Poetry Contributor
Joris Lenstra works as a translator and editor. Occasionally, he manages to squeeze out a poetry translation, which has resulted in Dutch poetry books of work by Walt Whitman, Jack Kerouac, Oscar Wilde, and Lawrence Ferlinghetti. He also loves to write his own work and has published poems, short stories, essays and articles in magazines and anthologies in the Netherlands.
K.T. Slattery
Lucrezia stood hooded in the corner, watching the display in front of her in disgust as the monk shook his fist and shouted for all the frenzied crowd to hear. He threw a book on the flames. The crowd roared as the flames devoured it- dancing and flickering as they reflected off his bald head. The smoke billowed around him and to Lucrezia he had the look of a crazed demon who just crawled his way out of the pits of hell.
Lucrezia did not say a word as she hid in the shadows watching the mounting spectacle. She was not completely sure why she felt she must come and witness this, but once the whispers had reached her ears, she could not keep herself away. The palazzo she knew so well had been invaded by Savaranola’s bloodthirsty Piagnoni, its treasures stripped and thrown haphazardly in carts and transported to the Piazza della Signora, where they would await a smouldering execution for offenses to the propriety of the self-proclaimed moral compass of Florence.
The palazzo’s owners had long since abandoned the city, fled to the safety of the surrounding hills, where they would await the inevitable change of tide. Life and power in Florence was never stable, and for any of the powerful families to maintain a foothold in the erratic political machine that was Florence, they must be prepared for any eventuality. Lucrezia understood all too well their desire to survive. She was smart, cunning, charming, and beautiful- but perhaps most importantly- she never forgot her place. Having been born to the streets of Florence, she understood hunger and sickness and she knew that she would endure anything to keep those wolves at bay.
For two years she had been brought into the palazzo to please the elder son of a wealthy merchant. He was smitten with her and as long as he mounted his ugly wife every ten months (or thereabouts) to produce another heir, his father paid for his every whim. He was not her worst customer. He was quick, not too rough, and always fell asleep straight after, leaving Lucrezia waiting for him to either wake up for more or summon someone to remove her. It was in these respites that she discovered the one thing that had ever made her question her existence- to feel like there was something more to this life than surviving in the highest degree of comfort one could manage. In the elder son’s room there was a painting. The first time she saw it she stopped moving and was, for a brief moment, lifted out of her body. A harsh tug on her arm brought her back to reality, and as she stumbled to keep up with her escort, she noticed the hairs standing up on her arms, felt for the first time a pleasurable tremble run through her hardened soul.
From that moment, she spent every moment looking forward to her next summons to the palazzo. She could hardly wait for her occasional lover to be done with her, so she could sit and look at the entrancing scene before her – its power over her so strong- she ceased to hear the loud snoring of her paramour, to feel the most recent bruises he had left on her delicate skin. Sometimes she would be drawn to the bathing nymphs, other times it was the goat man dancing in a small thicket of trees. Every so often she found herself looking so deep into the painted forms on the canvas that she ceased to remember they were there, so transfixed was she by the vivid colours she had never seen before in the real world. Mostly though, she gazed at the river, so lifelike she could convince herself it was moving. She imagined herself on a little boat sailing down the river to ‘Away-‘ the name she had given to the place she would one day go. Never having been out of the walls of Florence, she did not know about anything that may lie beyond the city walls, but one day she would have enough money to seek it out. For all she knew, the goat man would be there- and they would dance through the woods barefoot, occasionally dipping their toes in the crystal-clear river.
She never asked the elder son about the painting, for this would not have been acceptable. As a woman, and one of the city’s meretrice, discussions of this nature (and generally discussions of any nature) were out of bounds- and so Lucrezia never knew the name nor the painter of the masterpiece that had put a spark of light in her soul.
