Rock Opera

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Rock Opera

Stage stained with sweat and blood,
living artifacts of shows gone by,
crackling chords, blazing strings,
strange power and poise.

Shouting voices on the night air...
Look upon us and raise a light.
We won't be tame.
We won't be bound.

We are crowned with turbo halos,
roaring down back highways
at 120 hot miles per hour.

Our swinging muse arrives,
draped in bell bottoms,
stepping off the night train,
stomping in the vineyard.

The Dionysian crowd roar
thrusts deeply into Aphrodite,
as she chokes them deeply
into ecstasy at death's door.

Lewd carriage ride to change,
blaring harbinger,
rock n'roll trip to freedom,
a world tilting union
of the masses’ battle drums
and revolution's chosen attack.

William Mullin’s poetry, short stories, and guest blog articles have appeared in Half Tones to Jubilee, Riverwind, REAL: The Journal of Liberal Arts, Limestone, Cyclamens and Swords Magazine, Scrittura Magazine, California Quarterly, Off the Coast, On the Veranda, Orange Coast Review, Rune Bear, Rye Whiskey Review, Salmon Creek Journal, Ripples in Space, State of Matter, The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, Theme Park Magazine, Local Wolves Magazine, Startup Nation, Submittable's Guest Blog, and the Institute of Internal Communication's Guest Blog. His novella Miller's Ridge is available from World Castle Publishing. His novella Darius Dimension and the Seventh Pillar of Elpis is available from Alien Buddha Press.

‘Past the Wall’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

past the wall

my king in my queen bed--I ask how much
do you love me?
he unwraps and stretches to the wall
in the corner of my room—our nook
his knuckles rap
the plaster

see this
past it and if you walk on
there will be another
past that one too
and the next
and again

we cocoon

what a way to say so much

Cheney Luttich enjoys write poems and historical fiction. During the day, she's Professor Luttich at Southeast Community College in Nebraska. Off campus, she's having fun being mom and wife, and she's always up for a road trip to a museum, making a new friend, a chat on the front porch, or a giving a lecture about which of the three 19th century bustle periods is the coolest.

‘Fishing’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Fishing

What you cannot bear

is the carp gone slack.

The bright hook, deadly J,

piercing the cartilaginous lip,

and the hollow, papery

sound of its removal,

like a knife tearing through a

delicate Japanese fan.

What’s dismissed, though,

is that elemental struggle

between man and nature;

a strange, primal necessity

pursued to great lengths –

the sudden, violent thrashing

just beneath the water’s

surface; the nearly-invisible line,

taut and thin as a spider’s silk

winking in the dusky light.

I remember fishing with my father

off a stony outcrop in Scituate;

the sleek stripers the color

of twilight, and the bluefish

he didn’t mean to catch

and approached cautiously

with pliers to remove the hook.

I remember, too, wading knee-high

in a muddy Ohio creek and spotting

a long gar swimming toward us

with a face like hedge trimmers

and a mouth full of tiny translucent teeth.

We spent most of the afternoon

in that creek, catching nothing.

For toilet paper, he tore off

the sleeves of his T-shirt. Old

Coke bottles were unearthed,

rinsed off, and carried home

in a plastic bag. They clinked

against each other, causing

hairline cracks and chips.

Some, like memories, shattered.

Derek Kalback is a music teacher in Cincinnati, OH. In his spare time he reads, writes, and spends time with his three daughters and fiancee.

‘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.