In a fluid string of sun, she basks. Spreads her iridescent cape that winks Blue, green, blue. She stirs. Swivels her eyes with a deft Swipe of a cleft limb. Listens. Stops. Struts And turns. Poised. Intently inclines her head and waits – Antennae astutely tuning in Tasting vibes. She shakes and gathers her virgin shawl, Now exquisite enough to entice. She dances, Her inner rhythm stirs, and stresses- Now is the time to tease her stockings. So, she twists, Pulls, strains and combs six appendages. Preens hairs left, right, methodically. Spittle on Forelimbs, flannel and polish her head, Probes her proboscis, picks it tidy. Silently, The shaft of light switches, her feet tap Out the tempo of her nuptial dance and she’s off. A parting shimmer and buzz of aqua Surfs the tide of sun, and exits through the window.
Elizabeth Chell is currently studying for an M.A. in Creative Writing at Leicester University. Elizabeth thinks flies are beautiful and scary at the same time. They underpin the eco system and pollinate on a wider scale then bees. They keep our planet clean.
I doubt science fiction had much of a place on bookshelves reserved for the philosophical, the theological, the poetic. Austere works, works for the mind and soul to wrestle with, not always in support of each other.
And yet you saw it, brutal and destructive as any tripod, any fighting machine, any alien force, striding across valley and hillside like a pylon latched to the service of the Other:
the machine – inhuman, unstoppable, the very non-soul of technology, stamping over farmstead and chapel and centuries of things done in a quieter more Godly manner.
The machine, cables like tendrils, its brain subdividing thought through venomous strings of code that know nothing of mystery.
Yarbles
But what if I put it this way: you listen carefully to what the Minotaur has to say about benefits, holiday
entitlements, index-linked pension, reward scheme, every word falling to the clink of chains, the screams
of untold millions before you who believed the spin. Seeing through it, would you sign on the dotted line,
go all in and learn to love the labyrinth, embrace its endless switchbacks? Of course not! You’d place
your kneecap where it hurts, leave the Minotaur to his just (and crushed) deserts, blow the joint for
anywhere without an HR team, one to ones, peer reviews. Resign, walk out, live the dream. Nothing’s stopping you.
Missa Solemnis
Interior lights extinguished, signboard bullishly insisting ‘NOT IN SERVICE’, you’re tearing this single-decker through the midnight streets, discharged of passengers and running light.
All that’s left of your shift is the small ritual of rolling into the depot; leaving the vehicle on the pump. The small ritual of walking across the yard, hi-viz on, rucksack slung over one shoulder, dodging
rainbow flecked spills of fuel or detergent; the small ritual of filing the running card in the appropriate slot, of dropping any lost property in the overnight safe. And that’s you done. Trudge back
to the car park, drive the fifteen minutes home, fall into a made or unmade bed. Lie awake for a while, mind ticking over. The yard hands are still at it, putting the last few buses – the night owl shuttles – through the wash bay,
lining them up in place for their few-hours’-time run out. The cleaners are scooping up the litter, the scrunched tickets. The yard is a counterpoint of light and shadow. Silence threads the streets surrounding the depot.
Neil Fulwood was born in Nottingham, England, where he still lives and works. He has published two collections, No Avoiding It and Can’t Take Me Anywhere. His third collection, Service Cancelled, is due for publication later this year.
I poured out my tongue, undid the cork, my lungs blew breath, words formed a froth bouqueted a cup in what I meant, like oil dripped, I drank them up, I gave my cheeks to them.
That did inspire wine, a prayer was sung. Give the prayer I pray my tongue In all books end to end. The prayer like blood on ground, Give me to understand.
To forgive and be forgiven was the yeast the words give up. Give me to sup and pour out peace World without end without end.
Crack
The communion cup cracked I didn’t spill it. It got on the book at the end of the pew. When they sang a hymn It pooled in the rug.
Down at my feet on my clothes, on my hands, it was wet on the Bibles in the pews, in the song I couldn’t sing, I couldn’t see the screen.
Others may bleed, the flood has been great, the blood now stains those who remain, When I put it to my lips none was left. I don’t wipe it off. The drops are everywhere.
Back Pew
Everything I say is true. I sit in the front or back pew among heavy smokers and their beer carts. My feet hurt but it all happens as said, where the back of the hair is parted, and locks change colour in the forgiveness. Large people, aspirins with headaches, for a rough week of Hopkins, speak there will be light, there will be light.
