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Spring 2021 Issue 3

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3 4/5 Nikki Gonzalez 6/7 Riley Winchester 8/9 Paul Tanner 10/11/12 Jennifer Geisinger 13 Karen Boissonneault-Gauthier 14/15 Oz Hardwick 16/17 Alan Bern 18 Zach Murphy 19 Connor Doyle 20 Colette Tennant 21 Shail Raghuvanshi 22/23/24 Yohanes Santo 25 Kerry Trautman 26/27 Stephen Kingsnorth 28/29/30 Michael Thompson 31 John Johnson 32/33/34 Eduard Schmidt-Zorner 35 Ranjith Sivaraman 37 Khristy Knudtson 38/39 Yuan Changming Artistically Inspired Contest 40 Joseph Campbell 41/42/43 Sarah Elizabeth Gordon (Editor’s Winner) 44/45 Marion Horton (Arst’s Winner)

Let me be totally honest here. I had two very dierent layout designs of this issue going simultaneously and it was all the way up to the very release date that I waed about which one I was going to nally select for publication. Cravings and compulsions, compulsions and cravings. I’ve thought about this theme for months now; reected on what these words and these experiences mean to me. On the one hand, they are very real. Tangible. Our cravings and our compul-sions are literal. They are lace and sprinkles. They are alcohol and cigarettes. They are the designer clothes and the love that got away. On the other hand, they are intangible, too. Our desires and our needs swirl in a depth that’s often inaccessible and in-comprehensible. They are, in this sense, metaphorical. In capturing cravings and compulsions metaphorically, I created a design of clouds and trees. The branches of the trees, bare of leaves, seemed to be symbolically reaching like strong, desper-ate, utterly needy ngers. The clouds a tempting soft-sweet. As it were, I rst pondered the trees and clouds as such as I went running to clear my own mind of the compulsive thoughts that tempt and pull and scratch insistent. But, ultimately, going meta-phorical seemed to belie the bravery that I boisterously laud the contributors for 1. These authors and artists took up a challenge that was meant to provoke; to poke at the shadowy spaces of the mind that aren’t often given light simply because it’s not easy to do so. They confronted this theme and all the aches and anxie-ties and self-doubts that go into it head-on; they put to their con-scious mind the feelings and experiences that others protectively bury deep, let alone dare to share so openly. The brave writers and artists in these pages stood rm. And so I know: We need no metaphor here. There will be no beating 4 1 Casagrande, June. “A word please? You can end a sentence with a preposion if you want to.” LA Times, 2002, hps://www.lames.com/socal/daily-pilot/opinion/story/2020-08-10/a-word-please-you-can- end-a-sentence-with-a-preposion-if-you-want-to.

around the bush. We are putting it on the table. All of us. Together. My educational background and my day job, too, is in psychology. Picking themes such as Cravings & Compulsions, as well as the ones that came before it and the ones we have coming eagerly down the pike are a natural amalgamation of my psychological mind and my love for writing. But they’re hard. And so I hold tight with gratitude and awe the writers and artists that have joined me in this pursuit to create from rawness. This is true for the hundreds of people that submit their works to us and it is exponentially true for the ones that have returned, featured now in multiple issues. I hope they feel a sense of home here -- a place where their voices are respected, where they are loved unconditionally, and they have unwavering support of not just me but of each other. I am building a family here. A fami-ly of the most courageous and vastly talented people I encounter across the world. Speaking of the vastly talented, I didn’t need to search too far for the artist who provided the work, “Rising From the Deep” for our Art-Inspired Contest for this issue. Joe Campbell is a photographer from my hometown of Highland Park, New Jersey but whose reach is far be-yond. Submitters to the contest couldn’t help but note in their cover letters how compelled they were to write after seeing his photo. Some were haunted by the image. Others felt awash in its colors. Serenity and anticipated dread, polar opposites though they may be, were both evoked in his art. Marion Horton’s Nothingness and Sarah Elizabeth Gordon’s Merlife were de-clared our winners. These two pieces represent a bit of that very dichotomy while also over-lapping with palpable emotion. To all who contributed and to all who adventure with us through these pages, I thank you. I do hope you will feel at home in them, amongst family. Nikki Gonzalez 5

