188
January, 2013
local_library Poetry
Untitled
by Peter Foote
Issue No. 188 ~ January, 2013
Object Oriented
by Mark Nenadov
Issue No. 188 ~ January, 2013
When The Big Man Blows
by Phillip Henry Christopher
Issue No. 188 ~ January, 2013
perm_identity From the Editor
Multiple Layers of a Political Friendship
by Derek Alger
Issue No. 188 ~ January, 2013
I was the editor of a weekly newspaper in a community of 50,000 when the governing body of the place was divided into Hatfield and McCoy factions in a zero sum game to take over the place.
pages Micro-Fiction
Further
by Roger Real Drouin
Issue No. 188 ~ January, 2013
He wondered how far the trail went. He was out where he had never been, where the tall marsh grass grew up everywhere and the pines stood behind the marsh on the ridge.
portrait One on One
Okla Elliott
interviewed by Derek Alger
Issue No. 188 ~ January, 2013
Okla Elliott, author of the story collection, From a Crooked Timber (Press 53, 2011), is the Illinois Distinguished Fellow at the University of Illinois, where he works in the fields of comparative literature and trauma studies.
map Macro-Fiction
RE: Ryan’s Spirit Lives ON IN ALL OF US
by William Ames
Issue No. 188 ~ January, 2013
In theory, each Sigma 09’ has memorized a line from the St. Crispin Day speech in Henry V, supposedly Ryan’s favorite play, although this claim remains unsubstantiated and highly suspect as far as I’m concerned. Stephen Thayer, our class’s Grand Procurator, was “one hundred fuckin’ percent” that he’d heard Ryan mention it “at some point Freshman year.”
The King of Ivy
by Steven Earnshaw
Issue No. 188 ~ January, 2013
The area had been created at the end of the nineteenth century, and the rows of terraces had an unappealing uniformity. The story of this street was part of the estate agent blurb. The Master Builder had planted a tub of ivy against the wall of his house at the top of the street at the top of the hill.
For George
by Christin Rice
Issue No. 188 ~ January, 2013
And so began George’s career. Boxes would appear daily, at least one somewhere among the eight floors. More often than not a sticky note would boldly declare its intended destiny, sometimes with an added “Thanks!” The basement floor was flooded with these, due to their brief half-life of stickiness.
