New Flash Fiction by Isabelle B.L

 Yolk

 Hay sticks cling to speckled egg shells—a way to enter sun-moon-lamppost light unless boot soles carry the yellow stalks back in. The girl with the yellow ponytail doesn’t share the hay stick’s enthusiasm for the outside. But hay knows that anything must be better than a chicken house.

 The girl with the yellow ponytail escapes to chicken houses to cradle two warm eggs in each palm, set four hay sticks free, and return for more glow. The hands she seeks are hiding away from her or grasping long, sleek soup ladles, wooden spoons, and plastic toothbrushes scooping and slam dunking dead insects into a Gardenia’s creamy centre. Cold air whirls around the girl with the yellow ponytail in sun-moon-lamppost light, but in the chicken house crackles mingle with clucks, wood splits and invites carpenter ants to crawl to the other side. To the other side, she walks, the girl with the yellow ponytail flirts with cobwebs over grimy windows. She once stuck her finger in her mother’s Macrame curtains, and her hand glowed again. Eggs don’t make her cry. She draws a letter S with her finger. The window is oily leaving black dots across her finger pad. She peers through the Macrame webbing. The tip of her nose skids on the slippery-when-wet surface. Treaded tyres crush grass. Horses jump as if a horse shoe is half-on, half-off, paw-paw-pawing the dirt until horse riding lessons for humans end. A mother cat leaves her basket full of kittens rolling in an old shirt. Old shirt sleeves are handy. The girl rubs her wet eyes against a row of cotton bluebells. The curtain shrouds over a yellow stream. She walks to the door because she likes her eggs scrambled. She’ll return to the roar of the motors clanging with big people’s voices. She’ll return to the tinkling cymbals, and she’ll eat her eggs under the table because that’s where the four pillars stand. And she hopes one day, the story will read like this:

 Once upon a time, a girl with golden locks skipped to the chicken house to collect warm eggs. While her loving mother poured her heart and soul into a creamy, buttery batter, she sat next to her uncle and had a ride in his big green tractor. She then ran to her horse, patted its white patch, and surprised it with some sugar cubes. At the call of her mother’s voice, she ran home and sat at the table dragging the pepper shaker across the gingham tablecloth and divided her omelette into four and a bit. She always left some titbits for Jack Russell Jack resting his two front paws on her faded blues. No blues in part two. She slides down a table leg because that’s where love resides—too. That’s where Jack leans, against a pillar of white woodness, kisses of the sloppy kind, kindness—cake’s ready—sweetness. The girl with the yellow ponytail sits down with Jack before leaping into sun-moon-lamppost light.

- © Isabelle B.L 2023

Isabelle B.L is an Australian/French teacher. Her work can be found in the Best Microfiction 2022 anthology,  Visual Verse, Compass Rose Literary Journal, Writing In A Woman’s Voice and elsewhere.

New Poetry by Anne Mikusinski

28

Thinking about 

How you let 

Your tenuous 

Hold

On continuing

Slip away

Without a protest

Leaving only echoes of 

Questions 

And assumptions

And half a million theories

Of what should and could

Have happened

Which fuel 

These restless late night words 

Imagining

All the conversations

That might have been.

- © Anne Mikusinki 2023

Anne Mikusinski has always been in love with words, whether they have been read or spoken aloud. She  has been writing poems and short stories since she was seven years old. Her influences range from Dylan Thomas and Sylvia Plath to David Byrne and Nick Cave. She hopes that someday, her  writing will be as much of an influence on someone as these writers have been on her.

