December New Moon Special
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Part One: The Fractured Mirror
Wren Ferris |
In the hush of a crowded room,
voices intertwine, a tapestry of breaths, each whisper a thread, fraying at the edges, as laughter erupts, sharp and brittle, like glass shattering under the weight of unspoken truths. They gather, a kaleidoscope of faces, their eyes reflecting histories, narratives woven in darkness and light, each smile a mask, a fragile facade, concealing the tremors beneath. The clock ticks, a relentless reminder, of moments slipping through fingers, and the silence that follows each joke, rests heavy, a weight too familiar, the punchline hanging in the air, its absurdity lingers, a ghost, haunting the corners of recognition, where identity blurs, and power plays hide-and-seek, in the glances exchanged, the unyielding grip of expectation. Outside, the world spins, oblivious, a carousel of routine, while inside, the surreal blooms, a garden of contradictions, where trauma whispers in the dark, and resilience rises like a phoenix, not from the ashes, but from the jagged fragments, of what has been broken, reconstructed in the quiet moments, when vulnerability becomes an offering, a raw, bleeding truth laid bare. Here, in the crevices of laughter, the unsettling dance of reality and fiction, the narrative weaves its way through, a tapestry of the unexamined, where discomfort resides, and the heart beats in tandem with fear, as the mirror reflects not just faces, but the shadows lurking behind, the stories untold, the lives lived in the margins, each one a universe unto itself. |
December Full Moon Special
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Wait Till The Clouds Roll By
Damien Kelly |
“Aye, yeah, I know your face from town,” Essie says to Jennie when they were introduced to one another that day up in Deerpark Day Care Centre. Of course she did. Sure, weren’t they reared together. Even though it must have been seventy or so years since them days, they hadn’t changed that much, had they. The two of them were like twin sisters when they were young ones, with their matching grey pinafores and their little black bobs. They went to the same school together, where Essie - whose family were the more well off - used to share her bread and jam sandwiches with Jennie. Now she was letting on that she didn’t know or remember her little friend.
Jennie’s mother had run off to somewhere in England when the children were only young. She was a tall and glamorous lady, like a model, and her husband - a bag egg if ever there was - used to get quare jealous with a few drinks in him and would go home and kick her into the legs until she was left black and blue. So poor Jennie, who must have been only eleven or twelve at the time, ended up rearing the three younger ones. In the finish up, anyway, Jennie was eventually let court one of the Halloran chaps who worked up in the sugar factory; they got married in time and then, after all that, she went on to rear another family when she had nine children of her own. Essie had it different, as such. She finished all of her schooling up to the inter cert and when she was eighteen or so her father got her involved with an older, widower friend of his who was a big noise down in Simmond’s seed merchants. It wasn’t long after that that they were married and, before it was almost too late for Essie, she went on to have a child of her own - a little boy. Straight away, it looked like Essie had an issue with her little friend when they met again after all the years. There seemed to be a look on her face that said - Who does she think she is? - as she watched Jennie mix with the others. You see, Jennie was so funny, and quick as a flash, her mind was still like a ricochet. She loved having the craic and everybody loved that warm way she had about her, always joking and telling stories - like the one about the American man who came over to Ireland and bought Saint Patrick’s skull. She had great sport with Marek, a young foreign chap who was doing a bit of volunteering at the Centre; they just clicked with one another. “I bet you that eejit thinks that that fella fancies her,” Essie was heard saying one day when she saw they were laughing and joking together. Jennie got into painting on account of young Marek, and he got a hold of some brushes and things for her to use. She had a knack for it even though her poor auld fingers were crippled with arthritis. She said she was sorry she hadn’t picked it up years ago. She was over the moon, though, when she finished her first picture; it was of six big white and yellow marguerites planted in a kind of a watering can. “You are a natural at this, Jen,” Marek said to her one day as he was looking for a spot to hang it. This set Essie off for some reason. She went for Jennie bald headed another time and cornered her saying something like: “You think you’re it, don't you? With your black ringlets. How were you able to keep your hair black, and I wasn’t? Look at you…you’re hardly able to walk anymore, anyway,” while pointing her wizened fist towards Jennie’s face. Mind you, Jennie would have been well able for Essie’s brazenness in times past, before her hips were done, but all she could do was sit stuck to her chair with the fright of it. You could see Essie watching on as some of Jennie’s daughters and sons, even some of her grandchildren at times, came to collect her, while she was left by her only son to be carried around in the little minibus belonging to the centre. Jennie soon started to go missing from the Centre though. Essie must have thought she had frightened her off. There was a kind of an attitude of - I sorted her out - coming off of her whenever Jennie was mentioned around the place. Jennie was missing from the Centre more and more. It started to feel like the good was gone out of it, everyone was of the same opinion. Jennie’s visits came to a complete stop. Word got around that she had been in hospital. Cancer. She wasn’t given much more time. “Oh, poor auld Jennie,” Essie said, in that sweet mouthed way of hers. “And do you know,” says she, “that we went to school with one another, you know? We were great pals, altogether. But eighty-nine, you know; it’s a great age.” Then one day word came that Jennie had passed away. We were no strangers to this type of news at the Centre, but there was a terrible sadness hanging around the place that time. There was a great turn out for her funeral. Jennie was well known and well liked around the town. Her family came to it from all over: England, Australia, you name it. The little ones, who must have been great-grandchildren or even great-great-grandchildren, were a credit to Jennie as they brought some of her little mementos up to the altar: her tapes and her paint brushes and things - but no sign of her lovely painting. Essie was watching all the sad faces in the church as a Silvermint spun round her mouth in vexation. She had her eyes on a framed photo on top of Jennie’s coffin in front of the altar; it was taken at the centre months back, where Jennie smiled with her new pals, wearing the Easter bonnets that we had made. Joe Dolan was played as the coffin was carried out of the church. Wait Till The Clouds Roll By; it was Jennie’s song. She used to hum it to herself at the Centre when she was painting. How I shall miss you, my darling. D’ya know, hearing something like that at a funeral, something that you know means something special to that person, can bring out this terrible feeling of sadness in you; it can really bring a tear to your eye. It was no different for Essie. Up at the cemetery mass the crowd stood around the grave - quiet and respectful. Something came over Essie. She asked the priest if she could say something. Nobody knew where to look when she began to cry and bawl into the microphone, “It’s not fair, God, it’s not fair…it wasn’t her time to go. Take me…I want to go.” And God forgive me for saying it but there wasn’t a single tear. When she had had her say the priest put an arm around her as if to comfort her, as such, and took the microphone out of her hand. *
Declan called around to Es’s house for a visit a few weeks later. It was only the second person who visited her since the funeral. He’d heard about what had happened at the graveyard; he must have been a tad concerned about the carry on of his poor mammy.
