Contents Art & Photography Ana Prundaru: Tropical Apocalypse, p. 12 Bill Wolak: Exquisite As The Smile Of Youth, p. 32 Faster Than Dreams Divide, p. 26 The Disturbing Attraction Of Scars, p. 4 The Smile That Vanishes Into Trance, p. 27 Your Pores Are Open Now, p. 14 Brad G. Garber: Anglers, p. 28 | Hang Hat, p. 23 Carmen Kern: 207, p. 29 | Call Me, p. 13 Eric Rawson: Beauty Salon, p. 38 | Couples Brunch, p. 38 | Man With Hookah, p. 39 | Sleeping Drummer, p. 39 | Woman With Dog, p. 39 Janelle Cordero: Diego, p. 35 | Layla, p. 6 | Loretta, p. 42 | Sherry, p. 25
Matt Pucci: The Crab Apple, p. 44 Michael Fontana: My Lover, p. 34 Rebecca Ciota: The Spider, p. 23 Trina Denner: Your Exam Begins Now, p. 9 Tyrean Martinson: I am Patient, p. 45
Poetry
Allie Long: Skin, p. 25 | Exhale, p. 4 | The Real Unreal, p. 4 Angela Elia: The Hardest Part, p. 27 Anirban Dam: Unsent Correspondence, p. 43 | Downpour in December, p. 24 | Liminality, p. 21 Byron Nelson: Rebirth, p. 4 Carol Denson: On Lake Michigan, p. 6 Catherine LoFrumento: Another Life, p. 42 Catherine Manning: Latino, p. 42 Claudia Serea: About Flies, p. 5 | I Wish I Were A Frisbee, The Plastic Milk Container Said, p. 28
John Wesley Mullennix: Music Study, p. 10
Drew Pisarra: Sonnet 0, p. 35 Frank William Finney: A Cold Eye, p. 4 Heidi Seaborn: When We Fight, p. 14 Janet Buck: Poor Jack—Poor Jill, p. 19
Malado Francine: My Lotto Ticket, p. 19 Little Reminders, Front Cover
Kelly Dolejsi: Real Estate, p. 33 | Katy’s Home, p. 33 | The Wave, p. 33
Michelle Skinner: Leaf, p. 3
Marilyn Flower: Oh, Frog, p. 14 Meri Culp: The Dark Side of Honey, p. 12
Prose Adam Huening: Hearts In Tattered Boxes , p. 15 | There Is Only So Much Ink, p. 18 | The Simplest Syllables Are The Hardest To Pronounce, p. 18 Brandon Hansen: Something Personal, p. 36 Cameron Filas: Carnivore, p. 37 Charley Karchin: How to Love at Fourteen, p. 23 Dave Barrett: Chapter Five of “Gone Alaska” Red of 10,000 Years, p. 40 Elizabeth Johnston: A Bind, p. 42 Frances Saunders: The Joy of Music, p. 30 Hayley Davis: My Mother, p. 13 Jane Jordan: Paranoia, p. 12 Joe Giordano: No Coffee, p. 7 Karen Morrow: Air, p. 41 Lee Todd Lacks: Christian Domestic Discipline Barbie, (with original art), p. 17 Lily Keane: Facing the Truth of Silence, p. 24 Lisa Lindsey: The Pine Tree of Palos Street, p. 31 Lucie Britsch: A Touch of Sulk, p. 16 Mathew Serback: You’re Telling Me Pro Wrestling Isn’t Real? (Part III), p. 8
Ruth Kogen Goodwin: Sketch: The Birdwatcher, p. 5 The Housewife Takes Up Decoupage , p. 29 The Housewife Washes Dishes , p. 29 Sean L Corbin: Dear Wife, My Mania, p. 20 | Shed, p. 20 | Circular Ruins, p. 20 Shannon Magee: Social Security, p. 22
Blooming Vine Leaves
Aditi Sengupta: Munich 1942, p. 48 Elena Rielinger: Cupcakes, p. 46 Madelyn McZeal: Pressing Bruises, p. 46 Natasha Schapova: A Masquerade World, p. 47 A Painted Utopia, p. 47 To the Wise Readers that Only Trust Themselves, p. 49 Sara Conway: Scarred Knees, p. 50
Contributor Biographies, p. 51
Leaf by Michelle Skinner 3
A Cold Eye by Frank William Finney As I pass the place where he crashed his Jeep, the fates burn the broom of Monday’s witch. As sirens sing behind the pines, crumbs swim circles in the wine. Out like a drunk on a flagstone floor
Exhale by Allie Long
your neck’s on the rail and the train’s on time.
The inflated lung of my body stretches against these walls a sternum - until they threaten to fracture. Every day without you, this house gets one step closer to becoming a corpse. Every day without you is an inhalation. This ceiling these shoulders - cannot lift any higher. I am waiting for you, expanding endlessly into a fixed space, begging to exhale what I need to live before its excess kills me.
The Real Unreal by Allie Long When I am anxious, I leave my body, and watch as the ground inflates like a balloon is expanding underneath it. I watch it distort, the curve growing sharper, my husk tilting farther to one side. I can do nothing but stare in horror as I float and brace my disembodied self for the moment its shell falls from the newly-formed ledge of my bedroom floor and knocks me back into itself on impact.
Rebirth by Byron Nelson I saw the wind knock you down in the fields. You were worn; battered and beaten. You were able to get up that day. I wish I could see you (get up) again. 4
The Disturbing Attraction of Scars by Bill Wolak
About Flies by Claudia Serea They tied the man to a pole in the middle of the square, smeared his body with honey, and left him to die. Soon, clouds of flies were feasting on him, sipping honey and blood through their long straws. A young woman took pity on the prisoner and started to fan away the flies. The man opened his eyes: “Stop! Leave the flies alone. They are full and happy. If you shoo them away, other flies will take their place, hungry and thirsty, and they will kill me. So stop. You’re not helping.” Instead of hearts, the kids on my street had jars full of flies in their chests. They were holding contests: whose heart had more black flies trapped inside? My parents didn’t want me to play with those kids, and all I wanted to do was run away from home and play with them. Show them my glass heart full of beautiful blue and green flies, glimmering like buzzing gems. But they weren’t flies. They were angels flying about, everywhere, clouds of angels getting into our mouths. Only we didn’t know. We thought they were flies and caught them with sticky yellow tape.
Sketch: The Birdwatcher by Ruth Kogen Goodwin From behind, his cowlick lies counter clockwise, nearly invisible at this length— military short. Clean-necked selfmanicured monthly on the uneven pavement of his driveway. He uses his father’s old razor. Not just because he likes neatness. Or the independence. That’s not it. Afterward, from inside he watches the birds carry away the tufts of hair. Little pieces of him. 5
On Lake Michigan by Carol Denson The ruined scarf of silk could choke or cover over the choking in my throat. My lover told me yesterday he meant the past, its scented scarf of meaning, its shadows cast roughly. My cigarette’s smoke scents my scarf. I bet him cigarettes and sex he’ll stay with me; I’m not playing games to please his playful side. “Scarves can maim think of Isadora Duncan. I’ve got her calves, her scarf, her thoughtful blink, why not her broken neck?” He laughs. I think of subway tokens, that switching sounds like breaking up. “Hey, up there,” he points, “the clouds are a scarf across the sky.” His pointed comment joins my loss
and his. A compromise. A caught scarf of knotted silk. Threads catching on the wharf.
Layla by Janelle Cordero
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No Coffee by Joe Giordano I knelt on a wooden pew in church with my mother. She said, “Dolores, this is God’s house.” I was four years old. “Will God’s mother serve coffee?” Cute, right? Not my most vivid memory. My father was a vicious drunk, and that afternoon he came at my mother with an axe. She scooped me into her arms. His blow nearly severed her head. My chin smacked a chair arm before I hit the linoleum; you can see the scar. My twenty-year-old stepbrother, Mickey, sharpened pencils with a pen knife in the back room. Mickey heard the screams and shot forward as my father delivered the chop. His blade wasn’t long, but found my father’s carotid. My father’s fall crushed the breath out of me. I struggled to get free, as he bled out. Mickey panicked and ran. I squeezed out from under and wiped away blood mixed with tears. I was dazed, confused. My mother’s eyes were brown glass. “Mama?” She wouldn’t answer. I sobbed. A neighbour in our tenement apartment heard the noise. The police arrived; later they picked up Mickey. The cops didn’t believe his story. There were warrants outstanding, so they slammed him into prison. Before he died of tuberculosis a decade later, I visited Mickey in jail. He filled in the blanks. Then, I read the newspaper archive. The story featured a grainy black and white picture of me in a cop’s arms. My dress, I think it was pink, was blotched with my parents’ blood. The Great Depression raged. After the killings, I had no family and was taken by Our Lady of Mount Carmel orphanage. Right around ten years old, I started getting passed around. Don’t think me crude, but females have a vagina that any man can fill. When priests came during Easter and Christmas, I’d pray that they’d sodomize the boys and leave me alone. That bet paid about half the time. I attended John Adams High School when Pearl Harbor was attacked. Frank had brooding brown eyes. I joined my girlfriend when she sat with him at the lunch table. He kept shooting glances at me. I smiled. He smiled back. In school, my past had been the subject of whispers and snide looks. Frank didn’t blink when I related my story. We dated, if walking and holding hands qualified. Frank’s family was so poor, that he owned just one set of clothes. They had to be washed nightly if he wanted them clean. Most of the time he reeked, but I’d already been smothered under a lot of stinking men. The nose adjusts. Together, we had a chance for a better life. He was drafted, then went AWOL so we could get married. In wartime, desertion was serious, and the MPs locked him up. A work camp. The rest of his unit shipped out. They were landing spotters, advance men at Normandy Beach. None of them returned home. Frank was lucky, right? In custody, Frank nearly severed his foot chopping wood. His ankle went gangrene. A medical officer amputated, but the infection spread. Maggots were applied to consume decayed flesh. Frank’s body radiated high fever. His eyes were closed. I held his hand. “Frank?” He wheezed his last breath. As Frank was imprisoned, I received zero death benefits from the Army. Killed with an axe. Ironic, right? I’d prayed, but God’s mother never served coffee. 7
You’re Telling Me Pro Wrestling Isn’t Real? (Part III) by Mathew Serback “You want to bury these moments, no, these moments are to be celebrated.” — Rowdy Roddy Piper You want the truth? I’m going to shoot with you on this one. You had been dying for a while. It wasn’t the outward kind of death where you withered away by a virus that couldn’t be cured. This was a slow cooked death. One that came from an incurable virus that had gotten its claws into you before you developed the wherewithal to fight it. Your body hid the diabetes that made the bones in your foot deteriorate and crumbled into grains of rice that would eventually be thinned and strained through your muscles and your tendons. Your body hid the years and years of emptied whiskey bottles that you had clanged together like bells of worship. Let me tell you something, man. I’ve watched you your entire career, and I liked you. I’ll tell you why—you said what was on your mind and then you had the guts to come in the ring and back it up. That’s why the news of your liver cancer was less surprising and more of a matter-of-fact. My brother said the word cancer and it felt like the inevitable end to the conversation I’d been having with you my entire life. You had stopped making excuses for the existence of my childhood. You knew I heard the knock-them-down and the drag-them-out arguments you had in the dark. Those arguments that were full of screams—and the arguments that ended with the thumps. I called you with the expectation that nothing would be different. Just because you were labelled with an expiration date—best sold by—didn’t mean you were going to waver in the eye of eternity. You had earned your death. That’s how you would see it. I respected that. Reminded me of somebody I know. What happened? “There are three—three or four growths,” you said. “Three or four?” I asked. “The doctors don’t know?” “It’s complicated,” you said. “I need you to explain it to me,” I said. “I can’t,” you said. I’m not finished yet. You had been a letdown—like your father had been a letdown. My memories of you were scattered because of the screams and the thumps. There was that time in the eighth grade, when you attempted to help me with my spelling homework. I was advanced for my age. I had been learning words from a 12th-grade spelling book. You hadn’t graduated high school. When the pronunciation meta-bolish-ism came rolling off your tongue, a different thump, I struggled to understand how we spoke such different languages. “Metabolism,” I said. “Metabolism,” you said. “I’m sorry.” 8
I learned to teach myself. And most of all, most important, why do we do what we do? “What do you think about Lebron?” you asked. “He’s under a microscope,” I said. “Everything he does is evaluated with a level of scrutiny that is unnatural. We are—by definition—human, and that means we are going to make more mistakes than we would like.” “I’m not sure they’ll be able to do it this year. Win,” you said. “I believe.” “That’s good,” you said. “We will talk next week. After the tests.” “Yeah. Next week,” I said. “After things.” We live for this. There were never going to be after things. The temporal state of your life, of our relations, had become the permanent state. “Do you think you can survive?” I asked. “I’m trying to be positive,” you said. “That’s the plan?” I asked. “Be positive?” “It’s either that—or I die,” you said. And we both believed that to be true.
