I am tired of burning down we are a library of ignited people, look how all of our pages curl from the heat, smoldering embers of suspicion shot across bus-stop-cum-battlefield everything is up in flames,  look how the tips of conversations blaze and dance, casting shadows on the walls behind us, words like molotov cocktails thrown in among the shelves look how we all turn to cinders, alexandrian destruction of ourselves, ages of community gone up in so much  smoke, pick through the rubble looking  for the spines of half-burned connections everyone's committing arson but I am tired of burning down important and in a hundred thousand homes in a hundred thousand beds we were rotting, flesh dripping from our bones reflected in a hundred thousand tiny screens, eyes pouring from our heads like warm jelly,  sprouting stalks of mighty  fungus from our ears, air yellow with the mass of our spores [did you see… I have to show you… listen to this…] and we all had our subscriptions to Decomposing Weekly, and we kept pace with all the latest updates on which color of decay was IN this season [I wouldn't be caught dead in that shade of putrescence in 2025] and we all gossiped about whose  carcass looked the best at the latest big Hollywood soiree  [did you hear that her nose fell off on the red carpet? what a scandal] and we all wagged our rancid jawbones and felt very much like we were doing something IMPORTANT MISSING yesterday we went  round the neighborhood and posted  advertisements reading [MISSING:  LOST HOURS  LOOKS LIKE  AN UNFINISHED  ART PROJECT REWARD $100] on the bus stops and the lampposts, absolutely everywhere that we could  find the space then we waited, obediently by the telephone for someone to call but nobody rang and when we went to check and see what happened, we discovered they were covered up with others saying things like [HELP! LOST CHILDHOOD… HAVE YOU SEEN MY YESTERDAY?... WANTED: ALL OF THE 90's] all with rewards and  contact numbers seems somebody could probably make a decent living finding all those missing hours Malachy Moran is an American expat currently residing in Norway. A PTSD survivor and recovering drug addict, Malachy has lived too many lives already to believe in reincarnation. Hopefully this is it. His work is available in Rattle: Poetry, Anti-Heroin Chic and many others. Follow his journey on Bluesky @malformed-poetry

You knocked on my door that morning holding an empty gasoline can and asked to borrow some milk. I told you I bought by the quart, but you said that was OK, you weren’t going that far anyway. Then later on the back porch, you taught me how to pray to your body with roses and a mask. You asked to stay, persistently pleading. That night, you made my chest move an inch inwards so that my heart couldn’t beat as fully and my lungs couldn’t expand. You wrapped a ribbon around my head and tied it with a bow so I couldn’t speak. You bound my hands in prayer. You put tiny teardrops of glue in my eyes so I could no longer see. You tightly wrapped a corset around me like a brace so that I would stay straight. You put me inside a bed of feathers, stitched me up, and said to wait. You sang me a lullaby about a bracelet of brambles so I could sleep. In the morning you were gone and my house was packed with gallons of milk jugs, but I knew I’d been emptied of everything. Tom Busillo’s (he/his) writing has appeared on McSweeney’s, PANK, and Unbroken, among others, with additional work forthcoming in Calliope. When he's not writing, he likes playing acoustic guitar and attempting to sing Leonard Cohen and Magnetic Fields songs.  He lives in Philadelphia, PA.

Text I Will Never Send Something strange happened today. I was rotting in bed, my favorite pastime since we—ceased. The buzzing warmth of a budding spring flowed through my open windows. In an instant, the bustle of Los Angeles was swallowed by a forest of Japanese greenery.  Everything fell quiet.  The only sound was the crackle of gravel under my feet, each step pulling me further into curious repose.  Among Tokyo’s chaos, blaring billboards overlooking busy crossings and throttling throngs of tourists on Takeshita Street, the wisdom of the trees created stillness. And a chill. The cold air clamped to the bare skin of my pale cheeks. Then I saw you. Sitting at a metal table, drinking blue beer. Tension grew in my shoulders, my desperate gaze settled on your ever-changing eyes—currently pitch black, dark and hard. Two lumps of coal. Two freezing blackholes. I only ever see you in these flashes now, my mind won’t dare bring you to me in a dream. For there is no better way to ensure I never wake up. Text I Actually Did Send I miss you.  I’ve been writing poems lately to channel my emotions, specifically to channel them away from the sympathetic ears of my friends.  None of the poems are very good, linguistically or thematically, because they’re all dripping with one-note sadness. The imagery is usually violent and the turn is always something like “Without you I want to die!” which is a tad melodramatic. I want so desperately to make the break up funny. Maybe if I declared, “I’m done with you!” and turned away and slipped on a banana peel, that would make it funny. Or if you said, “You take everything so personally,” and then a meteor fell from the sky and hit you in the nuts, that would make it funny. Or if we had break up sex and nine months later I gave birth to a dolphin. That would at least be weird, a major improvement over the many weeks of pungent depression I’m currently experiencing.  But, thanks to the fact that people don’t know you’ve been crying if you do it in the shower, the only stink here is desperation. I really miss you. But I also don’t want to see you right now. I just needed to shout into the blackhole that is your inbox, so I know you’re aware that I still exist. I thought of another one! What if I took an hour to craft this message, and spent another twenty minutes with my thumb hesitating over the send button, only for you to have blocked my number? That would make it funny. Oh wait, I forgot the part where the locomotive hits me and my head goes boi-oi-oi-oi-oing . Marissa Padilla is a writer residing in Los Angeles. She/they gravitates towards humor writing, though she can crank out a sad poem when the mood strikes. She attended Northwestern University, where she majored in Theatre with a focus in Playwriting.  When she isn’t writing, Marissa can be found aggressively avoiding eye contact with people on LA’s streets and sidewalks.

