Posts tagged ‘Lies’

August 10, 2009

“The Anniversary” – New Fiction by Heidi Ash

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The Anniversary
by Heidi Ash


Floating in that pleasant haze between sleep and wakefulness, she realized today was her wedding anniversary. She stretched, carefully, because at 67 years of age, some seldom used tendon or muscle could suddenly rebel and put you out of commission for days. She had allowed herself to sleep in, since everything for the party had been readied yesterday.


She took it slow in the bath. Swirling the bubbly water with her hands her gaze softened as she leaned her head back onto the cushion she had received for her wedding shower so long ago. Through half closed lids she saw her body transformed into that of the 18 year old she used to be.


With breathtaking intensity those feelings came rushing back to her. She had been radiant. The evening he proposed, she had touched a deep place of communion within herself. She loved him, the two of them and the whole world. She felt connected and expanded at the same time.


They would be buddies, friends, lovers. They would be there for each other and accomplish things together. She wasn’t sure what those things were, but she knew they would be grand. Finally, they looked good together, something that really matters at 18. It had been the happiest day of her life and she had celebrated it every year since. She smiled, feeling that same sense of suspense and anticipation of adventures yet to unfold.



Continue reading “The Anniversary.”


Heidi Ash worked 23 years as an R.N., taught 12 years of Yoga and Meditation, and for 3 years ran a Retreat House in the Indiana corn fields. For the past 5 years she has been providing private elder care for primarily Alzheimer’s patients.


August 9, 2009

Poetry by Michelle Dominique

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We Were Too Reckless With Our Hearts
by Michelle Dominique


I swear to God
you are Cupid’s son


I have a stone rattling around in my heart
and my body aches for you.


All I want is to stomp (ram) my
feet into the dirty Earth.


You saw me as a butterfly
in the cool rain
my wings pulled apart by the drops
and frozen by the snow.


There are fireworks on the ground
I feel the fire, but I don’t see it falling.


You broke us.


We were too reckless with our hearts that summer
because all we wanted was to be held.


In our final phases
you promised me that things would stay the same.


I loved us chest to back.
When I was ironing your shirt
Or leaning against the dusty car.


I loved my arms around your neck
Front to back
and back to chest.


Sleeping in the bed where we never made love
on dark days
your leg hooked around my waste.


I am yearning.


6 hours with you, and my bones are falling apart.
6 hours with you and my eyes are electronic.


Nobody else feels the same to me.


I am bursting from my joints.
I can feel my muscles shake.


The string that connected our souls has snapped.
And all I can do is run my fingers through the
air that was once you.


Michelle Dominique divides her time between Chicago and Northern Virginia. She lives to write. Read more of Michelle’s poetry.



published by this zine
August 9, 2009

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August 9, 2009

The Philosopher’s Daughter – New Fiction by Lisa Fu

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The Philosopher’s Daughter
by Lisa Fu


This story deals with very sensitive subject matter and is not intended for immature readers or reader under 18.


Photo: Paweł Strykowski

Photo: Paweł Strykowski

My name is Chloe. Brown eyes, two of them, long dark hair, a reddish
mouth, both hands, about 5’4”, you know all that. Thin and pale.


His name is John. He was a hands-off sort of parent, didn’t really
look into our lives too much or baby us. We had no mother to speak of;
she left us when we were just babies. He was always a young father,
hurrying in and out of the apartments we lived in, always going
somewhere, chain-smoking, or writing, sometimes stopping to give us a
kiss or two, or play a game of chess. Only I never really knew how to
play, and he was impatient with lack of skill like that, inability on
the part of anyone, even a child, his own. He explained and tried to
teach me, but I never quite got it, never learned.


Continue reading The Philosopher’s Daughter.


July 24, 2009

New Story by Hannah Oberman-Breindel

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by Hannah Oberman-Breindel


Photo: Brandon Remler

Photo: Brandon Remler


It was the first warm day of spring. Annie and I had taken a long rambling walk, ending at a bench on a path close to the 110th street entrance of Central Park. It’s quieter uptown in the park than it is in midtown. Even our friends rarely venture above 96th street. Annie and I called it our part of the park. “Let’s go to our part of the park,” Annie had said that morning as she sat at the kitchen table in my extra large Brown sweatshirt and white boxer briefs, picking at her English muffin. She was perched on a chair, one foot under her, the other dangling off to the side. Her brown hair was still mussed from sleep, and she had clipped it back so that it wouldn’t get in her face as she read the paper. “I want to walk with you and chat,” she said, looking up only at the end of the phrase to give me a brief smile. So we went.


