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Snip. Onomatopoeia. Except, when you are an amateur attempting to cut hair for the first time, it sounds more like: Sss-nn-iii-p. No, wait. It's actually sss-nn-iii-p? With the question mark, yeah. SNI-P. Oh, that was a bold sound. You look down. Three tufts of your wavy hair lie partly on your bare feet, and partly on the white-tiled floor you curl your toes against. Weird. For a moment, you stare at the strands and try to reach into the depths of your soul for a Murakami-esque analogy— something so profound, it'll make you cry. You blink. Wavy hair. Waves lapping at your feet? Nah. You start snipping away confidently, but not too confidently. You don't want to maim yourself, after all. Fuck these scissors are heavy. The final SNIP! sounds whip-crack sharp. You place the scissors on the marble countertop and flex your fingers. The red indents on your index finger and in the groove between your index and middle fingers smart. You blow on them. It obviously doesn't help. You decide to ignore the pain by taking in the carnage at your feet— well, it'd be a carnage were your hair dyed blood-red, but they're only their natural dark brown. Oh, well. You wiggle your toes, enjoying the softness of your slain strands for a moment before taking in and letting out a breath. You look up. At yourself. At your reflection in the mirror, that is. You can't recognize yourself. The hair on your head sticks out at odd angles, not close-cropped, but baring enough: the roundness of your cheeks, the smattering of dark pimple scar marks on your temples. You take off your glasses and place them on the countertop, then gingerly touch your hair—your fingers sense their softness differently than your toes. You open the tap, wet your hands, hiss at the pain caused by the water hitting the now-pinkened indents on your fingers, and shut the tap. Save water, people. You pat your hair down, put your glasses back on, and then take in the tsunami-hit wreckage of your wavy hair. The enormity of what you have done dawns upon you and you begin to panic. How will your parents react in the morning? What if they ground you until you graduate highschool? How are you going to face everyone at school the next day? What if you become the laughing stock among students and teachers alike? How does one dispose of hair? What do the beauty parlour people do? Sweep them into the dustbin— but what if someone makes a voodoo doll using your hair? You don't believe in tona-totkas but, what if? Surely those old wives told truths before their sayings were passed down as tales? Oh God, you’re going to have a panic attack. Fuck this, you think, focusing on breathing in and out deeply, deciding: you’ll deal with it the next morning. The bathroom floods with darkness as you switch off the light, and stagger outside, leaving your dark deed behind. Mugdhaa Ranade wakes up everyday hoping to find dry leaves to crunch underfoot, and stray cats to pet. Her writing has appeared in Overheard Lit, 50-Word Stories, and is forthcoming in Bending Genres and Versification Zine. She can be found in person in Mumbai, India, and online on Twitter @swxchhxnd.

Currying Forms See all this? I use this as an excuse to avoid cooking, learning about it, shopping for ingredients, setting down recipes, putting time aside to make meals There is no doubt in my mind I could save money and possibly lose weight cooking for myself, but it is not laziness that keeps my cookery in place Aesthetics move me to a still kitchen, not disturbing the way the pots sit shining on the stove, and how the plates in the cupboard form a rainbow On the Hacking of His Facebook Account There is no better way to hear from people you haven’t talked to in years, all you need is a hidden actor with malicious intent imitating you online, the same picture, the same name, and access to the same list of friends, then your long lost acquaintances will contact you with messages asking if you are the one who sent them repeated offers for male enhancements, or instructions on how to reach lonely singles in their area with a click, it might be something political, a scam that claims to be for a good cause, but more likely it will be a link to some spam about how to make mad money by playing games hosted on URLs that run forever and collapse on themselves and while you have their attention in the messaging app of your choice, you can ask them how they figured it out, how did they eventually realize some unseen program was imitating you? Was it more than just bad grammar? Hannah I kept trying to remember her name the other day, not for anything nefarious, just for my sanity, once I discovered a gap in my memory, I had to fill it, as if the space was about to turn into a hole and the hole would turn into a leak for everyone else Gone officially from social media, it was impossible to find her that way, all I saw were names and faces for people I’ve never met interacting with other people who are strangers except in name, or people I would never just casually forget, Going through my friends’ photos that were posted online years ago, I tried to see if she was tagged, mentioned, pointed out, or if her name was given to the title of whole albums of single images, no luck, I wondered if I was losing her face too Trawling through dating sites jolted my memory, when I saw her first name, attached to the personality of someone I matched with, allegedly, the satisfaction at filling the gap was good, and brief, now I have to try and recall what her surname was Mindshare Quest Taking a survey of my habits, There’s a little bit of money And a lottery for a gift card involved If I do enough of them I will start saying my habit Is taking surveys from strangers I may get there soon, Reaching the online ouroboros With a survey on the quality of surveys, It’s simple and easy, Since I know all of the answers Without the need of a pen or pencil Nothing I put is ever wrong, So long as I am completely honest, And I discover my self a bubble at a time Ben Nardolilli currently lives in New York City. His work has appeared in Perigee Magazine, Red Fez, Danse Macabre, The 22 Magazine, Quail Bell Magazine, Elimae, The Northampton Review, Local Train Magazine, The Minetta Review, and Yes Poetry. He blogs at mirrorsponge.blogspot.com and is trying to publish his novels.

