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Misericordia To speak respectfully of the dead is to not speak of knowing that they’re damned. To go home again and find the front door open, the light on in the kitchen, the pattern on the table, the old picture on the wall. There’s a broken mirror on the floor, a hundred different pictures of the paradise and the fall. Anything else is a sunken ship - everything else is a sunken ship, a ship we sank with rocks. That pattern on the table, that picture on the wall, waiting there for the apology, knowing no one will ever call. Misericordia (#2) I saw a precious and singular boy in a motorized wheelchair leaning out to catch a snowflake on his tongue. I would never trade places with him. I understood that there was purity in his joy, and that in my margins, and in my money, in my jack and coke, and pussy too, in victory, even, I have none of that. Ritual at night at night two men fight inside the circle of light made by a fire. the witches, two sisters, chanting and swaying, watching, not praying, wait, just out of sight. Southern Cross There is, in the last picture she sent me, something in the curve of her lower lip, in her half-smile, all there ever is of loving. There is, in a museum, a picture I saw as a child of a woman in a blue dress. She holds the hem of her skirt bunched above her knees in one hand, stooping over to pick up seashells with the other. She is barefoot on the wet sand left by the retreating tide, her face hidden in the shade of her white bonnet, and I had, for many years, wondered who she was. You can find Steve Passey @SuperHeavy666.

CW: Implied violence I lean out from the wooden porch railing. Dry flakes of white lead paint chip off and mix with the sweat under my grip. When I let go and jump, the wind promises to lift me into the sky, far above the house shingled in gray asbestos tiles, above the tar rooftops and hills thick with Virginia pine. I soar, leaving behind the shattered wine bottle. Leaving behind the sound of frozen meatloaf slammed, with my mother’s two hands and tears, onto the kitchen table. But gravity is stronger than all the hope in my 10-year-old body, and the ground reminds me I can’t fly. The hard shells of black walnuts leave scratches and bruises on my arms. Soft grass stains the knees of my pants. Jim Almo (he/him) is a southern writer and musician living in the northeast. He grew up in a religious cult in the Appalachian mountains, which you can read about in his memoir if he ever finishes it. He is a verified coffee nerd, former touring drummer, and loves to cook vegetarian dinners with his wife and two teen boys. You can find his work in CP Quarterly, JMWW, Anti-Heroin Chic and now Roi Fainéant Press. He's also on Twitter @jimalmo.

The American Beauty at Sunset He liked to be called “Daddy.” And in his rose garden The same petalled, arrogant aristocrats that bloomed In his brother’s award-winning garden in Florida. Giving their names, he led me, wondering little upstart myself, Around the world of worship, the mulch, the patient picking off Of Japanese beetles, the lethal sprays we tried not to inhale (But who knew about such things then?) The fertilizing feedings, all patient panoply attached to flowery faces. In awkward attempts at courtship of an impatient child, he would say, “Here! This is your flower—the American Beauty—the deep pinky-red; That’s you, you’re an American Beauty.” But I, wayward and disinclined, said, “No, I want to be this one! What’s this called? This yellowy-orange with orange-red edges?” “Oh no!” he said every time, tailoring truth to our ritual. “That’s the Sunset Rose!” You’re too young, your life is still at daybreak, dear, the dawn!” And I, chanting, “Sunset! Sunset! Sunset!” stomped along flowery fortresses Just shorter than I, for that was the game, the game we played, As if two teams might be declared, one a home team, the other not, The American Beauty at Sunset. Wishes have a way of being overheard, Whether capricious charms or not. Before I was in my teens, he was dead, His roses, too, no one to tend them; he was overcome by sunset, And I without anyone to call me an American beauty at all. Of Drunk Turkeys and Dead Squirrels The women of the family, dour about their daily chores Excited the male fabling tendency: the women did odd things, Were strangely uninformed where it could count. The men, while celebrating fine cookery, clean living, All the commonplace female virtues of the time, Enjoyed twitting in story and tale the women who served them Without complaint. On one side of the family were the famed female grape wine makers, The ones not au courant of wildlife outside, who