Silence fills the air, as I sit, alone, among endless rows of graves.
I wish for heartbeats, for laughter, for tears.
I miss the noise.
But I know that I can’t have it.
I can hear the footsteps of the living, but there’s no sound for me.
Silence surrounds me, as I lay in my own void, a void of life, eternal and silent.
I will never know happiness again.
But I accept it, lying here, alone, among endless rows of graves.
It was fun being dead for a while, to feel the quiet and the peace. I thought hell would have fire and brimstone, but I guess that’s only what they tell us.
I’m moving on now, accepting my reality. And I know that one day, I’ll find my meaning, In the cold abyss.
But for now, all I have is silence, a silence that never ends.
And I bet there’s fire in heaven.
Foolish Understanding
The things I thought unmeetable—unattainable—as if from Eden— Forever luring us with what could never be pure in value as it might have been— Or so we’ve all been told: But why should my heart believe it this for so? This is what I know! My dreams! As clear as the words of my own ears— Unencumbered by notions of what I was or would be. Just a child at that point in time; Unaware of the traps or whims of foolish understanding. Always trying, always striving. And now, standing here–where was I standing before?
Redacted
Routine is the devil of a stranger: A death spell is different only in name. 18th century England–the rise of industrialisation, the first factory system—the spilling out of a Satanic rage. Alone, for I sought you everywhere. In Spain, at five paces away from me, Your torso moving gracefully like a flower blooming— So perfect you were; I should have found a way to grasp the beauty in it: To be with you was to be good, filled with God’s love, But in that moment my heart dared leap out of my chest In the franticness to make time stop for us… To make us both strong enough to last eternally — To love us amidst the world’s fear of each other— It is not as easy as it seems… It is enough that we are together. You are here beside me. And that’s enough.
Close To Me
It’s lovely, the number of times you look down on me and forget to see, as if from your corner of the sea— You could not hear once I begin to plead; It takes a little time before you come, To coax me back again up to the dreams. That there is no moon, only we are nearer the stars— I am but asleep. And yet, here we lie: Far apart. At some point I think to wake myself up, To make sure I haven’t been lying, And when finally I realize it’s true— I find myself so faint; Holding too tight; Too cold. I think it may be time for a change after all. But as things are today—or so it would seem—I’ll sleep here alone under the covers awaiting you to come, more closely to me at last…
Claudia Wysocky, a Polish poet based now in New York, is known for her ability to capture the beauty of life through rich descriptions in her writing. She firmly believes that art has the potential to inspire positive change. With over five years of experience in fiction writing, Claudia has had her poems published in local newspapers and magazines. For her, writing is an endless journey and a powerful source of motivation.
Gershwin was not his favourite, but Blakey had no choice in the piece selected. Blakey’s job was to sit up straight and act like the music enthralled him. He kept his eyes closed to give the appearance of being spellbound, but in truth Blakey couldn’t bear to watch the hands at work.
Blakey’s arms swept back and forth across the keyboard, fingers landing on the black and white keys as if they had their own eyes, which could be true for all Blakey knew. He had no talent—whatever controlled his hands commanded movement. Blakey tried not to think of the hands as parasites, even though that’s the way he felt. The comparison wasn’t fair to his sister, nor to the legacy of music she gave to fans.
Endure one more performance, that was Blakey’s goal. And to do so, he let his mind wandered while the music played.
Just a few hours ago his sister, Eleanor, accompanied Blakey downstairs to wait for the towncar. The two of them sat in overstuffed chairs in the hotel lobby, wishing for a fire in the hearth, and held hands. They could have been mistaken for lovers. Blakey liked to eavesdrop on conversations and invent preposterous stories for Eleanor, trying to make her laugh; it helped him relax. When the car came, Eleanor kissed his hands and watched him go.
Attention made Blakey self-conscious, like when the driver opened the rear door for him. He felt the scrutiny of people’s eyes as they passed by on the sidewalk. Even with tint on the windows Blakey felt watched.
The black towncar left the hotel, turning from one busy street to another. He began to feel overwhelmed, so Blakey stared at the ornate braid of the woman driver’s hair. Eleanor often wore it that way. Blakey let the city streets roll by and focused on bringing Eleanor’s face to mind. And almost immediately, there was a click. Blakey couldn’t describe it any other way; something clicked, although it was more physiological than audible. In the early days of transfer, Blakey had to bring every ounce of concentration to click into Eleanor. Now, like muscle memory, it happened quickly: Blakey’s hands began to tingle, the pins and needles burning at first. Blakey flexed his fingers, balled them into fists. He flattened out his palms and rubbed them on the twill of his pants. Despite the discomfort, Blakey was relieved. He was always afraid the transfer wouldn’t happen.
