Pixel Heart Literary Magazine
ISSUE three: nature
Contents
Letter from the Editor
Page 1
To Have Faith in Troublesome Bounty
Page 2
Sevva
Page 3
Flyweight
Page 5
Trauma Like Initials
Page 6
One More Dawn
Page 7
Call Waiting
Page 9
Eaten, healed
Page 10
mum’s tomatoes
Page 11
Praise Be
Page 12
Karnoss Forest
Page 13
Dunnock
Page 15
Memory Tree
Page 17
Contributors
Page 23
Letter from the Editor Dear Readers, I’m very pleased to be able to bring you Issue Three: Nature. Not only is it the first issue that falls after just over a year of Pixel Heart Literary Magazine’s existence, but it is also a fantastic issue that explores various creative, emotive and wonderous interpretations of the theme of nature. Thank you for your continued support of our small magazine, and I hope you all enjoy this magnificent issue. Best wishes, Chloe Smith Editor
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To Have Faith in Troublesome Bounty Drop the plum pit through the dark from the second floor balcony, aiming for the dirt you tend but can’t see in the night. You are magic: in the morning it is half-planted and proof of your true aim, potential seed displayed where it may someday fruit– and if not, still evidence that your farmer’s intuition has not failed you. There is only so much dirt in the city, and much like me fruit trees are particular before they are sweet. There is no plot, really, here for a tree or time for us to tend it. Only winter can care for this resting plant but by plums we have infinite pits and faith enough for all of them. Eileen Winn
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Sevva
As Sevva entered the bustling marketplace, she was mindful of the fact that she needed to keep a low profile. Unsure of how accepting the people of this village would be of someone like her, she browsed the pottery, quilts, and other wares from a distance. But then there was a sight she couldn’t ignore. A young girl dressed in tattered rags sat in the dirt between two carts. One arm ended with a skinned-over stump at the wrist; the other held a handful of unbloomed flowers. She couldn’t be older than five, Sevva figure, but it was clear that she was there alone. Her face was nearly of full mask of streaked dirt and grease, except for two lines underneath her eyes, running down her cheeks. Two washed trails revealing the tawny flesh underneath the grime. Sevva knelt down next to the girl. “How much are your flowers?” she asked. “Three...uh...two of the copper ones,” the girl answered. Sevva reached into her coin purse and pulled out two coins. “I’m sorry, all I have are the gold ones. Is that ok?” The girl grinned and vigorously nodded her head, then reached out toward Sevva with the stems and buds. “Actually,” Sevva said, “I just remembered I don’t have a vase worthy of them.” She put the gold coins in the small, empty cup at the girl’s side. “But I already promised you the coins.” “Thank you, miss!” the girl beamed. “And one more thing,” Sevva added. She took one of the unbloomed buds between her thumb and forefinger, wanting to help it along. The familiar warm tingle radiated from her touch as the ancient magic coursed through her. She reached out with her spirit and connected with the spirits of nature. She felt the intended order, the purpose, that fulfilled
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yearning at the foundation of all things. She felt life. The buds began to open. Luscious, velvety petals of coruscating magentas, lavenders, periwinkles, and sapphires sprang forth. The girl’s eyes sparkled and the edges of her lips drew up in a toothy smile. It created new creases on her smudged cheeks, using muscles that had been long dormant. Sevva gave her a light boop on the nose, then stood to continue on. Realizing that her act had likely not gone unnoticed, she retreated back into the forest. Back to her home.
Landon Knepp
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Flyweight What does it say ‘bout me if the biggest thing I hunted was a bug? Gerry Sarnat
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Trauma Like Initials Trauma is etched into every fibre of my being like the tree trunk high school lovers use to put their initials in. From a distance, you can't see the letters. But up close, you can witness where the knives dug in removed the bark protection, carved into the white flesh, and scarred the tree for life.
Some injuries are more white than others, fresher wounds still tending to their scabs, while other areas have turned sickly black, mould covered moss that sunlight and seasons couldn't cure.
And so it rotted From the inside out.
There is deadness in me.
But each spring my arms reach out, the buds start soft, not quite trusting that the ice is gone that the sun will stay.
Because yes, there is dead in me, But there is still life, too. Lynne Schmidt
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One More Dawn Most mornings, I wake long after the sun rises in the east. Late in the morning, I rise from sleep and recline to confront the day and its troubles and pains. I don't greet the sun but He hasn't yet forsaken me. Instead, I enter a clandestine affair with the moon, peeking past curtains to catch a glimpse of Her radiance, matching grin beaming as she reflects her circumference in my eyes, lines of moon-songs keeping me up at night.
