N°2 // -Ology Journal

-ologyQuarterly Electronic Journal

of Poetry and Prose

No2 | June 2015Chiaroscuro

Executive Editor and Creative DirectorAvery Myers

Managing EditorPaola Bennet

Managing EditorAnthea Yang

Genre EditorMakayla Madsen

EditorSamantha Sadowsky

EditorNichole Dean

Copy EditorNora Hill

Art DirectorAdrien Mooney

Web DesignLucrezia Castelli

-Ology Journal is an independent publication that does not belong to any collective group or association.

No part of this electronic journal may be reproduced without permission

from the owners of the works contained in the journal.

FROM THE EDITOR

Blackness is a difficult theme to tackle.

And for our second anthology, we refuse to hide away from the difficult. This

is a composition of facts and ambiguities: for the lost and the quiet, for the

subtle and the bold. This is a story and an event, darkness and light and love

and shadow and you and I.

N° 2 - Chiaroscuro: the contrasting effect of light and shadow. A beginning

and a middle.

But not an end.

To our readers, and writers, and editors, and everyone on this earth: you are

everything. Thank you for impacting and inspiring -Ology Journal. Thank you

for make this an emotional and honest work-in-progress.

— Avery Myers,

Executive Editor

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night dancing in the amtrak yardchristian sammartino

All the guard dogs are asleep.

The beagles hushed their junkyard rhapsody

After the last fire whistle.

The July heat lightning that lit the

Track recedes into a horizon darker

Than a Pennsylvania coal mine.

Fireflies switch on their signals

Across the dark spaces of the yard,

Like strands of cordless light bulbs.

Here I am pressed into her neck

Muddling every step to a waltz

Whose name I can’t pronounce.

My jaw clenches with stage fright,

Threatening to snap like driftwood

Wedged in a trash compactor.

The rails shine like the lights

On stage at the Bolshoi Theater

As I follow her choreography

Toward the grand finale.

I see a gentle glimmer in her eye.

For the first time in my life,

I’m not in the cheap seats.

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lullaby of the westjayne consolacion

Sometimes you’d feel small. Like when you go to some secret beach and the

shoreline stretches on for miles and there’s nothing but the lonely lighthouse

to the north and one or two of those empty boats. There are stars everywhere.

In the sand, the sky, tracing the lines of your palms. Even on the water, if only

for just a breath-short life before the wave crashes over. You’d feel small, and

there’s a beat of a song somewhere that doesn’t quite match your heart—rising

from the sea, carried through the air; doesn’t matter—and it would be beautiful.

You’d remember all the choices you made; your breakfast this morning, the

college program you’re stuck with, the people you’ve let go over the years.

That’s okay. The world is beautiful. You are beautiful. Sometimes it doesn’t

make sense. This doesn’t make sense. But the world is big enough to take care

of you. It is. The moon will guide you home, just you watch. Listen. Stop, every

once in a while, look for hanging bridges and secret beaches and let yourself

be small, until you’re lost in the whisper of the dusk and the echoes of islands

across the sea, until you’re so small you’re one with the world. The waves will

keep crashing in your head long after you’ve crossed the bridge away from the

ocean. The world is big. It’s okay. There are stars everywhere, if you stop long

enough to look, and they will lull you to sleep.

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12 |

midnight letterstopaz winters

witching hour. one-lane highway. stale cigarette smoke

curls through my veins. I can hear what the night

is thinking. it’s thinking of me. it’s thinking of the

sound of heartbreak and stars shot down from

inky skies. it’s counting down silent seconds,

wondering when the sun will arrive to burn it away.

the night is afraid. so am I.

but it smells like warmth, like faded leather and

broken guitar strings. it smells like everything I

shouldn’t want and everything I do anyway. the

world is asleep, but out here, the emptiness

breathing deep inside my bones is replaced by

something else. magic. or maybe something more,

something untouched by human hands. the

night yawns high above me, and I think perhaps

it is friends with this thing that breathes

deep deep down where no one else goes.

not a soul in this world knows how to love me,

but birds are singing in my throat. I think I know

what freedom is: empty road, star song, love and

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fear and everything in between. I’ve tried time and

time again to dig my own grave, but something

always snatches the shovel from my hands before

I can finish. my heart is ensnared in an animal trap.

but my mind is wild. my eyes are dancing. it’s the

witching hour and there are monsters lurking in

dark shadows. I am one of them.

the night is bruised, stars like blood leaking across its

sleek silken surface. I am bruised too. I am broken.

shades of grey and black blur into each other, but here,

teetering on the brink between dusk and day, is the only

place I can see in perfect colour.

there is a thing breathing deep inside my bones:

magic, or perhaps stardust. infinity hums in every

inch of my skin, and the night is calling my name.

