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Page 1: urightsmagazine · Sweden, Italy, Bangladesh, India, France, Mauritius and Canada. Writes also under his pen name: Eadbhard McGowan Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a
Page 2: urightsmagazine · Sweden, Italy, Bangladesh, India, France, Mauritius and Canada. Writes also under his pen name: Eadbhard McGowan Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a

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urightsmagazine.com

facebook.com/urights

instagram.com/urightsmagazine

[email protected]

EDITORIAL TEAM

ADRIAN SLONAKER Canada

AJANG PRECIOUS ERERITEM Nigeria

PATARH-EBERE EREMIKE Nigeria

LUKPATA LOMBA JOSEPH Nigeria

WANDA MORROW CLEVENGER United States

Special thanks to Adrian Slonaker, Wanda Morrow Clevenger and Patarh-Ebere Eremika for reading this issue.

Page 3: urightsmagazine · Sweden, Italy, Bangladesh, India, France, Mauritius and Canada. Writes also under his pen name: Eadbhard McGowan Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a

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Contents Editorial Team .......................................................................................... i

Contributors ............................................................................................ iv

Editors’ Note ........................................................................................... vi

Conspiring with Entropy ........................................................................ 1

William Doreski

Transience ................................................................................................ 3

Eduard Schmidt-Zorner

The Vengeance of Time ........................................................................... 4

Shimbo William

Return to Revelations .............................................................................. 6

Kathrine Yets

A Fight ...................................................................................................... 8

Eduard Schmidt-Zorner

Images ..................................................................................................... 10

Milly Brown

Moving on from the Accident ............................................................... 12

John Grey

Siberia ..................................................................................................... 13

Eduard Schmidt-Zorner

Wandawoowoo’s Cup ........................................................................... 14

Kenneth Pobo

Save Yourself ......................................................................................... 15

Jennifer Johnson

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A Face for the Faceless .......................................................................... 16

Bembe Ashibel

At Play .................................................................................................... 17

Gary Beck

Road of Bones ........................................................................................ 18

Eduard Schmidt-Zorner

Chaotic Kaleidoscope ............................................................................ 20

Amit Parmessur

A Man of Sixes ....................................................................................... 22

Thomas M. McDade

My Girlfriend Says She would Die in a Street Lamp ........................ 29

Nnadi Samuel

About U-Rights ...................................................................................... 30

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CONTRIBUTORS

Amit Parmessur, 37, is a poet and tutor from Mauritius. His writing has appeared in around 160

magazines namely, WINK, The Rye Whiskey Review, Night Garden Journal, Ann Arbor Review

and Ethos Literary Journal. He loves to pick off past experiences, turn them over in the light and

lie about them.

Bembe Ashibel is a freelance writer who writes for fun and self-engagement. Her writing

mirrors her love for service and humanity. She writes about self-awareness and preservation and

personal development. Her philosophy is hinged on the principle of community and collectivism.

When she’s not writing, she enjoys long walks in nature, traveling, reading and photography. She

hopes to provide succor and mental support through her writing.

Eduard Schmidt-Zorner is a translator and writer of poetry, haibun, haiku and short stories.

He writes in four languages: English, French, Spanish and German and holds workshops on

Japanese and Chinese style poetry and prose.

Member of four writer groups in Ireland and lives in County Kerry, Ireland, for more than 25

years and is a proud Irish citizen, born in Germany.

Published in 76 anthologies, literary journals and broadsheets in USA, UK, Ireland, Japan,

Sweden, Italy, Bangladesh, India, France, Mauritius and Canada.

Writes also under his pen name: Eadbhard McGowan

Gary Beck has spent most of his adult life as a theater director and worked as an art dealer when

he couldn't earn a living in the theater. He has also been a tennis pro, a ditch digger and a salvage

diver. His original plays and translations of Moliere, Aristophanes and Sophocles have been

produced Off Broadway. His poetry, fiction and essays have appeared in hundreds of literary

magazines and his published books include 26 poetry collections, 9 novels, 3 short story

collections, 1 collection of essays and 1 collection of plays. Gary lives in New York City.

Jennifer Johnson is a business owner, blogger, motivational speaker, and writer. She resides in

Suffolk, Virginia with her husband and 4 children (2 boys and 2 girls). She is passionate about

creating content that inspires others while sharing her personal journey.

Jennifer believes that everyone's journey is not the same, but each journey offers personal and

spiritual growth which is needed to achieve one's fullest potential. She believes there is value in

sharing personal experiences because they can help others. Like most women, she's experienced

hard times in her life. Her mission is to empower a community of supportive women who are

learning and growing through this journey called life.

