Issue 223

Robert L. Giron
3 hours ago
15 min read

This issue features

Photography by

Loraliu, and

Poetry by

Daniel Edward Moore, and

Serenay Özkan

Fiction by

William Cass, and

Jane Hertenstein

Levshastas

Vottovaara Karelia – Big Stone Sade

Trevor Conway

Gravity

A slow insistence,

the smallest leaning

of grain to grain.

Nothing ever intended a world,

but drifting becomes a gathering,

a party of weight and heat,

stability, in time, a negotiation

between core and crust,

held in constant strain.

And rock, at this scale, is a subtle pillow,

as if it remembers being molten.

Each orbit tightens the flex

till cohesion loses the argument –

no longer a moon

but a ring in rehearsal.

Beneath our feet,

even now,

a shrouded rhythm,

as if the planet is heaving

under a weight

that will someday lift.

About the Author

Trevor Conway, from Sligo, Ireland, writes poetry, fiction and songs. He has published three collections of poetry: Evidence of Freewheeling, Breeding Monsters and No Small Thing. Also available from Amazon is his guide to writing poetry, aimed at child/young adult poets, Nurturing the creative Child: A Guide to Writing Poetry. He is currently revising a poetry collection titled A Banquet of Sorts, centred on the themes of science and nature. Interested?

Dylan Cordova

Imagine

after “Imagine” by John Lennon

See the worldfield for each flower under sunfall,

allowing lilies, lehua, and hyacinth to bathe

together in welcome morning dew. People

petals bloom outward close enough to touch. Sharing

their colors by bleeding through the tips till all

contain a drop. Release their thorns and interwreathe

into one harmonious net swaddling the world.

About the Author

Dylan Cordova is a student pursuing a BA in sociology at the University of North Florida. In his free time he enjoys reading, puzzles, and playing board games. He also loves performing and has been doing so since the 7^th grade. His most recent performances were in productions of Shakespeare’s Macbeth and As You Like It.

Kaylee Exum

Through My Eyes

The internet tells us to hate

ourselves. Women can never

just breathe. (But remember to suck in your stomach as you do)

I was always self-conscious

about what I was told to

hate.

I didn’t even notice my hip dips

until the internet told me

they were undesirable.

But now the features I was once told to hate look different.

Written on my body

Stretch marks tell a story of how I’ve grown.

Lines around my mouth

etched into my face from

smiling without restraint.

The day I saw myself in the mirror

with the same eyes I use to admire every other woman,

something loosened.

About the Author

Kaylee Exum is a writer based in Jacksonville, Florida, and she works in public relations. Her writing is shaped by the coast, her queer identity, and the relationships built with friends, family, and her partner, often returning to simple moments that make life feel full.

Loraliu

Mystical Moonlight Flowing from the Dark Sky to the Ground

Edward Lee

Day or Night

A sky of sharp tongues

crowded the sun today,

slicing its rays

with knowing words,

depriving the pale-skinned humans

who worship

whomever seems

to deserve worship

at any given time,

all options covered,

offering prayers

without moving their limbs,

lips sown shut

like a joke told

at the expense of everyone,

even the speaker, even

those last to laugh.

A sky of sharp tongues

crowded the sun today,

while, later, the moon

will fair no better,

nor will those unable

to see in the dark.

About the Author

Edward Lee's poetry, short stories, non-fiction and photography have been published in magazines in Ireland, England and America, including The Stinging Fly, Skylight 47, Acumen, The Blue Nib and Poetry Wales. His poetry collections include A Foetal Heart, Bones Speaking With Hard Tongues, To Touch The Sky And Never Know The Ground Again and The Heart As Dust Lost In The Wind. He also makes musical noise under the names Ayahuasca Collective, Orson Carroll, Lego Figures Fighting, and Pale Blond Boy. Visit: https://edwardmlee.wordpress.com.

Daniel Edward Moore

Tongue-tied

The truth is it cannot be tamed.

There’s a danger between those who try

and us who live for nothing more

than a pink satin serpent from the mouth’s wet cave

slithering over Theology’s belly, writing psalms

with fangs on the clean-shaven shore

where silence is given a cavity search

to make sure the verbs aren’t hiding knives

deep in the center of the story.

