Home NonFiction - Year III - Number 10 - November 2017

NonFiction - Year III - Number 10 - November 2017

    EMAIL TO A DEAD FRIEND By Doug Weaver

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    EMAIL TO A DEAD FRIENDBy Doug Weaver Hey Michael – guess what. You died this morning at about 4 a.m. So weird, huh? Apparently you had a heart attack or something. Anyway, I just wanted...

    RESILIENT CHAINS By David Boyle

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    RESILIENT CHAINSBy David Boyle How many times have we looked within ourselves for an answer to the question What is happiness? More than any of us can imagine, I suppose.  I first asked myself that...

    NO TIME FOR TEARS By David Heath

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    NO TIME FOR TEARSBy D.G.  Heath I notice the caller ID number before I answered the phone. Mom and dad kept in touch with me almost every week since I moved to California. I should...

    MIMI By Pam Munter

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    MIMIBy Pam Munter Her most indelible appearance comes during the last segment of a silent and faded 8mm color film reel running just about three minutes, probably around 1949. The family is stiffly gathered on...

    TWENTY-SEVEN By Holley Hyler

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    TWENTY-SEVENBy Holley Hyler  The morning of my birthday, I opened the card my mother sent me. It was meant to be innocuous, but it opened the floodgates with only two sentences: “When I turned twenty-seven,...

    THE PAINS AND PRIZE OF REMEMBERING TIME By Angela Yurchenko

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    THE PAINS AND PRIZE OF REMEMBERING TIMEBy Angela Yurchenko  “Culture is love plus memory,” a poet tells his students. I catch the reverberating echo of his voice refracting through decades.  Having prepared myself, a few...

    GRADUATE by Robert Cardullo

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    TWENTY-SEVENBy Holley Hyler  The morning of my birthday, I opened the card my mother sent me. It was meant to be innocuous, but it opened the floodgates with only two sentences: “When I turned twenty-seven,...

    NORMAL By Gina Miller-Meinema

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    NORMALBy Gina Miller-Meinema  “I know this guy. Glenn? Glenn, can you hear me?”“He can’t hear you.” I say to the fireman, even though I knew it was pointless. They always kept yelling my dad’s name...

    A WILD CHILD By Pamela Carter

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    A WILD CHILD By Pamela Carter I grew up in the 1950s in a small log cabin located in an inter-mountain valley west of Denver. Our lives were primitive; all our water had to be hauled...