As a supplement to our main issue of The Closed Eye Open, we have an ongoing feature called Maya’s Micros. As the name suggests, it will be curated by contributing editor Maya Highland and will exclusively feature short form writing.
Since it can be a long wait between issues, we’ve decided to keep the creativity rolling by focusing on the littlest form of creative writing—micros. Whether you consider them micro-poems or micro-fictions, they are welcome here…as long as each individual piece is 108 or fewer. (Why 108, you may ask? Have fun speculating…)
We like the idea of saying a lot in a small space–the complexity of self-expression in balance with an economy of language. And of course, since they are short, they can be enjoyed within a few moments–perhaps a line or phrase sticking with you to carry along for a while.
We will update Maya’s Micros in small “batches” a few times per month until our next full issue is ready for release.
If you like what you see and would like to get e-mail updates, please e-mail us at theclosedeyeopen@gmail.com.
Click here to submit your micros for publication.
Also, you may follow us on Instagram @theclosedeyeopen.
For the Record
We are both wrong
actually
the ocean was there
spraying salt
preserving arcs of
frisbees, pickling ruddy
doubts, brining fat drops of
tart lemony
suspense.
Sodium of the sea
feathers of chalk gulls
silt drifts flapping, spraying
preying sand kissed feet
feet traced shells
You casted whisper nets
I collected the bones
of common sense;
I ignited them.
You agree
we were seaside
at the starting line
where clouds lobbed darts
punctured the fibrous sun
her skyful forever dome
of ripeness.
There by the swirls of
a thistle altar, I blinked dust
or resist
for me.
Immigrant
Born at the end of an ancient story
A single strand unwound from a generational tapestry
A loose thread for the cutting?
Or the origin of a brand-new embroidery
[soul self]
I am:
worrying
sad
hopeless.
BUT
That was delusion.
Don’t give up
Fear.
Grow.
My body sang.
Chasing the Moon
I spent the last hour chasing the moon.
She would have none of it,
and hid herself behind
houses and trees and such.
Toes and fingers quite frozen
I headed home.
One last glance behind me
before stepping inside,
and there the moon was,
just waiting for me.
Funny how that chasing of things works.
Poets’ Corner
Ravens’ voices
cross the fields.
An empty bus waits
at the stop.
The locals lose
their canines’ chords
as traffic rolls
a parkway past
the golden spires
the parkway cross
the local fields
that lead to the bus stop.
M. Lin is an American living, working, and writing overseas. She is based in Amsterdam, the Netherlands, and her work has previously appeared in Corvus Review.
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Olivia C. Gane is the pen name for Anna Gong, a graduate student currently residing in Baltimore, MD. She is a lover of Swedish fish, herbal tea and salted dark chocolate. In her free time, she enjoys writing, creating stained-glass art, and reading Mary Oliver.
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Noelle Thomas is a chronically-ill, queer creative nonfiction and hybrid writer from the greater Philadelphia area. Frequently writing, crafting, and speaking about mental and chronic illness, she can be found online under the name Nowhalle. She enjoys space (both outer and personal) and drinking tea. When not in school, she can most likely be found at her gymnastics gym or at the zoo petting goats. She is in the process of writing a memoir that chronicles her life with mental illness.
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Mary Beth Healy lives and works in Buffalo, New York.
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Frank William Finney is a poet and former lecturer from Massachusetts. He lived in Thailand from 1995 until 2020, where he taught literature at Thammasat University. His work has recently appeared in The Raven’s Perch, The Thieving Magpie, Tofu Ink Arts Press, and other places. His chapbook The Folding of the Wings is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press. Find him on Twitter @FinneyFw.
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attachment
The extremes
have met at the turn
of the circle. The same scene now
in every season as snowless winter
wakes to sunless summer. Every
day was unlike another until
we found ourselves stalled,
stuck in the cycle.
Is it late spring?
Early autumn?
Rock Canyon
Below, the broad gulley is filled with rocks,
Large and pale and smooth, like skulls,
As if some great blow had cleft the earth,
To reveal a vast and secret catacomb.
Above, mountains loom in judgment,
Like broad-shouldered potentates,
Veiled in mist as if to hide from lowly plaintiffs
The shadow of a verdict on their jagged faces.
i do not know how to love without you
so in return,
i shall not love at all
i lock my heart
not for my protection,
but for yours
same wounds
same heart
different day
Sabbath
Glass and flame
wood and brass
configuration of atoms
two spent wooden matches on a plate
wishes unspoken
tradition empty of tradition
just these candles
bringing light
in the thick dark hours
A Plain World
When I love a sideways world,
How am I meant to love it straight?
When the sidewalk turns
And the sparkle glares
And the flash is evident…
Love—
Love
Exudes.
Take it back!
The sidewalk is there,
Lonely,
Dull—
Bored.
It can’t spin.
Dancing without flare,
I walk straight,
My eyes disconnected.
