Remembering How to Write

Remembering How to Write

By Jessica Mitchell

 

It’s like putting on an old pair of shoes

after a year or more gone;

they were shoved under

the bed still wet, the now-dried

toes have curled up, they

just don’t

fit

It’s like running into an old friend

at the grocery store; over stacks

of celery and apples you

small talk, say you’ll call,

get together sometime,

discordant silences

puppets speaking lines

It’s like forgetting how to get home,

so you wander, searching for deja vu,

waiting for that corner

with the white rock where you found a

dead cat in the rain, age five,

and you searched for its owner,

cold cat body in a towel

with its left eye loose

laid in your red Radio Flyer,

walking door to door holding

your mother’s hand

knowing there was something

to feel sad about

but not knowing how

 

 

 

Alumnus Matthew Bowie reading at UC Berkeley

Matthew Bowie was on the staff of the 2016 edition of the American River Review, and he has been published numerous times in the magazine as both a poet and a writer of creative non-fiction. He has since transferred to UC Berkeley and can be seen here reading a selection of his poems at their annual Lunch Poems student reading event.

 

Snow, a Son

Snow, a Son
Eric Myers
I lived my whole life
with the man in this picture,
but I’ve never seen him like this.
He-s wearing a jacket I’ve worn,
tan nylon turned out against the plowed
and flattened snow,
plaid cloth cradling him against the cold.
In this flash, he doesn’t know his son
will steal that jacket
from his closet. Or wonder
his father never grows his beard as long
as it is in this
brushing his collar bone.
Here he doesn’t know his son.
Or his wife.
Soon he will forget the snow for them.
Shave his beard to respectability,
and prop four walls up around
a boy who won’t return his calls
until he picks up an old album
and sees this picture
like a mirror.
The son will lose sleep, try to reconcile,
try to know his father like he was
in this hidden moment in the snow.
They will become strangers again.
Because the son can’t give back
what he’s stolen:
the redness of the man’s beard
or the peace in his posture.
They’re as gone as the jacket,
lost by the son, camping one summer,
with someone else’s family.

Wasted

Wasted

by Karina Spade

 

I am so fucking wasted right now.

 

I stumble around the costume party. A house full of old friends from high school.

They hide behind their Guy Fawkes masks and their stripper heels and their goth-

glam garb. Pretend not to be fucked-up like I am.

 

My costume? I’m not sure. Kind of a cross between Magenta from Rocky Horror

Picture Show and Mrs. Lovett from Sweeney Todd. Helena Bonham Carter as Mrs.

Lovett. Me as Helen Bonham Carter, as Mrs. Lovett, as Magenta. Someone tells

me I look like a Gothic Madonna. Tomorrow I’ll see pictures and decide that I’m

just ridiculous.

 

Shit. I spilled another drink. Someone wipes the spilt bourbon off the linoleum.

Later I’ll clean up more alcohol from an inside drawer.

 

It’s a good thing I bought the crotchless fishnets. I’ve had to piss every ten minutes.

 

Frank struts down the stairs in black lace lingerie. That’s pretty funny. Brave. The

cell phone in his panties lights up and vibrates every once in a while. Illuminates his

junk. He ignores me most the night. I wonder if he’d notice me if I starved myself

like I used to. Suffocated my curves in a pair of skinny jeans. At least I look better in

lingerie than he does.

 

I play pool with some of the boys. I kick their asses, despite my inebriation. Aramis

threatens me with his fencing foil. Challenges me to a rematch. All I want to do is

shrink down to three inches tall. Take a nap in the right corner pocket.

 

Kitty is dressed like a cat. She comes over and bites my cleavage. I’m surprised she

hasn’t already found some pirate to make out with. She’s had a pirate fetish ever

since we watched Snatchbuckler in the tenth grade.

 

I’m outside smoking a clove cigarette. Now I’m in the garage smoking a menthol.

Now I’m on the weight bench trying to bench press 100 pounds with a cigar in my

mouth. My friend Jesus comes over and saves me before my arms go limp. He’s

dressed like a nun. Bless you, sister.

 

In fourth grade I had a crush on a boy named Nathan. I often tried to kick him in the

balls. He once asked me, “Are you smart, or are you stupid? Because sometimes

you seem pretty smart, but other times you act really stupid.” I asked him which one

he thought was better. Earlier tonight Sid’s girlfriend threw his keys on the roof. I

would ‘ve helped, but “Hollaback Girl” started playing and I just had to dance.

