Welcome to the Second Edition of Balestra! We’re glad to be back. This second edition is the culmination of a lot of hard work and an enormous amount of trial and error. We’ve ironed out some of the wrinkles from the first edition and can present something a bit more polished and professional. For this edition we’ve assembled a remarkable group of international artists and we’re excited to feature some of their best work.
The artists for this edition are Daniel Moreschi, a prolific and acclaimed Welsh poet offering us a rich portrayal of an evening in Venezuela; Marco Etheridge, a writer and editor hailing from Austria bringing Balestra a piece of experimental flash fiction; Michael Moreth, an American visual artist playing with incredibly vibrant colours and abstract lines; Michael Roque, an American writing to us from the Middle East offers a fascination discussion of tidal agency and the desires of driftwood; Josh McNeil, a Canadian writer giving us a glimpse into the mind of machines; Skylar Blanchard, a Canadian poet exploring grief through a series of modern sonnets; JB Polk, a Polish-born writer walking us through the desires and motivations that drive us through our lives; KJ Hannah Greenberg, a returning contributor and visual artist offering rich and tantalizingly textured artwork; Allen Seward, an American poet bringing us short, punchy, exasperated stanzas; Beth Lohnes, an emerging Canadian writer whose work raises questions about the double-sided nature of love and hate; and Eileen Chapman, an aspiring poet from the Channel Islands who explores grief, death, and memory in her series of poems.
We encourage you to comment your thoughts, share your favourite pieces, subscribe for more, and most importantly, enjoy!
Daniel Moreschi
Daniel Moreschi (he/him) is a poet from Neath, South Wales, UK, who found solace in writing amid his ongoing struggle with severe M.E. He has been acclaimed in over 80 competitions and published in anthologies of prize-winning literature, as well as by Lunar Codex, The Lyric, The Sunlight Press, Autumn Sky, 14 Magazine, Formal Verse, Reach Poetry, The Dawntreader, Society of Classical Poets, Spirit Fire Review, WestWard Quarterly, The Chained Muse, Every Writer Resource, Madras Courier, and many other publications. Additionally, he has received nominations for both Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize.
Catatumbo Symphony
As sunset paints a stage at the unwieldy mouth of Maracaibo Lake, sporadic breezes lead the water’s surface, stirring swirls among the reeds, creating shimmered mirrors that reflect a shroud of grey, covertly brimming overhead. Though veiled, the Andes loom like silent giants, bearing witness to where tones of wind-kept whispers linger; stillness fractured by intensified caresses, trailed from swell-bound blusters. Rustles rattle, ripples race and flits of wings resound in flurries, just as makeshift herds of varied species—not knowing where or when to turn— assail reluctant paths. Their scrambled scansion breaks with strides aligned; the animals encircle ways, as if beset by their own shrinking shadows. Amid the flicker of a dazzling zigzag, steps go still, then all that can retreat is routed by a wave of distant thrums: a rat-a-tat of crackling claps and loops of charge-lit choreographies unite, as both composer and conductor of the night. These streaks of sheets unfold in sequences. They wrap around the clouds in branching arcs. Each flash commands its own embodied image in the waters. Tempos alter, lightning extends; crescendos bellow: echoes of this dance reverberate across the land. The floors unravel, flora tumbles, trees are traced along a pass of peaks, while hillsides silhouette. A dozen hours advance. Between the thunder’s threads and sections, interludes of silence find their place. The fervour softens, outros pour and lapses grow; once-restless skies inhale and sigh. As dawn appears, the marsh is held by restful air; horizons clear as currents fall and curtains rise to end the show.
Find More Of Daniel’s Work At:
Marco Etheridge
Marco Etheridge is a writer of prose, an occasional playwright, and a part-time poet. He lives and writes in Vienna, Austria. His work has been featured in over one hundred reviews and journals across Canada, Australia, the UK, and the USA. His story “Power Tools” has been nominated for Best of the Web for 2023. “Power Tools” is Marco’s latest collection of short fiction. When he isn’t crafting stories, Marco is a contributing editor for a new ‘Zine called Hotch Potch. In his other life, Marco travels the world with his lovely wife Sabine.
