Jack wears sunglasses to ogle the young man’s dimples reddening under bolder and bolder quips of the older man’s flirts to see the smile he admires while Matt pouts, “I have dimples too,” and Jack, “Let me see,” smiles until distracted by baby falling, crying, hugged by mother’s love.
Darkness Safe
Darkness except for a sunshine beam descending to and into my chest as I sit in a wooden chair.
Eyes closed but staring upward, inward through the beam to geese flying across the blue sky to glide and ski upon the lake where heads tuck under wings for darkness safe within a womb.
Old Moment
I kneel to check my car tire’s pressure, but the tire gauge is old, and no longer works. What’s with that?! Tools are supposed to work forever, and I have a tool that doesn’t work! Bah!
The tires frown in deflated anticipation so I decide to squirt air in all of them until I can buy a new tire gauge and check them properly. As I try to stand my legs rebel and quiver like a pond rippling after a stone thrown in its gut. “Great. Here I am a capable woman checking my own tire pressure with a tire gauge that doesn’t work and I can’t stand up! Shit!”
I’ll die out here. A petrified woman statue kneeling on the pavement parking lot. An obstacle bigger than a speed bump for other drivers to swear at. I am a turtle upside down on its shell. My legs kick the air. I struggle to right myself. I want to lie down and let the summer sun suck the life out of me — a dried worm rusting on the sidewalk. I should have gone to the tire store. I could have kept my old tire gauge. I could have kept my young legs.
Designated Driver
The man thinks his car deserves two parking spaces in the crowded lot or he can’t back up well and uses the white line as a middle guide backwards.
I want to park so close to his car door that he can’t get in, and he’d have to wait until I chose to show up and exclaim, “Oh, my! I’m so sorry. I knew I could squeeze in here. I didn’t think you’d mind.”
Or I’d like to see if he’d open the passenger door and crawl over the seat and console to plop his body behind the wheel; all the time calling the driver next door an asshole and bastard even as he reads the note under his windshield wiper repeating his asshole and bastard designation.
Opens to Darkness
The door opens to darkness. If I step through, will I fall for eternity annoyed by my screaming and wishing for death and silence?
The door opens to darkness. I want to step through to the blank dream of imagination quivering for my offerings.
The door opens to darkness. A nightmare haunted house spotlit by scenes barred between my fingers covering my eyes wanting to see but not see.
The door opens to darkness. A snake pit writhes just passed the strip of light once at the threshold before the door slams shut.
Diane Webster’s work has appeared in “El Portal,” “North Dakota Quarterly,” “New English Review” and other literary magazines. She had a micro-chap published by Origami Poetry Press in 2022, and one of her poems was nominated for Best of the Net.
All the time thinking, he paced back-and-forth-back-and- forth-back-and-forth. Was determined to find who was doing it. The same thing every fucking day! The first skid mark always saying, Fuck, the second always saying, you, the third always saying, Fitton.
His old man had warned him that he should get used to people trying to get at him because they were jealous of what he’d accomplished. His old man it was who’d set him on the path to success in the first place. Sending him to a lesser-known public school but hammering home that the odds were massively against playing football ever paying off, whereas the right accent would pretty much guarantee him a top job.
Fitton had a voice that would cut glass. Though he steadfastly believed his sheer relentlessness was what had endowed him with the wherewithal to become a CEO.
When PQC Logistics appointed him, he’d wasted no time in making his relentlessness clear. Axing a hundred jobs during his first month in post surely some kind of record. Early mornings had prowled. Sometimes slowing to stare out of windows when blue inched up from the horizon but only genuinely moved by the fear on the faces of those who arrived to find him already there. Thought of his early starts as an act of will rather than a by-product of insomnia. Strode through empty offices shutting desk drawers that hadn’t been properly shut and straightening items of stationery left skewed on desks whilst deciding who should stay and who should go…
The final week of his third month in post was when he saw what – nothing accidental or unconsidered about it he was certain – had been left for him in the second cubicle from the left in the toilets on the first floor…
That the cleaners were to blame was his first thought. Insulting him as an act of revenge. Lowered rates of pay and a raised commitment to productivity things he’d forced their contractor to sign up to.
Deciding that if he discovered skid marks at the end of one of their shifts, they were all for the chop, Monday through to Friday he arrived between midnight and 3.45AM…
But there were never any skid marks left during those hours. Meaning the cleaners were in the clear. Why – alone in his office – Fitton gulped Gaviscon as if it was going out of style and re-configured his approach.