 

I pour myself another drink. Then another. Then another. I’m so numb I don’t even

notice how tight my corset is anymore. Specks of light sparkle in my cup.

 

No sign of Frank. There’s something especially lonely about being with someone

who doesn’t seem to know you exist.

 

I’m too young to feel like this, right?

 

Someone puts on rap. Not my thing, but fun to dance to. Britney and Christina give

me a lap dance. They’re really good at it, I don’t have any dollars bills to give them.

They get a little more into it when the boys start cheering. Britney takes off her

shirt. Seven years ago, it would have been me giving the lap dance. Fully clothed, Of

course. I wasn’t a skank, just a tease.

 

Jesus Christ, I’m dizzy.

 

More dancing. We all take shots. I kill a bottle of rum. I pour some whiskey into

an oversized shot glass from Medieval Times. I fill it to the line that says Lady in

Waiting. Empty it into my throat and fill it all the way to the line that says Wench I’ll

regret this tomorrow when I’m at work and still a little buzzed.

 

I’ve got the hiccups. Jesus urges me to go to the bathroom in case I have to puke. I

don’t. Later I will puke. I’ll puke on my night stand and all over my birth certificate

and on most of my textbooks.

 

Christ. Going up the stairs is impossible. I crawl most the way. Fuck it. I’ll just lie

here on the landing for a little while.

 

I am so fucking wasted right now.

 

I stumble around the costume party. A house full of friends from high school. They

hide behind there Guy Fawkes masks and their stripper heels and their goth-glam

garb. Pretend not to be fucked-up like I am.

 

My costume? I’m not sure. Kind of a cross between Magenta from Rocky Horror

Picture Show and Mrs. Lovett from Sweeney Todd. Helena Bonham Carter as Mrs.

Lovett Me as Helen Bonham Carter, as Mrs. Lovett, as Magenta. Someone tells

me I look like a Gothic Madonna. Tomorrow I’ll see pictures and decide I’m just

ridiculous.

 

Shit. I spilled another drink. Someone wipes the spilt bourbon off the linoleum.

I’ll clean up more alcohol from the inside drawer.

 

It’s a good thing I bought the crotchless fishnets. I’ve had to piss every ten minutes.

 

Frank struts down the stairs in black lace lingerie. That’s pretty funny. Brave. The

cell phone in his panties lights up and vibrates every once and a while. Illuminates

his junk. He ignores me most of the night. I wonder if he’d notice me if I starved

myself like I used to. Suffocated my curves in a pair of skinny jeans. At least I look

my better in lingerie then he does.

 

I play pool with some of the boys. I kick their asses, despite my inebriation. Aramis

threatens me with his fencing foil. Challenges me to a rematch. All I want to do is

shrink down to three inches tall. Take a nap in the right corner pocket.

 

Kitty is dressed like a cat. She comes over and bites my cleavage. I’m surprised she

hasn’t already found some pirate to make out with. She’s had a pirate fetish ever

since we watched Snatchbuckler in the tenth grade.

 

I’m outside smoking a clove cigarette. Now I’m in the garage smoking a menthol.

Now I’m on the weight bench trying to bench press 100 pounds with a cigar in my

mouth. My friend Jesus comes over and saves me before my arms go limp. He’s

dressed like a nun. Bless you, sister.

 

In fourth grade I had a crush on a boy named Nathan. I often tried to kick him in the

balls. He once asked me, “Are you smart, or stupid? Because sometimes you seem

pretty smart, but other time you act really stupid?’ I asked him which one he thought

was better. Earlier tonight Sid ‘s girlfriend threw his keys on the roof. I would’ve

helped but “Hollaback Girl” started playing and i just had to dance.

 

I pour myself another drink. Then another. Then another. I’m so numb I don’t even

notice how tight my corset is anymore. Specks of light sparkle in my cup.

 

No sign of Frank. There’s something especially lonely about being with someone

who doesn’t seem to know you exist.

 

I’m too young to feel like this, right?

 

Someone puts on rap. Not my thing, but fun to dance to. Britney and Christina give

me a lap dance. They’re really good at it. I don’t have any dollars bulls to give them.

They get a little more into it when the boys start cheering. Britney takes off her

shirt. Seven years ago, it would have been me giving the lap dance. Fully clothed, of

course. I wasn’t a skank, just a tease.

 

Jesus Christ, I’m dizzy.

 

More dancing. We all take shots. I kill a bottle of rum. I pour some whiskey into

an oversized shot glass from Medieval Times. I fill it to the line that says Lady in

Waiting. Empty it into my throat and fill it all the way to the line that says Wench. I’ll

regret this in the tomorrow when I’m at work and still a little buzzed.