Continue reading Hannah Oberman-Breindel’s story “April.”


July 21, 2009

New Poetry by Michelle Dominique

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by Michelle Dominique


Before the confession—
Before the sun bowed in recession
to the lethargic black clouds spreading
like melting ice
between the tall oak trees.


Before the room was reflected
against the glass pane
and through the imprint of the figure
on the window
and before you explained
that its origin was unknown.


Before softly
I blew the dust from the books
on the shelf
and held the stone heart–heavy in my hand–
cold against my chest.


Before I discovered the scent of the red pillow
where I could feel you linger
curled in the corner like a small child.


Before the surrender—


The nervous movement toward the truth.
The acknowledgment of reality,


Before the pulling close and
the synchronized breathing.


Before the wetness of your rough cheek
against my neck.
Before your tears that trailed and teased my collar bone
and cooled my hands.


Before the connection


Michelle Dominique divides her time between Chicago and Northern Virginia. She lives to write.



published by this zine
July 21, 2009

July 15, 2009

New Poetry by Michelle Dominique

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by Michelle Dominique


My lips at the concave of your back
to explain the things I would like to do
to you, for you, with you.
The smell of summer on your
hands through my hair.
Your breath above me
beating hot sun against the roof.
Underneath which we lie.
Underneath which the others talk.
Underneath which the house settles.
Underneath which the crust turns into magma
which is fiery, but nothing compared to
your arms around me.
Does the Earth know how fast she spins
when your body envelopes mine?
Like the sky wrapping the sea.
Your lips at my own
to explain the things you would like to do
to me, for me, with me.


Michelle Dominique divides her time between Chicago and Northern Virginia. She lives to write.

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July 9, 2009

New Poetry by Rachel C. Fletcher

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Reflecting on Life outside the Nunnery
by Rachel C. Fletcher


Since my youth Buddha has called me,
sullen child
always joining my palms to him.
I was seen as one wise,
one more serious than my companions.
I imitated my mother’s offerings
to the great one
rather than playing at dirt and dust.


From the ends of the earth
my twenty-first year
the red cord of marriage came.
It wrapped itself about my feet,
the other end tied to a husband.
I maintained that cord,
sewing and embroidering
for a family suddenly familiar to me.


Clouds of dawn and dusk became visible—
evenings I retired to Buddha in recitation.
Ten years spent this way
until the family passed away,
becoming once again unfamiliar.
I retired to the nunnery
where the trinity of submissions holds no sway.


Mornings are quiet—
I join my palms to Buddha,
happy smile on my face.
Clouds are rootless,
hovering over mountaintops
where they are at rest.
I imitate the serious face of sky
white and blue,
placid as swift movement of birds.
I untie red cord with my embroidery,
threading only myself into this solitude,
recognition of Buddha.


Rachel C. Fletcher has been a writer and a feminist from a young age. Concentrating in Women’s Studies during her undergraduate and graduate careers, she researched the intersections of gender and sexuality in literature and religion. She continues her commitment to women’s access to quality sexual health care and information by working in development at Planned Parenthood by day. By night, she composes poems to the Moon and the Great Mother and works on her trilogy of novels based on the women characters from the medieval Welsh text The Mabinogi.

July 3, 2009

New Poetry by Tana Velen

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What’s Between
by Tana Velen


Are we arguing?
Or is it my own momentary sourness
coloring this conversation?


The question goes unanswered
and the moments from then
to the nothing that is said
grow large,
in sporadic heart beats


They bounce
from carpet to wall
In this makeshift home for


So yes, then, we are arguing
And the only thing bigger
than the sad, pernicious questions
with no answers
is the space,
the hot sticky space,
between us.


Tana Velen is currently working in AmeriCorps NCCC with the Mayor’s Summer of Service program in Washington, DC. She graduated from the University of Central Florida with a Creative Writing degree and plans to continue service work and writing for as long as possible.

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June 30, 2009

New Poetry from Krista Mitchell

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Check out the latest poem in LIES from Krista Mitchell.




Like a nurse, nurturing God’s orchids,
Nourishing my sorrow and pain,
Supporting my addiction to sadness,
This Georgia Rain.

Read on for more.

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