When not writing or sharing, you will find her spending quality time with her family, cooking a

new dish or watching a good movie.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in

Hawaii Pacific Review, Dalhousie Review and Qwerty with work upcoming in Blueline, Willard

and Maple and Clade Song.

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Kathrine Yets lives in St. Francis, WI with her lovely husband Brad. She instructs English at

various universities. Her chapbook So I Can Write is freshly published by Cyberwit. The Animal

Within is forthcoming from Unsolicited Press.

Kenneth Pobo has a new book out from www.cyberwit.com in India called Wingbuds.

Forthcoming is his chapbook called Book of Micah from Moonstone Arts Press. His work has

appeared in: Amsterdam Review, Hawaii Review, The Fiddlehead, and elsewhere.

Milly Brown studied under Josephine Miles at U. C. Berkeley. Many of her poems have been

printed in various publications over the years, most notably: Bangalore Review (2019);

California Quarterly (2019); Desert Wood (UNR, 1991); Eclectic (1970); Hiram Poetry Review

(1971); The Green Flag (City Lights Books, 1969). She took a long break from submitting, but

she is revived.

Nnadi Samuel is a 20-year-old graduate of English & literature from the University of Benin.

His works have previously published in libretto magazine, Artifact magazine, Inverse Journal,

Awakening Review, The Collidescope, Jams & Sand magazine & elsewhere. He got shortlisted

in the annual Poet's Choice writing & was the 2nd prize winner of the EOPP 2019 contest. If he

is not writing, you find him reading out memes on Facebook @ Samuel Samba.

Shimbo Pastory William is a writer, an editor, and a poet. He is in the final year of his concurrent

pursuit of B.A. degree in Philosophy and Diploma in Religious Studies at the Spiritan Missionary

Seminary, an Affiliated Institute to the Catholic University of Eastern Africa (CUEA) Nairobi.

Shimbo was previously an editor for the Writers Space Africa (WSA) Monthly Literary Magazine.

He was also poetry editor for the Poetica Poetry Magazine which is published quarterly by the

African Writers Development Trust (AWDT).

Shimbo has been twice (2018-2019) a member of the judging panel of the Daughters Destined for

Purpose (DD4P) nationwide Poetry Competition in Zimbabwe. His works have appeared in The

Leader Catholic Newspaper, a weekly newspaper published by the Catholic Archdiocese of

Owerri, Nigeria, Writers Space Africa Magazine, Poetica Magazine, SpillWords, The Kalahari

Review, U-Rights Magazine, AllPoetry, Hello Poetry, Friends Magazine, The Fountain Magazine,

and Kiongozi and Tumaini Letu Catholic Newspapers published in Tanzania. Shimbo’s first book

‘Teens and Schooling’ was published in 2016.

Thomas M. McDade is a resident of Fredericksburg, VA, previously CT & RI.

He is a graduate of Fairfield University, Fairfield, CT.

McDade is twice a U.S. Navy Veteran serving ashore at the Fleet Anti-Air Warfare Training

Center, Virginia Beach, VA and at sea aboard the USS Mullinnix (DD-944) and USS Miller (DE

/ FF 1091).

William Doreski has published three critical studies and several collections of poetry. His work

has appeared in many print and online journals. He has taught at Emerson College, Goddard

College, Boston University, and Keene State College. His most recent books are Water Music

and Train to Providence, a collaboration with photographer Rodger Kingston.

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Editors’ Note

About three months ago, we published our first issue. As a team of committed individuals, we saw

the need for revamping and here we are with a much improved issue, featuring writers from

Nigeria, United States, Australia, Mauritius, Ireland and Tanzania. This issue is no doubt, an

improvement over the first issue.

During the planning stages of this issue, we were torn between announcing a call for submissions

for a themed issue and announcing a call for general submissions. In the vortex of counter opinions

offered by the team members, we were lured by the love for diversity. Diversity, not in terms of

various perspectives to a single subject but in terms of a spatial distribution of pieces, dwelling on

different subjects. This way, we got hold of “raw” quality and it’s a bit unfortunate that we culled

out just few pieces, having to say no to many good pieces because of our policy.

As you read through the eBook version of this issue, you will notice some blank pages running

throughout. These pages are intended to provide silence during transition. The issue has been

arranged, not according to any order of importance. All the pieces here are equally valuable to us.

We wish to express our gratitude to our lovely contributors for making this issue a great one. We

are indeed honoured to read your work.

Lots of thanks to the Canadian writer and copy editor, Adrian Slonaker, the American writer,

Wanda Morrow Clevenger and the Nigerian writer, Patarh-Ebere Eremika for dedicating their time

for the selection process. We are humbled by your commitments.

Finally, we want to thank our German friend, Richard Littauer, for his willingness to answer our

questions at all times.

We must stop now!

