‘Sonnet 39: Dear Eros, My Lover’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Sonnet 39: Dear Eros, My Lover

Dear Eros, my lover, a god and more
My psyche is imprisoned by his eyes
His hair, more radiant than bright sunrise
His fine veins hold more gold than pure ichor
He breathes—his chest, the tide; his skin, the shore
My ardent lust in lucid bowed lips lies
His moonlit shadows the stars idolize
His grace, a sweet tale of romantic lore
If love is sure, then I have gained my dream
This darling sin will be the end of me
But what pleasure to fall to his arrows
The god of love is my love, it does seem
His kiss is to my heart the long-lost key
My lover, I know, truly is Eros

Elizabeth Monreal is a young Mexican-American writer based in Las Vegas.

‘The Badger’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

The Badger

While the other residents of the Westchester Independent Living Facility got ready for bed, Badger lay dressed in his gray tracksuit on top of his sheets, staring at the ceiling. Large flakes of chipped paint peeled away from the surface and danced playfully with one another as the flow of the air conditioning ran across their party. The shards of dry paint were old, yet together, they clung to the ceiling, unaware that at any moment they might fall, never to return.

Badger rolled onto his side to look at the portrait of his wife. It had been a year since she passed away. Instead of enjoying their twilight years together, making new friends, and taking advantage of the organized pool aerobics, Badger felt alone among the other residents. The stubborn head nurse, Mule, had urged Badger to come to tonight’s poker game and socialize with other animals. Badger was apprehensive about spending time with anyone, especially a group of outcasts, but was enticed by the prospect of a late-night game of Texas Hold ‘em.

Taking the picture of his wife in both paws, Badger kissed it before ambling to his dresser. Sensing that his usual tracksuit may not be appropriate for the poker game, he pulled on a black button-down shirt that used to match the color of his now graying fur. His slacks were old and shiny in the seat. As he walked out the door, he stashed his wallet in his back pocket. He wasn’t going because of Mule, and he wasn’t going for his wife. If it were any other type of social event, he wouldn’t have thought twice about it. He was going for the thrill of gambling.

As he walked past the other animals in the hallway, they wished him goodnight.

“Sweet dreams,” said a beaver with a voice as raspy as a lifetime of cigars.

Badger looked away. His fellow residents reminded him of everything he’d gained and lost over his life. He’d been forced to retire from a job that gave him purpose, and his children had moved to the four corners of the earth to pursue their dreams. Irritated, Badger bustled his able body past the other animals using canes, walkers, and wheelchairs.

The game of poker was in the Washington Room, a small meeting space usually reserved for less popular activities, such as stamp or rock collecting. Badger stood at the entrance, listening to the familiar sounds of clinking chips.

Mule opened the door. “I'm glad you could make it, Badger. We’re just about to get started.” He was wearing his usual light blue orderly uniform with his short, dark mane spiked with gel. Mule gestured toward a round table where the other animals sat.

Fox sprung out of his chair and extended a paw to Badger. Badger took it as he slowly recognized Fox from when he had moved in a few months earlier. He had avoided him due to his shifty eyes. Up close, Badger noticed a chunk of fur missing from one ear. Fox’s dark blue suit contrasted with his red fur, and his dark tie matched his black nose and sullen eyes.

“Pleased to meet you,” said Fox. Badger nodded as he released his handshake.

The next to approach Badger was Wolf in his black thick-rimmed glasses and gray lounge suit. His elegance was offset by his coarse fur and callused paws. Dining hall rumors tagged Wolf as a New Jersey gangster in another life. He’d wound up in the retirement village after losing his memory. They firmly shook paws without saying a word. 

“Hola amigo!” Badger hadn’t seen Coyote before but immediately disliked him for his enthusiasm. One of Coyote’s eyes locked in on Badger while the pupil of the other drifted lazily toward the wall.

Badger waved apathetically.

“Lo siento,” continued Coyote. “Hablas espanol?”

Annoyed, Badger turned to Fox and Wolf for assistance.

“He speaks English,” said Wolf gruffly. “He’s just busting your, umm, ahhh, hmmm,” Wolf cleared his throat. “What’s the word?”

“Balls,” Fox chimed in as he shuffled the deck of cards. “He means busting your balls. And, Coyote, let’s speak English at the poker table.”

“Of course,” said Coyote. “Please excuse me, Badger.”

What a miserable group, Badger thought to himself. A sneaky fox, a half-witted wolf, and a coyote with a bung eye.