“Did you not bring little Aaron over to see his granny,” Essie says to him. “Little Aaron is down in Limerick, now sure,” says Declan. “Oh lovely, what has him over there?” shashee. “Little Aaron is a twenty-year-old man now, mam. He’s been in college there the last two years.” “Oh, that’s great to hear,” says Essie, “I must give him a little something for his digs; I’ve got something upstairs for him.” Up she went, up the stairs as quick as her little legs could manage in those auld slippers of hers. Declan was seemingly stuck for time - it always seemed to be a short visit with him, he always had someplace else to be. He let a roar up to her. “What is it you’re rooting around for up there?” he asked her. “Just something I did at the centre,” shashee back to him as she started to make her way back down the stairs, as careful as anything. “You can tell him his granny,” were the last words Essie ever said because what came after was an unmerciful scream out of her followed by five loud bangs. Then there was nothing but silence. Her son, God bless him, ran out into the hallway to her, only to be met with the sight of his poor mother’s body lying there at the foot of the stairs; and lying on top of it, all the life gone out of her, was the framed painting of the six white daisies. |
2nd November New Moon Special
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Echoes in the Attic
Elara N. Veil |
In the attic of whispers, where shadows confide, / Lies a trove of reflections, where bright colors slide, / Between lines of the ordinary, the strange will collide, / And the echoes of heartbeats will waltz untried.
A clock in the corner ticks softly in tongues, / While the weight of the world on a spider's thread hangs. / Each tick is a venture, each tock a rebuke, / From the marionette puppets with delirious gags. The chorus of laughter, a thin veil of fright, / Bubbling up under ribs in the dim of the night. / With a flippant bravado, the gallows tease speech, / In a banquet of truths that the sane cannot reach. Beneath the veneer of our well-shined delight, / There swirl hidden sentiments, loathed yet polite. / So we lie, and we chuckle, and sip bitter wine, / As the narratives lurk where our wild thoughts entwine. What is the taste of a wound, once it’s dressed? / Is grief merely bitter, or sweetness expressed? / Like children who fumble, for the light they can find, / We dig through the ashes, our souls intertwined. In a melody fractured, the ballad of fate, / Where the hero's resilience meets echoes of hate, / Identity dances on the razor’s sharp edge, / Under starlit confessions, we balance on ledge. Half-dreams kaleidoscope through the rooms we avow, / As curtains unfurl with a whisper, a vow. / In the scrum of romance and chaos they twine, / Resilience a specter, with specters aligned. The stones we throw scatter in ripples untraced, / Imprisoned in glamor, our lives are misplaced. / Yet within the absurdity, flickers of light, / Illuminate shadows that shift in the night. We’re an orchestra tuning, with strings made of sorrow, / Performing the symphony of discords tomorrow. / In glimpses of darkness, raw truths take their stance, / While the murmur of chaos invites us to dance. For here in this space, where the real and surreal / Collide with their whispers, our hearts learn to feel. / Let’s gather the fragments, let our stories merge, / In the corner where laughter and anguish converge. So we wander through hallways of haunting allure, / Where discomfort breeds courage, our minds drift and soar. / Embracing what lingers, unmasked and unshy, / In the theater of silence, our spirits will fly. |
November Full Moon Special
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Kidney Beans
Pauline Aksay |
My sister had a rare disease
From drinking jugs of anti-freeze She needed a brand-new kidney But waitlists were too long, you see So I checked if mine matched her needs Results came back positively I went through with the surgery And gave her one of my kidneys A new scar symbolized my deed My sister was now fully free To live life happily, healthy But late that night, at half-past three I saw her take Mom's card, Dad's keys Drive to gas station #63 Buy more jugs for her to eat Then come back home and fall asleep She woke up at ’round 12:30 To Mom, Dad washing her cups clean Paying for the purchased ’freeze Their smiles full of anxiety Yet still, she drank more anti-freeze My parents watching her each week Becoming a more yellow-green Her breaths were laboured, shallow, weak And my sister, with her disease From drinking jugs of anti-freeze Needed another new kidney Only after a couple weeks But I couldn't spare my kidney And we were out of family I had to find some different means To get her what she’d truly need… The waitlist was a good Plan “B” But a web search, Plan “A’d” reveal Markets where people sold “fresh meat” With poor judgement, I'd gone to see One, was shown things that made me squeam My head froze as my spirit screamed The “fresh meat” was simply “not clean” I ran as fast as I could flee Tripped, fell in a press factory Dazed, I fashioned ads quickly “Got a spare kidney? Then call me” Was kicked once complaints were received And landed in a French piscine Kidney shaped, it taunted me Because I hoped its whirlpool’d be An antidote to a sick body It spun, flung me to an alley I landed by trashed kidney beans they howled, said “You'll never succeed!” But by this time, my rage broke free I threw them in the French piscine As the whirlpool spun rapidly A beanstalk grew so suddenly With kidneys sprouting from its leaves At last, the right size, finally!
