Ink In Thirds - Issue 9

OUTDOOR

Issue 9 February 2017

FEATURES:

CONTENTS Poetry A Beautiful Woman At the Paris Picasso Museum bolanile Daybreakfast Descent Into Night Into Thin Air Love Song for a Singer for Jesse Motherless Song Quiet Madness Servitude Six Things That Stuck Sleeping Beauty The Heart Of America They Eat To All The Forgotten Ones Tollbooth Music Unhinged at 3am Unrequited Love We Are Those Two Ships Weakness

Kyle Perdue Daniel Fitzpatrick K. EltinaĂŠ Adam Schrum Heath Brougher Susan Butler Emily Light Toti O?Brien Rose Ketring Joseph A. Pinto Lora Rivera Catherine Roth Scott Laudati Lindsey Rose Brett Thompson Brett Thompson Gabby Vachon Natalie Crick Shirley Jones-Luke E. Martin Pedersen

14 23 4 19 18 2 8 15 24 18 10 1 11 7 9 20 5 21 19 17

Prose 2016 Beige Jesus Boxes Some of Your Power The Substance of Us

Ashley Gardana Al Ortolani Denis Bell CB Droege Christina Dalcher

22 24 4 8 25

Photography Matt Adamik Marybeth Cohowicz DeYoung Tim Gerken Amy Kotthaus

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

cover 1-2 20, 23, 26 9-10, 21-22 6, 7,12

Ink In Thirds - Issue 9, February 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 Love lies in hands wherein we have no malice and ever after we transcend the veil of hope toward our lost longing of meaning. This issue was an experiment of sorts with a theme. I hope you fall in love with its layers as I have.

Love & Ink, Grace Black

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

The price of art is pain.

But what?s the price of pain?

Love?

G race B lack

Sl eepi ng Beauty b y Cath eri ne Roth

H eplaced the tips of his fingers on her chest Halfway between collarbone and nipple Her flesh yielded like soft butter Left on the counter Knuckle-deep He pulled it out to inspect Strings of magenta mucus Clung and broke Disappointingly small in his hand The size of her fist, not his.

He dropped it back into place Rolling his thumb across his fingers To brush away the Red Velvet crumbs.

1 | Ink In Thirds

I nto Th i n A i r b y Susan Butl er

F rom a distant life, from a thousand miles away, I recall the innocence of your hands; I remember the way you held me as if to keep from falling away, the way you reached out for me as if to save yourself from drowning.

This is all I have left of an innocent time when I did not know your feral malice would sear me into cinders of bone, your fingers would stretch and ache to choke like tendrils of seaweed.

In silence I was nearly tangible but as I spoke, you alone became immuring stone.

I recall the rage of your hands; born to tear the voice from my throat, to snuff me still, so I, I dissipate into air, ash, autumn sky. life slips into the air ? blades of yellow leaves rain through slips of perilous sun someone sleeps on the ground ? something slips from my hands breath escapes, never caught again ? you did this Soon only one of us will drown in thin air and still love is not war no matter how bloody you make it.

ph oto by M att A dami k

ph oto by Jason Bri scoe

Box es

by Deni s Bel l ?? they live in boxes.?

A snippet of conversation that I overhear from the other side of the table. My daughter-in-law is speaking to my son during a family get-together. We?re eating dinner at a restaurant in Atlanta. ?We all live in boxes,? I say.

They look at me questioningly. ?Big boxes, small boxes, black and white and yellow and red boxes. My box. Your box. Boxes that shut out the light and separate us from each other. The boxes that society builds for us. Most of all, the boxes that we build for ourselves.? ?That?s true,? she says, looking at me, ?but these are real boxes. They live in them below the underpass at 75 and Main.? ?Oh,? I say.

b ol ani l e b y K . El ti naĂŠ

You step out of the shower supple like grapes and coconuts.

I cannot shave in the fog you've made so I listen to the kettle in the kitchen, waiting for a face to emerge.

