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I know you watched us. How could you not? Your damn porch light was like a spotlight that caught my skin in the strapless bikini I thought made me look older, the too short skirt that kept me standing because I didn’t know how to sit in it without losing what little decorum I had left. He was a gentleman, though. Leaning in, but never quite reaching far enough. Always a little too formal, a little too earnest, in his closed toed shoes and shirt tucked carefully into tightly cinched pants. He couldn’t take his eyes off me, but I had a hard time looking back at him.  I should have known then. I did know then. I wondered if you, too, had known what it’s like to try someone on for size, to measure their kindness and feel the weight of their care even as your stomach remains unbutterflied and your heart refuses to pick up the pace. I wanted more, of course: fireworks and rollercoasters and deep, deep dives. More than the measured steadiness he promised.  You might have told me what more awaited in that silent darkness. You might have told me that the butterflies I yearned for are really moths that eat through the fabric of your soul and pull you towards the flames that burn you. You might have told me. But I wouldn’t have listened. Not then. Amy Marques has been known to call books friends and is on a first name basis with many fictional characters. She has been nominated for multiple awards and has visual art, poetry, and prose published in journals such as  Streetcake Magazine, South Florida Poetry Journal, Fictive Dream, Bending Genres, Ghost Parachute, Chicago Quarterly Review,  and Gone Lawn . She is the editor and visual artist for the  Duets  anthology and of the erasure poetry book PARTS published with  Full Mood Publishing . More at https://amybookwhisperer.wordpress.com .

We went to the botanica to pick out something nice and easy to heal Tami’s marriage. I knew it was falling apart because of all of the messages she sent and received from X, each one a little more risque than the other. Some of them started with a quick, “Hey babe,” and the others, well, let’s just say she shouldn’t have accepted them.    I watched her working on another message back to him. Her hands moved back and forth on the little phone punctuated with her tapping of acrylic nails. I knew each stroke meant another lie piled on top of one another.    “Boo, don’t say a damned word,” she whispered. “I just gotta sort this out.”  I know it’s stupid to think candles or spells can fix a broken marriage. I believe it needs more, something rougher, maybe tequila and a weekend away, both of them locked in a room and fed alcohol, letting the frustration and the fury finally dissolve into a heaping bed of forgiveness. I wanted her to fight for her husband, but it wasn’t my fight at all. It wasn’t my place, not like this.  But not with those damned phones. The ones that ring from the impulse or whims of a single man, vying for the affections (and winning them) as he continues on his way. But her husband, no doubt a pendejo at times, but a good man, an honest man. Jesus, he was going to be furious when he found out. I feared that I would have to house her again. She never showed me the purple, but I knew. Angry men from bad houses leave marks. Sometimes on faces, sometimes on walls.   “Let him love you again,” I told her last year. “Let him say he’s sorry and just take him back. Just don’t act like too much of a boss and he will forget it.”  Because the new guy was threatening to “come right over and fight for her,” we had to find a curative, and the culandera was the one to help us in this moment.  I pointed to the yerbas first, asking how she felt about fire. “Pues, it’s fine, but I really need something stronger,” she lamented. “Last time I did some damned cleanse, I got pregnant. I just wanna sweep this shit right out.”  I suggested the card reader. He was a “seer,” the other women had told me.  “He can tell you things that we cannot even know in this lifetime,” Julia said. I believed her wide eyes, her earnestness. A set of red-rimmed and weary eyes followed me as we wrote our names on the clipboard. We were number 17, each of us waiting for answers and some kind of hope. We began the slow walk around the botanica to smell the yerbas again and view the miracle candles. Who knew how long this would take? Of course, Jesus was there. Burn up the right candle and your dreams fall into place. Jewelry was there too, a different aisle than the snake oil and aluminum and painted milagros. Anoint yourself properly for the miracles to be produced. It’s not too expensive, but you may just have to get the incense and the itchy, ground powders too. Either way, it’s potent medicine and I am sure Tami would be willing to do what it takes to untangle this mess. Maybe.  “I just need to know who loves me more,” she whispered. “And I don’t think I’d ever leave him, but I want to be wanted, you know?” Tami always gets like this when she’s near her period. Hysterical. In love. Flirting. And I just keep thinking to myself, “Why can’t I find a nice guy?” Why did the last one decide to up and go flirt with that puta down the street? The one whose kids walk around to the McDonald’s late to beg for some food with the money they took from her boyfriend’s pocket. I’m a nice person, I think to myself. But enough was enough, I guess.  I forgave them all. I forgave the stupid one for leaving the water boiling until the plastic bowl burnt up. I forgave the liar. I forgave the one who stole money from my worn wallet. I forgave the drunk. I tried to move on. When I found out about each one’s idiocy, I burnt a cedar stick and cleansed the front door with a new mop and my own medicine and I wore the rose water, sacred and sweet, to make sure that I would only attract the righteous, and to close off the bad energy, and mal ojos. But somehow, now I was alone.  I fingered a bracelet featuring blue eyes and a $5 price tag. “I’m going to get this for sure,” I said, motioning to the rack. “Haters gonna hate, but you gotta keep them off you, you know?”   Tami smiled. “Let’s get our cards read together,” she said.    I continued the slow circle around the shop, opening the drawers of the tiny silver and gold amulets one by one. “I like this leg,” I said to Tami. “It reminds me that no matter what happens, I can walk out quick-like and just start over, somewhere.”  She smiled and walked over to the magic candle section. I joined her and faced a row of pillared spell-reversal candles. I thought about what it meant to reverse the wicked things that had occurred. To delete the texts Tami received, and the abortion.  I stood up and picked up the candle and began to read the back. “I wish it undid the last five years,” I said. She laughed again. An old woman eavesdropping looked suspiciously at me as I put it down. I picked up the one next to it. It promised “amor.”    “And I don’t need to burn something for this,” I said. I started to laugh. The old woman crossed herself and then walked to the well-worn chair to sit and wait for her cards to be read. I hoped we would be next.   “Pero, you don’t want to mess around when you’re getting older. Who knows if your next baby will come out right, especially since you may have los ojos malos,” said Tami. She motioned to my stomach. I sat down. That’s why I had to get it done, I thought. Because of the drinking, the worry, the anxiety that maybe, just maybe, that baby, the angelito in heaven, would come back this time, to a home free from pills or booze, or a daddy that even wanted it.    She was right, of course, which was why I sat down and waited for the card reader to motion for us to come back behind the beaded curtains. Funny how these things seem ritualistic. The anxiety of waiting for the moments to align quite right. The curiosity and a ten dollar bill to fix it.    I had a lot on my mind. My own life, my baby, and the bigger question of how Tami could prevent her husband from leaving, or worse--staying angry, and to get rid of this spiteful lover, even if he was only texting her little cosas, poems sometimes. Jesus, this was not how I wanted to spend my Saturday.    “Mija,” he said. “How can I help?”   I looked at his eyes, outlined with blue eyeliner, smeared slightly at the edge. I knew I had to ask him then or never. I breathed in and held my words in my throat, never looking away or confirming what I already knew about my life. I held my breath and exhaled slowly. Without hesitation, he answered me. “Cards can’t fix that,” he said. “Cards can only do so much, Mija.”  Aside from lighting candles to draw forth spiritual components, Melissa spends her time as a professor, wife and mother. She has written and published her work since the late 90s, making her an "actual antique" according to numerous students and loved ones. She can be found on X.com  (formerly twitter) as: mel_the_puma .

