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voices in the hill thunder missing souls gone from these rocks strangers long gone with their tennis and their cocktails their pedigreed dogs and pleasure loving children the old court is cracked gone to weeds netless this line of green pencil makes a pine needle while the air hangs in pine smell wild hyssop hides the partridge but nightsoil intrudes old carrion too pine nuts are found lying on crystals that grace chocolate scorpions scuttling over fragments of shrapnel walking on crystal mountain walking with pockets full papier de damas allumettes du canon araq kazan marlboro export hashish du biqaa the cicadas have won the day perched on the pine bark they shriek to their brothers below in beirut in the littoral groves of umbrella pines where the old americans lie buried 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.

Like lightning, something that flashes but no one remembers where it struck— that fucker will burn If you can find the right match. I’m trying to tell you that none of this is right. We were supposed to be happy and safe, but you wanted the cold, and now I can’t save you when they come looking for you. I didn’t know the world could be like this. The raft that was supposed to save you capsizes. The fire that keeps you from freezing leaps to the curtains, the furniture. I have one log left. I’m saving it for that perfect morning. Toast straining for freedom. Eggs that remember our names. Let me rub your feet one more time and maybe I’ll be able to walk away. Instead of walking back into the burning building. Raised on a rice and catfish farm in eastern Arkansas, CL Bledsoe is the author of more than twenty books, including the poetry collections Riceland, Trashcans in Love, and his newest, Grief Bacon, as well as the Necro-Files novel series and the flash fiction collection Ray's Sea World. Bledsoe co-writes the humor blog How to Even, with Michael Gushue located here: https://medium.com/@howtoeven Bledsoe lives in northern Virginia with his daughter. Michael Gushue is co-founder of the nanopress Poetry Mutual Press. His books are Pachinko Mouth, Conrad, Gathering Down Women, and—in collaboration with CL Bledsoe—I Never Promised You A Sea Monkey. He lives in Washington, D.C.

This earth is upended, and before and before, I am wrenching your bones for blue sequins from the glass roof, icicles folded in ribbons, this statue once had wool in green cobalt – lights, the attic opens you like stone – it cannot be the mausoleum, ashes of birth are feathers torn from our skin – you harvest faces, marble as cold as the river after the smoke fell, the mannequin never had life to give to death – I do not want to know if this is the Pantheon. Louise Mather is a writer from Northern England and founding editor of Acropolis Journal. Nominated Best of the Net 2021, and a finalist in the Streetcake Poetry Prize, her work is published in various print and online literary journals. Her debut pamphlet ‘The Dredging of Rituals’ is out with Alien Buddha Press, 2021. She writes about ancestry, rituals, endometriosis, fatigue and mental health. Twitter @lm2020uk

Welcome to C’est La Vie Ranch. Please take your personalized itineraries for your stay, I say to the thirtysomething women in Neiman Marcus blouses and dress pants in the lobby. We pass by the vaginal eggs, coffee enemas, and joint holders displayed in the window of the gift shop on the way. I tell them their journey into becoming an evolved person begins now. By being here, they are cleansing the negative energy infesting their souls. When can we meet Chelsea, they ask in polite voices reserved for shareholders and compliant children. Chelsea is practicing new meditation techniques, I say and advise them to schedule a session with her. Standing by the computer, I stare at the open slots and tell them times are filling up quickly. I assure them their other classes can be rescheduled once they pick an appointment with Chelsea. I charge their credit cards in the system and tell them to be at peace. Chelsea, with her devoted following of 100.5K followers hearting each inspirational cursive written meme, rummages through the cabinet of confiscated toxins. Found it, she declares as she brandishes a fired secretary’s pack of cigarettes. Did you see, she asks, that a former medium Twitter’s thread was trending. Flicking her wrist and dropping ash on the floor, she says her empire is and opens her fists. I remind her the camera crew will be coming over next week. Pam Avoledo is a graduate of Oakland University

