It’s Possible

July 2022 | poetry

I believe that if you rub the forehead

of a captured crow clockwise

in small circles, it will gift you

with the knack of comprehension

teach you to understand the cawing

conversations of its cousins, those

who’ve roosted darkly in the maples,

and now are waking up the day.

I heard the congregation, all

the crows’ brash chattering above

the morning mist rising from the river

still lavender with hope.

I am dubious, although I’d like to trust

that this bright river rattling through the gorge

will come soon to a shallow peace, flash

its stony gifts, glinting catch-eyes for the crows.

Beth Spencer

Beth Spencer currently lives near Minneapolis, MN, loves travel, and is a notable example of the persistence of hope over experience. She has been messing about with poetry since fifth grade when she won a “Why I Like to Read Good Books” contest by submitting her essay in poem form.

The Funeral

July 2022 | poetry

Bloodied chrysanthemums envelop

The blurred lines of the paint-strewn floor

Casting shadows in the midst

Of broken light, fragmented scenes

Memories unended, just started

The gleaming red exit sign

In the back

Hurts my eyes; I was told

That the church was a safe place

Somehow, it makes me feel

Empty.

Conjoined benches

Of wispy outlines, ghosts whose

Hourglasses broke too early

Used to hold gold, left dust
In their goodbyes

Silence pursues

Every so often disrupted

By whispers of white lies

That reflect off the silk-covered altar

Losing their voice

To the slightest breath of wind

I once saw a garden outside the bounds

Of these wood-shaven walls

Ruby-dipped roses

Once I turned my head

They were gone

Maybe I hold on to things

That aren’t meant for me

Hannah Zhang

Hannah Zhang is a 16-year-old aspiring writer from Tucson, Arizona. She enjoys reading all kinds of novels, leaning towards adventure and fantasy. Inspired by the beauty of nature, she frequently incorporates it into her stories and poems. She has been writing since a young age and sees it as an outlet to express herself. She hopes that her writing can inspire readers to appreciate the beauty of life and the world we live in. Hannah’s work has been recognized at the Scholastic Arts and Writing Competition and published in Girls Right The World, The Weight Journal, TeenWritersProject Quarterly Lit Zine magazine, Cathartic Literary Magazine, Journal of Undiscovered Poet (forthcoming), Idle Ink and Eternal Haunted Summer.

Amanda L Rioux

July 2022 | visual art

Thanks for Stopping By

Secrets of the Universe

 

Amanda L Rioux

Amanda is a freelance writer and photographer. She has her BA in English Lit & Criticism, and her MA in Professional Writing & Communication. In addition to writing and taking photographs, she enjoys baking and running a “bookstagram” account. One time she was almost run over by Robin Williams on a bicycle.

Anchor

July 2022 | poetry

“. . . until someone finds you / something else to do.”

                                                            Leonard Cohen

The anchor is a victim

no more than the dripping oars

or the lines made taut

by soft lead sinkers.

The anchor is not a poem

but a guide with sand in its eyes

and a hook too big and blunt

for any mouth.

The anchor is a contract

not of glory but of patience

between surfaces and hours,

flashing lure and fading light.

The anchor is a prayer for the father and son

and for the boat kneeling before the reeds

as it reaches for each shore

carrying its own lake and a coiled rope.

Jeffrey Thompson

Jeffrey Thompson was raised in Fargo, North Dakota, and educated at the University of Iowa and Cornell Law School. He lives in Phoenix, Arizona, where he practices public interest law. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Neologism Poetry Journal, North Dakota Quarterly, The Main Street Rag, Passengers Journal, Tipton Poetry Journal, The Tusculum Review, FERAL, and Unbroken. His hobbies include reading, hiking, and photography.

Aggregates

July 2022 | Best of Net nominee, nonfiction

Zero is a beginning and one is a beginning too. I was once a zero and became one after one year. It was then I began to walk and talk. Early, they said, but for me not soon enough.

At five I was flying, off to other States, which gave me a taste for adventure. When I was only one decade old, I spent most of my time in the woods, eating wild plants and hiding, having developed a knack for hating indoor school, which continued for many more aggregates.

At 16, I became what they call a professional (got paid) and at 1 and an 8, left home for good. Off to the big city of New York to become a ‘real’ actress, where I mostly stumbled and stopped flying. I found it difficult to maintain flight throughout my 20s and 30s with so many men telling me what to do. Directors and producers all had so much to say, like lie down and don’t tell anyone.

At 3 followed by an 8, I found God, only later to discover it was a cult. This was after 16 grueling years of hardcore belief. I was now in my fifth decade ‒ 5 followed by another 5. At this point, I fell in love and rediscovered I had a body with desires. This sent me flying again, back into my body and remembering I hated school, however disguised.

Now in my 7s followed by a zero, seven decades, I mostly live outdoors again, riffling through weeds, kissing peonies, writing essays, and witnessing too much death. Friends and otherwise. But I still have love, my body, and trees.

I may live to a one followed by two zeros. Ten decades! Back to one, followed this time by two zeros. Hopefully I’ll still be in my body on hands and knees in the dirt. Or, lying in the earth, scarred and resting, with all those zeros and ones spent.

Dian Parker

Dian Parker’s essays and short stories have been published in 3:AM Magazine, The Rupture, Critical Read, Adelaide, Epiphany, Memoir Monday, Anomaly, Westerly, Channel, Capsule, Tiny Molecules, Sky Island Journal, Hotazel Review, among others, and nominated for several Pushcart Prizes. She trained at the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art in London, and lives now in the hills of Vermont.