Beruflich Dokumente
Kultur Dokumente
Winter 2015
Issue 8
City #1
Photographer:
Ray Scanlon
Words from the photographer:
Digital equipment has made it easy for me to resume my teenage habit of
carrying a camera, and the digital darkroom makes gratification sinfully
instant. My eye is a little more discriminating than it was then, when I tried
to document everything I saw. Now I try to notice geometry, symmetry,
color, but Id passed by this building dozens of times. Some days you get
lucky.
Editorial
Its a new year and we all have resolutions to go with it. As writers, we hope to make time to write every day.
Thats the goal, right? As a writer, your one job is to write! But then theres the family, your day job, the cat poking
at your chair, the dog needing to go out, and you havent called your parents back yet. Balance is something that
Im always at odds with. Thankfully, I thrive with change. And theres been quite a bit of change in the few short
weeks of 2015.
Meredith ran away to Mexico and got married.
Huge hugs and congratulations to the newly weds.
Thankfully, theyve returned to Philadelphia, and
Apeiron continues!
Apeiron-related updates: were still determined to
grow as time passes. Were struggling to sort out just
how we move from digital to print, and thats meant
adding staff and shuffling job functions.
With this issue, we were blessed with a talented
team of first readers. For those unfamiliar with how
submissions are processed, our slush team reads all
incoming submissions and notes their thoughts. All
submissions are then bumped up to Meredith and
me to read and review.
You might not think that this process would be
so helpful, but it is. Thanks to our growing staff,
our turnaround time has increased drastically
and were able to give more feedback. Its always
frustrating when you wait months to hear back from
a submission. I think Merediths had one out for well
over 6 months now. So, thanks go out to our First
Readers!
Changes coming in 2015 shouldnt be immediately
noticable to readers. Ill be attempting to grow
our online presense, and Ill have much more time to spend on making the layouts pretty and such. The hope
is that Ill finally develop the ability (confidence) for a print run. Maybe one more issue (yes, I keep saying that),
and well give it a go. So keep your eyes peeled for a call for submissions for an actual paper copy. Plant a tree in
preperation.
This issue showcases many seasoned and debut writers. Take your time with this one. Find the space between
the pauses within this issue (Wong, 42). Speak to the hermit crab and listen what he has to say (Reilly 63). Learn
how different parents love their children. I wont share how Sabrina Bertchs photograph, Self, makes me feel,
but I will say that Id hang it on my wall (See p. 52). I believe our youngest author in this issue is 16 years old.
Crazy, right?
As you follow through with your new years resolutions, we hope to see your thoughts and submissions in our
inboxes. As always, we want your dreams, fears, hopes, wrath, and maybe even your drunk dialsbut in print.
Lets keep it to print.
As alwayshappy reading!
Design Editor
Lisa Andrews
Contents
Poetry
6 Solace
Jae Lee
42
44
Antler
Esther McPhee
Production Editors
Funeral Food
Kristin Laurel
Meredith Davis
Lisa Andrews
8 Oysters
Kristin Laurel
46
Art Advisor
9 Brick
Emily Wong
45
First Readers
14
12 a.m., another front porch
gathering
John Roth
47
Blue
Dan Leach
53
Honey
Holly Jensen
55
Mill Road
Lisa Megraw
Chris Butler
Michael Cooper
Gina Dozois
Marcene Gandolfo
Ashley Hutson
Xavier Vega
Unsolicited submissions are
always welcome.
Manuscripts are now only
accepted via Submittable. For
submission guidelines,
schedules, news, and archived
issues, please visit our
website at apeironreview.com
Apeiron Review. All rights
revert to author upon
publication
15 Want
John Roth
16
Some Days, I
Kimberly McClintock
17
In Winter
Bethany Fitzpatrick
56
These are the stages of tiger
grief
Kasey Thornton
18
After Backpacking Over Mt.
Whitney
John Brantingham
57
Suzanne Muzard, et al
Danielle Pappo
59 Ophidiophobia
Cal Louise Phoenix
19
Desert Cloudwall
John Brantingham
23
Away
Emily Frankenberg
30
31
Darkness
Sheng Kao
64
Multiverse
Tim Hatch
65
In Kiev
Estill Pollock
66
Fiction
Nonfiction
10
21
60
Memory Forms
Nancy Dillon
12 Umar
Jay Merill
20
Dads Goat
Matthew David Perez
Photography
24
Lassen County
Kathleen J. Woods
11
Oyster Bay
Carol Shillibeer
32
Drive
Aaron Gansky
28
Eye Mouth
Tobias Oggenfuss
35
29
Organic Horn
Tobias Oggenfuss
48
Business as Usual
Emily Claire Utley
34
Jail
Dave Petraglia
51
43
City #1
Ray Scanlon
54
63
Oceanic
J.C. Reilly
52 Self
Sabrina Bertsch
58 Untitled
Pepper Jones
Jae Lee
Solace
Listenthe white whisk of sky from where
you fell like the heavy weight of silence,
the flat line of your descent,
(the softest downfall,)
the sea of people, the gray shorelines
that go from building to building,
and in the midst of them, your halo
none of this matters anymore.
