“Pannin’ fer Rhymes (an old miner’s tale)” by Kevin Taylor


Well, now– It was in the spring of ‘49 just ‘round
Memorial Day in the Land O’ Freedom… or so they
call it. Anyways, I was sittin’ up behind them hills…
Y’know, nexta where God ‘n’ Hell musta had some
sorta fuss or ‘nother. Sorta desert. Sorta not.
And I was pannin’ fer rhymes– I kept comin’ up dry–
when alluvasudden straight outta the ground there’s
this tinklin’, twinklin’ musical sound. So I grabbed me
a panful and gave it a twitch. Some verbs and an adjective
peppered the dish. Good stuff, I s’pose. Fer a yarn they’d
bin fine, but not fer perfessional-lookers-fer-rhymes.
I swished ‘em a little and shook ‘em again to see if that
tinklin’ mightn’t be kin to the one that I found in the gully
that night. It’d had to be good, or it wouldn’t fit right.
Them poets won’t shell-out fer less than a pair cuz one
by itself leaves ‘em pullin’ their hair. So ya gotta find more
than a couple that fit or poets ‘ll fake it and some ‘ll just quit
and some ‘ll just hope no one says that it’s… Y’ know…
Call ‘emselves “nou-veau” and claim it’s legit.

‘Nuffa that, I s’pose.

I looks fer them twinklin’ musical words that rhymes like
the first time they’s ever been heard. I sure ain’t the first one
that’s panned in them hills. My pappy before me turned up
a few thrills and somewhere or ‘nother done found a whole line.
But me, I ain’t happy unless it’ll rhyme. They’re there, I can
hear ‘em– they tickle the breeze! I’ll stick it out long as there’s
poets to please. If y’ expected a yarn, or to hear miners cuss–
I’s pannin’ fer rhymes and not dirt in the dust!

Hmph, what’s that ya got there?


Kevin Taylor is a Western Canadian poet, storyteller and accidental lexicographer. First published in 1974. Several chapbooks slouch on his bookshelf where they mark “the sudden grey of decades passing.”

“I was an idiot at 14” by Kelly Lynn

I was an idiot at 14.

            I mean, I’m sure a lot of teenagers were idiots. But I’m sure not every teenager is an idiot in the way where they trust a two ton animal won’t throw them off and step on them. Except the whole point was so the two ton animal does throw you off. The getting stepped on it what you actually want to avoid.

Surprise surprise, this stupidity was at a Christian summer camp. We all signed releases, and our parents did too, promising not to sue. It’s a good thing they had us do that, on their behalf, since that week a boy broke his arm real bad. He did the same thing I did. Except his hurt more. Except mine was more long term.

We rode bulls.

I’m not entirely sure why both this camp and all of our collective parents decided it was a good idea to send preteens and idiot teens to a camp where we could seriously maim ourselves in the process but oh well. They said it was okay and we all spent a week getting muddy and injured. Bull riding wasn’t all we did. We learned to wrestle steer too. Most of our stuff was on horseback though. That was the main appeal to all of us. Barrel racing, pole bending, keyhole nonsense, and team penning. Even some basics of trick riding which the guys were all frustratingly good at without even trying. How dare they.

Bull riding was not on my list to do. Not once. But the two girls I connected with that week decided that I had to. They decided that it was now on my list. I told them I’d rather drink hot sauce. So they dared me to and I did. It wasn’t that hot. And they still made me ride the bull.

The chute was red and rusty. Rather than the gates used in the fence lines, these had real thick and flat metal bars to hold the bull in and keep his horns or hooves from getting stuck. The spacing was just big enough for me to get one of my Ariats into so I could slither my way down onto the back of a six foot six inch tall animal. That’s a rough estimate. It was the biggest bull they had, that’s for sure. I had ridden draft horses before but this sucker was bigger and broader. The cowboy waddle was an exaggeration of riding horses for a long time, but it definitely wasn’t wide enough to get around this thing.

