A box of old record albums – Billy Joel, Donny Osmond, The Eagles, Partridge Family – ugh.
And the covers are worn, the vinyl is scratched – no one’s going to buy these even at 50c apiece.
Same as that ratty Cabbage Patch doll. Or the Miami Vice lunch box. Or those clothes – so 80’s. And the invisible dog – please.
No
wonder there’s been no sales.
This is your past. The present’s not buying it.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in the Homestead Review, Poetry East and Columbia Review with work upcoming in the Roanoke Review, the Hawaii Review and North Dakota Quarterly.
Play no sad songs for me. I’ve lived for the last moment. It’s been gone and come again And yet, you come to me A little too late for a love campaign. When do we love tomorrow?
The sound of an orphan saxophone Argues with the early marsh morning. “Go away with more than a kiss.” Select your argument with the insane.
If you cannot respect a sole dancer Then know the words to the song. So many of the poor, cold pretenders In habit the hour against the minute. Do not seek quiet bashful advice.
In an explosion second of sunrise The drunken sincere pale graduate Offers you the scent of dew lilacs. Resurrect the final lost late movie As you imagined the fast hot dialogue And encompass the dual possibility.
If the satin mistake is of the desperate Then you will hear it repeated in radio popularity. To pretend is a stubborn, stale reflex That is suddenly discovered as an ash cigarette Gone like the push button radio disc jockey.
With a flick of a smile Tossed like a fifty dollar littering fine In the caution lane of a super highway I’ve seen the wrong side of a summer full moon And the high tide has pulled the depth So that I find one last jukebox dollar And taste the after hour bitter liquid In the reflection of your So often visited …once in a lifetime Terminal memory.
R. Gerry Fabian is a retired English instructor. He has been publishing poetry since 1972 in various poetry magazines. He is the editor of Raw Dog Press. He has published two poetry books, Parallels and Coming Out Of The Atlantic. His novels, Memphis Masquerade, Getting Lucky (The Story) and Seventh Sense are available from Amazon, Apple Books, Barnes and Noble. He is currently working on his fourth novel, Ghost Girl.
settling in for a quick one: evening, and the sun is coming down with the birds flapping to roost, heads underwing and feet sunk into bellies like water in a sponge. and we are having drinks together, eating fried and salted whitebait (6 for 2 euros, dip on the side) and we are happy. your perfume smells like flowers and strawberries and your heart goes like a little drum. I can hear it from here, tapping a rhythm like an impatient man with a coin at a shop counter. sweet little heart spilling with love, happy and swooping with the sunset.
D.S. Maolalai is a graduate of English Literature from Trinity College in Dublin and has been nominated for Best of the Web, and twice for the Pushcart Prize. His poetry has been released in two collections, Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden (Encircle Press, 2016) and Sad Havoc Among the Birds (Turas Press, 2019).
On a day like any other, No clouds sweep the skies, Yet my mind turns again, My head whispers lies.
A mistake sits within me, It grows and it grows, I try to ignore it, My fault again I suppose.
No suppose about it, It’s all your fault, My brain works against me, A slug amongst salt.
I try to ignore it, Yet the voices grow louder, Motivation all but gone, As it is ground into powder.
I sit and I fret, I cry and I scream, This sickness within me, That cannot be seen.
How did it feel, To be me yesterday? Now it has re-emerged, It is but a distant memory. I know that in time, These instincts will fade, But a life that is normal, All I have I would trade
On a day like any other, Clouds darken the skies, But who was that person, That was telling me lies.
The sickness dies down, I resurface again, The whispers now silent, The cycle begins.
‘Hold your hand
still.’ Peter held the candle out.
‘I
don’t want to,’ Kevin replied. He shivered despite the summer
evening. He glanced at his watch. Seven o’clock. It was getting
late and his mum would be wondering where he was. The afternoon spent
playing in the field had slipped by. Peter had led the way through
the twisted path to the ruined church at the edge of town.
‘Don’t
be a baby,’ Peter said. He placed the candle on the bench and
stared at Kevin. ‘Do you want the Stick Man to get us?’ He pulled
up the hood on his parka jacket.
‘What’s
the Stick Man?’
‘There
was a priest that lived here, on his own, years ago.’ Peter touched
the doll-like collection of branches that lay on the bench. ‘He
used to catch kids playing in the graveyard and lock them in here.’
Peter picked the twig-doll up and held it close to the flame. ‘He
used to punish them, by pouring hot wax onto their hands.’
‘That’s
a stupid story.’
Peter
put the doll back. ‘One day he caught two boys who fought back.’
‘What
did they do?’ Kevin asked.
‘They
pushed the priest, who fell back into the candles.’
Kevin
looked at the rusted rows of metal around them and shuddered.
