Crack the Spine
Literary magazine
Issue 179
Issue 179 January 20, 2016 Edited by Kerri Farrell Foley Collection copyright 2015 by Crack the Spine
Cover Art by Laura M. Kiselevach After twenty years of working as a visual designer and photo stylist for such clients as Ralph Lauren, Tommy Hilfiger, DKNY, and The New York Times, Laura Kiselevach decided to pursue her passion for photography. Using only her well trained eye and a smart phone camera, she captures both the grandeur and minutia of her everyday life. Laura’s work has been published inRip/Torn, Roadside Fiction, Temenos, Short, Fast and Deadly, Wilde Magazine, Quickest Flipest, The Casserole, Muzzle Magazine, among others, and exhibited at galleries in New York City, Florida and Los Angeles. A native of Pittston, Pennsylvania, Laura lives in New York City.
CONTENTS James Hannah
Exposed
William Miller
Marie Laveau in the Parish Jail
Mike Lambert
About the Oranges
Yvonne Higgins Leach Waiting on Menstruation
Katherine Quinby Stone Equestrian Enthusiast
Jennifer Valentine Mirror, Mirror
Brian Burmeister
Holiday
James Hannah Exposed
He was a tall sheepish gentleman in his late fifties. His eyes were gentle, his chin was weak, his shoulders were starting to stoop. His legs were thin and wobbly, his hair was thinning and gray. And he walked with the hesitant stride of a crane, his head bobbing forward with every step. Watching him amble along the street, one would never guess him to be an artist. A servant, perhaps, a beggar more likely, but not an artist: a soul unencumbered by earthly snares and committed to only the Muse. But an artist he was, and no mere artist at that. He was an artist in the most gallant of mediums: the daring realm of street performance. He did not suffer dullards well, and so he performed in the Mission. The Mission was always full of tourists: inquisitive sorts who could better appreciate his craft than flint-eyed drug dealers or self-absorbed commuters. It was the tourists who gasped breathlessly, riveted their eyes upon him, and laughed with something other than derision. It was the tourists who lifted their cameras, snapped his photo, and hailed his display as a charming motif of San Francisco. And so he honed his skill for the tourists, determined to reward such generosity of spirit. He wore only the best of London Fog raincoats, the most stylish of Panama hats. He timed to perfection the nuances of his pitch: the wiggle of his eyebrows, the teasing flicker of his tongue, the preliminary flaps of his raincoat. And his Monty could best be described as heroic: a godly embrace of liberty and life. An eagle soaring above the Grand Canyon was no more stately in its wingspread.
Considering the quality of his work, it was regrettable that he preferred select audiences. But it is nobler to touch a few profoundly than to court the vulgarities of the masses. And with this charitable philosophy, the good man plied his trade, exposing himself to just one or two spectators before making a discreet exit. He was adept at exits, having committed to memory every alley in the Mission, and so he was rarely accosted. But on those occasions when the police did nab him, the consequences were pedestrian. Otherwise, he might have become a martyr to his gift, a trailblazer whom adversity had lifted to fame. But, sadly, this was not to be. “Ah,” scoffed the jailers whenever the cops marched him into booking. “It’s Sylvester again. How’s it hanging, Sylvest?” He would spend one night in jail, no more, and receive a sheriff’s release the next morning. Never was he afforded the spectacle of courtroom drama—the opportunity to suffer for his cause. Despite the fickleness of fortune, he remained a purist. He loathed those thespians who bastardized their scripts: the rapists, the pedophiles—those who gave flashing a bad name. He did achieve an erection on occasion, but never for the sake of seduction. His erections were merely to complete the aesthetic, much like the painter’s signature scrawled at the bottom of a portrait. And being a perfectionist, he worked meticulously on style, bringing to each performance a new measure of affect. He learned new ways to flutter his raincoat, new ways to tilt his hat, new ways to smile seductively as he allowed the flaps to drift. Who could doubt that he might one day produce a masterpiece? But time had stolen his confidence and his dream was starting to fade. And so he worked harder to catch it, willing to risk it all for an indelible blaze of glory. And should he fall like Icarus, his wings torched by the sun, this would
not be too great a price to pay for the culmination of a vision. He believed implicitly in the stoutest of clichés: the age-old truism that one who never gives up is one who will never be conquered. And so, with each passing year, he struggled for the perfect pose.