“I’ll let you fellas get acquainted,” whinnied Mule as he clip-clopped out of the room and closed the door behind him. The four animals looked blankly at each other.

“Well,” said Fox. “What’s the wager?” Badger rolled his eyes, suspecting the cunning animal might cheat somehow.

“What you thinking?” asked Coyote.

“The usual,” replied Fox. “Fifty.”

“Count me around,” said Wolf.

“Wolfie, I’ll assume you meant count me in,” said Fox. “Badger. Fancy a little wager?”

“That’s why we’re here, right?” said Badger, looking around the table. He knew he could at least outsmart Wolf, which meant he had a one-in-three chance of winning.

“I’m in,” said Badger, pulling out his wallet and placing a crisp fifty-dollar bill in the middle of the table. Coyote similarly reached for his wallet.

Fox pulled out a money clip. He placed his money in the middle, then helped Wolf, who was still fumbling with a roll of cash held together by a rubber band.

Fox dealt the first hand. Each animal crinkled their noses as they scrutinized their two cards. Badger peeled his cards back to reveal the two of clubs and the seven of hearts - the worst hand in poker. Being the first hand, Badger decided to toss two chips in any way, just to get a sense of whether anyone at the table knew how to play.

With everyone meeting the bet, Fox placed one card face down and three face up: a jack of clubs, nine of hearts, and four of clubs. Well-practiced in the art of gambling, Badger showed no outward signs of his terrible hand. Coyote raised the bet. Wolf called. Fox looked once more at his cards, sneered at them, and tossed them into the middle.

Badger wasn’t curious enough to waste good chips and also folded.

 Fox dealt one card face-down and another face-up: the two of hearts. Badger smiled. A less experienced gambler might have been frustrated that they folded their hand and then hit a pair. Badger knew that the pair meant nothing. The odds of probability were that Coyote or Wolf still held a better hand.

Coyote raised the bet. Wolf licked his lips, then folded.

“Ahhwooow,” Coyote howled as he raked in the pile of chips. Another strike against Coyote, Badger thought.

The four animals continued in silence for the next two hands. Coyote shuffled and dealt while the rest ran their claws up and down their piles of chips in boredom. Badger had felt this way since he arrived at the retirement village. Loneliness wasn’t so much the absence of others but a lack of connection. The presence of one another only accentuated their isolation. 

Wolf started patting himself down as though he had lost his keys.  

“I nearly forgot about this,” said Wolf as he pulled a flat glass bottle from his breast pocket and placed it on the table. The contents were clear, and the container was unlabeled. Fox, Coyote, and Badger leaned in to inspect the mysterious bottle. 

“Qué es?” asked Coyote. 

“Grappa,” replied Wolf. “My family’s traditional, ummm, well, my family made it. 

“Got anything else?” Badger sighed.

“Works for me,” chirped Fox, snatching the bottle from the table and unscrewing the top.

“Yo tambien,” cried Coyote.

“The hell did he say?” said Badger, irritated that Coyote lapsed back into Spanish.

“Badger, relax,” replied Fox. “Coyote said he’s having a drink. Out of all of us, you could use a stiff drink the most.”

The other animals chuckled while Fox took a swig from the bottle. He gritted his teeth as he pulled the bottle away from his lips and passed it to Coyote. Coyote held his nose as he drank, gasping as he finished. 

Coyote handed the bottle to Badger while the others stared at him. Badger was not keen on sharing a bottle of bootleg grappa with strangers. But looking at the deck of cards and the bottle of grappa, one suddenly felt like a prerequisite to the other. To reject the grappa was rejecting Wolf’s generosity. 

“Cheers,” said Badger, bowing his head toward Wolf. He took a mouthful of grappa and shuddered at its strength. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d drunk straight liquor. It felt good.

The bottle remained on the table and was passed around after each hand. Whoever folded their hand first was responsible for unscrewing the top and taking the first sip, then pass it to whomever folded next. When there was a winner, the final two players would drink.

“Whew,” said Coyote as he took another sip. “Where’d you say you got this from?”

“My cousin in Jersey makes it,” replied Wolf. “He brings me a fresh bottle when he visits.”

“Huh,” replied Fox. “It must be nice having visitors.”

“You have us,” said Coyote, placing his cards on the table. Fox nodded.

“Yeah,” said Wolf. “And, you lot break my money every week.”

“You mean take my money?” said Badger. The four animals laughed, and Coyote patted Badger on his back. Badger felt the warmth of the booze and the animals around him. Gambling and grappa were now their bond.

