‘A Promised Forever’

Photographer- Perseverance Fey

I’m being questioned. Words barked in sharp cold tones. But they sound so far away. A distant waterfall of static noise. So unimportant against the memory of her lips on mine. Of her last words.

It had started just like any other day. Another assignment on a night like any other. We’d been debriefed on our target and once dropped off we’d wished each other luck in our usual way; a breath of a kiss. We parted like the sea against the shore, rushed and fleeting, but with the promise to return. Our ritual.

We turned, no longer our true selves, but the emotionless weapons we had been molded into. We fled into the darkness in opposite directions. Good little soldiers following orders. I’d held no fear, we’d find each other again even if something went wrong. If only I had known what would transpire in the next few hours.

She’d been so quiet. Aerona was never quiet.

I’d asked in secret, fingers gently tapping out words onto her pale skin. We’d needed such secrecy, working in such an organization. Breath was precious, and words could be dangerous. It was easier to touch. To skim fingers across flesh, make subtle movements that only we would understand. A twitch of the mouth, the tilt of a head, an altered blink—this was our language.

With a soft smile, Aerona soothed the worry in my chest. Apologising with a quick brush of her lips across my ear. I did not question her again. Why would I?

Everything had been going according to plan. I found myself moving quickly and silently through empty corridors. In one of the larger rooms the scientists and engineers were celebrating their success. Of what, I didn’t know, it wasn’t my job to know. The reasoning of our ‘superiors’ had never mattered much to me. Perfect, obedient soldiers lived. Questioning ones died. Were broken and tossed aside like rancid roadkill.

I arrived at my assignment. The office door was cracked open. I could hear drunken voices giggling beyond. My target had brought a friend. An annoyance, but not a problem.

I waited until a series of clicks sounded in my ear, and then threw the door open. The couple had no time to react. As I rushed in, blood burst from their heads. The bullets flying harmlessly past me. Curtesy of my partner.

I caught both bodies in my arms, thankful for the crimson carpet beneath my feet. Not that it would matter if there had been obvious stains. No one would find the bodies, nor suspect our organization’s involvement. No one ever did.

With a grunt, I dragged the corpses towards the large open window in the back. Without much thought, I tossed the bodies out the window. First the woman and then the man I had come for. I looted the desk; folders and the man’s own personal laptop go into my bag.

As I stood again before the window, a warning click rang out. I swung over the edge, clinging to the side of the building, shutting the window behind me. Not two seconds later the building shakes from the series of explosives I had planted earlier. Sirens blare as I leapt from the building, landing firmly on my feet. I hefted the bodies once more and turned, finding Aerona waiting for me.

She smiled at me. Dark green eyes skimming over my form, as if committing every inch to memory. A sweet unnecessary gesture, for we both knew every inch of each other even without sight. Knew how the other would react to any situation, we could practically read each others’ thoughts.

Many questioned our closeness. Our relationship had never been a secret, but how deep it truly went, well, that was only for us to know.

“Let them think it merely physical.” Aerona had said so long ago. Even in the dark I could tell she was smirking. “They know nothing, and they will never know any more than we tell them.” And I’d been fine with that, no one needed to know, and I trusted Aerona’s plans, even if I rarely knew all the details.

I returned her smile, falling into step beside her, barely slowed by the weights upon my back. Together, we fled back into the night, away from the crumbling and burning building.

We walked for some time. With little navigational trouble despite the lack of light. I could see Aerona, and she would never let me slip or stumble It was easy to fall into step behind, following just at her heels.

Finally, we arrived at the appointed rendezvous. A small meadow cut out of the surrounding woods. I rolled my shoulders under the pressing weight of the bodies.

“Need a hand?” Aerona asked. I nodded distractedly. My breath caught as I gazed upon her. Though covered in her combat gear, her sniper-rifle slung over her shoulder, I couldn’t help but think her beautiful bathed in silver-blue moonlight. A predator known to so few, yet so gentle with me. With some manoeuvring, she claimed the bag and heavy gun from my back.

“You got everything, right?” I nodded. Then I noticed her expression. Those green eyes I loved so much filled with fear, concern, and an emotion I’d rarely seen her wear, guilt.

“Of course.” I said. Brow’s furrowing. But when I opened my mouth to ask what was wrong, she cut me off.

“Good.” She muttered numbly. Then she raised her pistol and aimed it at my head.

“I love you.” I’d whispered, so long ago. The words falling from my lips without hesitation onto the skin of her throat. She kissed me in return, long and passionate. And so so sweet.

“I love you too.” Aerona breathed harshly against my lips. Pulling me close, pressing her face into my collarbone. I closed my eyes, content to fall asleep with her in my arms. But she spoke again, tapping out words against my spine.

Promise you’ll always love me?

It took me a moment to translate, but once I did I held her even tighter. Writing my response on her flesh in turn.

Yes. Always.

My heart froze as I stared down the barrel of her gun, eyes wide. This couldn’t be happening. Aerona would never—

“...What are you doing?” I whispered, making no move to disarm her like I’d been taught to do. I’d been shot before. I’d been trained to deal with more pain than that, and if need be I could use the bodies as shields. But I couldn’t move. If it were anyone else...but it wasn’t. I stayed where I was. I wouldn’t ever move against Aerona, and she knew it too.

“I’m sorry.” I saw the pain in her damp eyes, but I could also see her unbreakable resolve.

“Why?” I begged. Mind racing to understand, to find some reason for her actions.

“I can’t.” She replied, eyes shimmering. “I can’t, not yet. I promise I’ll find you again.” She cocked the gun, her hand steady. I moved. Rushing to her side like I had so many times before.

“Don’t—”

She fired. Blackout. Everything stops.

I guess we’re partners now? I’m Aerona.

Do you trust me?

