Canadian-Israeli
poet and writer Rochelle Mass has earned
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rendering of character and plot. Now she
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a writer, her dreams for the future, and
the beauty and pain of making a life in
Israel. »
The next letter was from a Paul O’Gronsky
who misspelled the author’s name:
Dear Mr. Kopelyak, it began, I
read your book and couldn’t make
any sense of it. Perhaps you wrote it
when you were drunk? In any case, I passed
it on to my neighbor who in turn passed
it on to his neighbor. The best of luck.
One woman wrote a pleasant enough note,
but neglected to affix a stamp and ended
with
Forced
into exile by the Soviets, Ukrainian
author THEODORE
ODRACH's work has been lost to the
English-speaking world for almost half
a century. Now, with the help of the daughter
he never even knew, this dissident's voice
is being given new life. TPR is proud
to host the web debut of his fiction.
Read "Lickspittles"
»
Earth
and Wind and Water and Fire by J. Vito Palazzolo
Passion is not an adequate word to define their
relationship. What happened between them—whether
between the sheets or on line at the supermarket—created
an invisible motion. A wind. Their clothes could
be seen to lift and billow at the cuffs, their
hair fluttered, and around them people winced
to avoid getting grit in their eyes. It was a
phenomenon spoken of aloud to them only once while,
during their honeymoon, they visited a dreary
contemporary museum in Arizona. A young male guard,
appraising their presence in the gallery, paused
them before they left.
“You two must be in love. You sway like
two balloons on the breeze.”
Grace blushed while Russell considered the man’s
words.
“You think so, hmm?” Russell said.
“I know so.” The man winked and whispered.
“My job is to watch people. You two brought
your own atmosphere along.”
Mango
Margaritas by Karen Ackland
As they left the hotel and walked in the direction
of the river, she was pleased with the novelty
of wearing a winter coat and spending the weekend
in an urban environment. The man tried to point
out the city’s landmarks, but he had moved
away from Chicago ten years earlier and the skyline
had changed. It seemed that every time he gestured
toward a building, a new building blocked the
view. Deflated, he restricted his explanations
to the superiority of the city’s street numbering
system and the irregularities of Upper and Lower
Wacker.
Master's
Dog by David Barringer
Finally, Waclaw cradled the dog in his
arms. His spine was arched so far back under poor
Pipa’s weight that it looked like Waclaw
had heard his name called from the sky.
Blood dripped onto the grass.
“Blood,” said Bozycki.
“Never mind,” said Waclaw, staggering
forward.
Bozycki slipped a hand under the dog’s ribcage.
“Pipa may have been shot.”
Winter's
Storm by Shelley Berc
Olive sees the man’s face for the
first time. It is the face of a ghost, gray and
almost transparent. His cheek bones seem covered
only by the lightest film of skin and the whites
of his eyes glimmer with the frail twigs of reddish
veins that rush into pools of blood around his
yellowed irises. The man reminds her of twilight
and of the shadows cast on empty walls by gas
jets striving to fool the approaching night. She
will not take his hand and clutches the iron bank
protectively instead. So he says, “follow
me” and guides her back. She hugs her toy
bank and bites her lower lip to keep from crying.
Feast
for a Prince by Rumjhum Biswas
Sarala shudders at the memory of the noon
when they brought him home. The terror has leaked
into her skin. She cannot stop the hairs from
unfolding on her nape. She cannot control the
shiver that shakes her bones. Bones were all they
could salvage. Bloody bones. Broken bones. The
cracked skull where powerful jaws had clamped
shut, draining out his soul with his brain. And,
afterwards, the rituals done, the damp smoke of
the burning ghat trailing her like his ghost,
she had returned. Vermillion washed clean, the
conch bangles on her wrists dutifully broken,
shrouded in the white that almost all the women
in this hamlet are destined to wear.
The
Infinite Angels of Death by Eric Bosse
The boy said, “Where
will he take your soul?”
“To
heaven, I hope.”
“What
about your body?”
“You
will bury it.”
The
boy’s eyes opened wide.
“In
the ground?” he asked.
His
mother nodded. “You’ll be big and strong
and have a family of your own by then.”
“If
I’m strong enough, I’ll stop that angel.”
Life
List by Marcy Lehtinen
Seven months later, a son, Jacob. Howard
gets a bigger place. Ivy and Jacob move in. Jacob
is a “good” baby, meaning he sleeps
a lot and doesn’t require the attention of
a “bad” baby. No, babies can’t
be bad. A “more challenging” baby? A
“special” baby? But, special implies
some type of abnormality. There are no abnormalities.