Your Exam Begins Now by Trina Denner The space empties as the voices are withdrawn. The turning of a leaf of paper; a wave across the tables. Crashing in ebb and flow between the facing students. The room is alive only with the whisper of the sheets departing from one side, and landing on the next. Dead quiet? Students breathe. Cough. Sniff. Brows furrow; hands support chins, foreheads, cheeks, whole faces. A finger wriggles restlessly in an eye socket in absent distraction. A sigh. A sneeze. Bless you. Eyelashes blink, the sound feels perceptible in the otherwise silence. The air-conditioner purrs. A reminder of artifice, of the building; the situation. The testing of what is “known.” The ranking. The theft of childish wonder and surprise. Quiet for the dancing of pencils in circles. The biting of a nail. The skidding of eyes scanning across, back, across, back, across. Dark gray coloured dots on a page, an offering to an authority. It is a noiseless symphony of measurement. Each found brilliant, or ordinary, or “not yet meeting the standard.” The schlap of labels with the power to bolster. Or disenchant. Break. Who dares to weigh the mind of a child? Its soul, its heart, its imagination?
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Music Study by John Wesley Mullenix
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Paranoia by Jane Jordan The writer is alone, plagued by a thousand unwritten words and the darkening night sky outside his room. His eyes dart around nervously as he seeks out every unfamiliar shape and unexplained shadow. He moves the curtain a fraction and absently fidgets with the fabric. His hands incapable of remaining still as his insomniac’s brain strives to comprehend the mounting mental fatigue, while inventing new irrational responses to distant sounds. He gulps down the dregs of coffee, stimulating his psyche for a few clarifying seconds, rendering him alert for a moment. While finding some courage in the caffeine, his pale face peers through the gap in the curtain to see that danger signals are everywhere. A distant car alarm, a foreboding howl and the flickering street light illuminates the pupils of the black cat as it runs along the path. He feels colder now, the silence of the room deafening to his ears in it abnormality. There is unnaturalness to this night, chaos and confusion fill his mind’s thoughts, and with heightened senses he speculates about his chances of surviving until the dawn breaks. He stares upwards, towards the ominous full moon and the deceptive twinkling lights, but he is not fooled, they have been waiting for him, planning their assault, their sinister presence in the night sky, forever watching, forever waiting.
The Dark Side of Honey by Meri Culp I want to be inside your darkest everything. Frida Kahlo
Frida, look, listen, the ceiling above your bed is brushed in deep gold: a buzz by of bees, circling, then diving, solving the riddle of fissures, your fragile spine, shattered in the darkness, cracked wide open, honeycombed thick, yet porous, ready for the pour of pain, of new birth, of sleeping canals, rich with moonless nectar, to enter, to seek the crack of bone, binding all that is broken, drawing in your darkest of everything, then finding, pierced, yet free, your eclipsed heart, still beating, winged, stung.
tropical apocalypse by Ana Prundaru
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My Mother by Hayley Davis My mother is cerulean September sky. My mother is hyacinth, Easter hats, and irises. She is angels—angels with snowflakes on the hems of their pale frocks, angels with wire wings and carved feet; angels with no faces or features at all. My mother is Manheim Steamroller, the Eagles, Sheryl Crowe. My mother rejoices at the thrill of the sale and shudders imperceptibly to discover “who-dun-it.” She is a dutiful Southern woman—opening her arms, her bar, and her refrigerator to all who cross the threshold. But if I had to choose just one… My mother is daisies: beautiful and unchanging, her bright face ever heavenward, admiring and contemplating the wide sea-sky.
Call Me by Carmen Kern
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Your Pores Are Open Now by Bill Wolak
When We Fight by Heidi Seaborn I see the sinewy, sienna shoots emerge from the flesh of his heels, sprout out of his toes, worm their way through the carpet, ferret weakness in the floorboards, crawl under the door to join the insidious morning glory spreading its violent tentacles over our lush tended garden. Meanwhile, I spit out words that flutter furiously like Gypsy moths, clutter the air around my face. Their dusty wings powder my hair before drawing to the light. Burning bright, singeing wings. Eventually, I gather up the broken moths, scatter them like ashes out the window onto the garden below. He dims the light, pulls me under the bedding. Limbs entwined like wisteria vines, our dreams their fragrant bruised flower.
Oh, Frog by Marilyn Flower “I will not kiss you!” Hugging my golden ball, Daddy’s gift, to my heart, I fling you against the palace wall. Your skins cracks open, that slimy, scaly skin I was so afraid to kiss. Out steps a beautiful prince. Oh beautiful prince, why do I, promise-breaking princess, receive such a gorgeous reward? You ask my father for my hand, promise to transport me to your kingdom, where we will live, happy ever after. The king, my father, winks at you; you lower your head to hide your grin. For you both know what I do not: of places within you uglier than frog-skin, and marriage means that I will kiss them all.
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Hearts In Tattered Boxes by Adam Huening The clouds hung in wisps like the smoke from her cigarette, the air between them thinner now. The sun slipped home, painting the sky in hues of pink and purple, like a fresh bruise darkening on the skin. The sun was setting on them. They sat in his car at the end of the war, finishing the treaties that would sever them and send them marching down paths unknown. He couldn’t look at her as she blew smoke from her lips in quiet indifference as his pen made swoops on the paper. Even though they were tilted downward, his eyes were blinded by the sun’s descent. He had an urge, longing for the power to raise it, but no man on this earth can bend nature against its will. And she said, “I know this isn’t the end for you.” And she handed back his heart, damaged and broken, in a tattered box. She didn’t even bother to wrap it. And she smiled out of lack of anything else to do or say. And even though he could speak volumes, he let her go quietly. They parted friends, the kind that never want to see each other again. In privacy, he put his heart back in his chest, felt the jagged edges slice little slivers away, the blood trickle, and he knew she was still there, a hole cut within it, a porous absence. He drove in the dark to that house where he lived. It was not a home. He turned on the lights, but the bulbs could not consume the gloom that hung in cobwebs in corners. He settled into this new eternity, with a jagged heart to keep him company. 15
What is that? What? On your face? Do I have some food? No, that. On your lips She gets up to look in the mirror by Lucie Britsch Oh she says seeing her down-turned mouth Oh, this. It’s new New? Yes. What do they call it? Oh it’s French French? Really? It’s the latest thing Bet it wasn’t cheap I had to have it, it’s all the rage Is that what it’s called? No, Rage was last season I don’t think I like it Well you’ll have to get used to it. I had to get used to that lean you used to do That lean was great You did lean well Everyone was doing it I know. I read GQ What about you and that fur That was a misunderstanding I still have teeth marks I thought he’d just sit there happily. I have nice shoulders. You do have nice shoulders. Ungrateful beast. Quite. So what are they calling this? I think it’s called Pout Are you sure you read it right? It’s not Sulk? I’m sure I heard someone at the bar say so and so was sulking and was told to leave because it wasn’t that sort of poncy establishment Really? It might be. I just know it’s French But we’re in America I think melancholy is the new black Are you sure because I heard it was orange? Orange? Did you mean maudlin? No I don’t think maudlin is the new black How long will this thing last How long were you leaning funny? Not long He tickled her She tried her hardest not to smile; she didn’t want to throw good money down the drain I think it’s over he said Thank God she said It’s exhausting being fashionable
A Touch of Sulk
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estic m o D n a i Christ rbie s a B e n i l p i Disc Lack Todd e e L y b
Hey, kids ... IT’S CHRISTIAN DOMESTIC DISCIPLINE BARBIE! Paddle, strap, or switch CHRISTIAN DOMESTIC DISCIPLINE BARBIE, and watch her bare behind turn redder than a harlot’s lipstick! High-Impact Response Technology® (HIRT) gauges her visible and audible distress, so you can be certain she has atoned for her sins! The harder you whup CHRISTIAN DOMESTIC DISCIPLINE BARBIE, the harder she repents! Garbed in a modest gingham prairie dress with a full slip, flesh-tone nylons, and white cotton panties, CHRISTIAN DOMESTIC DISCIPLINE BARBIE comes ready to bare, whenever the Bible tells her so! Can’t think of a good reason to discipline CHRISTIAN DOMESTIC DISCIPLINE BARBIE? Well, the preacher man on the cable access channel says you don’t need one! Routine “maintenance spankings” ensure that she remains subservient to the head of the household! Get your CHRISTIAN DOMESTIC DISCIPLINE BARBIE today, and—MAKE HER REPENT! (Bible sold separately.) 17
Adam Huening
There Is Only So Much Ink They tried everything to remove all the words suffocating the room. They divided the stuff among them, scrambling to put away all the language. They took down the posters and put away the CDs, movies and books. “I don’t read,” she said. So he put all the books in boxes on his side, even the ones he bought for her—Whitman, Plath, Dickinson, Carver. Into the night, they tried to exorcise the words scrawled on the carpet and walls, etched in the once soft respite of the blankets on the bed. The demon language lingered. Even when it was bare, the words were still there, hanging in shadows like spiders in corners where the light couldn’t reach. They were caught in the cobwebs of their conjoined past. They stared into the blank walls, their tongues wrapped in silence. He tried to pull them from the ceiling and stain them with ink in the innocent pages of his notebook. The pages soaked, bled through until there were no more pages left. He realized there was only so much ink. He still had shards of the alphabet in his heart. He was slowly bleeding out. She held her phone and sent words through the light to some other room where she wanted to be. The words gathered in rain clouds above them. The lightning was returning. “What else is there to say,” she said. “We’ve said too much already.” He couldn’t think of anything as she turned away. The words remained in her leaving, and the room had never felt so full or so empty, he thought.
