Poem by Ana Marcela Ramírez Cabal

Look at the stardust, notes of it falling,
That cosmic symphony, so sweet and sullen.
Will to lose structure, almost a mother,
Gifting us serenades, easing our struggles.

The universe finds itself cradled in melodies,
Alarm, lullaby, divine intervention.
Asteroids tumble, thunderstorms rumble,
Animals mumble, chess pieces shuffle.

I bask in the dust, life’s rhapsody is fast,
Play carelessly, it comes out dissonant.
Sound knows my soul right from the inside,
Records me in sheets with pensatos and style.

Fiction by Rosie Etheridge

It was the kind of night where the lamplighters could see their breath in curling whisps, when a traveller entered the Three Eyed Crow.

He removed his rounded black hat and placed it on the bar top. The first few flakes of snow had settled on the tops of his broad shoulders; he brushed them off. Setting his polished leather briefcase on the floor, he rang the bell on the bar.
“May I help you?” A woman appeared in the doorway with a face crinkled like long forgotten fabric. She smoothed her doughy hands across the front of the apron that was tied at her neck and studied the man.
His hand found his briefcase with the ease of habit. “Yes. I have a room reserved. I sent word ahead.”
“Ah yes! Mr Holt! It is all arranged. Sit down, I should bring you some of this evening’s food-”.
“First I should like to take care of things.” He raised his case up, the three locks glinting against the muted candlelight.
“This way.”

The woman took up a plain candelabra, lighting each wax candle in turn. Motioning behind her, she led him down towards the basement. He traced his hand against the wall to find his way. It was thickly clogged with cobwebs that clung on like sinew to bone. Then, after what seemed to be many minutes, they came to an opening. A cavernous abyss stretched out before their eyes punctuated only by a monstrous safe. On the last step, she
stopped and turned to him.
“This is the safe.” On the same breath, she thrust the candelabra into Holt’s hand and began her ascent up to the light.

He waited until he heard the thud of the closing door before stepping closer.
Examining the locks, the requested three bolts and the extra lined walls of the safe, he heaved open the door. The shelf was padded a deep red velvet colour; he nestled the briefcase onto it. Again, he checked if the case was locked. If you had been there, in the dark corner, perhaps you could have heard a low thudding, like what can be heard when placing your head on your lover’s chest. As the door swung shut, the noise seemed to die. He swaddled the safe in a silk fabric sheet and made his way to his room.

There was a chill in the morning’s air that left ice over the water buckets for the
horses. All the same, the gentleman washed himself, shaved and dressed as if he was heading for a funeral. His tie, black, and elegantly knotted, had a slight fraying quality to the edges. His shoes were polished, and gleaming like the ice sheets that plagued the morning, but on closer inspection a small hole could be noted growing on the bottom of the left sole. He held a walking cane in his left hand, the dented top silver and sagely decorated, the body lacquered and black. Each step he took was echoed and purposeful. Making his way down to the safe, he placed his black, brimmed hat firmly on his head.
He shed each layer surrounding the case until he was left with only the flesh, the
safe.

The keys clicked into place. Reverent fingers found the case and clung like vines.
Cradling it, he carried it up the stairs, up into the light. Floorboards seemed to quiver beneath the weight of the case and he could have sworn he felt a slight vibration pass up his cane from them. Perched upon the bed he checked a scratched, silver pocket watch. He drummed his fingers against the bed frame.
Each time his eyes left the case, even for a moment, he would feel a relentless gravity drawing them back. It reminded him of seeing a great carriage overturned into a ditch once upon his way to London. There was a great conflict then, as there was now, between his eyes and his brain. Between the heart beating with sympathy and the brain dabbled with curiosity.

The keys twisted in the three locks, each falling to the floor with a hollow clatter.
When the final lock fell, the case seemed to fling itself open. He gasped. Holding it aloft like a baby at a christening, he placed the clock on the mantelpiece.

