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By R. M. Francis We were saved but lost – the novel and known, the quick-closed and the slow-open – and with nowhere to belong, but to follow fire and cloud. Imagine the pain of Newton’s graceful unblinding. Through level and all levels, gestalt down to the parts. All things built and building through friction and flow - we had to learn to unknow. Corpus Callosum: a rich wooden staff puncturing surf into crossing point – to put down a stone and reveal a spiral stepping. R. M. Francis is Senior Lecturer and Course Leader in Creative and Professional Writing at the University of Wolverhampton. He's the author of two novels, Bella and The Wrenna, published with Wild Pressed Books, and a poetry collection, Subsidence, with Smokestack Books. In 2019 he was the inaugural David Bradshaw Writer in Residence at the University of Oxford and in 2020 was Poet in Residence for The Black Country Geological Society. In 2023 Poe Girl Publishing produced his collection of horror stories, Ameles / Currents of Unmindfulness. His academic research focuses on place-identity in the Black Country and has been published in a number of edited collections; he co-edited the book, Smell, Memory and Literature in the Black Country (Palgrave McMillan) with Professor Sebastian Groes.
Francis' other work on Foreshadow: Man of Sorrows (Poetry, October 2024) Prayerfully (Poetry, October 2024) Anthony (Poetry, November 2024)
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By Nadine Ellsworth-Moran I can sense you opening closets and cupboards, wandering forgotten hallways, testing doorknobs. Your fingertips graze my walls, read my Anaglypta like braille, memorize the shape of words, the words that shape me, your hands deftly pocket trinkets, break off pieces of memory, gather my idiosyncrasies, my gaze, whatever glitters, beguiles, haunts, along the way until your coat is weighted with so much of me— We carry one another in this way, neither complete for what the other has taken, or been given, each piece tender wrapped, nestled in ribshelves, a safe space near the hearth of our bodies where we keep warm, we flicker, embers banked for colder days, farther days, days when we cannot stay tucked inside ourselves in whispering conversation. Nadine Ellsworth-Moran lives in Georgia where she serves full time in ministry. She has a passion for writing and is fascinated by the stories of the modern South unfolding all around her as she seeks to bring everyone into conversation at a common table. Her essays and poems have appeared in Rust+Moth, Calla Press, Theophron, Interpretation, Ekstasis, Thimble, The Windhover and Kakalak, among others. She shares her home with her husband and four unrepentant cats.
Nadine's other work on Foreshadow: Eve, within (Poetry, November 2024) By L.M. Shearer He stretched out his hands to receive the whole world And everything met at the point of his suffering And everything was in him and by him and through him There hung the world’s light on the brink of extinction Pushed to the edge of exhaustion The sun shrank in despair at the light leaving In truth the whole world in his anguish trembled As once the young world unshapen Waited in dark for the word spoken Now in the dark again, the voice shaking Now in the darkened room a veil tearing Women and men raised their eyes weeping He stretched out his hands to receive the wide firmament Heaven and earth met where his side was bleeding The only divide was the wound gaping. L.M. Shearer is a high school and Sunday school teacher from the beautiful Pacific Northwest, USA. She volunteers as a Court Appointed Special Advocate, studies theology in her spare time and has occasionally written poems on post-it notes at work.
Shearer's other work on Foreshadow: The Revelation of John (Poetry, October 2024) By R. M. Francis Saint Anthony ushers us through morning mists into lustre, set against pale stone Worcester. He beckons us up creaking stairs away from the lethe - up to second story windows easing into thirteenth century ledges to spy Benedictine spectres, stoic, refined, sowing. Toil’s unbroken rhizomes call, like Evelyn’s church toll called - Order. Spanning centuries. Order. Anthony, who sought things that were lost in Pinfold state, claims two boys lost in ivy-drenched gardens, picking at Petty Spurge for petri dishes, In dérive with rows of Jesuits’ Bark, Bishop’s Weed. Anthony aids penicillin boys to stress covens of fungus. Order. Spanning centuries. Order. We possess nothing certainly except the past. R. M. Francis is Senior Lecturer and Course Leader in Creative and Professional Writing at the University of Wolverhampton. He's the author of two novels, Bella and The Wrenna, published with Wild Pressed Books, and a poetry collection, Subsidence, with Smokestack Books. In 2019 he was the inaugural David Bradshaw Writer in Residence at the University of Oxford and in 2020 was Poet in Residence for The Black Country Geological Society. In 2023 Poe Girl Publishing produced his collection of horror stories, Ameles / Currents of Unmindfulness. His academic research focuses on place-identity in the Black Country and has been published in a number of edited collections; he co-edited the book, Smell, Memory and Literature in the Black Country (Palgrave McMillan) with Professor Sebastian Groes.
