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well, I see the sky over Ireland or maybe marble markings from Connemara goat hide as tight as a fiddle string makes a sound i heard before I had ears i know my hands shake themselves, now- and i see better with both my eyes closed. (wandering… through fields of planted music it’s seed inside the soul/soil of a fertile mind) so do you! I may forget my name soon. a used clock beats on the face of the moon. i travel by wrist. you can hear me leave. Ted Naylon Sr. is a writer and poet from Rochester, New York. He has written a novel, an Irish/American folktale “We the Wee” that can be found on Amazon.

For some, war is just academic, just breasts popping out of white flowing dresses as women raise one arm in gorgeous distress, just people falling in romantic repose, just wounds that barely mar flesh and cosmic justice from the gods, until (that is) they see what it is for themselves, until they bleed and watch others, brutal and horrific. Only, David kept up this painting style even after he’d watched Robespierre guillotine, even after he’d helped him, after listening to the music of screams while blood clotted on Parisian streets. He was there and still painted it beautiful, not grim. John Brantingham was Sequoia and Kings Canyon National Parks’ first poet laureate. His work has been featured in hundreds of magazines. He has nineteen books of poetry and fiction includinghis latest, Life: Orange to Pear (Bamboo Dart Press). He lives in Jamestown, New York.

No law can make a law do what you want. Ban alcohol, and still, good men will drink. The wisest words drown in the strongest font. Even Eve felt an edict was a taunt. That NO was only glitter on the slink. No law can make a law do what you want. LeBron wore $20k Yves St Laurent, and Dan selected Comic Sans to ink his jilted rant. No words beat that sad font. What's bountied is what's farmed, so cobras haunt the Ghats, and Belgium washes in its sink too many hands. The laws do what they want. We love the way monks drew their As, “Avaunt, adulteress!” Yet now we watch and wink. Our priests, also, are weaker than their font. Ketubahs, invitations, halls, all flaunt wealth and will, while champagne glasses clink. But laws cannot make laws do what you want. So many words are weaker than their font. Frank Brunner lives in the Adirondack Mountains with his wife, children, and a giant Newfoundland dog. He teaches physics. Occasionally, the Newfie accompanies Frank into class and does a spectacular job of demonstrating inertia. Frank's poetry has appeared in Mobius, Pulsebeat Poetry, Fiery Scribe, and elsewhere.

The plane swayed a little, and Leena steadied herself against the small bathroom sink. The ground beneath her felt sticky. Her reflection always felt familiar on flights, with cracked concealer applied at ungodly hours illuminated under the stark light. A few wiry grey hairs had escaped from her ponytail, and she tucked them gingerly behind her ears. If she’d had more time, Leena would have snuck away for a fresh cut and colour before making the journey to see Atif’s parents. Instead, she simply pulled on a clean t-shirt and leggings and focused her energy on dressing Zoya instead. Atif insisted they put her in the lace-trimmed dress Atif’s mother had sent them, even though Leena thought the fabric looked scratchy. Leena unlocked the toilet door and walked back to her seat. There was Zoya, sitting on Atif’s lap like a docile paperweight. Before Leena could settle back into her seat, Atif was already holding Zoya out towards her, a small stream of viscous saliva hanging from her rosebud lips. Leena placed her gently on her lap and clumsily weaved the small infant seatbelt through her own. She watched as Atif turned and closed his eyes once more, his small head lolling with each bout of turbulence. Before long he was asleep again. They had taken this very same flight from Melbourne to Dubai multiple times before, but this time was different. Leena had so far only been able to watch fifteen minutes of a film, even though it had been hours since they’d taken off through rain-bearing clouds. Months earlier, when Leena gave birth, she was almost alone. Atif stood