Archive for the 'Winter 1999-2000' Category
Posted on October 2, 2008.
|
by Pamela Rice Hahn
Short-sighted sites like m-w.com and Wikipedia limit their definition of a muse as any of the nine sister goddesses in Greek mythology who presided over song, poetry, and the arts and sciences. Things have evolved since the day of the Zeus excuse. (Evidence)
Read the rest of this entry »
Posted on December 15, 1999.
|
by Dennis Rice
Fifteen years ago….
I talked to the man one time. I was standing in my back yard, he in his rented yard next door. He was telling me how he painted on the Golden Gate bridge, had fallen, and was now suing that company plus just about everybody he had met and planned on meeting.
Read the rest of this entry »
Posted on December 14, 1999.
|
An essay by Kristie Escoe
Several years ago, my husband and I were newly married and fresh out of college (another way of saying dirt-poor and up to our eyeballs in student-loan debt). He had just begun his career as a junior officer in the USAF and we were stationed at our first assignment in Minot, North Dakota. Unable to bear the thought of our first Christmas away from home and family, and unable to afford airfare, we decided to drive home for the holidays.
Read the rest of this entry »
Posted on December 12, 1999.
|
A short story by Troy More
If there’s one thing that sets apart those who grow up in the country from those who come of age in the urban jungles, it’s the strong family bonds that form as we struggle together to tame the harsh, unforgiving prairie.
And if you believe that one, I’ve got some prime farm land in the Yukon that you can have at a good price.
Read the rest of this entry »
An essay by Robert Marcom
The heat of South Texas’ Rio Grande Valley is not to be trifled with. I moved to the Valley with my third wife (now don’t get me started on that–) and daughter.
Read the rest of this entry »
Posted on December 1, 1999.
|
A short story by Bryan Dobson
This issue’s Critique Corner: See the author’s bio at the end of the story regarding how to contact him to comment on his story.
It is hard to say how long it has been since Muriel has heard the voice of another human being. The last time she thought about it she suspected it had been a few weeks, at least. As Muriel sat on her blue satin pillow next to the window watching the rainfall she wished for another voice aside from her own. Perhaps Harold would telephone and ask how she was, but that was just wishful thinking and nothing more. Her son Harold had not called in more than five years, yet every time the phone would ring she held onto a glimmer of hope it might be him. Three years ago during a rare telephone call with her brother she had found out where he was. Harold had found himself a job managing a fancy new restaurant on a long pier in Florida. She suspected he was doing just fine. Harold had always loved people and he always loved the sun and sea. He would be happy there as there was little for him to smile about in Vancouver.
Read the rest of this entry »
Posted on November 2, 1999.
|
A short story by Terence Watts
Mickey swore loudly as he jerked his unpolished, size eleven winklepicker boot at the side of the jukebox, trying for yet another free play.
Read the rest of this entry »
Posted on November 1, 1999.
|
Posted on October 30, 1999.
|
A short story by Rab Haney
I looked up toward the clouds one afternoon, and saw something falling toward me. It was a safe. Splat. End of story.
Read the rest of this entry »
read comments (0)
Pammy, the main character in the 
Many of those 
Because of chronic illness,