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	<title>Two Hawks Quarterly &#187; Creative Non-Fiction</title>
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	<description>A Literary Uprising</description>
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		<title>Involuntary Reflexes, or How I Ruin Art</title>
		<link>http://twohawksquarterly.com/2011/10/20/involuntary-reflexes-or-how-i-ruin-art/</link>
		<comments>http://twohawksquarterly.com/2011/10/20/involuntary-reflexes-or-how-i-ruin-art/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Thu, 20 Oct 2011 01:35:14 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>aulapress</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Creative Non-Fiction]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Current Issue]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Andrea Danowski]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Antioch Literary Journal]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Antioch University Literary Magazine]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Art]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Memoir]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[teenage fingers]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://twohawksquarterly.com/?p=4603</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[Andrea Danowski &#160; I was going to start off with the story my dad always tells about how he almost knocked over a Giacometti once. I don&#39;t know if it was the one that recently sold for just over a hundred million dollars, but it was one of the Walking Man bronze sculptures. My dad lost his balance or something and stepped backward, not realizing the Walking Man stood there. It teetered and wobbled, but did not fall. And then I remembered the time at an art show at Timbrespace, after two too many martinis, when a cup of beer slipped out of my drunken hand dangerously close to Luke Whitlatch&#39;s painted wrapped canvas blocks on the floor in the middle of the gallery. I liked his work, but if I was going to have to buy one of his pieces, I didn&#39;t want it to be because it was beer-soggy. The cup hit the hardwood at just the right angle to propel the beer away from the closest piece. I haven&#39;t drunk a martini since. But the story I wanted to tell you is about my teenage fingers. It must have been during my yearly summer writing camp at [...]]]></description>
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		<title>The Worry Dolls</title>
		<link>http://twohawksquarterly.com/2011/10/20/the-worry-dolls/</link>
		<comments>http://twohawksquarterly.com/2011/10/20/the-worry-dolls/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Thu, 20 Oct 2011 01:34:22 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>aulapress</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Creative Non-Fiction]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Current Issue]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Antioch University Los Angeles]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[CNF]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[dolls]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[killer clown]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[magical thinking]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[obsessive worry]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[San Diego]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Shannon George]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Unsolved Mysteries]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[worry dolls]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://twohawksquarterly.com/?p=4664</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[Shannon George&#160; &#160; &#160; &#160; &#160; &#160; &#160; &#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160; Inside a small, oval-shaped wooden box festively adorned with yellow, green, and red paint lay six little dolls made of wire, paper, resin and tiny bits of cloth. Worry Dolls is how the store described them, and once I read the instructions for their use,&#160;they had to be mine. Before you go to bed at night, tell us your worries. Sleep with us under your pillow, and the next day your problems will disappear. &#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160; Finally, a toy that encompassed my three great passions: dolls, magical thinking, and obsessive worry. &#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160; I&#39;m not sure what started my thing with dolls. All I know is that my first-ever Christmas wish, conveyed to my mom in my 21st month of life, back when words existed primarily for the purpose of bossing others around, was &#8220;Santa Claus! Bring it! Dolly!&#8221; Santa granted my wish, bringing me some sort of imitation Cabbage Patch Kid. My doll collection continued to grow with each birthday or Christmas. &#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160; My nagging fear was that these vinyl-faced baby-dolls with stickers for eyes might actually be sentient beings. I knew this probably wasn&#39;t the case, but I didn&#39;t want to [...]]]></description>
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		<title>Containment</title>
		<link>http://twohawksquarterly.com/2011/10/20/containment/</link>
		<comments>http://twohawksquarterly.com/2011/10/20/containment/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Thu, 20 Oct 2011 01:34:10 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>aulapress</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Creative Non-Fiction]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Current Issue]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[abortion]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Antioch University Los Angeles]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Containment]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[creative nonfiction]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[cucumbers]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[earplugs]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[gardening]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[hearing]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[jars]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Jessica