Blakey made sure the driver wasn’t looking and turned his palms up. He watched the skin stretch smooth, creaseless for a moment. Then new furrows appeared in similar yet subtly different arrangements. Life line. Head line. Heart line. Fate line.
Someone in the audience coughed and it brought Blakey’s attention back into the auditorium. He couldn’t name the chord the hands just played. It sounded tragic and beautiful as it hung in the air. Next, a frantic pattern of notes searched the keys until a link was found to connect to the next big chord, this one soft and sad. Blakey knew enough about music to recognize the piece was coming to a close; a familiar melody returned in a joyful reprise.
But the only joy Blakey felt was in that long sustain that finished the piece, when hands splayed unmoving on the keys, when the breath of music lingered on the brink of silence, before the applause started.
Blakey opened his eyes, chin tucked down on his chest. Hands withdrew from the keys and rested in Blakey’s lap, changing back again. Life line. Head line. Heart line. Fate line. Calluses re-emerged from soft flesh; so did the scars from the automobile accident that started all this. He watched smooth, tapered fingers revert to ones that had healed bent and crooked.
Standing, hands behind his back now, Blakey bowed because that was expected of him. He left the stage quickly because he didn’t deserve the ovation. The sooner he exited, the sooner the applause would dissipate. Blakey rarely talked to the people at the venue, never signed autographs, and avoided interviews with the press at all costs. “He’s just that way,” they always said. “His music does the talking. Genius is like that. Runs in the family.”
Blakey had grown comfortable in remaining aloof. As long as his silence was interpreted as arrogance there was enough social distance to cope. Even if he could explain his newfound fame, no one would believe it: the auto accident, Eleanor’s career cut short, Blakey emerging with a prodigious talent even though he had sustained more grievous injuries than his sister.
Eleanor had recovered quickly with one small, but devastating, affliction that changed everything. But Eleanor worried less about herself than Blakey’s injuries. For a week he laid unconscious in the hospital, Eleanor at his bedside holding his hands. When he finally awoke, something clicked, and they discovered the gift they’d been given. There was no explanation or revelation how or why, just a car wreck, a before and an after.
He walked backstage and out the exit, hands stuffed in his pockets. The driver was waiting, and she opened the rear door of the towncar. She took her place in the front seat and offered Blakey a bottled water.
“Yes, please,” he said. “Do you mind opening it for me?”
“I understand.” The driver cracked the cap. “If I had those hands, I wouldn’t let them do anything but play piano.”
Blakey accepted the water. “Thank you.”
The bottle was cold. Felt good between his hands. A performance always brought—not pain exactly—discomfort and restlessness. Blakey glared at his old fingers as if to quiet them. Then he realized the driver had said something.
“I’m sorry,” Blakey said, “I wasn’t listening.”
“I just wanted to thank you for letting me hang backstage. I was always a big fan of your sister. How’s she doing, anyway?”
Blakey had heard this question a thousand times. It made him feel uneasy, so he didn’t answer.
“Excuse me. None of my business,” the driver said. “I’ll shut up now.”
He felt shame warm his cheeks. The woman was only trying to be nice and the silence between them was forced and awkward. Blakey noticed how she tightened her grip on the steering wheel and used her side mirrors to avoid the rear view. She was trying hard not to make eye contact.
“Actually, she’s doing pretty well these days,” he finally said. “All things considered.”
The driver looked at Blakey in the mirror. “I never heard you play before, but I have to say, it really reminded me of Eleanor. I mean, like, a lot. Must be amazing, two great pianists in the same family. A thrill to play together, I’ll bet.”
“Unfortunately, her hearing hasn’t returned since the accident,” said Blakey. “In the meantime, I don’t mind taking the lead until she can return. While we’re here in the city, we’re going to see another specialist.”
“Well, I hope it works out. I truly do.” The driver leaned back and handed Blakey a card. “If you need a ride, don’t hesitate to call.”
They didn’t talk for rest of the ride, but the silence was comfortable. Arriving at the hotel, a doorman opened the car door. Blakey did not extend his hand to be helped out.
