Founder's Favourites - Issue 5

Founder’s Favourites Issue 5-Oct 2018 Anne Mikusinski Ben Nardolilli Benita Kape D. M. Kerr Deborah Hansen Dee Aubert Ingrid Bruck John Grey Julie Naslund Marianne Szylk Michael Lee Johnson Michael Peck Olivia Vande Woude Samuel Swauger Steve Carr Susanne Margono Teri

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Founder’s Favourites Issue 4-August 2018 Contributors 3 Olivia Vande Woude What Sits Below 4 Michael Lee Johnson Just Because, Bad Heart 5 Samuel Swauger Street Lamps 6 Steve Carr Rainfall 8 Deborah Hansen The Closet 9 Ben Nardolilli A Proud Look 11 Deborah Hansen Baggage Claim 12 Anne Mikusinski Epic 13 Anne Mikunsinski Travel Agency 14 D. M. Kerr David, from the End of His Life 16 Dee Aubert, Ingrid Bruck, Julie Naslund, Michael Peck, Benita Kape, Susanne Margono White Noise Imaginings 17 Dee Aubert, Leslie McKay, Marianne Szlyk, Michael Peck, Susanne Margono, and Teri Poet’s Quill 18 John Grey The Reflection in the Barroom Mirror

Olivia V. Woude Pg 3

Michael Lee Johnson Pg 4

Samuel Swauger Pg 5

Steve Carr Pg 6

Deborah Hansen Pg 8, 11

Anne Mikusinski Pg 12, 13

D. M. Kerr Pg 14

Benita Kape Pg 16

Ingrid Bruck Pg 16

Julie Naslund Pg 16

Dee Aubert Pg 16, 17

Susanne Margono Pg 16, 17

Leslie McKay Pg 17

Marianne Szylk Pg 17

John Grey Pg 18

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What Sits Below

By Olivia Vande Woude They sound our depths for all We wish to know.

Charting secrets Strewn on sea floors, The vestiges of time behind, Vessels and bones of a schooner dethroned.

Struck dumb with a gust The Ida Francis heeled too much, Heaving twenty lives into the reach, where currents seldom cease.

Bodies baptized by the briny, The pilgrims christen themselves And debris drifting under the influence of wind and sea.

Clutching at life And crawling toward shore, Their skin surrendered heat Their limbs caught cold Until fishermen delivered them From frigid waters and fog, As the ship fell To rocky realms Her mast splintering the surface Reminding them to watch For what sits below.

c sergemi--stock.adobe.com

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Just Because, Bad Heart

By Michael Lee Johnson

Just because I am old do not tumble me dry.

Toss me away with those unused Wheat pennies, Buffalo nickels, and Mercury dimes in those pickle jars in the basement.

Do not bleach my dark memories Salvation Army my clothes to the poor because I died.

Do not retire me leave me a factory pension in dust to history alone.

Save my unfinished poems refuse to toss them into the unpolished alleyways of exile rusty trash barrows just outside my window, just because I am old.

Do not create more spare images, adverbs or adjectives than you need to bury me with.

Do not stand over my grave, weep, pouring a bottle of Old Crow bourbon whiskey without asking permission if it can go through your kidney’s first.

When under stone sod I shall rise and go out in my soft slippers in cold rain dread no danger, pick yellow daffodils, learn to spit up echoes of words bow fiddle me up a northern Spring storm.

Do you bad heart, see in pine box of wood,

Just because I am old do not tumble me dry.

just because I got old.

c Frantisek_Krjci—Pixabay.com

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Street Lamps

By Samuel Swauger

D

ear Jen,

The strategy you told me to resort to was always focus on the moment. All of those lists of distractions and activities we printed out still sit in a drawer by my desk. I never use them, for I have found my passion. I’m focused on the future. But when I think about therapy, I only have the moments to thank. They’re not insignificant - tucked away on the bottom floor of the hospital like a storage closet, as was the student health center - they’re just as precious as the future: giving fulfillment in themselves. They’re like the pills I had to take, small but meaningful: a healthy prescription of fond memories.