Handling Bind up myself in a bubble wrap of poetic warmth and make my moves on the roadway of reality. When the air balls puncture: the tab of fresh picks fall before my eyes. Unyielding passages are the meanest to maneuver. Eye-rolling helps no one. Scouring inwards offers succor. As if all solutions dart for a date. Duologue Perils in palaver: while weaving a narrative from the thesaurus of our minds sometimes we lose sight of the quintain. Commas in conversation grease the extemporization drive, helping us ply little-known openings. Sanjeev Sethi has authored five books of poetry. He is published in over thirty countries. His poems have found a home in more than 375 journals, anthologies, and online literary venues. Recent credits: North Dakota Quarterly, K’in Literary Journal, Kairos Literary Magazine, The Big Windows Review, Stand Magazine, and Litter Magazine. He is the joint-winner of Full Fat Collection Competition-Deux, organized by The Hedgehog Poetry Press UK. He is in the top ten of the erbacce prize 2021 UK. It has over twelve thousand and five hundred entries. He lives in Mumbai, India. Find him: Twitter @sanjeevpoems3 Instagram: sanjeevsethipoems

Ronnie hung over a sea of green. The pain in his lower back non-existent. A combination of deep concentration and self-medication. The high-intensity discharge lights glowed inches from his face, but Ronnie remained unfazed. Every now and then, he squinted through the jeweller’s loupe. Pausing to prune leaves he deemed redundant along the way and banging his head to music playing throughout the grow room – The Action is Go – Fu Manchu. He believed plants benefitted from great music. His colleague was less convinced. But despite his disapproval for Stoner Rock, he did appreciate Ronnie’s growing results. And even modest Ronnie had to agree, his shit was good. He couldn’t take all the credit. No. Stephen “Boxer” Cook was as much a part of this as Ronnie. For better or worse, the underground air raid shelter they’d refurbed on Boxer’s land was a joint venture. Now, a name like Boxer may indicate a fighting man, but a fighting man Boxer was not. His moniker a harsh combination of his height leading to ‘small man’s syndrome’ and an underbite that mimicked the dog he always had in tow. Ronnie checked the time – 21:29 – Boxer was late. Not like him at all. Ronnie didn’t mind, he spent most of his time down here now. Ever since the ‘intruder’ it felt the right thing to do. That had been a violation, he didn’t care what Boxer said. Just because they dealt with that one doesn’t mean there won’t be others – they had been lucky. If Boxer hadn’t forgotten his keys, then who knows what the uninvited guest would have done. Instead, Boxer had come through the hatch startling the stranger. It gave Ronnie the narrowest opportunity to swing his baseball bat at the back of the intruder’s head. Perhaps a tad too heavy. The man’s skull exploding just as easily as a pumpkin after Halloween. Ronnie was instantly overwhelmed with hysterics. Were there more of them? What if the police found out? What if Bobby Cavendish found out? That would be the end of their arrangement and subsequently business. Boxer had taken control. If Ronnie wasn’t so relieved, he might have been worried about his friend’s ease at handling the situation. Comfortably – Boxer guided his friend in wrapping the body and cleaning up the mess. Without hesitation – Boxer provided the solution of disposing the body. A seemingly ingenious plan involving the help of the local gravedigger, a weed fiend eager to win himself a free bag. Boxer had met the man when arranging his nan’s funeral. The freshly dug grave the perfect place to hide another body and with the gravedigger’s help nobody would suspect a thing. Ronnie had worried about the man’s ability to keep his gob shut. But they were all culpable now. All three men had dirt under their fingernails – the ‘thunk’ of the body as it fell onto the coffin stayed with them. Ronnie would have forgiven his friend for showing some emotion at the scene. Nothing. That had been three weeks ago. Was it too early to think it was behind