Savior fantasies are considered bad.  It's not your place  to save anyone. But all I want is  someone to want  to save me. It shouldn't matter  that they can't. Ewen Glass (he/him) is a screenwriter and poet from Northern Ireland who lives with two dogs, a tortoise and lots of self-doubt; his poetry has appeared in the likes of Okay Donkey, Maudlin House, HAD, Poetry Scotland and Ex-Puritan. His debut chapbook ‘The Art of Washing What You Can't Touch’ is published by Alien Buddha Press.

pages fluttering back and forth: cleaved fairy wings, cracked down the spine when i was eleven and living for the sweet burst of albany peaches in my uncle’s backyard. to become a woman was to swallow that childhood, push it down and make space for the weight of my mother’s resentment for her lost job, hatred for her mother-in-law, leftover anger from arguing with my father. in her image, i drew a crack down my chest to let out my smaller self, with her magic wandmonkey bars. soft glow of swingset evenings overcascade view. sucking on bitter peach pits,the aftertaste of childhood. and when fall came, i draped my mother’s old overcoat on my shoulders: all her grief settling over me. Sirjana Kaur is an Indian-American writer from Redmond, Washington. A 2024 National Student Poets Program Semifinalist, her work has been recognized by the Scholastic Art & Writing Awards, Eunoia Review, and Hot Pot Magazine. She's a lover of crosswords, cappuccinos, and the em dash.

“Been slow.” Within the TV commercial extra world, Howie’s resemblance to a nursing home resident had been a disadvantage. Eyebrow, nose and ear hair were thickets.          “Gary’s on almost every job. Even when he doesn’t fit the specs.” Stewie, plump blueberry shape, steamed.          “Thanks, to Jen.” Me—a five-head, maybe, six; swimming caps out of the question—stated the obvious. But the collective anger was real. Lifers, we’d been super professional; early to set, great wardrobe—sometimes still in dry cleaning plastic—never shirking the job. Extreme weather conditions, on our feet hours at a time, rushing back to our starting marks, drives to distant, unfamiliar locations… whatever was called for. But Screen Actors Guild jobs were being lost to non-union extras; their day rate cheaper. Though a rough-looking contingent, as though grabbed off the street, and clueless, dropped on sets, or part of a prison work-release program. Unkempt, they wore ill-fitting clothes and lacked decent haircuts. These deranged misfits were fabled for sleeping in their cars during shoots, stripping craft services tables blind, and at risk of the police conducting a sweep for outstanding warrants and being stuffed, hand over head, into squad cars. Their presence resembled scenes straight out of The Wire . Except, instead of violent Baltimore drug-dealers, contingents of Russians, comic-con attendees who’d live with their parents well into middle age, and those off their meds prevailed. Fortunately, their attendance was mostly limited to large crowd scenes. And yet, Gary, connected, fine, was racking up enemies by the job.          An occasional principal, Gary acted like he was slumming, being an extra. As if, doing us a favor, gracing us with his presence. You’d walk past, say ‘Hello,’ and he’d stare straight ahead, ignoring you. In this close-knit community, a definite no-no. Oh… and haughty.          His greatest offense? Pontificating. Acting like the Master of Ceremonies, constantly making quips. Extras usually continued to talk, even when told not to. But Gary took it to another level. Holding conversations as we rolled film. Commenting on an actor’s performance, even heckling, offering directors suggestions, stepping to the front of lunch lines to talk to folks, then cutting ahead—this done enough times to confirm, it was a ploy… Normally, this would lead to banishment from our world. However, Gary was under Jen’s wing; an untouchable. He had to go.          Oh, wardrobe. Rather than bring a host of options—extras given a breakdown the night before—Gary mailed it in. Same jeans, polo shirt—snug on his snack-fed belly—and challenging himself, perhaps bring a jacket. Such an annoyance, wardrobe stylists approved his look, not wanting to engage that irksome personality.          Better suited actors hoping to make rent, pay bills, eat, and the carless folks navigating haphazard metro options, were passed over, as Gary raked in check after check. Worse, announcing he’d had multiple avail checks for a single day—necessitating turning down work—how many spots he’d gotten—each one, the equivalent of another paycheck—and booking weekends (double pay)… without any awareness that others were fed up, sharpening knives, cleaning guns, charging tasers… Rather than wait for karma to come around, barely scraping by—Janis Joplin’s line, ‘Freedom’s just another word, for nothing left to lose,’ came to mind—I decided to take matters into my own hands. Howie and Stewie didn’t need convincing.          