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"Cherokee Portraits"
by Daniel Friedman

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Elizabeth McKenzie
Catamaran Literary Reader Managing Editor & Fiction Editor

Something Like This is Mine

     A woman peers in at a window display of cakes, pastries, eclairs.  I imagine her stomach growls uncomfortably, but it's the couple beyond the butter and chocolate, inside the coffee house, she's watching.  She decides they are in love.  The young man's eyes are bright, and he is speaking animatedly, his hands flying around like birds.  The girl is rapt.  What wonderful things he must be saying!  The woman in the window tries to remember when young men poured out their thoughts to her like songs.  And then she notices me.  Who is that awful, unpleasant-looking thing, she thinks, leering at the happy twosome?  The look of scorn from the other side of the cakes is telling me: stop trying to steal heaven from angels.  The look says: watching love is as close as you can come.
     Well, who says it's love?  They're discussing politics.  And why is that woman in the window still staring in here?  She seems intent.  Do I know her?  She has horse-thick hair, a short tail of it, and a hard, stern face.  This is the curse of remaining too long in a public place, of returning too often to the same warm coffee house.  Perhaps the woman has seen me here before and wonders why I return so often.  I realize paranoia is built into my nature.  That said, I also fear I'm not too popular with the establishment here, particularly with the young man with the earring who usually pours my coffee, even though I leave him tips.  He doesn't smile.  He doesn't ask me about my books. 
     Just now another young man is approaching my table, a young man with shoulders to hold up the sky; perhaps this one has seen my books and wants to discuss them with me.  Today I am reading Italian Hours.  This young man looks adequately intelligent and perhaps he has taken a seminar.  As he continues toward me I create my fantasy afternoon in the coffee house.  First comes his shy introduction, his mumbled justification for approaching me and asking if I will dispense my knowledge of the Master.  From there our discussion fills the room like this Vivaldi.  He lights me a cigarette and lights his own with the blazing tip of mine and the size of his first exhalation is the measure of his gratification; he will never have had a better talk with someone so earnest, so passionate, so gentle, so wise.
     "Pardon me, may I take this chair?"
     "This chair?" I say.  "That's all you want, to take my chair?"
     He smiles weakly. 
     "Fine, young man.  Thank you for asking so graciously." 
     And he takes it and retreats.
     But why should I be gracious?  He assumes it's not in use because I'm an old creep in a coffee house.  I have one chair left.  I will guard it like a Mama Bear.  I will maul anyone who bends over me and looks me in the eye and asks me about my chair instead of my books.  Let there be a ruckus in the coffee house.  Let us slip on the floor in the juice of our own wounds!  I have been in fights and I've always been amazed at how well I manage; I am tough but that doesn't mean I'm not tender.  I have a Mexican blanket with a hole cut in the middle for my head, which enables me to sleep outside on chilly nights and once a man tried to pull it off me.  Can you imagine that, pulling a blanket off a woman sleeping outside?  Perhaps he didn't see my head and thought I was only a pile of clothing.  At any rate, when he pulled he got more than blanket.  Because my head was firmly stuck through.  He screamed and imagine this, I am only half awake because I am dreaming of a time in my youth when I wore a sailor dress and strutted by a lake like Princess Anastasia of Russia, with a wooden boat on a string behind me, and a dozen ducklings waddling in my parade.
     Really, don't feel nervous about my mentioning this, it's as if this happened to another person altogether, seeing as how I am now so entirely changed. 
     It was a warm afternoon in May.  We were in Italy, my mother and I.  Along the shores of one of those great Alpine lakes.  The starched cotton of my dress, the sun on my wide and happy cheeks, my mother's laugh, and the man who must have brought the whole of our lives tumbling down because he wanted into all this happiness, a black haired man, an Italian, a Prince if you will, all of this floats in my dream.  But when it happened, I was no more distilling the treacherous moment than was my little wooden boat, for I believed as most children will what my mother told me, and certainly believed that in anything she did her motives were pure.  My father, the bland unsuspecting neuro-physician, from whom I must have inherited my doltishness, was down in the sweltering city of Milano doing his scientific duty.  He sent us to the lake to spare us the mosquitos and smog.  He didn't know about romantic Italian princes.  He didn't know about my mother's wandering eye.  Neither did I.  So I am dreaming of this fateful promenade when suddenly my Mexican blanket is tearing at my neck.  It will soon decapitate me.  I feel my esophagus collapse.  I am waving my arms around trying to pull the blanket away from my throat and now this evil jackanapes realizes that the blanket is alive and he screams, like a piglet having it's curly-cue tail trimmed.  He lets go.  I can breathe again.  And then suddenly his fear flip-flops into embarrassment and anger and he begins to beat me, one fist after another into my stomach and my back and my sides.  "Stop!"  I cry.  "Stop!"  His fists are flying in the dark like bats, silent and fast.  I am aware of vertigo and a pain that must be in my kidneys.  I am conscious of something hot and salty on my tongue, filling in around my teeth. 
