In this issue of Cider Press Review, winter blows in—for better or worse. In Jennifer Phillips’ “A Sort-Of Happy Holiday,” a lonely day is
In this issue of Cider Press Review, winter blows in—for better or worse. In Jennifer Phillips’ “A Sort-Of Happy Holiday,” a lonely day is
On the day my son turns sixteen, I discover the language with no word for father. He takes his presents to his room, closes
Sometimes I want the exact word for how to say the boy I was who saw his slight reflection in a window while he