Hmm… How to bring about Gary’s demise? Stewie and me turned to Howie. A film-noir buff, he’d know a scenario, far enough back, that’d read like a plausible accident.          A clique on set, we openly schemed, sitting in extras holding; this one, a downtown parking lot, under a pop-up tent, urine and vomit smells rampant. And invisible, the resurgent, antibiotic-resistant black plague. Not surprisingly, Gary was already hitting the craft services table, even though the woman there wasn’t fully set up. And he’d just had breakfast. Two helpings. In short, loathsome.          “Well… poison is an option.” My initial thought.          “Crush tablets in his coffee. Easy.” Stewie offered.          “Yeah, no. Where we getting poison?”          “Good point, Howie. Benadryl, or something else in sufficient quantity?” I wanted my idea approved.        “Whatever we do, no Internet searches. That’s Exhibit A.” We all nodded at Stewie’s prescient warning. “Run him over after wrap? Walking to his car? Today.” I felt ambitious. “Stewie could shove him into traffic…” Howie. “Why me?” “You’re the strongest.” While true… I skirted saying, the biggest… a euphemism for fat. And hairy. When Stewie changed shirts, it looked like he was wearing a sweater. “How much time we putting into this?” Stewie ever cautious. “Want to stay off the streets? While providing a public service.” Howie revved up. Two pension credits short of being vested—make a certain amount every year, and you earned one—there was clear motivation. “We’re not getting any younger.” I stated the obvious and most salient fact; age a definite handicap in our business. ***** Jobs grew less frequent. Howie became desperate to act. No Gary, better chance of work. Always wanting to fit in, Stewie stayed on board. But we faced risk and the unexpected. So,  resigned ourselves, contemplated other careers. Howie applied for a post office gig; mail sorter. Stewie ramped up going to swap meets, buying an item for a buck, flipping it on eBay for two. Not mentally equipped to deal with the general public, I’d reached a dead-end; under constant strain. We all were. ***** Safety meetings were mandatory. Before shoots, the 1st Assistant Director addressed the entire production. Walkie-talkies held aloft to broadcast the message. Certain potential hazards highlighted. Don’t pet wild animals. Stay away from cliff edges. And, one in particular: the techno crane, a squat version of the AT-AT’s the Empire employed against the rebels on the Star Wars  snow planet Hoth, featuring a telescoping arm and stabilizing head for the attached camera, allowing freedom of movement through space. Massive, steel plates anchored the base. Extras—movements haphazard—merited repeat warnings not to step in front. Odds were taken, on whether someone would. Never happened. Extras had fainted due to extreme heat, fell—uneven ground, equipment cables—been concussed by collapsed wardrobe racks… While not on the fateful set, word spread rapid-fire amongst the extra community—Gary had been killed. Apparently, giving a soliloquy, after an AD called ‘Action’—the timing perfect—Gary, oblivious, stepped in front of a techno crane and was crushed like a soda can—the arm’s full downward force, the cause. Not the camera end, but extended metal beam. While most looked away, others had the morbid fascination or glee, glimpsing organ soup. There’d be no memorial services. At least nothing organized by the extras. Schadenfreude reigned over Gary’s demise; self-inflicted.          ***** A rare day, we all worked together. Gary’s jobs went to Jen’s new, innocuous boyfriend. And none, had found an alternative way to earn a living. We looked forward to social security—not far off—earning cash subjecting ourselves to medical experiments… While Stewie played a bloated, drowned corpse, Howie and I sipped coffees, watching. “Stewie’s getting put on a lot of jobs...” At the tender age of seven, Johnny was traumatized by not only bad parenting but an overconsumption of sweets, his father running the North American operations of Pez candy. He was born with the proverbial silver spoon in his mouth on Park Avenue and raised by partially suicidal European eccentrics. Once the money was gone, the lot of them became unglued in different ways. Johnny parlayed a John Donne essay into a scholarship at coveted Bennington College, where he went on to associate with more upper class, anxiety-ridden, somewhat suicidal, vicious eccentrics. Having navigated all aspects of bad behavior from Park Avenue, a small village in rural Vermont, a series of low- to medium-level odd jobs, stint at the Andy Warhol Foundation and ultimately to TV commercial extra work, he’s turned these experiences into short stories.

