Six
feet tall and full figured, Lena is all stature and curves.
Punctuated by stiletto heels. She sips her iced tea and sways to the
music, watching lithe bodies aglow beneath spinning black lights.
Energy
shifts in the club as the bartender announces last call; strangers
begin the distilled process of coupling for the night. They suss out
their options and then dangle the bait.
Can
I buy you a drink?
Are
you here on your own?
Do
you need a ride home?
Lena
turns around to settle her bill and discovers a torn slip of paper
tucked between two twenties. A proposition, of sorts.
Thanks
for the lovely view. Drinks on me. Meet you by the coat check in
five?
She
feels almost giddy – once again the bashful schoolgirl passing
notes in math class, butterflies floating freeform in her stomach.
It
occurs to Lena that she is playing a dangerous game, inviting
disaster. What would people think if they could see her now? Clad in
low cut halter and tight pleather pants, smoky cat eyes accentuated
with red lips. Of course, she knows enough to be discreet, unlike
some of her daft colleagues, posting pictures of themselves half
naked and properly smashed.
A
quick stop in the loo to refresh lipstick and plump cleavage, and she
is ready to make her appearance.
Waiting
beside the queue is a bookish fellow with light red hair and horn-
rimmed glasses, more akin to giving advice at the pharmacy counter or
approving loans at the bank; his distinguished appearance entirely
out of context in these surroundings. She smiles in approval as he
takes her hand and presses it to his lips.
“Hello
there, gorgeous. I’ve never seen you here before. Do you live
nearby?”
“I’m
just passing through, actually. Only here for the night. You can call
me,’ Lena pauses to select her handle ‘Veronica. Veronica
Desmond.”
“Nice
to meet you, Veronica. You remind me of a busty Cleopatra,’ he
winks ‘I’m whoever you want me to be.”
Without
further preamble, Lena follows him to his car in the parking lot and
wordlessly begins to undress him. She attempts to manoeuvre within
the confines of the backseat, feeling like an aging contortionist
while still assuming the appropriate sounds and expressions of
desire. How did she ever do this in high school? He continues to
adjust positions, narrowly avoiding death by stiletto on more than
one occasion. They make forced love in record time.
Afterwards,
they both sit in silence and light up. Another dirty little secret.
She hears a tropical ringtone and swipes to retrieve the text on her
mobile.
“Well,
pumpkin,’ Lena exhales ‘looks like we’d better head home now.
The sitter expected us hours ago, and Max has soccer in the morning.”
“Yes,
dear,’ agrees her husband, rubbing his aching back ‘and next
time, let’s just book the hotel instead.”
About the bars that lined my vision morning, evening, and
Night,
About the time
out of the sun,
The hours
away from the world, about
The room I was given
At the castle, about
My only friend
on the range, about
The stain
That limits my ambition. Now,
How do I tell her?
I am in love with her.
Kristal Peace is a lover of words. She loves their puissance; their ability to charm, dazzle, puzzle, stun, comfort, help, heal, inform and transform. In her free time she indulges her love of words and uses those majestic creatures to write stories and poems.
J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is currently trapped in suburbia, plotting his revenge. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Record Magazine, The Dope Fiend Daily, Horror Sleaze Trash, Synchronized Chaos, and Chiron Review.His most recent chapbook, the taste of blood on christmas morning, was published by Analog Submission Press.You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights & Goodreads.
If blue is namely white and black is namely red and gold is transparent as crystal and light makes the soul smile forgetting the sun moon and stars and you were filled with wisdom, drunk for thousands of years and back to the prehistoric giant city and that giant is just like another me from the heavens by the lotus throne in the golden palace.
Tonight I thought of the platinum city above in distant space Where there is no day and night and the giants are interstellar travellers by spaceship Their words have the dignity of God and create the holy Kingdoms So that the pictures of the soul in the maze of memory lasts a billion years Standing by the azure sea near the great palace with swirling sweet music in the city of the gold
Prehistoric words of the gods are waking up in my body The platinum city from a strange planet is as if in a fantasy on the blue coast The giant men and women who walk by the light do not know trouble or sorrow There where the temple of the gods is in their heads, whose light is like wine flowing in the blood And the music of the stars sways gently around them, which is like the bath of the cool breeze on the earth The huge ship of stars which they have ridden can arrive at the other side of time To let you get a glimpse yourself yesterday in the future and in the divine light of fragrance
Yuan Hongri, born in China in 1962, is a poet and philosopher interested particularly in creation. Representative works include Platinum City, Gold City, Golden Paradise, Gold Sun and Golden Giant. His poetry has been published in the UK, USA, India, New Zealand, Canada and Nigeria.
