Twister by Abby Ridderhoff
You were a twister
Uprooting the sanity
Of a pristine little girl
You ripped the daisies
From her hair, and gave
Her instead a mirror…
Click here to read Abby Ridderhoff’s poem
I’ll Be Looking At the Moon by Susan M. Silver
Just when it was that I started feeling dead, I don’t know.
My sense of time has been altered by the Illness. But the
confines of this familiar room, an irregular box which constitutes my
whole apartment and my only sanctuary, are starting to take on the
colorations of a sort of peaceful death chamber, or a maybe a way
station to another level, perhaps because of how I feel inside it.
Click here to read Susan Silver’s short story
Routine, Dentist Visit, I Fly Into Your Indifference by Akua Lezli Hope
I sleep to wake and take my waking slow
I fear my fate in what is no longer there
I get nowhere that I used to go
We think we know what we don’t know
I pray daily to be cured, I cry to rise from here
I sleep to wake and take my waking slow
Click here to read Akua Lezli Hope’s poems
Father’s Last Breath by Pearl Stevens
My father had been dying for months. His mind, scuttled by advanced
Alzheimer’s, had more left to it than his starved body. At times
I feared I would also die of Alzheimer’s, because it ran in the family,
and because I thought my epilepsy might make me more prone to that
plundering of mind. Today or tomorrow would be the day, his last day,
hospice assured me over the phone after a week of vigil. So, thirteen
hundred miles distant, wheeling above an expansive early green spring,
I flew from Maine to the compressed snows of a Wisconsin clinging to
winter. Perhaps I could lay hold to something no child should have to
touch upon – the moment at which one’s parent dies.
Click here to read Pearl Stevens’ memoir piece
No Lie by C. R. Reardon
Go ahead, show off your lexicon
With words like “lexicon”. Tell her
How King Kong ain’t got shit on you; that will
Make her weepy, all touchy-feely. Take her
To your room, go boom boom or do what you do,
And say tutaloo. Because you can tell by
The hope in her voice when she says ‘miracle’
Click here to read C. R. Reardon’s poem
Film, Sex, and the Single Cripple by Erika Jahneke
There has never been a disability-friendly American Pie, much less an
accessible Annie Hall. I know on the long march to equality, we crips
have bigger problems than being under-represented in sex comedies.
Being left out of the actual mating dance of life is far more serious,
but beyond the scope of this article. I think the fact
that there hasn't been a sex comedy involving crips yet says
something about our place in society as people the world does not think
about unless they are forced to. Any thoughts about disabled life
are generally either blurted by vulgar grandmas in comedies, or
left in the Sensitive Indie Drama section where the renters are
either people like me, starved for something we can halfway relate to,
or other kinds of artistic hipsters who are proud of how much of
looking at us they can "stand".
Click here to read Erika Jahneke’s movie reviews
Life’s Friends, Differences by Carol Mackey
You have walked in my shoes,
the festering blister,
the too tight arch.
Nothing is solid
and space is a fog.
Click here to read Carol Mackey’s poems
The Spinebill by Mark Cornell
The spinebill’s have returned; they always do this time of year.
Another summer’s about to die, and I’m not sad in the least. The
trilling is the first thing you notice about the bird. It sounds like a
mini machine gun.
I noticed the spinebill during the first autumn I was home looking
after my son, Tim. When I took three years off on family leave, I
discovered important things I’d overlooked when I worked full
time. For instance, signs of when the seasons are changing. This
tiny bird’s arrival is one of the first indications that autumn is on
her way and we’re near the equinox, a time our ancestors celebrated
with great gusto.
Click here to read Mark Cornell’s short story
Choosing Between the Long Jump and the Short drop by Cody Vander Clute
every morning the clouds rise
the sun too behind
the blackout curtain
but it is
mist that gets me up
for the batteries
for my ears
Click here to read Cody Vander Clute’s poem
My Life in Books by Penny Gotch
It’s a beautiful word, isn’t it? Five letters, one syllable, and a billion possibilities.
I love books. I was weaned on them. I cut my teeth on cloth and board
ones at eighteen months, sitting in my crib in the peaceful morning
hours before my mum woke up, turning the pages to look at the pictures
because the words were beyond my reach.
Now I devour books, page after page, sentence after sentence, word after word.
Click here to read Penny Gotch’s essay