The clock was carved in deep red wood, the colour of beetles crushed under foot.
The curving structure was laden with intricate gargoyles and churning bodies heaped upon each other. He traced the peculiar symbols that were indented upon the clock face. His lips failed to form their swooping shapes. In the middle stood a priest, cloaked, sacrificing a stag. The priest held a bowl aloft. The bowl was being filled. The bowl was being filled with blood from the sacrificed stag. It seemed to really be trickling, a flowing blood stream. The clock smith stood gawping. Dipping his fingers in the bowl, he found it was wet, red, oozing.
“My god.”
It began to chime three o’clock, although that was some way off. With each chime of the clock, the priest’s knife plunged across the stag’s neck. Its eyes seem to drain, whiten in fear and blood spurted out into the bowl.
“My god.”

Holt approached the clock, fingers stretching out, as if to touch a drying painting. He made to discover the mechanism so as to correct the time. The door to his room flung open with such force he was shocked to see it remained,
rocking on its hinges.

In front of him stood a man. His cape pooled black around his ankles. The hood was pulled far down obscuring a deathly pale face nestled deep like the moon against the sky on a chilled October night.
“I told you not to touch it.” His voice was an almost guttural grumble. It seemed an effort for him to speak at all, like he’d just climbed many a staircase. The man made no reply and found his mouth had dried up completely, leaving his tongue foolishly suspended in his mouth. He recognized the words from the letter he’d received many weeks prior. They had been underlined and repeated many times throughout the correspondence with the peculiar,
yet wealthy buyer.

The man took a swishing step forward. The material of his cloak parted and briefly
exposed a carved, red cross decorated with a stag, that hung limply around his neck.

“I told you not to touch it”
Holt raised his finger to the cross, eyes wide.

The man took another step forward, placing himself between Holt and the clock.
From the billowing sleeve of his cape, something silver and slender dropped into his hand. The hilt was intricately carved and deep red. The silver caught the candlelight in the tiny room and Holt realized far too slowly what it was. From the blade it came, dripping onto the floorboards, worming into the cracks. Red.
Red. Red.

When the man had finished his work, the clock chimed three again; the knife was
raised and the stag’s throat slit in one callous motion. He knelt below the clock and murmured a prayer, his eyes cast towards the heavens. Careful not to touch the river of blood that was ever flowing, the intruder placed the clock in the case. In turn he bolted all three of the locks and carried the case out of the inn.

Upstairs Holt lay upon the floor, the gash in his throat dripping. Red. Red. Red.

Poem by Ana Marcela Ramirez Cabal

John bikes to work daily,
He pedals through daisies.
John, that’s what I named him,
The man, suit, and helmet.

John carries a small boy,
An older girl follows.
He never checks on her,
Alone, left to wallow.

City roads are danger,
They’ll bite you, they’ll burn you.
And trees, even stranger,
Can haunt you forever.

Yearns for a glance, briefly,
She’s falling behind.
John’s grasp tightens swiftly,
Alas, the wrong task.

At school he mistakes,
Her braids for the buses,
Her smile for the gateway,
Her voice for the masses.

Drop off, so easy,
When half doesn’t make it.
The girl fell, unnoticed,
Blissful unawareness.

Fiction by Rosie Etheridge

In the centre of Mount Clarewa stands a bronze statue of Cecil Clarewa standing on the very spot where he first struck oil in the 1870s. Cecil stands with his hands in his pockets, looking out on the town he built. His once gleaming moustache is faded and smoothed by the fervent hands throughout the years that have rubbed it for good luck. In the graveyard of the little white church he shares a tombstone with his wife of over fifty years and one of their unluckier children, Albert Clarewa. The oil town, which had flourished for the many years Cecil had been alive, experienced a sudden catastrophic decline after his death in the mid 1920s. A number of the residents had left for the enticement and work of the cities springing up in the west. Numbers dwindled almost until desertion until the building of the nearby road system unintentionally forced all western-bound traffic to pass through the ghostly town. 

