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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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A Visit to India From America: Watching the Garba (Folk) Dance
By Shubha Venugopal


In tropic wind, drapes caress brown skin with silk. I press against the window grates. Leaning into heavy Bombay black of night, I breathe foreign air, my native land. Below me music shatters peace. Annoying folk, snaps my aunt. They always garba dance. I strain to see.

A hole torn in frayed fabric masking as a roof reveals flickering feet and a kaleidoscope of cloth. Past luster of hues is now restored on fire-lit forms spinning into trance. Broken beads adorn ankles more of bones than flesh. Colored stones flash as legs, immersed in dirt, beat time to wooden drums. Calloused, withered skin, worn and blistered heels withstand the dance.

Their weaving feet leave wavy patterns in the dust, their motions intoxicating me. I retract. Their simple circle dance excludes. No world is mine.

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SHUBHA VENUGOPAL is completing her MFA at Bennington College. She also holds a PhD in English and will soon be teaching at California State University, Northridge. She lives with her husband and two beautiful children - a toddler daughter and infant son. Her works are forthcoming or have appeared in Post Road, Gambara, The Angler, VerbSap, Flashquake, Literary Mama, Boston Literary Magazine, Elimae, Eclectica, Mslexia, Kalliope, and Women Writers: A Zine.

*This piece has also appeared in Kalliope, where it was a finalist in the 2000 Sue Saniel Elkind Poetry Competition.*

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