‘Eyebrows’, ‘Dangerously Distinguished’ & ‘Lonely Chardonnay’

Photographer - Beth Cole

Eyebrows

As my face has been so often close to yours
I’ve seen every freckle and every pore
I’ve noticed little scars even you haven’t spotted
I’ve counted every eyebrow hair you’ve forgotten
And with every stray hair
I seem to love you more
Your face alone
Is stunning to explore

Dangerously Distinguished

you’re dressed in jealously
and I must confess
you look dangerously
distinguished
I’m not saying you must wear it
but sometimes my heart just can’t resist
when we arrive at the party
and it’s covering you from ankles to wrists

Lonely Chardonnay

And I still have that now lonely Chardonnay, the one we were planning to pop on that day. But
I’m popping it now, pretending I was saving it for somebody else. And now when you hope my
icon displays on your little screen, even with that you’ll only know the half of me.

You built that wall, but now you’re attempting to push it back down. Claiming it was a past side
of you; nowhere near who you are now. But after you built your wall, I began building mine, and
I made sure mine would stand skyscraper high.

Mackenzie (Mac) Gellner completed her Bachelor of Communication in journalism at Mount Royal University. Her poetry has been published in literary magazines, such as You Might Need To Hear This, Beyond Words Literary Magazine, WA Magazine and Eunoia Review, along with a short story in Humans of the World. Mac also enjoys photography, with work published in Kelp Journal and WA Magazine.

‘Goblin Mode’

Photographer - Beth Cole

Goblin Mode

Soon, I will be a shadow, your shadow

When candlelight wanes over the warm hearth.

Can moonlight dissolve? My form diffuses,

Cells forge new bonds—a transitive power,

Thoughts tumble through your mind but never flower.

A storm brews, less thunder in sleeping eyes.

Your mouth opes--the secret grows inside,

Dreams sprout, mesmerized. Haunting shapes wait,

Then, I cut the string unraveling Fate.

When the sun rises, my charge is complete:

And the dew drips down pooling at your feet,

While lark’s callus song, dipp’d in revelry,

And the nightingale converts once fervent tune

Before the endless nights of the harvest moon.

If time has passed, your time has passed,

Lock’d eyes can’t dream. A feather hovers,

Rain freezes into ice, not mere alchemy.

If my life force wanes, will I get the same decency?

The world is no longer with you or me,

We fight to live, no chance for decency.

Jonathan Goldman, teacher and master's candidate at Harvard Extension School, is from Los Angeles where he has worked in education for over a decade. Other than poetry, Jonathan also has a wide array of short stories that deal with local social causes in Southern California and hopes to be considered as part of a new movement of Modern fiction. Currently, he's working on a Cozy Fiction portal fantasy called The Little Brown Bird.

‘Another Shot’

Daniel Wood Adams: Based in Austin, Texas, Daniel Wood Adams is a multifaceted creative with a passion for blending visual aesthetics and craftsmanship. As a graphic designer, illustrator, and woodworker, Daniel’s work reflects a unique intersection of artistry and skill. Daniel’s creative journey began with degrees in Illustration and Graphic Design from Pratt Institute in 2012.

Another Shot

Angel looked at the bric-a-brac that hung on the restaurant walls. Rickie examined the label on his beer bottle. Mary folded her arms and leaned back in her chair. Todd shrugged.

“A woman cannot be a feminist and work in a corporation,” Todd said.

“It’s that simple,” Mary said.

“It’s that simple.”

Angel shook Rickie’s arm.

“Look,” she said. “They’ve got a picture of Abraham Lincoln wearing sunglasses. That’s funny.”

Rickie squinted at the wall.

“I just see dogs that look like rappers playing poker.”

Angel pointed.

“See?”

“I do now.”

Rickie and Angel rubbed shoulders as they laughed.

“You know so much about feminism.” Mary leaned towards Todd. Her elbows rested on the tabletop.

“I took a few courses in Women’s and Gender Studies as an undergrad.”

“Women’s Studies?”

“Women’s and Gender Studies.”

Rickie and Angel paused their inventory of kitsch.

“And now you know all about feminism?” Mary spoke in a neutral, almost maternal, voice. “That’s good. I mean it. That’s really good.”

“Bet it helped you get laid in collage,” Angel said. She stuttered a half-laugh then pursed her lips.

“Sweetie.” Rickie raised his eyebrows. Angel shrugged and mouthed, “What am I supposed to do?” Rickie mimed, “Nothing.”

Even though he was sitting, Todd hitched up his pants as if he were getting ready for manual labor.

