By Miles Dennis I went out into the rain, When I started to think about bullets And the blue-handled kitchen knife. I found a pair of salmon The color of blood stains on wooden floors, Crossing and recrossing each other, Dancing and decaying, Braiding themselves together past Tent walls and needles and Under graffitied bridges Towards death and life. And a little color Returned to my eyes.
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Mellifluous Memory
By Jordan Hales How lovely to be trapped in a memory. Trapped in a painting, the brush strokes outlining your shape. Your name, tied together with lyrics. A blurred snapshot preserving your smile. Your freckles and charisma linked by an ellipsis of somebody’s prose. The figment of one’s everlasting image. The blue-colored stranger in the bookstore. You’re somebody’s first “something.” A haunting memory. You are never forgotten— They will always feel your absence. You will forever live in the mind, the canvas, the pages, sheet music, and photos. The memory, forever, you will reside.
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The Rhythm of Drinking Mates
By Maria Capezio Crookes You see, a mate is like a period and a space. You take one and then you can start a new paragraph. -Julio Cortazar, Rayuela Mate (pronounced Mah-teh) is a traditional South American drink, brewed from the dried leaves of Yerba Mate (Ilex paraguariensis) in hot water, served in a dried hollow gourd, and briefly steeped. The drink is sucked from the gourd with a metal straw, which is fitted with a strainer at one end to keep leaf particles from the mouth (Encyclopedia Britannica). *** Drinking mates is ceremony. You can’t hurry it up. There is not such a thing as “let’s drink some quick…
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A Bump in the Road
By Rosanne Pagano Because Justin was small for having just turned 8 and because he had gotten good at anticipating most of the bumps on weekend drives up to the Connecticut countryside, he could readily and regularly lift up from the Pontiac’s deep backseat to peer into the front, where Nana Mary sat behind the wheel. The speedometer was green, the color of a dragon’s scales, and the needle now read 70 MPH. Justin’s lifting up worked especially well when the Pontiac had left the city streets and turn on to the Merritt Parkway, a long thoroughfare of few but very enjoyable bumps. Following a ribbon-cutting the previous summer, a…
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Why the Wind Blows: A Fade
By Rosanne Pagano In a land far from here but not beyond knowing, the east wind blows so long and so hard that every tree leans left, every bush hugs land, and every bird foolish enough to seek shelter is swept off and away to sea. “It’s peculiar, I’ll give you that,” thought the hairy man Niitis. He swung his hairy legs from under the bedclothes and landed hairy feet on the cold floor. The door of his hut stood wide open, blown open sometime in the night. Niitis sighed, long and loud. “Another day and no company but the wind,” he said. This was so: For the giant was…
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How to Conduct an Interview With Apologies to The Paris Review
By Rosanne Pagano Over the course of four drizzly weeks in March 2022, a time when both interviewer and subject were on the road, making it hard for one to catch up with the other, writer and APU faculty member Rosanne Pagano met for a scattering of conversations about the how and why of teaching her craft. Pagano, dressed in a V-neck black sweater, faded wide-legged jeans and damp Blundstones, was prompt and organized; she asked for interview questions in advance (not all were supplied) and arrived with brief, messily handwritten notes entered in pencil in the pocket-sized Rhodia notebook she carries everywhere. We met four-and-a half times at a…
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Italian Story 1 & 2
By joe The Banana Lena was a sport competitive host. It was my buddy Jim’s first visit to the house, and after a couple days he didn’t look too good. So I said , “Jim what’s up?” He said, “I can’t eat another thing. I think your mom is trying to kill me.” I handed him a banana and instructed him, wherever you go hold this banana in your hand and when my mom insists on getting you something to eat show her the banana and say, “No thanks, Mrs. Sarcone, I was just going to eat this banana.” The Biscotti Lena was on her death bed so I said,…
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Expiration Date
By Shanice Lawton Part One of the story, Expiration Date. I’m supposed to find out when I die. There’s nothing I can do about it, and honestly, it’s depressing. A few decades ago, humans found out what we now call our expiration date. For years humans have been obsessed with death and the dread of not knowing when their last day on earth would be. Then, one day, a brilliant doctor named Dr. Karla Stein figured out a way to predict the expiration of each human. She predicted that a person’s death could be established on the day they were born. So now, in the first hour of a person’s life, they are not…
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My Hidden Love
By Colleen Bayas When I’m exhausted and worn out, you share your strength My love for you jumps over the fence. When my life seems to be in chaos, you share your peace My love for you never decreased. When everyone seems to be my enemy, you are my friend My love for you has no end. When I’m lost and confused, you are my guide My love for you is strong inside. I must have gotten it from you the way love is Whenever you don’t show affection, I can feel it. It must have been the old ways that restricted us From letting our feelings turn into words.…
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On Mountains: A Reflection of Danger, Pain, and Frog Water
Thinking Back, 2002 – Spring 2022 By Laura Ditto Growing up around people who look at mountains like something they might attain for an afternoon snack leaves one with an odd sort of connection to nature. I’ve been raised with the stories of these people; who they are, their incredible feats, but also too often who they were. Early death, as it turns out, comes a little too easy for the adventurous spirits. That’s where the close, safe-feeling connection with nature becomes an oxymoron. Being who I am—somewhat cautious all the time but also clumsy—I tend to tread carefully when I’m walking in the woods. It leads me to think…
