John Martino


Convinced that the camera does not replicate reality so much as revolutionize it, I aim to make black-and-white, street-style photographs that function as works of fiction; that suggest and entertain, rather than document or confirm. My images have been displayed at a number of venues throughout the United States, including the Museum of Fine Arts—Boston and the MPLS Photo Center in Minneapolis; they have also appeared in such diverse publications as The Advocate, Photographer’s Forum, New Orleans Review, and The Boston Globe. To view more of my work, please visit

I Can Feel the Heat Closing In

In 100 words. Not one word more, not one word less—

I get a letter back from Santiago filled with geranium dust and twigs. It’s been years since we have seen one another. Since slender glasses filled with port and us undressed near pear trees swearing we would find Jupiter’s moons. The smell of diesel fills the bus terminal spins and illuminates windows till men and women are walking backwards, children angle themselves as distant sounds, our houses and crops float dimly in a ceremony before us grains, grapes, potatoes, and beans. It is winter with bourdon and light, lemon water and thick clouds. Only this. We have never appeared smaller.

-Helen Vitoria


The bridge, a transition, shift of gears, change of pace and scenery, unwanted, unintended, unexpected; each moment inseparable from the next like words on road signs.

So he says. Those moments blended, blurred in his wake, where wife and children lie recast as consecrated souls, sacrificial lambs upon the altars to himself, small tribute though they be. His legacy wilted, withered, desiccated to dust driven like chaff on the searing winds of rage.

Miles south the bridge filled his rearview, a cradle beneath the setting sun. He winced, squinted at the blinding flash of heaven's flame, and adjusted his mirror.

-Michael J. Mattson