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Lana lit my hair on fire a couple weeks ago trying to light a stogie, so she crinkles her arm when we embrace to avoid a repeat singe. She squeezes my chest with her fist on my shoulder blade as we touch cheeks and my nose nudges her earlobe. She inhales her clove cigarette and exhales before she kisses me on the cheek, on the forehead. She smells like Christmas, L’Oréal, French fries, and lust. Even though our jeans are chafing on crevices and folds, our sweat-soaked clothes never smelled better. My nose rubs along her earlobe until I feel wet hair. Seaweed shampoo from the local organic co-op. I know it from massaging it into her scalp many years ago. She pulls away, says “Take care cowboy,” pats me on the butt and adjusts her glasses. She puts her palm to lips, smooches it, and blows me a kiss with jazz hands. I wink like Vin from The Magnificent Seven. I leave her at the punk bar and march north on the main drag. We used to be an item. The gross kind. The-make-out-in-the-Giant-on-aisle-14-to-cheers-of-employees-and-groans-of-customers kind. The lets-have-sex-in-public-restrooms-and-on-the-highway-on-top kind of item. Calf love in freshly graying corpses until the honeymoon finished. We split on mostly amicable terms. She asked me to stop by. I thought to talk about a favorite writer’s new novel. Instead we crooned love songs at each other with our eyelashes and lip shapes. The world is blurry and I’m a bit wobbly from too many dollar Pabst tallboys. A car slows down beside me, and in Washington, DC, the gay friendliest city in the world, a rando yells something homophobic. I try to take to social media to proclaim that street harassment looks so different to guys than it does women, that men never get catcalled. Instead we get stuff like Mr. Rando—but I’m too drunk for my thumbs. But what did it? My shiny blue shoes? The sports coat? My hair? What made Mr. Rando decide he needed to call me something like that? I do look dapper in my cheap threads. At a major intersection, the sign says “walk,” and we stroll across. Women giggle on their way to bars while, men point chins forward, exposing their necks with guffaws and confidence behind trimmed beards. There’s an old saying from Marilyn Monroe about building sex appeal, something about being able to imagine having sex with every person you meet. It sounds exhausting, but I don’t do it to be horny. I want people to want me. For the most part it works out. Although, last week, a young college student with her friend walked up to me and my girlfriend and said, “I want you to Fifty Shades of Grey me.” My girlfriend thought it hilarious. She always does. As I imagine fucking everyone in the crosswalks, cars brake at streetlights knowing they could kill us with a lifted foot. An older lady walks her happy puppy whose tail wags away everyone’s fear. As I pass a convenience store, two guys come out the alley. I keep on and one guy shouts, “Hey!” I stop and turn. One guy, tall and in white t-shirt and sweatpants, gets in front of me and the other dressed in SWAT black, comes behind. I nod, friendly-like. “Do you have a cigarette?” I take out my Pall Malls and give him one. “Hell yeah,” he says. “Real man’s cigarette.” “Do you need a light?” I ask. “Yes,” he says, and I pass matches. He tries striking a couple, when I pull out a lighter and light his cigarette. I light one up for myself. I offer SWAT guy one. He declines. “How’s your day?” I ask. “It’s really shitty. My mom’s in the hospital, and I can’t pay my rent. My job sucks and it’s just an all-around bad day.” “I’m really sorry to hear that,” I say. “Thank you,” he says. “Just give it to the lord. But you’re real kind.” SWAT guy says, “Oh no! Can we just do it now?” “No, not this guy,” says the smoker, as he exhales. “What?” I say. “We were supposed to rob you.” “You were what?” I repeat. “But I can’t,” he becomes solemn. “Because you listened to me go on about my day.” “Well,” I say, “I’m a nice guy, I guess.” “You’re too nice,” he says, “I’d rather rob one of these other motherfuckers out here instead. Rude motherfuckers.” There’s an awkward silence. “Thanks for the cigarette and giving me an ear,” he says. “No problem,” I say. We shake hands. He asks, “How