He wa white and covered in brown stains. Whether they were dirt or feces, I’ll never know. I grabbed the rope tied around his barrel, just behind his front legs. There was a leather piece on his back and the rope arched over it. That piece of leather was well worn and had obviously seen better days. The rope was fraying too. I couldn’t feel the rope through the thick gloves they gave me to stop my palms and fingers from getting burned.

“You ready yet?” I don’t remember the sound of the voice, but it came from the guy who was in charge of the bulls and steers.

Nope.

“What about now?”

Not even close.

My heart was full of helium and trying to fly up my esophagus and out through my mouth. Except my jaw was clenched so tight that it’d be never able to escape.

“Now?”

No. I pulled on the rope and tried to get my backwards hand more into my crotch. That’s where it should be and I wanted it as close to me as possible. I figured it’d help me stay on.

“C’mon, you should be ready.”

You’d think but nah. I’d rather just sit here on this big white bull that had horns that curved upwards. If the horse had been straight, they would’ve been longer than my arm.

“You’re ready.”

No I’m-

Well.

I’m screwed.

The chute opened and the bull jumped sideways. You know how people say that everything went into slow motion? Nope. I don’t remember the 6.8 seconds between the gate opening and my face on his left shoulder as I somersaulted over him.

Technically, I volunteered to ride a two thousand pound animal. But I never volunteered to have one of his cloven hooves catch my knee as my upper back collided with the ring’s sandy flooring. No one believes this part of the story and I’m not sure why. I had a centimeter thick set of parallel lines on my right knee for almost a decade after that. And that mark sure didn’t exist before that week.

Those two girls and I became the three musketeers of pain. They rode bulls that day too. We all hurt different parts of our body. One had her shoulder, another her hip, and I hurt the entirety up my upper back. We walked around with ice packs attached to us every day until the end of the week. The one girl who hurt her hip had a hard time getting on and off her horse the next couple of times. Me? I got nauseous. Really badly nauseous.

We were standing around on horseback the day after I was an idiot, and I got really dizzy. I had to hop off of the horse and put my head between my knees. The world was spinning and my throat felt full of mud and molasses. It was hard to breath. The rest of the week was the same. Every so often, I’d have to dismount in order to see and breath.

While nausea and a lack of sight didn’t follow me after that week, the back pain did. Thanks to the idiot that was 14 year old me, I have a slightly curved spine and can’t sit still for more than an hour and a half without excruciating pain. Thanks, past me. Bitch.


Kelly Lynn is a northern Maryland native and graduate of Susquehanna University. She grew up around horses and loves her 30-year-old mare, Terminator, very deeply. She plans on owning her own piece of land one day if only so she can buy her dream pet: a cow.

“Apple Poem” by Heather Sager


In the autumn light
poplars line the boulevard
they stand
crisp as apples
in their leafy shimmer

the sky glows
electric blue
amid the dancing
white clouds

the blue
continues blazing
over trees
crisp as apples


Heather Sager grew up in rural Minnesota and lives in Illinois. Her poetry has most recently appeared in Sandpiper, The Wild Word, Remington Review, Third Wednesday, CircleShow, Cacti Fur, Ariel Chart, and Northwest Indiana Literary Journal. Heather also writes short fiction.

“An Agreement” by L.C. Hill


“Frank, Brian is moving more of them.” Arlo stopped mid-chew when he heard the familiar sound. He abandoned lunch and moved closer to the ridgeline.

            “Where do you think he’s taking them?” Barry asked, though it was barely coherent through his mouthful of food.

Frank said nothing, chewing his lunch slowly. The entire crew turned to him—it was the habitual response—but nothing in Frank’s expression told them what he was thinking. Arlo was the first to look away from him and back to Brian.

            “Don’t know,” Bob chimed in. “Don’t care. I say farewell and ado and see ya later!” His large lips smacked obnoxiously after he took another bite.

