Vol. 4 Issue 15, "Throwback" by newreadermagazine

Vol. 4 Issue 15 New York London Hong Kong Philippines

THROWBACK

new reader magazine September 2021 | Vol. 4 Issue 15 COVER IMAGE

Anamnesis I, II, III, IV CREATIVE STAFF Managing Editor

: Rosalie Abatayo

Feature Editor/ Editorial Assistant

: Jazie Pilones

Writers and Production Staff

: Sarah Eroy, Regie Vocales, Kathleen Crucillo,

Layout Artist

: Ronel Borres

Publicists

: Tresh Eñerez, Kota Yamada

Researchers

: Rosielyn Herrera, Marjon Gonato, John Paul Vailoces,

Keith Ayuman, Yanya Cortes-Tingzon, Christine Ade

Ma. Fe Tabura CONTRIBUTORS

Nikka Lindo, Christian Vinson, Lindsay Phillips, Bradford Middleton, Elizabeth Wittenberg, Kylie Wang, Bill Arnott, Kat Devitt, Sabrina Anati, Biswamohini Dhal

MARKETING AND ADVERTISING

Laurence Anthony laurence.anthony@newreadermagazine.com

SUBSCRIPTIONS

subscription@newreadermagazine.com www.newreadermagazine.com Phone: 1 800 734 7871 Fax: (914) 265 1215 Write to us: 100 Church St. Suite 800 New York, NY 10007 ISSN 2688-8181

Natalia Sinelnik

NRMedia

EDITOR’S NOTE “You are still bothered by mistakes that you made a long time ago.” If you are among those people who take random quizzes online, you must be familiar with this statement. It’s one of the qualities that 16personalities.com asks if you have so they can determine your type of personality. I have answered this questionnaire multiple times—sometimes giving a different answer depending on a change of perspective and true enough, my results changed the last time I took it from the one I got back in 2020. My answer to the statement above has been one and the same for each time as I automatically click the biggest green loop: extremely agree. I am not only bothered by events of the past. I also relive them in my head, constantly remembering and wondering...what if? I cannot say I never thought of wanting to change the past. I’d wager you have, too, at one point or another. Reality check, however, will tell you otherwise. Once time has passed, there is nothing left to do except to reminisce about it. And that I do almost every opportunity I have, drifting into daydreams where I draw images of the past, orchestrating it differently each time, and watching my ‘what ifs’ unfold the way I imagine it—like how I want it. When Albus Dumbledore found Harry in front of the Mirror of Erised and said, “It does not do well to dwell on dreams and forget to live,” I thought this might be a sign for me to stop daydreaming about the past and live forward. But then I realize, didn’t the quick visits to the Pensieve in the headmaster’s office, after all, help save the Wizarding World? So I guess there’d always be a good thing about looking back. In producing Throwback, I came to know people—artists—whose pasts have become a part of their craft-making and creative process. As featured contributor Kat Devitt puts it, revisiting personal traumas, pains, and happiness enables a writer to breathe life into the story otherwise “you’re denying yourself and your readers a chance to live in your fiction.” With her poetry, Lindsay Phillips hopes to create immersive images of moments, especially the mundane, and move people to re-examine these moments that are otherwise taken for granted. Nikka Lindo, meanwhile, brings us Anamnesis I, II, III, and IV, which appear in our cover. This set of art works demonstrates the certainty of impermanence through the obscured portraits, each an imprecise copy of the other which for its part exemplifies the fragility of human memory. I will not keep you waiting. Read on another installment of NRM as we bring you these pages, molded from experiences and laced with memories.

Contents Feature

Poetry

Fiction/Non-fiction

50 The Mind Moves Back

36 To Own Her Body

Tradition

Nikka Lindo and her Anamnesis KATHLEEN CRUCILLO

14 Bill Arnott’s Beat: A History in Paint

60 White Flags

ROSALIE ABATAYO

24 What Lindsay says of writing and reminiscing

56 When Throwbacks Become Our Here And Now

CHRISTIAN VINSON

BILL ARNOTT

20 Feel, Look (back), and Write

The Pig

JAZIE PILONES

Blue Green Grey

LINDSAY PHILLIPS

44 Scooter

BILL ARNOTT

78 Rocket’s Jazz

ADRIÁN DUSTON-MUÑOZ

68 Mummy Tinuke

64 All the way to the end of the line

Art

KAT DEVITT

SABRINA ANATI

I Sit Alone With The Good Times BRADFORD MIDDLETON

64 Dirt Road Walk Home

Home

Lines

Clothesline

Biswamohini Dhal

The Forest ELIZABETH WITTENBERG

72 Another Village

Nostalgia’s Watch

Travellers

KYLIE WANG

Contributor’s Corner

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Arts and Culture | Philippines Fiction

Nikka Lindo and her

ANAMNESIS by Kathleen Crucillo

emories are marked by impermanence. In our short lives, it is the recollection of our experiences that makes us. I’m certain that as you read this now, however your course of the pandemic life may be, the impermanence of life and things have influenced the decisions you make.

If anything, it has fueled us to make significant changes as we’re seized with the world’s irregularities. It is our memories that grant us a firm grasp on life. Our experiences, without romanticizing them, are all interconnected human traces, both tangible and intangible. When we reflect on these tracks, do we also trace back its control over us? Does our mental mirror cut us both ways? While ‘No Filter’ ushered us to observe the world in its original form, Nikka Lindo’s four-part piece Anamnesis in this issue calls us to observe anamnesis as memories experienced in its changing and ephemeral qualities. “I see memories just as they are—a reminder of what once was. Even though my work depicts a moment that has passed, I do not mean to romanticize it as if I want to relive it. If anything, I am simply acknowledging the existence of that moment, no matter how short-lived it may be, and then surrendering it to the certainty of impermanence,” the 25-year-old painter explains. “If it was a positive moment, I have something to gladly look back on. If it was a negative moment, I have a learning experience. Winwin,” she adds.

Anamnesis I, II, III, IV demonstrate this concept with four portraits that symbolize the phases of life, the fragility of human memory, and life as postponed degeneration in a perspective of naturalism. “With every second that passes we are older than we were. We fall sick and we grow tired. One moment we are happy, at another we are sad. A person who could mean the world to you could very well be a stranger in a couple of days, weeks, months, or years. How many phones have you gone through? How many pets have you outlived? Weren’t there more glaciers 10 years ago?” Nikka poses. “All things are marked by impermanence. Some last longer than others, but the decline is an undeniable truth. This realization could very well make some say that life is insignificant before the inevitable reality of decline. But impermanence is not just the beginning and end, it is also what is in between. My work is founded on the desire for selfpreservation, albeit a futile endeavor. My idea of preservation, whether it is of the tangible or intangible, is simply postponed degeneration. Because of ephemerality, I’ve learned to shift my focus on the now; to live earnestly and learn as much as I can with the time I have here and hopefully leave as the best version of myself,” she adds. Nikka, her brush, and the canvas Having been engaged in paintings since childhood, one may think that Nikka was all set to pick up a brush, get to art school, and devote her life to creating art straight and simple. It sounds reasonable, except that isn’t the case. Nikka’s journey to art had quite a slow start. She attended a medical-allied program before she was struck with the realization that her childhood hobby was, indeed, her lifetime passion. Her current bodies of work were the product of a lenient route. “I’ve been drawing and painting ever since I was a child but I only did it because I could and had the means to. Honestly, my enrollment to an art degree was a spur-of-the-moment decision. But it was one made with zero regrets,” Nikka shares. More than what made her pursue painting, Nikka reveals with

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Contributor’s Corner Features

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Arts and Culture | Philippines Fiction us what keeps her pursuing the arts, years after earning her degree in Fine Arts. “I loved listening to my professors’ 4-hour lectures, I loved reading about art history and theory, I loved staying up late to work on essays and paintings, I loved participating in talks and exhibits,” says Nikka. “Ultimately, it was the four years of university that greatly influenced my art practice and made me realize that art is not just simply creating something, but creating something with the premise of active engagement. I still pursue painting because I have a lot to say, and I want people to reply,” she adds. When asked about the originality of art, Nikka banks on the vulnerability in expression. She embraces the inevitable and human quality of imperfection. For Nikka, originality is a concept that the artist informs a piece of art as it conveys to its participants a physical manifestation of what was once abstract to their naked eyes. Each subtle stroke of the brush is symbolic of the entire allegory of the body of work. Each hue is an idiom to a captivating but passing second. Like memories, the image that it leaves to the interpreter’s eyes impresses a thought and an articulate emotion that binds them to the different realities that have shifted through time. Judgment implored, vulnerability and meaning weighted to significance. Being an active participant in several local art exhibits, Nikka combats the pandemic numbness by exploring digital art online and extending an outlet for digital artists to share their works on various social channels. At the onset of the 2020 outbreak, she teamed up with other local artists and organized an online exhibition called The Blue Pill Collective which continually aims to explore digital media in virtual space. She is also currently involved with Regional Art Forum+Community Art Archive’s Community Art Program, an all-year-round opento-proposals program of and for community art practices. As someone who values her artistic role in society, Nikka embodies a social commentary and continues to establish her presence in the local art scene to encourage discourse and uphold community. The main purpose is to explore mediums that operate through human consciousness and how it relates to art. To respond to the demanding pursuit to make time physical and preserve ourselves in figures and mementos that, if lucky, will span through time is an art. Nikka Lindo’s Anamnesis is a masterful revelation of life in phases—a conversation in the past, an overlapping of intervals. Our participation in it, as we carefully break through the fourth wall, is our reflection humanized within an accumulation of fragile seconds... fleeting and briefly gorgeous.

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Literary Work

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Poetry

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Featured Author

Milton H. Marquis INTVW by Regie Vocales

Economics expert and esteemed professor Milton H. Marquis speaks with NRM about his perspective on human struggles in his book The Artifice of A Lady: A Novel of Redemption. Find out more about his professional background, what he thinks of making his book into a movie, and why he writes about the human life cycle of inadvertent falls and redemption in a story of prostitution and survival.

NRM: When you wrote the book, were you seeing it potentially visualized on screens? What are your thoughts on realizing your book into a movie? Milton H. Marquis: At the time I wrote The Artifice of Lady, I was not thinking of writing a story that could be turned into a screenplay. I was just interested in telling a good story. I first began writing when I was thirteen after reading John Le Carre’s A Spy Who Came In From the Cold. While I never tried publishing any short stories or poems, I found it gratifying to see my thoughts and images turned into words on the page. A few years ago, I was encouraged by a friend to take it seriously. I began to write in earnest. The Artifice is a third attempt at this book. Writing dialogue, giving the reader a ‘sense of place,’ and developing a compelling plot were lessons I had to learn. I read an interview with Joan Didion some years ago, in which she responded to a question about character development by saying that she had to ‘hear the voice of the characters’ before she could write about them. That was a helpful comment. It meant to me that you can’t hear voices that you’ve never heard. Television and movies are no substitute for personal experience.

