She was always praying or reading all over the place.

In the living room, when she was 14, teen idols, boys and girls were on T.V.  She would not
notice them, or look at them, or listen to them. She would just pray, and read, and cross herself
from morn till midnight. 
 
She is 21 now and still living at home, which is fine. I like her.
 
She’s good company and it’s just me and her. Oh, and of course, ‘Him’, she would remind me
between her milk and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
 
I was not was ready for this. The most her daddy thought might be coming down the pike was
that she was gay. I certainly would be fine with that. I can’t be happy unless she was happy too. But, that was not the case.
 
She told me she met the right guy. The guy she will be with in this life, and the next. She told me
That I knew him, but not well. No, not too well enough.
 
“Really? A guy from the neighborhood?" I hoped.
 
“Every neighborhood,” she answered.
 
“What’s his name? Is he Italian?" I prayed.
 
“Jewish,” she professed.
 
“Jesus. What the Hell is his name?" I asked.” “You just said his first name.” She said His last name
is Christ. “I’m going to become his bride”. She beamed. “Don’t you have to be a virgin”? One last
Hail Mary he threw”.
 
“I am a virgin, I have been waiting for the right one. Are you proud?” asked the penguin future
wife of The Son of God. “Holy shit,” said the other father of the bride.
 
Well, it was better news than her joining Isis, rehab, jail, depression, cancer, and, well I could
just go on forever, thought her daddy.
 
I do love her and should want what she wants and support her. He admitted to himself.
 
There, it’s all settled and accepted, he said to himself and the universe at large. Yeah, sure it is. He re admitted.
 
You can’t fight City Hall, or my kid, he reasoned.
 
I guess before we go any further, let’s put it this way. I love being in love with the golden rule
and how I feel I live my simple life. Afterlife sounds great too, but I still don’t know what
original sin is and why I got to believe in anything at all except live and let live.
 
But I didn’t make waves on my daughter’s maiden heaven voyage, he resigned.
 
At the corner bar the un-holy father thought he would stick his head in the Lions mouth and get
the news out before he had to hear about it. He had already heard enough.
 
The father of the bride hesitated a bit before entering the local watering hole. He headed right to
the bar smiling loudly.
 
There were about 20 others in there including the waitress and of course Burt the bartender.
 
The Nun's dad headed over to Burt.
 
“Burt, I am a lucky motherfucker I’ll tell ya. Drinks on me. One round max. No take out," he announced.
 
They all bellied up to the bar and collectively wanted to know what the theme of the 
Celebration was. So, I just went on and told them,

“My little girl found Mr. Right and is getting married and I don’t have to pay for a wedding or
buy them a house or give them any money. I hit the jack-pot and I am going to turn her bedroom into my bowling alley trophy room. Cheers.’’ He knocked back his drink and started to think how to handle the questions about the who, what, where and when. 
 
He slammed his glass down on the bar so hard it almost broke
He looked up. Way up.

And said, “Dear God, in this piece of shit world, with all the pieces of shit in it, present
company excluded,” he said to the audience.

“You have seen fit to brighten heaven thru my little girl. Be good to her, as I have," he pleaded.
There was an immaculate un-pregnant pause.
They must think she died or something he thought.
“My little baby is going to be a Nun, I am blessed," he proclaimed.
You could hear a prayer page drop on the shag carpet.
 
“It’s a good thing,” he demanded.
And lo and behold, Jesus Christ, they all went for it.
Then, Burt behind the bar yelled, another round on the house.
Booze and the Bible got along great as always.
For a second, he thought it was his fault because he named her Christine and it went to her head
and heart. Then, he let it go.
Oh, what the Hell, Heaven is lucky to get this employee. He figured.
The daddy of the betrothed took a breath and realized everything will be fine.
 
And everyone will get to the church on time.
A man.

​
Author Bio:
Alan Berger is a writer and director with two films currently on Netflix.

On those days
when it is too hard
to stand tall,
I fold myself down
like a well-read letter,
slide my ego into 
a lavender-scented envelope
and file it away in
the dresser drawer.
There in amongst
the blu-tack and dust,
the partially melted
birthday candles,
I sit patiently waiting 
for my buckled knees
to lock once more
and my spine to straighten
... just a little.


Author Bio:
Shelley Nutting resides in England where she is a wife mother and community nurse. She has been writing poetry all her life but has only recently begun to share it. The strength of women at the heart of family is a recurring theme in her writing.