     I decide as I lie face up looking at the stars that I will go back to sleep and finish my dream.  Because in my dream I want very badly to look back at my mother and the Prince, but I can't.  It's one of those dreams in which the body tries to participate, the neck strains to move, to turn, but the mind won't allow it, there is some reason why I'd better not turn around and look.  Was she kissing him?  Was his tongue lapping at her ear?  If I'd known then what I knew soon, that he was no Prince but a shoe salesman with a handsome profile, a drunkard, expecting in his undershirt three meals a day on the table, siring babies every year until my mother collapsed and died, scattering a dozen angry children across the European continent with my mother's small hands and blue eyes, if I'd known all that, then I'd have turned around in my spotless sailor dress, reached into his sternum and pinched the life out of his tiny chicken heart.  I finish off my dream this way, triumphant, the past repaired, until the smelly bum finally leaves me.
     I haven't been beaten like that since.  Having lived through that one I am considered in my crowd invincible.  At least I suspect I am, since I am circled but never touched.  I'm like a piece of gristle, not worth the trouble to chew.  Personally speaking I prefer liquids.  Before six p.m. I live on a diet of coffee and cream.  Caffeine seizes up the gut, hunger scurries away.  I try not to take advantage of the free refill policy of this coffee house since they surely didn't mean to pour cups of coffee all day long to those of us who live on it.  At noon I trade in my cup and buy a fresh one.  I always hope the young man with the earring notices this.  Then I return to my seat, mine everyday, a church pew nailed to the wall.  Here I am sure of seeing everything.  No one can get behind me.  The pew is hard but good for my posture.  I press my back up against it.  Beside me sits a satchel of my things. 
     I'll tell you why I'm a fighter.  For until the time of the girl's school I'd never needed to be.  My father was never a warm man.  He was involved with his work and undoubtedly caused my mother to seek her fate.  I visited with my father, shortly after the rupture, in the uncomfortable late summer haze of Milano.  There we were, in the aftermath of betrayal, two people angry and alone in the world.  But did my father try and comfort me?  Buy me a dog or a toy?  Instead he sent me to a girl's school, where I spent a few months being pummelled by pillows and scratched by shards of ice chipped from the freezer.  Soon I decided I was not afraid of the older girls with the ice because I saw how I could become a glorious martyr, and I allowed myself to be sawed up completely my second week there.  I ran from room to room flailing my wounds, ruining eiderdowns.  Soon enough the weak girls called for an insurrection with me as their leader.  Like chimps we hammered apart the ice box with parts from our beds.  There would be no more easy access to ice at the girl's school.  However I was called away just after I'd secured this niche as leader, and a day later, by my father's hand, was sent by train to a village in the flat Po valley where I would suffer far beyond the wounds made by the ice and without any hope of glory.
     Is that another story?  I think it is.     
     Now why is that woman still in the window, eyeing me through the cakes?  I know I have seen her before today.  Her hair is as thick as a horse's tail, where have I seen her?  I have tried, in the thinking portion of my adult life, to hold onto everything, to be someone on whom nothing is lost.  Why can't I place her?  Maybe my vision is failing me, maybe she's someone else, only choosing cakes.  I should tell her to try the lemon layer cake, I've seen the lovely waxy lemons they squeeze for it.
