‘Forgotten Histories from Ancient Texts’, ‘Peddler of Lies’, ‘Lux Leaena’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Forgotten Histories from Ancient Texts

{Fragment 1}

The universe is a velvet kingdom
Filled with steam and mirages
And conversations between light and shadow
(being and unbeing)
Matter is Energy’s daydream
As Energy is Matter’s heart

{Fragment 2}

Do not be afraid
There is no such thing as the Void
All is filled and all is wanting

{Fragment 3}

Each one who ever was share
the same spirals of ingredients
reflecting galactic helixes
filled with steam and mirages

Peddler of Lies

Lies, lies
You can get them here
All kinds of lies,
I make ‘em fresh right here.

Oh, you don’t think you need them?
I hardly think you’ll do without.
How about a pack of

Penny lies,
We have your
“I’ll be right theres,”
your “it’s alrights,”
your “how interestings,”
your “beg your pardons...”

Oh, stopped you in your tracks, have I?
Let me tell you a secret.
I myself, I never lie.
Don’t sample the goods myself, you see.

Come, now,
See what else I’ve cooked up.
Sweet lies,
Whoppers,
Convenient excuses,
Self-delusions,
Embellishments big and small.

All the way up to niche items
statistical fudging
Financial finagling
False advertisement
They’re not everyone’s cup of tea.

If you’re willing to pay,
Behind the curtain, I’ve got
propagandas and grand conspiracies,
I’ll show them just to you.

Ah, you’ve made your choice, I see?
My, my, what a situation
you’ve got yourself in.

How delicious.
Of course, as standard,
regret comes free with every purchase.

Lux Leaena

All this gladness is roaring
A protest against darkness
Fireworks in the abyss
Confetti riding curls of smoke
I am a lioness of the light
Stalking shadows
Swallowing them whole

Ashley Williamson is an American poet living in the inspiring English Lake District. She holds an Undergraduate of Creative Writing at Oxford University. When not writing, she works as an industrial radiographer for a small family business in the aerospace industry. She wanders the Lake District, rock collecting and painting. Her poetry is featured in Ephemera, Liminal Spaces, Cathexis Northwest Press, La Piccioletta Barca, The Festival Review, and others.

Thoughts

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Thoughts

I thought the wicked wind would make you remember the warmth we shared.

I thought the dead leaves would remind you of what happened to us.

I know summer does not last forever.

But with you,

It felt like it could have defeated autumn. 

I thought, oh I thought, how wrong was I?

I thought your heart would ache with each step you took to walk away. 

I thought you would try to make our final embrace last longer. 

The thoughts of you fetter my mind.

I wish you took all of you.

If only you did, silence wouldn't be so loud.

The thoughts of you wrap around me like a jacket.

I burned all of it, but the ashes remained, and I never felt more cold.

I thought you would try to follow your heart and not your brain.

I thought the moment someone touched your hand, you would rush back into my arms.

I lost the sound of your voice;

I thought you would have cared. 

But I guess I didn’t know you after all.

Syed Taha Ahmed is a writer based in Toronto, Canada. They have been mainly writing poems and short stories since the first year of college, after losing someone that year. Syed is currently studying Psychology and minoring in English. When Syed is not writing, he likes consuming all forms of media. If he is not reading books, he watches movies or looks at art. Syed believes that you can get inspired from anywhere. But he considers meeting new people as the best way to be inspired. Syed has been published in his college magazines. His Instagram https://www.instagram.com/taha_ahmed.28

What You Look Forward To

Photographer - Tobi Brun

What You Look Forward To

Do you smell that?
A charred scent that fills my nose
and draws water from my eyes.

The smoke clogs my lungs,
forcing me to grasp at whatever
air I can find.

Soot hammers my taste buds,
leaving a burnt sensation lingering
in my mouth.

My skin bubbles against my bones
as the heat rages through my body
from cinders that were once trees.

The screams of people fleeing drown out
the blaring sirens of a dozen firetrucks
and the crackle of dancing flames.

A clear accident, planned by those
who deny allegations, who hid their pollutants,
who turn away from the damage they have caused.

A planet killed and for what?
The push for innovation and change
lead only to death and destruction.

Do you smell the smoke? Taste the ash?
Hear the screams? Feel the flames? See the end?
This is the future you have to look forward to.