Francis' other work on Foreshadow: Man of Sorrows (Poetry, October 2024) Prayerfully (Poetry, October 2024) By Desi Ana Sartini I. “Fresh clay, my Son. Take it in hand. Shaped, let it be the crown, the image-bearer.” And so the Hands that shaped the new-formed world reach down once more for final touch. Once, Spirit hovered, then Voice summoned, now dirt-filled Fingers grip the earth, pushing, pressing, rubbing-- sculpting limbs, digits, lobes and lashes, every curve, joint, sinew, and pore with attention and delight. Smoothing all to perfection, He smiles. “It is very good!” And They kneel, all Three, beside this one. Spirit bends low, breathes life into clay, as They take up the coronation song. II. “Come awake, My child! Look up and see your Father’s eyes! Breathe deep; take My breath as your own.” “Child of Our delight, bearer of Our image, crown of Our creation, welcome to the world of life!” “Arise, My beloved! Take My hand and dance with Me! Know My joy; take delight in My love.” “Sharer in Our joy, rester in Our peace, partaker in Our love, welcome to the life of fellowship with Us!” “Drink it in, beloved child! Tingle with My gift of life! Soak in Our light; let your face shine in glory.” “Receiver of Our grace, steward of Our rule, blessed beyond compare, welcome to your place beside the glorious I Am!” III. Thus we wake to the sparkle of Your eyes, the radiance of Your face, the breath of Your song. You hold our gaze as we lay breathing, feeling, testing fingers and toes, taking in what it means to be, Yours. We rise with awkward motion to the invitation of Your song and outstretched hand. No sooner have we found our feet than You sweep us through the garden, weaving among the trees, our eyes transfixed by Yours. Until at last our soul pours forth in laughter and we tumble onto new-sprung grass. Catching our breath, we bask in the glory of Your presence, Light of the world. IV. Time passes by unconcerned until at last, soaked to the bone with the peace of Your presence, we rise again. “Come, explore the garden. See the delights I give to you, yours to name and tend and guard.” So we walk, hand-in-Hand. Every step a thousand treasures: dragonflies and cherry blossoms, angelfish and tanagers, pine cones and raspberries, tree frogs and pumpkins. Each with its own form, motion, aroma, tune, and hue, joined in the great dance of worship. We savor each new fruit exclaiming at taste and texture, until neither tongue nor belly can take another. Then we sit content to watch awhile-- The playful birds. The drifting clouds. The swaying trees. The flowing water. Our hearts join in their dance. V. At last You bid us follow to the very center. quiet still timeless Your voice grows solemn in that sacred space. “Behold the goodness and magnificence of the two Great Trees! “One We share with you: The Tree of Life. By its fruit you will live eternally. “The other We withhold: The Tree of Moral Judgment. Seize it for yourself, and it will bring you certain death. “Trust this Tree to me, and obey My word. Then you will live in goodness always.” We bow before Your wisdom Your goodness, Your love. Then You lead us out to lie down and rest, complete, whole, full as the sky blazes to life with pink and orange flames, the sixth setting of the sun. And glory passes to glory with the rising splendor of the stars. Desi Ana Sartini writes from SE Asia, where she has immersed herself in language. She studies Malay literature by day, Hebrew poetry by night and cake-making on the weekends. You can read more of her work at www.breathanddust.com.
