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NOTE TO THE READERS: This mild vintage horror is a tribute to the contribution of the form made by Rod Serling, the television host of first "The Twilight Zone" and then about ten years later of his comeback series "Night Gallery." (Expect time warp, science-fictiony, odd occurence/identity fictions, and slightly literary pieces if you unearth either of these series, mostly not the blood and gore horror of "The Walking Dead.") Serling typically began a segment with a quote from literature in an ominous, mildly ironic tone, and then led into a piece with a significant title. My title, "All Our Known Yesterdays," takes its quote from "the Scottish play," so referred to euphemistically by theater people like me to avoid bad luck; in it, the character Macbeth says, "...And all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death." “It was just about this time of year, around after a cold, chilly, wind-driven Eastertide, some weeks after, to be precise—” “So, just about now, then.” He looked at me as if seeing through me, or as if not quite sure why he was telling me this story, I couldn’t be sure. He was getting older now, and just as my own dad had, he seemed a little uncertain about whether he was having the intended effect upon his audience. “Well, yes. And he had just met up with some woman again, my friend had—” “Your friend, or you?” “What?” “You told me you were going to tell me an intimate story that couldn’t be repeated, and that no one would believe me anyway. So, let’s have it plain—are you talking about someone else, your ‘friend,’ or yourself?” Now he was attentive and glared at me. “Does it really matter? Does it ruin the quality of the story, one way or the other? And I thought I was impatient when I was young!” “So, we’ve established at least that it happened when you were young.” “No, of course not, this wasn’t that long ago, not in real terms.” He looked through the broad sliding glass door we sat in front of in his assisted living quarters and out at the circle of formal flowers planted around the fountain in the middle of the lawn; the fountain hadn’t yet started its warm weather cascading. The flowers were in fine trim, though, and there was an attendant doing some sort of grooming of them. My interlocutor tsk-tsked. “He should know that’s not the way to head Shasta daisies. Rap on the window at him, attract his attention for me so that I don’t have to stand up. My leg has been giving me a little trouble.” My own father had had trouble with his legs as he got older, so I was familiar with the complaint, but I felt impatient with this on-again-off-again narration, which had already been started twice before now, each time ending with some interruption, either in the form of a medical attendant bringing medication, or with the old man’s own distractibility. “No, let’s go on with the story now, I’ll tell him or them on my way out.” His eyes rolled back my way. “Hasty young man! Well, okay then, have it your way. It was back, oh, probably as far back as 2000, when there was all that false millennium nonsense that never came about—” “The year I was born, then.” “Really? You were born that year? Somehow, I took you for younger, or older. At any rate, not that ill-fated.” This sounded like more arrant nonsense, but I knew better than to disturb the superstitions of the elderly, as it could end up in a constant proof-and-counterproof argument such as I still had with my mother occasionally; so, I just waited. He was watching me as if he’d known my thought and waited for me to challenge him, but as I didn’t, he smirked to himself and went on. “Right. Well, as I said, he’d met some woman again, this friend, and as usual with him, always eager to get married to the most inappropriate person available, as it seemed to those of us who were aware of his choice, he even seemed to prefer her because he knew she was inappropriate. He had proposed.” “What was so inappropriate about her?” I asked, but I saw that I had once again caused him to observe me with a critical gaze and a bit of huffiness, as if I’d disputed the point when all I’d wanted was clarification. I said hurriedly, “Never mind. She was wrong for him; go on, please.” “Well, no, it was not so much that she was so wrong for him in particular as it was that she was wrong for anyone. She was one of those vague, ghostly sorts of women who trail around wraps and headgear after themselves, and constantly misplace them, and like the scent of violets and lavender, and enjoy rosé wine, of all indiscriminate things—" “Wait, a minute, that’s just like my mom! I mean, minus the unfair assessment you seem to be putting on her!” I was indignant now, because he was smirking at me again, and I suspected that he wasn’t as absent-minded as he made out but was instead up to some form of verbal mischief. I’d only come to see him a few times before because my mother had requested it, since he was an “old family friend,” and twice I hadn’t been admitted because he was indisposed. This time was only the second time I’d actually talked with him. “Yes, exactly like your mom,” he concluded. “And the upshot of the whole situation was that he had gotten her pregnant because his parents were pretty traditional folks and wouldn’t object to his marrying where he’d already sown his seed.” The near-Biblical tone of this latter remark culminating in “sown his seed” made me forget about the insult to my mother and glare back at him now, as I could feel my facial features freezing up in an unfriendly grimace. His expression, though, was innocent, so I just said, “Okay, let’s get on with it. What happened with this friend of yours?” “Well, he just went on a trip by himself for business one day, and never came back. At first, they thought he’d drowned, because he was reported to have gone in swimming; then, it was whispered about that it was a case of desertion, plain and 4 simple, because there had been some kind of a note, something about ‘not being good enough for you and the boy,’ and all that.” “Boy? What boy? Who are we talking about now?” “Oh, sorry, I didn’t say. The child they’d had was a boy. Likely lad, too, great set of lungs. When I was around, I put up with a lot of caterwauling and crying, which is part of what drove me away. I’ve had a good life since.” This tale seemed to be going nowhere, except to such backward and prejudiced statements that proved he didn’t much like women or approve of children, and just at this point, there was a tap at the door, and he called out, “Yes, what is it?” Then to me, “Probably time for lunch.” Sure enough, an attendant came in, and set a tray table up in front of him. He looked up at me and asked, “Do you want them to bring you in a visitor’s tray, just to keep me company? It’ll only take a second.” This was suddenly jovial and friendly, but I had come because my mother had insisted that it was on her mind about her old friend and that I should talk to him, and this had been an inconclusive interview. “No, thanks, I’m good. Wasn’t there anything else you wanted to add to your story? It wasn’t done, was it?” But with the greed of the otherwise-occupied old, he was sniffing around at his food, with a bit of hurry putting his napkin on his lap. I noticed the napkin was linen—nothing cheap about this assisted living! He even stuck a quick thumb in his mashed potatoes and tasted them, to the affectionate “Here now, mister, sir, stop that!” of the attendant, who then left us alone again. “What? Oh, yes, that was all. Come again sometime, then, young man, and we’ll talk more,” and he began to eat as if I weren’t even there, with full appetite. Too disgusted to even distinguish this with a response, I got up and left, giving the door just a bit of a louder close-to than was appropriate for a home for older people, who might startle easily. I couldn’t figure what my mother, however “ghostly” and imprecise, had been thinking to send me to see him. Usually her social register was set a little higher than this, though he seemed well-heeled enough. On impulse, I turned the car around in a driveway near the old man’s assisted living and drove towards my mother’s small townhouse where she lived with a full-time attendant; it was a gated community, and secure and safe. It made me glad, I thought as I drove, that such bad old “good friends” as the old man weren’t capable of coming to see her anymore, or of getting past the guard service without permission if they did. When I approached the gatehouse, I saw with even more annoyance to top off a day of annoyances that Benny, the usual attendant, wasn’t there. Instead, there was a young woman in an officious-looking new uniform; I hadn’t seen her or the uniform before. I waited while she opened the door, and then asked for my mother by name, and requested to know if she was there. The attendant’s face became a bit mournful and sad, an expression which filled me with foreboding; but her next words were even more inexplicable. “I’m sorry, sir, but didn’t you hear? She passed away three weeks ago. It’s been such a trying time for her, too, what with all the harassment. Yes, we’ll all miss seeing her, that’s for sure.” This filled me with outrage, first of all, the mistake about who my mother was, and the misinformation, and then the notion of someone harassing