February, 2015
Issue 1
executive editor r.l. black
Š 2015, unbroken/Contributing Authors Photo used in cover creation by David Masters, CC License Font used in cover creation, inside banner, and author titles by John Holmdahl
Contributing Authors C.C. Russell Dino Laserbeam Evan Guilford-Blake Eva Roa White Howie Good J. Lewis Katherine Steinemann Kelsey Dean Lia Swope Mitchell Michael Prihoda Nolan Liebert Ron Russman Russ Bickerstaff
The Petals by Nolan Liebert
The petals were on the ground tonight, under the trees and the darkness pressing them into sidewalk art. You used to wear them, apple blossoms braided through your hair, flowing in the wind as blood through a heart. The petals used to fall under your bare feet, and you talked of pressing them in books or under heels at a wedding. But tonight, they lay still on the ground – they aren’t the same without you.
Nolan Liebert hails from the Black Hills of South Dakota where he lives with his wife and children in a house that is not a covered wagon. His work has appeared in or is forthcoming from Gone Lawn, ExFic, Map Literary, An Alphabet of Embers, and other publications. He can be found on Twitter @nliebert.
Photo by the awesome Craig Sunter, used by permission.
des
by Dino Laserbeam
It's not the drugs—we all know I've used before, in more ways than one—and it ain't the sickness either—I can't even remember the last time I was well. No, it's me. There's something wrong inside of me. Deep down inside where no one wants to look. In that dark place, that black, twisted, wrong place. That place most people hide away. I think that's where I live—where I come from and where I go. Maybe that's why momma named me Des. It stands for Desdemona and she said she picked it because it sounded pretty but I looked it up one day and it means misery. It's a dark name for a dark girl and a dark place where I live. So don't blame the drugs. Don't blame the disease. Don't even try to blame momma. It's me. Desdemona means evil and misery and me.
Dino Laserbeam runs freeze frame fiction, a quarterly flash fiction publication—or an excuse to boss writers around. An engineer by trade, Dino can typically be found staring at blank pages, hoping for bizarre stories to appear. Find out more at http://dinolaserbeam.wordpress.com. Photo by Edward Zulawski, CC License
Monster in the Corner by Kathy Steinemann
You gasp and squeeze your eyes shut when you see it crouching in the corner. You hope you’re wrong. You wait … until your pulse stops galloping and your breathing settles. Then you open one eye. It’s still there! You back away, beads of anxious sweat transforming into rivulets of terror on your brow. The evil behemoth watches you, following your every movement. It flexes its mandibles. It clambers closer. You envision it wrapping you in its hairy limbs, then swallowing you whole—while you scream, trying to claw your way out from its insides. It’s huge. Gargantuan. Dangerous. You know it’ll wait, watching, while it plans a sneak attack. It’ll ambush you or kill you in your sleep. You call your wife, your voice a thin plea in the foyer. You’re not a murderer. But she is. She laughs as she appears in her flannelette nightgown and sweeps the monster out the door into the frosty night. She apologizes to it. “I’m sorry, little spider.”
Kathy Steinemann has loved writing for as long as she can remember. As a child, she scribbled poems and stories. During the progression of her love affair with words, she won multiple public-speaking and writing awards. Her career has taken varying directions, including positions as editor of a small-town paper, computer-network administrator, and webmaster. She’s a self-published author who tries to write something every day. Please visit her at KathySteinemann.com.
Photo by the awesome Craig Sunter, used by permission.
by Ron Russman
The waters running so swift through this wheel are older than the mountains whose pebbles they steal. They dance on the paddles fly through the spokes laugh down the millrace, tell paddle wheel jokes. In the valley where the water must go the river is deeper and the currents are slow. The moon and the stars far out in the night send all of their beams at the great speed of light. Like old friends the ripples caress, reflect them and send them away. Then softly slowly sliding down to the sea, ride the wind to the clouds and fall back to me. Drops on the blossom Vaunting thunder in the sky They live for the rain
Ron Russman started his professional career as a mechanic on submarines during the Vietnam war. An avid fan of literature, he started writing in earnest while completing his BA L. S. at Neumann University in 2013. When not writing he spends his time searching the New Mexico desert for treasure.
