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CW: violence I spent a year wanting to kill a preacher. Inside the mother’s body, a child began to grow. I imagined medieval contraptions. Sharpened metal designed to pierce, cut, and stretch. His fingernails extracted one by one, my laughter at his screams. The baby grew quick, the mother exhausted and nauseous in those early months. I moved on to the more practical. I had no gun but my dad had a shotgun and more. A bullet in the leg would fell him. The second would keep him down. I’d stand over him. The barrel of the rifle would split open his forehead. I’d spit into the stream of blood. A sonogram surprised with the reveal of a tiny penis. The mother regained energy as her belly gained heft. There was an arrest but he was out on bail. No lawyer nearby would touch him once the name of the victimized family had been leaked. No secrets in small towns. I plotted violence. The mother was put on bed rest. Monitored. Everything was monitored. Family emotions raw. Rumors had him at Wegman’s, sitting in the minivan while his wife shopped for groceries. Murderous thoughts became attainable. He’d get out for a stretch. I’d mow him down with my car. The bumper shattering his knees, the asphalt cracking his head, my wheels crushing his sternum. Trolling the parking lot, I visualized the carnage. The last months were long but less anxious for the mother. The boy was healthy and big. I didn’t attend the trial. I was afraid. Afraid of my hands reaching for his neck, squeezing him lifeless before other hands could reach me. Waiting. Waiting for the boy, waiting for the verdict. Guilty. He was going to jail. Guilty. I imagined the sick things that might happen to a man such as him on the inside, not sure if those thoughts rendered me guilty too. The child was born. My son. Almost 10 pounds and with much less trouble coming out than hatching. A beginning. Joy. The second child was my niece. She was 12 when it started. 12. The preacher told her he loved her. Told her those things were okay. Okay in the sanctity of the church. Her childhood ended as my son’s began. My son is grown and taller than me. I have two more children at home. I watch over them and hope never to want to kill again.

I am holding this huge ring and using what feels like every bit of my brain to try and remember what roman numeral XLVII stands for, but light is bouncing off the marble mantle, off my old, framed jersey and everything is messing with my thinking and I can’t get my thoughts straight. I know that X is supposed to be ten and V is five and I is one, but L is that fift?. So ten fifty five- I came in here looking for something, and I got distracted by my Super Bowl ring. Now I’m trying to remember what I was looking for, putting myself in the frame of mind that took me from the breakfast nook to this room, but I am blanking hard. Our long snapper that year was a classics major from Davidson and he explained how roman numerals work to all of us after the celebration champagne had turned sticky and everyone told any camera that would point their way they were going to Disney World! “Evan,” my wife calls. Shit. She told me to grab something in here. It's coming back, but not quick enough. Go get the… and then the thought evaporates. “Baby?” she calls. “I’m in here,” I say. “Are you okay?” “Yeah, I’m fine. Why?” In our house “Are You Okay?” isn’t a polite question from a wife to her husband. It’s a wellness check. Sometimes I am not fine and she has to come to my rescue. She can tell something is wrong this time, even if it is as minor as forgetting what I came in here for or not remembering how roman numerals are ordered. She is actively trying to figure out what I’m thinking about. “Did you grab your notebook?” she asks. “Not yet,” I say. I hold my ring up to her. “I got a little distracted.” She asks if I blacked out, and I tell her I just had to straighten something out. We reach an unspoken agreement to play along that everything is still okay and she walks back to the kitchen. Tori and I met in college. Even then she was my rock, helping me study for high school-level math or checking my conjugation tables when I had no idea when to use conocer. She kept me hopeful and picked me up when I wanted to quit the team. I proposed on Senior night and she cried as I picked her up and kissed her, smearing eyeblack and sweat from my face to hers. My memories of her are the things my brain fights to remember. They are put on a higher shelf than most thoughts, safe from the rising flood that has started rotting other parts of my life. I see a little green notebook on the chair next to me. I pick it up and remind myself I came to look for this. Of course! I didn’t blackout; I was just distracted. Now I hold the ring in one hand and the notebook in the other. I feel the heaviness of the ring, solid gold outweighing the small notebook. I set the ring back in its case. The overhead light is pointed to make all the little gems sparkle my name back at me like I am a king. The notebook is full of writing, mostly mine but some of Tori’s. “Love you, Ev” reads one, and “You can do anything!” is underlined on another page. A few bulleted lists: * Get up at 