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It reminds me of telling someone they'll always be something, until they die- the old road wrinkled with cracks, while the new highway isn't a smooth ride either- my tires slowly balding as I go grey, and after three days in a car, our conversations can't help but go flat, like that low carb bread the doctor recommended, trying to keep us alive a little longer, our mouths too full to admit one day there'll be no more trips back east or west for us, only newer routes, leading to the same destination. Richard LeDue (he/him) currently lives in Norway House, Manitoba. He is a Best of the Net nominee. His first chapbook came out in 2020, and a second chapbook, “Winnipeg Vacation,” was published by Alien Buddha Press in 2021. As well, his third chapbook, “The Kind of Noise Worth Writing Down,” was published in late 2021 from Kelsay Books.

Promise I bring you almonds and apricots, fresh dates and country oranges. You have stitched your name in the very world around me, I see it in every grain, every inch of all the orchards and oceans of earth. I think of you in each movement of the clock, and in each moment of summer— You’ve re-written my life, and made real my steps down the mountain path to the valley of wildflowers and August winds. I will follow you anywhere, through the hours of dim isolation, to the other side of paradise. You’ve called me out of the grim winter to meet you here in the soft morning rain, away from the others, here where we were always going to be, in our shared silences, our own summer of quietly spoken promises, where at last I can touch your hands and kiss your brow, and bring you almonds and apricots, and put a white jade ring on your finger. Mind of Fire The shadow on the wall grows wings — The shadow grows white flame in the empty room, always empty. I’m here, but gone into cold interiors as the shadow burns on, its wings now nothing but fire, a frigid, thinking inferno— a fire stretching out time—its engine like the pinprick of a black hole in this deserted house, where I know nothing but my absence, and my place in the conflagration— my only home, where I began, where now I’ve ended into purgatorial quiet—a dream an ancient blizzard had, the one with the mind of fire. Moonfall Fly, fall, plunge into ruin, into blue doom, fly, falling in dark matter, away, down the galaxy road to a black hole. Sink away, out of yourself, blue-red and burning moon, faithful friend, even in your calamity, and in my own and final ruin. Unpublished I’ve ruined so many pages of my life--- dog-eared, stained, and burned them out back in a furniture fire. My book goes unfinished and unread, neglected and left in abandoned houses where it wilts into dusklight and knows only graves of the dust . . . Words drain from its pages as I become, myself, a single word lost somewhere, wilting and withering on the last page of a book.

Summer sun burns down: clothes feel too heavy for comfort. The air tastes humid, breezes brushing wet over skin. You’d scorch from the sun alone, feel your skin going pink, then later stiff with a burn. You’d feel the pink. And with him: you scorch under his gaze, the embodiment of what want looks like. It’d encompass you. Sweep over you, same way you feel the heat of a thermos-brewed tea blazing down your morning-dry throat. (before too long, you pray for winter) When she’s not browsing through stacks of books or watching mysteries, Sarah Little is a poet and sometimes story-teller. Her first poetry pamphlet was "Snapshots" (Broken Sleep Books, 2019) and most recently she's been exploring fairy-tale motifs while branching out into fiction. Her most recent publications have been pieces in Cypress Journal, Mineral Lit, and Perhappened, among others.

