9/2/2018 Hotline By Meeah Williams bronx. Flickr
HOTLINE "Don't take it personally," they advised her. "It's not your fault. You followed the protocol. It's devastating, but these things happen. Try to remember the people you've helped." They advised her to see the shrink they'd retained as a consultant. The one they referred callers to if they didn't have a psychiatrist of their own. "What you're feeling now is grief," she was told. "Even though it may feel like a half-dozen other things. You're feeling grief. It’s just expressing itself as guilt. What you are now is a suicide survivor." They made it sound like a Girl Scout merit badge. * * * She was on the phone with him for almost forty-five minutes. She thought she'd talked him passed the crisis. He seemed so calm, so reasonable. "So you aren't going to hurt yourself now, right?" "That's right." "Promise? "Promise." "And tomorrow you'll call the number I gave you and talk to Dr. Morgan?" "…" "John? Are you still there? "I asked you if you're going to call Dr. Morgan like we agreed. If you need the number again…. "Talk to me John." For a moment she thought he had hung up and she just hadn't noticed. Then he answered her in a voice that sounded strangely far away and in a language it took a while for her to understand. What he'd done was put the phone down, walk to another room, put the barrel of the gun in his mouth and pull the trigger. * * * "Lady, you've got to choose a stop this time and get off at one of them. I'm taking this bus offline and back to the depot. I can't take you with it." The driver stood over her, hands on hips, looking annoyed and worried. He didn't want any complications. It had been a long day. "Lady? Do you hear me?" "Okay," she said. It was another voice she didn't recognize at first. "No problem." The driver shook his head and headed back to the front of the empty bus. She was reluctant to take her eyes from the window. The rain was spidering down the glass. She’d been looking out the window mesmerized. How could you choose? Every stop looked the same. * * * She took the rest of the week off from work. Death in the family, she told her supervisor. It wasn't really a lie. That's what it felt like to her. It was surprising how well you can get to know a person in less than forty-five minutes. When you strip away all the bullshit and nonsense that fills most of our communication with others. She felt like she'd gotten to know John better than she knew friends she'd had for years. Better than she knew her own family. And, still, in the end, she hadn't known him at all. She spent the long weekend in bed, watching sitcom reruns, game shows, and old movies. Anything canned, prepackaged, filmed in the past. Nothing new, nothing unpredictable, no surprises. She lay in bed all day and flipped through old magazines she'd never a chance to read. She'd brought along a scissors into bed, planning to make collages, but she lost the desire. She dozed a lot, ate chocolate, ignored the phone. The director of the suicide hotline called several times. He left messages. Was she okay? Please call. They were concerned. Was she planning to return? She sent a brief text back. I'm okay. I'm taking a break. Will contact when ready. Thumbing those terse lines took everything out of her. She opened the scissors and imagined severing the knot of veins in her wrist, like cutting the strings of a balloon. Letting her life float away. Of course, she knew she could never do such a thing. It was just drama. She felt operatic. She pointed the scissors scoldingly at her reflection in the mirror above the chest of drawers. "This isn't about you," she reminded herself If she ever did it, it would have to be with pills. * * * What was she doing here? She felt like an impostor. A spy. A ghoul. She felt dirty. She felt guilty, like a killer returning to the scene of a crime. If they knew, would they blame her? The casket was closed, of course. There was a picture by the coffin. So now she could put a face to the name. Was that a good idea or not? He hadn't mentioned he'd been in the military. The photograph showed a young man in uniform. He was good-looking in that stripped-down, buzz-cut, all-purpose way all young men in uniform had. A man determined to be of use in this world. The priest never mentioned it was a suicide. Neither did any of the eulogists. She overheard two mourners whispering out in the vestibule by the coatroom. They were dry-eyed and moralistic. Distant family members. Cousins once-removed. In-laws, maybe. They moved on to the topic of vacations. She had prepared a lie in case someone asked who she was. No one did. She was like an observer at an aquarium living on the other side of the glass. * * * What were his reasons for wanting to die? What reasons had she used to counter them. She couldn't recall them now in any detail. And what did it matter? It was like a game of chess, it only counted in the playing. Once begun, the game took on a life of its own, a pattern of inevitability. That's how her brother once described the game, anyway. He was the chess player in the family. She could never think more than one move at a time. “You’ll never be a good player that way,” her brother explained to her. “A master can think up to a dozen moves ahead.” How many moves ahead could John see? Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea to see too far ahead. And what was her move now? * * * She went to the beach, to the ocean as depleted of symbolism as it was of flounder. She toed his name in the sand with her sneaker and waited for the tide to come in and erase it. The day was cold, blustery, gray and because there was no god she imagined herself in a movie instead, and where god would have been, she imagined the eye of a camera looking down on the scene. She was wrong earlier on the bed. The movie was about her after all. John had left the story, wrote himself out on his own. The camera was following her now. The imaginary camera. The imaginary movie. As a plot point, it made sense, John's suicide. As a plot point, she might be able to live with it. It would determine what she would do now. What would she do? Go home, she thought. From high above, panning left to right, the imaginary camera followed her until it reached the limit of the frame. Meeah Williams’s work has appeared in Otoliths, Phantom Drift, Uut, The Conium Review, Per Contra, Petrichor Review, Stone Highway Review, Dirty Chai, Shuf, *82 Review, Skin to Skin, Wilde, The Milo Review, Meat for Tea, Angry Old Man and others. She lives in Seattle and tweets at pussy_nagasaki@pussynagaski William R. Soldan lives in Youngstown, Ohio, where he currently teaches Writing at YSU. His work has appeared widely in venues such as Elm Leaves Journal, Anti-Heroin Chic, Gordon Square Review, Tough, Bending Genres, and many others. His debut story collection In Just the Right Light is forthcoming in the spring of 2019 from Unsolicited Press. You can find him at williamrsoldan.com if you'd like to connect. Trevor Leyenhorst Flickr The Summer of My Culinary Soul Mate I don’t know if we shared noodles our first night out, after spending the afternoon on the river. We both liked the dark chocolate covered espresso beans that you kept hidden in your patchwork bag. I felt unnourished at home, and you too were tired of cooking and eating alone. Figs sat in a bowl of brown sugar, olives in the jar glimmering for the next night’s putanesca. The onions you chopped looked like pieces of glass in the pan. The shiraz for the beans, garlic on our fingertips-- I liked your kitchen with the bone white countertops, the bubbling of golden plums on the stove, the view of the garden, with all the pink tea roses and luscious fruit trees, greeted us at the table. Belly full of shrimp tacos with fresh guacamole, it was easy to forget how I began summer so lonely. Marisa Silva-Dunbar’s work has been published in Rose Quartz Journal, Awkward Mermaid, Spider Mirror Journal, Mojave He[art] Review, Anti-Heroin Chic Magazine, Poetry WTF?!, Better than Starbucks Magazine, Redheaded Stepchild, Words Dance Magazine and Gargoyle Magazine. She graduated from the University of East Anglia with her MA in poetry, and has been shortlisted twice for the Eyewear Publishing Fortnight Poetry Prize. She has work forthcoming in Mojave He[art] Review, Sixfold, Pussy Magic, Midnight-lane Boutique, and The Same 9/1/2018 Poetry By Anna Cates geir tønnessen Flickr WINTER’S TALE cold whispers of snow, the color of twilight deep as mountains—when lost, where does one go? beyond withered fields, a cabin and candlelight . . . cold whispers of snow, colors of twilight fade with the stars, owl calls and moonlight. the few birds who overwinter here I think I know cold whispers of snow, the colors of twilight, the depth of mountains where the dying go. PEDESTAL I She always wanted to view the world from a pedestal but couldn't climb that high. She was poor, a nobody, another addicted girl . . . She always wanted to view the world from a fresh perspective, where horizons curled into rainbow beauty, redeeming the whole sky. She always wanted to view the world from a pedestal, but couldn't climb that high. II I’ve waited to put you on a pedestal. But spring has ended, and the flowers have dropped