So come along,
give this thing a meaning, a name, a story;
Were nothing but words
traveling from one lip to another
in the end.
Lookyour fathers coat hanging
heavy like the air in his office, the smell of
bourbon, your mothers voice flowing
as soft as laced cotton from the other room
none of this ever mattered.
Now youre thirty and youve
balanced yourself on the tips of your
polished shoes at the mouth of the longest
staircase
that leads to the throat of the darkest road,
and it almost blinds you.
You said, Let me take comfort
in your green eyes and wood smoke hair.
(The fireplace slept as you awoke
and its glow smoothed out the planes of your face,
skimmed down the hollows of your cheeks)
and let the stars dotting
your face drown me.
After all, nothing could
compare to her sunset eyes that
make rivers run down the length of your dry throat,
trickling down the
surface of your bones, and
pooling at your core.
6
Kristin Laurel
Funeral Food
After the funeral,
the ladies in the church basement served
open-faced deviled-ham sandwiches,
and green pistachio pudding with mini-marshmallows.
There were english muffins, topped with cheez-whiz,
each with a single black olive in the middle
that reminded me of an eyeball.
Each table, draped in a white sheet,
was set with fire-trucks, dinosaurs, race cars,
and pictures from your two-year-old life;
and there was the one of you,
Benny, learning to walk. The one of you,
with your small bare feet,
touching the top of the earth,
touching grass for the first time.
The coffee was weak, the angel-food cake swelled
up in my throat, and I couldnt swallow any of it:
the empty words, empty calories, the tears,
or that inexplicable hunger
that was trying to consume me.
And so I went out into the parking lot
and sat in the car. I was crying and (of course)
it was raining. I found an old bag of Cheetos.
The Egyptians, I read, buried food with their dead.
I wonder if you liked Cheetos. I begin eating
them, pretending I am sharing them with you.
We eat the whole bag.
My hands become pasty and orange;
and as I lick my messy fingers clean,
I am loving yourefusing to feed
the hungry grave.
Kristin Laurel
Oysters
Away from the riptides
away from the erratic waves of the Atlantic
we paddled our kayaks through
the tall weeds of the estuary.
It was the nicest day of vacation,
the only day without rain.
Back at home, a blizzard warning.
Safe in the brackish water, we laughed as dolphins
leapt nearby and our guide said, Notice how clear
the water is where the oysters live. A single
oyster can filter up to fifty gallons of water a day.
Back at home my sisters son, Benny,
went for a tractor ride
his father needed to plow all of the snow.
For lunch we ordered a bucket of oysters.
Some say oysters taste of the ocean, but
I couldnt stop thinking,
theyre filter feeders, theyre full of toxins,
I couldnt swallow that colorless blood.
The oyster shells on our table were tough.
It was hard to pry them open,
but even oysters die when you separate
them from the bottom shell and
cut through the heart.
My mother waited to call;
she wanted us to enjoy our day.
She was relieved not to tell me,
but told my lover instead,
Benny fell off the tractor
crushed skull, blood all over
Earlier that day
we were buoyant,
detached, half-way listening
as our guide said, Baby oysters need
the shells of their ancestors to live
while all around the shoreline, piles of oysters
clung to each other
like those people we hold onto
in the middle of the night,
as we swallow the ocean
and nearly drown.
8
Emily Wong
Brick
Between the drinks and the cigarettes
the smell of vine-ripened tomatoes;
the sound of the cicadas.
Slung moons
slow ocean:
Switching addictions is tricky.
I am
bones
walking down a runway.
I am
the shape of shadows.
Of dying light.
Sleep inside my lungs;
breathe into someday.
Someday meaning never,
never meaning:
That heart-stopping moment;
the pin-prick through your left lobe.
I brought a mood ring,
a broken windshield,
and literature
smelling of death.
I love the space between the pauses:
a quiet clich,
a blackened heart.
That tire screech, metal crunch.
That perfect,
plastic,
better dream;
my cracked scapula whispers:
Going home is easy
its the arriving
that sticks in the throat.
