Blooming Over Broadway
Bloom-di-di bloom!
Blowing Lee Konitz
zoots by the morning window
shine, shunned by no one except
the one who knows no fun,
there he leaps into the eternal blue sky,
quickened rain and soft clouds of spring,
maneuvers with perfection
in perfect harmony with the seasons,
so he knows grace,
so he knows mercy,
so he knows charity,
he is mad and loud,
infinite and proud soul-work
accomplished for the sake of a proof,
earnest the way is forward.
Frederick Schardt is a writer and poet from North Carolina. He studied Comparative Literature and Philosophy at the University of St Andrews in Scotland and now lives in Los Angeles. His work has appeared in Maudlin House, Nelligan Review, and Cathexis Northwest Press.
Beneath a vast and bleeding canopy of amber and gold, the day began its slow surrender, and Hank knew the time had come to lay down his tools.
With vast sun-streaked orange skies above, Hank knows that it’s just about time to quit. With a swift motion of his broad, weathered hands,
Hank removed his hard hat and tossed it to the earth. He wiped the gathering sweat from his forehead, where the sun had carved deep, permanent lines—the quiet map
of a life spent in hard labor since the tender age of fifteen. Ensuring he was alone, he released a heavy torrent against the soil, a low, relieved moan escaping his lips as
he tilted his head back and closed his eyes to the world.
“What have you got there, Hank?”
Rusty’s booming voice shattered the quiet haze. Startled, Hank pivoted, inadvertently sending a sudden spray across the front of Rusty’s work trousers.
“Rusty, you fool!” Hank barked, feigning irritation as he quickly tucked himself away. “Why must you sneak up on me like that?”
“Just looking for something to do, I suppose,” Rusty replied, attempting a casual shrug while secretly holding his breath. “Would you care for a beer before you head back to the missus?”
“Sure, why not,” Hank conceded, retrieving his hat and zipping his trousers as he sauntered toward Rusty with a slow, bow legged stride. “But the tab is yours!”
Rusty exhaled a quiet breath of relief. For weeks, he had tried to catch Hank away from the watchful eyes of the crew and the domestic demands of his wife,
Big Tilly. Hank remained blissfully unaware of how often Rusty materialized near the washrooms, or how quickly Rusty would avert his gaze whenever Hank shed his
sweat-soaked shirts in the midday heat. Lately, Rusty had spent his nights restless and frantic, consumed by a sharp, unyielding ache in his chest. Calm down, he told himself.
It is only a drink. He is a married man. He shook his head to banish the forbidden thoughts.
They settled onto stools at Billy Bob’s Bar and Grill, the atmosphere thick with the smell of grease and stale ale. Rusty ordered two cold drafts,
his hands trembling slightly.
“So… how are you finding the job?” Rusty asked, his words stumbling over one another.
“It is a job like any other,” Hank replied, his eyes scanning the dimly lit room.
“What is it?” Hank asked, catching the lingering stare.
“Nothing,” Rusty mumbled, dropping his gaze to the polished wood of the bar. “I was only thinking.”
“Thinking about what?” Hank pressed, a subtle urgency slipping into his voice.
“I was just wondering… if you had ever tried your hand at riding a bull?”
Hank hesitated, a spark of pure mischief dancing in his eyes as a faint grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “No… but I have always harbored a desire to try it.”
“I could teach you sometime,” Rusty offered, trying to sound indifferent, though the underlying tension in his voice betrayed him. “If you are up for the challenge.”
“Why not?” Hank replied softly. “I think I am overdue for a ride. Who knows, perhaps I will be a natural.”
A shared, knowing laughter passed between them. They drained their glasses and stepped out into the heavy, warm evening air. Above them,
the crescent moon peeked out from behind a shroud of dark clouds, quietly setting the stage for an entirely different kind of ride.
Jacques Fleury
Jacques Fleury is a Haitian American poet, novelist, educator, essayist, arts critic, author, and Harvard University literary arts scholar whose internationally published voice spans continents. The recipient of the 2026 International Naji Naaman Literary Prize for Creativity—chosen from over 4100 global competitors from 83 countries—he holds prestigious memberships in France’s La Fenêtre de Paris and Lebanon’s Maison Naaman pour la Culture. His celebrated books, among them his opus Chain Letter To America: The One Thing You Can Do To End Racism… is held globally from Massachusetts libraries to the UK’s Askews and Holts, and historic sanctuaries like the Harvard Bookstore & Grolier Poetry Book Shop. Discover more of his Boston Globe-featured work at Authorsden/JacquesFleury.—
I REMEMBER HOW I DIE
Did you remember the throb that was licked by the weight
of my mother's pregnancy whose feet misdance the marabeat played?
