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By Bryant Burroughs All the dead heard his voice, those in graves or the sea or the place of the dead. They all heard what he said when he called a four-day man, as his sisters named him, their grief outweighing faith. They had sent a desperate note: “The one you love is terribly sick and needs you.” But it was too late. Death makes cruel things of love and hope, for what good is hope if God chooses to stand afar off? He stood facing the black hole and touched the cave’s cold cleft. The dead don’t stay dead forever, he said. And they will come out, leaping for joy and laughing that all is well. Death, I hear your laughter. You laugh at these little ones wrecked by grief. You laugh at their tears and their sorrow. I’m coming for you, Death. You think you’re coming for me, but I’m coming for you. I am your Destroyer! And you, Death, will be no more. None shall wander, all shall abide when Death’s grip is cast aside and the prison gates of Hades open wide. I shout to you, friend Lazarus, come out here! And the one called came out, death forgotten as if waking from a dream. Bryant Burroughs is a poet and short story creator whose work has appeared in online literary sites such as Agape Review, Clayjar Review, Pure in Heart Stories and Faith and Hope & Fiction. His first collection of poetry is published as Where Do My Words Go? Bryant lives with his wife Ruth and three cats in Upstate South Carolina.
Bryant's other work on Foreshadow: The Widow Whose Son Lived (Fiction, July 2022) The Youngest Day (Poetry, November 2022) The Widow's Psalm (Poetry, February 2023) The Leper and the Healer (Fiction, May 2023) Pearls of Ignatius (Poetry, August 2023) Song of the Star (Poetry, December 2023) A Long Walk Toward God (Poetry, January 2024)
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By Peter Lilly Imagine the water rushing, Tugging at the loose soil cliff-face Of sheets of black slate, And grey rocks like knots In a sanded beam of earth. Imagine it running where you stand, Changing the shape of the banks, Demonstrating a frozen moment, A photograph of scattering seed, And the exposed roots of thirsty trees Stunted by the summer’s dry. Imagine that burnt book of leaves Caught in the dark colander of barky roots Racing in the new rush Of quickly falling rains, Rushing waters, Washing currents, Drying stream-beds. Imagine the force Smoothing this stumbling wilderness Into the peaty garden path That beckons you take off your shoes To feel the earth. Imagine the steam rising from the burning bush As it evaporates the downpour And speaks of emancipation. Lilly is a British poet who grew up in Gloucester before spending eight years in London studying theology and working with the homeless. He now lives in the south of France with his wife and son, where he concentrates on writing, teaching English, and community building. His recent and forthcoming publications include East Ridge Review, Dreich, Green Ink Poetry, The Agape Review, Paddler Press and Ekstasis. His debut collection An Array of Vapour is now available here.
'Imagine the Water' features in Peter's second collection A Handful of Prayers, which is forthcoming with Wipf & Stock. By Jack Stewart High up, leaf-shadows leap like squirrels across bright spaces. The shade I stand in below is indolent as fog on water. I want to write a line that dreams itself, or touches a face back into memory. Under dead leaves softened from melted snow and spring rain, the syllables of grubs are moving, unseen, unheard, white food. What do you have to be willing to take into your mouth, your belly, to be able to say what you want to say? What do you have to risk you’ll become? Jack Stewart was educated at the University of Alabama and Emory University and was a Brittain Fellow at The Georgia Institute of Technology. His first book, No Reason, was published by the Poeima Poetry Series in 2020, and his work has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies, including Poetry, The American Literary Review, Nimrod, Image and others.
Jack's other work on Foreshadow: The Return (Poetry, September 2023) Camel and Needle (Poetry, October 2023) Rest on the Flight into Egypt (1) (Poetry, January 2024) Rest on the Flight into Egypt (2) (Poetry, January 2024) By Ryan Keating Standing in front of the painted angel- wing mural black and white on the wall, he isn’t lined up perfectly so they don’t fit well, feet at an angle slanted left skewing perspective, gaze distracted, slumped shirt crumpled at the belt, face down, frowning. But the wings are still spread wide, open from shoulder and collarbone to the edge of the frame, filling a space thought empty and capable of carrying him in flight. We can all see what he doesn’t notice because he is facing the right direction. Ryan Keating is a writer, pastor, and winemaker on the Mediterranean island of Cyprus. His work can be found in publications such as Saint Katherine Review, Ekstasis Magazine, Amethyst Review, Macrina Magazine, Fathom, Dreich, Vocivia and Miras Dergi, where he is a regular contributor in English and Turkish.
