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Pentimento Magazine
Literary journal for disabled writers and their community
Lt. O’Malley
When Lt. O'Malley faced the firing squad his memories popped, German gibberish gobbled his brain. His mother's foul whiskey breath bathed him in gold light. The time he saw his sister naked ripped across his mind. “Pervert, pervert,” she screamed. He remembered the time he stole a baseball from the…
Rattle Poetry Prize
Enter the annual Rattle Poetry Prize, win $15,000 for a single poem
Subscriber News: May 2014
Recent honors and publications earned by our newsletter subscribers
Last Call to Enter the Third Annual Sports Fiction & Essay Contest
Winning Writers will award $3,000 in prizes for the best stories and essays submitted to its Sports Fiction & Essay Contest. Entries are due at WinningWriters.com by May 31. Jendi Reiter will judge, assisted by Ellen LaFleche. Read the complete release.
Advice from Ellaraine Lockie, Judge of the Tom Howard/Margaret Reid Poetry Contest
Ellaraine Lockie describes the kinds of work she likes to see in the Tom Howard/Margaret Reid Poetry Contest
How Books Win Awards: Advice from C. Hope Clark
Tips for making your indie or self-published book a winner
Morgan Grayce Willow
Morgan Grayce Willow holds an M.A. in creative writing from Colorado State University. Her awards include: a SASE/Jerome Fellowship, Minnesota State Arts Board Fellowships in both poetry and prose, and a Loft-McKnight in poetry. Morgan's chapbook Arpeggio of Appetite was published by Finishing Line Press in 2005. Her poems have…
Cathy Sullivan
After the Battle of Berlin is the fifth of the ten poems I have written. They were all written for a class at Sacred Heart University in Fairfield, CT, from which I should graduate in December. As a middle aged women and mother of a son, I was struck by…
Ann Smith
I was born and raised in England, and my father served not only in World War II but also in the Spanish Civil War. I studied history and English literature at university, and have always been “addicted” to the voices of the past. Anna Knowles, whom I have known for…
Lina Schreier
Gunilla Norris
Gunilla Norris has published eleven children's books and four books on spirituality and everyday life. The fifth book in that series, A Mystic Garden, will be published by BlueBridge in April 2006. She is the author of one book of poems, Learning From The Angel. Her poems have appeared in…
Danny Drane
Jane Collins
Ms. Collins was the cook in the poem that placed as Finalist in the 2005 War Poetry Contest sponsored by Winning Writers.
Edgar Biamonte
Edgar L. Biamonte received his B.A. in English from Queens College, Flushing, New York, in 1961 and his M.S. in Education from Elmira College Graduate School, Elmira, New York, in 1968. He taught English for twenty-four years in Elmira, including poetry and creative writing from 1962 to 1985. He completed…
Michael Nethercott
Michael Nethercott is a writer, performing storyteller and organizer of theatrical events. His publishing credits include The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, The Chrysalis Journal, Crimestalkers Casebook, the anthology Dead Promises and the juvenile periodicals Cobblestone and Plays—the Drama Magazine for Young People. He lives in Southern Vermont with…
Joseph McDonald
I'm a 19 year old student and English/Creative Writing Major at Middlebury College. I graduated from Cambridge High School in Cambridge, New York in 2004 and was named valedictorian of my class. This is the first poetry contest I have ever entered.
Ben Greer
I have published four novels and a biography. My fifth novel, Waiting for Rain, will be published in September of 2006.
Melody Davis
Melody Davis' latest book is The Center of Distance, a work of poetry. She is also the author of a critical study, The Male Nude in Contemporary Photography. She has won fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts (1995), the Pennsylvania Council on the Arts, the Henry Luce Foundation/American…
T.I. Box
T.I. Box lives in Lexington, Kentucky. An author and journalist currently covering the Thoroughbred bloodstock business, Box enjoys military history, foxhunting, rural life, and walking the dogs, in addition to writing.
