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You canter on for years and years with abstract hopes, with shallow fears, complacency to hold your hand, ellipsis, comma, ampersand. One foolish move with flippant ease, your toes slip through, your shins, your knees. Before you know, you're fully hurled within the jaws of Full Stop World. The choices sprawled before your eyes withdraw their words, revaporise. One holds its shape, 'Accept this all', the stoicists' recruitment call. If you feel soothed, by all means go, make friends with them, but down below, like convicts tunnel underground, subconscious thoughts will not be bound. Lawrence Moore has been writing poems - some silly, some serious - since childhood. He lives in Portsmouth, England with his husband Matt and nine mostly well behaved cats. He has poetry published at, among others, Sarasvati, Pink Plastic House, Fevers of the Mind and The Madrigal. His first collection, Aerial Sweetshop, was published by Alien Buddha Press in January. @LawrenceMooreUK

Fancy Nancy. That’s what Mammy calls me when I wear this red dress with black velvet trimming; the one Grandad bought it for me in Belfast last year. It’s a bit tight around the back now. “Well, would you look at the get-up of this one, Daddy?” Mammy says when I skip down the stairs in my good painted leather black shoes. “Give us a twirl.” I spin around and it swings out like a frilly umbrella. Daddy looks up from his crossword and mock-whistles. “Is that my little Nancy or the Queen of Mary Street?” “Come here and help me with these apple tarts.” Mammy brushes her auburn hair from her eyes with the back of her floury wrist, exposing a fresh bruise. “Mammy, what happened?” I point to her arm, but she fobs me off like always. “It’s nothing to be worrying yourself over, now these tarts aren’t going to bake themselves. Turn on that oven like a good girl.” We’re enjoying the fruits of our labour with hot custard when I see the first one pass. Daddy replaces his fork with his pen and lifts his newspaper. “Five down: Without blemish. Four letters,” he says. “Pure,” Mammy says and stares at him for ages. I’m trying to pick up the hot apple delight with my fork but it drips through the prongs and splats onto the plate. If I didn’t have my good dress on, and if Daddy wasn’t here, I’d lick it off. Another one goes by and my head shoots to the window. “John, please,” Mammy says but Daddy looks away and clears his throat. “Eight across: No score in tennis.” I jump up. “Love!” Mammy reaches over and smiles, squeezing my hand. I grin back, so delighted with myself I almost miss the next one. “Please Daddy,” I beg. His face is red and the big vein at the side of his head is bulging. “Are you sure you want to watch them?” Mammy asks. I nod furiously. I can’t explain it. I know I can’t be one of them but it’s the most beautiful sight in the world. She stands up, brushing the crumbs from her floral apron. “Go on so, but only from the window.” Daddy slams the table with his fist, stands and grabs his coat from the back door. “Don’t mind him,” Mammy whispers and we both jump as the door slams. From a wooden chair in the front window, far back enough to not be seen, I watch the May Day parade - visions in veils, tiaras and taffeta. A choir of angels, their hands joined as they sing Ave Maria. If there’s a heaven it must look like this. The girls in mini-wedding dresses are this year’s first holy communion class. Silk, satin and sparkles bellow in the breeze but my eyes are drawn to the lacy socks in white shiny shoes that clip-clop past the window. Marianne next door told me she got money and sweets when she made her communion and went visiting her aunties and uncles and cousins. It’s not fair. Mrs Hughes on the corner said I can’t join in because I’m a dirty pagan, but I told her I’m not a pagan and I don’t even need any money or to know the prayers or even go visiting. I just want to wear the lovely clothes and be in the parade singing the lovely songs. Mammy called me in and told me not to be saying those things on the road. Some nights I lie awake thinking about what if. What If I could make my communion? I’d have a long flowy dress with lace and lots of flowers. It would have net on it too and my veil would go down my back. I’d have a crown so sparkly it would look like a big diamond. My shoes would have two cross-over straps and diamantes, my bag drawstring and I’d let mammy put rags in my hair the night before to make it curly. I wouldn’t stop smiling all day and I would be good for a whole week after. But I can’t because we’re Protestant. Well, half Protestant, half Catholic, I don’t know what I am. They don’t like us here. I know that because I overheard Daddy say we’re moving again on account of the neighbours giving Mammy trouble. He wanted to kill them, or tell the police, for hurting Mammy but she said they’re not worth it. That makes me sad so I won’t think of it now. Instead, I’ll enjoy the white princesses of the May procession as they pass by and dream that one day, they might let me fit in.

