Page 1


Metamorphosis [Alison Fang]; page 9

JULY 2016

A Note From the Editor. It's summer at last, and for many students, this means relaxation and a break from schoolwork. For us at Fragments, though, we're hard at work editing and reviewing pieces for our latest magazine, Issue III. From the quietly captivating "Close" to the explosively brilliant "Back into the Light", we've collected a wide variety of pieces that best capture the dark, the light, and the inbetween. We hope you enjoy reading Issue III as much as we've enjoyed discovering these talented writers and artists. REINI LIN Editor-In-Chief July 2016


Table of Contents. A Note From the Editor | ii Doubtmaker | James Baxenfield vi Directions | Glen Armstrong vii Script(ure) | Neil Ellman viii Metamorphosis | Alison Fang ix Bedside Book of Birds | Glen Armstrong x A Little Sun | Fabrice Poussin xii Back Into Light | Glen Armstrong xiii The Universal Frame of Reference | Neil Ellman xiv

Medical Visit | Gary Beck xv Discovering the Past | Kristina England xvi Midsummer XIII | Glen Armstrong xvii In the Name of Love | Wayne Russell xix If | Kristina England xx Psychosis | John Grey xxi Close | Fabrice Poussin xxii


Table of Contents, contd. Romantic Interlude | Wayne Russell xxiii Waiting | Lynn White xxiv Haemorrhage (teaser) | James Baxenfield xxv My Home | Alison Fang xxx

Sleeping With Your Angels | Fabrice Poussin xxxi Weight | Christopher Hivner xxxii Summer Pace | Gary Beck xxxiii Let’s Walk to the Middle of the Ocean | Neil Ellman xxxiv Withdrawals | Kelsey Cooley xxxv Guard Duty | John Grey xxxvi In the Sun I see My Enemy | Christopher Hivner xxxviii Mild Winter | John Grey xxxix School Dance | M. Marie xl The Breathing Days | Lynn White xlii Afternoon Reflections | Alison Fang xliii Editors & Contributors. | xliv - xlviii


“Color is my day-long obsession, joy and torment.” CLAUDE MONET


Doubtmaker [James Baxenfield] My pen falls silent over blank pages; the novel stalls. Not writer’s block, but something new. A character intimidates me, as though taking breath, rising from the paper and fashioning herself a harbinger of doubt. It’s as though she won’t tell me her thoughts anymore. Or perhaps it’s that I don’t want to know what she’s thinking. Sometimes she tries to wound me. The silence is torture, beating out time in front of me like an aggressive clock. Slip back between the sheets again, where I can hear you breathing.


Directions [Glen Armstrong] Scale and pixilation are to consciousness as blood is to circuit, but circuit is to circus as blood is to bliss. I kiss your feet, which is to landing on Plymouth Rock as planting a seed is to getting directions to the arboretum: Turn right. Watch for a sign pointing toward the interstate. Wait for your life to begin. A great divine opening.


Script(ure) [Neil Ellman] In an ancient script there is neither parentheses, apostrophes nor asterisks only the sentence and certainty of the spoken word and movement of the stars as they punctuate the night with prophesies of light in as many languages as there are worlds in the grammars of the universe.


Metamorphosis [Alison Fang]


Bedside Book of Birds [Glen Armstrong] 1.


Something makes time out of unmeasured emptiness.

Like a songbird with a switchblade I was an angry and poorly crafted toy.

You demand my attention like the sexiest part of a question mark.

I was the magic drinking bird moistening my felt beak in a shot glass just to have my own

Did you ever not exist? Were words born of whispering?

belly full of wonder-juice tip me back, a meaningless rhythm.

If I ask you, sweet canary, will you live with me, siphoning the something from the nothing,

Like a B-movie in search of a leading man you recognized the hollow bones under my leather jacket.

exhaustion tipping it back again?

The bed has grown cold and we’ve worn down our fingertips.

I was your anti-hero then your hero, trapped in a world I never made,

You whisper my name and the whole of what is not me remains in your mouth.

and then I did.


3. We will be together until the crow’s feet reach our eyes, until the flamingo retracts its other leg and either levitates or hits the ground with a comical thud.

