2025 | Issue 1: Against All Odds
Contents
Editor's Note
Creating and serving as the Editors of The Honey Pot Literary has been an incredible journey. Between figuring out how best to accept submissions and make the selection truly blind, tweaking the forms, putting together the website, changing the domain host mid-submissions, constant website issues, formatting the lit-mag, and our educational and personal lives, it was a feat to finally bring this project to fruition. Despite that, it was fun.
We turn to the arts as a way to find solace, bring us peace, hide our sorrows, or commiserate. Below, you will find the first issue of The Honey Pot Literary with the theme: "Against All Odds." Given the state of the world, we were trying to find that silver lining the arts provide and we think we did.
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We want to thank our first submitters for being patient with us as we figured this whole thing out and our contributors for their incredible submissions. This magazine wouldn't exist without you guys. We would also like to thank the readers. It's said that "to be seen is to be heard," so your attention to the hard work of these authors and artists is important to us just as much as it is them. We hope you enjoy this first issue of The Honey Pot Literary and we look forward to more submissions in the future.
Veronique & Morgan
Editors-In-Chief
Poetry
Jacqueline Collo
Hestia's Offering: Sisterhood
Scathing Separation.
You hear it first—
in the pounding of her heart,
as she holds you to her chest.
​
You feel the tears of your mother,
falling somberly into your hair,
and they burn you.
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Induced Isolation.
As you walk down Fifth,
you will think of Hylan—
reminiscing.
​
It is a thought that will carve
yearning into your very being…
longing into your identity.
​
You will come to find that you are
alone, even when drowning in the masses
and the buildings that tower above,
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This sensation should be familiar—
almost similar— but proves only to
cradle the back of your neck and
Dip you lower into the waves.
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Haunting Haven.
You lay now in a bed that has
hosted many before you,
and you stare at a ceiling that is
obscured by darkness.
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You listen to sirens wail past
your apartment and it is
almost like you are back in
Nana’s bed, next to her window.
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Except you cannot sleep here,
the way you did there.
Except the noise here is like moaning,
when it was a lullaby in her bed.
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Is it the noise that keeps you awake?
Or is it how eerie it is for the
same sound to be so unfamiliar?
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Matchless Memories.
The second year will come,
regardless of your dread,
and you will find yourself here again.
​
Months of regression and diversion will
craft a pit in your stomach that
weighs heavy on your lungs and
forces you to heave for relief.
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you will find, however,
that it is warmer now, somehow.
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Her legs brush against yours as
she sits next to you on your bed—
which used to be so cold before—
and her knees will knock against yours
with a delightful sting, as you giggle.
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you will find, with her,
that you can breathe again, somehow.
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In a way, it is like your soul knew her;
waited for the way she would smile and
chase away the cold or she would laugh
in time with the beating of your heart.
​
in a way, it is like your mind knew her;
your sister, in this place and the next…
capable of making this city feel like
home too, when she is next to you.
About the Author
Jacqueline Collo is currently a graduate student at Monmouth University, diving further into her love of all things writing. In particular, she finds herself drawn to studying the morally gray character. Her work has been published in various magazines, such as Academy of the Heart and Mind.
Sometimes I walk
Jennifer Rivera
Sometimes, I walk with my darkness.
Other times, it overtakes me—
It creeps in—slow, silent,
Cold steel fingers climbing my spine,
Gripping battered shoulders, stiffened neck.
The bitter stench of self-loathing chokes me,
The weight of sorrow crushes my chest—
Relentless. Merciless.
I crumble beneath it,
My breath caught in the ache of it all.
I wish I could rise like a phoenix, unbroken—
Lifted by fire, cleansed, and crowned anew.
Still, I am human—raw, real, whole.
Flesh, bone, blood.
I claw through the dirt.
I wrestle despair’s sinewy web.
I retch the shadows from my lungs
And breathe in the dawn—
Warm, golden, alive.
Until I stand again.
And there it lies, beneath me.
I walk away.
Just me—
a woman risen,
and the darkness,
a shadow I leave behind.
About the Author
Jen Rivera is a writer and certified dog trainer. She received her MFA in Creative Writing from Monmouth University. Her writing has been featured in The Monmouth Review, The Year's Work in English Studies, and most recently, a book review in Philadelphia Stories.
Anticipation
John Vurro
I spent the night before
my son’s tests on a bench
facing the arch and swing sets
of Washington Square Park,
shaking fits--so distraught--
a knobby addict offered a hit,
a lady with cranial knees
offered a favor (I was younger and
better looking, then)
a wooly-faced derelict offered
a bible, newspapers fastened
with shoelaces, his scribbled psalms,
a kind of language, hieroglyphs
read similar with intention
as our oncologist who
read similar as leukocytes
read similar as tea-leaves
read similar as how I thought
the weight of waiting
had earned a clear outcome.
The weight, a kind of grieving,
without grief proper, rather,
the preparation of grief--
a kind of violence--read similar
as our oncologist clasping
blood counts. Christ, how ill
prepared I was, for waiting
I shivered that bench through five seasons.
John Vurro
In Remission
The prayer garden
in the hospital
courtyard kept
farm animals--
casted iron--yellowed
around the base,
so maybe copper.
I know nothing
of metallurgy, but
a sparrow perched
onto the shepherd’s crown,
a teeny patch of snow
spotted the lamb's back.
My son fed sticks
to a frowning duck.
A warmer March. That
roasted sidewalk smell.
Tulips. Grape hyacinths.
