Archive for ‘March, 2018’

From Issue 17: Metra

J. Ray Paradiso

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

J. Ray Paradiso is a recovering academic in the process of refreshing himself as a street photographer and an EXperiMENTAL writer.…

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From Issue 17: San Francisco, Architectural Design

Keith Moul

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Keith Moul’s poems and photos are published widely. Aldrich Press published Naked Among Possibilities in 2016; Finishing Line Press has just released (1/17) Investment in Idolatry.  In August, 2017, Aldrich Press released Not on Any Map, a collection of earlier poems.…

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From Issue 17: Buenos Aires, Argentina, Architectural Design

Keith Moul

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Keith Moul’s poems and photos are published widely. Aldrich Press published Naked Among Possibilities in 2016; Finishing Line Press has just released (1/17) Investment in Idolatry.  In August, 2017, Aldrich Press released Not on Any Map, a collection of earlier poems.…

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From Issue 17: New York Minute

Harold Ackerman

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Harold Ackerman works in Berwick, PA, close by the Susquehanna River, where he lives with his spouse, Jane.  He has published poetry and fiction and maintains a photo gallery at briarcreekphotos.weebly.com

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From Issue 17: Bed Stuy Stories

Listen to this audio story here:

Vivien Schütz recently graduated with a Master of Fine Arts in Media Art and Design in Germany and is working as a freelance audio producer and director’s assistant for German public radio, and is now relocating to New York City. She did her Bachelor in Journalism and worked for a local radio station as a reporter.…

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From Issue 17: Phone Calls and Flowers

Hilary Brewster

 

March, 1995

I let the phone ring three times before I answer. I’m hoping it’s the boy I have a crush on, and I can’t seem too eager, says Seventeen. I close my algebra textbook.

“Hello?” I lilt the O.

“Can I talk to Katharine?” a man drawls. I’m disappointed it’s not for me.

“Sure, hold on one minute please.” My phone etiquette education did not include requesting the caller’s identification. I put down the receiver and walk to the landing to shout downstairs. I lift the phone back to my ear to confirm she’s on …

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From Issue 17: Fly Fishing

K.B. Holzman

 

Hip-deep in crystal clear water, they posed every morning. Two, three, sometimes as many as five men silently casting their lines soon after the sun appeared on the horizon. Whether they spoke before or after, she never knew. By the time she passed, they were already in position, each facing a unique direction, intent on casting their line with graceful precision, reeling in with stoic optimism.

*****

Before 9/11, cars were allowed to drive over the dam on the Western side of the reservoir. After the terrorist act, cement blocks were deposited on both ends of the …

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From Issue 17: Collateral

Brian Phillip Whalen

This poem was originally published in The Cardiff Review.

When I eat pepperoni pizza late at night, I have nightmares. I’m 35 years old, the same age my father was when he slept nights inside a bottle of Boone’s Farm wine. [My father was 13 when his mother warned him:“Boys like you end up in jail or Vietnam.”] When I was 13, I read the morning comic strips: Garfield ate a pepperoni pizza late at night and had a ghastly nightmare. He woke Jon and Jon took on his monsters. [I was 7 when my father …

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From Issue 17: from Days of the God-Sized Brains

Jennifer Metsker

 

Reliable as a courier pigeon, I did my job: i.e. I bought things. I lurched into the theater dressed in my fatigues to cry before the Jesuses. I listened to far off disco planets, crooned to the carpet, carried my satchel. But my religious conversion was the God-given equivalent of wax paper. Nothing ever stuck. So I’m running from the government down tilt and tumble alleys looking for a place to stow my snow globe collection.

 

Jennifer Metsker teaches writing at the Stamps School of Art and Design. Her poetry has been published in Beloit, Birdfeast, …

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From Issue 17: most of my life has consisted of longing

E.J. Evans

 

Most of my life has consisted of longing and probably most lives are like this I suppose it to be the fundamental human substance well why not one’s life has to consist of something the mind is just a big empty space and must needs be filled with something and so longing is the most readily available filler I can tell you I’ve clung to longing like a shipwrecked man clinging to a piece of floating wreckage it has given my life and by extension my identity what little structure and coherence it has had so I …

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