her. But it wasn’t true, so I persisted. “That can’t be, I was just on the phone with her yesterday. I’m not making a mistake, because she wanted me to go see an old family friend of hers in the Warner Estates assisted living community, and it was the third or fourth time she’d requested it, so I just went today. Look, are you sure you heard the name I gave correctly? Mrs. Longdale? Mrs. Anna Longdale?” “Oh, yes sir, I’m quite sure. I’m new here, and I’ve just recently been around to meet all the residents and had to familiarize myself with their schedules and routines. Most of them are—sorry, were—no, I guess the rest of them still are— elderly, like her. We’re very careful here. And it was so much more traumatic with her these last few weeks, because of that young man who kept barging in saying he was her son, and seeking admittance, even going in through the flower beds and grounds to her townhouse from the street when we didn’t admit him!” “Look here, I’m her only son, and I never heard about this, and moreover, I just talked to my mother on the phone yesterday! And I came to see her last week! What did this young man look like? My age or older? And where’s Benny? He’s normally always here.” She was more guarded now in her manner, but “Who’s Benny?” she asked, looking down at something in her hand. “The regular guard here at the gate. I’ve almost never seen anyone else but him here. Look, you’re new, maybe you made a mistake. Could you check my mother’s name against the list again?” She did take another look down, but now she was stealing peeks at me as well, as if wanting to get a good image in her mind. “Sir, I assure you, we’ve already helped clear out her townhouse, Mrs. Longdale’s, no one came to help, and her property was auctioned off, and we were told to notify her nearest kin, which was a former husband in—wait, what did you say that assisted living was again? Warner Estates? Yes, that’s where it was. A Mr. Easterman.” She evidently thought she was being surreptitious, but she reached down and flipped open the holster at her right hip, wanting to be ready for action. Finally and firmly, she said to me, “And she said she never had a son. Can I help you with anything else? If you’ll just back your car back a little, you’ll notice there’s room to turn around for exit in the drive itself; no need to come through the gate.” I quickly checked my cell phone and my mother’s number before responding, figuring that the attendant could damn well wait, but even after dialing twice, I got an inexplicable “You have reached an unknown number,” a message I’d never heard before. This was so much more than I had bargained for when I’d gotten up early this morning to go and see Mr. Easterman as my mother had requested, though now, at least, I had a path of action to take, even if it did end up back with an absent-minded old man who seemed not to fully remember whether he was talking about my mother and father or himself. But the guard here had just identified him as my mother’s ex-husband! Still, he hadn’t been all that senile, and now that his lunchtime was over, maybe he could help out somehow, maybe he had some social clout to help to break through the hard clench of weird circumstances that were surrounding me today. Once more turning the car and noting with a weak satisfaction that the female guard had again buckled her gun in place, I drove as quickly as I could back to Warner Estates and slewed the car into the first parking place I could find, even though it said “Reserved.” I nearly ran into the reception area, sighing with relief that the tawny-haired young man behind the counter, whom I’d noticed before in passing had a slight lisp, was still there. “Oh, I’m so glad to see you!” I enthused. “You can’t imagine the day I’m having!” Smiling with cautious welcome, he said with friendly inquiry, but no recognition, “Sir? How can I help?” “You know, I’m here to see Mr. Easterman again. I hate to disturb him twice in one day; if he’s taking an after-lunch nap or something now, I don’t mind waiting. I was just here this morning before lunch, you were here behind the counter, and the redhead was bringing you a chart, or papers, or something when I checked in?” My voice had crawled up into unwilling interrogation as he continued to look at me, blank as ever, though polite. “Well, sir, a lot happens around here in a day. You’ll pardon me if I don’t quite remember you. Easterman, Easterman, let me see, Easterman. Just so there’s no mistake, can you spell that for me?” He had the daily visit schedule in his hand, I recognized the clipboard with its New Age florescence. I spelled the name out. “No, sir, I’m sorry, no Mr. Easterman here; I didn’t think I recognized that name, and I’ve been here for a year now. Is there someone else you’d like to see, something else I can help you with?” He looked up. “No, I mean, I was just here today, this very morning, you signed me in. I went and sat with him during the morning, he told me a crazy tale with no ending, then his lunch was served and I left. I need his help for something to do with my mother, a Mrs. Longdale?” In desperation, I even added something I thought patently to be untrue. “His ex-wife?” Still polite and patient, he said, “Well, I’ll check for you. How far back do you want me to look?” Resisting the urge to sigh with impatience, I said, “I’ve come to see him four times now in the last year. He was indisposed twice, and the other time, I guess that would’ve been last November or so.” He looked this time on the computer, peered, ran up and then down a list, and with satisfaction, probably at his own thoroughness, turned to me again. “Sorry, sir, no, there’s not been a Mr. Easterman here in the last year. Do you want me to go back further?” He was plainly humoring me, though appearance-wise I was in no way old enough to be senile, but perhaps it was a characteristic derived from dealing with the older people all around him. In a dream, I said, “Yes, please, do. Just because, I think there must be something wrong with your records. I was definitely here this morning, and saw someone named Mr. Easterman, who knows my mother, a Mrs. Longdale.” I waited. He murmured reassuringly, he thought, though I found no reassurance in the results, “Let’s see, we’ve been here since 1998; Easterman, Easterman, Easterman. If he was ever here, sir, I promise you this computer will find his name and unit number.” He narrowed his eyes at one or two entries. “Eastman. Easterly. No, sorry, sir; are you sure it mightn’t have been one of those other similar names?” At the end of my limit of toleration of functionaries, even one as composed as this, I made for the door-hutch of the counter and said, “Please, just let me check that computer record for a second. I’m good with computers. I’m sure you’re doing your job, but really, not even to remember me, when I was just here….” Abruptly, he changed his tone. “Stop now, sir, or I’ll have to call security. I don’t know where you were this morning, or whom you talked to, but I’ve been here without a break until now, since 7:30 a.m., because another page called in sick. I don’t recognize you at all, and it’s been a slow day. I think you’d better go now. Maybe you need to call your friend next time before you come; yes, I think that would be best.” And he watched me with suddenly beady eyes. Helpless, I stepped away from the desk, turned, and slowly walked back out to where I saw three men gathered around my car, in consultation. Running now, I said to them as I approached, “Sorry! I didn’t mean to take anyone else’s spot, but I had an emergency. A family emergency.” They looked up, all three with disapproval. “It’s one of the doctors’ spots, sir, and he’s had a call here. You’re lucky you got out here before he arrived, so we won’t have to report you to the city,” said the most senior in appearance. “Please don’t let it happen again, sir. Is your name Easterman Longdale? That’s the name we have for this registration number.” “Yes, it is, and I have a family emergency at my mother’s townhouse today, too, so I hope you’ll excuse me if I can’t stay longer. Thank you, gentlemen. Won’t happen again.” And surprised, almost, that my key still fit the car lock, I opened the door, got in, and pulled out as circumspectly as I could in my hurry to be away from one of the two centers of utter irrationality I’d encountered. The only thing I could think to do was to make my way to my own home in the suburbs, to see if it was still there, if I could still live there, if my dog recognized me, if I still had an occupation as a writer with horror and suspense books galore to my credit. Not as “Easterman Longdale,” as I’d falsely identified myself under pressure, but as plain “Mark Longdale.” And I laughed crazily, wondering if I should choose a pen name. Victoria Leigh Bennett, (she/her). Living Greater Boston, MA. born WV. Ph.D. Website: creative-shadows.com. "Come for the shadows, stay for the read." Print books; "Poems from the Northeast," "Scenes de la Vie Americaine (en Paris)." [Both available from Amazon.] Between August 2021-June 2022, Victoria will have been published at least 14 times by: @olympiapub, @press_roi, @thealienbuddha, @madrigalpress, @LovesDiscretion, @winningwriters, @cultofclio. Current WIP: 9th novel/fiction/poetry/CNF. Twitter: @vicklbennett.

