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In Shared Movement, the Clocks Stop Through me exists a succulent kaleidoscopy, Warmth through me and over me and in me, Moments stretched with the tearing colours Of dimming light: snowfall and a final all-knowing. And I know, too, the fierce sidelong intimate gash Of hardened redness, how it skins the south-face Of poplar trees. It taught me change, Your love, the prompt to shed flesh. Now I, who have loved most of all skin pressed to skin, Ructions, as tongues press, I betray my laughing peers, Co-conspirators in shivering melodies of gasps, Of sighs, and momentary immolation. Now I am become solely your instrument, Knowing the truth of your love: You are relentless, and I, I am your image. The Knowledge of Loss I see the alchemy of shame, and shamelessness, in the filaments of light in flight, so much fixated on function, that it quiets everything with time. yet, in a comic reworking of trees, I looked up and saw plastic bags hanging like leaves, garlands in the branches, and I mistook them, thought them a resting place for the birth pangs of the stork. and today I am bereft, sad in the absence of my old heroic mother and her fat gunny sack of leaves and earth-worn remedies, which, with relish, she salved on both the doing and the dead, her designs the only real instance of being I have known. Woman, outside Damascus Café She willed me to speak, But I turned and left, Heavy with regret, Pregnant with the memory Of dust embalmed streets, And how, with every third step, The wind spun a story of shape Spooled from cotton and flesh. The Navigator I am spent, In need of bailing The boat out, Yet the sails Still hang, And brittle I, I navigate, For I am An instrument Of the sea. Irish poet, academic, and journalist, Oisín Breen’s debut, ‘Flowers, all sorts in blossom ...’ was released Mar., 2020. Breen has 163 poems published in 75 journals, including in About Place, Door is a Jar, Northern Gravy, North Dakota Quarterly, Books Ireland, the Seattle Star, La Piccioletta Barca, Reservoir Road, and Dreich. A collection of shorter works, (4² by 5), published by Dreich, is coming soon, followed by a new set of longer work, Lilies on the Deathbed of Étaín and other poems, published by Beir Bua, in January.

Kanagawa Prefecture - 1877 Keijō believed that his responsibilities encompassed much more than simply keeping the temple free of mice, moles and other vermin. Whenever any weary travelers along the Tōkaidō highway sought refuge at the lonely Temple of the Snows—which was little more than four simple walls, a peaked roof and a door set on a steep wooded hill outside the little town of Gora—Keijō adopted the role of host, making sure those who stayed under its humble roof were well cared and provided for, and did not lack for attention. He was a well-built feline in his prime years, dusky in color and able to take care of himself without need of any human assistance. Rodents and other sources of food were plentiful this far away from human habitation, and the trickling spring which flowed through the tiny temple’s center provided ample water to drink. Keijō had still been a kitten when he’d succeeded an aged orange cat named Shinko as temple watcher. He’d followed Shinko around as the older cat showed him where the water ran through a narrow channel in the center of the floor, where the rice bags were stored (and therefore where the mice liked to snack), as well as several nearby bird and rodent nests. Then Shinko had wandered off into the forest without a look back. Keijō had never seen him again. That was several years ago, and in the time since Keijō had played host to many travelers. Sea salt merchants from Odawara passed by nearly every spring and always remembered to bring him delectable dried fish morsels. Occasionally a monk on a pilgrimage would stay for a period, burning incense and blessing the place with his chants. As a rule, Keijō did not let travelers pet him—guests of the Temple of the Snows came and went, and he preferred to keep their relationship professional. But once during a ferocious thunderstorm, a mother and her infant child had taken refuge inside the temple: they’d been unable to get a fire lit on that wet night, so Keijō had slept next to them, keeping the little girl warm with his furry body. The summer was near its end, and the green leaves of the surrounding pine trees were beginning to fade, when the Stranger came to stay at the Temple of the Snows. He was in his middle years—small for a man, but compact and strong. He wore the remnants of armor, and carried the long shining stick that Keijō had seen enough times to understand that this man was of the order of the ones who fought. He was a cat, and understood little of Bushido, or politics. He did not understand the word ronin, nor could his cat mind conceive of what that meant. The Stranger had arrived just before dawn. Nobody had stayed at the Temple for several months, and it had begun to fall into disrepair. The roof leaked in one corner, and the trickling stream had become clogged with leaves, and now barely flowed through its channel in the center of the tatami mat-covered floor. So the first thing the Stranger did was to clear the leaves which had choked off the water, so it once more ran clear, singing its happy bubbly tune. He then tied his blouse around his waist, and clambered up to the roof with some bamboo branches to seal up the hole—at least temporarily. Over the course of his tenure, Keijō had been privy to many people’s conversations, but he had also learned that many humans, even when alone, spoke aloud to themselves with regularity—some quite loudly in fact, especially when they were drinking the sour drink they often carried with them: the one that smelled like spoiled rice. The temple’s feline guardian found both the odor of that drink and their noise annoying, so he was happy to find that this current guest indulged in neither. In fact, the Stranger was utterly silent; never making so much as a grunt—and he ate very little: cooking small pots of the stored rice, and drinking straight from the brook. The Stranger was watchful as well, always keeping the door slightly open—and always his shining stick was near-at-hand. Keijō himself was a natural-born predator, so he natively understood the Stranger’s behavior. He’d seen it in his own prey: voles and hares and the small grey squirrels who lived in the nearby trees. This human was being hunted. It went like this for several days and several nights. Sitting cross-legged in the center of the Temple floor, the Stranger would doze lightly through the