And God gave the man little wingless birds,
small as a shock,
to eat while He was away.
Hunger
October 1, 2012
Issue 04, Issue 04 Poetry, Poetry
Issues
He Pleaded Ignorance
October 1, 2012
Issue 04, Issue 04 Poetry, Poetry
How I Knew It Wasn’t Me
October 1, 2012
Issue 04, Issue 04 Poetry, Poetry
I only realised I was at risk
when my brother phoned to check if I was still alive—
Odd One Out in the Dementia Ward
October 1, 2012
Issue 04, Issue 04 Poetry, Poetry
It’s a cold, bleak day
which might explain why she says:
“This is my daughter Nuala,
who has come all the way from South Africa to visit me.”
Brief Fling in the Dementia Ward
October 1, 2012
Issue 04, Issue 04 Poetry, Poetry
My mother has a brief flirtation
with Mr. Otto, a rare male in Frail Care.
He has the look of a Slavic conductor
—sweeping, side-parted silver locks
offset his visible nappy line.
Widowhood in the Dementia Ward
October 1, 2012
Issue 04, Issue 04 Poetry, Poetry
“Oh my God, I’m so pleased to see you,”
she says from her nest of blankets.
“I’ve been meaning to ask—
How is your father?
How is Paddy?”
The Window
October 1, 2012
Issue 04, Issue 04 Poetry, Poetry
You fitted so snugly
through the window I opened wide for you.
Then you shut it with a bang giving me your back.
The shards, too small, took forever to gather.
I put them in that wooden bowl you made.
Writer
October 1, 2012
Issue 04, Issue 04 Poetry, Podcasts & Audio, Poetry
The Land Up North
October 1, 2012
Issue 04, Issue 04 Essays
We bought it to build a dream on, to propagate. He wanted to plant fruit trees and dig a pond; I imagined a center for healing, where women would come to believe again in possibility. We would build writing sheds, one for each of us, and a ring of rustic cabins for the women. In the mornings, we would come together, then go our separate ways. We’d meet up for dinner, to watch the shadows grow.
Doleo Ergo Sum
October 1, 2012
Fiction, Issue 04, Issue 04 Fiction
By ROBERT EARLE
After Dostoevsky died and interest in The Brothers Karamazov waned, my loquacious Uncle Boris kept the tale going for a few years. After all, he was Dostoevsky’s source in the first place. Then Boris passed away and left me his properties in the boring provincial town of Skotoprigonyevsk, which he loved so much in his conservative, snoopy way, and that is how I became involved in the Karamazov saga. I call it a saga, for that’s what it is: a spiral of stories, including this one, about Katerina Ivanovna Verkhovtsev’s embrace of suffering in her effort to save Ivan Karamazov; about Ivan’s suffering; and, to a certain extent, about my own, because I came to love them both at the expense of a life of my own devices.
