-ality is a fiction journal hoping to explore, through prose, the complexity of the many simple words that define human experience: reality, sexuality, spirituality, equality, and so forth. Henry Moore said, "A sculptor is a person who is interested in the shape of things, a poet in words, a musician by sounds." By extension, -ality is interested in the shape of language where it intersects life.
As a biannual online publication, we are simultaneously freed from the constraints of paper and limited by the digital interface we have. -ality was designed for traditional prose. However, special accommodations can be made should exemplary experimental forms necessitate it. The technology is there.
-ality's Fall reading period is September 1st through December 15th. The winter reading period starts February 1st and closes April 15th. For submission guidelines, please see the About link above. We don't have any contests available at this time, though some are planned for the future.
by Anne Posten
We met last night at a Cambridge birthday party. It is the sixties, the air hot, my hair blonde and headbanded as I stand quietly against the wall next to the record player. I wear a sweater, you stand close to me, your body at right angles to mine drinking (gratuitously) a brandy and talking about your hatred of late Schoenberg. In this life I would have known then, but in that life I didn’t, and later that night our backs velvet together like two halves of a ring case.
None of your friends like me. I think they are pompous. They think I am a naive, hysterical woman, they dismiss my recitations of poetry and smirk pityingly when you whirl me around the room: what use is a woman who trips over her petticoats? I assume we are in Vienna at the turn of the nineteenth century; perhaps you are Beethoven. Then you take your clothes off and sit naked on the couch, and I grow confused. When did your hair get so long?
Our children are always hungry. There are ten or twelve, all named Mary or Michael after the saints, except for Rosie, who is not. They cry constantly from the damp and hunger, sounding like sparrows that have become trapped inside a wall. It never stops raining, no food grows in our garden, and my mother is dead. When I look at your black hair, or your faraway eyes when you lean against a stone wall to rest, I can tell that you love me, although I have never heard you say the word. Of all the stories I think this is my favor... more