The literary magazine of Hagerstown Community College
While I slept,
Death’s Choir
came to me and
told me that I will
soon leave this World
for
another one.
A bit frightened,
A tad humbled,
A wee trembling –
I
requested
a
song for
my
departure.
Death’s choir gleefully accepted,
and sang
Amazing Grace.
—
Peter MacQuarrie is an enigma. He lives in the Darkling Forest of Northern California.
There was a lot of cooking in this dream.
People knew each other, people whom
I did not know, peeling things, filling pots
with succulence, setting bowls and platters
upon an outdoor table, long and low.
Another night I visited this dream
to spy on them. They used no recipes.
Everyone knew everything and spooned piles
of nourishment, of morsels onto plates.
Large cooking pots emitted misty steam.
Again I tiptoe back into this dream.
People cluster, seated at the table.
One comes closer, sending me a tidbit.
Floating in the air, I cannot reach it.
I know another night we’ll try again.
—
Sandy White received her MFA in Creative Writing from Dominican University of California. Using Adelaide Crapsey’s short form called the American Cinquain, she writes:
Sandy
White loves to write.
Emersing herself in
story telling’s her favorite way
to play.
22 syllables, 2-4-6-8-2 syllables on 5 lines.
How many of us can recall our very first nightmare?
Now that would be a spectacular memory
to share with intimates and casual acquaintances alike.
Perhaps at a subdued dinner party, creeping along,
you mention that first nightmare
before you knew the word nightmare
or knew how to calculate fearfulness.
Sure as sin, as you attempt to salvage that first night terror
someone unruly, drink in hand,
interrupts with his nightmare
or what passes for a nightmare
then some smart-ass film buff
brings up A Nightmare on Elm Street
and a dozen other nightmarish films
the party picks up, the words louder
and suddenly you recall that first nightmare
not quite in its entirety but in horrifying fragments
and reveal it to the kindly stranger standing nearby
with the almost faded scars on her lovely wrists.
—
Canadian poet, fiction writer, and playwright J. J. Steinfeld lives on Prince Edward Island, where he is patiently waiting for Godot’s arrival and a phone call from Kafka. While waiting, he has published 24 books, including An Unauthorized Biography of Being (Stories, Ekstasis Editions, 2016), Absurdity, Woe Is Me, Glory Be (Poetry, Guernica Editions, 2017), A Visit to the Kafka Café (Poetry, Ekstasis Editions, 2018), Gregor Samsa Was Never in The Beatles (Stories, Ekstasis Editions, 2019), Morning Bafflement and Timeless Puzzlement (Poetry, Ekstasis Editions, 2020), Somewhat Absurd, Somehow Existential (Poetry, Guernica Editions, 2021), Acting on the Island (Stories, Pottersfield Press, 2022), and As You Continue to Wait (Poetry, Ekstasis Editions, 2022).
Sorry, friends: time
to turn back
the sign “Days since
injury:” — 0,
as hammer slams thumb.
Or there was a slip and fall.
The door,
in closing, made a bruise.
Life’s injury report
is a rainbow pattern in the flesh
from ex-veinous blood.
Stub a toe; reach for the high shelf,
there goes the neck;
we live and hurt ourselves.
Hurt others.
What the heck?
Some injuries won’t be seen
but, o!, are they felt.
Sorry, friends, that’s life.
You must
watch yourself.
—
Benjamin Harnett is a poet, fiction writer, historian, and digital engineer. His poetry has appeared recently in Poet Lore, Saranac Review, ENTROPY, and the Evansville Review. He is the author of the novel THE HAPPY VALLEY and the short story collection GIGANTIC. He lives in Cherry Valley, NY with his wife Toni and their collection of eccentric pets. He works for The New York Times.
I close my eyes and the darkness awaits,
The abyss behind my eyelids stares back at me.
My eyelids quiver like eager leaves trying to jump from tree limbs,
But they stay closed.
My hands become clammy, my heart begins to race,
The abyss starts to sway,
Swaying like a lonely soul to a sad song.