The Take 5 Swirl 6 Although I love the Take 5 Swirl, Fantasy Twirl removes it from the menu the spring I’m about to turn ten. I’m blindsided when I order and they inform me they no longer carry it. I’m further blindsided when I realize that I’ve eaten my last Take 5 Swirl and I didn’t even know. And now I’m overcome with a silly sense of sadness that only an almost-ten-year-old deprived of his favorite dessert could understand. That was, in short, my experience Sunday, April 1, 2007, which will, in my mind, forever be known as the day Fantasy Twirl removed the Take 5 Swirl from its menu. The Take 5 is a candy bar made up of ve ingredients: chocolate, peanuts, caramel, peanut butter, and pretzels. The Take 5 Swirl was made up of a couple of Take 5 bars tossed in Fantasy Twirl’s blender with vanilla ice cream and milk. The beauty was in its simplicity. I was so in love that I often found myself daydreaming about the next time I’d poke my head up to the order window, order a large Take 5 Swirl, grip the frosty cup when it came out, sink my spoon into the ice cream swirling along the cup’s top, and take the rst teeth-chilling bite. The Take 5 Swirl was the rst thing I lost forever. I had lost toys but those could be bought again. I had lost video games but my interest in games evolved so quickly I hardly had any time to grieve before I red up the next one to replace it. I had lost pets but they could be replaced, too. Like when our family dog Brendall died, and shortly after we took Remy home from the puppy mill. At rst I missed the way Brendall tackled me and licked up in my ears as I laughed while rolling on the carpet. Over time, however, I grew to love Remy, and Brendall became only a nebulous memory. All of these losses had methods of replacement, but losing the Take 5 Swirl was dierent. After learning the Take 5 Swirl had been removed from the menu, I acted deftly and ordered what I thought would be a serviceable replacement: the Snickers Swirl. It didn’t come close. I experimented with a new item every time after that. Butternger Swirl, Heath Swirl, Cookie Dough Swirl, Kit Kat Swirl, Reese’s Swirl, Twix Swirl, etc., etc., etc. Swirl. And every time my disappointment and grief grew as I realized noth-ing could replace the Take 5 Swirl. I could buy my own Take 5 bars and blend them with vanilla ice cream and milk at home, sure, but it wasn’t a true Take 5 Swirl. (continued)

Riley Winchester’s writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Ligeia Magazine, Miracle Monocle, Sheepshead Review, Ellipsis Zine, Beyond Words, Pure Slush’s “Lifespan” Anthology, and other publications. He lives in Grand Rapids, Michigan. 7 I’ll admit that I realize how silly (and maybe even pathetic) it seems to mourn the loss of a candy bar–vanilla ice cream–milk dessert blend, but the Take 5 Swirl was a primer to my learning an immutable experience of life: loss. Since the Take 5 Swirl, I’ve lost friends to time and distance, girlfriends to disagreements and argu-ments, family members to death. All of these, in their own ways, are irreplaceable, like the Take 5 Swirl. But that’s not always for lack of trying. Like when you reference a meme around a new friend and they don’t catch it and it reminds you of that old inside joke with that old friend. Or, with a new partner, when you do that thing where you rub your thumb along their thumb as you’re holding hands while watch-ing Netix on the couch, and this new partner doesn’t like it so much. That was your thing with your last partner, who’s gone now. That was your Take 5 Swirl, and it can’t be replaced, not with the Snickers Swirl, the Butternger Swirl, nor the Heath Swirl. And maybe that’s not always a bad thing. Maybe it’s nice to know you’ve been fortunate enough to spend time with people and desserts worth missing.

8 Boss Thighs she likes what she sees licks her lips breathes in looks up from the disciplinary form I’m afraid she gasps uncrosses her legs looks you in the eye we’re going to have to let you go sits back and exhales, the once taut meat above her knees melting across the chair cushion … you leave her there behind her desk staring at the ceiling walk out blue unemployed balls swaying fucked but not fucked.

9 Weighted Wait she went to the bathroom. we didn’t say anything. when she came back she looked at us both and said: you two are quiet. it was somehow worse than if we’d have spoken. Paul Tanner earns minimum wage and writes. And sometimes, he just plain is. He recently gave up cheese and hope, in that order.

(continued) 10 Tramp Harbor Vashon Island was black fog. The Puget Sound was ink. Tramp Harbor. Pearl loved names. She loved words, and connections. She loved being home, even if she had no place to go. It was enough just to be in this place. The rest would come. Tramp Harbor was such a tawdry name for a place where people got high or watched the sunset, or did them both together. It also sounded like there was a troll under the bridge like in Fremont. Vagabond Para-dise. That would be a good name for a band. Pearl wasn’t worried about being moved on by the police. She could stay here a week and have a bonre, and nothing would happen except people coming out of the woodwork. The one cop was currently sleeping at Thriftway uptown, or at least he had been when she drove through a few hours ago. He worked a second job in construction and usually knocked o early, taking the last ferry back to Seattle at two am instead of waiting for the morning boat. He must have gured the island could fend for herself a few hours. She proba-bly could. Nobody minded. Everybody knew what he was doing, there were no secrets on a small island. If the ferry workers know, everyone knows. Pearl breathed in the damp. She was going to be on that morning boat. She was. Maybe. Daylight would bring out the smug tai-chi people saluting the sun with earnest eagerness. Pearl needed to get some coee and move on before that happened. She couldn’t stomach hope or hippies right now. Pearl walked the crumbling pier, carefully, carefully. Maybe going down wouldn’t be such a bad idea. It would solve a lot. It really was falling apart down here. Someone could just slip right through. It was so dark—no stars even. She always forgot how Vashon felt until she was here. She hadn’t planned to come at all, but she needed the island. She knew every inch of it. She headed back to her old beat up Buick. It had been her Grandad’s a long time ago. Now it was home. Temporarily.