His first big mistake was telling me. You gotta love over-sharing in the office. Left himself wide open, Gaz did. Never let a chance go by, one of my life rules. So many things to get even for. I am sure Garry is the one who nicks food from the lunchroom fridge, even though clearly labelled. I even use recognisable containers, seen nesting in Garry’s waste bin, empty of course. Once I pulled them out, but Garry kept right on working, said nothing. Fancy trying to read The Exorcist on the train, what was he thinking? Then complaining about being so engrossed he missed his station. ‘Bloody had to cross the line; wait for the next service…’ Garry announced. Change of scenery, more time to read, I thought. On the inward journey, Garry arrived at work in a lather of nervous tension, sweaty, with a face like a rabbit stuck in the headlights. ‘Latest stock figures?’ I’d reminded. Eventually, the book-induced haze lifted and he grasped an employment-induced haze, somewhere around his second tour through the kitchen and fridge check. Still, Gary insisted on reading The Exorcist, on the train too, no matter how much I tried to tell him, ‘not a good plan, mate.’ ‘Can’t read it alone in my flat, at night.’ Garry used to sneak about during break time; change screen saver images, alter file names, I’d think, on to you - you sicko. Especially when a semi-clad sports model image came up on my screen next time I logged on. Then I heard him saying, ‘So she fronts up to me and says…Sir, you left your book… fucken Good Samaritan. I actually tried to leave the bloody thing on the train.’ At the time I wondered why he might force a random stranger to be a victim of the dry-mouthed panic and skin-crawling repulsion those pages evoked? ‘Was I wrong? No one reads on the train, anymore.’ Garry continued. I, for one, am so sick of hearing Garry’s opinions for his fellow travelers, ‘Everyone is so intent on screens…’ Never could get Garry to notice how many of us, who also caught trains and relished quiet journey moments. So, Gazza, if everyone commuting is in their own screen-bubble, how do you explain one of your fellow passengers noticed your attempts to leave The Exorcist behind? Not to be deterred, Garry tried again to jettison the book. This time left where he thought no one would notice, shoved down between slats of the waiting room bench. ‘I figured no one would see it until I was at least three stations away.’ But still, a well-meaning school student, morning fresh faced in pristine, checked pinafore tapped him on the shoulder just short of vanishing in the exit gate crowd, ‘Sir, you left your book.’ A see-young-people-do-the-right-thing expression on her metal chained, soon to be straight teeth, hardly a whisker of embarrassed blush to fill out gaps between fresh crops of cheek pimples. ‘I looked down into that face and just couldn’t tell her, don’t want it, you keep it… So sure, I’d be able to leave the damn thing behind. By doing one of those set-the-book free things’, Garry continued. Am I the only one who notices Garry scratching his balls, in public? ‘Let someone else fall under its spell. Didn’t figure on a school kid.’ ‘Can’t take it anymore, this book is truly evil.’ Gary told the whole office, over and over, often while he stared at the cover as if contemplating how to bring the government fiscal balance into surplus. Yet he kept reading. His piece-de-resistance was taking the book out one lunch time. Walked down as far as the bridge. You’d think hurling the volume out mid Sydney Harbour Bridge into the swirling azure below was enough to condemn The Exorcist to the deep. Bragged big time about finally getting rid of his nightmare. Amazing to hear this recount. If true, this is THE most exercise Gaz ever took. As I already said, his first big mistake is telling us stuff. Took myself off to the bookshop, brought another copy. Wasn’t too hard to find. The book seller gave me a creepy grin as he took my money. But my ruse needs more. So I ran the book under a tap. Bear with me, there is a reason for all this - even though putting any book through this type of torture seems sacrilegious. Who the hell ruins a brand-new book with tap water? Then I dried The Exorcist off overnight, but only mostly. A little moisture is essential. I caught an early train to be in the office before anyone else. Then I located his top-drawer key where he always left it – under the cookie jar, from which Gary never, ever shares. Then I left the reincarnated, risen from the deep, The Exorcist hidden in plain sight. Well, the sight of his face, pale isn’t good enough, deathly pallor, might be closer. Hewn from alabaster, yes, that’s it. Of course, I made sure to maximize the audience concept. Letting everyone know I planned to ask for bull-dog clips which I knew Garry kept in his top drawer. He’s like Gollum, clips – my precious. He began to gobble for words, office spaces rife with stifled giggles. The book fell from his grip as Garry’s hands shook. He still thinks The Exorcist has power. No one has told him the truth, yet. You need to remember this man responsible for hiding all the rolls of paper hand towels. Yes, he removed them, not only from the toilets, but also from the tea-room. Fair’s fair I say. He’s not even twigged, I am responsible. Just to add to the impact I posted a potted version of this tale on Facebook. Such a classic: hasn’t stopped Garry’s over-sharing. How many times have I said The Exorcist… Brings on a twinge, like saying Voldermort or Beetlejuice too often? Karen Lethlean is a trying to be retired English teacher at a Senior College. Ever Present Predator is being published by Pareidolia Volume 2 Wanderkammer as part of their memoir section. San Antonio Review will publish In Isolation. She has won awards for her writing, Bum Joke was awarded a comedy writing award. She is currently writing of military services 1972-76. In another life she is a triathlete and has competed at Hawaii Ironman world championships twice.

