A LITERARY ARTS JOURNAL

SUMMER ISSUE | JUNE 2024

POEMS | STORIES | VISUAL ARTS

BOOK REVIEWS | BOOK EXCERPTS

www.thehemlockjournal.org
 Welcome to the latest issue of ‘The Hemlock’, a literary arts journal
that celebrates the beauty and power of words and art. Our
journal is dedicated to showcase a wide range of literary arts,
including poetry, short fiction, creative non-fiction, and visual art.

In this issue, we present a collection of stunning works that

showcase the boundless creativity and imagination of our
contributors. From evocative poetry to mesmerising fiction, each
piece explores different themes and issues that are relevant to
our world today. The issue also features book reviews and book
excerpts that provide you with a glimpse into different literary
offerings and help you decide which books to explore further.

Our visual artists also offer a feast for the eyes, with a range of
pieces that encompass everything from traditional painting and
drawing to digital art and mixed media.

Each work is a testament to the skill and

Editorial
passion of our contributors, who have
poured their hearts and souls into their
creations. We are honoured to showcase

Team
the talent and creativity of our contributors,
who come from all corners of the globe and
represent a diverse range of voices and
perspectives. Whether you are a seasoned
reader or a newcomer to the world of
literary arts, we hope that you will find
something in this issue that resonates with
you. Thank you for joining us on this journey,
and we look forward to continuing to
explore the rich and vibrant world of literary
arts together.
Poetry

A Strange Air (DS Maolalai) 6

Night Nurse (JC Alfier) 7
My Stifling Procrastination (Bruce Gunther) 8
Truth or Lies (Ved Prajapati) 10
High School (Jedidiah Vinzon) 11
Mother’s Home (Saheli Dey) 12
Musky Nut (Sher Schwartz) 15
A Night in San Antonio (M.S. Blues) 17
The Equinox Café (M F Drummy) 18
The Quire of the Sheep (Paweł Markiewicz) 20
Bucket List (Tobi Alfier) 21
A Poem to Rose (Meera Gopalakrishnan) 24
A Single Note (Fabrice Poussin) 25
My Favorite Desk (Danny P. Barbare) 26
An Instagram User Captures The End Of The 27
World (Christian Ward)
Caged (Lisa Schantl) 28
Plain Fields (Jacob Fortino) 30
Last Laughs (William Doreski) 31
Mouse’s Tank (Isaiah Janisch) 32
Prose

The Spike Specialist Develops Workaholism 35

(Luanne Castle)
When the Protagonist Can’t Figure Out How to 36
Change Her Life (Luanne Castle)
Our Collective Languages (Oksana) 37
Poetry Thief (Amy L Cornell) 40
Clickety Click, Clickety Clack!! (Samina Namoji) 45
The Reality of Free Stuff (Michael Gigandet) 55
Eugenics on Earth (Tom Ball) 66
Sibilants (Wess Mongo Jolley) 72

Book Reviews

Rebecca Wason’s ‘A Voyage on the Tides of 80

Emotion’
Anusha Hansaria’s ‘The Soul’s Fuel: An 82
Inspirational Collection for a Blissful Life’
‘Sushant Rajput’s I Wish Someone Told Me This 85
Before My First Job’
Mariclaire Norton’s Tara’s Journey: Tales of 88
Eirlandia-Book 1
Anam Tariq’s A Leaf Upon a Book 90

Book Excerpts

Hiba Maria’s ‘To The Tomorrows’ 93

Mariclaire Norton’s Tara’s Journey: Tales of 95
Eirlandia-Book 1

Visual Art

Wax Crayons Paintings (Irina Tall Novikova) 14

The Street Lamp (Mohammed Bilal Namoji) 23
Spiritual Mirror and Others (Ritika Ahirwar) 33
Paintings and Ink Sketches (Irina Tall Novikova) 43
Hues of Sky (Mohammed Yahya Namoji) 54
The Giver Diyan Masalanta (Zhen Prado) 64
Collages (Irina Tall Novikova) 78
 6

A Strange Air O
E
T
By DS Maolalai R
Y

she was nervous,

I noticed, as we got out
to the country. convinced
that we'd be looked at
with expressions of
surprise. I told her
with some talking
that this wasn't like
back home. that in ireland
no-one notices
an interracial couple –
at least not (I am a realist)
when the male half
is the white one.
but small towns
are always different:
a strange air, I admit,
in the restaurants. no-one said
anything, but we took
some long looks in.

DS Maolalai has been described by one editor as "a cosmopolitan

poet" and another as "prolific, bordering on incontinent". His work
has nominated twelve times for Best of the Net, ten for the
Pushcart Prize and once for the Forward Prize, and has been
released in three collections; "Love is Breaking Plates in the
Garden" (Encircle Press, 2016), "Sad Havoc Among the Birds"
(Turas Press, 2019) and “Noble Rot” (Turas Press, 2022)
 7

Night Nurse O
E
T
By JC Alfier R
Y

Post-surgery day. Salvaged hernia. Time gone strange now —

outside itself on oxycodone, it keeps an alien clock. The
anesthesia nurse asked about a poem of mine I’d mentioned till I
fell under when her palm cupped oxygen over my words. It was
published in a medical journal in ’08, drawing on footage of
falling bombers on Twelve O’clock High and the recall of stoning
ducks on a creek, only funny till I hit one and it rolled inverted
under the surface. In recovery, the night nurse gave me a whore
bath. She said We must keep the site sterile around the wound.
Told me she loved my tramp-stamp — a rose. Somewhere
beyond my dusty windowpane, LA raises a draggled moon.

JC Alfier’s (they/them) most recent book of poetry, The Shadow

Field, was published by Louisiana Literature Press (2020). Journal
credits include Faultline, New York Quarterly, Notre Dame Review,
Penn Review, River Styx, Southern Poetry Review and Vassar
Review. They are also an artist doing collage and double-
exposure work.
 8

My Stifling Procrastination O
E
T
By Bruce Gunther R
Y

Exudes confidence.
Exhales dust and ennui.
Lets weeds grow.

Stifles the urge to put

one word in front of
the other until I make it.

Convinces me that reading

one more page of a book
that bores me is healthy
for my brain.

Asks me why I deny

my hunger when
the cupboard beckons
with its salty snacks.

Helps me to decide
that another five minutes
of monitoring my turbocharged
monkey mind is the real game.

Tells me that my timeline

is an eternity when my
real age rounds the last turn
and staggers down the homestretch.
 9

But tomorrow - P
O
tomorrow I will E
conquer worlds slightly T
R
bigger than pine cones
Y
and call it good enough.

Bruce Gunther is a former journalist and writer who lives in

Michigan. He's a graduate of Central Michigan University. His
poems have appeared in the Remington Review, the Dunes
Review, Modern Haiku, the Comstock Review, and others.
 10

Truth Or Lies O
E
T
By Ved Prajapati R
Y

I don't need the truth anymore.

For me, the lies would suffice now.
I don't need those harsh truths to live.
As of now, I ask you to bury me in the lies.

Heal me with the lies that feel good.

Even if the truth seems to be more believable,
I would love to smile at the lies.
Rather than crying over the truth, I can't change

Give me the sunset of lies that dawn passes me.

I won't care if the sunrise of truth has more light.
I'm tired of the truth that stings me.
As of now, I'll happily drink the poison of lies. That kills
me slowly.

I won't ask you to stay with me anymore.

I would believe anything you say to leave.
Just for one last time, I'll ask you
What hurts more, the truth or the lies?

Ved Prajapati is a poet from India. Currently, he is a student.

 11

High School O
E
T
By Jedidiah Vinzon R
Y

the scent of high school is

the group of girls standing by the train doors
whispering among themselves
and you scratch the surface of
their secret conversation
and the wind does the peeling
for you and you are left with
the distinct smell:
earth-baked, sun-roasted
flesh coated in wool jackets and
steamed in laughter, hushed
and vivacious, the way it
spreads itself like butter on bread
is contagious but you listen in
the song of silence is too redundant
so the tea is spilt
you are listening to drama unfold
an origami flower budding into
a sheet of paper with a note
written inside:
she likes him too.

Jedidiah Vinzon is studying physics at the University of Auckland.

His works can be read in Tarot, Circular and the Bitter Melon
Review, with many more forthcoming. You can find him on
Instagram @jayv.poetry
 12

Mother’s Home O
E
T
By Saheli Dey R
Y

You can't be a mother, the doctor said

I felt my world tumbled in my head,
With empty hand folded I cried,
Thought God might rain one day, so I tried,
To appease all the deities for one boon,
May I too be homing soon.

A fateless forehead, fruitless womb,

Perfect embodiment of gloom,
Neighbours hush,tell remedies,
But some are just not meant to be
Mothers ,daughters,kind and cool,
Or to be kept as 'prettiest fools'.

So countless fiery summers I spent,

On some days I put my soul on rent
My will power works three jobs to pay,
for a wrinkled hackneyed apartment.
To see little steps back afternoon
I hope I will be homing soon!

Home with a garden of my tree

However fruitless it may be,
Where is practised selfless love
By people aren't 'motherly enough'!
to some infant fateless dunes!
For them I dream of homing soon.
 13

P
O
E
T
R
Y

Saheli is a published author in India. She loves to write about

things we miss between two blinks.
 14

Art by Irina Tall (Novikova)

 15

Musky Nut O
E
T
By Sher Schwartz R
Y

One to three seeds

creates euphoria.
Mom’s secret ingredient
nutmeg seeded meat loaf.

Dad and I walking

cafeteria lines picking
cups of egg custard
nutmeg baked on tops.

I dreamed of this pasta

creamy nutmeg alfredo
gave me heart palpitations
martini sixteenth birthday.

Kent State lawn, 1970

police found two nutmeg
balls in my right pocket
shavings I never baked.

Nineteen seventy-three
abortion becomes legal
I no longer need
nutmeg induced emptiness.

Orange-brown powdered
nutmeg aphrodisiac
mixed by the Egyptians
gave cats’ immortality.
 16

The Portuguese annihilated P

O
a universe for the musky nut E
Banda Islands nutmeg curse T
R
surround the prized spice eye.
Y

Note: The Nutmeg's Curse: Parables for a Planet in Crisis by Amitav Ghosh (2021).

Sher A. Schwartz holds an MA in Interdisciplinary Studies with a

focus on Northwest Coastal Native American Art. She taught
English, Communications, and Religion classes at University of
Alaska in Ketchikan for many years and now lives on a farm in
Eastern Oregon. A published essayist and poet her chapbook––
The Beautiful One’s Ark will be published summer 2024 by The
Poetry Box.
 17

A Night In San Antonio O

E
T
By M.S. Blues R
Y

bright, bright lights,

on wild, wild nights!

those skies,
singing ballads
to those beholding eyes!

the warm, tired vivacity,

illuminates like a raindrop,
over my restless eye!

(does this city ever sleep?

does this city ever breathe?
does this city ever awake from its dream?)

a girl from california wouldn’t be aware.

surely, i’m equipped to handle the life of the party,

but i wonder if my skills are adequate enough to survive this night…

i suppose we shall see!

M.S. Blues is an 18 year old multiracial, queer, and versatile writer

who has been writing since the age of seven. Her work revolves
around the darker pieces of humanity society tends to neglect.
She has been abundantly published by many literary magazines
and currently serves as an editor to The Amazine, Adolescence
Magazine, The Elysian Chronicles, and Hyacinthus Zine. Her
Instagram handle is @m.s.blues_
 18

The Equinox Café O

E
T
By M F Drummy R
Y

With the echo of starlight throbbing in our

temple veins, we emerge from the bosque

after weeks of living off the grid. Mute crows

in the leafless cottonwoods stand sentinel along

the trail. The river is low enough to cross on foot.

We find our way out to the highway, hitching north

through the desert toward the pueblo. The sun

warms the rags we wear. At the café you order

green chili stew & I, the avocado toast. We drink

decaffeinated coffee, black. You ask the server

whether she is a student of the precise path of

the sun. In the answerless silence, I drop a couple

of bucks on the table for a tip. Outside,

the earth comes to life as thaw. We hike up to

the Anasazi ruins behind the café. The ochre

pictographs along the mesa wall are of horses,

spears, squash, & a sun that rises in a new

spring sky. We hold hands among the rubble,
 19

waiting for the moon to appear as the fever P

O
of life ignites between us, fluent in its heat. E
T
R
Y

M F Drummy holds a PhD in historical theology from Fordham

University. The author of numerous articles, essays, poems,
reviews, and a monograph on religion and ecology, his work has
appeared, or will appear, in Allium, [Alternate Route], Anti-Heroin
Chic, Ars Sententia, Deal Jam, Emerge, FERAL, Green Silk, Last
Leaves, Main Street Rag, Marbled Sigh, Meetinghouse, Poemeleon,
The Word’s Faire, Winged Penny Review, and many others. He and
his way cool life partner of over 20 years enjoy splitting their time
between the Colorado Rockies and the rest of the planet. He can be found at: Instagram
@miguelito.drummalino Website https://bespoke-poet.com
 20

The Quire Of The Sheep O

E
T
By Paweł Markiewicz R
Y

We are calling for your soul

for a benevolent autumnal source
May the hoary times arrive!
Dream full of sunny gloom endlessly!

with a fancy
coming from tender sea
we are conjuring you dreamer
your mythical pearls

Come propitious birdies

from Olympus-mountlet!

Recite my songs
about the mellow dawn
about brave honest hoplite-like treasure!

Paweł Markiewicz was born 1983 in Siemiatycze in Poland. He is poet

who lives in Bielsk Podlaski and writes tender poems, haiku as well as
long poems. Paweł has published his poetries in many magazines. He
writes in English and German.
 21

Bucket List O
E
T
By Tobi Alfier R
Y

She appears without direction

like a ship caught between tides,
a diver who hangs in solemn air
holding pose before touching water,
but the appearance is just that—
as like a fine wine, she matures.
She holds a compass true
in her heart, and her face
is a study in reserve.

She’s one of those women

who can always find ways
to be diminished,
but give her the sound
of the wind over breakwaters,
a long slow jazz trio,
a tall window where she can watch
the gulls soar and tides sing their landfall—
she is not diminished.