10
Carol Shillibeer
Oyster Bay
11
Umar
Jay Merill
13
John Roth
14
John Roth
Want
The moons dim razorblade
& the night divides in half
Fat, dusk cherry cutting
The black juice that weaves
not yet licked; no stain
Only, theres longing somethat old puddle of bones,
tenements. Like molding
spit to spirit, but far less
aside hourglass sand to beat
of man, until a wind-carved
His chest a stone keyhole
Still, no water for weeks.
open jewel box; a brief
rain & the covetous land that
15
Kimberly McClintock
Some Days, I
Some days in winter tell
a clear warm lie, while some toss blue in wind,
each streetlight an orange sun. There is recent news
of corruption, not news itself, but a heros fall
disturbs especially. I recognize the current
wind from last year this time, same locale,
the power lines drug sparking down the street
and the plummet through a fence of sap-surged limbs.
In the snowcrust, impressions
from some birds three-toed feet.
~after Jim Harrison's "March in Patagonia, AZ"
16
Bethany Fitzpatrick
In Winter
Today the geese are on the wing
straggling east, in a v-less midwinter flight.
I was hoping for a hint
of spring, but they werent heading north.
Today my youngest child curls within me,
a soft nudge and a heartbeat,
while my oldest waves a mittened hand
and dives headfirst into a snow bank.
Today the sun shines and the snow sparkles,
but I cant help but feel the years unspooling,
an impermanence, even while held fast in the fist of winter.
Today I cant help but fear these fledglings flying from me
like those erratic geese, even while
one nests within my body
and the other calls for me
across the vast canvas of the yard.
17
John Brantingham
18
John Brantingham
Desert Cloudwall
The dog and I walk the firebreak
tattooed on the spine
of the mountain,
where the forest and the sea air
blend themselves
with desert.
Above us, a cloudwall marches
into dry air and steams
off into the sky.
19
Dads Goat
Matthew David Perez
20
Emily Frankenberg
Away
23
Lassen County
Kathleen J. Woods
Johnny resolved to steal his sister home
before dusk. He threw a backpack in his truck
and kissed their mother goodbye. Be careful, she
said. And dont kill him.
The road from Susanville to Eagle Lake was
clear, familiar in its winding, narrowing roads.
October was not a time for tourists or hobby
fishermen. Only those without much else to do
would set out on the lake now, as the cold crept
in, willing to bob for hours before a bite. It
was their fathers favorite time of year. Johnny
remembered how his legs had numbed as he sat
on the fishing boats metal bench, watching the
cooler empty. Hed drunk one can of the cheap
beer that flattened halfway though, sneering as
he sipped. His father had laughed and tossed
him another can.
Johnny fiddled with the trucks radio. Styx
battled against the mountain static, and Johnny
let them. It was better than country. Better
than nothing. He tapped his fingers against
the steering wheel and dreamt, for a moment,
of robbing a gas station and continuing on,
turning for Las Vegas and driving east and east
and east. He was nearly done with high school
anyway. What more could he learn in seven
months? He laughed to himself. There were no
gas stations in these woods. Next, in another
year, the Navy. He would travel then.
When their father had called about the
camping trip, Johnny had been ready to refuse
him. He hadnt seen the man in a year. But he
heard April in the background. Shed begged
for the phone.
I expect you to join your family, son. Heres
your sister, their father had grunted.
I really think you should come camping
27
Tobias Oggenfuss
Eye Mouth
28
Tobias Oggenfuss
Organic Horn
29
Clyde Kessler
30
Sheng Kao
Darkness
and from her wounds
despair flowed like time,
scrubbing the dirt into dust
into nothing
into nothing
into cold, empty,
lovely
darkness, a world so dark
one swallows the sun
to feel a glimmer of moonlight again,
those white rays that pick at the seams
of the body like a needle,
that unravel threads of precipitation
and coat the eyes in foggy film,
consuming the visible world in blank vacancy.
and this is darkness,
the white
empty.
31
Drive
Aaron Gansky
33
Dave Petraglia
Jail
34
41
A.N. Padrn
42
Ray Scanlon
City #1
43
Esther McPhee
Antler
Dear body, flighty and sure-footed,
you bawled into this world ready to remain
speechless, a new holder of heat
in the herd, licked clean.
Carol Shillibeer
45
Charles Thielman
46
Dan Leach
Blue
This is how its been
ever since I was sixteen:
you, lingering in the rearview;
me, praying to the dash.
The needle matches the number,
the tags are paid in full,
and I even hit the lights
a good hour out of dusk.
