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The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
By Madeline Edalow New York City is ever-changing and long time residents grow accustomed to iconic establishments disappearing.
I am a life-long New Yorker. Within my lifetime, the gentrification of Northern Brooklyn has progressed at lightening speed. The luxury establishments that continue to open often feel inaccessible to me. I often feel like a tourist in the city I grew up in, not recognizing neighborhoods where I used to spend a lot of time. As the area surrounding the Lorimer L train in Williamsburg Brooklyn felt the impact of trendy hipsterdom, one spot felt accessible to a wide range of people. I am speaking of Kellogg’s Diner. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
By Sarah Harley My mother was a woman with pretty glinty eyes. Pale green, sometimes flecked with silver, depending on her mood. The eyes lighted on sights that made her smile. The passing dazzle: summer flowers filled with petals then run to seed; slants of blue and yellow light. She knew about distances that were not connected to the visible world. She saw things others did not, things just beyond. She possessed a predisposition, acquired through fire and bombs falling through the roof.
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By Karen Resta The man across from me was vaguely familiar, but I really didn’t know him at all. The woman next to me I did know, but at the moment she was acting distant. We sat in a large booth near the front of this famous old Brooklyn restaurant, a gilded place with broken-springed red velvet banquettes, uneven wooden floors, and elderly waiters wearing long aprons that fell well below their knees. The gaslights fizzed grimy yellow, highlighting the dark sticky contours of the heavily varnished booths.
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
By Brenna Cuba They didn’t know it, but the change would be permanent. The kids got so quiet afterward. They hadn’t thought to be quiet before I shed that quaint skin they preferred me in. That’s what changed first: my skin. It became thin and translucent. I hung back against the pale walls of the living room. I thought I could calm down before anything escalated, blend in, go unnoticed.The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
By Amy Lee “subway station
i wish to go nowhere” Poetry can sometimes become too cumbersome and preoccupied with forms and rules that it feels heavy and contrived. Yet the elegance of simplicity and the quiet power of ‘less is more’ is alive in Neha R. Krishna’s first volume of modern Haiku, no urgency to be home. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Book Review & Free Link to E-book.pdf: 'Love in the Time of Corona' - By Tharani Balachandran9/25/2023 By Amy Lee “…and now all I miss is the touch of my mother’s hand my friends who are out saving the world and the lovers I just couldn’t hold onto.” - Love in the Time of Corona I have often been fascinated by the intensity and originality of writings produced during isolation and loneliness by the likes of the Bronte sisters and Jane Austen. Tharani Balachandran’s debut poetry chapbook, Love in the Time of Corona, charters upon a similar story-telling with ‘Bridget-Jones’-esque wit, sharp political commentary and vivid imageries about a modern feminist’s life, love and the unfair pressures of ‘having it all’. The narratives are so bouncy and rich that the reader will feel like s/he just enjoyed a cup of coffee with an old friend. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
By Steph Whitehouse There is a box that sits in my wardrobe. It’s been there a long time and has travelled many places with me. This box contains many treasures that have been collected over a lifetime. My mother started the original box for me when I was born. She filled it with special items from my childhood. Things she thought I would like to see when I was older and recall special memories. I have been through this box many times and cleaned it out a few times. Some things have been thrown out and others have stayed. Some things have stayed for their memories, others for the people who gave them to me and others because they are cherished childhood items.
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
By David Sparenberg "Tell me the landscape in which you live and I will tell you who you are". - Jose Ortega y Gasset, Spanish Philosopher I am a human member. My home is of intimate space. I live between Earth and Sky. I am between land and water.
The ocean-world that cannot be crossed in a single day, a single night, or even in a single lifetime, starts and ends at my bare feet. Unbroken rhythm washing the singing sand surges between my toes, bubbling beneath where I stand, under my soles. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Legs. They’re what I notice most often about other women, aside from face and hair and outfit and all the other things we love to judge.
Lest you think I have ulterior motives, I’m not trawling for a conquest or stalkee. I’m a straight, cis, aging Gen X-er with a tidily manicured set of body image issues. A 5’9” size 16 sort of woman: bigger than some, smaller than others, and utterly average by American standards of measurement. I’m just kind of hung up on legs. |
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