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We were hitting our stride this Saturday morning, bodily rhythms in sync. Then came the first thud: a strange knocking from somewhere at the other end of the house. Something against a window, cutting against the grain of our syncopation. “What was that?” Barbara asked. “What,” I said, trying to sustain the rhythm. “What was what.” The second thud came. Louder, harder. Solid. “There it is again,” Barbara said. She froze, and her attention shifted to the noise beyond our bedroom. “Dan,” she said. “Stop. Listen.” Another thud. A pause. Then a fourth. I rolled aside, defeated, and we grabbed our robes from the floor and stumbled toward the noise. We followed the sounds to the sliding glass door that led from the kitchen and dinette area to the deck. There we found a solitary robin hurling itself repeatedly against the glass. “He sees his reflection,” Barbara said. “He thinks it’s another robin. A girl robin.” She stood at my side. I put my arm around her, still feeling amorous, or trying to. “Must be spring,” I said. Our son Casey stepped toward us. He walked stiff-legged, his high forehead furrowed in ire as he rubbed sleep out of his eyes. “What’s going on?” He wore a Chicago Cubs robe loosely around him. “A crazy robin,” said Barbara. Another thud. “He sees his reflection in the glass, and he thinks it’s a female robin.” “He’s in love,” I said. “Like Narcissus.” Barbara rolled her eyes. Casey shrugged, blinked his eyes hard twice, and opened the refrigerator. He stood leaning against the open door, inspecting the contents. Again the bird rammed the glass, dropped, and skittered across the wooden deck floor, away from the door. Then it flew toward it again. Ram, crash, drop, skitter. Ram, crash, drop, skitter. “What should we do?” Barbara asked. I shrugged. “He’ll leave soon,” I said. “We can’t just leave it like this, Dan. Look at the mess he’s making already on the deck.” “Yeah, Dad,” Casey said as he poured Frosted Flakes into a mixing bowl. “We’ve got to do something about it.” He poured milk over the cereal and set the plastic jug on the table. “I’m telling you both, the bird will leave in time. He’ll get tired of crashing into the glass. He’ll come to his senses and leave. We just need to give him time.” “Give him his space,” Barbara said, her voice tinged with sarcasm. “Exactly,” I said. She rolled her eyes. “Casey,” I said, “what time is your ball game?” “Not until ten,” he said, scooping cereal into his mouth with a soup spoon. “You’d better get ready, Casey,” Barbara said. “That’s only a little over an hour from now.” The boy nodded and slurped. Turning to me, Barbara whispered, “I really wish you would do something about that bird.” “Fine,” I said. I cinched the sash of my house robe, walked into the garage, grabbed the push broom, and stepped out to meet my adversary. “Hey, little guy,” I said as the bird hopped against the glass, then careened backward. The walnut-stained deck planks were splotched with robin droppings. I brandished the broom like a pike.  The bird ignored me, made another run for it, flitted up against the window, fell, and staggered backward. “That’s not your mate, matey,” I said as I waved the bristled end of the broom at the robin. It fluttered and chittered and flapped its wings like madness, a bird possessed. “Listen,” I said, swiping the broom on the ground toward its tiny taloned feet. In the window, I saw Barbara and Casey watching me, a reluctant gladiator thrust into the arena. My honor and manhood were now on the line.  “Listen, little guy. I know what it’s like to be in love.” The bird paused as I brushed the broom closer. It appeared to be tiring of this ritual. “Or to think you’re in love.” Again the bird threw itself against the glass. Again it fell backward. “I know how you feel,” I said. “I know what it’s like to be misled, mistaken.” Ram, crash, drop, skitter. “I know , dammit!” I said as I swung the broom hard like a baseball bat at the elevating bird.  The wood of the broom head connected. I heard the hard, dull thwap  of it as the bird soared a few feet before dropping to the deck. A bloop single.  It did not get up. I nudged the robin with the broom. A faint spot of red on its beak began to leak onto the walnut-stained boards. “ Dad! ” came Casey’s muffled cry behind the glass.  Then, from my wife, “Oh, Dan. Did you kill it? You didn’t kill it, did you?” I glared into the glass at them both. In unison, they turned away. I stepped off the deck and back into the garage. Barbara and Casey were both in there, standing at the door connecting to the kitchen, when I picked up the dustpan and stepped back to the deck. “I’m pretty sure it’s dead,” I said. They both stood silent, watching me with judgment in their eyes. “Well, you wanted me to do something, right?” “Yes, but –”  “But what, Barbara? Not kill it?” She said nothing, just looked at me with tight lips and saddening eyes. My son in his Cubs robe looked at his feet. “Well, I did something,” I said.  “I didn’t mean to kill him,” I said, turning my back to them and, dustpan in hand, returned to the deck, to the bird, whose only crime, only mistake, was to crash into the illusion of love. A word from the author: " Narcissus on the Deck " could be described as a love story. Or a tale of murder. (I'll let the reader decide.) The author, Andrew Careaga, recently retired from a 40-year career in journalism, PR, and marketing to return to his first love, creative writing. His most recent short stories can be found in Bulb Culture Collective, Club Plum Literary Journal , Paragraph Planet,  and Red String.

Time Time loops like scalloped embroidery; rises, billows, then rejoins its stem – like on the head of a blooming flower, each petal is rooted in its pistil.  Time blossoms, flares from the core of lives. Temporal flights travel to all spheres of our beingness...  We weave and thread: now here, now there, now then. And, even when we die, time’s cobwebs catch us. Her silk skeins stroke us, hold us, in our survivors’ minds.  Time loops, like scalloped embroidery – she gifts time-travel, until the time when all who remember us have passed into the mist. Excitement Equals Excitement is a howler monkey screeching and swinging wild through the charged summer air, from branch to swaying branch. Brother-sister creatures soon appear, numbers double then treble, on and on; they all dance dizzying derangements and shriek their cacophonic calls Disturbed leaves fall, detached from their petioles – so lightly attached to their steady branches – and fall to the forest floor. Their loss is ignored as aroused primates whirl and jump, squeal and squawk. Excitement equals howler monkeys delighting in whirling-dervish orgies before spinning from high-up to free fall and land on the solid ground beneath it all.  The Find Up in the hills, in the borderlands we unearthed a rusted horseshoe, half-covered in sandy soil, by our path. I saw it first, exclaimed and pulled it out, warmed by its promise of good fortune. Your brow creased, And who’s going to carry that. We’ve miles to cover before we reach the car. I smiled and stroked your arm; once you’d have done anything for me, when I smiled like that. No, you said, Your find, your responsibility. So, I carried it in my smaller rucksack, along with our packed lunches, careless of rust dust soiling our sandwiches. Back at home, I placed the horseshoe on our windowsill, between my jars of sea-glass. Next morning, I found you’d turned our good-luck totem upside down. It was already empty, all possibilities spilt upon the ground.  Ceinwen E Cariad Haydon, [MA Creative Writing, Newcastle, UK, 2017] Ceinwen writes short stories and poetry. She has been widely published in web magazines and in print anthologies; these include Northern Gravy, Ink, Sweat and Tears, London Grip, Tears in the Fence, The Lake and Southbank Poetry.  Her first chapbook 'Cerddi Bach (Little Poems), was published in 2019 by Hedgehog Press and her pamphlet 'Scrambled Lives on Buttered Toast' was published by Hedgehog Press in June 2024. She is developing practice as a participatory arts facilitator, mainly working with elders and intergenerational groups. She believes everyone’s voice counts.