I found my sister’s new kidney Climbing up the stems of beans Kidneys rained down on the streets… I woke up from the surgery Felt lighter than I'd ever been Suddenly, it'd dawned on me What happened ’fore I went to sleep My sister and her rare disease From drinking all that anti-freeze Had needed two brand-new kidneys And I’d given mine both for free So now she can do what she pleases And drink all of her anti-freeze To take my parents’ hope, money And live life happily, healthy. |
September Full Moon Special
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I Speak for the Moon
JD Jentri |
I speak for the moon
as luminescent beams whisper on desert floors leafy treetops and emerald grass on golden savannahs and crystalline seas I speak for the moon my older sister and demure mother the pregnant wife and lonely lover with dimpled face of distant splendor I speak for the moon my secret-keeper and discreet companion solitary and proud gracing the night sky my twin above as I dance below I speak for the moon |
September New Moon Special
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Tranquil Ruler
JD Jentri |
ghastly pale it hangs above
mysterious and still silence is its only voice the secrecy a thrill for those who caper in its light surmise the calm’s a pass to do what pleases evil men the workings of the crass yet still it gazes from on high and passes no decree for languid solitude it seeks until it too must flee but until then it rules the night steeped deep within its lore with distant stars the heavens share and liquid pewter pours devoted worshipers below petition blessing vast yet all it gives is silent gaze upon the weakened cast and when the dawn invades night and brings with it uproar the rising dawn, chaotic day the passion and clamor the tranquil ruler of the night relinquishes the throne for in the darkness absolute it governs on its own |
July Full Moon Special
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Field Day
Abhishek Udaykumar |
Breakfast was boiled tapioca and flat rice stirred in red tea, and an abundance of bananas from the plantation. We sat on the porch where the farmer’s heavy hats and coats hung amongst his scabbed shovels and boots, and watched the wooden cottages slope down the hill in different colors. There were men pushing wheelbarrows and motorbikes down the alleys towards the main road, watching us with little or too much interest. The North-East wasn’t uniformly picturesque, though the hills were unlike most of rural India.
The farmer dropped us in the middle of a highway running across a vast golden gorge. He told us that he had a meeting at the cooperative society about pork rearing, and that we should hitch a ride back to the village before nightfall. Enisha said that her picture of the village headman had been everything but soft-spoken and unopulent, and that she hadn’t envisioned him carrying a barrel of gasoline in the back of his pickup-truck and complaining about the cost of labor. I shrugged and adjusted my SLR camera across my chest as the pickup rattled into the distance till it could no longer be heard, though it was a long time before it faded out of our sight. The hill on top of the mountain looked exactly like an apple eaten around its core. It was starkly different to the untouched gorges and their gentle slopes of grass. The conical hill had long eroded and crumbled clumsily over itself into a giant pile of dusty, yellowish boulders. A row of dump-trucks lined the crusty bay around the hill, like insects perched inside the crater of a moon. A scattered group of men, women and teenagers were hunched across the pile, wrapped in faded towels, makeshift turbans and caps. We heard a rhythmic crunch of spades as workers plumbed the mountain for limestone, turning it into a massive quarry. Enisha had wandered off to find the woman we had met the previous day. She worked with her two-year old child bundled into a cloth on her back and slung around her forehead. The base of the hill had been hollowed into a row of caves and I waltzed through their large entrances, watching the drivers chain-smoke bidis and chew an endless supply of betelnuts. A drilling machine faced the cavities as though it had a mind of its own, and the caves were cooler and quieter inside. The workers had clearly tunneled through the earth for years, though they migrated every season. The ones who weren’t local came from Bihar, Jharkhand, Orissa, Assam, Nepal and Bangladesh. Our documentary focused on a village beyond the quarry. Its geography was rugged and barren owing to its higher altitude and acidic soil. Agriculture was sporadic and the nearest school and clinic were miles away. The village we were accommodated in was close to a valley with a stream running through, and a road that led to the highway, making it easier to grow crops and transport them to bigger markets. The woman wore the same clothes as the previous day and sat around a pile of rocks, breaking them one at a time and dumping them into a steel container. The rocks were sold to construct roads and embankments, unlike the lucrative limestone boulders. She sat deep inside the cave where the darkness made it seem like it was night outside. An electric lantern hung in the corner and buried the world in a silent opera of shadows. She smiled at us and held her gaze, and asked us to sit down in her throaty language. Her eyes questioned us with a hint of mischief and she didn’t pay much attention to her baby. She was muscular unlike the men outside, and she seemed to behold a secret. Her Hindi was as bad as everybody else’s. We had grown accustomed to the tribes' general disdain towards outsiders, and the special affection we enjoyed for being young and from a region unknown to them. We had spent the previous night arguing over whether it was too soon to ask the woman for permission to film her. Enisha said that the mine and its activities wouldn’t take long to film, and that it was important to capture the woman in her element, speaking in her tribal language. She reminded me that it was absurd to think of the hill people as isolated, and that filming the woman by herself would misrepresent their community. I picked up a rock and a worn-out hammer and sat down beside the pile. The woman looked at me and then at Enisha, and asked her to sit beside me. She had an air of calm and a childlike seriousness, and her thoughts did not stop her from beating the rocks. Enisha asked her if she carried her lunch and she laughed. She looked embarrassed and eager to tell us about her domestic life, and Enisha listened without interrupting her. “Sometimes my husband gets the pot ready while I cut the vegetables. It saves time,” she grew serious again. “I have a small field of potatoes and cabbage and in the winter I spend my time there. This work pays us a daily wage and it’s helpful for our expenses, but the harvest we get at the end of the year give us what we make in two months here, and we also eat some of it. But mostly we rely on our chickens and cow.” Her eyes gleamed at me. “Are you making videos about the mine for a foreign company?” Enisha blushed. She hadn't anticipated the woman's knowledge about documentaries. We had orchestrated our entry into the quarry under the pretext of a research project, and had obtained a letter from the local university in return for the film. The department head frequently collaborated with independent activists and she convinced the principal that a film about illegal mining would propel the university's research. The letter stated that the “students” were required to