‘Tambourine Man’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Tambourine Man

            An icy cloud blankets the barren trees of central Kentucky. Mounds of brown decay become covered in a blinding sheet that will glisten and shimmer off the sun’s glorious beams when it eventually rises and pokes through that gray fog like a filled water balloon. Both complete and broken icicles tender the roof of a covered bridge, the tin creaking against the wood as a tundral breeze winds through the forest like a forlorn spirit.

            Although it is still dark, and the moon provides more light than the sun does at this current moment, two boys push through the cold. Their meager jackets, the pockets furnished by minor holes and an invasive chill, do poorly to protect against the morning zephyr. Despite the porous weather, perhaps even in rejection of it, one of the boys pulls a small, handheld camera from his pocket. He records the snow falling. The limbs transitioning from brown to white. The hills developing a delicate, translucent armor. He pans between gaps in the wood, capturing tall shadows and distorted shapes, as if searching for something within them. The two boys walk in silence for some time before returning to an RV on the outskirts of the great unknown. There, they will hold onto the past and examine figures in the treeline.

            It was 2013 then. They were filming “The Tambourine Man.” A short found-footage horror film about a fabricated local legend permeating the labyrinthian trees of Danville, Kentucky. Inspired heavily by online mythology of the time period and popular mediums of communication, “The Tambourine Man” was a nauseating collection of innocuous footage collected over a two-and-a-half year span. Intoxicating perspectives conveying abstract portrayals of rural property and urban exploration. The lore behind the being was just as muddled and confused as the adolescent shot composition: contradictory and immature. Six years later, this footage would be lost forever, and, by association, so too would the memories.

            In 2019, a home on the outskirts of Burgin, Kentucky burnt down overnight. The family lost everything. From two dogs and clothing, to easy breathing and childhood. Their lungs heavied beneath black soot and ash, those embers staining their pupils and marking their flesh like cattle. At first, nobody thought much about those lost times, or the lost tapes that preserved them. But as days turned into months, and the years passed by, those are what they miss most about that house. Being able to go back and inhabit who they used to be. Living within those moments like vagrant time travelers in search of some abandoned purpose.

I was a different person then. A complete stranger to who I am now. The memories that link myself and that child feel like fleeting visions from another life, transmitted through dream and packaged by some terrible fog. Really, all I can remember is how cold it was out in those woods. The exact narrative of “The Tambourine Man” is missing, and the footage those boys captured on that frigid morning has become inconsequential. I’ve become separated from the time spent pillaging those beaten trails and mangling intricate cobwebs.

On the rare occasion that we’re all together again, we reminisce on these times. Our tongues act as devices of transportation, muddying our sneakers and polluting our jeans with grass stains and pollen in an instant. Specific moments do come to mind on occasion — trivial fights or comedic bloopers — but the details are half buried beneath plateaus of dirt and bone. Each story contradicts the next and we argue about the truth, distorting the past like expired film spiraling from a dusty reel. Nothing is how it’s supposed to be.

This is why we miss these tapes so dearly. Not because we believe “The Tambourine Man” to be a cinematic masterwork lost before it could be found, but because these tapes were the truth. These tapes were our lives. In lieu of something extraordinary, they became scrapbooks in motion. Moving images depicting our growth. The changing of pitch and the sprouting of facial hair, prepubescent discussions of life and the paltry challenges that came with it. Immature humor and teenage angst. Although the film was about a fictional local legend, it was a complete and earnest documentation of childhood. Our childhood. Images, and memories, that we will never get back. No matter how hard we focus or how deeply we sleep, these moments are lost. Forever. These years exist within a vacuum. A bottomless pit, blacker than night and entirely void.

In 2024, with a new camera, I attempt to fabricate time. I craft my own souvenirs through a fuzzy lens, echoing an accidental entrapment of reality. I fixate on shot composition and lighting. The framing of faces in conversation and staging of missed opportunities. Instead, however, these recordings feel cheap and hollow. They are false rememberings of plastic mannequins and scripted dialogue, no more true than those drunken discussions of nostalgia through toothy, dejected lips. In a few years time, all I will have are these videos. Disconnected from memory, entirely null of context and history.

