Duck Head Journal Spring Issue March 2022
Submit your photography, artwork, short fiction and poetry to duckheadjournal@gmail.com to be considered for publication in the Summer 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 James Crews — “Hunting Season” “Last Day in Maine” Nick Olah — “Sunday Morning Scene” “On March Mornings” Lily Trandahl — “Blackbird” “Bluebird” Nolcha Fox — “Why We Don’t Visit Uncle Ed’s Anymore” “Self Portrait” Noël Canin — “Secrets” Roadkill Joe — “Nature’s Calm” Bill Kazinka — “Birdland” Pat Phillips West — “Things to Believe in” Rohan Swamy — “A True Voice” Linda Stryker — “Lost Resonance” “Before Rebirth”
POETRY by James Crews
Hunting Season I must have looked like a lit torch moving through the farm fields this morning, orange cap pulled down tight over my ears, the wavering flame of my head held high. A few stray gunshots shattered the distance, and holy smoke hung low over the mountains— fog rolled up like a scroll on which was written: Winter is coming. You must change your life. And what was I out there hunting, breathing in the half-sweet scent of rotting summer squash, watching the shriveled heads of cabbage sink in on themselves? Perhaps a glimpse of the soft white chest of the hawk perched up in a tree until he saw me, sent a piercing cry across the sky then flew off on a gust of wind. Maybe the glimmer of yellow at the tip of a leaning, rusted-out stalk of goldenrod, still holding onto its color, even as the world’s begun to tilt the other way.
Last Day in Maine Our faces bathed in pink, violet, and yellow first light, we sit still, saying goodbye to the bay whose glassy face we have stared into for days. Goodbye to the sharp fins of porpoises breaking surface, the small heads of seals lifting up, hauling a trail of silver ripples behind them, whiskers twitching as they go under again. Goodbye to the bald eagle perched in the oak that like a half-plucked bird itself has lost its glossy brown leaves, having given them to the sea the eagle swooped over, headed to the more secluded island and its nest among the pines. How quickly we claim a place as our own, scrubbing windows, turning the couch so it faces the water, and we don’t lose a moment of this sunrise whose slow colors awaken the awe inside us we had no idea was dormant till now, like a seed needing only the right mix of rain and light to climb into its glory.
Photography by Nick Olah
Sunday Morning Scene
POETRY by Nick Olah
On March Mornings a baby breeze my skin like a lover:
brushes
gently. sweetly. intentionally. and just between us i can’t help but wonder as i will ever get.
if this is as close
POETRY by Lily Trandahl
Blackbird Melancholy ever is the blackbird’s flight. The only notion that it exists, Lay in its silhouette against the flaming stars.
Bluebird The sky; a balayage of blue and gray that Completely controls my life. Will this year yield a bountiful harvest, Or will it be an unavoidable drought? As I finish asking this question, A translucent drop of life dampens my temple.
SHORT FICTION by Nolcha Fox
Why We Don’t Visit Uncle Ed’s Anymore “That Ed, he’s a walking disaster,” Uncle Joe handed Aunt Maggie his crutches with one hand as he lowered himself into Uncle Ed’s overstuffed chair with the other. “Tried to move the ladder while I was still on it!” “You’re lucky you only ended up with a broken leg,” I said. “I was lucky it was a short ladder,” he said. “That’s why Ed was moving it, you idiot,” Aunt Maggie said. “How did you expect to clean the leaves out of the second-story rain gutter using a ladder that barely reached the first-floor window?” “I expected to use enthusiasm,” Uncle Joe muttered. “How do you like college, Sam?” Aunt Sharon asked me. “Have you met any nice girls?” Aunt Maggie asked me. “Oh, please Maggie!” Aunt Sharon rolled her eyes. “Sam went to college to get some smarts, so that he wouldn’t end up like the rest of the men in this family.” The fire alarm on the ceiling went off. “Are you cooking anything, Sharon?” Aunt Maggie asked. “That stupid thing goes off every time we boil something on the stove.” Sharon checked the pots. “Everything’s ok here. Can someone hit the off button on that stupid alarm?”
I grabbed one of Uncle Joe’s crutches and used the tip to hit the button. We all sighed. Uncle Ed came in from the back door. “I’m hungry. When are we going to eat?” “You’re always hungry,” Aunt Sharon said. “Say—what’s that funny smell?” Uncle Ed asked. The fire alarm went off. “That damn alarm!” Uncle Joe said. “Where’s that crutch?” Flames came out of the oven. Uncle Joe stood up with Aunt Maggie’s help, and poked at the fire alarm with one of his crutches. “That should take care of things.” He hobbled to the door, pausing just long enough to look over his shoulder at his family. “Dinner’s ruined. Let’s go out to eat.” We all filed out the door and into the van. We drove off without looking back. Like everyone else, I figured turning off the fire alarm would extinguish the fire.