There was one, frequently used road in Mount Clarewa (to call it a road was generous, it was more like a dirt track). The majority of buildings lined the one road. There was a post office run with perhaps the slowest service this side of the continent. It seemed that no matter when you got there, no matter the tiny population of the town, there would always be at least two people ahead of you in the queue. There would, without fail, at the front of the queue be some dreary chatter about stamp duties and the weather while the other customers impatiently tapped their feet. Opposite this was a triangular-roofed convenience store whose owner, Mr Grace, appeared to change the sign to ‘Closed’ whenever he sensed imminent customers. This led to much speculation in the area regarding the behaviour of Mr Grace and his store. If you did manage to make it within the store however, you were greeted by a perpetual smell of English mustard and a disproportionate number of buzzing, fluorescent low-hanging lights so that every shopping trip felt like an interrogation. Next to the post office was a quaint little cabin, barely larger than a hut. A finely painted red and gold sign declared it ‘Tabby’s Treasures’ and listed the extensive merchandise housed within including: postcards, books, general curiosities, bikes, jewellery, paints etc. It was run by Dr Tabbitha Westbrook (Tabby). Once a notorious figure in Lymphology, she realised her dream of owning a bookshop in Mount Clarewa and expanded from there. She was said to have read every book in the town at least twice and bore a striking resemblance to a crow. At 8:20 each morning she would climb her rickety wooden ladder to clean the sand from the Tabby’s Treasures sign. Upon stepping down she would wave across the track to Siergi, the owner and sole worker of the Clarewa Garage.

You’d be forgiven for thinking that the garage at Clarewa would be constantly teetering on the verge of bankruptcy for lack of customers. Despite the singular track dust road, Clarewa was a crucial point for those motoring in the West. It was the only gas station or settlement of any description for an almost troublesome distance. This meant not only were all motorists forced to stop for supplies, but there was a great number of cars that needed to be towed having underestimated the distance between stations. This was as beneficial for Sizzlin’ Cecil’s Diner and Motel as it was for the garage. There was a constant string of frustrated guests who were housed at the motel while they waited for their car to be fixed. On the few occasions when the garage had the part or solution needed, it could be only a few days’ wait. On most occasions the part had to be delivered from a dishearteningly big distance which led to delays of weeks. On one particular occasion Cerys Dan Lisa’s car had needed a part which nobody this side of America seemed to possess. After weeks of delays Cerys had decided instead on staying in Clarewa and was now one of the residents housed in a neat row of pale blue houses behind the main road. Cerys had then gone on to become the second teacher at the Clarewa school, home to students of all ages. She’d invested a great deal into the renovation of the grand wooden school building (which also served as the town hall).

Clarewa schoolhouse was a pale yellow building, the colour of hazily remembered summers. A pristine row of red and white potted flowers lined the front of the building up to the steps that led to the double brown wood doors. A pair of swallows roosted in rafters of the sloping roof and could be heard chittering throughout the lessons. In the months when they were building their nest, the occasional twig would fall down onto an unlucky student or the creaky floorboards. There was a singular expansive room which made up the classroom for all students. The two teachers split them into the category of younger or older owing to confused and unknown rules. The younger students faced the blackboard at the back of the classroom and were taught by Miss Dan Lisa, the epitome of a primary school teacher. It seemed she had a never ending supply of both patience and long, flowing floor length skirts. The older were taught by the more stern Mrs Grace, wife of the convenience store owner. Much more stern, Mrs Grace’s clothes were perpetually smudged with peculiar mustard-yellow stains. It was the great pleasure of the students to guess and find the locations of these stains each day. Mrs Grace had a special passion for history derived from the belief that she was directly descended from the founder of the town, Cecil Clarewa, although no proof of such was ever offered.

At 3:15 each day when the final school bell had been rung, Cerys packed her chalks, papers to mark and empty coffee flask and headed to Sizzlin’ Cecil’s. Sizzlin’ Cecil’s was a long wooden cabin with large windows all along the front allowing those driving past to see fully in. The floors were faded wooden floorboards and the walls a warm coffee brown littered with pictures from the history of Mount Clarewa. Cecil’s moustache firmly haunted the walls of the diner. Brown and yellow peeled leather booths lined the windows and a wooden bar with stools stretched the full length of the building. The little bell above the door jingled.

Cerys slunk into a stool at the bar.
“The usual?”
Maggie had worked at the diner since she was 17. Each morning she put on the same mustard-yellow uniform with the pinny, frilled skirt, slicked her brown remarkably shiny hair into a ponytail, stuck her pencil through it and marched off to the diner. At 8am she turned around the sign, a drawing of Cecil Clarewa smiling for open and frowning for closed.