Don’t let them see you break. Don’t let them hurt you.

I will always find you.

Us together forever, right love?

I love you.

When I wake, my eyes meet the bright sterile white of the infirmary. I blink and shift with a wince. Immediately, one of the masked nurses is at my side, checking my vitals and asking all the usual questions about my status. I answer briskly, head full of cotton. I look around dizzily.

“Where’s Aerona?” I whisper. The nurse stares for a full minute before turning back to their tools.

“She turned traitor, shot you and stole the objective.”

They leave then. I’m glad they do. My memory returns sharp and quick, and I’m forced to stifle a cry behind my teeth. I try once more to reason with my thoughts. She couldn’t have meant it, she’d never hurt me, she loves me. But the pain in my abdomen and the dull throbbing at my temple says otherwise.

Later, my superiors scold and interrogate me. I give my report numbly, sitting still and quiet under the barrage of demeaning and biting words. I should be paying attention, but their words themselves go over my head. I’m miles away from here, clinging to the ghost of our last kiss.

I argue in my head, defending my lover regardless of her actions, though I wouldn’t dare voice them aloud, not to anyone in the organization. She’d been sorry. I’d seen the guilt in her eyes. The fear and uncertainty in her actions. Aerona had never been like that, not in the two decades we’d worked together. I trusted her completely, as she did in return. This wasn’t the first time she’d mentioned or done something that would label her a traitor to the organisation. I wonder what they would do if she was caught?

The fear of what they might do to her when they find her, and, on a smaller scale, what they would do to me, burns in my chest. She may have turned traitor, had violently left the organization, but I had betrayed them too. In my hesitation. In my firm belief that I would sooner slit the throats of all the members in the organization before I would ever betray Aerona.

I return to my (our) quarters, lying awake in bed. I press the pillow against my face, catching her lingering scent. All her things had already been removed, possibly disposed of. There, in the choking lonely darkness, I sign my life away in silence.

I would wait for her. Wait for my beloved other half to set me free as she said she would. If Aerona had decided she would no longer support the organisation, neither would I. I will play the obedient soldier. I will relearn to walk alone, to live in the silence that had been my companion before her. I can do that, I can handle anything if it means seeing her again.

Even if I have to bath in the blood and agony I know will come for me.

Rachel Racette, born 1999, in Balcarres, Saskatchewan. Interested in creating her own world and characters and loves writing science-fiction and fantasy. She has always loved books of fantasy and science fiction as well as comics. Lives with her supportive family and cat, Cheshire. Lives vicariously in fantasy settings of her own making. Published in: Poet's Choice - Free Spirit, Coffin Bell. Website: www.racheldotsdot.wordpress.com Twitter: Rachel S Racette - Author

‘SEATED UNDER JUNEBERRY TREES’, ‘MARCH POEM, WITH BLEAK WEATHER’ & ‘NOTES FOR A POEM, TITLED: CROWS AND CADDISFLIES’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

SEATED UNDER JUNEBERRY TREES

Some little god has pufft his cheek,

Peleurion, and spilld one petal white

into your dark cup. Drink it, then,

and consider,—all the Poets fools,

the Priests too simple minded to conceive

the unruly chaos of the Truth:

that Men are ruled each by his Heart alone,

and no Lonely Power orchestrates the Birds;

So we beguile our minds by Goddesses

and Gods, from overwhelm of lively Earth—

for every berry has its very own,

and every petal has its little Ghost,

a chubby spirit, rolling in his joy,

pressing his cheek to yours and kissing you!

Murder him not with cruelty,

that gives his whole possession to your lips.

MARCH POEM, WITH BLEAK WEATHER

Let there be men at windows grieving,

sorrowing today;

What falls is rainier than snow

and grimmest shade of grey—

Let men at windows agonize;

let lovely women sigh;

And let me catch their utterings

as I come walking by—

My hands are wet, and stiff with ice,

but let me only see

The sorrowful at windowpanes

before they notice me;

Let her sighs fall on my right hand,

with heat of humid breath,—

And give his bloodwarmed grumblings here

to thaw my frigid left.

Let all who stare from windows weep,

I only love it more—

And dream to go that soggy way

where all have gone before.

NOTES FOR A POEM, TITLED: CROWS AND CADDISFLIES

Caddisfly larvae are the ones I saw all over the beach,

wearing shells reminiscent of a worm’s mind,

along the tideline wretchedly going—

and shaggy big crows shambling along it too,

taking the little shelters in their claws

& plucking the worms out easily.

The shells are too perilous for the collecting,

and too homely to take the trouble:

But now, upon the homeward trip,

Some girls take cherries in their lips

and pluck the stems, and chat, and smile;

and I watch them eat for many miles.

Robert Hunter is a poet from Southeast Michigan. His work may be found in AGNI, Granta, and the Wayne State University Press. He also runs a "cryptopublication" called Detroit Lit Mag.

‘An Eye for the Box Scores’, ‘The Biggest Tip’ & ‘Finer than frog hair split three ways’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

An Eye for the Box Scores

Two sausage biscuits ago,
the coffee on the dash
was hot. He’s read

the paper twice since six,
waiting in the fog for planes
that never arrived.

I’m his first for the day,
a shorter run than he’d like
only to get back in line again.

He’s dropping me home
wishing he was home.
He’d park the cab, close

the blinds and sleep.
He rolls back out
my driveway and stares down

at the box scores.
He’s seeing and not
seeing them again.

The Biggest Tip

The tourists
wouldn’t let it go,

wanted to talk
about it all the way

to the Opryland Hotel:
the glitz, the dirt

and the glamor.
“Who is the most

famous person,
the biggest celebrity,

the most memorable rider
you’ve had in your cab?”

