Volume 4, Issue 1

vol 4, i.1

"Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower." ~Albert Camus

Autumnal Equinox, Fall/Winter 2023 — vol 4, i.1

Ah, this issue— All things Autumnal and otherwise. The words, images, creativity, and imagination that have gone into the countless hours culminating in this issue coming to fruition is absolutely breathtaking. We have visual art and imagery like never before, and the words that touch the page, ahh . . . the words.

This issue features 72 new and established contributors from around the globe and from every walk of life. My sincere congratulations and thank you to all who have contributed to creating this special 126-page, full-color issue! May the pages take you on a thousand journeys and a thousand more.

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"By Slow Degrees" cover photo by Louis Staeble

Featured Contributors (vol 4, i.1)

Featured Prose Writer

Logan Rose

“Maman”

There’s a spider in the corner of my bathroom. Her name is Maman, and she is horrible. Truly, terrifying. Her name is Maman because when I first saw her, she was the biggest spider I had ever seen. Then, the egg sac on her back burst, and she was suddenly surrounded by tiny, baby spiders. I thought she might take care of them.

Instead, Maman began eating the weak. The only surviving spiders are the ones who were smart enough to spin their own webs and get far, far away. One spider took to the other corner of my bathroom. Before I had time to name him, he was gone. The three survivors are spread in an even line at the top of my window, snagging insects as they attempt to fly in and bite me. Still, they are not as large as Maman, who has lately developed stripes on her legs, like some kind of badge of honor for maternal cruelty.

Maman’s abdomen has swollen again, and I am scared to see what happens next.

Unrelated, I was recently speaking to my mother on the phone. She asked when I would come home. I looked at Maman and let the call drop.

I, too, was wise enough to spin my own web.

At least with Maman, what you see is exactly what you get.

Artist’s Statement

My writing explores the intersection between love and fear, which I believe are the two most powerful forces in human existence. I am also interested in the process of survival – how we move through the darkness of trauma and into our own light. I engage with intense emotions, and on the page, I am never, ever afraid of the dark.

Bio

Logan Rose is the author of “Cat Eyes” in Dream Noir and “Wild Strawberries” in Creation Magazine. She has been an artist-in-residence at Château d’Orquevaux and is currently seeking representation for her debut novel, How to Kill Yourself and Make it Look Like an Accident.

Featured Poet

Candace Kubinec

Haiku

Autumn leaf
withered by the seasons
like aging skin

Artist’s Statement

Whether I’m playing with words or pixels, I try to find the glimmer of beauty in the mundane, to coax the soul from the everyday. My hope is that my work will help others feel the magic in objects and people, overlooked or taken for granted, and look closer at the natural world that surrounds us all.

Bio

Sometimes, she pretends she’s a poet, and sometimes she pretends she’s an artist. Mostly, she is inspired by the world that surrounds her.

Featured Artist

Kevin R. Farrell, Jr.

“the digital footprint of Jesus cemented in the void”

Artist’s Statement

I know Picasso was right when he said, “Every child is an artist. The problem is how to remain an artist once he grows up,” because as I grew up and trained to become what I perceived an artist to be, I lost something. It wasn’t until my wife and I had our daughter, and she began to paint and draw, that I saw what I was missing. She was free. She was uninhibited. She was a force. She was an artist. It was through watching her that I found the truest and purest inspiration to create in a way that made sense and felt right. It was with the freedom of a child.

Bio

Kevin R. Farrell, Jr. is a Brooklyn, NY based artist, poet, and educator whose work has been published in The Poetry Society of New York, Burning House Press, Ink in Thirds Magazine, Foxhole Magazine, and others. His poems document a husband and father dancing the fine line between spiritual bliss and emotional upheaval as he deals with the dumpster fire.

Vol 4, i.1 Fall/Winter 2023 (A Sneak Peak)

Selections from the first 30 pages

Charlie Bird

poetry

"Butterfly Larvae"

There are too many people inside of my home;
Distant family members who attempt to make small talk
With weary smiles, showcasing gums and teeth.
I return their wide grins, mimicking their high pitch tones.
Once I am closed off from the group,
I inhale chamomile, exhale butterflies.

"Metamorphosis"

Some believe that restlessness stems from
An impoverished childhood.
But, we were painfully middle class.
I wanted nothing more than my dad’s butterfly kisses
And stuffed animals that rattled.
The comfort from my dad’s soft lullabies,
Did not cushion the weight of my brother
Groping me under the covers.
Proving that there has always been
An undesirable amount of people inside of my home.

