Issue 6 October 2016
FEATURES:
CONTENTS Prose auto-da-fĂŠ Hope Hostess of the Year Pythagoras Rougarou The Minister's Wig
(Amanda Rose)
2
(Anapatricia Celaya) 12 (Nathan Willis) 14 (Kirk Windus)
3
(Evan Anderson) 10 (Rufus Woodward) 22
Poetry (Erin Armstrong ) Already Arrived Danger (Norman Wm. Muise ) An Autumn Kiss (Kirk Windus) Chelsea Hotel Consuela (Michael Paul Hogan) Cyrus (Gayane M. Haroutyunyan) Early Mornings (Penney Knightly) Emily as a Treasure Buried at the County Line (Darren C. Demaree) Haiku (Bob LeGalboy) I Didn?t Think Katrina (Mirissa D. Price) Just Yesterday (Joanne Spencer) Moment (David Eves) Not Even Friendly Fire (Penney Knightly) Quiet Remorse (Jacki Donnellan) (Alan Britt ) Sad Light (Greg Moglia) Sorry (Joseph Victor Milford) Tattered Scrolls and Postulates: 89, 90, 91 (Petru J Viljoen) Three Line Poem (Sue Remisiewicz) Three Line Poem (Emma Ruppert ) triple outdoor lines
5 25 4 5 21 7 17 1 23 17 8 18 6 26 18 19 9 13 15
Photography Matt Adamik Jason Allen Michael Anthony Kathleen Martin Haylee Massaro Cassiopia O?Star RL Raymond
9, 13, 25 20 11-12 6 15-16 17 Cover, 21
All other photography not specified here is licensed under the Creative Commons Zero for Public Domain.
Ink In Thirds - Issue 6, October 2016 Copyright Š 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 Black-and-white photography has a way of demanding attention. It?s in the light, the displacement, the shadows where fluidity reveals its message. As we officially move into fall, and nature grants a brilliant show of colors to the outward world, it?s the light within the array of colors that interest me. The exact essence, snippet of time, be it black-and-white, or full frontal color is what I hope we have created here for you as the reader. Look into the light, read between the lines, and devour the content. We?re making art! 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
astronomer reflecting in his yard a star field b y Bob LeGal boy
1 | Ink In Thirds
auto-da-f ĂŠ b y A manda Rose
T he sky is on fire. Red-orange glow. They promised us freedom. They promised us a war. They promised a cessation of hungerthirststarvation of needs so deep so heavy so wide and endless they consumed everything. They sent men and tanks and planes and drones and bombs and guns and fire. They sent fire, fire so hot it burned the sky. They created the need. They took velvet green valleys and stripped them of moisture, burned them with chemicals and violence, destroyed homes, lives, dreams. For our own good, quiet sympathy in the eyes of distant faces, in the cold hard, unyielding presence silhouetted against the sky. The sky that is on fire. That skyline. That hot wind blowing toward us, its sand a scouring scourge that flays the skin from flesh and flesh from bone to bare bleeding hearts and tears trapped in eyes that are dry from the scorching endlessness of it all. The sky is on fire, and we are burning with it.
NA SA ph oto
by K i rk Wi ndus
H erbert
took up music because it was just math. He wanted to play violin while he traded stocks. He composed. Schoenberg wrote equations for piano. Herbert worked algorithms every day. But the complexities of thirds and fourths. Numbers are absolute! Concrete! Yet, expressionism preceded serialism. His first symphony crinkled into the wastebasket as Enron crashed. He tried literature. All borrowed, nothing original, he?d thought. It?s all stolen. His first novel published. Then was banned for being homophobic. He?d stolen from Cohen and from Capote, but lacked the voice. He crinkled the death threats into the wastebasket next to Symphonia Pecunia. But love. Love is just science. The romantics misunderstood. So he calculated to the hundredth decimal place. Measurements, divided by income, times temperament, over sexual mastery, times pragmatism to the 12th power. And he fell in love. The numbers said so. So did she. Until she took to fucking the composer across town. The modern symphony is dead, he wrote her. This isn?t even a period for classical composition. The way he navigates the major-minor modulation so meticulously, she?d said. And the tritone? so marvelously jarring when it?s done right. Herbert, you need to make love to Debussy. So organic. So Liberating. He tried vodka but couldn?t quit calculating his BAC. Like he?d get breathalyzed on the elevator to his room. Berlioz had opium. But psychedelics were for kids at Bonnaroo. The cokehead Wall Street execs lost everything. But Erd?s took amphetamines and turned out math?s greatest solutions. He found numbers divine and Herbert could agree with that. But he couldn?t stop thinking about her running her fingers through the composer?s hair? fucking him to Beethoven?s Ninth. He pulled out a notepad and ordered an orange juice. He must have miscalculated. Numbers don?t fail.
