2/17/2020 0 Comments Aura by Courtney BrooksAura you bisect my brain an intruder kicking the door open you arrange a recliner so you can watch my neurotransmitters misfire you redecorate my vision tv static crescents replacing peripherals I didn’t need to see my husband’s face anyways you put your feet up and demand to know who it was that told me I could have a life without you I lock my amygdala when you leave but then you throw your suitcase through a window the next time shine a flashlight in my eyes I think I’m fine but you remind me that “fine” is duct tape on a severed limb is driving with blinders on my face is saying a prayer for sumatriptan before I hit my head against the wall “fine” is you moving into my bedroom, taking over the lease, changing the locks you don’t put your toothbrush in your overnight bag anymore or leave your shoes at the doormat instead, you rearrange my spice cabinet alphabetically (I can’t see the letters anyway) and you say welcome home Courtney Brooks is an MFA candidate at Northern Arizona University, as well as the web editor for Thin Air Magazine’s online journal. She reads and writes fabulism and horror, and is a sucker for an all-black outfit. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in The Tunnels, Thin Air Online, and Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review. When not buried in her work, you can probably find her in the woods somewhere, thinking about monsters.
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2/17/2020 0 Comments Hocus Pocus by yuan changmingHocus Pocus This [bread] is no other than Jesus’ flesh This [horse’s open mouth] is Vaisvanara This [word] has A magic power This [fish head] brings Courage & posterity This [fluid] cures All diseases This [sequence of syllables] drives away All evils & devils This [ritual] ensures Good weather & good harvest This [hat/hood] guarantees Purity, loyalty This [flag] leads right To paradise This [man] is A living god This [statue, foiled or not] is Omnipotent This [chip] will transform us Into godlins So long as man is in his story All is well that believes well Yuan Changming published monographs on translation before leaving his native country. Currently, Yuan edits Poetry Pacific with Allen Qing Yuan in Vancouver. Credits include ten Pushcart nominations, eight chapbooks & publications in Best of the Best Canadian Poetry (2008-17) & BestNewPoemsOnline, among 1,609 others across 43 countries. 2/17/2020 0 Comments Poetry by Kushal PoddarThe Most Rained The most rained morning, muted crackling, vapor rising from the leftover riot of silence, my siren hand pierces your stupor of dream. "South of being burns", I say, and you ask, "Where will we find a leeway for our offsprings?" I know not. Rain tiptoes, fails and falls midst two icebergs melting apart - the time we perceive and the time that holds us within. Monkey's Paw by Kushal Poddar A teargas shell tore off my bro's hand; since we called him a primate in childhood we kept the hand, nicknamed it 'Monkey's Paw', presented it before every guest in our house, cherished their shriek; the severed limb just wouldn't rot; the second hand revolutionists often borrowed it for their demonstrations, but no one asked my sibling what the paw meant to him. Probably a missing link in the evolution chain between Adam and Cain. He wouldn't have answered anyway, rather scratched his arm's end the way one alley cat scratches the blind bricks when cornered in dire need of some magic. Kushal Poddar is the author of ‘The Circus Came To My Island’, ‘A Place For Your Ghost Animals, Understanding The Neighborhood’, ‘Scratches Within’, ‘Kleptomaniac's Book of Unoriginal Poems’, ‘Eternity Restoration Project- Selected and New Poems’ and now ‘Herding My Thoughts To The Slaughterhouse-A Prequel’ (Alien Buddha Press) 2/17/2020 0 Comments Blinding. Yeah. by Elisabeth HoranBlinding. Yeah. You mention lost kids And I think of Ferlinghetti The beautiful gravel in the driveway. How do we find, and if we do find... How do we heal The children, who've honestly Held us up, in our sickly Adult ways... Should we put them in rehab or Juvenile delinquent group homes... Shall we commit them??? Tell them they are too broken To be fixed properly, to be returned To society. I've seen fear--- In a child's eyes. They are human beings, Yet they are only halfway there, To comprehend the evil and beauty Of this world. We are by nature Lazy creatures. Adults. We are tired. And can't be asked to fix it all Especially in one instance. We too, were Hurt. Beat abandoned raped and plain old Bullied. And supposed to go on? I've seen this stare. It's a Vacancy Guarded. Their eyes. Your eyes. My eyes. Let's just remember the gravel, the shining Miraculous gravel, We can agree It feels the same To my feet. To their feet. To your feet. Elisabeth Horan is an imperfect creature from Vermont advocating for animals, children and those suffering alone and in pain - especially those ostracized by disability and mental illness. She is Editor in Chief at Animal Heart Press, and Co-Editor at Ice Floe Press. She has several chaps and collections out at Bone & Ink