It’s Elizabeth Peyton’s photo. I don’t know who the model is, but I imagine he’s reading a script. He’s playing Nick Cave in a movie.

The first scene opens on a lone shack perched on top of a junk-heap surrounded by small trash fires burning in the nightlight. The title, The Burning of Ukulore Valley, flashes across the screen. Townsfolk walk out from under rusty corrugated roofs into the road. We see the playground and the courthouse by Memorial Square. A group of black-clad mourners, mostly women, look on as men in grey jumpsuits smash a marble statue of an angel. Way out, over by a cluster of trailers, at the heel of the crop where the labourers live, men are shouting. These men are the wrecking crew. Their yells roar northward and rise with the crackling fires in the field. We see barbed wire fences, and three miles from town three pickups park. More men jump out and begin demolishing clapboard shacks. They make quick work of each refuge – these homes of outcasts and hobos – they set the hill ablaze.

We cut to the inside of one of the larger (nicer) houses at the end of the dark dirt road. Knock-off Nick Cave is drunk and shirtless swaying in the kitchen with the toaster under his arm. We hear the sound of a bathtub filling. The beautiful clawfoot tub in the middle of the room has no unity with the rest of the ranch house – the shitty toaster, used earlier that morning, has blown its fuse. The electronics inside the toaster, guts and circuitry, are fried like an egg. Knock-off steps into the bathtub, full now, with the plugged in toaster cradled in his arms, mutters some oaths and sits down. 

Are there sparks? Maybe. But it doesn’t kill him. The bath is overflowing. Knock-off panics as he feels the sensation of cool water on skin and not the jolt of electricity through his body, its sweet relief. No. He sits. He’s alright. God is merciful. He sits in the bath, sobering, crying, dumbfounded. Why is he still alive? Credits. 


Author Bio:
Jean McLarney is a Canadian writer, performer, and liar. He studied creative writing at the University of Windsor. He works as baker and lives in Toronto, Canada.

(translated by Toshiya Kamei)

just as emptiness fills my glass seals my metaphysical memory that I was once the son of the sun
spring on the back of a hand

I was god
unlike now
a mere disposition of cells that look at the window watch life go in a wagon a happy couple a midnight sun

my brown flesh proclaims its southern nature my heart speaks of utopias the cloth of a lady who doesn't love and no longer matters
I don't have springs on the back of my hand I have life on the shoulder blade on the red cushion in the hendecasyllable

I return to the dream of being a hendecasyllable
it doesn't suffer
it sounds
and vibrates

it's never a fucking forgotten chair


Author Bio:
Born in 1952 in Jauja, Peru, Jaime Urco currently lives in Lima, where he teaches at the Universidad de Lima. His books include the poetry collections Silbando una canción feliz (1985), Retrato en blanco y negro (1986), and Poca luz en el bar y otros poemas (1995).

it’s early.
say a word, two words,
a string of them.

I will hear only
one. I will hear
only what I want.

I will distill
your word and swish
it around.

then spit it
out like so much
swill.


Author Bio:
Rob Quill is a new writer, trying to get his feet on the ground. He has done a variety of jobs, including being unemployed. Rob reads all the time.

Every problem can be solved with a band-aid and a cookie…or four.

That’s what the little girl who could solve any problem said. She had her trusty tools, a pair of knowing eyes, with a big smile, sunshine spilling from her heart, and a fearless mind. 

She grew and some of her tools changed: a scalpel to replace the cookie for the same hand that once couldn’t color inside the lines could now open and find the root of the problem 
She accompanied the scalpel with needle and thread to close it up after it was fixed leaving only a small scar as a reminder. She sculpted and solved, rearranged and put back together, drew and created – never saying no. 

When the silhouette of pain emerged she’d rather take the pain than watch someone else suffer, she’d rather sleep 3 hours less but know she made someone smile, hide her tears to give another strength, she’d pour out her heart and soul if that meant creating a solution.

But she doesn’t have all the answers. And some problems can’t be fixed. Some problems just have to be and all you can do is be brave. 

Sometimes it’s not about solving the problem. Sometimes its handing someone a band-aid and a cookie…our four. A sympathetic smile, a listening ear, and a comforting silence from the little girl who had all of the answers. 