‘The
wax from the candles fell onto his face, while he was knocked out.’
Peter tipped the candle, which dripped onto the head of the stick
doll.
‘’Bloody
hell!’
‘Don’t
swear in church.’
‘Sorry,
amen.’
‘The
priest jumped up, blind and screaming. His gown was on fire.’ Peter
kicked a piece of wood. ‘He chased the boys down to the door. The
fire spread quickly.’
Kevin
noticed the blackened walls and charred pews surrounding them. The
air smelled heavy and musty. He tried to laugh, but his throat was
tight. ‘As if,’ he said.
‘They
found his body under this bench, covered in wax and splinters of wood
from the rafters.’ Peter looked up at the shattered roof. The sky
was an orange glow. ‘One of the boys was never found.’
‘Shut
up!’ Kevin pulled away from the bench and turned toward the door.
Peter
stepped in front of him. Streaks of wax lined his sleeves. ‘Where
are you going?’ He pushed Kevin back towards the bench.
‘We
need to keep the Stick Man away,’ Peter said. ‘It’s just a drop
on each hand. Look.’ He dripped a bead of wax onto his skin. The
wax hardened quickly. He rolled it into a ball and flicked it into
the dark.
‘Your
turn.’ Peter grabbed Kevin’s hand. He held the candle closer.
Kevin
pulled free and pushed Peter’s arm away. Wax splashed onto the
bench. The candle wavered, but stayed lit.
‘What
did you do that for?’ Peter placed the candle back down. The stick
figure was completely covered in wax.
‘You
bloody weirdo,’ Kevin said.
Peter
pulled his hood down, ‘It was just a joke…’ he paused.
They
heard the tap, tap, tap, on the door.
Kevin
glanced at Peter; who stared back, eyes wide, mouth open. He heard
Peter’s ragged breathing, mingled with his own.
Kevin
shivered. ‘Who’s that?’ He whispered. He heard the snapping
sound of branches from outside.
‘It’s the Stick Man,’ Peter uttered.
‘Shut
up,’ Kevin replied.
The
snapping ceased, leaving silence outside.
‘I’m
going home…’ Kevin said.
‘Who
is it?’ Peter shouted, which made Kevin jump.
Then,
thump, thump, thump, on the door.
Kevin
stepped back and stumbled back over a piece of wood. The sickening
twist of his ankle made him yell.
The
thumping stopped. Peter took a step towards the door.
‘Don’t,’
Kevin rubbed his foot.
Peter
ignored him. He pushed the door open. Dusky light flooded the church
interior. The long shadows of the graveyard lay before them. Peter
stepped out of the church. ‘Stay here,’ he whispered. ‘I’ll
run for help.’
‘No!’
Kevin replied. ‘I’m coming with you!’
‘You’ll
slow me down.’
‘Peter!’
Kevin leaped up on his good foot and grabbed the back of Peter’s
jacket. Peter lurched out of his grasp. The door slammed shut.
Kevin
pushed the door. It wouldn’t move. ‘Let me out,’ his ankle felt
swollen.
‘You
idiot. You ripped my bloody coat!’ Peter hissed from outside.
Kevin
heard the snapping of branches.
He
heard a sharp intake of breath, then the thud of something hitting
the ground.
Kevin
shivered. ‘Peter!’ he whispered.
He
heard the snapping of branches. Then; tap, tap tap, on the door.
The
door swung open.
Kevin
saw the tear he had made on the back of Peter’s jacket, which
flapped open like a crooked smile. The hood was up. Kevin looked down
and saw the streaks of wax lining the sleeves of the parka.
He
shuffled forward and grabbed a shoulder. ‘That was a really stupid
joke…’
He
stopped. He felt the brittleness beneath the jacket. The branches
snapping.
The
figure turned around.
Colin Gardiner lives in Coventry. He writes short stories and poems and is published by The Ekphrastic Review and the Creative Writing Leicester blog. He is currently studying a Masters in Creative Writing at Leicester University.
In the belly of sentient beings are black holes and worms, Postures; worthy and unworthy gestures, raisons d’etre, longings, tentacles of regrets, fuselages of desire below puffed-up bloated hearts poked-through with sticks and twigs; red and blue blood wrapped in twine hanging from meaningless empty bottles of preparedness.
This is where the soul sits and rests hanging from the nearest cavity wall until the last chime rings announcing, “Times up!” where the door slams and the whistle blows.
Suddenly there are no plans to make, no hearts to break, no solemn longings half-baked.