Enjoy!

Lukpata Joseph and Ajang Precious,

Founding Editors.

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ISSUE TWO 1

Conspiring with Entropy by William Doreski

Forest isn’t synonymous

with wood, since English

forests don’t have to have trees.

Does that offend you? Beware

of Old French, the source not only

of etymologies but rank

or rancorous confusion, not

compatible with contusions.

After two days of snow and ice

the landscape looks too gray and bruised

to answer the simplest questions.

Before the forest—defined as

wild land set aside for hunting—

moves any closer, flexing its boughs,

we must scrape away driveway ice

so we can move about freely

with candor and lack of want.

We can’t let the forestam silvam

hem us in. Too much Latin

can choke an adult or a child

lacking a good dictionary.

Yesterday watching the snow flop

from the roof I thought I detected

irony in simple gravity,

a conspiracy with entropy.

All those y sounds mating without

a sprig of phonetic conscience.

As if reading Muldoon’s poetry

could stopper the oncoming moment

when everything goes blank forever

and you lean over the coffin and sigh

or laugh or look stoic as a sheep.

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ISSUE TWO 2

The forest, really woodland

with seasonal hunting allowed,

shrugs off the bone-warping cold

and waves at the creamy sunlight

as if soliciting a bribe.

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ISSUE TWO 3

Transience by Eduard Schmidt-Zorner

Write your name on the stone

and throw it into the sea.

Or take a shell and scoop water

wash away the word

written in the sand.

Dry wood, flotsam,

a dead seagull,

a small wreck, the masts broken,

a dream shattered

the word unspoken.

Eerie silence all around us.

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ISSUE TWO 4

The Vengeance of Time by Shimbo William

We travel far in the spaces and we return to time

We read the infinite skies and draw maps over roads

We may touch hearts, or hit, or hurt, or run

Eyes peek atop the left wrist in recurrent bewilderment

The haste is pressing, to pick to the volatile moods of fate

The wrist covers the eyes to liven frightened blinks

Presuming that time’s distressing marathon will soon ease.

Time takes us places and brings us back home

We are never freed from the chains we made

The hurt over the wounds we saw opening scribes live scars

Which mimic our secrets in thick ink over the aged canvases of time

These die not, that we crouch in groans where we first rose with pride.

Time keeps its fair vengeance,

And its vengeance hits very hard.

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ISSUE TWO 5

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ISSUE TWO 6

Return to Revelations by Kathrine Yets

If you eat a flower

you will return to that place someday,

my mother told me.

Her pink hibiscus took her back to Hawaii.

My wild violets always took me back to my grandparent’s home.

They’re good for your heart,

Grandpa said months after returning from the hospital,

his heart still weak.

I picked unblemished bunches from the side of his garage

to share with him, to strengthen us both.

Purple crunched between our teeth with a subtle sweetness.

Over a decade later, we share asparagus.

steamed, soft, green.

It can cure cancer,

he tells me— proves with an article.

Unnecessary.

He bought me bunches from Pic ‘n Save.

3 tbsp. a day, at least.

While eating, he speaks of Revelations,

Redemption is in your lifetime.

Christ will come to your generation, Katie.

I cling to his every word,

but do not hold it as my own.

In the following hour I learn

there is no hell, no heaven either.

There is only sleep.

We all wait.

Just look in the Bible, it’s all there.

We will all return… heaven’s on earth.

He hands me Tupperware as I leave.

I deny it; try to make him keep his green cure.

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ISSUE TWO 7

Try to make him save himself.

Just take it.

I do. My hands suddenly smaller

and filled with wild violets.

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ISSUE TWO 8

A Fight by Eduard Schmidt-Zorner

winter’s arrival means fight

he does not knock on the door

he smashes it

A line of rocks marks a ridge overgrown with heather which leads down to a sandy bay at the

headland. On an elevation, behind a patch of marram grass, a dilapidated cottage.

The walls are made from natural stone, the roof shingles are covered with moss, the frames of

the small windows are jammed and swollen having been exposed over years to moisture and

rain. In the nearby water bobs an open boat with fishing lines and nets.

Close to the house stands a rusty fish trap and a few lobster pots.

There are remnants of red paint on the door. Next to it leans another door, freshly painted in

blue.

The shed is open and shows shelves, barrels, carpenter equipment and fishing tackle.

Across the forecourt, covered by weeds, lies a broken mast and next to it an anchor.

The fishermen have moved away from this area, left with memories of the rattling and ringing of

the rigging, the whispering wind and the lashing, roaring surf, the rubbing of the oars against the

rowlocks.

The sight of the lonely, ugly and abandoned neighbouring house fills him with melancholy. The

absence of sounds of other people does not bother him.

