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Charles Reznikoff Appraises the Zinnia

20 October 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Deborah H. Doolittle

These days the zinnias in the garden
awake at dawn and await the sun
to open up before them
like the one blossom they’d all like to become.

Let other flowers bloom as dreams
beneath other people’s windows
and rise up from their cultivated beds
in clumps of ordinary color.

These zinnias leap into the air
and broadcast their ambition across the lawn,
not a petal out of place
but has known the touch of dew.

Deborah H. Doolittle has lived in lots of different places, but now calls North Carolina home. A Pushcart Prize nominee, she is the author of Floribunda, and three chapbooks No Crazy Notions, That Echo, and Bogbound. When not editing BRILLIG: a micro lit mag, she is training for road races or practicing yoga.

Lessons from Sunflowers

17 October 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Nancy Kay Peterson

In thick morning fog,
tall, dark-eyed cyclops
with butter-colored faces
face eastward, patient,
sensing the unseen sun,
trusting in its rising.

We fear anything could emerge
from the earthbound cloud,
things undreamable.
We covet the one-eyes’
sun-bright faces that turn
confidently in the white unknown

with unwavering determination
and joy.

Nancy Kay Peterson’s poetry is in The Bluebird Word, Dash Literary Journal, Earth’s Daughters, Last Stanza, RavensPerch, Spank the Carp, Steam Ticket, and Tipton Poetry Journal. She co-published Main Channel Voices: A Dam Fine Literary Magazine (2004-2009) and has authored two chapbooks: Belated Remembrance (2010) and Selling the Family (2021) from Finishing Line Press. Visit www.nancykaypeterson.com.

Marie’s Wings

14 October 2025 / Editor

Nonfiction by Kandi Maxwell

“I want to fly,” my four-year-old granddaughter, Marie, says. “Me too,” I say. We’re watching a My Little Pony video. Some of the ponies fly. Her favorite is Rainbow Dash, a blue Pegasus with a rainbow-colored mane and tail. The pony’s wings are small, but Rainbow Dash can fly fast. Marie loves fast.

She also loves other real or imagined creatures with wings: birds, butterflies, and fairies. Marie is mesmerized by red-breasted robins or blue-bodied stellar’s jays as they flutter from tree to tree in my forest home. I watch as Marie runs beneath them clapping her hands, saying, “fly, fly.” Marie is also fascinated by the butterflies that hover over our lilac and rosemary bushes. She has a little green butterfly net, and occasionally she will capture one. Because of her autism, she’s speech delayed, but she makes happy sounds in her own language. She gently brushes her finger across one of the wings. I notice how the light catches the wings, creating a sparkling shimmer. After inspecting the butterfly, we find a place to re-home it in the large half-barrel filled with lavender, lemon balm, and thyme.

Later, on a trip to Mount Shasta, I find a little store that sells children’s red monarch butterfly wings made of a soft, light fabric. The winged cape has straps around the shoulders and loops around the wrists, allowing Marie to open and close the wings, her movements mimicking a butterfly. Back at my home, she dashes through the yard flapping her arms. “I’m flying, I’m flying,” she says. For a while, those wings are her favorite accessory. She wears her bright red cape everywhere we go.

Less than a year after I buy the wings, they are destroyed in the 2018 Paradise Camp Fire, along with her other cherished toys. In the years that follow the fire, Marie brings three grocery bags filled with her new special toys anytime she leaves home. She fears losing the things she loves, the purple dragon she had saved from the fire, her new little ponies, her fox, and kitten plushies.

Marie just turned twelve. She now has a good vocabulary with her own unique communication style, but talking about emotions is difficult. We don’t talk about the fire or the loss of her former home. But I know she’s had some healing. She no longer needs to bring three bags of toys when she visits, but the purple dragon always travels with her. And she still has the butterfly net.

On her latest visit, she captures a tiny, lustrous green frog. Marie tenderly holds it in her hand, while we walk it over to the half-barrel of herbs where she sets it free. Afterwards, she runs off with her net searching for butterflies through the soft spring grasses and up in the branches of the flowering apple trees. As I watch her run, I think about the traumas she’s faced at such a young age—the fire, numerous moves, COVID, and missed school years. The losses have been difficult, but like the butterflies, Marie soars. “Fly, Fly,” I say.