An unruly evil of deadly poison can close

your mouth for lesser things, opening mine for more.

Puncture is a precious hymn of persuasion

stopping you in your tracks.

That rumbling you hear, like a broke carousel

deep inside the carnival of you

are acapella demons singing your story

as the tears wait to get on.

About the Author

Daniel Edward Moore lives in Washington on Whidbey Island. His work has appeared in Southern Humanities Review, North American Review and more. His work is forthcoming in The Meadow, New Plains Review, Steam Ticket Journal and Action Spectacle Magazine.

His book, Waxing the Dents, is from Brick Road Poetry Press.

Lasse Behnke

Lonely, Deserted and Foggy Place

Serenay Özkan

The Hum of the Evening

The weight of the evening in a cold room

Was muttering the falling rain.

In a spring as black as night

Heaped years were humming.

And the day that began with raw rain

Was a bright dream at the end of the evening.

The green eye of an old man in the street

And the smile of the woman at the window

Their laughter hums on an afternoon.

It was a windy afternoon

Setting the weight of the evening;

Poems fell from old booksellers

Across from the desolate houses.

The poems left as the sun went down,

The lights of the booksellers faded out.

The hum of the evening and the sky

Took the green-eyed woman away.

The green-eyed woman is now

In the poems of the old man.

Evenings hum at the door of the house;

Which poems live in our desolate houses?

Akşamın Uğultusu

Akşamın ağırlığı soğuk bir odada

Yağan yağmuru sayıklıyordu

Gece kadar kara baharda

Yığılmış yıllar uğulduyordu

Ve çiğ yağmurla başlayan günü

Akşamın sonunda aydınlık bir düştü

Sokaktaki yaşlı bir adamın

Yeşil gözüyle penceredeki kadının

Gülüşleri uğulduyor bir akşamüstü

Rüzgârlı bir akşamüstüydü

Akşamın ağırlığını koyan

Eski kitapçılardan şiirler düştü

Issız evlerin karşısında

Güneş batarken gitti şiirler

Kitapçıların ışığı söndü

Akşamın uğultusu ve gökyüzü

Yeşil gözlü kadını alıp götürdü

Yeşil gözlü kadın şimdi

Yaşlı adamın şiirlerinde

Evin kapısında akşam uğulduyor

Issız evlerimizde hangi şiirler yaşıyor?

About the Author

Serenay Özkan is a Turkish poet and author born in Istanbul in 2004. Her literary journey began in her early youth, marked by the publication of her first poetry collection, Viata (2019). Known for her lyrical depth and evocative imagery, Özkan’s poetry and short stories have been widely featured in various prestigious literary journals and fanzines, including Laf Arası, Asonans, Pratfall, and Gençlik Meclisi. In 2025, her short story collection, Farklı Bir Mehtap (A Different Moonlight), was awarded a publication prize by the Yol Academi Publishing Group. Currently, she continues her creative work while pursuing her studies at Istanbul University, Faculty of Letters, in the department of Contemporary Turkic Dialects and Literatures. Her work often explores the intersection of memory, cultural identity, and the poetic nuances of everyday existence.

William Cass

Warm You Up

Agnes started her morning the same way she had for the sixty-odd years she’d lived alone in that house: with a cup of tea while she said the rosary at the kitchen table. She mumbled as she prayed. Dawn crept through the sheer curtains over the sink.

When she finished the rosary, Agnes made toast and ate it at the counter with another cup of tea. The plate and cup she used had been her grandparents’, as was most of the furniture in the house. She looked into the backyard as she ate and was vaguely aware of the sounds of traffic increasing beyond the hedge and down the hill on the town’s main street. The maple tree at the far corner of the yard had made its seasonal turn, brightly-colored leaves circling its base. When Agnes opened the window to set her crusts on the sill for the birds, she was surprised by the chill breath of air that came inside. Not yet mid-October and already someone had a fireplace burning nearby. Like always, the realization of another fall deepening saddened her: the shortened days, the colder weather, the passage of time.

She said, “My.”

