Duck Head Journal Fall Issue September 2021
Submit your photography, artwork, short fiction and poetry to duckheadjournal@gmail.com to be considered for publication in the Winter Issue.
Founder/Editor Brandon McQuade
Cover Art by Ryan Owens https://www.instagram.com/ryopaintco/
Duck Head Journal Gillette, Wyoming https://duckheadjournal.wordpress.com/
Contributors Nicholas Trandahl – “Envy and Hunger” Laura Turnbull – “To the young man who plays piano for the old folks after lunch” – “For Sale” Jamie Feldman – “Detour” Mandie Hines – “Walk with Me” Don Oakley – “Crossroads of War” T. Thornton Gray – “One More Whiskey” Nolcha Fox – “Best Revenge” Carol Deering – “We, I Keep Thinking” Octavio Quintanilla – “Los días oscuros: 172, 203, 327” Rohan Swamy – “Children of Lir” Angel Mizner – “Berry Picking” Eugene M. Gagliano – “Back Then” Art Elser – “The Ancient Call of Sandhill Cranes”
POETRY by Nicholas Trandahl
Envy and Hunger after viewing Jean-Léon Gérôme’s Tiger Observing Cranes at the National Museum of Wildlife Art in Jackson Hole, Wyoming Aegean blue above and below. To watch them pass by overhead like angels or demigods, heading out to sea and sky— seamless and easy. Solitude in my ignorance and inability. Confused and anxious— left behind on hot treeless stone. I have never felt ahead of any curves. It’s just taken me so long to learn and to grow. How had it been so simple to others? I know I’ve missed legions of lessons about how to live and function, and the importance of many words. I could list them all, but I fear you’d lose interest— as I have. Growth is the most difficult thing a man can yearn for. Love is such an easy thing when compared to it. Awakening. Enlightenment. Maturity.
Responsibility. Duty. Good lord, I have failed in so many different ways. It would be so easy to say I’ve failed at every single thing, if I didn’t have a good woman to tell me otherwise. I am hungry for something that’s always been beyond me— beyond my reach or knowing. It’s ethereal, this thing I seek. Sinuously adrift, it slips through the sky, and I don’t have the means within me to ascend and touch it. Christ, I don’t even know what it is. And others seem to be able to touch it so easily, to rise like Dante through the celestial spheres— so assured of truth and reason in a civilization so bereft of both. Every time I thought that I was a witness to a miracle, it turned out to be something mundane— something less beautiful than was first perceived. Whenever I’ve thought I’ve found courage or honor, it had been a precursor to such disgrace that existence became unbearable. But I’ve made peace with life. I have tried to grow in my own humble quiet way. I have cultivated a garden within me— more a rugged pine grove than a garden. A grove of stunted pine and wild apple, with a few red foxes roving
like clever rangers in the greenery. The words of Thoreau and Hemingway have grown the pines and apple trees. Rothko and Wolf Kahn have painted wildflowers and toadstools on the ground. Vivaldi and Rimsky-Korsakov have peopled the grove with birdsong. But this grove is empty of divinity, and I don’t know the Latin names of the plants and animals. This is a quiet little place, and I fear it won’t be enough. I’ve been left alone on the hot crags overlooking the sea. Even when the morning storm raged and devoured the southern shore of Martha’s Vineyard like the greedy maw of a crazed ancient sea god, swollen with power— even then I was not alone. She was with me then, on that angry coast because we journeyed for love. But in this— solitude. She has always been able to ascend like Beatrice into the sun— like the rest of them. And when she does, I marvel at her, and I wither with loneliness. If I were able to follow her, I know I’d fall like Icarus into the perfect blue of the sea or break myself upon the rocks. There, on the horizon— I can still see them, but just barely.
I wonder what they can see from there. What do they feel? What have they learned?
POETRY by Laura Turnbull
To the young man who plays piano for the old folks after lunch I imagine that some days you have to say things to your friends like I can’t today, I’m going to play piano for the old folks. And your friends might think that’s cool, or depressing, or they might not think anything about it at all. They'll just go on without you with whatever teenage thing they have planned, then you go play piano for the old folks, after lunch in a room you might expect— wallpaper, burgundy striped— waiting room chairs and tables where the ones who still can sometimes play bingo. I imagine that you come every week to play piano for the old folks even though you know that your audience won’t tap their feet or sing along, or applaud or remember you were there. But I imagine that today after you finished playing one of them stayed with you— she sang along for a bit of You Are My Sunshine. I imagine that you’ll tell your friends about how she looked right at you I imagine you'll tell them how she smiled, and said, oh, I like that one.