Eleanor was waiting in the lobby, reading Mrs. Dalloway by the fire. In the adjacent bar a raucous crowd had gathered, cheering at a sporting event on TV. Half a dozen fans spilled out into the lobby, drinking and laughing. Blakey skirted the hubbub and approached his sister.
She looked up and asked, “How did it go?” At least that’s what Blakey assumed. Since the accident, Eleanor couldn’t modulate her voice properly; she was hard to hear even in the quietest of rooms. But Blakey was getting better at reading her lips.
“Fine,” he said, “the audience seemed to enjoy it.”
Eleanor stared hard at Blakey’s mouth, shook her head and pointed at her ears. Blakey had to laugh at his oversight, reached out and extended his hand toward his sister. As their fingers touched, something clicked.
Blakey repeated himself.
“I’m glad,” Eleanor said, her voice now clear and loud above the noise from the bar.
Blakey helped Eleanor to her feet. Just then, the bar erupted with shouts and cheering. Eleanor swung her head toward the noise, startled by the volume. She clamped her hands over her ears and nearly lost her balance.
Blakey grabbed Eleanor’s waist to steady her, then pointed at the hotel’s front door. She retrieved the paperback and stuffed it in her purse. He didn’t touch her again until they got outside.
Blakey folded his hand around hers. “That’s better, too noisy in there. Feel like a stroll?”
“Actually, I’ve got a better idea,” said Eleanor. “How about we grab a cab and go to this piano bar I was reading about. I haven’t been out all day.”
“Can we walk there?”
“I don’t think so.” She dropped Blakey’s hand and opened her purse. “I’ll get my phone and find the address.” The volume of her voice had dropped precipitously.
Blakey couldn’t see her lips as his sister bent over her purse, so he shrugged and stepped toward the curb. He was always happy to acquiesce to his sister’s wishes, so Blakey waved at an approaching taxi three lanes over. The yellow cab accelerated and careened toward Blakey. It sliced through traffic cutting everyone off, receiving a trio of car horns and shouted expletives for the maneuver. The taxi was traveling too fast, and the brakes screamed as it fishtailed toward the curb.
Blakey lurched back beside his sister. He glared at the man behind the wheel.
“What?” the cabby shouted. Palms up, feigning innocence.
“It’s in here somewhere,” Eleanor muttered, unaware, face still buried in her purse. “There. Found it.”
She reshouldered her purse while her brother opened the cab door. Blakey helped her inside and never let go Eleanor’s hand as he slid in beside her.
“Where to?” asked the cabby.
“Melody’s. Lexington and 73rd,” said Eleanor.
“Promise me one thing,” Blakey whispered to his sister, “Promise you won’t make me play.”
Eleanor giggled. “Silly boy. If you borrowed my hands to play, whose would I hold to listen?”
DL Shirey‘s work has appeared in 70 publications including Reflex Fiction, Gravel, Confingo, and Citron Review.
When you put on your mask your glasses fog up as your nose exhales all that super-saturated air and the world acquires a halo putting Homer’s early-born and rosy-fingered dawn to shame but you cannot see pulling off the mask solves that the areola fades the world sharpens it is still beautiful but with risks Sirens still call your name at Hooters Scylla and Charybdis whisper in one ear to sell that stock you bought last week and to buy more of it in the other nothing has changed much risk is everywhere mask or no mask antibody or no antibody take your pick be like Wile E Coyote that manhole at your feet may be a figment of your imagination or maybe your gateway to the netherworld
This Could Be Enormous
I’m not saying we have to be exact what I’m saying is try to be accurate within certain limits I mean how thorough are they? they’re going to give this the once over they’re not fact-checkers or CPA’s they are bean counters and you know how they think it’s all about the head bean counter and as we all know he knows nothing except what is whispered to him when the lights go out this could be the next big thing if we don’t blow it there is no such thing as a national average even they know that but they are stuck with their protocols the only one we have is to make it look good on paper now, here’s a ream of Grade 3 put your mark on it and do us all a favour don’t look back
Short Story
Eternity long as it may seem is like a short story Beginning, middle & end conflict, struggle and resolution Guy de Maupassant could have written it
In the Beginning there was just Him with all this time on His hands He wasn’t lonely but He fretted a lot about His omnipotence and what to do with it a lot of it had to do with miniscule details what atoms He favoured the chemical structure of hydrocarbons and He kept wondering which one would work out the best although He should have known this went on a long time in geologic time yes it is pretty lengthy but in story-telling time only a third of the whole the conflict was His alone that probably made Him grumpy as there was no one to blame yet
Then He made up his mind Bang! Which was nothing but a diversion designed to rid the universe of the Evil One and it didn’t work He thought it might but deep down knew better and the Evil One prospered due to us after all we had the common bond of both being kicked out of somewhere so we all struggled and He fretted some more having underestimated our cleverness our intransigence and our insatiable lusts and watched as His plans headed downhill
Finally things will get resolved we aren’t there yet but He, having whipped out His slide rule sees that about 15% of us actually followed His rules and the rest of us are like Pop-Tarts in this huge toaster cursing part of the resolution is what they call the denoument the outcome of a doubtful series of occurrences which now leads to sadness and this is where He finds the culprit and says: ‘I knew it was carbon all along’
Paul Smith is a civil engineer who has worked in the construction racket for many years. He has travelled all over the place and met lots of people from all walks of life. Some have enriched his life. Others made him wish he or they were all dead. He likes writing poetry and fiction. He also likes Newcastle Brown Ale. If you see him, buy him one. He is a featured poet at Mad Swirl.