The hummingbird’s blood fits in a tablespoon. The tablespoon’s blood fits nowhere. When the dish ran away with the spoon, it was through the sky toward the moon and her interstellar cow. Something unfolds its voluptuous wings of velvet and silk, collects itself in meditation searching its breast for song.


A Little Sun [Fabrice Poussin] It is like a soccer ball of many colors A kaleidoscope with its eye inside A quilt telling the multiple stories Of a day changing into months, years Decades ensue, and the ball has grown Monstrous like a planet frolicking A galaxy, tiptoeing around the stars Dancing with the comets skipping through A rain of asteroids, yet still gaining in Size, the ball sees no boundary Fire filled with the docility of the lamb It continues its route, it still expands This globe, blue, green, purple and rosy Made of dew, sweet sand and warmth Is nothing else than a single touch of The happiness that makes the universe glow Heart, soul, gallantly avoiding capture, Elegant, it swishes by with delicate laughter Impregnable, a mere object of awe and wonder It seduces the innocent, with hope and glory It may yet belong to me, but it is free Playing on Einstein’s trampoline of time and space I may only watch and hope that it will so remain Mine, this little heart and soul pulsating like a sun.


Back Into the Light [Glen Armstrong] Crouched in the hidden ramparts of my forlorn soul, the night skips naked like a stone, dark across the quivering lake. Crouched in the corner of my psyche, parched lip tremble, I am the child once again, held captive by shimmering ghost that have shaped my past and present. Translucent ghost scream, the noise reverberates throughout the creaking wooden house of no way out. The yellowing pages of my story flicker by, in a wild torrent of amber hued self-destruction. I have awoken from a nightmare, the ghost of my past disperse, they cannot claim my future. I stand tall and proclaim in the voice of sheer triumph, life has return to me.


The Universal Frame of Reference [Neil Ellman] From everywhere from every point on a circle or a line from every direction or distance the inside out and the outside in from every wave of sound from every star and grain of sand that forever and ever

spoke a single word from every point of view in every mind there is only this: the place at which all heavens and earths converge to frame the symmetry of our lives.


Medical Visit [Gary Beck] Another doctor’s appointment, the same smug faces complacent in their knowledge. They don’t care about what they don’t know. Condescending to their patients egos barely concealed by assumed authority. Yet they drink, use drugs, have anxiety attacks, all the inflictions that others have,

only revealed in suicide statistics.


Discovering the Past [Kristina England] I once had a brother

But what was worse

but my parents packed him

was my own disappointment

in a metal box

as if I expected a

and said, “Don’t open.

Jack in the Box to jump out

He’s got scars you could never

and go, “Boo,”

recover from.”

my willingness to close

They didn’t give me a chance

the lid, to lock him

to see for myself,

back in a darkened room.

so I snuck into their closet while I was a teen, plied my way through the past.

When I finally opened the cover, he was wounded alright. Here was a man who talked like a child, who could not grow up. Some other man I didn’t know had hurt him in ways adults won’t talk about.


Midsummer XIII [Glen Armstrong] I pray that chance and quirkiness Keep my child from danger That a disconnected line

Be her smile That she never befriend the girl On the milk carton Balanced and unblemished Who seems Forgive me

To be the same child every time That no computer program ever ages her digitally Considers her With a wider face Longer hair The small purple corners Of dimly lit rooms

And cigarettes The birthmark under her training bra


A drop of milk makes its way From the spout to the opening Of her shirt Rather let her spoil and ache For the world In her bedroom A wild pincushion of a girl Listening to Mozart On the public radio station.


In the Name of Love [Wayne Russell] Loneliness clutches at me from every angle, while sea fowl hover overhead, laughing at the setting sun. Waves pound craggy shore lines into slow surrender,

a fiddler crab scuttles along, unperturbed by the plight of its surroundings, or the tears being shed in the name of love. A lone fisherman cast his line into the churning ocean, a wine bottle washes in with the rising of the tide and sauntering moon. Ocean mist cast salt into my eyes, it intermingles with the tears that I have cried over this loneliness, that love branded onto the surface of my heart.


