Jim Zervanos

Persephone Samaras can’t wait to escape the oppressive heat of the pizza ovens. She’s off to see her cousin Vasili in the hospital, that sterile, air-conditioned sanctuary.

Pincushion Letters

Barry Dinerman

Seconds after my mother died, she began work in heaven on a little play titled “Naked in Bed with Eleanor Roosevelt.”

A Writer Reads

Aimee LaBrie

I confess that I am a chronic eavesdropper, especially on SEPTA, where you can overhear great personal tragedies in the time it takes you to travel from South Philly to City Hall.


Alexandra Gold

We were throwing books in the river my Grandmother and I
in New Hampshire off a wooden bridge not quite Monet’s
surrounded by neighbors, hunters, schoolteachers