Breath and Shadow
Peace Protest by Lizz Schumer
On
the 20th anniversary of my grandfather’s death from brain cancer, I lay
in my room at George Washington University Teaching Hospital, waiting
for the results of the MRI that would tell me whether my fall two days
before had been caused by the same disease. And as I stared at the
ceiling, one refrain repeated itself beneath the numbing fantanyl
static.
Did I do this?
Click here to read this essay
Oz, On Kites, Lanterns by Jenna-Nicole Conrad
Kabuki-style reflections, As only a poet can, Creased skin like bowing water Bracken dodging curled sunlight.
Click here to read these poems
Ribs by Emily Glossner Johnson
You
see that fellow over there? That man enjoying a plate of ribs? He's a
blind man. You see that he's wearing dark glasses and has one of those
skinny white canes, those walking sticks that blind people use.
You
don't have to call him visually impaired. He'll tell you not to. Why?
Because he's blind, he'll say, as if you're an idiot for asking, though
he isn't a rude man, just a man tired of having to explain.
Click here to read this short story
Reading Our History In Verse: Book review by Erika Jahneke
People
with disabilities have probably always, to the extent that they were
able, attempted to share their stories. Since I have read Beauty Is A Verb:the New Poetry of Disability, I’ve
started to think that there is a cave painting in Lascaux of some
caveman fighting it out with a saber-toothed tiger, then hobbling away.
Maybe I’ve started to hope that there is.
Before
I read this book, I had the general misconception that disability
history was just a long series of progressively darker ages, followed
by a sudden explosion in the late sixties that finished with the IDEA
and the other reforms of the early seventies, followed by the Reagan
social service cutbacks which left the disability movement in an uneasy
coma lasting until the Americans with Disabilities Act was passed in
1990.
Click here to read this book review
Walking Along by Rochelle Willis
Walking along the edge.
Gazing at possibilities.
Slowly taking these steps,
I sway to find my footing.
Indefinite, but with stride,
and seeking affirmation,
I am altogether captured
by the reverent form unfolding.
Click here to read this poem
Through Rose Colored Lenses by Jeff Kozzi
I
can get hard again. You don’t know all the joy that brings me
after so long. Night after night now, I have lain in bed and
played away. Why does a man climb a mountain? Because he can.
Understand
my former inability before you judge me for partaking in America’s
greatest private past time. If you’ve had any period of not being
able to be able, then you understand. If you’ve been one who has
never had a prolonged lapse, you won’t understand. If you have
had a prolonged lapse and have been too macho to admit it, then you’re
one of the ones judging me to overcompensate for your own inadequacies.
Click here to read this short story
Post-Op Blues by Paris
The
adage goes, “There are no atheists in foxholes.” But there was a sly
fox in this hole and he’s an atheist. I felt fear for my life and knew
that only the miracles of modern science could save me.
The
final word from the oncologist was that chondrosarcoma, a ligament
cancer, had swollen my ankle with a malignant tumor. It was probably
the site of origin and was untreatable except by amputation. The
surgeons at Stanford would operate to save my life with decent odds for
success. I’d have to live without a leg and be prepared for the outside
chance that cancer or the operation could kill me before I ever awoke
or left the hospital.
Click here to read this essay
Flowers For Libby by Nancy Scott
Glass is fragile and heavy, but the colors caught forever in paper that looks like silk in a vase of cardboard are fun to see next to the TV she no longer watches.
Click here to read this poem
Jealous of the Freedom of the Able Bodied by Heather Awen
Jealousy
and I made friends when I was about 19 years old. In NYC where everyone
is famous and creating history nonstop, I decided that instead of being
jealous of the elders in the tribe, I’d just be INSPIRED.
I hate
competition. It’s one reason I hate grades. I got straight As and
others felt bad. I hate sports for that reason too. Feminism at an
early age taught me about how society sets women up to compete for male
attention, so I avoided that. I didn’t want THAT kind of male attention
anyway, the superficial kind. I grew up with the notion that if
it is not win-win, if there are losers, it will never work.
Click here to read this essay
Strays by Raud Kennedy
It was a good day to fleece treats off the customers coming out of the
7-11. The
hot weather brought them in for beer and chips, and I sat outside
pretending to be
someone’s pet. Sitting calmly, looking like I was waiting for my master
to return from
inside the store with a six-pack for him and a bone for me. Pet dogs
were safe to feed.
Moms didn’t have to worry about their kids trying to talk them into
bringing home the
stray. Don’t feed the stray, they’d say, he’ll follow us home. I’d
heard that one a lot. So
I put on my act of belonging to someone and it worked for me.
Click here to read this story
Memory Loss, Winter Relics,
Woeful Wheelchair by Amit Parmessur
His index finger drawing on the blanket
like a silly schoolboy,
he soon detects ants along the wall and
turns into a traffic warden angry at
transgressing vehicles.
His hair scattered in voluntary neglect,
bitter tears poised to explore his cheeks,
he soon turns into a capricious tyrant
who suddenly remembers too many
swear words like ax wound.
Click here to read these poems
Our Secret Language by
Stephanie Wilson
She squeezes my hand, her fingers lightly damp from sweat. I squeeze
back in reply,
my hands cold and chapped. I think the way our hands physically react
to stress tells
a lot about us. As we sit in the overly white room, we ignore the
discarded bag and
wrappers of the Big Macs we just ingested as the nameless doctor with
ridiculously
wavy dark hair walks in. I swallow thickly as he sits down on the
leather-covered stool.
I squeeze her hand and she squeezes back.
Five hours ago I woke up on the floor of my 8th grade algebra
classroom, with the
school principal leaning over me asking if I remembered what I had for
breakfast. From
the look on the doctor’s face – solemn eyes poorly hidden by a
wanna-be-carefree smile
– I am about to find out why the principal had asked such an inane
question.
Click here to read this memoir piece
Hunger Strike, Black Marks on a
Driveway: Daddy’s Home By K. K. Philan
Darkness swims viridian
this time of year. Hollow,
and you taught me nothing
except how to hold nothing.
All gets ripped away
with harvest as tender leaves are plucked
regardless of time invested.
Click here to read these poems
Sometimes Love is Enough: Book
review by Erika Jahneke
Everett and Reid are young-adult men finding love in the late ‘70s. In
addition to the
drama surrounding coming out for the first time, the thrill of first
sex is rendered in
sometimes exquisite, but always explicit detail (Readers of delicate
sensibilities should
be prepared even though it never strikes me as exploitative or
gratuitous). There is a
class divide between Reid the scholarship student and Everett the
casual preppie.
There are many books that cover similar ground, such as Armistead
Maupin’s Tales of
The City series, although Maupin’s work has more wackiness woven
throughout. This
book is more touching and heartfelt, though the guys’ taste for getting
caught having
sex is often used for comic effect.
Click here to read this review
Sunset Bluesman by Todd
Hanks
A bloody sunset bluesman,
you're down and out, with
a sound of punk and fifties grit.
At times crazy or lazy, you're
a soft spoken loser.
Your strings scream like
a hawk that an arrow hit.
Click here to read this poem
Renovations by Anne
Chiapetta
“Mommy, it’s the guy who made our kitchen!” exclaimed Cara, running
over to
greet Walt.
I smiled. Cara wasn’t good at remembering names, but she never forgot a
face.
After a quick hug and kiss, he released himself from Cara’s seven-year
old enthusiasm
and introduced Donna, his fiancée.
“Hey, Amy," he said, clasping my hands and kissing my cheek, “How’s it
going?”
“Good.” I said, reminded that he was a grown-up now, a man, not the
insecure,
seventeen year-old I dated all those years ago.
Heck, I was thirty-eight and he was thirty-two; the years had left us
both with a bit
more flesh and experience.
Click here to read this story
The Dove By Todd Hanks
The salt spray of her kiss stung his ocean and
wind-burned lips softly, like first hunger pains of a fast.
How long did that summer day's kiss last?
The seconds and centuries of the ocean were wrapped
like wet wind around him. That day white sails scissored
waves like skirting glances.
Click here to read this poem
Decision At World’s End by L.A. Christensen
I jam the interplanetary comm link, belatedly realizing the equipment's upgrade means no
button and my finger slips along the touch screen.
“Hello, Mr. Vanhaeker. Please hold while we connect you”.
The ground rumbles beneath me and I grasp the paneling on either side to stay upright, gritting
my teeth against my own pitted anger.
“Thank you.”
There is a brief swatch of music, something jazzy with an off-worldly descant I haven’t
heard before. Have trends changed so much since I left? Then I hear the blip and silence, an
inhalation. I don't give him time to speak.
“We screwed it up.”
