Artist Barbara MacCallum claims androgyny as her creative terrain. “I’m interested in male and female, nothing too macho or too feminine but the gap in between,” she says. Her highly original, intimate and imaginative work combines sculpture, drawing, textiles and installation. Blending male and female elements, MacCallum’s works are graceful, mysterious, emotional, and challenging. “My work has evolved through a collaborative relationship with my husband (Robert Johnson) who is a physicist; I cast his body and recycle his published papers giving a new existence to the detritus of science,” she says.. Johnson is a professor … Continue reading Barbara MacCallum’s Androgynous Art→
Abby Murray is the 1st place winner of Streetlight’s 2025 Poetry Contest Of All the Qualities She Could Have Inherited She carries my penchant for flowers she hasn’t learned to identify as weeds. she brings me dandelions, red clover, morning glories, buttercups, even scotch broom, and I prop them up in a vodka bottle on the windowsill because she can’t believe her luck, how nobody fought to collect these beauties before she did, how she found them heaped on yard waste piles or reaching up from the cement or clay beneath utility poles and … Continue reading Of All the Qualities She Could Have Inherited by Abby Murray→
The first time that my brother and I had gone sailing without Dad. The first time we checked the weather and set a course like real navigators. The first time we had an important destination, the sailmaker’s loft, to pick up a new spinnaker. Mom seemed dubious, as her brows arched silently questioning my skills as a newly minted skipper. Her fourteen-year-old son now charged with the safety of his younger brother, Dan, three years his junior. I didn’t have any concerns as we grabbed our bicycles from the tool shed and headed for the … Continue reading A Day of Firsts by David Stern→
They tried to protect us from the TV as it vomited unspeakable news straight from Cronkite, night after night Age six, I snuck looks at the evening news a few times, a ticker at the bottom of the screen announcing the death of solider after soldier. The ashes fell like rain. Much later, I learned about the red death the world had witnessed, brought to us in black and white every night. Mom cried. It was 1968. Now, 60 years gone, I stand at the top of Crabtree Falls, a hike Mom loved when she … Continue reading The Tet Offensive by Debbie Collins→
If the river is a metaphor for life and death, for time, and loss of time, for the rise and fall of seasons, for disastrous floods that carry hope downstream and leave stinking mud in its place, what then, when a river dies? You can see the river from atop concrete steps with granite tread that lead from the cobblestone along the current’s edge to the manicured grass and pruned trees of federal land beneath the stainless-steel legs of the Arch. The Museum of Westward Expansion is closed for renovation. This river was once the … Continue reading Ephemeral Streams by Richard Stimac→
The working title for my forthcoming poetry book is A Furious Surrendering: Poems for Navigating the Unraveling. The title poem contains these lines: ……………… ….These days being alive feels like ……………… ….flank speed in roughening seas. ……………… ….These days we evolve at speeds ……………… … Continue reading These Days by William Prindle→
Spooned out formed by force of gravity diameter to be determined, from silver dollar to as big as a frisbee. Over burning embers, prehistoric ancestors flipped and peeled them off flat granite, their aroma luring cave dwellers from their hairy sleep. The same flapjacks I begged for at Bozo the Clown TV lunches when I ran home from school at noon and ran back at 12:45, tracking a mile burning off whatever I ate. Oh, circle of sustenance, you’ve been working class fare from B.C. to the 21st century or are you just the Mardi … Continue reading Pancakes by Cynthia Gallaher→
Weddings create their own weather. I had no idea. I did not have a big wedding myself. It was spontaneous and the only white article of clothing I had that wild night in the Hollywood Hills was my white satin nightgown. I sometimes regretted that I did not have the confidence to have a real wedding. Now, my daughter is to be married next month, here, in my home, and the village and I am caught up in the matrimonial turbulence. One such storm, the wedding wardrobe. In the spring, she searched for her dress. … Continue reading The Wedding Dress by Trudy Hale→
I am back in Seoul after a fourteen-hour flight, fresh off the airport shuttle and into the city center, at the Nine Tree Hotel check-in desk. It’s a square area on the fifth floor of the building, with moon jars balancing stems of white orchids, their swirling shapes reflected on the marble floors. I had left my condo, a haven of peace in Montreal, frantically clutching my iPhone. For two weeks, I had waited for a message or a call from Jun. But he’d ghosted me. Once I parked the carry-on in the tall, walnut-panelled wardrobe, … Continue reading The Secret Garden by Irina Moga→
………………………………………….After Fragonard’s Les Hasards heureux d’escarpolette Fragonard’s lady sways among the clouds. while gentlemen pull at cords to help her float. An accidental shoe tumbles from stockinged foot. Ruffled and peachy skirts, pastel cushions bespeak her wealth and youth, her future set secure as the golden ropes she grasps and holds, her face as pale and smooth as a fragile egg. My brother hung our swing to catch a breeze to stop my mother’s racing heart for rest from housework’s plodding measured due. We’d sit and wait for beat to gentle down. I’d snuggle up … Continue reading Swings by Joyce Compton Brown→
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