Gift her chains to wear

with links both silver and gold
for anything worn or unworn,
wildflowers in a vase,
woodsmoke in a hearth,
morning birds in a gunmetal sky.
The very best on her terms
and only her terms.
 22

P
O
E
T
R
Y

Tobi Alfier is published nationally and internationally. Credits

include War, Literature and the Arts, The American Journal of
Poetry, KGB Bar Lit Mag, Washington Square Review, Cholla
Needles, James Dickey Review, Gargoyle, Permafrost, Arkansas
Review, Anti-Heroin Chic, and others. She is co-editor of San
Pedro River Review (www.bluehorsepress.com).
 23

The Street Lamp

Mohammed Bilal Namoji

ARTIST'S STATEMENT

Muscat, the capital of Oman, is a captivating blend of ancient charm

and modern allure. Nestled between majestic mountains and the
Arabian Sea, it boasts stunning architecture, bustling souks, and a rich
cultural heritage. This picture represents the serenity and calmness of
my home town Muscat.

Mohammed Bilal Namoji, an ardent photographer with a deep

appreciation for nature, channels his creativity through
calligraphy, car collecting, and global exploration. Approaching
his final year of school, he aspires to embark on a career in the
realm of computers.
 24

A Poem To Rose O
E
T
By Meera Gopalakrishnan R
Y

Oh dear rose,why do I love you the most

Is it because you are the flower that celebrates love,
or you are the symbol of love.
Do I love you because you have the sweetest fragrance,
Or softest petals
No dear rose, I don't love you for your beauty or fragrance.
I love you because you offer the life's greatest lesson
No good thing comes in life without struggle
Beauty in life has to deal with pain
Just like we have to deal with thorns before we can reach you.
Just like the blood that might ooze out from the prick of the thorn as we pluck you.
Oh dear rose I love you because
You are the true meaning of love
That has pain but beautiful.

Meera Gopalakrishnan published a novel Seven Vows(under the

pen name Shruthi) and two short stories Second Chance and The
Forgiveness I seek and a collection of micro tales Light in
Darkness as Meera Gopalakrishnan. She has also co authored
100+ anthologies so far. Before becoming a writer, she was
working in IT industry. She loves Indian mythology, culture and
Indian history and interested in weaving stories around that. She
has an active profile in Wattpad shruthiravi13 and her insta id is
mira_g_pai
 25

A Single Note O
E
T
By Fabrice Poussin R
Y

He reached into the darkness

for the midnight drink
to find the glass
empty.

Drowsy with the weight

of eerie visions truly
he awoke if
startled.

A world of crystal rang

with a singular echo
to even rock
his soul.

Poussin is a professor of French and World Literature. His work in

poetry and photography has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium,
The Chimes, and hundreds of other publications worldwide. Most
recently, his collections In Absentia, If I Had a Gun, Half Past Life,
and The Temptation of Silence were published in 2021, 2022, 2023,
and 2024 by Silver Bow Publishing.
 26

My Favorite Desk O
E
T
By Danny P. Barbare R
Y

I find an excuse for my wife and

I to go to the
blue ridge
so I can write a poem
as if it gives me a pen and
a piece of paper
with a good hand
at the steering wheel
to create
as my ears pop and
my world is silent with my
thoughts at my favorite
desk
as in October there is
mountains of ideas like colorful
leaves
and apples to write across
the blue line
as words are as green as
mountain laurel
and find
a home with a view like a ridge.

Danny P. Barbare resides in the Southeastern USA. His award

winning poetry has been published widely in the USA and abroad.
He lives with his wife in the foothills of the Carolinas. A Collection
of Poems is available through Barnes & Noble published in India.
 27

An Instagram User Captures O

E
T
The End Of The World R
Y
By Christian Ward

The gentle hand

of the lens caresses
whatever's netted:
the trees whispering
their goodbyes,
a sky packing itself
away for the last time,
the sea reduced to dew,
the land caught in
an hourglass’ song.
No filter – Juno, Clarendon,
or Gingham – can undo
with the softest of pastels.
This is not a story
to be saved, hashtagged,
or shared. The editor's
hand must grieve
like the sun looking away.

Longlisted for the 2023 National Poetry Competition, Christian

Ward's poetry has recently appeared in Acumen, Dream Catcher,
Free the Verse, Loch Raven Review, The Shore and The
Westchester Review. He was shortlisted for the 2024 Alpine
Fellowship Poetry Prize and won the 2023 Cathalbui Poetry
Competition.
 28

Caged O
E
T
By Lisa Schantl R
Y

I have lost count

of my breaths.
How many seconds in and out;
for how many hours, days,
fortnights,
the wood has been smelling

of salt and moss

when I bow close to
hazelnut — lime — ebony — probably.
My fingers can’t name
the forest I became
a fairy queen in
as a child.

I trace the slimy rivers and smell

the many hands — nails — hearts
that have run canyons through the fibers,
now reeking of my sweat, too.

I’m asking you, predecessor:

In this sarcophagus
wrapped in paper stripes
no one heard you
banging against the walls —

Dried and withered,

we rest our heads on the crib,
 29

for one thousand times more, P

O
before we turn our back on the lie E
and look for the key T
R
elsewhere.
Y

Lisa Schantl is the founder and editor-in-chief of the literary

magazine Tint Journal and assistant at treffpunkt sprachen –
Centre for Language, Plurilingualism and Didactics at the
University of Graz, Austria, where she researches translingual
literature. She also freelances as translator and organizer of
cultural projects. She studied English and American Studies as
well as Philosophy at the University of Graz and Montclair State
University, New Jersey. Her writings and translations have
appeared in Asymptote, La Piccioletta Barca, manuskripte, Panel Magazine, PubLab, The
Hopper, The Normal Review, UniVerse, Versopolis, and more. She has received various
grants and scholarships, most recently the Kunstraum Steiermark scholarship for 2023–
24. Copyright for headshot: Lena Baloch
 30

Plain Fields O
E
T
By Jacob Fortino R
Y

We made up excuses
For the grossness of the diner
Each time we drove by
Eyes turned to Keller’s patch
On the way into downtown
Mom trusted only the soup
So we never ate there
Downtown sloped by
The gazebos near
The stormfallen trees
Broken into the river always
Onto the grounds of all
Tipping kayaks and fishers
Mirrored into the Midwest brush
Were brass waters colored in
By the orange Illinois evenings
Burning Summer’s after school sky

Jacob Fortino is a 24-year-old poet, author, and painter from

Plainfield, IL. He received a BA in Creative Writing with a Minor in
European Studies at Illinois State University and he plans on
pursuing an MA. His work has been published in Euphemism, The
Hemlock Journal and Pink Apple Press. He currently lives in
Chicago, IL.
 31

Last Laughs O
E
T
By William Doreski R
Y

A boxful of bones arrives.

According to the packing slip
a mother and child, long ago
skeletonized into a beauty
few attain in flesh-borne life.

Must I reconstruct this muddle

by rule of nature’s anatomy?
Or should I design an artwork,
a sculpture that incorporates
both sets in a single entity?

I suspect that a famous critic,

herself recently dead, arranged
this puzzle to confound me.
Last laughs laugh most loudly.
With a spool of wire I set about

raising a monument to all

relevant lifespans: theirs, hers,
and especially mine, the gleam
of the antique bones impossible
to distinguish from what they mean.

William Doreski lives in Peterborough, New Hampshire. He has

taught at several colleges and universities. His most recent book
of poetry is Cloud Mountain (2024). His essays, poetry, fiction, and
reviews have appeared in many journals.
 32

Mouse’s Tank O
E
T
By Isaiah Janisch R
Y

Red walls of
fire rock surround
little vehicles.

Winds over
one hundred degrees
blow against the glass shields.

A swirl of
titan sand cyclones
obscures the way.

The unbelievable,
unbearable landscape
taunts its automobile foes.

But the passengers

will be fine
as long as they follow

Mouse’s Tank Road

Isaiah Janisch is a poet and artist from Evansville, WI. He holds a

bachelor’s degree in English-Creative Writing from the University
of Wisconsin-Whitewater. His work has been published in literary
journals, like Digging Through the Fat and The Muse, and has
been displayed at the Arts + Literature Laboratory in Madison, WI.
Janisch has also worked as an editor for the Rock River Review
literary journal and taught poetry class to middle and high school
students. To mix his love of poetry and visual arts, he founded the Instagram page
@plaza.of.poetry--a collection of poems and digital art that explores liminality and
cultural transition.
 33

Spiritual Mirror Veins of Harmony

Ritika Ahirwar Ritika Ahirwar

Daring Petals
Ritika Ahirwar
 34

ARTIST'S STATEMENT

Daring petals, spiritual mirror and veins of harmony are colourful art
prints are digital illustrations made on iPad, the style of these artworks is
visionary art using figurative OP art with psychedelic colours. Vibrant
figuration emphasizes the mood and interaction of figures with patterns
and colours.

Varanasi's own Ritika, a multimedia artist wielding paint and

murals, weaves personal stories onto canvases—her art whispers
of self-love and women's power, themes vibrant in every
brushstroke. Celebrating resilience and inner strength, she
inspires viewers to embrace their journeys. Recognized as a "fierce
woman" of Varanasi, her exhibitions showcase simple yet powerful
works that ignite introspection and emotional connection. Step
into Ritika's world, and embark on a journey within.
 35

F
L
The Spike Specialist Develops A
S

Workaholism H

F
By Luanne Castle I
C
T
I
One week after his father fell from within thorn-tipped agave
O
into a vat of Paraquat Dichloride at leaves. He took on more and N
the shop, Bristly Hendrix inherited the more customers and barely
family pest control business. As the came home to sleep so he didn’t
company spike specialist, he notice when his wife, who had
transitioned services toward barrier- recently taken up the kazoo,
style rather than chemical, spending chopped off her aubergine talons
most of his time nailing spike strips and grew out her fauxhawk.
along house gutters to deter Without any work on Christmas
pigeons and sealing gaps between Day, Hendrix slept in until his wife
doors and thresholds. Hendrix wrapped him in soft thighs and
velcroed customers’ dogs into arms that felt like a sack of
Kevlar coyote vests emblazoned gopher bellies. I ought to patent
with bands of bristles, climbed spike pajamas, Hendrix thought,
prickly saguaros to look for wood but was too smart to say it aloud.
rats, and removed snout weevils
 36

F
L
When the Protagonist Can’t Figure A
S

Out How to Change Her Life H

F
By Luanne Castle I
C
T
I
Just go away, Sari wished so face turned away, the gum
O
hard she almost gave herself an disappeared, and Sari had done N
aneurysm. The rolling suitcase her job, which as she saw it was
blocked her view. Like the pillow her to stand there and push buttons
mother’s boyfriend had used on her. on the register. She didn’t get
She cranked her own mouth open paid enough to do more. Not
with a crowbar enough to mutter enough to move out, not enough
that suitcases weren’t allowed on to buy a weapon for protection.
the concession counter. Down went Ma’am, ma’am, she tried to
the suitcase and up went the face ignore. How much is this Snickers
demanding to know the exact price with the tax? Do you have Just
of the gum with tax added. With her Water? Hey, I’m in a hurry. If Sari
mouth now clamped shut, Sari rang stayed mute and immobile
the gum and stared at the back wall eventually they would all go
of magazines. Buy it or don’t, she away.
hoped her gestures showed. The

Luanne Castle’s Pushcart, Best Small Fictions, and Best of the Net-
nominated poetry and prose have appeared in Copper Nickel, TAB,
Verse Daily, Saranac Review, Bending Genres, The Ekphrastic
Review, Does it Have Pockets, South 85, Roi Fainéant, River Teeth,
The Dribble Drabble Review, and Flash Boulevard. She has
published four award-winning poetry collections. Luanne lives with
five cats in Arizona along a wash that wildlife use as a
thoroughfare.
 37

F
L
Our Collective Languages A
S
By Oksana H

F
I
Four rooms, one bathroom and a because they are small. Trying C
huge corridor. Build up with rocks, in handstand is so funny. It is mostly T
the nineties. Two apple trees. Four a fall. Sometimes it is even I
O
hazelnut trees. Three berry trees. perfect success. Even though, N
Two fig trees. Two plum trees. One perfection is the last thing they
pear tree. Two persimmon trees. are seeking in their childhood
One pomegranate tree. A lot of adventures.
blackberries. All around in the
garden of the house. Green grass. Blurry remembers the visitors, but
Grapes. White grapes. Black grapes. the family it does remember well.
Plenty of iris flowers. Nettles too. Full Giving it life, building up the walls
of daisies. Even more outside the and the roof remembers the
garden. Some primroses. Yellow family. It has been a witness of
wood sorrels everywhere. life, but death not yet. Therefore, it
still dreams and remembers all.
In the summer, the house is mostly Butterflies and fireflies. Rivers
fresh (because of the way it has nearby that it has never been, but
been built). In the winter, the seen us go. Landscapes of
smallest room is the one chosen to freedom. Strawberries. A big oak
spend most of the daytime there, tree. Turtles. Insects. Snakes. Four
with the warmth of the white wood shrubs of red roses. Scepter'd isle
stove. rose shrub. One small yellow rose
shrub. A big shrub of fairy roses.
This house keeps all the memories
of the past days. It sees dreams with Outside the garden, where there
kids climbing trees. Playing. They are more daisies, there is a field.
have a favorite spot in one of the Mason is running towards the
plum trees. The adventure of rising sun. Her mother, her sister,
climbing trees occupies a good part and women of their tribe run after
of the daily games. They can even her to exhort her where she
climb the hazelnut trees. It’s should go. Mason is twelve,
 38

