Two poems by Dilruba Ahmed (poetry, ’09) appear in Western Humanities Review:
To purchase a copy of the Summer ’17 issue, click here.
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The opening of Rabbit Moon, a novel-in-progress by Marian Szczepanski (fiction, ’97), appears in Embark:
Rabbit Moon
The French door in the den was wide open, the equivalent of a welcome mat for mosquitoes, which were more prolific than ever this spring. Audrey called the housekeeper’s name as she zigzagged between the sectional and baby grand piano. She nearly tripped over Larry’s Suzuki book, spread-eagled on the carpet behind the ottoman. Transferring it to the piano bench, she tried and failed to recall if he’d practiced his recital piece before they left for school. The morning had been a more frantic scramble than usual: Sarah’s math binder gone AWOL, Larry’s PE uniform still damp in the dryer. Just thinking about it made her forehead sweat—or was it the temperature? Despite the humming AC, the room felt nearly as muggy as the outside. How long had the door been left open? Audrey surveyed the backyard—no Carmen—and shut the door firmly. Then she heard an odd sound behind her. A high-pitched whine, like that of a dog wanting to go outside.
They didn’t have a dog.
Turning, she saw them in the kitchen. One tall, the other much shorter. Ski masks revealed only their eyes. The short one wore baggy denim overalls spattered with green paint. The tall one, in jeans and a plain black sweatshirt, aimed a pistol directly at her. [. . . continue reading here.]
A poem by Mike Puican (poetry, ’09) appears in Triquarterly:
Subtle Is The Lord
In the Realm of the Five Senses what does desire attach to?
The wildness of the heart increases in the dark.
The absence of God only makes it wilder.
We lie in bed wearing bird suits. We sing.
The wildness of the heart increases in the dark.
You say, “Subtle is the Lord; my head is tied to a pole.”
[. . . to continue reading, and for audio of the poem, click here.]
A story from Goldie Goldbloom (fiction, ’11) appears in Ploughshares:
Tandem Ride
Gneshel liked Rabbi Spitz right from the start. He reminded her of a frog. Though he was eight inches shorter than her, had a lazy eye and a metastasizing bald patch, she liked him. Experience had taught her that he was unlikely to reciprocate the feeling. Orange juice and autumn leaves should taste the same, valentines and blood. She thought it was probably her frizzy hair or her missing fingers or her obscene posture that had put people off until now, but she was quietly confident that a day would come when she would be loved.
She didn’t bother with mirrors and suspected that they talked to one another, passing along warnings: “Pull yourself together, honey! Old Ugly-guts is on her way.” [. . . continue reading here.]
A story by Dawn Abeita (fiction, ’96) appears in Four Way Review:
A Little Something
A Wednesday like any day: Up, coffee with a little something, comfortable yet professional, flat shoes. The news says a woman was raped behind a garbage bin; a man jumped off a bridge but failed to die; there is a low pressure system making the grey weather hang on interminably. Unlock the apartment door, 8F, lock it behind. The hallway is as blank and narrow as a hotel’s. Only two exits: the stairwell, the elevator. The sky hangs too early over the trees as if trying to smother them. [ . . . continue reading here.]
A sequence of poems by Dilruba Ahmed (poetry, ’09) appear in The American Journal of Poetry:
Menu
Preventative Measures
Inoculation sampler.
Includes two flu strains
each with 13% efficacy.
Duration of effectiveness
not guaranteed. But
with our prices, why not
sample both? Great for all ages.
Chief Concerns
Beelzebom.
. . . continue reading here.
A poem by Sally Molini (poetry, ’04) appears in The American Journal of Poetry:
Laudromat Report
At Whale of a Wash
the daily all-day news cringe –
overhead TV loud
with political ir-rationales
and sly ditzy spins,
hot air blowing
. . . continue reading here.
A poem from David Prather (poetry, ’99) appears in The American Journal of Poetry:
I Am Not America
I am not the assassination of Harvey Milk or Martin Luther King, Jr. I am not
the battered body of Matthew Shepard or the bloated form of Emmett Till.
I look over my shoulder and you are there, framed by a shattered window
in an abandoned building. Or you are there driving a rusted hunk of junk
over potholes, the starving mouths of the earth beneath our feet. I hate
to admit that I am under the influence and driving home during the witching
. . . continue reading here.
A story by Eric Rampson (Fiction ’16) appears in the Summer 2017 edition of MATADOR REVIEW.
“VILLAINS”
My dad crippled a guy on TV last night. Broke his neck with a snap so loud the mics picked it up. He was howling, my dad, when he did it—an animal sound from somewhere high up in his chest. The guy twitched a few times and then laid still while my dad stood over him, all heaving breath and crazy eyes, hair wild and wet with sweat.
Across the ass of my dad’s shiny red spandex trunks it read “Señor Sinister” in Gothic script black as his leather boots and wristbands, his hair, his thick goatee. The guy with the broken neck was in a silvery singlet, waves and waves of thick blonde hair, a pair of aviator shades, skewed from impact, across his eyes, his robe fluttering like a flag from the post in his corner, “ALL-AMERICAN ALAN” on the back in star-spangled letters.
Those aren’t their real names. My dad is Vito. All-American Alan is actually Albin. He’s Polish. My dad’s Italian, mostly.
The crowd was silent for a full minute, waiting for All-American Alan to get up and when he didn’t, the booing and hissing started, scattered here and there at first but pretty soon everyone got into it, plastic beer cups sailing from the cheap seats, and my dad ran off like a frightened coyote.
Read the rest of the story here: Villains
A story by Emilie Beck (Fiction ’17) appears in the Colorado Review. Here’s an excerpt:
WHAT SHE IS
Long white-blonde hair in front of the white clapboard chapel. Her body almost invisible in the afternoon sun except for tan legs, bare feet, the straps of sandals held in one hand like an invitation. A small valise at her feet, weathered, blue, hardly big enough for a change of clothing. He noticed her before he saw her thumb, out of place the way she was in front of Phillips Chapel. One thing for a white man who had business there, but a white girl with white hair standing on that corner in front of the church, white in the daylight, he wasn’t wrong to pause, to question, just for a moment, before deciding the answer wasn’t important. Her thumb pointing the opposite direction of the way he was driving. His foot on the brake before his mind made the decision. No harm in it.
He regarded her from across the road. The green patterned fabric of her dress met itself in seams, draping her hips. Her lips were red, but not from lipstick. He’d been on the road for two weeks. It was July already, and he had a few hours’ drive ahead of him. Years later Jim Flessroy would reassure himself that anyone would have stopped for the girl, that she seemed an innocent, that she seemed in need of rescue.
Read the rest of the story at the Colorado Review website: WHAT SHE IS