“This poem is from the “On the House” collection: This collection of erasure poems transformed an old copy of a 1949 novel by Mary Lasswell, “On the House”. It is a novel full of humor and, while each page is stand-alone, the tone is overall humorous and frequently leans into nonsense and whimsey. The work is done directly on the book and includes collage and painting, mostly with acrylics.”
Amy Marques has been nominated for multiple awards and has visual art, poetry, and prose published in many journals. She is the editor and visual artist for the Duets anthology and has an erasure poetry book coming out in 2024 with Full Mood Publishing. X: @amybookwhisper1 https://amybookwhisperer.wordpress.com
Trevelyan’s Corn Fiction by Seán McNicholl
CW: Violence & Mention of Death
They turned us out of our home, coming with their bayonets and rifles, no heed being paid to the first flakes of snow that fell. They turned us out of our home, tearing us apart like ravenous dogs setting upon a terrified hare. They turned us out of our home, setting it alight, warming themselves from the winter chill. And in the fire’s glow, they beat him. He was too weak to resist, we all were; our bodies emaciated and blighted like the potatoes that starved us. My withered children watched, like snowdrops dying in early summer, barely strong enough to stand. They watched as the Red Coats beat him. They watched as their father lost consciousness. They watched two Red Coats drag him into the shadows and gathering snow. His crime was breaching Trevelyan’s decree. He took a pocketful of corn, and the Red Coats took him. He took a pocketful of corn to feed our starving children, so that they might see the Spring. But they didn’t. They caught a fever and died before the turn of the snow. My husband never knew - given no trial, no chance to plea. Sentenced at the docks, not the dock. They dragged his limp and lame body from our blazing home to the quay, shackled and fettered, and threw him on a coffin ship bound for Botany Bay - if he’ll ever see it. I doubt he will. I watched as the white horses of the sea pulled him out beyond the horizon, to a land where the gun makes the law, to live a life of servitude. The Red Coats and the white foam took him from me.
And now, here I lie, alone, in the gutters, begging other starving passersby for their scraps. But they just look and pass by, fearful of meeting the same Trevelyian fate. If only I could feed off their pitiful looks and sip from their tears. The priests tell us that we shall one day feast at the Supper of the Lamb, and I know that day is coming soon for me. But I would gladly feast on the morsels that fall from the table. But there is no table here in the mud, only death.
Seán McNicholl is an Irish GP who enjoys writing short stories in a variety of genres. He has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and for the Best of the Net (BOTN) award 2024. He has been published inBeyond Words, Raw Lit, 34th Parallel, Bindweed andIntrepidus Ink, among others. www.seanmcnicholl.com