Affinity CoLab Presents: Ode to the Odd

AFFINITY COLAB PRESENTS

Copyright © 2020 by Affinity CoLab Presents All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher, addressed “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the address below.

Affinity CoLab 20 E. Bridge St., Ste 103 Spring City, PA 19475 affinitycolab.org

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ART WORK R. Rhizome / M. Schuster & J. Mitlas / 4 lost my hold… / T. Beilecki / 20 You may never… / T. Beilecki / 32 So many worlds… /T. Beilecki / 40 Trash Tales / P. D’Innocenzo / 48

POETRY You’ll eat those words / I. W. Sauer / 7 Treesy Tells / H. Larew / 10 Soup to Nuts / H. Larew / 11 Where You Are / H. Larew / 12 Open For / H. Larew / 13 Outlandish / F. R. Taveras / 16 introvert life… / J. Hetrick / 17 sultry haiku / J. Hetrick /18 What’s Quiet…/ J. Hetrick / 19 Ode… / P. Kline-Capaldo / 21 Dragons… / a. hornett / 22 Imperfect vision / A. Burns / 26 We were brave / D. Carrier / 28 We stepped lightly… / D. Carrier / 30 Head-bobbing / D. Carrier / 31 Of Poltergeist… / T. Rodriguez / 33

Dream State / T. Rodriguez / 34 Motionless Notions /T. Cocuzza / 41 Numerical /T. Cocuzza / 42 Strawberries in Space/E. Adan /43 Loose Air and Gum Gates / E. Adan / 44 cold white light / E. Adan / 45 botanical blending / E. Adan / 46 A Ziti Is Not…/ D. Erdman / 50 Love Letters From Korea / D. Erdman / 51 The Magician / S. K. Meier / 53

One Foot / K. Comber / 54

Short Story/ Memoir Mr. Sparkles / R.Theodore /5 The Aliens… / B. Kling / 8 Death Dream / K. Izzi / 14 Here There Be… / A. Cohen / 23 Halloween… / A. Cohen / 24 Enormous Zucchini /A. Cohen /25 …Family Counseling / B. Moulton / 36 The Cubes Came…/ P. D’Innocenzo / 47 Trash Tales / P. D’Innocenzo / 49 The Clearing / K. Comber / 55

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Mr. Sparkles

By Rae Theodore We used to see them everywhere. Alley cats crossing the street early in the morning or late at night. Big orange tabbies, sleek black cats that looked like they had fallen from a witch’s broom, tri-color calicos with markings masquerading as mustaches. Cats holed up in barns, especially in cold weather.

Cats in cages at the pet store looking for “furever” homes.

Not so much anymore. Spotting a cat on the street or in a yard is rare these days. You’d be just as likely to spy an orange-bellied parrot or a redcrowned crane. The cages are empty, too.

At first, nobody paid it much mind. The cat shortage, that is. The paucity of felines, the newscasters said, stretching out that first syllable—paaaaws—for giggles.

The dog people thought it was great.

DOGS RULE! they shouted on

Twitter and Facebook.

Then everyone started missing the cats, even team dog. They missed those dog versus cat videos on YouTube and all the other Internet content that pitted dogs against cats. Like dog versus cat diaries and dog versus cat, who wore it best.

The dogs themselves missed the cats. They missed that instinctive competition and rivalry. For at least five minutes. Then they went back to chasing their tails and chewing their Nylabones.

The cats that survived were smart. It was a Darwinian thing. They shopped around for the best homes. The world’s cat supply was low, and they were in high demand.

I remember the day Mr. Sparkles clawed through the bathroom window screen and got out. By the time I discovered he was missing, I figured he would be miles away from home. But one day after work, I saw him in the big bay window of the house across the street.

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Of course, the lesbians. Mr. Sparkles was no dummy. He knew about gay disposable income and that stereotype of lesbians being obsessed with their cats.

I watched Mr. Sparkles lying prone on his back in a too-big cat bed catching the last rays of sun. Then I saw a middle-aged woman with short spiky hair and a sweater vest—Linda or Lydia, I never was sure—holding a freshly opened can of cat food in one hand and a silver spoon in the other.

I wanted to open my front door and shout, “Mr. Sparkles doesn’t like canned food! It gives him the runs!” But there he was gobbling up the food and licking his lips in between bites like he was in some goddamn cat food commercial.

I knocked on the door on multiple occasions and pleaded with him to come home. He listened attentively the first few times and blinked at me with those daffodil yellow eyes. After that, he turned his head and pretended to clean his paws. Finally, he stopped answering the door.

I heard he changed his name from Mr. Sparkles to Sean, with a ph because he thought it was more dignified and suited him better. No one had the balls to tell him there was no p or h in Sean. He was a cat on a power trip and couldn’t be stopped.

Sometimes I drive by the house and peer in that big bay window. I beep the horn and give Mr. Sparkles the finger. Sometimes I yell, “Mr. Sparkles, I don’t miss you at all.”

Then I go home and watch the new 24-hour cat channel. If I turn my head just right, I can see Mr. Sparkles’ pink heart-shaped food bowl out of the corner of my eye.

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You’ll eat those words

By Isaac Westerling Sauer my home lies in rubens full of sound corn beef and cheese fury many’s a long night I’ve dream of swiss cheese where my bones have ached of hunger and found no cure life ain’t been no marble rye it’s had mold on it it’s been the strange bread each person has touched and plucked and broken before me and I break it too but broken for you strange vultures plucking the chained olympian chicken livers wrap it in bacon fry it in lard pierce it with a toothpick And serve with caviar you haven’t had the best until you have had the wurst liverwurst You’ll eat those words.

Strange joke.

Pass mustard.

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The Aliens Out My Window

By Becky Kling The aliens arrived here last week, and they have no regard for social distancing.

I yelled out the window at them that there is a deadly virus going around, but they just laugh as they ransack my garden and eat my prize radishes.

They have refused the pile of masks I left out for them with illustrated instructions, and they come and go freely from my yard. Who knows what kind of germs they are tracking in?

Perhaps I should be outraged, but the sad truth is that it is nice to have living creatures within plain view of me. They are not green with antennas, as I always imagined, but rather short and round with brownish fur. If it weren’t for their gleaming yellow eyes, as large as grapefruits, I might mistake them for wallabies.

I do envy them their lightheartedness, the way they chatter happily amongst themselves and wrestle around amidst my begonias. They have discovered my croquet set in the tool shed and taught themselves how to play. Yesterday I almost broke down and asked if I could join them, but then I remembered how much I cherish my life, and I shut myself in my study to read the latest news headlines until I was paralyzed with a healthy dose of fear. I sprayed Lysol around the room in a waltz-like frenzy and sat in a satisfied stupor amongst my lemon-scented oasis.

The arrival of the aliens at this time, I believe, is not simply serendipitous. They appear to have been waiting for the perfect moment to inherit the Earth, or perhaps just come for a getaway. I suppose time will tell, as it always does. In any case, they are prepared for the occasion and pull out maps from their UFO, which sits squarely upon my albino horn frog sanctuary. The other day I believe they went to the beach, as they put on my straw gardening hats and sunblock and left hand in hand with one another in the direction of the ocean. I watched them trot away; my face pressed up against each window that would afford me a view of them until they were gone.

