Month: July 2020
The Camels’ Apple Tree Series, 8 of 8
by Serge Lecomte
Serge Lecomte was born in Belgium. He came to the States where he spent his teens in South Philly and then Brooklyn. After graduating from Tilden H. S. he worked for New York Life Insurance Company. He joined the Medical Corps in the Air Force and was sent to Selma, Alabama during the Civil Rights Movement. There he was a crewmember on helicopter rescue. He received a B.A. in Russian Studies from the University of Alabama. Earned an M.A. and Ph.D. from Vanderbilt University in Russian Literature with a minor in French Literature. He worked as a Green Beret language instructor at Fort Bragg, NC from 1975-78. In 1988 he received a B.A. from the University of Alaska Fairbanks in Spanish Literature. He worked as a language teacher at the University of Alaska (1978-1997).
He was the poetry editor for Paper Radio for several years. He worked as a house builder, pipefitter, orderly in a hospital, gardener, landscaper, driller for an assaying company, bartender in one of Fairbanks’ worst bars, and other jobs. He resided on the Kenai Peninsula, Alaska for 15 years and recently moved to Bellingham, WA.
See what happens when you click below.
What surprising, fascinating stuff can you tell us about the origin, drafting, and/or final version of “The Camels’ Apple Tree Series”? Serge Lecomte began his life as a writer, publishing numerous poetry collections and graduating to novels. His novels could be described as somewhat surreal. Crossed realities usually yield amazing and sometimes shocking results. He works mainly in acrylics on watercolor paper but has recently begun working on canvas. He would describe his work as eclectic because he is still learning and is willing to experiment with shapes and colors depending on the mood (sometimes contradictory) of the theme he might be working on. The images are a blend of the natural world and imaginary creatures. Some of his paintings have a message (subtle), most do not. But then you see what you want to see and hear what you want to hear. After all, everyone has a view and take on the world around them. I am engaged with the world around him and vice versa. by Delaney Burk To sign “I love you”, put up your thumb, index, and pinkie fingers. At the same time, press your middle and ring fingers to your palm. Hold your hand out, palm facing away from you, and move it slightly back and forth. To sign “I love you”, keep sewing up your gloves. Even when you point out how you just want to replace them. That heavy yard gloves would be better for work and keep your hands warmer. That you’re tired of cold, achy fingers. Just because I said it was easier to understand you when you first bought that pair. To sign “I love you”, don’t get upset with me when I don’t like eating out. Assure the waiter that I wasn’t hungry, and we’ll take it to go. Don’t make fun of me when I end up making up a sandwich or some eggs when I get home because I don’t trust restaurants and because I like seeing you beside me, eating my cold fries while I cook. To sign “I love you”, let me drive. Even though I go too slowly, and I always leave the seat too far back. Fuck around with the radio before you put your hand on my thigh or play with my hair. Run your thumb over the spot where you say I’m going bald. To sign “I love you”, talk to me. Make eye contact with me in the mirror when we get ready in the morning. Don’t look longingly at couples holding hands. Gesture broadly and passionately and smile so big that I can’t read your lips. Wait until I’m finished speaking to kiss me. Be okay with leaving the lights on during sex. Make my whole body go red when you tell me that the sounds I made were beautiful. Ignore me when I try to stop your hands, try to stop you from going on. Call me a pussy when I say you’re a sap and insist we go another round before breakfast. To sign “I love you”, argue with me. Don’t just let me win things. Tell me you wanted to stop at a different store, that you think scotch and soda is gross, that I have crap fashion sense. Tell me what somebody said even though I could read their lips and I know you’re lying to mess with me. Only concede with that scowl on your face as you throw your hand in front of your forehead in a reluctant “I guess”. To sign “I love you”, don’t shut me out. Don’t look away. Don’t cross your arms or shove your hands in your pockets. Don’t walk far ahead of me. Don’t get mad when I hit tables and stomp on the floor. Look at me. Goddamn it, look at me. Please. Don’t leave me alone. It’s not fucking fair. To sign “I love you”, protect me. To sign “I love you”, let me do the same for you. To sign “I love you”, put up your thumb, index, and pinkie fingers. At the same time, press your middle and ring fingers to your palm. Hold your hand out, palm facing away from you, and move it slightly back and forth. To sign “I love you”, I don’t stop at diners or cafés. To sign “I miss you”, I drive without your hand on my thigh. To sign “I need you”, I keep my hands at my sides. There’s no one left to listen anyway. Delaney Burk grew up in Alexandria, VA and recently earned her degree in English with a Creative Writing focus at Virginia Commonwealth University. She’s been previously published in Pwatem, Amendment, Crab Fat Magazine, From Whispers to Roars, Gravitas Magazine, Bottom Shelf Whiskey, Cleaning Up Glitter Literary Journal, The Aurora Review, and Coffin Bell Journal. When she is not watching every Colin Firth movie ever made or hoarding lipstick like a really lame dragon, she is exploring the urban fantasy genre, finding ways to merge horror and humor, and writing run-on sentences. She is currently interning for Feels Blind Literary Magazine and preparing to attend George Mason University’s MFA program in the fall. See what happens when you click below. What surprising, fascinating stuff can you tell us about the origin, drafting, and/or final version of “When the sign for ‘I love you’ is overused”? The origin is kind of ridiculous and not quite the answer that is befitting of a serious publication, but I guess it would pay to be honest. I wrote this poem as a gift to my best friend that is an homage to the television adaptation of “Fargo”. It is a love poem rooted in a television show that is based on a movie. And as silly as that may be, I’m really proud of it. Hell, enough publications liked it that I was having editors asking to take the piece even after I withdrew it from consideration. I feel like the term “fan fiction” gets a bad wrap because there’s been such a stigma built around it when, in reality, very little is original anymore. Not exactly a hot take, but if there are going to be hundred of re-imaginings of Sherlock Holmes and Shakespeare plays, I can publish something like this. Just because something is a revamped adaptation doesn’t make it any less poignant to the reader. After all, how many Best Picture winners have been based on books? by Lynn Wagner Lilies span the triptych a full forty feet. What keeps out of the frame. She casts a wet shadow of pink lotus that part with black dog’s calm Lynn Wagner is the author of the chapbook, No Blues This Raucous Song. Her poems have appeared in Shenandoah, Subtropics, West Branch, Cavewall and other journals. She earned an MFA in Poetry from the University of Pittsburgh and lives and writes in Denver, Colorado where she teaches. poetry at Lighthouse Writers Workshop. Find her at https://lynnwagner.com. See what happens when you click below. What surprising, fascinating stuff can you tell us about the origin, drafting, and/or final version of “Black Dog Enters the Sea of Monet”? A friend took me to the Monet show at Denver Art Museum as a birthday present. Throughout the whole show I was salivating to see the water lilies. The exhibition had smaller ones but not the large paintings I remembered from abroad. I am working on a series of black dog poems so she entered in. The exact painting is “Reflections of Clouds on the Water-Lily Pond” at the MoMA. This poem benefitted from a workshop and a trusted poetry friend—thanks Chris, thanks Cate! by Serge Lecomte Serge Lecomte was born in Belgium. He came to the States where he spent his teens in South Philly and then Brooklyn. After graduating from Tilden H. S. he worked for New York Life Insurance Company. He joined the Medical Corps in the Air Force and was sent to Selma, Alabama during the Civil Rights Movement. There he was a crewmember on helicopter rescue. He received a B.A. in Russian Studies from the University of Alabama. Earned an M.A. and Ph.D. from Vanderbilt University in Russian Literature with a minor in French Literature. He worked as a Green Beret language instructor at Fort Bragg, NC from 1975-78. In 1988 he received a B.A. from the University of Alaska Fairbanks in Spanish Literature. He worked as a language teacher at the University of Alaska (1978-1997). He was the poetry editor for Paper Radio for several years. He worked as a house builder, pipefitter, orderly in a hospital, gardener, landscaper, driller for an assaying company, bartender in one of Fairbanks’ worst bars, and other jobs. He resided on the Kenai Peninsula, Alaska for 15 years and recently moved to Bellingham, WA. See what happens when you click below. What surprising, fascinating stuff can you tell us about