Ryan's other work on Foreshadow: Jonah Moves (Poetry, September 2022) Drawing from Deep Wells: Ryan Keating and Pilgrimage (Interview, February 2023) The Wine Remembers (Poetry, June 2023) Presence (Poetry, June 2023) By Charles Hughes Part One Two children and two parents moved from a house they loved, which made the children angry much as when you’ve been shoved. Their new house had stood empty, a long, long way from new. The roof leaked, so they fixed it. Rain kept on leaking through. A field of grass stretched, hilly, behind the house. A hill-- the children, summer evenings, would go if possible. Katie brought chalks and paper for pictures sunsets made. Nathaniel, picturing treasure, dug holes with an old spade. Something about those evenings-- maybe the soil and sky? The children’s anger faded. They couldn’t have said why. One evening as clouds colored, cloud whites to rose-pink smears, and piles of dirt grew taller, slow footsteps jarred their ears. A limping man paused, struggling unsteadily to stand. Katie—protective, older-- reached for Nathaniel’s hand. Part Two The children weren’t that frightened. They’d seen such men before. The year was 1930: hard times; there’d been the war. “That brown house,” Katie pointed. “The church just down the way-- our father’s the new pastor. We . . . Oh! Are you okay?” The man, standing but teetering, fell to one knee, knelt, then after a moment, managed to stand—wobbly—again. His clothes old, frayed—eyes staring as if he’d seen a ghost-- “I’m searching for a relic from the war,” he said, “it’s lost-- “a barbed-wire cross—in ribbon-- crimson—laced, sewn in place-- too fine for my jacket pocket.” Tears glistened on his face. “A friend died who had made it,” he told them, looking where Nathaniel stooped low, digging. The cross was buried there. Both children watched him limping, going back the way he’d come, until the twilight hid him. The children started home. Part Three The man sat at the table. A Sunday dinner. Rain outside dripped on the ceiling. He ate and tried to explain. Nathaniel elbowed Katie. No reason. He was bored. Their mother glared a warning. Patience, she prayed to the Lord. The man, more ragged, hungry-- but answering what he could-- spoke of the war, the sadness, the beauty of the food. Charles Hughes has published two books of poems, The Evening Sky (2020) and Cave Art (2014), both from Wiseblood Books. His poems have appeared in the Alabama Literary Review, Amethyst Review, The Christian Century, Literary Matters, the Saint Katherine Review and elsewhere. He worked for over 30 years as a lawyer and lives in the Chicago, Illinois, area with his wife.
Charles' other work on Foreshadow: Valediction (Poetry, May 2023) By Yevgeniya Przhebelskaya My church friend Rachel shares John 10:10, Her favorite Bible verse on how faith brings joy into her creative life. She has critiqued my poems and essays selflessly again, And she inspires me to be a better mom and a kinder wife. People may look at church folks as if we were silly simple-minded prudes, Too scared to drink wine or wander into the darkness of the Internet. Rachel tells me that her visual art, like her life, Deals with sorrow, social justice, the now and the not-yet. To understand art, poems, the Bible, or even our changing kids, A second or even a 10th close look is what it often takes. Rachel and I sharpen each other's artistic eyes, While our kids pretend to be adventurers during our playdates. Yevgeniya Przhebelskaya is a freelance writer who explores the themes of mental health, neurodiversity, and Christian faith in her writing. Her essays and poems have been published or are forthcoming in Agape Review, Amethyst Review, Ancient Paths Online, Ekstasis, Trouvaille Review and many other publications, and have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize two times. Yevgeniya lives with her husband and their son in New Jersey. Check out her blog at https://ypoetry.weebly.com/.
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