) Unmoveable Feast *(

Issue Two: With new fiction by Monica Merenda, Kass Fleisher and Meg Pokrass, essay and fiction by Jane Stubbs poetry by Chris Tusa, Gail Peck, John Hoppenthaler, Chris Shipman, Elaine Briney, and Benjamin Lowenkron. Reviews by Tyler Smith and Jennifer Whitaker.     

Issue 1 for fiction by Kathy Fish, Alison Barker and Jenna Dietzer; essay by Caroline Clough; poetry by Rhett Iseman Trull, Mel Coyle, Chris Martin, Nanette Rayman Rivera, Andrew Demcaak, Ray Succre, Dave Brinks, Megan Burns, Donald Illich  and Theft by Andrei Codrescu's poetry class   

                                                                AWP: Reading
by Mel Coyle

                                                                     The constant he’s so she’s so
                                                                                                  very aware

                                                                      He the cinnabon
                                                                      She the fruit cup

                                                                       On the outside
                                                                      the serious ears of poesy

                                                                        He the translation
                                                                        She the mother tongue...

                                                                                                                                Read more..


                                                Cats and Dogs                                                          
                                                                                    by Chris Shipman

                                                                        Before she decided to move in
                                                                        her Siberian Husky moved through
                                                                        my apartment with cautious paws
                                                                        backing slowly out of every room ...


                                                           Boomerang                                                                                                                by Chris Tusa 

                                                                                Someone stole Satan’s hipbone                                                          

                                                                                and flung it against the sky.                                                                           

                                                                                Now you ride the orange horizon,                                                                   

                                                                                a stunned, wingless bird

                                                                                flying in circles, a broken halo.... 

                                                                                                                                   Read more....

Writing in Post-Katrina New Orleans

 by Jane Stubbs

                On the night of August 28, 2005, I was celebrating my then-boyfriend's birthday according to the tradition established by our group of friends several years earlier: we were drinking ourselves into oblivion at a French Quarter bar.  At the time we didn’t own a television, and were in the process of severing our relationship, and so we hadn’t been paying attention to much outside our own home.  On that night, however, we were happy and experiencing an alcohol-induced resurrection of our original feelings for each other.  Everything was hilarious and grand.  We’d heard something about a hurricane, but like many native New Orleanians our age, had come to regard such warnings as false alarms.  After all, the year before, we’d wasted seventeen hours stuck on the I-10 to Houston when we evacuated for Ivan and absolutely nothing happened...



                                                       The Interpellated Man                                                                                                                                by Monica Merenda

                                                                                                     I. Solo
           One step follows another all the way to a crossroads, where a road that connects silence to madness crosses a road from hope to despair. A road and a road and a man stands there but he doesn’t know it yet. He is drawn by the sound of a voice that comes to him from a distance, a slow train. He listens. Looks for something to attach to the sound and perceives emptiness, but for the sound which grows as he grows, into the space. At first the sound is reedy, unstable. He discovers he has fingers and sticks them into his ears, shakes them around to try and clear his vision. He looks down, locates his feet, and finds them unsteady. He sees that he can see where he stands deep ruts gouged into the ground that is red clay, hard as granite. His feet move around searching for balance on the uneven tread where wheels—must have been here before—turned circle after circle. So, others have traveled this way too. Before when? He wonders, but his mind is not formed enough for the thought to take hold.....


photograph by Betsy Blake