If [Kristina England] the moon was a rocket, one you could stand in front of for five dollars a photo, would it still appear in poems the way it does? Could we look to the sky for anything? Or would our words get graffitied on the pedestal of some grounded, useless monument, meteors an extinct bird

historians once catalogued.


Psychosis [John Grey] she barks like a big savage dog chained to the axle of a rusty Ford, as a mask on her face struggles to calm her, while nerves like fireworks fizz and pop in her brain

doctor figures this is where the pill comes in, the usual chemical subversion of the cosmic overdose take one of these for every one of you or two should someone else show up

her sister tells her she should meditate, or maybe take up pottery, or put a hot towel on her face and turn up the Mozart or garden or lie on the beach anything that people do to not be people she speaks the tongues, she rides the flashbacks, channel-surfs voices, even slices herself a stigmata or two


Close [Fabrice Poussin] The moment of simple proximity Into an eternity of cherished intimacy Sought after, deepest in his dreams Now a form certain and complete. If only the wish were enough To bring it about from obscurity Without a gesture, only pure magic A breath inhaled, a soft exhale. What does it take to create the image To bring about the full nature Of the one who exists yet too far So like a magnet, attraction may begin? It is but a flash behind the closed lids One which may open to an agitated night Crowded with hopes of an encounter By chance, bearing with it a lasting seal.


Romantic Interlude [Wayne Russell] You’ll never get over this interlude, manifested with shimmering jewels of abandonment, besotted by the memories of us, in love. Passion a blazoned by campfire song and shadowy relics of doom laden forest, reaching out softly beyond the years, skeletal hands touching time and space. Spiders woven into exuberant webs, diamond eyes glistening, weaving

tapestries, cast out before the gentle moaning, of an untouched dawn. There you are, basking in the light of the heart and now, the past never meant anything to you, it was merely a romantic interlude, long gone like the crackling campfire, the spider, and even myself.


Waiting [Lynn White] I’m not waiting for aging or changing, for growing, restoring, or recreating the mask. I’m not waiting for structures to collapse and reform and reshape and remake themselves from the ruins. I’m not waiting for the revolution in thinking, in acting, in feeling, to happen when the walls finally fall. No. I’ll dig the tunnels. Then I’ll wait. Wait for you to scramble through to greet me then we’ll be away, through with our waiting.


Haemorrhage, teaser [James Baxenfield] FADE IN: EXT. FIELD – DAWN

A middle-age man, VALENTINE looks out over the field. He is well-dressed, but he has clearly been beaten. His eyes are bloodshot and he has cuts on his hands and face, some of which have been bandaged. EMILIA (V.O.) Are you a cop? INT. WINE CELLAR – DARK Valentine is lying on the floor with his eyes closed, bleeding heavily. There is the body of a dead man in the room. From the upturned furniture and broken wine bottles we see there has been a physical confrontation. VALENTINE (V.O.) No. EMILIA (V.O.) Then who are you?

EXT. HOUSE – EVENING The house is a crime scene. Through the open door we can see that a violent crime has taken place. Furniture has been upturned and is covered in blood. Police officers move in and out of the house.


Valentine is having his wounds tended to by a paramedic. He stares vacantly at the house; through the open front door. EMILIA (V.O., CONT’D) Why are you chasing him? EXT. FIELD – DAWN Valentine stands in the field in front of an old man who sits drinking tea alone at a table. They regard each other impassively. EMILIA (V.O., CONT’D) What will you do when you find him? INT. CAR – DAY Valentine sits in the driver’s seat. He’s clearly tired and in discomfort. A young woman, EMILIA, sits in the passenger seat. She looks concerned, but unafraid

of him. She waits expectantly for his answer to her question. VALENTINE There are only two things you need to know. He hands her a gun. She holds it in her hands uneasily. INT. APARTMENT BUILDING CORRIDOR - DARK The building appears run-down and dirty. VALENTINE approaches a door and presses

the doorbell. It RINGS with a sharp sound. A beat passes. He presses the button again, this time keeping his finger on the button making it produce a continuous TRILLING noise. Someone can be heard moving around inside.