8 * Shower, brush teeth, shave * Go downstairs for breakfast Monday: Bacon (4) and eggs (3) Tuesday: Granola (3/4 cup) in yogurt Wednesday: Sausage biscuit Thursday: Bacon and Eggs … Sunday: No breakfast. Brunch with Tori and Abigail after Church. Abigail is a friend of Tori’s, but she sometimes comes with us to church. She comes every week if I remember right. On the other side of the page are large, capital letters written by a man who must have tried to be as convincing as possible without giving away how scared he really was: TAKE MEDS. TRUST THE DR. “Mommy,” Abigail calls down the stairs. Tori had a sorority sister named Abigail. My notebook was talking about our daughter Abigail, of course. She calls again and again, louder and tinnier each time because she is a child and that’s just what children do when they want something. I feel like I must make her stop yelling because I am developing a headache. I can’t concentrate on flipping through this little green notebook in my hands because my eyes are blurring because my head is feeling each pulse of blood my heart is sending through it, so I get angry. There is a forest fire in my brain and the acorns are pop pop popping. Now I am yelling back at my little daughter. She’s at the top of the stairs and looking down at me as I take the stairs two, maybe three, at a time. I slam my fist against the wall as I go up. Long whole notes of yells with quarter note thumps against the wall. She screams and runs to her room. My knees force me to stop moving, but they can’t stop me from trying to let the headache out through my mouth by way of screaming. Why am I so angry? It feels like everything would have been fine as long as she said “Mommy” one fewer time. I remind myself that I am a good father, a kind father, but I have to yell so she understands that I am serious about whatever I am saying. I can almost hear the picture frames rattle on the wall as I turn and let one last roar go through the whole upstairs. What am I saying? The back of my throat hurts now. “Evan, what’s going on?” Tori yells. She sees me standing at the top of the stairs and Abigail’s shut door. “What the hell did you do to her?” she asks as she blows past me and starts knocking on her door. “Abigail, baby, are you okay?” I’m not even close to the door, but I hear sobbing on the other side. “I don’t know what I-“ I am told to go downstairs and wait. I am a child again, in trouble with mom. She’s taking me out of church for being disruptive, not sitting still, or stealing from the collection basket. She goes into Abigail’s room as I take the steps one at a time now. My knees force me to be more careful and remind me that I don’t have the explosiveness once listed on my scouting report. I want to look back and see if she is okay, but I don’t. Tori comes down, and I can’t look at her. I trace the pattern in the kitchen counter with my finger to not have to look up and see her staring at me, waiting for me to start the conversation. I don’t want to see her disappointment. She doesn’t give up her silence and waits on the other side of the island, and I feel my face get hot. I was the one that threw a tantrum, not the child. “It really scares her,” Tori finally says. “When you let everything get to you.” The pendulum I was tied to now swings the other way. I burned my forest to the ground and now a river has come to sweep away all the ash. I slap my face, and it hurts like I want it to. I want the hurt to be outside instead of inside. “I don’t know what to do, baby,” I say into my hands as I feel tears in between my fingers. Tori takes a step closer, but I pick up a glass and smash it on the ground. She jumps back and puts a hand on her chest. Oh no. I’ve scared her too. I sit down, and she slowly walks over and puts two hands on my shoulders. I am a spiraling combination of angry, really angry, and soft. She puts her head on top of mine and her hair tickles my face. “Please take your pills,” she pleads. “I think they’ll help.” I hate my pills, but at that moment I don’t remember why. “I can’t take it anymore,” I say, and I’m not sure what I am talking about. The river inside me starts rising and everything is off balance. I want to lay on the floor and curl into a tight ball, but Tori is holding me up. It takes her only a moment to grab the pills from the cabinet, come back, and set them in my hand. The bottle feels full, and I try to remember how many I have taken and if they’ve ever helped. I tell her I need to go lay down, and she almost lifts me off the ground on her own. She would walk me all the way to the bed if I’d let her, but I say I can make it. I am quiet as I walk past Abigail’s room. She has a picture from a family trip to the beach taped to her door. We all look happy and sandy. It was in the downtime between Draft Day and the start of preseason camp. I was almost a different parent then-- I was too busy to get annoyed and lose my train of thought. Almost every day was mapped out where I should be and how I should do my job. I take two pills and hope they make me feel more like that parent. A word from the author: A former professional American football player fights to keep what he’s feeling under control as it gets worse.

