‘Guilt is My Engine’

Jack Bordnick’s sculptural and photographic imagery is a reflection of my past and present forces
and the imagination of his life’s stories. They represent an evolutionary process of these ideas and how that all of life’s forces are interconnected, embraced and expressed thru creative art forms.
These works, represent he has accomplished with this art form. It is his quantum and metaphoric moment, the changing from one form to another.

guilt is my engine 

my doctors tell me 

I am ill  

I will need time to heal 

somehow not enough for me to register the fact that I am in fact ill 

I feel like a coy 

am I making all this up for a "free" salary I don't work yet 

I have an income 

what a life, huh! 

they keep saying 

not 

the good immigrant conditioning in me gives no space to any amount of mercy

I am worthless unless I am useful 

I am useless because I cannot work 

I am worthless because all I am is being ill 

I don't deserve no income for trying to heal 

voices in my head took 

everywhere possible they could 

a heavy weight on my shoulders 

a spasm down on my neck 

trembling on my knees 

who are we immigrants when we don't work?  

what is our use if we cannot earn? 

why are we here in their countries if we are ill? 

how is our presence meaningful if it doesn't help the white bodies? 

when have these thoughts become mine? 

I must really be ill

is there salvation from the hold of these thoughts  am I ever gonna be free 

from the machinery of guilt 

that drove me crazy to work over hours  take more cases 

accept more projects 

am I ever gonna be free 

from the machine of guilt that 

remind me in my every single action the pressure of my "responsibilities" 

not good enough. 

not fast enough. 

feel guilty 

not white enough. 

not sterile enough. 

feel guilty 

not cheap enough. 

not simple enough. 

feel guilty 

next thing you know 

you just 

feel guilty 

and 

feel guilty 

and  

feel guilty 

for not being able to cook for yourself 

for calling a friend to ask for help 

for falling asleep 10 minutes longer 

for not making it on time to your doctor's appointment for not going to sleep at 23:00 o'clock 

for not washing your makeup before bed time 

for not having the strength to go shopping for not being your cheerful self with your friends 

-instill it long enough in someone 

next thing you know 

you just 

feel guilty 

for just about anything 

and everything 

that comes out of your mouth  

that you cannot realize due to your bodily capacity you just 

feel guilty 

next thing you know 

it is your personality 

and they call it an illness 

it is called burnout 

or your way out 

of the job market 

fuck me 

my mind goes crazy 

isn't it though? 

be honest 

you are just lazy 

you are not sick like an old lady there is no open wound 

there is no concrete proof on your body then, you must be healthy 

and just another lazy 

immigrant bitter bossy 

who cannot work 

-sorry 

does not want to work 

but want the money 

and jobs 

and houses 

of white people 

because all you are is greedy  

greedy 

greedy.

Gizem özbek (she/they) is an emerging queer writer from Turkey based abroad for more than a decade, currently in Brussels. she works in the field of protection for human rights defenders and spends her free time with her dog, writing and reading. she lives, loves, and struggles between home in Türkiye, Brussels and her old home Berlin. Gizem's work has appeared on velvele.net in Turkish.

‘Seven Stories Down’

Jack Bordnick’s sculptural and photographic imagery is a reflection of my past and present forces
and the imagination of his life’s stories. They represent an evolutionary process of these ideas and how that all of life’s forces are interconnected, embraced and expressed thru creative art forms.
These works, represent he has accomplished with this art form. It is his quantum and metaphoric moment, the changing from one form to another.

Seven Stories Down

“You’re behaving just like your mother!” 

He had finally just said it. Lain had felt it stewing for months, each time she had stumbled through the door at an ungodly hour to find dinner in the microwave. He used to leave notes until this became a habit. “Always a seat at the table for you,” “Saved you the chewy bacon! Love you!” Lain remembered the way her stomach turned with guilt as she finished off every painfully delicious bite. She knew she had been distant, and Uncle Will had figured her out.  He had been trying to avoid breaching the subject, knew that acknowledging it would only send Lain tumbling down.  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—" 

“You…”—she paused, taking a moment to balance herself against the kitchen doorway— “don’t have to say another word… to me.” Lain found it hard to breathe, turning to lean her head on the wall. Sweat dripped from her brow; she watched the droplets crash onto the wood beneath her feet. She could feel her uncle’s eyes burning a hole into the back of her head.  She was nothing like her mother. She never would be. Right? Her mother had chosen to abandon her life for drugs, the whole reason why she ended up with her uncle in the first place. The years of neglect, however, had left Lain stunted and she never really recovered.  William had told her the whole story one late evening, finally deeming her old enough to know why her mother was behind bars and never called. This was different. She was never born to make it, and everyone knew it. Lain Elizabeth Brookes did not ask to be born, not into this cursed life. She had been a troubled child, but Uncle Will had always been gentle and patient. Even William had given up on her. Balancing herself again, Lain stood up straight. The man who raised her couldn’t even look her in the eye. 

High and agitated, Lain slipped her uncle’s keys from the kitchen counter and into her jacket pocket.  Not stopping for any of her belongings, she bolted. She couldn’t stand in that spot, in the agonizing silence of her uncle. She had been deemed a “delinquent” long enough, guess she’d better prove him right. Her uncle made no moves to stop her. He never did. He just stood with his head lowered, ashamed. Coward. Something in Lain’s chest tightened thinking about it; the last person she had was giving up on her. Had she really fallen this far?

Not another word was spoken, per her own request. She found herself almost hoping Uncle Will would come out chasing after her, carry her back inside to her bed, but there was only stiff silence. Perhaps William knew she was a lost cause. Crawling into the driver’s seat, she fumbled with the ignition, eyelids threatening to close as drowsiness took over. She was in no condition to be driving. Not now, not now… Her breath stilled at the sound of the key clicking into place, turning it forward and gasping when the vehicle’s engine came alive and began to vibrate. The only thing on her mind was getting away. She was far too prideful, and rational thought had abandoned her hours ago. Despite the drowsiness and shock, Lain scrambled for purchase on the steering wheel and gingerly tapped the gas with her boot. Reverse, she needed to get into reverse… 

~~~

Lain found herself waitressing in downtown New Jersey, across the country from William. “This is NOT how you earn tips” was written in black ink across the last party’s receipt. Great, Lain sighed. Another empty table.

She had made the venture out here after meeting touring guitarist Aspen Black. His band, Ashes to Ashes, stopped by her favorite bar after a show. Lain had been living out of her uncle’s Taurus, spending what little money she had on booze and cheap drugs, her refuge from a painful reality. Her blonde locks curled around her neck. Her short, leather dress clung tightly to her skin, broken out in sweat from either the pills or the dancing. Likely both. Heeled boots clacked as she crossed her ankles, catching her breath.

Somehow, she must have gotten Black’s attention. The lead guitarist had asked her if she wanted a bite to eat, and she said she would very much like that. Aspen bought them hot dogs and booze, and she needed little more encouragement to leave with him. Anyone who could whisk her away to a better place would do, even better a beautiful rockstar with black hair that cascaded over his shoulders and that tuft of chest hair that always peeked out from his low-rise shirts. Lain loved him. Loved him like a chapel in a hospital, desperately. This far into her shifts was when the withdrawal would start to take its hold. Hyper aware of each and every mistake, she needed to go home; she was hardly making a dime anyway.

If only. She sighed, scratching at her thin arms. It temporarily eased her anxiety, the familiar scrape of edge against skin. When she got home, maybe Aspen would scratch her back. If he was in a good mood, perhaps. Lain could never tell; he kept her so doped up. Sometimes she wondered if he was lonely, broken just like her, just searching for a companion. He didn’t like to talk about it, but Lain knew he was scarred. His parents were never present, either.  He looked to the guitar to distract himself from their absence, eventually skipping town when he realized his guitar playing couldn’t replace a mother’s or father’s affection. He would never tell her much more than that, but Lain understood his sadness. Other times she felt like she was drowning in his presence, his silence weighing heavy in the air. He got antsy between shows, his anxiety taking the form of frustration. But he loved her so much, he took such good care of her. He kept her pretty and quiet, just the way they both preferred. She never had to worry about a thing with Aspen.

“You know, baby…” he had mumbled to her once. “We could get you on stage sometime, in somethin’ real blingy.” Lain’s heart had jumped at that, icy blues fluttering open. The dark yellow walls of Aspen’s apartment greeted her and she wondered why they hadn’t turned the lights off before laying down. A collection of their clothes kept the floor buried, and the holes in the walls were never a pleasant sight. Candy wrappers cluttered the end table, the edge of Aspen’s aviators just barely visible. Crushed beer cans collected in the corner of her eye. As much as she wanted to just close her eyes again, the idea of the stage brought a foolish hope to mind. The waitressing gig was less than ideal, and it was only a matter of time before her poor customer service got her fired. On the stage she could be herself, free of judgement. Showcase herself in all her unholy glory. Bring the spectacle of her cursed existence to light, for all to see. Everyone would hear her voice. The idea was liberating to her.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” His calloused fingers ran through Lain’s freshly dyed hair. He had felt that pink suited her much better than blonde. Lain remembered nodding, she would’ve loved that very much. Aspen played lead guitar on brilliant, bright stages, while Lain waited offsides. She had always been drawn to the stage, the performance… She had spent years crawling around bars watching spiteful, punky rock bands. Perhaps because they felt the same frustration and isolation she had been feeling all this time. Not one had enraptured her like Ashes to Ashes, in all their trashy glory. Lain admired their confessionalism, their transparency. She understood the mess of being alive. The idea of joining them onstage excited her like no other, though that had been months ago. 

Maybe this time. Lain just had to brave this shift and then she could escape to Aspen’s embrace again. Maybe now that it’d been a year… 

Lain flipped the “OPEN” sign to “CLOSED.” Freshening up in the restroom, she smoothed her skirt down in the mirror, picking apart her own reflection after closing time. She had grown thin; the serving job made little and Aspen only made a chunk of his flashy band’s income. Groceries could be a luxury. But they were happy, weren’t they? Lain was no longer sleeping in her uncle’s Taurus, no longer fighting the stigmas of reality. No longer trying to catch up to an ideal that seemed unattainable. She couldn’t even speak until she was seven. How was a kid like that meant to survive? Things got better when Uncle William became her guardian, he had taught her everything, loved her like his own child, but…

Lain produced a black lipstick from her skirt pocket, shakily applying it to her lips. William could not have filled the role her mother abandoned. Though she never got to meet her father, deep down she knew he couldn’t have done it either. Lain knew he had only the best intentions at heart, but Uncle Will was too soft, too afraid of responsibility. He wanted to create a quiet and gentle life for Lain, but it just wasn’t that easy. She had been doomed from the start. The adults in her life had failed her as a child; what was she to become? Failure became her middle name. Perhaps this was where she belonged. Lain took a deep breath as she closed the lipstick, gently caressing her cheek as she gazed in the mirror. The woman who gazed back terrified her. At least she could go home and close her eyes, just for a little while. She had found her escape in Aspen.

