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Have you ever awoken in the morning filled with a sense of dread? That today the world might end and you wouldn’t mind because then you wouldn’t have to work late alongside that asshole Michael only to come home afterward and have to finish that six-page paper that’s due tomorrow? That there isn’t really a point to anything because things outside your control have forced you to follow a life path or make certain decisions that you maybe wouldn’t have made under a different set of circumstances? If so, then you understand Barry. Barry opens his eyes every morning and a wave of thought cuts through the sleep. My goodness, he hasn’t even sat up yet and the day is already a wash at best. The morning ritual – the shower, the pitiful breakfast (you know it’s the most important meal of the day, right?), the rummaging through the clean clothes pile and trying to decide if they actually should’ve been put in the dirty clothes pile, the dressing, the gathering of the things, and the leaving – all happens shrouded by life’s gloomy black cloud. The past was bad and the outlook is worse, and people like Barry are going to be left holding the biggest bag of human excrement ever assembled in the history of the world. Poor Barry. Barry finally finds the strength to sit up after pushing off the weight of the world. He walks into the bathroom and scratches his ass and stretches and yawns and is a little bit sad. See, that sadness is what makes Barry human. He looks into the bathroom mirror and sees himself. It’s hard to believe that a spritely, young, and motivated kid used to look back from the mirror. Now, it’s just Barry. Barry: a man for the people. Barry: just like the people. Barry: stepped on and kept down by the people. And it’s not just Barry that appears in the mirror. There are the bottles of shampoo and body wash, shower and toilet, towel rack with the wet towel, and that terrible picture that looks like it was stolen straight out of a Hilton or Marriott (it was). He sees the bottles. Why did he choose those bottles? Well, the junk mail came and, even though he knew it was junk mail, he looked through it. Barry discovered the advertisements for that big grocery store downtown – the one running everyone else out of the game – and added “shampoo and body wash” to his grocery list. He could’ve bought any brand of shampoo or body wash, but those were the ones on special, so he bought them. “But why those ones?” Barry thinks. He could’ve gone to any store. He didn’t have to go to the big store solely because of the special, thus supporting the trampling of local business, but he did. He could’ve gone to the small grocery store which is actually closer to his apartment (though it won’t be much longer; no profits) and saved the money not on buying a cheaper bottle of soap but on the gas burned by his car. He could’ve spent one dollar less on gas and one dollar more on soap. That would’ve been greener and supported the small grocery store. Instead, he spent more on gas and less on soap. Problem is: Barry is normal. Barry goes to work and comes home and likes to save money and watches sports and gets drinks with his friends on occasion. Of course Barry is going to spend more on gas and less on soap! “But what about the fish?” Barry asks himself. See, Barry knows that when the bottles of shampoo and body wash are empty, he will throw them away and his robot brain will make him spend more on gas and less on soap again. No matter the color of the bin in which those empty bottles are thrown, they all end up in the blue. Some garbage collector comes by – they are normal, too – and chucks everything together in the big stinky garbage truck. The path that garbage takes is a mystery except that it starts in Barry’s bathroom – actually, it probably starts at the store, or maybe ever earlier, it’s hard to tell – and ends up in the ocean. Then people like Barry get to see ads on Hulu of fish who swallowed a plastic bottle one day and never recovered. Barry sees the ad and calls to give money to the cause despite having hardly any money left after his excursion of spending more on gas and less on soap. There is always a fish that eats a bottle cap and Michael, who brought the two together, is too busy counting his Franklins to notice. Meanwhile, Barry is left concerned about the fish as he looks in the mirror each morning. “It’s so exhausting,” Barry considers. And it’s imperative when Barry goes to work that he smells nice and doesn’t take bathroom breaks, so his toilet and shower perform their functions each morning. Flush. Wash. Rinse. Water and soap = down the drain. Back to the sewer or treatment plant or wherever the flow is directed; nobody really