1. “Good girl,” I say to the little dog when she pees beneath the palm tree outside my apartment building. That’s what the training video for Chihuahuas said you’re supposed to say. Good girl. And she seems pleased with herself. Good girl. And she is. A good girl. So far. 2. “Yet something doesn’t feel right about this,” I say to myself. “I feel like I’m the one being trained. Why is that?” 3. “No, wait,” I say to myself. “Don’t answer that. Stop. Just stop.” This. This makes me crazy. Thinking about this. It reminds me of what I did. How I adopted a dog. When I never planned to. When I’m not a dog person. When I never have been. Never wanted to be. I’m a cat person. And happy about it. Very. Happy. But last Saturday. It happened then. I was eating lunch in the park. And there she was. This tiny Chihuahua. Abandoned. In the park. Thin. Too thin. And tiny, tiny. I couldn’t leave her there. I couldn’t. I saw those people drive up, toss her out the window. I saw them drive away. But what could I do? What? So I rescued her. Adopted her. And look what happened. My life changed. Drastically. In just a week. Changed. In ways I never planned. Never wanted. Change. It’s not my friend. No. I’m not good with it. No, not at all. 4. “But, but, but,” I say to myself. “Stop. Just stop. Don’t say another word to me. Thank you.” 5. The little Chihuahua rolls over on my shoe to show me her fat belly. Good girl. And she is. And sweet. That too. I gently tug her new leash (just like the video said). She jumps to her feet. Potty break over. Time to go home. Laura Stamps loves to play with words and create experimental forms for her fiction. Author of 30 novels, novellas, and short story collections, including IT’S ALL ABOUT THE RIDE: CAT MANIA and THE WAY OUT (Alien Buddha Press). Winner of the Muses Prize. Recipient of a Pulitzer Prize nomination and 7 Pushcart Prize nominations. You’ll find her every day on Twitter (@LauraStamps16) and Facebook (Laura Stamps).

I only knew one Eunice in my life, and she lived long enough to get a birthday letter from the queen I have a covid fever am afraid I’m not doing well I’m deaf with snot, thank God, to hear it all would- anyway afraid of losing trees and roofs and fencing in the storm. Storm Eunice has arrived she’s singing whiney songs down to the hearth clinking wood-burner stove timpani and I’m afraid the wind will blow the chimney down I see it crashing through the roof it hits bed and kills the cat afraid the roof tiles will lift off fly sideways down and hit a car. The fact is - I have felt this many times before - I fear the wind. That time when hinge-ing from its final fixings like a big square wooden box lid that six-foot fencing on the border threatened to fly free alone then in my DIY incompetence, my neighbour laughed at me I tried to haul it free to lay it flat before it flew who knows what damage hundred mile an hour fence panels can do I tucked my chin into my chest and wore some gloves as if they gave me power struck on the face by rain I ripped and wrenched it wrestled it to horizontal next-door man looked on. And then I flew. The wind came underneath the panel was a square flat kite took off with me attached like Super Ted. We landed by a plum tree, me face-down, the panel looking innocent I’d travelled seven metres. My neighbour laughing still. That I am powerless against the storm, that laughter at me is the inevitable choral strain is what I fear Storm Eunice is a siren. I picture wreckage way before it comes. Lesley is currently shortlisted for Love Reading UK's 2022 very short story award with Jungle, 1971. Recent work can be found in The Broken Spine (twice featured flash of month) and Full House Lit Mag (featured creator). Kathryn O'Driscoll selected one of her poems for Full House's 2021 mental health live reading and forthcoming podcast. Dirigible Balloon and Parakeet have been lovely enough to publish some of her writing for kids.