     It's really crowded in this coffee house, around four p.m.  At a table against the opposite wall I see the broad-shouldered young man who took my chair.  He too has a notebook.  He reads it and looks very unhappy.  His journal?  Is he depressed more about his writing or his life?  I find that these younger people do not read enough.  It is hard to find anyone to talk to.  An unexamined life is like wilderness.  And how I hate wilderness!  So did James, so did James.  The man was no Jack London.  He listened at all times, in parlors, drawing rooms, around exquisite dinners and teas, with his ear cocked, not for mere dialogue but for the spokes from which he would turn the entire wheel.  From a tiny piece of light could he reconstruct vistas.  And thank god he hadn't a family to intrude upon his time for reconstructing.  I've really enjoyed reading the notebooks as I love seeing the germs from which the novels sprouted.  I have a number of germs here in my notebook, but I doubt any novels will be written.  I'm starting too late.  It took me years to come to any conclusions about myself, let alone the rest of the people.  I'm as new to the realm of thought as a college student and yet far more wrinkly.  I don't know how to go about eliciting the intellectual stimulation I want.  Those in my crowd are not interested.  Once they seized my satchel and dumped out all my books; not to discuss them but to make a fire.  Sometimes I can't believe I've become so independent, so cut loose; however, I attribute my lot to the muddle of my mind in my earlier years and blame dumb innocence and nothing else.  For the treacherous cannot be blamed for taking advantage of the naive.  The naive are poorly educated in human nature.  The naive have not read enough.  They certainly have not read James.
     You think I'm a hardened old scag?  Let me tell you another story.  One summer, five or six years into my love affair with U (I will call him that since X is over-used), he insisted we load up his car with every kind of outdoor gear and drive to a forest deep in the heart of Virginia.  We lived in Georgetown at the time.  I had a job then, I carried a briefcase, and somehow I blended in with all the other young women working in Washington.  I considered that alone to be a feat.  I never felt like I belonged there, but to pass showed my ingenuity.  I was a curious young woman.  That is to say, I was a young woman with great curiosity.  U's work was secret to me; even in confessing its secrecy he feared he'd gone too far.  You might think that one with so great a curiosity, and one so betrayed as a youngster, would shy away from a man with whom secrecy was everything; somehow, however, I believe that the formal structure of his secrecy made it very comforting.  Confined it, kept it away.  To me he was a funny quiet man who loved comic books and played tennis like a fiend.  He liked crosswords and Baroque music and long hot showers.  He loved sweets, particularly chocolate cake, and smothered pork chops were his favorite dinner.  Aren't there thousands of women who know little more about their mates than this?  Was I such a freak?  Then don't blame me, don't judge.  Leave the blaming and judging to me. 
     So I happily filled in the color of his secret.  For surely there alone he went, in foreign drawing rooms, alone with foreign women, at night by train dodging silenced bullets aimed at his heart, kissing lips from which he might gather data, filching it off blueprints with a quick click of the camera in his bow tie.  U spoke Russian; that he spoke it was secret. So one year, to make up for all this secrecy, U told me a campout had been arranged and we would go under cover of wilderness to an appointed spot to frolic freely and be merry with the others.  The others!  The word chilled me.  I was wary of the campout to start.  I remember the unending greeness, nothing for the eye to snag on, nothing but flags of falling bark!  A squirrel crossing the road.  U listened to Baroque music and I knitted; yes I believe I did that then in order to feel more normal.  I even had a straw purse with flowers on the lid; U smoked a pipe; he had a great long American car with a push-button dash.  Sometimes he turned his eyes from the road to look at me, and when he did I braced myself, lest he suddenly rest his eyes on something that gave me away.  But what?  No wonder it was a disaster.  I was so unknowing, so stupidly lost. 
     At last we reached the end of the long dirt road and came upon a booth at which stood a young man studded with guns.  He seemed reluctant to let us in.  U got out and argued with the young man.  At last we were admitted.  After he climbed back into the car I could see that U was agitated.  He began to sweat.  He said that no other wives or girlfriends had come along and perhaps he'd been mistaken.  Perhaps we should turn around directly and go home.  When we pulled up in front of the cabin a small swarm of other operatives (for I recognized them--they looked so much like U) came out and greeted us.  In fact they were laughing.  U began to laugh.  And I laughed too. 
     If you find this notebook--and you know who you are--do not get me wrong, I am not a traitor.  No more than this urgent young man who hopes to procreate by way of mentioning the 112 protests he's marched in.  The young woman is all admiration; he has finally said the right things.  Soon she will let him into her world.  How much groundwork must he lay in the coffee house?  I give him twenty more minutes.  In twenty minutes she will feel completely safe and go home with him promptly.  The young man with the shoulders is writing in his journal, notes flying from his left hand.  There he goes, turning pages in a flurry; his writing brings him suffering, little pleasure.  I wonder if he knows to sprinkle his life with pleasant dinners and lunches, and to confine his writing hours to a certain time of the day, so that the doubt doesn't linger all the other hours that the job hasn't been done. 