beside her blinking rapidly at the doctor and midwives as though he was trying to communicate in morse code. Every time they shouted for Leena to push, he flinched, like a racehorse being whipped. Leena wished she could ask him to leave the room. ‘There was so much blood on the floor,’ he told her later. ‘It looked like an abattoir’. If she had gotten pregnant years earlier-as Atif’s family had wished and prayed for- there wouldn’t have been any travel bans. There would have been a small crowd in the hospital waiting room. Her mother, his parents and brother all there, clutching kitschy stuffed toys and oversized helium balloons. Instead, they announced her birth on the family WhatsApp chat, whilst a midwife in a patterned surgical mask hovered around them asking if she was pronouncing Zoya’s name correctly. The day after she gave birth, Leena’s ankles tripled in size. The sudden swelling alarmed her. Her doctor explained it was postpartum edema. An excess fluid caused by progesterone. It had travelled south, down her body, settling into that space. ‘It’ll be gone before you know it,’ he patted her shoulder. Leena stared across at Zoya’s tiny body, wrapped tightly, in the cot beside her. She thought about the water swimming around her ankles and wondered if it was murky. She imagined it evaporating bit by bit as night turned into day. When it was time to go home, Atif signed some forms in a perfunctory fashion. They bundled Zoya into a brand-new stroller and left the hospital quietly. They brought her home to their small apartment and watched as she slept, woke and fed. Days bled into nights then circled back again. The clock always told a different time, yet the numbers suddenly felt arbitrary. Leena filled paper-lined drawers with clothes for Zoya and wore the same billowing maxi dress day after day. When Atif returned to work two weeks later, Leena’s left eye began to twitch. The turbulence finally began to settle, and the seatbelt sign was turned off. Leena unclipped the infant seatbelt, followed by her own and stood up. She held Zoya close to her chest and jostled her slightly, willing her to sleep. Wasn’t the plane supposed to emulate white noise? A lithe woman in a matching sweatsuit roamed restlessly down the aisle, a metallic water bottle hanging listlessly from her fingertips. Atif’s face was still burrowed into the side of his seat. His sleep so solid; Leena was sure he’d wake with abstract imprints scattered across his face. When they slept, they looked identical. Father and baby both with slim noses and thick lashes. During video calls, Atif’s mother always asked Leena to show her all angles of Zoya’s face. ‘Turn the phone this way, that way, oh how she is a mini Atif, a little Atif here for us all,’ she would surmise. Leena couldn’t disagree. The more Leena swayed the more Zoya’s eyes began to bow wearily and soon she was asleep. Leena sat down slowly, holding Zoya steadily against her chest. A flight attendant walked down the aisle, carrying a basket full of mini tubs of ice cream and apples. The ornate wicker basket looked to be something out of a children’s fairy tale. Leena eyed the ice cream longingly, thought about the logistics and realized it would be impossible to eat with one hand. ‘No ice cream for me unfortunately,’ Leena gave a tight-lipped smile. ‘Red or green apple?’ the attendant said cheerfully. The lights in the plane dimmed and Leena decided to watch the rest of the movie she had started earlier. Zoya was still asleep, splayed across her chest, breathing gently. Leena carefully reached for the headphones and pressed play on the remote. She felt her shoulders loosen. It was a Bollywood movie, and the costumes were ornate. Tight lehengas and choli’s as short as sport’s bras. Leena vowed she would start exercising again. Soon, once Zoya was a little older. Once she was in day-care eating small squares of fruit and stacking blocks methodically, only to then knock them down. The main actors launched into a musical sequence. Leena sung silently to herself and imagined moving to the choreography, swaying slightly. The music encased her. Her eyelids felt heavy, pinned down by exhaustion. Then, there was darkness. A distant sound