Desi's other work on Foreshadow: Defiant Hope (Fiction, October 2024) By Nadine Ellsworth-Moran We move into reclining butterfly, hold, as fibers lengthen, blood travels through unlocked joints. My yoga instructor says emotions are held in the hips, perhaps she means sockets, but I think you abide in my bone. I close my eyes, hear singing bowls hum to themselves as I run my fingertips across my Iliac crest that rims the wing of ilium, feel you there, engraved tenderness, our words whispered & preserved— scrimshaw. Eve may have risen from rib, but I rose from the hard slope that protects what is vital, sacred. Starry sentiment does not bind us, it is tendon and muscle--the iliopsoas taught with memory, too deep to see, too entwined to free—I rise and stretch my limbs. Nadine Ellsworth-Moran lives in Georgia where she serves full time in ministry. She has a passion for writing and is fascinated by the stories of the modern South unfolding all around her as she seeks to bring everyone into conversation at a common table. Her essays and poems have appeared in Rust+Moth, Calla Press, Theophron, Interpretation, Ekstasis, Thimble, The Windhover and Kakalak, among others. She shares her home with her husband and four unrepentant cats.
By David Athey Except when Mom handed us the phone (“say hi to Grandma”) our souls never felt called to be wired or digitized. The wild was unscreened, and free woods across the road was where our feet scrolled into words made vines and trees, the tallest was a fire- scorched pine named Ancient that counted our days in rays of light in the crown. And our faces were unknown to self- ies, the breeze giving sway, swaying to what felt like all the dangers of the sky dancing with all the real drop-dead gorgeous heavens. David Athey’s poems, stories, essays, and reviews have appeared in various literary journals and magazines, including Christianity & Literature, Iowa Review, Dappled Things, Berkeley Fiction Review, Windhover, Relief, Time of Singing, and Harvard Review. Athey lives in South Florida on a small lake with large iguanas. His books, including Art is for The Artist, are available at Amazon.
David's other work on Foreshadow: That Poet (Poetry, October 2024) By Paul Hughes Black smoke Clouds encircle A crowd of revellers Stood outside a church Hall, fumigating the wounds Of the past, cigarette ash falls to The earth, like the embers of the lost Souls who never made it back to the front Line of recovery, many men die before taking The first step towards the upper realms of paradise, To freedom from bondage of self, to pure white bliss, Blessed are the sick who surrender their lives over to Him Paul Hughes is an English poet. He found God in 2021 after he started to work the 12 steps of recovery in Alcoholics Anonymous and soon after returned to Church for the first time since his childhood, having wandered dangerously far away from God up until that point.
Paul's other work on Foreshadow: The Pregnant Seahorse (Poetry, October 2024) By Joy Axelson I fled majestic mansions filled with ceaseless splendor and cloaked myself in flesh, condensed, to be a baby, tender, a hated homeless exile – disregarded, outcast, wailing, waiting, wanting and assigned the lowest caste. Why should I sojourn, suffering, sweating in sand and heat? Should you not be bowing low to kiss my dusty feet? I’m ever vexed by phantom force, fixing feet to ground, compressed into time and space and to this body bound. The sun, whose orb I set alight, beats down, burning skin. Souls of stone betray me, charging me with sordid sins. Humans, inhumane to all, whom vilest things enchant; Though their lips spew lies, their every breath is mine to grant. Outraged at injustice, I fling tables far and wide for in His holy house, their weak consciences have died extorting the helpless, worshipping the gods of greed. My zeal for this sacred space my hungry anger feeds. East of Eden, now you stand, thick darkness spreads like plague. I see a hateful hand drifting o’er the earth I made, to capture those I prize, bringing spirits tainting blight. Demons know I’m Satan’s foe; they must admit my might. The Garden finds me sleepless, pondering my dreadful task. I know this is my mission, and suffering won’t last. Suspended grace, I'm lifted up – this my cross to bear; the fate of sinful man will fall upon me there. If you cut me, I now bleed, o wretched Adam’s seed. I know no other means in the universe to free the foulest of offenders who scorn our lavish love. As the only Path, I take this boiling cup of blood. Striking me with wood I formed, piercing flesh with nails, whips, this crude creature meant for boundless bliss and fellowship, tortures and torments me, flogging his Holy Maker. I sculpted you in love; you spit on your Creator. Though I trained your heart to beat, you earned what I endure. I feel compassion for your frame – this I can assure. The sky was pitch, the curtain rent – death had won it seemed. Soon, repenting, you’ll awaken from this wicked dream. You will be released; you’ll cross that river, peaceful, wide. Fretful fears will be eclipsed – with God you will abide. Your journey done, vict’ry won – in Zion, truly freed And forever cherished by the Highest God who chose to bleed. Joy Nevin Axelson earned a B.A. and an M.A. in French. She also attended Trinity Evangelical Divinity School. She’s the translation coordinator for GlobalFingerprints, the Evangelical Free Church of America’s child sponsorship branch. Her translations of training materials are used at 14 international sites. She enjoys travelling with her husband and two older children.