 

I’ve got the hiccups. Jesus urges me to go to the bathroom in case I have to puke. I

don’t. Later I will puke. I’ll puke on my nightstand and all over my birth certificate

and on most of my textbooks.

 

Christ. Going up the stairs is impossible. I crawl most the way. Fuck it. I’ll just lie

here on the landing for a little while.

 

Kitty bites my tits and walks off again.

 

We’re too old to act like this, right?

 

I lift my head up off the ground to look for Frank. Don’t see him. I imagine where

I’d be right now if my family never told me I was too young to make it on my own. If

Frank and I never ran off to Reno and got hitched.

 

The floor spins out of control beneath me. Nausea sets in. I crawl up the stairs and

into the bathroom.

 

My head itches. I take off my crazy frizzy wig and throw it in the bathtub. My hair

under the wig is even crazier and frizzier. Kinda sexy though.

 

More dancing, more drinking. More eight ball corner pocket, or wherever.

 

Time to pee again. Kitty follows me into the bathroom.

 

Damn, my hair looks good.

 

Some guys ask Kitty and me what we’re doing in the bathroom together. We giggle

and leave them guessing. I try to flirt with all the boys equally. That way they don’t

know when I’m serious,

 

There are people dry humping on the couch.

 

I scarf down 600 calories of once-frozen pot stickers. Pretty damn tasty. I wash it

down with some Seagrams.

 

Marilyn is lying on the pool table.

 

These pot stickers are truly delicious. Was I drunk when I made them? Was I drunk

when I went to work today? Seriously, when did I get this drunk? I can’t remember not

being drunk. Tomorrow when I write about this, I’ll still be a little drunk.

 

Is everyone as lost as I am in the really-real-world?

 

I sit down in a very modern, very uncomfortable Ikea chair. I feel my head getting

heavier. I start to…

 

…very bright in here…

 

Drinking is the suicide of choice for people who are afraid to die. If you do it right, you

get to wake up the next day. Do it all over again.

 

My grandfather died of cirrhosis of the liver. I never met him.

 

I feel like I’m floating…

 

I jump back to consciousness and realize that Jesus just carried me upstairs. He guides

me to my bed.

 

Did I turn the oven off?

 

Kitty squeezes in through the cracked door. She curls up next to me and falls asleep. I

don’t complain when she hogs the bed. I’m just glad to have the company.

 

Frank barges in and begs for a threesome. I pretend not to be slightly turned on by the

idea. I tell him that married people shouldn’t have threesomes. It makes things weird. I

will later realize that he interprets this as, ” let’s have sex with other people.’

 

Frank leaves. I remind myself not to care.

 

I run to the toilet and throw up. Kitty sits in the bathtub with her arms around her

knees, trying not to throw up. She doesn’t know it yet, but she’s actually pregnant.

Next month I’ll take her to the clinic. l’ Il yell obscenities at the Jesus-freak protestors

when they tell us we’re going to Hell. Kitty will look at her feet and say nothing.

 

I go back to bed.

 

Kitty goes back to bed.

 

I wake up and throw up next to the bed.

 

Kitty throws up in the toilet.

 

Only a few hours before I have to get ready for work.

 

I want to sleep. I want to wake up.

 

This house smells like puke.

 

I sweat beneath the itchy warmth of my blanket. I pull it tight around my body. I don’t

take it off, no matter how hot I get—it’s my blanket, and I can’t sleep without it.

 

American River Review 1994 Issue

Poetry arr 93
Spring/Morning/Magpie / Tom Goff
Pre-Pre-Nuptial Agreement / Tom Goff
Dutch Door / Tom Goff
New York Critic: Opera Box, Front Balcony, 1907 / Tom Goff
Bird Dog / Pamela Moore
Pink Shell / Pamela Moore
The So Close / Beth Johnson
Riding The Blind Spots / Beth Johnson
Dee Dee’S Laughter / Paige Johnson
Simple Pleasures / Penny Wofford
Kim / Anita Brown
Nightcrawlers / Marcella Strang
Cardboard Boxes / Angela Bredberg
Starthistle / Angela Bredberg
Artichokes On Tuesdays / Lynn Doiron
Measure Me At Midnight Ii / Lynn Doiron
A Gesture / Lynn Doiron
The Polish Madonna / Paul Stefanski
Vacation, Vatican Beach / Nora Staklis
Grandfather Roberts / Nora Staklis
The Rear View Mirror / Melinda Myers
Cold Steel / Julie Ahern
Mother’S Heroin / Sharon Rich Fahning
Her Life, Cumpled Paper / Sharon Rich Fahning
The Play / Marck Allen Harrison
With Anyone Or You / Marck Allen Harrison
Haiku In Thirds / David Bain
Los Angeles Visitation / E. D. Sylvie
Chanson Dejeunesse Doree / Sylvia Mann
Pome / Sylvia Mann
Japanese Dances / Sylvia Mann
All Summer Long / Meg Lombardi-Withers
Chuang Tzu’S Wife Writes A Poem / Meg Lombardi-Withers
Tonight The Tribal Youth / Meg Lombardi-Withers
Summer Sting / S. W. Lawrence
Sky Dance / Jon Heilbron