La Rochelle, France It’s been ten years since I sat in the dust by the side of a dirt road, dry grass prickling my legs. Lonely girl, acting out a tragedy no one else was watching. It was a little world of red roof slates, silver oyster shells, and grey barnacle rust clinging to harbour walls. A desert of blackboard shavings, tourist debris. Now, outside our cabin, the sky is heavy with thunder, cut through with lightning like a dome of black marble. I am standing by the wooden wash basins, surrounded by crisp spider carrion, clutching my phone like a flare. Not quite star-crossed: our meeting was a technological accident. No constellations, only data and algorithms. Our North Star was a screen glowing in the dark, reaching across a city. You are a person of open spaces, and you were waiting for me at the end of the dirt road. For the first time in a decade, I can breathe in infinitely, and my phone begins to ring. Bex Hainsworth (she/her) is a poet and teacher based in Leicester, UK. She won the Collection HQ Prize as part of the East Riding Festival of Words and her work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Coachella Review, Ethel Zine, Atrium, Acropolis Journal, and Brave Voices Magazine. Find her on Twitter @PoetBex.

CW for blood, violence, profanity. INT. MADIGAN BOARDING HOUSE (CHICAGO) - LIVING ROOM VIEW OF THE FRONT DOOR - OPENING, CASTING A SILHOUETTE FROM THE PORCH LIGHTS. The silhouette steps inside and shuts the door, and fumbles around for the first light switch, lamp, anything. Even through the dark, their step is uneasy - as their foot slips on a rug. JAMES You’ve gotta be -- fucking kidding me-- He reaches a switch on the wall, and the room is slowly illuminated. We’re greeted with the sight of a somewhat ragged looking young man - college-age at most, an underclassman. This is JAMES MADIGAN. He slowly steps away from the wall and looks about - with wide eyes, dilated pupils. All of his features read that he’s perhaps - a bit too drunk, he doesn’t quite know how to handle it. He pats down his pockets for everything-- JAMES (CONT'D) Keys. Where the hell are my-- He looks down in his left hand. JAMES (CONT'D) Right. Got it. Something in the old house creaks, and he looks up. He takes more uneasy steps forward. WIDE SHOT OF JAMES CROSSING THE ROOM, SURVEYING THE LIVING ROOM. ANTIQUATED, FILLED WITH KNICK KNACKS, FURNITURE THAT’S LIKELY BEEN THERE FOR A VERY LONG TIME. IT LOOKS LIKE IT’S BEEN RANSACKED - BUT JAMES TAKES NO NOTICE OF IT. There are picture frames of the family seen in flashes - through a myriad of generations, standing in front of the continually evolving house. Always well-dressed, always official. JAMES (CONT'D) Hazel? Haze, you home? (pause) I’m an idiot. That’s how I get killed. I’ll never -- make it as a Final Girl-- 2. 2. There’s a thud that comes from offshot. He flinches back with wide eyes, and pulls out his phone -- but looks around, perhaps for something in defense. FADE IN: MUSIC, THINK LIKE SOMETHING FROM THE KNIVES OUT SOUNDTRACK, AS HE-- INT. BOARDING HOUSE - KITCHEN JAMES enters and looks about the space - it looks normal for the most part, but he scrunches his nose. Something doesn’t smell right. Eyes continue to dart around. Steps become more cautious, prepared, almost like he’s sobering himself up as he goes. (Or well, he’s trying to.) He walks to the fridge, and opens it -- nothing looks wrong, except for a few extra beers missing from the opened box. And the fact that it’s almost entirely empty. But he shrugs, and closes it. He opens the microwave - nothing. He opens