the origin, drafting, and/or final version of “The Camels’ Apple Tree Series”? Serge Lecomte began his life as a writer, publishing numerous poetry collections and graduating to novels. His novels could be described as somewhat surreal. Crossed realities usually yield amazing and sometimes shocking results. He works mainly in acrylics on watercolor paper but has recently begun working on canvas. He would describe his work as eclectic because he is still learning and is willing to experiment with shapes and colors depending on the mood (sometimes contradictory) of the theme he might be working on. The images are a blend of the natural world and imaginary creatures. Some of his paintings have a message (subtle), most do not. But then you see what you want to see and hear what you want to hear. After all, everyone has a view and take on the world around them. I am engaged with the world around him and vice versa. by Beverly A. Jackson He talked often about the Rapture. He knew I was an atheist, so I assumed he was trying to convert me, scare me, or bug me. It bugged me. The way my mouth got pouty and full when I was annoyed made him horny. Or so he said, later. On the day he disappeared we walked the beach. Heat radiated from the sand and every step was like being turned on a spit. Even the ocean looked flat and hot. He didn’t wear bathing trunks well. His stomach protruded, and the cut made his legs look short. Sweat glistened on his hairy back. My stomach churned as he discussed our future. “Hey, a September wedding would be terrific,” he chirped. “You probably want a church.” “Well, yeah!” He turned and sneered as if I’d just suggested an orgy. “All that religious mumbo jumbo? It’s supposed to be about us. “Marriage is sanctioned by God.” He sighed.. “What if I don’t want to be sanctioned? I stopped to adjust my straw hat, relieving the dampness at my hairline. He was silent for a beat. Then. “I don’t know how we ever got this far.” “It’s not too late to change our minds,” I said, my mouth going pouty. But I knew why. Because no one else had proposed, that’s why. All those men and all that sex, and then they disappeared. On the first day we met, he went all goofy and said, “I can tell already that I’m going to marry you.” I was surprised and charmed. But he was like a locomotive’s cow catcher, pushing me, pushing me–away from other men, away from my friends, his sheer will more than I could fight off. Dazed and lazy, I let it go on, knowing it would never happen. Not in 100 years. He was nothing like the man I wanted for a husband. “It’s not too late,” I repeated, squinting in the bright sunlight, looking for his reaction, but he wasn’t there. He had disappeared into hot air. What happened that day was a little like a national crisis. Seven hundred people disappeared and the freaking churches had a field day. The Rapture is Real screamed the headlines. My family and friends were happy he was gone, no matter by what transport. I didn’t believe in the Rapture or disappearances, so I figured it was some hoax. But I found myself suffering. He had loved me. I had been a bitch. Assholes came and went, but I was still single. A year later there was a knock on my door. And there he was. He looked different. He was thinner and more handsome. He had on strange clothes, but it was his attitude that was most disconcerting. He was pleased to see me, but in a tentative way; not goofy or ardent. The only interest he showed was getting me to bed. He couldn’t get his funny silver spandex uniform off fast enough. “Don’t touch that,” he warned, when I reached out to stroke the shiny fabric. He was much better in bed than the old days. “Where have you been?” I murmured. “It was the Rapture, remember?” “Don’t bullshit me.” “I don’t believe in that anymore, so don’t worry. And you? You still don’t believe in anything, right?” That annoyed me. That’s when he told me about my pouty mouth and kissed me again. I found myself really getting excited at these new prospects. But you know how you just know something? Well, I knew, right then and there, he was going to disappear again. Beverly A. Jackson writes, paints and does clay art in Colorado. Her fiction and poetry have appeared online and in print in over 100 literary venues. Her 2-volume memoir “Loose Fish” is available on Amazon, while her novel “The Far Reach of the Ancient Gods” is currently seeking a publisher. See what happens when you click below. What surprising, fascinating stuff can you tell us about the origin, drafting, and/or final version of “The Rapture”? As a totally irreverent person (regarding organized religion), I always thought of The Rapture to be as intriguing and unbelievable as, say, being captured by UFO’s. Once the seed is planted, the ‘what ifs’ never stop. Matter Press reflects my life philosophy that ‘less is more’ thus explaining all. by Julie Benesh
