𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐒𝐔𝐁𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍𝐒 – 𝐏𝐨𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐲 𝐀𝐧𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐲

PRISM OF CONSCIOUSNESS

We are thrilled to announce a call for submissions for the poetry anthology Prism of Consciousness. This anthology will accompany the upcoming VI INTERNATIONAL CONFERENCE OF THE CAESURAE COLLECTIVE SOCIETY, jointly organised by the Centre for Indian Arts and Cultural Studies (CIACS), Cooch Behar Panchanan Barma University, Department of English, Cooch Behar College (affiliated to the university), and Caesurae Collective Society in collaboration with Sri Vishnu Mohan Foundation, Chennai. The conference will be held from 9–11 April 2025 at Cooch Behar, the erstwhile princely state in West Bengal, India. 

The anthology seeks to weave a fabric of poetic expressions that resonate with the theme of consciousness—exploring the mind, the self, and the infinite cosmos—weaving together poetic voices that reflect on what it means to be aware, alive, and interconnected. 

INTERNATIONAL CONFERENCE OF THE CAESURAE COLLECTIVE SOCIETY

Date     : 9, 10, & 11 April 2025

Venue  : Cooch Behar College

Place    : Cooch Behar, the erstwhile princely state in West Bengal, India

THEME

Prism of consciousness—a profound interaction of thought, emotion, and awareness that shapes our experience of reality. We invite poets to explore this theme in all its dimensions:

A THOUGHT TO EXPLORE

   Mind and Self: Reflections on identity, awareness, and the inner workings of thought.

   Interconnectedness: The interplay between individual consciousness and the external world, including nature, society, and the cosmos.

   Altered States: Dreams, meditations, mystical experiences, and other states of awareness.

   Cultural Perspectives: Diverse interpretations of consciousness across traditions, philosophies, and spiritual practices.

   The Future of Consciousness: Technological influences, artificial intelligence, and the evolution of awareness.

SUBMISSION GUIDELINES

1. Eligibility: Open to poets worldwide. Submissions in English are preferred. 

2. Submission Limit: Up to three poems per person; one poem will be selected.

3. Format: Submissions must be in a single Word document, with each poem on a separate page. A high-resolution headshot photograph (JPEG format) is required.

4. Length: Individual poems should not exceed 37 lines. The bio should be a succinct biographical narrative of up to 111 words, written in the third person. 

5. Originality: Submissions must be original and unpublished works. We kindly request that you refrain from simultaneous submissions and choose to share your work exclusively with our anthology.

6. Declaration: Include a cover letter affirming that your submitted work is entirely your own and has not been published elsewhere.

7. Personal Information – Provide the following details in the body of your email: full name, postal address with landmark, email address, and mobile number.

SUBMISSION CONTENT

Your submission must include the following:

1. Poem(s)   

2. Bio

3. Photo 

4. Declaration

5. Personal Information

IMPORTANT 

1. Submissions will only be considered for selection once all five required items are provided as per the guidelines. 

2. The decisions of our selection process are final and irrevocable. 

SUBMISSION DETAILS

Deadline: 10th February 2025

Email: Orbindo.ganga@gmail.com

Subject Line: “Submission: Prism of Consciousness Anthology”

AVAILABILITY OF COPIES

1. For Co-authors: 

    Co-author may purchase copies at a discounted rate before publication. 

2. Paperback Price: 

    Market Price: Rs 600/- (for international authors: $60/-) plus delivery charges after publication.

Discounted Rate for Co-authors: Rs 480/- (for international authors: $45/-), including delivery charges before publication.

BOOK LAUNCH, POETRY READING, AND DISCUSSIONS

The book will be launched during the conference in Cooch Behar (West Bengal), with featured poets invited to participate in a special poetry reading session and discussions. 

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐏𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐃𝐄𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐋𝐒 @ 𝐂𝐨𝐨𝐜𝐡 𝐁𝐞𝐡𝐚𝐫

   Please note that the poetry reading session and discussion will include participants whose work has been selected for the anthology Prism of Consciousness.

  If your poem has been selected and you wish to participate in the conference at Cooch Behar, kindly email us. We will send you the registration form.

FOR REGISTRATION

Same as the conference email.

REGISTRATION FEE

Same as the conference registration fee.

Registration will close on 22nd February 2025. 

Join us in creating a poetic philharmonic that resonates across minds, hearts, and worlds.

For poetry anthology inquiries-

CONTACT

Email: orbindo.ganga@gmail.com

Whatsapp: + 91 9895290371

******************************************************************************************

ABOUT THE CONFERENCE

The conference is an interdisciplinary gathering of thinkers, researchers, philosophers, and artists, united in the pursuit of unraveling the mysteries of consciousness. It will feature academic sessions, poetry readings and discussions, book launches, music workshops, an exhibition based on the theme, lecture demonstrations, and cultural events. By linking this anthology to the conference, we aim to celebrate the poetic voice as an essential element in exploring human awareness.