“What do you mean?”
“Or rather, ITC screwed up. Screwed the entire planet.”
The ground rocks beneath my feet. My heart lurches into my throat then plummets to my gut.
“You hear that?”
Click here to read this short story
A Farewell to Disneyland, This Is the Real World by Mel C. Thompson
When you’re from Orange County
poverty is the one unforgivable sin.
Friends and family drift away
when an illness becomes chronic.
Insanity can be forgiven
so long as you’ve got a trust fund.
Click here to read these poems
Dress For Success by Nancy Scott
“You don't dress like a poet,” Barbara advised.
“Poets dress like they can't think about mundane things like fashion. Or maybe poets want to
draw attention to themselves. Or they want audiences to think they have odd artistic flair. You
just dress like a normal person.”
I heard the truth of Barbara's observation. I didn't say that since matching colors was not a
high-level skill in my repertoire and I had no fashion sense, I opted for cautious. That, even to
me, didn't sound poet-like. Poets should sound fearless, or at least creative. Maybe they should
look that way too?
Click here to read this essay
A Great Place for a Seizure: The Hospital By Terry Tracy
Her nose twitched at the smell of disinfectant.
“Mischa, it’s Dad. Mom is here too. Don’t try to get up. The doctors want you to stay here for
a while. You…you had two seizures today.”
Seizures?
Her head felt like it had exploded. It had never hurt like this before. She wondered whether
it had grown larger just to accommodate that amount of pain. When she looked around
questions ran through her head. How did I get into this hospital gown? Where are my clothes?
Where are my shoes? Why is there blood on the hospital gown? Where am I bleeding from?
She tried to lift herself up.
“Why can’t I get up?,” She tried again.
“Why can’t I get up?!”
Click here to read this novel excerpt
Sharp, Shallow Six, Age 10: Sorting the Dead by Brock Marie Moore
the fishing lures have lured
his daughter again.
she floats down the aisles, trailing
small hands in the bins of rubber worms,
her head a damp wisp of dandelion
caught in an unfelt breeze.
Click here to Read these poems
The Cripfic Manifesto by Maija Haavisto
When chronic illnesses and disabilities are featured in fiction, it usually follows a certain
formula. A main character or his/her family member has cancer or depression, perhaps another
type of mental illness, and generally dies of it or recovers. From the perspective of drama,
being "chronic" is stagnant and problematic. Other disabilities are usually relegated to side
characters, just like disabled people are expected to assume less visible roles in the society.
In some novels crips may be bitter villains, but more often they are just there to be damn
inspiring.
I've been guilty of one of those crimes myself. In a novel manuscript I wrote in 2008 the main
character, at one point of her life, works as a care giver for two disabled young women, one
with severe CFS/ME and one with MELAS, a mitochondrial disease. She eventually quits when
she can't cope with the brutal reality of these illnesses and is worried the women are going to
die.
Click here to read this essay
On Something Stable By Jude Conlee
I told myself I was happy,
as I walked across the bridge,
making very sure
to keep my hand
on the rail.
I was happy, yes.
Happy to think of nothing
and look down into the water
and see nothing
but my own empty face
looking up as a reflection.
Click here to read this poem
Making My Own Acquaintance by Raud Kennedy I used to smoke, crave it, enjoy it.Now it’s something people dowho are ambivalent about life,not sure if they want to live or die.I used to drink a lot.It was the high and low of my day…Click here to read this poemCherrypoppers, Inc. by Erika JahnekeI’m calm until I hear the warm Midwestern voice on the line, the accent somewhere between my dad’s and Joan Cusack’s. “Cherrypoppers,
how may we help you today,?” ‘Joan’s’ voice says, and suddenly I feel
like a middle-school kid about to hold hands for the first time. Who’d
that been with? Somehow, it was a relief that I didn’t know. Click Here to read this short story Your River by Achilleas Michailides
The waves uplift me Into the Light I soar Rotating and dissolving See the tendrils of oblivion claiming me When I die, baby, I want to become your breath
Click here to read this poem Event of the Century by Bridgit Kuenning-Pollpeter The
winter wind whips my long hair about me as I tap my long white cane
against the brick wall of Fuddrucker’s, searching for the door. My
friends do the same with their canes. Grease filters through the chill
air; it is the unmistakable odor of a burger joint. We’re cold and
hungry. Finding the door, we scurry inside. We’re seven friends out on
a Saturday having a good time—we all happen to be blind.Click here to read this creative non-fiction piece Aphasia, Public Execution, These Days by Jimmy Burns Left side deficittyranny of nerves and flesh, attendsgarage sales, flea markets, church bazaars,junk...junk...junk...seek wheelchairsto buy on the cheap{rob mobility of its parts}claim art works of
bluesengage conversation with…Click here to read these poemsTiger Tiger by Ashley Dean It
is night and she unzips her skin at the seam over her spine, spilling
out muscle and bone and blood. It is night and she unfolds from the body
she wears during the day and goes walking.Click here to read this flash fiction story God’s Gift to Me by Anthony D. Lafond My wheelchair is a part of me.When he moves, it is like a tank under my control.My wheelchair has a chair like a portable bed.His wheels are round like a balloon.And his motor moves me as fast as a 10-speed bike.Click here to read this poemToo Wonderfully Strange by Judith Krum
And
for this aged priest to be asked to help. That was just
extraordinary. He thought of the Christmas Child, vulnerable and tiny,
dependent, trusting. And trust was what it was all about. Trust in his
own ability to give care, to maintain a calm exterior, to not weep.
Trust in his willingness to be vulnerable himself. He wasn't wearing
his clericals - no collar or stole or chasuble to mask his fear. Just
his skin and his casual jeans.
Click here to read this creative non-fiction piece
Upon Waking in Five Center By Elisa Karbin Oh sweet girl, what I wouldn’t give to spread out my madnesslike a map before you, to takeyour small hand and guide it downthe divergent paths of blacknessand light…Click here to read this poem Do People With Disabilities Sometimes Wear Orange?On
Sunday, November 27 2011, Mike Reynolds, the web master for Ability
Maine, ROSC and Breath and Shadow, was arrested at Governor Lepage's
mansion in Augusta, Maine. Reynolds was participating in the Occupy
Maine protest, as a part of the now nationwide Occupy Wall Street
movement. After his brief incarceration, Reynolds agreed to talk with
us.Click here to read this interview
Fall
2011
Volume
8, Number 4
Baggage
by Mike Wood
Neatness
is a goal
Baggage,
like bones,
Must
be stacked in a bin so
To
conserve space, in hopes of
A
full flight.
Click here
to read this poem
Hello
Goodbye by Mark Cornell
Tim
could do a whole range of brum,
brum
sounds long before he learnt how to talk. He loved anything to do
with engines.
Once
when he was playing with his Matchbox Cars on the floor, our friend
Margaret exclaimed, “Oh listen to him, he’s even changing gears.”
Tim
heard an engine down the street while I was reading to him. After his
last story we decided to go out and investigate.
“I
reckon it could be a big lawn mower or a digger. What do you reckon
mate?”
I
ambled down the street holding his hand. Tim nursed his furry possum
puppet to his chest. Walking slow was one of the first lessons my son
had taught me now I was no longer part of the rat race.
Click
here to read this story
Everything
Is Just As I Left It, After
Brain Surgery By Cindy Lamb
lesson
plans in careful cursive
papers
organized by class
pens
and pencils upright
in
a shining cup
textbooks
arranged just so
desks
straightened into neat rows
Christmas
decorations packed away
for
next year
Click
here to read these poems
The
Productivity Fallacy by
Michael Callahan
When
Congress passed the sub-minimum wage components of the Fair Labor
Standards Act (FLSA) of 1938 [Section 14 (c)], it is clear the
intention was to assure that workers who were not able to meet
employer productivity standards, because of the impact of disability
on work performance, would not be excluded from earning a wage.
Unfortunately, the consequences of this well-intended legislation
have been more negative than positive in the 71 years since its
passage. From its onset, the provision was based on an outmoded
concept that the FLSA sought to replace - reliance on an absolute
connection between pay and productivity. In the years prior to the
FLSA,
employers
were free to connect pay and productivity in a way that too often
placed productivity targets outside the reach of even the most ardent
efforts by workers.
Click
here to read this essay
August Sunset on City
Glass, Casualties Before Dawn By
Charles Thielman
Brake
squeals fly like ingots
through
this city’s enzyme weave,
revolving
door catching a sun glint.
The white-haired man in a dark suit
turns
from
tending bloodshot treaties in a bar mirror
and
joins in, praising what light there is.
