OUTDOOR
Issue 7 November 2016
FEATURES:
CONTENTS Prose Sophie van Llewyn Christina Dalcher Richard Calaman Toti O?Brien Kyle Hemmings Daniel M. Shapiro Michael Marrotti Yitzchak Benjamin Young
17
After Words Ryan Samson Bulletproof Nathan Alan Schwartz community art show Jessica Renee Dawson Conditional M.C. St. John Dark Matter Resolution Nathan Alan Schwartz Empty Sean Lynch End of Summer Daniel Tobin Findings Miles Varana Flightless Birds Jess Mize Hot Food S. Kay Hymn for Wintertime at the Edge of the Earth Laura Fairgrieve In the Kitchen Alice Pettway Lovesong for the War-time Deserter Laura Fairgrieve Milwaukee, August, 2016? Sheila Arndt Perihelion & Aphelion Alia Hussain Vancrown Porcelain Miles Varana Rain Ryan Skaryd Son Ryan Skaryd Tanka Sean Lynch tenebraed to lamentaion; tenebraed to lamentation (first Heller Levinson mutation); tenebraed to perplexity There Are No Plums and Are You Coming? Sheila Arndt There Are Two Ripenings Cathryn Shea Why I Had to Move Matt Alexander
14 19 22 20 19 7 7 6 12 17 21 3 2 9 8 16 13 23 6 15
Coq au Vin Delicate Work Life Everlasting Marvels On Some Days Polly Can't Even Purr Operation Pittsburgh Culture This Will Destroy You
5 4 1 3 12 10 26
Poetry
11 18 24
Photography Matt Adamik Jason Allen Boris Boden Marybeth Cohowicz DeYoung
6, 25 20 3 Cover,1,13
All other photography not specified here is licensed under the Creative Commons Zero for Public Domain.
Ink In Thirds - Issue 7, November 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.
Website Follow us on Twitter Follow us on Facebook
inkinthirds.com @inkinthirds @inkinthirds
Letter from the Editor Fall is upon us, and in death there is rebirth. A season of crisp allusions, turning tides, and nature?s glorious inspiration. No matter where you live, I hope this issue evokes the same awe and wonder in each of you as you peruse the pages. The words and photos in this issue are some of the most impactful to date. I can?t thank you (readers and contributors alike) enough for your continued support and making this magazine the success it is today! Fall in love as I have with each turning page.
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
ph oto by M arybeth Coh ow i cz DeYoung
M A RV ELS by Toti O?Bri en
T hen I wondered about the word wonder? that means finding something worthy of awe. At the age of three I saw the ocean again. The first time had been one year earlier. I ached with longing, waiting for a mighty expanse crimson red. I remembered all right, but the color... When I saw the blue I was hit by a pang of confusion. ?Wonderful,? I said. I said just the same when I fainted and hit my skull against the bathtub (auntie pulled my hair very tight while she braided it). Blood trickled against the white tiles. Until then I didn?t know what it looked like.
w onder 1 | Ink In Thirds
Lov esong f or th e War-ti me Deserter b y Laura Fai rgri ev e
E ven if it wasn?t the end this time even if the salty tips of the sky weren?t licking at the corners of our country with tears and teeth and the promise of a storm I?d still search for the scraps left behind by your palm on my forehead, your fingers rubbing the hollow dug next to the ramrod of my clavicle so slight it almost stung
promi se 2 | Ink In Thirds
On Some Days Pol l y Can't Ev en Purr by K yl e Hemmi ngs
S hedoesn't remember exactly when she flung her virginity from rooftops, causing the German women, peeling onions, to shout gossip from windows, to compare aerial views through blurry eyes. The sky was the color of a peeled potato, the eyes leaking otherworldly sadness. Perhaps it was when she allowed the man with cigar fingers, the one who smoked on fire escapes in his smelly undershirts to feel her up. Or when she invited the stranger in from the cold for a dish of lemon tagliatelle, his face shaped like a heart. In that dank apartment, of cats with yellow-bird longings, she was full of sun, pumped from the ten-minute sex on her broken sofa. It was a much younger man, choking on his words, his face, spattered with freckles the color of heavenly dirt, who caused her to fold well below the seams. After he had left traces in the snow, she sat at the window, peeling potatoes, saving the skins for later.
