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Cover
Table of Contents
Editor's Notes
Donations
Submission Guidelines
Website

Stories & Essays
'57 Chevy
_
By Gary Moshimer
A Visit to India From America...
_ By Shubha Venugopal
Calista Flockhart and the MySpace Hoax
_ By Michael Frissore
Recollections and Revelations
_ By Elizabeth Harbaugh
Springtime Visits
_ By Phyllis Link
Stupendous Stew
_ By Malerie Yolen-Cohen
The Genius
_ By Ray Templeton
The Stranger Below
_ By Sam Vargo
Truant
_ By Louise Norlie
Vacation
_ By Dan Devine
Vegetarian Rage
_ By John A. Ward
What Might Pass Between Them
_ By Alexandra Leake

Poetry
A Glutton For Truth
_ By Richard Fein
A Question of Proper Form
_ By Richard Fein
Boiler Man
_ By Leland Jamieson
Horizons
_ By Davide Trame
Lioness In Miniature
_ By Grace M. Murray
Outdone
_ By Pete Lee
Real Life Elocution
_ By Richard Fein
Rewriting An Ending
_ By Rumit Pancholi
September
_ By Tim Shell
Seven Ways of Looking at a Full Moon
_ By Naiya Wright
Shalom
_ By Jeanne Hugoe-Matthews
Sideways
_ By Kristine Ong Muslim
Spirit
_ By Patrick Frank
The Empty Spaces After You
_ By Rumit Pancholi
Thesaurus
_ By Ed Higgins
Uncle Zebulon
_ By J.R. Salling

Art & Photography
Dora Calo
Robert Carter
Noah Erkes
Andrew Patsalou
Saulius
Filip Wierzbicki

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'57 Chevy
By Gary Moshimer


One afternoon Paul B. stood in his doorway and saw the new constellation, the bright points of light in the deepest, bluest sky. He knew these were not stars or UFOs. He’d seen lights like these before. It meant he was having another of his mini-strokes (which his son Reed called “ninny strokes”). His left leg trembled and his mouth sagged just a bit, but he felt okay. He felt strangely better than usual, in fact, a little euphoric.

He half smiled at Doris, who was smoking on her porch, looking over at him. She was always checking up since his wife died. Her skin was gray. Her tight, colorless hair was clamped in pink curlers. Her one free bit of hair happened to be on her chin. After her son-of-a-bitch husband had passed away she had sold all his stuff, including his good electric shaver, in a yard sale, and then decided to let the hairs grow and wax them to form a kind of beckoning finger, inviting any man to be kind to her.

“You okay?” she called. Her many cats surged in the doorway.

“Sure. Just looking at the stars.”

“Seeing the stars again? Want me to call Reed?”

“Hell no. I’m fine. Better than usual.”

She puffed a smoke ring. It swirled and came to rest on her beard hook. “You going to school?”

“Can’t miss it.” He tried to nonchalantly shift his weight to his good right leg. The weight pulled back. He leaned on the doorframe, pressing his vibrating knee there to stop it. “Just because we’re adult learners they don’t take it easy, you know.”

“Well, if you need me to drive you, I have lots of time.”

Time. Paul glanced at his watch. The face glowed, but he didn’t have that kind of a watch. He went to get his book, Slaughter-House Five. He was taking a modern literature course at the community college. He’d never dreamed books like this existed, literature that was fun to read, and had aliens as well. And the notion of time-travel. Crazy! He wished he could go back to before he met Alice and read and read and impress her with knowledge. Then she might have liked him better, respected him more. Or he might become a different person altogether, maybe someone smart like his professor, taking a whole different road, never even running into Alice.

Looking at the cover of the book, things left him. The points of light jumped playfully around the title. He knew his name, and Alice’s, but couldn’t picture her face. He did not recall what he had done for a living. He shook his head.

In his garage he looked at the impressive array of tools on the wall. Maybe he was a mechanic. He stared at the car, dumbfounded. Was this bright red, souped-up thing his? It should belong to some teenager from the seventies. The words “Fifty-seven Chevy” popped into his head, although this was not one. It was a Dodge Charger, and the key in his pocket started it. He drew a cloud of dust down his long driveway. Doris waved, and he waved back.

He passed fields he didn’t recognize, then stopped at an odd intersection, a notorious joke in the county - the meeting of five dirt roads with no signs whatsoever. Paul had been through it countless times, but now he just glanced around uneasily with no idea. The roads fanned like marks on a clock. He closed his eyes and looked at the points of light under his lids. The brightest one was at the one o’clock position, so he took that road.

His hands on the wheel wanted to pull left. When he hit the main road he drifted towards the centerline. He thought he should turn right somewhere along this road, and looked for landmarks. He couldn’t discern left from right. He was capable of only left turns, and somehow there was the college up ahead.

He pulled into the parking lot and rumbled into reserved slot 57, because it called to him. Then he wandered the hallways, trying to remember the room number. A young man came up to him. “Professor Boyle? Are you okay?”

“Yes, I’m looking for his class.”

“Whose?”

“Boyle. I can’t remember the room for some reason.” He chuckled.

The young man eyed him and spoke slowly. “Right. Here, I’ll show you.” He walked a step ahead of Paul and said, “Are you limping?”

At the room Paul thanked the young man for his help and concern. He walked in and headed for the back row but all the seats were taken. The red-haired woman whose name he couldn’t recall sat in his usual spot.

She looked up at him and said, “Hi, Sir. Are you okay?”

Why was everyone asking that?

“Where will I sit?” he asked her, and a few people in the class laughed.

“On your desk? Up there?”

“Cute,” he said, and shuffled to the back wall and leaned there.

The whole room turned to look at him expectantly, most of these middle-aged students smiling as if to say, Now what is he up to? “Are you sick, Professor?” someone asked, as Paul began to slide down the wall. He hadn’t even noticed he was doing that.

(Turn the page)