The Simplest Syllables Are The Hardest To Pronounce “I love you,” she said, and he knew it was over. The pale morning light kissed her bare shoulder, her back unfettered like snow under his fingers. Her red locks were soft tangles of flame on his chest, and her heart beat against his stomach in rhythm with his breathing. And her words clung to the air above their heads, his eyes blinking at their glow as they oscillated gently like dust motes in sunbeams. His arms tightened slightly as he reached for something to say. The words wove themselves into a grand tapestry to stitch together thoughts in his mind. He felt them loop and lift, swirl around, waiting for his voice to take them. They dangled in his throat, dissolved on his tongue. He liked the taste, the certain sweetness, and the way they felt, letting them swish around his jaw, from the swoop of the “l” to the curves of the “o” and slip deeply inside the valley of the “v” before tumbling dizzy around the corner of “e”. But his throat tightened and swallowed the silence fracturing the room around them. Three simple words. Three essential syllables. He wondered how something seemingly so small could be so big. How would the simplicity of the language ever be enough to cover the complexity of everything in that room? How do you take a blanket so small and make it stretch to keep you warm forever? Numbers devoured words as time ticked forward. His alarm came when she sat up sadly. From beneath her, he revelled in how the sunshine smiled across her face, even though it was at the point of her heart breaking. Three simple words. He knew, staring up at her on that winter’s day, she was the jigsaw piece of his sky, and he was the missing sliver of cloud moving across it. And as the tears fell in rain from the corners of her eyes, he understood it had all been washed away. 18
My Lotto Ticket by Malado Francine Poor Jack—Poor Jill by Janet Buck Jill is slowly dying, shrinking old potato skins—her fish eyes see too much, refuse to close. Jack’s a cracking saint, not übermensch—still he stays, much like a remontant rose. He fixes supper Jill won’t eat, tries to carve a frown into a smile & fails. She’s hiding in a corner of the bedroom, writing 18 hours a day—to leave a legacy. The only other room she knows—a doctor’s dour waiting cove packed with people staring at her wasted frame trapped inside a wheelchair. She wraps her body in a shawl, even in the summer heat, drops her chin against her chest. Jill’s family has deserted her. Friends won’t look & she won’t answer ringing phones, unless she can lie & say with confidence— “I’m fine,” then listen to their happiness spread like butter over burning toast. The sharpest edge of suffering is watching it. Jill’s only dream—to set Jack free from playing maître d’ to someone begging for chipped ice, hot tea with soothing lavender. Nothing is ambrosial, but words that slip from tongue to fingertips. She pets their Yorkie’s fur like fine mink coats someone plans to steal. Their cosy spooning days are over now. Even water fries her lucent skin. The doorknob turns—Grim Reaper’s here—he should’ve knocked. Jack won’t call 911, not yet. He has to keep her arms. Desperate & trembling, he saws them off—puts them in a cardboard box— to save them both forever when forever isn’t possible—Can’t let the template of an angel fly away. 19
Sean L Corbin
Dear Wife, My Mania Fuck your work—I’m all a bother. My feet are daffodils with pebble toes, my knee caps fish hooks just below my corkscrew cock and copper balls. My stomach is a six-pack of wide-mouth beer cans. I am nuclear fallout. I am Jesus Christ. If I have blistered carousels for arms and an aluminium tongue, can we still have kids? If we can’t talk now then tomorrow at dawn I’m walking down to the pond and strapping an F-14 Tomcat to my ass and flying to the moon. Oh. Well. Friday is free. Can we talk on Friday? And if I make it till then: I’ll need your ears: I want to tell you secrets. I’m ready to share secrets. I want to talk now. Why can’t we talk? We never talk, always sitting and staring, staring at the walls. I’m ready to speak so let’s speak. Can we speak? Can you listen? I’m listening.
Shed In the yard I make an eagle’s call with my tongue and curse cirrhosis. The shed—its cracked windows, its cinder walls, its withered wooden doors and dirt floor layered with roofing nails—sighs beneath my neighbour’s oak. Red and blue paint flakes from the blocks of its leaning walls. I lick the shedding colours, taste apple pies, salute in reverse, hold my own swollen and wasted minerals. A congressional urine, dark and hot, burns from my urethra, across the patched and yellowed grass and down into the bubbling mud. I reach out for the baneberries in the corner of the yard, wrap myself in their blooms, close my eyes, see fireworks.
Circular Ruins I sit in a cold breeze on a clay bench and read beneath a blooming pear tree and spit smoke into white bells as I turn the pages and wait for my pocket to quiver but it is still like me in a cool breeze on a cracked bench reading beneath an overripe pear tree and belching heat into white green stars as I turn pages and wait for a popular song to echo from my hip but my jeans are silent like me in a warm breeze on a crumbling bench reading beneath a fading pear tree and vomiting tar into withering tan bark as I rip pages and wait for my phone to ring but my cell phone is engulfed in flames like my lungs in a stagnant breeze on the shattered concrete reading beneath a dead pear tree bellowing fire into brittle black bones as I burn pages and wait for a connection but the connection is a pile of ash in a vacuum.
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Liminality by Anirban Dam it is quite unnatural to watch a city being consumed by its own vacancy in the middle of the night, when every household is transitioning from a sigh to a snore and the hum of the refrigerator is trying to suppress the sound of this restlessness which keeps tugging at your ribs. it’s funny how you thought that streets shrink a little each day as we grow, and by the time we’re fully grown there will be neighbourhoods colonizing beneath our fingertips and that is when we finally stop biting our nails but sometimes childhood grows up way before we learn to grow out of it. you can be in conflict with yourself on most nights even when you’re sober (when it comes to love or loss) but eventually absence is best explained and understood in one’s native tongue. and tonight, you are just a song away from relapse ; there is a certain impediment in your breath, a certain muteness in your sight, and you’re somehow fighting off the urge to bite your nails because you know that in the end, we are all woven into this insurmountable silence which surrounds us, yet you are unable to rephrase this quiet into a common dialect. it is quite unnatural to watch an echo stutter in the middle of the night.
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Social Security by Shannon Magee He went to the Friday night revival of the American Dream, Sat in the grass, sang “The General,” and smoked some weed. He came home drunk, fell down the stairs, And said now he knows what it all really means. I watched him over the tin can of flames that burned my dreams, His babble punctuated by the crackle and hiss of the fire, He raves from one end of the room to the other, Dashed hopes streaming from him like tears I know I could leave, but I can’t save this cracked heart of mine. When he forgot I existed, I rocked him to sleep, Tucking him into the corner of the room Before curling myself between the ceiling and the wall. There, I water the paper flowers with my tears One day the paper will peel away— Long, sodden curls tumbling to the dusty wood floor— Heavy as the hollowness between my dusty lungs At midnight, I wake up with his arms around me —Wanting so much to be held— I curl into him, feeling beautiful for a moment. But when he kisses me, his eyes are open, Watching the night outside the window And I fade away, dark smoke from a forgotten candle— In this house where pools of wax swallow the flames, The golden doorknobs tarnish with time The doors cracked and sagging, Bloated from our last drowning In the morning, the strings cry in the grey light A breeze crawled through a crack in the window, Ruffling the channels of dust in the empty room He was gone— Left to chase a shadow of a dream, To be the star in a sky we cannot see. With dawn I’ll pour out the flames And let them waltz through the room While I curl myself into the wall, Wrapped up tight in the American Dream. 22
How to Love at Fourteen by Charley Karchin She didn’t know that when she left to ref soccer for fourteen hours, he was in her house. Both of us woke early so that when I heard the front door and her CR-V rumble away, I called him. “Come over now, she’s gone.” He played with my hair and I traced his collarbones. I named our future children and he contemplated what he could do to make my mom forgive him for giving me a wine cooler. He let me cling to him, blubbering, all the way to the front door, minutes before my mom would return.
Hang Hat by Brad G. Garber The Spider by Rebecca Ciota While I was in the barn, coated in a fine film of sweat and sawdust, I found a spider crawling on one of the horse blankets. It was the size of a nickel, a shiny and sleek black with bluegreen knuckles. It raised its face to me, with four larger greenblack eyes and four small ones. Its mouthpiece quivered like a moustache, reminding me of a dapper Edwardian man. “You’re beautiful,” I murmured. It shifted back onto its hind legs, raising its front two half-heartedly. To it, I am a predator not an admirer—no matter what I said. I turned away, grabbing a broom and sweeping the aisle to the soft whuffs and groans of the horses. If the spider was meant to live, it would. If not, the cat would get it.
