Welcome to our ‘Editors Picks: Unpublished Gems’ section! Here we showcase submissions that, while not selected for publication, have captivated us with their creativity, insight, and craftsmanship. Here, you’ll find a curated collection of outstanding works that may have narrowly missed the cut but are nonetheless deserving of recognition.
Painting by Noah Schmidt (Dragons Eye)
Water Color Painting by Lix Powers (Life in Art)
Photography by Elizabeth Anderson
Painting By Christina Miller (Candlelight)
Photography by Alex Blackwell (The Cape)
Photography by Alex Blackwell (The Cape)
Photography by Maeve Pappas (Mave)
A Conversation at the Head Start in Harwich, poetry by Debra Murphy
I forgot my snow pants
says the little girl
who hugged my knees when I arrived
even though she didn’t know me.
I say
Will your pants get wet?
Not unless I…
she tumbles to the ground
then pops up in front of me.
I say
But that’s ok. They will dry.
Yes. She smiles.
They will dry.
Roma Invicta, poetry by Nathan Follett
Howl!
Howl with shining radiance of illumination
splitting into broken refractions that shatter
the mind into specks of madness!
Howl with breaking, beading perforations crying out crimson
letters from the sockets of divinity!
Looming above the decay of the empire
as the wise who gaze to Elysium.
The impossible freedom!
Tartarus unhinges
its jaws and howls,
howls with bygone buildings burning
as they crumble in
a crucible of seven,
And the emperor plucks
his strings
dancing with delight in a deluge of dissonance!
The cacophony of cries crescendos
howling the meaning of unconquerable,
“Not falling
to another!”
Manhattan, poetry by Olivia Williams
You asked me
—14th Street, Manhattan, the intersection of dreams and reality—
if I wanted to move in with you, hands draped over the wheel like a gun that has to go off in the final act,
and I almost said, “Yes”
because I cannot sleep without your fingers tracing a breadcrumb path down my arm,
centuries of family lineage through the sinew,
and I almost said “No,”
because I was too distracted by your crooked teeth and the puff of hair that sticks up in the back,
but instead I turned on the radio, because “Baby, you’re gonna be the one that saves me,”
and even if you aren’t
I will still clutch your restless hands and kiss the spaces between your teeth and ruffle up your hair
until everything is as unrecognizable as Broadway behind bars.
Believe and Beyond, poetry by Charles A. Jodoin
Believe in your story.
Believe in the voice that is writing and waits to be released from the
Wrinkled wrath
Created from years of darkness and pain.
Believe in your story.
Your story.
The story that is heard and told by the voice crying for freedom.
You begin a new journey.
You begin a new adventure.
Dear Little Sister,, poetry by Tish Vargas
I bring you a smell that’s sweet, reminiscent of your favorite treat. You never knew your limits and you always wanted more. I wish I could have stopped you, but I never could before.
I lay with you in plain view of the bright burning sun. Chatting away of the days that were light and full of fun. I bring you something white that reminds me of when our feet take flight. Race you to the mailbox and you always let me win. Until one day you ran too far.
~ la fin ~
I lay with you in plain view of the moon and the stars. I wish we knew our time together couldn’t always be ours. I wish I could have stopped you, but I never could before. I miss you as the days go by more and more.
Hey Little Sister, is there room for me down there? Every night before bed you helped me braid my hair. I used to listen to your heartbeat as we drifted into dreams, now the rhythm feels lost it seems. I lay with you in plain view of the galaxy, wondering if you’re out there somewhere, looking back at me.
I wish that I could wake you, but you can’t hear me anymore.
My heart breaks without you forever more.
