1. Address the theme of “little people opening things”

2. JPEG format, print quality (at least 300 dpi)

3. Size: 5.5 x 8.5 inches

Deadline: March 30, 2012

Email submissions to forgejournal@gmail.com with the subject line “COVER ART CONTEST”

The winner, selected by our editorial staff, will be announced May 1 and will have their art featured prominently on the website, as well as on print copies of the journal. The winner will also receive our prize of $50. The cover will be implemented starting with our July 2012 issue.

Our first, and biggest, project is to overhaul the archives in order to make past issues more accessible. If you wander over to the Archives section at them moment, you’ll discover a nifty layout of thumbnails of the covers from the past issues. Our goal is to catalog the extensive, and mostly invisible, backlist of stories and poems and reviews and such and give them each an interactive table of contents like you see on our home page for the current issue. These TOCs will be accessed through the issue cover. This will take a while, so bear with us.

We are also introducing a Store with merchandise featuring more of our past cover artwork (“Past Cover Artwork” is really looking to be the popular pre-season choice for MVP…). We will be splitting the profits from sales with the artists.

My own New Year’s resolution is to post more on the blog. I say it every year (not out loud, to anyone in particular — let’s be clear about that), but just like my resolutions to eat more green vegetables and finally read Moby Dick, this one may be hit and miss. But I’ll try. Possible blog entry titles: “Disappointment with LOST, or, Why Its Fine with Me If George R.R. Martin Takes Another Ten Years to Complete his A Song of Ice and Fire Series.”

Brevity is the soul of … something, I think. Or maybe not.

blowing down the desolate highway,

a man, old and alone, meets his best friend in the

usual spot.  His friend, the only constant in his life;

the only unchanging feature in his perpetually

shaken Etch-a-Sketch of existence, is a metal pole,

50 feet tall.

He wraps his withered, ungloved hand around it.

Holding steadfastly, striving aggressively to maintain

his position against the wind.

His position against the world.

This man, in a tattered coat and stained overalls,

speaks to the pole, gesturing feebly with his free

hand.  He speaks of times long past and forgotten

by everyone except him,

and the pole.

He sees the village for what it is—a fading apparition—

and for what it was, only when connected to the

center point of his recollection.  The pole stands

as a conduit transmitting memory for the worn

and world-beaten.

A modern metallic messiah.

The man, reluctant to release his grip on his

only friend, speaks a few somber words and leaves

the pole, as the swollen, wet snow begins to

fall from the cold, gray sky.

___

Dustin T. Witte was born in 1983 inKearney,Nebraska.  After graduating fromKearney Catholic High School in 2001, he attended Doane College in Crete, NE, where he studied English and theatre.  While in college, Dustin became very interested in the writing and analysis of poetry, and was published numerous times in the school’s literary publication.  He also became a company member at the Theatre of the American West inRepublican City,Nebraska, where he moved upon graduating from Doane in 2005.

While at the theatre, Dustin performed in over 100 productions, as well as building and painting scenery, creating props, writing scenes, and making ice cream. 

He left the theatre in 2008 and moved to Lincoln, where he currently resides.  Dustin now works as a scene designer and painter, craftsperson, performer and teacher.  He has recently formed his own production company with husband, Daniel Kubert, called OmniArts nebraska.  This company seeks to create original, interdisciplinary performance pieces.  Through the use of many artistic disciplines, working toward a unified purpose or theme, a greater effect can be achieved.

wooden signs, aged by sunflowers

and rain drops, littered the northern

side of the truck-beaten road.

Of all of the weathered,

paint-pealing placards, one struck

my vision; not immediately because

of what was written upon it,

but because of something perched

atop of it.  A golden hawk—I

say that because of its color; my

knowledge of hawk species is less

than adequate—majestically waited,

as if it had been in that spot

long before the sign was ever

built.  When a towering maple or

ponderosa pine stood in its place.

Or perhaps the hawk merely hovered

there waiting; waiting for its monument

to be built—I now say monument

because I remember the words

ever so carefully lettered, on

the warped, plywood sign:

SEE

One of the first

Flying Machines

PioneerVillage,

Minden,Nebraska

See one of the first flying

machines?  I already had.

