Issue II Calling
Riveting Rants August 2021
from the editor's desk Riveting Rants is a literary magazine that aims to amplify the muffled voices of your innermost recesses. You listen to them intently, we ink them to permanence. With every issue, our fledgling lit mag grows stronger, every one of its pieces giving it greater purpose and driving it forth. We present to you proudly, the second issue of Riveting Rants - Calling.
- Sahitra Bhat (Founder, Editor-in-Chief), Vaidehi Sistla (Co-Founder, Editor)
Table of Contents
Poems
Contours - Karen Richard Between the Lines - Karen Richard One Summer’s Eve - Wil Michael Wrenn Tumbling through Time - Joan McNerny Soft Lines - James Roach Our Garage, Our Dagobah - Andre Peltier Colours of Love - MoonRayy In Search Of The Wondrous Whole Flop - Rusa Bhowmik Till Death do us Part - Nielina Babajee An Abandoned House - Karthik Keramalu A Tale Told by an Idiot - Emily Rose Neves Summer’s Infestation - Emily Rose Neves After Sunset - Sena Chang
Prose
Long Day’s Journey - E.F.S. Byrne The Most Beautiful Things could End Us Zach Murphy
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poetry
Contours Karen Richard
it was the way he painted her contours with a galaxy of stars to illuminate her smile that left them craving the agonisingly slow death of the sun where darkness could breathe them to life
Between the Lines Karen Richard
I am burying love between these few lines on pages of a book you will never read, hundreds of love notes addressed to you which I will never send because you believed love should be spoken, never composed yet you, you interrupted every word I said. even my pen fell silent tired of writing in braille for blind eyes which refused to feel. maybe one day you will find them and thumb your way through these tear-stained words, letting them seep, deep into your soul but by then I will be gone; I already am my pen frantically scrawling new chapters for someone who didn’t hesitate to read between the lines.
Karen Richards is a Tasmanian born and bred poet. She is the published author of ‘The Way My Words Fall’ and her second collection ‘Wrapped in Folds of Midnight’ will be released August 23rd. You can find more of her work at @kalou_poetry on Instagram.
One Summer’s Eve Wil Michael Wrenn
The cool of the twilight After hot summer’s day – The fever is broken, And the heat chased away. By wind in the hollows, By the breezes that play O’er treetops and hilltops Where the sun sinks away. The skyline is glowing, And the mist gathers ‘round. The dusk fills with music As the night sounds resound. The last light is fading; Now the night starts to fall. The moon will soon hover Like a big yellow ball. A coolness and calmness Mark the close of the day On one summer’s evening Dressed in splendid array.
Wil Michael Wrenn is a poet, songwriter, and musician. He has an MFA from Lindenwood University, USA, and is a songwriter/publisher member of ASCAP (American Society of Composers, Authors, and Publishers). He has published three books of poems -- Songs of Solitude; Seasons of a Sojourner; Enid Lake Mosaic, the latter two having been published by Silver Bow Publishing, British Columbia, Canada. His website can be found here.
Tumbling through Time Joan McNerny
as I lay thinking always remembering how this crapshoot of life crushed my dreams spinning
me into an unlikely comedy listening to a busy world trains, ships, planes, never ending hiss of cars revved up motorcycles loud televisions, shouts, radios, alarms, sirens shifting memories over in my mind trying to find some pattern finally night, long, deep and black covers me with blankets of forgetfulness
Joan McNerney’s poetry is found in many literary magazines such as Seven Circle Press, Dinner with the Muse, Poet Warriors, Blueline, and Halcyon Days. Four Bright Hills Press Anthologies, several Poppy Road Journals, and numerous Poets' Espresso Reviews have accepted her work. She has four Best of the Net nominations. Her latest titles are The Muse in Miniature and Love Poems for Michael both available on Amazon.com and Cyberwit.net.
