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November '05 -- guest edited by Claudia Smith

Learning to Ride a Bicycle
  by Amanda Deutch

  by Dorothee Lang

  by Terri Brown-Davidson

Kisses on the Forehead
  by Liliana V. Blum
   translated by Toshiya Kamei

Margaret and Beak Discuss Jazz for the Last Time
  by Kathy Fish

Lawrence Welk's Last Erection
  by Linda Boroff

The Star
  by Bob Arter

  by Kim Chinquee

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In church that day, I was wearing my leather suede with all its fringes; I felt cute and happy everywhere I wore it. I made it. The organist played an arpeggio I knew like religion. And then my dad screamed. No one admitted he was sick until then.

I remembered seeing Mickey in the pew ahead. We were playgrounders, going from park to park and swinging. I'd known him since diapers.

My dad stayed in an institution. I gave Mickey my jacket and made myself a new one. We see-sawed, matching, team.

Before I had to move away, Mickey and I finally kissed.

Now my father tells me either I hate you or I love you. Someone told me Mickey shot himself. I know it’s true. At his stone, I strip, vomiting, a jacket.

Kim Chinquee's recent work appears in NOON, Denver Quarterly, Conjunctions, elimae, Opium, and several other journals. She lives in Michigan.