‘Trick Or Treatment?’ & Collected Poems

Johnny Tang (b. 1985) is a fine art photographer specializing in a surreal and cinematic brand of imagery. Johnny began his creative career as a break dancer, before going on to receive his BFA in photography from Savannah College of Art and Design (SCAD). Johnny’s recent exhibitions include: Any Shape or Form at Upstream Gallery, Counter Weight at Brooklyn Bridge Park, and Skeleton Crawl Pop-Up Gallery in East Williamsburg. When he is not being published by the likes of: Neocha, Daily Mail, VSCO, or Slant’d. Johnny also works commercially, having worked with clients such as Red Bull and Sony Music.

Trick Or Treatment?

Eye of newt

Toe of frog

Wool of bat

Tongue of dog

Dragging feet, shoulders slumped

I trudge through the apothecary

Clutching a chicken-scratched paper

With white-knuckled desperation.

Navigating the maze of syrups, pills, and potions

A carousel of herbs, salves, and elixirs

Failed attempts of yore

Spin my splitting head dizzy.

Must history insist on repeating itself?

I’ve long grown tired of this song and dance.

But the luxury of surrender is not for the ill fated

So I persist in pursuit of my great white whale.

I weave between the uniform rows of remedies

empty promises and warnings I cannot afford to heed.

Rigid arms full of alchemy, I approach the swindler’s till.

Joints crackling with each arduous shuffle.

I draw a weary smile from my depleted fuel reserve

Only to find apathy where his human face should be.

I offer my pocket for the picking, as is custom.

Homeward bound again, I depart with my bag of tricks.

Eye of newt

Toe of frog

Wool of bat

Tongue of dog

Cloudy With A Chance Of Pain

I remember the percussion on my nursery window.

Nature’s cradlesong coaxing me to forfeit,

My stubborn embargo on sleep.

I remember the umbrella adorned with princesses.

How I longed to see the first drizzle of fall and,

The covetous faces of my cohorts.

I remember how storms disrupted classroom tedium.

“The kids are in rare form today,” teachers said,

barking futile protests at our revelry.

I remember asking him to kiss me in the downfall.

The foreshadowing was lost on me back then,

A lovesick Pollyanna I recall with lenity.

I remember me before I was a paper marionette.

Before the atmosphere controlled my strings,

and a puddle could dissolve me.

I remember the girl I was before the feeding frenzy.

Before nimbostratus clouds were Megaladons,

their jaws extended to mangle my body.

I remember Thunder’s power ballads from before.

Before he stopped composing serenades for me,

replacing songs in my head with screams.

That familiar aroma wraps me in a quilt of nostalgia.

A perfume of celestial waters and terrestrial soil,

Now a bitter-sweet memory of when I loved rain.

Maladaptive

As of late, much of my time is spent 

Wanting

In a way that feels akin to 

Waiting

But not for some unrequited love—pining, 

Or for sunshine on a dreary day—longing, 

Not even for a warm embrace—yearning.

Day in and out, I sit in my bedroom utterly 

Wantful

But not upon a star—wishful, 

Or the eye of God—watchful, 

Not even from memory—wistful.

I want in the ways I did as a child:

My neighbor’s wind chimes, 

My best friend’s kaleidoscope, 

My music teacher’s bamboo rain stick.

No green envy, 

No spoiled silver spoon, 

No red hand to catch stealing.

My want resides in my innocence, 

Worships at the Cathedral of Destiny, 

Works overtime in my daydream factory.

I’m a student anticipating graduation, 

The owner of an arriving merchant ship, 

An expectant mother in her third trimester.

My kismet wanting waits at the ready, 

But for what I’ve forgotten.

I fear no degree or riches, not even a baby 

Will satiate this want of mine.

I fear ceaseless waiting.

So, perhaps I’ll retrace my steps back to 

The bamboo rain stick, 

The kaleidoscope, 

And wind chimes,

To rediscover vibrations, colors, and sounds 

Where my soul first saw its reflection.

Maybe what I want is a looking glass.

Whale Fall

There once was a lone

Blue Whale

separated from her pod,

roaming icy waters like a

satellite in space.

Sick and starving

she called out into the ether,

a swan song

for an audience of none.

Upon her final breath

her Titanic body fell silent

sinking slowly towards

the seafloor

where she would find

her final resting place.

But from her demise

came generations

of thriving creatures

who dwell in the barren

ocean depths.

Octopus, crabs, and eels

attended her grand feast.

Leftovers enriched the

surrounding sediment.