would you like to go out for drinks?” “Uh, no!” I say. Realizing they tried to rob me, I say, “I need to get back to my girlfriend. She’s waiting for me.” “You don’t have a girlfriend,” he snarls. “I do.” “If you have a girlfriend then you are lying to her. Why are you lying to her?” I look at the guy behind me leaning against a mailbox. “I’m not lying and I should get going.” “Okay, okay, you SHOULD go before I change my mind. But let me get your number so that we can hook up. I’ll send you a picture of my trouser snake.” I look over at the SWAT guy who says, “I don’t agree with this at all. Please know that I do not support his lifestyle." I look back at Mr. Trouser Snake. It’s not that I didn’t find the man attractive, I did, and I am a switch-hitter, it’s just that- who the hell goes on a date with someone who almost robbed them? Getting hit on by men isn’t all too foreign to me either. So many men have tried to cruise me by showing me their peckers, whether on the phone, or next to me in the stall. “It’s cool,” I say. “I don’t need to see it.” But he’s already pulled up a photo of his weiner on his flip phone and is waving it around. Every time I tell this story to women, they usually laugh. When I tell men they always ask how big it was. It’s hard to tell from a flip phone photo and whether he played with angles, but definitely it’s someone’s bits plastered over the screen. Mr. Trouser Snake put his hands together and says, “You don’t understand, I’ve been to prison and sometimes I float a certain way and I’ve got a good dick. Ask anyone on U Street and give them my name! They’ll tell you I am the best in town.” “Who will tell you?” says the other. Trouser Snake lists the names of a bunch of women, and then he asks me, “What’s your name?” I tell him the wrong name, “Gary.” He tells me his name. He says it and I repeat it. I say it again and, “The best dick in town, gotcha! I look forward to it. Where do you usually hang out?” “Right here. Stop by some time. You’re really pretty and you are so nice. We can do a floozy in the Jacuzzi.” “I’ll stop by tomorrow night.” I won’t stop by the next night or any night. I turn and walk north again. I hear them arguing about how nothing went to plan and how picking up dates is not the same thing as robbery. I high tail it north, and on up to my apartment. I open the door and my partner wakes up and says, “Are you okay? How’s Lana?” “Lana’s fine. I’m fine,” I say. “But I just had the weirdest interaction.” “What happened?” “I almost got mugged but the guy asked me out for drinks. Isn’t that funny?” “You really woke me up to tell me guys thought you were hot?” “I almost got mugged.” “Yeah okay. You should’ve just said that. I never want to hear about how men think you are hot. Okay? If you want to date guys, do that. No straight woman wants to think about her man with other men.” “But I almost got mugged.” “But you didn’t,” she says. “I’m the girl. I’m the pretty one. Learn this. Girls don’t like men who need compliments.” “What the fuck?” I say as I peel my clothes off. “I’m sorry,” she says. “Sorry you almost got mugged. They probably thought you were gay because you’re too friendly. But I’ve been telling you for years, you shouldn’t talk to anyone you don’t know in the city. That’s country shit. It’s time to learn city shit. Get some street smarts.” I shake my head, crawl and walk to the window overlooking the city. Thinking about the interaction out on the street, maybe the problem really is me. I think back to the girl who wanted me to Christian Grey her, so sure that I was hers. A couple weeks ago at a club, a woman walked right up to me and kissed me without my consent and I had to fight her off. She wanted to take me home to her husband. Jesus Christ! What if Mr. Rando called me that because he also wanted to take me home? How many people have accused me of leading them on or friendzoning them? 1, 2, 3, 4…oh God. Am I just a tease to everyone? Maybe I should insure my legs for a $1 million like that lady in the lobby said when I wore shorts that one time. I light a cigarette and remember a girl in 3rd grade who called me ugly in the worst way possible and I: 1. Wonder why she has so much power over me and 2. Believe she’s the only person telling the truth.