By the amount of metaphors lying on a boy's tongue,
Misplacing each of it letter to be the Antonym of it raw form.
Imagine how a boy accepts the Bluetooth connection
Of what his tongue never laboured for & the amount of lipsticks
On his skin. Lips painting mother to the nature of roses.
I remember how I died with the origin of pain
pasted all around my brother's face with the study
of telling-truth-eology in-between my teeth.
Though I have never succeeded in my final year examination
because a man is my cut-of mark. A man that can tell father
his son was never in existence as this poem
But mummy have nothing to do with his theory
Because every theory mother knows never existed like this poem.
Adamu Muhammad Ja’agi (AMJ D’POET) is a 16-year-old Nigerian poet, debater, public speaker, and a spoken word artist from Minna, the center city of Niger state. The winner of Razeema Consults’ Mic For Shaka Adaba’s Best Debater 2026. He has represented the state including on a project presentation nationwide. Ja’agi is the Head Boy of Father O’Connell Science college, Minna
“Sometimes, with time, you begin to realize that everything you ever wished for or longed for never happened…”
This memory, a blend of reminiscence at once somewhat nostalgic and wounding, used to visit Alistair Balzac in the afternoons. The afternoons had become his favorite time of day, the time of his slow, silent walks beneath the trees of the old part of Santa Fe, where, at the start of spring, the jacarandas shone and smiled with uncommon vitality.
Eleanora Rusich also appeared in his thoughts, with her high, rounded shoulders, her endlessly long legs and her intensely turquoise eyes. Perhaps it had been she who, with her very particular touch, had made him understand—even without words—that dreams must be pursued with unflagging determination, or else, the very next moment, they may already have slipped out of our lives like water through our fingers.
“What else are you going to wait for?” she had said to him one afternoon, the two of them sitting at the edge of the street, the wide one, the one that ended at the back of the old priests’ seminary. “This town will always be the same. We’ll grow old and it will be older still, and then we’ll have died. And it will be even older, but it will still be the same, while we won’t be here anymore. And I won’t even be able to laugh at your silly frustrations, at your whims, because we’ll both have been gone for a long, long time…”
“Maybe in the hereafter…” Alistair had answered, his eyes half closed, sometimes sad, wandering, but always faithful to a perpetual, unconfessed love, unspoken though understood (and for that very reason justifiably unconfessed).
“Why does it have to be that way? Why not pack up your few things, or your many, and look for other paths, other places? Your path, your place in the world, which I don’t think is here…”
The afternoon smelled of wild herbs. The scent came down from the hills to the south, swollen with green and dew, with renewed spring. The streets exuded a mild, warm, still air that seeped into the body, and the town displayed a hypnotic stillness, fresh daily proof that time never passed there, so much so that every townsperson, every postcard view, every house, every sunset seemed identical to itself day after day, like a stage set perpetuating itself without end. And the mere fact of hearing Eleanora urge him to leave in search of new horizons wounded him deeply. He could not bear the idea of leaving her, and still less would he bear the nights in some distant place, far from there, imagining her walking alone in her pale dress with lilac flowers, her low-heeled sandals, and her wavy hair dancing on her shoulders. What would he do if he could no longer see her come out of the Church every afternoon, after helping the priest with his chores in the sacristy, and then wave to him with her hand held high from the opposite sidewalk, with a “Hi, Alistair!” and that smile, immense and clear as the June dawn…?
No, he could never leave. He could never go away from Santa Fe.
He would never tell her so, nor was there any need, because she knew it, and she would never say the slightest word to him about it either. They would always be like that, very close in feeling, in companionship, in moments of few words and many glances, much physical closeness but without any real touch. And for him it was more than enough. He would never have asked for anything more; he would never have reproached her for withholding the slightest further sign of anything. Eleanora was like that, free and spontaneous, serene and smiling, direct, sometimes hard, and for Alistair she embodied everything he treasured most. And no, he would never go off in search of other unknown lands. His place was with her.
And colorful spring gave way to the harshness of summer, and summer, once spent, brought the first chills of autumn, until a new and bitter winter closed the cycle, waiting for the first violet and fuchsia buds of the little flowers along the roadsides to announce a new springtime. And so the seasons followed one another, one and another and yet another, and the days lengthened and shortened, and the smooth skin of youth gave way, almost imperceptibly, to the first snow-white hairs, to the first deep lines in the skin.
And when he least expected it, Eleanora, one day, with that smile of hers that brought a celebration to every day, told him without preamble that Don Alejo Sánchez Amenábar had proposed to her, and that she, utterly in love, had said yes. As she told him, in front of the bench in the old town square, beside the Monument to the Fallen, she had danced and spun with her arms spread wide and a flower behind her ear, celebrating life, celebrating a new time she had secretly longed for.