Magdalena Broderick is a 2024 Bridgewater College graduate. She spends her free time reading, writing poetry, and spending time with her horses. She enjoys exploring the idea of how the passage of time affects individuals, society, and the planet in her poetry.

‘It's Funny What People Will Say & Do to Relate to One Another’, ‘The Separation’, & ‘A Sky of Bombs’.

Photographer - Tobi Brun

It's Funny What People Will Say & Do to Relate to One Another

Her purple-hued legs, as long as my fingers
& the tubes that ran throughout her body
were as thick as her pine-needle arms.

When you explain to people
your baby is in the NICU, they never know what to say.
Prattle about a baby they once knew
who survived or read about
in a Facebook post. They preach phrases like normal,
you’d never know, even graduated early, or
only had a hole in their heart to make you feel relieved.
Jostle, how lucky you are & how thankful
you should feel. Your baby will be fine, & these moments
will pass when you can’t hold her, feed her, bathe her,
touch her petal-thick skin that you once grew.

Curious people ask if her eyesight
will be okay & I wonder if oxygen
lines will snake through her nose forever.
Or pry if she will always be so tiny - can she catch up?
All I can think of is that because she was born
so young, she hadn’t learned the reflex of suckling
& swallowing. No matter how many breastfeeding articles I read,
it would never matter as a toothpick-sized orange
feeding tube winds through her nose for nearly 45 days.

It’s funny what people will say &
do to relate to one another.

When in the dark of night, while everyone rests
& IVs streak both of your arms, you cry
with no sound, so nurses or your husband don’t hear
because you should be thankful you survived.
She survived.
But your body feels empty
& your arms pine to hold her
foot-long body next to yours in rough
patterned hospital sheets.

Instead, in the quiet beeps of hospital rooms
you grieve the dreams you had
for your pregnancy, birth, & the beginning

days of her life.
Grief’s like heavy weights
tied to your feet as you learn to walk again,
shuffle one foot after another
to the NICU in the morning light.

The Separation

Before they pulled her wet-slicked being
from my numbed body, they prepped us
we may not hear her cry.

Minutes before, her heart rate dived
to a faint tap & her 3lb body
had stopped moving.

No matter if I had changed position,
sipped chilled water, or however deep
they dug the ultrasound wand into me;

her life-filled body had become lifeless.

As my body rocked back &
forth like a swing in the wind, they carved
through 7 layers of my body.

I shivered from the coldness of metal tools
slicing thick tissue & the nurse to my right
gabbled everything they were doing, reasons why, & I couldn’t hear a thing.

Only thoughts of how
my 7-month-old baby that had grown a part of me
may not scream, cry, feel, or be alive.

My husband rested his hand on my hairnet
& soon we heard little bleats, a wet lamb
dropped in a pasture left to survive.

In a moment, we became two entities
left to laugh, wail, & feel the world’s aches
separate.

a sky of bombs

i can’t help but think
how things would be different if she
came under sky-cascade of bombs
on the gaza strip,
explosions like the uncurling of broken bones
snap in the sky. images of starved babies,
four in one hospital crib
in darkness without electricity & running water.
their misshapen heads, ribs raised
through bodies like the flat
& sharp keys of a piano.

women, like Walaa, their bodies
inside out to give birth on the bitter,
cracked earth between refugee tents with only
her uncle’s wavering flashlight &
vibrations of bombs ricochet. no medical care
& a baby’s limp purple body between her legs
waiting to be starved.

Whitnee Coy has an MFA in Creative Writing from Eastern Kentucky University's Bluegrass Writers Studio, and has taught creative writing throughout the past 13 years at various programs and colleges/universities including at Oglala Lakota College, a tribal college on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation. She have two chapbooks of poetry published "Kintsukuroi" (Finishing Line Press) and "Cicurate" (SD State Poetry Society) and has been published in various literary journals such as "Pasque Petals", "Poem Memoir Story PMS", "Jelly Bucket", and "Havik: The Las Positas College Journal of Arts and Literature".

‘Convivium’, ‘Hylas’, & ‘Antinous’.

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Convivium

Hearing the golden youth play the lyre
I - blushing, joyful - turned to see you
then here with me
but now...

Hylas

You slipped into wretched waters
Led to a bloodied fate by nymphs
deadly, leaving me lonesome,
o forever tender.
By moonlight I, widower, mourn my love
hearing unwillingly those murmurs and sighs
rising from the hellish black depths
very soul aching.