As I write to you my mind wanders back to the time I read To The Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf in Honors Literature. I sat down in a metal chair in a room that must have been around forty degrees, pouring over a Gutenberg ebook on my phone. I was so absorbed that I didn’t even realize it was freezing cold until the professor put on a jacket. Later at our meeting (the first time I spoke to someone that day) I sat by the space heater, slumped in a beige armchair, while I brought up the same ebook and read aloud the passage that changed me.

“Now all the candles were lit up, and the faces on both sides of the table were brought nearer by the candle light, and composed, as they had not been in the twilight, into a party round a table, for the night was now shut off by panes of glass, which, far from giving any accurate view of the outside world, rippled it so strangely that here, inside the room, seemed to be order and dry land; there, outside, a reflection in which things waved and vanished, waterlily.”

I asked you what you thought it meant, and you asked me the same. You always turned my questions around, but that’s a therapist’s job. For the first time in a long time, I was ecstatic about something. I had a book to show you. I didn’t fidget with my hands or stumble over my words, as were my habits. I knew exactly what I wanted to say to you.

I told you how it perfectly embodied what I wanted; I wanted those candles. I wanted both sides of the table to understand each other, and no longer would I ripple so strangely when I tried to make friends.

Furthermore I recall your lack of interest in it, how you would tell me it was fascinating and revolutionary, but the shock you had was feigned. I sensed a familiar fatigue in your eyes, I knew it all too well. It was how I felt leaving bed every morning. You later explained how we both went through much of the same ordeal, with the dim lemon lights etching a halo in your hair. Your eyes were tired and red. I listened to you, and our roles were reversed.

Perhaps what you disliked about the book had to do with your focus on the moment. The moment does not preserve anything but you, for all else lives in time. I rooted myself in the future, trying to fit inside of a golden suit of armor, when I could only live in its shadow. That wasn’t you, you lived in the moment.

Now I’m thinking about the passage again, and perhaps what bored you the most was my focus on the answers. I had a solution finally, to a problem that kept me up at night. What good are solutions in the moment?

Later that same night I stood under some more lemon lights street lamps - in the heart of Philadelphia. My thoughts darted through my head like ping pong balls and bullet trains, carrying with them colors and sounds that changed from one moment to the next. A short girl in a blueberry shirt pulling a cigarette, an asian couple in traditional clothing speaking Chinese, a pale old man sitting outside a WaWa playing guitar for pennies. It was the zoloft: some drug-induced episode, but it took me to a different place: somewhere I didn’t want to focus on the future. I walked up to the guitar player with my hands in my pockets.

“Hi,” I said, “you’re playing very well.”

It was awkward, but he smiled. He didn’t have all of his teeth.

I gave him five dollars, and I smiled too.

c Free-Photos—stock.adobe.com c Skitterphoto—Pixabay.com

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c Pavel Losevsky—stock.adobe.com

RAINFALL

By Steve Carr

I

t was a gray bus with no markings on it. The license plates had the blue and gold U.S. Government seal on them, but no numbers. Mesh screens covered the outside of the windows.

It was the only vehicle inside the fenced-in parking lot and the mid-morning sun beat down on it. Blown by a steady hot breeze, dirt drifted across the asphalt lot and accumulated in small mounds against the tires. Those in the bus seated by the windows stared out, their faces devoid of emotion. Their facial features, hair and skin color were similar. They were people from Central America.

Kate walked out of the square, squat, whitewashed brick building carrying a clipboard. Her dark blue jacket and matching suit pants looked like a uniform, but it wasn't. From her shiny black patent leather pumps to her tightly wound bun on the back of her head, she looked official, except for a white silk scarf that was tied around her neck. A small black patent leather purse hung from one shoulder. She didn't actually have a title and didn't wear a name tag, but she worked for Immigration and Customs Enforcement. It was her first job right out of college. She walked across the lot scanning the sixty-four names on the two sheets of paper on the clipboard. The names were common for Latin American countries: Juan Carlos, Miguel, Maria Jose, Ana Rosa, etcetera. The youngest was eleven months and the oldest was forty-six. She stopped at the bus without looking up at the weary faces looking at her.