I think perhaps it’s time to go and meet it.

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photo: paolo nacpil

photo by andrew hector

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a darkness burns within meyin xzi

My mother says: full of light,the sun shines through me and my eyes,well: they are nothing but stars.my father says: darkness within me,weighs me down and my eyes,well: it turns me blind.I’m learning how to balance the two -a sunflower that turns their headstoward the sun: space and starsSwirling depths of confusion,there’s something bigger within mesmallness: against the infinityone speck of light - noone speck of nothing - noone speck of both, maybeAstraea took the stars and scatteredscattered them across the world.Few landed in the earth.Nox extinguished them.Most landed in souls and continuethey continue to burn: to flourishand eat away at a heartthe way eyes devour literatureHemera and Athena struggle to light the waythe North Star never wavers: so they say

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My mother says: thrive like the earthMy father says: smother the hopeElpis winced, bloody teeth:it’s okayEris smiled, broken nose:go onGaea yawned and Astraea fled:the North Star was gonealone: opaque movementstifled sounds, a lucid feelingCracks appeared -we’re helping: Aether and Eridanus whisperedLight spilled out -beams that split the walldust shone in the filamentsdance: my mother saidsing: my father encouragedbelieve: Elpis murmuredAll these voices,messagesDark, light -One and the same.

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still life with broken heartschristina im

dinner has ended and you’re still here.it’s a painting and you’re letting it dry.the tabletop is spread with blood. that’s it,you say. i’m done. and you are. but you can’ttear your eyes from the two wineglasses,the candle burning low for no one. the waythe table stands center stage and past that,nothing. blackness waiting in the wings.

in the middle you can still see the hearts,side by side. such a quiet name for somethingso ugly. they’re shuddering together—stale fear sour as leftovers, cut-off veinsand all. they’re red, the kind that hurts,the kind you only get when you use a knifeand let it sink deep. but they’re fading,fast as city-soaked stars. they clawat the sunrise, fall face-first into dusk.they’ve been picking each other apartfor too long. they’re too close together.you can’t tell which is which.they’re not keeping anyone alive.

you and a girl. the girl and you.hands held fast until your palmsdon’t remember what it is to be empty.rubbing sun-streaked grins off in the gloom.she taught you how to hold the brush early,to make quick strokes so you didn’t feel itas much. nothing is beautiful, she said softlyone day. we all just learn how to lie.

chartreuse is emerald is celadon is life.colors are bulletproof. clearlyyou’re something less.every dinner’s a masterpieceuntil your eyes are open.

oh, what a tragedy. oh, what a waste.no one could call this art. what a shame,what a mystery to the ones who come after you both.you look one last time. you shake your head.what a perfect graveyard. what a terrible end.18 |

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torchbearerpaola bennet

Candles flare high as pride;

yours flashes rust and salty copper.

Sicily’s the penny

at the bottom of your eyes,

and mama loves you for it.

You’re screaming gold and shadow

don’t make belonging,

only cities long forgotten,

but you’re the one forgetting

this town births revolutionaries

and you walk like the New World.

You blaze for this time.

I’ve long been burnt, buried

ruin of the textbook kind.

Try scraping the blackness

out of my spine, we’ll see then

who wears a crown.

Honey, truth is a hard flickering;

we know who’s kindling

and who is burning out.

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20 |

persimmonsavery myers

at least i’ll always have the sun,

and the way it swept me back;

when you are too little like them

to be among them.

the pale purpling aches of the earth

are wild; wide in war and -

oh, the sun’s gone down.

at least the earth was practiced and proud,

when it fell asleep.

i’d have given the moon from my eyes

to dig your grave with my own dirty hands.