Soft Lines James Roach
She uses pencil to underline the parts that move her, whether tragically, lovingly, or somewhere else entirely. Her lines are soft, near hidden. James Roach (he/him) attended the Iowa Young I use pen, Writers’ Studio when he was 18 which he will more permanent, brag about forever. He is most creative between a statement to what I love most the hours of up-too-late and is it even worth going to bed? The quiet mystery of the night has can’t be erased. With blue tabs, she marks parts of me,always inspired him. He dug up his midwest roots to live in Olympia, Wa., not too far from some of her, sleepy volcanoes and beaches to write home of us about. in this book, the only time we’ve ever met. I’m eager to skip over the lineless pages to find where she knows me best.
Our Garage, Our Dagobah Andre Peltier
In the summer of ’80, we were adding a garage to the side of our house. It was a wide, two-car deal with a fancy door and a stairway leading down to our basement. A few years later, I built a platform in the rafters, carpeted it with samples from a yard sale, created a ladder up the studs on the wailing western wall; it was our sanctuary. The early excavation made mounds of dirt which were perfect for Star Wars toys. We played in those piles and Luke was once again back on Dagobah.
He turned summersaults and balanced the rocks, crumbles of dirt really, as we lost hours upon hours. Luke carried Yoda on his shoulders as we carried our hopes for the future in our hearts, but Dagobah Luke was left out there and is, presumably still, buried in that foundation, buried with those days. Luke went the way of those hours, he went the way of those hopes. Later, on our raftered platform, when we thought of that back-yard Dagobah, we thought of those innocent years resisting the dark forces of the galaxy. Andre F. Peltier (he/him) is a Lecturer III at Eastern Michigan University where he teaches literature and writing. He lives in Ypsilanti, MI, with his wife and children. His poetry has recently appeared in various publications. In his free time, he obsesses over soccer and comic books. @aandrefpeltier
Colours Of Love MoonRayy
nervous whispers sucked mute into the wee hours of the night, I open the door to my Narnia and pull a body inside, sit him on my bed and ask, "what would you like tonight?" "Love," I get a hushed reply coupled with a nervous smile so I clasp a brown, ringed hand in mine the nails I paint pink aren't mine tonight. and a gasp sounds in wonder as the first drops of the thin, almost translucent liquid laps at pink cuticles thirsty, deprived. like a drop of water, clinging on to dry sand, like this was the moment it had been waiting for all this while, and,
continued...
Colours Of Love MoonRayy
the room erupts in a frenzy of squeals and giggles as we admire the embraces I paint onto his fingers pink blue and purple shades of myself love, love, and so much love; how do we contain it? it's spilling off his fingers and into my hands, seeping into my skin, painting a rainbow tan.
and we pretend to not see that large, white bottle of acetone that sits in my closet, glaring at the back of our heads as his battle against society, the triumph of an odyssey cements itself unto his nails and we ignore its sour stench of volatility that hangs heavy between us and turn deaf to the bitter promises of erasure it spits as us as his wet dreams dry on his nails, as a single drop falls on our hands and another from an eyelash hangs, we pretend my art and his liberation will survive to see the light of day will stun and dazzle and awe the world beyond my bedroom door, will live to be more than just closeted lore.
MoonRayy (she/her) is the pen to a 17 year old emerging creator based in South Asia. She is passionate about all forms of art, especially writing and drawing. She loves to experiment with her pieces and likes to explore human emotions and experiences through the medium of her work.
In Search Of The Wondrous Whole Lara Dolphin
we fools rush in traversing the sward trampling the pasture missing the trees for the forest. We miss the smalti gold leaf hand cut mounted on glass covered with crystal hand blown fused into pure reflection of light-in pursuit of imagery overlooking the art. We simply don’t see or taste as the case may be. Moving from the luminous to the ridiculous, our nine-year-old smelling curry, scurries through the kitchen through clouds of coriander, cumin and mustard onion, garlic and oil. Pinched nose, breathing through her mouth, she hurries from the house into the yard and the wider world where the numinous is laid bare in wildflowers and weeds.
Lara Dolphin is an attorney, nurse, wife and mom of four amazing kids; she is exhausted and elated most of the time.