document the tribes' culture as part of their curriculum. The supervisor at the quarry was often inebriated, and the formal letter and our youthful appearance helped avoid any suspicions. I was anxious to start filming before somebody intelligible came along, but I finally understood Enisha's plan. “It’s for a college project.” The woman smiled again and looked at us with her big eyes. I could tell what she was thinking. “After college, will you be marrying him?” The innocence in her voice almost made me grin, but she was looking at Enisha the whole time. She smiled politely and told her that we were thinking about it but our focus was on college. I shook my head and watched her as she drew the conversation back towards food. “I always used to make my lunch in the morning and carry it with me. But these days my baby keeps me up at night. My husband leaves later in the day to drive the trucks in a different quarry and he drops the food for me and the baby in the afternoon.” She looked around as if to search for their food and discover that it wasn’t there because her husband hadn’t arrived yet. And then an idea came into her. “I will be going home after five-o-clock. You can eat with us and see the village. Until then, you can go around the mine, nobody will have time to bother you.” She stopped beating the stone at last and sat with her elbows on her knees. “I’ll see if I can get a chicken, or maybe even a chop of pork.” She said the last line to herself in her language and I felt a wave of guilt as I recognized the words, but Enisha sprang into action without moving an inch. She grinned at me long and hard and I knew that it was time to switch on the camera. |
July New Moon Special
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A Ghost in My Own Skin
Paisley Grey |
In the shadows of existence,
I roam aimlessly, A mere specter of what I once was, A ghost in my own skin. I drift through the days Like a ship adrift at sea, Lost in a fog of indifference And longing for something undefined. The world around me pulses with life, But I can only watch from afar, A silent observer of the chaos That surrounds me on all sides. I am a puzzle missing a piece, A question without an answer, A riddle that cannot be solved No matter how hard I try. I grasp at fragments of memories That slip through my fingers like sand, Trying to piece together A past that feels as distant as the stars. I walk through the crowded streets But feel like a stranger in my own skin, An imposter in a world That I no longer recognize. I search for meaning in the mundane, But find only emptiness In the hollow spaces That echo in my chest. I long to feel the rush of life Pulsing through my veins, To taste the sweetness of joy And the bitterness of sorrow. But all I feel is a numbness, A void where my emotions used to be, An emptiness that consumes me And leaves me hollow inside. I am a shadow, a whisper, A ghost haunting the edges of reality, A shapeless, mysterious figure Lost in a world that moves on without me. But still, I cling to the hope That one day I will find The missing pieces of myself And finally feel whole again. Until then, I drift through the days In a haze of uncertainty, Aching for something That I cannot name. And so I exist, A mere shell of what I once was, A shadow of a person Lost in the vast expanse of time. |
June New Moon Special
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Embracing Shadows
Sylvia Brooks |
In the shadows of the night, I wander alone
Through haunted corridors of my own mind Echoes of past rejections gnaw at my soul Leaving me hollow, empty, undefined Whispers of doubt swirl around my head Like ghosts seeking to possess my thoughts I am a prisoner of my own twisted fears In this desolate landscape I am lost Every step I take, the ground crumbles beneath Leaving me teetering on the edge of despair I reach out for a lifeline, a glimmer of hope But all I find is the cold, suffocating air The shadows dance, mocking my fragile state A symphony of despair plays in the night I am a captive audience, unable to flee Bound by chains of my own contrite The darkness envelops me, swallowing my cries I am a solitary figure in a world gone astray Feeling the weight of my burdens alone In this haunting void, I silently decay But in the quiet depths of my brokenness I find a flicker of resilience, a spark of light A whisper of courage amidst the chaos Guiding me through the long, endless night I may be lost in the shadows, but I am not defeated I will rise from the ashes, a phoenix reborn Embracing my scars as a testament to my strength For in the darkest depths, my true self is sworn. |
April New Moon Special
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ADAMOS OF SPARTA
Anthony Thomas Voglino |
Adamos was a Spartan soldier who lived during the era of the Peloponnesian War. The Peloponnesian War was fought between the Spartan led Peloponnesian League and the empire of Athens. This protracted war, which engulfed much of Greece, lasted from 431 B.C. to 404 B.C. It was the reaction of Sparta and its allies to the excessive growth in power of the city-state of Athens. At the time the war erupted, Athens was the wealthiest city-state in all of Greece.
Adamos, who never had any non-military association with anyone outside of Sparta, was a Spartan supremacist. As a product of Sparta, Adamos was very proud. He loved Sparta, Spartan policies, and the Spartan way of life. Except for some of Sparta’s allies, Adamos viewed foreigners as inferior. He had no respect for peoples of other cultures or lifestyles. His intolerance for non-Spartans was strongly engraved in his mindset. The Spartan military machine was formidable. Spartan soldiers were the best trained and the most physically fit in all of Greece. In gymnasiums, Spartan soldiers trained in the nude for long hours. Some of the activities at which they trained included wrestling, swordsmanship, and hand to hand combat. Through extensive training, Spartan soldiers honed their fighting skills and developed their physiques to the utmost degree. On the battlefield, Spartan soldiers were trained to do whatever was necessary to win. Adamos was no exception to this policy. Without mercy, Adamos did what he had to in order to be victorious in battle. In his pursuit of victory, Adamos did not adhere to any scruples or ethical constraints. Accordingly, like his fellow Spartans, he was a serious warrior. As an adult, utilizing these extreme fighting tactics, Adamos helped Sparta conquer and subjugate many peoples. Often, those who he helped defeat suffered severely. The victimization of such people by the Spartan military was of no concern to Adamos. Adamos thought that these non-Spartan victims deserved to suffer. As a Spartan supremacist, he also felt that almost all non-Spartans were inferior. Furthermore, he felt that these non-Spartan vermin didn’t deserve the same kindness that he showed his fellow countrymen. At the age of 14, after extensive military training, Adamos made his official debut onto the battlefield. He fought with his fellow Spartans in a merciless campaign of slaughter. Because the Peloponnesian War was in full bloom at the time, most of the battles that Adamos participated in as a young man involved Athens and its empire. By the age of 19, Adamos had demonstrated to have great military prowess. If his count was correct, by that age he had already killed fifty foreign soldiers. As time passed, the death toll inflicted by Adamos grew ever larger. Yet even though Adamos was an excellent warrior, he was not invincible. Now and then, Adamos