Alina Lee is a high school student at an international school in Seoul, South Korea. Her artwork explores memory, identity, and the quiet emotional spaces between people. When she is not creating, she enjoys hiking, running, and playing the ukulele. Her work is inspired by the natural world and the rhythms of everyday life.

John Grey

Mister Music

You’re a street musician,

seated on the sidewalk,

back against a brick wall

that’s as familiar to you

as you are to the people

who walk by day after day.

Your repertoire is old folk songs

like “If I Had A Hammer” or “Pretty Polly.”

Your musical style is amiable strumming

and your voice,

when heard above the traffic,

is a croak that would do

disservice to a frog.

An upturned cap

sits between your feet,

attracts loose change

and the occasional dollar bill.

Yours is not the most rewarding of lives.

Your talent is mostly in

answering the cry of

“What have I got to lose.”

And your audience is either

disgust or pity.

At least, the latter sometimes

pays the cover charge.

Every now and then,

some guy will stop,

throw out a request like,

“Do you know any Dylan?”

You’ll start in on

“The Times Are A Changin’.”

just as the guy up and leaves

without listening.

You stop mid-verse

to question the other’s motives.

“Maybe he just don’t

like Dylan,” you figure

About the Author

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Midnight Mind, Novus and Abbey. Latest books: Bittersweet, Subject Matters and Between Two Fires. He has work upcoming in the MacGuffin, Touchstone and Willow Review.

Nels Hanson

A Parting

Say at sunrise a shooting

star portends the ending

of a fabled career, say as

Dr. Doolittle you pull back

reins to the antlered snail

and slide from his spiraled

shell to an emerald glade,

before the green towers

of that longed-for city. Is

it bigger, big as Oz, as you

imagined it grew bigger

the farther the slow miles

and years made it seem?

A whole lifetime to arrive

but strangers come, offer

water from a wooden cup,

while the patient brother

returns alone a silver way.

About the Author

Nels Hanson has worked as a farmer, teacher and editor. His fiction received the James D. Phelan Award from the San Francisco Foundation, and his poetry the Prospero Prize from Sharkpack Review.

Mark LaMonda

Love Language

I’ve got roots

Baby

Honey

I’m my own tree

That’s how I communicate

Wind and water

To the other trees

You see

It’s underground

Down and dirty

Even the bossy birds

Don’t suspect the secrets

Disseminated

By tendrils curling

Biding our time

To show the power

Of what can be

About the Author

Mark LaMonda, born in Worcester, Massachusetts, is an artist and writer who currently lives in Santa Clarita California. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in many journals, including Painted Bride Quarterly, Wilderness House Literary, Autumn Sky, San Pedro River Review, SoFloPoJo and Blue Unicorn.

Mon5ter

Time Running Out. Infinite Time Concept.

David Anson Lee

Blueprints of Absence

After the last voice leaves,

furniture confesses:

chair legs recalling the weight of bodies,

tabletops keeping the echo of elbows,

a glass sweating its dissolving circle.

There is a map no one teaches:

drawn in absence,

where rooms swell and cave

with each unspoken name.

I move like a surveyor

of the unmeasurable:

the hinge of a door that argued with the wind,

the hush thick as fabric

in corners where laughter lingered.

Even the clock learns restraint,

hands suggesting time

as memory does: unfinished.

And in that unfinished space,

mercy whispers:

not the return of what was lost,

but the quiet art of living

among its echoes.

About the Author

David Anson Lee is a physician, philosopher, and poet whose work explores memory, identity, and the quiet intersections between body and spirit. Born on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation in South Dakota and now based in Texas, he brings a layered perspective shaped by medicine, philosophy, and lived experience. His poetry has appeared in numerous literary journals, including Eunoia Review, Ink Sweat & Tears, Spillwords, and The Journal of Undiscovered Poets. He is currently working toward a cohesive poetry manuscript that examines healing, mortality, and the human condition through a lyrical and introspective lens.

Ihar Halavach

Message on Sticky Note Emphasizing the Importance of Educating Future Generations Displayed Against a Vibrant Red.

Thomas Piekarski

Survivors in a Topsy Turvy World

They call us the elderly, like last of the Mohicans in that

we’re the remaining living witnesses of a world gone by,

our gray hair, walkers, untidy dress, and careful patience

belying the undercurrent, a most extraordinary true story.

We seniors are survivors of a transformation powerful

and puzzling like the conversion from horses to autos.

We’ve walked the divide from analog to digital universe

at a considerable pace without sacrificing our humanity.

The scars of World War II still fresh, we entered when

cities were rebuilding, rising up out of dreadful rubble.