Press, Fly on the Wall Press, Twist It Press, Rhythm and Bones Press, Cephalo Press, and Animal Heart Press. Her newest collections: Just to the Right of the Stove, with Hedgehog Poetry Press, and Alcoholic Betty, with Fly on the Wall Poetry Press are forthcoming in 2020. She is a poetry mentor to many up and coming brilliant poets, and proud momma to Peter and Thomas. She recently earned her MA from SNHU, and her MFA from Lindenwood University. She is a 2018 Pushcart Nominee and a 2018 and 2019 Best of Net Nominee. Follow her @ehoranpoet & ehoranpoet.com 2/17/2020 0 Comments Inhaling the sky by David HanlonInhaling the sky by David Hanlon Battered, weary-bodied, toothpick bones, clipped wings, alarm, flapping, unceasing mind-chatter: swarm-buzz, anxious bees; fist pummel, collapsing into a ruinous truth. Did I rattle for decades in a prison of my own making? A moulting of the internalised-- stone is fruit, a forgotten heap on my own flesh prison’s floor; a cage within my cage, vessels for breath, vessels: blood flow. Metal bars pried open, screeching, wings prized from steel captivity, spreading albatross-wide. I breathe in the unobscured; this celestial dome above me. My deep chest is an atmosphere, mapping out constellations and flare swells. My thorax a repository, a showcase for spectacles, a natural phenomena. The sky is an open wound, church, its organ, trauma talons, an unbarred echo, its flight, the kindest weapon. This poem originally appeared in Spectrum of Flight, Animal Hearts Press, 2020. David Hanlon is a Welsh poet living in Bristol, England. He is a qualified counsellor/therapist. You can find his work online in Rust & Moth, Into The Void, Barren Magazine, Mojave Heart Review, Kissing Dynamite & Homology Lit, among others. His first chapbook is forthcoming in Spring 2020 with Animal Heart Press. 2/17/2020 0 Comments Poetry by Terrence Sykes Richard P J Lambert CC SONATA & FUGUE For BUZZARD IN FLIGHT … for the disappointed buzzard who discovered upon dusk laden landscape I was merely passed out from drinking too much … & not dead PALIMPSEST dusk leads into night into chaos body mind & spirit into oblivion saints & sinners palimpsest even my soul’s existence from earth & cosmos merely stardust remains who shall follow I sacrificial vellum lamb Terrence Sykes was born and raised in the rural coal mining area of Virginia. This isolation brings the theme of remembrance to his creations, whether real or imagined. Other interests include cooking, gardening ,heirloom vegetable research & foraging wild edibles. His poetry - photography - flash fiction has been published in Bangladesh, Canada, Ireland, India, Mauritius, Pakistan, Scotland, Spain and the USA 2/17/2020 1 Comment Poetry by Brian RihlmannRESOLUTION I’d like to do less and be more or even nothing something is too much to be and doing is too much to do we’ve an addiction to doing it’s like a syringe in our pocket always jabbing like a gift that was given us and we were told “Here, you want this!” what we want beneath the wants we were given-- to discover that is to claw our way from the grave of the life prescribed and finally live BETWEEN MAN AND BEAST my earplugs are in so I don’t hear him don’t notice as he sits at the other end of the long table until I feel the vibrations across 8 feet of hardwood-- the pounding of his middle fingers on the keys like angry little fists I stare until he looks up, then away continues to pound he either does or doesn’t understand what the look is about I clench my jaw against the words kicking the backs of my teeth and try to work try to finish the poem I’m writing a hundred times a day I’m called to reconcile what I’d like to do with what’s socially acceptable but there’s no reconciling them-- I can only squirm in this wretched gap where I live Brian Rihlmann was born in NJ, and currently lives in Reno, NV. He writes mostly semi autobiographical, confessional free verse. Folk poetry…for folks. He has been published in Constellate Magazine, Poppy Road Review, The Rye Whiskey Review and has an upcoming piece in The American Journal Of Poetry. 2/17/2020 0 Comments If only by Ann PrivateerIf only I had followed my heart Instead of listening To the well meaning Breeze of dogs and cats That prowl the neighborhood. If only the ice cracked A little rather than a lot And I didn't fall through Dappled and gray Lost in the plunge. If only she had not Disappeared in the river Near a church in Clusaz Never to be seen again By soft scented air. Ann Privateer is a poet, artist, and photographer. Some of her work has appeared in Third Wednesday, Manzanita, and Entering to name a few. The Falling Valley Here at Yosemite, the sky is a vast lake full of locked doors. Each door is Santa Fe turquoise. The sole intent is to keep evil spirits and love at bay. It’s early October, no rain in the forecast, though the tent zipper is a frosted rattlesnake skeleton spine. It zings and hisses as I open it. There’s a definitive smell of smoke and chill in the air. We are both aware it’s the quadrivium of the autumnal equinox. The time of year, anything can happen and probably will. You can’t