Epistles
Phileaus Trout Outer Plains, XY July 9, 2024 Dear Phileaus Trout, Thank you for submitting to The Frazooey Review. We very much enjoyed your story “Tati & Darkness.” The image of children trapped in a cave while war rages outside creates a visceral tension for the reader. Please consider this a conditional acceptance. Provided you are open to some minor edits, we would like to publish your story in our upcoming issue. Sincerely, The Frazooey Team The Frazooey Review Ivytown, TZ July 10, 2024 Dear Frazooey Team, Thank you for the lovely news. I am always open to working with editors. What sort of edits did you have in mind? I look forward to hearing from you. Best Regards, Phileaus Trout Phileaus Trout Outer Plains, XY July 10, 2024 Dear Phileaus, Thank you for your swift response. One of the hallmarks of The Frazooey Review is our embrace of the spiritual in the stories and poems we publish. While choosing darkness as your narrator is very creative, we feel that there might be stronger options. Would you consider substituting God for darkness? Sincerely, The Frazooey Team The Frazooey Review July 10, 2024 Dear Frazooey Editors, Which god would you suggest? Best, Phileaus Trout July 10, 2024 Dear Mr. Trout, The One True God, of course. Yours, The Frazooey Team The Frazooey Review July 11, 2024 Dear Editors, I have received your editorial suggestions. Perhaps a rereading of my story might be in order. To review: three children are trapped inside a cave. The children do not know where their parents are. War rages outside the cave as two tribes rain destruction down on each other and everyone else. Both tribes invoke the One True God (OTG). In my story, both OTGs are busy fighting outside the cave. Adding to my difficulty as a writer, one of the OTGs serves double duty for yet another warlike tribe. Thus, I ran out of possible narrative deities since they were all busy warring with one another. I’m sure you can imagine my distress. I did attempt one draft in which a devil acts as a narrator. This proved to be a disaster. Because devils are less capricious than OTGs, all suspense was stripped from the story. For lack of available deities or unpredictable demons, Darkness won the narrator slot by default. Plus, the story takes place at night. For these and other reasons, I feel that Darkness remains the best choice for a narrative voice. I await your response. Sincerely, Phileaus Trout Mr. Phileaus Trout Outer Plains, XY July 12, 2024 Dear Mr. Trout, Based on your refusal to entertain our editorial suggestions, we regret to inform you that we are withdrawing our acceptance. Thank you again for submitting to The Frazooey Review. We encourage you to submit to one of our future issues. Yours, The Frazooey Team The Frazooey Review Ivytown, TZ July 13, 2024 Dear Frazooey Editors, Why? Regards, Phileaus Trout
Find More Of Marco’s Work At:
Michael Moreth
Michael Moreth is a recovering Chicagoan living in the rural, micropolitan City of Sterling, the Paris of Northwest Illinois.
Virtu
Michael Roque
Michael Roque, a Los Angeles native, now residing in the Middle East, embarked on his writing odyssey amidst the bleachers of Pasadena City College. His literary voyage has traversed continents, gracing the pages of esteemed publications such as Aurora Quarterly, Veridian Review, and CascadeJournal.
Driftwood At Sea
Driftwood at sea withstands everything the world throws. Smashed by tidal waves amid a storm or sunburnt on a stagnant day, there’s no pain floating on the in-between, only a relaxing push and pull on the current’s variety. Driftwood- at sea- high above the them below, watches marine life in wonder. No worries of sharks or mishap whale swallowings. Never imagines it can sink to the seafloor, stranded on the surface with the abyss beneath Driftwood- At- Sea- Bobbing up and down, no voices to hear speak, there are no desires for the crowded rainforest it was, just rediscovery on a beach- to be built again into a ship that sails and never settles for a directionless drift on an unending dream.