Hope had to be restored after years of sheer uncertainty,

our childhoods wildly different than they are these days.

We played marbles in alleyways, hopscotch on cracked

sidewalks, checkers, Monopoly and Risk on card tables.

When streetlights flickered you could hear mom calling

you for dinner from two blocks away. No smartphones,

no endlessly scrolling, no streaming videos, no selfies.

We built relationships on common engaging activities.

The 60s and 70s came like a wave of color and rebellion,

music the defining feature of our always-shifting culture.

Woodstock instilled the belief that peace could survive,

and tolerance thrive despite our various dissimilarities,

hundreds of thousands of people in a muddy field filled

with raw emotions tuned into giant speakers they called

a wall of sound. They wanted to change the status quo,

stifle war, stamp out racism, gain equality for everyone.

Our education was tedious, time-consuming, laborious,

took study, notebooks filled, and stacks of heavy books.

No slick internet access, and no artificial intelligence,

we thought problems through, lacking quick solutions.

Mistakes were corrected with erasers on chalk boards

or whiteout for ink, not the clicking of delete buttons.

Vinyl records on turntables, cassette tapes and iced tea,

long conversations, whispers behind curtains, intrigue,

those defined our realities, thin and temporary as they

turned out, since the technology gradually reshaped us.

We remember booths with rotary phones, party lines

where you overheard your neighbor’s conversations,

much different than today when you can view the face

of a loved one across the ocean on a hand-held device.

In 1969, staring at our black-and-white televisions, we

watched Neal Armstrong take a step out on the moon,

an astonishing accomplishment on behalf of mankind.

Birth of the internet, texting, demise of fax machines,

global networks connecting billions of people instantly,

smartphones holding more data than any Encyclopedia,

proliferation of personal computers, these we’ve lived,

and through every twist and sudden shift ably adapted.

Discovery of DNA structure, decoding human genome,

bicycles to electric vehicles, sweeping changes galore

we have weathered, without a whimper, since some things

never change: icy glass of lemonade on a warm afternoon,

vegetables picked from your very own garden, celebrating

birth of new family member, handwritten letters, sorrows.

Us, the one and only generation having experienced

the turnabout from all analog to digital transmission.

We’re living bridges, not relics, and hold great memories,

their stories some day to be recited at history’s crossroads.

About the Author

Thomas Piekarski is a former editor of the California State Poetry Quarterly. His poetry has appeared in such publications as Poetry Salzburg, Modern Literature, Creation Magazine, The Museum of Americana, South African Literary Journal, Home Planet News, and California Poets Anthology. His books of poetry are Ballad of Billy the Kid, Monterey Bay Adventures, Mercurial World, Aurora California, and Opus Borealis.

Olga Evtushkova

The Balloon Is about to Burst from the Sharp Button

Kenneth Pobo

Sometimes When

I’m sitting beside

my husband watching

a Hazel rerun,

it occurs to me that one of us

may not live much longer.

Death toys with us

as we share a bag of popcorn.

I hear laughter—

not from the show’s

laugh track. Our demise

amuses Death. I keep

unease to myself. Stan

enjoys the rerun--

why bring up the inevitable?

I rub his chest

and shoulder. We can’t do that

forever. Time is a needle

in a world of balloons.

Thilly Thavage (With Hand Flick)

Kids called me a thilly thavage—a moniker

for gay before I knew what gay was.

A savage was a he-man, something to aspire to,

so it seemed. Put silly in front of savage

and it meant I was weak, girly, the last kid picked

in gym. A savage isn’t civilized. Me neither.

I remove the trappings of a civilized man,

camp it up, happy that the man I was supposed

to be, the one who fits in, doesn’t fit in,

dances in heavy rain, talks softly to birds.

About the Author

Kenneth Pobo (he/him) has a new book out called Raylene And Skip (Wolfson Press). He has work forthcoming in Meetinghouse Magazine, Cosmic Daffodil, Eclectica, and elsewhere.

Alfredo Garcia Saz

Painting of Assisi in Ecstasy, Showing an Angel Comforting the Saint, by Michelangelo Merisi Da Caravaggio, National Gallery, London,UK

P.J. Warren

Legerdemain

“Dude. Our meeting isn’t over till it’s over. You gotta show up for this job. I’m building this company up. Know what I mean?”

“Okay.”

“I learned it the hard way. Lost millions, made millions. See my tresses?”

“No, sir.”

“Look at my grey hair! Oh, never mind. Let’s just do a call. It’s the only way to learn.”

“Okay.”

“You got quarters?”

“Quarters?”

“For the parking meter.”

“I think you scan your QR code.”