Fox dropped a card on the ground and kicked at it until he could reach down and pick it up.

“Are you cheating, Fox?” asked Badger with a smile, pleased to be able to joke around.

“Me?” queried Fox. “I’ve never cheated on anything.”

“Really?” pressed Badger, raising an eyebrow.

Fox put down his cards. “Unless you count taxes. I never paid taxes.”

“What?” said Badger.

“I don’t understand,” said Coyote. “You not pay taxes?”

“Yeah, so what?” said Fox. He got out of his chair and slinked around the room. “I ran a grocery store. Fruits, vegetables, meats - in New York City. During the first few years running it, I saw how much I was paying in taxes.”

Badger dug his claws into the table's edge as he resisted the urge to denounce Fox as the deceitful animal he was. 

“Let us not judge,” said Coyote. “I’m sure you had good reason.”

Fox continued to circle the table.

“I dealt mostly in cash and only provided receipts where I had to. In return, I was able to put my kids through college,” said Fox, taking his seat back at the table.

Wolf and Coyote nodded. Fox’s revelation annoyed Badger to no end. Badger paid his taxes. It wasn’t fair. But as he looked around the table, he decided the gambling and the grappa were enough to keep his mouth shut.

“I understand,” said Coyote. “My family, we immigrated to America from Mexico when I was just a pup.”

Badger wasn’t interested in Coyote’s story. He grabbed the deck of cards and began shuffling, spilling loose cards onto the table.  

“My father wanted a better life for us,” continued Coyote. “Me, mi madre, mi papa, and mi cinco hermanos y hermanas. Then, one of my sisters got very sick. She died, and mi papa became very depressed.”

Badger stopped shuffling as tears formed in Coyote's eyes.

“I quit school and got job at the church. It wasn’t enough for us to eat and pay rent. I feel ashamed, but I stole from the church.”

Fox handed Coyote a handkerchief. Coyote blew his snout and wiped his eyes.

“How much did you take?” asked Wolf. Fox took the cards back from Badger.

“Whatever I could,” sobbed Coyote. “Clothes from the donation bin, canned goods from the food drives, and money from the collection plate.”

“You were a scavenger?” asked Badger.

“Come on, Badger,” said Fox. “You would have done the same.” 

Badger growled softly.

Fox dealt the next hand while Coyote composed himself. They bet and raised until Wolf won his first hand.

“What about you? Looks like it is your turn, Wolf,” said Coyote.

“My what?” barked Wolf.

Badger spoke loudly and slowly. “I bet you’ve got a ton of great stories about your line of work.” Fox rolled his eyes.

“My pack was one of the best,” said Wolf, dragging the pile of chips in front of him with his massive paws.

Fox dealt another hand while Wolf stared at the ceiling, evidently deep in thought.

“Oh, yeah!” said Wolf. “I blew down a building!”

Fox, Coyote, and Badger put their cards down and looked at one another. 

“I think I understand,” said Fox. “You mean you blew up a building.”

Wolf smiled. “That’s what I said, wasn’t it?”

Fox, Coyote, and Badger roared with laughter. Coyote slapped the table with delight as Fox wiped the tears from his eyes.

“I was in the construction business,” huffed Wolf. “I took out a big insurance policy on a construction site, and, yeah, I blew it up.”

“Why Wolfie?” asked Fox.

“We didn’t have health insurance, and my wife got very sick. I needed the money. The insurance company investigated. They couldn’t find nothing. I got the money, and my wife got the treatment she needed.”

“Good for you,” said Fox. “Good for you.”

They dealt another hand in silence, pushing chips in and pulling them out. Badger looked around the table: One animal had defrauded the government, one had defrauded the church, and another had defrauded a company. Each of them thieves. Badger chuckled, thinking back on his long life of honest work. He’d followed the rules even when it wasn’t fair. 

“Badger?” enquired Fox. “Your turn.”

“I don’t know how you’re going to beat Wolf,” said Coyote as he checked his cards.

Badger scratched the white tufts of fur on the edge of his chin. “A little while ago, my wife passed away.”

“Lo siento,” said Coyote.

“Anyway,” Badger continued. “She received a bad diagnosis, and we had a caretaker move in with us to help her. She couldn’t shower or go to the bathroom so the caretaker was there around the clock. Totally devoted. Just before my wife passed away, she made me promise to give a sum of money to the caretaker on her behalf. But my wife was delirious. When she died, I kept the money and moved in here.” 

Badger looked at his cards. They were good.

“So then you needed the money to live,” Coyote said.

