December 2012

Vanilla Bones by April Jo Murphy

tire tracks in the fresh snow

Sometimes her silences make me feel like I’m underwater, reaching upward through murky dark. My extended fingers reaching for a surface, trying to break through the invisible hydrogen bonds that separate air from sea.

Home Fires Burning by Anne Fox

Family of Feet warming at a fireplace

Tonight I’ll blame the sherry for the fanciful images playing in the back of my mind—an evening, a mellow light cast from the hearth into a room textured with polished wood and soft things, a sofa lumpy with pillows, a thick, nubbled carpet, its surface worn to silkiness.

Sex, Drugs and Vic Giovanni by Robert Weinberger

Piano Keys on Mahagony piano

He is thirty-five, wears Hai Karate aftershave, drives a maroon 1970 El Dorado, and sits too close to me on the piano bench. For the first fifteen minutes of every piano lesson, Vic Giovanni details his sexual exploits, claiming numerous rendezvous with many Hollywood actresses.

Danger By Its Stem by Elizabeth Langemak

Bush of Poison Ivy

My mother’s mother was a city girl, and no number of chickens – their heads popping off on the block as her husband relieved each body of brain – could make her otherwise. Not that she didn’t try.

Review: January First by Michael Schofield

January, or “Jani,” was born a genius; at three years old, she could read and calculate mathematics in her head. But if she didn’t receive constant mental stimulation, she could succumb to violent meltdowns.

The Writing Life: Show and Tell by Lisa Ahn

Show and tell is theater. As writers, we can’t help but love it. Like children, we harbor indeterminate, odd wonders. The idea that slips inside a pocket. The fringe of inspiration. We collect words like talismans – tessellation, shambolic, caducity – and cup them in our palms.