On a breathless night in Malta, light fragmented by bedroom shutters pries Maria’s eyes open. She leaves her empty bed. The church bells across the square toll five; just as they did fifty years ago, when the islanders prayed for oil, medicines, and food to reach Grand Harbour.  Maria slips a robe over her cotton nightdress and retrieves a hair tie from its pocket. She is worrying about the job interview she had last week. Maria gathers her dark curls into a loose bun on the top of her head and goes downstairs to the kitchen.  She rations coffee into the smaller pot and places it over a flame on the range. While she waits for water pressure to build, she counts the eggs in their wire helter-skelter. Maria wonders if May and Carl, still asleep in their beds upstairs, are old enough, at nine and eleven, to cope if she were to work longer hours.    The dark, oily liquid gurgles and splutters as it's forced upwards to pool in the pot and fills the kitchen with its familiar aroma.  Maria takes her coffee to the terrace and looks across Mosta to the arid countryside and villages that radiate from the harbour. Sat amongst her orange-scented pelargoniums, she imagines her husband, Anthony, asleep in his bunk somewhere at sea. She sips her bitter brew and listens to the squeaking washing line wheels of women hoping to dry their washing before the Festa fireworks rain down later.  Carl appears next to her, looking as if he’s grown in the night, and says his usual replacement for Good Morning , ‘I’m hungry.’  In the kitchen, May, with her halo of sun-bleached curls framing her face, sleepily sets the table for breakfast. Carl plonks himself on the sofa to watch television. Maria starts making their breakfast. May watches her sauté minced onion and then finely slice a courgette, reserving the two tomatoes for tea. The courgette sizzles when it hits the pan. Maria sprinkles them with sea salt flakes to draw out the moisture and prevent them from burning. She taps the spoon on the edge of the pan, freeing the translucent slivers that cling to it, then places it on a deep blue spoon rest. While Maria whisks the eggs with a pinch of thyme, May pushes the courgettes around with the spoon. Maria pours the frothy eggs into the pan. May scrambles them carefully and turns off the heat, then taps the spoon like her mother on the edge of the pan. Maria divides the eggs between two plates and puts them on the table for her children.  Sitting at the table with a second cup of coffee, Maria says to her children, ‘Don’t forget you’re with Nonna while I go to the office in Valletta this morning. I’ll be back for lunch.’  ‘Okay, okay. We know. Are you going to speak to Papa?’ Carl asks, polishing his plate with a crust of yesterday’s hobz. ‘I am going to try. If his ship makes it to Cadiz today, he’ll call.’ ‘When will he be back?’ May asks. ‘In four or five days,’ Maria replies. ‘What’s for lunch?’ Carl asks.  ‘ Madonna!  You’ve only just finished your breakfast! I’ll pick something up. May, eat. We need to get moving.’ As they set off for her mother’s in Sliema, the bells of Santa Marija strike seven.  In her faded housecoat, Doris opens the front door, where she has lived since her wedding day. Determined to have room to host all five of her sons and their families for their infrequent visits back to the island, she refuses to move to somewhere smaller.  Beginning with Carl, Doris’s lips assess each of their temperatures with a kiss. Her caliper fingers test for sufficient flesh as she embraces them. Doris holds their faces between her hands and scans their eyes. The children go through to the kitchen and find a second breakfast waiting. As Doris shuffles behind them in her house shoes, she calls, ‘Wash your hands! And remember, you must give thanks to God before you eat!’  ‘Thank you, Ma, but I fed them. I’ll just file the shipping orders and try to speak to Anthony. Do you need me to get you anything while I’m out?’ Maria asks. ‘No, no, I’m fine. Children need to eat. They’re growing. You’re too thin, Maria . No wonder you haven’t had any more children , ’ she says, pinching her thumb and pointer finger together in the air. ‘Leave your car here and take the ferry. They’ve closed more roads for the Festa this year. It's bigger with all these tourists from the UE.’  ‘Ma, it’s the EU . And I’m fine . Please, for your sake, make sure Carl runs around, or he’ll drive you up the wall.’ ‘I’ll take them to Mass at ten. He can run there and back. What about you? When will you go to Mass?’ ‘Ma. I’d better go, or I’ll be late getting back. Carl, May, I’m off! Be good for Nonna!’ she says and shuts the front door quickly behind her.  Outside, the windows and shutters of flat-fronted houses are open wide before the midday sun forces them closed. Maria follows the worn cobbled streets that slope towards the harbour and turns left at the church where she was baptised.   The first time she sat in the coffin-like confessional, Maria peered curiously through the door’s star-shaped cutouts, searching for clues. The priest reminded her of a bull she’d seen kept in a small shed to strengthen its amorous resolve. She was sure that if the bull turned, the shed would explode, firing splinters into her and the docile heifers grazing in the fields around her. Maria waited on the hard wooden bench, staring at the hollow stars, unsure what to say.  ‘Hello?’ she tried, twisting one of the tight plaits that pulled on her scalp. ‘Well, my child, go on. Confess your sins,’ said the priest, strumming his fingers impatiently on his seat. ‘Sins? I don’t have any,’ she said. He snorted, ‘No one but God is perfect. Reflect  my child. I can’t forgive you if you don’t confess.’  She ran through the Ten Commandments in her mind but couldn’t think of any she’d broken.  ‘I’m only eight, Father,’ she said, wishing she could see his face to find the answer that would free her from the stifling box.  ‘Well, my child, on your head be it. But remember to be obedient. God sees all.’ Maria crossed herself and was replaced by the next child. The following day, Maria refused to go to Mass, so Doris used the spoon she regularly administered to her sons. Maria spent the rest of the week perched on the edge of her seat to avoid the bruised flesh. Dressed as a child bride for her First Communion, Maria stood before the same priest and reached her tiny hands towards him for her first holy wafer. Mechanically, she placed it in her mouth, bowed her head and crossed herself.  The tasteless disc caught in her throat as Maria returned to her pew. Sat amongst the other girls, she tipped her head forward. Pretending to sneeze, she spat the disc into her handkerchief and tossed the wadge under the pew in front of her.  Now on the promenade at the end of Tower Road, Maria boards the empty ferry. Its red and white bunting flutters in the breeze. A woman swats four children onto a bench opposite Maria before claiming her spot in the middle.  The gold medallion of the Virgin Mary dangling from her neck reflects the sun onto Maria’s face as she scavenges in her handbag. The woman produces two crinkly packets and gives one to each of the two eldest children, then continues to root around in her bag. She gives another packet to the younger two and tells them, ‘Share and be grateful!’ Unlike the old ferries Maria used to take, this one quietly glides away from the dock without leaving smoking engine oil in its wake. Docked on the other side, Maria steps off and struggles to regain her land legs. She climbs the steep path towards Great Siege Road, passing rows of terraced houses with thickly painted doors in bold reds, blues and yellows. In the office sheltered from the sun by neighbouring buildings, she’s relieved to be alone. Maria dusts the empty desks while she waits nervously for her antiquated computer to come to life. She waters the Peace Lilies dotted around to purify the air and follows crispy leaves to their bases to pinch them off. Resurrected, the computer clangs to alert her to an email.  She crosses herself and opens it, unsure which reply she wants more. Dear Mrs Ellul, We are delighted to offer you the promotion to Dock Operations Coordinator. We will be in touch shortly to discuss the details and your transition.   Maria crosses herself again. She will reply tomorrow. Today, she will work on the shipping orders and duplicate copies required with the island's new membership in the EU.    Finished, Maria locks the office and returns to the harbour. The bells of St Paul’s mark twelve.  What would her mother say if she began to work full-time? As far as Doris knew, Maria was a part-time secretary. She’d never felt able to share the progression she’d made at the company with her mother. Mothers and wives were to work out of necessity. What would she think of Maria running the docks?       She walks along the streets filled with foreigners and notices the shrapnel scars on nearly every building she passes. The fingerprints of bombs gifted during the two-year siege are darker and deeper in the midday sun.   At the dock, mobs of English, German and French tourists sing and drink beers while they filter onto the ferry. One of the last to arrive, Maria is left on the dock with a handful of other locals unused to queueing for their regular boat.  A man next to her, about the age her father would have been, shouts, ‘What about us?’   One of the boatmen shrugs and says, ‘There will be other boats.’ Maria exchanges a resigned look with the others who sit down to wait on the harbour wall. They listen to the receding foreign voices. She remembers her company’s skiff moored on one of the floating docks nearby and checks her keyring.  Further along the seawall, she finds the brightly coloured boat rocking against its neighbours. She unwinds the painter from the cleat hitch that holds her to the dock and coils the stiff rope into the bottom of the boat. She looks at the engine apprehensively. Her eyes closed, Maria breathes in the salty air while the sea rolls cyclically beneath her. She opens her eyes, inserts the key into the ignition, and tilts the engine into the water. She squeezes the priming bulb, puts the throttle into neutral, and cranks the choke. The engine grumbles and splutters to life. Maria sits down, turns the throttle, and reverses away from the dock with a mellow rumble. Sea spray and relief wash over her as she turns the boat around. Changing gears, she points the bow across the channel to cut across the harbour at its narrowest point.  