See what happens when you click below. What surprising, fascinating stuff can you tell us about the origin, drafting, and/or final version of “Between Camelots”? I have long been lulled by the incantation of book titles. While I was quarantined (with them) their gentle murmurs segued into urgent, insistent chants and shouts. The titles were both the exo-skeleton that sheltered all the nuanced inner workings holding all the processes together and calls and responses not just to me, but to one another. While I had “written” (found? discovered? sculpted? hosted?) several of these book spine narratives, on various themes, some shared photographically and others as prose poems, a triptych seemed like the best means yet of honoring the original creators without whom these voices would not be heard, let alone converse together. by Serge Lecomte Serge Lecomte was born in Belgium. He came to the States where he spent his teens in South Philly and then Brooklyn. After graduating from Tilden H. S. he worked for New York Life Insurance Company. He joined the Medical Corps in the Air Force and was sent to Selma, Alabama during the Civil Rights Movement. There he was a crewmember on helicopter rescue. He received a B.A. in Russian Studies from the University of Alabama. Earned an M.A. and Ph.D. from Vanderbilt University in Russian Literature with a minor in French Literature. He worked as a Green Beret language instructor at Fort Bragg, NC from 1975-78. In 1988 he received a B.A. from the University of Alaska Fairbanks in Spanish Literature. He worked as a language teacher at the University of Alaska (1978-1997). He was the poetry editor for Paper Radio for several years. He worked as a house builder, pipefitter, orderly in a hospital, gardener, landscaper, driller for an assaying company, bartender in one of Fairbanks’ worst bars, and other jobs. He resided on the Kenai Peninsula, Alaska for 15 years and recently moved to Bellingham, WA. See what happens when you click below. What surprising, fascinating stuff can you tell us about the origin, drafting, and/or final version of “The Camels’ Apple Tree Series”? Serge Lecomte began his life as a writer, publishing numerous poetry collections and graduating to novels. His novels could be described as somewhat surreal. Crossed realities usually yield amazing and sometimes shocking results. He works mainly in acrylics on watercolor paper but has recently begun working on canvas. He would describe his work as eclectic because he is still learning and is willing to experiment with shapes and colors depending on the mood (sometimes contradictory) of the theme he might be working on. The images are a blend of the natural world and imaginary creatures. Some of his paintings have a message (subtle), most do not. But then you see what you want to see and hear what you want to hear. After all, everyone has a view and take on the world around them. I am engaged with the world around him and vice versa. by Jolene McIlwain Ashes dangled on the end of Gwen’s dad’s cigarette. He squinted his eye as smoke drifted up. Tips of his fingers were slick with oil. The rifle lay on a bath-towel on the shag green living-room carpet where one night before Gwen’s cousins slithered disco moves to the Bee Gees “Night Fever.” This late afternoon, no music. News yammered low. That story again about President Carter’s daughter Amy and the elephant. A year before, Gwen had been so envious of the girl and the baby elephant named Shanti she’d received “on behalf of the children of America.” Gwen would never touch that elephant. She’d begged to visit their local zoo, but her dad said zoos were horrible places. “Keep beasts too far from their own ways of being in the world. Makes them all kinds of crazy.” The news now explained the story of Amy Carter and a “runaway elephant,” spooked at Ethel Kennedy’s home by a barking dog. Almost stampeded Amy. The secret service saved her. Gwen’s dad turned around quick to see the screen. He shook his head. He’d loved JFK. Hated Carter. He snapped his fingers to get Gwen’s attention, threaded a cloth patch through the cleaning rod, slid the rod up through the barrel. The fawn chamois across his knees was stained with black hashes. She pushed closer so her knees were inches from the towel. Tomatoes cooking down in a bath of basil, oregano, garlic, bubbled in from the kitchen. Gwen’s mom’s scraping the pan’s sides cut scratches in the sound of her humming gossip to Aunt