Colonies of invertebrates

settled in her bones.

Her fallen flesh

nourished an entire ecosystem;

a legacy transcendent,

a purpose resurrected.

Strong Meat

The most tender parts of me

lay upon a butcher’s block,

sprawled across the rings

of an old tree round.

We have this in common,

the tree and I—

chopped down from where

we once stood tall.

Shall I, too, be reborn

into something useful?

Maybe my good bits will be

Frankenstein-ed together,

reimagined and made anew.

But then, what is to become

of my discarded offal?

It’s probably for the best;

trim the fat and toss the scraps

so that I may be beautifully plated

and palatable.

But I’m starting to think

it would be far less painful

to be put out to pasture.

Alexandra Nimmo is an actress (GTA Online) and self-taught emerging poet from Nashville, TN. Her debut publication was recently featured in The Rising Phoenix Review and Alexandra is currently working on a full-length poetry collection about her chronic illness journey. https://linktr.ee/lexinimmo

‘Yew’

Leah Oates has B.F.A. from the Rhode Island School of Design, an M.F.A. from The School of the Art Institute of Chicago and is a Fulbright Fellow for study at Edinburgh College of Art in Scotland.  Oates has had solo shows at Black Cat Artspace, Susan Eley Fine Art, The Central Park Arsenal Gallery, Real Art Ways, The Brooklyn Public Library and at the MTA Arts and Design Lightbox Project. Oates has been in group shows in Toronto at the Gallery 1313, Propeller Gallery, Gladstone Hotel, Arta Gallery, John. Aird Gallery and Papermill Gallery.  Oates has been in numerous group shows in the NYC area at Wave Hill, Edward Hopper House, Chashama, WAH Center, Metaphor Contemporary Art, Denise Bibro Fine Art, Nurture Art Gallery and The Pen and Brush Gallery. http://www.leahoates.com

Yew

A breeze tickled bare feet abandoned by their blanket

The window wasn’t open before
unless she had forgotten

Forgotten to close it?
impossible
forgetting was something she had forgotten how to do

A breeze pushed the strands across her face and into her mouth
She turned, tucked her feet beneath the covers, and allowed the loving arms of Sleep to
embrace her once more

Light
Light expanded in a ring as if an angel had decided that she should sleep no longer

The chill draped over her like a poncho left in the car overnight as she sat up straight in bed

The room has become so frigid
Perhaps the heater broke

The room had not turned cold, however

as there was no room to turn any temperature whatsoever

Eyes darted left and right and up and down and left again then straight ahead and down to
ensure the existence of the bed and back to the right

Nothing but eyes moved for minutes

hours

days

The gaze wandered from tree
to
tree

Trees?

yes trees.
yew trees.

yew trees in a ring not unlike the light that continued to radiate behind her eyelids, only
visible when she blinked

The space within the tree ring was void of all life, save for the fallen needles that were
decaying beneath layers upon layers of their brethren and - of course - her

They do make for quite comfortable flooring

Perhaps soon she too would decay like the needles
Slowly rotting away, previously supple flesh drying and cracking as it stretches across
muscle-less bones

Perhaps I will wait until tomorrow to decay
It feels like an awful lot of work to do right now

She nudged herself off the bed and pressed her feet into the springy bed of needles that
threatened to stab her delicate arches if she stepped incorrectly.
A small spider skittered a c r o s s the top of her right foot, which her eyes
f o l l o w e d with enthusiasm

Why hello, friend

The spider stopped, now appearing like a poorly-done tattoo of a star just
below her big toe

no
it was a tattoo...

Has that always been there?

But she blinked
And the tattoo was a spider once again
Or perhaps not

It was buried beneath her skin like a tattoo would be, as if it were ink that had come to life

s h i f t i n g and w g l n

i g i g across her big toe’s knuckle

Oh poor thing...
Perhaps I have a fly to gift you

She patted her hips and backside, but her nightgown had no pockets,
and no pockets meant no flies

Upon seeing her lack of foodstuffs, the spider continued on,
peeling himself from under her skin,
burying himself in the yew needles

Left foot forward – (be careful of the spider, do not crush him)
Right foot back - no - forward

Oh! A mushroom!