(continued) 11 When they were kids their address was always temporary-they lived all over this little place. Campgrounds, farms, buses. Rich in love, but low on rent. Not much has changed, except maybe the love part. Love was complicated. Too complex for today. Today it was her day to be the tramp in the harbor. The window was open a little where the glass had slipped down, and the duct tape was peeling o. Well, no fear of pride going before a fall. Pearl never had much pride to begin with, so living in her car wasn’t a huge leap. The baby was wailing inside, looking for food, and apparently it had wandered away. Pearl eased Opal’s kicking arms and legs out of the straps, and tried to maneuver her own arms and legs and breasts with panic itself. The baby’s back arched and the scream stopped. Eerie. Opal screamed silent-ly, and then made up for lost time. “SHHH,.Opal…..I’m here.” Pearl pleaded as she aimed for her mouth. She was right here, she showed up for her, she had food. She was doing what she was supposed to do. Feeding her baby. One foot in front of the other. When she was pregnant it was a lot easier. Self-contained. She never knew that babies got mad. It made sense. She was always mad at her mom, so it must start early. She had just needed air, that’s all. She couldn’t breathe. She had needed to get away for a minute; to think for just a minute. Opal nally latched on, catching her breath, her little arms stopping to stroke her mother’s skin. Soft, milky, baby sighs as she drifted o. “Hey, wake up, and nish what you started,” Pearl said. Opal had a habit of eating for ve minutes, falling asleep, and doing it all over a half hour later. She was asleep, but at least she was still eating. She wanted her to hurry up and nish so she could put her back down. She just wanted Opal to sleep and sleep and sleep. She was caring for a little alien. She hadn’t expected that. She thought she would at least feel the way she would feel about a puppy.

Benign detachment is what she felt. Maybe deeper, but not by much. This was a surprise. Opal was too, but it hadn’t looked so hard when other girls did it. She had wanted to keep her own baby so badly. Careful what you wish for. What a tricky little baby. Sleeping she looked so calm and serene, but if Pearl moved her, tried to seek her own space, the baby would know. She always wanted to sleep on Pearl. She had sensors when Pearl tried to put her down. Needy. She had wanted to be needed, but not like this. The boat was coming, and she needed to be on it. She got back in the Buick, shivering. Even when she put the heat on it was cold because of the broken window. She needed more tape. She stopped at the re station, to see if they had any tape there. She had twenty minutes, plenty of time. She carried the baby into the oce. Empty. Randy was probably out back shining the truck or something. He must be. She put down the baby carrier, after clearing a space on his disaster of a desk, and looked around. No-body. Oh well. She could x the window on the other side of the water. She had to go. She didn’t have a choice. “Bye. Baby,” Pearl whispered, but didn’t look at Opal. She couldn’t. The baby would be OK, she had left a bottle for her in the diaper bag. It wasn’t the same, but it would work. She ran for the boat. 12 Jennifer Geisinger is a teacher, student, writer, and mother living in Rochester, Mn. Some of her poetry can be found along the trails as a winner in the 2020 Rails to Trails Contest in Southern Minnesota.

Citrus Island 13 Karen Boissonneault-Gauthier is an Indigenous visual artist and writer. Most recently she's been a cover artist for Arachne Press, Pretty Owl Poetry, Wild Musette, Existere Journal, Vine Leaves Literary Journal, Gigantic Sequins, Ottawa Arts Journal and more. When she's not walking her two huskies, she's also designing with Art of Where and writing poetry. Karen now uses some of her artwork on non-medical face masks. See www.kcbgphoto.com to find out more.

Pulse Just when it seems like silence, I notice the bass. It’s in the water running under the oorboards that I didn’t think I could hear, and it’s in the gas, the electric and the bre-optics that I didn’t think made a noise. It’s in the cat’s throat when he stops purring, and in the lawnmower as it’s swallowed by weeds. It’s the ache in my jaw after the tooth’s gone, and the ache of familiar scent in conned spaces. It’s John Entwistle carving mountains with four ngers and a thumb, and Holger Czukay hammering one note for a whole show, just because. It’s the kick-drum of insects that I feel in my stomach, and the grind of the Earth’s machine heart turning. It’s the sleeping beast that swallows all words and, just when I think I’ve grasped its rhythm, it is silence. 14

