December 1st, 2018 Issue
Welcome to PPM's 6th Issue. We have to say, we're quite proud of this one. Check out a bone-collecting brother in Emma Moore's story "Photographic Evidence", watch your step in Kyle Logan's poem "Yelps", and of course, day dream with thoughts of white barns in Rosalie Viper's "Behind Preston House". Kick back, get ready to read, and don't forget to order the iceberg salad. Enjoy!
Table of Contents
Artwork by Zachery Bowman
Watchful is the World
Poetry by Stacy Petty
Artwork by David Weinholtz
Photographic Evidence
Flash Fiction by Emma Moore
October
Poetry by Dorsía Smith Silva
A Toast to the Gods
Fiction by Maxwell Nobis
Yelps
Poetry by Kyle Logan
Emotional Portraits
Artwork by Michelle Nguyen
The Good Mother
Fiction by Brooklyn Meadows
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Artwork by David Weinholtz
Artwork by J.M. Wilder
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Behind Preston House
Flash Fiction by Rosalie Viper
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Explanation of Porch Candles
Poetry by K.G. Newman
"Illumination"
Artwork by Zachery Bowman
Watchful is the World
Wave goodbye to the moon
Currents veil the waters that be
Even the stars peek through the covers
The trees are amused with every dog they disarm
Sending little squirrels to do their bidding
The skies keep a notebook of events
But even the stars peek through the covers
It’s ours to take in with every breath of sunlit chatter
The embrace of wind
But the currents veil the waters that be
So wave goodbye to the moon
And greet the dawning of you
by Stacy Petty
Zachery Bowman
Zach's work has much to do with his love of life, humanity, and light. As he paints in oil, he aims to reflect the depth and radiance of each person, as well as the natural luminous environments that surround them. Each layer of oil paint catches light in its own way, and reveals the true beauty of each person to the viewer through the interaction of the passing layers with true jewel colors that lay deep within
Stacy Petty
...is a survivor of suicide, abuse, and addiction. she is currently eighteen months clean. When she was a child, she learned to cope by writing. Writing is a deep passion that sets her very soul on fire. She's hoping to do the same for someone else with her writings and give a message that hope is alive even when we feel it may be dead.
"A Connection"
Artwork by David Weinholtz
Photographic Evidence
by Emma Moore
My brother loved bones. George collected pictures of skeletons from archaeological digs,
some cobbled together like a child’s art project, some whole and more recent. He’d curated
hundreds—cut from magazines, copied from library books, printed from the internet—and
carried them everywhere. He could tell you where the largest human skeleton was found
(Bulgaria) and the precise cause of death for the people of Pompeii (injuries from falling rocks,
not suffocation), and when the little girl went missing, all heads turned toward the strange boy
whose eyes never quite met yours, the freak with pockets full of dead people.
​
When the police arrived, George didn’t look surprised. I saw his feelings in places other than
his face, like his feet when he stood and let his pictures fall out of order; his hands, twisting
against the tightness of the cuffs; and, as they led him out, his shoulders, curled inward and away.
“Guilt isn’t always something you can prove,” our Sunday School teacher had said on
Channel 11 the morning they’d found the girl’s body. “Sometimes it’s something you just know.”
I told myself it was their ignorance, their hate that made me drop the pictures one by one into
the sink and flip the disposal switch; but still, it was only after his collection, that well-loved
proof of abnormality, dissolved— first a sodden clump, then mangled by the blades, then gone
like it was never there— that I could finally breathe.
David Wineholtz
David has exhibited and sold work throughout America, in private and juried shows. Additionally, he is frequently commissioned by patrons to create anything from abstract pieces, to portraits and landscapes.
Emma Moore
Emmy Moore is a waitress, writer, and third year MFA student at Old Dominion University. Some of her other work can be found in Deep South Magazine and Flash Fiction Magazine.
October
​
by Dorsía Smith Silva
For years, we awaken at the first sliver of lean light
to make the journey to Skyline Drive.