I return to those central Kentucky woods on another cold winter day. They are different than I remember them being, and their current state forever alters their past form. The paths that we walked all those years ago have since faded into overgrown clusters of serpentine shrubbery and that bridge boasts an illness only contracted through bouts with human touch and time. I can never be certain that this was the road traveled, or that we saw anything of importance within these very trees. I like to think that those videos would help. But, in actuality, they would reveal nothing but our own shrill, impotent voices ricocheting through an abyss of jagged limbs, fearful beasts, and a stark, domineering cold. No matter how often we return, or how firmly we squint into the darkness, those kids are gone. There is nothing out there. Nothing for us in these woods.

Daniel Ungs is a twenty-three year old writer from Danville, Kentucky. He recently earned his bachelor's degree from Western Kentucky University where he studied English and Film. While attending WKU, Daniel published several works in undergraduate literary and academic journals, such as Zephyrus and The Ashen Egg. He was also the recipient of several creative writing awards at the university, including the Wanda Gatlin Essay Award in 2022, the Dale Rigby Essay Award in 2023, and he took home first place in the Mary Ellen and Jim Wayne Miller Celebration of Writing Fiction Writing Contest in 2023. Instagram: @danielungs Writing Blog: onbusterpike.wordpress.com

‘Montauk’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Montauk

The sky bled pink
Upon the dark blue blanket
That made it’s way as far
As my eyes could gaze.

The high hill’s side
Stretched to the red eye
In the sky, the sandy land
Hand in hand with the cosmos around it.

That’s when I realized the eyes
Were not really bleeding,
They were weeping at the evening
They formed, yet would always long for.

The sun could see the beach,
The shadows that reached deep into the sea,
And the love affair between Neptune and her earthly lover,

But the masterpiece that she weaved
The pinks and blues that could swallow the view

Of me and everyone who could gaze at her and the ocean
Would forever be a stranger to her..

She may never see it,
But the world she infused with her magic
Reacted with the salty sea,
To create a piece better than anything by O’Keeffe.

I fell in love with this scene,
I would love to take the blanket with me
But she does not belong to any one being,
But I’ll still love all I have seen.

My only wish would be
To show her the same lovely eve
She bestowed everyone and me.

Thomas Tobin is a 19 year old poet from the New York metropolitan area. In the last year, he has become heavily involved in the Columbus poetry scene.

‘I Am the Undertow’, ‘My Memories Live in Ashtrays’, ‘The Sand That I Am’, ‘Serene Storms’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

I Am the Undertow

The birds sing above me

urging I retreat

as I swim breaststroke

in a river

that cannot project me

forward

In my peripheral vision

I notice her

diving beneath the surface

plunging deep into

temptation

before reasoning

can circle overhead

I do not swallow

more than a mouthful of air

before I find myself

barreling down her trajectory

abandoning my

airborne adversaries

Submerged in the passion

of my pursuits

the song of the warblers

is drowned out by

the sloshing of seduction

relentless in its efforts

to overwhelm my eardrums

My Memories Live in Ashtrays

In the comfort

Of my living room

I light up

Might as well

Inhale these toxins

To rid myself of

Others

With each drag

There is a greater

Demand to

Withdraw

But I must

Poison the grief

That sits

In my lungs

A tray beside me

Holds discarded ends

Of recollection

There they live

Trapped in soot

Covered creases

A reminder of

Memories that

Never finished

Burning

The Sand That I Am

It is sand that

Rains down glass

The beads

Of an hour

Dropping to

Their death

As am I

For I too

Am sand

Measured by

The minute

Often stuck

In unreachable

Crevices

Once I was

Stone

But I was

Broken down

Weathered

For the better

I am still unsure

It is sand that

Serves

As a vessel

For rebirth

Is this

The sand

That I am

Serene Storms

I awake to

summer’s storm

pecking at my window

in the early hours

of morning before

the sun tries to

peek from behind

clouds concealing

its shine. A calm

washes over with

the rain tapping

on roof shingles,

creating a concord

that coincides with

rumblings of the earth.

There is no light aside

from brief illuminations

casting shadows

of shaking trees

on shutters bearing

the wind’s rage.

Calamity prevails

outside, but within

my heartbeat settles.

I am delighted by

this interlude.

Alyssa Troy is an English teacher in Bucks County, Pennsylvania. She received her B.A. from Rider University and has an M. Ed. from both Cabrini and Eastern University. Her poems are published or forthcoming in Blue Unicorn, Cool Beans Lit, In Parentheses, 300 Days of Sun, The Road Not Taken as well as other journals and magazines. She is the author of Transfiguration (2020).

