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	<title>Two Hawks Quarterly &#187; Antioch University Los Angeles</title>
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	<description>A Literary Uprising</description>
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		<item>
		<title>Getting By</title>
		<link>http://twohawksquarterly.com/2011/10/20/getting-by/</link>
		<comments>http://twohawksquarterly.com/2011/10/20/getting-by/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Thu, 20 Oct 2011 01:38:07 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>aulapress</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Current Issue]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Fiction]]></category>
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		<category><![CDATA[breakup]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Dan Coxon]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[photograph]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[relationship story]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[short fiction]]></category>
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		<category><![CDATA[wallet]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://twohawksquarterly.com/?p=4593</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[Dan Coxon &#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160; For the first week the wallet sat next to the phone. David would eye it cautiously as he left for work each morning, as if he expected it to burst into flames, or come to life and flap clumsily across the room. All it did was slowly gather a thin film of dust. &#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160; When he&#8217;d seen it lying half-hidden beneath the grocery store&#8217;s magazine stand his first reaction had been to find someone to pass it to, a simple transfer of responsibility. As he&#8217;d stared vacantly at the bulging square of leather, though, he&#8217;d caught a glimpse of his reflection in the plastic sheen of the counter, and he&#8217;d balked. The last two years had been unkind to his waistline and his hairline alike. The checkout girl had turned her eyes away from him, her expression returning to a bored, blank slate, and he had little doubt that its contents would end up divided among her friends in a strip-lit back room. &#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160; It was only as he bent stiffly to pick it up, his back straining to complete this simple maneuver, that the realization hit him. He had seen this particular wallet before. It took [...]]]></description>
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		<title>Beaver Valley Homestead &#8211; 1966</title>
		<link>http://twohawksquarterly.com/2011/10/20/beaver-valley-homestead-1966/</link>
		<comments>http://twohawksquarterly.com/2011/10/20/beaver-valley-homestead-1966/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Thu, 20 Oct 2011 01:37:54 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>aulapress</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Current Issue]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Antioch University Los Angeles]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Beaver Valley]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[cattle]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[clouds]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Jordan Hartt]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[mercy]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[rust]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Two Hawks Quarterly]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[weathered porch]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://twohawksquarterly.com/?p=4720</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[&#160;&#160; Jordan Hartt &#160;&#160; &#160; &#160; (grass buckles in the newborn wind) &#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;(the cattle on a thousand hills are mine) &#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160; (gravel settles behind wheels)&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160; (grain the color of nickel waves in dull sunlight)&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160; &#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160; &#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160; &#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160; (worn overalls hang off the whitewashed porch railing) (with a farmhand he brands sullen calves)&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160; (weathered fences stagger like drunks) &#160;(grain silos)&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160; (she rests thin ankles on the porch railing)&#160;&#160; &#160;(she stares at the birch trees) (they hold her down on the weathered porch) &#160;&#160;&#160; (he brands his initials on her spindly legs) &#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160; &#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160; (sunflowers burst) (he dreams of gunmetal fields of grain) &#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;(sky the color of cow&#8217;s milk) &#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160; &#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160; (the cattle on a thousand hills are mine) &#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160; &#160;&#160;&#160; (the spray of hard gravel)&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;(burst of sunlight)&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160; &#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160; (she fights against the thick whiskey-smelling forearms of the men) &#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;mercy &#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160; &#160; &#160;(white sheets hung from clotheslines shiver in the wind)&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160; (grain the color of metal) (the smell of burning flesh is like the smell of rusted tractor) (in dreams he tries to embrace her but it&#8217;s like holding onto a wind-billowing sheet) &#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160; (she dreams of the spindly fingers of birch trees clutching her hair) &#160;(weathered porch) &#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160; (he envies the [...]]]></description>
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		<item>
		<title>Saint Elizabeth&#8217;s</title>
		<link>http://twohawksquarterly.com/2011/10/20/saint-elizabeths/</link>
		<comments>http://twohawksquarterly.com/2011/10/20/saint-elizabeths/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Thu, 20 Oct 2011 01:37:38 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>aulapress</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Current Issue]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Poetry]]></category>