            “But we won’t see them later.” Arlo raised his head a little higher to see over the ridge to the bottom of the hill turning golden with the onset of the cooler weather. He especially liked the smell of it up on this ridge. Arlo watched for a few minutes as Brian loaded the trailer. The smell of the grass turned rancid in his large nostrils. “That’s why we care.” Arlo’s voice languished but it made Saul jump. Silence had taken over the group and Arlo’s voice, regardless of its hushed tone, had broken it abruptly.

            “Okay, boys,” Frank said, walking over to join Arlo. The cooler air made his breath visible as it rushed from his nostrils. Frank felt the responsibility heavily some days. He surveyed the land from their lunch spot. He always enjoyed this view. “I think it’s time. Brian’s got to go.” His voice was steady and calm, just like it always was.

            Arlo swung his head to look at him, his eyes even bigger than usual. Frank met them with his own dark brown eyes. The pair were a mirror image of each other except for Frank’s larger, more muscular stature. It commanded respect. Frank held Arlo’s gaze, only interrupting it with a slow blink.

Arlo backed away from the edge no longer able to watch the scene below. “Moo,” he acquiesced. He tore the grass nearest to his feet and chewed, but he didn’t taste it.

            Another moo rose up from the herd. Then another rose to join it, again and again, until all of them melded into a chorus.

            Brian looked over his shoulder. It wasn’t like the cows to carry on that way. The rancher shook his shoulders to get rid of the chill that had settled in, somehow piercing his rugged work coat. Their song stopped all at once. Brian looked up. The sky was blue, but a storm was rolling in from the west over the hill. His biggest bull stared at him from the top of it. A chill ran down Brian’s spine. He laughed it off as he shoved the last cow into the trailer. He needed to get to the slaughterhouse before the weather came in.


L.C. Hill spends every waking minute writing, thinking about writing, reading about writing, writing in her car via voice memo, writing in her head and forgetting the brilliant thing she just wrote in her head because she didn’t write it down, and writing down brilliant things that she later can’t read because her handwriting is terrible. She lives in Denver, Colorado with her American Bulldog, Ernest Hemingway.

She is a board member for the Literacy Coalition of Colorado and the content editor for their newsletter and social media.

“Tiller’s Grace” by Ellen Rowland


At the edge of childhood
and edge of wood,
I have not found God
in his usual place.
In spired cathedrals
with their waxed benches and bound hymns,
the Irish priest casts heavy lines
that boom from the pulpit and fall
on my heart
without a hint of song.
He says, “be with you”
I hear “bewitch you.”
God is gone from here.

Lying on a mossy bed
dreaming of ancestral voices,
I mistake the old caretaker’s steps
for those of my father’s.
“It’s only me,” he reassures.
“They’ve all gone off to the pub.”

I am too young to slip there unnoticed
to hear the tales and melodies
of those battered by drink
but delivered from sin,
dancing the jig of grace.

The caretaker hands me
a child-sized spade
and points to the yard
at the back of the house.
“There’s treasure in there,
cross my old heart,
but you’ll be wantin’ to dig real deep.”


Ellen Rowland writes poetry and creative non-fiction and is the author of Everything I Thought I Knew, a collection of essays about living, learning, and parenting outside the status quo. She and her family live off the grid on a tiny island in Greece.

“Travel Advisory from the AAA Bhakti Office – Kate Bowers Reporting”


UTC (GMT/Zulu)-time: Wednesday, February 5, 2020 at 19:04:44

Pittsburgh Wed 2:04:44 pm New York Wed 2:04:44 p.m. London Wed 7:04:44 pm Tokyo Thu 4:04:44 a.m.

This place filled with wind—
Begin here dear traveler.
Your true heart awaits.


Kate Bowers is a writer based out of Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, in the United States. During the day she works as a technical writer/grants coordinator for private philanthropy in the second largest urban school district in Pennsylvania where there is plenty of poetry to be found.