echoed in her mind. When she woke, her neck was stiff. She turned to Atif and saw his body contorted to the side as it had always been, his gentle snores dipping and peaking. Leena rubbed her eyes with both hands. Both, free to wipe congealed sleep away. Panic filled her. There were credits rolling on the screen. She looked down in her lap and saw a green apple. ‘Zoya, Zoya, Zoya,’ Leena whispered hurriedly. Zoya who had only recently begun crawling, in what was more an army drag along the floor. Leena turned her seat light on and looked by her feet. Nothing. She reached her hand out to shake Atif awake and then retracted it. No, she would find Zoya before he woke. She felt the space around Atif’s feet, moving the blanket, searching underneath it. She jumped up and felt a sickness swell in her stomach. An old woman in the seat adjacent was fast asleep, a dull grey eye mask fitted over her supple face. Leena walked down the aisle hunched, her eyes scanning every inch of the floor in the dim light. A used tissue, a rumpled packet of peanuts. ‘Zoya, Zoya,’ she hissed with urgency. Then suddenly she heard it, a gurgle, a high-pitched squeal. A baby in a fancy scratchy dress on the ground, tugging at a sleeping man’s shoelaces with open curiosity. Leena swooped in and picked Zoya up. In the arrivals area Atif’s family stood with a large pink stuffed bear in tow, a shaky Z stitched onto its belly. Leena and Atif walked out, carrying the weariness of travel with them. Leena approached Atif’s mother and held Zoya out in front of her chest, as though she was presenting a bouquet of flowers. Atif’s mother’s eyes widened. ‘My mini Atif,’ she crooned as she had done through the screen many times before. Leena thrust Zoya closer still and Atif’s mother hunched a little, taking a few short steps back. ‘Not right now Leena, wait until Mum is home and sitting, her back, remember?’ Atif rushed forward into the space between them. Atif’s mother smiled, a glint in her eye. They walked towards the exit, one after the other, like a line of dutiful ants. Leena balanced Zoya in one arm and her oversized handbag in the other. Full of bottles and nappies and green and red apples. Faiza has a Pakistani background, was born and raised in Perth, Western Australia and currently splits her time between Australia & Hong Kong. With a Masters in Psychology, she has always been incurably obsessed with stories. Her writing has appeared in places like Djed Press, Portside Review, Indian Review, Burnt Roti Magazine, and elsewhere. She was shortlisted for the 2018 ‘Stuart Hadow Short Story Prize’. You can find her on Twitter @AllesFaiza

October, seven months after the world stopped, I walk the path by heart. To my left, the river reflects a chalk blue sky as leaves ripple lemon and crimson. Through a canopy of uprooted trees, Canadian geese squawk overhead. A grandfather fishes in a storm drainoff, chatters in Mandarin to a child on a tricycle. To my right, a used car lot, a dog kennel where barking never ceases, the faint thump of rap from a passing car. I pull my jacket close. Years ago we walked here, you racing ahead as I seethed. Then with another, boots trudging through fresh snow, warm cheek to frozen nose. I shut it all out, snap photos by the water’s edge. The wooden decks, bare and grafittied, where homeless pause with brimming shopping carts to watch mallards swim amidst the coke cans and sudsy debris. Then, a shiver of sound. A gray squirrel framed in evergreen, claws gripping bark inches from my face. Rounded ears alert, eyes black and twitching, an enormous peanut tucked in its jaws. For several seconds I hold my breath, watching its tail flutter in the breeze. A crow’s caw ends our staring contest. It scurries up a branch, sole witness to our moment of startled peace. Phyllis Rittner loves all things flash. Her work can be found in the Paper Dragon, Versification, Friday Flash Fiction, Fairfield Scribes, Six Sentences and others. She is a member of The Charles River Writer’s Collective and can be reached on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/phyllis.rittner

