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I awake sitting upright, alarmed, disoriented, pulse pounding, ears ringing like I just got slapped in the head by an irrational father. Yes, I do know what that's like, that's not the point. Something is wrong. Horribly wrong. Catastrophically. Wrong. I strain my eyes to get my bearings in the darkness, try to listen through the ringing and pressure in my ears, to make sense of the surreal clattering, like a bucket of marbles spilling out onto a table, a scoop of driveway gravel being poured into the bed of my father’s blue pickup truck. Cold spray hits my face, stinging hard, a bullying older brother with a garden hose. I turn my face away from the spray and two bright blue-white lines swim into view, shimmering in the darkness, tilting this way and that, squirming, not quite parallel, shrouded in heat distortion and smoke, too bright to focus on. The vertical, slit pupils of a demon Cheshire cat, surreal and menacing, too tall, too close together. Cat. My cat. My cat Snowball. My parents let me name her. Or maybe when she was a kitten and I was three and I said she looked like a little snowball, they decided that would be as good a name for her as any. Snowball, with the gray smudge on the top of her head that turned out to be fur color, not a grease spot that could be scrubbed off an angry kitten’s head with some dish soap and a wet washcloth. Snowball who sleeps on my legs when it’s cold. But it’s cold now, and she’s not here. The menacing, shimmering lines dim slightly, fading toward yellow. She’s an adult cat now, but still young. I’m not yet ten, and I’m sitting up in my bed, pulse still pounding in my chest, in my throat, breath coming hard, ears ringing, eyes straining to see. The lines dim toward orange. It’s my youth bed, the one with its wagon-wheel headboard like my younger brother’s across the room. The ones handed down from our older brothers when they moved into their army bunks and we moved out of our cribs in the tiny dark room tucked in beside the stairs. This bed is under a window that’s propped open to vent out the summer heat. Except it’s cold and pouring rain and hail and the wind is blowing it in through the window and my bed is soaking wet. The lines dim toward red. The other window. That’s where the other window is, between my bed and my brother’s. The lines are outside that window. For one blinding instant, it’s full daylight. The lightning reveals the yellow brick of the church next door, two dark lines where the bright lines were in the darkness as if a flash of negative on a spooky cartoon show. And then it’s dark again and the glowing lines are dimming out into the darkness. As the thunder comes with a chest-kicking boom, I put it together. The parallel lightning rods, thick braided cables that come down from the chimney above the church’s boiler, down the back of the building into our back yard. It’s so black because the power is out, the Standard station kitty-corner across the street unusually dark, no ambient light thrown from the Jim Dandy drive-in canopy or the illuminated menu boards at the drive-in spaces where the teenagers hang out after dark, their burgers and pops a thinly-veiled excuse to hang out with their peers, to scrounge desperately for teenage love, to make out furtively in the shadows of the back seats. If they’re out tonight they’re taking shelter in their cars, ragtops pulled shut and rolled-up windows fogging. Or maybe they’re at home safe from the storm—as safe as anyone can be in this flat country, where the tornadoes can smash a brick house just like a garden shed. But I can’t see the Jim Dandy from here, and no cars are lit up driving under the blacked-out stoplight. I turn in my sopping sheets and rise up onto my knees, for leverage to push up the bottom slider of the window, or to try, wriggling it side to side until I get it to move enough that the prop comes loose, and I can toss it to the floor in the dark behind me and slide-catch-slide the window shut without closing it on my fingers like my little brother did once. The hail clatters against the glass in defiance. Swimming in the darkness I stagger to the other window, above the wet toybox and the sopping carpet, and I do the same as with mine, wriggling it upward enough to loosen the sawed broom handle that props it open, and halt the sticky window closed against the storm. My brother, breathing in the darkness beside me, somehow never stirs. The room quieter now, except for the rain and the occasional hailstone hitting the window, I feel my way back to my bed beneath the window. The entire bed is sopping wet. I pull my pillow and the wool blanket off onto the relatively dry floor, wrap myself in the cool scratchy wool and find a relatively comfortable position as I wait for the wool to start holding my body heat. Sleep comes more quickly than I would expect, given the panic into which I just woke up. At some point, I think I have a dim memory of my mother coming into the room to check on us. Or maybe it’s a dream because it’s like I’m seeing her from my bed, not the floor. But in the morning, as the summer sunrise shouts in through my window and I wake stiff from lying curled on the floor, I realize that my still-damp wool blanket is covered under the spare blanket from the hall closet. It wasn’t a dream.

