8149 Jan 2015 #2
U.S. $5.95, Canada $6.95
contributors Charles Bane, Jr. (“In Paris” and “Come, Beloved”, P. 15) is the American author of The Chapbook (Curbside Splendor, 2011) and Love Poems (Kelsay Books, 2014). His work was described by the Huffington Post as “not only standing on the shoulders of giants, but shrinking them.” Creator of The Meaning Of Poetry series for The Gutenberg Project, he is a current nominee as Poet Laureate of Florida. Lake Lopez (“Scrambled Eggs at midnight”, P. 5; Under The Apple Tree, P. 9) is a horror writer and frequent blogger at thescarystory.com. His novel Thorns in Dark Places is available on Amazon. Twitter: @LakeLopez Melodee Korff (“Late For Reality”, and “You Were My End”, P. 13) is a freelance writer and poet from th Land of Enchantment. She was encouraged to put her thoughts to paper at a young age and as her love of writing grew her talent was nurtured by her family and a few close friends. She most often finds inspiration from her personal experiences
On The Cover, Kay McCarthy lives in Northern Nevada and is an aspiring film maker and photographer. She took this issue’s cover photograph at Sardine Lake at the base of the majestic Sierra Buttes, California. (kmccarthyphotography.com)
and the people who have influenced her life in dynamic ways. Sandra Widner Burch (“The CEO & His Former Intern”, P. 10) began writing poetry in 2003. Her poems have been published in numerous online and print publications.She was recognized as one of the Best Poets of 2013 and Who’s Who in American Poetry by Eber & Wein Publishing. She is currently working on her first novel. Twitter:@sandib966 Other contributors include: Geoff Foley, A.C. Mears, James Stephen, Kay McCarthy.
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8149
January 2015 • Issue 2 8149 is published quarterly by Black Tea Press, P.O. Box. 1474, Roseville, CA 95678. 8149 (previously published as No More Black Tea ISSN 2375-3501) accepts submissions for original short fiction 1500-5000 words, scenes 750-1500 words, poetry, photography and art for publication. By submitting your material to No More Black Tea you are agreeing to give No More Black Tea/Black Tea Press one-time North American and non-exclusive worldwide rights and archival rights for digital and periodical publication in all languages with non-exclusive reprint rights. Publication of your submission(s) is considered payment. 8149, NO MORE BLACK TEA, BLACK TEA PRESS ARE NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR THE RETURN OR LOSS OF, OR FOR DAMAGE OR ANY OTHER INJURY TO, UNSOLICITED MANUSCRIPTS, UNSOLICITED ART WORK (INCLUDING, BUT NOT LIMITED TO, DRAWINGS AND PHOTOGRAPHS), OR ANY OTHER UNSOLICITED MATERIALS. THOSE SUBMITTING MANUSCRIPTS, PHOTOGRAPHS, ART WORK, OR OTHER MATERIALS BY U.S. OR INTERNATIONAL MAIL (NON-ELECTRONIC) FOR CONSIDERATION SHOULD NOT SEND ORIGINALS. Subscriptions (online PDF download) are available for $15 a year USD.
Short Fiction 05 Scrambled Eggs at Midnight 09 Under The Apple Tree
By Lake Lopez
10 The CEO & His Former Intern
By Sandra Widner Burch
09 Somewhere Only We Knew
James Stephen
Poetry 04 In Search
By A.C. Mears
08 Skinny Black Dress
By James Stephen
15 In Paris Come, Beloved
contents
By Charles Bane, Jr.
