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The Midwest is a small-talk, large-silences place. Growing up in one of its small towns meant often not knowing the secrets were there, even in ourselves. In 10th grade, the girl who sat in front of me in English class had greasy hair and white skin so dry it flaked. I could see the back of her arms, the scaliness. She lived on a farm. Her dresses were big and homemade. Someone made those dresses for her, but they didn’t make them the right size. They didn’t care about her. Or maybe she made them herself but hadn’t been to 4-H to learn how to do it well. She looked large and baggy. I worried about her skin. Did she know about skin cream? I had Jergens lotion at home, and thought about bringing it in for her. Went back and forth in my mind, decided not to–it would make her feel bad. She kept up in school well enough, otherwise quiet. Maybe she just didn’t like to wash her hair. She seemed miserable. Best to say hi and then say nothing else. Only it wasn’t best. I wonder now, what happened to her at home? My friend D, we re-meet as adults, have coffee. She remembers me from the school bus--clothes always matching, long hair pulled back in a ponytail, very quiet, getting dropped off at the modern house with a flat roof. She is now a retired grade-school teacher, a NASA fan, and has a sewing ministry at her church. Back in grade school, we were both in a 4-H club that met in the basement of that church, although we didn’t talk much there. I see her now when I go back to my hometown to visit my mother. After some time, and a number of coffees, I tell her how strained my relationship with my mom is, how she criticized me much more than she did my brothers. How she was called in one time I was in grade school because I didn’t speak above a whisper. “Oh, I didn’t know,” D said, “I wish I’d known. You could’ve come over to my house. My mother would’ve hugged you.” A word from the author: I'm interested in the silences in Midwestern towns. I love the Midwest, I love the small talk. But a lot gets covered up. This CNF piece uses the lyrical to give a sense of the walls those silences can build. Maud Lavin lives in Chicago where she runs the READINGS series at Printers Row Wine. She has published recently in JAKE, Roi Faineant, Funny Pearls, Red Ogre Review, and Rejection Letters. She is a Guggenheim Fellow and a person with disabilities.

CW: blood Tonight, she rips the skin off the top of her hand exposing each phalange She achieves this through addition not subtraction A layer of latex four cotton swabs and some paper fake blood, red and darker I’m always proud of my daughter’s artistry of violence The attention to detail the hidden ways of tricking reality But tonight she caught me reading about bombs and rubble and fathers fighting while their families flee Tonight, pride is hard to find luck spreads through me as I imagine pulling her from debris and the top of her hand seven layers of skin peeling back caught on a jagged chunk exposing each bone encased in meat and blood and luck turns sour while grateful feels guilty knowing, we’re thousands of miles from explosions and sirens wreckage and loss Tonight, I hate our egos and human need for more Tonight, I tell her WOW It looks great! And I do mean it.

Do you see me? Alone, I am resolute Towering sunflowers, Gran’s churned butter dripping from cobs of field-picked corn, Post-it notes and warning signs and egg yolks, the tang of lemon drops, the deep gold of antiquity. Daffodils are stars over prairie wheat fields that move in waves. Blue is my lover Cloudless skies invite my energy, drawing it upward, then the vast expansion of ocean embraces me at dusk, whispers of promises. If I rebuff, I delight in friends— With Ruby, I’m tiger lilies and painted duck lips and bearded dragons and wedding carrots. Jack-O’-Lanterns on porches keeping houses safe. With Cyan, lush grasses, rebirth in spring. Money, financial freedom. Sibling rivalry, the flecks in my father’s eyes, currency to cling to through years passing like yesterday. Iris hides me in chocolate fudge and chestnuts at county fairs, behind locked wooden doors of lost opportunity which helped mold us into who we are today. Forever enchanted with red and orange, I’m the shade of a day-old bruise, the sacrifice of soldiers, a first prom dress sophisticated and elegant, the leathery skin of a plum protecting its juice. Bold with my magenta ally, I’m ALL CAPS, a raging fire, forbidden words. An unproductive heat people warn is best tamed. But there is something about that burn, rising in the crests and falls of tides, which can be channeled to use in constructive ways. My carousel of emotion has no beginning, no end, omnipresent, patterns ever-changing, At times it unmoors, leaving minds blown, uncertain, lonely and afraid Yet when darkness engulfs, fireworks pierce the night. A silver screech, violet, a brilliant blue pop, vibrant hot white, multicoloured stilettos, As you wait for answers, I’ll reach out to give your hand a little squeeze, gently pushing you forward, small steps of courage, Like air and liquid and atoms and cells, all my iterations filling you with wonder. A fierceness Infinite possibilities. Karen is a thriller writer who lives in Toronto. The Dime Box is a story of a young woman accused of murdering her father. It was selected by Amnesty International as part of its 2021 bookclub to represent women's issues, and has recently been sold to Sharp Point Press in Cite Publishing for distribution in Mandarin. A Thousand Iterations of Yellow is her first poem.