Charlie Russell sat cross-legged on the seat of his dad’s F-1 pickup, bundled up in his thick coat, his mittens laid on the dashboard. There was an hour or so of daylight left, allowing him to read the latest issue of The Incredible Hulk  while he waited. The monster was taking on General Fang and his communist cronies in the pages of his twelve-cent comic while the truck idled in the icy parking lot of Sheen’s Hardware and Materials. Charlie’s dad was inside the store buying nails. These after-school errands had become a drab tradition over the past month. They started with trips to the concrete plant—two and a half tons of concrete over six trips. One hundred and thirty-five concrete blocks in total. Then, there were trips to the lumber yard. Charlie was dragged along to help load and unload, or maybe just for the appearance of bonding. His dad was deep in his new obsession: the booklet. It contained a list of the materials, diagrams, and building instructions. Build it yourself beneath the floorboards. Preparing for the worst—it’s not just for pessimists anymore.  Charlie and his dad spent afternoons after school picking up supplies and evenings building in the basement. They spent more one-on-one time than ever these days, yet they’d never spoken so little. That was A-OK for Charlie, who didn’t have much to say since August anyway. It was called the “Basement Concrete Block Shelter,” and it was the centerpiece of every sparse phrase or dialogue between the two. The shelter was the third such design outlined in the Family Shelter Designs booklet issued by the Office of Civil Defense. His dad had brought the thirty-page booklet home from the V.F.W. hall just two weeks after Charlie’s mom had passed away from stomach cancer. That was three months ago. It was designed to fit a family of four, but Charlie’s dad made no alterations to the design. When he wasn’t helping haul materials, Charlie was in the basement with his dad, mixing mortar and laying blocks. Dinner was squeezed in somewhere, usually a quick sandwich. Then Charlie would do his homework while his dad continued to build before going to work. The concrete was steps one through five in Dad’s booklet. When he wasn’t pouring and cutting and hammering in the basement, Charlie’s dad sat in the living room watching the news and reading his booklet. It was his scripture.  Charlie was left on a cliffhanger in The Incredible Hulk  when his dad emerged from the hardware store carrying two boxes of nails. He remembered his dad reciting it from the list: two pounds of sixpenny nails and two pounds of sixteenpenny. He loaded them into the bed of the truck, and Charlie folded the comic and stuffed it into his back pocket. He would have to find out later how the Hulk defeated Fang’s paratroopers and won the day. It was never a question of if —just how .  “…help positioning the boards tomorrow,” his dad said, starting the sentence before opening the truck door so Charlie only heard the second half.  He navigated his response carefully. “I was going to spend tomorrow at the lake. We talked about it yesterday.” Charlie’s dad never yelled—not like Mike’s dad. But he did show his disappointment through a particular sigh that was part exhaustion and part defeat. To Charlie, this was somehow worse than yelling. There was no sigh this time, though. As Charlie’s dad pulled the truck out of park, he gave an approving grunt. “I’ll just apply the water repellent to the boards tomorrow, then. Don’t need two people for that.”  Charlie didn’t mask his smile. He hadn’t seen his friends Mike and Stanley outside of school in nearly two weeks—a new record for them. Their time together had been a comfort to Charlie these past few months. They never asked how he was feeling, and they never mentioned his mom. He liked that. That night, Charlie did his homework to the noise of more construction in the basement. When his dad left for his night shift, Charlie stuffed his notes inside a textbook, poured a bowl of cereal, and made his way to the TV in the den. Rawhide  was on, and Rowdy was taking on a pack of wolves that night. Three hours later, Charlie was asleep on the couch as credits ran for The Alfred Hitchcock Hour . The next morning, Charlie met up with Stanley first. Stanley and his mom lived behind the bowling alley just up the hill from the lake. It was the largest body of water in Sojourn. It wasn’t frozen solid yet, but it was getting there. After meeting Stanley in the parking lot of the bowling alley, they walked down together to catch up with Mike, who was waiting for them at the edge of the lake next to the shallow woods. He was skipping rocks along the ice, trying to see if he could reach the center of the lake. He got close a few times. There was a large wooden sign by the embankment that was painted orange with black letters. It read “CAUTION THIN ICE” and “Sojourn Sheriff’s Department.” Charlie and Stanley walked up just as Mike was running out of rocks. The three of them planted elbows on the top of the wooden sign and fidgeted with their coat pockets. Tradition dictated that each boy bring a cigarette. Charlie and Stanley produced theirs first. Mike didn't. “My dad started counting them,” he confessed to the others.  