With no sight of them in return all day, I carefully stepped out into my backyard, now a graveyard of radish leaves, watermelon seeds, and displaced albino horn frogs. I dared not venture into their UFO, lest it should be contaminated with the virus. Or 8 of 63

swallow me whole. Part of me longed to set up camp in there and wait for them to abduct me, to take me away with them to another world, a world where I could presumably cavort about happily and wrestle freely amidst patches of red dirt. But I hushed that part of myself with a shot of disinfectant until I settled into a state of hazy enchantment once more.

I sprayed my croquet set with a can of Lysol, and I played. Oh, how I played. The best set of croquet ever. Three holes in one, all in a row.

If only the aliens had been there to see it.

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Treesy Tells1

By Hiram Larew So who crackled their bris breaks?

My dutes sliped sticks and his veese deepveed the lowrings.

Over there that one’s tingey froze drupes down.

I’m just too crasheled from slantpish to branch-split the greensnaps.

Who’s beaking our loose thrash?

We’re all clunging our brue leaves while splotting keeps unching the oozeplash brown and wind boses up like owrips.

Why is it so hard to spedle and grow here?

Is it somehow because of the pitch or swollings down in our woodsy tipfeets?

1A

version of this poem appeared in M58.

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Soup to Nuts

By Hiram Larew

The crowd shrank like zip The room suddenly became just you to me All background noise crumpled Even the air swept its hair back And all of my eyes head to toes soup to nuts in be bad holy light Zoomed in and nothing else even twitched I got dug up like civilization like age stampeded So that Every squeak of ice Every clumsy clunk Every bit of but Imagined some Swigging.

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Where You Are2

By Hiram Larew

This crumbly cake of hope This inside outside tray of joy This down deep sparkled flute This tapered song of curves This almost opened fizz-in-waiting This frond of up-kick and vroom of wonder This ever even elfin jiggle This zinnia fine and brightly This ribbon glory This harking gurgle This wiggle popping lope.

2

A version of this poem appeared in Brave New World Magazine.

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Open For

By Hiram Larew If time is gone Then where are we Half ready for But lacking of If time is gone Then how to start And how to treat the heart That’s open for Or any heart amazed If time is gone Then how are hills Our newest green of distance When all the sky seems rolling gone If every time has gone and left Then who is going onward As if this view will round and turn As if these eyes are endless?

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Death Dream

by Karen Izzi, PhD And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom by Anis Nin is one of my favorite quotes. I have always kept a journal in the house especially for gathered notes and affirmations such as these.

Every once in a while, I take it from the top of my desk and bring it to bed with me for bedtime reading. From this same journal I reread the following passage.

Still Among the Living From a peaceful sleep I am driven to write. Like some kind of suicide, I awaken among the dead. From the dark, I attempt to explain. From my sleep, a unique peace calms me. The dream of death. Perhaps I came here for some odd explanation, like visiting prison for no other reason than to document its suicide. I watch, as one by one, family members and friends take the news. My beloved awakens not realizing she put a new hole in my heart. No one had ever died before of a broken heart. I was the first very newsworthy case. My parents are numb, not realizing the real cause of my death. My mother is screaming. My body survived by a one-hundred and two-year-old greatgrandmother, an eighty-eight-year-old grandmother, and even a strong, but blind, ninety-five-year-old grandfather. What is it that allows us to live and die? What is it that takes our final breath? I now experience eating without tasting, the fulfillment of life without breathing, and I realize how connected all people are despite their differences. Without breathing, some are still among the living. I realize that we can move, we inspire, and we can make a difference while we are living. Our true lives simply begin as we die. When we become aware that we should slow down and be conscious at every moment, that really is when it is too late.

After the initial shock and grieving are over, my family members go on living their regular lives, one by one. Some of them, I find that I am capable of staying close to in their lives. My mother always knows when I am nearby. Her intuition makes it possible for me to visit, leaving behind a soft fragrance that she knows, for sure, is mine. I am among the living. I stay in good spirit in death visiting those who are in contact with the spiritual world. This is a consciousness that can not be described precisely among the living. I visit people that need me. I bless their day and am reborn with happiness.

I greet each one and move on, becoming more aware that it is never too late to offer kindness. Like a flickering candle that suddenly burns out into darkness. I am a guide to people in their uncivilized lives. Too many people walk around with blinders on, only half living, half breathing, and half loving. I shake my head in disbelief, browsing 14 of 63

around, knowing that everything is as it should be. My mission is to bring encouragement and peace to everyone, especially in their grief. I urge the living to climb mountains, others to spend more time with their children, and lovers to linger in their state of bliss. The reality is that for some, death is better than existing among the living. Perhaps I took my own life tonight as some sort of sacrifice to prove that our spirit moves on to live again and again.

My lesson is to live among the living, more consciously, the second time. I am an old soul, my advisors have always said. In the first moments of my death, I know this to be true. My mission is to instill that we have to live authentically before we die. To be living to the very end, fully to our final day. This is all we have, our consciousness and kindness to share.

Dreams are significant. Upon waking, I record the messages and ideas that I have received in my dreams. Sometimes death appears to me, but I am never afraid of my death or grieve over anyone else’s. Each time I analyze my own dreams, ironically enough, I discover a “reason” for having had the dream. There is always a reason that things appear to us. Our subconscious comes forward as we enter REM sleep. If we are in tune with our egos, dreams can be easily interpreted and understood. This day, still feeling my dream as I sit down to eat lunch, I read from the Daily Wisdom Book by Josh Bartok, “Listen to the dying takes us to the edge of our own fears, for when we open our hearts to someone, we open ourselves to their death. Death will come in with a force equal to the resistance we have to it.”

Monsoon season has arrived again and is full force tonight. In my back yard I admire lightening moving swiftly across the blackened sky. The trees take it well despite the severe wind and extra four inches of downpour. Ears back and down, Bella questions the wind chimes whipping against the patio wall. I think of the surfer boys back home running with their boards from the dangerous waves hitting the beach. I have always been afraid of the lightening and thunder. Not tonight.

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Outlandish

By Francesca Rose Taveras I was told I was outlandish once.

I asked them, so you think I'm weird?

“No, it's just... how you speak...

The form in which you say things, It's just out of this world”.

That got me thinking, What about me is so different?

Is it that I can be caring yet cruel?

A bit selfish and selfless?

I'm supportive and standoffish?

I'm Dominican and American?

I speak Spanish and english?

I'm both Yin and Yang?

I'm sporty yet classy?

I'm sophisticated and sassy?

I'm an introvert and an extrovert?

I'm a lover and a fighter?

I'm a sister and a friend?

I'm water and I'm fire?

I'm an ALIEN here to transcend?

I've been included and excluded?

I’m venom and I’m medicine?

I'm the outsider who gets let in?

I'm everything and nothing at all?

I'm different, yet still a part of the collective?

That word you chose to describe me made an imprint on my life.