~~~

“Baby-doll.” Aspen beckoned from the couch, noticing her return. He sat with his electric guitar in his lap, all plugged in next to the open window. Nancy, he had named it. No one stood between him and that beat-up instrument. He had shattered the window with it in a drunken rage, and they had yet to get it replaced. Lain worried that the landlords would evict him, though Aspen assured her she needn’t worry her silly little head about it. It had become his new favorite practice spot, in fact, “Come hit this, c’mere honey. I missed you; I know work was rough, wasn’t it?” He patted the spot on the couch next to him, reaching for a small glass pipe on the coffee table. Lain padded over to him quietly, knowing better than to take the place of the precious instrument in his lap.

“It was,” she breathed, taking her spot on the couch. She smoothed her skirt out again, shifting her weight to catch his eye. “Writing new stuff or practicing?” Lain took the pipe from his hands. The rock offered her an escape, both sublime yet spineless. Aspen had been on a kick lately, of course, dragging her down with him.

“Practicing.” He grinned and shook his head. Had he even noticed her pretty lipstick? “Nothing you would understand, sweetness, you just relax.” Lain felt a hand on her back and let herself dissolve all over again, letting the stress of the day melt away.

~~~

Knock, knock, knock!

Weightless. Lain crumpled to the floor only hours later, heart thrashing around in her ribcage like it was trying to break out. What was happening to her? She writhed in pain, struggling to breathe. 

“Aspen.” She tried to cry out for him, though he was absent from his signature spot. Even his precious guitar was missing, how would he hear her wheezing pleas?  It was hard to think, did he have a show tonight? Would he have just left her here, in this dump? The stench of sweaty clothes around her flooded her nose, accompanied by stale beer. She had to get up, but her brain was failing her. This was worse than the shakes, far worse. Lain could faintly hear someone knocking on the front door, but her eyelids were fluttering and her chest was on fire. She still couldn’t breathe. This was too real; it wasn’t supposed to be like this. Aspen was supposed to keep her safe, protect her from the harsh reality that seemed to follow her like a thick fog. The knocking became banging. This wasn’t it; this wasn’t what she wanted. Lain panicked as she faded in and out of consciousness, unable to will her body to stop convulsing. Was this going to be how she died? A nobody, nothing more than a punk band’s groupie, dead from a crack overdose. Her heart crept up her throat, blocking airways as she continued to shake, looking up at the couch where her lover had sat just hours ago. Freezing cold air migrated in through the shattered window. Cold, it was getting so cold. This wasn’t right. She wanted to get away, but she didn’t want this…

She tried to reach for him, for anyone, but her body shut down and not a sound was heard.

~~~

“Baby, I’m just glad you’re alive,” Aspen mumbled, guitar propped in his lap once again, relatively unconcerned after Lain’s discharge. He had driven her home from the emergency room with a look of mild inconvenience across his face. “I’m sorry, I’m just tired, I spent all morning talking to the tour manager, we can’t afford to miss this show tonight. You know that though, don’t you, darling?” Lain felt her heart sink, staring at him from her spot on the couch. Only three days had passed since the overdose, and she could still feel the bony touch of death around her heart. Its nails scratched at the organ, and she was reminded of her uncle’s lack of concern. Better yet, her mother’s neglect. At least her Uncle Will had been there, had cared. She remembered the smelly, dark room she had struggled to sleep in, immobile. A small child incapable of even navigating to the bathroom, while her mother sought to escape her. She must have resembled her father too much, caused her poor mother too much pain… She had always been an inconvenience, one to be forgotten. Perhaps Aspen was no different.

“How much did you give me?” she asked bluntly, the accusation cutting through the heavy air. Perhaps it had all been too good be true. Aspen was still for a moment before turning to look back at her, eyebrow raised.

“Angel,” he breathed. “I know how much you can handle—“

“How much did you give me?” Lain repeated the question, the chilling, skeletal hand squeezing around her heart. She was awake now. Aspen fiddled with his guitar, pretending he couldn’t hear her. Lain would no longer be silent, not after this. Part of her prayed it wasn’t true, that the bond she shared with the leather-clad rock star meant at least something.

“Aspen.” She stood up, looking down at him. She might have been intimidating if not for the familiar sting of tears building in her eyes. She could see Aspen avoiding her gaze behind his sunglasses, the same way William had lowered his head in guilt. His silence spoke volumes. “We gotta stop doing this. You’d let me die; I would have if it wasn’t for the woman in the room below us!”

Aspen sighed and removed his glasses. If she could just save this, maybe they could clean themselves up and she could finally be onstage, and… 

“Honey,” he finally spoke. “You didn’t die. I wouldn’t let you die, let’s be serious.”

Lain simply blinked. Why wasn’t he worried? Suspicion and fear crept up her throat. 

“Can you at least tell me where you were?” she asked, trying to ignore the way her voice trembled. “If you wouldn’t let me die, where were you while I was dying?” Now that her eyes were open, Lain couldn’t close them again. Something had gone terribly wrong; this wasn’t where she was meant to be. Aspen looked at her as if he would rather her really be dead than interrupt his practice one more time. Perhaps he was never a good man…

“Just calm down, have a smoke, dear. It always relaxes you.”

“Have a smoke?” Lain stepped closer, nudging his beloved “Nancy.” The rose-colored glasses were gone now. He had drugged her, left her alone while she danced with death. Now he wanted to sweep it all away like a little accident. “I’m not touching anything you give me until you give me a damn answer!” It was clear the musician’s patience was running thin but Lain wasn’t giving up this time. Something had to give. All the months spent wasted in this landfill he called a home chalked up to nothing, not even an apology. Had the apartment always smelled this rancid?

“Lain,” Aspen warned, setting his guitar to the side and standing to meet her gaze. He was still slightly shorter than her, and his intimidation did little to change her mind. “I need you to calm down. Now, please.” 

“How much did you give me?” Aspen did not speak, pushing her away by the shoulders. “Why won’t you answer me? Do you care at all?!” Lain batted his hands away, tears pooling in her eyes again. She understood now. It was never about love with Aspen. “You’re no different than my mother!” Her uncle’s sentiment erupted from her own mouth as despair and regret overcame her. Perhaps she had never been any better than her mother to begin with, giving up hope on herself time and time again, relying on the kindness of strangers. She had devoted herself to chasing escape, but no one else could give that to her. Aspen’s attempts at manipulation allowed anger to eclipse sadness and Lain placed her hands on his temples. The dam broke and salty tears began to sail down her cheeks, coalescing at her chin. “Please, just answer me!”

“Enough!” Aspen barked, headbutting her. Lain held her head, blinking in response to the impact. “You want an answer so bad? I’ll give you one.” Free from her grasp, he approached her slowly. His once calm demeanor had become violent and irritated. Lain had seen this before, when she had been too intoxicated to fight back. When she had made the mistake of considering herself more desirable than old “Nancy,” her sobs background noise for Aspen’s next track. “This is all I have! I’m tired, Lain!” She already knew where this was going. Regret became fury as she recalled every time she wept for his forgiveness, endured the bruises he painted on her skin. Once, she would have compared them to art. “You never learn! No matter how many times I teach you, you just keep getting in the way of my music!” Aspen’s façade was broken. He reached for Lain’s hair. “How else were you supposed to learn your lesson?” Disgusted, she pushed him back. He stumbled backwards toward the window. She had found herself the target of his madness in the past, but now he was hers.

 Clearly perturbed that Lain managed to stumble him, she watched him try to steady himself. Lain could tell he had been drinking; he always was. She felt the blood rush to her head, the rage and adrenaline combined more intense than any high. This must be hatred, she thought. She had dedicated herself to the guitarist, moved across the country to be with him, yet she was still nothing more than a hopeless groupie to him. A year together and still he knew nothing. It was never love with Aspen; he had no love to give. He loved control, playing Lain like that damn guitar.

Blinded by rage, Lain took hold of “Nancy.” No one stood between him and that busted instrument. That was all she had been to him, as well. Just a beat-up object to show off until she broke. Until she was nothing. 

Lain didn’t miss a beat as she swung, slashing at Aspen with his prized possession. The scumbag tumbled as he tried to get purchase on his real favorite girl, losing his balance against the window frame. Both hands reached out for the guitar, but it was too late for Aspen. Too late for him to steady himself again. White-hot hatred filled Lain’s mind as she continued to hack at him, vision blurred by her gushing tears. She could hardly hear Aspen’s voice anymore. Deep down, she knew she was meant for more than this. If her mother could not love her, if the terror that was Aspen Black could not love her, she would do it for herself. Aspen never wanted a lover; he wanted arm candy. A woman young and damaged enough to fall for his harshness. Lain just so happened to be exactly that. Her mind continued to race, thought and reality blending until she noticed her lover stood before her no more. Panting, trying to catch her breath, Lain failed to process what she had done. How long had she been standing by the window? Aspen was nowhere to be found. Until Lain’s gaze shifted downward and there he was, the fallen angel. He had collided with the pavement seven stories down while Lain filled his signature space. The guitar remained in her hands. Aspen would never pluck a string again.

The dawning realization of her actions left Lain terrified. She had killed a man, murder in cold blood. Her only instinct was to flee, get as far away as possible. Aspen’s band would come by to get him eventually, and she couldn’t stay here. As panic set in, Lain scrambled to the kitchen and dug Aspen’s keys from the bottom of the silverware drawer. Rotating the key in her hand, she knew she had to leave this behind. Though she had little to live for, she knew it wasn’t her time to go yet. Death still breathed down her neck; Lain had felt its warning. She took one last look at the landfill she had once called a home, then bolted out the door and down the stairs of the apartment building. The other tenants wouldn’t question her erratic behavior, at least, unless they happened to glance out their windows and witness the corpse that once was Aspen Black. 

“See ya later tonight, Lain, darling!” called a voice that Lain didn’t even recognize. She didn’t say a word as she left the building, the image of Aspen’s body fresh in her mind. She hadn’t even seen it happen, her vision clouded by furious adrenaline. It was only now that the weight of it all began to crush her. Her hands were sore and littered with cuts, tense as she opened the car door. Lain crawled back behind the wheel, breath stilling as she turned the ignition. She just had to get away, far away… As the vehicle’s engine came alive and began to vibrate, she fumbled anxiously with the mirrors and windows. Her gut twisted and turned; her head still pounded with rage. She had no choice. She had to take the wheel, get out of there quick. Knuckles white and lips blue, she shifted into reverse.