Click
here to read these poems
Hot Cross Buns
By David C. Kopaska-Merkel
I
had developed a Saturday morning habit of stopping by the bakery on
my way home from my run. The Three Boatman Bakery, despite its
odd name, was not owned by a retired sailor. I never did hear
the story behind the name. Anyway, I'd pick up a couple of hot
cross buns and by the time I got home with them, Alma would have made
tea. We couldn't afford a house with a garden, but we had some
potted plants in front of a big living-room window, and we'd have
breakfast there. One Saturday when I got to TB2, it was closed.
It looked like Harold Baker had not even been in that morning.
Click
here to read this short story
Ode
To My Guitar by William W.
Harris
Orgasms
should be this pure. Your
your
soft maple neck, holding the same
fingers
that hold you. The way light,
shimmers
off your glittering body
Click
here to read this poem
Volume 8, Number 3
A Time of Great Pleasure By David C. Kopaska-Merkel
A
flexing of the Worldskin, and Bird flies, Calling. It is a time of
joy, for strangers have landed on Mechaieh. A silver egg resembling
the spawn of Frog drifted gently to the ground near Pool. Out of it
hatch five beings of the same color and reflectivity, though the egg
is not broken. The hatchlings proceed to water's edge. Frog greets
them, but the strangers do not answer. Dipping one of its upper
limbs into the water, one of the creatures drinks with a mouth at its
waist.
Click here to read
this flash fiction piece
Forgotten Fault Lines by Roger Wayne Eberle
Two Tuesdays have
passed since our grim anniversary, and now it is hump day
again, and you still swear the glass is half empty, and I keep
pouring. Like the monsoon, I won't quit.
Click here to
read this poem
Pass the Word
by Glenda Beall
I was extremely
pleased when, upon making telephone reservations at the Comfort Inn
in Asheville, NC, I was told by the reservation clerk, "We don't
use fragrances in our rooms. We don't use air fresheners or anything
with a strong smell."
I could hardly believe my
ears, and wondered if that was indeed true. When I arrived at the
Comfort Inn, which is clean and nicely appointed, I made my usual
"smell test." How refreshing to enter a motel room and not
feel my bronchial tubes closing. In fact, I breathed deeply to see if
I would have any respiratory problems from polluted indoor air. I did
not. I complimented the motel. I always write a letter to companies
when I find a place that is mindful of the air we breathe and the
health of their clients.
Click here to read
this essay
No Bird Song By Lachlan Walter
I wake suddenly;
sweat pouring off me and soaking the mattress. My eyes shoot open and
see nothing but the dark of the middle of the night. I reach across
the bed. The other half lies empty.
The alarm clock ticks away
on the bedside table beside me and I count the seconds as they pass.
Outside the window, the wind blows hard.
The door opens
slowly, hinges creaking loud in the quiet. Something stands there: a
silhouette, the hallway light framing it from behind. It’s somehow
familiar… It runs one hand through its long curly hair. Although I
can’t see its face, I know that it’s watching me.
Click here to read
this short story
Jazz
Soul by Dorothy Baker
You
sit at the portal between jazz and my heart
No
drama here
Only
clean sound
Telling
the truth playfully, fearlessly
Not
afraid to be the “bad” guy
Like you
Click
here to read this poem
Sleepwalker by Carla Rene’
"You want me to
use what?" My voice came out as a quack.
The
physician stared at me. "You heard me, Missy."
"But
why? Lots of people lose use of their legs all the time, it
certainly doesn't mean they need a walker."
I was getting good
at that high-pitched, nasal whine. I'd used it on my mother for
years.
"C'mon, let's see you try it. You're not
going home until you walk from here to the wall."
“Hmmn.
I wonder which medical journal that little test was in?”
I moved to the edge
of my bed in slow motion, hoping he'd simply lose interest and go
away. But it didn't happen; he just flapped at me to move
quicker. So I upped the degree of difficulty by putting a scowl
on my face--just to prove how much I detested this.
Click here to read
this humorous piece
Just Passing
Through by Mary Elizabeth Gillilan
At the crest of
Scenic Drive, a brick and clapboard house sat on a knoll. Dandelions
and crab grass overpowered the rows of strawberries that made up the
front yard. Morning glories strangled anything in their
path. The house overlooked the Yakima Valley; it was Mama’s dream
house, but Mama’s dream clearly was not the garden. It
looked as if the only gardener had been God, who after throwing the
seeds out had gone onto shape the valley and dry, mud foothills of
this eastern Washington town. That is if you believed in
God. I had a problem believing in God. I was fourteen.
The year was 1964, and I was just beginning the eighth grade.
Click here to read
this creative non-fiction piece
The
Return By Lorcan Black
I have been
silent since you left- and shall remain so as though all
sound swept from the room with your absence. I wait and count
the hours, still, voiceless and patient as a stone.
Click here to read
this poem Volume 8 Number 2
When I Was Alive by Erica Ratti
Click here to read this poem
You Can Never Be Too Thin… Or Too
Blond by Alison Leavens
“You look so HOT!”
Ross emails to me. “I can’t wait to see you, and tell you
all about my HAI workshop. I feel so open from it, and I can’t
wait to tell you all my feelings and to hear everything that you
think and feel,” he gushes.
I’ve met Ross twice, at
billiards parties that I organized. I sense, as women do, by
the second party, that he is infatuated with me. He hovers next
to me before I make each shot, helping me with the placement of my
cue stick. He rushes to help me put on my jacket. His hand
touches my back as we leave the pool hall.
Click here to read
this creative non-fiction piece
Closet by
Melissa Aldridge
I just want to
sleep Sleep until it has all gone away
When the day has not
ended and night is warm That place inside that is safe from looks
and sound
That one place that used to be the only place Inside
deep tucked away in the back of the closet…
Click here to read
this poem
Riding Miss Daisy by William
Ward
Bikester popped the
clutch, downshifting round the switchback u-curve in a fishtail skid
that nearly swung Darla off Miss Daisy into a spinney of scrub oak
and cat’s claw. Darla leaned into him, her fear spooning him, her
breasts pressing into his back, her arms squeezing his middle.
Bikester felt her fear vibrate his skin. The electricity lit him up.
Click here to read this story
The Troubadour's Song and The
Lady's Song By Kerry Elizabeth Thompson
From the South the
Summer brings a star That sings within my soul, blithe as a
bird, Lifting the light of her loveliness through the dark That
lay unknown and heavy on my heart; Until her smile awoke the
driving thirst To find a haven in her love's deep harbor.
Click here to read these sestinas
The Parting… by Louis Bertrand
Shalako
All good things must
come to an end.
Fuego lay in the
entrance to the cave all morning long. Soaking up the wan,
late-summer sunshine, should have brought contentment and a sense of
well-being. His belly was full, having sated his hunger on a fat buck
three days before. Fuego had nibbled on a few choice greens to aid in
digestion, as was his habit these many years. The aches and pains
were mostly gone.
Sooner or later they
would flare up, so he should have been enjoying the sloth, the ease,
the sheer luxury of not having to work for his living. But it was no
good.
Click here to read this short story
Body Forlorn and
Pill by Pill by Ariel Johnson
When I look in the
mirror, she looks back;
I cringe and turn away.
When I
sing in the shower, her voice rings loud;
So now, quiet I
stay.
Click here to read these poems
Timeless by
Maija Haavisto
It still feels weird
to wake up with no external cues. I remember the sound of the alarm
clock I had in college that my roommate said sounded like a fire
alarm, just like I remember the nagging reminders that popped on my
screen from Outlook and my fake Rolex watch that I used to set five
minutes ahead so that I would never be late. I was proud of the fact
I was never late. We were ruled by our clocks and schedules. We
didn't know any other way.
Click here to read
this short story
ADA, the
beautiful! By Pinalben "Pinky" Patel
A social
worker in my town asked me to write a speech about the benefits of
the Americans with Disabilities Act (ADA) to present at a rally
celebrating its anniversary. When I discussed this with my wheelchair
using friends, some of their replies shocked me.
Many agreed
with me that while the ADA could use improvements, it has been very
useful for people with disabilities. Some, however, believed the ADA
had no positive effects. This struck me as ungrateful, but I realized
that they just didn't have experience living as a person with a
disability before the ADA.
Click here to read this essay Volume 8, Number 1Trauma by Christopher Jon Heuer There are two police officers in our dining room. They’ve come to take my father away.He’s
standing by the table in his underwear, hands cuffed behind his back.