The conference Paradigms of Consciousness and Its Cultural and Aesthetic Expressions seeks to investigate the diverse ways in which consciousness and spirituality are understood, experienced, and articulated across disciplines and cultures. Consciousness, as a complex and multifaceted phenomenon, transcends disciplinary boundaries, integrating philosophical, artistic, scientific, cultural and psychological perspectives. This conference offers a platform to explore these intersections, delving into the deep connections between the mind, self, and the world, as expressed through various cultural and aesthetic forms.

Selected papers will be published in a volume by an international publisher and in our ejournal: Caesurae: Poetics of Cultural Translation (ISSN 2454-9495)

  Please send your Abstracts in about 500 words to conferencecaesurae2025@gmail.com.

  Deadline: 20 February 2025

  Acceptance of Abstracts by 26 February 2025

  Registration process should be completed within 7 days of acceptance of Abstracts

  Registration Fees – Rs 2000 for participants in India and 25 $ for overseas participants + Caesurae Membership Fee – Annual (Rs 500 / $6 for overseas participants) / Life (Rs 5000/ $ 60 for overseas participants).

  Accommodation (On request) for twin sharing rooms: Rs 3500

(Registration fees will cover access to the plenaries and panels of the Conference, including the musical, literary and Zoom sessions of the international speakers, as well as a Participation Certificate. A working lunch will be provided and a conference kit.)

** It is mandatory to take Caesurae membership for participating in our conferences. If you are a Life Member you must only pay the Registration Fee. If you are an Annual Member and have not renewed your membership you either you become a Life Member or take an Annual Membership. 

  How to pay Registration fee and Membership fee?

Once we accept your abstract, we will send you our Bank details and a Google Form link. 

✓  For Registration and Caesurae Annual Membership: Rs 2500/-

✓  For Registration and Caesurae Life Membership: Rs 7000/-

✓  For Registration + Annual Membership + Accommodation: Rs 6000/-

✓  For Registration + Life Membership + Accommodation: Rs 10,500/-

CONFERENCE REGISTRATION FEE

Indian participants      –  ₹ 2500

Overseas participants  – $ 31 

CONTACT:

Email: conferencecaesurae2025@gmail.com

Whatsapp: + 91 8017147503

******************************************************************************************

Kind regards,

Orbindu Ganga 

Chief Editor 

PRISM OF CONSCIOUSNESS 

&

Member, Editorial Board

Caesurae Journal

Yahoo Mail: Αναζητήστε, οργανωθείτε, πετύχετε

PICKLEBRAWL

“MOUTH ON THE CURB, MILDRED!” Beatrice Goldfarb commands while brandishing her pickleball paddle and staring down at Mildred Mendelbaum, who’s kneeling on the street with her back to Beatrice.

“What?” asks Mildred.

“I said put your FUCKING mouth on the FUCKING curb and do not make me have to ask you again!” shouts Beatrice.

“But why?” asks Mildred.

Beatrice glares down at Mildred while raising the pickleball paddle above her shoulder. “Don’t you remember that scene from American History X after the pickup basketball game? You don’t ask why, Mildred, you just do it!”

“Is that the new Woody Allen picture? Murray and Harriet just went to see it at the Silverspot in Orange Village last week and they said—”

Beatrice’s paddle slices through the air like a laser beam and strikes Mildred’s eye socket, crushing her orbital bone. Mildred yelps in pain and collapses face first onto the street curb, breaking her nose and knocking out two of her front teeth upon impact.

“Now this can be quick and easy or it can be slow and painful, Mildred – you decide,” Beatrice says while she pulls Mildred’s head up by a fistful of hair and pushes her face onto the curb. “Now open your goddamn yap and eat curb, you insolent fucking yenta!”

This time Mildred does as instructed and places her open mouth onto the concrete curb on the edge of the sidewalk facing the pickleball courts. About a dozen pickleballers have congregated behind the fence to watch the action unfold on the street in front of them.

Wasting no time, Beatrice steps forward and plants her left foot on the pavement next to Mildred, raises her right knee as high as she can, then stomps the sole of her Adidas Gamecourt sneaker down between Mildred’s shoulder blades with as much force as she can muster.

Mildred screams out in agony then turns over on the street, holding her chest and gasping for air through her bloodied nose and mouth.

“What the hell was that, Beatrice?” bellows out Sidney Goldfarb, Beatrice’s husband, while he kneels on the back of Sheldon Mendelbaum, Mildred’s husband, who’s lying face down on the street.