The Logic of Circles The hand on my wrist moves in circles, stirring memories. Stretched across wind and waves, there are few certainties, but this slow undulation of skin reassures me that, between life and death, some reactions are more propitious than others. It’s like one of those puzzles in the morning paper: If it takes Emma 75 minutes to cycle 14 miles, where is she now? How many cards did she receive on her 7th birthday? What about her 19th or her 40th? How many of them does she still have in a drawer or an old suitcase, and does she ever look at them? I know I won’t buy tomorrow’s paper, so will never be sure of the answers, but in the syncopated beat of my wristwatch and my pulse there’s a hand moving in circles while, out there on the coast path, her salt-sti grey hair caught wild in the wind, there’s Emma on her bicycle, panniers packed with birthday cards and an old-fashioned telegram from the Queen. 15 Oz Hardwick lives in the north of England and writes compulsively. His chapbook Learning to Have Lost (Canberra: IPSI, 2018) won the 2019 Rubery International Book Award for a poetry collection, and his latest publication is the prose poetry se-quence Wolf Planet (Clevedon: Hedgehog, 2020). When he is not writing, Oz is usually taking photographs or losing (or finding) himself in music. Fortunately, these activities rest comfortably with his role of Professor of English at Leeds Trinity \ University, where he teaches Creative Writing. www.ozhardwick.co.uk

I Esteem 16

Lunch at Twofish under lifting mists the chicken mushroom soup is still too hot— nearby those lovers cannot stop kissing their wrists barely touch 17 Retired children’s librarian Alan Bern’s poetry books: No no the saddest and Waterwalking in Berkeley, Fithian Press; greater distance, Lines & Faces, his press with artist and printer Robert Woods, linesandfaces.com. Alan earned runner-up in The Raw Art Review's “The John H. Kim Memorial Short Fiction Prize” for 'The alleyway near the downtown library'; he won a medal in 2019 from SouthWest Writers for a WWII story set in Italia; he also won the 2015 Littoral Press Poetry Prize; and his poem “Boxae” was first runner-up for the Raw Art Review’s first Mirabai Prize for Poetry, 2020. Recent published photos: https://www.thimblelitmag.com/2020/08/10/emptying/, unearthedesf.com/alan-bern and https://wanderlust-journal.com/2020/07/01/around-the-few-blocks-nearby/. Alan performs with dancer/choreographer Lucinda Weaver as PACES and with musicians from Composing Together, composingtogether.org.

The Dumps You get stuck driving behind a colossal, sluggish, and stinky garbage truck. You begin to think about all the minor decisions, the split seconds in time, and the winds of fate that had to come together in order to lead you to this very moment and place. You poured that extra bowl of Cin-namon Toast Crunch for breakfast. You had to poop again right afterwards. You headed out the door to your car and realized you forgot your wallet. You rushed back inside and grabbed it. On the way back out you started to notice that your left shoe felt signicantly looser than your right shoe. You bent down to re-tie it and you started walking again. Then your other shoe felt like it needed to be tightened too, and it was bugging you. You bent back down to retie your right shoe to balance things out. You got into your car and that one song that you hate had just start-ed playing on the radio. You scrolled through all of the stations and concluded that silence was better than whatever was on the airwaves. You took o and you got stopped at that one red light that always seems to take forever. When the light nally turned green, you started going and the garbage truck turned out in front of you. You’ve been behind it for at least 15 minutes now. It smells like rotten eggs and dirty diapers. Probably because it is rotten eggs and dirty dia-pers. You roll up the windows. It doesn’t help. The garbage truck is going 30 miles-per-hour in a 45 miles-per-hour zone. You’re running late to the movie screening, even when you consider the 20 minutes of unnecessary previews that they show. You can’t miss this review assignment, or else your editor will re you. You want to switch lanes. But the trac is coming on strong. It’s risky. Don’t try it. It’s not worth it. Don’t mess up someone else’s very moment and place. Don’t do it. Don’t do it. Oh God, you just did it. 18 Zach Murphy is a Hawaii-born writer with a background in cinema. His stories appear in Reed Magazine, Ginosko Literary Journal, The Coachella Review, Mystery Tribune, Ruminate, B O D Y, Wilderness House Literary Review, Flash: The International Short-Short Story Magazine, and more. His debut chapbook Tiny Universes (Selcouth Station Press, 2021) is available in paperback and e-book. He lives with his wonderful wife Kelly in St. Paul, Minnesota.

priorities 19 Connor Doyle is a photographer and filmmaker based in the Chicago-land area. Graduating from Hampshire College’s Film/Photo program in 2016, Doyle’s work focuses on the idiosyncratic details of daily life in Northern Illinois, specifically his native Wheaton, IL. Though often trivial, his subjects capture the formal beauty and potency of these everyday sites, urging his viewers to reflect on the significance of their lived experiences. Connor’s work has been published in the Parliament Literary Journal, Hole In The Head Review, the Burningword Literary Journal, and the Sheepshead Review. You can visit his website at https://connordoylephotographyfilmmaker.cargo.site/

