Cover art by Eric Brattin  

                                                     

I. “Sphinx” by Dion Hitchings II. Ashlie Allen Poetry a. “The violent horse killed my brother” b. “The Cactus and I are out of water” III. “Green Eye” by Dion Hitchings IV. “Night Carer” by Petr Titze V. “Landscape 929” and “Dog” by Martinas Andrius VI. “Bright Landscape” by Peycho Kanev VII. “The Hybrid (Bird Gang), “Hungry Cat & Hungry Dog” by Alan Khum VIII. “My Mother’s Pho Soup”, “Darling, I” by Lana Bella IX. Picture by Mattew St. Pierre X. “Which is the Mirror for Which”, “Sitting on the Fence: Most Popular English Idioms” by Yuan Changming XI. “Street2”, “Cemetery” by Mr. Mullany XII. “Her Black Handkerchief” by Katherine Givens XIII. Artwork by Mr. Mullany XIV. Photograph by Cameron Boyce XV. “A Ladies Walk” by David Holmes XVI. Artwork by Caitlin Truitt

                                                     

   

The violent horse killed my brother  

 

  The sky was full of plum smoke   I was running through the crop, for   they had all left me behind Someone had screamed for   the   mercy of heaven, and as I ran faster   the   smell of blood began to startle me My parents shoved open the barn doors   and there lying on the hay   was my little brother,   his   neck a gaping ruby hole   with horse teeth stuck inside   I came closer, not   by decision, but   naturally, and   I parted his dead fingers and set them against my Adam's apple   as   I listened to my parents scold the violent horse  

         

 

Writer BIO: Ashlie Allen writes fiction and poetry. Besides being a writer, she would like to become a photographer one day. Her work has appeared in Blink Ink, Gambling the Aisle, Conclave: A Journal of Character, The Burningword Literary Journal and others. Her greatest influence is Anne Rice.

     

THE CACTIS AND I ARE OUT OF WATER I have been rotting

 

in the wooden chair for 33 years I can no longer move to water the cactus that stares at me through the window He knew me before I become foul And he haunts me like a violent hand from childhood Sometimes I ask him to stop staring at me "I am hideous!" I screech But the cactus has no sympathy, for my body is out of water for both him and I

 

-Ashlie Allen

                     

                     

Artwork done by Dion Hitchings: Dion Hitchings was born in Saint Louis, Missouri where he took up drawing at the young age of three years old. From there, he went on to study Fine Arts at Washington University. After graduating and moving to New York City, Dion worked for Bloomingdales, Avon and Saks Fifth Avenue. After living through several tragedies, Dion embraced his love for art and resumed the passion that he once had as a child. Dion describes his artwork as childlike, colorful, self-revealing, erotic, funny, Thus, he regained his career as a full time artist. Strange and lots of eyes. my inspirations come from many places - people I see and work with, dreams, the garden, news, guests on the jerry springer show, my American Indian heritage, movies and sex. i use only children’s art supplies - crayons, highlighters, magic markers, collage, colored pens and the Spirograph. Artists that have influenced me over the years are jean Michael Basquait, Aubrey Beardsley, Peter max, Toulouse-lautrec,Gustav Klimt and the illustrator Alan Cober.

 

  NIGHT CARER  

 

dull  dawn in deep autumn high November Drift away   fluorescent roofs of Norwich in an ink grey mist two  rolled white eye lines  

coded future in hair prints on steamed bus window   from unexplained sleep attack in the   front seat, rather than man hydrated ex-boy in track suit on unlimited free salad     box of taboo above driver black I am all alone here   everybody is online reality swapped for theatre properties   logged off from the presence in password rooms of privacy  

first   razors of daydreaming lobotomy lip crack instead of a smile ashy   grey Zombie with bloodshot eyes bridged over by magnets of subconscious   ferryman of light permanent tension   life transubstantiated in microsleep dragged over and back   unregulated book of intensive shadows stirred up across times and usurpers   in antibiotic fog  

second-class collage, suicide of style violet   foam with silver sprinkle Easterner with slight limp from   helping those in need on the rolling sidewalk home to sleep   so many eyes from passing cars crossing zebra in prime time      

Writer BIO: Petr Titze was born in 1980 in the Czech Republic. He has been living in UK about five years working in, mostly, secure social care jobs. He is currently supporting autistic teenage boys in education and social care. Petr Titze is a product of the last migration of peoples in 2008 due to the economic crisis. He writes poems for himself since he is 16 and is an undergraduate of Linguistic and Literary Culture at the University of Hradec Kralove in the Czech Republic. He sporadically publishes his texts in local literary periodics in his born country. His published text Night Carer is the first translation into English.  

