A Creative Space + Literary Magazine
Reflecting prisms of light from a fading sky The black stone, as cold as the death it symbolizes. Catching flickering candlelight that dances in darkness it descends into hallowed ground, burying its past. Thousands of names carved in black marbleThe sacrifice of a nation.This memorial, in the shadow of monuments, Is a mirror of our…
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Falling snow. Steady and soundless, like a clock ticking from within a void. Like running your fingers along the keys of a piano, but never pressing down. Camille likes to do that when his heart feels too hollow for music. He touches the smooth white silence. Camille is standing at the edge of an…
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Zack Taft tells us the following about himself, “Sitting here now, looking out the window onto the bare brick wall of the building next door. (I live in a compound of sorts- no, not a prison, smarty pants).”
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We are blue moon shadows,moving in a soft, improvised dance —a bit clumsy, at times, but sincere,and grateful for this special timein a place that is not ours.A meadowlark’s alarmhas been the only signof any indignation from our hosts. Dances of mice and insects,in rustling leaves and grasses,are not lost on us —proof of the…
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It is hard to blame them for theirFear.They are of the generation they are,Credulous of broadcast media, despite its lies,Because the lies are familiar and comforting in that familiarity,Even as they portend doom that comes fromOther sources than those that offer it.They are the children of duck-and-cover,The daily looked-for end of the world,Habituated from an…
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Katarina Balazsova, born in Czechoslovakia to a Hungarian family, moved to Canada in 2004, searching for identity. She now thrives on writing in her adopted language. Her poetry has been published in Ascent Aspirations Magazine, Crap Orgasm, Poetry Pacific and in Sustenance: Writers from BC and Beyond on the Subject of Food.
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The painter sighed as he surveyed his newest project through the dusty windshield of his battered truck. This job, he thought, was going to take a lot longer than his original estimate. He reminded himself to never take another commission without first walking the ground. The area was mostly rolling hills etched with dry gullies.…
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Surakshya Kiju, a.k.a. Coco, is passionate about writing. She is a blogger at Poems From Heart, where she pours her heart out, laying bare her emotions as she portrays the world through her eyes. Her poems—which range from rhymes to sonnets—have been published in literary magazines.
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One summer night on the family farm, in 1975, a lightning bug followed us inside. My mother switched off the overhead light so my two brothers and I could see the firefly better. Mesmerized, we crouched to watch the insect walk across the brown carpet as the tip of its body blinked a random sequence.…
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