ph oto by Dayne Topk i n
Pyth agoras
Ch el sea Hotel b y K i rk Wi ndus
Someday I?ll taste her without singing lyrics in my head. T he problem is there?s no folk record that won?t make me cry. I?ve drunk too much at every club in the city and still haven?t found the Chelsea H otel. M y Joplin on the bed, her fingers frozen to the sheets. H er nose is bloodied and sugared. She?s lovely. She dances somewhere between the Carolina pines and this city?s ghosts. I walk down M arket. Still, I hear that chord and think Seattle. I bookmarked a page, somewhere in a chapter never read. I?ll turn to it when this city?s lights enter periphery.
ph oto by Lee Campbel l 4 | Ink In Thirds
Consuel a by M i ch ael Paul Hogan
Y ou are more knifelier than the knives that Catherine-wheeled on Roman chariots. Even dead men fossilized on rocks, even their wives engraved on sunken ships, fear the revolving scissors of your arrogant desire.
A l ready A rri v ed Danger b y Eri n A rmstrong
R ain smacks on the windshield as a married woman confesses to the young man she assumes clueless. she?s greeted with a stop sign of resistance, an embargo on the truth, which she so badly wants to let sail from her lips. there?s danger there, he whispers already here, she cries, it?s too late. and what they?ve always known to be true sits pregnant between them contorting their organs, their limbs, and silencing their affections.
5 | Ink In Thirds
Qui et Remorse b y Jack i Donnel l an
Dressed in whispers I will slip into their rooms And collect their broken dreams until the morning
Earl y M orni ngs b y Penney K ni gh tl y
I t T he day is splayed stretched before me like a body for autopsy; the hours and tasks as roadside wildflowers.
M oment b y Dav i d Ev es
Y ou look at me. Time stutters and cores out its eye for us to chew, Swallow. We wallow; hide outside the day?s veins and on them the cilia that curls its fingers into summons, that wants to buff our memories to sheen. At them we hiss and kick up till we?re gasping, roaring, at the heart of our broad flat plain.
ph oto by Oscar K eys 8 | Ink In Thirds
In the symphony of the spheres ancient melodies, the primal tenor earth, alone, rings discordant by Petru J V i l j oen
ph oto by M att A dami k
Rougarou by Ev an A nderson
S ome say it crawls out of the swamps around Honey Island. It?s been given all sorts of names and usually smells of the thing that will make your stomach turn and eyes burn the most in that moment. For me: The top of Baily?s newborn head. The cologne that I?ve finally begun to lose the scent and also the memory of. Hospital waiting rooms. He introduces himself as whatever will be most terrifying. For me, he is and will always be the Rougarou.
Baily, what game would you like to play? Rougarou-rougarou-rougarou! Peek-a-boo? Rougarou!
He crawls from whatever darkness is in front of me? a cracked closet door, the small shadow outline beneath the office phone, my dress shirt pocket? and hands me things that make no sense. A jar of maple syrup. A sense of discontent. A slight addiction to alone-time. Indifference. Another addiction: to plastic spoons turned inside-out. His eyes are black? but more like the night sky in the desert than snake?s eyes, which is what I used to think. When he sees me, a wound more than a smile opens across his face, and I feel sympathy. Out of his mouth crawls little Baily? maple syrup smeared across his fat cheeks, three or four plastic spoons in each hand, each turned inside out and he is laughing absurdly, but somehow it sounds like chair legs dragging across hardwood floors in an empty house. On a boat in the middle of the Honey Island Swamp, I open my mouth and cry the first tears I?ve cried since the earth swallowed him up, and somehow it sounds like an alligator thumping the sides of a metal fishing boat followed by a splash.