LANDSCAPE 929

   

 

                                                 

"Martinas Andrius is an oil painter focusing on landscapes that are inspired by the coastal marshes and city skylines of New England. He was born in Vilnus, Lithuania in 1988 and moved to the United States in 1990. His primary medium is oil on canvas as well as linen, but also spends time etching and working on monotypes. He completed an AS at SUNY Ulster then went on to attend three years at Boston Architectural College. Martinas has been inspired and instructed by his father Mindaugas who is also a landscape painter in the Boston area. Together they have been selling their paintings on Newbury Street for the past four years. Currently their work can be found at the Boston Art and Frame Shop on Beacon Hill."

BRIGHT LANDSCAPE

 

 

                       

The beast of the spring emerges behind the rooftop and breathes on the grass with its green mouth. The sun cast a glance in the lake and blinks. In silence the woman hangs the washing on the clothesline. White cats are running around the bushes. On the ground knives and crucifixes rust.  

                           

Peycho Kanev is the author of 4 poetry collections and two chapbooks. He has won several European awards for his poetry and he’s nominated for the Pushcart Award and Best of the Net. Translations of his books will be published soon in Italy, Poland and Russia. His poems have appeared in more than 1000 literary magazines, such as: Poetry Quarterly, Evergreen Review, Hawaii Review, Cordite Poetry Review, Sheepshead Review, Off the Coast, The Adirondack Review, The Coachella Review, Two Thirds North, Sierra Nevada Review, The Cleveland Review and many others.

     

The Hybrid (Bird Gang)  

                                               

Description: This painting is based on Cambodians who grew up with the traditional culture and had to assimilate towards American culture. In the early 1990’s, many Cambodian Americans lost their traditional values and succumbed to the American gang life. The birds glaring at the Cambodian Giant represent the blood and crip gangs.

   

 

Hungry Cat + Hungry Dog

                                             

Alan Khum is a Cambodian-American fine artist born and raised in San Francisco, California. Growing up in a diverse city where cultures collide, Alan has been influenced by the many different art forms that were exposed to him at an early age. In high school, he took part in the graffiti scene and learned about street culture while practicing aerosol as a medium. Shortly after high school, he attended community college to pursue graphic design learning how to use and translate artwork digitally. During this time he has also studied animation, music and videography. After a four year hiatus from design, Alan decided to move forward with fine arts. It’s from studying fine arts where the mediums oil paint and watercolor have become favorable in his art. Alan is currently an active artist participating in art exhibitions in the Bay Area and working with the community.

   

Description:  These  paintings  are  painted  to  illustrate  poverty.  This  painting  is  to  show  how   desensitized  some  people  are  when  it  comes  to  world  hunger.  At  first  glance,  the  charm  of  the   animals  will  tend  to  have  people  overlook  the  message  that  they  are  young,  hungry  and  have  no   food.  

   

My Mother's Pho Soup  

     

 

Molten brown as the skin of the ripe cocoa bean Mother’s skirt twirls as she cooks her Pho soup for Sunday fare,

 

she cleans the oxtail bones then turns on the heat

 

 

and in a twelve-quart stock pot they are steeped together with scallion whites,

     

LANA    

                         

down-draft ventilator leeches the folding smoke from the perfume-laden cauldron of liquid torrent with splintered lives, a slop of bubbly white froths the kettle's frame mother skims the fat and heaves it aside and fragrant steam to ceiling rise , while the wafting spice mingles the kitchen air I climb the stool near the island's ledge and peer into nostalgia's deep, floating halved onions and seared ginger star anise in cheese cloth wrapped black cardamom, too, plump noodle drains from another boiling pot mother tastes the strands for softness rising mist steams her eyes, side platter: a heap of fatty flanks and boiled entrails slim cuts of beef with coarse tendon green cilantro finely minced, Mother at the stove, bending over in her apron black scooping the liquid river of our cultural roots into a terra cotta bowl,