Perhaps I should question why,
Use my mind to ask it’s purpose,
Instead, I am enamored by the swaying,
Enamored at how the concept of nothing is moving before me.
I want to know its secrets,
How it functions,
Why it has chosen me,
So I dive nose-first into the pit.
Suddenly, I am swimming in a black sea of memories,
Memories I have long forgotten,
Or ones I have long pushed out.
The feeling of regret gradually constricts me with each stroke into the water,
Until I cannot swim any longer.
The water settles, and the silence becomes deafening.
I try to thrash, to break free.
But the only thing moving are the scenes replaying below me.
Below me, I see every mistake and every triumph I have made,
Below me, I see my first day of kindergarten,
Below me, I see my last moments in high school.
Below me, I see the truth.
The truth swallows me, and the urge to swim regurgitates up,
An urge to push through the dark waters, and into the light.
This urge allows my feet to begin to kick,
And my arms start flailing after that,
Within seconds, I am swimming
Swimming like a turtle's first time in the ocean.
The fleeting forgotten memories flow past me as I swim vigorously,
The memories my conscious may have forgotten,
But the memories my soul will never forget.
And as I reach the shore of the future,
I am grateful for every experience,
For every person who believed in me,
And even the ones who didn't,
Because my being is forever changed for the better,
And suddenly, for the first time, my eyes are truly open.
—
Willow Donaldson is a 20-year-old first-generation college student born in Martinsburg West Virginia, where she spent the first 10 years of her life. In 2014 she moved in with her Aunt and Uncle in Hagerstown Maryland where she now resides and pursues her passion for writing. She will graduate with an associates degree in English at Hagerstown Community College in the spring of 2024 and plans to continue her education at an accredited University for a degree in Journalism.
Death would remind us of the inevitable by biting at the backs of our knees,
Small nudges of discomfort and pain -
A long pause, a lost breath, a close call, an unexpected loss,
Life’s tug o’ war with the living, tying the two worlds,
Kissing vivacious experience with uncertainty,
Exhilarating destiny & heavy darkness, heaving us into a wonderful frightening delirium,
Born, bred, bone & blood, lost on ourselves.
Tasked with self-discovery, the mysterious lessons of an evolving soul,
Reaching for the bedside light, tucked in by romanced naivety and oblivion,
Rose-colored glasses faintly cracked at the sides, carved pathways of truth & vision,
Reading lessons of centuries and millennia, pages of those before and after,
Pleading for the answer, all while life is the glorious story,
And death, the unrelenting messenger.
—
Brittani Watkins is a Freelance Writer hailing from Williamsport, Maryland. She enjoys writing poetry, essays, and short stories within the subject realm of history, art, travel, politics & philosophy, including macabre themes of death, horror, and the supernatural, as well as societal topics of feminism, mental health, civil rights, social class & equity. When not writing, Brittani reads voraciously, attempts to paint landscapes & portraits, and daydreams of her ensuing travel adventures with her partner, Barry, and their canine companion, Cairo. Contact her on Instagram: @brittaniwrotethis or via email at [email protected]
the air
hung heavy
in there
a thick woolen coat
moth eaten
tear damp
and hung to dry
in a humid closet
made sickeningly sweet
with flowers
blossoms of regret
of sorrow, remorse
and guilt
and
centering the room
a vessel to the heavens
shiny boat
box of dreamless sleep
the last vehicle of
a permanent goodbye
and
why
all pondered
approaching with breath held
I looked at it
my heart
in double time
and saw him there
but
only his shell
like that of a
cicada
my friend, no
for he indeed
was gone
A
significant snowflake
melted and evaporated
in spring sunshine
gone
along with
his mother’s sanity
her plans and dreams
held dear
she cried out
his name
my name
once shared
and
I could barely
hear her
would not turn
to her face
amongst the blurred
crowded room
with its din of
murmuring whispers
sad questions
echoed
about the chamber
but
I would not
join in
instead I gently
touched him in
his cold eternal
slumber
said my greatest
prayer
and left
long before the
appointed procession
I could not
see him lowered
this friend of youth
of childhood folly
I wished no closure
but
kept instead
memories of
life
eternal smiles
in summer
and now
sometimes
in crowds
I think
I see him there
alive still
and grinning.