NEW READER MAGAZINE

After I graduated from college (in engineering), fulfilled my military obligation, and repaid my college debts, I traveled for three years, doing odd jobs when necessary. I wasn’t exactly living the life of George Orwells’ Down and Out in Paris and London, but I did see some of the seedy sides of life. I also saw the natural beauty of remote areas, as one can find kayaking in Glacier Bay National Monument in Southeast Alaska or hiking the Chilkoot Trail into the Yukon Territory. I also experienced social conflict in the Middle East, as well as the stunning creations of mankind that leave indelible images in your mind, such as Michael Angelo’s David, or Gaudi’s cathedral in Barcelona. But it wasn’t until many years later, that the genesis of The Artifice began to form. NRM: As someone whose interests are in Monetary Theory, Cultural Economics, and Macroeconomics, what prompted you towards writing a story about prostitution? Was there an event or someone you knew that inspired the story? Milton H. Marquis: My professional interest in Economics didn’t have much to do with this book per se. It simply developed out of my personal experience working as a project engineer in the mid-’70s, when I could see how rampant inflation was having such a profound effect on so many aspects of our lives – and my job in particular – that I eventually found myself back in graduate school studying economics by day and bartending by night. In the end, my initial curiosity led me to spend several years working for the Federal Reserve in Washington DC and San Francisco and spending sabbaticals at the Bank of Japan in Tokyo and the IMF in Washington. That experience has allowed me to see another side of our society.

Featured Author

However, my academic job at Florida State University did afford me more time to travel. One summer I visited Berlin shortly after the Wall fell. The sights and emotions of the times that I, as an outsider, witnessed formed much of the backdrop for the opening of The Artifice. NRM: If your book becomes a full feature, where do you think your story will have more impact? Why? Milton H. Marquis: The fact that the book is in English probably limits interest within non-English-speaking countries. The setting my appeal more to Europeans, for that segment that is actively multilingual in their reading habits. I don’t have much information on English-language book sales in Europe. In terms of demographics, my guess is that interest may be somewhat higher for those who remember the events surrounding the Fall of the Berlin Wall, and the collapse of the Soviet Union more generally. But. of course, this would likely only apply to those with an interest in the mystery/crime genre.

NRM: What are your final thoughts about movies and the oldest profession? Milton H. Marquis: I don’t think much about prostitution as a profession. I tend to associate prostitution more with the troubling pervasiveness of sex trafficking, and the teenage runaways living on the streets in New Orleans, etc. I would think that a movie version of The Artifice would not dwell on prostitution, but on the young woman’s entanglement in crime, and what she was willing to do to seek her own personal redemption.

NRM: Although it is illegal and taboo in most countries, the sex and porn industries are still existent and consistent even to the point that some, if not all, view their jobs as noble and for a cause. For the sake of the non-readers, how does presenting your story about prostitution and redemption on screens immortalize or castigate these said industries? Milton H. Marquis: I do not think of the book as primarily about prostitution. While it evokes criminal figures throughout, the subtext is the lead character’s existential problem of survival in the Europe of her day. But, I was not intending to be philosophical. I just wanted to tell a good story.

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Contributor’s Corner

Bill Arnott’s Beat:

A History in Paint Weather’s turned again, changing like double jumps across a maritime checkerboard, determining the season. Clackclack. Winter. Clack-clack. Summer. Two days after nearhyperthermia, we’re heading out to hike in shorts, tee-shirts, and extra sunscreen. This is the southwest corner of England, the Penwith Peninsula. Rail lines end at Penzance (yes, where pirates come from). Roads end a smidge beyond that. And everything else (apart from water) truncates at Land’s End, a seaside cliff facing a dreamy expanse of North Atlantic. History says what lies beyond must be Avalon, the mythic birthplace of the Lady of the Lake, the Queen who passed King Arthur his sword. But since the nineteenth century, this stretch of the country with its tourmaline water and intense northern light has been a magnet for artisans – painters, potters, sculptors – all coming here to find, hone and share their craft. It’s home to the Newlyn School, one-hundred-forty years of painters capturing outdoors en plein air. Emily Carr was here, as a novice, painting beech trees and yews, before finding her place in the evergreen forests of British Columbia, Vancouver Island, and Haida Gwaii, de facto eighth member to Canada’s Group of Seven.

NEW READER MAGAZINE

With packs cinched snug on our backs, we trek coastal path from Lamorna to Mousehole, following clifftops over the sea, where it crashes onto ragged granite. We climb through Monterey pines, cypress, vine-wrapped maples, and wind-blown gorse under high canopies of ferns. Fat, black bumblebees buzz in fuchsia foxgloves and orange butterflies flutter along the trail. In the distance, St Michael’s Mount cuts a sharp image in clean air and bright sun. The trail meanders toward the pristine fishing village of Mousehole: an inn and pub at the quay, white-washed stone cottages and Cornish flags flying with pride – a white X on black background. Two artists work in oil on canvas at easels on the beach. Tide’s out and brightly coloured boats – skiffs and dories – are beached in the harbour, leaning rakishly, as though posing for the painters. The thread of land we’re traversing has attracted voyagers for millennia – Mycenaeans, Phoenicians, Romans – following the Stone Age they came for Cornish tin and copper, the makings of sculptures in bronze. Then came the Iron Age and Vikings, until Spain assumed the role of marauders-du-jour in the late Middle Ages. At Penzance, we follow the shoreline to Newlyn, the painters’ mecca. The smell of wood fires seeps from homes, making everything feel cozy and welcoming. We cross a swing bridge and pass the Art Deco Jubilee pool, built to commemorate King George V. The triangular concrete structure’s on a point of the headland, built to cut crashing waves like a ship’s bow. Further on the promenade sit the Battery Rocks where Henry VIII built a barbican, fortified with bronze cannon to deter Spanish raiders. Ironically the Spaniards stole the cannon, possibly to the sound of yoink!

Bill Arnott’s Fiction Beat

We pass through Penzance’s wherry town – ferries from days of olde. I imagine the smell of pine tar and old port sounds – groaning sheets and billowing sailcloth, the roll of barrels on gangplanks, and shouts of pidgin – a soundtrack to adventure. There’s a petrified forest just offshore, visible at low spring tide. The Fishermen’s Mission sits near the pier, overlooking the lighthouse and Newlyn docks, one of England’s busiest fishing ports. It’s famous for crab, but northerly light and endless shoreline are what draw painters like a muezzin’s call to prayer. St Michael’s Mount greets us, sitting like a chess piece in the bay. And from where I’m standing it aligns with Newlyn Lighthouse – a postcard view through salt air. A local guidebook describes the Mount as “one of those rare and singular objects which impresses the mind with sensations of veneration, pleasure, and astonishment the instant it is seen.”

*** Bill Arnott is the award-winning author of Gone Viking: A Travel Saga, Gone Viking II: Beyond Boundaries, and the #1 bestseller, Bill Arnott’s Beat: Road Stories & Writers’ Tips. For his expeditions Bill’s been granted a Fellowship at London’s Royal Geographical Society. When not trekking the globe with a small pack, journal, and laughably outdated camera phone, Bill can be found on Canada’s west coast, making music and friends. @billarnott_aps

St Michael’s, like Normandy’s Mont SaintMichel, reflects pagan-Christian transition, power, and propaganda the binding agents. St Michael was a dragon-slayer, same as Saint George. Whether there are different versions or multiple dragons, I can’t say. Point being these places – artist destinations – resonate with spirituality. From Newlyn we carry on through shallow sea – soft sand and warm ocean water – bare feet with pants rolled up, our very own pilgrimage, aptly enough, as this is St Michael’s Way, tributary to the Camino de Santiago de Compostela, what travelling artisans and pilgrim’s call The Way.

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Literary Work

Featured Author

Elaine Dach INTVW by Sarah Eroy

Losing someone you love is truly one of the most heartbreaking things a person could experience. As a way of mourning her son’s passing, author Elaine Dach turns to writing. Based on true events, Dach recounts one of the fond memories with her late son, Uriah. New Reader Magazine had the chance to talk with Elaine as she shares about how she became a writer, the writers that influenced her, and how Uriah’s Big Day came to be. NRM: When did you fall in love with writing? And who or what influenced your style in writing? ELAINE DACH: I first fell in love with the writing of Poems back in the 1990s. I went into brainstorming mode for years writing many poems on life, love, and loss. I have assembled a manuscript of 150 poems or more which is titled “ My Poetry, My Therapy” The works of a great Christian poet Helen Steiner Rice and her book “Poems of faith” influenced me a lot in the writing of poems about the Lord. For children’s stories, I was motivated by writing stories from their point of view & experiences. So interviewing kids I know through lively chats is a way to get at those ideas & concerns in their hearts. NRM: What was your creative process in writing Uriah’s Big Day ELAINE DACH: This true story is based on a day in my son Uriah’s life when he was revved up about going to his dad’s company picnic/bar-b-cue. I interviewed him about how he became so lost back in 1989 when it happened. When Uriah passed away in 2008 at age 26, I picked up the )story and began writing as a positive way of going through my grief & mourning of losing him for good. I decided to use his interview and write it in his person so the reader could experience his initial joy, then oncoming fears, frustrations, fatigue, pain, and then full circle to relief. NRM: What message would you like to relay to your readers? ELAINE DACH: I would like to relay a two-fold message to my readers. First, to hold onto the lessons & advice they receive from those older & wiser, so they may draw from these in a time of emergency. Second, would be to encourage them at any young age to start writing about their own experiences and keep writing,

NEW READER MAGAZINE

build up a collection of work, let other writers or teachers in their life read their work & advise. My wish for them is that one fine day they will get published and be blessed to have their work turned into a film or another type of success story. NRM: What do you think is the role of a writer in society? ELAINE DACH: I think we have a tremendous responsibility as writers to keep readers informed. To dedicate ourselves to writing the truth in matters. In these trying times, it’s helpful to write about things that can entertain, encourage, and uplift the minds and spirits of our readers.

NRM: Are you working on something else right now? ELAINE DACH: Yes, since I have been writing for years, so I have 4 other children’s stories in a holding pattern. They deal with bullying, fears, accountability for children, and sports. I have lyrics (from my poetry) for songs that I sent to a recording company to develop music for it to become a potential hit song. I have my Poetry Manuscript, I spoke of earlier with 150 plus poems on different themes & topics for future publication.

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Poetry

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Featured Author Bookstores

Mahmood Shairi INTVW by Keith Ayuman

Is it possible to live and dream? Struggling through the fast-paced lifestyle and struggles after stepping foot in America, Mahmood Shairi has lived his everyday life chin up and focused on his goals ever since. Fueled by encouragement from his pastor and friends at a bible study group, he chronicles his experiences in his book, An Iranian and His American Dream. In this issue, we talked to Mahmood Shairi as he shares the memories from his past and the present he worked hard for his whole life, faith, and the unbreakable hope. NRM: What inspired you to write An Iranian Boy and His American Dream? MAHMOOD SHAIRI: Over the last few years, many people have told me that I have had a colorful life and that I need to put my story on paper and write a book. Especially the pastor of the church I was going to, his name was Ron Johnson. At every bible study, everyone sat around and talked about their life and what was happening with their life. Every time I started talking about my life and the stories, they heard the pastor telling everyone to let me put my stories in a book. NRM: During your writing phase, as you progress further, what surprised you the most? MAHMOOD SHAIRI: What surprised me the most was all of the things I put in the back of my mind or forgotten about. Once I started writing everything just came alive like it just happened yesterday. Things that I have not thought about in years. NRM: How do you picture your book being adapted to the big screen and who will be your target audience? MAHMOOD SHAIRI: People of all ages. People who are starting a new life and going through tough times. Those that do not lose hope for a better tomorrow. Tomorrow will always be better than today if you have faith in God and in yourself. Middle-aged people who have been divorced 2 or 3 times until they give up on marriage cause’ it’s just not working for them. It took me 7 divorces. Finally, I met my soulmate and the love of my life, and now, I am the happiest man in the world.

NEW READER MAGAZINE

NRM: Any advice/s to aspiring writers? MAHMOOD SHAIRI: Never assume your writing is not good, not important, or no one is going to be interested in your story. Have confidence. Do your best. I have had a few people bringing me down when I began writing this book including some of my family and friends, but I never gave up. It took me 2 years to finish writing this book. NRM: Lastly, why should readers read An Iranian and His American Dream? MAHMOOD SHAIRI: Maybe I can inspire them to think if a 15 years old boy from a third-world country can achieve prosperity in America then I can too. Maybe learn something from my mistakes from reading this book so they won’t do the same.