Lain could feel Death’s eye on her, but she fled the scene. Maybe one day her sins would come back to haunt her, but this time she had to break the cycle. She had been driving for what felt like days, watching each streetlamp blend into the next. The chilling night air blew through her hair from the open window. She drove aimlessly, alone with her thoughts. A strange sense of vindication had come over her. It wasn’t until the gas light came on that she was forced to address reality again. Lain sighed. She didn’t have the slightest clue where she was. The road stretched on a while longer before she found herself approaching a dimly lit gas station. A simple convenience store was attached. The lights were on, but not a soul occupied the building or the parking lot. A lone phone booth stood against the side of the building. Lain stopped the car and got out, almost drowning in the emptiness. The breeze had been a comforting confidante to her racing mind, but she grew colder the longer the night went on. She recalled Aspen keeping a jacket in the back seat. Slipping it over bony shoulders, Lain cringed. The barren parking lot reminded her that she was alone again, the exact thing she had been running from. Precisely how she ended up in Aspen’s clutches. The lonely, dingy gas station reminiscent of their time together. Catching another glimpse of the phone booth, Lain knew she had to get help. Help from someone who cared, the only family she ever really had. Shoving her hands in her jacket pockets, she abandoned the gas pump and entered the black booth.

Lain wasn’t anticipating the pipe. Scarred flesh met glass inside the jacket pocket, but she threw it as fast as she found it. The same small ornament that caused her overdose. Lain stared at it for a moment, then another. She remembered that night, remembered thinking she would be found dead the next morning. Blue eyes remained fixated on the glass pipe, even as Lain dialed the familiar number of William. Craving and fear mixed dangerously in the pit of her stomach as the dial tone rang, and she wondered if her uncle was even awake. Would he answer?

“Hello?” Lain started, but her gaze didn’t shift.

“Uncle Will? It’s Lain,” she began, continuing to stare at the pipe’s solitary spot on the booth’s floor. “I owe you a big apology.”

Julian Macke is a Creative Writing major with a soft spot for the dark and macabre. Specializing in pieces that highlight stigmatized human experiences, he dabbles in both poetry and prose.

‘The Angel at the Corner of Throop and Lexington’

David Cleofas Avila resides in the Susan Fleming family collection, David’s art has been priced by Ames Gallery, recognized by the National Arts and Disability Center UCLA, and published in Peatsmoke Journal, Gabby & Min, NUNUM, and Harpur Palate. His poetry has been published in Oddball Magazine, The Poetry Cove, WILDsound Writing Festival, eMerge-magazine.com, Flora Fiction , and Breath & Shadow.

The Angel at the Corner of Throop and Lexington

There is an angel that lives at the corner of Throop and Lexington. Two doors down from the laundromat, just before the townhouse that hosts those jazz nights. I know it’s there. I’ve seen it. 

I live across the street from it. It’s in this old brownstone, with this glass canopy on the roof, that all the birds just love to flock around. Maybe it leaves bread crumbs out. Birds fly in and out through the windows. All kinds of birds, not just pigeons. Crows, seagulls, songbirds. I think I heard a lark there once?

Most of the birds fly back out. Most. That lark, I swear I kept my eye out the whole day, and the next. I never saw it fly out. I just kept hearing it sing. Until it stopped. 

The birds can’t help themselves. Like something’s luring them in. Sometimes the angel sticks an arm out the window, and a bird comes down and lands on it like it’s nothing. This pale, desaturated hand. It looks anemic. 

I’ve been watching it. Every Thursday, around 1 or 2 in the morning, it goes out. It wears this long black cloak over this brilliant white dress. It’s like a second moon. 

It doesn’t like to be seen. The first time I saw it, I called out to it, and it just ran back inside. Then I missed it the next week. I don’t want it to move away. I haven’t tried to talk to it since. 

I’m certain it’s an angel. It doesn’t have a halo, and I’ve never seen its face. But I’ve seen its back. Where its shoulder blades should be. I’ve seen that same glowing white dress, sparkling through the windows, with these two deep, crimson stains, right there and there. It had something behind those stains, once. It’s got too much empty space. Like there’s a vacancy in the air on its back. I don’t know. You’d get it if you saw it. 

Those Thursdays, 1 or 2 am, it carries out a trash bag. Two bags, that one time it missed a week. They look like heavy bags. Full, dense, dripping bags. Sealed tight. Whatever’s giving them that weight still seeps through. The trash bin outside their house is disgusting. It’s got this faint black goo that pools from it. It’s sticky. It stains the sidewalk. 

I haven’t touched the bags. I’ve got no idea what’s in them. That’d mean going outside, at 2 or 3 am, to sneak across the street into a stranger’s garbage. My curiosity hasn’t gotten that bad. Not yet.

But I think I know.

I think they’re stuffed with wings.

I think, every time that angel gets one of those birds, it nails it to a table. It secures its body and stretches its feathers out. Like a crucifixion. It gets this knife, or hacksaw, or dremel, and it liberates the bird’s wings. 

Then it tries to put them on itself. It reaches into those holes in the back of its shoulders, and it slides those tiny bird bones into its scars, and it bleeds out just that bit more, enough to see if those nerve endings will connect.

Or maybe it’s building bigger wings. Maybe it takes every bird it gets, and it takes off every feather, every strip of meat it can get its pale, dirty hands on, and it stitches them together into something bigger. It gets some bleach, or some paint, or something else and it tries to dye it that same iridescent white from its dress. 

Or maybe it doesn’t. Maybe it hates the birds. Maybe the birds taunt the angel with their wings. I bet they do it on purpose. Maybe the angel knows they’re doing it on purpose, and so that’s why it takes their wings off. Or, I don’t know.

Maybe it’s not an angel at all.

But I think it wants to be one.

It only happened once, but I saw it go outside one day, in the morning. It was a pretty bright Saturday morning, the sun was shining, and it was sitting at the top of its roof, just outside that glass canopy. I couldn’t see its face. Its back was turned to me, and it was like the blood behind it was still wet, still dripping. It had this long, golden hair, and it was shining like the sun. Bright yellow. Not blonde. Yellow. Daffodil yellow. Yellow like on the back of a baby duck. Yellow that you only see in the sun, and in spring, and that you wish you could capture in a picture, or in a painting, but you just can’t, because it can only shine like that, in that light, under that sun.

I couldn’t see its face, but it was looking up. Right at the sun. You know, like you’re not supposed to do. It reached its hand up. This pale, withered hand, up to the sky. I could tell it thought, if it just reached out far enough, it could touch that light. The thing was glowing. Not just its dress, not just its hair, its whole body was like a second sun. I couldn’t look away. It’s probably the same thing the birds felt. I just watched, and my eyes hurt, but I kept looking, because it kept stretching its arm up, into the light, and I felt like I wanted it to touch the sky, like it deserved to reach the sun, like I was seeing something monumental and terrifying and ethereal and heartbreaking.

Then it put its hand back down. It went back inside. And that was that.

And I wondered, or, I still wonder. 

Was it that it didn’t reach out far enough, or was it that something else didn’t reach back?

Trace McLaurin has worked as a screenplay writer, game developer, and desert park ranger for the past few years. As a black and trans writer, she has a passion for finding beauty in the peculiar and the forgotten. Her work strives to be unusual, captivating, and inviting, just as she hopes this story finds you.

‘Amor Victorious’, ‘The Coronation of the Virgin’ and ‘The Impression of the Sunrise’

Jack Bordnick’s sculptural and photographic imagery is a reflection of my past and present forces
and the imagination of his life’s stories. They represent an evolutionary process of these ideas and how that all of life’s forces are interconnected, embraced and expressed thru creative art forms.
These works, represent he has accomplished with this art form. It is his quantum and metaphoric moment, the changing from one form to another.

Amor Victorious 

Omnia Vincit Amor et nos cedamus amori - Virgil 

Upon earthly grounds of nothing, as dark and blackness reigns with Dian’ as its makers eye, there sits a mount of assortments: Apollo’s lyres and Pachelbel’s violin, Also Sprach Zarathustra in full canon, a horseless carriage with a raw-stained image of Carl Benz cadaver on the wheel, an unhabited 1918 Curtiss JN-4D, stacks of Roman notes, Franklins and Jacksons littered around in green and unreserved remnants, vaccines loaded of hyaluronic acid; overdone signs, though faded, have etchings that read ‘No Ju  i e,  o    ea e’, a forty-five of Heart Attack at 23, a Italian Carcano, assorted pink triangles, a fishy diaphragm, the two-farmed shield of Achilles, Medusa’s serpentine head, a New England Patriots jersey, Warhol’s Campbell's Soup, and a skull. Thus appears the pile; its amount can height up to Olympus heighted rock. By Solomon, ‘tis all vanity. 

Enter Amor: a boy blindèd by his own love, sent away of the Cytherean, his mother, committing affairs with War and having other earthly delights; naked with a eternal phallus, with but his quiver and staffs of Love to cover him, and clean as the alabasters that portrait him, he flies up to the top of this mount, gives a laugh, stands tall on this entropic material, and speaks thus his verse on his exploitment and triumph:

AMOR: “For now, methinks, mine pow’r ranges o’er stagey rocks,

Through echoing caves, beyond this war and peace that mocks 

Mine creation. ‘Tis joy to game loving arrows

For the Sun on his nymph aft’ Pythian shows 

To relief him of manliness, or hit Ethiope’s 

To prove more their lust in the frost-forsaken slopes

Off Kilmanjaro’s grounds; for even mine hap 

Comes when Jove aways Juno and sits in Danae’s lap

When I enchanted the golden shower! I laugh 

When fleshy sprites conceit they heart not mine soul’s wrath,

Or bethink themselves they’re ‘yond humanal affection

As if the Olympians haven’t this sacred passion

And they’re cured by my so-called madness,

Or use suspicious substance to abstain mine bliss.

Delight me more, ye ignorants! Drink deep from thy springs,

Amuse me with thy art and science! In vain thee sings,

If ye hast not Love, thou hast nothing. For no state

Can change the pangs of Love, as I shoot my shots with fate 

And unconsciousness at all this Pierian 

Offspring!”

Amor stands blind on top of this epicurean carcass, permitting his ganymedean and laughter-loving soul its whole reign as only nightness and the dark surround his canvas.

