From the Whistler


Wasps - Scott Provence

Marshland Dusk - John Philip Johnson

Gerwin - Calvin White

Near Harmony - John Abbott

The Wedding Room - Shanan Ballam

Hello - Maria Cinanni

November - Chip Corwin


Angle Side Angle - Mary Lynn Reed

There Is Always More Work to be Done - Dave Barrett

The Relief Printer - Jessica Rae Hahn


The Nine Scoundrels by Deanna Reiter

Elisha's Bones by Don Hoesel

Poetry Reviews

Whistling Shade's Literary Cafe Review


My Meeting with Mengele - Maryla Neuman


Eating Your Words in a Prague Cafe - John-Ivan Palmer

John Dos Passos, a View from Left Field - Hugh Mahoney

Lost Writers of Minnesota: Clifford D. Simak - Joel Van Valin


Shading Dealings - Race-based Literary Journals

Fun Patrol - I Never Promised You a Shit Garden



Scott Provence

Late in autumn
they come inside.
They have heard us fighting,
and smelled the small venoms
we carried from room to room.
At first, we were afraid
because we had been hurt before.
But as one walks across the table,
over the crags of my knuckle,
he forgets his rage, that small,
segmented emotion.

First snow: we notice the delicate
bodies. We see the frosted husk
of an empty hive.
Our wind-up toy travelers
drift through the chilling air,
chest-level like half-filled balloons.
They fall asleep in the carpet
and in November we build fires,
abandoning our nests of anger, giving up
the pinch that separates
head from heart.

Scott Provence was a nationally-ranked gymnast until he discovered that words were more flexible than the body. He recently received a Masters in both fiction and poetry from the University of Washington. Some of his recent work has appeared in Harpur Palate and Poet Lore.