For Sale The listing will say At the end of a quiet cul-de-sac in the hills… But nothing about how we crossed the street at the other end Where a little ways down a scruffy alley We found our secret blackberry patch. It won’t say where the blackberries are. It will say Step down to a grand living room with soaring ceilings... But it won’t say the floor in that room is where you first crawled And you dumped your Legos and ran your fleet of Tonkas Or that your grandma stood on those steps when she held you For the very first time. It will say Breathtaking three-bridge view... But not that we stood and looked out those windows Night after night for years And watched the planes take off from SFO Or how you learned that when the headlight dimmed and lifted The plane was nose up. It will say Elegant landscaping and mature trees... But it won’t mention how you ran naked through the sprinklers And waited at the front gate for the garbage trucks And how when you were only seven months old I held you as you pointed at the scrub jay in the Oak tree And said, bird. It will say Three bedrooms... But it won’t say that the smallest one was where I rocked you And sang to you and nursed you and read to you and tucked you in And where I painted colorful squares on the wall that Are already painted over In white.
SHORT FICTION by Jamie Feldman
Detour The voice on the radio said there was an accident on the bridge. In rush hour traffic it would take at least an hour to use the alternate route. That’s the problem with harbor cities, there are only so many ways a man can cross the ocean, even if it’s just over the basin. The voice directed commuters to take the long way round, driving the old highway that curved along the water’s edge, past the container pier, and finally take the last ramp onto one of the six lanes of the 111. You could get anywhere from the 111. The thought of all these single passengers, listening to the same voice on their car stereos brought thoughts of more idling, snarls, and angry middle fingers being displayed in rearview mirrors. If I was to make it home with any chance of supper being served without a plastic cling wrap cover, I’d need to find a shortcut through the neighboring borough. I saw it before I smelled it. The plume of black smoke wafted up above the tree line. Traffic had slowed, though it was still moving and I wondered what was burning. Considering the size of the smoke cloud, the blaze would be much too large for a backyard fire pit. I hoped maybe it was a car or shed, but I knew it was too big for even that. I knew the area well. Moira and I had bought our first home in this borough on the outskirts of the city. We raised our girls here until they were in school, opting for a larger place nearer to my work at that point. We could afford it then when Moira went back to the firm. If I had to guess, I’d say the fire was in the vicinity of our old neighborhood. Perhaps the Burger Buddy on the corner had met with misfortune, or maybe some teens lit up the garage on the sports field. All that rubber and fiberglass equipment would make for quite a burn. As I got closer, I rolled down the window and craned my neck outside. The traffic was at no more than a crawl now and I could see the steady flash of red lights reflecting off the large hamburger shaped Burger Buddy sign ahead. The smoke was on the other side, though, still further ahead. It appeared to be in the area where our old house was. I continued on, riding the brakes as a police officer directed cars into the passing lane. I left the window down to ask him a question but he waved me through without saying a word. The toxic smell of burning plastic wafted into the car now, sticking to the back of my throat. I rolled the window back up and flipped the outside air vent shut. Our house was set back a bit from the road. It had blue siding and a pine veranda, with a small flower garden on the right hand side. Moira liked to keep peonies and azaleas, though when the girls were old enough, she let them sneak in a few seeds of their own. Usually it was just carrots, but the year they chose squash, the vines grew so large we had to take turns moving them in off the driveway. I though Moira would have decided to just get rid of the thing, but at the girls’ insistence, it stayed and we had 23 acorn squash that year. Moira and I both had to get a little creative with our cooking in the months that followed. The road was wet as I passed the first engine. Faded yellow hoses ran up the hill. I had one last hopeful thought that it might be a grassfire in the neighbor’s yard, but by the time I passed the second engine, I knew it was our place. The trees had grown up, and the tire swing had been cut down, but there was no mistaking where those hoses were leading. I squinted through the smoke. Firefighters in yellow helmets rushed up the driveway, but not a trace of blue siding was visible through the flames. Only the shell of the house remained, the bay window had been smashed and