Pandora’s Box, poetry by Ray A. Bishop
You wipe the blood from your lips once again, teeth gritted and heart bared you continue onward, never letting the pain in your chest, the blood caking your jaw slow you down not while you still have hope
You ignore the tears streaming down your cheeks, the familiar agony an old friend at this point as you continue onward, never letting the sorrow and regret trip you up for long, you keep going on and on, because as long as you still have hope
You have to keep going with such fire in your soul how could you just stop, it will surely burn you to a crisp if you try and put it out, so just keep going it will all be worth it, you still have hope
You pick up the shattered remains of what once was again, forcefully dropping it all as it starts to slow you down, to power on with the need to believe it will all get better. All this pain will have a purpose as long as you just keep moving forward, you know it to be true! It needs to be true and as long as you still have hope
You pick yourself up again and again and again and again never giving up. They congratulate you, they remark on your strength and your drive not understanding your deepest desire to just give up and stop but you can’t give up, can’t possibly stop not when you know it gets better, after all, you still have hope
You force yourself forward yet wonder how brutal and grueling your next trial will be but you can’t stop now for it all demands you’re best efforts because at this point you know it will get better. It has gotten better, it can only get better you still have hope
You once again stride forward on blooded and bruised feet, on painfilled agony induced resilience and this cursed need to just keep going because you still have hope
You’re tired and want to give up but you can’t, after all, you’ve been through you must keep going, or will it all be for naught but after all you’ve been through shouldn’t it have been enough to allow you to simply rest and stop and give up the fight without losing it all, to reap the rewards of your years of torturous labor, after all, you still have hope
You can’t stop, can’t give up, never give up. Never stay down, your drive, and your will demands you keep going, enduring, surviving, and living so that you may one day thrive. Bracing yourself and standing your ground in a tsunami of hatred and scorn, a tornado of spite and prejudice, an earthquake of heartbreak and betrayal. A storm of pain and suffering! You endure it all because you still have hope
You keep running forward, you keep moving forward, despite the pain and suffering and laughter and mocking, and disgust and judgment you’ve faced you keep trying all because of that stupid little concept known as fucking hope
They make fun of your need to make a change, they call you crazy and naive as you share your dreams, and they tell you to just give up and admit defeat but you want to explain, you want them to understand you can never give up because you know
There’s a reason hope was in Pandora’s Box.
A Journey Full of Growth, non-fiction by Raysa Perez
Moving from Pucallpa, Peru to the beautiful Cape Cod was more than a change for me; it was something that helped me to reshape my entire outlook on life. Growing up in the colorful and vibrant city of Pucallpa, being able to walk so near to the peaceful Ucayali River, I experienced the warmth of a close-knit community and the comfort of familiar surroundings. However, having the desire to explore unfamiliar places, and having more opportunities, and adventures lingered beneath the surface of my idyllic childhood.
The catalyst for change came unexpectedly when my parents told me that we were going to move to the United States; I have been waiting for that opportunity for so long. Excitement and apprehension mingled within me as we prepared for our new life. Saying goodbye was extremely bittersweet. Saying goodbye to my family, friends, and my dogs was not as easy as I thought. It marked the beginning of a new chapter in my life that was full of anticipation and uncertainty.
Those two flights that I took just to get to the States were full of emotions. I never thought I was able to cry for that long. From Lima “The Gray” to New York City “The City That Never Sleeps,” each stop along the way made me feel like I was losing something but at the same time it made me feel like I was accomplishing something. Arriving here was both exhilarating and disorienting, as I navigated the complexities of a new culture and language.
Having to live with my aunt and her family was an entire process of adaptation and resilience. Despite the challenges of acclimating to a new educational system and social norms, my family’s company was helpful. Each obstacle became an opportunity for growth, as I learned to draw strength from within and persevere in the face of adversity.
One of the most profound lessons that I learned during my transition was the importance of empathy and understanding in bridging cultural divides. Through open dialogue and mutual respect, I made meaningful connections with people from diverse backgrounds, learning a deeper understanding and appreciation for the richness of human experience.
Moving here helped me to realize everything I was doing wrong in Pucallpa. Notice how slowly I was losing people I considered close friends. One of the things that I am most grateful for is all the friends I made along the way. I got to meet a lot of kind people.
I experienced feelings that I never thought I was able to feel. I fell in love; I spent the happiest days on Cape Cod with people that I never thought could become treasures in my life and memories. Those people made me grow as a human being, helped me realize when I was wrong and always supported me with my dreams. I learned how to be strong, how to be more mature and responsible. If I am completely honest, I definitely do not think that I would be the person I am now if I had not met those extraordinary people.