She keeps close to shore knowing the wake of the larger boats is as dangerous as the naval mines which once filled the harbour.  Near the dock, she drops into neutral and glides to the seawall. She retrieves the damp, now pliable painter and winds it into a figure eight around the metal cleat, pulls it tight and kills the engine.  On the corner of Triq Tal-Katidral and Tower Road, Maria stops beneath a green and gold sign, Grech Bakery. Inside, the shelves usually brimming with loaves, pastries and cakes, have been stripped bare for celebratory feasts.  ‘ Bongu,  Lidia, may I please have pastizzi? 6 of the cheese and 3 of the beef? And a hobz too? Save me cooking tonight. Grazzi .’ ‘Ta Maria. How are you? You look tired.’ ‘Thank you. Yes, you know what it’s like. Working, children, parents.’ ‘Here you go. Don’t I just! What a relief I could only have one baby!   I could tell my mother it was “God’s will” for a change. Look after yourself, Maria.’ ‘Grazzi Lidia, you too!’ replies Maria and leaves the bakery with the loaf of bread and box of flaky pastries shaped like the skiffs bobbing around the island. It never occurred to her that God’s will could work to her advantage. On her mother’s street, Carl is playing football with some of the neighbourhood children. Progressing the ball towards the goal, he doesn’t see her wave at him.  The brass dolphin door knocker blurred by Doris’s faithful polishing raps softly when Maria shuts the door behind her. She tucks her bags under the hall table with the figure of Saint Anthony and his bald head, shiny from nervous fingers. Maria kisses her fingers and places them on the black-and-white photograph of a fourteen-year-old girl that hangs above him. ‘Hello, Auntie May’, she says quietly. Maria never met her mother’s sister, but grew up with the story of May and her cough that filled the cellar while they hid from the bombs every night. The cough that stopped, not because Saint Anthony answered their prayers. Or because May finally took notice of her mother’s spoon. But, because the night before the convoy limped in and covered the harbour with a slick of flammable oil, May could no longer draw breath with which to cough.  In the kitchen, Doris and her granddaughter are surrounded by rows of spoons balanced on tin cans. They are singing Doris’s favourite songs. All from the war. Strands of angel hair hang from the spoon handles to dry.  She’ll need to tell Doris if she takes the job. She’ll need her help with the children.  ‘Like this, Nonna?’ May asks, lowering the delicate pasta onto a spoon. ‘ Iva , well done,’ says Doris and kisses her forehead. ‘Ma, you didn’t need to make pasta,’ Maria says. ‘The children like it, and it’s good for them.’ ‘You’ll get too tired. And you’re not even supposed to eat it!’ Doris glances upwards and crosses herself, then says, ‘Le! I’ve lasted this long. We didn’t let the Germans tell us how to live. I won’t let a doctor start now. Don’t forget your father’s roses,’ she says, and shoos Maria with a floury hand towards the garden. As a new bride, Doris sporadically watered her husband’s garden in deluges when he was away for work, nearly killing the plants by feast or famine. The job fell to Maria when he became ill, despite the baby on her hip and another on the way. Thankfully, he’d taught her to be consistent and measured on the allotment that had supplemented the family diet, and she appreciated the excuse to be alone outside.  Finished blooming for the year, the roses still need lots of water to sustain them in the dry heat. Done watering, Maria half-heartedly removes the weeds springing up in the cracked earth, then she goes back inside.  ‘You’re tired, Ma. We’ll get out of your way. Thank you for looking after the children for me.’  Doris tuts, ‘What else am I here for?’ ‘Carl, May, time to go. Thank Nonna and give her a kiss.’  Doris hands Maria a bundle of fresh pasta and a container of sharp, tangy caponata.  ‘ Eat, ’ Doris tells her.  ‘Thank you, Ma. Rest. ’ The love coded in their instructions to one another flows over their heads and down their backs.  At home, Maria puts a few spoonfuls of sugar in the middle of a plate and puts the cheese pastizzi around the edges. She sits with the children, and they dip the pastizzi into the sugar before crunching in. Maria trades the overbearing heat for cool darkness and closes the shutters.  ‘Shall we take a nap on my bed so we’re ready for tonight?’ she asks her children. May and Carl resist half-heartedly. They each claim one of her arms to curl up in and wriggle to stillness.  Where would all those other children fit?  Ring, ring, ring. ‘Hello?’ Maria says into the phone cautiously.  ‘Hello, my love, sorry I couldn’t ring earlier. We had to fix one of the bilge pumps. How are you?’ Anthony asks.  ‘Oh. I’m fine. You?’ ‘I’m all right. And the children?’ ‘They are napping for tonight. I’ve got some news.’ ‘Tonight? What news?’ ‘Yes, it’s the Festa of Santa Marija.’ ‘Ah, of course. And your news?’  ‘Is that Papa?’ interrupts a groggy Carl.  Maria hands Carl the phone and opens the shutters to the night. The pulsing sounds on the street below wake May up.  Maria goes to the cellar to get a bottle of wine. The steady marching and drumming vibrate down from the street as the processions begin and send shivers up her legs. She takes a long drink of red wine and listens to Carl upstairs excitedly planning a journey around the island with his father. The wine catches in her tight throat and sets off a coughing jag that echoes back at her. ‘Carl, can I speak to Papa?’ asks May. ‘What have you  got to tell him?’ Carl replies. May begins to wail. Maria climbs the steps quickly.  In the kitchen, Carl has a fistful of May’s hair in one hand, and the phone in the other. May is digging her fingernails into Carl’s arm.  Maria takes a spoon from the jug beside the range and raps it on the marble worktop.  ‘Stop that!’ she says, moving towards them with the spoon raised above her head. Like an electric arc, Carl and May step away from one another in a flash.  The sound of the people gathered for the Festa replaces their shouting. Anthony’s distant voice says, ‘I’ll leave you to it. Goodbye,’ and a disengaged tone replaces him.    A wave of landsickness ripples through Maria. She closes her eyes. She can feel the sea rolling beneath her again. She looks at May’s face. It is still braced for whatever will come next. Maria puts the spoon down on the counter.  ‘I’m sorry, Mama,’ May says, a tear rolling down her cheek. ‘Me too, Ma,’ says Carl. ‘Oh anglu. You don’t need to be sorry. I’m sorry,’ replies Maria, kissing their foreheads. ‘Ma, can we still go to the Festa?’ Carl asks cautiously. ‘Yes, of course,’ she replies. ‘Good. But Ma…I’m hungry,’ Carl says. ‘I’ll get it,’ says May. ‘Iva, no. I’ll do it. Hobz Biz-Zjet?’ ‘Yes, please,’ they reply.  Carl goes onto the terrace to watch the Festa. May lingers in the kitchen. ‘May, you don’t need to help me. Go watch the Festa. Thank you, though,’ Maria tells her. Maria pours a generous slug of olive oil and slurp of dark balsamic vinegar onto a lipped plate, then adds generous pinches of salt and pepper. She cuts the two tomatoes horizontally and dips the cut sides into the mixture. Pressing down gently, their red juice releases and swirls into the oil and vinegar. She rubs the impregnated tomato halves back and forth on the bread she has split open, staining it pink. After repeating the process with the remaining bread and tomato, she squashes the tomatoes to a pulp on the oily plate and spreads it on the bread. Then she cuts the loaf into unequal thirds and places the largest on her own plate.  ‘Carl, can you bring me some mint, please?’ Maria asks.   Maria can hear him whispering to May and says, ‘Not May. You please, Carl.’ Carl stomps into the kitchen with a fistful of stems, some with roots dangling from the ends. ‘Thank you. Shall we go on the roof?’ she asks, chopping a few leaves of mint finely to sprinkle onto the bread. ‘Why the roof?’ Carl asks. ‘I thought we could watch the fireworks up there.’ ‘Oh. Sure!’ Maria empties the crock of wooden spoons and ties them into a tea towel, then slips a box of matches into her pocket, and grabs the newspaper from the coffee table.  ‘Come on then. Afterwards, we can go down for ice cream. Carl, can you bring the food for me? May, can you bring some napkins?’ On the roof terrace, the Mosta Rotunda is shrouded in festival lights in front of them. A halo of fireworks sparkles around the building familiar with explosions. Below them, the locals and tourists mingle together on the streets.  Maria removes the barbeque lid and lifts out the grate. She places crumpled pages of news and politics on top of the leftover charcoal briquettes in the bowl. She holds a struck match to them and unties the tea towel. Picking up one of the spoons, she breaks it in two on her knee. She holds one end over the flame until it glows, then adds it to the fire.  Maria hands May a spoon and tells her, ‘Go on, break them.’  May struggles with the dense wood.  ‘Here, I’ll help you,’ Carl tells her.  He puts his foot on the spoon's bowl and tells May to pull the handle upwards until it snaps.  May stands on the next spoon herself and persists until it breaks.   ‘I did it!’ May says. ‘Well done, May!’ Carl tells her. The church bells mark the final flourish of fireworks as they finish breaking the last of the spoons.   Maria explains, ‘You mustn’t smother the fire, it needs oxygen to grow,’ and shows her children how to add the bits of wood one at a time.  The fire builds quickly.  Together, they watch the broken implements glow red hot and then, as the energy transforms into heat, bright white. With the celebration over, the streets return to their usual quiet.  Maria steps back and watches her children turning the spoons to ash. Sara grew up in Florida, spent her summers with her grandparent’s Penguin paperbacks in Spain, and now lives in England. She earned a Creative Writing Master's from the University of Lancaster and the Chancellor’s Medal and Best Portfolio Prize.  Her stories and poems have been published in anthologies by Praspar Press and the Writer’s Workout, the National Flash Flood, Underbelly Press, The Amphibian and is currently long listed for  Things Left Unsaid  with Motherhood Uncensored and Leicester Writes Short Story Prize 2024.