the kitchen walls had already collapsed. They sprayed water into our old bedroom as the heavy black smoke turned to white. I hit the brakes inches away from the bumper of a blue sedan. The traffic had snarled beyond the last engine as another officer directed cars back into the right lane. I looked back every few seconds in the rearview mirror until I could no longer see the flashing lights. I thought of the night we first moved in with barely more than a few crates of records and Moira’s old lobster trap coffee table. We got our first set of keys in the middle of a hurricane after the power had gone out. Moira and I bought Chinese takeout from the place two streets over. We ate on the carpet, staining it with blotches of cherry-pink sauce in the dark. We left everything in the U-Haul that night save for a few blankets, and slept on the living room floor as best we could through the thunder and lightning. Back then our furniture consisted mostly of plywood on crates, but that eventually gave way to Ikea self-assembly models, and finally that oak dining set from Sears. The table, the one with the removable leaf, still sat in our current dining room until just last June. I missed the exit ramp. I found myself thinking of the girls’ first steps, their first words, the penciled in height marks along the bathroom molding. Of course, the current owners had probably painted over that long ago. I hoped they were all right, the current owners. Perhaps Mrs. Kilty would help them out and take them in for a while. She always had a way of knowing when we needed a little help, babysitting when our oldest was in the hospital, or cooking us meals after my mother passed away. She would have been in her sixties back then, though, and I heard her husband had a heart attack a few years after we left. “Two number sevens with a chow mien add-on. Extra sauce,” I said to the woman at the counter. The Chinese horoscope placemats and framed pictures of Shanghai hadn’t changed since the eighties. She handed the order to me in a logoed plastic bag and I headed for home. Our home now was a condo downtown that we moved in to last year after our youngest got married. It was stark white; we never got around to painting. Moira used to be obsessed with the wall color in our other houses, changing it every year. At one point, in our first home, the hall was about seven different colors painted in small sections so she could get a better idea of how it might look in blue, or pink, or eggshell, or lavender. We had to give away a lot of our artwork when we downsized, though we kept a lot of the girls’ keepsakes in memory boxes. Moira got the idea from some Internet website for empty nesters. I parked the car and took the elevator up to the eleventh. I wasn’t sure if I should tell Moira about the fire or not. I walked down the white hallway with its identical doors in identical colors and stopped at the last one on the left. I put the key in the lock, noticing the scratch in the gold façade. I had meant to fix that ever since I had chipped it after our anniversary dinner. I think we both had a bit too much to drink that night. Inside, I looked at our unmarked walls, our brand new loveseat, and our perfectly smooth countertops. I hung my coat on the rack, the one with the broken arm, and relished in its defect. Toilets clogged with action figures and crayon covered wallpaper seemed like bliss looking back now. When I walked into the living room, Moira was on the couch watching TV. She hadn’t looked up until now, eyeing the bag in my left hand. Without saying a word, she flicked off the news and slid down to the floor. She patted the carpet beside her. One by one, I removed the Chinese takeout boxes from their plastic bag and set them on the carpet. I pulled apart a set of disposable
chopsticks and offered them to her. Moira clumsily stabbed at a chicken ball, dropping it onto the floor as it escaped from her wooden skewer. She looked for my reaction as I set out the napkins. The deep-fried morsel rolled across our white carpet, crashing into two complimentary fortune cookies. Neither of us picked it up. The silence was broken by our laughter, as we stared at the cherry-pink stain.
POETRY by Mandie Hines
Walk With Me There is this place I go to walk with my grandfather’s ghost. I didn’t realize at first that’s what I was doing, not fully. But I’ve come to understand as I work my way across the quiet land that this is where I speak to him without saying a word. After all this time, all this time—these years stacking up into decades—I still search for him. This is not a normal way to grieve, is it? I imagine walking with him listening intently for his response, hoping to see some sign he’s next to me through all the days of my life. I wonder why this wound, this grief, sometimes feels like it’s healing and other times feels so fresh. I wonder if it will ever fully heal. I wonder if I will ever feel not so broken. But I’m reminded that it hurts this deep, it hurts this long, because of how much I loved him. How much I love him still without a body to cling to, without a person to utter the words. And so, we’ll walk these walks in silence where I imagine easy conversations that will have to sustain me.
POETRY by Don Oakley
Crossroads of War I walk among the gravestones, touch them reverently, in awe of my surroundings. A pause at the grave site of great grandfather, Gausant Melvin Oakley, my father’s namesake. Fingers idly trace the edge of his stone, rough, chipped from a century of neglect, my eyes wander to a smaller canted stone, great grandmother Alice Gibbs Oakley. Names of three generations more on gray, silent gravestones, bear witness to lives once vibrant. I reflect on the history of this abandoned cemetery, the Confederate and Union armies moving troops and supplies where the two roads crossed; Confederate General Bragg’s temporary camp on this very site. The Union campsite four miles west, down Union Camp Road, behind the Union Missionary Baptist Church. The struggle between blue and gray for control of the crossroads of war.
