Poetry - Issue 1
The Fragile Creation
Falling,
Through the fragile line
Of time and space,
Reverberating
And rebounding off each other.
Searching through the confusion,
Paralysed from the fear
And awakened by the silence.
In each new moment,
A new connection,
Made and broken.
We move
Through currents of air,
Whether combining,
Connecting
Or falling apart.
Through the fragile line
Of time and space,
Reverberating
And rebounding off each other.
Searching through the confusion,
Paralysed from the fear
And awakened by the silence.
In each new moment,
A new connection,
Made and broken.
We move
Through currents of air,
Whether combining,
Connecting
Or falling apart.
Damien B. Donnelly Born in Dublin, now living in Paris, Damien was a pattern maker for various fashion brands in London and Amsterdam but always had a love for writing. He will be featured in the short story anthology ‘Second Chance’, published in Dublin, this November with a
Flash Fiction appearing in The Fable Online’s Halloween issue. He is working on his first novel and his blog www.deuxiemepeau.wordpress.com featuring poetry, prose and photography. Otherwise he can be found in the kitchen, baking delightfully delicious carrot cakes.
Passage
There are so many
ways to decay:
fade wilt wither
soften rot collapse.
The structure degrades,
folds on itself
from the inside
or the out,
grows smaller. Bones
become pitted, lose
calcium. Skins become
thin thinner translucent.
When it rains,
the bone aches
where it broke,
the fracture leaves
legacies of foresight,
bristles, charged and
humming, in tune
with all the
broken bits, and
all the about to
be broken bits,
of the universe.
ways to decay:
fade wilt wither
soften rot collapse.
The structure degrades,
folds on itself
from the inside
or the out,
grows smaller. Bones
become pitted, lose
calcium. Skins become
thin thinner translucent.
When it rains,
the bone aches
where it broke,
the fracture leaves
legacies of foresight,
bristles, charged and
humming, in tune
with all the
broken bits, and
all the about to
be broken bits,
of the universe.
They were dreaming of watermelon
of the thump of ripeness
the cracking of green mottled skin
revealing a flush of pink flesh
of drip and slurp and crunch
of hard black-brown seeds
spit far – ten feet, twelve feet –
scattered and dusty
of drip and slurp and crunch
of tiny white seeds, still
nestled in the fruit, swallowed
whole in greedy mouthfuls
of drip and slurp and crunch
of juice running down
cheeks and elbows
leaving sticky trails
of drip and slurp and crunch
of ants, like vultures, waiting to
climb carcasses of pale rinds,
waiting to devour any spots
of sweetness left behind
the cracking of green mottled skin
revealing a flush of pink flesh
of drip and slurp and crunch
of hard black-brown seeds
spit far – ten feet, twelve feet –
scattered and dusty
of drip and slurp and crunch
of tiny white seeds, still
nestled in the fruit, swallowed
whole in greedy mouthfuls
of drip and slurp and crunch
of juice running down
cheeks and elbows
leaving sticky trails
of drip and slurp and crunch
of ants, like vultures, waiting to
climb carcasses of pale rinds,
waiting to devour any spots
of sweetness left behind
Melissa Fu grew up in northern New Mexico and currently lives in a village near Cambridge, England. She is working on a collection of memoir-style pieces based on growing up in the Rocky Mountains, two of which have been selected as competition winners appearing in Words and Women: Two, (Unthank Books, 2014) and Original Writing Summer Short Story Anthology (Original Writing, 2015). She also has two short
pieces appearing in issue 92 of Right Hand Pointing.
Area Code 205
I thumb-dragged
you into a tiny trash bin.
Now my pointer-tip hovers
over your phantom
slot between Remy, who
I can’t recall, and my step-mother’s
email address. I want to select
the old you, hold
down and say I’m not
afraid my heart is going
to stop. Say I’ll fly
to tea, that the only
thought that made
any difference was one of you
and I slow dancing
in black-lit sports bras
in a home you
once described.
you into a tiny trash bin.
Now my pointer-tip hovers
over your phantom
slot between Remy, who
I can’t recall, and my step-mother’s
email address. I want to select
the old you, hold
down and say I’m not
afraid my heart is going
to stop. Say I’ll fly
to tea, that the only
thought that made
any difference was one of you
and I slow dancing
in black-lit sports bras
in a home you
once described.
phenomenon
to the silence between
thoughts to this quality
of light
it is 4 a.m. it is
raining
to the way one lit
candle granulates the bedroom
wall a clip from an old
film I discovered as a child
flipping channels past
midnight
the screen-cast: green
the chemist glaring into
his measuring
glass
the finger hooked behind
my navel later
I couldn’t be
sure this really happened
*
to your metamorphic knuckles
how you’d pin my wrists
to sheet try
to bridle my bucking
tongue, slither in
my ear something
about the difference between
doing and doing
with all your heart
to that moment
why is it I’m always
taking the steps
or lifting my foot into the car
or onto a curb
when I know and I must
even though it feels
like recognizing
some vague horror
thoughts to this quality
of light
it is 4 a.m. it is
raining
to the way one lit
candle granulates the bedroom
wall a clip from an old
film I discovered as a child
flipping channels past
midnight
the screen-cast: green
the chemist glaring into
his measuring
glass
the finger hooked behind
my navel later
I couldn’t be
sure this really happened
*
to your metamorphic knuckles
how you’d pin my wrists
to sheet try
to bridle my bucking
tongue, slither in
my ear something
about the difference between
doing and doing
with all your heart
to that moment
why is it I’m always
taking the steps
or lifting my foot into the car
or onto a curb
when I know and I must
even though it feels
like recognizing
some vague horror
Worry Dolls
Eyes cast down as you mouthed
el trueno, flexed your wrists
toward the linoleum, the way you’d done
since we met.