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photo by andrew hector

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subway magicnora hill

you haven’t learned not to smile on trains yet.

you with your restless fidgets,

your feet on the seat,

your arm out-stretched, legs swinging.

you twirling round the pole.

you with that daylight smile, that subway-magic grin.

it’s your smile that draws our eyes.

we’ve forgotten, see,

how to see all this magic here.

your leaf-green eyes catch it all, soak it up

turn it into sugar and save it

for rainy days when you don’t get to ride the train.

but us? our eyes glaze over, miss the magic.

miss the light. see nothing but the dark of the tunnels,

miss the in-betweens.

miss the bursts of winter sunlight through graffitied windows.

we detest the steady rhythm, the stop

and go, the give

and take of the subway.

we think it only

takes (time, patience, too much money)

us where we need to go.

we’ve forgotten, see, to see the sunlight.

it gives us sunlight.

it gives us rhythm.

it gives us you, twirling and smiling,

laughing at subway-magic and crystal sunlight

when all we see is dark.

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blackberry tonguescaroline kinsella

summer sunrise blazingthrough the curtain, illuminatingripeness and ruin:blackberry bruises andstrawberry bloodstainsand jam and burning wordson burnt toastbees battled it outoutside the windowand we sat silent to watch,calm, stingers ready,breathing heavy,playing charadeswith the sun raysand when I leaned inyour lips tasted likeoverly-ripened raspberrieseven though they never bledany syllable as softall I could feel was a sweet mourning,heavy limbs hung out to dryand I tried to cry outbut the sky cried for me instead,I, left, sprawled in mud,caked in berry-bloodand unclean wordsall of this, only becausewe still haven’t learned thatanswers don’t come as easilywhen you’re asking questionsin the light

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24 |photo by andrew hector

26 |

modern deitiesisabelle mcneur

orpheus only frequents bars that don’t have karaoke nights

turns off the radio when he gets in the car

he’s forgotten what a lyre feels like in his fingers

demeter is an on-call midwife

no matter what the parents are told during the ultrasound

demeter always ends up holding a baby girl

ares spends each friday night in a different police cell

they never get an id and he’s gone when they check on him

he burned off his fingerprints long ago

aphrodite is in the photoshop business

feels something inside her curl and wither into nothing

every time she airbrushes a flat-eyed model’s cellulite away

hades is forever recruiting souls to fill out new paperwork

the dead are rolling in faster than he can count them nowadays

cause of death has gone from swords to drone attacks

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athena is getting tired of wisdom

swallows bright pills and chases them with brighter drinks

dances in clubs where she can’t think over the vibrations

hera is the best divorce attorney in the tri-state area

broke up with zeus around the civil war

left him to sleep his way around europe for the third time

dionysus made the switch from wine to liquor around the 14th century

and he can’t shake off the weariness that accompanies waking

along with the hangover

poseidon is counting the days before they inevitably find him

he has to keep finding new hiding places

the ocean is getting smaller by the decade

prometheus had his chains shaken off of him by an avalanche

he keeps expecting the gods to show up pounding at his door

but no-one’s come yet

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28 |

empty matchboxpauline angeli diego

Each blink comes with a kind of friction

that is strong enough to light a match,

burn out the grey and illuminate my cage.

For within the confines of my eyelids

prevail new beginnings and hello’s,

four walls that welcome you home,

and a yellow daisy that bleeds gratitude.

As I unlatch my eyes from memories

of the past,

I fall back to the sceneries of unlit matches —

a message that bids farewell,

empty rooms and silent halls,

a dried up daisy on my desk and a table

for one.

This poem does not yearn

for the early days once more.

This is the smell after rain

The aftermath, they say.

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love the criminal, love the crimeelisabeth hewer

Smoke boy. Wildfire of a man.

The stillness of you.

You’re a masterpiece

of self control. A gun-ready

sculpture waiting for an audience.

Here’s the part where I beg you

to move. Here’s the part where I

singe both palms into your chest,

where I turn you to ash trying

to get to your soul

Fire catches all along the bank. You

light your cigarette and say,

“Don’t the city look great

when you can’t hear the screaming?”

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contributors

avery myers, orlando, florida, usaAvery Myers is a writer and terrible dancer from Orlando, Florida. She’s the

executive editor at -Ology Journal, and has had her work published by Passion

Passport, The Rising Phoenix Poetry Review, and The Huntington Library in

Los Angeles, among others. Currently, she’s penning the great Greek-American

novella (in her “writing space”, which she shares with a very loud space fan)

and beginning a journalistic and global outreach internship in the fall.

andrew hector, the moonAndrew Hector is a visual artist and traveler from Central Florida. He is the

founder of This Park is Your Park, a non-profit to provide people with personal

tours throughout the USA’s most beautiful national parks.

caroline kinsella, northern virginia, usaCaroline is an avid tea drinker and strawberry eater living on the East Coast.

