October 2015 | back-issues, poetry
And down the road I look
at Winchester on the Severn, the setting
star glaring amber as ochre-sweet
honey spoils with jaundiced age
in November. I stand on the hill
quietly knowing my life
will be unusual, different from how
(and now) it was then. Déjà vu―
my wood-shingled boyhood
home, the mint patch and Pines Park,
ghosts of the elm trees which met
overhead when Rt. 2 was B&A.
When dusk enfolds the arbor, mourning
doves sense the mist thinning. No
significance or scaffold in mind:
just a fouling wood and winter
looming in labor, heaped on planks
of limp, listless light.
by Zane Anthony
Zane is a senior at Middlebury College, studying architecture and biology. Zane’s writing has appeared in The New Yorker, The Star Democrat, Middlebury Magazine, Sweatervest, and Zenith Magazine, and is forthcoming in other journals.
October 2015 | poetry
I wanted the ghostliness of Fall,
the thrill of fresh masks
and hard candy
I wanted the romance of arguing,
the depression of school nights
and dim lamp lights
I wanted the abuse of painful side affects,
the fascination of my shadow
within a crowd,
the excitement of loneliness
I wanted the pleasure of demons,
the euphoria of erotic bonding,
the exhaustion of sadness
I wanted the love of parents,
the horror of sour nails,
the joy of intentionally sore skin
I wanted the relief of exhaling,
the weakness of flu season,
the peace of floating away
I fell asleep on black hair
and woke up inside a blonde tea pot
I was served to the earth unsweetened,
every ounce of me disgusting
by Ashlie Allen
Ashlie Allen writes fiction and poetry. She is also a photographer. Her work has appeared in the Tipton Poetry Journal, Gone Lawn, Spelk and others. She loves the Victorian era.
October 2015 | back-issues, fiction
He was my summertime fairytale prince, cigarette pressed between his slim piano playing fingers. The smell of smoke mixing with the scent of that tangerine tree where he first pressed his exquisitely shaped lips to my neck and where we intertwined grandeur dreams of forever. We played dumb, like we forgot I had a scholarship to a mid-western university with decent academics and a stellar basketball team. Like he didn’t have a demo tape and a bus ticket to L.A. I surrendered my virginity to him under that stuffed elk head in your grandfather’s study one Sunday afternoon when everyone was at the church picnic. I weaved my fingers through that glorious hair he was too cool to comb, looked him right in the eyes and told him it was perfect. He believed me.
The last time I saw him, he drew on his cigarette long and hard and didn’t say much. I could tell he wanted to drag out our goodbye. His eyes shadowed under that newsboy hat he wore. Silence built up and closed us in a beautiful dream. We didn’t need words or promises. I could have woken us both up, but there was no need for him to know I was late. He would have offered to help. Maybe even offered to marry me. But I loved him too much to stop him from getting on that bus.
At least, that’s the way I remember it.
by Diane D. Gillette
Diane D. Gillette has a couple master degrees, two demanding cats, and lives with the love of her life in Chicago. When she isn’t too busy reading, writing, or appeasing her cats, she blogs about writing at www.digillette.com. You can find more of her published work there.