them? He removes the latex gloves and drops the loupe into his hand. Maybe Boxer isn’t coming tonight. I bet he finally got that bint from the bookies to fuck him, fair play boyo. Ronnie starts to think about his own raw hormones. He turns off the music and opens the laptop. The bootup sequence takes an agonisingly long time and Ronnie’s fly is already threatening to burst when the unthinkable happens – the hatch opens. It’ll be okay – it’s just Boxer. Ronnie moves rapidly to close the laptop and in one fluid motion, arranges his raging boner under the belt buckle. He looks over to the stairs connecting the weed farm to the outside world – it’s not Boxer. The man who eases his way down the stairs with practiced balance is someone demanding instant respect. The well put together gentleman sweeps through the rows of plants in rehearsed delight – he’s dangerous. Ronnie no longer needs to worry about his modesty. He knows who it is even before the notorious face comes into view. “Can I help you?” Ronnie’s shit attempt at formalities. No baseball bats this time. Not for this visitor. Without looking at Ronnie, the man continues to look adoringly at the plants. “Beautiful. You clearly know what you’re doing.” Satisfied, he finally makes eye contact. “Sit down Ronnie. We need to have a little chat.” He pulls up a chair by a small table covered in tobacco and weed, clearing it with one swing of an arm. Ronnie promptly sticks his arse to the vacant seat. “Sorry for barging in like this Ronnie. It goes beyond my usual exceedingly good manners. Here I am, acting like I own this place when I’m just a guest! Very rude. I haven’t even introduced myself.” He rearranges himself, softening his body language and extending a hand to Ronnie who accepts it with trembling anxiety. “Bobby Cavendish. I’m hoping you’ve heard of me?” Of course, he had. The man was Bristol-crime-royalty. Where was Boxer? Ronnie couldn’t do this on his own. He dealt with the plants – Boxer the finances. It wasn’t Ronnie’s job to meet with people like Cavendish. “Mr Ca… Cav… Cavendish sir, it’s a pleasure,” Ronnie stuttered. “What can I do for you? Is the yield okay?” It didn’t occur the visit would involve anything else. “Your weed is not in question Ronnie. I can honestly say that you are a true master of your craft. I mean, the streets of Bristol can thank the fragrance to you and you alone! Ha-ha!” Bobby Cavendish was known for his manic dramatics. “Thank you, Mr Cavendish. I pride myself on my product… well, myself and my colleague Boxer.” “Oh yes. I met your friend Boxer earlier tonight. Ever such an informative fellow. Lovely dog he has.” Ronnie wondered what significance that had. Instead he succumbed to Bobby’s charm. “He had a great deal of good words to say about you. But let’s not blow smoke up each other’s chuff here Ron. Do you mind me calling you Ron?” Cavendish didn’t wait for a response. “Ron, I want to tell you a story. About somebody I know. It’s not pleasant I’m afraid. But tell I must.” Ronnie hated being called ‘Ron’, but Bobby Cavendish could call him whatever he fucking liked. “I like to think I run my business well Ron. Do you think I run my business well Ron?” “Oh yes, Mr Cavendish,” spluttered Ronnie. “Please. Call me Bobby. We’re all friends Ron, I see all employees as family. Do you feel like you’re a part of my family Ron?” Ronnie could tell that Bobby Cavendish was playing with him. Like a well-fed cat toying with a baby bird, slowly breaking down its resolve until becoming bored – or hungry again. Why was he here? The last harvest had been perfect. The price more than fair. After it left the shelter Boxer was responsible for the rest. Boxer – what had he done? “Yes Mr Cavendish. I’m honoured to be a part of it.” “Bobby. Please,” Cavendish continued. “I’m glad you think so Ron. I really am. But it’s come to my attention that one of my flock doesn’t feel the same way. And after listening I can’t say I blame him. Let me tell you why.” Cavendish dragged air into his chest before letting it out with a well-rehearsed sigh. “In my line of work, you never know who might become useful. I have cannabis farmers like yourself, police in a whole range of ranks, bookies, lawyers, plumbers, doctors… a lot of different fuckers Ron! Too many to divulge you with except of course, the vicar. Now you may ask yourself, what does