What is Watershed Review?
Watershed Review is CSU, Chico’s literary magazine, publishing poetry, fiction, creative nonfiction and art from a national pool of writers and artists. It is edited by students in English 415 (Literary Editing), a course that gives students in-depth study of literary publications and hands-on experience with the editorial process. Watershed Review, one of the oldest, continuously-published, student-edited literary magazines in the nation, is sponsored by the English Department at CSU, Chico and Instructionally Related Activities, funded by Student Activities fees.
The Spring 2013 edition can be found at http://www.csuchico.edu/watershed/2013-spring/.
To read more about Watershed Review’s history and current literary events visit our blog at http://watershedcsuc.wordpress.com/.
Follow us on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/pages/Watershed-Review/.
Watershed Review is open for submissions in the spring (February 1st-March 31st) and fall (August 1st-September 30th). To submit to Watershed Review visit this link: https://watershedreview.submittable.com/submit.
by Bob Garner
They were afraid of the deserted anthill. The way it
sat there, twelve-hands-high. The ghost of so much
busyness, afraid of the shadow it cast.
But they couldn't level it. That would be hubris. So
they left it in the middle of the world and planted grass
around it, a sea of dichondra—little tight dark green
cloverlike leaves, growing slowly
close to the ground.
by Elizabyth Hiscox
i. How you found your name:
Tracing the subtle, staccato sound
to sumi-ink dreamed peaks of Japan.
Slopes that scraped to heights. Climbing past
haiku-filled forests of thin-lined pines.
ii. How I found your name:
Tracing the gorgeous, supple lines of you,
fingering the delves:
our American sonnet. Rolling in the
watercolored swath grassland:
fertile and low,
spreading fresh in the shade of lone black oaks.
iii. How I've lost your name:
Thick sweat of syllables
in my mouth.
Unable to splay the rich vowels, catch
consonants quick and salty on my tongue.
I cannot climb past.
Having breathed too deep of lows and highs,
vibratoed hills, silent trees I cannot find the air.
by John Pierce
Pa pointed his finger at me as though he were telling God where to strike.
I was fourteen, and starting high school in a week. I didn't particularly
like being told what to do, but I did it anyway, though not always in a way
that Pa found completely satisfying.
"Football?" I said, without much enthusiasm.
Pa slapped me to get my attention. He spoke with a hoarse, scratchy
"You better think," He stabbed his finger at me, "before you answer."
I touched my burning face,
"When does it start?" I asked.
Pa smiled. "Tha's a good boy." He reached over and knuckled my skull.
"You're gunna to make me proud, son."
I didn't see how knocking people down could be anything to brag about. Pa
pulled out a tin of Copenhagen and put a dip of tobacco in his lower lip.
He turned away like he was done talking for the day.