“There is a difference between feminism and women’s rights,” he said.

“You mean, you see a difference,” Mary said.

“It’s all about the view of the system. Whether the system is good or bad. Feminism is Marxist. The system is rotten and has to change. Women’s rights is like the current labor moment in the US. The system needs tweaking, but in general is OK. Women simply need a chance to participate. In a corrupt system.”

“Fascinating,” Mary said.

“Take Hillary Clinton. Not a feminist. She is all for the system, the neo-liberalism of 90s. She actually sat on the board of Wal-Mart and never spoke out about Wal-Mart’s anti-union activities. Very aggressive activities, I’ll add.”

“I can’t stand the Clintons.” Mary flinched.

Angel sat up straight in her chair.

“You know what I’d like do to?” she said.

“But the Clinton’s views on the world still represent both parties, pretty much.” Todd raised his eyebrows.

“What?” Rickie said.

“The Clintons are irrelevant.” Mary shared a knowing glance with Todd.

“They have deep fried deviled eggs here.” Mary made eye contact with everyone at the table. “I want some.”

“The Clinton’s neo-liberalism is the shadow behind both parties.” Todd waved his hand in dismissal.

“I’ll order some,” Rickie said. “The fried pickles, too?”

“They’ll die out.” Mary sighed, almost post-coital. “Like the rest of them.”

“Why not?” Angel threw her arms into the air.

“And then what?” Todd took a long drink from his beer bottle. “You think young people will simply end war, poverty, and environmental catastrophe?”

“They can’t make it much worse.” Mary raised her bottle in cheers.

Rickie and Angel looked towards the bar. Their server, the bartender, another server, and a guy at the bar were throwing back a whiskey shot. Rickie smiled weakly. Angel waved. Their server nodded and came to the table.

“We’re out of the eggs,” he said after Angel pointed to the menu as she ordered.

“Pickles?” Rickie said.

“We’ve got the fried pickles.”

“Then the pickles,” Rickie said.

“And fries,” Angel said.

The server slumped away.

“Let’s look at the fries,” Todd said. “As an example of how the system works.”

“Let’s not.” Rickey smirked at his friend.

“Sure,” Mary said. “Let’s look at the fries.”

“More than likely, they are not from around here. We can agree on that. More than likely, the potatoes for the fries come from hundreds of miles away. So then there’s the transportation costs. Also, they don’t cut their own fries here. They buy them precut.”

“You know this how?” Mary said.

 “I assume.”

“When you assume you make an ass out of you and me,” Angel said.

“So these fries come from a factory. Then there’s the oil the kitchen uses. And so on and so on.”

“And so on,” Rickie said.

“And so on,” Mary and Angel said together. They laughed.

Rickie signed to the server to bring a round of shots.

“What kind?” the server said.

“What kind of what?” Angel said.

“Rail bourbon,” Rickie said.

“Ouch.” The other three said at the same time.

“OK, you are making some good points.” Mary gave Todd a half-smile. He half-smiled back.

“I’m buying a round of shots.”

“Not for me,” Todd said. “I’ve got court in the morning.”

“And I’ve got a big presentation in front of one of our biggest clients.” Mary squinched her face.

“Well, tomorrow’s my day off,” Angel said.

“And I’ve decided to be a writer,” Rickie said.

The four tapped their shot glasses on the table and drank.

“Those deviled eggs do look good,” Mary said.

“I’m vegan,” Todd said.

“You can have the pickles.” Rickie lifted the plate of pickles.

“What’s in the sauce?” Tood sniffed at the sauce.

“Chemicals.” Mary stuck her finger in the sauce. She sucked on her finger like a pacifier. “Tasty, fatty, high sodium, and sugar, and chemicals.”

“I’ll just have a plain pickle.”

“Fried in lard,” Mary said.

“Really?” Todd held a pickle mid-air.

“Better put it back,” Rickie said. “It touched your fingers.”

“Now that you touched it, you have to eat it,” Angel said.

“Go ahead,” Mary said. “Eat your lard-fried pickle.”

“You two should date,” Angel said.

“Angel.” Rickie gave his wife a look.

“Well, they did date in high school.”

“We never dated,” Mary said. “Not really.”

“Not really?” Todd said.

“Not unless you count a few hook-ups.”

“We dated our entire junior year. We went to prom.”

“You did,” Rickie said.

“It’s true. Rickie liked me since grade school.” Angel sat upright in her chair. She almost appeared regal.

“Angel!” Rickie sat back in his chair.

“I need another shot,” Mary and Angel said.