The small white bulb stuck out from beneath the floor, perched on a thin white stem
It may as well have been an oasis in a desert, glimmering in the faint light of the moon among
an arid sea of sand
And, on cue, her stomach grumbled, begging her to pluck the mushroom away from its home
in the needles

She reached to it and grasped the stem
All it took was a light pinch and the mushroom sat in the palm of her hand, rolling gently
back and forth as she examined it for any blemishes

it rolled
rolled
rolled

and on the fourth roll its wings unfolded, and a pure white butterfly perched itself on her
fingertips

How delightful!
I needn’t any food when I have such company

So she and the butterfly sat, kneeling on the cushion of needles
She shared her thoughts on the ever-important milkweed plant, and the butterfly argued that
asters were not only a much better source of nectar, but far more lovely than a milkweed of all
things

The mushroom-butterfly soon flew away, having tired of conversations regarding the benefits
of various flowers and vegetables

She again kneeled in the needles for quite some time

For how long?

Only God knows

She reached her hand beneath the yew and clutched a handful of the dead and dying

As she allowed them to

f
a
l
l

her hand went with them
having become needles itself

That wasn’t nearly as difficult as I had expected
How strange it is

To feel nothing where my hand once was
I can almost still bend the fingers

It was then that she realized that everything from her feet to her knees had become a lovely
pile of freshly-fallen yew needles that her thighs sat upon like a throne
with the support of her lower legs having become a long-lost memory, she resorted to laying
on her back, examining the stub of her arm that was not quite flesh

Needles poked their way through the skin of her wrist

Where did the needles stop
Where did the flesh begin

Flesh-colored needles, needle-colored flesh
An arm that was all but an entire branch of a tree

Bark for flesh
Needles for flesh
Flesh for wood
Flesh
Flesh

Wasn’t that a word just a moment ago?

She lifted herself up onto the stubs her knees had abandoned and, upon trying to shuffle her
way to another mushroom

Butterfly?
she saw in the distance, found that the stubs had become stumps

Bark became flesh once more

Rooted to the ground
Prepared to grow

I sure hope I will make a lovely tree

She turned her gaze to the sky,
recognizing for the first time just how bright the stars were in the center of the ring of trees
The moon sat directly above her, and she felt like a movie star with a spotlight that would
follow her anywhere... if she could move, of course

The stars brightened, glowing more and more until they blocked out the moon completely,
forming a heavenly ring of light that enveloped her in a delicate hug

she y
r e a c h e d k
her arm to the s

to embrace the warmth of the stars

and that’s how her arm stayed
for all of eternity
as a branch of a yew tree
that stood in the center
of twelve others that came before

Before?
Yes, before
Where did you come from
It does not matter anymore
What matters is
What happens
From here on out
Yew belong
With us
Yew are here
Forever
Welcome home

Audrey Hall is a third-year at the University of Utah studying English and French. She has been writing since childhood and has recently developed an interest in experimenting with formatting as a means of storytelling.

‘CURRENT OR CURRENTLY’ & ‘INTO THE SLOW AIR’

Aaron Beck

CURRENT OR CURRENTLY

we stood outside, beneath an oil white residence

as it began to rain.

we could hear the echoes of boys playing

in the almond eyed shade

like a tracing of tempo, back and forth,

willingly spoken to dry eyes.

this killing is an open gate,

it is but a riddle,

is but a book about hope

in memory’s negative.

we might have talked but we found

it unattended, a personless

city made only of wood and words

and stone, and there’s

an ash in the air at night now, among the rows

and rows of almond trees.

I kept thinking, as I listened to the careful

clicking of your tongue

on your teeth, that your hair is not brown,

so much as it might be

a purified bursting, a system crashing,

a forging of the purely spacial

into a structure so much like a world.

INTO THE SLOW AIR

you’ve looked away
as a barbarian stranger looking,

your voice clotting in words
other than english,

full of departures,
barbed half-light across

your face taken up by sleep,
your words knotting

like weedy grass.
blackened sticks lie in fireplace.

this language wrenching already,
this light seemingly apart

from mine in the open globe
of dawn verging on pale roseate.

its snowing again
and I can’t get around it,

the molecule of its own cloth
cresting again and drawing out.

the coffee drips
and the snow comes.

you’re looking out at me
and there’s a feeling in it, of it.

Samuel Gilpin is a poet living in Portland, OR, who holds a Ph.D. in English Lit. from the University of Nevada, Las Vegas, which explains why he works as a door to door salesman. A Prism Review Poetry Contest winner, he has served as the Poetry Editor of Witness Magazine and Book Review Editor of Interim. A Cleveland State University First Book Award finalist, his work has appeared in various journals and magazines, most recently in The Bombay Gin, Omniverse, and Colorado Review. His chapbook Self-Portraits as a Reddening Sky will be out soon from Cathexis Press.