I am in the church hall when those first notes begin. Like crystallised raindrops landing in a pail. Your song. Familiar, unexpected, beautiful and pulsing with pain. On stage, just feet away, the girl with curled hair and teetering, uncertain voice is singing your song. Our song. The song. The room spins away. And just like the movies I am flying through space. My heart, beating and banging in a million rhythms, in a million places. I am here, but I am not, I am in a basement disco; drinking, wearing neons, screaming this song. On a bus; one ear phone each. School skirt rolled up, socks rolled down. In a doorway doubled over, both of us sweating and praying and puking. Engagement rings, wedding days, antique lace, peeing on sticks, late night calls. White rooms, clutching hands, sick jokes and promises. In a chapel. Alone. I am in all these places, just me and those notes. Just me and your song. And inside I am laughing. And screaming. And dancing. And crying. And bleeding And dying. But still that girl sings. She sings, even though right here, here on the front row my heart, my soul, my gut have all fractured. Split into a million jagged pieces ready to be thrown across the four corners of this dusty hall and the world beyond. Suddenly I can smell cider, suntan lotion, White Musk, chips, vomit, hospitals, Ash. I am overwhelmed by every shade and scent of you. Dizzy with anger and dizzy with joy; I want to stand up and shout, to shine like a beacon in this room full of toddlers, mothers, grandfathers, next door neighbours. I want to break through their proud thoughts, their lists of festive things yet to do, their badly disguised boredom and scream. ‘This song, it doesn’t belong to any of you.’ can’t breathe but I can’t leave. So instead I wrap myself in this bittersweet gift of your song. Consumed by the first Christmas without you Rachel Canwell is a reader, writer, teacher and blogger but not necessarily in that order. She is currently working on her first novel and looking for a home for her flash collection, inspired by the sea. You can find her on Twitter @bookbound2019

NARRATOR: Good evening, I’m Bartleby Zane and you’re watching the Cracks of Time where we examine historical moments that might have fallen through the cracks. Tonight we share with you a small, but important scene in real-estate history. The year is 1797. Beacon Hill is an affluent neighborhood of brownstones built around a small, common square park in Boston Massachusetts. The residents have agreed to have a meeting to address several ongoing concerns of the neighborhood. We flashback to a colonial meeting hall. CHARLES: All right, thank you all for joining together tonight for the first meeting of the Home Owner’s Association of Beacon Hill, Boston. On this the 23rd of July, year of our lord 1797. And might I add, this is the first of any such meeting in our young nation! (Polite applause from the crowd) CHARLES: Yes, unlike the unwashed masses of Philadelphia or New York, we have decided to come together as a community to create rules and governing operations for our shared land rather than leaving it to the lowest common denominator, we shall hold each other to certain standards in order to keep our living spaces pristine. ALL: Here, here! SULLY: FUCK PHILLY! GO SOX. CHARLES: Yes, thank you, Sully. If we could please only speak when called upon. SULLY: Sorry, Charles. Take it away. CHARLES: And let’s try to keep the anachronisms to a minimum, yes? SULLY: Sure thing. (Sully pulls out a Dunkin’ Donuts iced coffee) CHARLES: (sighs deeply) Right, our first order of business is a point of concern from Mr. William Blaxton. William, I yield you the floor. WILLIAM: Good evening, friends, neighbors. I arose early yesterday morning to the sounds of cardinals chirping outside my window. SULLY: FUCK THE CARDINALS, GO SOX! CHARLES: SULLY! William has the floor! SULLY: My bad, sorry Bill, go ahead. WILLIAM: As I ventured from my front door to take in this revelry, my boot sunk into a pyramid of feces, the likes of which I have never seen. (The crowd reacts with disgust.) LADY BLAXTON: In his new boots, to