up the oven - nothing. He moves to the sink -- OVERHEAD SHOT OF THE SINK -- SPLATTERED WITH STAINS OF RED, AND A DAMP RAG SITTING OVER THE DRAIN. AND SUDDENLY -- A NEW PAIR OF HANDS REACHES INTO THE SINK PAN BACK UP, AND JAMES JOLTS BACK -- AS A NEW PRESENCE STANDS BESIDE HIM, BUT NOT ONE THAT’S UNFAMILIAR. The young woman glances over at him with a heavy breath. She looks similar to JAMES, if not a bit older. She’s in pajamas of some sort - an old band shirt and mismatched pajama pants. This is HAZEL MADIGAN, JAMES’ sister. JAMES clutches his chest and breathes in relief. JAMES Please never sneak up on me like that -- ever again-- HAZEL I thought you weren’t coming home. She turns on the faucet again, and shifts it about, perhaps in hopes of washing off the stains more. He briefly looks down, then shakes his head and looks back. 3. 3. JAMES I couldn’t be out forever-- HAZEL Please tell me you didn’t drive. JAMES No-- no, I didn’t-- my car’s still at -- HAZEL Good. Mom and Dad would kill me if they knew I let you run off like that, just to have you get an underage DUI. JAMES -- that’s not the real problem here, and you know it. He gestures down to the sink. JAMES (CONT'D) Wanna tell me what’s going on? HAZEL doesn’t respond for a moment. He furrows his brows. JAMES (CONT'D) That was a rhetorical-- HAZEL Can you shut up for a second? Seriously. This has been a fucking awful night -- and I just need a second. She flicks off the faucet, and leans her head on the counter, with a soft, defeated groan. He looks in the sink, as the bloodied water continues to sink through. He looks back, off towards the rest of the house. HAZEL (CONT'D) I’m going to show you something. And you’re going to either think I’m lying, or -- actually, I don’t know what else you’ll think-- JAMES Did you kill someone? HAZEL What? No-- 4. 4. JAMES Because if you did-- I-- would rather you tell me now, so we can get rid of the-- HAZEL I didn’t kill anyone! JAMES Then what’s in the sink? Sure as fuck isn’t pasta sauce, Hazel. HAZEL looks up and crosses her arms over her chest. HAZEL -- come on. She nods with her head, and turns on her heel out of the kitchen. JAMES blinks, but follows in suit-- CUT TO: INT. BOARDING HOUSE - STAIRCASE JAMES follows in HAZEL’s steps, one by one. He nearly slips on another one, and she turns back with wide eyes, briefly stopping halfway between one step and the next. HAZEL You’re drunk. JAMES I am. HAZEL Pull it together for five seconds, alright? Pretty sure he can smell fear, or something-- even while he’s asleep. JAMES He--? Hazel, what the--? A creak comes from upstairs again, and she holds her hand to his mouth. She shakes her head, and drops it, before turning back up the stairs. He takes a heavy breath and looks back down the stairwell, considering taking off from all of this -- But he keeps going anyway. CUT TO: 5. 5. INT. BOARDING HOUSE - UPSTAIRS HALLWAY THE HALLS ARE LINED WITH MORE PICTURES, AND DOORS, LEADING INTO VARIOUS ROOMS THAT WERE ONCE RESIDED IN BY GUESTS. THERE ARE FLOWERS MOUNTED ON THE WALL. THERE’S A FLEETING SHOT OF JAMES AND HAZEL IN A SOCCER UNIFORM AND RUNNER’S GEAR. HAZEL takes slow deep breaths. She clenches and unclenches her hands. JAMES partially notices this, but doesn’t say anything. He looks over her shoulder as they traverse to the tail end of the path -- below the string hanging out of the ceiling that leads to the attic. JAMES (whispering) You’ve really got to be fucking with me now. HAZEL (whispering) What did I say about being quiet?? JAMES You didn’t say it! You-- HAZEL This is the last day