I got high on Russian poetry and terror On the soft flesh of my bedroom carpet, Red in the way it looked crimson through Hazed eyes, psychotic musings taste of Isaac Asimov and Braubaker’s Daredevil, Iron pepper on my tongue, poppy blossoms And sprawling rose bedsheets, red petals  Blooming against dark backdrops. I hadn’t yet tasted certainty, I know now, Yet I thought I had; fevered dreams and A low whine in my throat, nestling by  The fraying edges of a sweeping gale– There wasn’t much in terms of sense And red LED lights danced in sorrowful Pity above my head.  Juggle till your hands bleed, you have Nobody to perform for. Still, you curtsey, Dress catching in the thorns of a growing Vine, suffocating, lifegiving, a breath of Fresh air in the face of a slipping mind, Juggle, juggle, and blood on fingertips  Tastes sweetly speckled, coppery. Sometimes I think that rabid desperation Still lives in me. I drink adrenaline like It is a drug; Monster drinks and the pound Of hearts in chests taste of relieved shivers Down a spine– I live in illusion, in a fragile Image of perfection, cured, healed, no longer Dancing gentle ballet with sharp jaggedness– Summer of ‘21; gentle nostalgia for red madness. Aisha Al-Tarawneh, 20, is an aspiring psychologist from Denmark and Jordan who enjoys writing in her free time. Her favourite poetic movements include Soviet futurism, and her favourite poets include Vladimir Mayakovsky. When she is not writing, you can either find her reading, kickboxing, practicing archery or watching her favourite hockey players during hockey season.

You leaned toward me with your mouth open so wide that I thought your jaw had popped. Your eyes carried slivers of blue and gold on their surfaces, moody and joyful and the colors of the state of Indiana, maybe Kentucky. Maybe both, but definitely Bleed American. You put your hand on my shoulder and looked up with your eyes, not your head, your pupils shifting from the floor to me like a satellite adjusting its signal. I dreamt of being your focus forever, you mine, but in the end you’d just found it funny that I'd made a dumb joke, aren’t they old enough to be James Eat World by now? , and I found it funny that you couldn’t stop laughing, so we laughed together, fell into one another like trees propping each other up before falling, crashing in the woods. I wrapped my arm around your waist, buried my lips in your hair and kissed your head, called you by your AIM screen name while “Get Right” pounded our ears, while you cackled into my shoulder, while Jim Adkins sang I just gotta be someplace else and I dreamt of being no place else. And that’s what I want, really. The dream of being no place else. Adam Shaw lives with his wife and daughter in Louisville, Kentucky. He is the author of the novel The Jackals  and the memoir Sportsman’s Paradise , and his work can be found in Pithead Chapel, HAD, Rejection Letters,  and elsewhere. He can be found online at theshawspot.com .

Because I'm a budding flower, Monsignor tells me. Because I'm ripe with pollen, a flower near bloom, I entice bees. He’s the bee, you see. Because the priest cautions against telling. Because no one believes young girls. Keep your sins to yourself. Pray 15 Our Fathers, 10 Hail Marys. Because Mother asks what sins earn such a weighty penance. He overpenanced you. Because telling the truth feels dirty, I lie. The sin of idolatry, I tell her. My soul blackens. Using a Ouija board at the slumber party. Because Mother warned me not to wear the tank top to school.  Because Daddy told me I should never show the goods unless they’re for sale.  Because I invited desire. Because my aunt once confessed about a man slipping his hand over her breast while swimming in a pool when she was twelve, I hold back from telling Mother. Because my aunt’s voice dropped to a whisper, I inhaled her shame. I know the weight you’ll carry. I carry it too. Because Her breasts nourished Baby Jesus, I save the Hail Marys for last. The cracked leather kneeler cuts my knees like a hair shirt. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. But there, shadowed by the Holy Virgin statue, a woman nurses; the baby’s soft suckles echo in the hushed church and a sudden certainty anoints me, stings my soul— my body is my own .  Because confession wronged me, I pause my penance with a vow to protect myself from bees. Anne Anthony credits her steady diet of comic books for her ardent belief in superpowers. Her gritty, tender, and amusing stories feature compelling but flawed characters who rise to reveal superhuman traits in ordinary downward spirals of life. Mostly, she relies on her husband and Plott hound for balance. Find more writing:  https://linktr.ee/anchalastudio .

I Waited For An Ice Age I was told it would come; as I closed my book amid strawberry vapours ready to leave two came at once yes to be cold to be cold again Concerning Thursday Heyyy, how are you?  Do you want some tea – oh, you've got some.  Fab. Yeah, it's no big deal, really. We're all in the same boat or parents group ha ha. It’s been such fun, hasn't it, watching all the kids grow? I – we , I suppose – are just a bit concerned by what happened. On Thursday? You don't remember? You said 'I love you' to my son. Is... umm...  I mean, do  you love him? OH OF COURSE! No, I totally get it. We’re all training ourselves, as much as the bloody kids! Positive. Affirmation. I read those posts too. Replace instinctive annoyance with something positive. Wait – between his legs she finds  a pocket of relief and sits in it  like an old receipt. She’d said love is fireworks! He scurried home afterwards, a dog,  his tail Meat Raffle I would do anything for charity, But I won’t do that. Ewen Glass (he/him) is a Northern Irish poet who lives in England with two dogs, a tortoise and lots of self-doubt; on a given day, any or all of these can be snapping at his heels. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in HAD, Bridge Eight, Poetry Scotland, Gordon Square Review and elsewhere. On socials (and in real life) he is pretty much ewenglass everywhere.