knows. Every day water runs through the house and Barry makes use of it because he has to, otherwise Michael will certainly have something to say about it; Michael has always been a stickler for the rules despite breaking them himself when necessary. Yes, Michael would definitely say something if Barry conserved a little water every now and then. The soap must flow and the water must run and the fish must die so that Barry is acceptable to Michael. It’s the gym where it’s the worst. The gym is where Barry goes after work because Michael needs longevity from him. Barry spends time moving heavy objects against his will and theirs so Michael doesn’t have to hire someone new at any point in the next thirty years. Then, once the heavy objects have been reorganized, an exhausted Barry goes into the locker room to spill more soap, use more water, and make sure there isn’t enough for the fish. Use, use, use, take, take, take, me, me, me; Michael demands it. “But for so little money?” Barry ponders. The towel rack is falling off the wall. It’s a geriatric towel rack, and its primary function (you guessed it; holding up towels) is becoming too much to handle. The towel itself is plush, soft, soaks up the water very well. It’s a tag-team effort to ensure the towel’s dryness when the water runs and soap spills again; Barry hangs up the towel and the towel rack holds it. How big is the operation? Do they hire mostly young people or old people or men of women? The long, tiring hours worked by the workers in the towel factory ensure that the demand for dead fish is always booming. They are paid so little it’s insulting. Michael’s insistence alone should result in higher pay. Days and nights and all around the clock; the showers and toilets and towel factories never stop. The big grocery store and Michael say thank you. Barry and the small grocery store and the fish and the workers at the towel factory are sad. “Dance for me,” Barry thinks, shaking his head. And the soap-stained fog which fills the bathroom coalesces on the canvas of the terrible picture. A reproduction. The reproduction factory and the towel factory are on the same schedule and everyone is exhausted except Michael. Barry reaches out and runs his thumb along the canvas and thinks if he presses too hard, the paint (which isn’t even paint) will come off. Then he would have to send the picture off with the next batch of empty shampoo bottles and the fish will not appreciate it. The artists manage to keep busy but never see the profits. They are chained in place. They have one creation good enough to end up above a urinal before it makes its way to a hotel where it’s stolen by Barry who can’t afford the real thing because he is normal. The artists paint the pictures, yes, but they also do so much more. They dance and write and sing and produce and direct and film and sculpt. And Michael feels entitled to tell them “go,” to kick them off, to set them free. Dance, dance, jump, spin. Ha ha. Tell me a joke. Back to the kitchen. But Barry can’t; he has work in the morning. The cycle must continue and Barry is the linchpin. What does Michael do? Barry is the one who does. Do, do, do; that’s all Barry. Barry is the one who spends more on gas and less on soap. Barry is the one who spills the water, kills the fish. Barry is the one exhausted at the gym. Barry is the one who steals the art. “But why?” Barry asks himself. Michael is the asshole who demands. He demands more is spent on gas and less is spent on soap. He demands the water be spilled, the fish be killed. He demands the exhaustion of the gym. He demands the art is stolen. And then Barry thinks: “Why not just get rid of Michael?” Barry flips off the light and walks out of the bathroom. He gets dressed and goes to work.

“This is most irregular. Most irregular, indeed.” The judge pushed his tiny glasses up his nose and looked at the petitioning lawyer. “Yes,” the lawyer said, “it is. Hence… this.” He spread his hands to indicate the hearing. Adjusting his glasses, the judge looked up to take in the lawyer’s client, shaking his head and murmuring again, “Most irregular.” Then, he said, “A biomechanical tyrannosaur owning a corporation? It’s unheard of!” With a gentle cough, the lawyer clarified, “A biomechanical tyrannosaur with the brain of a man… the brain of the corporation’s major shareholder, to be exact.” “I don’t know,” said the judge. He shuffled papers. “Let me see if I understand this… Biomechanical… Now, I understand what ‘mechanical’ means, but ‘bio’? That means ‘alive’, correct?” “Correct,” said the lawyer. “But, the question is… how much of it –” the tyrannosaur leaned closer “– er, him is alive? Other than the brain, of course.” The tyrannosaur blinked, then leaned