The funeral home I worked at began as an anomaly. Before Sweet Services popped up at the corner of the town’s only intersection, funeral homes pretty much looked exactly like the boring, sterile ones you saw on TV. I was told when bright, playground chic Sweet Services came around, you’d mistake it for a candy store of sorts, and the name didn’t help. If you didn’t already notice the muted yellow casket-shaped doors before entering, you’d be in for a sour surprise. This was why, a bit over four years ago, I decided to apply as their resident mortician. I never read the newspaper. And so I found it serendipitous when I picked one up on a whim and saw an article about the Sweet Services ribbon cutting, complete with an interview with one Mallory Rodriguez, their founder and funeral director. People unexpectedly hailed the novelty of Sweet Services as a symbol of celebrating the life of those who once lived, cementing the good despite the bad with its baby pink walls and mint green benches. I found out eventually that Mallory just liked the idea of pastel caskets, and so built an institution surrounding it. As soon as I sat across from Mallory’s desk for my job interview, that very same day she decided to hire me, I knew instantly that we would click. She didn’t mind that I was a mortician by day and drag queen by night, and she didn’t care that I was as much of a loudmouth as she was. Mallory loved that I only wore ginger wigs while I was my hyper-femme alter ego Cassie Ketcher, and insisted I took inspiration from her flaming mop of red hair, only that hers didn’t look quite as dehydrated. What came as a surprise, then, was how I found a mentor in her, too. As a retired mortician, Mallory showed me how embalming was as much an art as it was a science, something I failed to fully grasp in mortuary school. The way her scalpel entered a body’s neck and trailed across skin was not unlike a duck treading mirrored waters, pressing forward without much thought. I always had two makeup kits—one for the living, one for the dead, both wildly unkempt. She said I only had to employ the reverence I had for drag onto the art of embalming to be a better mortician. Her words echoed inside me each time I picked up my tinting brush and helped the dead impersonate the living, if only for a few hours of viewing. By then, my life revolved around impersonation, an art ever so temporary. She became a mainstay at my shows, an attraction in her own right—I never got used to seeing this gentle-looking old lady floating amid a sea of gyrating, barely clothed queer people, hands clasped in front of her, swaying to the rhythm of whatever Ariana Grande song I was lip-syncing to. Her monochromatic pastel wardrobe became a built-in spotlight, and she relished every head-turn and double-take people did in her vicinity. Just one more thing we had in common. Whenever Mallory told me she wanted me to put her in drag, I always joked she was way too old to be my drag daughter. We never really got around to doing it. She would’ve looked beautiful, especially with her bone structure that somehow only grew more defined as she aged. I could put her in drag now, I thought, but I knew regular makeup only worked and melted with the heat of human skin, which Mallory was now lacking. I prepared her for her big viewing. She would once more be the center of attention. An hour before doors opened, I stood glued above her lilac casket, mind adrift as I fixed the stubborn clumps of red hair she never wanted out of place. Karl Khumo Calagan (he/him) is a queer Filipino writer, reader, book blogger, horror enthusiast, and lawyer aspirant. You can find him floating around over at karlcalagan.com.

I don’t remember begging my father for a leather whip, but he bought my brother and me leather whips in upstate New York the summer we went to a tent show run by a man who more than likely cracked a whip. I don’t remember: gee, I want one like his, or an assistant, or whip tricks like an assistant holds in her hand a paper dove a lash shatters, or the man fires blanks from a pistol at a grinning paper bear target, but he wore fringed buckskin and in the tent starred in a Wild West show. He’d starred in a TV western until cancer of the larynx forced him off TV. Here he was, a tent master in the summer night. He rode a horse around a ring, an audience clapped. I mostly remember the show ended, he told his small daughter if she couldn’t keep her dog quiet he’d take it out and shoot it. Somehow I knew she was his daughter, a pup in her arms as he spoke sharply. I knew also he starred in a TV commercial: he swam to a dock in a lake, as he sat on the dock a young woman draped a towel on his shoulders, and gave him a bottle of Coke, before his voice changed so it was no good for TV. I don’t remember the show he’d starred in, only his tent show, everyone getting up to leave, him towards the back scolding her so it wouldn’t happen again.

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.