RICHARD WEAVER

A Simple wine reduction of the muse

You wish
for something
smoother warmer
than hands
with velvet gloves
to run over legs
wilder than hips.
For once
she’s willing
and tongues
run along roads
forking in every
direction.

Richard Weaver volunteers with the Maryland Book Bank, CityLights, and the Baltimore Book Festival. In his spare time, he’s the official writer-in-residence at the James Joyce Pub in Baltimore. Previously, he was an Assistant Professor at the 3rd oldest Jesuit College where he taught in the English Department and was the Head of Library Circulation, and acting Archivist. His first published poem appeared in Poetry magazine, April 1975. In his less-than-spare time he reads for Slant magazine. 

Stand Tall                                                                        

My front tooth
is recessed
Restless
Maybe it has someplace better to be
Like that
inflamed balloon
at the back of my throat.

It’s scrawny
Small
The kind of tooth
bullied and poked
and told to step back in line
I encourage it to
Stand tall
Be proud
Strong
Resilient

“Be yourself,” I say

And when you’ve hit the wall
have the balls to
shout “fuck it, I’m
walking”

Peel yourself from the
grey decay
you’re wrapped in
Hike the El Camino
Climb Machu Picchu
Drive an RV across the States,
writing about how hard it is
to dislodge yourself from
your family, your friends, your dog
And if you’re lucky enough
to be sprinkled with pixie dust
Don’t sneeze
Don’t blow
Inhale
Snort
Breathe
Ride that high all day.

Doug Raphael practices architecture in Halifax, Nova Scotia where he lives with his three children, wife and Wheaten Terrier. He has been published in; “Studio East 94-95” (Dalhousie University Press), “The Affordable Homes Program” (McGill School of Architecture) and “Planning Housing For Change” (McGill Affordable Homes Program). He is currently enrolled in the creative writing program at Dalhousie University and is struggling to figure out how to make writing a full-time gig.

Cleaning Out My Mother’s Shed 

An old pair of python skinned
Cowboy boots ( they’ve shrunken so much
I can’t get my foot into them ! )
Newspapers from Boston and Portland Maine
A poster of Jimi Hendrix
A thank-you note from Shannon
For the English paper I helped her write
Mardi Gras beads
Spoken Word Cd’s
3 dozen books
A tape of Malcolm x’s speeches
A tribute to Shannon I wrote
That was published
A turntable
Albums by Billy Joel, Elton John
George Carlin, Carole King, Barbara Streisand
And the Beatles
A VCR
My high school diploma
Baby pictures of my nephew Joshua
Receipt of a Greyhound Ticket to
San Francisco, May 1994
Acceptance letters from
Each my publications
A picture of Shannon
I thought I’d thrown away

Erren Kelly writes, “I am a Two-Time Pushcart nominated poet from Lynn, Massachusetts . I have been writing for 32 years and have over 300 publications in print and online in such publications Hiram Poetry Review, Mudfish, Poetry Magazine(online), Ceremony, Cacti Fur, Bitterzoet, Cactus Heart, Similar Peaks, Gloom Cupboard, Poetry Salzburg and other publications. My most recent publication was in Pyrokinection Literary journal; I have also been published in anthologies such as ”Fertile Ground,” and Beyond The Frontier.” My work can also been seen on You Tube under the “Gallery Cabaret,” links. I am also the author of the book, ”Disturbing The Peace,” on Night Ballet Press. I received my B.A. in English-Creative Writing from Louisiana State University in Baton Rouge. I also love to read and I love to travel, having visited 45 states and Canada and Europe. The themes in my writings vary, but I have always had a soft spot for subjects and people who are not in the mainstream.”

Dreams Before Waking in Eight Parts

1-
Time lapse photos:
multiple moons in waxing,
waning phases. Coronas
of ambient light.

2-
Ghost images trapped in
scaling mirrors. All of them
trying to get out.

3-
Inverted hour glass.
Time stalled in mid-
descent.

4-
Dry ice mist fills
orchestra pit simulating
arctic waste. Frozen music.

5-
Ghost light on bare stage.
Spot lights on polished wood
stage. Empty seats face
the reflective glare.

6-
Mist rising over still
water. A lost world
found.

7-
Tsunami wave breeching
sea walls. A scatter of
skiffs left behind.

8-
Black sun over red desert.
Cracks in the earth where
nothing grows.

Red-Blue

Forty-four seconds. Forty-three.

The digital counter drops. Gregor wipes his sweating forehead.

Clever bastards. An analog bomb, ancient technology, immune to sensors. Blocks of Semtex, enough to fragment the ship. Bodies drifting in space. A dead crew and dead alien diplomats.

An interstellar war sparked by fanatics and triggered by the device under his fingers. And no
one to stop it but him.

Twenty-one seconds.

Two wires. One choice. Red or blue. No guidance from the handheld. A pair of wire cutters.

Fifty-fifty odds. Gregor thinks of his wife, his little boy.

Now, choose. Cutters ready.

Eight seconds. Seven.

Snip.

