Devil’s Den No More
Zoe Philippou
Category: flight (Issue No. I)
malignant dystopia
malignant dystopia
Linda M. Crate
i wish i could say
your lust
didn’t destroy me
like i wish i could say
my father’s absence in my
life didn’t matter
or my stepfather didn’t shatter
an already broken heart
with all his pain and rage,
but none of these things is true;
yet like the phoenix
i rose from the ashes of the person
that once i was to rise again
with brilliant new flames—
it was hard to fly for the longest time,
but now i remember flight;
and putting the past behind me
isn’t so hard a task some days but others i fly into
memories of you and i thick and curling
as the most stubborn ivy—
yet i know i will not always be tethered to the
song of your bitter death
one day my dreams will split you down the middle
where the nightmares will cease to grow,
and no longer shall your monsters mate;
then you will see the consequence
of love and light magic
working against the dark of your malignant dystopia.Ascending Cliffs in the Distance
Ascending Cliffs in the Distance
Jeffrey Yamaguchi
An endless beach, truly. Miles upon miles of sand, sea, and cliffs. Not another person in sight. I was alone with my body and my thoughts, one foot in front of the other, feet sinking into the ocean soaked sands.
The alone part, wonderful. The thoughts, not so good. The clichés ricocheted inside my head, each effort to break out of this line of thinking just reinforcing and cycling back into itself the inherent problem
Is this a dream?
This is like a dream.
This is a dream come true.
I feel as if I am one with nature.
The ocean and the sky are as close to forever as I’ll ever know.
Like a dream.Someone else says these things, you roll your eyes. You say them to yourself and you want to pull your eyes out of your own head. But I kept reaching for the clichés, because the other places my mind would trip itself into were very specific — too specific, in fact, about the nonessential but nonetheless highly stressful elements of the ongoing nonspecific nature of the work that I (we) do and from which I had made a vehement point of taking a break from:
The nonsensical clarification of a confusing explanation from an ongoing conversation at a regularly scheduled and always running-long meeting.
The repeated generalized ask for more creative for the more creative aspects of our most creative work.
The conference call invite details for a discussion about a better process for our debriefs after important conference calls.
It’s as if I was actually still at my desk staring at a screensaver of the beach that I was walking upon right at that very moment.
That is when I saw the birds.
In a dynamic formation the birds trailed up the edges of the glistening sea and danced with the continual roll and crash of waves, sheer elegance in the way they lifted their wings ever so slightly above the frothy waters in flux. They flew over me in a drift, and as soon as they passed, the speed of their traverse seemed to rapidly accelerate. I stopped and watched their flight to further. In the distance they shifted their trajectory and ascended the steep walls of the cliffs, whipping themselves out of view, beyond the vantage of my sight. They were gone, and my mind was set to glide as I imagined the birds continuing on with their flight.
I wanted this, to reach the cliffs and to see what is on the other side, and then to carry on, out of sight and aloft, heading ever higher and further into the unknown spaces of beyond.
There is no one to report what happened next. This is the true beauty of taking a walk alone that is long and far enough away — to get to the point where the things you (don’t) think and the places you (don’t) delve into and the (non)decisions you decide (not) to make are truly and wholeheartedly yours and yours alone.
I did not see the birds again. But I kept on moving, and I did reach the cliffs. And once I reached the cliffs, I continued on with the journey.
I am still there, sometimes, not always. I never find myself if I have to look.
Watch them disappear
keep moving and get closer
to not being there
Kite Flying
Kite Flying
Arian Farhat
with a sheath of golden
feathers guarding its underbelly
and a feared reputation
the golden eagle soared over
the dusty dry landsperhaps my family looked
up once in a while and
saw it circling overhead,
a blessing, a curse, or a spell in reversebut they must not have seen it
my father would have had his head
swirling with stress over the paperwork
for his family to journey to the New World
my mother was in another neighborhood
studying, working at a smaller officemy aunts were
too tired and dehydrated
from the long walk from school to home
passed bazaars with the aroma of turmeric and kabob
scarves dangling around their shoulders
as they fought for the chance to learnmy grandfather
had much anxiety
over whether or not he
could travel to the office for work
if he was caught…my grandmother was
worried, raising her kids in such a world
knowing she wasn’t able to get up to help
her youngest as they stood on a stepstool to
make dinner when they should have been out
playingno, my family was chained to the
ground, souls bound to the duties
they had to themselves, to their family
their only hope of flying was when they
occasionally passed the kite flyers
for in all that sorrow,
one thing
let them soar above their worries:
the Afghan art of kite flyingmy father was a champion.