Savaranola lifted the painting high above his head- displaying it as the crowd of sheep baa’d their disapproval. Singular cries of ‘burn it’ came from the crowd. A few more chimed in until the mob built enough momentum to reach a fever pitch of unity… ‘BURN IT!’ Savaranola smiled his demoniac grin and triumphantly threw the canvas onto the bonfire. The multitude exploded into deranged cheers and Lucrezia turned away, imagining the river nymphs screaming in agony as the once peaceful river transformed into a torrent of flames. A single tear trickled down a hardened face that had never before allowed the touch of salt water to kiss its cheek.
Photography Contributor
DW McKinney is a Sin City-based writer. She is the creative nonfiction editor for The Tishman Review and is the 2018 Hellebore Press Creative Nonfiction Scholarship Honoree. Her essays have appeared or are forthcoming in The Hellebore Press, Stoneboat, TAYO Literary Magazine, Cagibi, honey & lime literary magazine, Sidereal Magazine, and others. She is also a regular contributor to HelloGiggles.com and OnOurMoon.com. She loves eating peanut butter and chocolate ice cream (only from Baskin-Robbins) and doting on her orchids. Check out her projects on dwmckinney.com or follow her @thedwmckinney.
Charis Fox
I’ve stared out of the window for the past three months. Some days I haven’t been able to see past the streaks of rain that stain the window like dried tears on cheeks. Other days, I’ve cradled my morning coffee and watched as green turns to brown, as the nights consume the days, and as the Sun weakens.
Nothing grows without the Sun. Our garden has become a graveyard. From my window I can see grey slabs leading to an infertile bed of sandy brown dirt. The ferns tendrils curl into the ground, no longer thick and lush. The olive tree, a wedding present, stands lifeless, propped up by soil and stones. The lavender that once attracted bees and butterflies is crisp and grey.
Amber evenings spent in the garden, enveloped in the perfume of jasmine, rosemary and lavender, are only memories.
Some days my gaze rests on the windmill that juts incongruously out of the dirt. A child’s whirly windmill. Its rainbow rosettes poke up above the brittle twigs of abandoned plants. It was supposed to bring joy and life. A splash of colour and a whirl of movement. But its faded petals remind me of a rundown seafront in winter and bring me only sadness. They, like I, seem to have succumbed to the muted, washed-out skies. It’s not clear whether it is us that have faded quietly, imperceptibly into the grey, or if the grey has seeped into us, draining our souls of colour.
I’ve stared out of the window for the past three months, as winter pervaded and overwhelmed our home. I’ve been so focused on what’s not there, I’ve been blind to the life that’s struggled on in the peripheries.
But today the Sun’s rays light up the garden and reach towards me through the window. The warmth can just about be felt on my skin. Tiny hairs prick up on my pale arms. Today I am able to see through the dirt-streaked window. The dawn glow shows me the rosemary bush that has stood stoically throughout the winter months. Through the glass, I can almost feel the softness of the lamb’s ear that has appeared without me noticing: the Sun transforms its grey leaves into silvery, soft fronds. Today I want to smell the rosemary, I want to feel the lamb’s ear.
Today, I go outside. The air is no longer frigid and I shed the heavy layers that I’ve grown accustomed to wearing. Green buds have appeared on the olive tree, a cluster of daffodils explode brightly from the planter of bulbs that I’d forgotten about. The cricket pitch nearby comes to life with the thrum of a lawnmower and the scent of freshly cut grass. The thwack of ball on bat as the players come out of hibernation signals the start of a new season. Of hope and anticipation.
I notice the dirt is no longer barren. Tender green shoots poke out defiantly: their fragility makes them seem even stronger. They’ve been waiting patiently for this moment. Having survived the long, dark months of winter, they’re ready to show themselves. Life even pushes up through the cracks in the grey slabs.
The warm spring air carries candyfloss blossom from next door’s tree and scatters it like confetti across our garden, celebrating the life that has laid dormant, but not dead.
The windmill is still faded but it spins and whirls in the shower of blossom.