Her deep-rooted love of words and beauty keeps her in a perpetual state of

reading and writing poetry. She is studying to be an engineer and plans to

incorporate her love of the arts into her future scientific escapades.

christian sammartino, usaChristian Sammartino is a poet from Coatesville, Pennsylvania. He studied

English Literature and Asian Religions at Elizabethtown College. His poetry is

influenced by life in the Pennsylvania Rustbelt near his home in Coatesville.

His poems have previously appeared in Words Dance Magazine, Voicemail

Poems, and Lehigh Valley Vanguard. Sammartino is currently a Resident Poet

for Lehigh Valley Vanguard for the summer 2015 residency period. He is also

the Editor in Chief of The Rising Phoenix Review. His first collection of poetry,

Keystones, was released by Rising Phoenix Poetry Press in December 2014.

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christina im, pacific northwest, usaChristina Im is a wordsmith, armed and dangerous, and an ardent believer

in ghosts. She received two national medals in the 2014 Scholastic Art and

Writing Awards, and her work has either appeared or is forthcoming in several

publications, including Young Adult Review Network, Glass Kite Anthology,

and Canvas Literary Journal. She currently resides in the Pacific Northwest,

where she attends high school by day and eagerly propagates magic and

madness the rest of the time.

elisabeth hewer, southwest ukElisabeth Hewer is in her early twenties and currently resides in the rainy

South-West UK. She likes winter and dogs and white wine and wastes a great

deal of time thinking about space.

isabelle mcneur, new zealandIsabelle McNeur lives in New Zealand and hopes to one day change that, even

though she admits she’ll probably end up back there in the end. She likes dogs

and owns one at the moment, but he’s very old so that will most likely change

soon, too, at which point she hopes for a puppy so the house won’t be dog-less.

Isabelle is 18 and this one will definitely change.

jayne consolacion, philippinesJayne Consolacion is twenty-two, a craft-dabbler, occasional wedding singer,

and accounting major from the Philippines. Sometimes she’s balancing

accounts; almost always she’s balancing homework and her obstinate urges to

write. Being raised in a no-name city up north and then having to move eight-

hours-two-expressways away for college has put her in a decent vantage point

on life’s many what-if’s, so now she loiters around coffee shops trying to put

all of it to words. Someday soon when she’s exhausted most of them, she’s

hoping to catch that uncharted place/person/life constantly sitting on the tip

of her tongue.

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nora hill, boston, massachusetts, usaNora Hill is a city girl spending winters in a small town and summers in the

woods. She’s majoring in Art History and Global Studies in an attempt to be as

liberal arts as humanly possible. Her art includes poetry, prose, photographs,

and cupcakes (the last are the most beautiful). Her work has been published

in school literary magazines, on The Equals Record, and in the first issue of

-Ology. She aspires to being known for throwing excellent dinner parties.

paola bennet, new york city, usaPaola Bennet is a nomad born in New England, blooded in the south of France,

and taken under Manhattan’s wing. She spins stories in forms musical, prosaic,

and photographic. Her work has been published by Passion Passport, -Ology

(No1), and school literary magazines. She is always looking for the next café to

harbor her black-notebook scribblings.

pauline angeli diego, manila, philippinesPauline Angeli Diego is a sixteen year old student who finds beauty in both

music and poetry. Her predominant interests include mystery, sci-fi, tragedy,

history and culture. She is inspired by the works of Sylvia Plath and Charles

Bukowski.

topaz winters, singaporeTopaz Winters is a 15-year-old songbird and word hoarder with a penchant

for Tchaikovsky and earl grey tea. In her spare time, she writes books and

composes music and consumes profuse amounts of cheesecake. She enjoys

aloneness more than most. She is slightly incorrigible, vaguely poetic, and

infinitely delighted to meet you.

yin xzi, chinaYin Xzi was born in Malaysia but grew up in China. She writes because she’s

stuck between two worlds in more ways than one and this is the way she can

be heard.

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of poetry and prose

@_ologyjournal

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N°2 // -Ology Journal

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