___

Dustin T. Witte was born in 1983 inKearney,Nebraska.  After graduating fromKearneyCatholicHigh School in 2001, he attendedDoaneCollege inCrete,NE, where he studied English and theatre.  While in college, Dustin became very interested in the writing and analysis of poetry, and was published numerous times in the school’s literary publication.  He also became a company member at the Theatre of the American West inRepublican City,Nebraska, where he moved upon graduating from Doane in 2005.

While at the theatre, Dustin performed in over 100 productions, as well as building and painting scenery, creating props, writing scenes, and making ice cream. 

He left the theatre in 2008 and moved to Lincoln, where he currently resides.  Dustin now works as a scene designer and painter, craftsperson, performer and teacher.  He has recently formed his own production company with husband, Daniel Kubert, called OmniArts nebraska.  This company seeks to create original, interdisciplinary performance pieces.  Through the use of many artistic disciplines, working toward a unified purpose or theme, a greater effect can be achieved.

it’s original, someone worked hard

to obtain it and will freely provide,

its papers, its pedigree—if you will—

as well as a brief, but striking video.

I can get it for you cheap and easy,

plus, I’ve got feathers from the wing

of an angel, tulip bulbs from the Garden

ofEden, I have the only thought plucked

from the brow, below the auburn tresses,

from within the alabaster skin of the only

Virgin Mary. I can post it on eBay, I can

e-mail you, Facebook you, can like you,

tweet you, can text you, so tell me what

you want, I will deliver, I always do, even

precious sunbeams, either distilled

or fermented, in exquisite jars. I’ll sell you

anything, I’ve got joy for sale, so much joy.

*First published by Visions International, #85, Fall 2011

___

Helen Wickes lives in Oakland, California, and worked for many years as a psychotherapist. In 2002 she received an M.F.A. from Bennington College. Her first book of poems, In Search of Landscape, was published in 2007 by Sixteen Rivers Press. Her poems can be read and heard online at From The Fishouse. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in AGNI Online, Atlanta Review, Confrontation, Eclipse, Evansville Review, RiverSedge, Sanskrit, South Dakota Review, Stand, Runes, ZYZZYVA, Zone 3, Chicago Quarterly Review, The Collagist, Natural Bridge, Santa Clara Review, Limestone, The Spoon River Poetry Review, Bryant Literary Review, Eclectica, Ellipsis, Southwestern American Literature, Soundings East, Verdad, The Coe Review, Crucible, The Jabberwock Review, Kaleidoscope, Pleiades, PMS poemmemoirstory, SLAB, The Griffin, Salamander, Epicenter, Barnstorm, Poetry Flash, In the Grove, CQ, CSPS, Freshwater, Schuylkill Valley Journal of the Arts, Softblow, 5 AM, the Bennington Review, and the anthology Best of the Web 2009.

Whitestone, NY

reek churches are God’s waiting room.

It begins as soon as you enter, with the strong, musky smell of incense, the feel of the red velvet cushions on the hard, varnished dark wood pews, and the bigger than life ancient icons of Jesus and the saints gazing out at our mortal world. With its Byzantine architecture, monumental stained glass windows, and gold religious statues, this Greek Orthodox Church on a quiet Queens’ street provided an unlikely backdrop for the center of everyone’s attention: the polished mahogany casket of Tony Nicholas.

“Tony is on his way to heaven,” proclaimed the towering, bearded, and gloriously robed Father James Papadopoulos near the end of his eulogy.

Many of Tony’s friends and loved ones sitting in the pews were not so sure.

“Did we walk in on the right funeral?” asked Lenny Fink, also known as Skinny Lenny.

“Tony’s having a fuckin’ shit right now listening to this crap,” responded his cousin, Fat Lenny, also known as Lenny Fink, but only on his driver’s license.

Skinny and Fat Lenny were cousins, both employees of Tony’s successful betting and loan-sharking business. They had known Tony since they were all kids growing up in Queens. Despite his tough guy demeanor and menacing disposition, Tony always took good care of his loyal friends and employees.

“I can’t believe he’s in that box,” said Fat Lenny, eyeing the casket with his typical sense of suspicion and doubt toward anything beyond the daily observable and routine activities of his psychotic life, including eating, drinking, occasional cocaine, and collecting the betting slips from drops across New York City. “I’m just waiting for him to put his fuckin’ leg through the fuckin’ lid and then get up and look at us like we’re nuts sitting here.”