Passion stands up for thanksgiving, its name notwithstanding well known. but it’s not my name I came to sing. Trees grow in the window glass. Silence grows too. Collections are quiet. Nobody wears a coat. I get in trouble sitting at the back with the smokers living happily after nosebleeds where people hold hands.
Dithyrambs
When your father grows up and your mother grows up and the world grows up, and you grow up,
when you help your neighbour grow up, and when you love the world,
when you love the life of the world of blossoms and waves and the nectar waves grow way up high and we see you fly,
do be kind to yourself and neighbour, do be kind to myself and me, do be kind to the blooms in blooming so everybody sees
that when you love the world you’re loving the life of the world and then you love the world.
AE Reiffhas two chapbooks of poems, The True Light That Lights at Parousia Reads and Recon at Trainwreck Press.
The springtide wakes up not only in dreams. The snowdrops blooming in the moony garths. One listens to propitious paradise. The dearest graylag geese coming in flocks.
I think of genus Primula from afar. The wild boar piglets were born in a grove. I feel springwards the warmness of a soul. Native dreameries are fulfilled galore.
Springtide be primeval home of Naiads! I taste the verdure of some climes. You are dreamy like fairy-like bouts. The friends of springy morn – are tender owls.
I can praise, bewitch Ovidianly. Thus, I am able to enchant peaceably.
Naiad – definition through the haiku:
The tender Naiad a merest-guardian from the Dreamiest Greek stories
You can find more of Pawel’s work here on Ink Pantry.
What you want from me is something that I can’t Give you You want us to be together as one But that is something that I don’t want I just want to keep the sex and that is it You want to treat me like a lady but I like My life the way it is having indifferent men in my bedroom I am all about spreading the love I don’t want to give my love to just one man I want to give it to every man in Detroit I like to be wild and free between my sheets I told you when you came on I love convicts busting down my door I got a client tonight, he is a big shot lawyer, I am booked tonight so I ought to move some appointments around You want a woman that is only going to be with you only I told you when I met you at the club That my business and my clients come first I tried the romance and the faithful thing for years And I either got abused mentally and physically You say it will be different with you But I have heard that line before from different men Sorry I just can’t take that chance You’re a great guy but not for me I love my love in the microwave, not cooked from scratch
Latoya Kidd has been writing stories since she was in high school. She met a student who inspired her to become a writer and he is her inspiration. When Latoya graduated from Central High school in 2000, she enrolled in Prince George’s Community College. She met a man who was also her instructor, Barry McCalla. He helped shape her writing and the result is that Latoya got her first fiction story published called ‘Waiting for my African Prince to Return’. Latoya has published other fiction stories like ‘Backdoor Woman’. All of these fiction stories were published in Reflection magazine at Prince George’s Community college. Latoya has also published fictions, non-fictions and poems in the Amulet magazine, Conceit magazine, Ultimate Writer magazine, and the Spiritual Magazine.
Part of me stays in the damp office that smells of keyboards, printers and an admin who smells like the machines.
Another part of me wanders with the last autumn raindrop and slides to the earth, relishing the mud, grazing the worms and inhaling their earthy scent.
This vagabond further wanders and breathes with the tiny heart of a red Lacewing pauses by the burning redwood, shelters in a shaking palm leaf before turning back to the office, awaiting the return of my lifeless part.
Trees and Rain
The clouds pucker and upon meeting no resistance, pour down. The ridges in the pine loosen, listening to the thunder. The maple displays its rich red skin, glistening with water. A winged Samara detaches itself from the maple, teases the closest leaf, spreads its papery wings and lands on me, as I huddle in a corner near my window. My eyes are glued to the red delicate bark and I inhale the mild odour of the misty pines, finding my paradise at last.
Padmini Krishnan was raised in India and now resides in Singapore. She writes free verse poetry, haiku, and short stories. Her recent works have appeared in the Ariel Chart, Mad Swirl, Page&Spine, The Literary Yard, Spillwords, and World of Myth.
Winter approaching, the elk will retreat. The flames are burning in luxury. Embrace virtual warmth, It is a designated action for those who lack love.
