Michael Conlon retired from teaching high school English in Southern California after 37 years. He is a published essayist and short story writer currently working on a novel about a father’s lengthy train trip to escape the pain of his son’s death.

Tracks

             Rich swayed gently, side to side.  He rested in the cushioned seat gazing out the window at silhouettes of distant dark hills drifting to the south.  He continued to roll over the tracks–“click-click, click-click.”  He was weightless, floating, tethered to earth by the slow sway, punctuated by “click-click.”

“Daddy?”

Click-click.

“Daddy!”

He opened his eyes and looked down at the window seat beside him, barely filled by his son, Danny, a little freckle-faced boy with wheat-shock hair shaped somewhere between a bowl cut and Bantu warrior, all strands radiating from the middle of his head.  Rich recalled his own hair being that blonde as a child, yet always in a butch or crew cut of varying lengths, depending on the time of year.  He never had such flowing, uniform locks, soft to the touch.

Danny continued looking up, the green cat eyes of his mother sparkling, his eyebrows and forehead squinched as always in a question mark, sorting through the playful puzzle of his life.  He could be strolling up and down the aisle, at ease talking to a stranger, or skipping in his size-three red sneakers and white socks nearly reaching his bare knees beneath the oversized blue shorts and red horizontally-striped t-shirt.  Instead, his tiny fingers scratched at Rich’s upturned palm lying across the gap between the seats where the armrest had long since been lifted.

“Daddy, what makes the clicking sound?”

Rich paused for a moment, then offered his best logic.

“It’s probably because when they laid down the rails for the train, they could only make them so long, so where one stops and another starts, there’s a teeny space where the wheels click.”

“But why does it go ‘click, click’ instead of just ‘click’ then?”

Rich paused.  He knew his answer didn’t have to be correct, but it had to be an honest attempt.

“Maybe it’s because we’re going so fast that the back wheels of the car in front of us and the front wheels of our car go over the spot right after each other.”

Danny weighed the possibilities.

“So, if we stood in the place between the cars that we walked through when we got dinner, the clicks might go together?”

“I suppose that could happen,” said Rich.

Danny started to scrunch forward on his seat, his shoes slowly descending to the carpeted floor.

“What are you doing, Danny?”

“I wanna go hear the click, Daddy.”

Rich knew it was perfectly safe, nowhere to fall off, or get lost or kidnapped, but still he didn’t want him out of sight, not now.  He felt Danny’s hand rap around his thumb for leverage down.

“Little boy, not yet. When we get up to brush our teeth in a little bit, we’ll listen for the one click together, okay?”

“Okay, Daddy, but when are we going to brush our teeth?” asked Danny.

“Not too long.  When that orange sky turns to purple, then to black, and we see the first star. You let me know when you see it, okay?”

“Okay,” Danny replied. He pressed his nose to the moist window, looking up into the darkening sky.

Rich laid his head back on the cushion and closed his eyes for a moment.  Slowly, the sway returned, back and forth, noticeable at first, then the rocking, click-click, rocking, click-click…

…something brushed his shoulder.  He opened his eyes to see the porter walking down the aisle, rechecking destination tags above the seats.  He looked down at the seat next to him.  It was empty.  He glanced right and thought he caught a glimpse of Danny in the window’s reflection, then he thought maybe he went between the cars without him.  Then he remembered that Danny was gone, gone for nearly three months.  Rich was back by himself, alone.  His eyes began to sting.  He turned his head and stared out into the darkness, waiting for a first star.

Click-click, click-click.

Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and dozens of other magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review as well as other publications.

At the speed of dreams

At the speed of light the message is clear
it needs not be seen of the most common eye
for the words to speak loudly through ages
without syllables, characters, periods or commas.

At the speed of sound, we hear naught in the storm
thunder shocks the waves of the music sheet
trembling the gentle voice dares not utter
its life, so young behind the clouds of eternity.

At the speed of days, we journey relentless;
stars, planets, comets continue their passionate chase
reflected in the puzzle of memories newly born
onto souls, canvases given to posterity.