I rinse out sugar and mint in the sink taste home on your lips before it disappears.

4 | Ink In Thirds

Unh i nged at 3am

by Gab b y V ach on

S wipe right, I fear you not Let?s meet where I work Let?s get a matching tattoo Come see my play In a shitty Dollarama basement In my childhood home Tinder, you?ve made me proud Take all my dimly lit selfies And ask for more but without my pajama shirt I?ll blot my red lips on your cheek Wipe the rest on your mother?s handkerchief I am louder at night by the buzzing of my phone I ache to be remembered After a long day of classes With that young English professor I am 22, a woman, Act like one And fall privy to the predator, arms wide open Find me a skirt short enough And I will wear it And I wake up with my fishnets around my neck

5 | Ink In Thirds

ph oto by A my K otth aus

Watch out. T hey eat M y smiles and lies until my ribs show; T hey'll never be full.

Th ey Eat b y Li ndsey Rose

ph oto by A my K otth aus

Lov e Song f or a Si nger (f or Jesse) b y Emi l y Li gh t Put your voice in my throat so your words can solidify into stones rolling across my tongue. Their salt is all I need for taste buds to rise like seedlings pushing tentative heads from a spring soil. I can only guess you smell like whiskey and campfire. We could push our hands against tree bark, describe in seven words or less the depth of grooves in which we might tent tonight whispering about the habits of foxes before fumbling in natural dark.

I already feel your fingers on my cheek, eyes closed in the morning smelling of not here, not now, sounding of your songs on repeat for sixteen years: a chorus of silence.

Some of Your Pow er b y CB Droege

S hortly after you left this coil, I realized that the last time I?d charged my phone was from a stick you had been keeping in your pocket. So, I turned on Battery Saver Mode.

8 | Ink In Thirds

To A l l Th e Forgotten Ones b y Brett Th ompson Even the softest sands of summer are growing cold.

Storm threats are rolling in, on public radio the animated host spouts off on the continental shelf how it is rumored to be dropping in the east.

Wherever I drop my body into the surf there will be fire.

For across the waters of the channel, the dark faces of my former lovers are floating home.

They have come to dance with all the blank faces of loves not yet born.

If they join and whisper, I will pry them apart.

Rumors are a nasty proposition.

Upon setting, the moon whispered to the drunks on the boardwalk that the sunset tonight will come on in deep indigo.

My lips are blue; my fingers ache in this cold water flat of twilight, with all the hard work left.

9 | Ink In Thirds

1. H ow a proper Old Fashioned is not too sweet 2. T he way you say sure (two syllables) and H ow rude! (affectionate) 3. Washcloths while bathing 4. H ow you say, ?Let?s do something nice, something fancy? ? the word like a transgression, a secret mischief 5. French toast with sour cream and braised plums 6. T he blow to the gut that is the moment just after

Si x Th i ngs Th at Stuck b y Lora Ri v era

ph oto by Ti m Gerk en

Th e Heart of A meri ca b y Scott Laudati i lost another one who didn?t want love or forever or some way back to the heart of america. she just wanted kids. white kids named john and jesse and little sally. kids that would get her off work and never make her think about california and giraffes or they way she felt at 16 when her parents stopped loving her but said the words anyway, who looked at their little girl and decided she didn?t have it so they went to the next one. she wanted kids who?d adopt a dog named lady or molly, and a vet who might say ?it?s a 1/4 pit-bull but the dog will never stop looking like a lab?. and the house could be new. and the kids would never have their own minds. they would be patriots and they would never fail like citizens. their mother could change the truth and never have to explain that she?d found love once and it didn?t act like it was supposed to, that she didn?t say ?hit me? while age and time were still on her side. the kids would never want to know about the heart of america and that it disappeared just around the time that they made it cool to sell love for money

