“I Run” by Emma Murray


I’ve been envious of Ganymede for some time now. Most will think it’s because of his unwavering beauty. The most beautiful of all the Greeks, but this isn’t why.
Legend has it that Zeus abducted him, flying him to the top of Mount Olympus. Had his wicked way with him, his new cupbearer. His exquisite servant.
No one questioned Zeus, did they!
But oh how they’d question me.
Me, the captain of the school football team. The straight A student, excelling in wood work class. Talented.
The shock would quickly turn to playground jibes, unfavourable taunts.
Derogatory whispers.
No, that would never do.

“What will I get ya for your birthday Danny?” my mother asks of my looming 18th.
My overnight transition from boy to man.
What I truly desire, I could never tell her. The curse of living in old Ireland. A farmer’s only son.
Oh how I yearn to walk the streets of Manhattan, or London’s Soho, in jeans too tight, shirt too low. Basking in the florescent neon lights. The freedom. My smile illuminated, stretching from ear to ear.
My unrealistic fantasy.
“Ah, money will be grand Mam, thanks,” I say, not wanting to engage any further in this awkward conversation.

I run.
I’m naturally athletic, fit. But that’s not why I run. I run, in an attempt to out run this monster inside me. The one desperately trying to break free, with every breath I take. The one that longs to live happily ever after on Mount Olympus. I have the looks for it, I’ve always been handsome. It’s the strength I lack.
And for a moment I wonder if it’s me that lacks the strength or my family?
My devout Catholic grandparents. My mass every Sunday childhood. The stolen moments my ears pricked, hearing my father curse at the failing football team on the TV, muttering ‘faggots.’
Maybe its not me, maybe it’s them.

I dream of asking for a one way ticket.
An escape.
A new life.
One where I could be me.
The real me.
Not the fake role I play in this cruel world. God mocking me. Having a laugh while I try to navigate my secret, daily.
But who am I kidding!
There is only one kind of one way ticket for me.
And why wait any longer? Why suffer the first few years of adulthood being a fraud. Why live a life of disappointment when realisation is now upon me.

I reach for the rope. Smoother than I imagined. It doesn’t look like a murderer but I suppose neither do I.
St.Peter won’t open the gates for me, that much I know.
But I don’t want him to.
All I want is Zeus,
to save me from this torture.

No more running.


Emma M. Murray is a young mother living in the North West of Ireland. She has a passion for writing short stories. She enjoys sunsets over the sea and too much chocolate. She dances well and sings badly.

“Here Lies” by Elizabeth Kiem


Frankly, I blame the flowers.

It’s a nice gesture, bringing flowers to a grave. But people only think about the bringing. Not about the leaving. They don’t think about the roses three days brown and the cellophane slick with rain.

Do you know what a bouquet lying on a grave looks like? Like someone was there, but then left.


Certain flowers don’t get left. Because nobody put them there in the first place.

You know what wildflowers in a cemetery look like? Like covered tracks tripping up the surfaces of ground and underground. An overnight carpet of wild violets and snowdrops—that’s fuzz on your teeth. That’s sun on your cheek. That’s natural.

The bouquets in their plastic sheaths are natural too. It’s natural that the living want to arm themselves on entering a graveyard. Natural that they would want to leave something, too.

But this? This wasn’t natural. This was a grave turned to garden: Tulips plugged in the four corners. A banner of chrysanthemums, framed by freesia. Symmetric sentinels of foxglove. Not a bare patch of earth. Not a blade of green. Roses too red. Daffodils too yellow.

And the worst: the daisies with their pincushion pupils— a hundred wide-open mustard eyes lifted to the sky.

Who could sleep under all that watchfulness? Who could rest under such landscaped elegy? Could you lie still, laminated in petals?

Floral claustrophobia it was.

If I were Daniel Lazare, I would have risen from my grave, too.


Elizabeth Kiem is the author of a fictional series about psychic Soviet ballerina spies and a non-fiction series about George Balanchine’s ballets. She was born in Alaska, raised in Virginia, calls herself a New Yorker and lives in London.

Learn more about her TrapezeWriting workshops at elizabethkiem.com.

“everything moves slightly” by Jack Deno


i wake up every day with eyes slightly
darker underneath, regardless of my sleep quality.
each restless night or malicious dream slightly
making me look older than i truly am

i attend to a job i despise to make money, slightly
making me wealthier. every day spent there
takes its toll on me, turning me slightly
colder and more hollow each day’s end

i consume caffeine on an empty stomach to feel slightly
more awake, but my body has grown tolerant.
each cup of energy makes me slightly
less jittery as i become more resistant

returning home I park my car, knowing it will get slightly
scratched by people who are poor parallel parkers.
i will pull in and out and in and out, slightly
brushing theirs too, for i am bad at it as well

being home, I get high to feel slightly
happier and at peace with myself.
my high seemingly weaker and slightly
shorter each time; i smoke too much

everything in my life is moving slightly
along, a slow crawl into the future.
at what point do all the slightly
moving actions catch up to a rapid pace?


Jack Deno is an Illinois native currently exploring his potential as a writer. He hopes to learn more about himself through his writing. He gazes at the stars every opportunity he gets.

“Connection” by Marie-Kristin Hofmann


Lemonade hearts
lavender love
lips longing
for anything
but loneliness.


Marie-Kristin Hofmann is a 29-year-old content marketer currently living in Berlin. Her poetry is inspired by her solo travel experiences, Berlin rooftop nights and the city’s lost souls. She holds a bachelor’s degree in American literature from Mannheim University and a master’s degree in Intercultural Communication from Passau University.

