Winter 2013

6 entries have been tagged with Winter 2013.

Karen Skolfield’s first book, “Frost in the Low Areas,” published by Zone 3 Press

Karen Skolfield (Swarm Winter 2013 contributor) has won the First Book Award for Poetry from Zone 3 Press. Her book Frost in the Low Areas can be purchased at Amazon or at Zone 3 Press, with free shipping: https://epay.apsu.edu/C20023_ustores/web/product_detail.jsp?PRODUCTID=163

We’re very happy for Karen and are proud to have published her poem “Homunculus,” which appears in her new book, in our inaugural issue. Congrats, Karen!

Swarm’s Nominations for Best of the Net 2013

We’re happy to announce our nominations for Best of the Net 2013:

 

Fiction:

Wah-Ming Chang, “Moonbeams” – Spring 2013

Michael Reilly, “Smoke” – Spring 2013

Poetry:

Mary Lou Buschi, “Scouts” – Spring 2013

Amorak Huey, “The Lion Tamer Resolves to Start Telling the Truth” – Spring 2013

Gregory Sherl, “Superhero Poem” – Winter 2013

Karen Skolfield, “Homunculus” – Winter 2013

 

Swarm’s First Issue Has Arrived

We’re proud to present to you the Winter 2013 Inaugural issue of Swarm. Click “Current Issue” in the ribbon of insects above to see the table of contents.

We are open for submissions until April 30th, so after seeing what we like in the current issue, please do send your best work our way!

Enjoy the issue!

Brandon, Dillon, Ian and Peter
 Swarm

Interview with Vincent Scarpa

Vincent Scarpa has a BFA in fiction writing from Emerson College. His fiction has appeared in Hayden’s Ferry Review, The Baltimore Review, and Plain China: Best of Undergraduate Writing 2011. He is the 2012 recipient of the Norman Mailer College Fiction Award.

Ian Sanquist: What do you feel is your responsibility as a writer of fiction?

Vincent Scarpa: Well I see you’re easing into the hard questions. If I have a responsibility—and I’m not totally convinced that I do—I think it has everything to do with telling the truth. Which is a pretty vague charge. But I do think that can be considered the primary duty of fiction writers: to tell unequivocal truths about the way we are and the things we want and don’t want.

Ian: How do you go about uncovering those truths?

Vincent: Pam Painter, whose class I was lucky to take at Emerson, called it “stalking life.” (She may have appropriated that from someone else, of course, but I attribute it to her.) Just keeping your eyes peeled. I think I go through periods of data gathering where my internal antenna is up and I’m listening and watching and thinking and then when I feel like I have enough, I just shut it down.

Ian: Tell me about your methods of gathering data.

Vincent: Well, there’s a lot of eavesdropping, but it also comes organically in meeting new people, meeting strangers. I was on a flight to Boston earlier this year, and gave a cigarette to a woman outside the airport that ended up being seated right next to me. I’d overheard her yelling on her cell phone outside, presumably to a husband/boyfriend/significant other, and she was just totally fucking frazzled by the time we boarded. I mean, crying, mascara down her face. She was having a shit day. After takeoff, she turns to me, totally out of the blue, and says, “My boyfriend—he couldn’t pour piss out of a boot if there were instructions on the heel. What he knows about women couldn’t fill a thimble.” And, because I listened to her story for the entire three hour flight, even though Country Strong was the in-flight movie, I felt like I could probably borrow some of her life for a story. So I ended up modeling a character in one of my stories after her. The story takes place in airport. And I lifted that pour-piss-out-of-a-boot line, because it was golden.

Ian: Do you take notes while you’re out? How do your stories develop?

Vincent: The only notes I take when I’m away from a computer are for stories I’m already working on or at least thinking about. I usually enter them in a note on my iPhone. A lot of first sentences in there, or just some concepts to play around with. “Daughter goes to bereavement camp; breaks arms.” Stuff like that. As far as how they develop, I’m not really sure. In pieces, certainly. I’ll think about them in the car. Talk some things out to myself. The thing I have a lot of difficulty with—which, if I can overcome it, means I’ll write and finish the story—is figuring out motivation. I can think of some pretty clever concept that certainly could warrant a story, but it’s the figuring out why that takes some time. But once I understand why a character would want to do this strange or cruel or beautiful or terrible thing that I’ve come up with, that’s when I really feel like I can get to work.