I n th e K i tch en by A l i ce Pettw ay
ph oto byBori s Boden
a lapsed Catholic does dishes. Saint Sebastian teeters on the sill, his arrows replaced by damp toothpicks. An egg fails to boil, stares up through its tepid pool toward plastic suffering.
Li f e Ev erl asti ng by Ri ch ard Cal aman
"W here's the music coming from?? "I think the bathroom.? The hammock swings then begins to sway back and forth, but more slowly. The cigarette in the subject's hands is still lit. The smoke mixes, at the top of the room, with all of the other cigarette smoke: Camel, Parliament, Marlboro lights, Camel Lights, Benson and Hedges Menthol lights. Most people smoke light cigarettes now, though the man who smokes camels doesn?t see why and a pack of Luckies still sit in the pocket of a tee-shirt unopened. "I think the music's coming from the bathroom... The Bathroom..." "Irish music? " ?Fiddles? " "Brogue... an Irish brogue.? A glass of wine is spilled; it is French wine, but unbeknownst to the purchasers, it had a screw cap... a screw cap. It was embarrassing only to the embarrassed, and unkind only to the kind people who indulged to much in its rather delicate flavor, for a screwcap bottle of wine. This is a party and the man in the hammock's cigarette began to burn his inert hand, as he's dead now, a quiet heart attack as he was watching the smoke swirl from a incensicle stick of a clove cigarette. Oh I forgot to mention the clove. The dead man was the camel smoker and he liked the first drag of a camel more than the last spoonful of ice-cream, but the last spoonful of ice-cream had always brought him sadness, and the first drag of a cigarette only promised of more.
4 | Ink In Thirds
Del i cate Work by Ch ri sti na Dal ch er
J osie flew
the needle from back to front, crossed over the pale pink understitch, and slid the thread through and under. In and out, out and in, rocking a rhythm, creating. The other women in the circle eyed her. "What's it to be, Josie?" one asked. "Girl," she said, not looking up. She was the youngest, fingers still nimble, sight intact, still the right age for delicate work. Not like Mabel, who was always miscounting on her starter row, a tiny error that would compound into disaster. Or Stephie, so nervous she needed a drink to steady her hands. Already a wine stain bloomed red on the baby blue, corrupted the color into an unhealthy purple. Hannah's was the worst. Months of careful sewing, never missing a stitch, and poor Hannah held up a piece that, for no reason Josie could articulate, simply didn't hold together. Josie kept her head down. Looking meant seeing. Missed stitches, repeated stitches, Ys that should have been Xs, Xs half-formed, strands that unwound at critical moments. Unspoken disasters, hidden under skirts and buried in baskets. She listened to the click of steel and the soft whoosh of thread weaving wishes, one stitch at a time.
5 | Ink In Thirds
Destitute prophets drag dirty plastic bags haul blessed trash and food-scraps wander through Autumn red parks consuming surplus comfort. b y Sean Lynch
Fi ndi ngs:
Tranquility doesn?t shatter! It melts! Bridges rot, stones clatter, bowling alleys fall from grace by M i l es V arana ph oto by M att A dami k
End of Summer by Dani el Tob i n We awoke at dawn to get to the beach; feeding time for the sharks, we would not miss it for the world. There?s a glory to salt water eyelids, the hollow of a second skin. In a time when the drugs have taken away your poems, and the real life has taken your love, I find myself admiring the work ethic of a wave, the way it hammers itself into nothingness. How would my roar stack up, I wonder. My cannonball ankles. Goddamn, they?ve made such a racket. I?ve read that sound travels more efficiently through water than air. So here, in this in-between, where my pride goes so much farther, march for the sharks like I?ve never known better.
n
v on
s b er
Empty b y Sean Lynch
Sometimes we destroy water to make space. Think of all the vacant piers along the Delaware River. We live in half abandoned cities. Camden is where my father was born across the river my mother was born. The infant skyscrapers of Philadelphia loom over us ? this is how you speak when their world is gone. Our children are bombarded by images. Will the machines remember us when we die?
