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

Stories & Essays
'57 Chevy
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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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Vegetarian Rage
By John A. Ward


He put down his fork. He could have used it as a weapon, stabbed it into the hiney of the surly waitress, lifted her onto the plate and eaten her for dessert. He was only 69 inches tall and 155 pounds, not a big man. He was angry enough, but he was bigger than anger.

Anger is just a seed of dissent in an overheated hippocampus. He knew that he shouldn't devour the food service personnel just because they were snotty about his dietary preferences. It would have been absurd, because he was a vegetarian and she was a minion of the carnivorous majority. If he did fork her, he would be playing into their hands. One bite of her quivering thigh and they would have won.

Still, the longer he looked at her with his herbivorous rage simmering, the tastier she looked. As he stared, her legs turned to celery stalks, her hips to eggplants and her breasts to rich ripe muskmelons. Her face resembled a rutabaga, her hair alfalfa sprouts. All in all, she wasn't a bad looking salad. If he pretended her skirt was grass and not leather, he could just manage it.

Wait, that's vinyl, not leather. Vinyl is a petroleum product. Petroleum is fossilized plant material. She's perfect. His color returned. The blanched white of rage gave way to the sunny blush of excitement. He hunkered down, a wild carrot in wait for the unsuspecting cottontail. Slowly his fingers wrapped around the cold steel of the fork.

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JOHN A. WARD was born on Staten Island, attended Wagner College in the early 60s, sold his first poem to Leatherneck magazine for $10, and became a biomedical scientist. He is now in San Antonio, running, writing and living with his dance partner.

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