Paintings by James Pollard

“The Enigmatic Moment: Episode Two”

About “The Enigmatic Moment: Episode Two” (from the artist):

This body of work is an extension of my B.F.A. exhibition in 2010, which reveals the intimate relationship between the artist and the subject matter.  The figures represent the muse. Despite their beauty, do not engage the viewer with a windfall of emotion.  They represent ordinary people that are in extraordinary circumstances beyond their control.  These paintings are a secret view of the art world of which I am a mere receiver of images and ideas.  The ideas come in a flash while the execution on a formalistic level requires many coats of primer and layers of acrylic paints, diluted with medium.  I also sand out the lumps with rough grit sandpaper.

Although the viewer may feel somewhat left in limbo, but can at least eavesdrop on an important conversation between the creator and the creation.  I also rely on Dadaism, and Surrealism, quite heavily to evoke the mood of the viewer with the dank interior scenes.  The viewer is left to determine the hidden narrative, and many will see varying interpretations of the mysterious intent.

– James H. Pollard

James H. Pollard received a B.F.A in Pictorial Arts from San Jose State School of Art and Design, fall 2010. His work has been exhibited throughout San Jose, California.

Email for more info.

Synchronized Chaos Magazine – March 2012: Awaken

Consequences and second chances come to mind when a near-death experience truly awakens the spirit of a man in the third and final installment of Lost Souls, by J’Rie Elliot.

The work of British Photographer Eleanor Leonne Bennett is radiant. The consistent sheen and bold contrasts in her work are sure to activate your senses.

On the contrary, lack of stimuli and wasted time is expressed in Sam Burks’ poem, At the Park.

Additional poetry this month comes from returning-contributors Tatjana Debeljacki and Felino A. Soriano.

Check the out the pleasing misfortune of “Boy Wonder” in the humorous and perverse writing of John Clay Bradley.

In reviews…


Film and Performance:

  • Bruce Roberts on I Want To Get Married, written and directed by William Clift
  • Christopher Bernard on The Past is a Grotesque Animal, at Yerba Buena Center for the Arts in San Francisco, CA
  • Martin Rushmere on A Case of Libel, presented by Novato Theatre Company in Novato, CA

Click here for Leena Prasad’s monthly column: Whose Brain Is It? Presented within the flow of the lives of fictional characters, this is a monthly column with a journalist’s perspective on brain research.

Also, check out Holly Sisson’s article on Starhawk’s permaculture design course, “Earth Activist Training.”

Lastly, please make note of the NEW EMAIL ADDRESS for submissions, donations, or general inquires to the magazine:

Thank you and we hope you enjoy this month’s issue!

“Like” us on Facebook and use our page as an opportunity to share your ideas, exhibits, book-signing events, and more!

“Lost Souls” Pt. 3, by J’Rie Elliott

Lost Souls

Pt. 3 (Final)

by J’Rie Elliott


The creature stepped back away from him and leaned against the wall. The room around them changed shape; it was no longer his house. Hannah walked out of the bath room with a towel in her hand drying her hair and a towel around her body hiding her form; she was still shiny from the water on her skin– Joseph could smell her cherry perfume. She looked away down the hallway and towards the door; though no sound was heard Joseph could tell she heard the doorbell ring. She walked to the door clad in just her towel; she checked the peep hole and pulled open the door; there stood a man whom Joseph had never seen before.

“That’s my wife!” Joseph yelled. Only to notice there was no wedding ring on her left hand, no tan line either. The year on the calendar showed that it was five years after he had left. The man walked in closing the door and turning the lock with one hand while pulling her close with the other. Their lips found each other lighting her face with desire. Desire that she had once reserved for Joseph alone, but now she had for this other man—all while Joseph had to watch. “I can’t watch this!”  He turned his back from them only to have the room shift and bring them back into view; he was going to have to watch he had no choice. The stranger slipped the towel off of her body and twirled her in her nakedness around like a ballerina in front of him; admiring every curve, every inch even the small cherry shaped birth mark on her bottom; the one Joseph use to pat ‘for luck’. The stranger scooped her up and carried her to the bed room. “I will not watch another man make love to my wife!” He screamed into the air, “I will not follow them!”  He had no option; he did not have to follow them because the room around him changed, he now stood in the bed room where the stranger was touching Hannah in a way Joseph had once touched her, a way that no other man had touched her before Joseph. “This isn’t right!” Tears were rolling down his cheeks.  He did not notice that the creature had vanished from the room.