Still Water torn with crossing waves tells how the wind blows currents to fight against the tide rolling forward flattening sand while cloud tissue rises catching fire from the sun and warmth escapes walls built by ancient hands I breathe deeply My lungs billow greedily pulling mineral air into my bones If the earth stopped turning If the moon tugging gently slowed to a halt If I could hold my breath The sea could at last grow still and do nothing but absorb the sky Unnamed I would never name it Shape it for you Transport it in words To your ears For your digestion So you can enjoy the taste Of your understanding And compassion You would require reasons And lessons learned A philosophical conclusion Me, wrapped in packaging You can read It ain’t gonna happen I suppose I should Do something with it As it is, unspoken It remains as large As the universe Surrounding me Sometimes I wake up At night and feel the truth Coming at me through The blackness and I Am afraid. I don’t want To see clearly, thank you It might be I am projecting on to you It is I pushing for a Consumable me I’m waiting ‘til it’s ok To look back If I turn too soon, I’ll fall Descending Me At the top is laughter A healing, welcome, guest Say hi to joy She loves to dance Next is hope A sturdy steam train Sometimes she chokes Love, like flowers Blooms in many colours Hello, sexuality A colourful bird of prey La Ego. Ever performing Never real The intellect Likes spinning riddles And empathy You speak, I feel Engage anger! She burns and comforts me Beware of fear Poisoning my vision While illusions peel away like dead skin The past Anchors me down Grief Coils in the dark Stillness passes I try to reach with shallow touch This is the I ascending me Tuesday Afternoons You look like happiness to me. Walking through the office with a noble stride. Putting things right, winking my way. If you were my boyfriend, I would be happy. When you leave, I want to eat chocolate, something with icing. A sugar hit to the brain, that’s what I need. Or a blow to the skull, may be better. To wake me from this restless sleep of desire with turns of fear and faith. Probably the cocktail born in humans since one saw their reflection in still water and thinking it was the self, asked: can I improve on this? And we continued ever more finding flaws in what is Accepting longing as the price for imagination. It's nothing to do with you really. Gráinne (grawn-ya) Shannon is a software developer, writer and poet from Ireland. Her day job inspired the award-nominated, Orla's Code, found on her website with her other side projects. When she's not working or writing, she's enjoying city life and often escaping it!

The last cold bite of the year together. Ice, wish you could fossilize the cream As an oasis to the desert Of my dry years to come. The inevitable ones Willing to leave me At once, Cutting my branches, Pruning twigs and leaves; Prick but tear me not apart. Uprooting costs dearly, Takes life, Bit by bit. You see very often The deserted sere roots too Grow greenish Once the tap leaks. Hopes do die And dying faith Fails to see the last look. Don’t you all feel the same? The shame of being a burden? Blankets still cover winter. Summer shines alone. Uday Shankar Ojha is a professor of English and former Dean, Student Welfare at Jai Prakash University, Chapra, Bihar, India. He has authored/edited many books on literature and has lectured widely across his country. He is prone to singing ghazals past midnight and has a hard time saying no to rice, lentils and curry despite his gym trainer advising against full Bihari meals. Regardless, he manages to stay in shape. Uday has captained his district cricket team and has been a table tennis player in the 80s. He can be reached at udayshankarojha001@gmail.com

Things We Did Before Google Danielle yells my name at the gate louder than usual and I trip over my dad’s shoes, stumbling out the door. Her eyes are euphoric bouncing balls - in her arms a new pair of neon green rollerblades with four gel wheels that light up when she spins. I rush back in, grab my worn-out pair - the one I keep under my bed, two sizes too big, passed around too many times. We sit on the sidewalk - her feet slide into her birthday present, and I stuff old stretched-out socks inside mine to make them fit. We pull the buckles as tight as Rose's corset. No helmets or elbow pads, we wear scabs and scars. Holding hands to get up from the curb, we stand as tall as a captain. We skate down to the video store as if we were in a Gaelic Storm at a third-class party. We've been waiting all 1998 