Nightingale & Sparrow

Category: flight (Issue No. I)

  • Thankful

    Thankful

    Elisabeth Horan

    Just let go—-

    Time to take it easy—
    Let them take you in 

    Be the candle
    Not the fire hazard 

    Take a break from spitting tacks
    Bending over fighting back 

    No one’s going to help you
    They’ll leave you writhing in the blood warm 

    Earth. Lift your heart up out your chest
    Splat it on the sidewalk. Rip the soul

     Right out of your belly wring it dry, hang
    Up for the rest to see what

    You become. Ate enough shit you say, I
    Split. Drank enough heartache, split. Let 

    Go, what’s the point. Be
    Thankful for what God didn’t do to you,  

    So take
    your lick
    s, the bit
    ch, the stam
    ps, the bott
    le, the mot
    el, the need
    le, the cita
    tion, the
    jail bir
    d, the dad
    dy, the flous
    ie, the orph
    an, the beg
    gar, the can
    cer, the stitch
    es the den
    tures the gl
    ass and make a
    bird. Wat
    ch my angel
    go, it fli
    es so soft
    ly—-

    Elisabeth Horan

  • Letter from the Editor – flight

    Dear Reader,  

    Thank you so much for picking up this very first issue of Nightingale & Sparrow. This whole thing began when I messaged some friends with a sudden realisation:  I think I want to start a lit mag. In the time I’ve been a part of the literary community, I’ve seen so many lives changed by small publications like this. I know what it feels like to finally get that first acceptance . . . and to be stung by rejections. I wanted to be a part of that, to give back to this community just a little bit of what I’ve seen it provide time and again.

     So, with a bit of digging to finalise some of my favourite bird imagery and a bit of quick web design, I created Nightingale & Sparrow. And, even in my wildest dreams, I could hardly imagine the response it has already gotten. Before we’d even opened submissions, we were getting hundreds of page views a day on the N&S website. So many people shared their enthusiasm and support for this project from the very start and I could not be more grateful to each and every one.

    We received so many amazing submissions for flight and I wish I could have included many more of these wonderful pieces. But I have no doubt that this issue has some of the best work available.

    We have more than 50 amazing writers and artists in this issue, each sharing a unique glimpse into their interpretations of flight, be it literal or metaphorical. From birds and planes to daydreams and fleeing the things that scare you, these pieces ultimately moved us, as I’m sure they will you.

    At times, your heart will soar like Sarah’s flight in Kimberly Wolkens’ “A Mother’s Love” or the mysterious beauty in Amanda Crum’s “A Murmuration of Starlings.” You’ll feel Karen’s sorrow as she cares for her father in Scott Moses’ “Right Now, Long Ago” and the water surrounding you in K.B. Carle’s “Submersion.” The imagery both in the words and in the accompanying images will move you.  flight will make you feel something striking with every page.  

    So, thank you to each and every contributor and every submitter who trusted Nightingale & Sparrow to consider your work. Thank you to the friends and family who’ve helped support my fledgeling publication. And, of course, thank you to you, reader, for picking it up!  

    I truly hope you enjoy reading this issue as much as I did in compiling it and I cannot wait to do it all over again for Issue II.  

    Juliette Sebock

    Editor-in-Chief, Nightingale and Sparrow

  • Quarter Life Blues in Solitude

    Quarter Life Blues in Solitude
    (Wind, Won’t You Blow Me Away?)

    Tiffany Moton

    wind, won’t you blow me away
    from this holy mess, this rat’s nest
    bed of filth and biting guilt
    in which i lay
    under wrinkled covers stained
    in hours cried and tears dried
    bust in and bare my paper skin
    i beg you wind, blow me away
    rustle the stale air heavy
    with despair
    before it crushes me for good
    whichever way you choose to blow
    that’s where i’ll go
    mercurial breeze i’m down here
    on my knees, please
    don’t leave me behind, i’m sick
    with a disease of the mind
    that strangles my soul, enervates me
    drains me to a mere vacancy within
    a wreck of a body
    delicate to touch, caution:
    may collapse to dust if loved
    too much
    better left to croon
    the quarter life blues in solitude
    until i hear the whistle of your wings
    one day
    wind, won’t you blow me away?

    Tiffany Moton

  • New Year

    New Year

    Sarah Schaff

    it’s the birds
    migrate south

    wings eager
    like knives

    not yet old
    enough to know

    how a mother mourns
    how a mother mends

    Sarah Schaff

  • MOTHER EARTH CHANGES HER NAME TO SELENE

    MOTHER EARTH CHANGES HER NAME TO SELENE

    miss macross

    Today I received an email from the National Aviary. It was a follow-up to my job interview three months prior. It read something along the lines of:

    We apologize for the delayed response. We had an unexpected hiring furlough but are now ready to proceed. We would like to offer you the position of [INSERT DREAM TITLE HERE] with an immediate start date. 

    I received this email while I was at work. Now it is several hours later, and I have yet to respond. Instead, I am working on a longform investigative article with little prospect for publication. It is about the Apollo 11 and Apollo 17 lunar rock samples that then-U.S. President Richard Nixon gave as goodwill gifts to over 100 nations and states. Nixon had small Moon dust samples placed in acrylic capsules, which were then attached to wooden display stands with banal dedication inscriptions and depictions of each nation or state’s flag.