Karbowiak]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[pickling]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[surgery]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Two Hawks Quarterly]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://twohawksquarterly.com/?p=4977</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[Jessica Karbowiak &#160; At nineteen years old, I become confused in my body and have to leave college. I walk in padded slippers and ratty bathrobe down the front hall of my childhood home. I avoid my mother and father, and my younger brother visiting from college who seems to be avoiding me, too. I work hard to control myself, my thoughts, my face, as I shuffle slipper in front of slipper, reach the dining room- turned- recuperation room, slide the glass doors roughly open, enter, and close them. There is little besides my old black sleigh bed brought in for the occasion, and I push my body onto it, crouch in a ball, and touch my stomach with both hands until sleep comes. When I wake, confusion takes over. This becomes the new- normal, things and thoughts moving over-fast so it is hard for meaning-making to catch up. Weekday and Weekend; Day and Night. What Counts and What Doesn&#8217;t. Today is a Friday I know, I have been told by my mother several times. My mother, who paces the kitchen nights, adorned in her own ratty robe and slippers, paces there in the room next to mine. I cannot [...]]]></description>
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		<item>
		<title>Back to Normal</title>
		<link>http://twohawksquarterly.com/2011/10/07/back-to-normal/</link>
		<comments>http://twohawksquarterly.com/2011/10/07/back-to-normal/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Fri, 07 Oct 2011 00:13:29 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>aulapress</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Creative Non-Fiction]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Current Issue]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Antioch University Los Angeles]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[brothers]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[CNF]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[family]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[grief]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[loss]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Mother's Day]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[motherless]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[normal]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Robert Fox]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[The Intruders]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://twohawksquarterly.com/?p=4687</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[Robert Fox &#160; Mother&#8217;s Day 2011. I have finished my laundry, vacuumed the apartment and am mopping the floors. To keep up my cleaning mood, to do these domestic things I have learned over the years, I&#8217;ve got to have the radio blasting. Tom Schnabel has just started his Sunday show with The Intruders, &#8220;I&#8217;ll Always Love My Momma,&#8221; released in 1973.&#160; I sing along with the bouncy tune until a sudden weightlessness overcomes me, like riding in a roller coaster when the terrifying downward part begins. The feeling is not thrilling at all, very unpleasant, and as the song continues &#8211; I am forced, as I am every Mother&#8217;s Day, to remember my mother.&#160;Between 1970 and 1973 she had two strokes, the first when I was fourteen and the second massive and fatal one when I was sixteen. She was forty-nine when she died in April of 1973. After her death, the call for our motherless family was to &#8220;get back to normal.&#8221; As I think about those days after her death, my jaw locks and my grip tightens around the mop&#8217;s shaft. I attack a stubborn spot of dirt in the corner of the kitchen and slam the [...]]]></description>
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		<title>Falling, Stairs, Fragments, Fire ~ by Micaela Seidel</title>
		<link>http://twohawksquarterly.com/2010/12/10/falling-stairs-fragments-fire-by-micaela-seidel/</link>
		<comments>http://twohawksquarterly.com/2010/12/10/falling-stairs-fragments-fire-by-micaela-seidel/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Fri, 10 Dec 2010 02:02:08 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>aulapress</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[2011]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Creative Non-Fiction]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Winter]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Antioch University Literary Magazine]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Two Hawks Literary Journal]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Two Hawks Quarterly]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://twohawksquarterly.com/?p=4397</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[1 &#160;&#160; &#160; It was summer. I was sweeping in the kitchen, facing south. There was that milling around feeling, children everywhere, my own and some others &#8212; that white-haired child from down the road. Hear the sound of hammering, one, two, three, pause, one, two, three &#8212; a husband somewhere, working. There is no need to try to remember this. Time rose and fell and rose like a wheel unhindered by me.&#160; &#160;&#160; &#160; Stop this memory here. I must not allow my younger self to glance up and out the door to the east. Don&#39;t let her see the field awash in light. Don&#39;t let her see what blocks the doorway. Who. I stand on this side of time and beg. Do not turn. Do not see your son, seventeen years old, a cardboard cut-out of blue jeans and T-shirt, his hair sticking out like fire. &#160; &#160;&#160; &#160; Fire.&#160; &#160;&#160; &#160; He&#39;s going to say it. Don&#39;t listen. Don&#39;t move. Step away from that day. Protect yourself. Protect your son and his brothers and sisters and your marriage. If you do not stop this now the world as you have known it will shift slightly but forever [...]]]></description>
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