He achieved a masterstroke on his sixtieth birthday—a late flowering, perhaps, but a bloom nonetheless. It was a practice performance, a casual warm-up, that provided him with the impetus of genius. The catalyst, Mabel Albright, was a coltish young lady from Iowa enjoying her first day in the city. As he watched her stroll along Folsom Street, he knew she would be an ideal foil. Her skin was parlor pale, her gait was halting, and she glanced about with the doe-eyed wonder of a debutante attending her first ball. Was she too easy a target? he wondered, a thought he was quick to dismiss. Compassion should never destroy inspiration—not when a dream is at stake. That is the anarchy of art. He nodded politely as she approached him. Conversation was unnecessary, but good manners were still important. And so he waited until she returned his gaze, until her eyes lit shyly upon his, before giving the Muse her rein. Ever so slowly, he fluttered his raincoat; ever so teasingly, he smiled. Botticelli’s Venus, awakening from a nap, could not have moved more sensuously. And when he let the flaps of his raincoat part, his boner was lively and full, like a plump and mischievous puppy that romped with the joy of life. Her shriek was piercing but vital. Her eyes were terrified yet awed. And when she swooned, it was not from terror but an overabundance of excitement. Such is the nature of sheltered souls: they can stand just a glimpse of the sun. As he made his retreat, he could feel his heart pound. What a reception! What a performance! And yet her response seemed excessive: a validation he
had not truly earned. He knew he could do even better; he knew he could rise to much more. Today would surely be the day of his masterpiece. He waited an hour at the corner of Folsom and 23d Street. The area was filled with druggies, and so he did not feel conspicuous. They were sure to alert him with cries of “Five-o” if a cop car should appear. But the sidewalks lacked worthy spectators: he saw only crackheads, day laborers, and insular youths with gang tattoos on their arms. It was almost by consolation that he chose his next target: a hefty woman of fifty by the name of Wanda Polanski. She worked in a local sausage factory and smelled of beer and sweat. Little did she know she was about to witness an opus. And little did she care. Retrieving an iPhone from his raincoat pocket, he harvested a tune. What else but the opening of Also Sprach Zarathustra—that epic movement from Stanley Kubrick’s 2001 A Space Odyssey? As he stepped in front of her, smiling pleasantly, the orchestra droned to its crescendo. Uummm, uummm, UUMMMM, AH-AAH!!! Boom, boom, boom, boom, boom, boom. When he spread his raincoat, his eyes were aglow, his grin was as bright as a headlight. And his Willie was straighter than a baton as it nodded in perfect time with the drum beats. This was his moment. This was his statement. This was his stroll with the gods. She stared without expression. It was the gaze of a cretin—a creature more animal than human. A beast that feasted on carrion and never pondered the stars. Never had a face looked more churlish. Never had eyes looked more dead. “Buster,” she slurred in a voice coarse as sand. “Yer mama know watcha doin’?”
Sadly, an eagle needs wind drafts to soar; a rose needs water to blush. And a cheeky cock robin cannot hold its trill if the sun does not peek through the clouds. He slapped his chest theatrically, but his spark had already been doused. “Madam, surely you jest,” he joked. Snorting, she folded her ham hock arms. “It looks like a prick only smaller, mister.” “Madam, you truly jest,” he repeated. He was not adept at repartee; body language was his gift. So in the face of this cold, imperious attack, it was all he could think of to say. She snorted again. “Perve,” she muttered. It was just one word, one trite little word, but a word that for her said it all. It takes only one’s pinkie, held close to the eye, to blot out the brightest of dawns. She left him hanging alone on the street; she would think of him no more. She had errands to run, beer to belch, and sausages to stuff.
