He reaches for his notebook. Last night I was in the desert with mice who grew wings. What a wild ride. To be decoded later. He wakes when there’s no sunlight left, not even a hint, choosing to use only five out of the twenty-‐four hours available. My life, my rules. He opens his wardrobe. His uniform resembles that of a magicians. But he’s a waiter, of sorts, at a chicken restaurant. The golden blade sits in a closed box on the table. Tonight, he counts to five before opening it. The longer he waits the better it feels. The sight sends shivers through his veins. Good shivers. The kind you can recall months later. The blade, it’s for the chickens in case you were wondering.… ...continue reading
Nina Murray is a poet and a literary translator, as well as a U.S. diplomat. She grew up in Ukraine and have degrees in linguistics and creative writing. Her debut poetry book, Minimize Considered, was just published by Finishing Line Press and her individual work and translations can be found in a number of venues.
In this episode of Cover to Cover with . . ., Editor-in-Chief Jordan Blum speaks with Murray about her latest poetry collection, the ups and downs of being a professional translator, journal guidelines, and more (including a live reading of her poem “George Washington’s Rules of Civility”).
– Nina Murray… ...continue reading
His phone got up to six missed calls right before it died. All from Mom and none from Paul.
The whole time he had been sitting at McDonald’s dipping fries in his McFlurry it could have been charging. He didn’t want to wait now. He didn’t think he needed to. He just had to get back on the highway and drive in an hour-long straight line and then he’d see his brother. If he got a little lost it would be a relief.
But he didn’t get lost. He put his new shoe against the gas pedal of his old car, Paul’s old car, and barely moved it until the corn turned to trees. He should have taken it slower. The empty roads were just so tempting.… ...continue reading
The new moon came in with the stormy weather
and washed everything so clean, all that is left to do
is to cling to the brightness of a future
we’ve never seen.
And the past, pulling on hopeful
bodies like a puppet master reminding us who we have yet to
forgive, telling us to hold on when we should let go, keeping us
in fear of the unknown.
I reach for you in the dark and hope that you reciprocate.
I run until my feet are sore to warn you like Eve in the garden
wishing only to share with a partner, not to be blamed for eternity.
But you resist.
– Tejan Green… ...continue reading
Award-winning vocalist, performer, and composer Morgan Minsk taught herself piano in kindergarten and composed her first song at age 7. Soon after, she discovered her innate musical talent as a vocalist and multi-instrumentalist and later added saxophone, guitar, clarinet, bass, and percussion to her repertoire. At her high school graduation, she was awarded a full tuition scholarship to Berklee College of Music (where she received several awards, including the Voice Department’s Outstanding Performer Award). She left her hometown of Springfield, IL in 2011 and later graduated magna cum laude in 2015 with a B.A. in Music Therapy and a minor in Psychology.
Now a board-certified Music Therapist (MT-BC) and Certified Neurologic Music Therapist (NMT) by the Robert F. Unkefer Academy for Neurologic Music, Minsk’s work as a music therapist includes work with Ugandan child soldiers (Musicians for World Harmony).… ...continue reading
It is 1980 my father is high on cocaine.
He is a man unfaithful even to his own sadness.
–
(there was a machine I was involved in it it gave me a diamond I gave it the heart of a palm it thundered and groaned like a moss-covered god)
–
It is 1980
we are among
my wife’s dead
hanging flowers
and I am
Cocaine.… ...continue reading
The strained ticking of a broken clock was the single noise in Oscar Brum’s living room, but was enough to clasp him from his staccato sleep. His spindly body shook convulsively as a nervous wave shot from feet to torso and sprung him upwards. He immediately made note of his latest night terror: ‘suffocation’. His dreams were becoming progressively violent, all ending with painful, contorted deaths. They had, for a while, been morbid, but it was a gloom he’d basked in. As the unfortunate butcheries had involved others, he found no reason for concern. Now that his visions had taken an unwelcome personal turn, he sought a confidant but couldn’t trust his neighbours. They were the epitome of paranoia, walking like maniacal hens, darting their gaze nervously from sky to ground, unable to settle on either. … ...continue reading