Tree buds, like arrows,
once quivered inside sleeping oaks,
now awake, their trunks taller
than the medical buildings,
humming electric hymns.
This is also the garden
where I first noticed
my son's hair, a bronze fuzz,
sprouting—again,
like Persephone’s flowers.
John Vurro
Trying
The hospital strived
to hold patients
patient & chirpy
children colored
with crayons, pencils,
cray-pas, brushes (all
donated) portraits of their favorite
friends & pets & nurses,
peaked on razzamatazz
castles, shielded in
cornflower armor, heads
sprouting bittersweet tresses,
swept into a fantasy
of curls! Later, elated visitations
from clowns & Labradors, magic
makers & Derek Jeter who paraded
until we were besmeared
with mylar & confetti, fur & baseballs
so diverse in their diversions
the frenzy left us deflated
like the helium balloons we
tethered to bed-rails, now floating,
soon to scuttle the floor
dust-fuzzy & petering out.
Art & Photography
Resilience
Ashley Scheller
Author's Note: Resilience is an illustrated poetry piece and can be categorized either way.
Cavern Cascade
Nathaniel Carrasquillo
Pinnacle Sunrise
Nathaniel Carrasquillo
Upstate NY Sunrise
Maine Shoreline
Prose
The Park
Sarah V Van Clef
(An Excerpt from Byrdman-A Memoir in Verse)
Out of all the ways of working out, running has got to be the worst. Although I am not “out of shape” per say, I do not understand the concept of exerting my body so much that my boobs blind me. You’d never catch me with the overachievers like Dad—who’d wake up at the ass crack of dawn just to get their “5 miles in” before work. Dad wasn’t always a runner. He was a smoker, a drinker, and a blue-collar worker. He didn’t always have time to frivolously run around parks or do 5K races that supported the community. He had more important priorities; providing and supporting his family– but all that changed after the first heart attack.
Dad joined the running community about a year after it happened. It was 2008 and he’d been going to the gym consistently, trying to condition himself towards a more heart-healthy lifestyle. After 20 + years, he quit smoking. He wasn’t drinking as much, and he tried to limit his stress by focusing on his hobbies instead of working so hard. After getting bored on the treadmill after 20 minutes, he tried running around our block a few times and it changed everything for him. Running became his escape; the one thing that never let him down. He didn’t have high expectations for himself while running, he just wanted to explore. There was no time limit or pressure, he just wanted to finish the race.
Runners are a different breed of person. They enjoy buying sneakers and find camaraderie in sweating with other people. They enjoy pounding their feet into the pavement and the feeling of the muscles in their legs contorting. They invest a lot of money into spandex clothes and are particular about their socks. But above all, they love it when they hit that sweet spot in a race—where their body becomes air, and their legs levitate forward and forward, and they can no longer hear anything but the rhythm of their own breathing. It is almost euphoric; better than any psychedelic drug, Dad had said.
Calliope, my dog, loves to run. She sprints across our backyard when she’s bored or full of energy. She tries to get me to run when we go on our walks on most days, but when we go to Holmdel Park, it’s different. We both know we are there for a reason, so she matches my pace. We’re both searching for something, anything that reminds us of him. She was there that day, at this place, on that morning when there were no clouds in the sky. The sun was opening its arms wider than ever to welcome Dad home and no one knew it. The air was crisp and the dew had not yet burnt off the cars that waited for their owners in the parking lot. For the army green Jeep Wrangler sitting alone long after the race ended, his owner never returned.
When I arrive at the entrance to the park, I drive up the big hill to the northernmost point, and I feel like I am at the top of the world. Above the treetops, little closer to heaven, a little closer to him. As his Jeep Wrangler that I now drive, curves up the steep hill, Calliope shifts her weight in the passenger seat. Her nose presses against the glass of the passenger window; we both know why we do this every year. I hope maybe she sees him, but she’s never told me.
As I get Calliope out of the car and hook the leash to her harness, she throws her head back and takes in a deep breath of the familiar. The smell of dirt is rich like fresh-pressed coffee and the aromas of earth overwhelm my nostrils. I can feel myself stepping back in time like it’s a portal.
Holmdel Park’s trees are unlike any other trees in the entire world. No, I am not exaggerating; they are not real. They are part of a painting that you can walk through. It’s like someone sketched tall pristine weeds that sway gently in the wind. Small crack veins travel as walking paths are outlined in the finest black paint. The winding trails twist and turn, leading me to some kind of message from him. The branches of the trees wrap around each other like lovers dancing to the song of cool breeze that seems to always be there. Roots intertwine under the footpaths becoming an entanglement of memory and time. The Bowl, as people call it, looks like someone sat down in the middle of this painting and made a dent in it– the colors smudge together with gravel and dirt. As the trail bends, twists, and kinks in some spots, it eventually opens to a beautiful valley full of yellow wildflowers.
The benches dotting around the perimeter of the tennis courts, jungle gym, and picnic area, welcome us to take a seat. As Calliope smells the mysteries of the land I can’t, the sun, peeking through the trees, reflects against the metal plaque on one of the benches in front of us. I try to get a glimpse of what may be waiting for me on that bench—a letter, a note. There is nothing but his name:
Robert Van Clef- “Didn’t wait for the perfect moment... He took the moments and made them perfect.”
Holmdel Park is not a real place even though you can Google it. For me, it’s as close to being with him that I have left. He runs through those woods when no one is looking. He sits in trees and looks down at the many runners, walkers, and families, who take a break at his bench and look around at the beauty of the park. Following the same strides he took, I hope one day, I can find the strength to keep walking as I search for him around every bend.