Exiting the Briley Parkway,
He finally told them,

“When you leave a $1000
tip today on top

of the $47 fare,
I can promise you,

you’ll be the ones
I’ll never forget.

“Finer than frog hair split three ways”

I know that I’m color-starved.

I can tell in the cool of late night
when I drift out onto the porch. The stars

shine down but I want a wild red sky
or dark green or baby blue.
There are better things in life

but not in mine. I lay awake
in the early hours before milking

and dream of your blond hair
on someone else’s pillow.

John Peter Beck recently retired from the labor education program at Michigan State University where he still co-directs a program that focuses on labor history and the culture of the workplace, Our Daily Work/Our Daily Lives. His poetry has been published in a number of journals including The Seattle Review, Another Chicago Magazine, The Louisville Review and Passages North among others.

‘THE DARKEST VOID’ & ‘FIELD NOTES: ETHIOPIA’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

THE DARKEST VOID

Tonight, it is out there, a flotilla
of airborne particles invisible to the naked eye.
From the gravitational pull of world news
to where the stars have begun to extinguish,
we look beyond our windows into the darkest void,
confined to a space where the brightness
of spirit is at random. It’s there that the sky
is shutting down its grid, further dimming
whatever light we are striving to see. Tomorrow,
we will move into a zone of avoidance;
the earth suddenly becoming a dark house,
bolting its doors against a wide-spread pestilence;
our children abruptly sent home from school
as our hearts and souls begin to inhabit the masks
of a lost identity. We want to measure
the distance between then, and the present strain
of that one remaining star shooting into the darkness,
each of us envisioning a subtle balance,
an orbit of solidarity. But for now, all we can do
is to stand on our balconies, together or alone
as in Siena, and connect the faintest dots of light
as though they were the musical notes
in a song we could sing that will bring back the stars.

FIELD NOTES: ETHIOPIA

A soothsayer dips a fallen feather
into an inkwell of dirt,
marks a date on the calendar
to foretell the hour
when the corn
will be roasted over the coals,
the pumpkins smashed,
the day the thorn tree will flower.
He flips through the pages—
the whiteness shadowed by his fingers—
to when the dancers
had sprung into the clearing,
their hats on fire
with the hammer and sickle,
a history he smudges like ashes
on the skin of young boys
to mark the flight of the dove.

Joanne Monte is the author of "The Blue Light of Dawn," which received the Bordighera Poetry Book Award. In addition to receiving a Pushcart nomination, she is the recipient of numerous awards, namely, The Jack Grapes Poetry Award, Sixfold, and the Princemere Poetry Award.

‘THE PASSING THROUGH’, ‘THE TALE OF CROWDS’ & ‘FOR EVERY FIRST-TIMER ALIVE’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

THE PASSING THROUGH

I always had enough smiles
to last me these few days.
I do not want to talk about it.
I have talked so much about it
and settled down to be miserable.
I have blended with the mirage
of people. And you are not allowed
to wear your skin inside out.
Time is a dream and everyone
is asleep. And from this side,
no one knows who will ever wake.
But it is all part of the story.
I have settled for so much
tenderness, now I cannot say
if I am living right or if this dress
fits or if my wardrobe
is vomiting its skeletons.

THE TALE OF CROWDS

I build strangers from themselves
just to feel again
because a stranger is a stranger
no matter how beautiful
the sketch of your heart is
at the back of their hand.
I thought my thoughts were intrusive
until I realized
that everything up here
was building a window to escape.
I started buying books
I'll read tomorrow.
That should keep me living
until tomorrow.

FOR EVERY FIRST-TIMER ALIVE

In this world lies the world you crave, so rest.
Your farsightedness is hindered by the facade of sanity.
Death is that accident we won't escape,
in order to escape this world.
You have paid the motherly price
and kept stripping the world off its air
until you no longer have to fight to keep your heart beating.
You are trying so hard, God wiped your brows
and moistened the dreams of anxious children
who cannot wait to soar with capes unfurled.
Up here, I seek God's face.
I open the windows between my fingers
to type these poems in.
My mouth is the door; I'm still learning to close it.
I found myself amidst spring with familiar faces.
There, my hands were branched plants about to bud.
The world forgets your trying.
Up here, I've watched everyone float down like mud waters
but still get painted into oceans.

Oladejo Abdullah Feranmi, a black poet, won the Deconflating Surveillance with Safety contest and received commendation at the 2024 HART Prize for Human Rights. He was a finalist in the Hayden's Ferry Review Poetry Prize '23, with work featured or forthcoming in POETRY, Heavy Feather Review, Strange Horizons, and more.

‘Promoted Speak’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Promoted Speak

“Good afternoon everyone and welcome. As many of you already know, I’m Doctor Joanna Kawalski, head of the Tech, Tok and Rec Division here at Maple University. Today, we, along with the Mont Society of Remedial Culture are very excited to present you with our monthly uplifting speaker for April: Macy Dimenio.

“For the past seven years, Macy has been on the Partners in Tech senior advisory board and the chief planner in their A. Ice Mixer. These gatherings are now historic for their light but necessary approach to the subject of artificial intelligence justice reform and A.I. culpability standards, bringing together the best minds in all industries to tackle brave new subject matter head on.

“Macy is also a co-founder of Recreational Education Anonymous Logistics or R.E.AL. as most of you know it, and is a member of their Charter Community Board of Adjusters. Finally, she is the co-founder of Fix for Flix, now a trusted staple in the world of cinematic review, evaluation and history.”

They just had to bring up the movie blog. Macy’s eyes rolled backstage as she breathed in and couldn’t help but think of Lenny. It had been his idea when they first started going out to review everything they watched on their website. What began as a kitschy catch-all for Old Hollywood classics and megaton summer blockbusters soon morphed into a regurgitated obligation with no sign of escape.