In April, he rang my doorbell, and by June, he had disappeared. But I didn’t know that then, as I sat in my apartment during a worthless Tuesday, like many other days, where you bide time until all is over and you begin to forget so that you can make room for new, hypothetical, fond memories. I think I was watching a movie, not sure which one, or maybe I simply stared into nothingness—one of those two. All of a sudden, the doorbell rang; I got up, not expecting anyone. And absolutely not him. But it was him. On that day in April, that was worthless. Before I continue, I must tell you that I have an identical twin, John. We seldom speak, save for my birthday, even though he’s always with me somehow. Well, anyway. I opened the door, to my surprise, it was my identical twin, John! I said: “Hey, freak.” To which he retorted: “Hey, anus dweller.” Thus, I invited him in. Growing up, we tried that “identical twins wear the same clothes”-thing—we hated it. We’d always sought to be our own, and to be honest (and I’ve told this to John), I didn’t always like him. He was so much more…gloomy than I ever was. “Haven’t seen you in a while.” “Yeah, crazy, right?” I nodded; it was. He seized the sofa in my living room, putting his feet on the table in his own sad, off-putting manner. “So, how’s…things?” It took a while before he answered, gazing out the window until I turned my head, hoping to see whatever he saw. “Well, things are not great. Can I crash here for a while?” “For sure. May I ask why?” “Not really in the mood to put together a PowerPoint to be able to explain the fucked upness of being alive right now.” “Okay, yeah, I gotta update my computer anyway.” He smirked, exposing my brother beneath the whole surface of everything. So he slept there. My brother. Even though we were identical twins, we weren’t the same in terms of character. Physically, he also bore a scar after a car crash when he was 8 (I wasn’t in the car)—a small thing on his cheek. When he got it, I joked about it finally being possible to tell us apart, something that hadn’t been an issue, really. Me in my preppy clothes, he in his “hey, I’m inches away from my own suicide”-rags. I didn’t need a cause for him to stay with me. And it didn’t feel right to ask for one, or necessary is perhaps the word I seek. We lived together during those last months, sharing things. Everything from shampoo to clothes, at least he borrowed mine as he didn’t have an interest in doing any laundry. He adored the night, and I craved an early start in the morning. So, as I woke up, I tiptoed around the apartment to avoid waking him up. He used headphones as he watched TV during the night, not eating anything with a crunch, so I wasn’t disturbed. Quite nice, if you summarize it like that. In retrospect, this period was solid, consistent, and comforting in a way—not optimal for a proper life; I can see that now. We didn’t talk about how he was doing; instead, I sometimes snuck up to the bathroom door, eavesdropping as he cried inside, hoping that my presence might soothe him. I was supposed to have my internship at some media agency, but I lacked the energy to go, even before John. And as he moved in, I found it strenuous even to lift a comb. Because to be fair, that’s what he did: move in. He might’ve not had stuff, clothes, furniture, or money to pay rent, but this wasn’t him crashing on the sofa. I had gotten a roommate. A deformed roommate and I made sure to call him Quasimodo, Phantom of the Opera, Elephant Man, or whatever I could come up with. He reciprocated by calling me “a white-collar nothingness who held tedium and dullness inside, with only death to look forward to as a kind of blackness at the end of a drudging tunnel filled with echoes of rotting dreams and mutilated happiness.” We had fun like that. Our Dad is somewhat of a mystery. A short fling that our Mom found somewhere on the floor of a bar where the poor managed to make themselves even poorer. Including Mom. They made us on the same sofa that John, during those months, slept on. Weeks later, our Dad left. During our childhood, he swung by from time to time. Popping in with gifts that we were either too old for or bought at the nearby gas station, with price tags in bright colors. We could hear them upstairs as we tried to play as loud as possible. Usually, he took us out for steaks. He drank, Mom drove us home, and then he left the next day. Nothing wrong, actually. We’d been given great food we couldn’t afford otherwise, gifts without any apparent reason. A few years later, Dad died and John became different. I don’t know why, and if I summoned the courage to ask him, he called me an “idiot,” explaining that “I wouldn’t understand,” then punched me on my arm or flicked my nuts. “I’m bored,” he said one day, “how bout a walk?” Being indoorsy people, this was a big step, so I hesitantly agreed. Outside my apartment building was a road going left to a bus stop and a small convenience store where I often went when I couldn’t afford a whole pack of cigarettes as the owner sold singles. I had never gone right as it led up to a cul-de-sac bordering a pointless collection of trees one might call a forest if you were generous with the definition. So we turned right. “Where does this go?” John asked as we reached the end of the street, pointing to a small path flowing into this forest of sorts. I shrugged and took the lead, with John right behind me. We walked in silence for a while until he said, “I fucking love this adulting stuff” which made me laugh, and we listed things we considered “adulting.” I remember that as peaceful. Me and him, existing somewhere, somehow together, where things hadn’t begun to go sour—us, ever so different nevertheless the same. After a while, we saw a house with an odd-looking roof. Then more houses, having reached a neighborhood. “Did you know about this?” he asked. “Naw, man, should we call the police?” “Moron.” Surrounded by trees, only one road granted access to this secluded neighborhood. Where we stood, on a small hill, we could see quite far, cracking jokes as we spotted an IKEA in the far distance, agreeing that missionary in an IKEA bed is the ultimate adulting one could accomplish. John continued downwards, with me behind him. It seemed to be roughly fifty houses. Very picturesque, quaint and serene. People might’ve been at work because we didn’t see a soul. The houses seemed to be photocopied, coming in different colors, mostly pastel—nothing that’ll hurt the eye. We began reading names on mailboxes, coming up with lives these people were living. Larson, Kerry, Joergensen. Even though our opinions about their jobs differed, we were in sync with the belief that everyone in this neighborhood was part of a satanic cult, with underground tunnels where they met up, performing rituals. They also probably drank the blood of infants, because that’s a given. That first visit to the neighborhood felt like hours. Maybe it was only thirty minutes or so. The night was rising; I was hungry. John called me “fatso,” and I said that “not all could survive on heroin that one had acquired by blowing dealers like he did,” and he argued that he was a prominent blow-jobber and that any dealer would be lucky to be blown by him. Finally, we headed home. That’s also a thing. In hindsight, I recall that John wasn’t the one who wanted to head back home. Ever. He always urged me to stay a tad longer, but I often grew weary as soon as we entered the neighborhood. During our walk back, the path felt shorter. That same evening we treated ourselves to takeaway. We watched a movie, or I fell asleep, he finished it, telling me how it ended during breakfast the next day. At this point, I thought things were going alright and that, soon, he would move out. I surely hadn’t missed anything about John or his issues; still, with him in the house, someone was there to hear my footsteps. He seemed to lose weight even though he despised exercise and ate like an animal. His clothes, or my clothes that I lent him, came off as sails as his decaying body perished inside the polyester. Like many other things, I didn’t ask why. “He’s my brother,” I thought to myself, together with all other cliche crap I could come up with—a way of procrastinating questions that should’ve been asked. Mom called sometimes. I told her we were fine, even though she didn’t ask about him, so I assumed something had happened. One night, sitting in front of the TV, watching a show about how postmodernism affected the financial climate in the 21st century, I asked John if he ever thought about Dad. He told me to shut up. I called him an asshole and proclaimed that neither of us understood this shit anyways and that we were nothing but lazy bastards who didn’t have the grit to fetch the remote. He smiled: “you’re right.” After a week or so, he wanted to go back to the neighborhood. I laughed, as he was dead serious. When I asked why he gave me a fib about exercise and when that didn’t take, he said that “it was just us then.” I had to clear my throat a bit and drink some water. “Well?” he asked. He could’ve ventured on his own. Or couldn’t he? Perhaps he didn’t find his way? After a small snack, we left. Back at the cul-de-sac, it felt like I could already see the roof of that first house. I had no idea how long that walk took the first time—now it felt even shorter. I asked John about it, but he called me “a purposeless sociopath with no emotional core whose opinions and questions slowly drained the world’s accumulated joy from every living being,” so I assumed it was just me. Maybe it was how the light fell, altering the planet’s curvature, or possibly, that we walked faster. Once there, we more or less continued where we left off, mocking fictitious people, living in those empty houses, laughing at ridiculous names on mailboxes: Glasscock and Nutter. Now, the residents weren’t part of a cult. Instead, they were aliens who’d taken over the bodies of those who used to live there. The alien master plan was, of course, to anal probe the hell out of everyone. It began to rain, and truthfully, it wasn’t that much fun going in circles. John didn’t want to leave. I pointed out the obviousness of the rain, but he meant that we’d dry up sooner or later, so I had to nag until he caved. As I wondered why he couldn’t go by himself to the neighborhood, I still haven’t figured out exactly why I couldn’t go home without him. That evening I sat down to write, for once. Not sure if John even knew I wrote, as he one day came into the living room, looming over me, asking: “What are you doing?” “Writing.” “Why?” “Why I write or what I write?” “No, why do you write?” “You don’t wanna know what I’m writing?” “Naw.” “You just wanna know why I’m writing?” “Yeah. Don’t you know why you’re writing?” “Yes. Or, well, yes, kinda, not sure how to explain it.” “Okay…is it about me?” “What I write?” “Yeah.” “No…no, it’s not.” “Okay, cool.” Then, he smacked my balding spot before he hit the sofa. It was such a meaningless dialogue in a sense, not re-enacted verbatim, but similar. I loop it in my head, and can't understand why. I hadn’t written about him or me before he vanished—didn’t dare to. I’m not even sure what I wrote before he went missing. Did he want me to write about him? Acknowledge him or something like that. He cried in the shower that same day and came out all red-eyed. I asked him if he got some soap in his eyes, providing him with an exit. He nodded. I think it was that next Friday that I looked out my window, seeing that rooftop between the trees. I hadn’t lived there long—like a year or so—though I’m sure that roof wasn’t there before. I told John, who asked: “How often do you stand staring out the window like a fucktard?” That was the end of that discussion. That day we biked to IKEA, hoping to see some middle classers humping and eating cheap meatballs. We only had my bike, so John sat behind me, holding on with a blasé grip. We bought a vase that we dropped on our way home and some batteries because John held a speech about the importance of always having batteries at home “if you’re a real man.” Those weeks and months, they all get jumbled together. I’m unsure, exactly, how we spent each day. I know I wrote more and more. Probably mediocre stuff. But I had a focus I previously missed. As I wrote, he was on the sofa watching some show or sleeping, not interrupting or imploring me to stop. Instead, he asked during dinner how my writing had been. The only thing was that I began to gain weight as he kept losing. We both ate the most