Today as I reflect on my journey from my Pucallpa to the USA, I realized that if I had not undergone this change, I would not have experienced the growth necessary to become the person I am today. It was a journey of self-discovery and invention that taught me the importance of resilience, empathy, and perseverance. As I look towards the future with optimism, I am also carrying all those lessons that I have learned, and all the memories that I cherished, knowing that each step I have taken brought me closer to the present that I now have.
Ticking Time, fiction by Jenna Schmidt
There wasn’t a clock. I found it strange after being under, it was unnerving not knowing how much time it had taken or what day it was. It didn’t make sense to me; they should’ve put a clock in here. The bright fluorescent lights welcomed me back but didn’t tell me the time. I was tired but relieved in a sense, I knew she’d come to get me soon even after I’d been short with her that morning. Maybe it was still morning, and she was actually mad still but that didn’t tell me the time either. It just worried me more than it needed to. And she wasn’t the first one I saw; it was the kind nurse who grabbed me a glass of water and didn’t tell me the time. I also forgot to ask. My throat hurt and I thought that it wasn’t worth the strain and energy it would’ve taken to ask. It would’ve been. Or maybe it didn’t matter, I didn’t know this lady she could’ve lied or not told me. I need to know what time it is. I get hospitals are expensive, but they could at least invest in some clocks. The clicking sound was already present, so why not tell us when it is. Why isn’t there a clock? I knew the where and the how and all the other questions they would ask before she came to get me, but they couldn’t bother to tell me the when. Not the year I was pretty sure it was 2021 maybe a Tuesday and I went under in the morning but what time is it now? How long did it take? They said it’d be easy. It was easy, for me at least, but I wasn’t the one operating, just the one who wanted to know the time. I was practically asleep when we got to the O.R. but the last clock I saw said like 8 o’clock. Was it 10 or did it take longer than they thought it would? Did they need to do the more extensive version or was it the quicker fix? How much longer would it have taken? What time is it? I was still groggy and unable or maybe unwilling to move or get up. It should be in eyesight, yes in everyone’s eye line there should be a clock. So we don’t have to move to know when it is. Because I know it’s not just me, it’s not just me. It freaked me out, I never liked hospitals, but I was used to them. At least two of them, but in many different rooms. They usually had clocks for the sick people. It’s morbid, that the sick and dying get to watch the clock as their time slips away. But for me, for us they didn’t want us to see. Really, it’s slipping away for all of us but if we can’t see it or feel it, it’s not happening. Why doesn’t this one have a clock? I always want the time, it’s the not knowing that gets me. In a different situation I would’ve asked or gotten up to check but I should be able to see the time somewhere. It’s the principle and the fact that I couldn’t get up if I tried, but they could get a basic clock for five dollars. Five dollars to put my mind at ease, to put up a clock. I would’ve done it for free, I would’ve paid to have the time. But it didn’t get done and it should’ve. It’s my only complaint, one she made me air out. That it’s weird to be without time.
My House, fiction by Xiomara Peters
When I first moved in, wide-eyed and beaming with potential, I wanted my house to be a place I could show off to friends. I wanted game nights and endless days. I wanted to paint the walls and garden in the yard. I wanted passersby to see what a nice place I lived in.
I got throw pillows that soon didn’t fit my style and gardened things that could not fare the climate. Each color I painted the exterior soon clashed with my neighbors’. As I got older, all I wanted for my house was to really belong where it was built.
I lived for years before learning that the other houses on my block had machines for chores like laundry and dirty dishes. One day, the state of the kitchen struck me particularly hard. I hadn’t realized it had been so long since dish day until I could no longer tell the color of my countertops. Why would they skimp on this house? All I wanted for my house was to automate and operate the way others’ did.
My house aged with me. As curtains tattered, I mended them with intent. As she waned on the inside, I cooked with decadent scents and soft rests. When others moved in with me, I made sure my house was warm, inviting, comforting, accepting, forgiving, brimming with decadent scents. All I wanted for my house was to be somebody’s favorite place to rest.
