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Fall 2012

Untitled, 2011 (detail)

Untitled, 2011 (detail)
by Eleanor Leonne Bennett

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Essays

Amanda’s Violin By Judy Fort Brenneman

Third Prize, 2011 Literal Latte Essay Award.
The round table at the coffee shop is covered with a dark green and tan cloth. The four chairs fill its arc on the side away from the wall. I’m on one end of the arc; my backpack and a white teddy bear named Snowball fill the next two chairs; and Amanda, a slight, elven-faced girl-child of ten, sits in the fourth chair….

Posted in Essays | Tagged , | 4 Responses

I’m Not Writing About Robin By Wendy Thornton

Second Prize, 2011 Literal Latte Essay Award.
My friend, Robin, died recently. I drove across the country to visit her before she died, to remind her that her bravery made me brave. She seemed comforted by this thought, as much as you can be comforted when you know you’re going to die within a specific timeframe….

Posted in Essays | Tagged , | 8 Responses

Tinkering with Grief in the Woods By Mark Liebenow

First Prize, 2011 Literal Latte Essay Award.
I sit in my shorts by an open window in Kentucky surrounded by a hundred sleeping monks. Beyond the monastery’s stone walls, beyond the dark scrabbled woods of hickory and oak, a dog barks at raccoons moving through the night, or at nothing at all, and the world settles back down into quiet….

Posted in Essays | Tagged , | 6 Responses

Fiction

Sinking the Eight By Marc Nieson

First Prize, 2012 Literal Latte Fiction Award.
It seems your life can be measured. And I’m not talking about notches in a doorway, candles on a cake, or even that line between dates on your tombstone, but individual moments. Split seconds, really, that’ll come along quiet and fleeting as heartbeats yet divert your destinations nonetheless….

Posted in Fiction | Tagged , | 3 Responses

The Limits of Certainty By Renée Thompson

Second Prize, 2012 Literal Latte Fiction Award.
He was most alive while birding. In summer he pitched a tent, prepared his meals on a Coleman stove, and drank coffee from an aluminum cup. He crawled into his sleeping bag just after dusk and rose before sunrise, ate a breakfast of one boiled egg or half a banana, then prepared his field gear…

Posted in Fiction | Tagged , | 9 Responses

Poetry

Our Potluck (Your Contribution) By Daniel A. Harris

Winner, 2012 Literal Latte Food Verse Contest.
“Cupcakes?!” “Oui, mais cupcakes de France!” you purr.
We grin — that coarse word young Julia, post-war,
would have scorned. Il n’ya pas un mot français….

Posted in Poetry | Tagged , , | 3 Responses
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