Assaulted by a sudden gust of wind that pelted her face with grit, she turned her head and faced toward the Texas shrublands and the two lane road that wound through it. In the landscape of gentle rolling hills and dunes covered in brush, sage, and a few

acacia trees, there wasn't another structure in sight. Storm clouds stretched across the northern horizon. She brushed the dirt from her face just as Mike and Chris came out of the building.

They wore uniforms: light beige shirts, dark brown pants and ball caps with a Department of Homeland Security logo above the bill. The same patches were on the upper sleeves of their shirts and above their left shirt pockets They had leather holsters strapped to their chests and the handles of the guns stuck out of the holsters. It was only by accident that they walked in step from the building.

Mike opened the bus door. “Let's hope this is a smooth ride,” he said. He got on the bus and walked down the aisle and sat in the middle of the long seat at the back next to the toilet. He crossed his arms and rested one hand on the handle of his gun.

Those seated around him reacted to him with indifference. They said nothing to him and said nothing to each other about him. He said nothing to them.

“Two hours, like before?” Kate said to Chris who took his seat at the steering wheel.

He took his dark sunglasses from his shirt pocket and blew on the lenses and then rubbed them on his shirt. “Yep, same destination.”

“It looks like it might rain,” Kate said.

He looked north. “I hate driving in the rain.”

E

ndless scrubland stretched out beyond both sides of the road.

Dead bugs were splattered on the bus windshield. In the fifty miles since their departure, only a few ramshackle

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homes and dilapidated barns dotted the barren landscape. There was a rusted out abandoned car and a pickup truck parked in the dirt along the way and one inexplicably placed billboard that was nearing collapse.

Kate sat on a canvas, folding stool in the aisle between the first two rows of seats. She tried to ignore her aching lower back and shifted positions frequently, mostly from leaning forward to sitting bolt upright. She grasped the arm rests of the seats on both sides of her when the bus hit rough spots, jostling her. Mike was directly ahead of her, at the end of the aisle. He hadn't moved a muscle since the trip began. There was little chatter among the passengers on the bus. Quieted by either exhaustion from their trek through Mexico to the United States or from fear of heading toward the unknown, most of them stared out of the windows with inscrutable expressions on their faces. A woman with a toddler seated in the middle of the bus sang and talked continuously to her child in whispered tones. Kate was bilingual, but other than understanding what little was being said, only seldomly did she have to use her Spanish to talk to them, usually to grant permission for them to use the toilet.

At Kate's right in the aisle seat sat a young woman with an infant, the eleven month old one. She cooed and sang softly into the child's ear. Wrapped in a thin, cotton, light blue blanket, the child never cried and seldom fidgeted. It played with its small stuffed puppy, his mother's hair, nose and ears, and sucked on its pacifier. The mother was Maria Rosa and the infant was Jorge.

Her husband and the child's father, Jose Miguel, was in the seat next to the window. He kept his face pressed to the glass. On the sheet of paper on Kate's clipboard it listed his age as eighteen.

Maria Rosa was seventeen.

Kate had never seen a more beautiful child. Its brown eyes were full of life, its mouth in a perpetual smile. Its black curly hair framed an angelic face.

That's a very special baby, Kate thought.

Maria Rosa spoke English. “May I breastfeed my child?” she asked Kate.

“Of course,” Kate said. “Do you want to feed him in the toilet?”

“No, thank you.” She removed the blanket from Jorge and slung it over her left shoulder. She held the baby with one arm and raised her sweatshirt above her left breast. She then guided the child to the nipple, keeping her breast and the child's head as he sucked on it hidden the entire time.

“May I ask you something?” Maria Rosa said.

The bus hit a pothole, causing Kate to bounce. She grasped tightly onto Maria Rosa's arm rest. “Certainly.”

“Do you have children?”

“I haven't met the right man and fallen in love yet.”

“It's a different kind of love, but you can fall in love with the child.”

R

ain pelted the bus, filling the inside with the echoed drumming of it on the roof. Stalled behind a large flock of sheep being shepherded across the road, Chris turned off the engine and opened the door. The aromas of wet earth and grass wafted in.