Marco Etheridge is a writer, occasional playwright, and part-time poet. He writes in Vienna, Austria. His work has appeared in one hundred and fifty reviews across Canada, Australia, the UK, and the USA. He is an editor for Hotch Potch Literature and Art. Author website:  https://www.marcoetheridgefiction.com/

He’s Not My Dad’s Friend

Uncle Li’s yellow teeth flashed through the stainless-steel gate to our apartment as I opened it. Every time he came, he’d tell his wife he was visiting a friend.

In his hand was a bulging red plastic bag. Through its translucent layer, I saw apples pressed together, forming a heart shape, and bananas tracing wavy lines. But these weren’t the fresh fruits from the market; they were unsellable ones from his store.

I didn’t like his fruits—the banana peel was covered in tiny black spots, overripe and tired, the apples were dotted with brown spots, sour to the taste and soft, losing their crispness, and the oranges’ skins were wrinkled, their once-plump moisture gone.

I took the bag and turned toward the kitchen. As I removed the imperfect parts, the fruits made a fine fruit salad. Mom told me not to be picky about Uncle Li’s fruit—they were better than the packaged and neatly cut supermarket fruits. Those, too, were no longer fresh but presented in their best form.

Mom’s eyes curved into crescents, her smile holding the sparkle of stars. She wore crimson lipstick, green tea-scented perfume, and her favorite red dress. I knew it was time to return to my studies.

In the living room, Teresa Teng’s song flowed like a gentle river, the melody of The Moon Represents My Heart drifting through the air. I didn’t need to open the door to see they were waltzing. Before Dad got sick, I’d never seen Mom dance. She said Dad didn’t like her dancing; he didn’t like many things about her. Yet, he encouraged me to learn Latin dance, no matter how hard it rained, he always took me to the studio. Whenever they fought in the living room, with the sound of breaking teacups filling the air, I’d dance the tango in my room. After he passed away, I stopped, but Mom’s steps began to move, with Uncle Li.

The numbers in my math textbook moved across the paper, infected by the melody. I put down my pen and walked toward the door, opening it a crack.

The oak table was pushed aside, now resting against the edge of the sofa. The curtains were drawn. Mom had turned off the ceiling-mounted lamp and switched on the recessed lights. Under the warm yellow light, everything looked cozy, tender.

“Today is my birthday,” Mom whispered as she twirled.

“Wish you’re happy every day.”

“Can you stay a little longer?” She looked into his eyes.

He held her tightly, one hand caressing her back. “My wife will become suspicious.”

They continued to spin with the music, Teresa Teng’s voice echoing in the air: “You ask me how deep my love for you is, how much I love you…” Mom rested her head on his chest and closed her eyes.

I picked up a slice of apple with a toothpick. It made a crisp sound between my teeth, and the sweet juice burst on my tongue. Surprisingly, it was delicious.

Huina Zheng is a college essay coach and an editor. Her stories appear in Baltimore Review, Variant Literature, and more. Nominated three times for both the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, she lives in Guangzhou, China with her family.

Love Skirmishes

Let’s make war by making love,
you proclaimed,
provoking me,
that spring afternoon
by the sea.

We shot each other complicit glances,
we recognized our battlefield,
ready for a hand-to-hand fight,
armed with tongues and lips,
nails and teeth.

We advanced and retreated,
without giving each other respite,
conquering high ground and trenches
until we both laid exhausted,
mutually victorious,
in a blissful embrace.

Marcelo Medone (1961, Buenos Aires, Argentina) is a medical doctor, Pushcart Prize and Best Small Fictions nominee fiction writer, poet, essayist, journalist, playwright, and screenwriter. He received numerous awards and was published in multiple languages in more than 50 countries around the world, including the US. He currently lives in Montevideo, Uruguay.

The Hermit Observes

Living alone, monkish, I’ve no need
to lock my doors against the coming night.
The birds of Spring nest where they please,
iris and peony coming near.
The neighbor’s cat, my only visitor,
uses my fresh turned garden.
Across the flood plain headlights blink
between the trees on off on off going home.

Ben Onachila is a trail runner, avid gardener and reader. He is the author of two chapbooks with the Orchard St. Press, Homecoming and Anubis Stands Close By. His poems have most recently appeared in Quiet Diamonds, Creosote, Abandoned MIne, Heart, and are forth coming in Trajectory. He lives in Pisgah Forest, N.C.

Sandy

Where her ashes sank exactly I cannot remember,
somewhere in the Monterey Bay between Paradise Point
and Sunset Beach, not odd because she could not swim.
Soil was her province, and forget-me-nots
her favorite flower, those four-week soft blue blooms
dotting our walk like earthly stars, seeds
that would stick to socks and shoelaces
to travel and embed in another soil.

She gave us seeds to bloom in our garden,
and I have spread those infant forget-me-nots
down by the creek walk nestled amid ferns
and wild blackberries during the viral sequester,
and in the next three springs have watched them
root and spread, how people brushed
against the stems and scattered the seeds
until the whole walk is now dotted with blue.

This is her fitting tribute, a small quiet beauty,
which is how she lived, not with the brassy blare
of rhododendrons or aspirations of foxgloves
spiking into the air, just these little stars
at our feet grasping to take hold, to stick to our clothes,
our shoes, to tell us we are luckier than we think.

Jeff Burt lives in Santa Cruz County, California, with his wife. He has contributed previously to Big Windows Review, Willows Wept Review, Heartwood, and Williwaw Journal.