Les Kay

Editor's Note

And at last, we're back. Back to bring you a virtual smorgasbord of literary delights.

But where have we been? As I've contemplated this short note, I've been sorely tempted to weave intricately fraudulent claims of tragedy and woe—to embroider the facts with fictive drama fit for a daytime talk show. Yes, I did lose a laptop (who doesn't?); at one point the computer actually released a tiny plume of smoke that filled my office with the scent of burning plastic, but nothing exploded, and we've yet to lose any data other than my favorite font. Yes, our dog Dixie currently hobbles about the yard, often keeping an injured front paw aloft, but we'll take her to the vet on Tuesday, and in all likelihood, we'll discover that she has nothing more than a sprained foot. And yes, our fiction editor has fallen ill; a recent weather shift has left her sniffling with minor allergies.

Clearly nothing has transpired in our lives to account for the delay in this issue's arrival, yet for a moment, if you'll allow me, I'd like to succumb to that narrative impulse and embroider a few facts with a semblance of the truth:

As a child, more precocious than most, I never read typical children's fare. Fiction and poetry arrived much later in life. Instead, I poured over history and science. I subscribed to magazines like Scientific American before puberty arrived. I imagined myself as a scientist. Once, I even cornered my best friend in the courtyard of the apartment complex where I grew up, near the swing set, and lectured him on the import of receiving good grades, so we could one day become scientists, like Dr. Moreau.

(In this issue, you'll find a couple of invocations of childhood, which are both touching and funny, and far more vivid than the paragraph above. Both J.C. Lee's story "What's So Funny?" and Kyle Torke's memoir "The Band Played" use humor to deftly evoke portions of that vast reserve of experience we all share.)

Although life's peculiar wending took me away from notions of laboratories percolating with rainbow-hued potions, aspects of that goal remain. I still have maintained a penchant for experimenting—with words—and still consider my task, however untenable it may be, as a search for something resembling truth.

(If you’re interested in experiments of the literary variety, take a few moments to consider Adam Engel's "Garden Sale Bazaar" and Nathan Leslie's "Ars Prosetica"—both of which explore the boundaries of our classification systems by blending poetry and prose to stunning effect.)

And last winter, as I sought warmth in an extended shower, I had an epiphany: it would be pleasant to be rightfully called "Dr. Kay" one day. I would love to continue my studies, to earn a PhD. On a whim, I spoke to Michelle about it, expecting her to veto the idea, out of hand, as implausible.

(For explorations of the implausible, see Kane X. Faucher's story "The Stairwell of Mequitzli," which echoes both Borges and H.P. Lovecraft in a sort of archeology of the fantastic, as well as F.J. Bergmann's "The Motionless Poem" and Michael Estabrook's "Baby Elephant," which both explore impossibilities made lovely through their fine craftsmanship.)

But she didn't. She encouraged me. Perhaps vestiges of those precocious childhood moments remain. Consequently, since that realization, I've devoted a great deal of time (time normally spent editing) making preparations for graduate school applications. I'm applying for 2008 matriculation.

And that, of course, is the narrative of my excuse. Our fiction editor would, no doubt, see these last few months differently. Nevertheless, the fact remains—it's just an excuse.

And now, there is poetry, fiction, and nonfiction to savor. So from our tiny island, we bid you: enjoy.