Ian: So what came first when you were writing the story “I Hope You’re Wrong About Scottsdale”? [read Vincent’s Norman Mailer Four-Year College Fiction Writing Award-winning short story here]

Vincent: The first line. I can’t remember where or why I thought it, but I wrote it down and worked from there. And, for the most part, the rest followed pretty easily.

Ian: How long did that story take you to complete?

Vincent: About a week or so. It was for a workshop deadline, which will light a fire under your ass.

Ian: Did you put it through much revision?

Vincent: None, except for a singular word choice. I used the word “palimpsest” and the class agreed that, though the narrator was emotionally intelligent, she didn’t seem like the kind of person to use a word like that. So I changed it to “sketch,” which I like better anyway.

Ian: Sketch is a good substitute. More evocative, I think.

Vincent: Definitely. I think I just liked the idea of saying “palimpsest.” I’ll get it in somewhere.

Ian: Use it for hangman.

Vincent: Terrific idea. My guy will live to die another day. What a terrifying game we teach to our children. I mean, how grim is that? It’s saying, Here’s this guy whose life depends on your vocabulary!

Ian: Lives have been ended over lesser miscommunications.

Vincent: So silly. Someone needs to update that for the next generation.

Ian: To what, lethal injection man?

Vincent: I’m starting to think this is an untapped well for the GOP: start ascribing nationalist narratives to children’s games. Make the man being hung an evil terrorist from a place you couldn’t point out on a map. Although doesn’t that incentivize losing?

How interesting that the government would institute a practice that would result in a loss.

Ian: What do they call it, mutually assured destruction? They could call the game MAD Man.

Vincent: Whatever they call it, it isn’t “hot load of bullshit.” It’s not what’s written on the tin.

Ian: So, you won the Norman Mailer College Fiction Award for your story “Scottsdale.” Can you tell us about that?

Vincent: Sure. Well, as I mentioned, I wrote that in my final workshop at Emerson. It was well-received and I thought it was a pretty strong story, so I submitted it to their annual contest. They called to tell me they chose my story in August, which was about four months after I had completely forgotten that I’d entered. So, it was a shock and an honor and lots of other words.

Ian: Had you been planning to submit a story to that contest?

Vincent: No, actually, I hadn’t heard of it until right about that time. Submissions were still open, so I figured, what the hell.

Ian: Smart choice.

Vincent: Yeah, I’m glad. My self-confidence was unusually buoyed for a few weeks there.

Ian: Tell us about how the story, “Dead Reckoning,” which is appearing in the first issue of Swarm, came to be.

Vincent: So, about five years ago, my father’s house actually did burn down, as the protagonist’s house does in the story. And I knew I’d probably end up writing about it eventually, because it’s such a crazy thing to have happen. And the town in the story is very much like the one I grew up in. Lots of gossipy neighbors, city politics. Frank isn’t my father, though, and most of what happens in the story is of my own invention. But the general premise was ripped from my own experience.

Ian: How important is location to you in fiction?

Vincent: Oh, it’s crucial. Dorothy Allison has a great essay called “Place” in The Writer’s Notebook: Craft Essays From Tin House that will explain it far lovelier than I can manage, but place is what grounds your reader. More than character, more than plot. Knowing where we are in a story is instant pathos, and I get really frustrated if I’m reading a story and two, three, four pages in, I still have no sense of where in the world this is taking place.

Ian: Do you ever write stories set in locations you’ve never visited?

Vincent: More often than not, yes. For the first eighteen years of my life, I’d only really been to the tri-state area and Florida. I’ve only been out of the country on cruise excursions. So, it’s necessary. But I do a ton of research about the places—read the local paper, look at Google Maps, look at Yelp reviews of the local bars.

Ian: Do you have a preference in terms of climate for where you set your stories?

Vincent: Not that I’ve noticed, no. I imagine if I was writing something longer, it’d have to be set in a place that experiences four seasons.

Ian: We’ve spoken often about movies. How has film influenced the way you write fiction?

Vincent: Well, you watch a Noah Baumbach movie, or a Nicole Holofcener movie, or a Tarantino movie, and you have a great lesson in dialogue. And they can also be great character studies. Especially if it’s a small cast with a very prominent lead. Sometimes that means two full hours with a character, and that’s powerful.