It once made me indifferent but now I embrace it with no strife.

All along you were right!

I'm the unique one, the star seed, the unicorn surrounded by light.

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introvert life recipe no. 17

By Jennifer Hetrick i am tapping away at this laptop’s keyboard, clicking speedily at letters inked onto plastic pieces. by day, some customers hear me typing over the phone and balk, pausing to toss out a half-curse word at how fast i am. i joke the truth with them, tell them how in eighth grade, if i wanted an A or a B in typing class, i had to cheat because we had no computer at home, thus little time to practice. after mr. faust would boom, EVERYONE, STOP TYPING RIGHT NOW, i quietly pecked with my hushed fingertips, tap…taptap…tap…tap. fellow students would whisper nearby, cheering me on. i lucked out, never getting caught, and today, how jarringly quick i am at a keyboard floors those who hear my well-evolved skills. cartoon network is on the teevee in the background as i work on articles, reply to emails, tired and on information-overload across jobs, so many hours in me worked that i say i’m 83 inside (and also because a lot of my friends are senior-aged)—staring at this box they call a screen while another one, larger, sits feet away, buzzing with consumerism knocked on its side. suddenly, this line meets the air on the show rick & morty: they eat every third baby because they think it makes fruit grow bigger. alone, i bust out laughing, caught off-guard by the sound of my voice joining the living room in this limited sound-space, remembering how much i savor solitude-quiet-comedy.

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sultry haiku (Ă la star wars)

By Jennifer Hetrick rinsing off mud, that shower scene with chewie and han, my favorite.

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What’s Quiet and Beautiful

By Jennifer Hetrick Cemeteries on high hills are where her heart calms and aligns with the air of the day, away from the rush of cars pulsing the macadam near turn-of-thecentury brick homes below.

She reads an old, musty-perfumed library copy of Frank O’Hara’s poems in between small glances at the sunset spanning grapefruit-hued lines in western stretches of sky, thinking, I’d wear a workshirt to the opera, too.

Crab rangoon from the Chinese restaurant in the town next to this one, one dip and bite at a time, tastes all the more glorious to the tongue while amongst the dead.

She writes letters to friends and her youngest nieces, sprawled in green patches between gravestones of infant sisters who did not know each other while breathing, since they died in 1898 and 1900.

Their names are Elsie and Ethel Schnabel.

And it is possible to pray for them, without religion.

Some prayer is not sky-bound.

It starts and ends in the earth.

She offers bundled short sprigs of wheat-like grass.

They are telling their shortest glimmers of stories in the soil, on repeat, but they take breaks in the routine of believing oxygen matters to them, even now.

Weeks later, she spots a purple ribbon blowing around graves off in the distance. Running after it, she plucks it from wind and grass, walks it to where the little girls are long-gone in the ground, and wedges it around the edges of Elsie’s gravestone.

Months afterward, the ribbon is still in place, a comfort. Only by spring is it gone, after a harsh winter.

She visits them every few Friday nights in summer months.

And she’s still learning from them.

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lost my hold on the shadows of the night oil on panel 11 x 14

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Ode to Dead White Trees

by Patty Kline-Capaldo Twin bleached sentinels guard the young, whose leafy green arms wave and flutter like maiden aunts trying to hide your moon-kissed nakedness.

Do they envy your brashness?

Beacons in winter, you rise stark against the murky grays of your sisters and whisper ancient wisdom to their roots.

In summer, you stand unabashedly bare while they bejewel themselves with blossoms.

Are you jealous of their leaves?

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Dragons Love Tacos andy hornett If you’re hunting for Dragons, then southwest you’ll go.

Many still live there. But you might not know.

They’re crazy for Tex Mex. The hotter the better.

Burritos, salsa and corn chips. Gotta go get ‘er.

They can’t go to restaurants - too small, cramps their wings.

So they visit the drive thrus and similar things.

Dragons team up with buddies. Head to town for a feast: crispy tacos, extra guacamole and plenty of cheese.

Wanna know their favorite meal?

Ten servings Number Threes.

Your Dragons are flexible. Bold and daring, too.

If not, Saint George might have ended ‘em. Then, what would we do?

They strut through the taco stands without Apple Pay and gobble up El Grandes all night and all day.

But be careful if you smell smoke. You must move away.

Check a website for postings. There are scorchings every day.

Like road rage, when it’s over, they don’t even recall.

They just need some Tex Mex. Really. That’s all.

Last week, in Albuquerque, a manager refused the Double El Grande because the coupons were used.

They burned the place. Burned it right down to the ground.

The extra sour cream has yet to be found.

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Here There Be Dragons

By Abby Cohen She sat in the corner of the coffee shop drinking tea. She was always just a little out of step. Every year they went to Benihana for her father’s birthday, and every one else ordered one of the options from the big slice and dice show while she ordered from the sushi bar. It was part of the menu and always very good. But not what most people did. She tried to explain that she didn’t like her rice fried or people throwing shrimp at her, but no one ever seemed to understand what she meant.

She took another sip of tea and watched. No one else seemed to notice that a small dragon ran back and forth behind the counter giving little huffs of flame to bring each cup of coffee to the perfect roast of flavor. She wasn’t sure why she was the only one who could see this but assumed it was one more mark of difference between her and everyone else. She was more than a little weird and simply hadn’t found her tribe with the right kind of weirdness.

They were out there; she was sure of it. And somehow, she felt, if she sat here long enough, she’d find the other people who could see dragons too.

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Halloween In The Vegetable Garden

By Abby Cohen The vegetables in the garden patch began to murmur among themselves. The Great Pumpkin is a silly story from the brain of Charles Schultz. But the fact is on Halloween, the garden comes to life. The herbs that we think of growing for flavor in soups and stews begin to wave their leaves where there is no breeze to propel them. They giggle and gossip among themselves, the low rumble of the basil adding a bass note among the light trills of the mint and cilantro. The tomatoes and zucchini roll back and forth playing little games of bocce. Not very strenuous games. After all, they must all be back to normal in the morning. This is only for one night. In the morning they must all be back as they were the day before, unbruised and still attached to their respective vines. Still, they do like to have fun for this one night.

The pumpkins rumble about being the stars of Halloween, somewhat hollowly.

After all, they haven’t been picked to be jack-o’lanterns. Everything else is second best to a pumpkin. Maybe they’ll still be picked to be part of some fall decorations. Or some old-fashioned soul will actually make homemade pie with the guts and then roast and salt the seeds. They sigh and rumble. Just for tonight they are still the stars. Might as well rub it in while they can.

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The Enormous Zucchini

By Abby Cohen The enormous zucchini grew in the garden. At first it was funny. Thoughts of obscene youtube videos danced in her head. Potential revivals of ancient Greek comedies where men running around the stage hitting each other with giant phalluses was considered the height of humor. If you thought that sort of thing started with Black Adder or Benny Hill you would be wrong.

It just kept getting bigger. She contemplated carving a message in it and roasting and serving it like the pumpkin in Little Men. But then it got bigger.

It was a shame people didn’t take things to the county fair anymore. At least not in her tidy little suburb.