The sigh the pepper let out when Samantha sliced through him blew most his teeth away. Well, his seeds. Yellow peppers don’t really have teeth.  Sam almost dropped the knife. Not because he had a face. She was used to seeing faces and even carried a bag of assorted googly eyes and a sharpie to reconstruct those that lost a part here or there. She talked to them. But she wasn’t crazy enough to think they’d talk back. Until the pepper did . Sam should have eaten him when she had the chance, but by the time she realized how cajoling he was, the pepper had awakened the pinecone with two broken scales that gave him a smirk and a winking eye, and the pinecone was the recruiting sort. A talker. And loud. Pinecones speak over winds, voices carrying over the muffling snow, Sam was told. So the pinecone couldn’t help but rouse the others. But when all the outlets started voicing grievances and the stove lashing out, the pinecone winkingly smirked and Sam couldn’t tell if he was laughing at her or not. Her house became inanimate central. Everyone had something to say. The bed springs told her how imbalanced her spine was and the pillow pffted . The spoons, given voice, were picky eaters and refused to ladle soup and insisted that frozen yogurt gave them panic attacks and could Sam please just stick to ice cream?  She wore noise canceling earbuds, but they refused to cancel inanimate words. She locked herself in her closet, but the clothes wouldn’t shut up. Leaving the house was no relief because the contamination spread. Sidewalks pointed out that her socks didn’t match and the knot in the oak trunk said she’d get skin cancer if she didn’t stick to the shade.  She wished they would shut up, she wished she could wish them dead, but they mostly weren’t alive to begin with. On the kitchen counter, the pepper began to wilt. Began to stink. But how could Sam throw him out given what might happen if he awakened all her buried trash? Amy Marques has been known to call books friends and is on a first name basis with many fictional characters. She has been nominated for multiple awards and has visual art, poetry, and prose published in journals such as  Streetcake Magazine, South Florida Poetry Journal, Fictive Dream, Bending Genres, Ghost Parachute, Chicago Quarterly Review,  and Gone Lawn . She is the editor and visual artist for the  Duets  anthology and of the erasure poetry book PARTS published with  Full Mood Publishing . More at https://amybookwhisperer.wordpress.com .

Natalie’s phone chimed with the arrival of an email from MyAncestry, sending a ripple of anticipation through her. Finally, she was going to get some answers about her heritage—a mystery ever since she’d been left as a newborn on the steps of an upstate New York police station. But when she clicked on the message, it said only that her test results were “sensitive in nature” and best discussed in person.  Don’t panic , she told herself, but her brain was already compiling a list of deadly conditions that the DNA test had revealed she was doomed to develop.  Two days later, she was stepping off a bus in front of their downtown office, her stomach tied in a scout-caliber knot. She attempted deep breathing exercises during the elevator ride to the fifteenth floor, where she was greeted by a receptionist who looked like they’d stepped off the cover of Vogue.  “Last room on the right, hon,” they said when Natalie gave her name, pointing a boldly manicured finger to the corridor running behind them. Passing a series of closed doors along the way, she approached the glassed-in conference room at the end of the hallway. Inside, a grey-haired man sporting thick glasses was gesturing animatedly as he said something unintelligible to a baby-faced guy who kept shaking his head. They fell silent when they saw her coming. As she entered the room, Glasses Man rose to his feet and offered her a weak smile along with his right hand.  “Hello, Ms. Sloan. Jeremy McDaniels,” he said, a hint of an Irish brogue coloring the words. “And this is my colleague, Devon Pembroke.” “Hi,” she replied, shyly shaking his hand and giving an awkward little wave to the younger man, who remained seated and gave a small nod.  “Please, have a seat,” Jeremy said. “Would you like anything to drink?” “No, thanks,” she replied, settling into a sleek chair that was surprisingly comfortable. “To be honest, I’d really just like to know what’s going on. Is there something wrong with me?” The two men exchanged a look that Natalie couldn’t read.  “Actually, from what we can tell, there are no indications of medical concerns,” Jeremy replied. “However,”—the word cut short her surge of relief—"Your test results are quite…unusual.” Anxiety came flooding back in. “What do you mean, unusual?” she asked, her heart thudding like a tap dancer on speed.  Jeremy raised his eyebrows at Devon, who pushed the hair out of his eyes and cleared his throat.  “We ran the test a number of times to be certain,” he began, his voice remarkably deep. “The results always came back the same. Your DNA simply does not match up to the genetic signature associated with people from any part of the world.”  Natalie frowned in confusion. “So…you mean my ancestors came from a long-lost continent or something?” she asked. “Not exactly,” Devon replied. An awkward pause ensued as he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Had she imagined a flicker of sympathy in his pale blue eyes? Jeremy broke the silence. “What we’re saying, Ms. Sloan, is that the test results prove you are undoubtedly the descendant of an extraterrestrial race,” he said matter-of-factly. She gaped at him, a laugh-snort escaping. “Wait—are you guys seriously trying to tell me that I’m related to fucking E.T.?”  Not bothering to wait for an answer, she leapt to her feet, nearly knocking the chair over. “I don’t know whether I’m being pranked here or you’re just a couple of whack jobs, but I’ve heard enough,” she said, bolting for the door. With surprising speed, Jeremy sprang up, blocking her way. “My apologies,” he said, reaching into his shirt pocket. She saw the syringe a moment before he jabbed it into her neck.  Shock and pain vied for dominance as the room spun in a dark imitation of the Tilt-A-Whirl ride she’d loved as a girl. Her whole body felt fuzzy as if she had popped the entire jar of edibles this morning instead of only one. The lone thought her woozy mind could manage as she collapsed to the floor was What the hell is happening?  She was vaguely aware of being dragged across the room, her cute new sandals bumping along the polished concrete floor. Natalie willed herself to scream, to fight back, to do something , but her body ignored the pleas from her brain. There was the click and creak of a door being opened, then she was pulled across the threshold and laid down on a hard surface that made her skin erupt in goosebumps.  