We settle into the small gray car like the neatest stitches
on my overcoat. I see the I-495 sign, take the fastest lane,
whipping by billboard after billboard like a restless wind propelling forward,
until we reach Route 211 towards the mouth of Shenandoah National Park:
the archway of Skyline Drive.
Do you remember the first time that you came here?
You were just a child then and could barely tell the difference between orange and red.
Now, when you see the trees swollen with leaves, you will know
the kind of palette that spells beauty: pure pumpkin, shimmering copper,
rich magenta, citron gold, deep crimson.
You will see the architecture guided by the eyes’ hands and
conjure up the unspoken language of this good earth.
Dorsía Smith Silva
Dorsía is a Professor of English at the University of Puerto Rico, Río Piedras and her poems have been published in Aji Magazine, Gravel, Apple Valley Review, Bright Sleep Magazine, Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, The B’K, WINK, Poetry Quarterly, POUI: Cave Hill Journal of Creative Writing, Adanna, Rigorous, Shot Glass Journal, Tonguas, among others. She is a graduate from the University of Virginia and her poem "October" is about her deep appreciation of Skyline Drive.
A Toast to the Gods
by Maxwell Nobis
The three boys sprung through the snow from tree to tree in their overbearing
snow gear. A whopping 10 inches of snow fell the night before, which forced all the
schools in the area to close, so the boys decided to head down to the creek. On a mission
deep in the woods, Sid wouldn’t let Joey or Shane stop for a moment’s rest until they
found “the Spot.” They trudged high above the creek’s banks as quick as they could,
which were hilly and densely packed with snow. This could have been the last snow day
of the year, Sid said, and they couldn’t waste one second of it.
“I gotta pee.” Joey wiped his nose and covered his glove with snot. “Do you even
know where it’s at?”
Sid didn’t break stride. “We’ve been there like five times, bub. I know the way like
the back of my hand.” He lifted the back of his hand in the air to let Joey and Shane see
it. He almost lost his balance and fell down the hill. Joey let out a laugh and Shane
hocked a loogie toward the creek.
“My feet are startin’ to sweat,” complained Shane. “You better know the way.”
Sid had travelled up and down the banks of the creek since he was seven. Now twelve,
Sid felt nobility in leading his friends to their sacred Spot; knowing he was in charge
made him feel resourceful. Knowing the ways of the land is a man’s trade, he thought, as he stroked his proverbial beard. He had brooding confidence in the land around him.
Shane, the biggest one of the three who was from a devout Christian family,
wanted to stop.
“C’mon Sid, where is it?” he panted.
“You can rest when you get there, ya big lug. I’ll fix a whole buffet for you when
we get there.” Shane didn’t like Sid’s jokes but never said anything to him about them.
Joey ran with his head down to hide his face, even though no one could see it. He
had gotten his first pimple on his nose just the night before, which made him even more
shy than usual. His father had admonished him about poking it and picking at it before he
left for the creek. It was the size of the tip of a needle but felt like a walnut stuck to his
nose.
In the midst of thinking about it, Joey ran into the back of Sid and Shane, smashing into them. They all fell to the ground with snow going up their jackets. Frantically trying to wipe it away, Sid was the first to get up. He pointed a few meters away.
“There it is!” He didn’t help Shane or Joey back up and bolted. Joey got up
slowly and followed Sid as Shane took his time to get over there.
The Spot was the largest clearing on either side of the creek. It could have fit ten
people wide, and it was clear most of the way down with only a few tree trunks lying
sporadically throughout the hill. The boys had gone sledding down it once or twice last
winter. But Shane broke his ankle there last time so they hadn’t been there since.
“Welcome to the hills of Auspicious, boys!” Sid declared and plopped into the
snow.
“Don’t you mean Aesepus?” Joey said. Shane laughed to himself.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Sid threw snow at Joey and lied down on his back.
