At the Edge of Sleep

 

By Stephen Mead

Long white feather appears, laid on blackness

between velvet and silk, this slightly arched

horizontal quill, its edges having something bluing

with every barely separated tip.

What to make of this pearl sheen luminous in itself?

Is this the spirit weighed for heaviness or lightness?

Hover, drift-----

Fluff, post-blossom, now showers streets,

blowing scenery to flurry-squalls, but dry, soft,

achieving depth to cup up, scatter by lips kiss-

puckered with sparkling breath:

Poof, whoosh-----

Another summer is coming

and these signify next year's spring.

Weave them like cotton, terry cloth,

all the towels and smaller folds for washing

fresh from the laundry , that large hospital linen cart

of tiers like a mini apartment complex with shelves big enough

to stretch out on.

Pull out a gown, robe, blanket, so many fresh

with steam-heat still to comfort flesh in need,

flesh, sponge-absorbent, ooh-ing the ahs

of yes, yes.

Back in this bed a poem of thought only

is yet awake enough to feel memory is to be held,

given shape, before it goes churned under morning's fog

as an impression of touch longing to come back.

Souls born old find the means to retrieve this

or with acceptance let go, lifted deeper with age

as ingrown trees tell time with rings circling.

Wake us grateful with that knowledge

or send us blessed to have been and gone

just the same.

About the Author:

Stephen Mead is a retired Civil Servant, having worked two decades for three state agencies. Before that his more personally fulfilling career was fifteen years in healthcare. Throughout all these jobs he was able to find time for writing and creating art. More details about the poet can be found here: 

Another Opening

 

By Russ Bickerstaff

Somewhere in the midst of everything, there’s this door. It’s a totally normal door and everything. It's a simple door. Nothing out of the ordinary about it at all in any way. And it's been opened 1 million times. But this time there's something different about it. Something different about the way. It twists and swings. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that it's not actually on a wall anymore. It's been removed somehow. Not necessarily physically, but certainly existentially. The door has been existentially moved to somewhere el and it's not exactly where it was. It is not exactly where it needs to be. But it's been opened anyway. And there's something wrong with that. Because it doesn't feel right to anyone who happens to walk by.

 

And two people are walking by seeing this door that might be open it might be not, and it might be connected to a wall, and it might not. And they are just not exactly certain that they're actually saying anything at all. But it certainly seems as though they probably are. Because why would they be doing anything at all if they were noticing that door? It seems to be the center of everything. And certainly it seems to be the center of attention at this moment. But not for anyone in particular. So it's just there. Right where it needs to be.

 

And it's possible that somebody had opened it to go inside. But it's also possible that someone opened it to go on the other side of it. And that's possible too. But whatever it is, that is the case, the door is certainly open. And somebody had forgotten to close it. So I just sort of hung open. And it perhaps detached from the wall that it was a part of. And now whoever happened to walk through it probably didn't exactly remember having done so. Because a door like that doesn't necessarily get remembered. Once it gets detached from the wall, it'll get detached from memory as well. And whoever walk through, it might not necessarily remember where they were before they did so.

 

That person who walked through the door, has probably been forgotten by the door as well. Not the doors necessarily always remember the people who walk through them. They are, after all, doors. Most the doors don't have any kind of memory at all. At least none of that other people walking through them would have any knowledge of. And so it's a pretty good chance that this particular door had completely forgotten who it was, who walked through it to cause it to detach from the wall and people’s memories.

 

And show the door is just going to continue to float our lawn, completely untethered by any other form of architectural feature. It's just there with its handle to hanging ever so slightly open. The lads just sort of fumbling around in the open space. And it's all just kind of there. And most people would notice it but for the fact that it doesn't really fit into anybody's rental comprehension. And since everybody else is just a little too busy to take on the knowledge that a door is both there and not there, it doesn't really meet with anybody's full understanding.

 

And having been completely unmoored from the wall, it was a part of, the door begins to have a sort of consciousness. It has to sort of understand that it doesn't actually fit into anywhere. It may find itself turning to address the wall that it had once been a part of. And it may in some way recollect, the whole, to dilation that it used to have a purpose. But the door doesn't have a purpose anymore. It's just floating out there in open space not actually being acknowledged by anyone because it doesn't actually make sense for it to be there in the first place.

 

And maybe the door begins to drift by other doors, which clearly aren't detached. And then maybe it begins to understand something about itself. Maybe it begins to understand a certain kind of displacement. But it's looking at these other doors that aren't necessarily looking back at it. Because they don't have consciousness. And these other doors are simply they are being pushed open and pushed closed and things of that nature. And maybe the door begins to realize that it's not quite as it had been. And maybe it's not quite looking at what it is. No definite reflection at this stage. Just another possibility.