The versers of earth have lyred him his measures divine, with some philosophers claiming him the greatest of all gods. For Love shapes our humors, defines our coming, makes us revolute dishonest temples for our sister, sacrifice ourselves for our lovers, brings the Adams to the Eves and Eves to the Adams; for he even cause us illness if were without him, causes us madness if we’ve too much of his staffs, cause us to cheat if he isn’t within the Hymen, can causes us to find violent and Jove-like raptures in lost Io if we’re drunk upon his shootings, makes us hate another to show another affection, or inspire us to hate a one for the overmuch we love them. Love shows us our light, and is one to reflect our dark matter. Love’s pow’rful, yet terrible and virilious for ends; Love’s over all things, and ‘ll conquer all who submit not to him and forget his doings. So, by Love, for the measures he measures on all judgment, may we yield to Love for Love’s sake. 

The Coronation of the Virgin 

I

And there appeared mellifluous wonderment in heaven, as the ancient mode of the sun speaks out majestic notes with the surrounding Seraphim, Cherubim, and the one hundred and forty four thousand, a thousand and twelve each from the tribes of Judah, the tribes of Reuben, the tribes of Gad, the tribes of Asher, the tribes of Naphtali, the tribes of Manasseh, the tribes of Simeon, the tribes of Levi, the tribes of Issachar, the tribes of Zebulun, the tribes of Joseph, and the tribes of Benjamin, all sealed with the Father written on their heads, hymn and lyre out in tear-inspiring song. The measures are new ere the Throne of Heaven, the seats of authority committed, ere the hayyots, ere the elders, enduring the ever-lasting home of the blameless. 

All pre-determined roads end here, as the peals of thunderous war are evaporated into spirit, as the earth-made tellus conceives its last day, as the pity of each Lazarus awaken in awe. The sights of the Angels are as pow’r itself, glorious in forms, in shape of divine alabasters, enjoying the presence they find themselves in at the given moment, waiting for The Father and Son to give this world’s stage further direction.

Appears The Father, who’s art in heaven has sights too heavenly for the manly eye, and thus speaks on the coming trial.

THE FATHER: I am who I am: I am the beginning,

I am the ending, which is, which was, and 

Which is to come. I am Alpha; I am

Omega, the beginning and end. 

I have made kings, I have made priest, though many

Have turned against mine purpose. I have untrusted 

Mine creation since those first parents 

Of earth seduced themselves to the devil,

The jester to the world’s discontent.

Methought no hope was ready of the earth,

But I’ve sacrificed mine only begotten son 

To his perfection, to play as flesh for man,

So mine vessels of the world may have 

Another chance of ever-lasting life. 

I have since sent him, and now he returns 

To his heavenly home. To all those who 

Received him: grace unto thee, and peace to

Him who is, who was, and who is to come

By the spirits. Henceforth, all generations

Will call him blessed, as they will have done

Great and mighty things before me.

Behold! my Son who cometh with clouds!

All eyes that have pierced and praised him shall eye

Him; and all kindreds of flesh shall wail

Because of his majesty. 

Thus ascends the The Son, again who’s art in heaven has sights too heavenly for the manly eye, closer to The Father in heaven, and thus speaks on the coming trial, and bows to him in humble submission.

THE SON: Thy inconceivable work fears nations 

Before Thee, and the ignorant suffer

For Thy improbable feats of wond’rous deeds

You trial the earth with these last days.

You conceived me by the Holy Spirit,

You birthèd me of that Virgin Mary,

You gave me message of the nations 

To preach the good news of lowly vessels

To suffer another life beyond the sea;

You suffered me under Pontius Pilate,

The governor with Judaea circles

On Tiberius’ gloomious reign,

With the Roman’s crucifixion 

Along the skull of violent Calvary;

I descended to Hell, the vile Hades,

And methought I saw the eye of Lucifer

For my good works. It was here, by the by, 

You rose me from this deadly existence 

And ascend me back to Heaven with

Thy Almighty Right Hand by my side,

From where here we will judge the living and dead

With our revelations. My Lord, My Father,

Your messengers shall praise Thee for Thy

Everlasting day for this admirement! 

THE FATHER: Rise my son, and stand you here beside 

Of me, so we may begin our judgment

For the Heavenly Coronation.  

THE SON: Who shall sit for the honor in a world

Willed of Satan?

THE FATHER: The troubulous earth hast been marked of times 

Terrible for Adam’s offspring, as the 

Narcissus fell in love with Narcissus,

Each greedo was more bounty for his next pay, 

Braggadocious became man’s middle name,

Caesars filled his heart with Caesar, Damons

Abused the next Pythias who gave him smile,

Cains and Abels would conspire their parents;

Each Timon became walking arguments

Screaming at the divine, forgave no partners,

Slain without mercy, took any hymen 

That had a cherry, worshiped any Baal, 

And became acquainted with Epicurus 

Pursuits of love, rather than pursuing me.

For these reasons, and for our justice,

I have nothing such to do with these men.

The women of the world are no better, as 

  Daughters of Eve became daughters of 

Jezebel and called themselves prophets,

Misleading mine servants to sexual sin,

Letting them eat victual sacrificed 

To vicversèd idols. I give these women 

The hour of repentance, but by doggish 

Screams and belated stubbornness, they’re 

Unwilling to give themselves up, or get

Drunk willingly on Fornication’s wine.

Disobedient, independent, conceited,

Unprotected, too clever by halves:

Same as the man, but worse as they beget 

Our saints and sinners. 

Alas! The Babylon of earth has fallen!

Mine options for coronation are few;

For everyone would to be in Heaven,

But few discipline their errors to get here.

I choose wisely The Immaculate Virgin,

Well preserved from the vicements of Nature,

The heart of original sin. For she 

Will be exalted by me, taken up

To heavenly glory and become 

Queen over all things for her divine feats;

For she will be conformed to her Son,

My Son, the Lord of lords, the conqueror 

Of sin and death, and be held eternal. 

THE SON: Hark! Thy trumpet hast been sounded.

II: AD CAELI REGINAM

The primal and judgment day of Our Lord in Heaven is set forth before us coming as our first parents. After these speeches of spirit, a greatness and glorious mystery appears in heaven: a woman, with submissive eyes lowered, heart-shaped mouth, a most modest, delicate, and emotive expression of visage, a bosom of health, clothed in the sun and diaphanous vetement of the purest ivory. The surrounding Seraphim, Cherubim, and the one hundred and forty four thousand, the entire court of Heaven, all sealed with the Father written on their heads, greet with joy of this masterpiece in our Lord’s creation. Preserved of the stain of original sin, as her course of worldly life aquits, the Immaculate Virgin is taken up flesh and spirit into heavenly glory. She ascends to The Lord’s heavenly throne, with head still bowed beneath Him, as slavish Cherub take her up with the crest of Dian’ under her feet. She is wise without her words: she points to her heart, and bows in great reverence.

By her time on earth, she lived many a year after the death of Christ, and becomes a source of comfort, consolation, and strength to the remaining apostles. Upon her death, she was overcome in rapture in the spirit of God’s love, and by her burial, as the apostles have it, found the tomb arrayed in the display of variant nosegays and an impression of fragrant lilies, with the untouched flesh of the Immaculate Virgin, upon Christ's arrival in heaven, without decayment. 

And there appeared the pentecostal descent of the Holy Spirit: his entering sound came as the rushing breath of stormy and feverious airs, and filled the spaces the Father, the Son, and the Virgin were all spaced in. As a tongue of fire, the Holy Spirit speaks:

THE HOLY SPIRIT: Glory be to the Father, and to the Son! Here is the beginning, now, and ever shall be, a world without end. Hail be to the Holy Queen, Mother of Mercy, Life, Sweetness, and Hope! who nourished the infant Christ, and remembered in deeds in giving oils and wiping the Lord’s feet with Thy hair. The lowly vessels weep, the poor banished children of Eve, but they forget their course with nature. They send up their sighs, mourning and sorrow in vales of tears, and it will be upon these last days of judgment to Thine eyes of mercy they will plead to you for their cause; and after their exile, show you will unto all, as a most powerful Queen and a most merciful and loving Mother. O clement, O loving, O sweet Virgin Mary! 

SERAPHIM: O clement, O loving, O sweet Virgin Mary! 

CHERUB: O clement, O loving, O sweet Virgin Mary! 

THE CHORUS OF HEAVEN: O clement, O loving, O sweet Virgin Mary! 

All of the thrones and other angels of heaven, by nature greater than man, hail Mary as their Queen and rejoice in the joy they give their hearts. But lo! A great sign appears in heaven! The Immaculate Virgin is now clothed in the sun, with the crest of Dian’ still under her feet, and what proceeds forth, by the divinity of the Holy Spirit and the making of the one hundred and forty-four thousand, is a crown of twelve stars, given to The Son and The Father to crown on the divine temple of Mary. Thus the coronation begins; only heaven will know the great majesty of this coronation, and the joy it gave to the chorus of the divine. More than can we ever know the overflow of joy between The Son and The Virgin hearts at this beautiful reunion. For the Immaculate Virgin shares fully as the King of Kings, the Lord of Lords in His glory as she shared so fully in His suffering. 

SERAPHIM: Praise be to Thee, Queen of Heaven! 

CHERUB: Praise be to Thee, who gave birth to the one who was Christ! 

THE CHORUS OF HEAVEN: Praise be to Thee, whose child was God!

Thus was laid the Queenship of Mary in Heaven. And it is here, the entire heavens rejoice in the coronation of the Virgin. For only in the heavens will they know the true happiness between these spirits, and only in Heaven will the Immaculate Virgin, the Queen of Heaven, know her central role in the world’s divine plan for redemption, with us as man to pray to our loving Mother to plead man’s cause. 

The Impression of the Sunrise 

As the orange-armed sun bows and takes its first grace upon Tellus-bound mainlands, ascending out of Hades in its greatest impression, Zeus coagulates his blood-ridden clouds into tiny specimen of traitors: all separate of each other into puffed sheets, all ripples of the wind, all celestials of the heavens. Our Sun’s strugglement has efforts to gather his horses and chariot away from Hell’s dark pit, but with the help of Apollo no one can stand in their path to the skies of greatness. 

Upon a blue and river-run mississippi, where feverish boats sail as a Columbus to a people of God or exchange in trades for the comfort, enter Claude, the Ahab of these seas, sailing his lesser pequod among the valiant Oceanus washes; his mind’s beyond vanities and at peace with meditations, as the present is his only focus without any futures needed for him to contemplate. He observes the sunrise, beckons rapture within his bosom, and thus begins to sing its praises:

Claude: Lo! a poet’s sight! Praise be to the sun!

Praise be to nature! To the sunrise! 

