Ink In Thirds - Issue 5 by Ink In Thirds

OUTDOOR

Issue 5 September 2016

FEATURES:

CONTENTS Prose A Cure for Lonely Anxiety Meets the Data Maze Combing My Hair New Room Sequence

(Paul Beckman )

(Sara Codair)

(Thaddeus Rutkowski)

(Aaron J. Housholder)

(Ricky Garni)

(Stephanie Ellis)

Poetry Air At Mile Zero on SR 26 A Chalk Pal/la/et/te Death Grip El Cantarito (the water pitcher) Grape How to Speak Ironic Loose Thought Love in Three Parts Metaphysical Peach My Hollow Spot Three Line Poem Three Line Poem The Orange The Woodpecker Quartz Sorry, Something Went Wrong

(Marianne Szlyk) 15 (David Marquard)

(Maximilian Bowden)

(Sarah Frances Moran) 13 (Changming Yuan) 22 (Felino A. Soriano) 21 (D. E. Kern) 14 (Yuan Changming) 18 (Carl Boon) 10 (M. Drew Williams) 19 (D. E. Kern) 12 (CR Smith)

(Lisa Stice)

(Ray Busler)

(Marianne Szlyk) 16 (Linda Wojtowick)

(Howie Good)

Photography Matt Adamik Tracy Ann Boris Boden

All other photography not specified here is licensed under the Creative Commons Zero for Public Domain.

Cover, 14 18, 22 6

Ink In Thirds - Issue 5, September 2016 Copyright ÂŠ 2016 Ink In Thirds

All rights reserved. Copyright in the body reproduced herein remains the property of the individual authors / artists and permission to publish acknowledged by the publisher. No part of this publication may be reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without written permission from the author(s) or artist(s) herein.

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Letter from the Editor The supple succor of silence in each drop of rain as it falls helps create a backdrop for this issue. It is my sheer pleasure to format these words and photographs into a delight for the senses. As you settle in and read this issue, I hope each of you will find something of interest that may leave a lasting impact and touch you in a way that sparks the creative energy within yourself. Love & Ink, Grace Black

"A magazine of poised prose, precarious poetry, and photography to pilot our own realms again."

?The role of a writer is not to say what we can all say, but what we are unable to say.? ? AnaĂŻs Nin

A past distilled, replayed, rewound. b y CR Smi th

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ph oto by M ark us Spi sk e

Th e Orange b y Ray Busl er

The Jaffa oranges are in But you must buy the crate You must take your chances Some years so sweet Winter weeps at the memory Some years astringent tears I will find a friend Gamble, and split a crate Sweet or tart It is no matter to the grocer

ph oto by Joh n Wi l son

Sorry, Someth i ng Went Wrong b y How i e Good

You stay up past 2 a.m. sifting through the 8,615 search results for beef jerky on Amazon. A faceless stranger appears at your door, smiling to the extent that he can. I would love to know the outcome, but I must leave before every definition degenerates into an illusion. Want, a for-instance? Although he invented the Heimlich maneuver, Dr. Heimlich was never once called on to use it. * If you?re going to choose a place to die, then Mars is probably not a bad choice. But don?t expect to look much like Matt Damon. It?s not impossible, but extremely unlikely. Elon Musk compared it to trying to save a burning wad of cash flying through the sky. * Where I threw down wildflower seeds, there are now what look like round-headed pins stuck in a military map, the splattered remains of babies dropped from a great height, future technologies in premature decay, unfamiliar words whose meanings I should look up, a maze of red exit arrows, top hats with arms outstretched like Jesus, and a man screaming shut the fuck up at his yippy dog.

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A Cure f or Lonel y by Paul Beck man

M artin wanted out. He never should have pledged the Fraternity in the first place. He wasn?t a stoner or a head banger. And punk? Metal? No way. He liked the crooners and closed his eyes and tried to will Mel Torme into his mind taking over his being as the jar of ticks was poured over him lying, tied down in his Scooby Doo pajamas on the floor of the University?s library basement. Spotlights of color came at him from different angles and The Ramones blasted away on four speakers and he didn?t want to be friends with these people anyway and Mel Mel Mel where are you? Sing to me? get me through this. Vic Damone, Steve Lawrence, Sinatra, Crosby come in help me out with a chorus of smooth . . . I?ve been loyal to you all. I feel the ticks crawling inside my pajamas and staring at my privates and Tony Bennett sing to me please. Someone open the door and let Hoagy Carmichael in . . . call Dino he?d help me through this godless ritual and take me to a place of goodness and beauty. Thank you, Nat, you?re the one saving me and wait my hour is up? I?m in the shower Bobby Darrin sing to me as these so-called frat brothers of mine spray and scrub the ticks off and no it?s not funny that they weren?t really ticks and of course I didn?t scream and no I don?t want to tell them how I lasted.