We’re walking down a narrow alley when the people on the balconies above us begin to applaud. Not sure why we might be so entertaining, yet feeling magnanimous on our vacation, I take a bow. “You should bow too,” I tell my brother. “Why are they clapping?” he says. “Maybe it’s some sort of tradition,” I say. “Perhaps the local custom dictates that when people on their balconies observe the entertaining passersby, it is polite to voice one's appreciation.” That’s when we see the first bull running towards us, and then the next one, and dozens more after that. Naturally, we run for our lives, until we find a doorway we can duck inside and let the bulls flow past. I’m desperately ringing the bell while my brother is pounding the door with his fists, but no one answers. Instead, the people on the balcony directly opposite call down to us. “What are you doing?” they ask. “Why aren’t you running instead of skulking in that doorway while the opportunity to show your courage is all around you?” The people on the balcony laugh. “Come on, show your bravery!” “Maybe they keep their bravery in that little bag of theirs, what is it called?” “A fannypack!” “How much bravery can they have in there, it is so small! No wonder they do not wish to run.” “Why aren’t you down here with us then?” my brother yells back up at them. “There’s plenty of cattle to go around.” “Oh no,” one of them says. “The bulls are just for the tourists.” “It’s in all the guidebooks!” another says. “Why are you here if not to run with the bulls?” “Your website says this town is world-renowned for its many charming vegetarian restaurants,” I say. “And your archaeology museum,” my brother says. “It doesn’t mention anything about bulls.” “We have an archaeology museum?” one of them says, before a brace of irrationally happy German tourists run past us, followed by a bunch of merely trotting, bored looking cattle. “Our website belongs in an archaeology museum!” Everyone on the balcony starts laughing. “But,” says one of them, as he pulls out his phone. “Would you like to tell everyone on my livecast why you’d rather cower in some doorway than test your manhood?” “Come down here,” my brother says. “And I’ll give you a piece of my manhood.” But the locals just laugh and start making clearly obscene remarks about us in their native language. Despite my best efforts to convince him otherwise, my brother cracks and takes off. More cattle saunter by; one of them turns and thrusts its head in my direction. He’s just staring at me, with his brown eyes, horns and terrible cow breath. I know I’m supposed to worry about being gored or stomped to death, but I’m struck by the gentle nature of the animal in front of me. I decide to feed it my leftover salad. “I’m sorry they make you chase stupid tourists all day long,” I tell the bull, holding the plastic container to his mouth. It’s surprising how delicate a cow can be. On the bull’s ear is a yellow tag, the same as all the other bulls. It reads, in four languages, If you’d like to download a video of your bull running experience, text _______! Prove your courage to anyone who asks for only €40. Without even lifting his head from my greens, the bull just gives me a long, drawn-out sigh, like dude, you have no idea. Hugh Behm-Steinberg’s prose can be found in X-Ray, Grimoire, Joyland, Jellyfish Review, Atticus Review and Pank. His short story "Taylor Swift" won the 2015 Barthelme Prize from Gulf Coast, and his story "Goodwill" was picked as one of the Wigleaf Top Fifty Very Short Fictions of 2018. A collection of prose poems and microfiction, Animal Children, was published by Nomadic Press in 2020. He teaches writing and literature at California College of the Arts.

under a potpourri of tentacles stretching across all gloaming shorelines. i have got the news on and what I see is a deer. then this kid walks in. he says it's done. & slowly, hat in hand, i stride in to pilfer a glance at this freak of nature. in his eyes, i see two worlds; & i don't know why, but at the rift of those worlds, a child fills a balloon with helium & watches it swallow his dreams. right there, just right there, a tumbleweed blows past in what seems like a pratfall— but just like every other thing i can't identify its buttock. somewhere, a boy still as a frog, finds it hard to secern 's' from '5'.