Ian: I’m curious if there are any lessons from watching movies that you feel you’ve applied especially to your writing.

Vincent: Friends With Money is a film that I really love; it’s this sort of character study of four profoundly unhappy women, all of whom are terribly unlikable. And yet, you love them, you know them, you are all them. I think movies like that—Leaving Las Vegas is another—just gave me permission to write about tremendously flawed people. I never felt like I had to worry about whether or not my character was “likable,” and that’s in large part a response to these movies.

Ian: Right. I’m curious, also, if you were watching these heavy, heady films before reading the authors that have been influential to you?

Vincent: Absolutely. Way before. I watched a lot of movies.

Ian: What are some of the authors that have been influential to you?

Vincent: Let me look at my bookshelf! Amy Hempel. Joy Williams. Ann Beattie. That’s my trifecta. But so many more, like: Joan Didion. Lorrie Moore. Harold Brodkey. Kafka. Richard Yates. Joyce Carol Oates. Grace Paley. Alice Munro. Laura van den Berg.

Ian: Tell me what you like about some of the writers you named.

Vincent: They’re all so different, but they end up on the list because I like what they do with language. That’s a reduction, of course, but it’s true. Specifically, though? I love Hempel’s first sentences. I’m crazy about Joy Williams’s plots. Ann Beattie’s dialogue. Didion’s insight. Moore’s humanity and attention to detail. Brodkey’s young narrators, especially the one in “The State of Grace.”

Ian: And what was your earliest literary influence?

Vincent: Sylvia Plath. Isn’t everyone’s?

Ian: I’m not sure, I’ve managed to avoid reading her thus far.

Vincent: Criminal that you haven’t read Plath. Criminal.

Ian: Do you linger at bus stations for pleasure?

Vincent: There are no bus stations in my town. It’s pretty tiny. Plus, I can drive.

Ian: Some pretty down-and-out people at bus stations. You could probably find some good dirty realist stories there if you went looking.

Vincent: My entire town is down-and-out. I can just go to the mall. Or Wawa.

Ian: If you had a monkey, a wolf, a bear, and a flea, which one would you write a fable about and why?

Vincent: I’d pick the one that’s most often around humans, so my fable could be really heavy-handed. So, flea. It would just be this flea that annotates a marriage.

Ian: Has anyone you know ever recognized his or herself, or perceived his or herself, in one of your stories?

Vincent: Not that I can remember, no. Which means they aren’t reading closely.

Ian: Have you ever given a character that wasn’t at all based on a person that person’s name, then showed them the story?

Vincent: Oh, wait, I have to amend that answer. I just asked, yes, someone has.

Ian: Do tell.

Vincent: Ha! I’m afraid she’ll read this. But she’s right. And in response to your second question, I’ve never done that, no.

Ian: You should try it sometime.

Vincent: I have a friend named Bakara, who is also a writer, and I’d love to use her name.

Ian: Do you think it would be possible to separate this fictitious Bakara that you would create from the actual Bakara that you know? On that note, how important is a character’s name to you?

Vincent: Probably not. I love Bakara, so I’d probably write a story where nothing bad happens to her, and who wants to read that. Names can be very important to me, but that’s usually not the case. I’m not particularly attached to any of my character names. Though, when I workshopped “Dead Reckoning,” the story that’s in Swarm, someone mentioned that Frank is also an adjective meaning open and honest, especially when dealing with unpalatable matters. Which was unintentional, but has a certain resonance, I think.

Ian: Is there anything else you’d like to tell us?

Vincent: The best book I read this year was NW by Zadie Smith, and the best movie I saw was Beasts of the Southern Wild. You should buy both.

Ian: Thanks for talking with us, Vincent.

Vincent: Sure thing!

 

Vincent’s story, “Dead Reckoning,” will appear in Swarm’s Winter 2013 inaugural issue.

Interview with Barbara Westwood Diehl

Barbara Westwood Diehl is the founding and managing editor of The Baltimore Review. Her short stories and poems have been accepted for publication in a variety of journals, including Word Riot, Confrontation, Rosebud, Atticus Review, JMWW, Potomac Review (Best of the 50), American Poetry Journal, Measure, Little Patuxent Review, SmokeLong Quarterly, Gargoyle, Superstition Review, and Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine.

Peter: What inspired this story?

