Based out of the University of San Diego, The Alcalá Review was founded in 2015 as an online journal to publish winners of the annual Cropper Creative Writing Contest. Since then, we have expanded into an annual, full-print issue. Conceived as equal parts platform and workshop, The Alcalá Review is staffed entirely by students. While the artistic vision of each editorial board may differ, we are always committed to the personal growth of our readers and contributors, as well as to the publication of original perspectives from a diversity of voices.
Join us for our in person Publishing Party on Thursday, May 12, at 6:00 p.m. to celebrate the release of Volume 7 of The Alcalá Review. The event will feature selections from the journal read by contributors. Urbane Cafe and ShareTea provided. Copies of Volume 7 will be available for sale online here as well as in person during the event.
All are welcome to attend.
by Olivia Sutton
How soft and silent slush n’ sleet blanket, How life breathes warmth to thaw all frozen hearts; How fierce she scorches — redens her ambit, How yielding are rustlings, how the wind smarts. She pleaseth our dreams with wondrous white, Her viridescent ladies heaven bound; She blesses crashing waves and bright daylight, Her fragile feuilles as fire scattered around. Lately, m’lady has been betrayed by man. Her salty tears flooding her cheeky shores, As her hair’s a-flare, her dry skin crackan’, And her children distract themselves with wars. Act not, stand not, see nought, ignore, and soon, Thou shall not dare deny destined doom.
Graduating class of 2023, Olivia Sutton is the Editor-in-Chief of the Alcalá Review. This piece was submitted for the Alcalá Review’s Fall 2020 Semester Staff-Produced Original Content.
by Olivia Hunt
A masked nurse prods a six- inch swab up, up my nasal cavity. I try to focus on her elbow, it’s still— then moves in measured, tiny circles, tickling loosening, I’m sure, some brain matter. Then my mind goes to the summer rental— I lie back, watching the endless scroll of clouds and seabirds, my six-year-old brother packs sand into my ankles. Are you turning me into a mermaid? He lets out a long sigh, No. It’s a sarcophagus. As the sun sets, my throat cracks like clay. My chest sinks lower and lower into the shore. My nurse wears the mask of Anubis now, she draws out her hook— the last thing I tasted was salt.
Graduating class of 2021, Olivia Hunt was the 2020-2021 Poetry Editor of the Alcalá Review. This piece was submitted for the Alcalá Review’s Fall 2020 Semester Staff-Produced Original Content.