But the whole thing was very odd. The seed packet had declared these to be ordinary sized squash. This one was clearly a mutant. All its relatives lay there in the garden looking microscopic in comparison.

She began to feel like one of the teenagers in the beginning of The Blob movie.

She had a monster growing in her backyard and no one would believer her. Not even her husband, who sadly, looked nothing like a young Steve McQueen. Or even the way her spouse had looked back when they were both young and silly enough to think bells going off with nothing there was a good reason to get married.

She sighed again and stared out the window. She could swear she saw ripples moving back and forth inside the thing. She should get a knife and cut it into pieces but now she was afraid of what would happen if she tried.

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Imperfect vision

By Alex Burns Disjointed, confused, depressed Who pressed hold?

Why are we stuck?

Will we ever get back?

Damned weather Damned TV Damned stay home We are the damned Friends are stuck In little boxes We can see them, hear them Are they real?

When can we touch?

When can we hold?

When can we gather?

When will it be gone?

A dress rehearsal For life?

For freedom?

Or for eternal damnation?

And theatre Masks to hide Masks to protect Masks to divide But we live We survive We carry on We persist in persisting

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We ride the curve up We ride the curve down We plateau too high But never get off the ride I will drink a potion Or pay a penance My life to live More than just exist Twenty twenty Never better?

A new beginning Or ignominious end? 

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We were brave

By Debbie Carrier We stepped lightly, on large, round rocks It was odd, the way the tightly positioned stones, creaked; Almost singing.

The trail wound around the property, under curtains of turning leaves And stodgy grasses.

And Which way to here?

Which way to there?

Signs.

And a solitary bench, under an old knotty tree, was fitting for chatter and reflection.

It was odd the way the camera kept catching the perfect light As if it was a perfect day Spun out of a chapter On “here is heaven” And a place of remembering Who you Are. I never meant to go there, But it seemed close by.

I never meant to suggest it, But it was new; Like our efforts toward Discovering love.

We gasped at bits of broken air stuck in our throats and rattled out our jagged communication.

It was odd how long we had been holding our individual breath.

And when the air punched out, like hands against a sandbag, it was obvious how much each letter needing expressing, Through the swift formation of Words.

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Puncture wounds and Carpenter’s glue, are the tools of A skilled woman.

A craftswoman! Working with the edges of running out of time, to be impressive.

Best speak fast!

But we were brave and going back again

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We stepped lightly, on the large, round rocks and noted there was something odd

By Debbie Carrier With the way the tightly positioned stones, creaked; Almost singing.

Singing to us a gentle, peaceful refrain The echo of two fingers tentatively touching, with the years of a 58, So full of 365; And tears and Laughter.

Two souls Two mouths Two hearts Two Dancers On a Bench, In a place of remembering, That they never intended To attend.

Barking aloud the Gospel of Life And tenderly hoping For more of these days Where singing stones Drown out the feet of the other steppers Leaving only the falling leaves And trails of tennis shoes in the dirt And first times At bat With words like “I so Love you.”

Two souls Two mouths Two hearts And large round rocks.

It was lovely, And yet quite odd.

And fascinating!

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Head-bobbing

By Debbie Carrier I walked outside. The corn stalks had turned an unnatural yellow-orange, and their heads bopped about like apples upon water, do.

They shimmered in the sunlight, oddly, Wind-frayed; Floating over tangled essence of dancing, angel-wing poles.

The bending breeze so chill on my naked toes; wrapped right to heal a corn of my own, on toe number two, if counting rows from the little toe, inward.

I let the rout of wind lift my hanging-out-about-the-house sweatshirt.

There are little weird bugs crawling around in the tub; little weird scents sinking into my nose, from my clothes, like someone washed my first layer in my grandfather’s cologne. It’s a day of choices, and Head-bobbing.

I bob my tired head up and down, in my meditations. The glare of heat from the midday sun is an ancient testimony.

I don’t want anymore drama!

I don’t want to feel like paper shoved into a wedge. Like a prayer in a wall.

If I roll I roll...And I so wanted to roll with you, and do a little head-bobbing.

I haven’t done it. I’ve been too pure. And now my hands feel useless, In this sweet lifeplay; so much passed.

Grandfather why does your cologne haunt me today? The way it did when I had 105 fever, in Dallas, TX, Christmas of 1996.

And there you came, in spirit, to Remind me of my worth; with your cigar smoke and your fever relief. You came and sat by my bed, and breathed the life back into me, as my loved one lay shattered on a hospital bed. You came and spoke love into my ear, and said you are my princess. Don’t ever lose your Crown.

I walked outside. The corn stalks had turned an unnatural yellow-orange, and their heads bopped.

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You may never come back again Taylor Bielecki oil on canvas 36 x 50


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Of Poltergeist and Anti-Matter

By Teresa Rodriguez How odd it is to me, how queer that things I hold so dear disappear!

When I am by myself what I left on the shelf on or my desk or table vanishes! Were I able to believe I could retrieve my precious junket or bauble I would not dawdle but search and crouch and stretch and scoop and stoop!

Phooey!

The black hole was hungry— clearing my earring and then my pen or worse— my purse and— jeese! my keys!

PLEASE! Regurgitate, you other sphere, or kindly vanish outta here!

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Dream State

By Teresa Rodriguez I woke but I was not awake. Around Me was a canyon— gravelike, dark abode Where light was dim and dying. And the sound About me echoed breath. The night bestowed Around me festering, thick, fetid air, Cold and black. This closed space did forebode Forthcoming unknown states, and places where I had to stay silent. But then the descent, Descending in a spiral in midair Which caused my senses to disorient.

I then could taste of death, an acrid taste, Displeasure adding to my discontent Where whirling down and nausea interlaced; And then I stopped. By then I could not feel A thing. For numbness somehow had replaced My sense of touch. My fingers, dead, unreal, Like phantoms had no body. All I'd known I knew no more. And throughout this ordeal I could touch no one. I was all alone In this dark, blinded world-- I could not see As well, the absence of the light so shown In this weird, womblike state, which was to me A mummy, or a corpse. Was I alive?

Was this a wrapped cocoon? Then suddenly It felt like birthing. When I did survive The squeezings and the movement, water broke Around me. Then my senses did revive 34 of 63

As I emerged. What thoughts did this evoke, Feeling new, delivered? Was I free, Or was this just a dream as I awoke?

No matter what, my sensibilities Were shattered by this psychic fantasy!

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God the Father and Jesus Go to Family Counseling

By Beth Moulton The counseling sessions had been Jesus’ idea. Said he had a few things to get off His chest. God the Father went along; a Father should be supportive of his Son, but it was all He could do to keep from rolling His eyes. Therapy, for Christ sake, He thought, as He settled into the uncomfortable chair.

“Jesus, why don’t You start,” said the therapist.

Jesus cleared His throat. God the Father wondered, not for the first time, why Jesus didn’t get a haircut. The shoulder length had worked when He was younger, but He was pushing forty now. The long hair look was wearing thin.

“Dad.” He stopped and looked at his feet, dusty from wearing sandals everyday.

“It’s OK, Jesus, You’re safe here. You can say it,” prompted the therapist.

