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check out my website/would love to be included in ur magazine

dion hitchings added these pithy words on Apr 28 10 at 7:11 am

Dion! I love your stuff! I’ve actually been to your website! Would love to talk to you about having your work in the next issue.
I will email you,


William added these pithy words on Apr 28 10 at 1:10 pm

I’d like to enter a non-fiction submission to you next publication. My name is Julie Heckman and I am 60 year old and have been a lesbian since my first crush on my 6th grade teacher, Mrs. Johnson. I’ve been writing for the past 5 years and lately am getting edgy about getting published. Enclosed please find a copy of “Fractured” a non-fictional story of my childhood growing up. Thank you for your time

Julie Heckman added these pithy words on Jul 16 11 at 12:42 pm

Fractured by Julie Heckman

My grandfather on my father’s side, was a pecker-toothed sidle who raped his daughter when she was just a child. He threw down vodka from his own eternal well and took father out to appreciate prostitutes when he was just thirteen. It was here that father first learned the true value of a woman. Mercifully, a permanent steel brace got loose at the Pennsylvania steel mill where grandfather worked and crushed him into a pool of blood and urine.
A dried seed rattling in an empty gourd was father. He had grown up hardened with leather-stiff roots exposed too long in the sun. Always angry, he had no social skills, how could he have them? When I was in my early teens my mother knew that he wanted to rape me, so I kept guard with knives next to my bed and ran away whenever I could. I went to bed at night fantasizing how to sneak into his bedroom and kill him with one of the sharper carving knives.
At sixteen my brother Danny listened to classical music and was talented at both art and math. But, unfortunately, none of us had adjusted too well to Father’s chaos and my mother’s retreat into no where. One day Danny put all his expectations and dreams into a matchbook and burned down three houses in the neighborhood. He secretly, robbed his friends of their cash and valuable coin collections. Odd thing was, he never spent any of it, just buried it in a brown paper bag high up in the deserted gully behind the backyard. Eventually, he grew weary and one day with tears in his eyes he confessed to mother all the things that he had done. He was taken to Camarillo State Mental Hospital for an evaluation. I was fourteen and needed a good stiff drink, but the amphetamines and sleeping pills sold in my high school were much more effective and accessible. With
all the time I spent truant and running away from home, I was soon transferred to various foster care homes and grew up like a weed.
Mother Dolly was an auburn haired porcelain bisque, matt finished doll from a
discriminating collections of dolls… her father’s dolls. She was not a witty woman

but silent and afraid. She gave birth to three children who grew up like feral dogs while Dolly made Betty Crocker weekends and otherwise TV dinners until she grew sick with cancer… very sick. One day the brothers were playing with Dolly tossing her back and forth like a red plastic ball, one to another, until they dropped her. Fragile, she shattered into a thousand pieces on the hard, gray cement patio. Father came out determined to put the pieces back together, but clumsily, he repeatedly stepped on Dolly crushing the refined fragments into powdered dust.

Julie Heckman added these pithy words on Jul 16 11 at 12:44 pm

Hello! I love the concept behind the magazine! I love what you stand for and what you want to publish and share with the world and I’d love to be part of it. Here is my website, I just finished a series of nude Polaroids dealing with the female form and the concept of heterotopia.

sarah Elise Abramson added these pithy words on Feb 08 14 at 4:48 am

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