POETRY by Nolcha Fox
Self Portrait I know I’m in your way, a coat rack that you blame for bruises, a lampshade that you bump at night. I know that you don’t find me useful, I know and yet I wait. I wait and spill cream on your sweater, If you won’t love me, I’ll take hate. I wait for you to take my key, and shove me out the door. Instead, you treat me like a portrait hanging on the wall. Something barely noticed, something you acquired.
POETRY by Noël Canin
Secrets Rain blurs Scotland’s craggy mountain tops - a tall frame for a flash of white house. Through the train window raindrops-transparent fruit on glass. Water hounds the mountain into green— I am the green. The gray skies. The rain’s secrets. And my secrets, coiled and quivering, my secrets are safe. Some -even from myself.
PHOTOGRAPHY by Roadkill Joe
Nature’s Calm
POETRY by Bill Kazinka
Birdland I was 30 maybe, looking out my windows at waxwings weaving around my backyard, most pretty wobbly, some unable to get up. "Snockered," I said to my girlfriend. Birds hunger after fermenting berries at certain times of the year, like sailors sidling up to the bush, receding compulsions to the wind, small bare bushes far below.
POETRY by Pat Phillips West
Things to Believe in Sunrises as certain as the tides and just as unstoppable. Already over to the east, the sky is on the verge of spilling over twenty-four shades of pink. Shaking out the imprint of my body on the sheets each morning, simple enough. But the mind—it wants a few more hours of blackness. Time to untangle snarled dreams difficult to grasp all at once. Each day, there’s the certitude of comfort from the flow of water over a bed of finely ground beans. Addictive aroma, rising into every molecule of air. Coffee slides down my throat like an elixir. That warmth. That burning memory the mind turns over. That moment when my cup sat on another table in a back booth at Ben’s Café and still held my future within it. We had nights, nestled in a shadowy corner of that rundown restaurant, where no one cared how long our conversations ran. There were times we couldn’t stop laughing. When we forgot where we were, so lost in tiny moments, muffled words. Still, three decades after his death, I remember falling like it was yesterday.
SHORT FICTION by Rohan Swamy
A True Voice “Have you made a decision yet?” Robyn asked. “I have. I think,” he said. “You sticking with the original idea, yeah Matt?” “Yes. It’s the right thing to do,” Matt replied. “Perhaps, it is…” she said. --Matthew ‘Matt’ D’Souza and Robyn Somers studied a postgraduate writing course at the university. One of their assignments that they had to submit at the end of the term was a 5000-word story. It had been a month since the announcement and everyone had already started working on his or her stories save for Matt. There were no constraints about the theme, genre or even the voice for it. Ever since then he had been stuck in a strange dilemma of sorts. Matt had two story ideas that he wanted to work on. One was a fictional account of a journalist who was jailed while covering the farmer protests in New Delhi and the other one was a story set on his own experiences of living here in the Fair City. Having hit a dead end regarding which idea to choose he had consulted his professor on the issue. He voted for the story on Matt’s experiences living in the Fair City. According to him, it would offer readers a chance to experience their own land through the eyes of Matt, an outsider. Matt himself leaned towards the story set in New Delhi and wanted to present an insider’s viewpoint to the readers here. There was merit to both sides of the argument. On the one hand, living in the Fair City, he had access to first hand research for all the descriptions that would make its way to his story. On the other however, the cause of the farmers literally dying, fighting for their rights was a sentimental
story, which had to be told. Further discussions with his professor, over the next few days, divided them further. The insistence of his professor to take the safe route was something that constantly played in the back of Matt’s mind. At the end of the day weren’t they all writing stories for good grades? If the professor had approved of an idea, then wouldn’t writing it ensure that? Conversely, was it only about good grades? It was called Creative Writing, not Compulsory Writing. What would become of the writer’s voice if he or she didn’t follow up on their convictions? “It’s worthy of a news report Matthew not a fictional story. Writing about one’s experiences in a new part of the world always makes for interesting reading because, even though it’s fictional, it’s born from the truth,” Joe Horan, his professor, said. “I know the protests have been in the news for the last three months. The human stories however, offer great scope to merge facts with fiction. A union of fiction and truth as you suggested,” he replied. “Even if it does, it doesn’t make for an engrossing read. It’s boring. Why would someone read it? Think about it. Everything has already been written about or shown on the telly. Fictionalizing it would tantamount to trivializing the protest itself,” Professor Horan added. “I don’t quite like the alternative. I know it was one of the ideas I had, but I never leaned towards it fully.” “Well, for the sake of your grades, I suggest that you do,” Horan said.