Bobby Cavendish want with a holy man? And that’s a fair question Ron. I couldn’t give a fuck about God and all his mumbo-jumbo bullshit. I am the true giver of redemption, not some poorly imagined deity. This man though, he’s helped me out in the past and in return I turn a blind eye to his… interests. Therefore, he is now in my family. Are you following Ron?” He wasn’t sure. There was something in what Cavendish was saying but Ronnie was too preoccupied with controlling his trembling body to connect the logic. Instead he said the only thing he could, “Yes… Bobby.” “Good. Very good Ron. You really seem to get it. I was so worried after seeing Boxer. He didn’t follow at all. You’ve got something about you though, I can tell.” What had Boxer done? Ronnie wasn’t so distracted not to suspect the worse about his friend’s fate. But what? “I can’t pretend, it’s been hard to tolerate the vicar’s extra-curricular activities. A man who preaches about love, kindness and forgiveness yet has no moral dilemma over fucking the cold limp bodies of the recently deceased. But who am I to judge Ron? We all have our quirks – our raison d’étra. I have tried to understand but the answers only demand more questions. Like, his preference for the embalmed. I tried offering him a selection of deceased I’d recently acquired. I was open to watching him in action, for morbid curiosity alone you understand. You don’t think I actually want to fuck a dead body do you Ron?” Ronnie tried to mouth a response, but his jaw was welded in open awe. “Relax Ron! I know you don’t actually think that,” Cavendish laughed. “Anyway, it wasn’t to be. Apparently, my dead bodies were no good. The sick pervert has a fucking type! Elderly women Ron. Now I know what you’re thinking,” Ronnie seriously doubted that Cavendish knew what he was thinking. “…geriatric women must be in abundance for a twisted child of the lord. I thought the same thing, but I have since learned, it’s not necessarily the case. Cremation is very much the popular choice of the nation when disposing of our loved ones. Finding a good, solid former member of the blue-rinse brigade is somewhat of a rare find. Imagine if you will, the pent-up sexual adrenaline. Days of meeting with grieving family members, the unstoppable purge, sneaking home a picture of the deceased. An attempt to satisfy his primal desires. Digging up the freshly made grave under moonlight, the vicar no spring-chicken himself, all on his own. Then, once he finally feels the solid mahogany lid of the coffin, he knows the wait is over. At long last! They are alone together… except… they’re not. As the vicar clears the last foot or so of earth, the long wait ruined by the scent of rotting flesh. A lifeless grey arm caught around his shovel. It doesn’t belong to the ancient body he intends on penetrating. No. it’s the body of a much younger male. As he clears more damp soil, he can clearly see the broken skull of the body. He knows it shouldn’t be there” Ronnie doesn’t know what to do or how he should react. A part of him is pulling toward staying silent but Cavendish has stopped talking – The silence is torture – He stares at Ronnie with those beautiful and deceiving blue eyes. A slight smirk as one corner of his mouth moved upwards – a snake raising its head before the kill. Ronnie decides that a confession would be best but before he can fill the void, Cavendish takes the choice from him. “You’re a lucky boy Ron. Your weed is the best… the fucking best! You don’t need Boxer. I’ll send one of my guys to help with that side of the business.” Cavendish stands up from the chair leaving the quivering form of Ronnie. As he reaches the stairs he turns back. “I take it you know this furry mutt.” He opens the hatch and Boxer’s dog comes bounding down towards Ronnie – blood stains the muzzle. The dog instinctively rubs its head into Ronnie’s lap. Cavendish heads up the stairs and pauses one last time. “Oh, I almost forgot. You owe the vicar a body… an old one.” James Jenkins is a Suffolk based writer of gritty realism. He has work published or forthcoming in Bristol Noir, Punch-Riot Mag, Bullshit Lit, A Thin Slice of Anxiety and Punk Noir Magazine. One of his short stories appears in Grinning Skull Press Anthology – Deathlehem. His debut novel Parochial Pigs is available on Amazon and published by Alien Buddha Press.