Antinous

The garden flourished with bright birdsong and fragrant herbs
together we laughed and played here.
But the brilliant hour fled
now you sleep, eternally
silenced by the river.

Lee Lanzillotta is a writer originally from Virginia. He is currently based in Rome, where he studies Classics. His writing has been featured in Melissa, Vox Latina, the Gay and Lesbian Review, and Remus. You can find him on Instagram @leelanzillotta.

‘Midnight Voyage’, ‘Method Metamorphosis’, ‘Natural Selection’, ‘Release the Doves’ & ‘No Flash Photography’.

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Midnight Voyage

Head upon my cotton pillow,
bones sinking into my mattress,
I suddenly plunge through my bed,
descending into an infinite abyss,
engulfed by foreign air.
This new oxygen suspends all pain,
so i wear a smile throughout my descent.
Until, in the blink of an eye,
I collide with an ancient, cryptic ship.
Unflinchingly, I gaze up—
to find a pirate with transcendental eyes,
leading me to the fiercely familiar plank,
bearing a tall tale hook for a hand.
He gestures for me to jump,
unafraid, I tread down the creaky plank,
until I reach the end, in awe.
For it’s not water beneath me,
but the limitless midnight sky.
Glancing back to smile at the pirate,
he appears different now,
because that pirate is me.

Together, we grin like the Cheshire Cat,
mimicking the waning crescent moon below.
I mouth the words “thank you,”
while my other half waves goodbye.
Bracing for what’s to come, I step off,
first one foot, then the other,
and before I realize,
I’m swimming in the cosmos,
colliding with the constellations.

Method Metamorphosis

I was born into this world
with one singular purpose;
to perform.
My mother once told me
if I truly wished to, I could change.
But somewhere along the way,
I gave up and forgot
what it means to truly, be alive.
With each subtle movement
I ensnare the ever-cathartic crowd,
as my own life’s crafting slowly slips away.
Until I met her—
the one who effortlessly
broke down my defenses.
Now with a child, something shifts.
In her eyes, I discover a sacred sanctuary;
she becomes my anchorage

where my scripted performances dissolve,
yet I remain cherished.
Fast forward to that scorching August day;
my child, my best friend,
suddenly turns three.
She prances around, playing dress-up,
clad in her tulle wedding dress,
decorated with a pillowcase veil.
Reenacting princess tales,
she runs to me, exclaiming,
“I want to be an actress!”
I now understand my mother’s wisdom,
but I brace myself as I say;
“if you truly wish to, you can.”
“if you change your mind, you also can.”
For the first time,
I breathe in freedom’s taste,
embracing the concept of rebirth,

eternally grateful for my mother’s pivotal words.

Natural Selection

Survival of the fittest—
I stand at the starting line,
No weapons in hand,
Only shaking bones to bear.
When the siren sounds,
My rivals break out running,
Yet I remain still in the mud,
Embracing the end I see coming.

Release the Doves

In many moments,
Life grew scarier than death.
Years of silent torture
Irreversibly stole pieces of me,
Robbed my brightest days,
And seized my innocence too young.
I only want peace
To escape my poisonous brain.
So, if one day I pass
And it is said that my death is not fair,
Do not shed tears,
For it was my life that was not.
And in death's embrace,
I might finally be free.

No Flash Photography

Cynical was the girl,
Who never knew security.
Timid and reluctant, she roamed,
With a wretched heart that grew cold.
Living in a carcass made of glass,
It was so easy to see inside of her.
Weak was the girl,
Who then watched her heart bleed out on display,
Analyzed as if she belonged in a museum.
So, she learned to con the crooks and culprits,
And made a living off her own priceless melodrama.
Wickedly clever was the cynic from the museum.

Nicole Stewart, 21, is an actor and writer based in Southern California. With a background in theater and a love for storytelling, Nicole is also dedicated in the world of poetry to explore different routes of creative expression. She has sharpened her craft through various life experiences and is now channeling that experience into creating her debut poetry book, which dives into themes of contemplation, resilience, and the complexities of human emotions. She hopes to offer readers a glimpse into her world of imagination and emotional layers.