he worked there too I would see him in the foyer coming in for evening class asking me about open mics chatting scenes & actors mouth wide goatee curling like a thick black hedgehog under attack always a laugh a long toothy laugh & then his tall man’s hand extending & shaking
& then I stopped seeing him & then I didn’t work there anymore anyway & then I heard the news
a balcony somewhere hot
he picked up the rock
expecting to find perfection
but instead found dead bugs & happiness
he didn’t notice either
because that’s not what he was looking for
Fruit Bowl
she rearranged my furniture while I was out & later tied me to a chair & used a blindfold
she bought me a fruit bowl blue fairy lights and a Paddington Bear coat
I regretted ever letting her have a key
wealthy daughters come along like rain
too much & not enough
after I’d finally found an umbrella her father remarked that I hadn’t been up to standard in the first place
twenty years later I still have the fruit bowl & I’m still laughing
Mum Shagged the Milkman
but it’s not as bad as it sounds
she married him & he was a barman when they first met
then later at some point my brothers & I attended their wedding in pin stripe shirts
I still remember the day I found out I was the dictionary definition of a bastard
I still remember feeling a little surprised disappointed even that the words had no effect on me
but maybe that was when I first learned words can just be words
& nothing at all
A Golden Ale Sky
the horizon is pouring itself almost imperceptibly slowly westward shifting its every thing fraction by fraction
either that or I’m more fucked
than I realise
the remedy
for most things
sleep
& the warmth of someone you’d die for
Danny D. Ford’s poetry & artwork has appeared in numerous online and print titles. He has sixteen chapbooks to his name, including the recent collections Rum Lime Rum (Laughing Ronin Press 2023) and Sucking on a Wet Pint (Anxiety Press 2022). He can be found in Bergamo, Italy.
I am not barren. My fecundity has not dwindled yet. Enough as before to bring forth blossoms of all sorts and I do. Alas! Frequent invasions of atrocious autumn Debilitates their potency to bloom in full To show my greatness in their daintiness and redolence That would once captivate aves from overseas To warble in praise of my nature. O God! Free me from this brutish autumn, Can’t endure it any more. To glitter with my flair Let clement spring reign over me.
Don’t avert thy gaze
Don’t avert thy gaze, behold these cemeteries! The voices for peace and averse to slavery Are interred here. The eyes anti to tyranny and the altruistic hearts For the persecuted are interred here. Don’t avert thy gaze, behold these cemeteries! The buttresses for the decrepit and the comforts for the pained, The joys for the dejected and the glims for darkness are interred here. Don’t avert thy gaze, behold these cemeteries! The gallant patriots of my nation- moral for the coward Slaves The upshots of the tyrannous reign and even of the traitors are interred here.
How to fulfil dreams there?
How to fulfil dreams there Where one often takes breath in the net of fear of disappearance and of death And where one carries more coffins but palanquins few. Not many raiments for weddings But more shrouds one has to sew. How to fulfil dreams there Where each moment is spent in jails and yowls And youths decay in dingy jails. Where one while fishing, fishes out a corpse Of a mother’s only progeny and succour Beheaded or mutilated or putrefied Or still from his wounds, is dripping blood of innocence. How to fulfil dreams there Where one’s childhood is caged, divested of its joys Where deranged mothers (as if their sons) are lullabying toys.