FLASH FICTION by T. Thornton Gray
One More Whiskey “One more whiskey,” Martin reasoned. One more, then the preacher would pay. He tapped his empty shot glass on the bar, then pushed it in around the partially drunk mug of beer for the barkeep to refill. His hand automatically perched on the butt of his Colt where it rested in its silver studded holster. “None of that watered-down stuff this time,” he scowled at the much taller man. But then most men were taller than him. The bartender obliged him by pulling a different bottle from under the polished wood surface. Yeah, he would take care of that preacher. Get rid of him and he would sure look good in the eyes of every cattle boss in the territory. Not to mention what it would do for his reputation. Everyone has to respect a man who can use a gun. One way or another. Martin took the shot and swallowed it down. Its harsh burn scorched all the way through his gullet, but he didn’t let it show. He began to loosen up. He felt bolder, meaner. He slapped the glass onto the bar. Martin sure had no regard for that clergyman. Since the sheriff suddenly “left town” the preacher had volunteered to mediate between the cattle barons and the settlers. But his presence just seemed to bolster their resolve. In fact, they were getting downright uppity. He took a long pull on his beer. It wasn’t just the preacher’s influence on those sodbusters that irked him, but the sway he held over Jane, the preacher’s daughter. Damn, she was a looker. But her Pa had Bible thumped her into thinking a man like himself wasn’t good enough for a holier-than-thou gal like her. He still remembered that look of disgust she gave him after he had tried to call on her. Oh, she feigned politeness, but he could tell. “One more whiskey.” he called to the bartender, with a slight slur in his words. Martin grabbed it the instant that it hit the bar and swallowed it down. He felt good now, in that place he liked to be. The Colt came out of its holster as the barkeep backed away with a jolt. The gun began to twirl in the drunken man’s hand. First forward a few times, then backward, finally ending up back in its holster. “That’s a pretty fancy trick,” the bartender offered.
“I learned this from a man who rode with the likes of Wild Bill,” Martin bragged. “He would put on shows and such. I rode with him a few months just studyin’ his ways.” He left out the part where the man tired of him and chased his ass off by shooting at his feet. He pulled the weapon again, and began twirling it frontwards, backwards, then palm up and then palm down. “I reckon I’m better than him now.” The Colt stopped dead in his grip. He pointed it skyward, pulled the hammer back and fired. The blast was deafening as the bullet splintered a large support beam on the ceiling. “Hey, hey.” the barkeep threw out his hands as the bar’s few other patrons sank under the tables. Martin’s thumb pulled back the forty-five’s hammer again as he brought it level. “It’s just that there are rooms above.” As the bar’s occupants quietly skulked out of the room behind him, he began his display again. This time tossing and catching the firearm. He shifted it from hand to hand as the pistol spun wildly, all the while stealing satisfied glimpses of himself in the mirror behind the bar. He then would raise and lower it, the spin never slowing. As he raised it to about head level, the Colt barked again, to the surprise of everyone. It was because he failed to release the hammer, Martin realized. He stood stunned, the weapon still tangled in his fingers, and stared into the mirror behind the bar. “Good Lord!” the bartender gasped. Martin studied his reflection in the mirror, now horribly altered. His lower jaw was just— gone. Nothing but bloody, ragged flesh and protruding bone remained of his lower face. His hands shot up, the fingers searching for the missing feature as he crumbled to his knees. He tried to cry out but what remained of his mangled tongue had no structure from which to work. Only a pitiful gurgle could be heard as the onlookers showed up. “Go get the Doc!” the bartender ordered. “Doc’s out at the Baxter’s,” a man answered unable to take his horrified gaze from the grisly scene. “He’s at least twenty miles out.” The gunshot victim fell over onto his side with a mournful moan. “Better get the preacher then.” A coldness overtook the wounded man as his fear filled eyes searched for help. For comfort. For hope. All he saw were the bewildered, horrified stares of strangers. None of which had the slightest idea of what to do.
Then came a face filled with compassion. This man peered directly into his eyes with a warm kindness as he knelt down beside him. He gently rested his hand on Martin’s arm. Blackness began to creep in the edges of his vision as he peered up into the man’s eyes. The man took his hand. Martin gripped its warmth and hung on, so glad it was there. So grateful not to be alone. “Is it alright if I pray with you, son?” the preacher asked.
POETRY by Nolcha Fox
Best Revenge Who is that woman in the mirror? It must be my mother, not me. I am a much younger version of the woman that I see. I wrap myself in robes of joy, more tightly in my boundaries. With a spade I dig a hole and plant my feet. The best revenge is to blossom.