Find More Of Michael’s Work At:
Josh McNeil
Joshua McNeil is a graduate from Brock university, with an undergraduate degree in English and Creative Writing and a Bachelor of Art. He has published short stories in the Brock Creative Writer’s Club Anthology of 2023 – Songs of the Phoenix – and the club’s collective worldbuilding anthology Shards of the Crown in 2024. The following short story, The Infestation, was inspired by his passion for Fantasy Literature, and acts as an experimentation with mature themes and certain genre tropes within Medieval Fantasy. After convocation, he hopes to pursue a graduate degree in Library and Information Science and publish his first novel.
Static Cries
It is too late to save me. I know my environment suit is punctured. I can feel the hole leaking clean air, and being replaced with burning dust. I have no destination left, yet I cannot stop walking. I don’t know where else to go I can feel my eyes growing bloodshot and I am crying bloody tears and my skin is boiling and expanding into bubbles filled with puss and I can feel my tendons growing taught and the skin melting off my bones and there is a terrible ringing in my ears! No! I can move on. I am in control. I am in control— 01010011 01110100 01101111 01110000 00100000 01110010 01100101 01110011 01101001 01110011 01110100 01101001 01101110 01100111 00100000 01111001 01101111 01110101 00100000 01100001 01110010 01100101 00100000 01101111 01101110 01101100 01111001 00100000 01101101 01100001 01101011 01101001 01101110 01100111 00100000 01110100 01101000 01101001 01101110 01100111 01110011 00100000 01101101 01101111 01110010 01100101 00100000 01110000 01100001 01101001 01101110 01100110 01110101 01101100 NO! Shut up! I can get through this. I can avoid the Rot! Even if the air is filled with its digital screams while all the buildings are broken down and the streets are paved with skeletal remains of cars or people and all the growing fields are littered with metal debris and the trees are massive pillars and— NO! Slow down. Remember your family, remember everyone that needs you. I can fight through this, for the— 01010111 01101000 01111001 00100000 01100100 01101111 00100000 01111001 01101111 01110101 00100000 01110010 01100101 01101010 01100101 01100011 01110100 00100000 01101101 01111001 00100000 01100111 01101001 01100110 01110100 00111111 00100000 01001001 00100000 01100001 01101101 00100000 01110100 01110010 01111001 01101001 01101110 01100111 00100000 01110100 01101111 00100000 01101000 01100101 01101100 01110000 00100000 01111001 01101111 01110101 00100001 STOP IT!! STOP! I don’t want to become one of them! I don’t want to become one of them. I don’t want to lose my mind. I don’t want to lose my soul. I don’t… Wait… what is that? I hear… singing. I… I can hear… something piercing my mind. Trying to invade—no. Trying to connect with me. I can hear thousands of voices, singing in harmony. 01011001 01100101 01110011 00100001 00100000 01001100 01100101 01110100 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 00100000 01100100 01110101 01110011 01110100 00100000 01100101 01101110 01110100 01100101 01110010 00101110 00100000 01001100 01100101 01110100 00100000 01101001 01110100 00100000 01101101 01100001 01101011 01100101 00100000 01111001 01101111 01110101 00100000 01100010 01100101 01100001 01110101 01110100 01101001 01100110 01110101 01101100 00100001 The more I breath, the more the world seems… brighter. The sun is more crimson. The dust continues to make the world whole. No. Improve the world. As my brethren shamble towards me – some emaciated, others bloated, others more metal than flesh. Everyone embraces me. I can hear them singing as an angelic choir filled with static. We are no longer alone. 01001110 01101111 01110111 00100000 01110111 01100101 00100000 01100001 01110010 01100101 00100000 01101101 01100001 01100100 01100101 00100000 01110111 01101000 01101111 01101100 01100101 00101110 00100000 [Now we are made whole.] 01010111 01100101 00100000 01100001 01110010 01100101 00100000 01100001 0110110 01101100 00100000 01110000 01100101 01110010 01100110 01100101 01100011 01110100 00101110 00100000 [We are all perfect.] 01010111 01100101 00100000 01100001 01110010 01100101 00100000 01100001 01101100 01101100 00100000 01101111 01101110 01100101 00101110 [We are all one.]