for Titanic to dive right into our VHS players, months opening our arms singing Celine Dion's My Heart Will Go On in perfect gibberish. We know things take a while to come to Brazil. A semi-open box labeled new arrivals stands on the counter at the store, and I can hear the flute melody echoing from the inside. Robbie steps out from the backstage of his store in full theatrics, sound effects brought to us by his bamboo curtains. Bravo, give this man an Oscar. Hands behind his perfectly postured back, Titanic - the double VHS, still sealed with plastic film appears before our eyes. We grab the box as if it were a life jacket, saving our afternoon. Three consecutive hours of swooning over Jack, drenching ourselves in the ocean of our newfound grief. We pull together our change, skate down to the drugstore, and pick up some red hair dye. We want to be Rose Agape Thaina (she/her) is a Brazilian-American poet and educator based in Maryland. Nominated for Best of the Net by Sledgehammer Lit, her poetry has also been featured at OlneyMagazine, Lumiere Review, South Africa New Contrast, The Bitchin’ Kitsch, and elsewhere. She hopes her work will empower, connect the human experience, and evoke new perspectives. Find her on IG: @thainawrites Twitter: @teedistrict

For this you will need: Frantic efforts to avoid real or imagined abandonment (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of the American Psychiatric Association, Fifth Edition, 2013) 1) When ready, force-feed to others, for validation. They will tell you, in no uncertain terms, that it tastes disgusting. 2) Receive an unflavoured spoonful like medicine. Find it to be as bitter as the old adage would suggest. 3) Resolve to stay away from the kitchen unsupervised. Grains of sugar coat your tongue as you sweeten every recipe with lies, hands over your hands kneading dough. There. Now isn’t that better? It’s a funny thing, abandoning things as a borderline. You’re meant to be terrified of it. Camille Lewis is a writer, avid reader and Plathian from South West England who lives with borderline personality disorder. She reads for The Winnow and Bandit Fiction.

Wyfy had the metal man in their mind again while tilling in the field, near daybreak, most everyone else asleep aside from Wyfy’s partner Eyebee-Em. It was always the same old thoughts. Hearing first the sound he made while trapped in that chamber in Ghost Place, then seeing his servos twitch, face glitch. Then it’s the last time Wyfy saw him, in the middle of the night, and Wyfy was so tired that it all felt like a dream: waking, on a sleeping pad in an old mossy building, while the metal man, in sideways-vision, tried to make no noise as he left, squeaking still, his joints old enough for oiling, but they’d just never gotten around to it. No note, no goodbye, just leaving into pre-dawn night. It was always the same thoughts. So it’s work, then. Breaking up dirt, clearing out rocks, checking the membrane they’ve stitched from beforetimes materials, the stuff that’s supposed to keep the glow out, cut into triangles and glued to the metal half-circle scaffolding that encloses them all, this geodesic dome that lets them stay out in the middle of the day, take in sunlight, work the fields. Live. Eyebee-Em came in through the fields, barefoot, waterskin in their hand, careful to alternate from left to right. “Wyfy.” Turning and seeing, putting down the till. Smiling, wiping the sweat from their face, replacing it with dirt smear. “You never forget your morning coffee.” Wyfy didn’t bother with an excuse, just reached out for the waterskin. “Careful. It’s hot.” That first sip like all was right with the world, like it would be forever, like the glow was nothing but a minor inconvenience. Pointing up at the geodesic dome, the thin membrane of future-fabric, some of it translucent blue, some translucent green, depending on where they scavenged it from. Wyfy stifled a laugh. It was branded as future-fabric about 800 years ago. Now it was just fabric. “Holding up fine still.” Eyebee-Em nodded, kissed Wyfy’s shoulder. “Get some rest once that starts aching.” No verbal response from Wyfy, just “mmm.” “I mean it.” Wyfy turned to take in Eyebee-Em. Their oiled and braided beard, painted face, winged eyes. The sheen to their hair and the style of their dress that felt perpetually from another time: a time both ancient and remotely futuristic. Leaning in, adding a kiss to their lips. “I will. Promise.” Eyebee-Em weighed the response, nodded, went off to do another perimeter check. All it would take, as they liked to remind Wyfy daily, was