A fancy justice to serve
 

All night, being strapped to fears, just too
Many times, I say
This has happened without the landlord’s peace.
The massive tension of uncertain accusation, 
Trends like news of wings, and paddles across 
His diaphragm;
 and the fast pounding of his 
 heart,

Triggers shock and fear.
And so he runs to the south, in search of help and freedom.
But none was there to find.
Bottles burst apart and flung toward him, while planks dare to hit him first.
His shirt ripped to nets of fishes, clothed in red liquid:
Dripping like waterfall off a cliff.
Thereafter, knives rushed in his cerebellum, and
From his eyes, 
Droplets of water ran.
And he dropped to the floor, falling by the
belle’s family’s hands.

Later finding out 
that he was innocent, and the belle’s family gladly hugging regret, 
His family dragged them in rags and unawares
To the chief on high desk, holding firmly his gravel, attending to others:

If patience was a fair lady with fancy clothes,
The victim’s family’d’ve calmly  approached her, but it was not quite so.
Rather, it was all dressed in messy garments with stiffness hanging upon its face. 

It was not presentable enough, and 
so the victim’s family could not stand before it.
When the the chief on the high desk 
noticed the maltreatments given to patience, he concluded with others and drew them forth.

From that moment, there was a ceaseless vibration from feet and talking tongues. 
They vibrated that the seat of the chief was electrified, and he left for peace. 
Later he returned to the place,
Having seeing the grief and scars upon the people’s hearts,
He consoled them with bitter words all because his heart was a cheap loaf of bread:
He was bought with wallets and purses,
 to ziplock his speech.

All cruelty rumbled with grieved lands, while peace stalled stiff and watched the war intensify.
After all tussling, the matter was resolved with few dollars given to the victim’s family who sought justice but received not a dime of it. 
  Early the next morning, an armed fighter, one who’d lay down his life for his country,
Spoke with those on the high tables. After which he came out smiling and his face lit brightly. 
Friends of friends now know it all, they settle like brothers and justice was finally served.

How to be a Published Author

If you want to be a self published author, do not read this. But if you want to earn a traditional publication, please read below. 

You have taken your time to write that thought. You sacrificed a lot-time, energy and money-to ensure you complete that literary task. You were led to put pen on paper those great train thoughts. Finally, you completed the literary task! Congratulations! Next, you possibly &seek other pairs of eyes to review and possibly proofread the piece you have written. Perhaps, you sought the attention &of your best friend, family member or associate to read through, point out the typos and grammatical errors. Eventually, you have the task of proofreading met.

The stage is now set...pitching to 'appropriate' agents and publishers. Having read through their guidelines, you pitch them individually. Some publishers and literary agencies would disclose the timeframe. In other words, some will disclose to you the turnaround period: feedback time. Interestingly, others might to assert to you when you will get to know the status of your submission. In the literary world, there is a saying: 'it is everyone for themselves.' You are all alone to exercise the waiting game. It becomes herculean to wait for that period of time. Patience is needed to cope with the demanding literary industry. As a smart author, you should be looking at working on your next title.

The wait is over...the feedback is about to be given, primarily via email or postal mail. 'Dear john, thanks for your submission. We have read your submission with great interest. While we find your piece very fascinating, we regret to announce to you we cannot take your submission at this time. We wish you the best in your writing endeavor..' You feel depressed, afterwards.

Never mind! Your literary journey has just started! It is at this point you dwell on the 'never give up' psyche if you want to proceed at this point. It is at this point you begin to do a research on publishers and agents who specialize on your genre online, horn your skills, attend several writing conferences, book fairs and other literary events to meet with people, get connections and establish relationships (mentorship).

Then, by listening to and reading the stories of authors who made it, you will understand rejection is part of your literary journey. & Luckily, you get a literary recognition, be it a publisher or an agent who would be willing to take on your submission. Congratulations! The wait is worth it. The contract is presented to you for perusal, after receiving a Letter of Intent. You are satisfied with the terms of the contract through the 'green light' of an Intellectual Property Attorney, you sign the contract. Your piece now has a literary home!