night, leaning on his sheathed weapon. He would rise early with the sun, bathe himself in the water, and then pray for a while at the Temple’s small altar. Afterwards he’d make and eat some rice, and would then go about busying himself for the day—making small repairs to the Temple, or gathering firewood in the forest nearby—but never straying too far from the building. He also practiced every day, standing still for long minutes before pulling out his shining stick very rapidly—he’d do this over and over, again and again, for hours at a time. For his part, Keijō minded his own business during this time. Cats and people had different needs, and unlike the Stranger, Keijō needed many hours of sleep during both night and day. His furry coat needed grooming as well, and that took up a good deal of time. There was a noisy bird who had taken to sitting on the branch of a tree nearby the front door of the Temple, and Keijō devoted much of his waking attention to keeping a careful eye on it—just in case. The Shadow Men came on the forth day—just after nightfall. The Stranger had been sanding a new board for the floor to replace one that had become waterlogged and soft—he had been working on it all day out in the yard in front of the Temple. He was more relaxed than Keijō had yet seen him, and after making himself his usual dinner, he sat and sang a low tune to himself—the first noise the cat had heard him make. Overall it was not as annoying as many others’: The leaves fall, As does my soul; To the ground that my love Lies buried beneath. Keijō didn’t understand the meaning of any of these words, of course: but his was an empathic spirit, and he could sense the sadness of the Stranger. This was someone who had lost something important, and was now lonely. Cats understood these feelings, and for the first time Keijō came close enough to the man to brush against him, and his soft grumbly purr rumbled. The Stranger’s hand absently reached down to stroke Keijō’s back, and scratch behind his ears, and Keijō permitted it. It was at that moment the front door burst down, and two men leapt through: they were dressed all in black raiment, and their heads were hooded—even their faces and hands were painted black. They both held the sharp sticks like the Stranger’s, but theirs did not shine in the firelight. Keijō was off in a flash. Instinct carried him across the floor and into his spot behind the piled rice bags in the wink of an eye. Crouching low there, he could hear feet moving on the wooden floors, grunts and yells coming from the three men, and the swish and clang of their weapons. He did not understand what was happening and was terrified. This type of conflict was not supposed to happen in his Temple. This was a sacred space. After several moments the noises ceased, and all Keijō could hear was a low panting sound. When he peeked ‘round the rice bags, he saw the two Shadow Men lying on the floor, unmoving. The Stranger stood over them, catching his breath, his back to Keijō. Red liquid dripped off the end of his shining stick, and Keijō’s senses told him that these two men were dead. The cat guardian stayed where he was, waiting to see what would happen next. After a moment, the Stranger wiped his weapon free of the red and put it back in its sheath. Laying the weapon on the tatami, he bent down and lifted the legs of one of his attackers, pulling him towards the door until he could roll the body down the steps and out of the Temple. He took a moment, and returned for the other one. Even Keijō, with his sharp feline senses, hadn’t heard the third Shadow Man enter from the rear of the temple, behind the altar. But out of the corner of his yellow eye he caught the black-hooded figure moving utterly silently as he climbed over the rice bags and moved towards the Stranger—whose back was once again to the Temple’s rear. A black-painted hand dipped into a belt, and brought out a small flat piece of metal, cut with several points like a star. Its edges glinted. Keijō did not know what it was, but yet he understood the danger in the thing. The Stranger was saying a low prayer over the remaining body, and was unaware of the third would-be killer. Keijō watched the man raise his hand to throw the weapon, and made a decision by instinct. These Shadow Men had come to do violence, and in doing that had violated the rules of his temple; small as he may be, that disrespect required a response from the temple’s guardian. The cat was a stealthy blur as he darted out from his safe place, lunging with his sharp front claws at the Shadow Man’s ankles. The assassin gave a sharp cry of surprise and pain, and out of reflex hurtled the star down at the cat. Keijō moved lighting fast to dodge away, but the star still severed off a few of his whisker tips, before lodging with a thud in the floor. Keijō had fled almost back to his hiding spot when the last Shadow Man let out another, louder cry—one which made him stop and turn: The Stranger’s shining stick now protruded from the Shadow Man’s chest, and the Stranger stood behind him, gripping the weapon’s handle. His face was covered in sweat, and his expression was dark, until he glanced down to see the cat guardian watching him. Slowly the Shadow Man sank to the ground, and the Stranger pulled free his weapon. Man and cat stood there staring at one another, and after a moment, the Stranger bowed to Keijō. It was over. The Stranger stayed two more days at the Temple. He carried the bodies out into the woods far past where Keijō dared to venture. He cleaned the floors of the assassins’ blood, and the boards he couldn’t clean, he replaced. He prayed a good deal of the time. The second morning after the fight, he caught a fish upstream, and after cooking it over the coals, he shared the delicious meal with Keijō. The two slept very soundly that night. The Stranger left the next morning. Keijō was awake to see him go, and the man waved to him as he walked off. He did not return to the Temple of the Snows after that. Keijō hosted many more guests over the next few years: emissaries and wanderers, courtiers and pilgrims, nobles and refugees—all of their stays were thankfully peaceful. In time he came across a younger cat with black fur and green eyes named Yoshi. For a while he and Yoshi shared their duties at the temple, and when he believed him ready to take over the hosting responsibilities, Keijō left the temple and ventured off down the same road the Stranger had taken; ready for his next adventure. Jim Towns is an award-winning filmmaker, writer and artist. He lives in San Pedro CA with his wife and several mysterious cats.