7 | Ink In Thirds
Peri h el i on & A ph el i on b y A l i a Hussai n V ancrow n
I palm the conch shell to give you the Atlantic. A dry star with song. Our huddle around it is perihelion, then aphelion. Cold breaths fog into quick foxes. What I give you is silence. What is the cluster of non-verbs for the duration of my refusal to put my body in water after he drowned? Essence. Ruins. Rarefied air. Incapacitation the sound of shells breaking. Which is absolutely fine. Frantic, sleek animals resolutely survive in spite of the world moving on. Do you hear it now, the complete retelling of the history of salt? Somewhere in the story there is permanence, and somewhere in us there is change.
8 | Ink In Thirds
M i l w auk ee, A ugust, 2016? by Sh ei l a A rndt
In the summer there were riots and Our bodies wavered with weight and heat. Floating on the air like parachute hairs, I was not the smoke that signaled in the city. Naked in the grass and sun, Skin slick with lover?s lips and sweat Connected nerves like raindrops. I was awake under the sun and moon My tongue telegraphing houses and perfumes. The smoke could not reach me. In the summer there were riots Of the skin, electromagnetic lines of lust And of the city, the city in flames as We stared at ceilings post-coital and bored in bedrooms removed From the real action. We did not know What to make of it.
We did not know What to make of it And so we stayed still. Some perched on mattresses. Some prostrate on curbs. We stared at cerulean screens post-coital and bored. Removed from the action. We watched the movement And, empty, did nothing. It has always been this way. Marquez said ?Sex is what you have When you can?t have love? and yet Language is an unfolding, A reading in an Imagined room. A riot is what you have when You can?t have love.
ph oto by Peter Hersh ey 9 | Ink In Thirds
Pi ttsb urgh Cul ture b y M i ch ael M arrotti
I
walked up on stage like I was a nobody amongst a timid crowd, who would have had an orgasm after a single touch. The spotlight was beaming on me, the guy who traveled from Andy Warhol's old neighborhood to recite a few pieces of poetry. The first stanza mentioned a vagina, you know, the kind all the woman share with the social media world via Tumblr or Snapchat. They appeared to be nervous. I shifted the position of my ass in the wooden chair to begin the second stanza. This one mentioned chlamydia, you know, the sexually transmitted disease most of the millennials carry around like an iPhone. I took a look at the crowd after that to see giant eyeballs, taken aback, like I was reciting Anti-Semitic literature after they snorted an Adderall. There's no turning back now, so I continued onto the last stanza. It mentioned an orgasm, you know, the kind we all had before this waste of time, also known as the open Mic. Where people come to share their art with an uptight crowd. The same people who belittle Trump every chance they get, but then emulate Mother Teresa, 'cause that's the type of behavior that exists in this pseudo-liberal town of Pittsburgh. I was banned after that night for enticing people to think about their own obscene actions. Christ, if I wanted to be upset, I could've stopped at my mom's house. It's less of a walk, and the vodka flows like the Allegheny River.
Th ere A re No Pl ums and A re You Comi ng? by Sh ei l a A rndt was the note on the dash. I saw you and so dashed it off on a receipt? Cassoulet x 2, Bottle of Mas de Daumas Gassac, Port and chocolate for desert? Creased and faded. I?d kept it in my wallet, a ticket for time travel. ?I am O?Hara and his Coke and You are everything else? are you coming?? is what I should have written, letting the part stand in for the whole, a poet and his pop for love and distance, not ?I miss you? or ?Are you hungry?? Or maybe the quiet magic of ?My hands are Neruda and you are every cherry tree,? not the inadequate offering of ?Dinner is ready.? I?m not sorry I left it. Your window was open And the paper was so small.
s 11 | Ink In Thirds
d e v l e h
Operati on by Dani el M . Sh api ro
W etook turns as patient and surgeon. After you implanted butterflies in my stomach, froze my grip on the love letter, calcified a wish, I stayed still, trusted you with a scalpel while trying not to brace myself for the lit buzz of your mistakes. This was our ritual, our equilibrium of taking pieces out and replacing them? one of us always working. Perfection meant learning to cut without a flash of red, staying boxed and shelved out of reach.
