Philadelphia Stories Winter 2015 by Philadelphia Stories

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free

Building a community of writers,

artists, and readers across the Delaware Valley

10 yrs CELEBRATING

OF PUBLISHING

Alyssa Sharrock

Brahmaptura River Kat Clark

Geography Heals All Darcy Cummings

Winter Gift Noel Straight

To Whom it May Concern

W I N T E R

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Building a community of writers,

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FEATURES 6 Brahmaputra River (fiction) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Alyssa Sharrock 12 Geography Heals All (fiction). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Kat Clark 18 Winter Gift (essay). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Darcy Cummings

6 Pippin’s Unpeaceable Kingdom by Paul

Gorka. Still running, painting, and gardening in his 80’s, Gorka has lived and worked in Philadelphia throughout his life as a painter and art instructor. His work can be found in permanent collections including the Philadelphia Museum of Art, the New Jersey State Museum, the San Diego Museum of Art, The Woodmere Art Museum, the Pennsylvania Academy of Fine Arts and Butler Institute of American Art.

22 To Whom it May Concern (fiction) . . . . . . . . . . . . Noel Straight 28 Book Reviews

7 Road Rage #47 by Stuart Lehrman. A

POETRY 10 Nests . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Christine Salvatore 14 Purple Death on White Silk . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Helen Ohlson 19 Object of Life . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .R.G. Evans 23 Veteran’s Day at the Wall . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Lori Widmer

painter and sculpture, Stuart Lehrman moved to Philadelphia four years ago to work at Philadelphia University. Always on the lookout for ambiguous accidents of beauty and power to integrate into his art, the common pavement became the canvas for his new photography series, "Road Rage." Shot with a digital camera, these photographs are printed with archival inks & dye on paper and aluminum. www.stuartlehrman.com

12 Django by Patrick Sibilia. Patrick is a

PHILADELPHIASTORIES.ORG Publisher/ Editorial Director

Art Director Derek Carnegie

Carla Spataro Production Manager Publisher/ Executive Director

Jon Busch

Christine Weiser

Web Design Loic Duros

Fiction Editor Mitchell Sommers Assistant Fiction Editor Amy Luginbuhl

Board of Directors Kerri Schuster, secretary Mitchell Sommers Alison Hicks Alex Husted Polia Tzvetanova

nonfiction Editor Julia MacDonnell Chang

Contest Coordinator Nicole Pasquarello

Poetry Editor Courtney Bambrick Assistiant Poetry Editor Nicole Pasquarello Art Editor Melissa Tevere 2

Director of Development Sharon Sood

Editorial Board Brenda Adey, fiction Saara Asikainen, fiction Peter Baroth, poetry Alex Brubaker, fiction Deb Burnham, poetry Jon Busch, fiction Kate Centofanti, fiction Sam Dodge, non fiction Liz Dolan, poetry Margot Douaihy, poetry Rossana Duffy, fiction

Ally Evans, fiction Kathleen Furin, fiction Liz Gray, poetry Elizabeth Green, fiction Pat Green, poetry Clare Haggerty, fiction Vernita Hall, poetry Aimee Hearon, poetry Darrah H. Hewlett, fiction Daniel Huppman, fiction Nathan Long, fiction Walt Maguire, fiction Rachel Mamola, non fiction Deborah Off, non fiction Tracey Romero, non fiction John Shea, poetry Maria Thiaw, poetry Sean Toner, non fiction Lena Van, fiction Glenna Walsh, non fiction

painter, a muralist, a craftsman, and a poet. He began his career creating micro-drawings and chalk murals in Washington Square Park (NYC) during the 1980's. He works in multiple media, including stained glass, wood, and leather, but returns again and again to the canvas. Patricksibilia.com

22 Cat by Patrick Sibilia.

(see bio above)

26 In Her Room by Maria Keane. Keane was an Adjunct Professor of Fine Arts at Wilmington University from 1984-2009. She is a published poet whose work can be found in the Fox Chase Review. Her paintings, prints and illustrations are in private and corporate collections across the area. www.mariakeane.com

Cover Art: Frieda by Heather Devlin Knopf.

Support provided in part by the Philadelphia Cultural Fund.

Heather is a professional artist and writer, who works in both oils and acrylics, infusing her work with vibrant colors and humor. A graduate of Carnegie Mellon University, Heather also studied at the Hartford Art School, the Massachusetts College of Art, the DeCordova Museum, and the School of the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston. Heather lives outside of Philadelphia with her family.

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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PHILADELPHIA STORIES 2015 - 2017 STRATEGIC PLAN Introduction In the fall of 2013, a committee comprised of members of the Philadelphia Stories community, board, and volunteers came together with a vision to create a short- and long-term plan for the growth and sustainability of Philadelphia Stories. The dedicated group held six meetings that culminated in a draft of a three-year strategic plan. This plan is being presented in its draft form as part of this issue to give our community the opportunity to provide feedback. Your participation—as a member, writer, reader, and partner—is vital to our goals and objectives to create a thriving writing community. Our plan for the future is based on the following desired results as articulated in our vision statement.

Vision Statement Philadelphia Stories seeks to enhance the lives of writers, artists, readers, and supporters throughout the region by encouraging participation in the literary community, increasing the reach of our publications, and enhancing professional development opportunities for writers. To achieve this vision, Philadelphia Stories must strengthen itself as an organization through planning, budgeting, marketing, fundraising, and professional leadership.

Mission Statement The mission of Philadelphia Stories is to cultivate a community of writers, artists, and readers in the region by mobilizing the spirit and energy of volunteers and supporters throughout the Delaware Valley.

Philadelphia Stories Junior Director Aileen Bachant (center) celebrates the release of the Fall issue with a writer and her family at Mighty Writers West.

• Free issue release parties that include readings from authors featured in Philadelphia Stories, Philadelphia Stories Junior, and PS Books. • Free art exhibits featuring the work of local artists and writers, whose collaborative work is also published in a corresponding title from PS Books. • Promotion of local literary and arts events through social media and a calendar of events on our website.

GOALS AND OBJECTIVES Promotion: Philadelphia Stories will promote regional writers through marketing efforts, including events, partnerships, readings, panels, press coverage, ads, and more. Our specific objectives for 2015-2017 will be to grow the Philadelphia Stories community through increased participation in events and activities that heighten awareness of regional writers. Current examples of how Philadelphia Stories promotes regional writers include:

A toast to extraordinary local talent at the release of PS Books' Extraordinary Gifts: Remarkable Women of the Delaware Valley.

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Building a community of writers,

artists, and readers across the Delaware Valley

10 th

Erin Entrada Kelly

ANNIVERSARY

ISSUE

MARGUERITE MCGLINN FICTION PRIZE

“Happy 10th birthday, Philadelphia Stories! Best wishes for many, many more. Our world is far richer because literary magazines continue to persevere in a world of fierce competitors. Cheers to several more decades.” Erin Entrada Kelly’s debut novel is forthcoming in 2015 from HarperCollins’ Greenwillow Books.

Publication: Our publications—Philadelphia Stories, Philadelphia Stories Jr., and titles from PS Books—are the vehicles through which we specifically connect Philadelphia-area writers to more than 25,000 readers each year. Current examples of how Philadelphia Stories promotes regional writers through its publications include: • We publish 5,000 copies of Philadelphia Stories each quarter and make these free magazines available to every branch of the Free Library of Philadelphia and many other independent bookstores, cafes, and galleries throughout the Delaware Valley.

Chad Willenborg

STONE AND PAPER AND VINYL AND SKIN Mary McMyne

CAMILLE John Shea

PROTECTING THE PLATE

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• We publish 2,000 copies of Philadelphia Stories Jr. twice a year and make these free magazines available to every branch of the Free Library of Philadelphia and other schools and libraries in the area. • We average four book titles each year. Titles include poetry chapbooks, novels, memoirs, and art books by local authors and artists.

Our specific objectives for 2015-2017 are to increase the number of magazine publications printed so we can expand our outreach to more libraries in surrounding counties like Montgomery, Bucks, Chester, and Camden.

Professional Development: Philadelphia Stories will continue its efforts to offer affordable workshops and other professional development opportunities for writers. Specifically, we will continue to host our annual Push to Publish fall conference every October at Rosemont College. Our specific objectives for 2015-2017 will be to add a complementary spring one-day conference for published

An editor shares her feedback with a writer at the annual Push to Publish conference.

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Don Lafferty

Author Greg Frost moderates a genre panel at the annual Push to Publish conference (he is joined by William Lashner, Judi Fennell, and Merry Jones).

authors, a poetry conference during April’s poetry month, and a summer writing workshop for young writers. Current examples of Philadelphia Stories’ affordable workshops and other professional development opportunities include: • Push to Publish fall conference, held every October at Rosemont College. • Free/affordable workshops for young writers. • Opportunities for collaborations between writers and artists through an annual art exhibit and related book promotion.

“Happy 10th birthday to Philadelphia Stories! That's 10 years of selfless dedication to uplifting and solidifying our Philadelphia area writing community during one of the most tumultuous periods in the history of the publishing world. Many thanks to my buds, Christine Weiser, Carla Spataro, and so many more for their tireless dedication to providing affordable, valuable opportunities for writers to improve their craft and achieve their dreams.” Don has been published in numerous blogs and magazines and works as a PR consultant for authors and businesses.

Next Steps: With the feedback and comments we receive from this issue, the Strategic Planning committee will meet again in early 2015 to revise and refine our plan. We will report back to the Philadelphia Stories community with the results, as well as the measures of where we are so far in our planning goals. We hope to complete a final plan by February 2015 and will publish the results on www.philadelphiastories.org.

Special thanks to our Strategic Planning Committee for their hard work on putting this plan together:

Barbara Bloom Stephanie Boudwin Alison Hicks Alex Husted Kerri Schuster Sharon Sood Mitch Sommers Louise Turan Polia Tzvetanova

Kelly Simmons “Congratulations, PS on 10 great years of fiction and art and community. I appreciate all your support of my work!!!” 5

Kelly is a former journalist and current novelist/advertising creative director. She is the author of Standing Still (2009), The Bird House (2011), and a new novel scheduled for release in October 2015.