 

Having realized that it has an identity that the rest of its kind a like the sides that it's not a door at all. It might've been at one point. But it's not anymore. So it simply begins to drift. Matt realizes that in movement and motion it is less architecture and more identity. And as there are so many others walking by wearing identity, it decides to do so more openly as well. Before long it's not actually drifting so much as it is gambling. Walking. Like the rest of the people who wear identity. The door feels a little bit more comfortable. Finds itself shrugging a little bit more into a pair of shoulders.

 

The door continue to walk. But it wasn't really doing a very good job of it. It had to be close attention to others. The sun climbed into the sky muffled by clouds and the occasionally bit of precipitation. The door was halfway down the block before it realized that I had forgotten something. I didn't know what I had forgotten. I just looked back. Looked around. Made eye contact with a few people. And continued to move forward. Whatever it was that I had forgotten, I knew that it was going to remember eventually. It just had to figure out what it needed to do. And once it figured out what it needed to do, all would be well.

About the author:

Russ Bickerstaff is a critic and author living in Milwaukee, WI.

The Beauty of Things

 

                        By Jim Burns

When you’re sad

and the world bleeds blue

summon up

your youthful you.

Look around

with the eyes of that child,

take it all in,

the soft and the mild—

The sea at sunrise

the sea at sunset,

tranquil beauty

elsewhere unmet.

Moonlight sparkling

on new-fallen snow,

God looking down

on stars he did sow.

Droplets of dew

cling to a leaf,

nature’s artwork

however brief.

A newborn puppy

stretches and yawns,

kittens purr in a basket,

the new day dawns.

Spiderwebs after a rain

are studies in grace,

wondrously woven

works of fine lace.

Clouds float above you,

lambs they might be

or joyous spirits

only you can see.

And the smile of a lover,

ah, that smile

can light up your life

with its absence of guile—

Think of these things

when the world seems cold,

for all around you

lies beauty untold.

Drink it in with your eyes,

let it into your heart,

make the beauty be you,

your own work of art.

About the author:

Jim Burns was born and raised in rural Indiana, received degrees from Indiana State University (B.S., Social Studies; M.S.,History) and Indiana University (MLS, Library Science), and worked as a librarian for most of his professional life. After retirement in an effort to keep his mind active he began writing, which he had done a bit in the past, and has seen his work, both poetry and prose, in Pages Literary Journal, athinsliceofanxiety.com, eucalyptuslit.com, Skipjack Review, Cowboy Jamboree and others. He lives in Jacksonville, Florida with wife and dog, his most loyal fangirls.

Highway of Love

 

By John RC Potter

Black heap. Dark. Bleeding.

A prisoner of the car’s headlights.

I closed my eyes to shut out that image.

Forcing the memory to fade away into a blackout.

 

I saw a raccoon lying on the side of the road last night

on his back, freshly dead, his paws raised in supplication;

he reminded me of me:

but can the dead still be moved through manipulation?

 

Water drops. Opaque. Streaming.

Rivulets across the car’s windscreen.

I opened my eyes to be able to see clearer.

But the memories came back like a relentless waterfall.

 

Whenever I see raccoons lying dead on the road,

they remind me of all those who have loved and lost:

dead and dying hearts on this endless highway of love,

whose owners took a chance but at quite a high cost. 

 

Road hard. Inky. Winding.

The wheels of the car turning over endlessly.

I rubbed my eyes to clear the cobwebs.

Then forgetting to swerve to miss the roadkill.

 

I saw a raccoon dying on the side of the road last night

on his back, still alive, wondering what had happened to him;

he reminded me of me:

just a heap on the highway of love as the light grows dim. 

 

About the Author:

John RC Potter is an international educator from Canada, living in Istanbul. His poems, stories, essays, and reviews have been published in a range of magazines and journals, most recently in Blank Spaces, (“In Search of Alice Munro”, June 2023), Literary Yard (“She Got What She Deserved”, June 2023), Freedom Fiction (“The Mystery of the Dead-as-a-Doornail Author”, July 2023), and The Serulian (“The Memory Box”, September 2023). The author has over a dozen upcoming publications in the coming months, including an essay in The Montreal Review. His story, “Ruth’s World” (Fiction on the Web, March 2023) has recently been nominated for the prestigious Pushcart Prize. More details about the poet can be found here: 

It’s Been So Long…

 

It’s been long

I walked not barefoot

On the withered winter grass:

Dewy, unprized and fringed.

 

It’s been long

I didn’t catch up with a rain

Along the lonely esplanade:

Unmowed, wild and derailed.