Fl i gh tl ess Bi rds by Jess M i ze She looked forward to the day of her funeral As if it were her wedding, And she was Grace Kelly. But really she was the bride of death And her longings for The black embrace, To lie down in darkness, Bubbled over in the Gleam of her eyes like shaken champagne Bottles on New Year?s. An effervescent death vibe, Mantra of dark malevolent birds And rhythm of staccato?d heartbeats. Hysterical fevers all of them. The slightest emotion betraying lusts, motives; even the subconscious of dreams.
12 | Ink In Thirds
Rai n b y Ryan Sk aryd that it?s like a cycle. How it falls? misted & small? through the screen into the chemicaled basin. The rings created, like those hidden in the trees now cracked and chipped, bent into shapes, hunched and bruised after the hurricane we watched drive through. The black, now a quiet whisper on my tomato cheeks, freckled and ripened. I cannot see the birds, though when my eyelids dance lightning cracks, I can hear wings moving in a pulse, & see the V-pattern periscopes. When it?s clear she takes my hand, about half the size of hers. She says that it?s like a cycle.
ph oto by M arybeth Coh ow i cz DeYoung 13 | Ink In Thirds
A f ter Words b y Ryan Samson
T he ashes could not remember: Fire or Tree? T hen? a gust of wind
tenebraed to l amentai on tenebraed to l amentati on (f i rst mutati on) tenebraed to perpl ex i ty b y Hel l er Lev i nson tenebraed to lamentation lachrymae equatorial flail tinder palling at the posts dearth rags truckless in N evada
tenebraed to lamentation (first mutation) ointment-less mould-pound shudder-stir desperate for new visions aqueducts taciturn stalled wilt-levers decondition sobbing in the lobby your place of birth sneer on the upside the relief is invalid as if in the larynx of proclivity a feint awaits peculiarity has its own smell
tenebraed to perplexity plight riddle conundrum where in the query is drought the dubious is disinclined to assuage remotely. confrontation invites evasion. the traps are hardly. specificity got us here.
15 | Ink In Thirds
Porcel ai n by M i l es V arana
I
often lie to people at parties about writing poems about bathtubs What about bathtubs? They ask Oh, you know Their sleekness, the way they just kind of sit there, waiting, and sometimes, bathtubs as metaphors Now and then they ask to read one I?m sorry, I say, the bathtub file is sealed that usually gets me a giggle or a smile and they go back to their drink suspecting nothing Well today I woke up in a bathtub not my own I started thinking about what a dishonest scumbag I?ve been and what would Ferlinghetti think? I don?t even want to know and I want to be a better person so I finally got around to writing this poem about a bathtub
ph oto by Bart Sch ol l i ers
Coq au V i n by Soph i e v an Ll ew yn
T hat
afternoon, in the house of the Duke of Morny, little did I know that you had spread your hair net, for me to be caught in it. I lost myself in the darkness of your widely open pupils. I wasn?t leaping through the window of your soul, but into the murky waters of your opium delirium. ?J?aime le coq,?you said thrusting your fork in your dish, while my mouth was watering at the sight of you. I was cooked in bain-marie in pleasure barges down the Seine, steamed by the vapours of your pipe, left to simmer for hours in front of your home. In shadowy card rooms, you left the plucking to your husband. You fed me broken promises. In the end, you would only let me do the licking.
Hot Food by S. K ay
Yellow onions, cabbage, catfish. While others served lobster, her pop-up made big profits selling overlooked foods as underdog fine dining.
