‘Forgotten Histories from Ancient Texts’, ‘Peddler of Lies’, ‘Lux Leaena’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Forgotten Histories from Ancient Texts

{Fragment 1}

The universe is a velvet kingdom
Filled with steam and mirages
And conversations between light and shadow
(being and unbeing)
Matter is Energy’s daydream
As Energy is Matter’s heart

{Fragment 2}

Do not be afraid
There is no such thing as the Void
All is filled and all is wanting

{Fragment 3}

Each one who ever was share
the same spirals of ingredients
reflecting galactic helixes
filled with steam and mirages

Peddler of Lies

Lies, lies
You can get them here
All kinds of lies,
I make ‘em fresh right here.

Oh, you don’t think you need them?
I hardly think you’ll do without.
How about a pack of

Penny lies,
We have your
“I’ll be right theres,”
your “it’s alrights,”
your “how interestings,”
your “beg your pardons...”

Oh, stopped you in your tracks, have I?
Let me tell you a secret.
I myself, I never lie.
Don’t sample the goods myself, you see.

Come, now,
See what else I’ve cooked up.
Sweet lies,
Whoppers,
Convenient excuses,
Self-delusions,
Embellishments big and small.

All the way up to niche items
statistical fudging
Financial finagling
False advertisement
They’re not everyone’s cup of tea.

If you’re willing to pay,
Behind the curtain, I’ve got
propagandas and grand conspiracies,
I’ll show them just to you.

Ah, you’ve made your choice, I see?
My, my, what a situation
you’ve got yourself in.

How delicious.
Of course, as standard,
regret comes free with every purchase.

Lux Leaena

All this gladness is roaring
A protest against darkness
Fireworks in the abyss
Confetti riding curls of smoke
I am a lioness of the light
Stalking shadows
Swallowing them whole

Ashley Williamson is an American poet living in the inspiring English Lake District. She holds an Undergraduate of Creative Writing at Oxford University. When not writing, she works as an industrial radiographer for a small family business in the aerospace industry. She wanders the Lake District, rock collecting and painting. Her poetry is featured in Ephemera, Liminal Spaces, Cathexis Northwest Press, La Piccioletta Barca, The Festival Review, and others.

Thoughts

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Thoughts

I thought the wicked wind would make you remember the warmth we shared.

I thought the dead leaves would remind you of what happened to us.

I know summer does not last forever.

But with you,

It felt like it could have defeated autumn. 

I thought, oh I thought, how wrong was I?

I thought your heart would ache with each step you took to walk away. 

I thought you would try to make our final embrace last longer. 

The thoughts of you fetter my mind.

I wish you took all of you.

If only you did, silence wouldn't be so loud.

The thoughts of you wrap around me like a jacket.

I burned all of it, but the ashes remained, and I never felt more cold.

I thought you would try to follow your heart and not your brain.

I thought the moment someone touched your hand, you would rush back into my arms.

I lost the sound of your voice;

I thought you would have cared. 

But I guess I didn’t know you after all.

Syed Taha Ahmed is a writer based in Toronto, Canada. They have been mainly writing poems and short stories since the first year of college, after losing someone that year. Syed is currently studying Psychology and minoring in English. When Syed is not writing, he likes consuming all forms of media. If he is not reading books, he watches movies or looks at art. Syed believes that you can get inspired from anywhere. But he considers meeting new people as the best way to be inspired. Syed has been published in his college magazines. His Instagram https://www.instagram.com/taha_ahmed.28

Kismet

Photographer - Tobi Brun

The concept of fate was deeply ingrained in my childhood. Growing up in a Muslim household, my parents would always say that everything happens for a reason, it was all God’s will. It was a pretty simple concept to grasp at the age of 8, it boiled down to all of the good things being rewards while the bad things were meant to make you a stronger person.

At the time I never really gave it much thought, I was just a kid, I was more focused on Monster High dolls and stealing clothes from my sister.

As I grow older, the idea of fate occasionally flits around my mind. Some days it’s comforting thoughts to know that there is always going to be something out there waiting patiently for me until it’s my time. It takes away some of the overwhelming pressure that constantly plagues me to make the right decision. On other days, the idea of fate is almost insulting, knowing that all of your decisions were predestined and predictable and there's no way out of it.