F
dressed in colors of life, the symbols still small, I can grow up even if I L
of nature. Transitioning from don’t run. I might just run away to A
girlhood to womanhood. She runs as a different direction to avoid the S
H
in the story of the first woman. It is other days.
believed by the Navajos that this F
ritual connects Mason to the first After the run, we get to build a I
C
women. A four-day ritual. mountain of corn flour. This is
T
more fun. At least I’m sitting down I
Corns to make the cake, sacred to get a bit of a rest. All the tribe is O
songs, prayers and blessings. The gathered for the ritual, it feels N

holy person Mason is becoming. The awkward that everybody is here

corn cake in the last day, to honor knowing what is happening with
the sun. The first women of this land my body. In the last day, we will
is here. A whole community around cook a cake out of the corn flour
to praise the growing up process of mountain. I will bless the cake
Mason. In the story of the first before everybody eats it. Big
women and the first man, after responsibilities for me.
hearing a baby cry, they are
instructed by the holy people to take In the second day, I get to
care of that baby. Within twelve experience very funny moments
days, the baby grows from an infant with the women of my tribe. They
to a twelve-year-old girl. Ready to tell stories of their experience in
become a woman. As in the the sacred ritual. My
changing woman story, Mason is grandmother even fell down
becoming the children bearer in this during the run in the first day. I’ve
puberty ceremony. Her mind speaks done two days of successful
in words of wisdom: running already. My bigger sister
tells me that I cried in the run of
“Running and running. I feel like I am her last day, because she went
in a bootcamp. I can barely breathe so far away that I thought she left
now. Three more days to go. This is for vacations and didn’t take me
only the first day. My lungs breathe with her. My aunt that has her
the air of my ancestors and give me forty birthday tomorrow says
power. But I am tired. I see this big she’s glad it’s my time to do the
field when I run east and it seems ritual because she has gotten fat
like it’s never ending. Why do I have and has to put some weight
to run to become a woman? I am down while running after me with
 39

F
the other women. other men of the tribe, waiting for L
the sun to rise. The medicine man A
At night, we gather together with the never gets tired of singing. His S
H
medicine man, to listen him singing repertoire is full of sacred songs. I
sacred songs for me. It’s already the wonder when did he learned F
third night and I made it to run east them so well. He doesn’t forget a I
C
even today. The corn cake it’s slowly word.
T
baking now, in the big fire outside I
the hogan, to be ready in the My mom wakes me up. It’s time O
morning. I feel relieved. I got only to do the last run. The longest run. N

one more day to run. Actually, I’m I can smell the cake outside and
starting to enjoy this. Tonight, it is can’t wait to eat a piece of it. But I
believed that I’ll be joined by the have to do the run first. I can’t
spirit of the Navajo changing secretly grab the cake because
woman and I’m feeling quite special. there are so many of my people
The medicine man is singing and I keeping it safe until it’s time for
feel enchanted and scared. me to bless it. And so, I run. All the
women of my tribe behind me
I see the domed top of the hogan. too. All the man, my dad waiting
The roof’s hole lets the stars see my for me too. I finally made it to the
distracted face. I remember my last day, and I will never love
mom and dad explaining me the eating a cake that much than
shape of the hogan. That domed today. We are all gathered
shape as a woman carrying a baby. around each - other. Such a
(Being nurtured by your mother in blessing.”
the womb.) My mom is rubbing my
back. My father is outside with the

Writing is one of Oksana forever passions. She loves arts and

expressing herself through it. She usually keeps it to herself or joins
small nonformal groups. In 2021, she started sharing what she
writes. She has published 3 articles online trying to give insights
into women empowerment. In the same year, she was one of the
three winners in the essay writing competition "Untold Stories"
which was about bringing awareness about human trafficking,
organized by UNICEF in Albania.
 40

Poetry Thief I
C
T
By Amy L Cornell I
O
N

I am perusing through my Everything and everyone became

writing and my thoughts, and I am suspect. Mr. Henry could recite
hit by the faintest of recollections. every word of TS Eliot’s poem
The memory goes back more than a about the cruelest month. Was
year, maybe two or three. I think of he a suspect? Did the fact that
an article written about a poetry the local grocery put up rhyming
thief, or rather a poetry stalker, a deli specials on their big board
man who in the night leaves poems out front mean the manager was
on people’s porches. This nightly act, in on it? What about the high
lasting all or most of one hot school teacher who was teaching
summer in a quiet seaside town, Byron and Shelley, did she put
became quite the local mystery. some high school student up to
One would think that finding poems it? The people were in a serious
on one’s porch would capture the uproar as the verses kept
imagination and spur you to live appearing: John Keats and
your life with intentionality and Robert Burns and Emily Dickenson
grace. You should form a book club. and Edgar Poe; James Joyce and
You should notice the sunset. You Gertrude Stein; Billy Collins and
should take time to listen to your Naomi Shihab Nye. The poetry
neighbor. Instead, people called the thief knew his subjects and his
police. They wanted to know who poetry well. He matched the
was coming onto their porches late poem with the ailing heart, and
at night. Who is this intruder? the struggling soul, which freaked
people out more than anything:
The man harmed nothing. He How does this intruder know me
merely left poems and then went so well? How does he know what I
about his business. He thought he have never told a single person?
was inviting whimsy and hope and
dreams, but the people of that town The poetry thief had people
formed a vigilante squad to watch checking out books from the
for the mysterious poetry leaver. county library (the 800 Dewey
 41

classification was wiped out one -ed, to see the faces of the town F
I
weekend) while at the same time as they mustered up the outrage
C
town residents were asking the over a sonnet on their porch. I T
sheriff to keep a watch on their began my Google search to find I
porches. The mood was 16th century that article, and I used these O
N
witch hunt, and it was all anyone phrases: man who left poetry on
could talk about in that one town the porch, arrested poetry man,
during that one summer. poetry thief. I get link after link to
poems about porches (there is
In the article the man is an amazing body of them) and
captured—the poetry maven—and links to newspaper articles about
he apologizes. For him, his poetry people on porches (there is a
fairying was an act of caprice and surprising number of people who
whimsy. He did not understand what do nothing but sit on their porch)
the big deal was, and the most but I could not find one article
anyone could sputter as an outrage about my poem thief, my stalker,
was “he was on my porch…at night… my itinerant soul knowing literary
while I was asleep.” scholar. No articles about the
town he violated or the sheriff
The Sheriff cried no harm no who told him to stop. I wanted to
foul and let the poor guy go. He was see his picture. I wanted a line or
a stranger, an itinerant painter or two of verse. I wanted to know
landscaper, someone who came to that this really happened.
town that summer and left just as
quickly at the end. The sheriff asked I thought about it for so
him to stop doing what he had been long and so hard that I began to
doing, and the poetry fairy shrugged imagine the poet lived in my
his shoulders, said “okay”, and town and the poems were left on
before they knew it, he had left. Off my porch. For who else had
to leave his poems for some other introduced me to Ted Koosier
unsuspecting community they and Adrienne Rich and Lucille
presumed. Clifton? Who else made me
locate found poetry on menus, on
I knew this story because I had billboards, on Kraft macaroni and
read it and thought about it for a cheese boxes? Who else had me
while a few years ago. I now wanted dreaming in Iambic pentameter?
to read it again, to prove it happen- The mystery of my missing
 42

newspaper story was not where did that began with: Two roads F
I
it go and why couldn’t I find it, but diverged in a yellow wood, as if I
C
when did I know he was right in my would leave that tired chestnut T
own backyard? on anyone’s doorstep. I I
remember overhearing a cashier O
N
The more I thought about my talk about this poem by Oriah
own poetry stalker, the mysterious Mountain Dreamer. Imagine that!
poet in the night in my own People in check-out lines talking
hometown, the more I knew that about poetry.
wasn’t true either. The more I
thought about the story, I began to So, I found it. After hours of
suspect that I was the poetry stalker, searching, of asking, of googling,
I was the man leaving poetry on of trying to remember just who
your porch. I was the one who led published this story, I found it,
you to know the round and supple right there in the recesses of my
words of Walt Whitman and Robert own memory. I found myself and
Browning. I was the one who took all my favorite poets. I found the
your breath away with just a short cool black nights of late fall and
line of Mary Oliver. I wore black when the feeling in my chest as I left
I went out, poems slung in a string the poem on your porch. The
bag over my shoulder. I arrived at poem that begins…The fog
your porch, quietly, wary of the light comes in on little cat feet. I found
that would flip on and the dog that the smile on your face as you
would bark. I tucked your poem saw that you too had been
under the mat so that you would included in my late-night poetic
notice it in the morning when you maneuvers. The knowing look you
got your paper. flashed when you realized that
someone out there understood
I remember my angry neighbors, you.
the editorials in the paper: the one

Amy L Cornell lives and works in Indiana. She has two kids and two
cats and a spouse. She writes short stories, creative non-fiction
and poetry. Her favorite month is April when she participates in
National Poetry Writing Month and writes a poem a day for 30
days. She is working on essays about disability.
 43

Art by Irina Tall (Novikova)

 44

Art by Irina Tall (Novikova)

 45

Clickety Click, Clickety Clack!! I

C
T
By Samina Namoji I
O
N

"Girl, you have got to see all the cool to the bustling street behind
stuff she has! "You will love it," said them. “Are you sure this is the
Beth, with excitement sparkling in place, Beth?”, Shelly’s doubt crept
her large brown eyes. Shelly sighed into her voice. “Of course, silly. I’ve
rolled her eyes, and followed her been here plenty of times”, Beth
best friend along the cobbled road. reassured her. "Remember that
The street buzzed with activity, the red skirt you adore? I got it right
tiny cafes were packed with people, here," she added with a grin.
enjoying the sunshine and fresh Shelly couldn't shake off the
brunch. The aroma of freshly baked creepy vibe emanating from the
goods drifted from the open bakery building. "It's giving me the chills,"
doors, mixing with the chatter of she admitted. "Seriously? Come
people sipping steaming coffee and on, there's nothing to be scared
discussing life and business. Rows of of," Beth dismissed her concerns,
freshly cut flowers added a rustic urging her forward. With a
touch to the street outside the hesitant sigh, Shelly followed.
florists’ shops. Clothing and luxury “Come on, now” nudged Beth
stores tempted them with their pushing open the door. Inside, the
latest collections of coats, shoes, shop exuded an antique charm,
and handbags, but today they had reminiscent of a bygone era. The
a different destination in mind. yellow wallpaper, once adorned
Walking ahead, the narrow street with vibrant patterns, now had
ended abruptly at a small but old faded into obscurity. Garments
shop. The dilapidated, long- hung on low dusty long racks.
standing building that had stood the Glass cases displayed an array of
test of time beckoned them. The jewelry – bracelets, chains,
walls wore a shabby look, with trinkets all gleaming faintly in the
peeling paint and a faded sign hung dim light. Dusty shelves held rows
on the door which said "OPEN". It felt of books; their pages untouched
like they had stepped into a parallel by curious hands. Jars of creams
universe, which was a stark contrast and powders sat silently on the
 46

counter, gathering dust over the the door open, revealing a thick F
I
years. An uneasy stillness hung in veil of darkness beyond. As her
C
the air, making Shelly squirm eyes adjusted to the dim light, T
uncomfortably, though she kept her she wrinkled her nose at the stale, I
unease to herself. Meanwhile, Beth unpleasant odor permeating the O
N
eagerly rummaged through the air. "Eww... what's that sick smell?"
racks, searching for something to she muttered under her breath.
impress her peers and catch the eye Fumbling in the shadows, she
of her crush. "Whoever said being a retrieved her phone and
teenager was easy?" Beth mused, illuminated the darkness with its
her fingers skimming over the fabric. flashlight. "Let's see what's hiding
Shelly remained motionless, her in here," she declared, shining the
gaze distant and lost. "Shelly, I'm light ahead and revealing a
going to try on this dress. If I need staircase descending into the
help with the zipper, I'll give you a depths below. Shelly's sweaty
shout," Beth announced, palms clung to the railings, the
disappearing behind a changing coolness of the steel offering a
room curtain. Shelly muttered "Sure stark contrast to her warm skin.
thing" and wandered over to the With cautious steps, she
shelves of books. She picked up a descended the stairs, each
book and flipped the pages movement deliberate as she
uninterestedly. As the images in the scanned the darkness for any
book flickered past, a spark of sign of light. Her eyes darted
curiosity ignited within her. In the around until they landed on a
periphery of her vision, she noticed a switch, and with a determined
small wooden door adorned with flick, she flooded the space with
intricate carvings. Setting the book light. The flickering bulbs cast
aside, she approached the door, eerie shadows, illuminating the
tracing her fingers along its ornate scene in a ghostly glow. Shelly's
patterns. "Cool... I'm so digging this," gaze swept across the room,
she whispered with growing taking in the chaotic mess that
excitement. The door seemed surrounded her. Debris littered
almost magical, reminiscent of the floor, and cobwebs clung to
something out of 'Alice in every corner, shrouding the
Wonderland'. With a mixture of space in a veil of neglect. With
trepidation and anticipation, she each step she took, the
grasped the rusty knob and pushed oppressive atmosphere seemed
 47

to weigh heavier upon her, sending meant only for her. Then, from F
I
a shiver down her spine. One part of within the depths of the box, a
C
her wanted to leave right away, but sound emerged, faint yet distinct. T
the other part was curious and "Clickety click, clickety- I
wanted to explore a bit more. As she clack"!!Just as she was about to O
N
passed the broken shelves, a faint open the box, a familiar voice
noise echoed, reminiscent of a sliced through the tense air from
distant knock. Startled, her eyes behind her. "Shelly, what are you
widened, and a shiver ran down her doing here? You can't just come
spine. "What was that? I hope my down here without permission.
mind is not playing tricks on me," That gypsy lady must be looking
she whispered, her voice barely all over for us," Beth muttered
audible amidst the eerie silence. But under her breath, her brow
in a few minutes, it came again, furrowed in worry. "Who gypsy
louder this time, a distinct ‘click lady?" Shelly's voice was soft,
clack’ sound! Following the echo of barely audible amidst the
the sound, she quickened her pace, shadows of the dimly lit
her footsteps echoing in the basement. Even before Beth
desolate room. She reached the could respond, a shrill voice
corner where the old chests stood, pierced the air from behind them,
towering one over the other, and sending shivers down their
halted, her breath caught in spines. “Put that down!! It's
anticipation. Once more, the sound nothing but a cursed evil. " It was
pierced the stillness, "Click clack"!! the gypsy lady who had followed
Her heart thudded against her them down there. Her ferocious
ribcage, its rhythm matching the eyes bore deep into Shelly’s,
hastened beat of her footsteps. With almost as if piercing her soul with
determined hands, she pushed a silent warning etched in their
aside the heavy old chests, depths. Though she looked
revealing a weathered wooden box haggard and old, her voice
concealed beneath layers of carried a commanding authority,
neglect. With trembling hands, she striking fear into their hearts. Her
reached out, fingertips brushing braided, salt and pepper hair
against the dusty surface of the box. danced wildly as she spoke,
As she lifted it, a surge of accentuating her ominous aura.
inexplicable connection washed “These walls have seen things
over her, as if the box held secrets that your pretty little heads can’t
 48

