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They are with a friend of mine in our share house but sometimes we find ourselves alone and we talk about both our worlds. I have never spoken to another human being in this way before: a single word hovers (they use that word too!) then darts and weaves about an idea like a night insect about a flame; yet a sentence, a conversation, seems instantaneous. Sitting on that worn green lounge I had found on the side of the road and cradling late-night tea in chipped mugs I tell them everything, leaving nothing out, and fall in love. Paul Dufficy writes about music and travel. To make ends meet he runs a walking tour business in Sydney which to date has been quite unsuccessful.

I can sense the sceptics. Those who are only after a show, something to tell their friends, a story for their blog post: Ten Most Common Clairvoyance Tricks, Exposed. I take my time turning their cards allowing my desire to ferment. They ask to take photos and keep their phone on the table. I fiddle with the tassels on my silk headscarf. Make them wait. Tell them the universe is listening. That it knows what they’ve done. I show them Ouroboros: the serpent devouring its own tail and make my things-look-grave face. But, when I take their palms in mine and trace the lines of fate and life that snake and coil over their flesh, that’s when the hissing is at its loudest. That’s when I guzzle in the threads of their life. The arm broken falling from the rope swing over the creek. The club house in the woods. Uncle’s leather belt. They snigger when my eyes roll back in my head but carefully, I unspool their minutes and hours and sup on hazy nights, spilled drinks, slick cobblestones. Knees crusted with grit. Screams hurled into the dark. I wind each moment around my tongue savouring the taste of the forgotten, the repressed. White hospital walls. Skin cool to the touch. A still healing wound. A mewling new-born swaddled tight. And then when they’re split open completely, no longer laughing, I dim the lights. Tilt the table to-and-fro. I speak in tongues and in the darkness, while they’re sniggering, I shed my skin, unhinge my jaw, and swallow them whole. KEELY O’SHAUGHNESSY is a fiction writer with Cerebral Palsy, who lives in Gloucestershire. Her stories have appeared online and in print. She’s been published by Ellipsis Zine, Complete Sentence, Reflex Fiction, Emerge Literary Journal and (mac)ro(mic), among others. She's a Pushcart and BSF nominee. When not writing, she likes discussing David Bowie with her cat. Find her at keelyoshaughnessy.com or on Twitter @KeelyO_writer.

Every Civilization Speaks the Language of Goodbyes How many ancient civilizations have mysteriously disappeared, leaving behind nothing but jagged shards of existence— pottery, weapons, haunted bones. How many unanswerable questions have been dug up by those seeking to understand generations of departures. Another billionaire went to space today because emptiness is a siren's call, the spaces between stars filled with the music of ghosts. "To be human is to leave," is what you said. But I just read about the 2800-year-old kiss, two skeletons found buried in a permanent embrace. Then again, maybe they died trying to escape each other. I've run out of gas. Stuck in this ghost town called The Part of You that Loved Me. Radio Silence Driving down this desert highway, darkness descending. The neon lights on an isolated gas station glow blue, a beacon to the lost and lonely. The gas will cost twice as much and dust covers the bags of stale potato chips and the beer is two months expired. You'll pay for the gas anyway because what choice do you have. And you'll buy the stale potato chips and expired beer, anything to fill the passenger seat. You continue on, the hours ticking by with the rotation of your tires, the surrounding emptiness mirroring your own. You search for a radio station but find mostly static. The handful of stations that do come through are Spanish or Christian and you feel guilty for not knowing the language of your ancestors or being a good Catholic girl and you want to pull off the highway, find a spot to bury your sins where no one can find them but then you think you should bury yourself because your sins always find a way back to you. You turn the radio off, opt for the hum of the motor and the howling of the wind. Driving down this desert highway, darkness descending, the cholla and brush dancing ghosts, beckoning you to the land of the forgotten but you ignore them and continue on, chasing the sunset towards forgiveness. The Problem With D Not the D you might be thinking of if your mind is down where it shouldn't be. Disappointment, when you're drowning in it and all the dreams that didn't come true. Disappearance, and doesn't everyone come and go, some never to be found again and you're forever haunted by the ghost of everything out of reach. Divorce—the death of love— because sometimes the D of your dirty mind doesn't know how to stay down or someone desires another D or damn it, love just isn't enough. Desire, well, how much trouble does that cause— driving you insane, driving you down dangerous roads, driving you to drink. Drink, when you don't know how to stop until you drop, hit rock bottom and what a disappointment you've become and sometimes this leads to divorce. Damage, to your brain, your heart, your body, your relationships, and what is left of you but a damned soul. Death, the worst of the lot, dealing dice and more often than not, you're on the losing end— find yourself six feet down before you can even say "don't do it."