their bloom. Then summer green faded into cold wind. Lamentable, though I’ve waited to put you on a pedestal, written poems, sang songs, and told parables like Jesus in the garden, tired and accepting a strange doom, though I’ve waited to put you on a pedestal, when spring ended, and the bleeding hearts dropped their bloom. Anna Cates is a graduate of Indiana State University (M.A. English and Ph.D. Curriculum & Instruction/English) and National University (M.F.A. Creative Writing). Her first collections of poetry and fiction, The Meaning of Life and The Frog King, were published by Cyberwit Press, and her second poetry collection, The Darkroom, by Prolific Press. She lives in Ohio with her two beautiful kitties and teaches education and English online, including graduate courses in creative writing. Poet/author’s homepage: https://www.amazon.com/A.-Cates/e/B006TGBCT2 bronx. Flickr She Had Been Clean For Eight Months They were huddled together in the middle of his bed. Her hair was down. The lamplight was mellow. They shared a quilted comforter. “I usually only do things like the lottery now, but that’s alright, right?” Sarah asked. “Everyone plays the lottery. I don’t feel the same urge to bet, bet, bet anymore.” Geoffrey nodded, but he was staring at a point over her shoulder. “Um, maybe. You’re not everyone, though.” “I know…I would go back to G.A if you asked me to,” she said. She put her hands against his cheeks so that he would look at her. “You’re looking out for me, right?” He smiled. “Right.” They kissed. “So. You.” she said. “What’s your biggest secret?” Geoffrey took a deep, hitching breath that lasted a couple seconds. His face turned a waxy color, drained of blood. He swallowed, and his throat made a loud sticky sound. She rubbed a thumb over his cheekbone. “It’s ok. We’re looking out for each other.” “Yeah,” he said, his eyes flicking to her. His heart began pumping. He was savoring these final moments between Now and Later, Later being when the words would be irrevocable. He would say them and that would be it. They could never be unsaid or unheard. It could never be like this again after he said them, and this was amazing. His bed had never seemed so small and so large at the same time. He took in another breath and swallowed the spit that had flooded his mouth. Sarah put a hand over his shaking ones. “Let it out,” she whispered. “I’ve got you, baby.” “When I was younger, I…,” he breathed. His chest was shuddering. Common sense wasn’t letting him say it. Common sense said to leave well enough alone. Lie, Geoffrey, lie. Say you cheated on your SATs. Say you were in jail for a month. Say you’re addicted to porn. He had lived with this secret for so long, he couldn’t comprehend a life with someone else knowing. It had been beaten so deeply into his core that it was like the loam under a building. It wasn’t meant to be dug up again. “When I was in high school, my sister and I…we,” he swallowed thickly. “We thought we were in l-love. We had a relationship.” There was a ringing silence. His ears popped. “Which sister?” Sarah asked. It came out harsher than she intended. “Deborah.” “Oh. Oh my god. Wow,” Sarah said. Her hand did not leave his shoulder. Instead, it tightened painfully into his skin. He buried his face in his hands. Sarah tilted her head back until she was staring at the ceiling. “What…what happened?” “Our parents worked a lot. Karen was always out. It was mainly just us in the house, and…I told you, I didn’t have many friends in high school. Neither did she. We just clung to each other and then it- it got out of hand,” he said. His voice was strained, as if he were on the verge of crying. “Get out of hand how?” Sarah asked. It was almost whispered, like she didn’t mean to ask it at all. Geoffrey was silent. She jumped off the bed suddenly. “Wow. Oh my god. Oh god.” She was pacing. “Sarah?” “No, Geoffrey,” she said. “I’m sorry. This is just a little-” She jumped up and down in place as if trying to get blood circulating through her system. “Wow!” She laughed, almost a tiny bit hysterically. “This is really wild.” His eyes followed her as she walked back and forth in her bra and boxer shorts. She kneeled by his bed and took his hand. It had stopped shaking. “I want you to tell me everything,” she said. “Everything?” he asked. “Do to me like I did to you earlier,” she said. “Tell me what happened.” He looked down at her hand. “I was 16, she was going on 18. We were watching a movie and we…we…got close. We kissed. It was…” He stopped. His face was turning colors. From the moment he said “I was 16” Sarah had jumped back up and resumed pacing. Now she