“He told me he’ll love me all his life, Alistair, do you understand what that means?” she had blurted out to him, just like that, with the naturalness that sprang from her without the slightest effort.
Alistair, incapable of seeing anything to reproach in her, had felt a love so great, a happiness so sincere for her and at seeing her so excited, that it could only be compared to the agony consuming his chest, without anyone but him being able to know it. He would have offered up his life, his free will, to take the place that Don Alejo would soon take; he would have given his last breath, all his blood, every drop, to be the man who woke each morning with Eleanora in his arms. But it was not to be; his beautiful friend, fascinating, radiant, virginal like no other, would be the worthy companion of the richest and most sought-after man in the whole town, the same man who had in turn set his eyes on the most sensual woman in Santa Fe, the one every man desired. And the worst of it was that Alistair could not even feel any secret contempt or envy toward Don Alejo, because, beyond a certain smugness and ostentation typical of any wealthy man, he was a gentleman in every sense of the word. Attentive and courteous, generous to the needy, intelligent and enterprising, and even considerate toward Alistair, whom he had never once failed to greet when they crossed paths in the streets, even taking off his hat to bow his head to the thin young man in worn clothes and with a thick head of hair, who, with his almond-shaped eyes, returned the greeting with an embarrassed gesture.
“What could I offer her, after all?” he said to himself that night, sleepless to the point of exhaustion, after learning the news his friend had given him. All he could do was fight an endless duel with his tormenting ghosts and his worst anxieties, knowing that, before much longer, his days, his afternoons with Eleanora, would be over forever. Where would he see her from then on? Would she wave to him from the gray-marble-railed terrace of Don Alejo’s old mansion? Would she ride past in the carriage, dressed for a party, and wave a hand in a black lace glove, as her only greeting, from inside the vehicle? Perhaps not even that, because she would be too busy talking with her husband, and so she would not see him, standing on the corner by the mansion, waiting for her to come out and notice his faithful presence. But no, she would not see him. Why would she see him, him of all people? What for? When nothing he might do or say would matter to Eleanora anymore. The long sighs of former days gave way to others, sighs of grief and pale melancholy; the waiting on street corners for Eleanora, the afternoons on the benches of the square, the murmur of the train in the distance, the delight of losing himself in the perfect features of her face while she talked or laughed, the ethereal scent her hair gave off, all of it was left in the past. From dancing partner, proud partenaire, he became a spectator in the back rows, a mere lover of dance gazing enraptured at that slender, perfect silhouette cutting through the air of a gleaming, solemn stage. From accompanying musician to solitary listener who turns on a small transistor radio in a basement to hear the strains of the symphony at the local theater, while the crackle of static interferes with everything, making it colder and crueler still.
Eleanora came to live the life of the aristocracy, amid daily changes of dress—sometimes as many as four in a single day—lunches and dinners with people from politics and the arts; she attended baptisms and weddings full of pomp and heady scents, posed beside the bishop and the mayor, kissed the minister during his yearly visit to the town, and even, every so often, cheered at the racetrack for the victory of her favorite horse. She celebrated until dawn at high-society parties; she wore expensive mourning dresses at rainy funerals that drew the whole region, standing firm beneath an immense umbrella with a gilded tip and an ebony handle, on the arm of Don Alejo, who would never trade her for another.
Alistair would see her here and there, sometimes closer, sometimes distant, almost weightless, in sky blue, pink, ivory or black, depending on the outfit chosen for the occasion.
Eleanora, every so often, saw him as she passed, from her horse-drawn coach or from the immense, eternally gleaming Ford Imperial that the chauffeur drove, stern and serious as a sphinx. Sitting in the back, she always made a point of waving to him, sometimes more smiling and even happy, sometimes more reserved and clouded by thoughts and memories that only some god could know. It did not matter how far she had drifted from him; on seeing her, Alistair would always feel lit by a ray of sunshine, the only one that came down from a sky opened exclusively for him. And those brief seconds Eleanora gave him became the most important of the week, perhaps of the month.
One afternoon, as she sat in her car in front of the consulate building waiting for Don Alejo to finish some formalities she understood little about, the shadow of someone approaching her window fell over her. She raised her long-lashed turquoise eyes, and there she saw Alistair, his hair wet, his worn trousers and his usual pointed shoes, standing beside the window, longing to lose himself in those sea-colored eyes, as he had done so many times in another time. It was the first time they had met again since Eleanora’s marriage to Don Alejo; a subtle tension stirred between them, and the silence managed to turn back time. Almost four years had passed since their last conversation, when Eleanora was still single.
