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Two Poems by Shrishti Trivedi
by Shrishti Trivedi Haven The palest fogs in hues of haze alight on sunshower’d sweeps of rory heather at rest beneath a songbird's soaring flight beyond horizons, free of tether. A glint in green, it beckons: “hither come! My lap’s a moor, entwined in moss and mirth” and so she flaps toward the bidding hum while gazing yonder, on a hearth of worth On she flies, with her visions now gilded made blind to those fetters in wait so forged, snared at last into its bosom wilted
Shrishti Trivedi
6 minutes ago
Legend of the Cockle
by Deborah Spaulding In Loch Ness lore, upon its banks there came a lovely lad with golden hair and sparkling eye, in tartan he was clad. And with his mates he romped and played with nary such a care; their laughter could be heard as far as Inverness, they swear. They’d lay upon the sun-warmed sand and climb the rocks ashore and wade in pools left by the rain and scamper then some more. But never would they enter in, the Loch was ever banned. The kelpies there were legend but
Deborah Spaulding
4 days ago
The Riders
by Janette Schafer TW: Child sexual assault The first time I sat on his lap was to color in my Santa Fun Book at Christmas. I never stayed in the lines, threw my whole body into coloring, leaned on the table, elbows braced, plopped back down onto his legs, curled my calves under my knees, heels chocked on either side of his thighs. He cupped my 7-year-old hips in his palms, directed my movements in a way I was too young to understand. Did I hear distant hoofbeats of the shado
Janette Schafer
Oct 4
In Retracing a Memory
by Aleah Bantas there is a photograph of a girl in a white dress inside an album, kept only by a plastic rack I grew up remembering how to pick cotton, separate the seeds, each one, fruit in search of an embrace in the verses of Mahmoud Darwish, on a river dying of thirst. After class of halaqah, reading the Qur'an, a white face, eyes narrowed into a slit. Into the echo of a daughter singing. I do not mind being named after a flower, for it holds a thought of tenderness, the
Aleah Bantas
Sep 30
El Niño
Aleah Bantas She heard her name being called, reclining in a daze. A voice said, get up. The heat index climbs past numbers, melting into the sheets like a wax doll in May. The fat glare opens at her as she staggers back and forth. The earth cracks, the crops dry, and the sun bares its teeth. Her bronze shoulder does not move. Driven away by a swarm of locusts, yet the voice calls her name, twice this time. The little canoe beneath the mound of soil is moored to her breathing
Aleah Bantas
Sep 29
Blue Lilies
by M. Void The sweet rhythm of her smile reminds me that she listened to blue world for me, because of me. I couldn't keep my hands to myself. I kissed girls in bathrooms and took double shots. Her quiet, pained face listened to the beat like a 4:4 critique of me and my infidelity. Well, this mad world made me crazy. That's what I told her when I talked about polyamory. Blame the devil on my shoulder for making me shady. I know she set me up, told that bathroom siren to seduc
M. Void
Sep 27
The Unlimited Moon
by Uğur Olgar The unlimited moon shines brightest on aged faces binding its celestial belt to the wrinkles on the forehead while the skirts of darkness ignite in the white night Then we imagine northern flowers in the south A murderous man comes, gathers all the clouds, and leaves without looking at the bloody tail behind him While we wonder if it's a real glimmer that girl has long since mingled with the wind and rain The moon is limitless, new maps are drawn in the windows
Uğur Olgar
Sep 23
Apple Juice Love