INT. APARTMENT - DAY A LARGE MAN comes to the door. He looks tired and a little disoriented, as though he has just woken up. LARGE MAN Who is it? P.O.V – LARGE MAN Looking through the peep hole. VALENTINE (V.O.) Don’t hesitate, not even for a second. Valentine stands in the corridor, facing the door. Suddenly, as if from nowhere, he raises a gun to the peep hole and pulls the trigger. INT. CAR – DAY Emilia stares at the gun she is holding. She glances at Valentine who is silently gazing through the windshield. EMILIA And? INT. OFFICE BUILDING CORRIDOR – DAY The camera follows Valentine to a door which he opens and walks straight through. VALENTINE (V.O.) And?


INT. OFFICE – DAY Valentine enters the office. There are four other men in the room: three thuggishlooking individuals standing and a business man in an expensive suit sitting behind a large desk. EMILIA (V.O.)

What’s the second thing I need to know? As Valentine approaches the seated man he reaches inside his jacket, it looks like he’s reaching for a gun. The three thugs try to block his path and they start to draw their own guns. Valentine takes a fountain pen out from his inside jacket pocket. INSERT - FOUNTAIN PEN Valentine flicks the lid off the fountain pen, revealing the sharp, leaf-shaped metal tip. VALENTINE (V.O.) Anything can be used as a weapon. Simultaneously, Valentine stabs the thug nearest to him in the neck with the foun-

tain pen, whilst drawing, opening and throwing a stiletto switch blade into the chest of another. He kicks the third thug hard in the chest, causing him to fall to the ground. All this happens before the three thugs can draw and/or raise their guns.


Valentine glares at the seated man with a look of fury in his eyes. The seated man tries to appear calm. The thug that was kicked in the chest moves. Valentine picks up a wooden chair and smashes it over the thug. Despite Valentine’s wounds, the savageness of the act appears completely at odds with his well-dressed appearance. INT. WINE CELLAR - DARK

Valentine is lying on the floor. This is just after he was beaten. CLOSEUP – VALENTINE’S EYE His eye is closed and his face is covered in blood. The eyelid twitches a little then suddenly opens. The blood vessels have burst and the white of his eye is a deep red. SUPER: “HAEMORRHAGE” FADE OUT. THE END


My Home [Alison Fang]


Sleeping With Your Angels [Fabrice Poussin] You hug her tight, your beautiful American girl The one you always dreamed of, met once or twice; A confederate who never saw the war, nor these shores Yet that hat will be yours indeed forevermore. Empty the urn of your beloved at your feet too rests Teal, it shocks the red of your old sweater so cherished Clasping at your dearest little secret wooden box From a far away land, to you also unknown. The Earth, the soil, the dirt, your friend, your nemesis too Your accomplice as much, she sits close, made of your will Shaped within your palms, she is you as you are her She keeps you warm, of memories only you share. Still, so quiet, tasting a past no more, resting in a night Of stars, solar dust, and infinite futures, no more dreams What we know of you may shrivel and shrink to nothingness What you truly are is thus nurtured for all eternity. You sleep with your toys, angels of your many smiles, Teasing as you lay down in a last fury of laughter The joke was on us, harmless, your giggles echo throughout So glad the frigid of the grave has left your soul so warm.


Weight [Christopher Hivner] His face tells a story of moonlight endings to every day and rides home across the black tar sea to home, to home, where life goes on in a dream of fire.

His face tells a story of endings and dreams of thunder.

Morning sits in his easy chair waiting for him to wake up. He opens one eye, feels the weight of his flesh crushing his bones and has to decide to breathe. The mid-day consumes all light, he speaks to darkness, dances with fools, more, give him more the king proclaims.


Summer Pace [Gary Beck] Weekend in the city in the not as long erratically hot summer, courtesy of climate change. The tourists, shoppers, even the locals move slower, whether torpid from heat, not as urgent to acquire goods, services, culture, they just amble along from place to place, not looking happier in a time of stress, but not in a hurry, an unaccustomed sight.


Let’s Walk to the Middle of the Ocean [Neil Ellman] We can go together or alone side by side or single file skim the waves like an albatross or run against the tide but walk we will on pattering petrel feet

drawn by blood and implacable need from a windward voice in the middle of the sea calling us home to spawn and die.


