Apeiron Review Issue 6

  • Published on

  • View

  • Download

Embed Size (px)


Apeiron Review is a Philadelphia-based literary magazine featuring prose, poetry, and photography from across the globe. An issue of visceral work that will cause much gnashing of teeth and at least scratch the surface of your heart., each of these pieces showcases an ability to make us feel something deeply, be it loathing, lust, compassion, etc.


<ul><li><p>Apeiron ReviewSpring 2014 Issue 6</p></li><li><p>Theres a long-standing debate on the worthiness of submitting to a medium that cannot pay you. I see both sides of this debate as a writer and as an editor. For me, I choose to stick with the belief that we all have to start somewhere. To date, Apeiron has no financial backers other than Meredith and me a college professor and a copywriter who happens to do a splash of web design. I say this, not in a bid for money (we arent taking donations or selling anything just yet I know, I know, put those wallets away for now), but because I want to </p><p>remind our readers that we are the type of people just like you that make up the literary world. Its a world that we live in because we love it, and we want to be here; not because its necessarily financially profitable. </p><p>However, Apeiron has reached a point where it must start to sustain itself, and that means also sustaining (or helping to sustain) our artists, first. We ask that everyone bear with us as we stretch our business legs a bit further. There will be many changes over the coming year, but I firmly believe that these changes will all bring positive results. Print and electronic issues, minimal advertising, and other such things, will all culminate in our ability to pay our artists. We cant give money if we arent making money. Happily, we know that were producing a quality literary magazine.</p><p>On that note, Issue 6 has unfolded into another beautiful magazine. Thomas Gillaspys Vertigo graces the cover, and its vividness is meant to entice you visually before you immerse yourself into the minds of our writers. Theres grace between these pages. From Sarah Kilch Gaffneys carpe diem reminder, to the teeth of Robyn Ryles Natural </p><p>Enemy, this issue truly embodies our desire to produce a literary magazine that will scratch the surface of the toughest heart, cause much gnashing of the teeth, or at the very least inspire you to pull out your own notebook. We want visceral work in every issue, and each of these pieces showcases an ability to make us feel something deeply, be it loathing, lust, compassion, etc. </p><p>So, on this lovely spring day (or whenever you should stumble across these humble pages) we hope that you, too, will feel that certain something that causes goose bumps to rise. </p><p>Happy reading,</p><p>Editorial</p></li><li><p>Poetry</p><p>1 Birdcage Katherine Neale</p><p>2 5 a.m. quiet John Reinhart</p><p>6 The Spiritual Doubts of Orange Tom Holmes</p><p>7 After Hours with Orange Tom Holmes</p><p>12 Interpreting the Diagnosis Atreyu Luna</p><p>13 Southern Girls Melissa Watkins Starr</p><p>14 The Revivification of Charles Josiah West, Age 82 Jeffrey Winter</p><p>15 (The Passion of) Joan of Arc Jeffrey Winter</p><p>20 Four Mile Creek (Kansas) Richard Luftig</p><p>23 post-impressions Sherryl Anders</p><p>24 a little less Demond Blake</p><p>25 The Thief Bob Meszaros</p><p>27 Lac Bernard Claire Farley</p><p>28 Love in the Age of Choler Jeanine Deibel</p><p>The Review Staff</p><p>EditorsMeredith Davis </p><p>Lisa Andrews</p><p>Design EditorLisa Andrews</p><p>Production EditorsMeredith Davis</p><p>Lisa Andrews</p><p>Art AdvisorChris Butler</p><p>Unsolicited submissions are always welcome. Actually, we do not solicit submissions, so please send your work our way.