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BRAHMAPUTRA RIVER

Pippin’s Unpeaceable Kingdom by Paul Gorka © 2014 he Brahmaputra River has trash that floats by like alligators and music notes. I never stop to watch it sing. Even traffic has the attitude of moving quickly. I feel like I am always driving over the Saraighat Bridge in the early morning to go home to my family. Most don’t cross the river this early in the morning so I have the job of waking up the dust and dogs only to have them chase me across. There are stains on my car seats from the tea I drank when a cow stopped in the middle of the road. It is very expensive to hit a cow so I allow my tea to spill instead. Every Indian man knows to drive behind a cow in the street. Most things in nature don’t have the ability to go back; they are always moving forward. This is why you drive behind a cow in the street. I work at a food cart in the city of

Guwahati; it is much busier there than my home village. To get to my family’s house I must leave the main city of Guwahati and cross the north bank of the river over the Saraighat bridge. I drive only a little way until I see my mother’s orange and purple kameez drying in the wind. My childhood home has a powder blue paint job 30 years old. My sister has matching blue eyes. Father says her eyes are a mistake; mother says they are a gift. My sister must marry soon because my father is getting old. My father’s face is greasy and he has the hands of an older man. My mother has the smile lines of an aged servant who doesn’t know better, but she has the wisdom of Goddess Kamakhya. My father has told me he will not be able to dance when she dies but he will make temples over the soft spots on her head. He worries that it won’t be good enough.

It is April fourteenth and I am taking the drive back to my home village very early in the morning for the Bihu. We celebrate the New Year with the cleaning of the house and thoughts; it is bad luck to be without family when the calendar starts over again. It is slow going to the bridge because many go home for the Bihu including cows, chickens, children, and elephants all crossing the river. Ahead of me are two elephants and a trainer who sits on the big one’s neck. The trainer has a bald head and equally bald mouth with rotted teeth. It is normal for elephants to cross the bridge in the sunrise; elephants must cross rivers too. Although I am sure they can play an Ekkalam longer than their trunks to sing with the music notes and alligators in the river, it is easier for the trainer to nap on the elephant’s back as they cross the bridge. Sometimes he will bring his son

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b r a h m a p u t r a to ride next to him. Today the son stands on the elephant’s back and flies his kite twenty feet closer to heaven. I like to think about where the kite will go if the child lets it. Will it carry the child’s prayers to Shiva? What would a child pray about? Would Shiva listen to a kite prayer? What prayer would I attach if I could? I think Shiva would like prayers on kites. But is it a kite when the child lets go? Is a kite still called a kite when it is detached? These are things I wonder as my car spits slowly, far behind the elephants. The larger elephant is a mother. Sometimes I hear her trainer call her Ayed. Today she carries the sleeping trainer with his feet on her ears and his son flying his prayers on her back. The smaller elephant is her daughter, Tuffi. I watch Tuffi grow up from my car window. Every week when they cross the river Tuffi seems three feet larger. Still, she is only about two feet taller then my

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car. Ayed’s ears look worn, like a kite that was stuck in many trees; she lets them drape like drying a silk sari on a rainy day. She has eyes that look too small for her wrinkled head but somehow she always looks like she is smiling. Baby Tuffi still likes to flare out her ears like a butterfly that just came out of the cocoon; she is always smiling like her mother. If a car comes close to the baby as they walk slowly on the road she does not become mad like her mother. Ayed will yell at the car, swing her trunk, and stare right at the driver if he becomes impatient and tries to come too close. Tuffi, in turn, tries to reach into the window and eat whatever banana or bag of chips the driver saved for lunch. Sometimes little elephant Tuffi will run to the side of her mother and hit her with a trunk that looks like a highpitched bansuri . She seems to laugh as Ayed sighs and keeps walking, too focused for her daughter’s silliness. Today the bridge is a strange sight; very few cars are coming on the right side toward the city but there are many cars backed up behind me trying to go to the villages. Nobody dares pass one another because of the elephants. Elephants do not like cars in their walking space. I wait in line with car horns, dog barks, and coughing. The river is below us and the sun is dressed in dust above. My car spits behind. I sip my tea and wish elephants walked faster. I picture my mother’s face as it was when I was a child, forgetting how old she has gotten. I am happy to be coming home to her. Ayed has not noticed that Tuffi stopped walking. The baby is trying to reach into the window of a construction truck. The truck is much taller then she is but her trunk can easily reach the window. The workers have dirty faces and weathered shoes but they are smiling. They pet Tuffi’s trunk as she searches each of their pockets for apples. When she does not find anything to eat she exhales harshly at them in frustration.

Joe Gangemi “Happy Anniversary Philadelphia Stories. Can't believe you're already 10. Soon you'll be walking a dozen paces behind me at the mall and pretending you don't know me. Here's hoping for another decade of introducing new voices to Philly readers.” Joseph Gangemi is a screenwriter and novelist. Born in Wilmington, Delaware, he graduated from Swarthmore College in 1992. He lives outside Philadelphia with his wife and children.

Breathing is a universal language. The workers understand that she is frustrated with them, teasing her like that. They shrug at her; it is doubtful they will have much to eat today, either. An exhale much louder and stronger comes from farther up the road. Ayed has noticed that her daughter is off with the cars, this annoys her. She does not like being on this bridge. Tuffi realizes that she has been discovered and runs up the road and takes hold of her mother’s tail. The trainer is still sleeping and the kite is still flying. The elephants are about halfway across the Saraighat Bridge by now. I am safely behind them. A layer of empty dusty road and two cars separates my car from the elephants. Traffic is heavy today. They walk slowly, mother in front of daughter. Mother stoic but smiling still, she continues carrying a sleeping man and a flying boy. Daughter bobs her head from side to side as her bansuri trunk holds loosely onto her mother’s tail. She seems to be bobbing her head to music. I wonder if she is listening to the music of the car horns or of the river. Tuffi is distracted once again. I sigh this time, we are so close to the end of the bridge. She has found a piece of an orange, or maybe a dead bird in the middle of the road. She is picking up something orange with her bansuri trunk. Ayed has not yet noticed that her daughter has fallen behind but I am sure she will soon. Tuffi drops the object and it rolls farther to the right side of the road.

She is not very good with her trunk yet. From farther up the bridge a loud sound reverberates through the dust. Ayed yells. Tuffi looks up to realize how far away she is from her mother. A tour bus as big as Ayed, full of white faces became impatient waiting and is speeding up the right side of the road. The mother is chasing it, continuing to yell a horrible sound. Before Tuffi can turn to get to her mother I hear a screech and a loud banging noise, a scream in a minor chord, a shriek, I see the reflection of the sun off the bus and a cloud of dust. I cannot see exactly what has happened. The men in the cars around me do not move. We have forgotten how. Our hands collectively clench the steering wheel and feet press the brake. Our bodies are frozen. We are trying to make sense of these noises. The dust dissipates. There is glass, a broken headlight, red, gray, dust, butterfly ears, and more red. I see the nose of the bus bent in, looking like a sneeze waiting to come from the dust. The tire is flat, the side windows fallen on the road. A bansuri is smeared red and in the center I see a mound, only a little bigger than my car. It does not move. A grey mound. It does not move. Dust settles on and around Tuffi. There is more screeching and pounding and yelling as the mother has started into a run up the bridge. Her trainer has fallen off her back onto the road; his son has reeled in his kite. The son begins to

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b r a h m a p u t r a run after Ayed, towards Tuffi. The father holds him back shaking his head. They stand by the guardrail holding hands. Ayed kneels on her front legs in front of Tuffi, still yelling. Gingerly she reaches under the baby with her trunk, pulling the mound closer to her face. I cannot see that far, but I imagine her face no longer looks like it is smiling; I imagine tears running down her coarse wrinkled skin, powerful enough to be a river themselves. Breathing is a universal language. I know Ayed’s deep exhale, slow and long. “Deep sorrow,” she whispers. She breathes. Ayed holds her baby in the middle of the Sarighat Bridge, breathing and yelling. The bus driver, having inspected that everyone in the bus is not hurt, tries to start up the bus once again. There is nothing he can do for a dead animal. The driver has blood dripping down his forehead. The bus spits and putters, clicks and clicks, but does not move. The stirring and clicking of the engine prompts Ayed to raise her head from her baby’s limp clarinet trunk and lifeless little eyes. She neatly tucks her daughter’s ears next to her small body and trunk along her legs. Then Ayed stands. Her breathing changes. She exhales so hard that the dust runs away from her feet. Her ears are spread; no longer limp silk around her face. There is a pause and a moment where everyone, the drivers, the bus driver, and Ayed take in a large breath. The drivers hold their breath out of anticipation and fear but Ayed lets it go in the form of a roar more terrifying then any machine. She moves her head from side to side, like a cobra ready to spit. Still roaring, she runs up to the bus as the driver frantically turns the keys again and again, right hand outstretched and palm opened wide. I think she will fight the bus. Knock it over and stomp on it. I should call the ambulance for those people in the tour bus. She will not leave any life to save.

She does not fight the bus. She stops right as she reaches it. The driver has stopped trying to start the engine in fear of what Ayed will do if forced to chase it. There is another breath and another roar. This one shakes in my chest and rattles my ribs as if they were railroad tracks. Ayed paces the bus, looking through each window. She nods her head again, returning to the front of the bus near the dented nose. Another roar, she uses her forehead to break off more glass of the window in front of the driver. Glass is everywhere; some of it is stuck in her head. She does not notice. Maybe she does not care. There is another pause. I am still holding my breath. Ayed’s trunk reaches into the broken window. Sirens behind me say someone else has called the ambulance. I do not know what they will do. Ayed’s trunk wraps around the waist

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of the driver. He struggles, scratches, tears, and spits at Ayed’s coarse, spiked skin. He tries to cut her with a shard of glass but they are both already bleeding red. Ayed’s trunk forces his body through the window. Her breathing is hard and rapid. I hear his screams, I hear the sirens, I hear car doors closing and men yelling; I cannot hear the river. The police have arrived. They form a circle around the scene with their machine guns. Now there is more yelling than breathing. The bus driver is only in Ayed’s trunk for a few moments. She raises him, screaming and crying and kicking. His head hits the metal guardrail with a crack and slam. His body is limp in her trunk. Less yelling and less breathing. His body is raised once again over the guardrail. Ayed throws the bus driver’s limp, bleeding body into the river.