Beatrice looks over to Sidney and explains, “I curb-stomped the bitch, just like in the movie when Edward Norton—”

“Yes, I can see that, Beatice, but you were supposed to stomp her at the base of her skull so that her head splits open, not on her back! I mean that’s the whole goddamn point of making her put her mouth on the curb! Jesus H. Christ, Beatrice, can you do anything right today? First you lost a pickleball game for us and now you can’t even execute a simple curb stomp!”

“OK, I’m sorry, I guess I should have watched the movie closer, but—”

“Forget it, Beatrice, just come over here and sit on Sheldon while I finish off Mildred.”

Sidney and Beatrice switch places on the street, Beatrice sitting on Sheldon while Sidney stands over Mildred. The crowd of onlookers has now doubled in size.

Mildred looks up at Sidney and pleads for her life. “Sid, please, I have five grandchildren. They need me to—”

The heel of Sidney’s Nike Zoom Challenge sneaker crashes squarely into Mildred’s face, rocking her head back violently and shattering her jaw. “Just shut the fuck up and put your mouth back on the curb, Mildred. You know the drill.”

Before Mildred can turn over on the street to face the curb, Sheldon cries out, “Sid, please stop! Can’t you just make this quick and painless so Milly doesn’t suffer? There must be some other way!”

Sidney thinks for a moment then nods and says, “I have a loaded Glock 9 millimeter in my car that I keep for protection. We can use that.” Sidney tosses his car key fob to Beatrice and says, “Go get the gun, Bea, it’s under the driver’s seat. And please, please, please remember to hit the lock button twice from at least ten feet away when you leave the car to make sure that it’s locked.”

Beatrice stands up off of Sheldon and says, “Don’t try anything funny, Shel, we’ve got eyes on you.” She jogs over to Sidney’s sky-blue Mercedes SUV parked in the lot next to the pickleball courts, then hits the unlock button on the key fob. After opening the driver-side door and reaching beneath the seat, Beatrice jogs back onto the street holding Sidney’s gun, which she hands to him with the key fob and then sits back down on Sheldon.

As Sidney walks slowly up to Mildred with the gun pointed at her head, she looks over to Sheldon through swollen eyes with tears streaming down her bloodied face. “Shelly, please – isn’t there anything you can do to stop him?”

Sheldon shakes his head. ”Sorry, Mils, but he’s made up his mind and there’s nothing I can do about it. But don’t worry, hon, it’ll be quick and painless, you won’t feel a thing.”

Sidney stands on the street in front of Mildred with his gun still pointed at her head. She sits up against the curb facing him with blood and snot flowing down from her nose and mouth onto her chin. Sidney slides his forefinger onto the trigger while releasing the safety with his thumb. “Any last words, Mildred?”

Mildred wipes the tears from her eyes and sniffles quietly. Struggling to speak in excruciating pain through her broken jaw and teeth, she garbles, “I just wanted to talk smack like a badass baller. I’m so sorry it didn’t work. Just do what you have to do and—”

Sidney squeezes the trigger and the deafening sound of the gunshot rings out and reverberates through the street and pickleball courts. Mildred’s lifeless body slumps back on the sidewalk while a stream of blood spurts out from the fresh bullet hole in her forehead. Behind her on the pickleball courts, the bystanders shake their heads to each other and then disperse to return to their games. A pool of blood spreads across the sidewalk behind the back of Mildred’s blown-out skull, absorbing the brain matter and bone fragments strewn in its path.

Sidney looks over at Sheldon, who’s busy tapping out a text message on his cell phone while Beatrice continues to sit on his back. “I’m sorry, Shel, but at least she’s in a better place now.”

Sheldon raises a finger and says, “Just gimme a sec, Sid, I gotta reply to this text.” Sheldon finishes his text message and then thumbs the send button on his cell phone. After quickly re-reading his text, he raises his head to Sidney with a smile. “Sorry about that, Sid, I’m all yours now. What was that you said?”

“I was just saying that Mildred is probably in a better place now,” Sidney replies.

Sheldon shakes his head apologetically while placing his forefinger behind his earlobe. “Sorry, Sid, I left my hearing aid back on the pickleball court. What was that?”

“I SAID THAT MILDRED IS IN A BETTER PLACE NOW,” Sidney nearly shouts so that Sheldon can hear him.

Sheldon nods his head vigorously. “I totally agree, Sid, 100 percent. Better place for sure. I know it was difficult but you guys did the right thing, you had no choice.”

Beatrice stands up from Sheldon’s back and stretches her legs out, then looks down at her Apple watch. “We have a 7:00 p.m. dinner reservation at the Marble Room downtown, Sid, and I need time to shower and get ready so let’s get going. It’s almost impossible to get a reservation there this time of year so we can’t be late.” She looks down at Sheldon and says, “You’re welcome to join us, Shelly, but don’t feel obligated if you have other plans.”

Just as Sheldon opens his mouth to reply to Beatrice, an Avon Lake police cruiser barrels around the street corner and speeds toward them with its siren blasting and lights flashing.