Jesus started again. “Dad, You sent me to my death. You could have saved me but You didn’t.”

God sighed. So it was this again.

“We’ve talked about this. It was the only way to save humanity. I sacrificed my only begotten Son so they would have eternal salvation.”

“I’m your only begotten son. You sacrificed me. The sacrifice was mine, not yours!”

Jesus leapt up from His chair and paced the room. The therapist looked nervous.

“When Isaac was prepared to sacrifice his son, You stayed his hand!”

“Jesus, that was different. The entire path of Christianity depended upon a death and a resurrection. You saved the souls of millions of people.”

“You stayed Isaac’s hand but You sent me to die! Do You have any idea what those three days were like, in that place between Heaven and hell?”

“Well, Jesus, I’m sure that I do, since I created the entire universe, and in only six days, I might add.”

“God,” said the therapist, “Jesus is sharing His feelings. Perhaps you could show some support. He’s gone through a series of very traumatic experiences.”

God resisted the urge to smite her on the spot. Over the millennia he had learned to control his temper. The Yogic breathing Buddha had taught Him helped. He closed His eyes and did some now, breathing in slowly, pausing, then breathing out slowly. When He opened his eyes, the therapist and Jesus were still there, staring at Him. He ignored her, but spoke to His Son. “Jesus, I’m sorry. I really am. I thought You would be on board, what with promising eternal life to all of humanity, but I see that I could have handled it differently.”

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Jesus’ eyes widened in surprise. He hadn’t expected an apology. God never apologized.

“Well, uh—” The small timer on the therapist’s desk dinged. Their fifty minutes were up.

“Well, Jesus and God, I think we’ve made some good progress this week,” she said, as she moved towards the door. “Perhaps You can talk through some things at home and we’ll discuss them during Your session next week.”

“I guess I’ll see you next week then,” said Jesus.

“Yeah, I suppose I’ll be back, too,” said God, as he struggled out of the too-soft chair.

The men walked towards the door.

“Want to go to Taco Bell? They have the Doritos taco shells,” asked God. “Sure, Dad,” answered Jesus, “I love tacos.” Jesus brushed his hair from His eyes as they walked out of the office.

The Holy Trinity Go Riding Around God the Father was driving. Why does He always drive, Jesus thought, as He looked out the window at the people walking by. Hasn’t He heard the song “Jesus Take the Wheel?” Even if He had, He would probably still drive. He was just selfish that way.

Also, He was too cheap to get a newer car. Jesus hunched down so that no one He knew would notice that He was riding around in a Saturn. They didn’t even make that car anymore.

The Holy Spirit was in the back seat, bestowing the gift of tongues on some of the people they passed.

“Stop that HS,” God said, as a man who had been skateboarding down the sidewalk suddenly fell to the ground, wild-eyed and gibbering. “Those people are going to wind up in the psych ward on a 72-hour hold.”

HS didn’t know how God had noticed; did He have eyes in the back of His head? “But God, when they’re on their psych hold, don’t they invoke your name more frequently than they do at any other time?”

God didn’t answer, but he knew HS was right. He was always invoked more often in times of trouble, then ignored when things were going well. It really pissed Him off. It also pissed Him off that the Saturn had gotten a recall notice so it was going to have to go to the shop for a repair. God wanted to smite the technicians who had installed the faulty ignition switches in the Saturns, but since the Saturn plant had closed, he

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figured they had been smitten, smote, punished enough. He sighed. He was having one of those days.

While they idled at the light, a man and woman argued on the corner. The woman was arguing quietly, but the man let loose with a loud string of profanities that started with “f—king bitch” and ended with “I’ll cut you so bad your own mother won’t recognize you.” God was appalled, and He’s heard His share of bad language, what with Satan and the Legion and all.

“HS, maybe one more,” said God. HS fixed his gaze on the cursing man, who suddenly flopped to the ground like a fish, shouting in a language that no one understood. Several people dialed 911. The light turned green and God drove on, pleased with the general performance of the Saturn, just annoyed at the recall.

Besides, He knew that Jesus hated the car so he wanted to keep it as long as possible.

“What do you think, should we go to Taco Bell?” God asked. “You’re awfully quiet Jesus. Cat got your tongue?”

“No, I’m good,” Jesus said, straightening up in His seat. “Yeah, Taco Bell would be great. They have vegetarian options.”

God sighed. He hadn’t created pigs and cows just for the heck of it. HS rolled his eyes.

“Fine,” God replied. “Taco Bell it is.”

God the Father and Jesus Play Baseball Jesus stood on third base contemplating His recent pedicure. No polish of course, but His feet were soft and smooth. Wearing sandals all the time had made them crusty, but He’d struggled for a long time with the idea of getting a pedicure. Whenever He’d walked past the “Play Footsie” salon, there were only women inside. He finally decided that a pedicure would be very similar to a washing of the feet ceremony, a tradition celebrated in Christianity. Of course, a symbolic foot washing did not entail the level of effort that the pedicure technician put forth on Jesus’ neglected feet. The poor woman broke out in a sweat.

“It’s the sandals,” she said, as Jesus struggled to keep His robes out of the foot bath.

“Maybe wear some closed shoes once in a while. They’re easier on the feet.”

“I’ll think about it,” He said.

Jesus, like most members of the service industry, was a good tipper. He made a standing appointment for every two weeks.

Now He was playing baseball with His Father. It was the therapist’s idea. Some bonding crap. She said Jesus had issues, what with being raised by another man and 38 of 63

then being put to death without any intervention from God, so He and God had things to work through. Jesus sighed. He hated sports.

God was at bat. Jesus had only achieved third base because of a series of walks by Michael the Archangel. Michael’s wings interfered with his pitch. But now, Michael had been replaced by a wingless angel who had been a triple-A pitcher before his untimely line-drive-related death. There would be no more walks.

God stepped up, held the bat at arm’s length in front of Him like he had seen Ryan Howard do, then settled the bat just above His shoulder. He swung and missed. A cloud passed in front of the sun. Second pitch, same as the first. The sky grew a little darker. God was working on his temper, but some days he worked harder than others.

Jesus hoped there would be no smiting today. He thought one of the clouds looked like a duck.

Third pitch, God swung the bat around, and holding it horizontally, bunted the ball a few feet, where it rolled on the ground.

“It’s a sacrifice bunt,” shouted the announcer, as the fielder ran in to get the ball.

“Run, Jesus, run,” the crowd roared.

Jesus lowered his gaze from the sky to the field. A sacrifice bunt? His Father had sacrificed, for Him? God was tagged out on the first base line before Jesus started running.

Jesus ran as fast as He could towards home plate, His robes kicking up dust. He slid into home, which everyone knows is dangerous in sandals, but God must have been looking out for Him, and He tagged the plate while the pitcher choked on dust.

“Safe!” called the umpire.

Later, while sitting next to His Father at the ice cream shop, (Taco Bell needs to step up their dessert options), Jesus told the story over and over to the team.

“My Dad sacrificed for me. For me!”

And when Jesus’ ice cream melted because He was too busy with the telling, God quietly went up and bought Him another one.