They decided to share. Charlie brought out a book of matches and they lit up—two cigarettes alternating between the three boys after every drag. This immediately spurred a competition, as hangouts at the lake always did. One by one, they each exhaled to see who could create the biggest cloud of breath in the cold air. The warm smoke contrasted against the woods behind them as the boys alternated between coughing and laughing. Charlie lost. Eventually, the boys got tired of standing and sat on the edge of the lake where the ice was thickest. After a comfortable silence, Stanley addressed the others. “Notice anything different?” He touched the tips of his boots together on the dead grass and Mike and Charlie immediately noticed the shine. Stanley’s shoes never shined. “My feet are finally bigger than George’s, so Mom had to get me a pair that’s just mine.”  Stanley had never had an article of clothing in his life that wasn’t first worn by his older brother George. “Mom said these count as my Christmas, though,” Stanley added. “Boots aren’t a Christmas present," Mike argued. “Christmas is for the shit you don’t need.” “Tell that to my mom.” “Did you guys watch Rawhide  last night?” Charlie interrupted. This question was rhetorical, of course. It was always just a matter of time before their conversations turned to their favorite subject, TV. Mostly westerns, but not exclusively. “You think there are wolves round here like the ones Rowdy had to deal with?” Stanley asked the group. “Of course!” Mike asserted. “I even shot one once.” “Bullshit.” Stanley chortled. “Well, my dad did. And I was with him. It was in the woods behind the school.” Charlie hadn’t seen any wolves, but he did hunt deer with his dad. Or, he used to before Mom got sick. A lot had changed since then. Just about the only thing that stayed the same were his hangouts with Stanley and Mike, and their favorite TV shows. Same time. Same channel. Same ol’ Rowdy.  The only thing the boys loved more than Rawhide  was Gunsmoke . Mostly because more people got shot in Gunsmoke . Clint Eastwood’s Rowdy was cool and all, but Matt Dillon didn’t put up with any shit, and he didn’t mind smoking guys who needed to be smoked. Gunsmoke  also had Kitty. It was worth watching just to see her. Over the next two hours, the conversation waxed and waned—their cigarettes long cold. They talked about other shows like Route 66  and Candid Camera , and they talked about school and Ms. Butler and all her goddamn homework. Naturally, the shelter beneath Charlie’s room eventually came up too. How could it not? “Are you gonna be able to watch TV down there?” Mike asked. “I don't think so,” Charlie answered. “The only thing Dad mentioned putting in it is food. Like cans and stuff.”  “Can you play games and stuff in it? It could make a bitchin’ fort.” “Dad said I’m not supposed to use it,” Charlie answered. “Why build it if you’re not gonna use it?” Mike asked.  Charlie didn’t have an answer.  “So what is it this week?” Stanley asked. “Nails,” Charlie said—realizing that this was the last thing on earth he wanted to talk about. He groped for a new subject. Competition was always a safe bet to make the time pass. In the summer months, it was the highest jump in the water from the rope swing, or the fastest sprint along the lakeshore, or the longest held breath underwater. Fall and winter required something new. “What if we see who can go out on the ice the farthest?” Charlie propositioned. “Like Mike’s rocks.” “Rocks are different,” Mike responded. “My dad said I’m not allowed to go out on the ice until it gets colder.” “You wouldn’t last a day in the Old West!” Stanley replied. “I’m in. I’m not chicken.”  This seemed to be enough for Mike, as it usually was. So, Charlie laid out the rules. They would each sit on the edge of the frozen lake with their butts, feet, and palms on the ice. Then, one by one, they would each scoot one foot further from the edge onto thinner and thinner ice. Whoever was brave enough to go the farthest won.  The sun was directly above them when they began to scoot. Round after round, the ice thinned. After seven rounds, the boys were about seven feet out into the frozen lake. It was Charlie’s turn. One foot further. “You can give up now if you want a truce,” Stanley told Charlie—his voice shivering.  Charlie released his palm from the ice and heard a crack. He wiggled forward as the ice began to split beneath him. Two inches more. Then five inches. He continued. The weight of his body produced a crunching sound as it slid along. The other boys shot quick glances at each other and then back at the ice. “Okay, let’s just agree we’re all brave as hell and just go. I’m goddamn starved,” Mike said, offering a way to end with their dignity intact. Charlie thought of the Hulk and Rowdy, and he thought of Kitty. He was nearing eight feet—ahead of Mike by at least nine inches. Would they catch up this round? Doubtful. But he would finish the remaining three inches, and this time he would win. Not if , just how . Charlie worked to accomplish the final movement. The thin ice cracked once more, then again. Finally, there was a violent sound, and the contest was settled. Brandon Clarkson is a writer based in historic Richmond, VA with his wife and several small creatures. In his free time, he finds fulfillment in quiet meditation, good conversation, and uninterrupted creativity. His short fiction has appeared in Marrow Magazine.