     I wonder if he'd care to talk.  But I've learned not to approach others at their tables, and rather wait for them to approach me.  I have set up a pile of my books and I wait.  And wait.
     So why were the operatives laughing? you might ask.  Let's see how far I can go with this.
     They had played a practical joke on U.  At the gate, the young man studded with guns had been told to tell U that his Russian wife and three young children were there.  And thus did U quake.  Surely there must be some mistake.  Yet in those minutes his mind worked quickly, while I knitted blithely at his side.  What wondrous ironies are born because of the things we hide!  There I was, knitting to seem normal.  There he was, wondering how in god's name his Russian wife and children had ended up in a guarded compound well in the heart of Virginia.  So I tell you, when you smell a rat, when you're relieved you smell only one rat, then, my friends, that is the time when squadrons of rats will be found.  Nevertheless the campout was a great success.  That first night a few of the other operatives took out their instruments, a trombone and a clarinet and a tall bass fiddle I believe, and we all stayed up drinking and listening under a bright moon.  The next day U and I took a hike to the top of a ridge and saw the Shenandoah Valley.  We splashed in a creek and threw rocks at a log.  The next night we clustered around a lantern and played cards: I won seventeen dollars.  U was different that weekend, a man's man, and the other operatives treated him that way too.  In fact I was a little surprised when, during our card game, raccoons wandered close to our fire and U knocked one out with a rock, then slit its throat with a bowie knife he produced from his belt.  I guess I never really knew U, did I?  He said he was going to make a Davy Crockett hat; the operatives laughed.  I suppose they were laughing because he would make the hat for his little Russian son and I didn't know it.  My half-brother Giorgio, an agent in the Italian Special Army, also knew it, and knew U; in fact knew him well before our first trip to Europe together some years before when, as you might guess, I myself introduced them.  I was expedient for U, I was used shamelessly by U, that's what I'm trying to say!  Although I believe he grew to love me in his own strange way.  I hope this illustrates what I've had to unravel since then, and what I've had to look at as though from the other side of the mirror, where all actions are reverse of what they seem to be.
     Something like that.
     I'm always doing that--jumping to the other side and looking back in.  So why is the woman with the fall of horse's hair still glaring at me from the window?  By now I'm quite uncomfortable, surely she wouldn't take so long to choose.  And yet I myself have lingered in front of baked goods for undue time.  I also tend towards fear and paranoia and I must reign it in; a woman eyeing baked goods is certainly nothing to be afraid of.  The young man with the shoulders like branches of trees also looks my way from time to time and I think of sticking out my tongue at him, to prove I'm not afraid of his beauty and youth.  From the yearning political couple I hear the woman whisper: "I am a very private person.  I was hoping that we could be friends."  Then the man's voice, sharp but low: "I didn't ask what you were hoping."  But I give them more time.  Surely his urgency will win him something.  The young man who works here, the young man with the earring, clears tables, empties ashtrays, working hard all day.  I imagine his back is tired.  Another woman I've never seen before has bought an eclair and sits now to my immediate left, in another church pew nailed to the wall.  She too is writing in a notebook.  She too has a pile of books.  But their spines face the other way, I can't form an opinion on her yet.  All I see is an eclair being swallowed.           Just then the horse-haired woman in the window enters the coffee house. 
     I realize paranoia is built into my nature.  I'm afraid I see danger in more places that I should.  But under the circumstances can you blame me?  The wiles of others have been my undoing.  Secrets have destroyed the happier portions of my life.  Still, in the time it's taken me to drink a cup of coffee I've told you my two tragedies--or something like them, for I now believe intensely in emotional truth rather than bald facts.  No, don't be alarmed.  Don't think, what, no wretched childhood in Italy, no personalized torture by secret agents?  The facts are close enough; how close doesn't really seem to matter, does it?  If you're suddenly dissatisfied then I haven't told my stories right.
     How about this: the woman is coming my way.  She has a nasty look on her face.  Her mouth is twisted with aversion.  My stomach turns.  Surely she's looking at someone else.  But who?  I sit with my back to a church pew.  There is no one else.  I gnaw on my lower lip, I bite my tongue.  She pushes her way through chairs, between tables.  I scream, "I don't know anything!"