On Mother’s Day, I shun cards and don’t go out to brunch. The Hollandaise just wilts, And the champagne gets drunk by my mother. But I stay home, somehow. Memorial Day is the first holiday after the elementary school Shooting. And, mother’s day weeping is my only fragment of understanding, how the supposed holiday might drain their solace. Some parents maybe hide under their blankets –in their child’s room or their own – Shunning out the day. Others accepted party invites, and found that they weren’t themselves once they got there. That they couldn’t even stay an hour, that the hamburger shook on their paper plates. I saw another father, on memorial day, walking to the elementary school. Breaking through the abandoned windows where kids last left. Wanting to spend the hours repeating his child’s last movements. She walked here, until she couldn’t any longer. Others went to the barbecues like they were supposed to and drank too much. One father Started talking to the fireworks about the children that weren’t here, until the other mothers cradled his back Telling him to go home now, it’s okay. Others felt guilt at laughing, truly laughing, for the first time since that day. Realizing too late that they are smiling, and that their smiles look like fangs barring. Then they cry into their stripes, their twisted teas, their pool noodles, Their ordinary coming together of memory. A brother just shows his friends the foray, the entrance, of his house. Her shoes used to line the foray, she used to annoy me As we raced into the entryway, Her shoes used to line the door, he’d say. They don’t lie here anymore. Maybe some pray to soldiers and ask how To put bullets that left quickly, back into their casings. How to put hatred back into boxes, to keep it closed, Do they use twine, or maybe shoelace string? And they can’t say they’ll write this poem tomorrow. It’s now the poem of their everyday. Leslie Cairns holds an MA degree in English Rhetoric and has upcoming poetry in various journals. She enjoys writing about mental health, community, and identity.

Have you ever watched the sunset at cloud level? Watched it dip below the cloudline while you were right there with it, right there in it? There is enough fog in the afternoon to necessitate lights on the runway as the plane takes off. The drops of rain on the aircraft’s windows are the beads of a child’s necklace - different sizes strung in lines down the pane. We accelerate faster and faster, waiting for the winged vessel, on which we are tightly packed sardines, to take flight. We brace ourselves to leave the safety and security of the ground for this machine to fly us out of here. To another place where we will pretend it is a different time, where things will be different. Driving down the runway through the mist, past the flaming torches of runway lights. It feels like we have been running forever, like we will be running forever and getting nowhere, like how we keep doing the same thing every day and it never gets easier. We are stopping and moving and stopping again. The vibration of the engine is meditative if you close your eyes and imagine that your breaths are a force against the battering of time and space. Then suddenly in a blast of loud vibration, we take off. Next time out the window is all clouds and sun at the same time shining bright white and the child’s beaded raindrop necklace is gone, blown away in the force of flight. Everyday from the earth, I look up to see what the sky has to offer. It always has something for me to notice but nothing like watching the sunset from cloud level. Not like how the earth looks from above the clouds. Like looking down at it through the wisps of them. Will we ever get so far off the earth that we can’t see it anymore? Flying is like disappearing for a while. It is unreachable. Babies cry. People stow items, sigh, settle themselves, make small talk, click belts into place, open books, lean back. And everyone becomes unreachable. We are all unreachable. Alone with others. Alone with ourselves. Some people sit where they can see the earth get smaller. Some people sit with their thoughts in silence and others drown it out with noise in their ears. The cloud cover increases. What do people see in these clouds? What’s hiding in the wide open sky? It feels so different to approach the clouds from above, to descend in and through and to different air, air that lies below the cloudline. We can’t see the earth from this side of the clouds but we still believe it is there. As we descend through the cloudline, I’m just trying to be where I am. I’m trying not to think about how it feels when the things we love are gone. Deep breath, look out the window and do a cloud check to figure out where we are in relation to the cloudline now, in relation to the earth. From dizzying heights, the city below looks like a maze of bright lights, weaving in and out and around. The earth looks as dizzying as the height feels. The sky is never off-kilter like an overhead light that glitches on and off from bright to dim to flickering until you give up and turn it off. You can’t live under something so unstable, so unsettling. So off kilter. It sets the mood and kills it. But the sky is always there. We can’t give up on it, even when it looks foreboding. There is no kilter to clouds, no right or wrong way to hang in the sky. Clouds are thoughts, they just are, without judgment. The sky isn't ours to question but to live under as best we can and sometimes to fly through and look at the earth from above, like perspective. The sky tells us and shows us and we watch and listen. From above the cloudline, we can’t see the ground anymore but we know it’s there and we will land on it again, eventually. Beth Mulcahy is a Pushcart Prize-nominated poet whose work has appeared in various journals. Her writing bridges gaps between generations and self, hurt and healing. Beth lives in Ohio with her husband and two children and works for a company that provides technology to people without natural speech. Her latest publications can be found here: https://linktr.ee/mulcahea.