of the year you want to mess with me, Jamie, I’m serious. They both glance upwards, as HAZEL pulls on the string that slowly pulls on the separation, which allows the ceiling to open, where a wooden ladder sticks out. She hops and reaches for its tail end -- like she’s done this plenty of times -- and pulls it down to meet them. There’s heavy breathing coming from inside the attic. JAMES bites his tongue from saying anything, but the “what the fuck?” is still written all over his features. HAZEL goes first up the ladder, step by step until she disappears out of shot. JAMES lingers at the bottom, pressing a hand against the step, and shutting his eyes for a moment. JAMES This isn’t real. This-- isn’t-- The affirmation falls short as he takes his first step up the ladder. Goes slower than HAZEL does, and looks a bit dizzy while doing so. But slowly he arrives in-- 6. 6. INT. BOARDING HOUSE - THE ATTIC -- his head pops up from beneath to find a disturbing view. It’s HAZEL, and a man tied to the wooden framework protruding from the wall. He’s bloodied and presently asleep. JAMES -- you said you didn’t kill anyone. HAZEL He’s not dead. JAMES You’re insane. I’m leaving. HAZEL What happened to helping me hide the body, huh? JAMES It’s a metaphor, Hazel! HAZEL And you’re just a coward! JAMES You take that back right now. HAZEL Not until you get all the way up here. JAMES narrows his eyes, but slowly makes his way up onto the wooden floor of the attic. He makes only a marginal step towards HAZEL. JAMES Happy now? HAZEL I’m not happy about any of this. JAMES What-- is all this? HAZEL -- He’s after Mom and Dad. JAMES What?? HAZEL There’s something they weren’t telling us. (MORE) (MORE) 7. 7. HAZEL (CONT'D) HAZEL (CONT'D) Specifically, something they weren’t telling you. I don’t blame ‘em to be honest. The man stirs a bit, but does not open his eyes. They pause and watch him, before he falls still again. HAZEL (CONT'D) You’re not going to believe me. JAMES None of this makes sense anyway. HAZEL -- the Madigans are a mafia family. And -- have been for a long time. JAMES -- sorry, what did you just say to me? HAZEL And you’re supposed to take over. JAMES This isn’t happening. I’m drunk. You’re asleep in bed. That guy isn’t over there, bleeding in our attic. Cool? Great. HAZEL I don’t like it either. For starters, I’m offended that it’s you. JAMES In a hypothetical world where this makes sense, I’d agree with you. But this doesn’t, so neither of us are doing jackshit. HAZEL We’re out of options, James. JAMES Or what? The man stirs again, and his glance lingers upwards. MAN Or they’ll kill you if you let me go. 8. 8. JAMES and HAZEL glance longways at him. JAMES steps back; HAZEL doesn’t. Accustomed to this by now. JAMES They? HAZEL Him. And whoever sent him here, I’m guessing. MAN Roger and Diane have a lot to pay up. JAMES For what?? MAN For the house. If they’re trying to scram, it’s not theirs anymore. Either they pay up or die, pretty simple shit. JAMES Hazel, listen to him. This isn’t the fucking Godfather. HAZEL They were a lot smarter. MAN Fuck off. HAZEL You first. MAN When I get outta here, the first thing I’m gonna do is-- HAZEL kicks him in the stomach, and he sputters -- coughing up more blood. HAZEL Wanna finish that one more time? JAMES ... are you sure you don’t want to lead the hypothetical mafia? HAZEL Well-- CUT TO: 9. 