The boys had just started reading the Iliad in Ms. Laverly’s class, which was their
favorite story to read. It was the first story they ever liked to read. They loved all the
stories of warriors and Gods fighting, the wine, and the beautiful women. All three boys
agreed that Athena would be the ultimate wife, warrior, and winner to marry. But it was
Ms. Laverly, their English teacher, who the boys would crush on any and every chance
they got. They wouldn’t dare miss a day of school if it meant missing a day of reading or
Ms. Laverly.
Shane was still panting as he sat down in the snow. “I bet the gods would feel this
bad after running all this way.”
Sid gave him a scowl. “Shut up, Shane,” and threw a snowball at his chest. “Enjoy
some of the fruits of our quest!” He had a palm full of snow, lapping at it like a dog.
The three boys lied on their backs and watched the snow fall from the sky.
Casually eating snow around them, the winter’s silence fell over the Spot and they
retreated to their own thoughts. Sid closed his eyes for a few moments. He had his first
practice the next day, something he wasn’t really looking forward to. Sid seemed to
always be training for the baseball season with his father, even if he didn’t want to. Joey
and Shane didn’t make the team, which dashed their hopes of the three of them ever
playing together again. They had to try out for other teams, which they made, but they
still weren’t all together. Sure, they were heartbroken over it for the first week or so, but
after a while they all got used to it.
Sid had a love-hate relationship with baseball because he liked hanging out with
his friends just as much as he liked playing ball. But now that his friends weren’t playing
on the same team as him, he always had to face the decision of going to practice or
hanging out with Shane and Joey. Whenever they weren’t playing ball, though, they’d
hang out or get on Xbox Live together. Sid tried to get his mind off of practice and
opened his eyes again to watch the snowfall.
Joey was thinking about Isabella, the girl who sat beside him in their English
class. They met in class one day after she had asked something about the homework. In a
stroke of luck that made him seem like he knew more than he led on, he accidentally
called her Bell. She smiled at him and asked for his name; he told her Joey. They shook
hands and ever since they were somewhat friends, although they never hung out outside
of class.
She had a sheet of freckles that covered her face. He wanted to kiss all of them.
He was thinking about what each kiss would feel like. Probably like posies, he thought to
himself. The line “Something of a sweet delight” popped into his head; he didn’t know
where it came from but he would write it down when he got home. Maybe he’d write a
poem for her.
Shane could feel his belly hanging over his waistline as he lay there and looked at
the trees. He didn’t like to be the size he was but he didn’t know what to do about it.
Sure, he could “go running” but it’s not like that was easy. And he looked like an injured
penguin when he ran. And he still despised vegetables. He and his mother would argue all the time about his eating habits, usually during dinnertime. “It’s such a shame,” his mother would always say, “because you really are a handsome boy.”
The snow continued to fall and no one had said anything for quite some time.
Shane, who was eager to get away from the thought of his disapproving mother looked
over at Joey and Sid to see what they were doing. Sid was just looking up at the trees and
Joey, for some reason, had his eyes closed with a lazy, amorous smile on his face. Shane
started to laugh out loud and hit Joey in the shoulder
“What the hell are you thinking about Pepe Le Pew?”
Sid looked over at Joey too, both of the boys laughing at Joey, who blushed and
gave a stark “nothin’.”
“Ohhh, were you thinkin’ about Eees-Ah-Bell-Ah,” Sid taunted the pronunciation
of her name.
“Shut up, man,” Joey slapped Sid on the shoulder. Shane snickered and made
kissy noises.
“Is there a god of snow?” Sid asked.
Joey gave a pause, the red in his face fading back to its normal complexion. “I
don’t think so. At least, Ms. Laverly has never said anything.”
All three of the boys had completely forgotten about Ms. Laverly. She was a tall
brunette with a heavy French accent and always wore red lipstick. All three of the boys
were enamored by her way with words, especially since they started reading the
Iliad. They always passed notes in class talking about how they felt like she was sent from the
heavens as a beautiful angel. Sid felt like she had romantic feelings about him the most,
although Joey and Shane would beg to differ.