The sound of her own voice was unsettling, too. She couldn’t remember speaking the previous day, nor the one before that.

By eight, Agnes had showered, dressed, made the bed, and was ready for her morning walk. She put on the old Mackinaw coat that had been her grandfather’s and left through the front door, jiggling its handle afterwards to be sure it was locked. She started down the hill towards the elementary school where she’d taught for forty years. Its entry bell rang as she came up beside the playground, and she smiled. She stopped to watch the clambering children, diminished in numbers over the years, being shuttled into the building by staff members. Agnes only recognized one of the adults, a tall man who’d started there as a teacher’s aide shortly before she retired; she felt her eyebrows knit as she realized his hair that had been jet-black then was mostly gray now.

Agnes continued up to the main street and waited for the traffic light to change to cross it. She looked down a few blocks at the old fertilizer plant that had closed up a decade before and the train depot just beyond it that had shut down, too, not long afterwards. The buildings loomed large, dark, still. When the light changed, she crossed into more streets not unlike her own with small houses and tall trees along the curbs. Like most of the neighborhoods in town, nearly as many houses were for sale or boarded up as were occupied.

Five minutes later, Agnes came to the town’s central park. She had it entirely to herself as she made her way past the baseball field, the jungle gym, the miniature pavilion, and up onto the footbridge that crossed a small brook. She stopped there and watched the water babble by. She thought of collecting pollywogs in a jar along the brook’s banks as a girl and trying to cross it from rock to rock after it had risen in the spring. Agnes could hardly believe she’d been that young once, that she had been that girl. The memory was like thinking about another person altogether.

She crossed the remainder of the bridge and had almost come to the park’s opposite entrance when she saw two feet in high-top sneakers protruding from a cluster of bushes near the pathway. Agnes felt a jolt; she sucked in her breath and looked about her for someone to help. But she remained alone, so she swallowed and took tentative steps into the bushes. A heavy-set woman in a hooded sweatshirt and jeans lay on her back there. She appeared to be sleeping, but her breathing was slow and shallow. Agnes bent down, shook the woman’s shoulder, and got no response. She grabbed her cell phone from her coat pocket and called 911.

Agnes stayed at the woman’s side, recognition slowly filling her, until she heard a siren approach, then hurried to the entrance and waved the ambulance up to where she waited. She stood off to the side while the two male paramedics examined the woman. The older paramedic lifted one of the woman’s eyelids, then shouted, “Get the Narcan!”

Agnes had heard about Narcan and its use. She put her hand over her mouth and began to pray.

The paramedics treated the unconscious woman, then arranged her on a stretcher inside the back of the ambulance. Agnes heard the older paramedic report into a hand-held receiver that they had a drug overdose in transit and were heading to Memorial Hospital.

The younger paramedic rode in the back with the woman. Before the older one climbed into the driver’s seat, he asked Agnes, “Are you with her?”

“No, I just stumbled upon her, but I know her. She was a third-grade student of mine many years ago.”

He nodded.

Agnes felt her lips trembling. “Will she be all right?”

“Don’t know. Hope so.”

He got inside, started the engine and lights, and sped away. Agnes watched after it, considering, until it disappeared and she could no longer hear the siren. It had been the woman’s wide forehead and small mouth that had first led Agnes to recognize her; even thirty years later, both were distinctive. Her name was Jean, and she’d sat at the back of the last row in Agnes’ classroom. She’d been unusually quiet as a little girl, taciturn, shy. Her father, like those of most of school’s students, had worked at the fertilizer plant.

Agnes changed her normal route and walked over to St. Matthew’s Church. Like the park, it was empty. She lit a votive candle in the little alcove dedicated to the Virgin Mary, lowered herself onto the kneeler there, and prayed some more for Jean. She remembered that as a girl, Jean had been larger than most of her classmates and rarely had interactions with any of them. The exception was one bitterly cold winter afternoon after dismissal when she saw Jean creep back into the classroom; at the time, Agnes was in the room’s storage closet, but could see her through the doorway. The girl opened her backpack, took a paper bag out of it, set it on the seat of a boy’s desk, and quickly left the room again. Through one of the windows, Agnes watched her scamper away across the playground, then went over to the boy’s desk. His name was written in green crayon on the outside of the bag. Agnes opened it. Inside were a pair of mittens, a scarf, and a knit cap, all well-worn. The boy’s house had burned down the week before, and his family had lost almost all of their belongings. Agnes replaced the bag where it had been and looked out the window again. Jean was nowhere to be seen.