Michael Lee Johnson Life, a ripe apple— Red Delicious, rumor of hell, bittersweet to the core. If you can taste it with & chew it with false teeth. Most friends have vanished— ghosts slipping beyond shadowed, silent doors. That parlor where no returns. It's only a rumor. Yet, I wander the garden, fields stripped of grace, grapes foot pressed into concord— faith fermenting in the barrel of hidden old gospel & songs. Kneeling in this season of loss. Lies the tartness of redempt
Michael Lee Johnson
Sep 22
A Day At The Beach
by Brian Hawkins I can imagine us lying in the sand at the lake, your toes tracing memories around discarded bait buckets and cigarette butts. I close my eyes to see you loosen your top as you turn your back to the sun while I open my book and pretend not to read, sneaking peaks at the edges of your small breasts over, under, and around the empty pages. You glance at me and smile, reaching out to touch my hand, but only for a moment so that your tan will be even there, too. I
Brian Hawkins
Sep 20
Disenchanted Evening
by T.J. Masluk for Kafka In the wards, sleep Gurdjieff would appreciate. Have I awakened in a dark wood? In streets and narrow alleyways, by light of a ragged moon, noctambulists shuffle about unredeemed, fugue-fingering. In the marketplace, men with flaccid droop and Rx script opt for blue-diamond bliss (“Honey, this should fix our problem”). The world is ablaze! Girls in thick makeup and cheap perfume prattle on, boys tattooed wither in waste, needle in arm. Everywhere you
T.J. Masluk
Sep 17
Bhun-na
by Khadeeja Bilqees the epitome of culinary art my mother told me and you can never cook well till you have mastered the art of letting the meat simmer till it embraces the flavor till the excess evaporates she said I’m too impatient to do it right i turn off the flame too soon before the ghee has truly learned its place the chai i made for the people in the drawing room tasted bland because i didn’t let the patti fully claim the milk it should be made to simmer till it has n
Khadeeja Bilqees
Sep 16
What Memories Are Good For
by Janette Schafer after Byron Hoot Everyone is both the wanderer and the one waiting at home. Home: a place, people I cherish, God, longings of my heart. Memories: stories we carry, regrets we forgive, a record of what is seen and unseen, how the one at the door and the one returning to it are the same.
Janette Schafer
Sep 9
On Returning to an Old Neighborhood
by Larry Kilman The trees shade the street this time of year, dappling the pavement, and the façades are like cut glass deep in the afternoon. This is how I will remember it, drinking it deep, a last walk in a neighborhood of thirty years. I made a promise to return, but work and other occupations intervened. Trajectories change with new discoveries and favorite places between work and home, work and home. The past takes a back seat. Then one day I return on a random errand
Larry Kilman
Sep 6
Easy Mexican Wedding Cakes Recipe
by Michael Brockley Combine one cup of softened butter, one cup of powdered sugar, two cups of sifted flour, one cup of ground nuts, and one teaspoon of vanilla Your family kept a small, wooden nativity display on a table in the living room. The infant was hidden behind the shed with the manger and Mary and Joseph already on display. The saints and animals looked as if they’d be painted by a holy card artist. One of the camels tucked in front of the baby had a naked wire in
Michael Brockley
Sep 3
Street Seer
by Patrick Roland I saw a prophet on the sidewalk. Nineteen degrees. Wind like a whip. Shirtless, rooted, as if nailed to the concrete. Not young enough for dares, not poor enough for pity. A bag of clothes dangled from one hand like armor refused. Head tilted skyward, as if calling on light, or thunder. Lips moving faster than speech. His chest slack with gray, skin red and chapped with cold. The city bent around him, water skirting stone. It did not stop. Neither did he. Wh
Patrick Roland
