Volume 14 Issue 3
Dozen by Chris Kuell
to My Child by AJ Rio-Glick
hearing people write lies on your skin in front of your eyes, listen,
but don't look.
will think you're not there, disappeared into your head again, but
make yourself listen, and make yourself speak back. speak truths.
they call you inspirational, listen. you are, but not in the way that
they mean. figure it out for yourself, and then trace the patterns
that run away from your ears and all the way down your throat, down
your chest, down your stomach, trace them alone, by yourself, and
realize you are inspirational, but not in the way that they mean.
here to read AJ’s poem
Song of the Rose by Alicia
the golden hall, symphonic practice progressed. Master Cossoto, his
white hair tied back revealing his famous, cavernous right ear,
considered the orchestra.
stroked his left ear, dainty and well-proportioned in juxtaposition
to the right, and thoughtfully said to a question from the horn
section, “Aim for silver, please.”
trumpeters sighed in relief. Silver was far easier to achieve than
here to read Alicia’s story
to Fall Well
by Pasquale S
the penultimate day of inpatient rehabilitation, my physical
therapist taught me how to fall—and then get back up.
Falling was not in my estimation a skill that one “learned.” But
I was told that when it happens, I’d need to do it the right way.
happens, but when.
“Because it will happen,” my therapist insisted. And it will
happen to all of us, one way or another. I’ve indeed fallen no
fewer than nine times since my accident. Yet I have emotionally
fallen too, and I’ve been picked up again—by literature.
here to read Pasquale’s essay
Second to the Last Time , Beluga Point, Alaska, The Weatherwoman Had
a Boob Job
the moon was full and I wore my navy silk pants / and my car got
stuck in your driveway and I read poems on your rug naked / the space
heater warming my ass / and you said I was a cat in another life and
I laughed because I knew I was really a dog /
here to read Cinthia’s poems
Ashes, Arise by Kat Otis
life's wounds have become too great to heal on their own, God is a
brutally efficient surgeon: the 1666 conflagration that destroyed
London ended both the great plague and my precipitous plunge into
debt. Unfortunately, cauterizing a wound is only the beginning.
here to read Kat’s short fiction
is Right, Right is Left by
Emma B. Aird
the end of the day and I’m leaving campus. It’s raining, my feet
hurt and I’m tired. I parked in a parking garage I haven’t parked
in before, so I’m leaving campus in a different way. It shouldn’t
be that different or even difficult. I’m taking the same basic
route back home. It should be easy. I turn left onto Speedway Blvd.
and head west, it’s not until I see Cherry Avenue that I realized I
was actually heading east all along.
here to read Emma’s essay
Blind Flute Player by Amit
is this valiant girl? Why is she sitting alone and
erect on the wild rocks in twilight? Why is she playing so
today? Listening to her, my soul loses its soul...
here to read Amit’s poem
Karma Bug by Erica Verrillo
woke up feeling slightly hungover, bleary from the after-effects of
the bug that was going around. She reached over to her nightstand and
flipped up the digital clock. 8AM. The arraignment had been set for
10AM. If she didn’t get moving, she was going to be late.
hauled herself out of bed, slipped into a white silk blouse and gray
skirt, and grabbed her make-up kit. A little lipstick could always be
counted on to work wonders. There was nothing like a pout to distract
a judge: the redder the better. She padded into the bathroom and
gazed at her reflection in the mirror: brown hair that fell in soft
waves to her shoulders, clear blue eyes, a pert nose. No mouth.
here to read Erica’s short story
Right Fit by Kristy I.
Shawn beamed over a steaming Tim Hortons French vanilla, "did we
really do the clothes and the haircut in an hour? “Thanks, babe."
from him at the food court booth, I savored a chocolate-glazed donut.
"You're welcome. You're going to look great for your interview.
Thanks for being so patient."
couldn't do it alone. Department stores are bloody confusing."
replayed the past hour. Meeting Shawn at the mall entrance and
weaving our way through the afternoon shoppers - most who either
didn't see our white canes or chose to ignore them and ran into us
anyway . Navigating to and through the Zellers men's department.
Picking out black pants and a blue long-sleeved shirt plus matching
tie. Hunting down directions to the fitting room, locating the
checkout to pay, backtracking to Tip Top Tailors and charming the
manager into tying the tie because neither we nor the Zellers clerk
had a clue there.
here to read Kristy’s essay
Thought by Anaïs
dream of travel
tunnels moving to cut through
depths of air.
these tunnels, I hear voices
like eels in an open sky
they all say
exact same thing: "Hurry"
here to read Anaïs’ poem
Lucky One by Quentin Norris
I sit and here I’ll stay.
to this chair until the end of days.
words I made up to keep myself sane circle through my head each and
every day as I sit in my black cube until I’m allowed to leave,
escorted back to a cell where I stare at the ceiling and imagine what
death must feel like and whether or not I should have taken that road
when I had the chance. And now I’ll never know.
here to read Quentin’s short story
is an Extraordinary Work: Book
Review by Denise Noe
Rosemarie Garland Thomson’s
Figuring Physical Disability in American Culture and Literature
is a landmark work in the study of disability. In it, Thomson
sensitively examines the ways disability has been interpreted in
popular culture and literature.
In her preface to the book’s
twentieth anniversary edition, Thomson reveals how the “seed for
began to sprout in the late 1980s.” She notes that the book “was
a latecomer to feminist literary studies and critical race studies,
the academic movements from which it emerged.”
here to read Denise’s review