Philadelphia Stories Spring 2014

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free

Building a community of writers,

artists, and readers across the Delaware Valley

POETRY

ISSUE!

Winners of the Sandy Crimmins Poetry Prize: R a e Pa gl i a ru l o K ay la Hilliar d Rachel Howard

Coral Reef Jennifer Corey

Fractions

S P R I N G

2 0 1 4

I S S U E

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c o n t e n t s ART

Building a community of writers,

artists, and readers across the Delaware Valley

12 Figure Study by Ann Landers Beatus. Ann studied painting and printmaking at Tyler School of Art. She subsequently became an attorney, but returned to making art last year.

FEATURES 9 Writing Poetry Is a (Ginger) Snap (Trap). . . . . . Aimee LaBrie 10 Julia MacDonnell (author profile) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Rachel Mamola 12 Coral Reef (fiction). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Rachel Howard 14 Fractions (essay) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Jennifer Corey 16 Extraordinary Gifts excerpts . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . M.H. Lorenzo, Nicole . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Contosta, Tara S. Smith

14 Animus by Gerry Bannan. Gerry grew up in suburban South Jersey and earned a BFA from Temple University’s Tyler School of Art and an MFA from Pratt Institute in Brooklyn. Bannan now lives in Roanoke, Virginia and is a professor of art at Patrick Henry Community College. www.gerrybannan.com

POETRY 4 Hide and Seek . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Rae Pagliarulo 5 Fairytale Ending . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Kayla Hilliard 6 Seen (with explanations & Digressions), Part 2 . . .Paul Weidknecht 7 Nancy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Suzanne Cleary 8 Small Rooms, Seven Numbers . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Liz Solms

PHILADELPHIASTORIES.ORG Publisher/ Editorial Director

Web Design Loic Duros

Carla Spataro Board of Directors Publisher/ Executive Director Christine Weiser

Kerri Schuster, secretary Mitchell Sommers Alison Hicks Polia Tzvetanova

Fiction Editor Mitchell Sommers Assistant Fiction Editor Amy Luginbuhl nonfiction Editor Julia MacDonnell Chang Poetry Editor Courtney Bambrick Art Editor Melissa Tevere Director of Development Sharon Sood 2

Production Manager Derek Carnegie

Contest Coordinator Nicole Pasquarello Editorial Board Peter Baroth, poetry Deb Burnham, poetry Liz Chang, poetry Melinda Clemmer, fiction Sam Dodge, non-fiction Liz Dolan, poetry Margot Douaihy, poetry Brian Ellis, fiction Ally Evans, fiction Kathleen Furin, fiction Elizabeth Green, fiction Pat Green, poetry Daniel Huppman, fiction Aimee LaBrie, fiction Andrew Linton, fiction Nathan Long, fiction Chelsea Covington Maass, fiction Rachel Mamola, non-fiction George McDermott, poetry Walt Maguire, fiction

16 Reaction by Dana Scott (inspired by

Denise Scott Brown). Dana is an awardwinning multi-disciplinary artist who has exhibited both nationally and internationally and has received numerous awards. She is currently a visiting assistant professor at Philadelphia University.

17 Baby, it’s Cold Outside by Melissa Tevere

(inspired by Alice Neel). Melissa, primarily

Deborah Off, non-fiction a landscape and portrait painter, graduated from Donna Wolf-Palacio, poetry Tyler School of Art with her BFA in painting. She is Aimee Penna, poetry the art editor of Philadelphia Stories.

Tracey M. Romero, non-fiction John Shea, poetry John Shea, non-fiction Carla Spataro, fiction 18 Prevailing Fashions I by Felise Luchansky Luke Stromberg, poetry (inspired by Sarah Hale). Felise is an Maria Thiaw, poetry award-winning artist who exhibits in solo, juried, Sean Toner, non-fiction and invitational exhibitions throughout the Valeria Tsygankova, poetry Mid-Atlantic region. www.feliseluchansky.com.

Cassandra Visceglia, non-fiction Glenna Walsh, non-fiction Sarah Wecht, non-fiction 20 A Mind of Her Own Illusion by Karen Lena Van, fiction Hunter McLaughlin (inspired by Edna Che Yeun, fiction

Contest Readers Peter Baroth Deb Burnham Mike Cohen Blythe Davenport Margot Douaihy Stephanie Durann David Kozinski Carol Rabuck Luke Stromberg Donna Wolf-Palacio Aimee Penna Liz Chang Angel Hogan Pat Green David Carpenter Dan Huppman

Andrade) Karen is a lifelong Philadelphia artist working in many mediums. Karen’s most recent work is the multi-year, critically acclaimed, collaboration One Year, a collaboration with four co-members of MamaCITA. This monumental exhibit was installed in venus around the city during 2013 and was a part of the Philadelphia FringeArts Festival.

Cover Art: “Grace, #031, The American Housewife Series” by Dave Moser. Dave is a Philadelphia photographer who specializes in portraiture. His portraits have graced the covers of national magazines, have appeared on billboards and have been featured in the marketing materials for major private and public corporations. www.davemoser.com

Philadelphia Stories, founded in 2004, is a non-profit literary magazine that publishes the finest literary fiction, poetry, and art from Pennsylvania, New Jersey, and Delaware and distributes free of charge to a wide demographic throughout the region. Our mission is to develop a community of writers, artists, and readers through the magazine, and through education programs such as writer’s workshops, reading series, and other affordable professional development programs for emerging writers and artists. Philadelphia Stories is a 501c3. To support Philadelphia Stories and the local arts, please visit www.philadelphiastories.org to become a member today!

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p o e t r y

2014 I have lived in East Falls since late 2004. My city friends view the neighborhood as a suburb and my suburban friends view it as the city. The neighborhood feels liminal: the Schuylkill rushes below, many make temporary residence here while in college or grad school, and many more pass through daily along Kelly Drive, Ridge Avenue, or Henry Avenue by bike, rollerblade, bus, train, or car. Though it is a vibrant community of Fallsers and transplants with myths and beefs that date back decades, many outside the neighborhood don’t know East Falls is here: between Manayunk and Germantown and Roxborough.

I say all this because along just a couple blocks of Tilden Street live half a dozen poets—and I know that there are poets on hundreds and hundreds of blocks in the city.

Philadelphia is a city brimming with stories and storytellers. We hold on to past glories longer and stronger than we should, but we “enthusiastically discourage” unearned self-importance. We are a city brimming with editors, too.

