As I move forward, I’m looking for some volunteers. Running a literary magazine is a lot of work, and [...]]]> Now that Issue #1 is live—have you purchased your copy yet?—the work for Issue #2 begins. Submissions are open, using the venerable Submittable platform, which dramatically simplifies the submitting and reading process.

As I move forward, I’m looking for some volunteers. Running a literary magazine is a lot of work, and though it’s been a fun learning experience for me to get Issue #1 ready for publication, I admit I could use a few good hands for this next time around.

Here’s what I’m looking for:

~Bloggers to write on all things literary

~Book reviewers (for the blog and the journal)

~Readers to lend their eyes to the plentiful submissions

Since Cactus Heart is still in its beginning stages, I offer as payment the incredible learning experience of working on a literary magazine and a free copy of each issue you work on. There is also an affiliate program, which offers the chance to help spread the word about Cactus Heart and make a little money doing so.

If you’re interested, please get in touch—tell me about your literary experience, your aesthetic, your goals:  sara@cactusheartpress.com

PS. We’re also in search of more Flash Fiction pieces for the {flash friday} feature. So, if you’re a flash writer and want to have your work shown off, send it over!

$5.00  

108 BIG pages of spiny, succulent prose, poetry, and art—full color and delivered directly to your inbox.

with writing and photography by

Alysia Angel, Glen Armstrong, Eleanor Leonne Bennett, Christine Brandel, Stephanie Callas, Flower Conroy, [...]]]> It’s here! Issue #1 is now available!

$5.00  

108 BIG pages of spiny, succulent prose, poetry, and art—full color and delivered directly to your inbox.

with writing and photography by

Alysia Angel, Glen Armstrong, Eleanor Leonne Bennett, Christine Brandel, Stephanie Callas, Flower Conroy, Sian Cummins, erin feldman, Merlin Flower, Janet Freeman, Christine Gosnay, William Henderson, Courtney Hill Wulsin, Jesse Kuiken, Anthony Lawrence, D Lep, Stewart Lewis, Nico Mara-McKay, Ben Nardolilli, Katrina Pallop, Carol Piva, Jules A Riley, Holly Ringland, Meegan Schreiber, Jenna Whittaker, Theresa Williams, Christopher Woods

Write about old love rekindled she said and I thought better to bury the embers water the ashes and walk away to start a new fire but they looked happy. Maybe some old fires can be conserved and used for other things besides burning [...]]]> {poetry monday}

Write about old love rekindled

she said and I thought 
better to bury the embers

water the ashes and walk

away to start a new fire

but they looked happy.

Maybe some old fires

can be conserved and used

for other things besides

burning bridges.

. . .

Gregory Luce is the author of the chapbooks Signs of Small Grace (Pudding House Publications) and Drinking Weather (Finishing Line Press). His poems have appeared in numerous print and online journals, including Kansas Quarterly, Cimarron Review, Innisfree Poetry Review, If, Northern Virginia Review, Foundling Review, MiPOesias, Praxilla, Little Patuxent Review, and in the anthologies Living in Storms (Eastern Washington University Press) and Bigger Than They Appear (Accents Publishing). He lives in Washington, D.C. where he works as Production Specialist for the National Geographic Society.

Ruby walks at night. Not every night but often, especially when she is restless and unable to sleep. Her favorite times are during or right after a rainstorm, when most people want to stay warm and comfortable, either at home or sequestered in a cozy bar or coffee [...]]]> {{flash friday}}

Ruby walks at night. Not every night but often, especially when she is restless and unable to sleep. Her favorite times are during or right after a rainstorm, when most people want to stay warm and comfortable, either at home or sequestered in a cozy bar or coffee shop. At these times she is less likely to attract attention or attempts at conversation, anonymous in her green rain slicker and hat—plus hand-knitted scarf in cold weather—or beneath a black umbrella when it’s too warm for bundling in layers.

Often she will drop down to the docks, where she can see the city lights reflected in the slowly flowing river and off the scraps of bright metal near the cannery, hearing the faint droning hum of machinery punctuated by bursts of talk and laughter. She loves the sounds of night work; random snippets of conversation are able to float to her more distinctly because the rest of the city is so still. Her favorite job (during summers off from college) was as a baker. Three blocks from her small apartment were the welcoming lights of the bakery kitchen. She would walk there in the middle of the still-warm night to join Jack and MaryAnn for the ritual firing up of the large ovens, to turn out loaves of crusty bread for the coming day; mixing and kneading and cleaning to the rhythms from the stack of rock and roll CDs they shared. They would always take their break at sunrise, sitting out on the back porch of the bakery with coffee and cigarettes, watching the sun rise over the downtown office buildings, feeling like they owned the morning.  Owned the whole world. She loved walking back home afterwards in the middle of the now wide-awake city, feeling like she held a secret.

Ruby believes that if she stays awake while others are asleep then no harm can come to them, because she is watching. All the active living that simmers and breathes unnoticed, the desires and labors, laughter and companionship of those who inhabit the darker, emptier hours is made more substantial, more real; it is as though she is recording it, though she never actually puts pen to paper. Bearing witness is enough. She doesn’t remember how she got this idea, or how long she’s had it. She remembers a distant time when she tried not to fall asleep but did, when her baby sister turned blue in her crib; when they tried to reassure her that it wouldn’t have made any difference if she had managed to stay awake. Did she believe them? In her adult heart she knows it’s true, but is it her adult heart that beats in the middle of the night?