One day there was an awful storm and, during the wreckage, my house was broken into. I walked through my door one day to see my things either strewn, broken, missing, or otherwise ruined. The windows of my beautiful home were shattered, all over my throw pillows and carefully mended curtains. Something within me turned to granite that evening. When I finally mended my curtains, I wove them with silver. When I rebuilt the fence in the front, I reinforced it with steel. I stayed indoors for a long, long while. All I wanted for my house was to be secure.
The storm affected my house and me for years. The steel fence outside slowly started to rust, and the rust left flakes in my garden. The silver from my windows shone back at passersby and warded them off. The once inviting, warm, and gratifying house on my end of the road had become a looming reminder of me, whomever I was, and of that loathsome storm, to anyone in its vicinity. It was easier to pay no mind when I tore the silver from the panes. It felt better, I would imagine, to look at the house after it had been stripped from its prison and not during the process of peeling shrapnel from chandeliers, scraping bane from banisters, or sweeping apathy from the attic. All I wanted in that moment was for my house to be free.
I have since stopped counting the days since the storm and I’ve stopped counting the days since last counting. Finally, the rust from the reinforcements of so long ago has gone, and wildflowers in the garden have begun to grow back. As curtains tatter, I mend them with contentedness. I have throw pillows that are mismatched and all unbelievably comfortable. I’ve filled my house with the sweetest naps and the most indulgent scents. I’ve made peace with dish days and laundromats and curtains with tasteful, silver threads. I fall asleep each night knowing I’m in my favorite place to rest. All I want for my house—my resilient, ever-changing, dynamic, cozy, and inviting little cottage—is to be a place I can call my Home.
A RARE AND ENDANGERED FLAME, fiction by John Hanright
I am invited to a garden party. I jump up and down like a child on a chilly day in August. The rain pours down with deathly quiet. How will they have a garden party in this weather? Then, as soon as it came, the rain disappears and leaves behind a crying rainbow. I cry too as I gaze upon this miracle. All is sunlight and rain puddles – oily and silver. I skip over them one by one until I reach the house. The hydrangeas, trellised roses, and butterfly bushes send out an aromatic atomic explosion. The quake of the leaves falling from the trees shakes my spine. It is already fall. Have I missed the garden party? I wonder, quietly and aloud.
“No” comes a voice from the doorway.
It is my host, my diary, my sweet flower in the dead of winter. I embrace him. He pushes me away. Not here, not now.
“It makes no sense.” Furious.
“You will see when you are older.” Sagacious.
His face is shaven, but some stubble remains. He used a shaver again. I bought him a razor for his birthday, but he hides it in his vanity. I hold up my mirror to his face.
“How did that stubble get there?”
“I don’t know, but you have to shave. Hosts are always clean-shaven at a garden party.”
“I don’t wanna host this stupid garden party anymore. It was a foolish idea. No one came.”
“I came.”
“No, you didn’t. You are my secret.”
“Secrets are always present.”
“Present doesn’t always mean here. It sometimes means later, tomorrow, next year. I want you here next year.”
And so another year I wait in quiet anticipation.
…
Misery takes strange bedfellows, the tempest tells us. I am a dog with nothing left in the fight. I fall to my knees and pray to a silent sky.
“What must I do? How must I go about my life to earn that thing that I crave? Must I crawl in the dust? Must I see a therapist every week? Must I read Moby Dick religiously? Must I dive feet first into the pool of work before me? Must I?”
I lift myself from this self-sacrificing position. I must fight on to save what I can of my passions.
“You can’t leave me out in the rain.”
And I would never abandon my friend. I try to light the path with sunlight, but all that comes out is water. I light a match, but all that ignites is a rare and endangered flame. It is the lightest flame that I have leaned into. Nearby a butterfly flies after a period of constriction. The crystal shell is so beautiful but gives way to even more beauty. The eyes open and the tears come. The mind opens and light streams in. The light and the tears gather on the windowsill, where a cat sleeps. The most beautiful because the cat is his. My cat dwells in a world with quiet people and anxious thoughts. His cat lives in the sunlight and the tearful day.