Shafkat Aziz Hajam is a poet from Kashmir, India. He is the author of two children’s poetry books, The cuckoo’s voice, and The canary’s voice. His poems have appeared in international magazines and anthologies like Wheel song anthology (UK based), Prodigy, digital literary magazine USA, PLOTS CREATIVES online literary magazine USA, Inner Child Press International USA, AZAHAR anthology in Spain, SAARC anthology, Litlight literary magazine Pakistan etc. He has also written more than a hundred funny limericks for the children and adults’ poetry book, The Unknown Wounded Heart.
Holding up the champagne flutes, Di and I looped arms and tried to take a drink, laughing.
‘Happy New Year!’ she said.
‘Here’s to turning forty,’ I replied.
‘Oh God. Don’t remind me.’ She covered her eyes. ‘I’m dreading it.’
I knew she was. ‘I’ve had an idea. Let’s make it a celebration, a joint party. And I challenge you to do forty new things before you’re forty.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Is there anything you’ve always wanted to do, but not got around to, or been too chicken? Well, now’s the time. You’ve got eight months to do it in. Make a list.’ I opened the kitchen drawer to pull out a pad and some pens.
Di thought for a moment. ‘You mean like belly dancing?’
‘Yes. Exactly like belly dancing,’ I handed her a pen. ‘You’ve been saying for years you wanted to learn. Write it down.’
‘Okay, I’ll do it. What about you? Back atcha.’ She pointed. ‘You’ve got to do it too.’
‘Alright…I’m going to get a second piercing in my ears.’ I touched my earlobe. ‘My mum never let me when I was young – said it was cheap – and I forgot about it till now. I’m going to buy myself some tiny diamonds, stylish ones.’
‘Good choice. I’m going to read War and Peace. Always intended to, but never found the time.’
‘Good luck with that,’ I replied. ‘Life’s too short! I’m going to volunteer on a charity project for a couple of weeks, somewhere in Africa or maybe India.’
‘Great idea. I’ve always fancied seeing Dubai, so I’m going to quit my job and go work there.’
I frowned. ‘Won’t Jack have something to say about that?’
Di shrugged. ‘I don’t care, he’s never home. I think getting a divorce will make it onto the list too. How many are we up to?’
‘Oh, not even ten yet. Miles to go.’
‘Right then, I’m going to get myself arrested. Never done that yet.’
‘Too drastic! I’ve never even spoken to a policeman in my life,’ I said. ‘Don’t get arrested in Dubai – they still have death by firing squad. You might not even make it to forty.’
She thought for a moment. ‘I’m going to try smoking pot, or maybe something stronger. Pop some acid and go to a rave. Do they still do that?’
I shrugged. ‘No idea. It sounds a bit extreme. It’s not really what I had in mind…’
‘Well, now you’ve started me off. It’s your fault.’ Di laughed.
I tried to bring the conversation back to sense. ‘Is there any food you’ve never tried that you like to?’
‘Hmm, magic mushrooms. What’s that called? Psilocybin, yes that’s it. I’d give that a try.’
‘No, I mean like…trying Japanese food, for example.’
‘Nope. Though I’ve always wanted to own a katana: one of those curved, razor-sharp blades…’
‘Oh, well we can put that on the list.’ I smiled.
‘…and to behead somebody with it. Somebody famous, or obnoxious. Jeremy Clarkson, perhaps.’
‘Maybe this is getting a little out of hand.’ I put the pen down.
‘I’d like to learn to fly,’ Di said.
‘Oh, that’s a good one. Do you mean like a Cessna; pilot lessons?’
‘No. I mean like, flap-my-arms-and-launch-off-the-balcony. Fly. Like this.’
She lifted her arms like a football supporter watching a goal scored, then stepped right out of her silver glitter shoes and ran through the living room, her chiffon dress trailing and rippling like the skirt on a hovercraft.
Di shouted, ‘I’m going to fly!’ then crashed through the patio doors and straight over the balcony rail.
‘Wait!’ I sprinted behind her, almost grabbing the fabric of her dress as she slipped on the smooth floor where the snowfall had melted then refrozen into a thin sheen of ice.
I couldn’t bear to look over the edge; I live on the sixth floor.
-o0o-
The policeman passed me a tissue and patted my shoulder. ‘Don’t blame yourself, Miss. A lot of people take it hard at this time of year. Even closest friends often don’t see it coming.’
