Archive 2008: Spring, Summer, Autumn, Yule
Spring '08 |
Summer '08 |
Autumn '08 |
Yule '08 |
Artists and Web Galleries
Judith A. Lawrence |
Lisa J. Cihlar |
Falling Pearls |
Exiting the Tesco Express: Hatfield, (Classic, Fitzgerald,) Nero and Johnson
The Jaguar XF |
Head and Shoulders |
The Naked Line |
Putting the Real in the Virtual |
Porkies: Augustine, Classic Wharton, Walters, Bittner
In Time |
The Daunt Diana |
Memories of a Winter's Day |
Aubade to Marit Haahr |
Winter Poems:
Nonnie Augustine |
Jim Boring |
Marie Fitzpatrick |
Maureen Wilkenson |
Essay and Short Stories
Stephen Zelnick |
Alexander Lang |
Peter Vilbig |
Potluck: Christmas Poetry, Fuller, Norman, Luckins, Hitchcock
Muldaddie |
Weaving Dreams |
Persephone |
Blue Walls |
Short Fiction from: Long, Bernbaum, Joy Taylor, Wilkenson
The High Tops |
Marty-s Career |
Daffodils in a Blue Vase |
Trio |
Occupying Space: Joyce Mintz, Heavisides, Martin-Wood, Stokes
The Little Prisoners |
Wabi Songs |
The Pugilist |
Stewart |
Reflections: Charles, Haig, West, (Classic) Alcott, Louisa May
A Change of Life by Peter Charles |
Hearing Dogs by Liz Haig |
Fear and Loathing in Southwark by Bill West |
Gingerbread, An Everyday Poem |
Illustrations by D Capobianco -- Story by Heavisides, Sexton, Nero and Zelnick
A Box of Books Balling |
Beatrices Behemoth is Bothersome and Backbreaking |
Falling Man |
Filburt Gets his Formula Half Right |
Sheehan, Brown/Collins, Mahony. Cihlar
A Toast to Skink by Tom Sheehan |
In Conversation: Ramon Collins and Randall Brown |
In Break Formations by Donal Mahoney |
So We Decided to Keep by Lisa Cihlar |
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Wandering Stars:: Walters, Tomlin Jr,. Norton
Ann Walters |
Wendell Tomlin, Jr |
Ann Walters |
Nancy Norton |
Exiting the Tesco Express: Hatfield, (Classic, Fitzgerald,) Nero and Johnson
The Jaguar XF |
Head and Shoulders |
The Naked Line |
Putting the Real in the Virtual |
Fiction: Cadwallader, West and Art Gallery
Thunderhead
He loaded her clothes into the washer, those he could find. They were scattered everywhere, in the bottom of closets, balled up under the bed, tossed on the basement floor and yellowed with cat piss. He'd wash and fold them , put them in boxes |
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Treasures at my Feet
The door bell chimed. I opened the door. Flat-iron air swirled in. A boy with blond hair, his chin flecked with stubble. He held out a green coconut pierced with a plastic straw. I took the straw in my mouth and sucked up sweet coconut water. It felt good |
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Bittner, ZoBell, Creith
Aubade to Marit Haahr by Russell Bittner |
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Faith by Bonnie ZoBell |
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Spanish Gold and Pearls by Elizabeth Creith |
Strait, Carey, Beaumont, Heavisides, Mascarino
Quislings by Lauran Strait |
Between Breaths by Donia Carey |
The New Man by Digby Beaumont |
I Am Being Everybody They Cries: Peter Barnes by Martin Heavisides
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A Los Angeles Friend by Pierrino Mascarino |
Grace Murray, Paul Murray, Mark Dalligan, Mila Chutz Gernon
Flotation Tank |
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There Used To Be A River Here |
The Station |
Waters Rising |
One Too Many Mornings by Kyle Hemmings |
Barbary Dove by Sergio Ortiz |
The Music Box by Stan Long |
Wild Strawberries by Lisa Cihlar |
Stewart by Kristi Stokes |
Millefiori
by S.P. Flannery View Link
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Ticks
by S.P Flannery View Link
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Editing My Ex Lover's Digital Face in Photoshop
by Richard Fein View Link
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Another Taste
by George Bishop View Link
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Poetry: Clarke, Johnson, Locke
A Workhorse Of A Different Colour |
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Berenika |
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Yang Chu's Poem 86 |
Shields, Managan, Joslin
Community Property
Renee's teeth chattered and rivulets of perspiration and tears dampened her hair, sticking it to her face. The boat drifted when she untied the bowlines and lurched when she jumped into it. Her hands shook as she inserted the key into the ignition. Slowly she pushed the throttle to full speed, gripped the wheel, and turned the boat to where she had last seen Dave. |
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The Boy |
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Champ |
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Dog Days of Christmas by Marie Shields |
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Click through for our Yule Photography and Art 2008 |
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Nuts: Cihlar, Ray, Berg and Claffey
Rest Stop
He is the gravedigger, up at dawnlight, whetstone sharpened spade in hand, ready to burrow meter by yard. |
Plucked and Scrambled
The morning after, he’s knocking my bird-nest head against the headboard before I can scrape the egg-whites from my eyelids. |
Bill on the Hill
Wrapped in winter wool, the neighborhood kids seemed strangers. They hauled sleds up the sparkling hill and glided down. |
Bed-Making
I had a twin once, a firehaired sister who knew my thoughts before they formed on my lips as crude expressions of desire. |
Barry, Nero, Reese
Bird Watching |
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The Abyss of Human Illusion |
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Sometimes |
Poetry: Scully, Thomas, Jacobson
A Poem Remembered |
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The Goatherd’s Fingers |
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Ocean’s Alive |
Archive 2009: Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter
Spring '09 |
Summer '09 |
Fall '09 |
Winter '09/'10 |
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High Hedges Lucky Dip
Jones |
Bedoya |
Sexton |
Sheehan |
Poetry: Saunders and Good
This Morning I met Seamus Heaney ... |
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The Game |
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an armed man lurks in ambush |
The Pig's Whiskers: Nero, Managan, Strait and Parks
Quislings by Lauran Strai |
The Man in the Wet, Gray Fedora by Jim Parks |
Gil by Pepe Nero |
The Boy by Yvette Managan (Flys) |
Augustine, Whitehouse, Gad-Cykman, Freele
Whirl by Nonnie Augustine |
Blessings X1 V by Anne Whitehouse |
Under a Dirty Moon by Avital Gad-Cykman |
Spa Tour by Stefanie Freele |
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Remembering: Cogswell, Sheehan, Clarke, Day
Don't Even Think About It |
Korean Echo |
Fresh Start |
Haunting |
The Rain that Wears no Raincoat and What Warmth Is There in One Old Tree?