one strong storm to rip open the membrane, or perhaps an incursion from the GAMI folk, and even though they hadn’t seen GAMI folk in months and the membrane had stood up to every storm so far, it’d done nothing to assuage Eyebee-Em’s worries. So they checked, and Wyfy tilled, and the people, when they woke, would work the fields, some of them, others work at storymaking, others prints and oils and paintings, and others would do their songwork, and under the dome you could smell new life rising up through earth once barren, gnawed away-at by the glow just like everything else, but under the dome life was safe to rise once again, at least for now, and Wyfy could still see when their tribe first came together, twelve years ago, Wyfy was always diligent about counting, and they were nothing more than a band of misfits and castaways dancing round a fire, trying to squeeze one more day out of life’s quickly-drying rag, and now they’re actually living, and the glow is just some light in the sky out and past their membrane, but the old dreams and nightmares still won’t go away. The dreams and the nightmares and some of them real enough to believe that they were once memory and not just dream, like the recurring one that Wyfy has every few weeks, of a boy drawing a metal person on white membrane, or sometimes he’s retrieving scant food from a white box, or sometimes he’s watching visual records, or sometimes he’s not a boy at all but a man, fingers flying over an intact board, keys pressed and words quickly populating a lighted screen, or sometimes he’s older than any person Wyfy’s ever seen, and there are lines all over his face and silver in his hair and there are people come to see him in a great big room, and when they see him there on his higher floor, they hit their hands together over and over and over, and this is strange but also quite touching, and Wyfy’s mind sometimes seems to want to be anywhere other than right here, right now. The people would be up soon, so it was time to put away that hazy-smoke thinking, swap it for fingers in soil, peapods collected and washed in basins, songwork in the air and movement in sunlight. But time, still, for one last remembrance before getting back to work. That time round the fire, years ago: dancing, dancing, and the changing, changing, changing of people and time, and the group’s final decision on what they’d be called, and Wyfy can’t remember now which of them said it first, but they all agreed after that they were, all of them, the non-belongers. As time passed, Non-Belongers was shortened to Enbees. So that’s who they were. Wyfy smiles at the remembrance, looks out past the hazy green-and-blue and imagines, just for a moment, the silhouette of the old metal man on the horizon. There for a second, then gone again in the blink of an eye.

spring thinking about eunuchs which may be absurd since I never had what they lost but still. also railroad tracks, unused for years also the pattern spilled birdseed makes on the porch floor: a means of divination, surely, if I could read it, and punctuation. did you know they didn't used to have it? but somehow managed. a tooth is sort of shaped like a wooden clothespin, the kind without a spring. now I've done it. It is dead ugly winter and I want spring so badly it's a sickness like a missing body part. possibly how a eunuch feels. This Is For All For all of everything that is not in books, nor on the internet, all the wild truth only to be found under our shoe soles on pavements or in the desert, sand underneath bare feet on a beach, washing out the way it does all around the foot so leaving a little hill right under the center of the sole and you can't help but wiggle a little then to make it go flat. Or in the woods, where you really have to spend some time paying attention in a way you never could learn to do in any school unless you are ignoring the teacher with great commitment so that the air stops being so shy and begins to whisper to you directly. For all of this, I offer thanks. For you, you truths, you body of being here. We have ignored you for far too long. Please stay with us, we need you desperately, stay like the trees do and the rocks. How sad we have become without you. Kyla Houbolt (she, her), born and raised in North Carolina, currently occupies Catawba territory in Gastonia, NC. Her first two chapbooks, Dawn's Fool and Tuned were published in 2020. More about them on her website, https://www.kylahoubolt.com/. Her individually published pieces online can be found on her Linktree: https://linktr.ee/luaz_poet. She is on Twitter @luaz_poet.

