Madcap Review

Letter from the Editor

Memory is tricky. I’ve read accounts of people who claim to remember their first weeks outside the womb. Those tumultuous stretches of intense light, constant fondling, and cascading sound. I don’t recall this time in my life, nor the next few years to follow. It wasn’t until I turned five, in fact, that a single memory sticks with me. It was the year my dad took me and my infant sister to Vegas; one of those bizarre outliers in the midst of a fairly mundane parent-child relationship. I remember everything about that trip: wetting my pants on the way to the airport, the toy I brought with me, the hotel we stayed in, learning to trap soda in my straw. From that point my life is traceable. I remember old friends, teachers as nemeses, teachers as heroes. I remember my first crush, my first kiss, my first bike ride. But from my infancy to age four hangs an impenetrable haze hiding normalcy, or trauma, or something somewhere between.

This is our fourth issue of Madcap, and our third year of existence. You won’t need to rely on memory. Our content is archived neatly under simple headings. Nothing hidden. Very little about us unknown.

In this issue our fiction delves into strangeness, into lives beneath bleachers, into dream states. Our poems explore our bodies, our relationships, our fragility, and our power. Our nonfiction wings from dramatized nostalgia to trauma and rebirth. Our art is playful, is dark humored, is polished, is raw.

We’re no longer at the point of pre-memory. You’ll remember us, if you choose to, and we hope you’ll remember us well. But mostly, we hope you’ll tell us what to do about the man with the iron.