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Facing the Truth of Silence by Lily Keane The gentle stroke of a whispered breeze touches the soul and soothes the frantic fire in the spirit. Peace was unthinkable the mere minute before, just as panic is unfathomable now. Trees and leaves alike, nod in agreement with the soul’s sudden and newfound tranquillity. The frenzied rush of life is stilled, slowed, stopped. Nothing fills the ears; and now everything can fill the soul. Desperate seekers of wisdom listen attentively to noise. Silence slips in and the seekers hasten out as the fear of true knowledge takes hold and the comfort of ignorance is a warm bed, dented deep into the memory. The quiet is the truth and the truth is the wisdom and the wisdom is the fear they were fleeing, not facing as once believed. Standing still is courage, chasing valour is folly. In endless movement does the world go. In endless sameness it stays. The indistinguishable silence of the wind brings the peace that is searched within all disturbances. It will never be found there, and yet there is where it will always be searched. The beauty of the cloaked wind, the melody of the silent breeze, and the caress of a fingerless touch. Always within grasp, always out of reach.
Downpour in December by Anirban Dam it’s interesting how some songs remind you of certain cities and even though you haven’t actually been there you can still feel the cobblestone brush your feet each time the chorus is about to start, but by the time this song ends you’ll be home after another nauseous day your hair tousled, your rent overdue, your fingers fatigued from raking the vestiges of another passing season and soon you garner the remnants, place it on your lap along with the frayed cardigan (a keepsake from a bygone passenger) but there isn’t enough wool to patch the holes, there isn’t enough warmth to mend the wounds meanwhile, the dogs wail, the radio stutters, the neighbours bicker, the windows rattle, and you watch this indignant city pacified by a downpour in December the rain becomes your lucky charm.
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Skin by Allie Long The water runs across my skin, baptizing worry—an unholy spirit descending. Steam rises as the stream rips apart the backs of my hands, blood rupturing like a fossil of myself pouring from the split ocean floor. I dredge what I can from this thick, sticky sea to salvage the remains of the pale islands floating above it.
Sherry by Janelle Cordero
Faster Than Dreams Divide by Bill Wolak
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The Smile That Vanishes Into Trance by Bill Wolak
The Hardest Part by Angela Elia The hardest part about climbing to the top of a mountain of broken glass is that you are alone. 27
Anglers by Brad G. Garber I Wish I Were A Frisbee, The Plastic Milk Container Said by Claudia Serea I wish I were a Frisbee, the plastic milk container said, so I can feel the wind and fly, Whoo-hoo! Hands will grab me and throw me back, and other hands would catch me, what a life, hand-towind-to hand-to wind-to hand-to wind-to dog’s mouth. I don’t care much for being thrown, the newspaper said. I’m sick of carrying the bad news and staining people’s fingers with black ink. Oh, how I wish I were pulp from which a brand new sheet would be stretched and cut into a notebook page, wide-ruled, on which a girl would draw her life, complete with sunflowers, peace signs, and a love balloon, and she’d write in the neatest script Whatever you do, you will always have love. I wish I were a bike, the empty beer can said, in a bike store all the way in the country, at the end of a dusty road. A young man would buy me, and pedal so proud, as if I were Pegasus. At nightfall, he’d pick up his girlfriend and she’d climb on the metal bar and hold onto him so close. Her scent in his lungs, they’d ride to the movies in the next town over through the dark fields, under the turning spokes of the stars. 28
The Housewife Takes Up Decoupage by Ruth Kogen Goodwin Unlike crochet, beading, or scrapbooking, this skill took up so little— in space, in equipment, in thought. Just a brush, scissors, a jar for glue. Proper ventilation— or sometimes not. Her first task: a garden table. Watercolour botanical prints shredded to size. She liked the milk-thin layers of glaze, the concentration involved to avoid ridges, form a clean, flat surface. This is why the ladybug irked her— at first. How it landed red, stuck at once. She blew at it, peered close as it jerked its body free from first one leg then the next, faltered, then froze. Housewife and insect fixed.
The Housewife Washes Dishes by Ruth Kogen Goodwin At night the light comes only from behind, throwing her shadow across the plates, making it hard to see when things are clean. Outside, something rattles invisible in the black. She taps the window in response, a one-way echo that smears a scar onto her reflection in the glass.
207 by Carmen Kern
The Joy of Music by Frances Saunders In the cramped and mildew-smelling classroom of my youth, cursive letters, large and small, prance across the top of the blackboard. The desks are nailed to the floor, and every student in my fourth-grade class takes his or her place accordingly. It is winter, and the air is thick with the melting snow and muck of our thawing boots and neatly-hung coats, but also with anticipation: Ms. Tyman has announced that we are to have a music lesson. She is not a music teacher; there are no music teachers or art teachers in the landscape of my childhood, but rather a series of random lessons in the arts taught by classroom teachers either eager to or required to provide us with some respite from the Three Rs. Ms. Tyman opens the centre of her desk and removes a shiny, silvery, hand-held instrument, which she tells us is a pitchpipe, as though that is a suitable explanation of its purpose. She instructs us to stand and move into three even sections in order to sing a song “in rounds.” We are alerted to the lyrics, written on the board, and, after sounding her pitch pipe, Ms. Tyman demonstrates the melody for us. I am instantly enchanted by the silver pitch-pipe and by the opportunity to stand, rather than sit, for a lesson. I have already decided that I love music, despite this being my first music lesson. Ms. Tyman points to each of the three groups in turn, and we each begin to sing our chorus of “Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream.” I have never seen a canoe or a rowboat, and the only body of water I know is the East River, which is full of dead rats and excrement. I cannot imagine how anybody would want to row down that river, but I do as I am told, and allow my voice to rise and fall according to the motions of Ms. Tyman’s arm. We are well into our performance, and growing a bit tired of the song, when Ms. Tyman clasps the little pitch-pipe firmly in her hand and begins walking up and down the aisles, bending her ear toward the singers in the various rows, raising her arms more vigorously, and singing ever more loudly so that we will not slack. When she gets to my seat, she pauses and puts her ear closer to me, which makes me feel chosen, and slightly embarrassed. What she is looking for, I have no idea. I remember that I’ve had a good hot bath just yesterday, and that everything about me is clean; we’ve had our periodical tenement lice inspection, and my clothes have been laundered. My voice falters. Ms. Tyman sounds the pitch-pipe quietly, then nods as if to herself, and places her stubby-fingered hand upon my shoulder, letting me know I’ve been selected for something. I try to continue my singing, stealing glances around the room to determine who has noticed, and if they’re looking at me, and how. But before I can decipher whether the looks of my classmates are admiring or pitying, Ms. Tyman utters a single word, and then moves on. The word is “listener.” It seems that she has spoken in particular to Billy, ensuring that he will hear. Billy is the nicest boy in class, who has a crush on me, and who always helps me button the top button of my coat, the one I can’t reach, when we are preparing for recess or to walk home in the afternoon. 30
It seems almost certain that Billy has heard Ms. Tyman identify me as a listener, my voice as one not suitable to be heard. She is already halfway across the room at this point, and I know that at least three of my classmates have been given the same designation, but I still feel the heat of a spotlight on me, my cheeks still flushed and my eyes welling with tears that threaten to spill over. This will not be my last academic humiliation, but it will be the one that stays with me. Years later, I would still feel that I had some defect, something profoundly wrong with my voice that made it worthy of speech only. I will never again participate in group singing: I will move my lips to “Happy Birthday” and the national anthem, but any temptation to form a note or a melody will be immediately struck down by the memory of Ms. Tyman’s voice, reminding me of my role: Listener.
The Pine Tree of Palos Street by Lisa Lindsey It stood regally in its coat of evergreen, smelling crisp and clean, decked in frosted cones and lighted with the stars of heaven, an aura of benevolence. . . I passed it every morning on my walk to the office—this towering old pine tree that dwarfed the abandoned house on the corner lot of Palos and Rosemont. But it was just a tree during the daylight hours—not the kindred SoulTree that stood transfigured on the night of the winter solstice when the cold moon hung in the sky; when its forest of branches seemed to beckon a muchneeded embrace. I ran my glove over its cracked black skin, listening to the creak of its boughs under the weight of the snow and wind: How much of life have you seen, Old Tree? How long since you were a sapling? Did the children who lived here long-ago caper like squirrels around your trunk, gathering up your discarded pine cones for their yuletide revels? Did their children’s children do the same? Though raised a Catholic, I always felt a twinge of sadness hearing the story of Saint Boniface felling Thor’s Oak. Must be my Teutonic origins. I gave thanks that the Pine Tree of Palos Street was never cut down and hustled into someone’s Christmas room, draped in tinsel and glass, destined for brief glory before dropping its needles like a laureate’s fallen wreath and burned as sacrificial kindling, or ending up on the curb with the trash. The most beautiful things are short-lived, I’ve heard it said. But the Palos Pine was not beautiful. This tree grew old and became the guardian of wisdom. And for the fourteen years I lived on the same street, it served as my secret Christmas tree. It got to keep its roots and I got to take a few pine cone souvenirs. Now my annual night visit was done. I trudged home over a frozen Norse landscape with tales of winter gods and frost giants roaring in my head, smelling the smoke from sacred fires, envisioning hot ale and spiced cider. Same time next year, Old Tree.
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Exquisite as the Smile of Youth by Bill Wolak 32
Real Estate
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Kelly Dolejsi
Katy’s Home She said he r two bears, sadness included six g some forec oats, lose a basket of blood-stain d apples, ed collars, and then sh e so she bit h could not talk er decorating peach and went on her new ho use with life’s sa c with its asp red details, the mug en brass duck. grove, the essential S only rooms he had no refrigerato r, bulwarked quilts, dog b treats, mou y books, ntains of John Len n that stand d on in vinyl, in youth , e past wild th spite reports istle she wo uld not trim .