Philadelphia Stories looks for the various poets of the various Tilden Streets around the city; we hope to highlight those voices central to our communities. With the Sandy Crimmins National

w i n n e r s

The Sandy Crimmins National Prize for Poetry Prize, we broaden our search but continue to seek relevant, authentic voices. We can only do this with the help of guest judges (such as this year’s amazing Daisy Fried), an expanded staff of editors, and Nicole Pasquarello, our contest coordinator. The prize itself is made possible by Joseph A. Sullivan. My sincerest thanks to all.

The voices in this year’s winning poems are hungry, demanding, and expectant. As usual, there was a lot about the submissions that really impressed our board Poetry Editor Courtney Bambrick

of reviewers. While many entrants were from outside of the Philadelphia area, most of our submissions come from our neighbors. I hope that Philadelphia area poets continue to submit their work year-round.

And for those poets outside of the region, we will begin soliciting submissions for the next Sandy Crimmins National Prize in Poetry over the summer. We look forward to hearing your stories.

Courtney Bambrick Poetry Editor

And the winners are…

Rae Pagliarulo: The first-place winning poet will receive a $1,000 cash award and recognition at the Poetry Festival on April 5. Judge Daisy Fried says of the winning poem: "This poem’s rich gestures and vivid varied detail accumulate and accumulate. The writing is economical and generous, leisurely and urgent.

When the poem concludes suddenly, it’s a wonderful surprise—a release and a deepening of complication."

Kayla Hilliard: The second place winning poet will receive a $250 cash award. Freid says of the poem: "This short sharp lyric of danger and desire upends the fairytale paradigm in a way I haven’t seen before.

A shocking pleasure, a pleasurable shock."

Three honorable-mention winning poets receive publication in this issue.

Join us for the free celebration on April 5 on the campus of Rosemont College. The event includes free poetry workshops and a cocktail reception.

www.philadelphiastories.org

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1ST PLACE WINNER

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Hide and Seek

By Rae Pagliarulo I

cracked the lid of the black World War II chest, my fingertips split by the aging brass hollows where locks used to fit. rooted my nose in the cedar closet, kicking around mouse droppings and the scent of cured wood in my hair. lifted the false bottom of my mother’s bureau, the drawer where she kept The Joy of Sex and a picture of the one she lost it to. exhumed the basement floor, the remnants of a darkroom and a dirt crawlspace fit for ghosts. pulled back the carpets, peeled the paper from the walls, undid the stitching on every pillow, slept under the bed for weeks. cored myself like an apple, said ten Hail Marys, lit a candle and said your name in the mirror ‘til my smile bled at the edge. wore the clothes of another girl, played my thigh bone like a bell, felt the noise pierce my ear drum and throw my balance for good. did everything you asked of me, held up my end of the deal, am waiting, am waiting, I

am waiting for you to show yourself.

Rae Pagliarulo is a proud Philadelphia native currently working in the nonprofit development field. Her work has been featured on the Huffington Post Blog, as well as in West Chester University’s Daedalus: A Magazine of the Arts. She served as the magazine’s assistant editor and was awarded its “Best Short Work” award in 2003. She holds a BA from West Chester University, and is happily working towards her MFA in Creative Writing at Rosemont College.

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2ND PLACE WINNER

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Fairytale Ending

By Kayla Hilliard a wolf at the door, no invitation. he must have followed me, my soil trail, blood-slick and heavy, to a shrouded timber cottage and thenone, two, three scratches. i let him in, grey fangs and fur, ragged and raging, my heart falls in my chest, but the wolf catches it, grips it, growls. and knows. his claws curve like a question; would i like to be reborn in salt and apples and skin. hunter’s woods, borrowed words; i answer. with burnt breath and steady tread, the wolf chews warm hands and cold heart; winds tendons ‘round his tongue. he bites into a haunch, huffing and puffing: mine, mine, mine. as i fade into the lines of his stomach, i can’t say i didn’t want this, not even a little, because i’m no good red hood: i am his, his, his.

Kayla Hilliard graduated from Temple University in 2010 with a B.A. in History. She works as a case manager for school therapeutic support services in the city of Philadelphia and sometimes writes poems on her lunch breaks. Kayla resides in South Philly with her two cats and expatriate husband.

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HONORABLE MENTIONS

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Seen (with Explanations & Digressions), Part 2

By Paul Weidknecht A man running a metal detector under the monkey bars at a roadside playground (because milk money is still money during a recession).

Advertisements for the local urologist above the urinals at a minor league ballpark restroom (direct marketing brilliance).

A post-college job interview, the man slips off his Rolex, placing it on the desk before me, explaining that it’s worth more than a semester of tuition, adding he also owns season tickets for the Washington Redskins (the position was selling grave plots in North Philly to mothers of teenagers, because, as he said, “They know their kids are going to die.” I declined the offer).

A shaft of sunlight like velvet, down through a window in the rhododendron, onto a wild brook trout stream in western North Carolina, a mayfly bouncing within the beam (a scene so perfect I’m glad I’d forgotten my camera; now remembering it how I want).

Aftermath of a head-on collision, one driver fifteen minutes from death, eyes wide, perhaps seeing what the living cannot; the other already dead, as if dipped in blood, the trooper asking us to get shoulder-to-shoulder so passing motorists wouldn’t see the body pulled from the wreck, and a jellylike clot running down the outside of the body bag (back at the office, a coworker declaring a question, “You know what the eeriest part of that accident was?” I already knew).

A visit to the county jail for a research paper, a guy there who beat me up in the fourth grade, noticing me smiling, spitting at my face onto the glass wall of his pod, the lieutenant leading the tour turning and saying, “Looks like some of these guys know you.” (it would be a different fight now—much different).

A three-year-old hugs my thigh, saying, “I love you,” (okay, he spotted the McDonald’s bag I had just set on the table).

And a bonus, during that same jailhouse tour, while walking through the infirmary, my brother spotting a former coach, a crag-faced bully of ten-year-olds who hadn’t given him a fair shot, now sitting on his own bench, drying out after a rough night, pulling his baseball cap down as we pass (my brother said, in that instant, everything vanished).

Paul Weidknecht’s stories can be found in Once Around the Sun: Sweet, Funny, and Strange Tales for All Seasons, the newest anthology by the Bethlehem Writers Group, LLC. Previous publications include work in Rosebud, Shenandoah, Structo (UK), The Los Angeles Review, and Poetry Salzburg Review, among others, with work forthcoming in Gray’s Sporting Journal and Appalachia. He read his poem “Nya Sverige” before King Carl XVI Gustaf and Queen Silvia of Sweden during the 375th Anniversary Jubilee in celebration of the landing of the Swedes and Finns at Wilmington, Delaware. He lives in New Jersey where he is seeking publication for his recently completed collection of short fiction, “Fly in a Cube of Amber: Stories”. For more, please visit: www.paulweidknecht.com.