A fortnight of surreptitious checks narrowed the time frame of the deposit to between 3.45AM and 9.15AM. Nor did it matter whether it was one, two or three skid marks, he told himself at this point. The message was still unequivocally the same: Fuck you Fitton. Believed the fact that the message was never in the same toilet or cubicle two days running was indisputable proof that whomever it was, was intent on taunting him, teasing him, humiliating him – and promptly put the night-time security man in the frame. Harold Lever someone who smiled agreeably at all and sundry.
Fitton didn’t trust any man who smiled. With a clear view of the lobby, each night sat across from PQC Logistics in his Mercedes E Class Saloon and watched Lever make his rounds on the hour. Always waited ’til the security man’s shift was almost over before he strode in.
Seeing that all the porcelain was spic and span, Fitton chewed his bottom lip till he drew blood. Whilst doing so latched onto the idea that the day-time security woman was responsible, so following her hourly patrols relentlessly checked and re-checked the toilets on all floors.
Nothing.
Meaning that like Harold Lever, Sheila Parkes was off the hook. Meaning it wasn’t a contract cleaner or contracted site security. Meaning it had to be one of PQC Logistics’ own staff who was each day leaving him a message in shit!
Claiming that it was part of an efficiency drive, ever more desperate to find who was responsible Fitton ordered state of the art CCTV. Cameras installed everywhere. Including the entrance to the toilets on all floors. Would have had a camera in each toilet cubicle if he hadn’t anticipated the reaction of PQC Logistics board of directors to such a directive.
Throughout the installation Fitton lost weight and cultivated dark smudges beneath his eyes. Shook when he signed the release confirming completion, then spun to face the monitors occupying an entire wall of his top floor office.
With the necessary means for discovery in place process became everything. Having first patrolled to make sure all the toilets in the building were spotless he’d study the monitors scrupulously and make a dash every time he saw a worker exit a toilet –
It sounded straightforward but wasn’t since sometimes workers on different floors simultaneously left their workstations and headed for the toilets on their floor – PQC Logistics eight storeys high.
Fitton needed to be as quick as he’d been as a boy with a football at his feet and to facilitate this took to wearing lightweight Nikes rather than hand-made leather shoes.
No one mentioned his suited sprints. No one dared, though the fear of his staff no longer comforted him.
Discomforted, Fitton estimated that it’d already been several weeks since the installation of CCTV and still skid marks appeared like clockwork: Fuck you Fitton…Fuck you Fitton…Fuck you Fitton…
Well fuck you right back, I won’t give up, he assured himself relentlessly. Wouldn’t give up. Couldn’t give up. Wouldn’t, couldn’t, wouldn’t! Why after gulping more Gaviscon – all the time thinking – he resumed pacing back-and-forth- back-and-forth-back-and-forth…
Wayne Dean-Richards has worked as an industrial cleaner and an actor. Currently he works as a teacher. He says, like Bukowski, ‘These words I write keep me from total madness.’ Over a hundred stories have appeared in magazines and anthologies. The Arts Council funded a collection of his stories – At the Edge – and a novel – Breakpoints. Cuts – a second collection of stories – is available from Amazon as an eBook, as is a collection with his youngest son: A Box of Porn.
In summer days, in the middle of a paddy field a mango tree among all other trees It’s only leafy green which grows taller protecting shade seekers.
Like Buddha’s Pipal tree this mango tree – an epitome of peace where birdsong is a trance.
After school three boys gather under it as usual to fulfil their desires-
They dip unripe mango slices in burning hot chutney with Pantras*, offer it to farm workers, quench their thirst with tube water fresh, cool and satisfying.
They have no fears nor do they ever shed tears as they have all they need air, water, food and shade.
*Pantras is a Tharu dialect for Acmella Olerace
Kuma Raj Subedi, MA / MTESL, is a lecturer and an Australian poet. His numerous creations have been published on various platforms: online and in print, such as Misty Mountain Review, Indian Review, Muse India, Sahitya Post, Scarlet Dragonfly, Aksharang, The Gorkha Times, Of Nepalese Clay, The Indian Periodical, Nepalnamcha, Poetishes, The Offline Thinker, Setopati, Poeticia, The Rising Junkiri, Sahitya Sangraha, The Writer’s Cafe etc. He often writes about issues such as women’s suffering, memories, religion, nature, migration, love and culture. He is also a member of the poetry reading groups Friendly Streets Poets and TramsEnd Poets in South Australia.
a long walk home on a less sunny day harmattan haze the paper boat sail into the wind
one-way ticket in the mail mass burial of all the emotions with no funeral
Christina Chin is a painter and haiku poet from Malaysia. She is a four-time recipient of top 100 in the mDAC Summit Contests, exhibited at the Palo Alto Art Center, California. She is 1st prize winner of the 34th Annual Cherry Blossom Sakura Festival 2020 Haiku Contest and 1st prize winner in the 8th Setouchi Matsuyama 2019 Photohaiku Contest. She has been published in numerous journals, multilingual journals, and anthologies, including Japan’s prestigious monthly Haikukai Magazine.