Joseph fell to the floor cupping his face with his hands sobbing—he began to pray, “Dear God I am so sorry for what I’ve put her through.  I never knew I was hurting her so badly; I never paid attention to anyone else.  Dear God forgive me.”  His words fell on a silent room only the ragged sounds of his breath between words to punctuate his prayer.  He could feel time passing, and yet time was standing still; how could he have let this happen?  Why had he been so stupid not to see what he had in front of him?  Why had he squandered every opportunity to correct his mistakes?

Then a voice came from behind him, “Those are some good questions.” Joseph spun around as though he had been bitten.

“Who?  How?” The words eluded him. Standing in the room with him was a very short lady who appeared to be in her late sixties–she reminded him of his great Aunt Martha who passed away when he was nine.

“It is not our place to question–your prayer did not fall upon deaf ears; neither the one you said nor the one your heat spoke.”  This new visitor was comforting and radiated warmth from her body. “I’ve been informed that you have shown some redeeming qualities; qualities that were hidden within you this whole time. Perhaps when we are faced with the hard truth it is easier to see reality.”

“I don’t understand?” Joseph meekly uttered.

“Joseph, some people come here and they never waffle, they never ask for forgiveness even though they are damned. Many come and are as cold as they were everyday in their existence. What was seen within you was a spark; a spark of humanity—with that spark is the possibility to learn from your mistakes; to right the wrongs in your life; this chance will cost you dearly, but you will understand that later. However, Joseph if this time you follow the path that brought you here—there will not be a third chance.” Her voice was as stern as the grave when those words passed her lips. “Do you understand now?”

“I think I do.  What is going to happen to me now?”

“Now, my dear nephew, you wake up.”

“Clear!” the doctor yelled the defibrillator struck his chest; Joseph’s body jumped with electricity–beep, beep, beep. “He’s back” Joseph’s eye lids begin to flutter, he could perceive light but nothing else. “Welcome back son,” the doctor said “We lost you for a minute there; you had us all worried.” Joseph tried to speak, “Don’t try to speak we had to put a tube in your throat to help you breath, the nurse just removed it—you will be sore for a bit.  You are at Cedar Seine Hospital; you were in a car accident.  Do you remember?”  Joseph remembered everything, but nothing about a car accident. “You just lay back, we’ll get you fixed up and then you can see your wife.”

“Wife!” He spoke louder than he intended and he could feel razor blades cutting his throat.

“Yes, she is here, she got here about 30 minutes after the ambulance brought you in. We’re going to give you something to sleep; we still have some work to do; just relax you’re going to be fine.  Nurse, please…” The doctor motioned to the nurses to his left and she injected something into his IV—the world went dark.

When he awoke two days later, Hannah was sitting by the side of his bed; her eyes red from crying. She looked so scared, but so young as though time had stopped in her face, “Hi babe.” She smiled at him and tried to hug him as best she could without bothering all of the tubes and wires. “I am so sorry babe; for everything.” Joseph said.

“SSSHHH, don’t try to talk; we’ll talk when you are stronger. I am just so glad you’re still alive.” Joseph took her hand in his and squeezed it as tightly as he could.

“Babe, I think for the first time I am alive.” Hannah stood to get a tissue to wipe the tears from her eyes and he saw she was pregnant; she grabbed her side.

“Oh, feels like she is going to be born playing soccer.” Hannah smiled looking at her husband.  Joseph turned and caught a glimpse of himself in the steel door, he was young again, and Hannah was still pregnant with Janet. He could not understand how this happened—then her heard Aunt Martha’s voice in his mind “…with that spark came the possibility to learn from your mistakes; to right the wrongs in your life…” He was being let to start over, to do it right from the beginning. “Where is Will?” he asked Hannah.

“He’s here; a nurse took him to the cafeteria to get some Jell-O.” Joseph tried to move in the bed, but he could not move his feet, again he heard Aunt Martha’s voice “…this chance will cost you dearly, but you will understand that later…”  Hannah looked at the floor and tears rolled down her cheeks, “Tell me babe, what’s wrong?”

Hannah took a deep breath, “When the car hit the bridge you got pinned beneath the debris… Joe it crushed your back—there was nothing they could do, your spinal cord was destroyed from your hips down.  You can move your arms and when the swelling goes down you will be able to turn at your waist—but sweetheart you will never walk again.” She was holding back a flood of tears as she tried to stay calm.

“I’ll never walk again. That’s the price I pay.” Hannah looked at him strangely—how calm he was, “Did I hurt anyone else?”

“No, it was only your car…you were drunk. Do you remember?”