1. A Love Poem by Ahab1 Candomblé2 Only a stupid poet3. . . could think a poem, capable of capturing your beauty! The honey of the beecomb, tastes not as sweet, as your blushing kisses. Magnificent girl, into the curls of your hair, will I swirl . Girl ! Here I stand, in your shadow, lightened by your glimmer. Purple majesty! You reign over my heart, will you care for your property? O ! Who ever had -- in his sights -- a beauty4 such as you , to bless his eyes? You! What spell5 have you cast over me? I am yours. My maiden, how much longer will you make me wait, to love you? 1 Herman Melville, Moby Dick; Ralph Ellison, The Invisible Man; James Baldwin, Notes of A Native Son 2 Robert A. Voeks, Sacred Leaves of Candomblé 3 Joyce Kilmer, Trees 4 Charles Baudelaire, Beauty 5 Nina Simone, I Put A Spell On You Who birthed you -- Aphrodite6? Beauty ! -- will you consider my outstretched hand? Chasity, for you! For a face as fine as yours, will chaste I keep; marry me? Where are beauties such as you, made? Surely in heaven7. . . I thought I smelled your perfume -- in a shopping center the other day -- but then , it was only a bundle of roses. Will your delicate hands -- fit into this diamond ring -- that belonged to my grandmother? My heart flails its vulnerable side to you -- will you reject it? Be with me! Be with me forever! I offer my soul to you -- do you accept? Oh good. That trite love poetry, will have successfully disguised this urgent plea for help . . . By the time you are reading this, it may well be too late for me! 6 Sandro Botticelli, The Birth of Venus 7 Langston Hughes, Heaven If you're reading this -- that means that my letter made it out; I risked everything to get this outside; I only pray my captors don't find it first . . . Here's the story -- I'm being held against my will -- on a farm -- somewhere in Vermont. I can't remember where. This place is a living hell -- I'm gnashing my teeth just thinking about it. Every night, they torture me -- and they really enjoy it, the sickos. They get off on it -- they even recorded it, one time! They said they'll play it back for me later . . . and that I'll eventually grow to like it, just like they do. I can't think about my pride, right now, or about how much I've suffered under this roof . . . If you want the truth I almost wish I were dead. They've made my life such a living hell -- it's gruesome. A few hours ago, they took my friends. I don't know where they took them -- or what happened to them -- I only know, that whatever happened to them . . . was absolutely horrific. I'm sorry -- I just teared a little bit -- and a few tears fell on this letter. Please don't mind that -- I can't help it. I can barely bring myself to finish this -- I'll try to wrap it up as soon as I can. Before you even finish reading this letter -- call the cops! I need a helicopter squad searching for me. Make sure they have SWAT teams search every farm in Vermont. It's the only way they're ever going to find me. One of my captors drives a Toyota Prius, and the other one drives a blue minivan, I forget which company makes it -- guess it doesn't matter too much -- so that should help narrow down their search. Call the cops! Do it! I don't have much time left: I can feel it. Tell them to send dog teams, too -- who knows what we're up against. Now that you've returned to the letter -- after calling the cops -- I need you to call all of the major news stations and alert them to my status . . . as a prisoner against my will. Put down this letter and do it, friend! Now! And on second thoughts, call the cops again -- maybe have them send in the air force to fly a few jets around the tri-state area -- my captives told me that they can do a lot worse than I could ever imagine -- so we can't take any chances! Hey, maybe you could even get Spiderman to come rescue me? That'd be cool -- he's my favorite superhero. Could you call him up? My stupid captives won't ever let me go see his movies, even though all of my friends at school are allowed to go see them whenever they please. It took all that I could do, to persuade them to buy me the recent Spiderman action figures . . . Once I got them, I played with them non-stop, and for hours. I kept being too tired to do my homework, so my captives eventually took my action figures away -- which was a few hours ago. Now, they've got me holed up in the attic, until I have learned my lesson -- I don't know what these sickos think my lesson is, but the only lessons, that I damn sure know anything about, are the ones that Mrs . Hendrickson -- who teaches the second grade at my school, teaches me during class. But! my captives are really sinister -- that's why I stopped calling them my parents, and started calling them my captives -- I don't know what kind of lesson these sickos have in mind for me, but I know it won't be another same old, same old multiplication lesson, like the kinds Mrs . Hendrickson gives. Those lessons are super hard -- but nothing compares to the grief of losing my best friends -- my Superman action figures -- oh! and let me tell you what they did to me, earlier this evening. My captives -- they told me -- the sickos -- that they'd prepared a real special supper for me -- the sickos even said I would like it. Then -- they had the nerve to place a plate in front of me, covered with sesame tofu, and