There is only the clinking of the aeolian harp hanging from a sycamore tree.

He steps outside the door and smokes his pipe.

The sky shows a display of all shades of grey, from light grey, through dark grey to deepest dark

grey.

Gusts blow sand and loose grass over the shore stones.

He pushes the door further open. It jams, the house has settled. He had planed the blue-painted

door and made it fit to be installed when the paint has dried.

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ISSUE TWO 9

Inside a table, two chairs, a cupboard, an unmade bed, logs stacked up next to a round iron stove.

On a side table an old-fashioned radio running on batteries, no television, in the corner a heap of

books.

The old radio is only there to hear the news and weather forecast. He is not interested in talk and

sermons.

In the country which he left behind he had hated television. He hated all those newsreaders, all

those and other types of “teachers” with their eyebrows and forefingers raised, who all rebuke

those who think differently, giving marks or awarding points.

The exclusion of TV was part of his fight against the system.

It becomes stormier.

A new fight is waiting for him.

He hastens to pull in the boat and turns it over so that the storm cannot catch and lift it. He

carries the blue door into the house. He is particularly worried about the shed gate. It is exposed

to wind and weather. A hinge is broken.

Inside the shed he pushes a heavy chopping block against one wing of the gate.

Outside the storm blows up its cheeks. A gust runs against the shed. Light falls into the shed for

a moment because the gate gives way. He braces himself against it.

The storm begins, it roars and rages.

He battles against the wind force, holds the gate with one hand and fetches a lumber to prop it

up. He nails a batten right across the two wings to the frame on both sides thus strengthening the

gate.

It works, the gate is not moving an inch.

The fight against the element, this old battle of mankind against wind and severe weather

conditions is won, for the moment.

The house gives shelter, the storm’s voice is less audible. He lights the stove to make hot water

for a tea, which he will thin down with some whiskey, and to boil a few mussels.

He lights a candle in a lantern. The cottage is not connected to the mains, that means no bills and

no visits by the meter reader, who would disturb his seclusion.

Making frugality the purpose of life.

For re-collection. Re-flection. To spell nature, to give nature its meaning back.

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ISSUE TWO 10

Images by Milly Brown

Warm blue candle on a shelf

Round stone

Incense burner Buddha

Slightly blackened

Shell wind chimes tinkle slowly

In the doorway.

Music stands open on the piano.

On the table – a bowl of peppermints

A box of pretzels

An avocado telephone.

Brown cat on the ironing board

Closes his eyes.

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ISSUE TWO 11

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ISSUE TWO 12

Moving on from the Accident by John Grey

In the seat beside him.

flesh was metal

and metal, flesh.

The collision was all on his wife's side.

A trickle of blood

headed his left cheek.

It could have been hers.

He wasn't sure.

Rescue somehow

extracted her from that steel bric-a-brac

while police lights

called out to nosy strangers.

A firm hand guided him into the ambulance

in the stretcher's wake.

A tactful tow truck kept its distance.

For street after street,

the night's noise

was with them all the way.

as one voice talked him down from shock

and another coaxed her out of death.

That he survived was a given.

That she pulled through was a miracle.

They sit on the porch of their new home,

sip wine and twilight with tongue and eyes.

Only her scars discuss the accident.

Not a conversation exactly.

More of a mild collision with the setting sun.

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ISSUE TWO 13

Siberia by Eduard Schmidt-Zorner

Star-sprinkled, star-speckled

sky dome over icy cold ground.

Snow dust, snow powder covered.

Frozen rain days cling to fir branches.

There is not a light or a sound

only green veils of the northern lights.

Snow flurry over grey mountains

without paths and passes.

Yaks graze on sediment pastures,

scrape sparse food with their hooves

to the surface.

Yaks give fat milk, patient, frugal.

Butter is beaten by tribal women.

Fat mutton lump of meat boil.

Soon the sun will lure the green.

Torrential currents transform

and create new images

re-paint the landscape

on a grey canvas, in a steel frame.

Eternal change.

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ISSUE TWO 14

Wandawoowoo’s Cup by Kenneth Pobo

Maybe if I drink another cup

of coffee, the news will be better.

In this darkness it’s hard to see up

the street to a startling buttercup.

A slanting rain makes me feel wetter.

Maybe if I drink another cup

of May, my life will have a shake up.

Should I hope? I only feel fetter.

In this darkness it’s hard to see up

beyond rusted cars of the corrupt.

I could write God an angry letter.

Maybe if I drink another cup

of poison, I won’t need a check up.

I’ll die alone, another debtor.

In this darkness it’s hard to see up

where I can be free, no more lockup,

to invent a yes out of never.

Maybe if I drink another cup

in this darkness… it’s hard to see up.