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So many worlds away oil on panel 9 x 12Â

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MOTIONLESS NOTIONS

By Tony Cocuzza Take the shortcut to a Mountain Top Fold your arms, cross your legs Utter some mysterious sound Weigh yourself down with motionless notions And wait for Salvation and Nourishment to fall from a benevolent sky OR - Trade Truth for Pleasure Board the train to scenic Somewhere Step into the middle of a cream pie prank Turn a careful glance into a careless Adventure Unfold those arms, uncross those legs Put on your Volcano Shoes Be the last conquered Roman to taste a corrupted stream Or the very first Earthling to mix a Martini on Mars

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NUMERICAL

By Tony Cocuzza It is Not the Ten Commandments that concern me It is some some of those Other numbers 18 - You can vote if you are moved by the Spirit of 76 At 21 - I could enter the grownup 'Forbidden Zone' Probably not Studio 54 Maybe meet someone with a set of 38's Who would eventually 86 me from her life And I would no longer giggle when someone says 69 I would try to avoid anyone threatening with a 45 Or a 12 Step Program You can buy something that kills 99 percent of some Evil  that 4 out of 5 Doctors condemn At 65, become confused by free, cheap, and useless attractions 67 percent of people insist that 2 is the perfect number 3 is a Crowd and One can insure only Loneliness I wish I were 100 percent Certain about that 

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Strawberries in Space

By Elizabeth Adan

Strawberries in space taunt us As we stride through the memory museum I won't hurt you again But you're always fading Further from happiness Hurling toward heartbreak Let's make a red velvet cheers to trying There's no other logical end to the night

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Loose Air & Gum Gates

By Elizabeth Adan now it's loose in the air fate selects the ones who need it most the fresh green asparagus allies who jump and grasp and reach toward the stars the two people you need are never in the same air it's okay that whatever happens, happens they're waiting to welcome you with a basket of grass seeds just past the iron gum gates

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cold white light

By Elizabeth Adan you just walked out naked into the world to start a wildfire every circle the lighthouse makes hits me with a ray of magic perennial fear in the form of footsteps it watches, listens at the bedroom door my heart aches as the doorknob rattles and a cold sweat engulfs my fear what are these days that we cling to and devour like violets? the cold white light hits my freckled face and the ticking clock takes a second too long to tick again

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botanical blending

By Elizabeth Adan

I'm not always like this no matter what people say I was happy to see you I didn't think you'd wander into the woods but here we are searching the streets eating the heads of daisies in shallow waters slicing off sweet cherry cheesecake stories looking for you in the rivers at dawn I heard you jumped into the sea with a handful of stars of all of these previous lives yours is the one I miss the most a botanical blend of heart and courage

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The Cubes Came to Visit

By Pat D’Innocenzo Two large, brown, cardboard cubes are stacked at the end of a driveway.

Identical, one is slightly cantilevered over the other. Both show signs of damp from recent showers. The lower box wilts slightly under the weight of its companion.

There are no markings on either cube. No sign of labels torn off. Oddly, the boxes are not sealed, not with tape nor are the flaps intertwined. They appeared the day after trash day. No other debris has joined them. No one stirs from the house.

Why not stack them properly? Why wait until after trash pickup? Why not seal them? They cannot be empty. The breezes coming down the hill would have toppled them by now.

The urge to peek inside is strong. The cubes are impossible to ignore. They are secret containers just daring us to look. What could possibly be so mysterious, yet worthless? No odor comes from them. No dogs bother them.

When a week is up they will disappear into the maw of a garbage truck taking their secret away with them. We will still be confused.

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Trash Tales

By Pat D’Innocenzo Who are you?

Yes, you with the bin full of Mountain Dew cans.

Is that your caffeine of choice? Do you need that to get revved up to face the day?

You must have a lot of energy to have smashed all those cans.

Look at your neighbor’s bin. Six cans, all perfectly settled into a box. No labels to see.

Are they hiding their beverage of choice? Or are they just incredibly neat and organized?

And You, the one with all the empty scrubbie boxes.

Did you detail all your doorframes, closet doors and baseboards?

Could you find nothing else to do? Or is this your way of coping? Working out frustration?

That is still a lot of scrubbies.

Someone else has been celebrating. A cake container, whipped cream, a gift bag.

Of course, there are all those empty alcohol bottles. Hope it was an adult birthday.

Maybe the new mattress was the gift. Yuck!

However, there is some celebrating to be done with a cocktail and, well, you know.

Plenty of snacking too.

Wonder what next week will bring?

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A Ziti Is Not a Wince

By Dan Erdman A ziti is not a wince, nor is a strand of spaghetti a quince.

You may arrange such limp pasta on your plate, if you would like, into the shape of a pained smile, and it will stay that way forever, unlike a wince, which will typically come and go in a flash.

You can squeeze the juice of a quince into a glass, and if you choose not to take it to drink, you can place it on the mantle next to the Mona Lisa, who was Italian, I think, and might have been fond of spaghetti and ziti.

I could never tell if Mona’s lips were transitioning to a wince or a smile, and I have not pondered this for a while, at least not since our dog chewed on her picture frame and we placed Mona in the attic, to be fixed at some time in the future.

Now the quince, as you may know, is the sole member of the genus Cydonia, which sounds both Italian and a bit lonely, quite the way that I think of old Mona.

But the quince is native only to West Asia and Mesopotamia.

However, as folklore has it, pasta came to Italy when Marco Polo brought it back from China.

And what would have stopped Marco Polo from picking up some quince along the way as well?

So maybe Mona Lisa did eat a quince, and perhaps she was allergic to it, causing internal discomfort, and that explains her wince-like smile.

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Love Letters From Korea (a pre-election bad dream)

By Dan Erdman Him. Him. Him. Himmmmm‌

Himmmmm‌

Himmmmm

Him. Him. Him. Thought about nuking a post-office in Newark, New Jersey but the little one from North Korea sent the love letter with a drawing of an arrow through a heart, conveniently interpreted as the threat, so we struck first.

Cold callous code calculated to change the conversation for just six or seven days.

Twenty-six million seared and scorched souls, sixty seconds in the mushroom cloud.

Delirious diversion decision, time-warped rationalization; simple collateral damage, just wrongthinking slaves suffering certain starvation.

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Sad news and mad nuke news on every channel, but who now has the guts to push the button that cancels the bad clown show?

The TV does not turn off even when the plug is pulled.

Him. Him. Him. (only he can prevent forest fires).

Himmmmm…

Himmmmm…

Himmmmm

(can either save or destroy the earth) Him. Him. Him. (doesn’t pray before playing with buttons) So, go outside and take a walk, check your mailbox when you get back, twenty-six million please-send-help letters sent from North Korea last week before the drop.

Did you get one?

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The Magician

By Surya Kelly Meier A thousand vulgarities in my hand, I count them in the sand, from here to Timbuktu, to Corinth hard and long, to Beijing weeping through and through.

A thousand vulgarities in my hand, I count them in the stripes of air balloons from Heaven, long gone tomb.

Helium knows so little in truth.

