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.
You Do by Alan Lechusza
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.
I Ask You This by Jonathan Diloy
Can happiness exist without sacrifice?
What tax must one pay for joy to suffice?
What is demanded to cover the cost?
An arm? A leg? A life savagely lost?
What contract to sign to purchase some hope?
Whose hand do I grease or offer to dope?
A glimpse of a dawn, how can I avail?
By shadow of night, who must I curtail?
I ask you all this in full honesty
Here, lost in pain, crushed by despondency.
—
Jonathan Diloy is a military veteran and full-time psychology student with a raging reading habit. He was a Navy Seabee and has worked for the US State Department, the White House Military Office, the National Institutes of Health, and Amazon. He has been to every continent except Australia and Antarcica. He attends Hagerstown Community College in Maryland. His experiences as a service member, global traveler, student, and husband to a wonderfully demanding woman have bestowed him with stories from the small moments of everyday life to the fantastical machinations of the imagination.
Stranger Comes to Visit in a Strange Way by Yan An
Translated by Chen Du and Xisheng Chen
At night actually in a vaguely recalled dream
He transplanted a leafy branchy yet not flowery white lilac
Into my balcony with a vine hanging down from a rafter
Just like a rope or a green snake
He transformed my living room with a collection of
Exquisite books and carved stone monsters into a maze
With not only glinting fireflies but also twinkling crystals
Another night actually in another slightly remembered dream
He infinitely amplified a pot of daffodil
Nurtured by me like a treasure for many years
Turned the daffodil flower into nine and then rendered
The nine incomparably gigantic buds housing sporadically
Nine immeasurably colossal dewdrops
Both the aroma of the flowers more smelly than the odor of the sea
As if artificially nurtured and the viscous viscid skein and tangle
More difficult to deal with
Than the humidity and elasticity contained in seaweed
Highlighted my minuteness like that of a Lilliputian from Lilliput
And caused me to hug the flower stem as huge as a celestial pillar
With dense knife-like prickles and bitterness
Just like an unfortunately abandoned Lilliputian from Lilliput
To fall into a little fit of melancholy yet helplessly desperate weeping
And then to be buried slowly by the water seeping out of a dewdrop
As vast as the vault of heaven
I know it is the tidings about a stranger’s upcoming visit
Or a sign that I am leaving the city to move to another place
However every time when I wake up from my high noon dream
And crane my neck to overlook outside the window
The alley where I dreamt of the lilac, maze and monstrous daffodil
Is empty without a single soul
I can’t see the stranger all the time
Not even a familiar view of his strange back
Or his silhouette flashing through the distant entrance to the alley
In a haste and abrupt manner just like a mirage
Translation:
陌生人以陌生的方式来访
夜里 其实是在某一个隐约忆及的梦里
他把一棵枝叶繁茂但不见花开的白丁香
移植到我的阳台上 他用一根从房梁上
像绳索一样又像青蛇一样悬挂下来的藤蔓
把我收藏着精美图书和一些石雕怪兽的起居室
变成一座有萤火闪烁也有水晶在闪烁的迷宫
另一个夜里 其实是另一个隐约忆及的梦里
他把我珍藏一样养了多年的一盆水仙无限制地放大
把水仙花由一朵变成九朵 让九个硕大无朋的花蕊中
零零散散居住了一些硕大无朋的露珠
好像由人工豢养而出的比海腥味更难闻的花香
以及比包含在海藻中的湿度和弹性
更难对付的黏糊糊的纠葛
强调着我小人国里小人儿一样的小
让我像小人国里不幸被抛弃的小人儿那样
怀抱着天柱般巨大的花茎
那上面刀子一般稠密的芒刺与苦涩
陷入一场又伤感又绝望无助的小小的哭泣之中
之后被一颗硕大如同天空的露珠上泄露的水
慢慢地埋没起来
我知道这是一个陌生人将要来访的消息
要不就是我将离开本城移居他乡的一个暗示
但每一次当我从正午的梦中醒来
探长头颈向窗外眺望
我梦见丁香 迷宫和巨怪水仙的巷子里却空无一人
我始终无法见到那个陌生人
哪怕他熟悉的陌生人的背影
哪怕这个背影就像一个幻影一样
只是突然从远处的巷口上匆匆闪过
—
Yan An is a prominent poet in contemporary China, Yan An is the author of fourteen poetry books, including his most famous poetry collection, Rock Arrangement,which won him The Sixth Lu Xun Literary Prize, one of China’s top four literary prizes. The winner of various national awards and prizes, he is also a Vice President of the Poetry Institute of China, a Vice President of the Shaanxi Writers Association, a member of the National Committee of China Writers Association, and the head and Executive Editor-in-Chief of the literary journal Yan River, one of the oldest and most famous literary journals in Northwestern China. In English, his poetry book, A Naturalist’s Manor, translated by Chen Du and Xisheng Chen and published by Chax Press, was shortlisted (one of four titles) for the 2022 Lucien Stryk Asian Translation Prize, administered by the American Literary Translators Association. The poems submitted to your journal are from Yan An’s most famous book, Rock Arrangement, which was published by Shaanxi Publishing & Media Group (Taibai Literary Press) in 2013. Till now, 76,000 copies of Rock Arrangement have been sold in China and the book has been printed three times in China. The first four poems and six other poems were longlisted by the 2021 John Dryden Translation Competition.