It takes time to become successful. A personal instance: I started writing in 2006. Having faced several rejections from publishers and agents for years, it took me eight years to publish my first book! During those waiting periods, I was writing other books, attending book fairs, getting to meet authors like me and researching online authors who made it: what they went through.

Being a published author is not an easy feat. It takes patience, resilience, persistence, connection (and some element of luck) to become that person whose name would be penned in print, electronic, audio and other formats and remember this: Discouragement is a part of success! 

Upon Meeting a Boy on the Street, While Carrying the Cremated Remains of My Alice
 

The kid says it, and the bell can’t be unrung, “Your wife’s nothing but a pile of dirt, now.” Was it just the uncorrupted, clear-eyed innocence of a child, or did he mean to be cruel? And could a child, a boy of about eight or nine years old, be so insidious? I try to adjust my thinking, flip the switch from darkness to light, but the old filaments

in my mind snap; glass shatters; synapses misfire. I grab his neck with my right hand, squeeze the small cardboard box with my left and make him—eat—his—words. 



Balancing On the Sharp Edges of Crescent Moons

 

I have a bipolar friend who—now in our late 50s—texts me: “Who am I?”


How do I respond; do I respond?

I tell her she is a dear old friend, a beautiful, talented, and intelligent woman. When in fact, I feel like she is *past tense.* I AM her friend. WAS her friend. She is all but lost to me now. Even herself. 

This is the nature of disease. The dis—ease straddles our world and the next, leaving her to blindly balance on the sharp edges of crescent moons: offering no rounded, no soft places to fall.


 Swimming Through Shadowlands


Deep below the lake’s surface, there sits—intact—a house. A two-story structure of Carpenter Gothic details like elaborate wooden trim bloated to bursting. Its front yard: purple loosestrife. Its inhabitants: alligator gar, bull trout, and pupfish. All glide past languidly: out of window sashes and back inside door frames. It is serene, and it is foreboding. Curtains of algae float gossamer to and fro. Family pictures rest clustered atop credenzas. A chandelier is lit, intermittently, by freshwater electric eels. And near a Victrola, white to the bone, a man and a woman waltz in a floating embrace.



Keith Hoerner (BS, MFA) lives, teaches, and pushes words around in Southern Illinois, USA. Published in over 100 literary journals / anthologies (across six of seven continents), he is founding editor of the Webby Award recognized Dribble Drabble Review, as well as a Best Book and American Writing Finalist. 

Seoul. I am meeting with a potential South Korean supplier. We are in an old part of the city in a building which is part office and part museum. We have all removed our shoes. While we talk, we partake of seemingly endless cups of tea prepared and drunk in the traditional manner. Some of these teas have been preserved for decades and are discussed with all the seriousness of vintage wines in our culture.

It is mutually understood that no decisions will be made today or even at any time in the near future, as is the norm in most Asian cultures. Eventually it comes time to leave and I sit on what I perceive to be a solid looking stool to put my shoes back on. Something indefinable shifts in the mood, although the smiles remain.

Walking down the laneway leading away from the building, I take our translator discreetly aside and test whether I have sensed the mood correctly. He politely informs me that the ‘stool’ I sat on is a 400-year-old ceremonial tea table and only its superior craftsmanship has averted disaster for all concerned.



Shanghai. My flight to Hong Kong is delayed considerably. (I discover later that this has occurred because the Chinese Air Force has suddenly closed the airspace for an exercise and that it is not uncommon.) Finally a boarding call is given to a gate downstairs from the busy main departure area, empty of all but my fellow passengers and the airline staff. 

A Chinese family is at the departure desk yelling at the staff and refusing to be placated.

A bus arrives to ferry passengers out to wherever our plane is parked. The family rushes towards the long line that has already formed at the check-in door. The bus is soon full and the family will have to wait for the next bus. 

At this point a young man from the family becomes hysterical and attacks a male staff member, pulling his hair and slamming his head against a glass partition. Other passengers finally intervene and I look around for a security guard. Oddly, for any international airport and especially for China, there are none. When a second bus arrives, all of the family are allowed to board.


When I board the plane, I find myself seated across the aisle from the angry young man. I stow my gear and make my way back up the aisle to a steward. I describe briefly what has occurred on the ground and ask why the man has been allowed to board after assaulting one of their staff. She shrugs and her face says ‘it’s no big deal’. I return to my seat and the man glares at me for the whole flight.