Drink this unforgettable ice spring. Practicing giving up is more dangerous than rock climbing. Forget the monopolized narrative, No matter how many devices are installed in the world.
The shadows overlap, and the dream is on the verge of fragmentation, Broke into the heart of the planet. Why treat snowflakes as imaginary enemies, loners?
Such is life in the voter’s booth Hurry up, there is a line NO! The time is mine Prop. Three is uncouth I need to move to Duluth No more TAX! Underline Don’t forget to sign Truth is not Truth I am headed to the door Three hours grave yard dead No to, Pollsters ambassadors Going home for beer and bread Vote here nevermore Shave shower and bed
Lauren
Washington the place of her hart Heavenly beauty happy hunger Running for Utah Bar’s gossoon out cast man Deep velvet Azure of the sky Zig Zag maze of dark Clambering for help White Ivory crucified in a car Death Pew for the guilty Brief gestures haunting remorse
On the Fifth Day
Blessed are Dogs that smile and wag their tail. Blessed are Cats that climb trees to the top. Blessed are Birds that sing at dawn and dusk Blessed are Turtles that never stop walking. Blessed are Squirrels that gather nuts. Blessed are Gold Fish that swim, swim, and swim. Blessed are Horses that let you ride them.
A Little Drunk
I am always a little drunk I feel too much Even as a child Perhaps the opposite I remember how at Eighteen The price fell to the floor At afternoon coffee I eat Easter eggs Perhaps the opposite Healthy robust and subtle I feel too much
Euclid
I wake at Cockcrow Burning still is Venus Gait to antecedent Java Precipitating Euclid Ave. Gamble a crosswalk traverse Initial stride ceased Snot-green conveyance Truck Malaise my Death Bed Scrotumtening the Cross walk Florin Ghost Candle Light
Terry Brinkman has been painting for over forty five years. He started creating poems. He has five Amazon E- Books, also poems in Rue Scribe, Tiny Seed, Jute Milieu Lit and Utah Life Magazine, Snapdragon Journal, Poets Choice, In Parentheses, Adelaide Magazine, UN/Tethered Anthology and the Writing Disorder.
You can find more of terry’s work here on Ink Pantry.
Crossing out from the obstacles of life, I return with the sea-lesson.
Here around the womb of grass I hear the roar of mosses.
There is no sky over the locality Only there is that left shadow.
There is sea roaring inside me, Even though to the world, the sun is mostly regarded as a small lamp.
The river is similar As basic necessities.
The sky is not vast, Only the blue umbrella!
The letter of the sea
Often I remember old crew Santiago, While returning young Manoline, Santiago got a big fish in the sea.
But failing to save the fish from shark, returned home with it’s skeleton. Again he was not fade up.
I haven’t been too old Passing the half of life Staying home reserving water I have not yet seen the sea
I’m alive with the dream of a fish Less water, less salt Young Manoline will be back Carrying the letter of the sea.
Princess lycho
Moving from Andaman Trank road Seeing the sun being grey.
Breathing from the shadow of cloud King Zyrak’s daughter Lycho felt pain.
Passing fifty years in a straw house, Keeping the words alive, At last princess Lycho lost in the deep virus sleep.
Keeping in mind that she will never rise Sare words hide themselves In the voice of Andamanian tiger So that they never met with humans.
Now it’s kojagori full moon, Sitting beside the sea, the tigers Count the age of moon with Sare language.
Some butterfly comes With jeru and pujukkor words.
Masudul Hoq (1968) has a PhD in Aesthetics under Professor Hayat Mamud at Jahangirnagar University, Dhaka, Bangladesh. He is a contemporary Bengali poet, short story writer, translator and researcher. His previous published work includes short stories Tamakbari (1999), poems Dhonimoy Palok (2000), Dhadhashil Chaya, translated version is Shadow of Illusion (2005) and Jonmandher Swapna, translated version is Blind Man’s Dream (2010), translated by Kelly J. Copeland. Masudul Hoq also translated T.S. Eliot’s poem, Four Quartets (2012), Allen Ginsburg’s poem, Howl (2018), from English to Bengali. In the late 1990’s for 3 years he worked under a research fellowship at The Bangla Academy. Bangla Academy has published his two research books. At present he is a Professor of Philosophy in a government college, Bangladesh.
“I’m okay. I’m fine. Seriously … no rush,” the man on the stretcher claimed, his arterial blood staining the pandemic-proof material.