climb Half Dome unless you have a pass, and the cables are up. Generally, from late May through Columbus Day weekend. I’m not sure why the park brochure references Columbus unless it’s because he was an explorer? The parallel, industrial cable wires are made of high tinseled steel. The cable is made from several strands of metal wire, twisted into a helix, forming composite rope. At Half Dome, each cable is threaded through the eye of vertical stay. The lengths of cable are connected by pre-determined cable clamps, each with two bolts and nuts. The ascent is over four hundred feet, nearly straight up. As in love, you can’t fall out unless you slip. Unless everything you know and trust about cables is humanly flawed. The backside of the silvery planet arches it’s back clear up to her plateau. At the very top, you can look out at the entire Yosemite Valley. If not for a wall of spruce and cedar conifers, you could treat your eyes on a view of the golden scaled Pacific. To climb here is to feel as though you are in space. It’s the time of year, most waterfalls, Bridalveil, Vernal and Sentinel, have emptied and hushed, having spilled their watery entrails all spring and summer to entertain tourists. ~~~ In the clumsy hours of 2:00 A.M., Max and I sip Jack Daniels and swell ourselves with makeshift S’ mores: Small Mellow marshmallows, chocolate, and Ritz Crackers. Before tonight, we’ve managed to navigate inside the friend zone. A goodnight kiss destroys all this in sequestered nylon staked tent. The sex is voltaic, electric. ~~~ Our fantasy future and planned climb keep us mostly awake. Everything about who we are is evolving. Our sense of what we are becoming takes away some of the typical climbing angst. Being less cautious seems natural, almost demanded. In the early dark of morning, we fumble stick matches and hand me down cookware. Our Dutch Brother’s coffee, brown eggs, and Paleo, organic bacon, tastes better than any last meal. After relaxing a minute, we store unneeded gear and begin our trip. The hike to the end of the trailhead, at the base of Half Dome, ends in five hours. Just to get here is exhausting. Exhilarated with a second wind, we take our place in the climb lottery line. My voice is chatty when I mention to Max, the column ahead of us might be, “Two-hundred hikers tops.” Max calmly stretches his neck, says, “Mostly groups and couples.” Up ahead, to our right, we can’t help but notice the man recovering on a granite boulder the size of a chair. He’s just finished barfing in the face of fear. As we move toward the start of the cables, we find ourselves next to him. His cheeks are shiny grey porcelain, precisely the same texture as the weathered skin of the long-abandoned dead on the slopes of Mount Everest. I can’t help myself, “Are you ok?” I ask. Max gently taps my shoulder as if to move us forward in line. Max nods his head one time at the gentleman, the way some men do as if to say, “Hey, I’m sorry, man.” Before we can take another step, the man makes eye contact and reluctantly answers me, “I will be fine. At least I’ll live to see another day.” Max again petitions, “Emily, please keep moving, they’re stacking up behind us?” In one growing, fearful line, we shuffle forward, higher and higher. Any fucking vagary of what death might look like evaporates into the building cumuli above us. It’s not until we’re halfway up that Max asks, “Did you catch what the sitting man muttered when we walked past him?” Max swears he said, “Half Dome is a tombstone.” Blessed with a mild case of Tourette’s, I say something absurd like, “He said, Love, is a doom zone.” You’ll find a park ranger at every Yosemite entrance booth. Any ranger will always appear anxious to speak about their beloved Half Dome. You can see it in their eyes and smiles. Half-Dome is their Candy Crush. Even though all we want is the ubiquitous green tourist pamphlet, spackled in hiking trails, you can almost feel their frustration. They live to share. They are fully aware there is something sacred at altitude, yet they have been instructed to be brief. So instead, they check our pass, contort their faces, and wrestle back their tongues. Then they ask us to hurry along. Half Dome is a granite menhir at the eastern end of Yosemite Valley. Half Dome has its own zip code, 95389. The utilitarian green brochure, with utilitarian font, describes it as a colossus, with a combined weight of a thousand Giza Pyramids. It’s named after its distinct shape, an iconic half Saturn. Its sheer face hints at something much expansive, a forever half of something esoteric. It’s an operational definition of itself. The front side is an escarpment, almost 9000 straight up. Rumor has it; Ansel Adams took black and white photographs of the cliff’s face, hoping one day it might become his sepia Mona Lisa. It’s stellar and solar vertical lines point straight up, perhaps to other worlds. The backside of the monolith is smooth and convex. It’s the pedestrian side of the Dome. Its alien configuration seems out of place, best suited for one of the valleys of the Red Planet. Max and I struggle against fear. We are best friends, and