10 | Ink In Thirds
ph oto by M i ch ael A nth ony 11 | Ink In Thirds
Hope by A napatri ci a Cel aya
O ne morning, bleak with a shadowy streak, you abandoned me here With a paper-faced father, in the green clutch of my eighth May Empty goodbyes crowding your tongue, leaving no room for an explanation Your red suitcase, crammed with all but second thoughts, by the doorway Hope murmured that I?d see you again the next morning, parked in our driveway Maybe someday Cheers, swirling robes of glossy velvet, graduation caps tossed up into the blue But my mind, leaden with desperate wondering, lay cast over in somber gray Glass walls alienated me, icy and unyielding, from the warmth of a proud embrace I searched frantically through a shifting sea of glowing faces for she who ran away Hope screamed she would appear here, at least for this special June Saturday Maybe someday The church bells sang a golden tune as I floated down the aisle to refrigerator light kisses and fights over the covers My grin radiated joy, rosy with tomorrows, but from my eyes all the ashen sorrows stray Never there to lend me something blue, where were you That you break free from obscurity?s grip, I still desperately pray Hope swore you?d be there to catch my bouquet Maybe someday Your starlit smile, almond eyes, wispy raven curls, all in a bundle In my arms, she is mine, but is the mirror image of the one who went away I promise her she will never wonder, want, or wallow in this messy black anguish Tears slip down my face in silvered streams, only today it is a nameless love they convey Hope whispers you will meet her, undo the pain of yesterday Maybe someday
stars sprinkled across the sky tempting like an exotic seasoning I stand and try to catch one on my tongue by Sue Remi si ew i cz
ph oto by M att A dami k
Hostess of th e Year b y Nath an Wi l l i s
"E very
time I see water I think I?m going to disappear.?
?I can relate.? I stared at all the unfinished food on our dinner plates, calculating how many meals were left if I could put it together like a soft puzzle. ?Only large bodies though.? She lit a cigarette. ?Tubs, swimming pools, ponds, lakes. The ocean.? I held out my hand to let her know I wanted a drag. ?You should consider yourself lucky.? I took a hit and poured a glass of water from the sweaty metal pitcher. ?Because now, I?m not even really here anymore.? I blew the smoke out slow so I could feel it leave my lungs, pass through my throat, roll in my mouth. ?And the only ones that know it are me and you.? I nodded at the people standing around the table, talking and laughing. ?You watch. Everyone else will keep acting like I?m still here.? ?Don?t worry.? She said. ?I won?t let them fool me.? ?Thanks.? I held out my hand to get another hit of her cigarette. She dropped it on the hardwood floor, tamped it out with the toe of her shoe and walked away, raising her glass with a jiggle to rattle the ice, hoping someone would notice and offer her a refill.
14 | Ink In Thirds
tri pl e outdoor l i nes b y Emma Ruppert
clover blows ready for the outdoor sowing, new for the circle, we are only fiber and burning woodwind we are a flicker, a hushed flame, an exact clock that tells us when to wake up, look in each other's coals or roll to our feet. fine reflections and offal piles slump to the floor and aging breakfast smoke is upheld on our sheet Our fists as driftwood hits like bossy waves Our exact time to mirror how the other lies, seeking the slant of wood.
ph oto by Hayl ee M assaro 16 Ink In Thirds
Emi l y as a Treasure Buri ed at th e County Li ne by Darren C. Demaree In the middle of the spill of Emily I started digging trenches all over Franklin County, I threaded them around the piping, weaved them through the underground wrecks of past engineering & if you ever walk up to any county signage you?ll find a pool of Emily. You should drown in it. I did. It gave me a purpose worthy of any reconstruction. I was built to exist through the worst of times.
Just Yesterday b y Joanne Spencer Jacked up crimson splattered the walls of my chest, exploding into a billion shards of memories swallowed with choked up words that silenced me the day I found her curled up silent with her favorite ball beside her.