I kept the dolls –
tooth-sized paper people, wound
with embroidery floss – pressed
inside their tiny woven sack
and under my pillow, as you
instructed. Now, in a cigar box
in the trunk of my car. Five years
I’ve lived and haven’t
unpacked.
I have a secret, you said. I learned,
later, more of a riddle.
Not the thing, but the anticipation.
You were the jagged white strike.
My breath
held.
el trueno, flexed your wrists
toward the linoleum, the way you’d done
since we met.
I kept the dolls –
tooth-sized paper people, wound
with embroidery floss – pressed
inside their tiny woven sack
and under my pillow, as you
instructed. Now, in a cigar box
in the trunk of my car. Five years
I’ve lived and haven’t
unpacked.
I have a secret, you said. I learned,
later, more of a riddle.
Not the thing, but the anticipation.
You were the jagged white strike.
My breath
held.
Erin Traylor graduated in May with a B.A. in English from Salisbury University. She now lives in Siesta Key, Florida where she practices roller derby and takes care of three cats. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Cheat River Review, Red Earth Review, Permafrost Magazine, and Germ Magazine
Dying Gods' Story
Creation, us from them
Holds a spark
Mischievous chance
Ringing on high as we
Stomp down the plains like
Tempered steel
Speculating about divinity
Humanity
Who birthed who with
Trepidation while we
Light candles for our
Dead and stars materialize
Holds a spark
Mischievous chance
Ringing on high as we
Stomp down the plains like
Tempered steel
Speculating about divinity
Humanity
Who birthed who with
Trepidation while we
Light candles for our
Dead and stars materialize
Transmute
You laughed
Lead into gold
You said, impossible
But gold is nothing
A mere beginning
I crave the omega, end
Your arrogance arranged
Into compassion
An empty chest growing
A heart like a vine
You, husband, changed by
The alchemy of love
Lead into gold
You said, impossible
But gold is nothing
A mere beginning
I crave the omega, end
Your arrogance arranged
Into compassion
An empty chest growing
A heart like a vine
You, husband, changed by
The alchemy of love
Jennifer Ruth Jackson reads too much and travels too little. Her work has
appeared in The Binnacle, Verse Wisconsin, Kaleidoscope Magazine, and more. She lives in a small Wisconsin city with her husband. Visit her on Twitter: @jenruthjackson.
stars.
i cough and the stars escape, scraping
my tongue and the roof of my mouth and
a few get stuck between my teeth as
they try hard to get out. so i pick
them up and i put them in a box for you.
i stutter through my thoughts and the stars
make a gory display of my words
for him. you planned this.
i choke on the stars so please excuse me
if you sliced your finger on one. you
screamed and hollered while i swallowed
the blood in my mouth.
my tongue and the roof of my mouth and
a few get stuck between my teeth as
they try hard to get out. so i pick
them up and i put them in a box for you.
i stutter through my thoughts and the stars
make a gory display of my words
for him. you planned this.
i choke on the stars so please excuse me
if you sliced your finger on one. you
screamed and hollered while i swallowed
the blood in my mouth.
Nik Guzman is a teenager who currently is situated in Istanbul and enjoys art, hair dye, and travelling the world. Instagram: @sproutingson
Scribbles From a Crumpled Piece of Paper
I
Life is one big joke.
Every day is a standup comedy show
And I am the subject of it all.
Point your fingers at me and laugh.
I am the joke.
II
My ears are numb from the whisperings,
The whisperings of women,
The whisperings of strangers,
And the whisperings of God.
Sometimes the sky conspires
Against me.
III
The machine swallows another coin.
IV
You smiled at me
But I found out
That you whore out your laughs,
The laughs that still echo in me,
To trash and jokes alike.
V
Like the moon you always rise when it’s dark
And like the moon you always set
To give way to dawn.
VI
The machine swallows yet another coin.
VII
I play to win
But I always seem to lose.
As if fate itself has gotten used to it,
I am left with the same static screen.
VIII
It is hard to stay sane
When everything flashing around you
And everyone dancing around you
Seems to be out of their minds.
IX
The machine swallows my last coin.
This game is nothing but a joke to her.
I heard she doesn’t like jokes.
X
There are lines
Lingering yet laying softly somewhere on my body,
One line for each time
I thought
I could teach pigs how to fly.
Life is one big joke.
Every day is a standup comedy show
And I am the subject of it all.
Point your fingers at me and laugh.
I am the joke.
II
My ears are numb from the whisperings,
The whisperings of women,
The whisperings of strangers,
And the whisperings of God.
Sometimes the sky conspires
Against me.
III
The machine swallows another coin.
IV
You smiled at me
But I found out
That you whore out your laughs,
The laughs that still echo in me,
To trash and jokes alike.
V
Like the moon you always rise when it’s dark
And like the moon you always set
To give way to dawn.
VI
The machine swallows yet another coin.
VII
I play to win
But I always seem to lose.
As if fate itself has gotten used to it,
I am left with the same static screen.
VIII
It is hard to stay sane
When everything flashing around you
And everyone dancing around you
Seems to be out of their minds.
IX
The machine swallows my last coin.
This game is nothing but a joke to her.
I heard she doesn’t like jokes.
X
There are lines
Lingering yet laying softly somewhere on my body,
One line for each time
I thought
I could teach pigs how to fly.