11 | Ink In Thirds

ph oto by A my K otth aus

ph oto by A l ej andro A l v arez

A Beauti f ul Woman

by K yl e Perdue he was in the bathtub looking at the ceiling, thinking, a sudden realization came to him: a beautiful woman is not one that projects external pleasantries; She is not one that causes gasps or stares, rather, She is one who can refrain from giving in to lust when it?s temptation is outweighed by a hair; She?s one who, in a loud and chaotic world, brews up the most mouthwatering sentences in that mind of hers, keeping composure all the while; She, in the midst of a stampede, sits on a small chair, knitting some small piece of cloth, intended as a gift for someone she holds dear: thoughtful. a woman of elegance is one you would poke your nose into a beehive for; one who makes your heart pound through your neck; one whose eyes you simply cannot part from, whose scent you long for and whose lips are comparable to mandarin roses; She?s one you love and hate for the same dumb reasons; he sat up and muttered a name, the same name, again and again quietly, the water of the tub could be heard sloshing against the thick porcelain; he chanted the name before letting go of his body, falling onto his back and causing waves of water to spurt onto the tile yes, he thought, a beautiful woman: how delicious an idea, how sweet a notion; a beautiful woman: a gift to this earth, a vessel to his heart.

14 | Ink In Thirds

M oth erl ess Song b y Toti O?Bri en

C old staircase filling emptiness shaping time into steps of stone.

Food in shiny deep bowls carved in mother of pearl.

Ancient shells, sounding seas.

Freedom seeds I crack under my teeth then thread in tight collars or long chains, hanging lose through the vacuum of my weightless fall.

I hear voices, lost waves echoed by the mountains mere remains of presence.

I bite morsels of bread gone stale. I swallow small crumbles while I climb (pausing briefly to inhale altitude).

15 | Ink In Thirds

p h oto by Worth y of El egance

Weak ness

by E. M arti n Pedersen My chick and I had a child And named it Silence It required no uneasy sex, Over the milk Not brought from the store That and all the rest Your thin long legs Now seem like brittle sticks Those I longed to press If I only had A new Gibson guitar My humiliation would pass Or the teenager At the donut shop In fiction she?s not innocent Until with her child She yells, ?Silence!?

And I hush myself up next I cannot win If this fate I possess Ending in a jumbled mess Of weakness.

17 | Ink In Thirds

Serv i tude b y Joseph A . Pi nto few are as faithful as you keeper of the flame you shield it from the furies the indiscretions of life nothing will dissuade you not even the truth that while your servitude goes unequaled eventually the fire you refuse to extinguish will burn you.

Descent I nto Ni gh t b y Heath Brough er

C andles burning dimmer, shadowflickers? a ghost alive? winter arrives, injecting the sky with grey apathy; bones commence their slow freeze?

I ramble about the world thinking maybe of dragons or lost love.

ph oto by Roman K raf t

Dayb reak f ast

by A dam Sch rum Sleep fled her, nude; Her hirsute suit, endowed in dawnlight?s flushglow hue, tuned its hex like a fipple flute warble, imbrued imbroglio in blue; Aurora roused; Warmed his hubris and debris, mixed sunup?s soupรงon twixt tip and thumb, conjured up a purple poised fruit, and found a plum aplomb.

We A re Th ose Tw o Sh i ps b y Sh i rl ey Jones-Luk e That pass in the night on rough seas, tossed to and fro in the cold air, further and further apart from each other, I can't see your sail or your distant bow break through the water, trapped by the current conditions of a love that has ended long before the storm blew it away.

19 | Ink In Thirds

Tol l b ooth M usi c b y Brett Th ompson Vietnam vets humming Huey Lewis and the News, and ancient ones, -sweat brimmed on the lips of stenciled KOREA capsworking the lines.

Plump homemakers too, laid off carpenters, Dominicans clad in American flag doo-rags.

Long nosed old biddies, balding college boys a former beauty queen with soft hands, breasts so full that her nipples leak out of her pink top when she leans over to make change.

Soft hands, Everyone loves soft hands.

