Another gorgeous issue thanks to all the talented individuals who help foster the love of the written word and the arts. I am forever grateful to all of our readers, and champions of small press and indy magazines & journals. Remember, keep writing. Keep submitting. Keep your passions burning!

Much Love and Ink—
Grace

 

PROSE

photo by Al Myer

Here, Kitty

She talked to her cat like the live-in help. Peanut, do the dishes, she’d joke. Peanut, go get me some water. The cat didn’t look at her. Sometimes if she yelled loud enough he’d flick his tail, as if annoyed by the sound of her voice. Maybe he was. He was all she had. Her husband had died two years earlier and book club had stopped coming over and when Target closed down even traffic outside her house pulled back to only a trickle.

She wasn’t all he had. When she let him outside in the mornings when she left for work he sidled along the back fence and dropped down into the Singhs’ yard. Mrs. Singh always left the kitchen door open just a crack so he could get back in. They called him Sammy, like Sosa. Mr. Singh was a big Cubs fan.

by Shaunacy Ferro


Haiku

photo by Patrick Hendry

lifting fog
the forest becomes
just trees

by Norman Wm. Muise

 


POETRY

photo by Al Myer

rumour has it that…

rumour has it that you died
alone
with your mouth agape waiting
to pronounce life’s surname.
i have known you only as fractured
images but DNA
says that you were my father.
mother’s best description of
you is a solitary
painting of the wind on
the kitchen’s wall.
she said that you laughed a
lot like me—only
that we love doing it alone.
need I say that your name
is forbidden from her
gray paradise like Adam
your ancestor—a mire
strand of languid torment.

but I wanted you to know
that the sun forgot the address
of this house that summer you left.
& you ought to know even in these
phosphoric contours of death that
she never changed the sheets
on the bed upstairs, never stepped
her feet inside that room again.
she said your ghost will
forever live there—at least she
did not send it to hell.

tonight, gazing at the 23 pearls
of light up the sky I will close
& open my eyes 23 times—
each a broken requiem to the
darkness that clothed my childhood.

by Othuke Isaac Umukoro


 

 

About the Author Grace Black

Grace Black mingles with words as she navigates this realm.