I make egg salad on my lunch break. This reminds me of Saturday lunches with my grandmother in her rose garden. I sing Pat Benatar in the kitchen. This reminds me of the summer I learned to ride my bike in the driveway of our apartment building. I smell vanilla and sandalwood incense waft across the empty room. This reminds me that I haven't felt your beard yet this year. I water my weary succulents. This reminds me of the clarifying conversation we had in the parking lot at Lowe's. I listen to wasps buzz overhead in the hammock with my eyes closed -- trusting. This reminds me of falling through the clouds and landing tenderly on uncertainty. I can hear my son's heart beating through his rib cage and vibrating his skin on the gurney. This reminds me that my heart did beat before your exodus, and it still beats in the apocalypse of our lacerated lives. I notice that Sumos are on sale at the supermarket. This reminds me of my great-grandmother Stillings asking my mother to take a single banana back to the market because it had a bruise on it. I put away my daughter's books off her messy bedside table. This reminds me of the summer I pretended to work at the library so I could have the company of books in the stacks. I write stories every day. This reminds me that I am your treasure chest, and you are my captain, and this is just a part of the voyage where we float apart. Margot Stillings is a storyteller, photographer and cocktail napkin poet. She resembles a housecat most days: paws bare on hardwood floors and lounging in sunbeams.

it was in the elks lodge at east haven Connecticut that the wedding guest saw his failure clear its bitter taste mingling with weak cocaine the band was playing bar band stuff all the drunken women had been scooped and he was very drunk again himself he had driven down from boston in his salt rotted car down 95 through pawtucket and providence his last dollars in his pocket the weather winter the day gray and drawing in he was shown to a couch in a basement where he might crash other arrangements being beyond the reach of poverty he had brought no present but himself nor any wish of well how the invitation found him was an answer looking for a question there was no bachelor party but all who wished could drink as a mob at the holiday inn the groom was there with his bride to be a group was rounded up to go to toads place the wedding guest got into a random car tagging along for dear life certain chance revelers used him kindly for the sake of the glad occasion and made him welcome in their fashion stealing such moments from the surge of life as circumstance allowed and these were few enough for the fact remained he was an outsider and left to his devices short of cash next day at the wedding mass the celebrant spoke of the good wine from the wedding feast at cana that wine is jesus christ he said the wedding guest prayed for an open bar badly needing intervention as the wedding folk dispersed toward the elks he saw the priest smoking in the parking lot feeling in need of further blessing he said that was a good sermon father thanks are ye off to the party then watch out for that open bar he wanted to dance in the open air like a peasant with his codpiece bulging to come home from the hunt in the snow with blood on his clothes to share bean soup with his fellow villagers at the feast to feed on joy like the bright gods he stood in one spot and then another all night speaking to no one drinking as much as he could while the going was good as he froze in his old car that night he slipped into his fantasy world and dreamed again that he was a hunter stalking through the winter woods his quarry had fled bearing many wounds but the blood on the dinted snow was his own w v sutra was born in Africa and raised in Southeast Asia and the Middle East, borne hither and thither on the surging tides of cold war and soft power. He has been at various times a rock musician, a public health professional, and an educator. He began writing poetry during the Covid-19 lockdown. His work can be found in various online journals and at wvsutra.com . He lives and works on a horse farm on the shoulders of the Holston Mountains in East Tennessee.

‘Fifty!’ she shouts into the phone. ‘It’s like my life’s over. It’s going to be illness, declining powers, and slipping away. Every day worse than the last.’ The woman in the seat opposite shakes back her hair and pushes up sunglasses to make a hairband. She starts biting her lower lip and nodding, in listening mode. I guess her friend is offering sympathy, wisdom, humour, solidarity. Whatever the strategy, it isn’t working. ‘I know, I know,’ the woman goes. ‘Look, some people get it at thirty, or forty. I didn’t. But this one has really hit me.’ She turns quiet again, rummaging around in her bag. Then she is back. ‘All those wonderful women? Experience? Achievements? That’s not me, though, is it? I’m not one of them.’ She gives up on the bag-search. ‘No, it’s too late. There’s no time left for anything. It’s all downhill from here.’ As the bus slows to a stop, the back-seat teenagers jump up, run between us and spill onto the pavement. My fellow passenger blows out a long sigh. I can almost feel the exasperation at the other end of the phone. Have they given up? Will they give it one more shot? ‘Well, Love.’ Here it comes. It is a female voice; a sister, mother, a friend? The bus starts moving. I can just hear the words over the sounds of the engine. ‘I always think of fifty as halfway there.’ It is delivered matter-of-factly, not angry, not taking the piss. What is the fifty-year-old next to me thinking? Doing the maths? Her head drops, the sunglasses slip, she catches them in time. A laugh-cry splutter. ‘Halfway there?’ She shakes her head, noticing me for the first time. ‘Halfway to hell, more like,’ she mumbles. And winks at me. Robert Scott lives in Edinburgh, Scotland, UK. He has short fiction in several magazines and a couple of anthologies. Author Website: https://robertscottwriter.wixsite.com/website

The piano sits resolute, awaiting its Shirley As cigar smoke and alcohol aroma fills the air. The jazz band preps; the bass, the saxophone All drink together in merry companionship. As cigar smoke and alcohol aroma fills the air, Girls in dresses and hats smile at the men in suits. All drink together in merry companionship, Drowning away disdain, one glass at a time. Girls in dresses and hats smile at the men in suits While noises split the air and the chaos carries on, Drowning away disdain one glass at a time, Relieving the users of their misery. While noises split the air and the chaos carries on, I sit alone. The spectacle, unfolding like a circus and Relieving the users of their misery, Blurs the pictures of my mind, doing its job. I sit alone. The spectacle, unfolding like a circus and Emitting screeches and moans of pleasure, Blurs the pictures of my mind, doing its job So well that the alcohol is rendered silent. Emitting screeches and moans of pleasure, Giggling women carry the night deeper into darkness So well that the alcohol is rendered silent. The loud horns and plucked strings fill in the gaps. Giggling women carry the night deeper into darkness, The smooth jazz provides the light. The loud horns and plucked strings fill in the gaps And the night sprints on toward the finish. The smooth jazz provides the light Illuminating the end of the tunnel. And the night sprints on toward the finish Downing swallow after swallow of gin, whiskey. Illuminating the end of the tunnel, Morning light awakens, stretches through the windows, and Downing swallow after swallow of gin, whiskey, The ineffable crowd carries on, heedless and unwavering. Morning light awakens, stretches through the windows, and At last the running music wanes, the immortal drinks run dry. The ineffable crowd carries on, heedless and unwavering, Dispersing beyond the doors of the bar. At last the running music wanes, the immortal drinks run dry. The party-going packs gather their jackets and hats and Dispersing beyond the doors of the bar, Exit through dense clouds of cigar smoke. The party-going packs gather their jackets and hats and The jazz band preps; the bass, the saxophone Exit through dense clouds of cigar smoke. The piano sits resolute, awaiting its Shirley.