New Featured Reader Author Media

Yank Shi INTVW by Christine Ade

The concept of time-space travel is indubitably fascinating despite its “impossibility” at present, given the limitations of technology. In this debut novel, World’s End and the Sea Angle, author Yank Shi brings the bibliophile universe into a journey of seeing beyond the world we’re introduced to—the normal forms, environments and the phantom in us. Read on as Yank Shi shares with NRM the message and creative process behind the World’s End and the Sea Angle and its connection with the realities of our time.

for some new form of art creation. Of course some plots in the book need to be revised and some new plots might be added to make it more characteristic and dramatic for a movie.

NRM: Your book World’s End and the Sea Angle touches on a unique theme of time-space travel. What was the inspiration behind this brilliant concept? YANK SHI: I have had the idea to explore a path in literature to broaden the current time and space span in the universe with imagination beyond our normal scope of view. Time-space travel is fascinating for me, as well as for a lot of people I suppose, although no actual travel like that has been realized so far at present. I think literature should be a field for our imagination to hover about freely.

NRM: What is the message that you want to relay in this work and how do you want your readers to interpret it? YANK SHI: In this literary work I intend to relay to the readers the following messages:

NRM: Your book was released just this March 30, 2021 hence, we could assume that the pandemic has been part of the journey in writing and publishing it. How did the lockdown and feelings spurred by the health situation help, negatively or positively, in the process? YANK SHI: The story in Chapter 23 Pandora’s Box of the book touches the reality of the current pandemic that is spreading throughout the world. The 3 chapters in the sequel of the book are all related to human’s blasphemy against God’s will and the serious consequences brought about by it. The lockdown during the pandemic actually provides me ample time in conceiving and completing stories in the book. I have been in a quiet mood in facing this terrible situation. NRM: The romance and concept of time-space travel in your book may just be what book-to-screen fans are looking for the next time they drop by the cinemas. What do you think about your book having a movie adaptation? YANK SHI: It is a good idea to adapt the book to a movie. The characters and scenes in the far future and remote past might be fascinating for the present audience who are thirsty

About human beings, whether they are in the East or the West, in ancient and modern times, aliens and the earth people, despite their distinctive lifestyles, they all have similar “human nature”. The difference in space-time coordinates does not make them into different and incompatible aliens or extremes. This understanding runs throughout the story from beginning to end. In philosophy I have presented my new and original theories such as “matter and spirit unity” and “created by heaven and earth” in a literary approach. They reveal the inseparable relationship of spirit and matter, and synchronized creation and evolution. These ideas are the core of ideology and main theme in this book which should be expressed in some way in a movie adapted from the book. I hope the readers of the book and the audience of the movie adapted from it could cherish their valuable lives, their love between sexes, their love of all mankind and the world. NRM: Before you published World’s End and the Sea Angle, have you had other works published? Are you working on new projects at the moment? YANK SHI: This book is my virgin novel, my first work of literature. Before that I published some articles in linguistics in some language magazines in China. At present I am working at another novel that describes a person’s three consecutive lives by reincarnation in three different eras.

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Contributor’s Corner

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Fiction

FEEL, LOOK (BACK), AND WRITE by Rosalie O. Abatayo

t four years old, young Kat sat at the kitchen table with crayons and colored construction papers on hand—her tools in creating her own storybooks, complete with illustrations and narratives formed by sentences scribbled in that child-like, chicken scratch fashion.

Now, years later, adult Kat Devitt still finds getting lost in the stories she writes the best part of her day. Her passion and inspiration in writing and creating worlds in her story sit not very far from that four-year-old girl who couldn’t care less whether her tongue sticks out as she sinks deep into the creative realm. “My stories have been influenced by everything around me. Everything I read. Everything I see, smell, taste, hear, touch. Everything I experience. Everyone I meet. All my memories,” Kat tells NRM. These memories and experiences, for Kat, are bits and pieces of a mosaic—a story—and part of her job is to sift through them, turn them around and upside down, until she finds the right spot for them in the canvas of the tales that she tells. “I take my experiences and memories, and I weave them into the plot and characters for depth. I feel like you can’t really be a writer if you’re not willing to explore personal traumas, pains, and happiness to breathe life into a story. Without it, you’re denying yourself and your readers a chance to live in your fiction,” Kat deduces. When it comes to influences in her writing, the long list could go on forever. Among these names are legends in literature like Jane Austen, the Brontë sisters, Edgar Allan Poe, Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu, Neil Gaiman, George R.R. Martin, and Sarah J. Maas. At times when Kat is away from her desk and not scribbling ideas for a new story, you can probably find her in bookstores, getting her hands on books to add to her pile of to-reads. To Own Her Body In this issue of NRM, Kat brings us one of her pieces, To Own Her Body, a period fiction where she explores the paradox of telling a story of a woman’s autonomy from the point of view of a misogynist.

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Contributor’s Corner

“I take my experiences and memories, and I weave them into the plot and characters for depth. I feel like you can’t really be a writer if you’re not willing to explore personal traumas, pains, and happiness to breathe life into a story. Without it, you’re denying yourself and your readers a chance to live in your fiction,” Kat deduces.

“I had a hankering to tell a story from the viewpoint of a 19thcentury gentleman, but not the chivalrous, self-sacrificing blokes that litter period fiction. I wanted to tell a story from the viewpoint of a misogynistic, self-serving gentleman,” Kat reveals. And you guessed it right! The inspiration behind this treasure stems from her experiences and the insights she got looking back at them. “There have been times, within society and close relationships, that I’ve felt my mind doesn’t matter, only my body. My thoughts, opinions, and beliefs were disposable, but my body, and its presence to maintain an image within those relationships, were all that were desired from me,” Kat opens up. The characters in To Own Her Body are all based on people she had met in real life, spanning from those with whom she had close relationships to people that left an impact on her albeit brief encounters. While one may ask how a piece of period fiction could connect to present conditions, Kat quips this response: “Please read my story, and then I invite you to think about it. What’s a woman worth without her thoughts and opinions? Without love to give freely? What’s a woman without her autonomy?” On Period Fiction and more… One of the first things you’d get from a Lit 101 class is the setting—the backdrop of the story—and how important this element is to the entirety of a narrative. Kat Devitt’sTo Own Her Body is set in 19th century England. This setting is popular in most of Kat’s creations, whether it be romance, fairy tale, suspense, or ghost story. Kat’s knack for period fiction stems from her interest in exploring a different world, society, culture, and age, and bridging the past to the present.

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Fiction lust, love, and on and on. I love how historical fiction acts as a time machine and allows writers and readers to experience humanity the way previous generations possibly saw it,” Kat explains. But Kat’s crafts are not jailed in the four walls of period fiction, no. As much as she hates being constrained as a person, Kat also despises a myopic take in her work. In fine, her words and tales go as far as her imaginations bring her. “I write whatever story is currently living in my head. If someday a face fantasy lives in my head, I’ll write that. If it’s suspense with a modern setting, I’ll write that. If it’s a cowboy space opera, I’ll write that,” she says. Kat is not all ink and parchment, though. In fact, she just got herself a Nintendo Switch and has itchy fingers over the latest Rune Factory installment which will be released this 2022. She also loves the outdoors! “Once this pandemic fades a bit more, I hope to pick up some hobbies I had previously, like tripping over my toes in Zumba classes and planning trips over to Europe. But who knows when that will be?” she shares. Unlike in most of her pieces, Kat lives and dwells at present—in 2021, where everyone tries to live in a “new normal” because of the COVID-19 pandemic. She too had to make adjustments and foresaw things that did not actually materialize. “For my day job, I had to work from home for over a year. In the beginning, I thought, “Hmm. My commute is only from the bed to the couch, and my pajama bottoms are my new work clothes. This is going to save me a lot of time and allow me to spend more time writing!” Kat shares. A trivia, To Own Her Body is a product of Kat’s productivity during the pandemic! Although there are days that ideas and creativity flood her, spurring her to continue writing pending drafts and even start new ones, episodes of anxiety and depression have also visited her, which most of us can relate to. At present, Kat is working hard to go a notch higher and finally venture on full novels. Yes, that’s plural! She is now working on a historical romance novel which she intends to make into a trilogy, plus a dark historical fiction novel, and another historical romance novel outline she also hopes to make into a series. It doesn’t stop there, as Kat is also now on research work for a contemporary suspense book. That looks aplenty and we’re surely looking forward to getting our hands on these after reading To Own Her Body.

“We’re as human now as we were two hundred or two thousand years ago. Our technologies, customs, traditions, cultures, and environments evolve, but we still experience the same range of emotions: sadness, joy, defeat, triumph, revenge, compassion, lust, love, and on and on. I love how historical fiction acts as a time machine and allows writers and readers to experience humanity the way previous generations possibly saw it,” Kat explains.

Best of luck, Kat!

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Contributor’s Corner

NEW READER MAGAZINE

New Reader Poetry Media

What Lindsay says of

WRITING & REMINISC ING by Jazie R. Pilones

ave you ever found nostalgic items that reminded you of a good childhood while cleaning your room after a year? Or walked past a spot on the street where you rescued your first cat? Or heard a heartfelt song played in the restaurant that reminded you of your ex? Posted an old photo of your mom and dad on Instagram with the #throwbackthursday? There’s just something good about these memories that makes us feel all sorts of emotions, isn’t there? More than the nostalgia, reminiscence can also be therapeutic, sometimes, depending on what you are looking back on. But what’s essential at the end of the day are the lessons these memories taught us and how it shaped who we are today. Since the pandemic, most of us are stuck at home doing work, while others are too busy looking for something to do, and some pick up where they left off with their old hobbies such as, among others, writing. Although writing has been part of her for the longest time, Chicago-based writer-slash-editor Lindsay Phillips goes back to expressing herself in writing and spends more time nurturing it amid the pandemic.

“I’ve written on and off for years, but it was during the pandemic that I became more disciplined,” Lindsay shares with NRM. Lindsay is among the countless who have endured the banes courtesy of the disruptions brought about by COVID-19. But she, too, is among those who endeavored to look at the brighter side—seeking light in dark places— and proved that we could do something creatively productive and uplifting at these trying times. “I was laid off because of COVID, and I needed a way to structure my days and feel productive. Writing helped to ground me in a time when so much was out of my control. I liked knowing that I was creating something,” says Lindsay. Of Memories and Looking Back Lindsay’s demonstrated works primarily deal with memory and contrasting emotions that arise when examining the past. Her work has previously been featured in The Vanguard and at UW-Madison’s Literati Conference. Often, we say that what we create is inspired by personal experiences, carrying in it bits of ourselves. How was it for Lindsay?

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Contributor’s Corner

“I was laid off because of COVID, and I needed a way to structure my days and feel productive. Writing helped to ground me in a time when so much was out of my control. I liked knowing that I was creating something,” “My writing has always felt incredibly personal. Most of the time, I write about thoughts or memories that I keep going back to. Writing lets me explore them as thoroughly as I want to, and it gives me the ability to look at something from a few different angles at once, which you can’t always do in the present moment,” she adds. Although we may not exactly like everything we remember, one cannot deny how each event of the past forms the person he or she becomes today and in the future. For Lindsay, nothing influences her more to write and add richness to life other than her recollections. “I think the reason I always come back to memories is that they change. Technically, they’re made up of one moment. But each time you think about one, it changes a bit. It could depend on your mood when you’re reflecting on it, or information you know now but didn’t at the time. All these things color that memory, and I love the idea of all those layers of emotions and revelations piling on top of one another,” Lindsay says. “I hope my poetry creates an immersive image of a specific moment, especially the moments we often think of as mundane. I hope it shines a light on those and reminds people to look a little closer.” Apart from poetry, Lindsay looks forward to trying her hand at fiction. “It’s always felt a bit intimidating, creating a fully developed story arc, but it’s a goal I have for myself. But yes, I will continue to write about memories,” she shares. Lindsay’s works, Blue Green Grey and White Flags are among New Reader Magazine’s treasured pieces in this issue. Flip through our pages and read more of her works.

