The following was sent to me by someone who must remain anonymous. As a fan of ASF, I’m happy to pass it along, although saddened to hear about their current plight. —Adam

I want to tell you about the latest issue of American Short Fiction.
I want to tell you that it might be the last issue of American Short Fiction.
I want to tell you that even if it might not be the last issue of American Short Fiction, it is the last issue edited by Jill Meyers and Callie Collins.

I want to tell you why I loved this journal.
I want to tell you about all the awards the stories they’ve published have won.
I want to tell you why I loved this journal, and it is not because of the awards the stories they’ve published have won.
I want to tell you what it is like to read every issue of American Short Fiction that Jill and Callie have edited: the language surprises, the having-to-put-it-down-and-walk-away-because-something-inside-you-is-blooming-and-your-hands-are-shaking.

I want to tell you about the last issue of American Short Fiction.
I want to tell you about Elizabeth Ellen’s “Teen Culture.”
I want to tell you that I read one of Elizabeth sentences: “Treating her like everyone else means fuck her,” and then felt compelled to yell the sentence aloud.
I want to tell you what it is like to read a story that invites reader and narrator to stumble together so near to some place so hypnotically recognizable: how a line as simple as “The thing about fourteen-year-olds is they always text right back,” and everything else in this story keeps you someplace in between the text and your own terrible moments.

I want to tell you that Jill and Callie resigned.
I want to tell you that the only the thing I can tell you is what was written in the press release sent to the Austin American Statesman.

I want to tell you about the last issue of American Short Fiction.
I want to tell you about Max Ross’ “Exorcising.”
I want to tell you that this story is the story I always look for in American Short Fiction: the kind where something creeps stealthily, absurdly, from places where I wrote “ha!” in the margins, from places where benign sentences like “I wanted to be sad to the point of originality” and images of vaginas of death vibrate against something larger and more complicated and unsaid.

I want to tell you what it is like to hear Jill and Callie talk about sentences with reverence.
I want to tell you what it is like to hear Jill and Callie talk about the people who write sentences with reverence.

I want to tell you about the last issue of American Short Fiction.
I want to tell you about Roxane Gay’s “We Are The Sacrifice of Darkness.”
I want to tell you about the things that it did to me that I will not be able to find the words to tell you.
I want to tell you that Roxane’s story will have its mythically seismic way with your heart.

I want to tell you what it is like to read a journal whose voices are so balanced, there’s never a need to flip to the table of contents, wondering when you might encounter a woman’s words.

I want to tell you that Alyssa Knickerbocker’s “The Daughter of a Squaw Man Smuggles Wool and Other Goods,” is not a story, it is a place.
I want to tell you that Alyssa’s story is a place of language and family and difference to dwell in.

I want to tell you that James Dewille’s “Last Days on Rossmore,” which Justin Cronin chose as the winner of American Short Fiction’s short-story contest, will make you feel something so uncomfortably ugly that you might want to walk around the block, that you might see me when you do, that you shouldn’t say anything to me as I try to shake the story off.

I want to tell you that all anyone can say about anything is “No Comment.”
I want you to know.