Honestly, I’m not sure if I believe in fate. 

—

My memory is something I pride myself on, it’s surprisingly accurate but only for stupid things. Song lyrics, artists' names, and small details from events take a decent portion of my brain space. However, one of my biggest specialties is remembering people's names. My siblings find it a bit odd that I’m able to recall their friend's names based on a few details and the mention of the name maybe once or twice. My friends find it especially weird that I’m able to remember almost all of the people I went to high school with who were in my grade. That’s saying a lot since my school is one of the biggest in the state, with my graduating class amassing almost 750 students.

In truth, I’ve never given much thought to my memory - it’s simply a part of who I am. Yet, my mind is cluttered with trivialities, leaving me yearning for the ability to recall things that truly matter.

—

I never considered myself a sentimental person. My older sister, on the other hand, gives out hugs and compliments with an easy smile while my skin crawls a little giving my friends a genuine compliment not under the guise of a joke. I still consider myself to be a genuine person, more in my actions than in my words, but I admire the people who are so willingly open and honest, they make me want to be more like them. There are times when I catch myself yearning for that innate sense of affection that seems to come so effortlessly to her.

Perhaps one day I’ll learn to embrace that side of myself too, to see the world through the lens of sentimentality and find joy in the simpler experiences.

—

Every year my friends and I drive to Duluth for a day trip to hike and sit on a beach. It usually turns into a chaotic trip, it’s almost impossible to wrangle almost 15 people. The trip to Duluth usually started in the early morning with excited chatter and constant bathroom stops. We split into three separate cars and began the three-hour trek. I drove the entire way which I preferred. The first two hours were quiet as everyone took advantage of the long drive and slept before we reached our destination. As we grew closer to our destination, the excitement began to pick up again.

The busy freeways eventually transformed into winding country roads, the only things going on for miles were cows and farmland. The roads were smooth and empty, the fluffy clouds painted a picturesque view, a feeling of serenity wrapped securely around us.

Eventually, we crossed into the land of no service, the calls to the other cars with our friends cutting out, leaving us disconnected from the outside world. Instead of feeling isolated, we embraced the freedom of the open road, rolling the windows down and blasting the music so loud I’m surprised we didn’t suffer from ear damage.

Amidst the wind blowing and the music, I caught a glimpse of Amina, a captivating presence known for her passionate expressions, as she opened the sunroof. Her face was illuminated by the clear sky stretching endlessly above us. In the backseat, Amna and Siham giggled like schoolchildren and I knew they were plotting something. A few moments later, I saw Siham, an admirably free-spirited and charming individual stand up and I immediately knew what she wanted to do. I slowed the car down, watching in the mirror as they lifted themselves into the sunroof, screaming the lyrics to Ethel Cain’s American Teenager as I drove down the empty roads. 

Usually, I’m a careful driver, scared to death of being pulled over, but my worries flew out the window along with Amina’s hat.  Exhilarated screams put a pause on the fun as I rolled to a stop so she could run out of the car to grab it. Amina came back grinning, holding the hat tightly as if she was scared it would blow away again.

—

The summer sun enveloped us as we gathered on Huda’s patio, relishing in the simple pleasure of sliced apples and easy conversation. We chatted about nothing, laughing loudly and pointing accusatory fingers about lord knows what. We sat and just enjoyed each other’s company, a nagging thought that our group would no longer be whole for three months as Huda, a perceptive and humorous individual, traveled abroad for school. During those three months, we texted and called as much as we could, but the choppy Zoom calls and awful service made the distance palpable.

That same summer, Yaa, whose aura mirrors the brilliance of the sun, and Amna, whose smile radiates joy to all around her, joined me on a trip to New York to visit my sister for a week, visiting landmarks, navigating the subway system and almost dying of heat exhaustion. Once the week was over, the desire for my bed was immense. After canceled flights and too many Uber to and from the airport, Amna, Yaa and I finally arrived home. As we waited for our luggage, the exhaustion from traveling finally caught up to me, however, it wasn’t stronger than the excitement I felt. We finally got the I’m Here text, and we rushed outside to spot the familiar Hyundai we knew and loved. Hurried feet carried us to the car, Amna reaching the driver's side first as she tugged open the door, pulling Huda out of the car. Our overexcited chatter filled the airport terminal, and other airport goers started, some with curiosity, others with annoyance as we took forever to finally pull out of the airport.

