Saturnalia | by Claire Hansen

     Every year on the eve of the full Capricorn moon is Saturnalia; a celebration of freedom, a display of unrestricted acceptance and unity. The popular and the pariah become one. The gods and goddesses descend from their lofty palaces in heaven to join in on the jubilation. Even Cronus himself takes off his crown for the night and feasts.

     Sofea finishes her daily rituals to her goddess, Aphrodite. Outside her window, the street signs are being decorated with homemade paper lanterns, and her neighbors are stringing fairy lights through the willows near the pond. The sun has not quite reached its zenith, and she realizes she finished her daily rituals much earlier than she has been the past several months. She is vaguely aware that she should be somewhere else—perhaps down the street—helping prepare the cakes for the festivities later on. She continues to gaze out the window, just for a few more minutes, and plans her Saturnalia, the night of spontaneity.
Continue reading “Saturnalia | by Claire Hansen”

Nimbus Jettison | by Tara Lynn Hawk

With great intended care………….no,
               let me start again
In hand shaky haste, I slid the package,
               all that I had left,
                             through the slot in the cloudy glass.
That chunky glass they want you to think is bullet proof.
Behind the barely transparent smudge wall,
               the man scrutinizes it with a jeweler’s loupe.
Taps it with a small file, snaps at it with his teeth.
“Not interested. Gold plate”.
Seriously?
Are you kidding me?
All these years I so zealously protected it.
Tenderly placing it in it’s velvet storage box.
Cleverly hiding it in a basket of dirty laundry
             whenever I was going out of town.
I had held onto it for so long, cherishing it as
          my most precious of possessions.
Keeping mine whilst my friends and associates had long discarded theirs.
All this time and effort, to find out it is just
              base metal and gold paint.
F#*king halo.
Continue reading “Nimbus Jettison | by Tara Lynn Hawk”

Two Poems | by PJ Carmichael

90’s

The high today
is in the 90’s,

sun beating life
into a salt-soaked frenzy,

liters of sweat sealing scars,
old wounds to never reopen,

save for those quiet eternities,
internal bleedings at 2 AM.

8 AM now and the shirt’s
drenched in heat and liquid,

messy start to a scorcher,
bodies of water beckoning me

to indulge in immersion
(they’d love to touch).

A day to swim through,
some stubborn lessons to learn

and forget, all colluding in
eventual bloom, the growth of ages.

The high today
is in the 90’s,

and the sun is too tired
to set, sleep, and slumber.

Blinding waves of gold break
through the discomfort of bare

legs stuck to the seats
of public transportation.
Continue reading “Two Poems | by PJ Carmichael”

Two Poems | by J.B. Stone

The Differences between Caribou and Man

My boots feel stuck, attempting to grip the crackles of ice, as I take a walk through the bar strip off of Allen Street. I still wonder how Caribous feel, as their hooves transform into icepicks, trying to piece through the frost just to move a few feet each time. We are both walks of mammalian life, we both need the air of to breathe, but that is where the similarities end. The migration of the caribou is for survival, as they nomadically roam from home to home, not settling in one place for too long. Continue reading “Two Poems | by J.B. Stone”

A Sonnet to the Siren Aksinya – Dark eyeglasses, bare shoulders, very unfriendly | by Akaky Akakievich

Dashing through the waywards ways of how one should stay to

Attach with the golden enterprise of the sauntering side of thus

We have missed her while it is still of some esteem to plead over

The nasty but concurrent has been here to faithfully ponder the rue

Of a moreover steadfast caved in is the luminous sounds to not cuss

Overlapping was the needled and not so much of a torrid vapid clover Continue reading “A Sonnet to the Siren Aksinya – Dark eyeglasses, bare shoulders, very unfriendly | by Akaky Akakievich”

The Hand Shop | by Christopher Iacono

     I never wanted to sell hands. I had never thought people would want such things until a lawyer told me I had inherited my father’s hand shop.

     I hadn’t spoken to my father in years, so I was surprised that I was even in his will. Then again, who else would have received the shop? He had no other children.

     I wanted to sell the shop, but according to the will, I had to sell the rest of the inventory first. No reason was given. Maybe my father was punishing me.
Continue reading “The Hand Shop | by Christopher Iacono”