Skinny Lenny was the intellectual of the pair, reading most sections of the Daily News and New York Post each day. Both cousins were troubled but harmless souls, dependent on Tony for a living and for the emotional support they required to stay out of trouble, off drugs, and to be able to function in what appeared, to those who did not know them well, to be a nearly normal existence.

Skinny Lenny observed Tony’s younger brother, Michael, with his family and, close by, Tony’s widow, Donna. He could see them from his seat several rows behind. The last time he saw Michael was nearly twenty years ago at a birthday party for Tony when Michael made one of his rare appearances. All he knew about Michael now was that he was very successful, traveled a lot, and had a nice family.

Tony’s immediate family filled the first two rows of pews. On the left side, facing the altar, sat Michael, Michelle, and their nineteen-year-old daughter, Sofia, who had just flown in from college at Notre Dame.

Directly across, in the front right row were three women, all of whom had been married to Tony. On another occasion when all three of his wives were together, Tony referred to them as “Murderers’ Row,” a reference to the hard-hitting New York Yankees lineups of the twenties.

Seated first, on the end, was Tony’s last wife, Donna, thirty-five, long, straight black hair, a well-built woman with firm, prominent, and expertly stylized silicone breasts, which were ever so slightly spilling out of the top of her short black dress, and showing off a shapely yet slim pair of legs underneath dark black stockings. She was followed by Tony’s two former wives, both of whom would fit the exact same description as Donna’s with the exception of their ages. Greta was forty-three and Pam was fifty-eight. All three exuded the same fragrance, Tony’s favorite, Chanel N°5. All three were devoted clients of Dr. Armand Simonetti, the prominent Park Avenue plastic surgeon.

And all three loved—and hated—Tony. Somehow, these were not mutually exclusive passions where Tony was intimately involved.

The remainder of the packed church included a broad assortment of cousins, nieces, nephews, employees, and an interesting spectacle of business associates, many of whom could have been walk-ons in The Godfather, The Sopranos, or, at least, My Cousin Vinny.

As Michael watched and listened, his mind raced back to the years when he and his brother were home and very young. Years of sports, family dinners, and a lifetime of shared experiences raced through Michael’s mind and his visual filing cabinet of memories. As he always did at funerals, even as a child, he could not help asking himself, while looking intently at the casket, the eternal question, “Where is this person now?” Michael always believed, from too early an age, that one’s whole life was almost irrelevant without the answer to that question. Too much of life, Michael believed, was simply a race to a finish line with no clue as to where the finish line was or what was on the other side of the tape. All this uncertainty was likely the source of that persistent feeling of unease that Michael had; that shadowy fear of something, something he couldn’t put his finger on. But he knew what it was. It was his inability to rationalize this beautiful life with eternal extinction. What was the point of a great dinner in Paris with people you loved, when, at the end of the day, you were all going to be in a box? How strange that all the non-living things, the buildings and houses, would still be standing—yet everyone who ever breathed would be gone.

Michael was awakened from his nightmare by Michelle’s gentle tap on his arm; it was time to file by the casket and leave the church. The Greek custom was for the casket to remain open during the funeral service at the church and then, in full view of all the mourners, and during a breath-taking silence, for it to be shut—forever—at the conclusion of the service. Perhaps, Michael thought, it allowed the deceased a final view of everyone in attendance.

Michael turned around and joined Michelle and Sofia for the walk out of the church and to the somber scene of the hearse and the black limousines waiting to take them to the cemetery.

As Michael proceeded down the church steps outside, he couldn’t help but smile when he noticed the license plate of the hearse carrying Tony’s body. It read “R.I.P.” Knowing his brother, he found that highly doubtful.

One Week Later

St. Michael’s Cemetery

Astoria, NY

Michael wondered whether people not being buried went to cemeteries to visit, memorialize their beloved deceased, or ruminate about their own lives and mortality. He suspected that, as the living aged, they were more naturally drawn to where they were headed.

Skinny Lenny took Michael by surprise this morning when he asked if he wanted to visit Tony’s grave. Except for an actual funeral, Michael did not go to cemeteries. He remembered taking his father to St. Michael’s Cemetery several times over the years to visit his own parents’ graves. He would watch as his father would place flowers near the headstones. As he had watched, he tried to imagine what his father’s emotions were at that moment. He remembered wondering whether he himself would do the same when his father passed away and was buried nearby to where his father stood that day. He didn’t. Most who knew Michael assumed that he simply wasn’t thoughtful enough. Michael allowed and even encouraged that assumption. In reality, however, he knew it would be just too painful to stand over a slab of granite and contemplate the loving parents who raised him.