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Nancy

By Suzanne Cleary I sucked her dense, salty, left pinkie until the day I bit it clean off without knowing why, wedged it like a rubber match deep in my pocket as Nancy stared straight ahead with her blue glass eyes, her toothbrush-bristle eyelashes, her rubber body heavy as a kickball.

I twisted the tight joints of her hips to make her sit, make her lie down, make her sit again twisted the tight joints of her shoulders

so that I could know how the Feed-Me tube

to raise her arms above her head, to press

looked, how it stuck to the back of her dark

her arms to her sides, so I could wrap her, tight.

red lips, and snaked down into her,

Frequently, I gave Nancy a bath

so I could know how to put the head

out in the yard, in a plastic dishpan,

back on again. I remember screaming, and crying,

left her lying on the worn porch steps

and my mother running up the stairs,

for three nights, while her water-filled body

the doll broken, between my knees, remember

ran dry, water pouring

the scent of my mother’s hair as she pressed me

not just from the pee-hole placed inexplicably

to her chest, saying nothing.

on her buttock, but seeping in sheets

This was before I was afraid of love,

from hip seam and arm seam,

or my body, or the shameless

from the tight seam that fastened her head,

commodification of girlhood,

its bald scalp curl-embossed, stained yellow

before I was afraid of crying

for blond. Then I carried Nancy

from the farthest reaches of my body

inside, to sleep with me again,

as if I would never stop. It was summer.

Nancy, who was supposed to teach me

My legs were bare. Nancy lie on the floor,

how to be gentle, to love something smaller

watching, as I wailed with a fury

than myself, and helpless.

to know what I still do not know.

I kissed her, dressed her, undressed her.

I wedged the kitchen knife into the seam at her neck, and when I pushed with all of my weight, part of me did not want Nancy’s head to pop off, but part of me did want it to,

Suzanne Cleary won the John Ciardi Prize for Poetry for Beauty Mark, published 7 in 2013 by BkMk Press (U of Missouri-Kansas City). Winner of a Pushcart Prize, her poems have appeared in journals including Poetry London, Poetry International, and The Atlantic, and in anthologies including Best American Poetry. Her previous books are Keeping Time (2002) and Trick Pear (2007). Professor of English at the State University of New York at Rockland, she also teaches as core faculty of the MFA in Creative Writing program of Converse College.

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Small Rooms, Seven Numbers

By Liz Solms Anything that lives feels the earth flinch.

Even the things that don’t live cower in the heat— the pavement, the asphalt, the electric lines, slump

beneath the sky which seems brown or burned.

We’re all inside our small apartments, in whichever room has the air conditioner. Out on the street there are just a few

pigeons and crazy people who peck and wander slowly in the deserted heat town. With a towel over my head I inhabit my migraine.

My head and eyeballs sit down in their own small room that pulses

with a pain I can watch. Maybe this is the smallest room I will ever occupy.

In here, it is like slowing down the rain, seeing each drop.

In here, I am unable to know anything except exactly how I feel.

If I can feel gratitude for this, to be a momentary prisoner in the cold air, locked inside my own high pitched darkness.

If I can feel gratitude for being stranded. Like when my brother

visited seven summers ago, the last time he came here.

It was a heat wave then too and we moved into our bedroom, all of us, my husband, my brother, the television.

We turned the only room with the air conditioner into our own little world with everything we could ever need. We ate dinner with plates and glasses set across the bed, slept three across our mattress.

I woke in the night to see my brother’s arm in a cast, dangling off the bed like a crescent moon. He had punched his arm through a wall the week before. My husband slept straight as a mummy on my other side.

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For the first time I felt like the perfect place to be was trapped.

In a small room awake between two men where it was quiet and cold and outside the door the city was on fire.

Liz Solms is a writer who lives between Philadelphia and the island of Jamaica where she works in agriculture. Her writing has appeared in The Village Voice, Post Road, The Naugatauk Review, and Diner Journal, among other publications. She holds an MFA from Bennington College.

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a i m e e ’ s

T i p s

WRITING POETRY IS A (GINGER) SNAP (TRAP)

By Aimee LaBrie First, find a subject matter that’s dear to your heart (and try to work the phrase “dear to your heart“ into the poem if you can). Possible topics include: death of your grandma, death of your cat, death of your friend’s hamster, death of your virginity. Once you have a topic, begin constructing your lines with the intent to confuse the reader. Never use an obvious word when you can choose a mysterious one. For example, instead of writing the word “yellow” substitute “corn,” so that a line that could read “her hair glowed yellow” will instead be more intriguing as “her hair glowed corn.”

The whole point of poetry is to prove that you are smarter than your reader; you want the person reading your poem to wish she could call you up and ask, “What did you mean when you wrote ‘with moon so deep the harvest purple’?”

Rhyming is also something I highly recommend, my friend. A poem isn’t really authentic unless you are able to easily memorize it and rhyming helps with this goal, along with making the poem lyrical (the evidence is empirical). See? Easy-peasy. Be careful of making your poem sound too much like a limerick. You can avoid this by just never starting with the line “There once was a man from Nantucket.”

Another thing these poetry people talk about endlessly is line breaks. When should you break a line of verse? I vote for whenever you feel like it, but preferably when you: (1) run out of space on the line; (2) are trying to

make the poem into a particular shape, like a cat’s head for a poem about Halloween; (3) have a word like “the,” “and,” or “or.” Again, it goes back to leaving the reader wondering, “Why did he want the emphasis to be on the word ‘because’?” Well, that’s for you to figure out, dear reader. Poets aren’t required to know what they mean; they must only know what they feel and put that down on paper for us to puzzle over. Have you ever met a poet in real life? If you haven’t, go to any coffee shop right now and look for the man in the flannel shirt who hasn’t shaved or combed his hair for three days or the woman in striped stockings rocking back and forth in the corner with three pencils sticking out of her top knot. Those are poets and they need caffeine to access the Muse.

Caffeine and Internet access to do Google searches to find words that rhyme with “ennui.”

Lots of teacher-like people recommend that fledgling poets read the masters—sonnets by Shakespeare, the

nature writers, Emily Dickinson, Muhammad Ali, Jack Handy. But I disagree. Reading other poets leads you either to feel like you can never be as good as they are or to believe you could do even better. I once read a poem by T.S. Eliot and ended up accidentally copying him for a homework assignment by turning in a poem entitled “The Dumpland.” So, it’s dangerous to read other writers. You could be accused of plagiarism by your English teacher Mrs. Bytheway (I swear that was her real name), or worse, be expected to continue to produce more poems as good as, if not better than, your faux original.