MY LOVER by Michael Fontana 1979. My lover was small, with brown hair that touched her shoulders, hazel eyes, dressed like a tomboy because androgyny always aroused me. I was tall, thin, my hair longer than hers, my eyes a steely blue. A gentle purr in the ear reflexively aroused me so we undressed in the darkroom and she lay on the table where photographs developed in trays of solution. We made love in the darkness, strands of negatives clipped to clothesline, dangling in curls like flypaper as the faces became clearer even while ours became murkier in the act of love. Later we heard night birds from beyond the darkroom walls, calling us out to play. We dressed hastily. We kissed before we left the darkness so it seemed a pact between us, that the secrets of the darkroom would remain ours forever. Outside, the birds continued their commotion, landing on wires that carried power to all the homes in the neighbourhood, people inside fixed to their televisions, having surrendered desire long ago for the sake of serenity. We were not there yet. We held hands and stood outside a pit of mud where the town would hold a tug-of-war the morning next, women on one side, men on the other, the pit of mud very nearly always inhabited by women by some sinister design on the part of the townsmen. My lover and I avoided falling in. We instead sat beneath a tree and ate sandwiches, she hanging her boots from a bottom branch while I massaged her feet. They were smooth as bars of glycerin soap. They smelled of apricots and sweat. I kissed the arch and she swooned with it. I next removed her jeans and lay my face between her thighs in the quiet, eating her while she took bites of sandwiches, an occasional moan, the moon rising overhead like an interrogator’s lamp. Soon I lay atop her. We rolled and rolled in the grass, only partially undressed. Her body reminded me of a conch; if I placed my ear close enough I swore I could hear the ocean in her blood. Then police lights moved past us, spraying our flesh with flashes of blue and red so that we no longer appeared human but of an angelic race, the way angels make love completely clad in robes while the lights of heaven play through their skin. In time we needed to return home so we stood on a street corner and kissed goodbye. Birds continued to call and circle. When I told her I loved her she looked down at her bare feet for she had forgotten her boots in the tree. I ran to retrieve them, carrying them back by the shoestrings. She did not put them on, preferring the cool pavement of night on her skin. She disappeared down her street, familiar to me as it was, and it seemed a great maw swallowing her whole. I was left on the corner where the universe shifted around me, the stars realigning in the heavens, their formations no longer familiar but a riddle. I could not solve it. Instead I found my bicycle and rode it home, the swirl of headlights in nearby lanes, the lamps of shops going blind, my eyes refusing to see other than my lover, the small still sliver of God that we had reached with one another.
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Diego by Janelle Cordero
Sonnet 0 by Drew Pisarra Some dude should pen a love poem to you, a guy not waylaid by your kisses, a man who stays cool to your heated touch and won’t melt so much or cry tears of pleasure during sex like a goddamned fool. I’ll never paint portraits of you nor sculpt your like. nor bake you the cake that would take the cake nor grow you a rose with your name, for your nose. You know why? ‘cause every time I begin, I retreat so… Let betters compose better love songs or screen-write rom-coms that are Romans a clef with you as muse. As for me, I’m not vying to be Mr. Right or worse yet the one that got away. You may choose whom you wish. Let him coin a heartfelt, dime-store rhyme. I wish I could write it but I can’t. Not this time. 35
Something Personal by Brandon Hansen A fight to the death is a funny thing. So when I walked under the streetlight, and the thin, snarling man with the fillet knife and dirty leather jacket bear-crawled out of an alley and stabbed me in the shoulder like it was something personal, I shoved my head into his chest and laughed—hard. I’ve tried getting better, really. But things like the little walks are bullshit and talking to someone I trust is bullshit and the hugs and the kisses are bullshit: I’ve tried those. The whole time I’m thinking about the mosquitoes screwing in my ear, and how nobody likes to listen, but loves to speak, and how hot coach’s breath is, splaying out on my neck. Now this fight to the death—holding a man down, one hand pressing his neck into the pavement, the other scratching and prying at the fingers he has wrapped around the knife—I’m not thinking about anything, and that’s the kind of quiet I’m looking for. This guy has me pinned to the brick wall, and he’s hitting me pretty hard in the face. He dropped the knife at some point, I think when we rolled off the curb into the street, and now it’s in my right hand, tucked behind my leg. My left hand is blocking a punch here and there, but I’m eating most of them, waiting for a moment. He catches me with a knuckle in the nerve bundle behind my jaw, and pain spikes through my face and mouth like a fractal. I think my head’s a little messed up from the hit, because I thought I felt my coach’s hand on my chest, but when I stick the kitchen knife so far between his ribs my hand punches his sternum, I laugh, and my mind is clear. The fight is pretty well over at this point. The guy is wheezing on the ground, trying not to move. I imagine he’s afraid of squeezing the last of his oxygen out of his one un-collapsed lung. I sink my knees to the pavement in front of him, the perfect stranger. In the streetlight I can see his last breaths shuddering in his cheeks. I see his eyes for the first time—they are blue, and sad—and I punch him in the fucking face. I hit him square in the forehead, a hard punch that makes my forearm feel funny. I pull my fist away, and the guy’s eyes look like my teammate’s, tinged red from the sweat coming off of their brow, and he says, “Why does coach always take it easy on you?” And I hit him in the teeth. My fist comes up, neat rectangular cuts on each knuckle, and now the guy has mascara running down his face, and he says, “Honey, what happened at practice today?” I pull my fist away, and the guy’s eyes look like coache’s now, pinched around the edges from always hiding behind sunglasses, and he says, “Locke, come help put these pads away, or everyone’s doing sprints until they puke.” And I blast him in the chin so hard he bites his lower lip with his upper teeth,
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and the blood splits between the gap in his teeth and everywhere, and, I hear the chorus of the team behind me as we grab the pads and follow him into the storage shed, screaming, “Yeah, you better fucking do it!” And I keep punching, and the thud of his head and the slap of his blood on the pavement echoes off the dark buildings, and my heavy breathing fills the air, and the streetlight buzzes, and maybe if the bastard wouldn’t have died the instant I stabbed him, I could have talked to him about it, too.
Carnivore by Cameron Filas I cut decisively. Watery pools of red blood gushed from the hunk of meat. Its salty stench wafted up to my nostrils. The small morsel that I had sawed from the original slab was red on the inside, burnt and seasoned, by the sweaty chefs in back, on the outside. Reluctantly, I swapped my fork and knife between hands. Even as I stared at the bite, if that is what one might call it, I began to gag. I shakily snatched my large ice water; greedily gulping down what I hoped might be fortitude. It stared solemnly at my neatly tucked shirt napkin, pure and unscathed by the horrendous carnage on my plate. It seemed to sneer and nod towards the gob of garlic mashed potatoes next door. I eyed the incredulously inviting mound of spuds. With my cold stainless Japanese tool of skewering, I shovelled the tempting diversion off of my platter. The sickening plop as it hit the floor sent chills down my spine. Cautiously, I wiped the remaining tuber from my fork, using the corner of the chequered tablecloth. If my napkin is to be soiled it shall be through victory, not some menial side dish. Unwavering, the gory mouthful peered placidly at my still unscathed bib. With wobbly composure, I gripped my utensil tightly in a fist. As I hesitantly hoisted the weapon above my head, a warm bead of sweat rolled down my side, originating from my moist armpit. For an agonizingly long minute I inspected my adversary. Then, with a grotesque lurch, I pierced the bleeding lump and raised it to my mouth. With closed eyelids, I torpidly tongued the salty segment. My lips furled as I opened my jaws further, preparing for the inevitable. I shoved it in my mouth and pulled the fork out, my teeth grinding against the metal as I did. I chewed with quick chomps. My tongue retreated to my throat so as not to taste the lifeless slab of flesh. Astoundingly, I choked down the half-worked lump, moaning in disgust all the while. My eyes burned with tears of distress. I reached blindly for my ice water, only succeeding in toppling the cold beverage. With a sudden sweeping motion, I cleared my plate from the table, sending it careening onto the ceramic tile. Now spinning, my head came thundering down onto the chequered cloth before me. My frigid refreshment pooled around my face as everything went black. 37
E r i c R a w s o n Beauty Salon
Couples Brunch 38
Man With Hookah
Woman With Dog
Sleeping Drummer 39
Chapter Five of “GONE ALASKA”
Red of 10,000 Years
by Dave Barrett My late great Uncle John always said, “There are three things you don’t talk about in a bar. Religion. Politics. And SALMON. . .” Even as far inland as North Idaho I’d been raised on salmon lore of the great runs before the dams. “Before the Dams” was a catch-phrase from a time when Couer d’ Alene lake banks and tributary stream bottoms burned day-glo red and green in the fall. “Before Grand Coulee came along. . .” Uncle John used to say. “The hearts and veins of these lakes and rivers burned RED with the blood and fury of spawning salmon. I’m told it was truly a sight to behold: like Monday Night football, 4th of July, and an electric light show all rolled into one. . .” I was ten years old when I witnessed one of these “light shows” for myself. I’d been shipped out to spend the summer with some cousins that lived along the Clearwater River near Lewiston. The Clearwater is a tributary of the Snake and, in those days, it still hosted one of the largest sockeye runs east of the Cascade Range. For years I’d been hearing stories how my Uncle Albert harvested the fish with a pitchfork; how my cousins Bill and Ted “clobbered the critters” with boulders and baseball bats in the shallower pools; of the “infernal and ungodly stench of their spent and rotting carcasses” from aunt Mabel. All that August I’d awoke at the crack of dawn to walk down to the river’s edge to see if the salmon had “moved in” during the night. (From Uncle Albert I’d learned that salmon move mostly at night. . .and I remember lying there in the coffin-like dark and quiet of the country night. . .thinking I could actually “feel” the salmon moving into their spawning reds the way you might “feel” an intruder entering your home.) All month this had been my morning ritual. And every morning . . . as I grumbled my way back from the river to the chicken yard to gather eggs for breakfast . . . I remember being disappointed by it. aunt Mabel said she didn’t know what was up. But every year the salmon were showing up later and later in the season. Uncle Albert said it was the dams and fish ladders on the Snake that was slowing them down. Bill and Ted—grinning and patting their baseball bats—said “the slimers” had gotten wind of what was coming their way. Then, on Labour Day weekend, the morning before the day I was to return home, it happened. I remember it was a strangely overcast morning: clouds hanging so low I couldn’t see the mountains in the distance. Thunder and lightning had rippled through the bedroom window all night long. I remember tip-toeing through the house . . . carrying my boots . . . and not putting them on until I was out of the back stoop past the kitchen door. (The last thing I wanted—if I should be so lucky as to see these salmon—was Bill and Ted standing beside me, pelting the fish with rocks.) I had to climb down a mess of boulders to get a view of the river bottom. I remember the reflection of the red leaves from the sumac bushes along the opposite bank seeming more marked than usual. A dozen times I’d mistaken the shimmering of these sumac leaves for schools of sockeye. Then, reaching the big granite boulder that I’d singled 40
out as my observation deck, I saw it. Beneath the RED of these Sumacs was another RED. A deeper RED. The RED Uncle John had spoken of. The RED of my dreams and stream-side visions. RED of 10,000 years. Up and down. One side to the other. Far as the eye could see. SALMON.