Driving Home a Coltrane solo’s loping from the stereo. The GPS keeps chiding, “Route recalculating.” The music fills my head and chest. I feel the sky is opening. Wrong turns are now my specialty. Everblue It’s here, my yearly birthday bleed. The everblue mood descends upon me—or ascends, from depths of riches I don’t understand. A darting shark among a shoal, my focus shifts, to drinks outside last night with friends: for Sandy, Fran, and Ann, champagne; and beer for Gary and me. Cool eastern breeze that bore our laughter, hell, as far as Iowa. Epiphanies? Yes. Other people give life meaning. Treat myself as friend (and realize why I keep on typing fiend). Blue eyes I got from Mom (from Dad, the gold explosions near the pupils). Wish my darker sister happy Mother’s Day, belatedly. Island Saga 1 What’s happened on the island of your heart? The queen has hanged herself? The king’s torn out his eyes? Your children scatter, exiles smart enough to sense a fate accursed, the rout of free will, frail spine snapped against a grim alignment of the stars. And yet they act. They suffer, learn, and now return, like slim shoots in the fields, like truth that outlasts fact. 2 She drinks strong wine, and rhythmic words she needs transform her. Sea and sky, and she a maid escaped, a smoking fortress leagues behind her, sharks below. She plies the rudder, freed to drown, not contemplating death, not brave, just spying land, soul bared to what she’ll find. Thomas Zimmerman (he/him) teaches English, directs the Writing Center, and edits The Big Windows Review https://thebigwindowsreview.com/ at Washtenaw Community College, in Ann Arbor, Michigan, USA. His poems have appeared recently in Streetcake Magazine and The Minison Project. His latest book is Domestic Sonnets (Cyberwit.net, 2021). Website: https:/thomaszimmerman.wordpress.com Twitter: @bwr_tom Instagram: tzman2012

Ljubljana “I knew he was in love with me,” she said, “but my new, wealthy husband, then one by one the children, those who lived and those who died, claimed my attention. Also he’d started drinking, and I wasn’t happy with those sonnets tying his fate to that of our unhappy homeland, though I didn’t feel it was a stretch.” She gestures at her bas-relief two stories up. “It flatters me somewhat. Also, I was nearsighted; can I really see his statue two blocks away?” She leads us to his other surviving haunts. Of the four clueless tourists, three drift off; the literature student savors and files some visual referent; and then there are – if the phrase isn’t too quaint – the lovers. The place where he drank with decayed intellectual nobles is a bank; by the stream he loved, she kneels embarrassingly at the spot where he imagined making love to her. Small Window She couldn’t get out. Said she needed, but really only had, to work. There were pressures beyond that of traumatizing the kids, perhaps darkening their entire future; but then, kids’ futures are bad anyway. Not her thought. She stole a moment to watch the yellow appearing among green leaves, lending weight to the royal, no, imperial blue backdrop. It was the sort of day when those who like cool regain the IQ points they lost in May. Vast parks she knew to the north of one city, in the heart of another, infused images of a picnic, philosophical discussion, constrained but vigorous foreplay. Hard to judge if this vision was classical or romantic. Benchmark Some feared thing happens, not the way you’d imagined: more simply, vulgarly, offhandedly. And you have a glimpse of how small you are (heart and gut even smaller) in the scheme of things – portentous phrase! – that vision reputed to bring peace, which doesn’t. The eyes of passersby (in this era, one imagines Fifth Avenue, valley of decision) say Deal with it; then each retreats into the fortress where each is safe and all-competent. In a bar, one of those where nothing untoward ever happens, you notice how the glass at the end of your arm is lifting your arm; how the drink is drinking you, although you’re paying. Slow Movement Music was coming from somewhere outside – my music, a minority taste; and I wondered who among the faces I know by sight but seldom address (nor they each other) was playing it. And pushed aside knowing that the bemused, healthy response, if sought, would involve an accident, a passing mood, “I like all music” … Constructed instead a tenuous widening circle, a community like that of leaves on successive trees and streets touched by one breeze, a thought beneath melancholy, a pause inflecting action … the silence of all other things expanding till it reached my nonexistent hill. Author of two book-length narrative poems, THE ADVENTURE and HAPPINESS (Story Line Press; the former reissued 2022 by Red Hen Press), and two collections, A POVERTY OF WORDS (Prolific Press, 2015) and LANDSCAPE WITH MUTANT (Smokestack Books, UK, 2018). Many other poems in print and online journals.Lives in Washington, DC

POEM ON THE PAGE catch me, save me from the page. STANDARD OBIT fun size of this side MY EASTER ISLAND The hay bales will return. The Andromedins made sure by teaching us to sow the dreaming earth with tiny stars in disguise. FALSE SPRING Just kidding. Only April snow on a shocked spruce. Could have happened to me. Could have happened to you. Mark Jackley is a poet who lives in northwestern Virginia.