Flop Rusa Bhowmik
Pleasurably guilty in nihilistic fault line– Naive shadow spots in the midst of sunshine. Unmoved, and awakened in crooked alignments of youth; Unconfirmed, shallow, and in debts of incongruous truth. Refused audaciously to wither within despite the flops, Burnt bridges, made peace in ridges of rooftops. The illness of mind wanted after every failure in strife, Finding another pit to unwind regardless of entire life. Rusa Bhowmik is a researcher by profession and resides in India. Her first two anthologies, 'Rookie's Poetry', and 'Chaos and Causality', represent a kaleidoscopic view of her teens and early twenties.
Till Death do us Part Nielina Babajee
oh, to grow old with you and be yours until god bids me. dying in your arms is a rebirth, an immortalisation of our love, proof that we indeed are soulmates. my fingers woven through yours, my head on your chest, our bodies against each other under a cocoon of blankets, of love where we wove precious silk, threads of tenderness strands of sincerity filaments of fondness. yet, I fear and dread. because eventually, for the silk to survive, the silkworm has to die.
Nielina Babajee is an aspiring author, and self-proclaimed bookworm. She is a student in the utopic island of Mauritius. She enjoys writing in her free time; it is an escapism from the maddening world, an opportunity to pour her heart out. She has never published her writings; this is the first step in what appears to be a lifelong — and hopefully, successful — journey.
An Abandoned House Karthik Keramalu
Apropos of love, I’m an abandoned house. Sure, there’s light in the hallway and a box of cookies in the kitchen cupboard, but it’s uninhabited as though the cops raided it and took away everything their hands could steal and their batons could destroy. There are burnt pictures of me in my graduation robe and dying azaleas in the backyard, each metamorphosing into the other, waiting for me to show up with a broom and a vase, but I’m an infidel now, Karthik Keramalu is an Indian film I am an infidel now, critic and writer. His works have been I can only listen… published in Film Companion, The I’m not allowed to speak. Hindu, Deccan Herald, The Quint, etc.
A Tale Told by an Idiot Emily Rose Neves
I could compose the symphony of my life, or illustrate the masterpiece of my vitality. I could create an equation that equals me, or tell you of my atoms that will last for eternity. Sadly all I can do is describe these things, by hand, not word, an art far too advanced for me. You will be disappointed to learn that because while at least a picture is pleasing to the eyes, and music creates a beautiful sound math requires rigorous thinking and science is knowledge abound different languages show I live and they give some sort of evidence that I was here— words on a paper mean nothing when the writer knows how empty they are.
Summer’s Infestation Emily Rose Neves
The girl is not allowed outside on warm days. For the swarms of noise that gather in bunches run through the summer haze. In the night, during any clandestine night, the girl looks out a window. There are bugs, but they are quiet. Think about being young— you are given the opportunity to run, don’t you take it? Your window is open, won’t you jump? The girl, goes outside on a warm day. She is devoured. The Lesson: If you give a girl scissors, she will spend the rest of her life chasing red ribbons.
Emily Rose Neves is 22, and a graduate of Sarah Lawrence. She runs her own literary magazine called Nebulous, which is dedicated to dreams - you can see more here. She is also a computational artist, which you can see more of on her blog.
After Sunset Sena Chang
we crawl over the remnants of day, hands clumsily chasing out the very last crevices of sunlight. grazing our fingertips across the sun-flecked sky, we take the place of silver linings until they become shadowy grief—an ethereal sort of darkness. our work is done. the laws of physics nudge us gently and we fall from the sky to kiss the rain-sodden ground, lungs drinking petrichor for dinner.
Sena Chang (she/her) is a half-Korean, halfJapanese intersectional activist and poet residing in Japan. Aside from reading and writing, she enjoys admiring Hannah Arendt and searching for new types of dark chocolate in her free time. Her works have been published in Next Generation Politics, and Ayaskala Literary Magazine, amongst others, and she firmly believes in the inexplicable magic of words.