“Well, everyone needs money,” Badger replied as he counted his chips. 

“But you gave the caretaker some of that money, right?” asked Wolf.

“No,” said Badger. “It was my money. You all took money from others.”

“Was she a good caretaker?” Asked Coyote.

“The best,” said Badger.

“Caretakers make minimum. Couldn’t you afford to give up some of that money?” asked Coyote.

“Maybe it wasn’t that much money,” said Fox.

“Oh, no, it was a lot of money. But it’s not like I stole it.”

Coyote shook his head. His bad eye had turned so only the white was visible.

“What’d ya do with the money?” pressed Wolf.

“Took one of those bus trips down to Atlantic City,” Badger replied. “You want to talk about stealing. There’s a blackjack dealer down there I’d like to give a piece of my mind.”

Fox put his cards down. Wolf’s eyes widened before returning them to his cards with a sigh and said, “You did not honor your dying wife’s wishes.”

“Maybe you should reach out to the caretaker,” Coyote said. 

“I’m all in,” Badger declared.

Coyote wrinkled his nose. Wolf puffed out a sigh. Fox reached for the grappa and finished the bottle.

“All in,” said Coyote without looking at his cards.

“All in,” said Wolf.

Fox looked at his cards once more. “All in.”

Badger proudly flipped over a pair of kings. He leaned forward in anticipation of the other cards. Coyote had the two of spades and the seven of clubs. Wolf’s hand wasn’t much better. Fox had the four of clubs and the eight of spades. Badger scratched his head. None of them had a decent hand.

Fox placed one card facedown and slowly turned over three cards. The kings were still good. Fox placed another card facedown and turned over another. Coyote hit his seven and now had a pair. There was only one more community card, so long as it wasn’t a seven, Badger would win. Fox placed a card facedown and peeled the final card from the deck. An ace.

“Yessss!” Hissed Badger, wrapping his paws around the mountain of chips and pulling it towards himself. He was so glad to have left his room. It was a perfect evening of drinking and stories; now he’d made a hundred and fifty dollars.

“Well, I don’t know about you fellas,” said Fox as he pushed out his seat. “It’s getting a little late. Think I might turn in.”

Wolf stood as well.

“Let’s play again,” said Badger, pointing at the table. “Wolf, Wolfie, I think you may still have some chips left.”

“I’m not much in the mood anymore for, ahh, chess,” said Wolf.

Fox and Wolf headed for the door while Coyote shook his head.

“Malisimo,” muttered Coyote and walked out.

“What did you call me?” yelled Badger.

Coyote closed the door behind him. Badger sat alone in the room with the chips and cards splayed before him. The two hundred dollars was underneath the empty glass bottle where Wolf had sat. Badger didn’t understand. What he did wasn’t a crime. They were just telling stories. Just sharing experiences. Why had he been punished?

Badger picked up the money and hurried back to his room. The winnings of the poker table meant nothing. He would have preferred playing and drinking until the early hours of the morning. Changing back into his tracksuit, he crawled into bed and cursed himself for thinking he belonged. He burrowed himself into his sheets and fell asleep.

The next day, Badger woke to the sun streaming through his curtains. He showered, dressed in a fresh tracksuit, and went to the dining hall. As he drank tea, he furtively watched the entrance for Fox, Coyote, or Wolf. Coyote was the first to appear. When he saw Badger, he scrunched up his face and continued walking. Wolf and Fox stepped in together. Wolf averted his eyes while Fox snarled at him.

Badger left the tea on the table and scurried back to his room. He slammed the door behind him and sat on the floor. Each of them had shared a story that revealed a part of who they were. Badger knew his acts were selfish but couldn’t understand why putting himself first was any different from what the others had done. It didn’t matter.

A knock came at the door. Badger didn't reply. 

“Badger,” said Mule. “How was last night?”

“Fine,” Badger replied. 

“Can I come in?” called Mule.

“I’m not feeling well,” Badger yelled.

The clattering of Mule’s hooves disappeared down the hallway. Badger missed lunch and hung a “Do Not Disturb” sign on his door.

Badger flailed around on his bed. He took the photograph of his wife and shoved it in the top drawer of the bedside table. As he stared at the ceiling, a lone paint chip broke free. It drifted down, spinning and twirling gracefully in its final dance. Badger closed his eyes and felt its soft tickle landing on his cheek. He took the now motionless shard in his paw. It was dry and lifeless. “Maybe it’s easier this way,” whimpered Badger to the paint chip. There was no way to reattach it alongside its friends. It would just have to lay alongside him, rejected and alone. 