Ph oto by Cassi opi a O?Star
Sorry by Greg M ogl i a
D own the steps to my train, a stranger is a step ahead I brush her side. Sorry, she says and I think, another sorry In the market I wait while a woman reaches for a can of tuna She turns? sees me, says, Sorry, and I mutter It?sOK Sorry? sorry all the women shopping away Sorry? why? I think ?sorry-making machines? The ?sorries?point at me and I?ve no place to hide I see my daughter at my den door Daddy, I need a band-aid And me cursing Damn, I just lost my thought And she with Sorry, Daddy but I?m bleeding.
Not Ev en Fri endl y Fi re by Penney K ni gh tl y Soldiers are reluctant to kill most don't even fire rounds I think of being in public eye contact as awkward as adolescence, we shoot blank stares.
Ph oto by De Westel i nck Smi th 18 | Ink In Thirds
Tattered Scrol l s and Postul ates: 89, 90, 91 by Joseph V i ctor M i l f ord 89. dollarstore toys. wooden clothespins. junk drawer paper-clip swords for cheap commandos. everything bad between men and women is written in motor oil, mascara, spermicide, and rum. you don?t know your town until they drag the river and Shep Hardy knows how to scuba-dive. everyone ran towards the ice cream truck but i just waited by the mailbox. a sense of inevitable. assholes felt like outlaws but were just hipsters who got out of credit card debt. loathing foam. ashes of outlaws were stock of the bisque of the mayor?s brit milah which got him twice elected. secret handshake. do you feel honor with that? do you feel power with that? two switchblades. they say write what you know but in the tornado alley trailerpark you don?t get to know much. they are afraid i can see into them. they brought on the dancing horses. i handicapped them. one night they made us grab basketball pole & beat us into submission. i never went to the prom.
90. the American flag is a slit wrist and the wind makes it bleed so much that purple is sky chrome. i am slanted and enchanted and disenfranchised & romantic and septic and running back. gore. i will sail the Pequod back to the flat end of the earth and do a Niagra please to stop colonialism. stop fretting over execration. your mark of Cain was a skagtag tat above your asscrack. pleeze. got drugs in Slidell. crossed Lake Pontchartrain. sold them to the fratboys all night. sinisterly. Greyhound back to college. started a punk band. got accepted to MFA program. went bankrupt. Immanuel Kant never travelled more than ten miles from his boyhood home. didn?t work for me. the America flag is a thin-lipped chartreuse with too much foundation on too many blue bruises. never went back to Slidell. old hotel flophouse is now corporate stripmall i am told by heathens. the American flag is a red wound with pale pus seeping from it & blue infection veins spidering.
19 | Ink In Thirds
91. heave and hollow of infant?s chest in TV static glow as curtains murmur with summer whispers. you always said you would never procreate just fornicate and now your blood sussurates anew. her breaths so infrasonic you fear she left this world. there are eyes on the tips of the starfish. the old Fender bass leans in the corner by the crib and the diaper bin looks like R2-D2?s cousin. the feral kittens sleep under the porch endangered by armadillos. owls chortle in the magnolias. you have become something greater now. you have become something less now in her powers. giant Cherokee beings stretch their consciousness across the skies above your cottage with lore. the redtail hawks sleep with their beaks in their wingpits and the corn wilts in quiet darkenings. they?re aren?t even any family portraits on the walls yet & y?all aren?t exactly newlyweds either. heave and hollow of infant?s chest as the sun warms the curtains. you?ve stared at her all night.
Cyrus b y Gayane M . Haroutyunyan
Poet is a man who beards your face. You will know this by the time you are finished smoking his last cigarette. As you are smoking you and he will make fun of him because he has no job, no plan, no goal and what he?ll say into his tweed jacket you are taking to the grave. He will watch his education trot by because he wants to live his life to write about it. You will get all his honors only to call his ?non-academic bullshit? genius one day. Coming back from a pray-day he will stop his car every hundred trees to write down words because they're impossible to catch once they stop running. He is working when you sleep but you will wake up tomorrow because he described the sun.
