Rough Draft

Poetry by Teresa Chuc Dowell

The word, though spelled incorrectly, is mine. I cross it out in my own time and in its space, the brown earth, I will grow flowers, fruit trees, or lettuce. I am a rough draft, cursive drawn on paper with a pen and my left hand rubs over the ink.

Melatonin

a story by Jd Hamilton

Brett goes to war and comes back as a folded flag. There’s a check too, for a little over $38,000. Brett’s life insurance after government taxes. Dad puts that money in the bank and says it’s for my college fund. Coming home early from school one day I watch Mom through the kitchen window cut the flag to pieces. Shreds of red, white, and blue scattered about the linoleum floor.

Two Street, January First

poetry by Paul Siegell

football buffs / in Philadelphia’s aviaries vault the beer-can
casualties / of another round of fumbled punt returns.

parking authority tyrants / toy with every block possible
along Philadelphia’s / deliriousness of cobblestone.

such miserable hospital cafeteria coffee in Philadelphia’s

Note from the Editor

Over the next few months you will read work from our latest reading period (October 1, 2011-December 1, 2011). It is thanks to your enthusiasm as readers and the quality of work you continue to send as submitters, that we keep doing this. Thanks to you, our current collection is without doubt more impressive, more raw, more bright, and more us than any before.