Matt Eddy is a a New York based, fable and humor author who likes to write with a taxidermized raccoon by my side. He is fascinated with the macabre and art that brings us closer to understanding ourselves.

‘Voices from the Archives’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

 Voices from the Archives

I hear whispers guiding me through the darkness. Each voice is a reminder, each name a life. Guilt smudges my words, reaching for what’s beyond. Yet I write to honor, to make them whole, and I fail. Words bridge past and present, tangled mumbles that point me through the archive’s door. In each story, I seek light, a path through mirrors to remembrance. How dare I.

The gate consumes names. Eli steps through, wearing his father's dreams like a heavy coat. Faces pass like ghosts before indifferent SS-guards. Walls rise within him, essential armor in a world stripped bare. Sounds from Grodzisko Dolne linger—stories caught in time, contours of synagogues. Memories of a world gone, but still here in the quiet corners of Shmuel’s mind.

Ribs like scaffolding, breath a prayer. Men reduced to sinew; eyes hollow. Eli listens, the music of hunger plays. The science of starvation, guilt and rationing. Eyes accuse in silence, mirrors reflecting theft, life stolen from death. Ovens in Grodzisko baked more than bread. Warmth and stories shared. A vanished world.

A specter, Eli stands, apologies brittle in the air. “Standing here, I begged you for help.” Words as fragile as the past. Choices: walk or truck, a wave, a goodbye. “The child—unfortunate,” regret woven into the director’s voice. A growl suppressed, a cough escapes, bitter reminders. “Bundle up,” he’s told, words hollow, forgotten. He leaves, carrying silence.

A breath drawn from ashes, footsteps in a haunted land. The edge of my vision is a tightrope where the past bleeds into the present. Whispers come at night, accusations from the grave, unanswered pleas, lives unlived. Guilt wraps around me. Anger simmers beneath the surface, a cold flame in a world gone dark. Rage at the choices made. Cuts deep. In Grodzisko, synagogues towered over the cobblestones, children played among the ruins. A place of stories and faces, a burden Shmuel carries, a testament to lives entangled.

Dreams walk paths of memory. Faces rise, eyes plead. Pain amassed, glass reflection. Promises unkept, vigil in silence. In dreams, tears wept. Shades creep, accusations cut. Freedom, honor, memory—a course set.

"The silence, the fear—you can’t write that down."

Between life and death, Eli walks, every step a negotiation with fate. They stroll with him, melodies persistent, never fading. Survival is a paragon, each breath a reminder of loss and a beacon of hope. The stories of Grodzisko are written into Shmuel’s soul, a landscape of suffering cast by what is forgotten and remembered, guiding him.

In silence, children dance. Past and chance. Guilt and grace, faces to embrace. Streets alive, dreams survive. Pain unhealed, truth revealed. Hope bright, guiding light. Lives weave through him.

Yesterday alone stands. Ghosts linger. Streets worn by steps, time traces paths. No sound reigns, stories untold. Bells toll lost souls, lives that were. Corners converge, weight of what’s gone. Children’s laughter forgotten, world torn. Ruins hold past, haunting presence. Flame thrives.

Eli stands, a ghost in his own skin. The camp is a stage, actors without an audience. Eyes vacant, souls tethered to an existence that defies meaning. Names drift through his mind—Isac, Barry—stories cataloged in silence. A library of loss and longing. He must not forget, even as he pretends not to see. In Grodzisko, stories hung in the air, names part of the whole. Now they hang in the silence, sounds of a world where identity and community were one.

Born in Grodzisko, history and hope, shtetl tales rise. Rabbi’s songs, notes of the past. World shifts, refuge in The Hague, stories and bonds remain. Two worlds, steps honor heritage. Never fade, carrying the gaze. Samuel mirrors Eli. Paths merge in survival, memories intertwined.

Stillness brings cries, lives once whole. Memories rise, sorrow tolls. Whispers in the quiet, darkness stole. Presence a riot, haunting cries. Grozdisko’s bells toll for life and death. Voices resound, threads connect.

“What am I missing?” I ask, desperate for the missing pieces.

They stand in line, eyes forward, marching past the remnants of Isac Jacovici. Barry, young and wide-eyed, forced to bear witness, the morning air cold against his skin. He does not remember the first man he saw die, but Isac is carved into his mind, a stone monument of absence. They circle the body, silent as the graves they are destined for, a parade of ghosts still clinging to life.