‘She was depressed about turning forty this year. I can see now: she was acting strangely all evening.’ I sniffed.
‘I’ll break the news to the husband. Are they separated?’
‘I think they were having trouble. I don’t know why he didn’t come to dinner with her.’
-o0o-
It took me an hour to clean up all the broken glass from the patio door.
I was tempted to text Jack, but it was too risky, so checked my online banking instead and was satisfied the police had already broken the ‘tragic’ news.
Then I flushed away my insurance policy: the psilocybin container with Jack’s fingerprints on.
Angela mostly writes short stories and has been published in Café Lit and Backstory Journal as well as shortlisted in various competitions. She is currently working on her debut novel having recently completed an MLitt in Creative Writing with University of Glasgow.
The silence of the night, in the wake of many bullet-rent years, is torn by the remonstrance of three stray dogs who find no food in the garbage container, having been emptied by junk-collectors who would not now hesitate to consume any available leftovers.
In the background, the festivity of a posh nightclub, which is not very far-off, aims at the slumberous heart with enervating beats of folklorish drums. This happens every Thursday, Friday and Saturday night until the break of dawn.
Poverty and excessive wealth sit side by side in this part of the world. There are no West Ends or East Ends, which only makes the contrast more flagrant.
My dog is agitated and responds with a series of barks. I have to find a way of calming her down or I will meet with a wave of disapprobation from the neighbours themselves, who will sift all other noises and only hear my dog’s responding soundtrack. I start stroking her coat and her barks eventually subside, but she remains unsettled by both the shrieks of the nightclub and the intermittent howls of homeless dogs. How can I explain to friends that insomnia has nothing to do with the intake of caffeine or psychological strife?
Contemplation III
What is God? I ask myself as I contemplate the interwoven clouds. Far on the horizon, faint streaks of lightning corrugate the gloaming sky, Ruffling my meditative stance, for now we dread whatever can herald a storm, which we associate with floods, earthquakes, and apocalyptic doom.
I retrieve my thoughts from the menace of apprehensiveness that tends to dominate our current moods. How can I paint a mental picture of a featureless Lord? He is not supposed to possess eyes, a mouth, or a nose. In paintings, He is depicted with a white beard and sagaciously old. What if He is eternal youth and this virgin world which we have contaminated is one of his countless words?
I like the idea of inhabiting a word. It is simpler than the metaphysical and transcendental schools for within each word He utters dwells realms and worlds to roam.
Calculations
She twists every word I speak. I decide to calculate how many words I utter in her presence every day, and to monitor their denotative and connotative implications. She does not say Good Morning, because she knows that every conversation would end in acrimony and ill feelings. She resurrects the past instantaneously and blames me for every single decision taken by my dad, whose headstone is now twenty-two years old. These calculations would hopefully divert my mind from the putridity of every memory she unearths to derail any dialogue aimed at peace-making. I can put up with the abuse that pours into my consciousness but the desecration of the memory of the dead, especially that of my kind-hearted dad, is more than I can take. She seizes every opportunity to heap blame on his decaying head.
On the first day, it does not work. I wade into her lukewarm morning talk until it gets scorchingly hot and lava is forced out of my tongue. It becomes so hard to keep silent once the agitation of the nervous system sets in and she is so good at awakening the worst in you not even slumberous demons on narcotics can ignore her venom.
On the second day, I succeed in shortening each argument by five minutes and though I cannot count the words in use, the shortened time of the interchange indicates the inevitable decrease.
On the third day, I begin to enjoy this test of patience; however, the less words I use, the more infuriated she becomes. It is a no-win situation. I begin to turn my thoughts inwardly every time she starts her turbulent orchestration. Half her words go unheard and the lack of physiognomical reactions on my part makes her mistake taciturnity for acquiescence in her never-ending remonstrations.
DrSusie Gharib is a graduate of the University of Strathclyde with a Ph.D. on the work of D.H. Lawrence. Her poetry and fiction have appeared in Adelaide Literary Magazine, Green Hills Literary Lantern, A New Ulster, Crossways, The Curlew, The Pennsylvania Literary Journal, Ink Pantry, Mad Swirl, Miller’s Pond Poetry Magazine, and Down in the Dirt.
Susie’s first book (adapted for film), Classic Adaptations, includes Charlotte Bronte’s Villette, Virginia Woolf’s The Waves, and D.H. Lawrence’s Lady Chatterley’s Lover.