Squinting in the sudden glare of powerful overhead lights, she had a blurry impression of a narrow room lined with metal supply cabinets. The crushing weight of terror made it difficult to breathe. Devon stood to her left, his gaze directed at the back of the room. “You can’t go through with this,” he said. It sounded more like a plea than a statement.  She heard the clang-clang  of metal on metal before Jeremy responded from somewhere behind her. “You need to focus on the big picture, Devon,” he said, sounding annoyed. “We have a duty as scientists to make the most of this opportunity. It’s the biggest discovery of our lives, for Christ’s sake.”  “But she’s so young,” Devon murmured. “I know you feel sorry for her, but our work will ensure that her name becomes legendary,” Jeremy replied, his tone softening. “To say nothing of the fact that it will put you on the map in the scientific community—you’ll finally be able to get the funding you need to finish your research on early-stage pancreatic cancer markers. Think about how many lives that’s going to save!” Devon let out a resigned sigh as Natalie tried to process the words. No — don’t listen to him! Please help me! she pleaded with her eyes, but he avoided looking at her. There was the squeak of wheels rolling across the floor, and then Jeremy appeared beside her, undisguised excitement on his face. Beside him, an array of surgical instruments glittered under the harsh lights. Natalie could only shed silent tears as she understood that the real testing was about to begin. Maria Carvalho is a multi-genre writer from Connecticut whose work ranges from horror to haiku. Her stories and poetry have been published in a wide variety of magazines and books, including several titles in the Owl Hollow Anthology Series (Owl Hollow Press). She is also the author of the children's book "Hamster in Space!". Connect with her on Twitter @ImMCarvalho .

I met a man who swallowed goats whole — horns and all. I know this because he lifted up his pale blue Oxford shirt and pointed to a pair of rusty asterisks on his stomach. He worked in a sales office for a multinational tyre manufacturer. Grew roses with old-fashioned English names. Spoke affectionately about his golden Labrador Maisie. He might have been the greatest church organist in his area. The man didn't have a shaved head or an Old Testament beard, but something electrified in the air when his pondweed eyes twinkled and he spoke about the importance of being anchored to community, family and God. Preached the value of not herding yourself into a corner. He tasted delicious. I never caught his name.

Frank Furtson  8:29 AM @channel  Good morning and Happy Friday to all of you fellow Boinkers! Hope your week’s been a good one.  You don’t typically hear from the Legal department this way, but my reason for doing so is a good one. First off, the company isn’t being sued. We’re not closing our doors, either. Not yet, anyways lol. If it were, you’d hear about it from Daryl the Dickhead.  No, this is a farewell message.  # Frank Furtson  8:32 AM @channel  Today is my last day at Boink Digital. No doubt some of you are excited to hear about my departure. I get it. One less lawyer to deal with, right? We’re the wet blankets who put the kibosh on everything. No more alcohol in the staff kitchen. No more unauthorized office parties once everyone’s gone home for the night. You have to understand, we’re thinking of the company. It’s all about liability and the bottom line. It’s not about you.   I’m certain I’ve made some of your lives a living hell for being such a legal stick in the mud. I’m not apologizing for it, there were larger forces at play, let me tell you. Forces that your puny minds just couldn’t handle. But I digress.  It’s never been personal, it’s just business. At least for most of you. In my five years working at Boink, I’ve saved the company just over $15M from possible lawsuits and/or legal actions. How many of you can say the same thing? Not many, I’m guessing. # Frank Furtson  8:36 AM @channel  By this point, you’re probably wondering what’s next for me. Is Frank going to another tech company? Is he sailing around the world on a super yacht? Trust me, it’s nothing that crazy. In four months, if all goes well, I’ll be opening my all-organic craft brewery. That’s right, I’m going into business for myself. We’re calling it Biotic Brews. I hope to see some of you at our grand opening party. For those of you who’d rather die than see me again in a social setting, I get it.  But enough about me, let’s talk about you. In my time here at Boink, I’ve had the fortune to work with some of the brightest people I’ve ever known. Most of you, though, I don’t know at all and couldn’t remember your names if I had a gun to my head. But that comes with the territory when you’re a highly-paid lawyer with a tech startup, right? Sorry, not sorry. # Frank Furtson  8:38 AM @channel  Still reading this thread? I hope so, because things are about to get good. Please indulge me for another few moments, as I’d like to call out some of the individuals here at Boink who changed my life in so many ways. I’m indebted to them and would like to express my feelings in front of the entire company. That’s right, I’m putting some of you on the spot.  # To Bill Parsons, CEO:  Bill, you believed in me from the beginning and took a chance on a young lawyer from the corporate world. Look at how far we’ve come. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. I can’t wait to see what you do next with the company. # To Janice Grimaldi, CFO:   Your business acumen and guidance have helped me in so many ways I’ll never forget. You have been a great mentor and a big reason for this company’s success. I wish you continued good fortune. # To Carter Thomerson, Director of Product:   Carter, you’re a complete asshole. I’ll never forget the way you tiptoed behind my back and stole my wife. You’ve got some balls on you, you no-good piece of shit. I sincerely hope your dick falls off and Marcie leaves you for some young stud who’s hung like a horse.  # To Amelia Benedetti, VP of Marketing:   Lovely Amelia. Thank you so much for the “lunches” we had in the backseat of my Subaru Outback over at Canyon Creek Park. Steaming up the windows like teenagers was always fun. Your ass is truly beautiful and I’ll never forget our “sexy times” together. I’m hoping our paths will cross again in the near future. # To Daryl Matthews, Head of Legal:   Daryl the Dickhead. Congratulations, I suppose, on your recent promotion after only being with Boink for two years. It still blows my mind. The position that was rightfully mine. The one that I earned in sweat and blood. Thanks for ripping it out of my grasp, you heartless bastard. You must’ve really sucked up to Bill to get the promotion. That, or you sucked him off repeatedly. There’s a special ring in Hell for guys like you.  # Frank Furtson  8:41 AM @channel  If you’ve read this far, you’re probably thinking “this guy’s got anger management issues.” But not me, no sir. I may have a drinking problem, but emotional intelligence is my middle name. Ask anyone, they’ll tell you. I’m a master at controlling my feelings and dealing with people. I just “get it.” But beware, it’s not all unicorns and rainbows. My story could easily become yours. Just picture the headline: “Promising young lawyer quits his cushy corporate job to join a tech startup and works so hard he loses his mind, his wife, and his dignity.” But I digress. For the few folks here who I’ve enjoyed working with, I wish you tons of happiness and pray you never have to go through the same baloney I’ve had to deal with. As for the rest of you, please eat shit and die already, thank you. # Frank Furtson  8:43 AM @channel  Through my office windows, I can see Dorothy and her HR cronies scrambling my way. She’s probably already called security and told IT to turn off my Slack access, so I’ll say goodbye for now. Remember, every ending is a new beginning. If you like, you can email me at: frankfurterson@gmail.com . If you never want to hear from me again, I get it.  Victor De Anda is a writer in Philadelphia who enjoys watching movies and searching for good Mexican food. His fiction has been published in Dark Waters Vol. 1, Guilty Crime Story Magazine, Mystery Tribune, Shotgun Honey,  and Punk Noir,  with more forthcoming. He is on Twitter @victordeanda  and you can find out more at https://linktr.ee/victordeanda

Kyle was a driven man insofar as he was driven places by his mother. But he was also driven by dreams of fame and fortune—which he hoped to obtain with minimal effort. This led him to attend the Jerry Rollins Ultimate Power and Success Workshop. The daylong event kicked off when Rollins, a huge, lantern-jawed man with a headset microphone, burst out from the wings of the small stage and began high-fiving people. Kyle was enthralled. It was just like the infomercial he'd seen two weeks earlier. "How are y'all doin'?"  Rollins asked. "Are you excited?" The crowd roared. "Well, you should  be because this is going to be a life-changing day."  As the audience at the Convention Centre settled down, he pulled up a stool. "Now, I know you're all eager to grab life by the tail, but first, let's talk about being poor. Trust me—I know all about it. My whole family used to lie in a gutter all day. We thought resources were scarce, but we were wrong . Scarcity is just a mental construct that, if you think about it too much, can become a roadblock to success." He stood up again. "You see, it's not resources that matter, it's resourcefulness —as Abraham Lincoln would no doubt have said if he had thought of it." Kyle noticed that the woman next to him was taking notes.   "All wealth begins in the mind. That means before you can be  rich, you need to feel rich. Think of how money smells . V isualize it coming toward you. Then, as soon as you're ready, prosperity and abundance will start flowing into your life." Kyle felt more than ready. He was getting impatient. About twenty minutes into the presentation, Rollins said it was "time for a little one-on-one," asking for a volunteer from the audience. From the front row came a small man with sunken eyes and a t-shirt displaying the words 'Show Me the Money!' in giant letters. He told Rollins his name was Garth. "What brings you here, Garth?" "Um...I want money," Garth replied softly. "He wants money!" Rollins repeated to the crowd. " Everybody  does. But let me tell you something, Garth: money wants you  too. It loves  you. It's trying to find a way into your wallet and your bank account so it can be with you. If you want money, then you've got to shout it out from the rooftops. Let the universe know you want money. Say, 'I want money!' Say it, Garth." "I want money."  "Say it louder!" After Garth said it louder, Rollins turned to the audience with his arms outstretched. "Everybody say it."  From twenty-five rows back, Kyle surprised himself by joining the chorus. "All right. Now we've put it out there," said Rollins as Garth returned to his seat. "This whole group wants money. So, what's next?  Well, you need to decide what you want the money for.  What are your dreams? I want you to divide into groups of three or four. Just pick the people sitting around you. Introduce yourselves. Find out what makes your neighbors tick and what their goals are. Share your dreams. And I'll be back here in fifteen minutes to tell you how to instantly make them a reality." Rollins was handed a water bottle as he walked off stage to thunderous applause.  Kyle always felt awkward meeting new people. To his right was an empty seat. To his left was a woman in camouflage leggings with tattoos and a nose ring. This was in stark contrast to Kyle, who, wanting to appear upwardly mobile in an understated way, wore a Lacoste shirt with a sweater tied around his shoulders and sunglasses perched on his forehead.  Before he could change seats, his neighbor turned to face him. "Sup, my friend?"   she said. "I'm Amy."  Kyle barely had time to introduce himself before the two were interrupted. "Hey, guys," said a young woman leaning over from the row behind them. The newcomer had long, stringy hair and braces and wore a faded 'Jerry Rollins World Conquest Tour' t-shirt. Her name was Beth. She said that she'd quit school to follow her dream of becoming "an influencer who motivates people to live their best life."  Amy told Kyle and Beth that her  goal was to "take my current work as an entrepreneur to a global level." She was selling press-on nails painted in colorful designs. They weren't her own designs; rather, she bought them in bulk from the Philippines and kept them in her cousin's garage. "If I can just get Jerry to endorse them, that'd be huge. He doesn't even have to wear them or anything."  She handed business cards to Kyle and Beth. "I'm an entrepreneur too," said Beth. "Right now, I'm a distributor of Futura Health and Wellness Supplements." She passed out business cards of her own. "Networking is key. Every day I try to make eight new contacts. It helps that I'm in the Young Conservatives." "I was a skinhead once," said Amy. "They're kinda the same in a way." Kyle didn't know much about skinheads but wondered if he, too, should join some sort of group. "Do the skinheads hold interviews, or is it just a matter of filling out an application?" Amy laughed. "Well, they'd hardly take you looking like a young Pat Sajak. No offense." "Okay, but I want to know I'm accepted before I get a funny haircut." "Dude—you should totally join a cult," said Amy. "Go the whole nine yards. I know Jerry Rollins has fanatical followers, but this isn't a cult per see ." "What do you mean 'not a cult per se '"? "I mean, nobody's bowing down to him or stockpiling firearms in a compound. Trust me, cults can get pretty wild." Kyle sighed. "I guess all I really want is unlimited money and power." "Then join the Young Conservatives!" said Beth. "You'd fit right in.  