All the fucks I give (are so, so  many)   “Look at me,” people say, gesturing empty arms to open air. “Look at all the fucks I give.”   Implying, of course, that the air around them is devoid of fucks; that they give zero.   “Look at me ,” I say in response. “Look at all the fucks I give. Look at them .”   Because they are shining bright enough to blind like radioactive waste in a children’s cartoon because I don’t give zero .   I don’t know how .   I started a pile of fucks very, very young and it tilted over and spilled into the Mariana Trench and still I added until I started worrying about rising sea levels and stopped with that one.   Then I started haphazardly flinging fucks into the night sky until it got too bright for it to still be night and I had to stop doing that, too.   So now I cradle my fucks between my palms, my stack growing ever taller.   My mother asks when I’ll put them down. I need my hands, she tells me. I need to be able to defend myself; I’ve become an open target, just clutching my fucks to my chest so they don’t fall and I can’t see over this ever-growing pile any more and I’m already clumsy and soon I’ll have no choice but to fall ( but I don’t let her know that ).   And I can't answer her, because I don't know how to put them down.   No. Instead, I always manage to balance just one more  on top like the world’s most desperate game of jenga and then one more thing happens and you can bet I’ll give a fuck about that, too, and my god it’s exhausting—   Hope is so fucking exhausting.   But what’s the alternative?   Because I have too much unfinished to be an epilogue yet. Maybe I’m an ellipsis, an em dash, a semicolon— something that says this sentence isn’t over.   And maybe I am more vulnerable, less prepared to protect myself, a few more wounds than most from years of fighting battles I could have ignored, but that same stubborn nature that won’t let that piece of me, deep inside, stop believing in good , that’s a virtue, too, because I am not admitting defeat.   Even if I trip and fall again and again and again.   Even though there are no guarantees. Even if my only shield against yet another fractured bone from clumsy feet and an obstructed view is fragile defiance.   I still give all the fucks. And arduous and painful as it is, I think I prefer it to the alternative.   So, to all of you out there, all of you who spread arms you don’t realize are begging for something to carry if only to soothe a soul too defeated to weep over the fear that it’s grown empty and it doesn’t know what it’s meant to do anymore, then go ahead:   Look at all the fucks I give. Take one of mine. Cavities Published by Dipity Lit Mag,  2024   Just take a minute to be grateful if this morning when you rose, groggy and disoriented, perhaps, you didn’t need glass or silicon hydrogel polymers to see your face unblurred in the mirror.   The cosmos and cesium, the nebulae and nitric acid— yes, they will kill you, and yes, you have no say, and yes,   yes,   yes, you are an overripe wound suffocating under the heel of the overlarge capitalist mosquito who sucks and sucks and sucks and never bleeds you dry but leaves that annoyance, that prick, that itch—   and yes, that is your fate if you believe in fate, and that is your destiny if you believe in destiny, but also: fuck fate. Fuck destiny.   Try to hold, for just a moment, the gratitude that this morning when you woke the same cortisol that runs through your veins poisoning you with epigenetic trauma inherited from the ancestors hunted and slaughtered also gave you, perhaps, the genetics to eat leftover cake for breakfast without worrying too much about cavities.   Or brush well and eat the cake, anyway. It's time to get used to saying, “Fuck you,” and doing exactly as you please. Cry “Girl” Includes excerpt of   “Holy II,” published in  BlazeVOX Journal , 2023   I tire of being human: I wish to be holy. My hands, bless not bruise— my mouth, sing not sin— my heart, unbroken with purpose.   It doesn’t make much difference, though. My time is limited here, and no matter if I bruise or bless, you still spit girl  at me like it’s a foul word.   I wish I were a shapeshifter. In my dreams, I am   wolf,   lion,   beast.   In my dreams, I am born free and unburdened, and no one will deign to underestimate my power, and pretty  will be the least important thing about me.   In my dreams, I shine gold and blind you with goodness. All my mistakes are turned to art, and I race to the cliff’s edge, and hurl myself, unselfconscious, at the stars.   In my dreams, girl  will be my battlecry, and you will cower when I call. Going to be Don Quixote in the end   On that day that I was slammed into a landlocked shipwreck and there was someone crowing on the prow—   well, I didn’t care if it was my dying hallucination and didn’t hesitate before I took their hand, restless and ready for a bad idea: they changed everything.   I knew my destiny I always had  and the sky was such a plain blue that I was already mentally preparing for disaster, so I canonized myself patron saint of tilting at windmills because I’m going to be Don Quixote in the end, anyway.   They touch me like the end is coming, and fast, with their hands rough, with their hands soft, with their hands— and their voice rasps like spilled ashtrays with still-burning cigarette butts as they read my body like braille, my too-pale skin the canvas for their fingerpaint.   They are an enigma, promising me with a wicked laugh that we will find the cosmic significance of it all, then they crash me like a flickering neon orange sign   (VACANCY; NO VACANCY; VACANCY; NO VACANCY)   into heartbreak—   before repenting on their knees and begging forgiveness between my legs.   I'm so absolutely mad over them, but I start to fear waking from these opium dreams, crushed by gravity—   start to wonder if I had gone too far this time—   and our atoms are flickering now and I’m worried this may be the time their wings finally melt and then they tell me to hold on and   crash! slam !   We break  into 1605 and now we’re crossing swords with windmills until they turn to giants and—   suddenly—   I’m—   !— Your damn little red roadster: glimpses of a relationship in haiku   I LOVE YOU. You love me . ​​ Yet neither of us ​ are very good at This. I don’t know if You And Me could ever be a  We, but I do know  that something about your little red roadster  and all those iced coffees  you buy me makes the  FOOLISH, NAÏVE ,  part of my  brain absurdly Hope— Somehow   you can make me believe I'm loved  as much as a Saint's Last Prayer. We’re drinking champagne and whiskey  on your roof and we know We’re In Love. Your arm  is around  my shoulders  and We Never  DEFINE WHAT WE ARE. Chasing toads , skipping stones ;  m y   skin ghost-pale on   y o u r s as          you catch                          my hand. We act as If We’re Holy, though we just ROT to plant food in the end . I'm a Hurricane Manifested and I'll wreck you; still, please , kiss me— So I just   b e g   you to BRUISE ME LIKE DYNAMITE, force me to combust . Your grin (Dark, Hungry) emerges as I   d r a g   b a r e f e e t   across hardwood. I slide my heel down the column of your spine,   and count the vertebrae while your TEETH and TONGUE  Write An Indigo Sonnet on my carotid . I let myself  be The   I c a r u s   to your s u n for the Chance To Fly. To meet Apollo, I risked it all  and got too  close but Still: I FLEW. I WISH we could live happily ever onward , but that's not Our Fate: our stolen time is not enough ; but we pretend  for just One More Day. Always ONE MORE DAY. Just One More. We're not ready. Please   don't   rouse   us   yet. Maia Brown-Jackson is a Pushcart-nominated, award-winning writer whose work has appeared in Across the Margin, Anti-Heroin Chic, Fantasy and Science Fiction Magazine, La Piccioletta Barca, Maudlin House, Prime Number Magazine, and others. Her debut poetry collection, And My Blood Sang , was published by Tim Saunders Publications in 2023. Her second collection, Gifted , opens for pre-orders this autumn with Nymeria Publishing. In her spare time, she volunteers with a Yazidi NGO, accidentally starts learning quantum physics when she looks up the qualities of neutrinos for a random poem, and wastes time with the world’s sweetest, clumsiest cat.