Ph oto by M arybeth Coh ow i cz DeYoung

Unreq ui ted Lov e b y Natal i e Cri ck

M y kiss has slipped off Like a dress.

It unpeels itself, a gift.

Trees unfurl their branches, Limbs of whores Stumbling in the wind.

I long For you, My tongue back in my mouth A restless bird, Love running, Freezing to ice on the lake Only to be washed away When the sun sinks to a whisper Drowning in white rain.

21 | Ink In Thirds

2016 b y A sh l ey Gardana

M y love awoke in a country she did not understand, a trail of tears blurring her manifest destiny, drowning in a sea of pitchforks and blood red hats.

ph oto by Ti m Gerk en

A t th e Pari s Pi casso M useum b y Dani el Fi tzpatri ck white wall terror of the salt hotel in the toro?s eye astonished, I, at the boy, seven, ten, sketching, speaking recreating silence of the horns hot through summer shade white streets and gun oil alleyways camouflaged outside the salt the white on wood the seed moon shooting shining milk in scratch of vines stretch blood of berries in nude on white washed black burnt blue like fleurs fallen for the picador the eye isoscelized staring through shooting white wall wan with noon salt growing on

the kneaded eye

ph oto by M arybeth Coh ow i cz DeYoung

Bei ge Jesus

by A l Ortol ani

F rom where I?m sitting on the third floor, the white steeple of a church stands stark and cold against the blue sky. It is as severe as a spear, a white phallus. N othing warm or feminine about it. N o hand-hewn stone. N o greening vines. Traffic gleams in the afternoon, windshields, metallic paint, flashing chrome. All positioned within painted lines on polished black pavement. Even the children?s playground, carefully slanted behind the chain link fence, is regimented like a parade formation, swings, monkey bars in rows.

From my window the surrounding neighborhood stretches to the interstate, each rooftop the same brown, apex angled to apex, rising out of canyons of beige. the scent of turned fields? early spring in terra cotta pots

Qui et M adness

by Rose K etri ng Rock candy neon fingertips Tease and sway Sapient blue Lips Velvet cliff M y quiet madness

24 | Ink In Thirds

Th e Substance of Us

by Ch ri sti na Dal ch er If we were made of paper, we would fold ourselves together. Sometimes you would be the envelope, shielding my thin leaves from rain.

If we were cotton, we would be old and well loved singlets, covering each other?s core, close to the skin. We would be white and soft and warm. We would stretch.

If we were leather, our smooth surfaces would scratch with the nick of a careless fingernail, healing over in time, but still showing tiny scars. I would rub you with mink oil and soothe you.

If we were fruit, we would ripen, but not always at the same moment. One of us would be sweet while the other was still firm.

If we were sugar, we could change states, transforming from solid to liquid to solid, softening and hardening when we touched heat or cold.

If we were wool, I would knit myself into you in a fair isle of two colors, and if we unraveled, my darning needle would mend us back into a single piece.

If we were salt, our flavors would be deep and round and bold. We would bring undertones of raw ingredients to our surface and sprinkle each other with savoriness. We would never overpower.

If we were copper, we would shine for a while before aging into verdigris. We would always be beautiful.

If we were tin, we would seal ourselves in a vacuum, preserving our substance. No elements would touch us.

If we were steel, we would be love locks and spoons, wristwatches and ice skate blades. We would be a thousand things.

25 | Ink In Thirds

ph oto by M arybeth Coh ow i cz DeYoung

CONTRIBUTORS Denis Bell Denis Bell is a mathematics professor by day and a writer by night. He was born in London, England a while back and now makes his home in Jacksonville, Florida. His short fiction has appeared in many magazines, both online and print. http://www.unf.edu/~dbell

Heath Brougher Heath Brougher is the poetry editor of Five 2 One Magazine. He is a Best of the Net Nominee and has published 2 chapbooks, with another on its way ever since he decided to start submitting his "life's work" at the age of 34 (2 and a half years ago).