Sep 2
They Came in Scent
by Steven Visintainer A reflection on the New York City subways - 1990s. And outside, as a child, above the grate, the steam would rise, and my grandmother would say there were devils down there. And years after, they came in scent of electric smoke, from high voltage burn that changed my childhood imaginings of someone in red to the now-dead musk of blue spark and current arcs that traveled from moving train, that swayed with long, thin pricking screaks in tunnels, to the li
Steven Visintainer
Sep 1
Local Pub
by Bruno Talerico Alone, he enters the privileged atmosphere: cigarette haze thick with laughter punctuated by fat silences. Communal intoxication, boisterous banter, in darker corners, hushed intimacies. Clink of cheap glassware, clang of silverware, fragrance of overused frying oil and stale beer. Wood smoldering in the corner hearth provides minimal warmth. Would-be rockstar plucks notes on an untuned instrument, Would-be groupie swoons and giggles, punch-drunk lover. Mino
Bruno Talerico
Aug 23
In Ibiza
by Kheraden Perumal Night gathers over the marina. Yachts drift against their moorings, white hulls rocking in the black water. Bass carries across the harbour, glassware flashing beneath blue and violet lights. He steps from the car to a chorus of names. Phones rise around him, brief and bright as matches. Inside, the room opens in waves of music and perfume. Women lean close to be heard. Champagne sweats in silver buckets. Someone places a pill in his hand as casually as a
Kheraden Perumal
Aug 18
Two Poems by Stephen Barile
by Stephen Barile Pa' Ashi (‘big water’ in Yokut language) The end of the world came when the sky turned black, the sun eradicated. A roar overtook the ear, flapping wings by the billion; millions upon millions of geese, ducks, grebes, loons, swans, blue herons, egrets, pelicans, and gulls, taken to flight from the calm lake. So expansive, the lake stretched to the horizon like the sea. In the east, the silhouette of the Sierra Nevada range rising above the mist over the
Stephen Barile
Aug 16
Egressor
by Frank William Finney The pub, half-full on a Tuesday night. A songster sang acoustic blues, but soon the strings slipped out of tune, and then the mike went on the blink. I lost the mood – left tip and drink and headed for the Bull Dog. No sign of life. The lights were out. Graffiti mocked its rolling gate. Signs that say the place went bust. I wonder where they moved the band? I wonder where I’ll head to now? Better make tracks and head downtown before the taverns close t
Frank William Finney
Aug 11
Articles
The Morning It Started
by Elizabeta Žargi That summer I was travelling through Europe on an Interrail ticket — a month of trains and no fixed schedule beyond a language course waiting in Ljubljana. I had already spent a week in Malmö, made a delayed stop in Hamburg after sleeping through it once, then gone down to Geneva to visit Milena. Eventually I returned to Vienna, where I was staying with Gregor and Sandy. They were also planning to attend the course in Slovenia. I was meant to leave on the 2
Elizabeta Žargi
Apr 5
Dreaming of Kalbarri
by Meredith Stephens “Wake up! If we don’t get going now it will be too hot!” urged my fiance Alex. I couldn’t understand why we had to leave for Kalbarri National Park at 5:30am in darkness. Was it really going to get that hot? We quickly arose and headed to the car for the long drive. By the time we arrived, the day was breaking and we were among the first tourists to arrive at the famed Nature’s Window. We made our way along the trail to the window where international tour
Meredith Stephens
Nov 2, 2025
Between Two Skies: An Egyptian Heart in Albany
by Walid Abdallah When I first arrived in Albany, New York, in the winter of 2014, I felt as if I had stepped into a painting. The air...