stopped and put her hands against her chest. Her eyes were closed. “It was what, Geoffrey?” “It wasn’t like kissing other girls. It actually meant something,” he said in a rush. “And it felt that way every other time afterwards- and…” Sarah’s eyes were squeezed so tightly, the eyelids were turning purple. “Oh my god. Sarah you can leave. It’s ok. I’m not…I understand-” “I’m not leaving, Geoff,” she said. She was practically running back and forth across the room. “Did you have sex?” He nodded quickly, ripping the bandage off. Sarah dropped down so fast, that he thought she tripped. She was squatting with her cheeks squeezed between her hands. “Tell me more,” she said, her voice muffled. Sarah once saw this documentary about a swimmer named Diana Nyad who was trying to break a record by swimming between Florida and Cuba. During one of her many attempts, Diana once swam into a horde of microscopic lethally poisonous jellyfish. None of her crew could touch her, nor could she momentarily get into the boat, or else it would be considered cheating. If she moved even a tiny little bit forward with the help of someone else, all her effort would be lost. There was nothing to do but bear it, unless she wanted to forfeit the entire swim. So she just floated in the water, screaming, “Oh! Oh! It hurts so bad! I don’t think I can take it!” Her crew, including her partner on the boat watched tearfully, repeating, “Breathe, Diana, breathe, you can do it, Diana! Power through!” Her life was in their hands, both physically and spiritually. They had to deal with the destruction of her dreams and her body. It wasn’t easy, but that was their job. To be the eye in the sky, the voice of reason as Diana broke through her limits. They had already come so far, she’d already been through so much. To end now would be unthinkable. So Diana floated and screamed, getting louder and louder until she went into anaphylactic shock and had to be pulled onto the supplies boat and rushed to a hospital. That’s how Sarah felt. With every tiny bit of information eked out of Geoffrey, every sting, she lost something. The loss made her reel each and every time, but her mouth wasn’t letting her give up. It kept asking questions, kept asking for more, more, more, until she felt the butter knife scraping at the very corners of her body. She wasn’t going to make it. They needed to pull her onto the boat, but they didn’t understand it yet. They wouldn’t know until her esophagus swelled shut. “I loved Deborah. I don’t know why I felt that way for her. I swear I didn’t see Karen like that. It was just Deborah. She felt it too. To this day I don’t know what changed for us to make it like that.” “How long?” Sarah rasped out. “From October to April. It was the best-” He chanced a look at her. She was doing the downward dog on the rug. “Being with her was probably the best I ever felt in high school. It was a really shitty time for both of us.” “How’d it end? Oh!” “My father saw- I don’t want to talk about this,” he said. “Ok!” Sarah said. “What happened after, Geoffrey?” “They made Debbie pick a college out of state near Aunt Wanda. She lived with her for a while before moving out,” he said. Aunt Wanda with the pet ferrets, Sarah thought. “Did she know?” He shook his head, still staring at the mattress. “Only me, Debbie, and my parents know.” “Not Karen?” He huffed out a laugh. Mrs. Macavoy had been so excited to meet Sarah. She had cooked a lavish lobster dinner and repainted the guest bedroom just for her first visit. She had talked for hours about how lucky Geoffrey was to have met Sarah. Sarah squatted down again and hung her head between her legs. Deborah had been at Thanksgiving. It had all seemed very, very normal. She and Karen drove Sarah to the mall and they tried out the new yogurt shop and saw a movie. Deborah had gone back to a hotel, even though her old bedroom was empty. “Oh, god!” Sarah cried. She jumped on the mattress and pulled Geoffrey down with her. “Thank you for telling me,” she gasped out. She held him tightly, her face buried in his neck. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled the covers up. “I don’t think I would have had the strength,” she said. “That is a huge secret. I promise I’ll share the burden with you. It’s our secret now.” He cried while kissing her. “Thank you, Sarah. I love you!” “I love you, too!” They broke up two months later. She stole his credit card and lost three hundred dollars on off-track betting. Val Rigodon is an occultist from Brooklyn, NY who can write a spell for anything. You can find her at @valdritch on Twitter. 9/1/2018 Poetry By Russ Van Rooy bronx.