I wanted to see an alien so I drove out to Roswell, but they didn’t realize I was looking for them until after I left town. It was three days later, in a Doubletree in Nebraska, when the lights finally flooded my vision and the creatures came out to say hello. They’d found the note I left them, carved into an overturned stone in the New Mexico desert: my first name, the route I’d be taking back home, a partial sequence of my DNA, the name of the dog that ran away when I was six. This should be enough for them to find me, I thought, but just to be safe I cut off a lock of my hair with a Swiss army knife and buried it nearby in the sandy dirt. They’d fallen behind on their correspondence, I guess. You can hardly blame them – there’s lots of lonely weirdos in that town, sending messages into the great beyond. When the aliens finally got to my rock, they piled into their flying saucer and headed up I-80, following the map I left for them. This wasn’t an abduction, so instead of beaming me up they all zapped down into my rented room. There were at least a dozen of them, jostling for space on the bed, perching on the countertop, lounging on the brown-and-tan leaf-patterned carpet. Only one of them talked to me, the smallest one with the greenest skin and a big head (proportionally speaking, compared to the others.) They told me their name but it was full of sounds I can’t pronounce or remember. They said you’re the first person who’s wanted us for something more than a picture. I nodded. I had been hoping for a picture, actually, but now it seemed like it would be rude to ask. That’s okay, though – I had questions, and the questions were more important. I wanted to know about the crop circles. When my sister disappeared, there were crop circles outside of her apartment. I knew that aliens didn’t take her – her shitty boyfriend and debt mountain were responsible for that. I just wanted to know what they were doing there, and why they showed up the same day my sister decided to change her name in Dubai or Sao Paulo or another one of those warm places. (She never specified which one.) That wasn’t us, the alien said. I think ◎¥✵⌘¤◉’s cousin was on that ship though. ◎¥✵⌘¤◉ nodded. Probably a prank, the smallest alien said. Those guys are always fucking with people. What about the other ones, then? I wanted to know. The ones in Kansas and Arizona? A couple of those were us, the alien said. The ones in Tolleson and Herington. Plus a couple more in Illinois. We were just trying to write out hello, but we didn’t know any of your alphabets so we had to use our own. That seemed like it was gonna be a problem for all future communication attempts, too, I thought, but I didn’t wanna make them feel bad so I didn't mention it. Are you trying to get humans to notice you? I asked. The alien frowned. It looked weird on their almond-shaped mouth. That depends on who you ask, they said. We’re actually having some political problems – it’s controversial. You know, the whole “first contact” thing. Will you get in trouble for talking to me, then? I asked. I was feeling kinda guilty about the rock I left for them, the desperate lock of my hair. All dozen aliens laughed. It sounded like broken glass. We’re already in trouble, buddy, the smallest one said. You really think we’d take a risk just to talk to you? I tried not to let this hurt my feelings, but I have to admit I was a little offended. What do you mean trouble? There’s a whole civil war going on about the human thing, they said, and we’re on the losing side. I think they could tell from my expression that I was gonna ask a follow up question, so they went ahead and explained it for me. The conservatives think if you guys know we’re out there you’ll try to genocide us. Someone translated a biography of Christopher Columbus a while back and it freaked them out. There was a lot to unpack there. I didn’t want to stumble into a cosmopolitical blunder – I decided to stick with matters of this hotel room. Why are you here with me, then? I asked. War is boring, the alien said. They laughed again, but this time no one else joined in. And we just found out about hotels. We wanted to see what one looked like. They glanced around the room, not for the first time. It was unremarkably beige. Are they all like this? No, I said. But a lot of them are. A few major corporations are buying out all the small businesses and shit, and– do you guys know about capitalism? The alien waved this away with their foot-long fingers – not interested. Is it true you get a – what is it called – a “continental breakfast”? Yeah, I told them. Cereal and muffins and yogurt and shit. Sometimes they even have a waffle maker. And at this place they give you a warm cookie at check in. Chocolate chip. The aliens exchanged significant glances with each other. This was big news. Do you think we could try, the alien asked, hesitant, some of this “chocolate chip”? Sure, I said. But first, can I get a picture?