received minor injuries on the battlefield which temporarily removed him from the fray. Nevertheless, during the early part of the war, Adamos remained relatively unscathed. During this part of the war it seemed that he was somewhat immune to the aggression of his enemies. Towards the latter part of the war Adamos’ luck on the battlefield ran out. When he was 27 years old he was captured in battle by the Athenians in Attica, the region of Greece where the city of Athens was located. Upon his capture, Adamos was brought to the city of Athens and imprisoned with other prisoners from diverse backgrounds. Being captured and imprisoned in this manner was a new experience for Adamos. Throughout his prior career as a soldier he hadn’t considered such capture and imprisonment to be a realistic possibility. This was the first time that Adamos was ever exposed to foreigners off the battlefield. Within the prison where he was incarcerated resided a motley variety of captives. Some of these captives were criminals, while others were prisoners of war. Some of the places from which these diverse captives came included Africa, India, Macedonia, and Persia. Ultimately, Adamos was confined in a cell with several other prisoners. One of the prisoners of his new cell was a black man named Akeem. “My name is Akeem. I’m from Africa,” Akeem told Adamos, who didn’t respond in any way. “What’s your name?” “Adamos,” Adamos replied without any emotion and followed by a long pause. “Where are you from?” asked Akeem. “Sparta,” answered Adamos. “I’m told that Spartans are the best soldiers,” stated Akeem. “Of course,” stated Adamos. “Sparta will probably win the war,” added Akeem. “It will,” stated Adamos. Due to Adamos’ laconic manners and reluctance to talk, Akeem resigned from conversing with him. This was the very first time that Adamos had ever spoken with a black man. Also, Adamos found this initial experience to be very strange because the black man didn’t seem so terrible. The next day another foreigner incarcerated in Adamos’ cell tried to make conversation with Adamos. His name was Milo. “Hi, I’m Milo. I’m from Macedonia,” stated Milo. “Is it true that you Spartans are laconic with respect to manners?” “Yes,” replied Adamos without any emotion. “Did you hear the news? The Athenian navy has been destroyed at Aegospotami,” asked Milo. “Yes,” flatly answered Adamos. “They say the war will soon end. Soon we may be free,” stated Milo. Adamos does not respond. “Do you think the war will end?” “Yes,” stated Adamos. In this fashion, the conversation continued on. In an attempt to make small talk, Milo posed a series of questions, all of which Adamos answered laconically. Finally, one of the other prisoners in the cell, an Indian, entered the conversation. “I’m here because I robbed a statue from the household of some wealthy people. The residence from which I stole is located around the outskirts of Athens,” stated the Indian, followed by a pause. “The statue which I stole was so beautiful that I had to make it mine. As you can see, stealing it was a mistake.” “How much time must you spend in prison for your crime?” Milo asked the Indian. “Six months, but I have already been in prison for five,” answered the Indian. Next, the Indian turned to Adamos. “Spartan, do you have any idea how long you’ll be here?” “No,” replied Adamos in a stoical way. “Do you even care?” asked the Indian. “No,” Adamos answered laconically. “You’ll probably stay here until the end of the war, or until there’s a prisoner exchange between Athens and Sparta,” Milo told Adamos. As time passed, to Adamos’ surprise, he developed friendships with his cellmates. He even started to think that some of these foreigners were not as bad as he had believed them to be. Even the prison guards didn’t seem so terribly bad to him, although they were enforcing his confinement. These guards treated Adamos with decency and respect. Although many of those around him in the Athenian prison were non-Spartans, he did not despise them as he had despised non-Spartans in the past. The fact was that Adamos had changed his attitudes towards foreigners. Not only had he come to respect and tolerate other peoples, but he was no longer supremely motivated towards the Spartan cause. In the year 404 B.C., Sparta won the war and Adamos was eventually released from prison. Yet in part because he now enjoyed friendships with some non-Spartans, he decided to stay in the city of Athens. He took up residence in Athens where he became a trainer in a gymnasium. Unlike Sparta, Athens was a melting pot. It was home to people of many different cultures and races. Also, Adamos now found such diversity to be acceptable. Whereas in his youth he was a Spartan supremacist, as he aged he came to accept and tolerate others. THE END
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March New Moon Special
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Amidst the Shadows: A Beacon of Hope
Evelyn Bay |
In the darkest hour, a flicker of light
Guiding me through the shadows of the night A beacon of possibility and grace Whispering of a brighter tomorrow's embrace When all seems lost and the world is bleak I cling to faith, not knowing what I seek But deep within, a fire ignites A spark of resilience that never quite dies It's in the quiet moments of doubt and fear That a shred of courage begins to appear A thread of optimism, weaving its way Through the fabric of despair, needing to stay And so I hold on, with steadfast resolve Trusting in the unseen, never to dissolve For in the trials and tribulations we face There lies the essence of eternal grace. So I forge ahead, with a heart that's bold Embracing the unknown, as the story unfolds For in the midst of uncertainty and mire There's always a glimmer of something higher. |
February Full Moon Special
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Over the Moon
Jennifer Day |
“It is a beautiful and delightful sight to behold the body of the Moon.” – Galileo Galilei
As long as I can remember, I have loved the Moon. When you think of the Moon, what do you think about? Is it non-existent in your day-to-day life? Is it just one of those things you hear people talk about? When you walk outside and you see it light up the night sky, does it have any profound effect on you? For myself, the Moon has guided the way and it has been the recipient of my deepest heartfelt desires and it has been a peacemaker, a guide, and a companion. The Moon has been my night light and my dark star. When I was a child, I remember my third-grade teacher Mrs. Proctor asked us to write down a few sentences about the sun or the moon. We had to describe to someone who could not see with their eyes, what the sun or moon meant to us. I wrote the following: ‘When you take your hands and put them around a ball and you feel it round and whole and then it gets warm in your hands and you can suddenly smell campfire and taste melted chocolate on marshmallows, that’s what the Moon means to me.’ The innocence and simplicity of those words are not too far off from how the Moon feels to me as an adult. Objects that are not within our reach can make us smell, see, and hear just as though they are within our grasp. When I was in middle school, my affinity for the moon felt embarrassing. I was so scared to talk to my friends or family about what I felt when the sun would go down and the moon would ‘wake up’. I would know that a full moon was coming, and I would go outside into our backyard, and I would head over to the diving board and sit on the edge of it. With my legs just a hair too short for my toes to be able to touch the water, I would just swing them back and forth with a smile, and soak in the glow. The moon would light up our back yard so much that I could see the shadows and silhouettes of the boysenberries on our bushes, and I would go and grab them and pop them into my mouth without worry of my skin being pierced by a thorn. I would lay in a lounge chair and soak in the darkness of a new moon, watching the ripple in the water in the pool that was only illuminated by the small lights that lived within its edges. Thoughts would come and go; dreams of upcoming activities would sneak in, and I would allow my middle school aged mind to wander. Even in the dark, I was never alone. In January of 2016, my husband and I committed to running a marathon in Budapest, Hungary. The race was in November, so we had 11 months to get ready. This was going to be the longest run that I had ever done, and I was nervous but excited to take on this training adventure. We began running short distances at first, just to get our bearings about us. Then as the months moved on, we started to wake up early and run before work. We normally woke up at 4:00am and so our alarm would now go off at 3:00am every day and we would walk outside and stretch in the dark, only to be welcomed by Luna in all her glory. I remember being tired and the moment the cool air would hit my face, I would look up into the sky, I would be called to close my eyes and soak in the light. I know that may sound weird, to close my eyes to soak in the light but Luna would hit my third eye and then behind my eyelids I would soak in the light that was created by her having darkness as her backdrop. It reminded me of having a Lite Bright as a child, with each little peg you pressed into the blackness of the paper, the lightbulb behind the dark would illuminate and make something beautiful on the page. That is what the Moon did behind my eyelids as my third eye controlled my sight. A white light would make its way from the top of my head to the tips of my toes. My feet would hit the ground running and she would follow me on every street, path, and trail as though she was my protector. With every stride she was my guiding force, and I was never truly in the dark. A few years later, we ventured out on some historic trails in Peru, and we backpacked for 5 days. With each passing day, the Moon became more and more full. We knew that on day 4 that she would be at her fullest and we would be deep into the journey of the Inca’s, and she would light the way for us. When dusk would be upon us, the Sun would rest and the glow of the Moon would begin, it was as though the land would become more fragrant with each step. I could smell the potatoes deep beneath the Earth surface and I would breathe in the aroma of the outdoor ovens made of stone. Not only did she guide the way for our steps on the trail, but she also made way for the farmers to harvest their crops and feed their families. The morning of day 4 is a morning that will live with me forever. I woke up before anyone else and I crawled out of my tent, and I bundled up and took a little walk for my daily meditation. When I walked to the edge of camp, I looked up and every single hill and valley was bright with the shadows of the overlying trees. I could see every curve, crack, and crevice of the Andes Mountains. The chill made me shiver and the glow of the circular luminescence embraced me. I opened my eyes wide, and it felt as though the Moon was in my hands. I could see her craters as though I had dug them myself. I could feel her sweeping lava fields, loose dirt, and mountains as though she was flashing me every single piece of her in that single glimpse. When I blinked, she was back up in the morning sky and tears were welling up in my eyes. I surrendered to that moment, and I dropped to my knees in a meditative pose and gave thanks to Pachamama. I gave thanks to the inertia of the moon and the gravitational force of Mother Earth for allowing us both the radiance of the light and strength of the soil. Some nights the Moon will look like a narrow crescent, or like the cuticle on your fingernail and sometimes it will look like half of an apple pie. Some people talk about the Moon being the natural satellite for the Earth and others make mention of how the Moon influences tides creating a rhythm that has guided humans for thousands of years. As for me, I’m a natural selenophile and I find peace and tranquility in that spherical shaped celestial body that is surrounded by her ethereal glow, and she is my night light and my dark star. |
February New Moon Special
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Do Not Wish Upon a Star
C. Amber Richards |
offer your wishes to the moon
that round sky belly pregnant with hope. Scribble them down on torn paper. Manifest, manifest. Feed them to pure flame and watch the orange and ash wisp away. They say the moon doesn’t shine its own bright. The hungry moon, the ravenous moon makes night glisten with our infinite visions. Why did you think it glows so full? |
January Full Moon Special
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Black Water
Adya Kuthumar |
In the realm of darkness, where shadows creep,
A thrilling tale of death, let me now weave. With pounding hearts and adrenaline's surge, I'll paint a picture of death's daring urge. Death, a relentless hunter, swift and sly, A dance with danger, where heroes defy. In battles fierce, where life hangs by a thread, Courageous souls rise, unyielding and dread. With thunderous steps, Death's army draws near, But warriors stand tall, casting aside fear. Their swords gleam bright, their spirits ablaze, They challenge Death's might, in a fiery blaze. Through treacherous lands, they boldly tread, Facing the unknown, where peril is spread. Each moment alive, a triumph to seize, As they navigate the realm Death decrees. In the face of danger, they find their might, Embracing the thrill of this perilous fight. For death, though feared, holds a thrilling spark, A reminder to live with passion and embark. With every heartbeat, a symphony roars, As they defy Death's grip and open new doors. In the face of mortality, they find their zest, Embracing the thrill, they are truly blessed. So let us celebrate death's thrilling call, A reminder to cherish, to give it our all. For in the face of danger, we truly live, Embracing the excitement that death can give. In this exhilarating poem of death's embrace, Let us find the courage to conquer and chase. For life's adventure lies beyond the veil, Where death's thrill awaits, let us set sail. |
January New Moon Special
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The Midas Light
Zachary Friederich |
Everyday, it starts the same, he lifts his gaze
And all the faithful flora lift their leaves to pray But today, something changed, the light hit her face And he was flooded over by a sudden wave of grace And he decided he would keep on shining Despite any repercussions He wouldn't lose her visage to the evening He found himself overwhelmed by the sheer beauty of it all And so, his light did glow, and everything turned gold And everything cracked and baked like the oven does the loaves And the moon, in a jealous fit, devised an eclipse A little coup to restore the throne to the lowly lit He decided he would craft a lullaby A sleepy song for the fevered mind And as he crooned well, the dusk did rise The sun fell asleep to the lullaby of the moon Rest your eyes and sweetly dream Let cool the crown of the king Give heed to the warning of St.Vincent Millay The brighter the light, the faster the fade You do this, and I promise you They will pine like February does for June So rest your eyes and sweetly dream In the morning you will see her again Rest your eyes and sweetly dream Rest your eyes and sweetly dream |