trans-fatty, sugar-packed, carbo-loaded poison we could find. John insisted on it. So, after a while, my clothes began to yield value for both of us. John wanted to go to the neighborhood again, as I grew bored with it. He vexed me, calling me a “lardo” and pointed out that my pants couldn’t stretch much further. I called him a “skinny abomination” and explained that there was a genuine risk that his brittle bones wouldn’t survive such a tedious adventure as a simple stroll. I’m not sure he even heard me as he was out in the hall, already putting on shoes. This trip, I could see the rooftop and the house, even before we reached the cul-de-sac. So I said: “That house is way closer than before.” John didn’t answer, as if he didn’t hear me. I often get stuck here as I ponder what happened. If he heard me, does that alter the meaning of the outcome? After he disappeared, I questioned everything, but time is, in a way, flushing memories through a strainer until only a few rememberings are left, making it hard to piece history together. I keep going over it, twisting and turning, until it’s all skewed. Did he notice the house coming closer? Because that feels paramount. At least I tell myself that. If he did hear me, was everything a conscious decision then? He shushed me when we got there. I disregarded it and joked crudely about all the drunken fathers and cheating wives that so stereotypically lived in such neighborhoods. He didn’t listen; he was in awe. Something had changed. Not inside the neighborhood—within John. We still didn’t see any actual people, making it feel like a movie set. As if it all would come crumbling down if we were to knock on a wall, ever so softly. It took three hours before we left. I was cold, hungry, pissed and jealous of the neighborhood who’d managed to nab my brother’s attention. For a few days, he was not himself. I did my best, hoping that I could reach where he had reached when it came to creative insults and name-calling, aiming to lighten the mood—I failed. Name-calling was John’s thing. One night, he woke me up, casually asking if we shouldn’t go to the neighborhood again. My alarm clock showed that even bakers were sleeping, so I rolled over, telling him that he was insane. The next day we headed back there. The house with the roof was now even closer. Enough so that we passed it before we even reached the cul-de-sac. I can’t explain it. I didn’t point it out to John as he treaded on with determination. That time, we saw shimmer from a TV, hopefully proving that someone was occupying at least that particular house. I tried to joke about it a bit, but my voice went from speaking to whispering—losing its force. Everything got eerie, and I became angry with John, for real this time. Not for choosing the neighborhood over me, more because he wasn’t predictable anymore. Our stagnation had resulted in a bizarrely suffocating routine that helped our days float on by. The only thing jolting our bubble of reality were those forced visits to the neighborhood, and change is horrible. That night I couldn’t sleep. Outside my window, the house with the roof seemed even nearer. At that point, I thought it to be the night playing tricks on me. As John was in the shower one morning, I called Mom. “John is weird,” I stated, but she just asked about me. If I’d met a girl, how my life was going, stuff like that. So I asked again, and she simply meant that “John is gonna be fine.” I hung up. “Can we go after breakfast?” I tried stalling, hoping for him to skip it. Partly, I wished to lock him up, going full Josef Fritzl on him. “Where?” He smiled as if I was the kooky one. “The neighborhood.” “Sure. Why not.” That house with the roof was close enough to semi-block the front door when we tried leaving the building so that it couldn’t open properly. John slunk out through the narrow opening as I had to suck in my tummy and squeeze through. It was all very perplexing. Something felt broken. Possibly, gravity had gone haywire over the last couple of weeks, altering life itself as a construct. It was enervating how calm John was about it. He continued, past the house, towards the forest. “We’re not gonna talk about this?” “What?” “The house” and I pointed to make it as clear as humanly possible. “You’re fucking paranoid. It’s always been there. Come on, I don’t wanna be late.” “Late? Late for what?” Again, it was like he didn’t hear me. Finally, in the neighborhood, we did our tour. John was somewhat more excited. Eager. I kept telling myself that he needed this, and what kind of brother were I if I didn’t support him? “Do you see any Satanists?” “Only you”, his usually snappy quips, now missing. Instead, I kept quiet, letting him have his thing. This place. A make-belief place. Kind of a dollhouse. The scene was all set, complete with props: cars, bikes, lawnmowers and parasols; all missing were dolls. A mailbox stood in front of a meticulous garden, packed with pruned bushes next to erect roses. I wasn’t sure then, or now, if we’d seen that house before. There were so many of them. Like the others, this too had a shiny car appearing to be hand-washed by a Dad each Sunday with skateboards scattered about in a chaotic yet idyllic way. “Hey, look,” I said, causing John to come over. “What?” “The mailbox.” It was a cute mailbox in the shape of a log, with a twig sticking out of it. On it, it said: “Butts”—I scoffed. “Don’t mock!” “What do you mean?” “That’s my name.” I was sure he hazed me, pulling some gag on me, so I said “yeah, whatever” and started walking, but John remained. “Are you coming?” He checked his watch, which I hadn’t noticed before. “Naw, it’s dinner soon. I think it’s meatloaf tonight.” “Funny John, you can do better.” He began walking, steering for the porch, and before I’d managed to react in some way at all, he had opened the door and shouted, “I’m home.” I ran after him, a bit pleased as I felt like the better brother who hadn’t turned out completely apeshit crazy. He almost faded into the house, and I couldn’t see him; instead, an older man came down a staircase and blocked me as I was about to go inside. “Hi, I’m George. Are you John’s friend?” “What? No, I’m his brother”—and I remember that the word “brother” felt weird to say aloud. “Brother? John doesn’t have a brother. Are you a little jokester perhaps?” I wanted to punch him. Smash his face with his cute little mailbox. “You wanna come in? We’re having meatloaf.” I screamed “John” but got shushed by “George” this time. “Calm down, young man. We’re about to have dinner. Maybe it’s better if you head home?” I tried again: “John!” That George guy pushed me, grabbed my arm and led me outside. He didn’t say anything or so, just left me there like a misbehaved dog. I could see John, George, some woman, and a young girl through the window, all eating their dinner. After a while, I walked home—lost as to what to do. The next day I went back there. That house with the roof wasn’t blocking the front door anymore, and the walk to the neighborhood felt longer again. As I reached the house of the Butts, I knocked on the door, rang the doorbell, screamed “John” like a maniac. The place felt empty, deserted. Over the next few days, I tried again. I called him on his phone but got told that the number was disconnected. Mom didn’t know anything; she asked about my day and told me that John always survives in “his way.” The police didn’t buy my story, and I was too poor to hire a sleuth, so I was limited to printing flyers. I wrote: “HAVE YOU SEEN ME?” with a picture of me as I didn’t manage to find a photo of him—we looked the same, so it didn’t matter. Then my number. At the neighborhood, I stapled some on trees and telephone poles. One afternoon I spent outside IKEA, handing out flyers. Some got irritated with me as they thought it was a prank. Some laughed and pointed at me, shouting, “I found you.” Most didn’t care. So after a while, I followed—also not caring. A few weeks later, I was still writing and had begun to lose weight. I returned to the neighborhood once or twice, and each time, it felt further away. Eventually, I stopped going there. And I stopped missing him. Maybe I began grieving him instead? John started to become something else. I granted myself all of those expected thoughts one thinks as someone is gone: that they’re somewhere better, that their memory lives on and whatnot. I had never really lost anyone before, except our father. Still, Dad’s passing was utterly plain; his absence had always been a fact in our lives—so as he died, it was almost as if nothing changed—the next step in evolution. Nowadays, my memories of us two growing up are with me, of course. However, those few months of intenseness are what I treasure the most, weirdly enough. They provide me with substance, even though I’m glad they’re over. I’m still writing. A few days ago, I phoned Mom. We talked about our jobs and her hip that was acting up. I casually mentioned John at the end of the call. She cut me off, saying that I need to accept things and “let that ‘John thing’ rest.” Born in Sweden, Julius writes anything from flash fiction and books to games and screenplays. He’s been both longlisted and shortlisted and received a Pushcart nomination. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Flash Fiction Magazine, Roi Fainéant Press, Isele Magazine, Lavender Bones Magazine, The Airgonaut, Sage Cigarettes, The Heimat Review, Hidden Peak Press, and elsewhere. His debut chapbook Moebler  (Anxiety Press, 2023), came out in May. He’s found on X as @PaperBlurt  and at www.juliusolofsson.com

Hi everyone, my name is none of your business and I’m a TED Talk hater. Watching TED Talks started out as a distraction. Something pleasant to hear while putting my makeup on in the morning. But it quickly got out of proportion. I was introduced to TED Talks a few months ago, when my mom showed me one about  Pachelbel’s D-major canon, a music meant to stimulate amino acids in the brain and increase our immune response. I’m quite ashamed to say that I kind of liked it. I had to watch another one. I found a TED Talk with over 77 million views. I figured, it’s even more views that some networks get on their Late Night segment, so it must be good, right ? This TED Talk was called “Do schools kill creativity ?”It exceeded my expectations.  Evenso, I never got the answer to that question.  This is when it started spiraling. The YouTube algorithm spotted me as a potential TED Talk aficionada, so it kept  suggesting to me more and more similar content. It went from “My journey to Yo-Yo Mastery” to “SWAG : Even your grandmother has it” to “How to use a paper towel”. And you want to know what the worst part was? Not only  did I not know any of these TED ‘Talkers’, but I also learned nothing. It was  white noise. Still, I kept coming back for more.  I’ve watched every single motivational TED Talk there is. I listened to  random folks teaching me how to achieve my goals, increase my confidence, follow my dreams and all that American crap while a cheering crowd of brainless sheep who paid five-thousand dollars to be there vigorously applauding  as if they were the next Messiah. I could sum all of these TED Talks up in one sentence : People are dumb, do your own thing. It’s not that hard. You don’t need to lose 18 minutes of your life  watching a nobody mansplain it to you.  And now I’m staring at this TED Talk woman insisting that we  use a pen instead of a computer to write, claiming that I will otherwise ‘lose my focus’. Oh I’m sorry Jane Austen, I guess I didn’t realize we were still in the 18th century! Should I also wash my clothes in a river? Oh, be careful where you step, I haven’t finished digging that well yet! I guess I was too busy being traded by my own parents in exchange for some cows and estate!  Please, give me a break. But don’t, really.  Here’s another one: “Looks aren’t everything. Believe me, I’m a model”. Yes they are and no I don’t believe you.  “How to figure out what you really want” ? Well for starters I want out of this conversation.   “How to talk so that people will listen ?” Hey, maybe people aren’t listening because you’re irrelevant. But It was already too late for me. Before I could say Eenie Meenie, I was USER45679654 hating on TED Talks on Reddit.  Zoé Mahfouz is a writer who randomly bursts into improvised musical numbers when she is alone at home, then pretends to be emotional when the imaginary audience gives her a standing ovation. Also likes to kidnap the neighbor’s cat to make TikTok’s and complains when he throws up on her terrace.