garlic broccoli -- it makes me want to puke, just thinking about it! Aw no, I just puked all over this letter. I don't have another sheet of paper -- so it'll have to do. I started wailing -- I said I wouldn't eat it. Then they freaked out -- being sickos, after all -- and forced me to eat the broccoli . . . It's difficult for me to write about! I'm sorry, I just spilled some more tears onto this letter. Look! I'm sensitive! They can't do this to me! It's illegal! I don't know what these sickos think that they are doing -- but I learned about the constitution in Mrs . Hendrickson's class -- my parents can't get away with this -- please, get Spiderman, have him rescue me -- and then he'll turn my parents over to the coppers, and they'll arrest these -- boogerheads! I'm kind of sleepy -- I'll finish here. Mommie gave me some sleepy time milk, and it has really worn me out. Ugh -- I loathe her -- how could she take away my Spidermans, and force me to eat “ healthy ” broccoli? Despicable! It isn't fair, and she'll find out the hard way -- believe me -- when she's doing time in a federal prison. And don't get me started on Papa -- I realized my life was a living hell, when he told me that I couldn't get the inflatable bouncy house, that I wanted from the store. My life is so hard ! Papa may even get the electric chair, who knows! He's a real sicko, too. Okay -- I'll throw this out of the window, and hope to dearest God someone finds it -- and sends help! Remember: send the helicopter search teams! Yours fondly, Ahab Candomblé, Second Grade Sargasso8 State Preparatory Academy 8 Jean Rhys, Wide Sargasso Sea G . R . Tomaini have three books of poetry forthcoming and is looking to place a fourth. He is also editing a Philosophical System for publication at present. He is interested in Queering the Canon, and is LGBTQ.

STILLNESS Of what use is the roaming of your thoughts in a desert field. of what use is your calling and screams. the only fillet holding your joy leads to damnation. every boy you see know each corners to build a bank, but you always fell on the banked corners of your life. I carve a glyph of my imagination with a shrub, I have forgotten that hard planks are fiend to the termites mother thawed each part: --pruning the edges of her heart --painting it with obscure colours I imagined how my night will hold ceremonies to my body, which always resurface drowned fish, feasting on worms that wage wars to the belly I imagined rooms that lit up faces with delight where the history of yesteryears is read with the real language, and to prune where each shape takes the semblance of betrayal. I might not come back here to feed you the pill that cure my predicament that knows no bound but I am here tonight, watching the stars and the moon feeding my body with metaphor of loss . ANGEL OF KINDNESS For Captain T Your heart, a candelabrum, lighting rooms engrossed in darkness. making me to envisage about land where dreams come true Your words, written in letters of your verses ' I'm hard to be broken' losing my thoughts to the shrapnel that enslaved me. You told me how my words are getting weighty 'boy, do not allow grief get too much of you' and I remembered the night I put a rock in my mouth the night the song in my throat levitate on nothingness. and I remember that, I'm not too late to touch beauty ' everything around me is betraying me' here, your heart is at the brink of fire each thump of your chest was accompanied with dolours upon dolours and dolours upon dolours each sound you made is cupped with regret. maybe life has a way of scrubbing walls with decorations and that night, you redraft the content of your plans, excavating the leaking roofs, meshing your rooms with water of pains STAIRWAY when I heard my mother sob over the cracks in her body and Golgotha of thoughts slit through her heart I, running on fragmented glass take a caution Every tear on her eyes rise Every tear on her eyes dries Here, I rehearsed slowly to the music choking the waters in me it's the motion in me that took a break from the drizzling of rain, of fires, of cold. I secluded my mouth from these -- stale waters -- unmoved rivers of affection It's not the the darkness that fogged these lights It's the feet that danced to the dirge from bloody wayfarers Tonight, I will saunter my feet to my mother I will croon a song that unchain the chains of the stainers Her origin wasn't choreographed with pain She is the healing, the water, the water and when next she bludgeoned her peace with the stairways that jabbed her feets before rehearsing her body to the motion that stood her still on the ground of healing I will kneel, and preach, and sing, There I will unmute waiting songs in her throat, I will push the bird fleeing in her mind nest It's not the sunlight that breaks on her back it's not the heavy rain that hurls coldness to her flesh cataloguing pains is the arrangements of fires on a parched throat Aderohunmu Abdulrokeeb is a poet, whose pen name is Bonnylad.He is an undergraduate at the University of Ibadan. He hails from Ogun state, Nigeria. He's jovial and loves the presence of little children. He was the winner of (SO IT WAS YOU) poetry contest, February edition in 2020.His works has featured in voice lux journal, kalonopia magazine, fiery scribe review,Kalahari review commune writers and elsewhere.