A thousand vulgarities in my hand like old cement now cracking bald, where green shoots up the victor and I roll over, playing dead.

A thousand vulgarities in my hand a loop in time to lasso steeds.

I ride a buck just like the others, twirl the while before I give up empty-handed.

A thousand vulgarities in silt and sand I trace their flower faces in a fell tree bare of bark, no dog to call my own to sniff and say “Here lies my master’s moss and rot.”

A thousand vulgarities in velvet hands I, sublime madhatter, escaped the hat.

A magician waves a thousand wands and still finds fault in every one.

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One Foot

By Katy Comber I sleep with my foot on the floor.

Just in case the Bogey man exists.

Drawn in by the unconscious wiggling of toes— —grab! pull me under— to somewhere less scary, than here.

Here, where, the air’s uncertain and heavy; unpredictability looms over scrunched shoulders; settles like a chill in my bones.

Here, where, fear has no name and too many all at once.

Monsters under the bed, creatures looming beneath the floor boards and closeted shadows slithering among clothes, waiting…

Those are preferable So, I sleep with one foot on the floor and dream of a life in the land of monsters.

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The Clearing Carl! Medicine’s on the counter.

Thanks, hon. Oh, this water—it’s not from the tap is it?

Good grief. Do you have to ask me that every time? No, honey. It’s from the filter.

Okay. Dammit. I’m going to be late. Have you seen my— Behind the bedroom door. I knew you’d ask when I saw it, and I didn’t want to pick it up in case you did because Lord knows I’d forget where I tucked it away, and then I wouldn’t be able to tell you that your right shoe is behind our bedroom door.

Thank you.

Welcome… You know we should really— Not now.

I’m just saying that closet is a nightmare. If we just organized it, then maybe we wouldn’t be looking for missing shoes all the time.

We can’t. You know we can’t. I’m not having this conversation right now, I’m late enough as it is.

Fine.

Don’t say fine.

Well it is. It’s your closet. Right? Your house? Who am I to want to clear a space that hasn’t been used since…

Don’t say it.

Don’t say it. Don’t say fine. Don’t bring up the closet.

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I can’t do this. I’m late.

Fi—Okay. Okay. I get it. Go. I love you.

I love you, too. Have a great day.

You, too. **** Hello?

Hey! In here!

God it’s hot outside. I pulled up and our grass is brown as straw. It’s like a tinderbox out there. One spark and—We need rain!

How was work?

Awful. Peterman was complaining again about the Watkins report. I don’t know why he spends so much time complaining about work rather than just doing it. Here?

Where’s here?

The bedroom.

I just looked in the bedroom.

I’m— No. —here.

No. Yes. It needed to be done, Carl.

Frieda. What did you—Where?

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The guest room. It’s all sorted. Three piles: Donate, trash, and sell.

What?

I saved a few things I knew you’d want. His tie.

His tie…

The one he’s wearing in his wedding picture on the mantle? And his winter hat that you loved—and of course, his medals. Everything else… but look! We have a closet!

Carl? Carl? Ohhhh. Please. Please, don’t look at me that way. I can’t stand it. You know this had to be done. It’s been over a decade, I’ve lived here for half that time—and I still don’t feel like I can be home here. Five years of living in a space as a visitor. As a guest among apparitions lurking in closets and tucked away in possessions that no longer have an owner. I couldn’t live like this anymore. Missing shoes, three drawers to call my own, this sprawling ranch house sitting on acres and acres and I have to shrink to fit. Carl? Carl? Are you listening to me? Carl—what are you staring at? What—What is that? Is that a door? A door in the floor? Why would there be a space like that under this closet?

It. It was a…b-b-bunker. He installed it when the house was built. I loved it. You know, ugh. Um…My—my father and my ma used to argue. These massive all out wars would erupt—you could feel them brewing. The air crackled like it does right before a tornado. It would be quiet like being in the eye. You know that absence of sound?

Everything muted. Like there’s so much tension that sound waves can’t permeate through. When it got like that, Ma would tell me to go down and play.

Oh. Carl. I’m sor— One day—I had just turned ten, my birthday balloons had not yet drifted down from the ceiling— Ma told me to go down and wait for her to knock. She invented this funny combination of beats on the door. It made me snicker in anticipation as I waited. Waited for the knocking. When it didn’t come right away, I went down and put together a puzzle. Five hundred pieces. I can still see the carousel image with its fierce horses perpetually neighing, ready to stomp and gallop away, as I fit the last piece in.

Hours must have gone by. I savored that puzzle. The knock never came.

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Why— Why, not?

When I finally went up, night had fallen. It was a cicada year. The whole world outside was buzzing. The world inside was still. I was alone. When I looked outside the kitchen window, I saw my father in the moonlight. Out there before this town was a town, when the moon was full and the night was clear, in the starlight—it was so bright. And there he crouched in the spotlight of the moon. There was something dangerous in the way his body swayed. Swayed over the well.

The well?

I ran back, into the bunker. Hid here for I don’t remember how long. I just know that by the time my father came down to get me, Ma was never coming back. He came down and said she’d gone away for a little while and to go to school and not to cry and let the people say whatever they wanted to about Ma because she had left us and deserved it and…we didn’t drink from the tap any more.

What—Carl. What are you saying?

Years later, when my father got sick, I set up the bunker for him. I told him it was in case of a storm. He was too frail to go down there by himself, and if there was an emergency and I wasn’t around, he’d be better off down there. So why not set the place up? It was big enough. Even has a working tap and toilet! So we did. It looked real nice. One night, I was putting him to bed. Giving him his medicine. And, uh. Well, he told me a story about the last time he found me in here. He, uh, confessed somethings. When he dozed off, that feeling came back. That tense feeling. That eye of the storm heaviness. I felt her. I felt Ma. I heard her say things. Followed her instructions. I think the breaking of the stairs out of the bunker must have woken my father up. I mean. It was loud. That splintering and collapsing of wood. I could hear him crying out. Yelling Ma’s name when I closed the door. Toward the end I heard a knocking. He must have figured a way to climb up to the door or used a piece of the banister to knock against it. But by then, all his possessions covered his only way out.

Until. That is until now.

Carl. What—what is it that you’re saying?

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Well, Frieda, I guess what I’m saying is that when you said that living here was like living with haunted closets full of possessions, you weren’t far off. In fact, you were right on. **** Breaking news tonight. The Wilson family farm set a blaze. Fire ripping through acres of land. One survivor. More after this.

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Contributors Marc Schuster and Jen Mitlas teach English and Sound Recording (respectively) at Montgomery County Community College in Blue Bell, Pennsylvania. Their previous collaborations include the short films Daughter, Actually and (with Tim Connelly) Milk Fudge, as well as the indie rock EPPlush Gordon: Slow Drive through a Strange World.

Rae Theodore is the author of My Mother Says Drums Are for Boys: True Stories for Gender Rebels and Leaving Normal: Adventures in Gender. Her stories and poems have appeared in numerous publications, including Our Happy Hours: LGBT Voices from the Gay Bars, Sister Wisdom and Nonbinary: Memoirs of Gender. You can read about her adventures in gender nonconformity on her blog, The Flannel Files. Rae is immediate past president of the Greater Philadelphia Chapter of the Women’s National Book Association and lives in Royersford, Pennsylvania, with her wife, kids and three cats, all of whom are on power trips of their own.

