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Issue 31
CNF
Inside Out
Allison Palmer
L.R.N.
Julia Amber
The Speech Pathologist
Pearl Cooper
Finding Tiffany
Tiffany Bankes
from Inside Out
I threw up in the bushes outside the hospital the day my sister was born. I didn’t stomp my feet and demand that my mom shove her back up there or refuse to go hold her. I didn’t hop up and down and beg my dad to bring me inside so I could kiss my brand-new best friend. No tantrums, no joy. Just vomit. I stopped right next to the E.R. entrance, put my hands on my dimpled kindergartener knees, and barfed. My dad looked down at me with a crease between his eyebrows as I wiped my mouth on the sleeve of my sweater. He knelt next to me and patted my back, checking my forehead for fever. Yes, I feel better now. He shrugged and took my hand as we walked through the doors. Even then, my body knew the things my head didn’t. This is gateway love. My sister was my first. She will probably be my last. Maybe we have to empty out parts ourselves to make room for everything new.
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from The Speech Pathologist
I did not know I had a lisp until I was seven years old, when the speech pathologist took me out of my second-grade classroom and made me read to her from a spiral bound easel pad that squeaked when the pages turned. The speech pathologist had a small mouth and a tight, pinched face. When she spoke, she enunciated each word with aggressive precision. She kept flipping back to a page full of cartoon stars, kept asking me what I was looking at. Stars. Stars. Stars. I was old enough to know that stars didn’t look like they did in the illustration: that they don’t have five points, and that some of them aren’t even yellow.
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from Finding TIffany
A slow, quiet suburban neighborhood. Neatly manicured lawns line both sides of the road, each one boasting a classic white mailbox with a little red flag. As a child, this neighborhood was nothing short of idyllic. The asphalt ridge that contoured my front lawn to the street served me well throughout the years. See, the curb provided me with a sense of safety, security. From that vantage point, I could see the humble happenings on our block while still remaining cloistered. Sometimes I’d watch the neighborhood kids play in the streets, but I was too shy to join them. I could sit for hours watching the neighbors rake their leaves, carry in groceries, and pick up the daily batch of bills they couldn’t afford.
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ISSUE 31
POETRY
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FICTION
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CNF
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ART + PHOTOGRAPHY
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MASTHEAD
Art on this page: Purity by Ayesha Sultana.