Steam Belly bloated with mint leaves. Brew for a minute or two. She sets two slipware beakers on the counter. The blue ones with navy swirls. Again, though she knows hers will sit alone. She is not still. She watches: the clock on the wall, the watch on her wrist, her phone. Sits, sighs, stands. Slices a lemon paper thin. The triangles almost transparent when she inspects them. Drops a slice in each beaker. Wraps her hands around me, checks that I keep well. I am warm still, but the mint will wilt, I want to say. A moment longer, it will wilt. She must have sensed my unease. She lifts the lid, spoons the leaves. I exhale in relief. She waits. Stands, drums her fingers on the counter. In moments like these, I wish to comfort her. To stretch and pat her hand. Cool her worries. Soon she will drop thick honey into her beaker. Just for her, not the other. Soon she will lift me, tilt me, smile at the rising steam. Soon she will take her beaker out of sight. The other will sit here, next to me, cold. Empty. eyebright (1) the blade cuts tender stem i slip the sprig between the pages of a poem press them shut on my way to you the book hangs heavy against my hip in the darkness of my bag bright eyes follow your words expose the imposters memorise your honesty disguised as fiction they’ll (un)pick your truths for me bury my doubts in shallow ground (1) If you carry a sprig of eyebright in your pocket, you will know if your companions are telling the truth D. Parker spends most of her time surrounded by books both at work and at home.

A VISITATION There will be a fire. Our books will burn, our walls will press their temples back against the barrel of the world. Volumes we didn’t know we owned will be ground into the wet woodgrain’s rough edges in the shape of a black horse, brass-plated balances uncovered at an unimpressive yard sale, catalogues of seals and stars, of names saved up, sloughed off and fallen out of use. BEETS Come in the kitchen and we’ll make you something, sharpen our knives, fix you something to eat, sever the stems on the tops of the beets, tidy the house when there’s company coming, plump up the pillows, smooth down the sheets, print the floors with the clean wet of our feet, the sauce on the stovetop boiled down to nothing, potatoskins turned to mud at our feet, pink caked in our nails from the flesh of the beets. FOR HANK, ON HIS DEPARTURE Everything is just as you left it. Your sister misses you. She’s still eating your food. There’s sunshine on the bed. Last night your nemesis the possum walked by your window ledge. We’ll keep an eye out for him. The days go by without much incident, much as you’d like them. No one sleeps on my feet or licks my plate at breakfast. Your toy mice are still lost behind the couch under a thin dust of your fur. I’ll leave them there.

Poor poets who can’t afford food feast on metaphors. I’ve replaced my desires with the best finely ground espresso- nonstop hot black caffeine shots. I feel edgy about this addiction, but surely everyone can see how much I pine for you. Your Latino lips dripped gold like the filter- “mi amor, have you had your coffee?” I’ve been watching Cinema Paradiso again, drowning in my own nostalgia. Looking at you so far away inside this broken photo frame- you won’t stop staring back at me for being a fool. When love gets too much, I cover it with hard winter snow. It melted like I did when you whispered in my ear, you wanted me to stay. Damien Posterino (he/him) is a Melbourne-born, London-based poet who recently spent 18 months writing in Mexico. He explores characters, conversations, and capturing moments in time. His work can be seen in over 30 different publications including A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Roi Fainéant Press, Fish Barrel Review, and The Madrigal. You can find him on Twitter @damienposterino