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prose
Long Day’s Journey E.F.S. Byrne
Sonia’s trainers scuffed along cracked paving stones as the school gate faded into a distant scream. She’d read that scientists didn’t really understand black holes. It wasn’t that complicated: all her boyfriends had disappeared down one, and no one ever missed them. She wondered what the big deal was with being perfect. She kicked a pebble at a looming rubbish bin. It missed but skipped down the street with a pleasing rattle. A cat screeched and ran off into a dark alley. She paused at the bus stop. She could walk, but desperately had to sit, her fifteen years winding her thoughts into a stone ball around her ankle. The hard, green plastic was pockmarked and wet, but she didn’t care; she let the cold, murky dampness seep through her jeans and poked long curly hair underneath her hood with a well-practised flick of irritated patience. A bus shuffled by, staining her shoes with a lash of rainwater that smelt like an open sewer. Diesel fumes bit the air as she clenched her teeth and shivered. Her fist crumpled another failed report. Maths pretty much a zero. They said she wasn't much good at numbers, or logic, or consequences, but she calculated she’d be grounded for at least another two weekends with those results. She let the paper slip down the drain and watched it grow soggy, curl sullenly, then stick to the dark grey grating. Her mother would be waiting, her food growing cold, her younger sister glowing in her absence. She fiddled with the wild strands of purple hair sticking to damp cheeks as busses wheezed past, one by one, sometimes in bundles of two or three. She stopped counting as evening deepened and a dark, wintry wind swept her out into the receding skyline. She’d read no one really knew how many stars there were, and how easy it was to be lost in space. It didn’t seem right that she was the only failure in the class. They weren’t looking carefully enough. She didn’t know how to tell them she knew all the answers; they just wouldn’t come out. She was like the scientists, probing in the dark, a star waiting to be identified, an asteroid tumbling earthwards. She stood up suddenly and looked down the street at the line of limp, yellow streetlamps flickering steadily into the distance. Her trainers caught in a crack, she slipped, her legs ached under her bag of schoolbooks, but she plodded on persistently. She counted out the lights as they passed overhead and waited for them to fade into the horizon and become stars. She would tick them off, one by one, until she lost herself in the sparkling melee of the night sky and slipped into a hole black enough to make her shine.
She wasn’t going home. Not tonight.
E. F. S. Byrne works in education and writes when his teenage kids allow it. He blogs a regular micro flash story. Links to this and over fifty published pieces can be found here. Follow him on Twitter @efsbyrne
The Most Beautiful Things could End Us Zach Murphy
My family has the luck of a penniless black cat at a high-stakes casino. When I was twelve, my mother, my father, and my older brother Jeffrey took a vacation to Hawaii. Jeffrey went surfing in the deep, blue ocean while I stayed ashore and observed jittery sand crabs as they popped in and out of the warm sand. I’ll never get the screams out of my head that I heard before I gazed out and saw the top of Jeffrey’s head and flailing arms sink into the water and never come back. When the paramedics recovered his body, his legs were painted with jellyfish stings. After my brother was gone, my dog Sylvia became my only friend. She slept soundly by my feet every single night, licked my face in the morning, and longingly waited by the front door each day for me to come home from my soul-crushing days of high school. One day, when I was walking her around the neighborhood, she chased a squirrel into a colorful flower bed and ate a chunk from a Lily of the Valley. She never did come back from that, and I still haven’t decided where to put her ashes. I truly admired the sun for a good portion of my existence. The sun makes the days brighter. The sun brings colors to life. The sun helps vegetables and fruits grow into their most nourishing forms. The sun also took my mother away. I still can’t comprehend how one tiny, unassuming mole could completely rob someone of their smile. My father had a midlife crisis before he hit midlife, and I didn’t blame him. I just wish his parachute would’ve worked properly when he went skydiving over the Poconos Mountains. People at his funeral would say “At least he died doing something he loved,” and I would think to myself, that makes it even worse. As for me, these days, I attempt to surround myself with the ugly things instead of the beautiful things. I just always worry that I’ll never be able to figure out the difference between them.
Zach Murphy is a Hawaii-born writer with a background in cinema. His stories appear in Reed Magazine, The Coachella Review, Maudlin House, B O D Y, Ruminate, Wilderness House Literary Review, Flash: The International Short-Short Story Magazine, and more. His debut chapbook Tiny Universes (Selcouth Station Press, 2021) is available in paperback and ebook. He lives with his wonderful wife Kelly in St. Paul, Minnesota.
Acknowledgements
Founder, Editor-in-chief: Sahitra Bhat Co-founder, Editor: Vaidehi Sistla Designer: Rithvik Nanda Writer: Vedant