now we are stumbling into love. There’s not much that’s riskier? This beautiful day, under a closing sky, we think everything, as an upside. Dual cables, like gothic prophets, intend to lead us up the mountain. The raised cables act as sinew, as they stretch from post to post. The posts stand nearly four feet tall and string approximately fifteen feet apart. They’ve been cranked taut, so you clutch them at waist height, and literally pull yourself along. Dual, straight lines, they stretch you all the way to the summit. The arched cables are life support, and like us, they will end at the beginning of twilight. At this time of day, you can’t see stars, save for past experience, you wouldn’t even know where they’re hung. They seem awfully close this early evening. As we tug ourselves upward, passing climbers share nervous laughter, a kind of gallows humor. A somber and chiseled man behind us, with an R.E.I pack, asks us to please hurry along, as if he’s on some kind of mission. And so our pace quickens each step ahead intentional. As we span ever higher, we wonder out loud about the obvious danger. I ask Max, “Why does the Federal Park Service support and advertise such a harrowing climb?” I get no answer. It’s clear the monument’s spine has been drilled, stabbed, and bolted. This time, she is restrained with Lilliputian cables and posts instead of barbed wire fencing. At each support, planked 2” X 12” timbers cross our upward momentum — each one anchored to her granite flank for traction. No one has to tell us, but we know they’re here if just to keep Max and me from slipping or falling, especially today because the granite below us is icy. We wear gloves to reduce the chance of cable splinters. We pull and pull. As in life, each day offers us the potential of exploration. There’s something or somewhere out there to challenge us, to move us forward, like love. Sometimes it pulls us, sometimes it pushes. At our age, it’s expected. After a short time at the top, we reverse and head back in the direction of our past. From way up here, we can see all the places we’ve been, some for the very last time. With each step, we darken. As we plummet, we feel fatigued and pressed, with a five-hour hike back to camp waiting for us at the bottom. We accelerate, commit infinitesimal mistakes, and anticipate failures. There’s no backing out now. But we’ve made our separate lives appear as obstacles to survival. And so we go down, conflicted, and confused. In shifts, we all descend in chaotic order. The decline is half-fear of the tumble. Max and I are on our own now. We are on a tethered walk in space. The moon is a scythe chopping stalks of alarm. The elements begin to torment us, raise our anxiety. The winds are wolves running toward us. Other couples pass us, nervously giggle, raise their chins, and pretend. ~~~ I can’t tell you how or why Max and I fell. We are both emotionally fit. Max works at FedEx. His legs are tempered with stainless steel hinges for knees. His hands are vice grips, I know. When we kissed for the first time, I couldn’t get them off my tits. Now it’s too late. Now I wish he’d held me tighter, never let me go. I’m ok so far in dealing with our loss. I think we both are, not sure though. And it’s not a total loss. Max and I were just getting started. Sure, I admit grieving is difficult, but I’m young, I deserve a new beginning. It’s a challenge anytime you have to mourn a love in transition. But the good news, we were clearly falling in love. And we both fell. And now we can’t ever be friends again. Max slipped, I slid, and we ended up free-falling off the side of the mountain. Let’s be honest. It could have been worse. At the very least, we can boast we had something to lose. Love is an emotion as unique as grief. Each year at the beginning of fall, near the bottom of the sheer face, hikers from all over the world swear they hear flapping, something falling out of the sky. Some are lovers. Some listen to their hearts fluttering against their ribcage. Too soon it’s winter. The canyon floor is white spiced in snow, frosted shiny with hyaline wings. Dan A. Cardoza’s fiction, nonfiction, and poetry have met international acceptance. Most recently, his work is featured in, or will soon be featured in the 45th Parallel, Bull, Cleaver, Entropy, Five on the Fifth, Gravel, Literary Heist, Montana Mouthful, New Flash Fiction Review and Spelk. 