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Poetry

My writing has always felt incredibly personal. Most of the time, I write about thoughts or memories that I keep going back to. Writing lets me explore them as thoroughly as I want to, and it gives me the ability to look at something from a few different angles at once, which you can’t always do in the present moment,

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Literary Work

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Poetry

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Contributor’s Literary Work Corner

Ivanka Tsepesh

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Fiction Poetry

Dirt road walk home ELIZABETH WITTENBERG

Bamboo creaks a haunted house’s cry in the wind Ghosts live on in trees. As breeze breathes heavy with memory, bamboo stretches away, screams to be left alone. Banana leaves take a different approach as dust blows amongst the places where they are split at the veins, they whisper. And between gusts, still air meets a collective clench.

Elizabeth Wittenberg was born and raised in Chicago but now calls New Orleans home. She has been an avid reader and creative writer since childhood, reading and writing a little bit of everything. She loves to travel, spend time outdoors, and make people laugh. She has had many random jobs.

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Literary Work

Lines

ELIZABETH WITTENBERG

we are twenty-five and I have just begun to notice laugh lines forming at the corners of your eyes the most beautiful thing I have ever seen so much so that the sight brings tears to mine slight narcissism a joy in seeing something you’ve worked for come to fruition it is always a team effort though a community art project carving lines into the faces that we love I chipped the last stone from the deep indentation between my mother’s eyebrows the chisel passed off to me by my brothers worry in relay and those lines by your eyes, I cannot sign my name to in the same way but that will not stop me from picking up a brush and making it my job to make you smile

iolya

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Poetry

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Contributor’s Literary Work Corner

pluie_r

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Fiction Poetry

The Forest ELIZABETH WITTENBERG

I enter the forest wild and messy just like me she is mean with her sticks disguised as snakes and her snakes disguised as sticks I step gently so as not to disturb her and all her guests find accidental satisfaction in each and every heavy crunch underboot sink deep where the muck is thick, mired in I admire parasitic vines strangle-holding mighty trees I swat mosquitoes extricate myself from forced stillness I move through her, as the breeze rattles leaves dry with the cyclical nature of time I forget that I am not alone here hear barking dogs and laughing kids I walk faster to maintain depth in and also with the forest I hear music from a house beyond the woods’ edge and know I have met my trail’s end I turn around and trudge out, head down in reverence I find a clearer puddle to wash the muck off my boots

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Literary Work

TO OWN HER BODY Kat Devitt

C “

an you believe I’m handing in my bachelor’s cap for a wedding band?” Alexander Courtenay, the fourth Viscount Belgrave, asked, languishing in the sunlight streaming through a bay window as he cocked up a silver-backed mirror to check the crevices between his pearly white teeth. James, his nearest and sheerest friend, stood at his favorite place in the room; the sideboard lined with crystal cut decanters filled with an array of Eaux de vie. He splashed the fruit brandy into two cups, giving himself the more generous of the portions. “It still confounds me how you’ll be a married man before sundown,” James remarked. “Why is it surprising?” Alexander stared into his reflection’s cerulean blue gaze, his auburn curls shimmering red and gold in the morning light. “What’s difficult to comprehend is how handsome God molded me. It comes as no surprise I’ve had scores of women vying for the position of my wife.” “Oh, stop your preening.” A white cloth fluttered over Alexander’s head, eclipsing his view of the stunning face in the mirror. “James Percival Haverleigh.” Alexander clawed the handkerchief off his head and flourished it over his shoulder. “How many times must I tell you not to throw articles of fabric at me?” Alexander glowered at James from across the study. James met his ire with an unapologetic smirk. “Only my mother is allowed to address me with my full Christian name.” “Shall I call for your mother on my behalf, then?” “You make your face an enticing target when you behave like a peacock.” James sipped straight from the decanter, smacking his lips together, whetting his taste for more. “Tastes like pears. Oh, how divine.”

NEW READER MAGAZINE

“Don’t tipple without me,” Alexander scolded. “I’m the one who needs fortification. It’s my wedding day, after all.” “Right you are.” James plucked up the two glasses and stumbled towards Alexander, his steps already heavy with liquor. “Don’t spill,” Alexander said, setting the silver hand mirror on a nearby mahogany drum table. “Oops.” James pretended to stumble over a gold tassel sewn to the corner of a burgundy and forest green Persian rug. He twirled to avoid the scrolled arm of a settee, recovering his bearings in front of Alexander. A laugh tickled in the back of Alexander’s throat. “Wait until after my vows to break your neck.” James chuckled as he handed off a glass. The one with the least brandy, of course. He raised his glass high, nudging Alexander’s elbow to encourage him to do the same. “To your husbandly rights!” James cheered before downing his brandy in one swift gulp. Alexander preferred to sip on his liquor. He enjoyed the path it burned down his throat, a hint of pears lingering on his tongue. Warmth slowly seeped into his belly from the fine eau de vie, mingled with thoughts of Della, his lovely bride. Once Della changed hands from her father to Alexander, she’d belong to him. Bound by man’s laws and holy vows uttered in Cottersbury’s little church. Alexander craved for total possession of his Della. Of her body. His tingled in anticipation of the wedding night when she’d be splayed out beneath him, her champagne-colored hair fanning across his feather pillows, her skin lustrous in the firelight burning low in the hearth. Alexander enjoyed another heady sip. “Della is a lovely lass. She compliments my empyrean looks.” James fell onto the settee, throwing a casual arm over the backrest. “And her large dowry and familial connections compliment your ambitions.” “I wouldn’t be the first gentleman in England to marry a pretty face tied to wealth and status. Someday, it’ll be your turn.” “Let’s hope that day is far away and over many horizons.” James eyed me skeptically. “You’re certain Lady Della is who you want to be leg-shackled to for the remainder of your life?” This wasn’t the first time James had tried to prod Alexander away from Della.

Fiction

Annette Shaff

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Literary Work Alexander puffed out his chest. “Della will see me as her savior.” “You’re not a white knight, Alexander. If Shakespeare still lived, he’d pen you as the villain.” “Thank you for your faith in my character, my dear friend.” Alexander abandoned his place in the sunlight and strode deeper into the study’s shadows, closer to James. “Society sees Della as damaged goods. Despite her scandal last summer, I’m marrying her. She’ll adore me for rescuing her from eventual spinsterhood.” “While you reap the benefits of her dowry and her father’s connections in London.” “I cannot climb the ladder if I abide by silly things like whether or not a lady’s maidenhead is intact. I wish to advance my plans for a textile mill, here in Cottersbury, and Della’s father is the right man to help me find the funding.” “I wonder if Della would have been so keen to accept your proposal if Mr. Elijah Taylor still lived.” “What’s better than a dead opponent?” Alexander lifted a careless shoulder. “Mr. Taylor is buried six feet under somewhere, beside the great Shakespeare for all I know or care.” James swirled his glass. “Memories are a potent danger, Alexander.” “Stop driveling like a character from one of those silly Gothic novels. Della suffered a romantic streak like any girl of seventeen, but she’s now a woman grown with more practicality than fantasy in her head.” “Have you taken a peek down her ear and checked her mind?” “Do I need to?” Alexander asked. “It’s not her mind I’m marrying.” James studied Alexander for a long, strenuous minute. “Does she love you like she did Mr. Taylor?” Alexander stuck his nose in the air, certain his shadow cut a winsome figure on the forest green damask walls. He parted women like Moses did the Red Sea with his classical looks. Della was just another drop in that sea. “How could she not love me?” Alexander asked. “I’m more handsome than that poor, village tailor ever was.” “There’s more to love than physical beauty.” Alexander sneered at this frequent use of the word “love.” James had always been the more tenderhearted of the two, scribbling alcohol-fueled poems until the evening hours while Alexander slept off his crapulence. Love had no place in marriage. Money, power, and breeding determined unions made by the aristocracy. James was a baronet. He held a position amongst the elite, even if he was several rungs down from a duke or marquis. He should have known the rules their class lived by. Alexander opened his mouth, rearing for a lecture. But then the door burst open. He lurched back, brandy droplets drizzling onto his expensive Persian rug. For a moment, Alexander thought Mr. Elijah Taylor’s corpse had clawed his way from his grave, hellbent on stopping the wedding by strangling him with his undead claws. Instead, the Countess of Pennmore, his soon-to-be mother-in-law, quivered in the doorway. “My Della.” Lady Pennmore blew into a snotty handkerchief. “My sweet girl, she’s...she’s…”

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Alexander cringed at the sagging woman shaking in layers of crinkled gold silk and tulle. He’d have preferred Mr. Elijah Taylor’s corpse to this feminine display of tears. “What’s the matter?” Alexander asked, his tone frayed with annoyance. Alexander expected to hear something trivial. He wouldn’t have been shocked if Lady Pennmore’s distress came from a tear in Della’s dress or the flowers in the church wilting to their stems. Lady Pennmore dabbed at the corners of her eyes, which did little good, as there were already streaks in her layers of caked-on rouge. “Della has gone missing.” Well, that’s not what Alexander anticipated hearing. Alexander set his brandy down. “She’s not in the house or somewhere on the grounds?” “No,” Lady Pennmore sobbed. “We’re searching everywhere for her. An army of servants is scouring the woods near Pennmore Manor while Della’s father has braved the cold to seek her out in the village.” Alexander pursed his lips. It’s the height of summer, you ninny. No chill threads through the air. Lady Pennmore would do well in picking up a quill and penning novels. She had the feverish mind and dramatic prose for writing the romantic balderdash women so adored. “Who was the last person to see her?” Alexander asked. “Miss Gray.” Alexander’s chest palpitated. “Miss Margaret Gray?” Lady Pennmore nodded. Miss Gray’s name left a bitterness in Alexander’s mouth. She’d been the trollop to pass letters between Della and Mr. Taylor. For Miss Gray’s part in the scandal, Alexander never understood why Della’s parents allowed her to remain friends with the deceitful, little shrew. “I’ll go speak with Miss Gray,” Alexander said. “You’re the epitome of chivalry. Della chose well…” A fresh onslaught of tears slurred whatever else Lady Pennmore said. “I’ll find her.” Alexander’s promise was more for himself than Lady Pennmore. He’d become a laughingstock if Della jilted him. She, who had little marriage prospects. She, who had conducted an affair with a man far below her station in society. His nails bit into his palms. He wouldn’t suffer it. Alexander snatched up his glass and swigged the rest of the brandy. “In my absence, Sir James will console you.” James struggled out of the settee. “Hold on. I think I’ll be of better use searching—” James was cut off as Lady Pennmore flung herself against James’s chest. “Oh, thank you, sir.” She wiped her nose against his burgundy silk waistcoat. “Thank you.” James scowled over the countess’s head and mouthed “traitor” as the air was squeezed from his lungs by a clawing countess. Alexander shrugged at his friend, slammed his glass down on the table, and stormed from the study in search of his runaway bride.