You're an entrepreneur, right?"   "In a sense," said Kyle. The sense being that he identified in spirit with capitalist tycoon-types, though he hadn't done any actual work since he finished high school two years earlier. He pictured himself a few years down the road on 'Shark Tank'—not as someone making a pitch, but as one of the rich people passing judgment.  Kyle also envisioned himself as someone who had his guests announced by a footman, then greeted them by spinning around in a high-backed swivel chair like a Bond villain.   His reverie ended when music and lights signaled Rollins' return to the stage. "Hey, gang, did you miss me?" asked Rollins with a chuckle. "I hope now that you've got to know your neighbors, you'll be able to draw strength from them in your journey."  Kyle shuddered.  " Okay, so now that you've all had a chance to think about your dreams, how would you like to make them come true—just like that ?" He snapped his fingers. "All right, consider this: it's not a dream—it's a plan !"  There were some gasps from the audience. Amy wrote it down. "Now, who wants to get in on the ground floor of something big ? I mean, really  big. Anyone?"  All hands shot up.  "A few of you," said Rollins, grinning. "Well, good news! Just being here today means you're already on  the ground floor. Time to take it to the next level."  He began a PowerPoint presentation. "Long, long ago, back in the 1970s, people used to talk about 'Pyramid Power.' It was all about harnessing the wisdom of the ancients to bring about prosperity. Physicists tell us that the power of the Great Pyramid of Cheops is one thousand times greater than the power coming out of Hoover Dam—only nobody's figured out how to harness it. Until now."  He paced and gestured broadly as he spoke. "At last we've found a way to unlock the power of pyramids, enabling you to achieve Total Ultimate Success Instantly. This is the real deal, folks! Don't be fooled by imitations. We're selling shares in a virtual pyramid, and I'm giving you a chance to move to the next level—up with all the wealthiest, most successful people on the planet. Best of all, you don't have to leave your family and loved ones behind. If you recruit them, you get points, and whoever has the most points at the end of each month has a chance to move up to the third level absolutely free. Basically a 'win-win' situation. "Plus, if you come up to the second level of the pyramid, you'll get extra perks like an NFT of a pyramid, which is yours to keep, and the possibility of speaking to me directly." He stopped pacing and lowered his voice, adding gravitas to what followed. "Now, I promised you a big surprise, and this is it: in just a few minutes, we'll take a short bus ride to The Great Beyond, where we'll meet Muldor, a powerful mystic steeped in the wisdom of the ages. Muldor will make mind-blowing prophecies and reveal the astounding truth at the core of all human existence—as soon as your payment of sixty dollars has been confirmed. But you can pay on the bus. Sound good? Don't do it for me; do it for you—because you deserve it."  Kyle had hoped that the 'big surprise' would be a handful of cash, not additional charges.  "You'll get lunch on the bus, and after everyone drinks the Kool-Aid, we'll walk on fire. I don't mean that literally; it's not Kool-Aid, it's Sprite. Kool-Aid is just a figure of speech. But we'll literally  walk on hot coals, protected by the power of the mind, as outlined in my book Total Self-Mastery . Talk about life-changing! If you can walk on fire, brothers and sisters, you can do anything!"   The crowd cheered. "When we return, I'll unlock the secret to making your dreams come true instantly and effortlessly. But first things first. Buses are waiting to whisk you away. So, c'mon, gang—your destiny awaits!"  The theme from 'Rocky' played as Rollins left the stage. The house lights went up. "You heard the man, Kyle," said Amy, rising to her feet and swinging her backpack to her shoulders. Kyle resented being charged an additional sixty dollars. It didn't seem right. Besides, he wasn't interested in seeing some old man with a long white beard and a book of spells. "I think I'll sit this one out. I'm not really into sword and sorcery stuff." "But what about the firewalking?" said Beth. "You don't want to miss that." But Kyle did  want to miss it. He liked avoiding danger and uncertainty—which, after all, was part of the appeal of living in his parents' basement. "I'm just going to wait for Jerry to come back and unlock the secret to making my dreams come true instantly and effortlessly."  "Suit yourself," said Amy. "We're off to The Great Beyond." For a while, Kyle remained in his seat. He'd assumed a lot of people would skip Muldor and the firewalking, yet the whole audience seemed to be pouring out the doors. Maybe some were just going for a lunch break—something he hadn't given much thought.  The only person left onstage was a technician employed by the venue who was winding up an electric cable. A frowning guy in a tie-dyed shirt and a headband now entered the lecture hall and stepped smartly up to the front of the stage. "Don't tell me Jerry's gone," he said.  "He left five minutes ago," said the technician. "I think he took off in his helicopter as soon as people got on the buses." "Isn't that typical?" The guy explained that he'd been in charge of preparing the coals for the fire walk portion of the event and had rushed away from his post upon learning how Rollins was going to pay him. "Who'd have thought he'd be using cryptocurrency? It's not even Bitcoin—it's Bitcoin Blue . What the hell is that? We had a contract." "You're not the only one, trust me," said the technician, shaking his head. "This guy's a real smooth operator." "Yeah?  Well, if he wants to play games, fine. He can go right ahead. And I'll see him in court." Kyle was only hearing snippets of the conversation, but uncomfortable with eavesdropping, he got up and left. From the lecture hall, he went down a corridor in search of a vending machine, hardly seeing a soul.  Stepping out a side door, he pulled out his phone. No messages. He checked Twitter under hashtags '#rollinsworkshop' and '#easymoney.' Nothing was happening. He tweeted, 'Where did everybody go? #rollinsworkshop,'  The Convention Centre was on the outskirts of town, without much nearby. To kill time, Kyle started walking a narrow sidewalk toward the back of the building.  