Joy's other work on Foreshadow: Sacred Gift (Poetry, January 2024) Wilderness Theophany (Poetry, October 2024) By Desi Ana Sartini Dear Enoch, The time has come. The scent of the earth grows strong. It calls me home. Soon, very soon, I shall return to it. But before I go, there is something I must do. I look about the earth, to all my children. I search for hope, the hope of mankind, and my eyes rest upon you. Though you have never seen the fullness of God’s unveiled splendor nor experienced the glory of a life lived fully in His presence, still here under the shroud, in the midst of the brokenness, you choose each day to defy the Serpent and follow the Maker. Well done, my child. Know beyond a doubt that you have chosen rightly. And now, I am choosing you. With all the countless hours you’ve spent in the glow of our hearth, drinking in every word we have to say about the time before the Separation, by now you know as much about the Garden as anyone, save Eve and myself. If only more people were so eager to hear. All too often they are not. To some it rings true right down through their bones; to others it seems no more than a fanciful delusion. To most it is something in between. But all must be told, regardless of how they respond. That is why I write to you today. Eve and I are nearing the end of our days, and you and others like you must be the keepers of the story now. Soon, we will come to the final bitterness of our choice, and when at last the breath of glory departs from the dust of our flesh, the last living memory of the Garden will pass from the earth. I ask you, Enoch. Look around you. If you do not tell the story, what then will become of my children? What then will become of the world? Everywhere I look, I see my children, called to be the image-bearing stewards of God’s rule, choosing instead to build their own little kingdoms on the earth. They live for their own desires, slaves to their bellies. The world has fallen under the Serpent’s spell and forgotten its Creator. They do not even know that they are stewards in rebellion against their King. I weep as I watch my children sitting in brokenness and accepting it as the way things are, the way the world works. Their eyes are on the toil of their hands, the thorns of the field, the hostility of their brothers, everywhere but the Source of their being. They must be told. The truth must break through. Sometimes there are shards that do break through. Every once in a while, I see a spark in the eyes of a man. It happens most at the death of a child, when for one wild moment we know, we remember. The truth jumps up and shouts in our face, “This is not right!” In that moment of clarity, we see beyond the shroud and know that the world is broken, that this is not what life should be, that the Serpent must be destroyed and his hold on the earth released, that death should have no claim. But all too soon the moment passes and we slip back into our fallen stupor, left only with our grief and slow endurance of days. Arise, children of mine! Shake off your stupor and reclaim the truth! Climb the hilltops and scream it out! Don’t let your soul be silent! Fight! Shout! Be indignant! Tell the Serpent to go back to the pit where he belongs, and to take it all with him: the death, the struggles, the sickness, the brokenness, the war, the injustice, the hate! But alas, we are intertwined with it. The ropes of death, with all its snares, are wound about us. If the Serpent takes them down, he will drag us all with him. The curse must be broken before the evil can depart. When, O Lord?! When?! When shall the Serpent be defeated and the curse be lifted? How long must we endure this evil which we have brought upon ourselves? Will we ever see the beauty of Your face again? Will You ever again look upon us in friendship? You must forgive my outburst, my son. There are days when I am haunted by such thoughts, fearful for the future of the world. But then I remember His face and all the unshakable goodness, power, and truth I have beheld in Him, the lovingkindness He holds at the core of His being. I may have brought this doom upon the world, but it is He, not I, who will redeem it. For He holds humanity in the palm of His hand. It is He who formed us, He who breathed us into being, He who let us stumble, and He who will lead us home. In the early years after the Separation, as I watched the first few generations grow and find their way in the