5 | Ink In Thirds

that note lingered a meditation of sound waves as vital as breath b y Li sa Sti ce

b y Steph ani e El l i s

A Ch al k Pal / l a/ et/ te b y Dav i d M arq uard

blind spot there waning, performed and improvised, prescribed and scripted predestined to personal play? this exact cutout of the day, where blurred outlines fold in thirds? slight, yet just barely visible to the young children, out there, playing on the ground, just outside, just out back.

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Death Gri p

R estrict

the flow of thought, Constricting each neural-pathway With tight-grip fingers So that the ineffable dream slips And they can remain. Cut away the penciled outlines: Tortured thought echoes all around Off-white skulls, emitted through ribs To nourish expectant earlobes As each part dissolves. Alone. b y M ax i mi l i an Bow den

Quartz by Li nda Woj tow i ck 1. There is a suitcase pillowed with black velveteen, loosely ticked over foam molds. If you pulled, or tipped the case the right way with some placed weight, it was slack, there was a space. It was some small lie, like diamonds. Like skin. The man selling them is from the tall buildings holding the west side of town. He is so calm, no memory of sheets. He breathes like a vein. After the earlier, bungled guns, he got watches, he moved storms. Fat bands laid out glinting in the thin city sun. 2. She is walking by, hungry, and her shoes dig. A meeting ran over and now the rest of today seems knocked-loose, nervy, and full of curves. She is a detective, and will spend the next months chasing a bloodied thief. But she doesn?t have to think about that yet. Her head is distracted with a difficulty. In recent nights a negative surge has drained her kitchen of broth and she has dreamed a thin lady into her closet and her tub. Her elevator shaft moans and sucks. When she walks by the man and the suitcase he clicks his tongue like a clock. The silver and gold and the craters and hands. 3. Measure: any standard of comparison, estimation, or judgment. Scale: measure with or as if with scales. Other similar: gauge, plumb, fathom, sound. Because the face glass is belled and riotously pearled. Because the head spins sharp as planets and our mountains swallow God.

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Lov e i n Th ree Parts b y Carl Boon i. In central Istanbul a man was cut; I saw newspaper staunching blood on the sidewalk, a crowd moving away. Nobody owns the shadows, and it happened while the trees were blooming lavender and pink. Now an hour?s passed and already his wound begins to heal. If it rains, everything will be forgotten. ii. In the neighborhood of glances, a boy reaches for his mother. A girl named Mehtap, a high school girl, has let him go. He wants to bleed, he holds a butter knife against his groin and dents his jeans, but won't go further. A constellation in the window writes her name: M-E-H-T-A-P. He contemplates his soup. iii. On the city's other side, past the water and the prayers, a woman waits for her husband by the doorway. The harmony of marriage lost, she means to end it for them both. The scissors are sharp, obscene, glimmering. She holds them. The mop in the bathroom will be convenient for another, later.

New Room by A aron J. Housh ol der

"W e've moved you to the basement,? her mother told her on her first visit home from college. ?We figured you might like more privacy.? You want my room for an office, she thought, or for yoga, but only smiled. She descended the stairs that night and made her way through the shadows, the old boxes, the discarded free weights, the shelves full of old glasses, shelves of canned food, shelves of Grandma?s clown figurines. Just as she flipped on the light and shut the door to her new room at the far end of the basement, a gentle voice, her grandmother?s: ?Good night, darling.? She looked over her shoulder, into the shadows, saw nothing but boxes, cans, clowns, and closed the door. She trotted through the basement the next night, hurrying to her room. ?Good night, sweetie.? She slammed the door. She ran through the basement the next night, holding her breath. ?Good night, honey.? She slammed the door and locked it. In the morning she found a broomstick and ran it across the shelves of clowns. They shattered on the concrete floor with a tinkling of porcelain and then a groan, as of the wind through an ill-fitting window. That night she walked calmly through the basement, through the shadows, the old boxes, the discarded free weights, the shelves of old glasses, shelves of canned food, the empty shelves where the clowns had stood. She flipped on her light and shut her door and found her bed covered in clown figurines. With motionless legs but clattering steps they swarmed past her and up the wall. They covered the doorknob. She saw cracks in their clothes and shoes and faces where they had shattered. They smiled as always. A gentle voice: ?Sleep tight, my sweet darling.?