December Full Moon Special
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Twilight Paints
Hailey Crows |
In fields of gold and skies of blue,
I find my solace, old and new. A gentle breeze whispers through the trees, As nature's symphony plays with ease. The sun's warm rays, upon my face, Illuminate my soul with grace. With every step upon the earth, I feel a sense of rebirth. The flowers dance in vibrant hues, Their beauty, nature's love pursues. They reach towards the endless sky, With each petal, they testify. The river's melody fills the air, A soothing sound, beyond compare. Its gentle flow, a calming stream, Reflecting dreams, like a waking dream. As twilight paints the heavens' veil, Stars flicker, vibrant and pale. A chorus of crickets serenade, As the moon's glow begins to cascade. Through darkness, hope forever gleams, A guiding light, within our dreams. And as the night wraps 'round us tight, We're reminded of our inner light. So let us cherish every day, In this wondrous world we stray. For life's a poem, truly blessed, A testament to be expressed. |
December New Moon Special
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Velvet Blue
Holly Payne-Strange |
I should have known something was coming,
The moment I saw that second line parade. A party of snare drum color And accordion smiles, A ferocious roar of joy. Life and hope and love heard far before it was seen, That special New Orleans Jazz A protest against the simmering heat. Beauty fights with color. So when you slid into my bed that night, I assumed it was a dream And when you stayed, It felt like a spell. The bride, pumping her parasol, Turned the corner of Oak Street A doting mother boogying behind her. And I was so crushed at the loss, At the sudden weight of silence, I didn’t know what to do. So I followed, Gapping at you like a starlit night The messy mystery of chaos Calling out like a siren's song. It was tragic That you had to leave my bed But maybe if I’m lucky, And my dance is spirited enough, You’ll let me follow down Bourbon Street And into somewhere Even more Wild. It would be my sun drenched pleasure To stand by your side As the cacophony rages on. |
November Full Moon Special
|
Dear Antinous
Justin Andrew Cruzana |
after The Statue of Antinous, 130 CE, excavated in Delphi
Your apartness with the world is both promise and polemic to me. Through you great waters make greater pathways, through you landscape is made movement, mutable. You wanted to know what it was like to be beautiful. Meaning, you wanted to know what it was like to be made by man. Somewhere your lost hands mark typhoons that beyond seas dispel the resolve from countries, in turn making them meaningful. Foragers know the lower you gouge out earth the more luster its natural produce. Through your marblehood, do you keep in there deep feeling. You look at the ground and all the corpses want to change into carnations. You look at me and I want to give you my middle name. In the streets I brisk through I see you in the repetition of pedestrian chatter. If I follow the windblown leaves of trees will I find which direction best to avoid you. Was seeing you waiting for a jeepney at Ocampo in the rain a bad time or was that another memory I misconstrued. In this weather do the lampposts find in street puddles vanity that has yet to be displaced. If I turn the other way will the two of our profiles make one whole of a face. You taught me the key to getting anything in the world is by leaning forward. I stumble in your honor. In the breakthrough of your neck, I jettison from within all the pangs of my ardor. |
October Full Moon Special
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Good Terms
Kaylyn Marie Dunn |
You are absolutely pathetic
Why do you care if he won’t talk to you? Why do you want to talk to him? He who called your girlfriend a bitch He who you apologized to for it Of course that’s why Because you apologize to him Because you are desperate to be loved by everyone Including him Him who we know to be despicable But you “should be on good terms with everyone” You “shouldn’t alienate anyone” Not even those who might stab you in your back So grovel on your knees Get down like the worm you are I won’t call you a man At least I won’t call you mine anymore How could I say I had any dignity if I did I was never a concern to you My feelings were never really considered But you didn’t have to worry about me Right? You didn’t have to worry that I didn’t love you And that’s why I don’t Not anymore I wonder… Will you also chase me down the street? Will you try to stay on good terms with me? Would it matter to you if I glared? Or if I decided I hated you? |
September Full Moon Special
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Second Wave
Mila Chung |
Hot against the asphalt, my skin burns and peels. My body aches beneath the seared tissue. I wonder how it will burn. Is this really considered a burn? More like a 4x3 stretch of cauterized flesh along my back.
Then, I wonder, did I fall? I feel like that was too strong for a fall. I think she pushed me. I think she pushed me! Yes. Just as I become sure, she kicks me. Then I roll and the asphalt burns my arms. This bitch just kicked me! My body is burning! This bitch is burning me! Fuck it. Her turn. |
September New Moon Special
|
Autumn Nights
Bethany Rider |
Rolling out of summer
Like rolling out of bed So easy Yet so uncomfortable Waving away the warm breezes to watch the chill sweep in Goodbyes to late evenings Hello to early nights It's not the same after summer The whole world seems to know it Knows how the wind blows and chills to the bone |
August New Moon Special
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Black & White
Darian Miller |
Is it ever so easy?
So clear? So natural? So black and white? To me, it's always been grey. A mix of right and wrong, Assurances and uncertainties. But nothing truly clear. Nothing black and white. Nothing obvious. Am I murder for trying to save my family? A thief for taking back what is mine? A monster for continuing to walk by? Nothing is black and white. Nothing is so clear. Maybe I should I have stop. Maybe I would be dead too. Maybe I should have screamed for someone stronger. But I called the police. Maybe I should I have stop. But nothing is black and white. |
July New Moon Special
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deep purple breaths
C.W. Bryan |
Yesterday I unscrewed the top of the
homemade huckleberry jam you gave me before you left for Lisbon. I took deep purple breaths to fill my light pink lungs. It was such a necessary experience; I tense with shame at the possibility that the vision of you in my mind’s eye atrophies each day, the Atlantic between us casts foggy shades on my eyes and the crystal clear memory muddles like a lake after heavy rain The anxiety of asking a question when you have no idea what the answer will be, but have every notion of what you wish it to be: it’s a 60 pound backpack 4 hours into an uphill hike, so I resign my curiosity and just tap the Portuguese postcard nailed to the wall beneath the light switch every time I leave the house and hope that’s enough. |
July Full Moon Special
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Vices
Hannah Elliott |
I bite my lips when I’m nervous or when I’m thinking.