Henry and Laura collapsed on the nearest boulder. They were panting and baked in the day’s sweat. Their lungs burned with a day of running and climbing and laughing. They kept a six pack of cream sodas cool in the stream. They hadn’t noticed the vast network of branches gradually swallow the sun. When these last streaks of misty pink light gave way to a blanket of inky blue they settled on the boulder. They exchanged nervous small talk as he passed Laura a wet can. “You think anyone else is still out here?” Henry sipped, arching his head to the sky. He tried to accentuate his adam’s apple. “Not at this hour, I think we have the woods to ourselves. I bet all those hikers and dog walkers are back in the warm now, watching TV.” Laura laughed, although nothing was funny. “Yeah. I bet.” Laura gasped. Suspended in the black thicket of flora and shadow, a faint green light flickered gradually in and out of existence. Laura pointed and Henry gasped too. Then another briefly illuminated the nearby branches and shrubs. Then another. They faintly advertised their location before fading and reappearing a few metres away. Soon they were everywhere. Faint glimmers that danced in the periphery of every direction. Their silent shared awe had replaced the trivial conversation. It was as though the trees where echoing the stars and they sat cradled in the centre of the cosmos. The nearby stream reflected the darting embers and cast a shimmering reply. It was firefly mating season and Henry and Laura had found themselves in the heart of nature’s sweetest ritual. Henry felt Laura shimmying conspicuously closer. His heart accelerated with every unspoken inch.He felt the approaching warmth, he smelled the sugar on her breath. Then she faced him. Her big brown eyes mirrored the phosphorescent forest. He watched the precious moment dissipate. It was the last day of summer and they’d both have waiting mothers to answer to. Then Laura craned her head and made the decision for him. There in the centre of the cosmos they shared their first kiss. It tasted like cream soda. “You know you tell me that story at least once a month.” Simon said. Henry was yanked away from the tender memory and addressed his brother. “So what?” “It’s been years. Years and years. I see you pass her in the hall every day and say what? Diddly squat.” “Something might happen. I bet she remembers too.” “Maybe. But she’s been going with Bill for a while now. You better not let him hear you tell that story.” Henry scratched the back of his neck and pretended to read the yellowed pages of his chemistry set. “Yeah, I know.” “God, I hope I kiss more girls than you when I’m older.” Simon said. “You know how you know when you’ve peaked?” Henry looked up and waited for the answer. “You tell the same story over and over.” Henry grabbed the closest thing to hand, a miniature plastic Yoda and threw it at his brother’s head. Simon reached down from the side of his bed. “Oh, Dad said to show you this. Guess he thought a dweeb like you would enjoy it.” He tossed the newspaper and Henry caught it. The sheets scrunched loudly in his fist. A corner was folded on one of the pages. The article was titled Gene Splicing: Shock Docs Play God. Henry looked up from the paper and watched his brother’s sea monkeys darting in their tank. Housed in a plastic astronaut, the microscopic creatures swam the extremities. He idly scratched his chin and watched them fill the helmet, the boots, the gloves. Henry and Simon sat cramped together with their parents. Henry tugged the bottom of his gown from under Simon’s feet and showed him the incriminating muddy prints. “Well done, dick head. I might lose my deposit now.” Their Dad leaned forward to see the commotion. His belly folded and hid his belt. “Your deposit?” “Boys!” Mrs.Beecher thwacked the back of Henry’s head with a rolled up prospectus. “Can’t we go now? He’s got his little scroll, can’t we just go home? We don’t even know this lot.” “Just shut up.” She said. Another name was called. Another graduate got their scroll and bowed to the indifferent sea of parents. A wave of weary applause followed. Laura’s name was called and Henry heard it louder than all the others. An effervescent sensation plumed in his chest. It felt like queueing for a rollercoaster. His polite smile followed every gracious step. He tasted cream soda. He clapped along with everyone else in case she looked his way. She never did. He could feel Simon smirking up at him and for the twelfth time that day wanted to kill him. He watched her return to her seat next to Bill and their parents. At the end of the ceremony graduates and parents stood gathered in the field. Clusters of gowns hugged or laughed or cried. Henry had only his family for company. His dad shook his hand. “Well done, son.” “Yeah, well done, numb nuts.” Mrs. Beecher clipped Simon around the ear before grasping Henry’s shoulders. Tears began to pool in her eyes. “I can’t believe it.” “Mum.” “All grown up.” “Not really.” “Yes, really. My baby’s grown up and he’s leaving us.” “I’ll be back before you know it. The first term’s only -” “Oh, shut up.” She pulled him clumsily towards her and squeezed. “Mum -” “Shut up. We’re so proud.” Over his mother’s bobbing head he watched Bill shaking hands with Laura’s father. It was the kind of intrinsically grown up moment that reeked of permanence. “So proud.” She said. Tinny music hissed out of his earbuds. Henry was lit only by the glow of his laptop. The small desk was littered with papers, journals, books. It had been an unremarkable few years. The only time he spent with his peers was in lecture halls or the library. He missed sharing a room with Simon, as hard as that was to believe. He missed having someone to confide in at any given hour, someone to swap stories or jokes or insults with. Now he only told the crystallised story of the woods to himself, the infinite tiny details compressed into something more like a feeling than a memory. His isolated years had not been wasted. He had impressed more than one lecturer. They’d commented on his bright future, they had friends he just had to meet. Here in the cluttered room he watched the blinking cursor and begged for inspiration. It lingered after the title of his dissertation. Unnatural Selection: The potential for gene splicing to accelerate evolution. He’d just finished the section on ethics. He hated the title. Henry leaned back in his chair and scanned his room for an answer. The glass jars filled with bugs. The fish tank writhing with sea monkeys. The various vats and beakers. Petri dishes filled with enzymes and moulds. His housemates had discussed him in hushed tones. They were concerned by the mix of glass tubes and stoic isolation. When Henry had come home with a box full of syringes they called the landlord. When he arrived to confront Henry he took one look at the room and decided to leave him to it. Henry closed the document. He opened new tabs next to the twenty seven open peer reviewed articles and opened up the socials. Simon was online. He could hardly recognise his brother in the little circular image. He was wearing Henry’s old clothes and they looked inexplicably cooler. He’d shot up and filled out. He was laughing surrounded by friends Henry had never met. He went to message him when he saw that Simon had left him on read. He closed the chat and idly scrolled. Then Laura slid into view. Her fingers. A close up of the back of her hand. The diamond ring. Underneath she’d written “I said yes!” Henry tortured himself with the photo album. Her kissing Bill in profile on a bridge in Paris. Bill’s shirt tucked in, scarcely containing his torso. The two of them stood side by side, her slender fingers outstretched displaying the ring again. Henry closed the laptop and looked around his room. He felt numb. When he stood he felt dizzy. He hurried all his equipment into his bag. Something faintly glowed through the hastily assembled pile. The suitcases from Paris were still next to the door when she signed for it. Her name was handwritten, no return address. Bill was visiting his parents. Assuming it was an engagement gift she eagerly tore away at the card. A blinking glow emitted through the gaps. As she pulled the jar out from the frayed box she screamed and nearly dropped it. Inside were dozens of fireflies, and the dark living room throbbed in the flickering light. She placed them on the coffee table and watched them appear and disappear. She smiled and indulged in the little sparks, throbbing in different rhythms. A dormant memory glimmered. She tasted cream soda and wasn’t sure why. She returned to the box and pulled out a large folded sheet. She unwrapped it until it covered the table. It was a map of the town. In the upper right corner was a post-it note. Scrawled words read: Laura. 