Ramey. She peeked in to see Gwen was far enough from the gun, stretching the phone cord until loops were near straight. Gwen’s dad was chatty, as always after a hunt. Three purpled squirrel bodies that had been soaking in the sink simmered in the sauce. They’d have spaghetti. She’d pretend again she wasn’t hungry. He explained the rifling, how careful one had to be with that rifling when cleaning the gun. His cigarette danced. He set it on the ashtray by his knees, picked up the gun, stared into the muzzle end of the barrel. Gwen gasped a little—eyes wide, a grin pushing at her dimples. Her gut dizzied. “Don’t hurt to look down it when it’s empty,” he said, “but you never should.” She bit the inside of her cheek. She didn’t want to hope the gun would go off, a bullet forgotten in the chamber. She didn’t want to wonder what the house would sound like without him, if they’d sing louder, with more harmony, or if singing would stop altogether—after all, he was the best wailer of Hank Williams’s “Long Gone Lonesome Blues.” She didn’t want to wonder if her brother would finally sleep sound instead of waking in the night, sleepwalking outside to check the beagles. He’d always made sure their dad hadn’t beaten them for barking, for waking people who’d had the early shift. Would her brother be less or more skittish as the sole man left in the house? She needed to get away from the gun, from all the possible worlds it offered. She tried to push her mind away from her house in The Slip, to think about only nice elephants, about strong arms of the secret service who could lift you from any danger, about girls with fathers who had more choices than her dad could ever have. She got up, walked to the kitchen. Sniffed at the sauce. Poked at the meat with the spoon. Watched it come loose from the bone. Jolene McIlwain’s writing appears online at New Orleans Review, Cincinnati Review, Prairie Schooner, River Teeth, Prime Number Magazine, and elsewhere, and was recently selected for 2019’s Best Small Fictions anthology. Her work has been nominated for Pushcarts and named finalist by Sundress Publications for their 2018 Best of the Net anthology, Glimmer Train’s New Writer’s Award, and Arts & Letters Unclassifiables contest, as well as semifinalist in Nimrod’s Katherine Anne Porter Prize and both American Short Fiction’s Short and Short(er) Fiction contests. See what happens when you click below. What surprising, fascinating stuff can you tell us about the origin, drafting, and/or final version of “Oiling the Gun”? The origin of this story was prompted in Kathy Fish’s Fast Flash© class: Recall a vivid memory from childhood, perhaps triggered by a scent. Mine was simple: gun oil. My memory: watching my dad clean his rifle, something I loved. The President Carter reference was there from the first draft, but Amy was not. Several drafts in, I double-checked the dates and specifics in the New York Times’s articles from April 1977 (“Amy Carter to Accept Elephant”) and May 1978 (“President’s Daughter Saved From Elephant”), and added Amy and the elephant news. I strive to compose intimate portraits of characters similar to those who’ve raised me—family, neighbors, friends, strangers from my small town—in order to complicate the stereotypes that dog them. Gwen’s father is not my dad, but they have much in common. A child of immigrants, my dad was an avid hunter, an amazing singer. He also loved JFK and he could be mercurial. I never understood his desperation and anger and its true targets until I started looking more closely at the limits imposed against him and those in his working-class upbringing. His seasonal work as a Teamster was tied to the steel and construction industries and not sufficient to boost our family out of the working-poor class, so in lean times he hunted to supplement our meals. He took great care of his guns; he couldn’t afford to replace them. He hated that I could not stomach the groundhog, pheasant, squirrel, rabbit, and venison he provided. I didn’t understand why he killed animals. I didn’t understand so much about him until I began writing fictional characters who share his most complex traits. by Clio Velentza It’s falling apart. Better than nothing. Here’s a newspaper. What does it say? That a young man with a serene face died on a bench at A–platz, last May. Really? I’ve never been there. Me neither. What was his name? They don’t know. Must be Hans. They’re always called Hans. Or Karl. They’re always called Karl. How old is this newspaper? Old… January seventeenth. That’s today! It’s my birthday. Really? No, not really. I always wanted my birthday to fall on an important day. Is today important? Isn’t it?