‘Jessica’, ‘Timide’, ‘Where 28th Ave & 38th St. Meet’, &‘Orange Socks’

Sherri Harvey is an educator, freelance writer, photographer, and eco storyteller. She travels the world for projects that tell the stories of an environment in crisis and the people helping to save it, especially women. Over the past few years, she lived with a sociocracy struggling to find solutions for the water crisis in Spain, traveled to villages throughout West Africa learning about the plight of women in remote villages, worked with Orangutan Odysseys in Borneo to highlight the crisis of deforestation and orangutans, and followed a vet crew around the island of Phuket to create the documentary film, Accidental Advoctes in Phuket. The power of stories can unite cultures, share communion, and promote eco-change. Please see www.sherriharvey.com or @sherricoyote for more info.

Jessica

The cigarette hung effortlessly from your lip while tuning your antique guitar.
I wasn’t sure if I felt desire, envy, or admiration.

Noticing my shivers you pulled your sweater over your head with hair lighter than gold
falling back onto your shoulders and handed it to me.

I had never seen a girl so cool at this point in the 16 years of my life, let alone to be
sharing a smoke with her.

I don’t remember what we did that night - what we listened to, watched, or talked about.
I only remember when leaving you handed me a CD to listen to. It was Burt Bacharach’s
Greatest Hits.

Trying to return your sweater you gestured for me to keep it and said it looked better on
me anyway. So I did.

I listened to that CD until the scratches made it skip and I wore that sweater until the
threads became tattered.

And I loved it.

Timide

“Life’s too short to be shy,” you said, sounding as French as ever while we slurped our
soups in Chinatown.
Sure I knew what that meant but I don’t think I understood it until years later.
Somewhere between shit-talking acquaintances and browsing the cheap trinkets on
Bowery St.
I decided to let you in.
And even though I couldn’t give you everything you needed - we mutually taught each
other how to care for someone else again.
That it was possible.
I may have been too shy to say this back then, or trying too hard to look tough in my
denim jacket.
But I have never been so cold or so scared as I was on the back of your motorcycle as we
flew across the Williamsburg Bridge home.

Where 28th Ave & 38th St. Meet

Sometimes when imagining the future,
you’re still there.
Well a version of you, this is.
Your face is different -you- are different.
But somehow I still know it’s you.
Mostly because of the way it feels.
Similar to the predictable comforts of singing a favorite song or the reruns of a familiar
sitcom.
This new version of you can pick up where the last one left off.
Damages I’ve acquired over the years since don’t go unnoticed.
*You dress my wounds with grace.
The kind of grace that only someone who’s been through the same hell can provide.
*You listen to my fears with sorrow.
The kind of sorrow that accompanies guilt knowing that you helped create this.
*You hold me with tenderness.
The kind of tenderness that only an old lover and friend can offer as it’s adorned with
care.
But maybe it’s not you.
Maybe I just want to feel that again.
The wholeness that came with being one-half of two.

Orange Socks

I felt her standing over me before she even spoke.
‘What are you looking at?’
Turning down my music I explained that - the reservoir is swarming with spiders whose
webs sparkle in the chain-linked fence at sunset.
‘Cool.’ She smiled.

Watching you walk away I wanted to tell you that I thought it was cool you weren’t
listening to music. And that I imagine you are comfortable sitting in the silence of
yourself.

Instead, I said, “I like your socks.”

Katarina Behrmann, a Los Angeles-based creative spirit and author, has a rich history of literary achievements. Her creative journey boasts the production of her stage play off-Broadway, with a segment featured in the Progenitor Art and Literary Journal. Her latest triumphs include the publication of a creative non-fiction piece in GreenPrints, a highlighted blog on Humans of The World, and a personal essay showcased on Drunk Monkeys. Head in clouds and heart on her sleeve, Katarina continues to create.

‘Church Closed For Storm Repairs’, ‘Polyphemus’, ‘Ghazal on Hauntings Within One Hour's Drive’ & ‘Dear Cole Sear’

Dylan Hoover (he/him) is a fiction writer from Erie, PA. He graduated in 2023 from Allegheny College, where he earned a BA in English and Creative Writing. During the heart of the pandemic, he studied abroad at Lancaster University in England. There, he unearthed interests in British culture, as well as a passion to write historical fiction. Dylan’s fiction has appeared in Wilderness House Literary Review, and his forthcoming photography in Great Lakes Review. He currently is a second-year MFA student at the University of New Hampshire. Instagram: dylhoov96

Church Closed For Storm Repairs

The names of the deacons and their wives
Were claimed by the hurricanes each year.