You can find more of Susie’s work here on Ink Pantry.
Slipping softly through sun-dappled trees swaying grasses in time to summer’s hum casting pollen up like sequinned sparkles strolling though blossoming fields ruffling the feather of the nesting birds. Whipping waves into mountains of spray stripping the last leaves from autumn’s dying. Hats are tossed into the air the rain flies in the face of night. Forever moving, a restless rover knowing no settled home. Tonight there may be howling and the windows may shake but by morning there will be little sign except the detritus of the wild. Packed up gypsy-like, the wind trails his life through the world and is shut out even in the quiet times.
Strike
I saw a spark of lightning in the dark, its burst of brilliance lit up the whole sky. The mark of blackness after was so stark with depth impenetrable to the eye.
The grit and fury split the world in two, with haunted trees denuded of their leaves. The houses silhouetted by the view of such a force that threatens all that breathes.
As quickly as it came it struck no more, the night remained untainted by its thrust, and all that stalked the darkness as before returned to living as they always must.
Glenis has been writing poetry since the first Covid lockdown and does her writing at night as she suffers from insomnia. When she is not writing poetry she makes beaded jewellery, reads, and sometimes runs 10K races slowly. She has been published by Dreich, Dust Poetry, and Wildfire Words.
Bill to Gross A cinched Flame threw – – – – – form – – – – – MOAN a Lease A attacked forbearance wheelbarrow (un)avoid(able) conflict Negation therapy – – – – – pursuit phobia stoic branch – – – – – happy harpy made a Pen Is never underworked hairy chest heave X- Ray tape measure treasure
Tart Mayhem Brick
new release PeR gloved hand FuLL steam shipping label cut upward featured Wrist home in pigeon foRt short hOpe In hAlf maverick round UP supper formulation ProTecTed d e g r e e
Rate Reek Bikini
defamation triangulation doubt bricks speechless brother of a tonic spandex Tangent practice metal accessibility leak memorial speech fired expatriate acid steam intimate bAr WaX ed
asleep in the brambles
crisp snowflakes on the frontlines of global teddy bear wars
rainstorms with oats unforgettable suspenders
stretched like a mislaid zig zag of loch ness monster promenades
this prolonged wonderment spinning like a helicopter
awash in graceful varieties of limping
cashews shovelling gelatin racing down bankruptcy fingernails could grow six, seven, eight inches motorcycle attaché trifle snickering
the bunch of clumsy grapes punch a stage hymn
a dinosaur skeleton in cheap fabrication backsliding
Joshua Martin is a Philadelphia based writer and filmmaker, who currently works in a library. He is member of C22, an experimental writing collective. He is the author most recently of the books peeping sardine fumes (RANGER Press) and [Ruptured] >> Schematic << MAZES (Sweat Drenched Press). He has had numerous pieces published in various journals.
You can find more of Joshua’s work here on Ink Pantry.
Marlon shakes his head. He takes his ice-cream neat. All his dessert buddies know that!
Tub in hand, he spoons the mint choc chip into his mouth. Smacking his lips, he says to me, ‘Not bad, but I’ve had better. Remember that place in Frisco, back in ’54? Down on the waterfront. Damn, that was the best; a fine balance of liqueur crème de menthe and California cream.’
‘Spearmint, not peppermint,’ I say.
‘Correct, Doc. They had it just right.’
Finishing his first serving, he’s already ordering seconds.
‘Hey, fella! Two birthday cakes for me and my partner. And please, make ‘em doubles.’
‘Coming up, sir! Wafers too?’
‘No, thank you. Say, are you new here? I ain’t seen you around before.’
‘Yes, sir. I started a week ago.’
‘What’s your name?’
‘Romeo Ricci.’
‘Really? Sounds Italian. Is it Italian?’
‘I’m not sure, sir. I’m from Boise, Idaho.’
‘Well, you should know, Romeo Ricci from Boise, Idaho. All men need to be acquainted with the blood that runs in their veins. Here, get yourself an ice-cream, young fella. It’s on me.’
‘Why, thank you, sir. I’ll have a pistachio, if you don’t mind.’
‘I don’t mind at all, but I had you down for a tutti fruitti.’
‘To your health, sir!’
‘And yours.’
Marlon begins on the hard stuff: Neapolitan, rum raisin, and a pumpkin-watermelon twist.