Fiction **** Alexander’s legs were sore from an hour of riding his favorite bay stallion, Desmond, by the time he tracked down Miss Gray. He found her leading a search party through the northern part of Pennmore Manor’s lands. Her buttercream skirts were hiked up, revealing a glimpse of the doe brown half-boots she wore as she picked her way through thick underbrush, an army of footmen and stable lads trailing behind her beneath the leafy fingers of oak and sycamore trees. “Let’s go a little farther before we return to the manor house,” Miss Gray called over her shoulder to the search party. When Miss Gray didn’t hear Desmond’s hooves churning dirt, Alexander rumbled her name on his approach. “Miss Gray.” Tendrils of mousy brown hair fluttered loose from Miss Gray’s chignon as she whipped around. Her pale pink lips pinched as she recognized Alexander. He returned her disdain with a sneer. Miss Gray gave Alexander a thorough study from his black top hat to the silver cufflinks holding his gray coat sleeves together. “Viscount Belgrave. At last, you join us in the search for your dear Della, but you don’t appear dressed for the occasion.” “I’ve been preoccupied with finding you,” Alexander said. Miss Gray’s brows creased with suspicion. “Why?” “To ask you a few questions.” Miss Gray looked to the servants waiting at a standstill as their conversation progressed. The party watched their verbal exchange as if it were more interesting than a boxing match between London’s most renowned pugilists. Miss Gray flashed them a polite smile. “Go,” she ordered. “I’ll rejoin in a few minutes. I doubt Belgrave and I will be long. His attention span is much shorter than…” Miss Gray’s gaze drifted downwards, making her point plain. Somehow, she made her innuendo sound like the most proper thing born from a lady’s mouth, which might’ve been why a few of the male servants were comfortable enough to chuckle. Only one or two lads with scruffy wisps on their chins had the modesty to blush. Leaves crunched beneath mud-splattered boots as the search party progressed forward. “Was that necessary?” Alexander asked. “My insult?” Miss Gray shrugged, all nonchalance. “You deserve every barb aimed at you. It’s your fault Della has gone missing.” “How dare you shoot accusations at me. You are not my bride, nor can you speak for her.” Miss Gray crossed defiant arms over her chest. “I’m her friend. I’ll defend, protect, and love her. All things you’ve never done, especially the latter.” “What does she expect from me?” Alexander asked. “Flowers? Poems? Love letters?” “Elijah gave her all those things.” Alexander’s grip tightened on his riding crop. If only I could strike down this slut. He reined in his violent temper. He’d find another way to even his tally with Miss Gray. “His memory will stop overshadowing my wedding day.” Alexander slashed the crop through the air, as if he were Zeus sealing his decision with a lightning bolt’s strike. “Lady Pennmore

said you were the last to see Della. Tell me what happened.” Alexander waited for Miss Gray to speak, but all the woman did was glare at him. If she could incinerate him and Desmond in this wooded spot, she’d have smiled at their ashes and walked away. “Well?” Alexander prodded. “I’m not a dog to be commanded.” “I’ll remain with you until you tell me.” Miss Gray rolled her eyes. “Goodness, I couldn’t think of a worse punishment. Sincerely.” She hiked her chin up a notch, her brown eyes glittering. “We were preparing for the wedding, and the next minute she was gone.” “So suddenly?” “Yes, I assisted Della’s lady’s maid in dressing her, but as soon as she was done up in her stays and wearing her wedding dress, Della started to cry. I dismissed the maid and sat with Della on her bed. She told me her fears, and I tried to reassure her.” “What does she fear?” “Marriage to you.” Nothing happened to Alexander’s heart at those cold words. No icy water doused his hopes; no fire pulsed through his veins at the thought his bride loathed him. If anything, Alexander was annoyed. “And?” Alexander pushed. “And I told Della that she doesn’t need to marry you. I pressed her to jilt you, but she explained her parents demand the marriage. They believe she will never find a better offer.” “Because she won’t. Della should worship me as her hero, her savior, for rescuing her from a future as a pariah.” Miss Gray’s upper lip curled as if she’d smelled garlic. “Because you and every other stuffy lord in England consider her ill-used? Because she dared to love? Men may keep mistresses and visit brothels before and after marriage. Why can’t a woman follow where her heart leads?” It was Alexander’s turn to roll his eyes, but instead of to the heavens, to the back of his skullcap. Alexander needed to remember he was speaking with a bluestocking that thought God ordained her as man’s equal, but she couldn’t be more wrong. The fragile female mind needed guidance—male guidance. Desmond stamped an impatient hoof as wind blasted through the forest. Murmuring from the search party grew close, their shirt sleeves shushing, their boots snapping twigs scattered in the underbrush. Alexander reached out to stroke Desmond’s mane. “Love isn’t practical for a highborn lady. She must stay within her class.” “As her dowry’s money breeds more money? But for who, Belgrave? You? It’s not fair.” “I’m not here to philosophize with a bluestocking. Where did Della go?” Miss Gray’s face turned a peculiar shade of red, but her tone remained calm, even. “Della said she needed air. I offered to join her, but she stressed needing time alone. She took something from her vanity before slipping out into the gardens.” “You’re certain she went into the gardens?” “I saw her picking a bouquet from a window before I went to find her maid. After that, I didn’t see her again.” “Thank you.” Alexander tipped his hat at Miss Gray, stiffly, with

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Literary Work only formality motivating that gesture. “It’s easier having a rotten tooth pulled than talking to you.” Alexander turned Desmond around, but Miss Gray stepped in front of his stallion, preventing him from leaving. If not for the angry quiver to her lips, one might have called her mouth kissable. “You might not feel anything through the chunk of ice numbing your heart, but she loved Elijah,” Miss Gray seethed. “She gave him every part of herself—and I mean everything. You may possess her body, her dowry, and her parents’ esteem, but you’ll never own all of her.” “I’ll have ownership of all I need—her body. Considering her body houses her mind, with some direction, I’ll have full control of her, contrary to your bizarre notions, Miss Gray.” “She’s known real love with Elijah. You’ll never control her.” Miss Gray stepped to the side, giving Alexander the chance to ride off. She smiled smugly up at him as if she’d had the last word. Maybe I’ll lash her after all. Alexander took a deep, steadying breath. He’d not harm her. Miss Gray wasn’t his to reprimand. “Della would have never fallen into this folly if you’d been better towards her,” Alexander said. “Exchanging letters and arranging secret meetings with a poor tradesman with barely a home in the village. What friend are you?” “I gave Della happiness.” “You encouraged her to hope. That’s the downfall to happiness.” Alexander pointed his riding crop toward Miss Gray. “But now I think I know where to find Della.” As Alexander took the crop to Desmond’s hindquarters, Miss Gray shouted, “I wish you had died of pneumonia and not Elijah. It was your demand he delivers your clothing that got him caught in that rainstorm…” Miss Gray’s words were swallowed by the wind as Alexander forced Desmond into a gallop. **** Gravestones emerged through the branches as Alexander beat them down with his riding crop. Far off, on the top of a hill, rested the church, its windows dark and faded. No one stood in the gravel drive waiting for him and Della to emerge from its doors united as man and wife. Alexander bit back his vexation as he rode toward the hill and hoped Della waited in one of the pews, a bouquet in her hands, her skirts soiled with mud. She had to be frightened at the prospect of married life. Miss Gray had indicated as much. Alexander could forgive Della one more indiscretion—if only he could find her—to avoid the gossip. He didn’t need his good name associated with the scandal of being jilted by a hussy lovesick for her dead paramour. Drifting in these thoughts, Alexander was blind to his surroundings until Desmond halted in the middle of the church’s graveyard. “Desmond?” Alexander clicked his tongue at him, but Desmond only stamped his hoof against the ground. “What is it, boy?” Alexander took his crop to Desmond’s hindquarter. He whinnied in protest as he sidestepped. “You’re being ridiculous,” Alexander crooned, his grasp

NEW READER MAGAZINE

loosening on the reins. “There’s nothing to fear, you silly horse.” Desmond tossed his head, behaving as if he’d seen a phantom. Alexander turned Desmond in small, tight circles to calm him while surveying the landscape for whatever spooked him. If he found the monster his stallion perceived, he’d have Desmond walk circles around the object to show him there was nothing to fear. On the second turn, Alexander found Desmond’s monster. His heart sank into his stomach. He stopped Desmond and studied a mass of white tulle laying on the ground, leaning against a tombstone several yards away. “Della?” Alexander spurred Desmond away from the white mass to avoid spooking him further. He dismounted in the shade of a crab apple tree, tied Desmond’s reins to a branch, and hurried towards the motionless heap. “Della?” No answer came. Doubt niggled. That couldn’t be his bride, but who else in Cottersbury would wear all white on this day? His suspicions were confirmed when he neared and recognized her fair hair and pale skin. “No.” Alexander scrambled onto the ground beside her and scooped her up into his arms. He brushed blonde tendrils off her face, finding her emerald green eyes peering up at him, unmoving, her eyelashes spiky and damp as if she’d been crying. “No, no, no,” Alexander chanted. Of all the words in his massive brain, it was the only one he could think to utter. Alexander scrambled for her wrist and checked—no pulse. “What’s happened? Answer me.” Alexander gave her a shake—and a vial rolled from her slender fingers. He stared at the glass. “What—?” He plucked it off the ground, held it up to the clear, blue skies, and shook it. A few white grains leaped in the vial. Grains as white as her dress. Alexander’s gaze fell to Della. Her peach-peel-colored lips were slightly parted, as if she’d taken her last breath while murmuring a prayer. “Foolish girl. What have you done?” No tears burned Alexander’s eyes. He had none to give his pale bride. “How could you be so cruel to me?” Alexander whispered. He looked to the tombstone shadowing him and Della’s corpse. Elijah Taylor lies here, lived 1820 to 1844. A bouquet rested on the chiseled granite stone. Roses and lavender were bunched together, still fresh, still fragrant, but dead. Much like Della in Alexander’s arms. Her body was warm. Her beauty lived in the hollows of her ashen face. But she was no longer rooted in this life. He now owned her body, but only in death, with her love and mind gone. “Hussy.” Alexander shoved her body from his lap, sickened by the romanticism behind her last action. “You’d never have made a good wife. You’d have sat at my breakfast table with memories of him in your head. You’d have spent nights in our marriage bed, under me, pining after him.”

Fiction If only she was still alive to hear his venom. “Oh, God.” Alexander’s stomach roiled at a worse realization. “If she’s discovered here, I’ll never be able to show my face again.” Della’s story would fill scandal sheets for weeks, if not months. Her death would stir gossip for even longer. Sniveling poets might immortalize her in flowery poems, and England’s public, plagued by romantics, would consume their words. Alexander saw the next several years of his life overshadowed by a dead girl and her dead lover. Ladies would flick out their fans and circulate rumors about him when he entered ballrooms. His Tory peers would snicker while he gave speeches in the House of Lords. Polite society would gawk at him, mock him, ridicule him. Alexander hoisted himself off the ground and glared down at Della’s body. “I won’t allow it to happen. Not after how you’ve abused me.” He wasted no time. He led Desmond over to her corpse and hauled her onto his back. He’d pitch her body somewhere in the forest, posed with the vial in her hand. No one would praise her romanticism—or more importantly, ruin his reputation—if she were found lifeless in the forest, her motivations a mystery. Alexander congratulated himself on his inventiveness as he walked Desmond across the graveyard and into the forests, but as the branches scratched his arms, he heard a sharp intake of breath.

Alexander lurched back. His heart thumped against his ribcage. “Della?” he murmured, his breathing shaky. He studied her but found she still lay limp across Desmond’s back. Alexander felt eyes knifing into him. He looked beyond the trees to the edge of a glade not far ahead. Miss Gray stood there, her fingers covering her damnable mouth. Wide-eyed, Miss Gray asked, “What have you done?”