Threw their used (alcohol-infused) grape skins over the hill When they were done distilling the precious wine. And how should they know that a flock of hungry turkeys Would land there in the night, gobbling up grape skins Then passing out stone cold, like a passel of drunks? Well, the women only knew the next morning, they came out to find Seeming dead turkeys, feathers a prize for the plucking, Since, as the wise women counseled each other, Turkeys already dead weren’t safe to eat—well, what if They were diseased? Did they not feel a response as they plucked And plucked, happy to have a whole flight of feathers for pillows And tick mattresses? No sign of hearts slowly beating, No stray turkey call or protest? But they plucked, and left the turkeys outside for the men to bury. What sent the men into belts of laughter the next morning Was the sight of thirty or so naked turkeys waddling and calling in distress, And the women might scold the joke but weren’t allowed to live it down. There story ends. And at suppers and get-togethers, the men On the family’s other side had their own “wrong-headed females” tale to tell, Though shorter. Tale was, two women, sisters, were chasing a squirrel Away from a picnic it was marauding. One bravely drew the derringer Her husband had got her for protection from local thieves, Lately the invaders of homes and barns. She shot once, twice, But only wounded the warring rodent, and he sent up unholy shrieks, Darting in and out around his would-be killer’s feet. This made the women cry, and grieve. Taking counsel of each other, They picked up two sticks and tried to beat him to death So that he might die more quickly and cease his hideous howls. Male amusement, female fussing at the story, our ancestors’ ancient bonds. When You’ve Got to Go There “Uncle Porter,” the old relatives, sedate but careful, Gossiped to my mother in front of me, “was a Pinkerton Man.” “He went to the door one day,” they glanced over at me, To where I was hugging Aunt Cora’s kitten around its neck for dear life, Then spoke again, soft words, hard meanings, “and he left and didn’t come back.” The kitten mewed, and I put it down, watching it dart, fleas and all, Back under Aunt Cora’s outside porch. Crouching down, I could see a green, unrepentant, unwinking stare looking out my way. “Later, about twenty years later,” I heard behind me on the porch, In hushed tones to which I found myself now listening, too, “He came back one day. Just out of the clear blue!” My mother expressed the expected awe and surprise, Though every time we saw Aunt Cora, we heard something of Uncle Porter. “And he walked up and knocked at Loreen’s door, and your Aunt Loreen just said, ‘Porter,’ and held the door open for him.” “I guess they were very funny people, not like us,” responded my mother. “Well, you know, Porter drank,” Aunt Cora said, mentioning the mild scandal. She had signed the pledge at fifteen, And never took more than a taste at evening Of her own homemade parsnip wine. “But Loreen wasn’t one to hold grudges. And anyway,” Aunt Cora wound up, Putting the point to the discussion with her usual resort To “old ettered sayings,” “Home is a place where, when you’ve got to go there, they’ve got to take you in.” Victoria Leigh Bennett (she/her). Greater Boston, MA area, born WV. Ph.D. Website: creative-shadows.com. "Come for the shadows, stay for the read." In-Print: "Poems from the Northeast," 2021; "Scenes de la Vie Americaine (en Paris)," [in English], 2022. Between Aug. 2021-Sept. 2022, Victoria will have published at least 21 times with: @olympiapub, @press_roi, @thealienbuddha, @AmphoraMagazine, @barzakhmag, @madrigalpress, @LovesDiscretion, @winningwriters, @cultofclio. Current WIP: 9th Novel/CNF/Fiction/Poetry. Twitter: @vicklbennett. Victoria is disabled.

It has been 22 3 months and I wake up incredulous with you again (like you used to, actually), but I’ll love you again by lunch; then they’ll be a tossing confusion (this is stronger when I’m hungover), but after a sandwich it’ll be greeting card love again: tidy and ignorant; then I’ll talk to you in my head, or argue with, laugh at, torment you (but you’re really tormenting me, aren’t you?), then it’ll be that bottom-line love again; and it’s testing and toing and froing, and it ain’t achieving a lot, and it ain’t poetic, and it’s probably unhealthy (probably medicalisable, too, along with all their rest – I mean, look at the state of this). Ashley is 33-year-old writer in Bristol, UK. He has been writing in the dark for years but is finally emerging as a poet, performer and poetry event host. He can be found at www.ashleydunnwriting.co.uk or @ashleydwriting on Instagram.