I’ll leave you with the immortal words of one of my personal favorite poets, Pat Benatar. I think her advice about writing and love is a slam-dunk bull’s eye for all aspiring writers, big and small. “Hit me with your best shot.

Come on, hit me with your best shot.

Fire away.”

This new litmag from Philadelphia Stories publishes:

fiction * creative nonfiction * poetry * art a community of young writers

and artists from the Delaware Valley

JR.

Find out more at www.philadelphiastories.org/junior

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JULIA MACDONNELL

By Rachel Mamola

I finished a draft probably in 2008. Then some things happened in my life so I really couldn’t get behind the novel to try to get it out there. Picador bought my book in December of 2012, and it’s coming out in April of 2014.

So it took about three years to get an agent and get the book submitted to publishers. I’ve been tied up with Mimi quite intimately for about eight years. That’s a long time. I guess it’s a good thing. I really love her.

Did you change a lot of Mimi Malloy, At Last! in the editing process of the book?

Yes, we moved things around to build conflict, and we tightened the writing and deleted repetitions. But I absolutely loved writing and revising this novel. I never got tired of it and I never got bored with it.

Mimi Malloy, At Last!

Not only is Julia MacDonnell the nonfiction editor for Philadelphia Stories, but she is also a professor of creative writing for the undergraduate and graduate levels at Rowan University. She has been widely published in places like The Boston Globe, American Literary Review, and Many Mountains Moving. MacDonnell’s passion for the written word is visible in her crafted sentences, but also in the way her eyes light up when she talks about her stories. Philadelphia Stories spoke with Julia about her new book, Mimi Malloy, At Last!

In a few words, what would you say Mimi Malloy At Last! is about?

Mimi Malloy, At Last! is a story of an older woman coming to grips with her losses and her longings for love, and coming into herself, at last. I hope that readers learn that love comes in unexpected ways and is sometimes even not recognizable at first.

When did Mimi Malloy, At Last! come together?

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I first wrote a story called Diana’s Dresses about a fortysomething-year-old daughter taking her mother to an exhibition of Princess Diana’s gowns. The mother is in ill health and she’s snarky and funny. That character turned out to be the prototype for Mimi. It turned out that after I wrote that story she wasn’t done with me. So Mimi just kept coming back at me until I wrote more about her.

How much of yourself as a person did you intentionally or accidentally weave into the character of Mimi Malloy?

I guess I always think about that Walt Whitman phrase: “I am large, I contain multitudes.” When I’m writing my characters I feel that I’m completely inside their hearts and minds. But it’s hard to say how much. Mimi’s actually very witty, and I’m not very witty! She’s fast on her feet and I’m not. But when you’re writing a character you can make them fast on their feet because you don’t have to be fast in the writing.

When did you know you were finished with Mimi Malloy?

A story being complete and knowing you are finished are two different things. I thought I was done with the novel at least half a dozen times before I was actually done with it. Now it’s out of my hands, but if it weren’t out of my hands, I could go back and make more changes. I feel like a manuscript is either an electronic file or it’s a bunch of papers stapled together, but it’s also the writer’s thoughts and feelings—and those can always change.

Read more at philadelphiastories.org

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P HIL ADEL P HIA STOR IES R EADER SUR V EY Help us plan our next 10 years – and be entered to win a $50 gift certificate to the Belgian Café!

It’s easy – just complete the survey below and return by mail, or visit www.PhiladelphiaStories.org to link to the survey. As a reader of Philadelphia Stories, we want to get to know you better – and make sure we are doing our best to serve our mission to support a local community of writers, artists, and readers. THANK YOU!

To support Philadelphia Stories’ programs, we sometimes apply for grant funding.

Most grants require demographic data about our audience. If you are willing, completing the information below will help us better identify our readers to potential funders.

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r a c h e l

h o w a r d

CORAL REEF ecky worked as a cashier at the grimy pet shop round the corner with the hundreds of iguanas in that cage by the window, blinking for eternity with one drippy eye.

She stood behind the counter and watched the cats and the fish go back and forth from one glass wall to the other. Sometimes she got tired and tapped her pretty little claws on the scuffed counter. Sometimes she got jazzed and walked up and down the aisles, greeting every fish she saw who mouthed hello. Every night she wrote in her journal expressing the feeling that she “was waiting for something” and had “been waiting her whole life” and “didn’t know what to do about it or how to stop.”

And one time this guy named Jonah came in and asked if they were hiring and she said no. He was the local superhero but no one needed saving anymore.

When she shot him down he didn’t leave cause he still needed something to do during the day and also cause he hadn’t talked to anyone in weeks on account of voluntarily cooping himself up in his apartment. Another reason why he didn’t leave was cause she was attractive to him in a sexual way but also attractive in the way that genuinely nice people are attractive to others who appreciate such traits. So he said, “Hey, wanna know something real fresh?”

“Yeah, alright.” Every time she met a boy she hoped he would help catapult her miserable body into a worthwhile existence.

“I can breathe underwater.”

He wanted to impress her real bad, so he walked behind the counter where the big fish tank was, that glass rectangle that acted as the gaudy aquatic headboard to the store’s dirty bed vibe. The expensive fish were kept there, the ones

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Figure Study by Ann Landers Beatus © 2014

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c o r a l that cost, well, some of them, $10. He stripped down to his tiny black underwear and lowered himself in all carefullike, making sure he didn’t get anybody’s fins caught between his toes. People who came in to buy cat toys and dog beds thought he was part of a new display cause all the fish were swimming around and hiding in him like he was a large, flesh-colored coral reef. And Becky knew. She thought, “This boy’s different, he’s special.” By his face—the way it looked under the water, the way his nose went up and then down and twisted slightly with the small current, the way his eyes scrunched up when he smiled at her and blew bubbles—she knew. She asked him, all flirtatious like, “What can’t you do?”

And he said, “I can’t do most things, but I can love you.”

So she took him out and brought him to a fancy restaurant where he ordered flounder, “because they chill on the bot-

tom,” and she ordered the soup of the day and a knot of tangled leaves because she wanted something light and healthy but she also wanted the soup.

Later, when they were in her small warm room, Jonah said he felt like her son and she was like his mother, because he had never had one, and she said, “But everyone’s got a mother.”

“I don’t.” And he looked down and she stared at the top of his head, specifically his part, which edged its way through the dense mass like a thin white river through ancient black rock. She thought of erosion, she thought of fossils.

Becky held on tight because it was night and everything was over. She told him she had always loved him, even when he had not existed in her world.