7 o’clock, Saturday. Underneath was a circle drawn in black ink around the centre of the woods. She’d kept the map hidden from Bill, but when an ominous green radiated from her closet he climbed out of bed and found its source. When Laura couldn’t give an answer he’d liked he tossed the jar out of the window. Like a phosphorous grenade the lights exploded from the shattered glass and spread into the street. Simon isn’t sure if he’s dreaming. He’s sprawled in bed, the ashy, earthy taste of weed soaked into his tongue. He’d enjoyed having the room to himself these last few years. He’d pulled Henry’s old single bed over and made a makeshift double. He’d sporadically shared it with girls he’d snuck past his parents. He’s spent the last ten minutes motionless, watching a faint radiant green permeate the curtains. His tired brain is conjuring loose possibilities. It’s the flashing lights of a police car, filtered through the leaves of a tree. Walkie talkies are confirming the smell drifting from his window. It’s a low flying UFO looking for an abductee. They’re just waiting for the first person stupid enough to crawl out of bed and open the curtains. He’s tiptoeing across the floor. He’s trying to remember which floorboards have creaked and betrayed him before. He crouches down as he peels back an inch of fabric. He’s sure he can see something in the front garden. A slender tree, flashing in faint neon. Its narrow branches outstretched. He’s sure it’s floating. He crawls back into bed and giggles through the hollow dread knotted through his muscles. Mrs. Beecher was at the stove, frying bacon. Her husband sat with a newspaper at the kitchen table, his toes traced the cracks in the tiles as he read. Simon made his way down the stairs, his hair a wild, tangled mass. “Sleep alright, Si?” She didn’t turn from the stove. Simon took a seat next to his father. “Yeah, not bad. I think I had a dream about a Christmas tree.” His parents exchanged a stern look. They wouldn’t speak of the man that had crawled into their bed weeping last night. The glittering shape that burned their eyes. He was disappointed at how much smaller it all seemed. It hadn’t taken long to map the interlocking paths and trails that snaked through the trees and around the stream. In the short time since Henry had last played there and dragged his bike over tangled roots, someone had built and abandoned a small cabin. Henry set up his equipment in the modest living room. He placed the various jars and petri dishes across the mantel. He retrieved the syringes from his bag and lay them out on the coffee table. Little cinders bobbed in the fluid, flashing at different intervals like a coiled chain of fairy lights. He wouldn’t miss his flatmates but he would miss the lab. He’d spent most of free his time there, surrounded by eggs and larva. He’d bring specimens from the tank in his room. The first year was selective breeding. The short lifespan was a gift. Each cycle he’d learned and experimented. Each generation was smaller. Then it was splicing. He isolated the desired traits from both the fireflies and the brine shrimp. Eventually he’d cracked the formula. His babies could not just survive but thrive underwater. Their lifespan had been extended. The last batch lasted almost a year. He lined up the syringes on the table. In the darkness of the cabin they looked like a row of glow sticks. His sodden eyes reflected the pattern. Laura made her excuses. She told Bill she was going out with the girls. She sat in front of the mirror and applied blue eyeshadow. She had already misted her collarbone and wrists with the perfume from the airport in Paris. Bill leaned in the doorway and watched her. “I don’t know why you have to get all dressed up like that.” She watched her reflection apply the lipstick and pout. “Because it’s nice.” “So what if it’s nice? You don’t see me getting all dressed up to meet Nick or Ronnie, do you?” “Well if you wanted to that’d be fine.” She said. “God, does Ronnie even own a suit? I can’t wait to see that.” “He had that court thing, remember? I think he wore a suit anyway.” “Well tell the boys they’re not coming to my wedding without a suit.” Bill tutted and shook his head. “Your wedding isn’t it? That’s how you see it.” He said. “And I’m just lucky enough to see it.” She turned. “Bill!” “Oh, and pay for it. Let’s not forget about that.” She shoved the lipstick in her bag. It landed in a fold of the map. “Is this what I have to look forward to? What is with you lately?” “Me? What’s with me? You hate this town and all of a sudden you can’t wait to see your girls? It’s not me keeping bugs in the damn house.” “I told you, I saw them in the yard and I thought it would be a nice thing to do.” “Oh, yeah. That’s right, you thought it would be nice to shove them in the closet.” She sighed and returned to the mirror. Bill lumbered back to the TV. He nursed a beer in the white flashing glow as she slammed the door. Henry checked his watch. Not long now. He watched the boulder from across the stream. If she followed the map he would see her first. He’d used one of the syringes an hour before. He was used to the constant itch. The newest batch darted inside and followed the natural current. He placed his binoculars on the ground and began to undress. Laura clambered through the woods, wishing she’d picked shoes for comfort over glamour. Though this would’ve only flared Bill’s suspicions further. She used her phone as a torch and maneuvered around overgrown roots and fallen trees. It had been years since she’d walked these paths as a girl. Even in the dark she felt a strange nostalgia, knowing this wasn’t the first time she’d navigated the messy labyrinth. A tiny flare sailed lazily past her and a wave of memory flooded back. There was a sugary taste on her tongue. There was a boy. The smell of a childhood summer. Her heart raced as the warm pieces came back. More sparks of gold and green emerged from the trees. Their precious signal beckoned her into the heart of the forest. She couldn’t fight her smile as she climbed. In the breathing network of light the flickering silhouette of a boulder simmered. The boy’s name was Henry. Henry hesitated. The time had come to show her his work. The binoculars trembled in his hand. The wind scolded his naked skin. He heard the the weakness in his voice. “Laura.” The wet soil formed ridges between his toes as he stepped. She squinted through the darkness as he waded through the stream. The fireflies illuminated his billowing reflection. Laura felt her body clench up as she heard her name. Somewhere from the darkness a man had called to her. She could hear the little lapping waves approaching but couldn’t see anyone. Just the darting cloud of beacons. “Hello?” She peered into the darkness. A strange formation was circling amongst them. They moved in complex repeating patterns. They almost took the shape of a tree. Then it spoke. “Laura. I can’t believe you came. It’s me. Do...do you remember when we were last here?” The splashing stumbled closer. “Where are you?” “Do you know how many times we’ve been here in my head?” The flickering lights pulsed in the shape of lips. Then she comprehended the shape before her. It wasn’t the shape of a tree. They weren’t branches. They were veins. The glimmers gushed around the the arteries. They shone through the muscles in his face. They sprinted to the tips of his fingers and rounded corners in his feet. They filled the blood capillaries in his eyes. His heart rate soared at the sight of her and sent the quivering insects faster on their circuit. Flashes carved his anxious expression into the dark. “Laura, it’s me.” Shallow breaths caught in her throat. She watched the green outline of his brain bleed through the skin. The pumping heart flashed, floating amongst the trees. She wretched as the eyes widened. The narrow pathways in the eyelids squirmed apart. “Do...do you like it?” In a numb gesture of disbelief she reached out. She