That afternoon, Agnes tried to take her regular post-lunch nap, but couldn’t sleep. Instead, she lay there thinking about Jean, the dealt hands of life, and the dwindling number of days she herself had left on earth. Finally, she bundled up again and drove over to the hospital. She found the emergency room receptionist behind a glass window and asked about Jean.

The receptionist regarded Agnes evenly and paused before asking, “Are you family?”

Agnes shook her head.

“Well, if you’re not, I’m afraid I can’t disclose that sort of information to you. All I can let you know is that she’s no longer here and hasn’t been admitted upstairs.”

“She’s left then, been discharged?”

The receptionist stared back and said nothing.

“Or I guess it could mean she didn’t make it at all. That she passed away.”

With pursed lips, the receptionist showed her palms.

“All right,” Agnes said. “Thank you.”

She went back outside and drove home. When she got there, Agnes checked the phone book and did an internet search but couldn’t find any contact information about Jean or her family’s surname. She thought to herself: thirty years is a long time; if she’s alive at all, she could be anywhere. Agnes looked out her window and across the street where the weeds surrounding an abandoned house rustled knee-high on the small breeze. She thought back to when the town and region had been thriving; it seemed so long ago. Many people had lost their way since then. Jean was just one of them. She touched her fingertips to the window’s glass and blew out a long breath.

On her walk each morning afterwards, Agnes slowed her steps though the park and looked for Jean. She looked for her, too, when she passed by people huddled together outside taverns, empty storefronts, or in alleyways. She looked more hopefully at church, the supermarket, the gas station. She continued to look, but to no avail.

As the days shortened further, Agnes filled her time in the usual ways to which she’d grown accustomed: praying, reading, drinking tea, knitting afghans for the church’s winter bazaar, watching nature programs on television. Gradually, all the deciduous trees became completely bare, and the titter of birds no longer greeted her upon waking.

Two Mondays before Thanksgiving, as the afternoon’s light had begun its descent towards gloaming, Agnes opened her front door to get the mail and stopped dead in her tracks. Her palms flew to her chest. Jean was standing there on the porch looking directly at her. She was dressed in the same sweatshirt, jeans, and sneakers, but a timid smile creased her lips.

“Ms. Stafford,” she said quietly. “I’m sorry to startle you, but they told me at the hospital that you found me that morning and called for the ambulance. You saved my life. I wanted to stop by to thank you.”

Agnes slowly lowered her hands to her side and said, “You’re all right.”

“Well, I just got out of rehab. You know what they say: one day at a time.” She paused. “I was struggling with some things. But, so far, so good.”

“And you have a place to stay?”

Jean nodded. “My cousin has a spare room.”

“How about a job?”

“Not yet. Need to find one, though, and quick.”

Agnes thought: we all make mistakes. A sudden idea struck her. “I’ll hire you to paint my house,” she said. “Start on the outside while the weather holds, then I need the inside painted, too. I have all the supplies you need in my garage.”

Jean’s eyebrows rose. “Paint your house.”

“Why not?”

Jean gave a little snort-like chuckle. “Well, I suppose I could do that.” She cocked her head, her eyes narrowing. “Why are you doing this, Ms. Stafford?”

“Because I believe in you.”

Jean shook her head. “That’s what you said when I was eight.”

“And I still believe it.” Agnes paused. “I do.”

Jean continued shaking her head, but her smile widened. “Okay, I guess. When do you want me to start?”

“Tomorrow morning. Be here at eight, and we’ll have a cup of tea before you begin.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever had a cup of tea.”

“It’ll warm you up.” Agnes smiled, too. “All right, then. Eight o’clock. Don’t be late.”

“I won’t.” Jean stepped down from the porch onto the front walk, turned and said, “Thank you, Ms. Stafford.”