Ph oto by RL Raymond
Th e M i ni ster's Wi g b y Ruf us Woodw ard
The minister here wears a wig the colour of thunderclouds, as dark as his eyes, as bright as his smile. It is made of a fabric resistant to fire and repellent to water. The minister always stays dry. He never carries an umbrella. The minister?s wig is the first thing you notice about him, the last thing anyone will mention. Those who talk about it do so quietly, in private rooms in safe places. The minister?s wig flows from his shoulders, rolls down his back. It blows in the wind and catches the eye. It waves and it flies, it points and it grabs. It has a mind of its own. It will not hurt you, so they say, though no-one you meet here will admit that they themselves have ever been touched by it. The minister?s wig never stops talking, even though the man himself says little. Nobody understands the words it speaks. They are in a language all of its own making. Who knows what the minister thinks of his wig. There must be a reason for it, otherwise he would not wear it. This is what the true believers say. But the minister himself says nothing. So we do not know. So we can only guess. We must not fear the minister?s wig, they say (these people, these believers). We must be thankful. We must be humble. The minister hears all this, because the minister hears everything. And when he hears it the minister smiles. And the minister nods. And. And the minister?s wig babbles on it?s baffling, bewildering song.
22 | Ink In Thirds
I Di dn?t Th i nk K atri na b y M i ri ssa D. Pri ce
I found myself lopsided on Longwood Avenue today? one breast sinking down farther than the other. Just like New Orleans? in need of a raise In elevation. I didn?t think Cancer. Like I didn?t think Hurricane. Not understanding why any fur-trading Frenchman ever built a city below sea level. I didn?t think. As beads of gel pooled in the wrinkles of my nipple. ?This may feel a little cool. Just relax,? a stranger said, her hand caressing my left fatty tissue. Cut it off! Most neighborhoods downstream of Lake Ponchartrain and Borguen lose elevation at nearly half an inch per year. It isn?t natural. It isn?t Supported by underwire. You start to feel the difference. The metal digging into your engorged skin. The cleavage pouring from the undersized cup. And you start to wonder was the left side growing or the right getting smaller. Smaller than New Orleans before Hurricane Katrina, smaller than what a Southern few chose to rebuild. As home.
?We have options.? To recreate the structures that we know as self. Take from the thigh or choose plastic. While another neighborhood, the Upper 9th Ward is losing just over one inch of elevation per year. As a little girl, I always wanted to fill a B cup in a slender frame. I always wanted to build a city as a survivor, I always wanted To count one city, one breast, one Taking a census, I still hope To exclude me. I always wanted to know the population of survivors is growing? one city, one breast. I still pray The population of survivors is growing. With my breast. And that city under sea. I always wanted to There are words like hurricane and cancer, that you never want to know From my A dress. I always wanted to build a city? under echoes of a plastic ultrasound wand. I choose the blue Mardis Gras beads and the A cup? familiar? silicone form.
24 | Ink In Thirds
A n A utumn K i ss b y Norman Wm. M ui se
We go through life in a straight line, we are born then we die. It is what happens in between those two things that will make us immortal or fade like a shadow when light is applied. If you remember anything, remember that this is a "but a dewdrop world." Even after we have left this temporal place we live on in those we have touched.
after her passing her whole life? all of it fit into four boxes
Ph oto by M att A dami k
Sad Li gh t b y A l an Bri tt
Thunder disperses finches. Rain drips down the muscular thighs of the overcast afternoon. Cold droplets tap myrtle leaves. Some gather inside the hollow convent of an aluminum drain spout. Sad light wears its muslin shirt. I worship the silence.
26 | Ink In Thirds
CONTRIBUTORS Evan Anderson Evan lives and writes in a bowl of a city, surrounded by swamps and brimming with stories and music. He has work published in Gone Lawn and Cleaver Magazine as well as others. http://www.evanmichaelanderson.com @emanderson_1
Erin Armstrong Erin Armstrong received her MFA in fiction from The University of Arizona in 2011, and her work has appeared in The Blue Guitar, FoundPolariods, and Marco Polo Magazine. Additionally, she has written reviews for CutThroat magazine. She lives in Seattle, Washington. @421ella124
Alan Britt In August 2015 Alan Britt was invited by the Ecuadorian House of Culture BenjamĂn CarriĂłn in Quito, Ecuador as part of a cultural exchange of poets between Ecuador and the United States. His interview at The Library of Congress for The Poet and the Poem. His latest books include Violin Smoke (bilingual English/Hungarian): 2015; Lost Among the Hours: 2015, Parabola Dreams (with Silvia Scheibli): 2013 and Alone with the Terrible Universe: 2011. He teaches English/Creative Writing at Towson University.