16 In The Winter Depths Warriors of Word
By Geoff Foley
13 Late For Reality You Were My End
By Melodee Korff
Photography 07 Table for Two 14 St. Louis’ Midnight Reflection
By James McCarthy 8149 / January 2015 / Issues 2 / 3
In Search By A.C. Mears As I walk down these dark and damp streets alone. I walk around trees, through dreary skies, and where the winds have blown. Over the hills, above mountains high, and down to the villages below, Through the cold glacial abodes with all their ice and snow. I’ve looked for you in heaven and hell, in both heart and mind. I’ve looked for you forever and day, so long that I am now blind. I have looked you for so long that my heart has grown weary and numb. There’s no reason for me to go on when my future seems so glum. Will I ever find you? Probably not, for there is no reason now, For you are dead and gone and so am I, but then I’ll find you again… …somehow
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In four words I see you naked Scrambled Eggs at Midnight By Lake Lopez
The phone chirps just as I’m about to get into bed. I grab it. See who it is. Stare at the name in the screen for another ring as an ache twists inside me, like shots of whiskey blossoming against healing scar tissue. I know I shouldn’t, but I hit the button and say hello because it’s you. “You’re drunk,” you say to me. “I can hear it in your voice.” “I had a bad date.” “Can I come over?” In those four words I see you naked, sitting cross legged at the edge of the bed, your devilish smile twitching on and off. Even the shadows want to touch you. I want to tell you yes. I could use a few more hours of you. “I’ll make scrambled eggs,” you say, raising the memory of that first date when we exhausted ourselves, worked up a hunger, and you cooked breakfast in the middle of the night. “You can tell me all about your terrible date.” “We both know it’s not a good idea,” I say. Nothing sobers me up faster than you because in between the good I hear the screaming and slamming of doors; the bloodstains in my sink, the sleeplessness of you in my life. Sometimes, I still see the knife you left in my coffee table after that one blowout. I don’t remember what that fight was about or which of us started it, only the silver blade in expensive, pale wood. Embedded there, a portent of the future. “We’re bad for each other.” “Love is not a game for the weak of heart,” you say. “Besides, it’s only for tonight.” “I’m about to go to bed.” “Are you in your boxers?” 8149 / January 2015 / Issues 2 / 5
“You know I am.” “That’s when I like you the most.” “Of course you do, that’s when I’m defenseless.” I’ve dreaded this call since we quit each other. I’ve fretted about it, pondered and planned my options and calculated their consequences. One day I even convinced myself that no matter what I wouldn’t answer. The next night I knew I would, but only so that I could tell you hurtful things. I must’ve known both were lies. After all, I could’ve changed my number. “You want cheese with your eggs? Some green pepper and bacon? I’ll make omelets this time. We’ll feed each other.” “I have to work tomorrow.” “You worry me.” There it is. The change in vocal tone that makes the words mean something else that’s possibly vicious. I wish I hadn’t drank so much. Wish I hadn’t answered the phone. Wish I’d never tasted you, kissed you, and spent all those night’s giving you my secrets, showing you my wounds - loving you. “I’m coming over,” you say. It’s not up for negotiation anymore. You have decided. “Don’t.” “I still have a key. I made a spare. I’ll be right there.” Just like that, madness stampedes into both our lives. You, me and scrambled eggs at midnight.
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Table for Two is located at Muriel’s Restaurant in the French Quarter of New Orleans and is popular not only for their Creole cooking but a handful of ghosts. However, ever since the owners of Muriel’s started a tradition of setting this table every morning along with a glass of wine and fresh bread, a few of the ghosts of haven’t been seen since. Taken by photographer James McCarthy (http:/blackteaphoto.com)
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Little Skinny Black Dress By James Stephen “We’ve got drunk strippers,” a black man in a black suit on a black night yells sky thunders and rains Mardi Gras beads smells of booze and sounds of sex on Bourbon Street. Her legs cross left over right hips sway side to side in that little skinny black dress to the rhythm of New Orleans Jazz while raising her plastic cup to topless angels on the balcony above heckling “take it off” to the saints and sinners strolling the French Quarter below. Ghost stories and Huge Ass Beers, Jazz and voo-doo dolls, home of the famous Hurricane a sweet pleasure of rum, fruit juice and grenadine. He laughs from behind at the little skinny black dress slurring, “your shoes are too big.” The black posh heels stop and twist on the wet ground snapping Mr. Yellow shirt a sneer and smart-alecky reply, “They can still kick you in the balls.”
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By Lake Lopez
“…Looking for a short blonde laying under an apple tree eating an orange…”
No way to spend the day, he told himself. Dreams like that never made any damn sense.
