Author: Editor (Page 44 of 73)

Artificial Lawn

Fiction by Amy Akiko

He flutters past concrete at the back of houses, knows the slabbed rectangles will not feed him. But look, up ahead, a square of green promise, his own emerald city of grass and worms and slugs and larvae. Swooping down, he prepares to peck into the lifegiving soil, but his beak is rebuffed by an unyielding ground―a manmade sheet of death for the fauna beneath.


Amy Akiko is an educator, journalism graduate and writer from South London. She enjoys creating various forms of fiction including poetry, children’s stories, flash and short stories. Her work is soon to appear in The Tiger Moth Review, and she is currently editing her first novel.

Ruth and Oscar

Nonfiction by Angela Townsend

Ruth and Oscar have been married forty years, and they have drawn stares for every one.

Oscar, crafted exclusively of knees and elbows, is the word “jaunty” sprung to life. Eighty-six and five-foot-two, he commands eyes bluer than the Earth from space.

Oscar will neither retire from paid work nor stomach being told that he is in any way impressive. What he will do is elbow you, an instant co-conspirator in this majestic business of being awake, and call you “kid” until you wish it was your given name. His polo shirts are sky and indigo, bright enough to spot him across a century.

Statuesque at seventy-eight, Ruth is a cloud of concern, claiming herself unworthy of her white halo. Her mouth is mournful, and if she didn’t love you, she would distrust you when you insist she is one of the kindest people you know.

But Ruth does love you, almost enough to believe the unfathomable things you believe about her. Proficient in ganache and genealogy, she makes cold rooms feel like dens. She feeds strays, only a few of them feline, and lies awake worrying who might be alone this Thanksgiving. Ruth cried when she learned that introversion is an honest, honorable trait, not a shortcoming.

Oscar and Ruth have toilet paper emblazoned with the face of a political figure.

When Oscar sees me, he hugs me so tight I nearly need to have his elbows surgically removed. Ours was one of those instant bonds that makes you wonder if your families touch fingertips above the treeline. Far beyond DNA, Oscar is family now, equal parts scampish brother and Father Abraham.

Ruth learns through cautious eyes but raced through the pages of my affection like one of her Revolutionary War novels. For ten years she has been perplexed by my admiration, telling me I’m kinder than cats and twice as daft. But when Ruth sees Ruth in my mirror, the truth makes her taller, and she shines like God’s angel in her sturdy denim dress.

On my birthday, Ruth carefully lays out cards on her desktop computer, photos of their cats with wry bylines like, “Sage was going to wish you a happy birthday, but she had to eat her third breakfast instead.” I save every one.

Ruth and Oscar are the rare friends with whom I’ve discussed our rare friendship. None of us has any explanation for why we loved each other so quickly and entirely, only that we are very, very fortunate.

I had to downplay the distress of my divorce to Oscar, who shuddered with tears anyway, lip quivering. “This, to the best person we know!”

But Ruth and Oscar found each other after divorces of their own, pasts they don’t discuss, histories that had to happen for us to have Ruth and Oscar.

Oscar and Ruth give me hope.

Oscar and Ruth had better both reach one hundred years.


Angela Townsend is Development Director at Tabby’s Place and has an M.Div. from Princeton Seminary and B.A. from Vassar. Her work has appeared or will be published in upcoming issues of The Amethyst Review, Braided Way, Fathom Magazine, and Young Ravens Literary Review, among others. Angie loves life dearly.

The Visit

Poetry by R.M. Kinder

This house bursts with loving you—
all of you—our voices, vernacular:
“going out of a night,” “Virgie’s man,” “I had went.”
Dear to me, that peasant language I once spoke freely and well,
but it charmed only a few.

Our breed laughed often, sometimes so heartily
the laugh itself was the greatest pleasure of a day,
a day of work—toil—thorough and demanding and done!
We laughed before supper and after,
prayed before the meal and before bed.

What was class and status
but a cloud over land not ours?
We had dumplings, and pot roast, weather,
and animals close to us, named, and well kept.

I loved all of you, and, then, even our enemies
who seamed us together, separate, whole,
a nature, bearing the flags of ourselves,
nothing but that, and proud, proud, proud.


