Voice of Eve - Issue 17 Sample

Voice of Eve

ISSUE 17 - JULY 30, 2019 COVER ART - SAMANTHA CABRERA

Contents Diana Rosen 4 Abigail A. Kipp 10 Ashley Allen 18 Diana Pinckney X Elizabeth Koury X Ellen Tovatt Leary X Jayashree Sitaraman X Karli Bryant X KJ Hannah Greenberg X Laura Ingram X Mary Shanley X

Ruth Voss X Sam Smiley X Sarah Blair X Samantha Cabrera X

DIANA ROSEN

My Fred Astaire

DIANA ROSEN

My room is awash with a shadowy comb of light, a film noir moment from our once and former life. You are John Payne, baritone rich, moves so smooth. I am Betty Grable, high-heeled legs, singing sassy. We tango in the galley kitchen to the nonchalance jazz of Shirley Horn, jitterbug in the living room to the cast album of Ain’t Misbehavin’, yawn bravura arias with Pavarotti, Sutherland, the other Horne. Finally, we fox-trot to a melancholy track, my ear a conch to the beat of your heart.

How Not to be an Old Maid

DIANA ROSEN

The plan was this, to be unavailable just once.

So, on their usual Friday night together, she left town, chose a lovely hotel-by-the-sea where she paced the floor, dined alone. So alone. And, barely resisted the phone. He dialed her home, got no response, nothing at all. Friends hadn’t a clue. Her apartment was dark. Imagining the worse, he dissolved, fell completely apart.

7 p.m. Sunday, as if on cue, she returned to be greeted by hysteria! Drama! (It did please her so.)

“Oh, I’ve been visiting friends. You know …”

They drove off to Vegas the very next week, and for thirty-six years, traveled the world, always together, referred to as RoseAndJerry, as if there was a need for a conjunctive. And, yes, she confessed to the fear of that loneliest weekend, but never, not ever, regret.

[Previously published in Intergeneration Month, November 2015, online journal. Link no longer works.]

Memory

DIANA ROSEN

You used to walk these same streets with the pride every mother feels gazing into the stroller of her newborn. Oh, he was so pale and beautiful, fragile.

You used to walk these same streets with John in his handsomeness, his voice booming hello to each familiar face. After the accident, dazed in grief until someone ---who was it really -- picked you up where you collapsed carried you to that place that helps heal. The last step in the process, the doctor said, was to walk by the scene of the crash to move on, toward tomorrow. You used to walk this same street every day but this day, you find yourself at the end of the block realizing you’ve missed the actual spot.

The stains are gone. The sidewalk looks clean, new.

You feel empty, until a soft breeze whispers, “Continue.”

About Diana Rosen

DIANA ROSEN’s collection of micro fiction and poems, “Love & Irony” is forthcoming from Red Bird Chapbooks. Also forthcoming is an essay in the anthology about poets and poetry, “Far Villages” from Black Lawrence Press and two poems in the art and poetry anthology, “Lottery Blues”. Her essays, poems, and micro fiction have appeared in Tiferet Journal, RATTLE, Zingara Review, among many others, including the inaugural issue of Voice of Eve.

ABIGAIL A. KIPP

According to an African Creation Myth

ABIGAIL A. KIPP`

We, humans, were whole with two heads two hearts two souls then something broke us in half shattering the mirror of how we want to be. whether it was a god, arrogance or fate. we were meant to find our other half, along the way what we were became so chipped from daily life, the cruelty of humanity, we were unrecognizable. a mess of glass and bone. we could be our past stuck in memories of abuse from loved ones and strangers. a jumble of glass pushing at skin unable to see past the idea of what if, past rape and death. or we could be more.

we could be stronger whole again. with a simple pot of glue.