It doesn’t need to be easy to love you I want to come into your grief house and sit beside you. We don’t need to open the windows, we can lean against opposite sides of the couch while it rains outside. The windows are navy, the Christmas lights make it worse make it better, make it tolerable, make me love you. The first few lines are always easiest as they’re the time before the space full of my fullest hearts, the beginning makes sense but this is second beside third, resting beneath first, what do I gesture to make you know I care, how do I angle my hands, when can I be myself around you. But we’re in the grief house, rains are oh-my-god status, I’m dreaming of tracing my pains into the fabric of the couch with a knife, I’m easiest to love when I know what kind of love you’d like. Might you hold me in my own grief house, no, I cannot be beside anyone when my heart is unflaking, numb, quiet, can you look at me sobbing or would you prefer other salt, maybe make me sandwiches on week-old bread, give me water, take my socks off when I’m sore. Grief house is full, the rain could stop but I like humidity and winter coats, standing with a hand over my eyes as our lashes grow, heavy, easiest to want you and I know we’re deep in life now, I hide my language, I’m underwater, but will you see me, swipe a beetle off my arm so it doesn’t bite, carry me despite the house, despite, despite. Used to hold your words, made a new star to carry the blues and violets, I tried to sit beside you despite the distance and here I am still. When gentle rain coats the roof, when sleep is a fight, persist in easy ways. I thought I could tell you now, but it’s not time, can we remain friends even in this thicket of grief? Maybe I can break my promises to myself, admit to you how night warms, sometimes warps, my history, how I cry easiest at the thought of you disappearing, been up late to make sure I don’t miss your teal sounds, we’re nearing rain’s end but if you don’t know how much I care at this point then I don’t know how else to tell you. Except besides all the haze-gray dreams I clipped for your ears, lost light and almost risked losing you, I’ve been given access to the house but I don’t have a key. I enter under rain roads and silliest jokes, I’m beside you as you sob, one hand on the fridge handle, one hand on your chest, I’m not peeking, I’m counting tiles on your kitchen floor. maxilla lost, time twists into days, then come three in the morning you’re near, teeth at my throat, hands pressed to sides, hands to me, warm from the Tuesday sun. I thought I’d said goodbye to our energy yet here you are, begging me back again, brilliant beneath the kitchen lights, lovely as ever as you reach into the fridge for a handful of dough. We pick at the fruit with our bare hands, which is never a good idea because everything good bleeds and also I am in love with the way that you eat strawberries from your palm. Cross-legged in soft work pants our backs are pressed to the cabinets, I only care about catching your gaze, I am swallowing every honest thing I’ve ever wanted to say, I am untrue, I am unchanged, I am still here. You gazing at the moonlights, bulbous and full, wondering why we’ve run out of words to say yellow. Outside, the deli is still open, all pink then lilac reflected in wet streets. Do you miss tasting me? I’m starting to think I can’t write unless I’m enamored with you. Perhaps that would explain why I took a break for over a month, took a whole month trying to rid myself of your presence yet you linger in every stanza and line break I can see you leering between bursts of language. I guess I missed you I wonder if you can see it in my jaw. Sam Moe (she/her) is a writer of fiction, non-fiction, and poetry. She is pursuing a PhD in creative writing at Illinois State University. Her work has appeared in The Tide Rises, The Tide Falls, The Shore, and others. She received an Author Fellowship from Martha’s Vineyard Institute of Creative Writing in June, 2021.