boot. WILLIAM: Thank you, dear. The warm muck was so thick, I well nigh- lost my boot. I humbly ask this group that we immediately and forthwith institute a mandate that if one’s horse is out of stable and defecates on a neighbor’s lawn, it shall be the owner of said horse who must dispose of said feces from the property in question. The Widow Kent and I have designed a receptacle for future horse droppings (they hold up a burlap sack proudly) and these will be strategically placed around the square for ease of care. We only ask that if you take one, leave one. (Enthusiastic applause from the group. A few “here, here’s”) THE WIDOW KENT: Instead of a gunny sack, we’re calling it a runny sack for when your horse gets the runs, you see. CHARLES: Excellent points! All in favor… SULLY: Just to be clear, if we deuce in a neighbor’s yard we gotta clean it up, but numba 1’s are still okay, right? (Charles glares at Sully and continues without addressing the question.) CHARLES: All in favor… (Ayes and nays) CHARLES: The Ayes have it! The motion is approved! (Applause from the aye voters. The nays pout. Roger raises his hand.) CHARLES: (Annoyed) The chair recognizes Mr. Rodger Crumperdin. ROGER: Well, I just find it rather amusing that the crowd so obsessed with “Freedom” is mandating where a creature of the wild can and can not defecate. ELOUISE: Excuse me, Charles, but if I might have the floor, my issue actually concerns Mr. Rodger Crumperdin. CHARLES: The floor is yours Ms. Minuet. ELOUISE: I have the great misfortune of having a clear view into Mr. Crumperdin’s dooryard and he has recently erected a sign stating, “Make Britain Great Again.” What is most offensive is that the sign first appeared on the anniversary of our great nation’s independence day, July 4th. Gasps and hubbub. ELOUISE: Furthermore, when I confronted Mr. Crumperdin on the matter, he insisted that George the III was still the right ruler of America and none of our stately laws bind him. CHARLES: Roger, is this true? ROGER: Yes! There are many of us who know who our true sovereign is! MBGA! (It’s awkward to say, so he tries again) MBGA! SULLY: Hey Charles, you want I should kick this guy’s ass or what? CHARLES: No, Sully, we are here for intelligent discourse, not showcasing brute strength. I’m sure we will be able to settle the matter with reason and shared common values. ROGER: George Washington is a false god. Those of you who worship him as such will be smote by the almighty himself and I will put that on a flag to fly in my dooryard. WIDOW KENT: Can you even put that on a flag? SULLY: Oh, you can put anything on a flag, waddya need? I got a flag guy. My cousin, Stevie. ELOUISE: Do you see what I’m subjected to? The ravings of a madman! When I asked him to remove the sign he threatened my very life. And with my husband passed, God rest his soul, I find myself frightened to lay my head at night. SULLY: Whoa, you came for an old lady, bro? ROGER: You are all charlatans and snakes! You will be dealt with in due time. The red tide shall rise up once again and engross these tyrannous banks and the loyal shall rule once more! RED COAT LIVES MATTER! SULLY: Charles, all due respect, this guy’s a fucking asshole. I beg of you, let me punch him in the throat. WIDOW KENT: Let the morons fight! WILLIAM: FOR THE GOOD OF OUR NATION! CHARLES: Ladies and gentlemen, please, I beg of you to be civil! This man is clearly not well, he means not what he says. ROGER: CHARLES MATTHEWS IS A SYSTEM OF SERPENTS PILOTING HUMAN SKIN. You all are witches who feed off the blood of children. You filthy Yankees will never take me! SULLY: NORMALLY I WOULD SAY FUCK THE YANKEES HERE, BUT IN THIS INSTANCE, (Sully looks around)..LET’S GO YANKEES. LET’S GET THIS DOUCHE! CHARLES: FUCKING- A, SULLY! (Charles and Sully chest bump. The crowd cheers and tackles Rodger to the ground. They start singing “SWEET CAROLINE” on “BA BA BAAAAA” they kick Rodger in rhythm with the song. They freeze when the Narrator takes center stage. ) NARRATOR: And with that, the residents of Beacon Hill bonded together over a shared sense of decency despite their differences. Although there were some initial hiccups, the HOA of Beacon hill continued to meet and provided a blueprint for other such communities. Roger Crumperdin built a brick wall around his house to keep his neighbors out and starved himself to death out of spite and insanity. His home was eventually demolished and a horse park put in its place. I’m Bartleby Zane, and this has been Cracks in History. BLACKOUT