Swarming vibes of hope I seldom thread from this swelling beach of Chennai – The Marina, shore lined by families and friends, lovers and kids. I remember that final day well-spent watching the blue of this sea, constantly lashing its complaints on the shores erasing every name written, every foot that dared to mark a print. I let the taste of its marine breath dig into the pores of my warm skin, A quick kiss by the land breeze. The sand-like sparkling stones mined from the blue vastness covered my cracked feet - an intimate sandal shining in the noon sun. I watch the waves rush from strange distances, to fall on top of each other, giggling and gurgling over their prude prank of slipping soil bringing people standing by the margins of the shore to their waters. Now tell me, did you hear their loud laughter and silly jokes too? After throwing back that garbage back to the shore, carrying with them few slippers and bodies too? Did you hear them? What else did you feel then, that day with me? Tell me I’m all eager to know, The wise whispers of Mairna waves. Was it the ageless story of their twisted love? Or was it of the pain – of holding everything that was once considered lost? I'm Joanna George, a student at Pondicherry University, India, who spends half of my time over cups of chai speculating about life and photovoltaics. However, I write for putting the weight down, catching a wisp of hope in this mundane life and over the last years my poems have been published in literary journals such as Honey Literary, Parentheses Journal, Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review and recently four of poems were short-listed for the Isele Poetry Prize.

Dance shoes awaken to jolts and pounding, shaken alive on the factory floor. In our case, we were also enveloped in a strange mist that seeped into our flesh, smelling of rotten meat. Like all things, I believe we were intended for good, but the factory was overrun by something that was not, and it got into our soles, the pores, the spaces in between the faux leather. From the breakroom, a haze hovered just over the smell of someone’s cooked entrée: a microwaved lasagna, a chicken pot pie—the only comfort pouring through. Then, it was quickly erased by a presence that stepped into us with rotten toes, invisible but squirming like worms. It left quickly, most likely hoping to leave an impression—one meant, I suppose, to turn us out—to cause us to infect the next one to step into us. But something else happened instead. We became more aware, awake, began to learn a language not quite spoken, one that feeds the soles of the people who wear us to dance. # We heard the rhythm of her feet first—a fast step, step, step, slide—and his: shuffle, shuffle, shuffle, step—and we knew they were together, but slowly drifting apart. And here we were, on the second shelf of the walk-in closet, bought for one purpose, but forgotten. At the first quick, step, step, slide, we made our move, willing ourselves to lean and tip over the edge, to make the impact we knew we had inside us since our first jostling awake—and we tumbled to the floor. We felt ourselves lifted into the air and set on the shelf, but in those fingers—her fingers—we felt the vibration, the first pulse. But it was empty, fed only on celery or water or tomato juice, mixed perhaps with too much wine. Then, we heard him: shuffle, shuffle, step, step, and we tumbled to the floor again. But this time, when he lifted us, we stayed mid-air, and in the pulse of his fingers, we felt an unnerving energy, fed with too much salt, butter, and flour. We dropped down at her feet, and she stepped into us, and we closed in, expanding the lining, pushing up under the arches. She moved back with the right foot, and he moved forward with the left. The pause in between was the silence where the music should have been. His feet shifted to the left, and she shifted right with an extra step that shouldn’t have been—vibrations traveling along the floor, our interior lining swelling. We pushed back, but the rhythm changed and stopped. She took us off and threw us at the wall. His feet shuffled off, unsteady. She moved in staccato steps that burst forward, ending in profound weeping. And we heard his “hush,” and his awkward gait, and we felt him picking us up and placing us at her feet again. She stepped in. We tasted the salt tears and expanded, and as her left foot moved forward, we pushed her toes closer to his, until the two of them formed a firm line, toe-to-toe, the pulsing of her heart matching his, at rest, in each other’s arms. The salt dried, with each new