…
I am inside the queer world that is his house. I am, at multiple times, “discovered.” But no one seems to care. I neither announce myself, nor speak my own name. I am the unknown man. I am the disjointed lover of none. I am nameless and friendless to everyone; save him. He doesn’t love me even if his eyes, his voice, and his smoky breath say it’s true. It is near the holiday. The garden parties are all over. Eventually, his mother retires to her bedroom upstairs to bathe. I wish I could bathe. I am filthy with longing and quietness.
“Why doesn’t she ask about me? She has seen my body, the way I look at you, the sorrow in my voice as I say that we are friends. Amore in fiore. But nothing has blossomed on our tree yet.”
Yet. Yet. Yet. It is an important lesson after all. Anticipation and longing are sicknesses of the soul. He does not answer my question. He never answers any questions that he fears. Instead, he tells me that they will never understand what we are.
“What does that matter?” Protest and impatience are in my blood.
“Because they aren’t like us. They will hurt me.”
“Hurt you how? Physically?”
“No, never. That would be too self-aware of them. They will hurt me with the words they don’t speak. I am damned to this quietness.”
“You don’t need to speak quietly. We are alone.”
“I’m in their ears even when I’m alone.”
“You aren’t. We are physically bound to our parents, but not psychically; thank heavens.” “What heavens? You don’t believe in a heaven. You’ve said so.”
“I believe in many things. I believe in you. Don’t you believe me?”
“How can you believe in me when I don’t believe in you?”
“I believe in you like anyone believes in a god – quietly, patiently, forbearingly.”
“You really like me that much?”
“I hate that I like you so much. The way you have treated me, the way that I have fallen for you.”
“But it must always be between friends. The love between us must stay between us.”
His bedroom is well-decorated with fairy lights and a tapestry. The pattern has hands closed over the eyes of some six-headed deity. All around is a glowing aura of freckled fractals, trails leading off into infinity. I feel his leg quake with dire yearning. My passion is hardly containable as I lean in. The kiss could send waves throughout the Great Lakes. La bise de la flamme, il bacio infernale, etc. It is as magnetic as the inside of an atomic bomb. Why must I enjoy this so deeply? I am a secret. I am the closet that he has chosen to step inside for a time. He is the Blues to my Bossa Nova. He is the merry-go-round that never stops.
“Will you do this with me?”
“I don’t know. What is the payoff?”
“Are you so vain and mercenary as to suggest that?”
“I’m practical enough to suggest that.”
“Love isn’t fun and games. It’s heart work. It’s the trees on top of the mountain you just climbed. It’s something unearthed slowly but surely.”
“All very flowery language to say the same.”
“The same what?”
“The same sentiment, that love is too serious in itself.
“Why must you be a joy vampire? Why must you kill a good thing? We could be forever in love. Why must you stand apart from that?”
“I stand aloof to the cares of love. I’m beyond love.”
“Nothing transcends love. I feel its feet against me.”
“Why would you wish to embrace reality when you can live in a phenomenal world of your own making? Why so readily accept what you know to be true? As much as the truth can be known.”
“To live without love is like a sunless garden when all the flowers are dead.’ My friend who lives in the pages of beautiful books said that. Our lives are as real as a rose petal.”
“The beauty of life is in its secrets.”
“I feel as free as a bee in the midst of old winter’s spite.”
“Then why not be free with me? Why not live out a beautiful secret?”
“My dignity.”
“Dignity is a fig leaf society places over its crimes.”
“Markers can erase just as well as erasers can.”
“To smudge out the weight of your guilt?”
“You’re the one who feels the weight of guilt. You wish me to be a secret, an afterthought, a convenience store.”
“Not a convenience store. A sunlit garden when all the flowers are in full bloom. I wish to pluck one of its blooms and in killing it, enjoy it.”
“Do you really want this?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Do you want me to want this?”
“I want you to decide what is most pleasurable to you.”
“Ever the hedonist.”
“Ever the puritan.”
Looking at the TV, a game show host says: “Are you ready???”
A moment later, I hear from beside me a hesitant “yes!”
“Are you ready?”
“Yes.” It lacks conviction.
“No, I mean are you ready for what you’re proposing?”
“Yes, of course!”
“That makes one of us.” I look back at the TV. The channel has been changed. The subject has shifted. On the TV is a soap opera. The opening credits says: A Rare and Endangered Flame. I look back at him. He is completely transfixed. Suddenly, I wake. It was all a dream…or was it? Damned hard to tell.
