Breath &amp; Shadow

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.

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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 book review

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 flash fiction piece

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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 do

who 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 poem

Cherrypoppers, Inc. by Erika Jahneke

I’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.

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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

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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 deficit
tyranny of nerves and flesh,
          attends
garage sales, flea markets,
        church bazaars,
junk...junk...junk...
seek wheelchairs
to buy on the cheap
{rob mobility of its parts}
claim art works of
                            blues
engage conversation with…

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Tiger 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 poem

Too 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 madness
like a map before you, to take

your small hand and guide it down
the divergent paths of blackness
and light…

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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.

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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.

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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

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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.

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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

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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.

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.

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.

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 humorous piece

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.

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.

Volume 8 Number 2

When I Was Alive by Erica Ratti

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.

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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.

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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.

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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 1

Trauma 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 piece

What 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 poem

Bull 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 story

Smell of Fireman, We have no Earlids by Akua Lezli hope

Smell of firemen lingers in my bedroom,
the metal guard rail i will wipe
with alcohol, still warm
from their hands…

Click here to read Akua’s poems

Spare 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 essay

Excessive 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 story

Heaven’s Hope by Venetia Ghozlan

Heaven is a fevered hope for the dispossessed
a mirage that blooms as we lay dying
it is a placebo to sweeten a soured mythos
a carrot to dangle before the unrepentant
it is the payout for living the lie of sacrifice

Click 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 group poem

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.

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.

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…

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.

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.

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…

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.

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.

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 creative non-fiction piece

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."

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 Akua’s poems

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.

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.

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

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 Kathleen’s poems

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

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 Dorothy’s poems

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.

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.

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

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.