Sweet, cherubic boy who loved a woman SOOOOOO much it warranted the high praise of the exclamation point, the x’s and o’s, even an elated smiley as though this love, this identifier of secret property rights had itself created a new language of written punctuation— where has the steel falcon of your idealism wandered? All the world was yours to hate, yours to incite…
In Memoriam by Keith Rebec
Our town has always struggled to bury its dead; in the 70s and 80s, when a person died in an auto accident, their vehicle was towed to Bob’s Auto Repair downtown. Here, for weeks, the twisted metal sat adjacent to Main Street as a reminder of the consequences of raw luck, of those on the wrong side of time, in and around Lake Charlevoix’s south…
La Perla by Mark Frederick Bulandus
Walking up a pedestrian overpass felt different from walking up a mountain trail. This thought was in Nelmar’s mind every time he used the overpass. He spent close to two years in the city but there was still a degree of clumsiness in his step. Nelmar had no physical or mental deficiencies; rather, he felt no affinity with his surroundings. Nelmar missed the mountain trails….
Check out our interview with the Literary Arts blog: Paper Fort
In anticipation of this Friday’s relaunch, we had a chance to talk to our friends at Literary Arts, who are kind enough to let us use their space for the event. You can read the interview here: http://paperfort.blogspot.com/ Join us for the Portland Review‘s relaunch party at Literary Arts, 925 SW Washington, this Friday, February 15, 2013. Event begins at 6:30, with readings by Kait Heacock, Kevin…
What we said by Elizabeth McMunn-Tetangco
We didn’t make the rules: the rows of words laid down like hammered nails — they didn’t speak for us. The thistles lazed in sullen groups, their heads dipped down, they rolled their eyes, they crumpled brown and turned to ash, they crammed their elbows – doorstops – into dirt, they plead their case. We would not be the thistles and we would not be…