Air by Karen Morrow Drowning. The musky, airless funk of his bedroom drives him out. Poverty has a smell and it follows him from one shit box to the next. They all smell the same. He didn’t notice it until the last foster place. It was near the beach and the house was always wide open, breathing in fresh, salty air. He is suffocating here. In the darkness, he kicks off the blanket and swings down from the top bunk, landing with a thud. He pulls the front of his t-shirt up into his face to test the smell; it’ll do. His hands feel their way through the pile of clothes on the empty bunk below for his jeans and he drags them through the tangle. He feels for the shank in the back pocket. Running. His skateboard is on its side beside the front door. The handle rattles under his hand as he opens it and glances back at his sleeping mother, lying in impossible awkwardness on the couch. Colourless streetlight burns through kinked venetians, draining the colour from her face. Her mouth is open and her breathing is faint. Empty cans are scattered around the floor where they’ve been thrown in a mumbled tirade at the ghosts that haunt her tortured mind. An acrid waft of cigarette butts and stale bourbon throw a drunken punch at his back as he pulls the door shut behind him. Falling. He takes the steps two at a time down the filthy stairwell, down and down. Out on the street the wheels hit the pavement with a hollow clack. His left foot places itself on the board with practiced grace. Below, the street lights puncture the pre-dawn blackness, forming a tunnel of stark light. He breathes deeply and rolls the board forward and back, forward and back. He waits for the feeling. When his soul finds his body and he is, at last, himself. He pushes off hard. A few more pushes and the descending bitumen gives him wings. Inside the fluorescent tunnel, he is flying.
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Another Life
A Bind
by Catherine LoFrumento
by Elizabeth Johnston
I hear ghosts each time you speak your voice a lullaby of lives ago of sunlight kissing our hair & mouths made of feathers
Her ring had grown so heavy she could barely lift her arm. Not wanting to hurt him, she manoeuvred it into a sling. “I fell,” she offered. “It’s broken.” After a while, her husband had questions. Had she seen a doctor? Why didn’t it heal? No other way—she would have to remove the hand. When she woke in the hospital, he was sitting beside her, wan but hopeful. Her left wrist a bandaged stump, her right hand now weighted with the band. “If you prefer,” he tried to be helpful, “we can string it around your neck.”
they surround me calling from the trees
Latino by Catherine Manning
bare limbs hang at my sides
“Hey,” says the All-American boy. “You don’t belong here.” And I dissolve into sand and earth as his face flushes red because my tan won’t fade and my tongue can’t stop rolling in a “foreign” way. “But I was born here,” are the words that slowly emerge from the slick, spit of my mouth. But I no longer exist. I’m a swatted fly.
(unlike them) not able to shift light with a flutter floating higher tangled in bits of cotton & blue your song pulls me back to earth a golden bird caught in my throat.
Loretta by Janelle Cordero 42
Unsent Correspondence by Anirban Dam 6.6.1980 : it was raining you enter like a wet dream soaked in certainty that warmth served in cafés are distilled and bastardized i slipped a poem in your purse 8.6.1980 : strings and tin cans a quarter clinks through the coin slot i say two hell’s… three hello’s… and one fluently faltered Helen you chortled like a conspicuous inside joke 8.8.1980 : one night stands we stood like cathedrals built on a benefit of doubt that faith emerges from desire, not desperation. i left a prayer in your belly button 10.8.1980 : you wait by the phone while your coffee turns cold i found my poem crinkled on the kerb sold it for three quarters and kept them by the payphone if only i had known that someone snatched your purse yesterday 43
The Crab Apple by Matt Pucci The man turned and started back along the path. It was October and leaves covered the path in an array of autumnal colours—reds, browns, orange and yellow. The rustle and crunch underfoot provided both a welcome distraction and a sense of comfort for the man as he began his journey. Early on, the man saw a crab apple nestled in a patch of leaves at the edge of the path. It must have fallen from the branch of a nearby tree, or perhaps been left there by a previous walker who’d kicked it along for a time before losing interest. On first inspection, it appeared to be in fairly good nick: more yellow than green in the waning light, speckled here and there, with faint brown marks and the odd bruise, but otherwise pristine. The man rolled the sole of his left boot over the crab apple to dislodge it from its place of rest. He nudged it with his toe, and the apple rolled into the path a yard or two ahead. The man then took to kicking the apple as he walked, trying to keep a regular stride and trying not to allow the apple to go too far off course, or allow the apple take him off course. Occasionally the apple shot off at an angle—onto the grass verge or into another patch of russet leaves. But whichever side it went, and however deep it landed, the man dug it out and re-directed it, and in this way he continued on his journey. Every so often the man took a longer shot at the apple and kicked it harder than necessary, thus running the risk of losing it—of it disappearing into the undergrowth, too deep to be retrieved. Occasionally, and still without breaking stride, the man leaned over to inspect the apple, briefly taking stock of its state. He noticed that bits of the peel had started to come off (a result of those harder kicks, no doubt) and though he didn’t allow himself to appraise it too thoroughly, the man saw that underneath, where the flesh had been exposed, the apple was decaying. Soon, the path on which the man journeyed would split into three, giving him three options as to which direction he might take—four, if you counted turning through one hundred eighty degrees and going back in the direction he’d come. As he neared the cross-point, the man reflected briefly on his journey, and the fact that he had managed to keep the apple moving all this way, on the path, in spite of the deviations it had taken. That was something, wasn’t it? But with a good thirty or forty paces to go, before he reached the cross-point, and with the apple now so battered and bruised, and so far from its original state as to be virtually unrecognizable (and yet still unmistakable as a crab apple) the man gave the apple one final, extra hard kick. As with his earlier, more forceful kicks, this one caused the apple to shoot off at an angle, bounce up off the path and land under a big, thick bramble bush. And there it remained, for the man did not retrieve the apple, nor make any attempt to do so. If you’d asked him, he wouldn’t have been able to tell you why—why, exactly, on this occasion, he chose not to retrieve it, in spite of the fact that he was so close to the cross-point (which would have at least served as some sort of milestone) or that the apple’s final resting place wasn’t any less accessible than those where previously it had landed. But retrieve it he did not, and so under the bramble the apple remained, with the man continuing, as before, alone and unencumbered, except for his thoughts, which grew louder and more troubling with every step he took, through the autumn leaves and on toward the cross-point and the waning light. 44
I am Patient by Tyrean Martinson I am patient, as my mother weaves my silver-beaded hair into small coils that cover my head and drape down over my shoulders. The white paint that covers my face, including my eyelids, lips and nostrils, has stiffened my expression into a mask of serenity, over which the gold, red, and blue lines ward off evil spirits and invite fertility. Sequins line my eyebrows, but my eyelashes remain unpainted; this last shows my modesty as the rest shows my obedience to custom and my parents. My mother and father have planned this match for over fourteen years, since I was just five and my cousin, Abijah, was seven. My sister, Athalia, says she is jealous that I will be first wife. As second sister, she will only be second wife and my servant forever. But, I know that she is happy under her own paint and sequins. She has secretly loved Abijah for years, and their meetings in shaded corners of family gatherings have not been secret from me. Without my silence, they would have been caught. Without my silence, Athalia might not be with child, and this wedding would not have to be so hurried. My parents actually believed me when I said that Abijah and I were so madly in love that we must be wed at the spring rites this year. I begged and begged for the wedding, had eagerly taken part in the planning, hurrying things along by sewing at my wedding finery all hours of the day and night, with Athalia working steadfastly beside me. My mother was so proud of us, working together so closely and for so long. She didn’t know the many times I wished I could jab Athalia with my needle for forcing me into this. Athalia had prostrated herself to me many times in the last three months, her tearful thankfulness almost over-done, given that she knows that Abijah will favour her in our marriage to him. He will marry us, and she will give him a child quickly. At that point, the family will know, but will pretend otherwise. I’ve seen such things happen again and again in our community. Unless the husband decides he dislikes the girl or is disgusted by her willingness to give herself to him, he will marry her and proudly raise up the child in the claiming ceremony when it is born earlier than expected. Such a wife, if she is favoured by her husband, stays favoured through the childbirth and the usual continued child-births after the first. So, I will be first wife in name only, in social settings and above the servants of Abijah’s household. But, for that, I will gladly be second. For that, I am patient, knowing I will gain tiny choices like most women never experience.
45
Blooming Vine Leaves
The poetry and prose on the following pages are by writers who are 17 years old or younger.
PRESSING BRUISES Previously published in The Dinner Table Review
by Madelyn McZeal
CUPCAKES
I lace my fingers with his and he winces, recoils; apologizes, apologizes.
by Elena Rielinger
We were eating cupcakes in front of your house when you dropped a piece of frosting on the pavement. It was the type of confection where I say it’s OK, the sugar was overtly screaming for attention it is. and the bright indigo colouring laid a subtle bitterness on your tongue. But he says it hurts too much, But you still puckered your lips and he trails his fingers pouted at the unfortunate series of events along my thigh and your sweet lips stained blue from the icing I flinch: that broke your heart. there’s something building here The frosting melted in a tear-dropped shape that I don’t want to apologize for. beneath the summer sun and you There’s a couch I can’t sit on in a familiar room; continued to tell me about how so-and-so abandoned you and I had to suppress the you’re in it. maternal instinct that urged me to You look at me, brush away the petrichor from your face I lie down. or tuck that soot streaked curl behind your ear One of us winces, and we try to reveal your leaky looking eyes. to pull away. I would have let you live off my love if I Apologize. Avert your gaze. thought it could help you forget but you slip this person’s name into It was nothing; every confined or derailed conversation it’s OK. in the same way your trepid finger still lingers over the discoloured skin of the There is more intimacy bruise you received when you fell in the way our eyes meet off your bike on your way to than in the way our fingertips touch so so-and-so’s house the night before damn gingerly. he left. We were meant to see each other across the room and stay there; and stay there. I promise, it was nothing. I’m sorry.