CW: violence My uncle was a terrible man. It's a statement I won't take back. He has seen and been through some things, you know. Any effort I would take to paint Tiberius Theoda Rex as a nice guy would be a lie. His name elicits fear, actions too, but I favored him, and hung out with him as often as I could. He exuded this kind of morbid charm and had a booming bluesman voice even when it whispered. I couldn't help but copy him, including his masculinity, for it epitomized the necessary strength, toughness, and smarts it took to survive being black in Chicago. So what's so bad about him? First of all, Tiberius was a leatherneck and survivor of the Korean War. I mean, ground combat had really affected him. I, myself, couldn't fathom shooting, bayoneting, and hand-fighting another man to the death. But he did, he had to. To know the next day wasn't a given required something other than faith, it required luck. It was under those bloody conditions that he learned, up close, a whole lot about native-style wrestling and martial arts. Both methods nearly killed him. Now, he used them on his fellow Chicagoans. Perhaps being built like a silverback helped. His entire body moved angrily. Even his manner of walking, almost predatory, to warn all to be careful when around him. Although a man of average height, those broad shoulders and long arms of his were abnormally strong. And as a stout man, he was surprisingly light on his feet and could spring into action real fast. Such speed was likely a byproduct of being an amateur boxer before Uncle Sam drafted and sent him overseas to dodge bullets and death. If all of that didn't intimidate, his face surely would. It was obsidian color and square-shaped, beneath a salt and pepper buzz cut, that had a pair of malevolent hazel eyes that shined. But he hid them purposely behind shades, especially indoors, knowing full well they made people uneasy. His fierce eyes forced a lot of lookaways. Sometimes his stare was detectable through those dark sunglasses. So let's just say, Tiberius had a serious look that burned hot without trying. Still though, having such an ominous presence drew attention. So Tiberius did all kinds of tough guy work. Nightclub door man, bouncer, and bodyguard. Nothing nine to five and mostly short term. At some point he saved up to buy this cool-looking, navy blue, four door, International pickup truck, with a matching enclosed trailer in tow. It fit him and his personality. Having such a ride enabled him to earn lots of money. You see, Tiberius began excelling at his true vocation of being a freelance Gorilla. That trailer of his rarely went empty. He would load it up with the dispossessions of Chicagoans unable to repay their debts, but it was also used for supplementing his income. Tiberius fenced goods and robbed affluent homes, warehouses, truck hijackings, and railcars. Occasionally, he would collect debts for this Italian loan shark in Chicago Heights. I remember going with him to this used car dealership on the Southside. The owner owed a substantial sum, but was slow in making payments, claiming low sales; moreover, he chose to insult Tiberius. Believing stupidily if the Italians had been really serious they wouldn't've sent a Nigger. My uncle let him speak his mind and just listened, shockingly kept his cool, then we left, went and returned before closing time with a borrowed car hauler. Upon entering, the owner misjudged Tiberius until the lethality began. My uncle punched him with such force it broke his jaw and knocked him cold. He turned out his pockets and his place, then proceeded to stand over him, placed his size thirteen on his wrist, and blew off a finger to wake him up. Tiberius hauled that screaming idiot to the repair shop. There, the owner was bound, stuffed, and thrown into a car trunk, and then the car was lifted skyward. I was so afraid and had never been so close to such carefree violence, but my fears soon subsided. My uncle's smokey voice did it; he ordered that I get all the car keys so he could pick and choose five sedans to load up and deliver. Moreover, I was told I should pocket all the cash on hand and think of it as a usury fee. After that event, I should’ve ran. But I didn't. Just the opposite, I orbited the danger whenever I could, like light meeting at the event horizon. Sure, some collections weren't as brutal as others. Simple intimidation sufficed. Either way, the debt was paid. The ones I hated most involved women. Tiberius never hit or raped them, but threatened it. He would give an ultimatum. Go broke or get housebroken. Give up everything and be indebted to him, or get hogtied to the bed, to be sold and left there naked for any dick to visit. Quite often, all it took was the removal of his shades and picking up the telephone. Man, I was so glad when broke was chosen more often over being housebroken. Otherwise, I would walk out when he subdued the brave. Neither a misogynist, nor a womanizer, Tiberius was simply cutthroat. It lessened a bit after a late night of raiding some boxcars left on Wood Street, near Jewel Food Store, and Hermitage