You've never known what it felt like to fuck someone like you hate them. She tries her hardest to convince this stranger dressed as a nun that she is not sure she’ll be leaving with you. Like fucking hell. You wonder if Jesus would have fucked Peter with the same bitterness. It might be ironic, the comparison. Denial comes in threes. You haven’t cum once. But Jesus offered unconditional forgiveness, so who the hell are you to hold a grudge? The taste of chocolate and mushrooms lingers on the back of your tongue like the eucharist; sweet, earthy, and hard to swallow. The music from every room shakes the tin walls like an overzealous choir. The nun asks to put her friend's cock in your partner’s mouth. She feels your fingers tighten in her hair at the suggestion. She says to the nun, only if they both do you as well. The idea dies in the air. The heat rushes out of you all at once and you are a boy in a confessional, on your knees for something you don’t believe in. She walks you around the benches and cages of a bondage room labeled a confessional. She tells you about the times she loaded up on cocaine so she could eagerly take beatings from strangers. She asks how you want to fuck her, trying to coax life back into you. Someone fills the room with incense. You stop the tour and put her on her knees, there in the middle of the room. Repentance through action and humiliation. Forgiveness comes as you do. AJ Maiorana is the non-fiction editor for JAKE the Magazine and a recovering catholic. He had work published in Gutslut Press, Bulb Culture Collective, Bullshit Lit, and Mr. Bull Bull. He is a one-time Pushcart Prize nominee.

alone at night, the devil is in the garbage can                        unheard                        and speaking to snow. he’s swinging                 a mardi gras necklace in a midnight that’s only a smile until rain coils like a boomerang and he throws it at the            largest headstone. under grass             is a basement room             closing the sun ‘s eyes for a spell called                    romance and i’ve                    begged my- self not to                look                through telescopes                and see                confusion too   closely as i’d see                a ridge of fear. (stanza break) there is a                love               song happening in any hour that          fresh- ens when new brides haven’t                            lost their smell and the grocery                                    cart’ s  wheel blubbers             on the tiled floor. dawn                                            folds itself                                            with a cockroach hidden in the lazy susan: the bed sighs          like a shrunken head. Livio Farallo is co-editor of Slipstream. His work has appeared in numerous publications in the small-press world.

I’d like to write about Jamaica but I forgot my notebook prolific only happens while the sun gives the horizon it’s morning kiss poem scrawled each morning     no worries      while waves lap and caress the shore but I forgot my notebook pen slashes       needed  to describe the serenity    of cold sand on sunburnt feet but I forgot my notebook and the sailboat     anchored just off our beach S C R E A M S poetry but I forgot my notebook and the islander     offers me beads and some smoke          (correction) his words were     after a careful look     You don’t smoke . not a question     an affirmation even this stranger     can see my vanilla I’d like to write about these things but I forgot my notebook and using the notes app on my phone      sucks and nobody has any fucking paper unless I want it to roll Donnovan and the Office of Nature We walked to the Office of Nature a hut of a bar     a few clicks down the beach from our Jamaican resort Facebook famous     for its resident musician Donnovan     streaming while strumming belting out in sweet gravelly rasp we sidle up to the bar     wet sand in our toes I approach beside him     lean on the bar to order Donnovan looks at me     chuckles into the mic       Looks like I need to share I ask what he means, and he pushes his guitar towards me      You play      not really a question     a matter of fact I tell him     sorry, I don’t       Don’t lie – just play I explain that I wish I could but I’ve never more than strummed around He sips his whisky     laughs again       Too bad     you got music in you I can see it in his eyes our commonality     that he recognizes two artists     navigating sadness through form       What are you? a little buzzed     sun-warped late afternoon in a Jamaican resort lobby bar     undecided about what island concoction to imbibe next the bartender asks     no words a point of her finger      a nod toward me I stare at the bottles lining the back shelf shrug my shoulders     Make me your favorite Her reply          what are you? she stares at me     intimidating yet jovial American     white     male     middle-aged any number of census question answers are obviously not what she is looking for I laugh     I don’t know she scoffs     how do you not know? Her accent thick     exaggerated     she asks again       What are you? I fire back     agitated     playful       What are you!? a quick     direct response      Hardcore. I found out later     moments before I walked in She whipped my buddy’s ass in arm wrestling nobody is clear on how they got there but everyone is clear on who won      Indecisive is what I should’ve said      Introspective is what I blurt out     after fumbling more she handed me a Pina Colada no fruit topper     no umbrella plain shaved ice in a tall cylindrical glass a cold formless cloud behind a window for what it lacks in aesthetics it can surprise you a lot of flavors flowing up that straw      or so I tell myself

