Contents

Articles/Essays

Living and Dying with Fallout



Last summer, while I was reading the Salt Lake Tribune, I stumbled across the obituary of a beautiful woman who looked uncannily like my older sister, Ann. That’s why I read her obituary. Only when I saw the list of Lisa McPhie’s survivors did I realize she was Lisa Lundberg, who had grown up with me on a quiet tree-lined street in Salt Lake City. Her older sisters were my best friends in junior high school. We were inseparable then. Thirty years later, Lisa, who watched our teenage escapades with a hint of boredom, was dead of a rare blood disorder that had defied diagnosis since she first became ill in 1985. 



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The Quaker Peace Testimony



Quakers, often called Friends, have several core “testimonies” that can be remembered by the mnemonic “SPICE”—Simplicity, Peace, Integrity, Community, and Equality. Each of these interrelated testimonies is essential to our identity as Friends, but we are clearly best known for one of them. As H. Larry Ingle has pointed out, “[T]he Quaker peace testimony [is] the most remarked-on feature of the Religious Society of Friends. When the world’s people think of Friends, they think of our [fundamental disapproval] of war, and when Quakers want to distinguish themselves from other Christian groups, they identify themselves as one of the ‘historic peace churches.'”



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Fiction

MacDonald and the Jungle Monk



“Where can I find Captain Vernon Endicott?” Captain John MacDon aid asked one of a cluster of clerks in the 9th Cavalry’s regimental headquarters.  “Oh, oh,” the clerk said, looking at the rubber-mat floor behind…



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Prologue to Mokasatsu



“You shall not do it,” she said. A mere murmur, those words, deceptively soft, even gentle. Almost subliminal, though distinctly determined to anyone who knew her as he did. She had, in fact, employed the…



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Letters to the Editor

Personal Voices

What You Don’t Know



A man of many stories, my father left behind only a handful in the end. Primarily this is my fault; my mind long ago funneled such information into a vast reservoir of forgotten knowledge, where…



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Poetry

November 2001



You notice the smells first, more spring, or
even summer, than late fall, the stale-clean
scent of wet sunlit streets after last night’s 
heavy rain, the musk of soaked dead leaves,
humid decay in a season usually dry, a
shining solstice sigh through open windows,
suspended on a candent morning breeze. 



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August 6



“Go get dressed. You’re no man for this army!”
I went, thanking for the first time that crook
In my spine that had stopped me buck naked
From buck privacy, taken me back to you 
After a three-hour, not a three-year, separation. 



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Reviews

Volume Art

About the Artist



Maryann Webster was born in San Francisco and grew up in north ern California. She received an MFA and a Research Fellowship award from the University of Utah where she now teaches. Recent exhibitions of…



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