Rain turns to sleet and pushes the other visitors inside. On the edge of the mountain eye she looks across to banks of gray snow. The shark washes up on shore
A wink is exchanged for a nod then she arranges for the trip to Kraków where the shark is eased into the Wisła near Wawel. If the remainder of the trip to LA is hard to imagine, imagine a shark gliding along an overpass
***
On April 20, 2010, Vladimir Saldi is thinking of her—with a weak but happy flashlight he scans her pages and scant bio—and she has obviously been thinking of him. While automatic hands steer the car through heavy traffic, his eyes lift quickly from the moving grid and see the knifing fin
About the author
R L Swihart loves travelling: A circuitous journey from Amsterdam to Poland and back again has just given him a few new beads on…
Read the full bioIssue 11 · January 2011
Table of contents
- From the editors
- Poetry
- Ars Longa, Vita Brevis by Joshua Michael Stewart
- The White Village by Daniel Aristi
- [PostScript] by Helen Vitoria
- Raising the Dead by Ian Khadan
- Nashville by Janice D. Soderling
- Navigation by Donna Vorreyer
- Instead of a Hand Feathered by a Fountain Pen by R L Swihart
- Cologne by Rick Mullin
- Two Poems by Ani Gjika by Ani Gjika
- Manifest by Lisa Ortiz
- Market in Marseilles by Stephen Harvey
- Postcard Prose
- The Well by Annabella Massey
- Long Distance by Arlan Hess
- Midnight Voices by Matthew Zanoni Müller
- Travel Notes
More from The Journal
- Postcard Prose
By Kelly Hill
Trying to wrap my mind around living on a tropical island for thirteen years and never once seeing the ocean, I stumbled through my Indonesian vocabulary to say, It’s good. It’s big.
- Travel Notes
By Sandra Larson
A dinosaur dangles over my grandson at the Field Museum near a pink thumb that pops into the prom picture of my granddaughter dressed in strapless red leaving her house in Medina …
- Travel Notes
By Megan Hallinan
The bill in question is actually a 2,000 West African franc note, and it’s the equivalent of about four U.S. dollars. A helpful sum, really, but as I clutch the weathered crinkle in my sweaty palm, its value feels as dirty as the grime that is undoubtedly being transferred to my fingers.
- Poetry
to Egg and Berry brewery, to the pack / of Czechy words I made but didn’t work / in this pink town. I’d readily go back / to your best spots, the unfired gun, that perk //
- Poetry
By Jason Warren
And if the neap tides of my beauty / sadden him, I cannot help it: / I hang high, the waxy night light …
- Poetry
By Anastasia Vassos
Three thousand ancestors ask how I straddle / the sea, a foot on either shore. //
Read more Poetry or Postcard Prose