“I meant for you. Lotta Fed Exes have free parking; this one has those God awful parallel spots. It’s a madhouse out there. Friggin’ traffic, people honking when anyone pauses for some old lady to cross the street. Some friggin’ Mercedes SUV almost ran over me when I alighted from my Uber. Developers call it ‘pedestrian friendly.’ Or is it ‘live-work’?”

“I was a pedestrian today.”

“Couple months ago, they towed me. Okay, one good thing is, look at this next candidate. She has a good credit score. But she’s proposing a dog-walking business; now what does that mean?”

“Means they pay her in cash—”

“Yeah, in dribbly amounts, and she wants a quarter-million bucks for friggin’ dog walking. Now, that’s crazy. Is she answering?”

“Message machine.”

“Lemme hear. Okay, it’s a message machine, so we don’t know what the hell she’s doing. Grooming someone’s dog, maybe. Hell, it’s gospel music, so what the hell is that about.”

“Hello? Ms. Martin, I’m Demetrius, calling from NorthStar Financial; I have your loan query here. If you wish to reach me, I’m at 888-342-1451, in case you have questions about the forms, or the process. We’re waiting right here for your call. Thanks!”

“Okay—yeah! So, good message. Excellent, in fact. That’s precisely what you say.”

“Sure, I’m just wondering—”

“Always listen to the clients. Find out what they’re doing, what they think they’re doing, what they should be doing. Listen. Sometimes they say, ‘I wanna go to Vegas.’ If they say that, get rid of them.”

“Okay.”

“Lotta crazy people in this world.”

“Yup.”

“What was that gospel song she had on?”

“Maybe ‘What a Friend We Have in Jesus’?”

“Okay, I’ll do the next one. He only wants twenty-five grand. That’s a lousy twenty-five hundred bucks for us. But he’s reasonable. Wants it to pay off some bills. Not for some crazy dog-walking business.”

“Okay.”

“Here we go, it’s another message, no wait, he’s answering. Hello! Mr. Petrofka?”

“Yeah, Sam Proctor, NorthStar Financial—”

“I see—”

“And, what are you gonna use the money for? Some credit card debt, then to carry some people and buy equipment? Okay. Have you been late on any payments in the last year? Don’t mean to hurt your feelings—we have a new lender in New York; they don’t want anybody who might get evicted. Or child care payments. You up on those?”

“Great, okay, I’ll send the paperwork, it’s pdf, and if you qualify, I’ll get your money as soon as I can. We’re glad to be of service to you, Mr. Petrofka!”

“See? Now that’s a reasonable person. Wants to pay bills, buy equipment. So, you gotta look for the rational folks. You can’t be changing no diaper when you’re doing this; you can’t be talking to no girlfriend.”

“She’s my fiancée. We’re getting married on April—”

“You gotta be thinking, what are they gonna use the money for? And obtain info about their credit card debt.”

“I thought this was a short meeting, so I better—”

“What did I tell you before?”

“Things gotta make sense in your world. It’s not about the money. Except when it is.”

“What else?”

“Also, you know some big shots; it all makes sense in the end; I just gotta stick it out here.”

“I’m glad you listen. Because we’re lending out other people’s money, and our lenders want their money back.”

“Where are they?”

“The money people? Well, you know—”

“No—where?”

“Up in New York. Doesn’t matter. Nobody’s anywhere really. Not anymore. Look outside. Does that look like anyplace in particular to you?”

“Oh. Okay, sure.”

“Okay, here’s the next guy. He’s one of these intellectual guys, a little jerk, pristine little resumé, wants to do it for its own sake. He won’t go public. Name’s Ed. He’s not as bright as he thinks he is.”

“You weren’t confused when you were twenty-five? I was, kind of. That was only four years ago, but I’ve changed so-o-o much.”

“What he doesn’t get is: You can have all the masters or PhDs and it doesn’t mean squat if you haven’t any real-world experience. An actual Facebook contact is worth five dollars: That’s what he doesn’t understand. When his investors realize this, they’ll back out. They’ll realize that what he’s got is a lot of bullshit.”

“Bullshit?”

“Hmm?”

“Or legerdemain? That was my high school history teacher’s word. She actually cared about her subject: especially Art History. I think she had a master’s. Taught us about Renaissance Italy, about Caravaggio, who kept getting into fights, weaving through all the patrons and the street people, looking for—safety, I guess. When he was six years old, a bunch of his relatives died in the Milan plague. He saw his dad with purple boils on his skin. I can just see Caravaggio once he was grown up, lurching between hope and terror, encountering all those dark, velvety colors, and all those grimaces. I can’t do faces like his; I don’t paint, but I draw—leaves and trees, eyes, people buffeted by everything whirling around them. Sometimes I see the whole world in a tense-looking mouth.”