Withdrawals [Kelsey Cooley] There are two powdered moths In the chasm of my belly. Their slimy satin wings brush The pearly gates of my gut Swarming to suppress a filthy appetite— Dust falls from their shredded wings Only to float atop a silver pool. They send tingles through my pores Seducing a sweat from my brow… Like a barbaric camera shuttering— Or a pitiful pulse of electric shock. They flutter into prostration— Soon slowing to a solicitous sleep.


Guard Duty [John Grey] Guards took up their posts around the village. Dressed in sky-blue uniform with yellow plumage, they held both rifles and stone laces at the ready. All were handsome, tree-trunk straight, Adonis builds, as faithful to their mission as a prayer is to its god. Falling rain, thrown rocks nothing bothered them. They kept the inside in. They kept the outside out. But then the daughters of the villagers came up to the fence. Their long hair blew wild and out from their throats, revealing pearl-white kissable necks. Their earlobes flickered dazzling jewels. Blouses opened. Breasts poked through. Hips swayed from side to side. At first, not one guard winced. But by the third day, perfume had them doing its bidding, whispers strung men’s ears along, eyes ramped up the melting. One by one ranks broke.


Each cradled a woman in his protective arms. Beloved uniforms flew off like bluebirds at the sound of gunshots. Each good man awoke from a night of wanton love, to the sight of his paramour standing naked but for his hat lilted sideways on her head and his rifle slung across her shoulder. And so it was that the inside stayed in. The outside remained out. From habit as much as anything.


In the Sun I see My Enemy [Christopher Hivner] Distant Sun ever circling on the edge of my galaxy, my galaxy of fractured light and perturbed stars piercing the unending dark, a galaxy that’s mine to control like a wizard with precious metals and the fire of Prometheus. Distant Sun spins close then retreats, distant Sun reaches out with nuclear fingers, bursts of energy that char my skin but don’t reach underneath where I am strongest. In my galaxy the planets dance to the tune I sing, to the rhythm I exude but the Sun I can’t control, the Sun

spins and burns, spitting fire at my will, this isn’t my Sun.

So where do I go now among the soup of dark particles, where will I be God to bring the Sun to heel? If my arms could fling it back in time the Sun would die, lost in the void away from my embrace, but my weakness trumps desire and it remains at the edge of my conscious mind forever lurking, judging, roaring in feral sentiment. Distant Sun ever circling, haunting my galaxy of fractured light.


Mild Winter [John Grey] They tell me it’s a mild winter but the cold’s not convinced and nor are my chilled bones. It’s so hard to get out of bed, so difficult not to sip steamy hot coffee, or hold tight to a loved one. The accursed outside has need of me. But it doesn’t like me much. Not, at least, the way the crackling wood stove devotes itself to every square inch of my exposed flesh. Eventually, I will shower and shave and dress. The world, cruel master, does not pay me to be warm. Mild winter, indeed. To be honest, tales of much more ferocious winters past drop my temperature more than a degree or two. Just knowing it was worse in 1975 is worth a gust of freezing wind, another six inches of snow. Really, there’s no such thing as a mild winter. Like there’s no such thing as a mild heartbreak or even a mild death. It’s like a razor. Sharp or blunt, they still cut, still make a man bleed.

Sometimes, the blunt hurts even more for the time it takes to get the job done. A mild winter no make that a blunt winter. My blood can’t tell the difference.


School Dance [M. Marie] Like clockwork, we circle the dance floor, uncertain in our movements and awkward in the placement of our hands. The necessity of being paired up and dressed up leaves a tightness in my chest, a tremble in my limbs, - an urge for fight or flight but the music and the movement of our peers around us pull our bodies through the practiced steps. Left, together. Back, together. Like a machine, the couples all move in unison. The music and the expectation guiding our steps.

