Buttoned/Unbuttoned by Lila Allen

Multimedia, Prose

I think about my own modern dressing, about the overalls my mother gave me when I was the same age as the boy in the painting. The metal hook-and-closures were easy, accessible to my tiny hands and their limited fine motor skills. I handed them down to my brother, who is three years my junior. Much of what we wore couldn’t be categorized by gender. They were garments intended for transfer.

An Interview with Alabaster Pizzo, Cartoonist

Multimedia, Ohio Interviews, Prose

Being a woman in any industry is tough, especially one that is typically dominated by men, like comics. Last year the Angloueme Comics Festival in France made a list of 30 "lifetime achievement" cartoonists which didn't include a single woman. On the extreme end you have to worry if the male strangers who are super-involved in your social media are stalking you, on the low end you have to hear your work compared to that show "Girls."

MDwM #30 by Gilmore Tamny

My Days with Millicent by Gilmore Tamny, Prose

Stuffed birds, small cat; Ramona waits for news of Millicent’s looming trial, Lucy (Helvstead housekeeper) comes to London, and the mystery of the body in the cellar and ignominious truth of the story behind it are revealed; illegal production of cheese; the mystery of the postcard writer is discussed and remain tantalizingly insoluble; Millicent and Ramona meet.

Two Poems by Marcus Slease

Poetry, Prose

Did you play the one armed bandits I ask. I played many one armed bandits he says. They give you free cocktails when you play the one armed bandits he says. Before you know it your eyes are cherries, lemons and sevens he says.

Variations on Panini Shop, fiction by David Moscovich

Prose

The furry trout is the scapegoat, the victim, the source of all mysterious disappearances in Panini Shop. If a six-months aged Manchego goes missing, if a prosciutto is misplaced, if a bottle of organic cold-pressed extra-virgin olive oil discomfits, Julio tells Shanice it must have been the furry trout. It has magical powers, Shanice. Its fur can hypnotize you, Shanice. Stay away from the furry trout—cuidado señorita, el furry trout viene para comer te. And why do you think a girl wants to hear about a hairy fish? Lovely Shanice.

What Happened to Humboldt and Marty Upon Arriving in New York City by Scott Navicky

Prose

Humboldt was in awe of the city’s BIGness. No, its vastness. No, its peopleness. The city was a big, vast peoplefarm. Nooo, its pigeonness! The city was a big, vast pigeonfarm! New York City: the peoplepigeoncity. As Humboldt watched, the city transformed itself into a gigantic, concrete birdcage full of peoplepigeons. These strange creatures spent their days foraging for food and desirable reproductive qualities, while continually defecating on each other.

French Vanilla, fiction by Donnie Boman

Prose

I'd known one other house that smelled like French vanilla coffee creamer. But this is the one that troubles me. Every house has a smell. But you can't smell your own house. You smell it, but it doesn't register. Garbage and roses and spoiled milk and curry and dirty diapers and bleach are smells in your house, but they aren't the house smell, which you don't know. If you think you know your house scent, you are mistaken.

The Woman Road, nonfiction by Anne Foster

Prose

It wasn't until the third of fourth day that I started to notice the change. No one told me that I was brave anymore. No one said I was bold. No one called me a whore, either, which was nice. In fact, no one really talked to me at all. People talked to Sam. They asked Sam where he was from and where he was going and then they smiled at me and made on their way. Now that I was traveling with a man everyone stopped making a fuss about me. It proved what I was only just beginning to grasp from my time on the road alone—a claimed woman was a safe woman.

G is for Grief by Andrew Bomback

Let Me Tell You What Your Book Is About by Andrew Bomback, Prose

Helen Macdonald mentions D.W. Winnicott in H is for Hawk, but she does not relay the pediatrician’s famous line, “It is a joy to be hidden but a disaster not to be found.” Training the goshawk is a way for her to go into isolation after her father’s death. Lisicky pores through his friend’s old emails. Alexander lies in bed, after her sons have left for school, and dreams of her husband. Eventually, they all want to be found, which is why they’ve written these books. Likewise, I suspect my patients feel the relief of being found when they unburden themselves to me in the safety of my consultation room.

Fall by Zoë Ruiz, with a photo by Alexander Gilbert

From Her Notebooks by Zoë Ruiz, Prose

In the backyard, the tree is bare and my father is still alive. The man is skeletal. His translucent skin hangs loose from his thin bones. Each of his ten fingers are crooked and bent, and he holds them in the air, above his sunken chest. He has little lung capacity left. He opens his mouth, his teeth are rotten, and he says, Help me. His voice is a whisper, and repeatedly, like a prayer, my father says, Help me.

Excerpt from “The Amazing True Imaginary Autobiography of Dick & Jani” by Julia Lee Barclay-Morton

Prose

This is an excerpt from a book about my grandmothers, Dick and Jani, both born during WWI before women could vote, but who cut very different paths through the 20th Century. Whereas Jani crashed through three violent marriages and became an activist feminist-teacher in the 1970s, Dick had wanted to be an artist but swallowed that dream in order to work in a factory to help her family during the Depression. Because of this violence Dick did to herself in order to survive, I wanted to give voice to a part of her that I believe existed - even if buried nuclear-bunker deep.

Ohio Interviews: Teresa Deborah Ryle

Ohio Interviews, Prose

What I would like to see is for more opportunity for artists who have not had formal art education..to be accepted on their own merit and ability. For the art world to be more broad minded in that respect and maybe not so elitist.

Green, the Lawn of Dr. Brighton by Kate Garklavs

Prose

I couldn’t picture Brighton futzing with the colored lights, laying the fir boughs gently along the planter box’s ledge. These were the doing of the wife, I supposed, like most things tedious and decorative.

Ohio Interviews: Frances Waite

Ohio Interviews, Prose

And all of the sudden the characters' heads became bowls, and there was a dick in the bowl. Somehow these moments always make a lot of sense, I’ll be drawing and something will happen and I’ll think-- of course their head is a bowl and there is a dick in it!

My Country Song by Shane Kowalski

Prose

But let me tell you about the time in my life I was taking care of these little puppies nobody wanted when I got the idea in my head to write a hit country record.

Grand Rapids, Michigan by Jack Buck

Prose

It was our street and everyone in the surrounding neighborhood knew so. Yet, every year during the first couple weeks of June we would have two or three people who would seem to forget this. Their miscalculation was in their failing to drive their car on through to the next block, avoiding our block altogether, past Alger to the south side of Raymond. And, when failing to do so, we would let them know, by refusing to move out of the street, muttering profanities, spitting on the cement, and hurling tennis balls at their car's headlights. They would all catch on after that.

Trafika Europe Corner by Andrew Singer featuring Randi Ward

Trafika Europe Corner

It’s a treat in this month’s Trafika Europe Corner to hear, read, and see her work from the Faroe Islands in three media – with two short poems that she’s written and recorded in Faroese language, then translated for us into her native English, accompanied here by a couple of her photographs. Some clear essence of this very remote island life – situated between the Norwegian Sea and the North Atlantic Ocean – certainly comes through in these concentrated parcels.

The Pope of Motels by Kara McMullen

Prose

 I learned early on that if you’re going to care, like, truly care about something, you really just can’t let other people in.  You have to create a sanctuary inside yourself, where you keep a tiny person who is what you would be like if the world were a different place.  It’s your job to keep that person safe, and the internet can ruin that.  Maybe you know about the new thing, where the providers of a service rate the consumers of that service? If you want to become a person who is the Pope in your field, you can’t read those reviews.