Miracle e-zine Issue 3
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Miracle e-zine Issue 3 Vaaho
Welcome .
to The winter Edition .
of Miracle e-zine!
The difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between lightning and a lightning bug. ~ Mark Twain
Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing. ~ Ben Franklin
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Miracle e-zine Issue 3
Miracle e-zine Short Fiction . Poetry . Non-Fiction . Interviews and much morE....
EditoriaL
December-January 2012 Issue 3
For any queries contact: miracle.ezine@yahoo.com
Cover art: Irina Hirondelle
Disclaimer: Matter published in Miracle e-zine is the work of individual writers who guarantee it to be entirely their own work. Contributors to Miracle e-zine are largely creative. The publishers accept no liability for them. Opinions expressed by our contributors do not necessarily represent the policies or positions of the publisher. The publisher intends no factual miscommunication, disrespect to, or incitement of any individual, community or enterprise through this publication.
I can feel the winter breeze blowing against me as I walk down the street. The cryptic chills crawl up my spine and I realise that it is winter already. Welcome to the Winter Edition (Issue 3) of the magazine! Six months have passed by to the time we started with this project. It has been an amazing journey as yet and I’m sure that it is going to be much more amazing in the coming months. I want to thank all of those who have been submitting their work to the magazine from last six months and have made this magazine a success. Without your co-operation my glass would have been empty. For Issue 3, a lot of beautiful literary works popped in our inbox which you will come across as you flip the pages of this prodigious writing adventure. Yes, I said it right, an adventure. This issue is filled with beautiful poems, stories, articles, contests, book reviews etc. You will also find author interviews and writing tips and prompts throughout the magazine. Also, with every issue we have tried to bring more for you. As for issue 3, we have started with some columns, to make the magazine more interesting. It is always great to have regular contributors. These inspiring and creative columns written by some master writers will surely fill you with enthusiasm. I hope you enjoy this adventure and Merry Christmas! P.S : Don’t forget to toss in your feedback.
Guntaj Editor Website: http://miracleezine.wix.com/miracle-e-zine Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/Miracle.ezine Twitter: https://twitter.com/Miracleezine
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Miracle e-zine Issue 3
Contents Colours of my life-Deandra Tanner..........................5 A Play called uncontrollability -Antora Rahman.......6 Dancer- Danielle Ordonez........................................7 Moon Sleep- Michael Lee Johnson..........................8 Slowing Down- Robert S. King.................................9 The moon rises, the moon falls-Andrew Pei..........10 From apron to rose petals and sunflower daisesWandiswa Ntengento.............................................11 The Creature Within-Cathy Wattam.......................13 Book Review-Genny Rushton Givens.....................14 The Looking Glass-Siddharth Yadav.......................15 Signature Pose-David Rowlands............................16 The Breeze- Jonathan Beale..................................18 Young Poets Network............................................19 The Beast Waiteth-Mike Moran............................21 Stars In Our Language-Jake Reylonds....................22 A Writer’s Refuge- Troy Cabida............................24 Dancing With Demons- Kieran Rundle..................26 Sound Or Silence?-Shreyas Tripathy......................28 The Window-Will Wood........................................29 An Author’s File-Christopher Stewart....................31 Cupid Is No Slouch-Joel Harris...............................32 Quiet Moments Of Reflection- Natasha Pasch......33 The Sound-Owen Jones..........................................35 Author Interview-Cath Drake.................................37 The Girl Who Snuffed Herself Out-Allison HafermanJohnson..................................................................40 Magnus-Elliot Richard Dorfman.............................41
