TMR Volume 4 Issue 2
Total Page：16
File Type：pdf, Size：1020Kb
The Magnolia Review Volume 4, Issue 2 July 2018 Editor-in-Chief and Founder: Suzanna Anderson Welcome to the eighth issue of The Magnolia Review! We publish art, photog- raphy, poetry, comics, creative nonfiction, flash fiction, experimental work, and fiction. The Magnolia Review publishes previously unpublished work. We publish two issues a year, deadlines on November 15 and May 15. The issue will be available online on January 15 and July 15. While The Magnolia Review will not have physical copies at this time, the edi- tors may compile a print version if funds become available. Upon publication, the copyrights of the published work(s) reverts to the author. For more information, please visit www.themagnoliareview.wordpress.com or email us at [email protected]. Table of Contents Art Lonnie James The Depths of Darkness Diane Hoffman Punk 4 a Day Megan Miazgowicz A Boat Kelcey Parker Ervick Love or Death Theresa Williams From The Diary of Lea Knight Fiction William Spencer That Which More Often Than Not is Left Unsaid Gloria DeVidas Kirchheimer I Could Bake a Cherry Pie Bess Vanrenen The Land of Lakes and Volcanoes Henry Hitz Turtle Bay William Spencer Schoolboy Claire Martin The Hunter and the Home Steven B. Rosenfeld Risky TJ Neathery Ravi S. and the Tiger Paul Mills Slow fade Poetry Chuck Thompson Morning Swim Camping Simon Perchik Untitled Sarah A. Etlinger Geraniums 2 GTimothy Gordon Dark, and Darker Holly Day The First Attempt Chuck Thompson Midwives Susan P. Blevins Beware, The Handyman Cometh James Croal Jackson Valentine for Sara Rosenblum GTimothy Gordon Dream Wind Adam Durso Pharmacy Music Holly Day Fragments David Anthony Sam Superhero at Work Chuck Thompson Spirited Away Jack D. Harvey Kicking Against the Goads James Croal Jackson In Charleston, the Day After the Shooting (2015) A.J. Huffman Wolf John Grey Lenny James Croal Jackson Coma Gershon Ben-Avraham Stone Soup David Anthony Sam Kind of a Stupid Game, Isn’t It? Matthew J. Kreglow Fatal Error John Grey Manifesto James Croal Jackson Instagram A.J. Huffman I Think About Concrete Adam Durso Chainmail Sarah A. Etlinger Two Fools Susan P. Blevins Heavenly Bites Jack D. Harvey Loneliness Susan P. Blevins The Joy of Fishing Sarah A. Etlinger Standing in Front of the Montreal Japanese Gardens Chuck Thompson Baby Tunes GTimothy Gordon November in a Field John Grey Blue Blood Holly Day Prometheus Dennis Trujillo Do We Need Superheroes, Really? Holly Day The Moth Sarah A. Etlinger Geraniums 1 GTimothy Gordon Night Virga Maryfrances Wagner The Sophomores Study Julius Caesar: A Found Poem Sarah A. Etlinger Pears David Anthony Sam Chain-Smoked Monkeys James Croal Jackson Stray Susan P. Blevins The Extraction James Croal Jackson Enough Maryfrances Wagner The Sophomores Study Grammar: A Found Poem Susan P. Blevins Mother’s Toast Jack D. Harvey Birth Month Mela Blust as heavy as|water Joan Colby Me as Terrorist Darren C. Demaree bone requires bone #57 Jack D. Harvey Six Mile Pond Aloura Hattendorf The Mood Blue Kelsey Zimmerman Shots Charles W. Brice Sis Aria Callaham I wish A.J. Huffman Attached to a Lamp Post Darren C. Demaree bone requires bone #56 Mela Blust how to: make a mistake Phil Huffy Futurama Michael Whelan Tid Bit David Spicer In My Younger Years I Loved the Oboe Holly Day The Patch of Tulips I Never Planted Kelsey Zimmerman Christmas Clementine Mela Blust trespass Jennifer Davis Michael Remembering How to Build a Fire Kelsey Zimmerman Growing Pains Michael Whelan Three Words Darren C. Demaree bone requires bone #55 Holly Day The Call A.J. Huffman The Phenomenon of Bones Sarah A. Etlinger Ash Wednesday Jennifer Davis Michael Brush Fire, Roadside, North Alabama Chuck Thompson Bare Hands Simon Perchik Untitled The Magnolia Review Ink Award Letter from the Editor Reviews Contributors Morning Swim Camping Sitting alone in the neat row of white upright recliners, I sip my camp coffee and watch my young son climb up the Rockit Aquaglide, one of those giant inflatables held fast in the middle of the activity pond. Hand over hand, knees bent and then straightened, he hangs from the rungs, his grunts echoing clear to my ears from far across the quiet water. He slowly makes his way to the top, where he is free to stand once again, alone to decide when he’ll dive back in from his conquest, I’d imagine. But before he does, he turns to the shore, to me alone, flexing his 10 year old biceps and allowing a whoop to escape from his throat as if assuring God and I that—no matter the years or