I think of the night I decided I couldn’t wait to not be thirteen anymore. It wasn’t a far drive; I only lived a few blocks up the street. Earlier that day, I had walked down to babysit but it was dark now so the mom told the dad to drive me home. He was a quiet man and in the loud silence of that summer night, the only conversation in the car was the one in my head. I heard the car sounds: key turning, engine starting, the click of our seatbelts. The radio came on with Wilson Phillips' hit that summer of 1990, telling me to Hold On for one more day. The air in the car smelled of leather interior, cologne, and beer with a hint of chewing gum mint. The blast of air conditioning made me shiver as goosebumps dotted up my arms and legs. I felt the leather passenger seat sticking to my thighs as I tried in vain to tug my shorts closer to my knees. I didn’t know what to do with my hands - I folded them in my lap, then twisted my hair around my fingers, cracked my knuckles, and picked at my cuticles. Finally, I folded my hands back in my lap, looked at the clock and then out the window. The dad stared straight ahead as he slowly drove us up the street away from his patch of the earth, where he was growing brats he hated, to mine, where I was growing boobs I hated. In the rearview mirror, I caught a glimpse of a shadow of the child I used to be. She still needs a babysitter herself, I thought. Out the window, I saw my thirteen-year-old face reflected back: freckled, pimpled and bony. I tucked my hair self-consciously behind my too-big ears and shifted my gaze away from myself. I felt like something in the middle of emerging, not who I was anymore but not yet who I would be, stuck in a body that was becoming a stranger. In that car, on that night, in those agonizing moments, I was frozen in a space that seemed like it would never end. But I knew better. So did Carnie Wilson, who insisted from the radio that things were gonna change. I’d lived long enough to realize that last year I was 12 and next year I would be 14. I didn’t know how much better it might be than this, but I couldn't bear to think it could be worse. At least I wouldn’t be in this car anymore and thirteen would be in the rear view. Someday I would be someone to whom this man had something to say and I would have something to say back. At the end of that drive, I would be home. It wasn’t a far drive. I couldn’t wait to not be thirteen anymore. 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.