Barbara: A “what if.” Unlike some of my stories, this was not prompted by a news article, a writing exercise, an overheard conversation, or anything in particular I can point to and say, “That ignited my story.” This story arose from one of my—let’s call them—“Where the #@!?! did that come from?”—moments. One of those moments when you can be doing something as mundane as loading the dishwasher and wonder something like, “What if the world were unmade in seven days?” But that’s another story.

In this case, my #@!?! moment was the question, “What if a woman found a baby on a hiking trail?”

My “what if” is usually followed by an image; in this case, the memory of a watercolor illustration from the old and unhappy tale of abandoned children, “Babes in the Woods,” and the robins who covered them with strawberry leaves.

In researching a hiking trail for the story, I learned that the Oregon Ridge Nature Center had hosted a program on migrating monarch butterflies. The “what if,” the image, and that bit of research gave me my running start.

I love how the theme of migration functions in this piece. Did you know, starting out, the extent to which that theme would resonate with Maureen, or did you discover this as you wrote?

My characters almost always have to deal with disruption—usually large-scale disruptions—in their lives. After these disruptions, they are not in the same place in their lives. To use the kids’ game analogy, they’ve hit a chute or ladder on the game board; they’re not moving one or two squares ahead after the dice roll. So yes, I knew Maureen would have to land on a chute or ladder, but I didn’t know how large a role those migrating monarch butterflies would play. I had to discover that and let the pieces fall into place. The last thing I want to do is hit the reader over the head with some theme or motif. But I love those echoes in any story, and I enjoy re-reading great stories and discovering them.

What’s your writing process like? Do you have any habits?

Mostly bad ones, but I’m working on that. For one, I started keeping a writer’s journal on January 1. I read a poem or some small piece of writing and write some observations and responses. Then I write an idea or two to spark my own writing later. That’s what I need: daily attention. Not necessarily long, but daily.

In the past, I’ve tended to write under deadline pressures—for a master’s program fiction workshop or for a monthly workshop with fellow writers. Now that I don’t have those structures in place, I’ll have to impose them on myself.

Not a whole of consistency in how I approach each story. Some involve much scribbling on scraps of paper; some involve (too much) Googling; most involve that weird writer’s trance in front of the monitor, simply letting a story unfold.

I think I’m getting better about spending more time on the revision process as I get older. Either that or my first drafts are getting sloppier. I’m trying hard to resist sending stories out too soon. One of those bad habits.

You’re founding editor of The Baltimore Review, a writer, a mother, a candidate at Johns Hopkins University’s M.A. in fiction program. How do you manage all that (and any tips for us?)?

Managing it all boils down to priorities and time management. And probably organizational skills. Nothing new there. And I wish that I had some of these skills. I’d like to say that I do, but I’d be lying. Except for priorities. I know what’s important to me, and I stick to that. Housecleaning is not one of those things, thus my every-other-week cleaning service. So my advice is to figure out what’s important to you. Focus on that. Sounds simple, but there is so much competing for our attention. Like the time-sucking social networking. I’m cutting back on that.

What it took me a long time to learn: Don’t beat yourself up. If you think about everything you have on your plate, it can seem overwhelming, impossible. Then you will eat ten snack-size chocolate bars and watch YouTube videos of babies on snowboards or Roomba vacuum cleaners instead of focusing on even one thing you need to accomplish.

I have a dry erase board on my wall. Underlined at the top: “Stuff Hanging Over My Head.” If I can erase one or two items now and then, that’s a wonderful feeling. OK, sometimes I have to use the spray cleaner because the ink has been on the board so long it’s almost permanent, but still. Shortly, I’ll erase “Interview for Peter Kispert.”

Thank you, Peter.

Barbara’s story, “Migrations,” will appear in Swarm’s Winter 2013 inaugural issue.