even imagine." "What you are gaze as they fled into the F
I
holding is a nightmare waiting to be welcoming embrace of the
C
unleashed. Do not mess with the summer sun. "Phew," Beth T
unseen, "said the gypsy. Her eyes exhaled deeply as they emerged I
were still fixated on Shelly, and Shelly into the brightness of the outside O
N
could feel her skin crawl!!!"I'm so world, relief flooding her features.
sorry, my friend got lost and I came "What's the matter with you?" she
here looking for her," Beth inquired, concern lacing her
stammered, her voice tinged with words. It was never like Shelly to
embarrassment. "Now don’t bore me be inquisitive and just wander off.
with your excuses, and leave the box They had been best friends since
where you found it," the gypsy lady childhood, and Shelly was always
snapped, her tone harsh and the wiser and more mature one
dismissive. Without waiting for a of the two. So, this behavior
response, she turned on her heel seemed odd to Beth. "I don’t
and strode away, her departure know, dude, there was something
leaving a lingering sense of unease about that box." "I felt as if, as if...
in the air. Beth nudged Shelly to put like it was calling out to me,"
the box down and walk after her. protested a baffled Shelly. "Are
They hurriedly ascended the stairs, you out of your mind? Just listen
leaving the oppressive atmosphere to yourself; you sound like a
of the basement behind them. Beth lunatic! Anyways, let's go now, the
hastened to settle her payment for bus is here, "chided Beth her tone
the books and trinkets, eager to laced with exasperation. Both of
escape the gypsy's unsettling them hopped onto the bus. Beth
presence. As Beth completed her kept chattering about how
transaction with the gypsy, her gaze beautiful the trinkets looked and
flickered towards Shelly, her how interesting the books were.
expression a mixture of warning and But Shelly just gripped the bag
admonishment. "You don’t belong closer to her as her mind seemed
here, and don’t ever come back!" to wander off. Thinking about
she hissed, her words dripping with what the gypsy had said, she
malice. Startled by the venom in her stared vacantly outside, from the
tone, Beth seized Shelly's arm and window of the bus. Then, there
propelled her towards the exit. The was that sound again, ‘Clickety
gypsy's hawk-like eyes followed click, clickety-clack’!! Shelly
them, a silent threat lingering in her jumped up in alarm, and she
 49

looked at her friend with her eyes Beth had turned her back, Shelly F
I
wide open. She wanted to tell her had very slyly slid the box into her
C
about the noise she had just heard, bag! "Clickety click, clickety- T
but a knot formed in her stomach, clack"! There it was I
stopping her from doing so. Both again!!!!Startled but unable to O
N
friends never held any secrets from fight her curiosity, she
each other, but today something immediately wanted to open it.
was stopping her from doing so. But just then, her mother walked
"Shelly, are..are you feeling alright, in. Setting her office bag on the
girl?" "You don’t seem to be yourself coffee table, she began, "Gosh,
today," said Beth wrinkling her nose what a day it has been. I’m so
worriedly. "Y…yeah, I’m fine Beth, just tired. " Then she sat next to Shelly,
a little tired," Shelly lied forcing a caressing her long hair, "Shelly
weak smile to mask her inner honey, how was your trip with
turmoil. As the bus took a turn, Beth Beth?" Did you girls have fun? But
got off, saying a quick bye. Shelly too what could Shelly tell her? All
murmured "bye" and clutched the Shelly managed was a vague
bag tighter to her, like it was her "Yeah, it was fine. We picked out a
prized possession. Soon, the bus few things. Her mother looked at
came to a grinding halt, and Shelly her thoughtfully concern etched
jerked out of her train of thought. As in her features "Honey, are you
she alighted, she half walked, half feeling alright?" she asked, her
ran to her home. She turned in the voice tinged with worry. “You look
keys quickly and plopped on the a bit pale to me." “No Mom, I’m
couch. With a pounding heart, and fine, just a bit tired like you," she
shaking hands she reached for her replied, forcing a smile onto her
bag and slowly took out the lips. Then her mother continued.
box!!!With eyes wide open in “And, before I forget, as I told you
excitement, she held it up to have a previously, I will be leaving for the
good look at it, and the box gleamed conference in a short while. Will
with a spooky glow. "It's so pretty," be back by tomorrow night. So
she squealed, her voice filled with please take care of yourself and
delight. But beneath her excitement, call me if you need anything”.
a pang of guilt gnawed at her Though Shelly was used to being
conscience. It was unlike her to steal, alone in the house, today
and she couldn't explain the something just didn’t feel right,
compulsion to possess it. As soon as but she couldn’t put her finger on
 50

what was troubling her. So, she just her with terror. It had vicious- F
I
nodded her head in affirmation, looking red eyes, jagged fangs,
C
silently acknowledging her mother's and long arms with sharp claws T
instructions. "I have fixed your lunch at the end of them. When the I
for tomorrow, but right now let’s demon-like figure snapped its O
N
have some supper". Being a single fingers, it made the sound of
mother, dinner time was the only clickety-click, clickety-clack! She
time she could bond with her wanted to yell and scream for
daughter, so they both tried to make help, but her throat had gone dry!
the most of it. During supper time, Not a word came out of her dry
Shelly wanted to tell her mother mouth. Shelly watched as it
about everything that had approached her, letting out a
happened so far; the peculiar shop, weak scream from her parched
the gypsy’s warning, and most throat. The dark figure then
importantly, the weird sound clasped her throat with one of its
coming from the box. But she black hands and squeezed hard,
remained tongue-tied as if an pushing her down to the floor.
unknown force was stopping her Then, waving its other hand wildly
from doing so. After a while, Shelly’s in the air, it dug its sharp nails
mother picked up her bags and then into her cheeks and tore her flesh.
quickly planted a kiss on her Blood trickled down her pretty
forehead and left, saying bye. As face and she let out a scream in
Shelly sat on the couch, she began agony. She was gasping for air
to wonder if she had done the right when she felt a heavy weight on
thing by stealing the box. Just then, her chest as if the figure was
she heard it again. "Clickety click, trying to choke her, making her
clickety-clack! The noise returned. breathing more and more
Startled, she pushed her conscience labored. The room then began to
to the corner of her mind, and with spin, and Shelly felt her eyes
trembling hands, she opened the closing until everything got
box. With the crack in the lid, she felt darker and faded into oblivion.
a surge of black light shoot out and After what seemed like ages,
envelop her and the entire room. As Shelly awoke, her body trembling
she lay motionless with her heart as she clutched the ends of the
pounding, she strained her eyes to coffee table, managing to
see a black silhouette glaring down stagger to her feet. A heaviness
at her. The sight of the figure struck still moved along with her,
 51

dragging her down. She wondered if struggled to move, and just then F
I
she just had a bad dream, but the she heard an ear-splitting
C
pain and numbness in her body scream, followed by raspy T
reminded her that it was not a laughter and the same clickety- I
dream, but just like the gypsy had click, clickety-clack! ". Her whole O
N
said, it was a nightmare and she body went stiff and froze in terror,
had brought this misfortune upon her muscles tensing as she
herself. With trembling hands, she watched in shock as the figure
attempted to touch her cheeks but inched closer and closer to her.
winced in pain as soon as her Shelly instinctively moved
fingertips grazed the tender flesh. towards the headboard of the
The long, sharp gashes served as a bed her fingers gripping the sides
painful reminder of what had firmly in a desperate attempt to
transpired earlier. Shelly then resist. But the entity was
thought to herself, "My misery began relentless, pulling at her legs with
with the box, and if I burn and an unyielding force. As she fell to
destroy it, maybe... just maybe I will the floor, it began dragging her
be able to end it all." With renewed wildly, its screeches echoing in
vigor, she frantically started looking the air. Shelly's misery seemed to
for the box. She shuffled the fuel its sadistic pleasure. With a
cushions, peered under the table surge of adrenaline, Shelly lunged
and sofa, and searched every nook at the entity, pushing with all her
and cranny, but no matter where might. Scrambling on all fours,
she looked, the box remained she made a desperate crawl
elusive. It seemed to have vanished towards her bedroom door.
into thin air. Exhaustion weighed Gathering all her strength, she
heavily upon her, threatening to stood up and started running
overwhelm her senses. Slowly, she towards the stairs, her body
made her way upstairs to her room. battered and bleeding from the
With a throbbing headache, Shelly ordeal. As she darted past her
collapsed onto her bed, her body mother's room, she caught a
drained of energy as she drifted off glimpse of her mother sitting on
into an uneasy sleep. She was the bed! But her mind was too
awoken by a scratching sound near numb to even question herself as
her bed. As she tried to sit up, she to what her mother was doing
felt something pushing her down, here. Logic seemed to elude her,
pinning her to the bed. Shelly overridden by a primal instinct
 52

for survival. Shelly rushed towards kicked in. She ran towards the F
I
her mother, the sense of relief and laundry closet, her heart
C
protection flooding over her like a pounding in her chest. With a T
tidal wave. Snuggling closer, she desperate tug, she yanked the I
noticed her mother's statue-like door open, seeking refuge within O
N
stillness, a stark contrast to the its confines. With a muffled
chaos unfolding around them. scream, she felt something or
Raising her wounded face to meet someone pull her into the closet,
her mother's gaze, Shelly was the door slamming shut behind
stunned by what she saw. Her her with a resounding thud. As
mother's eyes were nothing but two she struggled to contain her
hollows of red burning embers, their terror, Shelly looked up and saw
intensity searing through Shelly's her mother. Before she could
body. A menacing smile twisted her speak, her mother whispered,
mother's lips as her face began to "Shelly, are you OK, honey? I could
contort, morphing into something feel something wasn’t right as I
grotesque and otherworldly. She left for my trip. I guess it's a
started shrieking and laughing, the motherly instinct. So, I decided to
sound echoing through the house, come back and check on you,
growing louder and more manic and thank God that I did! If
with each passing moment. Shelly something had happened to you,
stumbled back, her movements I wouldn’t be able to forgive
frantic, as she dashed down the myself. "Tears welled up in Shelly's
stairs. As she ran by the kitchen, her eyes as she embraced her
eyes fell on her mom again! At that mother tightly, seeking solace in
moment, realization dawned upon her arms. She had never felt so
her, flooding her with horror. The safe and comforted before, her
lady-like figure before her was not fear dissipating in her mother's
her mother but the demonic entity, embrace. At long last, she was
its presence looming over her like a safe; nothing could touch her
sinister shadow. The figure bolted now. Her mother would fix
towards Shelly, a knife glinting everything. They would get
menacingly in its hand, pointed through this together! Just as
straight at her. The blade gleamed Shelly was about to spill
in the light; its malevolence everything, the phone rang. Both
palpable. Sensing her life in grave of them froze, fear coursing
danger, Shelly's survival instincts through their veins. Shelly’s mom
 53

silenced her with a gesture, placing locks before sleeping. Love you F
I
a finger on her lips. They stood there, honey!!"As Shelly stood frozen,
C
trembling with fear, as the paralyzed with fear, she heard T
answering machine picked up the the raspy laughter once again... I
call, and a familiar voice echoed The lights above her head O
N
through the room, "Hi Shelly, this is flickered ominously, and a
Mommy here. I have arrived safely. demonic voice whispered,
Please make sure you check the "Clickety click, clickety-clack!"...

Samina Namoji was born in the state of Karnataka in India and

brought up in UAE. Now a resident Muscat, Oman, she is a classic
example of a third culture child. Though she has a degree in
Bachelor of Science, Samina is inclined to literature and craft. She
is also a published poetess and author. Her favorite genre is horror
and she has written many prizes winning short stories in this
category. She has also participated in many anthologies. She’s a
full time home maker and feeds her creative soul by dabbling in diy, painting,
calligraphy and home decor.
 54

Hues of Sky
Mohammed Yahya Namoji

ARTIST'S STATEMENT

This photo was taken in Muscat, the city where I live. As the sun gently
set, the sky transformed into a kaleidoscope of colors.