A Spirit Parade-Steven Fortune.....................45 Man On Fire-Jossaine Galenzoga...................45 How To Write A Haiku?..................................48 Desire Lines-Charlie Hill..................................49 Restoration-Lori Carlson.................................50 Wit And Wisdom-Forrest Roy Johnson....,......51 Wonk-Joseph R.Clarke....................................52 Murder In Seattle-R.G Summers....................55 Man Standing-Adreyo Sen..............................56 Corridors-Clyde Borg......................................57 Life From Three Dimensions...........................58 A Stranger’s Words-John Stussy.....................59 The Miraculous Bonding-An Overview of Miracle Bond..................................................62 Footprints-Julie Stanley..................................64 Ghosts-Maddie St. Claire................................66 Orion’s Bane-Vesa Lee....................................68 Oh That Stormy Night-Leah Gray...................69 Author Interview-Wes Brown.........................72 Plans For A Horse- Ben C Winn.......................74 For once,then,something-Dinesh Sairam.......74 The Penpal Rescue-Hannah Kritzman.............75 A Winter Night-Lilian Starr..............................80 Retrouvailles –Pratik Mukherjee....................80 The Silver Ribbon-Malavika Verma.................81 Writing Contests.............................................83 Winners Of Last issue’s Contests....................84
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Miracle e-zine Issue 3
Colours of my life - Deandra Tanner Red, Was the truck, That sat on the lawn, For months. Were the roses dad planted, In the front yard. Black, Were the frightful, Dull Nightmares. Blue, Dad’s pjaramas That mum packed away in the suitcase, After he died. White, My room that I helped mum paint, Blurred memories,
.My teddy. Brown the colour of Tysone’s, Big freckles, The dead dry grass in the summer. Stained jeans,
Deandra is an 18 year old, who currently just finished school, she began writing in year 9 when she had to create a personal verse novel of poetry, and it wasn’t until 2 years later that she started writing again, after her teacher encouraged her to enter a school competition. Deandra’s poetry is all personal experiences, and is a way that she finds it helpful to express her grief after years of bottling it up, when her father and older brother were killed in a tragic car accident, when she was 6.
From riding in the billycart.
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A Play Called Uncontrollability - Antora Rahman What a play this is What actors and actresses The perseverance failed So, only the hollowness remains Everything's so manipulated Disgraced, broken down, dank It's hard to look them in the eye Yet it's hard to look away I can try and hold my breath But for how long exactly? Ten, fifteen, twenty seconds? I am no swimmer, so hardly much The putrid odor of fake will engulf me And I will wither apart on the red velvet seat My eyes will slowly flutter shut And the suffocation will be the end of me But how is this even possible? I had the choice to stand up Say my final farewells And walk out on my very own two feet But why didn't I? Well, it's obvious, isn't it? There was no choice My control was the fee for the show The double doors locked on to themselves And the poison-laced show began No words, no music, no movement The players simply stared into our eyes
Sucking the remainder of our lives out of us Watching our helplessness crawl under our skin And after the last row exhaled their last breaths, The red velvet curtains closed shut Rehearsing for the afternoon show While our bodies laid in cold sweat And our spirits screamed in mortification As we wondered frantically What about our families and friends? What will they think when they learn of our deaths? Will the actors and actresses be incarcerated? No, there will be no justice They will simply stare into their enemies' eyes And lure their last breaths away Because that's what they do They break our wills down Tear our hearts apart And steal our minces of control So, yes What a play this is What actors and actresses They are the ones at the top of their game While here we are regretting our naivete
Antora Rahman is an amateur poet who has been writing free verse poetry since grade school. Some of her previous works have been published in Eber & Wein Publishing, Poetic Power, and The National Poetry Quarterly. She was also the youth category winner of the Annual Islamic Writers Alliance Poetry Contest in 2012. Her poem has been published in the official website. Some of Antora's future plans consist of of writing more free verse poetry and taking part in more publishing opportunities for avid readers to enjoy.
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Miracle e-zine Issue 3
Dancer - Danielle Ordonez Stage.
The curtains have been drawn a long time ago for no one. The shuffling of your ballet shoes echo throughout the solitary darkness of the theater as you walk towards the middle to take your position. You hold your ground, unknowing of these eyes that have been waiting for you long before. You are an ivory statue planted on ancient floors that carried different worlds.
