spring 2012
vol. vii. no. 2
ESSAYS
| Watermark |
| by Patricia Heim | |
| I lie face down on the black leather couch. After three years of coming here, I am finally weeping. |
FICTION
| My Own Private Wind |
| by Lori D'Angelo | |
| So there was no “Oh, darling, I hunger for your touch” moment. It was not like that. We were not like that. We were quiet and reserved, the kind of couple who fades into the pavement, blends in with the blinds and the placemats, the kind of people you would walk by without noticing. We were like streetlights. We looked like we belonged. |
SHORTS ON SURVIVAL
| Chance Reunion with Monsters |
| by Jesse Cheng | |
| Some beastly friends from long ago have teeth that became the most luxurious pillows. As we start to reminisce they throw back their heads, roaring, then tongues unfurl as down comforters. |
POETRY
| The Red Car |
| by Beverly A. Jackson | |
| The daily papers in the back seat spread atop the old women who’ve come from the sex factory-- |
OUR NAME
r.kv.r.y. - comes from the dictionary definition of the word recovery: an act, process, or instance of recovering; a return to normal conditions; something gained or restored in recovering; obtaining usable substances from unusable sources.