New Poetry by Nathaniel Sverlow

the bollard

there’s a bollard

just outside

my window

and it’s bright

as hell

and I can’t help

looking at it

as I write

I don’t remember

it being

so bright

the landlord

must have replaced

the bulb

with uranium

I fidget

with the blinds

so that a slat

might cover it

but no matter

how I place them,

they always swing

back into place

and the bollard

shines

through the madness,

mocking me

with its radioactivity

I finally give up

and close the blinds

but somehow

the bollard

shines even brighter

in my mind

I am swallowed

by white light

vaporized

in the pre-dawn quiet

victimized

by life’s obscene,

capricious mechanism

I think

I’ll take a bat

to that damn bollard

dance atop its shards

and around its twisted frame

dance in my newfound darkness

or at least complain

to the front office

let them know

they dropped a bomb

outside my window

and I don’t

appreciate it

- © Nathaniel Sverlow 2023

Nathaniel Sverlow is a freelance writer of poetry and prose. He currently resides in the Sacramento area with two cats, one incredibly supportive wife, and a rambunctious son. His previous publishing credits include Typehouse Literary Magazine, Black Fox Literary Magazine, and Black Coffee Review. He has also written two poetry books and one prose collection: The Blue Flame of My Beating Heart (2020), Heaven is a Bar with Patio Seating (2021), and The Culmination of Egotism (2022).

 

 

New Poetry by J.R. Barner

Bollingen Tower

After the divorce, when I was eight years old

I would spend summers here with my mother

In a one room flat in Schmerikon.

My mother worked as a translator for

Local government, so, in the morning,

Before she left, she would pack me a lunch

Of dried fish, or a sandwich with cold cuts,

Spicy mustard and fruit, and send me out

Of the house, where I could play with all the

Other children, although I didn’t know

Their Language, and they didn’t know mine, or

To wander into the shadowy woods

Along the Lake Zürich shoreline, alone.

I’d walk along the side of the highway

With a walking stick and my lunch in that

Paper bag now darkened with grease from the

Luncheon meat or the oil from the fish

And stop every now and again to stare

At the trees that bent to and fro in the

Midday breeze, turning the whole sky into

An undulating vision of bright white

And the bluest and lightest of all blue

And jade green swirls of cloud, leaf, and sky.

I never got lost and could always find

The road as it followed by the water.

That is, until I stumbled one day on

The winding path that led to the Tower.

I had veered off the road to find some shade

And eat my sandwich where I could see

Closely, a murmuration of starlings

Flying meters above the horizon.

When, just out of the corner of my eye,

I spied a spire rising up from the

Canopy and a neat dirt and straw path

That was winding its way up a small hill

That inclined to a clearing and wood door.

I wandered around the path and Tower

For several minutes, mesmerized by

The movement of birds around the tallest

Spire I could see from the road, when

Actually, there were, in fact, four 

Round minarets parceling each section

Of the building into four, more or less,

Even structures that were connected by

Tunnel-like halls and lunettes with rounded

Arches that looked like reflecting mirrors.

After several minutes passed, I got the

Impression that I was being watched and,

As if on cue, a small man with a

Shock of white hair appeared in one of the

Upper windows, staring intently at

Me, then following my gaze up to the

Birds, then back to me, then to the birds, then

Back to me, our eyes locked together in

An unbroken stare for what seemed like an

Eternity, until I left his sight.

I walked to the back of the largest wall

And saw a strange stone altar on the shore:

A rounded square with foreign writing on

Three of the sides, with a small, phallic

Child, described by the name Telesphorus

Beckoning to me from one of the sides.

I squinted to see the strange languages

On the stone when, from behind me, the

White-haired man appeared, as if out of thin

Air, and then he noted the startled look

On my face. He then bowed low, at the waist,

As if to apologize and show me

Some deference, even though I wasn’t

So young as not to know that it was his

Property that I was trespassing on,

So, if anyone should apologize,

It should be me, but a smile soon crossed

His face and I could not help but blurt out

“Are you some kind of wizard?” But he just

Laughed and replied “I am something of an

Alchemist, and, in fact, we all are and

Our laboratories are simply the sum

Of the collective wellspring of our minds.”

And then he laid his finger aside his

Nose, like Santa Claus in the old adverts 

For Coca-Cola in The Saturday Evening Post.

I didn’t understand a word of what he was saying,

But he was strange and fascinating either way.

He took my hand and led me around the

Stone, translating from Latin and German

And Greek, talking of gods and monsters and

The forces that unite the planets and

The elements of earth, air, fire, and

Water. As he spoke, I could hear the sound

Of the lake behind us, small waves, gently

Lapping against the shore in a kind of

Rhythm to the old man’s words and gestures.