Mohammed Yahya Namoji, is a budding photographer with a

deep love for nature and wild animals. He is fascinated by
dinosaurs and outer space. Currently studying in school, and he
aspires to embark on a career in the field of culinary arts.
 55

The Reality Of Free Stuff I

C
T
By Michael Gigandet I
O
N

5:00 A.M. The Day After when you open a door or when
you are just sitting at your kitchen
They say the best cup of coffee table wondering if today is trash
you will ever have is the first one in day. You learn to move with the
the dark of early morning when memories when the traffic allows,
everyone’s asleep, and I believe stopping until the memory
them. Sitting here at my kitchen passes by, ignoring that one,
table I can drag that cup of coffee honking the horn in your head at
out for an hour easy. To do that the ones you want to go away,
though, I have to sit and think a lot your brain shouting: Stop! Stop It!
between sips. Since Em died two
years ago and the kids left home, I I’m not kicking about it; I’d
have lots to think about. Right now, sell the farm and move if it
the subject is shampoos and soaps. bothered me. I am just
recognizing the fact.
After I got rid of Em’s things and
let the kids pick over the furniture, I This morning, it’s shampoo
thought my house would look and soap, and I ‘m not ready to
empty, but when you’ve lived in a honk the horn yet.
place with four other people for 35
years, raised your family there, the Before I retired, back when I
place will always be full, a bustling was travelling around the
downtown city sidewalk of southeast trying lawsuits, I stayed
memories. I don’t believe in ghosts, in a lot of hotels. I carried my own
but I sure believe in the power of toiletries so I gathered the
memory, that conflagration of dead complimentary, miniature bottles
occasions, conversations and of lotion and mouthwash, soaps
impressions roaring up in your brain and shampoos from my hotel
when you aren’t expecting them. rooms and brought them home
They surprise you around a corner or to my daughter. I told her they
 56

were “your very own cosmetics.” much whatever you want--sit, F

I
think about things that don’t
C
She took them to her bedroom matter to anyone but yourself, T
to be examined and inventoried. neglect the birds and watch I
O
Sometimes I saw the bottles lined up them worry over an empty
N
on a dressing table, maybe by size feeder. Someday I am going to
or color, green body wash, creamy remember which birds show up
pink lotion, blue shampoo. They first.
never appeared in her bathroom, so
I don’t think she used them. They Why haven’t those birds
were too nice for that. Em had a figure it out yet? Is this their way
different reaction. “More bottles?”, to reprove me for my neglect? I
but it really wasn’t a question. am clearly visible to them there
through the bay window.
One day, those bottles
disappeared. Maybe Em threw them Some time ago, a smart
out. In time they were forgotten. I person with nothing else to do,
remembered them today, the day theorized that the world may
after nothing mattered anymore. have just sprung into being
moments before, and the Past
6:15 A.M. The Birds Arrive was not real at all, just memories
created in your brain to give
The second best cup of coffee perspective to the present.
happens as the sun is coming up
and you stare out the bay window, If they were right, then what
watching the birds arrive to empty happened did not really happen
feeders. By that time, I‘ve let my so you don’t need to feel bad
body collapse like it melted, settled about it all. Maybe the people
down and lost its creases and you remember aren’t even real.
corners, my edges going one at a
time. But then there’s those
birdfeeders…there’s the wrinkle
When you are retired and the isn’t it? The birds know that feed
only one left to live in a two story, has been there. Now it’s not there,
farm house one half mile from your but it was. So is the past real or
nearest neighbor you can do pretty are the birds not real too?
 57

Were the bottles of soap real? physical condition for my age, F

I
I could see them clearly on my this is the time in life when
C
daughter’s dressing table. They still climbing stairs gets your T
had to be in the house.She would attention.) I just felt like standing I
O
not have taken them with her when there with my hand on the newel.
N
she left home for college and the job Like I said, when you live alone
up North. And, that daughter was you can do whatever you want.
like me, she would not have thrown
them out either. Sometimes I stopped there
when I was trying to decide
Here’s a fact: No matter how where I was going to take an
long you sit, or how tired you are, or afternoon nap. Like Goldilocks, I
how determined you are to do had my choice of beds. I made
nothing and sit at your kitchen table, my decision based on which kid I
your forearms sticking to the was thinking about at that
surface, you are going to stand up moment.
eventually and you are going to
remove yourself from where you are After our kids left home, Em
to someplace else. I removed myself decorated every single bed with
to my daughter’s room or towards it a pile of frilly, decorative pillows,
anyway. not just the guest bedroom or our
bed. When I wanted to take a nap
7:00 a.m. Standing At The Stairs I had to dig down through them
to find the bed. Afterwards, I had
This is a big house, plenty of to put them back, but my brain
room for me to wander—four insisted that they be placed in
bedrooms, dining and living rooms, the same position as I found
a den the size of Denmark. I even them; it was a chore. I also
have a two-story library and home noticed that there was not a
office. chair in the house without a
couple of pillows in it.
My daughter’s room is on the
second floor. At the foot of the stairs, One day, after Em was gone,
I decided to take another activity I got rid of them, drove my pick-
break. It wasn’t the act of climbing up truck near the back door and
the stairs. (Although I am in good tossed every pillow in the house
 58

out the door and into the truck like the farm. F
I
fat Frisbees until it was filled. I did
C
not even tie them down; I just drove I suppose that was reassuring T
slowly to Goodwill. to me too. When my daughter I
O
went off to college and I missed
N
“You must like pillows,” Jerry, her, I would stand at her door like
the man with the withered arm who this until my balance returned.
collects your things at the drop-off When she came to visit she
doors, said. always slept there. Maybe the
posters of Rhett Butler and
“I love them,” I said. “That’s Scarlett O’Hara and the carnival
why I want to share them with you.” I and concert souvenirs on the pin
wasn’t being sarcastic; I was being a board, the trinkets of
smart ass. There’s a difference. remembrance, maybe they were
rejuvenating to her, restorative.
7:10 a.m. Ground Zero
Em’s death had been hard
I stopped in traffic again at on her, and she flew in from up
my daughter’s bedroom door and north and spent several days
leaned into the frame. with me, mostly in her bedroom
with the door closed. At night I
My children never really left heard her crying, and when I
home I guess; they just did not knocked on her door, she
come back. They left their rooms just stopped and I went away.
like they did when they went off to
college. Movie and sports posters on My daughter had a lot of
the walls, the memorabilia of their junk. She was like me that way.
high school social lives scattered
along the shelves, collectible dolls It was a constant source of
and stuffed animals on the girls’ irritation to Em.
beds, a flat basketball in the corner.
“What you going to do with
Maybe they wanted the all of that stuff when you die?” Em
assurance that wherever they went would ask me, and since this was
they had a permanent home. Em more of an accusation than a
and I never planned on moving from question, I let it slide, said nothing
 59

If you think about it, “nothing” is the call me? F

I
answer because I’d be dead, inert.
C
No, I enjoyed my privacy T
Em often complained it would too much to do that. Besides, with I
O
take her years to clean out my development from Nashville
N
things when I died. “I’ll be one of surrounding and bypassing the
those old women who show up place its value continued to
at Goodwill with a trunk full of her skyrocket. Best to wait.
dead husband’s folded clothes.”
For a few weeks, Em
I do have this thing about disappeared in phases.
keeping any possession which
might turn out to be useful I can’t say why the children
someday. I not only keep them, I disappeared.
acquire them.
At least Biff in “Death of a
Em never had to concern Salesman” could point to his
herself with my accumulations. Her father’s adultery as an excuse for
cancer saw to that. his loss of interest in life. I don’t
think any of the kids could point
It did not take me long to give to a particular family crisis and
away her things, and she had a lot say “That’s why I left home and
too. I gave her clothes and shoes to rarely returned.”
her sister. I donated her car to a
charity, and I told the kids to come 7:25 A.M. Touching Things Makes
and take anything else they wanted Them Real
from our house as remembrances of
her. Living out of state, they could My daughter’s bookshelves,
not take much on the few visits they like mine, were lined and stacked
made after the funeral. Everything with books. No real book lover
else went to Goodwill. ever gets rid of any book he
acquires. My daughter still had
“You’re not selling the farm are her children’s books, Marvelous
you daddy?” my daughter asked on Millie, a children’s version of Little
the telephone from a long way Women and Mary Poppins, some
away. Had her brother asked her to pop-up books. I made a quick
 60

mental inventory, running my fingers out like that motivates me to F

I
over the spines of the books. read them so I can turn them
C
upright again. T
That’s something else she got I
O
from me. Thankfully, my home office In time my books will end up
N
stretched over half of the second in the used book section at
floor of our farm house, and I lined it Goodwill or drying out in the
with bookshelves. When I was corners of musty antique stores
practicing law, I’d prepared for my until some teenage version of me
trials there in the finds them and takes them home.
cigar smoke and among my books I pasted a name plate inside the
which I’d started acquiring in 12th front cover of every book, so
grade. My first acquisition was a set somebody 50 years from now will
of out-of-date encyclopedias from see it and say: “This is the guy
the 1950s which I bought for $5 from who owned this book. Whatever
a thrift store. I still have them. happened to him?” They may not
think about it long, but they are
Early on, I collected books going to know that I lived. (That
autographed by the author, and nameplate is not a creation of
then I began buying any book the memory; somebody stuck it
do-gooders and the perpetually there.)
offended threatened to ban or
censor. (When I got older, I began 8:10 A.M. Real Words From The
buying those targeted books when I Past
was giving someone a gift.) I now
had a couple of thousand books In a box under my daughter’s
tucked into shelves along every wall. bed I found the weekly letters I’d
You know you have a lot of books written her over the years. I ran
when you begin inserting them flat my thumb over them, fluttering
on top of the other books on your them like they were playing
shelves. cards. They made no noise, so I
did it again but harder.
I’d read most of them. I pull
out and lay down on their spine They weren’t letters at all;
those books I am planning to read in they were holiday and event
the next six months. Sticking them cards I’d gotten from charitable
 61

organizations as gifts when they Em told me once. F

I
solicited for donations. I must have
C
been on the mailing list of every “I’m just thinking of the kids,” T
charity in the U.S. because Em and I I said. “Think of the fun they will I
O
had boxes of them—cards for every have in that hot, dusty attic. It will
N
occasion, birthdays, Christmas, sick be like Christmas morning.”
people, congratulations. I would pull
out those Christmas cards which You are not really a hoarder
avoided using the word “Christmas”, if you give away the stuff you are
opting instead for the phrase supposedly hoarding. Hoarders
“Happy Holidays” or “Seasons are people who keep things in a
Greetings.” I used those Christmas- clutter, even trash. They stack
less cards as stationery for my newspapers and magazines
weekly letters to my children in their along the walls from floor to
own college and professional ceiling, at least in the beginning
travels. My children were probably of their hoarding careers. Then
the only people in the country they fill in the remaining space
getting mail in April with Santas, with plastic bags of trash and…
snowmen in top hats and candy clutter. They travel through it like
canes on them. In this small way, I they are walking through a snow
refused to cooperate with the drift without snow shoes.
politically correct, a healthy practice
for any free-thinking citizen who Hoarders are the people
distrusts authority and despises the who die in that clutter
self-appointed bullies of our moral somewhere and have to be
well-being. located by the authorities
because no one knows they are
Years of letters, forgotten words in there. They often get on the
recording forgotten things—I spent news or are featured in some
more time than was good for me cable television show which
reading and remembering. All this probably paid their relatives to
was real. Here’s the proof. film the place, a kind of vengeful
karmic event for their survivors to
9:05 A.M. Progress offset the expense of having to
clean up that mess after the
“You are turning into a hoarder,” hoarder dies.
 62

I’m not that way at all. My in style? F

I
house is tidy, everything in its place.
C
Before I go to bed at night I perform With a closed casket you T
a walk-through and inspect to make don’t have to worry about finding I
O
sure everything is in its place. This is a suitable set of clothes. They
N
easy to do now that I am retired and don’t even ask you. I’m not sure
Em is gone. I did not get sloppier in what they do, but whatever they
widowhood; my house got tidier with do, they do it and don’t bother
only me in it. you with it. You just have to show
up when you’re supposed to.
My daughter’s closet was neat
and full of clothes. I reached up and took down
the boxes in the top of the closet,
I heard a preacher say once some books and a movie star
that you should donate to charity scrapbook, a couple of
the clothes you have not worn in a photograph albums, some
year. Not me, I donate mine if I have sweaters.
not worn them in 10 years.
I put everything back just
“I might decide to start wearing the way I found it. When the time
these again,” I’d say to Em while was right, I’d take her clothes to
holding up a pair of 34-inch waist Goodwill. Just stuff them into the
jeans from younger days. trunk of my car and let Jerry drag
them inside like an animal
I ran my fingertips over my dragging something dead into its
daughter’s dresses like I was cave.
counting them—blue, black, red,
dresses with patterns, frilly 9:40 A.M. I’m Done For The Day
shoulders, padded shoulders, all on
hangers tucked in place. Since she There were more clothes in
lived up north why would these her chest of drawers. I found
dresses be here? Shouldn’t she have what I was looking for there in a
them with her? Maybe these were bottom drawer--a hatbox full of
from her old life and not appropriate miniature bottles of lotions and
in her new life as a lawyer up north. soaps, green, blue and pink, like a
Did she expect them to come back chest of precious jewels.
 63

I ran my fingertips through I lay down on her bed with F

I
them to hear them clatter. I held the the hatbox beside me. I didn’t
C
box up to my face and breathed in even take my shoes off. That’s the T
the soapy scents. nice thing about living alone; you I
O
can do whatever you want.
N
And it was all real.

Note: This story originally appeared online on 6/26/20 in Page and Spine Magazine
and again in Children, Churches and Daddies' anthology "The Way She Was" in Jan.
2022 and in CC&D's Story Collection Jan. July 2022 "Unfinished Business". The author
retains the rights to this story.

Michael Gigandet is a retired lawyer living on a farm in Tennessee.

His stories have appeared in Dead Mule School of Southern
Literature, Bending Genres, Quarencia Press and Transfigured Lit
and in anthologies by Great Weather for Media, Palm Sized Press,
Pure Slush and Down In The Dirt. His published stories are available
here http://michaelgigandet.com
 64

THE GIVER Diyan Masalanta

Zhen Prado
 65

ARTIST'S STATEMENT

This is part of my growing collection of myths from my very

country. She is the goddess of love Diyan Masalanta. Her journey
to save the world from peril takes a tragic turn when she is
betrayed by a lover whom she had rescued from the brink of
dying. Broken and devastated by the betrayal, she becomes the
target of savage accusations and violence from those she had
once saved. Accused of witchcraft and subjected to unspeakable
atrocities, Diyan Masalanta's body and spirit are shattered. The
loss of her newborn child at the hands of her assailants adds to
her anguish, plunging her into numbing despair.

In her darkest moment, a white cat appears as a symbol of hope

and renewal. With the cat's help, Diyan Masalanta begins to heal
and regain her strength. Drawing upon her knowledge of ancient
wisdom and innate powers, she creates a cyborg companion with
the ability to travel through time. This cyborg became her loyal
ally, assisting her in her quest for justice and retribution.

As Diyan Masalanta's life force begins to fade, she devises a clever

strategy to sustain herself. By giving gifts to those in need, she
demands a steep price in return - the sacrifice of what is most
precious to them. Although it's harsh and unjust, this exchange
allows Diyan Masalanta to replenish her vitality and repair her
ever-damaged body. Some of these gifts are used to create new
cyborg warriors, whom she secretly forms, under her leadership,
without the prying eyes of the true rulers of the modern cruel world
she's in.

