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Issue 10 March 2017



Poetry City Hyacinths Coyote Even the Heartache Eyes It Still Hurts but I?m Getting Better Rain and Toothless Angels The Prudence of Hemingway The World Imagines Rain Three Line Poem Three Line Poem Unsettled ?WomanCos You Were Mine

Jennifer L. Freed Philip Newton Aden Thomas Philip Newton Philip Elliott Sergio A. Ortiz Michael Marrotti Aden Thomas Firdaus Parvez Voima Oy Anna Kahn Laura Halpin Amanda Tumminaro

5 1 3 2 8 19 15 16 17 7 21 13 11

Prose Catch and Release Drain the Swamp (A Working Class Perspective) How To Cook Your Dead Wife Taking Back Its Air Thompson Hill

Kenny Torrella Eric Smith Mark Farley Rob Parrish James H Duncan

9 6 22 23 12

Photography Gidget Bates Manit Chaotragoongit F.E. Clark Fabrice Poussin LianHua Wei Chris Whitney

21 10 4 cover, 17-18 1 20

All other photography not specified here is licensed under the Creative Commons Zero for Public Domain.

Ink In Thirds - Issue 10, March 2017 Copyright Š 2017 Ink In Thirds

All rights reserved. Copyright in the body reproduced herein remains the property of the individual authors / artists and permission to publish acknowledged by the publisher. No part of this publication may be reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or otherwise, without written permission from the author(s) or artist(s) herein.

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Letter from the Editor Another month and another issue filled with artistic delights. I continue to be amazed at the submissions we receive and the growing readership of Ink In Thirds. Thank you to all who contribute, read, and share. This magazine is a true labor of love, and you each make it such a rewarding expression of creativity and honest art. Love & Ink, Grace Black

"A magazine of poised prose, precarious poetry, and photography to pilot our own realms again."

?The role of a writer is not to say what we can all say, but what we are unable to say.? ? AnaĂŻs Nin

Coyote b y Ph i l i p New ton It?s pointless to stare He won?t come this way Except possibly in the fall When fat seeds rupture And everything is on the move I know you love him It?s hard to love in a cold season When nothing gives back And it?s hard to love When the sockets are dry And full of smoke And it?s especially hard to love When you have nothing left but dreams And these dreams pull you through the night Clamped to your ankle Like a kiss You run with your beloved And your beloved has claws and feral breath But of course you have no choice This is not your season This is not your dream By the time the sun has set The two of you will be gone

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Eyes b y Ph i l i p New ton Coldest blue, waiting for The turn of the year You thought it was music Prayer You thought your luck had changed Something was entered into that book But you weren?t allowed to see it That couple over there Just beyond the gate Out where you once saw The frightened hound They?re waiting for you They want you I see it in the hollows of their eyes I can?t say what it is You want me to say I wish that I had what you needed You?ll have to be satisfied With my eyes alone And with winter And a heart gone still

ph oto by Li anHua Wei

Ev en th e Heartach e b y A den Th omas

There?s freedom in a thing that?s lost. A balloon left to the breeze. A woman abandons herself, even the heartache. Her veins like roots begin a search for openings when the letting go begins. A tree grows on the other side of the world. Its trunk thickens. Its branches sway in helium from the light of a dance with the sun.

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ph oto by F.E. Cl ark

from a window box, the scent of her smile

Ci ty Hyaci nth s Jenni f er L. Freed

ph oto by Orl ov a M ari a

Drai n th e Sw amp (A Work i ng Cl ass Perspecti v e) by Eri c Smi th

S tanding in the doorway of a bathroom without a lock with a quarter inch of urine and water creeping in through the broken heel of his boot, ?Don? Johns who drank at the bar on the other side of town, the townie side, dropped the wet mop, still dry, into the middle of the floor where college student puke, the future of our republic, clogged the drain. Two urinals. A toilet without sidewalls filled with loose shit and brown stained water. No mirror above the sink. Nothing to see there. He pushed the pile. The drain drank and gurgled.

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these branches, like calligraphy? these rising lines a prayer to the sun b y V oi ma Oy

ph oto by Di k asev a

I t Sti l l Hurts But I ?m Getti ng Better b y Ph i l i p El l i ott

Pain heals Girls dig scars Glory lasts forever

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Catch and Rel ease b y K enny Torrel l a

O n your way home from work stop by the store and buy a trap,

the kind that keeps them alive; the neighbors would prefer mice not live inside our building this winter and they?re ready to call an exterminator. I was hoping that in light of the election we?d all have a little more empathy, but I?ve been given a 24-hour grace period to catch and release. I tried to reason with them; I said, I know that you, too, sometimes shit where you eat. That did not work. So, I asked, Haven?t you ever had something good end too soon, and so suddenly, with a crushed heart and the air sucked from your lungs? Haven?t you ever been baited by fleeting pleasures only to find poison in the first bite? Haven?t you ever moved in the night, believed to be safe, like our ancestors who were also easier to kill than relocate?

