The Literary Wasteland

Lately I’ve been scouring magazines and small presses in an attempt to find somewhere to unloose the stories that run rampant through the drafty places in my mind. As a result, I’ve seen so many lit mags, all filled with the same pretentious, liberal poppycock, who all think that they are so edgy, so cutting edge, so relevant. This experience has been almost surreal, because if there is anything LESS relevant, less true, and less novel, than the establishment progressive cauldron of poison, I don’t know what it is. These brave, brave warriors have missed the fact that they are the mainstream. They control the news. They control the government. They control mainline churches, even. And still they play at being heroes, imagining that there is still some edge left in their tired hate. It’s still 1965 to them.

Here is an example of the most ridiculous small press that I found, the one that prompted this outflowing: Wild Embers.

There is nothing new here, but it has been a while since I have run into this particular axis of progressivism: Indian anti-white hate. Yum, yum. Can you taste the futility?

My geez. I really wish that progressives would just grow up and stop fighting reality, stop fighting history, and just move on. Of course doing that means evaluating where they are at and understanding what works and what doesn’t work. Why do that when you can play intellectual games, wonder about stupid revenge alternate histories, and bemoan your lack of pay as a college teacher of feminist studies, and other brainless things?

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