Pump Station The sound of the clock Becomes the sound of the water This fluid moves like Color through the brain This hour’s cruel and Fine hydraulics press your Bygone days into tomorrows — Rusted lever, seal and lock The sound of the water Becomes the sound of the clock. Sigil for Permanence this night i sit and defend a little fortress of Time drawn about my still figure a schema, clear stars, unpassing cars, door that wants to Lock behind me it can’t touch me here, the diffuse sadness seeping into all the Parts of our lives here a line is drawn through my middle, here i am under the Protection of the squared circle (waiting while the night sounds Fall away) Invisible Boogie After Twin Peaks in a hotel room Someone has imagined me A hotel lobby In the winter Morning dark They manifested me A lonely staircase, Frost-touch window Overlooks a park This troubled dreamer Sees me, shifting Past the tight-shut Formal dining room They feed me well Conditioned atmosphere, A basement door half-open, Handle made of chrome I sing a song To be forgotten when the Curtain seizes up Against the sun I slow-walk backwards Down the hallway, I unfold When morning comes. Waypoint Travelogue I must be something like The hundred billionth primitive idler To witness this Annual assay of the geese Southbound following the Turning earth’s body heat (Dim eye for their returning Weak voice for their retelling) Honking, they draw the circle, They make a disciplined arrow, And the forces of nature move with them — And all that spell needs Is our crossroads at the center, Fly in the web, Lamb softening again, Or the slow drip Of that dear blood, oh flock, Forever. Open Field Cosmology The day I found myself adrift in the tall grasses: landscape let and laid across a grand swath of memory Running fingers stately up the stalks, I have brushed aside the wholeness of any city and its numbing sunset lights (Me on my father’s shoulders, all this grass a stillness, shallow water washing gently across time) A southbound wind closes every distance Look across me, familiar face of the golding harvest, what goes there, there beyond the trees? Jesse Miksic is a graphic designer and writer living in the suburbs of Philadelphia. He spends his life writing poetry, scribbling in notebooks by the fireplace, and having adventures with his wonderful wife and two children. Recent placements include Drunk Monkeys, Green Ink Poetry, and Pink Plastic House.

Summer Bonfire The smell of wood smoke pops the air, Engulfing the late summer evening in bursts. I watch the sparks of fire soaring, darting; Imagine them along the paths we trod, Past the trees we climbed, hovering at the gate We shut tight, and finally stamped out by the Riverside reeds where we played. Now the halo of the fire grows brighter, And only then does the evening draw the shutters on the day. A Space I Cannot Fill The empty chair, The hour on Sunday when I’d phone, The question I want to ask, The bare coat peg, The distant hum instead of the ticking clock, The bookmark loose on the table, The closed glasses case, This space I cannot fill. Unsure how to greet it, I walk around it, I sulk, then rage until I allow the space to frame me, Shifting and settling like your old cardigan That even now still keeps me warm. Helen Openshaw is a Drama and English teacher, from Cumbria. She enjoys writing poetry and plays and inspiring her students to write. Helen has had a short monologue commissioned by Knock and Nash productions. Recently published and upcoming poetry work in Secret Chords by Folklore publishing, Green Ink Poetry magazine, Words and Whispers magazine, The Madrigal, Fragmented Voices, Loft Books and The Dirigible Balloon magazine.