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But still, I wake long after falling asleep in her arms. Late at night, I toss in my sleep until I wake and face the day.
Juliette Sebock
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Call Waiting In bad weather the phone cuts out, still tied to land. Then again there isn't bad weather if you are the land. You are used to the rain and wind and snow. You are used to what can make your flowers grow. The sun doesn't bother. It is a friend. And humans break lots, refusing to mend. What will you do about what we do? Continue to love or drown us in blue? Oh, great nature, we are arrogant and small. But we'll treat you much better after this phone call.
Rickey Rivers Jr.
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Eaten, healed The skin of us, ungentled, craves the sea and what she has secretly eaten her generous jewelbox belly split open from moon-pull
among her vital foam, spilled gifts four brights of time-scoured glass I pluck and replace our lifestung eyes with soft colours I am giddy from new seeing
and like this, draped in waterbeads and viscera, we heal ourselves with things like us, transformed by having first been swallowed A. Spice
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mum’s tomatoes a dish of tiny cucumbers in odd shapes on mum’s white laminex buffet; a bounty from her garden she grew them so proudly, long manicured nails bent and broken for the pleasure; her football socks, leggings, an old black singlet top, her bigheaded attire I recall the single cucumber on the lattice back at our place, its prickly weight slumped over a plastic pot, sun hot on its skin, a humpback whale dangling, while mum’s tomatoes grew thick with life, in deep red competition with her neighbour Frank, as his formed in bitter clumps of seedless orange. Lisa Reily
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Praise Be Praise be the silvery slug and the iridescent bluebottle feasting on our spills and slime. Applaud the glorious worms dragging our gunk deep beneath soil to transform it into lush humus. Celebrate the splendid organisation of ants, dung beetles and vultures co-operating to cleanse and create a purer world. while we, the dirtiest of creatures revelling in an earth tarnished by our waste and filth without them would drown in our own extravagance.
Tina Morris
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Karnoss Forest Karnoss stood in the middle of the forest with his bare feet firmly planted in the damp, rich soil. Tall beech and elm and oak loomed high above, the fluttering jewel-green leaves letting only glittering slivers of summer sunlight dance down on to the lower holly and hazel. At ground level, there was tangled ivy, bramble, grasses, chickweed, starflowers and sunbells rambling between patches of autumnal leaves and empty seed cases. Karnoss stood in the middle of the forest in a deep and ancient silence. He was miles from the nearest town, hundreds of trees between him and the grassland to the south, the mountains to the west and the farmland to the north and east. Except, as he stood statue-still and listened, breath held, he heard layers upon layers of sound. High above, the warm breeze rustled the countless solar-emerald leaves. A stronger gust caused a branch to creek softly. A flock of pipits chirped nearby, feeding on insects hidden in bark crevices. A wood vole scurried through dry fallen leaves and pattered down into its burrow. Karnoss took a deep breath and let the crystal dynamic verve of the forest fill his lungs, filter into his blood, seep intoxicating into his mind. This was his forest and he was a primal, integral part of it. The forest was old. Generations upon generations of life and death and rebirth had seeped energy into the earth. Over the years, that energy had taken form. First, he had mimicked the animals that thrived there; stag, wolf, boar, bird of prey and bear. Then he took the form of a man; lean and strong and wild, independent and free. He was the spirit of the forest. He could change between forms, bound by the forest and yet unrestrained. He was the stag running under starlit bare branches. He was the wolf howling at the moon, hunt's triumph on his tongue. He was the boar, surrounded by squealing striped piglets. He was the bird flying high, swooping low, twisting between vine-clad trunks; joyous cry harsh in the hushed humid air. He was the bear, sleeping through winter's cold and rummaging through summer's bounty.