My mother is trying to hang her burgundy housecoat over his shoulders so
he won’t be naked when they take him outside. The housecoat has
feminine floral patterns and looks ridiculous on him. She looks
ridiculous, too, being all concerned for his appearance when she’s the
one who called the police in the first place.Click here to read this creative non-fiction pieceWhat He Had Lost By Todd Hanks Living in a group home for the mentally ill,he often wondered what it was he was looking for.The young man had blood stains on his leather jacket,scarred wrists and scared eyes.Click here to read this poemBull Rider by Deborah Sheldon The
stadium reeked of hay, leather and manure. Ryan kept his arm around
Sandra to protect her from the bump and shove of the crowd, a swirling
flow of denim, checked shirts and the odd Stetson hat. Some of the hats
were chewed and dusty but most looked fresh out of the box.Ryan said, "Just look at these idiots would you, Mum? It's like a fancy dress party."Sandra
didn't reply. She kept her gaze doggedly forward, looking at nothing.
She could only make small flat-footed steps and it took them a long time
to reach their allocated seats, 11F and 11G. Ryan guided his mother
gently into the plastic chair and slung himself down next to her. He was
sweating already. What the hell, at least they were here, finally
sitting in this crappy stadium in this crappy town after a two-hour
drive from Melbourne. Click here to read this short storySmell of Fireman, We have no Earlids by Akua Lezli hope Smell of firemen lingers in my bedroom,the metal guard rail i will wipewith alcohol, still warm from their hands…Click here to read Akua’s poemsSpare Me From Your Followers by Daniel Latham WWJD
- What would Jesus do? The bumper stickers, bracelets, and t- shirts
began popping up like locusts during a biblical plague a few years ago.
They were so prevalent in my corner of the world that I started to feel
like a Sneetch without a star on my belly.I
wasn’t sure what the question meant. Was it a plea for the reader to
think before taking action? Was the person displaying the sign asking
my opinion? I’ll tell you: Jesus would use his turn signals, Jesus
would vote Green, Jesus would buy organic.Click here to read this essayExcessive Force by John Lee Clark Feeling my way down the street, if I ever feel the cold kiss of a gun or the cold lick of a blade, I shall break the law. I'll inhale the sweet night air and then explode. . . Click here to read this poem By A Leg by D.I. Telbat Jennifer
Bertrand thought briefly about slowing down on the icy highway, but the
roads had been sanded the night before and the trucker in front of her
was driving just as fast. She wasn't behind schedule in reaching Uncle
Trav's winter cabin, but she was speeding anyway.The
nineteen-year-old tapped the steering wheel in rhythm to the pop rock
blasting from the two-door, cherry-red coupe. The highway snaked along a
steep mountainside on her right. A half-frozen river churned through
snowy trees at the bottom of the embankment on her left. Jen glanced
down at the river and shivered at the prospect of such a tumble. Her
parents would never forgive her, even if she died. She laughed aloud at
the thought. Her parents loved her more than their new car, so she had
been able to talk them into letting her drive it into the mountains
alone.Click here to read this short storyHeaven’s Hope by Venetia Ghozlan Heaven is a fevered hope for the dispossesseda mirage that blooms as we lay dyingit is a placebo to sweeten a soured mythosa carrot to dangle before the unrepentantit is the payout for living the lie of sacrificeClick here to read this poem Volume
7, Number 3
Breath
and Shadow
Summer
2010
Volume
7, Number 3
On
A Frozen Lake
By
Madison Bridgen
The
sun shone on the grey ice. It was barren of snow, unusual for early
March, but the broken mirror of the surface didn’t complain. It
sat
like a disk in between the forested banks, and even though the centre
was cracked open the surface was studded with the tin sided huts of
ice fishermen.
Click
here to read this short story
Alzheimer’s:Living
with Dementia
once
we thought THEY
were just wacky/crazy
zombies
forgetting everything
Oh you
are…?
now
something's wrong
with us
DIAGNOSIS.
Click
here to read this group poem
My
Cane and Me
By
Amy Barta
A
stuffed gymnasium housed the hundreds of graduates from the
University of Michigan-Dearborn. On the sides of the seated students
donning navy robes and colored ribbons determined by their field of
study were family members and friends. The student speaker that day
in April 2007 focused her inspirational speech on a fellow graduate,
me. She described how I’d overcome enormous challenges to achieve
a
Bachelors Degree with high honors.
Click
here to read this essay
A
Poem of Epic Scale which I've Attempted a Dozen Times Before and
Failed Miserably
by Steven Miller
The
walls in there were white, just like in the films,
but so are
walls in most new, apartment buildings.
I shared a room with two
people far less
crazy than me and one far crazier.
I couldn't
write. I couldn't read…
Click
here to read this poem
The
Bracelet
by
Geoffrey C. Porter
I
took to wearing long sleeve shirts on my fourteenth birthday. Two
years before, I’d received my bracelet, and the restrictions
started. I was born with the sugar disease, and ever since I’ve
been on insulin. The insulin doesn’t matter, for it lives in a
simple little pump I wear around my bicep. I replaced the cartridges
with fresh ones and keep an eye on the battery charge. I could charge
it with any one of my other devices, so that didn’t bother me.
What
bothered me was the stinking bracelet.
Click
here to read this short story
Baptism
By Linda A. Cronin
Three times a week, I come to the
pool
at Children’s Specialized
Hospital to
exercise.
Even in the middle of winter, the
warm,
moist air
reminds me of the humid days of
summer.
Since
I’m unable to descend the
ladder or
to walk on land,
when I am ready Pam transfers me
to a
stretcher
which is lifted out over the pool
then
lowered gently
into the water where Sue stands
ready
to release me.
Click
here to read this poem
The
Day I Drowned At Tin Can Beach
by Paula Apodaca
I
shouldn’t be telling you this. I don’t mean it’s a
secret, I
just mean, I shouldn’t even be here. The summer after I turned
five, I drowned in the ocean and was saved by my uncle Don.
When
I was little, summer meant bundling up towels, blankets, bottles of
Sea and Ski, Noxzema, lawn chairs and telescoping forks, hot dogs,
buns, mustard, relish, marshmallows, pots of chili with mushrooms,
and a giant metal tin of saltines. We never owned a cooler of any
kind, so the afternoon before our seasonal trip, Mama would go from
house to house, neighbor to neighbor, in search of a Coleman’s
cooler…
Click
here to read this essay
Quilts,
Flags and Other Wrappings
by Sergio Ortiz
I
started the quilt
when the only reminder
of civility I had
was a stuffed doll
whose stitches came undone
under the
weight of my books.
Click
here to read this poem
Balance
by
Rebecca Cook
“I’m
in a wheelchair--I’m not brain dead.”
“I
know, but what if you need help? What if something bad
happens?”
“What
if it does? I can handle this.”
“If
you’re sure. . .” Uncertainty dripped from every
syllable.
“See
you in a few days. I love you, Mom. I’m getting on the train
now.”
I
overrode her last minute worries and some of my own as I hung up the
phone. I was assured that the train was “handicapped
accessible”
and felt optimistic. I went up the ramp and surveyed where I would be
spending the next thirteen hours.
Click
here to read this short story My
Dad Saves Me by
Gary Blume
It’s
the early sixties
On
an island smack
In
the middle of
The
Mississippi
And
Minneapolis
Where
no sandy
Beached
island
Belongs
Click
here to read this poem
Who
Dresses You?
by Amy
Krout-horn
Gabriel
lifted his glass, offered a birthday toast, and leaned closer to kiss
me, whispering something in my ear that was as dirty as his martini.
The innuendo raised my eye brows and the corners of my mouth, and as
the server returned, my blush lingered.
"It
looks like the two of you are having a good time in the Keys,"
she teased.
Under
the table, Gabriel ran a finger beneath the hem of my skirt, painting
my face a deeper shade of crimson. He smiled at the amused waitress
and replied, "Yes, we're having quite a good time."
Click
here to read this creative non-fiction piece
A
Stab At Angels, For
M By
Nancy Scott
I
play your CDs, wandering
among
your wanting
drugs
and love and God
and
knees that worked
and
effortless thinness
and
choreless money
and
no more heart caths.
Click
here to read Nancy’s poems
BOTHERED
AND BEWILDERED by
Thomas Gagnon
As
each day's beat beneath me subsides,
it
requires a bell-pull at my brain
to
schedule for tomorrow's June day
sense
with dashes of sensibility,
each
day no longer a medieval cathedral
buttressed
by my engaged and engaging
students
of Romantic and modern music history.
Click
here to read this poem
Garden
Blend Buck Stops by
Karen S. Kane
April,
1973. The summer-like early night seemed breathless and clammy,
truly, the last legs of that day, as Claudine Maine pulled the diner
door open, stepped out. Break time.