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The Rain that Wears no Raincoat |
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What Warmth Is There in One Old Tree? |
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Poetry: Ann Walters
The Way Light Falls at Four in the Morning by Ann Walters |
Unexpected Bats by Ann Walters |
To Pierce the Sky by Ann Walters |
The Dancer by Ann Walters |
Desert Roses, 1994 by Ann Walters |
Tudor, Ferraro, Good
Amy in the Dark |
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Buenos Aires: A Literary City |
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personal history |
Short Stories
Chris Castle |
James Claffey |
John S Fields |
Joseph Cordaro |
Poetry File
Stan Long |
Bill West |
William Blake |
evie robillard |
Carey, Collins, Cavelli
days marching by, cold and sexless as stones |
"Write this down -- you are a bitch. One might say a Constance bitch." |
Olivia |
Poetry File: Long, West, Blake (Classic) Robillard
Winging It |
Promise |
Songs of Innocence |
Moon Catalog |
Seasonal Poetry
Godless Fruit by Jo-Ann Newton |
Lonely as a Clown by Mike Lewis |
Time to shine by Lesley Timms |
The Day is Done by H W Longfellow |
Fiction: Bittner, Beaumont and Gebbie
Allegory by Russell Bittner |
Reading in Bed by Digby Beaumont |
Ed’s Wife and Other Creatures by Vanessa Gebbie |
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Narrative of New Netherland 1570-1970
by Sean Farragher
"I am the viridian swell and the vermilitm tempest. I am surly beast and have will to rectify murder: my death and other happenstance makes for ironu with miniatures painted without sight in a golden locket never opened and not lost memories of those centuries before whatever instant diseased and bent with pock marked face to how anger stalls without any pleasure or even the protest of strangled fowl You can watch my stance without eyes and make me move without legs as I am only flood and tempest unboundedmy schemes ser down as blasphemed physic and truth."
John Colman (1580-1664) |
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The King of Ireland's Son by Padraic Colum
SHORT BIO:
Born Patrick Collumb, in Longford, in Co. Longford, in Ireland, poet, editor, children’s writer, folklorist and playwright Padraic Colum was the oldest of eight siblings. At 17, he took a job as a clerk for the Irish Railway Clearing House and began to write seriouslyÍ he had joined the Irish Republican Army and the Gaelic League and taken the name Padraic Colum by the time he was 20. Living in Dublin during the Celtic Revival and a member of both the National Theatre Society and the Abbey Theatre, he met and became close friends with writers James Joyce, W.B. Yeats, Lady Gregory, and George Russell. With James Stephens and Thomas MacDonagh, Colum founded the Irish Review.
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Neal Celebrates Christmas by Cheryl Chambers
Neal discovered a spectacular postcard last yearÍ on it the baby Jesus and the Virgin Mary huddled in a manger, candlelight behind each head providing the halos. Normally Neal noticed only regular Christmas postcards with a jolly Saint Nick or a cozy, well-lit home surrounded by fresh snow and a friendly neighbor sleigh riding by, a hand of greeting held high in the air. But this card depicted the real deal. This card was Ukrainian. He bought it./His mother had him over two days before Christmas, which had become their tradition. They sat on opposite sides of the table, feasting on ham, potatoes, a few carrots, and cookies for dessert. Afierwards, they took the bus to the theater and watched a Christmas comedy.
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Ancestor by Jim Boring |
The Witches Grace by Nonnie Augustine |
Dance of the Dead by Maureen Wilkenson |
Issue Art Wall |
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Christmas Present by Marie Shields |
Dog Days of Christmas by Marie Shields |
Christmas Morning by Martin Heavisides |
Sleeping with the Monkfish: The Execution by John C. Mannone |
Essay and Short Stories
Thomas Hardy, Stephen Zelnick |
Dreaming of Elsbeth, Alexander Lang |
Ashwini Alli, Peter Vilbig |
Managan, Augustine, Collins
Angelic by Yvette Managan |
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Simple Tillie by Nonnie Augustine |
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Learning to Fly by Anne Collins |
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Blizzard by Nonnie Augustine |
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Cold, Cold Heart by Jim Haughey |
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In Time by Nonnie Augustine |
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Memory of a Winter's Day by Anne Walters |
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Out of Rock NOW by Russell Bittner |
Mexican Escape by Yvette Managan |
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Taking the road from Crownpoint to Chaco by Anne Walters |
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FLIGHT 103 TO LOCKERBIE: HAPPY ANNIVERSARY by Russell Bittner |
Island by Susan Lago |
*#4* by Neil Dyer |
An Old Friend by Mike Blake |
Taken by Hand, Heart and Storm by Ernest Williamson III |
The Pugilist by Carla Martin-Wood |
Facing the Train Carl T Abt |
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Art Galley Summer 2008 |
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Classic: The Swan Song by Anton Chekov |
Gallery Archive
Images: Russell Bittner
Carol Mannheim
Mari Fitzpatrick |
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Essay and Fiction
Thomas Hardy, Poet |
Dreaming of Elsbeth |
Ashwini Alli |
Morphane Tree |
Flashlight’s Jewels |
Potluck: Christmas Poetry, Fuller, Norman, Luckins, Hitchcock
Muldaddie |
Weaving Dreams |
Persephone |
Blue Walls |
Short Fiction from: Long, Bernbaum, Joy Taylor, Wilkenson
The High Tops |
Marty-s Career |
Daffodils in a Blue Vase |
Trio |
Shop Here
Book One: High Hedges |
Book Two: Indigo |
The Crafts |
Artists for the Issue: Maire Morrisey Cummins, Marion Clarke, Dr. Suzanne Conboy-Hill
In the Zone
Managan |
Patrick |
Augustine |
Murray |
Wetting the Shamrock: Dyer, Joslin, Eliav, Augustine
*#4* |
Vanishing point |
Cold Fish |
In Time |
Occupying Space: Joyce Mintz, Heavisides, Martin-Wood, Stokes
The Little Prisoners |
Wabi Songs |
The Pugilist |
Stewart |
Beautiful Films by Stephen Zelnick (The Motion Picture Production Code)
Excerpts from our |
Spring 2023 Magazine ... |
COMING SOON ......... |
TLW's "Timelines" |
Dave Taylor
At the end of March 1916, Richard Woodcock of the Royal West Kent Regiment became the first British POW to escape from a German POW camp and make it back to England - this is his story ... |
Commemorating the life of the German painter Johannes Matthaeus Koelz, who after winning a medal of gallantry in the Great War went on to defy Hitler and to become an anti-war campaigner... Lyrics and Melody by Dave Taylor |
Versighs: Trecost, Kempis, Long, and Rohan
The Bicycle Mechanic |
Citrine |
The Music Box |
1970 |
Spring Buds, Short Stories & Micro: Taylor, Britten, Tepper, Johnson
Green Sheep by Gail E. Taylor |
Crossing the Pond by Charlie Britten |
Poodles by Susan Tepper |
Shadow People by Emily Glossner Johnson |
Reflections: Charles, Haig, West, (Classic) Alcott, Louisa May
A Change of Life by Peter Charles |
Hearing Dogs by Liz Haig |
Fear and Loathing in Southwark by Bill West |
Gingerbread, An Everyday Poem |
Graber, Murray, Harris, Theys and Biswas
Details by Shane Graber |
Gifts For The Residents by Paul Murray |
Human Noise by Bruce Harris |
Best Brewed Plans by Lydia Fazio Theys |
Fable of the Fortieth Sheep by Rumjhum Biswas |
Short Stories: Lawrence, Sheehan, Joseph, Wilcox
The Hours
"Sarah arrived at the beach rental in the middle of the night. When she stepped out of the front door the moon bathed a wide swatch of sand weaving in and out of the shoreline of brackish moss green waves topped off with yellow tipped foam peaks." |
The River Thief
"'The two of us,' she'd say, "partners to the end," the crochet needle at a small and quick twist in her hand, or a sewing needle making code against her finger" |
Photophobia
"His voice seeped up brittle from under the rubble of covers; maybe she should have waited longer. Damn earring wouldn’t go in the hole. She sat down and squinted into the dresser mirror, not wanting to risk opening the curtains yet." |
Mr. Wyandotte
"One Friday morning as I sat at my office computer trying to enter progress notes and demographic data (but really mostly just listening to Franz Liszt on YouTube) I got a call from a policeman in Upper Bucks County."
