Grace

July 2019 | fiction

Jasmine sat in the chair in the counselor’s office, pressing buttons on her cellphone. “He’s gettin’ executed today.”

“Really? I would have thought it was going to take a bit longer, you know, with all the stays and appeals,” Ms. Freeman said.

“Naww,” Jasmine said, unperturbed. “This is it. Six o’clock this evening.”

“That’s sad.”

“Yeah. I heard he wants a cheeseburger and fries for his last meal.”

“Okay.”

“And a bowl of butter pecan ice cream. He used to like that a lot.” Jasmine glanced at the counselor’s black shoes. They were small on her feet and clean. Every time Jasmine saw Ms. Freeman, she had on those same clean, dainty black shoes. Ms. Freeman sat a few feet away on the outside of her desk; her round, pleasant face oozed with empathy and curiosity.

“How do you feel about it?”

Jasmine shrugged her shoulders. “Nothin’, I guess.” Her fingers worked across the cellphone with slow purpose.

“Well, you have to feel something … he is your brother.” Ms. Freeman couldn’t discern if Jasmine was scrolling through Facebook on her phone or just looking for something to divert her consumed mind. She thought to ask her to put the phone away but decided otherwise.

“Mama said I had another brother that died when he was two days old. Mike gonna be buried next to him.”

“I see. Are you worried for his soul?”

“No more than I am for my own.”

“But you didn’t murder two people.”

“I could’ve stopped him.” Jasmine glanced at Ms. Freeman’s poised hands crossed on her lap. She looked away and stared at a picture of Ms. Freeman and a man. She wondered if Ms. Freeman was married but really didn’t care.

“You were just a child then. What could you have done? I’m sure you felt paralyzed when you saw him raging in the house.”

“I felt like, like the sky opened up and a big dog jumped out of it. Are you worried about your own soul, since you askin’?”

“I do but not like that. I haven’t killed anyone.” Ms. Freeman’s round, pleasant face was nearly pinched with smugness.

“Lucky you. You know, God kills and orders hits every day… He orderin’ them now to kill my brother.”

“No. Mike brought death on his own head. He didn’t have to kill his girlfriend and her lover. He could’ve let it go.”

“How do you know that? Maybe God told him to do it.”

“I know you don’t really believe that. God would never tell us to kill anyone.”

Jasmine’s fingers paused momentarily over her phone. She eyed Ms. Freeman with incredulity. “I guess it was the devil, then.” She returned her gaze to her phone. “Hmmph. My brother sent two bad dogs to heaven. They couldn’t’ve gotten there without him.”

 

Alifah Omar

Alifah Omar has been writing since a very young age. She has poetry and prose published in Z-composition, The Fable Online and will be featured in Plainsongs’s July 2019 edition.

 

Jupp Soetebier

July 2019 | visual art

Brownie 01

Polaroid 01

 

Jupp Soetebier

Raised in the American Midwest in what was once known as The German Triangle, Josef Wilhelm “Jupp” Soetebier’s work explores what effect his Deutsch heritage, ancestral family, and the myths and traditions of his peoples have had on memory and the way he perceives and goes about the world. His un-retouched photography of the American West are created using his father’s 1950 Kodak Hawkeye Brownie and uncle’s 1967 Polaroid 210 Automatic Land Camera. A frequent exhibitor at The Other Art Fair by Saatchi, stARTup, and Conception; his work was recently included in the 79th Crocker Kingsley in Sacramento and a solo show at Acumen Gallery in Napa Valley. Jupp currently maintains a working studio in Los Angeles and resides in Northern California with his wife and two Leonberger dogs.

Drawing session

July 2019 | nonfiction

This story is about drawing my mother’s portrait in a twenty-minute timed session. She is in her late sixties, but I am not sure of her birth year or birthdate. She has changed. She has mellowed out over the years.

Capturing likeness is the aim. She is a willing model. She wants to please. She sits down and I begin. The forehead does not move. Facial muscles around the eyes don’t move. Eyebrows don’t move. They are thick, as they are penciled-in dark.

Eyelids move. Eyeballs move.

Her eyebrows point up; they didn’t before. The end of her eyes where the eyelids meet also point up; they didn’t before. That’s one botched botox job. She is frugal.

Her husband of fifty years wants to leave her. She chewed his ass growing up. He withdrew. She pursued. He withheld.

Old people break up the same way young people do. There is back and forth. There are acts designed to cause jealousy. There is reluctance. There is attraction. There is repulsion.

She lost weight. He lost weight and fixed his teeth. Divorce papers are drawn up, but not filed. Fifty years is a long time.

I am down to her chin now. She has facial hair. She didn’t before. They are bleached but not removed. That double chin can be captured with shading. Time’s up.

 

Hooman Khoshnood

Hooman Khoshnood began his artistic career five years ago, after practicing law for over a decade. He began painting at an early age. But his approach to art-making became more conceptual while studying with Laura LLaneli, a sound art artist, and Marc Larre, a photographer. Mr. Khoshnood was also mentored by Giancarlo Bargoni, a renowned Italian painter in painting and theory. They also explored possible connections between painting and poetry. Mr. Khoshnood continued his studies in art at the Art Students League of New York where his painting “Unknown to me” was published as exemplary student work in the League’s 2017/18 catalog. Mr. Khoshnood obtained a Bachelor of Arts in Philosophy and a Doctorate in Law both from the University of Georgia. He is also an avid reader focusing on Linguistics, Literature, and Art History. He was born in Iran and has lived in Iran, Italy, Canada, France, Spain, and the United States. He is fluent in English, Farsi, and Italian. He considers Atlanta home.

The Attic

July 2019 | poetry

Tapestries of gossamer

festoon rough-hewn rafters.

Knotty old floorboards

groan under a century’s burden of

memories, dust-coated secrets,

buried shadows in decaying chests,

hearts stilled and gone frigid.

 

A shaft of skittish sunbeams

pierces a grimy window,

spotlighting crazed sepias

of austere gentlemen

in over-starched high collars

and ladies bedecked

in lacy décolletage

and frilly hats, looking

quite prim and proper.

 

In a dank, dusty corner

where the sun never visits

a doll lies long-abandoned,

naked, crumpled, eyes

rolled back in a face

of fractured china.

 

Krikor Der Hohannesian

Krikor Der Hohannesian lives in Medford, MA. His poems have appeared in over 150 literary journals including The Evansville Review, The South Carolina Review, Atlanta Review, Louisiana Literature, Connecticut Review and Natural Bridge. He is a three-time Pushcart Prize nominee and the author of two chapbooks,“Ghosts and Whispers” (Finishing Line Press, 2010) and “Refuge in the Shadows” (Cervena Barva Press, 2013). “Ghosts and Whispers” was a finalist for the Mass Book awards poetry category in 2011.

Darrell Urban Black

July 2019 | visual art

States of Potential and non-Potentiality

 

Darrell Urban Black

Darrell Urban Black born in Brooklyn, New York and grew up in Far Rockaway, New York. In high school, he excelled in science with an affinity for outer space. In June 1969, as America fulfilled J. F. Kennedy’s dream to put the American Stars and Stripes into the dusty surface of the moon, his fascination with spaceships grew. As a child, Darrell made spaceship models eventually placing my artistic visions on paper resulting in some 500 drawings. Darrell had many local, national and international group art exhibitions. His artwork is permanently displayed in a number of art galleries, museums and other institutions in America and Germany. Darrell lives in Frankfurt, Germany and continues to draw and paint in pursuit of his artistic dreams. Link http://darrell-black.pixels.com/