“If we ever break up, you’ll still probably have to contribute every once in a while,” Lenny said to her straight-faced at the very first A. Ice.

“Something tells me our little blog will be the least of my worries,” Macy smiled big underneath smokey-blue neon. She had no idea what she was talking about, but could always grin and compliment, then memorize somebody else’s well-made point before spinning it into whatever blend of cathartic and mangled technojargon passed as insight. That was her career. Being a people person in a world full of charming, but unfortunately misunderstood machines.

“If everyone could please welcome to the stage: Macy Dimenio.”

The applause didn’t get to her, nor the bright lights above, or unevenness of the podium, tiny tick marks inscribed in the wood. Macy’s speech was memorized like the first monologue in an off-Broadway production full of unusually eager starlets. She adjusted her tone with every keyword, punctuating syllables and throwing a few zingers into the proverbial melting pot, letting the juiciness of practical but structured banter strike the student’s ears. She wondered which ones were paying attention, which merely showed for class credit, or were on their phones watching something else entirely. Which were already following her, taking videos, then tagging and quoting her in their next posts? Which ones only cared about the movie blog?

Macy wouldn’t let Lenny be the only thing that defined her, but there it was still. Her words and his forever intwined in a cutesy tangle of vacant boredom and misconstrued inconsideration, readily-available on most major platforms. She didn’t even like movies all that much, but there were still so many to watch, and if he was viewing and writing things about them, then she’d be doing the same regardless of responsibilities. Everybody knew they weren’t together anymore, but she couldn’t help herself.

“It is through these junctures and conveniences that often we lose track in this world, but I am here to tell you, that you are not alone in these absent feelings, these fragile reinforcements. We are all in this together, and only together do we learn to strive and educate ourselves and one another in free theories of unimaginable consideration. I’m here to tell you that you’re going to be okay, because once I knew a lot less than any of you, but I’m okay and forever getting better. It isn’t just a necessary evolution. R.E.A.L is the next being altogether. Thank you!”

Massive applause for a room of about eighty college students. Macy felt a loose soul plummet back up from her shoes. She smiled with her cheeks and heard a few shutters followed by a flash or two and blotchy colors in her vision. Joanna approached despite the blur and hugged her. “We’ll now open up the floor to any questions you might have,” she said.

One hand shot up in the third row as Joanna took her time down the stage stairs and Macy forced her lips to maintain an expression. Her mind wandered as a residual nerve migrated up her lower back, tensing every vertebra along the way. The young woman stood with veracity, snatching the handheld microphone from her professor.

“Hello Macy, I’m Willa Ray, a third-year recon major, and I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind telling everybody in the room how, through the work you do, you plan on actually helping anybody?”

“Um… Excuse me?” Macy squinted past the overheard lights, somewhat uneven. “I’ve been helping people all of my life. With R.E.A.L. my sole purpose was to help those who are less fortunate and show them that, despite their hardships, there is still a path present in our algorithm that leads to spiritual fulfillment.”

“Yeah, I’m gonna be honest, I think you’re full of shit.”

“Okay, that’s enough,” Joanna reached for the microphone.

Macy took a calming breath, exhaling into the sound system then spoke. “Joanna please, I’d like to hear what young Willa here has to say.”

Joanna stepped back as her student nodded as if to reassure everyone it would go well. “Look, I’m not trying to start anything,” Willa began. “Or to knock your profession or whatever you’re clearly selling to a bunch of students because we’re your target demographic. I just don’t think you’re somebody any of us should listen to because you’re not really practicing what you preach.”

“I’m a R.E.A.L. user,” Macy replied, confidently. “You can connect with me any time through the ports, and I’ll tell you why it works and has made me a better person.”

“Yeah, but I don’t think you’re a good person at all, and I think everyone in here should see who you really are,” Willa pressed a few buttons on her watch before the large screen illuminated behind Macy, projecting an image of her current social media accounts. “Ms. Macy Dimenio isn’t the most popular person amongst actual people although she does have an impressive following of reluctant spectators and porn bots. Nevertheless, she herself doesn’t follow one black or brown person, nobody prominent in the LGBTQ+ community or any legitimate charitable organizations.”

“Who has time for social media in this ever-evolving world?” Macy said. “These profiles are by no means how I actually feel about all races and creeds.”

“Next, let’s take a look at some of the other members on the Partners in Tech and R.E.A.L. boards.” Willa tapped her watch, revealing a tableau of men and women smiling for the camera behind Macy. They were all white, most in their late fifties and a good majority of them men. “See any similarities here?”

“The composition of our boards of trustees doesn’t reflect my feelings or change any aspect of what I’m… What all of us are trying to do here.” That was the first time she’d stuttered at an event in at least four years.

“Maybe that’s true, but then again,” Willa continued. “And you know, I’d hate to bring this up, but for the sake of showing a pattern here. There’s also the list of films Fix for Flix reviewed.” Another click, another slide. “Not one of these movies features a budget under a million dollars, the vast majority directed by white men and starring white men, with all other minorities reduced to unbearably outdated stereotypes and cinematic clichés.”

“Lenny usually picked the movie,” Macy argued. “I just wrote about them.”

“Letting a man not only dictate your actions, but also your opinions before publishing them. Wow…” Willa shook her head while the audience gasped then whispered to one another. “It’s okay, Macy. These kinds of things can happen to the best of us. However, it also recently came to my attention that you and Lenny are no longer together, but we did happen upon your Hummingbird profile last night, and I think this one part really says it all.” Willa changed the slide as Macy turned to view her profile, a large red circle over her chosen political affiliation.

“Let’s not break eggs over something as trivial as personal politics,” Macy suggested.

