The Fairfield Review
About The Fall 2004 Edition
Welcome to the Fall 2004 edition of The Fairfield Review. Here, just on the other side of the equinox, we bid farewell to summer and look with anticipation to the leaves of autumn that paint the landscape in New England. For those of you who wrote us asking about the expected summer issue, we thank you for your patience.
We'll start with echoes of spring in Taylor Graham's Fallow. Then move through summer in Mary Ellen Elias' Wisteria Hanging like perfumed garland on the cedar tree, Lynn Tudor Deming's* Poppies, and Patiki by Robert James Berry. Follow with Simon Perchik's* Under this sink a tree and move to September by Rose Drew. Finally, autumn calls in Andrea L. Alterman's Third Act.
In this season of hurricanes and floods, relationships and families often rush in in a swirl. Start with John Jeffrey's* poignant Driving My Daughter and Wife, with Child, to the Airport. Move on to the portent of birth in Elizabeth Sosaya's* First Wail. Follow with Allison M. Whittenberg's Feeling Their Age about the joy and trials of parents. We welcome back Fran Levin, who appeared in our first issue seven years ago. Using a parallel form emblematic of relationships, see her Side by Side. We are reminded how death lives on in those of us left behind in Lynn Tudor Deming's* She Who Wanted and Simon Perchik's* All the pieces must be found. For the final word, read the ironic story of silence in Donald Hiscock's* They ran out of things to say.
Remembering warm vacations and exotic places since we last met, and the loss of it that we now feel, read Taylor Graham's Sea Horses. Then turn to Robert James Berry's Mangroves. Here, Allison Whittenberg's Watching Jordan Fall reminds us that winter like death looms about like the cold rain of November.
We are pleased to introduce a new student writer in this edition. Kirsten Crowley*, a young high school poet wise beyond her years. Please read her poem Airplane Moon.
With the U.S. elections approaching in November, we would be remiss without including a story of justice, to which we turn to Thomas Hogg's* gripping story, Green Eyes. Follow with Robert James Berry's poem, Monsters, to remind us of the ominous even in beauty. Lest we forget to pay attention to the pain of poor, finish with our classic poem for this issue, William Carlos William's Proletarian Portrait.
Thank you to all have supported The Fairfield Review with your donations, but importantly by your reading and telling others. We continue to receive encouraging feedback on our first printed publication: The Best of the Fairfield Review: 1997 - 2002. This edition, which highlights our favorite offerings from our first six years, is available on-line. Please feel free to take a peek, and to order from us. Your support goes directly towards the continuation of our free, on-line publication, and we thank you for your ongoing interest and enthusiasm on our behalf.
Please be sure to send us your comments and suggestions for future issues by filling out our Guest Book or dropping us a note via email to fairfieldreview at hpmd dot com **
You can find a complete list of this issue's writings in the table of contents and information about contributors in About the Authors.
Starting with our Winter 2005 issue, we are changing the closing dates for submissions. Based on your feedback and the volume of work we are now receiving, we agreed that it was too long from the time authors sent us their work and when they heard our final decisions. Closing dates for the Winter issue will now be September 30 and for the Summer issue it will be March 31. Our reading cycle will start thereafter and run for 90 days. Thank you for your patience as we adjust to our growing pains.
Late September is a magical time in this part of the world. Upon seeing the changing leaves for the first time, a friend from California remarked that it appeared that each leaf was dabbed with paint-- a feat hard to imagine beyond metaphor and simile. A quiet returns with routine; kids are off to school, and soccer and baseball games dot the calendar. Shuffling through leaves on the lawn years ago, my Floridian father said it was one of the sounds he missed most. If heaven has the purest maple trees, with autumn from New England, I imagine he is jumping in a pile of newly raked leaves with a shout of glee.
*Author is appearing for the first time in The Fairfield Review.
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Document last modified on: 03/06/2005