step, matched by a breath, the music where the silence once lived. Cecilia Kennedy (she/her) taught English composition/literature and Spanish language/literature in Ohio for 20 years before moving to Washington state with her family, which includes a very demanding cat. Since 2017, she has published her stories in literary journals, magazines, and anthologies in the United States, Canada, Ireland, and England. Her work has appeared in Maudlin House, Coffin Bell, Idle Ink, Tiny Molecules, Streetcake Magazine, Wrongdoing Magazine, Rejection Letters, Open Minds Quarterly, Headway Quarterly, Flash Fiction Magazine, Kandisha Press, Ghost Orchid Press, and others. The Places We Haunt (2020) is her first short story collection. Additionally, she thoroughly enjoys being a volunteer adult beverages columnist for The Daily Drunk, a proofreader for Flash Fiction Magazine, and a concept editor for Running Wild Press. Twitter: @ckennedyhola

There were worms in Trajuni’s eyes, but she ignored them for a few weeks because she had too much laundry busying her arms. She had too much half-rotten food in the fridge and too little sleep to consider that she might have cause for concern. About a month in, the worms began to dance and she began to count them. Eleven. She picked her eyelashes bald as she combed them clean again and again. “It’s probably just dust or old make-up stuck in there and catching the sun in an unlucky way. Allergies or something.” She rubbed her eyelids until they started to bruise. While buying new sheets Trajuni watched one body split in two, the sight of the shapes swimming apart made all the clearer by the bright white of the plastic-wrapped linen. Twenty-four. “I’ve gotta go see a nurse.” The nurse wasn’t in, but a doctor informed Trajuni that she had floaters—microscopic broken or dead or concentrated spots casting shadows in her vision that only she could see. “They come with age.” Not worth repairing. Showing mercy through medicine, the doctor tapped out a prescription to kill Trajuni’s butterflies. “This should help to level your moods.” Worms in the eyes remind you that time is running out. The unaffected worms began to chew away at the fantasy-vision Trajuni had so lovingly assembled. Doing the laundry became impossible as squirming spots of dirt never washed clean. “Why bother?” Trajuni left the clothes to mold in the machine, hoping that time would force them down the drain. The meals she prepared churned with maggots that vanished when she picked at them with her fingers. The worms bred in the morning and spent the afternoon eating away at the ceramic dinner sets Trajuni no longer had the energy to scrub. The white walls of the house became mirrors for the colony of invaders; the ceiling a stage for the entrancement of their captive audience. Fifty-five. It became too much and Trajuni moved towards the sun. Maybe the air and more medication and the earth would heal her spirit. Flat on her back, Trajuni watched the clouds pass by. “There’s a bear, and there’s a baby smiling as she watches it. A dove and a fish.” A whistle in the dandelion patch beside her turned her head. A robin hopped and sang and reminded her that maybe it’s not so bad, to be here growing slowly older. A few downy feathers stuck out from the brown bird’s neck, its red heart pulsing against Trajuni’s stinging eyes. It came closer. “You can see what’s pure and true in me, what I am, worms and all.” Its beady, black stare reflected the sunlight back to her, revealing nothing of the robin’s own soul. Letting out its soft too-da-loo it plunged its beak into her left eye. The robin dug out the worms, pulling away the iris and the stems before flying off to spit the mush down the throats of its nearly-naked offspring. Trajuni layin shocked stillness, her hazy world with all of its pestilence suddenly swallowed by light and the hungry mouths of ugly, flightless things. Eyes licked clean as dinner plates, she rolled over and up and crawled on all fours in the direction she imagined would lead her home. One-by-one six little birds choked up their guts, their sick full of worms and veins and prescription pills. They quit their crying out and died while Trajuni wandered into the street. Mar Ovsheid is a spoilsport who doesn't like to run or drive. She's had poetry and fiction published on-and-offline under a variety of names (real and made-up) since 2013 in publications such as DoveTales/Writing for Peace, Midway Journal, and Spark: A Creative Anthology. So you might've met before, but it's alright if you both forget. Mar works as a housekeeper and has her high school diploma.