A mother’s hands are black from planting bulbs in the crumbling soil of autumn. A bulb is a promise of tomorrow. Mothers do the planting as a vow to get you through to the spring. A mother’s vow is a robin always returning with the thaw to nest in the burst-bloom branches of lilac in the yard. The ground softens to mud and the soil yields the soul of the planted promise. The mother’s hands are black from tending the spring. Mothers do more, much more than just the planting. A word from the author: "The Gardeners" is a loving poem about the often invisible work of mothers.

Some days when my body feels heavy, I leave my heart, dripping on the countertop and walk out into honeyed light, cicada song still thick in the air. In dusty bars I meet people who see the shapes, not the hollows – their laughter colours the dusk. When I grow quiet, I’m thinking of fingertips on membranes leaving an indentation, of the way salt lingers on skin. When the sea laps at the door, I take off my shoes and wade into my water moon. I drink in the type of nostalgia that doesn’t wait for an ending. When I get home it’s always late, no matter the time. I drop my keys into the slick-thick remains of the day, I dip my finger and write wish you were here in the empty space, everything curving under its weight. Catheryne Gagnon (she/her) lives in Tiohtià ke / Montreal and works in communications in the humanitarian field. Her poetry has been published in Black Fox and Quail Bell. When not writing, she can be found tending to her plants, searching for the best window seat at a café or looking for fireflies in dark woods.

5 am, I79 wreck. talk radio. hope-wrangled holidays in scotch-tape and latex gloves, sailing incubators we ride these ill winds cross-country. over the river and through the woods— it’s baked into the very bricks of these houses: you smell the cigarettes before anything else. my dad reaches for his medallion, tiny in his rough fist. “I still get the urge sometimes after all these years” St. Christopher, be our lungs, these faithless martyrs from the dead sea be our house on these hollow hills with foundations crumbling buried brother, be in each boarded-up window by the bridges holy son be here, fugitive from all these plaster angels all these buried altar-bones the remnants of the cars wail past in the rotting tunnel the sea of brakelights part and this bleary miracle sings in my marrow: migration or addiction returning, returning after all these years. geode I wish I could tell you these fissures had lined with gold by now that they seeped amethyst and glow were windows into something blooming But I am a cavern, still, with sickness dripping and things grown used to lightless days feeling their way along the shore I am duller, still, a mausoleum of nascent shinings still in their cradles this fracturing has borne nothing but ravenous daughters who eat me down to my roots When I was a kid I took a chisel to my kneecaps hoping that all the kneeling would carve something precious from the dull ache the rough constancy but, unhollow, there was nothing to unlock Now I look at her, holding her head in her hands like it will crack open and the precious will pour out and I want to tell her that no moss grows on silver and no meaning ought to need a knife to come true that breaking catches us in loops and alchemy is always delayed until tomorrow that I love the dull ordinary sweetness of what is whole more than I could ever love priceless shards the bell tolls (fidelity) the sparrows flow like tributaries of a river, veins from the heartland back to the island no matter how far the journey like once from ancient river valleys our mothers took their broken hearts to know another sky, but show me the way to cross a continent a love to swallow whole, it will sustain me, swear by hollow-boned fidelity that you will return to me, break your promise with the shifting wind vagrant prophets of the Washington highlands who turn tail for the Azores as soon as the onset of winter knocks their broken compasses aright sparrow, for thee, for thee all charts and maps are the soft curve of these headlands, the grassy bluffs the stars in the basin and the sucking, spitting tide the constellation calls us home and the island is unforsaken abundant, enough

