Gentle-hearts and good-looking readers, Many of you may be familiar with the “Pushcart Prize” distributed by Norton every year; if you are not, it is a small-press anthology that gave rise to writers like Tim O’Brien and Susan Minot. Every year, hundreds of small presses nominate their best work for a chance to get in the
Welcome, welcome one and all to the fourth issue–Eleanor.
I know what you’re thinking: “Huh? Eleanor Roosevelt? ORPHAN? No way.” Yes, it is true that Eleanor Roosevelt was born into a very well-to-do family, a descendant of Teddy. Often we forget that orphans can come from any economic class. After her mother (and brother) died of diphtheria when Eleanor
Where’s Jack?
The dewy air hugged the back of Avery’s neck as she wandered through the orchard, the trees thick with Cortland apples. She placed her full basket on the ground under a tree with sturdy low branches–a good climbing tree. She ignored the rustic wooden ladder leaning against the trunk and climbed
The Professor Spends the Night
“Baby,” I whispered to my wife. Her back was to me, so I couldn’t see if her eyes were open or not. Putting my knees into the sagging springs of the mattress, I leaned over to glimpse half of her face. “Baby, are you awake?” I said in
LA NUIT ET SES PRESTIGES
or
THE NIGHT AND ITS PRESTIGES
by Aloysius Bertrand 1807-1841.
Translated from French by Eli Wallis.
I.
The Gothic Chamber
Nox et solitudo plenae sunt diabolo.
-Fathers of the church.
Night
The Electric Level
The alley is empty and it’s about to rain. Steam is rising from the street. Sitting here on the curb with a cigarette in hand and a heavy coat ready for the downpour, I watch a middle-aged couple walking by. Arm in arm, the woman smiles and nudges the man.
The Bite
The cherries–blood red, long stemmed and fleshy enough for easy pitting
The hairnet–flimsy filaments tangled around cherry-sized holes; only visible by its confining effect on Belle’s corkscrew curls–mashing them into a dense helmet
The chocolate–dark mahogany, smooth as polished chrome under streetlights, reflecting Belle’s beauty
supermarket boy
I see the boy most days, carrying groceries to and fro, collecting empty gallon bottles of water and rolling full ones along the hard concrete ground. His fingers are dirty and he always wears the same leather jacket, lined with fleece against the harsh Beijing winter. In the stiff February air his breath
The Likes of Carle and Silverstein
I’m not a fucking monster. I’m really not. I don’t revel in their tears or torture them or rape them or some other fucked up shit you see on TV. That’s not how I do things, because I’m not some disgusting freak with something to prove to myself or
Second Street
El stands under muted chrome lights, legs splayed apart and left hip cocked out like the jagged end of a lipstick smear. The soft undercurrent of voices drifts from the club crowd up to the stage, quiet murmured conversations below the chink of glasses and clicks of the mike stand