Too many symbols meant they symbolized nothing. The pictures hurt his brain. Apples – the forbidden fruit. Evil? An orange – the last thing his mother had given him before… Don’t think about that Davey that’s what makes the monsters come you know they will keep those bad thoughts away. The girl – an older version of someone he’d known. That’s what itched at him. If only he could get a longer look. He continued walking. Sweat dripped down his neck. The brown bottle of pills clicked in his pocket. When his feet started to hurt as bad as his head he told himself it was a waste of time. But the images. The symbols… Then, just outside of city limits, he found her – And the picture that developed in his memory was of the two of them; they were teenagers, children really, two babies sitting on the trunk of his father’s rusted Impala, huddled close because they loved each other and because the night was foggy and cool and, above them, a few brave little stars struggled through the fog and cloud cover and shone like shimmering pinpricks of triumph, her hand was warm and moist and tiny within his own and her eyes were the kind a boy could share a secret with, dark blue and full of something wonderful, and he had to whisper to her in a trembling voice with too much pleading, as if she was magic and could will his dream to come true simply by wanting it for him… “Leslie?” he asked. “I want to hurt them,” he’d told her. “I have to.” “Don’t do it,” she’d said, all those years ago. Now she smiled. “I’ve been waiting for you, Davey.” Specks of orange pulp stuck to her teeth. “You know why?” Davey shook his head. “’Cause I should’ve listened to you, should’ve helped you do it, should’ve helped you hurt them.” Her eyes hadn’t changed at all and while staring into them his head cleared. Tranquility filled him. Nothing hurt now. “Let me show you where the guns are,” she said and gulped down the rest of the orange. “I can smell the gun smoke already.” So could he. 8149 / January 2015 / Issues 2 / 9
The CEO & His Former Intern By Sandra Widner Burch
After ten years, of course, they both had changed. The problem was that he could see her so much more clearly than he could see
insisted. We have two boys.” “I’m glad.” She looked at him skeptically. “And you?”
himself. She still had the same large blue eyes,
The waiter came to the table and took their
the same dimpled smile. But the face had
orders. They were sitting in the garden of a
widened, the skin had coarsened, the thick,
medieval convent, now a restaurant and inn.
blonde, shining hair was now close-cropped
It was summer but still cool in the shade of old
and a dull brown.
trees.
And from being petite, she had become
“I married again,” he said. “Four years .
thicker around the middle, her once larger-
. . after you came back here. She died a few
than-life
months ago.”
breasts
just
barely
protruding
beyond her belly. “Not so beautiful anymore,” she said, looking straight into his eyes with an amused smile. “You were very beautiful.” “You were very handsome.” “I’ve missed you all these years.” She blushed under her pale, wrinkled skin. “Let’s not get sentimental,” she said. “I’m married, you know.” “I had hoped that for you.” “He’s a patrolman. A good man.” She 10 Issue 2 / January 2015 / 8149
“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said, then paused, giving the deceased woman a moment of silence. “So why did you come here?” She asked. “After all these years.” “I wanted to find out what happened to you. I wanted to reassure myself that you were doing well.” “I’m okay,” she said. “I was always okay.” “I was afraid you wouldn’t be.” “Don’t flatter yourself.” The waiter came to pour their wine, and they toasted.
“To the two of us ten years ago,” he said, lifting his glass. “To the two of us now,” she countered, clinking against his glass. He nodded, suddenly, palpably, aware of the chemistry between them. “What I did was wrong,” he said. “I know that now. I knew it then, but not as clearly.” “I was an adult. You didn’t owe me anything.” “I wasn’t ready to give you what you had a right to expect. That was the thing. I needed you. My wife had just broken up our marriage. I needed a beautiful young woman to adore me. But it was too soon for me to plunge back into marriage.” “Too soon?” She said. “I waited six years. “She laughed. “I should have delayed my dissertation.” “I’m glad you got your degree,” he said quickly. “For whatever reason.” “I did it just to extend my student visa. For no other reason. But you knew that, didn’t you?” “Yes,” he said. “I knew that.” “Then why did you use me?” “I loved you. I really did.” “You took an innocent young lady, willing, beautiful body, and used it to prop up your pitifully smashed little ego.” “I loved you,” he insisted. “I cared about you. You weren’t just any willing body. I loved you more than I’ve loved anyone, before or since.”