His hands were like the gnarled ends of trees

Long since cut down and left to molder in

The earth and he waved them in the air like

He was casting some eldritch spell or else

Conjuring a spirit from some other

World. He noticed my wide-eyed stare and

Laughed like he had not laughed in a while,

Like he was surprised to be laughing at

All. I started to laugh, as well, because

It dawned on me that, besides my mother

His was the only English I had heard

For some time, and yet, had not understood

A single word. Perhaps we were laughing

At different things, but we were laughing

Together, which felt nice, especially

On the lakeshore on a warm summer’s day.

In all of the excitement around my

Exploration of this new and strange place,

I had forgotten all about my lunch,

And now the feeling of hunger came back

With a vengeance. I reached into my sack

And pulled out my limp sandwich and offered

Half to the old man. We sat on the beach

And had our lunch in silence and wonder

At the spectacle of being that the

Sky and lake and sand and sun provided

Us that day. At one point, the man spoke up

And said only three curt words: “My wife died.”

His eyes seemed to fill to the brim with tears

But the man did not make another sound.

I climbed into his lap like I would my

Grandfather on family vacations

Past, and we sat on the beach until the

Sun had sunk low in the sky, almost to

The level of the horizon. I told

The old man that I needed to leave soon

And he walked me along the path past the

Tower to where I had entered the woods.

“Will you come to visit me again?” the

Old man asked, plaintively, as he turned to

Walk back up the small hill to his tower.

I said that I would and he silently

Left, walking back to his fortress on the

Lake. Just as I was walking back to the

Main road, I turned, and saw the man in the

Highest window of the tower, and though

It was from a great distance, I could see

The old man was smiling down upon me.

- © J.R. Barner 2023

J.R. Barner is a writer, teacher, and musician living in Athens, Georgia. They are the author of the chapbooks Burnt Out Stars and Thirteen Poems and their collection, Little Eulogies. Their work has appeared in Pinhole Poetry, ONEART, Suburban Witchcraft, Impspired and others, both online and in print. New work is available periodically at jrbarner.tumblr.com.

New Poetry by Michael Lee Johnson

I Age

Arthritis and aging make it hard,

I walk gingerly, with a cane, and walk

slow, bent forward, fear threats,

falls, fear denouement─

I turn pages, my family albums

become a task.

But I can still bake and shake,

sugar cookies, sweet potato,

lemon meringue pies.

Alone, most of my time,

but never on Sundays,

friends and communion, 

United Church of Canada. 

I chug a few down,

love my Blonde Canadian Pale Ale,

Copenhagen long cut a pinch of snuff.

I can still dance the Boogie-woogie,

Lindy Hop in my living room,

with my nursing care home partner.

Aging has left me with youthful dimples, 

but few long-term promises.

-  © Michael Lee Johnson 2023

Michael Lee Johnson is an internationally published poet in 44 countries, has several published poetry books, has been nominated for 6 Pushcart Prize awards, and 6 Best of the Net nominations.

New Poetry by Dennis Williams

 The Rose and the aroma

 She shows me hospitality fit for a king, and the countryside brings out the love hidden in me. The sun out in the distance, hanging above the ocean, the gentle breeze invading our space and the relief it brings, refresh our souls, and the rose spoke a language only lovers can understand.

 The words are a mystery to the bystanders, and my love points to a single rose on a patch of fertile soil among the giant trees.

 She bend over and picked the rose and immediately it fill the air with its sweet aroma, it was like life itself.

 She wanted to plant a bud of the rose in the valley below so that in the future the valley will be overwhelmed with the sweet aroma of our love, and the rose in the meadows nearby will attract the honey bee for its sweet nectar.

 The sunrise reminds me of the rose each time it rises, and in the evening when it set, it reminds me of a single rose and the aroma of our love.

- © Dennis Williams 2023

Dennis is an emerging poet/writer from Sandy Hill, St. Catherine, Jamaica. His writings have been published in agape Review, the American Diversity Report (ADR), Alchemy spoon issue #7, the Health line Zine #1,  the independent literary magazine Adelaide #54, EgoPHobia # 74, and the livina press issue # 3.

