Bridge & Tunnel Books
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The Commute

"City Summers" by Rosemary McLaughlin

Suburban children have wonderful summers with their swim parties, mall visits, and theme birthdays, but they have no idea what our hot, crowded, sticky, glorious neighborhood city summers were like. We rode our bikes, had impromptu picnics, played our own version of baseball, and let our imaginations take us away like a leaf in a stream.

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Heather McAdams
Chasing the Long Count by Michael King

An early morning chill filled the mountain air. The cloudless sky was a tender shade of baby blue. A slight breeze filtered through the pines and blew down the mountain behind Max. He didn’t like being upwind from the approach team, but he had no choice. A magpie quacked behind him. It flopped through the trees in undulating waves, struggling to keep its long tail aloft. It passed Max’s right flank in a flash of black and white and then disappeared down into the trees.

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Heather McAdams
"Poems, Part 1" by Dora Moscatello

Into the Arthritis Pool

I stand in the pool at the JCC with my arms spread out across

the concrete walls.

I watch the fragile, timid bodies file down the ladder steps

like transparent silver dollar plants who are prisoners on a chain gang . . .

Do we seek our own river Lethe? A watery path through river Acheron, perhaps

finally arriving at the stream of Okeanos in Elysium . . .

Movement more painless in the warm water

and shared pleasantries.

The real question in my brain is, “how many more times will you be able to come into the pool?”

Or, “which of you will feel your wings beating faster and faster,

until you are lifted from your chrysalis being into a butterfly angel of no weight?”

What do we all expect? To arise from the water

as jubilant children in a lake?

To have one more go-round? To feel no pain? To dance in the rain?

Maybe only a fleeting respite from reality.

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Heather McAdams
"The Rose of Kerry" by Paul Kennedy

Bridey McGuire knew she was pretty. Her thick, dark brown hair—a gift from her mother—framed her pleasing face in just the right way. She had a nice figure and a slim waist, and she fancied she could turn any man’s head.

She lived on Thomas Street in Homewood, Pittsburgh’s most exclusive suburb, as a domestic servant for the Shaw family. George and Elizabeth Shaw had a beautiful eleven-bedroom house with two children and three servants. The other servants were Peggy Griffin, who was Irish like Bridey, and Gretchen Lantzy, a German girl. Mr. Shaw had done well as an executive in Andrew Carnegie’s iron and steel empire. Most of the Homewood mansion dwellers were captains of Pittsburgh’s thriving industries. 

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Heather McAdams
"Goldfarb" by Charlie Sutherland

God must have put me here, for there isn’t a soul in this town that can tell me who did. In any case, I wound up on the stoop of the Goldfarbs’ trailer, assnaked, diaperless, and Pap said that I’d rolled my little self onto my belly so I could scarcely breathe. It was perhaps an hour before Pap came out and saw me. He took me inside and named me Elsa. That was in the summer of ’79.

Pap’s got a bum heart; it’s a wonder it’s still ticking and carrying on, and the sight of me, that nude ball of a baby, nearly killed him. He says ain’t it funny that the best thing to ever happen to him nearly killed him?

I say yeah Pap, it’s a riot.

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Heather McAdams