“Did you see that skirt she had on last week? What a doll.” Shane said.
“Boy, I thought I was gonna fall out of my seat,” Sid said. “She’s so hot.”
“A goddess in our class every day,” Joey said quietly.
The boys sat in silence for a few moments, thinking about the teacher they wanted so much.
Sid broke the silence, “I say we give a snow toast.” He scooped up some snow into his hand and raised it to the sky.
“To the goddesses we hold dear!” he said valiantly.
Shane chimed in, “To the men who wish death upon us!” Joey and Sid both
looked at Shane with a confused look on their faces. They just went with it and didn’t say
anything.
Joey thought for a few seconds of what to say that would top both of their toasts.
“And to the gods who could never be us!” he blurted out.
Shane and Sid looked at Joey and nodded their heads.
All three of them raised their hands full of snow and licked them clean.
​
Maxwell Nobis
Is a writer from Massillon, OH, but currently based in Madison, WI. He graduated from Kent State University in Spring 2017 with a Bachelor of Arts in English, where he completed his first short story collection, Oakwood. In his spare time, he collects records and watches Cleveland sports.
Yelps
by Kyle Logan
The Steps are high.
​
You keep falling and falling.
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Will you make it ?
​
Then you hear a voice...
​
It’s your dog.
Kyle Logan
Kyle L. Logan is currently a junior at Xavier University of Louisiana majoring in biology and minoring in chemistry. In addition to running track and field for Xavier, Kyle is currently an active member in the Biology Club, Biomedical Honors Corps, and the Minority Association of Premedical Students. He is from Hampton, Virginia.
Emotional Portraits
Artwork by Michelle Nguyen
The Good Mother
scroll
by Brooklyn Meadows
I wanted my Fortunate Doll more than I wanted any other Christmas present. Mom was
pulling the old rust wagon into my grandparent’s driveway where I would meet Aunt Annie and
Uncle Don; travelers who loved to bring back their treasures for all the family to behold.
Earrings for Grandmamma, an exotic bull skin rug from Africa for Uncle Tim, usually a race car
for my brother, and always an antique doll from the Fortunate Doll set which only created and
distributed five original dolls for each series. I was the proud owner of two of these originals.
As we unloaded the car, each of us carrying neatly wrapped presents and hot casserole
dishes, I ran ahead so I could peek at the presents under the tree. I felt the usual Christmas spirit
thickening the air as I mingled through a sea of adults while managing to escape mom’s eyes
firmly piercing through the back of my head like hot irons because, like a good mom, she knew
my intentions for entering into a large open area we called “the den.”
“You should be fortunate for what you are given,” mom would always scold as I skipped
over the mounds of food in settling for a piece of cornbread or hot chocolate on my way to the
den. Three, velvet couches lined the walls of the room where my cousins sat anxiously.
Although, Mr. and Mrs. Clause figurines could be found in all areas of the house, only the den
had the life-size version sitting cattycorner of the simple, yet over-decorated live tree; usually
the creation of my cousins belaboring the tree with colorful tinsel and strong-scented pine
cones. Although its smell filled the den with tradition and memories, it also caused the tree to
droop at its edges.
Finally, the adults wobbled their way into the den. Grandpa holding his stomach in one
hand and a toothpick in the other after having fully appreciated Grandmama’s cooking. Mom
grabbed me by the shoulders and positioned me at her side while she and Grandpa talked.
“You have done such a good job with her. You outta be proud,” Grandpa would boast,
“She’s shooting up like a weed.”
Mom smiled and pressed the pleating of her dress as if ironing out the wrinkles. She had
chosen a green festive dress that wrapped around her like a robe. Present opening had passed in
the order that it always had: children, teens, parents, grandparents. After all was opened, Uncle
Don entered the room with a box full of treasures. I immediately saw my doll as they were
passing out all the relics to various family members while explaining the details of their
adventures. I never bothered to listen to the stories of what countries my dolls where from, how
they were made, or what voyage took place in order for Aunt Annie to bring one home for me,
but I knew they were high-value dolls that no other girl my age had, let alone a girl like me.
