Krista Allen
Xandra Bonanca
Anne T. Converse
Midori Evans
Jackson Gillman
Patricia Gomes
Lars Ingerslev
Kathryn Hamilton
Juliet O’Donnell
Honestly, I wasn ’t sure.
Last spring, when email subscribers chose “Sweet and Sour” for a future Sippizine theme, my first thought was Chinese food Time to think some more
Think like the twelve creatives whose poetry, prose and photography take us along the sweet and sour of South Coast life. Go ahead, dig in! Nibble a poem, dip into prose, and feast on the rollercoaster of life
Thanks to grants from the Marion and New Bedford Cultural Councils, Sippizine feels the first pull of a rollercoaster slow and thrilling, full of curiosity and anticipation. Their funding helped fuel four issues of this literary frolic Reaching the crest of this ride, the future of Sippizine depends on its community.
That means you–the readers, the writers, the artists, the dreamers.
Join the rollercoaster ride so that Sippizine brings creative voices to light:
Become a Patron: Join us on Patreon for behind-the-scenes content, exclusive updates, and a direct hand in shaping Sippizine’ s future.
Purchase a print copy: Collect our print editions, perfect for your shelf or as a gift. Send a Tip: Every bit helps us cover costs and keep rolling.
Your contribution, big or small, helps Sippizine roll into the next literary frolic.
Writing prompt sessions continue this summer, so check the website or join the email list to find out where and when.
Here we go,
Alanna Nelson Editor & Publisher
Trusting babies with mouths eagerly agape gum down on the mushy offering Instantly, each one becomes BUG-EYED!!! What is this vile slurry??? Mouths reopen and bibs are Jackson Pollock-ed in green
Yet, a few taste testers can be seen gradually re-evaluating Quizzical avocado lovers of tomorrow?
As a young boy, I remember my older sister raving about avocados. I tried one. I remember thinking — is this a joke? What was to like? Similarly after my first swig of beer why do people pretend this swill tastes good?
Like many things in life, one cultivates a taste for things initially abhorrent.
Now would you please pass me the guacamole and another beer?
The waning years ahead, I find Are treasured all the more When looking back, remembering The times that came before.
Dreams were lost And dreams, fulfilled, My heart got broken My tears were spilled.
Then came the morn When robins sing Heralding the hope of Spring.
I close my eyes And very clear Shrieks of laughter Pierce my ear.
Of children splashing In the sea, Frolicking freely And filled with glee.
My mind’ s eye wonders To the days When leaves turned golden Through Autumn haze.
Then sparkling lights And snowy eves The scent of pine On Christmas trees.
The cycle of life As it should be Both bitter and sweet In my memory.
“
y feet a re wet, ” compla ined Michael. “ Don ’ t worry, ” sa id his
mother, “they’ll soon be dry.”
They were carefully climbing up a steep wooden staircase into a very small round room. Michael heard a faint noise and looked up at the thick wooden beam that spanned across to the middle of the room. He noticed that the beam was turning, but ever so slowly. One end came into the room through a small hole in the wall. As Michael followed the line of the beam across the room, he began to stare at the big wooden teeth on the vertical sprocket wheel at the other end of the beam. As each tooth came down, it meshed ever so neatly with similar teeth on another sprocket wheel mounted horizontally on top of a post going down through the floor.
As they made their way down the staircase again, Michael noticed the smell and the dust around the room below. It was a warm and pleasant smell that he was unused to. Now that he was used to the dark interior, he noticed the big stone wheel at the bottom of the post that he had seen upstairs. The noise of heavy rain had eased off a bit now, so that he could hear the faint sound of the wheel grating as it turned. As he approached nearer to the wheel, the smell grew stronger and he saw that big sacks were being filled around the wheel.
“Come on, Michael, we have to leave now, ” said his mother. “The rain has stopped.”
Avoiding the puddles on the way, they had to hurry up a little to join the rest of the tourist group that had already left the old corn windmill in Kinderdijk village in South Holland.
by Krista Allen e x t
The teacher stood outside Nikki ’ s fifth grade classroom. Despite
matte brown eyes and a military posture, her expression looked slumped. Dejected. Defeated. She stared at a piece of paper pinned beside the door. Nikki and all affected families had already received the message the night before via WinkLink.
Dear Students of Teacher 271’ s class –
Beginning on 5 January, 2060, this teacher will be retired. An updated model with an Empathy-class processor and a curriculum tailored to the objectives of the newly elected administration will replace this unit. Please proceed inside the classroom for a retinal scan.
Thank you for your cooperation.
Sincerely,
Oak Tree Pedagogy
“Your New Education Awaits”
Nikki sighed and shook her head, giving Toosie a pat on her ceramsteel back.
“Where will you go?” she asked.
“I do not know,” Toosie replied, a sour expression clouding facial features designed to appear universally agreeable.