Is the Muse as dismissive as Wanda, an incurious, beery frump? Visit any bar and you will find scads of local prodigies. They will talk of their projects to any who listen: books they will never write, portraits they will never paint, songs they will never compose. For what can these dabblers accomplish without sturdy, hermitic souls? Without blinders to see their tasks through to completion though all else may tumble to ruin? Geniuses lacking this coldness of mind will wither away on the vine. And journeymen will thrive in their place, their works praised as stark and brilliant by hordes of reviewing hacks. And so the Muse is a slattern, no more, a callous, teasing witch. Her eye wanders too quickly, her favors don’t last, her heart is fickle and mean. She
knows from bitter experience that few will pick up her chant, that for every brave soul that might march to her hymn, a thousand will die in the dust. To only the brashest of suitors, to only the boldest of swains, will she sing her fullthroated song. Was Sylvester too fine for his mission? Was his soul too inclusive, his spirit too noble, his heart too tender and large? How else to explain the power of chance: that a rude and despicable creature, a woman more common than dirt, had broken his mighty spirit. “Ay, ‘tis a scratch,” cried Mercutio, but he perished from Romeo’s blade. And so fell Sylvester, his heart slashed to pulp by that shallow, illiterate tongue. Oh courage, courage, why did you flee him? Why did you yield to a sow? He returned to the Mission a few more times, his raincoat yet cocked, his eyes yet alert, his iPhone yet blasting a tune. But his dramas were meek, uninspired affairs, mere parodies of art. His arms were so stiff, his face so bland, that he better resembled a scarecrow than conduit to the gods. So what was left for this talented man but hang up his raincoat for good? He took to travel to bury his sorrow, but travel could not free his soul. What traveler does not carry with him the things he is destined to find? So like Byron in Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage, he only pondered ruins: the Parthenon, the Coliseum, the temples of ancient Rome. Only these glorious relics could stir his failing heart. And when travel proved too exhausting for him, he found quicker escape in booze. In booze he could blur his debasement, in booze he could soften his shame, in booze he could glimpse the specter of what he might have become. He died in Athens, his liver worn out, his spirit a windblown husk. He was buried in a pauper’s grave.
William Miller
Marie Laveau in the Parish Jail
She sat up all night with a dead man, no bars between them. And there was no talk of the four loas, a serpent named Zombi. She was only there to listen, an old mambo in the dim light. The dead man’s story was like the story others told in this same jail:
a sailor, he jumped ship to follow the bonfires along the levee, drink from a bottle passed hand to hand. And it ended in a crib on Basin St. He beat then cut a girl who laughed at his boy size … Almost dawn, Marie asked him if there was any last thing he wanted to say. “Is there a spell or charm for the rope?” he asked. “I don’t want to swing today.”
She laughed. “No gris-gris can heal what truly ails us, that ol’ shadow in our bones. And there’s just one grave for thief or alderman, pimp or priest, the ovens where they shove us all.”
Mike Lambert
About the Oranges
The Louisiana dirt sucked at Manuel’s boots as he stepped down off the porch. It was always softest just before dusk. He’d sprained his ankle the first time thirty-one years ago, the first time his boots had sunk like that. He’d sprained it every year since then, too, his ankle never remembering how to heal quite right. The last time had been chasing the first kid, the summer before. They’ll grow out of it, Georgina would have said. But they didn’t. That woman had always made a hobby out of being wrong. The younger one was running now, away from the one that wasn’t, who never would again. But nobody’s fast with buckshot in their leg. He’d been on the older one’s shoulders to reach the trees, and he’d caught some in the left thigh. Manuel had seen the round hit the kid’s leg, seen the surface of his brown skin ripple and splash like rocks thrown at a muddy pond. The older one remained on the ground, his face sucked in like Manuel’s boots but not pulling its way back out. Not moving at all. It looked like when his father shot Manuel’s dog, when he was 8. Manuel had scratched the car with his bike, his father had said, snarling as he pointed to the white streak on the passenger door. He still remembered tearing at his father’s arms as he reloaded the double barrel, the same one he clutched now, as Paco (a labrador-beagle mix) yelped after the first shot. The younger kid, the one running, yelped the same way but wasn’t limping as bad. It had only taken one shot for the older boy. Manuel didn’t even need to check as he walked past.
His hands still buzzed from the shotgun’s recoil, from tearing at his father’s arms, from his old motorcycle...It had been twenty-two years since he’d sold it, a week after he bought it. You’re going to kill yourself on that thing, I won’t be a widow, Georgina had said. The money went to a replace a septic tank that broke two days later, and to cover the losses from unsold oranges the locals didn’t want grown on ‘mexican guano’. Manuel was from Florida, his parents from Spain. The oranges rotted anyway. They’d looked like the older kid’s face probably did now. Enrique hadn’t been shot in the face. Manuel knew that from the letter, 13 years ago. It was in the back, by some kid with his safety off. His boy, who wanted so bad to serve his country, who could have gone to school but wouldn’t listen, shot by his own platoon. In a tent. In his sleep. The younger boy was still running, down between the green rows of Navels and the new Satsumas that paid for the porch after Georgina lit it on fire. That night he was barbecuing his brother’s pork ribs and she got too drunk, told him he’d never satisfied her, that his tongue felt like a dog’s and that the only good thing his pichita had ever given her was her son, who was dead now. She had screamed at Ricardo: Digale lo que estuvo pasando nosotros! And when he’d put his head down and said nothing, Manuel knew, but that wasn’t good enough. She’d gotten up from her chair, her voice raw and her eyes streaming, shrieking Digale ello! over and over as she grabbed the can of lighter fluid and shook it rhythmically over the fire and the grill and the porch. The sun setting now was the same color as the blaze, and the boy’s shadow stretched out like the long plume he and Ricardo watched rise as they waited for the sirens. Saved the house at least, they’d said.