Getting the news in Arabic, To think of Madrid, March 11
GETTING THE NEWS IN ARABIC tells me more these days than news with words I know. Our TV tells me stocks are down because somewhere a person explodes. On a short wave I find Radio Martí which has nothing to do with the poet, a Bin Laden country song, Christian…
Life’s Picture History
I. THE BIG RED BOOK 1. We've sunk the war, the war's been scratched and it's gone the way money goes the way heat sinks, absent the osmotic gradient avast the ion pumps, the motor endplates, toothless gears. Nothing moving, everything stalled, the waves let stand the waves. There's a…
American Poem
There is nothing one man will not do to another. —Carolyn Forche 1 Like the punchline to a Chinese fortune cookie epigram, I would add, In bed. 2 Certain welts incurred will rise like beads on an abacus, intimate as a surface. 3 In sum, the body's boring. Charity starts…
Museum of Hostages
(Bled, Slovenia) In this photo a young man waits for his execution. He's tied to a bullet-scarred tree, his eyes half-closed as if he had fed on strawberries from a picnic basket, as if this blue flame of sky and a bottle of good Riesling made him drowsy, comfortably unaware…
What She Said
“They don't have snow days in Palestine, they have military invasion days.” (International Solidarity Movement activists, describing Palestinian children's lives under Israeli military occupation.) She said, go play outside, but don't throw balls near the soldiers. When a jeep goes past keep your eyes on the ground. And don't pick…
The Bicycle Hearse
Families paid the boy a few coins to ride their dead to the cemetery. Cars, seized-metal for the war effort. Men, scarce-and those that remained, too weak to carry a coffin down winter streets. So the boy fixed a cart to his bicycle, a canopied cart from which his father…
Hands of War
The hands of war will push adrift, all who will become something else. Sergeants will remove their war faces, to become fathers to the wounded and dying. High School athletes will wear the blistered hands of grave diggers. The Six O'clock News, brings a cup. filled with the tears, of…
Gaines’s Mill
At the Hurrah for Georgia I up and ran over the Field of Battle towards a great rattling curtain of vines upon which flashed the uncatchable fruit of the Enemy Pits and clumps of grass shot pain to my knees and I knew my shins were snapping I reached up…
Detonations, Victory Garden
DETONATIONS My grandmother held her knitting needles, sliding them in and out of green wool-socks for her middle son, the medic. My youngest uncle hid under the table, toy rifle on his shoulder-aimed at the shaded window, he held sounds in his throat-exploding bullets, planes going down. My mother held…
The Kiss
inspired by the Holocaust paintings of the contemporary Russian artist, Maxim Kantor She isn't troubled by the way his gaze lists into space; her eyes are open too. Neither one flutters a muscle. Her face could be his mirror. The same sallowed skin, same tough contusion of sorrow in the…
Update on Afghanistan
The girls in Khost eat poison biscuits carefully prepared by the Taliban; their mothers set themselves on fire, though liberators can't smell the smoke. Carefully prepared by the Taliban, the fires rage across the towns, though liberators can't smell the smoke because they cover up their faces. The fires rage.…
Independence Day, 1967
Blue-veined lightning crackles across their white thighs and some women pretend to look the other way when my Marianne makes them gasp, beside themselves with rage, and middle aged husbands. Breasts bobbing beneath a patriotic halter, waving because she sees me, smiling. My idea of brave swells. Aunt's got some…
Curdling
Last milk breaks apart in the pickle jar, cap stiff and tight on the plastic wrap. Her stomach churns thinking of the blue water, shapeless chunks suspended like specimens demonstrating how the world will end. She's in a bomb site in any case. The rubble has settled in low hills,…
R&R
He came from war zones to the sea, Its pouring out and pouring back, Its loose and slow monotony. Along the fringe, where sight could reach, Clay lands had broken to a wrack As fine as salt to make a beach, And ocean was suffused with sky, A sky like…
On Pelion Beach
When I see the chapel with no people, its walls cracked wide with warping like a shout at the moment of death when the spirit left the body, mildewed icons on the salty walls little lamp still burning, tended by someone who remembers but is not remembered. I am thinking…
Tet Lion Dance