Rows of saplings in plastic pots on the roadside
Waiting patiently to be freed from their ropes
And rewarded with a hole in the red clay.

Nobody left to protest how the empty pews
Grew in number, starting from the front.

The preacher joked that nobody liked him,
And the laughter sounded like a wet cough.

Anything not tied down will be blown away,
Cut down, collected into piles, and burned.
The saplings never had a chance to take root.

They could not grow in the shelter of your shade,
Not when you refused to wear a damn mask.

Even as you you lay dying on a hospital bed,
The children you raised still refused to visit you.

It is easy to believe that, in the right conditions,
They would not only grow, but they would flourish.
Your seeds sown on hard ground and in weeds.

The children, the sons and daughters, they
Followed the storms, and they did not return.

When the tube in your throat finally fails you,
Who will replace you when you are gone?

Empty holes in the grass. Empty plastic pots.
At the tree farm, the next generation of saplings
Waits patiently to be carried away by the wind.

The names of the deacons and their wives
Remain unclaimed by your children's children.

Polyphemus

You did not notice how the distance
Between sidewalks rivaled the vast seas
Beneath the shadow of the four-way caution light
Until Odysseus put out your eye with a sharpened stake.

Now, you cannot help but feel it,
The truncated yellow domes
Of tactile pavement beneath your feet:

How it has worn thin over many years,
And how often it ends suddenly in curbs like seaside cliffs;
How often you find the sidewalk cracked and broken,
And how often it breaks into fields of tall grass and wildflowers.

Your calves itch. Your ankles swell. Your toes hurt.

You cannot help but notice it, now—
How this town is built for you, no longer.

There is no ramp leading to the post office doors,
And the doors do not open wide enough for your wheelchair.
They will not deliver to your home unless you meet them at the door,
But they hang a note from the handle before you can reach them.

You miss your cavern, your goats, your ewes, your sheep,
Your land where you lived off wild wheat, barley, and grapes,

But you cannot own these things and still qualify for disability.

Your sheep wonder where their master has gone,
And why he is not there to protect them
As the wolves draw nearer,
As strange men carry them to their boat.

Only you knew them by name.

Ghazal on Hauntings Within One Hour's Drive

Still alive and breathing, this town's ghosts,
Who to haunt by skin and blood, these ghosts.

The old theater's seats, folded after close—
In the front row and balcony, well-behaved ghosts.

On park benches and statues, the bronze plaques boasts
Of the founders and fosters, the right sort of ghosts.

On park benches and statues, the town sign boasts
Of a famous football player, the right sort of ghosts.

Skeletons found beneath an old wooden post,
When we replaced the porch, unnamed ghosts.

The words on their lips, like a curse, almost,
Still alive and kicking, the ones who made ghosts.

Their house burned down, both residents, toast,
Nothing to be done for those queer ghosts.

Unnamed the lovers so happily engrossed,
All the paramores of misguided ghosts.

Doubly dead, the gravestone boasts
Call a woman a witch, the heathen's ghost.

Even for themselves, they refused to be dosed.
Still alive and coughing, the soon to be ghosts.

The surgeons in the choir hall, unholy host,
Only whites allowed to be haunted by ghosts.

For all the people who the ghosts hate the most:
No place in this town for those unwanted ghosts.

A Crowe on a tombstone makes a nest for a ghost.
We can't afford to leave. No escape for us ghosts.

Dear Cole Sear

A ghost is a kind of demon
That cannot be exorcised
Because it lives inside of you.

I sat with a stranger on a bench,
And they told me it reminded them
Of that scene in that movie
With that boy and that man.

He laughed: Do you see dead people?

I have seen people who are dead inside.

People your age, why so obsessed with death?
Don't you know how good you have it?

No, it is an obsession with tenses. Participles.
We spent our childhoods learning the water cycle.
We spent our adulthoods watching it in action.
How states of matter could change so quickly.

Lake Mead's elevation has dropped by 140 feet.

Florida's coast has risen by eight inches.

I watched six people die with tubes in their lungs.

There is an entire generation
Trying to convince me
These things are not related.

You're too pessimistic,
He tells me, and then he
Vanishes.

CS Crow is a storyteller from the Southeastern United States with a love of nature and a passion for writing. He believes stories and poems are about getting there, not being there, and he enjoys those tales that take their time getting to the point.