Here’s a picture of me, my parents, and my brother Chris, back in 1982. They are dressed nicely, perhaps for church or some event. I am showing my sense of decorum by wearing a hand-me-down Who tour t-shirt and jean jacket. I’m guessing that I just said something wicked clever before the picture was snapped because they’re looking at me, laughing and I seem proud of myself. More importantly, I want to point out the attitude of my head as captured. My head habitually tilts a bit forward and left, unless I consciously hold it straight. It always has. I never thought about it much, but I recently looked it up on the internet and I think I might have oblique cranial nerve palsy. I quickly devised a course of treatment in which I start smoking at least two packs of cigarettes a day, in hopes that it will stimulate the nicotinic cholinergic receptors in my central nervous system. It’s my theory that this sudden extreme influx of stimuli could trigger what amounts to a cold-reboot and reversal of the palsy. There exists no actual data to suggest that this might improve my condition, and the considerable cost of cigarettes will never be covered by health insurance. I’m on my own in this battle. Also, yesterday the food-maker at the Chipotle told me I couldn’t order a quesadilla face-to-face. You can only order a quesadilla online. I thought, “What does that even mean?”, as I staggered back to the car. “Do I still belong in this world? What is anybody talking about anymore?” Quesadillas aside (and across the political/philosophical spectrum for that matter) this really is an increasingly gutless, iniquitous, and silly society, and my whole town seems to stink like skunk weed all the time. Where does a man drop anchor and say, “This is what’s real”? Patrick McNally is a songwriter and front man for the band The Fox Sisters. He has a wonderful wife and two very cool children, who he is incredibly proud of. He is captain of his soul and is licensed to fish in the state of NY.

an approximation of sunlight on my red/gold curls the sidewalk cracks and the flowers that push through. i've always envied your self-confidence, but i want none of it. don't mistake that for self-love, darling. it's only pain. this walk home always reminds me of you, and the way you play with ghosts like they're toys or friends or lovers. i'm not sure why. maybe it's those struggling weed/flowers that aren't supposed to be there. like us, sister. like me. we aren't supposed to be here, and yet here we are, wasting our breath to scream. Freedom Strange collects pronouns, tea bags, and old records in a dusty, forgotten corner of Texas. You can find their dusty, forgotten corner of the internet too, at freedomstrange.carrd.co

never/more fossilised (in) merciless stitches sugar-coated (gift wrapped) making your move (not without risk) hoarding moments that didn’t belong to you would never be yours indigestible untethered i was here all the time but you never really saw me holding the door keeping it closed keeping us safe from monsters on the other side together we are an unfinished meal indigestible UK based neurodivergent writer Jane Ayres re-discovered poetry studying for a part-time Creative Writing MA at the University of Kent, which she completed in 2019 at the age of 57. In 2020, she was longlisted for the Rebecca Swift Foundation Women Poets’ Prize. In 2021, she was nominated for Best of the Net, shortlisted for the Aesthetica Creative Writing Award and a winner of the Laurence Sterne Prize. Her first collection edible will be published by Beir Bua Press in July 2022. Website: janeayreswriter.wordpress.com