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ph oto by M ani t Ch aotragoongi t

You Were M i ne b y A manda Tummi naro

You are my hangnail and I?m always smoking at your kitchen door. I never offered you anything that was black and you never tendered your eggs to me, though my heels were digging in to me. I always was a scapegoat to each raid and it seemed I always searched to be your dog in your plot. We were mismatched plaid and stripes, but in the birth, a wick caught fire. So it goes that we both have malaise and so far no other man has plucked me with tweezers or forks. I?ve fattened since our communication, prime for a cross-eyed farmer?s pen.

ph oto by Erw an Hesry

Th ompson Hi l l by James H Duncan

T he house on Thompson Hill overlooked the city penitentiary and a little league baseball field and about seven blocks of the worst parts of Troy and when nobody was home Samantha would descend to the kitchen in the basement and stare out the back door into a tangled knot of brush and tall grass growing in the alley that sloped down the hill revealing the open horizon. Albany lay beyond, its lights a steady orange glow in the evening dim. She knew he was out there, him and him and him, all of them, all of her friends too, her family, all finding better people to see and better places to be. The kitchen smelled of dust and the overfull garbage bin inside the pantry where there were only three boxes of Ramen noodles and one can of baked beans left. Only tap water to drink. The phone shut off. The neighbors moved out. Thompson Hill in the summertime where crickets and stray cats paid their respects to the crumbling concrete sidewalks. Samantha stood at the window and held the dead cordless phone. It didn?t matter anymore. His voice would play like razorblades against her ears now anyway. But she wished something besides Albany?s city lights would look her in the eyes and tell her just one good thing. In the darkness she set down the phone and picked up her one pot and filled it with water, set it on the stove, and watched the coil turn red. She wished she could turn red and soon the water would boil, but not yet.

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`WomanCos by Laura Hal pi n I grew up To where I am An x for a y A cup for blood A silent yelling Yes, screaming at the mirror with full blast music on, Dancing, Greating, Gritting, I grew, difficult, obstructed, instructed In all the ways I am not (some small minds say should be) me I Quiver but do not dissolve because I Grip resolve by the front of its hip bones and say honestly, openly, with love, at the top of my lungs, Fuck. You. I Wittingly. Survivingly. Never-quittingly. Resistingly. Womanly. I.

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ph oto by A l ej andro A l v arez

Th e Prudence of Hemi ngw ay b y M i ch ael M arrotti Like any other extraordinary writer he had a slight personality disorder His prose helped to mitigate the burden hereditary sickness is like living with an overzealous bully I salute the man for knowing when to replace the pen with the double barrel A two time loser is twice efficient he saved his legacy by squeezing the trigger Hemingway had sense enough to know when the time had come Yet you feel justified by perpetuating what should have never been started Living out your welcoming scribbling past the date of expiration

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Th e Worl d I magi nes Rai n b y A den Th omas

When I begin with you I mention rain, the taste of rain falling in watered air. If the weight that forms our lives could be something the world imagines, it would be a face reflected in scarves of rain, eyes wet with future. We walk that maze forbidden, the scarves invisible, brushing against our lips, our breath like small clouds billowing and billowing down.

p h oto by Jami e Street

words broke out on tired skin sweat beads on upper lip I felt timeless as the sun forgot to set by Fi rdaus Parv ez

ph oto by Fabri ce B. Poussi n 18 | Ink In Thirds

Rai n and Tooth l ess A ngel s b y Sergi o A . Orti z In my city, it always rains. Water falls with an intensity that only belongs to fables or dreams. Serious, insistent, almost solid, a cloth made by hands without eyes. It rains on currency circulating in shopping malls, on every ticket drenched in sweat and bile. It rains in courts, archives, between sentences, minutes, articles, amendments. It rains as if someone were trying to apologize, their voice crumbles into drops. In the street, toothless angels slip while begging door to door. In cemeteries, the dead spend the eternity we gave them fixing drainpipes. Clouds do not pray for the salvation: they?ve been baptized by places of happiness. It rains: a clumsy gesture covers buildings, moistens their foreheads, windows are silent. The memory of my city is a puddle that wets legs, softening my paper bones. Memories, like dull-skinned fish, swim around, infect bystanders with insomnia. Beetles roll awkwardly on sidewalks, buzzards watch traffic in their free hours. Spiders weave the scaffolds on which I walk. Gray scales grow on my front walls. It rains on the history of the city, smudged and dispersed, impossible to gather. Rains on the heads of the saints that spit upward, armed with miracles of lead and beer. It rains under the roof of the presidential palace: moss, green as a caress, grows on the busts of heroes, on their eyelids tired of so much corruption.