Her favorite flavor is peppermint. Kate drinks both coffee and tea, but without cream in the latter and definitely with cream in the former. No sugar in either, thank you for asking though.

“Together Around the Christmas Lights” by M.C. Schmidt


All the family came—even Declan who’d treated his eighteenth birthday as a family holiday emancipation—and, despite advance grumbling about Bev’s vegan holiday meal, all ate well. Properly sated, they took possession of every sofa and loveseat cushion, the recliner, and the mixed chairs around the penny table. Lights were dimmed. The tradition film was started. Moved by the increasing rareness of these congregations, Bev took a moment of private appreciation: all whom she loved joined in the cozy dark of her living room, the television playing unwatched, every head down as if in prayer, each face lit by the mysterious glow of their own private screen.


M.C. Schmidt holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Miami University. He is the author of two novels and his recent short fiction has appeared in Litro, Every Day Fiction, Rumble Fish Quarterly, Dime Show Review, Cleaning Up Glitter, and The Books Smuggler’s Den. He has work forthcoming from Abstract Magazine.

“Ordinary” by Ellen Rowland


I woke up this morning wanting
to write a poem,
but nothing came.
Just the restless on and off tap
of thoughts.
I searched for something telling
in the dregs of my coffee,
but carelessly drained the last of its grit.
I watched Sun get higher, striding into day.
She wrapped herself in deepest rose, draped in a shawl of amber.
I put on faded jeans and a billowy blouse to greet her.
Still no bright ideas.
I did last night’s dishes
and thanked them for the meal.
Breaking bread with those seated,
drifts of conversation dearly departed,
Just hearsay in an empty chair.
Should I sign up for a poetry prompt?
Find Insight in my inbox?
Could I beg, steal, or borrow?
I searched along the shore
just like Anne Morrow Lindbergh.
Shells, salty lips, a solitary walk,
a rusty spigot to wash it all off.
I sat down at the table,
and spread out the tome.
There, I found Inspiration
defined as both insight and inhalation.
So I filled my lungs and picked up my pen
and found it filled with jet-black ordinary.


Ellen Rowland writes poetry and creative non-fiction and is the author of Everything I Thought I Knew, a collection of essays about living, learning, and parenting outside the status quo. She and her family live off the grid on a tiny island in Greece.

“fool’s gold” by Maanasa Epuri


“a gift of jewels”

draped in cloth of red silk,
she is the jewel of the dawn;
her eyes match the morning mist.

ancient words were chanted rapidly,
their hum a chaotic comforting.
gold rice matches gold thread—
and suddenly two becomes one.

“turned out to be rocks”

red tinted hands fade,
their colour a whisper
of perhaps better times.

soft words are spoken;
a tragic attempt at
gluing back a vase.

the hum is no longer,
filled instead with spite.
an undone gold thread—
and one becomes two.


Maanasa Epuri is a senior in high school who writes in her (rare) spare time. Born and raised in America, she tries to include her Indian heritage in her writing. When she’s not writing, she can be found watching crime shows or eating chocolate.

“People of Walmart” by Sarah Henry


Female shoppers
bounce past greeters.
They wear clothes
made by Chinese.
Obama came here once;
no one believed it.
Men have shorts,
tank tops and tattoos.
Briefs flash when
their jeans ride down.
They bring pets held
by leashes. A guy with
a turtle doesn’t hurry.
Dogs don’t bite.
A parrot clutches
a male shoulder.
It could be fake.
Walmart calls itself,
“The safest place
to take your child.”
Meanwhile, siblings
fight in the aisles.
Anything goes.
Otherwise,
people of Walmart
can buy online;
America won’t see
them in their glory,
shopping at superstores.


Sarah Henry is retired from a newspaper. She lives and writes in small Pennsylvania town without distractions. She does not own a cat.