vicissitudes lying in wait— this memory will be no more, or less, sacred than all the others. Chuck Thompson * Heated by sand each word gathers up another one teaspoon at a time –your fever can’t be found though the address was written from salt and glass–you don’t see the envelope: the bottle crowding you from inside has to be taken by mouth as if a lull made any difference without the pieces to settle down and already your throat tastes bitter. Simon Perchik Geraniums 2 I love the contrast of white set against rich green leaves spread out like fans, the petals in smiling clusters growing in ready-made bouquets proudly bursting from the stems. The leaves are soft, soft like the inside of your thigh when I brush it with my lips, when my hand caresses it all the way down to your ankles. Sometimes I think I want to plant your feet in the soil, and water you so you soak up nutrients. Or maybe I could grow another one of you. Maybe you would sprout a seedling, a leaf— maybe I’d finally cut you back enough (down to your roots) so you would have no choice but to bloom. As you lie there with me and I fall asleep, a tendril curled against your arm, I dream of a whole row of rich, terra-cotta flowerpots holding seedlings lovingly snipped from your feet. Sarah A. Etlinger Dark, and Darker I dream of the dark, and night, nightly, how each disappears so, was ever here, ever in cold white winter when I wake before dawn, before the sky evens out over the Organs, and pink and blue hues separate from mountain mist before they melt into ether, and even before dark, and night, depart without my knowing, without day being startled into being just once more, just once more into invisible morning light, withholding its footprint from the blue air, from dreams of lost snowy fields, restive spring buds. GTimothy Gordon The First Attempt The baby gorilla lies on the table tiny, furry arms spread like an angel’s. so much was supposed to happen here that won’t. in the other room, the new mother chews thoughtfully on an orange, spitting the seeds out loudly against the far wall, she does not like seeds. before her is a tower of offerings: a cluster of small, bruised bananas oranges, kiwis, sliced apples with the cores removed all brought by caretakers whose hearts have been broken. Holly Day Midwives We trust the smart phone will stir us to life— burrowed in knapsacks, dozing on nightstands, thin in stitched pockets of faded tight jeans, —a call from our sister, home from the birth, or Uber confirmation awaiting your click. How proud the team in lab coats and funds must have been when the prototype first blinked awake, thin light to thin light, too quick for these eyes, just as they planned, just as they hoped, now released from the basins and towels and screams. Chuck Thompson Beware, The Handyman Cometh So good to have my handyman come and take care of all the projects I’d accrued for him in the past year since he was last at my house. He’s a year older now, and well, things were different. He was more Attila the Hun than Danny the Handyman. Once he had his power washer going he was like a whirling dervish, attacking the outside of my house in a frenzied dance, shredding any plants that happened to be close, spraying up fresh dirt on the surface he’d just cleaned of the old dirt, and the number he did on my windows, well, I had to call professional window cleaners the next day just so I could see out of them. They came, did their best, but their ladder was always in the wrong place, they kept dropping tools on my poor long-suffering plants, along with ash from the cigar the leader was smoking as he wheezed his way up and down the ladder, complaining all the while about how dirty my windows were. Well… yes. And while we’re at it, I’m going to mention here my neighbor, who has beautiful roses growing in his front garden along the street. But when it’s time to prune them in the spring, he lunges at them with his chainsaw. I hear their shrieks from three doors down. Every spring I cringe in expectation of the Chainsaw Rose Massacre. I guess it’s the age-old tale of men and their toys. When they age and their own tool doesn’t function so well any longer, they compensate with power tools, which like the sorcerer’s diabolical apprentice possess them with a mind of their own, and drive them on, and on, the men powerless to control them, frenzied in their eternal need for affirmation of their virility. Susan P. Blevins That Which More Often Than Not is Left Unsaid Tre — short for Trevigne — turned out to “The invisibility of causes,” she added.