A verser’s measure has not enough length 

To conceit the image of such a face!

Our Almighty above, the best o’ painters,

Uses speedy strokes on Nature’s canvas 

To construct another Eden on earth,

As light, as quick, as beautiful as beauty 

Would permit. Are we worthy of this summer?

The glorious sun and everlasting arms?

Like Horus eye, it judges upon all

Healing each succumbing flesh of loose night,

Giving drink to the health of each wave;

Why so nice? Why deserve we such beauty?

Stained we are by our original folk

Who first walked the earth, who refumigate 

The spheres with man-made and pompous airs,

Sharking up possessions beyond any sea 

And releasing it for waste to kill fish.

What are we to deserve God’s masterpiece? 

Are we more than life than what we perceive?

O! the windows of my soul! Halt thy brows

Of Niobe-like fountains for beauty! 

O Beauty! Too much! Too much! Too much!

This eye of all beckons its fine iris 

To reach us pupils of all!

Praise be to the sunrise! 

And upon this song, along the Nature of all, Claude furthers his sails down the plant-powered river with an impression of the sunrise he will never let come away of his mind’s remembrance, with measures to be praised and endured as the earth is welcomed to the all of man. 

Kollin Kennedy is a writer in the Dallas area who has graduated from the University of North Texas with his Bachelor’s in Creative English Writing. He has self-published a few collections of poetry, including his recent 'A Blue Period, which has made it to #1 in Poetry, Poetry on Nature, & Poetry on Love on Amazon in January of 2024, and has recently finished his comedic novella 'Something's Got to Give' that he plans to release very soon. He has also published his poems in other issues such as Wingless Dreamer and The Decadent Review.

‘$5 on pump 3’, ‘Window Watching’, ‘Bosworth’s Jacket’ & ‘I Keep Cutting Myself on J.K. Simmons’ Bald Head’

Peyton Fultz is a self-taught acrylic painter hailing from the DC area.

$5 on pump 3

He says he’s from Only, Tennessee

but he’s got Colorado plates.

And he asks around for a brown haired girl

in every shopping mall this side of that way.

Well, he’s forgotten what water sounds like 

since his tap broke 

and he doesn’t pay his bills.

But the Pinkerton’s can’t find him 

since his name washed away in that flood.

“Glacial,” he says

he went to Princeton

when he broke down off State Route 65.

And he’s always offering directions

but nobody’s ever seen him in town before.

He says he’s from Only, Tennessee

but he’s got Colorado plates.

And all he’ll ever buy is Folger’s Instant Coffee

and the shirt off your back.

Window Watching

It’s one of those nights 

where there’s yellow light

shining right before the rain.

So the man hauling the cross along the boulevard

is cursing out Barabbas.

until his throat drips.

I’ve heard there’s bedlam in the cabaret

And that salvation’s just a day away.

That any glimmers in the clouds aren’t stars.

He can’t help it.

Claims to know a place 

where everything gets fixed.

Is this all that waits for me?

Is this all there is for me

in this yellow end of days?

Bosworth’s Jacket

The water did a real number

on that old calf-leather.

That old calf-leather that saw

ribbon roads.

Desert swept,

sand-torn roads

cracked like old calf-leather,

like a New Mexican’s skin.

That kind of leather.

It belonged to somebody’s father named Bosworth.

I don’t know about any Bosworth

‘cept for their taste in calf-leather road jackets

and their habit of stitching their name in the lining.

And it’s gotta be sixty-odd years old at least,

so any Bosworth’s gonna be dead by now.

But his kids oughta be dead too

‘cause this old calf-leather’s an heirloom, man.

Now it’s sittin’ in a puddle.

No Bosworth son is gonna let that stand.

I’m no Bosworth son.

I’m just wearin’ his jacket.

Least I can do.

I keep cutting myself on J.K. Simmons’ bald head

I keep cutting myself on J.K. Simmons’ bald head

because there's razor blades between those 

sphynx cat wrinkles of his

and I’ll tell you why I am bleeding all over his perfect yellow drum kit

when I haven't apologized yet for having so much blood

is because I want J. K. Simmons to hate me like he knows what love is

because then I would know what it is to be perfect

because you know how much I want that

that being perfect and one of the greats is worth having so much blood

for J. K. Simmons to hate at and 

I want you to know that this is good for me

because when I tell you that jazz is all about being perfect please believe me

because I need you to 

because what else have I been doing if it isn’t all jazz this way

I want you to watch J. K. Simmons be perfect at jazz with me because he’ll hate you too and

you’ll bleed all over his perfect yellow drum kit with me and 

just imagine being perfect like that

just imagine being perfect like that

can you imagine being perfect like that

when no amount of blood could ever make anyone hate you and

it's only love when you die

because that's what blood is

love

Daniel Martinelli

‘The Gold Tooth’

Donald Patten is an artist and cartoonist from Belfast, Maine. He produces oil paintings, illustrations, ceramic pieces and graphic novels. His art has been exhibited in galleries across Maine. His online portfolio is donaldlpatten.newgrounds.com/art

The Gold Tooth

Poor clumsy Alan resembled a gray shaggy carpet stuffed under a baseball hat. He was the saddest and meanest looking creature, his droopy nose was probably broken more than once because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut or his hands to himself.

Alan usually felt miserable but today, he felt charming and handsome as he basked underneath Madison’s blue eyes. She was one sexy woman in black tights, shoulder-length blonde hair, and her face sparkled at him like a diamond and she smelled so fruity. He enjoyed watching her pretty fingers fondle the apples.

Alan spread his mouth into a bad breath grin at Madison. A foul stench of onions and booze should have made her turn away except it was the yellow canine. The yellow canine beamed like a neon-light beside the rest of his rotten teeth. It was gold. Alan, the old man who had managed to almost drop all the apples from the produce display had a golden canine.

In the gaze of her attentive eyes, she noticed his old blue eyes had yellow polka dots. It might be her day off from the nursing home but she was still stuck in her lilac scrubs and examining patients, she really tried to stop herself. But Madison knew those yellow spots meant pinguecula or his liver was dying from an overload of liquor. She opted for the later version.

She handed him his bag of apples and was about to go find those overpriced raisins and maybe she would need butter that would be priced at an arm and a leg. It would save money to buy the pre-made stale butter tarts. But she really wanted to make them for her fiancee, she promised him.

“Thanks Blondie.” He chuckled and grinned.

She wished he never grinned, that contagious gold-feeling, that golden canine – one tooth – one cap of gold in his scummy mouth.

For Alan’s sake, Madison’s frozen smile and her stoney-blue eyes were so charged on him that it should have scared him but he was so enamored by this young-thing being so kind to him. It reminded him of the old days when women would be lined up to make time for him. That was really a lie, but that’s how he remembered them. In reality, Alan only picked up two women in two different decades and both of them divorced him. All the other times, the police were called to pick him up because he was harassing women at the bar or he was fist-fighting about politics.

Meanwhile in Madison’s mind, she was already twirling around her gold collection, her pretty things: chains, hearts and crosses. The gold tooth was so bewitching that Madison had to have it.

The shrill voice of her conscience preyed on her to do the right thing: make those butter tarts, you promised him. Madison knew that she should walk away, and she was in Lulus and maybe go to the gym and then bake those butter tarts. But she couldn’t. She couldn’t resist that pretty gold tooth stuck in his horrid mouth.

“Mads, It’s so pretty,” Granny whispered in her head. “Don’t you worry, you won’t get caught. Who would even love a man like that? Remember Audrey? Her bottle collection and fruit flies, and a couch with a small fortune of ten thousand?” Granny could spend all night listing off everything that she had taken and she was never ever caught.

When Madison was only four, she awoke to a dozen swirling red and blue butterflies except she knew now, that it was police lights spinning on the wall.

That night Granny wrestled with the policeman before they successfully handcuffed her and they left behind her Elizabeth Taylor wig on the floor. And then her mother disappeared into the pitch black night like she never existed. After that Madison lucked out on a foster family adopting her but somehow her life fluttered onto the fringe of disaster...

On her very first graveyard shift at the hospital she was in charge of Lillian Page. Mrs. Page was a lonely soul and she didn’t have anybody to come and visit her, and she didn’t sleep too well; she loved to talk until her voice just gave up. She had cancer from smoking since she was twelve so she knew that she going to die so she wanted to stay awake as long as possible even though the other nurses couldn’t stand her, Madison had a sweet-spot for this unwanted curmudgeon.

Madison gave her a nightly dose of temazepam and the old lady gobbled down the red and blue pills like they were her happy time.

When Madison picked up Mrs. Page’s chart she saw the wispy black-ink scribble that somebody already had given Mrs. Page her nightly dose. To Madison, an alarm went off and she had just double dosed the patient. She had given Mrs. Page a fatal dose. She had murdered her. Madison felt the room spin and the butterflies, the sirens she saw it all coming to an end with her in cuffs and nightmares.

Mrs. Page wasn’t bothered by Madison sticking around. In fact, she grinned at Madison as she felt the warm-drowsy feeling of sleep falling over her and she even called her by her daughter’s name: Lisa.

Madison was tumbling down a hole and she knew she should go and get help but that’s when she felt Granny’s old ghostly scratchy hand hold her around her wrists so tight and Madison could taste that bitter-tasting milk at the back of her throat.

“It’s going to be okay. You don’t move a muscle, child.” Granny coaxed her with the sweet words. Madison disappeared and she let Granny help her clean up this horrible accident.

Mrs. Page went into cardiac arrest. She never ever could remember how Mrs. Page’s gold necklace got into her pocket. All she remembered was Granny’s haunting goodnight-wishes:“I love you to the moon and back.”

The gray house, Alan’s home, stood not straight but not completely crooked. Once Alan died it would destroyed for a million dollar home. The ad would boast as being super private with a natural garden of hedges and gigantic mature cedar trees. Plus, a block away from the beach. Close your eyes and imagine your dream oasis.

As of now the property was anything but dreamy. The huge trees had uprooted the grass, broken the cement path and dishevelled the front stairs. An assortment of blackberry vines crawled their way out of the cedar bushes. Their thorns cutting into the air, seizing hold onto anything that would give them a speck of sunlight.

“My two wives are resting there. They were all sour bitches in life but now they’re sweet. The best berries for wine.” Alan bursted his gut into laughter.

“My husband makes a perfect pie.” She gave him a wink.

“Where’d you bury him?” He asked her.

“With the rhubarb.” She teased him into another blast of laughter.

The home was ugly, ugly by the fact that a white smudged fridge was at the very back of the house separating the kitchen and the back door.