Photo by Alchemical
HYPOTHERMIA by Lia Swope Mitchell
Cotton kills, that’s what they say. Imagine it: you’re in the forest, trudging along what might be a path, who knows if it’s the right path. If it leads anywhere. And the sun is going down. You can’t see the sun, but the light’s diminishing so you know it was there, at least for a while, some weak comfort. Soon you’ll be not only lost but stuck. Soon there’ll be no light: only snow without shelter, night without stars, and nobody for miles who could answer a call. So you go faster along this maybe-path, hoping to get somewhere recognizable, where some human might find you. When you start to hurry you start to sweat, and sweat soaks into your undershirt, into the long underwear you wore just in case, and presses against your skin like clammy mortician's fingers. You feel heavier, stupider. You think about sitting down, closing your eyes. Just for a second, then you’ll go on. And this is how you die: on the ground with your back against a tree, the snow falling in wet layers, crystals on your eyelashes, in your hair. Everything slows. The earth’s revolution drags you toward the center. The sun goes out. The tree won’t remember you. The sky won’t remember you.
Lia Swope Mitchell is a PhD candidate in French literature at the University of Minnesota in Minneapolis. She writes fiction in bursts of joyful procrastination. Photo by fishhawk, used by permission.
The Heart of It by Howie Good
Your eyes were sometimes blue, sometimes green with flecks of gold, all the things, beautiful things, I was instructed from early in life never to do. We found a high window filled day and night with the restless rustle of rain and laid down under it and moved slowly, so slowly that by morning we had rubbed each other smooth. And when we rose up, there were more flowers than numbers and letters, and though the sky pulsed like an old bruise, no matter where or even how far we went we would always be home.
Howie Good's poetry collections include The Complete Absence of Twilight from MadHat Press and Fugitive Pieces from Right Hand Pointing Press.
Photo by MaloMalVerde, CC License
Devotional by j. lewis
Medicine man sits motionless, watches quietly, patiently over stretches of sand and sage that seem to know nothing finite in distance or in time. Sand and sage do not age, only shift in the night, uneasy at the howl of wolf-man, the hiss of relentless wind that pushes red sand-powder through cracks real or imagined in every house and hogan. They were here, he softly chants, here when the first dineh, my people, crawled from the belly of the earth and learned which plants are best for food and which to wear to keep the evil one away when night is deep and sister moon is hiding. So very long ago, sand was already here. It has soaked into our bones, he sings. We are as red as the sand inside and out. We are part of earth mother; she is part of us. Gray sage was her enduring sacred gift, offered in this desert of sand, a healing plant coyote taught our fathers to dry, to boil, to drink against the bitterness of life. He opens a leather pouch, offers a sprinkle of corn meal and ground sage to earth, and wind, and sky in turn, then stands and walks away. The small marks that show where he squatted in the brush fill quickly in with sand.
j. lewis is an internationally published poet, musician, and nurse practitioner. His poetry and music reflect the complexity of human interactions, sometimes drawing inspiration from his experience in healthcare. When he is not otherwise occupied, he is often on a kayak, exploring and photographing the waterways near his home in California.
Photo by Massimo Margagnoni, CC License
KONA by Kelsey Dean
With my long, tangled hair and fondness for cold water, I once thought my lungs were the only thing holding me back from being a mermaid. My summers were spent on the shores of the Great Lakes, basking on golden sand dunes and smooth stones, diving into crystal clear water made of a thousand shades of blue. When I was ten and found the ocean at my feet, I was surprised by the panic that rose in my throat. The writhing water pulled at my ankles with a ferocity I had never known, tasting me, ready to reel me in like a fisherman with a mackerel on his line. The ravenous monster before me was a far cry from my familiar lakes filled with sweet water and dancing sunlight. As the waves licked my shins, I remembered how the Pacific undertow had swallowed my classmate’s father just the year before. I wanted so badly to see the sunken treasures the ocean held in its belly—but I was afraid that it would eat me, too. foaming tongues flick empty seashells at the shore
Kelsey Dean spends most of her spare time stringing words together and training her hands to draw the pictures in her head. Her writing and/or artwork can be found in several publications, including 3Elements Review, Glint Literary Journal, Neutrons Protons, and Arsenic Lobster. You can view her artwork here, and you can read more about her in this Artist Spotlight.