“I will report back to my manufacturer.”
“I’ ve heard some teachers are reassigned to countries with fewer resources. ”
“She’ll be lucky if she’ s not deactivated or sent to work in recycling,” another student commented, arriving for class.
“He may be correct,” the teacher droned.
“Sweet!” the student exclaimed, pausing in the doorway to admire the new teacher.
“Look at her torso! And she comes with clothes! So realistic!”
Nikki scrutinized Teacher 271’ s body, which suddenly appeared outdated.
“I’ll miss you, Toosie.”
“Thank you, Nikki,” she answered.
“I will remember your kindness and your talent for linear algebra.”
“Send us a message so we know where you get reassigned. If you can. ”
Nikki tried to smile, but it felt strange. Toosie was only an AI after all. Her feelings weren ’t real.
“I hope you achieve happiness and purpose, as I experienced here as your teacher.”
Nikki took a last look into the lifeless eyes of her former teacher, and entered the classroom. 5
Photograph by Anne T. Converse t
by Anne T. Converset
Others might see only dreary bleakness
In the dark day, grey clouds and rotting hulk
The once tight ship looks like she is drowning
And there is no one coming to help her Or even coming to bury her afterwards
But I see something else; huge – a behemoth A Monster of ship at the end of her life
I wonder what memories and secrets it has, What ghosts that haunt the sinking wooden hull, And empty, with ghost stories it longs to tell?
There is something still so proud about her Maybe it makes me thing of a woman like me Someone who has lived such a hard life fighting And still looks that proud now – being eroded Sand and sea, her elements; now her enemies
By the Goddess does not this seem to say, Does not this dying wreck seem to shout “I will fight you for every splinter!” Proudly Standing tall against a cruel world in strength Holding against waves that would beat her down!
The perfect lemonade is hard to make, largely because the "perfect" lemonade is
extremely subjective. The ingredients are basic- water, lemon, sugar- which leaves a lot of room for error, and not a lot for success.
I personally have struck out many times in trying to master the quintissential drink of the summer. It needs to be cool, refreshing, but not cold or frozen; this is lemonade, not frozen lemonade, or shaved ice. It needs to be smooth and crisp; any and all pulp needs to be strained out, and the sugar fully dissolved into filtered water. Appropriately citrusy, with present lemon flavor, but not too sour. Sweet, but not cloying; hydrating, but not watery.
I find my lemonade always makes my lover's mouth pucker. My hands always slip as I crush the lemons, dropping into the glass seeds, pulp, rind; and the sugar always sits like sand at the bottom, ready to coat their tongue in crystals, the acrid tang burning the soft tissue of their mouth. I make it tart; I leave their throat dry, hoping desperately that they will keep drinking- that they will suck it all down, drain every last drop- because that sip was caustic, but the next might not be- until the glass is empty, and I have satisfied their thirst.
Adding water in an attempt to balance it out, I dilute it down to nothing; reduced to a hint of lemon, a trace of fluoride, a vague concept of self. And when they press me to let them help, they squeeze out more, dimpled flesh bursting in their grip, leaving their hands sticky, their split knuckles stinging, their work-tired muscles aching. The smell lingers on their nails, the bright punch of yellow a reflection of everything they like, and everything I'm incapable of providing.
I can't help but make it sour- I don't know how to make it sweet. I don't know how to be “just right," and every attempt creates something else, something different, and wrong.
So I ripen the fruit. I filter the water. I squeeze out the juice, and I strain out every imperfection. I chill it for exactly so many hours, and I don't use ice. I add honey, for depth, instead of sugar. I add strawberries, because maybe if it's more than just lemonade, more than just three simple ingredients, more than just my time, effort, and affection, it will be just right. I stir until everything is fully integrated. And I add a sprig of mint, to complement my eyes.
7,000,000,000 people in the US of A have a low-level phobia about public toilets. (Don't quote me on that number I'm not a statistician.) But as restrooms go, I make it a point to use the stalls just now vacated by nice French-Canadian / Franco-American ladies with freshly permed pillow-white hair, shiny clutch purses, and brightly painted plastic ball earrings. Clips, not pierced. I love those ladies, having been raised by a school of them. Ma tante each bore Canada mints and a loving pat on the hand. In their hey-day, rouged and bejeweled, powdered and perfumed, (Charisma by Avon) they played Big Whist on Saturday nights down at the VFW. They danced blushingly between hands, all a-giggle, as if they'd gotten away with something sinful mere hours before Mass. Where was I? Oh, yes
I will use those still warm stalls because I know before I so much as peek in that there won't be any surprises left behind, not a drip drop on the seat, no hairs not so much as an eyelash in the sink. They are fastidious, God love them, those nice French-Canadian / Franco-American ladies.