Become a superb troubadour who loves an eaglet in the starry night full of autumn miracle fulfilled in the meek ontology!
Taste a beverage of holt-like fairies from a stunning tumbler – to wit the cranberry juice and some dew enchanted in the metaphysics!
Sit down near a propitious tumulus – where the archpriest of the ancient Druids was buried with first summer starling of epistemology!
Hum a weird-ravishing tune – whose words have been hidden in the oaken hole in medieval time full of the aesthetics!
Bee a pleasing trustee-friend of the King of Pixies – your magician of dawn bewitched by the Morning Star in a logical dreamery!
Give as a present a smattering of grand tulips – flowers consecrated for the Apollonianly miraculous dwarfs loving tender Zeus-like aesthetics!
Find out a gorgeous twig of a willow that was adored by the most romantic poet in his more tender poesy of historic ethics!
Carry a divine tunic of ancient sibyl of Artemis who liked the dreamy-meek butterfly of wood loving the stoicism!
My dreamiest Erlking!!! Tarry until the first moon-time from Ionic philosophy of nature! Enchant all morning starlings and evening starlets – the beings from dreamy muse’s hearts Yes – no woe – they belong to Apollon
Pawel Markiewicz was born 1983 in Poland (Siemiatycze). His English haikus and short poems are published by Ginyu (Tokyo), Atlas Poetica (USA), The Cherita (UK), Tajmahal Review (India) and Better Than Starbucks (USA). More of Pawel’s work can be found on Blog Nostics.
Here in the trees of people we hide from the sound of their wooden bones that crisp and creak we hear them whisper about us their voices control us the voices we speak to, type to, at night; they are trees. They are trees!
Their voices control us they shout as one they shout the trees shout the trees of people.
The trees of people silence us make us scream inside the trees make us scream.
It was cold as the Twitter-scape. It was fake as electric vape. There was only a sense that there could be more than this.
There was nothing about the place but a sign called hope close to the door,
and the sign said watch me singing karaoke, hear me playing my acoustic, latest internet sensation due,
drug me, stop me feeling sad, out here in deep space, far away, on a planet beyond Mars.
Make a wish upon a planet.
We began to feel ill again. It was time for a pill again. They were given out for free so it was not hard to refuse. To be honest they gave a certain sense of not caring at all,
makes it easier to keep on singing karaoke, keep on playing my acoustic, keep on following the facebook feed,
helps me, stops me feeling sad, out here in space, far away, beyond Mars.
Before surgery It had not occurred to me To tell the church, Have them put it in the bulletin, Make an announcement On Sunday morning. But the day after, On a brief, tentative Supervised stroll around the ICU I happened to see our pastor There to visit a parishioner Who would not be going home. Don came to my room And we visited a while, And he offered to say a prayer (Like a good lawyer, I thought, Representing your interests in court). And when he prayed, He did not say Be with Bob as he heals But rather he spoke of the goodness Of the world and life God has given us, Which sounds like good theology to me,
But with the other family, though, He may have used A different text.
Lakefront Property
The forty-pound kayak Slices across the pond To inspect new construction At Caleb’s old place. A woman on a paddle board Passes across my bow, No lifejacket. She could have had three kayaks For what she paid, Latest fad born of That unholy marriage of Marketing and design: People will buy it Because they can.
The framing is up. Already there’s a Seadoo on the dock. Caleb had hoped someone Would restore his parents’ house. Columns for a gated drive Have replaced the old colonial Where he grew up, Facing South Main Street, When this was another kind of town.
Prognosis
My friend, seventy-six, Three years my junior, Had been for his annual check-up. The doctor asked if he had A living will. Did she mean anything by that, I wondered. My friend, Professor and poet, Knows what John Donne knew, And Shakespeare, That we will encounter darkness like a bride And hug it in our arms, And, with Billy Collins, regards Poetry as “a megaphone Held up to the whispering lips of death.”
Try telling poets No more poems about death And they’re out of business. I read the obit page, I know the facts, see what happens, But I’m not buying it.
Robert Demaree is the author of four book-length collections of poems, including Other Ladders, published in 2017 by Beech River Books. His poems have received first place in competitions sponsored by the Poetry Society of New Hampshire and the Burlington Writers Club. He is a retired school administrator with ties to North Carolina, Pennsylvania and New Hampshire. Bob’s poems have appeared in over 150 periodicals including Cold Mountain Review and Louisville Review.
It was always you, It was almost you, In all ways you, Always almost you.
Your sex-scent on the breeze That comes in through the window and mingles with the perspiration Of my lonely sheets. Your image just out of focus in my bedroom mirror. Every slamming door is you leaving. Every key jingling in a lock Is you arriving. Every car splashing along the wet road outside as I try to sleep Is you moving past me unaware.