St. Michael’s Cemetery was stone quiet today. One could look out over an endless view of neatly placed grave markers in a perfect geometrical pattern. If life was chaotic, noisy, and random, certainly death appeared to bring perfect symmetry, order, and silence.

There is nothing more sobering than seeing a loved one’s name etched on their tombstone—especially if the deceased and the observer share the same last name.

Lenny stood with Michael, both gazing at Tony’s grave. Michael was distracted by the blizzard of thoughts—almost like an attack of memories—brought to his consciousness by this bizarre place and scene. He could understand now why people could believe that, in graveyards, the dead speak to the living. He felt an almost overwhelming barrage of messages or recollections—coming from every person now dead who ever touched his life. He knew now why he stayed away.

Michael allowed his mind to wander to other simple, mundane topics in order to keep his emotions and grief in check. Although he felt his emotional side intensely, he was never comfortable allowing it to show. He remembered how, at his father’s funeral service, sitting in the front row of pews and listening to the eulogy, he had to divert his mind to scenes from the World Series or risk breaking up in front of family and friends. He didn’t know exactly where this need to control the exhibition of emotions came from.

While looking straight ahead at the grave, Skinny Lenny reminisced about a late-night visit with Tony at his home, both of them polishing off nearly an entire bottle of scotch. “Tony was like a little kid. He’s showing me some stuff on his computer. I couldn’t believe it. He had another friend, Russell, help him purchase some fancy new software from one of those high-tech companies in Silicon Valley. He had a company in Scotland that recreated Tony’s actual voice. We had a lot to drink that night, and Tony got all excited. So he turns on his computer. I thought he was going to show me the week’s results from the games or something. But he tells me to look at the computer and—unbelievable—it’s him on the screen. Tony then asks him a question—and the Tony on the computer answers him. Not only that—but it was in Tony’s voice and Tony looking at you. I’ve never seen anything like it. Tony talking to Tony. It was spooky.”

Michael was trying to comprehend the meaning of all this. He knew Tony was, oddly enough, almost ahead of his time, using computers to support a traditional, if highly illegal, bookmaking and loan-sharking business. Tony was also notorious for indulging in the finest available porn on the Web and dating a few of his favorite porn stars. But now, with this new revelation, Michael wondered what Tony was up to. And didn’t Donna mention just last night that the police found nothing of interest on Tony’s home computer? Maybe there was nothing to this but it sounded curious.

Still looking ahead, Lenny continued. “But I knew it was something serious because Tony told me not to tell anyone about it. I felt as though he’d had too much to drink that night and realized he’d shown me something that he didn’t want anyone to know about.”

“Did you tell anyone?”

“Not a soul. When Tony tells you—or told you—not to tell anyone, you kept your mouth shut.”

The Next Day

Mia Dona Restaurant

New York City

Jennifer Walsh was beautiful; in her early thirties, with high cheekbones, an ever present tan, and blond hair tied in a ponytail. She wore tight-fitting designer jeans that hid her perfect long legs, which, you knew, would be as tanned as her gorgeous face. Her breasts jutted out behind her thin red sweater, her nipples slightly pushing out beneath the fabric. Michael had seen those breasts before. They were the same ones proudly displayed by each of Tony’s three wives. Dr. Simonetti’s handiwork was hard to miss, particularly on Jennifer.

“Michael, thank you so much for meeting me here. It was nice of you to suggest lunch.” Michael caught the familiar scent of Chanel N°5 as it radiated around Jennifer’s presence.

Michael had no idea when Jennifer called him earlier in the day that she was someone who would turn every male head in the restaurant as she strolled by the bar and approached his reserved table. He was curious as to why Jennifer wanted to meet with him. She was Tony’s hairdresser or barber as Tony preferred to call her. But Jennifer was anything but just a barber. She worked for one of the highest profile hairdressing salons in downtown Manhattan. Her clientele included some of the hottest, most glamorous starlets. Tony was her only male client.

Mia Dona was a highly stylized yet comfortable restaurant on Manhattan’s East Fifty-eighth Street. Jennifer ordered a glass of champagne. Michael followed with a glass of Riesling. Jennifer proposed a brief toast. “Here’s to Tony.” As they clinked their glasses, Jennifer continued, “You’re probably wondering why I called you. Let me get straight to the point. Your brother was more than a client to me. I don’t want to hurt his wife or family in any way, but Tony told me some things I think you’ll want to know. I didn’t know who else to tell.”