An unhappy feeling of death was in all corners of the home for poor Alan. Alan could be dead in so many ways: Alan sleeping on his favourite chair while a fire from the tiny fireplace roasted him into a gooey ash, or him being crushed and beaten to death by all the books and bookshelves by the nasty Queen Charlotte Fault earthquake.

“It’s cozy.” She reflected as she shrugged her shoulders with the friendliest of smiles at Alan.

“Would you like tea, my dear?” He asked her as he rested his back against the fridge.

“No, thanks.” She sneered at him, how she wished she could just pry his mouth open and take that gold tooth rather than suffer a game of pretend with him.

“But Alan.” She paused to get all of his attention. “Let me spoil you. Let me make you a drink.” She volunteered and right away his frown of disappointment turned upside down and the golden canine winked at her.

The kitchen was narrow with just enough squeezable room for a round table with two seats. The sink was filled with a stack of smeared plates and ancient tea bags hanging off the faucet. In the corner was a zillion stack of fliers, and she was sure that she saw a mouse’s tail at the very bottom.  Mice or any rodent with snaky tails scared her. But Granny was right there with her sweet words. “It’s alright. He needs a friend. He needs your help, Mads.”

Alan eased into the wooden chair and she could tell that he had a sore back: it could be a deteriorating disc or cirrhosis. It made her back hurt by just watching him.

Madison took charge of putting the groceries away as she also searched the cupboards that were filled with more books than cans of food for a pair of clean glasses.

Granny stood beside Madison, she could only see Granny out of the corner of her eye: Granny was like a dark blobby shadow. Deep down Madison was also frightened that it might be a torn retina but it was better to believe that Granny was always with her.

“It’s colder today than yesterday. I’m going to have to start a fire tonight.” Alan rubbed his arms.

“A whiskey will warm those old bones too.”

“Old? Who says I’m old.” Alan barked as he liked to leer at this young-thing scooting around his kitchen. He felt so lucky today.

“I got your poison, Alan.” It was so corny but he loved how she wiggled the whiskey at him.

Alan grinned. She made him feel so young and important and like a king of his own castle.

“Alan, my dear, I thought I was the only one that kept books in my kitchen cupboards too.”

“You collect books?” his silver eyebrows peaked into a point as she handed him his drink.

“Yes.” The truth was she didn’t collect books but Alan liked to think that they were soulmates or something that was totally impossible. “So where do you keep these fine first editions?”

“In my bedroom.” He told her as he took a big gulp. His lips glistening with booze.

Madison peeked into the inky dark room. The walls were armoured with oodles of books and shelves; she could see the kitchen light reflecting off the shiny spines of hardcovers.

“You mister Alan, have such a charming smile.” His gold tooth rattled at her and she noted how he couldn't leave his glass alone until it was empty and her’s was still seventy-five percent full. “Where did you get that gold tooth?” She asked.

“My darling, Maddy, I panned for that gold.”

“Really?” She asked while she poured him another whiskey behind him. Then she sprinkled the fine white powder of crushed temazepam. Instantly, the powder dissolved like it never happened. Vamoosed into the ambers just like all her fathers that Granny had poisoned. Each one dead and striped of his gold chains or rings and Granny always wore at least five gold chains underneath her turtleneck tops.

Madison coughed and it didn’t sound good. She could feel that yucky taste of a germ bug swimming down in her throat.

“Are you getting a cold?” His face squinted into a grimace.

“No, allergies. I’m one of those people: dust, hay and alder trees and pollen too.” She took a sip of the whiskey. “So, when I went panning for gold. I collected nothing. Not even one tiny speck.”

“I have five vials of gold in my bathroom.” he told her as he took a big gulp and his soft grimy hand pressed her hand. “You are so sweet, Maddy, my dear.”

Granny’s white hands slithered around Alan’s neck and he shivered.

“Oh, Alan, cheers to you and all your million successes.” Madison cheered him on.

He wheezed into laughter. “Maddy, you want to know something else?” He wanted to impress her and to have her stay a little longer; he enjoyed her company.

“What is it, my dear?” She squeezed his hand.

“I’m a millionaire too.”

“In gold?” She asked.

“Nope, American and Canadian. I sleep on it every night. Sweet dreams every night.” He laughed up a storm as he took a mouthful of whiskey.

Madison wiggled comfortably into her seat as she waited for the temazepam to kick in. The temazepam metamorphosis began with the dilation of the pupils, then their speech became slurred followed by their gross motor skills: it became harder for them to walk or to move. Then soon enough they were knocked into a coma followed by a cardiac arrest. And they were dead. She never waited for their last breath before she went hunting for their treasures.

And Alan’s tiny pupils were blooming into black holes.

“You are a devil.” Madison told him quite frankly. “But a charming one.” She knew that was Granny talking she would never say anything like that.

Alan loved it and begged to hear her story and Madison thought it was only fair that she give them a little story as they gradually cease to exist.

“I’m a nurse. I’ve been working for about six years. My parents named me Madison after the mermaid from Splash. So every Halloween, I dress up like a mermaid. I call that my fun fact.” Madison crinkled her cute knob of nose at him as she stared deeply into his black pupils.

“A mermaid?” He asked amused and he liked to see her in a bikini. He wished it was still summer.

“Mmm, yep, and in my lifetime, I’ve met like ten other Madisons all named after the same mermaid. It doesn’t seem so original when you’re a millennial.” She took a sip of whiskey. “Ugh, this is so gross.” She wiped her lips on her sleeve. “It makes me want to hurl.”

“You’re a virgin.” he barked at her in good humour.

“Alan, you’re so silly.” She hissed at him. “I am engaged. I met my fiancee in detention in high school. It’s kind of funny when I think about it now. My fiancee, he lived in detention, but you see, it was my first time at detention in high school.” she yawned.

“What did you do?”

“Oh, it was meant as a joke. I bought a bunch of wild mushrooms to cooking class. Panther Cap. Amanita pantherinoides. It’s a mouthful but they are these beautiful spotted brownish mushrooms. So, I just bought them in as a stupid joke. I wasn’t going to poison anybody for real. So, I got detention and that was the day I met him. He was the kind of guy who pretty much lived in detention. A real hands on kind of guy. He’s a paramedic now.”

“Your fiancee is very lucky to have you.” Alan told her.

“Thanks. His step-mother tells me that I am lucky to have him.”

Alan laughed and he asked for another drink but she didn’t hear him and she didn’t care. Even though his movements were slow and clumsy, she knew in about five minutes he would be dead and forever resting in his own piss. And in her mind, she was already thinking about the mattress behind her in the dark room and she couldn't wait to have all that money along with his gold tooth.

An iron-fisted knock pounded at the front door, it almost sounded like they were going to tear the door down. The pounding knock hurtled her out of her cash fantasy and then she heard Alan repeating her name like a dog.

“Are you alright, Maaaddddyeee? He squeezed her hand. “They’ll goooo awwwayyy.” He grinned.

In spite of Alan’s words they didn’t go away, the pounding knock turned to the doorknob being wickedly twisted and turned.

“Who is it?” She asked horrified that they could just barge in during the day.

The door banged open and it was like all the air in the house blew out the front door. She sat there clutching her throat and then she heard two feet stomp inside and she knew she was being cornered.

“Father, I’m home.” The stranger shouted from the living room.

Alan dragged himself to the living room as Madison almost tripped over the kitchen chair.

“Youu, geeet ouut!” Alan yelled at his son.

“Drunk in the afternoon. Classic, pops.”

Each beat in her heart felt like those butterflies caught in her throat and twirling in her head. She knew this wasn’t part of her plan. She could hear both of them yelling and shouting and it was all gibberish to her.

 The darkness in the bedroom eclipsed over her, leaving the light behind her. The kitchen and the glasses of whiskey became farther and farther away, and the fear fluttered around her like mad butterflies and their wings had teeth and they were lashing at her - trying to tear her apart.

Then something stubbed her toe and she almost screamed but then she saw it was a book, just a book and a horrible feeling came to her that maybe she had poisoned herself. She didn’t want to believe it. That Granny had poisoned her. It was even a more horrible thought than the stranger. The bitter-tasting milk that Granny gave her every time she put her to bed. “I love you to the moon and back.”

Madison groped at the dark air trying to find her way out. Her hands stumbled upon a bookshelf and then another bookshelf and then another bookshelf.

In the pitch black, she searched for a halo of light that framed a window. A horrible thought that the window was behind the bookshelves. She was trapped and death was right there just like in Alan’s whiskey glass.

“Where’s the window? Please help me.” She whispered into the dark, hoping that Granny or some angel would help her. Would take her blind hand and show her the exit.

She didn’t want to die yet. She didn’t know where she’d go. At that moment she knew she wasn’t an atheist or even a Buddhist anymore; she was too terrified with fear of what else was hidden in the dark when she died.

Then she felt something a cold musty fabric between her fingers and she yanked it back to reveal a single window. Her only escape was covered by a thick knobbly cedar bush and streaming blackberry vines. High above the towering cedar she could see a few black crows flying in the free gray sky.

She opened the window and the cedar bush and the vines bounced into the room and the crows she could hear their cawing-howl that felt so close that it sent a shiver down her spine.

The moist air breathed onto her face and she could taste the salt of the sea on her lips that was a block away. The crows howled and it sent a tremor of cold chills.

That crazy-hurling howl wasn’t the crows, it was Alan howling from the living room.

Madison squished herself onto the windowsill and all she had to do was jump into the cedars and the dark thorns; her skin prickled with anticipation of all the blood-trailing scratches.

She pushed off from the ledge and and instead of thorns the curtain snatched her away from escape.

Madison screamed and squirmed and did everything to stay alive and try to get away from the man who held her in the folds of the curtain.

She could hear him yelling at her to shut up as his hand pressed down on her mouth wanting to crush her. Suffocating her under the mushy fabric. The yucky fabric she could taste all the bitterness of the pee, the nicotine and the dust heavy with failure and she became so afraid that she was going to die. She could taste the bitter-milk: chalky and so bitter that the cinnamon on top only made her lips spicy.

Abruptly, Madison was chucked onto the floor. She curled herself into the folds of the curtain like it would protect her from any harm that was going to come her way.

“I’m not going to hurt you!” He told her but she didn’t believe him even though she heard his footsteps move away from her.

Underneath the curtain she could just make out through the weak weave Alan’s son underneath the kitchen light. She watched him pace back and forth and then she saw Granny. Granny standing beside him as he drank down the two glasses of whiskey.

Inch by inch the curtain slipped away from her head and then she sat there like a doll spying at him. She knew him. He was the butcher. Usually, his long black beard was stuffed underneath a hairnet but she recognized those mingy eyes and his giant stance and all those tattoos of Vikings and Celtics and fiery flames on his arms, hands and neck.