Photo by Aimanness Photography, CC License
sea:shore by Evan Guilford-Blake
... In the childhood of time, they lived their separate lives, the sea, damp and cool, and the land, dry and warm; and they loved each other in silence. And once, in the moonlight, the sea cradled the waves, and rocked them gently to shore, whispering: “There are secrets”; and the shore replied: I know them all. Thus the night passed; and in the morning’s light the shore held to its breast the risen tide and said to it “You may go; but always, always, you must take me with you, and we shall, in time, become as the day and the night, forever changing, forever becoming one.” Thus, by the sun, did the tide go out, carrying with it grains of sand, and laid them, softly, to rest (as lovers shall) beneath its rising and falling; by the moon, the tide returned to caress again the shore’s sweeping body and, lapping gently, drew to its coolness the warmth of the heated land; until, at last, time became old and the sea and the shore became one.
Evan Guilford-Blake writes poetry, prose and plays for adults and children. His work has appeared in some 45 print and online journals, and several anthologies, winning 21 awards. He has pieces in forthcoming issues of Dink Mag and RAPoetics, and the Haiku anthology Centipede. Noir(ish), his first novel, was published by Penguin. Holland House recently issued his short story collection American Blues. His plays have been produced internationally. Thirty-one are published. He and his wife (and inspiration) Roxanna, a healthcare writer and jewelry designer, live in the southeastern US.
Photo by Felicia_fl, CC License
RIDING YOUR ECHO by C.C. Russell
It is also important to note the geometry of sound waves, this visual music shimmering above the asphalt. The woman in the black, black car cruises by, opening and forming her mouth to the shapes of the radio. Her lips are pencil thin – pink, yet severe. You notice her for this one long moment. She is a series of lines some would call genius. Others, messy design. Her head bobs to the listless sound once, twice, and she is past you, lost to momentum.
C.C. Russell currently lives in Wyoming with his wife, daughter, and two cats. He holds a BA in English from the University of Wyoming and has held jobs in a wide range of vocations. His poetry has appeared in the New York Quarterly, Rattle, and Whiskey Island among others. His short fiction has appeared in The Meadow, Kysoflash.com, and MicrofictionMondayMagazine.com, and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and for inclusion in The Best Small Fictions. Photo by the awesome Craig Sunter, used by permission.
January by Eva Roa White
It’s been days of subzero weather and news of friends with relatives who are sick. News of the world suffering and tearing itself apart. Only a few images of butterflies and flowers to help tip the scales. But it’s snowing in Florida and the sky has painted itself with a grey permanent marker. And it seems that the sun has disowned us, though it peeks down for minutes at a time in the middle of our forlorn days, as if to let us know that maybe all will be forgiven. But it does not tell us how or when.
Eva Roa White was born in A Coruña, Spain and raised in Lausanne, Switzerland. She has lived in several countries including Saudi Arabia. She is at work on a memoir. Her fiction and non-fiction have been published in Page 47 Online Anthology, Transnational Literature, disClosure, Natural Bridge, Marco Polo, Buhito Press, and The Common.
Photo Shawn Carpenter, CC License
by Michael Prihoda
Our faces in proximity. And we thought, as we installed new hardware on the cabinets, just having finished a paint job, white to match the translucent green backdrop (speckled with flecks of grey, tones of heather, very earthen yet modern qua industrial in that way, somehow, we both appreciated yet couldn’t put words to), about the way maybe a hospital room and new screaming life might inform our future and even this kitchen to the tiniest extent but for now, wielding a power drill, nervous to get something wrong, I asked you, “does it look straight?”
Michael Prihoda is a poet and artist living in the Midwest. He is founding editor of After the Pause and his work can be found in various journals in print and around the web. He loves llamas and the moments life makes him smile.