Anything for you.
Yet still my stomach tightens
when you appear beside me.
A sickening sense of guilt
fills the car like Freon,
and I cant shake this feeling
that Ive done something wrong,
something deserving of lights,
a siren, andif Im honest
so much worse than that.
47
Business as Usual
Emily Claire Utley
Mary and her mother sat at a plastic table
in the corner of a McDonalds. The midafternoon sun leeched through the tinted
window and made Marys fish sandwich look
gray. The tartar sauce dripped of its own
volition from the plastic bun. Mary had given
her fries to her mother who ate them like a
hamster eats a carrot. The doctor suggested
organic greens, meat high in protein, and
snacks easy on the stomach. Instead, her
mother wanted to sit in the dingy McDonalds,
her bald head warmed by a purple knitted cap,
and lick salt off her fingers.
You feeling ok? Mary asked.
Stop asking. Im fine.
This is absurd. Mary crossed her arms and
tilted her head toward the dead-moth-infested
florescent light. Dr. Morrison said you should
be home in bed.
Well, its not like it will kill me, her mother
said, munching on another fry.
No, Mom, that would be the cancer, Mary
barked, then unfolded her arms in attempt not
to bite. As a nurse, I can attest McDonalds is
not the chosen cuisine for breast cancer.
You arent a practicing nurse. You work
for an insurance company. Let the real nurses
worry about my salt levels. Go get ice cream or
something. Relax.
Worry was Marys own form of cancer,
digging into her organs and gaining strength
with each new mass: sick mother, absent fianc,
looming deadlines, weird ticking noise in car,
out of tampons. I dont want ice cream, she
said.
Her mother shrugged and inserted another
fry between her bright pink lips. On chemo
50
51
Sabrina Bertsch
Self
52
Holly Jensen
Honey
Beekeeper assures me
Ill grow accustomed to the
stingers, the stings, and the stinging.
He says my blood
will get so used to the venom
that Ill start to crave it,
to long for the poison.
Calls me honey.
Says this dress brings out the
red in my eyes.
53
54
Lisa Megraw
Mill Road
You are coiled snakes escaping mud-banked
mattresses, sofas left to sag against bins;
birds with peaty eyes who sit on crooked roofs
under grey skies that run on like rivers.
You are fish and mash on a plate in a dimly lit cafe
with a mans mouth wrapped around a fork
and a woman who stares at a picture of sycamores
hanging above the till. They are waiting for the wave
of silence to break while someone outside talks to the shell
of a phone booth because no one will spare any change
and he has so much hes bursting to say. You are
the crowds of students at The Bell and Whistle, gutters
that smell of cloves, the wife who wrote in black kohl
over the door of the barbers shop to be careful
the road is iced, but still the taxis pull up
like kippers to be flipped back into grey-green waters,
their after-dark scales slippery as music
over the flush of headlights. Later,
you are the boy wearing a wool hat who brushes
a snow-crusted bench and pulls out a moleskin notebook;
the woman in the cafe who has eaten enough silence
and left; and the man who was rattled but now leans
against an ATM singing just above a whisper,
something simple but fragrant as winter.
55
Kasey Thornton
56
Danielle Pappo
Suzanne Muzard, et al
In an interview on love
how it transitions from
an idea to an act
you told them you did not
wish to be free. How bold.
It is no burden to paint
yourself in two: one for your
self, one for the man that you
loved. To sit with your eyes
rolled back, speaking automatic
stories noted by him.
57
Pepper Jones
Untitled
58
Ophidiophobia
When it started, we were hummingbirds. We played tragic
by comparing strange dreams and other head sounds.
We laughed at broken guitar strings and stubbed coins.
In the rain, we canned ourselves in glass
and blew smoke through the cracks. In the heat,
we peeled away our foliage and sweat in watercolors
until all of the furniture was new.
We drew plans until they became mistakes,
but kept making love to the mapseven after they
had shrived and fallen from the face of the refrigerator.
Now, he weighs me into sofa foam
and plucks me with his tongue
to keep the words from blooming. His calloused tips
and teeth toocut my backside into decorative scales:
red to blue to yellowall slick, all swollen.
Once my limbsmy keys and earrings
are lost in the tumble, I slither gone
to sleep in the dark beneath the soft house of his liver.
While he quiets in the hum of an amber cloud, I wish
for another warm summer.
