Teenage Funeral by Matt Longerbeam 

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.

An Exhale of Time by Brittani Watkins 

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]

Alice in the Mist by Corinda Pitts Marsh 

“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.

The Dreams of Love by Jack Krumpe 

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.

The Candle Kid by Harvey Silverman

I don’t know if my father was a tough guy

In the sixty-three years that I knew him – he was twenty-seven years old when I was born, when he became a dad – he never seemed at all like a tough guy. He was a warm and loving man, kind and friendly. College educated – he was a pharmacist – he worked hard, loved his family, never ever demonstrated the least bit of violence, and was scrupulously honest. He laughed and enjoyed corny jokes. 

Me: I just took a shower. 

Dad: I thought there was one missing. 

He was certainly not physically imposing, standing five feet six inches. Though robust as my father, photos in adolescence or as a very young man show a slight, skinny, perhaps even scrawny fellow who could not have weighed one hundred thirty pounds. 

It was the rare unguarded remark, just a couple really, that hinted he might indeed have at one time been other than the peaceful fellow who reared me. 

Perhaps he had to be tough. He grew up in New York City in the 20’s and 30’s. I guess there existed a certain enmity – particularly among the first- and second-generation Americans – between different groups growing up then; The Jews, the Irish, the Italians, others 

Just once Dad recalled, ever so briefly, walking down a street alone when a group of boys his age, members of a rival ethnic group, yelled insults across the street at him. Dad crossed the street and offered to fight the entire group so long as they agreed it would be “one at a time.” A policeman happened by and dispersed the would-be combatants before any fighting could begin. Dad did say he was not disappointed by the policeman’s arrival. 

He never spoke of that episode again even when I asked about it. “Oh, I don’t know.” 

But he did one time admit, in reply to my asking if he got in a lot of fights as a kid, “I never ever went looking for trouble or a fight. But I wouldn’t run away.” 

Dad did relate in a bit more detail an episode that occurred during basic training in the army in 1942. A friend told Dad that another trainee named “Tony” was picking on Dad’s friends and he needed “to take care of it.” Dad described Tony as a big fellow, six feet tall, over two hundred pounds. Why would they have asked Dad to take on a much larger guy if he were not thought capable? 

“I can’t do it tonight, I have guard duty. I’ll take care of it tomorrow.” 

By the next day, though, Dad’s friends had joined together to eliminate any future problems with Tony, thereby relieving Dad of the task. He told me he was, as before, not disappointed. 

Perhaps the last story he told me answers the tough guy question. Still in the army, now a pharmacist at Thayer Army Hospital in Nashville, he began training for a boxing tournament that would be held for the soldiers. Shortly before the tournament he suffered second degree burns on his back and thus could not compete. 

“I was going to box as The Candle Kid.” 

“Really? Why did you pick that name, Dad?” 

“Easy. One blow and I was out.” 

Harvey Silverman is a retired old coot and writes nonfiction primarily for his own enjoyment.

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. 

Last in Line by Alice Baburek 

The aged woman cautiously looked about the almost empty parking lot. A handful of cars remained. Employees, no doubt. Her car sat alone under the light. It had been a beautiful summer evening. A quick dash to the grocery store with only fifteen minutes to spare. The bag she carried was not heavy, just bulky. The few items inside shifted, tearing the paper-thin bag. The large oranges tumbled to the ground.

“Not again,” she mumbled. She clicked open the back end of the vehicle and placed the torn bag inside. She did not notice the dark figure near the side of her car. Without hesitation, she bent down and began retrieving the fallen fruit.

“Your purse, old lady,” demanded a shaky voice. Alison Chambers stood up, almost tipping over.

“What?” she asked, regaining her balance. She tossed the oranges in the open car. The ominous figure held a shiny steel serrated knife. The dark hood fell off his thick, mussed hair. The young man licked his cracked lips.

“You heard me…your purse…now…before I cut you wide open.” The crazy-eyed punk snickered. His hand trembled. Alison could see the sweat on his forehead. His T-shirt was stained. The dirty blue jeans hugged his youthful hips.

“Young man, I’m sure you can see plainly I do not have a purse. In fact, I do not carry a purse for just this reason,” explained Alison. Her heart beat a tad faster. She ignored the

increasing palpitations. A slight pain inched across her heavy chest. Her mind focused. With a little luck, she could diffuse the unfortunate situation.

The assailant glanced around. It was just the two of them. “You had to have money, old lady, to buy your groceries. So, give it up,” he shouted, leaning in closer to her face.

Alison immediately pulled back. She crossed her arms. “Exactly my point! I only bring what I know I’m going to spend. Nothing more…nothing less.” The young thug rubbed the back of his moist neck.

“Come on…you’ve got to have something. Nobody goes to the store with exact change. You’re lying to me!” he screamed. He thrusted the knife at Alison.

In a split second, Alison closed her droopy eyelids. She focused on his musky scent. Her self-defense instincts immediately took over. She had been practicing them for years. Her aged body reacted with precision. Within a blink of an eye, she moved out of the way and then grabbed his unprotected wrist.

