CHALLENGER international
CHALLENGER international

Reviews of the Journal


Volume 25, Issue 1 (December 2015)

Volume 26, Issue 1 (January 2016)

Volume 26, Issue 2 (February 2016)

Volume 26, Issue 3 (March 2016)

Volume 26, Issue 4 (April 2016)

Volume 26, Issue 5 (May 2016)

Volume 26, Issue 6 (June 2016)

Volume 26, Issue 7 (July 2016)

Volume 26, Issue 8 (August 2016)

Volume 26, Issue 9 (September 2016)

Volume 26, Issue 10 (October 2016)

Volume 26, Issue 11 (November 2016)

Volume 26, Issue 12 (December 2016)

Volume 27, Issue 1 (January 2017)

Volume 27, Issue 2 (February 2017)

Volume 27, Issue 3 (March 2017)

Volume 27, Issue 4 (April 2017)

Volume 27, Issue 4.1 (April 2017)

Volume 27, Issue 5 (May 2017)

Volume 27, Issue 6 (June 2017)

Volume 27, Issue 7 (July 2017)

Volume 27, Issue 8 (August 2017)

Volume 27, Issue 9 (September 2017)

Volume 27, Issue 10 (October 2017)

Volume 27, Issue 11 (November 2017)

Volume 27, Issue 12 (December 2017)

Volume 28, Issue 1 (January 2018)

Bones, a little collection of poems


by Natalie Crick




A special edition featuring the poetry of


Natalie Crick, from the United Kingdom. Her poems have been published or are forthcoming in a range of journals, magazines and anthologies—including Interpreters House, The Chiron Review, Rust and Moth, Ink in Thirds, The Penwood Review and Lehigh Valley Vanguard Collections 13. This year her poem “Sunday School” was nominated for the Pushcart Prize.




Birds at the Burial


Near the riverbank where we

Buried her, I light a candle


And wait, patient as a hunter

Detecting what the beast will do


In the next moment.

Someone, somewhere, will see it.


Barn owls celebrate

Over their cathedral of bones,


Screaming skies clawed with crows.

The man asleep on his lumpy mattress


Has a head full of ghosts and

Sad, erotic dreams.


Gulls rise, small white banshees

Worshipping the sun.






I have to go back.

I have to keep searching


For something alive

Among the dead.


I am yet undecided

How to arrange


Her bones.

I want to conjure


The dark red throbbing heart.

Regrow her hair and teeth


The way they used to be.

Her legs are in my hands,


Cool to the touch

Like bottled milk.


Now tense with fear

I know you won’t return.






I had a doll once, which I hid in

A deep muddy place.


I left it there until

All of the paint flaked off the face.


It was never really

The same again.


I imagine

Death is something like that.