59
Memory Forms
Nancy Dillon
62
Oceanic
J.C. Reilly
A hermit crab wants me to tell him the time. When I say its breakfast, he tells me that its
February, and the sky is the shape of broccoli, and that wasnt what he asked. I reply its nine, and
that the tide is like an untied shoelace. When I was younger, I thought only fish swam in the blue
martini oceanI didnt know you lived there too, a merman whose fin curled at the tip like Elvis
lip, and that jellyfish, your voice, could sting the heart right from me, a jewel for your sodden crown.
The hermit crab finds none of this remarkableand as for calculus, sacraments, the color of breath,
those are Xs on a pirate map no one remembers. What is time, he says, but an octopus misplaced
tentacle, flapping in the surf, gray and rubbery as a Michelin tire? What is time, but the song you will
no longer sing? Memory seems hard as a scalpel to the knee, as arctic winds, as the hermit crabs
carapace, as judgment from the dead. As that piece of eight, your love, buried, lost at sea.
63
Tim Hatch
Multiverse
The double-pronged death razor, otherwise known
as the fucking plug to my wifes curling iron, sits
on the off-white tile, an evil little bastard waiting
on its natural prey, hiding on the midnight floor.
Its teeth sink in the soft arch of my foot and, holding
back a scream, I kick it out of the way, which causes me
to stumble back into the tub. I reach out and I feel
the familiar shudder of
fractured
reality
as my palm hits the pink tile wall.
In another, I kick the plug
and fall back into the tub. She runs in and sees me
a broken, screaming sculptors mannequin
and the guilt
crushes her. I hold that guilt
like a cleaver
hacking away
small pieces of her
one argument at a time, swinging wildly
in a constant threat that keeps her from the door.
Back
in this reality,
I grab hold of my foot and my temper and I wrap it
in the gauze Ive learned I need to keep on hand.
As I clean the yellowing blood, I wonder:
In how many of the universes born of my childish anger
have I squandered love?
In bed, I stare at the ceiling instead of sleeping,
and I wonder: How many universes
do we get to create? And what happens
when we run out?
64
Estill Polloc
In Kiev
In Kiev they eat concrete
sniper fire
flags
They knead rubble
this bread they say
we also eat
we
have chained ourselves
to our dead
Yulia Tymoshenko in her wheelchair
in prison
asks the crows to speak for her
she
has learned crow language
in her defilement
where justice bleeds out
it is crows
she takes as emissaries
they gather overhead
where the streets of Kiev are devoured
Yulia Tymoshenko
says to them
it is time
the president has fled
the president whose
heart is vipers
now in the east
looks for a compass
someone
has stolen his compass
the special one
Putin gave him
Tymoshenko whispers to the crows
say to my countrymen
they must eat
the presidents linen napkins his best napkins twisted
in swan shapes
say to them
the golden bath
the gilt framed selfie
the bullion weight
of bullshit
the palace itself must be
devoured
say also to my daughter
Yevgenia
shield maiden of these times
there are letters to be written in the blood of our heroes
folded in tear gas & a hungry future
between the dungeon & power
the path
a blades edge
65
Estill Pollock
66
Contributors
Sabrina Bertsch received her Bachelor of Art
in photography in 1999 after an impressive
student career including national publication
in both her photography and poetry, receiving
the highly prestigious Marjorie DeFriece
Scholarship for excellence in art among other
visual arts scholarships and exhibits. After
years spent living in Philadelphia, New Mexico,
Tennessee, and Virginia, Sabrina currently
resides in New Jersey. She is completing her
Masters of the Art of Teaching while working
on her first biographical work concerning her
daughters depression as well as a new series
of self-portraits that deal with her personal
emotional conflicts.
70
FEATURING
SABRINA BERTSCH / JOHN BRANTINGHAM / NANCY DILLON / BETHANY FITZPATRICK
EMILY FRANKENBERG / AARON GANSKY / MICHAEL GENTRY / TIM HATCH
HOLLY JENSEN / PEPPER JONES / SHENG KAO / CLYDE KESSLER / ROBERT LAUGHLIN
KRISTIN LAUREL / DAN LEACH / JAE LEE / KIMBERLY MCCLINTOCK / ESTHER MCPHEE
LISA MEGRAW / JAY MERILL / JIM NEAL / JIM OLEARY / TOBIAS OGGENFUSS
A.N. PADRN / DAVE PETRAGLIA / CAL LOUISE PHOENIX / ESTILL POLLOCK / J.C. REILLY
JOHN ROTH / RAY SCANLON / CAROL SHILLIBEER / KASEY THORNTON
EMILY CLAIRE UTLEY / CHARLES THIELMAN / EMILY WONG / KATHLEEN WOODS
Apeiron Review