“Yeah, I’m cool with whatever you wanna do on your own time,” Willa said. “But something about a self-declared Proteriate telling me I should plug in and upload my brain waves to a mediocre droid system in order to help curb the gross social injustices against rogue dishwashers and murderbots… Yeah, that doesn’t sit right with me. These things are not us, and I refuse to believe that you’re somebody who’s currently advocating for the same causes and future that I am.”

“Well, you’re entitled to your opinion,” Macy replied

“Yeah, at least until you get your hands on it,” Willa gave the microphone back to her professor and walked out of the auditorium.

“Anybody else have a question?” Joanna asked a silent room.

Soon they would all be gone, back to their apartments and dormitories while Joanna provided ample damage control. No need to upset any of the big donors. Macy retreated to the backstage dressing room and plugged in, going through the systematic check boxes as she considered what, if any part of that day, was worth uploading. The eager hard drives and inconsistent codes waited impatiently for their slice of residual infusion.

It didn’t make sense to miss a day, but did Willa’s disruption have to be included? The speech had gone so well. What harm would it do, trimming the question portion short, merely cutting out at the applause? If anybody wanted to see the full presentation, they could find it buried on some other platform. There was documentation available, but the system didn’t need to know about that upsetting exchange, not yet anyway. Macy sunk into the consideration chair and let the armrests scan her fingertips before considered what movie to watch that night. Something classic, but disposable to make her smile, maybe even cry before writing none of those feelings down the following morning.

After all, emotion was terribly overrated.

Christopher S. Bell is a writer and musician. His work has recently appeared in Paper Dragons, Arboreal, and The Dead Mule. His latest album Radio Reruns will see release by year’s end. He currently resides in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.

‘Cosmic Suggestion Box’, ‘SNAFUBAR’, ‘Public Transit’, ‘Partygoers’, ‘In Rubens’ Umbra’ & ‘Toulouse-Lautrec at the Moulin Rouge’

Cynthia Yatchman is a Seattle based artist and art instructor. Her art is housed in numerous public and private collections. She has exhibited on both coasts, extensively in the Northwest, including shows at Seattle University, SPU, Shoreline Community College, the Tacoma and Seattle Convention Centers and the Pacific Science Center. She is a member of the Seattle Print Art Association and COCA.

Cosmic Suggestion Box

Sometimes the world seems like

a rough draft that never got revised.

Yet what might humankind propose

on its own behalf to the divine playmaker

who scants all knowledge of His nature

among beings yearning yet benighted?

With all due respect, in all humility,

perhaps for starters one could recommend

the nullification of evil and free rein,

whose marriage guarantees injustice

and mocks the assumed goodness of the great?

One could, modestly, advocate

a swift end to natural disasters, cataclysms

indelicately termed by insurers

acts of God, who is, after all,

ultimately responsible even if not culpable.

I, for one, could readily do without

meaningless and undeserved suffering,

meaningless and undeserved struggle,

and the bitter misery these engender.

But, admittedly, it occurs to me that

we ought to refrain from passing judgment

on what we can’t begin to comprehend;

should we not give the benefit of the doubt

to the One from whom we seek the same?

Sometimes I wonder whether the one thing

that the Creator can’t possibly know

is what it’s like to be only human…

SNAFUBAR

It seems to us unexampled, though we know better,

even as we huddle in household bubbles,

ensphered in comforts as denizens of the Great Indoors.

Nightly on the tube the newscast leads with mortality tallies

parading death, the original and ultimate product recall.

Out of doors, amid the Bewilderness, seekers of natural light

stroll paths with circumspection and sidle as they near

one another, partly courteous, partly paranoid,

inly speculating of whether a virus symbolizes

the foretold return of the repressed.

Across the canal, in tumble-down downtown,

I note a colourfully fenestrated house of worship

once a hive of humanity, lately suffering a dearth of habitués,

nowadays a makeshift mass clinic

where the masked queue for mRNA jabs

like well-mannered junkies in need of a fix.

This indeed is a collective déclassé,

humankind made to bend the knee.

I wonder of the future, suspended and inexplicit;

at times I'm tempted toward prayer,

though I question how pervious heaven

would be to pleas from the skeptical and aggrieved.

Surely, in the fullness of time, this moment

will be deemed a challenge to the conscience politic,

a mandatory opportunity to confute self-centeredness,

to walk each other home in the spiritual sense,

to inhale as we contemplate the ultimates

and, like those uniformed seraphs

dedicated to the relief of misery,

to strain every sinew toward grace,

at once the least and the most any might attain

while yet among the living.

Public Transit

Suspicious passengers give each other

the stink eye, certain there lurks among them

a perpetrator odious and opprobious

because culpable for befouling their midst

with a lactic and noisome fetor, some casually

self-indulgent (and evidently lactose-intolerant)

miscreant worthy therefore of the reprobation

of fellow travelers now lunging for windows,

desperately gasping for fresh air in lieu

of suffocating fumes, and even as the feeble

and elderly swoon then collapse

the durable rue the routine contretemps

and crudities commuters encounter

while crammed together, seated or upright,

their hands grasping dangling straps,

their nostrils pressed into unfamiliar armpits,

a mass of wearied individuals normally lost

in thought else attuned to blaring earbuds,

though just at the moment universally

hypervigilant if not downright Sherlockian,

hounds sniffing hither and thither,

keen to detect the culprit and definitively solve,

please God, now and for all time, The Case

of the Unprovenanced Flatulence.

Partygoers

Behold the hall, elaborately decorated,

host to ebullient celebrants indulging

in hors d’oeuvres and spirits as they swap

exaggerated facial expressions

and embellished anecdotes between

mouthfuls of herbed cream cheese and crust.

At the open bar, the unattached but hopeful

sip from vinous glasses, appraising prospects;

by the dessert table loiters a man of appetites,

prone to fondling a woman with one hand

and a pastry with the other.

