1.
There is a joyful terror to writing, to scratching an itch that doesn’t want to be scratched but must be if any comfort is to be sort. Writing is an abject feeling that, before the act, leaves one hollow-mouthed and begging.
2.
What lies in the undergrowth of our lives can be felt without words, in emotions that appear more like atmospheres superimposed upon the world than anything factual or real.
3.
Words have a pleasure that’s hard to deny. A putting down that solidifies on one side while opening up on the other. And what’s on the other side but endless interpretation, a hinterland of fragments and dreams left up to readers to stitch together with the resources of their minds.
4.
What is so terrifying is the fact that one’s words may appear faulty, lack-luster, or clichéd; that your innermost world is riddled with soap-opera fantasies whose presence on the page expose one’s own faulty mechanisms of imagination.…
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i)
it looks, at first,
like a place we’ve been before,
that stray silence
where things unravel
and we begin,
shaky breaths and cautious
hands negotiating space,
souls spilling onto the floor,
making the carpet moist.
ii)
we move to the rhythm of
each other delicately,
careful to avoid eye-contact.
we convince ourselves
a glimpse of the unknown
would be the last thing
to save a life. go on
closing your eyes, darling,
walk into bright rooms with
the blindfold on.…
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Along the path I stop and smile,
to sit awhile among the trees,
and see the air and ground agree,
no argument beneath the sky,
is why I stop to sit awhile,
Along the path I feel the shade,
to fade into a distant glow,
and show just what the day has sown,
warnings of a peppered sky,
is why I stop to sit awhile,
Along the path I stay to dream,
believing I have ransomed grace,
alone to face the night’s embrace,
sheltered under sunless sky,
is why I stop to sit awhile,
Along the path is respite calm,
leisured on the days unrest,
investing in the silence kept,
muted stars in quiet skies,
is why I stop to sit awhile,
Along the path I talk to God,
applauding what He’s given me,
in meanings of the truth we seek,
solemn whispers to the sky,
is why I stop to sit awhile,
– Dan Lucas
Author’s Note: People have a tendency to have stronger reactions when taken out of their comfort zone.…
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C.M. Crockford is a Philadelphia writer with poetry, genre fiction, and criticism published in No Recess Magazine, Oddball Magazine, and Dead Gothic Resurrected, among other zines and journals. His work has also appeared in Nasty Women & Bad Hombres: A Poetry Anthology.
In this episode of Cover to Cover with . . ., Editor-in-Chief Jordan Blum speaks with Crockford about the intersectionality of being a Philadelphia, creative writer, and music critic, as well as current pop culture hot topics like the Marvel Cinematic Universe, the controversy surrounding Channel Awesome, and more!
– C.M. Crockford…
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“Is it possible to steal from a vegetable?” I asked Timothy.
“Of course it is,” he said, zigzagging his crayon heavily into the page. “If the vegetable’s got something and you take it, well, that’s stealing.”
“So if I peel a carrot,” I said, “and I take away its skin so it’s good for eating, am I stealing from it?”
“Of course,” he said, and began to peel the paper off of his crayon as though I had inspired him.
“But do you think that’s immoral?” I asked. “The carrot’s dead already, it’s been picked already, it doesn’t care if you peel it. It doesn’t care if you eat it. It didn’t even care when you picked it.”
“You don’t pick carrots, Dad, don’t be stupid.…
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While buying groceries
at HEB. Sometimes I stand
and stare too long at
all the chocolate,
so many choices,
the Reese’s Pieces,
peanut butter package stained
with blood, shaking
hand reaching.
This continuous climb
into Everest explosions
after that mortar
landed, each IED
that implodes another
memory. Each mortar
fragment that cuts into
Alicia. Sharpened shrapnel
slices flesh. Jagged pieces
of her, fragments
of me breaking
a decade later. Another
memory slips on loose
rocks, falls further
into desert sand
below, unravels and disappears.
I hike higher, reaching
closer to the Reese’s,
but dig deeper into
my own sand grave.
– James Deitz
Author’s Note: 22 veterans commit suicide everyday (VA 2016). 22 EVERYDAY. Hopefully, through awareness, support, and poetry, this tragic statistic will decrease.…
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When I made the decision to move from Chicago, my residence of eleven years, to my parents’ farm in rural, southwestern Minnesota for an undefined period of time, anchoring was not my main goal. I wasn’t anticipating a revival in spirit, a broadened understanding of love, a fullness of opportunity, an infatuation with the horizontal expanse. I was expecting a few months of quality time with my parents, some time to develop my pottery skills, and space to think about the next thing.
Of the lessons learned in these seven weeks, including awareness and space, my latest is the role of scarcity in rural life. Out here on the prairie, the sky is everything–it’s all horizon. To quote Naomi Shihab Nye, “There is a therapy in fields.…
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