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	<title>Barnstorm</title>
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		<title>Krakow</title>
		<link>http://barnstormjournal.org/poetry/angela-voras-hills/krakow-2/</link>
		<comments>http://barnstormjournal.org/poetry/angela-voras-hills/krakow-2/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Mon, 30 Jan 2012 22:44:09 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Poetry</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Angela Voras-Hills]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://barnstormjournal.org/?p=991</guid>
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		<title>Dear Abby,</title>
		<link>http://barnstormjournal.org/poetry/angela-voras-hills/dear-abby/</link>
		<comments>http://barnstormjournal.org/poetry/angela-voras-hills/dear-abby/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Mon, 30 Jan 2012 14:18:18 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Poetry</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Angela Voras-Hills]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://barnstormjournal.org/?p=949</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[I won’t tell anyone you prefer nachos to sex— there’s limited ammo for breeze-shooting, but I won’t use yours. I try to avoid guns, though my father keeps an oak cabinet full of rifles. He’s never boarded a plane, but once told security my mom had a bomb in her purse. (This was before psychics felt tremors in their palms.) Last night, I spent twenty minutes listening to hold music on speaker phone, eating oranges over the kitchen sink. My tea leaves unfurled, said “stay,” so I curled fetal into bed, an African goat- bludgeoning club on my nightstand, and [...]]]></description>
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		<title>The Articulated Body</title>
		<link>http://barnstormjournal.org/poetry/donavon-davidson/the-articulated-body/</link>
		<comments>http://barnstormjournal.org/poetry/donavon-davidson/the-articulated-body/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Mon, 23 Jan 2012 22:40:29 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Poetry</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Donavon Davidson]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://barnstormjournal.org/?p=946</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[Boys play        I understand naked              streets in every town without a sound         go straight to hell. Black dogs           that need to escape running              from the sound of bells in broken glass                 forces the heart open in every step. White dogs         appearing between buildings and trees chained                with women loved, men who wouldn’t wish it on their enemies [...]]]></description>
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		<title>Regarding Ghosts</title>
		<link>http://barnstormjournal.org/poetry/sean-bishop/regarding-ghosts/</link>
		<comments>http://barnstormjournal.org/poetry/sean-bishop/regarding-ghosts/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Mon, 23 Jan 2012 22:38:09 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Poetry</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Sean Bishop]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://barnstormjournal.org/?p=1029</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[We were talking about haunting: how some of us are, and some of us aren’t. I said the dark clots of vapor squatting overhead “seem a little thick for this hour, and this time of year,” which really set the mood, I thought. But Hannah said we should distinguish between our subject and everyday fear: one hangs like a musty coat on its peg, while the other breaks all the breakable dishes. Then Eric made a joke about Tupperware. He said he wished the grief-beaten psyche, like a polyethylene-injected bowl, could be backed over repeatedly by a station wagon without [...]]]></description>
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		<title>First Date With Fluoxetine</title>
		<link>http://barnstormjournal.org/poetry/sean-bishop/first-date-with-fluoxetine/</link>
		<comments>http://barnstormjournal.org/poetry/sean-bishop/first-date-with-fluoxetine/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Mon, 23 Jan 2012 22:36:49 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Poetry</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Sean Bishop]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://barnstormjournal.org/?p=1033</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[The light was dim or romantic, depending on whether the table was cramped or cozy, which itself depended on the water level of our glasses, which, you said, was “like, totally subjective anyway” as you sat down, all smiles, in the bistro and refused a glass of wine and told me “sweetheart you look terrible” as if the waiters weren’t really Inuit Nationals, as if we weren’t hostages despite the lovely meal, as if the bistro wasn’t, in fact, falling down around us.]]></description>
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		<title>What Do You Want?</title>
		<link>http://barnstormjournal.org/fiction/david-rawding/what-do-you-want-2/</link>