“The elegant Madame Eglantine” written across a pristine box that would be “worth a lot
of money someday if I would only take proper care of it,” mom would always insist. I made the
mistake of opening my first doll which “destroyed her value,” but this time was not like the rest.
Her curls were perfect, golden ringlets that lay like soft rose petals across her lace embroidered
dress. I quietly admired the detail to the pearls skillfully sewn into the lace, the layers of silk that
bunched up her skirt at the top in order for the blue, silky gown to flow like a river down to her
glass slippers. I could not wait to align her on my shelf along with my other less valuable dolls
where of course she would shine brightest of all.
The next time my eyes left the world of Madame Eglantine to meet the reality of my
surroundings, I was safely in my booster seat carefully snuggling the rather large box holding
Madame Eglantine. At the time, I was five and car rides were always magical adventures as my
parents would entertain my many curious questions as well as uncontrollable urge to convince
the family to partake in singing karaoke tracks, but this car ride was different. The loud laughter
still ringing in my ears from the family was replaced with a solemn stillness. Although the trunk
was full of presents, it felt as though Christmas was already over. The thick air of Holiday Spirit
that engulfed me at Grandmama’s house had now dissipated into an atmosphere of anxiety. For a
moment, I thought it was just the uneasy feeling you get from waking up in a different spot than
where you fell asleep, but as reality creeped its way around the corner of our bend, I saw our
house on the hillside approaching us.
Mom tapped on my passenger window, “Wake up, honey, we’re home.” Like a good
mom, she unbuckled me and with great difficulty lifted my pile of deadweight onto her petite
shoulders while passing me off to my dad. I was big like he was. Even at 6’4”, there was nothing
lanky about him. He was bulky and muscular, and carried himself like a boulder; rounded and
masculine. I snuggled in close to his chest to seize the moment. With my parent’s line of work, it
wasn’t often that I got personal time with him. Even while snuggled into my dad’s chest, I felt
the temperature drop. I couldn’t tell if it was colder outside or in. I opened my eyes to peer over
my dad’s shoulder as he walked to my bedroom. I squeezed them shut then opened them again
widely as I tried to imagine Mr. and Mrs. Clause figurines dancing through the house wearing
too much tinsel instead of the black shadows hiding in the corners. My black hair slung across
my face as my body gently heaved from my dad’s shoulder to the bed. “Don’t forget Madame
Eglantine,” I whispered, as Mom sat the box on the stool beside my bed.
With morning, Dad was gone. Mom was making breakfast in her house robe which, to
me, made her look like one short, red blob. Like a tele tubby, which I preferred to picture her
as on several occasions. Red robe usually meant Mom was sick or having a stressful morning. She
wore her robes much like warning signs. She had a color, or tele tubby for each mood.
Although she was slamming the dishes and mumbling things under her breath, I perched myself
up at the kitchen table, and I imagined a red tele tubby smiling as it delivered my scrambled
eggs, bacon, and toast. I squeezed my eyes shut and when I opened them Mom was scratching
her arms, pacing the floors, wringing her hands, and looking for her antidote. Sometimes I helped
her look for the antidote, much like a game. Mom loved to play games. In fact, she could change
her entire demeanor in seconds to fit whatever role was in need. She was a good mom, but I
didn’t like this role. I preferred to stay away from her when she got like this because she
reminded me of a threatened, wounded animal being backed into a corner.
Suddenly, she wrapped her arms around me and pulled me close to her somewhat shaking
torso. I felt my heart jump to my chest as I held my breath, anticipating her next move. She said,
“I’m sorry honey, it’s so cold in here. Let’s go out for a drive. Would you like that? We could
take all your dolls too. It can be like a game.”