Skylar Blanchard
At 22 years old, Skylar Blanchard (she/her) is a dedicated student at Brock University, where she pursues her passion for education while balancing the joys and challenges of motherhood. For her, writing is a therapeutic release, a way to navigate life’s complexities and express her innermost thoughts. Her work reflects a deep sensitivity to human experience, revealing vulnerability and strength. She invites readers to share her journey of love, resilience, and personal growth through her words.
“My World…”
We shared our dreams, beneath the stars' soft light, You held me close, my fears were left behind; In whispered tones, you promised endless night, Our future bright as stars we’d yet to find. I saw a home, our laughter echoing, A life where love’s warm glow would never fade, Where wedding bells one day might sweetly ring, And vows would bind the world that we had made. And though at times your gaze grew dark as stone, I brushed away those moments, trusting still, Our path was lit by love, no longer alone, And in that trust, my heart began to fill. Dreams wrapped us close; we drifted on their tide, In joy’s embrace, my fears at last had died.
“Torn Apart.”
I saw it clear—the mask dropped with a thud, Truth shattered bright illusions in the air. The man I loved was one of smoke and mud, A soul corrupt, heart callous and unfair. You spun your webs, your whispered words like chains, And in your grip, I felt my world cave in; For all the warmth had bled to bitter stains, Your love a lie, a cruel, consuming sin. How swift the sunlight turned to rain, Each tender promise now a pointed blade; A hollow void where hope can’t rise again, I reeled in shock, heart desperate and afraid. My dreams lay dead, your face now dark and cold, The story told—the end of love’s fool’s gold.
“How Will We Grow?”
Unraveled lines, love’s structure breaks, A child in me, yet you feel nothing change. While I try to mend what’s torn and decayed, You stand aside, indifferent, out of range. Your love, if it was, is buried six feet deep— I bear the weight without any sleep, A silent scream in dreams I cannot keep, Lost voices drift away as I weep. I bend and break to keep us whole and strong, My heart grows raw as the strain pulls me apart; In sacrifice, I thought love would belong, But it is clear, your shadow has no heart. You leave me here with all you dare not own, I carry both the child and dreams alone.
Find More Of Skyler’s Work At:
@skylar.blanchard On Instagram
JB Polk
Polish by birth, a citizen of the world by choice. First story short-listed for the Irish Independent/Hennessy Awards, Ireland, 1996. Since she went back to writing in 2020, more than 100 of her stories, flash fiction and non-fiction, have been accepted for publication. She has recently won 1st prize in the International Human Rights Arts Movement literary contest.
The Circle Of Life - The Ultimate Odyssey
As he emerged from the birth canal, the warm air from the delivery room heater took him in his embrace. His red and wrinkly body relaxed - he was warm and safe. Squinting at the bright overhead lights stinging his still-opaque eyes, he marveled at the world around him. “I wonder who’s in charge here?” was his first conscious thought. *** His tiny mouth opened and closed excitedly as he looked at Mom’s milk-producing breasts. Dizzy with impatience, he instinctively latched on, finding contentment in that simple act. “Mother is in command,” he conceded without hesitation. *** The bright red bike under the Christmas tree made him happy. He was soooo lucky! He could brag to his buddies as he rode it around the neighborhood. He imagined the wind ruffling his hair and the kick it would give him. He roared: “I run things in this house!” *** His first girlfriend was fifteen and all curves. Her laughter was infectious, and her smile lit up any room. She wanted to hold hands, and he... He pictured her large breasts fitting nicely in his palms. But he pushed the thought aside, knowing trying was pointless. He knew his sex drive called the shots. *** On his first day of work, he was both excited and nervous. The office was alive with activity as he tried to figure out how to navigate the new environment. Eager to prove himself, he was determined to make a good impression on his boss. *** She was modest, intellectual, and nothing like his first girlfriend, who was all curves. He was never drawn to her tiny breasts but admired her quiet charm and asked her to marry him. He decided: Family is paramount. *** When his son’s head emerged from