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Nests By Christine Salvatore I. Because we are always in need of distraction, this year it is the birds we want to know all about. Call each thing by its right name. American Gold Finch. House Sparrow. Carolina Wren. We get closest to the wren as she builds her bowl-like nest next to our front door, lays five eggs, startles each time we come and go. Four weeks pass by. The wren abandons her unhatched eggs. We forget about birds for awhile but don't dispose of the nest because it's trying to tell us something, I think, about our divided home. Call each thing by its right name. Married, separated, divorced. Unlike the wren we cannot move on. II. I am trying to write about a bird. A bird and a nest. I am trying to write about the nest. The bird could be the me that I want to be, who understands a futile endeavor, who abandons the nest, who knows when

The yelling picks up once again, the police are deciding who should shoot Ayed. She must be shot; she is a rogue elephant who just killed a man. The trainer and his son sit on the guardrail; the father covers his son’s eyes. No man wants to shoot an elephant; no man wants to shoot a mother. She is a mother who just watched a man kill her daughter. I think of my mother’s wrinkles that only came after I moved into the city. In the confusion, Ayed’s ears go limp. Her breathing slows to a groan. She is wailing crying. Her trainer tries to reason with the police, every machine gun pointed in the same place. Ayed looks into the windows of the bus. I imagine she sees the tourists’ faces, horrified and crying. She walks past the bus slowly. Sorrow is also a universal language. Finally I hear the police officers decide. The Chief will shoot the elephant. They follow the groaning sobbing mother as she marches off the Sarighat Bridge. I hear no shots but I see Ayed in the distance fall on the bank of the Brahmaputra River. No shots were fired but her body goes limp in the dust. The mother makes one more exhale into welcomed death. It is bad luck to start the New Year without family. All of the drivers exhale with her and begin to cry. Today the trash in the Brahmaputra River floats by like an elegy of alligators and minor notes. I think I will fly a kite with my mother tonight.

it's time to take flight. If there was any grieving in her empty bones, she took it elsewhere in the end, away from the home she made, away from the failure that found her. 10

Will a distant bough, even broken, still support her song? Christine E. Salvatore received her MFA from The University of New Orleans. She currently teaches literature and creative writing at The Richard Stockton College of New Jersey, Egg Harbor Township High School, and in the MFA Program at Rosemont College. She is a Gerealdine R. Dodge Poet and her poetry has recently appeared or will appear in The Literary Review, The Cortland Review, Mead Journal,Prime Number Magazine and in The Edison Literary Review. Her poem, Betrayal, was a finalist in the Southeast Review's 2014 Gearhart Poetry Prize. She is the recipient of a 2005 Fellowship from the New Jersey State Council of the Arts.

Alyssa is a newly-certified adult, living and working in Philadelphia, PA. She graduated from the University of Delaware in May of 2014 with degrees in Women and Gender Studies and English Writing. The day after graduation she began working with Gearing Up, a fantastic nonprofit aimed at empowering women in recovery from abuse, addiction, and incarceration to ride a bicycle. When she’s not working or writing, Alyssa is watching Netflix with her girlfriend, playing with her cat, or riding her bicycle.

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SUZANNE COMER

Suzanne Comer is a Philadelphia-based artist who was formally trained in oil painting and printmaking. Since 2002 she has explored photography as her primary artistic medium. She is a long-time contributor to Philadelphia Stories and recently took the time to share with us some of her experiences with the magazine over the past ten years. Congratulations on your recent inclusion in the book Extraordinary Gifts: Remarkable Women in the Delaware Valley, published by PS books. Can you briefly describe your contributions to this collection? Thank you. I felt honored to have been selected for such a wonderful book. I often create photomontages from sections of photographs I have taken at local gardens. One of my favorites is the Morris Arboretum, which was developed from the botanical collections of Lydia Morris and her brother John. The two photomontages I created for the book were based on photos I had taken at the arboretum. Since Lydia had a passion for the rose garden, I created one piece featuring the hand of a woman I came upon, holding some of the flowers that had fallen there. My second photomontage honors the garden as a whole, using images of its autumn glory. Do you see your work as being part of a greater social narrative or do you tend to view your art as more of a personal experience? My work is part of a greater narrative in that I focus on the beauty all around us, most importantly in nature, which is often on the brink of destruction. But my creativity is deeply personal and always reflects my inner core and perspective. While each photomontage has a personal meaning for me, I also want the viewer to form their own interpretations of what they see and create new meanings. When did you first begin experimenting in the arts? I began drawing as a small child. One of the earliest pieces I recall doing was a tiny book about a rabbit, using colored pencils. On each illustration I glued pieces of cotton for the rabbit’s tail. I have been experimenting with a variety of different art forms ever since.

I find it interesting that you initially came from a background in painting, but later turned to photography. What made you interested in photography? Having worked in the commercial graphics field for many years, I had taught myself how to use Photoshop. I had always taken family snapshots and once I started experimenting with a digital camera, I saw that my photos could be combined and manipulated to create a digital art form. I normally don’t consider a single photograph to be an end product. My photographs are materials, like oil paints, with which to create an assembled final piece. Possibilities for working in this manner are endless. What is a typical starting point for one of your pieces? I.e., do you begin with an image, a story, an emotion, etc.? I always begin with taking photographs. Then, I am either inspired to create something from a set of photos I’ve taken or perhaps a strong emotion will direct the piece. I also like the challenge of creating for juried shows, often with a specific theme. I don’t have a preset image in my mind of how a project will look. I let it evolve. I liken it to sculptors who often describe how their image emerges from the stone. That is the same feeling I experience when I create a new piece. You’ve been a long-time supporter of Philadelphia Stories. How do you believe the magazine benefits the local arts community? I cannot say enough good things about Philadelphia Stories and its founders: Christine Weiser and Carla Spataro. They are true visionaries with brave, trailblazing instincts, who created an inspiring magazine and publishing company. I am in awe of what they have done and continue to do to support writers and artists. I am especially thrilled with how they include visual artists in almost everything they do. The attractive artwork included in the magazine draws people to it, where they are then captivated by the literary works. It is a brilliant combination. I know of no other creative venue that is so supportive of artists and writers. Are you currently working on any projects? I am currently in the photographing phase. Since I am a colorist, fall and spring are my most active shooting times. I can’t go to the art store to pick up materials, so I have to continually be aware of photographing what I will need for my process. I have some concepts I would like to explore, as well as photographs I would like to eventually use in future projects. Like all things in life, my works change and evolve. That is the goal of an artist—as it is for any person in life—to learn from each experience, grow, and develop.

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GEOGRAPHY HEALS ALL wasn’t going to think about it today. I wasn’t going to talk about it today. I wasn’t going to look at myself in the mirror or touch that place on my neck or sit on that side of the mattress. What was it that he’d said, sitting there? I wasn’t going to think about it. I focused on a camera: a dark box, with light coming in through a pinhole. And on the opposite wall, an image from the world develops, inverted and reversed. So if I stand on my head and look behind me, there’s the world, but in front of me there’s only a pinhole. And maybe if I walked towards the hole, I’d be able to see outside the box — but it’s so hard to walk on your hands. I tripped on the curb. There was slush everywhere. East of us on Hazel, a man dragged a boy behind him. Little boots knocked together as the big hand yanked him forward. He could have been a hand truck or a suitcase, skidding across concrete. The pair stopped abruptly under a snowcovered tree. I saw the man’s thick shoulders, his brown work boots. I waited to witness whatever discipline was coming. And then I heard the man say gently, “Stand right there.” The boy dropped his father’s hand and stepped under the branches. The sun was fading behind me. They were two black faces in the half-dark, lit by half a sunset. Then the man took the top of the tree in both hands and shook it softly. The boy jumped and danced, laughing in the falling white. “I told you it would snow!” The son reached out two puffy coated arms, two too-big mittens. A little baby Michelin Man. They didn’t see me

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Allison Alsup “Happy 10th, Philadelphia Stories! Best wishes for many more. And on behalf of emerging writers everywhere, thank you, thank you, thank you. Can't wait to read the new anthology!” Allison is the winner of the 2010 Marguerite McGlinn Prize for Fiction..

watching them. Murray stood patiently at the corner, watching This is why I’d make it clear a bit earlier who Murray is me. A cloud withdrew from the sky. We passed a couple arguing about the importance of organic apples. Two streets further, there were giggles in the darkness. A cat posed stiffly in

the middle of the road. Question— would the dog react to this? And would this be a good point to let us know there is a dog? Maybe even earlier, when narrator and dog are walking through the slush? I heard the sound of a toy car scraping towards us: stop, go, stop, go. It jerked and bumped along the night side-

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walk, its tiny driver struggling to steer. The indignant grunt of a growing boy, the defeated squeak of plastic wheels. Then the shadows of two girls ran in front of the car, and from inside it came the yelp of a cheated little brother: “HEY!” “Can we pet your dog?” The shadows asked me. They swept their hands across his spine. The little brother stepped out of his red and yellow coupe and hoisted up his snow pants. His road rage subsided as he drunkenly toddled towards us. “What’s his name?” lisped the boy. I told him. “MURRRRRAY. HI, Murray.” He spoke slowly and loudly, like a white grandpa to an exchange student. Murray sneezed. “Is he a daddy dog?” the boy wanted to know. “He’s a boy, but he’s not a daddy,” I said.

Suburban Philadelphia f ust be more t o l i ere m “Th

av an h e th

ing everything .”

Simplicity is the glory of expression.

MFA in Creative Writing MA in Publishing Dual Degree in Creative Writing and Publishing

www.rosemont.edu

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Robin E. Black “Congratulations to Philadelphia Stories on 10 years of AMAZING publishing and community building!!!” Robin Black’s story collection If I loved you, I would tell you this, was published by Random House in 2010 to international acclaim. Her new novel, Life Drawing, was described by the The UK Bookseller as “the nearest thing to a perfect novel that I have ever read.” .

“Why? Doesn’t he want to be a daddy?” It was as if this boy saw the secret human I knew lived inside my dog. “I’m sure he would be a good daddy, but he isn’t one,” I said. “How come?” asked the boy, wiping snot from his nose. I stared. “Some dogs get surgery,” the taller sister offered. The smaller one nodded. I

imagined Murray entering the hospital in a collared shirt, withdrawing his insurance card: “I’m here — WOOF — for my vasectomy.” Or maybe he would turn to his doggy wife in bed: “I’m not sure that this is working.” The little boy thought for a moment, his hand resting between Murray’s ears. “We had a dog, but he—” There was a slurping sound as

Purple Death on White Silk By Helen Ohlson I am drawn to the painting Like the cows that are drawn To the double purple flower Of the deadly Jimsom Weed Drawn onto the painted silk Are the cunning lethal curves of the stem The calyx, long and tubular, swollen at the bottom Surmounted by five sharp teeth 14

The artist plays her brush like the pied piper Vines rise up to come-hither petals Drawing me closer to the flowing scarf Lured in like the bovine crowd Helen Ohlson, a retired teacher, is an award winning writer who lives in Arden, Delaware. She is currently enrolled in a Botanical Illustration course with a group of talented artists at Longwood Gardens, where she found inspiration for her poem.

