Category: Webzine

Mom Wasn’t Wearing A Lampshade

David Henson

When I brought Mom back from Dad’s cremation, she walked to a corner of the living room and stood. To give her some space, I went into the kitchen and had a cup of coffee. 

When I returned, Mom appeared to have a lampshade on her head. That was surprising because Mom was never the life-of-the-party type, not to mention now was no time to be having a party. Then I realized she wasn’t wearing a lampshade – her head had become a lampshade. 

I didn’t know whether to call a doctor or an electrician so I did neither. There was no reason to be hasty because I didn’t have to get back home for a couple days.

By next morning, Mom’s transformation had progressed to where she was a floor lamp. I knew it was Mom because the base of the lamp bore a strong resemblance to her pumps. 

I was concerned that, even though it was a sunny day, Mom was on. (My folks had taught me to not waste energy.) I attempted to switch Mom off, but electricity arced from the harp and zapped me. It hurt like a son of a gun (I’ve always shocked easily), and a cartoon image of my hair standing on end and my skeleton flashing flared in my mind. 

I thought about unplugging Mom, but was afraid if I did, she might starve. How was I to know? No one in our family had ever become a lamp before. I decided that when I left town the next day, I’d leave her on. It wasn’t as if a lamp was going to meter up the utility bill washing clothes or dishes. Besides, I’d watched enough medical shows to know how important it is to first do no harm. 

I spent the day running errands, reading and talking to Mom (a strictly one-way conversation) until bedtime. 

Next morning I awoke to the sound of dishes clattering and found Mom making a big breakfast like she always did when I was home. When I told her what had transpired, she sighed and said it was ironic I would dream about her becoming a floor lamp because Dad always said she was the light of his life. 

Mom almost convinced me the whole thing had been in my mind. But when it came time for me to go, I leaned in for a hug and noticed the pupils of her eyes were shaped like tiny light bulbs.

Mom admitted she’d changed into a lamp. I reminded her how she used to warn me when I frowned that my face might freeze that way. What if something similar happened to her when she was a lamp? She said she couldn’t promise it wouldn’t happen again if her emotions got the better of her. 

What could I say? Everyone has to deal with grief in their own way. Some people transform into floor lamps. Others write a silly little story. 

David Henson and his wife have lived in Brussels and Hong Kong and now reside in Peoria, Illinois. His work has appeared various journals including Briefly Zine, Moonpark Review, Literally Stories, Riggwelter and Pithead Chapel. See more of Dave’s work on his website and follow him on Twitter (@annalou8).

Blind in Whip Wind

Adam Day

Sleeping on Meserole
out in the rain. Ground
talks. Different time
experience. Shake
the gutter and pull
a dollar out. Kids watching,
torching boredom.

Adam Day is the author of Left-Handed Wolf (LSU Press, 2020) and Model of a City in Civil War (Sarabande Books). He was received a Poetry Society of America Chapbook Fellowship for Badger, Apocrypha, and a PEN Award. He is the editor of the forthcoming anthology, Divine Orphans of the Poetic Project (1913 Press), and his work has appeared in the APR, Boston Review, Denver Quarterly, Volt, Kenyon Review, Iowa Review, and elsewhere. He is the publisher of Action, Spectacle.

Monika

Michael McGill

Monika says

it succinctly:
“You end 
up lonely

or trapped.”

Michael McGill is a poet from Edinburgh, Scotland who has recently been published in Lunate, 433, Dream Journal, Lucky Pierre, Stone of Madness Press, Dreams Walking, Milly Magazine, Versification, The Daily Drunk, Rejection Letters, FEED, 24 Unread Messages, The Cabinet of Heed and detritus. His overheard comments and photopoems also regularly appear on Twitter (@MMcGill09) and Instagram (@michael7209).

Fracture

Philip Berry

Philip Berry‘s poems have appeared in Black Bough Poetry, Lucent Dreaming, Poetry Birmingham and Lunate Fiction. He is a hospital doctor working in London. You can see more of his work on his website or on Twitter (@philaberry).

Broken Pieces of the Truth

Yuu Ikeda

The truth was burnt,
became ashes,
and they were scattered in the wind.

Nobody knows where the ashes go.

Someday,
broken pieces of the truth will rot on the ground.

Although the sky is clear and blue, and there are no shadows of clouds,
ashes of the truth that cloud the ground
are wandering slowly and secretly.

Yuu Ikeda is Japanese. Her poem ‘Sinful Silhouette’ was published in the online journal Rigorous. Read more of her poetry on her website.

A toast

DS Maolalai

fallon sends a message;
he can’t make it 
out tonight. 
he’s somehow  
snagged an interview;  
must keep his head  
on tight. I tell him 
that’s ok,  
and that we’ll raise one 
in his honour. drink a toast 
with bats 
to fruiting trees 
of opportunity.

DS Maolalai has been nominated eight times for Best of the Net and four times for the Pushcart Prize. His poetry has been released in two collections, “Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden” (Encircle Press, 2016) and “Sad Havoc Among the Birds” (Turas Press, 2019).

Two Poems

Kim Michalak

Dead Upon Arrival

I awoke from visions of birthing
            two virile green snakes from my chest
            just beneath the right collarbone,
            the third left decaying inside me
Triplets of time: past, present, &
            future dead upon arrival

What the Flowers Know

The scent of lilies followed us
home from the hospital in a swollen
blue vase deemed appropriate
to welcome our little boy.
Dead center of the dining table,
they filled our modest rental
with a memorial smell,
lingering whisper of death.
Four times a night I closed my eyes
to flashes of my baby asphyxiating —
(SIDS a looming reaper)
& each time I awoke to hungry cries
their scent reminded me
I have no idea how to keep my boy alive.

Kim Michalak is a Florida-based poet, mother, and optical stylist. She received an MFA in Creative Writing from Chatham University and serves as an associate poetry editor for The Fourth River. Her works can be found in Brushing, Rose Red Review, and Snapdragon: A Journal of Art & Healing. 

Labyrinth

Jeff Burt

I prefer to slip back through the ear,
ignoring the common portal of throat,

sliding past the anvil, hammer, and stirrup
so quietly I cannot hear myself come in,

though often I am caught repeating
the echoing walls of the heart.

Jeff Burt lives in California and works in mental health. He has contributed to Tar River Poetry, Sheila-Na-Gig, and Williwaw Journal.

The Goodnight Kiss

Tabbytha Spyrison

And I would beg forgiveness,
though you have little left to give.
Instead,

my bloodstained bones will bend
a mist of midnight air
to crown your forehead.

Tabbytha Spyrison is an aspiring student writer, enrolled at Warren Wilson College. Her poetry has been published in her high school literary magazine and she has a short story in the WWC Literary journal.  

At Confucius’ Resting Place

John Tustin

The ivy or whatever it is
Comes right up from the grassy earth
Like a great octopus’ tentacles
Gripping the deck of a flailing ship
And slowly covers the stone animals
That solemnly stand along the path
Leading to the place where
The dirt now covers Confucius.

The ram and the horse and the tiger
Do not fall.
Neither does Confucius
Rise.

John Tustin’s poetry has appeared in many disparate literary journals in the last dozen years. See a full list of his published poetry online on his website.