—
Chen Du is a voting member of the American Translators Association and an expert member of the Translators Association of China with a Master’s Degree in Biophysics from Roswell Park Cancer Institute, SUNY at Buffalo and a Master’s Degree in Radio Physics from the Chinese Academy of Sciences. In the United States and a few other Western countries, she has published 142 pieces of English translations, poems, and essays in more than forty-seven literary journals. A set of five poems from Yan An’s poetry collection Rock Arrangement which was co-translated by her and Xisheng Chen won the 2021 Zach Doss Friends in Letters Memorial Fellowship. Yan An’s poetry book, A Naturalist’s Manor, translated by her and Xisheng Chen was published by Chax Press and shortlisted (one of four titles) for the 2022 Lucien Stryk Asian Translation Prize, administered by the American Literary Translators Association. Contact her at [email protected].
—
Xisheng Chen, a Chinese American, is an ESL grammarian, lexicologist, linguist, translator and educator. His educational background includes: top scorer in the English subject in the National College Entrance Examination of Jiangsu Province, a BA and an MA from Fudan University, Shanghai, China (exempted from the National Graduate School Entrance Examination owing to excellent BA test scores), and a Mandarin Healthcare Interpreter Certificate from the City College of San Francisco, CA, USA. His working history includes: translator for Shanghai TV Station, Evening English News, lecturer at Jiangnan University, Wuxi, China, adjunct professor at the Departments of English and Social Sciences of Trine University (formerly Tri-State University), Angola, Indiana, notary public, and contract high-tech translator for Futurewei Technologies, Inc. in Santa Clara, California, USA. As a translator for over three decades, he has published many translations in various fields in newspapers and journals in China and abroad.
Deer at Night by David Reuter
We’ve come into this space,
stumbling forth
and staring back into
this stage-lit space
as if in disbelief.
The brush from which we strayed
explains this hedging dread
we can’t escape.
To cross this place,
to make that fearful flight,
half-naked, blind,
requires something secret,
sorely missed.
In trembling, lurching fits,
I seek to cross the way
across this fragile plot
where we have come to meet.
Please show me how it goes,
when I can drop my frightened ways
behind, along the newly trodden tracks
I long to leave behind.
—
David Reuter has been published in A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Apricity Magazine, The Cape Rock, Courtship of Winds, El Portal, Existere Journal, The Literatus, Near Window Magazine, Neologism Poetry Journal, Pennsylvania English, Pennsylvania Literary Journal, Perceptions Magazine, Sandpiper, Sanskrit Literary-Arts Magazine, SLAB, South Shore Review, Visitant and Vox Poetica. He attended William Paterson University’s Writer’s Conference in 2018 and Rutgers Writers’ Conferences in 2017, 2018 and 2019. David has a bachelor’s degree from Caldwell College and works as a paralegal. In his free time he enjoys practicing martial arts, playing guitar and cooking.
Athena by Clare Woodring
I thought I wanted a daughter.
And so I did.
She sprouted from my cranium.
Body armor and all.
My concept became divine conception.
A motherless child, she was.
Sharp as a spear.
Sturdy as a shield.
Hera would not claim her.
I don’t think she minded.
A father, I could not be.
She must stomp on her own spiders.
Just as she bested the weaver.
Who mocked us gods with tapestry.
Now, Arachne may only spin webs.
I won't kill her snakes for her either.
She handled that in Poseidon’s temple.
With serpents for hair.
Her head on the floor.
Medusa need not purchase a comb.
I gifted her the brightest mind.
As she emerged from my own.
A cerebral creature.
Whose wit is unmatched.
In Olympus, she earned a throne.
I often worry about my creation.
Her genesis without warmth of a womb.
Much too cold inside.
She pierces me with those icy eyes.