2/15/2020 0 Comments Dolly by Mehreen AhmedDolly “Not without her,” Ana screamed. “I’m not leaving without Dolly.” But the police officer kept pestering. She put Ana in hand-cuffs. Ana yelled at the constable. She pleaded. But the resolute officer didn’t budge. She told Ana that she must leave without her doll. For it was really she, who was in trouble, not her doll. Ana realised that police officer didn’t understand that Dolly was her security blanket, now and always. Ever since she was five, now fifteen. “Trouble?” she screamed. “You say, I’m in trouble? A parasite under the radar until you caught me out?” “What else would you call yourselves? You, downy mildews of fester? You steal buns from that bakery, there. “I only steal for hunger.” “Little snitch! I’ll get you sorted out.” “Ha! I have been like this since five. I sold flowers on Harlon Street, an orphan, and a phantom to most. Those who saw my flowers, never saw me; I was invisible to them, camouflaged like screech owl on a living bark. Then one day, someone noticed me,” she said. “Who? Who noticed you?” asked the police constable. “He did. The big man. One evening, it rained. I appeared at his car window with a bunch of yellow chrysanthemums. He rolled down his windows and offered me money. He told me to take the money, and re-sell the wet bunch. Just when the lights changed, I dropped the flowers on his lap, saying that he must take them or else Dolly may get offended. The man drove away. She looked down at the grooved pavement littered with torn plastic bags. A bed made out of slippery bags for a slippery life. “Is this any way to live? You should be ashamed of your life?” The constable yelled. “Yeah? You have a better idea? Where were you, when they took me? I had almost become the big men’s playing doll. Where were you when those leeches nearly lay me down in their valley, the dark night’s under-bridge?” Another rain began as Ana told her story, how the same car came back the next night, and she, a mere child of ten ran towards it to sell some more. But this time, the driver opened the car door, instead of a window. He tried to entice her with bundle loads of money. The girl was frightened and ran she away this night. The end of her flower selling days came the next evening. This time she had Dolly with her. That car was on the street. She stood squeezed in between the traffic jam. Two strong hands grabbed her and pulled her inside. She fretted, twisted and turned. Ana fell asleep gripping Dolly close to her chest.The car sped along; they reached a mansion. The heavy doors opened, a woman appeared. She came to the car and took Ana inside. They entered a pink bedroom. She scoffed at her, ‘not another word’. Weeks and months passed. She was kept all to herself in this pink bedroom. It was full of dolls. The woman dolled her up too, beautiful dresses, and new make-up. But she missed her street. Then one day, the man summoned her into the living-room she hadn’t seen in many days. But he wasn’t alone. He was with others. “What’s your name, little girl?” asked another man. She replied, shyly, “Ana,” “Lovely name, Ana. Go pack a small bag, I want to take you out.” A cold shiver ran through her. She was going out with this strange man. Maybe, this could open up an escape route. In her room, she packed a pink suitcase and picked up Dolly. She came back into the living-room. The man took her hand and walked her out of the palace. Ana never saw this palace again, the woman, or the first man. They climbed into another car that the new man drove. In the car, he looked at her and slid his hand under Ana’s skirt. Ana felt odd. She tried to move away from him. By now he had started his car, and the car sped down a highway. “Where are you taking me?” Ana asked. “You’ll see. Don’t be afraid.” Ana began to cry. She screamed so much that the man had to stop his car. He took Ana by her shoulders, and shook them. “Stop this. Stop this at once. Or else I’ll kill you.” Ana cowed before his rage. He glowered at her and restarted his car. She looked at her doll and pressed her close to her chest. Her nails dug deep into the doll’s cascading hair. She thought of her flowers, the delicate white, yellow, pink chrysanthemum petals. How they bloomed before her and perished. Her freedom on the street, her kind boss, the owner of the flower shop. Some days, she got paid, some days, she didn’t. Some days she ate, some days she didn’t. It all depended on the sale. But this? Anything was better than this. She fought her miserable thoughts. This new place, she didn’t know. Where was she going to go? The driver stopped the car, yet again. He got out, locking her inside. Ana’s restive mind thought of a way out. She held her Dolly tight and said. “Dear Dolly, I will take you out of here. I won’t let that bastard touch you.” The doll looked at her and blinked. She had wings. She rose from her lap like a dot of light. There was a sound of the window locks clicking and popping straight up. The car doors flung open. Bright lights in her eyes, Dolly smiled. Ana was free. She jumped out of the car. She fled. She fled with Dolly and never looked back. The man had gone to buy coffee, she imagined. She pictured him back into the car, looking frantically for Ana. But all he found was her pink suitcase, perched neatly up against the seat’s leather base. Mehreen Ahmed is an award-winning, internationally published and critically acclaimed author. She has written Novels, Novella, Short Stories, Creative Nonfiction, Flash Fiction, Academic, Prose Poetry, Memoirs, Essays and Journalistic Write-Ups. Her works have been anthologised and translated in German, Greek and Bengali. She was born and raised in Bangladesh. At the moment, she lives in Australia. https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5267169.Mehreen_Ahmed |
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