The boy’s silhouette grew larger as his pace slowed to a hobbled shuffle. Manuel’s boots were gaining sucking, wet ground on him, steady and determined. He had loaded the barrels again for a reason. At least once every two weeks, it had been. Before he just yelled, first in Ingles and eventually in his native tongue, when he realized they weren’t listening, and they made flibbering, flubbing gibberish noises back at him to make fun. Not just taking the ones that fell, which were often still unripe, and not just one or two, but filling their shirts up like baskets and mocking his tongue in his own grove. His ears still rang from the blast. Or the kid was wailing again. He wasn’t sure. Georgina’s sister Maria had called, last week, to tell him she was dead. They’d never signed the papers. Always wrong, Georgina had been, and always with her habits. Her liver, they’d said. He thanked Maria for calling and didn’t cry. He stopped at the Navel tree near the end of the row, where the footprints stopped. He remembered now: Jacob was the younger one, maybe nine. He was 3 years younger than his brother. Manuel was about to say something when he realized the sound wasn’t his ears, or Maria on the phone, or Georgina shrieking, or the bomberos coming for the fire, or Paco the labra-beagle’s squeals, or his own wails over a letter signed but certainly not written by the president. Jacob stuck his head out from behind the tree where he laid, panting and gushing snot and saltwater. The boy threw something at Manuel but missed, the blood-slick cellphone landing just beside Manuel’s left boot. The old man cocked the shotgun.
You killed him! the boy screamed. My brother, he screamed louder and longer, almost covering the sirens coming up the road. You crazy old man, you killed him! Over your stupid oranges! You’re going to jail! The boy kept screaming, and the sirens got louder. How long had it taken him to catch up to the boy? To get to this moment? Manuel didn’t know anymore, couldn’t have told anyone if they’d asked. He just knew it wasn’t about the oranges.
Yvonne Higgins Leach Waiting on Menstruation
Nature’s controlling hands take hold: the clouds obey the wind’s command, the robin pokes and pulls the worm, the sun’s cheery salutation and the last of dewdrops leave no trace. Is it my humanness that questions my hanging porch plants for their perpetual patience as they grow in confining pots? How they accept no choice in the matter. Days now, I wait for the tearing down of bloody wall, and grow angrier at the picturesque reminders of this world, of this body I cannot escape.
Katherine Quinby Stone Equestrian Enthusiast
My mother -- very quietly and in total confidence, of course -- told me the story of a friend who was being honored at a very old money, stuffy, ten thousand dollar a plate society dinner at the Country Club for her contributions to things other rich people enjoyed. It was an elegant Old South affair, with endless courses and enormous ball gowns and elaborate updos that contained at least two packs of bobby pins. The friend also had a son, Winston, who had Tourette's Syndrome. Winston had been invited to the dinner as well, because, of course, the family's reputation depended on the fact that he was normal, that every member of their family was perfectly mentally and physically healthy, thanks be to God. He sat at the table with his mother, calmly conversing with the well-to-do guests, covering safe topics like his father's business deals and how wonderful his mother's philanthropy was. Nobody was the wiser about his unfortunate ailment. The time came for his mother to accept her award, a sterling plaque or something equally ostentatious, and as she walked to the stage her accomplishments, of which there were many, were read aloud. "Mrs. Cunningham spent several years curating the modern art exhibition and supported dozens of local artists through grants and fundraisers." "Mrs. Cunningham's innate eye for interior decor is well-known throughout the region, and she showed her talent in her redecoration of the Daughters of the American Revolution salon last winter." "Mrs. Cunningham has donated her time, efforts, and substantial funds to the preservation and integration of the local opera and dramatic theatrical troupes,
ensuring that future audiences can enjoy these historic and moving performances for years to-" "BUT CAN SHE FUCK A HORSE?" Was heard suddenly from the back of the hall. A shocked bourgeois titter of commotion, much hair patting, and delicate head turning and practiced tongue-clucks rang throughout the hall, as though the guests were consulting each other shamefully on what they'd heard. "CAN SHE FUCK A HORSE, CAN SHE, CAN SHE? CAN SHE FUCK A HOOOOOORRRRRSEEEE IN THE ASS?" The son had now turned his Tourette’s outburst into a glorious and bellowing refrain, which had a nice vibrato, the development of which was no doubt aided by the many evenings the young man had spent at the opera. There was no mistaking now what the guests had heard. The woman's own son was making his way to the top of his dining table, knocking over Waterford wine glasses and smashing