9. EXT. BOARDING HOUSE A car pulls up in the long driveway of the house. It putters out and makes a startling noise before it’s turned off. A figure, mostly unknown to the lens, steps out. CUT TO: INT. BOARDING HOUSE - THE ATTIC HAZEL is retrieving a gun from a bag - which the MAN watches curiously. She brings it over to him and holds it out. HAZEL Well. It’s your call. JAMES You’re just accepting all this??? HAZEL No of course I’m not! But I don’t wanna die, alright? MAN You’re gonna, anyway-- HAZEL holds a hand out in his direction, and points the gun at him with the other. HAZEL Take the gun. Please. JAMES I-- I’m-- HAZEL Jamie, we’re running out of time. JAMES Haze, this is insane. HAZEL I know. CUT TO: INT. BOARDING HOUSE - LIVING ROOM 10. 10. The figure enters the house, seamlessly, as JAMES forgot to lock it -- and begins heading up the stairs. CUT TO: INT. BOARDING HOUSE - THE ATTIC JAMES ... I-- HAZEL Well? The steps can be heard. JAMES -- there’s someone else in here. Fuck. HAZEL HAZEL takes a deep breath, and cocks the gun -- points it right at the MAN’s face, and fires before JAMES even has half the chance to hold her back. The impact happens off-screen; she recoils at the shot. JAMES shuts his eyes and inhales sharply. More rustling comes from beneath - closer and closer. HAZEL (CONT'D) Take the gun. You killed him. JAMES What? HAZEL Trust me. JAMES I-- HAZEL sticks the gun in his hand and wraps his fingers around the handle. She steps back, visibly shaking a bit. HAZEL Next one’s all you. JAMES’ breathing comes heavier. His eyes tense, blur over as the steps get closer-- and closer-- coming up the steps of the ladder-- CUT TO BLACK. 11. 11. A gunshot goes off in the dark, and there’s a scream. There’s a sound of something heavy hitting the ground. CUT TO: SHOT OF A MADIGAN FAMILY PORTRAIT. IT’S OF HAZEL, JAMES, THEIR PARENTS - AND TWO MEN (INCLUDING THE MAN FROM THE ATTIC) FLANKED ON EITHER SIDE OF THEIR PARENTS. A HAND SMEARS BLOOD OVER THEIR FACES. JAMES (from off-screen) You know somethin’? I never liked them. HAZEL Neither did I, kid. Neither did I. CUT TO BLACK. END. E.M. Lark is a writer/playwright/book reviewer/etc. currently based in NYC. They review books for Defunkt Magazine, and fancy themselves some sort of an artist every once in a while. In the meantime, please send them all your fic recs.

My 27-year-old mother is forever blasting down the bubbling asphalt of late-summer Mississippi in a sky-blue 1978 Mercury Cougar—so wide tractors make for the ditches, so long it touches dawn and dusk—throttling a Marlboro Red between pink fingernails and spewing alongside that tar-yellow smoke a bile of consternation through the lovebug-speckled windshield. A two-year-old me sleeps through her sermon to the pines washing over me about how wrong it is to live in a world with war in a country where weed’s illegal, of who slighted her at the last fellowship dinner stranding her with garbage duty, of her self-absorbed sister, of my father failing to refill the ice cube tray, of the heat, the bugs, this damn baby, this damn cigarette. She is forever right and righteous, all-powerful. The trees bend their trunks away from us and breathe in her roiling wake. I do not cry. I sleep. I learn. Rage greets us the same way—a hot creep, red in color and moving wild like smoke til it manifests on our shoulders, claws sunk in and scorching already like it’s been there all along. I deny my own quiet rages of children and marriage and slights and fate and nothing at all and embroider tidy lines, my gentle loves, with fingers bursting through this keyboard, this desk, this home’s foundation, the heart of this soil, this fist of an earth, this pulpit for my children to thrash and stamp their feet. They sleep in the next room, learning too.