The last summer In the days before the blood floods, in the days before the great hunger, we knew things weren't the same. The summers were hotter. The sun blazed angry orange through smoke splotched sky. Forests burned and we averted our itching eyes, and people averted their reason, hysterical, yet determined to continue as if normalcy was all we could hold on to. Before the earth quaked, before humans did all they could to hasten the death throes of the forsaken home, hurling bombs making the forests burn hotter draining the reservoirs parching the unpardonable. Before the angry lashed out against itself in mutual suicides, murderous mobs flailing for drops of poison, retching, coughing up blood and self-satisfaction, before it made no sense to run and hide because in the end it all wound down to a piteous moan of static pain. Get your affairs in disorder There is no end. There is no completion. No final resolution to the day the job the song. A chord hangs in suspension forever. It's a magnificent and annoying freeze-frame when time stands still for only you. Now you have to make plans so futile and useless. A mockery of the rows and columns of your life, the pebbles you placed so carefully to enumerate the important moments. All for what? You can't fight entropy. Go ahead and try for a few more years and you'll see. Russ Van Rooy is a guitarist/songwriter, software tester, armchair philosopher, and cosmologist who likes to write poetry. When not contemplating what conditions were like during the first five hundred million years, Russ can be found making pancakes or playing music. Russ's work has been published by Creative Colloquy, Oddball Magazine, and Anti-heroin Chic. 9/1/2018 Mr. Met By Salvatore Goldblatt Patrick Flickr Mr. Met ever since i was a boy there’s been something that can always bring my father joy the dugouts the diamond the field of dreams New York’s (second) baseball team. with the blue and orange NY logo on his cap the thud of the mitts the crack of the bat i could bring up the Mets and we’ll talk all day Dad, is my sister going to be ok? from Seaver to Strawberry, Hernandez and Wright Gooden Piazza & Kranepool made his eyes bright 2 world series titles and many more in the cellar Dad, when is my sister going to get better? on the subway we would go to games sleeping on his shoulder on the 7 train games on the radio for long commutes home or night games spent in front of the television, alone most nights they’d lose, more often than not balls hit over their fence, rarely ever caught but still we’d faithfully watch, every other day Dad, when will that lump they found go away? as I got older our games together got fewer working overtime, nights at the computer we’d watch a few innings or catch sportscenter the day after but that didn’t mean that the outcomes no longer mattered when i’d see him collapse in his chair after a long day out i’d feel like there was nothing we could possibly talk about Then i’d ask about ERAs rain delays stolen base numbers pop flies RBIs or who’s hitting .300 it made him happy- to show him I care and it reminded me our bond was always there Dad, is she really going to cut off all her hair? i’ll never forget giving him his 1969 yearbook shortly after we heard the news the memories returned and gone were the blues and for that moment he was a kid looking at his heroes again for that moment we were back in the stands His Mets were in the playoffs with a runner on first Praying for the best but prepared for the worst and the pitcher from Los Angeles hung one over the plate Dad, I know my sister’s going to be ok Salvatore Goldblatt is 20 years old and lives in Los Angeles, California. After a failed career as a soundcloud rapper, he turned to poetry for catharsis, self expression, and an outlet for his creative energy. He attends an unnamed liberal arts college, where he majors in english and hosts a very successful hip hop/ love advice show on campus radio. 