My ears only hear the
Music
That dullness
Pretends to play
John Tessitore has been a newspaper reporter, a magazine writer, and a biographer. He has taught British and American history and literature at colleges around Boston and has directed national policy studies on education, civil justice, and cultural policy. Most recently, he has published poems in the American Journal of Poetry, Canary, The Wallace Stevens Journal, Wild Roof Journal, and forthcoming in Magpie, Boats Against the Current, and the Sunday Mornings at the River anthology.
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John Muldowney grew up in eastern Pennsylvania. He is currently an undergraduate studying Psychology at Brigham Young University, and he is an aspiring poet/fiction writer. In addition to reading and writing, he enjoys taking long hikes, composing music, playing the guitar, and cooking.
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Brianne Reilly is the author of various works of poetic verse. Raised in the Midwestern United States, she is a warrior poet with a whiskey soul whose work is inspired by all aspects of life, love, loss, and beyond. She holds a B.A. in English Literature and Philosophy, as well as an M.A. in Women’s and Gender Studies. Her work has been published in various anthologies.
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Anne Bower teaches tai chi, gardens, does community volunteering, and keeps writing. Publications: three chapbooks—Poems for Tai Chi Players (Kattywompus Press), The Space Between Us (Finishing Line Press), and Getting It Down on Paper (co-author Pamela Ahlen, Orchard Street Press). Poems have appeared in Likely Red, Naugatuck River Review, ArtAscent, Evening Street Review, Raven’s Perch, Gemini, The Literary Nest, and other journals.
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Elijah Gampel-Bornstein is an English Literature student at McGill University. He enjoys all sorts of creative writing, often using it to procrastinate academic writing.
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Mellifera
When we quieted, the bees returned
crabapple blossoms turned brown and gold (thick with them)
no exhaust fumes, no sprays to taint
will their honey taste of longing and wonder?
*
I opened the door and
the bee falling
dead
brushed my lips
no sting
could I hope
for Ambrose’s
gift?
*
Easter-praised candles, the work of bees,
pass the light in our midnight vigil
we praise the bees’ art and
rob them.
Breakup
Remember our lives
together
on the river,
shooting the rapids?
Why
didn’t we
keep paddling
like crazy,
laughing like mad?
Crumble
A numbness follows me
like a drug I’m not taking,
like the opposite of the cure.
I don’t want to want to cry
in your arms like I believe
the world warms the way
we wish it would but know
it doesn’t. I crave no loss
of dignity like the crumble of my soul
into graham cracker crust,
no more significant to our bodies
for want or lack of it
because it takes more to feed
our gawping stomachs than
the crumb of soul we are allotted
and slice away for convenience
or just oblivion. But,
we do and we are and I am,
for wanting you.
33.One for the Road
An Invented Memory
A long-ago December night
We huddled together smoking matching
Clove cigarettes our exhales
In sync through the rust-
-y screen blown into the Kitchen
Blown into the bewildered
Face of your standoffish husky dog
Who reciprocated a puff of steam
That smelled of squirrel.
I held that breath, harsh and cold
Watched your taillights twinkle into
Nothing in the darkness before
I let it out.
Ishmael Whispers In My Ear
My friend says, “‘Call me Ishmael’ is one
of literature’s most famous lines.” Ishmael’s
invitation does thrust me every time onto
a road where he and I walk side by side.
He speaks of “sea monsters” and crazed
men who ride many waters, and I respond
with stories about iron lungs and invisible
kings called the “Coronavirus” who have
ruled the air. As the cries of all living
creatures crash against our faces, Ishmael
whispers in my ear that his name means
“God hears. God listens.”
Deborah Sarbin writes from northwestern Pennsylvania, where she also teaches. Her poetry has appeared in Pandemic Evolution: Poets Respond to the Art of Matthew Wolfe, The Bridge Literary Journal, The Watershed Journal, and Tiny Seed Literary Journal’s blog.
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K.L. Johnston is a poet and photographer whose favorite subjects are whimsical, environmental and/or philosophical. She first published at the age of sixteen and has been writing ever since, mostly non-fiction and poetry. Her work has appeared in journals ranging from Small Pond Magazine in the 1980s to travel and history journals, to work recently appearing in Humana Obscura and Pangyrus.
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Kiera A. Harvell is an emerging writer. She holds a BA in English Literature and a BS in Cultural Anthropology from the University of Central Florida, as well as a BFA in Creative Writing from Southern New Hampshire University. Her poetry has been published in Sad Girls Club and is forthcoming from W.E.I.R.D. Magazine.
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Jennifer Sheridan finds herself lately attempting to say something very big with very little. She earned an MFA in fiction writing at Columbia College in Chicago, and has taught there, as well as for the Gotham Writer’s Workshop. Her writing has appeared in Rattle, Spectrum, and A Hole in the Head Review.
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Patricia Cannon has been a Registered Nurse at UCSF since 2001. She has worked in cardiac critical care, neuro intensive care, hemeoncology, school nursing, and currently, in research. Her passion is her faith, photography, and the written word in all its forms. Her poetry has appeared in several magazines and books.
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