
In This Issue

Whether an editor contributes much or little, the work is the writer’s own.
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The slow-falling leaves contain the space of the story I'm pursuing.
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Our culture cherishes a fantasy of a certain writerly existence.
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Not a single environmentalist holds out much hope for the future.
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You can get anyone to sleep with you—if you want it bad enough.
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Their leader is a badly wounded boy in need of wounding others.
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How much simpler and more satisfying was the company of men.
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Heaven Is Full of Windows
Had Gussie Panken looked up from her machine, a movement that could get her salary docked a dollar, she would have seen what the lazy Sadie Kupla saw in the window overlooking Washington Place.
The late March breeze was causing the orange curtains to billow, the serrated orange curtains, though the open windows along Washington Place had never had any curtains. Then the wisps of orange turned into waves, a rumbling swell that poured over the sills into the shop, engulfing the bins of scraps, torching the bales of unfinished waists heaped atop the oil-soaked tables. By the time Gussie had turned to see what Sadie was screeching about—her shrieks echoed in a chorus all up and down the long rows of worktables—the fire was advancing like a mob of ragged hooligans. more
That Magnificent Part
the Chorus Does
about Tragedy
There is a theory of crying
that tears are the body’s way
of releasing excess elements
from the brain. There is a
theory of dreaming that each
one serves to mend something
torn, like cells of new skin
lining up to cover a hole.