His Voice in My Throat

ABIGAIL A. KIPP

Do you have any demons Parts of you You wish you could cut out Like self-doubt Because I got baggage Tons of voices in my head Moments of catallysm I should tell you I’m a disaster Gifted at taking anything And turning it to rot You look at me Like I look at you Knowing something could grow But I’m a disaster Diseased in the core No fixing something so broken I wake up crying From nightmares of white picket fences I’ll turn you inside out Make you doubt Any word out of your mouth Your voice rings in my throat Telling me I should tell you I am a disaster Broke and homeless I don’t know up from down I have a gift For being cold I’ll burn our bridge And push you away

Terse But maybe our broken pieces match Maybe our disaster is enough But I’m afraid

Untitled

ABIGAIL A. KIPP

I never sent the letters Saying I miss you I wrote them a hundred times Took each one Made a snow ball Of moments to forget And burned them With a touch You never heard me When I spoke Those words But maybe If I write them You will But I keep losing My letters Forgetting my words Drawing a blank on syllables Disremembering my pen Losing sight of the ink And memory slips on paper I never sent those feelings But maybe one day I will

About Abigail A. Kipp

Abigail Kipp is a poetry student in Austin, TX. She got her undergraduate degree in Creative writing at New Mexico State University. She has an interest in form and harder topics.

ASHLEY

Y ALLEN

I am... Goddess

ASHLEY ALLEN

I am a goddess.

With this mouth and tongue, I was sent from Heaven to pleasure you.

You think you know all your turn-ons, Until I find a new one, under your jaw.

“Holy shit, where did that come from?”

You squirm, knowing I have the better hand in this poker game.

Popping you open, like an expensive bottle of Pinot Noir, You grip the sheets, surrendering your body.

“Don’t worry, this will only blow your mind,” I whisper, as I take your cock into my mouth.

You gasp for air, as I suck the innocence from your body.

I make you realize how other girls lack the experience to pleasure you.

Even the busiest whore could not compare; She fucks for sex, I for the worship.

Your eyes give me what’s mine As I mount you, my golden chariot.

Your eyes squeeze shut just before you release your white wine into me.

Breathing heavily, I look into your eyes, “You have done well, my faithful follower.”

I am the goddess Who took your first time.

And you, Have no regrets.

Playing in the Pond

ASHLEY ALLEN

You touch me with your finger.

Causing ripples, like those I make

When I grip the satin sheets.

The wind that whispers into your ears Imitates my breaths as I climb

The mountain to orgasm.

Hum goes the dragonfly’s wings, Mmm, I moan.

I am warm from the sun’s rays, You like it too.

Swirling your finger inside me Amplifies my moans as a chorus of

Bees have joined the dragonflies.

You keep turning up the volume Up Up Up Until it disturbs the birds; Their wings ruffling the leaves in unison.

Removing your finger, the ripples go through

The pond like electricity; Power and sensual.

My Crab Apple Tree

ASHLEY ALLEN

I live there, up over the hill, Embraced by the white pines and the hard maples, Our Lincoln Log house carefully constructed by CAD software My parents learned in their drafting classes.

When I was young, I assembled the foundation for the rocky porch That massages your feet as you walk.

I look up at the porch posts and wonder: Why is there a metal cross where the beams intersect?

Is this a sign that my home is the savior I turn to when I run from his con But he will never know why I chose to come home Rather than staying in town.

I walk down the hill to my crab apple tree.

The pink petals get caught in the wind and dance Like the time AC/DC was blaring from his phone And we had a prom date with alcohol.

I slouch against the soft bark and I let my head fall between my knees.

The good memories become horrible nightmares.

Our evenings together turned into me serving him glasses of water.

Friends forgot that I existed because he was more important than them.

My crab apple, you never fail to catch a tear As I sit here, pondering, praying That he gets tired and leaves me.

Oh bitter balloon, we are alike; Beautiful and elegant in a gentle gale, But bitter and cracked when tornado winds hit.

Each spring, I am reminded of your beauty and your strength.

To Hell with this boy!

He will never know how I collect your petals and create Exquisite pressed art between my favorite pages.

You might be home to the birds and the bees, But you are mine too.

nstant anger?

About Ashley Allen

Ashley Allen writes plays, poetry, and sometimes fiction. She got her BA in a production company in Louisville, Kentucky.

n theatre from the University of Southern Indiana. She works as a carpenter for