The epic editors and creatives at Synaesthesia Magazine continue to impress and surprise me (and I hope, you too). Take a large pot: (i.e.) the expansive World Wide Web. Add: brilliance, dedication, lines, letters, words, paint and pixels. Boil then let simmer for three to four months. Welcome Hush-Hush the July Issue. You can find my two flash-fiction pieces on pages 14 & 15 (work from my novelette, seeking representation).
Thank you to the editors, writers, artists and overall creatives that make this happen and with more gusto each time.
Photo Credit to Synaesthesia Magazine
Cite SM Instagram Image
Two pieces from my novelette will debut in Synesthesia Magazine. I’ll share links as soon as the magazine goes live.
Poetry ‘Abita Springs’
See the list here
Thank you Synaesthesia Magazine
This marks my second publication with this fantastic UK based literary journal. You can read the wonderful work from all contributors here.
For a direct link to my story.
In the blank moments between tracks, when the wind doesn’t blow past my ear in its loud whirr way, when the potholes can’t fill the space, I think of her, her and her; those that didn’t last, never struck it right, swamp rather than oil as my Dad would say. My brain’s attempt at connecting the ever-present mundane days, the word our worlds coined for the silent pain felt in one’s own company: loneliness. These roads I’ve driven, squares from her door, to her garage, to the empty dust lot where I parked my car for three months and then four more off-and-on. My life’s place markers the romantic pins and the new routes I’ve plotted to avoid: her high loft view of the street, seeing her, and then her new love get into the same passenger seat I’d spent hours listening to the XX in, shared stale smoke kisses, my bare feet blocking her side mirror view. And when I see her in my rear view mirror I turn three blocks too soon, refuse to check her passenger seat. When I see a tiny frame (both bike and body) I slow, move left, give-way to the cyclist like she’d want me to, and when it’s not her I smile and imagine she’s moved far from these streets we used to ride. All my fails are stacked inside, vertebra-tall and so strong, the repetitive one-way blocks I’ve made then and now remind me of the choices, the giving and all the taking I did, now that I can’t be kind to loving anyone, but me.