Breath & Shadow
A Journal of Disability Culture and Literature
Spring 2009
Volume 6, Number 2
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Breath & ShadowA Journal of Disability Culture and Literature
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Smoking, Before the Coffin by Jeanette Beal
A pot on the burner Click here to read these poems Relapse by Ilana Jacqueline I am not on fire. Not on fire. I have to convince myself not to let my arms jerk open to swing where they might catch the air. Every part of me wants to, every part of me hurts. Every singular molecule of my being is radiating with misery. I used to be proud that I did this every day. That I let myself breathe in and out the intolerable--but always shockingly bearable crushing of physical hurt and that panicked starvation for relief. It was never coming, and the pain was undoubtedly never ending. But it had ended--and if not ended had at least become livable--manageable and beautifully noiseless in its daily existence in my life. Click here to read this short story Good as Gold by Patti Rutka On a fresh, dewy day in May, where the woods of Maine approach the coast, I stood in the riding ring at Bush Brook Stable, home of Ever After Mustang Rescue, feeling like an idiot while I waved around a carrot. I was trying to get the dang horse to let me pat his neck. Patting, so normal for ninety-eight percent of horses, was utterly out of the question for Good as Gold. He nearly jumped out of his horsey skin the first time I made a light slapping noise on his neck. His fear was large, as was mine, although for completely different reasons. Or so I thought at the time. Medical Journals (a triad of poems) by Kristin Roedell Speak from your heart, Click here to read these poems The Bathroom Battle by Tatiana Hamboyan Harrison Every day in elementary school, an aide follows me around, including into the bathroom. It's the epic humiliation: having an adult go into the bathroom with you. It doesn't matter whether or not the other kids know about it. I know it, and it makes me feel ashamed that I can't even go to the bathroom by myself. It's not even that I can't use the toilet alone or have trouble getting on and off the seat. I wear spandex pants every day because I can't do zippers or buttons. My only consolation is that spandex pants are somewhat popular, though most of my classmates wear jeans. Click here to read this creative non-fiction piece Let’s Make a Deal by Dorothy Baker Trinity stood behind Peyton with her arms around her waist as Peyton faced herself in the mirror for the first time since her left breast had been removed. "It's not so bad, right?" Trinity nuzzled Peyton's shoulder blade which was level with the top of her head. "What does it matter--the Spectre's going to get me eventually, anyway." "Okay, Sunshine, what's Phil Spector got to do with anything?" "Not PHIL Spector, THE Spectre. The Grim Reaper, the Angel of Death. And it's already got it's big old jack-booted foot wedged in my door..." Peyton's mouth was a grim line. She never cried, not even after the surgery. Click here to read this short story The Urban Funeral by Stephanie Green On a moonlit walk through the cemetery The Legend of Cool Hand Stan by Roy A. Barnes Who else but "Cool Hand" Stan could wear a red t-shirt with black lettering that proclaimed WAVERLY JR. HIGH INMATE? This attire of conspicuous protest so eloquently stated what many of us kids felt like in a place where we were forced by our parents and society to be confined for 180 days a year. Stan wasn't a total rebel; after all, the colors displayed on his t-shirt matched Waverly's official ones. Maybe that's why the faculty allowed him to keep on wearing it. Click here to read this short story A Note From My Mother, Waiting For Word: On My Mother’s Heart Attack by Stephanie De Haven Your birth was the birth of an idea born squirming Click here to read these poems |