Concrète Dasein What if Dasein encompassed the theoretical And the concrete? What if Dasein is A type of alien music? What if Dasein was spiritual? Syllabic Idyllic Harsh IED implosions rocket across The asemic syllabic skyline Leaving priestly Latin and lingua francas Mutated and transformed Revenge of Venus Walls of static white noise crash and cascade Colliding collaging with broken Beatific falsetto melodies, perfection in imperfection Pindaric Arc of Stars Radiant resplendent red brush over Andromeda’s Side eyed shadows, stars burst in cacophonous Eruption, volcanic stardust evolving to life Sibyllic Idyllic Screeching wailing serene sirens of Shiva’s shadows Lashing through the scorching Minneapolis summer, Reminding the free jazz club that we are not in utopia yet Rose Knapp (she/they) is a poet and electronic producer. She has publications in Lotus-Eater, Bombay Gin, BlazeVOX, Hotel Amerika, Fence Books, Obsidian, Gargoyle, and others. She has poetry collections published with Beir Bua Press, Hesterglock Press, and Dostoyevsky Wannabe. She lives in Minneapolis. Find her at roseknapp.net, on Twitter @Rose_Siyaniye, and on Instagram @roseknapp_

When I am a man, I will wear tuxedos to school, and a top hat, and say “Good day” to every person that I meet, even if I don’t know what kind of person they are. I want to have good manners, this seems right. When I am a man, I will open car doors and carry flowers to give to beautiful people and balloons to give to children, except, I don’t want to kill sea turtles, so they have to be paper mache, but not for hitting with sticks. I will take away sticks from children, and turn them into something that people can burn for warmth instead. When I am a man, I will be taller than my mother. I can reach on the top shelf and grab anything I want, even all the boxes of Captain Crunch if I want to. Over and over again, I will eat my cereal. I will also know where she hides the Christmas presents, but because I will be a gentleman, I won’t even peek. When I am a man, I know that women will want me. They will take secret pictures of me and share them on their Internet things. I will make movies with them. They will buy me new underwear like my grandma does for her boyfriend, Frankie J. I know because she holds them up sometimes to me, but I am not Frankie, and I don’t know if they fit him well. He’s taller, but we are the same otherwise. I’m smarter, I think. When I am a man, I will try to be fair. If two squirrels are arguing about a nut they buried and can’t remember who did it, I can crack it in half for them and share it. I don’t know if I can speak squirrel, but I can speak loud at least, probably. When I am a man, my mom says I will want to be a boy again. I don’t think so, but maybe in a million years, someone will think of me and wonder, “Who is this kid, and why are they so cool?”. When I am a man, I can turn into an imaginary friend for anyone who needs it. No one I know will be lonely, because I can be there to talk to them, and to make sure they aren’t scared anymore. When I am a man, I can hide fast, and go to another world if I need to, and I want to take my mother there too. When I am a man, she won’t need another Ronnie or James. She won’t want to have anyone else, with any new belts, with any fast cars that break all the time, and I will be the only person she needs. When I am a man, I will be grown up. I will make my own choices. And I don’t know if I will choose to be a man, or if I will want to be a child again. Maybe I will choose to be someone new, like Santa Clause? I just know that I won’t be me. And I won’t be here.

Stranger in the City (Abijan, Ivory Coast, 1998) I was unable not to take a second look when I saw them walk through the hotel lobby to the elevators. She was young and tall, quite beautiful with braided hair that almost reached her waist. Her smile revealed white teeth which shone against her dark skin. He was pale-skinned and short, middle age had brought with it a receding hairline and sagging middle. As I turned to watch them, I saw his hand move to her behind and rest there, grabbing obscenely. He smiled and talked as they walked, she was silent. I was transfixed as, oblivious to my stares, they boarded the elevator. As the doors sealed them from my leering, I understood. I had been sitting in a comfortable chair, my body weary, but my mind racing with confidence and hope from my first encounters during my first day in Africa. It began with the flirtatious customs officer who held my hand as she demanded her bribe. I escaped for only $1, leaving her miffed but smiling. I then shed my would-be-guides at the airport but got taken for a triple fare by the taxi driver. I knew better now and would get the correct price for my return. In town, the guard with the machine gun was friendly. The weapon seemed no more than an umbrella in her hands as she gave me a quick local geography lesson. Her directions led me to the market where I met Soro. He owned a craft shop with his brother. After five hours, games of mancala, and lunch together, we were friends. I have a friend in Abijan. We exchanged addresses and he left me at the hotel. Though gone, the mismatched couple held my thoughts until I noticed I was no longer alone. Two women occupied the couch opposite my chair. They were both young and well-dressed but the similarity ended there. One shared features with the elevator woman and many of the women I’d passed in the market: dark skin, tall, thin lips, and long braided hair. The other had a lighter complexion, straight hair, and fuller lips. I wondered if she might be a stranger to this place like me. She started the conversation and soon names and small talk were exchanged. A question arose: “Are you married?” “Yes,” I said. “Would you like to see pictures?” They were astounded that my wife was Black and wondered if the term was really African American. They thought the kids were cute and were amused by the few shots of snow. They shared perspectives on their work. It was not as people thought; they simply provided companionship. They regretted my imminent departure and said they would have liked to show me the city at night. I had resolved to buy them a drink at the bar when the hotel security guard who had been eying us for a while decided it was time to chase them out. I suppose he felt that he was protecting me from harassment since I had made no move toward the elevator. They swore at him but excused themselves and left. Protecting me? They were 19 and 21. Who needed protection? What did I understand? A word from the author: Soro and I posing with masks from his shop. We corresponded for several years after our afternoon spent together. Soro was then conscripted and war broke out in the Ivory Coast. My last letters were not answered. You can read more of my writing at https://www.francoisbereaud.com/.

