a print literary journal

Crème de la Crème
Parting Words to the staff of Ink Pot

short stories
flash fiction
visual arts
creative nonfiction

I hate goodbyes and love new beginnings. This is the last online Ink Pot and the issue is being dedicated to the best staff a publisher could ever find. I have asked them to give us a piece of their work, as each of them is a talented writer. I published them before they were hired, but it was against our policy to use their work after that. So, we are going out breaking my rules in order to celebrate the people who were the heart and soul of Ink Pot. . Here are links to individual letters of thanks:.

Lalo Fox

Carol Peters

Danielle LaVaque-Manty

Myfanwy Collins

Jim Boring

TJ Forrester

I've chosen an old poem for my farewell. I think it is an apt metaphor for an old editor who fought the good fight.

About the Firethorn: The Pyracantha tree is often called Firethorn, and if you ever get stabbed by one of it's vicious thorns you will realize why. This is a hardy shrub or small tree and is often grown against the walls of houses. The nasty thorns offer protection from trespassers and other undesirable intruders and is regularly planted as a pretty defense.

Flowering occurs in late May or June and the bushes can be completely covered with flowers and will be admired by all that see it. The white flowers are small and grow in clusters that completely hide the foliage. As autumn approaches, the berries ripen to give a second glorious splash of colour.

Firethorn Core

by Beverly Jackson

I take my pulse,
on skin creped
like birch bark.
Beneath my fingers
summer rain
pelts hard on forest glade;
thistled, briared,
I erode in cycles,
closing in.

Accusers say
my core is hard; some claim
I have no heart at all.
Without stethoscopes
against my breast,
they dare to judge
what murmurs there.
Can squalling wind hear
anything but air?

My music can be found
in rustling grass
bent crooked by the breeze.
My mark is sparse but sure,
my words my only heirs.
Firethorns blaze my path
to benevolence.

Allow me my extinction
in the underbrush
of my own dark foliage,
delirious from pithy arias,
prickled tenderness,
and alone.

Previously published in The Everdancing Muse in 1998

§ § §

See writing credits, interviews and blog at
Jackson's Actions.

Copyright 2001-2006 by Lit Pot Press, Inc.
All content contained within this site is protected by copyright laws. Unauthorized use of any material, graphic or literary, is strictly prohibited.