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		<category><![CDATA[clock]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[ever-changing]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Sarah Long]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Two Hawks]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Two Hawks Literary Journal]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://twohawksquarterly.com/?p=4606</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[Sarah Long &#160; My body is an ever-changing clock&#8212; spastic springs and gears never settling, never keeping proper time. Bodies carry bodies in pockets, on chains like skin-scented heirlooms. When my grandmother died, she left me her first kiss, the ticking sound of summer asphalt and peach fuzzed legs. I see my mother&#8217;s handwriting on the chart beside my bed: Sarita has always been a dramatic child. Her face gathers humidity like tears trapped behind glass. Dr. Winnicki advises me to rest, but never to fall asleep, while he looks for cures in different time zones. His clock is all bent and rusty snow, melting into creeks where salmon spawn alcoholic fishermen. Clocks line up on barstools in Wuuhstah, &#8220;How&#8217;s about a beeah?&#8221; Nicotine-stained vowels, romancing beers like wives. Before becoming wives, girls sway to the music, twirl their skirts with love. Their pink and red fingernails tap out the seconds between handsome wristbands. Tell me what you&#8217;re really thinking . . . I don&#8217;t want to know. Nurse Alma sees too many words in my future, where she says nuts chase the squirrels, and clocks are ever-changing bodies. _____________________________________________________________________________________________________ &#160; Sarah&#160;Long&#160;was once on the masthead of&#160;Two Hawks Quarterly, and [...]]]></description>
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		<item>
		<title>From the Fire</title>
		<link>http://twohawksquarterly.com/2011/10/20/from-the-fire/</link>
		<comments>http://twohawksquarterly.com/2011/10/20/from-the-fire/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Thu, 20 Oct 2011 01:37:29 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>aulapress</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Current Issue]]></category>
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		<category><![CDATA[bullets]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[California]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Donnelle McGee]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[food stamps]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[From the Fire]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Los Angeles]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Two Hawks Quarterly]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[under the sound]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://twohawksquarterly.com/?p=4660</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[Donnelle McGee for Seven i come from them smoggy nights in LA i come from the meeting of john and prostitute i come from the ohio players shouting fire i come from being told&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;here&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;take these food stamps to the market and get some milk for you and your brother i come from under the sound of copters&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;spotlights in my living room&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;and bullets piercing temples&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160; &#160; _____________________________________________________________________________________________________ Donnelle McGee&#160;is a&#160;Jimi Hendrix&#160;freak and wishes he could dunk a basketball. He earned his MFA from&#160;Goddard College. He is a faculty member at Mission College in&#160;Santa Clara, Cailifornia. His work has appeared in&#160;Controlled Burn, Haight Ashbury Liteary Journal, Home Planet News, Iodine Poetry Journal, Permafrost,&#160;River Oak&#160;Review, The&#160;Spoon River&#160;Poetry&#160;Review,&#160;The Dirty Napkin, Pale House,&#160;and&#160;Word Riot,&#160;among others.&#160;His work has also been nominated for a&#160;Pushcart Prize.&#160;Donnelle lives in&#160;Turlock, California&#160;and is the proud father of two beautiful kids.&#160;Visit his website at&#160;www.donnellemcgee.com. &#160;]]></description>
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		<item>
		<title>Age of Parallax</title>
		<link>http://twohawksquarterly.com/2011/10/20/age-of-parallax/</link>
		<comments>http://twohawksquarterly.com/2011/10/20/age-of-parallax/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Thu, 20 Oct 2011 01:37:15 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>aulapress</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Current Issue]]></category>
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		<category><![CDATA[Alaska]]></category>
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		<category><![CDATA[mud]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[parallax]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[tide]]></category>
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		<category><![CDATA[Vivian Faith Prescott]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://twohawksquarterly.com/?p=4676</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[Vivian Faith Prescott &#160; The muddy tide rising to shore should carry you downriver by now. But, I imagine your scow wedged between cottonwoods on the riverbank branches shoved through your chest motor revving.&#160;Maybe your skiff &#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160;&#160; is jammed on the sandbar, and you&#8217;ve stumbled over the side, whirlpools sucking your rubber-booted feet. But here, beyond this same window, the same slack tide, I see your staggered walk up the boat ramp, river sand in your hair, mud-coated boots, and this current ebbs, spinning about my head a course much smoother when you were face down in your orange flotation suit frozen atop an ice floe like an abandoned buoy. &#160; _____________________________________________________________________________________________________ Vivian Faith Prescott is a fifth generation Alaskan. She holds a Ph.D. in Cross Cultural Studies and an MFA from the University of Alaska. She&#39;s the Co-Director of Raven&#39;s Blanket. Her poetry appears in Catapult to Mars, Yellow Medicine Review and Gutter Eloquence. Her website is&#160;http://www.vivianfaithprescott.com&#160;and she blogs at&#160;http://planetalaska.blogspot.com. &#160; &#160; &#160; &#160; &#160; &#160; &#160;]]></description>
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