Lying in torpor, staring at the cracks, Knowing you would heal them With the wild branches of your hair And the dark frigid oceans of your eyes, Holding me in the shiver Of beyond the second half of previously disused Lives. Contented in mirrors at last.
It will always be you, Almost you, In all ways you, Almost always you.
Before I Knew Love
I loved you before I knew you, Before I knew love, Before I breathed my first breath In this life. I loved you before my first concept of love And yet, here you are, Telling me love is something Reserved for those who pretend But I tell you this – Nothing I am and nothing I own And nothing I was matters to me Compared to your love Because before you Was before I could imagine, Reason or pretend. There was just me floating there, Yearning for your arms around me, Not knowing who you were But knowing I would know you When our paths finally crossed.
Now we are at a physical and emotional distance, Your body breathing without mine, Your heart beating without mine. Music plays here as I sit alone, Music I can no longer share with you The way we shared so much, But clearly not everything. I listen to this song and all I can think Is how much you would probably like it. Searching for you all those years, finding you, I imagined I would breathe my last breath Loving you as I did before my first And I will indeed love you when I shed this mortal coil And after But not the same. Not the same but I will.
As I am about to live again after this body dies I will likely love you again Before I breathe my first breath Just like I did before And before that. There is no choice. There is just what is.
Gentle and Fierce
She took my words close to her heart
And laughingly told me “You’re so gentle and fierce”
And then I pulled her close And gave her a kiss so savage and so tender She lost her breath
And she trembled all over, wet and melting like hot wax Against the force of my eyes and my body And my words and my lips and my loudly beating heart.
I Might As Well
I might as well shave my head. I might as well wear a necktie. I might as well turn off the music and get some sleep. I might as well stop writing about her. I might as well stop calling them on the phone. It’s a new day! A new me! A new day all about me! I might as well get laid. I might as well smoke cigars. I might as well not love. Loving is hard. Life is hard enough. I might as well tell you all that it’s time to be about me. I might as well shave my face clean, Buy a new suit and lose some weight, Waiting for the inevitable promotion or firing That will only lead to more opportunities In this wonderful America. I might as well stop crying. Tears have no worth. I’ll turn off the music now And turn in. I might as well get a good night’s sleep. I’ll shave my head tomorrow.
My Poems Arrive
My poems arrive At your doorstep, Sometimes one by one, Sometimes in a bundle. There can be weeks of silence And then they arrive, these paper boats with paper sails, One by one by one Onto your shore Under a dusky moonlight And a light steady rain.
You hear the knock on your door at 6 a.m. To find a poem questioning your love Or comparing your eyes to the moon reflecting off of The bottom of the sea. It must be disconcerting To potentially find undying love or petulant rage At your door at any given time. Often both.
My poems arrive Singly or by the dozen When you are making dinner Or taking a shower Or sleeping in your bed without me. Some come wrapped in ribbon, Some in undescriptive cardboard boxes, Some in plain brown wrappers
But they keep coming As relentlessly as the tide And, like the tide, There is no point in swimming Against them.
John Tustin started to write again in 2008 after a ten year hiatus and his published poetry can be found here.
Jenny Quintana grew up in Essex and Berkshire, before studying English Literature in London. She has taught in London, Seville and Athens and has also written books for teaching English as a foreign language. She is a graduate of the Curtis Brown Creative writing course. She lives with her family in Berkshire. The Missing Girl is her first novel.
Hello
Jenny! Many thanks again for agreeing to answer some questions for
our Ink Pantry readers. Many are aspiring authors and I’m sure they
will learn a great deal from your experiences. May I start by asking
you about your childhood literary influences and what books in
particular gripped your attention?
I
was lucky enough to have parents who took me to the library when I
was a child and bought me books, which meant I gained an early
passion for reading. I loved Little
Women,
What
Katy Did,
The
Famous Five,
Malory
Towers.
I moved on to Agatha Christie and when I was twelve, wrote my first
novel called The
Imposter.
It was a detective story influenced by Agatha Christie, of course. My
dad marked it and gave me an A. I went from there to Thomas Hardy,
the Brontës and Shakespeare and all the classics which I loved.
At what age did you begin writing seriously, in the knowledge that this could become a career, rather than a hobby, Jenny?
I wrote stories from a very early age, but confidence stopped me from believing that I had anything worthwhile to say, and then circumstance – work, family and other commitments – gained more importance. However, the need to write didn’t go away and in my early thirties after I had my first child, I felt that I would be forever unfulfilled if I didn’t do something about it. I joined a local creative writing group and started writing short stories. I entered competitions, had some success, and that spurred me on to start my first novel.