back. The judge exhaled. The lawyer steepled his fingers and considered. “About fifty-fifty, I believe. The entire body, save for my client’s brain, is artificial, but the core had to be biological to maintain the brain. But, it has been augmented cybernetically.” He looked at the judge. “Ah, that means it is essentially robotic, both the organic and inorganic parts of it, but governed by a living human brain.” Nervously, the judge examined the tyrannosaur. “But, does that constitute being alive?” With a shrug, the lawyer said, “Would you contest his life if he required an exoskeleton to overcome paralysis?” “No, but this is hardly the same.” “It is. My client suffered terminal injuries that left only his brain functioning. This is essentially the outcome of a brain transplant. An unusual brain transplant, granted, but still…” The tyrannosaur growled, a rumbling sound produced by hidden speakers in its throat, and the judge blinked. “Sorry… It’s a question of whether he can own a corporation as a non-human.” The tyrannosaur blinked, then spoke: “Your honour, a corporation can own property – can own another corporation, even, and be regarded as a ‘person’ for legal purposes. A corporation is an entirely-abstract entity… not even alive. I am alive. I am no abstract. Can you deny me as much?” Sweating, shifting awkwardly in his seat, the judge said, “I will have to take this under advisement. You have made some very cogent points, but this is a complicated topic and I can’t just rule on it like that.” He snapped his fingers. “You can and you will!” The tyrannosaur roared. The judge quailed. “But, I… I…” The tyrannosaur lunged forward and seized him up out of his chair and snapped him in half, redecorating the wall of the courtroom. The judge’s legs tumbled to the floor and twitched for a moment. The rest of him, with a muffled wail, was swallowed down. The lawyer wiped his hand across his face and shook his head. “Not again! That’s the third judge you’ve gone and devoured before we could get a ruling. Someone is going to notice soon and, then, we’ll never be able to get a judge to guarantee your ownership.” The tyrannosaur roared at him. “A hissy fit, really?” It growled and said, “I’ve had enough. The corporation is mine and nobody is going to take it away from me.” Shrugging, the lawyer said, “The corporation made you; your shareholders might just decide to reclassify you as a test subject.” Growling, the tyrannosaur said, “Let them try.” The door opened and a cleaner half-stepped into the courtroom; it was after hours, but the courthouse wasn’t entirely empty. “Is everything okay? I thought I heard a – oh, my goodness! What the hell is that?” “I’m a tyrannosaur, you idiot. Did you never watch Jurassic Park?” With a sudden lunge, it seized the man and shook him so that bits went flying, before swallowing what was left. The lawyer wiped gore off his face. “Thank you very much for that little display…” He checked his phone. “What do you want to do next? I have another two judges we can try… What do you want to do?” The tyrannosaur turned and looked at him. Blood dripped from metal fangs. “Kill you,” it said and snapped up the lawyer. It made a sound almost like a purr of satisfaction and said, “I always hated lawyers.” It was silent for a moment, considering. “Actually, it’s people I hate…” With a loud crash, it smashed its way through the courtroom door, then it smashed its way out onto the street. Forget running a corporation, there was a whole world to rule… A police car screeched to a halt in front of him, the officers staring out through the windscreen in confused terror. With a crunch, the tyrannosaur planted its foot on the hood, crushing it to the road, and roared. “I am your tyrant,” he cried. “Obey me or die!” This was the life. Why waste it in an office when you were a monster, the like of which hadn’t been seen in aeons. Yes, this was the life for him. He roared in satisfaction. A new age was dawning: His age. DJ Tyrer is the person behind Atlantean Publishing, View From Atlantis, and the 5-7-5 Haiku Journal. Their website is at https://djtyrer.blogspot.co.uk/

silver tongued words fall from my lips as the clock strikes midnight suspend me take me to new heights make me cum my Sunday dress hangs in the closet, waiting to be worn for her rewrite your story among the stars among the oceans among the lands Brianne Reilly is the author of several works of poetic verse, critical essays, and fiction. She holds BA’s in English Literature and Philosophy, as well as an MA in WGST. Her work ranges from the creative to the academic and has been published in various anthologies. Her first full-length collection of poetry and prose, along with a book of critical essays is in the works.