Interview with Karen Skolfield

Karen Skolfield’s manuscript, Frost in the Low Areas, won the First Book Award for Poetry from Zone 3 Press and will be published fall 2013. She is a contributing editor at the literary magazine Stirring and her poems have appeared in 2011 Best of the Net Anthology, Cave Wall, Memorious, Rattle, Tar River Poetry, Verse Daily, West Branch, and others. She earned her MFA in writing from the University of Massachusetts in the year (mumble mumble mumble) and remains in Massachusetts with her husband and two small children who would take umbrage at learning she calls them small. When not concocting her next set of New Year’s resolutions, she teaches travel writing and technical writing at UMass Amherst. Visit her online at http://www.karenskolfield.blogspot.com/

One of Karen Skolfield’s 2012 New Year’s resolutions included having four literary guys come up with an idea for a new lit journal, find funding for it, wrangle over the details and design, write mission statements and an “about” page, give it a cool name, commit some unfathomable number of future years to it, lose sleep over it, and then, when the first wave of hard work is done, ask her to be included in their inaugural issue, thus passing a gigantic chunk of the glory on to her. Her other New Year’s resolution was to go to the gym twice a week, every week. Guess which one got done.


Brandon: Are there any unique rituals that accompany your writing process, or conditions in your surroundings that you like to keep a certain way to help you write (I’m thinking an album/artist you listen to ad nauseam, or writing in a certain corner of the house facing a certain direction, maybe wearing a lucky hat)?

Karen: Brandon, you saw me wearing my giant sombrero? Have you been peeking in my window?

Sadly, I’m kidding. There’s no sombrero or chupalla, no pith helmet, no toque (but thank you for prompting me to Google “types of hats”). In fact, there’s little that’s magical or informative about my writing process. I do love writing on the computer, though I sometimes start poems by hand: think little notes crammed onto little dog ears of paper. Once I’m deeper into the writing, I need either absolute quiet – no music, ever – or lots of white noise, like at a café. Preferably a café without music. I’m amazed when I hear that other writers write with earbuds in. They are probably smarter than I am. I need all of my brain cells focused on the words.

When I’m home, I do have a favorite place to write – at my dining room table, with a dog at my feet. Bonus: there’s coffee in the coffee pot.


B: You served seven years in the Army. Not counting subject material, how has your military experience affected the way you write or approach writing?

K: It’s probably worthwhile mentioning that right out of high school I was an Army photojournalist, so this was the first writing with adult meaning and adult power for me. I was sent to a photojournalism school in Fort Benjamin Harrison (DINFOS for all you military folk) where we worked extensively on journalism writing and PR writing. I got to blow things up in basic training. Not your average teenager job, but I really, honestly loved it. I was a good soldier and I loved carving a path that took me away from my family.

I think the Army continues to inform and affect a lot of what I do, even though I’ve been out for almost 20 years (that was hard to write!). I have a disciplined head and disciplined habits. If I’m not writing, I’m pretty good about accepting the responsibility for it, which I think is another trait gifted to me by the military.


B: You’ve said that you “thrive on humor.” I think it would be difficult to refute that humor has an important place in life, but across the literary landscape there appears to be varied levels of enthusiasm as to its prevalence in poetry. In some places it appears celebrated and encouraged while in others it’s conspicuously absent or muted. What do you feel is the role of humor in poetry—yours, or in general?

K: Well, isn’t it great the range of poetry out in the world? I have a list of journals where I will never publish because my work doesn’t fit – I’m not experimental enough, I’m too narrative, my poems are too long, etc. But there’s a much longer list of journals that either have liked or might like my writing, and I try to be aware of the leanings of a journal and whether they’d be receptive to the more humorous pieces or the more serious pieces.

Like so many people, I’ll admit that humor occasionally serves to approach topics that I couldn’t otherwise approach because they’re painful or otherwise emotional – all that messy stuff. Humor in my life and in my writing gives me distance, which sometimes works and sometimes does not. That’s when someone else’s opinion – for me, it’s my writing group – is especially helpful.


B: Family is a common theme or subject in your work.  “Rumors of Her Death Have Been Greatly Exaggerated” immediately comes to mind as a very powerful example of family’s importance in your poetry. Certainly moments like that one are focused on the subject from the start when you’re writing, but in other instances do you actively look to tackle moments and experiences of family life in your writing, or do they find their way in when you’re trying to write about other topics?

K: I try not to write about my family constantly, which I realize isn’t obvious when you look at a body of my work. But I’m always thinking who in the world wants to read about my kids, my family life, my… yawn… what were we talking about? They’re not boring to me, but I do try to write about a range of things and hopefully appeal to a wider reading audience. That said, my family is constantly handing me good lines, some of which turn into poems about them and many that do not. Recently my daughter left a plastic, bloodied finger on the counter – a Halloween trinket, filled with bubbles – how weird and wonderful. She’s not in that poem at all, but the finger! The poem would not exist except for my daughter.