 

New Poetry by Adam Stokell

Piano hands

Today’s delivery will include a pair of those new trousers with the extra-large pockets, designed to accommodate the phone I’ve pre-ordered, next generation of the flagship, due for release at the end of the month. According to the specs, slightly longer and wider than today’s phone but weighing slightly less. Someone somewhere keeps discovering an ever-rarer earth. Today’s phone only just exceeds the stretch of my piano hands, the depth of yesterday’s pockets; extensive efforts over the course of a year. Old strides towards a more expansive now to new into. I’ve opted for olive black.

- © Adam Stokell 2023

Adam Stokell’s poems have appeared in various journals, including Unbroken, Dust, Porridge, Cordite, Meanjin, Plumwood Mountain, Burrow and Meniscus. His first poetry collection, Peopling The Dirt Patch, formed part of The People’s Library exhibit at the Long Gallery, Salamanca. He lives in Gagebrook, Tasmania.

New Poetry by Kat Crawford

Yogini’s Departure 

The terrier/coonhound DNA emerged today

full force. I had very little say in the matter.

The song sparrow hopped freely as if grateful 

that it lived, after hitting the great glass door. 

Lucy seized the moment to grab what she thought 

was dinner. Drop it! I screeched, a voice 

I’d never use again. The deed was done. Soft brown 

speckled feathers quivered as I made eye contact 

and spoke to its fleeting soul. Who knew the rope 

around my friend’s neck would tackle her 

under mottled light for just a minute, 

crystal necklace and the glint in the sunlight 

in woods behind Butterfly Lane? A man who found her 

called the simple numbers 9 1 1. Her husband 

on his way to Santa Cruz to tell their daughter, 

his swollen eyes he wished were someone else’s. 

Her Warrior Stance and Sun Salutation tumbled 

down a tunnel of darkness with her laughter 

that knew something we do not. Into the light, 

the forest disappeared, smaller and smaller 

till all that was left was her limber body’s impression 

on leaves just fallen after a full Moon. The others 

were all there to greet her, dogs, relatives, my sister. 

My chest hurts to write, and I’m listening to Cuban music 

to drown out the black dust of death. Juncos 

and doves cry their songs to us as a reminder of lips, 

arms, whole bodies making something 

in each shadowy and lyrical day.

- © Kat Crawford 2023

Kat Crawford is a San Francisco writer. 

New Poetry by Earl Livings

At Wappa Dam

the young heron steps

across the patchwork

platform of lily and algae

its silver slivers

of teeming water

near the shore

with its picnic tables

ignores the children

squealing and rowdy

on school excursion

to this concrete arch dam

where a flotilla of ducks

floats within the wide

sun-dazzle surface

steps smartly, stately

question mark neck

quiver and slow stretch

exclamation thrust

aiming where the fish isn’t

(lesson in water refraction)

gobble, swallow, shiver

slow flap and glide

to the next lure of water

lovers gather up their rug

waves lap the fringed shore

the heron pauses, stabs

- © Earl Livings 2023

Earl Livings has published poetry and fiction in Australia and also Britain, Canada, the USA, and Germany. His work mainly focuses on science, nature, mythology and the sacred. His second poetry collection, Libation (Ginninderra Press) was published in 2018 and his fantasy verse novel, The Silence Inside the World, was released in 2022. He lives in Melbourne with his wife and their ever-growing piles of books.

New Poetry by Louis Faber

Afterlife 

In the farthest reaches

of the afterlife, the old men

gather each day, although

day and night are meaningless

to them, just assigned

for purposes of the writer.

The Buddha recites sutras

hoping the others will

be in the moment with him,

while Hillel smiles, stands

on one foot and dreams

of a lean pastrami on rye

with a slice of half sour.

Christ muses on when

mankind might be ready

for his return visit,

and Hillel says "good luck

with that, it's been downhill

with them for two millennia.

Schrodinger sits off

to the side staring intently

at the box, wondering

if there is a cat inside.