At the speed of dreams, the dialogue is solid
realities struggle to assert a hopeless meaning
unable to access those certain realms beyond;
their history is a mountain built on silence.

At the speed of you, fleeting in the precious instant
disappearing rainbow of everything you are
the symphony is composed in this prodigious ballet;
time stands still under a new life of crystal light.

Berries and Pearl

The steps taken, each day, renewed,
necessary for the hours to be pure,
bearing a message, holding the treat,
seeking the same old recompense.

The warm welcome of old Arabica,
perhaps a message from cyberspace,
maybe yet just a word in passing,
meaning nothing, nothing more than
a greet, timid of the thought deeper.

The silhouette faces the glass to freedom,
he must not startle, has to announce
his soft coming, bearing truth on his hand.

It is first day, dawn so fresh, clear,
she deserves a kind reverence;
the salute of Lancelot to Guinevere,
she turns now and as always smile.

What does she know, how does she feel?
The plump, juicy berry within her reach,
a smell of cocoa permeates the room,
a gift to the senses so she may be
alone soon, her pearls touch the flesh,
tender, sweet, revealed to her soul,
noble, royal, at peace again.

Going Forward

The universe has an odd way to prepare you for
the next step
some sort of deep oblivion.

A body shrivels into lines in the ground which
they call wrinkles
to cover an aging flesh to vultures.

A mind everyday waves goodbyes to old flames
memories fade
they say perhaps to prevent senility.

Clouds of snow, ice and blinding reflections tickle
thinning membranes
and senses awaken to sensations yet unknown.

He touches the snows atop the bald head of Mt Blanc
melting away
fingers on fire tremble engraving their life upon the Earth.

Slowly slipping along the sliding curve of the mount
she follows
avid with the years to join in saintly oblivion.

It is a game of children on the playing ground
complete with
giggles, cries, falls, scraped egos, alone in the field.

Now silent, their essence still remains, their frames
sublimed at last
we may close those eyes, and feel their presence again.

Rain in August

The sun loves a rainy day in August
When he too can slumber in a little longer
I share in the scent of the last few drops
And recline in the distant shade of a giant oak.

The rain must enjoy the raising heat
When with her glassy friends she can rest
No longer fearing the vanishing in the afternoon
And I sit back in the approach of a gentle ray.

Flakes have time to come for a wintry visit
Knowing their infinite beauty, they waltz
In their dresses of diamonds, pearls and shiny stars
And I match them in a suit made for an angel.

Bolts of lightning may be fast in their race
Yet they slow as they slash through the air above
Their temporary scars it seems in deep sorrow
And I stand hands stretched to capture the light.

Oceans in the Stars

He might as well be stone on a marble top
lying on sheets of granite sharp as mountains
stilled by eternity unwavering at midnight.

He might as well be dead under the shady ghosts
floating in wait of a miracle that will never be.

He might as well forget about the image of a dream
when the winds blow the colors to oblivion
and the air remains stale of unexplored tombs.

He might stay as he was, a living corpse on the shroud
eyes upon oceans in the stars seeking a light
if only he could still the beating of the dying soul.

Playing the deck

The cards spread on the crumbling table,
oddly lined up and stacked in a child’s game;
the tin box of cookies and sweets at hand’s reach,
she coughs and grabs the snuff so predictably.

Time has stopped for her she has no more
of a need for it than she would a tank or a sword;
a great partner at play with the bribe as always,
her heart gallops with a known excitement.

Little Boy came from another land it seems,
though in summer, every day, at the same time,
he makes his appointment with the lady
wrinkly, who sometimes still gardens a little.

No pet around, but the old TV set seems to meow,
bark, buzz with lives hunched over by the hearth;
she wipes her nose nonchalantly, adjusting her glasses;
it is already the third hand and she is a few points behind.

The sun lingers, thinking of a short night ahead,
ripening wheat, corn and grapes, bored yet faithful;
this partner has little care for much anymore,
the hands on the clock have fallen with the last news.