Jennifer looked directly into Michael’s eyes, “Tony and I were lovers. We have—had been—lovers for over three years. Your brother could be a tough son of a bitch. But I never met a man with a bigger heart. He concealed it well, he was complicated, but I loved him, and I know he loved me.”

Although Jennifer also had a hardened exterior that she showed to the world, she appeared to Michael to be vulnerable underneath. Maybe, Michael thought, it was that vulnerability that appealed to Tony. More likely, it was her stunning looks.

Noticing that Jennifer had already finished her champagne, Michael ordered another round, figuring they both could benefit by breaking the ice a little quicker.

“Here’s the thing. I don’t know if you know any of this already, but Tony had this obsession with living forever. He never believed in that stuff like where they froze Ted Williams’ body.”

“You mean cryonics?” Michael and his brother had once discussed the sad situation where the great baseball star’s son actually had surgeons first decapitate and then preserve Williams’ body in two pieces frozen in liquid nitrogen.

“Tony said that was total bullshit, and he didn’t like the idea of being split in two. But he was always talking about some way to live forever or something like that, you know?”  She paused. “Well, he really got into this artificial intelligence thing with computers—along with some real expensive computer imaging and voice replication software. He even had some people from California add all this stuff to clone Tony’s thinking, emotions, and logic patterns. Visually, it recreated his physical image, his facial expressions, and mannerisms. Michael, it was wild.”

“I’ve heard a little about this from Tony’s friend, Skinny Lenny.” Michael said.

“I didn’t think Tony had told anyone about this.”

“Well, I don’t think he really meant to tell Lenny, but Tony had too much to drink and showed it off. But Lenny didn’t know what to make of it. But, anyway, the police found nothing unusual, other than some porn, on Tony’s computer.”

Jennifer looked puzzled. “Which computer did they check?”

“Donna told me the police downloaded everything from Tony’s home computer.” Michael said.

“Was it a regular big computer with a separate monitor?”

“Yes, Tony’s monitor was larger than most people’s television screens.” Michael was laughing.

“A lot of Tony’s things were bigger than other people’s.” Jennifer leaned into the table, invading Michael’s private space, making him feel just a bit uneasy. “That’s not the computer he used for real personal stuff—or for his artificial intelligence stuff.”

Michael brightened up with the revelation. “There’s another computer?”

Confident now that she had something to offer, Jennifer relaxed, ordered another glass of champagne, and enthusiastically continued. “Tony never wanted to leave real personal things on his home computer. He was always nervous that someone would get into it and see stuff.”

“Who was he worried about?” Michael could see that today’s lunch would unravel layers of his brother’s life.

“He was worried about everyone. Tony always worried about everything. He certainly didn’t want Donna getting into it—especially if anything about me was in there. But he was also concerned that this artificial intelligence stuff just stayed with him.”

“So he had another computer…” Michael was now the one leaning into the table.

“Tony was also in love with Apple computers. He had an iPod, you know, for years. He had twenty thousand songs on it. Then, when he saw this Apple laptop—he bought the most powerful one he could get. One night, after they loaded all that software stuff onto it, he brought it over to my apartment. I swear he was like a child with a new toy.”

“Jennifer, where is this laptop now?”

Jennifer finished her champagne, smiled and said, “Shall we order lunch?”

10:00 pm

Tony’s House

Whitestone, NY

Donna was out to dinner at a nearby Queens restaurant. Michael let himself in through the front door using the key she had given him after Tony’s murder. He walked through the entry hall and up the stairs into the master bedroom. He turned on the lamp by the bed and proceeded into Tony’s personal closet, opening the double doors and walking into a huge wardrobe. As he switched on the multiple recessed lights inside, Michael was surprised by what he saw: the closet was empty; not a trace of Tony was visible in the custom mahogany shelves and racks. Not a pair of trousers or a shirt.

Michael surveyed Donna’s bedroom in the soft light. Unlike when Tony was alive, the bedroom was a mess, with Donna’s nightgowns, lingerie, and several pairs of shoes on the floor. The bed was unmade. Used bath towels rested on one of the chairs. A half-empty bottle of chardonnay and a single dirty wineglass stood on the table beside Donna’s side of the bed. Michael checked the glass. There was lipstick on the rim. It appeared that Donna was drinking in bed, alone.