It seems all the world in miniature is here,

spruce clotheshorses flaunting their finery,

praters blathering despite unsubtle eye rolls,

prepossessing belles clad in sard

necklaces and diamantine bracelets,

suitors employing japery or cajolery

to leave a favorable impression,

belly laughers and gigglers alike.

Bless them all, I say; long may they

animate one other and vitalize shared days

while their journeys and fortunes unfold,

while time and chance conspire.

In Rubens’ Umbra

An adolescent prodigy, he enters the reigning

master’s studio in the heart of Antwerp

—as an assistant, mind you, not as a student—

and anon astounds with seemingly effortless skills,

a God-given gift not even his father-rival figure

enjoyed in his own less precocious youth.

He gleans composition techniques

from Europe’s greatest living artist,

a renowned painter-diplomat whose

charmed life reads like a catalog of triumphs,

in whose shade he shivers despite a talent

(if not an education or imagination)

matching his mentor’s.

Only with the exemplar temporarily aside

on official embassies at the monarch’s behest

can the mentee emerge and flourish;

with the field to himself and room to breathe,

he garners attention and comment, befitting

his magisterial abilities with brush and canvas.

Favored and self-assured, he bristles at being

reduced to portraiture (little better than still lifes!)

instead of braving historical scenes, with rare

exceptions evincing his command of that mode;

he limns the master’s young wife, apparently

a protégé’s tribute, though it stokes

rumors of illicit romance, which perhaps,

as he strokes his Van Dyke,

he prefers to neither verify nor refute.

Alas, there was nothing for it but to fly the coop;

heeding the call of his passionate patron,

Charles of England, he migrates to Albion

to become court painter and knighted,

then flatters the vanity of royal sitters,

beautified by specious brushstrokes.

Upon the master’s demise, to Flanders

he repatriates (now phlegmy as well as Flemish),

defiant in his refusal to finish commissions

commenced by his illustrious forerunner,

thereby blemishing his twilight with ingratitude.

Toulouse-Lautrec at the Moulin Rouge

Semi-crippled by stunted legs, the draughtsman

roams the Champs de Mars and, naughty boy,

peeks up the skirt of the wrought-iron lattice tower

rising skyward as dusk cues his return

and he saunters back to his stomping grounds,

Montmartre, to haunt its cafés, cabarets,

nightclubs, and bars, becoming such a fixture

in the pleasure palaces of le gai Paris that he seems

a part of the furniture, drawing as he drinks,

while the floorboards of gaslit stages groan

and creak beneath high-kicking cancan dancers.

By day he hobnobs with Van Gogh or Degas,

but nightly he gulps and observes fellow sensualists

indulging in the bohemian life, bon vivants

who share his taste for the demimonde

with its tempting strumpets and hard liquor;

his fetish for auburn-haired sirens impels him

to frequent brothels until soon he inhabits one,

a strange arrangement easing his urge to befriend

its denizens, which comes at the cost of syphilis.

Wild living can’t keep him from his craft and fame

will be his thanks to pioneering poster work,

though he dreams of the theatre, opera, circus,

arenas of spectacle, fora of imagination,

each better still than the booze that afflicts him

with delirium tremens; at length he finds himself

quivering behind locked doors at a mental hospital,

brushstroking his way to freedom, and senses

his end, nearing and premature, grateful to be

relieved of wracked body and mind, sorrowful to bid

adieu to what have proven to be, at least in his case,

the solacing excesses of La Belle Époque.

‘Fancy Caskets, Sparkly Lamps, and Unspoken Pain’

Edward Michael Supranowicz is the grandson of Irish and Russian/Ukrainian immigrants. He grew up on a small farm in Appalachia. He has a grad background in painting and printmaking. Some of his artwork has recently or will soon appear in Fish Food, Streetlight, Another Chicago Magazine, The Door Is A Jar, The Phoenix, and The Harvard Advocate. Edward is also a published poet who has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize multiple times.

Fancy Caskets, Sparkly Lamps, and Unspoken Pain

My mid-twenties are haunted by thoughts of my grandfather, who died in 2006, when I was six. At first, it felt like delayed grief set on by guilt that, due to my age when he died, I remember being rather indifferent to the entire ordeal. Another part of me felt robbed of a chance to know an integral part of myself: the person who raised my father, an even further extension of my bloodline. I began asking lots of questions: to my mom, dad, grandma, aunt, siblings, anyone in my life who could tell me more about him. Sure, they had spoken about him since his death, but I wanted to know who he was as a person, not just their favorite memories they would share from time to time. What I came to learn caused me grief in a much more visceral and complicated fashion, and highlighted the way the past bleeds into the present, but not without time transforming the circumstances.

On February 24th, 2004, the New York Times reported that the Metropolitan Museum of Art (MET) would be expanding its exhibition space and performing renovations on existing galleries in a ten year, $155 million project that would bring back its collection of Classical art on display in a new Roman- style court. As well as bringing back collections that had been in storage for decades, they would be renovating the portion of the MET with windows facing Central Park (an area previously closed to visitors for decades), marking a period of rejuvenation for the MET as an institution.

Twenty years later, I found myself wandering the product of this large renovation project, after what could be called a six year rejuvenation project of leaving Michigan and moving to New York, to maintain a complicatedly loving, but necessarily distant relationship with my family. I was almost immediately struck by a large intricately carved marble sarcophagus. What struck me was that, while made to house the dead, the sarcophagus was carved like a mosaic, made up entirely of living things. It had over 40 figures representing panthers, Gods, men, babies, plants, dogs, intentionally woven together in a piece that felt all-consuming, without seeming overdone. On the front side, there was a central figure seated atop a panther, surrounded by four young men, equal in size and stature. They were surrounded by several different human and animal figures, some a mixture of the two species, all varying in size and shape but fitting into the whole scene perfectly. On the left side, there was a beautiful female figure lying wrapped in a sheet, holding fruit, surrounded by babies and two young men, peering across at the scene at the front of the piece. On the right side, there was an equally pristine bearded male figure lying in the same fashion, surrounded by babies and angels, looking at the scene unfolding in front of him.

