“Sister,” by Sarah Elizabeth Schantz
Because all the silverware is dirty, Krystal uses an aluminum tablespoon to smear the yellow glue into the plastic bag. The same kind of bag she uses for Baby Girl’s bologna sandwiches on those days when she packs a picnic and takes her little sister to the park. Krystal likes to go. She likes the sound of the running water, how the creek carries the air, the way this air feels cold as she stands on the rocks watching Baby Girl play....
“The Locust: A Foundational Narrative,” by Ellen McGrath Smith
It lay there like a father who had worked a double-shift, not dead, but not ready to resume its upright role any time soon. When the graying locust fell from lightning, I learned that the directions and pulls of the earth operated independently of my location. The tree was on a hill behind our house; it was broken by electric teeth, nosed over by a dogged western wind, and even though the center of my drama was that it could have...
“Nitza Kosher Pizza,” by Annie Dawid
Nitza Kosher Pizza 1977- 1978 Elbow-deep in warm suds, pressed against the stainless steel sink, I feel my boss’s muscular arms envelop me. “Quit it, Sam.” “Kisses sweet in wine, kisses sweet in wine,” he says, kissing the back of my neck. Or is it “kisses sweet and wine?” “Sam, leave me alone.” His wife, Marie, does the books in one of the booths while I scrub pots and bowls, the remainders of Sam’s private time in the kitchen; no...
“On Hearing the Call to Prayer Over the Marcellus Shale on Easter Morning,” by Marilyn McCabe
How like we are crinoids: lily-like, nervous, as a starfish, many fingered, prying crevice and fissure, regrowing arms with every loss. A cry, a crying, a call out, strange song, predawn trembling: Through the permeable membrane, air metes its punishment: An egg, forgotten, now rotten, its inside resembling something marbled. Things are seldom as hard as they seem. I believe in this, called what you will; and if a prayer can rise me...
Fall 2011 eMessage Winners
AIMEE ANDERSON Printed with permission by Aimee Anderson, copyrighted by Aimee Anderson @ 2011 This, our writing, is not for our to-do-lists. We wake up and write and sleep and write. If we are writers, we do not forget. STEFFI DREWES Printed with permission by Steffi Drewes, copyrighted by Steffi Drewes @ 2011 Lovelorn honeybee repeat after me: blushing builds no bravery to strut is not the same as dirty sea legs nor...
Art is my taste for freedom. I drown day and day until I pick up my paintbrush once again. So, somehow, I can tell myself that you’re not stuck in this room and that the canvas is the key.
Nina Salvadoré
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Seabed or ocean floor? What is the difference?
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