		<comments>http://barnstormjournal.org/fiction/david-rawding/what-do-you-want-2/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Wed, 11 Jan 2012 19:18:52 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>fiction</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[David Rawding]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://barnstormjournal.org/?p=970</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[James leaned against the side of his work van. His eyes, hidden by his sunglasses, were busy inspecting the neighborhood of brick houses, each designed in the shape of a barn. The house in front of him, aside from its number and a splash of graffiti about its side, was completely indistinguishable from the rest.  There was a scattering of lidless trash cans tossed about the patchwork grass, as if the garbage men were too good to set foot on the tattered patch of rented land.  Looming over the neighborhood was the Piscataqua River Bridge, a connector between New Hampshire [...]]]></description>
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		<title>Fabulous Vacations for the Financially Destitute</title>
		<link>http://barnstormjournal.org/nonfiction/marti-trgovich/fabulous-vacations-for-the-financially-destitute/</link>
		<comments>http://barnstormjournal.org/nonfiction/marti-trgovich/fabulous-vacations-for-the-financially-destitute/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Mon, 12 Dec 2011 19:14:38 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>nonfiction</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Marti Trgovich]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://barnstormjournal.org/?p=964</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[If pressed, I would deny that I am lost and instead claim that my hotel is lost. It is not here on Montalbano, as the website promised. I peer at painted numbers on buildings, but the sky’s growing dark like denim and this Croatian town—a fishing village not far from Italy—daunts me. I am accustomed to neon cities with electric-pink billboards, mouthy pedestrians, exhaust-spewing cars. But there are no cars in this city center and it’s sleepy as a pill, even at 8 p.m. The few signs are in Croatian and Italian; I’m in both Rovinj and Rovigno, whichever I [...]]]></description>
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		<title>Bicycle</title>
		<link>http://barnstormjournal.org/poetry/abbie-j-bergdale/bicycle-2/</link>
		<comments>http://barnstormjournal.org/poetry/abbie-j-bergdale/bicycle-2/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Mon, 21 Nov 2011 10:46:03 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Poetry</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Abbie J. Bergdale]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://barnstormjournal.org/?p=924</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[I look for your stolen bicycle everywhere. I keep thinking I’ll see a boy riding it and I’ll know it’s yours because of the blinking red light and the empty bottle holder. I will push him off, call him a bastard, stomp on his balls so he can’t get up. I sent back your belongings in three heavy boxes—your Clint Eastwood collection, the Fender guitar. I threw out the bronze bird (his beak never broke) and I burned the vanilla-scented candle past the wick. But some boy has your bicycle. I need to find him.]]></description>
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		<title>The Trouble with Being Human</title>
		<link>http://barnstormjournal.org/poetry/george-kalamaras/the-trouble-with-being-human/</link>
		<comments>http://barnstormjournal.org/poetry/george-kalamaras/the-trouble-with-being-human/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Mon, 14 Nov 2011 14:16:36 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>Poetry</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[George Kalamaras]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://barnstormjournal.org/?p=918</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[It seemed secure as a proper-fitting shoe. Then the cabbage soup got cold. We leaned into our autumn evening and disturbed the owl, somehow there in the kitchen, perfectly content by the pot.  Mostly, though, our breath was gypsy. We touched a pair of candles. Great wagons with torches came toward us.  The smell of Transylvanian pine resin and flame.  Long shadows larger and smaller than a bark canoe that swept past, containing our secret. What grain of love grew in the unkind word? In the public coat and collar turning against the mold that collected just as anemic green [...]]]></description>
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		<title>Certain Kinds of Lighting</title>
		<link>http://barnstormjournal.org/fiction/sarah-silberman/certain-kinds-of-lighting/</link>
		<comments>http://barnstormjournal.org/fiction/sarah-silberman/certain-kinds-of-lighting/#comments</comments>
		<pubDate>Mon, 31 Oct 2011 11:00:52 +0000</pubDate>
		<dc:creator>fiction</dc:creator>
				<category><![CDATA[Sarah Mollie Silberman]]></category>

		<guid isPermaLink="false">http://barnstormjournal.org/?p=893</guid>
		<description><![CDATA[A week after Jonathan and Rachel became engaged, they drove to his mother’s house for the weekend.  She lived forty-five minutes outside of Philadelphia, in a neighborhood of wraparound porches and slate walkways that ran along neat, green lawns; her porch had a wooden swing and an antique watering can, or at least a watering can designed to look antique, and a pot of flowers the precise yellow of the front door.  Paper lanterns hung like tiny, uniform planets above the railing. Rachel shaded her eyes and tried to picture the interior of the house: a place where faded pencil [...]]]></description>
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