Defying darkness with every inhalation. Eli stands in the aftermath's quiet, the world rebuilt around him, yet words persist within. In his heart, he holds space for the lost.

Spring blooms in silence, the earth awakens once more, whispers of new life. Eli walks the path, each step a dance with the past, a journey begun.

In quiet moments, clothes rise, a chorus of souls that cannot be silenced. They walk beside him, presence constant, reminders of roads not taken, paths unexplored. He carries them, each recollection a thread in the fabric of his soul. To the burden of the past, to lives entwined with his, I raise my voice in lament.

To the journey of life, to the road stretching beyond the horizon, I raise my voice in praise. In winding paths, in quiet reflections, we find strength to rise above, to carry the light of those lost. Eli walks this road, a pilgrim in a world reborn, each step a testament to truth and hope. He carries stories, voices of Isac, Barry, all who stood in despair’s building. Voices are wind that escort him, presence a compass pointing toward light. In journey’s end, peace is found, a sanctuary of understanding, stones become music of the present. To the journey, to the endless dance of life, I raise my voice in praise.

Eli stands at the crossroads, the past pressing down, lives carried within him. In the darkness, hope flickers, stories held dear, never forgotten. A journey, marked by guilt and anger. He walks with courage, each step honoring the stories of those before.

"I was in hiding," Frieda's voice reaches me, a whisper of anguish and hope.

The camp is a landscape, woven with threads of dust and despair. Eli walks among them, a silent guardian, a keeper of forgotten names. He recalls the eyes of Isac, the way they spoke without words, a silent plea for remembrance in a world that erases. For Barry, the child who saw too much, Eli holds a fragment of light, a promise that his story will not fade with the setting sun. Frieda stands apart, yet within, a testament to the strength of those who endured beyond the camps, her courage the uncertain light of tomorrow. In the ashes, Eli sees reflections, faces lost to time, yet alive in the corridors of his mind. He carries them with him, a weight and a blessing, as he steps beyond the gates into the uncertain light of tomorrow.

Every breath is a betrayal, a reminder of those who did not survive. He walks through life with the weight of ghosts, each step a dance with death. Survival is a paradox, a blessing and a curse, a life lived in the explosion of loss. He feels the guilt of living, the anger of injustice, the sorrow of absence. Yet he knows he must carry on, for their voices are his monitor. In the quiet moments, he hears them, a chorus of souls urging him forward, a reminder that survival is not the end, but a beginning. He carries them with him, each breath a thread in the fabric of his soul, each voice a beacon of hope. For in the darkness, he finds strength, in the forest, a light to accompany his way.

Guilt keeps its vigil in the quiet hours, meals rising, past movements haunting my mind. I write their stories, knowing I can never reach them, but feeling their weight. The gap between past and words is unbridgeable, each name a life lost. Guilt shadows every word, yet I write to remember, to honor lives interwoven. My words are bridges, preserving light in stone.

Helmut meets American Jacqueline, stories in skin. Camp corners, astonishment endured. Uniform innocence. Jacqueline’s pity, hate’s machinery. Beaten man, scream cuts silence. Her cry, haunting refrain, war’s symphony.

Darkness offers hope, stories I hold dear, never forgotten.

Eli walks the path, each step a dance with the past, a journey begun.

I raise my voice in remembrance of those who walked before, in the archive's quiet, your stories chime. Your names guide me through the dark. I feel the weight of your lives, the burden of your past, a responsibility I cannot escape. I cannot fully understand, but I write, hoping to honor, to bear witness. In remembering, there is you, and in us, light. Yours in remembrance, Historian.

Words are beacons to the past, a bridge to what’s been. In shades, I write lives anew, finding light between. I raise my voice in lament.

Amanda Kluveld is a Holocaust historian and associate professor of history. She has authored several non-fiction books. Coming from a Dutch Indies family, Amanda is the first generation born in the Netherlands, and she brings a unique perspective to her research and writing, blending personal heritage with scholarly rigor.

‘ISLAND OF DREAMS’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

ISLAND OF DREAMS

When the morning light greets,
I wake up in my island of dreams,
So pure and sweet,
As if there is no grief.
Ocean so clean,
Bents swing like the sea,
Birds return in the spring,
There is no autumn with any sadness to meet.
There is a sanctuary,
Up that hill,
Where the wind sings a song
Of my ancient scars,
Made of the sun's gold and the kingly red,
Like my soul growing higher
To give my most precious to you.
Under the morning's clear sky,
So easy to wander.
I love the way the birds scream,
In this endless silence.
My mind comes like waves at the sand,
For the things that need to be changed,
For the things I want to say
With my existence.
I wish to make a better world,
For you and me,
My soul is here to reach.
Like a tree that will flourish,
My soul’s in need of turning into a bloom.
We didn't come in this world,
To be silenced...
Always when the morning sun greets,
I wake up in my island of dreams,
My soul is the last one to give up on these dreams,
So, take my hand and let's go,
To the island that's real...