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Augustine, Horan, Britten, Johnson, Berge
Barataria Bay |
Camlin |
Paradise |
learning to fly |
Her |
Short Stories: Lawrence, Sheehan, Joseph, Wilcox
The Hours
"Sarah arrived at the beach rental in the middle of the night. When she stepped out of the front door the moon bathed a wide swatch of sand weaving in and out of the shoreline of brackish moss green waves topped off with yellow tipped foam peaks." |
The River Thief
"'The two of us,' she'd say, "partners to the end," the crochet needle at a small and quick twist in her hand, or a sewing needle making code against her finger" |
Photophobia
"His voice seeped up brittle from under the rubble of covers; maybe she should have waited longer. Damn earring wouldn’t go in the hole. She sat down and squinted into the dresser mirror, not wanting to risk opening the curtains yet." |
Mr. Wyandotte
"One Friday morning as I sat at my office computer trying to enter progress notes and demographic data (but really mostly just listening to Franz Liszt on YouTube) I got a call from a policeman in Upper Bucks County."
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Kiernan, Long, O'Brien, Art Gallery
Marlow speaks again |
Crow |
Precious |
Art Gallery |
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Spring Fashion: Dyer, Cogswell, Taylor, Clarke
Spring Posters:: Heimler, Claffey, Tavaras
Snowman by Heidi Heimler |
Rare Glimpse by James Claffey |
Magic Mirror by Nathan E.Tavaras |
' Every crack of dawn floods with midlife nostalgia ...'
Turn the Page by April Salzano |
Rosie and Max by William Ogden Haynes |
Executive sweet by Mathew Paust |
Archive 2008: Spring, Summer, Autumn, Yule
Spring '08 |
Summer '08 |
Autumn '08 |
Yule '08 |
Dave Taylor
At the end of March 1916, Richard Woodcock of the Royal West Kent Regiment became the first British POW to escape from a German POW camp and make it back to England - this is his story ... |
Commemorating the life of the German painter Johannes Matthaeus Koelz, who after winning a medal of gallantry in the Great War went on to defy Hitler and to become an anti-war campaigner... Lyrics and Melody by Dave Taylor |
Thursday's Portmanteau
"Doris Attinger follows her husband with a gun in Manhattan one day, suspecting he is having an affair with another woman. In her rage, she fires wildly and blindly around the room and at the couple multiple times. One of the bullets hits her husband in the shoulder. His lover escapes unscathed."
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From our
'Everyday Poems Page'
Gingerbread
The Day is Done
Who Goes with Fergus?
Strange Meeting
The Darkling Thrush
A Pint of Plain is your only Man
Go and Catch a Falling Star
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The Pig's Whiskers: Nero, Managan, Strait and Parks
Quislings by Lauran Strai |
The Man in the Wet, Gray Fedora by Jim Parks |
Gil by Pepe Nero |
The Boy by Yvette Managan (Flys) |
Artists and Web Galleries
Judith A. Lawrence |
Lisa J. Cihlar |
Falling Pearls |
Quislings by Lauran Strait
"There, there, poor babies." Elizabeth pats the side of the red Playmate cooler as she stares inside. "Such little ones this time." She fishes out the last of the doves from their bed of dry ice. "What-s the world coming to? Broken wings and plucked feathers. Have they no decency? |
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Storytime: Sky, Coughlan, Freese and Asante
Spring, a Girl |
The Red Couch |
Sweet Cotton |
Branded |
Lisa J. Cihlar and Judith A. Lawrence
ART |
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Short Stories: Lawrence, Sheehan, Joseph, Wilcox
The Hours
"Sarah arrived at the beach rental in the middle of the night. When she stepped out of the front door the moon bathed a wide swatch of sand weaving in and out of the shoreline of brackish moss green waves topped off with yellow tipped foam peaks." |
The River Thief
"'The two of us,' she'd say, "partners to the end," the crochet needle at a small and quick twist in her hand, or a sewing needle making code against her finger" |
Photophobia
"His voice seeped up brittle from under the rubble of covers; maybe she should have waited longer. Damn earring wouldn’t go in the hole. She sat down and squinted into the dresser mirror, not wanting to risk opening the curtains yet." |
Mr. Wyandotte
"One Friday morning as I sat at my office computer trying to enter progress notes and demographic data (but really mostly just listening to Franz Liszt on YouTube) I got a call from a policeman in Upper Bucks County."
