The Spring 2008 issue of cream city review is now available at booksellers across the nation or, preferably, by direct subscription of single issue order. Click here to order. This 236-page volume has been completely redesigned with new fonts, page gutter iconography and features sixteen pages of original comics by European artists. As always, cream city review is perfect bound, printed on high-quality paper stock with full-color internal artwork and a durable cover.

The new issue features the work of local artist A. Bill Miller, poetry from Jennifer Perrine and Terita Heath-Wlaz, fiction by Andrew Mortazavi and Trudy Lewis, nonfiction by Derek Mong and an interview with Pam Houston. Check back here or subscribe to our feed for a regular stream of excerpts from this and other issues.

Annual Literary Prize Winners

Thanks to the hard work of our judges, Michael Martone, A. Manette Ansay and Josh Bell, we are please to announce the winners of our Annual Literary Prizes:

The winner of the A. David Schwartz Fiction Prize is Jeff P. Jones for “The Night the Winter Palace Was Taken”.

The winner of the David B. Saunders Prize for Creative Nonfiction is Anne Kornblatt for “The Writer of the Body”.

The winner of the Beau Boudreaux Poetry Prize is Sara Wallace for “You”.

In addition to our generous sponsors, the Beau Boudreaux Foundation, Harry W. Schwartz Bookshops and Carol Grossmeyer, and the family of David B. Saunders, we’d like to thank all of the writers who submitted their work for consideration in our 2008 Annual Literary Prize competition. This is the first year we offered the $1,000 prize level and an issue to everyone submitting the full entrance fee.

Check back soon or subscribe to our feed for announcements of the judges for the 2009 Annual Literary Prize Competition and the focus (formerly “theme”) of our fall reading period.

Fall 2007, Volume 31, Number 2

Jacob lay on the forest floor with something broken inside him. When he tried to sit up, his pelvis shifted and released a moist popping sound, filled with pain, so he kept still, listening to the wind whisper through the trees and scatter the last leaves from their branches.

At first he felt cold. Then a hot ache spread from his middle and leaked all the way to his fingertips. He imagined himself lying there, how he would look to whoever found him. With his white hair and rheumy eyes, with his soft belly, his bowed legs, with his liver-spotted skin and the veins beneath it looking like the burned-out filaments of a light bulb, he decided he would look exactly like a stupid old man who had fallen out of a tree.
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