    Upon delivery of these goodwill gifts (which were distributed in the early 1970s), their fates were no longer tracked by NASA or any other U.S. entity. Many recipients thought of them as little more than a novelty item – if humanity had reached the Moon before, then we’d surely reach it again. The dust was essentially worthless. But the last manned Moon landing was on 1972, and the gifts are now worth millions of dollars.

    Dozens of these gifts have disappeared in the decades since the last Moon landing. Some have been found; in the strange cases of Colorado, Missouri, and Nebraska, they were later found in the homes of former state governors. In Alaska, the Apollo 11 sample was taken by a teenager from the ashes of a fire that destroyed the Alaska Transportation Museum in 1973.  

    Other samples were lost during political strife, like the Apollo 17 sample given to Cyprus around the time of their 1974 coup d’état. The Apollo 11 sample given to Spain disappeared following the death of General Francisco Franco. The Apollo 17 sample given to Romania disappeared in the years after former President Nicolae Ceaușescu’s execution by firing squad. Rumors of the fates of these gifts range from their destruction to their sale on the black market.

    Some of the goodwill gifts were blatantly stolen and have yet to be found. These include Sweden’s Apollo 11 sample, stolen from a museum in 2002, and Malta’s Apollo 17 sample, stolen in 2004. These thefts have largely baffled both scientists and law enforcement officers, as without proper documentation these samples are totally unverifiable and completely worthless. And yet, years have passed without a single lead in almost every lunar sample theft case known in the world. 

    I’m not sure why this topic caught my eye, but I fell down the rabbit hole of missing space rocks while researching lost works of art and media. As it turns out, there are lots of things missing in this world. Some are movies made on flammable film, or censured books. In the case of the Amber Room, an entire Wonder of the World can go missing. Lots of people go missing every day – some through foul play, while others simply decide to walk away from their lives and into oblivion. While writing this, I am thinking about the latter option. How viable is it to disappear oneself today, in a world of ubiquitous technology and obnoxious-but-supposedly necessary legal identification requirements? If specks of dust worth more than I’ll ever earn in my lifetime can disappear, then I should be able to, too, right?

    After I came home from work, I re-read the email. The job offer has rattled in my heart and brain all day. I am happy at my current job, but I am also not happy. The pros and cons of each position are seemingly equal. If I were to quit my job tomorrow, would I be able to provide an honest reason, one that will let me sleep at night? I am the only one at my current job with my particular skillset. I suddenly feel an increased sense of worth, but I don’t see somewhere to cash out. Honestly, I don’t think that either are the best choice. Maybe I’ll never respond to that email. Maybe I won’t go into work tomorrow. I choose to spend my evening finishing another beer and researching missing pieces of humanity’s history.

    miss macross

  • Necromancy

    Necromancy

    Jennifer Wilson

    I find it difficult to say things plainly, so I’ll just say that my mother’s hands were always full of bones.

    She would hold them close and clutch them, bringing them to her chest when they were cold. And children with their flesh and their tears never phased her, their warmth not a thing to her mind. They just gave her good reason to relish the cold touch of bones and forego the future, enchanting the past and every power of death upon them as they sharpened themselves upon us.

    Our marrow was so rich and warm. And our mother would eat it, unthinking, kissing the skeleton in a suck like an infant crying out that Mother Death and Our Lady of the Shadows never loved her so well as this. 

    She made us hollow. She made us naked, ripping to rags even our bedclothes as emblems to bind and beatify the dead.

    O I wish, O Mother, in knots and offerings, that these votives make pretty bows of my motives. O ghosts, give me strength to withhold. Mother, make me not weak to be eaten. Give me death for myself to control. 

    And so her spells cast us as Others, unnecessary for her needs. Her adored drama, the sheer vastness and blankness of her bones bore us through. And, light as birds but flightless, we flew – the hollowness of our hearts coming through.

    The fall to the floor seemed so much farther than our featherweight bones could forestall – and yet we met the earth with ease, barely bruised, free to wing wide through our down.

    Jennifer Wilson

  • If Nothing Else

    If Nothing Else

    Jessalyn Johnson

    but the general faults in the solar system
    or the notes in the margins providing insight
    to temporary notions of faded ideas;
    if nothing else but if the rain reversed
    or if a collection of dust as a force of nature
    were to become profoundly instrumental 
    the way children solve problems 
    and adults solve themselves
    or the half life of something with a shelf life
    gives away nothing but numbers.
    Potential may erupt like a geyser 
    to show off like a prize
    and harness like energy or another powerful force
    for spinning in circles is a creative transit
    that leaves with no destination 
    but arrives someplace new
    in a universe that exists only in theory
    yet allows lightning bugs to glow.
    So if nothing else, there is one last iris
    or else, and only or else, is there nothing.

    Jessalyn Johnson

  • Soar

    Soar

    Sara Kelly

    Kindness shoves little feet
    forcefully into the Earth
    during take off,
    and soars into the sanctuary
    of an open heart.

    Humility rides
    seeds of dandelions,
    not unlike knights
    charging into battle,
    chanting repeatedly,
    “love thy neighbor.”

    We throw caution
    to the wind,
    But, alas, it falters,
    for fear of the potential fall.

    If we release love
    into the atmosphere,
    will it fly high into the sky,
    and sing a song of hope?
    Will it return to solid ground,
    and reassure us of
    all the beauty
    that surrounds us?

    Sara Kelly