Your 2017 début novel, The Missing Girl, (published by Mantle Books) attracted a lot of positivity from the literary world. Can you tell us more about how the seeds of the idea began for this novel, and how long it took to piece everything together? Also, how daunting was this project initially?
The characters in The Missing Girl came to me first. Two sisters – the younger one, Anna, idolizing the older, more popular and outgoing, Gabriella. I imagined what they were like and put them in the context of their family and the village where they lived. I decided the story would be from Anna’s point of view and then considered what was going to happen. By then I had written two unpublished novels and was beginning to understand what themes and ideas I wanted to explore. I was interested in ordinary people who are affected by tragic events and how they manage to make sense of them. I considered what it would be like if Gabriella went missing. Often in news stories we mostly see the effects a missing child has on the adults of the family, but what must it be like for the siblings? How heartbreaking for a child to not know where their brother or sister has gone and whether they will ever come home? I had the characters and the idea, but still I was nervous about embarking on another novel. I had spent so long by then trying and failing to get published, so it seemed very daunting. However, it isn’t easy to ignore the urge to write and I’m glad that I didn’t because once I had immersed myself, the novel took about a year to complete and then another eighteen months or so of editing with my agent, and then my editor.
Do
you have a particular framework for writing? For example, are you an
author who prefers pen and paper, or one who does everything on the
computer? Also, is there a set location you have chosen for your
writing?
I
generally write straight onto the computer and do many, many drafts.
Usually I write the whole novel quickly and it comes out quite short.
I then edit and rewrite and edit again, adding texture and colour and
depth. I have a very messy study at home where I work, but it is also
a walkway between the hall and the kitchen, so I’m constantly
interrupted by my family. I don’t mind really as I like to feel a
part of things, but my most productive time for writing is early in
the morning when everyone else is asleep, or when the house is empty.
Who
currently inspires you creatively, both inside and outside of the
literary world? How important do you believe it is to receive
inspiration for writing, especially at an early age? What hopeful
words would you give to someone seeking to find a career within
writing?
Inside
the literary world, I am inspired by writers such as Kate Atkinson,
Maggie O’Farrell, Margaret Atwood and Sarah Waters because they are
prolific and write great novels. Outside the literary world, I am
inspired by people who challenge the system – especially young
people who have the best sense of all. My children are young adults
now and they never fail to impress me with their good sense, humour
and outward view of the world. I think it’s important to have a
similar approach in everything you do, including writing.
I
do think it is an advantage to receive inspiration for your writing
at an early age, mainly through reading, however, many people don’t
have that opportunity and there is no reason that being inspired at a
later stage should make a difference. What’s important for every
author is to read as widely as possibly in order to understand how
writing a novel can be done.
My
greatest piece of advice for new writers is to persist. Ignore the
doubts you may have that your writing isn’t good enough, or that
you have nothing to say. Take small steps. If you are writing a
novel, think only about the paragraph you are writing, the page and
the chapter. If you consider how long the whole novel is going to
take you, it’s all too easy to give up. From my point of view,
nothing I have ever written has been wasted. I have reused
characters, ideas and themes many times. Another piece of advice is
to prioritise. It can be difficult when you have a job, a family or
other commitments, but try to find some time at some point in the day
or night which is for yourself and for your writing. I used to get up
at 5 o’clock in the morning for example – I still do, sometimes.
Make writing an important part of your life and above all give
yourself permission to write.
Many
thanks Jenny for your insights. I know you have a new novel planned
for release in 2020, Our
Dark Secret.
Is there anything you can share about this, and what other creative
plans have you within the foreseeable future?
Our Dark Secret (Mantle Books) will be published in February 2020. It is another psychological mystery that focuses on two teenage girls, thrown together through circumstance, who form a bond based on the terrible secrets they share. It is about how decisions made in your youth can affect your whole life. It’s about sacrifice, friendship, loyalty and love. I am also writing a third novel for the same publisher which I have almost completed and have plans for a fourth. I started late and I am brimming with ideas that I am determined to get down.
Inky elf Kev Milsom is in the very early stages of his 5th decade, but looks at least ten years younger…possibly even fifteen on a good day, under beneficial lighting conditions. Currently training in holistic therapies, such as hypnotherapy, metaphysics and counselling, he is also trying to expand his creative writing knowledge and experience. As a devout ‘struggling artist’ he is working towards the completion of that elusive first novel, whilst fuelling a profound talent for procrastination by making notes on a possible second novel (alongside intermittent research for a third). He is proud to have achieved his goal of being independently published at least once a year since 2012, but is also currently exploring other aspects of writing such as journalism. His favourite colour is anything bright.