Anapatricia Celaya Anapatricia Celaya is currently a senior at Boerne High School, just outside of San Antonio, Texas. With a passion for words, she has had a fictional essay published in the Blotterature Literary Magazine and has recently had a short story and a novel accepted for publication.
Darren C. Demaree Darren C. Demaree is the author of five poetry collections, most recently The Nineteen Steps Between Us (2016, After the Pause Press). He is the Managing Editor of the Best of the Net Anthology and Ovenbird Poetry. He is currently living in Columbus, Ohio with his wife and children. http://www.darrencdemaree.com @d_c_demaree
Jacki Donnellan Using words to fill the gaps. http://WordsWithoutSkis.wordpress.com @Donnellanjacki
David Eves A Scottish graduate currently working and living in Japan, Tokyo. His work has been published in After the Pause, an e-journal specialising in experimental texts.
Gayane M. Haroutyunyan Gayane M. Haroutyunyan is an Armenian-American poet living in Los Angeles. Her work appeared in Chaparrel, Zetetic, and Apple Valley Review online journals among others. She holds an MFA in Poetry from Sarah Lawrence College. Her hobbies include daydreaming in public places, cooking, and traveling places with her heart.
Michael Paul Hogan Born in London, Michael Paul Hogan is a poet and journalist whose latest collection, Chinese Bolero, a collaboration with the great contemporary painter Li Bin, was published in 2015.
Penney Knightly Penney Knightly is an American poet, and artist. Her poetry has appeared in Raving Dove, and more recently in Broad, Big River Poetry Review, and Dead King. She lives on the San Francisco Bay with her family on a sailboat. Her first poetry collection is forthcoming in 2016. You can find her art and poems on her blog. She wants you to appreciate and love ponies and mallard ducks as much as she does. http://penneyknightly.com @penneyknightly
Bob LeGalboy I am MRQUIPTY published by @ATLA_publishing. theprose.com/MR @MRQUIPTY
Joseph Victor Milford Joseph Victor Milford is a Professor of English and a Georgia writer. His first collection of poems, Cracked Altimeter, was published by BlazeVox Press in 2010. He is the host of The Joe Milford Poetry Show, a co-founder of BACKLASH PRESS, and the editor of RASPUTIN: A Poetry Thread (a literary journal of poetry). http://jmilford2005.wix.com/josephvmilfordpoet @joemilfordpoet
Greg Moglia Greg Moglia is a veteran of 27 years as Adjunct Professor of Philosophy of Education at N.Y.U and 37 years as a high school teacher of Physics and Psychology. His poems have been accepted in over 300 journals in the U.S., Canada, England, India, Australia,Sweden and Austria as well as five anthologies. He is 8 times a winner of an ALLEN GINSBERG Poetry Award sponsored by the poetry center at Passaic County Community College. He lives in Huntington, N.Y.
Norman Wm. Muise (Bill) lives in Southern Ontario and began writing very bad poetry in his twenties. In a poetry workshop he was introduced to haiku. He then began to write very bad haiku until one day while reading Izza it all became clear. He has a few online publications and is working on a book of haiku. http://normanwmmuise.wordpress.com @_haikuguy
Mirissa D. Price The doctor said she would live in a nursing home, confined to a wheelchair, crippled by pain. Instead, Mirissa D. Price is a 2019 DMD candidate at Harvard School of Dental Medicine, spreading pain-free smiles, writing through her nights, and, once again, walking through her days. Follow Mirissa at https://mirissaprice.wordpress.com/ @Mirissa_D_Price
Sue Remisiewicz Sue Remisiewicz spends her days working with numbers and her nights writing short forms of fiction and poetry. This regular left-brain/right-brain workout keeps her frontal lobes looking fit and sexy. Sue is a contributing author and editor for Deadwood Writers Voices. http://DeadwoodWriters.org @SueRemi
Amanda Rose Amanda Rose is an ambiguous soul who thrives in dark green and shadowed places dappled with sunlight. She spills bits of herself in ink and image and occasionally pulls them out to show the world. Previously, she has been published in Bitterzoet Mag. http://sweetrosemotel.wordpress.com @feralbby
Emma Ruppert Emma Ruppert studied at Penn State and Carlow and writes poems because she likes the pattern of the margins on the paper. She is interested in neatness and messiness and needs sweetened coffee before she can write.