Zhen Prado is a 22 years old registered artist and writer on

National Book Development Board in the Philippines and a
graduating Psychology student. He posts most of his art on his
DeviantArt: 18shi, and poems, short stories, opinions, etc. on
Commaful: The Wandering Soul. He also has a Facebook page:
Arts of Zhen, where he takes a commission.
 66

Eugenics On Earth I
C
T
By Tom Ball I
O
N

I, Ernst, said to Rebecca, “No one lovers. But most people were
predicted we would live as we do spoiled by this life of ease and
now.” She said, “Supercomputers run were irate if they were challenged
the varying nations and humans or inconvenienced in any way.
have nothing but time on their And some behaved as if they
hands. We all kill time in various were petulant children. Most
ways. And most people are bored, don’t have children, but those
and no one is starving. As Dickens who do say it is time well spent.”
said, “It was the best of times, it was I said, “That’s an accurate
the worst of times,” however most summary of how things are, but
people who were polled in this year for thinkers like you and I, we are
2114 A.D., said things were getting lost. Our thoughts don’t change
worse. This was despite eternal anything, and Supercomputers
youth for all and Mind Reading will try and grant our wishes, but
Technology (MRT) for loving. Some what we wish most of all is to be
people spent their time gambling, important. Just like everyone else,
some played video games of which we are just consumers and exist
there were many leagues. And most for no reason.” She said, “Well we
people watched at least one movie exist to honour the great
per day and the average news they Supercomputers that have been
watched was for 45 minutes. And constructed and see our kids
most of them partied every night grow up. Life has never been any
and took various drugs to make the better. But I like the author
parties seem more interesting and Johnny R.’s takes on things. As
more stimulating. Also, traveling you know he made the movie,
took only several minutes to get “Outlandish Parties,” about
anywhere on Earth. And nearly creative parties, like stimulating
everyone had sex with at least one computers as if they had drugs
of their regular partners each day. to alter their perception. And
On average people had 15 regular parties which featured outrageo-
 67

-us comedians and weird party liked was “Freak Colony,” on Mars F
I
themes… Like, for example, parties in which all sorts of clever
C
which involved everyone dressed in creatures and sentient plants T
an animal mask and behaving like had been gathered, and many I
O
churlish animals. Or parties in which bored people converted into a
N
everyone was completely non-human form. And the
intoxicated. Or parties in which the Supercomputer in charge, was
women had to seduce the men. And very creative in creating new
so on.” types of thinking creatures. And
I said, “Yes, I’m familiar with another tale of particular note
Johnny R.’s work. I kind of liked his was “A Story of Two Dichotomies,”
movie about “Star Power,” how which was about a World of
famous actors/actresses and wealthy and worldly androids
singers were unreasonably powerful, and another World of desperate,
whereas the writers of movie scripts destitute humans. And finally the
were hardly known. The stars had androids kill off the humans.”
hypnotic power, like the pied piper of And I said, “Dirk seems to be
fable. And many people went back good. and I am also great friends
to school to learn acting or develop with, and liked, Roger R. who
their singing voice. And there were wrote, “Procrustes’ Dystopia.”
about a million in total of famous Which was about a King in future
and semi-famous stars throughout times who demanded everyone
the Worlds, he pointed out.” try and be like him. With the
She told me, “Star Power,” was same greedy personality that he
one of my favorites, too. And I also had and insane to boot. People
liked, Dirk T.’s, “Tales of Horror in were falling all over themselves
Space,” which was full of fictional to change into an acceptable
horrors in Space. Have you seen his citizen and hopefully be a
movies?” I replied, “No, I haven’t.” courtier or courtesan. They used
And she said, “Horrors like “A Rogue genetic therapy to alter their
Computer on Luna,” who created personality and read the varying
copies of itself into compact android biographies of the King as if they
minds and took over the Moon were bibles. And they made art,
completely and everyone had to science and built companies to
worship these androids and do their please the King. They used trial
whimsical bidding. Another horror I and error to try and amuse the
 68

King. And the King, made a point of they would make love like it was F
I
loving all 50 000 women of the their last day and the suicide rate
C
colony. Every woman was now was certainly very high. People T
beautiful due to genetic therapy would kill themselves over a I
O
and plastic surgery and eternal broken heart or dangerous drug
N
youth. And he had a number of use or out of sheer boredom. The
children born in the lab. Of course elite oligarchy who ruled here,
many hated the King, but nearly all was trying its best to develop
people were hypnotized to love him. new drugs for those who were
And most people were content. If bored to stimulate them and
they were not content, the King had keep them interested in life. But it
his spies get in their heads with MRT didn’t work out so well and
and re-hypnotized them.” She said, happiness didn’t prevail here.”
“Tyrants always do the same evil I asked her, “Why would
things as they are corrupted by anyone want to write about a
power. It’s quite frankly, boring…” Dystopia and disguise it as
And many who wanted to go Utopia?” She said, “It’s just
to Worlds in new Utopias, found growing pains, we’ll get it
themselves in Dystopias. Like together sooner or later. I’m
“Magna Utopia on Moon Callisto.” In convinced that the future is
which everyone is filthy rich from bright! And great people will
selling real estate as colonists dream up many true Utopias and
poured in, to this high tech, free- experiment with them.” I said, “My
loving and anything goes Moon. And idea of a great Utopia would be
a new dome for thousands was simply a World in which the elite
going up every month. People here thinkers rule. The only downside is
would claim that this was the freest maybe future societies will not
place in the Solar System.But even pick the greatest thinkers to be in
here, the government feared their elite, but rather the masses
anarchy and so issued an edict that will choose demagogues. Utopia
one could not interfere with can only happen, if the best
another’s freedom. The people are in positions of power.”
interpretation of this law was the She said, “But the masses are
subject of many lawsuits. But many easily satisfied, they have no
wanted to come here and hobnob work to do, and are free to enjoy
with the varying free thinkers. And parties and entertainment and
 69

free drugs… I think it is best if the true frighten me!” She said, “Don’t be F
I
elite simply seize power. But such a wimp! I hate weak men.” I
C
unfortunately, most such people replied, “Most women these days T
don’t want to get involved in politics. are no longer feminine and no I
O
We must educate the clever youth longer loving. And I wish I could
N
to get involved in governing. And change that.” She answered,
choose the best at a young age to “Men created this World and
groom them for power. Government women are just trying to survive.”
is more important than art or I quoted Voltaire saying, “We
science…” must cultivate our gardens.” She
And she said, “As time progresses, told me, “You are a sentimental
the stakes become higher and the fool.”
very survival of humans is in doubt, And I told her, “You should read
we need to take action now.” I said, the novel, “Sentimental Thinkers,”
“We just need to overcome the by Frank P. It is about a man who
inertia and then the cards will follow designs historical Worlds for
into place. nostalgic people. Highlights of
I remarked, “I also feel that Utopia past times, basically.
will be imaginative and kind and Unfortunately, the book is
everyone will alter their brain to be somewhat obscure and it hasn’t
so with genetic therapy. Kindness been made into a movie.” She
above all should be the nexus for said, “History is bunk,” as Ford
Utopian dreams. Without kindness, said. And the modern era is
life would be brutish and cruel. Like drastically different from the past
with androids and holograms, who and it’s a brand-new fresh start
might hate humans. for humanity!”
She opined, “I think that pure And she said, “You should read
intelligence is the key to happiness. the obscure novel, “Satan’s Days,”
The vast majority of people that are about how the future looks bright
intelligent are good people and I for a while, but then Devilishly
feel, “You’ve got to be cruel to be backwards people want to stop
kind,” as the song goes…” all progress and let the Devilish
I said, “Despite the fact that the rule. It is a hopeless World!” And
modern World is dog-eat dog, it she added, “You want to slow
doesn’t mean it has to be the future. progress and are a Luddite, the
And strong, tough women like you, World has no time for you!” I
 70

replied, “I’m just saying fools rush in and I feel the tide is starting to F
I
and if AI takes control we will all be turn!”
C
doomed.” She said, “But we live in fast T
And I opined, “My feeling is Holger times and the pace of progress is I
O
J.’s “Dynamite experiment” which picking up. Many ordinary
N
indicates a sparkling, rich humans are so far behind the
Utopia with normal and clever times, they are hopeless.” I
humans. I really believe that the replied, “I don’t see why we don’t
future is bright. But people like you just leave Earth for the humans
will try and ruin everything. It is a and the Super geniuses will go
misuse of genius.” She told me, “At unto Space.” She said, “No,
least you can admit that I am a because Earth is worth gazillions
genius. Geniuses make their own and gazillions. And Space is
rules and are not subject to regular lucrative too, especially in real
laws. But I wouldn’t ruin anyone’s estate. And we have discovered a
true Utopia. I respect people that number of Earth-like Planets and
figure they are in Paradise, but not Moons. And some of them are
one of bliss, but rather one that they just being colonized now.”
are active in and continually seek And she told me, “Ultimately
improvement.” we’ll just make eternal youth
I said, “But for most people, bliss drugs available to the top 10%
is all they can hope for, they have no elite and give every non-elite
genius.” She said, “A state of bliss is man and woman sterilization. So,
like being dead. People need to in say 40 years there’ll be very
continuously improve in order to few of them left. Eugenics will
keep up with World developments…” triumph, you’ll see.” I said, “You’re
I opined, “Drugs to make one talking about genocide on an
more intelligent and kinder are unprecedented scale. What have
already out there, and anyone could the ordinary people done to you
use them to improve and try and to deserve such a vicious fate? I
maximize our brain power and then know, there are many who agree
some. But many people are afraid to with you, but we can’t just murder
change. We just need to do a better people who are not clever.” She
job of selling these medications. said, “We are just phasing them
Already some famous stars have out, is all.” I replied, “I think you
stood up and praised such drugs are evil. She said, “I’m just a
 71

realist.” live in democracies, after all. And F

I
I said, “I hope you rot in Hell, tyrants are just out for
C
literally. I will continue to support themselves. Your eugenics group T
kind geniuses in their endeavours. is a bane on all humanity.” I
O
They will be kind above all, and the She said, “Fuck you, too!”
N
people will back them. Most of us

Tom is from Canada. He has published novels, novellas, short

stories, poetry and flash in 49 publications.
Website: https://tomballbooks.com
Online Journal Website (he is senior editor/co-founder):
https://fleasonthedog.com
E-mail: tomball33@yahoo.com
Facebook: tomball33@gmail.com
 72

Sibilants I
C
T
By Wess Mongo Jolley I
O
N

He loved to recite from memory at his feet, he would rise for his
the works of Blake and Eliot. His evening walk around his New
detailed justification for believing Hampshire estate.
that Frankenstein was secretly He had entered his last
written by Percy Bysshe Shelley classroom almost a decade
could hold his students enraptured before. And yet, the students kept
late into the night. His eyes would coming. The classes now had no
shimmer when he spoke of his love schedule, and there were no
of the long line, the changing blackboards, textbooks, or
rhythms of the breath in modern assigned reading. They could be
verse, and his unabashed opinion a dozen young faces gathered
that only poetry held a hope to around his chair in the garden, or
reverse the decline of Western they could be a single earnest,
civilization. yearning young man making him
The old man loved his soft wing- tea at 2:00 am, when the pain in
back chairs, Earl Grey tea, and his his hands and hips became too
pipe. But most of all, he loved the much for sleep.
adoration he saw in the eyes of the The only schedule he kept
students who came to sit at his feet. now was his evening stroll in the
With their help he kept the fire garden, just before the sunset.
burning in the small hearth across And as he became less and less
the study, the room with the floor to steady on his feet, he found it
ceiling books lining either side. On pleasant to take the arm of
the mantelpiece were photographs whatever sturdy lad who was
of him with Pound, with Williams, and there and eager to help the
with Frost. He would enthrall them master.
with tales of Burroughs in India and It was a good life, here in his
Ginsberg in Prague, until with aching twilight years. His Collected
joints and an assist from the most Poems was on the shelf (if not the
handsome of the young men best sellers list), and now he
 73

found it more amusing than renown or fame to find a soft F

I
humbling to pull the copy down, and belly on which to lay his head.
C
read the verses he no longer That was all decades past now. T
remembered writing. But he knew he’d never be too old I
O
His wrinkled fingers liked to trace to enjoy the feeling of that firm,
N
his own name on the cover, as if to muscular arm on which he could
remind himself of who he used to lean.
be. “Let’s sit, Robert.” he said, and
Once he was the fiercest critic, with an assist from his cane and
both of his own poetry, and of the his companion’s steady grip, he
work of his contemporaries. He’d eased himself gently onto a
published reviews and essays in all lovely bench near the roses. The
the best journals, lamenting the last rays of the sun cast
beleaguered state of American shimmering beams of gold onto
verse, and chastising both himself the gravel path, and the hint of
and his contemporaries for allowing coolness in the air eased the
it to fall into such a shabby state. heaviness in his lungs.
But now, in his 90s, he found all Robert eased down next to
that posturing to be just so much him on the bench, close enough
fluff and bluster, and now even the that the old man could lean
worst of his juvenilia brought him against him. The boy’s hand
joy. Reading his tortured verse rested lightly on the poet’s bony
describing his lost life of adventure, and frail knee, and they watched
laughter and lust now seemed like in silence as the clumsy and
an old, romantic, black and white heavy bees worked over the
movie. He’d read his long forgotten hydrangea.
lines with a slight smile and his eyes “Have you written today,
just moist enough to glisten. But Robert?” the old poet asked.
never so moist as to shed a tear. “Some,” the boy replied,
For today’s walk in the garden, sounding hesitant. “I’m actually
the young man on his arm was one finding it hard to write here, with
of the newest, and the youngest. you, in this place.” He paused,
Probably no more than twenty. He searching for words, as he had
no longer took these young men to been doing all week. “It’s all so
bed the way he did for so many new, and so overwhelming, that
years. He no longer traded on his when I sit down to write, the
 74

images seem so jumbled that learn from me, but the truth is F
I
nothing comes out. Nothing makes simpler. You’re all here to feed
C
sense.” the final bits of twigs and sticks to T
The old man nodded. A simple the dwindling fire of my life. I
O
gesture, but one that told the boy he Without all of you, I’d have been
N
understood. cold embers, long ago.”
“But it is lovely here, Professor. He began to cough, and
Thank you for inviting me.” Robert took a handkerchief from
“Please, call me James,” the old his pocket, and held it to the old
poet said. “I’ve had young men man’s cracked lips. When the
around me all my life, but I never coughing passed, he wiped a bit
liked being called ‘Professor.’ It of the saliva off the poet’s chin,
made me feel old, even when I and pocketed the cloth.
wasn’t.” He chuckled dryly. “Now that A hummingbird flitted by,
I am, it’s even worse.” too close to their faces, and then
“Thank you… James.” said the zoomed off to the feeders on the
young man. “When I started writing patio. The other students had
to you, I never dreamed you’d even come out to watch the sunset,
respond, let alone invite me here to and the pair could hear the
study with you. This is quite an distant murmur of their never
honor.” ending conversation.
“Oh, my boy, I’m so glad you The poet smiled up at his
came.”. When he turned, his eyes young protege and allowed his
were moist, and there was a quiver weight to lean a bit more into his
the boy could feel in the hand on his shoulder. “I think he liked your red
knee. “There is nothing an old man tie.” He said, gesturing after the
needs around him more than youth departed hummingbird. “I spent
and hope. My time is very short, I years flitting about the young
know that. My last poems are written men who were the brightest and
and on the shelf. And there is a shiniest, so I know how he feels.”
peculiar comfort in old age to see He smiled for a moment, lost in a
the young taking up the torch.” They memory.
sat in silence for a few minutes, “Read me something, Robert.
watching red tendrils begin to snake My fire needs a few extra twigs
across the sky. tonight.”
“You all think you’re here to “I don’t have anything finished,
 75