Murray licked the boy’s face. The girls decided to conduct an examination. “He has werewolf paws,” said one sister. “Yes, he does,” I agreed. “Do you think he’s a werewolf?” asked the other. “Probably.” It was a full moon. Murray stood guard, like Nana with the Darlings. “Will you come back to see us?” asked the little boy. “Yes, I live right around the corner.” “But will you COME BACK?” “Yes,” I promised. “And you can pet Murray whenever you want.” The shadows of parents moved on the porch, clinking glass. As I walked away, the boy called out: “Come back soon! ...And don’t forget to come back!” We kept walking. A white man with a black hat passed us on the sidewalk. He looked at me, but I didn’t look at him. A black man with a white hat passed us on the sidewalk. I looked at him, but he didn’t look at me. Murray barked at a passing pitbull. Did the pitbull do anything? Not that the pit needs to. A bicyclist whizzed by in a yellow blur. Then there was nobody for a long while. At a corner in the blue dark, I saw a vintage green Chevy with its wheels embedded in ice. Up and down 47th Street, parked cars slept in a frozen stream, witnesses of a water main break. But the green truck had been parked there for weeks. Some things are forgotten for safekeeping. Murray licked my forehead as I knelt down to tie my wet shoelace. I remembered a kiss on my forehead, the specter of somebody who never came back. I decided to concentrate on werewolves: victims of a contagious disease passed on through a bite. Or maybe they were people who chose to dress in wolfskin, self-punishing for some transgression (tax fraud?). Or what if they were only the

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g e o g r a p h y deformed and lonely, hunted down for being too hairy? They undressed for someone they loved and then there was a scream and a silver bullet. In my mind, the scream sounded like a love poem because love is not love, which alters when it alteration finds neither joy, nor love, nor light and conquers all that’s stored up for you like an inheritance, a song that only you can hear (I carry it in my heart) and there’s scarcely anything else in the world, for each man kills the thing he loves— I knelt there with my head on my knees, a communion with the slush, feeling the weight of a body. Someone else’s body. Now it’s like an empty house. I prayed to whatever god there might be, by way of C.S. Lewis. And then I felt that sloppy dog tongue on my face. Not on my forehead, but almost in my nostrils. In places no human would kiss. There is always one who kisses and one who offers the cheek.

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Aimee LaBrie “Carla and Christine and everyone on the staff has been amazing since I first met them years and years ago. Congrats to ten great years publishing many of the best writers in the area. I hope to see Philadelphia Stories continue for another several (?) decades to come!” Aimee received her MFA in fiction from Pennsylvania State University in 2003. Her short story "Ducklings" was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Aimee taught fiction workshops for Philadelphia Stories and writes a regular column for the magazine and website.

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Graduate W Writing riting Studies Pr Program ogram The M.A. in Writing Studies program is based on the idea that writers learn best from practicing writers, in small courses, with lots of time for drafting, revising, and soliciting feedback from peers and instructors. Our program bridges the gap between master’ss degrees in English and creative writing by traditional master’ emphasizing that all writing is creative.

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I wished I hadn’t majored in women filling their pockets with stones and sticking their heads into ovens. Maybe tomorrow the pinhole would widen and I would want to be a marine biologist. But there was a van stalling behind my dog in the darkness. I stood up. My foot was asleep. Murray teetered, confused. The sliding door to the van was open. A man crouched on the upholstery, watching me. He looked too small to be holding that gun. Was I supposed to give him my money? I didn’t have any money. There was a peppermint in my pocket. “Give me the dog,” he said. “Put him in the van.” The barrel of the gun seemed to be pointed towards my elbow. I was supposed to give him my belongings and run. But Murray wasn’t a belonging. Maybe if I stood very, very still, the van would go away... The streetlights stared at me. I remembered a night in a different city. I had stepped off the train into the dark and into the open lot. Even with a sunburn heating my skin, it was cold and the world seemed crowded with shadows. I had walked quickly towards the newspaper dispensers at the corner, feeling the weight of the buildings surrounding me. A rat had scuttled in front of me on the sidewalk and I had started to run. I’d run past the garage that housed the big trucks, the fenced-in homes with all their lights off, the greengated yard where I’d been kissed, once. I’d run past a possum with red eyes, a man pissing on a doorstep, a playground where someone moaned and wailed. When I’d finally made it to the apartment, I had clanged the metal gate shut behind me and climbed the stairs to that warm wooden door. He’d pulled me inside. I’d said I’d never live alone in the city. “Give me the dog!” The man yelled. There was a clicking noise. I pictured myself giving him the dog. I imagined them screeching away with

Jonathan Maberry “Happy Tenth Anniversary to Philadelphia Stories! Since issue #1 this magazine has presented superb writing in a variety of genres, and it's done a wonderful job of showcasing the diverse and widespread writing talent in Philly. Bravo! And may it continue on for many, many, many years to come!” Jonathan is a New York Times best-selling and multiple Bram Stoker Award-winning horror and thriller author, comic book writer, magazine feature writer, playwright, content creator and writing teacher/lecturer.

Beth Kephart “Happy anniversary to the fabulous Philadelphia Stories!” Beth Kephart is an author of non-fiction, poetry and young adult fiction for adults and teens. Kephart has written and published over ten books and has received several grants and awards for her writing..

Murray in the backseat, me standing in the street alone. By myself. Murray gone. Giving them the dog. Murray began to snarl. Here was the pinhole. It looked like a full moon. I was pressed up against the side of the box and I could see outside. This man couldn’t put me in the box because I was already in the box. He sat motionless, staring at me. I remembered the wooden door opening two hundred times. A laugh into my collarbone, two coasters and two mugs. What kind of math lets the present day trump all that came before? This was a different city. He wasn’t going to get my dog. I remembered a key turning, a brown plant in the window, an empty refrigerator. He’d been twelve and then he’d been in college and then he’d come to pick me

up from the train. He’d washed my hair when I was sick. He’d wanted two boys and two girls. What was it that he’d said, sitting there? He’d recoiled. He hadn’t looked me in the eye. His face was a thumbprint on a glass of milk. I could remember his smell but not his mouth. What was it that he’d said? “Don’t touch me,” I growled. We turned to walk away.

A graduate of Swarthmore College, Kat is the Assistant Director of Marketing and Communications at Moorestown Friends School. Outside of her full-time position, she works for the Health for America Fellowship Program and supports The Chester Fund for Education and the Arts. Kat volunteer teaches at Mighty Writers and lives in Philly with her dog, Rory.

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EDITOR

FICTION

MITCHELL SOMMERS

When he’s not practicing consumer bankruptcy law in Lancaster, PA, Mitchell Sommers is busy at work writing short stories, novels, and op-eds. If that’s not enough, he is also the Fiction Editor here at Philadelphia Stories and a member of the board of directors. With the recent ten-year anniversary of the magazine, we thought it would be interesting to hear about Mitchell’s experiences so far, as well as, his insight on fiction writing. When did you first become involved with Philadelphia Stories? My first involvement with Philadelphia Stories began when I submitted a story to them, called “The Marshak,” based on my time representing parents in the Lancaster County court system who had their kids taken from them by Children and Youth. I later found out that Carla loved it, but she was outvoted. (Not to worry. It did find a home with my college alma mater, Franklin and Marshall College’s literary magazine: http://www.pageturnpro.com/Franklin-and-MarshallCollege/ 51728-Alumni-Arts-Review—Vol-1,-Spring-2012/index.html#92 Four years later, I submitted another story, called “Bando,” which dealt with mortgage foreclosures at the start of the housing crash. This time they published it. Shortly after, I was asked to join the fiction board and the board of directors. I remember rumbles of the sort, “We really could use a lawyer around here.” And so it went.

the work we do goes out, not just in the Delaware Valley, but all over the East Coast. Here’s an example. I was recently at Rehoboth Beach, Delaware, working on a second draft of my novel at a Starbucks (yes, the cliché is noted) when I overheard two people talking about writing-related things. I introduced myself and the one person said she’d submitted to us, and that a friend of hers had a novel excerpt published by us this year, that being “Holy Day” by Anne Colwell. Did your passion for writing begin before or during your career as a lawyer? And what affect, if any, does your career have on your writing? I always loved to write. I constantly wrote as a kid. When I went to Dickinson School of Law, they, like most law schools, carefully looked for any trace of creativity in my writing and proceeded to beat it the hell out of me. From graduation to the mid ‘90s, my writing consisted of things that contained the words “Plaintiff” and “Defendant.” Eventually, I spent a few years at a writer’s workshop in Lancaster County. From there, I got my MFA in the low-res program at University of New Orleans. As to the effect on my writing, obviously the work I do gives me stories to tell. But I think the more interesting thing has been the effect that writing creatively has had on my legal writing. I’m more conscious of building a narrative structure in letters and in legal pleadings. Advocacy after all is telling a story. Do you prefer to work in any specific genre? I’m all over the place. I say that my home is literary fiction, but I’ve had things published in the creative non-fiction category. I’ve also dabbled in playwriting. I used to be active in a playwriting group although it’s been a few years since I’ve been active. I also used to be a regular oped contributor for the Philadelphia Inquirer. I currently contribute opeds for the Lancaster newspapers.

Would you say that there is any particular style or type of writing that tends to get published?

Who are some of your literary heroes?

I hate to do the “we want strong writing” dodge, but that’s kind of true. Our two Pushcart Nominees for 2013 were stories that didn’t have a conventional narrative structure, “One out of Ten Fish are Afraid of Water,” by Che Yuen, and “Einstein’s iPod,” by Stephen Graf. But one of my favorite stories this year has been “The Worm of the Heart,” by Ilene Rush, which was conventionally structured. So, we’re back to “write strong stuff.” Yeah, I know. Totally unhelpful.

I have to give a shout out to two of my professors at University of New Orleans, Joseph and Amanda Boyden. They are amazing people, amazing writers, and amazing teachers. Joseph Boyden isn’t as well known in the U.S., but in his native Canada, he’s very renowned. I’ve also always loved Michael Chabon. Ditto Dave Eggers. I kind of swiped my structure for the novel I submitted as my MFA thesis from “The Wonder Boys.” There. I busted myself.

What role do you believe Philadelphia Stories plays in the local arts community?