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Ph oto b y Ch ri s Wh i tney

Unsettl ed b y A nna K ah n Returning to the village shrinks my skin. Ill-fitting, unforgetting, years too young. Familiar figures nod, warm but unsure which mental index-card my voice recalls. The quickest jog for struggling memories is grinning past the tension ? showing teeth to demonstrate the one thing still unchanged: the orthodontist?s failure in my unsettled smile.

ph oto by Gi dget Bates

How To Cook Your Dead Wi f e b y M ark Farl ey

T hey said the urn contained your ashes, but Google told me it's only bone dust and suggested a recipe. I mixed you with the red wine you'd left open by the stove, stirring until you'd been blended to a dark bloody hue. It was old wine and I knew the taste would be sour like your mother, and sharp like your tongue. Cinnamon made you more interesting. I warmed you with orange juice and ground cloves. At our secret beach, I ignored the dog walkers, found a wet patch by a linden tree, and poured you out of my life.

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Tak i ng Back I ts A i r b y Rob Parri sh

T he fresh stain looked like M ichigan, like two handprints. H e just put on this shirt while he walked down the hallway to the bathroom, and was pretty sure it was his soul leaking again. It once looked like Florida in a previous summer, and even Idaho as recently as last fall; but now, in the winter, the stain took a heartier shape. It had been a few years since he was in the U pper Peninsula, but he remembered the fresh slap of Superior. H e used to travel north every summer to shock his blood at the family cabin. H e longed to straddle the wave runner. Each summer his confidence grew on it, speeding down the coastline, his hair in the past. H e stood at the medicine cabinet and concentrated on the uppermost thumb of the stain. T his was where he last could lift his face into a smile with ease. It was when he ran the wave runner over a rock and his body catapulted into the air, where he couldn?t discern between variations of blue. Like a horseshoe, he skidded to a stop in the sand. T his was sky, as he looked to find no clouds or contrails. Perhaps his soul was leaking then, too, right into the life jacket. If it was, he hadn?t noticed. All he felt was time burning into his back and pure sky taking back its air.

ph oto by I an Espi nosa

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CONTRIBUTORS James H Duncan James H Duncan is the editor of Hobo Camp Review, a former editor with Writer's Digest, and the author of Dead City Jazz, Berlin, What Lies In Wait, and other collections of poetry and prose. He currently resides in upstate New York with a sleeping dog and unsteady stacks of unread books to keep him company. http://www.jameshduncan.com

Philip Elliott Philip Elliott is Irish, 24 years old and editor-in-chief of Into the Void Magazine. His writing can be found in various journals in eight countries, such as Otoliths, Squawk Back, Flash Fiction Magazine and Revista Literariedad. He is currently working on a novella and a short story collection. Stalk him at philipelliottfiction.com. @philipelliott33

Mark Farley Mark Farley has been shortlisted and highly commended for the Bridport Prize. http://mumbletoes.blogspot.com/ @mumbletoes

Jennifer L Freed In another life, Jennifer L Freed taught English in China and in the Czech Republic. Now she raises her teenage daughters and writes mostly poetry, sometimes micro-fiction. Her work appears in various journals and anthologies. To learn more, please visit her website. http://jfreed.weebly.com

Laura Halpin Laura is an Irish copywriter, creative writer, Irish Cannes Film Young Lion 2016 and flash fiction editor of Into the Void arts & literature magazine. She is also delighted you've read her bio and would love you to get in touch if you enjoyed her work. http://laurahalpinwriting.com

Anna Kahn Anna Kahn is a member of the Roundhouse Collective and is in her second year as a Barbican Young Poet. She lives in London with two cats and one human. By day she works in tech doing something largely inexplicable. http://scribblingbadger.wordpress.com @AnnaCarlaKahn

Michael Marrotti Michael Marrotti is an author from Pittsburgh, using words instead of violence to mitigate the suffering of life in a callous world of redundancy. His primary goal is to help other people. He considers poetry to be a form of philanthropy. When he's not writing, he's volunteering at the Light Of Life homeless shelter on a weekly basis. If you appreciate the man's work, please check out his book, F.D.A. Approved Poetry, available at Amazon.