Skimming the Earth, non-fiction by Louise Patrick
The familiar thrill of freedom and possibility took me by surprise as I hurtled down a hill one sunny summer morning; I was reminded of the magical moment when I first learned to ride a bike. There are significant moments in my life that are preserved in memory as boldly and steadfastly as a photograph, and learning to ride is one of them.
I was always terrified of my father. It wasn’t so much the threat of violence, though at times he paralyzed me with fright. It was simply that the promise of violence enveloped him like a specter of destruction. It explains perhaps, my consistent state of impending doom. Hope for the best and prepare for the worst has always been my motto; it suggests that the future may justify optimism without ignoring the probability of sudden danger lurking in the shadows. Some would call it hypervigilance.
I must have been six or seven. My father was a busy man; the silver back gorilla for a growing troop of nine children in total; the sole financial provider. I didn’t appreciate the responsibility he must have felt as the CFO of our family. All I knew was that his work was important and required him to attend to his career even in his off hours. My memory of him as a child is sketchy and fleeting. He would swoop in at times to stoke the flame of unease in me and my siblings, lest we step out of line. Uniformity was a guiding principle in our family, an understandable and essential ingredient of mob control. It is unusual that I can recall him being outside with me as I tried to navigate a bicycle without training wheels. Naturally I wanted to master the skill but I was a cautious, careful child, loathe to get hurt, and riding a bike turned out to be a leap of faith in oneself, the confidence that one can balance on two wheels simply relying on equilibrium and conviction.
I remember feeling frustrated. The training wheels were off and I couldn’t seem to get the knack of it. I was afraid of falling. I may have been able to balance in place for a second or two but quickly became frightened that I would topple over if I tried to move forward. I felt tears welling up as I watched the other neighborhood kids freewheeling with ease up and down the street.
In my memory, my father suddenly appeared like a savior. He reassured me that I could do this; I was capable. He stood in back of me holding the seat of my bike and urged me to move forward. He encouraged me to pedal, and reminded me he would run along behind me, holding the back of my seat. I tested him by giving it a try and sure enough, it was easy to pedal forward with my dad holding on. I knew he wouldn’t let me fall. At that moment I didn’t think ahead. I was content to enjoy the feeling of weightlessness on my bicycle, the absence of clacking training wheels, knowing my dad was behind me, keeping me safe. We practiced this way, up and down the street with my delight increasing and fear subsided.
I don’t know if it was strategy, or if he simply got tired running up and down the road, but at some point, I noticed something different and with growing confidence dared to look behind me. I was shocked to see him in the distance, as if in a rear- view mirror. My emotions ran the gambit: I was bewildered, terrified, astonished, proud, and finally, grateful.
My father died at the age of 49. There wasn’t time to learn so many things that are important for a daughter to learn from her dad. What he didn’t have time to teach me, I learned in the school of hard knocks. My father had been a gifted athlete with quick thinking and hair trigger reactivity, essential attributes in contact sports. Those very characteristics were a liability in personal relationships, lending themselves to impulsivity and excitability where messy, complicated personal conflicts call for calm and thoughtfulness. Those were the situations in which he became extra scary.
My career as a psychotherapist necessitated an unflinching look at my family history. I could easily point to the failings of my parents; highlight the negative and rest rather uncomfortably in the sure knowledge that I didn’t get everything I needed to negotiate the unavoidable complexities, disappointments and heartbreak of this existence. It could be called self-pity; a state of blame and victimhood, a place I might have gotten stuck in the smug self-righteousness that I’d been wronged or shortchanged with no need to challenge myself to do better. It was both an epiphany and liberating to realize the acknowledgement of childhood trauma is an essential precursor to recognition of what was beneficial. It has been important to me not to get stuck in the half empty glass. I am bound to give credit where credit is due.
My father gave me a love of words, and the sure confidence I could balance my younger self on two wheels to skim the surface of the earth with faith, trust and an insatiable curiosity in what it means to be imperfect and alive.
Non-Fiction by Louise Patrick
Sea Change 