She
grasped her waitress cap/hairnet with one hand, tussling free long
thick black waves at the sides of her face, while her other hand
snatched a scrap paper sign loosed from the glass as she'd passed.
“New Management” read red crayon letters. Tape gave up,
it'd been
there a month. She crumpled the paper, tossed it in the trash can
beside her, then sat on the curb of the entryway walk.
Click
here to read this novel excerpt
Cement
By Esté Yarmosh
I
wanted a child,
But
she didn’t come.
You
have a lovely little girl here.
They
didn’t tell me you’d be deaf and
Fucked
up.
God
didn’t say so either.
In
ancient Greece,
I
would have had you
Exposed,
as Oedipus was --
Stranded
in an open place,
So
Nature would swallow you.
Click
here to read this poem
Spring
Harvest, Haiku
by
Akua Lezli Hope
The
Mennonite boys came
with
a mother, this time. Her gold
disk
earrings molten in cold spring.
Dusk
hovering long enough
to
gather spent milkweed.
Frank,
who will study in Utah
gets
it and gathers fistfuls of fluff
quizzes
me about seeds
and
cooking, while the brothers
dark
and light, thick and thin
tug
spent stalks from rain-softened ground
filling
my bags.
Click
here to read Akua’s poems
Censorship:
Plato vs. Socrates by
Louis B. Shalako
It
was Margaret Atwood, Canada’s best-known author, who said in an
interview with TVO’s Allen Gregg; “Most letters to the
editor are
written by retarded people, because they don’t have to worry
about
losing their jobs.”
This
was broadcast and repeated earlier this year.
Over
the last year there have been one or two columns in the local daily
paper where the writers stated, “We have the right to offend one
another.”
In
Ray Bradbury’s ‘Fahrenheit
451,’ the
basic premise of the story is that the government was burning books.
All books. Bradbury’s brilliant twist on an old plot was that the
government wasn’t totalitarian. The people themselves had
demanded
it, because they didn’t like reading stuff that upset them.
Click
here to read this essay
Damaged
Goods by
AJ Pearson-VanderBroek
The
way they talk – seems to say – she’s damaged
goods—of course
she’s on sale – because I’m pretty –I’m
considerate – I’m
a size 0 – and if I had long hair – and less hardware
– I’d
be a ten – but a couple pieces of molded plastic – a few
scars –
and suddenly – the only reason I’m not a relentless
uncompromising bitch – is because I’m disabled
Click
here to read this poem
Feasting
by Diane Hoover Bechtler
The
anesthesiologist was long gone, slipping others into dreamless night,
which was a shame. I wanted to thank her for the easy drift. Where
others had knocked me out cold, she made good on her promise to ease
me under. The drugs had changed and were much kinder now. I was soon
awake and clear-headed. Or so I thought.
Someone
said, “Is her mouth drooping?”
Click
here to read this essay
Again, Explainations,
and Responses
by Kathleen Grieger
Bandages
off, I’m allowed
to sit up. I turn one way, seeing
no
difference. Inspecting the other,
I gaze into the
mirror
Right side curving softly,
curls cover my shoulder
Left
side, shaved and stapled
Click
here to read Kathleen’s poems
Legislative
Awareness Day by Erika
Jahneke
Ned
Corner(R-IN) liked to think of himself as a Fair Man. He pictured
that sentence in a history book, or in his eulogy.
”Kelly!”
Corner yelled for his smartest page. “I need you to do some
research for me.”
“Sir?”
Kelly
was prompt, reliable, female, and too serious to have dirty thoughts
about. In short, she was the perfect staffer for the post-Foley era.
This was a good thing, because whether or not Corner was a fair man,
he was a lazy one, called Cutting Corner by his generous House
colleagues.
Click
here to read this short story
Goose
Gobbles Joy, Webs and Razors
by Dorothy Baker
The
dream drums,
The
wind goose comes
The
wire tightens
Winter’s
hold.
A
war blots out the sun.
Click
here to read Dorothy’s poems
Where
Have All The Ducks Gone? By
Katy Wimhurst
As
she often did these days, Louise walked alone into the urban park,
wandering down a wide avenue lined with lime trees. It was raining a
little, but sunlight penetrated through gaps in the clouds, giving
the park an odd, luminescent glow. The light seemed alien to Louise,
like it wasn't real, like it'd somehow been artificially painted onto
the gloomy air. She turned left down a narrow pathway and her
attention was drawn to a couple standing in the shadows under an oak
tree, engrossed in a kiss. She stopped and stared at them, then bit
down on her lip and hurried on.
Click
here to read this short story
Lost
by Sergio Ortiz
There
is no simple way
of
getting misplaced
in
the city: too many signs,
landmarks,
and directions.
I'd
run, no walk, to be lost
Click
here to read this poem
Take
My Legs. Please. by Rosalie
McClung
What’s
the best way to kill yourself? Let’s see. There’s
strangulation.
I could hang myself with an old pair of pantyhose from the tree in
the front yard. But that’s a bit too public. Everybody driving by
could see me wrangle and rot. And then any loose dog might be tempted
to nibble my carcass.
Forcing me to suffer through eighties
country music might do the trick. That twang serves up a deadly
chord. Gagging over a swallow of caviar might offer a terminal end.
Click
here to read this essay
Volume 6 Number 4; Fall 2009
Interdimensions by Todd Hanks
I discarded my sanity like
a dream from the night before.
Slime-topped minutes dripped
from a sundial.
Delusion was a man who
blinded me with jellyfish hands...
Click
here to read this poem
On Reading Books by Bill
Turley
When I consider my lifetime of reading, I know I must look at it
through a skewed lens due to my particular mix of learning
disabilities. My Cerebral Palsy prevents me from writing legibly, while
ADD affects my reading speed and comprehension. It is, however, a
reading life worth examining.
Click
here to read this essay
Erythromycin
by Nicole Kuppers
The crickets outside
The window were gone
And when I heard the sound
Of the hissing in my ears
I imagined 15 doctors
Escorting me to hell
And thought that I would
Never hear a sound again
Click
here to read this poem
Embers to Ashes by Jennifer
Gifford
I was reading the obituary page the day I met my husband. It’s a
little odd, I’ll admit. Morbid curiosity I guess. My future
husband, a tax specialist with eye-lashes most women would die for,
joked that the obits were a great way to find a new job. Glancing over
my shoulder, sipping from his medium hazelnut, he said, “Hey, I
hear there’s a new opening in the shipping department at
Sears…”
Click
here to read this short story
Beach Song, Night by Megan Kelly
Beach chair sits firm at the water's edge
Gulls swoop and sigh, slicing the moisture
bloated air
Heightened scents of sand, salt and sunscreen…
Click
here to read these poems
Red Kowalski’s Bloody
Strange Day by Adam Pick
It was at 14:45
precisely, on a suitably wet, windy and
forlorn Tuesday that Red Kowalski became aware that his attempt to get
through the day unscathed had failed catastrophically. His life
wasn’t great in general. He was a social worker and lived in a
horrid place. Considering this was meant to be a “luxury
apartment,” the view wasn’t so great, nor the
apartment that luxurious. Let’s face it--his landlord was so
bloody devious, that if the apartment had developed a leaky roof in the
bathroom prior to his moving in, it would have been advertised as
having been fitted with a power shower.
Click
here to read this short story
Lie Down Spasticus by P.A. Levy
There's a tensile edge to us;
alloy lightweight
extra strong accessories to our limbs that would
otherwise collapse with intermittent jestful ease, to leave us looking
drunk and disorderly…
Click
here to read this poem
What I Learned Last Night by
Jeanette Beal
I saw the touring cast version of Rent at the Colonial in Boston last
night. It was a birthday gift to me from my lovely partner.
We were 3rd row, center and I swear I felt some Anthony Rapp spit
hit my forehead. He was hamming it up for the audience,
while Adam Pascal was kind of droopy.
As I sat in the third row, attired in work clothes and fiddling with my
hesitant pup, I couldn't help but reflect on the 19 year old girl who
sat 3rd row in a velvet dress in the Neiderlander with friends on
either side, freshly inundated into her first semester of college and
besotted with New York City.
Click
here to read this essay
Insomnia by Azure R Angelus
This faulty rhythm cycles through my body
I have staggered with it always
When I was an unnumbered child
It was the tick-tock of the clock
That reminded me with each notch of noise
How awake I was through passing increments…
Click
here to read this poem
Volume 6, Number 2; Spring 2009
Smoking, Before the Coffin by Jeanette Beal
A pot on the burner
you forgot about and left
on medium heat
simmering still not boiling
is less dangerous
than the boiling kettle
whistling through the hallways
of a bad dream...