wanted to touch the gruesome hallucination before she could process it. She felt the skin she couldn’t see. She saw the blinking glow light up her nails. Her hand slid over his chest. Henry savoured the moment. It was the culmination of all his decisions since they were last here. That Christmas he asked his parents for a chemistry set. Through flickering eyes he watched her hand on his chest. The fleeting sensation so undeniably real that it dwarfed the years that preceded it. His heart beat faster. The blinking circuitry whirred with more urgency. She pulled her hand away and gasped. She looked through him. He felt the blood surge south. It was the nerves. It was seeing her. It was her hand. Laura recoiled as the twinkling lights rushed to his groin. The other parts grew dimmer. The sporadic flashes thinned out. Throbbing veins pulsed in a violent light show. Faced with a glowing erection she finally found the buried reserve to scream. She threw her bag at the neon arteries and fled. Word travelled fast. A glowing penis monster had attacked Laura. Half the town had heard how she screamed all the way from the woods to Oak Street. Bill was going door to door and lugging a baseball bat over his shoulder. A trail of men followed and waited on the pavement as he explained to each household. Then the trail grew bigger. They carried wrenches and crow bars. They murmured and shouted as they walked. Each step anchored with purpose. They would slay a monster tonight. Teenagers heard the rumours and followed the crowd, hoping for a glimpse of something evil. Simon and his friends walked their bikes behind the mob. The forest felt emptier than before. The sun bleached memories faded into the present. The black landscape revealed it’s harsh form. The sharp barbs and knotted branches. The unrelenting cold. All the muck soaked litter and cragged edges. Henry lit all the grim details as he paced by the boulder. He could see the grim reality of the creatures now. The legs that scuttled and made your skin crawl. The grotesque interlocking pieces of the thorax. He watched them course the arteries in his hand. Then he noticed other lights approaching. Harsh white squares bobbed through the trees. The thick mass of voices converged into a deep rumble. The harsh glare of a flashlight bobbed around the boulder and robbed the flies of their glow. Before he could run the light focused on Henry’s naked body. Everyone in the crowd gradually saw it. The pool of light. The floating circuitry flickering at its edges. Bill stepped forward and his fingers fidgeted around the handle of the bat. “Beecher?” Henry shivered and sent the glow into a frantic warble. Simon watched from the back of the crowd as his friends shot smirks to one another. Bill lumbered forward and swung the bat. It whipped across Henry’s face and the metallic ringing sound spread through the forest. As Henry fell a burst of radiant blood lingered. The flickering green cloud hovered as if draped from the branches before dispersing. Bill loomed over him, the blood spreading behind his head like a halo. He arched back and began swinging. He screamed with every exertion. “You. Stay. Away. From. My. God. Damn. Wife.” The shocked crowd watched the series of bursts float up into the branches and smear on the bat. “Freak. God. Damn. Freak.” The bat dangled from his hand as he turned to the crowd. “What the hell are you looking at? Help.” The crowd didn’t budge. Errant coughs and whispers flittered through the trees. They silently agreed to a collective sympathy for the strangely beautiful creature that crawled through the mud. He coughed up smatterings of light. Neon streaks smeared from his nostrils and marked his teeth. They’d grown up with Henry. They taught him. Worked with his father. Attended his mother’s tupperware parties. They shared a room with him and heard the story of Laura and the fireflies a thousand times. They turned their backs and began the hike home. “What, are you scared of him? He’s down. Look at him. He’s pathetic.” Bill waved his bat at the receding town. “This creep attacked Laura, don’t you care?” The bat fell on the ground with a dull thud as Bill fell to his knees. Henry dragged his aching body through the leaves. It wasn’t until she started school that Anya noticed her mother’s strange ritual. Every Friday she would come home from work and shower. She would meticulously style her hair in to loose, flowing curls. She wore the perfume that smelt unfamiliar and wrong. She’d smile into the mirror as she applied her lipstick. Then she’d slink into the sparkly cocktail dress and lace up the hiking boots. Her parents never exchanged a word as she placed her wedding ring on the mantel and left. Every Saturday morning she returned giddy and radiant. She sang as she cooked everyone breakfast. Anya didn’t know the miraculous handful of moonlit hours that happened in between. She didn’t know how her mother bounded over fallen trees and through the stream. She didn’t know that Henry set up the generator and speakers next to the boulder. She didn’t know how the flickering lights pulsed through her mothers hands when they danced. How they would cradle each other on a boulder drenched in history. Of all the fanciful scenarios Anya imagined, not once did she picture her mother naked in the mud with the glowing man holding hands, and every time her mother says: It’s like making love to the stars. Jake Williams spends his days working in television and his evenings procrastinating. His work also appears in Purple Wall Stories and Orchid's Lantern. You should follow him on Twitter at @jakewilliamspen

She is assaulted by the morning sky. A sky masquerading as a robin’s egg, skimming rooftops, touching cracked and shifting slates with icy, probing fingers. A sky blue with cruelty. A biting blue. A blue she has forbidden. Within her something jolts and something jars. And behind her eyes she feels hidden pathways open. Neural channels suddenly alive with pulsing volts of cyan, turquoise and azure. Energy that streaks and spits, sparking as it bypasses forget-me-nots, sapphires and ocean pools. Stuttering, starting to slow amongst fading gas flames, unworn babygros, flashing lights. Before burning out as it settles on tiny navy fingernails that never grew. Rachel Canwell is a writer and teacher living in Cumbria. She is currently working on a flash collection and her first novel which was shortlisted for the Retreat West Pitch to Win 2021. Her short fiction has been published in Sledgehammer Lit, Pigeon Review and The Birdseed amongst others. Website - https://bookbound.blog/writing/ Twitter - @bookbound2019

Unburied State of Life Spread fingered, bent knuckle crawling, my hands thrust deep in the moistened loam. I bring a handful of fresh overturned earth up to my nose inhaling petrichor, the first rainfall after days of sun blazing warmth trapped in dark muddled grains of soil. Dirt trickles between my knuckles, leaving behind a tiny eyeless anvil skull. I delicately finger brush away moist debris down to needle thin incisors, mourning its wee demise. Such a tiny remnant to house the smallest of brains, soul devoid. Not wanting to separate the skeleton of this once living minuscule creature, I dug tenderly around the excavated hand hole like an amateur archeologist searching for fragile remains, toothpick thin ribs or linked vertebrae trailing into a diminutive curled tail. Instead I unearthed a hidden cache of mice skulls, some long buried to brittle paper-thin husk, sinew sewn tendons in different stages of rot and ruin, and one lone eye not bug ate. Tiny skulls gathered in a state of decay, but that lone eye defied any last composure I held; judging scorn for the unburied state of life and death. Unceremoniously I dig deeper, pawing dirt like a dog after a bone and shoved the mess of skullage into dark abhorrence. My calico coon lounges against my knees sunbathing, amused. I’ve upended her plot and lost the battle. Every mouse rescued from her jaws, another felled to worship in the loam skull pile. She would bless me in the richness of the soil or the throaty purr of defiance. These fragile bones of life and death. Deadheading Grief Do plants feel pain? Deadhead desiccated blooms. I wince, plants whine. Each removal a wound. Cucumbers scream when sick; To feel a part of you dead or dying, a phantom limb, a missing. Is this grief? Is