My father told me if I wanted to catch fish I had to think like a fish except he said it with an r like frish and an extra s and h like frisshh and maybe a third h if you can stand it. We were floating in a barely curved boat. I sat on a six pack and he sat on a bigger box of beer which eventually collapsed. I noticed, among other things, that his bladder had the same capacity as a bottle of beer, and I imagined it was also the approximate shape. I was surprised how clear his pee was, nearly invisible like the fishing line, the tint likely stuck somewhere in the vicinity of his liver. He smoked cigarettes, one after the other, and spewed nonsense the rest of the time, kept offering me beer when he knew I was only eleven. When he pressed his bottle against my bottom lip, I took a bubbly sip, half terrified and half hoping it would turn me into a frisshhh. I was already thinking like one, deep under the boat where it was calm and cool and silent mostly, nicely alternating ribbons of light and shadow, a few echoes that pulled me briefly their way. That was a long time ago. My father staggered to death early which is what he seemed to want. My mother remarried quickly, and my new dad didn’t drink at all, just strange juice what came out of the machine he stuck carrots and beets and parsley into, a little thick and bubbly almost like a chocolate milkshake but rank. His name was Craig – she met him at Al-Anon – and we were sort of friends, buddies he said, although he called me son at my sister’s wedding and five minutes later he also called her new husband son so it took some of the weight off or maybe put some back on I don’t know which. But what I want to tell you is the thinking-like-a-fish part, the round about way my father is responsible for turning me into a writer, because all my life I’ve been hiding between words, deep in stories, following echoes, carefully not making a splash. I write in a bright room that glows when the sun comes through the window all bits and pieces because of the leaves and shadows. I swim into this place, out of the usual gloom, and I write sometimes thoughtfully and other times it’s like a spell, with my eyes closed typing like mad – I’m doing it right now – my usual mistakes easyOtoOspot, a zero where there should be a hyphen and other weaknesses like double letters as in frisshh. My stories are short and plentiful. I am passionately involved in many make-believe lives, important lives – relevant and purposeful lives of substance – like the life beyond this closed room, my pretend wife setting the table for dinner, knives and forks flashing in the light, my fake kids laughing from far away, the paw of my imaginary white cat waving beneath my door. Sherry is from the wilds of Ontario. She writes the kind of stories she longs for and can rarely find. feelingfunny.ca

In the mornings, they step on the rotten branches of her used-to-be vegetable garden and sneak their beaks into the holes within them; they breathe in the stench and the rot and smile. In the evenings, they stare through the cracks between the curtains of her bedroom window; they watch as she closes her eyes, and they sing her to sleep. She wonders if she should talk to them, scream at them before they devour the last two blueberries holding on to the bush at the edge of her yard. She wishes she could have tasted the berries, bitten into them halfway and waited for the juice to tickle its way down her taste buds. It’s too late now, and she knows it. Damn those crows, she says, sliding the glass door open and stepping barefoot into grass. She waves her arms at them, like a lunatic. Lunatic. That’s what her neighbors call her when she’s not looking. That’s what they whisper in the mornings, what they shovel down 6-feet under their tongues when they see her. If only they would say it to her face, caw it into her ears until they bled. She waves her arms again. The biggest crow, three feet away from her, picks at a berry and raises his head. He twists his neck until his eyes meet hers and lets out a piercing caw. Caw. Caw. Caw. She waits for him to stop, her hands now plastered against her thighs, her lips now shut. He lifts his head to the few clouds above her and caws one last time before flying upwards. She traces his movements with her eyes and notices how his wings turn blue against the rising sun. She never realized that feathers could find synchrony with light, blend into its rays like a non-man-made kaleidoscope. She chuckles. If only she could fly away with him. Karen Gonzalez-Videla is an Argentinian immigrant living in Florida. You can usually find her somewhere in nature, hiding among the animals and plants. Her writing has been featured in PANK, Menacing Hedge, Paranoid Tree, and other places. You can find her on Twitter at @Gv12Karen or on her website at https://kgonzalezvidela.carrd.co/.