How old was Hans-Karl? “Young.” Are we not young? I’m not sure. Do you think they’ll write about us too? “Two young women died in a crumbling automat at L–strasse.” “Two young women with a serene face.” One dies very differently on a soft May night. Your face seems quite serene. It’s the gloom. I could be feeling serene. Or: “two young women of divine beauty…” That depends on how they’ll find us. People hate hearing about “young women” starved. Oh! I’m not hungry anymore. You’re not? I no longer feel it. Imagine that! Look, the snow stopped. Now the real cold will kick in. I always liked snow. It made my body feel like warm bread. Coffee would make everything alright. If Hans-Karl had some coffee he wouldn’t have gone missing. Hans-Karl! Yes? We owe you a cup of coffee. Why, thank you. Now there’s no reason for you to go to P–platz. A–platz. We have everything you need right here: pork knuckles… Pickles… Jam doughnuts.
What’s that? The structure can’t support the snow. What would you like to eat? Doughnuts. And chocolate cake. Only walnut cream cake, I’m afraid. It’ll do.
How would you like to celebrate your birthday? We could go dancing. I’d like best to go to A–platz, and find that bench. Do you think he’s still there? Who? Hans-Karl? Yes. Most likely. I’d like to invite him to dinner. Can I join you? Of course! I believe I like this man with the serene face. We’d make good friends. What do you think? “Two young women with a serene face…” Do you feel serene? Yes.
Me too. Clio Velentza is a writer from Athens, Greece. She is a winner of Best Microfiction, Wigleaf’s Top 50 and The Best Small Fictions, and a Pushcart Prize nominee. She writes prose and plays, and her work has appeared in several literary journals. You can find her on twitter at @clio_v See what happens when you click below. What surprising, fascinating stuff can you tell us about the origin, drafting, and/or final version of “Automat”? “Automat” is closely connected to my time at the Greek National Theatre’s 3rd Playwriting Studio. The first draft was written at the end of our two-year stretch, using the same writing prompt as the one we had been first given for our samples accompanying the application process. It was so that we could highlight how far we’d come as writers in that time. After translating it from Greek I thought a lot about the original play format, and how that could be transcribed as to be able to stand on its own on the page as a literary text. One big lesson the Studio taught me was the value of ellipsis and economy. The text was then whittled down to half its size and into the bare essentials. Here for the first time I used italics to signify dialogue, and the visual effect of this was a pleasant surprise: it could be a dialogue of two people, or of two voices in the same head. It’s up to the reader to decide. by Serge Lecomte Serge Lecomte was born in Belgium. He came to the States where he spent his teens in South Philly and then Brooklyn. After graduating from Tilden H. S. he worked for New York Life Insurance Company. He joined the Medical Corps in the Air Force and was sent to Selma, Alabama during the Civil Rights Movement. There he was a crewmember on helicopter rescue. He received a B.A. in Russian Studies from the University of Alabama. Earned an M.A. and Ph.D. from Vanderbilt University in Russian Literature with a minor in French Literature. He worked as a Green Beret language instructor at Fort Bragg, NC from 1975-78. In 1988 he received a B.A. from the University of Alaska Fairbanks in Spanish Literature. He worked as a language teacher at the University of Alaska (1978-1997). He was the poetry editor for Paper Radio for several years. He worked as a house builder, pipefitter, orderly in a hospital, gardener, landscaper, driller for an assaying company, bartender in one of Fairbanks’ worst bars, and other jobs. He resided on the Kenai Peninsula, Alaska for 15 years and recently moved to Bellingham, WA. See what happens when you