Kat Devitt is a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee whose short stories have appeared in Books ‘N Pieces Magazine, Suspense Magazine, The Writing Disorder, and other venues. Kat’s short story, “The Scent of Lavender,” was narrated in Episode 441 of the Tales to Terrify podcast. When Kat isn’t busy writing short stories or working on her novels in progress, she can be found in a used bookstore, Zumba class, or cuddling her three cats on a lazy Sunday morning. To learn more about Kat or her writing, look for her on Twitter at @kat_devitt, Facebook at @KatDevittRomance, or Instagram at @thekatdevitt.

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Literary Work

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Poetry

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Literary Work Art

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Painting Fiction

Scooter BISWAMOHINI DHAL

Biswamohini Dhal is a Fashion Designer from Odisha, India. She is a National Institute of Fashion Technology (NIFT) alumna (Bhubaneswar campus) and winner of the Best Design Collection Award 2018 at NIFT Bhubaneswar, Odisha. She has over three years of ongoing experience in the fashion design industry. Her love of indigenous art and craft has led her to work with artisans and craftsmen in several regions across India. Biswamohini has been a recipient of numerous awards in painting and sketching. She does graphic art, water colour art, doodling, soft pastel art and pencil art in her spare time. She can be reached at dhalbiswamohini@gmail.com.

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Literary Work Art

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Painting Fiction

Home BISWAMOHINI DHAL

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Literary Work Art

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Painting Fiction

Clothesline BISWAMOHINI DHAL

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Literary Work

itsK

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Poetry

The Mind Moves Back an imitation of Richard Hugo’s “The Freaks at Spurgin Road Field”

CHRISTIAN VINSON

A pillowcase, kittens, and the Chehalis. Dad says he’s being humane, he lies to himself. Isn’t it shit, how the mind moves back. Today I walk, alone, in the woods. Elma, early, eager to hit the dirt before my thoughts. A pillowcase, kittens, and the Chehalis. Beneath a fallen branch I see a black bag. Isn’t it shit to be here and there. Isn’t it shit, how the mind moves back. I play Tekken 2 while mom screams with each strike from a drunken dad and I just turn up the volume. A pillowcase, kittens, and the Chehalis. These walks are always long, the air is always cold. I always see what I don’t want to see. Isn’t it shit, how the mind moves back. The guilty like the numbing that comes with cold. Isn’t it shit, how the mind moves back to a walk by the river that should have been warm. A pillowcase, kittens, and the Chehalis.

Christian Vinson is an undergraduate student studying Professional and Creative Writing at Central Washington University. With an alcoholic father and a drug-addicted mother, Christian Vinson had a tumultuous childhood. Vinson uses his upbringing as a driving force in his work. Vinsons writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. He is planning on pursuing his MFA upon completion of his undergraduate program. Two of his poems, Definitions and The Hard Thing, have been featured in the June issue of NRM. Born in Carson City, Nevada, he spent his first fourteen years bouncing around unstable households across the Pacific Northwest. Vinson lost contact with his mother when he was five, and his father died when he was fourteen. During his last four years of high school, he resided with his stepmother and her abusive boyfriend. He currently resides in the Seattle area.

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Literary Work

Kristina Tsvenger

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Poetry

Tradition CHRISTIAN VINSON

It was an Easter tradition for my family to hunt lizards at the isolated cemetery in Genoa, Nevada. We’d get there just before dusk, when the sky was purple, and the lingering heat promised that the sun would return the next day. If I was lucky, it would rain and awaken the sage, making it dance with the air. I’d chase alligator lizards until the horizon snuffed the sun’s flame. Then, the headlights would come on. I searched for lizards around graves in the light of the truck until a smash of a bottle and a sudden scream came from the bed. I ran around and found my mom sobbing into her hands, blood sneaking out the cracks of her fingers. A 40oz. Old English was shattered all around her feet. My dad looked at me with eyes that said I was next if I spoke up. “Let’s go. Your mom hurt herself.”

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Literary Work

Anna Ismagilova

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Poetry

The Pig CHRISTIAN VINSON

In that trailer with the windows spray painted black I sat while you fucked off, man after man. In that trailer, I had a pig instead of a mom. That pig watched me. That pig made sure I didn’t interrupt the flow of dope into your veins. I sat silent so the pig wouldn’t snap. Trapped by its stare, I rarely moved. When the pig slept, and you nodded off I sat on the trailer steps looking to the moon for assurance there was more than that sharps container soda can home. Like you, the moon ignored me. That pig was mean but that pig was there when you were busy trading our food stamps for meth. I don’t want to be angry that I knew a 500 pound hog better than I knew you. I want to forget I want to move on I want to forgive you– How do I? How do I forgive you for loving the high more than your son? I can’t, but I forgive that pig.

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Literary Work

When Throwbacks Become Our Here And Now Bill Arnott

A passage from Bill Arnott’s forthcoming travel memoir, Gone Viking II: Beyond Boundaries. From what may be my favourite journal, dog-eared and embossed with a map of the world, frayed pages held in place by an elasticized band, while taped to the inside back cover is a photo of me and my dad: Travel. The allure of escape, exoticism, and yes, for some, bragging rights. For the rest of us, it represents time-warp slivers of childhood—when this world remained a place of mystery, adventure. Where you can live, for a spell, a hero’s life—desert sand, high seas and buried treasure. X marks the spot to other worlds, imagination, moments when the universe is nothing more than pure potential.

NEW READER MAGAZINE

I was on the sofa in our tiny highrise apartment, the ambient score a rattle of shopping cart wheels on sidewalk, reminiscent of passenger trains slowing through town, crossing roadways. Clack-clack, clack-clack … clackclack, clack-clack. Identical journeys in their way. Somehow synesthetic. The same familial line of sensory sounds associated with every peregrination—whirr of rubber on bitumen, rumble of engines asea, and the wind-fueled rustle and snap of mainsail and jib. I remembered losing myself in the incubating whoosh of a bow parting ocean in feathers of froth, a blend of cocooned isolation combined with utter connection. And the comforting, familiar yet foreign hum of coach tires speeding on sand—New Zealand highway where road was literally the coast, low tide sand that stretched for miles to the dunes at Te Paki. Speed limit on the beach: 100 km/h. The light there at that time was the same as where I am now—flat, dampened sunshine, the kind that makes you squint, tear-up, and question your emotions. Every photo from that long, dreamy trip is over- or under-exposed, muted in a way I now realize captures the experience precisely. Back to the train, or more accurately, trains. We’d been living with covid for what seemed a very long time— numbers spiking again at an alarming rate. And I was attending a lecture, virtually. Propped up in a nest of plump pillows, feeling like a sultan, a steaming cup of coffee to hand. Travel author Monisha Rajesh spoke to us through laptop screens, as she was the presenter for London’s Royal Geographical Society lecture series. The subject? Her travels around the world on eighty trains, some of the world’s most scenic.

Non-Fiction

It had been a year or so since my own travel plans had been cancelled as a result of the pandemic—flights, accommodations, rental cars and commuter trains— refunds received, some forgone, airline points reinstated and turned into cash. From a traveller’s perspective, things looked dire, other than a pleasant but fleeting debit balance on the credit card. So along with a stack of travel-lit, -logues and -memoirs, I was doing my best to quell wanderlust as best I could. And for a jonesing dromomaniac, Monisha’s globe-spanning lecture was an ideal, albeit temporary cure. When we eventually swapped messages, I was pleased to learn one of her favourite experiences on that expansive journey had been her travels in Western Canada, specifically through British Columbia and the Canadian Rockies. Interestingly, the same pockets of planet a globetrotting friend from Greenland described as her favourites as well. When I rode a similar route aboard Via Rail years prior, I felt much the same. Even as a local I was awed, slicing through mountains of sandstone, limestone and shale, a route I’d bisected many times in a car, but somehow from the sliding perspective of a train, the same land’s renewed. Invigorated. Old stone reborn. Join me for that rail-bound journey, skirting the Canadian-American border with a northerly lilt, a sharp jog north, then a gentle traverse south, returning to the Pacific. If you’ve read my memoir Dromomania, some of this trek will be familiar. While the beauty of that ongoing journey, individuals met, and those windows onto life’s meaning remain ajar, I believe this “Viking” voyage, shared space and travel, resonates now more than ever.

*** Bill Arnott is the award-winning, bestselling author of Gone Viking: A Travel Saga and Gone Viking II: Beyond Boundaries. His work is published around the globe. When not trekking with a small pack, journal, and laughably outdated camera phone, Bill can be found on Canada’s west coast, making friends and misbehaving. Bill Arnott Archives - Rocky Mountain Books (rmbooks.com)

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Literary Work

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Poetry

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Literary Work

Moljavka

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Poetry

White Flags

LINDSAY PHILLIPS

Separated and sent to our rooms because we’d been Fighting, my brother winds up a hot wheels car and Sends it racing down the hallway and into my room. It is a peace offering because our rooms are too quiet And we are too lonely and we don’t want to fight Anymore because today is rainy and we are the only Playmates each other has. I wind up the car and send It back to show that I accept his offering and the car Speeds back and forth across the wooden floors and Through doorways and likely scratches the floorboards But we don’t care because we are absolved and laughing In whispers so mom and dad don’t hear (though they Can certainly hear). We don’t know yet that forgiveness Won’t always be this easy. That white flags can be too Heavy if you wait too long.

Lindsay Phillips is a Chicago-based writer and editor whose work has previously been featured in The Vanguard and at UW-Madison’s Literati Conference. Her writing deals primarily with memory and the contrasting emotions that arise when examining the past. When not reading or writing, she can likely be found drinking too much iced coffee or accidentally overwatering her plants.

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Literary Work

Maria Kuza

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Poetry

Blue Green Grey

LINDSAY PHILLIPS

Lying in bed, he is looking at me With his blue green eyes, which sometimes look grey, And I feel a chill descend my spine And re-rise to settle in the base of my neck It makes part of me wonder if you can feel A dopamine release as it happens But another part of me tells myself To shut my brain off just for now, And look at his blue green eyes, which sometimes look grey, Because there may come a time when I can’t. There may come a time when He won’t look at me the way he looks at me After I’ve made him laugh. Won’t reach to hold my hands in his When mine are cold - which is always He finds that charming - but charm can fade Maybe one day I won’t feel his breath On my neck while he falls asleep holding me Marvel at the thought that his body is as close To mine as it can be and still I want it closer.

Or maybe there will come a day When I look into his eyes and they Won’t look blue green and sometimes grey they’ll just look dull And I’ll wonder how I ever thought them remarkable. I’ll forget that they once moved me to write. Forget I wore out minutes like an old sweater Stretched the memory of them around me To keep me warm until I saw them again. Lying in bed, he is looking at me With those eyes that yes, change color, But I know there’s still more magic to be found. I squeeze my own eyes shut and hope To hold onto those colors forever, Blue green and sometimes grey Dancing on the inside of my eyelids. When I open my eyes back up his are still there waiting for me I tell myself that for this moment, that’s enough

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Contributor’s Literary Work Corner

ALL THE WAY TO THE END OF THE LINE Bradford Middleton

We used to run wild and screaming out of this town and Into the normality of the rural Sussex life and this one Time we hit the old town of Lewes and kept on going. We wanted it all and we wanted it on this trip to what we Hoped could be the magical mystery discovery of Wondrous god-damn beauty. We sat on the bus and it Kept on going; further into the sprawling countryside Dominated by detached houses and signs warning of Security cameras. Eventually, everyone else had got off the bus and at What we were told was the penultimate stop our Driver turned and looked at us. “Look guys, where Exactly are you going?” he asks. “All the way To the end of the line,” I reply, “just to see what is There...” “There ain’t nothing there,” he tells us but, how Can that be i think, as surely where there are Lives being lived and jobs being done there must Be some kind of action. We get off the bus and Walk all around and see no one or even any cars And I turn to my friend, “Funny hey, think that Bus driver may have been right...” I say and so We walk on down to a stop that will take us all The way back to our weird glorious little dystopia.