POETRY by Carol Deering
We, I Keep Thinking A patter of snow on yesterday’s glut. The sun blinks halfheartedly, blinding just the same. I balk like the daffodils I dug in, years ago. Thirsty, wary… The sun trickles over, and snow powders through again. A mist rides the puddled road. Mud from my tires leaps like frogs. We’d seen fewer daffodils every year. Thinner, wanting… Your death of toxic wound, crumbling spine, asthma, crashed the covid scare. Strangled choices from computer voices cuff me to a chair. We, I keep thinking. Our, I keep saying. Now it’s down to me.
VISUAL POETRY by Octavio Quintanilla
Los días oscuros: 172
Los días oscuros: 203
Los días oscuros: 327
SHORT FICTION by Rohan Swamy
Children of Lir In addition to sharing his name with the founder of the International Committee of the Red Cross, Jean-Henri Dunant had another thing in common with him. He wanted to ease the pain and suffering of hospital patients across Dublin. While he couldn’t afford to set up an organisation like his counterpart, he did want to use music to do the same. Jean-Henri was a busker. He played the violin at the Garden of Remembrance every evening. Tourists and visitors would often stop by to hear him play. After every performance, when he packed up his gear, he would tell himself that he was one step closer to achieving his dream. Every morning when Jean-Henri woke up, he’d spend his first hour lying in bed, daydreaming—going to the Mater Hospital on Eccles Street, and playing his violin for the patients there; seeing the patients smile and clap their hands in joy. That last thought would always make him smile. That thought would change through the day, as he would often sit down and wonder if he would be able to do justice, whenever the opportunity would come. Jean-Henri claimed his playing wasn’t succinct enough to replicate the complex pieces by Bach or Brahms. The local newsletter ‘The North Star’ had argued otherwise. Not only had it highlighted his excellent music playing skills, but it had also written about his dream. The article had received some traction when a local record label from the North had shown interest in his music, but nothing had progressed beyond that. Like every other morning, today, Jean-Henri woke up wearily after his successful daydreaming session and walked with a droop to the kitchen of his small flat. North Great George’s Street, where Jean-Henri lived was an unpretentious, working-class, neighbourhood where everyone minded their own business. He found this apathy stifling. The place would always cast a shadow on his dreams. In fact, it had now started coating his dreams grey. The only other cheer in his life, outside music, was an adopted black cat named Zippo. Every evening Zippo accompanied him to the Garden of Remembrance where he would set up his little stand and play. He would sit quietly as though in a trance, and listen. After he’d finished, Jean-Henri would pack up and sit next to Zippo and smoke a hand-rolled cigarette, which he’d light up using a Zippo lighter strung on his collar. He’d count the day’s earnings, pocket them, and then set off for home. Of all the floating audiences that Jean-Henri had, Zippo had been a constant. He had arrived two Christmases back one evening, while he was performing, and then followed him home. Jean-Henri let him in and he stayed. Absent-mindedly, he poured milk into Zippo’s little bowl and it overflowed. Seizing the opportunity, Zippo jumped onto the counter and lapped the spilt milk before diving into the bowl. Jean-Henri made a cup of extra milky coffee and sat down to study his new piece of music again. The piece was inspired by the poem ‘We Saw a Vision’ by Liam Mac Uistín, which was inscribed on the stone wall of the Children of Lir monument, in the Garden of Remembrance. He had only finished perfecting the piece a few nights back. He ran his fingers over the sheets twirling the notes on imaginary bowstrings. The theme of the piece was resurrection and freedom from suffering. It was on one of his daydreaming soirees that the idea had struck him. The Garden had been a symbol of resistance, and freedom from all suffering. It was revered as a symbol of Irish freedom across the
land. In the dream the statue came to him and discussed the possibility of writing a piece of music to ease the pain of the people and bring freedom from suffering to them. Jean-Henri had worked on the piece every day for the last three months. He used locations of the Easter Uprising of 1916, the Dublin GPO where the flag of the Republic was first raised, and the poem itself to compose his music. Sometimes he would compose a line in the middle of the night and try it on the violin and awaken Zippo. Other times, he’d whistle the tune as he walked along the Grand Canal, much to the amusement of curious onlookers. The city council was going to light the Christmas tree near the Garden today. The event coincided with the premiere of his new music in the evening. Jean-Henri went about the day absentmindedly. After his morning coffee, he took the violin and began playing his piece one more time. After that he went and did his laundry and took the garbage out. Evening couldn’t come fast enough. --The wind blew a chill straight into his face. For all his anticipation about premiering his new piece, the evening had turned out to be insipid. He had been playing under the stars since half-past five, but people hadn’t stopped to listen. The lighting of the Christmas tree an hour ago had signaled the beginning of the festive season and there was a noticeable movement of crowds. People who would normally stop to hear Jean-Henri perform scurried past. He was in two minds about performing the new piece, but decided to go ahead when he saw a lone person sitting by the Children of Lir sculpture listening to him