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ISSUE TWO 15

Save Yourself by Jennifer Johnson

I’m standing in the middle of a circle surrounded by people reaching for me. They all want or

need something from me. Something I can no longer give. I’m running on fumes, too weak to

help anyone, including myself. My mind and body can no longer function the way it used to. I

am beyond overwhelmed and trying not to let anxiety take over. This emotional pain can’t be

seen like a scrape or bruise because I hide it, keep it locked up until no one is around. Then the

endless tears spill down my face.

I realize that I’ve been so quick to want to save everyone else, I forgot to save myself. Lost,

confused and frustrated I wonder if it’s too late to be saved? Every day I keep trying to find the

strength to keep going. I’m getting tired of trying only to be let down and disappointed. Am I

surprised? I shouldn’t be because disappointment is all I’ve known.

No matter how hard I try to make things better for myself, nothing changes. I keep questioning

why I can’t stop the stress, anxiety, and depression. With each day that passes I get no answer.

So I grow wearier and convinced that this is how my life is meant to be.

My brain is desperately scrambling to make sense of it all. And then it hits me-I am the problem

and the solution. Time to stop questioning whether or not things will change and focus on me,

myself, and I. Learn how to embrace the changes in my life instead of allowing them to

overwhelm me. I no longer want to waste energy on things I can’t control.

When I look in the mirror I want to see a reflection that smiles back at me. No longer smiling

through the hurt, confusion, and pain. Smiling because I am truly happy in my soul and love

what I see and what I’m doing.

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ISSUE TWO 16

A Face for the Faceless by Bembe Ashibel

Come with me child of my mother

To the sand-grained school yard

Where seats the isolated swing.

Feet high in the air,

Giggling to the whoosh of the harmattan breeze

I summon you to let go of the fears that fetter your mind.

Swing back into the aura of your roots

And embrace the delicate weavings that is your umbilical cord.

Gaze into the welcoming eyes of she who held you at birth,

And know that you have been conceived of love.

Swing forth then toward the sun’s glory

And let your doubts with spade, be buried.

Daughter of my mother,

Pride of the Iroko tree that flourished on arid ground,

Ballad sung in praise of the tapper’s palm wine.

Dig your heels in and with purpose and strength,

Plant today that you may harvest tomorrow.

May your sons humour you with nostalgic melodies from their flutes at dusk

And when the long night comes,

Set you sail with songs befitting of a sage.

Child of my mother your soul is imbued

With vestiges of the peace you seek.

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ISSUE TWO 17

At Play by Gary Beck

We spend more on recreation

than on education,

so we'll have a lot of fun

until we're too dumb

to repair our toys.

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ISSUE TWO 18

Road of Bones by Eduard Schmidt-Zorner

Endless Kolyma highway.

The changing height

of the fir trees

is the diversion that

delays the driver’s fatigue

and the sudden sleep.

The crunch of the gravel,

melody of a monotonous song.

Grey-brown band through

black-green-white scenery

of firs, pines, hillsides, taiga.

The chessboard of winter.

Gulags hidden far in the woods,

exuding suffering and the past,

but the spirits of the dead

and souls of the oppressed,

they are present, untired,

the thousands without names.

Day and night, silent calls;

moaning and sobbing,

region of unspeakable grief

burdened by black energy.

Scattered remnants, rusty dishes,

a rotten fur jacket, a single boot.

Birch crosses as signposts.

Hands from the ground,

bone hands, pointing up

to where eagles fly their circles,

to the clouds they never reached,

the sun they will never see again.

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ISSUE TWO 19

Wolves snatch the prey

from a bear, which runs away,

a dead reindeer

looking with dead eyes,

some crows gather

for a last supper.

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ISSUE TWO 20

Chaotic Kaleidoscope Upon holding the Mauritian flag

by Amit Parmessur

She venerates the four bands that flap high

in the sky of her mind though it’s hard to

tell them from the crisscross of shooting stars.

They make such soft, elegant waves, each day—

and they’re much better than the Union Jack.

But since the white man’s gone, every night, she

gropes for sense within whirlwinds of colours.

She’s not been to school to understand their

possible ramifications. And in

their infinite nuances, she can’t rule,

so she holds loose dreams inside her tight fist.

She thinks of the green not as verdure, but

butterflies that perished on their first flight.

Green is the man on whom she wants to cheat.

It’s how jealous she is of her parents;

she’ll never have a child as good as theirs.

She thinks of the yellow as her young heart—

one where the tongues of five towns tango loud.

Yellow is the rural inferno in

which she burns religiously every noon.

It’s the sun that cascades over the fools

trying hard to outwit her ignorance.

The blue is a rare, powerful bullet—

the missing part of her dream suicide.