world, I used to think that things would be different if only everyone could have a taste of the Garden, life in the presence of God, even if just for a moment. I used to think it would change the way they lived. And perhaps it would. If Cain had once beheld the Eternal One, would he still have offered so unworthy a gift? If he had once stood in the presence of the Life Giver, would he still have lifted a hand against his brother? Once, I was sure he would have done no such thing. But in the years since, that conviction has wavered. I have seen the spell the lies of the Serpent have cast upon mankind; I have seen how deeply it grips their souls; and I have come to believe that under its influence many a man would question his own sanity rather than accept a vision of truth as he sits under the shroud. Heaven forgive me, I must confess that there was a time after I realized this that I fell into despair. Serpentine whispers resurrected old shames, and every taste of sweet fruit turned to bitter memory in my mouth. I began to envy my children, those who had never seen. If indeed we must live in exile, would it not be easier if we were not haunted by memories of a paradise we can never know again? Would it not be better to come to accept the world as it now is and make the most of what we can, rather than pine for that which is lost? For a long while I shut my heart, tried to cut off all memory of the Garden. For a time, I managed to make a tolerable life for myself in this way. After all, for all the glory that was, there is still much goodness left to be found in its broken pieces. By filling my days and focusing only on what was right in front of me, I guarded my heart from memories of the truth, and pretended to be other than I was. I told myself that the Garden was only a golden dream I had once had, and my failure at the tree and its ensuing consequences was but a nightmare. After all, who ever heard of a talking snake? Thus I became for a while as the shrouded man who tells himself that his Garden vision is but a reverie. My self-induced delusions were not to last, however. The earth and all that is in it bears the immutable markings of its Maker. There are some things which no created power can ever unmake. No matter how much havoc we wreak upon the earth, no matter how much power the Serpent claims over the world, still the sun will ever echo the Creator’s face, the rushing waters His voice, the storms His power, and the flames His throne, just as we, fallen though we be, bear still His image on the earth. I who have stood full in His presence and beheld His unveiled glory could never unsee, could never unknow. Even with my eyes down, every ray of sunshine, every trickling stream, every gust of wind, every tongue of flame, and every face of a child stirred in my heart the memories and called me back to Him. For the human soul was made for glory, and not just any glory, but a glorious union with its Maker. Without this glory, I could find no rest. Nor will I, this side of the chasm. Thus I have come again to wish that all mankind could taste the Garden, but not so that it would solve all our problems, but rather so that the longings within all our souls could find their meaning, and the truth give light to our hope. For no rebellion in heaven or earth could ever outdo His goodness. The day of the Serpent Slayer will come, and the Creator will redeem His own. Let us not lose our way in the waiting. In the light of all these things, it is therefore of utmost importance, Enoch, that you remember all that we have taught you, and pass it on to others. The memory of the Garden must be kept alive on the earth. Do not let yourself forget once we have gone, and do not become so absorbed in your own journey that you overlook the needs of your brothers. You must preserve the story and share it with all who will hear. And if at last you, too, come to the end of your days before the Serpent Slayer comes, then pass our letters and writings down to other worthy men, that the truth about God, humanity, the earth, and the Serpent will never be lost from the world. In defiant hope by knowledge of the Holy One, Adam Desi Ana Sartini writes from SE Asia, where she has immersed herself in language. She studies Malay literature by day, Hebrew poetry by night and cake-making on the weekends. You can read more of her work at www.breathanddust.com.
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