She thinks of the question about whether or not a tree falling in the forest makes a sound if no one is there to hear it and she thinks “I wish I could be there to hear every tree that falls.” She feels it as a sort of desperation. That anyone or anything should be lost to oblivion without acknowledgement is a kind of sadness. She wonders about this sometimes as she walks. She thinks about God, but not too much. Mostly about how he, too, worked alone.

She has several circuits that she travels, and in each has come to know many of the inhabitants—not their names, except those surnames that are announced on curbside mailboxes—but their habits and consistencies.  This gives Ruby a sense of connection to them and something almost akin to affection. When the woman in the small brick house near the All-Night Laundromat had her baby, Ruby felt a rush of happiness like she was a distant auntie. She considered leaving a small gift—a hat, tiny socks or rattle—on the front steps. But she knew it was out of the question, knew that her watching would be labeled (libeled) as something creepy or suspicious. It made her sad, but she knew the truth of it. People think they are anonymous in their lives unless they choose to share them. And if you read the papers or watch the news, it’s enough to make you suspicious of everyone, isn’t it? But it’s the way of the world, Ruby thinks to herself, turning the corner to her own apartment, where her yellow tabby cat patiently waits for her return.

Ruby walks and watches and listens and cares and protects and no one will ever know. Her obituary, if ever written, will be empty of this secret part of her life, unknown. Like the unheard tree falling in the forest, it will fade away to nothing like the night is dissolved by the rising sun.

. . .

Peggy Acott has been writing stories since she became aware of which end of the pencil was which, and loves language and words and stories no end.

Want a free copy of Cactus Heart #1 in your inbox May 15? Don’t miss your chance to win—deadline is midnight, April 30!

We’ll be giving away 3 free copies, with one winner drawn [...]]]>

Want a free copy of Cactus Heart #1 in your inbox May 15? Don’t miss your chance to win—deadline is midnight, April 30!

To enter:

1. Sign up for the mailing list
2. Like the Facebook page
3. Follow Cactus Heart on Twitter

We’ll be giving away 3 free copies, with one winner drawn from each list.

Winners will be announced May 1st.

Why did we come here? Because you read a book called Be Here Now and took a few drumming lessons and now you’re a bona fide free spirit.

Last weekend, you bought a rainbow hat made in Nepal with a nub where the pop-pom should be, which makes [...]]]> {{flash friday}}

Why did we come here? Because you read a book called Be Here Now and took a few drumming lessons and now you’re a bona fide free spirit.

Last weekend, you bought a rainbow hat made in Nepal with a nub where the pop-pom should be, which makes your head look like a pomegranate, but of course I don’t tell you that. And I also don’t tell you that you’re probably getting a sunburn on your crotch, sitting with your legs open. Your right thigh is nudging me off the towel.  

“Ever wanted to try a nude beach, Suzie?” you said, “Life’s short, you know?”

You think I need less room on this towel than you, so I’ve got sand grating my rear end. I tell you sand is just rocks ground down, and our delicate parts weren’t meant to sit on rocks. You ask me in an exasperated voice if I want to go. I tell you no, though I do. I can’t figure out what to do with my eyes when people walk by. They’re mostly older men with members dangling like withered zucchini. But a few young women pass us, and I can tell you’ve got no problem figuring out what to do with your eyes.

“I’m going in,” I say, standing and leaving you on the towel. I don’t linger at the shoreline or wade in. I rush forward and dive. The cold water against my naked skin is electric.

When I was a girl, they dared me to swim to the other side. Halfway across the lake, I panicked and returned to shore. Today I am salmon-confident. I swim further out. I breathe through gills. My skin is rainbow-flecked.

From where I am, I can see the tiny pink shape of you on the beach. And you might be waving your hand above your head, trying to call me in. But I can’t tell.

. . .

Brittany Smith is a Toronto-based writer, blogger, and tire swing enthusiast. Her writing has appeared in publications both in Canada and abroad. She is currently attempting to juggle several projects, including the creation of Willow Jean Press, a memorial storytelling service.

With over 300 submissions, I’ve got my hands full! First, thank [...]]]> Reading for Issue #1 is underway, and in the meantime, here’s an update from the editor. About literature and reading and wine. No, actually I won’t talk about wine, other than to say that I enjoy a nice glass of red while reading submissions.

With over 300 submissions, I’ve got my hands full! First, thank you to everyone who took a leap and submitted for the inaugural issue—whether your piece was accepted or not, Cactus Heart depends on writers, and you all definitely came through. Writing can be such a lonely endeavor, but this part is heartwarming, to see how much everyone wants to publish their work and be read, i.e., creating community on the page.

If you haven’t heard from me yet, don’t fret—All submissions will be responded to by May 1st. In the meantime, the cover has been created, and you can check it out here.

*

PS: This Atlantic article made me so happy when I read it last week. Cheers to reading and literature!

. . .

Kushal Poddar is a poet living in Kolkata and his forthcoming book is Surviving Cyber [...]]]> {poetry monday}

A cat

asleep as a cat fetus,

it begins

where it ends.

You shift and its ears perk.

It hears your inside

where those restless moments

fight off the meaningfulness.

. . .

Kushal Poddar is a poet living in Kolkata and his forthcoming book is Surviving Cyber Love.