According to research from the MET, the central male figure is Dionysos, and he is surrounded by the Four Seasons depicted as strong young men. The woman on the left side is Mother Earth, and the male figure on the right is thought to be a representation of a river God of the time . The piece was incredibly well preserved, only missing its lid and a few minor extremities, but appeared whole and complete nonetheless due to the extreme amount of detail still present. It was purchased for the MET in 1955 from the Dukes of Beaufort, who had purchased the piece and had it on display as part of their collection since 1733. It originally came from 260-270 CE in the Roman Empire, likely purchased from an incredibly wealthy member of Roman society, given the costs associated with commissioning a piece as large and ornate as this one.

I was, honestly still am, in awe of this piece. I’ve gone back to look at it multiple times. There is something so awe-inspiring about ornate detail etched into stone, and this sarcophagus embodies that feat to me. While it’s striking to look at, the placement of all of the different figures together in this living mosaic felt very representative of life to me; especially with two Godly figures looking on and watching, as if waiting in the shadows of a lifetime. Coupled with the fact that this imagery is captured on a sarcophagus, it felt deeply meaningful to me. This is why I was so surprised to learn that this design was a preset in the sculptors portfolio, depicting a well known scene centering a God many formed cults around at the time, so it didn’t hold nearly as much individual meaning as I had originally thought. It’s almost funny, to me, that this final resting place that seemed so representative of the most fruitful parts of living likely wasn’t purchased with the same thought. What made this piece important to the commissioner? And realistically, it can’t have been in the dirt that long if it was ever buried, given how pristine of condition it is in and the lack of lid, so I can’t help but wonder how that came to be. If someone was buried in it, where do their bones lie now? If it was never used, what was used instead? Most importantly, why were those decisions made? They likely weren’t made by the person who commissioned the piece, but the people he left on Earth after death.

It brings me back to the memories of my grandfather’s death. After the funeral all of the family got to go through his house and choose what they wanted to keep to remember him. I chose a pair of boxing gloves, a beautiful orange glass lamp decorated with hanging crystals all around the base of the lampshade and a wallet-size black and white photo of my grandfather around his high school graduation. My mom got an ornate looking silver frame to display in my room, and my aunt wrote the message I instructed her to on the back to mark the occasion

“Leon Rodney Boyce

My grandpa, he praised the Lord with all his heart! I love him!!

Cheri, Mallory, Doll, Scott, Stephanie, Alex, Joe, Grandma Boyce”

Whether it was the decision to keep the sarcophagus or sell it opposed to using it for its intended purpose, is a mystery of history that can never be known, but was most certainly a circumstance at some point in time. And nearly two thousand years later, it’s sitting on display for millions of people to see, with no way to share the story of how it got here, except for what’s been displayed on the front and sides and a small inscription on the back.

In researching the piece, I came to learn that it was depicting a scene deemed a roman “triumph,” which was a ceremonial parade through the streets put on by leaders to celebrate a specific event or accomplishment, from the Olympic Games to military victories (Boardman, 2014). “Dionysos’ Triumph,” in particular, was seen as the triumph of the living over death. With this knowledge, coupled with the socioeconomic status of the commissioner, it’s likely that they chose such a grand and ornate depiction of an immortal scene as a way to commemorate how they feel their accomplishments in life would sustain them in their death. In a lot of ways, it’s sad, because I know it’s not true. His grand sarcophagus is on display for millions of people to see all this time later, but any recognition or claim he or his family held over this art is long gone, as well as their memory.

Aside from the memories around my grandfather's death, the only memory I have of him was a giant stuffed cheetah and karaoke machine he got for me and my sister one year for Christmas. It was the only Christmas, hell, the only holiday I remember seeing him, but I ranked him highly as a child because of this. Even as a child, I knew my paternal grandparents' relationship was different from my maternal ones’. Grandpa and Grandma Yost lived together at their house, and Grandma Boyce lived with us, and I had no idea where Grandpa Boyce lived. Until I had to miss school to see him lie in bed at this mysterious house. And then he was dead, and I didn’t think about it much. He wasn’t a big part of my life before, not nearly as much as the rest of my family, so his death didn’t hold a big part in my life either, and this seemed normal to me. If I had to guess where the cheetah and karaoke machine are right now, I’d say they’re probably lying in a landfill somewhere, covered by layers and layers of other people’s plastic.

While Dionysos is meant to be the focal point, I believe the way in which everyone is intertwined around him is really what caught my eye, and what makes the piece feel so complete. I see it as a panoramic timeline of life, and the impact one individual can have on their environment throughout it. On the left side, we see Creation, curiously watching the fruits of Her labor, and the right side seems to me to be the masculine side to that coin, some overseer of death, waiting for His time. In between is the fruit of that labor. Gods and people and babies and animals, all fitting in together and relating to each other in a way that creates a perfectly cohesive picture. All of the lore and religious meaning behind Dionysos aside, I see him at the center of this as the architect, as if the people branching out are the generations of people his existence founded, for better or for worse.

On another day out at the MET, in the middle of all my research about this piece, I was wandering around the museum with my friend Nicole when I brought her to the Roman Court to see it, and she was astounded by the craftsmanship as well.

“I can’t even imagine all the kinds of tools it must’ve taken to create all this detail, or how they went about making them in the first place.”

We were standing in front of the sarcophagus, just staring in wonder. Her words of amazement validated my hyperfixation, but her next thought as we walked around the piece gave me a lot of pause throughout the next couple days.

