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You only went and died. You said you would, but I didn't think you’d actually do it. Neither did Robbie. ‘Remember that time,’ he said, ‘at Heaven, when it was empty except Gina, dancing on a podium in a see-through dress?’ We laughed. Bathing in your glow was our thing, I guess. But you kept on saying it. ‘I'll come back and haunt you,’ you said one night when we were video chatting. You were out and I was at home wearing my favourite slanket. ‘If you don't start living,’ you said, ‘I'll show up at your house until you do.’ ‘Very funny,’ I said, stuffing crisps into my mouth and trying to look like I wasn't watching Netflix at the same time as talking. ‘I'm serious Siobhan, you need to get off the sofa and get out. You only have one life.’ ‘One is enough,’ I said, eating more crisps, ‘more than enough.’ ‘You're an idiot,’ you said, as you applied sparkly eye shadow, pushed up your bra and pulled down your top ready to hit the town and put everyone else to shame. ‘It's never enough, wally,’ you said, waving, ‘you'll see.’ Then you were gone; it was just me and Netflix and the crisps. Just the way I liked it. Five minutes later you called back. I could hear the music. The bass. ‘Here's the thing,’ you said. You had to shout to make yourself heard. ‘You used to be fun. Don't you remember how we used to laugh like nothing could ever stop us? Don't you miss it? Don’t you miss me?’ It was only five minutes but whatever you'd taken must have gone straight to your head. ‘Mate,’ I sighed, ‘you're off your face! Go have fun!’ ‘I am,’ you said, ‘but you know I'm right. What happened to you? I miss you.’ ‘Nothing happened,’ I said, ‘I just grew up. That's it.’ ‘That's not it,’ you said, ‘it's not. I know it’s not. And one day you’ll have to…‘ ‘Goodnight Gina,’ I said, cutting you off. ‘I'm hanging up. You have fun.’ ‘But I won't,’ you said, ‘not without you. It’s no fun without you.’ ‘Whatever,’ I said, ‘I'm off to bed.’ And I hung up, pressed play and ate more crisps. The next day I caved and agreed to meet you. Daytime was still just about OK. I didn’t want to take the slanket off, so I tied a belt around it to make it look like a dress and put my coat over it. You raised your eyebrow when you saw my attire. ‘What?’ I said, ‘what’s wrong?’ ‘It’s a slanket,’ you said, shaking your head, ‘it’s not an outdoor garment. In fact, it’s not something anyone with self-respect should be seen wearing. It’s an abomination.’ ‘It’s a blanket with sleeves Gina,’ I said, ‘it’s the greatest evolutionary step man has taken since we stopped walking on all fours.’ At the park we sat on the swings, linking arms as we swung up and then down again. Your face looked sad underneath last night's glitter and I could see you wanted to ask me again what was wrong. It was everything. It was nothing. It was me. It was bigger than me. I kept swinging and I think you could tell I didn’t want to discuss it. ‘You can talk to me you know,’ you said as we headed home with our ice cream cones. ‘I will one day,’ I said. ‘I will.’ ‘Just one question though,’ I asked as we said goodbye, ’just so I know. What kind of ghost will you be? The poltergeist kind or the nice kind that returns to help?’ You thought for a moment. ‘I’ll be the kind that parties with Amy Winehouse and Kurt Cobain but sneaks up on you in the night to cut up that bloody slanket!’ Then you hopped onto the bus, laughing at your own joke. I waved and then went home with the slanket to catch up on the TV we’d missed. - We were sitting on the sofa again the day I took the call. ‘She's what?’ I said. I thought it was a joke at first. I called Robbie and he said, ‘yeah, I know mate. They called me too. ‘ We agreed to meet in the park. I had to look everywhere for my shoes it had been that long. ‘It turns out she was more ill than we knew,’ he said. ‘It turns out she didn't want to worry us,’ I said. It turns out we had no clue at all what was really going on. We trudged around the park. It was a lot less fun without you. The slanket hadn’t even bothered to put its belt on, it felt so sad. Occasionally, as we walked, I saw the odd speck of glitter that looked like it might once have belonged to you. I resisted the urge to collect them all up and try to reconstruct you speck by speck. ‘Don't worry,’ I said, ‘she'll be back. She said she'd come back to haunt me if I didn't get on and live and well -‘ ‘Well?’ ‘Well, let's just say I think she’ll be back.’ But you didn't come. I waited. I sat on the sofa and pretty much begged you to come and haunt me but you didn't. I sat and sat and sat just to annoy you. The slanket started to smell. It got really depressed. One night I tried to take it off to put it in the wash and found I couldn’t. Somewhere along the line, we had become one. We walked in the park and sat on the swings and looked for you everywhere but you still refused to take a ghostly form. You were starting to really annoy me. ‘Come on,’ I said to you (not out loud, that would be a bad look,) ‘come on. Surely you can manage a little light haunting?’ But you stayed silent as the grave. (You would have hated that clichéd metaphor. I'm sorry.) One night I couldn't find anything to watch. I mean genuinely. I think I had watched everything on Netflix and Disney and Prime and BBC. Really. The slanket was cross. It required a regular feed of distraction. Ok, I thought. This is it. If you won't come to me, I’ll go to you. I knew where you would be if you were anywhere. Our old haunt. The slanket didn’t want to go. It knew it wouldn’t fit in at a club. ‘Don’t worry,’ I told it, ‘I can make you look better.’ I found some brooches at the back of a cupboard, festooned them onto the slanket, tied the belt around it and gave it a pep talk about how ‘you just have to be yourself and no one will judge. You just have to try.’ I don’t know if it listened. But it went along with me anyway. On the way out, I caught sight of myself in the mirror. My plain face appalled me so I quickly applied some glitter, just the way we used to. I knew you would be pleased. I sat at the back of the bus with the slanket. You used to call that seat King of The Bus. No one came near. I was the lone ruler. At the club, I could swear the doorman remembered me and was looking around for you the way men always did when they saw me without you. I got in and the music was loud, loud, loud and the walls felt like they were shaking. Everywhere I looked there were people. People dancing, people drinking, people smiling, people peopling. There were so many of them. But none of them was you. The slanket wanted to go home. It felt terrible. It felt like everyone was looking at it and judging it and deciding it was ugly and didn’t fit in. It kept trying to remind me about what happened last time I went out with you and that terrible thing happened with that man. ‘Not now, ‘I told it, ‘We don’t need to think about that.’ Do you remember Gina that there was a toilet cubicle near the bar we used to sit in because it had a shelf behind the cistern, big enough for two to sit and smoke and chat? Me and the slanket went there. ‘She’s not coming back,’ it said to me, holding me close. ‘You’ve only got me now. I’m all you’ve got.’ I couldn’t tell if the slanket was being a good friend or not. I couldn’t tell anything anymore without you around. People kept banging on the door, shouting, ‘Hurry up!’ which hurt the slanket’s feelings so eventually, I unlocked the door and went to the bar. The slanket didn’t like that. It doesn’t feel thirst, or anything. As I stood, waiting for anyone to notice me and take my order, your favourite song came on. At first, I could block it out by holding the slanket against my ears but eventually, as it rose to a crescendo it was so loud the sound wasn’t muffled anymore, and I could hear it even underneath the slanket’s heavy folds. I let the slanket go. I felt my body move almost involuntarily to the song we always used to dance to together. The song is about Little Fluffy Clouds. We’ve danced to it in fields. We’ve danced to it in clubs and in your car on the way to clubs and at festivals and in your room and in my room and everywhere. I realised at that moment that we could always be dancing to it somewhere, if I just let us. And, at last, I let myself go. - The back seat was taken when I got on the bus but I didn’t mind. I sat at the front and watched the journey unfold. The slanket was sulking. I ignored it. I wasn’t going to take its nonsense anymore. When I got home, I knew what I had to do. I pushed the door open, stood in front of the mirror and ripped the slanket off. It made a massive fuss and tried to cling to every bit of me it could grab hold of. But this time, I wouldn’t let it. I had had enough. I took it outside to the bin. ‘You smell!’ I shouted, ‘and you’re disgusting and ugly and I won’t let you ruin my life anymore.’ I pushed it down to the bottom of the bin, underneath the rubbish, where it belonged. As I walked back to the house, I could see the path was strewn with glitter that was sparkling where the street lights reflected off of it. I couldn't tell if it came from me or somewhere else but I liked the way it looked. It looked like a galaxy waiting to be explored. In the morning I messaged Robbie and asked him if he wanted to come over. I could tell he was surprised I had initiated a social activity because he said, ‘yeah’ and next to the yeah was an emoji of a person with their head exploding. We sat on my sofa and drank tea and Robbie smoked. I put music on. I was wearing jeans and a top and one of your hoodies that your mum gave me when she cleared your room. I felt good. ‘Did you know?’ he asked, flicking ash in an empty crisp packet, ‘that there's a trail of glitter going out your house and all the way up the road?’ ‘Yeah, I did actually,’ I said, putting my feet up on the coffee table. 'I know. And one day soon, I’m planning to follow it and see where it leads.’ ‘Really?’ he asked, ‘you are?’ ‘I am,’ I said, ‘I really am.’ And then Gina, you’ll be pleased to know, I only went and did. Deborah Zafer lives in London with her family and rabbit. She can be found @deborahzafer on twitter and at www.deborahzafer.com. She has only recently been brave enough to start submitting and now has work published or forthcoming in Janus Literary, Oranges Journal, A Thin Slice of Anxiety and 3am Magazine.