They sat on the velvety sofa suspended like a big brown-speckled algae eater locked by its own mouth-strength onto the side of a green-socked fish tank.

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When the room turned purple and blue and gray Jonah said, “I’m an astronaut., and she saw him in a space suit and helmet deep below somewhere and she shuddered and it was several hours later when she opened her eyes and realized she was holding on to nothing.

Rachel Howard is a student at Rutgers University-Camden and an employee of a grocery store. In ninth grade she won 2nd place in the Walt Whitman Poetry Contest. More recently, her poems have appeared in Underground Pool, the literary magazine of the University of the Arts, and the now defunct Black Book Press. None of her novels are being published soon.

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FRACTIONS ante turns toward me; his deep chestnut eyes are anxious and hopeful. A winning smile breaks out across his face.

“Miss Jennifer, you know math real good, don’t you?”

I swallow hard. Dante, who’s ten, is sitting next to me at a well-worn lunch table in Northern Children’s Services’ dining hall in northwest Philadelphia. Since 1853, Northern Children’s has been helping Philadelphia’s hardscrabble boys and girls, ages 8 to 14, gain a foothold in life.

Dante’s one of 25 boys in Northern’s partial program, an after-school program that, among other things, provides the children homework assistance.

I’m here this Wednesday night as Dante’s tutor, but I’m frazzled. My hair is tied back in a messy ponytail, my makeup non-existent, and my head’s still at work, mulling over deadlines. But this earnest fourth grader is staring up at me, yearning for me to be the tutor who can solve all his math problems in the next 60 minutes.

Butterflies gather in my stomach.

English, I can handle. Reading comprehension, definitely. Science, sure. Math and its fractions, decimals, division, subtraction, and multiplication—not so much. I didn’t get math back in my school days and I certainly haven’t gotten today’s “new” math.

I tap my fingers on the table, trying to think of something to say.

For the past four years, I’ve been volunteering at Northern Children’s. Being single and in my early forties, I wanted to “give back” and work with kids. I was hoping to make a difference. There’s nothing like seeing the “a-ha” moment light up a child’s face after he learns a new word or she figures out a solution to a problem. I had visited Northern weekly, but now, because of work commitments, I visit just once a month. It makes

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it hard to develop a relationship with a child when I might only work with him or her two or three times during the school year.

I had arrived late when the boys’ Mr. Rick was pairing the kids with tutors.

Dante and I were the last group paired off.

It was the first time we’d worked together.

Tables are scattered haphazardly with book bags, jackets, pens, and pencils. The electric hum of voices fills the air, punctuated by brief outbursts of laughter. The smell of French fries and hamburgers from dinner hangs over us.

I turn toward Dante, force a grin, look him in the eye and make a feeble attempt to deflect the conversation.

“Hey Dante, where do you go to

school? What’s your favorite subject?”

Not taking his eyes off me, he quickly tells me about his school in West Philly and his favorite subject, recess.

Clearly that’s not what he wants to talk about. He grips his homework, a page of fractions, between his fingers. Beads of sweat gather at the top of my forehead.

Dante’s too busy to notice. He’s singing how his tutor is going to help him finish his homework so he can head out and play.

He’s pushed his fractions in front of me and is now trying to hand me his pencil.

I hold my breath for a brief second. I remind myself that I cannot complete Dante’s homework for him, even if I were able. He has to learn on his own with my support.

Animus by Gerry Bannan © 2014

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f r a c t i o n s I look over the paper for an easy problem. No luck. I push the paper and pencil back at him.

“Dante, which problem do you want to work on first?”

He grabs the pencil and doodles on question 1: How many thirds are equal to one half? He looks at me and hands me the pencil.

“Ms. Jennifer, what’s the answer?”

“Hey Dante, I may be a little better at math than you, but can you show me what you learned in school?”

Dante looks puzzled.

Then I try to bluff my way through the problem. I scribble down what I remember from grade school.

“Ms. Jennifer, that’s not how we learned it.”

“How did your teacher solve it?”

A cloud of frustration settles on Dante’s face. His smile contorts to disgust, his brow furrows, his eyes narrow.

He lets out a loud sigh.

“I can’t remember, I thought you’d know what to do. I said I needed a tutor who was good in math.”

He turns away from me and stares ahead. He begins to write down random answers to the questions.

“Dante, come on, let’s take these problems one by one.”

Dante puts his pencil down and begins to take in long, slow breaths and then puts his head down on the table.

We are only 10 minutes in and part of me wants to yell, “Man down!”

Dante’s sobbing quietly. I try to think of something to say. I motion Mr. Rick over to help.

Now he’s standing by Dante.

“Hey Dante, man, what are you doing? Can you tell me and Ms. Jennifer what’s wrong?”

Dante looks up at him, tears streaming down his face.

“Nothing. Nothing is wrong.”

“Aww Dante, that’s not true. You’re upset. I can’t help you unless you tell me.”

Mr. Rick’s acknowledgement of Dante’s plight only makes him cry harder.

Dante shakes his head back and forth and sobs. “I don’t know math. And she don’t know it either.” He puts his head down again.

There’s nothing like being schooled by a fourth grader. I feel nervous laughter coming on and I want to crawl under the table.

Mr. Rick lets out a quiet and barely noticeable chuckle and whispers to me not to worry about it. He turns to Dante.

“Dante, hey man, that’s not a nice thing to say about your tutor.”

“But it’s the truth.” This time Dante is looking at me.

And that’s when I have my “a-ha” moment.

I’m okay with Dante calling me out.

How many times has he wanted to say this to anyone who has let him down? If I gave him that opportunity, that courage to say

something, then I guess all is not lost.

Mr. Rick rests his hand on my shoulder.

“Dante, can you thank Ms. Jennifer for giving up her time to help you? She’s trying just like you are. No one gets a free pass in life. Why don’t you, me, and Ms. Jennifer take another look at your homework.”

Something Mr. Rick said clicks with Dante. He readjusts himself in his seat and sits almost upright, his bent elbow holding up his head. He mumbles “okay,” and with his free hand he picks up his pencil and points to our next problem.

A Philadelphia native, Jennifer Corey is a marketer by day, creative writer by night and budding aerialist in between. She’s been writing with the Greater Philadelphia Wordshop for the past 10 years and would like to thank Alison Hicks and her fellow wordshop members for all the years of encouragement and support. The names of the student and counselor in this story have been changed.

