Lek Borja Seized lies my body in the latitude of her sex How her desire shines like luminescence in the sea as if the moon were inside it, as in every hour where we enter together Tenderly sink then float longingly so My eyes follow her journey down to its end With her tears I … Read more
Kacee Belcher After the wolf cub slipped from his mother into the den with his brothers and sisters, he hunched down in terror as he lay on the cold ground, his legs not yet working. His eyes, still closed, felt heavy with the placental fluid that had mixed with the dirt that surrounded the … Read more
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
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
“Do you have a boyfriend?” It was one of the first questions my students asked me when I stood in front of their class on the opening day of the school year. Thirty-some heads of dark hair, thirty-some dark eyes, thirty-some blue-and-white uniforms, thirty-some giggling girls. “It's okay,” I said, calming down their laughter. “No, 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
At the observation station observers tried observing themselves making observations and were impressed by the results. A film loop of a loop of film being filmed in a loop. For scientific purposes, some said. For posterity said others, to preserve in our selves the making of ourselves, as seen in the making. Doesn't everyone … Read more
How to still the gills until they need to go how to go from the … Read more
I still miss those pajamas — my hospital pajamas — white with blue roses and thin stripes. My mother made the pajamas for me when I was seven. It was my first trip to the hospital to see if doctors could divine the odd sloshing rhythm that had made my heart unreliable since birth. Whatever … Read more
A glorious, buttery-warm light lit the summer of 1966. This was the summer that surpassed all remembered summers. They started to call themselves The Quartet as school let out. Mary, Colleen, Helen, and Anne were secretly teasing their brothers, who patterned their vacant lot tournaments after the escapades of Zorro and The Three Musketeers. But … Read more
1. Our mother calls me to come and look at her. That is how we begin. “Say something,” she says. She tries to sound petulant, but her image in the full-length mirror makes her smile. “A sheath,” I offer, cross-legged on the floor. I hold a pillow on my lap despite the heat. Our mother … Read more
We celebrate New Year’s Eve in San Salvador, city of hammocks, where streets are littered with firecrackers, wicks, and ash. Dogs run loose, no collar or tag. Isabel tries to control her hair, twist it into rows, slick with gel, bobby-pinned, but one strand betrays her in every picture, defies her hand. Free to pace … Read more
I was right in the middle of a late-night rush in the deli when Jeffers, one of our regulars, came slamming in like a lion late for a feeding. Most of our regulars are a pain to be sure, but Jeffers is in his own category. He’s hairy all over with this crazy-looking, giant beard … Read more
“Are they real, Mommy?” My daughter was staring at my bare breasts one morning last month as I got dressed for work. The incisions from my double mastectomy were quiet now, having faded to a mildly aggravated pink over the past six years since my surgeries. “Well, baby, in a way,” I answered. “Remember when … Read more
//www.youtube.com/watch?v=bCZ-fX-JDX0 Visit www.darbybailey.com/ for more information about BLOCK. About Darby Bailey: Voluntarily removed from parochial school in the 4th grade over sexual content in a book she was publishing for friends, Darby Bailey eventually went from downtown Salt Lake City to Santa Cruz to L.A., where she is pursing her B.A. degree at Antioch University. … Read more
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 … Read more
When he wakes up and complains about your coffee,
just smile. Show no concern that it’s seven o’clock,
and he’s out the door, rushing toward
the nubile barista at Café Amor.
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
It was those charged five minutes between 2nd and 3rd period when the courtyard of my junior high was suddenly thronged with twelve-, thirteen- and fourteen-year-olds of all shapes and sizes, all with backpacks dangling off their shoulders. Small groups began to form, halting traffic on the two narrow cement walkways that crisscrossed between the … Read more
Instead of thinking about Sonny, his traveling companion wishes she were in Spain. How far of a drive is it from Granada to Barcelona? Twenty miles south of Fresno a sign says Visalia 24 miles. Sonny pilots the car with dirty hands, a torn shirt, an unintentional beard, last … Read more
This is the sound of losing myself: the drips of continuous rain as it disperses itself along the wet ground, *** Where Costa Rican vines, like syringes, suck the water (tender roots like a child *** sucking upon a nipple, absorbing the minerals, the liquid of … Read more
I walk into my dad’s hospice room and I know that rent has come due. I have mortgaged air, and called it hope. There isn’t any home here, for either my dad or I, but we’re both still paying. Mary Doria Russell wrote in Children of God, “And love was a debt, best left unincurred.” … Read more