“Just five minutes. I won’t be long. Try to be a good girl.” Mummy makes her wait in the car. Mummy doesn’t like to pay for parking. Mummy watches her pennies. Sophie counts to sixty. She knows there are sixty seconds in a minute. She counts to sixty, five times, raising her fingers, but Mummy doesn’t return. Sophie counts again as she might have counted too fast the first time, but she gets muddled. She decides she’s counted enough. Sophie opens her colouring book. She picks a red crayon and colours in a picture of a house. One with a door in the middle and a path leading to it, a window either side and a wavy thatched roof. A pretty house where nice people would live. Sophie scribbles, pressing hard and colouring outside of the lines. Sophie sings to herself. The song she hums when she doesn’t want to feel afraid. Five little apples so red and bright were dancing about on a tree one night. She sings to her dolly, then shouts and throws Dolly on the floor for being naughty. “Silly Dolly she shouts. You’re always under my feet.” Sophie climbs into the front of the car, stepping on the hand brake. She pretends to drive. Broom, broom. She wiggles the steering wheel, turning it as far as it will go from side to side. She presses buttons and flicks switches. She flips the windscreen wipers and winds down the windows. Broom, broom. Mummy is saving her pennies in her post office account. She makes the housekeeping stretch. She buys cheap cuts and day-old bread. Mummy sews and darns or buys clothes from the Shelter. Mum needs some money of her own to buy things for herself. To fund her escape. Sophie slouches to touch her feet on the pedals, then pulls herself back up and presses on a handle to look up in the mirror. She draws on lipstick with a crayon, puckering her mouth and smacking her lips like Mummy. She doesn’t notice at first when the car starts to move. The wind came rustling through the town One little apple came tumbling down. Emily Macdonald was born in England but grew up in New Zealand. Fascinated by wine as a student, she has worked in the UK wine trade ever since. Since going freelance in 2020 she has been writing short stories and flash fiction. She has work published with journals including Reflex Fiction, Retreat West, Writers Playground, Virtual Zine and Hammond House. In writing and in wines she likes variety, persistence, and enough acidity to add bite.

