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	<title>Two Hawks Quarterly &#187; drinking</title>
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	<description>A Literary Uprising</description>
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		<title>Drinking With Hemingway By David O&#8217;Neal</title>
		<link>http://twohawksquarterly.com/2009/02/22/1916/</link>
		<comments>http://twohawksquarterly.com/2009/02/22/1916/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Sun, 22 Feb 2009 11:47:57 +0000</pubDate>
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				<category><![CDATA[Creative Non-Fiction]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[drinking]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Hemingway]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Ketchum]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Sun Valley]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Taylor Williams]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Two Hawks Quarterly]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Wild Turkey]]></category>

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		<description><![CDATA[&#160; &#160;&#160; The day before we met Hemingway the skiing was good. It was snowing and the going was sometimes hard. But we were young and strong and had skied well in spite of the snowstorm. The snow was soft and the falling down was part of it and the skiing was good. &#160;&#160;&#160;&#160; Doug Bradshaw, Tim Houghton and I were juniors at Princeton. We had come to Sun Valley to ski during Christmas vacation in 1958. The Bradshaws lived in Pocatello and had a small cottage in Ketchum a few miles from Sun Valley. Doug and his brother Ben, and their St. Bernard Fritz, and Tim and I shared the Bradshaws&#8217; cottage. Tim was the best skier among us. He was an eccentric and a wild card and lived and skied on the edge. Tim majored in English and was writing a novel. He took creative writing from the British novelist Kingsley Amis who was a visiting fellow at Princeton that year. When he graduated he went to London to study under Amis and died there in an apartment house fire. &#160;&#160;&#160;&#160; Hemingway had been renting a house in Ketchum from the Heiss family. The Heisses were friends of [...]]]></description>
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		<title>Ketchikan by Allan Wasserman</title>
		<link>http://twohawksquarterly.com/2008/11/14/ketchikan-by-allan-wasserman/</link>
		<comments>http://twohawksquarterly.com/2008/11/14/ketchikan-by-allan-wasserman/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Sat, 15 Nov 2008 05:04:35 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>AULA Editor</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Fiction]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[drinking]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[ferry]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[golden thumb]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Hadia]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[ketchikan]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[logger]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[lord]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[northwest]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Seattle]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[train]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Wasserman]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://aulapress.wordpress.com/?p=1355</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[&#8220;Kid you got a golden thumb,&#8221; declared Cortis Haire. He had picked up the bright-eyed hippie outside of Los Angeles heading north on his pedal to the metal push towards Seattle. Cortis was an independent big rig driver, bringing up a fifty-pallet load of brake shoes to the Pacific Northwest. He was clean and sober twenty-eight years and an ordained minister of some church his passenger never heard of. Ian Greengrass, riding shotgun, told tales Bronx-style but also knew when to listen. He was a college kid from New York, heading to Alaska to join his pal Noel to work in the woods and earn a year&#8217;s tuition in one summer. He regaled Cortis with stories of his monster hitches. The Bronx to Albuquerque, Albuquerque to L.A., and finally L.A. to Seattle. Cortis admired the boy&#8217;s courage and envied his freedom. Their second day of hauling was coming to a close as they passed the exit to Seattle. The Reverend Haire dropped him off in an industrial yard, shocking Ian when he hugged him goodbye. The young hitchhiker threw his backpack on over both shoulders, looped his arms in the straps and headed for the dock that housed the Alaska [...]]]></description>
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		<title>Generation Lost by Marykate Linehan</title>
		<link>http://twohawksquarterly.com/2008/11/14/generation-lost-by-marykate-linehan/</link>
		<comments>http://twohawksquarterly.com/2008/11/14/generation-lost-by-marykate-linehan/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Sat, 15 Nov 2008 04:38:59 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>AULA Editor</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Fiction]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Camden]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Canfield]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[college]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[drinking]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[drowning]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[drunk]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Fairuza Balk]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[gin and tonic]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Marykate Linehan]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[party]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Sinatra]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[vodka]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://aulapress.wordpress.com/?p=1343</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[I always thought I&#8217;d drown like Martha did. Thrown overboard with anchors attached, Fighting to breath, discovered six days later, reduced to a skeleton, tangled in a lobster trap. My brother and I delivered her daily newspaper. She was on the front page. Martha was murdered by the hands of her own emptiness, seeking anyone attentive, even the likes of a murderer. Camden College was my suffocation.  I was submerged in a body of trust funds, weighed down by has been teachers and frightened into catatonia by my own lost generation. *** The second stage of drowning is involuntary breath holding. Welcome to Camden College. Camden was notorious for its liberal education, incestuous hook-ups and the belief that self-destruction was the new black. Classroom discussions were cyclical arguments and intellectual competitions, never amounting to anything profound because nobody got grades. I was imperceptible to many, including teachers, defeating the very reason why I came to a small school. Afraid of the expectation of not being accepted, I diluted myself. From tears to the bottle, I was going. *** You see Martha walking her dog, Rudy, by beach. They wouldn&#8217;t stop and play anymore. I watched her while undulating with the [...]]]></description>