</p><p>Manuscripts are now only accepted via Submittable. For submission guidelines, schedules, news, and archived issues, please visit our website at apeironreview.com</p><p>Apeiron Review. All rights revert to author upon publication</p><p>29 Drafting to Redeem Myself Jeanine Deibel</p><p>34 Airbag Jonathan Treece</p><p>35 In a Dream of Slow Moving Traffic Jonathan Treece</p><p>36 My 95 Sarah Ann Winn</p><p>38 Road Trip Kelly Grace Thomas</p><p>39 Winter Begins in Berlin Aileen Bassis</p><p>45 Kitengela Melissa Burton</p><p>46 I Prefer My Flag Cynthia Ring</p><p>48 Thinking of Nothing Steve Klepetar</p><p>51 Mikey Comes Homes Karla Cordero</p><p>52 Father Noorulain Noor</p><p>53 Fatherhood Matthew Kirshman</p><p>57 Stones Janet Butler</p><p>58 Aurora, W de i Ericka Becks</p><p>Contents</p></li><li><p>About Our Cover</p><p>Thomas Gillaspy is a northern California based photographer with an interest in urban minimalism. His work is forthcoming in Streetlight Magazine and Suisun Valley Review. Contact information and more examples of his work can be found at: http://www.flickr.com/photos/thomasmichaelart/</p><p>Vertigo</p><p>60 Lately They Have Been Telling Me Rick Kempa</p><p>61 The Other Woman Noorulain Noor</p><p>62 Dispossession Noorulain Noor</p><p>Fiction3 The Malfunction of a Small Airplane as Seen From the Ground John Rieder</p><p>8 Naked Guy Katharine Monger</p><p>10 Utopia Nashae Jones</p><p>17 The Endless M. Brogan</p><p>21 First Andrew Davis</p><p>26 Cave-diving George Michelsen Foy</p><p>32 The Undercarriage Brian McVety</p><p>41 Throwing Stones Dana Roskey</p><p>47 Natural Enemy Robyn Ryle</p><p>49 Angle Roland Leach</p><p>Nonfiction</p><p>31 The Best Days Sarah Kilch Gaffney</p><p>Photography5 Portaging the Fog Sarah Ann Winn</p><p>11 Lobotomy Laura Jean Schneider</p><p>16 So Real J. Howard Shannon</p><p>22 Plenty for Birds Sarah Ann Winn</p><p>30 Didnt Make the Winter Laura Jean Schneider</p><p>37 Garden Greenery Sarah Ann Winn</p><p>40 Watching You Wes Adamson</p><p>50 Escape Thomas Gillaspy</p><p>59 Oil and Water H.C. Turk</p></li><li><p>1As witnesses of griefwe become dark of tonguedark of heart.Grey birds inhabit our bodies settling in the most intimate places.</p><p>The birds squat in our ankles. They flutter in our knees. They peck at our fingers. </p><p>They fold themselves in the inner eartucked away from the lighting that strikes the skull like a chisel.The pieces fallfrom the crowns of our heads.</p><p>We could not be more mortal.</p><p>So we house the birdsin the sap of our navelsin the stems of our throats.And we sing.The earth lifts our skullsa storm of cirrus and curl. The mountains so stoic so still so quietare fretting and thrashing within us.</p><p>This is the witching hour we have been waiting forthe witching hour we have been dreading.Arms spread not like wingsbut daggers. </p><p>There is fire to be eatenflame by flame.</p><p>We rise from the bowels of the soil.We are clean.</p><p>BirdcageKatherine Neale</p></li><li><p>2clock ticks,a motorsomewherewhirs lightly,the dogstirs; airplaneoverheadfaint rumbleas thoughtstumbleunder chairsinto darkcornersscurryingthrough myhead</p><p>in this5 a.m. quietthe chorusinsideinsists Ilistenspurred by coffeeand freshenedlimbs; I tryto sortout the melodybut todaythe viola dominatesand everyoneisawakebefore the symphonyfinishes,turning my5 a.m. quietintoday</p><p>5 a.m. quietJohn Reinhart</p></li><li><p>310:00 a.m. and youre leaning out the window of your third-story apartment in an old suburb just downwind from the city. Youre leaning out, just so, Monday, cracked mug half-full of Darjeeling tea, earthy, with honey, your eyes lazy on the four-story across the street.</p><p>Youre leaning out, just so, and the sky seems to pop (then roar), a bass-heavy spiraling grind just above you.</p><p>An airplane, tiny and white from this distance, a Cessna, a toy almost, is breaking apart against clouds that boast rain.</p><p>Youre looking up now, straight up, and this whole sequence, this whole linear narrative, plays out in seconds. </p><p>The malfunction. Plane breaks in two. Pilot falls to earth. </p><p>But this event and the few moments that comprise it become yours. You can almost pluck the whole logic of the sequence out of the sky, </p><p>let it idle in your cupped hands indefinitely.</p><p>The malfunction. Plane breaks in two. Pilot falls to earth.