Leopard print Grease My small cat daughter, Simone Leather Sugar My large cat son, Lugosi The Tom of Finland men who live in my sinew and swivel my neck to look at Justin Theroux types on the street The green dress Keira Knightley wore in Atonement  that I would have worn in Jovani knockoff form to prom The night I skipped prom to watch the new Star Trek  movie and eat Garden State Plaza food court cheesesteaks with Nick Messina Skull rings Carrie Fisher Lactose intolerance Velvet Eyeliner Honeyed goat chevre The photo of my grandmother grabbing Sylvester Stallone’s ass when he filmed the movie Lock Up  at our family auto body shop The fact that I didn’t have an imaginary friend as a kid but an imaginary boyfriend The fact that his name was Jonathan and I still have no idea where that came from I didn’t even have a crush on Jonathan Taylor Thomas Geminis Aquarians The Romanov execution Silver Oxblood Anna Karenina buying that train ticket the tension of routinely calling poly people “fedora fucker street magicians named Tyberon and their ren faire ass girlfriends” but having participated in polyamory myself, at least twice Fucking Paul Not fucking  Paul …but definitely fucking Eric ***** ****** of Tulsa  Whether stuffed animals have abandonment complexes and the ache I feel at those I haven’t rescued from curbs a stream of Emotional Support Snapple Zero Sugar Razz, steady a stream of emotional affairs, unsteady Rocky Network Fran Fine The smell of gasoline The smell of chlorine Fran Drescher (they are different) The riveting debate as to whether Sally Bowles is secretly American and The New World stages production of  The Woodsman My mother making me get my second holes pierced at 14 because the cool (meaning: thin, not respected) girls all had them, and how they grow pregnant with pus twice an infected year Feeling morally superior for not wearing open-toed shoes The vulgarity of a Lindt truffle bursting in your mouth Singing “Lua” into the casket of my high school best friend Leslye Headland’s Sleeping with Other People Ascending the stairs with my dress in my hand like an Austenian heroine  The Vincent Van Gogh episode of Doctor Who , because I’m not a fucking  sociopath Carrie Coon, and how I wish I had a mother The moon (sorry) Two-thirty a.m. The drummer I want to put me through the drywall Seashells, and soap rendered in their honor Mosquitos and their cis male counterparts Laura Palmer and I sharing a birthday If my inner child will ever come out of there The animatronic Christmas display on the second floor of the Fountains of Wayne store the band is named after The priest from Fleabag Catholicism Judaism And the Westchester father who fucked me into God’s palm  Whether that palm was loving or closed Death Cab for Cutie’s “Cath…” A nice man I know who can hold 60 Dixon Ticonderoga pencils in his fist Carly Rae Jepsen The terminal overuse of the phrase “iconic” Dylan Baker playing that child molestor Signs that say “no dumping” The written oeuvre of Louise Rennison, may her memory be a blessing Christmas snow and the fact that my dad is a retired fire chief who to this day forbids me from owning candles but puts 75 pounds of radioactive lava lamp ass ornaments on the Christmas tree every year That in my last fit of suicidal wishin’ and hopin’ and thinkin’ and prayin’, I couldn’t shake that my dad would not, in fact, be better off without me here, and that is the first time I have ever added anyone to that side of the list Tom John Mahoney in Moonstruck John Mahoney in anything Diaphanous 1950’s bathrooms, in pink The way Bruce Springsteen sings “move” at the end of the bridge in “Spirit in the Night ”The Saddle Brook Diner Watching my friends brown out in Tony Clark’s mom’s hot tub VH1’s I Love the 80’s  in lieu of middle school friends My allergies Unrequited love Checkerboard Vans Gene Kelly’s ass Rainbow sprinkles An exile from Pittsburgh Cardinals, whether I like it or not … Sally Rooney (obviously)             Tara Giancaspro (she) is the creator of xoxo Gossip Giancaspro, a weekly Substack ( taragiancaspro.substack.com ) including personal essays, pop culture commentary, and the various and sundry of her silly little life. She has released music under the name Sweaty Lamarr, available to stream everywhere, including "Abbey, I'm Sorry I Stole Your Man," a Jolene sequel from Jolene's perspective. She has been published in Bullshit Lit, Wig-Wag Mag, Drunk Monkeys, Meow Meow Pow Pow Lit, Dusk Magazine, and got bit by a dolphin once, establishing a potentially generational blood feud. Giancaspro can be found on Instagram and Twitter at @SweatyLamarr . She is based in New Jersey, if you couldn't tell by the hair.

