Andrea Danowski I was going to start off with the story my dad always tells about how he almost knocked over a Giacometti once. I don’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 … Read more
Shannon George 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, they had to be mine. Before you go to … Read more
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 … Read more
Robert Fox Mother’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’ve got to have the radio blasting. Tom Schnabel has just started his Sunday show with The Intruders, “I’ll Always … Read more
The Winter 2011 issue features Creative Nonfiction from Micaela Seidel, Genre X from Sarah Long, and Poetry from Lek Borja, Michelle “Strawberry” Heymann, Wednesday Hobson, and Jessica Kincade
1 It was summer. I was sweeping in the kitchen, facing south. There was that milling around feeling, children everywhere, my own and some others — that white-haired child from down the road. Hear the sound of hammering, one, two, three, pause, one, two, three — a husband somewhere, working. There is no … Read more
I need a camera, to my eye, to my eye, reminding which lies I’ve been hiding -Wilco, “Kamera” There is profuse proof of my existence after age 10. My photographic life begins awkward, barely pre-teen. Band concerts, summer camping, middle-school portraits of me with braces, family pets, all chronologically ordered into albums; a … Read more
“Tell me exactly how you did it,” she says. I covertly look to the right and to the left—as if a Star Trekesque escape pod will suddenly appear and I will be rescued from this conversation. No luck. I can’t just walk away. I see this woman at the gym three days a week. I … Read more
It’s getting dark when the road curves into Moab. My twenty-two year old daughter is with me on my cross-continent divorce odyssey. Six weeks ago, her dad told me our thirty-year marriage was over and my life feels as stark as the landscape that surrounds us.I’ve made a reservation at a swank place called the … Read more
Two Hawks Quarterly Issue 2 – Number 1 – Summer 2008 __________________________________________________ A Letter Not Sent Kristine Ong Muslim Are They Real? Virginia Silverman Avoiding Her Art Eugenie Theall BLOCK Darby Bailey Bread & Tablecloths Sergio Ortiz Childless Eugenie Theall Defeating the Forces of Café Amore Laurie Barton FAMILY OWNED R. Neal Bonser Forever 18 Casey Cohen Mulling Spices Jennifer Bradpiece ORBIT … Read more
The sound of our footsteps echoed through the hall. Dozens of faces too ill to smile stared at us as we tried not to look into their rooms. Hushed conversations mingled with the odors of Lysol, bleach and fresh flowers. We arrived at our destination. My mother asked for my handkerchief to dry … Read more
Two Hawks Quarterly Issue 1 – Number 4 – Spring 2008 __________________________________________________ Between the Bells Gina Maria DiPonio Bugs Morgan W. Strauss Catch Diana Corbin Crawl, Toddle, Walk, Run Darby Bailey Dancing Zachary Ash Dead Man’s Nail Dennis Fulgoni Dichos, and the Things my Mother Told Me Philip C. Barragan II Dining Alone Darby Bailey … Read more
A Thousand Sad Pieces Golden light created a soft waterfall through the dense canopy of trees in the mountain village, filtering through the early morning mist rising from the valley below, falling sporadically on the roof of his adobe home. It crawled gently down the walls looking for the window … Read more
It was 13 years ago. I am 9 years old. It is a sweltering summer. The ocean breeze arrives right before sundown. The neighborhood children and I have gathered to play Flying Colors. We are choosing teams. A younger, filthy boy (resembling Pig Pen) walks up to me. “ Girls can’t do anything!” Hunter says … Read more
I was 21, living in Houston, and appearing in a play called Fire, when Robert Altman came to town to film BREWSTER MCLEOD, a now mostly-forgotten movie that was now mostly-forgotten actor Shelley Duval’s debut. Rumor had it Mr. Altman had plucked her from behind the cosmetics counter at Foley¹s department store. Well! I thought. … Read more
O Organ-grinders The art of organ-grinding is fast disappearing, almost as quickly as we are. There used to be an organ-grinder and his little monkey on every street corner, distracting us from our troubles. Now we have nothing to distract us and we must pay attention to each trouble, individually. They say that when the world … Read more
Two Hawks Quarterly Issue 1 – Number 3 – Winter 2008 __________________________________________________ Untitled Jacob Lasham I've Known Rivers Joseph McGonegal Incurring Telaina Morse Eriksen Finding Beautiful Karissa Chen Rain Season Loretta Williams Status Quo Eric Rydquist Hatchet Devin Galaudet happymeat.com Kim Hutchinson The Farm Fresh Egg Hunt Eileen Hodges The … Read more
Sheer striped-print curtains that hung from cheap white curtain rods blew softly in an April breeze. I remember that day well. Dad and I lay on our bellies, watching Vin Scully, the voice of the Dodgers baseball while eating from a tray of Ritz crackers and a jar of Skippy Peanut Butter on the bed … Read more
For a boy to know his father he must travel upriver, far upriver—until the upping and the river become one, until the boy is the river and the father is no longer the source. Able and his father loved rivers, loved being near them, loved to talk about them, loved finding the beginnings of them, … Read more
I think rain is as necessary to the mind as to vegetation. My very thoughts become thirsty, and crave the moisture. – John Burroughs Autumn 2006 There is a day every fall when the air goes slack and my forehead throbs and I know that rain is on its way. I fret at the back … Read more
