It’s finally here! We are so happy to present the Summer 2017 edition of Dying Dahlia Review! We are featuring some amazing flash fiction and poetry by some awesome women writers! And check out that beautiful cover art by Ashley Parker Owens! Make sure to snag yourself a copy today! Follow the links below to purchase the ebook at your retailer of choice.
Barnes and Noble
Apple iBooks (Search for “Dying Dahlia Review”)
Learning someone is like falling. Every moment changing, bringing you closer to something else. A cold, hard ground. But you weren’t the ground. I learned and fell but there was no end. No ground. And so I learned to fly. I haven’t quite figured it out yet. Maybe I’m getting there. Maybe we are so different I’ll never make it. But you will. I look at you and a gentle smile tugs at my insides. There won’t be any yelling this time, or sadness.
You have got my smile and I have a weird thing about your hair. We have fairy lights, candles and nightlights to break up the dark. We have the space we make together through our hands and bodies and voices. We are a knotted mess of pure, experiential love. It sounds like a beautiful secret. I kissed you on the nose. Now rain hits our roof. It’s February and rain is surrounding me. I stain my ears, hoping the sound will not fade away leaving me alone. At least the rain has come. If only for a moment.
I clasped and unclasped my hands anxiously all day. Searching for an anchor in the buzzing hail of nerves that seemed to inexhaustibly fill me. This old house makes bones ache. The silence of the scream in me seems to wrap quieting fingers about my throat and squish. I can hear birds outside. They are twittering away. It’s not quite a hopeful sound yet but it’s one I’ve not heard for a while. The roar of a backhoe as it rips another tree down cuts through. Perhaps that is why the birds seem subdued. I close my eyes and lean back in the rocking chair, breathe in time with you.
D. Vaisius was eight when she first started writing. Since then it has been a quiet, reflective journey through styles and experiences. Writing is probably the only things she doesn’t over think and as such is incredibly important to her happiness.
Our birthday is coming up on February 22! (We much prefer birthday rather than “anniversary”.) And we want to celebrate with a little contest! Send us your two line story/poem and win a copy of the Dying Dahlia Review: Winter 2017 ebook.
Rules? There are none. Just send us your very best two lines. We’ll choose the best three and feature them in our upcoming Summer 2017 ebook.
Winners will be announced on (you guessed it) February 22nd. No time to lose! Send us your two line poem/story to DyingDahliaReview@gmail.com or simply #DyingDahlia on Facebook or Twitter.
It’s here! Our Winter 2017 ebook! Featuring 14 talented women writers. It is a must read! Follow the links below to purchase your copy at the retailer of your choice.
Barnes & Noble
(Search for “Dying Dahlia Review”)
This is Bad
I’m not quite sure how to tell this story—so I will start at the beginning, the way they teach little kids to tell their stories.
I was ringing up this guy, for his two forties and pack of cigs, at the gas station, and he’s looking at me all funny. I’m waiting for him to do something Bad and he’s sitting there all calm, and I’m just ringing him up. There’s that little room right behind me and I’m trying to sot of angle myself toward it—a room with bullet proof glass and a telephone. He’s super calm, but I figure that doesn’t mean he won’t do something Bad.
On the day of her release from the looney bin, Dawn waited on the hospital’s circular driveway, blinking in the sunlight until Tonya’s minivan appeared, and off they went to get eyelash extensions. Tonya said it would cheer Dawn up to look in a mirror through a curtain of eyelashes that would make her look like a robotic doll or a cartoon deer. Anyway, it would be an adventure – something to take Dawn’s mind off her divorce and all of the reasons for it, whose names were Rebecca, Shannon, and Jennifer.
Hello dearest readers!
We are back after our month long vacation AKA drinking pumpkin spice lattes while eating pumpkin spice bread with a scoop of pumpkin spice ice cream and shopping for pumpkin decorations while wearing pumpkin themed shirts.
Just kidding. Kind of.
Billy and I pulled into the parking lot of the home, after driving four hours, to pick up my mother. I hadn’t seen her in over 15 years. I was married back then to a man who rivaled her insanity, a different man than the better man that had just driven with me to pick her up. So Billy had never had the pleasure of meeting her.
“Well, here we are,” I said. “Are you ready?”
Work of Art
She disrobed for him. The luna tattoo on her bottom half moved as if waving to the sky. She felt awkward at first, disrobing in front of strangers. Then oddly enough, the feeling would melt away like a good grilled-cheese sandwich; the crusts crispy enough and her attitude, just the right amount of spunk for this type of photo shoot. When she first started modeling, she told herself, I have limitations, no nudes. She believed she had standards, but quickly they dissipated just like her clothes.
She moved her body at just the right angle – the light hitting the moon and her pale face to make it look like they were both glowing. Chin up, sister, she told herself, you look good – hot, even, and it won’t take but a few hours to get this session done.
The photographer moved parts of her to fill in the frame of his lens. He had a vision and he’d fulfill it, at whatever cost. He was an artist and he needed models who understood that. He liked this girl, because she was professional, knew how to listen to direction, a natural too. She exuded both confidence and humility, grace and passion. Even with her abundance of talent, he would still need time to make it work. He moved her right arm above her head, lifted her chin even higher, spread her legs apart.
It had been ten years since she lost the baby. She mourned that day with ferocity.
Maybe it was the memory of the way Dan looked at her when he picked her up afterward, or the thought that once there was life inside of her and from that experience came nothing. Whatever the reason, every year on December 17th, she marked the anniversary by locking herself in her room and wondering what could have been. This year, on the tenth year since, it was no different than usual. Amanda wouldn’t even get out of bed.