46
A face plastered with a mask Pleading to be seen as a penetrable facade Naive hands reach in to seek attention But all that they meet is a delegate, faking friendship It whispers others’ twisted secrets Promising that if you share yours, they will keep them It hands me a paper heart, a counterfeit of its own Swearing that if I give it mine, I’ll never be alone The eyes project a hint of sly One that words were not able to hide It weaves another slither of lies And that was when I began to realize
A MASQUERADE WORLD by Natasha Schapova
It was grasping for my trust Hoping to make me vulnerable But this time it hushed when I began to look uncomfortable Its expression is solemn but its touch is cold It reveals to me that I am worth more than gold I confess my suspicion, that they, themselves, are not sincere And never again did my “friend” appear In a world where what’s true never happened at all And conspiracy theories were the only facts told Pages of words all scribbled in books Defining our lives, making us hooked We memorize it, recite it, and march in a line Just so that we’d ignore all the political crime These sentences These paragraphs They’re set like a road To lead us to one destination, they’d hope
A PAINTED UTOPIA by Natasha Schapova
To clone us To feed us A slither of lies To mask our real history in one fake disguise But where are the books that validate these thoughts? Well they’re burnt and they’re shamed Along with the soul That wrote them, that exposed the authentic nature That would only bring down the hierarchy of the maker So instead, we’re brainwashed into a psychiatric state Where our ideas aren’t accepted unless they acquaint Fibs and edits that snatch our identity And morph us into one overflowing army of understanding And what must we do to prevent this from being true? Well, it’s already happening All in front of you
MUNICH 1942 by Aditi Sengupta The sizzle of a condescending whip dribbled down the air, over-heating loose layers of flesh, erupting vermillion streaks to reunite with one another, and run down the departing soul’s back. Vermillion effervescence coughed on the incumbent Nazi soldier, moistening his grassy moustache, recolouring his dry-grass coloured uniform. Tunes of mourn and torrid screams of women, children, fathers incised the smoky street. Amidst the éclat of red fireworks, drapes of smoke inhaled cloud, rain of dainty ash, absorbing the dye on the cobblestone, was, ridden in a sanguine-like dress, a cold, cadaverous soul, and a diaphanous, taller woman. “Vater Unset Im Himmel, Geheiligt Werde Dein! Vater Unset Im Himmel, Geheiligt Werde Dein!” The Lord’s Prayer was exclaimed. Grim, tempestuous clouds, encircled over the tormented city, Munich, hanging in desperate hope to blanket the cold, cobblestoned rivers of fear, trickling through each abode, leaving the echo of shuddering spines to resonate silently. Deep down the mass of ash-like humidity, on the cobblestone ridden stretch known as Kolner street, unravelled a low-lit, paltry home, of a lanky, bleached aunt, and, frail, 8 year old, niece, Munich. The cottage was dim, as the aunt caressed a corroded metal frame encasing a rotogravure picture of her husband, his brother and sister-in-law. The oblique, mist-infused window shook vigorously to the rhythm of wheels being massaged by stones from outside the narrow, cardboard-like abode, ricocheting through cinnamon walls, disrupting her aunt from solace. “Munich, they’re here! Quick, grab your satchel.” Dressed in sanguine, the short skeleton lingered in. “But, aunt where will we go?” “Munich, we’ll go to board a train to Neuperlach, where the Wehrmacht aren’t, and then we’ll come back. Now, hurry, we don’t have time.” The pale souls carried the lump of their belongings in their frail arms, rushing out through the back door. The aunt promised a next time to Munich, albeit knowing there wouldn’t be, as they fell under the blanket of haze, running, cobblestones kicking at their blistered feet. The incessant rain of soft, warm ash, drenched the street as it fell past their ears, gently warming their thin skin. “Munich, if anything happens, remember The Lord’s prayer I taught you. They shouldn’t know you’re Jew. Now, recite.” “VV..Vater unser…im Himmel, geheiligt werde dein” With that, they heard lashes pounding from behind as their feet continued beating against the cobble, failing to urge them to look up towards array of torn lives, lined up to encounter their fate as Jews, until the woman tripped and in pain yelled, “Oy gevalt!”, in the language of the Jews. The olive clothed men instantaneously revolved, one didactically approaching her at rear, crunching gravel with his stern boots. His hand lashed their arms indicating it was the military. Her aunt began; “She’s my niece! Her mother was Christian…she’s Christian, not Jewish! Munich, say it!” “Vater Unset Im Himmel, Geheiligt Werde Dein! “Vater Unset Im Himmel, Geheiligt Werde Dein!” They couldn’t. She couldn’t. Munich suffered another 3 years. Two more souls joined the array. 48
TO THE WISE READERS THAT ONLY TRUST THEMSELVES by Natasha Schapova A car nearly hit me today And I didn’t even blink in surprise I didn’t feel a pang of shock When it stopped just in time And I sighed, but not a sigh of relief but a sigh of despair Because I realized that I wanted to be hit Because I realized that my state was beyond repair I wanted it to end All the attention I received, I noticed was only lent All the roads that led to dreams, well they were all bent The feeling of happiness was only available for rent The rain serenading me with its music against my window Was mirroring my tears that were in constant flow But they no longer had a specific reason Crying was the theme of every season The tears weren’t caused by a lost love They were caused by a lost soul A lost desert animal who only wanted a waterhole So what’s the purpose of life and what do we gain? When we’re trapped in a never-ending tunnel of pain Only to be brightened by the occasional echo of voices That were driving me more insane All that i am are the noises All that is left of what I love is art Describing my feelings but only making me fall apart Broken, detached and cut from this world Like the great stories saved on computers that were never told But no one cares about anyone else Only themselves We pay attention to our impulse So that we’d have masses of accomplishments to store in our shelves Humans are selfish Blaming others for their own blemish How can we trust any of them? We’re all stuck in our own mayhem A car nearly hit me today Nearly But if it had It would have been okay
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SCARRED KNEES by Sara Conway I was four when I first ran down our gravel drive into the drizzling rain, away from the baby-blue house that I believed was security and family. I was only four when I ran as fast as my skinny legs could stretch, toward what I thought was family, security, and the meaning of love. Down that driveway I continued to run, over and over again, but never getting any closer. Now I’m exhausted from chasing after them. Two silhouettes, two empty shells with the face of my mother, cherry red lipstick hiding a tight, pinched mouth, with the face of my father and his bleak gray eyes that always looked through me as if I were nothing more than oxygen and nitrogen mindlessly drifting around. Their great black overcoats kept bobbing to a place that I wasn’t part of; decapitated by their businessman umbrellas, leaving me with parents who only had eyes for what they wanted and what was in front of them. They had no life, no hope for what was left behind. I’m still running. I don’t know why I don’t just stop, just face the fact that they aren’t coming back. And I know it’s true. But I keep running. Keep falling, like the first time when I was four years old. Running on slippery gravel, wearing my battered red shoes, the ones with the sewn-on flowers near the toes. Sliding as my feet struggled to find a grip under all the sharp edges and points of the rocks. Falling when I lost concentration for balance, instead frantic to keep them in sight. Hot blood seeped from beneath the gravel wedged into my knees, the soft flesh underneath ripping from the impact. I wanted to wail in pain, to cry loud enough that they’d turn around. But I didn’t. I wanted to be strong. I wanted to catch up to their brisk strides and persuade them to let me come along. I won’t be a bother, I would say. And they would look down at my rain-stained face, a few salty tears mixed in, and finally, finally smile at me like the other mothers and fathers do at their little children. They would take my hands, still angrily red from catching my fall. They would gasp and hurry me inside, delaying their trip, to get my shredded, dirty knees all cleaned and bandaged up, coax me to cry when he cold water froze the bleeding, numbed the pain. I wouldn’t cry and they would laugh and say that I was always their brave little one. But they never saw me fall the first time, nor the second, or the third—when I was four, when I was ten, when I was sixteen. They kept walking, I kept running. They were always too far ahead, too blinded by their own desire to see me standing at the edge of the drive in front of the baby-blue house, waiting for them to come back. 50
Contributor Biographies Adam Huening grew up in a small town in the American Midwest. He earned degrees in English and journalism from Indiana University and currently resides around Bloomington, Indiana. His work has been published in Soliloquies Anthology, Burningword, A Lonely Riot, Crab Fat, and Gravel, among others. Aditi Sengupta is a secondary student with profound interest in literature. She has always been a perfectionist with correct vocabulary, and has read about great Australian women and their contributions. Her goal is to remain in the minds of children with disability and write about them in the near future. Allie Long is an economics and English double-major at the University of Virginia. Her poetry appears in Ground Fresh Thursday, Words Dance, Bird’s Thumb, as well as others. Read more of her work at alliesanxietydiaries.wordpress.com. Ana Prundaru holds a MSc from Lund University and is the author of three chapbooks. Her work is forthcoming from The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, Gargoyle, Diagram and others. More at: amprundaru.wordpress.com. Angela Elia is a writer and singer/ songwriter living in New York City. Her performances and releases have been featured in The Village Voice, VENTS Magazine, and more. Her music, video, and upcoming appearances can be found at www.angelaeliamusic.com Anirban Dam is a 20-something Finance post-graduate. Apart from crunching numbers and listening to music, he thrives on guilt-free sarcasm and gluten-free poetry. His works have appeared or are forthcoming in publications like The Meadow, Kitaab and In-flight Literary Magazine. His physical form was last sighted in Bombay, India. Bill Wolak is a poet who lives in New Jersey and teaches Creative Writing at William Paterson University. He has just published his thirteenth collection of poetry entitled Love Opens the Hands: New and Selected Love Poems with Nirala Press. Brad G. Garber lives, writes and runs around naked in the Great Northwest. He fills his home with art, music, photography, plants, rocks, bones, books, good cookin’ and love. He has published poetry, art, photos, essays and articles in many quality publications. 2013 Pushcart Prize nominee. Brandon Hansen is an EnglishWriting/Environmental Studies student at Northern Michigan University in Marquette, Michigan. He scratches for truth in everything and finds it exhausting and weird a lot of the time.
