Jane Cassady But here it is. As we walk the summer camp kindergarten through third grade down the street to Pleasant Playground for their weekly swim, the kids are in their two quiet lines, listening for traffic and blue jays. The shutters are open, even though it's only been a week. "Poor Mr. Kim," … 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
“Hi, welcome to Taco Bell. Hope you’re having a nice day,” said the girl standing behind the counter. Her monotone voice so void of emotion it could have been computerized. “Define nice,” I answered, and looked around at all the colored plastic and brushed aluminum and wondered why this was what fast food corporations thought … Read more
I hope I can watch you grow up to be just like your dad // you can rank above the both of us, he Kahuna // I maka’ainana I will put your head in stars blessed, turn/twist/shine/spin Mana in your palms // a prayer for those dying to manifest into those unborn Kapu flows from … Read more
He bought the bicycle in Amritsar midst midday heat weighing in at forty-seven degrees centigrade, a hundred-sixteen degrees Fahrenheit. Equipped with canvas saddlebags he set off. He carried Pepsi-Cola, he carried chapatti, he carried peanuts. He about fell over after two hours. Coming to a halt at the side of the road he yanked his bicycle up … Read more
Born in 1939 in Maryland, John Fahey pioneered the use of traditional country and blues finger picking to showcase the acoustic steel string guitar as a solo instrument that could play a mix of traditional and non-traditional musical genres. He collaged ideas associated with Bartok, Charles Ives, Indian and Gamelan music, Tibetan chanting and western … Read more
And then, hooked up to tubes and oxygen, She was screaming, catch me Joey, I’m falling! I picked her up, the heft and weight Of rabbit bones wrapped in silk, I’ve got you Rose I’ve got you. There were things I wanted to ask her, But she was calling me by her brother’s name. It … 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
for Lawrence King, 1992-2007 Teens bully deans, bash desks like Queens christen ships, graduation gowns break out in a gospel song, to heal neglected punched lips; boys grow … Read more
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 … Read more
A Poem of Premonition: Wednesday, July 16, 2008 The crows collect in front of my window. They call for souls to make a widow. Alerting me, the signs are near. Their caws and claws and passing fears. I stir, I wake, I feel un-right. The souls have lost another fight. I sway and drop at … Read more
My clarinet squeaked in a chorus of sick geese. No hope of migration. Ann-Marie was the princess. Spiky hair, holey jeans. Mickey Mouse bounced on her bosom-parade in the hall. Tara flanked her like a glossy-lipped guard dog. Keeping the riff-raff away. She tortured the school’s only Mexican girl. “Hey monkey-face, Is it true that … 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.
A little of this, a dab that, we dish out our frustrations through asthmatic breaths. Mine are served up lightly seared with mint garnish of leafy discontent in a raspberry coulisse of delicate rage. Yours boil and pop in a single constant earthen pot, simmering silently most of the time, now and then bubbling up … Read more
“The thing is that if you form bubbles, then you are liable to come up with more than one bubble. And these bubbles are likely to collide. And this will give rise to inhomogeneous universe. And that is not consistent with what we observe today.” – Stephen Hawking And I watch the summer people in … 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
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
I Have Thumb Like Carl https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DZZ6OZ6lAVE Inspired by the poem ‘Musings of a Police Reporter in the Identification Bureau’ by Carl Sandburg. 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 … Read more
About Crystal Moore: As an artist, I think in images. Instead of stringing together words, I compose visual essays of form, symbolic meaning, light, time, and context. I think of art as a tool and as a process. It can be used as a catalyst for dialog and can help promote social and personal change. … Read more
Mom always wished for the moon for everyone else and settled on dirt for herself. Take Dad. He was gone for months at a stretch even before he ditched us for his new family. Each time he left, he would come back about the time Mom, my little brother, Simon, and I almost forgot he … Read more