when he wasn’t studying,
he was kite flying, kite rising
he took his place among the golden eagles,
soared to infinity and forevermoreit would be many years after
my family would fly
to the New World, leaving behind their home
in hopes of a better one
a new beginningand then I was born.
and for them,
for my father who worked
from the morning sun to the evening moon,
for my mother who came to this
harsh New World with a pocket full
of English words,
for my aunts and uncles,
who defied everything in order to study
and catch their dreams,
for my grandfather
who sacrificed everything,
and for my beloved grandmother,
who dared to do the
difficult, the dangerous, the impossible
in the name of love,I fly for them.
Tacit Clarity
Tacit Clarity
W. Rebecca Wood
My soul has flown into the deep spaces apart from my clay abode.
Set free from the daily limits and bindings defining my existence.
What remains here, stuck in time, awaiting the inevitable decay,
is not the essence of my being, my reality, but instead a golem,
inanimate, save for the heart beat and breaths, keeping it alive.I am separate, cut off, incommunicado, apart from the rest of the world.
My thoughts, clear to me, are confused, garbled and untranslatable to those
who sit by my side, holding my hand and whispering to me, words of comfort,
and queries of what do I recall, do I know where I am, who they are?
All unanswerable, because I have moved on, to another place, another life, another eternity.They think my essence gone – and they are correct.
For what they see is not me, but rather, the simulacrum of daughter, teen, wife, mother, friend.
So many things to so many others – but what of me?
Melle, Maybelle, Mimi, all my names, left in the wake of my existence now.
Labels without definition – for I am separate and apart, a new creation.I float through the abyss of the universe, touching the stars, hearing their song,
waiting to join with those I love and remember in my own way.
Dancing through the eternal, hearing the beat and rhythm of life.
Asking questions oft posed, but not answered in the here and now.
Recognizing the ultimate truths that all of us know and feel.It will come soon now, and I will be free.
My effigy will burn, the flesh seared from the spirit,
which already having begun its journey, will rocket to the edges of the universe.
A supernova consuming the mundane reality of what was,
in exchange for the expectations of what will be.I mourn for those who remain – theirs is the harder path,
bound to the stolid, unmoving certitude that what is seen, is.
For in my isolation, lost in my own reality, I see the intangible,
the unchartered, the obscure that remains forever at the fingertips,
The promise of possibilities yet to come.A Mother’s Love
A Mother’s Love
Kimberly Wolkens
Sarah had been sick with the flu for what seemed like forever. It was really only for two whole days so far, but to a six-year-old, it felt like an eternity. She’d missed yesterday’s Halloween party at school because of her illness, which added insult to injury. Her mother tried to console her by saying there will be several more Halloween parties in her lifetime, but that did nothing to smooth out the ripples of disappointment for poor Sarah.
On the second day, she lay in her mother’s bed, cross at the world. She was mad that she couldn’t go to school. She was mad that she couldn’t go outside and play with her siblings when they got home from school. But what made her the maddest was being confined to bed, ordered to rest, told to stay under the covers. It was boring. Even though her mother did her best to bring her books or games or stuffed animals in between household chores, Sarah just didn’t feel like doing anything. Nothing pleased her.
For a while she occupied her mind by studying her mother’s beautiful quilt. The quilt had no two squares alike. She would look at all of the fabric patterns and debate over which pattern was her favorite. She settled on a square with a baby blue background that was dotted with tiny birds, wings out in flight. She wished she were like one of those birds, just floating through a cloudless sky. Eventually the quilt became boring to her, and she tossed it aside in frustration, only to be reminded minutes later by her mother to put the quilt back on so that she wouldn’t get the chills.
She was miserable.
One time when her mom came in to take her temperature, Sarah complained bitterly about being trapped in bed.
“Mama, I wish I could get out of bed. I wish I could fly, like these birds,” Sarah said, pointing to her favorite square.
Her Mama leaned over to study Sarah’s favorite square. “Ah, yes. That square came from a dress your grandma used to wear when she was young. It is very beautiful.” She put her hand on Sarah’s forehead. Her hand felt cool against Sarah’s hot forehead. “You’re not as feverish, but you need to stay in bed a while longer, so that you feel better sooner.”