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Graber, Murray, Harris, Theys and Biswas
Details by Shane Graber |
Gifts For The Residents by Paul Murray |
Human Noise by Bruce Harris |
Best Brewed Plans by Lydia Fazio Theys |
Fable of the Fortieth Sheep by Rumjhum Biswas |
More:Capobianco, Cadwallader, Heavisides, Rouvelas
Please Jackson, No Trouble by D. Capobianco |
The Horseman by Gary Cadwallader |
Deities at an Exhibition by Martin Heavisides |
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Pillow by Teri Davis Rouvelas |
Spring Fashion: Dyer, Cogswell, Taylor, Clarke
Remembering: Cogswell, Sheehan, Clarke, Day
Don't Even Think About It |
Korean Echo |
Fresh Start |
Haunting |
Spring Posters:: Heimler, Claffey, Tavaras
Snowman by Heidi Heimler |
Rare Glimpse by James Claffey |
Magic Mirror by Nathan E.Tavaras |
Green Sheep by Gail E. Taylor
Bonnie Peeples claims that her family heirloom, a woollen carpet made from the fleece of a green sheep named Sam, has gone missing. She calls the Missing Persons Bureau and two police officers come to investigate. They soon discover that Bonnie is not as senile as they thought, and that there is more to the story of Sam the Ram than meets the eye.
The story is written in a humorous and whimsical tone, with references to nursery rhymes and Irish folklore. The author uses dialogue and description to create vivid characters and settings, and to reveal the mystery behind the green sheep. The story explores themes such as family history, identity, memory, and belonging. It also challenges the stereotypes and prejudices that people have about the elderly and the mentally ill.
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Potters: Good, Tepper, Berg, Tudor
Personal History |
Hiding |
Nesting Dolls |
Amy in the Dark |
Portfolio in Progress
To view click on Image please |
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Porkies: Augustine, Classic Wharton, Walters, Bittner
In Time |
The Daunt Diana |
Memories of a Winter's Day |
Aubade to Marit Haahr |
Poets: Mahoney, Cihlar, Dorsky,Walters
Formations |
Keep |
Manifesto |
Memory of a Winter-s Day |
The Man in the Wet, Gray Fedora by Jim Parks
Old news.
I didn't understand why they had taken the rotating seats off the uprights at the lunch counters and when I asked my mother about it, people laughed and smirked, so she reacted enough to make her freckles turn colors and nearly jerked my arm out of its shoulder socket, tripping across those highly polished floor tiles as fast as her short little legs would go.
When asked again, she jerked even harder, glaring at some drugstore cowboy that was winking at her, and said "Ask that old boy there. I am sure the lazy-headed outfit has time to explain it all to you." It was one of my first glimpses at the face of hatred. The old boy-s face just froze under his ducktail haircut ... |
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Andrea Castilla Sanchez Art
Medlar Issue and More
A silent prayer |
Batshit Crazy |
Trio |
Daffodils in a Blue Vase |
Sol y Nieve: Zakeer, Bittner, Ferraro
Repossession |
Collision |
Buenos Aires: A Literary City |
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The Little Prisoners by Gwendolyn Joyce Mintz
Prisoners is a short story that explores the themes of love, guilt, forgiveness, and hope as a young woman comes to terms with her own incarceration and the loss of her child to the system. |
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Middle Square: Kiernan, Gebbie, Kiernan, Fitzpatrick
Old Man |
Ed's Wife and Other Stories |
Inniscrone |
Eden |
The Boy by Yvette Managan
The Boy by Yvette Managan is a short story about a young boy named Mickey who struggles to adjust to his new baby sister and his mother's strict expectations. He finds solace in his loyal dog Smokey and his adventurous spirit. The story follows him on a Christmas Eve when he goes to church with his family and then races home with Smokey, enjoying the freedom and joy of being a boy.
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Point of Comfort by Judith A. Lawrence
Excerpt from Chapter 12, "No Longer a Ward of the State," from "Point of Comfort," by Judith A. Lawrence," a Memoir in two parts, published January, 2023..
"The last weekend of June, Johnny and I drove to Maryland. We applied for our marriage license and were told we would be able to pick it up in two weeks.
We hoped to be married in the same Methodist church as Ben and Elaine.
On a Friday night Johnny pulled up in front of the house in his clunker of a car. I stole down the stairs with my beat up suitcase full of my personal things with a few clothes stuffed in. It would be all I had if Violet would not allow me to retrieve other things when I returned."
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Teeple, Tuninetti and Lorca Illustrations (Classic)
Freckles |
The Old Field House |
Things from Life in the Death of a Man |
illustrations: Federico Garcia Lorca, 5 June 1898 - 19 August 1936 |
Review: by Mari Fitzpatrick: The Banshees of Inisherin 2022 ‧ Comedy/Drama ‧ 1h 54m From Searchlight Pictures and writer-director Martin McDonagh
Poetry File: Long, West, Blake (Classic) Robillard
Winging It |
Promise |
Songs of Innocence |
Moon Catalog |
In the Zone
Managan |
Patrick |
Augustine |
Murray |
Illustrations by D Capobianco -- Story by Heavisides, Sexton, Nero and Zelnick
A Box of Books Balling |
Beatrices Behemoth is Bothersome and Backbreaking |
Falling Man |
Filburt Gets his Formula Half Right |
Short Stories
Chris Castle |
James Claffey |
John S Fields |
Joseph Cordaro |
Winter Poems:
Nonnie Augustine |
Jim Boring |
Marie Fitzpatrick |
Maureen Wilkenson |
Poetry File
Stan Long |
Bill West |
William Blake |
evie robillard |
Essay and Short Stories
Stephen Zelnick |
Alexander Lang |
Peter Vilbig |
Flash and Micro Fiction
Robert Scotellaro |
John S Fields |
In Flux
Flux Lines, Bonfire Night |
Sundance Review, The Dead Returns |
Witches Broom Dancing Class/High Hedges |
Moon Library Broom Lending/Indigo |
Storytellers: Sky, Coughlan,, Freese, Asante--Illustrations: Dom Capobianco
Do me a favor Gill, don't tell the boys I'm reading books"/ What did Gill answer? |
Popeye at 80 |
Dawgs will be Dawgs, Deputy dawgs and.... |
Ego, Egat, Egod.... eeeeeeeeeehhhhhhhhhhhh |
The King of Ireland's Son by Padraic Colum
(Fedelma, The Enchanter's Daughter)
Connal was the name of the King who ruled over Ireland at that time. He had three sons, and, as the fir-trees grow, some crooked and some straight, one of them grew up so wild that in the end the King and the King's Councillor had to let him have his own way in everything. This youth was the King's eldest son and his mother had died before she could be a guide to him. |
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Snails on the Road by Rebecca Burns
Snails on the Road by Rebecca Burns