Click
here to read these poems
Relapse by Ilana Jacqueline
I am not on fire. Not on fire. I have to convince myself not
to let
my arms jerk open to swing where they might catch the air. Every part
of me wants to, every part of me hurts. Every singular molecule of my
being is radiating with misery. I used to be proud that I did this
every day. That I let myself breathe in and out the intolerable--but
always shockingly bearable crushing of physical hurt and that panicked
starvation for relief. It was never coming, and the pain was
undoubtedly never ending. But it had ended--and if not ended had at
least become livable--manageable and beautifully noiseless in its daily
existence in my life.
Click
here to read this short story
Good as Gold by Patti Rutka
On a fresh, dewy day in May, where the woods of Maine approach
the
coast, I stood in the riding ring at Bush Brook Stable, home of Ever
After Mustang Rescue, feeling like an idiot while I waved around a
carrot. I was trying to get the dang horse to let me pat his neck.
Patting, so normal for ninety-eight percent of horses, was utterly out
of the question for Good as Gold. He nearly jumped out of his horsey
skin the first time I made a light slapping noise on his neck. His fear
was large, as was mine, although for completely different reasons. Or
so I thought at the time.
Click
here to read this essay
Medical Journals (a triad of poems) by Kristin Roedell
Speak from your heart,
my father is listening
his silver instruments
as sensitive
as a lover’s ear--
Open, be opened,
like a bride,
to his most tender touch.
Click
here to read these poems
The Bathroom Battle by Tatiana Hamboyan Harrison
Every day in elementary school, an aide follows me around,
including
into the bathroom. It's the epic humiliation: having an adult go into
the bathroom with you. It doesn't matter whether or not the other kids
know about it. I know it, and it makes me feel ashamed that I can't
even go to the bathroom by myself.
It's not even that I can't use the toilet alone or have
trouble
getting on and off the seat. I wear spandex pants every day because I
can't do zippers or buttons. My only consolation is that spandex pants
are somewhat popular, though most of my classmates wear jeans.
Click
here to read this creative non-fiction piece
Let’s Make a Deal by Dorothy Baker
Trinity stood behind Peyton with her arms around her waist as
Peyton
faced herself in the mirror for the first time since her left breast
had been removed.
"It's not so bad, right?" Trinity nuzzled Peyton's shoulder
blade which was level with the top of her head.
"What does it matter--the Spectre's going to get me
eventually, anyway."
"Okay, Sunshine, what's Phil Spector got to do with anything?"
"Not PHIL Spector, THE Spectre. The Grim Reaper, the Angel of
Death.
And it's already got it's big old jack-booted foot wedged in my
door..." Peyton's mouth was a grim line. She never cried, not even
after the surgery.
Click
here to read this short story
The Urban Funeral by Stephanie Green
On a moonlit walk through the cemetery
One is never alone
No more can the weary dead rest in peace
With all this damn racket
Boy-racers zooming past, broken bottles
Clanging on the fence
Drunkards and revelers, stumbling through
Shortcut to the pub...
Click
here to read this poem
Volume 6, Number 1; Winter/Spring 2009
Radioactive, Rivers of Steel, As If They Were Real by
Steven Michael Graham
It was just a friendly hug
and yet...
her arms, around me, were warm as a sunbeam
and nearly as soft.
It was the sort of hug that you can still feel
even after it's gone
for half an hour;
a tingling tickling across your back,
seeping into those old wounds
where you once had wings.
Click
here to read these poems
The Signing by Penelope Friday
The nerves start the week before. This was a bad idea. What am
I
thinking of, putting myself up in front of people? Agreeing to talk to
people, when my social anxiety's been so bad for years that my
neighbors are beginning to wonder if I'm a vampire, if I ever come out
of the house. Maybe if I stay huddled up in bed, the curtains drawn, no
one will remember that I'm supposed to be signing books tomorrow. Maybe
we can all forget the whole thing and go back to how we were.
Click
here to read this short fiction
MRI Follow up by Natalie E. Illum
The jewelry I knew
to remove in advance. The crutches
too reactive to enter. Better to bring
the stretcher out here. I agree, allow
myself to be shifted into position, anchored
so that my head is caged. I agree, though
nurses and elderly patients stroll by, barely
blink at my exposure...
Click
here to read this poem
Steps by Erin Lauridsen
The dance floor is alive, and I am dazed. The music is loud
enough
to block out the subtle sounds that usually give shape to space,
turning everyone into an amorphous and shifting landscape doused in bad
eighties pop music. "This is great!" my three friends say, trying to
describe the aged and the eccentric, the hip young graduate students
next to the vintage novelists. We are undergraduates at a large
industry conference for writers, and we have been waiting all week to
attend this party, speculating what might happen when the bitter
rejected writers and the overworked and jaded publishers at this
conference consume a few drinks. We were hoping for a brawl to break
out over the role of reader response theory in graduate schools. What
we find instead is the atmosphere of a high school dance, with the
enhancement of booze and a diverse crowd.
Click
here to read this creative non-fiction piece
Moon's Advantage by Laura Aranda
The moon's romantic glow
Illuminates the lake's ripples ceaselessly
Ebbing at the hour of no sin...
Click
here to read this poem
Consumers by Julie Greene
Political correctness has swept the field of medicine from
dermatology to pediatrics, and certainly psychiatry has had its share
of terminology-laundering. As a mental patient, I face the PC question
on a daily basis: "Loony-bin," "funny farm," and "nut case" are out,
for obvious reasons, but some very, very sensitive people, with an eye
for anything offensive, have declared that "mental patient" and
"mentally ill" are out as well; the words are ugly and shameful. These
folks think they're doing us a favor by inventing another, more
pleasant word for what we really are: "Consumers."
Click
here to read this essay
Fiddling With Pain by Joyce Frohn
The fiddler rosins up his bow,
long fingers curl around a block of blood
He plays a scale upon my nerves.
Always rising, never falling.
Fingering first here, then there...
Click
here to read this poem
A Note From My Mother, Waiting For Word: On My
Mother's Heart Attack by Stephanie De Haven
Your birth was the birth of an idea born squirming
and red--but silent--with hair like blood in water and brass
attitudes. My sweet child, who I pushed into this world wet and
precious--my red pearl--I know you. You will grow into a squirming
toddler, a red child, and finally, a silent adolescent.
Click
here to read these poems
Volume 5, Number 7; Fall/Winter 2008
In The Night; A Road Not Chosen by Louise Mathewson
In the dark of night
she heard
Soul speak
"You are a prophet."
Again, it spoke,
"You are a poet,
gold to the world.
Click
here to read these poems
Strangers On a Bus by Michael Merriam
I board the #6 bus in Minneapolis' Dinkytown neighborhood
heading
for the Uptown district. Once there, my plan is to make the short walk
to DreamHaven Books to drop off some fliers for my upcoming reading.
Instead of taking my usual spot at the front of the bus, I decide to
head for the back bench. I know the bus driver: He's good about
announcing the stops into the microphone, his clear baritone voice easy
to understand through the dodgy lowest-bidder sound system that Metro
Transit favors.
Sometimes I want to sit away from the handicapped and senior
citizen
seats, and I've ridden this route so many times I can tell where I am
by the turns and dips and bumps. I know I won't miss my stop at Uptown
Station. I settle into the back corner and lean my head against the
cool glass.
Click
here to read this short story
Dancing Through Fire by Dorothy Baker
This is a stunning, moving film. There are no wasted images,
no
extraneous words. Each frame, each spoken phrase has a powerful impact.
Yet the real beauty of it is that its message and tone feel accessible
and uplifting throughout. Karina Epperlein's award winning documentary,
"Phoenix Dance," is a visual and spiritual journey--a reconnection with
a childlike curiosity and trust.
Click
here to read this film review
For Patrick by Jessica Hoard
You flipped me off the first time we met.
You, laughing and maniacal from behind your windshield, Mary
clinging to the door, begging you not to drive home.
Fucking asshole, I thought.
You drove home.
You never did remember that night-or admit to remembering it.
Click
here to read this poem
Chrysalis by Lisa Coburn
Eyes closed, I listen as patches of my psychiatrist's words
filter
through the haze. "...Extremely treatment resistant. I think we should
consider shock therapy."
My eyes fly open. "Shock therapy?"
I study the diplomas dotting the wall as he explains the
procedure.
Messily scribbled crayon masterpieces break the monotony of academic
certificates.
"I like you Dr. E," one child raves in lime green writing. I
would
like him a lot better if he weren't talking about screwing with my
brain.
Click
here to read this creative non-fiction piece
Is This A Poem? by Dorothy Baker
Is this a poem?:
"An empty gift box, blue striped and snow flaked, sits on a table, a
reminder
of your recent visit.