Welcome to the men’s freestyle flâneur semifinals where two of today’s six competitors will go on to the finals. Flâneur’s tradition goes back to Baudelaire, who coined the term for a dilettante urban wanderer.  At the sound of the 9:00 AM buzzer, German Helmut Kriegsmesser is out the door with a compass, topographic map and guidebook. Despite his early start, there’s already a line to buy tickets to the Notre Dame Cathedral. Kriegsmesser looks at the map to decide whether to wait or come back later. Oh, he’s staying! America’s George Shumway has gotten off to a bad start by booking a hotel far from city center. He’s lost in the warehouse district. Can he come back from this far behind? In a bold move, Brazil’s Paulo Feijoada sits at an outdoor café with an espresso and almond croissant. This is his first competition since recovering from fallen arches. He’s eager to medal after Hideki Umami edged him out of the bronze in 2020. Canada’s Gary Poutine is dogging Kriegsmesser’s heels. The German’s twelve-minute lead has evaporated in the ticket line. At just twenty-years-of-age, Poutine is today’s youngest competitor, but youth will not handicap him because the drinking age here is eighteen. Having stopped for a churro, Mexico’s Guillermo Choripan is close behind. A kimchee fried rice or Turkish çilbir would have netted him more points, but judges score breakfast lighter than other meals. is back in the race. He’s found a subway station and is struggling with the door. Wait! Someone’s opening it. Shumway’s inside! He’s deciphering the ticket machine. He’s taking out his credit card. Shumway is on his way! France’s Claude Cassoulet sets off in style with a diamond-tipped walking stick. You can’t talk flâneur without mentioning Cassoulet. Two-time winner of Olympic gold and six-time winner of the World Cup, this is likely to be his last competition, and he’s going out in style. is in and out of the cathedral in just twenty seconds leaving Poutine and Choripan behind to admire the stained-glass windows. Poutine is out. Choripan remains inside looking at the confession booths as if he has something to get off his chest. Feijoada is still at the outdoor café. Shumway exits the subway and spots a McDonalds. He’s heading inside. A twenty-point penalty for Shumway! Wait. Shumway’s using the bathroom. He’s leaving without buying anything. Great move for Shumway. Cassoulet stops outside a hat shop. He’s going in, looking at Panama hats. He’s talking to the clerk. Cassoulet leaves wearing a Panama hat. Man, the guy’s got style! Feijoada motions to the waiter. This could be his move. No, he just ordered another espresso. is sprinting through the old city. He’s turning left toward the port. Poutine has stopped in the square by the cathedral. He’s listening to a guitarist playing cover tunes and doesn’t look like he’s going anywhere soon.  Cassoulet is gesturing to a police officer and pointing to a large chessboard painted on the pavement. They’re playing, the policeman as white and Cassoulet as black. Rather than moving the knee-high pieces, Cassoulet points with his cane and a boy he hired moves them for him.  Choripan is out of the church. He’s looking in an ice cream shop window. Oh! He’s walking away! Judges will take ten points off for that. But wait! A stray dog has adopted Choripan. He’s going back to the ice cream shop. He’s buying the dog an ice cream cone. Feijoada is getting up. He’s making his move for real this time! And he moves his chair into the shade. A bold strategy for Feijoada. Oh no! Back at the chess game, Cassoulet missed a fork that could have taken white’s rook. White’s pushing his pawn and promoting it to queen. Cassoulet resigns. Shumway made it to Chinatown. He’s looking at a bakery. He enters and comes out with a sesame ball and egg custard. Now he’s in a tea shop. He passes up prepackaged boxes to sniff loose-leaf tea in the bins. The clerk asks if he wants to try some jasmine tea. Shumway refuses! He’s buying Iron Goddess oolong! There’s no stopping him! Shumway’s on a roll! He found a produce store and he’s buying a bag of mangosteens, the best fruit in the entire world! The fans are on their feet! It’s pandemonium. The buzzer sounds and the judges have made their decisions! Shumway and Feijoada are going to the finals!  Jon Wesick has written over a million words in poems, short stories, and novels. Hundreds of his works have appeared in journals such as the  I-70 Review, New Verse News, Paterson Literary Review,  and Unlikely Stories Mark V . He is a regional editor of the San Diego Poetry Annual  and host of the Gelato East Fiction Open Mic. His latest book, Reductio Ad Absurdum , is a collection of parodies. He lives in Manchester, New Hampshire and longs for gene editing to bring giant wombats back from extinction. http://jonwesick.com