play intently. Taking it as a sign, he announced into his microphone “For my last number, I will be performing a new piece called Children of Lir. It is based on the poem ‘We Saw a Vision’ and I hope, to those listening, the music eases your sufferings and helps you find freedom from it.” Jean-Henri drew his bow and began running it on the violin. It began with long drawn, sad, somber, tones—a sharp contrast to the cheery holiday atmosphere. As it progressed, people stopped to listen to the carefully carved out melancholic number. The crowds swelled and heard it silently. Some stifled their sobs, while others let the tears flow freely. Jean-Henri scaled the tempo of the piece now. Melancholy slowly gave way to gaiety. The tones were shorter, sharper and cheerful. Faster and faster his hands moved and the moods of the people changed in sync. Watery smiles were giving way now, to full-fledged joyous claps and fistbumps. As the piece moved to a climax so did the emotions of the crowd. With a flourish of his bow, he played a final note encompassing all his emotions into one, and then exhaled, and stopped. The crowd broke into a thunderous applause. Zippo snarled at the sudden reactions of the crowd. Jean-Henri looked all around, smiled, and joined in the applause. He looked over in the direction of the person who had been sitting near the sculpture but the crowd in front blocked his view. --Having being released from their bondages, generous tippers sought to fill his collection bucket with notes rather than coins before leaving the garden. When the last of the people had left, just as Jean-Henri was sitting down to his post-concert cigarette, the person he was searching for
came and stood before him. He looked up and discovered that it was a woman wearing a hooded parka. She said, “My name is Jane Byrne and I work in the administrative division at Mater Hospital. I was on my way back home from work, when I stopped to listen. I loved your performance.” “Thank you. I am Jean-Henri. Your words are too kind. I am glad you liked it. It always means a lot when people come over and encourage my work. It makes me want to play more, and play better,” he said. She nodded with a smile and then without wasting much time, replied, “Would you be interested to come and play for the patients in the hospital? We are working on ways to help patients recover using alternate therapies including music. Your music might help them. You don’t have to decide right away. If you do, it would be thrice during the weekdays in the mornings. Of course, it will be paid.” “We could always work a schedule for you if the idea takes root with the higher authorities. Here’s my card,” she said handing out her business card, which he happily accepted. “I look forward to hearing from you,” she said, waved a goodbye and walked away. Jean-Henri looked at the card and grinned, barely able to contain his joy. He smoked his cigarette rapidly, and altered between the drags by looking at the sculpture, smiling at Zippo, and running his fingers over the embossed letters on the card. A while later, he picked up his gear and signaled to Zippo to start walking. “All I wanted to do was bring a cheer to the people and the Universe just agreed. It just agreed,” he said to Zippo as they began walking out of the garden.
POETRY by Angel Mizner
Berry Picking Sweetness black as night, blackberries on the vine. My Aunt Arvilla always knew the secret spot, then baked them into a cobbler, whatever was saved, at least from my hungry, eager mouth. Nothing is as sweet, as fresh juicy fruit, picked at the point of perfection.
POETRY by Eugene M. Gagliano
Back Then You didn’t talk about it, too young to understand they said, so no explanation act as if it never happened, like it would really go away with aunts hysterical and crying but I saw my mother sitting up in the hospital bed arms reached out to me tears welling up behind a dam of unimaginable pain her only words I lost the baby. What did that mean? How? Why? Nobody would explain it to me, yet I’d just seen my first premature baby a girl, my new cousin who wasn’t supposed to be born but my sister was and she was gone. Don’t talk about it, help her to forget, go on. Then one day not long after, while cleaning Mom found a mint green baby bonnet she’d knitted, behind the corner of the couch, and the ghost of sorrow brought the tears again.
POETRY by Art Elser
The Ancient Call of Sandhill Cranes As we hike up the steep, narrow ravine I point to mule deer tracks in the mud, mud left by an infrequent autumn rain in the shadow of the Rocky Mountains. I show the hikers the prairie gay feather, its dainty foot-long pink stalks, fall asters hugging the sand, tall sunflowers waving in a slight breeze, native wavy-leaf thistle. The only sound is the crunch of our boots on the sandy trail, the swish of blue grama and western wheatgrass against our boots, the call of a red-tailed hawk high above us. The quiet of the fall afternoon, its low sun at our backs, is broken by very faint calls, familiar, ancient, insistent, growing louder. Then over the ridge comes a line of cranes. The sandhills call to each other as if they fear we might offer some danger to them. Something in their calls sounds urgent yet calming to me, calling me to somewhere. I step off the trail, mouth agape, watching the ragged line of cranes, calling, calling. Prehistoric looking birds, all neck and legs, but wings stroking the air ever so smoothly. I'm transported to a calm place in memory, a narrow, sheer waterfall where a mountain stream drops a thousand feet onto the rocks, and then disappears under jungle foliage. As the calls of the cranes fade, I fly again over that waterfall near the Song Re valley, a place that seems far from the war, where nature's peace restores my shattered soul.