Uchechukwu Onyedikam is a Nigerian creative artist based in Lagos, Nigeria. His poems have appeared in Amsterdam Quarterly, Brittle Paper, Poetic Africa, Hood Communists and in print anthologies. Christina Chin and he have co-published Pouring Light on the Hills (2022).
To the beetle, the foxglove towers high, waving in the wind and is impossibly beyond scaling. But, when beetles learn to step out of themselves, they become bigger than they knew was possible. Foxgloves become small. Treetops can be reached if beetles are willing to believe it possible. And, should they be willing, that which was unknown comes into view – if they want to of course, only if they want to.
As an author, Hampshire-based Michael Forester is no stranger to us here at Ink Pantry Publishing. As such, looking back I realise that I’ve included the phrase, ‘I wish I could write like Michael’ in former reviews. Thus, this time around, I’ve pledged to abstain, instead choosing to look both deeply and critically at Michael’s writing to see precisely what makes him ’tick’. The review book in question is Michael’s latest publication, Forest Pathways(Paralight Press, 2023) and, according to the blurb, it comprises ‘essays, metaphorical stories and poetry, inspired by walks of solitude in England’s New Forest and beyond’.
To start, I thought it might be a good idea to explore Michael’s possession of descriptive powers; surely a sign of an adequate writer on any platform? So, let’s skip to Chapter Three to see how he personifies nature, herself, and what specific words he chooses to describe the end of summer, as Nature prepares herself for the colder, autumn and winter months ahead.
So, we come to Anderwood where the tall Scots pines reach up to eternity. We have come to watch the love of my life as once more she begins to prepare herself for her long sleep. We have eyes only for her as she goes about her bedding ritual. A mattress of coarse bracken she has laid upon the earth and now she begins to quilt it with the first dry leaves that tumble down in the early autumn winds.
Certainly passable, I think. But hey, let’s test this further and observe a direct communication between Michael and Nature, concerning why he’s not visited for some time.
But you had more important things to do?’ she enquired. No, I replied…nothing is more important than coming to be with you’. ‘Why then?’ I fell silent again. ‘It’s hard to explain. There’s been a listlessness about me. A drop in my energy. I can’t explain why’. ‘I know what you mean,’ she said, gesturing to the waning colour of late autumn. ‘I was depressed,’ I confessed finally…’I’m still here for you,’ she responded. ‘I’ll always be here for you. You know that, don’t you? Just like you know you always feel better when you come to me’. She was right.’
Well, that’s not bad at all. And yes, we must make a note, in sharpest pencil, that a vivid picture is easily formed from Michael’s earnest, heartfelt words. But, hang on a minute, what does his soul really feel about the coming months, where nature is about to sleep?
Sleep safely, my love. When the snow lies upon your curving uplands, we will walk your leafless lanes and wander only where the woodland creatures sleep within your nurturing arms.
Okay…well, we’ll concede that this writing is definitely adequate and we’ll also graciously admit that Michael can produce words on a page that elicit the strongest of imaginative, visual treats. A man at the height of his creative arc. Surely, nothing can diminish the light here? In Chapter Five, we hit a wall, just as winter is receding into the beautiful sights, sounds and smells of spring. Sadly, as I read, I feel every word, as if it is empathising with me and how I have felt this year.
It has been a harsh and silent winter…The words that cascade through the Summerlands have not come. I have been unable to write for some time now, perhaps for many months…No poetry; no prose. Every attempt produces jagged, awkward phrases, malformed paragraphs and stanzas that hide in shame from the angry eyes of judgement.