It wasn't long before the sidewalk ended, and he found himself on a rough path amid trees and tall grass. Rounding a corner, he came to a sunlit meadow full of tall grasses, dandelions, and tangled weeds, on the far side of which stood a row of two-story suburban homes. He stopped and took a deep breath, leaning back against the wall. A small flock of eastern bluebirds fluttered past, one stopping to drink from a puddle near Kyle's feet. He'd never felt much connection with nature and didn't know how to respond. What would Jerry Rollins do? There was no possibility of getting money from the bird, but surely there was something he could do to turn the situation to his advantage.  'It's not resources that matter, it's resourcefulness,' he reminded himself. Slowly extending his right arm, he attempted to subjugate the bird using the power of his mind, such that it would be compelled to perch like a parakeet on his extended forefinger. Despite twenty seconds of staring at it and concentrating intently, the bird flew off, disappearing among the wildflowers. Clearly, the creature didn't recognize human authority. Score one for the bluebird. Despite its lack of money, no one controlled it. Kyle dimly recalled an old saying—something about being free and how the best things in life are something or other.  Before his philosophical musings could get any deeper, he was notified of a direct message on Twitter. Apparently, Jerry Rollins himself was responding to his tweet. 'Are you still at the Convention Centre?' @jerryrollins asked. 'Yes. Just me,' Kyle responded. 'Hey, buddy, I need your help. Have you seen a dude in a tie-dyed shirt? If he's there I need to talk to him.'  'Tie-dyed shirt and a headband - yes,' Kyle answered. 'I think his phone is dead. Muldor finished way ahead of schedule, but I don't know if the coals are ready for the fire walk.'  'I heard him talking. He said it's fine - u can go right ahead.' Rollins wasn't persuaded. 'He said that? The coals seem hotter than usual. Can you find him for me?' Kyle's stomach growled. Under the circumstances, he didn't feel like being helpful. 'How do I know ur really Jerry Rollins?'   'My account has a blue check mark.' 'That doesn't mean anything. "Don't be fooled by imitations." That's what Jerry said.' At this point, he hoped it really was  Rollins because he was enjoying toying with him. 'C'mon, bro, help me out!' 'I can't talk 2 u cuz I'm only on level 1.' And with that, Kyle exited Twitter.   Continuing his trek, he Googled 'firewalking.' According to Wikipedia, when coals have burned for a sufficient time, they get covered in enough ash to insulate the heat away from the skin. Interesting... After rounding the back of the Conference Centre, he reached the shady main entrance just as some charter buses were pulling into the parking lot.  This surprised him because less than an hour had elapsed.  As Kyle drew closer, grumpy-looking people began to disembark. Beth was one of the first off, and she headed straight for him.  By this time he'd grown weary of dealing with go-getters, yet he was curious to hear what had happened. "Amy's doing the firewalking," she said. "Not me. I didn't expect Jerry to ask for another seventy-five bucks after we'd already  shelled out sixty to see Muldor. Not worth it. You were smart to stay behind." They began ambling back toward the Convention Centre.  "So, what was it like in The Great Beyond?" She sighed. "Brief and stupid. The Great Beyond was just a name they assigned to a vacant lot near where the firewalking was set up."  "So, was Muldor an old coot with a long beard?" "Actually, no. Muldor was just some   white chick in yoga pants. Lynn Muldor. She said happiness is all about maintaining a positive focus, then she tried to sell us stuff."   "I thought she was supposed to have deep insights." "Well, she thought she did. With her infinite wisdom, she said we're all characters in a book and exist only in the consciousness of the reader." "I don't get it." "She said existence is only possible when observed by an outside consciousness—in this case, 'the reader.' It's like Schrödinger's cat." Kyle didn't follow. "Hmm." "I can't believe I paid for that." "At least you got lunch on the bus." "Yeah, right. A tiny bag of chips and a can of Sprite." They stepped over the curb and continued talking on the lawn. "Did she make prophecies?"   "Yeah. She said that a figure would soon appear on the horizon to guide us; a man who's above it all.  Which I took to be a reference to Jerry walking on fire or the fact that he travels in a private helicopter. I'm sure it was no coincidence that it landed behind her just a moment later. Oh, and she said something about the man being someone who reads, implying, no doubt, that Jerry is the godlike 'Reader.' I think the whole thing was scripted, but somehow it came out sounding a bit sarcastic. Anyway, Jerry started walking toward her, and she broke off her talk and rushed over to him." "What did she say?" "We couldn't hear much because she had a hand over her mic. Something about Bitcoin. It looked pretty heated." "Yikes." "Then she got in her car and drove away. I don't think Jerry knew what to do. He had his phone out and seemed to be texting someone, looking pretty pissed." "Imagine that." "Of course, Muldor was supposed to get everyone hypnotized or whatever for the firewalking. But suddenly Jerry's like, 'Muldor schmuldor. Let's go, gang. It's firewalking time!' The hot coals were right nearby, but that's when Jerry asked for more money. I'm surprised Amy paid. They'll probably be back in another hour."   "Another hour ," moaned Kyle. "Oh, well, I guess I don't mind waiting another hour if I get unlimited wealth and power instantly." Truth be told, he'd have been happy with even a thousand dollars if he could have it instantly, as promised.   "You're right. We need to keep a positive attitude. The universe wants us to succeed." She squared her shoulders and forced a smile. The wind picked up a bit, blowing dead leaves and litter around the parking lot. A second wave of buses roared in. While the people from Beth's group had looked somber and disillusioned, the people returning from the fire walk appeared enraged. When Amy emerged, Beth waved, and she came straight over.  "Stupid Jerry Rollins!" said Amy, stepping onto the lawn. "Everything's canceled!" " What?"  "What a joke.  