Fiction
Typhoon Lily / Penny Wofford
Beth And The Beanstalk / Lynn Doiron
You Just Never Know / Patrick McCabe
Big Buddha And The Beercans / Meg Lombardi-Withers
Flyer / Pamela Moore

Creative Non-Fiction
The Funeral Squad / Meg Lombardi-Withers
Post-Season / Patrick McCabe
A Life Without Birds / Uyen Huong Lam
Searches And Seizures / Nicole Menendez
Songs My Daddy Used Tosing / Penny Wofford
Unmortgaged Salvation / Penny Wofford
Rocking Chair / Pamela Moore
Of Mice And Dreams / Lynn Doiron
The Dream Board / Nora Stakiis
Unfinished Business / Patrick F. McCabe
Spring Sacrifices / Georgia Stevenson

Jack and Coke

Jack and Coke
Eric Myers

Draped in the same too-big shirt
for three days
It’s fabric film a few washes away
from silk.
The neck is wide and loose,
big enough to slip over
my slick, scabbed scalp
without a painful touch.
I pull it off and wish I could shower
without four Norco.

When I slept I dreamt of Chris,
skin dangling from his hands,
red bone peeking out
when his tendons moved.

He was stealing from me.
Taking my life and stuffing it
into a bag, slowly turning red
from his mangled grip.
Wallet, cell phones, books.
Stealing from me,
and making me watch.
The sting of sweat on my
blood-crusted sutures
forced me awake.
I won’t sleep again until I whisper to my room:
It wasn’t my fault.

Did they clear you to leave?
Nurses had to know,
as I shuffled out of the ER,
smelling like disinfectant and gas.
They couldn’t know I was fine,
beneath the blood matted in my hair,
and the dirt still on my cheeks.
Yeah, I said without turning,
It looks worse than it is.

I started laughing when the air ambulance nurse,
autographed eight-by-ten pretty,
leaned over me
and said I was doing good.
I was alive.
Leaking blood,
missing skin,
my unbroken bones shaking,
but alive. The helicopter
can go as slow as it wants.
I’ll be fine.

That’s my blood, I said
as I felt it drip up my forehead,
up through my hair,
and down to the pavement.
Mingling with the spray of broken window
and gasoline.
I heard Chris call my name from the street
and asked if I was okay.
I told him,
It’s all my blood.

75, 85, 90,
yelling at nothing, our friend
slings around another dark
highway corner, in the wrong lane.
Chris and I sat in repose,
quiet enablers,
holding our breath as he lost traction,
again.
Our friend stops screaming
and asks if I’m okay.
I joke and say,
I’m ready to die.

At the bar I wait my turn and, when I
finally flag the bartender,
the one that reminds me
of a giraffe,
I get a blue whale for me,
a seven and seven for Chris,
and a jack and coke for our friend.
Extra strong on all of them, I say.
We’re celebrating.


Art by:

Sharon Rickard

Sleep I

Egg Shells, White Daisies

Egg Shells, White Daisies
Danielle M. Gorden

This is how I knew I’d turned eighteen: in the waiting room at the guidance
counselor’s office, the man with the baggy white tee and pouchy, threadbare eyes
lifts his head from the water fountain and lets his eyes catch on my neck. He looks
me up and down, but mostly down, taking in my blue-vein wrists, my simple crossed
legs, my slammed-into-size-six-wedges toes. I know his type. He’s the middle-aged
guy in the back of the class who doesn’t understand, and doesn’t want to, but they
say he should go to community college, so he does. His girlfriend, the cliché, the
one with the pockmarked, nicotine skin, pretends not to notice. I pretend to be
uninterested, vaguely shocked, somewhat disgusted by his open assessment, but
I am secretly intrigued because this means I am alive. In the parking lot, the man
in the convertible—candy apple red and wet with shine—revs his engine when I
walk past. ‘What’s the difference? A year? A day? Is it because I’m not flanked by
three brothers and my grizzly bear father? He leans his foot into the gas pedal. I’m
uninterested, I’m uninterested. I’m enthralled.