‘On the Gobi’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

On the Gobi

steaming goat’s milk
&, supple buuz dumplings
as sunlight streams through
the ger: there are camels
to be milked, floor to be swept
cattles and horses to be attended
before dusky sunset
when gobi is painted crimson
& we dance in the fading light

Erin Jamieson’s writing has been published in over eighty literary magazines, including two Pushcart Prize nominations. Her poetry chapbook, Fairytales, was published by Bottlecap Press and her most recent chapbook, Remnants, came out in 2024. Her debut novel (Sky of Ashes, Land of Dreams) came out November 2023.

‘Call for Navigation’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

call for navigation

I should hire someone to memorize
the streets in my city,
my hometown that i never learned
my way around, I still find strange
sounds that could be gunshots
or could be shouts,

I should figure out which
intersection holds that
ironic embassy, learn the location
of the closest grocery store,
maybe I’ll speak to the manager
get all the labels torn off the food

so I don't have to look at them

maybe I should buy a house
or get a ride, I don't think
walking tired and sleepless for
hours is good for my heart,
it's not good for my bones to
be lost in my head,
someone should tell me what
to do, who to speak to, to buy
myself a life, I thought I was
taught everything I needed
to know but somehow still ended
up back home, now it doesn't

feel right.
here, see this flier just posted, covered
in the most nostalgic, happy
polaroids I could find
in my two pockets, advertising a
position as a navigator.
advertising a position
to hold the taxi door for the
better things that always drag behind
but can never walk through in time.

Chris Taylor is a young writer of poetry and prose, hoping to connect with others through their own experiences as a queer person and as someone with mental illness. Their free time is filled with family, their dogs, and electronic and alternative music.

‘On the Verge’, ‘Heredity’ & ‘Galveston Bay’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

On the Verge

I discover myself on the verge of an unusual mistake,
whether or not to lean in to the breeze and simply
be carried away on one wind or another to some place
or another where little girls and their mothers sip
nectar from bright white blossoms and there is beauty
in the simplicity of a spear of summer grass.

And it is this that sits, itching at my ears:
What has become of the young and old men?
What has become of me?
Where do I end?
Where am I going and where have I been?

And perhaps it is I, not this bird who beats inside
my chest, that is a bit too tame. Crack the bone of
my breast and peel back the sick and the hurting
and let this one stretch her wings, and maybe
she will be carried away on one wind or another
and I will find myself set down beside my mother,
her soul cool and composed before the horizon
of a million universes.

Heredity

I am half my mother, sipping sadness in the shadow of the moon, but I am not half my father, not
his fists nor his frown.

The other half I am something else, world-rich, filling myself up with all of the things I am not: a
handful of cigarettes, a mouthful of pills, a glass of cold water, a condom, a cat sitting on the
sidewalk corner.

Galveston Bay

What a waste that you came to this slum of a place where we dance and we chase and we drain
out the lake of the grapes and the gray haze of last summer’s grace, where we laugh and we rage
and paint shame on our face, where the girls all in lace with their gay little gaits place a handful
of snakes in a vase and take eight ripened dates off a plate. They wait with their hair all done up
in braids, but the dates taste like paste and the snail on the doorstep is late to the race so they’ve
wasted a day waiting ‘round for their fate. In the garden they’ve taken the down-the-road saint
and hung him by his hands from the spoke of the gate, pinned him in place with a nail made of
jade while they pray and burn sage and it rains in the glade. He goes up in a blaze and in the fray
of the flames they’ve mistaken an angel and misplaced their praise so they cry and they bray but
their wails are in vain -- come the morning what’s left is a gray bit of clay.

Mikayla Silkman is a writer and editor from southwest Connecticut. She predominantly writes speculative fiction and poetry, with the occasional foray into the creative essay. She is also an independent copyeditor. Her work has been featured in Western Connecticut State University's The Echo, Catholicism Coffee, The Hallowzine, and the 2023 CT State Literary Anthology. Mikayla is a devout Roman Catholic, an SVT survivor, and a proponent of literature and the arts. In her free time, she enjoys hiking, playing video games, and cooking. She is currently a student of Western Connecticut State University's MFA in Professional & Creative Writing program. She and her husband, Gordon, currently live in Bethel, Connecticut, and have a rescue dog named Oobi.