click below. What surprising, fascinating stuff can you tell us about the origin, drafting, and/or final version of “The Camels’ Apple Tree Series”? Serge Lecomte began his life as a writer, publishing numerous poetry collections and graduating to novels. His novels could be described as somewhat surreal. Crossed realities usually yield amazing and sometimes shocking results. He works mainly in acrylics on watercolor paper but has recently begun working on canvas. He would describe his work as eclectic because he is still learning and is willing to experiment with shapes and colors depending on the mood (sometimes contradictory) of the theme he might be working on. The images are a blend of the natural world and imaginary creatures. Some of his paintings have a message (subtle), most do not. But then you see what you want to see and hear what you want to hear. After all, everyone has a view and take on the world around them. I am engaged with the world around him and vice versa. by Paul Hostovsky I don’t wanna, Paul Hostovsky’s newest collection, Deaf&Blind, is forthcoming from Main Street Rag. His poems have won a Pushcart Prize, two Best of the Net awards, the FutureCycle Poetry Book Prize and the Comstock Review’s Muriel Craft Bailey Award. He has been featured on Poetry Daily, Verse Daily and The Writer’s Almanac. He makes his living in Boston as a sign language interpreter. Website: paulhostovsky.com See what happens when you click below. What surprising, fascinating stuff can you tell us about the origin, drafting, and/or final version of “To a Toddler Bawling in a Pram”? We were on the trolley. It was crowded. It was stuffy. He was screaming his head off. And I thought to myself, he’s got the right idea. I would have started screaming my head off, too, but instead I started writing the poem. Thank god for sublimation by Vanessa Gebbie An oculist, searching the retina, finds Vanessa is a well published Welsh poet, novelist, short story and flash writer, editor, writing tutor and mentor, wife, mother and grandmother. See what happens when you click below. What surprising, fascinating stuff can you tell us about the origin, drafting, and/or final version of “OPHTHALMOLOGY ii”? I had occasion to go to the optician, for a regular eye update a couple of years ago – and they had a new piece of equipment, which scanned the retina and took photos. I was mesmerised – I’d seen these images of the retina before, but never mine. It was like looking at map of waterways, watersheds, both beautiful and slightly frightening at the same time. A journey of discovery into my own eye… I wrote a longer piece, a flash length piece, soon after, entitle ‘Ophthalmology’ but it didn’t feel right. That piece got shorter and shorter – morphed into a poem, became shorter still. And finally it was saying what I wanted it to. by Serge Lecomte Serge Lecomte was born in Belgium. He came to the States where he spent his teens in South Philly and then Brooklyn. After graduating from Tilden H. S. he worked for New York Life Insurance Company. He joined the Medical Corps in the Air Force and was sent to Selma, Alabama during the Civil Rights Movement. There he was a crewmember on helicopter rescue. He received a B.A. in Russian Studies from the University of Alabama. Earned an M.A. and Ph.D. from Vanderbilt University in Russian Literature with a minor in French Literature. He worked as a Green Beret language instructor at Fort Bragg, NC from 1975-78. In 1988 he received a B.A. from the University of Alaska Fairbanks in Spanish Literature. He worked as a language teacher at the University of Alaska (1978-1997). He was the poetry editor for Paper Radio for several years. He worked as a house builder, pipefitter, orderly in a hospital, gardener, landscaper, driller for an assaying company, bartender in one of Fairbanks’ worst bars, and other jobs. He resided on the Kenai Peninsula, Alaska for 15 years and recently moved to Bellingham, WA. See what happens when