Leaving Home

No. 3 May 2017


What do we mean by leaving home? For some of us, it’s the first time away from family. The first time living on your own. And for others, it’s the time we ran away from somewhere, or something.

For young couples, it’s a break up. For a father kissing his daughter goodbye when she goes to school, it’s the pang of emotion that can’t be described. For a soldier going off to war, it’s the possibility of never returning.

The stories in this issue are about the places we call home. Will we set them on fire? Will we breathe our last breath there? Will we experience our first kiss? Will our souls be set free from this earthly home to discover new worlds?

As a publisher, it occurred to me that writing is about introspection. It’s about trying to explain things using metaphors and illustrations. It’s the struggle to reveal the true depth of that inner world we call home.

We are all at home. And we’ve all left home. In the end, home is where you find yourself. And lose yourself.

Welcome to Leaving Home.

D. S. White
Editor-in-Chief


Overture

The Fire
When I think about it, the fire was a good thing. No one else thinks that, of course.
By Brittanie Maccarone

The Night Manager
When I heard how William Faulkner wrote his first novel, I went straight out and got myself a night gig.
By Ed Cooke

Climbing Time
I can get sunk into a project or a problem for days. I’ve also been diagnosed as having Asperger’s.
By Mike Fiorito

Bryan is a Stupid Man
Bryan is a stupid man, he knows this, and even he knows that you should not stack bricks like that.
By Demetria Claire

Bless Me, Tomatoes
My mortal soul may be in your hands, but truthfully, Father, I’m not so sure about that. Not anymore.
By Edith Clark

My Daughter
O how joyful it was to hold your tiny profile in my rigid hands. To feel your skin brushing away the sorrow.
By Dhaval P. Nayi

The Big Kiss
WWII was two years gone but joy was still simmering in Kansas City. My old man, Bud, was the sailor who kissed the nurse in the photo.
By Guinotte Wise

Valerie
Sandra suspected something, of that he was certain. But she had never accused him directly.
By Pete Johnson

Daughters and Rainwater
It was particularly painful when John described the car wreck he and his youngest daughter had survived.
By Read Cook

No Strings Attached
They made love. There was nothing bashful about it, nothing hurried, no thought for modesty.
By Adithi Rao

The Dark Room
Like a mole I adjusted my eyes, groped for a dangling string and switched on a dim lightbulb.
By Ute Carson

BONUS

Author Interview
With Ute Carson

Momentary Poems
By Ute Carson

Thunderbolt Poems
By Guinotte Wise

Book Reviews
By David R. Grigg


LOOK INSIDE THE MAGAZINE


Photo Credit: G. Wise, www.wisesculpture.com