They start innocuous, as playful mispronunciations of my surname. I blink and the interactions have escalated to being pinned against a wall and pummelled repeatedly by Jon, Bret, and Joanne while the trio shout at me in unison, collectively demanding the answer to BUT WHERE ARE YOU REALLY FROM as I whimper the “nowhere important” I think they want to hear before realising, too late, that only informational specificity might spare me from a broken nose or bruised ribs. Does anything good come in three? Really? That’s what we say. It’s a crowd. The Wise Men. The time periods: past, present, future. The fundamental qualities of the universe: time, space, matter. But just as often, three’s a hindrance. An obstacle, subject to chance. Rock, paper, and scissors. Macbeth’s witches. Goldilocks’ bears. The blind mice. Three shouldn’t lead to hardship when it comes to generation of immigrant, but it does. I’ve had citizenship since birth. It’s my only citizenship. I literally can’t live in the country I get beaten up for supposedly being “from.” My Grandma is of the 1.5 generation, immigrating in her early teens rather than before she was five (the 1.75) or closer to adulthood (the 1.25). Imagine thinking that these distinctions are anything more than arbitrary. Imagine thinking that they are important enough to be social labels. Where was I? Getting beaten up. I didn’t even know you could still get beaten up after high school. But here I am, a twenty-seven-year-old man being pinned against a wall by Jon, Brett, and Joanne as they hurl insults and throw punches at my nose and ribs. Their nights can’t have been good ones. Jon took the lead, scowling at everyone in the bar until someone was unfortunate or brave enough to catch his eye. Jon’s well over 6 ft and what one might describe as scary looking. After realising I was the unfortunate one, I noticed Brett march over to wind me up. Who am I waiting for? Why am I drinking gin? Who picks my wardrobe? Is that fucking makeup? I tried to smile it off but I was too visibly uncomfortable to hide the fact. But he was “joking.” They’re always “joking.” * Later, Jon and Brett have had more to drink and are clearly not joking, I’m no longer alone, and I have the privilege of meeting Joanne. I try to guess but can’t discern if she’s a sister or partner to one of the men, and to whom, depending on which. This is the part where they learn my surname. Again, I’m too nervous to do anything but respond to their question, unable to think straight and remind myself that relinquishing this particular bit of information has historically exacerbated these kinds of situations for me, always resulting in worse outcomes. After comically mispronouncing my surname, Jon surmises that ‘It doesn’t sound English, though.’ ‘Yeah, it doesn’t sound English,’ Joanne parrots, neither reinforcing nor elaborating on Jon’s version of the statement. ‘I’ve never even been to Poland,’ I try, testing the new argumentative waters. ‘You’d have never been to England if it wasn’t for your nan, coming over here and stealing our country.’ I compete with the desire to say anything that will get me out of this uncomfortable situation and wanting to take down Joanne’s claim with the smallest amount of intelligence required to puncture its complete stupidity, to deflate its completely fragile sense of purpose. ‘Poland, right? So what does that make you – Jewish?’ Bret adds, all but rubbing his hands together with glee at the prospect of this whole new critical avenue. ‘I’m Christian.’ ‘Third Generation Jew… who knew?’ Jon and Joanne begin to join in with the chant. I decide that if I stare long and hard enough into the bottom of my empty glass enough time will pass for the whole exchange to move towards some sort of climax. I don’t realise that doing so will transport me outdoors into the cold and see me pinned against a wall in a deserted alley, so I’m unable to prevent the start of this persecutory cycle. My name is George (he/him) and I am a PhD candidate and Graduate Teaching Assistant at King's College London, as well as a short fiction and culture writer. I am also Assistant Editor at Coastal Shelf. My recent and forthcoming publications include Avatar Review, Derailleur Press, The First Line, and Overland. I was also shortlisted for Ouen Press' 2019 Short Story Competition; my work appears in their print collection Zawadi & Other Short Stories (2020, ed. P. Comley).