R. M. Kinder is a Missouri writer, author of three collections of short fiction and two novels. Her poems have appeared in Cottonwood, SHR, Appalacian Journal and other journals; her collection, The Likes of Us, was a semi-finalist for the 2019 Cowles Poetry Book Prize at SE Missouri State University.

The Garden

Poetry by Thomas Feeny

                         for Lorelei

Somebody has to dig,
someone’s called to plant, you say,
shrugging off all those who
with smart grin place
themselves well beyond
remembering how to
scratch and hoe,
turn the soil, pat it, work it.
Yours ever a warm touch
to growth still unfolding.
Like the sun this long season
you are needed.
Later, edging into
winter, how content
you’ll be when,
left to examine your hands,
you nod, wait, anticipate.


Thomas Feeny teaches Italian and Spanish at North Carolina State University. His poetry has appeared in California Poetry Quarterly, Chiron, and Hiram Poetry Journal. He has also done considerable translation of poems and short stories written in the Romance languages.

Queen Elizabeth II died while I was mowing the lawn

Poetry by Joshua Zeitler

I had let it grow longer than I should, and was thinking about how
               I had let it grow longer than I should. Weeks, maybe months, of growth.
     The mower was having a tough time of it. I had to keep backing up

               and pushing forward. One of the wild plants I’d never noticed before
had fruit that looked like little green paper lanterns, a groundcherry.
     I had decided to steer around it when the mower choked out. I tried to start it

     back up again but it just billowed smoke, and then chugged along
               billowing smoke. I couldn’t breathe. I was gasping for air, and besides,
I wanted to give the groundcherries a chance to grow, and the other

     plants I would have loved if I’d given them time: the goldenrod, the Queen
Anne’s lace, chicory—yes, even the thistle—have you ever seen
               how beautifully the bull thistle blooms? I’ve always dug it out before

     it could truly flower. Call it pragmatism, or fear, those formidable
needles. I’m changing my mind. I’ll let it grow. Maybe
               I won’t even fix the mower, which doesn’t really look broken,

               it just looks like it always does when I’m not using it—slim, and quiet,
and polite in its stillness, which might now last forever. Not laziness, I insist
     to myself as I head inside, but a kind of mercy, of grace—and then

                                                       I see.


Joshua Zeitler is a queer, nonbinary writer hailing from the heart of Michigan. They are pursuing an MFA in poetry at Alma College, and their poems have been previously published in Black Fox Literary Magazine.

Changes

Fiction by Brian Daldorph

“The only thing that changes,” Sheila says, “is that nothing changes.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I say. 

Sheila’s been taking night classes at Juco, and she reads books of poetry in the kitchen while I’m watching TV.  We used to sit together on the couch, our thighs pressed together, our arms around each other, and I’d tell her things about the nature shows I watch all the time.

Do you know how much a grizzly bear eats in a day?

Do you know how fast a tiger shark swims?

Which is bigger, the Taj Mahal or a humpbacked whale?

Sheila would ask me how I knew these cool things and I’d say, “I’m just a smart guy, that’s why you married me.”

But now she’s the one telling me things about Buddhism and poetry and this Russian story about a rich man falling off a chair, hitting his side and then he’s dying and his family and colleagues gather like vultures waiting to feast.

“What’s the big deal about that?” I say.  “That’s what happened when my Uncle Alex got sick.”  (We all thought he had money, but we were wrong).

Sheila asks me if she can read me one of her poems, so I say, “OK, just wait until after my show, please, because this is really interesting.  It’s about tarantulas down in New Mexico and the border states.”

The show ends and slides into another about hyenas, and I keep watching though I know Sheila’s hovering, poem in hand.  She’s in bed after the hyena show, turned away from me.

I don’t mind her doing some of what she’s doing but not all of it because we had things really nice just the way they were so why make changes?

I’ll tell her in the morning that I’d like to hear her poem, please, and tell her too that I bought chocolates for her.  I put them in back of the refrigerator and forgot to tell her about them.  She can write a poem about them, about how just like love they’re dark and sweet but sometimes difficult to find.