—
Matt Longerbeam is a literary enthusiast and artist hobbyist. He lives in Hagerstown, Maryland with his cat Saffron.
In the vast world of dreams stood two people
Two minds inseparable, one ripple
Through meadows of dreams and never-ending jabber
Closest of friends they were, a friendship that was forever
The feelings they shared blossomed into love
There love formed as a beautiful dove
Seeing each other differently as a new experience
Feeling each other differently as a radiance
For one day shortly would be their last
As the summer came to be past
The love they had stretched thin
For neither could take another spin
An open sea yawned wide between their history
Loneliness and separation whispered like a decree
Stolen glances and attempts to get another back
Both would hurt one another before giving slack
The toxic tension would peril the two
Creating confusion and pain in their great debut
Realization that pain was better than being together hit
Proving that only apart would they be able to quit
Months blew by, like grains of sand in the dunes
Silent faults split between the ruin
The growing cut that always bleeds
Yet in their hearts and minds they plead
Seasons changed, as seasons always do
As both had to go on in life without the clue
But the pain persisted at a constant hue
In the vast world of dreams, a thread undone
Two souls cut at the undertone
Hope that another would come back to the other
Belief that a miracle could bring them back to what was leftover
A chance encounter, a turn in destiny
Rekindling the flame, desperately hungry
Even though their killing another like death
They needed one another at a great depth
To say you loved them all along as a constant thread
Was like a cut that always bled.
“Alice, I’ve been waiting for you for a very long time.”
Did she hear the words or simply feel them? She wasn’t sure. She saw nothing except a luminous mist above the path. She had visited this glade almost every day for 20 years. She liked being alone with birds and rabbits. Alice loved the rabbits, especially the little gray ones. Usually she felt a sense of peace, but today she was uneasy. Someone was near her. She could hear breathing.
“Who are you?” she whispered timidly. The voice sounded like his, but it could not be. He was gone. She was shaking, but she didn’t want the voice to go away…again. She held the voice in the closed fist of her mind. She would keep it even if it wasn’t real.
She thrust her open hands into the mist but felt only the chill of wet air. She groped blindly. Suddenly she realized she could not see her hands. She jerked them back, shouting, “No, no! Don’t go!”
She was frightened and confused, yet drawn forward. Over and over, she tempted the wet unreality, never quite getting close enough to lose her footing. She leaned in, but not with her whole body, just enough. Her face kissed the mist. She could taste the droplets. She had tasted that kiss before.
She had come here many times before to watch the fog approach. Sometimes tall, graceful deer came, does with fawns, and almost always rabbits hopped over vegetable stalks to get to the ripe cabbage. She loved the deer and left corn for them, but the rabbits were her favorites. Once a wild sow came with nine piglets trailing behind her. Alice was a little afraid of them, but they were adorable with irregular yellow stripes on their backs. They were wild things in their element. But today was different. Was she finally in her element?
The forest was magical, but she had never ventured deep inside its heart. She longed to be wild and free like the yellow-striped piglets. Until today, she had preferred to imagine the beauty deep inside the glade. Sometimes she saw a glow coming from the glade. Sometimes she lived in her memory. An overgrown path led toward the heart of the forest, but she never ventured farther than a few feet inside. Vines overhung the path. Today, she wanted to go past the vines.
Nature was her element. The sounds and smells of a thunderstorm even when her cottage shook made her smile. They were nature. Cities with screeching tires and blaring horns frightened her, but not thunder. She liked the way the air smelled when the rain stopped after a storm. The air was clean, free of man scent. Even the animals understood that. They didn’t seem to mind Alice’s scent, but when others intruded, the animals disappeared as if they had never existed. Alice was a part of their world, but only Alice and the mist. The animals loved the mist. They wandered freely in and out, sometimes disappearing entirely then reemerging into the meadow. They seemed unafraid of the voice in the mist today.