It’s also her unborn baby, because

of whom she is called barren, a churel.

It’s the dry hole she’s in, and keeps digging.

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The red is the bloody charlatan she’s

crossed, the passion she’s had to mortgage—it’s

the keyword that became disillusioned

and dropped out of the sentence of her life.

It’s not the struggle for independence!

As a girl, bewilderingly sincere;

as a woman, sincerely bewildered—

everything’s kaleidoscopic chaos,

a tight thought loosening—pining for Light.

.

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A Man of Sixes by Thomas M. Mcdade

The shit hit more than an oscillating fan, more like a misplaced windmill atop Mount

Washington when I opened a registered letter from a woman named Cecelia Meeks

announcing that I was the father of her six-year-old daughter. Her husband was in jail for

twenty plus on a drug charge. She was in, dire, dire, straits. Two lines from the group’s song

popped to mind.

He do the walk, do the walk of life

Yeah, he do the walk of life

Me too, buddy.

Do a DNA if you doubt me. They are expensive. Send me $150 and your test result and I’ll

have it compared to Siobhan at a LabCorp; “Siobhan,” one of those Irish names that sounds

different from how it looks. Christ, this could land me in jail. I was up sewage creek with a

toothpick for a paddle. I had about $20 to my name and a crazy feeling. The kid was six,

round off the coupling at six years, six days no work due to weather. A devil of a

predicament so I played the so-called Satan number 666, 6 times. When I was working at

Seekonk Lace, I’d heard a know-all claim the digits were actually 616. I covered that trio too.

I met Cecelia at that gig. I ran a pressing machine. She was a spinner. God Almighty, six

years of child support. What an investment I was: A Tom Wales Savings Bond. As if I’d sold

my soul, the first numbers hit and like a perfect gentleman, I mailed a money order to

Cecelia. I worked for Robinson Roofing shingling mostly three-decker tenements in Central

Falls. The closest I’d ever be to heaven I guessed. I sometimes splashed around as a

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housepainter. I’d grown to hate textile mills. I called myself a casual laborer but the truth

was I drank too much. Some lecturers used “bum.” Maybe the kid news was a wake-up call

that would put me on a sober path. I might find a lawyer who could get my driver’s license

reinstated. For the time being, I stuck to my frivolous ways by granting myself a vacation

splurge. On the sensible side, I poured my last bottle of rotgut wine down the toilet. The

Celtics were in Atlanta. I’d catch a train to Atlanta in Manhattan. I visited Collette Travel to

get some info on the Amtrak Crescent that stopped in Atlanta on the way to New Orleans.

The only luggage I owned was a backpack and that would do. I made a much-needed trip to

a laundromat before packing. I took a Greyhound to the Big Apple in memory of when I

rode buses my Navy days. After acting like a sailor in Manhattan, I’d ride one back to my

ship in Norfolk, pick up a Village Voice at a newsstand before boarding and imagine a

Bohemian life but I wasn’t a poet, writer, folk singer, or artist. Well, I did finish second in a

short story contest run by the USO in Naples. My entry was about a sixteen-year-old kid

who worked at a Shell Gas Station. He loved Fords and wanted to labor someday at a

Detroit factory. A jerk in his mother’s parade of boyfriends pushed him over the line.

Disappointing as it was, the only car he succeeded in hotwiring was a Buick. The single Navy

mention was that the kid wore his dead father’s pea coat. The winning entry was about

boot goddam camp and it didn’t sound fiction to me, about how wonderful this

douchebag’s company had been, won all kinds of achievement flags. Fiction would have

been me using my company 454, claiming multiple flags when we won zilch. Maybe I could

modify my tale to fit six-year-old girl ears. Many drunken barroom nights I’d recited

Shakespeare’s Sonnet 29, “When in Disgrace with Fortune and Men’s Eyes.” Would she like

that? Am I losing my mind? Did she have a nickname? Vonny would be a good one. A

missing photo in Cecilia’s letter should have made me suspicious, such a trusting soul or

sap.

I walked the half-mile or so from the Port Authority to Penn Station. Along the way, I saw a

woman I thought might be Ernest Hemingway’s granddaughter Mariel who’d been in

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Woody Allen’s Manhattan film. At a stoplight, a cabdriver acted up. He was involved in a

fiery argument with a FedEx van jockey. They flipped the bird so many times I suspected

they might be members of some profane branch of the Audubon Society. Next block, I

encountered a most unusual panhandler sitting on a blanket, a red and white cane across

his lap, a well-worn fedora tilted left on his head; a Veteran’s Day fake poppy in its band. I

dropped a fiver in his bucket, compliments of the Beelzebub I mouthed. The Temptations

serenaded from a boom box. His company was half dozen kittens in a cardboard box, proxy

vision I witlessly imagined. The tiniest one, a smudged nosed black and white, had eyes the

blue of odes and arias that even the likes of Monet would have a tough time capturing, on

his or her best palette day. If I lost the Vonny sweepstakes, would Cecelia introduce her to

me or was this just a money deal? Maybe the kid wouldn’t like me. If she did, visitation

weekends might follow. How in the hell would I know how to act? Maybe I’d find book at

the library that would help. First, I’d have to move to a better neighborhood, rent a decent

apartment, buy new furniture, and abstain from booze when she was around. Maybe drift

back to AA. I’d never teach the kid how to play the numbers. Maybe she’s a Celtics fan,