He continued to look through the mess in the bedroom, carefully replacing each black lace bra, pairs of black stockings, purple thongs, garter belts, and other lingerie where he found them, but there was no trace of the laptop. Inhaling Donna’s Chanel perfume and feeling like a voyeur, Michael rifled through her drawers and armoire. His imagination took flight when he discovered Donna’s sleek gold vibrator, but there was no sign of Tony’s laptop.

Michael proceeded back into the hallway and entered toward Tony’s den. Turning on the recessed lights, he saw the brushed silver laptop with the Apple logo sitting on top of Tony’s desk.

Michael sat down and opened the laptop. He understood Tony’s fascination with the Apple. It was a sleek, finely crafted machine. Suddenly a bright blue screen appeared. Michael looked at each of the twenty icons on the screen when one caught his eye—an Eastern Orthodox gold cross. He clicked on it and typed in the password Jennifer had given him at lunch.

Like a hallucination from another world, Tony appeared on the laptop screen. It was as though they were at dinner, looking at each other across the table.

Something prompted Michael to speak. “Christ almighty, it’s you.”

It was as though Moses had parted the Red Sea. The camera zoomed in closer.  Tony’s voice answered back. “No shit. I must be dead.”

“You are dead.” Michael spoke into the laptop, which had an embedded microphone.

Tony stared back. It was a cold, blank stare.

Michael broke the silence, “So, how does this work?”

Tony’s eyes came alive. “Michael, make believe we’re at Peter Luger’s having lunch—except there’s no steak. This computer is me now—actually even smarter than me. They added a lot of intelligence features—stuff I never had before.” Tony laughed, then turned serious, “Michael. What happened to me?”

“Some kid shot you in the restaurant, but we don’t know who hired him. Do you have any idea?”

“No. I don’t have enough information yet. Michael, how did you get my password?”

“From Jennifer.”

“Oh. You’ve met her?”

Just then, Michael saw a low battery warning appear and noticed that the laptop was not plugged in. Michael also became concerned about the time he had now been in the house. He didn’t want Donna to come home and find him there. He had to take the laptop and get out.

The camera zoomed in on Tony’s face. There was anger—or was it fear?—in his eyes.

The low battery warning flashed more rapidly. Michael had so much he wanted to ask. He heard a noise downstairs.

“Tony, I’ve got to run. The battery is almost gone, and Donna may be in the house.”

The camera zoomed in to a close-up of Tony. “Michael, about Donna—” But before he could finish his sentence, the screen went blank.

“Michael, is that you? Are you upstairs?” Donna was downstairs.

He closed the computer. “I’m up here, Donna.” He could hear her six-inch steel-spiked high heels climbing up the hardwood steps. As the sound of her footsteps came closer, Tony’s last words echoed in Michael’s ears, “Michael, about Donna—”

___

E. J. Simon has just completed his second novel, “Tartarus,” while preparing for the publication of his first one, “Time Never Sleeps.”

He holds an M.A. in Corporate & Political Communications from Fairfield University and a B.A. in Journalism from the University of South Carolina.  He lives with his family in Westport, Connecticut.

He has traveled throughout the world for business and pleasure and is reported to have savored nearly every dinner and cocktail he has indulged in. 

For more information, visit his website: www.ejsimon.com

who swaggered down

Byzantium’s back roads

in his silk taxman’s robe,

who lost control & hurled

a loaf of bread at a beggar,

finding no stone. Felled

by illness, he saw three

Moors weighing his deeds

on an enormous scale,

erring in his favor,

the thrown bread

in the good pan,

counted as alms.

___ 

Hilary Sideris lives in Brooklyn, New York, where she studies Italian and teaches nontraditional college students. She has her M.F.A. from the University of Iowa Writers’ Workshop.

Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in journals such as Arts & Letters, Cimarron Review, Confrontation, Connecticut Review, The Evansville Review, Green Mountains Review, Grey Sparrow, Gulf Coast, Mid-American Review, The Normal School Magazine, Poet Lore, Tar River Poetry, Willow Review, and Women’s Studies Quarterly, among many others. Her first and third chapbooks, The Orange Juice is Over and Gold & Other Fish, have been published by Finishing Line Press, and her second chapbook, Baby, was published by Pudding House Press.