This particular Groundhog was happy to call this particular vinegar bottle home. It was larger than you might imagine, and she had fixed it up with an exhaust fan, sliding doors, and a cozy nest of dry leaves.

“Suits me fine,” said the Groundhog whenever conversations turned to the topic of unconventional housing.

The Groundhog’s friends considered her eccentric. In a good way. Groundhogs are, generally speaking, a tolerant species.

Good Fairies, however, are not.

One day a Good Fairy was out for her daily flit, when she noticed the vinegar bottle with the Groundhog curled up fast asleep inside.

“What in heaven’s name?” she exclaimed. And she flew down to investigate.

“Not good, not good, not good at all,” declared the Good Fairy. “This housing does not meet code. Substandard, that’s what it is. This will never do.”

She tapped her wand on the sliding glass door and sang out, “Old woman! Old woman! Wake up, you poor thing.”

“Mfft. Ehng. Blaw,” the Groundhog muttered. “Whut?” She scrabbled out of her warm crunchy leaf bed and went to the door. “Look, I disconnected the phone because people were always calling with something to sell. I told the boy who woke me up yesterday, no magazines. I don’t buy Girl Scout cookies, either. Or vinyl siding, or roofing. Whatever you’re selling, I don’t want it. Go away.”

“Bless your heart,” the Good Fairy commiserated. “You need a neighborhood with a strong homeowners’ association. Door-to-door solicitations, indeed! Not good, not good, not good at all! Poor thing, you’ve been so badgered.”

“Groundhog,” said the Groundhog, still a little nap-fogged. “Not badger. Badgers aren’t pudgy. Neither are they even-tempered. Which is why you still have that inane smile on your face. Because if I were a badger instead of a groundhog, that smile – or your face – would be gone by now. Please. I’m trying to hibernate. Go away.”

She pushed on the door, but the Good Fairy had set her dainty little foot down on the track, and the door would not slide.

“Sleeping your cares away,” the Good Fairy sympathized. “Not good, not good, not good at all!  Isolating and retreating into sleep is the worst thing you can do. Sweetheart, all that is going to change. Because guess what? Today is your lucky day.”

“Not so far,” said the Groundhog.

 ”Oh listen, you silly girl,” the Good Fairy cajoled. “I was just flitting past when I noticed this eyesore you’re living in…”

“This eyesore is my home,” said the groundhog. “Suits me fine.”

“…and I saw poor little you in a near catatonic state, curled in a fetal position in that squalid compost heap…”

“My bed. I like my bed. I wasn’t fetal. I was sleeping.”

“…and I decided right then and there that you deserve better…”

“Okay. Bye now. I’m closing the door.”

“…so tell me, sweetie, what do you really want? A cottage? A condo? A castle? I can do it all!”

“Can you shut up and go away? I like my vinegar bottle.”

“That’s low self esteem talking,” remonstrated the Good Fairy, “loud and clear. You know what? After we get you set up in a cute little house…” The fairy squinched her nose on the word “cute.” “…we’ll work a little magic on you. Clothes, health club, electrolysis. Just look at you in that dowdy fur coat,” she tutted.

“It’s the only coat I have,” said the groundhog. “What you see is me.”

“Yes. You. Hiding your beautiful self with those tacky clothes,” the Fairy postulated. “We’re going to fix you up better than new! First, though, tell me about your dream house. Don’t leave anything out.”

She leaned forward, hands braced on her knees, looking down at the Groundhog with her most attentive Active Listening expression. The Groundhog heaved a sigh of resignation. She didn’t want to get rough. She had claws and sharp teeth. She could get rid of inane smiles – and faces – as effectively as a badger could. But the adrenalin rush would keep her awake for hours, and what she wanted most in the world at this moment was to shuffle back to her leaf bed and get on with the business of hibernating. Five minutes. She’d humor the Good Fairy for five more minutes.

“My dream house,” said the Groundhog, “has glass walls…”

“Well aren’t you Ms. Avant Garde!” the Good Fairy exclaimed. “Actually, I’m a great fan of Philip Johnson myself. Okay. What else?

“My dream house lets in a lot of fresh air.”

“Oooh! Patio doors! On tracks.”

“I envision a round chimney-like hole smack in the middle of the ceiling, which, by the way, is also glass.”

“Sort of like a bottle spout?”

“The very thing. And I hate a/c. Can you install an exhaust fan?”

“Mai oui!” minced the Good Fairy.

“You may. Please do,” said the Groundhog.  “There’s a picture on the wall, I can see it as clear as if I were looking right at it…” …and indeed the Groundhog was looking right at it. “Heinz Distilled White Vinegar.”

“A touch of Andy Warhol!” the Good Fairy enthused. “I’d never have guessed your tastes ran to pop art.”

“Oh, I’m just full of surprises,” said the Groundhog. “And one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“No right angles. My dream house is built on a circular foundation. Also glass.”