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ph oto by A i mee V ogel sang

M y Hol l ow Spot by D. E. K ern

R attling gourds a garden-variety hint ? one more childless year.

El Cantari to (th e w ater pi tch er) b y Sarah Frances M oran

B ring me water on honest hips. Are you thirsty? Thirsty or hungry? Hungry or tired from the Rain dance? Dance, dance like life won?t go on. On like time has forgotten and rivers won?t flow. Flow like the privilege of never knowing what cotton mouth is really like. Like, Crossing borders Crossing rivers Crossing minefields Crossing an ocean Crossing hatred and Crossing death? just because you need water.

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ph oto by M att A dami k

I roni c by D. E. K ern

Caught in this second act, and the fear it mirrors the third? just curtains.

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A t M i l e Z ero on SR 26 b y M ari anne Szl yk

T he open road unspools like a fresh typewriter ribbon before even one smack of a noiseless key onto heavy, white paper. You forget that you hate typewriters. Turn on the radio. Stations weave in and out like drivers in city traffic. You?d settle for silence, but then the old song you love best staggers in beside you, keeping you company on the road home.

15 | Ink In Thirds

Th e Woodpeck er b y M ari anne Szl yk

T he woodpeckers' sharp profiles slice through the antique print?s fog-white background. The birds hover without branches to perch on. Like they are today, the trees are effaced. Nevertheless, the bird?s beak tilts cheerily in the face of the future shotguns and deforestation. His red crest draws the eye of both female birds and humans from the future without trees. This thrift store print is more than just a history of what used to be here before us, our cars, our condos, our pets. This print has become the stage for this charismatic bird.

ph oto by M ari a Sti eh l er

A nx i ety M eets th e Data M aze by Sara Codai r

M y

hands hover over the track pad while my eyes watch the progeny of zero?s and ones wake on liquid crystal. Umbilical circuitry fuels them in silicon utero until they?re born like galaxies blooming in the multiverse that transform to status updates and memes. This isn?t what I want to do. It?s what I can do. I want to ride my imagination?s updrafts of magic melding with mundane, but Anxiety is detaining me. Drugs can?t tame the racing heart, aching chest and light speed thoughts, so I numb myself on data and dream through my keyboard. The clickity-clack of my fingers dancing across the keys and the soothing hum of my laptop?s fan temper the worries ceaselessly chattering in my brain. By the time my tweets and status updates have wrestled the worries down to rustling whispers, my knuckles ache and my eyelids droop. I close the synthetic sedater. I stumble up to bed where the Sandman whisks me away to the land of dreams. Worries creep in like mice worming their way into a forgotten camp, but here, I rule, not Anxiety. I banish Her with a wondrous work of wizardry. I?m free to frolic in a zero-gravity realm where anything and everything is possible.

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ph oto by Tracy A nn

Loose Th ough t b y Ch angmi ng Yuan Like a tiny tropical fish Swimming along a summer streamlet Elusive To the nimblest human hand Even after rushing into a pond or lake It can never be caught Within the largest net Of language

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ph oto b y I an Bal dw i n

M etaph ysi cal Peach b y M . Drew Wi l l i ams In the metaphysical sense, the peach in your hand, ripe and afflicted with a fresh, gaping bite mark, may be the embodiment of eternity; complete, as it must be, with every conceivable thing? both significant and considerably less so. Somewhere within its fleshy entanglement of webbed pulp and juice running throughout exist you and I as we are in this moment; besieged on all sides by strangers on a crowded bus. We round Euclid Avenue as you take a second and third bite; ingesting trillions of electrons, the many well-researched reasons why relationships like ours never last, the agelessness of the meadows that surround your house, etcetera, etcetera. It is all as expendable as it always has been? so keep eating: consume this endless eternity. We can always get off at the next stop and purchase another one from the corner vendor.