Professor. At least, not with me.” breakfast. That’s what I want to F

I
“That’s fine, my boy. Just read hear. What you wrote today.”
C
me anything. ‘First thought, best “Sir, I…” Robert began, but let T
thought,’ Allen used to say. I want to his eyes sink to his chest. “I don’t I
O
hear what’s been rattling around in think I’m ready to read that. It’s
N
your mind the week that you’ve just silliness. It’s just… Well, it’s
spent here.” nothing really.”
Hesitantly, the young man “Read me the nothing then.
reached into his pocket and pulled Nothing to you is likely everything
out a small black notebook with an to me.” He smiled, with his eyes
attached pen. He started leafing still closed. “You can use that line
back, rejecting page after page. in your next poem. I’ll give it to
“No, Robert, I don’t want to read you. But today, I want to lean
what you wrote when you got here against you and smell the flowers
last week. I don’t even want to know and hear what you wrote.”
what you wrote yesterday. Read to There was silence between
me what you wrote today.” them for a bit. Robert let his head
“Oh, Sir, nothing I wrote today is fall to his chest for a moment,
worth reading. It’s not even a poem. and then he, perhaps
It’s just me letting my mind wander. unconsciously, squeezed the old
Let me read you this piece I wrote on poet’s hand. Slowly, he paged
Monday.” back, and began to read.
“Dear boy.” The old man squeezed “When he dies…” he began,
Robert’s hand on his knee with his and the words caught in his
bony knuckles. “When you’re my throat. He glanced at the old
age, you realize the past is an poet, but his face remained
illusion. It’s smoke from fires long blank, eyes closed. He began
extinguished. I’m an old man who again.
lives in the past way too much as it “When he dies, this place will
is. We must live in the now. I have seem so empty. I think we all
very little of it left.” With his shaking know that his time is short, and
hand he removed his wire-frame that is why we’re all here, and
glasses and folded them neatly in why none of us want to leave. I
his lap, ready to listen. “Read me don’t know if he knows, but he
what you wrote this morning. I saw must. How can he not, as he gets
you jotting away in the corner after weaker every day?
 76

“Every morning we all rise early the lettuce appeared in the F

I
and meet here in the Great Room, garden’s corner and quickly
C
among his books and the fireplace. scampered into the brush. T
Before he rises, we all somberly “Read me some more.” I
O
greet each other in the dawn “Oh, please Professor, no, I think
N
silence. There isn’t any laughter, but that’s enough for this evening.”
there also aren’t any tears. It just “Call me James. And read me
feels gentle and holy and sacred, some more.”
and together we sit and share our He cleared his throat, lifted the
coffee and imagine what it will be notebook, and went on.
like when he’s gone. Most of us write, “The pictures of him when he
as we wait for him to awaken. Some was young are so beautiful, and
of us read the books from his library. there is so little left of the
Some of us have work to do, like adventurous poet in the frail old
answering his correspondence or man we care for here today. My
his phone messages. But mostly, favorite picture of him from back
we’re just here. then is with his lover Pedro, the
“This is a vigil, and we’re all both two of them on a balcony in
devastated and honored to be here Nepal. They look so out of place,
at the end.” and yet they both have eyes
Robert eased the notebook into brimming with the adventure of
his lap. “Let me stop there, sir. I’m their lives, as young poets and
sorry, I didn’t want to read that to writers and lovers in a foreign
you.” land. I remember reading the
The old man slowly turned his most recent biography, and
head to his companion, and a small wishing that it was me there with
tear rolled down his wrinkled cheek. him on that balcony.
“That’s lovely, Robert. I hear music in “I never wanted to be with a
it. Perhaps couplets, and perhaps a man. But I wanted to be with him.
shorter line would work best. I never loved a man. But I loved
‘somberly we greet each other in the him. All through my teens, he was
dawn silence.’ That is a lovely what I wanted to be. He was
phrase. Those sibilants. I always everything. My first girlfriend once
loved the sibilants. The way they felt asked me if I’d ever loved a man.
on my lips.” ‘Other than that old poet,’ she
The rabbit that sometimes raided added, with a wink.
 77

“The answer was no, I’d never go back in. Let me help you up.” F
I
loved a man other than him. But For a moment the old poet
C
what I didn’t tell her, was I’d never seemed confused, and then the T
loved anyone the way I loved him.” lights came back on in his eyes. I
O
He put the notebook down into “‘Somberly greet each other in
N
his lap and slowly turned to the old the dawn silence.’ Yes, I love that.
man on his right. His eyes were Beautiful. I love the sibilants.”
closed, and his breath steady, but With the help of his cane, the
very, very slow. The boy sat silently old man rose. Halfway back to
with the old man there in the the cottage he stopped and
garden, listening to his sleeping turned to look at the young poet.
breath, feeling the frail, bony hand in “‘Somberly greet each other in
his own. the dawn silence.’”
Like twigs wrapped in newspaper, Together, they began their
he thought. No longer strong journey back to the house where
enough to hold a pen. But mighty the young poets were already
enough to have changed the feeding twigs to the evening fire.
spinning of the earth.
“Sir…” he said, tentatively… “I think
the visiting nurse is here. It’s time to

Wess Mongo Jolley is a queer Canadian novelist, editor, podcaster,

and poet, most well-known for hosting the IndieFeed Performance
Poetry Channel for ten years. His work has been nominated for the
Pushcart Prize, and has appeared in journals such as Grain, Off the
Coast, PANK, Danse Macabre, The Chamber, and Apparition
Literary Magazine. His horror trilogy, The Last Handful of Clover, is
available on Patreon, Wattpad, QSaltLake, and as an audiobook
podcast. Mongo writes from his home in Montreal, Quebec. Find him at
http://wessmongojolley.com.
 78

Collages by Irina Tall (Novikova)

 79

Irina Tall (Novikova)

Irina Tall (Novikova) is an artist, graphic artist, illustrator. She

graduated from the State Academy of Slavic Cultures with a
degree in art, and also has a bachelor's degree in design.
The first personal exhibition "My soul is like a wild hawk"
(2002) was held in the museum of Maxim Bagdanovich. In
her works, she raises themes of ecology, in 2005 she
devoted a series of works to the Chernobyl disaster, draws
on anti-war topics. The first big series she drew was The Red
Book, dedicated to rare and endangered species of animals
and birds. Writes fairy tales and poems, illustrates short stories. She draws various
fantastic creatures: unicorny the Exhibition is Irina s, animals with human faces, she
especially likes the image of a man - a bird - Siren. In 2020, she took part in Poznań Art
Week. Her work has been published in magazines: Gupsophila, Harpy Hybrid Review,
Little Literary Living Room and others. In 2022, her short story was included in the
collection "The 50 Best Short Stories", and her poem was published in the collection of
poetry "The wonders of winter".
 80

Book Review of Rebecca B

O
O
Wason’s ‘A Voyage on the Tides K

R
of Emotion’ E
V
I
E
W
“A Voyage on the Tides of Emotion” Wason’s work is notable for its
by Rebecca Wason is a captivating ability to successfully convey the
collection of poetry that masterfully complexities of human emotions
blends words and art to create a through organic imagery and
deeply meditative and relatable heartfelt poetry. Her use of
exploration of human emotions. The whimsical illustrations adds a
book takes readers on a journey unique touch to the collection,
through the emotional kaleidoscope making it a standout in the world
of life, delving into a range of of poetry. The book can be seen
sentiments including unrequited as an attempt to revive the
love, passion, loss, grief, hope, self- traditional poetry genre, offering
acceptance, and love for God and a beautiful reflection of the
others. human experience that
resonates with readers.
Each poem within the collection is a
distinct exploration of a specific As an avid reader and poetry
emotion, skillfully capturing its enthusiast, I can say that “A
essence through vivid and evocative Voyage on the Tides of Emotion”
language. The authenticity and is a powerful and moving
relatability of the verses invite collection of poetry that explores
readers to connect with the full the depths of human emotions.
spectrum of feelings that define our Wason’s work is a testament to
human experience. The poems are the enduring power of poetry to
raw and relatable, effectively capture the human experience
portraying the emotions that human and offer solace and hope to
beings experience, making them a those who read it.
powerful reflection of the human
condition.
 81

Publisher: Patridge Publishing B

O
India
O
K
Publication Date: 20 June 2023
R
E
Page Count: 54 Pages V
I
Price (Amazon): E
W

Paperback: 934/- INR

E-book: 525/- INR

Purchase Link:

Buy Now

About the Author:

Dr. Rebecca Wason stands as a multifaceted figure, excelling in the

fields of medicine, education, art, and now poetry. As an Indo-
Canadian university professor and first-generation immigrant, she
draws inspiration from her own experiences to craft verse that
resonates with hope and inspiration. Her book is a collection of
poems inspired by her life journey which is accompanied by her
personal artwork.
Currently residing in Toronto with her beloved cat, Love, Dr. Wason continues to inspire
through her artistry. “A Voyage on the Tides of Emotion” stands as a testament to her
profound talent, solidifying her position as a gifted poet whose words and art dance
harmoniously together in a symphony of profound expression.
 82

Book Review of Anusha B

Hansaria’s ‘The Soul’s Fuel: An O

O
K
Inspirational Collection for a R
E
Blissful Life’ V
I
E
W
With each passing day we learn to Divided into fifty chapters, the
think differently, feel differently, and book is an autobiographical
slowly we become a different collection of life experiences from
personality. Where we are desiring childhood learnings to adulthood
for the constants in our life, we must love, from self-care to selfless
know that the change is inevitable. friendship presented in the form
What comes out from our life of stories that serve as a guide
incidents or people around us are – for life. Each chapter is dedicated
lessons and memories. Life is a to a different issue and a much
teacher and we all are its students needed lesson. Chapters such as
till death. ‘The unseasoned rain’, ‘Is This the
new normal?’ and ‘Life At Jungle’
‘The Soul’s Fuel: An Inspirational are dedicated to the
Collection for a Blissful Life’ by unpredictable nature of life
Author Anusha Hansaria helps us whereas chapters like ‘Life the
understand the events of life in way it is’, ‘New Beginning‘,
different projections. The author ‘Perception is All That Matters’
conveys some with stories, some and ‘Life Goes On’ set the tone of
with experiences and some with hope and acceptance.
keen observations. The book has
brought light to one of the important The author does a fantastic job of
thing we often forget about life – bringing out her experiences and
The Perspective. Our perspective observations collectively in this
towards life shapes our present and book. Experiences and
our future. But the shaping of the observations are two different
human mind and life not only come things but when they are put
from the books we read but some together for a closer examination
hands-on experiences we get in life. they give us criteria to understa-
 83

-nd more about human psychology. author attempts to sum up

B
For instance, the author talks about everything that has been dealt
O
people’s actions and body with by her earlier in the book, O
language when they are around us allowing us to come to a K
and how we can judge their true meaningful conclusion. On page
R
intentions. In our whole lives, we go 165 she talks of the importance of E
through different circumstances, balance between finance, friends, V
some become blissful memories and health with this sentence: I
E
and some become traumatised “We need money to travel and W
experiences but one thing is funds to our daily needs, health
common about both occurrences, to not be dependent on anyone,
and that is LEARNING. and friends for company.”

The author writes – “In the end, we The bonus thing the readers get
realize, the only person who is is the real photographs, each
always going to be with you is YOU.” telling a story. One can see how
This is just a glimpse of one of her beautifully they are connected
chapter’s lines. Just like this, there with the content of each chapter.
are plenty of inspirational quotes The author also takes assistance
and learning waiting to be read by from great historical personalities
you. to justify her points. She ends the
chapter with a famous quote
Similarly, on page 14 she writes which summarises the chapter’s
about the necessity of taking the essence. My favorite among
right action at the right time, One of them is – “First love is a kind of
the best quotes that I have come vaccination that immunizes a
across that explains the importance man from catching the disease a
of actions over words goes as second time by Honore de
follows: ”if your actions don’t live up Balzac”
to your words, you have nothing to
say.” And on page 156 she describes With all its richness, the book
the nature of love. “Love is a two- effortlessly justifies and
sided affair, the person will, in-turn, successfully carries the
love you. You don’t need to be vocal heaviness of its title till the end. It
about your love.” As we move is indeed a fuel for the soul. To
towards the end of the book the enhance your soul’s fuel and
 84

connect with yourself on a deeper this book as your next read.