</p><p>Youre looking up now, straight up, and you almost laugh because it all does </p><p>seem to happen in slow motion, the clich of every bad movie, every imparted near-death experience, every session of hypnotic regression </p><p>therapy. The way the little airplanes wings and cockpit diverge from the tail, its fuselage comet-burning, disintegrating against the overcast backdrop.</p><p>The way the pilot falls fast, much more quickly than the whirling X of the cockpit and wings. And from where you stand, leaning out of your window, the pilot, for only a fraction of a moment already so fractured, is superimposed against the wings. And you channel so many thoughts (an ocean of questions) of angels falling to earth, like Garca-Mrquez wrote, and who believes in fucking angels anyway? And can he fly now? And are you (is he) my angel? And that angel and angle are so close so if hes falling straight downward is that still acute? And now youre standing outside, just up the street from your apartment. </p><p>Now youre moving further up the street. You hear the first sirens, still a few minutes away, and youre suddenly aghast, this gently cupped moment swatted from your hands. Who couldve called? Who else saw the plane come apart, saw the white heat of the fuselage bloom against the gray, the man tumbling downward, faster even than the front half of the airplane, saw the superimposition of man against spinning wreckage overhead?</p><p>But now youre there, on a side street just a block past your apartment, where the pilot is sprawled out on the sidewalk next to a shrub </p><p>John Rieder</p><p>The Malfunction of a Small Airplane as Seen From the </p><p>Ground</p><p>The malfunction. Plane breaks in two. Pilot falls to earth.</p></li><li><p>4yellowed by dog piss and drought. Hes fully intact, not a bloody splat, not the dramatic red smear that you thought would be the result of such a great fall.</p><p>Youre closer now, and his body at rest reminds you of images from a book of Civil War daguerreotypes you once saw, the way the battlefield dead lay in contortion. A leg crossed over the other. Torso half-turned at the hips. Arms bent behind the head, the head resting in the crook of one elbow. A hand bent slightly back at the wrist.</p><p>Youre standing over him now.Now youre kneeling beside him. Kneeling </p><p>in the blood that is seeping from his head and stomach, his intestines herniated. And one thing that surprises you the most about this dead pilot, besides his moustache, which reminds you of your fathers, very thick and dirty-blonde, is that his watch, a silver-plated thing, is still audibly ticking.</p><p>You give your synopsis to a local reporter, a woman with a smart suit and perfect teeth, and to a buff young cop with no hair: the unseen malfunction, the plane splitting in two, the pilot falling.</p><p>You go home and sleep for 17 hours. You dream deeply. Odd visions. Civil War </p><p>dead that bleed Darjeeling tea. Silver-plated teeth that bite the rain from clouds. </p><p>A comet cupped gently in the palm of your hand.</p><p>Th</p><p>e Malfun</p><p>ction</p><p> of a Sm</p><p>all Airplan</p><p>e as Seen F</p><p>rom</p><p> the G</p><p>roun</p><p>d </p><p> joh</p><p>n ried</p><p>er</p></li><li><p>5The Spiritual Doubts of Orange</p><p>Portaging the FogSarah Ann Winn</p></li><li><p>6The modern Orange is a new phenomenon / its beliefs arise from the future. Henri Matisse</p><p>This modern Orange paints alone on a precipice at the worlds edge.</p><p>Above are its heavens. Below is saffronsentiment atomizing in mist.</p><p>At its back, blood-soaked wraiths project doubt into Oranges inevitable loneliness.</p><p>When Orange is honest with itself, it realizes it is the worst of the conceivable disappointments.</p><p>It declares itself spiritually bankrupt, takes the vow from poverty, and prepares for war in times of peace.</p><p>Its paranoia for catastrophe stifles its own fervor despite Oranges primal optimism.</p><p>Wherever there is a festival or a circus,Orange waits in line and hopes its This High.