9/1/2018 Gaslit: Artwork By Amy AlexanderAmy Alexander is a writer and artist from Baton Rouge whose work has appeared most recently in Cease, Cows, The Mojave Heart Review, and Dirty Paws Review. Her art and poetry book, "The Legend of the Kettle Daughter," is forthcoming in April of 2019 from Hedgehog Poetry Press. Follow her on Twitter @iriemom. Duende! With David J – Oracle of the Horizontal (Glass Modern, GLAMLP005) This is the sixth long player for Detroit based Duende! and they have enlisted some big guns to help with this outing. David J (ex-Bauhaus / Love & Rockets / The Jazz Butcher and solo artist extraordinaire) is the prominent guest lending vocals, bass and harmonica to this audio film-noir. This is quite a different sound for Duende! than what I have heard from previous albums like 2014’s “Mezcal” or 2016’s singles, “Dance Party” and “HEAD (and How to Get it)”. Gone is that Jon Spencer Blues Explosion-like party vibe replaced with dark grit, reverbed distortion, Mellotrons and brass! Two other guest musicians from the Motor City who are along for the grim ride are none other than Warren DeFever of His Name is Alive and Joshua James of Theatre Bizarre Orchestra (who also did an album with a certain mysterious M.C. Nightshade). “Out of My Dreams” grooves like a bad trip. “Motor City Squeeze” was the first track from here to air in the world. David J’s vocal is prominent and the riff is damn catchy. The third track, “In the Shadow of 45” is an excellent fuzz-filled trek with some wailing harmonica courtesy of Mr. Haskins. “Queen Moon and the Brazen Bull” sounds like an homage to Johnny Cash musically. The spoken vocal comes in heavy and up front, painting a gorgeous picture. “Alice Through the Windscreen” is our first introduction to Warren and Joshua’s contributions. The sounds added by these two (plus John Raleeh and Dave Vesella on Trombone and Trumpet respectively) help add texture to the laid back nature of the song. Closing it all out is the almost 14 minute opus, “Oracle”. It truly is like an audio book from hell! David J’s words are a stream of consciousness, showcasing some dark world from a Lovecraft tale and in the end he leaves us with; “But tragedy is all illusion, and in the deepest deep I know that all this endless circle is benign and to do with God, and God knows that one more grave is yet another womb. One more grave is yet another womb. One more grave is yet another womb. One more tomb is another womb.” All in all, this is a heavy work. Heavy in the music, words and experience. This is meant to get into your head and make you go back to that surreal estate again and again, even if it left you shaken the first time. The trips worth taking.
Pre-order the vinyl and CD - https://glassmodern.bandcamp.com/album/oracle-of-the-horizontal
Glass Modern - https://glassmodern.bandcamp.com/ https://www.facebook.com/glassrecordsoflondon/ https://twitter.com/glassredux?lang=en David J - http://www.davidjonline.com/ https://davidjofficial.bandcamp.com/ https://www.facebook.com/mcnightshade/ https://twitter.com/davidjhaskins?ref_src=twsrc%5Egoogle%7Ctwcamp%5Eserp%7Ctwgr%5Eauthor Duende! - https://duendetroit.bandcamp.com/ https://www.facebook.com/duende.ole/
Michael Mitchell's love of music started at an early age and slowly became an addiction that courses through his veins to this very day. It is guaranteed that if you are in his proximity that he will try to get you to travel to the nearest record store and make you buy beyond your means. His wife and two children acknowledge his problem and continue to encourage him into rehab.
bronx. Flickr THE HARE'S EYE Let your feet Take you Where you want to go Feel the presence Of metal In your bones Pulling to the North Surf the night As tides Rise and fall before you Caught between The hare's eye And the moon's flesh Silver and gold Calm against the swell Within your breast That some call soul The part that lives They say When the journey ends Turn again and remember One day we will all Be ivory To be discovered By other feet That think they are lost Barry Fentiman Hall (BFH) is a writer based in the Medway region of Kent. He is primarily a poet of place. He has been published in several journals such as Anti-Heroin Chic, I Am Not A Silent Poet, and Crack The Spine. His debut solo collection The Unbearable Sheerness Of Being was published by Wordsmithery in 2015. His latest book England, My Dandelion Heart has just been launched (Wordsmithery 2018) . He is also the host of Roundabout Nights, Chatham’s oldest regular live lit night and the editor of Confluence Magazine. He has a thing for hares. |
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