     My table tips over as I try to flee from the woman with the fall of horse's hair.  Everyone in the coffee house alerts.  I hold up my fists for protection: she's cornered me, I have nowhere to hide.  But before she can strike, she's grabbed my satchel!  She is tearing open my satchel, she is trying to dump it out!
     "Stop it!" I scream.  I lunge.  I grab at her trim shoulders.  I shake her.  She screams.  I know I am a frightening spectacle.  She drops the satchel and kicks me.  I bellow louder.  We bump into another table and fall to the floor.
     Someone is prying her away, helping her up.  Someone is assisting me too.  I'm panting.  She begins to dust herself off.  I don't bother.  Then, like a viper, she grabs my fallen satchel again.  I try to snatch it back, but we are separated now by massive arms.  The young man with the shoulders.
     "Aha!" she cries.  She opens it wide and dumps it.  From my satchel drop a number of books.  "I knew it!"  She scoops one of them up, Roderick Hudson to be exact.  She rifles through it.  Then she screams out.  "It's just as I thought!  You've been peeling off the zebra stickers from the back!  Somewhere in the stacks you go and peel off the stickers!  No wonder you get past the alarm, no wonder we can't catch you!  But now I have you!  That's it!  No more!  That's it!"
     Everyone in coffee house stands and stares.  I'm afraid I've spilled some coffee down my front.  I'm afraid I need to sit down. 
     "For months," she says triumphantly, breathlessly,  "I have been watching this creature march into the public stacks and make off, little by little, with an entire shelf of books."  And now I know--how could I be so obtuse.  I have seen her many times.  This woman stands behind the circulation desk of the library.  "Look at this," she says, grabbing up my favorite collection, with "Miss Gunton of Poughkeepsie" and "The Abasement of the Northmores" in it.  "Not a one of these books has been checked out!"
     "I would have," I say.  "I would gladly check them out if I had a card.  But no one will give me a card!"
     "And why is that?"
     The entire coffee house looks this way.  The politically conscious couple stares.  The shouldered young man.  The young man with the earring.  The new woman eating the eclair.  Everyone.  Silence.  My cover has been blown.  I will never be able to come here again.  I will always be unwelcome.  I have created a scene.  I am humiliated.
     "Because I don't have an address," I say.  "Is that such a crime, you bearded nannygoat?"
     She begins to gather my books.  She is piling them in her arms.  Oh lord, who cares about the humiliation, what will I do without my books?
     "She has an address," a voice speaks.
     It is the young man with the earring.  It is the young man who pours coffee in the coffee house.  He walks right up to the woman from the library. 
     "It's here," he says.
     "I see.  Well, she needs at least two written documents with her name and address together."  The woman smiles impatiently at the young man with the earring, then looks down on me.  "I don't suppose you have those documents?"
     I admit, "Of course not."
     "Oh yes she does!"  The young man with the earring is running back behind the counter.  In a moment he is back.  He is carrying two envelopes.  He kneels beside me.  He asks, "Now what is your name?"
     I would hesitate.  Not for effect or anything like that; but it would be the first time I'd have spoken my name in some time.  So when I say it, it sounds strangely brittle.  It sounds like a character's name, the name of someone I have dreamed up.  In fact it's not my name.  Nevertheless he writes it down, on the envelope, over the name of the coffee house with the name of the street and the name of the city and the zip code even.  Then he pulls two stamps out of his wallet and sticks them on.  He seals the envelopes and delivers them.
     The coffee house goes berserk with excitement.  They are clapping and calling this new name of mine. 
     The woman from the library turns red.  This is not her crowd.  This crowd is too enthusiastic.  This crowd makes too much noise.  The library woman says, "Absurd."  She has collected the notebooks, the novels, the stories, everything.  "You'll have a hard time getting any books out of the public library system in this city--ever again.  After what you've done.  Some of these books have been missing over a year.  Your name is going in the computer!"
     The crowd hisses.  Someone throws a muffin at her head.  Coffee splashes the horse-hair.  She runs out bearing the wares of the coffee house; she also runs out with my books.
