Rusted Flowers (Spring Edition Issue, 2024)

Contemporary Dutch painter-artist Fons Heijnsbroek, Amsterdam, The Netherlands.

The Croft Ruins somewhere between Aviemore and Kingussie

Kiera Smith (U.S.)

My broken stone outlines stretch out into unkempt grass,
(An imprint of what once was)
Into the soft ground.
I am weighed by time and measured by grief.
I am nestled in the bosom of overgrown trees and ancient hills.
Kept safe like a secret,
Hidden as a scar you’re not proud of,
Yet I am many in my grey marrings on green and purple canvas.
I hold the traipsing of rubber-clad feet in and out of my chest cavity.
(How long my hearth has been cold)
They clamber over my carcass.
The bright colours of raincoats and welly-boots
Contrast with the dullness of my being.
Sometimes the soft patter of paws,
A child’s laughter
Or a familiar gait step across my threshold.
If water could be pulled from stone, I’d weep.
My granite flesh scorched black by flames long burnt out,
Or ripped apart by hands and tools.
(No one remembers anymore)
My bones melting into the land with moss,
Worn smooth by wind and weather of –
How many years?
(No one remembers anymore)
I was a home once.
I’m little more than a pile of stones now.
A marker, a gravestone, to the families who fled from these hills
Never to return, to build me back anew.

Abstract landscape with Sunlight

THE CANDY LADY

Dee Allen

1980: Age 12:
She had anything
The neighbourhood kids’
Sweet tooths craved:

Snickers, Milky Ways, M & Ms, Twizzlers liquorice, jawbreakers, Bubble Yum, Kit-Kats,
Reese’s peanut butter cups, a new candy bar called Twix, around Xmas shopping
Season, peppermint sticks, Jolly Ranchers, Lemonheads—

The very things
That made young mouths sing
She kept stacked and stocked
In coloured boxes on her shelves.
Ours for the asking,
Between 25 cents and $2.

The Candy Lady,
Kind, grandmotherly Black neighbour,
Sweeter than the treats she sold from her home,
Made herself a good living
Ruining kids’ appetites before dinner.

Anyone of us on the block
[ Including my cousins and me ]
Could venture at a guess
Social Security payments
From the government
Didn’t give the old woman
Around the corner enough to live on monthly.

Nothing wrong with
Having a side hustle
That kept children
Happy and fed
Full of sugar.

AUDRA

Strutting onto a stage
Tailored for Broadway plays
In a bright white dress & flower over the ear.
The spotlight’s on her.
Accomplished theatre actress
Taking on the role of a famous
Singer—her second talent.
Classically-trained, hitting high notes
Like Leontyne Price, Opera dynamo.
This time around, though,
She channels her projected
Voice, recalling a unique
Bluesy, Southern lazy snarl
To which old school Jazz fans are familiar.
It shows in her chosen
Love rhapsodies
Hard luck stories
In song:
“Crazy He Calls Me”, “Solitude”, “God Bless The Child”, “What A Little Moonlight Can Do”.
Accomplished songbird,
Born Audra McDonald,
Found this voice listening to old records
And remembering how her nanna spoke.
She stands before an enraptured audience.
Releasing all the heartbreak, the passion, vocal range, raw skill
Billie Holiday had—
Worthy of a standing ovation—

CHARLOTTE

Charlotte
The Illustrated Woman
Always seen adorned in funeral-ready black
Charged hair, halter top, shorts, shredded nylons, engineer boots.

Charlotte
Comes practically stomping
In front of her devotees,
Freaky denizens of the nightclub, standing room only.

Charlotte
Mother Of Whispers
Who never whispers on stage.
Once the mic’s in her hand, the excitement begins.

Charlotte
Equipped with a voice
Not soft & aethereal, but mid-range & crooning,
Burst into raw, primal shouts, weaved with melody.

Charlotte
2020s Death Rocker look.
1990s Riot Grrrl attitude.
Delightful sounds can be dark and rocking. And she delivers both.

Charlotte
Backed by the Nox. Street-hardened wail soars
Above the music, from the tattooed, pale, pretty, powerlifting package
Charlotte Eve Blythe.

Return Me to Darkness artwork by AJ Hughes

Return Me to Darkness

By A.J. Hughes

Lost and afraid. I am trapped by what I fear most. I can’t breathe. The world around me moves at a speed I cannot follow. I have never seen these things around me. Where am I? What have I done? Electromagnetic waves threaten to shatter me. I retreat. Blinded. I flee, desperate to return to where I belong.

Nothing waits for me in the light of day. I am alone and terrified. Floating through an endless sea of disingenuous creatures, mindlessly soaking in the sun as it tears me asunder. Their smiles, etched into the back of my mind, my body quivering in a searing-hot breeze. Their loud, boisterous laughter, like nails against a chalkboard. Don’t come near me. Stay away. How much longer do I have to endure the horror that is day?

The light is too bright. It bores into my eyes, violently and ever so cruelly. With nowhere to hide from its nuclear glow, my skin burns with an intensity that cannot heal. I hide behind the silhouettes of the egotistical. How long must I suffer? When can I go home? When can I return to where I belong?

Darkness looms, cast into the moonlight in the solitude of night, my soul is at ease. Enveloped by the euphoria of quietness, a cessation to the endless assault on my eyes. The cool breeze purified and washed away the agony of daybreak from my skin. I become potent, magical, and restored to my full glory.

The dark is my savior. No creatures of day to fog my mind and harm me. Traversing the world of night, may it guide me to where I belong.

The Lonely Flower artwork by AJ Hughes

The Lonely Flower

A.J. Hughes (U.S.)

In the darkness of night, on a soiled path, is a lonely flower.
Every night, the flower waits for someone to recognize its beauty.
But no one arrives.

Unable to appear in the daylight,
when the sun offers warmth to other flowers,
the lonely flower emerges at night when it’s safe.
It admires the bright and colorful flowers of day,
wishing it could become as vibrant as they are.

But…even the moonlight chooses to cast away from this flower.
It faces towards the moon,
hoping its light will soon shine upon it.
Eager to grow strong
recognized for its beauty and grandeur.

The flower desired attention from someone or something.
Anything that would look upon it with admiration.
With no one to take care of it,
the lonely flower waters itself,
at least, as best as it could.
When it’s done, it smiles to itself, and says, “I did a good job.”

The lonely flower continues to wait
for someone who will never show.

On a deserted path, in the middle of night,
the lonely flower waits,
until the last petal falls.