“Where are all the women? All I see is male figures, besides the left.”

She was right, and it was unusual, even for the time. It was commonplace for the Four Seasons to be represented as fully grown, robust women in Roman art, so the switch to young men was both novel, and served to drown out the feminine energy within the piece. I can’t help but wonder if this change was intentional too, given the peak physical form the men surrounding Dionysos are, and the knowledge that this sarcophagus was likely the resting place for an aging man. Sitting with the feelings this brought me caused a lot of internal struggle too. How was it that I could extract so much meaning about the complexities of life from this piece, when I can’t even see myself represented within it? It’s not an ideal I want to emulate in my life, given the centuries upon centuries of people like me having to make space for the egos of the men in their lives. I think this long held truth is still so upsetting to me because I didn’t have a real understanding of how closely it’s impacted my life until relatively recently, when I learned something that caused me to hide the frame holding my grandfather’s picture in a shoebox in my closet, and make plans for a cross country road trip to Michigan to drive back the fragile lamp from my mom’s house to promptly sell it for the cash.

What’s funny about being a kid is that the chaos of what’s happened before you is ever present in the words, actions and circumstances of those immediately around you, but you don’t get a clear view of what’s actually going on until you’re old enough to understand it. A lot of the time, people will try to make that decision for you. My grandma never actually told me my grandfather was abusive. I had to come out and ask. After several attempts of prying into the reasons for her divorce and getting veiled, polite answers, years after I had moved from Michigan I was back on a visit and we had gotten into a long discussion about her marriage with Leon.

“Did he hit you?”

“Yes.”

For every other question, my grandma had no concern for brevity in her answer. She held specific memories from decades back, remembering what she said, what she heard, what she cooked, and all I got was “yes.” That wasn’t an invitation for further questioning, it was an answer and a line. ‘Yes, he did, no I will not say more.’

The rage this knowledge unleashed in me is a rage I’m sure I’m not alone in feeling throughout the years. Over the span of civilizations, societies, and all the progress we’ve been able to make as a human race, we still hurt each other the same. And, much of the time, that harm and hurt never gets to be addressed, all in the name of upholding an intangible sense of honor. We strive to remember people for the best parts of themselves, while ignoring and pushing away the parts that horrified us. What we leave behind when we leave this Earth are the material possessions that will outlive us, and the relationships we built with the people around us. Death doesn’t heal the wounds we inflicted on others, it only leaves them open to rot without being able to confront the source. We want to project this legacy of victory, of accomplishment and success without truly reconciling the harm that remains whether it is named or not.

My grandfather hurt my grandma, his children, and the generations of people that resulted from that union, but above all, he sabotaged himself. One of the most fascinating parts of this deep family shame is how much love exists in my family despite it; and it is a love that I didn’t see my grandfather get to know or experience in a meaningful way. The people he hurt, while imperfect, managed to learn to grow and love in ways that didn’t cause so much pain and dysfunction, but he didn’t seem to grow with them. I don’t know if it was shame, or some other deep seeded emotion that kept him from us until his very last days, or if I’m projecting emotions onto a man that was never connected enough with his own to be aware enough to name them. Realistically, it can’t be known, but I do know that the product of this dysfunction, while requiring work to grow stronger and more stable, is still a beautiful family that I am proud to be a part of.

Nearly two thousand years after the creation of this piece, the sarcophagus stands in one of the most significant museums in what’s considered the capital city of the world, completely disengaged from its roots an entire ocean away. Its stone has and will outlive anyone who sees it, and as such, it holds far more memories than we ever could. Eighteen years after my grandfather's death, I finally did get the chance to bring the orange glass lamp from Michigan to New York City, and it proudly sits in my living room. With all the complicated feelings I have around my grandfather and the legacy he left in my family, this lamp stands outside of it. I chose it at age six, yet it perfectly fits the eclectic vibe I’ve fallen into as an adult better than anything I could reasonably afford now. Something also tells me a woman in my family picked it out, with the bright orange color and borderline gaudy dangling crystal pieces, so it feels like a familial heirloom that I picked out for myself years ago, almost prophesying the person I was meant to become. The boxing gloves are shoved in my closet, because after learning just a few details about my grandparents' marriage, choosing them back then feels like a sick joke, but I can’t imagine donating them or giving them to another family member for the same reason. The photo with the writing on the back is in the back of the frame now, which displays a photo of my boyfriend and I. Part of me thinks I’ll grow out of this hatred at a man who’s been dead well over a decade, but the way every other person in my family just swallowed the shit makes me want to hang onto it forever. Someone has to. I haven’t decided yet, so the photo stays.

I may be projecting my specific pain onto this relic, but familial circumstances aside, it stands perfectly encompassing the range and effect one person can have on their environment over the course of a lifetime, while telling nothing of the person it was meant to hold. This piece could and likely does hold a range of different meaning to all of the different people who have seen it over its lifetime of being displayed in different places in different eras, and none of those could be aligned with the true history and meaning of this piece, which died with the people who were there to live through it. There’s such an alluring mystery within that, but that mystery can be painful when you’re a part of the mosaic. And, realistically, the only actionable way to make that mystery special and impactful in a positive way, is to recognize the impression you will leave on others and work to leave a presence you can be proud of, before it fades away like we all inevitably do. I can’t affect my grandfather’s legacy, only my own. For everyone’s sake, I don’t intend to make the same mistakes.

Samantha Boyce is a Michigan native who moved to New York City at eighteen years old. In her youth, she was a Staff Writer for Affinity Magazine, having multiple articles published, all centered around social justice and mental wellness. In 2020, she began schoool, and is currently designing a Bachelor in Arts degree in Restorative Justice and Dispute Resolution through the Cuny Baccalaureate for Unique and Individual Studies program at John Jay, set to graduate in the winter of 2024.