You came to celebrate my January birthday, bringing forsythia blossoms
coaxed from the heart of winter (not forced, for that is not your
style).
I almost turned you away, feeling anything but celebratory in the
throes of
my sun-starved depression.
Click
here to read this poem
Mr. Tambourine Man by Erika Jahneke
He had what the balding white guy wanted, and he knew it.
Wasn't too many white guys in this neighborhood after dark,
otherwise. This one had a woman with him, a girl, really. Young. Fresh
young, blonde, pretty. Nothing had been near those veins. She was new
enough looking that back in old Willie Johnson's day, even a
businessman like Clayvon would have felt obligated to send her home and
tell her to leave this shit to the hard-core fiends, and go back to
smoking herb in her little pink bedroom, like on television.
Click
here to read this short story
Boy From Outer Space; Working Horse; Borderline Young
Woman Waits For Her Therapist by Rachael Z. Ikins
Childnoises
Bounce off gym walls
With kickballs
You see that kid?
With tissue-paper skin
And black eyes
Surprised!
In the whiteness of his face?
Children sneaker-slap
Floor clap
By me. . .
Click
here to read these poems
The Indignity of Blindness by Chris Kuell
I had a lively debate with my sixteen-year-old son a few days
ago.
We were discussing the movie Blindness, which opened on October 3, and
is based on the novel written by Portuguese author José
Saramago. Like
most teenage males, my son thought the previews looked great, with
glimpses of epidemic, chaos, violence and horror. I'm familiar with
this type of movie's appeal, as I saw I Am Legend and 28 Days with
him-both films about the human struggle to overcome an unknown virus
which turns people into raging, zombiesque creatures. Saramago's twist
is that people become blind and are segregated, which he postulates
will naturally lead to societal devolution.
Click
here to read this essay
Volume 5, Number 6; September, 2008
Making Tracks, Sunlight, Battle Scars by Glenda Barrett
I couldn't stifle the urge
to hike mountain trails,
raft rugged rivers,
picnic in the park,
fish mountain streams,
swim under waterfalls
and bask in the sun
on large, flat rocks
while really listening
to the birds singing
as if it was critical
to my survival.
Looking back,
after my excursions,
my instincts were right.
Click
here to read these poems
Blood From A Stone by Madeleine Parish
On a recent October Sunday that felt more summer than fall,
more
dense than crisp, I visited a meditation garden at the home of a
physician who emigrated from Japan to Connecticut in the sixties. The
friend who invited me didn't provide much background, except that the
garden had been over thirty years in the making and that it was rarely
open for public viewing.
I'm not much of a gardener myself. I've done a reasonably good
job
of bolstering my little gray Cape's "curb appeal" with a few andromeda
and arborvitae. But my backyard (which I know aches with potential)
swings between manic overgrowth and depressive neglect. I'm sure I'd
get pleasure from making more of the little patch outside my sunroom,
but lacking both confidence and cash, I'm paralyzed in perennial
planning. Plus, the thought of tending a garden for three decades?
Unfathomable. I stayed in my first house for over fifteen years, but
since then, it's been three years here, three years there, all in
pursuit of better investment return. At least that's what I told myself.
Click
here to read this essay
Metaphor On Stage - Movie Review by Ann Chiappetta
Acting Blind is a behind the scenes look into a
non-professional
group of actors rehearsing the play, "Dancing to Beethoven". The film
follows the group's metamorphosis as they evolve from a haphazard bunch
of amateurs into a practiced, balanced, performance group.
All the actors are blind and all but one experienced vision
loss
later in life. A few moments are taken to capture each actor's own
struggle with the onset of his or her disability. For instance, one
woman recalls the time she drove her car off the road: It was the last
time she got behind the wheel.
Click
here to read this review
MISERY: An adaptation from Chekhov by Laban Hill
The jets' relentless roar over Kennedy Airport pollutes the
hearing
of all nearby as the endless line of waiting yellow cabs exhaust what
little breathable air there is. Flood lights positioned every few dozen
feet blot out any semblance of twilight. The cold penetrates wherever
it can: cracked windows, loosely buttoned coats, exposed skin. Abdullah
Mohamet, a cabbie near the front of the line, buries himself in his
seat with the heat blasting full force. After ten years in the city,
his skin still stings when it comes in contact with even the slightest
breeze. He's a creature of the desert. His dreams are crowded with hot,
violent suns that boil the marrow.
He sits immobile, hunched low behind the wheel, giving his cab
an
appearance of abandonment. Every once in a while a shiver, deeper than
any cold could possibly bring on, undulates through his body from his
toes through his legs and up his spine to his scalp like dominoes
falling in a line. The engine of his cab hums along steadily and
monotonously, its soft, warming vibration reminiscent of an embrace.
Click
here to read this short story
The Bookstore on the Mount by Thomas Gagnon
The postcard I am pretending
to find fascinating
is of the Virgin Mary,
in Renaissance blue, with fleshly child.
The Paulist bookstore's one customer,
clad in formal blue and gray,
quietly browses; I quietly
envy him, in a vague, uncertain way
that deadens my abdomen.
Click
here to read this poem
Dimmer Beacons by Joanne Marinelli
By 1991 I was twenty-eight, three years past the half-way mark
of
twenty-five, two years before the big three-0. Not old in terms of a
modern life span, but my bloom now hung heavier, my mind more impatient
with aspirations yet unrealized, including the hope of a germane
transformation, yet another variation on the Pygmalion myth the poet
Ovid was kind enough to leave behind for Hollywood. (Think of Leslie
Howard and Wendy Hiller in the 1938 film of the same name, adapted from
the play by George Bernard Shaw, which in turn led to the 1956 musical,
My Fair Lady...) I would root out the loud and bilious working class
origins, exchange them for a cosmopolitan hauteur and intellect that
was perfectly cool and restrained, thus lifeless, or if not quite that,
at least have a shield from the blows no one can contain.
Click
here to read this essay
Volume 5, Number 5; July, 2008
POETRY
A Sense of a Man, You and You, Essay by Stephanie Green
Today I have a sense of a man on the corner
a man I walk past ever so often
click-clacking along as I do
that scent of unwashed whiskers, his razor blunt
from scraping forty years of dirt off his shoes
clasping fingers that reach, grasping at that innate
logic of superiority, but I know where I am heading
I am never lost
Read
Stephanie Green's poems
CREATIVE NON–FICTION
SELINA O'BRIEN
Birthweek
It was my birthday yesterday. Wish me
happy birthday? Thank you. My star sign is Libra, which according to
the Dine astrology chart means that I am supposed to like a good
balance of leisure and social activity and that I enjoy smooth and
uncomplicated relationships. Yet, I prefer to think of myself as a Leo.
I do like to stand out from the crowd and enjoy being the life of the
party. In addition, I have a real desire to assist others and help out
around the house, as much as She will let me.
I am not very good at keeping track of time: it is not one of
my
many positive qualities. Nevertheless, I always know when it is my
birthday because my personal health provider, Dr. Keith, sends me a
birthday card.
Read
Selina O'Brien's creative non-fiction piece.
SHORT STORY
ILANA JACQUELINE
Scream
It took effort just to get out of the car. Just to open the
door,
and get out, and say hello, how are you? And to open the door, and get
back in again. To sit and wait for the pleasantries to end, and to
drive away, far away, to anywhere but here.
It's not that you don't like your editor. It's not that you're
all
that anxious about what you wrote in the issue. Its not that you're
nervous about anything in particular. You just feel it sometimes. You
just feel it. A bubbling nausea, a searing ache in every bone. A
cluttered, dizzy sensation. Like you're drowning. Like you've always
been drowning.
Read
Ilana Jacqueline's short story.
BOOK REVIEW
GARY BLOOM
Driving Without A Map
David Karp, a Professor of Sociology at Boston College and the author
of Speaking of Sadness: Depression, Disconnection, and the
Meanings of Illness,
writes about what he knows in his latest book. He has suffered from
depression most of his life and knows all too well the personal dilemma
involved in taking antidepressants. Along with his own experience, Karp
interviewed 50 people who also take medication for depression. In, Is
It Me or My Meds?
he looks at antidepressants through the eyes of those actually using
them. What he finds is an experience much different from what the drug
companies portray in their ads.
Read
Gary Bloom's book review.