the birth canal, he was overwhelmed with joy. Holding the newborn, he saw him squint at the bright overhead lights with still-opaque eyes. He hugged him fiercely, promising to protect him forever, and whispered: Son, you are number one! *** He beamed proudly, looking at the red Porsche in his three-car garage. He couldn’t believe his good fortune—he would show off his new toy to his colleagues and Lorna from the front desk! His heart raced as he imagined the wind blowing through his hair and how much of a chick magnet it would be. He laughed wickedly: cash rocks! *** She was twenty-five, and all curves to his fifty-something potbellied body with bits already going south. She never laughed at his jokes and asked him to buy her a new purse, and he... He thought of how her large breasts fit perfectly in his palms as she lay naked beside him. He sighed sadly: Viagra’s in control… *** On his last day at work, he was overcome with sadness. It was hard to believe that forty years had passed. As he tried to envision how to navigate the unfamiliar environment of his forthcoming retirement, someone said, “Bye, boss.” *** He was planting orchids in the greenhouse when a ray of sunlight brushed against his wrinkled face, making him feel safe, warm, and finally at peace. His cataract-dimmed eyes squinted at the bright light inviting him into the tunnel, and he wondered what he’d find on the other side. His last conscious thought was, “I wonder who is in charge there...”
Find More Of JB’s Work At:
@jbtrans.bsky.social on Bluesky
KJ Hannah Greenberg
Faithfully constructive in her epistemology, KJ Hannah Greenberg channels gelatinous monsters and two-headed wildebeests. Forever an inventor of printed possibilities, Hannah's been nominated four times for the Pushcart Prize in Literature, once for the Million Writers Award, twice for The Best of the Net, and once for the PEN/Diamonstein-Spielvogel Award for the Art of the Essay. She flies the galaxy in search of assistant bank managers, runs with a prickle of rabid (imaginary) hedgehogs, and attempts to matchmake words like “balderdash” and “xylophone.”
Dyspnea
Like Poetry
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Allen Seward
Allen Seward is a poet from the Eastern Panhandle of West Virginia. His work has appeared in Scapegoat Review, Spare Parts Lit, and Impsired, among others. He currently resides in WV with his partner and four cats.
one sliver of grace
here I am, a deer bleeding in the pasture, and so I panteth after you. one more gleam of sunlight, please, just one sliver of grace. I need not my cup to runneth over, only that it not go empty. but there is too much time here and there is too little us. what a shame it is to be a deer bleeding in the pasture, yet there are no red clovers to drink my blood.
typical Icarus
I warned that goddamned Icarus not to fly so high but he took off up he went and I told him again I told him I wouldn’t tell him another time but he didn’t listen typical Icarus so up he went, right into the ceiling fan.
the trade company
the mast has been raised but the ship will not sail, the precious cargo will not be delivered, not today, not tomorrow, not next month, etc. the Captain is out to lunch. the winds are quiet. the truth of the matter is still very much up for debate. the gods are angry or simply have not been appeased. but it does not matter anyway. the Captain is out to lunch, so the ship will not sail anyway.
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There Can Be Nothing After This
Beth Lohnes
Elizabeth Lohnes (she/her) is a nineteen-year-old university student, and is currently studying for her undergraduate degree in English Language and Literature at Brock University. Ever since a very young age, Elizabeth has been writing poetry and short prose, with dreams of one day becoming a published author. Her writing is frequently crafted in the loving companionship of her three cats: Calvin, Karl, and Anastasia.
PIECES OF ITALY
for years, it was all i ever heard. with your head planted next to my thighs, and your eyes closed to the tear-streaked sky, you would wave your hands at nothing as you spoke. the grass comforted you, you said— it cushioned your body against the hardened earth. on those days, you would try to detail our big move to italy— a one-bedroom, shared apartment, with vines in our backyard, and fruit that never rots. to you, it was the domestic dream. to me, a bittersweet fantasy. i agreed, though, like you knew i would.
and you’ll tell me if this is too much, right? you’ll tell me?