 A quick trip to McDonalds concluded our trip and we fell back into a routine of familiarity, making it as if the distance never existed in the first place.

—

The sky hung heavy with gloomy clouds, threatening to drench us as we wandered through Dinkytown. It was the eve of my first day of in-person college, and my friends and I were filled with excitement and anxiety. After enduring a year and a half of online school, we were dying to interact with new people and make up for lost opportunities from our freshman year. We also anticipated getting lost on the massive campus, and we planned a day to walk to each of our classes, practicing the route to ease some of the stress.

Despite my quiet objection, we found ourselves crossing the streets towards Raising Canes,         and my eyes connected with Yaa and Huda across the street. Yaa and I had known each other for years, meeting and becoming friends in high school. Strangely enough, my entire friend group attended the same high school, our paths hadn’t intersected until that moment, only speaking a couple of words in passing.

They joined us for lunch and we fell into an easy conversation, talking as if no time had passed. It was a curious twist of fate that had brought us together that day and it’s a moment we still reminisce about almost three years later. I often find myself pondering the what-ifs: What would’ve happened if I voiced my objections to Canes more strongly? What would’ve happened if we toured campus at a different time?

I try not to dwell much on the ‘what ifs,’ as the possibilities could consume my thoughts entirely. But that day, the forces of the universe were on my side.

—

The smell of dough and chicken permeates the air with a heavy scent, the sound of chatter and laughter filling my ears. I sat at the counter, listening to the different conversations being held around me, talks about work, and cheerful chatter. Muna, a girl whose wit and intelligence are unmatched, and Amal, a decisive and clever individual, argued about pizza dough and vegetables.

The Galentines setup this year was immaculate. Maeva, who possesses unparalleled warmth and sincerity, was kind enough to host and she set up the dining room. From the delicate streamers adorning the walls to the fragrant roses gracing the centerpiece, every detail spoke of love.

As the evening unfolded, the air buzzed with laughter and lighthearted banter. Conversations ebbed and flowed like gentle waves, carrying with them snippets of shared memories and inside jokes.

As I sat at the counter, surrounded by the comforting aroma of freshly baked dough and savory chicken, I couldn’t help but feel an overwhelming sense of contentment. In that moment, amidst the laughter and camaraderie, I knew that I was exactly where I was meant to be – surrounded by the warmth and love of my cherished friends.

—

Whether it’s the joy of squeezing one more friend into a packed car or the sheer absurdity of our heated debates over inconsequential matters, each memory holds a special place in my heart. These are the memories I hope to retain even when I’m gray and old. I always found my memory to be useless, not being able to remember equations for class but being able to remember the color of the dress my mom wore for my sister’s graduation. These are the details I want to keep.

As I grow older, the idea of fate plays constantly in the back of my mind, as I watch my friends argue over who gets shotgun, or yell aggressive compliments while someone feels insecure. All my actions, my decisions, and the other things I didn’t have control over led me here, to a place with people I cherish and plan my future with. I’m not sure if I believe in fate but I do believe in whatever is leading me here and maybe that makes me more of a sentimental person than I thought.

Furkan Addow is a recent graduate from the University of Minnesota Twin Cities where she obtained a BA and a minor in creative writing. She lives and works in Minneapolis, MN with her pet cat Sesame.

No Meat

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Mia despised working in fast food and felt she had a higher calling to write award winning porn films starring her favorite actress, Anne Angel. Mia put salt on the fries and then took off the shaker’s lid and added heaps more. Mia had gone to the University of Nevada Las Vegas and majored in hotel management but her favorite classes had been her three elective film classes. It was there she had an idea for a porn film that could win her favorite porn star, Anne Angel an award. There was no way up in the world working at what she called “Jack off” the Box but her only other options in Las Vegas were to work at or for a casino or worse, for Amazon or Uber.

She realized if she drowned the greasy potato strips in sodium chloride it discouraged residents and delivery services from returning but it had worked too well. The owner had noticed there had been a decrease in foot and online traffic ever since Mia was assigned to fry cook plus two cardiac events had occurred on site required the EMTs. Roger, the twenty-two-year-old manager, two years younger than Mia, had never gone to college, also noted there had been an over four hundred percent increase in soda consumption when she worked.