The screen door burst open. Erlene, a black pony-tailed girl, ran through the house until she reached the kitchen. "Nana, come see! Smokey is at it again,” and ran out just as fast. The screen door shut louder than before. Nana didn't stop washing dishes. Not until she towel-dried them and put them into their respective cabinets. That took a minute. After that, she hung up the dish rag and then went outside. Before her was a bunch of badass children in her front yard, in a circle, jeering and cheering at two boys fighting. Nana descended the porch as deliberate as her body could, went around her sitting granddaughter enjoying an icy cup, crossed the lawn, and swam through a frenzy of colored children. With maternal cruelty, she separated her grandson and some bright-skinned boy. Despite being torn apart, they kept at it. One blow glanced her face. So she warned her grandson to stop, but he ignored her, so it took a swift whack upside his head to get him to quit. Seeing this, Cornbread feared the same. He broke free and ran into the street, but took the time to turn around, grab his private parts, and then flash his middle finger. He loudly told Smokey where he and his granny could put their mouths before running off. “You better run you coward,” Smokey yelled. “You can't hide. I know where you live, you idiot. Don’t think you're going to get away with that. You—." Most of the children followed Cornbread, laughing the whole while. The rest tried hanging around, even though the skirmish had ended, in the hope of watching some more fireworks, but Nana shooed them off, telling them they better take their narrow behinds home. There was nothing else to see. Slowly but surely, they left. And once they were all gone, Nana spun toward her grandson. He was busy hand brushing the dirt and grass from his hair and clothes. So he hadn't notice that she knelt down and dug up a fistful of freshly cut lawn. “Come here,” she told him. Obeying, he approached. Suddenly, Nana took hold of his jaw and tried to force feed him turf. Taken aback by this, Smokey defended himself, but without fighting back. Instead, he fell to the ground to take a fetal position and used both arms to cover up his face. Right then, that shiny black Lincoln Continental Mark IV convertible drove up. It was Pearl, Smokey's Mama. The top was down, the radio loud. Somewhat confused by what she saw, Pearl twice honked the horn twice, but was ignored. She then laid into it, but got the same response. “Mama! Mama!" She hollered. "What's going on? What did he do?” Nana hadn't relented. So Pearl exited the car and raced over to them. She knew that her Mama could get downright mean and evil in her old age and do some strange and foolish things and this could be one of them. “Mama! Mama!" Pearl pulled her mama off Smokey. She tried to do it nicely without hurting her. But Nana's resistance left her little choice, so she grabbed around her chest and lifted her off of him. "Mama, stop it! Leave him be." Smokey crawled to safety, leapt up, breathing heavy, but spoke his mind. “Mama? Grandma’s gone crazy!" He said, "She tried to make me eat dirt.” “Take your hands off of me," Nana replied, shedding Pearl’s hold. "Don't you ever do that again, baby girl. I mean that. You're not my parent." "Yes, mama." Pearl replied, "But I —." "My house, my rules. Understand?" Nana interrupted. "Yes, mama." Pearl repeated. "I've had it up to here with that damn boy." Nana replied, "I bet it has something to do with that mouth of his. I’m sick of his foolishness. Every time I look up, he's into something. I sure wish he’d give it a rest. If not, I know what to do." From there, Nana threw the wad of dirt back to the ground, wiped her dirty hand across her apron, and stormed off. Pearl tried to talk to her, but got only thrown-up hands, as she watched her mama stomp up the porch and go indoors. Erlene was nearly stampeded, but she quickly scooted out of the way. As soon as the door banged shut, Pearl approached her son and snatched him, yanking him closer, so their eyes could lock. “Out with it!" Pearl scolded. "What have you done? It can't be good when my Mama is out here wrestling with you? You should be ashamed of yourself. So again, what did you do?” "I didn't do anything," he replied. "I promise you I didn't." His mother stood akimbo, then bent down and removed one shoe, brandishing it in his face. "What've I told you about lying? Say it again? I dare you. Now! What did you do?" Smokey had bad options: the shoe; or, the fear of getting two belts. So instead of repeating his innocence, he involved his little sister. Pearl played along, summoning Erlene. "Erlene, come over here." Pearl beckoned. Pearl knew Erlene could be a real nuisance. She hung out with and tattled on her brother a lot. So she would know. Plus, she had a ringside sit on the front porch. Erlene got up and skipped over, enjoying a large icy cup, displaying a big grin, with blue lips and tongue. "Tell it right," Smokey opined. "You're not my daddy," Erlene replied. "Shut it," Pearl replied, the shoe heel softly tapping his nose. "I don't want to ruin my shoe, but I will.” Erlene laughed. "Stop that." Pearl told her, "So do you or don't you know what happened?" "Yes, ma'am. I do." Erlene replied. "Okay?" Pearl asked. "Out with it." Smokey could only listen. To speak out of turn would be dumb, stupid even, because he would get it for sure. No doubt about that. All he could do was hope that his sister told it right, from start to finish. Maybe then, Mama would have pity on him and see it for what it is and convey that to Nana. "Well, I wanted an icy cup. Mama, you know, I like icy cups. So I kept nagging Smokey to take me to the corner store to go buy me one. He finally said: 'Okay, already, let’s go.’ On our way there, we meet Cornbread and some of his silly friends. Now I don't know who said what, but somebody said something smart. Smokey replied and the next thing I know, they were in each other's face going at it. Mama? Smokey used a lot of bad words. He called Cornbread a mo-fo, the b-word, the f-bomb, and used some I never heard of, but I can say them if you want.” Pearl stared at her son, still quiet. "That's not necessary," then she insisted."Go on." "Cornbread couldn't come up with any comebacks, so his friends told him to just give it up, and get back at him on another day. So instead of saying the magic word: ‘Your Mama,’ to admit that he lost. He chose to call Nana a flea-bitten old dog. Smokey punched him, like this. Hit him so hard, he fell down. Smokey then stood over him and said: 'Look at you, flat on your butt/Just like your mama looking up at—These Nuts/Now pride will tell you, you didn’t get beat/Yet I’m the only nigger standing on his two feet/Too bad I can’t stay and buttermilk your face/I promised my little sister a icy cup from the snow cone place/So I suggest you stay there and keep your big mouth shut/And obey like a good mutt,’ and then left him there on the sidewalk. “His friends began wilding out. Once we made it inside the store and I got my icy cup—vanilla blueberry—you know that’s my favorite." Erlene took a break to enjoy her melting icy cup and then she continued. "When we got back to the house, Cornbread and his friends were there waiting. Smokey told me to go sit on the porch and stay there. Next thing I saw was them fighting. So I ran inside and got Nana and she came outside and broke them up. Then I went and sat back on the porch, chewed on my icy cup, and watched. Nana told everybody to go home and got cursed at.” “By who?” Pearl asked. “Cornbread.” Erlene identified. “You know, that yellow looking boy. Mr. Williams's son. "Okay?" Pearl replied. "What else?" "Nana then jumped on Smokey," Erlene continued, "Then you drove up. That's it.” Pearl giggled. "Okay? That's good. Now go on inside, I need to talk to your brother." “Yes ma'am,” replied Erlene. “Thanks for the icy cup, Smokey.” She left just as she came, skipping across the lawn, but went up the front porch, and into the house. The screen door slammed shut. “Smokey, where did all this cursing come from?" She asked him, giving him permission to talk. "I got ears, Mama." Smokey replied. "I hear stuff." "And so does your sister," she reminded him. "She shouldn't be within earshot of such foul-mouths. So from now on, don’t do it around her, you got it. And stop all that cursing." He nodded. "Got it?" Pearl said. "Yes ma’am," Smokey corrected. "Better yet, find some better words. Try more English." Pearl warned him. "I'd hate for you to slip up and say one around Nana." “Yes ma’am,” he agreed. "I'll try." "You better do better than try," Pearl replied. “Now that I have an idea of what went down, you’re damn lucky I drove up when I did. Although a mouthful of dirt could've done you some good." This caused Smokey to grimace. "Stop playing Mama," Smokey replied. “I still don’t think I did anything wrong." “I know,” she replied. “You never do. As for getting Nana’s blood pressure up from scuffling with her, I’m putting you on punishment for two weeks. House arrest might do you some good. You could use that time making it up to Nana by doing whatever she requests." “Seriously," Smokey replied, dejected. He thought it was unfair, but what could he do — complain and to whom? Once Mama ruled, it was a done deal and she never overruled herself. "Now, what you’re going to do is go inside and apologize to Nana,” Pearl insisted, putting her shoe back on. “You're going to tell her that you were wrong and meant no harm by it, but the fight you had came from playing the dozens and things got out of hand. The other boy couldn't handle the jokes and said something nasty about her, and that made you upset. So you lashed out. Tell her that, okay?” "Okay," Smokey replied. Mother and son left the front yard for the house. Pearl placed her son in a loving headlock, assuring him everything will be fine, and all was forgiven, but he better pray Nana listens and doesn't have a belt already in hand. Her house, her rules. Wayne McCray's short stories have appeared in Afro Literary Magazine, Bandit Fiction, The Bookends Review, Chitro Magazine, The Dillydoun Review, Drunk Monkeys, Ilinix Magazine, Roi Faineant, The Ocotillo Review, Ogma Magazine, Pigeon Review, The Rush Magazine, Sangam Literary Magazine, Swim Press, and Wingless Dreamer. He holds a MA from Southern University and now lives in the Mississippi Delta.

CLEMATIS VINES for Agata I. Like entwined vines of clematis pink —with invisible beginning and no visible end— we create a green wall which protects us both. In each loop a different talk, a walk though the park, a taste of coffee after dark, its lingering smell tickling the heavy summer day, and that something BEAUTY-SEEKER for Wojciech D. Innate, child-like curiosity for beauty, quick wit and feet moving towards the opportunity —through the opening doors— of seeing colourful tiles, architectural green, and the archway above the entrance welcoming him in. Alina Hanusiak is a Polish creative writing PhD student at University College Dublin, where she researches musicality in poetry of others and her own.