“He’s dead.” The butcher told her and she knew she meant Alan.

Madison sat there and the room became lighter and she could hear just the crows and the mist turning into rain and Granny words on the wind telling her it was going to be alright.

“I am sorry.” She wasn’t that sorry for him, she was sorry that she had ended up here with him. “If he’s dead and you called 911. They won’t be out here for at least an hour.” She kicked off the curtain. “I know because I’m a nurse.”

“A nurse?” he still didn’t recognize her and that made her a little bit mad.

She stepped underneath the light and his face turned friendly because he recognized her. The young lady around his age buying steaks or a whole chicken. He had even given her a recipe for roast chicken with a beer can in the summer.

“Madison.”

“Corey.”

She picked up the two glasses. “I should probably be here when they arrive.” She invited herself. “So, maybe, we should have a drink as we wait.” She told him as she poured the whiskey.

His head was weeping between his hands as she sprinkled the rest of temazepam that was left in the pouch. She hoped it would be enough.

“Yeah. I did everything to save him.” He turned around to face her.

“To save him?” She asked as she passed him a drink.

He really didn’t want the drink but he took it anyways. He didn’t like to look at her too long because he found her fake eyelashes creepy.

“I think he had a heart attack.” Corey informed her.

“A heart attack?” She questioned it like he was an idiot. “Well, he wasn’t well, you do know that. He was in a lot of pain. His liver was practically killing him. Not much you can do.” She grinned but he didn’t smile back. “We should drink.” She took one of her tiny sips while he downed the booze in one shot.

“Miss, can you check on him?” Corey stood there. “To just make sure. I can’t believe this is happening.”

“Sure.” The living had a hard time when death finally came and all they had was something lifeless whether they loved or hated them. It was all the same. They wanted her to check one more time to make sure that they were really dead.

He followed behind her like a little puppy as she approached the old man who was sprawled out like a bear rug except he rested on his back and in a pool of his own piss. His mouth was wide open and his golden canine so shiny.

Madison kneeled down and took his pulse, pretending that there was a half chance of life in him. Her two fingers pressed against his neck, where the pulse would be, and then for real theatrics, she picked up his hand and checked his wrist.

“I am so sorry, Corey.” She told him even though her eyes never left the gold tooth.

“We were arguing.” Corey said. “He fell over. I didn’t know. I didn’t think.”

“I heard.” She silently said as her finger touched the gold tooth.

“He just fell down.”

“Were his eyes open and his eyelids fluttering like this.” She showed him, and she didn’t read the horror on his face. She had no idea, that he knew, that she had the taken and hid the gold tooth in the palm of her hand.

Corey’s hands went numb as he watched her face smirk at him. Her blue eyes were like glass and her face glared at him like wax. It was like she wore a mask and a wig of blonde locks.

“Are you okay?” She held his chilly hands as her warm hands fell over him checking his vitals. “You’re ice cold.” She giggled at him. “Maybe you need to sit down?”

The liquor, and he had just a little bit, he’d been sober for about two years and now, he could feel the poison in him and he could taste that vile part of him erupting. After one shot of whiskey he was a cheap date but back in the day he drank like a fish. Corey didn’t like having her clammy hands on him.

Madison moved like she was in water, swimming around his legs, until he caught and squeezed her by her neck; she felt like quicksand in his palm.

Nothing ever worked out for him except the job he had, the butcher, packing up the meat and he was good at that. He liked butchering and then packing it up for people for dinner, or his meat recommendations if he got asked about a good cut for steak or a roast, or reserving their turkeys for Christmas. It was like he was right at the table with them.

Corey did feel bad for burying her in the back with the cedars and he felt even worse when he saw her missing person poster. A family missing a loved one. It was a horrible feeling. He didn’t like to think about her but he couldn’t erase the last memory of her. After Madison died her eyes twitched and twitched and her fake-lashes quivered like caterpillars. It freaked him out a couple of times as he dragged her body away from his Dad’s body before the ambulance arrived to see his dead father.

The blue house, Corey’s home, stood straight and sturdy with beautiful tall hedges that he trimmed on his days off. With his dad’s inheritance, he got a new truck that he drove from work to home but one day he would take a trip to some place less gray.

Veronica Gardner lives in Red Deer, Alberta (Canada). She has moved around the globe from NYC, LA, and then to Comox Valley to find gold, and then for a summer, she watched David Blaine live in a box for 44 days in London, England. Her poem "A Cat With Wings" has been published in Poet's Choice: Poems Now and Forever edition.

‘Sex on Moto’, ‘The Moto’s Cubby Hole’, ‘Ouaga Cowboys’ & ‘Catching Up With Friends’

Michael Raqim is a photographer and writer based in Texas. He began practicing film photography in 2004 and later moved on to digital format. He is currently working on a photo book called "Dreaming in Monochrome."

Preface Note:

Located in West Africa, Burkina Faso (formerly known as Upper Volta) is north of Benin and Ghana and south of Mali. Ouagalais refers to the people living in Ouagadougou, its capital city.  

Ouagadougou is known as the premier motorcycle city in West Africa because motorcycles are the major means of transportation. In fact, Burkina Faso is called “the African capital of two wheels.”  Out of Ouagadougou’s 1,62 million population, as of 2015,  765, 477 people owned a motorcycle. So almost one out of two people own a motorcycle. There is a hierarchy of Ouagalais transportation; walking is on the bottom, followed by bicycles, motorcycles, cars, and then chauffeured cars. 

Burkina Faso was colonized by the French, so French is a dominant Western language there. Note, French words in the poems will have footnotes with their translation on the bottom of the page where the poem is. 

Watching the Ouagalais on their motorcycles (aka motos) one can see a gamut of emotions and transportation scenarios. I hope to give you a glimmer of the roads in Ouaga. These poems were based largely on my time living in Ouaga from 2018 to 2020.

Bonne route!

Sex on Moto

It’s one or two a.m.

They are parked by the dam.

An old homeless man watches

the fire in a large can

several yards away from them.

She has a red mini mini skirt.

He sits as if driving,

and she straddles him,

facing him.

They pull towards each other-

she pushes up and away 

from the dam and bridge, 

aims for the fire 

with her hips.

He pulls her to him 

to land down again

and again.

Her hair,

hips,

and that oh so tiny space

void of fabric.

The moto stares across 

the dam, 

wants to go forward

and forward.

The Moto’s Cubby Hole

Under the rider’s ass

is not only the seat,

but a storage hole.

Lift up the seat

and stash your treats-

like cigarettes,

peanuts, or an orange.

Hide away your 

extra pens and pencils,

spare change,

or that romance

novel Mom just won’t

have in her house.

Great place to conceal

a second phone

to the deuxième bureau

or keys to her house,

placed underneath

or inside your Bible

or Koran.

And remember,

first and foremost

to keep a towel

to wipe the dirt

off your seat

so your ass stays nice

and neat!

* deuxième bureau literally means second office but is used in West Africa to refer to a mistress

Ouaga Cowboys

Ride high in style with

shined shoes,

starched shirts,

and motorcycles washed

daily.

Ouaga cowboys press earbuds

in while they drive.

The music pumps them up

and their motos become 

thrones. They are kings

of the road, so

they jut their right knees 

out to the side

at 45 degrees,

and zoom by.

A gesture to say:

I claim more space.

I am large.

Check me baby.

I am cool!

Catching Up With Friends

She has her hair teased and highlighted.

She’s feeling good,

She’s made all green lights.

She’s right on time.

Then someone calls her name.

She turns to her left.

It’s him, the guy who made jokes

In chemistry. She smiles.

He remembers her name.

He asks how her exam went.

He says it is nice to see her.

She smiles and tells him he 

Better watch the road.

They move up to the light.

It turns red. He moves closer

To her. He says he misses chemistry.

She clicks and hisses, chiding him.

Someone honks behind them;

The light is green.  They both

Turn left. She waves.

He nods.  They wait for further

Surprises on the road.

Suzanne Ondrus' first book, Passion Seeds, won the 2013 Vernice Quebodeaux Prize. She was Gordon Square Review’s 2022 runner up winner for prose, the 2013 Reed Magazine Markham Poetry Prize winner, a 2017 featured UNESCO World Book Capital poet in Guinea, Conakry, and a 2018-2020 Fulbright Scholar to Burkina Faso. Her work delves into love, desire, different cultures, history, racism, body image, African fashion, and women’s sexuality.  Her forthcoming poetry book, Death of an Unvirtuous Woman (Finishing Line Press) from which these poems come, examines domestic violence and homicide in an1881 Ohio German immigrant couple from Wood County. Hear her read on her YouTube channel Suzanne Ondrus and find her updates on suzanneondrus.com.

‘Legacy by Misfire’

Edward Michael Supranowicz is the grandson of Irish and Lithuanian/Russian/Ukrainian immigrants. He grew up on a small farm in Appalachia. He has a grad background in painting and printmaking. Some of his artwork has recently or will soon appear in Fish Food, Streetlight, Another Chicago Magazine, Door Is A Jar, The Phoenix, and The Harvard Advocate. Edward is also a published poet who has had over 700 poems published and been nominated for the Pushcart Prize multiple times.

Legacy by Misfire

(or: The Accidental Monument to the Wrong Thing Entirely)

You think legacy is earned?

You think they built statues for brilliance?

No, darling.

They built statues because somebody died inconveniently,

because somebody’s friend couldn’t take a hint,

because a slow news week met a posthumous publication

and the New York Times had column inches to fill.

Let me tell you something soft and awful:

Half of art history is a clerical error.

Dickinson wanted it private.
Sappho wanted it sung forever.
Modigliani wanted it to outlive the body.

Jesus, most of them just wanted a nap.

But their reputations came wrapped in ribbon and post-it notes and secondhand ambition—

all slapped together by the survivors—the meddling, grief-laced, attention-starved survivors—

who couldn’t leave a single scrap uncanonized.

[INTERJECTION: Or maybe they just liked the sound of their own name in a preface.]

Sometimes I think the most influential artistic movement in the world is “Oops.”

It wasn’t genius that cracked open the canon—it was error, accident, misfiled intentions.

A misinterpretation so confident it became fact.

A first draft mistaken for a final statement.

A rejection letter that got intercepted by someone who couldn’t read the room or the handwriting.

Let’s catalog a few:

• Van Gogh: failed in real time. Got meme-ified posthumously. Now he's merch.

• Satie: wrote furniture music as a joke. The world said “brilliant minimalism.” He said “please ignore this background sound while eating soup,” and we said “let’s teach it in conservatories.”