Kandi Maxwell is a creative nonfiction writer who lives in Northern California. Her stories have been published in Hippocampus Magazine, Bright Flash Literary Review, The Meadow, The Raven’s Perch, and many other literary journals and print anthologies. Learn more about Kandi’s writing at kandimaxwell.com.

Pulse

11 October 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Richard Levine

One morning alone, light came
and I understood everything
in the world belonged to itself.

The sky surrounded a heron,
and from a green curve in the creek
it rose on the broad majesty

of its loneliness and wings.
The noiseless blue paddling
of my pulse, timed it out of sight.

Above me, wind stirred trees
… is it any wonder stringed
instruments sing so sweetly?

Richard Levine, an Advisory Editor of BigCityLit.com, is author of the forthcoming Taming of the Hour: An Almanac with Marginalia from Fernwood Press.

Early Harvest

8 October 2025 / Editor

Nonfiction by Margaret Morth

The print date on the black-and-white’s border says “Aug 60,” and that might well be spot on. Film processing was an extra cost in a household that afforded no extras, and our family photos were taken with deliberation, usually by my father. A roll of film could sit in the camera for quite some time. But here the corn is far enough along that I’m checking it for ripeness, so I’ll call it: late July-early August 1960. At that time in northern plains summer when everyone’s taste buds hum in anticipation of the first steaming platter of yellow-gold corn on the cob.

I hadn’t considered before who took the photo. But now it seems obvious that it was my brother, two years my senior, using the little “Brownie” camera that had mostly replaced the bulky, fussy flash cameras of our 1950s photos, birthdays and Christmas. Dad didn’t want us handling anything that could break or get mussed up, but the Brownie—casual, inexpensive, ubiquitous in its time—was of another, easier-going state of being. And my brother, longer-schooled in how not to upset our father, had access to this companionable camera, and took it out into our little world.

My father and I, together on a summer day. That sounds simple, ordinary enough. Though for us this is a singular moment, and that it was caught out of time is extraordinary too.

I am a month shy of my seventh birthday. My long French braids are pinned up in the warmth of summer. Already evident are the long arms and large hands, mark of the big-boned paternal line that bred me. It’s hard to see, but my father is smiling slightly, maybe talking about the ear of corn I’ve singled out. My face is hidden but the set of my head and my hands about to enfold the chosen ear show an intentness, a seriousness about something important to get right. Dad looks relaxed, pleased even. That in itself makes this a moment apart.

It must have been a Sunday, otherwise he wouldn’t have been with us in the middle of the day and not in work clothes. Still, it seems notable that he’d spend his brief time of leisure with us like that, just hanging out. Maybe that’s why my brother snapped the shutter. Aware of rarity, he documented it.

Throughout my childhood and beyond, “relaxed” was not a word often connected with my father. Later in life I realized that he, like his siblings and parents, struggled with what people didn’t have words for back then. Moody, they’d say, nervous. He’s such a nervous one. That tribe are all moody, you know. The hounds of anxiety and depression stalked them throughout their lives and passed into generations.

But not on this summer day in 1960. I can almost hear him, his voice low and easy: That’s a nice one, peel a little from the top, just a peek. No wonder I was so intent, almost reverent.

Dad is wearing his American Legion T-shirt, white with dark blue accents. Years later I found the shirt in a drawer, long packed away. I asked Dad if I could have it. He seemed surprised but said sure, take it. It was worn pretty thin by then but still up for the beer runs, impromptu volleyball games, and happy hour bars of college life. It had a good second run. I wish I had it now, even the remaining tatters of it.

Since retiring from a career in the nonprofit sector, Margaret Morth is immersed in a long-held passion for writing. Her work has appeared in Under the Sun, The RavensPerch, and TulipTree Review. Originally from North Dakota, she resides in Brooklyn NY, her adopted home of many years.