THERE WERE SNAILS ON THE ROAD to the tapas bar. They had oozed over from a scrub of undeveloped land beside the main street into town. Grandma shouted a warning from up ahead, shading her eyes as she turned back to face us, squinting into the sun. But Mum didn’t swerve to avoid the little creatures littering the road. Instead they were crushed under the wheels of Toby’s buggy as Mum pushed him straight on; their shells disintegrated with tiny pops that reminded me of the gravel on our drive at home, churned up into a sharp spray by spinning wheels. |
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Carey, Collins, Cavelli
days marching by, cold and sexless as stones |
"Write this down -- you are a bitch. One might say a Constance bitch." |
Olivia |
Kiernan, Long, O'Brien, Art Gallery
Marlow speaks again |
Crow |
Precious |
Art Gallery |
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West, Kelsey, Augustine, Lorin
River of Light |
British Guy |
The Dice are Not to Blame |
Jamie's Song |
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Augustine, Whitehouse, Gad-Cykman, Freele
Whirl by Nonnie Augustine |
Blessings X1 V by Anne Whitehouse |
Under a Dirty Moon by Avital Gad-Cykman |
Spa Tour by Stefanie Freele |
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Fiction: Bittner, Zakeer, Rohan, Mascarino
Collision |
Repossession |
1970 |
The First Time the Son was Ever on TV |
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Dorsky, Kavanagh, Kempis and Beaumont
A Manifesto Arrived by William Dorsky |
You Have Grown In Stature by Noeleen Kavanagh |
SunnyFs First Fellini by MD Kempis |
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Houndstooth and Lucky by Digby Beaumont |
Sheehan, Brown/Collins, Mahony. Cihlar
A Toast to Skink by Tom Sheehan |
In Conversation: Ramon Collins and Randall Brown |
In Break Formations by Donal Mahoney |
So We Decided to Keep by Lisa Cihlar |
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Fables: Abartis, Long, Cavelli, Hagborg
Beauty and the Beast |
The Sunday Special |
Summer storms . . . |
The Cellist’s First Date |
Empty Bowl by Martin Heavisides
Either hoeing the garden
or washing bottles at the well,
making soup for a sick man
or listening to someone else's child studying books,
stacking logs writing to the local paper
or pulling that stubborn lamb into our world, I know
the song which carries my neighbour from one thing to the next:
Earth feeds us
out of her empty bowl."
--Peter Levitt |
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Seasonal Poetry
Godless Fruit by Jo-Ann Newton |
Lonely as a Clown by Mike Lewis |
Time to shine by Lesley Timms |
The Day is Done by H W Longfellow |
Artists for the Issue: Maire Morrisey Cummins, Marion Clarke, Dr. Suzanne Conboy-Hill
Short Fiction from: Long, Bernbaum, Joy Taylor, Wilkenson
The High Tops |
Marty-s Career |
Daffodils in a Blue Vase |
Trio |
Zelnick: Dwindling: the Shrinking Citizen
John Milton never attended a Trump rally, but Paradise Lost depicts satanic demagogy and citizens dwindled to mere onlookers, overwhelmed by giant voices. In the great hall of Pandemonium, the rebels against God gather to decide next steps. Giant angels, now tarnished by betrayal, swarm into the vast auditorium. They are too large to fit; Satan downsizes them |
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Narrative of New Netherland 1570-1970 by Sean Farragher
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"I am the viridian swell and the vermilitm tempest. I am surly beast and have will to rectify murder: my death and other happenstance makes for ironu with miniatures painted without sight in a golden locket never opened and not lost memories of those centuries before whatever instant diseased and bent with pock marked face to how anger stalls without any pleasure or even the protest of strangled fowl. You can watch my stance without eyes and make me move without legs as I am only flood and tempest unbounded my schemes ser down as blasphemed physic and truth."
John Colman (1580-1664) |
Frontierland by Norah Piehl
Pa did not like a country so old and worn out that the hunting was poor. He wanted to go west. For two years he had wanted to go west and take a homestead, but Ma did not want to leave the settled country.
--Laura Ingalls Wilder, By The Shores of Silver Lake |
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Appleyard: ZoBell, Creith, Mascarino, Carey
Archive 2009: Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter
Spring '09 |
Summer '09 |
Fall '09 |
Winter '09/'10 |
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High Wire: Campagnoli, Arnold, Friedrich, Charman
Shingling: Murphy, Coffee, Nero, Stakes
Sculptures by Christina Murphy |
Early Thoughts On The Oedipus Complex by Rebecca Coffey |
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Dancing All The Steps I Know by Pepe Nero |
No Such Thing as a Free Tea by Jennifer Stakes |
Reflections: Charles, Haig, West, (Classic) Alcott, Louisa May
A Change of Life by Peter Charles |
Hearing Dogs by Liz Haig |
Fear and Loathing in Southwark by Bill West |
Gingerbread, An Everyday Poem |
Wandering Stars:: Walters, Tomlin Jr,. Norton
Ann Walters |
Wendell Tomlin, Jr |
Ann Walters |
Nancy Norton |
Potluck: Christmas Poetry, Fuller, Norman, Luckins, Hitchcock
Muldaddie |
Weaving Dreams |
Persephone |
Blue Walls |
Little Miss Muffet and Nolens Volens
Dyer, West, Strait and Allen
Jack Pines |
The Language of Frost |
Sweet Talk |
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Be Sure Your Sins |
Fiction: Managan, Long and Jones
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Vampires, Ghosts, the Dead returned by Yvette Managan |
Carnal Knowledge by Stan Long
I was nine and my sister seven, and we were walking home from the dam that was a favourite haunt of mine, where moorhens nested and herons fished and where will-o-the-wisps coiled over the marshy ground on damp evenings. Visiting with her grandma with whom I lived, she had asked to go with me to see the dam during that late afternoon in the summer of the war when all the young men had been conscripted and both town and countryside were empty of them. |
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Necromancy by Karen Jones |
A Rasher of Poems for Snarky Children by Russell Bittner
Little Miss Muffet |
Four(teen)-letter Words |
Nolens Volens |
What Warmth Is There in One Old Tree? |
This Rain That Wears No Raincoat |
Managan, Augustine, Collins
Angelic by Yvette Managan |
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Simple Tillie by Nonnie Augustine |
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Learning to Fly by Anne Collins |
Empty Wheelchair Waits by Bill West
Spokes flash orange under street lights. Tires rumble across pavement cracks. Andrew bats his wheelchair wheels.
The tires suck a dry track, picking up chip wrappers and leaves to scatter them in his wake. He doesn't care that the dogs bark and snap or that children jeer as he passes. He's headed for the fair.