B
level, we recommend you to choose
O
O
K

R
E
V
I
E
W

Title: The Soul’s Fuel: An

Inspirational Collection for a
Blissful Life

Publisher: 16Leaves Publication

Page Count: 220

Language: English

Price:

Paperback: ₹175/-
E-book: ₹350/-

Purchase link:

Buy Now
 85

Book Review of Sushant Rajput’s B

O
O
‘I Wish Someone Told Me This K

R
Before My First Job’ E
V
I
E
W
Recently I received an opportunity to targets, salaries and promotions.
read the book “I Wish Someone It makes the professionals
Told Me This Before My First Job” by understand there are attributes
Sushant Rajput. Being a person who that are needed beyond marks
has worked in the corporate field and hardwork to succeed in the
myself, I wanted to see if I could give corporate world.
this book as a reference to
youngsters and my colleagues who The second thing I noticed in the
come to me for career guidance. book was the fact that it has
Reading the book, I have to say given tips for the overall
Sushant Rajput, the author of the development of the professional.
book, has done an amazing job in It doesn’t start and end with the
compiling these attributes that are soft skills that are required in the
much needed for the professionals corporate world. But it also gives
who want to have a great career in valuable tips on financial
the corporate world. management and also the
importance of self-care. The
Although it has been a great book also makes professionals
learning experience reading this understand the importance of
masterpiece, these are some points taking regular breaks rather than
I want to put my emphasis on in the suffering constant burnouts.
review of “I Wish Someone Told Me
This Before My First Job”. The third thing I want to point out
in the book is the detailing the
The first thing I want to highlight author has done on each of the
about the book is the fact that it aspects he has discussed in the
makes the professionals understand book. For eg: In the section that
corporate careers are not just about covers the importance of
 86

networking, the author has taken the themselves for new thoughts.
B
pain to talk in detail about both Second is the importance of
O
offline and online networking. perseverance. Here the author O
Interestingly the author has even asks readers to take one step at K
covered the aspect of how introverts a time but consistently to get
R
can do networking to improve their remarkable results. Third, the E
career prospects. author talks about a solution- V
based approach. The readers are I
E
The fourth notable aspect in the prompted to look at solutions W
book is that the author didn’t just rather than only ponderingover
plainly provide a corporate guide problems. It saves people from
with DOs ans DON’Ts but he also the paralysis of over-analysis.
took a step forward and used Overall I would say it’s a value
interesting and captivating add in every professional’s
anecdotes to make the readers library.
connect with the point he is making.
This improved the readability of the “I Wish Someone Told Me This
book by far. Before My First Job” by Sushant
Singh is a must-read for the
The fifth and the most interesting youngsters who are new into
aspect is that the author has delved making their career, the
into some areas that not many experienced ones who want to
books on the subject hesitate to switch over and the ambitious
touch upon. One is the need to read ones who want to take their
and understand alternate views. The career to new heights. A must-
author asks readers to come out of read for all.
their comfort zone and challenge

Review by Meera GopalaKrishnan (Ex IT Professional, currently an Author, Reviewer,

Podcaster and also works with an NGO)

Book Synopsis :

Do you think your management degree is enough to brace you for the ‘real’ corporate
world? What are the professional skills that are really required to climb and ace your
corporate or even entrepreneur journey? How to prepare for interviews or
presentations? What if there was a guidebook that revealed the practical skills, they
 87

never focused to teach you in college? To address the above questions, this book ‘I
Wish Someone Told Me This Before My First Job,’ provides how to build these B
professional skills, what are the ways to practice them to survive and grown in your O
professional career. Through captivating anecdotes and real-life examples, this book O
goes beyond the classroom, equipping not only management students but also K
beginners across industries with essential knowledge. This book will act as a stepping
R
stone to get into the corporate world armed with the practical skills other than
E
domain skills developed during MBA. V
I
E
Title: I Wish Someone Told Me This Before My W
First Job

Publisher: Blue Rose Publisher Pvt. Ltd.

Page Count: 213

Publication Date: 23/11/2023

Price:

Paperback: ₹150/-
E-book: ₹230/-

Purchase Link:

Buy Now

About the Author:

Sushant Rajput is an accomplished management professional with an

MBA in Marketing & Systems from Kousali Institute of Management
Studies (KIMS), Karnataka University and a graduation in Computer
Science. With over two decades of experience in pre-sales, solution
designing, and process consulting across the IT/ITES industries, Sushant is
currently working with HCL Technologies Ltd. and previously associated
with Societe Generale, Cognizant Technology Solutions, and Deutsche
Bank. Alongside his professional role, Sushant is actively involved as a visiting professor at
various MBA institutions and is also pursuing Doctorate in Business Administration (DBA). With
a passion for research in consumer behaviour, international marketing, emerging
technologies, and sales management, Sushant brings a unique blend of academic expertise
and practical insights to his writing and teaching.
 88

Book Review of Mariclaire B

O
O
Norton’s Tara’s Journey: Tales of K

R
Eirlandia-Book 1 E
V
I
E
W
As Robert Frost says, “I’d like to get women in society at various
away from earth awhile; And then points in time.
come back to it and begin over.” It is
essentially important for all of us At first, when Tara was obtained
sometimes to have room to escape and dominated by Alaric, she
ourselves from reality to live life in a was projected as feeling inferior,
better light. In that case, as a reader, unsecured, and doubting herself
I say that Mariclaire Norton’s Tara’s about whether she would be
Journey is undoubtedly a well- accepted by her people as their
wrought book of story that invites its ruler or not. But in the later part of
readers into another realm with its the story, when all the kingdoms
magical and supernatural come under her rule and she is
phenomena to experience the most universally accepted, it shows the
exciting world that efficaciously author’s concern for women's
blurs reality to enjoy the aesthetics empowerment, and I feel the
of literature. motivation and encouragement
from a woman for women in this
Norton’s narrating style as well as work. Also, along with Tara’s, I find
the employment of intricate words a strong sense of feminist
and terms bring antiquity into perspective in the
existence in the readers’ minds. The characterization of Mayveer and
complexity of the plot (a journey Maeve, which reflects Mariclaire’s
within a journey) draws dire serious concern with bringing up
attention throughout the entire work the image of women with
of art. Along with escaping its superiority, which tends to shatter
readers from their reality with its female discrimination to the core.
magical realism, it also provides Mariclaire, as highly influenced
context to examine the role of by the cultures of pre-Christian
 89

Celts and Norse, beautifully of Tara (after rebirth) in her

B
interwoven their strands into an second lifetime at the end of
O
exciting story with a rich book 1, Tara's Journey: Tales of O
imagination. The description of the Eirlandia, the author handed an K
Formorrid, the Dun, their magic, interesting puzzle to the readers
R
especially their hidden region, and to guess who might be the real E
their secrecy electrify the thrill, Tara, which could generate V
frighten the readers, and give a eagerness among the readers to I
E
gothic shade to the story. By await the second book of the W
creating an ambiguity in the identity trilogy.

Publisher: Harper Collins Publishing

(22 April 2024)

Language: English

Paperback: ‎182 pages

ISBN-10: 1963746724

ISBN-13: ‎978-1963746723
 90

Book Review of Anam Tariq’s ‘A B

O
O
Leaf Upon a Book’ K

R
E
V
Anam Tariq’s debut poetry book ‘A Inspired by great poets like T.S. I
E
Leaf Upon a Book’ is a collection of Eliot, John Keats, William
W
25 poems with diverse themes of Wordsworth, Emily Dickinson, and
nature, childhood, memories, loss, others, Anam Tariq has
love, social issues and abstract developed her own distinctive
ideas. Each poem in this collection style of poetry. Her work offers
takes you on a journey of self- readers a taste of the literary
discovery, evoking thoughts and elegance and depth
emotions that span from nostalgia characteristic of these renowned
to sagacious contemplation. ‘A Leaf poets.
Upon a Book’ is an apt title for the
collection as it interconnects nature, Anam exhibits mastery in playing
human emotions, and the world with words, as evident in her
around us. The attractive front cover poems which are richly adorned
grabs the attention of the readers at with figures of speech. The
the first glance. poems in this collection are full of
vivid imagery, metaphors and
The book opens with the poem personification. An example of
'Childhood’ which describes the this is found in the poem ‘Trod
desires of a child and gradually the Unwonted Way’:
explores themes of adulthood,
obsessions, yearnings, nature, “Without the woods, upon the lea
surroundings, loss, and love. Among she felt a touch,
these diverse themes, Anam zephyr’s hand dulcified
includes ‘Muhammad (P.B.U.H): An her face.”
Ode’, a tribute to Prophet Here, she personifies zephyr
Muhammad (P.B.U.H). In another (wind) by mentioning that she
poem, she praises Imam Hussain, felt a touch of its hands that
describing him as a ‘mountain of calmed her face.
forbearance’.
 91

In the following lines, she beautifully we witness her evolution into an

B
describes clouds as white cotton experienced poet with a deeper
O
candies: sense of literary elements. This O
evolution is evident in her latter K
“White cotton candies hung from poems, such as ‘An Actress’s Art’,
R
the sky ‘Misreading’, and 'Now You Can’t E
mantling the place, her and nature’s Though You Long to’ which V
ally.” display her mature I
E
understanding of human nature W
In the poem ‘A Melody about a and the impact of loss.
Malady’, she refers to corruption as
a malady (illness). She writes: The two micro poems in the
collection based on nature act
“A spreading malady infecting like a cherry on the cake and the
the ones in power, affecting illustrations throughout the book
mostly the paupers.” complement the poems.

Although at some points, I felt a lack Anam concludes her book

of smooth flow in certain poems, the beautifully with ‘Letters to Loved
rich vocabulary used by the poet Ones’, dedicating each verse to
exhibits her vast knowledge of words her father, mother, Mariyam, and
and semantics. Taylor. Through this poem, she
expresses her gratitude and
The most intriguing aspect of this acknowledges their influence in
book is that it compiles the poems her life.
written over a span of 5 years and 8
months. This timeline reflects her Overall, the book is a delightful
journey and growth as a poet which collection of rich poetry that
is evident from the first poem to the gives a deep insight into the
last one. The first poem ‘Childhood’ literature and should be explored
gives us a hint of innocence of a by all poetry lovers.
novice poet but as we read further,
 92

Title: A Leaf Upon a Book B

O
O
Publisher: Leadstart Inkstate K
(February 14, 2022)
R
E
Page Count: 76
V
I
Language: English E
W

Price:

India: ₹80/- E-book, ₹149/-

Paperback,
International: $3.00 E-book,
$6.25 Paperback

Purchase Links:

India

International

About the Author:

Anam Tariq writes from India. She holds an MA in English and is the author of the poetry
collection ‘A Leaf upon a Book’ (Leadstart, 2022). She writes and freelances as a copy
editor for SeaGlass Literary. Her words exist in The Punch Magazine, nether Quarterly,
Verse of Silence, EKL Review, The Chakkar, SeaGlass Literary, The Amazine, The Purposeful
Mayonnaise, Lucky Jefferson, coalitionworks, and elsewhere. Other than writing, Anam
can be found learning Arabic. Visit her at www.anamtariq.in or @anam.tariq_ (IG).
 93

Book Excerpt of Hiba Maria’s ‘To B

O
O
The Tomorrows’ K

E
X
C
E
R
P
T

Living Contented

Whither life leads me,

I surely must follow,
With a love for living deep,
And cynicism shallow.
For the world is wide enough
To find a quiet hollow,
Beside the twittering bulbul,
And beneath the glittering aster.
The earth may certainly spin faster,
But here, I am at peace with life,
And that for non eternals should suffice.
 94

B
O
O
Writing K

R
Risky it is indeed for me E
V
To hold this pretty pen
I
Laying out my bare, supple heart E
Before a billion men. W

Vulnerable and wonderful

Is language as a link,

How strangely sweet the synchronization

Of thought, feel and ink!

About the Author:

The author’s name is Hiba Maria, she is a wife and mother, happily
settled amongst the woods and tea estates of Coonoor, The Nilgiri
Mountains, India.
Living amongst the wilderness blesses her with constant inspiration
and a calling towards the pen, the brush and just about every other
form of art.
She has a passion for writing and her work reflects mainly on the
unpredictability of life and living, with a sort of wry humor and introspection.
Having lived mostly in major cities in India and abroad, she loves the solitude of the
mountains she now calls home.
 95

Book Excerpt of Mariclaire B

O
O
Norton’s Tara’s Journey: Tales of K

E
Eirlandia-Book 1 X
C
E
R
P
T

Suddenly five figures in black robes came running from a

nearby tent. They began to work on the device, and the noise of
turning wheels came up to me clearly. Here were my targets,
and I wasted no time. “Send the Lighting of Justice upon them,” I
commanded in Eirl and bade the Master Lifenstone do my
bidding.

An intense light flared out from the Lifenstone, a beam so

bright that I shielded my eyes for a moment until a type of haze
dimmed the beam so I could watch. The beam came down and
then divided, through what property of magic I do not know, into
separate beams that simultaneously stroke the five figures,
bathing them in the light. There was no sound, but as quickly as
it struck, the beam shut off, and the smoldering remains of the
five Formorrid were all that was left.

I could not look, and shifted my gaze instead to the tents,

which were my next targets. Again I commanded the Lifenstone
to life, and it obeyed me. Soon the camp was filled with fires,
and the Formorrid in the tents ran out, some themselves in
flames that would not be extinguished.
 96

B
O
O
K

R
E
With the camp ablaze I stopped to rest. Mayveer brought me V
more water, which both slaked my thirst and bolstered my I
E
spirits. Suddenly a loud noise boomed from the camp and W
we looked to see that someone had activated the Eye.

Mayveer cried out and crouched down, her hands over her
head. I shouted something I do not even recall, and the staff
blazed with light, creating a shield over both of us. The black
cloud the Eye had sent out hit the shield, but did not
penetrate.

I could hear the screams of rage from those below.

Obviously they had never encountered anything that could
deflect the Eye before. I smiled grimly and sighted their
camp once more. “Lighting of Justice, destroy this machine
of destruction. And seek and destroy the leaders of this
host.” I commanded the Lifenstone. Light again poured out
of the stone and engulfed the Eye of Balor and struck several
figures in the camp. But although the Formorrid died, the
machine did not appear destroyed or even damaged.
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