When I spot Nonna’s Fiat 127 across the ice-cream parlour, my heart skips a few beats. I tug at my white denim miniskirt, desperate to unpin the hem I shortened on my way here. She’s followed me before, watching and spying my teenage world, but this is the first time she doesn’t hide behind one of her Christian magazines with happy families on the cover. She waves, summons me aboard. Has something happened? I ask, worried that she’ll say something about my clothes (I was wearing trousers when I left her house). She shakes her head and takes the longest route back to the beach where she lives, in an old house surrounded by old pines. Once in her kitchen, she pulls her apron from a cupboard and throws a new one at me. We’re making cappelletti, she announces. But Christmas is four months away! I protest, thinking of the boy I won’t get to see this afternoon. I know, silly, but I won’t be there this time. What do you mean? Where will you be? In a place no one wants to visit, not even those believing it actually exists. Nonna tends to speak in riddles when she is not ordering people around like a retired officer desperate to regain some purpose. My grandfather stepping on a mine a month into their marriage may have something to do with it. At eighteen, she was a pregnant widow in a country plagued by a civil war. I’ve been mourning Freddie Mercury for the past nine months. After emptying a sack of flour onto her marble counter, Nonna digs a hole in the middle. With her left hand, she cracks egg by egg against the stone and drops them in. A pinch of salt, a teardrop of olive oil, and plenty of elbow grease, she says, gesturing for me to help her. I push the flour from the edges into the hole and mix it quickly with the tip of my fingers until it has absorbed all the eggs. I don’t like the way the dough clings to my fingernails, crusts on my hands. Some people enjoy the honesty of kneading, pushing, shaping matter into food. I just feel clumsy and dirty and after a couple of minutes I run to wash my hands in the sink. You’re not done, Nonna says. Can’t we use an electric beater? No, you need to feel it. Come here, look at me. Her shirt’s sleeves rolled above her elbows, she digs her hands in the yellow, floured dough and pummels it, as if she means to kill it. Under her effort, the lumpy blob becomes a smooth globe, taut and fierce. She sprinkles flour on it, then puts it to rest in the fridge while she gets the meat for the filling. A pound of minced browned veal, grated Parmesan, salt and a pinch of nutmeg. Don’t forget the nutmeg, understood? I watch her grind the cooked meat, grate the nutmeg, whose sweet-earthy notes quickly fill the air around us. She makes me retrieve the dough from the fridge, roll it into a thin sheet, spoon dollops of filling on it, equidistant like stars on a handmade quilt. Together, we cover it with another sheet of dough, we cut dozens of squares, each with the dollop at its centre. She’s softened her tone as she teaches me her moves and I’ve lost my sass. We push the filling in one corner of the square and fold it in half to make a triangle. Then we bring the two ends together and pinch them close, until we have one, two, three, a hundred perfect cappelletti, ready to be cooked in guinea-hen broth on Christmas day. When we’re done, and the cappelletti are aligned on a floured tea cloth on the kitchen counter, my grandmother sweeps her forehead with the back of her hand and lets herself collapse on a stool. Do you remember everything you’ve done? She asks, regaining for a second her commanding tone. I think so. Would you be able to do it all over again? With some practice, yes. I hope. Good. I have three months left, she says. The day you’ll bury me, you have to start making them or you won’t have enough for Christmas. It’s fifteen per person, remember that. Twenty if you have hungry people at your table, or teenagers. Later that night, we turn the fan on and eat flaming hot cappelletti in Knorr broth. My grandmother’s fingernails are still covered in dried dough and I wish mine were too.

