Vol. 1, No. 1 (Fall 2008)
Wednesday, 25 February 2009
Print-Your-Own Magazine (1.5M PDF)
A Word from the Editor, by Guy Tiphane
A Cuban Lover, Fiction by Vincent Meis
“His laughter, so fraught with memory, wrapped around me and made flight impossible. Cuba, part temptress and part prankster, was working its dark magic again.”
First Ecstasy, Essay by Thomas Burke
“At the age of twelve I developed a profound crush on a long dead Victorian consumptive. His name was Gerard Manley Hopkins.”
Kidnapped in the Woods, Poetry by Sunil Narayan
“The moonlight is my only solace nowadays
Its bright glow reminds me of the pearl from the dream I had last night
I held it in my hands while standing in a lake surrounded by roses
The cold water felt like daggers piercing my skin”
Truong Tran reads from his books Four Letter Words and Within the Margins, followed by a discussion.
Wee Tree the Amazing, Poetry by Michael Abel
A nursery rhyme for the 21st Century
Something Entirely Latin, Fiction by Bren Gosling
“Roland slipped from the main drag of the Avinguda Diagonal into a doorway so that he might have privacy. The street throng had begun to flow thickly again, as Barcelona emerged from its Saturday siesta.”
In the Hour, Monologue by Dath Goldman
“The sun slowly rises. I had to walk out from the bushes. Today was a good start, too good. In the back of my mind I wondered, “what could fuck this up?” Thought about international flight, that would be the best way to escape. I had to stop thinking this.”
Communion, Fiction by M.S. Allen
“For weeks he’s been saying we’re losing the intimacy thing. What’s it look like I’d say? If it’s a thing, what’s its shape, its color, its size? Where’d we leave it, I’d ask, egging him on, imagining something warm to the touch, soft like velvet, bordello red and sticky with Velcro; too large to misplace in a drawer or closet; too obvious of value to throw out by mistake with the trash.”
The Addison Street Anthology, by Guy Tiphane
Somewhere between a jazz school and a couple of theatres, a drop of blue paint and many cups have spilled on Robin Blaser’s words. Next to it, Jack Spicer tells you “the words go swimming past you.”
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