Origins

editor's note

Origins by Joseph Murphy
The concept of “origins” can take on very different meanings, depending on one’s point of view.

poetry

Bay of Loutro by Ion Corcos
Do you remember at all, or have you learned to let go,
to forget and live, to lie silent in your depth.
Brown Bear by Ion Corcos
I am not awkward –
only that you do not look at this tree
the way I do
Original Sin by Robin Knight
An orchard gone
in one syncopated bite. 
Some cast aside the cores. 
From the Outfield by Leah Brundige
I want to hang onto something
I shouldn’t

fiction

Photo Album by William Cass
Here are some pictures I’ve accumulated since I was a little girl.  They’re from our cabin on Priest Lake up near the Idaho-Canadian border.  It’s a place my family has been going to for well over a century.  A special place, as special as I’ve known in my eighty-some years.  Remote, lovely, unspoiled still, slow, quiet, wide to the west, sweet-smelling.  I don’t know another place like it.
Next of Kin by Ken Teutsch
The stuff people said to their mothers in those greeting cards was bizarre and incomprehensible.  Sure, my mother cared for me,  but in much the same way she cared for the young squirrel whose own mother was hit by a car.  She gave us both shelter, she fed us, she nursed us if we seemed sick, and she left the window open so we could leave whenever we felt like it.  Eventually we both did.
The Unknowableness of Things by Dave Northrup
I saw with a child's eyes then, believing myself invisible to adults, and paid no heed to the customers who had to push past me as they entered or left the store.
Chiffon Cake by Liz Betz
It amazes me sometimes, when I see myself in these happy moments, that the cloud of my childhood has not cast a shadow over another generation.  If that is why I have my Evie spells, to serve as warnings, then I am weirdly satisfied they are with me.
Hank by Matthew Zanoni Müller
The pond was fed by a river, she had told him, and though it was calm, there was still a fine undertow. Water rushed in on one side and spilled out the other. She had said this as though it were a good thing, explaining that it kept the water nice and clean, and most importantly, that the water would be cool in the summer heat. Even though he knew it was irrational, he saw himself carried away by this hidden current.

nonfiction

Speaky-Spokey by Maxine Kollar
You take that baby language into your nursery mouth and cradle it and nurse it and rock it until it becomes a part of you. You bring it back to your island and show it to your people and hope they approve. They peek inside the blankets at your bundle of joy as you hold your breath and they coo, speaky-spokey.
Robert the Bruce by Susan Knox
I can still see him perched on the metal seat of his school-bus-yellow Minneapolis Moline tractor, hands clamped on the black steering wheel, plowing or harrowing or planting his fields with an old brown felt fedora on his head and an R. G. Dunn cigar clenched between his teeth.
Taken by Catherine Underhill Fitzpatrick
The first indication something is wrong comes by way of a mother’s kiss. The light upstairs is dim. Until her lips graze Hazel’s forehead, Fannie had not realized the child was hot. She draws back, startled. Looks closer. Sees Hazel’s skin is marbled and clammy. Feels the cotton undershirt, damp with perspiration.