A Literary Magazine Sponsored by The University of Maine at Farmington
The other day I bought bread. Not sliced bread and not bread that’s been stored on a shelf for days on end. I bought a fresh baguette that had been baked in store. I paid less than 1 euro, and to pair, I picked up fromage a tartinare, which is a garlic cheese spread.
By Brent Fisk
The first time I married I was eight.
I thought my grandmother would forbid it,
but she let the ceremony play out beneath an apple tree.
A rooster was my best man, but he flew
into a locust tree and would not come down when called.
I had a magical night bar hopping with a group of non-French people who were spending time in Le Mans, same as me. We’d decided the night was called, “Drunk Day,” and it started at the bar, O Brassin Belge, though I was told its nickname was, The Belgian Bar.
Le Mans puts on a show called, La Nuit Des Chimeres from July until September. It is a light show which uses projection mapping on the historical landmarks of Le Mans to tell the story of the chimera.
by Edmund Sandoval
Is there ever a time to think of poetry? Of poets? Of the rivers of the delta? There are no Pyramids in Southern Illinois. Yet, Cairo. She called. She came over.
by David Rodriguez
I’m never replacing my shoes.
These blue vegans may have
hallux holes and squeak, may
stay wet for days and seam-split
before I’ve worn the soles all the
way, but their reliability is enabling.
This is a short recording from a local park down the street. The park has walkways, sitting areas, a large fountain with smaller spouts for children to play among, a playground with swings and slides, and slopes of soft, grassy hills which I sat on while recording this audio.
by Michael Brasier
I furiously slipped on my shoes and hurried to the front room where my parents were putting on their jackets. The weather radar was on TV. A mass of red with arrows pointing in our direction on the map. A storm was quickly approaching.
by Richard Dinges
Each closed door,
windows draped, shadows
dropped from dim
bare bulbs, harbors
By Alexandra Dupuis This past weekend, I made the long, long drive from Farmington all the way to Philadelphia. I drove into Springfield, MA where I met up with my … Continue Reading Greetings, From Philadelphia
One of the phenomenons that interests me immensely in France is looking/listening to the French people and spying those traits in humans that are universal.
by Jason D. DeHart
They placed him in a low
reader class because he could
not recite from the board.
There was no special name,
not like there is now.
by Sarah Kuntz Jones
I’ve been here so many times it should count as penance—sitting on synthetic fabric of spurious cleanliness and breathing cycled air—among the tired, the cranky, and the impatient filing on from the jet bridge.
by Zach Roberge, River Editor Let’s imagine I was building one of these back home. I’d be up on slanted plywood in my glow-in-the-dark van shoes One foot elevated higher … Continue Reading A French Roof
These are stories of me, Zach Roberge, River Editor, and my time in France this Summer, 2017.
by Audrey Gidman
You stay in a place too long you start making
people sick—you get stagnant.
In the active silence she is broken
as a kitchen appliance.
Faucet dripping like slow church bells.
Crumbs in the sink.