The Termagant and the Task Force
She stood at six-foot-four, a miracle, a freak. Most any wooden floor she walked upon would creak. No window, porch, or door was safe from her physique. When she stomped into town, petunias would wilt and greenery would brown and pails of milk be spilt, and weaker walls fall down and have to be rebuilt. One by one, in her wake new houses rose, improved to withstand such a shake. And some thought it behooved them all to let her quake; but most were still unmoved. A Task Force was assigned to meet her face to face and ask her if she’d mind staying at her own place, but she was not...
Read MoreBoth Sides Now
Thrice I jumped on the frozen river to make sure it was frozen, the river; so the kids would not fall into it and one by one freeze or be taken by the hard draft travelling. I could see it travelling its way down below, where my feet lay. Not only was I walking on thin ice, I was jumping and thumping all over it, but I was fine and it would be fine. It always was. Someone had to do it, and this someone was always Sally Marlow, ice rink and ice rink expeditions’ manager when Bo wasn’t there (and, see, Bo was never there). Once we were sure the ice was thick enough, the children got on...
Read MoreCold
My whole life changed when I was 15. Everything I thought I would become. The future I thought I had. All gone. And I had such promise. I was a swimmer. Nebraska State champion in three events as a Freshman. I was going to go to college. Maybe the Olympics after that. But that all ended one blistery February day. It had been sleeting that morning, and the wind was howling out of the north. Mom picked me up from swim practice in the old grey bus from the nursing home where she worked. She was late, as usual. The second I staggered through the door of the bus, two things hit...
Read MoreBlack
There were wolves in the forest because there were wolves on the beer steins. “No,” his father said. “If Hitler did one good thing it was to kill all the wolves.” “Hitler didn’t kill the wolves,” his mother said, “and he didn’t do anything good.” “It’s a joke,” his father said. “It’s not funny,” his mother said. His mother had pink cheeks like the Hummel dolls she kept on a shelf. When his father said something she didn’t like, her cheeks became brighter. Her cheeks became brighter when his father said he was going to make her wear lederhosen and...
Read MoreCohen’s Resurrection
The address read 615 Calle de Ignacio. To the casual eye, it was rather unremarkable; just an old dilapidated brick building, entrenched among seedy waterfront bars and makeshift warehouses which lined the Montevideo ship yards. For the last several years the building had served as a hotel to the disenfranchised: the outcasts and those whose pasts were forever sealed within the confines of this dwelling. After W.W. II, these “tenants,” many of whom came from Europe, poured into various South American countries, leaving behind them their nightmarish histories, be they the victim or the...
Read MoreFeatured Works: Week of June 29 (Remembering Lyn Lifshin)
In late December, I learned the sad news of the passing away of Lin Lifshin, who had been extremely loyal to Wild Violet over the years, starting in 2005. The first time I received one of those fat envelopes in the mail, packed full of poems, I admit that I was a bit awed. I knew her name, having studied the Poet’s Market in order to send out my own work, and seeing her name mentioned by so many publishers that I wrote an (admittedly bad) poem about her, imagining that she must write the most amazing cover letters. The truth is, I rarely read cover letters until after I’ve read...
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