I know better, now. I know what it is. My mother never called me pretty, but I’m
innocent enough, and I’ve come to learn that when it comes to men, that’s all
that matters because it means they have something to smudge. One night I caught
my father cross-legged at the hutch in our dining room. I thought he was sneaking
alcohol, so I hid myself behind the kitchen door and peeked, but all he did was take
my mother’s wine glasses out, one by one, and leave a sweaty fingerprint on each
before setting them back into the case. His thin, sullen hands left prints like skulls
and I imagined they were my mother’s, as if the tips of his fingers were wet-water
stamps for her pretty, white bones. I wanted him to cry, miss her deeply, lie on
the floor and talk to her. I wanted him to drink, take the alcohol straight from the
bottles, leave them empty on the floor for me to clean up, me sober-faced and
serious. In the morning after he’d gone to work, I took the glasses all out, wiped the
skulls from their surfaces and put them back in their places.

This week, it’s John, who works at the carwash on Briggsmore and takes classes at
the college when he can. Yesterday he took me aside and said, “You know, people
are talking about you. You’re leaving a trail. What am I supposed to say?” He’s
figuring it out, putting the pieces together, realizing I’m just notching my belt,
playing a man’s game. I have debts to make even. I tell him I’ll call him.
At Sunday brunch, Nana taps her French-tipped acrylics onto the table. Her
hair, cream-puffed and shellacked once a week at the salon, still reminds me of
a giant Matzah ball. Her nails click as if they are playing a tiny, invisible piano,
independently of their Matzah-ball-wearing owner. She wants someone to spill the
syrup. She fixes her pinching eyes at the skin at the bottom of my low-lying V-neck.
“Audrey, Audrey, look at you. What would your mother say? You break hearts like
only really lonely people know how.” My brothers are silent, heaving internal sighs,
silently wiping their proverbial brows. They’re just glad I’m always around to play
scapegoat. Only little Eugene is looking at me like he might be concerned for my
welfare, as he’s eight and still crawls into my bed when he can’t sleep at night. My
father zigzags his fork across his plate. I don’t falter. I raise up my chin and roll up
my sleeves, baring the blue-thin skin of my wrists. I am pale white shell and blue-
patterned china. I am the Washington Monument. I am infallible, unbreakable.
Nana knows what I mean; she purses her lips and clicks her nails on the table.
Maybe she is playing Beethoven. Rachmaninoff. Anything.

On Tuesdays, I clean the kitchen and do the laundry. With four boys in the house,
most of it is not my own, but I do it anyway. My mother used to color-code the tags
on their clothes and pile them into separate colored baskets in the laundry room,
but I just can’t seem to get into it, so they sit on the shelf above the machines, quiet
and empty, collecting dust. This Tuesday Dad comes home, leaves his briefcase
on the kitchen table next to me and my piles of books and opens the door to the
fridge. Hello, briefcase. Hello, Dad.

‘Where are your brothers?

“Brad’s at practice, Marty’s at Rob’s, Eugene’s asleep on the couch. Don’t wake him. He’s not sleeping well.”

When he doesn’t respond, I close my book, sit up in my chair.

“l cleaned the kitchen.”

He looks around, gives our white-washed kitchen the once-over, turns the block of cheese over in his hand. His eyes find the floor beneath the cabinets. He points.

“She never would have missed that.”

I go back to my book, back to my head. I am egg shells and white daisies. I am the
Alamo. I am neither, I am both.

That night, Eugene makes his way to my room, crawls into my bed. He loops his
arms around my shoulders, burying his brown head into my neck. He looks up at me
with heavy, paperweight eyes, the kind of eyes you could sandbag the front stoop of
a house with. I want to dog-ear that look and tuck it into a pocket in my skin. In the
morning I carry him back to his room, fold him into his own green-gray sheets. My
father passes me in the hall, says nothing. He’s out the door and in the car before
I’m even back to my room.

I know what he wants from me. He wants me to sit on the curb and smoke Marlboro
Reds, tattoo my lower back with an elaborate monarch or, at the very least, a
dragonfly, he wants me to run off with the neighbor’s son for a month, for two, he
wants me to come home paunchy and expecting and heavy, he wants to slam the
door in my face. My mother’s wake has left him with two inconsolable hands and
four scattered children, whose slow-moving grief is orbiting them farther and farther
from home. Except, maybe, for Eugene. He is too young to know this; all he knows
is that he has lost a mother and that he is losing a father, too.