Alice kept a small garden, mostly for her furry and feathered friends. She had two rows of sunflowers. The seeds dried on the stalks for birds to enjoy. She enjoyed the bright yellow beauty while the blooms followed the sun. She raised two rows of corn, one of string beans, one of sweet potatoes, two of tomatoes, one of cabbage, and two of strawberries. She maintained a hedge of blackberry bushes, six pear trees, and a lone pecan tree. Between the house and the garden was a scuppernong arbor where Alice spent many hours comforted by the shade and the growing golden fruit. In the late fall, she managed to make several jars of jelly and a bottle or two of wine. When the sweet potatoes were ripe, she harvested them and banked them in neat little straw huts to preserve them through the winter. Her kind neighbors brought her eggs and milk occasionally, and she fished in the small rill flowing behind her house. That all seemed enough for her until the mist came to the forest that November day.
Fog didn’t usually hug the forest on early winter evenings, but this wasn’t an ordinary fog. It was a mist with tiny diamond droplets, each one a promise. She heard the voice again. It called her deeper into the forest toward the secret glade. The voice wasn’t exactly a whisper, but it was soft like the eyes of the fawn in the meadow.
“Alice, I’ve been waiting for you for a very long time,” the voice repeated.
Alice should have been frightened, but this time she wasn’t. She followed the mist as it inched toward the glade.
This time Alice replied, “I’ve been waiting for you, too.” Now she knew it was his voice. She moved nearer to the mist and deeper into the forest. She reached her hand out to touch the diamond veil of droplets. Her hand penetrated the veil and disappeared. Then she felt another hand take hers. Two larger hands clasped her small one then she felt lips kiss the palm of her outstretched hand. She didn’t ask who it was. She knew. She smiled. She looked around at the magic of the glade. It seemed to encircle her, but she felt peace, not fear.
Still she hesitated to step fully into the mist. “How long have you been here?” she whispered.
“Since the day our time stopped. Do you understand why you came here, Alice?”
“What do you mean? I knew the first time I stepped out of my car and smelled the forest that I belonged here,” she replied.
The voice laughed. She remembered his laugh and the day the laughter stopped. “I’m sure you did. Did you recognize the scent? The breeze that blew past you when you got out of the car—how did it make you feel?”
“Happy,” said Alice. She could feel rather than see his smile.
“I’m sure you were. I was touching you the only way I could. The wind blowing through your hair was my fingers.”
Alice stood close to the mist, unable to see her hand. “Come to me now,” she whispered. The mist hovered in the center of the glade. The light of the fading day peeked over the tall trees and into the glade, making small rainbows across the mist as if it were celebrating a promise.
“Is that what you want?” the voice asked.
“Of course, I do! Why would I not?” Alice answered.
“If I come to you, you won’t be able to see me. You will feel my touch, but you won’t see me. The only way you can see me is to come through the mist to me.”
“Well then, I’ll come,” Alice said.
“Wait! Don’t do that yet.”
Alice felt his hand close around hers. She stood very still.
“If you come through this mist, you will see me, but you won’t be able to go back to the other side. You will come to me, but not today.” He took her hand and put it on his face.
Alice gasped and raised her other hand to his face. Now she couldn’t see either of her hands, but she could feel his face.
“Alice, don’t move. Don’t step closer to me, please. Stand very still.”
Suddenly, she felt his arms around her. She clutched what she knew was his body and began to cry with her head against his shoulder. He held her tightly and let her cry while he gently stroked her back.
With her head still resting on his chest, she whispered, “I want to see you, to touch your face.”
“You can touch my face any time you want to. Pretend you are blind. You can feel all your other senses. You just can’t see me.”
“I don’t understand,” Alice said.
“You will in time.” He took her hand and said, “Come with me. We can walk along the creek. Alice, do you understand now why you’ve been so happy here for the past 20 years?” The mist moved along beside her as she walked.