Park. Instead of finding high-end apparel or electronics, he found alcohol. Pallets of imported Asian Rice Wine. I considered the take worthless, but not him. He had a buyer in mind, so I help load up as many boxes as his enclosed trailer could hold, and then drove it all to Chinatown the following day. There we entered Tong's Golden Dragon Chinese Restaurant. Tiberius met the owner to offer his entire load at a price. And that's when he saw this fine-looking Vietnamese waitress, his future wife, and mother of his children, Ngo Thi Phang -- a woman of almost thirty. She had an innocent oval face, butter skin tone, a pear-shaped, shoulder length haircut and she was much shorter than him. However, there was a slight problem. When he inquired about her, he soon learned that she belonged to the Chinatown Merchant Association. Ngo had been recently smuggled into the States under the pretense of becoming a bride, but instead became enslaved, and her labor hadn't been fully exploited yet to offset that cost. Right then and there, without forethought, my uncle offered a trade. Ngo for all the rice wine and a one-time favor. Mr. Tong laughed at first, then surrendered, following serious negotiations, but it came with a caveat, that his business partners must agree to it. I hadn't seen Tiberius for almost a week when the doorbell rang. On my front porch stood them both, dressed in black silk. From head to toe, my uncle personified a fancy Grim Reaper. While Ngo contrasted him with her sexy traditional Asian dress. She hung on his arm, aglow, jocund, speaking Korean, and looking directly into those bright eyes of his. They came to say hello and goodbye. Tiberius and Ngo were moving to Skokie, Illinois where he had a triplex brownstone. He hadn't done anything with it. Now he had a reason. As a parting gift, I was given a large carry out bag along with a private number and magic word. They both soon departed. I watched him escort, open the passenger door, help her climb up and into the seat, before shutting it. He was in love, her too, no doubt about it. I thought it a miracle. To think, that man right there had it in him and acted as my role model and guidepost. I would miss him. Even after he had softened a bit, which wasn't much. Because, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't toss aside that cold and ruthless nature of his. Ngo accepted him as so; and, like myself, she was drawn to it. It had its benefits. In spite of it all, the pain he inflicted, and newfound love, I figured I would hold onto all of what I learned from him just the same. I retreated into my basement bedroom. As soon as I sat down, I reached for my food and pulled out two large egg rolls, a takeout box of shrimp lo mein, chopsticks, fortune cookies, and at the bottom was four money knots wrapped in napkins. Twenty-three thousand I counted while I ate and watched television. The nine o'clock news began broadcasting another homicide: the murder of a black man. In this case, he fit the description of a criminal responsible for a rash of fast food robberies, including the Tong's Noodle Kitchen on the Southside near 69th and Western. His body had been discovered in K-Town. Found in a dumpster, his black belt bow-tied around his neck, twice shot, ribs and skull fractured. The police labeled it as gang related. Good thing not much attention was given to the greasy food receipt that had fallen out of his mouth. For it blended in with the rest of the trash. Korean calligraphy was written on it, which translated: one favor, paid. I didn't follow Tiberius Rex around that day, so I missed it, and probably for the best. Even so, I could visualize how it likely went down. And like I said, he was one terrifying man. It's a statement I won't take back. Wayne McCray was born in East St. Louis, Illinois, in 1965, and grew up in Chicago until 1984. He attended Southern University A and M College in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. He currently lives in Itta Bena, Mississippi, enjoying country life. His writings have appeared in Afro Literary Magazine, The Bookends Review, Chitro Magazine, The Ocotillo Review, Ogma Magazine, Pigeon Review, The Rush Magazine, and Wingless Dreamer.

Cumming and Leaving Copenhagen, Denmark You will remember my tapping on your hip when in the produce aisle at the grocery store I cannot pronounce and laugh at the field cucumbers. You will wander through the kid’s aisle—can’t believe what we sell our kids. Nerf guns, water guns. I will be leaving in the morning so we make it good. Six weeks worth in one shot. Yes, that’s what it was: a shot. In the back of my throat, my chest. My hand on your hip. You will not see me in six weeks, no, it will be 16 months and I will not be in your bed, no, I will be cleaning up the shrapnel still. And you will be forking your potatoes. Jessie Peitsch is a writer from Vancouver, British Columbia. 9am-5pm she writes emails. 5pm-9am she writes stories. Her poetry has been published in Canadian literary magazines, including Contemporary Verse 2, and she is currently working on her first young adult novel.