Snip. Onomatopoeia. Except, when you are an amateur attempting to cut hair for the first time, it sounds more like: Sss-nn-iii-p. No, wait. It's actually sss-nn-iii-p? With the question mark, yeah. SNI-P. Oh, that was a bold sound. You look down. Three tufts of your wavy hair lie partly on your bare feet, and partly on the white-tiled floor you curl your toes against. Weird. For a moment, you stare at the strands and try to reach into the depths of your soul for a Murakami-esque analogy— something so profound, it'll make you cry. You blink. Wavy hair. Waves lapping at your feet? Nah. You start snipping away confidently, but not too confidently. You don't want to maim yourself, after all. Fuck these scissors are heavy. The final SNIP! sounds whip-crack sharp. You place the scissors on the marble countertop and flex your fingers. The red indents on your index finger and in the groove between your index and middle fingers smart. You blow on them. It obviously doesn't help. You decide to ignore the pain by taking in the carnage at your feet— well, it'd be a carnage were your hair dyed blood-red, but they're only their natural dark brown. Oh, well. You wiggle your toes, enjoying the softness of your slain strands for a moment before taking in and letting out a breath. You look up. At yourself. At your reflection in the mirror, that is. You can't recognize yourself. The hair on your head sticks out at odd angles, not close-cropped, but baring enough: the roundness of your cheeks, the smattering of dark pimple scar marks on your temples. You take off your glasses and place them on the countertop, then gingerly touch your hair—your fingers sense their softness differently than your toes. You open the tap, wet your hands, hiss at the pain caused by the water hitting the now-pinkened indents on your fingers, and shut the tap. Save water, people. You pat your hair down, put your glasses back on, and then take in the tsunami-hit wreckage of your wavy hair. The enormity of what you have done dawns upon you and you begin to panic. How will your parents react in the morning? What if they ground you until you graduate highschool? How are you going to face everyone at school the next day? What if you become the laughing stock among students and teachers alike? How does one dispose of hair? What do the beauty parlour people do? Sweep them into the dustbin— but what if someone makes a voodoo doll using your hair? You don't believe in tona-totkas but, what if? Surely those old wives told truths before their sayings were passed down as tales? Oh God, you’re going to have a panic attack. Fuck this, you think, focusing on breathing in and out deeply, deciding: you’ll deal with it the next morning. The bathroom floods with darkness as you switch off the light, and stagger outside, leaving your dark deed behind. Mugdhaa Ranade wakes up everyday hoping to find dry leaves to crunch underfoot, and stray cats to pet. Her writing has appeared in Overheard Lit, 50-Word Stories, and is forthcoming in Bending Genres and Versification Zine. She can be found in person in Mumbai, India, and online on Twitter @swxchhxnd.

Currying Forms See all this? I use this as an excuse to avoid cooking, learning about it, shopping for ingredients, setting down recipes, putting time aside to make meals There is no doubt in my mind I could save money and possibly lose weight cooking for myself, but it is not laziness that keeps my cookery in place Aesthetics move me to a still kitchen, not disturbing the way the pots sit shining on the stove, and how the plates in the cupboard form a rainbow On the Hacking of His Facebook Account There is no better way to hear from people you haven’t talked to in years, all you need is a hidden actor with malicious intent imitating you online, the same picture, the same name, and access to the same list of friends, then your long lost acquaintances will contact you with messages asking if you are the one who sent them repeated offers for male enhancements, or instructions on how to reach lonely singles in their area with a click, it might be something political, a scam that claims to be for a good cause, but more likely it will be a link to some spam about how to make mad money by playing games hosted on URLs that run forever and collapse on themselves and while you have their attention in the messaging app of your choice, you can ask them how they figured it out, how did they eventually realize some unseen program was imitating you? Was it more than just bad grammar? Hannah I kept trying to remember her name the other day, not for anything nefarious, just for my sanity, once I discovered a gap in my memory, I had to fill it, as if the space was about to turn into a hole and the hole would turn into a leak for everyone else Gone officially from social media, it was impossible to find her that way, all I saw were names and faces for people I’ve never met interacting with other people who are strangers except in name, or people I would never just casually forget, Going through my friends’ photos that were posted online years ago, I tried to see if she was tagged, mentioned, pointed out, or if her name was given to the title of whole albums of single images, no luck, I wondered if I was losing her face too Trawling through dating sites jolted my memory, when I saw her first name, attached to the personality of someone I matched with, allegedly, the satisfaction at filling the gap was good, and brief, now I have to try and recall what her surname was Mindshare Quest Taking a survey of my habits, There’s a little bit of money And a lottery for a gift card involved If I do enough of them I will start saying my habit Is taking surveys from strangers I may get there soon, Reaching the online ouroboros With a survey on the quality of surveys, It’s simple and easy, Since I know all of the answers Without the need of a pen or pencil Nothing I put is ever wrong, So long as I am completely honest, And I discover my self a bubble at a time Ben Nardolilli currently lives in New York City. His work has appeared in Perigee Magazine, Red Fez, Danse Macabre, The 22 Magazine, Quail Bell Magazine, Elimae, The Northampton Review, Local Train Magazine, The Minetta Review, and Yes Poetry. He blogs at mirrorsponge.blogspot.com and is trying to publish his novels.