‘Fallen Gods’ & ‘Ophidian's Tongue’

Fallen Gods

Gods do not fall gracefully and delicately,
With fire and destruction, they crash and burn.
When you spend your life in beauty and power,
You are not given that luxury when you are cast away.
With chains of bronze, you are led away
Faces you once laughed and sang with, now smirk at the opportunity to take your place.
Gods do not fall with grace,
They poison that which surrounds their crater.
When cast from on high, to live with worms in the mud,
You are given no courtesy,
No clothes to hide your divinity.
No weapon to fight off the dogs of hunters.
You are spared none of your gifts, lest you crawl back up.
A God does not land lightly,
Even when falling, a God is grandiose.
The heavens light up, in cheer of your departure.
The cheering of old friends fills the air,
For the gods do not fall gracefully.
You are cast away, to become entertainment until the world unwrites itself.
The golden ichor of their blood, withers, crimson and dark.
Your face loses its perfection, becoming blemished and bruised. Your wings once snow white, fall into darkness, shrouding your once grand beauty.
The perpetual light above your head fades and shatters.
For gods, do not fall.

Ophidian’s Tongue

If I had but a single wish, to beseech the genie, to ask the star,
I would go back, and tell myself,
Not to sip.
The cup you drink from, is poisoned.
He’ll pinch your nose, and tilt back your head.
Drink up.
He’ll whisper soft as rebar and nails.
Little one, you’ll learn
He lulled you into submission,
With each sip from that blasted cup, he bound you,
Tighter and tighter to him.
He said, through him, you’ll fly and touch the sky,
I already know the ending of that story.
So, I’ll clip my wings, and scatter the feathers like autumn leaves.
Because even after all this time, you still think I remember the smell of you,
But it's you who lusts for another taste.

Colin Donnelly is an unpublished writer, looking to start expanding his roots, and gain more experience in the world of publication, with the hopes to someday become a full-fledged author.

‘Chai’ & ‘A Wish of Desire’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Chai

two,
my grandmother bathed me with milk and haldi,
rubbed my skin with atta to remove hair
she said it was to brighten my skin
the one that resembled my ancestors'
the one that resembled the colour of chai.

six,
I was forced to dress up in pink frocks with floral patterns,
small sarees and kurtas with the cham-cham of my payal.
it was to teach me,
it was to make sure I understood how to be appealing.

twelve,
I told my mother to buy me skincare products,
'fair and lovely' always had a place on my dresser.
fourteen,
I was told,
not to wear shorts
to stop hugging my brother

to start helping my mother in the kitchen
to realise I was older now.

sixteen,
I started covering up my body
the dark patches on my skin.
the years of hurt on my arms,
with the kurtas of floral prints.

eighteen,
I found my sweet escaped
the one I had been yearning for
I had everything I wanted
I thought
I was complete
I thought
I now yearned for chai
I thought.

twenty-one,
I started wearing sarees,
with bangles on my hands
I started wearing suits with a red bindi between the kajal-laden eyes.
I started to love myself again,
I started drinking chai again.

A Wish of Desire

If I had a wish, I would wish to experience the minute moments in life
The moment that taught me what happiness meant.
I would return to memories filled with nonsensical chatter,
With little bouts of joy completed with salt caressing my chin.
When I tried to savour my half-melted popsicle in the July air,
Back to basking in the sun during December afternoons.
If I could relive my moments with you.
I would return to diving into the swimming pool,
Giggling under forts of weighted blankets and pillows,
To falling off my bicycle,
To dancing in the rain,
And jumping into puddles that make water splash onto your face.
To meet you all over again
Longing to return to my memories of you.
The memories that leave me blissfully dreaming about you.
The memories that I find to be abstract yet stunning.
In these moments, time stood still
They painted a masterpiece filled with hues of my happiness.

Sehaj Dhingra is a fifteen-year-old high school junior who enjoys writing poetry and wishes to share her work with the world. She writes about her connection with nature and her heritage. Her inspirations include authors and poets including Jhumpa Lahiri, Rupi Kaur, and Maya Angelou. She wishes to showcase her poetry and art in different forms so that everyone may be able to relate to it in one way or another.