ESSAY
TERI ZUCKER
It's OK Not To Be OK
I am mentally ill; that's much easier to write than to say. Yet, I read
my own statement and feel it is an exaggeration, as I associate mental
illness with someone who is dangerous to others. But with me, the
danger stays inside my head. I have obsessive compulsive disorder,
commonly known as OCD. I've had it for years and didn't even know it. I
just knew I was "different." Then one day, leisurely reading an Anne
Landers column, I noticed a letter written by someone who claimed to
have something called OCD. Like me, this person engaged in behavior
that many would consider unusual, or even bizarre: checking work over
and over again to see if a mistake had been made; worrying about
forgetting to turn off or leave on lights; fearing contact with dirt,
germs, etc. It was somewhat comforting to learn that my weirdness is
something other people go through, and it even had a name - albeit, in
my opinion, not a very good one.
Read
Teri Zucker's essay.
Volume 5, Number 4; April 30, 2008; Potpourri Issue
POETRY
PATRICIA WELLINGHAM–JONES
New Downward Cycle Every Three Weeks, Pieces of the
Moon, Pillow, Losses
I pull my body out of bed,
shuffle down the hall,
squint at the furnace buttons,
hope I press 'on'.
Heading back for those last minutes
of body flat on mattress
I notice light spilling
from his room.
Read
Patricia Wellingham–Jones' poems
CREATIVE NON–FICTION
LEAH MEREDITH
All We Have To Go On
Making sense of your wants is playing charades without the rules,
making socks without the pattern, packing clothes without a box. Do you
want dinner, a toy, a bath? It's CIA-grade guesswork. Your
needs—love,
food, motion, sleep—appear simple, but your silence lends them
complexity. I hope you speak up soon . . .
Read
Leah Meredith's story.
SHORT STORY
DAVID BOLT
Spangles
1
A Man was unconscious on his kitchen floor when a boy walked in
expecting the usual mixture of song, humour and breakfast.
"Dad?"
An upset stool was lying next to the man, but his black Labrador looked
on without concern.
Oh my God, no, Dad."
As the boy rushed over to the telephone, the man's red cheek was
pressed hard against the cold black and white tiles. It was only a
matter of seconds, but he resisted laughter for as long as he could and
then leaped high into the air.
"I got you this time Master Jones, I got you this time well and truly."
Read
David Bolt's short story.
BOOK REVIEW
ERIKA JAHNEKE
The Short Bus
I both loved and hated this book. I loved it for its
fast–reading,
wacky, almost outlaw tone, and for the exciting and vital cast of
characters Jonathan Mooney met while driving an iconic "short bus"
across America. My favorite was Kent, performance artist, and author of
the book Portrait of Your Momma as a Young Man who has turned his ADHD
into Steven Wright–meets–Andy–Kaufman comedy
riffs . . .
Read
Erika Jahneke's book review.
ESSAY
ROY A. BARNES
My Travelin' Roots
Sometime during my sixth year on this planet, my father, Marvin Barnes,
asked me if I would like to travel with him in his semi–truck
during
some of his long haul trips around the country. I was very excited
about doing so, and ultimately would log thousands of miles in states
east and south of Wyoming when school was not in session.
Read Roy
Barnes' essay.
POETRY
GAIL LIVESAY
All There Is
I sit in a world of beauty.
The trees wave their arms in good cheer.
The flowers bow their colorful heads. The grasses whisper in
rapture . . .
Read
Gail Livesay's poem.
Volume 5, Number 3; March 28, 2008; Spring Cleaning
POETRY
LOUIE CREW
Classified
INTERNATIONAL: CHOICE
HISTORIC RESIDENCES going
at a steal. Massive living rooms,
with built-in pipe organs, stained
glass windows, vaulted ceilings,
fonts, excellent reading stands, at
least one high table, with banquet
seating possible, and assorted ce–
lebrity chairs.
Read
Louie Crew's poem.
SHORT STORY
KATHLEEN O'CONNOR
Dear One
The deer eats winter vegetation at the periphery of my yard.
Occasionally, she flicks her tail, stops, and then stares forward and I
could swear she is watching me. I drop my breakfast dishes into the
sink to soak and continue staring out the kitchen window in admiration
while I finish my coffee.
Ten minutes later, I grab my cane and head outside, wishing
for the
hundredth time that I owned an attached garage. I'm quiet about backing
my car down the drive — just in case she is still enjoying
breakfast,
though I suspect she has gone.
Read
Kathleen O'Connor's short story.
POETRY
MICHAEL LEE JOHNSON
Nikki
Watching doves
peck away,
all day long at
a full bowl
of mixed seeds . . .
Bathroom Visitor
A horsefly
travels the world
of my bathroom.
Stops at the kitty litter box
on occasion for refueling . . .
Read
Michael Lee Johnson's poems.
CREATIVE NON–FICTION
RIA STRONG
Tales of a Magic Fairy
What do you see when you look at us? It's all a matter of perception.
My mother thinks I'm her fairy. Her magic fairy. Her memory
fairy.
Her wonderful can do anything fairy. Bubble wands and fairies. they
seem to go together. So maybe my mother's right.
Read
Ria Strong's story.
ESSAY
MADELEINE PARISH
The Birthday Party
We're together for the first
time in five years. Three sisters. Terry, the oldest, pastes us
together with persistence and illusion. She believes we can be a
family, that we are a family. Julie, the youngest, bites her lower lip
and wears a worried brow, even while driving her red Miata with the top
down to her job as a South Florida city planner. And me, in the middle.
I moved to Connecticut almost twenty years ago to cut free from my
tangled roots, I thought. I know that my illness (Chronic Fatigue
Syndrome) structures my life in a way my family must find limiting, and
that my writing aspirations might seem paltry and a little suspect. So
when I return Upstate to the barren terrain on chilly Lake Ontario,
where my neuroses and fears were planted, watered, and pruned, I take
their suspicions as truth. I feel I've failed.
Read
Madeleine Parish's essay.
POETRY
CINDY PRINCE
Basket Full of Memories
Basket of apples
Swinging
As I tag along singing
Following my brother
Sitting on Mother's lap
As I take my first bite
The skin tight
On my teeth . . .
Read
Cindy Prince's poem.
Volume 5, Number 2; February 29, 2008; Disability and the
Environment
POETRY
PETRA KUPPERS
Concrete
My hip hurts. What is it to you?
There is no street that
travels through though you
remember your aunt, or Skipper, the dog.
The street hurts. One step on the grass, skip over
the concrete bit
relief
in the green middle.
Read
Petra Kuppers' poem.
SHORT STORY
DOROTHY BAKER
Canary
It was another couch day for Jesse, reluctant canary in the
environmental coal mine of Planet Earth. She and her chemically
sensitive friends called themselves canaries, because they believed
their illness was a warning about the health effects of chemicals. Like
one of the caged canaries that used to warn miners of gas leaks by
keeling over, their little feet pointing pathetically skyward, Jesse
lay immobile on the couch.
Read
Dorothy Baker's short story.
FILM REVIEW
ERIKA JAHNEKE
When Will I Dance Again
Sometimes the only companion Katherine Devoir has is her camera, an
unlikely living arrangement for a dancer and performance artist, but
Katherine's struggles with environmental illness have turned her life
from "privileged and white" to the isolation of government benefits and
trying to regain more of her health, knowing that the medical
establishment does little to acknowledge her "invisible" condition.
Read
Erika Jahneke's film review.
POETRY
KAMILA RINA
Perfect
Only years later you told me. When it could change
nothing. You used the word "perfect".
It was early May several springs ago; we weren't
dating — or so we told ourselves. I invited
you to the opening of my group photography
show, where my bit of wall hosted a set of self–portraits
titled "chronic fatigue girl dreams of flying".
I waited for you for hours outside the bustling
gallery . . .
Read
Kamila Rina's poem.
BOOK REVIEW
ARDEN ELI HILL
Origami Striptease
Origami Striptease, by acclaimed poet and short
story
writer Peggy Munson, is a Breath and Shadow reader's wet dream, as the
debut novel exemplifies a blend of disability culture and literature.
Munson folds descriptions of life with chronic illness, lust, love,
queerness, borderlands, abuse, and survival into one impactful read.
The protagonist of Origami Striptease is a queer
writer who develops "ink poisoning" after her encounter with a
complicated villain called The Sludge . . .
Read
Arden Eli Hill's book review.
MONOLOGUE
SANDRA DEMPSEY
Air Apparent
Aisling: The air was fine. They said so. The air
was
positively good. The E.P.A. said they did test after test after test
—
it was apparent; perfectly all clear, so the air was fine.
And all I did was live in my little half–studio over a
guy and his
family that runs the bodega downstairs. Half dog–walking, half
social
assistance — it's all I can do to give the guy rent every month.
Not a
bad guy, poor, but nice family, cute little kids. He works like a dog
and I can't believe people pay me money to walk
theirs . . .
Read
Sandra Dempsey's monologue.
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