Isaac Westerling Sauer is an emerging writer and poet currently working as a business analyst in King of Prussia, Pennsylvania. He received his Bachelor’s degree from Eastern University in 2013 with studies in literature, politics, and philosophy. He has previously published in the Turk's Head Review and Belle Ombre.

Becky Kling lives on the planet Earth with her husband, two sons, and cat. She does not currently have any aliens out her window but invites any who are reading this to come say hi. She is a university lecturer and a writer who is always dreaming up more projects than she can undertake. More of her writing can be found on her writer site: https://rebeccadebrakling.wordpress.com.

Hiram Larew's poetry has been nominated for four Pushcarts. His Poetry X Hunger initiative is bringing poets from around the world to the anti-hunger cause (https:// www.PoetryXHunger.com/). On Facebook at Hiram Larew, Poet.

Karen Izzi is a Chester County, Pennsylvania native and has been making art and cooking since she was about six years old. She is a poet and journalist. Karen founded Conscious Creations Art Studio in 2015, on a mission to support and promote other artists and writers within the community. She is a member of the American Art 60 of 63

Therapy Association and realizes that the power of art therapy and writing -changes everything. As a student of meditation and a teacher of Zentangle, her pen-to-paper meditation, she encourages everyone to live to their fullest potential, every single day.

Francesca Taveras is a 27 year old living in Berks County. Born in Manhattan, NY and raised in the Bronx. You can find her on FB as Francesca Rose and her Instagram is outlandish.af. Francesca has been on a personal journey of self love and healing and is currently confronting her fears. She has been a secret poet since high school and has never before publicly shared any of her written work.

Jennifer Hetrick is the president of Berks Bards, a poetry-promoting nonprofit based in Berks County. She is also the author of a three-year poetry project called the labors of our fingertips: poems from manufacturing history of berks county through grant funding from Pennsylvania Council on the Arts, with each volume including 25 poems written from interviews with seniors who worked in local factories and mills decades ago.

Taylor Bielecki: “I am a walker in the city who is both fascinated and fearful of New York. In my paintings and drawings, I portray urban landscapes that I find myself gravitating toward in darkness. I take inspiration from film noir and its specific scenes of suspense often shot in alleyways and deserted highways. Like a director editing the establishing shot, I choose each composition that places the viewer in a position of vulnerability.”

Patty Kline-Capaldo earned her Bachelor of Arts degree in Journalism and History from Indiana University and teacher certification from Ursinus College. She has hosted the Just Write Meetup for the past six years and also hosts an Artists Way group, Creative Light Circle. Working with these groups spawned the dream of a writer’s room that has manifested in Creative Light Factory. As a writer, teacher, and creativity coach, her passion is supporting writers and visual artists in their creative endeavors and seeing their creative dreams brought to fruition. Patty has been published in four anthologies and is perpetually working on her first novel.

Andrea Hornett is a writer from the Chester County area. This is her second contribution to Affinity CoLab Presents.

Abby Cohen, “with the exception of my high school poetry, which should only be read with a bottle of pepto bismol and a session of Marx Brothers movies, I’ve been writing 61 of 63

actively for four years– Primarily memoir, with occasional dabbles in fiction. Samples can be found on-line at Affinity Co-Lab or observed at Steel City Coffeehouse’s Thursday Open Mic or their Story Slam/Poetry Jam with Affinity CoLab on the 4th Sunday of every month. Occasionally, I also perform words by other people. To steal from Anne McCaffrey, ‘I wear glasses and i’m 4 feet 8. the rest is subject to change.'”

Alex Burns grew up near Leeds, England. He started writing poems in his teens, and wrote a few poems for his wife, Mary for birthdays or anniversaries. Since retiring to Albuquerque, he has devoted his love of language to describing the beautiful environment he has come to live in. He has also come to find much that he dislikes about what his adopted country is becoming, and our role in threatening the earth upon which we live. He recently self-published his first book of poems, English Impatient, and is working on a second, a book of children’s poems.

Debbie Carrier is a Southern-born poet, who now resides in Malvern, PA. Northeastern PA has been her home for the past 10 years. She goes by the pen name 'Deep Blue River', and performs her spoken-word art at Steel City Coffee House in Phoenixville, PA in conjunction with Affinity CoLab open mic dates. She has previously been published in High School and College publications, and was recognized with a Third Place award, for a Short Story about her Grandmother, at The Dallas Women's Museum in Dallas, TX. Theresa Rodriguez is the author of six books, including Jesus and Eros: Sonnets, Poems and Songs (Bardsinger Books, 2015), Longer Thoughts (Shanti Arts, 2020) and Sonnets, a collection of sixty-five sonnets (Shanti Arts, 2020). She is a new instructor at the Creative Light Factory where she will be teaching a workshop on the sonnet. Her website is www.bardsinger.com.

Beth Moulton is an MFA graduate from Rosemont College in Rosemont, PA. She has been published in Bartleby Snopes, A Clean, Well-Lighted Place, scissors and spackle and Circa, A Literary Review. She lives and works near Valley Forge, PA with her two cats, Lucy and Ethel.

Tony Cocuzza is a poet and first time contributor to Affinity CoLab. Elizabeth Adan is a lifelong artist who enjoys deconstructing the smallest moments and largest emotions, often at the same time. Her alliterative, lyrical writing takes on topics ranging from sustainability, nature, love lost/found, and community responsibility. A Pacific Northwest native, her true passion is the great outdoors, 62 of 63

soaking up as much inspiration and natural color as possible. Find Elizabeth on Instagram and Twitter @edgeofelizabeth or at www.ElizabethAdan.com.

Pat D’Innocenzo is a photographer, writer, poet, and member of the Just Write Writers.

Dan Erdman is currently working on publishing his first collection of poetry. He performs his poems at Steel City Coffeehouse in Phoenixville, PA and is a member of the Just Write Meet-Up. Surya Kelly Meier is a writer, artist, and dietitian from Belle Mead, New Jersey who received her BA in Creative Writing and Spanish from Susquehanna University. Her poetry has appeared in the university’s literary magazines including Transformations and Rivercraft. She has previously published a chapbook La Higuera, or, The Fig Tree in 2010, and is seeking publication for her second, Prelude to Sainthood. She is an active member of the Spoken Art from the Heart community of poets and yogis in the Delaware River Valley area.

Katy Comber co-founded Creative Light Factory nonprofit writers’ room, founded the website affinitycolabpresents.org, an online arts and lit magazine, and hosts a monthly Story Slam/Poetry Jam at Steel City Coffeehouse. Her works can be found in Dreamers Creative Writing; Studio B’s Wabi Sabi Anthology, Paragon Press’ Lagom Journal; Meat for Tea Literary Review, Affinity CoLab Presents, and an indie-published collection of poems now available on Amazon: 40 Portraits of a Family.

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