Music thumps in his chest; red, yellow and blue lights chase across his upturned face. He peers at waltzers, ... |
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Vow by Carla Martin=Wood
Ta gra agam duit, mo run
When I die/it shall be with/your name on my lips/the last word/I speak into/earth's air and that name/I shall bear upon/my tongue/and it shall go/with me into/what comes after
And when I board/that dark barge/and my soul speaks/its first word to/the grim boatman/that name shall fall/from my lips/and it shall be/ the coin that pays/my passage |
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The Smell of Salt by Loretta Sylvestre
Ginny escaped north over a four-lane stretch of U.S. Highway 99. The sun hung low in the west and the roadbed shone, stretching across the flats like a river of red. She drove a nineteen fifty-six cream lacquered Chevy Belair. Only five years old and still perfect, the car flew through the miles and kicked up a wind that lifted Ginnys brown curls and cooled her neck. That rushing air brought welcome relief from the heat that, despite autumn and oncoming night, flooded the desert. |
The Sunday Special by Stan Long |
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The Cellist’s First Date by Marja Hagborg |
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Nesting Dolls by Carly Berg |
Stein (Classic) , Friedrich, Abartis
Tender Buttons |
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Major Works of fiction |
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Beauty and the Beast |
Tudor, Ferraro, Good
Amy in the Dark |
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Buenos Aires: A Literary City |
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personal history |
Poetry by Paul Hostovsky and Art Selection (2013)
Aubade |
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Art Gallery |
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Romantic |
Poetry: Colby, Yuan, Black
Arbitration |
My Crow |
Sunflower |
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Short Shrift |
Poetry: Scully, Thomas, Jacobson
A Poem Remembered |
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The Goatherd’s Fingers |
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Ocean’s Alive |
Tepper, Ismail, (Karachi, Pakistan)
Hiding |
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A Gentle Heart (Obit)
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Poets: Murray, Good, Quinn, Joslin
Forecast For Interstate 81
by P. W. Murray
South, U.S. Highway 11, 1960.
Duff’s Rebel Restaurant,
breakfast in Winchester and supper -
if all goes on schedule - near Pulaski.
Hills to our right -
“… jingle bell, jingle bell,
jingle bell rock,"
wipers click and wipers clock.
Ears to the radio, eyes to the
billboards, a signs calls out
for a diner - “Listen there - if we were
still up in Carlisle, Hagerstown or
Martinsburg we’d be butt-deep in
snow." Pop knows. Here it’s just
cold slop, a little sleet but cold
assaulting rain, mostly. A diner
with dingy motel's light glows ahead.
"Rockin' around the Christmas tree
at the Christmas party hop… ."
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Childhood Portrait
by Howie Good
When the old mare collapsed
between the shafts of the milk wagon
and the wagon driver leaped
to the ground cursing
the tallest trees leaned forward
as if to better see
my teachers call the house
your son they said
too young to wonder
what’s worse as I was punched
in the head and slapped
the anger of the man slashing at it
with a whip or its wish
to get up again and go on
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i picked at a scab today
by Casey Quinn
an old wound
long forgotten
it was just there,
healing
nature,
taking its course
but i
didn't let it.
i picked at the scab
and it bled
and the process was forced
to start over again.
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Water Cycle
by Oonah V. Joslin
Wood
waterlogged,
slippy with ice and moss
the fence
frozen this morning,
stream of steam swirls
clawing upwards
vaporous cloud
cools, cascades
flows back to
ground, soggy
beneath berried yew
to be sucked up
brackish again by
wood.
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Poets: Nero, Quinn and Hatfield
The Homoiconian Rest Home by Pepe Nero
"It’s a beautiful old place
a white classic american wood scroll gothic
with a porch running around all four sides."
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my niece by Casey Quinn
"i had not
seen her in years i told her ..."
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Feeding Ducks by Jim Hatfield
As I tore and cast upon the water half a
loaf of Mothers Pride, he advised that feed-
ing ducks was now a crime, punishable by a
statutory fine.
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Heavisides, Bittner, Leppanen
Armstrong by Martin Heavisides
"I was tellin’ about the time when I was a little bitty boy in my mother’s hometown of Boutte, Louisiana. I was about five years old, cute little ol’ thing, too. Mayann, my mother you know, she said to me one morning, “Son, run down to the pond and get a bucket of water for your mama." And I cut out for that water, and Mayann dug me when I come back without the water and poooh, boy! She said, “Boy, where is that water?" I said, “Well, mama, there’s a big old rusty alligator in that pond and I didn’t get that water." She said, “Oh, boy, go get that water. Don’t you know that alligator is scared of you as you are of him?" I told her, “Mama, if he’s scared of me as I am of him, that water ain’t fit to drink."
As quoted in Gary Giddins, Satchmo
“Roses are red
Violets are blue
Lucille’s are pink
I saw them on the clothesline" View Link
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The Ethos of Capital-isthmus By Russell Bittner
What pay is this? Some chit now
long past due to get us roundly up
and out the door,
to squeeze a measly buck, redound a score,
then shuck, to gutted towns, our shell-
shocked crew? Like hell you'll clear us
out and push us through, demanding,
time-cards swiped, we quit the floor
and not-like peevish children-
scream for more, but take our bul-
lied selves elsewhere for brew! I
tell you, China's coast is far from
clear;
and China's sum of us is no less dim.
So go now-take your cash where
it may still win hearts and minds
not scarified by beer and will, no
doubt, find skillful hands to trim
the scrim of your next threadbare, off-shore thrill.
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The Irritating Stiffie by Dennis Leppanen
I wouldn't have considered Harley Burgess as a matrimonial conquest. Not even a slightly remote possibility. You see, Pa hung himself the morning before Harley came around. My brother, Russell, two years my junior, built the casket while I dug the hole. Wished he would a found him, though. Pa’s face was purple hanging there, almost black. The move to the west had been especially cruel on Pa. A gentleman he was, a western farmer, he wasn’t.
I had turned nineteen, in the middle of the prairie, a randy woman in the middle of nowhere. Harley Burgess was pushing thirty, if not over the brink. Russell and I were busy packing up our meager belongings. Meager? After years living out east in near royalty. What we had become. The old farm in the middle of nowhere killed Pa. We decided to get, while the getting was good.
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The Nun and the Partisan by Pepe Nero |
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Sanctuary by Julie Innis |
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In Conversation: Russell Bittner and Marie Fitzpatrick |
Alone Time by Gary Sprague |
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Jenny's Secret by Mimi Rosen |
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Rummaging by Roland Goity |
Nobody told Marni by Martha Williams
Nobody told Marni that she couldn't walk from the church straight into the sea. Perhaps they assumed she knew, but more likely her faraway face frightened them into their collars which rose every time they passed her pew and again by the gate. And so she walked from God's house into Neptune's halls and the surf drenched her Sunday best as she twirled her way home.