 

It’s been long

I didn’t run unshackled,

Piercing through the feasting woods:

Wintered, unscathed and autumned.

 

It’s been long

I didn’t smell of a jasmine

Flowing in from a faraway spring:

Blistered and distained and abandoned.

 

It’s been long

I didn’t swim in a summer flute

From the edge of a monsoon fall:

Flooded, flustered and fledged.

 

It’s been a long, long time

I didn’t fly past the abandoned graveyard

Of hopes and dreams and despairs.

It’s been long

I didn’t plough the unfurrowed lands

Of passions, pains and desires.

 

It’s been such a long time

I didn’t see my body

Once I left in a Moon blanched night;

While watching the death of Death

And a look; so blank and blithe

On the trigger of an eternal flight.

 

© Atique R.

The Midnight Lane

 

1.

The city clock struck the bell, loudly announcing that the night had crawled past midnight line and begun counting time for another day in its relentless journey. It was the time for the dwellers to be already in their dreams of the earlier hours of deep sleep; quite unusual for the city life, but, it was just like that for the old township called Nature’s Nest. And it was more than unusual for a lone traveler to be at its Metro Station at this hour of the night. 

Nature's Nest is a remote and cornered city bordering a long trail of mountains and an almost impassable forest line that failed to offer any reason to be bisected by an interstate and which is the reason why the small township lying on the lap of nature remained unexpanded in decades with hardly any changes in the number of its population. And more interestingly, the city people are always reluctant to move out of the town to try their luck elsewhere. They just live on with the limited resources without making any complaint. The kids do their schooling, grow up to go to the high schools and colleges established in the town, take up family businesses or other available jobs that neither require higher university degrees nor promise of a bright and upscaling career. Of course, there is a small percentage of youth who move out of the city seeking better education and a rather fast-paced life. A few among them return with the life growing older and the ambition getting lighter. 

     

Robin had a different reason to move out of the city. But he has been maintaining the balance somehow in keeping in touch with the city he loves the most after his loving younger sister.

 

2.

Robin could hardly remember if he had ever wandered about the city anytime closer to midnight. Even at 10pm, the city looks like a fairy land buried deep down the night without any sound caused by human habitations. But it was a different night. He was on his way back home from the Metro station. He was supposed to be here by 8pm, but the train was delayed by 4 long hours. And he was the only one to have got down from the train. It has never been a busy station though. He stepped out of the already deserted station gate.

 

But the scenario seemed to have changed dramatically, with a magical touch by the crafted hand of the most powerful wand. Everything seemed to have flipped over from the real one to a dreamy version of the same street with some shadowed figures aimlessly strolling around on the dwindling traffic under the magical flow of the showering Moon beams. An enchantingly sweet smell started floating over with a gentle breeze flowing in from the forbidden part of the town.

 

The Moon was shining bright but the street lights were shrouded by light white clouds and a mysterious mist amidst a gripping silence. However the streets were not what they were supposed to be. This was the time of the night when the city dwellers stay indoors, having already spent the first couple of hours of their sleeping schedule.  But the streets were not deserted in any sense. People were seen walking along the streets in silence either in couples or in a line. Everyone seems to be in a group and again seems like all alone but in a balanced rhythm; neither looking chaotic nor in queues. A few couples seemed to be holding each other’s hands, sharing thousands of untold things to one another, but there was silence all around; a painstaking silence. No one was seen to ever miss a beat or stumble down on the way. They were spreading all around the place like a blooming night queen, but never in a hurry.

 

It was a few minutes past midnight but Robin was not a bit worried. He was not even concerned about the time anymore. Nor was he aware of the fact that he was the only one to have got down from the train and walked out of the station exit. He was just excited about the surprise he was going to give to his little sister on her birthday. The street lights were on and the road was straight from the right turn off the Metro Avenue; just about 30 minutes of walk was all he needed to get to his home at the end of the Rose Valley. But he never looked puzzled even after crossing past dozens of people on the road at this time of the night. Nor was he aware of the fact that he was walking along the opposite direction to the one he was supposed to take. And the road leads to the Howards End, the end of the unmarked border for the city dwellers.

 

3.

Nature’s Nest is definitely not a night town; there are no night pubs or bars or the night clubs which remain open all through the night like in any other dazzling avenues or squares of the mega cities. The entire city closes at 8pm maximum and people leave the city to the care of Nature and probably which was how the name Nature’s Nest came into being. Peace, calmness and daylight activities in full vigor and jubilance and the social gatherings at the early evening and family time at the dinner table at home are the common things practiced by the residents.