“Will someone come for me?” I ask out loud. The only one to hear is a Blackbird I’ve named Stanley Stub. Stanley has one good leg, the other, his right, ends at the ankle. Stanley Stub is a lot like me, in as much as he walks like a Penguin. I wobble in short, quick bursts before my feet stick, and then a tremor kick-starts me again. His orangeade beak fizzes with the speed it raps against the glass. He’s been a daily visitor to my patio for two years.   I lean forward in my armchair, body weight lifts my backside off the crocheted blanket. I’m slung onto my feet. My body’s response is sloth-like. I negotiate the edge of the mat, I stay on the laminate, feet shuffle, stop, shuffle, stop. I pour the seeds into a Yorkshire Tea cup, and ensure they’re level with the cap of the cricket batsman. My hand jitters, up, down, round as my arm windmills. The mug contents dance to the rhythm of Stanley Stub’s pecks. “Will someone come for me?” I whisper to Stanly Stub as he first selects the sunflower hearts. He pauses, cocks his head to one side, his bead-like eye, reflects the sunlight. I’m sure he nods. I thank him and slide the patio door to. My fingers grip the chair arms, like a bird of prey, I land into the cushioned seat, comfortable to observe my little mate. The tick, tick of him selecting the seeds in order of preference weave in and out of my knotted thoughts. My tissue paper eyelids float downwards, then flip up like a roller blind. I drift from 82 to 42 and to not knowing. The Blackbird serenades his thanks. His harmonized chirps, invite me into a dream. I find myself returned to 1983. It’s a murky November morning, I switch off Breakfast Time. Normally I enjoy watching it with a cup of tea and a cigarette before getting off to work. Today I can’t as it’s all about the Walton babies. I’d spent yesterday by the side of the birthday girl, Hazel. Her birthday present, an acorn child, I’d made. The acorns selected at the beginning of October. Hazel and I collected acorns from beneath the same Oak Tree. The oak is the largest amidst a group of trees at the end of our road. We don’t collect them on a school day, though it’s on our way. I smile as I hear myself ask Hazel, “How come you’re as slow as a slug on the way to school and yet you’re like Jack Flash at home time.”  “Mum, school’s not half the fun of being home with you. And, I don’t get fish fingers at school.”  I sit the acorn child next to Hazel, on the ledge at the base of the headstone. I read each word as it appears from beneath my cloth holding hand. Hazel Wright Birthday 17th November 1961 Taken aged 9 years, 1970 It was the day after her 9th birthday. Her nan had knitted her a red hat with a blue bobble, Hazel’s favourite colors. She was excited to wear the hat and walk to school by herself. As she hugged me goodbye she asked; “Will someone come for me? Or can I walk home by myself, too.” I answered, “If you want to, love.” “I do, see you later, Mum.” “See you later, love, fish fingers for tea, so straight home, you hear?” “Okay Mum, see you later, alligator!” The day I gave birth to her, I was young and unsure if I’d done the right thing, telling them all to do one. That I was keeping my little girl, no matter what. It was always me and Hazel. I contemplate how fortunate the Walton family is, they have six girls. Hazel is my only child. I wish the Walton family all the best, but I can’t witness their beautiful story.  The fish fingers got cold. I sat at the kitchen table. Waiting, waiting for the back door to fly open and Hazel to bounce in, acorns in hand and a story to tell. The back door did eventually open. I could see the lips of the policewoman moving. The sound heard, agonizing screams, and then nothing.  The policewoman held my hand. I was sat on the sofa, no idea how long I’d been there.  “Betty, can you hear me? My name is Lorraine.” I nod my response. I put my hands over my ears, block out Hazel’s voice, “Will someone come for me?” “Betty, can you hear me? I’ve come to talk to you about your Hazel.”  “Will someone come for me?” “Betty,  your mum’s here, no need for anyone to come for you.” I clung to my mum, she absorbed my sobs. The policewoman informs us that Hazel is dead. The tapping on my patio door wakes me. The rat-a-tat takes my dream. My eyes take a moment to focus as sleep crawls away, dragging with it my heinous reality.  I can’t see Stanley Stub, in his place brown woollen tights over sparrow thin legs. I look up, a woman’s face. I can’t say I know who she is, or have I forgotten? “Can I come in, Betty?” “Do I know you?” “Can I come in, so we can talk? I know you, from a long time ago.” I study her for a minute or two. She’s tiny, got a look of Una Stubbs about her. I think I’ve heard that voice before. There’s only one way to find out if I’m right. I tell her she’d better come in. As it turns out she’s my neighbor, moved in two doors down last week. She tells me her name, Lorraine. My right hand starts its shaking and wants to windmill, I place my left hand on it.  “I know who you are, Lorraine, you’ve aged the same as me. Why have you come?” I recall she was gentle and kind on that day in 1970. The only words I heard, Hazel, dead, murder. My only thought, I didn’t go for her.    “I recognize your voice now. Lorraine, you were kind.” “Can I sit down for a minute, Betty?” “Course you can, love. Would you like a cup of tea?” She sits down but she doesn’t want a cup of tea. Lorraine tells me that she left the police a few years after Hazel. Said once the case was filed as a cold case, she knew they’d never find him. As it turns out she didn’t give up looking for him. She holds my hand, this time I have the strength to listen. Lorraine informs me she knows the person, the monster who took my Hazel, who never told her no one was coming.  I grip onto her hand. Funny I’m not shaking. I concentrate on what she’s saying. She speaks in a quiet yet strong voice, void of hate or revenge, full of compassion. She reveals that she had known the individual due to his job. It took her until earlier this year to find the final piece of evidence. She’d stayed in contact with him, sat in his lounge, had a cup of tea and a chat. All the time she’d been listening, watching, searching. Bit by bit placing the pieces of evidence together. The final fragment fell into place due to his pure righteousness. He told her he’d found the bobble hat on the pavement, outside the Newsagents. Said Hazel was wearing it when he guided her and her friends across the road. He smiled, telling Lorraine the kids had shouted back to him. ‘Thank you Mr. Lollypop Man.’  I lean forward, let my body weight lift my backside out of the chair. My body’s response is sloth-like, my mind is quick.  “Have you got the bastard?” “Yes” “Thank you.” I navigate the edge of the mat. Make us both a cup of tea.  When I sit back down, Stanley Stub has returned. He chirps, aware I have the answer. Sally has an MA Creative Writing from the University of Leicester.  She writes short stories and is currently working on her novel based in 1950s Liverpool. She sometimes writes poetry. She gains inspiration from old photographs, history, her own childhood memories, and is inspired by writers Sandra Cisneros, Deborah Morgan, Liz Berry and Emily Dickinson.  She has had short stories and poetry published in various online publications, including The Ink Pantry and AnotherNorth and in a ebook anthology ‘Tales from Garden Street’ (Comma Press Short Story Course book 2019). Sally lives in the countryside with her partner, dog, and bantam.

I step into my gynecologist's office. I didn’t even know they had ones for consultations. I assumed they only worked in rooms with complicated recliners that had weird parchment paper strewn across it.  Are you sure? What if you change your mind? I’m one of the first patients of the day. They do a pregnancy test again and the  nurse and I laugh at what a surprise it would be to see a positive result right now.  We’re going to ask a hundred times but because we have to—tell me again what  surgery you’re getting today? I’m afraid of confrontation. I twist my rings around my fingers. I sit on the edge of the chair leaning forward. I thought I was going to throw up waiting in the hallway. I have white coat syndrome. Why doesn’t Brock get a vasectomy? I look like my dad with my IV in my hand and a hair cap on. I try to keep talking  to Brock so he doesn’t feel awkward and uncomfortable but he doesn’t anyway. I  forget other people see hospitals differently than I do. And what procedure are you in for today? I explain how much cancer there is in my family, that our DNA is littered with faults and dangers, and my gynecologist refers me to a genealogist to see if I could have kids that won’t get cancer. The genealogist tells me it was just really bad luck for both my parents.  But have you considered how expensive it is to do IVF if you do want kids later? My whole team is made up of women. It’s comforting to me. In fact I only see one man working there walk the hallway past my little curtained-off room.  Both of the fallopian tubes, right? I’ve been planning to do this since I was 13 but there’s no way my gynecologist knows this. She prioritizes stopping the migraines and trying a different pill because I won’t do the arm insert and she says the copper IUD won’t fit in my uterus.  What if you and Brock break up and you meet a new partner who wants kids? I get compliments on my tattoos and piercings. I tell another nurse I like the color  of her nails. We talk about our moms and how they inspired our styles. I can’t  stop saying thank you after each of their tasks. And what procedure are you having done this morning? I lie to her and say if I change my mind I’d be willing to adopt instead. The openness to adoption isn’t the lie part, the changing my mind and wanting kids is.  You’re sure you don’t want to try another pill? I’ve signed papers, initialed, and handed over my credit card, and consented to  whatever. Each form they hand me I sign. Saying “no” is not an option to me. I  will not haggle the price or read the fine print. This costs nothing in comparison. And what are we doing for you today? For some reason she takes me seriously the second time I come in. Maybe it’s because I used the word “sterile” but the moment I use her words from the doctor’s notes of my previous visit, her attitude seems to change, to take me more seriously. I like to believe it was always going to change though.  You do know this is permanent, right? I’m told my medical record is boring, I’m so healthy. I swat the odd compliment  away and feign blushing as I thank another nurse. Years of sheltering myself have preserved me for this drastic bodily change. This is one of the few times I am  taking the path of least resistance. I think about how I will need to remember to  disclose this on medical paperwork moving forward.  And we’re removing your fallopian tubes, correct? She’s pulling out the paperwork—which is just one sheet with only a third of a page of text—before I have even said goodbye to her. Now I imagine her pushback was more out of duty than of personal opinion. She says they were booking for May last she checked, which is about four months away. I say that’s fine. Any plans I may have that day will be moved.  30% of women regret the decision later. My gynecologist finds me before the procedure to explain the details. She looks  more tired than usual. Speaks slower than I am used to from her. I wonder how  early she got up this morning, if it was as early as me, probably earlier.  Ready to have your fallopian tubes removed? Everyone asks me how the procedure went and I answer “good” because I don’t know otherwise—I was unconscious for it. There’s pain in my shoulders from the added air being reabsorbed by my body. It takes a nurse, a doctor, and my mom to reassure me I will certainly not get pregnant now.  If you know anyone else who needs this procedure, feel free to send them my way. Brenna Ebner (she/her) is an editor first and writer second. She is a book publicist for The Lit Publicity and a recent graduate of Portland State University with a Master’s in Book Publishing. She can be found in Baltimore, MD with her two dogs or at her website brennaebner.com