Robert Parish her favorite too. We could take buses to Brown and Providence College

women’s games. I’d be hoping she’d dream of being a player and not a cheerleader. I was a

tick under 6-feet; Cecelia was no shrimp. If I won the wager, I might help Cecilia despite the

“mistake.”

In the waiting room, I saw a man reading the Koran and a woman lost in a Bible full of

bookmarks made of paper strips bent like fingers worn thin beckoning legions of heathens

and infidels. A teen dozed with a copy of Tristram Shandy. I’d read it my year of junior

college. I’d counted how many times he’d used the term “Hobby-Horse.” I think it might

have been 43, no sixes involved.

I caught the 2:00 P.M. Amtrak Crescent, an overnight to Atlanta. Walking to a roomette, I

was aware of the conductor’s rhythmic clickety-clicks and I wondered if a punch band ever

performed at railway employee outings. My compartment was tidy, very compact. It had a

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small bathroom that included a shower. There was a couch, a single seat, and a very slim

closet. Water, coffee, and juices were available at the end of the car. Watching the

landscape pass by reminded me of a 24-hour train ride in 1963 from Navy boot camp in

Chicago to Providence, Rhode Island and home. I was eighteen. No antenna dish farms

then—no male pattern baldness either (although Navy barbers did their best). I’d longed for

tailored dress blues instead of my baggy initial issue set. I tried to avoid scuffing my spit-

shined shoes. After two weeks of leave, I reported to the USS Mullinnix docked at Destroyer

/ Submarine Piers in Norfolk where I swabbed, chipped, and painted for seven months

before Supply School in Newport, Rhode Island. I had a slick gabardine uniform for that

train ride. I never resorted to patent leather dress shoes.

I enjoyed reading signs out of the Crescent’s window: the University of Pennsylvania

Medical Center, Bower Field, and Amir’s Sea and Soul Food in Wilmington, Delaware were

some of many before stopping at that depot. Glancing at the tracks in the train yard, I was

amazed at how the simple design of tracks and ties endured over the decades. Woody

landscapes, orchards, occasional wisteria, a razor wired prison, housing project, junkyards,

and more railroad yards with rusty cars flashed before my eyes—then finally Baltimore and

its row house scenery. Some residences well maintained; others dilapidated as in any large

city. Then Washington, D.C.: The Lincoln Memorial, Washington Monument, Potomac

River, and the Smithsonian were all very visible.

I ate dinner in the dining car, which prompted thoughts of old films, North by Northwest for

one. I found myself mind talking to the kid, asking about her favorite movies—Crazy. The

food wasn’t bad. My vegetable lasagna was tasty but three of the menu entrees weren’t

available. I sat with an Atlanta college professor who specialized in dialects, and her

husband, an expert in Georgia geography. He seemed very proud of Georgia’s square mile

dominance over Pennsylvania. Being a Rhode Islander I didn’t feel I had a say.

Manassas, VA was the next stop after many miles of shipshape farms, large and small, silos

and barns with “Mail Pouch Tobacco” ads painted on them, grazing cattle and an occasional

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llama. In town, I noticed families waiting in line outside Foster’s Grille. The professor had

mentioned their fabulous charburgers as well as all the Civil War sites. Sure sounded

interesting but a step at a time; The Crescent could be my last trip depending on LabCorp.

The porter arrived a little after nine and set up my bunk. I could hear a blind man I noticed

earlier in the dining car tapping his way by the door, no recollection of two in a day of my

life until now. The rocking of the train felt a bit like shipboard life, however, the “Iron

Horse” with its jerks and jolts, would never provide the deep rest of a smooth sea. While

trying to nod off, the intermittent train whistle got me thinking about people in houses and

hotels within hearing distance. Were they thinking of that old Hank Williams song that was

playing in my mind? "(I Heard That) Lonesome Whistle"

All alone I bear the shame

I'm a number not a name

I heard that lonesome whistle blow

All I do is sit and cry

When the ev'nin' train goes by

I heard that lonesome whistle blow

I could sure identify with “lonesome.” What kind of music would a six-year-old favor?

