Some nights I dream that I cut off my left arm for the children's dinner and roast it for hours like a succulent leg of lamb, basting it with a thick gravy of my own blood, the house redolent with its sweet baking. I'm not usually inclined to thoughts as melodramatic as that, but the war itself is melodrama and all of us feel the strain. My husband, gone over a year now, was drafted by the bullies of the Revolutionary Militia and my eldest son, Lofe, only fifteen, joined shortly thereafter because, I fear, he liked the look of the uniforms. Families, I've heard, have resorted to eating their house pets, something we don't have, fortunately, and a number of children have run away because, apparently, they felt they'd find better elsewhere.

  - Ron Tanner

Fall Issue, 1998

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The Literary Review: An International Journal of Contemporary Writing has been published quarterly by Fairleigh Dickinson University since 1957. Its many special issues have introduced new fiction, poetry, and essays from many nations, regions, or languages to English readers. Issues focus on such topics as contemporary Portugese literature, Iranian exiles, the Jewish diaspora, North African authors, and Russian women writers. Works from issues devoted to writing in English have won awards and been reprinted in many collections.

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