you click below. What surprising, fascinating stuff can you tell us about the origin, drafting, and/or final version of “The Camels’ Apple Tree Series”? Serge Lecomte began his life as a writer, publishing numerous poetry collections and graduating to novels. His novels could be described as somewhat surreal. Crossed realities usually yield amazing and sometimes shocking results. He works mainly in acrylics on watercolor paper but has recently begun working on canvas. He would describe his work as eclectic because he is still learning and is willing to experiment with shapes and colors depending on the mood (sometimes contradictory) of the theme he might be working on. The images are a blend of the natural world and imaginary creatures. Some of his paintings have a message (subtle), most do not. But then you see what you want to see and hear what you want to hear. After all, everyone has a view and take on the world around them. I am engaged with the world around him and vice versa. by Peter Krumbach Clowns are exceptional Peter Krumbach’s most recent work has been or is about to be published in Copper Nickel, jubilat, The Massachusetts Review, Salamander, and elsewhere. See what happens when you click below. What surprising, fascinating stuff can you tell us about the origin, drafting, and/or final version of “The Plea”? Only after I’d written this postage-stamp poem, I began asking what it’s really about. Is it our tendency to worship winners and dismiss the losers? The habit of ranking drama above comedy? Anger? The injustices we witness every day in this circus of ours? And you thought I’d give you a succinct answer.When the sign for ‘I love you’ is overused
-After Caitlin Conlon
You know it isn’t.Black Dog Enters the Sea of Monet
my heart awake, the painter says, is colorful silence.
A dragonfly alights in a blur on black dog’s nose
yet Monet sees none of this. The whole canvas
now a bluer blue. Black dog drifts
while her paws pedal slow circles under water,
a world of violet and blues and greens, hint
paddling. She cuts through the clouds of heaven
like a purple storm pressed upon liquid
skin. Clouds split and coalesce in her passing.
This swim, a silent running – one long perpetual wave The Camels’ Apple Tree Series, 7 of 8
The Rapture
Between Camelots
Julie lives in Chicago with two cats, lots of books, and her long-term, multi-distant sweetheart Roman. She has an MFA in fiction from Warren Wilson College a PhD in human and organizational systems, and day jobs as a full-time professor and part-time management consultant.The Camels’ Apple Tree Series, 6 of 8
Oiling the Gun
Automat
The Camels’ Apple Tree Series, 5 of 8
To a Toddler Bawling in a Pram
either.
You’re right,
the world is hideous,
one can only
weep.
I feel like screaming
my head off
next to your screaming head,
our red
faces contorting
in concert,
the people passing by
joining in irresistibly,
wailing and
keening in chorus,
with you the lead
crooner,
bandleader,
maestro.OPHTHALMOLOGY ii
mudflats, rivulets, tributaries —
sees everything but not the map
charting the soul’s discoveries.
www.vanessagebbie.com @VanessaGebbieThe Camels’ Apple Tree Series, 4 of 8
The Plea
athletes. Imagine running
in those shoes. Wearing
that enormous polka dot
coat. The wig, the prosthetic
nose blocking each breath.
Clowns have no shrinks.
No one keeps records
of clown suicides. So
please, quit yammering
about lion tamers.
Check out the write-up of the journal in The Writer.
Matter Press recently released titles from Meg Boscov, Abby Frucht, Robert McBrearty, Tori Bond, Kathy Fish, and Christopher Allen. Click here.
Matter Press is now offering private flash fiction workshops and critiques of flash fiction collections here.
Submissions
Poetry, creative nonfiction, and fiction/prose poetry submissions are now closed. The reading period for standard submissions opens again March 15, 2023. Submit here.
Upcoming
09/09 • Rae Gourmand
09/16 • Chiwenite Onyekwelu
09/23 • TBD
09/30 • TBD