Barbara Yoder
Barbara Yoder writes and edits fiction and nonfiction and leads writing groups for women. Currently she is writing a book of healing stories and exercises to help women writers connect with their personal imagery and midwife their creative pieces. Her fiction has appeared in Natural Bridge and The Worcester Review, and she is the author of The Recovery Resource Book (Simon and Schuster, 1990). Barbara has served as executive director...
“How to Become a Dyke, Step Three, Birds,” by Nickole Brown
A book of birds. A story in birds. Each breath a bird, each dream slipped from your ear to your pillow out the window a song: cardinals laughing at you—birdie birdie birdie— on a lonely Valentines, then robins swarming the last bits of red another February day, so many of them on the holly tree the branches tick with their picking and you stop the car. But you are so cold, you have to get to the store, and in the florescent buzz of...
“Heart of a Locust,” by Nahal Suzanne Jamir
My son runs into the wind, and his shirt billows out behind him. He says he will sail away. I grab his arm, hard, and pull him away from the wind, from the street, from the cars in the street. “That hurt,” Jake says. “Too hard.” “I told you about running,” I say. “You can’t run. It’s dangerous. Only on the playground.” “There aren’t any cars. I looked.” “It’s always the car you don’t see.” He squirms and squiggles, using his body...
“Mouth,” by Malene Kai Bell
The girl sat at the table with a twisted mouth. The brussel sprouts, cold knobs on her plate; the baked chicken, cooled, from her refusal to open up. Her mother, having had enough of the girls ways, barked at her across the table; her mouth moving like a cow, her tone , a shrill blow horn. “Eat the food, Hen.” The girl earned the name after she’d dug up two juicy earthworms and shared them with the dog, Pluto. Her mother, when she...
“Constellations,” by Melita Schaum
1. A woman is asked to give a lecture on the essay as form. She strolls down to water. Sits on the shore, contemplating wrinkled surfaces, smooth depths. She thinks of design, pattern, rejects those easy figures. She wants to get at something deeper. Discontinuities. The ley lines of things that cannot exist without inference. She casts in her line; somewhere the subject waits to be caught. But it’s not the beadle who interrupts her...
Does the sea remember everything? I wonder.
Does she absorb everything? Does she keep it safe?
Virginia Woolf
. . .
The Q: Can you fathom the spectacle that would be created if we moved together, arms outstretched, close enough to touch?
The Q: What echoes through you that longs to take form—a poem, an image, a mark, a whisper of becoming?
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