Satori in a Yaris We drank until closing again last night, then, unable to get a room, discussed Kerouac and Plath before deciding to sleep in the car. But we didn’t sleep. We couldn’t. We talked and laughed; one of us cried and the other knew how not to. Jesus Christ, it was fun. It was strange. It was eight hours side by side, at last. Yet we didn’t touch. Not once. Not like that. We didn’t touch. She didn’t even let me buy her breakfast. Complications She has eyes that let everything in and everything out and I could not resist. It began with conversations behind the cupped left hand, heavy with the burden of that thin gold band. Balancing the books of anniversary gifts and nursery fees against hotel bills and secret suppers, late nights that must not impinge on civilised Sunday mornings when I kiss my kids on the face with the same lips that only an hour before were slurping on breasts that are not their mother’s. I chastise myself, alone now, without either of my old lovers. Us, Separated ‘Come in for a cuppa?’ I ask, delighted when she says she will. I let the tea stew for longer than she likes, knowing it will mean more time. While she drinks it, I want to ask her to remember, during all of this, that I am loving her and – she loved me too, once. Afterwards, when she’s gone again, I’m glad I didn’t say anything, didn’t ask, because the awkward pity in her eyes – that used to see me – and in her words – that used to tell me – would surely have been too much. Christopher P. Mooney was born in Glasgow, Scotland, in 1978. At various times in his life he has been a paperboy, a trolley boy, a greengrocer, a supermarket cashier, a shelf stacker, a barman, a cinema usher, a carpet fitter's labourer, a leaflet distributor, a foreign-language assistant and a teacher. He currently lives and writes in someone else's small flat near London and his debut collection of short fiction, Whisky for Breakfast, is available now from Bridge House Publishing.

I always found it funny that Rogue’s skin held so much power that her touch could take you whole knock you out suck you dry The thought is dizzying: the treasures that could course through that gate the world a super-charged buffet unlimited if you don’t show some restraint if it doesn’t drive you mad if you only reach out and touch My skin, my skin is something else my skin has drawn only eyes, only hands over the years at parties, in bars, offices and trains so many trespasses on that terrain My smile stayed frozen in the corner they drained a spark that was never theirs to take But listen, mister you don’t need super-senses, mutant powers to tell a change is coming the grey streak in my hair a sign as clear as lightning, if you know how to see One day, soon I’ll walk down the street ungloved, crackling you'll cross the road to greet me and I’ll hold out my hand Katy Naylor lives by the sea, in a little town on the south coast of England. She has work published in places including Emerge Literary Journal, Selcouth Station and The Bear Creek Gazette. Find her online at voidskrawl.uk and on twitter @voidskrawl.

Rien de rien You now believe you know me. You send letters laced with praise, stories about your good daughter. But I remember I was like the girls you hated/ a flirt/ crazy cause you were his birth the only good thing I did with my life/ not-wanting-to -live a provocation Between the strokes, true to form, a void between abject and accusing I´m all but nothing like you, a reminder of words conveniently forgotten, no fight worth fighting anymore Signed this truce three years ago, cradled my sorrows, absorbed all truths crossing my path I have birdsong now, gentleness, unshrinking violets and warmth, wild snouts digging for traces of Jerusalem Alice She was five back then, red-haired and freckly, a wild girl who bit into the lids of yoghurt pots with sharp teeth, didn´t want to comb her hair, didn´t want to go to bed, could scowl with the best of them, a tiny rebel with a cause. So when she was allowed to choose her first pair of shoes, no questions asked, she didn´t choose the Mary-Janes, the dainty red sandals, the pink lacquered pointy- toes. She chose Doc Marten boots, black, laced up her wiry legs and stomped through the house and through life with brazen delight at what it had to offer. I still know her. She is a grown woman now. Forever that hair though, those freckles, the spark of those boots. Annick Yerem is a Scottish/German poet who lives and works in Berlin. Annick tweets @missyerem and has been published, among other places, by RiverMouthReview, Anti-Heroin-Chic, Rejection Letters, 192, Eat The Storms podcast, Green Ink Poetry, Open Collab, Sledgehammer Lit and The Dirigible Balloon. She is currently working on her first chapbook (Hedgehog Press, 2022), St.Eisenberg& The Sunshine Bus.