Richard Stimac has published a poetry book Bricolage (Spartan Press), two poetry chapbooks, and one flash fiction chapbook. In his work, Richard explores time and memory through the landscape and humanscape of the St. Louis region.

‘Brushing Out the Knots’

Photogropher- Tall Eric

Brushing Out the Knots

“Ninety-seven. Ninety-eight. Ninety-Nine. One Hundred.” Alex lowered the brush and pulled at the clump of loose hairs that had gotten tangled in the splines.

Annabeth gave a satisfied sigh. Her eyes were closed and she bobbed side to side like a boat on the sea. In her lap their dog Charlie was urled into a tight bun. She was scratching his fuzzy little head absentmindedly. “Thank you,” she said softly.

Alex handed the brush over her shoulder and she took it. She leaned forward and deposited it into the drawer of their bedside table. Charlie, displeased with the movement, wriggled away and crawled to the foot of the bed where he splayed out, his tiny feet reaching back to them with the papery pads pointed up towards the ceiling.

Annabeth rubbed her finger over the bottom of the right paw and he withdrew it suspiciously. He turned back to face her,responding with a sour side-eye.

She laid back and pulled the covers over herself. Alex reached for the lamp and flicked it off. Some of the clarity of the room was lost with the light, but they always left the closet cracked with the soft glow from its bulb peering through. The room blurred and though visibility remained, every edge took on a softness and the scene became an impression of itself.

Alex pulled himself down beside his wife and draped his arm across her. They said “Good night”. They said “I love you”. They nodded off, two parts of a whole, and faded to sleep.

—

There was a blue band on the nightstand. It read Annabeth Turner. The adhesive that held it together was very strong. It had been clipped apart with scissors. She was laying in the bed with the covers pulled up to her eyes and the flinching of the closed lids spoke of fitful sleep.

Alex walked up to the table and dug through the drawer for the brush. He walked around the bed to his side and crawled in next to his wife. He pulled the cover back from her face and nudged her shoulder slightly. She made a sound and turned her face up. Her eyes crept open and she looked at him from the corners.

“Come on. Let me help you sit up.”

“No, please.” Her voice was weak. Alex had slipped his hand up under her back and goaded her with a bit of pressure. Her body was heavy.

“We can’t let you get all knotted up.”

“All of me is knotted up.”

“Well maybe so, but I can at least help where I can.”

She whimpered as she gave in and pushed herself up onto her elbows. He helped her along and pulled her up into a sitting position where he could hold her steady with one arm. She was very weak.

He ran his fingers through her dark hair and helped it to fall in an orderly way, like a single organism, to where it stopped just above her shoulder blades. He took up the brush and carefully drew it through the dark strands. “One. Two. Three.”

Her breathing evened out and her muscles, though still holding against the despondent weight of her body, began slowly to relax. He continued. “Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. That’s how long we’ve been married this year.” He kissed her cheek. Her mouth smiled, but her eyebrows drooped low over her closed eyes. “Thirteen. Fourteen.”

When he reached one hundred, he helped to ease her back down into a reclined position. He walked around the bed and returned the brush to the drawer, then picked up the orange bottle that was sitting beside the blue wristband with her name on it. He unscrewed the lid and shook
two pills out into his palm. He replaced the cap and set the container back onto the table. Then he picked up the water bottle. The thin plastic crinkled as his fingers pressed into it. She was supposed to drink three before the end of the day. Outside, the sun was setting. This was the
same one that she had had since they returned home a few hours before. It was a little under half full.

“Here you go. Try to drink some.”

She accepted the bottle and struggled to screw off the lid. Then she took a couple of unimpressive swallows. He handed her the pills and she managed to get them down one at a time.

“The tests should come back in after a couple of days, but don’t worry about them. That’s just a formality anyway. We got some medicine and that’s what matters. You’ll be right as rain real soon.”

She held the bottle out and he took it back, returning it to the table. She slid slowly down onto the pillow and heaved the covers back up around her neck. She squirmed around for a bit until she found a comfortable spot.

Charlie sat at Alex’s feet, watching. He bent down and lifted the dog up into his arms. He rubbed his chin and scratched behind his ear. Annabeth’s breathing settled. Alex lowered the dog onto the bed and it inspected the area. It searched about and then stopped, turned two circles to the right, paused, turned once around back to the left, and settled down into the bend of her legs behind her knees. His wife’s face softened ever so slightly.

Alex looked at them both. He rubbed his hands together and stepped out of the room.

—

They were sitting in the dark. Annabeth was sniffling and from time to time she reached up to rub her eyes.

“Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Twenty-three. That’s how many weeks until Christmas. Did you know that? I just happened to look it up today.”