Everyone had been given a bottle of water and a bag lunch.

As Maria Rosa and Jose Miguel ate, Kate held Jorge. Mimicking the mother, she held her face close to the infant so that it could play with her nose and ears. She unpinned a long strand of hair and laughed as the child tugged on it. When the child yawned, she gently rocked it.

“How much further?” she asked Chris.

He had his boots propped up on the steering wheel. “Still about an hour away.”

Maria Rosa finished her bologna sandwich and stuffed the cellophane wrapping in the bag. “Jorge will need his diaper changed,” she said, reaching for the baby.

“I'll change him,” Kate said. “I changed my younger brother's diapers all the time.”

“If you're sure you want to,” Maria Rosa said. “He only has one diaper but you can wash it out with this in the toilet.” She handed her bottle of water to Kate.

Before she went into the toilet, Mike glanced up at her from his seat. “You've been getting kinda cozy with those illegals. I'd advise against that.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” she said. She went into the toilet and locked the door. Kate used hand sanitizer that she kept in her purse to clean the child and then rubbed hand cream into its skin.

She used the bottled water and sanitizer to wash the diaper and then she wrung it out in the toilet. As she diapered Jorge with her silk scarf, he held onto her thumbs and gurgled happily.

She returned Jorge to Maria Rosa just as Chris started the bus.

T

he large windshield wipers beat rhythmically from side to side as the torrential rain fell from black storm clouds.

They entered the outskirts of the city. The passengers pointed at the billboards, signs, and buildings, and for the first time since the trip began, were talkative and animated.

Leaning across his wife, Jose Miguel said to Kate in Spanish, “They killed my father and would have killed me if we hadn't escaped. Do you think they will let us stay here?”

Kate averted her eyes and saw Mike staring at her. Without looking at Jose Miguel, she said, “You're so young. Your family is so young.”

“Yes,” he said, “but I'm a hard worker and can work in the fields and Maria Rosa is strong also and can scrub floors.” He placed his hand on hers that was resting on the armrest. “Surely this great country cares about what happens to us.”

Kate pulled her hand away. “It's not that simple,” she said.

The large black chain link gates to the compound opened as the bus pulled to a stop. Two block-type, gray, two-story buildings with small square windows stood side by side on a small field of concrete. Two other buses and a dozen government cars were parked in the lot. A man in an Army uniform waved for Chris to drive through. The doors of the buildings opened and several men and women in Homeland Security uniforms and lab coats came out holding umbrellas over their heads.

“Is this where we will stay?” Maria Rosa, asked.

“For now,” Kate said.

She folded the chair and placed it behind the driver's seat.

Looking out the window as Chris pulled the bus into the lot, she said, “Why do we do this?”

“It's our job.”

“No, that's not what I mean.”

The bus came to a stop and Chris opened the door and got off the bus. In Spanish, Kate explained to the passengers that they were going to be met by U.S. Government officials who would be responsible for their well being. When finished, she looked at Maria Rosa and Jose Miguel. They were smiling, their eyes filled with excitement. Then she looked at Jorge who was playing with his mother's ear lobe.

As they got up from their seats and started for the door, Kate grabbed Maria Rosa's arm and said in a hushed but urgent tone, “Before they close the gate, run. Get out of here. Try to get away.

Do it before it's too late.”

“What are you saying?” Maria Rosa said, pulling her arm away. “We're in America at last.”

They pushed past her and left the bus.

Through the window, Kate watched as the men were separated from the women, and the children taken from their mothers. She watched as Maria Rosa collapsed on her knees in a puddle, screaming for her infant.

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The Closet

By Deborah Hansen “You’re leaving me for a woman who loves women?” I asked. I reeled, unable to make sense of this. “Yes,” he said, his eyes evading mine.

“She asked for help out of the closet.” Which closet door does he mean? My notion of myself as a desirable woman tripped and fell, cracking on the floor. How could he want a woman who had shunned men? I shamelessly begged him to stay, and he did, as I deceived myself, and he deceived her. Then he was gone. My heart bled all over the floor, making a sticky mess.