We don’t hear the door or his footsteps over the music and our laughter. “Oh, for fucks sake,” Mitchell says after walking through the door and looking into the living room. “Mitchell!” I exclaim, jumping up from the couch, knocking over my full glass of red wine onto the new carpet. Shirtless, I run into the kitchen, grabbing salt, carpet cleaner, and paper towels. I almost forgot that less than two minutes ago, my husband of sixteen years discovered me half-dressed, drinking cabernet on the couch with our younger daughter’s basketball coach. But I knew if I let the stain set on the rug, Mitchell would be pissed. “Get out of my house,” Mitchell says. Kevin remains silent and doesn’t move for several seconds, watching me on my hands and knees tending to the rug. “Abby,” Kevin begins. “GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE!” Mitchell bellows. “Please Kevin, just go,” I say, vigorously rubbing at the stain. But the maroon blotch is winking back at me, taunting and accusing me with its hue and size. And no matter how hard I press and rub, I understand this wine’s splatter will remain on this rug. I hold my breath a little as Kevin moves past Mitchell to reach the door, half-expecting or maybe even hoping Mitchell will punch Kevin in the face out of jealousy or latent affection. But he won’t, of course; Mitchell doesn’t like a mess. ~~~~~~~~~ Almost a year later, I can barely see anything but a graying kidney-shaped stain on the living room carpet. The rest of my furniture fades into the background as I sit on the floor, considering my life. I try and think back to the earliest happy memory I have in this room, but my thoughts always come back to the rug and the sadness from a stain I know too well. The girls are still angry with me. They say they can't trust me anymore, sounding more like their father than themselves. But they couldn't know the excruciating details—the whispered criticism, silent treatment, or behind-the-scenes arguments because Mitchell insisted the girls never see or hear our marriage in disarray. So, I stifled unhappy feelings and memories until a deep resentment grew, and eventually, I began to drink—a lot. The girls say they can barely recall a time when I didn't drink. They claim they don't remember the crafts we made together, the giggles and stories at bedtime, or the many field trips I chaperoned. And, as the months went on, every time I thought the carpet's stain might finally begin to fade, I would find myself entrenched in its chaotic story again. Mitchell won’t let me replace the stained rug; he says it’s because it’s too expensive. But really, it’s his way of reminding me of the mess I had made. And Mitchell doesn’t like a mess. Margo covers her stains with laughter. She has worked in urban education for over thirty years and is the mother of two amazing daughters and to the love of her life and best rescue dog ever, Harley. Besides the always amazing Roi Fainéant Press, some of Margo's stories have appeared or will soon appear in interesting places such as Twin Pies Literary, Bullshit Lit, Bending Genres, A Thin Slice of Anxiety and Bear Creek Gazette.

ABOUT THE ONE WHO ONCE HELD MY HAND..... Now that our story is heretofore done and dusted May I wangle my way into finding the courage to tell it as it was ..../ Our audience might groove or not at our misfortunes But for the purpose of goodwill let's not hold anything against them..../ This is an all too common saga so if any expects something unheard before then the disappointment that is coming to them I do not envy......../ It begins with how I was once a tender amorous individual Like a crazed besotted nincompoop I aspired to be with a forbidden one........./ He was an aesthetic one to say the least so my spooky fixation was not unfounded at any one point...../ The god of a Man collared my flimsy heart And hid it in the cavernous confines of his....../ Like yarned libel our love account seemed unreal Like a spiel our recital of endearment sounded scarcely Improbable ........../ Our travels to the unknown was always beers and skittles Our search for the unseen a kaleidoscope for a future we did not have..../ Maybe this is why it eluded us The signs all laid bear In plain sight we remained blind to..../ The prepossessing bubble of infatuation...a misdirect The promise of forevermore when our lips came together....a delusion...../ Our partiality to each other was an interdicted tale....... Our inclination to one another an amnesic action.... Because we forgot where we came from two geezers can never hold hands......../ TO THE ONE I LOST Nowadays, My soul is nothing but a sight of pule Like my eyes were when They saw you for the last time. Me and you, a leman and her rib Once floating through our blessed entity Like the Himalayan winds unconscious Of the trammels ahead.... All while caressing in our tiny crib in The city under the sun....Nairobi. My memories follow our peregrination Our ill-fated sail How we held on to each other Like a promise, like a gist. Our hands always together In a fist of romance. Our lips touching Your smile of pleasure Your eyes a picture Of fulfillment, of joy. I played blind Love and the future Are always held In the same guise. Frank Njugi (He /Him) is a Writer, Poet and Screenwriter based in Nairobi Kenya. His work has been featured on platforms such as KalahariReview, AfroRep, FieryScribe review, Writers space Africa (PoeticAfrica), Zeitgeistpulse of culture, Mental Rhythm Magazine and is forthcoming in others. He goes as @franknjugi on all platforms....

