Issue Thirteen
Spring 2003

by Laurie Lynn Drummond
There is a serial killer at work in Baton Rouge, and so, as I drive into the city on this rainy mid-August afternoon to visit family, I move from simply alert to hyper alert.

by Bret Lott
I take one of the nubby pencils from the back of the pew in front of me, nestled in its tiny wooden hole beside the wooden shelf where attendance forms are kept, and I begin, for the first time in my life, to write my name.

The Wheelbarrow Dance on the Harbor of Cascais
By Beth Kephart

Cascais is derived from cascal, which means small pebbles.  The right word for a place that feels Lilliputian, storied, veiled.

The Paranoid Nurse
by Philip Gerard  
She returned with a stack of files. "I used to work up Utah, in a hospital.  I found out some stuff.  They fired me.  Then men came around and questioned me. Wherever I go, they show up. Right after that, I lose my job."

by Jane Armstrong
am lightheaded in the cold, aware that the atoms composing my body came from stars that died 10 billion years ago. 

Portrait of the Artist's Great Grandmother as a Young Uncompahgre
by Tom Bradley
She is kneeling reverently at the feet of the octogenarian head judge, legendary Cesspooch herself, whose million fine, papery wrinkles show up excellently. 

Bridge Bum Buddha
by Ginny Wray
My first lover (although I use the word loosely) was an older man, twice my age of 15, a lapsed law student with violet eyes and kohl-black lashes, and a bridge bum.

My Contribution
Thomas O'Connell
A few kids, boys and girls, started making armbands; Armbands with circles and a design in the center.  When I was asked to join, they were pleased with how quickly I learned how to draw it correctly.

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