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Fall 2016 Issue

Degrees of Separation By Lynne Sharon Schwartz

Only recently with the candidacy of Fred Trump’s son Donald that has arrived like a plague of locusts — except that locusts are expected periodically and Donald was not — did I start to wonder who exactly this Fred Trump, our longtime landlord, was? What did Donald come from?

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Requiem For All The Words That Didn’t Make It Into Tweets By Laura S. Distelheim

First Prize, 2015 Literal Latte Essay Award.
A gap year, he calls it because he’s learned to speak in tweets. So a gap year he says, at gatherings of his family and at reunions with his friends, and at the job interviews he’s been spending his days going on lately, where I envision bald and bespectacled men and staccato-speaking women sitting across their desks from him…

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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 2016 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,..

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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….

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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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