Laima Gulbe-Testa's grandmother was a literature teacher and taught her to read and write very early. She remembers reading an article about an asteroid coming close to the Earth already at preschool age feeling so proud about being able to read complicated words. During her twenties she fell in love with the English language and began expressing herself in English. Her native tongue is Latvian. But her interest in songwriting led her to write in English even more. In her writing she's mostly interested in different social groups, global warming, the end of mankind and which direction mankind is taking, psychology and freedom of mind. She has an active Instagram page - https://www.instagram.com/laima_27treecrowns/

‘An Accusation Of Betrayal’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

An Accusation Of Betrayal
A poem about the fire at Winter Street Studios, December 20th, 2022

Here stands what’s left to cherish – If it still has any worth?
An accusation of betrayal, a death and then - no birth.
I find no consolation - the grave was not the goal.
Two second flight, a long goodnight.
The price more than the toll.
Fire uncontrollable, the same as boiling hate.
Once the flame is lit – there’s no manning the gate.
And we, we had no part in it, like many stories told.
Anger, once unleashed, consumes more than it’s owed.
This accusation of Betrayal - it didn’t take its leave-
It lingers in the Artist souls and in the canvas weave.

Toria Hill is a living, working artist who works in Acrylics and Mixed media at her studio inside the Winter Street Studios in Houston Texas. In December of 2022 another artist, filled with anger about what he perceived as a betrayal, set a bomb off inside the building and this fire consumed the entire building which held the life work of over 100 artist - including Toria Hill. Although she is not a poet, she had onn piece that, although damaged by smoke, survided the fire. In her pain, anger and loss she scribbled these words across the canvas. It lives to day to remind us all what a spark of anger can do. It is her only publicly diplayed poem today. www.toriahill.art / IG: toriahill.gallery FB: @toriahill.art

‘ON THE CAMPUS LAWN’, ‘DEFINITIVE’ & ‘MIDNIGHT THOUGHTS ON BEING A GOOD DAUGHTER’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

ON THE CAMPUS LAWN

Under the green shade of a massive Maple
a twenty-foot poster of an aborted fetus
blocks out the picturesque views of spring.
This display of disembodied flesh
split open, meant to shock us
out of our young adultness.
The consequences of a human stain
irreverently hung.
That poor, unlived life
is what they want us to feel.
Shame is soft tissues, unsown,
in technicolor mega-vision.
Shock those Baby Bodies,
crushed in the political machine;
the shiny temporal intoxication
of co-ed independence.
The big consequences
of our lived lives, condensed
into thousands of copulating moments,
our millions of uncensored collisions hang,
with all their cellular baggage
in the spring air.
But even with all that,
we do not engage.
We ignore those giant posters on the campus lawn.
We carry on with our lives, unshocked;
bound for the tasks ahead,
the afternoon yawning away
beneath the green shade of a massive Maple.

DEFINITIVE

tension lifts and is also lifted
digging between the gaps of the old ways
language gave us gendered rules
embedded in bits of colonialized turf
they were dug up- fenced off-
turned into a private golf course
my lowercase i with its little severed head
is cracked away at the putting green
the divots of grass get strewn about
he him and she her grow wild in the lost rough
but time and space cannot be borrowed
and everything returns to junk eventually
we sing
i me mine i me mine i me mine
until it hurts and the words sound like gibberish
their thoughts float unsubstantiated,
all the articles escape into the atmosphere
they are at the north pole drilling the core
you are at the south pole observing emperors

MIDNIGHT THOUGHTS ON BEING A GOOD DAUGHTER

Tonight, she infiltrates my dreams
with that little sting of irritation from her presence.
She compliments my blouse
But only in that step-motherly way
that makes me want to tear it off.
That tension between us runs in circles
churning over hot, unspoken words
Holding us all the way through
to an end that never comes.
What I want to say feels cruel
to her now frail body,
she could never hear me then,
and now those words are lost to time.
That teen self
full of snark and exasperation-
has deflated
into a mature, understanding adult.
Still, I want to smash all the angel figurines
In the downstairs bathroom.
I want to tell her cancer to go to hell.
I want not to read the long letter she’s sent me-
her life story-
typed in italics and printed on lavender paper
with her signature curled out on the end page.
I want to be annoyed
at her full-bodied boasts
about vitamins,
or the tiny bags of almond powder
in the freezer
about how she’s never been bored before,
or what her higher-self says during her meditations.
I want not to watch her grow weaker
I want not to wonder how much time she has left.
Tonight, she infiltrates my dreams.
And I say out loud: “This is not my fault!”
“I’m not a bad daughter.”
I’m annoyed at the conversation we will never have.
The messy soup of feelings,
which boils too hot and cools too quickly.

