Dad just came home
from Boston like he does when he can. He drove up to the house
in his rental Mustang and beeped his horn, and then he clunked
Dad just came home
Keys don’t work anyway,
they drag the
sky blue plastic pool
into the street
scraping gravel and laughing,
It gathers in puffs outside the windows,
until even the tallest buildings,
hunched as they are near the river,
slip away like memories do
when you get older,
[img_assist|nid=688|title=|desc=|link=node|align=right|width=150|height=203]We Were Just Getting Started…
We know that people die at 55. We just think that their names will be unfamiliar. And then… Sandy Crimmins joined the Poetry Board of Philadelphia Stories before the second issue. We reached out to her after she impressed the hell out of us with “Spring,” which appeared in the premier issue. From the beginning she brought a calm and conciliatory voice to a selection board made up exclusively of other poets. Sandy did not force her opinion on anyone. She was good at explaining what she thought was good about a piece and why she would be open to selecting it for publication.
[img_assist|nid=685|title=Barbara Berot|desc=|link=node|align=left|width=150|height=196]What began as a fictional rendering of Barbara Bérot’s five month European journey in 1972 has developed into a book series that spans across Scotland and into the French Pyrénées Mountains. Bérot’s self-published and critically-acclaimed debut novel, When Europa Rode the Bull, is a novel about love, commitment, and passion that traverses two continents. Its success inspired Bérot to embark on the sequel, the recently published Lies & Liberation: The Rape of Europa. And she is not finished with her characters yet. Already in the works is a third book in Bérot’s intriguing and complicated series.
So you’ve poured your heart out on paper, and now you’re ready to get it published. Congratulations! But if you think spending months, or years, on a manuscript is hard, well, you ain’t seen nothing yet. Get ready for the really hard work. Publishing, and then SELLING your book.
The house, so full with the heavy breath of prayer and the shifting feet of the waiting, settles another inch and the long vigil is suddenly over. Ona’s mother is dead. One after another, the women untangle their hands from their rosary beads and feel relief in knowing that now there will be more productive things to do than pray.
Our Lady of the Angels Grammar School was a brick building without artifice—not a tree or a shrub broke the solid flank it presented to Felton Street. I was walking back to Angels with my two best friends Joyce Wiowski and Rosemarie DeLullo. The school had no cafeteria, so most kids went home for lunch. The walks back and forth were the best part of the day anyway.
His new wife is nothing like his old wife. His old wife, Doris, had an affair with his Rabbi, more for her amusement than anything else. This was a man whose teeth were dark and uneven, a man whose suits and fingers smelled of cigarette smoke. When Doris took her husband’s goodwill and religion with a single pelvic thrust, she was a blonde with great calves and decent enough looks if you could ignore her oily skin and psoriasis.