June 20 – 27

15

www.rosemont.edu/writersretreat

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EXTRAORDINARY GIFTS: REMARKABLE WOMEN OF THE DELAWARE VALLEY

Reaction by Dana Scott (inspired by Denise Scott Brown)

This new title form PS Books is a unique collaboration of local artists and writers celebrating the ground-breaking accomplishments of Philadelphia-area women past and present. The corresponding art exhibit will open on September 20, 2014, at the Cheltenham Arts Center as part of Philadelphia Stories’ 10th Anniversary celebration.

Number 9 M.H. Lorenzo inspired by Denise Scott Brown, architect (b. 1931) In the months after Sam died, once the parade of consolers trailed off, the house on Catharine Street went quiet. One afternoon Carmen came home from the spice 16 shop, hung up her apron, and stared at the poker table now permanently folded against the living room wall. In the bathroom she looked at the two toothbrushes in their holder. The logical thing was to throw his out. Grief hit her gut in a sucker

punch then, and she left both toothbrushes and walked out of the house.

“It’s just a little beach house,” Nancy said, “but it was designed by Robert Venturi. You can stay until it’s demolished.” As Carmen’s old Toyota scraped up the sandy street, windows open to the salt breeze, she saw it clearly in the October dusk: a giant 9 on the door. Grateful tears slipped free as she shut off the engine. The house had been looking out for her.

The architect had built the living area upstairs for the ocean view and sunlight—a novelty in 1969. It was all white and awash in light from banks of windows and one giant sailboat-shaped window on the side. Carmen brought little to disrupt its white canvas. In the bathroom, a new toothbrush and towel, both white.

The house wasn’t insulated, Nancy had warned, and it got chilly at night. But in daytime, basking in sun, it was warm.

This bright ungirded stretch of time offered no cleaning projects, no shifts at the spice shop, only dunes, sandy groves of pine, and trips to the grocery store.

What had she done all these years? She’d knitted sweaters, planned vacations, gardened, cooked spectacular dinners.

Twenty years had knitted themselves off in rows and then: a sudden binding off.

The project finished. At night the great sailboat window shone moonlight on Carmen and asked a different question: What, now, would you like to become?

She bought a cheap easel and a sketchpad, although it had been twentyfive years since art school and she’d only dabbled since. She tried to sketch the view, but the pencil felt awkward in her hand and she flipped to a clean white page. It was November now, and the demolition date loomed closer. That

night she had the first dream since August without Sam. She dreamed she woke and saw the sailboat window bobbing on waves of moonlight. Sketchpad under arm, she stepped into the window, and they set sail across the dark Atlantic sky.

In the morning she sketched a sailboat on the ocean, a woman steering.

Nancy sounded ecstatic. The house would be saved from the developer’s wrecking ball. “Robert and Denise’s son found someone who wants to put it on a barge and move it up to Long Island.”

“Who’s Denise?”

“Oh, Denise is his wife. She helped design the house.”

Online at the café, Carmen found her: Denise Scott Brown, architect.

Carmen noticed that Denise was involved in most of the works attributed to her more famous husband. The sailboat window, the huge number 9, the flood of seaside sun: whose mind had brought these into being?

The moving team would arrive in the frost of a January morning, tinkering at the foundation, calculating. Carmen would be gone, the little she’d lived with packed into the trunk of the Toyota, ready now to face the toothbrushes on Catharine Street. But come March she would wait at South Street Seaport to watch the little house sail through New York Harbor, her sketchpad open to its last blank page.

M.H. Lorenzo lives and writes in Philadelphia. She believes that art, in its many forms, makes life worthwhile.

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Baby, It's Cold Outside by Melissa Tevere (inspired by Alice Neel)

e x t r a o r d i n a r y

Priscilla Johnson gives in to another pipe dream Nicole Contosta inspired by Alice Neel, portrait painter (1900-1984) If Tom tells me to smile one more time, I’ll scream. And if he tells me to be happy because I’m a pretty girl, that’s it,

I’ll leave. I’ve already sat here, rigid with resentment, for the last few hours as he tried to rationalize losing my life savings on his follies production. What idiot gives her money to a man she just met?

But he took me to Minsky’s old place.

He traded jokes like an old vaudevillian for cocktails.

Maybe it was watching him earn money on the spot as a performing artist.

Maybe it was the setting. The Winter Garden has a rich history as a former burlesque hall—before Mayor LaGuardia banned it twenty years ago.

Besides occasional paint jobs and structural repairs, very little had been done to rehab the venue. Wooden beams supported its high ceilings. It was a cold night in January. The upstairs became so drafty that people huddled under their coats for warmth. What a faded relic.

Then they played the flick. It was the Gershwin’s Girl Crazy. Sitting in the balcony under the darkened lights, it wasn’t a stretch to imagine the show girls, the

g i f t s

comedians like Abbott and Costello, decades before. I remembered my mother telling me that it had been a favorite haunt of her brother’s after he quit work at the clerk’s office in the 1930s. And I’d always romanticized what it must have been like for the performers, traveling from town to town for a series of “one night stands.” Those performers had survived on their talent alone. My limbs burned with romantic fervor. I’ve danced my entire life.

That happened last week. Tom planned to revive the art form through a cross-country tour. I spent my last penny on this shiny green dress. Everything was set to go. But the band leader took off with the investment.

He can talk all he wants. I’m getting away from here.

Nicole Contosta received her MFA from Rosemont College in 2012. She works as a general assignment staff reporter for the Weekly Press and the University City Review.

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PS_Spring_2014_PS Summer 3/9/14 10:05 PM Page 18

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Prevailing Fashions I by Felise Luchansky (inspired by Sarah Hale)

us to bed. In the morning he announced that our mother was going to work. “She does work,” I corrected him. “She’s a domestic engineer.”

“Outside the home,” he said.

“What about us?” I asked.

“What about you,” he said. “Get ready for school.”

“Working will help me be a better wife and mother,” she explained later.

“We’ll be products of a broken home!” I wailed. My father looked at me.

“I mean latchkey kids,” I said. Things went from bad to worse—child sitters, chore charts, Hamburger Helper. The broken home came later.

2013 Sarah’s Daughters Tara S. Smith inspired by Sarah Josepha Hale, writer and magazine editor (1788-1879)

1982 My mother had heard, on EAZY 101 or in the Campbell’s soup aisle at Pantry Pride, that some mother somewhere had made a sign, “Mom on Strike,” dragged a chair onto her lawn, and sat down. This news, instead of peanut butter on celery sticks, greeted us fresh off the bus. “I’m sick and tired,” she said, “and I’m going on strike.” She’d made a list, instead of a sign. So we three picked up—socks, projects, dog poop. Our fighting—bickering—was part of the big stink, but we’d never felt such solidarity.