Brian Daldorph teaches at the University of Kansas and Douglas County Jail.

Some Days

Poetry by Carole Greenfield

Some days it feels like I will never be free from dread,
never escape the darkness, always be lugging those bushels
of rocks, the weight I drag behind me.

Some days it feels like I will never have time to say thank you,
never have heart to share love, never know grace to let go.

Some days it feels like I am trudging through a swamp
filled with skunk cabbage and quacking of frogs
and when I stop to listen I know their voices
are pure silver, a chorus of answers and questions.

Some days I remember all I need is to stand still
and let the quiet rain of their chirps, squeaks and creaks,
the half-notes of their small hearts fall into and over and through me.


Carole Greenfield grew up in Colombia and lives in New England. Her work has appeared in such places as Amethyst Review, Humana Obscura and The Plenitudes. Read her poem “Trace Fossils” published in The Bluebird Word in October 2022.

Ser Mujer 2023

Poetry by Alexandra Newton Rios

This is how a woman
grows into her own.
She takes the moon that for too long
she only saw in another hemisphere
hang full and white in the night sky
turning into day.
She takes the sun rises with which she runs
and the sun sets behind the Statue of Liberty
with which she ends her day.
She takes the students who suddenly smile
as she works each day
the fields of their hearts
as she once walked the moist earth rows
of her five children’s dreams.
She takes the man she is going to meet
who has been waiting and waiting
and waiting for her to free herself from her past,
from her present overflowing with possibility
to become finally open fully to him.
It is a busy life.
It is a woman’s life.
She takes the sudden focusing,
this giving herself a season
to learn more
to focus more
to do more
to reach a new plane
of being alive.
Change is real.
Real the ways of being in the world.
They should not be menospreciado,
belittled, thought any less of
while it snows the softest of flakes
across the day.


Alexandra Newton Rios, a bi-hemispherical mother of five, lives with her mother in New York City teaching Spanish, and English in San Miguel de Tucumán. She ran eight full Argentine marathons and the New York City Marathon for the joy of having her Argentine mother, a cancer survivor, at the finish line.


Author’s Note: Ser mujer in Spanish means to be a woman in English. The Ser Mujer poems are written once a year on March 8, International Women’s Day, written since 1996, and gather in a poem a definition that changes across time.

Last October

Poetry by John Surowiecki

The mountain laurel is as green as the
maples are orange. Deer visit as if on cue,
hoovering the seeds we left for doves
and newly arrived juncoes.

Anything to do with spring and summer, with lilacs
and irises and that wistful pneumonic yellow,
is long gone, escaped in the raw humidity of

night. The wigs of dead leaves
are already caught up in scattered whirlwinds.
It’s clear we don’t have much time together.

Rainwater that leaks from the driveway gravel
has pooled in unlikely places,
not the swales that engineering has intended.
The silence between a breath and the breath that

follows it seems to last forever. October
is no longer with us: you’ve taken its place.
It needs a new face, yours, a new voice, yours.

It needs your swallows and mourning gnats
your own phrase on the fiddle which everyone can hear:
you, the season of leaving, have your music too.


John Surowiecki is the author of fourteen books of poetry. His latest, The Place of the Solitaires: Poems from Titles by Wallace Stevens, was recently published by Wolfson Press. John is the recipient of the Poetry Foundation Pegasus Award, the Nimrod Pablo Neruda Prize, the Washington Prize and other awards.

The Pink Rosette

Fiction by Sarah Das Gupta

Hi! I’m Susie. I have brittle bone disease. But I don’t want to bother you with all that medical stuff. It means my bones fracture easily. I’m ten and I’ve had nearly twenty breaks. I look a bit funny but I don’t bother too much now. I’ve had lots of stares and insults. They just bounce off – fly past me somewhere into space!

When I was eight, I went on a bus. Didn’t usually go on buses ‘cause they jolt you too much.

That day I was with my sister and my best friend, Jodie. A gang of boys got on. They made funny noises and shouted ‘monkey face’ and ’chimpanzee’. I broke one of my cheek bones when I was seven. Kids in school called me the same names sometimes. I didn’t care much.

