Contributors

Lauren Green

Contributor History

Mona Sparrow, Conjunctions:71

Biography

Lauren Green is an MFA candidate in Fiction and Poetry at UT Austin’s Michener Center for Writers. She is the recipient of Columbia University’s Louis Sudler Prize in the Arts, as well as Glimmer Train’s New Writer Award.

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In Print

Conjunctions:82

Works & Days

Spring 2024
Bradford Morrow

Online

Alligator

by David Ryan

August 21, 2024

I made sandwiches with the bresaola from the antipasto the afternoon before and some of the gouda I'd cut thinner from the cubes. I tried to feed the boy some of the gouda and a little bread, but he wouldn't have any. I suspected it was the traces of vinegar, they clashed with the white bread—it was all we had—or maybe it was just an odd new combination of flavors he didn't understand yet. But what was left over would likely get lost in the refrigerator where things were perpetually being pushed back behind more saved food, this striated order of aging and forgetting—food saved until eating what was left at the far back was unwise. Like memory, the economy of our minds repressing one moment for the next and leaving the past like a set of traps that might go off at any moment.

Farewell to the Damned

by Marcus Spiegel

August 14, 2024

Maybe the Leather Skulls were no longer the titans of the death metal scene they used to be in the late eighties. Were they titans then? They had a following, a snug cult of enthusiasts. Their admirers were scarcer now, sure, but as they circled the continent on their latest comeback tour in honor of their eleventh album, The Devils He Casteth Out, the band could still fill bars and small ornate theaters with diehards—haggard bikers and their biker wives, with jazzed up hair and fatal shades of lipstick. The concerts were like nostalgia galas, reenactments of the past. One more spin on the crazy train.

Measuring the Goat and Other Poems

by Jo Wallace

August 7, 2024

A trench of barkless trees. Slim black sweater
arched like a claw. Thimbles of the heart and spine
overflown. The halfway trucks, the drivers inside
dislodge wax from their bodies to the tune of a pulverizing
sun streak. Up toward Ohio, geometry for the pupils
to control light. I treat the shoulder as range,