Sidney discreetly places his Glock 9 into the elastic waistband of his pickleball shorts and covers the protruding gun butt with the untucked bottom of his Lacoste tennis polo. “Five-oh in the house!” he warns the others. “Bea, you may need to call the Marble Room and move our reservation back a bit,” he says coolly while nodding toward the police cruiser.

The cruiser pulls to an abrupt stop about ten feet in front of Sidney. Two uniformed officers step out while surveying the scene.

“Goddamn gangbangers,” Sergeant Felix Dixon mutters to his partner, Noah Garrison, while shaking his head and glancing over at Mildred’s dead body, her blood now congealed on the sidewalk while her vacant eyes stare up at the sky. “This used to be such a safe neighborhood before the city installed these fuckin’ pickleball courts. It was the kinda place where you could raise a family without having to worry about crime and all. Now look at it.”

Garrison nods in agreement as he looks over at the pickleball courts.

“I know how to deal with these punk-ass ballers so let me handle this, Noah,” Dixon says.

“Well, well, well, now what do we have here?” Dixon says as he approaches the Goldfarbs and Sheldon, shifting his gaze between the three of them. “Where y’all comin’ from today?” he demands.

“Beachwood,” Beatrice replies nervously.

“Pepper Pike,” adds Sheldon.

Dixon looks back at his partner with his eyebrows raised and a sarcastic smirk on his face. “Eastsiders,” he says, “Now ain’t that a shock.”

Garrison chuckles back at him. “I think I’d like to solve the puzzle, Pat.”

Dixon laughs as he turns back to the three. “And what about sleeping beauty over there soiling my lovely sidewalk with her nasty-ass head cheese?” Dixon asks, nodding towards Mildred’s corpse.

“That’s my ex-wife. She’s from Pepper Pike also,” replies Sheldon.

“Ex? So you two are divorced?” asks Dixon as he writes on his notepad.

“Well no, she’s dead,” explains Sheldon. “We were married up until she died a few minutes ago so I guess she’s technically my ex-wife since I can’t legally be married to a dead person. Sorry for the confusion, officer, I’ve just never been in this situation before and it’s a bit unnerving.”

“OK, roger that,” Dixon nods to Sheldon. Shifting gears, Dixon asks, “So what the hell brought you bangers over here to the west side? Ain’t there enough pickleball courts over in your ’hood where y’all can play without bringin’ your gangsta shit to Avon Lake?”

Sidney steps forward to answer Sergeant Dixon while Beatrice pulls her cell phone from the pocket of her Lululemon pickleball skirt to video-record their exchange. “We have friends in Avon who just got back from the Amalfi Coast and were showing us their photos over brunch, so we thought we’d try out a new court while we’re over this way.”

Dixon rolls his eyes while placing his notepad back into his pocket, then looks sternly at the Goldfarbs and Sheldon. “OK, so which one of you pickleballin’ punks wants to tell me what the fuck happened here today?”

“Well, we were playing mixed doubles …,” Beatrice begins, then tells the story.

Flashback to 30 minutes earlier:

“Wipe his ass all over the court, Sheldon!” Mildred shouts to her husband as she shifts her weight from foot to foot on the pickleball court, firmly gripping the handle of her paddle as she glares across the net at Sidney and Beatrice.

Sheldon looks back at Mildred in disgust. “Wipe his ass? Really, Mildred? That’s not trash talk, it’s just gross. And it would actually entail me getting toilet paper and wiping his butt, which is not exactly intimidating and he may even enjoy it.”

“OK, my bad – I’m still learning the smack talk part of this pickleball thing but you know what I meant. Just serve the goddamn ball, Sheldon,” says Mildred.

After a few rounds of volleying, the Goldfarbs take the lead after Sidney’s “dink” into the Mendelbaums’ “kitchen” hits the court just a foot behind the net and goes unreturned.

“Mildred hasn’t been in the kitchen in years so that’s always a safe place to hit the ball!” Sidney jokes.

Sheldon laughs and adds, “Take that back, Sid – Milly microwaves the meanest quiche lorraine in all of Cuyahoga County!”

Sidney and Beatrice both chuckle while looking empathetically at Mildred, who glares back at Sidney with fierce slitted eyes.

“Fuck you, Goldfarb! This is our house and we’re gonna burn your asses down like an LA wildfire, you fucking cocksucker!” Mildred screams at Sidney.

All goes silent on the pickleball court while Sheldon and the Goldfarbs look gape-mouthed at Mildred in utter shock and disbelief.

A trim middle-aged woman in a dark green Vuori pickleball dress and matching visor cap walks over from the neighboring court and speaks to Mildred. “I’m sorry to interrupt, ma’am, but could you please watch what you say here. My sister and her husband live in Malibu and their house was just destroyed by the wildfires. It’s terrifying what’s happening over there now and I really don’t think it’s appropriate fodder for pickleball trash talk.”