Especially when I’m trying not to think about you, and how with your lips pressed against mine, you would mumble, “your lips are so soft,” a snug smile tugging at the corners of my mouth that was fighting for dominance with yours. My lips are chapped from me trying to forget the way you would kiss my hand in the car without taking your eyes off the road - it was second nature at that point, just like driving was. The red stain isn’t from the lipstick shade you decided was your favorite. Instead, a bloody lip gloss covers my mouth and it aches and throbs as I remember the last time you kissed me when it was out of love rather than lust. In the moment it was just you and I, and I was almost convinced that we would make it despite the frequent snide comments and sub-tweeting our relationship had become. You kissed me with desperation between your lips, but when you sent me home crying you proved to me otherwise that you didn’t need me like I thought I needed you. Now I’m alone, with cracks in my lips as my finger hovers over the search bar of Instagram. My heats sinks into my chest seeing you with just another version of me and hot tears form without warning. Maybe the anger will replace the sadness and I won’t reminisce on a time that was unhealthy looking back, but my judgement is clouded by nostalgia and a longing to be yours- be someone’s- and feel loved like you made me feel just one more time. |
June New Moon Special
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Running
Adele Dummermuth |
Choice: to run away
Effect: ends up 8 miles from home family and friends walking, driving, searching family crying Choice: walks into a hotel 6 hours later turns himself in Reason: he wants to go home Thought: he must be a good runner Effect: runs cross country the next year Choice: doesn’t try Cause: he doesn’t like the pain Effect: family is frustrated Reminder: the night he ran away Fear: they’re losing him they’ve lost him Choice: to continue to run Reason: Effect: painful track meets family confusion over his choices |
June Full Moon Special
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Like a Wrong Meal
Victoria James |
Good ole’ country boy, Ethan.
Wearing camo 24/7, planning to take me hunting someday. Drawing attention to every hand hold, every kiss. Do you feel that? Drawing my focus on him rubbing my arm, as if I couldn’t feel his hand on my skin. Ethan tried. But, he’s not what I ordered. Sweaty hands Corbin. Small sweaty hands grasped tightly to my larger hand as if my taller figure would float away as soon as I got outside. Not even dating, yet all day, making plans for the next. What started with hello, how are you, became his potential marriage. Corbin tried too hard. I didn’t order that. Professional manipulator, Steven. A long three years playing pretend as if make believe was your profession. Better luck winning Where’s Waldo than nailing you down to one person. My best friend, turned your sex buddy, turned ex-best friend. 3am text breakup disintegrates wasted years, an involuntary, welcomed freedom. Steven, no way, that’s what I ordered. |
May New Moon Special
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Krill Phenomenology
Terry Trowbridge |
Unremarkable redirected light:
commonplace prisms such as the feathery organs on the bodies of krill, legions of chromatic peasants refracting flares dappled through whitecaps and mirrored by plankton, bright enough to outshine bioluminescent languages in the epipelagic daylight; at least until the horizon scatters dusk’s acute angle. Unremarkable light: that light which is seen, but seen by the creatures who redefine sentience. Cognizant? Yes, but perhaps pointlessly so. They swim, but have no control to overpower the currents, swept along, incapable of stillness, incapable of choice. Fluttering mindfully at one with the brine, all is arbitrary. Under these conditions: thought has no purpose either in planning or the present tense. Only two domains are certain – one is pure abstraction, the other is the light. The abstract we cannot know unless the featherlike flutters communicate those thoughts The light we cannot know until we see it from the krill’s perspective, light through water, light through body, the philosophies of being a prism adrift. |
April New Moon Special
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April Showers
James Cepheus |
April Showers bring
Stormy nights And windy days Don't work too hard It will fail anyway April Showers Soak the soul Wreck my life And soil the world Yes, April Showers are hard, I know I know You think stop and think You're broken and low But the rain will stop The clouds will part The sun will shine You will get a new start Maybe now you're guessing What April Showers really bring... |
March New Moon Special
|
Blades of Grass
Hailey James |
I was a kid that had a lot of allergies / I couldn’t go swimming because the chlorine / Most fruits were off limits / Don’t get me started on nuts / And then there was grass / I was allergic to grass / Whenever I was in contact with it my skin would blister up / Almost immediately / So I wouldn’t touch the grass / I would look at it / I would smell it / I would linger above it / Standing on the sidewalk / There weren’t many things that I wanted to do / That I was told I couldn’t / I never wanted to play with knives / Or run with scissors / I never wanted to stand on tables / Or walk around naked / I never wanted to drink coffee / Or climb on bookshelves / But I really wanted to lay in the grass / So instead, I would lay on the concrete and watch the little blades / As they danced in the wind
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March Full Moon Special
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Lily Pads
A. L. Celdon |
A frog hops
From pad to pad Like a ballerina dancing Across the pond Life is like that frog Born beneath the surface Blind to life And light Slowly springing to the exterior To jump and jump And run and run And forever moving Until we slip from the lily pad And sink again |
February New Moon Special
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Sentience
Emily Moon |
A noun and a verb walk into a bar
seeking an object. Adjectives and adverbs mill around, anxious thoughts of Choose me! visible on their expressive faces. Particles orbit in a cloud of uhs, try to fit in. Nouns gossip in groups about the verbs conjugating in the back room. Punctuation marks sit in dark booths, long necks and shot glasses on the table. We wonder if they'll stagger to their proper places after they finish their drinks. A cute object with a killer smile and fabulous hair struts in. Heads turn to watch them swagger to the bar, lift a cowboy boot to the brass rail, hook a thumb on a belt loop of their tight jeans, and turn to survey the crowd. The noun tilts their head, levels a flirtatious smile, says Hellooo there, beautiful. Everyone pretends they are not watching. The punctuation marks -- order another round. |
January New Moon Special
|
Parasite
Harriet Sanders |
Oh, hey, it's you,
Again. Yeah, I missed you too, I guess. Not really, I don't have have time. No, I'm sorry. I don't think so. I told you: I'm busy. Listen, I should probably go. Hey, it's me! Again! I missed you! A lot. Could you come see me Later today? What about tomorrow, are you free? Not even For just a while? But I was... I was only... Okay, I get it. Goodbye. |
January Full Moon Special
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Cacophony
Les Epstein |
One damned flake descends
From a hasty spoonful Scraping my wind pipe Into atonal fits All through tooth brushing Its jagged edge Now long gone to who knows where Nags me on In hack and sneeze-- Tears in waves-- I’m my own Vaudeville Making a highway merge Between oil tankers Bolting out of the Blue Ridge Into our bowl shaped city And I reaching school halls Enter a shaken cubist work “Oppressed Hacker Descends a Staircase” Then yak and yak about Massachusetts bards With fourteen fourteen-year-olds Honking, blowing, picking at nasal nuisance All engaged in Transcendental wheezing Group debris to Thoreau. |