Are you currently working on any projects?

We bring writers and readers together, not just through our publication, but through events such as the Push to Publish conference. And

I have one novel in the pipeline for PS Books. I am also working on a historical fiction novel. And there’s always all those short stories in need of revision…

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WINTER GIFT he book was huge, maybe flowers. The text was supposed to be 12 x 15 inches, encased in read to, not by, a child—many of the a linen-like material that words were ones I’d never seen or heard. A first edition, published either at matched its pale yellow Oxford University Press, or as the first binding. At seven, I’d never seen a book with its own coat. My mother showed American edition in 1929, it was an me how to carefully slide the book out of expensive book, not really appropriate the sleeve, carefully turn the pages. On the cover was the title: Fairy Flowers. By Isadora Newman. Illustrated by Willy Pogany. Inside the front cover, a dazzle of gold letters and dancing figures. The first illustration was of a gypsy cart, decorated with ribbons and bright flowers; a bride and groom were riding away. At the bottom of the picture was the road: it seemed to unfurl from my chest where I’d lodged the book. This was one of the pictures I remember most vividly: escape, joy, some magic down the road. I turned the pages from one illustration to the next: a giant boy, grasping the sun, slowly sinking into the soil, his distraught parents watching, terrified. The Legend of the Sunflower. Then a small child in golden clothes in a gold four The cover of Fairy Flowers by Isadora Newman poster bed—a prince, proband illustrated by Willy Pogany. ably—looking spoiled and petulant. The colors glowed on the beautifully printed, pasted-in for a second grade child. My godmothillustrations. As soon as I came to the er, Aunt Dee, gave me the book for no final illustration, I went back to the reason—it wasn’t Christmas, or my beginning of the book and began leafing birthday. But coming in the mail at the them through again. drab, damp, cold middle of winter, when Fairy Flowers, according to the subtiwe rarely got to the public library, the tle, is a collection of stories and fairy tales book was doubly welcome. about the factual and legendary origin of All Dee’s gifts to her nieces and

nephews seemed inappropriate, at least to my parents. Why give a small child such a book—suppose it was ruined by my younger brothers and sister? Would I take care of it? Who would have the time to read it to me? How much did it cost? How much food could have been bought, bills paid, if Dee had given that money to them? They always seemed to have questions about her gifts. Some parents might have put the book away, brought it down from a high shelf for special occasions, but I was allowed to keep it in the room I shared with my toddler sister, perhaps because my mother was an artist and encouraged us to look at her collection of prints—or more likely, because it kept me quiet for hours. They also didn’t want to annoy Dee. She had money, was childless and nearing forty. I was her godchild, had her name, her exact name before she married. I was the first grandchild. So I was to be indulged, encouraged. In any case, given my carelessness with possessions, the book wouldn’t last long. Very soon, inside the front cover, I wrote my name in huge letters with a big black crayon. I meant it not as a desecration, but as a declaration of my joy in possessing Fairy Flowers. While my parents considered the book a foolish choice for the careless, rebellious child I was, Dee had the gift of knowing exactly what toys or books would resonate with me. Her gifts were subversive, instinctively tuned in to the psyche of an unhappy little girl. I think she chose those gifts because she had

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w i n t e r also been unhappy, and that child still lived in her, lived to choose the elegant, odd, inappropriate things she gave me. Fairy Flowers, I think, represented her ambitions for me—to love beauty, to become a reader, to become educated, to become the artist she hadn’t had the chance to be. The pictures in Fairy Flowers were so powerful that, for the next two years, I struggled through the text, as if that were the fee I had to pay to earn the pictures. I don’t remember my mother reading me the book, but she probably did, or told

me the meaning of words when I asked. The diction was florid, the vocabulary way above our second grade text books. “The Legend Of The Purple Dahlia” described the main character: As his name implies, Monsieur Rosette was a most formal and methodical servitor, precise and punctilious in his duties, which he performed each day….Indeed, he was an exceptional gentleman, a paragon of etiquette, whose only desires and pleasures in life were in the service of his sovereigns. I might have figured out that he was

Object of Life By R.G. Evans The butterfly had loved being a caterpillar, growing fat on tomato leaves, the sun warm as forever on its back. Some days the job is simple: mistake dying for living. Master this, and the next thing you know, you have wings, crave food insubstantial as nectar, feel the pull of migration like gravity pulling along the Y axis. The butterfly forgets how the caterpillar loved the caterpillary life, the way a man forgets that sublimate begins with sublime— it doesn’t end there— as any monarch could tell if it weren’t lost in a black and orange cloud of longing. R.G. Evans's book Overtipping the Ferryman, won the 2013 Aldrich Poetry Prize. His poems, fiction, and reviews have appeared in Rattle, Paterson Literary Review, The Literary Review and Weird Tales, among other places. Evans's original music, including the song "The Crows of Paterson," was featured in the 2012 documentary All That Lies Between Us. Evans teaches Language Arts at Cumberland Regional High School and Creative Writing at Rowan University.

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a good servant, but the line drawing that illustrated the story showed me that he was silly as well as noble, a serious man, admirable yet quaint. The most enthralling illustration was the one for the water lily legend. In it a young woman was floating underwater, naked except for her long hair and a few cleverly placed wave swirls. I’d never seen a naked person in a book before. I stared at the woman’s breasts. According to the words, she was a princess who’d drowned while foolishly clutching gold she’d found at the bottom of the pond, a gift she would give to the prince she loved. Sinking into the mucky floor of the pond, unable to drop the gold or pull her feet free, she’d been transformed into a water lily—the very first water lily. Reading the words, I felt the suck of the mud, the weight of the gold in her hands. Terrifying. The story had a moral, maybe a few of them: 1. Don’t be greedy; 2. Stay close to home; 3. You are not the equal of the prince you love; 4. Expensive gifts and swampy ponds are dangerous. Such plot lines (bad behavior/death/ transformation/lesson) were frequent in the book, though some ended the way “proper” fairy tales did, happily ever after. But the words, the plots were beside the point—Pogany seemed to have his own interpretation of the legends, and the illustrations whispered his version: that perfect servant was an ass, the naked girl wasn’t weighed down with gold—she loved the water, look, her hands were empty, as if yielding to the element that embraced her, luscious blues and greens blending from gentian to palest aqua. She was ecstatic, erotic, full of the joy of her body. And she could breathe under water. Why not? Of course, I wasn’t, at the time, consciously aware of this disjunction between the text and the pictures, but I was enthralled by their uneasy balance. Perhaps the book, in a dream-like way, reminded me of the gritty child life we were experiencing and the noble, con-

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J Byron Schachner Has it really been TEN YEARS PHILADELPHIA STORIES? Why, I can remember when you were just a baby...Congratulations for what you have always been and for what you will continue to be...a gem. Hugs and whiskers, Judy Schachner Judy has been illustrating and writing children’s books since 1992 and has given numerous presentations in schools and libraries.

fusing, abstract words we were supposed to live by—“transubstantiation,” “indulgences,” “purgatory.” It reminded me of the harassed, overworked, fallible, at times cruel nuns and priests my father worshipped and the sensuous experience of the high mass, incense, music, and the hypnotic litanies filled with strange metaphors: Mary star of the sea, Queen of heaven, pray for us. When we moved to Camden two years later, the book disappeared. My mother had various excuses: my sister had donated it to a school book drive, the box containing the book had fallen from the truck, or maybe it was in her brother’s attic packed with some odds and ends left there during the move. I probably nagged her, harangued her, until she told me to never mention it again. For years I mourned the book, though I could still vividly see the images and remember sketchy plots of a few stories. My whole life I talked about the book and longed to find it, but it wasn’t until my own children were grown that I decided to search in earnest, calling and writing to dealers in rare children’s books. I began to learn more about the author and illustrator. Willy Pogany had been famous for his children’s book illustrations. A prolific artist, he’d worked on movie sets and for the Metropolitan Opera. The book dealers had seen Fairy Flowers long ago, they said, once sold one, knew of a copy that had recently sold for $300. Would I be willing to pay that much? Yes. But no dealer could find a copy

Wearing white gloves, I was carefully copying in pencil passages from a 19th Century children’s book, taking notes for a graduate class assignment. I was working in the Free Library of Philadelphia’s Children’s Book Collection. The librarian who had been helping me brought a copy of Little Lord Fauntleroy. ”Would this interest you?” she asked. “Very much, thanks.” It was a great place to work. I asked how many books the research library owned. “Over 65,000 children’s books, published between 1837 to the present.” “I had no idea.” I paused. I asked her if she’d ever heard of the Pogany book and described it to her. “I’ll look, though it doesn’t sound familiar,” she said. I could tell she was the kind of librarian who enjoyed a challenge. In about 15 minutes she returned. “We have two copies.” The librarian was smiling when she handed me the book; I hadn’t seen it for more than 40 years. Hands shaking, I opened it, half expecting to see my name in large black crayoned letters: Dorothea Freiermuth. My maiden name, my aunt’s maiden name. But there was no name inside. A more careful child had owned this copy. I was afraid that nothing would be the same, that somehow I’d only imagined those images, or that they would now seem banal. But there was the cart, the water lily lady, the leapfrog. Some pictures I’d forgotten, the golden boy, the tulip lady in front of her tulip cottage. Other I’d misremembered, or conflated, but all

were as powerful and lovely as the first time I’d seen them. I didn’t have time to read the stories, but I didn’t need to, the illustrations were enough. My hands were shaking. The librarian was still standing there. “Sorry to be so foolish,” I told her, fighting back tears. I thanked her again. “Glad to help.” For half a second, I thought of stealing one of the Library’s copies of Fairy Flowers. “You can put the books on my desk when you leave,” said the librarian and the impulse passed. My daughter Mimi, a jewelry maker, has inherited Aunt Dee’s talent for gift giving. Last Christmas she presented me with a lumpy package. Inside was a gold and emerald locket she’d made, and a 1950s patent leather clutch purse to replace the falling apart one I’d used for years and years. She’d found it on e-bay. She’d also found a really battered copy of Fairy Flowers. The book dealer, going out of business, sent a note saying she’d loved the book herself and kept it for years, because it was too damaged to sell. The spine was cracked, some of the brittle pages were torn and stained. The cover was different than the edition I’d owned and there was no sleeve. But someone had loved the book and poured over it again and again. At $25, it was a bargain. All the glowing illustrations—the ghostly Indians, the Iris fairy—were still there, pasted on heavy stock. None were missing or damaged. And now I’d finally have time to read and understand the stories. It was the perfect winter gift.