“Yah, thanks. How’s it been today?”
Maggie poured the thick pink liquid into a slender milkshake glass and shrugged.

“So-so. The regulars and a coupla motorists.” She topped the strawberry shake with whipped cream, a cherry and a smile. “Anything else I can get ya?”
The bell rattled again and the door opened.

Poem by Ana Marcela Ramírez Cabal

Hubris, always tightly spun,
Soaring, gliding, comes undone.
Waxed wings dare to touch the sun,
Stretched forth arms with a handgun.

Injured the fragmented child,
Picked a bullet, burned your palms.
Allowed fierce tears to drip down,
Like a tempest, reconciled.

Now, pull on threads back blithely,
Weave good fortune anew.
Bled out all your winery,
Forsake, spill, leak the bitter brew.

Weeping your secrets to the wind,
Singing your sorrows to the trees,
Entanging lips intro a folly grin.

Nonfiction by Anam Tariq

Rejections are of various natures — your admission application to a university is rejected, your opinion is rejected, your proposal is rejected, you are rejected and sometimes your submission to a literary magazine is rejected. Oh it hurts! I know. The first kind of rejection above was the one that hurt me the most. Still hurts. But the more important thing is how you overcome that pang of rejection, that stab which pierces right through your heart, metaphorically. Getting over it is the big achievement which should in fact be celebrated. So, how do you get over rejection? If you have successfully dealt with rejections in your life, then congratulations to you! It is an art which needs wisdom and patience. I will list here a few things that I do to get over rejections from literary magazines, which
you could as well see as ways to circumvent rejections in general:

1. I remind myself that one rejection is not so big of a deal. Afterall I possess so many other things, achievements, endowments in life for which I should be grateful.
2. I try to be patient and wait for good times ahead, acceptance from other magazines, etc., since after difficult times there is ease.
3. Once I receive a rejection, I take my revenge by submitting to more lit. mags.
4. To lighten up my mood after such bad news, I watch some series or movie.
5. Rejections don’t determine the quality of my poetry or prose, so I need not worry about them. My work which is just a rock for one magazine may be a gem for another. I know my art has potential, it has been loved by so many kind readers and that is enough for me.
6. Also, if I keep on working on my art I can improve it and become a better writer. I try not to get disheartened or give up writing even after getting rejected by several well known mags.
7. I try to submit work to those magazines that are eliciting submissions based on a particular theme. There we have more chances of acceptance.
8. Before submitting to lit. mags. I sometimes read the kind of poetry they have already published and see if their taste matches mine. It gives me an idea as to whether they will like my style of writing.
9. ‘Keep on submitting’ — that is my motto.
10. If it’s any comfort, you can check out this Rejection Competition by Reneé Bibby which may be some fun. I have tried it.
    I hope I helped you lessen your agony!

An interview by Anam Tariq

1. Tell us a bit about yourself.
Hi, Anam. Thanks for your patience in finding a time to connect. I was born in Michigan, near
the Motor City (Detroit). Now I live in the metro area that’s home to Mercedes-Benz, Porsche,
and Maybach. The funny thing is, I’ve never even owned a car. I don’t drive. As for writing, I
guess I’ve always been a writer in some way. I feel most comfortable expressing myself in
writing. I don’t keep a journal, but I do write ‘decentralized’ observations, reflections, and
stories: on postcards, in the occasional letter, and in poems.

2. Can you tell us more about your poetry collection Earthrise? What themes have you explored in it?
I want you to read it, then tell me [laughs]. A few months ago, a dear friend wanted to know
what Earthrise is about, and my response was: “I hate that question, but since you asked: It’s
about living well with depression.” She and I both have experience with the illness. So my
answer was for her, specifically. There are as many themes in my book as you can find. Each reader completes each poem in their own way, bringing their whole inner life – their yearnings, aspirations and associations – to the lines on the page. That’s why I dislike talking about the book. I want readers to make their own discoveries. Then we can sit together and talk about the form, the language, and what it evokes in us.