Comb i ng M y Hai r b y Th addeus Rutk ow sk i

I t's a pretty simple thing, combing my hair. I pull from front to back, then from the part to one side, and from the part to the other side. Takes about a minute, max. Doing it once usually lasts the day, and the night, until I have to do it again the next morning. That is, unless I get into a situation where I have to comb during the day. I might be caught in a rainstorm without protection. I would have to bring out a towel, then, maybe a blow dryer, in addition to a comb. Do I even own a hair dryer? And if I do, where do I keep it? In a chest of drawers? Under a sink? By the time I find it, my hair might be dry and I might be all set, combing-wise, to face the people I need to face, with a neat head of hair, at least until the next morning. At which point, I?ll have to comb again. Unless I want a crest on my head, a tepee of hair like the single comb of a rooster. But what about gum? I mean, what happens if a chewed piece is thrown into my hair by a jealous rival or an angry spurned girl? ?Gotcha!? the rival or girl might say, and all I?d be able to do is cringe. Would a comb remove a wad stuck in my hair? Or would the wad grab the comb?s teeth like lice on a follicle and remove the teeth from the comb? Why am I worrying about wads of gum, anyway? I?d rather have wads of money, with which I could buy a new comb.

InkIn InThirds Thirds 2020| |Ink

How to Speak b y Fel i no A . Sori ano

W ith fractions you calculate your body?s meaning. The prose on your tongue is scarred, desolate. You counterfeit hours to appear slightly altered out of fear of knowing place. This is how your childhood retells your story: you were born from the mouth of a radical name, an eye closed to find the body half attractive a shortened route for leaving. Your tongue taught to use un to prelude the way your ribs would always ache and your face, though manmade, the shaping hands misread the directions. It is from your mouth?s unknowing you continue to circle an alternate self and paste its residue onto another?s tongue while they are sleeping towards death and future description of your errors.

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Grape Pearls sun-tanned Bubbles filled with Jesus?s blood A soft ellipsoid reminder: One teat bloated with milk for the baby Another aroused against a lover?s tongue b y Ch angmi ng Yuan

ph oto by Tracy A nn

Seq uence b y Ri ck y Garni

W hy is a 100 lb sack of potatoes so much more difficult to carry to bed than you? I will never know unless you let me carry you to bed, which you should, because you are tired and pale. It has been a long day, and I have carried many potatoes in this day, and today, you are unwell. Come?let me take you to bed, let me make you a nice bowl of vichyssoise.

CONTRIBUTORS Paul Beckman Paul was one of the winners in the Queen?s Ferry 2016 Best of the Small Fictions. His stories are published in the following magazines amongst others: Connecticut Review, Raleigh Review, Litro, Playboy, Pank, Blue Fifth Review, Flash Frontier, Matter Press, Metazen, Boston Literary Magazine, Thrice Fiction and Literary Orphans. His latest collection is, Peek. www.paulbeckmanstories.com

Carl Boon Carl Boon lives and works in Izmir, Turkey. His poems appear in dozens of magazines, most recently Two ThirdsNorth, Jet Fuel Review, Blast Furnace, and Sunset Liminal. @hiway61carl

Maximilian Bowden Maximilian studies literature at Essex University. Alongside this he works as a freelance writer while spending his free time focused on poetic endeavours. Recently published in the esteemed Ecocity blog, he hopes to find an audience for further writings.

Ray Busler Ray Busler lives in Trussville, Alabama with his artist wife. He competes in small literary contests and Wilford Brimley Look-Alike Contests. He has been marginally successful in the former and spectacular in the latter.

Sara Codair Sara's brain is overcrowded with stories. If she doesn?t get them out, she fears her head will explode. When she isn?t making things up, she is teaching, binge reading or enjoying nature. Her work has appeared in several online publications and is forthcoming from two anthologies. http://www.saracodair.com @shatteredsmooth

Stephanie Ellis Stephanie Ellis is Teaching Assistant in Southampton. She writes short horror stories, a number of which have been published in anthologies and magazines, and poetry. Her work can currently be seen at the Visual Verse and Verstype websites. She is also a member of the FlashDogs flash fiction community. http://stephellis.weebly.com @el_Stevie

Ricky Garni Ricky Garni was born in Miami and lives in North Carolin. He works as a graphic designer and composer. His work is widely available in print and on the Web, and he has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize on six occasions.

Howie Good Howie Good, a journalism professor at the State University of New York at New Paltz, is the author of DangerousActsStarringUnstable Elements, winner of the 2015 Press Americana Prize for Poetry. He co-edits White Knuckle Presswith Dale Wisely. http://apocalypsemambo.blogspot.com/

Aaron J. Housholder Aaron J. Housholder teaches writing and literature at Taylor University in Upland, IN. His work has appeared in Ruminate, Flash Fiction Magazine, freeze frame fiction, Maudlin House, CHEAP POP, and elsewhere. He currently serves as the Fiction Editor for Relief Journal. @ProfAJH

D. E. Kern D. E. Kern is a writer from Bethlehem, PA. His work has appeared in Glint Literary Journal, Reed Magazine, CRATE, Hypothetical: A Review of EverythingImaginable, Autumn Sky Poetry Daily, WildernessHouse Literary Review, Nude Bruce Review, Negative Capability and Mission at Tenth. He teaches English at Arizona Western College. https://www.facebook.com/DE-Kern-689300447747815/

David Marquard David Marquard is an assistant professor of English at Ferris State University in Big Rapids, Michigan, where he teaches writing, rhetoric, and linguistics.