Kind of Sorry I’d like to say I’m sorry for having too many stars in my poems. I’d like to – but it’s my muse. She’s the one really stuck on the word. Sometimes I try to mix it up – write Bellatrix instead of star, but then she butts in, insists Bellatrix sounds like a nasty poetry teacher at the Edinburgh school near Blackfriars Cemetery. I consider Betelgeuse, but it sounds like a bug-shaped pasta. I want to include Aldebaran in a sonnet, but my naggy, I mean my muse, she says it sounds like an elaborate horse no one can aord. How about if I just write North Star? I ask her. But she can get ridiculously fussy about adjectives. You know the type, so I can’t sell that one either. And it’s not my fault there are so many falling stars. Warm August nights, they tumble through the roof, the ceiling, the replace, the recessed lighting, they fall all the way to my blank page and just shine there, honest they do. So, I’m stuck with them – a fussy muse – and sweet monosyllabic stars, and their wink, their glimmer, their gleam. 20 Colette Tennant is an Oregon poet who has two books of poetry. Her most recent book, Religion in The Handmaid's Tale: a Brief Guide, was published to coincide with Atwood's publication of The Testaments. Her poems have been included in various journals, including Prairie Schooner, Rattle, and Poetry Ireland Review.

Quirky Raw Appeal The sun is at its zenith, shining till it burns, my little home settling into its comfort zone, people busy with chores and, I feel that aching desire once again to pick up a few grains of raw rice, toss them carelessly into my mouth, munching bleakness of cereal as it swirls inside, wrapping itself with slushy saliva and obeat toothy music churning bran discreetly like a spy with a silencer. It‘s a quirky craving that goes not well with my human physique, used as it is to eating more of cooked rather than raw, this grain not a succulent dish, not dish at all yet, appears inviting like the forbidden apple. A compulsion I comply with religiously until my teeth punishingly chatter, my palate goes for a toss claiming yet another victim that refuses to realize the repercussions of raw appeal! 21 Shail Raghuvanshi is a freelance journalist, editor, poet, blogger and artist. She has around 30 years of writing experience for various mediums such as newspaper, magazine, radio, television and the internet. Her poems, short stories and articles have been published over the years in leading magazines, journals and e-books. She has been associated with various publications and E-zines and is known for having co-authored anthologies. She believes hypocrisy to be the greatest enemy of mankind and untethered creativity to be the finest friend of the human race.

Old Polemic 22

Switch Function (continued) 23

Virus Chatter 24 Yohanes Soubirius De Santo was born in Singaraja in 1998. He is a young artist from Indonesia who is currently working in the world of fine arts. Currently living in Bali, he has just completed his bachelor's degree in Fine Arts Education at Ganesha University of Education.

Experimentalist He used in the sack in a poem, and he meant it. There should be a saltshaker in every garden to sprinkle warm, yanked tomatoes. I watch the orange wedge make a home for itself between his lips and teeth, pulp to his gums, sweet. He writes erotic poetry like salting his eggs—without rst tasting. His voice itself reminds my nose of freesia, my shoulders of sunlight, my toes of low tide, my tongue of August pears, my stomach of warm milk, my eyelids of half-moons, of wine. Every time I buy a grocery tomato, it refuses to taste like July—disappointing like an over-dry kiss, a sunset with no red at all. His poems are uorescent light—blue distortion of color. I want to swallow the last swallow of warmed red wine in his glass, because of what lingers there besides wine. I tried a yellow cherry once. It didn't taste like a red one, but it was good anyway. 25 Kerry Trautman is a poetry editor for Red Fez whose poetry and short fiction have appeared in various journals, including The Fourth River, Alimentum, Midwestern Gothic, Free State Review, Third Wednesday, Slippery Elm, and Think Journal, as well as in anthologies such as Mourning Sickness (Omniarts, 2008,) Roll (Telling Our Stories Press, 2012,) and Journey to Crone (Chuffed Buff Books, 2013.) Trautman's poetry books are, Things That Come in Boxes (Kingcraft Press 2012,) To Have Hoped (Finishing Line Press 2015,) Artifacts (NightBallet Press 2017,) and To Be Nonchalantly Alive (Kelsay Books 2020.)