An accident, a calamity, a storm, a war, a few gunshots;
hunting season again is it? Ah, she might kill indeed,
for the taste of the latest vine of her fields forgotten;
no longer harvester, anew like the child she once was, she plays.

DS Maolalai recently returned to Ireland after four years away, now spending his days working maintenance dispatch for a bank and his nights looking out the window and wishing he had a view. His first collection, Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden, was published in 2016 by the Encircle Press. He has twice been nominated for the Pushcart Prize.

An indictment of the craft.

if you’ve been to a poetry reading lately
and pictured
any of those guys
trying
to eat
a plate of spaghetti
without getting sauce on their shirt
you’ll know
what kind of
state
their “art”
is really in.

Complacency.

watching tv
in the morning
while you make coffee
and put jam on the toast –

like going out
in a new shirt
on a fresh
and perfumed day,
stopping by a garden
and reaching out
to break the stem

Liz Kelso lives in New York City. She holds an MFA in Creative Writing from The College of New Rochelle. Her writing can be found or is forthcoming in The Phoenix Literary & Arts Magazine, HerStory and Breadcrumbs.

Keys

She practiced on air
Invisible keys clacked silent
Her fingers formed the machine
She knew where every Z was
Invisible return bar brought her back
He walked away but her fingers
One by one healed her
Each click said I can do it
Every clack cried without you
Keys danced in rhythm
Like machine gun fire
She attacked poverty and beat
off welfare with each stroke
The tap-tap-tap kept her alive
Until the ribbon ran out.

Bailey attended the West Virginia Governor’s School for the Arts in 2015 and the West Virginia Governor’s Honors Academy in 2016 where she studied creative writing in short forms–flash fiction, sonnets, villanelles, and other short forms of writing.  Bailey’s stories can be found in Ghost City Review and Whetstone. When she’s not writing, Bailey can almost always be found drinking tea, running while listening to audio books and podcasts, or hiking in the woods with her dogs.

April Showers

Only three days into April,
and we are already cleansing
the sins of winter with the rain.
Dew droplets of water collect,
cling to the hairs like spiders’ webs
that fill the space between eyebrows,
decorating refreshed faces
with aqueous diamonds of spring.

I always wear these jewels with pride,
carrying Nature’s messages
that it is time for a reset
and the Earth is being reborn
in pools of run-off that collect
where sidewalks finally give in
to the persuasion of tree roots.

Following Trails

Not a cloud brushes the sky,
deceptive, but it’s a good sign.
At last unobscured,
the sun whispers promises
that spring is sure to follow
the breadcrumb trails that the wind,
running westwards, leaves behind.

I have already seen some green,
dotted with a tinge of pink—
prettied by dogwoods’ precious petals
that light upon branches
like kisses on fingers.

Frosts still freeze the mountains at night,
and my skin aches each navy morning
for the warmth of the Easter tree
(Forsythia suspensa)
highlighting cliffs and crevices
of the sandstone faces of Route 19.

When I spot the first burst
of forsythia’s rays, I will follow
their trails to find spring.

I Found Them, Keats

Songs of spring played on my windowsill
by the delicate fingers of March rain.
Each drop mans a different instrument,
ensuring the orchestra is complete.

One taps on timpani
the pace of approaching spring.

One strums the harp
as it splashes into the stream.

One draws a sigh from the violin,
the wind directing the storm.

Their compositions breathe life into spring,
resuscitating reluctant hibernators
with improvised electric melodies
even when the sun doesn’t shine.

Night Rider

I reject the glare of my watch,
insisting it is only 6 o’clock;
it feels like I am at the end of time.

The golden halo of the sun dove
behind layers of rose and amethyst clouds
compounded and crystallized
by the pressure of the sky.

Tail lights of cars, low-hanging lanterns,
engulfed me in traffic
before they found themselves weak embers
amidst the ashes of the day.
Each one pulsed, waiting to receive
a sigh strong enough
to breathe them into a blaze
that could replace the sun in night.

When these embers died into the soot,
I was left alone, one intrepid mouse
navigating the labyrinth posed by
the mountain roads at twilight.