---
Matt looked at the empty pint of Guinness on his table and spun a toothpick on his plate. It stopped and pointed towards the bar. Taking it as a sign to order a second pint of the black stuff he
signaled for another. Robyn took a sip of her Heineken and observed his antics with an amused look. “We playing ‘Spin the Toothpick’ today, are we?” “We sure are. Also, I wanted to justify having another pint,” he said. “Maybe you should write the two ideas on a paper napkin and let the toothpick decide that too.” Matt’s eyes lit up momentarily. “Maybe I can include it as an incident in the story that he wants me to write,” Matt said. “Why don’t you write both the stories and submit them, that way everyone would go home happy,” Robyn said. “He won’t accept the second one. You know that. In fact he would chide me for writing both.” “That is true. Have you got a storyboard in place for the protest story?” “Yes and no. Well, I have a rough idea. It’s based on this news report I read about a journalist who was arrested and locked up with other protesting farmers. He didn’t have any way to record the interviews of the farmers who were locked up with him. So he managed to source a pen and wrote it on his legs and didn’t take a bath for ten days to preserve it. The first thing he did after he got out on bail was to write the story and get his editor to run it. It caused quite a stir and even exposed how the state police was in cahoots with the central government, who were trying their best to crush the protest,” Matt said. “So you want to write a story on this?” she asked. “Well more or less, but my story is about the person who got him the pen inside the jail. It was a police constable. What made him do it? What made him change his stance? Isn’t that an interesting premise for the story?” Matt said.
“Perhaps, it is. Personally speaking though, I would have gone for a safer alternative. I pitched a story about a couple discovering their lost love for one other when their car breaks down on a drive down the Ring Road. He liked it and gave it the green light,” Robyn said. “That’s a nice story idea. It definitely has more appeal than mine.” “I hope so. Have you written anything yet?” “I have. I tried a couple of things till now. First, I tried exploring the story in a non-linear timeline. Next, I tried beginning with the news report by the journalist that the police constable is reading. The latest iteration begins in a first person voice where the constable is narrating the events that led him to make his decisions,” Matt said. “That first person voice version of the story sounds like a winner to me. Do you have it on you right now? I would love to give it a read,” Robyn said. “I have the first page or so written,” he said and fished his phone out from his pocket. He opened a document and handed it to her.
---
Road to Redemption (Working Title) I don’t know how to begin talking about myself. I have never been in the spotlight before so pardon me if I sound weird. I’ll try my best to not ramble on but again, forgive and indulge me if I do. My name is Seva Ram Singh and I am a police constable with the Delhi Police. I am sure you must have read about the recent violence at the ongoing farmer protests here in New Delhi at its northern border. I was there. In fact I was part of the task force deployed to barricade the roads during the farmers tractor parade on Republic Day. I was also directly involved in arresting a freelance journalist that day.
I won’t go into the details of the arrest and how we treated him. All I can say is we are low level employees who just follow orders and don’t get paid to think or advise anyone. The reporter was then sent to the Central Jail with other farmers who had been arrested that day for protesting. When he was released he spoke about how he interviewed the protesting farmers inside the jail and wrote down their stories on his legs – all of which he eventually put in his report that had far reaching consequences for us. It is here that I come into the picture – an ordinary man, an ordinary police constable, caught on the fence of a half-truth, trying to right a moral wrong. Here is where my story begins…
---
Robyn finished reading. She gave him the phone back and said, “I think this style is interesting, but will you be able to write a full 5000 words on it? From what I read, the plot is straightforward. There are no twists and turns to keep a reader hooked. How do you plan to proceed on that?” “Well I’ve barely written a page. I will be writing more. Maybe even include the report by the journalist just to add to the story; Talk about, why the constable acted the way that he did and what were the consequences of his decisions,” Matt said. “Till the time the entire story is not on paper we don’t know how it will turn out, isn’t it?” “Yep and that is why I am worried too.” “Oh! About what?” Robyn asked. “About the story falling flat on its face. About the professor saying, “I told you so.” About making a bad decision by being stubborn and writing an un-writeable story,” Matt said. “I guess the only way we find out is by writing it. Even a bad story written with honesty is true. Isn’t it?” she said.