We raised our eyebrows, tiptoed, whispered. Will it be over by dinner, my brother wanted to know. She sat in the living room doing nothing. She seemed different. Resolute. Outside, I gathered bikes, balls, hula hoops—debris—and my younger sister wielded the pooper 18 scooper. Over the hedge, the silent suburbanscape of neighbor lawns reassured us. It wasn’t an epidemic. It was just our mother. “Wait til Dad gets home,” I said.

When my father got home he scrambled eggs, scooped ice cream, sent

Dancing my toddler daughter round the room, I sang: “Mommy got a job, Mommy got a job, Mommy’s a stayat-home freelance mom!” She giggled, brushed her bangs out of her eyes, clapped. “Hi-ho, the derry-o!” That was

Monday. Tuesday was for tantrums, jellied crumbs stuck in her hair. “No job!

No more job!”

That was years ago. Today my friend is over at Bibliophile, guest blogging, sallying around the internet like it’s a cocktail party. I’m at my kitchen table with a sick cat, a project to finish, and a deadline, googling, “Is there a union for stayat-home emptying nester freelance moms tired of picking up and nagging?” Nearly four thousand results, not one answer.

1982 My A+ report entitled “Sarah Josepha Hale: Magnificent Matriarch of Thanksgiving” in hand, I rose at the dinner table to read. Sarah Hale told President Lincoln to pick one day for Thanksgiving, I explained. A widow with five kids, she wrote books and edited magazines. I paused. “Sarah also predicated that women should stay home because being a mother is their para-

˜

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continued on page 20

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n a m e

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RESOURCES FOR WRITERS AND ARTISTS

58th Annual Great Books at

Colby Summer Institute at Colby College, Waterville, Maine July 27 - August 2, 2014

Judgement Euripides: Hippolytus Fyodor Dostoyevsky: Crime and Punishment Oscar Wilde: De Profundis & The Ballad of Reading Gaol Albert Camus: The Fall John Rawls: Justice as Fairness (Parts 1-3) Joyce Carol Oates: I Lock My Door Upon Myself

Philadelphia

Great Books

The $580 adult registration includes a dormitory-style room, all meals, books and discussions.There are social activities, swimming, tennis, films, a Maine lobster bake, and the Atlantic Music Festival!

Commuter rates and programs for children are available.

Interested in joining a Great Books discussion group?

There are over 50 groups meeting regularly in PA/NJ/DE using the Shared Inquiry Method for discussing significant works of literature or non-fiction.

VISIT OUR WEBSITES WWW.GREATBOOKSDISCUSSIONPROGRAMS.ORG WWW.GREATBOOKS-ATCOLBY.ORG

Contact us to find a Great Books discussion group in your area: phila1@greatbooksdiscussionprograms.org For further information about Great Books events on the East Coast, see

www.greatbooksdiscussionprograms.org

FOR DETAILS, OR DIRECT ANY QUESTIONS TO JOHN DALTON AT 610-608-7711, OR EMAIL AGREATBOOK@AOL.COM

PS_Spring_2014_PS Summer 3/9/14 10:05 PM Page 20

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mount job. The end.” My mother studied her casserole. “That’s where my thesaurus went,” my father said. “I will never abandon my children,” I declared.

2013 My son texts me from the basement: What’s for dinner. Cursor pulses, time warps, Hestia flickers. I want to escape. I want to strike. I want, too late, to ask my mother more about it. I make dinner.

Tara S. Smith is an MFA candidate in the Creative Writing program at Rosemont College.

She is Program Director for PS Books and a freelance editor who has come to Philadelphia from Vermont, via Ireland.

A Mind of Her Own Illusion by Karen Hunter McLaughlin (inspired by Edna Andrade) © 2014

Master the Art of Writing t t t t

Rowan University offers an M.A. in Writing for writers who are serious about perfecting their technique. This interdisciplinary program features: Classes in Creative Writing, New Media, Journalism, & Composition Studies Individual Attention Small Seminars & Workshops Professional Development Opportunities Graduate Certificates are also available in Creative Writing, Editing & Publishing, Writing & New Media, and Writing: Composition & Rhetoric.

Apply Now! For more information visit RowanCGCE.com/Communication or call 856.256.4747

PS_Spring_2014_PS Summer 3/9/14 10:05 PM Page 21

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RESOURCES FOR WRITERS AND ARTISTS

June 6, 7, 8, 2014 Wyndham Philadelphia Historic District Independence Mall, Fourth and Arch Streets, Philadelphia 2014 KEYNOTE SPEAKER:

Lu Ann Cahn Veteran Philadelphia Journalist and Author of the inspirational memoir “I Dare Me”

Workshops include Novel, Short Story, Poetry, Screenwriting, Memoir, Young Adult, Nonfiction, and more

OPENING SPEAKER:

William Lashner New York Times Best Seller and Creator of The Victor Carl Novels

OTHER FEATURES: Meet the Agents and Editors, Social Media Boot Camp, Contests, Awards Banquet, and more.

Scholarships are available.

“[A] loving, funny masterpiece about love, memory, and family ties.”

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See more at

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Saturday, April 26th 10:00 a.m. to 4:00 p.m.

Philadelphia Stories is pleased to announce the

201 4 Sixth Annual Marguerite McGlinn

Prize for Fiction Deadline: June 1, 201 4 PRIZES: • $2,000 cash award • $500 2nd place prize • $250 3rd place prize • Invitation to an awards dinner in October

Requirements: 1. Previously unpublished works of fiction up to 8,000 words.

2. $10 reading fee (all entrants receive a 1-year subscription to Philadelphia Stories).

3. To be eligible, the authors must reside in the United States.

The Marguerite McGlinn Prize for Fiction is made possible by the generous support of the McGlinn family and the Dry Family Foundation.