Bradford Middleton was born in south-east London during the long hot summer of 1971 but didn’t begin writing seriously until he landed in Brighton in early 2006 when knowing no one and with no money, he holed up in his room and began writing. His fourth chapbook was published last year by Analog Submission Press and he’s recently been featured in publications such as Ariel Chart, Mad Swirl, Evening Street Review, and right here at New Reader Magazine. He’s just completed his second novel.

NEW READER MAGAZINE

kirill_makarov

Fiction Poetry

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Literary Work

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Poetry

I SIT ALONE WITH THE GOOD TIMES Bradford Middleton

I sit here tonight with my old friends The ashtray, nearly empty and with vast swathes Still left to fill, a bottle, that still has lots left That needs to be emptied, and my radio Playing something hard in the background. Tonight I’ve switched to some classical music Station as all the news anchors drone on about The upcoming apocalypse, due any day around Now as the virus takes hold of this planet Gripping it hard. Some people have been told To stay in their homes for up to 4 whole months Whilst others are free to go on their panic fuelled Rampages through every shop buying every last Tin of beans and every single roll of loo paper And all because of simple fear.

It’s going to get you the media scream, Whipped into a frenzy of speculation and Worst-case scenarios, by a government who Seem to have no idea of exactly what is going On. I guess they figure all their voters will Be safe and responsible holed up in their Already paid for homes whilst others must Struggle on. My life has been reduced to nearly nothing As today the library shut and a portal to my Online world slammed closed and then as I got home a call came in, a horrid automated Voice telling me my phone won’t be working So now I have nothing. No pub or bar to Go get drunk in, no library to go to and no Phone to call anyone and the feeling that, Right now, i’m more alone than I’ve ever Been before and am really loving it. The radio plays some beautiful piano melody As these words come on through and with 3 more full days off work we’ll see just how Many words we can get on down.

UschiDaschi

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Literary Work

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Fiction

Mummy Tinuke Sabrina Anati

Rafal Kulik

hen the white ceramic plate Tinuke had received as a wedding gift crashes to the ground, it is her mother that shouts, ‘Jésu!’ All the way from the living room. Mummy Tinuke is a middle-aged burly woman with a tongue usually coated heavily with sarcasm and prayers. Her hair is graying around the temples and she just wears braided cornrows without any attachments because her scalp stings when she uses weave-on. Her naked feet pad along the carpet, taking her from the living room to the kitchen in less than fifteen rushed steps. Her wrapper is tied firmly around her waist, but she loosens it and ties it again when she sees her Tinuke bent over the broken plate. ‘What are you doing?!’ she says as she rushes and pulls the girl away, grasping her fingers for a thorough and panicked inspection. ‘Tinuke? Tinuke? You’re already married, must you worry me like this?’ she’s relieved that there are no cuts, but more than two decades’ worth of habit forces her still to scold the younger woman who just smiles mischievously. ‘Mummy, if I don’t worry you, who will?’ ‘Nobody. Nobody should worry me. Ah, haven’t I tried? Raising you and your big head with all the trouble you caused. I’m already fifty, allow me to enjoy the rest of my life without worry.’ Tinuke laughs as if her mother has said a joke, playfully pushing her out of the kitchen. ‘Oya, go and rest, Madame Queen. I will bring the food to you when I’m done.’ Mummy Tinuke scoffs. ‘…as if there’ll be any plates left.’ She’s alone in the living room again, the space is grand and white, accentuated with black furniture and brown décor. Somehow it adds to the sense of unrest she has been feeling since she managed to get out of bed earlier in the morning. Opposite the living room is the study. A room with darker walls than the rest of the house and a warmer friendlier feel. Mummy Tinuke loves this room the most, besides her own bedroom of course—books are wonderful, but not more than a bed. Her favourite thing to do when her soap operas have shown and the television is no longer capable of showing her anything interesting is to wander about the study. The room is not as grand as the living room, but it is rather long and filled with its own wonders. At the nearest end of the room, lined along the wall that separates the study from the entrance to the house is a barricade of shelves. High enough that it stretches from the ceiling to the ground, each line filled to bursting with books. Many of the books are of an academic

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Literary Work nature, books about law and medicine and economics. Many serious books a scholar might pick up in research. Mummy Tinuke is no scholar, she’d barely made it through primary school, had forced herself to get a secondary school certificate after she’d stopped halfway because of her marriage. Her late husband had been a firm believer in the doctrine that women belonged in the kitchen taking care of their families rather than in schools. It’d been pure horror when she’d decided that Tinuke would get an education regardless of what every other person in her family had to say. The world is simply not a safer place for an uneducated woman. It took one erratic trip to a catholic church for that realization to sink in. That the world never favoured the ignorant, nor did it favour women. An ignorant woman was all the less lucky, as Mummy Tinuke had been. That day, when she’d visited the Catholic Church, had been the first time she’d ever spoken to a very educated woman without feeling inferior or inadequate. The reverend sister’s name had been…Esther, and she’d been a Hausa woman. That had been the most shocking thing. An educated Hausa reverend sister. Mummy Tinuke had asked how it’d been possible to become educated as a Hausa woman of a lower class, and even more, not just become a Christian, but a reverend sister. Esther had laughed. A beautiful sound, or maybe just a normal sound that had been made more comely because of the beauty of the woman that had made it. Nothing is impossible through Christ that strengthens us, she’d replied. It was difficult, several times she was almost killed, but she had achieved it and was very much still alive. Mummy Tinuke, rocking the crying child on her back had been filled with awe and respect and envy towards the woman. That was not an answer. How had she done it? Mummy Tinuke had demanded to know. Why had she done it? Surely it must have been a terribly difficult thing to do. Under the warming sun of that harmattan morning, Sister Esther had pulled aside Mummy Tinuke and had shown her the gruesome scar that lined her neck. From one side to the other. She’d seen a book lying abandoned on a street one time when she was ten and already married. She’d picked the book to show it to her husband and have him explain what it was. She’d been eager, as a new wife, to have his attention always. But the result had been a thorough beating and a near decapitation with a sickle. It only made her realise that perhaps living in ignorance was how people wanted to be able to control others. She’d said that if you knew for yourself what was right or wrong it would be hard for somebody to convince you that wrong was right or right was wrong. It was why most people preferred to not have others know. Awareness is not easy to manipulate, and education fostered it. Sister Esther had said, at the end of it all, ‘I decided to study because I was stubborn. Hard-headed. I was nearly killed and was very afraid, but I still wanted to know why. If my husband was not going to tell me, I was going to find out on my own. That stubbornness led me here…somehow. I followed a dream that was not entirely my own, and now I live my life to help other people. ‘It’s not a sad thing. I don’t regret anything, but if I had known the things I know now at that time, my life would have been…

NEW READER MAGAZINE

different. I might have had a plan of my own all along. I might have still ended up here, but I think I would have come here with a bit less scars.’ Those words are with Mummy Tinuke now as she trails her fingers along the spines of the academic books. She remembers the nights her husband had beaten her, the nights he’d tried to beat her Tinuke, the nights he would throw her out to the streets and how the doors of all her friends and families would somehow also be locked to her on those nights. How different would her life be if she’d been a bit less stubborn? How different would Tinuke’s life be? Suddenly, melancholy and tiredness overcome Mummy Tinuke. Her back is aching and her knees are beginning to creak. She goes and seats on the dark leather chair behind the expensive desk. It is at the other end of the study, a short, uncomfortable stroll away from the shelves, but from that seat the entire room is visible. From that seat future generations are visible. Mummy Tinuke sees them. Children born into steady, privileged lives. They would have struggles of their own, everybody has struggles of their own, but those struggles would not be as crippling or as scarring as the ones she had faced. It might be because she’d chosen to fight that they would not have to, it might be just because of their luck. Mummy Tinuke sinks further into the chair, it’s comfortable the way only expensive chairs can be. She yawns and smiles when she smells the aroma of egusi soup. If she could, she would have bet all the money she had that her Tinuke would serve the soup with fufu even though her husband absolutely detests it. She laughs. Her daughter favouring her over the husband is an enjoyable weakness of hers. The idea that somebody in the world, the only person in the world, in fact, loves her the most is relieving. Mummy Tinuke has wished many times that she’d gotten a proper education, perhaps then she might have had a dream of her own. Perhaps then she might have understood how it felt to be a driven person. But if personal dreams will cost her Tinuke, she knows she will never trade it. She would fight a hundred husbands, sleep in a thousand gutters, and weep silently for a million years than live a life where Tinuke was not her own. Mummy Tinuke falls asleep to the memory of her sitting by a gutter in the rain, her upper body covered with a large nylon. Her husband has kicked her out again, but this time she’s made sure to leave with her baby girl. The girl is safe and dry and fast asleep on her lap. The wind is biting, but the girl is warm because she’s wrapped in Mummy Tinuke’s wrapper. The older woman smiles and sings and shivers because she’s naked in the rain. The memory is such a sweet one that Mummy Tinuke smiles, and sleeps, and never wakes up.

Going by her penname Sabrina Anati, the author is a 20-year-old university student in Nigeria. She is starting to engage in freelance writing. She has yet to be published on an online platform besides Wattpad and Anystories.

Fiction

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Literary Work

baoyan

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Poetry

Another Village KYLIE WANG

Where distant mountains of faded green can be seen through the gaps in between assorted buildings and low-hanging trees, I remember that antiquated apartment On the smeared coral bricks arranged in a street. Through iron gates the worn path goes and meets grainy walls of bleached rose Decades ago untarnished, square and grandiose, Now tinged with sun-muted yellows. Carved windows, curtain-laden and dark offset the arced blades on their skeletal frames— The electrical fans’ whirs sliced the summer stillness. Pipes navigated the vertical terrain, its leaks staining the surface with mossy tears of age. Corrugated sheets of rusted metal lined above, Like rigid, rasping pages overlapping to form a shelter when sombre clouds blanket the land on tranquil days over rooftop gardens where the wizened dwellers gaze —at the blooming pines on rippling hills among the miniature dollhouses— A pincushion of skyscrapers faraway. I remember that quiet nook amidst the ceaselessly buzzing city. Another antiquated apartment, in 又一村 Yau Yat Chuen—Another Village, they named the modest town of assorted buildings and low-hanging trees, Through the gaps of which distant mountains of faded green can be seen.

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Literary Work

Davdeka

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Poetry

Nostalgia’s Watch KYLIE WANG

Tick. Tock. The gold-coated clockwork hung above the enfolding waves, its polished needle approaching North in even increments. The Hand stretched, pinched with two fingers and rewound the clock. Darkness cloaked the horizon for the minutes after, The water swished endlessly, and above, the clockwork ticked, until at 11:30, the warped image of a beige room appeared in the black ripples: Metal bed. Plastic-sticky furniture. Sterile light from inset fixtures carved indifferently into the ceiling. Beneath the frequently washed sheets, a shrivelled body… At 9:45, a second-hand table emerged in the waves, propped with a rusty lamp. Strewn envelopes littered the floor, like leaves fallen from a withered tree. Stark white against rotten floor planks, Papers printed, with ant-like words, and impartial numbers. The view tilted precariously. In the swirling eddies, there was almost the sound of heavy, laboured breathing, and suffocating pulses of heartbeat. The Hand kept turning. It passed eight o’clock. Six o’clock. Scarlet wine trickled into a clear glass. Thin dresses, plain suits, sugary smiles and strained laughter. Their lips mouthed silent words meticulously designed not to anger.