Light.
You begin to close your eyes to start the performance in front of a crowd living in your mind, your movements guiding my gaze. The shadow beneath you follows your graceful steps while the sweat starting to trickle down the nape of your neck seeps through your loose white shirt. You feel the heat; shattered glass that had been swept on the side reflects the harsh and frantic movements that show your impatience.
Sound.
The movements are becoming louder, in time with the rhythm of your visibly pounding breast against the fabric of your torn clothes. In one swift movement, you kick your shoes off, with one falling somewhere nearby. I resist reaching for it; not now that you're getting into the beat while I can look at you unnoticed. Your feet lift off, and bare feet thud onto dark wood.
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Miracle e-zine Issue 3 Dance.
You've known how to move here as I have learned to watch you in secret. You lightly graze the ground, thin fingers caressing the air while your body bends backwards to some kind of desire that I can’t see. (What is it that you can see?) You face heavenwards as your now half-opened eyelids are in a glistening daze only to be closed once more by the painful creasing of your brows. As your moist lips part to let out an inaudible sigh, you slide your arms downwards on the curves of your body to free yourself from your silk leggings, showing that white bandaged wrapped around the balls of your foot. A reminder of the last full show strewn with invisible broken glass by shadows paints a shade of staining pink wherever you step to mark the beginning of an ending that will never start again.
Silence.
I know you will pause for that final leap, and you do. The forgotten bandage clinging to your right foot has long been stained with the color of blooming roses, leaving a memento of footprints. You hesitate, opening your eyes to glance at a fading dream with a look that resembles fear. The leftover make-up from the final performance has finally smeared your face to show beauty that sweats and shines through the lights as you take one more move; you fall, body sprawling on the stage, your only piece of clothing revealing your porcelain skin. As if from a dream, you hold yourself up with an effort, searching through the empty crowds for someone you will never see. While the darkness takes you into its arms to be forgotten, I walk away with a memory of you on my hand in a form of a tainted shoe.
Danielle Ordonez is currently taking up her MA in Creative Writing at De La Salle University in the Philippines while trying to survive in a corporate world. She struggles with life in order to capture a part of it on a piece of paper.
Moon Sleep -Michael Lee Johnson I stick my hand out toward the sea, roll out my palm.
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I offer a plank, a trail for you. Follow out into the water and the salty stars. When you stretch out and give your heart to this final moment of the glass night sky, draw me insketch my face on the edge of our moonover ages of celestial moon sleep and dust.
Michael Lee Johnson is from Itasca, Illinois who lived 10 years in Canada during the Vietnam era, published in 25 countries. He runs six poetry sites, and published works are available athttp://poetryman.mysite.com, http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/promomanusa, Amazon.com, Barnes & Noble, and iUniverse.
Slowing Down -Robert S. King
Sliding over the stones, the river bows its back, relaxes and pushes onward through the bends of its old body. It runs like a crooked clock hand toward another time, carrying crowds of fallen leaves. Birds follow the river south
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Miracle e-zine Issue 3
ahead of the blizzard of white feathers that slows the stream into dream-drifts. In that silence, even the dying take comfort, how water ages into something beautiful as snow.
Robert S. King lives in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Georgia. His poems have appeared in hundreds of magazines, including California Quarterly, Chariton Review, Hollins Critic, Kenyon Review, Lullwater Review, Main Street Rag, Midwest Quarterly, Negative Capability, Southern Poetry Review, Spoon River Poetry Review, and Writers' Forum. He has published three chapbooks (When Stars Fall Down as Snow, Garland Press 1976;Dream of the Electric Eel, Wolfsong Publications 1982; and The Traveller’s Tale, Whistle Press 1998). His full‐length collections are The Hunted River and The Gravedigger’s Roots, both from Shared Roads Press, 2009. He recently stepped down as Director of FutureCycle Press in order to devote more time to his own writing. He continues to serve the press as Poetry Co‐Editor.
