HANDBOOK – By John P. Midkiff
HANDBOOKBy John P. Midkiff
Another day kneeling on the purple-carpeted spring floor. Cartwheel, back walkover, back handspring, round-off two. Skill after skill, every kid is different, and I spot them all, helping them position themselves,...
THE CRYING THRESHOLD – By Emma Fuhs
THE CRYING THRESHOLDBy Emma Fuhs
Annie stops crying when she reads an article about how the saddest people are too sad to cry. It’s called The Crying Threshold.Since Annie is far beyond the Crying Threshold,...
IMPRESSIONS FROM THE LAND OF VANISHED BEAUTIFUL THINGS
IMPRESSIONS FROM THE LAND OF VANISHED BEAUTIFUL THINGS By Stephen Mead "All that glitters is not gold", is a useful cautionary phrase some sources site as dating back to Aesop. I imagine during the time of...
WE ARE THE BUFFALO – By Kaylynn Raschke
WE ARE THE BUFFALOBy Kaylynn Raschke “Are you sure this is it?” The cab driver points to a thin white sign, St. Cloud. Hardly visible, as it melds into the predawn sky of this frozen...
THE SHOW MUST GO ON – By Sally Miller
THE SHOW MUST GO ONBy Sally Miller
In 1983, when I was ten years old I performed in the best original (very) off Broadway production our family living room had ever staged. It was a...
THE BLUE-BLOODED PANTHER OF BANGALORE – By Brennen Fahy
THE BLUE-BLOODED PANTHER OF BANGALOREBy Brennen Fahy
My grandfathers house sat on a foundation of thick granite stones. It had a winding staircase and many rooms filled with intricate furniture and interesting things. It was...
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STRINGS IN OUR HANDS – By Erin Conway
STRINGS IN OUR HANDSBy Erin Conway
I sat on Oscar’s front step in Guatemala, holding his daughter after her first birthday party. After almost three years of Peace Corps working together in his elementary school...
THE PRICE OF GINGER – By John Davidson
THE PRICE OF GINGERBy John Davidson
“Have time for a story?” The driver looked over his shoulder. It was after midnight. After three in the time zone where I had gotten up. It would be busy...
CICADAS – By Katy Major
CICADASBy Katy Major
If you live somewhere in the stretch between northeast Ohio—that’s where I am—and northwest Virginia, I don’t have to tell you: the fifth brood has emerged. You can already hear their whirr...
SCREW, BUTTON, POTATO – By Jill Jepson
SCREW, BUTTON, POTATOBy Jill Jepson The child has hair the color of butter and a bruise on her knee. She is sitting in flowered cotton pajamas on the linoleum floor of the small kitchen. From...