Tide ebbs, exposes the rocky shore and the stranded detritus of the voyage. The smell of the sea lingers, like the memory of an evening enjoyed with friends in a room just out of reach until the eyes close and summoning voices are left to lead the way. Lungs forget their deepness, breath becomes an intermittent breeze that gentles, gathers itself before it breathes again. Hands, cool to the touch, tug and clutch but cannot stop the retreat of water that once carried them, a bloom on amniotic seas, from the place of their beginning. The mouth softens to a closing sigh so quiet, the watchers do not hear it go. Beth Brooke is a retired teacher. She lives in Dorset. Her debut collection, A Landscape With Birds will be published by Hedgehog Press later this year.

The sun beat down on my dangling corpse. With visitors long since gone, I’m left in isolation, suffocating on a cross. Don’t call me a messiah. Will my followers construct religions in my name? Erect buildings in my honor? Will they misunderstand what I’ve said? My father promised to look after me when aborted me from his kingdom. He promises a lot of things, and he’s not so different from Zeus or Jupiter. But when you’re a god, you make up the rules as you go, especially if you’re an omniscient tyrant. It must be hard to be a god. Who would want to be such a creature anyway? To never want for anything, to know everything, and while everything changes, you remain a freak disjointed from existence. An ontological schizoid. “Father, have you forsaken me?” I sat back when he tortured Job, and for what? To win a bet he knew he’d win? What lesson should Job have learned other than the being he worshipped was a monster? And is there anything more heinous than asking someone—just as a test—to prove loyalty by killing your own child? I think back to the Garden of Eden. Back to when my Father exiled Adam and Eve, and for what? Eating an apple? Disobeying an order? The story goes Adam and Eve had no concept of good and evil, so punishing them is a reflection of my Father’s ineptitude. One doesn’t blame a table if it breaks, one blames the craftsman for poor work. I’m the symbol of a metaphysical criminal. The land is baren upon this hill. Rome carries on without me. My mother is gone. My disciples absent. “Father, have you forsaken me?” The wind whispers nothing. But as I hang dying, what am I dying for? A people who don’t care? A political cause? Original sin? Why would anyone have to die for these? Why do I bleed for these people? I think of Judas. Is he eaten up by guilt? I suspect people will blame him for my condition, or worse, the Jewish people, but it’s not their fault. Aren’t most people cowards? Wouldn’t you do much the same in his position? If blame is to be placed, again, it’s at my father’s own castrated notion of morality. “Father, have you forsaken me?” The wind whispers nothing. Night comes and washes over me. My death should be insignificant. Countless people die on crosses, nothing makes me special? A woman approaches and informs me I’ll forever be remembered I cry. They will lie. They will say my death is significant. They will tell tales of how heroic I was. A part of me thinks they’ll let me slip into oblivion, sands washing through my skull holes, lost in the recesses of history. But deep down, in places I don’t want to admit, I know this is a lie. They’ll construct religions, idols, and wage wars in my name. I’m the sacrificial lamb for cosmic nonsense. The woman kneels down and looks up starryeyed. My tears pour like rain from a cracked sky. “Father, why have you forsaken me?” I take three last breaths. Sebastian Vice is the Founder of Outcast Press devoted to transgressive fiction and dirty realism. He has short fiction and poetry has been published in Punk Noir Magazine, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Outcast Press, Terror House Magazine, Bristol Noir, and Misery Tourism. He contributed a chapter to Red Sun Magazine's forthcoming book The Hell Bound Kids (May 1st, 2022) and writes a regular column called "Notes of A Degenerate Dreamer" over at A Thin Slice of Anxiety. His flash piece "One Last Good Day" was nominated for Best of The Net 2021. His debut poetry book Homo Mortalis: Meditations on Memento Mori was released April 4th, 2022 through Anxiety Press.

And the guilt sticks, like oily black mud on the soles of your shoes Walked through the house, ugly stains imprinted, reminders of your failings Lingering mockingly, faded but visible Stop and stare as the guilt chillingly engulfs All sound and sense drowned in the silent suffocation of that moment

I wake and hear birds calling the day into being. It drifts like steam from my morning coffee, into my mouth. Summer is a lump in my throat. A word from the author: A small poem about the chronic I experience from endometriosis.