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He was a man, dancing with women at solstice celebrations, drinking with men at equinox festivals, respected and honoured. He was the hunter and the hunted, the forager and the finder. Karnoss had watched countless years roll past as the forest changed and yet remained the same. Tress grew from tiny seeds to struggling saplings to lofty goliaths, changing coats of leaves a hundred times or more, before falling to decay. Animals, from tiny bugs to flitting birds to darting fish and scurrying mammals, were born every day. They lived – vibrant, vivid – reproduced and died. The rain fell and the rivers flowed. There were cycles within cycles, changing every year, every day, every heartbeat and yet staying exactly the same. Karnoss stretched his arms high, felt the complex fluent force of life thrum through him, and smiled. Kathryn Nelson
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Dunnock This is what happened. I watched her every Sunday afternoon as she walked past my window with binoculars strung round her delicate neck. Her clothes were a subtle jumble of camouflage browns and greens and her stooped shouldered stride seemed tentative. Often, as she passed the gardens on my street, she stopped, completely still; listening to sounds I couldn’t hear. The way she held her head to one side made something beat its wings inside my stomach On the fifth Sunday, I followed her. At a safe distance. I saw her turn into a lane ahead but I was so far behind that when I reached the path, she’d disappeared. Fluttering loss rose in my chest. The next Sunday, she didn’t show at all. All afternoon, I waited, not moving from the window. A scorched ache tightened my throat as I worried she’d been blown off course somewhere, towards the sun. When Sunday slouched around again, I weeded the front garden, cut the hedge and swept every grain of sandy earth from the path. Scanning the pavement for something else to keep me outside, I finally I spotted her. My heart inflated, all helium. This time I was ready. Keeping up with her, I noticed the areas she favoured were overgrown. Hedgerows. While she raised her binoculars in a slow arc, I focused on how the breeze ruffled through her short hair. My fingertips tingled, anticipating touching the eiderdown fluff at the nape of her neck. I willed strands of my long curls to lift in the wind and stroke her face. I shifted closer. ‘What can you see?’ Her shoulders twitched. ‘Is it a bird?’ I whispered. ‘Hi, I’m Rachel.’ My cheeks chargrilled with shame as her frown creased deeper.
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Charcoal clouds weighed heavily above our heads. ‘What kind?’ I tried again. ‘A dunnock.’ ‘What do they look like?’ She sighed. ‘Small, brown, sparrow like.’ Yes you are, I thought. Tears torched my eyelids. Without turning, her hand formed a flapping signal, waving me away. Helen Larder
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Memory Tree A smashed blue carnation, perfectly pressed between the cement and the gravity holding it there, lifted into the air, and flipped twice before Tracey caught it. She parked her bike—a red and white hand-me-down with a large metal basket attached to the handlebars and a smaller one screwed under the seat. The petals wavered between her fingers in the light breeze. She traced the curves with her brown eyes, filtering out the flaws and specks of dirt. Instantly, she shuttled back into a memory of her grandmother’s immaculate yard. Grandma Celie had the green thumb of the family. She maintained rows and rows of flowers in perfectly manicured flower beds with rich soils. Tracey and her mom had lived two blocks from them before they moved an hour’s drive away to Summer Oaks, a growing town with plenty of shopping malls, restaurants, and not enough dirt. Tracey missed the garden, home to buds of the rainbow, red ones, blue ones, yellow ones. Except for the hideous green monster Tracey called a tree flower, the yard was a masterpiece. The green monster hogged the entire right side of the house. Each summer it grew taller, wider and Grandma Celie couldn’t be any more proud of it. In the morning, she would tug at the large leaves that drooped over the shell-lined pathway, checking them for bugs that might munch on them. It was the only plant she watered from the tin watering can instead of the hose and fed it tiny granules that made the water turn a deep ocean blue. “What you doing today, gal?” she heard her grandmother say on one of their summer visits. She smiled, pulled a weed or two, and moved on, never expecting a response. Tracey was glad of that. She cradled the wilted flower in her right hand and studied the edges closely. She wanted to bet her new Sunday dress it didn’t get any blue water when it was with its brothers and sisters.
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Her shadow lengthened behind her, a natural cue that it was getting late. It was a fun fact she learned from Celie. Her mother would come looking for her if she didn’t make it home before dusk. That was the pact the two had made. She wasn’t ready to go home. She didn’t want to drift under the charade of happiness, the strong face she put on to show her mom she was okay. At school, she hid behind long braids that swooped over her right eye. She forced herself to laugh at her friend’s jokes and, during P.E., she was the last to finish her laps around the track. She was alone. Tracey plopped down on the fresh-cut grass. The cool blades chilled her backside. Her thoughts travelled, and every idea known to her 15-year-old world sparked to life. Front and center, like an old film strip movie, her best friend since fourth grade, stood knee deep in the chilly waters of Lake Chuck. In the summers, she and Lauren swam there, breaking in their new swimsuits for the hot season. The scene fast forwarded to the Piercing Pagoda where they got their ears pierced for the first time. Then, the lens focused on Lauren’s mom. She was in the kitchen baking sugar cookies. She decorated them in coloured sugars—blue on the triangles, red and pink on the hearts, and green on the circles. How she had made it through the past four years was a miracle. She was sure of it. The night before Lauren was gone, they had been studying for the math test. The next day, she didn’t answer the roll call in home room. She missed the test, and she wasn’t there for the makeup exam. To top it off, the day Lauren was absent from school, Tracey triggered the smoke alarms in Ms. Wiggins home economics class after accidentally setting the timer for 35 minutes instead of 15. She needed Lauren to be there.