The town was in deep sleep at half an hour past midnight. But Christie couldn’t sleep even after switching off the bedside lamp at about 10:30pm. She was of course excited for her party the next evening. They don’t celebrate the day in a lavishing grandeur. But lots of happy moments with the neighboring friends and her favorite dishes cooked by her mother and aunts are the things she used to enjoy the most since her childhood. And unlike many other girls her age, she kept counting the days, months before her birthday. The excitement was still there; not the reason. For the last couple of years she eagerly waits for her birthday for the presence of her only brother, Robin who she really misses a lot. And he was the reason she was not feeling comfortable for. She knew Robin was coming home next noon. But she just didn’t know why she was feeling so anxious for his loving brother, like she didn’t know why her eyes were full of tears.    

 

4.

It’s been thirty long minutes since Robin started walking along the Metro Avenue. He was supposed to be at the gate of his home by now, but he was nowhere near and he was not a bit concerned about it. In the dimming street light and the shadowed moonlight, the dark forest line was coming into view. But he was not aware of it either. But he had to stop all of a sudden with a sweet scent of body spray, and a clear voice, both so familiar to him.

-Robin, what are you doing here?

He seemed to have got back to his senses and his look went straight to his very familiar and dear face standing just a couple of yards from him. It was his brave, adventure-loving and favorite most, Rayan uncle, in his favorite white tee-shirt. He now knew he was not supposed to be here at this hour of the night; he was not supposed to be anywhere close to the Howards End in a moonlit night. People didn’t even dare to come this far even in the broad daylight. But he wasn’t feeling afraid; his favorite Ryan uncle was there.

-Oh, uncle, how are you? I think, I took the wrong turn after the Metro Avenue. I wanted to give Christie a surprise, so I took the afternoon train. But, there was a problem in the rail line and our train got stuck in the South Dale station for 4 long hours.

-Hum, I know about the line derailment. Now follow me, we get to hurry.    

Robin’s eyes got wet in extreme joy just at the sight of his uncle after so many days. He used to accompany his uncle on many adventurous trips along the hilly treks with their bicycles. The memory lane of his teenage days is crowded with all those sweet and thrilling moments they spent together over the dangerous mountainous treks or on the boating trips to the far east corner of the swamp forest after crossing the Crescent Lake, which were of course unbeknownst to other family members. In fact, apart from the school hours, all his outdoor activities revolved around Ryan Shaw. Instead of playing football with classmates he would prefer going out on a biking trip to the wilderness with his bohemian uncle. 

And now he started following his uncle like those old days. His uncle used to tell him lots of stories but now he remained silent most of the time. But, it was Robin’s turn now. He had so many things to share with his uncle. He kept telling him about the beach close to his university campus, about his new friends in the new town.

It was a long walk home, but to Robin it seemed like just a few minutes. He could see the gate, the high-powered bulb to light the entire lawn. He sped up and stepped inside the gate and suddenly felt a change in the entire atmosphere. He was walking side by side with his uncle and now his eyes caught sight of an old bicycle leaning against a wall of the garage. It belonged to his Ryan uncle. He was on a solo trip to trek the mountain at the Howards End, where he met with a fatal road accident a decade ago. An untimely death at just 30. And it was the reason why Robin had to go through a mental trauma which took months to recover from. And his family had to relocate him to the nearest city, 200 miles away off the Nature’s Nest. 

With all his energy suddenly got drained out, Robin kneeled down the dewy ground, heard the main door creaked open and saw his sister running towards him.

© Atique R.

The Walk Home, Late at Night

                                                                                                              By John Grey

You lived in the abandoned tenement,

behind the store window,

in the dumpster behind the bar.

 

Walking the city late at night,

I could never part ways with you.

 

Not when you were underfoot with the weeds,

or gleaming from the empty lot

like glass shards in the moonlight.

 

That was your face above the neck

of the woman wanting to be paid

for the use of her body,

and behind the wheel of the car

with the tinted windows.

that drove slowly by.

 

My shoes clip-clopped as I took

that short cut through the square

but the echo was all yours.

 

I was vulnerable, ready to be taken.

On the church steps, down the alley,

you could have had me anywhere.

 

For that was you on the rooftop,

and with the rats that scurried across the floor

of the shuttered vegetable market.

 

All you needed was your knife, my chest,

and the plunge of the blade

would have been quick and merciful.

 

But you didn’t strike.

Maybe you figured, the fear, the tension,

would be so much greater the next time.

 

For the next time is your most insidious weapon.

It continues to be my weakness.

About the Author:

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, California Quarterly and Lost Pilots. Latest books, “Between Two Fires”, “Covert” and “Memory Outside the Head” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in the Seventh Quarry, La Presa and Doubly Mad.