Decennial The superstitions I practiced kept me safe. All of the pennies and grains of salt thrown. Every wishbone that broke in my favor rendered me more time. I have been rewarded. A blessing or proof of good karma. What goes around comes around. And it’s finally come around. I want to scream for all I have endured. Roll down the windows and completely deflate my lungs. I am no longer a beacon of distress, a lonely lighthouse counting on my keeper. The waves that sweep the rocks have stopped calling my name. A feeling that’s earned its own decennial. Gone most days and non existent on many. For everything I could’ve been, I had to be sad for awhile. What have I missed while my head was down? Kelsey Lister is an emerging poet currently residing in Alberta, Canada.

Mr. Penny was a retired farmer living on his unkept land on Tibbitts Hill. He didn’t have much beyond his coffee, pipe, and gun. Once known for lively stories down at the bar, Mr. Penny now sits on his porch rocker all day. Ever since the incident, he just sips his coffee, smokes his pipe, and peers past his overgrown field, filled with deserted automobiles, at his old paint-peeling barn. On the rare occasion, a visitor would hail the old farmer. As it happens, today, a sales rep from Tamberlane Supply attempted to sell Mr. Penny on the preventative benefits of a new metal joint lubricant. “Hi, the name’s Chris. Chris Mungalow of Tamberlane Supply, and I would love to show you our exciting new lineup of products, especially for an agricultural expert like yourself!” Chris offered a handshake to Mr. Penny, who just rocked in his chair and puffed on his pipe. The farmer didn’t offer his hand in return, but the salesman powered through with a smile. He looked around and saw the farmer’s large barn in the distance. Pointing at it, Chris continued, “I see your old barn over there, and all old barns got squeaky doors, amirite? We have a new penetrating fluid with very low viscosity. It’ll fix all your hinge-type problems. We could walk over, and I could show you.” “You might not want to do that,” Mr. Penny said to the salesman. Chris looked back, confused, as Mr. Penny took another large puff. “Oh, don’t you worry, I’ve seen some old barns, and trust me, I get that they can get messy. The first thing we gotta do is fix up those hinges. Tamberlane Supply’s new formula will have that old barn just open herself up to you,” Chris remarked with an insincere smile. “Whelp,” Farmer Penny said as he sat up in his chair, “Let me tell you something, farming on this rocky New England soil is something that no one’s ever bragged about. It’s hard. Few crops, difficult summers, and unbearable winters. This used to be a plantation for ships masts, you know? Then, as the wooden ships became less popular, they had to rely on apple and grape vineyards to make ends meet. Which is what I used to do.” “Fascinating story, Mr. Penny,” Chris said as he gestured for the old farmer to stand. “We should go check out that barn now.” The farmer continued, “It all came to an end, though. One morning, hours before that annoying old rooster crowed, I heard a terrible sound coming from the barn. When I opened her up, I couldn’t see nothing but a single small mouse scurrying about. It scampered off deeper into the barn. Then I heard the last squeaks of the rodent, followed by something growling with hunger. I ran outside and quickly shut the door behind me to not let, whatever it was, out.” “Sounds like you got quite the pest problem. Lots of old barns do. You know Tamberlane Supply pest products are offering twelve percent off this month,” Chris suggested as he pulled a can from his bag to show off. Mr. Penny ignored him and raised a hand in the air, “My annoying rooster began to crow not long after. I threw him in the barn to see if it was just my imagination. I just watched through a small crack in the barn door. The rooster just clucked around unbothered. I felt silly. I must’ve just misheard something falling and got scared and confused.” “So I thought to myself, ‘I better get old rooster out of there while he’s still close and don’t have to chase after him.’ Just as I opened the barn door a little wider to grab him, a large lumbering creature rushed forward from the back of the barn. Beyond anything I had ever seen, it was made entirely of frayed flesh. A tattered tapestry floating phantom. Bruised and pale skin that dissolved and reformed into tentacles, antlers, teeth, and eyes.” “I ran out quickly and slammed the door shut. The old rooster crowed in a panic-once, and then was replaced by the sound of chewing. I ran back into the house, grabbed my shotgun and a box full of shells, and called Rufus over.” “Who’s Rufus?” Chris asked. “My dog. Don’t interrupt my story. I grabbed my gun, My hands shook as I loaded it. I headed toward the barn and listened for the creature but heard nothing. I slowly slid the door open with the tip of my gun to look around. Of course, it was dark, I couldn’t see much. I couldn’t hear or see anything, so I sent Rufus in to sniff out whatever it was.” Chris stood staring at the old man, who seemed to have gotten lost in a trance as he looked at the barn. “Suddenly, some strange pallid tentacle flew through the darkness, latched on Rufus, and dragged him into the dark in the back of the barn. All I could hear was Rufus whining. I unloaded two shots in its direction and tried to reload as I backed out from the barn. I couldn’t see or hear Rufus anymore and threw the lock around the door.” “It ate your dog?!” Chris replied and paused a moment. “For more advanced pests, Tamberlane can enlist some local professionals to use our products to help you with the old barn. I’ll even throw in a new padlock.” Mr. Penny ignored him as he continued, “I boarded up the outside and called the sheriff, and I told him, ‘Sheriff Thompson’, I says, ‘get down here. Something horrible is in my barn. It killed and ate Rufus.’ That’s what I told him, and he told me, ‘you got a bear is what you have. You’ll need to call the Regional Department of Fish and Game.’” Mr. Penny took another puff on his pipe and deepened his focus on the barn. “Mr. Penny,” Chris the salesman implored, “Tamberlane Supply would love to do business with you….” “When the local agent from Fish and Game appeared and asked about the bear on the property, I told him, ‘I don’t know what’s in my barn, but that ain’t no bear!’ “’Yup, sure,’ is all the agent told me and made his way to the old barn, where he smelt around. ‘Doesn’t smell like a bear. Are you sure it’s bear?’ The agent asked me. I told him, ‘No, I like I said, it’s not a bear! Something horrible in there ate my dog!’” Chris gave Mr. Penny an annoyed but puzzled expression, “Ya… that’s pretty bad.” “Well then, I gave him the key and made our way to the barn. So he went in and kept sniffing and crying out that he didn’t smell or hear nothing. I just stood outside a moment from fright, but the second I got the courage to follow, all I could hear was some wild cries of the unholy beast salivating over its recent morsel, and I ran back outside again and locked the door.” “Called up the sheriff again. ‘Sheriff Thompson,’ I says. I says, ‘I called the Fish and Game, and who they sent were eaten up in my barn!’ He told me to keep it together and sent his deputy on by the following morning. I just watched from the porch. Ain’t no way I’m going back toward that barn. The deputy asked me where I last saw the agent, and I pointed at the barn and tossed him the keys. He made his way in, then not a minute later, I heard a loud cry from him, just like the Fish and Game agent. All I could do was sip my coffee.” Chris spoke up to get a word in, “I’ve been enjoying the Tamberlane Supply’s Alchemist morning brew myself, and it’s very rich with….” “Once I finished that cup, I gave the sheriff another call. I says to him, ‘Sheriff Thompson, now your deputy is gone too.’ The sheriff huffed on the phone and made his way here. He noticed the deputy’s car and demanded to know where his deputy was. I just pointed to the barn. I told him, ‘It’s not a bear in there, some kind of monster. It doesn’t seem to want to leave. I didn’t see what happened to the agent or the deputy, but I can’t imagine that it was good.’” The salesman tried to interject, “Mr. Penny, I think….” “So the sheriff drew his firearm and headed toward the old barn, and I just focused on drinking my coffee and smoking my pipe. It was about the time I finished my cup that I heard the sheriff’s screaming.” The salesman again tried to interject, “Mr. Penny, I really think Tamberlane Supply….” “Next, I called the state attorney general, only to have the assistant he sent get gobbled up in the barn as well. It wasn’t an hour later that ten state troopers arrived on the scene, all to be directed to the barn. By that evening, the governor had the farm on lockdown. Soon, scientists, federal agents, and people in stiff black suits brought all these vehicles and littered my farm.” “Please, Mr. Penny, the barn?” Chris implored, motioning his body toward the old structure beyond the field of derelict vehicles. “Soon, a plan was hatched. OPERATION NOODLING, they called it. Everyone on the farm, the military, agents, and scientists, would charge the barn at once and overwhelm the creature. Chris opened his mouth to speak. “All of them were gone by morning,” Mr. Penny jutted in. “Just gone?” Chris asked in disbelief. “I mean to say, I didn’t see them the next morning. The only thing left was all their vehicles and equipment. I could only hear their screams as I lay in bed that night. Like the others before, it was filled only with cries of terror and moans of agony. I only heard the cacophony of horrid screaming and gnashing teeth. Blood gargling, desperate cries of being eaten alive over and over throughout the night. Trepidatious lamentations cut short by a vile dark ravenous specter.” Mr. Penny puffed on his pipe and blew out a small ring of smoke, then continued, “All night, I stood at the ready, waiting for death to come out from that barn. Eventually, the sun came up. I stayed in the house all day and night before finally passing out from exhaustion. I ain’t been in the barn since. By and by some government agent made their way here and forced me to sign paperwork saying I saw nothing, and that’s been the end of it.” The salesman watched as the blown smoke ring slowly dissolved in the breeze. “Of course, all that was some years ago, and nothing has happened since. No more agents, no more officers, no more rooster or dog. Since the silence, I’ve sat here on this porch with this rifle and waited for whatever is gonna come out of that barn.” Once the ring dissipated, Chris looked back at the old farmer. Mr. Penny took a small sip of his coffee before speaking again, “But I’m sure it’s gone now, if you’re still interested in testing that there lube on the barn, it’s just passed the sheriff’s car, FBI cruiser, and the Department of Fish and Game van. You can’t miss it.” Chris paused, looked at the barn in the distance, and then back at the farmer sipping from his coffee. C.J. Goodin is author of GRANITE SHORES, a Vocal+ Fiction Award Finalist, and a lover of long walks on the beach

The magic mirrors distort her mind as she follows the words in her head to the merry-go- round where horses race silently to nowhere in the frosted Christmas cake morning. Her smile freezes and shatters in the photo booth. Frozen things break more easily. Nolcha’s poems have been published in Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Alien Buddha Zine, Medusa’s Kitchen, and others. Her chapbooks, “My Father’s Ghost Hates Cats” and “The Big Unda” are available on Amazon. Nominee for 2023 Best of The Net. Editor for Kiss My Poetry. Accidental interviewer. Website: https://bit.ly/3bT9tYu “My Father’s Ghost Hates Cats” https://amzn.to/3uEKAqa “The Big Unda” https://amzn.to/3IxmJhY Twitter: @NolchaF Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/nolcha.fox/

Accubitus (noun) is the state of lying next to another in bed without touching / according to an 1817 medical dictionary / the word sounds like a Saxon virus or cabbalistic chant / Tonight in a quiet house / nine years of marriage / it sounds like us /Accubitus in a four-poster bed / headboard A/ two Cs asleep / U shaped sheet tucked / thick B quilt covering / pillows stacked I high / arms stretched a perfect T / & the lexicon pages flipped to the failure of US Vampire Express You turn around Walk away from your car Go back up the stairs To your lover's apartment & Tell him you need the scissors The sharpest pair To cut from your future The terrible mistakes You are going to make & Cut from the night What’s coming for your throat.

