Flash Fiction by the Okupniak Sisters (3)
This flash fiction project was born from a meditative state. There was no planning involved. As an exercise, Natalie began creating ideas from her typewriter on note cards. The words served as a way to capture ideas that were flowing from her brain. The ideas were just meant for reference and inspiration. As they sat collecting dust, Gen rescued them and gave them visuals. Each card is made the day it is posted. The purpose of this exercise is to consistently post work to inspire the creators and their audience. The Flash Fiction Project can be found online: daily updates...
Read MoreFlash Fiction by the Okupniak Sisters (2)
This flash fiction project was born from a meditative state. There was no planning involved. As an exercise, Natalie began creating ideas from her typewriter on note cards. The words served as a way to capture ideas that were flowing from her brain. The ideas were just meant for reference and inspiration. As they sat collecting dust, Gen rescued them and gave them visuals. Each card is made the day it is posted. The purpose of this exercise is to consistently post work to inspire the creators and their audience. The Flash Fiction Project can be found online: daily updates...
Read MoreFlash Fiction by the Okupniak Sisters (1)
This flash fiction project was born from a meditative state. There was no planning involved. As an exercise, Natalie began creating ideas from her typewriter on note cards. The words served as a way to capture ideas that were flowing from her brain. The ideas were just meant for reference and inspiration. As they sat collecting dust, Gen rescued them and gave them visuals. Each card is made the day it is posted. The purpose of this exercise is to consistently post work to inspire the creators and their audience. The Flash Fiction Project can be found online: daily updates...
Read MoreMoira
Moira Leibowitz was a force of nature, all long curly hair, shawls and scarves, and the scent of patchouli. We were organizing the grad students that winter — protesting, wearing buttons, threatening to strike. Moira brought her guitar and played songs like “We Shall Overcome” on it, wearing her grey gloves with the fingers cut off, the same gloves that handed out coffee to everyone on the especially cold days. I remember her voice was low and warm, but it carried. We were too young to realize nothing would come of it all. Sure, they would show up and drink coffee and sing, but putting...
Read MoreWhat You Can’t See
South Vietnam — 1968 Clack went the shutter on my camera. The two South Vietnamese soldiers looked at one another, nodded and stepped back from the edge of the bomb crater. One pulled a cigarette from a pack in his breast pocket and lighted it. He offered one to his comrade, who shook his head and turned to look across the rice paddies toward the high ground, where a network of trees drew clean, black lines against the yellow sky. A hand squeezed my shoulder, and I looked up. The company commander tapped my camera with his finger and whispered, “Take any...
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