Alex’s voice was very unsteady. At times he would stop counting out loud. In the corner of the room, a sporadic crunching would begin and end time and time again as Charlie chewed on dog food. Random splashes of water interjected occasionally as he drank. “Eighty-eight. Eighty-nine. Ninety. Ninety-one. Ninety-two. That’s how many years you’re gonna live. That’s a good healthy number, think so? I might kick it at eighty. You’re gonna have to watch out for me so I don’t do anything stupid and we can enjoy those years rocking on the porch at the lake like we talk about.”

“Why’s the closet light off?”

“I’m sorry. I hit it without thinking when I was putting my shirt on. I’ll turn it back on. One hundred.”

—

Annabeth held the warm rag over her mouth. It felt good. Alex had run the water and wet it for her while she was bent over the toilet. He had wrung it out with his strong hands.

Alex sat behind her on the bed. His arms were wrapped lightly around her stomach but he was careful not to add any pressure. He rested his chin on her shoulder. He kissed her cheek.

“It’s getting kind of cold.”

“I’ll go run it back under the sink again.”

When he came back, he handed her the rag and retrieved the hairbrush.

He didn’t count. He simply ran the teeth through her hair again and again. Some resistance gave as he pulled down on the left side and a large clump came away and dropped into his lap. He paused. He tried not to give any reaction. None at all. He swallowed. His hands were shaking.

—

The brush didn’t get put back into the drawer. It just sat forlorn on the far corner of the table and was starting to take a layer of dust. Alex had brought the wheelchair into the room and
locked it into place beside the bed.

Annabeth was still sitting where he had left her, leaned against the headboard. He pulled the covers back and helped her drop her feet over the side of the bed. Before he moved her anymore, Alex reached for the bottle on the counter and squeezed a healthy dollop of white cream out into his palm. He rubbed his hands together and then started to gently massage the lotion into Annabeth’s scalp.

She smiled, but her eyes were wet. “I’m sorry.”

He didn’t look away from his task. “Don’t say that. There’s nowhere on this entire planet that I’d rather be right now.”

The sun was shining brightly, hotly, through the window. They had almost always left the blinds closed and the curtains drawn before, but Annabeth said she was starting to feel claustrophobic–like the room was getting smaller. Letting the sun in seemed to do the trick to calm her some. She especially seemed to like nights when a large moon would peer through into the room and illuminate things with its less fierce, cool heavenly light. On those nights, she asked him to turn the closet light off.

Alex lifted her up and then down into the chair. She wiggled until she found an acceptable spot for her sore bones, thin skin. “Are you sure you don’t want to see about a wig?”
Alex asked. “They make them so authentic looking now.”

“Do you love me right now?” She asked.

“Of course I do. There isn’t a thing you could do to wrestle away from that.”

“Then I just want to be what I am. Don’t want to cause a mess trying to mix things up.”

—

And she was. Not once did she ever betray herself. She liked to comment about how strong he was throughout it all, but to him, there was no one so awe-inspiring in the face of despair as herself.

Her doctors loved to see her. “You make my day,” they would say with a big grin that was only a fragment of her omnipotent smile.

She fought in an effort not to show it, and she never spoke it aloud, but she was worried about how she looked. Over and over he would think just how much he wished she could peer

into his heart to see how much he adored her. It would be a long time, if it ever came, before he could accept that she did. She never doubted it.

He wasn’t sure which of these things and more that he said about her in front of their family and friends, and what, conversely, remained in his own thoughts.
Back at home, he sat on the bed in a suit that didn’t fit. At one time it had, thirteen years before, but those days were gone. He felt like he didn’t have any emotions left–he was all tapped out.

He looked down. Charlie sat at his feet, nervous at the different atmosphere that he couldn’t understand. Alex saw the bedside table–the lotions, the bottles of pills, wrinkled magazines, and an assortment of books stacked up from which a dozen bookmarks jutted out haphazardly at various phases of completion. Incomplete.

He saw the hairbrush.

He reached for it. He blew off the dust. He scooped Charlie up from the floor and let him get comfortable in his lap. Contrary to assumption, the well was not dry. The spring boiled up again and again his eyes flooded with tears.

Charlie’s curls were getting out of hand.

“One. Two. Three. Four.”

Morgan Calcutt is a graduate of Francis Marion University. He lives on a dry hill of swampy, coastal South Carolina with his wife and Boykin Spaniel. He enjoys reading and writing in the rich genre of Southern Literature while sitting, hot and humid, on the hallowed front porch with a cool glass of iced sweet tea.

‘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.