Only Pink Satin Sheets Are Ineffable Only pink satin sheets are ineffable And not hot pink, either, And not pale petal pink, But some other indescribable color like all three, The first two and itself most of all. Come to think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever seen Or felt a pink satin sheet. A roommate of mine once Had a pair of silk pajamas, But they were probably cheap silk. Not satin, anyway. How many other things aren’t ineffable? You know a potato’s not ineffable, Well, it just sits right there and looks at you, With all those stumpy eyes; It doesn’t even know how to look at something Ineffable. I’m getting a little tired of the word, actually, But I’m trying to think, thinking’s hard— A chipmunk’s certainly not ineffable, Although its little thefts and larcenies Might be forbidden; But most people think it’s just cute, So how can it be, you know, the thing, Ineffable. And a gambler isn’t ineffable, Nope, he (she?) effs himself up Right there with the best, So he’s effing invincible he thinks, But that’s not the same thing, Even if he wears satin drawers. No, I just need to get the feel for it That bedside with the indescribables on it, So I can slip and slide off And land in the floor, and say once and for all That was an ineffable experience, And I’m so glad that effing jolt Doesn’t happen every day. The Earth and Our Dark Love (A Pantoume) It is in fall that humans sense most their dark love, Not even winter’s chill approximates our clutch; In autumn, twitt’ring, leaves drop down like dying doves When winter comes, it is but epilogue’s fell touch. Not even winter’s frozen heart can loose our clutch, In snow, in frost, in mud-time, then in green’s own path We’re fools for a sad love; finale’s own fell touch Does not swell passion like prefigured aftermath. Pass snow, pass frost, pass mud-time, then comes green’s own path, With certain melancholies of its own like fall, Its jest: possession, passion and its aftermath For what’s once young, in autumn must bear full recall. And summer’s swelt’ring way, so fond, its own, like fall’s, Must yet await fulfillment from the dark, its trove Of richness waits on autumn’s fruiting, full recall, It is in fall we rape the year with our dark love. Victoria Leigh Bennett, (she/her). Greater Boston, MA area, born WV. Ph.D., English & Theater. In-Print: "Poems from the Northeast," 2021. OOP but on website: "Scenes de la Vie Americaine (en Paris)," [in English], 2022. Website: creative-shadows.com. "Come for the shadows, stay for the read." From Aug. 2021-Nov. 2022, Victoria will have been published at least 25 times in: Roi Faineant Literary Press, Fevers of the Mind Poetry & Art, The Unconventional Courier, Barzakh Magazine, The Alien Buddha Press, The Madrigal Press, Amphora Magazine, Discretionary Love, Winning Writers (requested for 2 newsletters), Cult of Clio. She has been accepted w/4 works for Bullshit Literary Magazine on 4/23. Victoria writes Fiction/Flash/CNF/Essays/Poetry. She is the organizer behind the poets' collective @PoetsonThursday on Twitter along with Alex Guenther & Dave Garbutt. Twitter: @vicklbennett. Victoria is emotionally & ocularly disabled.

