Author Archives: Rusty

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Oldest European Fort Found in the Appalachians

The remains of the ear­li­est Euro­pean fort in the inte­rior of what is now the United States have been dis­cov­ered by a team of archae­ol­o­gists, pro­vid­ing new insight into the start of the U.S. colo­nial era and the all-too-human rea­sons … Con­tinue read­ing

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An Open Letter to the Baby Deer I Nearly Hit Tonight by Dena Rash Guzman

The mist cold and thick, I had the high beams switched off so the bril­liance wouldn’t chan­nel in and blind me— the switch­back roads wind through the woods past houses built by peo­ple with wag­ons drawn along by beasts with … Con­tinue read­ing

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But Pat Boone Never Lived in Bessemer, essay by Terry Barr

On the night before I entered 7th grade, my across-the-street, 9th grade neigh­bor Joe, while we were enjoy­ing spareribs at our family’s annual Labor Day pic­nic, gave me this advice: “Be care­ful tomor­row. You never know who’s car­ry­ing a switch­blade.” … Con­tinue read­ing

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Texas Never Whispers, by C.L. Bledsoe

The closer it got to Joey’s dad’s birth­day, the more agi­tated he became, and with noth­ing worth­while to do when he wasn’t at work – which was less and less often since Jerry had been cut­ting his hours – he … Con­tinue read­ing

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Toluene, by Max Sheridan

This guy I knew, he thought he could make his shit high stick­ing toluene up his ass. Some peo­ple know more than one guy like that. I fig­ure you talk to enough of them you’ll hear just about any­thing twice. You … Con­tinue read­ing

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The Last Summer, by Kelly Ford

My friends would head to the pool that day. They’d show off their new boobs in their new biki­nis. Point out which boys they wanted to date. Make plans with­out me for our upcom­ing sopho­more year. Angela paused and spun her … Con­tinue read­ing

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Flight, by Mitchell Grabois

  Once you have tasted flight, said Leonardo you will for­ever walk with your eyes turned sky­ward   and when you are four­teen and ini­ti­ated into sex by a thirty-two year old woman who lives in your par­ents’ hip­pie com­mune you will for­ever … Con­tinue read­ing

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Poems by Marian Veverka

After the Vic­tims were Buried Every­one went back to the farm­house where Friends and wives of neigh­bors had set out food. At first there was just the sounds of chew­ing and Swal­low­ing and maybe a child pip­ing up a few … Con­tinue read­ing

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Castoffs, by Lindsey Walker

How would this look to a cop, hang­ing halfway inside the unlatched win­dow with C.J. boost­ing me through? It is dark inside, but I grip what I think is the short side edge of a farm­house table, pull my knees … Con­tinue read­ing

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