A Tub Poem I was watching this poem float by and thinking it was painted by Van Gogh I don’t know Or was it the women going to and fro talking of Michelangelo I don’t know but what I do know that there are no words once the water gets cold and the words get old Tied Down I don’t wear ties anymore but I have hundreds of them hanging around and when I die I don’t want one on Same thing goes for these poems I’ve been writing daily since Ash Wednesday and if this energy creeps into another Lent let me burn the ties and the poems too and then push me towards the many books that are collecting dust especially those diaries stacked not neatly in the bowels of the basement cleanse me of my sins and wash away my iniquities after the fire amen The Last War For the last war on planet earth I don’t want to wear a uniform maybe just an olive green tee shirt in vogue these days by a Jewish comedian but of course war is not a laughing matter I want to be in a foxhole with you with shovels to dig our trench deeper so deep that we’d be at the opposite end of the world I used to think that it would be China but now I’m not sure there’s a good possibility we’d end up in the middle of the ocean somewhere we’d bring along an inflatable raft like the one used in a James Bond movie just in case we’d be in it for the long haul living on each other’s breath not tiring of the work involved knowing in advance that we may be the only two alive to start something new

We share moments of grace And we love the bones of the bird That flies around our blooming fantasy Collecting paper notes written in your own text. We sit by the water Coming to terms with loss Objecting against the need for revenge We swirl out drinks to create a pattern But we can’t fall in. You cry for your dearest Thinking about him Creates tension in your mind And your screams reverberate. I take your elegant hand And look deeply into the eyes of fire I tell you that you must confess and lose the rage Or the world we’ve built will sadly fail. Every moment aches for tenderness Your bones are tentative, and your voice crackles, I’m losing you to inner conflicts, Even when your photogenic face keeps its shape, And your skin stays soft. We are the forgotten You knew that We ran away For a momentous future Now I fear you’re becoming undone. The lick of paint on the car The red and blue The rust has been abolished there, Though, there’s still rust on your mind, And a deep hatred for the world.

Love Me Some Coyote (After 'Coyote Dream II' by Karen Pierce Gonzalez) Coyote is a friend of mine, at least, he told me he was, but how can you trust a creature who shows up everywhere? In coastal North Carolina, after Hurricane Floyd and my father's death, a big rangy canine began wandering the area and once looked in the window directly at me. It was skinny and rough-coated; I worried it hadn't had enough to eat. That storm was bad but then I realized, oh, Coyote. He always knows how to take care of himself. He was just saying hello, and goodbye. “She Adorned, Without Speech” I am the seasons: Summer Winter Fall Spring The Time of Deep Terror I am music all music, the keys, the staves, the notes, the time signatures I am weather oh how it blows the wind, rains, sleets, snows I feel none of it I am trees, root bark branch leaves needles oh I am... I am ...help, I cannot see myself what am I? Can you tell me? Sin and failure exaltation and glory all have abandoned me, blessed blood in the veins I think I still have. I can barely see I have no mirror. Are you there? Kyla Houbolt occupies Catawba territory in Gastonia, NC. Her first two chapbooks, Dawn's Fool and Tuned were published in 2020, and Tuned is soon to be released in a digital version. More about them, and her individually published pieces online can be found on her Linktree, https://linktr.ee/luaz_poet. A full length collection, Mapless, is forthcoming from Rare Swan Press. Kyla is on Twitter @luaz_poet.

Grab a pen, write this down. Ink it before you forget. Nonsense is: The things people shout when they know they are wrong. The things people scream when they know you are right. Anything politicians utter. Anytime. Ever. More than half the things written on a local Facebook page All attempts to capture the colours of a broken heart. The concept of complete unconditional love. The texture of shattered dreams, taped over at the cracks. Sentences that start with ‘Never’ ‘Always’ or ‘Should’ The reasons you do. The reasons you don’t. Every single thing you are convinced that you know. Rachel Canwell is a writer and teacher living in Cumbria. Her debut flash collection ‘Oh I do like to be’ will be published by Alien Buddha in July 2022.. Her short fiction has been published in Sledgehammer Lit, Pigeon Review, Reflex Press, Selcouth Station and The Birdseed amongst others. She is currently working on her first novel. Website - https://bookbound.blog/writing/ Twitter - @bookbound2019

I am barefoot and hungry on the forest fringe of a black and white dream over-exposed shadows film my skin as I squeeze out of a tightly thatched family portrait tearing my nightgown to shreds A word from the author: Forthcoming chapbooks: True North (Origami Poetry Project), Coyote in the basket of my ribs (Alabaster Leaves).

