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
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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
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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?”
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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
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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
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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…
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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…
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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...
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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.
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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...
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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.
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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.
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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...
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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...
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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.
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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.
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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.
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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. . .
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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.
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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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