But these boys started throwing coins. They were hard. I was scared of breaking something. The gang said my lips looked like a money box. I thought they might push coins into my mouth.

I meant to tell you; my teeth are a bit brittle. I’ve lost a few. Jodie said they were ‘stupid’ and ‘ignorant’. I just kept my head down. It was ok ‘cause the driver stopped the bus and sorted them out. I haven’t been on a bus again.

I’m not supposed to do sport, well only swimming. My walking’s not too good. My mum thinks I’m getting slower. I think it’s ‘cause I’m tired.

My best day so far was when Mum took me and Lizzy to a riding school. Lizzy’s my baby sister. I call her that but she’s much taller than me. The ponies were lovely. They ate more of my carrots than Lizzy’s. She said I had more in my pocket than her. She was just jealous. I knew the ponies liked me better! 

I couldn’t sleep that night. It’s hard anyway. You see, I’m propped up in bed. My breathing’s bad at night. But that night was different. I knew it straightaway. I wanted a pony! I wanted one just for me. I could look after it. It might take me longer than Lizzy and her friends. But my pony wouldn’t mind. I’d get there in the end!

It took almost a year. I pestered Dad most! When we passed horses on the road. When I saw them on tele – in the Derby or the Queen’s Jubilee, I said, “You know what I want, Dad!” Once I just cried when I saw the perfect pony in a magazine.

I knew he’d give in eventually and he did! Someone he met had an old pony. It was too small for his son. No problem. I told you I’m small. When I saw Barbary, I had to have her! I loved her chestnut coat with flecks of white. Like those glass balls you shake, and snow starts falling. She knew I’d hidden some carrots. She followed me. She nuzzled very gently, pushing her nose into my pocket. Her muzzle was soft as velvet. I sat on her for a few minutes. For the first time I was taller than Lizzy, nearly taller than Dad. I didn’t have a saddle. I could feel her warm back touching me.

Most people don’t like touching me or being close. Mum says they don’t want to hurt me. I’m not sure. Barbary didn’t mind at all. I could put my face against hers. She seemed to like it!

Next, we had to buy a special saddle. It had a metal bar across the front. I could grab it if I felt a bit wobbly. The reins were thin. They were some sort of white material. I could manage them easily.

I learnt fast. Soon I could trot, turn, stop, start. Barbary was learning too. She began to listen to my voice. Of course, Mum had fits! She had nightmares of me falling off. Being trampled by Barbary. I knew I wouldn’t fall. She would look after me. Lizzy joked and said, “If you fall, Barbary will haul you up with her teeth! “

One day we cantered up the hill in the field. I’d never gone faster on my own than a slow walk, dragging my right foot behind me. Now the wind blew in my face. The hedge flew past! Lizzy said it wasn’t a proper canter. By then, I didn’t listen to her much. I knew it was a real canter!

June 14th would be the greatest day of my life. It would be my first Horse Show. Well, more of a small gymkhana really. The evening before, I washed Barbary’s mane and tail. Actually, I did the bottom of the tail. Mum did the rest. Mum thought she liked the full beauty treatment. I thought she liked the bucket of horse nuts better!

As I went to bed, all I wanted next day was to win one rosette. I dreamed of tying it on Barbary’s bridle. I didn’t expect a first, second or even a third. The white ones for a ‘good try’ would be great!

It was the last event, Musical Sacks. Music plays. When it stops, you have to dismount and stand on a sack. They take one sack away each time. I was allowed to ride into the  ring. Barbary stood on the sack. I couldn’t get on and off on my own. Seven riders were left.

There were only six rosettes. The music stopped. Barbary trotted into the middle arena. She stood on the last sack! I was out next go. I didn’t care. Mum tied the pink rosette on Barbary’s bridle. With all the other winners, we trotted round the ring. Mum cried. Dad took a photo. Lizzy muttered something about not playing the game properly. I didn’t care. I had the pink rosette with me in bed all night!


Sarah Das Gupta is a retired teacher from near Cambridge, UK. She has work published in over thirty different magazines, including: Paddle, Waywords, Dipity, Pure Haiku, Rural Fiction, Green Ink, among others. Her interests include most subjects except computer games and football.

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