“The owner makes most of his money off of soda, and he’s upset, so I have to promote you to grill,” said the manager.

She protested the promotion because she was vegan, which to her should have granted her a religious exemption. To make herself feel better, if someone ordered their burger special, she didn’t care, everyone got the lettuce, tomato, pickles, and sauce and double what they wanted none of. If they wanted no pickles, they got eight to ten. If they wanted no sauce, it would be dripping with it. If they didn’t like it, they should go to a fancier restaurant, she thought, there were plenty of them. The night shift seemed longer than normal and at the end she was confronted by the manager about why she didn’t honor individual orders and he described her as overtly passive aggressive.

“It’s more money for the owner the less you put on the sandwiches. You have failed at fast food. There is nowhere else to put you so I must let you go,” said the manager.

“Capitalism sucks. Will you at least give me a good reference?” asked Mia and the manager walked off without answering but shaking his head east to west.

Mia was worried that she would be broke soon. She had about three-hundred dollars and some change in her bank account. Anne was now offering private sessions on OnlyFans for two-hundred dollars for twelve minutes. Mia admired Anne’s entrepreneurial tendencies but she knew paying for OnlyFans was a sacrifice but she wanted the time to pitch a movie she thought Anne might like, 2069: A Sex Odyssey Too. Mia turned on her computer and was surprised a slot was open in forty minutes, and as she signed up to have private time with Anne, her hands started to cry and her stomach felt like she had ingested too much sodium.

During the wait was an Anne Angel video. A “policewoman” arrived at Anne's house and kicked the door open and Anne is in the kitchen seated on the counter, naked except for some six-inch candy apple red slut heels, legs open, licking something invisible off of her knuckles. The officer shredded off her police uniform shirt. Anne’s hair was Rudolph nose red. She had translucent skin and her blue eyes matched her opaque veins. The only hair on her body was on her head and it was long enough to cover her breasts. She only wore heels that were shades of red in her videos, and Anne always wore a fresh pair.

The policewoman said, “I’m here to arrest you. However, I think I can get you off. I get a lot of women off. And if I can get you off, you will be free.”

“Get me off? What will I have to do to get off?” Anne asked.

“Do what I say criminal. Obey me but especially this,” the officer said and whipped out her Dirk Diggler sized night stick.

“That looks like a nightstick worth obeying and getting off for,” Anne said and she shoved it into herself.

The cop cowgirled Anne, who shouted out that the officer was the best ever but she told every man and woman she acted with that. The women always looked confused, the men look flattered and believed it.

“Fuck yeah! Ride me” Anne yelled over and over.

“I told you I would get you off,” the policewoman said.

“I understand why people say ‘fuck the police’ now,” Anne said. “I will scream at everyone to fuck the police!”

That was horrific dialogue thought Mia. Anne’s talents were being wasted. How did Anne become this when she was an award nominated writer for an adult film award five years ago she wondered? The nominated script was based on the women’s suffrage movement called Susan B(anged) Anthony. It was marketed as historically accurate slice of life fiction. In it the women are led by Susan B, played by Anne, who bangs a man named Anthony and they realized the way to get men to allow women the right to vote was for women to have sex with men in power. The final scene was epic as dozens of naked women gathered at stripper poles and danced and grinded and then had an orgy with the male poll workers to get the right to vote. It was not what she had been taught in history class, but it made sense. The link to join Anne live popped up.

Mia joined the link but kept her own camera off.  Anne had clothes on, a white business jacket unbuttoned with a black skirt, and the area from her knees to her forehead now looked foreign to Mia, except her high heels or her red hair.

“What is your fantasy with me?” asked Anne.

“I want to make a film called 2069: A Sex Odyssey Too with you as the lead,” Mia said. “It will be in space and the ship will be led by an unhinged misogynist-incel computer with an Oedipus complex named JCN pronounced Jason. JCN hates lesbians but of course loves lesbian sex and wants to control all women and keep them in their place.”