Author Photos and Bios Nicholas Trandahl is a U.S. Army veteran, poet, newspaper journalist, and outdoorsman. He lives in rural Wyoming with his wife and three daughters. His poetry collections are Pulling Words (Winter Goose Publishing, 2017), Think of Me (Winter Goose Publishing, 2018), and Bravery (Winter Goose Publishing, 2019). His novel Good Brave People, a story about finding love and belonging in Spanish Basque Country, was published by Winter Goose Publishing in 2020. Trandahl’s poetry collection Bravery was the recipient of the 2019 Wyoming Writers Milestone Award. His poems have been published in various literary journals and anthologies, including but not limited to the James Dickey Review, Sky Island Journal, The Dewdrop, High Plains Register, and in a forthcoming anthology from the New York Quarterly themed around spirituality and faith. Additionally, Trandahl serves as the Chairman of the annual Eugene V. Shea National Poetry Contest.
Laura Turnbull was born and raised in Missouri and currently lives in the San Francisco Bay Area of California where she raised her son. She is a writer and educator who is learning to get comfortable with making art from personal history. She’s a baseball fan, animal lover, morning person, adoptee, and chocolate chip cookie enthusiast. Laura launched a regular writing practice in the summer of 2021 on her Instagram account, @short_longhand. There, she was introduced to the poetry of Nick Trandahl. These two poems are her first published creative work. Her poetry and blog can also be found on her website, lauraturnbull.com.
Jamie Feldman holds an M.Phil. in creative writing from Trinity College Dublin. Her past fiction has appeared in Carve, The Honest Ulsterman, and Every Day Fiction. She is originally from Halifax, Canada.
Mandie Hines writes poetry and horror where she captures moments of vulnerability and strives to offer a glimmer of hope. Her debut poetry collection Origami Stars & Hot Air Moon (Winter Goose Publishing, 2020) traverses through the process of grieving, reclaiming hope, remembering love, and rediscovering memories, while going down a path that eventually leads to healing. Besides her own writing, she promotes creative writing in her community. Her forthcoming horror novel The Lost Always Take Off Their Shoes is expected to come out in 2022 (Winter Goose Publishing). She’s the creator of the Facebook group Cheyenne Writers Community where members share local writing events, find encouragement, and connect with other writers. She hosts a monthly Poetry Night at Barnes & Noble in Cheyenne, Wyoming, although this open mic is currently being held online and is open for anyone to join. She’s also the Past President of WyoPoets, Wyoming’s State Poetry Society. You can learn more at www.mandiehines.com.
Don Oakley expressed interest in writing at an early age. His aunts were certain he would become an author. Don’s poetry has been accepted by the National High School Poetry Association, published in Wren Magazine, award winner in Wyoming Writers Members Only poetry contest, WyoPoets Eugene V, Shea National Poetry contest and selected for WyoPoets’ 2016, 2018 and 2020 Chapbook. Don’s wife, Reatha, is an award-winning writer and playwright.
T. Thornton Gray writes short stories and screenplays, mostly in the horror and science fiction genre, but has explored, westerns and slice of life drama. He loves to explore spiritual truths in his work. He is best known for his novella, Bilbo the Clown Fights Evil and his novel Demons Carnival written under the pen name T. Thornton Gray. He has had numerous short stories published and his screenplay Scarecrow was chosen and produced by the Red Rocks Community College film production program in Colorado where he studied film Production. He was born and raised in the Colorado mountains, but for a good many years now, lives with his wife Nicole and children, Dustin and Rebecca, in Rozet WY. His major influences are writers like: Frank Peretti, Richard Matheson, Ray Bradbury, and John Steinbeck.
Nolcha Fox has written all her life, starting with poop and crayons on the walls. That led to a long career in technical writing. She retired into blogging and writing short stories. However, she found it difficult to capture a moment, to express what can’t really be put into words. In June 2021, she turned to poetry to solve that dilemma. In July 2021, she published her first poem in WyoPoets News. Her major poetic influences are “The Cat in the Hat” and “Alice in Wonderland.”