plates as he stood up and sang, again, "SHE CAN! SHE CAN! SHE CAN FUCK A HORSE REAAAAAAAAAALLL GOOD!" The guests didn't now how to react as they watched the son being escorted down from the table and out the ornate double doors. Who - or what - was to blame? The rumors were swirling gleefully throughout the hall already. And had Mrs. Cunningham, in between sailing trips to the Cape and organizing hurricane relief drives, committed, well, unspeakable acts with a barnyard animal? Well, a glittering woman suggested, she did have several stables in Virginia, so one really had to wonder, but she hated to say it, really, she just hated to, but that didn't discount the long trips that Mrs. Cunningham had taken there, more and more frequently, really, and the energy with which she spoke about the horses, oh, it was too much, it was all too much, she'd better lie down, she wouldn't say another word. Had Winston had too much to drink? No, a
tuxedo-clad gentleman who had been sitting at his table quickly shot that down. No drink at all, really, not even a drop of port after dinner, he'd refused, quite forcefully it seemed, and I thought it best not to press the issue, but my goodness, Mrs. Cunningham of all people.... And Winston choosing tonight, his wife cut in, tonight of all nights, to reveal, or we'd better say, to accuse her of such things, since we don't really know, perhaps it's a vicious trick, perhaps he's been left out of the will, or unsatisfactorily awarded, or maybe he's furious because of all her contributions, he sees it as though she is taking his money. And really, bless his heart, he did have a wonderful voice. There was at least that.
Jennifer Valentine Mirror, Mirror
Everything was sharp about Thomas Roberts. The way the nodes of his spine stood out along his back when he hunched over his work, with feet planted wide under a desk far too small to hold his gangly youthful form. The way his eyes held a slight slant left from long forgotten native roots, and reminded his mother of a fierce warrior Indian who rode the grassy plains and battled assimilation. The way his member jutted out in his hand when he stood in front of the mirror, and stroked himself with the long delicate fingers of one hand, and dug his nails in his chest with the other. The way his nails were cut square: strong, and razor sharp to gouge long furrows, like the slashes of wild animals.
He was half wild himself. The way that every full moon drove him into a frenzy and carnal passions would take over, so he would spend the night locked away in his room. The way he would work his flesh over and over, never looking away, till his seed ran out, and he hung limp and dejected, like a wounded animal. The way he would hunch over afterwards, curling into himself, clutching his long, long legs, and cry great heaving sobs which wrecked his throat. The way he gathered his tears and rubbed him into his chest, salting his wounds to agitate them, then bring his fingers, bright red, to his lips and suck.
But his passion cut both ways. The way the girls would follow him with their eyes, tracking his movement like hunters in winter, but fearing his notice, lest he run and jump. The way the boys would let him sit apart, like a troubled king who mustn’t be disturbed, and whose countenance weighed heavy. The way his mother would tip-toe past his doorway to carefully prepare his breakfast, and make bright the day. The way his father would sit with him after supper in the den, where the fireplace roared during winter, and read the Beats alongside.
His heart was lightening. The way he yearned to learn, forever cutting to the quick of things, and opening up their cavities to the harsh light of day. The way he meted out justice after finding himself a lover scorned, and set ablaze their prized possessions, whatever they were. The way he pined after true romance, searching for it in all encounters, but founding it in no one. The way he found his demon, that great beast in his soul, who licked his wounds in the early morning hours, after a long night’s struggle.
But he was no match for me. The way I taught him the power of silence, of the futility of words, and the meanings they can’t convey. The way I showed him how to chase phantoms when walking down the halls, or glimpsing reflections. The way I opened him up, showing him his true self, making it impossible to hide. The way I told him how to lie, so that he could keep it all, or throw it all away.
When I found him he was new. The way he never worried, never knew, and never cared. The way he looked and talked, without pause, but still full of thought. The way he slept at night, never rustling the covers, and sleeping like the dead. The way he ran and jumped, like a tiger burning bright, into the arms of mother.
He is mine. The way I hold him at night when the moon is bright and full, and and his blood races. The way I touch him, sliding down his skin, slick and hot. The way I show him things he’s never known, how to fan his desire, building sensations into raging crescendos. The way I hold his gaze in mine, his irises dilating with my own, and his heart echoing my pulse.