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In the distance, she heard a familiar voice as a tear tracked down her face. The streetlights illuminated one by one, casting a yellow glow around her. It was past dinnertime, her shadow completely gone. “Tracey?” the voice called out, much closer. She knew the voice now. It was her mom. She glanced at her watch; it was 8:30 p.m. and she was still out on a school night. “Tracey? What happened? Did you get hurt?” Her mother crouched down next to her and touched her arm gingerly. “No,” she said, wiping the tears with the inside of her shirt. She paused before she spoke again, choking back the tightness in her throat. She didn’t want to cry anymore. And finally she said, “Why couldn’t Lauren come back home from the hospital like the girl in the other car did?” Her lips quivered. Overcome with emotions, she held back another rain of tears. “Oh sweetie,” she said, hugging Tracey close. “Sometimes there are no answers for the things that happen in life.” “I miss her, mom.” “I know. I miss her too.” They sat on the curb together; Tracy cradled in her mother’s arms like a newborn baby. Her mom lifted her head. “Remember when she came out of the bathroom in McDonald’s with toilet paper stuck to her shoe?” Tracey blinked a single tear from her eye. “Yes. That was for the zoo field trip. And then I stepped on it and it got stuck to my shoe!” She laughed, hard enough to cause a dull ache in her sides. “Thanks, mom.” “I’m here for you,rkid.” “I don’t think I will ever find another friend like her.”
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Her mother placed an open hand over her heart. “She’s here, you know. And when you miss her, you should talk to her. Ever heard grandma talk to that big plant in the mornings?” “Yea, she isn’t going crazy is she?” “No,” her mom said, after a chuckle of her own. “A long time ago, your grandma lost her best friend, too. Not the same way you did, but she missed Lucie so much. They were joined at the hip just like you and Lauren were.” Lucie moved to New York, with her husband and two dogs, to take a new job in real estate. They keep in touch over the phone, but her grandmother still felt lonely. Tracey knew every bit of how that felt. “Lucie tried to grow those elephant ear plants for years. She could never get it to live more than a month or two,” her mom said. The streetlight hummed above them as it reached its full night-time glow. On the walk home, Tracey pulled her braids back into a ponytail, letting the night chill ride along her moistened skin.
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When the day came to go to the garden centre, she was prepared. She fished through old boxes of pen pal letters she and Lauren had written to each in elementary school. At the bottom of the pile, a pink envelope, folded from construction paper, emerged. It was the second letter she had ever written Tracey, and in it, she wrote about the wide open fields; the birds chirping at the lake’s edge, and how she had spent all Saturday afternoon napping under a dogwood tree. On the back of the envelope, she drew the tree’s long skinny branches in brown crayon and dotted them with tiny pieces of glued cotton to make the flowers.
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The aisles at Greer’s Garden Center thrived with new shipments and happy shoppers. They whistled and hummed through the outdoor space. She passed the fruit trees—lemon, orange and kumquat. Black buckets of thick blueberry and raspberry bushes filled the next row, along with tall ornamental grasses and even taller trees. She read the tags as she walked by them. Small groups of autumn blaze maples, magnolias, and redbud cercises, already flowering with pink buds, completed the row. There were no white dogwoods. Not a single one. She met her mom at the end of the lane. She was talking with an associate, wide-eyed and genuine, like she was meeting with an old friend. Tracey threw up her hands. “Not even one, Mom.” Just when she understood this giant world around her, a torrential rain poured down on her. Even still, her mom smiled. “Here you are, Ms. Rogers.” A middle-aged man with jet black hair wearing a red vest trotted toward them hauling a cart behind him. “One white dogwood and couple bags of soil,” he said. Her eyes, bright as two moons, swallowed it all in. She clasped her hands together and held them under her chin, speechless. The man in the red vest loaded the tree into the car. Tracey sat next to it, guarding it with one arm while she read the information card. She read every word. When they returned home, a second surprise waited for Tracey on their front porch. Grandma Celie hunched over the potted plants, plucking away the dead leaves. Her satchel bag hung on the black wrought-iron rocking chair, its weight holding it there on the back legs. waited for them on their front porch. When they pulled into the driveway, she stood, waving both hands. Within the hour, they planted the new sapling in the ground. Tracey knew her tree—the Lauren tree—would have a great start.