17 | Ink In Thirds
Th ere A re Tw o Ri peni ngs b y Cath ryn Sh ea You want to talk about the pear tree that overflowed, abundant with fruit. I could mention the teeth marks, worm holes, and bruises from late season. Soft spots and how delicious those pears become when the sun browns them. Of course, the ones unblemished and not fallen to the ground are best, especially if they release themselves into your hand when you pick them. I prefer to talk about today, us in these stress-less chairs from Scandinavian Design that we couldn?t afford when we bought them. Their leather scratched and scarred now, you eat toast with your coffee and I notice crumbs catch in the seams of your shirt, butter oils the arm of the chair. That?s probably good for this old chair. And I said I want to talk about today, didn?t I? I think to myself at the same time the rain has finally come and the pittosporum is happy now, its leaves perked up soaking up the moisture. Today? We should buy groceries but not this minute.
18 | Ink In Thirds
Dark M atter Resol uti on by Nath an A l an Sch w artz
T his dark matter that can?t be resolved burrowing deep inside the crypt a carousel of decaying shortcomings spins & every time I motion to step off every time I take a moment to take a breath it spins faster bites harder & I can feel my two ton stomach drop & I can see the mountains on the horizon.
Bul l etproof b y Nath an A l an Sch w artz
But, this dark matter this grim reaper on steroids holds a cloud over my head and I am burnt this undisputed dark matter is a vagrant. He is drunk when I am not. He is the one who hates. When I cannot. he is a two timing son of a bitch To defeat him To pacify him To destroy To wreck his ship is my road sign.
19 | Ink In Thirds
I
take things personally but never on purpose Easily scarred I wiz through life Foot on the gas ready to head anywhere but here, Truth is, I?ve looked to Zen to provide me with shelter From the hail of bullets that come daily But it leaves holes in the roofs, And poetry is only a means to an end Something I?ve learned to grasp and enjoy when my heart is a cheetah When my palms are a lake of anguish on fire I breathe in the smoke, and breathe it out through my eyes, But nobody notices Words are easiest to swallow when Spoken softly through red swollen lips & I realize the only thing wrong with me, is me my intensity is on auto and I truly do care but I am caught up in me Caught up in my own fishnet I am a no trespassing dilapidated building A watchtower on black cold nights But one thing I am not is bullet proof
I f you tell him God doesn?t do it for you and pack up the cat and skedaddle, if I hold back her arms from hugging me like asbestos to old floor tiles, if we meet at cafes and Ferris wheels drinking and spinning spoons and bodies with thoughts at the end of the pier, if you smile behind your words, if I lean against you on the railing, if we fall out of sync with our bad loves to hearing only long pauses on the phone, if you think the future is a roulette wheel, ball bumbling redblackredblackred, if I stand in the center of the Dubuffet at Clark & Lake waiting late at night, if we both stare out open windows and into train crowds too long, if I walk street after alley after boulevard hoping to find your new place by fate, if you have drinks with other men and shove me down in the backwaters of your mind, if the letters mellow in their urgency, if time smooths our sharp edges to perfect skipping stones (or certain bumbling balls), if we see each other again and our eyes glaze over like viewing the bad art in a gallery, then was it all worth it?
ph oto by Jason A l l en
Condi ti onal b y M .C. St. Joh n
The Aurora Borealis tucked us in last night and we are reeling from her ribboned touch. Her fingers smoothed out our creases, ripples of solar wind leveled our trenches we didn't roll over once, just dreamt of some blizzard clattering like a wind chime that used to sing on our grandmother's red wooden porch. We felt the planks grow a coat of snow feathers and arc beneath our feet. Our soles were softer then. We wake to the badlands of our empty bedroom and the house is blowing away now calm and tired, it hunches its shoulders, it melts into the winter air. The bricks are out of breath, they flutter into dust and skirt off into some colder dream. . What crow-necked chill is this, crooking its fingers at the edges of our eyes, pulling and tearing at the soft of our sides?