A Manual on How Best To Love Me 1. Know that I will never get tired of looking at pictures of cute animals, or petting dogs. So if you’re in search of a good date idea, you can’t go wrong with a dog park. 2. If I become petrified with a small decision, the choice between reading a fiction or nonfiction book next, how to word the email I am trying to write, what colour shirt to buy my dad for Christmas, please, treat me with the tenderness of a first kiss. I know it’s silly. Listen to my pros and cons list anyway, and 3. when I do make the decision, act as though I was running out of breath and offered air or water to breathe, and I chose the air. 4. There will be days when I want to write in the margins and across the lines, instead of on them. When I want to summersault down the middle of the road at midnight, eat chocolate before breakfast, make random sound effects, or dance naked in the wilderness, just because I can. And all I can tell you for these days is this: let me. 5. There will be days when I won’t quite be able to tell if this life is real. Where I’ll stare into the mirror unsure that I am the one looking back at me, or colour over my tattoos just to see them remain when I wash off the rest. I will convince myself that I was meant to live where they drive on the left side of the road, and that’s why everything feels just a little bit off. On these days I need to be taken outside, a forest is best. I need to lay my body down on the soil, feel the Earth press into my back like a lover that has gone too long without my touch. Ground myself there amid the pine trees and sounds of the wind. 6. When I start staying up until even the teenage girls have stopped whispering, ended the late night phone calls with their high school sweethearts, it means: Either I am too excited about life to bother with sleep, collecting a bouquet of every minute I can pick from the field of silence where the rest of the world sleeps. Minutes filled with poems to write, books to read, trips to plan, ideas on how to touch happiness. Or I am too afraid of my loneliness and insecurities, and the thoughts that will slow dance into my head while I lay in the distraction-free desert I call a bed. My least favourite love song set on repeat, singing does anyone miss me when I’m not there? am I desirable or just available? are the small details of my day worthy of being heard? what is the point? of anything? You can usually tell the difference based on how much of that time I spend scrolling through Instagram. If it is the latter, do not try to fix my sadness. Call me into it instead, remind me I need to sit with it. 7. I’ve spent enough time searching for myself along the palm lines of the hands of men to learn that I cannot escape myself in their arms. To learn that I do not want to escape myself. But sometimes I will forget this. So if you catch me trying to read the wrong map to find my way back to myself, please just nudge me towards the right one instead. A hot shower. A fire to watch. A quiet place to sit. A thought to meditate on. 8. Do not be delicate in the way that you love me. Even though my last lover left me crumbled in a ball on the floor, like every love letter I’ve ever tried to write myself. Even though sometimes I stop myself from reaching out to someone just to prove to myself that I don’t need them. Even though Even though Love me with the ferocity of the sun burning our entangled limbs from 150 million kilometers away anyway. 9. Love me for my mistakes. For the fact that I keep trying, keep vowing I will apply again. I will love again. I will plant more trees today than I did yesterday. For the ways I let myself grow, by pruning thorns off my rose bushes that I didn’t always know needed pruning, by listening – and I mean really listening – to what other people have to say, to what I have to feel. Love me because I try to make this life feel limitless, but also like something I can hold in the palm of my hand. Love me for the ways that I love myself. Love me despite the ways that I don’t. Do You Believe in Angels? In feathered robes and twig woven crowns. Do you believe in other worlds? Where the sun rises in the west, oceans make you dry, and grass grows shorter? Do you believe we can change, sprout ourselves to flourish? I don’t know the colour of rain. Flashy lustrous hues, illusion of the eye, uncovered veil in the sky. But I know the colour of laughter. Sound born of joy, museum exhibit of connection. I believe in hearts that skip a beat on the playground, humming of Strawberry Shortcake or Cinderella dressed in yella. I believe in sex. The bending of spacetime, two bodies transcending the laws of sensation, become one. Do you believe in second chances, still two bases from home? In running? Even when the path curves like the moon, circling us back around? I don’t know if we’ve been here before. Before the trees were taller than waves and the soil breathed life, before our sun was compressed by Angels, when caribou gathered in the undergrowth, grew under the ancient satellite that cloaked our world in gift wrap of the Gods. Do you believe in God? Holy Mother Sister Lover Fighter. Do you believe we can choose? Would you choose this wild world? Untamed thunder. Messy, ink-stained, stumbled word love letter of trying, written for a spellbinding force, written by another. We couldn’t have just happened to land here. It’s Here Music vibrates through my veins, keeps me warm in my light flowing dress this midsummer night, hours past the sun wandering away. In the mess tent, my friends tremble with energy I’ve only seen here, among people who wake each morning at the birds’ first song. Who plant trees all day in the heat, just to bring that same fire to the dancefloor until the sun arrives again. Glistening skin and swaying limbs move together in rhythm, spin, twirl, and glide around each other, merge into a single mass, shifting with time, balancing in this moment. I flow into the crowd, feel its pulse echo through my body, feel my pulse echo through the room, let go of the concept of me, release into something more, become part of us. I pause all thoughts, let my soul guide my motions, until a force I cannot see pulls me away. I step into the night, stand under the stars twinkling in rhythm with the lights inside, the colours on the dance floor the same dappled greys and deep blues as the ones above. Arms surround me, and with my best friend I look - in at the people we love, up at whatever the universe holds. She points at the sky and whispers we don’t need to look for what’s out there because we already have it right here. It’s right here. Caitlin (she/her) is a poet, tree planter, traveller, animal lover, and rock climber. She has a degree in mathematics, and lives in Canada. Other work can be found in Anti-Heroin Chic, Gnashing Teeth, The Ice Lolly Review, and Global Poemic.

