#ThrowbackThursday

We are excited to announce that Phoebe is beginning the process of digitally archiving past issues and will be posting them here and on Twitter via #ThrowbackThursday. We plan to re-publish work from past print issues once a week to promote the fantastic writing that’s been in our journal over the years and the amazing writers we’ve partnered with in the past. Click the images below to see what we’ve re-published from specific issues, or visit our #ThrowbackThursday blogroll to see our most recent re-publications.

Cover art by Alexandra Gerry

Dynamics of Garbling

Now an astonished lineman slices
the wire’s black, vinyl giblet
out from the kink where it tumesced
too large and my voice and your ear
compacted on its either side over
and over dumb and deaf as plywood, but

Issue 16.2, Spring 1987

Rehearsal

Barbara Esstman The third time Kate refused Tyler, she realized she didn’t want to go home to Charleston with him. That night after they’d made love and she was wrapped snugly in the sheets, caught somewhere between wake and sleep, she got out of bed and walked naked around the cold room. She leaned her…
Cover art by Heather Evans Smith

Bird by Desert-Light

Creeping home after midnight requires equal amounts of attention to detail and skill. After years of late nights, I know to take my shoes off before walking up to the door, so no heel sound will clatter on the steps. I secure my purse over my shoulder and tuck it under my arm to prevent it from jangling or bumping into door jambs. If I’ve been drinking, I take a couple of cleansing breaths to focus on the task at hand: getting the key into the lock with a minimum of fumbling. Stabbing blindly at the key plate is the sure sign of an amateur.

Cover art by Emily Trueblood

Excerpt from GIFT

While all of Ellen White’s writings
are available for research,
the unpublished letters, manuscripts
and other materials in the Ellen G. White files
do not constitute a public archive.

Cover art by Robert Tolar

Out There

John Elks stood before the picket fence that sheltered his yard, and he shook his head miserably. He wants the dense troop of insects that emerged from a tiny hole in the fence post and spread across the wooden slats. Yesterday there have been no sign of the insects, and now they had covered it. He tried to touch one insect with his finger, and in an instant dozens scurried onto his hand and wrist: he shook his arm wildly. John’s wife came out of the house—he heard the porch door creak open and slap shut—and she walked over and stood beside him.

Kumina Death Dance

1 Comment

Diane E.S. Prentiss

We are nine American researchers in a rented minivan, racing from Kingston to the eastern coastal region of St. Thomas parish. This end of the island doesn’t sport timeshare resorts and high-priced bungalows. There are no freckled young men in Vuarnets, printed boxers, and zinc noses playing volleyball on the beach. No drinks with umbrellas, Hard Rock Cafes, or expensive dance clubs. There are no telephones, few cars, and only an occasional shop. Electricity is in a few households, but only for two or three hours each evening. No hustling. Tourist cocaine has no place out here on the flat plains worked by laborers.

from Same in the Afterlife

Tony Mancus

limping dog with its | mile
wires stretch across a state   their measurement

can with
a necktie in

  red (the can)
striped (the tie—       blue/black
      blue/black)

Cover art by Erik Pennebaker

The Mother’s Story

P.J. Woodside

I haven’t admitted this to anyone. I want to learn to kill something.

It sounds crazy, but I seem to be the only one who doesn’t know how. Hunters know. Doctors know. Soldiers, judges, murderers, God.

Shadow Cargo

1 Comment

T.K. Dalton

Maybe it’s true for any new father, but when I exit my apartment these days, I have to say it aloud: “I am locking the door.” Sleep-deprived, I trust language over muscle memory. I don’t tie my shoes without a mantra of prepositions: Over, over, through, down, around, under, out. This chant is a close cousin of the ones I murmur while working with cloth diapers, onesies, swaddle cloths, and the wrap in which I carry my son to the park, to the river, to the grocery store, to the library. He’s six weeks old, and sometimes, faced with this new constant presence, I feel like I am too. This morning, the first Friday in October, the boy stays with Mom to nurse. This morning, only my black lab hears my reminder about the closing door. Her ears stand at boot-camp attention, on the sweeter edge of nervous. Out with the dog and not my son, I adjust to the baby’s absence.

The Man Who Married His Checkout Lane

Bill Knott

Daily, in the supermarket where I go,
I gravitate to this one lane — the one
furthest there —you know: the busiest one.
Have I fallen in love with my checkout lane?

Well, I am male, I feel drawn to this aisle;
its openness is shameless, sexistly exciting;
the real way it squeezes my shopping cart
and deigns me to crowd in. Oh my checkout lane

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