Britton Minor
A Mockingbird trills ree-ree-ree-swoo, ree-ree-ree-swoo, over and over again. Bright yellow mustard flowers flank the weedy plot of dirt where, seven years ago, a ravenous gopher ate through the middle of three out of four newly planted Buddleia—Butterfly bushes. Weeds abound. Unlike marriage, their success relies—
Weedy mental meandering is what I do when endings and beginnings are wedged-up like incompatible vegetables planted too close together; cabbage and strawberries, for example; or tomatoes next to bush beans. But while avoiding vegetable catastrophes only requires a bit of research, avoiding personal catastrophes is less clear-cut, by far. One only has to look to Shakespeare for proof.
In junior high, I accidentally played Juliet. Ms. Anderson, the drama teacher, saw something in me and claimed I’d be perfect for the role. Me? I thought, five seconds before my ego primed my lips with a commitment. Each night, under cover of darkness, I’d earnestly rehearse my lines in the back garden:
Deny thy father and refuse thy name/Or, if thou wilt not, be but
sworn my love/And I’ll no longer be a Capulet.
Weeks later I’d plunge Romeo’s dagger through two layers of chiffon, fake blood exploding across my abdomen, and collapse dead on the stage.
What wasn’t clear to the eighth-grade me, anything related to my feminist renaissance to-come, is now as transparent as air. Juliet should never have offered to give up her name. After abandoning my maiden name four times, as if getting married was akin to existing in a self-induced coma, it took Donald Trump becoming America’s 45th president to wake me. In an instant, every flimsy belief I’d held became sturdy inspiration for deep internal change. Raised by strong women and nearly absent—either physically or emotionally—men, I can only scream to myself: What took you so (52 years) long? Doesn’t matter, really. A maiden name isn’t difficult to reclaim. A dead marriage is.
I read recently that in shade, Zinnias produce fewer flowers on smaller plants. Shade is a problem for them, just as it has always been for women who stand in the shadow of a man—we can’t grow properly there.
Zinnias were discovered in the 1800s, by Johann Gottfried Zinn, a German botanist, and have become a symbol of endurance. I’m envisioning the Zinnia’s floral antecedents through the eyes of budding botanist Alma, from Elizabeth Gilbert’s The Signature of All Things. I’m belly-to-the-dirt, clothing of the day notwithstanding, investigating flora and fauna, calculating exactly how our world first began to grow. I’m maintaining a detailed notebook of lichen, replete with illustrations, and envisioning what our world might, based on these micro-investigations, become. But a botanist also understands that our existence predates its discovery, that something always came first.
The feminist me predates my 2016 discovery of her. I see her as an independent five year-old pulling up patches of grass just to peer into the teeming world below. I see her in a lifelong refusal to embrace religious discrimination against the gays, and in my wonky determination to keep trying to get love right even after repeated failures.
Some people don’t like the word feminist much. It’s as misunderstood and poorly labeled as “weeds” that are just flowers that want to grow, unobstructed.
An ending, I understand, is a synonym for a beginning, which is a synonym for someone who wants to…
…grow (a love story, remember?)
Marianne BremsPoetry Contributor
Marianne Brems is a long time writer of textbooks, but also loves to write whimsical poems. She has an MA in Creative Writing from San Francisco State University. Her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in several literary journals including The Pangolin Review, Armarolla, Foliate Oak, The Voice of Eve, and The Sunlight Press. She lives in Northern California.
Poetry Contributor
Leah Gonzalez is an emerging writer from San Jose. In 2015, she moved to Los Angeles to pursue television writing. After three years of working as a production assistant, she moved to Spain to teach English. She currently lives in Huércal-Overa in the province of Almería, meeting other queer women, traveling through Europe, and, of course, writing. Her journalism has appeared in Santa Clara Magazine and she has worked on shows such as “Grey’s Anatomy,” “Shades of Blue,” “Jane the Virgin,” and “The Chi.”