Mór Ríoghain, her pale Irish skin shining with sunscreen, watched idly as an amateur longboarder with horrific gashes from a curious bull shark was carted up the beach on at considerable speed by two bemused paramedics. She noted the care they took not to shake anything off the stretcher despite their haste.
“He flat-lined,” she heard one protest.
“Eh?” The man had to be restrained from sitting up.
“Say nothing, just hurry,” the other responded as they passed so close, that she had to shield herself from the sand kicked up with a copy of Vogue.
She waited until the ambulance’s wail was eclipsed by the liquid respiration of the sea, before nudging Arawn on the double beach towel beside her. The Welsh-Gaelic god’s SPF50 sunscreen stuck to her elbow.
“It’s Siesta Key and a delightful eighty four degrees – give me a break.”
“You didn’t even look.”
“Sharks aren’t supposed to like shallow water,” he grumbled.
“You reading the tourist brochures? These buggers swim into ornamental canals in gardens and swimming pools, never mind shallows, or haven’t you been paying attention.”
“They creep me out. I leave that side of the business to–”
“To whom? Me??”
“Ummm…,” Arawn voiced uncertainly, the pitch of his tone rising and falling in tune with the breakers.
“Not to mention the backlog.”
“Aaaah…”
“Do you need Céibhfhionn as a phone-a-friend?”
Arawn peeled off the sunglasses and rolled onto one elbow to bestow a withering glare. “The last thing I need on holiday is the Gaelic goddess of inspiration with her ‘there … see … doesn’t that cloud just look like a shamrock … don’t the waves sound like…’ and on and on and on. She’s a pain. I just want one … one day of relaxation where I can just escape my eternal responsibilities and just chill. Is that too much to ask?”
“That glare is just terrifying,” Mór Ríoghain yawned, wiping the unwanted sunscreen from her elbow with an absorbent pad, and reapplying her own. “It’s a wonder you don’t slip down the beach into the sea: you’ve that much of the stuff on you.”
“We redheads have to be extra careful,” Arawn advised. He leaned back and slipped the shades back on. “You’re the goddess of death. Why don’t you sort the poor bugger out?”
“He’s Welsh … your branch of the business,” she quipped.
Arawn mumbled something.
“What?”
“I thought you were enjoying this time away together. I thought we made a connection.”
Mór Ríoghain rolled her eyes behind the Versaces. “Of course we did. We just need to be aware–”
“Look, who believes in us nowadays anyway?” he interrupted. “Most of them are Christians.”
There was a … silence. Even the rollers were dumb. Only the combers whispered their apprehension.
“Arawn … Treoir chun Báis … Reaper …. Angel of Death,” Mór Ríoghain began sternly.
Beachgoers halted their speculation about the victim’s chances of survival to gape at the storm clouds which had suddenly appeared overhead. A bikinied forward missed a spike as the beach ball was whipped from under her by a vicious gust. Gulls lifted into the air as great black crows swooped out of nowhere.
“You have become too wrapped up in mortal perception. We are who we are, no matter what labels they assign us. I escort the victims of conflict. You do the misadventure stuff. Don’t forget the last hassle with a guardian who lost himself in his own desires.”
She hoped Arawn remembered. He’d just about missed that particular cut, saved only by his naivety and sincere repentance.
He grimaced and sat up. “Right … okay … stupid of me! I get so caught up in human rituals that I forget myself.” He looked longingly at the sea and the sun which warmed his alabaster skin. “I was just so looking forward to… Hold on, there must be someone dying from conflict-based injuries somewhere. How come you’re not moving?”
The strange manifestations and uncharacteristic winds vanished as if they had never happened. Mór Ríoghain eased back on the blanket and let her grin spread beneath the floppy wide-brimmed sun-hat. “I’m a woman. I can multi-task.”
Irish poet and writer, Perry McDaid, lives in Derry. His diverse creative writing – including more than 1000 poems and 300 short stories appears internationally in the like of Anak Sastra; Amsterdam Quarterly; Aurora Wolf Literary Magazine; Red Fez; Brilliant Flash Fiction, Alfie Dog and Bookends Review and his latest novel Pixels, The Cause and the Cloud Cuckoo is available for order online.
You can find more of Perry’s work here on Ink Pantry.
