Hands flow through gestures – half-moon, peacock, flag, mountain-peak, then the body dog-folds and the back like Atlas holds the world in posture.
Noon in the studio. The floor is warm to the toes and palms of those who wish to go into the East, or into a self that will endure, as if
their own world, cleft from shoulder to heel, could be made whole by the crane, the flower, and a stretched, held hour would heal that rift.
Ted Mc Carthy is a poet and translator living in Clones, Ireland. His work has appeared in magazines in Ireland, the UK, Germany, the USA, Canada and Australia. He has had two collections published, ‘November Wedding’, and ‘Beverly Downs’. More here
You won’t recall that ride through the walnuts, one fey afternoon in fall – a city boy on penance in the country, I’d never ridden before. You were kind in a time of rough edges, shared your saddle along spice-scented rows. I swayed behind you, astride your palomino, never more aware of a girl. Heat rose in places where the lines of us blurred, flared when my hand brushed your breast. I almost kissed you when you turned to talk, wish I’d kissed you instead of still guessing just what you meant when you told me not to let go.
Ryan Stone is a freelance writer from Melbourne, Australia. He shares his home in the Dandenong Ranges with his wife, two young sons, a rag doll cat and a German Shepherd. His poetry has recently appeared in Writers’ Forum Magazine, Algebra of Owls, Eunoia Review, Black Poppy Review, Napalm and Novocain, Poppy Road Review and Pyrokinection.
your work which we read with interest particularly liking ‘There’s a marketing opportunity in your desolation’ however we didn’t feel anything was quite right for this issue you may want to consider taking out a subscription at a special reduced price?
Andrew Turner has been writing since 2015. He has appeared in a number of print and online magazines.
Dawn’s wedding was a sloppy one maybe, the usual pinks and gins and sentiment, whole handkerchiefs of tears, brothers and cousins in pinching suits huddling to the rain-swept annexe for a quiet fag. The uncle who’d already that year spread his karaoke slice of Sinatra’s My Way over a funeral and two anniversaries, now, half-cut, got in among the speeches.
After her husband’s accident, Dawn craved simply to care for him, stayed up nights, shivering with him at the fear of death.
Robert Nisbet taught English in grammar and comprehensive schools and then taught creative writing in Trinity College, Carmarthen, where he also acted as professor to exchange students over from the Central College of Iowa. He is the author of over 300 published poems.
Before you left, I said you were too beautiful for me. That much is still true. The wonder I feel when you sit across from me sipping coffee is the same fear that claws up my spine when I think of you in Guatemala now – sharing the afternoon light with some guapo street side, the espresso cup pressed firmly between your capable fingers – or maybe drinking plain ol’ American with another student missing his girlfriend as much as you miss me a candle flame between you its small confession in light – discovering in a mistake of passion that loneliness is what’s uncovered with your hands, its heightened breath on your neck, a touch or two. I know it’s foolish but my life is spent thinking one day, praying the next. I stare at the stained ring in my cup, the bitter grounds stuck mercilessly to the bottom and I suddenly think, hot, black, as if there’s no better way to torture myself. When I drink coffee, I’m really trading one life for another.
Emilio has written two books: a collection of short stories, Why People do What They Do, and a nonfiction narrative, Chasing the Green. He has also written for the stage and screen and has had numerous works produced in New York, Los Angeles, Washington, D.C., and London, UK. His film credits can be foundhere
Her skin is cracked with crows’ feet, her teeth are turning brown, the vibrato in her voice croaks out a heavy velvet sound.
She still wears rusted brick, colonial lace around her collar, her nails are painted murals bright to add a light to squalor.
Her hair: a leafy afro sprouting ringlets from her brain, her veins the winding highways stained with drip tattoos of dirt and rain.
I love to watch her wrinkle, I love to watch her grey. Unlike those teenage glamour queens, she has very much more to say.
Carlyn Flint is a poet and playwright originally from Baltimore, Maryland who now teaches creative expression at a Title 1 elementary school in North Tulsa, Oklahoma. Her work with children informs her writing and fuels her to be socially conscious with whatever she creates.