Autumn

6 October 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Susan Zwingli

I can’t afford to miss
the autumn leaves this year;
my hands, so busy with mend and tear,
eyes blurred by loss
I could overlook
the changing tender veins, leafy points igniting
tangerine, vermillion, golden sparks
as they scatter, trembling,
joyful, even in free-fall
I must not miss their fire
because of my own steady burning;
unearthing ash where once
only vibrant color lived
Soon, frosty windows will frame
the turning, returning, to sacred ground
and I will feel the chlorophyl surrendering, oxygen releasing;
taste autumn’s tangy bitter sweetness;
behold the way falling leaves hold the light
even as they die

Susan Zwingli currently lives in Henrico, Virginia. She holds a BA in English, an MA in Spiritual Formation, and writes about nature, relationships, spirituality, and life beyond loss. Susan’s poems have been published by the One Page Poetry Anthology (2023/2024) and The Bluebird Word (2024).

Overheard, an offering

3 October 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Michelle Hasty

The line of us waits silently for the audiologist
Leaf green chairs face closed white doors
We seem ordered according to age and startle
When a mechanical voice shouts at us
From someone’s purse saying that she has reached
Her destination and the owner of the phone
Stops the sound, shakes her head, and says
She’s asked her son to quit with the technology
But he tells her she must join the 21st century
I’m here, she says, giggling, I just don’t know
What to do here. The line of us giggles with her.
Silence broken, a pair to my left discusses ailments.
It’s always something, one says.
I can’t hear the specifics—this is why I’m here–
But I catch a phrase from the other: I can’t really complain,
She says. The phrase catches me up short: I can complain.
I don’t want pink plastic devices attached to my ears
When I’m barely fifty. The possibility of a piercing
Shriek emanating, of my body beeping, I’m here!
Seems like a good reason to complain. Wasn’t I just
In middle school forever scrambling on the grass
Searching for lost contact lenses, or praying in ballet class
That the sound of music would cover my knees cracking?
A white door opens and a wobbly woman emerges,
Sinks into an empty chair at the end of our line.
Dizzy, she mutters. Getting crackers, the technician calls
Bustling past us, using her badge to exit the corridor.
The woman who can’t complain digs something
Out of her purse, holds a cupped hand to
The one who is dizzy, and asks, would you like a peppermint?
I am grateful to have heard this offering.

Michelle Hasty is a professor of education living in Nashville, Tennessee. Her academic writing has been published in literacy journals, such as Voices from the Middle and The Reading Teacher, and her short story, “Prone to Wander,” was published in the Dillydoun Daily Review. She is new to poetry writing.

A Half-Decent Guy

1 October 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Brian C. Billings

He always went off half-cocked—

left every party halfway through
because he only half knew anybody,

half convinced himself he was a genius
(but half forgot how to prove it),

took the better half of a day to go anywhere
and the worse half of a night to leave,

drank his morning coffee half ready
and his evening drinks half mixed,

never took more than half a chance
when acting on his own behalf,

bought about half of the small lies
while halfheartedly believing the big truth,

tossed away his relationships half done
whenever his love had half begun,

acted like a halfwit more than he should
(while maybe half understanding why),

stayed half on track when the job mattered
and went half astray whenever it didn’t,

ran over half the world to find himself
and half killed himself when he couldn’t,

gave the people who tried half a chance
about half the time he worked with them . . .

They say he was a decent guy,
but they don’t know the half of it.

Brian C. Billings is a professor of drama and English at Texas A&M University-Texarkana. His work has appeared in such journals as Ancient Paths, The Bluebird Word, Confrontation, Evening Street Review, Glacial Hills Review, and Poems and Plays. Publishers for his scripts include Eldridge Publishing and Heuer Publishing.

In Praise of the Apple

27 September 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Sheri Flowers Anderson

Even those tasteless ones that taste like water,
those ones with the soft texture

of out-of-season defeat, can be composted,
fed back to nature, reclaimed into the earth.

I prefer the cleansing scent and sweetness, the mild
tart-tingle-crunch of fresh taste in my mouth,

biting into the unpeeled whole of an apple, the
whole of life, just as it is,

delighting in nature’s freshness, in the inspired,
intimate relationship with an apple a day

Surely, I’d fail a blind taste test, these tastebuds
unskilled in differentiating between a Fuji and a Gala,

or a Red Delicious and a Mcintosh. But still,
I’d savor the varying flavors, the firm texture,

my teeth and tongue enmeshed with this simple
thrill, the magnificence, bite after bite.