BELLA

                         

along with tiny lick of basil leaves and fresh sprout she tosses black pepper and lime juice for added garnish familiar scent strikes my hunger's joints, just as I breathe in deeply the perfume-pregnant air white wisps coat fine my horn-rimmed glasses choking off the savory view, then devouring rushes in, though it makes no sound chopsticks gather noodle, spoon scoops broth my lips taste of thawing winter cold, dregs of marrow sail across the wrinkled stock so tip the bowl the liquid sloshes and strips it bare my belly full. If only briefly, the fractures of beings can be sewn by the fatty threads of mothers' home brews as broth of life and life's flowing.  

                           

Matthew St. Pierre I have been writing for 9 years. I began simply writing poetry as a form of therapeutic release. Later expanding my reach to short stories, and song writing. I sketch and paint too, and really love anything creative. I am 25 years old, and was born in Lynn, MA  

Darling, I  

   

Darling, I am a fool living with your shifting ghost since   I've searched for you by the tattooed flesh where the cicatrix laid parched   of pus,  

from the faint etching of the serpentine smoke   I've searched for you by the cigarette ends where the incense floundered me in grief,   with   throbbing whispers that drew upon the wake of night I've searched for you by the cold vacant bed   where the hollow wrung empty of sleep,  

at the gargled sounds of fierce nocturnal grounds   I've searched for you by the walled evergreens   where the moon hung crimson with blood,  

on autumn mornings once the sun had grown dim in rain   I've searched for you by the slow brook bent where the maples slumped sidelong   amid stones,   the late hours until the sky was flat with stars during I've searched for you by the tumbling clouds   where the heavens sloped heavy over shore,    

while wisp of blue birds fluttered at arm’s length horizon I've searched for you by the far-reaching bay where the sailboats swayed lumbering with ghosts, near the orchard green when your solemn promise kept I've searched for you by the curving knolls where the poppies bled burgundy in drops, as the crooked grins of spring waned into a parched summer I've searched for you by the sheaf of feathers where the redbirds stretched wings at distant blues, as the crooked grins of spring waned into a parched summer I've searched for you by the sheaf of feathers where the redbirds stretched wings at distant blues, through the jagged knife of fury in my heart sharply turned I've searched for you by the wind blew south where the tall grass cambered low above earth, beyond the iron-grate my living mash eternally pent I've searched for you by the moss-leafy grave where your bones laid crumbling beside me.

               

Lana Bella has her diverse work of poetry and fiction published and forthcoming with Atlas Poetica, Anak Sastra, Cecil's Writers' Magazine, Deltona Howl, Eunoia Review, Earl of Plaid Lit, Family Travel Haiku, First Literary Review East, Foliate Oak Literary, Global Poetry, Thought Notebook, Undertow Tanka Review, War Anthology: We Go On, Wordpool Press, The Commonline Journal, The Voices Project, Featured Artist with Quailing Bell Magazine, and now, Buck Off Magazine. She resides on some distant isle with her novelist husband and two frolicsome imps.

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  WHICH IS THE MIRROR FOR WHICH  

               

 

The word ‘mirror’ is a mirror for the mirror Just as a cave is a mirror for bats, the painting A mirror for colors, shapes and lines, the cloud A mirror for the sky or heaven, the bark A mirror for the wind, the lake a mirror For the mountain, the call a mirror For the cuckoo, and the screen A mirror for the human mind

     

When the thought is smashed into cutting pieces There will be more mirrors for facts, for history

 

 

Sitting on the Fence: Most Popular English Idioms                    

Yes, Elvis has left the building And you may be glad to see the back of A hot potato Jumping on the bandwagon But once in a blue moon You will hear it on the grapevine Rather than straight from the horse’s mouth Which is a far cry From the best thing since sliced bread Something you can see eye to eye While cutting the mustard By drawing all the best of both worlds To make a long story short Now if you feel a bit under the weather Do not burn the midnight oil But just give it the benefit of doubt And then hit the sack Even in this heat of the moment Or, why not just let the cat out of the bag?  