</p><p>Tom Holmes</p><p>The Spiritual Doubts of Orange</p></li><li><p>7Here is the defense against the negative forces of denial and death. Here in the city of taverns, dance clubs, and after-hour sex parlors. Here, in the night, with the presence of other and uncanny. And everyone who is exposed to or immersed in its early hours is tinged with mimetic failure. Here is the spectacle, the pleasure dome. Here, the debutants of the night forge wooden masks and iron umbrellas to hide their grotesque origins.There are no class differences here,no towers, no debt, no normal. Whoever enters its subterranean becomes a joke, so every entity is dispossessed of its threat. At its core, Orange germinates purity and the ancient the seeds of rebellion. At its core, Orange is metaphysical and real as a belly, empty or full. Here is wherethe debutants may carry oils and paint sleep with fingers.</p><p>Tom Holmes</p><p>After Hours with Orange</p></li><li><p>8Hey. Look. Its Naked Guy.We were crouched around the table with the </p><p>short leg, my wallet wedged between it and the bar floor. Over Jasons shoulder, in line with the point of my nose, Naked Guy stood behind his second-story apartment window across the street. The overhead light paled the shadows that would otherwise accentuate any muscles in his arms. As he stretched them above his head, his chest billowed in a slight curve, taut in the high wind of a yawn. He began pulling mindlessly at his dick. </p><p>Did I tell you about the time?He blew a load?It was impressive.Vlad, the bartender, limped over and clasped </p><p>Jason on the shoulder.Announcement?Jason laughed. Not tonight, my man. Not </p><p>tonight. Thank Jesus, Chris said as he texted to his </p><p>overseas girlfriend. We didnt know which sea, exactlybut she liked rock climbing, hed said once, so shes hot. Wed pointed out he was afraid of heights, preferred high rises to high tops, and couldnt do a standard push-up to save his mother.</p><p>Its motivation, he said, to get me in shape.A pinch on my arm. Manny was smiling, cross-</p><p>eyed, inspecting a black hair between his fingers.Youre basically a dude.</p><p>The hormones. Im falling apart.Jason let out a great laugh, slapped the </p><p>bartender on the ass. Make me something, something like, pure moonshine.</p><p>I can do that, Vlad said.My beer was flat. Seemingly out of the ceiling, </p><p>Annas face leaned down, kissed my forehead. Before I could respond she was bouncing away to the bar. I wanted her girlfriend, tightly cross-legged and cross-armed in her stool, to glare at me, to start something. But her attention was on Anna, who was leaning precariously over the bar, calling out for a sugary shot like the college kid she never was. </p><p>Whys she play you? Manny asked, chugging the rest of my beer. Ugh. Let me buy you something strong. Not from Vlad.</p><p>No, thats okay.Aw, Naked Guy! Come back! Jasons hands </p><p>clapped in the air. My wallet slipped, slid across the floor. Manny slapped his arm across the table to stop the bottles. Across the street, the apartment was dark. </p><p>Hell be back, Anna called out in an Austrian accent. I could see the pattern of her bra under the red bar lights. Black stripes.</p><p>Manny?Yes, Jason.Hows Bradley?Chris snorted.Bradley was okay, Manny said.</p><p>Katharine Monger</p><p>Naked Guy</p></li><li><p>9Was?Was, Chris repeated.Anna was leaving. Jason sighed. Look. Id heard, but I didnt </p><p>want to tell you. Id heard he was an asshole.The fuck? Chris said, still staring into his </p><p>phone.Jason nudged him and asked, Doesnt feel </p><p>like sexting? No, I wasno, what? Whyd you let him go </p><p>out with that freak?Fuck I didnt say he was a freak, I said he was </p><p>an asshole.He wasnt that bad, Manny said. Forget it.I turned to him. Youre too nice, Manny. </p><p>Thats your problem.No, no, hear me out. Jason downed his blue </p><p>moonshine, then paused, staring at the empty glass.</p><p>Its okay, really, Manny said. And never take relationship advice from J, </p><p>I said. Thats not fair! Ive had my share of ladies.Exactly, Chris said. Manny doesnt need </p><p>a bitch. Manny stood. I stood. He cocked his head. Im going out for a smoke, he said.</p><p>I need som...</p></li></ul>


View more >