© Comugnero Silvana—stock.adobe.com

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A Proud Look

By Ben Nardolilli There is no problem when you show me The red stuff, oozing, leaking, or congealing, I will look at the stains and not flinch, I may feel helpless, I may check myself To make sure everything crimson is in place, But I will not look at away at it.

Yet, if you try to talk to me about it, And start to give the spilled humor a name, My hands begin to lose feeling and I go weak, It is worse when I read the word, BLOOD, In a sentence, a description, or listed As a blank category for medical information I wonder why the word and not the fluid Threatens me, I could perform able surgery, As long as no one uses the word Or words like blood sugar or blood loss, Keeping a steady, strong hand on a blade As it cuts and human juices pulse out Maybe “blood” just signifies too much, Representing all blood to me, in amounts Impossible for a single human to lose, Meanwhile, the sight of blood is nothing to fear Or get sick over, since I immediately know How much has been lost and who has lost it. © qimono—Pixabay.com

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c rawpixel—Pixabay.com

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Baggage Claim

By Deborah Hansen

T

he chopsticks slid from my fingers, falling into the plate of sushi in front of me. My eyes never left his face in the hopes that my clumsiness would go unnoticed. Of course, he noticed.

“It takes a little practice, doesn’t it?” he said, expertly picking up a piece of fish. His smile was kind, so I tried again, never one to admit defeat at anything much less conquering two sticks that seemed intent on making me look foolish.

“Sometimes I can do this, but other times it just doesn’t seem to work,” I said, as a piece of crab popped loose and skittered across the tablecloth. I picked up my fork in surrender. “Great way to make a first impression,” I laughed, but of course I wondered what he was thinking of me.

We had been introduced by mutual friends, sincere people who were certain that we would make a great pair. But they really knew nothing about either of us, our hearts, our hurts, or our pasts. They only saw two people who were alone and from this assumed we needed their help. In some ways they were right. Dinners eaten alone in the gathering dusk, TV tuned to the choice of solace for the evening, too many weekends stretching from Friday to Monday when a return to work at least offered human company.

But we had learned that there is a state more painful than being alone. There is the breathtaking despair of linking your life with someone who can’t share in return, someone who is careless with your heart and your dreams. The loneliness wraps itself around the hours like a thick blanket, an enemy lurking in full view that we desperately try to ignore. We knew the difference between being alone and being lonely, and had chosen the uncluttered solitude.

“Have you dated much since your divorce?” he asked. We had been exchanging those unrelated strands of information that meant little on their own, trying to find that one common thread that might lead us to the beginning of a whole garment, maybe a relationship. We commiserated about ill-fated dates, those dinners or lunches eaten in awkward silence as the minutes ticked by in slow motion. Dating seemed such a silly word for people at our stage in life, bringing to mind images of convertibles and school dances overlaid with briefcases and mortgages. But how else are we to maneuver this minefield of finding companionship, dare we even think, love at the midpoint of life?

The green tea cooled as we talked and the threads began to knit together as we discovered we both liked the theater, Mozart, and action movies filled with screaming car chases, things that might seem contradictory to others but made perfect sense to us. Suddenly, he cleared his throat, stumbled into a cough, and then spoke.

“I think I have to say that I’m enjoying myself,” he said, looking surprised at his admission. “We’re about the same age, we have a lot of shared interests and experiences.” He fumbled with his napkin, folding it precisely and sliding it next to his plate. “So, I want to be honest with you. I’ve been alone for quite a while and I’ve managed to make my life as stress free as possible.” He paused, moving the napkin again until it was aligned perfectly. “Well, I think I have, although my work is sometimes stressful for me.” He took a breath and sipped his tea. I waited, knowing that what was to come next must be the real message he wanted me to hear.

“I’ve closed my office and work at home now and things are simple for me. I get up in the morning, have coffee and read the paper, put my jeans on and walk about 25 feet to my desk. My family lives in another state, and my ex-wife isn’t in the picture anymore now that our son is out on his own.”

