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Refugees in a Banana Republic
Literary

Refugees in a Banana Republic

Early dawn, when fog hung…

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A Day with Breanne Mc Ivor
Interview

A Day with Breanne Mc Ivor

Meet Breanne Mc Ivor. She…

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Nocturnal Conductions
Humor

Nocturnal Conductions

The first time it happened,…

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The Lady of the Water
Fiction

The Lady of the Water

I’d thought Central America would…

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Never Will I Leave Home
Literary

Never Will I Leave Home

You have not seen our…

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Two Blind Men
Flash Fiction

Two Blind Men

They knew well I was…

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An Interview with Ernest Brawley
Interview

An Interview with Ernest Brawley

Ernest Brawley, a native Californian,…

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A GUITAR GOD REACHED FORTY It isn’t like that at all. There is no OD in room 23 of a cheap motel. He got your guitar out of storage, called around to all the members of the old band, agreed to meet at Tommy’s because he still had a drumkit set up in his basement. They played for hours, rusty at first, but then music memory kicked in, fingers found the sharpest fret, the moodiest bass string, sticks pounded the hog out of the skins. Not ones for nostalgia, they broke in the past like it was a new pair of jeans. And they were suddenly as young at the songs they played. And a crowd were pouring in while their new girlfriends grinned from the side of the stage. So forget the news. Ok, so it did happen. But he’s still 25 and the group’s got a gig for…