Every beat brings a motion; every pause a break in pace. We are cogs and gears. We turn each other with practiced movements to the pleasure of outside parties. Chaperons line the walls, How I wish to be a weed among the wallflowers! They are foremen overseeing the factory floor. They are alert for flaws in the machinery, faults in the flow of movement. Their eyes s l i d e over me more than once. Right, together. Front, together. My partner was assigned and he leads as well as I can follow. We both know the steps, we both feel the social pressure, and yet‌


There is a resistance in my movements. I step a second too slow. I pause a beat too long. My body cringes away from his touch, and my eyes avoid his puzzled glance. I am a gear

so beautiful in their movements, so at ease with what the dance demands, I understand the frowns around me and the ache within me. I am the defect in the machine.

that has come unbalanced. I am a cog set to the wrong speed. I resist the pull of the music and I turn in a way that is wrong and odd and queer.

Until at last, my shoulder is tapped and I’m pulled away by frowning foremen. The wall is a cool relief at my back. As I listen to the music swell, as I watch the couples on display:

Left, together. Back, together. Right, together. Front, together.


The Breathing Days [Lynn White] In the days when I still breathed, the days before living took my breath away, the days before I knew my soul was there. I thought about this time, this time of no light, the forever night time with no breath, no air to breathe. Just dust and darkness. And I pondered. Would there be slow decay or fast. Stillness or movement. Now I know. I know everything about the dust and darkness. But I can’t tell you. Not now in these days of no breath, no air to speak. Only my soul can speak. Can you hear me?


Afternoon Reflections [Alison Fang]


“You have brains in your head. You have feet in your shoes. You can steer yourself any direction you choose.” DR. SEUSS


About the Editors. Reini Lin | Founder & Editor-In-Chief Sixteen-year-old wordsmith, poetry scribbler, voracious reader, and aspiring novelist with a penchant for clever quotes, dystopian novels, and Oxford commas. Her work is published or forthcoming in Polyphony HS, Dull Pencil Anthology, Silvae Magazine, Half Mystic Journal, and -Ology Journal. She holds positions on the editorial staff of her high school magazine and the Glass Kite Anthology. Rupal Nigam | Founder & Prose Editor A pencil breaker, book hoarder, and midnight thinker, she mindlessly doodles in corners and recreates her life on paper. Her unbreakable habits include nibbling dark chocolate, testing the limits of her telescope, and torturing her punching bag. She has won district and state awards for her writing and refuses to add color. To anything. Michelle Kim | Prose Editor Michelle is a book addict who blogs about books. Though an un-amusing comedian, she loves (awkwardly) laughing at mundane things like pillows, dinosaurs, and her dog. She has edited for and contributed to the Dull Pencil Anthology and has been awarded for her prose at a district level. Alexander Wang | Poetry Editor Alex is more of a math and science person. However, he uses writing as a welcome break from the often frustrating equations. In his spare time, he plays the bassoon and guitar, watches sci-fi/horror movies, and surfs AoPS. He has been awarded for his poetry and prose on a district and state level. Taruni Donti | Poetry Editor This cheerful Indian constantly scribbles words onto tattered pages woven from big dreams. She spends most of her time on her tired laptop and loves walking along the snow-covered sidewalks of Colorado. She is part of the editorial staff of her high school’s literary magazine. Andi Mo | Art Editor Andi has more than a decade of fine arts training. She has won awards in the district and international level such as finishing as a finalist in the 20th & 21st North American International Children’s Painting contests. Her artwork was featured in the Contra Costa Times. She has taken courses in AP Studio Art and AP Art History, hosted her own drawing summer camp, and designed logos and flyers for local organizations. She plans to pursue a career in graphic design.


Jacquelin Ho | Art Editor Jackie focuses on oil painting, with about seven years of training with pencil and charcoal. In the past year she has won awards on both the district and regional level for her oil paintings. In addition to these media, she has experience with color pencil, acrylic, pastel, watercolor, ink, and ceramics. As a huge fan of both Studio Ghibli and Marvel, she also loves design and architecture. Yaxin Li | Social Media Manager A window-shopping fanatic, a lover of all things funny. Inspired by family, friends, and Karlie Kloss. She likes her papers to be neat and tidy and always has a planner at hand. Her mind is filled with random thoughts, surprising secrets, and silent dreams. Her ideal place to be? A room full of puppies and kittens.