Sweet Corn You were tough as beetroot, cracked skin and bloodstains, seeped through my guts until my waste was only you. I was loose Russian sand, smooth and curved, packed with holes for you to fill. You punctured my youth, your growth my hope— I needed you to save me. When they grasped you from our plot, left me empty and alone to recon with your truth, I did not know how. It was you who dug my holes, flattened each bend of my hillock body. I know this now—I am tough as corn, too high in sweetness for excessive consumption, each kernel its own full life. Memory Is a Broken Disguise My body remembers what my mind does not, twitches the remnants of the eight years since I left you out of itself. The brain scan calls me perfect, but the bruise on my temple from the last time gravity played God with my balance says otherwise. Though my memory can’t carry your weight alone, my body has always been too weak to save me. As my heart chases your ghost beyond the realm of the living, my breath flees my chest in hopes of escaping your pull. I want to forget the muscles in your hands, the scrape of your beard against my tender skin. I’m gone now, but so are you. You’ll always be with me. My Father Is a Human Curse My brother calls it The DiFonzo Rage, says he wouldn’t be on his deathbed had our father’s ghost not lured him there. The nurse gives him five more years of Rx cocktails, and I wonder if that’s longer than he’d hoped for. At fifty-four, he’s outgrown our family despite his own best efforts— the lack of shock his daughter felt when she found him unconscious, pool of empty bottles around his head; his promise never to speak to me again after men who kill for a living conspired to save his life. I, too, have felt the pull of this curse, have forced a nurse to summon those men, catch the pulse dripped from my arms as I gazed in the mirror, its cracked surface the same shape as the razor in my hand. When asked why, I said, it’s just who I am. It was a lie I didn’t mean to tell. I have not divorced myself from my father’s pain, his parents’ failures still alive in my own nightmares. So echo this a prayer. Give me the strength to find myself alone.

CW: references to violence Cheap Beer, Madden and Hold ‘em How would I have known there was so much more, just a kid with a 30 rack of Keystone or maybe some Bud Lights on a good night? Too many hours singing the wrong lyrics to Counting Crows or Nickelback. “Pass me a bottle, Mr. Welling” wasn’t quite Mr. Jones, but we were always “down with hanging out those afternoons” nights, or whenever for that matter. English papers by an English major busted out in an hour behind locked doors as we alternated games on a Madden franchise. Back in ’09, who would have thought the Browns could have been so good? Online poker with fake money and funky avatars and overdrawn bank accounts at Best Western tables across from architects and lawyers who wouldn’t miss the money anyways. How would I have known there was so much more? Trading cheap beer, endless hours of video games and half remembered hold ‘em hands for promises slid onto fingers in glowing afternoon light, endless giggles and smiles through dirty diapers, big moments and small ones; photos carefully placed in an album to look at again and again. Active Shooter 101 They always tell teachers to leave room for silence-time to think-but what happens when the silence is brought on by the buzz of bullets, shattering time? Writing utensils and classroom tools normally used for learning and creating turn to weapons: is that pencil sharp enough or can we throw that chair hard enough to make the violence stop? What if the only thing a student learned in school today is what blood smells like or what shells falling to the ground sound like? When did attendance at school put you on the front lines of war? One Too Many Cocktails After one too many cocktails, my mind drifts not minutes or hours away, but days and weeks-buried in a fog or swirling like the churning ocean after a storm. One moment bleeding into the next, a dizzying suggestion, prompt from my gut to move, push forward, searching and galloping to find the porcelain shrine to submit my offering. When in an instant it bursts from me like confetti across clothes, furniture and the room, nothing untouched and I want to fade as far away as my mind in that moment, sink into the furniture and disappear like the rainbow of dinner and drink was already doing. Matt McGuirk teaches and lives with his family in New Hampshire. BOTN 2021 nominee with words in 50+ lit mags, 100+ accepted pieces and a debut collection with Alien Buddha Press called Daydreams, Obsessions, Realities available on Amazon and linked on his website http://linktr.ee/McGuirkMatthew Twitter: @McguirkMatthew Instagram: @mcguirk_matthew.