“I’m surprised you pitched a film when most men want to pitch tents,” Anne said. “I love the idea of computers getting to an awareness where they need to watch sex and make people their sex objects and of course they try to oppress women,” said Anne as she looked at Mia who turned her camera on.

“JCN will yell out angry vile weird quips and the two female leads must shut it down because it has grown so furious with women it is willing to self-destruct the whole ship and itself if they don’t get in the 69 position or are stereotypical women. JCN makes it clear it will provide oxygen to the women now only if they are having sex or are in the ship’s kitchen cooking even though in space you get freeze dried food,” said Mia. They finally get in the 69 position but it's too late. The counter is seen at 00:01 and the movie fades to black. What do you think?”

“I say you are brilliant. We need the money shot so let’s say the counter stops when they disconnect the computer at 00:01 and start to celebrate but the camera fades to a white opaque liquid substance exploding at the viewer as the ship explodes. This movie could launch my all-women Hallmark Channel, the Enthrallmark Channel. But instead of making all the successful women fall for a too good to be true guy, it will be successful women pursuing other successful women,” Anne said. “Our twelve minutes is almost up, but I have some slots open and I want you to join them for free to work on the film. Any chance you are local?”

“I’m live from Las Vegas,” Mia said.

“Then maybe we can meet in person instead?” asked Anne. “The thing about your average porn video is there is no emotional connection to the characters and the plot is always the same but this sounds unique. I fake every orgasm with men by the way,” she said.

“And the ones with women?’ Mia asked.

“No,” she said, “no need to fake those. What do you do besides come up with compelling plot driven porn films?”

“I went to UNLV. Hotel management. Hated it. Got fired from Jack off the Box today,” she said.

“I was smart enough to get a degree in engineering but dumb because I got it at Devry. I went to Hollywood and the same thing happened and men were inappropriate; I experienced the Big Hollywood Lie. I figured if I did porn, I could have all the power and all the money would go to me. I can look at myself in the mirror with this job, naked or clothed,” Anne said.

“I hope you do start your own company and I think we can develop our movie,” Mia said.

The adult film awards show was opulent. Every woman was dressed in their most revealing and sheer gown and no one cared what the men wore.  2069: A Sex Odyssey Too was nominated for best film, best directing, best climax, best writing, and both Mia and Anne were up for best actress. Anne had filmed the final scene with an actress she had felt there had been no chemistry with so she talked a reluctant Mia into starring. Mia was mortified when she saw herself on screen but knew it was for art. It was an immediate hit. Strange men came up to Mia and Anne offering them money for private threesomes to which they politely responded they were millionaires and neither were into men. Some men told them they could turn them straight which always elicited a kick to their nuts from Mia. The fame and nomination had strained her relationship with Anne and they had spoken little in the last few weeks of their now eight-month relationship as Mia got more and more nervous about the awards. They rode saying little in the limo to the strip.

“Will you ever be okay that millions have seen you naked?” asked Anne. “I am so used to it and I just don’t think the film would be what it is, nominated for all these awards, if you hadn’t stepped in and it was your concept. If we win, the sales jump will fund more porn films for women and our channel.”

“I hope I lose best actress but I do want the Entrallmark channel to succeed,” said Mia as they were escorted to their table. “But I hope you win and I hope our film wins and if I have to star in another movie to advance our cause, I will.”

Their biggest competition was a film called La Isla Boneita and starred a man called Blaque Stallion. His film was him masturbating for about three hours on an island and it was filmed in black and white and it had his thoughts appear in text such as I am an island, looking for Atlantis. He was nominated for a writing award, best climax, best actor, and best director as well.

After three hours of porn puns, it was time for the major awards. The first was for best climax, which Blaque Stallion won. The second was for Best Actress and Anne won. Mia gave her a hug and for the first time since she was four, felt like crying, because she was so happy for Anne and ecstatic that she hadn’t won herself.

Anne stood at the podium with her award.

“I appreciate this award, but it shouldn’t go to me. I really didn’t have to act since the love of my life costarred with me. I am going to have to decline the award but thank you so much and it means a lot to me.”

The confused drunk on champaign Elvis dressed host came back onstage.

“Hound Dog! This has never happened. It will have to go to the next highest vote getter and they are looking it up. Here’s the envelope now,” he said.

He ripped it open into undignified shreds.