Lunar New Year in Phu Lam, Vietnam I. We swept the village courtyard this morning, But now the tumbling dancers' white shirts Bear earthen prints. Dirt restoring Its rightful place on this day of rebirth. Years of low, determined sun have faded Our pagoda's saffron columns, but not The ecstatic…
War Zone of the Heart
Everyone knew the boys paid Terry to dance with Mary Agnes. Her buckteeth opened in shock that such a hunk tapped her on the shoulder of the yellow dress her mother made, one that couldn't mask the craters on her face. At intermission Mary Agnes in the bathroom stall listened…
Bomber Dump, Massacre
BOMBER DUMP This is the graveyard of air. A sixty-year-old ghost wind Streams from their tails Like blown hair in a mural. Tilted like dead dragon flies, It's a boy's wreckage. He makes throat-engine noises, Tilts outstretched arms and nosedives. In the far gardens of his mind, The bombardier planted…
Letters for a Grandchild
I Invasion You may not remember him well. Nor fully understand how at one stroke He was pinioned by pain and fearful shadows. His house, brought down by a bullet of blood, Trapped him in the wreckage of himself. Doctors reached inside to shore him up. They could not release…
Whirligig
The Dead: When he is alone, in an easy chair, say, or in the dark, under a raspberry jam night sky, sitting on his oak deck, he hears them: he hears Sammy and Doug and Erik whisper their jealousy—they whisper their hatred for his life and the world simmers with…
Blue Eyes and Brandy
The Baltic depths in her eyes meet the cultivated fields in mine. They swell with tears, but remain steady. Nearly in her teens, she knows about the transports of death, and she knows that by staring at her, I risk nothing. Her wavy hair, the color of basswood, still wears…
Operation Gomorrah
The name of the mission when US and British forces bombed Hamburg, Germany near the end of World War II. I The practice of Germans: bombing civilians in Barcelona, Warsaw, Belgrade, Rotterdam, and London. They played with them. Hitler at dinner made a prophecy: Goering will light fires over London,…
Bombers’ Moon, Ashland Overpass
BOMBERS' MOON Into the western midnight beyond runway's end, over tidal flats stippled like the backs of sea creatures beached in frost-edged shallows, Captain Phelps from Waco, top locomotive killer in the Thirteenth, throttled forward, lifted, banked, climbed for the hunt in the northern mountains below the Yalu. At full,…
Blood and Milk: the ‘36 Transmission
The formation of the I is symbolized in dreams by a fortress, or a stadium. Jacques Lacan I long for death simply to escape it. Leni Riefenstahl, on her films for Hitler The morning was golden bee fur across his eyes. Not the white gauze of a hotel window, but…
Lucifer on Air Strikes
The jets! How beautiful they are! Like arrows thirsty for hearts blood. Birds so smooth in flashing speed That flesh and feathered beasts Which fly by hearts labor are nothing! These other birds, these jets— They fly by fire! They consume in rav'ning gulps so swiftly taken They are passed…
The Bullet’s Tale
As I cooled I awoke and felt the heat and smelled the smoke which never really seemed to clear away. I was rolled into a machine with a million of my brothers, all the same, exactly like the others with the name .223 stamped firmly on my back, then quickly…
Industrial Flower in the Ash Field
I A group becomes a faceless body… My girlfriend, Unity, rules over me, she wants me to kill spiders crawling on her bathroom floor. She calls me up and I drive six miles while she hides those other men she's cheating with behind her cabinet doors. I take my thumb,…
Sixty-Two Haikus on World War II
A Memoir of a six-year-old London evacuee Geese in formation Fly into a red sun Lancasters returning empty # Spirals of white lightning Tear into the blue sky - Dogfighters hurl teeth of steel # Luftwaffe bombers attacking! Enemy earthquakes With no Richter scale # Every night a screaming siren:…
Andy Young
Andy Young is an artist/teacher in the creative writing department at NOCCA/Riverfront in New Orleans, Louisiana. Her most recent chapbook, All Fires the Fire, was published this year in a limited, hand-made edition by Faulkner House Books (orders: call 504-524-2940 or email Faulkhouse@aol.com), and her chapbook, mine, was recently reprinted…
Larry Wells
I have lived in Memphis since the late Sixties. Since 1996 I have worked as a Physical Therapist, currently in the Spinal Cord Injury Unit at the VA hospital. In 2000 I began writing in earnest.