Here, Hear Each pocket holds wee notebook, pen, for fear of being taken short; here, as I walk, or drift to dream the rhythms of my breathing stir - hear phrases, lines I must record, for fear the man from Porlock comes. A soothing cream might paint the rash, but do I want to stop the scratch? I guess its tinnitus intact, that constant noise, insistent ow. Once noted, in my treasure box, I can relax and do as told, though, often, surreptitiously, the guilty pleasure, stolen space. I feel as lovers found in bed, or slimmer at the door of fridge, a form bulimia indeed, as gorge on words then spew on page. I blame the heart, the blood, my lungs, iambic pulse that forces breath, a peristalsis in my mind, instinctive force, genetic sound. It’s not pot-boilers, income bound, or even share, weak smiles, applause, but can no other, tap the key, a resolution, harmony. A secret diary, in type, biography of auto sort, the couch revealed, descendants site, my rite of life, note book again. 26

Finger Pick I’m picky when it comes to scratch, or torn nail, quick, to pull the tear, a hidden itch, ngertip search, secret addiction to the esh; impelled to search, create if bare, construe a need, uncover tweed, as if to knit and purl calf, shin, my grandma, stocking seam, set straight. When fallen boy, from mother’s knee, another scrape, that blossom ow, stick plaster curl when told to wash - it needs to breathe, exposure air; dried blood, a soak in water, bath, for nger picking like guitar, while strings attached to stance, adapt, a private part, that boil to lance. For shamed face scar from birth clear marked, a haematoma, red wine stain I used to scrub, the nailbrush thick, so cross that patch became a tick; four digit tines at back, on call, to carve a swathe through downy hair - with surreptitious, hangdog look, attention claim when seek escape. 27 Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), retired to Wales from ministry in the Methodist Church, has had over 250 pieces published by on-line poetry sites, including The Parliament Literary Magazine, printed journals and anthologies. https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com/

Aruba 28

(continued) Seoul 29

London 30 Michael Thompson is a Chicago-based artist who works in a variety of mediums including decorative bamboo kites, the making and mailing of faux postage stamps, fabricating memory jugs from porcelain shards found along the Thames River, and kinetic sculptures built using vintage Erector Set pieces. www.michaelthompsonart.com

Compulsive Dieting Avoid additives Beware of bread Count each calorie Detox with discipline Eat only eggs Fastidiously cut fat Give up the gravy Have healthy habits Ignore the ice cream Just drink juice Keep up the cleanse Lower your lipids Maintain your macros Nurture your nutrition Obliterate obesity Pare your portions Quality over quantity Restrict and resist Stop the snacks Think THIN Unrestricted udon Vary your vegetables Watch your waistline Extremely exasperated Yes you lost Zilch. Zero pounds. 31 John Johnson is a poet from Northern Virginia. His recent work has been published in Cathexis Northwest Magazine, Bluepepper, Cabinet of Heed, and The Poet.

The ploughed elds mark the end of the harvest season and the beginning of winter, the 'darker half' of the year. This is the liminal time, when the boundary between this world and the Otherworld thins. The umbrella of the night sky spans overhead, where millions of stars have been shining for billions of years, on this reoccurring Samhain, the "rst day of winter", the half point between equinox and solstice. This transition from one day to the other. And this night in between, where a curtain slides to the side and we get an insight into the pagan grounds of our souls, into a subconscious, dulled and immunized by the harsh light of modern paraphernalia and glitz, weaned from the mysterious and inexplicable. A temptation felt to camouage oneself to ward o evil and to pretend one is not there. The darkness falls within minutes and the mind needs tranquilization, a sedation. To retire into the kitchen, where, witchlike, soup and sauces are stirred, frying pans lled and the oven preheated. The smell of the season, the scent of fried onions permeates the house. They sizzle, the outer skin crackles, disintegrates into the next layers, they caramelize with sugar and are accompanied by boletus mushrooms, milk caps and morels. The shoulder of mutton is larded with half cloves of garlic and the steamed pears in butter are bedded be-tween boiled green beans, marjoram, mustard, caraway, parsley and chervil with added pumpkin seeds. Turnips cleaned, juniper berries crushed, tripe cut down into nger length strips. The oven serves as source of hope and revelation. It is good to step outside the door during such a mysterious night. All Hallow’s Eve (continued) 32

There is the call of a screech owl, and something rustles in the bushes. Should sacrices be oered to unknown spirits, food and drink, samples of the crops, a glass of wine poured over the meadow or seeds sprinkled? Or báirín breac, potato cake, champ or colcannon kept ready? In an earthen bowl to please the unknown creatures and not to disappoint them by putting unearthly material in front of them? The dog starts to growl. He knows more and hears more. He is related to spirits, wolves, fairies and elves. Or are there already the beings of the Otherworld who want to get in touch, make themselves no-ticed or make fun of us? But it is only a late bird. It rises from the undergrowth with apping wings and ies through the branches. The bite into the apple that ripened on the tree behind the house, its bitter-sweet taste sharpens the senses. Behind the roses walks a white gure and soon a cloud gives way to the moonlight, which the half-fat waning moon, pours like milk over the garden. Are all the forgotten and rejected gods angry with us because we have cooked them together into one God, like a soup made of noble ingredients and spices and ne vegetables? A shuing of steps on the country road behind the wall awakens curiosity to check out who walks there. The road is empty. Was it the neighbour who died last year? During this night the souls of the dead revisit their homes seek-ing hospitality. He liked his daily walk. Only bushes, trees and a scarecrow form a changing background, a backdrop where shadows and branches move like excited actors, who have forgotten their script. (continued) 33