Nobody told Marni that she shouldn't love a woman. Perhaps they thought it wasn't their business, but more likely they couldn't find an opening line that didn't daunt them and Marni never spoke first. And so in love as she was, no-one dared question how or who when Marni's belly swelled and her cries circled a harvest moon and came back higher-pitched.
Nobody told Marni that you can't stand by the school gate in bare feet. Nobody told Marni that she was looking thin when she wandered into town with the sun shining from her shaven scalp. Even when they all realised, nobody told Marni that she was going to die.
Perhaps they assumed she knew, but more likely they didn't want a dying woman looking into any eye too grateful for its own life. Too glad that this was not their body punctured under lights that made every laugh seem stretched and every vein look like ink on wet paper. Too relieved that they were different.
And so without being told, Marni stood up, took two hands, and like a bowsprit towed them to the barefoot beach where the eastern light met her eyes and raised a sea mist to soothe her skin.
There, in the silence between her lover and child and with the ocean kissing her thighs, Marni heard the promises and smiled.
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- 2010 - Williams |
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Frontierland by Norah Piehl
Pa did not like a country so old and worn out that the hunting was poor. He wanted to go west. For two years he had wanted to go west and take a homestead, but Ma did not want to leave the settled country.
--Laura Ingalls Wilder, By The Shores of Silver Lake
Carl found a condo with a view of the Empire State Building, but imagined bunking down under the stars. He fell asleep each night to a recording of wind rustling prairie grasses, crickets marking time, coyotes ominously keeping watch, their distant howls drowning out the cab horns and the guy who stood outside the Herald Square Hotel screamingly exhorting tourists to turn back, repent before it was too late. Sometimes Carl fancied the buses cruising down Lexington were prairie schooners under sail, on their way to boroughs yet unknown.
He discovered Charlotte at Whole Foods. Her basket held New Jersey tomatoes and organic onions, whole-wheat flour, brown rice, a basil plant to place on a sunny windowsill. She studied a shrink-wrapped package of mushrooms, turned to him as casually as if they had been shopping together for years. “These come from Pennsylvania," she said. “Do you think that’s okay?" He knew exactly what she meant, even before she spoke again. “I want to make my own spaghetti sauce," she said, “but there’s no such thing as a locally-grown mushroom, not here, anyway." Her freckled face shone pale under her broad sun hat.
The replica cabin was a rest area by the side of the Wisconsin highway, an afterthought for most, a convenient place for passersby to empty the McDonald’s wrappers from their car, to buy a pop, take a crap, and--oh yeah--to snap a picture in front of that first Little House.
To Read-On Click on Header Image |
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The Road to Clara by Cate Stevens - Davis |
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Art Gallery 2010 |
Theresa Defused by Frank Dineen |
Failure by Susan Teppen |
Snails on the Road by Rebecca Burns
THERE WERE SNAILS ON THE ROAD to the tapas bar. They had oozed over from a scrub of undeveloped land beside the main street into town. Grandma shouted a warning from up ahead, shading her eyes as she turned back to face us, squinting into the sun. But Mum didn’t swerve to avoid the little creatures littering the road. Instead they were crushed under the wheels of Toby’s buggy as Mum pushed him straight on; their shells disintegrated with tiny pops that reminded me of the gravel on our drive at home, churned up into a sharp spray by spinning wheels.
Mum’s jaw was set, and I couldn’t see her eyes behind the dark glasses she’ d worn all week. I tried not to think of the snails’ soft bodies being pulped into the concrete.
It was early evening but the heat was still stifling. We’ d sat around the pool for most of the morning with Grandma whilst Mum slept in the villa. Grandma was strong and had easily held Toby in the shallow end, letting his twisted legs float to the surface in a way that delighted him. He squealed and drooled, thrashing his head from side to side, soaking us both. But we didn’t mind. It felt good to see him so happy. View Link
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Summer Archive 2010: Grochalski, Meek,Scotellaro
dirty fingernails
she has dirty fingernails
she stops us and asks
for a quarter |
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Butterfly Service
There were butterflies
dancing against the light,
the stained glass of Jesus
changing them into shadows. |
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Commas
A grandmother now, she lives a life rife with careful pauses. A long-tailed calligraphy of fits and starts.
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Barry, Nero, Reese
Bird Watching |
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The Abyss of Human Illusion |
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Sometimes |
Compton, Walker and Swage
Six Micros by Sheldon Compton
RESIDUE
The shell casing slow motions-skyward, drop-floats back to rye grass, brass in a tight coat of gunpowder. Many others, random as dandelions, are found by the sunlight, gathered, handed out to wilt between our fingers, in pockets. A cousin reminds us to wash with lots of soap after touching them. Lead residue. Still warm in our hands, the poison slow motions, too.
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The Sick House by Michael C. Keith
The story about that creepy old house goes something like this. Almost two years ago all the kids that lived there got polio and one, a little girl named Sara, died. This drove her parents crazy and they disappeared with their two other kids, who were crippled by the disease. No one has heard from them since, and some say they went out into the Narragansett Bay on their dad’s small fishing boat and drowned during a storm, but no bodies have ever been found.
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The Thief and the Baby by Townsend Walker
People sometimes talk about the peacefulness of fog. A morning wrap that calms. Obliterates time. Forgives.
Gino woke up late that morning. He'd had trouble sleeping. The robbery hadn't gone smoothly. There'd been someone in the apartment and he’ d been forced to deal with her. He shook off the memory, jumped into his blue coveralls and went into the kitchen.
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A Painful Truth by Ethan Swage
No school today for Kyle Jagot, although he's not happy about it. He's scared to leave the bathroom, scared that if he ventures too far away from the toilet he may let go again-the sit-down kind.
Despite Kyle's objections, his mother barges in. He's wedged between tub and toilet, doubled over, rocking, crossed forearms pressed tightly beneath his belly. She dabs a moist washcloth to his forehead, asks him what other symptoms he has had. View Link
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Poetry: Ann Walters
The Way Light Falls at Four in the Morning by Ann Walters |
Unexpected Bats by Ann Walters |
To Pierce the Sky by Ann Walters |
The Dancer by Ann Walters |
Desert Roses, 1994 by Ann Walters |
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January by Marie Fitzpatrick |
White Out by Nancy Norton |
In the Depths of Winter by Nancy Norton |
THE MUDMEN by Mikal Hubber |
Summer Art and Photography 2009
Poets: Eccles, Murray. Long, Dallingan
Flask Against the Stone
on this scarlet night
the mountain aflame
forest life screams in the air
terrified creatures
bolting everywhere
my heart bums
with their fear a shard of
glass reflected the sun rays
created this firestorm day
why is the drunkard
not here to behold
the flare of his flask
thrown against stone
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Won't You Please Stand Up
Won't you please look up
to where that young girl
looks down hoping you'll
overlook weathered shoes?