“Just wait until I show you what we got!” My father beamed excitedly as we drove from the airport to my family home. It wasn’t like my dad to be excited about something, or to want to pick me up from the airport. Though it was a short distance, he hated waiting for what was sure to be my delayed arrival. This was some time in the late 90s, before we all had cell phones. I’d been living in Los Angeles for five years. I came home to visit at Christmas and, if I could afford it, during the summer. That summer, I could afford it. I’d stayed in Los Angeles after studying there for a semester. I’d made some connections in the film and television industry and were able to turn those into jobs. Granted, five years later I was still a lowly production assistant, but I hoped to move up to a production coordinator soon. It was difficult to explain my career and goals to my east coast family. Even when my name showed up in the occasional TV show credits. “You won’t believe that we got one right here in Revere,” he channeled Robert Preston. “We’re going now?” I asked. After nearly six hours on a plane, I wanted to get home to see my mother and have a delicious home-cooked meal. “You’re going to be so surprised,” my father oversold it. We turned into the parking lot of Northgate, the local shopping center. “Does mom need something?” I asked. “Can’t you see it?” he exclaimed as if Santa Claus were about to land on our car. No. “What?” “We got a Taco Bell!” The new building in the middle of the parking lot almost slapped me in the face. It was a small, but classic style Taco Bell. Complete with a drive-thru and some outside seating. A perfect addition to Squire Road, which housed our McDonald’s, Burger King, Kentucky Fried Chicken and two Dunkin’ Donuts (which would become four in a few years). “That’s great,” I said. “Just like Los Angeles.” “Except out there, there’s one on every corner.” One of the few in-depth conversations I’d had with my father during a return visit was how there were a plethora of fast food restaurants in Los Angeles, yet no Dunkin’ Donuts (they would take a few decades to get there). I mentioned there were tons of Taco Bells, where I recalled seeing only one on the North Shore of Boston. I was also surprised to find that El Torito was a chain restaurant. That conversation must have left an impression on my father. “We’re finally catching up with you guys,” my father’s brag reminded me of the time he told our cutting edge tech neighbors that we got a VCR. “You could say that.” “Let’s get something.” “You hate Mexican food,” I reminded him. He’d ordered a hamburger at my high school graduation dinner at El Torito . “And I don’t want to spoil mom’s dinner.” “Just a little something,” he tempted. “Some tacos?” “I love their Mexican Pizza.” “I’ve never tried that. Let’s get one.” Who was this person and what did they do with my unadventurous, meat and potatoes eating father? He pulled into the closest parking spot. “We’re going in?” I asked. “Of course. It’s new. You have to see the inside.” Before I could protest, he was out of the car. As a kid, I’d always wanted to have something to bond with my father over. But he was a sports and news guy, while I was comic book and movies kid. I’d given up trying, but suddenly we were connecting over a fast food Mexican restaurant. I’ll take it. He stopped as we entered and spread his arms as if he were about to welcome me to Jurassic Park. “Looks just like the ones in Los Angeles , right?” “Yeah…” I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I couldn’t remember actually ever going inside a Taco Bell. I’d only been in their drive-thru. “You wouldn’t know the difference, right?” The patrons speaking with Boston accents would have given me a pretty big clue as to where I was. My father proudly led me to the counter. A pale, young kid was waiting there to take his order. “Hola!” my father blurted. I wanted to crawl under the table. But was also slightly impressed that my father was attempting to speak Spanish to some kid who was probably studying it at Revere High School. “We’ll have a Mexican pizza,” he told the cashier, then turned to me. “What else?” “That’s enough. Don’t want to spoil our dinner.” When did I become the adult? “No nachos?” “I’m good.” “Something to drink?” “Just water.” He turned to the cashier, “And a couple of waters.” As we waited, my father read the menu. “Look, they got everything. Burritos, nachos, both soft and hard tacos. What’s a tostada?” Luckily our order came before I had to field any questions. My father grabbed the tray and walked to the seat furthest in the corner. He excitedly opened the tiny pizza box. “Should I use a knife and fork?” he asked sincerely. “I use a spork,” I handed him the one on our tray. “Or my fingers.” He opted for the spork. He had difficulty breaking off the first piece, but once he did, he shoved it into his mouth. His face lit up. “Oh, that’s tasty!” “Glad you like it.” “I feel like we’re eating in Los Angeles.” “OK.” That horse had been flogged to death, come back as a zombie and been decapitated. “Now you can move back here.” “Huh?” I’d lost some beat of the conversation. “We got Taco Bell, all the other Los Angeles stuff is soon to follow. So it’ll be no different living there than here.” A list of differences popped into my mind, but I didn’t speak any of them. “I’m happy there.” “You could be happy here. And have Mexican pizza anytime you want.” “I’ll think about it,” I lied. I took a bite of my Mexican pizza. It tasted like home. A word from the author: I studied Writing, Publishing and Literature at Emerson College in Boston before moving to Los Angeles. Over 100 of my short stories and two novels have been published. This year, my work has appeared in Grim & Gilded and Red Ogre Review. Last year, my story, Giving Up The Ghosts, was published in Constellations Journal, and nominated for a Pushcart Prize.

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.