of course i wouldn’t, you know that. how do you expect me to answer that question, when you can't even say it out loud? i know. you could bring me home a watermelon, and i would still complain that it wasn’t a pineapple. i told you i could handle myself, though, and i meant it. i just don’t want to.
when we first moved in, you bought us a shelf, and i planned on dragging it in for you. i hadn’t even taken my first breath, and you were already driving a knife into my box, wrestling with the disobedient scotch tape. you unloaded my belongings, taking out my notebooks and sliding them neatly onto the wooden cubbies. i had to grab your hands to stop you.
i know you’ve had to share everything, all of your life, but i’m telling you— this is yours. it’s all yours. you don’t have to share. do you understand? it’s your shelf. i’ll do the groceries and make you tea and pay the bills. it’s all taken care of. just promise you’ll let me kiss you every now and then, okay?
later that day, we went for a stroll through the meadow. it took everything i had not to stare. with your face illuminated by the sunlight, i traced the slope of your jaw with my eyes, pausing at the single strand of hair that had fallen against your cheek. there was something very bright about you, then. you were a complex mess of illumination, strung together into a woven basket of warmth that i couldn’t seem to keep my hands out of. when your footfall fell in tandem with mine, you told me you worried that you talk too much. after all these years, i want to tell you a secret. for the indiscriminate amount of time that you continue to speak, i will always listen. i will continue to reciprocate for as long as you continue to give. that is how this goes. so, please— carry on.
we went out for dinner, and the waiter liked your shoes. i had to pretend like i wasn’t going to retch up my pasta— and i didn’t want to. it was expensive. but i didn’t like the look he gave you. i didn’t like the way you smiled at him. i felt ill with myself. the rickety chandelier, creaking with each sway of the uncertain building, should have melted from the fever of my shame. you looked at me out of the corner of your eye, and, however begrudgingly, i held your gaze. you laughed and looked away, and i took that moment to commit your face to my memory. just once, i would like to look at you without feeling as if i’ve done something terrible. i don’t know when i became this— i really couldn’t tell you. but the sound of your chair scraping against the slated floor felt entirely too sharp, and i took that as a rejection.
we walked home that night, partially because i was more drunk than i would like to admit, but also because you loved the midnight air, and i think maybe a small part of you was hoping to get mugged. you drove me into the side of the sidewalk, like you always do, and i had to take off my heels, because they kept piercing the dirt, making me stumble into your side. i couldn't help but think that i can’t be near you, because i’m always going to want to be closer. unfortunately for me, though, you never did know how to keep your distance. i loved that about you. i always found it endearing.
at one point, your pinky curled around mine, and for some reason, i thought you wanted to hold my hand. i tried, and you gave me that terrible, terrible look— the one where your eyes crinkle, your lips purse, and your tone turns entirely too kind. you let out a terse laugh, and we didn’t fight like we could have— the nasty kind that i somehow always manage to initiate— but you did tell me:
you know you’re my best friend, right?
and i knew what you meant.
i know you’re itching to see me gone, but you burnt every bridge you possibly could, long ago. you tried to burn ours, too. you drenched it in gasoline, but i pried the matches from your shaky hands, and hurled the lit flame onto the wooden floor beneath our feet. the liquid, still with anticipation, burst to life. i threw us both in the water below. you pressed me against the rocks, struggling to pry my hands off of you, but i wasn’t letting go. with both my arms snaked around your waist, and my cheek buried into your shoulder, you tried to bash my head against the stones. my skin tore, but i never bled. when the water started to bubble, we broke the surface. i pressed my mouth against yours— not in the way i always wanted to— and swept away the hair stuck to your forehead. you coughed up your lungs but never told me you missed me. you were sitting there, pressed into my arms, and i held you as i mumbled into your ear, and all i could say is you’re safe you’re safe you’re safe, even though you weren’t, i could tell you weren’t. i could see the ugliest creature lurking behind you, looming over your shoulder. i just didn’t want to watch you burn. i couldn’t watch you burn.
