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Chase Twichell

Fall 2009

My Lethe

By Chase Twichell

A door blew open, and a black river flowed into the house. It was my river, invisible except to me. At night it would come to me, and carry the […]

Spring 2005

Centaur

By Chase Twichell

The first typeface I loved was Centaur, cut by Bruce Rogers in 1914. It had animal bones, and reminded me of skinny-dipping at night, baptized in star water so cold […]

Spring 2005

Dream Baby

By Chase Twichell

What if you could dream what you dreamed as a baby? You'd have to abandon this conciousness in which we converse to reinhabit the mindless and bodiless infant senses, the […]

Spring 2005

Infant Pearls

By Chase Twichell

On the subjects of poetry and love, I ask a lot of questions that are the children of the questions I should be asking, but S just dances out there […]

Summer/Fall 1997

Private Airplane

By Chase Twichell

On the grass airfield, a wife is waiting in her four-wheel drive. Soon her husband will appear like a tiny black angel, and when the winds and commotion of his […]

Summer/Fall 1997

Saint Animal

By Chase Twichell

Suddenly it was clear to me— I was something I hadn't been before. It was as if the animal part of my being had reached some maturity that gave it […]

Summer/Fall 1997

The Innocent One

By Chase Twichell

The watcher guarded the innocent one, that was their relationship. When the innocent one was in danger, had angered the mother or the father maybe, walked out on some thin […]