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		<title>ORBIT by Melissa Mason</title>
		<link>http://twohawksquarterly.com/2008/08/22/orbit-by-melissa-mason/</link>
		<comments>http://twohawksquarterly.com/2008/08/22/orbit-by-melissa-mason/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Thu, 21 Aug 2008 17:00:52 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>AULA Editor</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Fiction]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Alcatraz]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Antioch]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Antioch University]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Antioch University Literary Magazine]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Anton Chekhov]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[bars]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[blackout]]></category>
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		<category><![CDATA[boston]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[drinking]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[dude]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[inferno]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[kiss]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Labor Day]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[lips]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[love]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[midwest]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[missed connections]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[San Francisco]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[spaulding]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[trance]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Two Hawks]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Two Hawks Literary Journal]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Two Hawks Quarterly]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[vacuum]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[whiskey]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://aulapress.wordpress.com/?p=625</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[And it seemed that, just a little more—and the solution would be found, and then a new, beautiful life would begin; and it was clear to both of them that the end was still far off, and that the most complicated and difficult part was just beginning. Anton Chekhov The Lady with the Little Dog “What are you looking at?” Her eyes were off across the room, focused on something stationary that was, or maybe wasn’t, there. “Why haven’t you ever kissed me?” She blurted it out fast, as if it was a shocking question she had worked herself up to. “I don’t know. I’m scared.” “Why are you scared?” “Because I care about you, and I don’t want to ruin things. I’m scared because the last woman I really cared about and kissed eventually stopped kissing me back. I’m scared because I don’t want to miss you more than I already do.” He took a sip of his wine and wiped his thumb up and down against the stem of the glass. “Do you want me to keep going?” “No, no. I get it. You have reasons.” “Good reasons.” “Yes, good reasons.” She leaned over and undid the straps [...]]]></description>
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		<item>
		<title>Forever 18 by Casey Cohen</title>
		<link>http://twohawksquarterly.com/2008/08/22/forever-18-by-casey-cohen/</link>
		<comments>http://twohawksquarterly.com/2008/08/22/forever-18-by-casey-cohen/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Fri, 22 Aug 2008 07:00:18 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>AULA Editor</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Creative Non-Fiction]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[alcohol]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Antioch Literary Journal]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Antioch University]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Antioch University Literary Magazine]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Antioch University Los Angeles]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Basketball]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Casey Cohen]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[drinking]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[therapy]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Two Hawks]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Two Hawks Literary Journal]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Two Hawks Quarterly]]></category>
		<category><![CDATA[Venice Beach]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://aulapress.wordpress.com/?p=1118</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[            July 2nd, 2008. Truth be told, I’ve never been much good at remembering what the date is. Of course this affliction is exacerbated in L.A., where the seasons are vague at best, and I’m hard pressed to know what month it is let alone one of its numbers. In fact, at 78 degrees and holding, I’ve often considered my time spent in Los Angeles as one long day with naps in between.              I do recall however, that the day before, July 1st, was the day when legislation had gone in to effect prohibiting California drivers from using a cell phone while driving, unless they used a hands-free device. Digital messages had loomed over the freeway I drive daily, forecasting the coming of this date for many weeks. Though the cynic in me considered it quite likely that the suits at a Bluetooth manufacturer lobbied hard for this law, I found it to be, regardless of motive, all together reasonable. Who hasn’t cursed the driver of the SUV in front of us: phone pressed to ear, latte to lips, moving at half the speed limit, exploring every part of the space that the lane provides and some it does [...]]]></description>
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