We rushed off to the bedroom like airplanes. She said our mission was to gather all our
finest for a carriage ride through the city where we shall triumphantly collect the antidote. Like a
good mother, she layered me with so many wools that my arms floated out beside me and I
imagined that if she just put some tinsel on me I could the Christmas tree missing from our living
room. Mom chose the black robe because she said that our mission needed a ninja. I watched her
short legs turn into long acrobatic scissors slicing through the air on the way to the car, but no
matter how hard I tried, I could not imagine myself as anything other than a rolly polly. With
vigor, Mom strapped me into my booster seat while fastening my dolls in beside me. As the car
doors shut, Mom began to transform into a beautiful princess who graciously shared her
crumpets and hot tea with me and my dolls as we were on our carriage ride to see the lovely
queen.
We pulled up to a modest castle when Mom stopped the car.
“We need to make a sacrifice honey,” Mom said in a less dramatic voice than what she
had been impersonating for much of the car ride.
“Anything for the cause!” I cried, raising one of my dolls into the air.
“Your dolls are gonna stay here in this castle. Okay?” Mom said.
Before I could answer, she frantically got out of the car, opened the backseat car door and
started gathering the boxes containing my prize possessions.
I grabbed Madame Eglantine crying, “Please, no Mom! Please, not Madame Eglantine.”
I squinted my eyes closed and opened them to the box being torn from my hands.
“Dry it up! They are just dolls,” Mom chastised as her scabby, desperate hands grabbed
the remaining boxes, and I watched Madame Eglantine get captured by this slimy creature who I
could not believe was my mom.
I grabbed Madame Eglantine again and the beast knocked me against the window as it
screeched, “You don’t deserve these dolls you spoiled brat.”
I sat motionless as the creature disappeared behind the towering doors leaving a thick
trail of sludge in its path.
Shortly after, Mom returned to the car calmly. Her shaking hands had settled and a look
of peace was on her face. She even had changed into a yellow sundress that reminded me of
Madame Eglantine’s curls. Mom never acknowledged me or noticed that the dolls were missing
and some creature had taken them from me. I sat slumped over like the tree with too many
pinecones and cried uncontrollably. My shoulders convulsed and my face was red from the
straining of my tears. Mom glanced back with a compassionate smile as she turned up the radio.
“Christmas carols outta make you feel better,” Mom said as she started cheerfully singing
along. “I really hate to see a pretty girl look so sad.” She winked at me in the review mirror.
Although I was heartbroken, mom looked to be feeling better. No matter how bad things
got, I always loved to be the reason for a smile on Mom’s face. She was beautiful when she
smiled, and seeing her smile reflect back at me always gave me a sense of security, even if
momentary. Before I realized it, my tears were drying, I was humming along to Christmas carols
and counting how many houses were decorated with Christmas lights. I wondered about the
people that lived in the houses and if any of those little girls ever got to own a Madame Eglantine
doll. I doubted that they had because it was a very rare gift, and I knew I was special for receiving
it. I wondered what made me special now.
We pulled into the driveway. Mom put the car in park.
“You know why we had to leave the dolls, don’t you?” Mom asked.
I shrugged my shoulders, confused by what she meant by "leave".
“We need the money for bills, and besides, you can’t always have everything you want.
There will be more dolls,” she said reassuringly.
I interrupted, “What about that creature that stole Madame Eglantine?”
“You should be fortunate,” she continued ignoring me completely while staring straight
forward as if rehearsing to herself, “We had to sacrifice the dolls in order to get the antidote.
Don’t you understand? The antidote makes Mommy feel better. I’m sorry about your dolls, but
now it’s time for you to be strong.”
“Now, wanna go get some hot cocoa and wait for Dad to get home?”
I smiled and tried to be strong like Mom said. As we walked to the door, I felt conflicting
emotions, and I could not imagine any scenario other than the one in front of me.
Was it my fault that creature took Madame Eglantine? I should have saved her. I don’t
want to go on anymore missions with Mom. I had to sacrifice her for the antidote. I had to. No
antidote means Mom stays sick. If Mom was a good mom then why would she let them take
Madame Eglantine? I don’t want to find an antidote. There. I said it.