Mother who made us, we tumbled from the belted signals of some softer streaked sky, we rolled out of your mud pit, your brine, you were hacked open, we leapt out of your skull, but we were born without armor and you do not love us the way we want you to.
Hymn f or Wi nterti me at th e Edge of th e Earth b y Laura Fai rgri ev e
Photographs dancing on large screens at the community art gallery. Glasses of red wine blend blood-pact smiles with pleasant conversations. A Bible sits on a shelf under her breath. conservative with a silver ring in her nose under the radar
communi ty art sh ow b y Jessi ca Renee Daw son
ph oto by Forest Cav al e 22 | Ink In Thirds
Son b y Ryan Sk aryd
W hen you reach, aim for waists or hands. Perhaps doorknobs or cups of Kool-Aid. M y shadow is long on Altman Avenue, with yours between my legs. Your life will not offer you a page unless you make one. Take the trees & the potato peeler I used on T hanksgiving? that year you finally tried my mashed potatoes with grandma?s gravy. Count the rings in each tree, count them & count them again until you know that addition means more than putting things together like stacked spoons. Remember the day we went shopping for Barbies & you were perched on my shoulders? We roared 7 feet tall & you reached for the red-headed doll, your fingers like clouds above me.
23 | Ink In Thirds
Wh y I Had to M ov e b y M att A l ex ander Vocations come and go, like species. People say this every time, and every time they are right for the wrong reasons. Infinite expansion is the mantra of the infinitesimal. Today we grow like algal blooms, mossy in the sun, fibrous as a prune, facilitating regularity. Did you move today? Yes, again, we do it daily. As everyone should, though there exists no agreed upon definition of normal. T his home meant something to me. It?s where I evolved from stone. It?s where I spilled milk, cried, poured myself another glass. It?s where I consumed massive amounts of almonds, avocados, foreign dragon fruits with scales and protuberances like lizard bones. Tasty, eh? It?s where I smelled burnt rubber. It?s where I grew a garden, but then the soil turned, or something in the air went sour; the skin I lived in soiled itself.
24 | Ink In Thirds
25 | Ink In Thirds
Th i s Wi l l Destroy You by Yi tzch ak Benj ami n Young
I nhalation with
water-filled lungs. The ocean breathes, too. It's breathing shaped islands and turned stones to sand. If only my heart were stone. It might remember a song hummed by those waves: ships beating against the current. Bones shifting beneath skin. A little girl screaming for air. Now surface. Deep breaths. Submerge. Those are just stories. Swan songs receding, back to the depths of our memory along with picture books, breast milk, and imaginary friends. They?re all snoozing at the bottom of the ocean floor. I tried to join them but they stared past me, and so did I. Like walking through a dream with faceless figures all humming that same song. Roaring and crashing. Wave upon wave. Breathing out notes with each exhalation. Now crash. Wash up. There is sand in my mouth. It might have been nice to be marooned in hell, but this is only an island. La Petite ĂŽle. Scarcely larger than myself. It will be my home. My own je ne sais quoi. Hah hah. With friends all around me. We?ll dance and sing and laugh and it?ll be a beautiful lie I mumble in my coma. Face in the sand, waves roll in breathing water into my lungs. They hum a quiet song. Haven?t you heard it? Listen. Listen closely. This will destroy you.
ph oto by M att A dami k
CONTRIBUTORS Matt Alexander Matt Alexander is a scientist and writer in Philadelphia. When struck by insight, he shouts ?Bazinga!?, not ?Eureka!?although he has nothing against Archimedes and is in fact himself an avid bath-taker. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Maudlin House, After the Pause, and Five2One Magazine. Follow him on Twitter at @thenamesmatta. http://mattalexanderblog.wordpress.com
Sheila Arndt Sheila Arndt is a reader, writer, and Ph.D. candidate currently living in the Midwest. She cares about place, process, the modern and postmodern, Americana, critical theory, New Orleans, saltwater, canines, garlic, roses, old blues, and new dreams. Her work has been published in Gravel, Literary Orphans, Black Heart Magazine, and The Tishman Review. http://www.sheilamarndt.com @ACokeWithYou_
Richard Calaman He writes, plays spontaneous piano compositions like a rain storm, or the night sky, he paints? He was in search of the perfect place to live, by the water, and by an artful city, but this lead him back home, to this island, the very most ideal location all along.