“That was exactly my thought. I have to be true to my story right. I have to tell the story and what it makes me feel,” he replied. “Yep. Not everyone can write a safe story to please all those who read it. Just focus on writing it, and not on what it will look like or what others would think.” “Yep. But then again what good is a writer who doesn’t wallow in self-doubt and loathing,” he said and laughed. “Let a true story be written, even if the writer is destroyed,” Robyn said rather dramatically and burst out laughing. The waitress arrived at the same time with Matt’s pint of Guinness and interjected, “Having a good time today, are we?” “The best of times actually,” Matt said, as both raised their glasses in affirmation.
POETRY by Linda Stryker
Lost Resonance two tiny ethereal belles hang-glide on cloud drafts alight on the nearest crag attempt to snag my soul before i fall too far down and below shadows of my missing performance consistently never present mistakes galore missing the now existence still calls bellows belles continue collecting my lost sheep my idiocies while i too swiftly descend lose resonance with who-am-i-ness aging beyond the expiration date stamped on my behind parts snagged by the band of souls standing by for rebirth those belles clamoring in my head i could never tame them even when i had the chance
Before Rebirth all our left-over difficulties are left behind
not in the casket nor
cremation urn
but roil the
destructive air
whirling them
endwise against all futile human efforts to solve them going against the grain
of
heaven’s grim recriminations
we
inwardly curse what is eating us jinxing us into the crappy knotted and kaleidoscopic liquidity of having to live daily minding our mundane businesses not tending to the crises at hand or merely ignoring them for purely personal reasons all the while
we
query the gods as to their godawful reasons for the inflictions surrounding all the souls in the world
with no respite
undertaken nor undergiven vilely demanding attention while flogging us with a striking xylophonic repetition of our
and
your sins those left-over messes zeroing in to destroy us before rebirth
Author Photos and Bios James Crews is the editor of the best-selling anthology, How to Love the World, which has been featured on NPR’s Morning Edition, in the Boston Globe, and the Washington Post, and is the author of four prize-winning collections of poetry: The Book of What Stays, Telling My Father, Bluebird, and Every Waking Moment. His poems have been reprinted in the New York Times Magazine, Ploughshares, The New Republic, and The Christian Century, and in former US Poet Laureate Ted Kooser’s weekly newspaper column, “American Life in Poetry,” and featured on Tracy K. Smith’s podcast, The Slowdown. Crews holds an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Wisconsin–Madison and a PhD in Creative Writing from the University of Nebraska–Lincoln. He lives with his husband on forty rocky acres in Shaftsbury, Vermont. To sign up for weekly poems and prompts, visit: www.jamescrews.net.
Nick Olah draws on his love of nature and photography as his main inspirations for writing. He loves walking around in his neighborhood in the Chicago suburbs and watching the colors change during each of the four distinct Midwest seasons. He has self-published three poetry collections, Where Light Separates from Dark, Which Way is North and Seasons, the third of which also includes his photography. When he is not writing, Nick enjoys spending time with his family and friends, traveling and rooting on his Chicago sports teams. Check out Nick’s work at www.nicholasolah.com.
Lily Trandahl is a highschooler from Wyoming. She has been published in 2 teenage poetry anthologies by Appelley Publishing."
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.”
Noël Canin was born and raised in South Africa during the Apartheid era. She immigrated to Israel in 1968 and lived on Kibbutz Revivim in the Negev Desert for 18 years. During this time she had two children, studied literature and linguistics at Ben Gurion University and began to translate Hebrew literature into English. Today Noel Canin lives and works in the center of Israel. In addition to her work as a poet and translator, she is also a Bodymind therapist in the spirit of Hakomi Psychotherapy. Noel Canin has published poetry in various journals in Israel, the USA, Scotland, Australia and England.
Bill Kazinka is a retired medical microbiologist from Minneapolis, Minnesota.
Pat Phillips West’s work appears in various journals including: Persimmon Tree, The Inquisitive Eater New School Food, Haunted Waters Press, Clover, a Literary Rag, San Pedro River Review, Slipstream, and elsewhere. She has received multiple Best of the Net and Pushcart Prize nominations.
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.
Linda Stryker writes from Phoenix, AZ. Retired from university teaching, she has been published in Southword Journal, New Millennium Writings, New Verse News, Ekphrastic Review, Antiphon, and Emeritus Voices, among several others. Her chapbook "Starcrossed" was published in 2018 by dancing girl press. She is currently working on a collection.