My older brother and I were brought up in constant intoxication-fueled chaos. And as siblings with traumatic upbringings often do, we developed almost opposite strategies of coping with what we were powerless to change. He sought to befriend everyone and perform for no one, while I sought to befriend no one and perform for everyone. Deep down, however, what we both wanted was to be pleasing enough to others to avoid altercations of every kind. A natural performer like myself quickly learns the value of risking his own well-being. Because frankly, if someone is otherwise indifferent to our existence, without an element of personal sacrifice or danger, they probably will not pay much attention to what we are doing to amuse them. Until my twelfth birthday, I mostly entertained others by exhibiting violent behavior in non-violent sports, following through on almost anything that anyone ever dared me to do, and performing dangerous stunts inspired by a movie I greatly admire called Jackass with my brother as the silent and disapproving cameraman. Then, at my twelfth birthday party, my grandpa bestowed me with a privilege that would alter the course of my life, allowing me the honor of setting off an enormous box of illegal fireworks he had brought home from a recent business trip to North Carolina. That night, I set them off in the most entertaining and performative manner possible, proudly aware that much of my drunk and usually disinterested family was watching my every move. The next day, I accepted my inability to drive out of state and began browsing the internet for step-by-step instructions on making exhilarating homemade explosives. The first promising example I found of this appeared only to require a little tape and a lot of sparklers to assemble. But after hastening to a nearby store and attempting to buy all the sparklers my birthday money could afford, the cashier informed me that I needed a parent or guardian present for her to sell me such a thing. And although this made me inordinately upset, I returned home and recommenced combing through the internet’s seemingly infinite search results until finally coming across another possible solution. So when my parents left for work the following morning, I returned to the same store and bought enough tinfoil and toilet bowl cleaner to supply even the most wasteful household for several decades. I built and exploded a practice bomb before boasting about it to my brother and exploding another to prove I was no liar. And for a long time after that, scarcely a day of summer vacation passed without me building a bigger bomb and detonating it in front of a larger crowd. Eventually, however, I ran out of materials and money. Then I started fooling around with homemade flamethrowers until I had entirely depleted my dad’s supply of spray paint and my brother’s supply of body spray. Then, as it was the only highly flammable material I could still get my hands on without stealing from someone outside my immediate family, I started experimenting with gasoline. And this, I swiftly discovered, is a particularly unsafe substance and thus advantageous for putting on public shows. I invited every neighborhood kid somewhat near my age to watch what would be my most daring spectacle to date. The show was to consist of many carefully planned tricks. And for the grand finale, I built a bike ramp using three cinderblocks and a relatively sturdy piece of plywood. Maybe two feet in front of that, I positioned a bucket half full of gasoline. I planned to dip a small twig in the bucket before hurrying back to my bike and setting it on fire. Then, after pedaling down a slight hill and hitting the ramp at high speeds, I would- while in mid-air- drop the burning twig into the bucket and pass harmlessly through the massive resulting fireball. My performance got off to a wildly successful start, inspiring an unprecedented turnout and earning applause breaks following each dramatic moment. Nevertheless, almost immediately after my bike’s back tire left the ramp for the grand finale, gravity brought it down on the far portion of the bucket’s rounded rim, which I had intended on clearing with ease, and sent me crashing unexpectedly to the ground. This drenched much of my left arm and chest in gasoline before the burning twig suddenly ignited everything and, for some time, rendered me a desperately screaming and difficult-to-extinguish individual. After my first and most excruciatingly painful week of many bedridden months spent recovering from severe burns, my ever-thoughtful and deeply loving brother brought me what was perhaps his most prized possession: all thirteen books of A Series of Unfortunate Events. And forty days after apathetically opening the front cover of The Bad Beginning, I appreciatively closed the back cover of The End. These books afforded my young mind its first experiential evidence suggesting the lasting and inexplicable impact a writer’s story can have on a reader’s heart and soul. And it was this slight accumulation of this newfound knowledge, in fact, that prompted my immediate assumption of a new identity with another purpose to move my near-unchangeable self forward, hopefully away from the blistering flames that forged it. Chester Holden is from Cambridge Springs, Pennsylvania. His writing has been published or is forthcoming in Door is a Jar, Across the Margin, The Bear Creek Gazette, The Helix, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Lit Camp, Primeval Monster, Alien Buddha, and others.