it? How could I? I feel so crazy, I have no idea how I even still know how to use my phone to post on Facebook, how I carried on that conversation I did for twenty-three seconds, how I even know my name. Surely this isn’t typical. Are there others around pretending to be normal every second of every day as they wither away inside? Or do they just embrace the insanity for what it is?
Continue reading Dear Diary, Reality