Sheri Flowers Anderson writes and lives in San Antonio, Texas. Her work has appeared in Atlanta Review, Unbroken Journal, Pensive Journal and others. She’s the author of a poetry collection entitled House and Home (Broadside Lotus Press). When she’s not writing or reading, she’s watching YouTube. Visit: https://linktr.ee/sheriflowersanderson.

Rita and The Thin Man Welcome 1940

1 September 2025 / Editor

Fiction by Lois Anne DeLong

Rita’s feet hurt. She had been patrolling the aisles since the theatre opened at ten that morning. Outside, New York City had begun celebrating the end of 1939 hours ago. But here, in this dark hall, there was no sense of anything new coming into being. And, by the time Rita re-entered the real world, the big moment would be over. 1940 would already be in motion.

Meanwhile, here in the Roxy Theatre, where the walls weep paint from its glory days before the Great Depression, the only meaning time had was how much more of the film was left to unspool. Rita guessed it had perhaps another 15 minutes to go. A different film might have helped the time pass quicker. Down the street, they were showing “Raffles,” starring David Niven as a charming jewel thief. Here it was the day’s sixth showing of “Another Thin Man,” the third installment of a film series that, in Rita’s mind at least, was wearing thin. Really, she thought, how many times can you watch Myrna Loy and William Powell make elegant chit chat?

“Hey, William, I could use a martini about now,” she said under her breath, as Powell, in the guise of detective Nick Charles, was prepping yet another drink on the screen. “Come on,” the fictional conversation continued, “It’s New Year’s Eve, for Pete’s sake. Why does everyone get to lift a glass but me?”

As she braced herself against the wall to take some stress off her aching legs, Rita found herself beginning to doze off. At one point, she barely caught herself from pitching forward onto the threadbare carpet. Like other elements of the once beautiful Roxy, the rug had seen better days. The city may have recovered from the Depression, but the Roxy reaped no such benefits. She brushed a hand across the wall of the small alcove, near the exit sign and the shedding paint fell like leaden rain. Rita was grateful for the job—shift work like this made it possible for her to continue her studies— but it certainly wasn’t the most pleasant place to spend one’s days.

As she lightly stomped her feet to reduce the tingles, she found herself questioning every decision in her young life. She let out a sigh as she acknowledged how much easier it would have been if she had accepted Allen’s earnest proposal and become a New Jersey housewife. Instead, she had chosen to continue her slog toward a degree that did not even guarantee her a job, and a life in one room of a boarding house so small she knew all the intimate details of her neighbors’ sex lives.

The back door of the theatre opened quietly and Charley, the manager, stepped in. Rita moved into the aisle to be sure she was seen. Charley hated it when the staff sat during their shifts. He must have seen her at her post, because he waved vaguely in her direction and then shut the door behind him. A lifelong bachelor, with no family to speak of, the Roxy seemed to be Charley’s whole world, and it was a world he guarded with surprising ferocity. Rita didn’t like him much, but she had to admit he was fair, and everything he asked of his staff was designed to keep the marquee lit. For all this, he had earned her grudging respect in recent days.

Rita walked back a few aisles and as she did, each step reminded how long she had kept her vigil by the exit. She contemplated heading up to the balcony now to get a head start on clean-up. But, there were dangers in the dark up there, from tripping on the stairs to being groped by the drifters who used the balcony as their own personal flophouse. Instead, she decided to sit out the last few frames of the film. Charley be damned, she thought. As she sat down, the rush of blood through her weary legs was as refreshing as one of the ice-cold bottles of Coca-Cola chilling by the snack bar.

A quick check of her watch revealed that 1940 was only seconds away. What would that year hold? And, would she still be celebrating the start of 1941 within these walls? She was too tired to contemplate the answers to such questions. Instead, she watched William, Myrna, and their surprisingly intelligent dog solve yet another mystery. As the credits began to roll, she wondered if Charley might want to have a drink when they finished closing up. There was a New Year to welcome and neither of them had anywhere else to go.

Lois Anne DeLong is a freelance writer living in Queens, New York, and an active member of the Woodside Writers literary forum. Her work has appeared in Dear Booze, Short Beasts, Bright Flash Literary Journal, The Bluebird Word, and DarkWinter Literary Journal.

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