Fading Memory – Georgie Silva
Winter Rain – Kurtis Ebeling
Diamond Skies – Kevin Zytowski
I Write to You, Sappho (Still) – Tricia Kiehn
English Laurel – Cierra Morrison
Snow – Tyler R. Harris
Plum’s Christmas Pudding – Jude Deluca
Hush – Anonymous
Inertia – Cierra Morrison
Another Winter – John Grey
Through Blinds – Kurtis Ebeling
Snowfall – Tricia Kiehn
West Virginia #1 – Cierra Morrison
Fading Memory
Winter Rain
Above: a moth fumbles about a corner
of this room with wings like the pale grass
the dry lace of the old, fraying carpet
below: I untie my shoes and tear
at a loose thread. My mother scolds me,
then smiles says hey and reaches for the fan
above: a bulb flickers quietly humming.
The white tile glowing again
feels cool through my socks as they shuffle
below: the cat grazes against a wooden chair
and trills. Black curtains
smother light burning yellow.
Eucalyptus leaves sway — silent, languid.
I need caffeine, she whispers,
reaching through the cold, dewy clutter
of the fridge and then gently closing
its heavy door warding off an approaching of spring.
Everything looks like it does at dusk.
Everything is light, pulled down glass,
in the cool fall of winter rain the cool fall of winter.
Diamond Skies
There was no one. No one and nothing about. Henny bucked her head back and made an exasperated noise. He patted her neck, “Except you of course girl.” They were upon a white hill, with the land spread out before them. No trees, no creatures, no life. Just an expanse of marble below and rich wine above. The temperature had been dipping fast. He waited, sensing a moment of decision was soon. The silence screamed at him, the indecision aching, and panic setting in as he feared to move. There was no telling if they would make it. Old memories resurfaced. Had he left for the right reasons? Had he gone too far? Was it too late to go back? The further they had traveled, the more desolate and empty the land had become. There was no promise of something better, and he now felt that he may have taken the wrong path one too many times. The freezing air closed in around him. He tightened his jacket as icy fingers found their way to his skin.
He’d woken up early, and stared at the colors of the night sky. Sleep had not been coming easy lately. Those old memories creeping back in and causing his heart to ache. Tears would well up in his eyes as his mind ran wild with possible outcomes. A panic would begin to set in. Was it all ruined? Had he forever lost what could have been the best thing to ever happen to him? Some days he wondered if the night should go on forever but, eventually, his tightening heart and swirling mind would cause him to become tired enough to sleep. Then, the sun rose and the shadows fled from its light. Such symptoms only happened every couple of months and only lasted for a week or so, but it had yet to seem like it was going away.
This particular morning, after he’d gotten up, there was only the glow of the coming dawn lighting the earth. He’d used the coals of the dying fire to warm his meal, as
Henny munched on alfalfa. Progress was slower than usual as he packed up his gear, supplies, and saddled Henny once again, but it always was during this kind of week. When everything was set, he mounted the saddle, and then… he looked on at the nothing before him. There he sat, waiting for inspiration. Waiting for a reason to keep moving. With an effort, he scanned the horizon once again. Strength seemed to be oozing out the soles of his feet; the wicked shadows greedily gobbling it down. Why go on? His eyes saw that there was nothing. Nothing in any direction. Even the path he’d taken here was lost. Perhaps all those reasons for leaving, all that pain inflicted in the name of what was right, was folly? Perhaps he had made a mistake? Gone too far? Maybe if he went back, it could all be fixed? He had no answers to these questions, hence why they never truly left his mind. He placed his head in his hands and the tumult surged.
The honest truth was that he didn’t know what to do. He had never known what to do, and it appeared that he never would know what to do. He didn’t know how to make things right. He didn’t know how to move on. He didn’t know if he should move on. Everyone around him seemed to think he knew something. Something, he presumed, that was instinctual to all people; all but he. For whenever he stated, “I don’t know what to do.” or “How do I do this?” The responses he got were, at best, empty platitudes and, at worst, looks of annoyance or sadness or fear or confusion. He wanted to make it right, to fix what he had broken. But he didn’t know how, and others either didn’t know as well or wouldn’t say or ran away as though not knowing was akin to madness. So he had left, and he wondered if those he left behind hated him for it. Or worse, felt relieved that he was finally gone. A worthless pitiful nobody they were tired of entertaining. Fear,
sadness, anger, and the hope that the former were lies. That his love for who he left was known and that maybe they even wished him back; if he even knew how to get back. He was scared to know the truth. Hope was what drove him on and if all he feared was true, then he wasn’t sure how long it would take to recover from learning that. Or if he ever would. But living in the shadow of ignorance, surviving by simply stemming the flow from ever-bleeding wounds. This was not a life. He had to know. But once again. How? He lifted his head and looked at the nothing again.