• Rousseau: self-taught, laughed at, dismissed as a dilettante. Now they hang him in the same galleries as the people who mocked him. Irony sold separately.

• Joyce: wanted language to implode under its own weight. Wrote the book no one could finish. Critics call it a linguistic cathedral. Everyone else just wants to know what the hell happened on page one.

• Rachmaninoff: crushed by failure, retreated into depression. Came back with a symphony that made critics cry into their programs. Still gets dismissed as “overly emotional.” God forbid a melody makes you feel something.

• Sendak: wrote children’s books full of monsters and loneliness. Adults panicked. Kids got it immediately. He didn’t soften the world, he admitted it was scary.

(Footnote, scribbled in the margin of literary sainthood: The more you resisted biography, the more they padded it with lace.)

What we call a legacy is often just persistence by proxy.

The work survives because someone couldn’t let go—

or wanted to feel important,

or needed a project after a breakup,

or thought, maybe this will make me famous too.

(That last one hits harder than anyone wants to admit.)

What the Artist Wanted

What History Did

Sylvia Plath: To burn her work

Released deluxe annotated editions

Bas Jan Ader: To make people uncomfortable

Made him a tragic-romantic metaphor

Samuel Beckett: To scream into the void

Turned it into curriculum

Jean-Michel Basquiat: To escape

Immortalized

Anne Sexton: To confess

Canonized

Joseph Cornell: To fail privately

Celebrated retroactively

David Wojnarowicz: To rage without filter

Quoted in coffee table books

Vivian Maier: To keep her work hidden

Became posthumous Instagram icon

How do I know all those artist stories?
I don’t—not all of them. I looked some up to fill out the tables.
But that’s not the part anyone will remember.
What they’ll remember is the impression that I knew them all already.
That’s how legacy works.

The Myth of Recognition

Recognition is not redemption.
It’s misunderstanding with a commemorative plaque.

We like to pretend there’s a justice to it—like the universe eventually sorts things out, like legacy is some karmic refund for being underappreciated in your time. But recognition doesn’t always mean you were seen. It just means you were finally useful.

Useful to a critic with a deadline.

Useful to a publisher trying to look progressive.

Useful to a curriculum designer who needed a token freak to balance out the dead white mainstream.

Useful to a retrospective at a museum that just realized it hadn’t shown a woman in three seasons.

Recognition is often just a rebrand.

They take the weird thing you made in a dark room on a desperate afternoon and clean it up for exhibition. They write panel descriptions about “visionary restraint” and “early prescient modes of minimalism,” while ignoring the part where you were just broke and trying not to scream.

They call it timeless.

They mean toothless.

They put your mistakes under glass.

They don’t ask why you made them.

Recognition is not understanding.

It’s often just consent, retroactively applied—approval given to a version of your work you wouldn’t recognize, because they cut it, trimmed it, captioned it, and erased the splinters.

They didn’t finally get it.

They just found a way to make it palatable.

You want proof?

What Critics Said Then

What Critics Say Now

About Debussy: “Derivative nonsense.”

“A bold reimagining of form.”

About Munch: “Lacks cohesion.”

“Pioneering in its fragmentation.”

About Mussorgsky: “Ugly, dissonant, confused.”

“Raw emotion and structural daring.”

About Stein: “Nonsensical drivel.”

“Revolutionary force in literary modernism.”

About Kusama: “Pretentious claptrap.”

“Meditation on language and identity.”

About Stravinsky: “Unrefined.”

“Striking in its rejection of polish.”

About Bourgeois: “Disturbing, indecent.”

“Fearlessly mining the subconscious.”

About Glass: “Repetitive nonsense.”

“A minimalist reshaping musical language.”

[A Lecture Delivered at the International Symposium on Accidental Legacy Preservation]

(Lights up. A single podium. The speaker approaches, papers spilling. The microphone squeals. They clear their throat like it owes them money.)

SPEAKER:

Good evening. Thank you for attending this hastily convened symposium on the Unintentional Immortalization of People Who Did Not Ask For It.

Tonight, we gather to honor those whose legacies were shaped not by intention, but inertia—whose posthumous fame is the result of archival accidents, interpretive gymnastics, and the sheer cultural momentum of someone else’s thesis project.

(Pauses to adjust glasses that are not there.)

Let us begin with a case study.

(gestures to a chart that doesn’t exist)

The Arc of Accidental Greatness:

Phase One: Artist creates something weird.

Phase Two: No one likes it.

Phase Three: Artist dies.

Phase Four: Someone repackages the weird thing as “visionary.”

Phase Five: University lecture circuit.

Phase Six: Tote bags.

Now, some may ask, “Isn’t that just how legacy works?”

To which I say: No. That’s how laundering works.

We rinse the strange until it becomes aesthetically sanitized. We scrub off the intent, spray on some Meaning™, and hang it in the canon like it always belonged there.

Take Berlioz, our sonic maximalist—

He wrote music for imaginary orchestras.

History called it Romanticism.

I call it a brass section hallucination scored in eyeliner and unfinished wine.

Take Kafka—

He wanted oblivion.

We gave him a Google Doodle.

SPEAKER:

And do you know what unites them all?

They weren’t trying to be legends.

They were trying to be left alone.

They were trying to survive a Tuesday.

And yet—here we are—staging lectures in their name, building careers from their reluctance, citing their awkward last words like scripture.

Maybe the most honest legacy is the one that slips away.

But that’s not the one we publish.

[Scene: The Narrator Loses Their Grip]

Okay. Okay. Let’s be honest now.

Forget the lists. Forget the tidy pairings.

Forget the clever comparisons and academic winks.

You want to know what a legacy really is?

It’s a knife fight in a library.

It’s someone quoting you in a thinkpiece titled “10 Artists Who Knew Pain.”

It’s a street mural of your face next to a quote you didn’t say.

It’s a scholar explaining your use of symbolism and you screaming from the afterlife, “I was drunk and mad and it rhymed, Deborah.”

(...Deep breath.)

Sorry. That got away from me.

This is a literary essay.

A cultural examination.

A thoughtful meditation on posthumous narrative construction and the ethics of reception.

[beat]

It’s a joke, right?

It’s always been a joke.

[APPENDED RESPONSE FROM A CONCERNED ACADEMIC]

The following commentary has been submitted by Dr. Reginald T. Harbridge, Professor Emeritus of Canonical Studies and Interpretive Recontextualization, East Midwestern University.

While the author of the preceding essay has clearly engaged with a number of figures in what may be loosely described as the “creative arts,” I must respectfully object to the tone, methodology, and general comportment exhibited throughout. The liberal use of sarcasm and metaphor (some of which border on the grotesque—e.g., “a brass section hallucination scored in eyeliner and unfinished wine”) undermines the critical rigor necessary for productive discourse on legacy construction.

 Moreover, the essay’s assertion that historical recognition is “a repackaging job” fails to acknowledge the profound contributions of interpretive scholarship, particularly as demonstrated in my own recent monograph, Toward a Taxonomy of Posthumous Symbolic Capital in the Late Modernist Field. I would urge the author to familiarize themselves with the relevant frameworks therein, particularly Chapter Five: “From Obscurity to Inclusion: The Institutional Processing of Artistic Residue.”

Finally, the claim that art history is “a knife fight in a library” may make for compelling rhetoric, but it lacks sufficient footnoting. This essay, while stylistically energetic, should not be mistaken for a serious contribution to the discourse on artistic legacy.

In conclusion, while I commend the effort, I cannot endorse the approach. I look forward to future work from the author that better aligns with accepted disciplinary standards and includes more tables.

Legacy as Self-Fulfilling Prophecy

Here’s the part nobody likes to admit:

Once you’re canonized, everything you ever did retroactively becomes “early genius.”

You wrote a grocery list? A meditation on domestic minimalism.

You scribbled a phrase that didn’t go anywhere? Fragmentary brilliance.

You passed gas in a gallery? Performance art, obviously.

Legacy bends interpretation. Once the label says “visionary,” everyone starts squinting at the noise and calling it signal. The critics begin reconstructing intent from garbage. They publish entire essays on the significance of your coffee stains.

We pretend to study the work, but really we study the name. We build myth backwards. We map meaning onto scraps. We treat coincidence like prophecy.

And eventually, even the mess looks deliberate.

Even the silence sounds like genius.

Even your misfires get hung in the hall of fame.

Museum Tour Script (Please Memorize)

“Now if you’ll follow me to Gallery 3, you’ll notice this dimly lit corner with a single torn page nailed to the wall. The artist’s original intent remains a topic of vibrant debate— some believe it was a shopping list, others claim it was a conceptual protest against consumerism. Either way, we know it was powerful, because the artist died poor and misunderstood, which, as you know, is a strong indicator of quality.”

“And here in Gallery 5, we have a replica of the artist’s bathroom mirror. You’ll see the lipstick smudges on the glass—interpreted by some scholars as coded commentary on gender politics, by others as a chaotic morning. Either way, it’s in a glass case now.”

“Moving along…”

The Critics Who Missed It

“They’ll never amount to anything.”

“Too strange to be relevant.”

“Derivative, dull, overly ambitious.”

“Style without substance.”

“Lacks the gravitas of their peers.”

Those were the reviews. The ones pinned to studio walls, folded into desk drawers, reread with shaking hands. The ones that killed projects. Delayed publication. Made artists doubt everything they touched.

You know where those critics are now?

Footnotes.

They were wrong then.

We’ll be wrong now.

Circle complete.

What They Left Out

They never mention the migraines.
Or the drafts that bled through the paper.
The burned dinners. The shoes that blistered.
The hours rearranged around someone else’s needs.
The work that got torn up in a fit and taped back together, twice.
The panic over rent. The mold in the corners.
The friendships frayed thin, then snapped.
The notebooks warped by water, or wine, or weather.
The rejections that didn’t sting until the third reread.
The nights everything felt like noise.
The mornings they almost quit.

None of it gets carved into plaques.
None of it gets canonized.

But maybe it should.

Legacy isn’t earned.
It’s rehearsed until it sounds like fact.

[end]

Ryan T. Pozzi is a writer and historian whose work blends cultural commentary, biography, and emotional narrative to challenge received wisdom about artists, legacy, and what we leave behind. He is the founder of the Nebraska Writers Collective and former director of the Apollon Art Space. His nonfiction is forthcoming in Ponder Review, Cursed Morsels, and Villain Era. Ryan is a member of the Biographers International Organization, Historical Writers of America, and Authors Against Book Bans. He lives in Council Bluffs, Iowa with his wife and too many notebooks.