“Aw, man!” Sarah said. “But wouldn’t it be neat to fly?”
Her Mama paused for a second, and looked up to the ceiling in thought. “Hmm…” was all she said.
That piqued Sarah’s interest. “What, Mama?” She watched as her mother re-tucked the quilt around her then stand up.
“I think I have an idea. I’ll be right back!” Mama’s long brown hair swished behind her as she rushed out of the room with a mysterious smile on her face.
Sarah was so curious about what Mama had up her sleeve that she forgot she was sick. She fiddled with the ears of her stuffed bunny named Baby. She heard her Mama walk to the kitchen and open the junk drawer where they kept markers, loose change and other odds and ends. Then she heard the door to the basement open, then close a few minutes after that. Soon her Mama returned with a permanent marker in one hand and a bright pink ball in the other.
“What are you doing, Mama?” Sarah asked.
“You were talking about flying and wishes, and it reminded me of something. One time I was stuck home sick, just like you. It was right around my birthday and I was miserable. Your grandmother made me feel better by drawing me onto a toy and took me outside, to experience the outside through the toy.”
Sarah wasn’t sure if she was being tricked, or if she should believe Mama. “Really? How?” she asked.
“I don’t know how it worked, sweetie. But she did this,” Mama said, and uncapped the marker. She drew a stick figure of a little girl with curly hair, a triangle dress, cute little eyes and a happy smile.
“Is that me?” Sarah asked.
“Yes, I think it looks like you! This is how you look when you feel well enough to play outside.”
“Now what?”
“Well,” Mama said, standing up. “First let’s open your curtains so that you can see outside. Then if you watch, I’m going to stand right outside your window, and toss this ball into the air. The Sarah on this ball will be flying, and maybe….just maybe…you’ll feel like you are flying, too!”
A smile slowly crept across Sarah’s face. She thought it sounded too good to be true. But she almost always believed what Mama told her, so she decided she would believe her this time, too.
Mama walked out of the room toward the back door. Sarah heard her slip on a jacket, then open and close the door. Seconds later, her Mama stood in front of the window. She looked in at Sarah and waved. Sarah smiled and waved back. Mama held the beautiful pink ball so that drawn Sarah was beaming back at real Sarah.
Mama bent her knees to get lower to the ground, then she sprung up and tossed the ball so very high into the air. Sarah closed her eyes and couldn’t believe what happened.
Now Sarah was flying, too! She felt her stomach flip-flop as she spun upward. She saw her blonde curls bounce carelessly around her shoulders. She looked down at the elegant pink dress floating lazily around her legs. She laughed as she watched the window of her parents’ bedroom get smaller and smaller. Sarah flung her arms out wide, pretending to be like the little birds on the quilt. All too soon, she reached the top of the ascent and lazily rolled down toward the ground. She watched as her Mama’s figure grew larger and larger, her outstretched hands ready to catch her.
Mama caught her as gently as she could, and with a squeal of delight from Sarah, bent toward the ground again before springing up to send Sarah into flight. Once again Sarah watched the house and the trees get smaller and smaller. She held her arms out and felt the air around her caress her skin. It was the most beautiful moment, being suspended in air, seeing the fiery autumn trees paint the ground in reds, golds and browns. She felt light and happy and excited. She saw a great big world out there, and she wished she could look at the whole thing from her place in the air.
But eventually, it was her turn to come back home. She felt herself falling toward the ground, her belly tickling as she came down…down…down. Again her Mama caught her. Mama held her up so that the real Sarah would see her.
The real Sarah opened her eyes, and was once again snuggled underneath a quilt in her parents’ bed. Sarah smiled the biggest smile she’d ever had. Her Mama waved once more; Sarah returned the wave.
Sarah looked down at her favorite quilt square and lovingly caressed it. Her mother came back inside, hung up her jacket and came to the bedroom doorway.
“So…how was it?” Mama asked with a grin.
“I felt like I was really flying!” Sarah said happily. “But…how did you…how did I…?” Sarah’s head spun in circles as she tried to figure out how something so magical could feel so real.
Mama simply smiled and said, “I don’t know how it works, exactly. But Grandma always said that a Mother’s love can make anything happen.” Mama came in and gave the pink ball to Sarah. Sarah snuggled even further under the quilt, placing the ball so that she could see the other Sarah, Flying Sarah, as she drifted off into a soft slumber where she dreamed about flying over the neighborhood and to beautiful places unseen.