“But not enough to marry me.” “Not then. I wasn’t ready.” “You have to remember,” he begged, “that when we started our affair I was just separated, not even divorced. And I had children in school --” Their food came, suspending the conflict in midair. “Bon appetit,” she said, with what looked like a friendly smile. “Bon appetit,” he repeated. They ate for a bit in uncomfortable silence. “Were you hoping I wasn’t married?” She finally asked. “And still beautiful?” “I always hoped that I hadn’t ruined your life.” “No, I wouldn’t have let you do that. But you put me through a lot of pain.” “I’m sorry. I’ve always regretted it.” He said. “My one indiscretion.” “But this trip, after your second wife just died. Were you lonely? Were you hoping . . . for something more?” He stared at her for a moment, wondering whether, now that it was impossible, he should tell her the truth. “Yes,” he finally said. “I had hopes. But I realized there wasn’t much chance.” “That I would still be attractive?” “That you wouldn’t be married. That you would still want me.” “Thank you for being honest about that.” They finished their meals and ordered 8149 / January 2015 / Issues 2 / 11
coffee, apparently out of things to say. Then she said, “I want to tell you what it was like for me the day you brought me to the airport.” He nodded, knowing that he was in for it now.
“For six years I had thought of nothing but marrying you, of having your children, of taking care of you in your old age.” “I’m sorry I did that to you. I’ve always been sorry.” “Stop saying you’re sorry!” She almost hissed. “You don’t regret for a minute that you had six years of love from a beautiful young woman. You took my innocence, you took my youth, and you look back on it with pleasure!” “Yes, I look back on it with pleasure,” he admitted, “but also with guilt.” He was glowing red, wondering why he had come all this way just to subject himself to this. The coffee came, offering him a brief respite. But she was not to be put off. “Even up to the gate I had a bit of hope,” she said. “Do you remember? I asked if you would write to me. You said of course you would. Come to see me? Of course you would. I could tell from your voice it was lies. All of it was lies!” “I meant to --” he began. 12 Issue 2 / January 2015 / 8149
“I could tell you were shoveling me off, glad to be rid of me! It was in your voice, in your eyes. “That’s not true!” He protested. “Of course it’s true! You’d already become bored with me, you wanted others. But you couldn’t be free to have them until I was gone.” “You’ve believed that all this time?” “I knew it the day I left.” “But it isn’t true!” He said weakly, knowing how weak he sounded, that the weakness condemned him, but unable to muster up anything more. “That’s why my love for you turned to anger, pure anger,” she continued. “By the time I got here, I wished I had no memory of you!” “That was probably good for you.” She laughed. “Yes, it would have been. It would have been good for me.” The waiter came with the check. They both straightened up. As he paid, she took a handkerchief out of her pocketbook and daubed her mouth. “You were my everything,” she said when the waiter had left. “I had put you so far behind me. Why did you have to come here?” “I’m sorry,” was all he could say.
Late For Reality By Melodee Korff I woke up one morning To a sunrise that was on fire To an ocean of rainbows Crowned with silver desire My eyes beheld the velvet grass I tasted the last of the moon beams I ran with the colors of the wind To the castle of my dreams I waltzed across star dusted paths Led by a chariot of aqua waves Diamonds glistening above my head In a world of fairytales I gazed And as my soul Bust into flame Every savage desire Suddenly became tame For in a fleeting moment My heart ceased to pump life within me And with a gasp of breath I awoke Late for reality
You Were My End By Melodee Korff You waltzed into my life Like the whisper of the wind An echo of the rustling of leafs The beginning of my end
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St. Louis’ Reflection. The St. Louis Cathedral faces the popular Jackson Square and is one of the tallest structures in the French Quarter of New Orleans. It was originally built in 1727 and rebuilt after the great fire of 1794. In 1987 Pope John Paul II visited the cathedral. Afterward the cathedral’s status was upgraded to a Basilica. Taken by James McCarthy (http://blackteaphoto.com)
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Come, Beloved By Charles Bane Jr. I am hungry; come soon. I looked tonight at flames like you upon the west and jewels winging home. I hold you in my eyes when I see what cannot be stamped again. All the earth is of a kind but for the rarities that clamber unknowing of their gifts on vales of purest light, and look at the common life of us in shade. Come beloved, soon.
In Paris By Charles Bane Jr. In Paris, all the streets were rained and magpies in the shadows of Notre Dame poured tunes. The cafes dripped and all the city was wet that afternoon; you said, look at the long haired Seine; do you want to walk in the Jardins des Plantes? No, I said, let’s hold Mass in your room. You lay and I heard bells at the lifting of the moon. A thousand souls somewhere in the dark of France flew.