Lester
and the Deadbeats by Jon C. Picciuolo
Lester chewed his pencil again. Had he
said too much? Did he really need help? He threw
down his ruined pencil and spread his hands. "Okay,
listen. I get these letters, see? From the folks
who get my money…" He paused, searching
for the words. "They're thank-you letters,
sort of. They make me feel good. Hey, stop lookin'
at me like I'm crazy! You try holdin' down a job
where the customers hate your guts! I'd go nuts
if I didn't get a thank-you now and then, or a
little respect…"
To
Be A Stranger by Gaither Stewart
Before he went to Italy to live, now fifteen
years ago, he had first imagined that his existence
there, melded into that chaotic life so colorful,
inviting and different, would be just as it had
seemed when he visited there as a tourist. So
he was surprised by the feeling of unbelonging
that had come over him in the new reality. He
hadn’t properly understood the words of an
American writer friend who said, “Italy is
the country to go to when you want to escape yourself.”
Hail
Alba by Andrew Wilson Alba’s voice sounded, to her
own ears, embarrassingly teenaged—a singsongy
whine. She bit her tongue. The woman reached out
and hugged Alba to her neck, patting her back
with one hand. Alba let her body droop. It felt
good, being held by this firm, dry woman. She
began to cry quietly as the woman said, Ssh, ssh.
We don’t know if you’re pregnant yet,
but if—
Alba said, I’m Catholic.
Sure, the woman said. But—
Alba sniffled, stepped back, and wiped her face
with the back of a sticky hand.
I believe in God, she said, her voice suddenly
deep and full of a startling self-assurance. I
have faith.
Then, the woman said, staring into Alba’s
proud hard face, God will protect you. And whatever
happens will be right. Agreed?
Medusa
Speaks on Feminism by T.E. Ballard
I have never
understood
escaping from what was so easily tamed
and I lifted those lids, ran fingers down pets,
set myself free. Sister, I’ve no desire
for mirrors,
there’s no reflection in me.
Final
Picnics by Janet Buck
The end was soft alyssum grains
finding the gust of a faithful breeze.
Sweat on your brow
could have been streams,
could have been rain licking the moss.
The
Company of Poets by John Gartland
Those ephemeral fires of the beacon lights,
on the century’s headlands, glowing;
like poems, are markers we leave to rite
our passage and our going.
Yellow
Flower by John Gartland
This wind, before the dream of words,
the flicker of invented futures,
erodes rock into question marks
and idols into tears.
Called
Only by Love by Ward Kelley
No one likes a man who can leave his own
body; worse is one who can escape his own mind.
What
is left behind is often how value can be judged.
Autumn
Lake by Silvia Brandon-Pérez
the mauve
gray
waters of Naomi Lake reflecting
hushed meditations, fully
encircled by the skeletons
of fall.
Sortilegio
by Silvia Brandon-Pérez
wings that take roots and roots
that fly, a transformation
of the spirit, metaphor,
metamor-phosis.
Is there an intimacy greater
than creator and created.
Ruth
by Jessica Schneider
When older, you realized
your mother and I could not grow
into husband and wife. A poet and sculptor,
we supposed little in ordinary. You were
duty shared, distant from my care.
all of the black
eyes and broken arms
and the boyfriends they
swore they loved
The
Children of the Earth by Ron Gibson Jr.
The jigsaw pieces all interconnected,
and the picture they formed was a picture that
Aboriginals had come to know by heart. In the
days of yesteryear, they would have referred to
it as a "ride in the country" or a "scenic
tour." Nowadays, they called them "starlight
tours." Starlight tours were born out of
mutualism: Indians didn’t want to mess with
cops, and cops didn’t want to fill out paperwork.
It was a dysfunctional peace accord, in which
if an Indian had too much to drink and was bent
on raising hell, the RCMP escorted them to the
outskirts of town to blow off steam until they
sobered up, gained their bearing, and walked back
home.
The next letter was from a Paul O’Gronsky
who misspelled the author’s name:
Dear Mr. Kopelyak, it began, I
read your book and couldn’t make
any sense of it. Perhaps you wrote it
when you were drunk? In any case, I passed
it on to my neighbor who in turn passed
it on to his neighbor. The best of luck.
One woman wrote a pleasant enough note,
but neglected to affix a stamp and ended
with 
Earth
and Wind and Water and Fire by J. Vito Palazzolo