It was time to drudge on, but there was a glow from the frozen marble now. He looked towards the light source, and on the horizon, he saw a golden ball peek out as if checking to see if it was safe, before dipping back down. He reached towards it, and for a moment the world was cold, quiet, and empty. The shadow’s victory was complete. Those deathly fingers gripped him ever tighter. He closed his eyes and felt his body begin to droop, and then the world exploded with light.
Proud beams struck through the heart of the darkness. His descent stopped as a new day’s warmth washed across him, the icy fingers retreating from his flesh. A sense of relief followed, and upon opening his eyes he saw that all about him the air glittered and gleamed. A dust of stained glass hidden by the night and brought to light by the dawn. Henny stretched her neck as she felt energy fill the world around her. The wind picked up and the lights danced before their eyes. He stuck out his hand and watched it flow across, wrapping around his fingers. A memory of what could have been. A wound that no physician could, nor surely ever would, be able to treat. For it was a wound of the soul, and it bled for a life that desperately wanted to be. He knew not where any path would lead him. Happiness and sadness, pain and pleasure, life and death, all this
and more lay before him no matter where he went. For life is that which encompasses it all and death is its resolution.
He breathed deep, a new strength filling the emptiness. A strength poured forth from a cup of fire. A life-giving draft from the land of the sun. He felt the brilliant light within him and gazed out to the nothing once more. There was no path. He bent down to Henny’s ear, and said, “Only one thing for it, ay girl.” Bending up once more, he pressed his knees, and a “Hyah!” burst from his lips. Henny reared and let loose a powerful whinny that echoed across the vastness, before rocketing off into the unknown. He knew the shadows were following; they follow everyone. But in this moment, all was calm. With the warm light, the cold air, and the steady beating of Henny’s hooves, he gazed across the freshly fluffed landscape and felt peace. The crystalline dust split and swirled around them. Then reformed in an exhaust that jetted up behind, flashing in the dawn. The refractions summoning luminal feathers of gemstone that stretched out, and upon these wintery wings, they glided into what shall be.
For there is a peace and clarity to be found at the end of pain. But when the pain subsides and the world is before you, Ride. Before the clear blue sky, into the wind that bites you, and on into that nothing, Ride. For only death is promised to those who wait.
I Write to You, Sappho (Still)
By Tricia Kiehn
You must have been watching
in your night dark hair
as I wrenched Aphrodite from my chest
and lost her in the snow.
I thought
I could be a daughter of the Hunt
cold and practical beneath
the stars, but too often do I long
for something warm
on my skin. Artemis could see
sunlight in one of my eyes,
but she was not cruel.
She let me keep the moon.
And now I cannot write a poem for love
though in my mind I have stenciled
the frecklestars of his cheeks,
I have kissed the artist’s wounds,
I have held them both in my lap
like violets—
honey whispers
honey skins—
but see, you have already turned away.
English Laurel
The difficult thing
with writing about happiness is that
no one gives a damn about sitting quietly with people who care.
There won’t be any sort of symphony,
The quiet patter of December
rain
is the grand procession of drums.
Forgotten mugs of tea steeped in water gone cold — the banquet.
Snow
Pale grey clouds hovered in dark grey skies,
deep grey water rushed under the light grey bridges.
Snow glowing on icy grey sidewalks,
small slivers of dark grey grass poking through.
My black coat swishing and echoing as we walk through tunnels
carved out by hurried feet,
white cane sliding
across ice on pale grey roads.
my nose is red from cold,
her face reflects my own.
A small bird chirps and soars into the sky,
did he miss the memo to head South?
our black boots
snow crunching
plastic grocery bags cut into palms and up arms,
she pulls a wonky purple trolley behind her.
The streets are empty,
taking a long winding grey path to our house,
our Christmas wreath still on in January
and lights left on from our housemate.
We drop grocery bags in the front hall,
bright white light making my eyes water
as I glance out the window beside the door
and see nothing but feathery white snow
dressing the other townhouses in powdery white fluff.
I take off my coat,
hanging it on the grey rack
wishing for home.