I wince as I read these words, because I feel that the author is writing directly to me. I am also sure that many creative souls, who are privileged enough to read this book, will identify with them also. As an author, Michael has never failed to amaze me at how effortlessly he manages to connect to his readers. Perhaps, some of this lies within his dazzling honesty? Michael is opening his heart and admitting that the creative flow is not always a beauteous waterfall of constant momentum. Sometimes, it slows to a trickle. On other days, it disappears completely, leaving us wondering where it has gone and why. Michael’s words resound so clearly, as he gradually finds renewed hope on the horizon.
There have been times in the silence of the recent weeks when I have wondered if I would ever write again. But now the words are my domain once again and I feel the power pulsing through the conduits of the soul. There is no book yet. There is only the earliest hint of a structure.
Each chapter of this glorious book shines with the wisdom of a man who has walked many different and difficult forest pathways of life. It is (at times) a brutally honest account of how the author feels mentally, emotionally and spiritually; armed with a massive arsenal of finely-chiselled words with which to convey his thoughts and feelings. Luckily for us, the author is a crack shot and hits everything he aims for. I was enchanted by the author’s viewpoint on how he felt that his best work was behind him, these darker beliefs perhaps encouraged by the fact that his books about dragons and dogs had performed admirably in the past, while his more recent wanderings into personal musings and poetry had not achieved the same commercial success. His ability to ‘ride the clutch’ in literary form on human emotions is staggering. One moment, we’re laughing and marvelling at his connection to nature and the simple joys of life. The next, he takes us upon a rougher, winding pathway; one that tests our emotional balances, as the words hit home…hard and true. Interspersed within the deeply personal thoughts are occasional artillery blasts of poetry. Once again, Michael’s aim is spot on, with his words leaving a lasting impression. Yup, he can do poetry too.
Whose skin is not dark, Who are not gay, not female, bi, nor Trans, Not refugees, Nor penniless, Who suffer no disability, And have no special needs, No mental illness, Who are not homeless, Sick, nor unemployed, Who have committed no crime, Who suffer no persecution for your faith;
Who, having no shrill voice, Nor advocate, And, choosing devotion over protest, Knew only how to work at desk or lathe:
You, too, are loved.
‘You’ – Michael Forester
I read most of this book outside the local café in Stonehouse – usually accompanied by a cooked breakfast and mocha. I freely admit that there were some unplanned pauses to breathe. Sometimes to puff on my vape and once even to buy some cigarettes, as I was completely blown away by some of the emotional pieces that flowed from Michael’s pen. It is also apparent to my creative self that I desperately needed to read this book….right now…for my own inspiration. Often, I needed more mocha, and to check that no-one was nearby, as I wiped away a respectful tear to what my soul had just ingested. I could easily just complete this review by reproducing steady chunks of Forest Pathways, but then that would ruin things for those who also wish to ingest this incredible piece of literature into their minds, hearts and souls. I would urge everyone to do so, especially us struggling writers, seeking to leave the conventional trails and find their unique, creative pathways.
It has to be said…I wish that I could write like Michael. In truth, after a harsh winter of not believing in myself as a writer, while reading Michael’s book, I have felt the rusty hinges of creative doorways begin to give way. Multiple mochas and unhealthy puffs have given way to new self belief. Blessed inspiration has begun to flow once more. So now, I believe that I can write. How? Michael told me so. You know. Michael Forester. The bloke who writes about the most important aspects of life and truly makes a profound difference to everyone who reads his words.
When we understand we are not apart, we rise above the foxgloves and soar above the trees. We realise how the ground beetles can become kestrels – when we are ready to grow wings, that is, when we are ready.
My friend tells me she wants a dog. But not a puppy. No. An adult dog. Seven years old. Maybe eight. Housetrained. Leash trained. Low energy. A lap dog. A companion. That’s what she wants. She needs. Companionship. A lonely little dog. To keep her company. Yes. Loneliness. That she knows. She’s been lonely far too long.
Panic Attack
My friend tells me she wants a dog. But in her group. You know. On Facebook. Chihuahua Lovers. That group. Today. It’s dental issues. Chihuahuas tend to have them. That’s what they say. Like losing teeth. All of them. Not a problem. I say. I take her to PetSmart. Show her dental treats. For tartar, plaque, gums, teeth. Okay then. She says. No worries.
Laura Stamps is the author of 51 novels, novellas, short story collections, and poetry books, including Dog Dazed (Kittyfeather Press, 2022), The Good Dog (Prolific Pulse Press 2023), and Addicted to Dog Magazines (Impspired, 2023). Recipient of a Pulitzer Prize nomination and 7 Pushcart Prize nominations.
You can find more of Laura’s work here on Ink Pantry
