April 2014 | back-issues, poetry
I must keep loading more photos
of alpine bogs on Wikipedia to substitute
for real travel. I have found the gathered
heather, drying after the scythe, to be naturally
deficient, despite their colors and texture
but the photographs….suffice? Yes. Someday,
I’ll skip stones from a seated position
on a much larger, flatter stone. I will cut my
fingernails and learn Gaelic, I will sing
as loudly as my lungs are able to project
(and many more things I cannot promise
I keep quiet to myself). I will dance and my partner
will possess two parallel and equivalent braids.
There will be a cold wind—the heather, here,
alive and well, shaking in its grasp. I will laugh
at a willow grouse. I will cite all my sources,
because my upbringing was strangely emphatic
when it came to academic honesty. Blooming,
in its final moments, the sun sets. Rays! Rays all over.
—Payton Cuddy
Payton Cuddy is a native of Bryn Mawr, PA. He is currently pursuing an undergraduate degree in English at Kenyon college.
April 2014 | back-issues, poetry
Using a calligraphy pen,
she traced the side of my face
onto crisp paper stock,
mutton chops and tam
stitched in profile.
She shared it
before king oaks
in the UNC courtyard.
Journalism camp, a random
choice, but lent
to the surprise, and
a walk and a swim. Calendar
pages turned and we sat
along the Currituck Sound,
our bodies engraving maps
of our explorations
in the damp sand.
Our inexperienced hands
roamed one another
and without much
warning, the day breaks
the two of us into
our separate ways,
but distant pictures still
linger, and songs still
remind. Beach prints
remain to echo
our art. Museum galleries
framing the past.
—Paul Piatkowski
Paul Piatkowski lives in Winston-Salem, North Carolina with his wife, daughter, and corgi. He teaches English at Forsyth Technical Community College. His work has been published in journals like Florida English, A Hudson View, 2River View, Nagautuck River Review, U.S.1 Worksheets, Fast Forward, Sheepshead Review, and Ditch.
April 2014 | back-issues, fiction
The old man rested his elbows against the rail of the bridge and contemplated the churning depths below. He was ready to be done with his problems.
He held the plastic card over the rail and let go. There. He would never be tempted to spend himself into so much debt again.
Sammy shivered under the thin blanket as the wind invaded his space under the bridge. Something sharp hit him in the forehead. He swore and searched among the rocks for the assailant.
A credit card, sent to him straight from the heavens. Sammy knelt and praised the Lord.
—Anna Zumbro