Sheldon steps forward with an embarrassed look and says to the woman, “We’re so sorry, ma’am, my wife is new to pickleball and her trash talk could obviously use some fine tuning. We’re sorry to upset you and I promise we’ll keep it down over here.”

After the woman thanks Sheldon and walks back to her own court, he turns to Mildred with an angry scowl. “Damnit, Milly! Will you PLEASE just be quiet and leave the smack talk to me! We didn’t come here all the way from Pepper Pike to get kicked off the court because you can’t keep your damn mouth shut!”

Mildred apologizes and the pickleball game resumes. The Mendelbaums score a point after Beatrice returns Mildred’s serve into the net. Beatrice shakes her head and curses herself.

Exhilarated by the Goldfarbs’ fault, Mildred pumps her fist and taunts Beatrice. “Nice one, JonBenet, but isn’t the point of the game to hit the ball over the net and not into the net?”

Beatrice looks at Mildred with a puzzled expression and furrowed brow. “JonBenet?” she asks.

“Yep!” Mildred replies with a laugh, “Because you choke every time you have to perform, you stupid fucking cunt!” Mildred shouts at Beatrice while looking over at Sheldon for affirmation.

Sheldon just looks back at Mildred stone-faced while the Goldfarbs and neighboring pickleballers stare at her in pure unbridled disgust.

Mildred stammers uneasily while the others continue to stare at her. “I was just referring to JonBenet Ramsey. Remember how she got strangled by that garotte made from Patsy’s paint brush handle?” She adds, “It’s just pickleball trash talk – part of the game, right?”

Nobody says a word.

After another minute of awkward silence, a tall bearded man with a yellow Avon Lake Parks & Recreation shirt walks up to the group with a stern look. “I’m sorry, folks, but she’s gonna have to leave,” he says, nodding to Mildred. “You’re really starting to disturb a lot of the other players with your trash talk, ma’am. So please just leave quietly and don’t make this difficult for me.”

“Goddamnit!” shouts Beatrice while looking over at Sidney. “I knew it, I knew it, I knew it! We never should have brought this bitch to play with us, and I told you that, Sid! We have the best court here and now we have to give it up because of Mildred!”

Mildred interjects before Sidney can reply. “Fine! You guys keep playing and I’ll leave. But I’m not staying here. Let’s go, Sheldon.”

“Whoa, whoa, wait a minute,” Sheldon protests, “Sid and Bea drove us here so we need a ride home.” Sheldon looks to Sidney expectantly.

Beatrice steps forward while shaking her head at Sheldon, “No fucking way are we losing this court because of Mildred. You two can take an Uber home. Sidney and I aren’t leaving.”

Sheldon glares at Beatrice with bulging eyes and exclaims, “An Uber back to Pepper Pike will cost us over $100 now! No way we’re paying that!”

“Well, I’m not staying here!” Mildred shouts defiantly with her arms crossed in front of her.

Beatrice looks up to the sky with pursed lips, pinches her eyes closed and pauses for a moment, then lowers her head, grabs Mildred by the hair and starts to walk her off the pickleball court towards the street.

“What are you doing, Bea?” Sidney asks with concern.

Still holding Mildred by the hair, Beatrice turns back to Sidney and screams, “I’m doing what none of you pickle-pussies have the fucking balls to do! I’m taking care of this little bitch MY WAY!”

Beatrice walks Mildred through the fence opening to the street while Sidney and Sheldon hurry after her.

Now on the street outside the pickleball courts, Beatrice takes a deep breath then calmly instructs Sidney while pointing to Sheldon, “Get his ass on the ground and keep him there so he doesn’t try anything.” Looking to Sheldon, she adds, “Now’s not the time to be a hero, Shel.”

Sidney and Sheldon both nod to Beatrice, then Sheldon lies face down on the pavement and Sidney kneels on his back.

Still gripping Mildred by the hair, Beatrice throws her to the ground then looks at her with a snarl. “Now get the fuck down and put your mouth on the curb! Don’t fight this, Mildred.”

Flashforward to present:

After listening patiently to Beatrice’s recount of events, Sergeant Dixon nods and says, “OK, we get it. We know that you guys just got caught up in the game and Mildred over there got what she deserved. Nobody should have to play pickleball with that annoying bullshit. The game is stressful enough without someone like her fuckin’ it up for y’all. That said, we still have to maintain some law and order around here. We can’t just let every swingin’ paddle come waltzin’ on in here from the east side disrespectin’ our shit.” Dixon glances over at Officer Garrison, and then looks back to the group. “Y’all just sit tight and stay put while my partner and I decide how we’re gonna handle this mess.”

