Details will be forthcoming, but suffice it to say we are experts at dodgeball. We are like dodgeball assasins. Do not even think about challenging us to a game of dodgeball, or you will be sorry. Very sorry. On second thought, we are more like dodgeball ninjas.

Soon the entire literary world will bow to our dodgeball prowess.

You would like to think we are speaking metaphorically. That perhaps the “dodgeball” is Barrelhouse, our journal, and the arm throwing it represents the act of unleashing our genius on the world. That the other players on the court, the ones falling to the ground and clutching at the places where we have wounded them, that they are merely symbols for the literary establishment.

You would be mistaken.

We are not geniuses.

But we can whip a dodgeball like nobody’s business. That round, rubber ball careening at this very minute toward your head? The one you can barely make out with your weak peripheral vision? That is no metaphor, my friend. That is 100%, Grade-A dodgeball.

D-o-d-g-e-b-a-l-l.

Duck!