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In The Winter Depths By Geoff Foley In the winter depths I could hear her call Like wind on the trees And I had given my all In the black of night While the fires of battle roared It was for her and her alone That I pushed on and my spirit soared Nor tire, nor sleep Nor the stinging of death Would keep me from her For she was my breath
Warriors of Word By Geoff Foley Pick up your pens Brave warriors of word Charge into battle With your shield of intellect Slay your opponents Let the pulp become fertile And plant the seeds Of rebellion and adventure Inspire open minds Grow free imaginations Supplant the tired Cold and unworthy Legacy ideas of conformity For you warriors of word Are the last bastions Of and age-old guard Challenged to protect and Renew the Bards of old 16 Issue 2 / January 2015 / 8149
Somewhere Only We Knew By James Stephen “How did you find this place?” “I bet it’s beautiful when its not so cold and frozen,” she said while admiring the cracks and details of the cobblestone fountain, looking lost in a world of enchantment, “in fact,” she said, “we could have a picnic under that tree by the creek and bridge.” Placing her hand on the wintertrapped vine twisting it’s dead looking tentacles not noticing the large hawk swoop towards us from the treetops and perch itself on the canopy; curious. The folklore people pass around in these parts is that the fountain and bridge were built back before the beginning of time by a young couple who were trapped in forbidden love. This is where they would come to be alone and share their heart. I ran my finger across the heart shaped etchings on the cobblestones thinking about their conversations, listening for their laughter, picturing them sitting on a blanket under the oak tree sharing an afternoon. It felt as if I was reading the scratched hearts like braille, each with their own memory. The hawk tilted it’s head, looking down on Sarah, watching her peer deep into the fountain’s darkness. “Don’t fall in,” I joked. She looked back at me smiling. The hawk tilted it’s head back towards me, it’s beady black eyes staring; curious, and I continued sharing my story. “So the story of this place,” I said trying to recapture Sarah’s attention, “was shared with me by two widowed elderly women I met at La Dolce Vita last week.” I watched Sarah tug on the rope, wondering if she is listening or still lost in her world. “Do you think it’s odd that this is a seat and not a bucket?” she asked. Yes, it was a little unorthodox I thought, but, “what’s more strange is how sturdy it appears after all these years,” I answered. She gave it a strong yank; it appeared solid. “I’d sit on it,” she said, obviously distracted to answer my own previous question. “Yeah, why not,” I went along, “we may find a bunch of pennies down there.” She looked across at me, once again interested in my words. “For their wishes,” I said looking down with her. “They said the story goes like this: There were two lovers who believed they were destined to be together; he always compassionately called her an Angel God himself dropped from Heaven, but they didn’t find one another until each was married and had children. The townspeople said he was a hopeless romantic, poet, followed his heart to a fault and the woman had beautiful, long hair, strands of gold with a nurturing heart. She was always around town, tending to her chores as a dutiful wife and was often seen at the edge of a large meadow picnicking with her son under 8149 / January 2015 / Issues 2 / 17
a tall oak tree.” “I bet that was the tree,” Sarah said pointing through the fountain’s canopy and across the field to an open space where a creek flowed under a small foot bridge. It’s large trunk held up the towering, twisted branches with chunks of bark shedding themselves from the cold winter. I looked into her excited and happy smile, agreeing with her. “Tell me more,” she said connecting with my eyes. “The townspeople said that when those two were together an aura of peace and happiness surrounded them and that their smiles would turn winter into summer as they walked by like magic.” Sarah smiled absorbing the nature and peace surrounding her. The hawk screeched as two black jays with white spots landed on the bridge. “The say flowers bloomed out of nowhere in the middle of winter and tree’s start budding. People who believed as they did, thought it was magic because only true love could have this kind miraculous power. The lovers realized that they couldn’t have this kind of attention shadowing their every step, so they traveled into the woods and this became the place they would meet, secretly away from the town, away from the people that knew about them so they could be who they believed they were meant to be.” “You know,” Sarah broke in, “they remind me a little of us,” she said. “I wonder if they carved messages to each other on the bridge, like we do?” I smiled like she was reading my mind. “Well, the old ladies’ at the coffee shop said the bridge is where they would leave messages to each other,” I chuckled, “and other times have quiet picnics, speaking intimately without the need for words. Then one afternoon, after six years of meeting secretly the young woman found the courage and strength to want to change her life.