Sarah Frances Moran Sarah Frances Moran is a writer, editor, animal lover, videogamer, queer Latina. She resides in Texas with her partner and their chihuahuas. Her chapbook Evergreen will be released this summer from Weasel Press. She is Editor/Founder of Yellow Chair Review. http://www.sarahfrancesmoran.com @sfrancesmoran

Thaddeus Rutkowski Thaddeus Rutkowski is the author of the books Violent Outbursts, Haywire, Tetched and Roughhouse. He teaches at Medgar Evers College and the Writer's Voice of the West Side YMCA in New York. He received a fiction fellowship from the New York Foundation for the Arts. http://www.thaddeusrutkowski.com @thadrutkowski

CR Smith CR Smith is passionate about literature, slightly more passionate about art. She can be found on Paragraph Planet, VERStype, Visual Verse, Zero Fiction, The Angry Hour Glassand MicrocosmsFic. She is currently working towards a Fine Art Degree. @carolrosalind

Felino A. Soriano Felino A. Soriano appears in CHURN, BlazeVOX, 3:AM Magazine, Small Po[r]tions, and elsewhere. His books of poetry include: sparse anatomiesof single antecedents(2015), Of Isolated Limning(2014), Pathos|Particular Invocation (2013), Of Language|s| the Rain Speaks(2012), and Intentionsof Aligned Demarcations(2011). He publishes the online journal Of/with. http://www.felinoasoriano.info @felinoasoriano

Lisa Stice Lisa Stice received a BA in English literature from Mesa State College (now Colorado Mesa University) and an MFA in creative writing and literary arts from the University of Alaska Anchorage. She is a military wife who lives in North Carolina with her husband, daughter and dog. She is the author of a full-length poetry collection, Uniform (Aldrich Press, 2016). https://lisastice.wordpress.com

Marianne Szlyk Marianne Szlyk is the editor of The SongIs.... Her second chapbook, I Dream of Empathy, was published by Flutter Press. Her poems have appeared in a variety of online and print venues. She hopes that you will consider sending work to her magazine. For more information about it, see this link: http://thesongis.blogspot.com/ @drszlyk

M. Drew Williams M. Drew Williams is a poet from Western New York. His chapbook, No Ghost Goes Unnoticed, was recently released by Leaf Garden Press. He will begin his MFA candidacy at Creighton University this coming Fall. http://m-d-williams.tumblr.com

Linda Wojtowick Linda grew up in Montana, and now lives in Portland, Oregon, where she can easily indulge her cinematic obsessions without restraint. She?s a 2017 Pushcart Prize nominee, and is working on a hopefully unusual poetry manuscript called The Hosted.

Changming Yuan Changming Yuan, 9-time Pushcart nominee and author of 7 chapbooks, started to learn English at age 19 and published monographs on translation before moving out of China. With a PhD in English, Changming currently co-edits Poetry Pacific with Allen Yuan in Vancouver, and has poetry appearing in Best Canadian Poetry, BestNewPoemsOnline, Threepenny Review and 1219 others across 38 countries. http://poetrypacific.blogspot.ca

PHOTOGRAPHERS

Matt Adamik One Man Camera Band. A little bit of this and a little bit of that, capturing a moment at a time. He sees life through his lens. @mattadamikphoto

Tracy Ann Tracy was captivated by photography from a young age. She captures how she sees the world around her through her lens, finding beauty in everything she sees. https://www.facebook.com/Tracy.A.M.photography

Boris Boden Boris is a full-time cynic, with hopes of someday becoming a skeptic. He is also the Secret Weapon on Woody Radio playing Music That Deserves To Be Heard. https://www.facebook.com/borisboden

CC PHOTOGRAPHS

Ian Baldwin https://unsplash.com/@ianebaldwin Camila Damรกsio https://unsplash.com/@miladamasio Maria Stiehler https://unsplash.com/@diereklamezentrale Markus Spiske https://unsplash.com/@markusspiske John Wilson https://unsplash.com/@jhnwlsn Aimee Vogelsang https://unsplash.com/@vogelina

Cover by Matt Adamik