- © Louis Faber 2023

Louis Faber’s work has previously appeared in Constellations,  Alchemy Spoon (U.K.), Arena Magazine (Australia), Dreich, Atlanta Review, The Poet (U.K.), Glimpse, Defenestration, Tomorrow and Tomorrow, North of Oxford, Rattle,Pearl, Midstream, European Judaism, The South Carolina Review and Worcester Review, among many others, and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. A book, The Right to Depart was published by Plain View Press. He lives with his wife and cat (who claims to be his editor) in Port Saint Lucie, Florida.

 

New Poetry by Michael Keshigian

Spindle Point

 

His first thought

and perhaps the most provoking

as he gazed from the dock,

was the continual, rhythmic

oscillation of the lake beneath him,

how, aside from its beauty, its tranquility,

it possessed an undercurrent,

a deception unnoticed,

damaging its edges over and again

upon the rough and rotting posts,

a ruse reminiscent of the way

anticipated love treads upon

the shore of the initial interaction

or the manner in which the tongue reacts

once the eyes have deceived,

yielding a sense of disappointment,

perhaps falseness,

the desired result entwined

with a dose of unexpected reality,

the lake, its view, its potential embrace

not the garden of docile promise,

but a cold, indifferent body of drift

inadvertently misunderstood

by merely being present.

- © Michael Keshigian 2023

Michael Keshigian was recently published in the Comstock Review, Smoky Quartz Anthology, California Quarterly, and Muddy River Review. His latest collections, What To Do With Intangibles, Into The Light, Dark Edges, are available through Amazon.  He has been nominated 7 times for a Pushcart Prize and 3 times for Best Of The Net.

New Poetry by Erina Booker

Out of Mind

so focused

on the fifth anniversary

creeping up

since the fourth

driving the road

beside the river

swinging the bends

outlining the solid sandstone

surmounted with tall trees

draped with runnels of water

it’s only as I turn

into the entrance

of the Gardens

that I’m shocked to remember

I have three

immediate family members here

I blink the sting

my mind saturated

brimming with only one

I turn into the ‘Bushland’ section

of native plants and trees –

though he loved roses

that section was crammed

cheek by jowl

with no space

to sit and contemplate

the manager drove me

to different sections

across the grass

and ‘Bushland’ screamed

your name

on the boundary 

of the grounds

black cockatoos

glide the sky

corkscrew-banksias

ugly-nice

rock orchids

bursting orgasms

of bloom

niches were available

in the tier named ‘Eucalypt’

I bought one

then returned to buy

the vacant one next-door

I showed him photos

when he wanted

showed him 

my next-door niche –

I’ll be there

I’m coming too

but this day,

this fifth anniversary,

I’d forgotten

it was only as I made to leave

that I remembered

(I should have cleaned out

the dead leaves)

how could I have shock-forgot?

the Sheltie and I 

returned to the car

strapped in

looked back at all

the new plots

invading the lawns

people just keep dying

left onto the main circuit

I feel I should stop

for Dad and Pam

but I can’t be bothered

I was out of my mind

about you

- © Erina Booker 2023

Erina Booker is a Sydney-based poet. She has published nine collections of her work, and contributes to journals and anthologies, internationally, nationally, and online. She enjoys giving recitals, seminars, and judging competitions. Erina has a Major in Literature within her Bachelor of Arts degree, and a Postgraduate Degree in Counselling. She knows the value of words and the pauses between them.

New Poetry by Corey Bryan

the fate of winter moths

sitting on the  stoop,

concrete sodden with

the chill of late

winter. the air

acquires a coolness

like your first breath

after confessional.

the christmas lights

illuminate the porch

in a motley of whites

and oranges. the 

tangerine glow casting

warmth while the sun

is taking his smoke

break. Two sounds

permeate the crisp air

rising up to my ears

like  a swan through

inky lake water:

the languid boughs

sighing  in the wind,

scraping their emaciated

limbs together in

contemplation and the

fatal buzz of my

neighbor’s bug zapper.