“Damn!” yelled the young man as he howled in agony. The shining blade clinked as it hit the pavement. Wasting no time, Alison swung her heavy leg upwards into his open groin. The assailant crumpled in agony onto his knees. Crying out obscenities lost into the night.

“What the…?” spittle flew from his contorted mouth. Alison backed further away. She felt her pants pocket and retrieved her cell phone. She punched the number 911. But nothing

happened. The young thug was still grappling with his tender private parts. Tears streamed down his dirty face.

Alison could hear sirens in the distance. Someone from the store must have called. It wouldn’t be long now. Suddenly, a middle-aged woman was standing next to her. She smiled at Alison.

“I like your style,” said the stranger. Alison stared at the mysterious woman.

“Where did you come from?” questioned Alison. The woman had a pleasant face with a few wrinkles. Her hair was short and curly. A blue polo and capri pants fit the woman’s flattering curves.

“I don’t think this jerk will ever learn,” said a deep male voice. Alison’s eyes were instantly drawn to the strange man standing near the assailant, who was still crying in pain.

“Why do I get stuck with the likes of this kind?” The mystery man was tall and lanky. His flannel shirt and blue jeans hung loose. Short, dark hair and a long-pointed nose. He couldn’t be more than thirty. And he seemed to know the mystery woman.

“Where did you come from?” asked Alison. She looked back and forth between the two strangers.

“Same place as her,” he stated, pointing to the female beside Alison.

The young man on the ground was sniffling. “I’m sorry, lady. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you, honest!” he whimpered.

Alison’s eyebrows squished together. What was he talking about? She hurt him—not the other way around.

“I don’t understand,” whispered Alison. The woman beside her sighed.

“He didn’t actually kill you…well, his actions caused your heart to rupture. Your mitral valve was blocked. There’s no coming back from that. Even if the paramedics did arrive a tad earlier…it was your time.” It was then Alison saw the body on the ground.

“Is…is that me?” murmured Alison. Her wrinkled hand gently touched her quivering lips.

Before the stranger could answer, two police cruisers pulled up. A female officer jumped out of her vehicle, pulled her gun, and aimed it at the blubbering assailant. The other officer rushed to the deceased and immediately started to perform CPR.

“Don’t move…keep your hands where I can see them,” insisted the female officer. The young assailant had stopped crying. He remained still on the ground.

“My wrist…it’s broken. The old woman broke my wrist. Can you believe it? She kicked me in the balls, too. What old person does that?” he moaned.

“One who has to defend themselves against scum like you!” shouted the strange man. “I swear…” He shook his head. “Is this my penance?” He gestured his hand towards the crook.

“It’s up to the Almighty, you know this, Stuart.” The woman pointed to the sky.

“Anne…of course, I know this. But why me? Why am I tasked to guard a delinquent soon to be convicted of murder?” Anne shrugged her shoulders.

“I didn’t ask for this job, Anne. I had no choice in the matter.” He paced back and forth.

The paramedics arrived. Alison’s attention was drawn to the two older males as they rushed to the body—her body—white face and skin the color of ash.

One of the paramedics took over for the officer. Minutes ticked by. He checked her pulse. He looked up at his coworker and then shook his head from side to side.

“She’s gone. Let’s get the gurney.” Minutes later, they lifted Alison’s empty shell.

“Hey! Hey! What about me? My wrist is broken. I need medical attention!” shouted the young man, still on the ground.

As they pushed the gurney inside the back of the ambulance, one of the men turned to respond.

“You can catch the next ride,” he said through gritted teeth.

The female officer holstered her weapon and pulled out her handcuffs. The male officer read the murderer his rights.

“Let’s go, buddy. I’ll take you to the hospital.” They helped the young suspect into the backseat of the cruiser and clicked his free hand to the steel bar.

“Stuart, you’re going to miss your ride,” stated Anne. Alison could not wrap her mind around the scenario unfolding before her. Was she dreaming? Or was she really dead?

“Oh, that’s funny, Anne. Really funny! Ha, ha!” Stuart twirled into a circle and then disappeared.

“Where…where did he go?” asked Alison.

“Wherever Henry Wilson goes,” replied Anne. “You see, Stuart is his guardian angel. He’s been tasked with guarding the man who just happened to cause your death.”

Alison watched as the ambulance pulled away with silent flashing lights. The police cruiser containing Henry Wilson sped out of the parking lot.

The other officer left behind was speaking on her shoulder mic. Then, she opened her trunk and pulled out the yellow crime scene tape.

“I’m Anne, by the way—your guardian angel. We should be going. There’s nothing left for you here anymore, Alison.” The middle-aged woman gave a slight smile.

“I can’t believe…” Alison’s words trailed off.” Was she truly dead?

“I know. It’s a lot to take in. In time, you’ll come to grips with it.” Anne slowly turned and then looked back at Alison over her shoulder.

“What’s next?” asked Alison. And then suddenly, a miraculous peacefulness consumed her soul.

“Well, that’s actually up to you. Let’s take a walk, and I’ll give you a few pointers…” The two women then disappeared into the swirling white mist under the heavenly starlit sky.

Alice Baburek is an avid reader, determined writer and animal lover. She lives with her partner and four canine companions. Retired from one of the largest library systems in Ohio, she challenges herself to become an unforgettable emerging voice.

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.