About the Contributors. Glen Armstrong Glen Armstrong holds an MFA in English from the University of Massachusetts, Amherst and teaches writing at Oakland University in Rochester, Michigan. He edits a poetry journal called Cruel Garters and has three recent chapbooks: Set List (Bitchin Kitsch,) In Stone and The Most Awkward Silence of All (both Cruel Garters Press.) His work has appeared in Poetry Northwest, Conduit and Cloudbank. James Baxenfield James Baxenfield is a storyteller and a high-functioning vagrant. He was born in England, but has lived in Eastern Europe for most of his adult life, predominantly in Estonia. His work has appeared in Cecile's Writers Magazine, Meat for Tea, theEEEL and the Yellow Chair Review, amongst others. Gary Beck Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theater director, and as an art dealer when he couldn’t make a living in theater. He has 11 published chapbooks. His poetry collections include: Days of Destruction (Skive Press), Expectations (Rogue Scholars Press). Dawn in Cities, Assault on Nature, Songs of a Clerk, Civilized Ways, Displays (Winter Goose Publishing). Fault Lines, Perceptions, Tremors, Perturbations, Rude Awakenings and The Remission of Order will be published by Winter Goose Publishing. Conditioned Response (Nazar Look). Resonance (Dreaming Big Publications). His novels include: Extreme Change (Cogwheel Press) Acts of Defiance (Artema Press). Flawed Connections (Black Rose Writing). Call to Valor will be published by Gnome on Pigs Productions. His short story collection, A Glimpse of Youth (Sweatshoppe Publications). Now I Accuse and other stories will be published by Winter Goose Publishing. His original plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have been produced Off Broadway. His poetry, fiction and essays have appeared in hundreds of literary magazines. He currently lives in New York City. Neil Ellman Neil Ellman, a poet from New Jersey, has published more than 1,200 poems in print and online journals, anthologies and chapbooks throughout the world. His latest chapbook, Mind Over Matta, is based on the work of the Chilean abstract-surrealist, Roberto Matta Echaurren. Kristina England Kristina England resides in Worcester, Massachusetts. Her writing has been published in several magazines, including Muddy River Poetry Review, New Verse News, and Silver Birch Press. Her first set of published photos appeared at Foliate Oak Literary Magazine in April 2016. Alison Fang Alison Fang is an accomplished artist and a rising junior at Dougherty Valley High School in San Ramon, California.


John Grey John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in New Plains Review, South Carolina Review, Gargoyle and Silkworm work upcoming in Big Muddy Review, Cape Rock and Spoon River Poetry Review. Christopher Hivner Christopher Hivner writes from a small town in Pennsylvania surrounded by books and the echoes of music. He has recently been published in Saudade and Dead Snakes. A chapbook of poems, “The Silence Brushes My Cheek Like Glass” was published by Scars Publications and another, “Adrift on a Cosmic Sea”, was published by Kind of a Hurricane Press. website: Facebook: Christopher Hivner - Author Twitter: @Your_screams M. Marie M. Marie ( lives in the heart of downtown Toronto. She has a passion for writing and poetry, and often finds the act of putting words to paper challenging, but exciting, as it constantly leads her to push boundaries she didn't even realize she had. Her short stories and poetry can be found in a number of anthologies. Fabrice Poussin Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, Eskimo Pie, The Chimes and will appear in other magazines throughout 2016. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, Foliate Oak Magazine, the San Pedro River magazine and more than three dozens of other publications. Wayne Russell Wayne Russell is a creative writer that was born and raised in Tampa, Florida, he used to write about love and life as he saw it through the eyes of someone wearing rose colored glasses. As time progressed, life happen and some traumatic events changed the way Wayne mused and captured it on paper. Wayne is the Founding Editor and Chief of the new online zine Degenerate Literature, which can be located on social media at the following link. Lynn White Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality.


Thank you for reading this issue of Fragments, and, in doing so, lending your support to the project. Every small act goes a long way.

End of Fragments of Chiaroscuro, Volume I: Issue III. JUNE 2016.



Volume I, Issue III - Fragments of Chiaroscuro  

a lit & art mag dedicated to exploring the black, the white, and the shades between. published july 2016.

Volume I, Issue III - Fragments of Chiaroscuro  

a lit & art mag dedicated to exploring the black, the white, and the shades between. published july 2016.