The Moon Rises, the Moon Falls
-Andrew Pei The moon rises, the moon falls The waves beat, the seagull calls; In the candlelight the card looks brown A sigh takes the heart back to town The moon rises, the moon falls. Shallows cast onto the silent walls, From a distance a familiar voice calls; Feeling the touch of mother’s hands, How time flies like flowing sands, The moon rises, the moon falls. Sweet memories never leave the stalls,
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The silvery light delivers the calls;
Homesickness lingers, but nevermore The unbearable sadness on the shore, The moon rises, the moon falls.
Andrew Pei is a high school English teacher in Irvine, California, He has published two short stories and several academic articles.
NON – FICTION From apron to rose patels and sunflower daisies
- Wandiswa Ntengento
I
am against any belief or ideology that defines a woman as being a specie that is
portrayed wearing 14 inch stiletto's,dancing histerically in a Rick ross music video with hair long enough to be starred in a Rapunzel storyline and a face splashed with mud thick make up and breasts big enough to breast freed Africa and Europe combined.There's nothing more tasteless than the classic portrayal of a woman painted as wearing an apron in a kitchen stirring up a steamy pot of homemade soup with perfectly "photo shopped" make-up and hair and obviously not forgetting, her 5 kids waiting to be mothered.Who can forget her darling husband who is working up a sweat at work to keep her family afloat.
According to biology and the world of human anatomy, one of the many differences between a man and a woman is primarily their genitalia,mainly the presence of a womb,breasts in a
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Miracle e-zine Issue 3 woman and of course, the rather obvious absence of a womb in a man(I stand to be challenged if this has somehow changed).Now that we have an idea of "who's who" it would be common sense to find the purpose of this topic by unraveling the things that define a woman (in my opinion at least).
A woman is no longer defined according to her anatomy alone but by her state of mind and spirit.There are several factors that determine a woman amongst a population of males,to list a few; her nurturing spirit,her ambition for her family and self,her guts to lead a board of intelligent men,her sensitivity to emotion and her surroundings.If I had time I would list all that I recall about women and all that I have experienced as a young woman but I hope those few points mentioned will tap a few heads. The world has spent money and time focusing on this beautiful creation by naming ships after women,referring to countries as "Her,She" and fortunately/unfortunately giving hurricanes female names (depends how you see it though).Some may see it as an offense to name hurricanes after a woman mainly because it is merely a disaster that leaves nature,infrastructure upside down.A country referred to as "Her,she" as derogatory because of the political,economic state of many countries.The wars,maladministration in governments,unfair policies in constitutions,instability.Lastly, taking utmost offense in calling Ships by a female name especially after Titanic sank and during the on-going kidnapping parade by Pirates on sea who torture their hostages on the very same ships named after a woman. As negative as these reasons may sound I'd say we're pretty lucky to be named after all the above.Think of it this way..governments,experts spent (and are still spending) time thoroughly meditating on women.They've spent countless nights insomniac because they were thinking about how they would refer to nature's splendour and well engineered ships.They could only find one comparison to these supreme,honorable,luxurious things and that is the female specie. The modern woman is a strong and well architected being. She is no longer defined through her husband’s work but by her own efforts and zeal. Her priorities are no longer to spend hours in front of the mirror "photo shopping" her skin with batches of make-up but rather to help a nation of young girls find their true calling. Her dignity is not in a man's bed or in her 12 inch shoes but she rather wears her stunning shoes and walks in confidence with a man who respects her. Her body is simply an instrument or catalyst of change she uses to help others. A woman is simply worthy of all sunflower daisies and rose patels that germinate from the soil of the earth.
Writing Prompt: Use the following prompt to write a Science FictionThe year 1623. A visitor comes to a small, tribal village in Nigeria. The visitor is wearing blue jeans, a Janis Joplin t-shirt, and a baseball cap and is carrying a pack that contains a solar-powered laptop computer.
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