Volume 17, Issue 1 (2003) Stolen Stories

From The Editors:

You've got a story. Maybe you hid it behind that old green corduroy couch you felt smooth against your tired, fumbling hands. Maybe you just keep it in a fireproof safe, in an old pickle jar, or between the pages of your seventh grade love notes. You got this story when you stepped up to your first bus driver, told her your five-year-old name, and sat down on the torn plastic seat. You ran from it when you saw your father cry at his table, a cold, empty oak, and you couldn't reach across it. When you dragged on that cigarette—a pungent dose of growing up—in the woods, in your car, on a dimly-lit front porch. Climbed rotten maple trees. Hung up on your mother. Knew the jig was up. You knew it was in your car as you drove three hours home wearing a dirty straw hat; it kept you close to the music, those songs that said your name and beat like bees against your windshield. And if you haven't found your story, we just might have it.