I know why his heart breaks. The way he rocks on his heels, clutching his limbs, and gasps. The way his tears streak downwards, liquid silver in the night, and mix with his essence. The way his voice breaks, when his throat feels cut to ribbons, and he chokes on his pleas. The way he can’t stay away, but beckons to me, and quietly calls me forward.
I am sharp too. The way I can see the most minute detail, the things most never notice, or never want to see. The way I can cut you open, and shatter all of your illusions, before you can brush it aside. The way I am brittle, so easily broken, and vengeful when I am. The way I am haunting, always there with you, and you not always knowing.
And my love can cut both ways. The way I can shine brightly, reflecting even the brightest sun, or the darkest night. The way I am precious, a beautiful silver lining, desired more than gold. The way that I am simple, an object to the common man, and trophy for the bourgeois. The way that I am holy, the revealer of secrets, and retainer of mystery.
I am everything to Thomas Roberts. The way he waits to make love, when he is silver in the moon, reflecting my heart. The way he honors my devotion, mixing his lifeblood, with precious shining tears. The way he carves his skin, as if it were my fingers that slowly slid down his body. The way he cries after, because he cannot hold me the same way that I hold him.
Brian Burmeister Holiday
Leaving that morning for vacation, Liz left the keys to her house with Nicole next door. Her fish needed feeding. In closets, cabinets, and drawers, Nicole’s hands moved slowly, deliberately, with impunity. She found pictures, read letters. Each day she tried on Liz’s dresses, shoes, and undergarments. Everything fit just right.
Contributors Brian Burmeister Brian Burmeister is Program Chair of English and Communication at Ashford University. His writing has appeared in Cleaver Magazine, Eunoia Review, and The Furious Gazelle. He can be followed on Twitter @bdburmeister. James Hanna James Hanna roamed Australia for seven years before settling on a career in criminal justice. He has recently retired from the San Francisco Probation Department where he was assigned to a domestic violence and stalking unit. His experience with criminals have provide fodder for his characters. James’ stories have appeared in multiple journals and have received three Pushcart nominations. His novels, “The Siege” and “Call Me Pomeroy” are available on Amazon. Laura M. Kiselevach After twenty years of working as a visual designer and photo stylist for such clients as Ralph Lauren, Tommy Hilfiger, DKNY, and The New York Times, Laura Kiselevach decided to pursue her passion for photography. Using only her well trained eye and a smart phone camera, she captures both the grandeur and minutia of her everyday life. Laura’s work has been published inRip/Torn, Roadside Fiction, Temenos, Short, Fast and Deadly, Wilde Magazine, Quickest Flipest, The Casserole, Muzzle Magazine, among others, and exhibited
at galleries in New York City, Florida and Los Angeles. A native of Pittston, Pennsylvania, Laura lives in New York City. Mike Lambert Mike Lambert is a fiction writer based in Pittsburgh, PA after a long stint of growing up in the south. He is an editor and co-founder of the After Happy Hour Review, a local workshop-based literary journal now in its second year of publication. He has been previously published in The Nude Bruce Review. Yvonne Higgins Leach Yvonne Higgins Leach is the author of “Another Autumn� (WordTech Editions, 2014). Her poems have appeared in South Dakota Review, South Carolina Review, Spoon River Poetry Review, Cimarron Review, Wisconsin Review, among others. She earned a Master of Fine Arts from Eastern Washington University in 1986. She spent decades balancing a career in communications and public relations, raising a family, and pursuing her love of writing poetry. Now a fulltime poet, she splits her time living in Snohomish and Spokane, Washington. William Miller William Miller is the author of five books of poems, twelve books for children and a mystery novel. He lives in the French Quarter of New Orleans. Katherine Quinby Stone Katherine Quinby Stone is a Manhattan-based writer pursuing her MFA at the City College of New York. Her interests include Anna Nicole Smith conspiracy theories and Yiddish Literature.
Jennifer Valentine Ms. Valentine is a suspicious-looking anthropology student, who seems to enjoy books just a tad too much for her own good.This could actually be said about all of her obsessions at present—bourbon, the color black, and television—which are probably as overused as Dionysus’ famed libations. Yet, her friends seem to tolerate her fairly well, mostly for her ready smile and lively personality. If she was god, then the world would be broken: perpetually autumn, rainy, and chilly so she wouldn’t have to suffer in the heat wearing her beloved jackets and tall black leather boots.
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