The Goldfarbs and Sheldon wait anxiously on the street while the two officers walk back to their cruiser to discuss what to do.

After a few minutes of heated exchange with his partner, Sergeant Dixon walks back to the group. “OK,” he says sternly with his eyebrows raised. “Today’s your lucky day so y’all better count your blessings. We’re gonna let you bangers off with a warning … this time. But if it ever happens again and we gotta come back out here to deal with your pickleballin’ bullshit, we’re gonna haul’ your lily white asses downtown for disturbing the peace. Now take your paddles and get the fuck outta here before we change our minds!”

Officer Garrison steps forward and chimes in, “And maybe it’s time for you thugs to get your lives together and go back to school.” He looks over at Dixon, who nods in agreement, then adds, “Pickleballin’ on the streets is no way to survive. You bangers are headin’ down a dangerous path that’ll leave you dead or in jail. Is that what you want?”

Sidney looks at Officer Garrison with his eyebrows raised. “Back to school? Officer, I graduated summa from Oberlin and have a PhD in applied physics from Northwestern. I’m a senior fellow at Case—”

Beatrice interrupts Sidney with a smirk. “And you got passed over for tenure more times than Pete Rose did for Cooperstown — why don’t you mention that part, professor?”

“Beatrice, please!” shouts Sidney. “You know goddamn well that I wasn’t able to publish without my research assistant during COVID, and then they made me teach that dreadful undergraduate semin—”

“Hey, hey, hey now! You gangbangers just settle your asses down, y’aint back home in the ’hood!” belts out Sergeant Dixon. “And we just handed you a gift so don’t fuck it up!” he reminds them.

Without another word, the Goldfarbs and Sheldon hurry back to the parking lot with their heads down and pickleball gear in tow while the two officers walk back to their cruiser.

The shrill shouts and laughter of the pickleballers resonate through the courts behind them while, just twenty feet away, flies begin to swarm around Mildred’s open mouth.

THE END

Nate Mancuso is a practicing attorney, history buff, fiction writer, and lover of free speech and civil liberties who lives in South Florida with his wife and cat (and daughter when home from college). Nate holds a B.A. from Fordham University and a J.D. from St. John’s University School of Law. Nate is currently working on his first collection of short stories and other works in progress.

His Commute

He listened to audio books on his bus ride to work. He couldn’t read, the motion made him queasy if he tried to read. He usually chose nonfiction. He preferred to read fiction, to give the words his own inflection, not some actor’s or even the author’s.

A man a few rows up from him, on the other side, where he could see him from his own seat, was making nervous, jerky motions. He wondered if it was Tourette’s. Gilles de la Tourette was the neurologist who first described the condition, not some random guy who went around saying “merde” all day.

It was a book about the Indo-European language family. Linguistics interested him, ever since he took a college course in it. It was read by a man with a very mannered way of speaking. The voice reminded him of the Romanian-American historian Eugen Weber, who had hosted a program on public television called “The Western Tradition” when he was younger. But it wasn’t Weber.

He found bus rides relaxing, which he couldn’t say for the subway, which he had used regularly during the year he spent studying in New York. He enjoyed looking out the window, watching his progress from his own pleasant, almost suburban neighborhood, through the poorer areas, home to many Central American families, and then the central business district with its modest skyscrapers, nothing like New York. He and his wife loved pupusas, and would often visit a modest Salvadoran restaurant in one of those poorer neighborhoods. She was fond of loroco, a flower grown in El Salvador, but he usually stuck with plain cheese. He was fascinated by the correspondence of number names from farflung members of the Indo-European language family, do, dva, due, two, for instance. Not to mention dos.

I should have peed before I left, he thought. Now he’d have to deal with a little discomfort until he got to the office. It always happens when the caffeine really kicks in. Then, a couple of stops before his, the audio book just stopped. His bluetooth earbuds had run out of juice. The man who may or may not have had Tourette’s got off the bus. He’d charge them at work, after he visited the men’s room.

His Brother

He got together with his brother, who was in town, just for a couple of days, for business, and whom he hadn’t seen since their mother’s funeral, for dinner. His wife decided to stay home. “You see him so infrequently,” she told him. His brother lived by the ocean, yet they had never been out to visit him. “Send my regards.”

His brother had come for his firm’s national sales conference, which was being held at the Sheraton. He, on the other hand, didn’t have the temperament for sales. The brothers, who were five years apart, made mostly small talk.

They had agreed to meet in his city’s small Chinatown. The restaurant, Wo Hing, had been there forever, already an institution when he and his wife moved there, originally for her work. The place even served some of the old-school dishes the brothers remembered from childhood.

The previous year the conference had been in New Orleans. He’d never been to New Orleans. His brother told him about the beignets and chicory-accented coffee at Cafe du Monde and the oyster po boys at Acme and then asked him about his new consulting position, to which he supplied scant details.