Christina Dalcher Christina Dalcher knits sentences from her home in the Land of Styron and Barbecue. Sometimes they hold together; sometimes they don't. Find her work at Zetetic, After the Pause, Vine LeavesJournal, and others. http://christinadalcher.com @CVDalcher
Jessica Renee Dawson Jessica Renee Dawson, lives on Vancouver Island, British Columbia and has studied poetry through North Island College. She's been published in Poetry Quarterly, Haiku Journal, and Rutger Haur'sSoap Box Poets. In 2014, she was photographed and interviewed by USA Today for her work with, Stand Up For Mental Health. http://www.poetrysoup.com/poems_poets/poems_by_poet.aspx?ID=37042 @live_the_light
Laura Fairgrieve Laura Fairgrieve received her MFA from Adelphi University, where she currently teaches. Her work has appeared in East Coast Ink, WordsDance Publishing, Village of Crickets, and is forthcoming in The Bitchin' Kitsch. She is a winner of the Poets & Writers 2016 Amy Award. She lives in Brooklyn.
Kyle Hemmings Kyle Hemmings lives and works in New Jersey. He has been published in Elimae, SmokelongQuarterly, ThisZine Will Change Your Life, Blaze Vox, Matchbook, and elsewhere. His latest collection of poetry/prose is Future Warsfrom Another New Calligraphy. He loves 50s Sci-Fi movies, manga comics, and pre-punk garage bands of the 60s. http://upatberggasse19.blogspot.com/ @Smersh012
S. Kay S. Kay is a queer Canadian. She is the author of RELIANT (tNY.Press, 2015), JOY (Maudlin House, 2016), and LOST IN THE LAND OF BEARS(Reality Hands, 2016). http://blueberrio.tumblr.com @blueberrio
Heller Levinson Heller Levinson's publication, SMELLING MARY (HDP, 2012) was nominated for both the Pulitzer Prize and the Griffin Prize. Black Widow Presspublished his FROM STONE THISRUNNING in 2012. WRACK LARIAT is newly released from Black Widow Press. TENEBRAED is slated for publication in early 2017 by BWP. He is the originator of Hinge Theory. http://www.hellerlevinson.com
Sean Lynch Sean Lynch is a poet and editor who lives in Camden, NJ. The poet laureate of Philadelphia, Frank Sherlock, wrote that Lynch?s "...poems of place chart the shifting conditions of urban space, in all their terrors and possibility.?CA Conrad called Lynch's book "the city of your mind" [Whirlwind Press, 2013] ?marvelous!?and says that "...Sean Lynch carves the true city with a knife in the leg.? http://swlynch.com
Michael Marrotti Michael Marrotti is an author from Pittsburgh, using words instead of violence to mitigate the suffering of life in a callous world of redundancy. His primary goal is to help other people. He considers poetry to be a form of philanthropy. When he's not writing, he's volunteering at the Light Of Life homeless shelter on a weekly basis. If you appreciate the man's work, please check out his book, F.D.A. Approved Poetry, available at Amazon. www.thoughtsofapoeticmind.blogspot.com
Jess Mize Jess Mize is a blonde-haired surfer girl from South Carolina. Her favourite author is Stephen King. Vampire Weekend three albums in stores now. @jammasterjess
Toti O?Brien Toti O?Brien?s work appeared in Door IsA Jar, Syntax & Salt, WildernessHouse, and Litro UK, among other journals and anthologies. http://totihan.net/writer.html
Alice Pettway Alice Pettway's work has appeared in various print and online journals. Her full-length collection, The Time of Hunger, is forthcoming from Salmon Poetry. She is a former Lily Peter fellow, Raymond L. Barnes Poetry Award winner, and three-time Pushcart Prize nominee. Currently, she lives and writes in Bogotรก, Colombia. http://alicepettway.com
Ryan Samson Ryan Samson is a student at the University of San Diego, pursuing a major in English with emphasis in Creative Writing. He expects to graduate in 2017. Ryan primarily writes poetry, and his work has previously been featured in GNU Literary Journal and Miscellany.