Mumbai. We are returning from a delightful restaurant lunch, driven by an Indian colleague, in her own car. Our animated conversation is interrupted by a policeman at the side of the roadway motioning her to pull over. She is informed that she has exceeded the speed limit and she should step out of the car to show her licence.


Mumbai traffic is such that exceeding the speed limit is about as likely as the sighting of a unicorn. However she steps out of the car, taking her purse, and plays the game. After returning to the car she advises that she has paid the requisite bribe and the matter will be forgotten. She says normally she would challenge such behaviour but we are already late for our next appointment.

Almighty
Written by Arsi Rauf

Almighty, Almighty, Almighty
All praises for Thee,
Who did search,
In high mountains,
And boundless sea,
He got Thee.
In each star dwells
A newer world,
Sun and the moon
Show your majesty
Often, when I look around
Though can't be seen
Everytime very close You are found
That you hear a tiniest whispered sound
So
Whenever I did search I got Thee
O! Almighty.

𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚠𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚗,
 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚊 𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚎𝚡𝚌𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗/
𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚋𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚑, 𝚝𝚘 𝚊 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝, 𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚕𝚍/

𝙱𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚠𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚗,
𝚋𝚒𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚜𝚞𝚗-𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚏𝚒𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎  𝚙𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚛 𝚘𝚏  𝙰𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚊/
𝚋𝚢 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎,  𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚝/

𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚠𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚗,
𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚘𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚝𝚢, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚑𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚢𝚖𝚋𝚘𝚕 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚝𝚑/
𝚊 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚛𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚎!

𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚠𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚗,
𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚊 𝚠a𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚛'𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚜𝚑, 
𝚊 𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚋𝚛𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚒𝚎𝚜, 𝚊𝚗 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝,
𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚙𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚙𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛/

𝙱𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚠𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚗,
𝚠𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚞𝚙, 𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚞𝚙, 
𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚍𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚊𝚢, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚗 𝚋𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚝𝚎, 
𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚒𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚐𝚑 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚑/
𝚋𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚠𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚗!

©® 𝘽𝙧𝙖𝙞𝙣𝙨 𝘿𝙞𝙖𝙝 𝙔𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙤 2022

settle in for a long ride
 
a sunny cold day
 
the day before the
first day of winter
 
the day before the
holiday blues settle
in for a long ride
 
now as i grow older
i know that ride will
get as close to death
as possible at times
 
you learn not to fear it
 
enjoy the tension
 
the pensive delight
of closing the circle
 
the only thing that
is truly guaranteed
---------------------------------------------------------
still with her mask on
 
listening to a conversation
in the waiting room while
staring at this beautiful
black woman
 
wondering what she
looks like naked
 
of course, my imagination
does that but still with her
mask on
 
you know, safety first
and all
-----------------------------------------------------
having never learned the lessons
 
the relentless agony
of the end of life
 
holding on for
a few moments
 
the last laugh
 
the last kiss
 
the last nibble
of glory
 
having never learned
the lessons of all those
wise fucks that came
before
 
the urgency of now
is fleeting
 
taking advantage of
every second is nearly
impossible in this world
 
where you are bombarded
with an endless onslaught
of shit
 
disposable,
as is everything
---------------------------------------------------------
anxiety and dread
 
just enough snow
to fill the old ladies
with anxiety and
dread
 
i'm the asshole that
wishes for enough
to make driving
an adventure
 
such is life
 
no one is ever
really happy
-------------------------------------------------------
that whiff of death
 
i remember cutting
through the woods
on this old trail
 
i remember learning
to ride a bicycle and
suddenly taking
advantage of that
freedom
 
i remember finding
this old trash bag
one day in the
woods
 
it smelled
 
my friend and i told
his father about it
 
he went over with
us to open it up
 
a dead dog
 
that whiff of death
still sits in the front
of my brain all these
years later
 
i know one thing
though
 
it made life on the
farm pretty easy
 
my nose could smell
a surprise long before
my eyes could be
shocked

J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is old enough to know better. He’s been widely published over the last quarter century, most recently at The Black Shamrock, Terror House Magazine, Cajun Mutt Press, Beatnik Cowboy and Horror Sleaze Trash. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)