Walid Abdallah
Oct 13, 2025
Reviews
Dead Teenagers Review
by Catalina Bonati 3.25/5 stars ★★★☆☆ Dead Teenagers by Jude Ellison S. Doyle and Caitlyn Yarsky (published March 2026) is the first comic in a five-comic installment. It centers on a group of four friends who go to prom in 1997, and are horrifically killed that night. This night resets at its end into a continuous loop of horrors in which the killings change every night and become increasingly gory. The friend group tries to figure out what is keeping them caged in this time
Catalina Bonati
3 days ago
The Familiar Dark Book Review
by Catalina Bonati 3.5/5 stars ★★★⯪☆ The Familiar Dark by Amy Engel (2020) is a small-town winter thriller based in the Ozarks, which follows Eve Taggert as she sets on a quest to discover who murdered her twelve-year-old daughter Junie and her friend Izzy. Along the way, she makes friends, rediscovers old relationships, and begins to understand her estranged mother. This is a story about unconventional, socially unacceptable grief, especially in the limelight. At first, Ev
Catalina Bonati
5 days ago
Tatratea Book Review
by Catalina Bonati 3.5/5 stars ★★★⯪☆ Tatratea by Alex Woodroe (to be published October 2026) is a short ecohorror post-apocalyptic novella about Errata, a woman who has been trained by The Mothers to find the source of the mental insanity plague that has taken over the world and decimated the population. She arrives at an old wellness center named Tatratea and is quickly confronted by animate plants who wish to enlist her help in defeating an evil, blurring the boundaries b
Catalina Bonati
Oct 1
Short Stories
Back in the Day
by Robert Lowinger I was in the seventh grade, in 1969, living in a little town outside of Buffalo, New York when me and Danny Nissen, who was almost 15, threatened to beat the crap out of Larry McKoon for telling Danny that he wasn’t good at basketball, and he should get booted off the team. Well, Danny said, “Jimmy, you got to be a man and not let anyone diss your friends, certainly not a little prick like Larry,” and ever since Danny killed that cat with a knife behind the
Robert Lowinger
Sep 24
Ticket to Ride
by Sara Etgen-Baker "You gotta have a ticket to ride!” snapped the Carney. “Get a ticket or move outta da way, kid. You’re takin’ up space!” I stared motionless as the Ferris wheel cut through the heavy summer clouds. “Here’s her ticket, sir. We three are ridin’ together.” “Not happenin’ lady—only two per chair. One of youz has to ride by yerself.” “No problem! She’s the oldest; she’ll ride by herself.” “Whatever ya say, lady. She seems a bit scared to me though.” “Your broth
Sara Etgen-Baker
Sep 15
Intangible Ingredients
Sara Etgen-Baker After Granny died, Mother requested only one item from her mother’s possessions. “All I really want,” Mother told my uncle, “are her old recipe cards and antique file box.” Mother’s request puzzled me, for I knew Mother didn’t need the recipe cards and file box for any practical reason. She’d known for decades how to make Granny’s pumpernickel bread, sauerkraut, and her breakfast specialty—streusel kuchen. But when the file box arrived a few days later, Mothe
Sara Etgen-Baker
Sep 13
Poetry
Two Poems by Shrishti Trivedi
by Shrishti Trivedi Haven The palest fogs in hues of haze alight on sunshower’d sweeps of rory heather at rest beneath a songbird's soaring flight beyond horizons, free of tether. A glint in green, it beckons: “hither come! My lap’s a moor, entwined in moss and mirth” and so she flaps toward the bidding hum while gazing yonder, on a hearth of worth On she flies, with her visions now gilded made blind to those fetters in wait so forged, snared at last into its bosom wilted
Shrishti Trivedi
6 minutes ago
Legend of the Cockle
by Deborah Spaulding In Loch Ness lore, upon its banks there came a lovely lad with golden hair and sparkling eye, in tartan he was clad. And with his mates he romped and played with nary such a care; their laughter could be heard as far as Inverness, they swear. They’d lay upon the sun-warmed sand and climb the rocks ashore and wade in pools left by the rain and scamper then some more. But never would they enter in, the Loch was ever banned. The kelpies there were legend but
Deborah Spaulding
4 days ago
The Riders
by Janette Schafer TW: Child sexual assault The first time I sat on his lap was to color in my Santa Fun Book at Christmas. I never stayed in the lines, threw my whole body into coloring, leaned on the table, elbows braced, plopped back down onto his legs, curled my calves under my knees, heels chocked on either side of his thighs. He cupped my 7-year-old hips in his palms, directed my movements in a way I was too young to understand. Did I hear distant hoofbeats of the shado
Janette Schafer
Oct 4
Art & Photography
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If the piece you wish to submit has italics or an image attached, please email us your submission at ultramarineliteraryreview@gmail.com rather than using the submission form.
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Prose must be less than 3,000 words.
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Poetry must be less than 3 pages, single-spaced.
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We respond to submissions within the span of two weeks.
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