Hint: Readers could examine the cover and the title, and the order of the poems, the poem titles, the formal elements. Ideally, they will find themselves writing their own poems [laughs].
Seriously, that would be the biggest compliment. The biggest joy. Real success!

3. Can you tell us about your writing rituals?

I write sporadically. But when I write, I write a lot. It just pours out of me. This summer I
returned to Michigan for the first time in six years and visited a writer I admire. I hadn’t seen
him for ages, and the last time we met, I was not yet calling myself a poet. It was a huge relief to
hear that he also has no rhythm or ritual. We now call ourselves The Undisciplined Poets
[laughs].

4. What are the best and hardest parts of writing?
The best part is simply writing a lot, freely, without any expectations or deadlines, when I feel the need to write. And the hardest part is feeling the urge to write poetry but being too tired from
my day job, or too distracted by media.

5. What are the things that spur your imagination?
The small and large existential questions. Light through leaves, water in every form, being in
love. Wanting to get to the root of a difficult situation. Plants, insects, music, food. Anatomy. Autonomy. All that good stuff.

6. What was the process of getting your book published? Was it a challenge?
Working with Penteract Press was fun, freeing, respectful, and satisfying! The previous years were a different story. From 2020 to 2022, I garnered a total of 128 rejections for a bunch of different poetry manuscripts. Zero acceptances.
I made Earthrise in 2022, specifically for Penteract’s open reading period, and I only submitted it twice (to them, and to the lovely Osmosis Press). By the way, Penteract Press no longer accepts unsolicited manuscripts, but please do follow and support them. I’m also a guest on the
Penteract Podcast: Series 3, Episode 2. Check that out, too!

6. In your opinion as a poet, what is more important — to get your book of poems out or to get published in more and more lit. mags.?
Do you want my earnest answer? The most important part is whatever brings you joy. For most writers, that’s writing. Writing – not necessarily publishing! But if you want to engage with any part of the publication world, you’ll need to find a way to enjoy the push-pull of failing and trying again. And again. And again. Finally, if you stay persistent, you will start to fail better (to
paraphrase Beckett). Maybe you’ll make a sport of it, using the gut-punch of rejection to bounce back and move towards your goal, whatever that may be.

7. Would you like to give some tips to aspiring poets and writers?
If you are looking for validation, adoration, fame, ask yourself why. In my experience, “getting published” may scratch that itch, but it certainly won’t heal it.
If you want to feel less lonely, find your people, your community. Start today. Read lots of different authors, cast your net wide. When you find the writers that grab you, dive deep. Research their lives and contemporaries. Don’t forget, you can reach out to living authors directly. Tell them what you enjoyed, what you discovered. Offer to interview them. Make sure your library carries their books. Write thoughtful reviews and submit them to lit mags. Your circle will grow and you’ll connect with a larger world of beauty-seekers, truth-tellers, art-
makers. Finally, take your time. Getting published (or deciding to publish your own work) takes energy
and courage. It is a threshold moment in which you declare, “I have something to say, and I want to share it with you.”

Bio
Moira Walsh, originally from Michigan, makes her home in southern Germany. She is the author of two poetry chapbooks: Earthrise (Penteract Press, 2023) and, with Wilfried Schubert, Do Try This at Home (Femme Salvé Books, 2024). Moira’s poems can be found in Bennington Review, Hanging Loose, Poetry Northwest, and Stone Circle Review. A founding member of Kollektief Dellgart, she has co-translated work by contemporary poets Olja Alvir, Ken Mikolowski, Mariia
Mykytsei, Halyna Petrosaniak, and Maë Schwinghammer.

Social Media & Web
Instagram: poetbynecessity
Twitter: poetbynecessity
Buy Earthrise: https://penteractpress.com/store/earthrise-moira-walsh

Poem by Ana Marcela Ramirez Cabal

First breath drawn in your embrace,
Cradled by life’s joyful greeting.
Since, she’s presenced no such grace,
Sowed seeds in your first meeting.

Deep as life, her trembling steps
Found wisdom rooted in the earth.
The scheme of nature with its webs,
Proved to girl she needed stealth.