Nathan Alan Schwartz Nathan Alan Schwartz enjoys bathing naked in black ink. He is the Editor in Chief of Five 2 One Magazine. http://www.five2onemagazine.com
Daniel M. Shapiro Daniel M. Shapiro is the author of Heavy Metal Fairy Tales(Throwback Books), How the Potato Chip WasInvented (sunnyoutside press), and The 44th-Worst Album Ever (NAP Books). He is the poetry and reviews editor for Pittsburgh Poetry Review. http://littlemyths-dms.blogspot.com/
Cathryn Shea Cathryn Shea has earned a living from writing most of her life. Her chapbook, Snap Bean is by CC.Marimbo. Find recent poetry in Gargoyle, Main Street Rag, Permafrost, Rust + Moth, Tinderbox, and elsewhere. Cathryn lives in Fairfax, CA, and served as editor for Marin Poetry Center Anthology. http://www.cathrynshea.com @cathy_shea
Ryan Skaryd Ryan Skaryd lives and writes in Orlando, where he is currently an MFA candidate in nonfiction at the University of Central Florida. Themes of masculinity and gender are prominent in his work, along with ideas of nostalgia and memory. This is his first poetry publication.
M.C. St. John M.C. St. John is a writer living in Chicago. His works have been published in After HoursPress, Literary Orphans, Maudlin House, Chicago Literati, Quail Bell Magazine, Word Branch, and Unbroken Journal. His short story collection Other Music was recently published. http://mcstjohn.com @MC_StJohn
Daniel Tobin Daniel Tobin is an aspiring novelist and poet out in Los Angeles, CA. A fanatic of magic realism, he approaches every medium with a sense of metaphor and obscurity. Daniel has a degree in Film Production from Chapman University and currently works as marketing producer at a television network. @dtobin123
Sophie van Llewyn Sophie van Llewyn lives in Germany. She is an Assistant Editor with the literary magazine Bartleby Snopes. Her fiction has been published by or is forthcoming in Hermeneutic Chaos Journal, Halo, Unbroken Journal, Flash Frontier, The Molotov Cocktail, among others. You can find her on Twitter @sophie_van_l http://sophievanllewyn.wordpress.com
Alia Hussain Vancrown Alia Hussain Vancrown was born December 1, 1987. Her work has appeared in Red Fez, Drunk Monkeys, Eunoia Review, among others. She has work forthcoming in Midway Journal and Kweli Journal.
Miles Varana Miles Varana?s work has appeared in a variety of publications, most recently SOFTBLOW, After the Pause, Chicago Literati, Yellow Chair Review, and Clear Poetry. He has worked previously as a staff reader and managing editor at Hawai?i Pacific Review. Miles lives in Madison, Wisconsin.
Yitzchak Benjamin Young Yitzchak Benjamin Young is a literary fiction writer from Columbus, Ohio. He enjoys getting lost in beautiful cities and sipping unhealthy amounts of espresso. If he isn't reading, he's probably off in a nook somewhere pushing out his next piece.
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/ @jallenphotog
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.
Marybeth Cohowicz DeYoung Marybeth Cohowicz DeYoung dabbles in photography with a passion for light and shadows, reflections, and sky. She continously gets lost finding the extraordinary in the ordinary. https://www.facebook.com/CohoPhotoArt/ @mbcohowiczdeyoung
CC PHOTOGRAPHS
Forest Cavale https://unsplash.com/@forrestcavale Peter Hershey https://unsplash.com/@peterhershey Bart Scholliers https://unsplash.com/@staticdesign
Cover by Marybeth Cohowicz DeYoung