“Yes, I think I do. You have been here all the while, haven’t you?”
“Yes, I have. Have you noticed the mist before?”
“A few times, why?”
“Those were the hard times for me. Those were the days I wanted so much to pull you to me so you could see my face and know I was near you. I didn’t know until today what would happen when you put your hand through the mist. I only knew if I pulled you to me, you couldn’t go back.”
“How did you know that?”
“I’ve seen it happen to others beyond the mist. Some were happy about their fate; others were not. I didn’t know if you would be happy beyond the mist. And you have something to do before you can come to me.”
“Can we stay here like this for a while before I decide? What is it that I have to do?”
“We can stay here for a while, but one day you won’t feel me beside you. When that happens, look for the mist. Then you will have to decide.”
“I came here looking for peace and comfort when you went away and never left. This seemed like sacred ground. Now I know I’ve been happy here because you’ve been here all the while.”
“Alice, it isn’t time for you to come to me. I want you to do something for my family and for other people who lose loved ones early.”
“Of course, what do you want me to do?”
“I need you to write our story. Tell my family all about us. Tell them in a story how much I love them. Publish the book so others who have lost loved ones can know we never lose those we love. Love does not die.”
“I will do that. I will find them.”
Alice felt the cold night air on her hand where his warm hand had been. She returned to the cottage and went to her desk. She gazed at the forest and saw the mist rising. She smiled and began to write their story. Now she knew the ending of the story. A blue butterfly lit on her window sill in the last fading embers of light. She opened her laptop and began to type.
She would leave their story as bread crumbs in her path. She searched for his relatives and found two of them. When the story was completed and published, she ordered two copies and addressed two envelopes. Each envelope contained a book and a deed to half of her property. She dropped them into the box at the post office and returned to the advancing fog. She draped her red sweater around her shoulders.
After only a few steps, she penetrated the mist. She saw him. He was there at the end of the lane beside his car. He had one foot propped on the fender of the ’58 Chevy and that grin, the grin he wore the first time she saw him. She walked toward him at an even, unhurried pace. She winced when she saw the scar across the left side of his face. She kept walking, but she put her hands over her face and began to sob. He enfolded her in his arms and let her cry. He rocked her back and forth and whispered, “It’s ok, I’ll never leave you again.”
She got in the car. He leaned in and kissed her. She left only breadcrumbs on her path. A blue butterfly lit on a fallen log and watched them drive away.
—
Corinda Pitts Marsh is a retired university professor and writer. She has published more than 15 novels available on Amazon. “Alice in the Mist” is a short version of one of those novels. She is a Florida writer primarily writing historical fiction.
Obviously, the more ordinary the taste of the day the less likely night will overly consume liquor to gain courage. Did the thoughts from the sliding sunset divulge any point of interest? Drop your fallacy of reality.
Unquestionable. Eyes that are intimate lose a choice of perspective. Eyes which wince are no more special. Oh, the reminiscent red wishing to be yellow sighed an ode to immortality. Joyous is the hand that sears red’s heart at one pass the hour of lament.
Yawning at the moonrise.
Tell a tale of innocence gone astray; liar. Your romantic moon is conceived in the womb of another, left a-lone. Ordinary tones do not tease the left-right lobe.
Gestures for intoxicating play lie dormant in the schoolyard waste can. Left a-lone the moon’s fallacy testified to no-one. Undisciplined. Yellow searches truth in ways less optimistic. Defiled scars on costume garments lose their grip and desire to breathe. Eye inverts “I” at no-time.
Dogmatic crimes apply for no remorse. Setting unquestionable standards for a moon’s confession. On coattails of believed hope, ordinary succumbs.
—
Alan Lechusza, PhD defines his works through a critical philosophy of pop culture aesthetics and expressions. Research topics and projects produced by Dr. Lechusza reside within the areas of critical theories which strive to dismantle, deconstruct, and redefine aesthetics, hermeneutics of socio-political power and ideological epistemologies through dynamic dialectic interactions of pop culture and the lexicons of power.