“A Gift From the Lake” by Kevin Dardis


Alice and Robert made their way to the small beach near their apartment each afternoon. A summer surrounded by the same cluster of families, they had created private nicknames for the regulars there – Red Cap, Red Cap’s Husband, Chessman, and Silverback – but greater intimacy had not yet been theirs to savour. Although they were constantly learning words and expressions, the language barrier was still too high, their presence still too new. Foreigners did not come to live in this town and Alice had no idea how to relieve the locals of their circumspection. Simple greetings had thus far proven ineffective, but she hoped time would eventually bring them closer.

‘Are you coming for a swim?’ Robert asked her.

‘I’m too comfortable here. You’ll have to go without me this once.’

She watched him zig zag gingerly between the resting grandparents and restless children. Inch by inch, pebble by pebble until the lake was his again.

Robert swam out a hundred metres to where a number of small boats lay anchored. He hauled himself aboard one of them and Alice found herself envying his view of the ruins on the hill behind her. She wondered if she shouldn’t swim out to him, but getting to her feet, she sensed a change in the atmosphere. Something was happening. A stillness had fallen over the beach – it was as if they were at the theatre and the curtains had just parted. Frisbees and balls, so long the objects of fascination, were now allowed to simply roll away. A child ran up to Silverback and excitedly muttered words to him, one of which Alice understood – Irishman.

She looked out towards Robert. He was readying himself to dive from the boat and the beach held its breath. He hit the water a split second before the loud clap of his belly flop reached them. Infectious laughter met this punchline and Alice wiped away her tears of amusement a little guiltily. But they had seen her – she knew their secret now and Chessman approached her pleadingly with a finger over his lips, merriment in his eyes, begging her to keep it to herself.

‘Of course,’ she answered, ‘of course.’

The next afternoon, Alice and Robert swam out to the boats together. Leaving the water a little later, ears still echoing from the thunder of the latest impact, a young girl winked at Alice and offered delighted gestures of thanks. They could trust her now, for they had shared laughter. Ice broken, barriers unexpectedly surmountable now, it seemed the beach was beginning to open its arms in welcome.


Kevin Dardis is an Irish storyteller and musician based in Germany. Most of Kevin’s storytelling is still done orally. His stage shows – in German – relate in music and words his adventures, trials and tribulations in Northern Bavaria.

“seeking home” by Nicolette Ratz


sewing loose stitches of a sweater
begging to unravel into yarn
loosen as roving into wool fiber
seeking the wind seeking home
as hair on wholesome sheep
grazing grass in green pasture


Nicolette Ratz currently lives in rural, northern Wisconsin. She encourages daydreams to find her on slow hikes as ecology, imagination and moment converge in poetry.

“Mourning in the Park” by Paulette Callen


I saw a muskrat in the park
lying at an entrance to her home,
oval mound of underbelly exposed,
tiny feet with long shapely nails
curled gracefully in death.
Her buck teeth protrude slightly
between parted lips.
Her chestnut hair, rustled by the breeze,
still glistens.

There are no wounds.
Poison, then.

Feeling ill, did she try to make it home
and get only this far –
to her doorstep?
Or was she underground,
and did she want to die in the sun?


Paulette Callen has returned to her home state of South Dakota in retirement, after 30+ years in New York City. Varying degrees of culture shock in both directions — but always, the space she returned to has been made home by a dog.

“Morning in the Park” by Paulette Callen


I saw a muskrat in the park
chewing grasses with perfect attention
in a pool of sunlight that rendered gold
the tips of her glistening chestnut hair.

I’d seen her before
at just the end of the dark
swimming the shallow stream that
arteries the park –
just a smooth parting of the water,
then her endearing waddle
as she brought from the bank
the right twig, longer than herself
and fringed in new leaves.
Clasping it firmly in delicate jaws
she melted into the water and swam again
and with a flip disappeared
into a hole in the bank.

I was pleased to know she was there
going about her business,
and confident in her wisdom
to come out only before dawn,
before joggers and dog-walkers,
before skittish mothers could cry “RAT!”
to the park authorities in their ill-fitting green costumes.

Today she sits in the sun.
Civil and lovely.
Surely she deserves to sit in the sun?

Does she think people so kind?


Paulette Callen has returned to her home state of South Dakota in retirement, after 30+ years in New York City. Varying degrees of culture shock in both directions — but always, the space she returned to has been made home by a dog.

“Dragon” by J.M. Allen


I’ll need to persevere – not give up again.
I’m going to start now – stop debating when.

I’ve decided anew to accept the fight.
I’ll summon all my internal might.

I’ve got my sword, and I’ve got my shield.
I’ll ride steed across the open field.

The smoke is still visible, a distance away.
Up in a mountain, too high some say.

To calm my nerves, a drink from my flagon.
And I promise this time, to slay my dragon.


J. M. Allen is a 51-year old, who recently started writing a bunch of rhyming poems. The author is a long-time resident of Rochester, Minnesota.

“Disolving” by Gabija Kertenyte


what is this genre modern women sing
at times and always write the truest words
that meddle stagnant muscles in my heart
revealing memories unknown to them
and tearing down the norms that yell we must
conform to trite aesthetics locked in form
and not rebuild through substance our own flaws
what they reveal is between me and god
who comes to me in ill-assorted thrifts
and says “please shush it only I can judge
I wore plaid boots cause truth and joy is one”
I blink, read on, forget as idols blur
I bathe in time. Obeying only the air my fingers held
when I met words that made me melt and melt is melt


Gabija Kertenyte writes poems and creative nonfiction. In her free time, she likes to psychoanalyze herself and work on healing. She’s currently working on an oral history project.