The funeral home I worked at began as an anomaly. Before Sweet Services popped up at the corner of the town’s only intersection, funeral homes pretty much looked exactly like the boring, sterile ones you saw on TV. I was told when bright, playground chic Sweet Services came around, you’d mistake it for a candy store of sorts, and the name didn’t help. If you didn’t already notice the muted yellow casket-shaped doors before entering, you’d be in for a sour surprise. This was why, a bit over four years ago, I decided to apply as their resident mortician. I never read the newspaper. And so I found it serendipitous when I picked one up on a whim and saw an article about the Sweet Services ribbon cutting, complete with an interview with one Mallory Rodriguez, their founder and funeral director. People unexpectedly hailed the novelty of Sweet Services as a symbol of celebrating the life of those who once lived, cementing the good despite the bad with its baby pink walls and mint green benches. I found out eventually that Mallory just liked the idea of pastel caskets, and so built an institution surrounding it. As soon as I sat across from Mallory’s desk for my job interview, that very same day she decided to hire me, I knew instantly that we would click. She didn’t mind that I was a mortician by day and drag queen by night, and she didn’t care that I was as much of a loudmouth as she was. Mallory loved that I only wore ginger wigs while I was my hyper-femme alter ego Cassie Ketcher, and insisted I took inspiration from her flaming mop of red hair, only that hers didn’t look quite as dehydrated. What came as a surprise, then, was how I found a mentor in her, too. As a retired mortician, Mallory showed me how embalming was as much an art as it was a science, something I failed to fully grasp in mortuary school. The way her scalpel entered a body’s neck and trailed across skin was not unlike a duck treading mirrored waters, pressing forward without much thought. I always had two makeup kits—one for the living, one for the dead, both wildly unkempt. She said I only had to employ the reverence I had for drag onto the art of embalming to be a better mortician. Her words echoed inside me each time I picked up my tinting brush and helped the dead impersonate the living, if only for a few hours of viewing. By then, my life revolved around impersonation, an art ever so temporary. She became a mainstay at my shows, an attraction in her own right—I never got used to seeing this gentle-looking old lady floating amid a sea of gyrating, barely clothed queer people, hands clasped in front of her, swaying to the rhythm of whatever Ariana Grande song I was lip-syncing to. Her monochromatic pastel wardrobe became a built-in spotlight, and she relished every head-turn and double-take people did in her vicinity. Just one more thing we had in common. Whenever Mallory told me she wanted me to put her in drag, I always joked she was way too old to be my drag daughter. We never really got around to doing it. She would’ve looked beautiful, especially with her bone structure that somehow only grew more defined as she aged. I could put her in drag now, I thought, but I knew regular makeup only worked and melted with the heat of human skin, which Mallory was now lacking. I prepared her for her big viewing. She would once more be the center of attention. An hour before doors opened, I stood glued above her lilac casket, mind adrift as I fixed the stubborn clumps of red hair she never wanted out of place. Karl Khumo Calagan (he/him) is a queer Filipino writer, reader, book blogger, horror enthusiast, and lawyer aspirant. You can find him floating around over at karlcalagan.com.

I don’t remember begging my father for a leather whip, but he bought my brother and me leather whips in upstate New York the summer we went to a tent show run by a man who more than likely cracked a whip. I don’t remember: gee, I want one like his, or an assistant, or whip tricks like an assistant holds in her hand a paper dove a lash shatters, or the man fires blanks from a pistol at a grinning paper bear target, but he wore fringed buckskin and in the tent starred in a Wild West show. He’d starred in a TV western until cancer of the larynx forced him off TV. Here he was, a tent master in the summer night. He rode a horse around a ring, an audience clapped. I mostly remember the show ended, he told his small daughter if she couldn’t keep her dog quiet he’d take it out and shoot it. Somehow I knew she was his daughter, a pup in her arms as he spoke sharply. I knew also he starred in a TV commercial: he swam to a dock in a lake, as he sat on the dock a young woman draped a towel on his shoulders, and gave him a bottle of Coke, before his voice changed so it was no good for TV. I don’t remember the show he’d starred in, only his tent show, everyone getting up to leave, him towards the back scolding her so it wouldn’t happen again.