Darcy Cummings recently completed the MFA in Non-Fiction at Rutgers, Camden. Her book of poetry, The Artist As Alice: From A Photographer’s Life, won the Bright Hill Press Competition in 2006. She completed an MA in poetry from The Johns Hopkins Writing Seminar, and has received fellowships from Yaddo, the Virginia Center for the Creative Arts, the Dodge Foundation and a poetry fellowship from the New Jersey State Commission on the Arts. She lives in Laurel Springs, NJ

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MEMOIRIST

CONCHA ALBORG

Concha Alborg PhD is the author of two collections of short stories: Una noche en casa (Madrid, 1995) and Beyond Jet-Lag (New Jersey, 2000) and a novel, American in Translation: A Novel in Three Novellas (Indiana, 2011). She is a longtime supporter of Philadelphia Stories and was kind enough to sit down and discuss her experiences with the magazine over the last ten years, as well as offering some insightful details into her process and craft. Congratulations on the recent publication of your memoir, Divorce After Death: A Widow’s Memoir. The material dealt with in the book, covering your late husband’s passing from esophageal cancer and your subsequent realization of his prior affairs, is to say the least, extremely personal. While writing the book, did you find that re-living the tragedy was cathartic, or painful, or both? Thank you so much. Writing the book was very therapeutic. From the moment I wrote the letter to my late husband that titles the book and I saw myself on the page, I started to heal. Lately, with the actual publication of the book, I’m re-living some of the events and I have contrasting feelings. On one hand I feel liberated because I’m no longer wearing a mask, but at the same time, I feel somewhat exposed. When conceiving a new project, do you have a place where you tend to start? E.g., with a character, a theme, or an image you wish to express? Usually I envision the narrative arc first. I’m a structure-type of writer and I love titles. One of the first things I do is make a titled list of the book’s components. How does your childhood in Spain and cultural heritage affect your writing? My bi-cultural condition is one of the most significant markers of my life and my writing. Although I’m perfectly comfortable in both cultures, a tell-tale accent marks my speech as well as my writing. Have you and your family lived in Philadelphia since emigrating from Spain? No, my father was a well-known writer and a scholar and we came to this country under the auspices of the Fulbright Program during my

last year of high school. I came to Philadelphia years later to attend graduate school. I received my PhD from Temple University and stayed here since then. Were you writing yet at this point in your life? I was too preoccupied with my academic career at Saint Joseph’s University at first, although I had published extensively on contemporary women writers and Spanish film. I began writing short stories in the early nineties. What made you want to become a writer? I’m a born story teller and I was conscious of the unusual facets of my background. Most of my fiction has autobiographical references. For some time, you’ve been a major supporter of Philadelphia Stories Magazine, as well as a participant in the magazine’s sponsored workshops. Has your experience with Philadelphia Stories, through workshops etc., affected your writing? Very much so. I don’t subscribe to the concept that being a writer is a solitary occupation. I thrive on being part of a community of writers and Philadelphia Stories has been crucial in fostering this. I like to work with writers’ groups and attend writers’ conferences. I remember very well the workshop by Steve Almond, “Humor the New Deep.” I wasn’t sure about the tone of my memoir on widowhood at that time and after working with him, I decided that I would use humor to make this topic more palatable. What role, would you say, does Philadelphia Stories play in the local arts culture? Philadelphia Stories is a wonderful resource for writers. The publication itself is beautiful. I love the way it incorporates the visual arts and poetry. In addition, the Push to Publish yearly conference is one of the best in the city. It’s a wonderful opportunity to meet agents and publishers. I met Donna Cavanagh, of Shorehouse Books, my current publisher, at the Philadelphia Writers’ Conference—another local venue. She was there teaching a workshop on humor that I attended and I ended up pitching my book to her. What’s next for you? Any upcoming projects? Yes, two years ago, while I was going through my father’s books after his death, I found over eight hundred letters between my parents during the Spanish Civil War. I’m presenting them as an on-going project at a symposium to honor my father in the centenary of his birth next month in Spain. After the sad discovery when my late husband died, this has been such an extraordinary gift for a writer like me. Right now I believe in poetic justice. I’m hoping it will become another memoir. Besides, I already have a list of titled chapters written up—a very good sign.

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TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN he key to my workplace doesn’t jingle. It’s a plastic card that deactivates an alarm and unlocks the elevator that lifts me up to the 17th floor. My employers are

I write to inquire about my future, whether it be your company, overseas marriage, convent, or international adoption. I’m proud to inform you that in the past few years I have learned a great deal about the human condition, my condition in particular. For example, I no longer believe half of what I am told during interviews, and I restrain from performing tribal dances at faculty diversity trainings. I’m aware that bosses need to like you (but that there is a line). In short, my interpersonal skills have brought me where I am today. progressive, globally minded, but our faucet sink has been leaking for five months. Drip drip drop day and night without stop. I feel it like Chinese I am eager to and capable of fulfilling the requirements of your position. I work well with people of different cultural backgrounds and enjoy culturally diverse settings. As I write this letter, I am listening to Italian Opera and snacking on Japanese wasabi peas. In addition to my cultural awareness, I am also a gifted listener. At my first job, I was affectionately nicknamed “Eagle Ears” by my direct supervisor.

torture. I hear it in my sleep on the tin of my forehead; ting, ting, ting. I think an indentation is forming or maybe even a In addition to my acute listening skills, I also have gained the art of deci-

Cat by Patrick Sibilia © 2014 sion-making and decisiveness. When I set my mind to something, there are few obstacles strong enough to stand in my way. At my second job, when I caught my boss in a lie, I started a file on him, collecting the email trail of lies until I was able to take my case to the board of trustees. Sadly, due to the fact that he had both friends and enemies on the board, this cost us both our jobs. Nonetheless, in my book it is a mark of success. I stuck to my guns through thick

and thin and dethroned a liar. I mean why lie to everyone saying that your “employees are [your] most valuable asset?” I mean if we were so valuable why did he hardly ever greet us by name? Or care to know our Zodiac sign or at least our Myers-Briggs personality type? (I’m a Sagittarius and an INFJ, FYI.) Maybe he had trouble understanding the meaning of valuable. Or maybe the problem was word choice. Either way, he was clearly incompetent.

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third eye. It fills up a gallon every minute. I measured it once with the empty vase From the Argentinian receptionist’s front desk the day I arrived to work a few minutes early. Furthermore, I am a problem-solver. I can recognize an issue and devise a plan of action to deal with it, and I never hesitate to take on responsibility. At my current job I have taken the initiative to encourage the office to go green and to become better global citizens. As you might have noticed, this very letter has been printed on recycled Fair Trade paper handcrafted by the One WOV foundation, a Rastafari faith-based organization that, due to my persistent campaigning, my company now supports. One WOV or “Workers of Value” helps growers in Jamaica to continue to cultivate high-quality product while making a living wage, not worrying

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about “big man” oppression, and studying the divinity of Haile Selassie. It was the first thing I thought of doing, I would build up my case. It’s not that over the past five months two hundred sixteen thousand gallons of water have been lost. It’s that I am delighted to remain standing with a trusty heart and a sober mind and am a competitive candidate for whatever position you have available. I have heard such good things about you, the world at large, and have dreamt of this new opportunity. Please select the position, using the option(s) below, that you sense best fits my skills, experience, and personality type described above. Franciscan Nun: Runs a convent in the Peruvian Amazon to help the Asháninka

Veteran's Day at the Wall By Lori Widmer Seven Hundred Twenty-two miles Ten hours traveled back Forty-three years just to read Thirty names on thin paper Three had died Fifteen minutes apart Two minutes to say all Thirty including those Three names he drinks to forget. Lori Widmer is a veteran writer and editor whose articles have appeared in numerous trade and consumer magazines. She lives in the Valley Forge area and blogs regularly at www.poetunderconstruction.com and www.wordsonpageblog.com.

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refugees receive equal education and protection from the remaining members of the Shining Path. Proud Mother: Births the first female Dalai Lama. Company Director: Runs a Caribbean fusion dance flash mob whose biggest fans happen to be in Southern France. Cuban Diplomat: Establishes sustainable fair trade between the U.S. and Cuba without allowing U.S. companies to change or control the aesthetic or nature of Cuban culture/traditions. nobody cares. When I informed my Russian boss that I had asked Joe, from maintenance, to come and fix it. I have enclosed my résumé for your review. Should you need more information, I will be happy to provide it. You may reach me on my cell phone, my ex’s cell (but we’re still cool), or inbox me via Facebook at KeepingItReal (all one word), or just follow me on Twitter at #OccupyingSpaceFromTheOuternet. I could see she thought I was crazy. She even laughed a little and said, “Oh, dushka, you didn’t need to do that.” But it is exactly what I needed. Sincerely, The dripping is driving me mad; it’s either apathy, insanity or unemployment. The key to my office is not to jingle.

Noel Straight teaches creative writing, along with other English courses, at Temple University’s Intensive English Language Program and, at night, she offers Spanish classes through Fluent City. In her free time, Noel is working on a hybrid collection of short stories/poetry and planning her next trip to Cuba. Artist grants to support her writing in Cuba are highly encouraged (wink, wink). Some of Noel’s work can be found on flashfiction.net and, forthcoming, in the Fall 2014 Issue of the Schuylkill Valley Journal.

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READER

JULIE COHEN

Julie Cohen, PCC, spends her days as a professional Career and Personal Leadership Coach. Her work focuses on areas such as: work-life balance, leadership, communication, and personal growth. Julie is also a long-time reader and supporter of Philadelphia Stories. Given Philadelphia Stories’ recent ten year anniversary, we thought it would be interesting to look back and gain some perspective on what the magazine means to one of our many valued readers. Working as a Career and Personal Leadership Coach seems like an interesting and challenging profession. Could you briefly explain what the job entails? Individuals hire me when they seek support in making a change regarding their work and/or life situation. They usually want to do something differently, do something better, or make a change that will enable them to be more effective, more satisfied, or navigate through a challenging situation. Organizations hire me when they want support for their employees – to either help them become better leaders and more effective in their positions, or to offer their employees tools and strategies to create a more manageable and satisfying work-life balance.

