Ink In Thirds – Vol. 3, Issue 2

This is an anniversary and an ending. Ink In Thirds has successfully published issues for 3 years thanks to the many talented individuals that have supported this venture. Although, as with most things in life, an end must come. 

My life has dragged me in directions I would have never imagined. After much consideration, I understand it is time for me to close the doors on this part of my journey. I have loved every moment of this publication and all the immensely talented and creative people I’ve met along the way. My greatest wish for each of you is to keep writing, keep shooting, and keep creating art!

Though my life is taking me other places now, I will be championing you from afar. Thank you all, again, for making the last three years such a success here at Ink In Thirds. Never stop chasing your dreams—they really do COME TRUE!

Forever Love and Ink,
Grace

 

Get The Full Issue Here

Ink In Thirds – Vol. 3, Issue 1

Happy New Year!

Another gorgeous issue, another fantastic year 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 Boris Boden

Unlearning

How did Newton unlearn the Church, and quantum physicists unlearn Einstein? It is when the intuitive becomes counterintuitive. Patterns in life are a quest of unlearning, for it is harder to shed the robes of knowledge than to weave them. Remembering, memory, forgetting. The biggest acts of forgetting were the American Indians or the Mayans or the Aztecs or the Incas or the Australian Aborigines. Poor souls screaming in the darkness. Education and healthcare as cornerstone of the welfare state. A grand human idea, like Rawl’s just society. If you could combine Plato’s Republic and More’s Utopia everything would be perfect. Between the lines Darwin meant might doesn’t make right, it conceives right. Might as well enjoy the ride. What does your soul look like? Dorian Gray’s portrait? Or a Raphael cherubin? The senses create and the mind consumes. We are all models for someone else’s painting. Schopenhauer is the founder of modern microeconomics—the will and incentives are the motor behind it all. The church is the greatest economist in history. It’s had the best returns, even in the afterlife. Money is like junk, William S. Burroughs said. We are fiends, going out and baring our souls in the street every day, just to get our fix. When the act of material acquisition is essentially impossible and not in the foreground of the mind, room is left for receiving other stimuli, the immaterial ability to act, or the peace of mind to be able to receive. Start from the beginning. Become counterintuitive.

by Chris DiGiorgio


3 Line Poetry

photo by Oleg Chursin

Wind and water chipped away until only
The rock’s heart remained, a foreshadowing.
Blinded by the beauty, you fail to see the irony.

by Carlos Orozco


POETRY

photo by Mario Ho

 

Microtonal Tragedy

You know it’s over when,
watching them sip Friday afternoon
mimosas on the porch, you realize
he’s lost interest in her hair. Doesn’t even
see it anymore.

by Shannon Lise

 


 

 

Get The Full Issue Here

Ink In Thirds – Vol. 2, Issue 6

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,

 

PROSE

photo by Michael Anthony

Wisconsin

Home. All my Memories of it, framed in white. Whenever I return from my travels, it seems to be winter. Stark. The snow biting at everything exposed. But it wouldn’t be Christmas without snow. Nearby are train tracks where I used to walk my dog. She lived to be three. Purebreds always have trouble.

How long have I been back? Time moves abnormally here, like river water under ice. I spend time visiting places from my childhood, like tourist attractions. Avoiding the people that were actually there, then.

The wind pulls at my coat. But it’s inside that I shiver.

by Anastasia Kirchoff


Three Line Poetry

photo by Toni Cuenca

I unravel exquisitely
behind the barriers of rage and flesh
I can almost remember feeling desired

by Susan Richardson

 


POETRY

photo by Kristen LaFollette

Lost

Tell me what I’ve done?

My eyes ache.

My hands are two men
shouting at one another
in different languages.

by  Joseph Murphy

 


 

Ink In Thirds – Vol. 2, Issue 5

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


 

 

Ink In Thirds – Vol. 2, Issue 4

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 Mirja Paljakka

Bagel Boy

I called him Bagel Boy. We worked together one summer, wrist deep in cream cheese or whatever else people order on round bread. He had an aquiline nose and a surname I always butchered.

Some guys wear a baseball cap so often they look weird without one. I picture them sleeping, or showering, just navigating life’s minutiae with their hat glued on. Bagel Boy was never without one until the day he stood before me, his back pressed up against his fridge.

“Touch me,” he said, the freezer handle poking into him, the bulk of the appliance holding him steady. We’d listened to music for an hour, stoned, his girlfriend elsewhere.

I touched him.
He closed his eyes.
We switched rooms.

I’m still spreading regrets on round bread.

by Susannah Jordan


3 Line Poetry

photo by Mirja Paljakka

the monotony of days
like empty caskets
killing time

by Firdaus Parvez


POETRY

photo by George Stein

Bone and Cartilage

Whittle words into bones.
Carve the brittle, untouched whiteness
with rich ink
and turn the leftover dust of
marrow into meaning.
Spread the sand of unsaid words
and dig them into spaces of
broken edges,
raw meat.
Tendons stretched, transformed into leather is
the paper of poetry.
Connect the split pieces of
bones together to
create a jigsaw puzzle of
wild thoughts
left unwritten.
Trembling hands
tear muscles from cadavers
and blood spurts
onto tiled floors
washed away with bleach water.

by Libby Christensen