The Blog

Highbrowse: always have something to read

TIR staff

So long, boring bus rides to work—and welcome, Highbrowse!

Highbrowse—highbrow.se—is a brilliant new website that aggregates writing (poems, stories, essays, interviews, book reviews) freely available on the websites of literary periodicals like The Iowa Review, The New Yorker, Witness, Ninth Letter, Los Angeles Review of Books, Poets & Writers, Virginia Quarterly, Bookforum, The American Scholar (and lots more), presenting the titles in an easy-to-scan format, including—get this—the approximate time it'll take you to read each piece.

And each title links back to the original website where the text is posted, directing much-needed traffic to litmag websites.

Online submission app unaffected by Heartbleed

TIR staff

Have no fear, TIR submitters! Our online submission application was not affected by the Heartbleed bug. Your credit card information is safe.

Submittable, the company that runs our submission system, has issued the following statement:

The Heartbleed bug is a very serious exploit and it affects a very large number of sites—big and small. Fortunately, Submittable's systems do not use OpenSSL, so we were unaffected by the Heartbleed bug. SSL connections to Submittable services were never at risk of being compromised.

Please note that just because Submittable was unaffected does not mean that your password is not at risk. If you used the same password on any other sites that were affected by the bug, then you probably want to take the extra precaution of changing that password on every site it was used.

Allison Seay's TO SEE THE QUEEN

Nick Ripatrazone

In Liliana, the first section of Allison Seay's debut collection To See the Queen, the word “figment” appears enough to create a recursive rhythm. Typically appended to “of the imagination,” the word feels lost without the phrase, and is thus perfect fodder for poetry. Seay’s figment is malleable. It is first Liliana, but a ghost-self, something to be seen only if “I am still enough.” That figment “vanishes, / as God does,” but “returns in a different form — / this time as an avalanche, a ledge of snow, slipping / from the roof of a warehouse into / even more snow.” The narrator will tell this figment, this woman, this God that “slipping off / into some indistinguishable state” is “one way of living.” To live as a figment is to be without fixed form.

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