It stands watch like 

a plum King’s Guard,

never resting in his duty;

an amethyst firebrand.

The absence of the

mosquito’s persistent drone

is chilling, and its deafening 

vacancy amplifies the

cruel cut of the bug zapper.

In this quiet cacophony 

I think that letting moths

fall prey to an

undeserved, mauve, electric

death is the cruelest 

thing I’ve ever known.

I creep back up the

steps and cast a wary

look into my neighbor’s

grimey window and am

shocked to see them

sleeping peacefully.

- © Corey Bryan 2023

Corey Bryan is a fourth year student at Georgia State University majoring in Rhetoric and Composition. He is currently writing daily poetry prompts, along with some original poems, with a friend of his at poetryispretentious.com. He hopes to publish a book of the same name some day. 

New Flash Fiction by Emma Lee

 Where Bleach and Fabric Fresheners Can Take You

 Jen had loved stories where a young woman dragged a small suitcase into a sparsely furnished bedsit in a grotty end of town, put up some fairy lights and revelled in the freedom to dream, hoping her job in retail or hospitality would lead to a chance meeting where her talent would be recognised and her dreams come true. The furniture would be heavy with ghosts of previous occupants, the bathroom home to a forest of mould and the kitchen barely functional. Glamour doesn’t involve eating. There would be a garment rail for charity shop finds. 

 Reality would seep in like the dusky odours from the lumpy mattress and sagging sofa. It was freedom from parental restrictions and family expectations. Freedom to be alone. There wasn’t space for friends and it wasn’t a place to invite them back. Not a place to start a relationship either: more of a series of one-night stands. A place to sink into despair and float in the city’s dirtier corners: invisible, unseen and unheard.  

 But Jen had a plan and a box of bleach, air and fabric fresheners. She put the key in the lock and opened the door. Leaving the box on the sofa, she made several trips to collect two wheeled suitcases and a pile of boxes. First job: open the windows. Second job: bleach the toilet, shower and basin in the bathroom. Third, tackle the kitchen, such as it was. An oven with hob, a sink, fridge freezer, cupboards above and below a workshop which her rice cooker dominated. She sprayed the mattress and sofa with fabric freshener. She’d persuaded the landlord to let her have the large table and office chair that had been dumped in the backyard. She scrubbed both clean. 

 After a lunch break, she put her sewing machine on the table. Jen almost hugged it. It would keep the ghosts at bay. Opening a suitcase, she hung her designs on the garment rail. Swing dresses designed to skim curves in jewelled colours. Sober jackets with a pop of colour and proper pockets with skirts or trousers to match. Her online store had earnt her enough to put a deposit down on a retail unit. She hung her mood boards with sketches of evening wear and bridal dresses, applique flowers and machine embroidery patterns, and fabric swatches on the walls, their vibrancy energising the dingy beige woodchip wallpaper. Her daylight lamps would prevent the dark moods creeping in and nagging. 

 She didn’t need the romance of a chance meeting. She was free to prove that her fashion wasn’t a little hobby but a valid business. Jen might not be on the red carpet, but her name would be.

- © Emma Lee 2023

Emma Lee’s publications include “The Significance of a Dress” (Arachne, 2020) and "Ghosts in the Desert" (IDP, 2015). She co-edited “Over Land, Over Sea,” (Five Leaves, 2015), was Reviews Editor for The Blue Nib, reviews for magazines and blogs at https://emmalee1.wordpress.com.

 

New Poetry by Mike Daniels

Near the Calvert Cliffs Nuclear Plant

A shark’s tooth

dries in my hand,

on this day that marks

the twelfth year

since I’ve last spoken

to my only sister.

The bay smells like

a murky soup,

and the sky wears

a thick grey shroud

from the power plant.

Tell me, who doesn’t love

when siblings feud?

If only I could let go

of this razor-sharp thing,

I feel lancing the boil

filled with the blood

and the pus of pride.

- © Mike Daniels 2023

Mike Daniels grew up along the banks of the Chesapeake Bay, and he studied poetry with Lucille Clifton at St. Mary's College. His poems have appeared in numerous journals.