Hannah Behrens is a poet, freelance writer, and writing coach. She has an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Colorado. She is a native of Boulder, Colorado, and has lived in the Netherlands since 2016.

‘Mushak’ & ‘Ode to the Banal’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

MUSHAK

Rain and wind lashed the windows
while Stan Getz blew warm gusts
of tender samba over us
You spoke about Etheridge’s drum
and how he ran off at 16 to join the army and escape Paducah
Mark began playing the drum
as you plucked the kalimba
and sang preverbal cosmic incantations
channeling the fourth dimension
And now the feast:
haddock with thyme and lemon
and a basket of rich black Lithuanian rye
Our ersatz glasses filled with
Bordeau that Andy brought
And the last of David’s Irish whiskey
David: whose earthly remains sit
in a box near your door with the words
‘Going home’ and an image of a seagull soaring
In friendship and communion we gathered at your table
covered with lovingkindness, art, books and candles
You spoke softly of those who’d gone to the faraway country
from this aching planet of sorrow and war—
Then Mark saw the mouse
darting shyly from a crevice
Perhaps he wished to join us
for it must be lonely huddling in dark, drafty spaces
avoiding cats, and traps and poison
Always unwelcome and feared
Perhaps this was Mushak, Lord Ganesha’s vehicle,
called the great ‘remover of obstacles’
whom he rides across the heavens
I promised to order you a Havahart trap
and release your Mushak in Lynn Woods
and you smiled and began singing
a lullaby in French about a mouse
that you used to sing to your daughter – un petit souris verte
We polished off the whiskey and the Bordeau
You brought out the key lime pie and strawberries
And then we cleared the table.

TIME IS AN EMOTION

In this place—
time is an emotion
In this room—
time is not wasted
It is cherished and anticipated
Here clocks are vestigial, meaningless machines
Here time is non-linear
Here time is a lie
Mother, your universe is 125-square-feet
This room is your harbor
Your next port is eternity
We know the latitude and longitude of our hearts
Mother, not too long ago
We were rich with time
Our faces were smooth
Our steps were strong and decisive
If we didn’t talk to one another
for a week or even a month
It wasn’t a problem
No feelings were hurt
No assumptions were made
Now when we sit together
I am full of questions
hungry for details
Now your voice is full of ashes and
I imprint your every word and gesture
into the rich dark soil of memory
Time is an emotion
like no other
in the heart’s lexicon.

Linda Werbner is a Salem, MA-based writer and therapist. When she isn't cooking eggplant parm in her garret, she enjoys picking her banjo and making quilts for friends and family.

‘Curbed Curiosity’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Curbed Curiosity

I worked in Manhattan for one summer.
Every day during lunch,
I’d buy myself a hotdog from the corner,
Walk further down to where nobody was,
and I’d sit on the curb and eat.
Mouth full and hands full,
I’d stare at the building across the street.
White bricks, and a red door
with an OPEN sign on it.
Graffiti sat cloaked over the bricks as hundreds of people
walked passed it.
Sometimes, I would show up to the curb and the graffiti
would be gone. If I looked closely, I could still see it.
I guess over time, stuff like that never goes away.
Someone almost went in it once,
I was hoping they did.

It was the weirdest thing,
one Monday I sat on the curb
and the building was gone.
It took me a good 10 minutes to realize
that something wasn’t right with this picture.
I was bored, and I didn’t know why,
until I realized. My curiosity got the best of me
and I went back to the hotdog stand after
I proudly scarfed down two.
“Another one?”
“No thank you, I have a question. What happened
to that building across the street? They got rid of it? What was it?”

“Yea, they came on Saturday.” He said.
“It was some sort of museum. It's a shame,
nobody knew about it.”

Pasquale Gee is a 30 year old writer from Brooklyn New York. After posting his writing anonymously online, and it going viral, he decided to publish his first poetry book in 2022, and his second in 2023. Instagram : @pasqualegee_