In the still of the night snow accumulated swiftly—a gift from the heavens—undisturbed by adults who did not appreciate its unique beauty, and mischievous children who did not understand that it served as a protective blanket of white Mother Nature lovingly crafted with icy precision, intended to protect the dormant ground beneath it until Spring emerged, reborn, bringing with it welcome warmth, along with a multitude of bright, inviting colors. A new beginning… * * * It had already been snowing for several hours when Kevin Wilson yawned, scratched his head, sat up in bed, and looked out his bedroom window, squinting against the blinding glare, an endless sheen, cold yet appealing, full of untapped potential; the backyard had been transformed into an immaculate, white landscape beyond compare. Downy, white flakes continued to fall, accumulating rapidly. He bounded out of bed and went into the living room. “Morning, Mom. Is school canceled?” Kevin crossed his fingers. Bleary-eyed, his mother, Susan looked up from her MacBook Pro propped on the breakfast nook and yawned. “Yes, you can go back to sleep if you want to, Kevin. I really wish I could crawl back into bed and spend the day snuggled under the covers, safe and warm, binge-watching Netflix on my iPad, but I have work to do.” She turned her attention back to her laptop, summoned by the never-ending ding of incoming emails. “Clients expect me to meet their deadlines, no matter what the weather…That’s what keeps food on the table and a roof over our heads since Dad died. Remember that.” “I know, Mom. You remind me all the time, ‘I’ve got the weight of the world on my shoulders.’ I get it—work comes first. .” He sighed. “That’s my boy.” She went over to the coffee pot for a much-needed refill, ruffling his spiky, brown hair along the way. “I know it’s not ideal, but that’s just the way things are. Thanks for understanding—it really means a lot.” Kevin nodded eagerly. “But who can sleep when there’s snow on the ground?! Looks like four inches so far. Not great, but it’s a good start. I’d better get out there while the snow’s still perfect—it won’t stay that way forever.” Kevin's dark blue eyes glistened, cold and crisp, a stark contrast to the freshly fallen snow outside. “You’re sixteen, aren’t you too old to play in the snow? Haven’t you got better things to do, like homework? You could straighten up your room for a change—it’s a total pigsty—there’s so many dirty clothes in there I can’t see the floor.” “Aw, Mom I already finished my homework, and don’t you think my chores can wait until later? I don’t mean to be so sloppy. Look, I’ll clean my room later. Scout’s honor. Just let me go outside and be a kid in the snow while it’s still pure—it will be ruined when people start walking their dogs.” Kevin’s mother glanced at her watch. “Deal. It’s only seven-thirty. At least eat something, so you’ll have plenty of energy for your snowy shenanigans…” “ It’s the best time to go sledding, when everyone else is still asleep and I can have the snow all to myself.” Kevin winked, poured a glass of cold water straight from the tap and grabbed a banana from the counter, nearly overripe, its yellow peel marred by brown spots. And, making an effort, he put his dirty glass in the dishwasher and tossed the banana peel in the trash without being asked. “You actually cleaned up after yourself for once!” Her voice softened. “Come in for lunch at noon. I’ll have your favorite, cream of tomato soup and a grilled cheese on sourdough waiting.” He grabbed his jacket, hat and gloves from the hooks hanging on the living room way on his way out the front door. “That sounds great, Mom. I’ll probably be ravenous by then. Don’t work too hard. Try to do something fun.” “Easier said than done. I’m on a tight deadline. Time is money,” his mother muttered, hunched over her laptop, feverishly updating a client website. “Don’t eat any yellow snow.” Susan looked up from her screen and realized she was talking to herself. Kevin went around to the side of the house, opened the heavy garage door, which wobbled and squeaked on its tracks—I really need to fix that for Mom with some WD-40 later—and struggled to retrieve his rickety Flexible Flyer from the corner crammed grappling with an unruly heap of gardening equipment: rakes, shovels, gardening hoes, a broken lawn mower, a bright red snow blower, and two half-empty plastic jugs of gasoline; everything came tumbling down with a spectacular clatter, luckily nothing broke, a veritable deathtrap, despite his efforts to keep things organized. Messes seemed to follow him everywhere, unavoidable, like his shadow. Stepping carefully over the carnage, he walked up the driveway, pulling the sled behind him, it bounced across the snow beneath his feet, and down to the end of his block, with a spring in his step, whistling “Let it Snow” as he went. Out the window Mrs. Wilson saw her son bundled up in a light blue, down jacket, well-worn jeans with holes at the knees, a matching hat, gloves, and Moon Boots. She watched him trudge through the snowy backyard—getting smaller and smaller—until he seemed to fade away, dwindling down to a microscopic spec, an unwelcome blemish on an otherwise pristine landscape. * * * The whipping, winter wind smacked Kevin in the face like an invisible punch from a formidable, illusive opponent. Stunned, he shook his head, squinted to protect his eyes from the punishing, near white-out conditions, blinked, and surveyed his sparse surroundings: cars parked in driveways, cloaked in white; tiny paw-prints from a cat or a small dog on the snow-covered road sullying hallowed ground; morning papers wrapped in red plastic by a dutiful paperboy, so they wouldn’t be overlooked later by groggy customers hastily clearing the snow with shovels or snow blowers on their way to work; everything looked new shrouded in white. Kevin still had the solitary snowscape to himself, and it beckoned with dire urgency, as if sensing its fleeting existence. He marveled at the sheer beauty of it all. He brushed large, heavy flakes from his face for a clear boy’s-eye view. The neighbors were just starting their day—taking advantage of the storm to have a leisurely breakfast with their better half and kids—before braving the elements to earn their keep. The lights on in surrounding homes made that obvious—and that was fine with him. Kevin inhaled the crisp air as snowflakes tickled his nose. Snow fell silently around him, accumulating quickly, like sand through an hourglass. He felt like a boy caught in a snow globe—alone but not lonely—free to explore the treacherous terrain at his own perilous pace. There were no clear boundaries, a regular free-for-all. He bounced on the balls of his feet, excited as a little boy on Christmas morning greeted by the stunning sight of all the Christmas presents nestled under the tree, his for the taking. The snow crunched under foot like broken glass; it gave way easily, a silent sudden collapse that caught him off guard, he lost his balance for a moment, but managed to get a firm foothold on the solid ground underneath. He walked over to a chain link fence that surrounded Sunken Meadow State Park. A white metal sign bolted to the fence will dark green lettering proclaimed: Welcome to Sunken Meadow State Park. Hours of operation: 9:00 AM – 8:00 PM. A huge padlock secured the front gate—that’s what he got for being an early riser. Out of the corner of his eye he spied a crude opening further down in the fence. Kevin loved a challenge. He shoved the sled in first and made his way through the haphazard hole, made by a stray dog or raccoon, no doubt. Slightly startled by the ordeal yet still fearless, he paused at the top of a steep hill and surveyed the rugged terrain, plotting the best route. He had the hill all to himself. Nothing could be finer. Barren, crooked branches rattled like bones in the whipping winter wind overhead. Kevin hoisted the sled upright and tested the steering mechanism; it was a little rusty, herky-jerky at best, not as flexible as it used to be; he hoped it would do the trick. He hopped on, grabbed the piece of wood in front that resembled the wing of the Wright Brothers’ plane, and leaned forward. The Flexible Flyer flew downhill at its usual brisk pace, giving him a taste of the wind as he watched the desolate nature preserve speed by in one big blur. The snowbank at the bottom that stopped the sled and broke his fall was the only part of the ride Kevin saw clearly. The rusty blades sliced through the snow, leaving a crude, maroon trail in their wake, an indelible mark. Tainted tracks that blazed a trail to the mischievous, meddling boy making a mountain out of a molehill. The wind howled in protest. Sleet pelted his rosy cheeks. Kevin yelped in pain and wiped his face with the back of a gloved hand to stop the burning sensation, but he refused to heed Mother Nature’s harsh warning. That’s when his face began to sting and then become numb. Slightly bruised, he got up and dusted himself off before pulling the Flexible Flyer by the double-knotted string tied to both ends of the steering mechanism for the treacherous trek uphill. He paused halfway to catch his breath. He stared at the trademark tracks in the snow and grinned, not realizing that he destroyed what Mother Nature worked hard to protect. Kevin continued his journey to the top—King of the Mountain—paused to kick a pile of snow that seemed to be piling up faster than the rest. Curious, he bent down for a closer look and noticed a snowball the size of a quarter on the ground. The boy stomped on it without giving it much thought. He set his Flexible Flyer on the ground and sped towards the snowbank, like an arrow locked on a target. Afterward, Kevin picked up his sled, brushed the snow off his jeans, and headed uphill again. He paused at the top to examine the spot where he had squashed the snowball. The snowball was now as big as a baseball on the rebound. Kevin blinked, shook his head, and saw that it had vanished. Poof! He shrugged it off. Kevin hopped on the sled again and sped down the hill at record speed; he hit the bank hard. It took him a couple of minutes to get his bearings…When Kevin looked down, astounded, he saw a snowball as big as a basketball in front of him. Watching. Waiting. He blinked, and it disappeared. Why do I keep seeing a snowball? He scratched his head, confused but not the least bit concerned. My mind must be playing tricks on me… Determined to ignore the rematerializing snowball, Kevin re-packed the snowbank so he wouldn’t crash smack-dab into the unforgiving metal fence beyond. Mother Nature’s initial warning clearly wasn’t forceful enough: Kevin looked up and noticed that the white sphere he was trying so hard to ignore had somehow grown again, like a beach ball being inflated by an unseen pump and was now the size of a small child. Kevin pulled off a glove and touched it tentatively. The snowball felt very wet, with the slightly sticky texture of cholate chip cookie dough; tasted exactly like the Sno Cones he’d had at the Fireman’s Fair last July, without the fruit flavoring, light, fluffy, refreshing. His curiosity satisfied, Kevin wiped his wet fingers on his jacket and shoved his gloves back on. He looked at the sky and saw that the snow had turned into rain. Damn! This means I'll have to stop soon! I can still get a few runs in if I hurry! Kevin sped through the rapidly evolving mess of snow and slush as fast as his Flexible Flyer would allow, which wasn’t very fast at all; the sled came to a screeching halt before he hit the snowbank. He felt cheated. Kevin looked up five minutes later and saw snow falling. Awesome! Maybe the rain that fell will freeze so the hill will be twice as fast! Ice is nice! Kevin trudged uphill, testing the snow as he went. He almost slipped on a patch of fresh ice at the top, but he caught himself at the last second. He set his Flexible Flyer down, got on, and prepared for another run. Kevin paused to check behind him. The snowball had returned; now it was the size of a Honda. Mother Nature was seething: She sent a snowball after him. It knocked him off his Flexible Flyer. He hit the ground, hard. When he came to, Kevin was aware of three things: His neck was soaked, ; it was after him. The snowball was after him though he had no idea why; and he wouldn’t be able to go too far without being threatened by it. Kevin decided to tackle the hill one last time. Mother Nature refused to let this unruly boy inflict anymore damage. Enough was enough. When he checked behind him for a snowball, he was not disappointed; now, the sphere had grown to the size of a house. It seemed to be glaring at him. He screamed, jumped on the sled, and flew down the hill at breakneck speed. The snowball gave chase, rapidly gaining momentum, gathering snow and jagged ice shards along the way. Seconds later, Kevin's muffled scream came from the confines of the great white sphere consumed by the blinding glare—an endless sheen—frozen in time, but no one was around to hear it. Amy Grech has sold over 100 stories to various anthologies and magazines including: A New York State of Fright, Apex Magazine, Even in the Grave, Gorefest, Hell’s Heart, Hell’s Highway, Hell’s Mall, Microverses, Needle Magazine, Punk Noir Magazine, Tales from the Canyons of the Damned, The One That Got Away, Under Her Skin, Yellow Mama, and many others. Amy is an Active Member of the Horror Writers Association and the International Thriller Writers who lives in New York. You can connect with her on Twitter: https://twitter.com/amy_grech or visit her website: https://www.crimsonscreams.com.

well, I see the sky over Ireland or maybe marble markings from Connemara goat hide as tight as a fiddle string makes a sound i heard before I had ears i know my hands shake themselves, now- and i see better with both my eyes closed. (wandering… through fields of planted music it’s seed inside the soul/soil of a fertile mind) so do you! I may forget my name soon. a used clock beats on the face of the moon. i travel by wrist. you can hear me leave. Ted Naylon Sr. is a writer and poet from Rochester, New York. He has written a novel, an Irish/American folktale “We the Wee” that can be found on Amazon.

For some, war is just academic, just breasts popping out of white flowing dresses as women raise one arm in gorgeous distress, just people falling in romantic repose, just wounds that barely mar flesh and cosmic justice from the gods, until (that is) they see what it is for themselves, until they bleed and watch others, brutal and horrific. Only, David kept up this painting style even after he’d watched Robespierre guillotine, even after he’d helped him, after listening to the music of screams while blood clotted on Parisian streets. He was there and still painted it beautiful, not grim. John Brantingham was Sequoia and Kings Canyon National Parks’ first poet laureate. His work has been featured in hundreds of magazines. He has nineteen books of poetry and fiction includinghis latest, Life: Orange to Pear (Bamboo Dart Press). He lives in Jamestown, New York.

No law can make a law do what you want. Ban alcohol, and still, good men will drink. The wisest words drown in the strongest font. Even Eve felt an edict was a taunt. That NO was only glitter on the slink. No law can make a law do what you want. LeBron wore $20k Yves St Laurent, and Dan selected Comic Sans to ink his jilted rant. No words beat that sad font. What's bountied is what's farmed, so cobras haunt the Ghats, and Belgium washes in its sink too many hands. The laws do what they want. We love the way monks drew their As, “Avaunt, adulteress!” Yet now we watch and wink. Our priests, also, are weaker than their font. Ketubahs, invitations, halls, all flaunt wealth and will, while champagne glasses clink. But laws cannot make laws do what you want. So many words are weaker than their font. Frank Brunner lives in the Adirondack Mountains with his wife, children, and a giant Newfoundland dog. He teaches physics. Occasionally, the Newfie accompanies Frank into class and does a spectacular job of demonstrating inertia. Frank's poetry has appeared in Mobius, Pulsebeat Poetry, Fiery Scribe, and elsewhere.

The plane swayed a little, and Leena steadied herself against the small bathroom sink. The ground beneath her felt sticky. Her reflection always felt familiar on flights, with cracked concealer applied at ungodly hours illuminated under the stark light. A few wiry grey hairs had escaped from her ponytail, and she tucked them gingerly behind her ears. If she’d had more time, Leena would have snuck away for a fresh cut and colour before making the journey to see Atif’s parents. Instead, she simply pulled on a clean t-shirt and leggings and focused her energy on dressing Zoya instead. Atif insisted they put her in the lace-trimmed dress Atif’s mother had sent them, even though Leena thought the fabric looked scratchy. Leena unlocked the toilet door and walked back to her seat. There was Zoya, sitting on Atif’s lap like a docile paperweight. Before Leena could settle back into her seat, Atif was already holding Zoya out towards her, a small stream of viscous saliva hanging from her rosebud lips. Leena placed her gently on her lap and clumsily weaved the small infant seatbelt through her own. She watched as Atif turned and closed his eyes once more, his small head lolling with each bout of turbulence. Before long he was asleep again. They had taken this very same flight from Melbourne to Dubai multiple times before, but this time was different. Leena had so far only been able to watch fifteen minutes of a film, even though it had been hours since they’d taken off through rain-bearing clouds. Months earlier, when Leena gave birth, she was almost alone. Atif stood beside her blinking rapidly at the doctor and midwives as though he was trying to communicate in morse code. Every time they shouted for Leena to push, he flinched, like a racehorse being whipped. Leena wished she could ask him to leave the room. ‘There was so much blood on the floor,’ he told her later. ‘It looked like an abattoir’. If she had gotten pregnant years earlier-as Atif’s family had wished and prayed for- there wouldn’t have been any travel bans. There would have been a small crowd in the hospital waiting room. Her mother, his parents and brother all there, clutching kitschy stuffed toys and oversized helium balloons. Instead, they announced her birth on the family WhatsApp chat, whilst a midwife in a patterned surgical mask hovered around them asking if she was pronouncing Zoya’s name correctly. The day after she gave birth, Leena’s ankles tripled in size. The sudden swelling alarmed her. Her doctor explained it was postpartum edema. An excess fluid caused by progesterone. It had travelled south, down her body, settling into that space. ‘It’ll be gone before you know it,’ he patted her shoulder. Leena stared across at Zoya’s tiny body, wrapped tightly, in the cot beside her. She thought about the water swimming around her ankles and wondered if it was murky. She imagined it evaporating bit by bit as night turned into day. When it was time to go home, Atif signed some forms in a perfunctory fashion. They bundled Zoya into a brand-new stroller and left the hospital quietly. They brought her home to their small apartment and watched as she slept, woke and fed. Days bled into nights then circled back again. The clock always told a different time, yet the numbers suddenly felt arbitrary. Leena filled paper-lined drawers with clothes for Zoya and wore the same billowing maxi dress day after day. When Atif returned to work two weeks later, Leena’s left eye began to twitch. The turbulence finally began to settle, and the seatbelt sign was turned off. Leena unclipped the infant seatbelt, followed by her own and stood up. She held Zoya close to her chest and jostled her slightly, willing her to sleep. Wasn’t the plane supposed to emulate white noise? A lithe woman in a matching sweatsuit roamed restlessly down the aisle, a metallic water bottle hanging listlessly from her fingertips. Atif’s face was still burrowed into the side of his seat. His sleep so solid; Leena was sure he’d wake with abstract imprints scattered across his face. When they slept, they looked identical. Father and baby both with slim noses and thick lashes. During video calls, Atif’s mother always asked Leena to show her all angles of Zoya’s face. ‘Turn the phone this way, that way, oh how she is a mini Atif, a little Atif here for us all,’ she would surmise. Leena couldn’t disagree. The more Leena swayed the more Zoya’s eyes began to bow wearily and soon she was asleep. Leena sat down slowly, holding Zoya steadily against her chest. A flight attendant walked down the aisle, carrying a basket full of mini tubs of ice cream and apples. The ornate wicker basket looked to be something out of a children’s fairy tale. Leena eyed the ice cream longingly, thought about the logistics and realized it would be impossible to eat with one hand. ‘No ice cream for me unfortunately,’ Leena gave a tight-lipped smile. ‘Red or green apple?’ the attendant said cheerfully. The lights in the plane dimmed and Leena decided to watch the rest of the movie she had started earlier. Zoya was still asleep, splayed across her chest, breathing gently. Leena carefully reached for the headphones and pressed play on the remote. She felt her shoulders loosen. It was a Bollywood movie, and the costumes were ornate. Tight lehengas and choli’s as short as sport’s bras. Leena vowed she would start exercising again. Soon, once Zoya was a little older. Once she was in day-care eating small squares of fruit and stacking blocks methodically, only to then knock them down. The main actors launched into a musical sequence. Leena sung silently to herself and imagined moving to the choreography, swaying slightly. The music encased her. Her eyelids felt heavy, pinned down by exhaustion. Then, there was darkness. A distant sound echoed in her mind. When she woke, her neck was stiff. She turned to Atif and saw his body contorted to the side as it had always been, his gentle snores dipping and peaking. Leena rubbed her eyes with both hands. Both, free to wipe congealed sleep away. Panic filled her. There were credits rolling on the screen. She looked down in her lap and saw a green apple. ‘Zoya, Zoya, Zoya,’ Leena whispered hurriedly. Zoya who had only recently begun crawling, in what was more an army drag along the floor. Leena turned her seat light on and looked by her feet. Nothing. She reached her hand out to shake Atif awake and then retracted it. No, she would find Zoya before he woke. She felt the space around Atif’s feet, moving the blanket, searching underneath it. She jumped up and felt a sickness swell in her stomach. An old woman in the seat adjacent was fast asleep, a dull grey eye mask fitted over her supple face. Leena walked down the aisle hunched, her eyes scanning every inch of the floor in the dim light. A used tissue, a rumpled packet of peanuts. ‘Zoya, Zoya,’ she hissed with urgency. Then suddenly she heard it, a gurgle, a high-pitched squeal. A baby in a fancy scratchy dress on the ground, tugging at a sleeping man’s shoelaces with open curiosity. Leena swooped in and picked Zoya up. In the arrivals area Atif’s family stood with a large pink stuffed bear in tow, a shaky Z stitched onto its belly. Leena and Atif walked out, carrying the weariness of travel with them. Leena approached Atif’s mother and held Zoya out in front of her chest, as though she was presenting a bouquet of flowers. Atif’s mother’s eyes widened. ‘My mini Atif,’ she crooned as she had done through the screen many times before. Leena thrust Zoya closer still and Atif’s mother hunched a little, taking a few short steps back. ‘Not right now Leena, wait until Mum is home and sitting, her back, remember?’ Atif rushed forward into the space between them. Atif’s mother smiled, a glint in her eye. They walked towards the exit, one after the other, like a line of dutiful ants. Leena balanced Zoya in one arm and her oversized handbag in the other. Full of bottles and nappies and green and red apples. Faiza has a Pakistani background, was born and raised in Perth, Western Australia and currently splits her time between Australia & Hong Kong. With a Masters in Psychology, she has always been incurably obsessed with stories. Her writing has appeared in places like Djed Press, Portside Review, Indian Review, Burnt Roti Magazine, and elsewhere. She was shortlisted for the 2018 ‘Stuart Hadow Short Story Prize’. You can find her on Twitter @AllesFaiza

October, seven months after the world stopped, I walk the path by heart. To my left, the river reflects a chalk blue sky as leaves ripple lemon and crimson. Through a canopy of uprooted trees, Canadian geese squawk overhead. A grandfather fishes in a storm drainoff, chatters in Mandarin to a child on a tricycle. To my right, a used car lot, a dog kennel where barking never ceases, the faint thump of rap from a passing car. I pull my jacket close. Years ago we walked here, you racing ahead as I seethed. Then with another, boots trudging through fresh snow, warm cheek to frozen nose. I shut it all out, snap photos by the water’s edge. The wooden decks, bare and grafittied, where homeless pause with brimming shopping carts to watch mallards swim amidst the coke cans and sudsy debris. Then, a shiver of sound. A gray squirrel framed in evergreen, claws gripping bark inches from my face. Rounded ears alert, eyes black and twitching, an enormous peanut tucked in its jaws. For several seconds I hold my breath, watching its tail flutter in the breeze. A crow’s caw ends our staring contest. It scurries up a branch, sole witness to our moment of startled peace. Phyllis Rittner loves all things flash. Her work can be found in the Paper Dragon, Versification, Friday Flash Fiction, Fairfield Scribes, Six Sentences and others. She is a member of The Charles River Writer’s Collective and can be reached on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/phyllis.rittner

We’re walking down a narrow alley when the people on the balconies above us begin to applaud. Not sure why we might be so entertaining, yet feeling magnanimous on our vacation, I take a bow. “You should bow too,” I tell my brother. “Why are they clapping?” he says. “Maybe it’s some sort of tradition,” I say. “Perhaps the local custom dictates that when people on their balconies observe the entertaining passersby, it is polite to voice one's appreciation.” That’s when we see the first bull running towards us, and then the next one, and dozens more after that. Naturally, we run for our lives, until we find a doorway we can duck inside and let the bulls flow past. I’m desperately ringing the bell while my brother is pounding the door with his fists, but no one answers. Instead, the people on the balcony directly opposite call down to us. “What are you doing?” they ask. “Why aren’t you running instead of skulking in that doorway while the opportunity to show your courage is all around you?” The people on the balcony laugh. “Come on, show your bravery!” “Maybe they keep their bravery in that little bag of theirs, what is it called?” “A fannypack!” “How much bravery can they have in there, it is so small! No wonder they do not wish to run.” “Why aren’t you down here with us then?” my brother yells back up at them. “There’s plenty of cattle to go around.” “Oh no,” one of them says. “The bulls are just for the tourists.” “It’s in all the guidebooks!” another says. “Why are you here if not to run with the bulls?” “Your website says this town is world-renowned for its many charming vegetarian restaurants,” I say. “And your archaeology museum,” my brother says. “It doesn’t mention anything about bulls.” “We have an archaeology museum?” one of them says, before a brace of irrationally happy German tourists run past us, followed by a bunch of merely trotting, bored looking cattle. “Our website belongs in an archaeology museum!” Everyone on the balcony starts laughing. “But,” says one of them, as he pulls out his phone. “Would you like to tell everyone on my livecast why you’d rather cower in some doorway than test your manhood?” “Come down here,” my brother says. “And I’ll give you a piece of my manhood.” But the locals just laugh and start making clearly obscene remarks about us in their native language. Despite my best efforts to convince him otherwise, my brother cracks and takes off. More cattle saunter by; one of them turns and thrusts its head in my direction. He’s just staring at me, with his brown eyes, horns and terrible cow breath. I know I’m supposed to worry about being gored or stomped to death, but I’m struck by the gentle nature of the animal in front of me. I decide to feed it my leftover salad. “I’m sorry they make you chase stupid tourists all day long,” I tell the bull, holding the plastic container to his mouth. It’s surprising how delicate a cow can be. On the bull’s ear is a yellow tag, the same as all the other bulls. It reads, in four languages, If you’d like to download a video of your bull running experience, text _______! Prove your courage to anyone who asks for only €40. Without even lifting his head from my greens, the bull just gives me a long, drawn-out sigh, like dude, you have no idea. Hugh Behm-Steinberg’s prose can be found in X-Ray, Grimoire, Joyland, Jellyfish Review, Atticus Review and Pank. His short story "Taylor Swift" won the 2015 Barthelme Prize from Gulf Coast, and his story "Goodwill" was picked as one of the Wigleaf Top Fifty Very Short Fictions of 2018. A collection of prose poems and microfiction, Animal Children, was published by Nomadic Press in 2020. He teaches writing and literature at California College of the Arts.

under a potpourri of tentacles stretching across all gloaming shorelines. i have got the news on and what I see is a deer. then this kid walks in. he says it's done. & slowly, hat in hand, i stride in to pilfer a glance at this freak of nature. in his eyes, i see two worlds; & i don't know why, but at the rift of those worlds, a child fills a balloon with helium & watches it swallow his dreams. right there, just right there, a tumbleweed blows past in what seems like a pratfall— but just like every other thing i can't identify its buttock. somewhere, a boy still as a frog, finds it hard to secern 's' from '5'.