“Brilliant!” extolled the Good Fairy. “Anything else?”

“Nope,” said the Groundhog. “That’ll do it.”

The Good Fairy shut her eyes tight, pursed her lips, and wrinkled her nose in concentration. She muttered some gobbledegook and drew figure eights in the air with her wand. When the fairy dust had settled, she looked with satisfaction at the dream house she had created for the Groundhog.

“Very simple,” the Good Fairy observed. “Cutting edge design. And yet, classic! Modest. Indeed Spartan in its appointments. And yet, voluptuous.”

What the Groundhog saw sitting ten yards from her front door was an exact replica of her vinegar bottle.

“Just what I always wanted,” said the groundhog.

“All righty then!” sang the Good Fairy. “And now for that makeover.”

The Groundhog thought, Drat. I really am going to have to tear her face off. But she said, “Actually, I can feel my self-esteem burgeoning, right here, right now. Yeah. You know what I’m going to do just as soon as you’re gone? I’m going to call the day spa. Hot rock massage. Pedicure. Mud bath. The works. And then I’m going shopping.”

The Good Fairy emitted a heartfelt, “Awwww. I just love this work.”

“Okay, bye,” said the Groundhog.

“Buh-bye.”

Before the Good Fairy flitted away, she drew one last figure-eight with her wand, which banished all the clouds from the sky and left the Groundhog standing in full sun between her vinegar bottle and the Good Fairy’s replica.

“So I got a guest house,” said the Groundhog. “Higher property tax. But it coulda been worse.”

She checked her wristwatch to see what time it was and noticed that the date was February 2^nd.

“Hmm. Groundhog Day. And here’s my shadow, bigger than life. Well, that Good Fairy was good for something. Six more weeks of winter. I’m going back to bed.”

Megan Hicks                 Fiction Table of Contents

But a color blind child didn’t know anything
but static, square box and black fuzz.

That television could barely stand on Grandma’s
kitchen table, drunk off the volume

or the scent of her burning bagels, I don’t know.
I turned the knob to fix the colours of Bills jerseys,

wanting that in-the-stadium feeling, not last section seats
without binoculars. Grandma in the background buttering

what I’d later throw at the wall on fourth and inches
but they couldn’t convert. Suicide squeezes for the scoreboard.

Soon I’d know real disaster- Grandma’s eyes would give
out and she couldn’t formulate an image of me,

now twenty-four, wearing jerseys too small on those
Sundays I hide from what I’ve taught myself is unbearable-

a world made for punching walls since I can’t punch
those who claim to protect her, since I can’t punch everyone

who thinks I don’t know how to escape from anything.
I’ve tried saying I’ll believe in God for a second in case

it helps, but ended up settling on the sweet torture
of that Buffalo 1991 Super Bowl loss. I trained myself

that night to fixate on footballs instead of faces,
became selfish and fell asleep, fists clenched

over the kitchen table until Grandma carried
me to bed after gently prying them apart,

whispering there’s always next year.

Caroline Depalma              Poetry Table of Contents

He was yelling, “On your mark, get set,
GO!” and like a bullet
I left that prickly, steel block.

Watery walls were crashing all around me,
and my body was gasping from its punches,
but my arms became like propellers.

The crowd sang their praise,
but to ears that were deaf,
and eyes that were peeled to the concrete wall.

Gasping for air,
and closing before water tried to intrude,
I was gliding like a torpedo.

Fighting numb fingers,
and sore knee joints,
I listen to the orchestra of my heart.

Concrete brushes my fingertips,
and air is all I want,
as I heave and tense from exhaustion.

Ripping a plastic helmet off,
and washing away jitters,
once again I am kissed by icy air.

My muscles ache as water
drips into puddles on the ground,
and Goosebumps consume my arms,
as I am wrapping myself in this ruby towel.

Not first,
but not last,
my lips curl from cheek to cheek.

Jessica Eadie                 Poetry Table of Contents

II
A battle with form leaves
crumpled notes on the blue carpet,
an aggravated hand rips out hair
as images are stuck inside the brain.

III
Charcoal pencil napping on the table
as a symphony of brushes creates
an enchanted rainbow
of life on the matted canvas.

IV
Fingers with black ink and pastel paint, which
the Kleenex on the easel fails to catch,
absent-mindedly shades the nose, and
decorates the hand that flows across the matted board.

Jessica Eadie            Poetry Table of Contents

I whisper images
Of ripe red fruit
And full lips

I nose into
The space between
And drink her scent

A kiss and
Dart of tongue
Seal our lust

Kira Lemons_____Poetry Table of Contents

Ariel Freeman_____Visual Table of Contents

http://www.divshare.com/download/4318255-70e

Ariel Freeman_____Visual Table of Contents

Eric Gonzalez_____Visual Table of Contents

Visual Table of Contents

Susan Wyatt_____Visual Table of Contents