Humiliation barely registers in those downcast faces. I dare you to imagine where they come from, feel the beatings, suffer the horrendous rape, then watch the beatings, the rape of others. When were you ever woken up by soldiers in the middle of the night, with huts aflame all around you, and rifles pointed at your heart while your children huddle behind you? Where’s the constant movement in your life, not of choice but forced, clutching a baby in your arms, ragged possessions strapped to back, limping down an overgrown jungle trail, hungry, thirsty and in constant dread? No red blood on your cheeks, no dark stain on your floors. You sit back in your pleasant home, as pleased with yourself as some general in his fiefdom. You might even go to church come Sunday, pray to a God suitably neutered for the occasion.
i liked the way my arms bent around the weight of a world not mine i liked the angles of my wrist bones moulded for consistency there was nothing sharp in my mountain shapes we made monoliths of the present to carry into what might become.
we built a castle on the sea an impenetrable hull of stone that wouldn’t sink or bend to the tug of the waves.
strong straight lines and five year plans knowing where you want to be is fine if an eye on the horizon brings it close but curvature doesn’t take account of the storms.
still i liked the simplicity in that predictable back and forth my bones could take the heavy salt laid in your tracks and our waters always had that heady quayside scent that’s born of decay;
sulphide lungs bleached wood and bladderwrack hair made bodies on the sand
i rose from the wreckage when the castle sank and spread like grit to the wind no more built on froth-rimed swell nor shackled to the same tide
no more a tower doomed to spoil nor fall beneath the waves.
This poem is taken from Kezia’s first full length collection, solipsist: poems for breaking bonds, (Moonshade Publishing), a volume of free verse themed around personal experiences with abuse, trauma, depression/anxiety, and progressing through healing from toxic and unhealthy relationships.
Kezia Cole is an author, poet, artist, and freelance editor, mostly found dividing time between the wilds of southwest England and the mountains of northeast Pennsylvania. Scribbler of words, dauber of paint, and fighter against chronic illness, Kezia is also a passionate animal welfare advocate, and fosters rescue dogs. Work has been featured in prose anthologies, mixed media exhibitions, and on national radio. She is also an Open University alum 🙂
‘Apocalypse Now?’ ‘His favourite film.’ ‘Really? But it’s so damn long.’ A strangled laugh escapes from his lips. ‘Fasten your seatbelt,’ he says. ‘Ok.’ He looks at her. ‘Oh shit.’ It’s all he can think of to say. ‘He was pissed. As usual.’ He stares down at his hands, then runs them grasping through his hair. He thinks of her hands, how they move over his yielding flesh, then earlier – before he got there… He covers his open mouth with his hand and mutters through it: ‘Jesus. I never meant it to be taken seriously. I never thought… not for one moment, you know?’ ‘Right.’ ‘I can’t. She…’ ‘Yes?’ ‘You don’t understand. ‘ ‘Oh, I do. Perfectly.’ He grips the steering wheel with both hands until his knuckles turn white. In silence he watches a petite tortoiseshell cat trot across the road, mouse in its jaws. It leaps onto a wall and over, into a garden. ‘Will you forgive me?’ he says. ‘Not yet.’ ‘Are you going to say anything with more than a few syllables?’ ‘Are you going to keep to your side of the bargain?’ Silence. ‘Well?’ ‘I’m really, truly sorry.’ he says. ‘At least I get an apology. I suppose one should be grateful for small mercies.’ She gives a little shake of her head and leans into the passenger door, long unkempt hair silhouetted against the sunrise. The glow forms a halo and he can’t take his eyes of her. It’s been this way since first they met. ‘I couldn’t take it anymore,’ she says. ‘I know.’ ‘They’ll be looking for me.’ ‘I know.’ ‘Take it off.’ He obeys. ‘Drive.’ He turns the key and the engine complains into life. They set off slow through the old town, content to be still, for a while. She rests her face on the glass, appreciative of the smooth cold against her skin. ‘We can never win,’ she says, the words barely audible. ‘But we will never lose.’ His left hand reaches out to her right, clasps it tight. She doesn’t resist his touch, or respond to it. Marks of history etched into his ring finger. He wonders if she can feel them, mirror to her own. ‘I’ve got nothing to prove anymore,’ she says.
Lauren Foster is a writer and musician based in Charnwood, and a recent graduate of the MA in Creative Writing at the University of Leicester.
The stink of tradesmen soils our air. Square eyes yield to cynical “cheer”, while Mary’s flight in Joseph’s care is fast eclipsed by wine and beer and the only type of spirit shared.
The poor dig ever-deeper holes: gathering debt for children’s smiles. Rather than nurturing their souls they blithe succumb to market’s guile and smother crucial Birthday goal.
Irish writer, Perry McDaid, lives in Derry under the brooding brows of Donegal hills which he occasionally hikes in search of druidic inspiration. His writing appears internationally in the Bookends Review, Red Fez, 13 o’clock Press, Curiosity Quills, Aurora Wolf Literary Magazine, Amsterdam Quarterly, SWAMP and many others.