I go into the dining room and rifle through a drawer in the hutch. I pull out a red
paint marker, the kind you buy for twenty cents at Dollar Tree, the ones I hid in the
far left corner of the drawer last week. This is how I know I’ve forgotten how to feel:
I open up the cabinets, pull out each of the wine glasses. I surround myself with
them. I draw red skulls on their fat, sloping sides, then place them back into the
hutch. When I’m finished, I close the glass casing, find my way to Eugene’s room
and crawl into bed with him. Listening to his short breaths, I’m twelve, he’s two,
and we’re snuggled somewhere in the litter of bodies and balmy breath that is my
other two brothers, my mother, and my father, the six of us. I ‘m pink skin and full
breath; I’m real, I’m real.


Art by:

Larissa Kimmey

Give me the Government

Photography

American River Review 2007 Issue

PoetryARR2007small
She was a Moth / Ryan Little
Human Clear / Ryan Little
We Were Sixteen and I Loved You / Ryan Little
Hungover Walk Home / Ryan Little
Summer Storm / Jessica Mitchell
Highway Two / Barbara Link
Montana Wheat Field / Barbara Link
Salt / Erin King
Hooray for Sexual Awareness Day / Cory Buttler
Driving the Yolo Causeway, February 10 / Carrie Lane
Coloma in September / Carrie Lane
first love, best love / Claire Candesco
Remembering Mama / Claire Candesco
Still Life / Judith Ryan
Pictures of Rodger Roderick Wilbanks / Pamela Downs
Weather It’s Love or Not / Kayla Thayer
Wrong Number / Jamie Mudera
Sweep Dreams / Jamie Mudera
Wadi Street / Jamie Mudera
Spin / Jeremy Brothers
The Poet, with Nothing Nice to Say / TK
Lois / TK
Theo rhetoric (a lie) / Ryan Cicak
Thank the Lord I’m English / Nancy McMahon
Chinatown Communion / Kellie Raines
Clement Street / Kellie Raines
In the Pieces / Kellie Raines

Distinguished Author
Flying Carpets Rusty Junkers / Firoozeh Dumas
An Interview with Firoozeh Dumas / Jenna Amer
Bienvenidos a Newport Beach / Firoozeh Dumas

Fiction
Fog Off Hunters Point / Joan Taylor
Night Voice / Kylee Cook
Inside a Girl / Edward Zebes
The Captain Cancels His Travel Plans / Pamela Downs
Bargain Hunting / Katc Campbell
Clear View Elementary / Ryan Little

Createive Non-Fiction
The Ethereal Wedding Dress / Barbara Link
Dead Skin, Romance / Cory Buttler
Blackbirds XIV-XVII / Ryan Cicak

American River Review 1988 Issue

Fictionarr 88

Mary B. Loves Ophelia-Joy / Jann H. McCord

Lines of Kilter / Geoffrey Nutter

Ojos / Kingsley Andersen

The Prop / Michael Parks

Invasion / Barbara Goldberg

Deep Wailing Razor Boy / Jeffrey M. Kinsley

Back to Oblivion / Thomas J. Balfour

Poetry

The Bludgeoning Alias / Matt Mulin

versus / Catalin Kaser

John Henry / Guiesseppe A. Jones

Rendering Spirit / David Golz

Man and Earth / Guiesseppe A. Jones

Hour Glasses of the Gods / Jessica L. Zucker

Where Have All the Flowers Gone? / Ric Cole

Insanity Part III / Catalin Kaser

suspension / Ric Cole

Leaving the Nest / N. Douglas Smith

Anarchy / Ric Cole

Torn By a School in Spring / Catalin Kaser

Father / Jack Deveny

The Enchanted Princess / Barbara Goldberg

For My Brother / Jack Deveny

Haven’t We Met? / Mary Linn

Mainspring / Pegg N. Weseloh

Friendship / Ric Cole

On Ardis’s Deck / Katherine Plantaric

Impudence / Janet Moon

Voyeur / Phil Best

Loneliness / Christiane Carr

Exorcism / Matt Mullin

After A While / Catalin Kaser

High School Winners

Determined Little Man / Jack Mahon

The Can Collector / Amy Slagle

The Antidote I Wrote / Erin Taylor

Temporary Blindness / Marcia Djudzman