SIPPIZINE VOL 5
photograph. A moment captured in time forever. A memory that may have
been forgotten, if not for the photograph. As Theodor Geisel, a.k.a. Dr. Seuss once said, “Sometimes you will never know the value of a moment until it becomes a memory. ”
As I stand in the doorway of my life, about to step forward into a new chapter on my life’ s journey, with the last of my three children leaving for college in the fall, I find myself ruminating.
Recently I was browsing through old photo albums of my children when they were younger, reminding me of how fleeting time is. Photographs help you remember. It’ s fun reminiscing, but it’ s also nostalgic for time lost. It almost feels like grief, a sadness for the loss of my children’ s childhoods. I once read that motherhood is full of griefs: when your daughter outgrows her Barbie Dolls or no longer wants to play dress up with you, or when your son would rather hang with his friends, or when they no longer run with excitement when you arrive home. Or lately, when you walk by their closed bedroom doors, the silence deafening since they left for college.
But for me, motherhood has always been about love and joy. From the day they are born to the day they leave home, it is a journey full of precious moments, good and bad.
Moments filled with giggles and hugs, wonder and amazement. But also moments of tears and heartache, failures and setbacks. These moments become memories that bind us together. Our shared successes and failures are what connect us for life, a familial love.
Looking at the old photos of my husband and I sharing our life together, creating our unique and wonderful family, I feel grateful and blessed. Each page is a time travel of memories: vacationing in the Adirondack Mountains, visiting the grandparents in Florida, the anticipation and excitement of Christmas mornings, and the cherished photos with lost loved ones.
As a stay-at-home parent I devoted my life to my family. I adored raising our three extraordinary children. Watching them grow into kind, caring, responsible adults continues to fill my heart with pride and happiness. I would not change a thing.
In anticipation of becoming an empty nester in a few months, I find myself searching for new doors to open. I need to find a new purpose. But that is a journey for another day. For now I will enjoy looking at old photographs and reminiscing. Again, as the wise Dr. Seuss said, “Don’t cry because it’ s over, smile because it happened.”
Krista Allen Is an author and artist living in Westport, MA. @veganaf
Xandra Bonanca Is a writer, artist, makeup artist, and landscaper, who was born in Fall River, raised in Taunton, and is currently neck-deep in writing a novel and creating art to go along with it.
Anne T. Converse Is a freelance documentary photographer whose work reflects her love for horses, wooden boats, people and places. Anne's travels have taken her around the world. Her images in Wood, Wind and Water: A Story of the Opera House Race of Nantucket are a collector’ s gem annetconverse com/the-book
Midori Evans A photographer and creative coach, Midori’ s practice concentrates on exploring the hidden. Find her work at cedarlightimages.com and Midori Creativity. Look for the upcoming release of Waterscapes: A SouthCoast Anthology for more of her work
Jackson Gillman Is a wordsmith, songsmith and movement artist, performing throughout the country as the Stand-Up Chameleon. He was inducted into the National Storytelling Network's Circle of Excellence and received their Oracle Award in 2020 He has taught college storytelling courses, offers a workshops, and private coaching. jacksongillman.com, and on YouTube.
Patricia Gomes Poet Laureate of New Bedford, Massachusetts from 2014 to 2021, author and playwright Patricia is published in numerous literary journals and anthologies. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee (2008, 2018, and 2021) and 5-time Rhysling Science Fiction Award nominee. Recent publications include Poem Alone, Horror Writers Poetry Showcase X, Potter’ s Field 8, Pink Panther, and the anthology, The Lycanthropicon In 2023, her play Coffee, Eclairs, and the Conflict of Free Will was produced and performed by Culture Park Theater.
Lars Ingerslev Is a retired much-travelled civil engineer involved in his community He enjoys rowing crew, skiing and sailing, and is writing his memoir.
Kathryn Hamilton
Lives in New Bedford MA, near the University of Massachusetts, Dartmouth, where she was educated Her father was the Head of Shipping at the Museum of Fine Arts Boston (MFA) in her youth. “Katie,” grew up in the basement of the MFA playing among the history and artifacts.
Juliet O’Donnell Originally from upstate New York, Juliet, her husband and three children have called Mattapoisett home for the past ten years. She has been a stay-at-home mom who is about to embark on a new chapter of her life as an empty nester
Meredith Race
Dawn Blake Souza
Born in Wareham. Raised in Marion. Resides in Mattapoisett.
Born and raised in New Bedford, Dawn raised a family and was a stay-at-home mom. She started college when her youngest entered kindergarten, receiving degrees from UMass Amherst and Harvard. Dawn authored five non-fiction books, including a children’ s book that was illustrated by her late husband She also explores primitive/folk art as a creative outlet
Lorene Sweeney Celebrates Spring with the wildlife that find their way to her gardens. It is her favorite time of the year to celebrate the renewal of life and the birth of her children.