January 2025 | fiction
In brown and grey demob suits, stoked up well with Woodbines, the three of them, from the same regiment, were thrown up cheek-by-hip on the platform: Tim, Spence, the younger David. They were packed into a wooden-slat-seat train and Spence, a chunky pugilist of a man, the veteran of bar room scraps, now weathering twenty-six, knew, like the other two, that hostilities were over, that the lights were out at last on the theatres of war.
The theatre was part of home for lanky Tim. For five, six years pre-war, he’d done amdram. He had the wavy hair, indeed the coaxing smile of a film star, so in the local Little Theatre, he could charm the ladies, court the audiences, bask in the warm reviews. But for six years nearly (Tim was thirty-two in a fortnight’s time), he had found, in conflict and in barrack room, you got to see the truth of fellow men, naked and in the raw. He was thinking rather differently now, of men and audiences and acting and affection. Post-war things would be difficult for him and only finally, decades on, would he reach a personal peace.
Spencer had married back in ’41, and yes, he was looking forward to going back to Lily. There was the physical part, of course, the regularity, and in the years that followed he would settle, despite the criss-cross and the alleyways of love, for what was more or less OK. He’d think of her, always, as ‘the Missus’, just as he’d think of ‘the boy’ and ‘the girl’. And decades on, when the cancer struck, he would cope and care for Lily with a dour devotion.
David was bound to think, on that journey home, of the breathless Rachel, the schoolgirl daughter of his mother’s friend. She’d been there at their house, on each of his leaves, and he knew full well she loved him blatantly. Everything in him, of manhood, pride and celebration, yearned for her. Yet somehow now, post-war, aged twenty-two, she not quite seventeen, he would keep feeling the gulf between all he’d seen, the nauseous blood, the gristle exposed, and the world of the child. So they would circle each other for several tremulous months, before in time they panicked and married others.
Each married a shit. Only after many, many years, after the bitterness, the blows, the pettiness, were they free, their every emotion rising with a rush.
In 1995, the celebrations marked the end of the war, and the following golden peace. None of the boys attended. Spencer said, ‘I’m just glad I came back and I think of the boys who didn’t’. He stayed in playing rummy with Lily (recovered years ago but frail). Tim and his partner Sebastian drank their Merlot in their favourite London wine bar. David and Rachel went in a rural morning for their walk in the Teifi marshes, saw the radiance of the kingfisher, felt the wetlands’ wealth and depth.
Robert Nisbet
Robert Nisbet is a Welsh writer whose work has been widely published in the USA. Burningword Literary Journal and three other magazines have nominated him for a Pushcart.
January 2025 | poetry
I’ve rehearsed this in my mind
countless times–
Put the broom or cardboard scrap
on far side of carcass
Place scoop– something thin and stiff
yet flexible, at near edge
Draw broom towards scoop–
towards myself
This is where the problem lies–
no matter what tool
I feel the soft roll of death-filled body
limp foot flop, rotation of tail
through glove, through broom and dustpan
into my veins, my whole being
I can’t do this
I fear my wrist might twitch the pan
popcorn creature into air
Once our cat left a field mouse
in the dining room midday
I ran through scenarios for hours
gathered gloves, small paper bag, old broom
but ended up hiding it beneath empty box
until my husband returned from work
to do the deed
Yet when he died
I took his lifeless hand directly into mine,
said goodbye, released
golden halo from finger, stayed
with him as he cooled
Joy Kreves
Joy Kreves is a visual artist/poet with an M.S. in Painting and a B.S. in art education from Illinois State University. She has often incorporated poems into or exhibited them alongside her artworks. Since 2021, she has been a DVP/US1 Poets member and is the current managing editor of the “US1 Worksheets” anthology. Her poems have appeared in several exhibition catalogs and “US1 Worksheets”. She has had poems published in NewVerseNews in 2024. In 2022, she had a poem at the Poetry show at Trenton Social. Kreves has hosted several “Artist Melts” events incorporating art and poetry at Suburban Frontier, her Ewing, NJ, art space.
January 2025 | fiction
When I entered the parking, there was a problem. A BMW SUV with a Connecticut license plate was parked right in the middle, blocking access to the specialty food store. I was angry. Why the fuck couldn’t that dumb bastard park in one of the nearby spaces, instead of in the middle of the lot?
I entered the fish store to get a sandwich. When I finished, I walked over to the specialty food store.
Perhaps someone had a problem. The temperature outside was below zero, so I thought — having cooled down while eating my fried chicken sandwich in the fish store. Perhaps some poor slob had a car issue and might need assistance — like a tow truck.
On entering the store I saw an aging, grey-haired man in a Brooks Brothers overcoat and tyrolean hat who was pawing the lettuce.
“Yeah, that’s my car; what of it,” he said, checking each head carefully as if he might find gold under one of them.
“Does your car have a problem?” I asked, noting not to buy lettuce.
“Not that I am aware of,” he replied, continuing to pick amongst the lettuces, probably to find the largest head.
