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Fall 2016 Issue

The Mysterious Crotch-Grabbing Handshake: Hard Lessons in Vietnam By Angela Smith Kirkman

Second Prize, 2015 Literal Latte Essay Award.
That’s it. I’m done with these useless Vietnam guidebooks. The very next smoldering cauldron of incense we pass, I’m chucking all of them in. Not one makes any mention of the disturbing crotch-grabbing ritual into which all three of my children have been indoctrinated….

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Truth Be Told By Tammy McKillip

Third Prize, 2015 Literal Latte Essay Award.
There is an old Yiddish proverb: A half-truth is a whole lie. My kids have never asked how my father died or how their dad’s father died (the same way, when my husband was 12). I have not told them and have no idea what I’ll say when the time comes, but it will probably be a lie….

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Winter 2015 Issue

A Bride In The Forest: How I Got My Name By Fay Webern

The name I’m called, Fay, comes from “Feygela,” little bird. My real name, the name my mother bestowed on me, is FeygaPinya. That double name belonged to newlyweds in Kovel near Kiev, in Tsarist Russia. They were cousins of my mother, one from each side of her family. They were modern Jewish socialists, idealists like Tolstoy, who supported the uprising of 1905 with fiery speeches,..

Posted in Essays | 7 Responses

Spring 2015 Issue

Apple By Amy Glynn

First Prize, 2014 Literal Latte Essay Award.
In the beginning was the word and the word was… no. Wait. Before a word there is indrawn breath, inspiration, the original pregnant pause. Godhead, aleph, ein sof, unsounded sound….

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My Own Personal Mr. Crabtree By Garry Takle

There are usually a few days during every English summer when the jet stream brings settled high pressure and the prospect of wind and rain recedes for a time to the continent. This day was one of those. It was the middle of the summer holidays and doldrums were approaching,…

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Detours By Sue Repko

That night I’m meeting some women writer friends in the city, and I need to find Panchito’s Mexican Restaurant. I know it’s at 105 MacDougal Street, but I don’t know what subway to take. I scan what Google gives me, and my eye is drawn to a New York Times headline: LIVES AFTER 7-STORY FALL. Apparently, some guy tried to commit suicide at 105 MacDougal back when it was a tenement….

Posted in Essays | 8 Responses

David the Green Dragon Goes to the Opera By Tamie Parker Song

Second Prize, 2014 Literal Latte Essay Award.
I was meeting three times a week, sometimes more, with a man. In between our meetings I waited to see him again. I drove through the traffic of Berkeley, meandered through Berkeley’s utopian grocery stores, every activity I did, really, just a disguise for waiting….

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Fall 2014 Issue

A Certain Sound in the Oasis By Stacie P. Leone

Lying belly down on the floor, I slid almost completely under the bed to reach my suitcase. Our bedroom loft was the driest place in the house, still, green velvety mildew had sprouted all over the bag since I returned from Leyla’s house on the Aegean the week before. Matt’s canvas duffle somehow resisted mold, but I didn’t want to ask to borrow it. We lived in Istanbul, in a one-room house on a hill where the Bosporus merges with the Black Sea….

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Spring 2014 Issue

Juanita and the Beach of Fairies By Jean Guerrero

First Prize, 2013 Literal Latte Essay Award.
On April 23, 2011, during what is known in Mexico as Semana Santa — or “Holy Week” — I went swimming off of the coast of an abandoned beach at the edge of the northernmost jungle in the Americas, Los Tuxtlas, and a rip current sucked me out to sea.

Four other foreigners and I were the only people on the beach; we were a 20-minute hike from our rental vehicle and about an hour from the nearest town of Catemaco, a small lakeside pueblo known primarily for its shamans….

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Wood Swivel Chairs By J. L. Cooper

Second Prize, 2013 Literal Latte Essay Award.
In 1959 I was a nine-year-old freckled blond kid wearing a Red Sox little league hat just to the left of center, hungry for swings at wild pitches and the chase of impossible fly balls. On Saturdays after games, my father brought me to the newsroom where he worked as city desk editor for a small paper struggling to remain a daily….

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