Each Step Each Step The Ancient Ones step through me. Each step, So fresh No step was ever taken. Purity Two dozen Purity Roses. The aroma embraces them Like an aura. Frederick hands them to Katherine, Five years ago. Now she stares at his picture While sipping watery ice tea. And talking with their daughter Whom they never had. Something New and Hopeful Pushed off the Mountain. By the fierce wind. Joey chased his kite, Grabbed it, Hid it behind the rocks. Joey stood up to the wind, Protecting his kite From all comers. As the last gust exhausted, Joey’s kite rose To the permanence of their Bond Flying through the sky. Understanding I do not expect you to understand. Very few people can see the clear blue in a field of bluegrass. Or the blue - way back - behind a girl’s eyes When her teenage man goes off to war. Mother made blackberry cobbler That Last night before Tom went off to war. What we got back 4 years and 3 days later Was a man with no arms and legs Who opens his mouth to be fed. Eventually Eventually in meditation One sees the blank wall. Not a vehicle for something, Just a blank wall. Then you are home. You, a person, get up From Meditation, Drive the kids to school, And wash the dishes. The Study of Ego The Ego Is a Blackbird Perched In a Pitch Black Room Pecking at itself In a Mirror. A Study of Blackbird * … the way the blackbird quickly and curiously darts his head to one side at one angle, then quicker than quick to the other side at a slightly different angle; he is sitting here on the thick cable that goes taut at 45 degrees as though it is securing something. the bobbing and weaving of his head shows off the high sheen of his feathers. how very much his coat of sheen has to offer the world. Footnote * I saw this blackbird while I was walking along First Street between Hedding Street and Mission Street... I was walking along North First from Mission Street toward Hedding Street, San Jose, California. Sunday, November 18, 2012 As As morning breaks too late, I am always here Passing through the fiber of every being, every space, every note of music, every rock, every pail of goat's milk. At this moment here in the Sous Valley, Morocco they are blessing weddings with the scent of orange. Endnotes 1. Goat Industry in Morocco … https://www.iga-goatworld.com/blog/country-report-the-goat-industry-in-morocco … … … … retrieved on Mon, July 12, 2021 … … … 2. Goat Milk in Morocco … https://tinyurl.com/3npny427 … … … retrieved on Mon, July 12, 2021 … … … 3. MOROCCO’S SOUSS VALLEY: WHERE GOATS GROW ON TREES … … https://thevalemagazine.com/2020/01/15/morocco-tree-climbing-goats/ .. … … … retrieved on Mon, July 12, 2021 … … …

This is the inventory of what I now have: One set monogrammed sheets, stored under the bed. One set, once-washed, petal pink sheets, on the bed. Two bars, French triple-milled soap of lavender and olive leaf. One guest soap, still in its paper. A long white nightgown. A black slip. The bathrobe which belongs to Sunday, the silk robe which waits for an evening. Set of four wine glasses, three in the cupboard. Set of four linen placemats with a red stripe. Set of four solid red cloth napkins. A stack of small bowls for nuts, or oils, or the tails of shrimp. A ceramic swan waiting to hold flowers. A vase which holds the pairs of unlit beeswax tapers. A drawer of framed photographs, overturned. The blueberry bush he planted. The ruby I wear on my ring finger in place of the diamond which rests in a box. Kel Warren is a writer in New England.

The Music Teacher For Negar Ighani We stood in a circle, patted our chests and thighs, sang and jumped then clapped. We rained, jumped once more in tune, until lightning struck. She asked us to hold hands and the rain grew slower under our toes. We felt like raindrops falling from the sky, like droplets lying deep within the sea. This was her idea of God. We’d told her we didn’t believe in one. What was it others believed in? We never spoke of it again, with anyone. *** We stand in a circle and jump, higher than before. Lightning strikes. We hesitate. We hope to hear her voice. The Missing Spice I am telling her about a recipe I read somewhere, she’s cleaning the oven, stirring the rice while hearing me mention garam masala. Suddenly, she is kneeling on the ground, shuffling through all the spices, rattling, and the rice starts pouring out and then, we are sitting at the table eating a delicious meal followed by a dessert, and it’s all over, so is the recipe I was telling her about and I’m heading home with the garam masala in a little bag, thinking I’ll be making butter chicken tomorrow and if she asked me that. I don’t remember if I replied. Maybe I should invite her over. For the new year? My birthday? Or next year. Sarvin Parviz is a writer from Tehran. Growing up, she was passionate about opera and pursued classical training in Italy. There, she was introduced to micro-fiction and left the music world to enjoy creating characters through words. She earned her BA in Literary Fiction and became increasingly fascinated by languages. This fall, she will be studying Creative Writing at Southern Illinois University in Carbondale.

