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Oklahoma-Fiction by Kenneth James Crist
Claire's Disposable Distraction-Fiction by Roy Dorman
Doing the Trash-Fiction by Sean McElhiney
Kinks-Fiction by Don Stoll
Heads or Tails-Fiction by Ambrose McJunkin
Brother Smith-Fiction by Bruce Harris
Designated Driver-Fiction by M. A. De Neve
Dr. Flytrap's Home for Women-Fiction by Michael D. Davis
Bhopal 2-Fiction by Doug Hawley
There He is Again-Fiction by Thomas Bailey
Genital Pulp-Fiction by Matthew Licht
There is Nothing-Fiction by Rick McQuiston
La Mere Mauvaise-Flash Fiction by Dini Armstrong
One Dark Quiet Night Disturbed-Flash Fiction by Paul Beckman
Prankster-Flash Fiction by Cindy Rosmus
Petal World-Flash Fiction by j. brooke
Reading Bukowski-Poem by Bob Kokan
Preparing the Children for Grandma's Visit-Poem by John Grey
Marble-Sized Raindrops-Poem by Ayaz Daryl Nielsen
Never Any Good at Magic-Poem by J. J. Campbell
Red-Poem by Meg Baird
Spigot-Poem by Otto Burnwell
Wrong-Poem by Ruth Ticktin
In the Backyard-Poem by Holly Day
Harry the Hippie-Poem by David Spicer
Michelangelo's Handshakes-Poem by David Spicer
Flaxen Hair-Poem by John Short
Once Every Four Years-Poem by John Short
A Recap of the Main Points-Poem by Mark Young
Morning Raga-Poem by Mark Young
Corona-Poem by Marc Carver
Pandemic-Poem by Marc Carver
The Secret-Poem by Maec Carver
Consideration-Poem by Richard M. Prazych
The Apartment-Poem by Richard M. Prazych
Holiday_Poem by Richard M. Prazych
Cartoons by Cartwright
Hail, Tiger!
Angel of Manslaughter
Strange Gardens
Gutter Balls
Calpurnia's Window
No Place Like Home
Dark Tales from Gent's Pens

Art by Noelle Richardson 2020


by j brooke


White girl: white hair, white skin, white tears, cut and faceted lapis-colored eyes, lazing naked in a bed of white flowers; soaring stems of the petal world; capricious moods; prayer and quiet; silent cries to the timorous sky and mending her fatigue in a moment of disquietude; as morning breeze, summer char, a saffron fireball, sizzling tinge, thermal winds, a shawl of summer sweetness plies along her alabaster skin.

I am sitting near the monarchs’ home, near the circle of the Monet-colored spun spider webs, filled with dew drops that glisten from shards of Sun and remnant rainbows of the rains, of winter they have fled; though moments ago, as faceted tourmalines, they were dancing powdered wings along her face; her Amber eyes, a face that I so do adore. I am gazing at her as I always do, and I am afraid to wake her, for what if she does not want me any longer, when her eyes of a topaz Sun, might perhaps peek open as the color of cinnamon; and within that moment, she no longer loves me, sees suddenly that I am a charlatan that was once me, and once again I will become the jester’s fool.

I am watching her. I always watch her when she sleeps, and I remember what and who I was before her; before she brought jasmine, incense, diamonds and happiness to my dreams, as a gift few women, few fools as I, have ever seen.

I think back as an echo that repeats itself within a long-lost moment of memory that I shudder to recall, for I was only part-human before her, pretending to be alive; not living, no not at all; as if some ancient star, long-lost and dead in the blackness of the stratosphere, that now only glimmers its last tear, as it breaks earth’s gravity; a thief of fractured dreams, a piece of light, masquerading to be alive as I was before her, as a fragile flickering flame of candlelight. I was human, yet disposable; a lost girl barely breathing before she chose to delve within my mind and only me, before she shared her gift of smile, genius, mirth and wit for each and every other human being to see.

I am in pain as memory sears my mind, for I was a mimic of a girl: shattered, fractured, and refracted in a liquid mercury pool of skin; as images, none true, none real, remind me of a lying past and such a horrid way, and forever and all of my so banal and carnal sins. There was a desert in my heart, until she looked into my soul and forgave me for who I was and what I was so long ago and when, knowing that her elegance and intelligence and great heart would repair the broken mirror that I had always been.

I am watching her. I always watch her as she sleeps, and when she wakes, I will have cut flowers for her, and they will be white like her: delicate and elegant, children of the soil that I gathered near the lakes. She and them, her and they, they are sisters of the petal world and will make her smile, and she will touch my face and kiss my lips and I can ask for nothing more; for the flowers, so like her, so fragile, and powerful, and lovely, are the color of the scattered matrix of the rainbow world.

Within a moment of a slivered moon, bathed within a golden glow and the warmth of down, the cold of snow, and we will whisper as we touch each other’s lips, that neither bigotry, pain, nor sadness will ever be a part of our lives again.

Naked women, white sheets, passion, and a tender touch of whispers within the gray pewter morning dawn and I will tell her that I love her so, and the Monarch Butterflies: winged wind whisperers will lead us home, through the wars and battlefields of a life neither of us could ever understand; and thus, our lives will soar and the gift of her will be mine as long as she deems it so. I can ask for nothing else; for one can never grasp and keep forever the beauty of a rainbow, this I clearly know.

J brooke is a writer with over 100 credits, and never lists them. It’s simple for J., for it’s never what you have already written, but what you are going to write next. Contact info: jbrooke2001@yahoo.com

Noelle Richardson comes from a relatively large family and has been illustrating and painting for about twelve years. She writes a little on the side, plays a couple of instruments and dabbles in tattoo design.                                                                                                                             

In Association with Black Petals & Fossil Publications 2020