“Of course. Take care, Jean.”

The big woman nodded. Agnes watched her go down the walk and turn towards the school. She watched her make her way down the hill and disappear around the bend. Streetlights blinked on, and a dog barked in a neighbor’s yard. Agnes could hear the familiar, quiet murmur of traffic from the main street. It was the time of day when the shift change whistle used to blow at the fertilizer plant. A train rumbled by in the near distance, passing the town’s shuttered depot, coming from somewhere, heading somewhere else.

About the Author

William Cass has had over 400 short stories accepted for publication in a variety of literary magazines and anthologies such as Pangyrus, december, and Zone 3. Winner of writing contests at Terrain.org, Cardinal Sins, and The Examined Life Journal, he’s also been nominated once for Best of the Net, twice for Best Small Fictions, and six times for the Pushcart Prize. His three short story collections have all been published by Wising Up Press.

Jane Hertenstein

Missed Calls

Peter, this is Dad: I just heard on the radio there’s been a smash-up on I-90. Please call me.

Peter, this is your father: Please call. There was butterscotch pudding on the menu at lunch. I’m waiting for my ride to get home. If you can, please call me back. I’m worried this accident will delay you from coming. I’m afraid you’ve been hurt. I hope you’re okay. How’s Liz and the girls? Anyway, please call. As soon as possible.

Peter, it’s been raining all day and the sun never broke through. We had a docent come in and talk about birds in the aviary lounge. Later, she and I chatted. I forget her name. It’s horrible all the news on the radio these days. Gaza, the war, the hostages, food prices. What about all the immigrants? I’m not sure what I’m supposed to feel. That’s why I need to talk to you.

Hello? Hello? Your school bus just drove by without stopping. I was going to walk down to the corner, but the door wouldn’t open when I pushed on the bar. Where’s your jacket?! You left it, again. I’m done throwing good money after bad. You’ll have to pay for a new one. Never mind.

Sorry I lost my temper. Here, let me carry your violin case. We’re about to break forth into spring. I can feel it. The birds. The birds, I hear them sing their song.

Peter, there’s a storm coming. I saw it on the TV. They say it’s bad. Out East and on the coast. Isn’t that where you go to school, university? I remember the rain on graduation day, the billowing gowns. Your shoes were ruined. Your mother and I were so proud. Please be careful.

Dad, this is Pete. Sorry I missed your call. Calls. I was out of the house. Yes, driving. Liz and the girls are fine. Good to hear about the bird talk. You and your birds.

Anyway, we weren’t anywhere near 90. In fact, we moved from Denver nine years ago. That’s when you moved too, to be near us.

Yes, it’s been raining all day, and I meant to call you or stop in at the Home the other day, but we had to take Stacey back to school when her ride fell through. She had a long weekend—or what we refer to around here as “laundry.” Please, don’t worry; we’re all okay.

Try not to listen to the news. Just today I told Liz that I can't take any more bad news. No one knows how to feel. You’re not alone.

I was reminded when sitting in the car behind a school bus letting kids off, a boy clambered down with his musical instrument case and a huge backpack, almost as big as he was. I remembered how you used to meet me at the bus stop when you weren’t at university teaching or whatever. When you were home in the afternoon, you’d meet me. And, always, you’d insist on carrying my violin case, even though the school bag was heavier; you wanted to somehow help.

Kids these days have so much on their plate. I watched the little guy struggle to get uphill. The drizzle had stopped and for a second the clouds parted and the sun peeked through, what we used to call God-rays, the kind you see in books or landscape paintings.

Anyway, try to rest. We’ll see each other soon.

About the Author

Jane Hertenstein is a Pushcart nominee whose work has been recognized by the New York Times. She is the author of over 100 published stories both macro and micro: fiction, creative non-fiction, and blurred genre. In addition, she has published two MG novels and a non-fiction project, Orphan Girl: The Memoir of a Chicago Bag Lady, which garnered national reviews. Jane is the recipient of a grant from the Illinois Arts Council. She teaches a workshop on Flash Memoir. Her life motto is Do Everything with your One Wild and Precious Life. Find out more at janehertenstein.substack.com