TW: Domestic Abuse She dipped the plastic pot into the water trough and heaved it out, pouring it on herself. Soft ripples streamed down her agonizing body while her lips parted with the one name she wanted to mouth, "Lokesh." She waited before saying his name in a hushed tone, like how she had chanted God's names in the prayer room. She counted on her toes as the name spilled out of her mouth, wincing every time the water tugged at the raw skin near her ankles. It was the ankles yesterday that the buckle of the belt scraped out the skin and tasted blood. It had been her arm last week when the firewood came thrashing at her skin, shedding it off the glow and softness and leaving it with ruptures, gashes, and bruises. She counted twenty-five, waiting for the water to gurgle and drown her muffled voice and start again when the door thundered, "You donkey. Are you going to spend the whole day there?" Athe, her mother-in-law shrieked. She didn't respond. She hoped for the magic to work. She offered a silent prayer, and she also sought forgiveness before she stepped out. Athe had told her on the wedding day, "You can't call your husband by name. Saying his name shortens his lifespan." Athe had not given her an alternative. So, she never called Lokesh by his name. A large bucket of dirty clothes beckoned her that noon. She hauled the bucket to the backyard, where the washing stone glistened in the afternoon sun. Sarees, shirts, and dhotis had to be scrubbed, beaten on the stone, and rinsed. She labored through the heap, one after the other, beads of sweat licking her cheeks and forehead. She wet her lips, but her throat groaned for water. She dragged her feet to the clay pot at the end of the kitchen when she heard whispers. It was Athe's voice that roared over the other faint voices. She caught some words, gas, movie, lock, and laughter. She didn't want to interrupt them or attract any attention that came in dagger-like words and sharp objects. She tiptoed to the backyard to continue washing and say the name in sync with the scouring and swabbing. "We are stepping out to watch a movie," Athe called out that evening. She hurried out of the kitchen and saw her father-in-law, Athe, and her husband Lokesh dressed in sharp clothes. "We will be late," her husband added. "Let me get some water," Athe told no one in particular and scurried to the kitchen. They always locked her inside when they went out. She was alone, and a sly grin escaped her lips. "Lokesh," she said his name aloud. The walls, the chairs, and the air could hear her voice and feel her heartbeats without care. "Lokesh," her voice raised over her usual quiet tone. The name bounced off the walls. She opened her arms and twirled without care. "Lokesh, Lokesh, Lokesh…" she sniggered. "Lokesh," she attacked him, gritting her teeth. "Lokesh," she spat with a devilish grin that soothed her sore body. "I am going to say your name as many times as possible," her voice laced with anger, but laughter escaped the corners of her lips. It was her escape, her liberation, her freedom from pain, sorrow, and misery. His name filled her mouth like rice cakes, and she chewed his name without a pause, her eyes glaring, mocking, and sneering at his large picture hanging over the wall. She decided to celebrate her freedom by making a cup of coffee with three spoons of sugar, a luxury she never enjoyed. She picked up the matchbox to light the stove when her eyes darted at the knobs. She was certain she had turned them off. A cold realization washed over her and her body shrunk. A slow stream of urine slid off her legs. She pushed open the window and sank to the floor with her back to the wall. Her feet felt cold, and she hugged her knees, shedding quiet tears. She must have slept in the growing darkness of the kitchen when she heard the banging on the door. She staggered to her feet and pulled at the window. "Who's that?" she called out. They were from the neighborhood, and two policemen stood at the far end. Some had their palm to their mouth. "There has been an accident," an elderly man called out. "It is bad," someone else said. She didn't need to hear further. She stared at her feet, relief washing over her. The Universe worked in mysterious ways. It kept score and always set things right. But she didn't know that. She finally smiled - of relief. Saying the name had saved her.

Gold Watch Fever In progress, anonymous dog-eared milksop employees pigeonhole discreet chagrin so as to excavate spine-tingling conformity and thus imitate harmony for the sake of a pension, a handshake, and a gold watch. Corporate Restructuring There are times when secret sensations ignite impending fissures. Personal passions aside, the disruption of the norm and ingrained routine shatters into doubt particles followed by gossip, then defection and finally personal examination. The standard response is to deflect. Then there are those few who ignore the perceived moment and know that there are opportunities in chaos.