“. . . there used to be front porches. And people sat there sometimes at night, talking when they wanted to talk, rocking, and not talking when they didn't want to talk. Sometimes they just sat there and thought about things, turned things over. . . the real reason, hidden underneath, might be they didn't want people sitting like that, doing nothing, rocking, talking; that was the wrong kind of social life. People talked too much. And they had time to think. So they ran off with the porches.”

—From Fahrenheit 451 by Ray Bradbury

Front Porch is a collaborative effort by students in the MFA program at Texas State University. We want to read and share stories, poems, and essays that we haven’t heard, or have yet to be told. We want to think. And we want you to join us.

Our issue 7 is out and encompasses the entire site you see before you. From fiction to book reviews to poetry to nonfiction, Front Porch features an impressive array of emerging and established authors. We will continue to include audio and video file interviews and Q&As drawn from our extensive list of visiting writers.

Front Porch Staff Reminisces

“Many things happened on my childhood front porch. Once, my mother threw a can of soda from it. I was playing by the garden and the can hit my forehead with incredible (perhaps mysterious) accuracy. Also from this porch, my parents watched as my best friend and I successfully created a zip-line between the yard’s two trees. It was on this porch where I tried caring for three newly hatched birds that had fallen from their nest. The birds, which smelled like baby rabbits, died while I swam in the backyard pool. The porch also served as a stage on which my father unveiled a robot he had made for me. Built out of sheetrock, a few boards and a lunch box, the robot couldn’t talk or move (to my disappointment) but nevertheless managed to entertain my pursuit of world domination.”

— Ben Engel, Managing Editor

“I am on my hands and knees, the sweet and sour scent of water sealant pulling at my nosehairs. This wood is thirsty and I apply another coat. Somewhere in the recesses of my brain, an airborne chemical of this sealant—too complex for description, but there are a few Carbons and a Gallium in there—will lodge and form a little nest, venturing out amongst the dendrites, watching the lightning show across synapses. It will be fruitful and multiply, and one of the newly formed multitude—call him Jeff—will be brash and leap out into the chasm. Legend will surround Jeff for the minutes to come, as the colony grows and dies from outside pressure and infighting. None venture out to see what has become of him: he sits permanently lodged in a neuro-receptor, waving at the wonders of my brain, forcing me to relive this memory of wood and clear, pungent water seal wafting up into the green trees and the white sun.”

— John Leslie, Fiction Editor

“Once when I was young, my mother and I returned home one evening to our empty house. As we were walking up the porch, nearing the door, something stood out. It was a giant pool of blood. Not quite knowing how to react, my mother unlocked the door, grabbed the cordless phone, and ran back out on the porch. (Apparently, this is the appropriate place to stand if either a blood-stained killer is inside the house or a half-animal, half-monster is somewhere in the darkened yard.) I ran inside to grab a knife out of my bedside drawer and joined her on the lamp-lit patio. We tried looking in all directions at once. The police came and searched the closets for us, but after that I only remember something about ‘a deer’ and ‘needing help’ and ‘probably.’”

— Trey Moody, Poetry Editor

“My childhood home didn’t have a front porch, but my grandparents did.  When visiting, the adults spent most of the time above the porch while I spent much of my time underneath it, searching for toads, salamanders and snakes, much to my mother’s dismay. I usually came out from under the porch with something slithering in my hands, my body covered in deer ticks. I had to be hosed down often.”

— Billie Bernard, Nonfiction Editor

“My parents kept a faux-wood bench of shiny, almost metallic white planks on our bricked front porch. It came from a catalogue. I kissed a girl for the first time on that bench, inexcusably old for such a thing. My college acceptance letter was too big to fit through the brass mail slot in our front door, so it dreamed in manila-envelope sleep on the white seat, breathing with the wind, waiting for me to return from wrestling practice. Now when I visit my parents, the bench is dressed in dust or pieces of mulch from the lawn service, or dead moths, and over the years—completely independent of the bench—I’ve developed an aversion to the cool, slick feeling of the planks against my legs and arms, the stickiness even when it’s not sticky. Is anything quite so clean and fresh as we’re able to remember?”

— Adam Pedowitz, Book Editor

“The front porch of my house growing up is the sole factor in my not being a professional skateboarder. I lived on a caliche rock road half an hour’s drive from the nearest town, and the closest slab of concrete—aside from our porch—was the Baptist church parking lot two miles away. Except for the rare occasion when my dad would take me to the church, I spent most of my time rolling back and forth across the length of the house. Once, I got brave and tried to ollie off the edge of the porch and subsequently, broke my ankle.”

— Jared Walls, Copy Editor

“When I was a child still living in Kansas, I would lean against the wooden rail of my porch with its peeling, brown paint. All around me, things came and went. The pears off of our pear tree. The robins that nested in it. Their little blue eggs that would become broken shells in the grass. The carcass of a blue jay being whittled away by ants. The lightning bugs. The wind against my face. The planes overhead. The drying, cracking porch itself. I knew I too had come and would go, and there was peace in accepting the certainty of impermanence.”

— Urania Fung, Webmaster

“Our Kansas house was picked up by a petite tornado. I was nine years old and in the bathtub. You see, this tornado was hardly strong enough to shatter a home, so it just spun the house around to where, what once was our back porch became our front. My bath water was still warm and, from that point on, our front door faced the alley.”

— Katie Angermeier, Public Relations

Managing Editor
Ben Engel

Fiction Editor
John Leslie

Poetry Editor
Trey Moody

Nonfiction Editor
Billie Bernard

Book Editor
Adam Pedowitz

Copy Editors
Ben Engel
Jared Walls

Webmaster
Urania Fung

Readers
Katie Angermeier
Sarah Colvert
Sarah Morrison
AJ Ortega
Kristy Peloquin
Rene Perez
Jessica Talamantez
Colin Tangeman

Faculty Advisor
Roger Jones

Founding Editors
Michael Hart
Evelyn Lauer
Josh Magnuson
Toby Peterson
Michael Wolfe

ISSN#1936-7716