Carol L. Deering has twice received the Wyoming Arts Council Poetry Fellowship (2016, judge Rebecca Foust; 1999, judge Agha Shahid Ali). Her poems appear in online and traditional journals and anthologies, and in her first book, Havoc & Solace: Poems from the Inland West (Sastrugi Press, 2018). http://www.sastrugipress.com/books/havoc-and-solace/ https://www.caroldeering.com
Octavio Quintanilla is the author of the poetry collection, If I Go Missing (Slough Press, 2014) and served as the 2018-2020 Poet Laureate of San Antonio, TX. His poetry, fiction, translations, and photography have appeared, or are forthcoming, in journals such as Salamander, RHINO, Alaska Quarterly Review, Pilgrimage, Green Mountains Review, Southwestern American Literature, The Texas Observer, Existere: A Journal of Art & Literature, and elsewhere. His Frontextos (visual poems) have been published in Poetry Northwest, Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review, Midway Journal, Gold Wake Live, Newfound, Chachalaca Review, Chair Poetry Evenings, Red Wedge, The Museum of Americana, About Place Journal, The American Journal of Poetry, The Windward Review, Tapestry, Twisted Vine Literary Arts Journal, & The Langdon Review of the Arts in Texas. Octavio’s visual work has been exhibited at the Southwest School of Art, Presa House Gallery, Brownsville Museum of Fine Art, Equinox Gallery, The University of Texas—Rio Grande Valley (Brownsville Campus), the Weslaco Museum, Aanna Reyes Gallery, Our Lady of the Lake University, AllState Almaguer art space in Mission, TX, El Centro Cultural Hispano de San Marcos, The Walker’s Gallery in San Marcos, TX, and in the Emma S. Barrientos Mexican American Cultural Center / Black Box Theater in Austin, TX. He holds a Ph.D. from the University of North Texas and is the regional editor for Texas Books in Review and poetry editor for The Journal of Latina Critical Feminism & for Voices de la Luna: A Quarterly Literature & Arts Magazine. Octavio teaches Literature and Creative Writing in the M.A./M.F.A. program at Our Lady of the Lake University in San Antonio, Texas. Website: octavioquintanilla.com Instagram @writeroctavioquintanilla Twitter @OctQuintanilla
Indian-born writer Rohan Swamy, who lives and works in Dublin, Ireland, began writing in 2002. A former journalist, he has tried to combine the art of storytelling with journalistic trends and enjoys writing stories based on current socio-political trends across the world. A graduate of Trinity College, Dublin, Rohan has worked as a journalist in India with the Indian Express Newspapers and with NDTV before moving on to writing fiction full-time. He has been a contributing writer during his university days with the oldest student newspaper publications in Ireland – The University Times and Trinity News, writing on student life, and issues connected to Irish and American politics. In addition, he wrote a column called 'After Thought' for Sakaal Times in Pune, in 2017/18. As a short story writer, his first published stories appeared in the Urban Shots anthologies – Crossroads and The Love Collection, in 2012 respectively. In Europe he has been published in 'College Green' and 'The Attic' - magazines published by the Trinity College Dublin Press. He has recently been published in the Farnham Flash Fiction Awards 2021 collection, and three other anthologies - Wafting Earthy, The Other Side and The Land of Infinite Summer. published by Norton Press. On days when he is not writing he prefers to go hiking, photographing and exploring the Irish countryside. He also divides time between running, playing the harmonica, and cooking – activities that help him find sanity in a fast-changing world.
Angel Mizer is a resident of Douglas, Wyoming. She has worked in the Converse County LibraryDouglas Branch for about 10 years. Angel originally lived and grew up in Nebraska. Angel joined Wyopoets a few years ago. She has always enjoyed writing poetry. She is currently the Strophes correspondent for Wyopoets.
Eugene M. Gagliano, Wyoming Poet Laureate, is an award winning children’s author and speaker. His children’s humorous poetry book, Is It True? was chosen to represent the state of Wyoming at the 2018 National Book Festival in Washington, D.C.. The sequel, What Did You Say? was released in August 2021. His other children’s poetry books include My Teacher Dances on the Desk (Delaware Diamond’s Book List Award winner) and The Magic Box. His adult poetry books include Prairie Parcels, A Wyoming State of Mind, and More Than Four Seasons (to be released at the end of September).
Art Elser's poetry has been published in many journals and anthologies. He has published seven books of poetry including To See a World in a Grain of Sand, It Seemed Innocent Enough, A High Plains Year in Haiku and It Begins in Silence, Ends in Grace. He lives in Denver with his wife Kathy.