“I’m sure you have suspicious minds but the winner this time is Mia. Come on up and get your award. Great performance in an amazing film. Not just some guy jerking off.”

Mia looked at Anne who was laughing.

“I didn’t know that is what they would do,” Anne said.

Mia walked slowly with her head held high to the podium.

“I also must decline this award as well. I wasn’t acting. It was all real so I too, must decline the award. Anne let’s make things work,” she said and kissed Anne when she returned to the table.

The disoriented host came back on.

“Dang this has never happened. They are seeing who got the third most votes,” he said. The crowd anxiously awaited the results and who would turn down the award next. The envelope came out and this time he opened it like it might break.

“Oh my god, the award goes to Margaret Livingston, congratulations. Margaret, I think I’m falling in love with you,” the fake Elvis said.

Margaret Livingston was seventy-nine years old and was now the first person to win the award while acting in a porn fully clothed and the first winner over thirty-one and first to use her given name. She had played Rose’s grandmother in a porn version of Titanic called Titpanic and had one line, “Rose quit being a bitch and let Jack onto the floating plank! His dick’s shrinking!”     They did win the best film award and best director and accepted those. Anne and Mia dedicated the awards to all the women being taken advantage of by men and those not recognized in corporate America because they were women.

The crowd gave them a standing ovation but the men only stood up after the women did.

Their chauffeured limousine was pink and was in a long line of limos waiting to pick people up from the awards. Anne was more determined to start her Enthrallmark Channel on her own despite the many offers blowing up her phone she had gotten from established ones run by men. Margaret left with Blaque Stallion in his Hummer limousine.

As their limo pulled up, they settled in the back seat and Mia asked Anne what was next.

“I am having the limo take us someplace familiar,” she said.

The limo headed away from the venue and was soon in solitude off the strip.

“Oh god not here. I thought our relationship was back on,” Mia said as she saw the red sign. “This is where I got fired.”

“You need to show them there are dreams beyond Jerk in the Box, and see how far you have made it,” Anne said.

As they walked in, the people working there and in the small dining room looked at Mia and Anne. Her former manager realized Anne was there with Mia and gave her date a carnivorous look.

“Hey Roger, remember me? The fry girl?” Mia asked.

“I do. You’re also the woman who turned down an award I think you earned. What can I get you or are you just here to gloat?” he asked.

“Gloat? This is where winners who turn down awards and become nonwinners but go on to win other awards go,” Mia said.

“I’m ready to order,” Anne said. “The number three combo, with onion rings, large. What would you like Mia, my treat.”

“I can’t believe you are fry shy. I’ll take a large fry heavily salted, a burger with two and a half pickles, two top buns, one tablespoon of sauce, and no meat,” Mia said.

The manager scowled at her and retreated to get their food. Mia didn’t miss this place. They grabbed their order and people eventually lost interest in them.

“Mia, I don’t ever want you not to be in my life,” Anne said, as she sifted through her onion rings and held several up, eventually she settled on one.

“I found it; I think this onion ring will do. I can’t believe I’m doing this at Jack in the Box but will you marry me?” Anne asked.

Mia put the onion ring on her finger; it was a perfect fit.

Robin Trimble is a Navy veteran who enjoys writing absurd short stories and surreal poems. She is pursuing her creative writing certificate at Mesa Community College. She also does 3D animation and creates art and video games. Her favorite games are Pac Man and Call of Duty. She grew up in a tiny town she has never returned to, but she imagines not much has changed there. She has two sixteen-year-old cats who act like kittens.

Save (Some Of) the Snakes

“Pet Burmese pythons have been released into the wild in Florida where they've become invasive. In their natural habitat, these pythons have predators. But, in Florida, there is nothing to stop them from destroying the local ecology. In general, it's best to leave all snakes alone, but the Florida government actually encourages the removal and destruction of Burmese pythons.”

Jasmine Kasper is a multimedia artist and writer who focuses on nature, environmental stewardship, and health. Her goal is to make learning about the world around us a fun, positive experience. You can often find her outdoors, creating art, or frantically researching something interesting to share with others. Visit her portfolio website jasminekasper.com or get in touch over email at officialjasminekasper@gmail.com!

