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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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Boiler Man
By Leland Jamieson


Winter, 1952, Arden, NC

He shut his eyes - a happy lad.
Slow warmth spread through his back porch bed.
Boiler men’s lives were not so bad!
He’d earned, fifth form, the thoroughbred
of boilers ’cause he’d kept his head
on lesser jobs - pulled clinkers small,
flushed water feeds, punched tubes and all....

He woke. Could not evoke the dream
that stirred him with such urgency.
Was two A.M., said watch hands’ gleam.
He stretched - snug and warm as could be,
but couldn’t shake himself quite free
this pressing sense that he must rise.
Some dopey dream! He closed his eyes.

How cold was it? He clawed his nails
against his poncho’s inner side,
and scraped off ice, like soft fish scales.
He tossed. Such restlessness! He sighed.
He grabbed his flashlight for a guide,
slid loafers on, swung wide the door
and stepped upon a creaking floor.

The strongest scent of turpentine
pervaded bath and cottage hall!
So hot! A chill went up his spine.
He squatted, palmed the floor and wall.
Hot floor? His dream! A psychic call?
He strode outside and hung a left.
The cellar door was stuck. More heft!

He kicked it open. A dim red glow!
White vapor - turpentine - flowed out
across his flashlight’s feeble throw.
He fought against an instant doubt:
A light-switch spark? Another route?
What if the time it takes to wake
eight sleepers up’s too much to take?

He flipped the switch. Two bulbs went on.
In their dim light he just could see
the whole surreal phenomenon
(his last year’s job): The big Square D
cut-off at the coal bin’s door should be
there still, behind that ladder’s rungs.
With fresh night air he filled his lungs.

Halfway across the packed-clay floor
he tripped and sprawling spilled his air.
He gasped for breath, spit clay, and swore.
Back on his feet, he gripped the Square-
D cut-off - yanked it with a prayer....
Thank God we didn’t blow sky high!
He dropped to clay’s fresh air supply.

On hands and knees with worm’s eye view
he thanked the stoker’s dying whine.
He gazed as the firebox door changed hue
from bright orange-red’s near-molten shine
to graying blue’s most welcome sign....
Pine knots, in stringers and joist beam,
dripped pitch on it - sizzling to steam.

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LELAND JAMIESON, a performing arts center manager for most of his working life, is retired and lives in East Hampton, Connecticut, USA. His recent and forthcoming work appears in numerous print journals and poetry e-zines. He has gathered a number of published formal poems, all with optional streaming audio readings, under the title Breaking 21st Century Bread.

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