The day leant its full weight on my back, Grated shins, black with dust from the mine, Lifting heavy, flopping soles homewards to where she was waving marigolds, Dripping dishwater tears The evening news had travelled faster than my dragged-up feet could slope, Up from the timbers, that Smashed under the weight of the world Trickling through seams of clay and sod, Along the telephone wires Where weary starlings whispered, Disaster, death, who? She was waving marigolds on a Sunday, step scrubbed, scraped clean of mud and dust Fire burning and kettle hissing, gently splotching on, I saw this from the cobbled corner I dreaded to turn Potato pie and strong tea, double helping For the new man of the house, So many boys ate well On our street that night On the kitchen table, I placed the pit boots, That didn’t fit me yet Soon they would return, Deep into northern soil Digging fuel for our fires, Amongst the ashes of our fathers A word from the author: This is a poem that came out of some previously submitted 'Petites'. The inspiration from this piece comes from the Pretoria pit disaster, very near to where I grew up. Gavin Turner is a poet and writer of short fiction. He lives and works in Wigan, England. When not writing he enjoys spending time with his family and taking walks with his dog.

Tufts of grass glow golden in morning light, sun bringing sustenance to my skin, sunburnt and chapped from yesterday. I live here now, on this hillside— stag my neighbor, stream our life source. If I could choose this every day, I would: to be surrounded, to sit in the good & the hard, and to survive it. I pen this poem with one glove off & one on, watching a line of nine pelicans fly parallel to the horizon. The sun finally crests the peak behind me— I turn my face toward the warmth, eyelashes emboldened by heat. Now, I think I will wake them. Taylor is an artist and poet living in Berkeley. This piece came forth from the tender bud of a morning during a trip backpacking California's Lost Coast last June. Much of Taylor's poetry stems from experiences in and among the wild. She can be found at www.taylorstoneman.com

To put some more fun in your life, pet a dog, take a walk. Let your skin fall to the floor. Eat your young. Take what is yours and let no man stand in your way. Watch the leaves turn. Lay in bed for days. Webs grow on you, You are gone. Drink tea. Fun! Ly Faulk has been obsessed with reading and writing for as long as they could read and write.

From the sidewalk, my son and I watched the car in the opposite lane slow and execute a three-point turn, evoking a distant memory of high school driver’s Ed. It had just gotten dark and somehow there was no one else on this stretch of 30th street which lay above a canyon and connected two trendy neighborhoods. The car rolled past us and parked inside the pylons which defined the bike lane. We watched, confused. A woman got out. I couldn’t see much in the hazy streetlight. She was maybe my son’s age, twenty-something, with dark hair and dark clothing. She came toward us, her eyes fixed downward. We looked down. At our feet, in the bike lane, lay a large raccoon. Motionless. No blood but surely dead. Its belly distended enough that I thought it could be a pregnant mother. She approached without words, her eyes fixed on the creature. I couldn’t tell if she registered our presence. “It’s dead,” I said as she got within social distance length. She made no response, walked to the creature, and touched it lightly with her foot. “Can we resuscitate it?” she said, her shaky words floating into the canyon. “It’s dead,” I said again. No cars passed and I looked at my son, his face still and fixed on the woman. She toed the raccoon again and repeated her question. “It sucks, but it wasn’t your fault, it’s very dark here,” my son said. Once more, she pushed at the animal, “Can we resuscitate it?” The pain of the last two years reverberated in her words. The lives lost, the constant fear, the times I would see my son and wonder if it was safe to hug him. Our country torn apart, its racist underbelly spilling its guts in plain sight. I imagined that the raccoon in the giving of its life could take it all. But the woman just stood, more pain piled on. I wanted to give her a hug. I worried she would bend down and try to revive the dead being. “Please,” I said, “it’s terrible, but best to leave alone.” She looked at me for the first time, her face blank. Then she turned and walked toward her car. “Are you okay to drive? Are you close to home?” I said to her back. My son and I looked at one another, unsure. She drove off. The dead raccoon lay at our feet. We continued walking over the canyon, the sound of an owl in the background. This experience happened during the omicron surge in January. Francois writes in hope of understanding himself and others better. You can find more of his writing at francoisbereaud.com