“No, but I’m not drunk anymore. My legs are a small price to pay to get my family back.” This time Hannah could not hold the tears; she laid her head on his stomach sobbing.

“Daddy!” William came running in the room holding two cups of green Jell-O, “The nurse let me get two! You okay Daddy?”

“Yeah boy, for the first time in a long time, I’m really okay.”

The End


Click here to read Part 1 of Lost Souls.

Click here to read Part 2 of Lost Souls.

J’Rie Elliott is a poetess and ongoing contributor to Synchronized Chaos. To contact her, send an email to

Photography by Eleanor Leonne Bennett

Eleanor Leonne Bennett is a 15 year old award-winning photographer and artist who has won first places with National Geographic, The World Photography Organisation, Nature’s Best Photography, Papworth Trust, Mencap, The Woodland Trust and Postal Heritage. Her art is globally exhibited.

For more information, email





Poetry by Sam Burks

At The Park

The days trickled slowly by
And we had nothing
In the world to do
Except count them down
No matter how fragmented
And distorted they became

We were idle
And indifferent
To the slow shutter of chaos
Ebbing away at a snail-pace
All the logic
That took years to procure
So many years
Passing at a rate
That should have killed the joy
But didn’t
Now we find ourselves
Still alive, but without a motive
Just a few little ants on the boulevard
So small and powerless
And still fiercely hunting the scent

The days would pass
Over our heads
Up in the trees
Giving them before us
The last glimpse of light
As if their days were numbered
Like ours
The benches of eternity were waiting
For the bottom eclipse
Of our glass bottles
We would sip our beers and wonder
What will happen


You may reach Sam Burks at

Poetry by Tatjana Debeljacki


Dependence of fantasy,

genre of pantomime

sinistral origin

natal affair.

Vanity of vomiting

sick whimsy

Embroidered on three corners,

at the edges of balance

leftovers of perception.

Sighs of lovers

horrible ejaculations,

relaxation irresistible,

anomaly risk of genetic abnormalities,

euphoric sensation.



Filled up with lust

to quench my thirst,

shocked through the rays

of the tired sun.

Revived by the breath.

Ignited, you wake me up,

you kindle during my sleep

the last signs

of recognition.

Every ground letter

You bring back written

In all languages

In the dark lair.

Smudge again

The colors across the dead

whiteness of the night, smash the dawn

before the sun.

From the night, the flowers bloom

And the morning is glittering in the horizon,

Under the veil of the morning.

The eyes of the mountaineer,

The light of the sun

Japanese mountaineer

naked in the moonlight.



There is no truth,

the truth and the lie

support each other!

In every truth

there is something deceiving!

The ambitious lie

is not so deceiving,

fictional, not eternal.

There is no truth contained in it

adjusted by itself.

It is solving the riddle of mystery

not paying attention if the truth

when is twisted becomes the lie!

These two opposite powers

continuously set each other to motion,

they deny each other in word puns,

start up fury, revenging rage.

Riddling, solving, I’m ashamed of you!

My eyes are hidden under the veil,

colors of light astonishing scale!!!


Tatjana Debeljacki was born 1967 in Užice. She writes poetry, short stories, stories and haiku. She is a Member of Association of Writers of Serbia -UKS since 2004. She is Haiku Society of Serbia- Deputy editor of Diogen. She also is the editor of the magazine Poeta. She has four books of poetry published. Follow her on Twitter.


Poetry by Felino Soriano

Of language this ocular innervation


Separated syllables engaging reflectional differences.

Seesaw of waves exiting tonal creations thus

experimental burgeons.

Ash of

the heard’s appositional frequencies

these diagrams of trust

within adjectives then dying of kaleidoscopic fusillades.

Thrust of the thorax

syncopated exertion finality, genesis.


Palm the trusted warmth

among releasing (mockery) constant leaving

affirmation absence darkness

darkens laughter of prior temporal

rejuvenated elation.


Mood, emotion.

Listening, interpretation.

Uncovering, cultivation.

Radial the cylindrical spiral of dialectic

performing range of rage too of

oscillating gradations


understood affirmations.

Felino A. Soriano is a case manager and advocate for adults with developmental and physical disabilities.  Recent poetry collections include Intentions of Aligned Demarcations (Desperanto, 2011), Pathos etched, recalled: (white sky books, 2011), and Divaricated, Spatial Aggregates (limit cycle press, 2011).  He edits and publishes the online journal, Counterexample Poetics.  For information regarding his published works, editorships, and interviews, please visit: