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On Mother’s Day, I shun cards and don’t go out to brunch. The Hollandaise just wilts, And the champagne gets drunk by my mother. But I stay home, somehow. Memorial Day is the first holiday after the elementary school Shooting. And, mother’s day weeping is my only fragment of understanding, how the supposed holiday might drain their solace. Some parents maybe hide under their blankets –in their child’s room or their own – Shunning out the day. Others accepted party invites, and found that they weren’t themselves once they got there. That they couldn’t even stay an hour, that the hamburger shook on their paper plates. I saw another father, on memorial day, walking to the elementary school. Breaking through the abandoned windows where kids last left. Wanting to spend the hours repeating his child’s last movements. She walked here, until she couldn’t any longer. Others went to the barbecues like they were supposed to and drank too much. One father Started talking to the fireworks about the children that weren’t here, until the other mothers cradled his back Telling him to go home now, it’s okay. Others felt guilt at laughing, truly laughing, for the first time since that day. Realizing too late that they are smiling, and that their smiles look like fangs barring. Then they cry into their stripes, their twisted teas, their pool noodles, Their ordinary coming together of memory. A brother just shows his friends the foray, the entrance, of his house. Her shoes used to line the foray, she used to annoy me As we raced into the entryway, Her shoes used to line the door, he’d say. They don’t lie here anymore. Maybe some pray to soldiers and ask how To put bullets that left quickly, back into their casings. How to put hatred back into boxes, to keep it closed, Do they use twine, or maybe shoelace string? And they can’t say they’ll write this poem tomorrow. It’s now the poem of their everyday. Leslie Cairns holds an MA degree in English Rhetoric and has upcoming poetry in various journals. She enjoys writing about mental health, community, and identity.

Have you ever watched the sunset at cloud level? Watched it dip below the cloudline while you were right there with it, right there in it? There is enough fog in the afternoon to necessitate lights on the runway as the plane takes off. The drops of rain on the aircraft’s windows are the beads of a child’s necklace - different sizes strung in lines down the pane. We accelerate faster and faster, waiting for the winged vessel, on which we are tightly packed sardines, to take flight. We brace ourselves to leave the safety and security of the ground for this machine to fly us out of here. To another place where we will pretend it is a different time, where things will be different. Driving down the runway through the mist, past the flaming torches of runway lights. It feels like we have been running forever, like we will be running forever and getting nowhere, like how we keep doing the same thing every day and it never gets easier. We are stopping and moving and stopping again. The vibration of the engine is meditative if you close your eyes and imagine that your breaths are a force against the battering of time and space. Then suddenly in a blast of loud vibration, we take off. Next time out the window is all clouds and sun at the same time shining bright white and the child’s beaded raindrop necklace is gone, blown away in the force of flight. Everyday from the earth, I look up to see what the sky has to offer. It always has something for me to notice but nothing like watching the sunset from cloud level. Not like how the earth looks from above the clouds. Like looking down at it through the wisps of them. Will we ever get so far off the earth that we can’t see it anymore? Flying is like disappearing for a while. It is unreachable. Babies cry. People stow items, sigh, settle themselves, make small talk, click belts into place, open books, lean back. And everyone becomes unreachable. We are all unreachable. Alone with others. Alone with ourselves. Some people sit where they can see the earth get smaller. Some people sit with their thoughts in silence and others drown it out with noise in their ears. The cloud cover increases. What do people see in these clouds? What’s hiding in the wide open sky? It feels so different to approach the clouds from above, to descend in and through and to different air, air that lies below the cloudline. We can’t see the earth from this side of the clouds but we still believe it is there. As we descend through the cloudline, I’m just trying to be where I am. I’m trying not to think about how it feels when the things we love are gone. Deep breath, look out the window and do a cloud check to figure out where we are in relation to the cloudline now, in relation to the earth. From dizzying heights, the city below looks like a maze of bright lights, weaving in and out and around. The earth looks as dizzying as the height feels. The sky is never off-kilter like an overhead light that glitches on and off from bright to dim to flickering until you give up and turn it off. You can’t live under something so unstable, so unsettling. So off kilter. It sets the mood and kills it. But the sky is always there. We can’t give up on it, even when it looks foreboding. There is no kilter to clouds, no right or wrong way to hang in the sky. Clouds are thoughts, they just are, without judgment. The sky isn't ours to question but to live under as best we can and sometimes to fly through and look at the earth from above, like perspective. The sky tells us and shows us and we watch and listen. From above the cloudline, we can’t see the ground anymore but we know it’s there and we will land on it again, eventually. Beth Mulcahy is a Pushcart Prize-nominated poet whose work has appeared in various journals. Her writing bridges gaps between generations and self, hurt and healing. Beth lives in Ohio with her husband and two children and works for a company that provides technology to people without natural speech. Her latest publications can be found here: https://linktr.ee/mulcahea.

They start innocuous, as playful mispronunciations of my surname. I blink and the interactions have escalated to being pinned against a wall and pummelled repeatedly by Jon, Bret, and Joanne while the trio shout at me in unison, collectively demanding the answer to BUT WHERE ARE YOU REALLY FROM as I whimper the “nowhere important” I think they want to hear before realising, too late, that only informational specificity might spare me from a broken nose or bruised ribs. Does anything good come in three? Really? That’s what we say. It’s a crowd. The Wise Men. The time periods: past, present, future. The fundamental qualities of the universe: time, space, matter. But just as often, three’s a hindrance. An obstacle, subject to chance. Rock, paper, and scissors. Macbeth’s witches. Goldilocks’ bears. The blind mice. Three shouldn’t lead to hardship when it comes to generation of immigrant, but it does. I’ve had citizenship since birth. It’s my only citizenship. I literally can’t live in the country I get beaten up for supposedly being “from.” My Grandma is of the 1.5 generation, immigrating in her early teens rather than before she was five (the 1.75) or closer to adulthood (the 1.25). Imagine thinking that these distinctions are anything more than arbitrary. Imagine thinking that they are important enough to be social labels. Where was I? Getting beaten up. I didn’t even know you could still get beaten up after high school. But here I am, a twenty-seven-year-old man being pinned against a wall by Jon, Brett, and Joanne as they hurl insults and throw punches at my nose and ribs. Their nights can’t have been good ones. Jon took the lead, scowling at everyone in the bar until someone was unfortunate or brave enough to catch his eye. Jon’s well over 6 ft and what one might describe as scary looking. After realising I was the unfortunate one, I noticed Brett march over to wind me up. Who am I waiting for? Why am I drinking gin? Who picks my wardrobe? Is that fucking makeup? I tried to smile it off but I was too visibly uncomfortable to hide the fact. But he was “joking.” They’re always “joking.” * Later, Jon and Brett have had more to drink and are clearly not joking, I’m no longer alone, and I have the privilege of meeting Joanne. I try to guess but can’t discern if she’s a sister or partner to one of the men, and to whom, depending on which. This is the part where they learn my surname. Again, I’m too nervous to do anything but respond to their question, unable to think straight and remind myself that relinquishing this particular bit of information has historically exacerbated these kinds of situations for me, always resulting in worse outcomes. After comically mispronouncing my surname, Jon surmises that ‘It doesn’t sound English, though.’ ‘Yeah, it doesn’t sound English,’ Joanne parrots, neither reinforcing nor elaborating on Jon’s version of the statement. ‘I’ve never even been to Poland,’ I try, testing the new argumentative waters. ‘You’d have never been to England if it wasn’t for your nan, coming over here and stealing our country.’ I compete with the desire to say anything that will get me out of this uncomfortable situation and wanting to take down Joanne’s claim with the smallest amount of intelligence required to puncture its complete stupidity, to deflate its completely fragile sense of purpose. ‘Poland, right? So what does that make you – Jewish?’ Bret adds, all but rubbing his hands together with glee at the prospect of this whole new critical avenue. ‘I’m Christian.’ ‘Third Generation Jew… who knew?’ Jon and Joanne begin to join in with the chant. I decide that if I stare long and hard enough into the bottom of my empty glass enough time will pass for the whole exchange to move towards some sort of climax. I don’t realise that doing so will transport me outdoors into the cold and see me pinned against a wall in a deserted alley, so I’m unable to prevent the start of this persecutory cycle. My name is George (he/him) and I am a PhD candidate and Graduate Teaching Assistant at King's College London, as well as a short fiction and culture writer. I am also Assistant Editor at Coastal Shelf. My recent and forthcoming publications include Avatar Review, Derailleur Press, The First Line, and Overland. I was also shortlisted for Ouen Press' 2019 Short Story Competition; my work appears in their print collection Zawadi & Other Short Stories (2020, ed. P. Comley).

(please read Perspective from top to bottom and then bottom to top) you were gone the door left open you look around, nervous I lie still on the floor my head bloodied against the boards bending you grab my arm and squeeze my wrist one hand pushes against my chest my heart beats loud but slow a taste of salt mixed with metal. Your tears or mine? crying you part my lips and hover over my mouth your warm breath now on my neck, and your fingers through my hair your hand cups my face and pulls me close shaking kiss me one more time Gina is currently working on my first novel but have found that my time staring at the screen has inspired lots of flash and poetry pieces! I have a flash piece that will be published this month as part of FlashFlood's National Flash Fiction Day.

Circulation the heart pumps blood to the lungs. this is a library. i am the books. the lungs pump blood back. books live in the library. the library is only the shell for the books inside. you can read the books, you can visit the library, but neither are yours. the heart pumps blood to the body. neither the books nor the library belong to you. they are merely for borrow, if you have a library card. in order to get a library card, you must file for an application, express interest in the library in a respectful and totally consenting manner, and wait for the library to accept your application. the body pumps blood to the tissues. the tissues are on the circulation desk. you should not need them. libraries are supposed to be a happy place. if you do not get accepted for a library card, this is not your library to visit. please vacate the premises. the tissues pump blood to the veins. do not take the library in vain. it is not yours. it is merely for borrow, and only if the library lets you borrow it, and the library has expressed explicitly that you are not allowed to borrow it. the library asks that you leave the premises. the veins pump blood to the heart. you are not allowed to borrow the books or use the spaces. you are not welcome here. the library asks you to leave the premises. the heart pumps blood to the lungs. the library asks you to leave the premises. the lungs pump blood back. the heart pumps blood to the body. the blood clots. the body is unresponsive. you are not welcome here. courtesy marketing pitch to Edible Arrangements™ you know that feeling, the one where you’re holding something— maybe a mango, or something similar of the produce variety— and you know that you have every power in your being to squeeze the shit out of it and watch as the insides work themselves from the shell until there is nothing left inside and you feel like a monster, except something else, maybe a little voice in the back corner of your conscience, says that nature would not have given you that strength if it didn’t think that you had every right to use it as you see fit, much in the same way that you always have the choice to throw the monopoly board and all its falsified societies and colorful currency, to become a major league pitcher and hurl your drink across the room until it splatters against the opposite wall, even if its glass conduit shatters to pieces into a puddle of broken pieces and sharp edges; my seventh grade science teacher tells me that the human jaw is strong enough to bite off our own finger, but some reflex stops us from actually doing so, every time. Redlining The plastic surgery team take up their markers and turn my flesh into a Fantasy Football league; They each stake an initial claim— one goes directly for the brain, pulling weeds from the cracks in my cerebrum, one takes inventory of each sac of air in my lungs, and one unearths each capillary and ties them together, having heard that they could reach around the Earth two and a half times. They spend a while in my chest, debating who must take the appendix, the heart, and all the other unfavorable bits. They settle on a chamber for each, leaving in its place a barrel of monkeys with the cap unscrewed; it isn’t until years later that they realize, staring at my unarmed pieces floating in their plastic examination jars, that perhaps these parts were never the problem at all. Maia Joy (she/her) is a queer biracial poet and musician from Boston, MA. A 2021 Best-of-the-Net nominee, she is currently studying music and creative writing at the University of Maryland, College Park, where she is a member of the Jimenez-Porter Writers' House. Her work has been previously published in various journals including The Bitchin’ Kitsch and Sage Cigarettes. You can find her social media @maiajoyspeaks, and her website, maiajoyspeaks.wixsite.com/website.

Marceline loved the way the swollen, pale vintage green of each lush olive barely breached the cloudy liquid in a good dirty martini. They could pass for lunch if there were enough of them shoved into the delicate deep V glass, speared like an arrow through a heart. Dinner even, if they were stuffed with blue cheese. She loved the slick shock of the cold brine when it hit the back of her throat, the fragile glass that could shatter with ease if she bit down hard enough. The sloshing if she didn’t hold it steady enough. And when she had too many, she loved the dizzy faraway nausea that came on fast, and then was quickly replaced by a warmth that made decisions for her. Sometimes it took her to bed. Sometimes it took her other places. Marceline never knew which way it would go. Martinis were all so careful and intentional and delicate and unclear and chaotic all at the same time. It was 4:45 pm, and Marceline had just downed her second very dirty martini from room service. “It’s like Lost in Translation, but make it Vegas,” she quipped, on the phone. “I think the movie was called that because it took place in Japan,” Cat said. “Because like, they all spoke Japanese and she didn’t and she couldn’t communicate with anyone. So unless you befriend an old dude who is as charming as Bill Murray, I don’t see the connection.” Cat was a graphic designer Marceline worked with on start-up branding projects. Cat worked in-house at a small creative agency that used Marceline as a freelance copywriter from time to time. They met in person sometimes, but mostly had developed a fun phone rapport that kept them talking long enough for Marceline to invoice a few extra hours of work per week. “Wasn’t ScarJo there because her husband was working?” Marceline asked. She stared at a lukewarm bottle of Smartwater across the room, the squeezy kind, half full. The olive juice made her parched, but she felt too lazy to walk across the carpeted floor to satisfy her thirst. “And she was all lonely, and no one understood her? It was a metaphor. Vegas is a wholly foreign place all its own. It’s dark, Cat. It’s real dark.” “Well, you’re not married yet anyway,” Cat said, and yawned. It was almost Friday, 8 pm New York time, and Cat was likely more than eyeing the clock. Marceline watched her feet float above her head, pale from the torrid Manhattan winter she and her fiancé had escaped from for his software company’s annual conference. The hotel bedding was marshmallow soft and just as white, with floor-to-ceiling windows and a streaming view of other sprawling buildings flanked with glittering marquees and swaths of dusty air. If you squinted, way in the distance, through the cigar-thick smog, was nature. Mountains. Clouds. A true deep breath was so far away. Marceline and her fiancé were staying at Mandalay Bay, the site of the largest mass shooting in U.S. history. In 2017, Stephen Paddock opened fire from his hotel room window on a crowd of festival concertgoers, killing 58 people and injuring 413. Marceline’s fiancé’s company was always on the hunt for a good deal, Marceline thought, shivering, wondering which room Paddock had stayed in. A few years before, 2016, his company had put everyone in The Trump Hotel. Marceline spent that week angrily ordering turkey club sandwiches from room service, keeping track of each expense so she could send double the amount to Planned Parenthood when she got home. He hadn’t told her until they arrived. “You wouldn't have come,” he said flatly, while she seethed. “So you have what, two days left?” Cat asked. “Three? What are you going to do?” “Ugh, I don’t know,” she said. “Besides pickling my liver and sitting in secondhand smoke while judging strangers?” They said goodbye and hung up. Marceline almost never saw her fiancé during these conferences. He left before dawn and returned deep into the night. Sometimes she would return to the room to find he had been there, a thrown backpack at the foot of the bed, or some promotional pens placed like roses on her pillow. It was like being on a vacation with a very corporate ghost. Marceline luxuriated in getting ready. There was so much freedom in being in a new place. She could exaggerate things. Glitter was more than acceptable. So were push-up bras and lollipop lip gloss. Marceline’s fingers hovered over the bottles and liquids and pots and bottles, eventually landing on her usual tasteful, natural choices. She’d go all out on her last night, she promised herself. But she was only going downstairs. Marceline soon found herself belly up to a bar deep into the cavernous mouth of the Mandalay Bay casino. The moment you stepped out of your room, windows, time, and the outdoors cease to exist. It was no secret that casinos pump oxygen through the vents to keep the zombies awake, but it was unsettling the way Marceline’s martini and pajama lethargy had been immediately replaced by an alert euphoria. “You’re back!” a jovial voice boomed from down the deep wood grain bar top. “Grey Goose martini dirty, yeah?” “Sean, right?” she said. The bearded bartender nodded and winked at her. “I’m actually kind of feeling like an espresso martini.” “You got it, babe,” he said, and disappeared down the bar. She pushed in, feeling the stoic discomfort that comes from a bar stool and high-waisted jeans. It didn’t matter what your body type was, they always felt like someone was sawing you slowly in half. She took shallow breaths. Sean placed the adult chocolate milk in front of her, next to a tiny bowl of mixed nuts. “Rosemary,” he said, gesturing to the sticky herbs coating each nut. “So what’s the plan for tonight?” “I dunno, what do you think I should do?” she said. Marceline liked the safety that came with bartender flirting. There was a physical barrier between them. It was mostly their job to be nice and ask questions. Sean pointed down the bar, to a gaggle of men loosening their ties and sucking down oysters. “You could hang out with them,” he said, a twinkle in his eye. Marceline rolled hers. “Yeah, totally,” she said. She liked being in on the joke, liked knowing that some people could see how different she was. She sipped her cool, creamy drink, soothing her stomach from the salt and vodka from earlier. Marceline pulled a book out of her purse, something nondescript and vague and thriller-y. The word “girl” in the title. A man once told her that women only read books in bars for attention, and ever since then, she felt a heightened sense of awareness whenever she cracked one open in public. Like it was a green traffic light. She made sure her sparkling engagement ring was facing outward. She knew it was big; she saw women eye it discreetly sometimes on the subway. Marceline knew she was attractive, but nowhere near the cartoonishly stunning of the Vegas-employed. She wasn’t the breath-taking kind. Being the in-between kind of pretty was almost worse, and that’s the kind that Marceline was. She was approachable. She had the kind of look and taste in clothes that made men think “maybe she’s a little out of my league, but I can afford top-shelf scotch. My watch is nice. This girl will at least talk to me.” And they were right, because girls like Marceline were taught that being rude was the worst thing she could be. So she let men on airplanes scroll through their camera rolls to show her the rock stars they’d met. But she would grumble and shoot arrows from her eyes the whole time. They just never noticed. Mandalay Bay was labyrinthine and dark. Having been there a few days already, she recognized faces and bodies that never moved from their slot machined stations. A cigarette threatened to burn through their finger bones, a plastic bucket of dirty coins, a watered down drink next to their quickly tapping shoes. They’d be there tonight, and they would be there in the morning when Marceline wandered down for a ham and cheese croissant. She tried not to look into their eyes. She quickened her pace, ordering an Uber as she scurried past. The driver’s name was Andi, a petite woman with a closely shaven head and long pink claw fingernails with gold and silver gemstones glued to the ends. Marceline admired them as Andi handed her a bottle of water. Her stomach rumbled. She looked at a list on her phone of places she wanted to go while she was in Vegas. “Could you take me to Frankie’s Tiki Room?” She was suddenly ravenous, and the air freshener was dizzying in its cloyingness. They had to have food. Andi nodded. They promptly hit light traffic. A chasm of silence opened. “My mom was stabbed 27 times over there when I was little,” she said, looking at her in the rear view. “Sorry, I know that’s a lot, but it’s true.” She paused. “She lived.” “Oh my God, I am so sorry,” Marceline said. “That must have been awful for you.” “It was. I moved to LA as soon as I turned 18.” “How come you came back?” Marceline asked. They were pulling into a dark parking lot, a neon pink sign that said “Frankie’s” illuminated the side of Andi’s face. “My ex-husband pressured me into it,” she said. She parked in front of the sign and turned around in her seat. “Six years together and within a week here, he cheats on me. I’m telling you, Vegas is some weird shit.” Frankie’s Tiki Room did not have food, but it had enough garnishes for a kindly bartender to arrange a bunch of them on a plate for Marceline. She sat sucking on the warm pulpy strings of an orange and sipping a sweet rum punch in a thick ceramic mug shaped like a human skull. She scrolled through her phone, suddenly bored and sleepy again. The bar was lively, with groups of sauced tourists huddled in corners under the voodoo decor. She eavesdropped on a couple next to her on a first date while she pretended to read an article about climate change. “You’re on your phone too much,” came a deep voice from the other side of her. Marceline turned to see a man in his late ‘40s, dressed in a suit, a tad over-tan, nursing a whiskey neat. She felt a muted annoyance and a tiny bit of flattery. He smelled like the inside of a mahogany chest left out in the rain. “So?” “Your generation misses out on so much by being on their phones.” His face was expressionless. “Who cares?” she asked again. “I’m here alone, I can do whatever I want.” The slurry of fruit and booze in her belly was warming the rest of her, giving her a boldness. “Well, would you want to talk to me instead?” he asked, then smiled a little. There was nothing inside of Marceline that found him attractive, but she liked following things. Stories, experiences. Her mother always said there was a deep difference between “nice” and “kind.” She couldn’t tell which one this man was yet and she kind of wanted to find out. His name was Steven, and he hated being called Steve. And he immediately began commenting on her looks. “Let’s be honest, you’re a New York 8, but a Vegas 4. We both are! We’re both alone, aren’t we?” he quickly tempered it, when he saw Marceline’s eyes widen. Steven liked to talk a lot. He smiled and sipped his drink like he thought he was the most interesting man in the world. And Marceline drank while Steven talked. Tiki bars always had that really satisfying, crunchy ice. So she crunched while he talked. And...talked. You know a lot of women sit alone at bars in Vegas because they’re prostitutes. Not saying you look like one notttttt saying you look like one, but you just sitting there in those tight pants with your phone and no book? Just your phone? And then a man like me is sitting right next to a girl like you and well...assumptions could be made. Oh, now I was supposed to have a book, she thought. You couldn’t win. You were always asking for it. She smirked. Yeah, I’m here on business, obviously. I own an architecture firm in LA and come here quite often actually to take meetings. I go to Austin a lot, and down to San Diego. I’m on the road a ton. Yes, thank you, I’ll take another one. You good with your fancy drink? Those can kill ya. I saw you sitting there alone on your phone and just thought...this girl misses out on everything that could be good around her. We could be having this great conversation, she’s out here to have a good time and she’s just stuck on her phone, it’s so sad. Like my daughter. Maybe I’m just old, though. I don’t get it. Ha, it’s not like you were reading the news. They put me up in a shitty hotel this time, The Mondrian? It’s fine, it’s fine. There’s a kitchen, thank God. It’s just well...I am used to a certain level of decor because of what I do. She barely had to speak. She just sipped her drink deeply. Like a boozy brunette bobblehead. We, yes, my wife. She’s really obsessed with decorating the new house, I’m not allowed to make any decisions at all. You built it, I decorate it, she says. But really now it’s all she does. You’d think it’s her paying job haha. Marceline was starting to feel a little dizzy from nodding. She bit down on a pineapple slice and tasted blood bloom on the back of her lip. The woman next to her was sobbing now, her date anxiously moving from foot to foot glancing at the door. Oof, yeah, I see that ring on your finger. Don’t do it haha. No, but seriously, don’t. Why ruin a perfectly good thing? Here she is, this was us and her two kids (not mine) on vacation in Palm Springs last year. Not bad for 45, right? She used to be a lot more fun, though. She used to be ca-razyyyy. What’s he doing, your guy, where’s he? Yeah, I’ll bet he’s behaving, off with a bunch of dudes in Vegas. No one comes here to behave, I’ll tell you that much. Marceline was drunk now. She was on this ride, mildly amused, mildly annoyed. She wanted to see which side eventually won out. Oh well, she’s my second wife. Yeah, here look. Stunning, right? Keeps it tight, does a lot of that Pilates, hiking. She’s fit. A little too into the bullshit that’s around LA, if you know what I mean. The green juice. The hills, the cars, all that. But I gave all of that to her so I guess I’m at fault huh? Created a monster. And we, yeah I mean. You know what they say. That whole, you show me a beautiful woman and I’ll show you a man who’s sick of fucking her. Hey, hey I didn’t make up that saying. We’ve talked about bringing in a third but, I don’t know. Don’t look at me like that, I’m not hitting on you. You’re not even my type, really. You know how much sugar is in those tiki drinks you keep sucking back? A lot of you kids, your age, are opening up their relationships which I don’t know….must be nice…. At some point, they moved to another bar. She didn’t really remember agreeing to it, or getting into a car, and Uber, what even was it? She blinked the stalks of bamboo and the looming voodoo faces had melted and now they were sitting in an oxblood velvet booth facing each other, and a dirty martini sat in front of her, sweating onto the table. Her feet were propped up on the bench next to Steve, and he was rubbing her calves. She felt separated from her body, which is a nice thing that being drunk does sometimes. The annoyance won out from the amusement and was growing, like hives in her belly. Like bees. She had to be careful, she thought. That club in London. Blackouts could be dangerous for girls. She licked the smooth rim of the glass, knowing that her fingers would swell like stuck baby pigs from the salt the next morning. Was he still talking about interior design? Modern minimalism is about open air and choosing pieces that are expensive and take up a lot of space emotionally without actually taking up a lot of space. You don’t know about that eh, New York girl? What, do you guys sleep on bunk beds? We were actually in Architectural Digest for the Malibu house, hold on, let me show you. A blurry phone screen. Two blonde teenagers, a willowy woman in linen pants and beige hair, Steve, leaning against a wooden railing standing in a row in front of one of a clearly very expensive beach house. “That’s so nice, Steve,” she said. Steven. We were featured again actually, but in a much smaller article. The bathroom. You ever experience one of those rainfall shower heads? I bet you’d like that. We used to fuck in that shower, when we first bought it. I’m telling you, it goes away. Like, I look at her, and I know she’s beautiful, but I don’t feel it in my body anymore, you know? Like she became a separate thing. Like an armchair. “That’s real sad, Steve.” Another martini appeared in front of her. Her fingertips started to itch, and the backs of her knees and inside. Steven. I know what you’re doing with that. I know what kind of girl you are. You need someone to knock you upside the head then fuck you raw, every once and a while. Your attitude, I can tell no one has done that in a while. Jesus, relax. I’m kidding. Anyway, here’s a picture of the bathroom. Those light fixtures? We had them imported from Iceland. She wasn’t stupid. She knew what he was doing. He was trying to convince himself he wasn’t trying to sleep with her, while very actively and pretty aggressively, trying to sleep with her. You don’t gamble, do you? One time my buddy and I (he actually plays for The Lakers, we built his house, I can’t actually say who he is), spent three days gambling, doing blow, and partying with these super-hot Belizean women who were staying at The Venetian. Whoo, that was a wild weekend. I almost had to get fucking tested after that shit, you know? Marceline blinked, and they were in a hotel room. The room was stunning, the kind you see in rap videos or big budget films about...hangovers. Huge and sprawling, with a sunken white leather couch and a golden chandelier. Did she hear a babbling brook somewhere? She shook her head, trying to shake the deep dizziness that came from inside. And her fingers, they wouldn’t stop itching. And he wouldn’t stop talking. Just a constant, nonstop stream of words. What in God’s name was he like during sex? She could imagine wet, sloppy, pointy kisses and deep thrusts that threatened to break through her cervix. She felt a bubble of bile and brine slide up into her mouth from her stomach. And she was so thirsty. She would have done anything for some water. And the itching. It was almost unbearable with the talking. Should I slip into a robe and we can play a little Weinstein? Haha, obviously I’m just kidding, relax. Yes, I know he’s a creep, obviously. You’re not one of those girls who can’t take a joke, are you? Jeez, you can’t say anything these days. Oh, don’t look at me like that. I don’t want to have sex with you. You’re just here. You’re the one that followed me. I barely suggested it. You can go. I don’t care. You don’t think I’ve had more chances in my lifetime to cheat on my wife? I’ll make us a little something from the mini bar. Even though it’s insane how they charge you for even lifting a mini bottle of champagne. Oh nice, my company actually worked for them once. We literally built their offices. Nice guys. Jeez, you look so stiff. Take your coat off, make yourself comfortable. That look on your face….Jesus, you’re not one of those girls who overreacts about everything, are you? You can’t say anything anymore. You can go. I told you, I have zero interest in fucking you. I wouldn’t be mad if I saw you naked right now, but... Haha, joke, Jesus. Marceline let out a giant, deep breath that shook her from head to toe. She had blinked and moved again, but this time, she was still in the hotel. Just on the other side of the room, behind the couch. Her fingers weren’t itching anymore. Just...tingly. Like the end of a yoga class, after you lay in corpse pose and slowly wake your appendages up. And the noise… it had stopped. Her ears were ringing. The pins and needles pricked and deepened, and she looked down to realize she was holding something. Silver. Serrated. And razor sharp. A steak knife that had been thrown onto a room service tray by the TV when she last saw it. And her hand was….dripping. She stared over Steve’s jerking body with the wash of feeling you get after getting a really productive massage. A release, the feeling of letting go and being in control all at once. Her ears were ringing, and she realized it had been so long since she had heard silence. His hand reached out for her leg, but she just stared at him until he stopped moving. She thought of the plump meat that lived inside the wilting white dress shirt before her. Firm and filled like the olives she loved. She wondered how much time it took for all the life to drain out of each organ. How long until the white carpet turned crimson. Marceline stretched and wiggled a little, an elation filling her. She smiled, a slow and languid peace sliding over her like a weighted blanket. Marceline let her tongue snake up the river of sticky rubies that was quickly staining the web between her thumb and forefinger. It was warm, and deep, and would dry slowly. She felt visceral, sexy, and very deeply alive. Like she had exorcised something, released something, that had been lurking inside of her for a long, long time. She couldn’t wait to take another bubble bath when she returned to the room. And this time, she would feel guilty about nothing. And she wouldn’t feel a shred of nervousness walking alone down the Strip. We can be dangerous too, she thought. Golden strands of sunlight that could be mistaken for fine jewelry dangled through the thick Mandalay Bay hotel curtains when Marceline got back to her room. She luxuriated in a bath that quickly turned the color of cranberry tea, then passed out in the swathing, bulging mountains of her comforter, lulled to sleep by the dulcet tones of some reality show on her laptop. She only barely noticed when her fiancé tiptoed in, gently closed her screen, and crawled inside to kiss her good night. Lyz Mancini is a writer living in Catskill, NY. She is a beauty copywriter for brands like Clinique, and has written personal essays for Slate, HerSTRY, XOJane, Bustle, and Huffington Post. She is a Pitch Wars 2020 and Tin House Winter Workshop 2022 alum and is represented for her fiction by Victoria Marini of Irene Goodman Literary Agency.

Call me anytime. What else is there to say to the friend who reveals they plan to marry an addict careering toward self-destruction? Who is going in, eyes open? I love you. I'm here for you. I want more for you. I wish you loved yourself more or thought you deserved better. I'm watching you walk into flame. Your friend is drawn to flame singeing herself again and again on women who would consume a house in minutes, whole hillsides gone. You have become practiced at salving burns, standing by with cool compresses, quiet words. Do you know what it's like to love what will consume you? Do you have what it takes to love someone who does? Prepare more clean, worn towels. Set your face in a look of understanding. Rock-bottom When she crashed your car and finally went in-patient, you wondered whether she would have found her way here sooner without you as dam holding back what threatens to pull you both under. You are the addict and you are the woman who loves her. You are the house and the house fire. You understand what it is to black out on your desires to become them. And you know what it is to forgive yourself again and again to welcome yourself home. Amy Katherine Cannon is a writer and writing teacher living in Los Angeles. She received her MFA from UC Irvine and is the author of the chapbook "the interior desert" (Californios Press) and the mini-chapbook "to make a desert" (Platypus Press). Her work can be found in Bone Bouquet, LETTERS, LIT, and Rock & Sling, among other places.

Interrupted Sonnet you are cricket calling flashlight / lamp / against the damp grass — night air / dark eye balling into the hands of trees silhouette / you play with your hair / on the phone interrupt each other / the love of a cherry pit / seed dark the sink is filling the tub filling the pet-insults / we call each other & still into the arms you drop your body, then several books & then ask for love — like a bird or a dog in a circle you are made of the things you love — are doused — the mashing of your affections — like wine makers they squish underfoot / are bottled / then poured moon song moon lifts us up married outright orphan at night licks the strings imitates love making fakes orgasms for pitch tortures the tips of the fingers sheds skin / condom skin Uranus shifts its orbit shelters its pulp / face / Uranus always mending in pleading / wounds / with old time folk music banjo / fiddle / intermingling in air & Phoebe Sings “you’re holding me like water in your hands” Michael Buebe (he/him) is a poet from Galesburg Illinois. Author of "little spider cage (erotic velvet)" a microchapbook from Ghost City Press (summer 2022). He has work out & forthcoming in: Common Ground Review's Annual Poem Contest (honorable mention 2021), TIMBER, Lover's Eye Press, Drunk Monkeys, Jenny, Masque & Spectacle, and Prometheus Dreaming. You may find him on Twitter @MichaelBuebe.

We are standing next to the car, and the sky is an open wound, misty and oozing, shades of pink beginning to interrupt the bruised gray. Across the parking lot is a Dunkin Donuts, still open, despite having been beaten by a storm, grazed by a tornado. We are clutching oversized cups of iced coffee, the baby is sleeping in the backseat, and I am taking small drags off a cigarette. It is May, but it is also fifty degrees in the middle of the day, and we live in a place where both of these things can be true at once. You are looking at me with this shaded look, as if to say: I can’t believe we made it through that. But when you open your mouth to talk, instead you say: the guy inside said the roof got blown off a Dunkin ten miles away. And for some inexplicable reason we both bubble up with laughter at the image of this, of a drive-through line like a bumpy snake, and people demanding their blended coffees while the roof of the Dunkin begins to fracture and ultimately disappears, and still, people are waiting for their coffee, hands outstretched to workers who know they have no choice but to continue grinding and blending and pouring. You don’t say it but I will: I can’t believe we just drove through a tornado. And you nod slowly while you sip your drink, and I wonder if your hands were shaking while we drove, when we couldn’t see shit out the windshield, when my hands were shaking in my lap, and I was thinking about how five hours ago we had been half-naked, swimming in a natural pool of mountain water, the sun unstoppable until it was ultimately silenced. Upstate New York showed its belly with its dank humidity while we walked the streets of Woodstock. Too early for the summer season, but warm enough out to enjoy, we had lunch at a small cafe and bar, and the hail slapped at the windows, and everyone rushed up to look at it in awe, like we had never seen ice before. And when we left the cafe, it was there, in piles on the corner, and I saw a homeless man kick at it; we were all in wonder of the weather. We had somehow come out on the other side of it all, the wavering trees and blurred hazard lights of the cars in front of us. You had navigated through the storm slapping the mountainside around, this natural phenomenon taking everyone by surprise. And now here we are, like nothing really happened, in a parking lot of a Dunkin, allowing our bones to relax before we begin the drive back to Brooklyn. I felt myself changing through the storm, it was all imprinting itself on my brain. And months later - years later - I’ll be left with this chilly memory of being pulled over on the side of road, cars in front and behind us, as everyone makes the decision to stay put. This sense of pause that existed in the space of those moments; the collective understanding that the weather was greater than all of us, could swallow us up whole in the throat of a funnel of wind, and maybe if we just stopped, barely visible hazards blinking in a steady rhythm, it would spare us. On our way to this Dunkin, we tried to circumvent the endless line of cars making their way down the mountain. But every side street was cut off by flayed trees, their massive trunks a road block. Sometimes it was a power lines, like a nest of rattlesnakes in someone’s yard, and everyone was standing outside with their hands on their hips, looking up and down the road, shaking their heads at the cars like us who were trying to find an escape. And all I really wanted to do when we were driving around this post-apocalyptic landscape was to put my mouth on you, wrap you up against me in the backseat of the car, and feel the warmth of your body against mine. I didn’t want to go back to Brooklyn; I wanted to salvage the trees and build a house here, this place just outside of Woodstock, somewhere I couldn’t name, but didn’t care to, as if the name would break the spell. The storm had cleansed me in some way, and as we stand across from each other in the parking lot, your eyes wandering somewhere over my shoulder, I wonder if you felt the change as well, if your soul was a little cleaner, your brain a little more focused, and I wonder if you thought about finding a home after the chaos, in me, with me; all I want is for you to want to build your home around me.

Off Ramp This wasn’t the exit I wanted. This a scattered merge away from where everyone else is headed. This one abrupt. This one crept up, appeared, no sign, unnumbered, not on the map. It lingered then. Wouldn’t take. Kept appearing. Couldn’t shake off potential of miles ahead. Couldn’t handle a rest to the side. The deciding seems choiceless, like a must—all routes seem to end in collision. Distracted by a voice and a promise now insincere. Terms decided on cruise control to pass by on-ramps and overpasses but to an advantage. Now we’re too far gone. There’s no going back. Falling Towards Where We Don’t Want To Go Again I am sad for so many reasons I cannot name. Lightbulbs shatter in bad packaging— too many to choose from in the aisle. An overwhelming task—numb in the hardware store. How many heartbreaks does it take to screw in a lightbulb? How many weeks to get unscrewed. Candles can’t replace false light. They cause more body wracking, offer more to shiver at— snuffed out. What’s lost in a church pew. What’s admitted inside a confessional. At shoreline, foam. On a precipice, wind. Concave mirrors. Knotted hair. It’s all too much to have to conjure up every single time. We Eat The Dead One becomes a simple fraction of the other Names baked up into the bread War happens every so often Hunger strikes forts in a cold then wool coats in summer Taste each name up on a green hill when cloud cover dissipates Make do with what is in reach at the time They had graves and stones so they took in a span of years and a legacy of last words no longer planted at the head but knocked down to keep a precious life going a little bit longer at the least to outlast the other side if only by a moment. Christina M. Rau is the author of What We Do To Make Us Whole, the Elgin Award-winning Liberating The Astronauts, and two poetry chapbooks. She serves as Poet in Residence for Oceanside Library (NY) and was 2020 Walt Whitman Birthplace Poet of the Year. Her poetry occasionally airs on Destinies radio show (WUSB) and appears in various literary journals. When she's not writing, she's teaching yoga or watching the Game Show Network.http://www.christinamrau.com

Black Racers (Single Ladies) Along the trail that leads to the river, I come upon a pit of black racers— all writhing in a slithering sex ball. The scaly, onyx orgy disperses as I approach, flailing away out of sight, leaving behind only the mating pair. He thinks himself an anaconda— truthfully, he’s more like a young, clumsy boy fumbling to tie his shoelaces. Her vacant stare confirms it—what I mean is I’m sorry, ladies. Being you seems so exhausting, and it’s really not your fault. Jays Sparrow’s sweet birdsong became cries of dread. Two blue dragoons, riding skyward, they came. The Blue Jays dove down to devour the bread. They touched down in the snow and cocked their heads. With two savage squawks, the Jays laid their claim. Sparrow’s sweet birdsong became cries of dread. She could not defend, so she flapped and fled. Each hollow wing beat rose anger and shame. The Blue Jays dove down to devour the bread. Sparrow turned ‘round—of bravery misled. The Jays set upon her slight birdly frame. Sparrow’s sweet birdsong became cries of dread. The blood-rusted snow was feathered with red. Sparrow did thrust and a Jay she did maim. The Blue Jays dove down to devour the bread. Sparrow lay dying, and one Jay lay dead. One Blue Jay stayed, eating—flightless and lame. Sparrow’s sweet birdsong became cries of dread. The Blue Jays dove down to devour the bread. Chubby His old, leather collar leads me to cry. It still smells like him, even though it's been ten years since I took poor Chubby to die. I found him curled up in the closet by her white dress, laying limp-legged and thin. Tugging his collar, I begged him to try. But cold truth lurked in his nebulous eyes. His sad, grieving mother kissed his gray chin and then sighed. Our dog was ready to die. With one careful caress, she said goodbye. One last country drive stole one final grin, but heavy, his collar. Old Chubby cried. Pass peacefully, pup—it’s just you and I. Life pushes out as the pink pushes in. Vacant, his collar still leads me to cry. That was the day I took Chubby to die. Jess Levens is a poet and photographer who lives with his wife, sons and dogs in New England, where he draws inspiration from the region’s landscapes and history. His poetry has been published in The Dillydoun Review and Prometheus Dreaming. Jess is a Marine Corps veteran and Northeastern University alum.

Most publishers will want to see three to five blurbs on your book jacket (also known as “advance acclaim”). Writers, perhaps wincing in advance at the spectre of more rejection, are often reluctant to ask for assistance, particularly when it involves self-promotion. Here are some ideas about who might be more likely to be helpful and courteous: * editors who have published your writing or a poem inside your current oeuvre; * an author for whom you’ve done a favor recently or, at the least, who has shared some pleasant past history, e.g., being on the same panel, chatting with you after a reading, etc.; * a former instructor who is well-published in the same field; * an author who is either published by the same house or a mutual friend of a writer; * an author who has written on the same subject; * members of your critique group; * writers’ associations that count you as a member. Don’t fret if too many agree to do it. You can always select which blurbs go inside the book, on your website, and on press releases. When I received eight blurbs for my chapbook of erotic verses “Concupiscent Consumption” [Red Ferret Press, 2020], praise from notable poets went on the back cover, compliments from my editors were ushered inside. It may be worth mentioning that if someone does take the time to pen a cover quote, it’s rude not to use it. What if the blurb sounds lame? Revise it and send it back for approval before using it. I’ve often done this and have yet to meet anyone who resents sounding more quotable on a book jacket. Warming up the “ask”: remind the author that you are familiar with their writing and refresh the person’s memory about any shared connections or experiences, for example, you reviewed the writer’s first book. Also, explain why a quote from this person will be meaningful. Be respectful of time constraints: give a brief description of what your book is about, include a sample, and indicate if you can provide your book via .pdf, hard copy, etc. Be specific and professional: indicate what date you will need the comments by and mention that some of their credits can accompany this quote. Afterward, always thank each person who made time to read and support your work with a quote. Offer to send a note along with a signed copy of your published book. (I always ask first if they would like my book; some will decline.) Pay it forward by promoting their books on your social media channels, posting a review of their books on Amazon, GoodReads, etc. Be a good literary citizen by supporting other writers in their journey. Native New Yorker LindaAnn LoSchiavo, a Pushcart Prize, Rhysling Award, and Dwarf Stars nominee, is a member of SFPA, The British Fantasy Society, and The Dramatists Guild. Elgin Award winner "A Route Obscure and Lonely," "Concupiscent Consumption," and "Women Who Were Warned" are her latest poetry titles. Forthcoming: "Messengers of the Macabre" by Nat. 1, L.L.C. [Fall 2022] and a tombstone-heavy collection in hardcover by Beacon Books.