“Don’t be shy,” she says. “I’ve got a surprise for you!” You are six, and Medzmama is sitting on that big woven carpet with the cranes and cheetahs and leaping horses, all the way from the Old Country. She holds out her hand—a diamond of paklava swaddled in a napkin. She has sneaked this from the dinner table, even though you didn’t finish your green beans and pilaf, even though Mama told you no, sweets were for good girls only—and you inch closer, nervous. It could be a lure, the carpet beneath her a trapdoor, the dessert as bait. “Go on,” Medzmama says, the eye-sparkle turning even more sparkly. You reach out and snatch the paklava without stepping on the rug. The flaky layers stick to your teeth, and Medzmama grins. You think of the witch in the woods, fattening up the children with cakes and treacle. You feel a tingle of excitement that spreads from your tongue to your fingertips. It could also be dread, but you are too young to know that yet. “There,” Medzmama says. “My good, sweet girl.” You are eight years old, the chosen flower girl for your aunt’s wedding. Such an honor, Mama says! You’ve been grinding your teeth at night and biting your nails during the day. Your skin is patchy with eczema. Less sugar, the doctor says, but Medzmama won’t hear of it. She takes you and your mother to the Middle Eastern bakery and then out shopping for fabric. All around you, silk in pinks and blues and yellows, taffeta like whipped cream, reams of chiffon, patterned fabrics on sticks like rolling pins. You choose moss green. Your mother holds it up to your skin. “No,” she says. “It washes you out.” Your mother has brought fashion magazines for comparison’s sake. The women in the magazines are tall and lithe and their noses look nothing like yours. Your mother pulls some colors from the racks: mulberry, emerald, cobalt blue. Your grandmother agrees to a bold emerald, but she buys some of the moss-green chiffon anyway. “For the new curtains,” she says. “I’ve been looking for something just this color.” Thread flows like water from her machine. Your dress is moss green, with a floaty skirt and a bodice like Medzmama’s hugs—a little too tight. Your mother sighs. “Mom.” The wedding day is rainy and the priest is late and the pictures go terribly and you are smiling in all of them. You're eleven, walking three miles to Medzmama’s house after school. Not the best arrangement, but your brother has soccer practice and your Papa has work and your Mama hasn’t moved from the couch in three days. You set up your books on Medzmama’s kitchen table, which is yellow and crisscross patterned. Medzmama stands at the stove, a pot bubbling. She sings a lullaby in Armenian, which you don’t speak, but you don’t like the crawling-skin feeling it gives you. Like worms are trying to burrow out. You gather up your books and walk past Medzmama, toward the living room. There is that sly, sparkling look, and then she lunges—her grip tight on your wrist, and then your arm wrenched toward her, your finger plunged into the pot on the stove, and you scream, but she holds you with iron strength, your fingertip deep in the thick, foamy yogurt—madzoon, as she calls it, which always made you think “mad moon,” though the words don’t mean the same thing at all—and before you can beg, she’s released you. You stare at your fingertip. Covered in foam, unscathed beneath. Medzmama looks delighted. “Remember. The warmth, the way it feels. The only way to know is by touch.” For dinner, she makes your favorite, a peace offering: muenster cheese wrapped in phyllo dough. She pries the glittering seeds from a pomegranate, puts them in a shallow bowl, puts the bowl on the table. In school, you’re learning about Persephone. The whole thing with Hades and the pomegranate. A trick, the story goes. But—Queen of Hell! What other option did she have? Sitting around in a field with her mother, doling out sunshine for small men, braiding wheat stalks? You eat slowly, bursting each ruby between your worn-down molars. You’re thirteen, and your mother is taking you to the nursing home to see Medzmama. It has been two months since her stroke. The hall is long and beige, full of fake, potted flowers. You touch one, wondering if it’s silk, and your mother slaps your hand away. “That’s not yours, Lucine.” “I just wanted to feel it.” Your mother stops at a door, frowns. The number is correct, but Medzmama's needlework is hanging on the next door over. “I must’ve remembered wrong,” your mother says. She knocks at the second door, then pushes it open. “Mom?” The woman inside shrieks—an old lady in curlers, shorter and rounder than Medzmama, her TV tuned to a soap opera in which two pretty people are kissing. When you knock at the other door, the correct one, Medzmama answers gleefully. “April Fools!” Her favorite holiday, except for Easter. It is February 4th, but you and your mother laugh. A real surprise, your mother says. You got us good, Mom. She tells you that was nothing—imagine dying in front of all of them, the holes in your palms, the thorns, the blood. That was commitment. Selling the bit. You see the people all crying or cheering, depending on whose side they’re on, you see the lightning and earthquakes and the tears falling, swallowed up instantly by the parched earth, but you can’t say anything, can’t react at all, because what a pity it would be to spoil it. Admittedly, you would hate it for a little while. The combined weight of their sadness. You’d wonder if this whole thing was worth it. But then—oh, the moment when the stone rolled away, the empty tomb. The woman who came to see you, talking softly with her eyes down, thinking you were a gardener—a gardener! Imagine the looks on their faces. You are fifteen and all the good china has been packed away, the needlework divided between her sisters and children, the furniture donated to the hospice thrift store. Your mother is on the phone, her voice a spindle. You curl up on Medzmama’s carpet, your cheek pressed against the pomegranate medallion at its center. You close your eyes, waiting. Lindy Biller is a writer of Armenian descent. Her fiction has recently appeared at Milk Candy Review, Fractured Literary, Reservoir Road, and Cheap Pop. She can be found on Twitter and Instagram at @lindymbiller.

Doomsday Turnstile The turnstile cranks. With every turn, another person slides toward doomsday. A camera clicks. A picture captures the moment. The line snakes through the city. Block after block, we wait. Our heads bowed. Our hands busy swiping on new phones. We have the latest model, all the bells and whistles. The line slowly slips along. We hardly notice. A soft electric chirp dings our phone with each swing of the turnstile. The latest dancing cat video pops and the whole line laughs. We move ever forward. I Carry a Shovel I take a lot of shit. No, it’s true. I carry a shovel. The good kind with the extra firm handles— well worth the cost. I take the shit here and there but mostly to the desert. It can get heavy. I haul big piles around in my protective suit. Sometimes I need the large Loader or the Excavator with their big scoop shovels that I bought from an auction. Out here, away from bosses and the day's losses, I scream and scream. Who wouldn’t? I take my time. I lay the shit down. I pat it into the sandy stretch. Stars fill the sky like a bubble. Standing upwind, I admire the dark cake of earth. Shit cannot mess up this desert. I breathe in; I breathe out. I know I am not supposed to give a shit, but trust me, the desert can take a lot of shit. M. E. Silverman had 2 books of poems published and co-edited Bloomsbury’s Anthology of Contemporary Jewish American Poetry,New Voices: Contemporary Writers Confronting the Holocaust, and 101 Jewish Poems for the Third Millennium. @4ME2Silver

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_