“Geez. Who are you? Blanche DuBois?”

“What?”

“Never mind. Don’t want to discuss my ex. She teaches high school English. Used to quote Blanche a lot. Great retirement plan though.”

“Then sometimes when I look at a Caravaggio I think of my dad, with life devouring him, like someday he’ll just disappear, and only the monsters’ll be left.”

“Yeah, yeah, get used to it: That’s life. That’s business. And I’m providing a service to people like that. People like your dad. Folks who usually don’t get to participate. But you gotta concentrate, Demetri.”

“At least in Caravaggio’s time the purple boils on people’s necks were visible; made them easier to understand.”

“Look around; you seeing purple boils?”

“Sort of.”

“You’re not concentrating.”

“On lies? High interest rates? What about those leveraged loans used by private equity?”

“What?? What does NorthStar have to do with private equity? I’m a small businessman. How about a little respect here? And FYI, compared to the fourteenth century, our life expectancy is pretty awesome.”

“Caravaggio was born in 1571.”

“Yeah, when did he die? Plus, with regard to our interest rates, it all depends on when our

clients pay it back, how high the amount is. Our lenders gotta make a little money too. Anyway, when you make calls, you’re saying that new baby of yours gonna eat. Someday he’ll be asking for Thomas the Tank Engines, then toy helicopters, then a real BMW. Is that a lie?”

“I can make sandwiches—at Sub Hub; I’ve got an appointment with the manager at—”

“What does he say about that misdemeanor of yours? Have you told him?”

“Pretty much. Sort of. They said I might be promoted to assistant manager.”

“Add up what you’ll make there: hell, I know what you’ll make; I used to work in a nursing home. Before that I lived in a shelter, and kids at school taunted my daughter for being homeless. In the town where I grew up, people with money are either drawing money from Medicare, or overworked teachers; otherwise, everyone’s just trying to survive, so hello? Legerdemain? Sounds good to me! Okay, I’m dialing this twenty-five-year-old; and remember, if you start dealing candy, you could get shot like your friend, what was his name? Hey, Demetri, don’t go. Demetri?”

“Yeah, he’ll be back. I gotta do this call. Hel-lo, young man, how you doing, did you get the forms done?”

“Company makes you nervous? I make you nervous? I’m not like everyone else. And I’m the one who believes in what you’re doing; I’m looking at your email now. I like your company. But you’re blocking your own path—to the cash. And that doesn’t make sense to me.”

“Okay that’s fine. I understand—I know what my inefficiencies are. The whole system needs to be upgraded.”

“Course there is—I used to live out there. I know all about Seattle folks. I know there’s billionaires out there. But they’re inventors; aside from Bezos, they’re not business savvy. Good thing is, I can get you a hundred thousand pretty fast. You can sign a contract with my company and help us build our website too. Get our data ship-shape.”

“I know, I’m a caveman to you. I just ask—I know: the forms are Byzantium.”

“Okay, not Byzantium; byzantine. Whatever; you don’t need to be petty. I just want to get your info and forward it to my lenders. Then say: Here, Ed, here’s a hundred grand; take your money; go crazy, Ed.”

“I’m not concerned about the Seattle economy. When they stop drinking little cups of coffee and little sandwiches, maybe. I got rivers of money, plenty of venture capital.”

“What’s my IT budget? It’ll be whatever I say it is. I’m not afraid of putting money into AI. I know you’ll build me a website and software that’ll have my company functioning as I envision it.”

“What did you say? Okay, sure, right now, I’m using the computers in Fed Ex.”

“I know, I know. Not exactly AI. But what about all those data centers? Aren’t y’all borrowing oodles of cash for those? Checkerboarding farm land all over the world?”

“What’s that? Oh, where’s Demetri? Sure, he’s working for me. ‘Course he’ll be back. He’s carrying quarters out to the friggin’ meters. Picking up sandwiches at Sub Hub.”

“What did you say? Consider my mitochondria? Dude, I’m all about mitochondria; I’m stress-free! Not a drop of seed-oils on my Italian Sub! But it’s crazy out there, friggin’ traffic. Mercedes nearly ran over me. Lotta crazy people out there. You gotta show my lenders you have a vision, Ed. Show them you’re not just doing piddly little things. Okay?”

The End

About the Author

Tricia Warren, a former lawyer in Wasington, DC, eventually moved back to Atlanta, where she tries to say out of her car. Meanwhile, her work has appeared in The Furious, Gazelle, ArLiJo, Umbrella Factory Magazine, SNReview, Eunoia Review, Litbreak Magazine, and others.