Vol6Issue2

Volume 6, Issue 2
Summer-Fall, 2011

The Summer/Fall 2011 issue of Silk Road brings under the
big tent 32 writers from around the world.

Poetry: Included in issue 6.2 are poems like Ani Gjika's farewell to
India, Dawn Manning's tribute to white rabbit candies in China, and
Katherine Maurer's reflection on a moment of arrival in Iraq. Turkish
Poet Ahmet Uysal reminds us a "breeze sings to me in all languages
at once."

Nonfiction: John Ashford makes keen observations on young
students in Botswana and Bridget Booher maps the marks on her
own body. More essays on places far and very near.

Fiction: Read Steve Edward's prize winning flash fiction "A Writer's
Story." How do fiction writers grapple with memory in order to reach
a truth? Seven stories of all lengths and locations are featured in this
issue.

In an interview, award-winning novelist and humanitarian Masha
Hamilton discusses the way in which difficult questions drive her
artistically and physically into places others fear to tread.

Where
by Loretta Obstfeld

Jesus knows where
your keys are. He saw

them slip out
of your sweater pocket

into the waste paper basket
and slowly descend

through the rubbish
finally resting under a crumple

of papers as opaque and irrevocable
as the next ice age.

The keys ditch you
while you're talking on the phone

with your mother: your father
is getting worse. He's dying.

You are so preoccupied
with disbelief, the grief of losing

him, that you have started
letting things go

unnoticed. Possessions migrate
like birds: a wallet, dry-cleaning

receipts, your manners--all
head south. You will spend hours

looking for your keys, the keys
are right there--close as yesterday.

They will never again start your car
or open your office door.

This is your limit, your blind
side, the occupation of a simple

beast. And why you cry
later that day

when the cashier from the grocery store
chases after you

in the parking lot, calling, "Hey,
don't forget your driver's license."

And you almost hug
her, want to invite her over

for dinner, make her an omelet
and eat it in the same room

where the keys lie at what
might as well be

a quiet nook at the base
of Kilimanjaro.

An excerpt from
Waves Breaking Asturias: a Tryptych
by Carrie Callaghan

Part One: Center Panel

When the radio relayed the fractured news of the Spanish military's
rebellion, Josefa tried not to cry. The city of Oviedo, cradled by sharp
northern mountains, seemed to hold its peace, but she knew it could not
last.

The next day, the commander of the local military detachment assured city
officials he was loyal to the Republic and together they organized four
thousand militant miners to send south from Asturias and defend the
government. But Josefa and her husband had often hosted Col. Antonio
Aranda at their house and, as they had reclined in heavy chairs and sipped
port from etched glasses, she had heard disdain for the democrats slipping
out from under the commander's genteel words. So while she stood on the
wide sidewalk and watched the miners march towards the train station in
their disorderly columns, she shivered. A gray cloud rolled down the green
mountains to deaden the sky above Oviedo, and Josefa waited for the rain.

Her husband came home late that night, his fedora dripping at the brim. She
helped him out of his overcoat and then his soft suitjacket, the newly
fashionable drape cut. He was an anomaly at the arms factory, his elegant
tailoring setting him apart from the grimy men in bluegrey overalls. She knew
he liked the distinction and, in spite of herself, she never objected.

"Pepita," he whispered. Carlos was the only one who still called her by her
childhood nickname, so distant from her forty-year-old self, and only when
he was worried. She handed him his dressing gown.

"The workers today, they weren't wearing their caps. They had on steel
helmets," he said. "Something is going to happen, I think. This isn't over."

Josefa nodded. They padded down the dark hallway into the sitting room.
One of the maids had left a window open and the sound of light rain filtered
through. The air was cool but Josefa left the window open; she liked the
night's music.

"What do you think the workers will do?" she asked.

"I don't know."

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