Conversations behind the blackberry hedges can be heard, laughter and crying… the otherworld gath-ers together, the aos sí, the supernatural… The dog snis at something which is invisible and looks with assuring eyes and signals “No danger”. The horizon shows a small golden strip, bonres are lit. Their smell of smoke with purifying powers le-viates over the surrounding land. Not to forget to set places at the dinner table and by the re to welcome the souls of the dead which return home on one night of the year and must be appeased. The steam from the pots may make them visible to the human eye. A few apples and a handful of nuts, signs of immortality and divine wisdom, frame the dinner plates. Cinnamon is powdered over them in the hope to sidetrack the ghosts. roasting hazelnuts reveal name of future spouse in dark hallows’ eve tomorrow we eat jugged hare, and autumnal sweet chestnuts 34 Eduard Schmidt-Zorner is a translator and writer of poetry, haibun, haiku, and short stories. He writes in four languages: English, French, Spanish, and German and holds workshops on Japanese and Chinese style poetry and prose and experimental poetry. He is a member of four writer groups in Ireland; living in County Kerry, Ireland, for more than 25 years and is a proud Irish citizen, born in Germany. He is published in over 140 anthologies, literary journals and broadsheets in USA, UK, Ireland, Japan, Sweden, Spain, Italy, Bangladesh, India, France, Mauritius, Nepal, Pakistan, Nigeria and Canada. Some of his poems and haibun have been published in French (own translation), Romanian, and Russian language. He writes also under his penname Eadbhard McGowan.

Men Is he not aroused? Why no re of wild lust in his eyes? Doesn't he realize the moments are dying one by one? We both don't know when our breaths will dance together again. Or is it only my heart is young? His eyes found no feast and keep looking stone cold. He was very dierent and expert virtually Like a wild beast tearing down the screen I think I should leave, run girl run, with what is left of your dignity. He was missing an indistinct lullaby and kisses drenched in tears the cutest scolding of elder sister the naughtiest wrying of younger sister he was not there to utilize the chance he was in search of what he needed and he was nding what he was missing all his life... 35 Ranjith Sivaraman is an upcoming Poet from Kerala, a beautiful state in India. His poems merge nature imagery, human emotions, and human psychology into a gorgeous tapestry. Sivaraman’s English Poems are published in International Literature Magazines and Journals from various locations like Budapest, New York, Indiana, Lisbon, Colorado, etc.

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Dermatillomaniac: A Conditional Skinning Dislocating cuticles with tweezer’s bend, excoriation is discomfort’s friend. Chiseled tips snag freckled carapace, lunulae caves, in ruby’s embrace. Splintered nails with reduction’s labors, shoved through gums as phalanges’ razors. Gingivae swim with urged intent, deepening lesions while molars ferment. Pores packed with oil parasites, antennae emerge in pressure’s paradise. Lashes freed from eyelid’s hold, naked brows as proof untold. Time amplies, an itch desired, repetition is the habit’s prior. Satisfaction lasts on whim’s design, reprieval found when feelings align. Wounds start their brous journey, a knitted collagen taxidermy. 37 As a high school English teacher, Khristy L. Knudtson encourages her students to be vulnerable risk-takers even when they don’t necessarily share her passion for reading and writing. Knudtson graduated with a BSE in Secondary Education from the University of Wisconsin Oshkosh. In May of 2019, she received her MA in English and Creative Writing with a concentration in poetry from Southern New Hampshire University. She has four poems published in The Penmen Review and twelve articles published on The Mighty where she is an unapologetic mental health advocate. Forever toeing the line between sensitive and sardonic, Knudtson lives in Wisconsin with her husband and cats where she keeps herself caffeinated enough to know when it’s an appropriate time to speak her mind.

Re: Posting: for Qi Hong Last night you forwarded a reposting To me through weixing or wechat from the other Side of this world. Now I am still Sleeping on this side of darkness while You are giving some nal touches To a bulb you are learning to sketch The same old one hung from a roof beam In our straw-thatched cottage deeply set At a hilly village. In the trance I asked you Where our little daughter, yes, we do have one, had Gone to play; then you came upon my right leg Helping me decode the three red Chinese characters Like paper cut enigmas. Later, in the heart Of night I tried to make love with you, but Only to be disturbed by our baby, preventing me From reaching out straight into your young womanhood & waking me up in frustrated nostalgia Just to see your bulb is not round enough Though fully switched on, until your message becomes As illuminative as the bulb you have drawn When a morning glow begins to spurt from the east 38

Qihong Tea Separated by the Pacic, I can never hope To join you even for a single antlike moment But every day I can drink the tea that bears Your name spelt with the color of passion Each time I pour boiling water into the cup of my life I watch the leaves blooming from inside out Like my thought of you unfurling itself At the bottom of my heart 39 Yuan Changming started to learn the English alphabet at age nineteen and authored monographs on translation before leaving China. With a Canadian PhD in English, Yuan edits Poetry Pacif-ic with Allen Yuan in Vancouver. Credits include eleven Push-cart nominations and appearances in Best of the Best Canadian Poetry(2008-17) & BestNewPoemsOnline, among others. Recently, Yuan published a Chinese poetry collection 《袁昌明诗选》and served on the jury for Canada’s 44th National Magazine Awards (poetry category). Comment: Qi Hong is the first girl I have ever fallen in love with. I met her in 2019 after 42 years of separation, never knowing each other's whereabouts. Though she cannot marry me in this lifetime, she promises to marry me in our next life.