Photo by Swift Photography Company, CC License
Arc’s Journey by Russ Bickerstaff Arc awoke from dreams of being a cube in cold storage. He would soon forget those dreams as he was greeted by the only sight he would ever seem to remember: the inside of his cell. Arc rubbed his eyes and tried his best to muddle through the motions of waking-up. Arc was horrible at waking-up. He never felt as though he had ever gotten it right. He always felt as though he was doing a bad job of it, which made him self-conscious of the whole process and, by extension, nervous about the whole day that followed. Arc was stretching awkwardly and hobbling around the padded floor of his cold 8 foot by 8 foot by 8 foot cell cube. He had gotten up from a white bed onto a white floor which was bordered by white walls beneath a white ceiling. There were no windows. The only light came in through a skylight that let him know the time of day. This was the way it had been for longer than Arc could seem to want to remember. The days and nights ticked away in the delicately ambivalent respiration of time. Then the door opened. Arc walked out the door and into a hallway the led through a series of other solitary cells. Little panels on the doors could be pulled back to reveal cells identical to the one Arc had just left containing people who seemed to be having some difficulty waking-up. He heard footsteps and bolted into a rigid posture as a couple of guards led another person into the cell Arc had just gotten out of. He stood there feeling very lost until one of the guards pointed to a sign that indicated where the cafeteria was. Suddenly he felt quite hungry. Arc walked out into the cafeteria and got lunch. It was nice to be able to stand in line and pick it up himself rather than waiting around for it to be brought to him. It was a very novel experience. Arc seated himself next to a few others and they began to have a conversation about nothing in particular. It was mindless small talk about dreams, but it was nice to have some contact. Arc hadn’t had contact with another person in longer than he cared to think about. Within a few anxious respirations, he began to actually laugh. After eating, Arc and a few of the others went out to the courtyard to get a little bit of exercise in. There was fresh air and clouds with just a hint of sun. Finally there was an opportunity to get the heart rate up. He took deep breaths and gradually became fatigued enough to follow a few others into a spacious cell with a few bunks that they could crash on. The days had begun to pass in this manner. A dreamy sleep would become a slow fumbling into consciousness. Consciousness would be haphazardly thrown-on in the morning. Then there was lunch in the cafeteria and an afternoon in the courtyard before an evening in a cell with a few others that would collapse into dream. One day in the courtyard, one of the people in the prison had fallen to the ground flailing. Arc watched as a group of people in white came to aid him. They saved his life. Arc asked the guards about the ones in white. His questions eventually led him to a class that took place in the afternoons not far from the cafeteria. Arc began to learn how to help people who might be dying. After many, many days of wearing white and saving more than a few lives, Arc began to be escorted out to classrooms beyond the complex to teach what he had learned to other people who weren’t wearing jumpsuits like everyone else in the prison. In time, Arc too would shed his jumpsuit and begin to walk through corridors much bigger than the ones he had known when he had worn a jumpsuit. The corridors had no ceiling and few walls except when Arc had elected to
go inside. He had access to many more cafeterias, some of which had tablecloths and required a uniform with a jacket and tie that Arc had a great deal of difficulty affording. Arc was moved to purchase the uniform for the best cafeteria he could find as he had saved the life of a woman outside who he had later talked to on several occasions. He felt drawn to her in many ways and she seemed to be drawn to him as well. The two had dinner, a movie, a series of such activities and a wedding. They lived together with each other for a bit before being joined by a couple of children that were theirs. Arc and his wife raised the children from birth to adulthood and found themselves alone in a large set of rooms in a structure that felt quite far from where it was that Arc had learned to save lives. He still saved lives, but he was beginning to move much more slowly now. After a vacation and a couple of trips to the infirmary, Arc’s wife vanished into memory and he was sleeping alone again. Arc sighed. Although he had slowed-down, he was still saving lives. After his wife had vanished into memory, the activity of life-saving felt empty and hollow and he soon stopped doing it altogether. Arc’s children visited to watch his wife vanish into memory and would visit on regular occasions thereafter, but Arc had come to be very alone. Arc began to sleep more and more frequently. He began to have more and more dreams. The dreams began to get more and more vivid. He even started to remember the dreams in some detail. They were cold dreams. They were cold and angular dreams with every side being exactly as long as every other side. Arc was having dreams of being a cube in cold storage.
Russ Bickerstaff is a professional theatre critic and aspiring author living in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, with his wife and two daughters. His short fictions have appeared in Hypertext Magazine, Pulp Metal Magazine, Sein und Werden, and Beyond Imagination, among other places. His Internarrational Where Port can be found at: http://ru3935.wix.com/russbickerstaff.
Photo by the awesome Craig Sunter, used by permission.
Thank you for reading our Inaugural Issue of Unbroken, February, 2015. Our March/April issue will be released March, 1, 2015.