“Well, it’s blocking the entrance to this store,” I told him, now getting a little annoyed.
“So what?” he said, finally choosing a head and putting it in his basket.
“Well, it’s inconsiderate,” I told him, following him as he walked over to the cashier.
“Says who?” he said.
“Listen, mister, you’re blocking the entrance to this store. Why don’t you move your car?” I asked, politely.
“I don’t give a shit, sonny, let me handle this first.”
“Who the fuck do you think you are, asshole?”
“Listen, sister,” the man said, “don’t play games with me.”
“Are you going to move your fuckin’ car? Why don’t you just move your fuckin’ car, asshole,” I said as politely as any Cuban could, gesticulating with my arms in his face — for emphasis.
“Listen bitch,” he said to me as he turned around, “why don’t you mind your business and let me mind mine.”
“Who’re you calling a bitch, fuckin’ asshole?”
“Bitch, go suck tit. Can’t you see I’m fuckin’ busy?” the asshole said.
I wasn’t going to let anyone — especially someone from the city — mess with me.
“Asshole, just because you come from the city you think you own the place; you’re our guest, so fuck off and move your fuckin’ car.” I had become so mad, and when a Cuban becomes mad his arms move so that the other person knows what he’s talking about.
“Bitch, as soon as I’m finished ….”
At this moment Jesse, the store manager, appeared from the back room.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
“Oh, José’s been talking to himself, —you know, just being himself,” Mariah told the store manager.
E.P. Lande
E.P. Lande was born in Montreal but has lived most of his life in the south of France and Vermont, where he now lives with his partner, writing and caring for more than 100 animals, many of which are rescues. Previously, he taught at l’Université d’Ottawa, where he served as Vice-Dean of his faculty, and he has owned and managed country inns and free-standing restaurants. Since submitting two years ago, his stories have been accepted by publications in countries on five continents. His story “Expecting” has been nominated for Best of the Net.
January 2025 | poetry
it is human nature to want to build something
substantial and wonder why our bridges fall
like fever. upon conversion from spruce to roof,
the eastern hemlock remains square-shouldered
unhungry for sun. a hospital falls in the forest
and everyone can hear it, but you wouldn’t know.
the frame of my first home, a place to dream
walls onto bones; in the backyard: three pine trees
as surrogate mothers searching for their children
searching for their limbs. books of aftermath
on classroom shelves full of featureless figures
drumlined over rockets, ships, blimps, then me,
reluctant survivor stretching fingers across
the gray victims, too young to picture their faces
too safe to see the size of their crowd. learning
eventually every echo goes unanswered
somewhere in the world. the day we move i bury
the woody wedge of a pinecone beside the porch
since i believe everyone’s intent is to be good,
unaware mulch and soil boast different creators
unaware the sun can’t reach the seeds still at home
in their husk, unaware that no amount of protection
will ever grow into a stalwart tree that refuses
to abandon its spire and survive the winter alone.
Amanda Nicole Corbin
Amanda Nicole Corbin is an Ohio-based poet who has had her work published in The London Magazine, Door is a Jar, Pile Press, Gone Lawn, the Notre Dame Review, and more. Her debut full-length collection, addiction is a sweet dark room, (Another New Calligraphy, 2024) focuses largely on her journey and struggles with mental health and addiction. Find her on Threads and Instagram at @ancpoet or www.amandanicolecorbin.com.
January 2025 | nonfiction, Pushcart nominee
CNN: American reality show contestant kills, eats protected bird in New Zealand
Clad in their best, their most expensive, Lululemon, Nike, P.E. Nation, Versace, or Adidas, flexing their abs on national TV, traipsing all over and screwing up the last protected wild places on this planet. A so-called reality show, and it makes a hell of a lot of money. What can they tell you about the amur leopard, the western lowland gorilla, the vaquita, the Sumatran elephant, box turtles, orang utan, the black rhino?
Blond, somewhat unkempt locks curl from under an expensive baseball cap, carefully trimmed three-day beard, blue mirror sunglasses. I HAD to Google the man: Spencer ‘Corry’ Jones, an American white water river guide.
An iconic, large, flightless bird, the weka, is famous for its ‘feisty and curious personality’. It has become virtually extinct over large tracts of the mainland because of changing climatic conditions and rising predator numbers. The predators, a species until recently unknown: the second-hand Kardashians and those who would love to be as famous and as rich. The show is called “Race to Survive” no less.
Spencer Jones said he was hungry.
Rose Mary Boehm
Rose Mary Boehm is a German-born British national living and writing in Lima, Peru, and the author of two novels and eight poetry collections. Her poetry has been published widely in mostly US poetry reviews (online and print). She is a ‘Pushcart’ and ‘Best of Net’ nominee. The most recent poetry collections: Do Oceans Have Underwater Borders? (Kelsay Books July 2022), Whistling in the Dark (Cyberwit July 2022), Saudade (December 2022), and Life Stuff (Kelsay Books November 2023) are available on Amazon. A new MS is brewing. https://www.rose-mary-boehm-poet.com/