Nous of the Kentuckian

Photographer - Tobi Brun

NOUS OF THE KENTUCKIAN

I. TRIAL VERSIONS

It became a bankrupt summer solstice, lost in
the cool mystical horticulture of
Antietam at night. He could no longer
remember the rush of the market climbing,
cash pouring in, or private equity firms
buying him beer. Caterpillars spilled from
his mouth. It was himself confirmed, just as
he’d always imagined; deodorant caked on,
hair needing cutting, badly injured and
bleeding from a return to physical activity.
He addressed the crowd with the
melancholy of a four-year-old. “All work is
subject to examination.”
This was a week after jury duty.

II. A STATUE TO CALAMINE LOTION ON A NIGHT STAND

A furlong, four rods, and an oxgang
away from a sports bar,
there, outside the walmart was
a statue to the great day traders of
our century
There was grissom, van fleef, and
Mcgillicuddy (ferlinger and podanski were
left out, and for good reason), high above
the dashboard ephemera of a chevy cruze.
Nautical in nature, the honorees careened
Towards the cart return in
high waisted trousers,
a brochure on the teapot dome scandal in their
back pockets.
Two boys were picking pockets when The Real
nightmare began. it was ugly tennis for the
unordained. there were cheesesteaks for
sale nearby. Detached retinas flapped

In the wind.
Van fleef was supposed to be an important
part of the ceremony but came down
with shingles the week before. Grissom
appeared in affordable menswear, that
particularly gut punching aphrodisiac of
the 1980s american middle class.

III. THE ALOYSIUS STATE FORESTRY COMPETITION

For the Aloysius State Forestry Competition
we raised beards, and
drank beer from cans
with fish on the label
in a, sort of,
way to honor our fathers
and brothers and
grandfathers.
I signed my name at the registration table
and it looked like the stitching
on the back of jeans.
Everything seemed possible with the acquisition of
a better chainsaw.
A boy from our lodge with shotgun brass hair stood,
and announced that his family
never owned a brand new car
or took a vacation.
I dabbed engine oil from the corners of my lips
and jangled the change in my pocket.
By the time our competition began
we were all wearing nu-skin and
huffing Christian rock from a canister
on a splintered bench.
Our chainsaw was tuned in to the hum
Of girls with fake I.D.s
and older brothers with drug paraphernalia.
We were victors in our leisure.
A governor gave a speech.

“Congratulations to the new district champions.
May the cheers of this moment help overcome
the noise of rattling plastic in the decade old
Ford Rangers of your future!”
My skin was still wet
while we shook hands
and took photographs with
rich men
who promised a bright future
in the concentration industry.

IV. SPIKES INSTEAD OF CLEATS

Picture this:
1998 is coming to a close
and we are all planning
vacations to Myrtle beach.
NAFTA is still in its honeymoon
phase. The country has fully
transitioned to using the word
spikes instead of cleats
Most of the boys have Chipper Jones
haircuts. The branding for the McDonalds
Arch Deluxe looks like the cover of an
Ayn Rand novel. Several post office dialects
develop under the dayglo eternity of a 7-11
at midnight. All I can pick up is a debate about
the Jeep YJ being the end of civilization.
There are specters yet to come.
Up on the bluff, baseball stadium floodlights
shine like diamonds in a divorce settlement.
Junk mail sweats in the dishwasher steam.
The grocery store is a museum of the food
we ate. Congress lets out soon.
Anyway, Myrtle Beach won’t book itself. It’s
winter and the fake palm trees are wrapped
in plastic. I call my travel agent from a pay phone
used in a regional bank heist. I ask her if there are
any specials. She says only if I’m a member of Triple-A.
Then she cries.

This isn’t unusual for her.
She’s a swimmer with trophies.

J. Peter Progar is a Central Pennsylvania bureaucrat. His work has been accepted to the Bare Hill Review and published in the Journal of Digital Landscape Architecture and Hyphen Architecture Journal.

The Rosary

Photographer - Tobi Brun

The Rosary

The holiness lies
On the repetition
On stating
I am willing to do what it takes
On daring, grounding yourself

A sacred ritual,
The purest of liturgies;
Our sacrifice on the altar

The blood flows deep on the knees
The arms dance for the cross
The mouth sings with the angels

Mary, allow me to do it justice.
Even if that means
Sacrificing myself on your presence

Creating a splash,
A banquet for the Saints
May the Grace of God shine on me.

Anna Correa is a Brazilian immigrant and a computer science student based in Orlando, FL. Anna is an editor for her local school literary magazine called Phoenix, in which she has been featured with the poem ‘The Snake’. She enjoys matcha lemonade late at night.