He gave this big speech about how walking on fire proved the supremacy of the will over physical flesh and how if we just believe , we won't get burned. So he gets us all into this lofty state, clearing our minds of self-doubt, then he says he'll lead the way. So he puts one foot on the coals, then starts screaming his head off!" "Look, it's on TikTok!" someone shouted. Soon, everyone was watching a viral video of Jerry Rollins stepping onto the hot coals accompanied by Elvis's 'Burning Love.' (' #jerryistoast #epicfail .') Watching the video, Amy shook her head in dismay. "That's the moment when our eyes were opened and we saw him for what he really is." "So, what happened?" asked Beth.  "He was furious, blaming everyone but himself. Someone treated him for minor burns, then he flew off." Kyle may have taken satisfaction from this turn of events, but he did his best to hide it. As the group mingling on the lawn grew bigger, some of the people who had re-entered the building came back out, complaining that the doors to the lecture hall were locked. Pulling out their phones, people began tweeting. 'It's OVER! #rollinsworkshop.' 'That's all folks! #ultimatepowerandsuccess.' Garth (the young man who had joined Jerry onstage) appeared particularly distraught and kept asking, "What about the virtual pyramid we've been building?"   "What a crook," said Amy. "Here I thought Jerry was such a pure soul—except for the drug charges." "Larceny and assault too," added Beth. "But those were just allegations . Still, I'm going to feel weird wearing my World Conquest Tour t-shirt now."    Kyle's opinion of Rollins had hit rock bottom. "Who needs Jerry Rollins?" he said, speaking with a degree of confidence that had eluded him all day. "Him and his stupid ' levels .' I wouldn't want to be on the top level of the pyramid now, even if it was free . There's got to be more to life." Beth seemed intrigued. "You think so?"  "I know  so," said Kyle. "Maybe unlimited wealth, total self-mastery, ultimate power, and all the rest of it are overrated." "Okay, but what are we supposed to do now ?" asked Garth, coming closer. "Maybe we should just relax and fool around," said Kyle. "You know—have some fun. Stuff like that." It was just what the lost souls needed to hear. "We've had it with Jerry Rollins," Amy told Garth. "To think I was ready to follow him to the ends of the earth. If you ask me , this  is who we should be following." She pointed to Kyle.  "Whoa. I'm no leader," said Kyle. "Everyone should just live and let live. Go with the flow or whatever." Amy, Beth, Garth, and about a dozen others who'd gathered around stared at Kyle, speechless. Finally, Beth spoke in a trembling voice. "Holy crap! It's Muldor's prophecy! She said that someone would appear on the horizon to guide us." She turned to Kyle. "That's you . You're the 'Reader' she was talking about." "But I never read anything," Kyle objected. "I watch videos." Amy wasn't dissuaded. "It's all so clear now. Muldor's Reader is someone who must have read , right? Okay, and you have a red shirt. Red—get it?" She turned to the others. "Kyle's wearing a red shirt! He's the Reader!" " What ? Lots of people wear red," said Kyle. "You guys can think what you want but leave me out of it."   Beth gasped. "Muldor said, 'a man who's above it all.'" "Kyle backwards is 'like,'" added Garth. "Spooky," said Beth. "That clinches it," said Amy. "Any cult of yours is good enough for me." " Cult? Oh, come on , I'm not here to start a cult." Kyle thought for a moment. "But if I do start one, you won't like it. I'll make everyone wear their hair like Pat Sajak—men and women both—and instead of stockpiling firearms, we'll be stockpiling overripe fruit." The group seemed unfazed. "That doesn't sound so bad," said Garth. "And all male members will be castrated."  "Whoa, I hadn't planned on that ." Garth took a deep breath. "Still, if it's a free castration..." The mood shifted as the spirit of peace spread over the little gathering. A serene and beatific look came over Kyle's face. "So be it. Gather 'round, my children." Amy, Beth, Garth, and the others all dropped to their knees before him. He held out his arms as if welcoming them into the fold. "Now bow your heads."  Everyone looked down.  By the time they looked up, Kyle was long gone. David Partington is an omnivorous bipedal mammal, most active during daylight hours. He came into this world at a very young age and has found his subsequent mortal existence to be a reliable source of amusement.

Even though the music was loud in the gym I could hear her clearly; she was talking about the honeymoon and mentioned going to Lichtenstein.    “Lichtenstein?” I asked. “You’re always full of surprises. Still I was not ready for this one. Lichtenstein, of all places. Are you serious?” “Lichtenstein!” she replied. “I didn’t say anything about Lichtenstein. What’s Lichtenstein?”    “It’s a feudal mini-state wedged between Switzerland and Austria. That’s pretty much all I know.” “Really? Lichtenstein sounds like a hero soldier’s name from the Thirty Years’ War.”    I followed it up with research on Lichtenstein but nothing I found made sense. Worse yet, apparently there’s no soldier hero named Lichtenstein mentioned anywhere in the chronicles of the Thirty Years’ War.    Soon we drifted apart.  The truth is, there can be no going back after the bond of trust, Lichtenstein in this particular case, is broken. Johannes Springenseiss is a world citizen and raconteur. He mostly writes speculative fiction and creative essays, which he has published in various literary magazines.

“No, no, no,” he says to himself as he sits at the piano. If he could hear or see me, I’d assure him the song is going to be his masterpiece and will be iconic. He repeats the opening bars, singing along. He stops again, curses and bangs the keys with his fist, then tweaks the chord progression and lyrics. He’s still not quite there. I wish I could help him.  He’s thinner than I imagined. Almost emaciated. Drugs? Or so consumed with writing and recording he’s not eating? After a few minutes, I have my answer; when his wife comes into the room and offers him a sliced avocado, he waves her off. It’s a small detail I’d never have known if I hadn’t witnessed it myself. She kisses the top of his head; he reaches up and touches her cheek Then she sits cross-legged on the floor with a stick of charcoal and a sketch pad. Maybe after I’ve saved enough for another excursion, I’ll see for myself if she really was the villain as she’s been portrayed. After toiling at the piano for longer than I would’ve imagined, he sings and plays the song that’ll be known around the world as an anthem of peace. And I’m here to witness its birth. What a moment.  He turns toward his wife. “I’ll release it and see what happens.” She smiles. “If it’s not a hit,” he says, “maybe I’ll sing it to the grandkids when I’m 64.” He chuckles. Even if I could tell him that’s not to be, I wouldn’t have the heart to. Besides, the cloaked machine that brought me here is signaling that my time is up — and his will be far too soon.