You'll cross through the crowd,
through the breakers of dancers
to say she's the one that
you choose.
Won't you please stand up
and shake the shivered nerve
endings, into magnetic sounds
that young love understands?
She will know each new step.
She will sense your arrival.
She will reach out and lend you
her hand.
Won't you please step out,
through your young fellow dancers?
Lay her head to your shoulder,
hands gently in line.
You don't touch the floor
by means that escape you
as you'11 move in three
quarter time.
Won't you please stand up
and grant me my pardon,
as I leave you young men
so awkward you see?
My best hope's to hope
on your east-rising of manhood
that you'll be better dancers
than me.
-- 2008 Murray View Link
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All our Years
She leaves softly
the bed she makes for me,
sets the house in order before I wake.
On the table
places my meal without fuss,
tendering to me
as a good wife will.
Our needs met in order
as they rise,
she to mine and I to hers.
Those kindnesses
and all our years crush
to one moment
when her life goes out,
stops on the page.
In memoriam, sheets lie
crumpled
the table is not set
and flowers go dry
in the vase.
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Island by Mark Dallingan
No breaking news
sky, sea and rock,
my islands meteorology.
No highway noise
but tidal ebb and flow,
for soft white sound.
No crowded streets
but rock pools brimming
with mussel, crab and shrimp.
-2008-Dalligan View Link
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Fiction: Bittner, Beaumont and Gebbie
Allegory by Russell Bittner |
Reading in Bed by Digby Beaumont |
Ed’s Wife and Other Creatures by Vanessa Gebbie |
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Micro: Walters, Murray, Long, McMann
Don Diego ... at Ojo Caliente |
real Hollywood outcalls |
Kelly's Orchard |
Hardball |
Essay and Poem
I Am Being Everybody They Cried: Peter Barnes (1931-2004) by Martin Heavisides
Prologue
DIOGENES: I thought those who came after would be better. Wrong! What can the comforting deceptions of philosophy signify in the face of truth, which is always the same --nothing ends well. I should have studied emptiness, nothing, instead of virtue. The gods tried to tell me. One night I was huddled in my barrel, trying to sleep. The snow was falling outside and I heard the gods praising me for my discussion on emptiness, nothing. 'But I haven't said anything,' I told them. 'You haven't said anything as we haven't heard anything: that's true emptiness,' they replied. I should've studied emptiness and midwives should give up their calling; it's a crime against mankind to inflict life on another human being.
THE REAL LONG JOHN SILVER, pp. 50-51
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"The Moon and The Stars" |
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Poets: Mannone, Berger, Hiss, Kiernan
The Smell of Bubbles |
Credo
As a psychologist, I have seen 1000/attempts to avoid responsibility for/a troubled child./"It's a chemical imbalance; it's the schools;/it's the medication; it's uncle Harry." |
The Dragon
When you first told me about/the dragon tattoo, I didn't/believe you were preppy 101,/clean cut in your wool sweater/and dockers. I wasnFt sure/I wanted to see your legs,/lean and pale; |
Musings chanced upon in the quiet of Inniscrone |
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Short Stories
High Water
Willy was born delighted in the middle of a rainstorm that threatened to flood the root cellar where they were hiding from the lightning. She had wide-open blue eyes. Her tiny expressive face soundlessly oohed and aahed and grimaced and startled with each feeling from the very beginning and, soon, she had a coo of contentment that nurtured her mother and then a three-tone song of a laugh that always made her siblings smile. Thunderstorms and floods threatened them so often but Willy's birth let Mama engage with them easier from then on. View Link
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The River Thief
English Wells fought the Pumquich River for forty years, moving his will ever by degrees at it. "By God, Miriam," he often said to his wife, "I'll go at it until I drop, most likely. What you work for, you get. You get what you work for." English, lacking funds or worldly promise, wanted to steal more land from this side of the river, to push his small estate out over the river#s run, to claim energy's due.
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Carey, Beaumont and Augustine
The Enchantment by Donia Carey |
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The New Man by Digby Beaumont |
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Harry's Bar by Nonnie Augustine |
Short Stories: Svehaug, Wilcox, Joseph, Sheehan
High Water by Eric Svehaug |
Mr. Wyandotte by Phoebe Wilcox |
Photophobia by Niall Joseph |
The River Thief by Tom Sheehan |
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Poetry: Clarke, Johnson, Locke
A Workhorse Of A Different Colour |
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Berenika |
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Yang Chu's Poem 86 |
Poetry: Saunders and Good
This Morning I met Seamus Heaney ... |
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The Game |
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an armed man lurks in ambush |
Tudor, Ferraro, Good
Amy in the Dark |
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Buenos Aires: A Literary City |
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personal history |
Tepper, Ismail, (Karachi, Pakistan)
Hiding |
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A Gentle Heart (Obit)
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Story: West, Fitzpatrick, Fox, Joy
Life's a Beach by Bill West |
Under Christian Crosses by Mari Fitzpatrick |
The Night of the Fox by Rebecca Burns |
Some of this is True by Len Joy |
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Appleyard: ZoBell, Creith, Mascarino, Carey
Faith |
Ribs of sunken galleons |
Sam and Frank--Old Friends |
Russian roulette |
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Cold, Cold Heart by Jim Haughey
No estaba seguro de cuanto tiempo habia estado el cuerpo all. Una, tal vez dos semanas. El olor se habia asentado tan intensamente en el dormitorio que, aunque se quedó alli solo unos minutos cada vez, estaba asombrado de lo profundamente que el olor invadia la tela de su ropa. El olor de los organos atrofiandose. Los globos oculares se convirtieron en pequeños orbes de gelatina gris mate.
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Story: Linden and Olson
On walkabout from the cafe, tired of city lights, Ma, the shaman, catches a bus from the downtown station to the end of the line. Here, Ma runs with emus through the red desert dust and eats bush cucumbers in full fruit.
After absorbing electricity from lightning, she flies with the magpies to places of desire, waterholes of power, canyons where cave dwellers recorded their first Dreamings. She descends to a land inhabited by tiny rock sprites who bow to the shaman's journey and beg to honor her wish. For inspiration, Ma requests the creation of a sand painting. |
The sun was just rising in West Central Minnesota, brazing the horizon a magenta color as upkicked dust lilted behind a Chevrolet truck that rumbled down the long gravel driveway. The truck pulled onto a paved county road that reached out for miles on an even plain. The only signs of civilization outside of Jay’s passenger side window were the railroad tracks running parallel to the road and the high-voltage power lines off in the distance--giants standing above the wheat and corn and beets. Tyler, Jay’s cousin and a year his junior, flipped on the radio. |