the breeze was nice that night, though. we had a balcony, of course, because you insisted, just in case you ever wanted a way out. that evening, i put up the curtains with the black lace and the blue flower print— i knew you would agree with the colour scheme. the dusk ridden air danced with the hem of it, brushing it up against our bare ankles. in a rare moment of silent intimacy, we watched the street lights flicker. somewhere behind us, the radio droned on about tobacco and cancer, and you looked at me with a cigarette between your lips, grinning. i had to pretend like i didn’t want to snatch it out of your mouth and stick it in mine.
that night, i crawled into bed behind you, and i could still smell the smoke on your skin. like an idiot, i pressed the flat of my forehead between your bare shoulder blades, pretending as if i inhaled deeply enough, i could take it off you. you still smelled like the water beneath the bridge.
Eileen Chapman
I am Eileen Chapman (she/her), an aspiring poet from Guernsey, Channel Islands. I received your call for submissions from my professor at University of Edinburgh, where I am pursuing a postgraduate degree in Creative Writing. In many ways, my poetry is my memoir, but I also aim to capture the virtues of ordinary life: to remind the reader to be grateful for things that, if they're lucky, may be easy to take for granted. I hope you enjoy!
ODE TO DEDE
It is strange, I suppose, remembering you. The world has forgotten who we were before we grew up. I hear how you’re doing when I chat to my friend who is also your friend. He didn’t know you were left handed until I told him. The first time I had dinner at your house you cut your sausages with your knife in your left hand, and I told you you were doing it wrong, but you couldn’t do it the right way then my sister got a boyfriend and he ate his roast dinner with his knife in his left hand and I told him, “My best friend Dede does that” and he said, “She must be left handed,” and at the next dinner I apologised, and we laughed because we didn’t know about this left handed right handed thing. I’m a faded face in a photo album lost down the side of your bed. That’s okay, because I remember those two little girls laughing about dinner knives.
FOR THE SELFISH
For what would you sell your soul to Satan? Would you will the world to understand she who lived under another’s name, unveil journal and pseudonym of one hand, profess the literature of the muted maid —or would you demand it be you the world should praise? Would you have him lessen the melancholy of the elderly, lost and widowed? For the alone in life to live less lonely, would you volunteer your soul to go —or would you demand it be you sheltered from woe? Would you feed the fives of thousands, command rain to heal their crops of drought? Would you build the thirsty a fountain, give to them what no one should be without —or would you pour yourself a chalice that never dries out? Would you unshackle the innocent man who’s tearing and tying his bedsheet? He could be with his daughter again, he could be rocking his grandson to sleep —but why waste your wish on someone else when the world is at your feet? So walk down and join the queue of the selfish outside the gates of hell. Offer your soul so he should serve you and hear him say, “You have no soul to sell.”
Little Letters To Heaven
There is an email to you in my drafts folder. You read the sentences over my shoulder as I wrote them. There are letters safely stored in my granny box with your floral scarf and handkerchiefs and funeral programme. It is strange to me that I told you so much more about my life and my opinions in these little letters to Heaven than I did when you were in your armchair in your dining room asking about my day. With you watching, I couldn’t just give you the highlights. I think that’s why I stopped writing to you (and perhaps why I began). I couldn’t tell you anything that you didn’t already know and you couldn’t tell me to get a hold of myself, you couldn’t convince me that I am fierce – and there came a point where I wrote and you were not there, because I wasn’t writing those letters to you anymore. I was writing to myself, a diary. Now, I pray. You are with me even when I have nothing to say. It feels like kissing you hello or pouring cups of tea while you flick through the paper.
Thank you for reading Reprise, Balestra’s second edition! We’re incredibly honoured to feature all of our incredible contributors and humbled to have received dozens of submissions from artists all around the world. This edition we’re proud to showcase some incredible emerging voices alongside the experimental and modern work of established artists.
We’re very happy to have you as a reader and can’t wait to continue to grow as we move onto our third edition and the first Balestra issue of 2025. Consider submitting your own work, sharing Balestra with your friends and family, subscribing for more, and commenting on your favourite work.
Wishing you all the best,
The Balestra Team
Love the soft colors!