Changming   Yuan  Changming,  8-­‐time  Pushcart  n ominee  and  

author  of  4  chapbooks  (including  Mindscaping   [2014]),  is  the  most  widely  published  poetry  author   who  speaks  Mandarin  b ut  writes  English.  Tutoring   and  co-­‐editing  Poetry  Pacific  with  Allen  Qing  Yuan  in   Vancouver,  Changming  has  poetry  appearing  in  989   literary  publications  across  31  countries,  including   Best  Canadian  Poetry  (2009,12,14),   BestNewPoemsOnline  and    Threepenny  Review.  

                                                     

 

Her Black Handkerchief

   

She holds close her handkerchief, A cloth cut from a peculiar silk. It’s color: black, ebony, dark as midnight. Maybe she mourns for a burial? Maybe for another’s ill-will? She shifts a little,

       

And unveiled on the silk Are stitched initials. “S.H.”

                Mr. Mullany is a self taught painter with a variety of   classes taken over the years. Primary work, in the past, has been as an Architect. My current paintings utilize   themes from the city of New Orleans. Current projects are acrylic and ink on canvas or watercolor paper.          

Katherine Givens writes whenever she has a chance. After breakfast, between   breaks, before she sleeps. Her crazed writing habits have led to publication in numerous print and online magazines, including WestWard Quarterly, Tipton Poetry Journal, The Copperfield Review, Nazar Look, and   From the Depths.

     

Who is she? I do not ask, But my mind invents A story for her. She cries for love lost, For shattered dreams Of a life with him, But death claimed her paramour In his sleep. This is why Ebony catches her bitterness. This is why Silver teardrops are scattered About the heavens. Sorrowing she is for the one Fate promised to her, But soon tore away With all the cruelty Of Hera from Greek legends. But guilt Creeps into my conscience, For I give tragedy To a stranger’s tale. This is the story I imagine for “S.H.,” The lady with the black handkerchief.  

BOYCE                    

My name is Cameron and I am currently a sophomore painting major at the Massachusetts College of Art and Design. I began painting in high school and found that I was very motivated to keep creating. Once I started, I couldn’t stop. I also have a strong interest in photography which was my segway into the   art world. I enjoy using bright colors in my work as well as obscure compositional aspects. All I want to do in life is create and be happy. Thank you so much for viewing my artistic journey!

   

  DAVID  HOLMES      

A LADIES WALK

                     

She has a ladies walk Foretold by the coming echo of heels Fragile as a dandelion caught in the summer breeze; Fierce as a tigress waiting in the tall grass. Lilac scent accompanies, passing as a shadow In desperate chase; My eyes devour her with unreserved gluttony. Smiles form as we meet quickly yielding to A rising blush, Until at last she is gone beyond reach; My heart carried off in tether.

Truitt  

 

      THIS  COCLUDES  VOL.  3                                  

Caitlin  Truitt  is  an  artist  and  illustrator  who  spends  most  of  her  time  on  a  porch  in  New  Orleans.    Her     hobbies  include  fleetingly  touching  people  on  the  arm  to  indicate  romantic  interest;  overhearing  kids     say  funny  stuff;  and  talking  in  a  southern  debutante  accent  for  annoying  lengths  of  time.       She  began  working  as  Present  Creature  in  order  to  untangle  and  expand  on  ideas  she  had  been     struggling  to  u nderstand.    Present  Creature  works  use  recurring  animal  characters  that  not  only  allow     her  to  think  about  cross-­‐species  animal  friendships  all  the  time,  but  also  enable  her  to  create  an     imaginary  world  in  which  she  can  explore  themes  on  her  own  terms.    These  works  are  both  a  way  for     her  to  express  her  own  individuality  as  well  as  a  method  of  reaching  out  to  anyone  else  who  might     look  at  a  piece  and  think,  “Yeah,  me  too.”    In  order  to  infuse  this  personal  connection  into  the  work,     all  text  in  Present  Creature  illustrations  is  hand  drawn.  This  allows  the  artist  to  inject  a  meditative     phase  into  the  process,  enabling  her  to  d isentangle  each  idea  before  releasing  it.  

  GHJKFHGJ,FHJGLGHJLG       HHHH  

FIN Thanks for reading -Buck Off