For more information, www.philadelphiastories.org

philadelphiastories.org

PS_Spring_2014_PS Summer 3/9/14 10:05 PM Page 22

Building a community of writers,

artists, and readers across the Delaware Valley

Michener Level ($25 - $40)

22

Adrienne Jenness Amy Punt Angela Speakman Anne Hunter Barbara Bloom Brenda Howell Barbara Grey Brenda Leon & Pat Bambrick Carlo & Sharon Spataro Carolyn Guss Cassandra Wilt Catherine Stine Charles & Kathy Shattuck Charles Glackin Charles McGray Cheryl Mercier Christian Thompson Christine Obst Colette Tomeo Concha Alborg Constance Garcia Barrio Dana Lotkowski Dave Stiles Diana Krantz Diane Davies Dixon Dianna Sinovic Dolores Verdeur Ed Kratz Ed Ruggero Eileen D’Angelo Eileen Suzin Odlen Elizabeth Bodien Elizabeth Cosgriff Elizabeth Mosier Elizabeth Ticknor Fereshteh Herrman Frances Metzman Freda Egnal Jeffrey Klemens Jennifer Hudes Jennifer Ward Jessica Herring Jim Breslin Joanne Leva John M. Williams/Marie Davis-Williams Joseph Cilluffo Josephine A. Graham Judy Dinnerman Judy Heller Karen McLaughlin Kathleen Carlin Kathleen Kopp Katie Braithwaite Kim Lawrence Kristin & Henry Joy McKeown Linda Wisniewski Liz Dolan Lois Rudnick Marie Piech Marilyn Carrier Mary & Owen Gilman Mary Erpel Megan Greenholt Melissa Trask Davy Mo Ganey & Don Kates

Members as of March 8, 2014

Nancy DuPont Nancy Lubow Nancy Sakaduski/ Cat & Mouse Press Natalie Dyen Nicole & John Monaghan Pamela Fox Patti Nagel Peggy & Doug Gordon Richard Dennis Robin Bonner Rosemary Cappello Ruth Littner Sarah Cain Sheila Sherwin Susan Nelson Suzanne Carey Zielinski Suzanne Chang Terry Mergenthal Tom Molinaro Vernita Hall Virginia Dillon Xio Axelrod

Buck Level ($50 - $99)

(2 Anonymous)

Alison Baer & Jeffery Hirsch Alison Hicks Betsy Anderson Sullivan Bryan Wang Christine & Tom Barnes Christopher Beardsley Concha Alborg Courtney Bambrick/Ian McAteer Dana & Chris Scott Daniel Gordon David Sanders & Nancy Brokaw Douglas Gordon Eileen Cunniffe Elizabeth Brandt Erin Entrada Kelly Hugh & Trina McCauley Irene Fick Jennifer & Erik Streitwieser Jennifer Corey Joanne Green John & Phyllis Taylor Julie Cohen & Nigel Blower Karen & Dan Gruen Kay Peters Lawrence O. Spataro Leigh Goldenberg/Aaron Bauman Lise Funderburg Lynette & John Byrnes Lynn Rosen & Evan Schwartz Margaret & Craig Griffen Marlyn & Randy Alkins Martha Bottomley Mary Scherf Maynard Seider Nimisha Ladva Patricia Pickup Rachel Simon Richard Bank Richard Virtue Robert & Helen Cook

Robert & Judy Schachner Ronald Holtman Sharon Sood & Scott Lempert Susan Karol Martel Suzanne Kimball Thomas Baroth

Whitman Level ($100 - $400)

(1 Anonymous)

Barbara & Eric Holmberg Betsy Mckinstry/Joel Edelstein Bob & Judy Schachner Charlene & Nathaniel Mayer Conrad Weiser & Barbara Holmberg Elisa Sheronas Elizabeth Larsson George D. Murphy Hermann W. Pfefferkorn James Zervanos James Fratto Janice & Paul Stridick Janice Hayes-Cha & Jang-Ho Cha John & Karen Shea Joseph Wechselberger Julia Chang Ken Rodgers Kristina & Steven Moriconi Margot Douaihy Martin Evans Stefanie Levine & Steven Cohen Stephanie Scordia Sue Harvey & Scott Jahss Susan Robbins Tim Kissell Virginia Reid

Potok Level ($500- $999) William Black Judith & Walter Jones Kerri & Marc Schuster Michael Ritter/Christine Furtek Mitchell Sommers Polia Tzvetanova In Memory of Dennis Oberholtzer

W.C. Williams Level ($1000+) Heather McGlinn Hansma/Scott Hansma Thomas McGlinn

Sustainer Members

Charles McGroaty (Whitman Level) Erin Cormier (Buck Level) Julie Odell (Whitman Level) Lyndon Back (Whitman Level)

Want to become a member of Philadelphia Stories? Please visit www.philadelphiastories.org/member

PS_Spring_2014_PS Summer 3/9/14 10:05 PM Page 23

Building a community of writers, artists, and readers across the Delaware Valley A MAGAZINE THAT CREATES COMMUNITY

Thanks to member support, Philadelphia Stories has been serving the writing community of the Greater Delaware Valley since 2004 in the following ways: * Connecting local writers to readers through 5,000 print copies of a free quarterly literary magazine, distributed at more than 200 locations, including all branches of the Free Library of Philadelphia. * Supporting a community of young Philadelphia-area writers through Philadelphia Stories, Jr., a print and online magazine by young writers. * Offering reasonably priced conferences and workshops for writers. * Hosting readings and other social events for writers. * Publishing books through our boutique imprint, PS Books. * Hosting two national contests, one for fiction and one for poetry.

YOU can help keep Philadelphia Stories—a non-profit 501c3—in print and free by making a donation today! For as little as $25 a year, you can get home delivery and know that your gift directly supports the local arts community.

I would like to support local art & literature by making a contribution today.

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PS_Spring_2014_PS Summer 3/9/14 10:05 PM Page 24

Graduate Graduate Graduate Creative Creative Creative Writing Writing Writing and and and Publishing Publishing Publishing Programs Programs Programs now now now offering offering offering a Double a Double a Double Degree Degree Degree Option Option Option

Second Second Second Annual Annual Annual Book Book Book Festival Festival Festival April April April 26,26, 2014 26, 2014 2014

Writers’ Writers’ Writers’ Retreat Retreat Retreat Weekend: Weekend: Weekend: June June June 20-22, 20-22, 20-22, 2014 2014 2014 Weeklong: Weeklong: Weeklong: June June June 22-27, 22-27, 22-27, 2014 2014 2014

Supporting Supporting Supporting authors, authors, authors, small small small indie indie indie publishers, publishers, publishers, literary literary literary journals, journals, journals, andand book and book buyers book buyers buyers with with panel with panel panel discussions, discussions, discussions, small small small workshops, workshops, workshops, andand readings and readings readings throughout throughout throughout thethe day. the day. day.

Faculty Faculty Faculty includes: includes: includes: Robert Robert Robert Strauss, Strauss, Strauss, Randall Randall Randall Brown, Brown, Brown, Sheree Sheree Sheree Bykovsky, Bykovsky, Bykovsky, J.C.J.C. Todd, J.C. Todd, Todd, Kristin Kristin Kristin Waterfield Waterfield Waterfield Duisberg, Duisberg, Duisberg, John John Henry John Henry Henry Fleming, Fleming, Fleming, Catherine Catherine Catherine Stine, Stine, Stine, Anne Anne Anne Kaier, Kaier, Kaier, andand Grant and Grant Grant Clausner Clausner Clausner

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