As we entered the house, the cold breeze pushed my hair back gently and I couldn’t stop
asking myself, “Am I a good daughter?”
Michelle Nguyen
Michelle is a color pencil portrait artist. She has been drawing for three years now. She went through a difficult time in her life where she turned to art for solace and peace. It's become therapeutic for her to draw every night. She went through so many emotions she felt she had a hard time expressing on the surface. Art gave her a way to expose those parts herself.
Brooklyn Meadows
Brooklyn is currently a graduate student working on her Masters in English with a concentration in Creative Writing.
"Even Savage Beasts Need TLC"
Artwork by David Weinholtz
Sunny
by JM Wilder
We bred our lazy dogs to sleep
and lounge in sunlit corners and bark
at nothing walking by
Fleas crept around at night
since the dogs didn't bathe or lash
about in hose water
actually didn't like the outdoors
much at all
chose knit shawls to nap in
quilts with little tears
all over, beautiful once
now desperate and clawed
Little wolves
housed descendants of bloodied warriors
yelled for me
when I left the house
asked me to stay and believed
I'd never return
I still find you noble my fox
In your honor and grace
with your shedding tail and dry skin
red hair swept through the black
Still call you pretty bear
every day, when I feel the bond connected
Curled tight in a corner
shining in a beam
of light shot through the window
I won't wake you now
but I hope you're dreaming
of something good
David Weinholtz
David has exhibited and sold work throughout America, in private and juried shows. Additionally, he is frequently commissioned by patrons to create anything from abstract pieces, to portraits and landscapes.
JM Wilder
JM Wilder is a poet and songwriter who lives with his wife and two dogs in Fullerton, California. In 2016 he self-published his first collection of poems entitled "Bullpen no. 1" and is now working on a new book of poetry and short stories about the early stages of rock n' roll. He currently plays and records music under the name Boom Years.
Behind Preston House
by Rosalie Viper
The white barn stood before me, looking so peaceful as it sat by the edge of the wheat
fields. I don't know what they used it for now. What I do know is, we definitely aren't allowed
back there. It was a little rough around the edges, but regardless, it was breathtaking. I caught
myself standing outside around dusk, staring at it. It was as if it called to me.
As I stared, my mind floated off and dreamt. A tap on my shoulder snapped me back. The
nurse casually grabbed my arm, and brought me back to my bed. I turned one last time to look at
the captivating white barn.
Rosalie Viper
Rosalie is originally from New Jersey, but has traveled quite a bit since halfway through high school. She has always found writing to be a release for her. She is a Chemist currently, but strives to become a writer. She lived in Virginia for her last years of high school.
Explanation for Porch Candles
by KG Newman
Since the goal was to make it to death together,
I wanted our home to have an open concept —
conglomeration wallpaper filled with city skylines,
the Space Needle seamlessly beside the Eiffel Tower
and outside, fences built just to clarify the prairie
as grain sorted itself inside the tower and traffic
couldn’t be recollected. It was all necessary for birds
to remember their migration routes and for our couch
to not pull us too deep, hugs rusted shut and fingers
the tangled bones we wanted not a day too soon.
KG Newman
KG Newman is a sportswriter who covers the Colorado Rockies for The Denver Post. His first two collections of poems, While Dreaming of Diamonds in Wintertime and Selfish Never Get Their Own, are available on Amazon. The Arizona State University alum is on Twitter and more info can be found at kgnewman.com
It seems like every new issue of PPM has its ups and downs for us. We get such a wonderful job to publish writers, poets, artists, and more and more Virginians as well. We had a massive amount of submissions this time round, so thanks again to all of our readers and editors. Special thanks to Sean Putnam, our art editor, who is now contributing all the way from Texas. But once again, all of our hard work here, and the hard work of all our contributing artists and writers, has of course made this very much worth it. Thank you again, everyone. We wish you all a Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays!
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Sincerely,
The Editors of Penultimate Peanut Magazine