Moonlight in Paradise A vacant lifeguard tower twelve feet over damp sand guards long since gone moonlit clouds softly shifting sitting on the platform legs dangling silent desires masked by laughs and touches stars mesh with hotel lights half a mile up the beach ukulele, guitar and voices echo in the humid breeze ocean reflections forming a shimmering pathway dark eyes, crystalline skin jet black hair, now whispering teasing sensibilities when the hoodie with a hunting knife landed in our nest uniting us forever as survivors not lovers Betrayal Missing child posters like scars stapled to telephone poles for weeks then months her laughing brown eyes oversized front teeth smile bouncy dark hair flowing all over a proper, blue-collar town kids, dogs, softball leagues fist bumps, hugs, PTA meetings barbecue hazed weekends it takes a village sort of place last seen at home then gone adrenaline finally thinning sobbing parents no longer in the news hope dimming, media & search teams discretely disbanding K-9 search dogs refusing to budge from their backyard staging area until hydraulic shovels & excavators began digging it all up The Countess Her thigh numb from lack of circulation she shifts weight from left to right sweaty blouse and shorts sticking to her body now silk with velvet trim dark matted hair wet with perspiration a spectacularly coiffed bouffant with bow her eyes luxuriate on the luscious grounds of the family’s estate its placid river ambling through the evening sleeping alongside her younger brothers on the fire escape platform outside the tenement window Lower Eastside Manhattan heat thrusting them to the night Subway Commuter The train doors close and he goes numb what of the limo and the driver the hero he expected by now satin suits, silk ties opal cufflinks, polished brogues polished complexion now ousted by expensive jeans, no sock slip-ons ten-day stubble passing Canal Street Penn Station to Uptown with no respect in his mid-sixties hanging on a strap as teens nap in seats and dream of their futures in the sky penthouse life, sports heroes awards, applause he sways and swivels around the curves, shifting his stance for forty years first name embroidered above the pocket of his gray uniform shirt in laundry faded red he keeps waiting Struggling Believer He shouts an expletive at himself recognizing the resemblance to his high school daughter a cuddle of palm trees swaying in rhythm casting caricatures masking the beach access path shuffling fronds soften sweating October sun men in fluorescent shirts popping power trimmers dropping quick cut shrubs into ragged clumps the teenage girl walks past her short smock tossed carelessly by the breeze squinting fluorescent eyes locked on every movement he sees the breeze in her hair luridly imagining what lies below the colorful flows his shout muffled by hedger buzz another two-candle night one at the cathedral driving home another on the dinner table with his wife and kids Eric Burgoyne is a writing and surfing grandpa living on the North Shore of Oahu, Hawaii. He has an MA in Creative Writing - Poetry, from Teesside University, Middlesbrough England. His poems have been published in The Dawntreader, Spillwords, Sledgehammer, Skink Beat Review, Rat’s Ass Review, and elsewhere.

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.