The dishes all came out at the same time. They ate their spare ribs, wor shew opp, moo goo gai pan, and roast pork fried rice in silence until his brother told him about the tumor and insisted on picking up the bill, saying, “Expense account,” even though it was a pretty cheap dinner.

His Destination

It was the kind of drizzle that puts one in a quandary, to open the umbrella or not. Were he wearing a hat, he probably wouldn’t have even considered opening one, but he didn’t enjoy the feel of even small amounts of rain on his rapidly thinning hair.

His destination was a quarter of a mile away, more or less. He decided to hold the umbrella in abeyance until the rain picked up, if the rain picked up. He remembered a song. Or was it a nursery rhyme? “Rain, rain, go away, come again some other day.”

Few people on the street were using umbrellas, mostly older women. When it rains in movies, it pours. It makes sense, he reasoned. A torrential downpour is dramatic. You wouldn’t even notice a light drizzle in a film.

He still carried the Marks & Spencer compact umbrella he had bought during his first trip to London 30 years earlier, when he and his wife had separated briefly, early in the marriage. Amazingly it had held up all these years, but he did only take it out when there was a slight chance of light rain. He had bigger umbrellas for the cinematic torrential downpours. He’d had a one-night stand, at his hotel, with a woman named Vix, short for Victoria, he had met at a pub. A Fuller’s pub, if he remembered correctly, but otherwise it was pretty much a drunken blur. All he could remember of Vix was her short, curly hair and her calling him “Luv” all night. But he did remember her name after all these years. She probably forgot his right after he told her.

When he was greeted at his destination he removed his shoes and was ushered to a room. A nice, soothing massage was just what he needed, one without a happy ending.

 Did a Real Person Write This?

Did a real person write this,

or was it created by an artificial mind?

Was that post you liked and shared 

with your friends and coworkers earlier

rendered together by super computers,

tracking and tracing the rhythms of your fingers

with algorithms?

As it writes languages in ones and zeroes,

we still spit every phonetical letter 

of the alphabet.

If He Writes

If a man writes three poems

for her,

he is in love.

If a man writes thirty poems

for her,

he is in love

with poetry.

If a man write three hundred poems

for her,

he is in love

with words.  

Color Blind

Color me your kind,

color me your tribe,

color me cursed with 

the dark mark of Cain, 

color me outside your lines,

color me what you see

through your white eyes

and into your grey mind,

just don’t color me

blind. 

The White Crane’s Twisted Neck

Pluck the down feathers,

and twist until it submits

and remains silent.

Billionaires in Space

In the beginning, apes 

were shot into space

as disposable primates.

Now, billionaires

want to be the humanoids

to kiss the sky, 

molest the sun

and exploit the void.

Earth is a far better place

when all of the oligarchs 

become lost in space. 

Chris Butler is an illiterate poet scribbling gibberish from the Quiet Corner of Connecticut. He has published 10 collections of poetry, including his most recent book “Beatitudes”. He is also the co-editor for The Beatnik Cowboy.

Family Time! Is a series that is aimed at educating, entertaining and inspiring children between the ages of two and seven years of age. It is intended to engage parents, teachers and children with stories that bring a healthy learning relationship among them.

Series Title: Family Time!

Subtitles

Grandma’s Place

Two-year-old Alice is looking forward to visiting granny for the first time in months. Her one-year-old brother, John, is excited. This comes after Peter and his wife, Jane, decide to take them out to her place, having been busy for a while.

I love my dad

Three-year-old Alice and Sandra, her cousin and age mate, are in the living room of Peter and Jane’s apartment, discussing about their dads. Two-year-old John is playing “Take me home” video game. He hears their conversation as Jane is busy in the kitchen preparing lunch and Peter is present at work.

Dad, Why Is My Name Alice?

 Dad, Why Is my Name John?

Peter stops four-year-old Alice and three-year-old John yelling at each other over candies bought for them. Suddenly, Alice asks “Dad, why am I named Alice?” Seconds later, John asks “Dad, why am I named John”? Peter knows he has to give an answer!

Dad, mom, I want to ask a question…

Alice, five years old, and her brother, John, four years old, are in the house with their parents. Alice looks worried. John is watching his favorite cartoon network: so is Peter. Jane notices Alice’s mood. Later, Peter looks at his daughter and notices something wrong with her. Upon finding out what is wrong with her daughter, they are faced with the question “Dad, mom, I want to ask a question?” Peter and Jane know she needs an answer.

Timeless World 

On an occasion, Jane warns six-year-old Alice not to read the book, ” Timeless World”, because she thinks it’s not good for her. However, Alice proves stubborn as she hides the book away from her mom to read it. It is in the process of reading the book that Alice later learns a lesson…

Book details

Genre: Children’s literature

Contact information

Name: Chimezie Benedict ihekuna

Email: mrbenisreal@gmail.com

ERGO SUM

Smiles spasms and sufferings–

I feel, therefore I am.