I try my upmost to keep up, but the raspberry ripple leaves me reeling.
‘Think I need the men’s room, Marlon. I may be some time.’
‘That’s okay, Doc. I’ll partake in a triple cookies and cream. That’ll keep me good company ‘til you get back.’
When I return, fifteen minutes later, Marlon has moved on to a maple and oyster special. His eyes are bulging and there’s stains on his jacket. I pass him a napkin to wipe his chin.
‘You’re a wild one,’ I say.
Marlon smiles. ‘Romeo made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. I’ve never had oyster ice-cream before.’
‘Any good?’
‘Stick to the bacon and banana, Doc. That’s my advice.’
Bud suddenly appears.
‘Hey, Bud, where the hell have you been?’ asks Marlon.
‘Stopped for a quick one at Sugar & Sprinkles, down on 37th. One became two became three. Y’dig?’
‘Sugar & Sprinkles? I thought the parlour on 37th was named Creamy Confections. Owned by what’s-his-name, Guisseppe. That’s right, ain’t it, Doc?’
‘Yes. Guisseppe Gentile and his brother Gerardo.’
‘Well, it ain’t now. It’s called Sugar and Sprinkles and run by some Sicilian named Stefano Savellini.’
‘Well, damn me,’ says Marlon. ‘That’s a lot of alliteration for one ice-cream parlour! Anyhow, what was your poison, Bud?’
‘I had me a cake batter chaser.’
‘Chaser?’
‘Blue moon and then a bubblegum.’
‘You animal!’
‘Says you!’
Bud orders a round of butterscotch and is the first to wolf it down.
‘Ah, reminds me of Chicago in ’52. The Palmer House. Picked up a hot waitress called Katie in the Chin Chin Cream Club. Remember, Doc?’
‘Sure do. I spent the week with a German dancer named Gerda. You too, Marlon. You fell for that Irish singer. The redhead. Freckly face, long legs and swinging hips. That doll had it all. Was it Caitlin or Cliona?’
‘No idea, Doc. But I recall the Parmesan like it was yesterday. Never had ice-cream like it before or after. Correct me if I’m wrong, but it was flavoured with lemon zest, red fish eggs, chipolata infused olive oil, bitter artichoke and the finest Manzanilla sherry.’
‘No, you’re spot on, Marlon,’ Bud says. ‘And sprinkled with chive flowers.’
‘Heavenly blossom,’ says Marlon.
‘Say,’ says Bud. ‘I don’t know about you guys. But I’ve been over-indulging lately. I had my tailor let out my pants this afternoon. Too much of this creamy courage, I reckon. After tonight, I’m gonna abstain for a while. I don’t want to be no Jackie Gleeson.’
‘Or Raymond Burr,’ I say.
‘Oh c’mon, Bud,’ says Marlon. ‘Man up! Eat as much ice-cream as you damn well like. This is America. No one needs to be dieting in the land of milk and honey.’
‘But what about the work?’ asks Bud. ‘A guy needs to keep slim if he’s to get the parts, don’t he?’
‘Ah, you know the business,’ says Marlon. ‘Once a star always a star. You get fat, so what? You’ll get paid the same.’
‘Or more,’ I say. ‘Like Raymond Burr.’
‘Exactly, Doc, Exactly.’
An hour later, Marlon slumps over the counter.
‘You’re not looking too good,’ says Bud.
‘Like you got a mutiny down below,’ I say.
‘I’m fine,’ mumbles Marlon. ‘But maybe I shouldn’t have had that last butter brickle! It’s always the butter brickle that gets you in the end. Hey, Romeo!’
‘Yes, sir?’
‘I need one more for the road, but something unostentatious.’
‘Sir?’
‘Humble. Simple. Plain. Whaddya got?’
‘Just French vanilla, sir. You’ve tasted every other flavour.’
‘He hath eaten me out of house and home; he hath put all my substance into that fat belly of his!’ says Bud.
Marlon says, ‘Spare me the Shakepeare, wise guy.’
‘Maybe you’ve had enough ice-cream for one night,’ I say. ‘Don’t forget, you’ve got a shoot in the morning.’
‘I’ll call a cab,’ says Bud.
‘Where to?’ asks Marlon.
‘I was thinking of Maria’s Cheesecake Pantry on 44th.’
‘Cheesecake? Now you’re talkin’! Let’s go, boys! Sayonara, Romeo!’
