Amanda Bales, Fiction Editor (issues 8-16)


A girl stands at a chain link fence. She is five years old, maybe six. Her small hands curl around the thin wire. Beyond the fence, wheat fields span to an unbroken horizon. It begins to rain. Her mother calls her inside. 
Does the world need more umbrellas? If quantity is the only consideration, no. But what if someone made umbrellas so beautiful and stout they would be passed to future generations and become something more than an umbrella? What if the umbrellas became a symbol? A symbol of people who thought of something greater than a moment, greater than a time, greater than themselves.  
In certain ways, our journal, even if turned to ink and paper, will probably never pass to future generations. But language—if only a single, well-turned phrase or finely-wrought image—changes how we view the world, and this is something that does become greater than a moment, greater than a time, greater than ourselves.
Does the world need another literary journal? If quantity is the only consideration, no. But twisted and terrifying and abused and abusive words fall over all of us. It is a storm that has battered each generation; a storm that will batter all future generations. We need the strongest umbrellas we can build. We must build them from our best language. We need as many as we can possibly construct. 
A girl stands at a chain link fence. Her small hands curl around the thin wire. She is five years old, maybe six. It begins to rain. Her mother calls her inside. On her bed lays a book. Her horizon fractures. 


Welcome to The Umbrella Factory.