His voice took on a rhythmic cadence, almost as if he’d told this story just this way many times before. He had it down perfectly. There was a tone of apology in his voice and I wondered where it was coming from, what part of his soul had been trampled in the past.

He smiled, although his eyes didn’t meet mine this time, and he continued.

“I want to spend time with someone whose company I enjoy, and maybe that person and I can grow old together. But I don’t think I can deal with someone else’s messy history, anything that will spill over into my life. I guess today they call it baggage. I don’t think I can get involved with anyone who has a lot of baggage.” The waitress appeared and placed the check near his hand. He picked it up and glanced at it before laying it down again, perfectly straight along his folded napkin. “Maybe I’m not making any sense,” he finished. His gaze was now more direct, his brown eyes serious as he searched my face for a reaction to what he had just said.

And exactly how should I react, I wondered? Baggage was an overused way of referring to life, I thought. How can someone our age not have baggage? I’ve been married twice, and the survivor of a recent affair, a passionate, tumultuous time that had ended very badly. There was lots of baggage on this conveyor belt.

“I agree,” I said before I realized that I was going to speak, jumping right into the age-old game of innocent deception. What else could I say? “No problem, my life is an untouched slate, ready for your chalk mark?” How could someone really think that we could make the journey through life without some baggage? But, I knew how to play the game as well as anyone.

He smiled and took a deep breath as if he was relieved that the hard part was over. We both slid the fortune cookies out of sight unopened and gathered our things to make our way toward the front door, all the while pulling those invisible suitcases behind us, straps tightly fastened, locks secure for now. Little did I know then that his baggage wasn’t merely a suitcase. I found as the months went by that he had a steamer trunk in tow, one that slowly began to spill its contents throughout my life, an evasion here, a tattered promise there. I disrupted his careful routine, all the right angles askew as I scattered shoes and emotions throughout his life. We tried to scoop up the mess that tumbled out of those bags over the next few months, the ones that we had desperately tried to ignore.

Our deception started that day, chopsticks in hand, as we pretended that our baggage had been left on the revolving carrel of our pasts. But we know deep in our souls the suitcases come with us. The trick is to find someone who revels in those scraps of our previous lives that tumble out along the way.

Someone who is willing to claim ours as well as his.

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Epic

by Anne Mikusinski Lost Is not a word I think of While watching you Suspended And in motion Embraced And enveloped By a lavender corona Of ambient light That keeps you Shielded From outside influence Yet draws me close An unspoken invitation To remain And hope That when the light does fade I'll be Found.

c BarbaraALane—Pixabay.com

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Travel Agency

By Anne Mikusinski Speak to me of things unseen And places far beyond my room Away from the dubious comfort Of a solitary bed I'll go with you Carried by the timber And Inflection of your voice For I live vicariously And love against type. c reginasphotos—Pixabay.com

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David, from the End of His Life

by D. M. Kerr

"

Are they gone yet?"

The guide didn't reply. His eyes, only a few inches from David's own, opened very wide.

Their white irises against the midnight black of his skin made for what would have, somewhere else, been a comical look.

Just then, from the path outside their bush--inches from David's head--came the crunch of an army boot on bracken. The terror that had been on the outside of David's skin, leaching like ice water through the buffer shock had created, suddenly cascaded into every crevice of his consciousness. He realized how close he was to the end of his life and how his stupidity had brought him there. His senses opened like his bowels and he was suddenly, totally and absolutely aware of every sound and smell. He felt the mucky undergrowth pressing against his unshaven chin and the tickle of small insects as they crawled along the back of his hand.

Over by the truck, somebody was barking out a demand. The soldier just above of them responded what was probably "yes". Any second now they would run over. They would stab their rifles into the brush.

David would see the rifle tip above his forehead. He would feel the intense metallic pain of a bullet piercing his skull. And he would die.

Strange thoughts flitted through his consciousness. He knew the cliché of seeing ones life flash before ones eyes, but this was not that. Instead his brain was filled with memories and thoughts that he had never found important.

He remembered a tree near his parent's house in Montréal. He had been nine the year they'd lived there.