Susan Butler Writer. Artist. Curious lover of the arcane. Enjoys thunderstorms immensely.

Glows in the dark. Swings from stars. Treasures incredible tales. Very probably full of figs. http://susanbutler.webs.com/ @OuiSuzette

Natalie Crick Natalie Crick, from Newcastle in the UK, has found delight in writing all of her life and first began writing when she was a very young girl. Her poetry has been published or is forthcoming in a range of journals and magazines including: The Lake, Ink Sweat and Tears, Poetry Pacific, InterpretersHouse and Jet Fuel Review. Her work also features or is forthcoming in a number of anthologies, including Lehigh Valley Vanguard Collections13. This year her poem, 'Sunday School' was nominated for the Pushcart Prize.

Christina Dalcher Christina Dalcher weaves words and mixes morphemes from her home in the American South. Her short work appears in Bartleby Snopes, McSweeney?s, and New South Journal, among others. Find her at http://christinadalcher.com or @CVDalcher.

CB Droege CB Droege is an author and poet from the Queen City living in the Millionendorf. His influences include Philip K. Dick, Bill Bryson, Isaac Asimov, David Sedaris, and Roger Zelazny. His latest book is RapUnsEl and Other Stories.

He recently edited Starward Tales: An Anthology of Speculative Legends. http://cbdroege.com @cbdroege

K.EltinaĂŠ K.EltinaĂŠ is a Sudanese Poet of Nubian Descent. His poetry has appeared in The Ofi Press,PeekingCat Magazine, Poetic Diversity, Chanterelle?sNotebook, Poetry Pages: A Collection of Voicesfrom Around the World Volume IV. He currently resides in Granada, Spain where he is the editor of a poetry magazine 21.

Daniel Fitzpatrick Daniel Fitzpatrick lives in Hot Springs, AR, with his wife and daughter. The three enjoy micro-farming, Russian novels, and Dr. Seuss. Daniel's poems have appeared or are forthcoming in 2River View, PILGRIM, Eunoia Review, Embers Igniting, and Belle Reve.

Ashley Gardana Ashley Gardana is a DC based writer and advocate who spends her time working on flash fiction, poems and short stories. When she's not writing she's wrestling with her two Olde English Bulldogges, Bellatrix and Marvel. Her pieces have recently been published in Sleet Magazine and the Literative. You can find more of her work at http://asgardana.wordpress.com @Agardana09

Shirley Jones-Luke Shirley Jones-Luke is a poet and writer from Boston, Massachusetts. Ms. Luke holds an MFA from Emerson College. She was a 2016 The Watering Hole Fellow. Her work has appeared in ENUF, RaisingMothersand MassPoetry.

Rose Ketring Rose Ketring, a Seeker of Wisdom in Maryland, provides shelter to words and images that come bruised, ostracized and unfairly judged. Friend to ancient paper ink and blue acrylic paint. https://proudmommaofgirls.wordpress.com/

Scott Laudati Scott Laudati lives in Los Angeles. Visit him on Instagram @scottlaudati http://www.scottlaudati.com Twitter @scottlaudati

Emily Light Emily Light lives, writes, works, and runs in northern New Jersey.

Toti O?Brien Toti O?Brien?s work has appeared in Peacock Journal, Sein und Werden, Avis, and Ink In Thirds, among other journals and anthologies. http://totihan.net/writer.html

Al Ortolani Al Ortolani?s newest collection of poems, Paper BirdsDon?t Fly, was released in 2016 from New York Quarterly Books. His poetry and reviews have appeared in journals such as Rattle, Prairie Schooner, and New Letters. His poems have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, and he has recently been featured on Writer'sAlmanac. http://www.alortolani.com

E. Martin Pedersen E. Martin Pedersen, a San Franciscan, has lived in eastern Sicily for over 35 years. He teaches English at the local university. His poetry has appeared in Muddy River Poetry Review, Verse-Virtual, StarvingArtist, Literary Yard, and others.