Joanne Spencer Joanne Spencer, whose life was once saved by a naked man, is a versatile writer. Not only does she write poetry, but she writes reviews, articles for her local newspaper and most recently has dived into grant writing. Writing and self-publishing her novel, The Letter Keeper, was the second thing she crossed off her bucket list. Graduating from college at the enlightened age of 44 was the first thing. Her work has been in Woman?s World, Sick Lit Magazine, Wildflower Muse and most recently, Dying Dahlia Review. https://poetryroad.wordpress.com/ @JoanneCSpencer
Petru J Viljoen Petru J Viljoen is a female writer, artist, craftest and gardener from South Africa. New to writing as a serious pursuit, recently published in an ebook through Carpe Diem Haiku Kai. She?s planning to self-publish a book with recent writing and artwork. She?s managed to escape the doldrums? so far. http://pviljoen.wordpress.com
Nathan Willis Nathan Willis is a writer from Ohio. His fiction has appeared in Across the Margin, 99 Pine Street, Foliate Oak Literary Magazine and Crack the Spine. He was also a finalist for Glimmer Train?s Short Story Award for New Writers. http://nathan-willis.com @nathan1280
Kirk Windus Kirk Windus is a poet and writer from western New York. His fiction has published at Across the Margin and Literally Stories. Kirk aspires to both write and drink like Hemingway. @kirkwindus
Rufus Woodward Rufus Woodward lives and works in Edinburgh, Scotland. He is the author of four short volumes of weird tales. You can find more at www.shorecliffhorror.com @thesensitivefew
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. https://www.facebook.com/MattAdamikPhoto/ @mattadamikphoto
Jason Allen Jason Allen is a Photographer born and raised in the Pacific Northwest with a passion for the abstract, portraiture, and occasional landscape shot. Often found getting a speeding ticket on his way to beat the setting sun. https://www.facebook.com/Jallenphotographic/ @photonerdallen
Michael Anthony Michael Anthony is a Maker of: art, fiction, jewelry, photographs and whatever else sparks his interest. The American Labor Museum exhibited Michael?s photojournalism essay on the waning of the textile industry in Paterson, New Jersey. @circleMstudios Instagram: earthography
Kathleen Martin Kathleen Martin is a photo hermit who thrives in the world of iphoneography and never tires of tinkering with photo apps. Some of her photojournaling can be found at: http://www.elderwomenmusings.com
Haylee Massaro Haylee Massaro has not had any traditional training as a photographer but fell in love with photography as an art medium. She enjoys reading, writing, playing music and traveling any chance she gets.
Cassiopia O?Star Animal-fountain ViSuaL was taken at former Hudson River State Hospital for the Insane (closed in 2003) whose gardens and their components were designed to heal in 1867 by landscape architects Calvert Vaux and Frederick Olmsted, who also designed New York's Central Park. Photographer Cassiopia O'Star is also an image-struck poet/writer. http://www.star8a.wix.com/cassostar
RL Raymond Raymond simply tells stories through poetry, fiction, photography, and painting. He has been published in journals and collections across Canada, the United States, and Europe. He earned his Master of Arts in English Literature from the University of Western Ontario. http://www.rlraymond.ca/ http://www.rlraymond.me/ @R_L_Raymond
CC PHOTOGRAPHS Lee Campbell https://unsplash.com/@leecampbell Oscar Keys https://unsplash.com/@oscartothekeys NASA https://unsplash.com/@nasa Dayne Topkin https://unsplash.com/@dtopkin1 De Westelinck Smith https://unsplash.com/@smithdw
Cover by RL Raymond