FFR № 139
Fowl Feathered Review
Issue № 139: A Disorderly Quarterly (or Perhaps a Quarterly with Ambitions of Becoming a Daily)
Dear Esteemed Readers of the Fowl Feathered Review,
It is with a blend of erudition, originality, and a spark of mischief that I address you today, as the thirteenth editor (or perhaps the thirty-eighth, depending on how one counts the revolving door of our editorial staff) of this most peculiar publication. Issue 139 of the Fowl Feathered Review arrives in your hands—or, if you are wise, at a safe distance from your person—with the weight of meticulous attention to detail, intellectual integrity, and the courage to defy the very conventions of what a "quarterly" ought to be. Indeed, we have long since abandoned the pretense of adhering to a mere four issues per annum. To call this a quarterly is to engage in a form of literary subterfuge, a delightful deception that we hope you will forgive, if not outright celebrate.
Within these pages, you will find poetry that sings with the clarity of a lark at dawn and the dissonance of a rooster crowing at midnight; short stories that weave narratives as intricate as the feathers of a peacock's tail; and humorous criticism that, while occasionally biting, is always delivered with the affection of a hen clucking over her brood. The artwork, as always, is nothing short of devastatingly beautiful—each piece a testament to the boundless creativity of the human (and occasionally avian) spirit.
However, I must, in the interest of intellectual integrity and formidable forensic skills, issue a word of caution: this issue contains tree nuts, radiation, and scurvy. Yes, you read that correctly. The tree nuts are a result of an experimental collaboration with a particularly enterprising squirrel poet; the radiation is a byproduct of our decision to include a short story set in a post-apocalyptic chicken coop (a decision we stand by, despite the glowing feathers it has produced in our editorial offices); and the scurvy, well, that is a mystery we are still attempting to solve, though we suspect it may have something to do with the inclusion of a limerick about a pirate parrot. Proceed with caution, dear readers, and perhaps keep a glass of orange juice and a Geiger counter nearby.
As always, we invite you to engage with the Fowl Feathered Review not merely as passive consumers of art, but as active participants in the grand, disorderly conversation that is literature. Write to us, critique us, send us your own feathered fancies—we are, after all, a publication that thrives on the chaos of collaboration.
In closing, I leave you with a quote from one of our contributors, a wise old owl who once mused, "To read is to fly, but to read the Fowl Feathered Review is to soar through the clouds on wings of whimsy and wisdom." May this issue inspire you to take flight, even if you must do so while dodging tree nuts and shielding yourself from radiation.
LINK:
Yours in literary chaos,
Virgil Kay
Editor Rooster, China Wok Habitué
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