The needle pointed now to five, now to four. Scenes dashed by, a blinking city, a feast in snowy lace, A brick school, stained with wallpaper mold and outside with moss. Above brew a witch’s storm, as morning faded to twilight. Flashes of lightning caught snapshots of splintered reflections. Lithe fingers waltzing on ivory keys of a glossy ink piano. Huddling in the bushes, splattered with mud, twigs stuck in boots. Looming figures, a gentle caress, turned into a pointing finger— The Hand passed 1:00. The images dissolved. The water calmed. All that remained was white sand, soft as sunlight, wishing, as always, that gravity would reverse, to fall upward, and return to the crystal curve at the top half of the hourglass. Midnight. The delicate line had looped and snaked back to where it began. The Hand plucked the clock as payment, pressed the cool glass into the palm. The vortex gurgled, and sunk into a small, round drain, Droplets that turned into iridescent pearls. Tick. Tock. as they fell.

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Literary Work

CYC

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Poetry

Travellers KYLIE WANG

In the echoes of history, embarking from the harbours of China And washing up on the cliff shores of a typhoon-ravaged island, We forged an emerald haven amidst rocking hills, where buildings sprouted, Draped with lanterns and paper like jewellery of red and gold. A gem lurked in every corner of labyrinthine night markets— a shabby stand— across generations, serving pearls of sweet potato, or noodles in thick, scalding soup. In the remote building camouflaged among grey apartments with aching joints, I would gulp down the treat, then curl up in the moisture-laden summer atmosphere, Listen to the documentary on television, in murmured Taiwanese:

A lullaby I don’t understand but always recognise, weaved into an ancient, homespun song. Again fifteen years ago, my father marched off a plane, returning to the origin, Bare but for a suitcase that packed his unerring diligence. Hong Kong, too, is assembled from skyscrapers, a striking cadence in ceaseless evolution. I grew up there, among the old, stained buildings and criss-crossing streets Veins of underground trains overflowed with students and businessmen, both crisply dressed, Swaying alongside aunties hugging their pot of orchids for Lunar New Year. They ride to young towers spiking towards the clouds like the prongs of a glittering crown.

At night, a collage of shop signs glow in neon colour, And from our balcony I watched the sleepless car lights wind around roads etched in memory. Finally, the plane ride to America on a rainy morning two years ago, Through the clouds, the sun stubbornly beams, like arrows pointing A sweet whisper to a fresh melody: “this is where you come from, this is where you’ll go” As fluorescent lights shine in descending nightfall from across the ocean.

Kylie Wang is a Taiwanese writer (she/her) who grew up in Hong Kong. She is now a high school student in California. Her work has been recognized by the Scholastic Arts and Writing Award, Bluefire 2020 Journal, Mt. Diablo’s Young Writer’s Contest, and Creative Communications. She spends her free time reading on my Kindle, coding or playing with her four-year-old brother.

NEW READER MAGAZINE

LiteraryLiterary Work Work

Syda Productions

ROCKET’S JAZZ Adrián Duston-Muñoz

NEW READER MAGAZINE

y friend Tal and I used to crash piano stores for fun. Here in Los Angeles, millionaires cruise around in cutoff jean shorts and Priuses. It was never difficult to convince salespeople that a couple schlubs like us needed a showpiece baby grand for the solarium in our imaginary cliffside haunt in Malibu. Once the ruse was set, we’d head straight for the Bösendorfers and Blüthners, feigning indifference to their half-million-dollar price tags, ogling their European curves, and using our fingertips to coax fluidity out of their nascent, delicate actions.

Non-Fiction

I saw the project as an investment, my contribution to Rocket’s birthright as a musician. By intent, the playlist is mixed. Big band to hard bop, instrumental to lyrical, standards to fusion. Not an appetizer so much as a tasting menu, allowing Rocket to investigate any number of subgenres as he gets older, all while making sure Alex can tolerate the three-hour-plus runtime. Come to think of it, I never bothered to ask Alex’s tastes. I blame the patriarchy. The first song is Haitian Fight Song, by Charlie Mingus. I tried to imagine myself, blind and dumb, curled up in my own private uterus. The fluid makes it hard to hear, but that Mingus bassline reverberates through any sac, amniotic or otherwise. Add the erratic, almost spooky percussion, alluring enough for a zygote to raise his yet-unformed brow. Then the groove kicks in, first by bass, then barry sax, tenors, trombones, and trumpets. It’s a cacophony that could awaken even a prenatal nap, and truly give it #permissiontoboogie. This isn’t about that song. It’s about the second song in the playlist, The Nearness of You, an old vocal standard, as performed by Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong. Like Tal and I, my father is a pianist. Dwight has been a musician for almost seven decades. He was born to second-generation Polish-Americans in Detroit in the 1940s, and he started on accordion around the age most of us start on solid foods. Laugh if you must, but the accordion is an elegant instrument that gave a teenager his first gig, as the youngest member of a semipro Dixieland band. Skippy, as he was known then, was only fourteen, but a quick learner. He had to audition for Alvie, the bandleader, who had once played trombone in Tommy Dorsey’s band. The seasoned pro was hesitant about this tall kid with the ‘specs and side part, but ultimately decided to give him a shot.

Tal’s wife is named Alex, and she’s a friend. They’re an easy couple to love: Their official wedding hashtag was #permissiontoboogie, which is mostly meaningless but fun, much like their marriage. They’re expecting their first child, a boy. I was honored when they requested a playlist, assembled by me, that they could play to Alex’s belly. Their only condition was that it be exclusively jazz, a genre that Tal enjoys, but in which I thrive. I dubbed the playlist “Rocket’s Jazz,” for the placeholder nickname they’re using until birth, and I began immediately.

Toward the end of the first rehearsal, Ralph, my grandfather, showed up. While disassembling their horns, the band asked Skippy why his father was there. “He’s my ride. I don’t have a driver’s license yet,” he responded. They whooped and crowed, but a proper musician has no age. If they can keep a beat, follow the changes, and cover their end, then that’s just a fellow coworker. Fluency, he had. What he lacked, it turned out, was materials. After rehearsal one day, Alvie pulled Ralph aside: “Your son needs to get himself a bible.” Ralph chortled. “You’re telling me, Alvie.”

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Literary Work “Not that. I’ve got a friend,” he said, “he’s got a stack of fake books, the musician’s bible. The FBI is onto him, so he’s selling them cheap before they nab him.” Hold on just a second. This was a nice story about my friend’s baby, and then my dad’s Trombonist mentor. How’d we get to the FBI? A brief primer: A fake book is a collection of sheet music, almost. Cobbled and hewn expressly for professionals, a fake book is to Chopin’s Complete Nocturnes what Salisbury steak is to filet au Poivre. The charts are three to a page, compressed and smudgy, often transcribed from memory, messily collated, and cheaply mass-produced. They give the seasoned player just enough to summon any tune that’s called, or “fake” the ones they can’t. Inauspiciously bound in a plain, 1½ inch three-ring binder, this compendium contains over two thousand tunes going back to the 1910s. It is the definitive working musician’s bible. It’s also used for showing horn players that not everything is written in E-flat and that they should shut up. Again, I say: why the FBI? The answer is a fascinating and crooked saga, but its cornerstone is an indefatigable truth of American history: wealth lubricates justice. In this case, the recording industry was losing money to copyright violators, so they sicced the FBI on ‘em. My father’s story is much less dramatic. He and Ralph split the cost of thirty dollars to Alvie’s friend (down from sixty due to the heat), Skippy got his fake book, and J. Edgar Hoover never came knocking. At this point, it’s more antique than contraband anyway, frayed and brown, resembling an actual bible more than ever. After finding it several years ago, standing upright on the floor next to my father’s piano, it changed the way I learn music. Now, whenever I hear an old-fashioned song that’s unfamiliar—Spotify, Netflix, even an ad—I’ll look up the tune and consult the bible. It’s exciting; I own the cheat codes to the bygone world of The Great American Songbook.

I can’t explain why I love this song so much. At the moment, I suspect it’s the fallout from the pandemic, which has diluted intimacy to a six-foot radius. Each of us has blubbered at a Facetime call or yelled at a Zoom screen, facsimile projections of our loved ones which, ironically, lack electricity. For a year, more, we’ve confessed and cried to anodes and diodes. I’m talking to house plants. A bit more of this, and they’ll respond. We’ve maintained our closeness, but nearness is quite literally beyond our reach. We’ve learned that, truly, it’s not the pale moon, nor soft lights, nor sweet conversation/that brings this sensation. It is, ironically, tragically, hopefully, woefully: the nearness of you. The last time I saw my father, I played him The Nearness of You, hoping that he’d have a take on it. He knew it, and could even see the changes in his head, but couldn’t remember how or why. We consulted the bible, but it wasn’t there. It wasn’t in the bible. We were flabbergasted. The changes aren’t that difficult. I’m sure I could figure it out by ear. Yet, I’m reminded of what musicians never tell you, the ironic tragedy of the trade: learning a song can be so gruesome a dissection that the romance is often spoiled. After all, you’re not just memorizing something to recall, the way you would a joke. You’re changing the behavior of your fingers such that the song becomes a rote motor function. Only when your hands take over, can your mind stumble upon the place where the music is your own. And the only way I know to do that is through repetition. Practice for a musician—REAL practice—is ugly. You start out loving this song. By the time you take it off the grill, the burger is so well done that it’s like biting into ash. I wonder now if I’m not meant to learn this one. Tal, Alex, Skippy, Ralph, Alvie; the fates have conspired to keep this song shrouded in mystery, to retain its virtuous allure, permitting me to love it the way a child does. Decades ago, I used to listen to my father play the piano and felt like he was performing magic. It’s a rare sentiment, and one that I now cherish. If The Nearness of You allows me to remember that, if only for a minute, then it should be left where it is.

Which brings me to The Nearness of You. The song itself is clean: Oscar Peterson plays an achingly simple intro on the keys, setting the tone for his easy comping throughout. He’s backed by his regular rhythm section, joined by an uncharacteristically balletic Buddy Rich. Once through with Ella, once with Louis, then Louis’ trumpet doubles up on the head, with Ella picking it up at the bridge and bringing it home. Even the cover to the LP is etched in my mind: Ella’s pearls and Louis’ highwaters. It’s gorgeous, all of it.

NEW READER MAGAZINE

There’s still one mystery player, the one whose ante we’re all anxiously awaiting: Rocket. Rocket knows. The answer lies with Rocket, I’m sure of it. Perhaps we’ll meet up at a piano store in forty years and he’ll teach me to play it properly.

Adrián Duston-Muñoz has a background in advertising copy, internet content, and screenwriting. Rocket’s Jazz is his first prose publication. He currently resides in Los Angeles, California.

Non-Fiction

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Literary Work

NRM new reader magazine

Helping you connect with your audience online and beyond.

NEW READER MAGAZINE

Vol. 4 Issue 15, "Throwback"

Articles inside

Rocket’s Jazz

Another Village Nostalgia’s Watch Travellers

Mummy Tinuke

Nikka Lindo and her Anamnesis

When Throwbacks Become Our Here And Now

To Own Her Body

Feel, Look (back), and Write

What Lindsay says of writing and reminiscing

Bill Arnott’s Beat A History in Paint

The Mind Moves Back

White Flags Blue Green Grey