O’Shea Irish Dance is my Irish dance school. It is part of the Celtic Junction building. O’Shea teaches Irish dance for kindergarteners to adults. The dance company moved to the Celtic Junction two years ago. It has three studios. O’Shea participates in the St. Patrick’s Day celebration at the Landmark Center, the Irish Fair at Harriet Island in August, and Minnesota feishes (dance contests). They also go to the championships.
By Patricia Kirkpatrick ● 2012
Ceres, Goddess of Corn, grieved and raged for her stolen daughter. They say she withheld the harvest. But corn was already here...
Art by Andy Singer
By Susan Koefod ● 2012
One day, Darby and Marcella were quietly having lunch at a Galtier Plaza skyway table. Both worked at Cray Research, he in testing and she in quality assurance. Marcella had just unwrapped her jelly sandwich when Darby popped his question. “What’s the difference between an elephant and a flea?” Marcella opened the small spiral notebook she brought every day to lunch, and began to write the question down, but then paused. She removed another notebook from her purse and flipped through it rapidly. “Aha,” she announced. “October 14th.”
The kid loved basketball. He never had a basketball to speak of, but the school had plenty. The kid had a favorite. It was old, smooth, and had the feel of rough paper. It bounced as high as any of the new ones. The kid felt alive when it bounced back perfectly. The kid knew the concrete playing field—all the broken spaces and the cracking cover of the court. The kid knew how to angle and fly by the arms and legs of others. All for that beautiful sound: swoosh.
nature abhors taxation as does the populace...
it is impossible to miss the red bird the only ember alive this snowy March...
Homemade snow pants of thick wool, ice caked on my jacket sleeves and on my mittens: I head out with my best friend, Rita doll...
Art by Patricia Bour-Schilla
By Mary Wlodarski ● 2012
I like the cold so brisk and fresh it cuts through clothes and crimps nose hair...
It was around 9:55 a.m. I was waiting for the library to open. I saw a cute Ethiopian girl coming toward me. She had dark brown skin, short hair, and a pretty baby face. “What time is it?” She asked me. Her English accent was very good.
We speak of it as though it were a place, a battlefield strewn with corpses, a burial ground of shattered statues hooded with snow.