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by Michael Crane

My father left my mother today. He caught a taxi to the airport and boarded a plane to Mexico. This confused my mother as she didn’t believe he knew anyone there. I was my parent’s only child and close to my father as any daughter could be. I stayed with my mother for six weeks.

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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.
We said our vows in the heat of the orchard,
small fruit, green and sour, and spun every wedded word
we pulled from the airwaves, a chaos of TV love.

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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.

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A Matter of Focus

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.
He was not a bumblebee, or a yellow
bird, or a raven. He was not given
a color.
Not blue, gold, or white.
These were the days before such
disguising took place.

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