“I think I love you, My Child.”
—
Clare Woodring is an eighteen-year-old writer from Boonsboro, Maryland. She is attending Hagerstown Community College, where she is taking a writing class elective as she completes her degree.
The 10 Things I dream about with varying degrees of alarming frequency… by Mikayla Moore
One,
Consistency in the taste of my order from Dunkin.
Seriously, there are three in town and not one of them has ever given me a drink that tastes remotely the same.
Two,
A nice sunny day on a lake somewhere with a hammock, my dog, and a good book.
It doesn’t have to be that good of a book… honestly, the trashier the better –
Three,
A chocolate milkshake.
One of the good ones – full fat, homemade whipped cream, and a cherry on top.
Throw in a scoop of peanut butter for funsies.
Four,
My name printed on the cover of the Next Great American Novel
or, one of those trashy novels with the covers you have to hide from your mom.
I’m not picky.
Five,
Spiders.
They crawl into my ears at night and build nests in my brain.
Six,
That my nephews grow up knowing that being a Good Man means being kind.
Its means being good. It means being safe.
And that no one, not a single person ever, will care how much they can bench.
Seven,
That my niece will always know she is beautiful.
But more importantly, that she is smart and capable.
And if she ever needs help hiding a body, I’m her girl.
Eight,
Every embarrassing thing I’ve ever said or done.
On repeat, over and over again – like a poorly written low-budget film
that I don’t want to keep watching, but I can’t turn it off.
Nine,
That one day I’ll be able to look in the mirror and not flinch.
That I’ll love the person staring back at me, instead of picking apart her flaws.
And number 10, the thing I dream about with the most alarming frequency…..
…..Clowns.
Ya’ll remember 2016?
No, thank you.
—
Mikayla Moore enjoys coffee, long naps, and a good book. She lives in Chambersburg, Pennsylvania, and currently attends Hagerstown Community College where she’s studying English. When she grows up, Mikayla wants to be an English teacher so that she can help others find the same joy in reading that she does.
A Fear to Dream by Cadence Spade
She longs for contentment, to have a good soul,
The days she’s achieved all of her goals.
With big dreams and a mind open wide,
Life can take a bumpy ride.
A fear to dream, a fear to live,
This new reality will soon set in.
She sets plans with expectations high,
As if she’s aiming for the sky.
What if dreams slip through her grasp,
And in the striving, dreams collapse?
What if the wings she dreams to find,
Are figments fading in her mind?
A fear to dream makes a fear to fall,
But she’ll push through and stand up tall.
She knows the journey is worth the fight,
Because she knows she’ll see the light.
Because she knows deep down in her heart,
With determination, she’ll make a new start.
Dreams may falter and plans may bend,
But with resilience, she’ll rise in the end.
—
Cadence Spade is a student at Hagerstown Community College residing in Maryland who enjoys writing as her creative outlet during spare time. She finds most of her enjoyment jotting down song ideas with hopes she will use them one day. A Fear to Dream is her first stab at a poem which was chosen to be published in her college’s literary magazine, Hedge Apple!
Willow Tree by Madelyn Foor
You strumming along
to me singing an old folk song.
The echo of birds
that continue to sing in thirds.
Through the dying breeze,
your heartbeat carries the reprise.
To the old garden,
where you can sing with me and the willow tree.
—
Madelyn Foor is a student at Hagerstown Community College hoping to graduate with an Associate’s degree in English. She loves spending time with her dog and brother. She feels deeply and hopes she can help encourage others to bear their scars and show their strength to the world.
My Unforgiving Stone by Heather Tracey
I have a dream to not be in pain,
To feel peace coursing through my veins,
And for my body to relax,
But of course,
It’s not as easy as that.
I have a stone weighing me down,
It’s not that heavy but, oh boy does it make me frown.
Who knew something so small can cause so much pain,
But I would hate to complain.
It was basically forced to become a part of me,
Please, just get it away from me.
I am counting down the days,
To get this stone out of me,
But of course, It’s not as easy as that.
How unfortunate it is to be blessed with this misfortune,
I feel like this is getting blown out of proportion,
But then I remember the small but heavy stone,
What could I possibly do to atone?
My mind is constantly busy now,
Thinking of everything and nothing at the same time.
How much longer do I have to forgive my unforgiving stone,
My unrelenting gallstone.
—
Heather Tracey is currently attending Hagerstown Community College and is working towards getting her Associates degree in English. She has lived here in Hagerstown, Maryland all her life. Her aspiration is to be a writer one day and to create her very own book with the characters she has daydreamed of for years.