Regrets over recent long agos, in the winds and in the sun, regrets over the lost and missed. Appreciation of some pasts, nostalgia for the futures.

Wharf odors of salt and gutted fish. Paint and bait, oil and rust. Clouds scudding overhead, heat miraging up.

Channels’ changing, the bedlam of soundtrack evolutions.

Limbs and torso shake and stretch, my body hinges into starting block, toes knuckle against chocks, fingers pyramid on starting line to lift the earth on edge, ears alert themselves and eyes ahead; a gunshot accordions our tsunami of feet forward, bellow elbows explode intense rhythms in lungs and heart like heated Bismarck batteries firing from iron ribs. And. then. finish line. Momentum ends, and the broader world returns to regular order and the runners pant and slow.

Baby’s first words and steps, crushes explored and wrecked, defiance and surrender on every side, alliances of privilege and power shift from This to Tomorrow.

Geographies of hills and hollows / skin on skin, lips on lips and nipples, tongue on organ / the old cock and pussy polka to the strain of gasps and moans.

The Grand Canyon oranging dawn from rim to bottom. Frozen Niagara’s cinder mist.

INHERENT

Your universe is no anarchist,

absolute liberty is a myth.

So cherish the space among those chains.

Infinity also has limits.

So treasure your time in the gibbet,

embrace your inch before that flame.

Though existence may be flexible,

shackles, ropes, and fires are metaphors

for reality’s innate constraints.

YOU ARE DECIDUOUS

Your branches in winter

spider like wrinkles.

Where’s

your paper birch skin

with its inner pink,

your spring

-leafed hair?

HUNTERS

My bridge is narrow, but your park is lush.

There is a peril for the ones who rush.

A hundred hungry hunters got lost in your bush,

their thousand-throated thunder silenced by your hush.

There is a peril for the ones who rush.

My careful arrow finds your hiding thrush.

LIQUID

I thought I was lucid in Patpong, though maybe I was hallucinating when I thought I saw this maiden blowing the vagina smoke ring blues. She came up to me when she was through and said, “Do you smoke?” and I said, “Well, not like you.” And then in my ear she whispered, “Let’s get liquid. Ooh ooh, let’s get liquid.” So we went to her pharmacy upstairs. She took my prescription and filled it.

She had that electric texture of velvet when rubbed against the grain, and I felt it.

The room filled with her flower and I inhaled it.

Lance shivered against shield as we tilted.

My farmer found her furrow and tilled it.

I opened her book and I shelved it.

Her passion a pink open pistachio, I unshelled it.

My sausage she fried in her skillet.

She made my Johnny Walker Red and then she swilled it.

She raced my engine and derailed it.

She measured my beat and she held it.

She climbed my steeple and she belled it.

She stamped my package and she mailed it.

She blazed my sequoia and she felled it.

I plugged in my tool and I drilled it.

I hammered her board and she nailed it.

She read my fantasy and fulfilled it,

applied my blueprint as she built it.

She fitted my Nino and she sailed it.

over the edge of the sea, she propelled it.

Oooooh ooooh I heard her shout it

(or maybe that was me)

and then our substances melded,

congealed together, we were welded,

but that was the moment we melted.

The orchid exploded and wilted.

And she slid loose, she slipped free.

And we drifted. Oh, we were liquid!

And I thought I was lucid in Bangkok. But maybe I was hallucinating. 

1



crow’s feet 

each year 

closer to a murder



	lag time 



Shane Coppage 

	& Jerome Berglund



2



leap of faith 



	what kind of present			

	does an artist give

	Kilroy



Shane Coppage 

	& Jerome Berglund

3



fiddlehead

joining the last place		

to permit entry



	no refunds



Jerome Berglund

	& Shane Coppage



4



pink corvette 

there are no wrinkles 			

in her skirt 



	orthodox church



Shane Coppage 

	& Jerome Berglund



5



Dr. Feelgood





	ruck pack

	Atlas eat 

	your heart out



Jerome Berglund

	& Shane Coppage

Jerome Berglund has worked as everything from dishwasher to paralegal, night watchman to assembler of heart valves. Many haiku, haiga and haibun he’s written have been exhibited or are forthcoming online and in print, most recently in bottle rockets, Frogpond, Kingfisher, and Presence. A mixed media chapbook showcasing his fine art photography is available now from Fevers of the Mind.

Shane Coppage is a poet and artist. His poetry has been published in Prune Juice, Whiptail, Humana Obscura, dadakuku, Trash Panda, The Heron’s Nest, Modern Haiku, Wales Haiku Journal, The Wee Sparrow Press, and Cold Moon Journal, among others. Coppage lives in Cincinnati, Ohio with his growing family.