Martin is a 2011 alum of the Squaw Valley Community of Writers. http://www.emartinpedersen.com @emartinpedersen

Kyle Perdue Kyle Perdue is a marine biology student at University of California, San Diego.

Reading and writing are some of his greatest passions, allowing him to escape from the boredoms of everyday life and (sometimes) create a fictional story. If at least one person can relate to, or enjoy his writing, he is satisfied.

Joseph A. Pinto Joseph A. Pinto?s unique voice has been showcased in a multitude of anthologies and magazines as well as individually published short stories. He is also the author of two published books. He is a member of the HWA, the co-founder of Pen of the Damned and calls New Jersey his home. http://josephpinto.wordpress.com @JosephAPinto

Lora Rivera Post-MFA, she worked as a literary agent, children's biographer, and crepe maker. Today, she develops online trainings for child welfare professionals and serves as Vice President of a climbing advocacy nonprofit. Her creative work has recently appeared in The VoicesProject, FLAPPERHOUSE, Chattahoochee Review, and Eastern Iowa Review.

Lindsey Rose Lindsey Rose is a previously unpublished writer of the dark, strange and personal life. Outside of writing she is a traveling Intensive Care Nurse and mom to a three-legged Mastiff. http://americandenial.wordpress.com @redelfrose

Catherine Roth Catherine Roth has been previously published in Full of Crow Quarterly Fiction, The WiFiles, and First Stop Fiction.

Adam Schrum Adam Schrum spends his time thinking in Rochester, Minnesota. His poems have recently appeared in Bindlestiff, Brain of Forgetting, Dirty Chai Magazine, FishFood Magazine, Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, Fox Cry Review, and translitmag.

Brett Thompson Brett Thompson has been writing poetry since his graduate days at the University of New Hampshire where he earned an M.A. in English Writing with a concentration in poetry. He has been published in various journals including Karamu, The Henniker Review, Barnstorm and forthcoming in the CharlesCarter, DistrictLit and Colbalt. He lives and teaches in Concord, New Hampshire with his wife and two daughters who both love owls and anything purple.

Gabby Vachon Gabby Vachon is a Montreal writer and artist Her work has been published in ANEB Quebec, AdiosBarbie, Bitch Magazine and many more. She is also prose editor for SoliloquiesAnthology. Her other passions include makeup artistry, corgis and entertaining her husband Justin with her dance moves. @gabbyvwrites

PHOTOGRAPHERS

Matt Adamik One Man Camera Band. A little bit of this and a little bit of that, capturing a moment at a time. He sees life through his lens. https://www.facebook.com/MattAdamikPhoto/ @mattadamikphoto

Marybeth Cohowicz DeYoung Marybeth Cohowicz DeYoung dabbles in photography with a passion for light and shadows, reflections, and sky. She continuously gets lost finding the extraordinary in the ordinary. https://www.facebook.com/CohoPhotoArt/ @madeofpoems

Tim Gerken Tim Gerken teaches writing at a small state college in the Leather Stocking region of NY. His work has been published in Mascular Magazine, Birds We Piled Loosely, Black Boot Literary Journal, The Drowning Gull Literary Magazine, Cahoodaloodaling Magazine, and Off the Coast Poetry Journal. http://www.timgerkenphotography.com

Amy Kotthaus Amy Kotthaus is a writer, translator, painter, and photographer. Her poetry has been published in Ink in Thirds, Yellow Chair Review, and Section 8. Her photography has been published in Storm Cellar, Ground Fresh Thursday, Crab Fat Magazine, Quantum Fairy Tales, Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, and Digging Through the Fat. @amy_kotthaus

CC PHOTOGRAPHS

Alejandro Alvarez https://unsplash.com/@a2foto Jason Briscoe https://unsplash.com/@jbriscoe Roman Kraft https://unsplash.com/@romankraft Worthy of Elegance https://unsplash.com/@worthyofelegance

Cover by Matt Adamik