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Tracey, her mother, and grandmother sat around the tree with cold glasses of tea wetting their hands, admiring their evening’s work. “What are you doing today, gal?” Tracey said, tipping her cup to her Lauren Tree. Netta Samuel
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Contributors A. Spice Ankh Spice is a queer-identified poet from New Zealand, obsessed with the sea. He is a survivor of various asylums, including a University where an English degree once happened despite himself. He writes because he has been unsuccessful hiding his lack of skin – so his poetry keeps breathing, even when it hurts, mostly exhaling in natural images. Eileen Winn Eileen Winn is an agender poet from Cincinnati, Ohio who made their way north up to Cleveland. They have been published in Rose Quartz Magazine, at Purpled Palm Press, and in Orpheus Magazine. They also edit poetry for Roam Lit Magazine. Eileen is an avid reader, writer of poetry and creative nonfiction, and pen connoisseur. Gerry Sarnat Gerry Sarnat MD’s won the Poetry in the Arts First Place Award plus the Dorfman Prize; has been nominated for Pushcarts plus Best of the Net Awards; authored HOMELESS CHRONICLES (2010), Disputes (2012), 17s (2014) and Melting The Ice King (2016); and is widely published including by Oberlin, Brown, Columbia, Virginia Commonwealth, Wesleyan, Johns Hopkins, Gargoyle, Margie, Main Street Rag, New Delta Review, Brooklyn Review, Los Angeles Review of Books, San Francisco Magazine. Mount Analogue selected KADDISH for distribution nationwide Inauguration Day. Poetry was chosen for a 50th Harvard reunion Dylan symposium. Helen Larder Helen Larder completed an M.A in novel writing at Manchester Metropolitan University, graduating with Distinction. Her publications include two novels, ‘Treasure’ (Diva Press) and a teen novel, ‘Anarchy’ (Onlywomen Press). She was commissioned by Pavilion Press to write a book and training resource for health care and education professionals called, ‘Understanding Autism - Postcards from Aspie World. She has had other publications with Freya Press and Mslexia Magazine. Juliette Sebock Juliette Sebock is the author of Mistakes Were Made and has work forthcoming or appearing in a wide variety of publications. She is the founding editor of Nightingale & Sparrow, runs a lifestyle blog, For the Sake of Good Taste, and is a regular contributor with Marias at Sampaguitas. When she isn't writing (and sometimes when she is), she can be found with a cup of coffee and her cat, Fitz. Juliette can be reached on her website or across social media.
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Kathryn Nelson Kathryn Nelson is from Brighton, UK. She writes poetry, flash fiction, short stories and novels. She has been writing for her own enjoyment but has recently started sharing her work. Landon Knepp By day, Landon works with teens and adults with special needs, helping them to live independently. He also has a wife who is hilariously out of his league, and two young children whose creativity contribute mightily to his writing. His stories have been featured, or are forthcoming, on Tall Tale TV, Ink and Sword Magazine, Elephants Never, and more. Lisa Reily Lisa Reily is a former literacy consultant, dance director and teacher from Australia. Her poetry and stories have been published in several journals, such as Amaryllis, London Grip, Panoplyzine, Riggwelter, Mused,Wanderlust and River Teeth Journal’s Beautiful Things. You can find out more about Lisa at lisareily.wordpress.com Lynne Schmidt Lynne Schmidt (she/her) is a mental health professional in Maine who writes memoir, poetry, and young adult fiction. Her unpublished memoir, The Right to Live: A Memoir of Abortion has received Maine Nonfiction Award and was a 2018 PNWA finalist. Her work has appeared in Soft Cartel, RESIST/RECLAIM, Royal Rose, Sixty Four Best Poets of 2018, 2018 Emerging Poets, Frost Meadow Review, Pussy Magic, and many others. She is the founder of AbortionChat, and has been and continues to be a featured poet at events throughout Maine. When given the choice, Lynne prefers the company of her three dogs and one cat to humans. Netta Samuel Netta Samuel is a freelance writer and senior editor of Serial Pulp magazine. She lives in Daphne, Alabama, with her husband and four kids. Rickey Rivers Jr. Rickey Rivers Jr was born and raised in Alabama. He is a writer and cancer survivor. His stories and poems have appeared in various publications and are forthcoming in Picaroon Poetry, Dodging the Rain, Neon Mariposa (among other publications). Twitter.com/storiesyoumight / https://storiesyoumightlike.wordpress.com/
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Tina Morris Tina Morris has been around for decades and appeared in hundreds of magazines, journals and anthologies, ranging from Penguin Children of Albion, through Peace News, Tribune, Resurgence, The Ecologist; was co-editor (with Dave Cunliffe) of Poetmeat, then Global Tapestry magazines. More recently she has reverted to teenage-dreams and had two horsey novels published by Forelock Books. Find Tina Cryer on Facebook - and Tina Morris sharing the same page!!
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