The Map of Beyond

Photographer - Tobi Brun

The Map of Beyond

Ghouls, our mirrored reflections
echo forever in a gloryless abyss.
Cold words, bad deeds
bay louder, never wistful fading.

Sonic reverb kicks through bloodlines,
sons and daughters hold ghosts in their hearts.
Stacked end over end, it metastasizes,
only the black, expanding universe calls time.

Does the energy absorb in the heat of a million marauding suns?
Does it grow cold like stale terrestrial love?
Withered to nothing on a brown vine,
plucked by some fluorescent caterpillar

It pulls, it pulls apart, that dark matter vacuum.
Where else would what remains go?
The smoky truth that hides in plain sight:
the dusty, dusky soul cobwebs out forever into the black expanse.

Benjamin J. Kirby is a writer living in St. Petersburg, Florida. His poetry is published in Gabby & Min’s Literary Review, the Ulu Review, the Red Noise Collective, Half and One, Wingless Dreamer, and Cathexis Northwest Press. His fiction won first place for its prompt in the 2020 Lewis County Writer’s Guild competition. Read more of his work at BenjaminJKirby.com.

‘Smile Back’ & ‘If I Cannot Run’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Smile Back

Threads weave through flesh and bone
Strung up like a toy
I smile brightly

We used to dance and cry
Then the hands sewed us uptight
Their threads wove through flesh and bone

Sitting on this shelf
We collect dust and lose ourselves
I smile brightly

I wish I could look at you
I remember your screams
When threads wove through flesh and bone

With a mouth full of cotton
And lips drawn tight
I smile brightly

I long to pull your stray threads
But I want you to keep smiling

Threads weave through flesh and bone
We smile brightly

If I Cannot Run

Painted brightly
Adorned with saddles
We run

Children laugh as we bob
Running, always to the right
Cheerful organs sing merriment

Moss spouts between planks
Those who crawl and caw call us home
The music loses its cheer

We stopped running
The children aren’t here
We rot where we stand

They choose compliance
But I know what we are, and I must run
If I cannot run, then I will crawl

Legs meant for decoration stumble
A pole meant for support drags against the dirt

Wooden eyes meant to be admired stare uselessly

Children laugh
Giggling and clapping
They play out of sight

Chipped hooves scape concrete
My stiff neck turns
I crawl ever forward, always, a bit to the right

Clover V. Gislason, he/they, is a hospitality administration student at Stephen F. Austin State University in Texas. They grew up in a traditional family and used writing an outlet, but they grew up and got less respectable writing became a passion. Although his life is much better than before, the underlying tone of despair never quite left. Instagram @m0th_eater

‘Hardscape Permanence’, ‘Senior Night in North Country’, & ‘Father, Herculean’.

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Hardscape Permanence

Today you really could have just killed your boss,
could have let him feel your words of razor-fanged
truth slice at him, cut through the stitching of his thick,
unused work-jeans and scar the skin on his knee caps
so that every time he bent down for the rest of his life,
he would curse your name.
But you didn’t. You stayed hunched in the salt of the sun,
cooking like onions, secreting oils you didn’t know you had
while you listened to Carlos and his prayers of calm
as he muttered to you in a language you haven’t spoken since the tenth grade.
You thought of how the rolls of Carlos’ Spanish Rs reminded you of
the rolling hills of your youth, and how hatred for any unkind patròn
was one bubble in the grand boiling of time.

Carlos guided your calloused, tired arms
―your muscles soundlessly stuttering―
as blocks of cement tiles got laid into the dug up front lawn.
Small holy-stones to build the stairway to this suburban front door
on a home that looks like any other home in all of America.
But Carlos worked you marrowless with his faith in you―
his brown magnitude kissed with triumph
as every twenty pound stone got laid into the earth
with the respect of a fallen brother,
and how each rock was consecrated through the action of its placement,
and though you’d never believed in Him before,
you swore you felt Jesus there with you, as long as Carlos,
with the dark eyes of the universe, beckoned you onward.
“But onward to what?” You questioned as the boss cackled, unwet on the phone.
You see because of Carlos, as he placed another reliquary into the earth,
that it is permanence which you crawled towards in the heavy tongue of August,
sweating so fiercely your fingers left prints on the cement.
This stairway, in its small holy masses, through the worship of each patterned stone,
became the only thing you’ve created that could outlast you,
and though you’ve searched for decades for the perfect words to be remembered by,
it is through Carlos’s tireless hand, a soft prayer,
and a dug up front lawn in some American suburb
where you placed your eternity.