     Oh no, would I be required to make a speech?  They're clapping, they're staring.  The faltering political couple is united in my cause and grasps hands.  But these people don't understand me.  They think they do, they believe they've just seen the triumph of the individual over bureaucracy; but this low-grade complexity is all these young people can grasp.  I'll bet you want this incident in the coffee house to warm me up, prove to me that people can care, etc.  But that's awfully over-done, isn't it?  Perhaps what I need is something else.  Perhaps I've resigned myself quite well to my situation.  Still, I sense I'm trying to "change" to make this a magazine story.  What a contrivance, melting the heart of the crusty curmudgeon.  But I'm perfectly happy the way I am!  I belong here in the coffee house, not in some magazine, and I'm not going to act like a changed person just to get into one.  So I've got to tell everyone here what's important while I can still think for myself.  I stand.  I clear my throat.  I must try and set the record straight.
     The first time I read a book that mattered to me I was on a train, I tell them.  Just outside of Chicago.  Not so many years ago, really.  I was coming west.  I don't remember who recommended the book to me or whether I stumbled upon it by fate, or where, even, I picked up that funny paperbound edition.  At any rate, I tell them, I liked Isabel Archer immediately.  And I liked Ralph Touchett too.  They were my people--if they knew me I would not have to pretend.  I might give up knitting.  At least with Isabel.  She would surely like me.  With Ralph who could tell.  With men it was different.  With men, I said, you never knew, it was almost biological if they liked you.  Do you understand? I ask them.  Do you understand what it means to find your people, when you've always been alone?  Isabel, like me, educated herself; therefore she had none but her own prejudices, and those were decidedly fair.  At any rate, here was another girl alone in the world.  As I hurtled through Iowa, I suffered with Isabel's decision about Warburton, and prayed she wouldn't accept his proposal.  It was too easy.  And she didn't, and I loved her more.  By Nebraska I feared and marveled as she was taken under the wing of Madame Merle.  I was suspicious of Madame Merle from the start.  By Wyoming Isabel knew Osmond; my heart pounded with excitement and fear.  But there was no turning back from Osmond, there was no other way she could have gone.  Let the weaker people say she should have married Warburton, or Goodwood!  I say there was no other way.  So do you see how that has been a comfort to me?
     To use another bookish comparison, when I got on that train in Chicago I was like Strether before he came to Paris.  When I emerged in San Francisco, I was--well, you know.  Entirely changed.
     Changed for the better?  That's a question.  Look at me.  I'm nearly in tears.  Anyhow, I imagine I'm done talking and this seems to have satisfied the crowd's need for some closure to this incident.  They would applaud my speech.  Suddenly, I would have friends here.  I might be told that I would soon be taken to a bookstore, where some new books would be purchased for me.  I might be invited to a poetry reading at a local college.  Someone might ask me if they could read my notebook.  And someone else wants to know if I'd like to come over and take a hot shower and slip into something more comfortable.  This from the young man with the magnificent shoulders.  I laugh wistfully to myself when I think how this sounds; now he is telling me that he lives with his mother and we look to be about the same age and size. 
     Then, I imagine him telling me something else, and I have to steady myself.  He would say he's very interested in my books and would love to discuss them with me.  My god, how can I go another minute denying how good this would feel?  Okay, okay, I need to go speak to him, a little human warmth is all I need!  But he's so young, he can't, after all, have crossed the divide.  Can he have?  He won't know what I'm thinking.  No.  He won't know that I'm in love with him, even just for today.  I'm sure he won't!  I laugh.  What else can I do.  The young have so far to go, you can only look at them and think: how frightening it was, when I was as generous as you.

 



Elizabeth McKenzie has worked as an editor for the Chicago Quarterly Review for 14 years and also as a staff editor for The Atlantic Monthly.  She has published two novels with Random House—Stop that Girl and MacGregor Tells The World.  In 2012 she released a new book My Postwar Life—New Writings from Japan and Okinawa, which she edited as a result of an NEA Japan-U.S. Friendship Commission Fellowship.  Her writing has appeared in The Atlantic Monthly, The New York Times, The Pushcart Prize Anthology Best American Nonrequired Reading, and others. She holds an MA in English/Creative Writing from Stanford University and a BA in Literature from UC Santa Cruz.

Fiction
Mary Allen
Elizabeth McKenzie
Catherine Segurson
Eric Weinblatt

Poetry
Candace Calsoyas
Molly Doyle
Zack Rogow

Nonfiction
Andrew Beierle
Tom Christensen
Alyson Lie

Artwork
Daniel S. Friedman

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