A standing-room only crowd filled Kew and Willow, Queens's newest independent bookstore, for Newtown Literary's 11th issue launch reading.
Six contributors read from their work in the current issue.
from her poem, "lemon as heard by a granddaughter"
"...When life gives you lemons, you don't have to take them home. You
don't have to put them in your tea. You don't have to crush their
segments—bladders of juice and oil—in your kitchen or saturate
their juices in sugar. You don't have to do anything with the
lemons, why do you ask?"
from her short story, "Civil War in the Closet"
"...the other four young men she'd brought around represented, according to Lilka's calculations, five continents, and somewhere between seven and nine nations. They were all sweet boys, and all highly improbable, with wild conceptual careers, alarming communist leanings, and unkempt hair. One of them had shown her pictures of his 'office': a hammock on the beach. And of this the young man had been proud!"
from his short story, "Cowboy Time"
"First I want to tell you all why I don't have my cowboy boots on. I'm kind of ashamed about what I did. I was in the living room pretending it was the bunkhouse and I was sitting on the hassock and I flung my right boot off and sure enough it went sailing across the room and just missed knocking the head off one of my mom's favorite statues..."
from her poem, "When Cambodia is Faraway"
On September 11th
I watched the towers crumble
on television in my dorm.
The day after
my poetry professor offered us
which I sank into,contemplating
the sharp and sweet taste of our surreal, altered world.
I still read the news
with a tight stomach and
But I never know what to say to my father,
I am the American he built
from his own shattering.
What wall could contain this relentless story?"
from her short story, "The Kids Came Back"
"..'The computer lab. The computer lab is gone. My class is gone.'
'But that doesn't make any sense.' She looks angry. 'What are you talking about?' She is doing what he did, walking to the doorway of room 402 and then back to the doorway of room 406 and peering inside, like room 404 is hiding in there. she takes it further and walks all the way to the end of the corridor. Mr. Hall watches her go, trying to calculate if the corridor looks shorter. It's hard to tell. It is a long corridor."
Maura Lee Bee
from her poem, "An Apple For Carlos"
"..The sky runs indigo
dripping onto the sill.
The dust devil sits in the closet
as my mother rubs un huevo
and pretends it is a broom..."
Submissions are open until January 10, 2018 for issue # 12. Send your prose or poetry now!