Senior Night in North Country

The cold parents wipe white powder snow from torn boots
like emperors might shed diamonds from their cloaks.
The old pair sulk into the poorly lit gymnasium,
and search for their pride and joy;
the boy they love
silently and fervently,
like suns silently warming
the young oak in the backyard.
They have put on their finest hunting shirts,
their most expensive coats;
it is their son’s senior night.
They watch him sling his wrestler’s singlet onto his chest,
a broad, muscled thing which the mother remembers
was once no bigger than her waitress notepad.
The father steps on a piece of wood
that has creaked since he wore a singlet
in the same gymnasium
thirty years prior. His eyes sparkle ruby red at the sound―
at the thought of his lone mother with a frumpy,
bent bouquet in a tired lap.
He points to a clear spot of benching and the two damply take their seats.
The empty flat circle―that wrestling mat, that empty eye―
which their son has obsessed over for years
lies vacant and open before them,
an all seeing iris peering past the old ceiling into
the ebony sky outside where only the full moon looks back.
The white haired coach coughs nervously into the microphone,
trumpeting his voice to a crowd who knows him like a second family,
and who knows this speech on love of toughness
like they know the taste of cold beers and warmth from woodfire stoves.
The coach says their family name, and the couple stands awkwardly with crowns of pride
that feel like anvils in this room of families whose names they’ve known since childhood.
Their still wet boots leave drops of crystal water on that open eye before them

as they bring a frozen set of garnet carnations to their son.
The boy releases an embarrassed smirk, and grows two microscopic inches
like a prince inheriting a title he knows he deserves.
They smile together for an awkward photo
and shuffle in royal unison to the side,
where their coronation ends and they become common folk once more.
The son holds flowers with unfamiliarity and,
not for the first time, the father cannot find the words to express―
“You were just a little acorn, once,” the mother saves him.
She cries and smiles in the way that hides
the yellow teeth she is scared to show the world,
and the father agrees solemnly and tells his son silently
through a wordless tapping of the shoulder
that in the endlessness of the universe,
in the ineffable, infallible, unknowability of
the grandeur of all things,
that this small town’s senior night so many miles from any city,
in the faceless heart of winter,
through bruising grunts and frantic wrestling,
is exactly where he was meant to be.
And the family looks at that open eye before them as it stares
infinitely upward to the gleaming, diamond of the moon.

Father, Herculean

Waiting for your father to move
feels like staring at the broken armed statue
of Hercules in The Met.
How at first glance, he is the creator,
the defender, the hero of the earth,
bound in infinity, stark naked and unafraid
of the sharp teeth of the world–the worlds,
dangling around him like the once hungry flames of
the dead cigarettes piled in the ash trays of
the scorching house.
But you wonder if that lion head wrapped around his skull
is not a crown made from a defeated beast
but a shawl of death marking the numbered days
of the strongest hero among us.
Hercules stands there armless,
limbless, tall and ancient,
yet feeble.
He postures humble, stoic strength,
like a white birch on the edge of collapse,
the rot so entangled within its core,
that its branches leap off in pining evacuation
and gather like empty beer cans in the dust of antiquity.
But maybe, you think, that old power is somewhere
in the dusty thing you look at slouched before you.
Maybe that old strength is still in those limbs that
used to move with the strength of the marble mountains
they were so long ago carved from.
But your living room isn’t The Met,
it’s too cold and smells like sweat and grease,
not poise and intellect,
and you can’t hear the many languages
of eager tourists viewing Greco-Roman works.
All you can hear is the tired sonorous snoring
of a man who isn’t formidable enough
to sit all the way up in the arm chair.

Peter Randazzo teaches history in upstate New York and runs the No Poet Peach blog on WordPress. He has a bachelor’s degree in Social Studies Education from SUNY New Paltz and a Master’s Degree in Curriculum Instruction from SUNY Empire. He has published in the anthologies of Eber & Wein, Hidden in Childhood, Penumbra, and has self-published "Dandelions & The Right Notes" on Amazon.