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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