Once Stu decides to leave, that’s it (except not really, no, not at all).  He moves into action at once (or, at least, he tells himself that’s what he’s doing. Stu lies to himself a lot). Packing things – random things like coat hangers and tea cups and knitted gloves and bits of dried flowers – into a big cardboard box. He throws everything in and then stares down at the jumble of items. His life, bits and pieces, that make no sense, strewn about. He closes the box up slowly, sealing the cardboard box up with sticky-tape he stole from the LCA’s stationary cupboard. He picks up the box, ready to take it out to his car (a Kia Sportage, run down, a grunting mess of a thing), before remembering that he sold his car. His car is gone, the money given to the LCA – for all the right reasons, of course. Penny McKenzie had told him that morning that it was important to give – and keep giving – as much as he could. That was the way to freedom, or something like that anyway. But sometimes – and he knows he’s not meant to say this, let alone think it, he doesn’t feel very free at all.  He feels trapped. And tired. His fingers are sore from scrubbing constantly and his muscles ache. Penny says you have to do the work to make it work, and Stu knows she’s right, but why does the work have to be so exhausting?  That’s an O G thought though.  O G means obstructive grievance.  Stu has a lot of O G thoughts. Once in class, they told him he was an O G. Which he understood but he didn’t like. It made his skin bristle.  Still, no matter because the LCA – the League for Cultural Advancement – is his home. It’s a funny kind of home. A home where he is never allowed to relax. He just wants to go out for a while. He just wants to take his box of little bits and pieces – dried lavender that his mother gave him, a fantasy novel he’s never had the chance to read, a pair of folded socks he’s never worn because the LCA say they are the wrong colour – and find some sun somewhere and sit in it. To feel the glow on his skin.  Penny says sun comes from within. That light shines from your insides and sure, that might be true, he doesn’t deny it, but he also wants the other sun. Please, can’t he have the other sun?  He remembers the sun, you know. The way it glided over his body. He remembers wearing sunscreen, slapping it on his nose, his cheeks, his arms, the back of his neck. How it made him feel alive, like something was uncoiling inside of him. Warm, all over. When was the last time he went out in it, felt it settle on his skin? Months ago, surely. Maybe even years ago. Egg and pickle sandwiches, cheese and onion crisps on the grass in front of the library. He’d watched people walk by with books loaded in their arms, students with merry smiles, couples holding hands, mothers pushing strollers. It had been nice (so nice, so much nicer than he even wants to admit), seeing the hustle and bustle of movement. It was a world away from the LCA. Not, of course, that that’s what he wants. He loves (can he really say that, truly, deep down?) the LCA. Of course he does. Still, there’s something inside him, something that pulls and pulls and doesn’t let go, that wants what everyone else has. A wife, kids, a house in the country – blue peachy skies, golden sun, a garden to potter around in. He wants long lazy weekends. He wants to take his car and drive to a diner somewhere, eat butter-milk pancakes with honey, drink coffee from a large mug, his hands wrapped around the sides. He wants to forget about the future of mankind, forget about processes and rules and systems and healing the planet (he’s only one man anyway – he’s limited in what he can do…) but but but but – there are so many buts inside of him.  He’s not going to do any of that. He’s going to ignore the longing in his heart. He’s going to pull the bits and pieces out of his cardboard box again. Cancel those plans inside his head. He’s going to put everything away again, back into their rightful places, and then he’s going to carefully fold the box down again, untape the sticky tape he so carefully taped, and get back to work. He’s going to remember his place.  Katelin Farnsworth lives in lutruwita (Tasmania) among the trees and the mountains with her husband. She loves to read and write, drink tea, and travel. She's currently working on a novel about a cult.

Her new habitat had been untouched for years. Decades, perhaps. The fauna orgiastically entwined around her form. Brittle branches snapped where she'd landed. The blunt fingers of blunter minds pressing into her back and shoulders. Pressuring and demanding obedience. Patches of sky sparkled in her eyes through beatific sun or many speckled stars. The natives traversed her veins like roadways. Her lower half sex doll splayed in the dirt. Not invitingly, but all used up. The streetlights didn’t reach her. She remained undisturbed and unseen. She knew nothing of the necklace clasp snapped. Nor smelled the tang of exhaust fumes wafting in like an accusing abuser who no longer shook her.  They called with no response. They searched and searched the last known whereabouts only feet from where she lay. In that time, new generational trauma was born because life must come from death. Every type of driver came and went.  Horns blaring, tyres screeching, the tailgaters, the joyriders. The sirens wailed past unknowing to other scenes of cursed domesticity. Her bruises would never fade. Her name and face would be replaced in the headlines by her killer’s. The victim’s lot is to be forgotten. That is, if they are ever found. Scott Cumming unsuspectingly went to see Garden State wearing his Shins tee. He has been published at The Daily Drunk, Punk Noir Magazine, Versification, Mystery Tribune and Shotgun Honey. His poem, “Blood on Snow”, was voted the best of Outcast Press Poetry Things We Carry issue and nominated for a Pushcart. His collection, A Chapbook About Nothing, was released in December as part of Close to the Bone's First Cut series. Twitter:  @tummidge  Website:  https://scottcummingwriter.wordpress.com/

Boris Yeltsin and I sit across from each other, the table between us crowded with bowls of borscht. White tablecloth. My dead grandmother is there too, back from the afterlife to haunt my dream with the precision of a grandmother’s visit, polite, yes, but with intent. She’s resplendent in pink, wearing her Sunday best, her silver hair adorned with her good hat. She frowns when she sees Boris. I was hoping for Reagan, she says, her voice heavy with disappointment, but Reagan’s busy in some celestial debate club or another, defending Jelly Belly from St. Peter, I imagine. I brought these,  she says, reaching into her pocket and pulling out two flavors of Jelly Bellies. Blueberry. Buttered popcorn. Colors as vivid and distressed as the Ukrainian flag. But those are your favorites, not mine,  she points out. I shrug. What can I say? We’re from Krakow, we have no flag, just borrowed flavors, borrowed identities, borrowed countries. You're wrong, she says. Boris leans in, asks her for the gołąbki recipe. She responds with a stare—her eyes steely and glittering like the memory of snow. It’s not just a refusal, it’s a verdict. Boris shrinks, or maybe I imagine that. An unexpected rage flares in me, burning hot, reckless. Coward,  I think. He looks at me, breaking the fourth wall, like he’s in on a joke, one I am just beginning to understand. You were the only bluebird in her chinoise wallpaper,  he tells me, and suddenly it’s too much, all of it. I want to tell him I don’t care. I want to tell him I don’t care about this dream or this scene or the way his name trips over my fingers every time I try to spell it out, Yeltsin,  each typo a kind of invocation, each correction an exorcism. But it’s like trying to paint a memory, and you’ve blurred out the nucleus and are left with the lapis lazuli of an empty middle. I got my MFA through my father’s alcoholism,  I blurt out instead. And then it’s all crumbling, everything—the dream, the conversation, the borscht that’s been sitting untouched. Boris Yeltsin, zeitgeist poltergeist of my childhood, the face I remember from years of watching TV with my grandparents, is crumbling. I Google him in the early morning dark, the glow of the screen illuminating his last year in power. It’s the same year my grandmother died. I don’t know what that means, but it feels like it should mean something. Chrissy Stegman is a poet/writer from Baltimore, Maryland. Recent work has appeared in/forthcoming: Rejection Letters, Gone Lawn, Gargoyle Magazine, Anti-Heroin Chic, Stone Circle Review, Fictive Dream, Inkfish, The Voidspace, The Madrigal, 5 Minutes, Ucity Review, and BULL. She is a BOTN nominee.