Plum’s Christmas Pudding
By Jude Deluca
The quilt atop Rose’s bed matched her namesake, snowy white with designs of blood red, thorny blossoms. Tanner was told it’d been a present to her cousin from an aunt who stitched it herself. That same aunt gifted a yellow Sesame Street blanket to Tanner when she was a baby. Tanner kept it safely tucked away somewhere at home.
She regretted not taking the blanket with her. She wasn’t a baby anymore but didn’t like the idea of it being with her parents and her brother while she wasn’t home. Then again, Tanner wasn’t sure what she was. At 10, almost 11 years old, being the youngest in middle school made her feel like a baby. With all those older kids and teenagers from the high school she shared a…
Shared a b…
No.
Tanner wouldn’t think of school. She scratched her arms.
I’m not going back to school. I’m nowhere near school. I’m at Grant’s house. I’m in Rose’s room. I’m okay.
She still scratched her skin.
Turning on the bedside lamp, Tanner read the time on the digital clock. It was late, nearing midnight. She remembered Grant wishing her a good night and her crawling under the quilt around 9. Had she really been lying here for hours trying to sleep?
She couldn’t quell her restlessness during this first night in her cousins’ home. This was a weeknight, and normally she’d have class the next day. Sleep was important. Here, she could move around at her leisure until she felt sleepy again instead of squirming in bed. She sat down at Rose’s window seat, gazing out at the dark night sky.
Mom and Dad would yell at me for being awake. No, they’d yell about me getting out of bed. They wouldn’t care if I couldn’t fall asleep. They’d tell me to get back in bed and stay there, even if I never fell asleep.
Tanner suspected her parents didn’t really care about her feelings on anything. They just didn’t want her to bother them. Considering they made her go back to school after… that… happened, it was easy to believe how little they really cared about her.
That’s when it really started sinking in. Tanner’s parents weren’t here. They were with Jackie in New York. She was in Uncle Roland and Aunt Sue-Rose’s house with her cousin Grant in Pennsylvania. Grant’s twin sister Alice was staying at her sorority in their college nearby.
They can’t yell at me if I’m not there.
The thought of not having to deal with her parents, of how far away they were, made Tanner smile. She wondered if she might feel some homesickness, but no. She really was happy to be away from it all, from everything which hurt her. She didn’t miss her family. Why was that?
Because you’re a bad person.
Her smile faded as the thought penetrated her mind.
Tanner hurried to the other side of the bedroom, where Rose’s bookcase resided filled with Sweet Valley and Baby-Sitter Club books. When Grant helped her unpack, he assured her Rose wouldn’t mind Tanner positioning her various books and comics and tapes she’d brought with her on his sister’s shelves. After all, Rose was away in the Navy and wouldn’t be home until Christmas. He said Rose happily gave permission for Tanner to use the bedroom as she pleased.
Tanner was grateful Rose’s room had a TV and VCR. She didn’t like DVDs. She was a VHS girl born and bred, and nothing would change that. She turned the TV on, then popped a blank tape she’d brought with her into the cassette player.
“You’re watching Toon Disney’s Li’l Zandalee marathon!”
Sighing with the familiar zydeco music emanating from the TV, Tanner picked up her backpack and plopped it on Rose’s bed. Propping up the pillows behind her, she got comfortable with the cartoons playing in the background. She retrieved from her backpack a red spiral notebook and several instruction manuals and guides to video games. Deep within the backpack was a red ink pen Tanner had been very careful not to lose. She was only allowed to write in blue or black pen for her class assignments, but she preferred red.
Tanner loved collecting guidebooks and manuals. They made playing video games easier, but what she really enjoyed was the artwork and designs they featured. She’d focus on specific details of her favorite levels, wishing they talked more about them in the actual games. She’d reread the same pages, hoping they might tell her something different. Even after memorizing all there was to know, Tanner found enjoyment in the pages all the same.
Flipping open the notebook, Tanner went over lists of ideas she had for video game levels. Ghosts to fight in new rooms in haunted mansions, magical temples to explore in legendary lands, party boards for characters with one appearance to their names. She wished more people talked about the minor characters, the ones who were important only to certain levels or only appeared in one game. Something about them spoke to her, something special waiting to be uncovered. She was tired of Mario and Link and all the others everyone always talked about.
Unfortunately, Tanner was a horrendous artist. She could convey her ideas through words but starting a sketch left her feeling frustrated and ashamed. If it didn’t come out exactly as she pictured in her head on the first try, she’d get upset. Tanner didn’t know why she was like that.