Occasionally my husband Dennis or my kids weasel their ways into poems when I’m not expecting it, but rarely. It seems that once a poem has its trajectory, it’s either about my immediate family or not. I’m a pretty linear thinker and writer, so that makes sense.

Dennis and I have an oft-repeated comedy routine. Whenever I get a poem accepted for publication, he says “Send it to me! Am I in it?” If I tell him he’s not in it, he says “Never mind, don’t bother sending it.” He’s kidding. Well, I think he’s kidding. Hold on, let me ask. [Checks] He wants to know if he’s in this interview.


B: On a similar note, when you’re writing (about your family or not), does the thought ever pop into your head about how your husband or your children will view the work in the future? In other words, is there a family-concerned filter in your writing process somewhere, or does what serves the art best win out in the end? (Largely I’m thinking of “Rumors,” but also “Frost in the Low Areas.” Both feel highly intimate, like the reader is being given a very personal glimpse into those moments.) 

K: This is a question every writer has to grapple with, often many times and in many different ways. You’ll find in some of my writing – about my father, for instance – that I am brutally clear about his behavior. It is his shame, not mine. About my husband and kids, though, it’s important that I don’t publish anything that might overly hurt or embarrass them. I have a poem about trying to catch a plane to Hawaii and my husband running on ahead to hold the plane for us, with me lagging with our two small kids – and the tension in that poem is that husbands do sometimes leave, fathers do sometimes abandon their children. He eventually teased me enough about this that I pulled it from the publishing rounds and the manuscript. I mean, I get it, he is über-fabulous and I think that one hurt his über a little. So now, instead of publishing that poem, I get to dissect it in an interview.

You raise a good point that art is not always served with this type of filter, to which I must say, art seems to be doing just fine. These are the three people that matter most to me, and it’s hard to imagine I have some stunning set of poems out there about hard-core subjects on my three that I’m suppressing. There’s so much great writing in the world; it would be the height of ego to think that a few poems that are hurtful to Dennis and my kids could ever add much to the world of writing. On balance, my devotion is to my immediate family.

About poems written before they were around – you know, those old boyfriend/girlfriend poems – well, that’s the past. Adults have histories, and my husband has his own history even if it’s not embodied in poetry.


B: When not occupied with things related to poetry (copious amounts of writing, reading, editing, &c.),  what other interests do you indulge in?

K: Ice skating. And we’re talking hockey style, not some graceful figure skating. I’m not graceful. But I am fast and aggressive on the ice. If only I could find the over-40 women’s hockey league that doesn’t mind that I have no stick skills… well, that would be sweet.

Backpacking, hiking, cooking and canning. Gardening. Cross country skiing (let it snow!). Lots of time with my husband and kids and all of their activities. We’re a fabulous traveling family and try to spend about a month in a tent per year.


B: What are some of the biggest influences on your writing?

K: Last night I woke up thinking: I’m a crow. As a writer I’m interested in the next shiny thing, the bit of tin foil or soda tab, the ripe strawberry or the unripe, the dead squirrel in the road, and I can’t help it, I even enjoy the sound of my own raucous voice. I puzzle over things, I set my beady eye there. I sit in the slenderest of treetops and feel darkly royal.

To wit: the biggest influences are the smallest things that transport me elsewhere. Thus, the homunculus.


B: Quick—The Beatles or The Stones?

K: Hahaha – The Stones, but I have at least one friend who will be horrified at this answer. I’ve tried hard, and I’m just not a Beatles fan. Hey, you’re not putting this on the Internet or anything, are you?


B: Whitman or Frost?

K: Whitman. He’s definitely one of my dead-guy crushes. Now, I hope your next question isn’t about hot chocolate versus apple cider.


B: Hot chocolate or apple cider?

K: What did I just say? *sigh* But since you asked, and I’m a reborn New Englander, I will have to go with apple cider from a local orchard – I’m lucky to be surrounded by great orchards. If you ever come to my house, Brandon, we’re going to offer you the choice of homemade blueberry pie or strawberry rhubarb crisp and watch you squirm. Take that.


Karen’s poem, “Homunculus,” will appear in Swarm’s Winter 2013 inaugural issue.

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