Tom Laichas: “The Wait Won’t Be Long”

The Wait Won’t Be Long

Sometimes, in boisterous play, the two children scuff the Garden’s soil, exposing floorboards and joists. Sometimes, on a wander through woods, they happen on paths too straight to be creature-made.

All day, the great tree shadows their questions. It sprouts from the center of a vast circumference. Its branches hang low with heavy fruit. Its height rockets toward a noontime zenith. Light as papier-mâché, it lofts well beyond sight.

Timber and starlight, sugar and clay: how long can such a confection last?

Lock children away in a room with a cake. Before closing the door, tell them no, don’t eat a crumb.

Walk away.

The wait won’t be long.

 

Tom Laichas‘s recent work has appeared or is forthcoming in Ambit, 3.1 Venice, Masque and Spectacle, Panoply, Eclectica, and elsewhere. His first collection is due out from High Window Press (UK) in 2020. 

Ernesto Reyes: “Day-dreamer”

Day-dreamer

_____I came into the kitchen to grab a quick snack—an apple, strangely, I was craving. My mother’s in the kitchen as well, stone-faced, hand-writing my father’s will. My father, in the living room, is watching a game show, sitting on his chair, smoking on his cigarette, coughing his lungs out.
_____The people on the game show seem young, inarticulate, and naive. They’re asked, “In the 1954 film On the Waterfront, who is the actor that famously says, ‘You don’t understand! I coulda had class. I coulda been a contender. I could’ve been somebody, instead of a bum, which is what I am.’”
_____The young people look at each other, stumped, and struggle for the right answer. My father nearly jumps out of his chair and yells into the television, “Brando! Marlon Brando!” but unfortunately, he’s here—and not in the game show; the young people decide to use one of their lifelines.
_____My mother, who doesn’t like movies or music or art or books, says, “Even I know that.” (She doesn’t move nor look up from her writing when saying this.)
_____“I know, those dumb kids—must be college students,” my father says somewhat sarcastically, although there’s always, always, a pinch of seriousness whenever he talks. My father inhales on his cigarette, starts coughing uncontrollably again.
_____My mother chuckles, and turns to me: “Yes, or maybe they’re poets.” I don’t say anything. I only take a hard bite out of my apple and leave and spend the rest of the day in my room, flipping through the worn, yellow pages of my aged book—one of my many—to explore, to discover, to escape.

 

 

Ernesto Reyes is currently an undergraduate at Fresno State, where he is studying English literature and creative writing. His stories have been published in the San Joaquin Review, Flies Cockroaches & Poets, Subtle Fiction, the Acentos Review, and Brilliant Flash Fiction.

Kyle Kutz: “Route 283”

Route 283

There were eyes
in the skies of Cocalico

above Route 283

that loomed overhead,
in the middle of the night,
peering down at me.

I’d no clue what they wanted–

bloodshot yet serene–

or what tales they’d tell
if given a mouth
and good reason to speak.

I hit a ramp,
taken aback,
and lost ’em off the highway,

but my son
soon spoke of eyes
hovering above our driveway,

which didn’t look too happy
about my decision to leave

them behind,
high and dry,
on Route 283.

 

 

Kyle Kutz is a semi-recent graduate of Kutztown University, earning his B.A. in professional writing. His work has appeared in numerous publications, such as Expressions, Essence, Shoofly, Wood Coin, WORK, Visitant Lit, Aberration Labyrinth, and The Jet Press. He resides in Lancaster, Pennsylvania, writing freelance for LNP.

Luke Skoza: “Body Frame Ceiling”

Body Frame Ceiling

The street never matched her voice or body,
Lightning hitting steel.

Ceiling fans fold over body frames
red skin on the floor.

A head
with two noses
closing themselves in.
Praying to God on a cellphone,
a ceiling light turned low.

It’s the same when love comes to an end,
or marriage fails and people say
they knew it was the wrong idea,
staring directly into the eyes of an African cat.

But anything
worth doing is worth doing badly
on the other side of things while
the sun was moving from the sand to the sea.

 

 

Luke Skoza is a 30-year-old model, poet, and ESL teacher. He currently works as an ESL teacher in Moscow. His poems have appeared in the Silenced PressUnlikelystories.org, Retort Magazine, Anti Heroin Chic, The Houston Review, and the Chiron Review

Lorrie Ness: Two Poems

Code Blue///

From bed she hurled the spines downstream/
the pages cankered/
from the buckshot of her fingers/
The ossuary of warm colors/
not fully spent/
released to those who cast bones/
and divine the future/

Plucked petals of sky/
and sea/ and azure margins/
were her medium/
of mosaic language decoupage/

Mounds of torn blue breasts erupting at her hips/
like new volcanic islands/
breaking the tension for a moment/
ephemeral organs/

She festooned them with recycled names/
Reckless/ Stormy Pearl/
Just Below Heaven/ Swatches/
of retired cornflower bathrooms/
Turquois excised/
identified/ She had become/
the Rosetta Stone/
naming each shade/
so she could offer herself to a friend’s embrace/

 

Ms./Ms/M/igraine Diary

My calendar is pocked, branded. Squared
a hundred ways. Mmm ssing
letters mounted.

Gridlines stamp steady lanes. Parameters.
Boxing my eyes up. And left and over
and. Then yesterday.

And with. The space of forward.
Marked by blood blue “Ms.” The silent
strangle of brain on paper.

Ms -taken bruise on Tuesday. Plotted.
Manumitted.
Last week – forever?

Ms. the woman refusing
to blue the space with r. “M/s” map-over,
worked over lines.

Within the box
with blue convention in. My pillbox
is the shape of day.

My pillbox is a Russian doll. Nesting
neat on Tuesday.
No gridlines leaning on future.

 

Lorrie Ness grew up in rural Indiana and currently lives in Virginia. Writing is her means of connection and is her refuge. She draws inspiration for her writing through time out doors. She has forthcoming work in the American Journal of Poetry.

Emma Demopoulos: “Midnight Swimming”

Midnight Swimming

I float, suspending face up in cool water, letting my legs drip toward the ground
The matrix of chorine, hydrogen, and oxygen cups my head and fills my ears
I wait to hear the sounds of the night, but all I hear is the swirling of the above ground pool
I steal a glance at the sky and hope that the universe does not return the favor
But it always does
It reaches down to me in all of its infinite glory, bursting out in colors, only some of which I see
It bends at the hips, puckers its lips, and kisses my temple
I am only stardust clumped together and floating in a pool that’s not mine

 

Emma Demopoulos is a writer, creator, and general enthusiast of all things odd or quirky. She finished her debut novel and seeks representation. She lives in Cincinnati, Ohio with her family and two cats. She graduated from Miami University with a degree in Creative Writing. Her Instagram handle is @demopwriter.

Rick Pieto: “As I was driving”

As I was driving

Rick Pieto is a visual poet and writer living in the Silver Spring, MD area. His visual poetry has been exhibited at Rhizome DC and Pyramid Atlantic Art Center and also published in Foliate Oak Literary Magazine. He received a Ph.D. in media ecology from New York University and has taught at Georgetown University and University of Baltimore.