(please read Perspective from top to bottom and then bottom to top) you were gone the door left open you look around, nervous I lie still on the floor my head bloodied against the boards bending you grab my arm and squeeze my wrist one hand pushes against my chest my heart beats loud but slow a taste of salt mixed with metal. Your tears or mine? crying you part my lips and hover over my mouth your warm breath now on my neck, and your fingers through my hair your hand cups my face and pulls me close shaking kiss me one more time Gina is currently working on my first novel but have found that my time staring at the screen has inspired lots of flash and poetry pieces! I have a flash piece that will be published this month as part of FlashFlood's National Flash Fiction Day.

Circulation the heart pumps blood to the lungs. this is a library. i am the books. the lungs pump blood back. books live in the library. the library is only the shell for the books inside. you can read the books, you can visit the library, but neither are yours. the heart pumps blood to the body. neither the books nor the library belong to you. they are merely for borrow, if you have a library card. in order to get a library card, you must file for an application, express interest in the library in a respectful and totally consenting manner, and wait for the library to accept your application. the body pumps blood to the tissues. the tissues are on the circulation desk. you should not need them. libraries are supposed to be a happy place. if you do not get accepted for a library card, this is not your library to visit. please vacate the premises. the tissues pump blood to the veins. do not take the library in vain. it is not yours. it is merely for borrow, and only if the library lets you borrow it, and the library has expressed explicitly that you are not allowed to borrow it. the library asks that you leave the premises. the veins pump blood to the heart. you are not allowed to borrow the books or use the spaces. you are not welcome here. the library asks you to leave the premises. the heart pumps blood to the lungs. the library asks you to leave the premises. the lungs pump blood back. the heart pumps blood to the body. the blood clots. the body is unresponsive. you are not welcome here. courtesy marketing pitch to Edible Arrangements™ you know that feeling, the one where you’re holding something— maybe a mango, or something similar of the produce variety— and you know that you have every power in your being to squeeze the shit out of it and watch as the insides work themselves from the shell until there is nothing left inside and you feel like a monster, except something else, maybe a little voice in the back corner of your conscience, says that nature would not have given you that strength if it didn’t think that you had every right to use it as you see fit, much in the same way that you always have the choice to throw the monopoly board and all its falsified societies and colorful currency, to become a major league pitcher and hurl your drink across the room until it splatters against the opposite wall, even if its glass conduit shatters to pieces into a puddle of broken pieces and sharp edges; my seventh grade science teacher tells me that the human jaw is strong enough to bite off our own finger, but some reflex stops us from actually doing so, every time. Redlining The plastic surgery team take up their markers and turn my flesh into a Fantasy Football league; They each stake an initial claim— one goes directly for the brain, pulling weeds from the cracks in my cerebrum, one takes inventory of each sac of air in my lungs, and one unearths each capillary and ties them together, having heard that they could reach around the Earth two and a half times. They spend a while in my chest, debating who must take the appendix, the heart, and all the other unfavorable bits. They settle on a chamber for each, leaving in its place a barrel of monkeys with the cap unscrewed; it isn’t until years later that they realize, staring at my unarmed pieces floating in their plastic examination jars, that perhaps these parts were never the problem at all. Maia Joy (she/her) is a queer biracial poet and musician from Boston, MA. A 2021 Best-of-the-Net nominee, she is currently studying music and creative writing at the University of Maryland, College Park, where she is a member of the Jimenez-Porter Writers' House. Her work has been previously published in various journals including The Bitchin’ Kitsch and Sage Cigarettes. You can find her social media @maiajoyspeaks, and her website, maiajoyspeaks.wixsite.com/website.