Halley Fehner

prose

"Undone"

The dishes. The laundry. Calling your mother. Shaving your legs (it’s winter anyway). Scrubbing the chalky red ring out of the toilet. Making that pumpkin bread recipe, you promised your sister you’d try. Thinking about Jake, who said, “I love you, but I don’t know if I can deal with this,” by which he meant he matches his socks before he puts them away, whereas you like a “grab bag” approach. You’re not thinking about Jake.

Other things you’re not doing: getting enough sleep. Exercising (fuck exercising). Dealing with that Florida-shaped neck mole. Writing your ex-coworker, who said in her last email, “Can’t wait to hear from you!” Remembering how Jake—his brow furrowed in a deep-creased V—called you “depressed” and “self-isolating.” You’re not thinking about Jake.

Add to your list: vacuuming. Cleaning Jake’s socks out of the drawer. Boxing up his books overtaking your shelves. Throwing out the Shutterstock cards he made and you never mailed. Why is Jake’s stuff all over your house? Why did Jake—as you told him to leave, then, if he didn’t like you anymore—wave his hands above his head, grimacing as if in pain? Dusting. Wiping grime off the cabinets.

Also not: applying for that job. Telling your mother the truth about why the only nice guy you’d ever dated left you, although you do say you can’t come to Sunday dinner, you’re too busy. Answering that call from your sister, who’s clearly been talking to your mother.

Thinking about the first time Jake kissed you. Thinking about the last time Jake kissed you. You’re not thinking about Jake. Cutting your hair. Calling Jake, or better yet, walking over to his place (it’s only a mile), feeling like your insides are unraveling, that you are leaving your intestines in a long trail behind you, so that when you get to his door, all that’s left is your heart, which you are holding, and you beg him to take it already, please just take it.

Kaci MoDavis

prose

"Searching For A Cure To Remember Your Face"

I try to shutter speed my brain into remembering the calluses on your warped hands. Those same hands are putting on a pot of coffee as I mumble through the spelling of words frontways and backways, as the doctor suggested. Will my brain forget the smell of your skin after a fresh shave? Will I remember how to make your favorite meal? How about the egregious ways of cuddling we suffer through because of your bad aches? Your birthday? Will my hands be strong enough to mold the dough for your cake? I can’t help but think you’re beautiful in the softened yellow light our tiny kitchen floods over you. With bushy eyebrows and a smidge of caked toothpaste around the corner of your lip, I’ve never been more in awe. You stand and I imagine forgetting the features of your face, praying you don’t forget mine. I watch you linger as if for the last time.

Our love is not tragic, no. The world is.

Susan Richardson

poetry

"Hummingbird"

My body is a dumping ground
for carbohydrates and shame.
Fists of flesh strain against fabric
that was never meant to stretch,
fighting to escape from a frame
too small to hold it.

I am comforted by the murky skies of winter,
masked in the shelter of hibernation.
The darkness of days cocoons me,
lends me the delusion that beauty lurks
beneath a woolen shell.

When the sun bursts like a bomb
through the melting sky,
I shrink beneath the knuckles of summer,
where secrets have nowhere to hide.
Wool unravels in the heat.

I wasn’t always so much flesh
and regret.

Once, I was translucent, parchment.
Light swallowed me up,
the bones in my back
pushing against my skin
like hummingbird wings.

I held the warmth of the sun then,
a fire burning through clouds
an unwavering note brightening the night.
I have forgotten what it feels like to fly.

Beate Sigriddaughter

prose

"A Man and a Woman"

They walk hand in hand in the face of mortality and live life like a literary novel—exquisite, tedious, and quietly important.

He sometimes looks at other women and wonders what could have been.

She sometimes looks at him and wonders what could have been.

prose contributors

“Every secret of a writer’s soul, every experience of his life, every quality of his mind, is written large in his works.” ~Virginia Woolf

Prose - vol 4, i.1

Includes 22 new and established prose contributors from around the world. Take a look at our talented contributors.

Jennifer Alessi

"buttons"

Amy Marques

"Room 139 in the..."

Britt Astrid Alphson

"Marketplace Daughter"

Kaci MoDavis

"Searching For A Cure..."

Paul Beckman

"If I Pulled Down the Shades..."

Indira Moosai

"Soft Targets"

C.W. Bryan

"Swordmaster"