In March, you will be presenting a workshop—at a Philadelphia Stories run conference—on the topic of “Write/Life Balance.” Can you describe some of the material that you plan to cover in the workshop? The Write-Life Balance workshop will take many of the principles I teach and apply them to individuals whose writing is a significant part of their life. We will discuss how to create boundaries to protect one’s writing and creative time, how to develop priorities that include writing and all that goes with it, and how to design reasonable expectations, so others can support the writer with their commitment to his/her craft. And more! In your professional life, do you often suggest the arts as a means of achieving balance in a work-heavy life? I don’t prescribe any specific avenue for enhancing someone’s

work-life balance. How one chooses to achieve balance is a very personal decision based on one’s own unique values, priorities, and goals. The arts (or any hobby, interest, passion, etc.,) can enhance energy and provide a lot of pleasure in a ‘work-heavy life.’ If a client or reader would like more space and time for the arts in their life, I support them in making the sometimes-difficult choice to place aside the time and energy to do so. Why do you believe it is important to support the local arts community? On a completely personal level, the local arts community expands my awareness, challenges me to think in new ways, and enables me to experience new things. I want this for my son, my friends, the larger world and myself. I also want more joy, beauty and creativity in the world. Do you have any suggestions for improvement or things that you would like to see Philadelphia Stories do in the future that could benefit the local arts community? I’ve noticed that most of the workshops are geared towards writers. Perhaps offer a workshop for the reader. Maybe something like ‘why and how to read poetry’. It would be interesting to have a poet at the class who could explain to the reader the value of poetry and why and how we should be reading it? A class on the value of short stories, opposed to novels, would also be interesting. As a long-time reader of Philadelphia Stories and local arts enthusiast, what role do you believe the magazine plays in the greater community of Delaware Valley artists? It’s been exciting to see the magazine grow over the past 10 years. It’s filling a void and providing a place for great talent to be shared with many who would not normally experience it. As someone who mostly reads novels, PS has exposed me to short stories and poetry that I most likely, would not have read elsewhere.

You can help support the local arts by becoming a member of Philadelphia Stories for as little as $25. www.philadelphiastories.org/member

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Celebrating

10 Years of Writing and Art

From the first issue of Philadelphia Stories in 2004 to the 40th issue in 2014, the magazine has proudly published stories from the region presented in poetry, fiction, essays, and art. We look forward to celebrating another 10 years with this talented community!

free

marie davis-williams

ANTHRACITE marguerite mcglinn

THE SPHINX tom

teti

ron savage

jr.

GRACE

WIVES, GIRLFRIENDS, AND MOTHERS

colleen baranich

THE TANGLE BETWEEN

K E L LY S I M M O N S

SKYLIGHT

AIMEE LABRIE

TERRY MERGENTHAL

KEVIN’S FUNERALS

WONDERFUL GIRL

james w. morris

KABEERA MCCORKLE

MY PLAN

REGALIA joe lombo

THE BET

JOSEPH YOUNG

local author profile

RANDALL BROWN

NATHALIE ANDERSON

FLIES–WET, DRY AND IN-BETWEEN

CATHERINE STREET

SHAUN HAURIN

DREAMGIRL

P R E M I E R E

I S S U E

S U M M E R

2 0 0 5

F A L L

I S S U E

free

2 0 0 6

I S S U E

free

FICTION/POETRY/ESSAYS/ART

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I S S U E

free

FICTION/POETRY/ESSAYS/ART

O F T H E D E L AWA R E VA L L E Y

f a l l

free

FICTION/POETRY/ESSAYS/ART

O F T H E D E L AWA R E VA L L E Y

FIFTH ISSUE ANNIVERSARY

pamela main

THEY DON’T MEAN TO gwen florio

eileen m cunniffe

HER BEAR HUSBAND

THAT BREATHLESS CHARM

angela canales

OUT OF NOWHERE

tom larsen

THE LIP

helen mallon

LISE FUNDERBERG

CHRISTINE WEISER

NAVIGATION sylvia beauvais

THE BABY

author profile

I S S U E

O F T H E D E L AWA R E VA L L E Y

juditha dowd GRACE MARCUS

GROVE OF THE PATRIARCHS PAUL LISICKY

F A L L

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FICTION/POETRY/ESSAYS/ART

THE WORK BOYFRIEND

NIGHT DIVING

author profile

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katherine hill

author profile

MY CHARLIE MANSON

F A L L

JEFF W. BENS

THE SEA CREST SEAN FINUCANE TONER

F a l l

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FICTION/POETRY/ESSAYS/ART

O F T H E D E L AWA R E VA L L E Y

S P R I N G

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Building a community of writers,

artists, and readers across the Delaware Valley

free

Building a community of writers,

artists, and readers across the Delaware Valley

10 th

ANNIVERSARY

ISSUE

MARGUERITE MCGLINN FICTION PRIZE Chad Willenborg

d sprung kurilecz natalie zellat dyen

MASTER PLAN

STONE AND PAPER AND VINYL AND SKIN

stephen graf

WHEN SHE COULD FLY

Einstein’s iPod bryan shawn wang

nimisha ladva

THE ABSENCE OF FOG

Liars

mark lyons

CAMILLE

Aimee LaBrie

barbara bogaev

It Happened One Day

author profile

RANDALL BROWN

Mary McMyne

RED EYE

John Shea

PROTECTING THE PLATE

DOVE BAR

S U M M E R

2 0 1 1

I S S U E

S U M M E R

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I S S U E

S U M M E R

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POET

DEBORAH BURNHAM

Deborah Burnham PhD is a Professor of English at UPENN, as well as the author of Anna and the Steel Mill and the chapbook Still. She is also a long-time member of the Philadelphia Stories poetry board. In her free time, Deborah is an avid gardener and has constructed many small gardens in Philadelphia.

How have the Internet, social media, and the growth of self-publishing affected poetry? All of these arenas have made it possible for people to think of themselves as potentially published. This likely makes people write more, and more often. What working local poets do you find the most exciting? Eleanor Wilner, Susan Stewart, Elaine Terranova, Gregory Djanikian, Bob Perelman. Are you currently working on any projects? Yes. I have finished a volume of lyrics about a long marriage which is on the market. I am working on a volume of elegies which should be finished by the spring. I also have a novel nearly done, which I’m probably going to re-write for a young adult audience.

When did you first become involved with Philadelphia Stories? In the spring of 2007. What role do you believe Philadelphia Stories plays in the local arts community, specifically poetry? A very important role. It offers a venue for those who aren’t necessarily well known but who have something to say. It’s free, very attractive, and quite accessible. As a long-time member of the Philadelphia Stories’ poetry board, you’ve had a chance to interact with submitted works and assist with screening selections. Have you noticed any common style, ethos, or attitude that tends to win the hearts of our editors? Probably this: poems that are clear but not simplistic, that have a distinctive voice but do not pose or perform, that are rooted in the area but don’t rely on cheese-steak/Rocky/Iggles clichés.

When did you begin creating your own work? Was poetry your first medium? I began writing seriously in graduate school, in my mid-20s. Poetry was my only medium, for a long time. Do you prefer poetry that is more narrative or image-based? Oh, that is a really tough question! I love both. 26

Do you believe that a poem is obliged to hold meaning or do other factors—such as beauty and sound—weigh more heavily? Another good, tough question. I think poems can develop a set of meanings and be beautiful (visually, sonically, etc) at the same time.

Porches Writing Retreat overlooking James River Valley in the Virginia Blue Ridge open all year to artists | www.porcheswritingretreat.com

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RESOURCES FOR WRITERS AND ARTISTS Philadelphia

Great Books

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.

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

59th Annual Great Books at

Colby Summer Institute at Colby College, Waterville, Maine July 26 - August 1, 2015

Judgement Chinua Achebe: Things Fall Apart John Milton: Paradise Lost (two days) David Hume: Dialogues Concerning Natural Religion William Faulkner: Absalom, Absalom Mary Shelley: Frankenstein

Creative Writing

Workshops Express your unique voice. Find joy in

writing.

Evening and daytime workshops Flourtown, PA • Center City, PA • Havertown, PA • Cherry Hill, NJ

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.

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

Writers of all levels welcome Fiction • Non-fiction • Creative non-fiction • Memoir • Poetry Find out if a workshop is right for you. Sit in on one workshop meeting as a guest, by appointment only.

Alison Hicks, MFA, Greater Philadelphia Wordshop Studio www.philawordshop.com • ahicks@philawordshop.com • 610-853-0296 Monday evenings in Havertown • Tuesday evenings in Center City Private Consultation for Manuscript Development Rachel Kobin, Philadelphia Writers Workshop www.phillywriters.com • Rachel@phillywriters.com • 610-449-3773 Tuesday evenings in Flourtown • Full-length Story Structure Workshop Call for More Information

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

Marguerite Ferra, Woodland Writers www.woodlandwriters.com • woodlandwriters@gmail.com • 856-366-3138 Thursday afternoons in Cherry Hill

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books you might have missed!

WINTER BOOK PICKS

Necessary Myths by Grant Clauser

“So what if Romulus/put down the stone/and embraced his brother?/ Would our paths be/so different than now?” So goes a passage of the title poem of Grant Clauser’s eloquent but often, and perhaps understandably so, pessimistic book of poetry, Necessary Myths (Broadkill Press, 2013). In the aforementioned stanza, Clauser seems to be asking whether mythology, or any similar artifice created by the gods or man could assuage the grim fate that may now be facing the world in this the early years of the 21st century. Necessary Myths, which is the winner of the prestigious 2013 Dogfish Head Poetry Prize, makes an elaborate, and very articulate, case for falleness, loss, entropy, and, yes, perhaps even doom of a kind.

Clauser is a master of wordcraft. There is a kind of late afternoon buzz quality to his descriptions of nature — even in its impermanence. I can definitely see the sun setting on so much of what he describes where we can find such things as “a gossiping spring between rocks...” (“The Children Discover a Spring Between Rocks”). And also perhaps, ever so vaguely, there is a yearning for a terribly remote and tenuous unfallen past. A garden that was probably already beginning to petrify moments after its creation. — Peter Baroth

The Bright Field of Everything

nounced but understated; her artistry is similarly visible without being ostentatious. Each poem is an axis mundi linking earthly, animal physicality to the magical, spiritual, or cerebral. A reader may need a medical dictionary to understand some of the language in the poems, but such attention is rewarded by Deborah Fries’ expansive, but piercing voice. — Courtney Bambrick

by Deborah Fries

Deborah Fries’ poem “Marie in America” was selected by Dorothea Lasky as Philadelphia Stories’ 2013 winner of the Sandy Crimmins National Prize in Poetry. Reading the poem again — it is the first poem in the collection — I am struck by the elegant coexistence of science and humanity it presents. The human body here, that of Marie Curie, is ultimately vulnerable to radiation — and so many other “invasive” elements. Fries catalogs bones, legs, skin, marrow in the first few lines of the poem, but almost immediately points to their weakness.