Flora healthier for the loss. Am I? Flowers bloom among wilted dead, thrive stronger for the wounding. I’m screaming, inside this silence. I don’t want to feel, touch this dead sense. Grief stains. I can’t sprout new ears, deadhead body parts. The trees tunnel roots to feed other trees, butchered of limbs. Nerves misfiring, memories whispering, voices, knock on door. Knock on wood. Timbre sounds like timber. We all fall down. Tossing Pebbles Into the Abyss There’s a cold palm on her forehead Inside a dark thick as a coal miner’s shaft. A bone chilling startled gasp fogs her breath. Over her shoulder an oil hued woman Reaches from beyond the grave through a canvas Hanging behind an iron board. Patina melting off her outstretched arm, Turpentine splatter squelching out a body, Dripping down into a kaleidoscope puddle. A mass of bead strands clicking together. Nails flicking against the door like tossed pebbles. Weary whimpers turn into a halfhearted snort. She’s stuck in a horrifying comedy cliché. The house settles quietly around her still frame. There are basement steps beneath her feet; Damp air sucking exhaustion from her lungs. Stillness is what she came down here for. A momentary reprieve from barking dogs, Arguing for arguments sake with anyone in earshot; Swimming through floods of apocalyptic warnings. News outlets streaming hate your neighbor, And there’s a one tin soldier riding away with her mind. Anything worth saying grew mold in her mouth. Yet, she believed eventually the sun was going to stop Dying so the moon could breathe. After all love wasn’t a foreseeable guarantee these days. Despair in a musty stairwell was the new normal, With tendrils of light creeping beneath the door, And shadow paws pacing a ditch of worry. She reached up to turn the doorknob Expecting it to fall off and bounce down the stairs. Instead reality pounced and slobbered her face. Behind her tomorrow was crawling up from the dark, She slammed the door shut and slid the lock in place. Soon enough to deal with the beast who ate her peace. That ghost can paint itself dead again. No Exoneration Becoming a woman at nine Too young but Aunt Flo knows Opinions are a dime a dozen Long sleeves and skirts below knees In any weather is a statement Read the bruised tattoos on her skin Eyes are ‘not’ the windows to the soul Punching bags never had one Skin suits housing a haunting Her silence isn’t the loudest scream Slaughterhouse animals squeal louder What roils up a throat has a bitter aftertaste With a touch of bloody spittle No one is home upstairs at night When the door creaks open She blames herself For pissing off god with childlike wonder Getting over ‘it’ is a guilty conscience Climbing over all the selves Buried inside a little girl She’s nine going on forever Read the Scars For every preconceived flaw A heart shatters far too easy Tongue’s knife blade language Collecting stab wounds wider than Cracks in a sidewalk breaking a mother’s back Love is a useless talisman Taking confidence hostage There is no bruised family ego A fist curls tight in the shape of love Slapping silly out of laughter Childhood disappears so easy Remember Hansel and Gretel’s breadcrumbs Crows eating the path to salvation Sapience dragged to an abandoned monastery Despairingly choked like a dog chained outside Where belief takes wing through the cathedral’s roof We can’t sleep with hope anymore Innocence drowned on the banks of puberty The sky knows dawn always breaks darker Before the light gets in And mistakes are broken bones We stopped remembering How to play the blame game Gambling with a lifetime supply of pain Each game piece a gravestone Memory plots six feet deep With coffin nailed skinsuits Sage Ravenwood is a deaf Cherokee woman residing in upstate NY with her two rescue dogs, Bjarki and Yazhi, and her one-eyed cat Max. She is an outspoken advocate against animal cruelty and domestic violence. Her work can be found in Glass Poetry - Poets Resist, The Temz Review, Contrary, trampset, Pittsburgh Poetry Journal, Pioneertown Literary, Grain, Sundress Press anthology - The Familiar Wild: On Dogs and Poetry, The Rumpus, Lit Quarterly, PØST, Massachusetts Review, Savant-Garde, ANMLY (Anomaly), River Mouth Review, Native Skin Lit, Santa Clara Review, The Normal School, KHÔRA, Pinhole Poetry, and more forthcoming.

Fear fills my Roadworks Stomach. Scares Butterfly Breath. Fear is a Shiver on Sunlit Days. FearForgets Hope. BegetsFear. Fear is when You Know that Some Men Choose NotToLearnFromHistory(ManStory). WillChooseFear. Will do it all over Again. All. Over. Again. Get A Grip, Man. A word from the author: This piece was inspired by the first Roi Faineant Prompts Cocktail Hour. It reflects on the sad phenomenon of history repeating, men's wars etc.

Morning Machinery, New Orleans Fleshy, aortic piping clutches a ribbed metal building. Industrial chic. Fencing to ward off grinning saboteurs. New Orleans is full of them— subtle people slinking at dawn from their beds of nails to smear graffiti or mess with tricky valves. Who knows what process occurs in this blocky, well-piped structure? Steel tanks of reeking chemicals, toxic fumes safely funneled away. Everything interesting happens beside the railroad, especially caught in the first yellow light before the powers dissipate. On Pound’s Free Verse A B & B in the Bahamas. My room’s an enclosed verandah, but features a private bath. Windy fronds slap the windows. Spiders brawny as my fist scamper across the metal roof with the music of a hailstorm. I don’t remember flying here for a meeting of the Ezra Pound Society, which always gathers in warm but obscure places where Keynesian economics don’t necessarily apply. Every year I remind myself to grow a beard for this conference, then forget and attend clean-shaven. A long walk to the hotel where the sessions occur. I couldn’t sleep among all those anti-Semites, who stay up late singing hymns to the Fatherland and plotting to force democracy to its knees. I’ll read my paper on Pound’s delicate webs of free verse, then catch the boat to Miami where the cocaine-tainted air will soothe with little whispers. I slept well in this makeshift room, despite the clattering spiders. I can’t name the plants clamoring at the windows, but like Pound’s verse they embody a plenitude that looks healthy but may be toxic to unwary folks who regard the entire world as their salad. Flesh Locomotive Raking the raw façade of spring, heaping last autumn’s rubble, exposes gestures and attitudes nothing human can replicate. Snowdrops, crocus, daffodils. The soil knuckles into thousands of cocked fists. Peepers retort in their own terms, reclaiming pools that wouldn’t fill without snowmelt. So why did I dream of punishing this landscape by laying track and becoming a flesh locomotive brutalizing across the hills, plowing through half-thawed lakes, crushing lonely farmhouses where children still lay in bed? In a reek of grease and fumes I spent myself smashing through cities, scarring a groove wide as a highway. I scored down to the bedrock, embossing rails and ties in patterns some might mistake for stitching following tremendous surgery. Was this my reincarnation as machine, the sci-fi fantasy realized in diesel form? This morning after two days of rain the land looks vulnerable. I should be careful with my dreaming. Too easy to scar the topsoil and frighten the coming flowers, the mechanical bulk of me clumsy and often derailed. William Doreski lives in Peterborough, New Hampshire. He has taught at several colleges and universities. His most recent book of poetry is Mist in Their Eyes (2021).His essays, poetry, fiction, and reviews have appeared in various journals.

Because there you are living, with your smile screaming in my face. While your body rests under grass today. I believe not all of you is left under the dirt. That somewhere, angels are teaching you how to move. Why are photographs so loud but my room is so silent? What does capturing a moment take from us? A glint in our eyes? A strand of hair? Because I can’t smell you, but I can see your perfumed wrists. If parts of us are frozen in a moment, why doesn't it fully take over my vision when I try to remember why we were swimming? If I had never taken pictures, I may not have believed we lived. If I stare at pictures too long, they become folklore, and I may not have believed we lived.