He is currently a Writing Center tutor and is applying for MFA programs. Connect with Brandon: Brandon Hansen Raving @ Wordpress.com Byron Nelson is a student at University of Wisconsin-Parkside. He doesn’t play golf, so please stop asking. Cameron Filas writes short, usually dark, fiction. He’s been published at Yellow Mama, 365 tomorrows, and Five 2 One Magazine, among others. He lives in sun-baked Mesa, Arizona, with his fiancée. Carmen Kern is a Canadian photographer/writer living in Arizona. Carmen spends most days scouting for pictures to shoot, then uses the images to inspire her stories. You can see more of her work at decent-xposure.com or her author website, carmenkern.com. Carol Denson’s poems have appeared in The Adirondack Review, Gulf Coast, Literary Mama, and others. Across the Antique Surface, a chapbook, was published by Finishing Line Press in 2013. Her work has been supported by the Arts Council of Houston and Harris County and the Jentel Foundation. Catherine LoFrumento lives in Connecticut with her husband and fur babies. She hopes having degrees in English and Accounting means both sides of her brain work. Her poetry has been featured or is forthcoming in various journals and anthologies including: Neverlasting, Cattails, Modern Haiku, Frogpond, bottle rockets, and 50 Haikus. Catherine Manning is a recent graduate of Creative Writing from The University of Central Florida. There she gained a large appreciation for poetry. Soon she will start a job as a high school English teacher. Her hope is to continue writing, while inspiring the same in her students. Charley Karchin is a mead-maker, an employee working for a non-profit, and a chick that would prefer to sip a beer at a snow-covered mountain resort than to drink anything out of a coconut on a sun-heated beach. Claudia Serea’s poems and translations appeared in Field, New Letters, 5 a.m., and elsewhere. She is the author of Nothing Important Happened Today (Broadstone Books, 2016), and To Part Is to Die a Little (Cervena Barva Press, 2015). Serea is a founding editor of National Translation Month. More at cserea.tumblr.com. Dave Barrett teaches writing at the University of Montana in Missoula. His fiction has appeared most recently in the Potomac Review, Midwestern Gothic, Prole, Worker’s Write!, Scarlett Leaf Review and Gravel. He is at work on a new novel.
Drew Pisarra’s writings, besides poetry, range from movie criticism (KoreanGrindhouse.blogspot.com) to short stories (“Publick Spanking”) to the libretto of a musical (“The World Is Round”). Elena Rielinger is currently a high school senior residing in a suburb near Cleveland, Ohio. In addition to the Vine Leaves Literary Journal, her poetry has also been published in The Noisy Island and Sprout Magazine. Elizabeth Johnston’s work appears in many literary journals and edited collections and has been nominated for Pushcarts and Best of the Net awards. A teacher and founding member of Straw Mat Writers (http://strawmatwriters. weebly.com), she lives in Rochester, NY with her husband, two daughters, and a menagerie of animals. Eric Rawson lives and teaches in Southern California. His recent photographic work focuses on life in the San Gabriel Valley. Frances Saunders has been published in the anthology Steeped in the World of Tea, and in the journals Reflections, Marco Polo Arts Magazine, One in Four, and Lifelines, among other journals and presses. She lives and writes in Cambridge, MA. Frank William Finney’s poems have appeared in such publications as Danse Macabre, Verandah, The Four-Chambered Heart: In Tribute in Anaïs Nin, Wild Goose Poetry Review, Paris/Atlantic, The MacGuffin, and Iodine Poetry Journal. He lives, writes and teaches (Thammasat University) in Bangkok, Thailand. Hayley Davis is an Atlanta, Georgia, native. She currently lives in Buckhead with her husband of two years and has taught in Atlanta-area schools for four years. Hayley attended Columbus State University in Georgia and participated in the Visiting Student Program at Oxford University. This is her first publication. Heidi Seaborn lives in Seattle. Her poetry has or will appear in Into the Void, Carbon Culture, Gold Man Review, Flying South 2016 Anthology, 3Elements Review, Windfall, Fredericksburg Literary and Art Review, Ekphrastic Review, the Voices Project, Ice Dream Anthology and at medium.com/@ heidis. Jane Jordan was born in England. She lived in the USA for fifteen years, before relocating to Exmoor, in South West England. She began writing in 2004, and has four published novels. Her genre is dark romance. Jane Returned to Florida in 2013, and now lives in Sarasota. Connect with Jane at janejordannovelist.com.
Janelle Cordero is a poet, painter and teacher living in the Pacific Northwest. Her paintings have been featured in numerous literary journals and venues in and around Spokane, Washington. Check out her artist website at www. janellecordero.com. Janelle’s debut poetry collection, Two Cups of Tomatoes, was released in October 2015. Janet Buck is a seven-time Pushcart Nominee & the author of four full-length collections of poetry. Buck’s most recent work is featured in The Birmingham Arts Journal, Antiphon, Offcourse, PoetryBay, Poetrysuperhighway, Abramelin, The Writing Disorder, Misfit Magazine, Lavender Wolves, River Babble, The Danforth Review & other journals worldwide. Her latest print collection of verse, Dirty Laundry, is currently available at all fine bookstores. Buck’s debut novel, Samantha Stone: A Novel of Mystery, Memoir & Romance, was released courtesy of Vine Leaves Press in September, 2016. Janet lives & writes in Southern Oregon—just hours away from Crater Lake, one of the seven wonders of the world. For links, announcements, and interviews with Janet, visit her new website: www.janetibuck.com Joe Giordano and his wife, Jane, live in Texas. Joe’s stories have appeared in more than ninety magazines. His novel, Birds of Passage, An Italian Immigrant Coming of Age Story, was published by Harvard Square Editions 2015. Appointment with ISIL, an Anthony Provati Thriller will be published in 2017. John Mullennix is a Professor of Psychology at the University of Pittsburgh at Johnstown. He conducts research in experimental aesthetics. Not the stereotypical professor, he sports over 40 tattoos. He views science and art as two sides of the same creative coin. Karen Morrow is a writer from the South Coast of NSW who likes to experiment with all forms of writing, especially for young people. Her work has been anthologised in literary journals, books and magazines. For more info, please visit KarenMorrowWriter.com Kelly Dolejsi is a climbing instructor at the YMCA. Her poetry and flash fiction has been published most recently in Denver Quarterly, Fifth Wednesday, 1001, Mom Egg Review, Mothers Always Write, Trickster, and Santa Fe Literary Review. Lee Todd Lacks is a mixed-media artist and clinical counsellor, whose writing has appeared in Bop Dead City, Tincture, Journal, Oldstyle Tales Press, The Quarterday Review, Crack The Spine, and elsewhere. His first book of poetry and short fiction, entitled Underneath, will be published in the fall of 2016. See more at: fermatapublishing. com Lily Keane is a teacher and writer who loves watching football and tennis, but whose only athletic achievement is
walking on the bottoms of her feet. She lives in hope that the Truth of Silence will be sought by all. Lisa Lindsey resides in Cincinnati, Ohio, USA. Nature and life in a river town are frequent themes in her poetry. Her writing has appeared in The Cincinnati Historical Society Press, Paula Brown Press, The Penwood Review, and Blue Mountain Arts. Lisa works in a parish office as a bulletin editor. Lucie Britsch’s career peaked too soon when she won a poop scoop slogan contest as a kid. She has since been published in Barrelhouse, Volume1Brooklyn, Catapult, and SplitLip and won two honourable mentions from Glimmer Train. Madelyn McZeal is a queer 17 year old African American girl from Houston, Texas. She enjoys old books, rainy days, and unfinished poems. She is an editor of Zig Zag Zine, a small publication for women, PoC, and members of the lgbt+ community. Malado Francine is a Los Angeles-based multi-media artist. Recent exhibitions include “Gallery Tally” at LA Contemporary Exhibitions, “On Site in 16 Cities” in Berlin, Germany, and “Modern Oracles” at Trestle Projects, Brooklyn, NY. Her work has been shown internationally and is in both public and private collections. Connect with Malado: maladofrancine.com, malado3.tumblr.com, instagram.com/ malado3, facebook.com/maladobaldwin. Marilyn Flower is a published writer and teacher of writing living in California. Journals in which her work has been published include Sow’s Ear, Poetry Motel, The Southern California Anthology, and more. Mathew Serback’s debut book will be available in October of 2017 through ELJ Publications. He has short fiction everywhere in 2016. He’s the managing editor of Scissors and Spackle, as well as an assistant editor with Bartleby Snopes. Matt Pucci is a primary school teacher from the UK. He’s also been a bar-tender, a snowboard salesman, an English teacher, and a one-time winner of Rant of the Week in Kerrang! magazine. His written work has appeared in various locations over the years, now curated on his website, http:// mattpucci.com. Meri Culp has been published in various literary journals including Nashville Review, Grist, and Southeast Review, and in anthologies including The Gulf Stream: Poems of the Gulf Coast and Love You Madly: Poetry About Jazz, North of Wakulla. She was also a finalist in the 2013 Peter Meinke Poetry Competition, the 2014 Crab Orchard Open Series in Poetry Competition, and 2014 Crab Orchard First Book Award Competition.
Michael Fontana lives and writes in beautiful Bella Vista, Arkansas, USA. Michelle Skinner is a library assistant, piano teacher, artist, and flutist. She graduated from the University of Science and Arts of Oklahoma and loves all things creative and intellectual. Natasha Schapova is a 17 year old Melbournian who finds solace in writing and has been an avid reader from a young age. She is ecstatic that Vine Leaves Literary Journal, will be the first to officially publish her pieces and hopes that there are many more to come. Her blog can be accessed at: trappedinscript.com Rebecca Ciota received degrees in English Literature and Creative Writing from Oberlin College. She has been published in Catfish Creek, the Citron Review, Dirty Chai Magazine, and Words Apart Magazine as well as other venues. Ruth Kogen Goodwin is a writer and editor living in Southern California with her husband and their daughter. Her work can be found in the Eunoia Review among other publications. She earned her MFA from American University in Washington, DC. Sara Conway has received numerous awards from the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, including a Gold Key and an Honorable Mention for two of her short stories last year. In 2015, she was awarded a National Silver Medal for her flash fiction piece, “Her Voice,” and attended the award ceremony at Carnegie Hall in New York City. Sara is also working towards self-publishing her first anthology, titled “The Storyteller.” Sean L Corbin holds an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Kentucky. His work has been published in Still, Today People, Poetry Fix, Vinyl Poetry, among others. He lives in Lexington, Kentucky, with his wife, the writer Amanda Kelley Corbin, and their two sons. Shannon Magee is a writer currently based in New Jersey. A passionate writer of both poetry and prose, she is one of the Design and Production Editors for the education journal Notes on American Letters and she runs a personal blog at write.shenanigans. wordpress.com. Trina Denner lives, loves, and writes in Brisbane. She holds a PhD, which explores Young Adult Fiction, and is a sessional academic and teacher. For fun and inspiration, she likes to run up and down mountains. Okay…sometimes she walks the up parts. Tyrean Martinson lives fully in the Pacific Northwest within smelling distance of the salty sea of the Puget Sound. Yet, she writes of distant lands of the imagination. Find her online at: tyreanswritingspot.blogspot.com and her books at most online retailers.