The tree stood gnarled and blackened on a neighbour's lawn. It yielded nothing but small bitter apples, too bitter to eat. Yet the tree was very, very important to the nine-year-old David, and the thirty-year old one, there in the underbrush in Central Africa, could not remember why.

He thought of a girl, about eight. Perhaps she was related to the tree, he--so close to the end of his life--couldn't recall. She stood in a brown field somewhere. Her golden hair was braided back and her ears stuck out. Something was significant about her, about the field, and David had buried that significance until it was too late to dig for it.

He knew right then he did not care one whit what that girl Alison thought of him.

Alison! She had been the cause of this vain trip.

He had set out on a reckless pursuit of world beats just to prove himself to her, to force her to take back her disdain. He'd sailed upriver to the center of Africa all for the sake of some shallow urban girl who liked Ladysmith Black Mambazo and who'd found the idea of going to a movie with a sad guy who worked in a music-store employee not worth considering.

Even as those thoughts occupied his mind, and prevented him from properly preparing to meet his own death, he heard the men at the truck shout once.

The soldier above him said something. They heard no more. The guide had shut his eyes. David shut his, too.

This was it.

But nobody came running. Instead, they heard a mechanical wrenching sound as the truck's motor coughed to life. Doors slammed. The soldiers crowed.

The truck splashed through a puddle. The men broke into a rowdy song, raw and magnificently rhythmic in its crude form.

David thought of his guitar and of his recording equipment. Of his tapes full of new music and still waiting to be filled with more. Of his passport and air ticket. A sense of nausea swept over him.

They heard the roar of the motor and the grind of the clutch fade, then strengthen, then fade again.

Surely they'd realize they had to come back to get rid of witnesses. But, eventually, neither David nor the guide could hear the truck any more.

The guide shifted his hand until it was in front of his mouth, the universal sign to be quiet. As silent as a cat, he shifted his weight until he could look up. He turned his head to look back to the road. He remained like that for way too long. Finally he got to his knees.

"They all gone. Oh, my truck. Your music."

David moved his hand and then his torso. He realized he had been wearing his money belt all along.

He still had his passport, maybe even a few local notes.

Somehow, they seemed more precious than his life or the truck.

"I don't care about the music," he told the guide.

"Brother, we go find help."

Ants had worked their way between his fingers.

One or two had bitten, and, when he was dead and gone, they would continue dismembering his body and would carry it victoriously to their nest.

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c Grigory Bruey—stock.adobe.com

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White Noise Imaginings

By Dee Aubert, Ingrid Bruck, Julie Naslund, Susanne Margono, Michael Peck and Benita Kape pixelated words tablets scrubbed of meaning digital age N + 7 machine near rhymes by computer new hieroglyphics even ones and zeros find a living language white noise cancels myriad sentences structure abandoned

imagination’s muse gives birth to expression refuge ocean home words on concertina folds my box of small shells c jackfrog—stock.adobe.com

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Poet‘s Quill

By Dee Aubert, Leslie McKay, Marianne Szlyk, Michael Peck, Susanne Margono, and Teri syllables of water primeval green forests devoured by ignorance water earth's blood bows to no-one sheaf of rice paper soaks up understanding from quill of swan's wing poet transcribes dreams of flying, of floating down wild rivers blind drive to spawn unwritten bloodlines run deep a wing bone hollowed pied piper lures young folk meandering scape

c LunarSeaArt—pixabay.com

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The Reflection in the Barroom Mirror

By John Grey He'll have that drink even if he has to knock you down to grab that bottle.

He's like the genuine raw material for poetry.

For he's thirsty as a rancher's dog disgusted with life

and he doesn't like the face you present for inspection or the way you lick the droplets from the glass like honey.

A wedge of sunlight bounces off the rim of the bar, drops noiselessly to a floor of shadows.

That will be him any moment now. c Rirriz—pixabay.com

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Meet the Contributors Olivia Vande Woude (p3) is a junior at the College of William and Mary, where she is the co-editor of the Gallery Literary Magazine. She has been writing stories for most of her life, and has recently focused her attention on writing poetry. Her work has been featured in Literary Orphans, Oddball Magazine, The Legendary Magazine, Two Cities Review, The Cadaverine Magazine, Stepping Stones Magazine, Canvas Literary magazine, Tuck Magazine, and other publications.