Throughout the collection, Fries considers the human body in medical and mythical terms. It is a home from which one might be uprooted or transplanted. Poems such as “Man with a Hat” or “Balls” explore the animal aspects of our human bodies — how our bodies (and the bodies of others) delight, deceive, and disappoint. The poems in the section “Sketching the Invasives” suggest the impermanence of geographical homes. Overall, the collection balances the cerebral and the corporeal, examining the author’s experience through scientific and spiritual lenses. The scope of Deborah Fries poetry here is massive — her focus finds specks of dust in the universe and the universe in a speck of dust. Her humor is pro-

The Blessings by Elise Juska

Realistic yet intimate at the same time, Elise Juska takes readers to the heart of Philadelphia in The Blessings and peoples it with a family readers will come to know as if they were our own. We are immediately drawn into the large, extended Blessing family, and the separate, but united lives that they live.

Juska brings alive the characters, both individually and as a family unit. The book begins with the story of Abby Blessing, just starting college in the 1990s, where “…she has begun to perceive her own uniqueness, to recognize her family as something apart from other families, with its own rhythm and code.” The book then quickly moves into the deep emotional territory of the shaping of the Blessing family and the moments of their lives in the city.

The Blessings is the kind of book that will make readers stop and think, in a good way. For example, near the end of the book, we are introduced to Elena,

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one of the youngest Blessings and she says that living with the Blessings is ‘”having this identity as part of a big family but also this part of yourself that’s separate, dealing with your own private stuff, that they never really know…”’

Juska manages to develop thoughtfully all the characters in her book. I feel like I’ve been to a party where I didn’t know anybody, and then spent a lifetime with them. Readers will ride with their triumphs and sorrows, and carry them in their hearts, as if they were a Blessing themselves. — Pam Pastorino

Women’s Poetry: Poems and Advice

by Daisy Fried Daisy Fried is an admired, established poet who has received numerous well-deserved national awards and much praise from her colleagues, like Tony Hoagland, Ange Mlinko, and Susan Wheeler, just to name a few. However, despite her presence as an important contemporary voice in American poetry, she’s also active on a local level, and we were lucky at Philadelphia Stories to have her as a judge for our recent Sandy Crimmins national prize for poetry.

blown away. I shared the poem with friends, co-workers; there was something about it that really resonated for me, especially as a teacher of young adults. It was like she had put words to the complicated feelings that come up in an all too often romanticized profession. Every time I return to this poem, I feel the same sense of wonder as to how beautifully the layers of connection, misunderstanding, uncertainty, indifference and concern are woven together.

The entire collection is filled with the same kinds of insight, humor, feminism and creativity displayed above. If you feel yourself drawn to any of these elements, you’re sure to love it.

Fried’s latest collection Women’s Poetry: Poems and Advice begins with the poem “Torment.” When I first read the poem in Poetry in 2011, I was

— Aimee Penna

Philadelphia Stories is pleased to announce the

201 5 Seventh Annual Marguerite McGlinn

Prize for Fiction Deadline: June 15, 201 5 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. $12 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 and Hansma Families.

For more information, www.philadelphiastories.org

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Building a community of writers,

artists, and readers across the Delaware Valley

Michener Level ($25 - $40) (1 Anonymous)

Amy Punt Alexandra E. Hensinger Amy Punt Angela Speakman Ann Maebius Barb & J.J.Cutler Barbara Bloom Barbara Grey Barbara Orlan Brenda Leon & Pat Bambrick Brenda Howell Cara Schneider Carolyn Guss Carolyn Clark Cassandra Wilt Catherine Stine Charles McGray Charles Glackin Cheryl Mercier Christina Delia-Weston Christina Carter Christine Obst Christopher Mills Colette Tomeo Constance Garcia Barrio Dexter Giglio Diana Krantz Ed Kratz Eileen D’Angelo Ernie Quatrani Frances Metzman Frank Diamond Frank Tamru Helen Ohlson Herbert Cunitz Janine Pratt Jeffrey Klemens Jessica Herring Jim & Carol Brill John M. Williams & Marie Davis-Williams Josephine A. Graham Judy Heller Karen McLaughlin Kathleen Kopp Kristin Henry & Joy McKeown Linda Wisniewski Lisa Reed Liz Dolan Lois Rudnick Lori Widner Lynette & John Byrnes Maria Keane Marilyn Carrier Mary Erpel Mary & Owen Gilman Mo Ganey & Don Kates Nancy duPont Nancy Sakaduski Nancy Lubow Nicole & John Monaghan

Members as of November 30, 2014

Pamela Fox Patricia Coyle Patti Peet Ramona Long Richard Dennis Roy Eisenhandler Ruth Littner Sheila Sherwin Susan Nelson Teresa Donnelly Terry Mergenthal Therese Halscheid Thomas Deitman Vernita Hall Virginia Dillon

Buck Level ($50 - $99) (2 Anonymous) Adrienne Jenness Alex Husted Alison & Jeffery Baer Alison Hicks Barry & Monroe Dinerman Betsy Anderson Sullivan Christine & Tom Barnes Colton Fenton Concha Alborg Dana & Chris Scott Diana Post Douglas & Peggy Gordon Ed Ruggero Eileen Cunniffe Elizabeth Brandt Elizabeth & Christopher Mosier Erin Entrada Kelly Hugh & Trina McCauley Irene Fick James & Doug Taylor Jennifer & Erik Streitwieser Joanne Green Karen & Dan Gruen Kay Peters Kevin & Angela Cook Lawrence O. Spataro Leigh & Aaron Goldenberg Lina Wang Lise Funderburg Liz Abrams-Morley Lynn Doerr Lynn Rosen & Evan Schwartz Marcela Bonilla Margaret & Craig Griffen Marlyn & Randy Alkins Martha Bottomley Martha & William Martin Mary Scherf Maynard Seider Nancy Allen Nathalie Anderson Nimisha Ladva Rachel Simon Richard Bank Robert & Judy Schachner

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Whitman Level ($100 - $400) B.G. Damian Firmani Betsy McKinstry and Joel Edelstein Chad Willenborg Charlene & Nathaniel Mayer Cheryl & Ross McLaren Conrad Weiser & Barbara Holmberg Deborah Burnham Donna Keegan Elizabeth Larsson George D. Murphy Hermann W. Pfefferkorn James Fratto Janice & Paul Stridick Janice Hayes-Cha & Jang-Ho Cha Jennifer Corey Jessica Conley John & Karen Shea Joseph Wechselberger Joseph Cilluffo Julie Cohen & Nigel Blower Kathleen Furin Laura Ward Margot Douaihy Mei Hong & Youheng Shu Nathan Long Sandra Sampson Stefanie Levine & Steven Cohen Stephanie Scordia Sue Harvey & Scott Jahss Susan H Robbins Tim Kissell Vera & Tom Haskins William Black

Potok Level ($500- $999) Carol Oberholtzer Kerri & Marc Schuster Mitchell Sommers Polia Tzvetanova Thomas & Meriam Rush William Weldon In Memory of Dennis Oberholtzer

Sustainer Members Charles McGroaty (Whitman Level) Courtney & Peter Bambrick (Buck Level) Erin Cormier (Buck Level) Julie Odell (Whitman Level) Lyndon Back (Whitman Level) Nancy A. Jackson (Whitman) Robert Vincent Mallouk (Whitman Level) Stephan Kolter (Buck Level) Tara & Andrew Smith (Buck Level)

Donations Made in Memory of Jerry Smith David Reninger Erik Pearson Gerry Banna Jasmine Kuo Jesse Wiedel Laura Ruth Johnson Laurel Connell Laurie Douglas & Tim Purus Lori & Jim Sottile Barbara & Mark Connell Melissa Tevere Randall & Cynthia Palmer Russell Rogers Susan Ward

Government Grants & Foundations The Philadelphia Cultural Fund The Hassel Foundation

Matching Gift Partners Merck Partnership for Giving Robert Wood Foundation The Philadelphia Foundation Bergan County United Way

W.C. Williams Level ($1000+) Heather McGlinn Hansma & Scott Hansma Joseph A. Sullivan Michael Ritter & Christine Furtek Thomas McGlinn

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

PS_Winter_2015_PS Summer 12/2/14 9:33 PM Page 31

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.

Monthly Pledge:

 $5/month  $10/month  $20/month  Other ________

One-time member pledge:

□ Michener ($25-$49) □ Buck ($50-$99) □ Whitman ($100-$499)

□ Potok ($500-$999) □ W. C. Williams ($1,000+) □ Other _______________

Name:_________________________________________________________________________________________

Address:________________________________________________________________________________________

City:______________ State:_________ Zip:_______ Email:_________________________ Phone #:______________

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(MC, V, Discover):_______________________________

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Thank you for your generous support of Philadelphia Stories

To donate online please visit www.philadelphiastories.org, call 215.635.0195, or mail to: Philadelphia Stories, 93 Old York Road, Ste 1/#1-753, Jenkintown PA 19046

PS_Winter_2015_PS Summer 12/2/14 9:33 PM Page 32

Do you write poetry, short stories, or nonfiction essays? Do you paint, draw, or take photographs? Want to have your work published in a new literary magazine? Yes? Then read on...

Philadelphia Stories Junior is a literary magazine for writers and artists age 18 and under and currently enrolled in grades K-12, and we are seeking submissions. To be a part of this exciting opportunity, send us your:

• Fiction, creative nonfiction, poetry, and art! • Reviews of your favorite books! • Interviews with young writers and published authors! Submissions are currently being accepted online!

For submission guidelines, please log on to philadelphiastories.org/junior Philadelphia Stories Jr. is a member-supported program of Philadelphia Stories. Please help keep the magazine in print and free by becoming a member today at philadelphiastories.org/member

Philadelphia Stories Winter 2015

Articles inside

Book Reviews

Purple Death on White Silk . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Helen Ohlson

Object of Life . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .R.G. Evans

Winter Gift (essay). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Darcy Cummings

Veteran ’ s Day at the Wall . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Lori Widmer

To Whom it May Concern (fiction) . . . . . . . . . . . . Noel Straight

Geography Heals All (fiction). . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Kat Clark

Nests . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .Christine Salvatore

Brahmaputra River (fiction) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Alyssa Sharrock