“Alistair… I didn’t see you coming…” she said, perhaps guiltily and with some pity.
“I did see your car arrive. I was over there, on the bench on the corner…”
“I’ll only be here a little while…”
“I know…”
There was a pause. It began to rain again, and soon Alistair’s long hair was dripping onto his shoulders; another trickle of water ran down one of his cheeks and dripped from his chin. He didn’t care; besides, he could even have cried without sobbing, and his tears would have blended with the rain. He only wanted to look at Eleanora up close, to look at her again. She, somewhat shaken, gazed at him without blinking. The leaden sky grew darker and darker.
“I always see you go by…”
“Yes, yes. I almost always see you, and I wave. I’m sorry I can’t stop. Alejo is usually in a hurry…”
“I understand… It’s all right…”
“I wish I could chat, but, well… My life has changed quite a bit…”
“I know. It makes me happy to see you doing well…”
Eleanora’s expression softened with emotion. The light in her eyes changed.
“Are you happy here, Alistair…? I told you several times you should leave… Look for other destinies…”
“I’m happy here, thank you. And you?”
Eleanora was moved again. In her gaze there were countless words, confessions and a few secrets, but she would never tell them to him.
“Yes, Alistair. Yes…”
At that moment Don Alejo arrived with a briefcase, greeted very courteously the gangly young man standing on the sidewalk talking with his wife, and then got into the car. Before closing the door, he looked at him again with a certain puzzlement.
“I’m going now… It was nice to talk again… Like in those years…”
“Yes.”
“Goodbye, Alistair.”
“Goodbye, Eleanora…”
The car hummed, pulled away from the curb and joined the afternoon traffic. Clouds of orange and violet embers covered the western horizon, announcing more rain for the next day. A flock of birds crossed the main diagonal of the old square, and an old, stale smell filled the street. Alistair couldn’t put a name to it, nor did he need to. “No, I’ll never leave… I’ll never leave you here, Eleanora. Even if all I have is to live out my years watching you pass by in your cars and carriages, with your gowns and your jewels… I’ll always wait to see you…” he thought, as he put his hands in his damp pockets and began to walk in the fine drizzle.
How could he ever abandon Santa Fe…? He never would.
A year later, after several weeks without seeing Eleanora pass by in her sumptuous vehicles, or seeing her on the front page of the local paper at high-society events, always dressed like a duchess, he began to grow uneasy. Then, one ordinary afternoon and almost by accident, he overheard in passing that “Mr. Alejo’s wife” had fallen gravely ill, afflicted by a strange malady that kept her bedridden. He felt despair take hold of him; he began wandering here and there like a madman, asking everyone he could about Eleanora’s health, and trying, at last, to understand what was wrong with her.
No one could tell him exactly what was happening.
The days that followed were an endless nightmare. Long sleepless nights followed by constant distraction, a vacant stare, total absent-mindedness at work, and he even came to eat very little, to the point that his own coworkers asked him what was wrong and why he was thinner than usual. Of course, he would always answer with excuses and evasions.
One September afternoon, as the bell tower of the main church struck eight, Eleanora Rusich died in her bed, by then too weak and wasted to keep fighting. The doctors’ efforts had been in vain. Nothing more could be done.
The next morning, watching from a distance the gathering of dignitaries assembled by the grave to bid Eleanora a last farewell, Alistair Balzac, more alone than ever in his life, beneath an immense, ancient tree in the one cemetery of Santa Fe, witnessed the moment he had never believed he would have to witness. Half an hour later, when everyone had gone, he tried to approach the grave, but his feet were nailed to the ground. He could not take even a single step forward, but instead he could see that over there, very close to the grave, a beautiful woman with silken hair and a dress with lilac flowers waved to him with her hand held high and an eternal smile on her lips. He was sure he had not imagined it, and he swore to himself never to doubt the truth of that vision.
The morning was sunny, mild, but not a single bird sang in all of Santa Fe.
A week later, obeying Eleanora’s request as a last tribute to her most beloved memory, Alistair Balzac packed a suitcase with his few belongings and left Santa Fe, never to return.
After all, how could he go on living there without her?
THE END
Matt D. Ivansky is the pen name of Matías Saeta, an Argentine psychologist and writer from Bahía Blanca, Argentina, who has worked in public and private practice for about ten years. A long-time reader of ancient doctrines, myths and sacred traditions, he writes novels and short fiction that move between the fantastic, the spiritual and the everyday. His novels and his story collection Relatos probables e improbables are published in Spanish in digital format by SAGA (Saga Egmont).