Author Bio:
Marcelina is a senior at Columbia University studying Neuroscience and Behavior. Outside of academia, she's an EMT, a newbie to running, and an avid chef. Recently introduced to poetry and philosophy, she decided to try her hand at a new trade. 

“Self-deceit is my natural state of being,”
                          she said
one midsummer afternoon
when it poured with fat raindrops

of tickling cool relief from the swelter.

                          I asked,

“What does that mean?”
                          and she replied,
“I couldn’t tell you if I tried.”


She was my height and slender,
her face soft, rain falling down her cheeks like tears,

and with expressive eyes the same colour

                           as mine.

She wore a white dress, the soaked fabric

                           diaphanous,

clinging to her contours, revealing

white lace undergarments through which cream skin

                           peeked.


“You love me better this way,”
                           she said.
“I love you differently.
      But I’m happier this way,

                          yes.”


My red t-shirt became maroon in the downpour

and my jeans were blue, ripped at the knees.

I was heavy

       with self-neglect and side effects--
​I hadn’t shaved in weeks

       and I was exhausted from the burden of
                         masculinity.
“What do you know about being a man?”
                         I asked her.


She touched my face with her small soft hand,
                         rain dripping

from my hair into my eyes,
     cascading to my chin,

the torrential shower washing away the sweat from
​                        chasing her.
“As much as you do,”
                        she replied.


“Self-deceit is my natural state of being,”
                        I said

one midsummer afternoon

alone in the rain

     standing in the middle of the road
 in the Ontarian countryside

                       and knowing

the melancholic shroud over me is the echoes

     of a fractured identity

              crying
                        to be made whole. 


​Author Bio:
Robert Crown is a Canadian writer. Their work focuses on the complexities and contradictions of character and explores LGBTQ+ themes, psychology and philosophy while spanning multiple genres. When not writing, they produce music under the name Heretic Lies, playing several instruments including guitar, piano and ukulele. Their flash fiction appeared in Foliate Oak Literary Magazine under the pseudonym Brechin Frost, and their novelette Our Love Is Havoc is available on Amazon. They currently live in western Nova Scotia near the Atlantic Ocean, finding new inspiration in the natural beauty of the province.

When I saw her first, in '42, 
I thought, ‘What have I gotta do to talk to you’.
Her eyes were bright and shining blue 
And her skin was like Demerara. 
At first I think I scared her
But I knew they don’t come any rarer than this.
So I said ‘peng’ and she said that’s her favourite word, 
Because even then she didn’t have a clue how to flirt. 
But I got her name and her name was Ella, 
A pretty little bella from Kent.

So that was the first impression 
Now if that was good, let me tell you the second, 
Or at least what I remember. 
It was still September 
When we first slept together, 
Through the fire alarm, 
After an all-night bender. 
I remember thinking fire or not? 
I couldn't be anywhere better. 
When she woke up, 
I was going through her purse like a robber.
‘Coz I just wanted to know a little more about her. 
She said her dad was a copper 
But we didn't let that stop us.
From that moment, 
I didn’t stop thinking about her, 
That pretty little smile 
With a well nice style. 

Now for a couple of months, 
She couldn’t string a sentence together 
And didn’t stop saying ‘sorry’.
I’d say ‘stop saying sorry’ 
And she’d say ‘sorry’. 
But most of that year was a bit of a blur. 
I lived in a cave with the curtains drawn, 
But who needed the sun 
When I had her. 
When she looked so beautiful, 
(Like you always do) 
And she kept her head screwed on tight, 
While my screws came loose. 

So, fast forward a year and she still looks at me the same, 
With a giddy little glimmer that says ‘its all okay.’
She draws up my time table and files my work away. 
See I was never insecure with her and we grew together. 
Back then it felt like it would be forever 
And I’d never felt that before. 
I was sated and wanted nothing more, 
Elated by the knowledge that you were mine, 
That sublime little thing with a perfect heart 

Second year was a beautiful mess.
It was up and down but she stayed bless. 
Now I must confess, 
It wasn’t all plain sailing,
We had people breathing down our necks 
But we stayed strong. 
And those were the good days,
Forestalling any trouble or responsibility 
To tackle in the morning. 
Then I knew that I was falling for those shining eyes 
That still looked the same, 
With a giddy little glimmer that says it’s all okay.

3rd year got tougher, 
The honey moon period 
Turned into a funny mood period.
She had a lot on her plate but always stayed strong 
And we supported each other.
And when she lost her brother, 
It felt like I was part of the family. 
But after that, things changed 
It was different. 
We were a King and Queen, turned insignificant. 
And our little cave shrank 
And reality broke in
It slipped from clarity to melancholy,
And we let sadness in. 

But she stayed strong, 
Always level headed. 
That year it rained for the first time ever, 
The first stormy weather. 
But we stayed together, 
For better or worse 
And I respect her for that resilience. 
She showed me what strength is,
While I cried for a slice of divine providence, 

And we parted for a while then,
But, to me, she was always present, 
She never dimmed but just burned brighter. 
She was always a fighter, 
(And I guess you get that from your mother.)
While third round, I go down. 
Grab the towel and wipe the sweat from of my face, 
Watch my life go swirling down the drain, 
While she stays the same, 
Through thick and thin, she remains. 
And burns even brighter

And I’m so happy to have felt the light that you radiate,
The strength that emanates from you. 
And still you look beautiful, 
(And still you always do) 
It’s unbelievable that some jumped up fool could have been with you. 

And I’m sorry 
If this rhymes taken up too much of your precious time, 
And I'm sorry 
If I’ve made you cry, 
(Again, or perhaps for the very last time)
This is just the story of how my life 
Briefly went from wrong to right. 
And it was down to Ella,
A pretty little bella from Kent, 
Who’s favourite word was peng 
And who never made sense
With her pretty little smile 
And her well nice style,
Who apologised, for the thousandth time,
Again and again. 
And when I look at you now you still look at me the same. 
With a giddy little glimmer that says its all okay.


Author Bio:
A reflection poem on a relationship I had with a girl I met at university, from the very first moment, how it grew, with elation and sadness and all the bits in between... and how it ended.

What kind of woman are you? I heard them say to me.
“I am a woman, whole, wholesome,
with a womb, but empty always,
my womb unused and wasted.
 
I am a woman unfulfilled
in the duty of women: childless,
alone in this world of
couples, children, families.
 
I’ve learned well the lesson:
The woman’s place is in the home,
raising a family, never a mention
of the old maid, the childless.
 
Is my life less than the bountiful?
Am I selfish, as I have heard?
Motherhood is admired, rightfully.
But is there no room in this world for me?
 
Have I nothing to give to society?
Countless successful childless
women disprove that sentiment:
There are many ways to contribute.
 
So I answer, what kind of woman am I?
I am a friend, a mentor, a traveler,
a teacher, photographer and poet.
I am every woman and no woman.
 
A woman-god, a god-woman
Whose days are numbered
With much to do before I sleep.
Hallelujah!”
 
After  ”What Kind of Person are You?” by Yehuda Amichai.
 

Author Bio:
Mary Nemeth, a Purdue University graduate and a retired elementary teacher from the Cincinnati, Ohio area, has only been writing poetry for three years. Her other love is photography. Her ultimate goal is to marry her two passions, photography and poetry into a book in the future. Her poetry has been published in Creative Voices, For a Better World and Pegasus.

Movement, the fruit of stagnation,
When all is quiet and lifeless,
When all is a bird with the spirit of flying,
Locked inside a cage with metal locks,
Whose heart belongs to the open skies,
Who longs for the day to flap its wings,
The emancipation of the incarcerated,
Like beauty locked up
Inside a narrow prison
With its face away from the light,
Or of music housed inside and ancient tomb,
Searching for a place to breathe,
To find a paradise to roam around in,
To lift it up into a song as it
Flounders around on the ground,
To breathe life into it and watch it move,
To lead it to its greener pastures,
To hold it dear against the heart
As the maestro moves it with his baton,
Dancing with his lyrical arms,
Playing with the pleasure of sound,
Feeling its pulse through each motion,
Feeling the joy and the sorrow,
The passion and the pounding waves,
The softening of the fury of the tempest,
The silent interludes and scented air,
The stillness but the enchantment of it,
The air between two lovers,
The thrill of the calm in poetic form,
The language of the spirits,
The movement of the music,
And the mood it conveys.


Author Bio:
Robert Martin's writings have been published in Mature Years, Alive Now, Terror House Magazine, Wilderness House Literary Journal, Pennsylvania Literary Journal, and Literary Juice. Robert has won two Faith & Hope awards, and published two chapbooks. His main writing influence is Kahlil Gibran.