Rising From the Deep 40 Joe Campbell is a New Jersey based photographer with a love of all things photography-related. He has a great sense of adventure and is always trying something new. Find more of his work at www.jcampbellphoto.com and on Instagram @Josephthegreat77.

No one has time for an old merdame, it’s only the maidens they want with their pastel hair like Easter morning, shiny scales and taut torsos. I too sang for sailors once, ipped my turquoise tail, now greyed, to splash their deck when I dived. Mermaids are dreams to tantalize humans; mercrones reminders that time passes, that life is never happily-ever-after. I am the truth of mermaid illusion, scales like alligator worn thin, belly like jellysh, accid and wobbly as I comb my white hair and creak out a song while hidden among mangroves. Florida City cheap hotel decades gone, rickety house unguarded by drunk manager passed out in foyer, unscreened windows wide open. I fell asleep in a sailor’s arms as he read to me The Song of Songs Which Is Solomon’s from the Gideon Bible. The next day a squirrel attacked us, climbed me like a tree to steal my peanut butter. If she had asked, I would’ve given it to her-- I never liked that human concoction-- but she assumed all mermaids are mean girls, divas who will not share. Merlife (continued) 41

Nobody gets it for free, they say, and mermaids demonstrate that truth by leading ships to rocks (or rocks to ships). But wrecks provide little treasure now: no Russian caviar, no Roman garum, just containers full of running shoes, leggings, skateboards. A golden voice only gets you so far. Sailors, always sailors. I grew tired of disheveled beards and calloused hands, of diesel fuel stench. And never any talk of Shakespeare-- shouldn’t they at least know The Tempest?-- no mention of modern art or even Monet’s ocean paintings; only boring talk of tides and storms as if I didn’t literally live and breathe those every day. Their only other conversation was sweet talk, if you could call it that, all based on landborne treats I’ve never tried, or if I did, hated. Like any other merbabies, my daughters’ fathers are unknown-- some seaman’s semen, of course, no more than that came from outside me. And my grandbabies, too, their faces the same as mine, my mother’s, and all my daughters’, their tails a bouquet of colors. Mermaid genes are strong. (continued) 42

Merbabies and mergirls are extraordinary creatures, enough to take your breath away, happy imps who shine like stars and look fragile as spume on whitecaps. Their time of frolicking innocence is short before they subside to seductress stereotypes. I, old Pearlie Belle, hide among the mandrake roots not from humans but to elude my granddaughters’ eyes. Before they grow to maidens, I will not disillusion them in their few happy years. 43 Sarah Elizabeth Gordon has been creating poetry since before she could write, making up verses to the rhythm of her rocking horse. Her poetry melds science with fantasy and the personal with the universal.

Nothingness To drown or swim? To cleave into the skin of the smooth, deep abyss or let your body oat silently, undulating with each gentle pulse. You feel it call you in, its silky tresses taunting, tempting. It rises, swells, until each wave becomes a drag of metal twine around your quivering form. As you submit, oblivion strokes at your mind. Let go, it croons, let go and drift down to the soft dark oor of nothingness. A cry. A wrench. A sharp slice of cold air rips the deadness from your lungs and smacks your face to wake. Come back they call. Did you think they’d let you die? 44

45 Following retirement, Marion Horton embarked on an Open University degree course Studying English Literature and Creative Writing, which she completed during the pandemic. She has been writing poetry for the past few years, but only recently began sharing her writing with a wider audience, creating a blog spot on https://writingwhatnotsblog.wordpress.com/ “When I saw Joe Campbell’s picture, I was immediately drawn to the smooth silky surface of the water and imagined myself sinking into it. Over the past few months how many of us have been tempted by the idea of oblivion and to escape the effects of the pandemic.”

Copyright 2021 The Parliament Literary Journal, ISSN 2767-2158 (print); ISSN 2767-2166 (online) is published quarterly in November, February, May, and August. All correspondence should be sent via email to parliamentlit@gmail.com. All rights are reserved by the authors; all stories and poetry in the journal are conal. The Parliament Literary Journal and logo design are registered trademarks. Submissions are accepted for our themed issues and contests via Submiable; details on our submission requirements can be found at our website. www.parliamentlit.com