While they laid together under the oak tree she whispered in her lover’s ear, “I’m ready to
change my life. Return here in ten days from tomorrow and we will leave this place and finally be together.” He returned to the bridge ten days later ready to run away and begin a new life with her. And he waited, and waited. The sun cut through the same winter-sleeping limbs above us and still he waited and waited until the sun fell behind the hill but she never came and he never knew why. They say his tears still puddle at the bottom of the fountain and his lost soul still visits the bridge, etching love notes to her, hoping she will return to find him.” “Lets go down and look,” she said. “Look for what?” “His tears.” I looked at Sarah mesmerized by the same fairytale and didn’t think a second time about whether that rope and splintered swing would hold us because it didn’t seem to matter. The only 18 Issue 2 / January 2015 / 8149
thing that I mattered was right here in front of me: beautiful, smooth, warm, soft golden strands of hair with a faint luminescence the brightened the grayness of the descending day. I didn’t care if we ever left the damp murkiness of this fountain’s dirt floor as long as we were together. “Come on,” she said, “get on”. And we slowly lowered the seat to bottom. I watched her look at it. Running her fingers along the archway of stone shaping the top of a heart, the aged wood exterior, cracked and warped and dark like the dirt leading up to it. In the middle, framed like a window, was a painting of a tree; tall with blossoming orange flowers. Despite how old everything was, the painting was in pristine condition. The door wasn’t large, maybe 5 feet tall. She knocked. “I guess no one’s home,” teasing me with a smile. “Look, It’s another heart,” she said quietly, “They really liked hearts I guess.” “Why are we whispering,” I asked, holding the heart shaped lock in the palm of my hand. “I don’t know,” she said, “I don’t wake the spirits,” chuckling, “don’t step in his tears,” pointing to the puddle of water I was standing in. Then raised my chin with her cold finger to her warm lips, outlined with a light pink gloss, and kissed me three times whispering “I - love - you,” between each kiss and placing her hand on my chest, “just you,” slipping the skeleton key from around my neck which I found under the bridge earlier in the day, and slipped it into the lock’s heart. A short click echoed against the fountain’s circular wall and the latch fell open. They say everything happens for a reason. That people and the world around us are all connected, synchronized to live in harmony, destiny or whatever it is you believe, and our arriving at this place in this time is exactly where we are supposed to be I thought. “Open it,” I said touching her hand, “it’s time to go home.” The wedding ring on her finger vanished in a poof of purple smoke. A ray of light cast against the ground as the Sarah pulled the door open, as a loud sucking wind chased us from behind. The Hawk screeched and flew into the sky above with a shrill cry. Holding hands we tucked our heads under the curved archway and walked into what very well could be our destiny or our greatest mistake. Somewhere Only We Knew is the Prologue to Tales of a Firefly Lantern. Part 1, Purple Clouds In Woodbridge was published in Issue 1 of 8149 (previously No More Black Tea) and available for to read at http://eightyonefortynine.com/issues.
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Thank you for reading 8149 LOOKING INTO MY WHITE CUP I NOTICED, NO MORE BLACK TEA. So I walked up to the counter, a mosaic of broken ceramic tile creating a pinkish, blue and yellow sunset setting behind whitecap mountains and I asked the barista for another bag of Earl Grey. She looked at me with a small smile apologizing that they were unfortunately out of tea. “How can a coffee and tea shop be out of tea?” I chuckled, “Well, it’s not that we are out of all tea,” she explained with her cute, persuasive smile, “we still have Green Tea and White Tea with Pomegranate and I promise they are just as good.” I smiled back. They say the hardest part of change is taking that first step. Sometimes you don’t know where it’s going to lead, but taking a chance and failing is far more successful then never trying. After publishing the first issue
of No More Black Tea we
looked at the good and bad ideas about the project and came to a conclusion that something needed to change. This is because No More Black Tea, “the literary journal”, was not originally born to be that. It has always intended to be an organic love letter to a forbidden love as originally published in 2010, but never finished. We successfully failed to combine the two projects and thus created 8149, inspired by No More Black Tea but is not No More Black Tea. It will continue to feature talented and emerging writers, photographers and artists from around the world as the voices of the hopeless, hopeful romantics who are waiting to read, risk and dream like you and I.
Publisher & Editor-In-Chief
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