Michael Lee Johnson (p4) lived ten years in Canada, Vietnam era. Today he is a poet, in Itasca, Illinois; published in 1043 small press magazines in 37 countries; 166 poetry videos. Nominated 2 Pushcart and 3 Best of the Net nominations in poetry. He is the Editor-in-Chief of 3 poetry anthologies: Dandelion in a Vase of Roses, Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze, & 3rd anthology Warrior with Wings: the Best in Contemporary Poetry is now available on Amazon.com.

Samuel Swauger (p5) is a short-story author and novelist from Baltimore, Maryland. He’s penned several stories exploring themes of alienation, city life, and the experiences of individuals with mental illness. He tweets under the username @samuelswauger.

Steve Carr (p6), who lives in Richmond, Va., began his writing career as a military journalist and has had over 200 short stories published internationally in print and online magazines, literary journals and anthologies. Sand, a collection of his short stories, was published recently by Clarendon House Books. His plays have been produced in several states in the U.S. He was a 2017 Pushcart Prize nominee. He is on Twitter @carrsteven960. His website is https//www.stevecarr960.com.

Deborah (p8, 11) has been published in The Teacher Magazine, Florida Times-Union, First Coast Parent Magazine, Breathe Free Press, Runcible Spoon, and Burning House Press. Her essay, The Lesson, has been shortlisted for Banquet Erotica’s inaugural issue. She is the author of Character in Everything, a curriculum for school aged children, and the author of two books: Broken Strings: Wisdom for Divorced and Separated Families and Nothing to Complain About: My 125-Day Journey to Become Complaint Free. Her third book, in progress, is a collection of her Haiku. www.debhansen.com/books Ben Nardolilli (p9) currently lives in New York City. His work has appeared in Perigee Magazine, Red Fez, Danse Macabre, The 22 Magazine, Quail Bell Magazine, Elimae, fwriction, Inwood Indiana, Pear Noir, The Minetta Review, and Yes Poetry. He blogs at mirrorsponge.blogspot.com and is looking to publish a novel.

Anne Mikusinski (p12) has been writing poetry and short stories since she was seven years old and most probably making them up long before she could hold a pen or pencil in her hand. She finds inspiration in music and art, and sometimes, even little things that happen every day. Her influences range from Robert Frost and Dylan Thomas to David Byrne and Nick Cave, and she hopes one day, her work will inspire others in the same way these writers have been an inspiration to her.

D. M. Kerr (p14) is the writing name of a Canadian writer currently living and working in Singapore, where he teaches game design and business. His work has been published in Blank Spaces, Eyedrum Periodically and Mojave He[art] Review and he is a regular contributor to Singapore’s Writing the City project.

Rengay Bios (p16, 17): Benita Kape is a New Zealand poet with an interest in Japanese short forms such as tanka, haiku and the Western devised, (though based on haiku) rengay. Dee Aubert was born and raised in Mexico. She resides and writes in Switzerland. Ingrid Bruck lives in Amish country in Pennsylvania USA, a landscape that inhabits her poetry. Julie Naslund lives and writes in the high desert of central Oregon USA. She feels that poetry is an act of translation. Leslie McKay is an Aotearoa/New Zealand poet and writing teacher. Winner of the 2015 Caselberg International Prize, her work appears in anthologies and online. Marianne Szlyk is a Maryland USA college professor and founder of The Song Is… dedicated to all things jazz. Michael Peck is a Utah poet and playwright. S.E. Ingraham (Sharon), is a Canadian poet and President of Canadian Authors – Alberta Branch in Edmonton. Susanne Margono, born in Germany, resides in the United States. She writes poetry in German and haiku in English. Teri is a retired accountant who has turned her pencil to poetry.

John Grey (pg 18) is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in the Homestead Review, Poetry East and Columbia Review with work upcoming in Harpur Palate, the Hawaii Review and Visions International.

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Founder’s Favourites Issue 5-Oct 2018

Thanks for spending time with the writers.

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