Philip Newton Philip Newton is a writer and musician living in Oregon. Most recently his poems have appeared in Coal Literary, the Bangalore Review and Work Literary Magazine. His poems, novels, and screenplays are represented by DHH Literary and are influenced by, among others, Pablo Neruda, Tristan Tzara, Robert Creeley and Little Walter.

Sergio A. Ortiz Sergio A. Ortiz is a gay Puerto Rican poet and the founding editor of Undertow Tanka Review. He is a two-time Pushcart nominee, a four time Best of the Web nominee, and a 2016 Best of the Net nominee. He is currently working on his first full length collection of poems, Elephant Graveyard.

Voima Oy Voima Oy lives on the western rim of Chicago, near the expressway and the Blue Line trains. Her writing can be found online at Paragraph Planet, Visual Verse, 101 Fiction, Unbroken Journal and The Vignette Review. @voimaoy

Rob Parrish Rob Parrish lives in Milwaukee, Wisconsin with his dog, Coltrane. His work can be found in Gravel, The Harpoon Review, The Airgonaut, and Birds Piled Loosely, among others. He is an editor at (b)OINK. http://www.dearthirties.com @thenewrant

Firdaus Parvez Firdaus lives in a laid back University town close to New Delhi, India. A voracious reader, she enjoys tinkering with words. Though flash fiction is her first love, poetry intrigues her. She surprises herself with a poem every now and then. She's a regular contributor on theprose.com @firdausp

Eric Smith Eric Smith is an English teacher, an MFA student with the Bluegrass Writers Studio, and a reader for the Jelly Bucket Literary Journal. When not writing or teaching, he builds fine furniture in his woodshop and spends time with his family in West Virginia. http://ericjamesolson.wordpress.com @ericjamesolson1

Aden Thomas Aden Thomas grew up on the high plains of central Wyoming. His work has been featured in The Inflectionist Review. He lives north of Denver. http://www.adenthomas.com @sagebrushpoet

Kenny Torrella Kenny Torrella's creative and critical writing has appeared in The Rumpus, Word Riot, NAILED, Oblong, and more. He lives in Washington, D.C. @kennytorrella

Amanda Tumminaro Amanda Tumminaro lives in Illinois with her family. Her poetry has appeared in Hot Metal Bridge, Squawk Back, Digital Papercut, Oddball Magazine and Freshwater, among others. She has also been nominated for a Best of the Net Award in 2015 for her poem ?Scenes at Puget Sound?.

PHOTOGRAPHERS Gidget Bates Gidget shoots what she likes and hears the world?s music as it spins. She is also co-owner and one of the DJs at Woody Radio. She rocks, literally! @gidgetbates

Manit Chaotragoongit Manit Chaotragoongit resides in Bangkok, Thailand. His inspiration and appreciation for black-and-white for photography began when he was a teenager. Manit?s first job was as a photographer for a little publishing company in Bangkok. He prefers conceptual photography and street life, and his artwork is filled with experience and vision. https://www.facebook.com/post.modern.16 @manit_chao

F.E. Clark F. E. Clark is an artist and writer from N.E. Scotland. She is currently using nature and photography to see the world clearly again and re-calibrate her energies. http://www.feclarkart.com/ @feclarkart

Fabrice B. Poussin Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University, Rome, Georgia. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and more than two dozens of other magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review and more than one hundred other publications. https://www.facebook.com/fpoussin3

LianHua Wei LianHua Wei grew up in the beautiful countryside of Fujian province. She now lives in Lhasa and works as an online landscape designer. She loves the people, culture and images of Tibet, and travels in the province when she has time. Her dream is to open a floral shop there.

Chris Whitney Chris Whitney enjoys moments that inspire his poems and photographs to become each other?s companions. He most enjoys focusing his lens on the Sierra mountains, his home garden, and eclectic slices of California life. He is currently working on a project about his time in New Orleans. http://christopherandlindawhitney.sites.livebooks.com @Whitneychris71

CC PHOTOGRAPHS Dikaseva https://unsplash.com/@dikaseva Ian Espinosa https://unsplash.com/@greystorm Erwan Hesry https://unsplash.com/@erwanhesry Hailey Kean https://unsplash.com/@keaneyefoto Orlova Maria https://unsplash.com/@orlovamaria Jamie Street https://unsplash.com/@jamie452

Cover by Fabrice B. Poussin

Profile for Ink In Thirds

Ink In Thirds - Issue 10  

A magazine of poised prose, precarious poetry, and photography to pilot our own realms again.

Ink In Thirds - Issue 10  

A magazine of poised prose, precarious poetry, and photography to pilot our own realms again.