Because everything you do is wrong.
Shaking her head, Tanner put pen to paper. She hadn’t opened her red notebook in ages. Not since September. Tanner’s recent fixation was on the human characters from the Mario Golf game. A while ago she found the instruction manual from when they last rented it from Blockbuster. She never managed to unlock that Maple character. Playing golf was hard, even in a video game. Her Grandpa used to play golf. Tanner wondered what it was like in real life.
Maybe I could be a professional golfer, she thought. I know Grandpa’s got his golf clubs in the garage.
With Christmas coming up, Tanner felt inspiration. She adored holiday-themed levels as much as she loved holiday-themed TV episodes. What to do? A Christmas tree level? Been done. Santa’s village? Nah. Looking at the golf character called Plum, Tanner remembered plum pudding.
That’s a Christmas thing, right? Or figgy pudding? She didn’t know what figgy or plum pudding looked like. She didn’t even like pudding. She preferred Jello. She was certain Christmas pudding was a thing somewhere. Tanner had vague notions of it being British. She envisioned a big, purple pudding decorated for Christmastime. Are plum pudding and Christmas pudding the same? She couldn’t just call the idea “Plum’s Pudding.”
Looking at the bedside clock, it was now past midnight. Tanner didn’t feel sleepy. This was the most relaxed she’d felt in ages as she scribbled down details. She got into the flow of it, excitement rising. Tanner wanted to talk about this with someone. She hadn’t wanted to do that since…
When she talked about her ideas in the past, no one cared. Or worse, they’d laugh.
Don’t think about it.
They’d laugh even when she didn’t talk.
Don’t think about it that’s over you’re not there they can’t-
And then the last time when they grabbed her on the bus-
“STOP!” Tanner shouted, grasping her head.
It was your fault.
“Tanner?” A voice from outside the bedroom, followed by a knock, shook her from the bad memories. “Are you okay? Can I come in?”
“Oh!” Tanner gasped. “Sure.”
“Hey,” her adult cousin Grant poked his scruffy head into the room. “Everything alright, cuz?”
“Y-yeah,” she said.
“Bad dream?”
“Not exactly.”
Eyeing the TV and the game manuals, Grant asked, “Couldn’t sleep?”
“I’m sorry.” She looked contrite. The last thing she wanted to do was get Grant angry. “Did I wake you?”
“Nope,” Grant stepped inside. Tanner saw her college-aged cousin was wearing fleece sweatpants and a jersey for a sports team she didn’t recognize. With his shaggy red hair and big belly, Tanner thought he looked like a big puppy dog. “I was working on a term paper and stopped to get a snack when I heard you. Want something from the kitchen?”
“Okay.” Tanner hopped off the bed. As she walked past Grant, she tugged her sleeves down trying to hide the red marks on her arms. They suddenly felt very itchy.
Tanner was amazed by the variety of snacks, cereals, and drinks in the kitchen. She kept forgetting how much money her cousins had to keep their pantry so well-stocked. There were even bottles of Moon Cola in their fridge. That stuff was hard to find near Tanner’s house.
“Pick your poison, chocolate or marshmallows.” Grant held up two different boxes of sugary cereal.
“Is that allowed?” Tanner said, her eyes wandering to the kitten clock on the kitchen wall.
“The sugar helps keep me going,” Grant explained. Tanner picked chocolate. “And you look like you need a pick-me-up.”
“My parents would freak if they saw me eating this stuff so late,” Tanner acknowledged.
“What they don’t know won’t hurt them,” Grant cheerfully announced as he handed Tanner a bowl. She marveled at his carefree attitude, but now Tanner certainly wasn’t going to sleep with the sugar coursing through her body.
“It must be weird sleeping in a strange house,” Grant admitted. “I’m sorry Alice hasn’t come by yet.”
“No no! I love it.” Tanner sincerely replied. “I’ve always imagined getting to stay here. It’s wonderful.”
“Wanna play something?” Grant suggested as he rinsed off the bowls in the sink.
“What about your paper?”
“I was feeling stuck anyway,” her cousin blithely revealed. “Besides, you’re probably not going to bed anytime soon so why not join me? It’s more fun playing with someone else.”
Grant led Tanner to the furnished basement/rec room. She hadn’t yet been downstairs since she arrived at the farmhouse earlier in the day. Tanner felt elated seeing the game systems hooked up to the basement TV. Some games Tanner had at home. Others she hadn’t seen since she was a little kid. She didn’t know if her cousins kept their video games when she called and begged them to let her stay at their house after the events at school. Tanner felt elated seeing they were here. She didn’t notice the relieved expression on Grant’s face.