“Sleep is finished” was the wakeup call through the cracked open door. I dressed and made

my way to the dining car. An older couple from Park Slope, Brooklyn (obsessed with the

sodium content of food) sat with me. She was retired from 38 years of nursing. He carried

vinegar with him in case of a blood pressure spike and told of an aunt who was never

without peach leaves to make tea to treat her diabetes. He was wearing a jean jacket, logo

from some casino in Atlantic City. “He got it for gambling so damned much,” his wife

said. They argued about which one was the more profligate gambler. As I left, she made a

strange recommendation that I visit Lourdes. Cecilia went to Sacred Heart Academy. Did she

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raise Vonny Catholic? Would the kid drag me to Mass? What the hell; might do me some

good. I could get her a kitten for a birthday or Christmas, would check with Cecelia about

allergies of course.

There was a delicate rain falling when I got off the train in Atlanta, a fraction above

drizzle. The train station was small and ordinary for such a large city. I hailed a cab, driven

by a chatty man from Eretria. He asked about my rail ride and said it took far too much

time. Then he went on to talk about his 24-hour non-stop drive to Denver for his cousin’s

wedding: hmm.

The fare to the Courtyard was $10. There was a vacancy but the room wasn’t ready, so I

parked myself in a comfortable chair near the dining room. I did the Crossword Puzzle in

The Atlanta Constitution, and the Jumble, none of the words were relevant to my possible

fatherhood. I zipped through the comics and had a vision of laughing with – for the first

time – my daughter.

Half hour later I checked in. I took a nap and then went out to get the lay of the land. The

weather had cleared. Walking up Andrew Young International Blvd, I noticed mosaic-like

images of the seven continents in the intersection surfaces. I imagined kids finding a

hopscotch game or sketching the images at a classroom desk. Yes sir, among them that up-

in-the-air child. I passed a hotel sign welcoming a visually impaired group. I hoped to see

some noble guide dogs.

I peeked into Dailey’s Martini & Cigar Lounge. I could see blue neon that didn’t match what

an alley feline tryst behind an on or off Broadway theatre could create. The door was ajar. I

could catch the trio’s tune, “Smoke Gets In Your Eyes.” I hadn’t tasted gin in ages and if I

smoked, it was a pipe. I did enjoy jazz though, attended a Dexter Gordon concert once. It

finally struck me that Cecelia took me to her apartment that was near the defunct Leroy

Theater, once a thriving burlesque, for our tryst. What’s color were Vonny’s eyes?

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Four men cane tapped their way toward me. That made six on the day. One of them asked

me for directions to Hooters. His “Hobby Horse” I guessed and congratulated myself for

connecting Shandy. I asked a cop walking by; got directions to State Farm Arena also, 2

miles. I’d hike it. I pulled my hand off the Lounge door. I thought of the servers at Hooters

joking about Braille “accidents.” I thought of color blue. I thought of Vonny blue.

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My Girlfriend Says She would Die in a

Street Lamp

by Nnadi Samuel

when we found her robbing death of its lumens beside a highway.

her eyes were jejune tangerines.

peeled into the barks of our anemic street lamp.

because it held her blood in a lit cell.

there is a disturbing need for more lamps on the streets across my country.

everyday a girl is plucked into the ripe night.

& nobody cares to know from which branch she fell off.

they simply rear her in slices of their curse words, when they refer to her mother.

i lost my girlfriend to a blind date with her guilt.

she was tensely dressed, except for a little flaw in her mascara.

& how it didn’t thicken the cloud she carried beneath her eyelashes.

he proposed, & she fell head over heels, into a bulb that mates an army of dragonflies.

i admired her beautiful looks in the lamp.

she seemed more handsome in death, than she had been in life.

more pleased that a whole city couldn’t do without her now.

a car stopped by, & asked why the other roundabout was not lit.

i smiled.

& told him, each time a street lamp comes erect, a maidenhead goes limp.

he shook his head & zoomed off.

this time, with my regrets boldly seasoned on his plate number.

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About U-Rights

U-Rights is an online literary magazine based in Cross River State, Nigeria.

Founded in 2019, U-Rights Literary Magazine is geared towards providing a platform for writers

to exhibit their creative talents, making good literature available to both academics and common

readers.

U-Rights opens for submissions three times a year, publishing poetry, fiction/non-fiction and

digital contents. Submissions are accepted from anywhere in the world and guest editors are

usually invited for every issue.

The pieces featured in the second issue of this magazine were selected from a pool of blind

submissions. The selection was done by a team of five readers.

U-Rights Literary Magazine is listed on Duotrope as U-Rights Magazine, you can engage more

with our contents at www.urightsmagazine.com.