Unburdened laughter of a flower,
Constellated spirits gleam much brighter.
Girl is glossed and polished, cursing power.
She sprouted protests: grander, louder.

Fiction by Rosie Etheridge

Mount Clarewa was founded in 1872 by the intrepid Cecil Clarewa, a man of infamous character and an even more infamous moustache. It was said the thing was his good luck charm and that in difficult times he even spoke to it. Twice daily he coated the bushy beast in a special beeswax he had shipped from far overseas. In fact, when he arrived in Mount Clarewa he had only a few scant tools and an extraordinary amount of beeswax to speak of. Cecil, like many young men at the time, had set out to make his fortune extracting oil from the desert that surrounded the mountains of the West. Through extraordinary and perhaps suspiciously good luck, Cecil struck oil in a matter of months. 

Mount Clarewa stood a few miles from rocky, sand covered mountains where only cacti and lizards survived. It was the only man made structure for tens of miles except from the railroad that chugged along in the distance beyond the swarming mountains. The closest stop, at the outpost of Gerrotsville, was practically a hut which on many occasions trains passed without notice. This was especially common on gloomy desert nights when the precise location of the stop was almost impossible to decipher. The few who used the spot recounted being dropped off a number of miles away after the conductor had suddenly remembered its existence. Gerrotsville consisted of a few scattered wooden buildings including a church, single shop and a number of homesteads. The trains travelled on into the largest town this side of the desert, Limeton. On Mondays Cecil rode his great bay horse Lincoln to the train stop at Gerrotsville and caught the train into Limeton. 

It almost always took exactly 35 minutes for the train to make its way to Limeton. On occasions when a herd of buffalo lazily stumbled across the tracks it could take hours. You simply had to wait for them to move on while the dust they churned up filtered in from the open windows. On these occasions there were a number of unfamiliar passengers who descended into a wild hysteria at the belief the train had been stopped by “outlaws”. Cecil usually dozed on these occasions, the panicked voices muffled by the walls of the compartment, with a stained paperback over his eyes. The blazing midwestern sun left the outline of it tattooed upon his face. 

Mollie Sable worked at Western Brothers bank in Limeton. She had pin-straight dark hair that she took twenty minutes brushing each night before bed. Each morning on her walk to work, she bought Dr Amel, the owner of the Opticians over the road, whatever sweet or savoury creation she had baked that week. Her cheese scones were the doctors’ particular delight. Mollie cherished Mondays. Each week she waited for the slumbering sun to awake her on those precious mornings. At exactly 9:15, the lithe figure of Cecil Clarewa would appear against the grand double doors of the bank. He would remove his black hat and look around. Mollie had noticed the light that dawned on his face when his eyes fell upon her.  

“Mr Clarewa, fine morning.” 

“Indeed. The weather always seems to be fine on Mondays.” Mollie looked down and smiled secretly. “Depositing again today, please.” 

“Another one? Why, someone is doing well.” 

He handed over the notes he had received just fifteen minutes earlier. “Business is good.” 

“And what exactly is your business, sir?” Mollie counted the notes. 

“Ah- well that would be oil, I suppose.” 

She raised an eyebrow, “You mean you don’t know?” 

“I dug it myself. Found it in an area near those mountains over there. The ones shaped like a sleeping dog. There-” He pointed out the windows and she squinted to follow his finger. 

“You have your own town?”

“Built it. Just need a few fellows for company now. Monday morning I get the train in, trade my oil, deposit my money and buy whatever it is I need. It’s amazing what they’ll let you take on a train.” 

She had lost count. “Is it far?” 

“On the train?” 

“Yes.” 

“No, no it’s not.” 

That Monday morning at exactly 9:30 Mollie Sable crossed the street to Mr Amel’s Opticians to say goodbye. Through the window of the glasses shop, you may have just been able to make out a tall figure in the background leant against the wall. There was a glistening to her eyes and a metal lunchbox in her hand when she came out. The only other place they stopped before the station was her insubstantial house on the edge of the city. As Mollie stuffed her few clothes and belongings into a case, Cecil talked of the Clarewa he wanted to build. The little white church, a sky-blue school and as many houses as there were in Limeton.