Because Mario Party had been on her mind, Tanner picked the first game in the series for them to play.
“I call dibs on Peach,” Grant said as he booted the game up in the system.
“You like playing as her?” Tanner wondered.
“She’s my favorite. I’m a sucker for pink.”
“I didn’t know. Cool.”
Beyond midnight, the cousins traversed a large birthday cake collecting coins and stars. Looking at the cake-themed level on the TV, Tanner thought about asking Grant’s opinion on her level idea.
He’ll think it’s stupid.
“Hey,” Tanner cleared her throat. “Um, are plum pudding and Christmas pudding the same?”
“Yeah, why?”
“I… I kinda have this idea for something,” Tanner slowly said. “I-I thought, from the golf game, what if those characters were in Mario Party? With that Plum girl, I thought…”
“Plum’s Christmas Pudding?” Grant finished for her. “Clever.”
Tanner was shocked.
“Really?”
“Yeah.” Grant ruffled Tanner’s head. “Tell me about it.”
Tanner gingerly talked about her idea while she played. Grant eagerly listened and complimented her, offering advice and ideas of his own.
She thought of how late it was, playing video games on a school night when she should be in bed and Grant should be doing homework. Tanner envisioned her parents yelling at her if she’d done this at home.
She didn’t care.
Because you’re a bad person.
She looked up at Grant. He smiled that reassuring smile.
If this is what it means to be bad, then, what does being good look like?
Hush
Inertia
The day The Unimportant Man died was quite nice. The sun was out in full force, highlighting the strewn wreckage of the 10:45 train he was taking up to visit his mother for her birthday.
(When the police come to her door, hats in their hands, a low “Ma’am could we come in,” followed by a “This will be difficult to hear,” will break her heart in the oddest of ways.
She will wish that she’d pushed The Unimportant Man to date more, so that she’d have someone to grieve with).
The Unimportant Man’s bloody and broken body crushes and smears the white carnations he’d purchased into a deep and dirty red.
The wreckage of the 10:45 train is a smoldering lump in the very near distance. Smoke curling up towards the sun from what used to be the engine, a thick, winding river of exhaust.
The Unimportant man gathers his broken bones and tumbles to his feet.
Every world has a different flow, a different stream of time. An hour in one place could mean a month in another, could mean a decade in the next. Every second could mean a lifetime.
The walk in between these moments is a weird one. It will lay thick and heavy, a deep fog climbing over garden walls, meant to lay in the corners of your mind like sleep. Reminiscent of warmth after being cold for too long.
I’m going to step away from the narrative and let you all know that this could have been a story about Death.
Not about dying or preparing for death. Nothing about sick beds and slow breaths, not a word on beneficiaries or making an estate, just, Death.
What happens to someone when you die. And not just that moment when you stop breathing; but when every aspect of who and what you are accepts what is happening.
When every idea of you is erased.
When every molecule can no longer be reused.
Death.
(Is acceptance the same as death?
That soft moment where the world where you chose differently dies?
Will it – do you think – taste less like acceptance and more like being pushed?)
Another Winter
By John Grey
A winter storm has sheathed each tree
in a scabbard of ice.
Buds are gelid-jewels.
Boughs are frozen spears.
Grasses, hard and sharp,
are blades in more than name.
Nothing the air can do about it.
Even the wind is encased.
Stillness is its only hope.
Same with the stars.
They burn chilly in the black pit of sky.
That is what we set ourselves off against
as we sit before the fireplace,
respond to the endearing invitation of the flame,
the closeness of each other.
The comparison is remarkable.
It’s more than enough to carry us through.
Through Blinds
through blinds against
a white sky silhouetted
limbs sway softly cast
thin vining shadows
onto snow and splinter
daylight pale
against ice and dust threading
in the quiet air as the corners
of this windowpane fogged
gently glow with
the faint yellows of a lamp
burning cold behind a shade
Snowfall
By Tricia Kiehn
A grey known best by insomniacs – dimmed
to something the soul
can understand. Bare-boned trees catch
the last white light
as it falls. They let what remains melt
into their roots. It’s strange
that I have never seen this before and yet
it sits in my hands
like a memory. This moment reflecting. The sky
as tired as I am.
West Virginia #1
Skeleton Flowers Press 