All four windows down, burlap mullet in the wind. Sun-sweat glimmering across your paperback skin. Face like motel heaven, lips a bright strawberry storm — rioting to the radio, louder than the day you were born. You say “this trick’s real easy,” like skating full-speed with no rain. But after hitting hills in Frisco, I only see through cellophane. Misty in the mountains, girlhood blurred by ginny dreams — the toe stop couldn’t catch me screaming; I got smashed to smithereens. “Diff ’rent worry from a diff ’rent season,” you say, tapping scraped-up knees. “You can make a house a home, y’know, in any place you please.” Hillbilly prophet, I know you’re right — you tell me, “Just keep drivin’ straight.” Onward, not upward, here is good: My great escape on the interstate. Alana Greene is an American writer living in London. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in the minison zine, cool rock repository, Fish Barrel Review, and HELL IS REAL: A Midwest Gothic Anthology.

Ode to Rosalind Franklin I have three letters D, N and A I believe in them but there is more than flat symbol acronyms and chemicals there was more to life I was more of life I was both atoms and window eaves I was both pattern and matrix but I was more sill than cell more fascicle than fascia I believe in particles colliding strains, mosaics, spirals It can be like a mother hamster eating its own small pink babies I believe science has some sums, and a little of the authority that wrests in truth but you can’t begin explanation hypothesis, method without words And are words true? We make ourselves with them despite not anything Origin I begin in the cervical atlas (when it’s all ending) my selves assemble involuntarily days were splitting merging, reforming like cells multiplying to malignancy shedding off death skin the alphabet biology began my next words made a little girl buskers snatched and dragged her to a dragon tail swinging, a crowd looked on as she screamed, I am in the third womb world, the womb swimming words are red, read again misspelled, immersed in water the headwaters of time time was made of swimming tests floating through her grandmother's house the rafters filled with cartoon faces flooded to the brim who are we, these little girls? the cervical axis, sequences made rearranged around her mirror twin, someone else lives in her books now (but sunflowers are still in the alley) Head Lines I spend my time sewing word order into salad days and circling turns of phrase in already read yellowed newspapers in the third womb I learned to read black, white, red above the fold the tempo of the once new news is forgotten daily my next-door neighbor died after I slept walked to his front door he was reading a newspaper every time I saw him the markings embedded on my face: who, what, when, where, and why Lily Rose Kosmicki is a person, beekeeper, and librarian at the public library and by night she is a collector of dreams. Her zine Dream Zine won a Broken Pencil Zine Award for Best Art Zine 2018. Her work appears in The Raw Art Review, Bombay Gin, Interim, Seisma Magazine, and elsewhere. Her chapbook The Eyelash Atlas is forthcoming from Francis House.

Flight delayed. Just kidding I’m at the Marriott. There is this dad who looks like Cat Stevens with AUD who has two teenage sons and the sons are both on their phones and the dad is using a straw to water the little cactus on the table the way you put your finger on the top, dip, release, he’s on his fourth G&T, god bless the dark. Awake on the fourth night, I want to find and strangle the grandma who was short with her grandson on the playground of the resort. She came over to us because he was being “too loud” and she called him queer in front of us. He was fat and must have been eight years old. They were from the Carolinas. He didn’t stand a chance. He’ll kill a classmate, I thought. I’ll never forgive that blackguard witch grandma of his, and will remember her mortal coil always. I finished The Moon Down to Earth by the inimitable. I left it by the pool, the humidity of the air already giving it a bend. Second to last night I watched its author drown a paperback copy of a Sparks' novel in his sink, and now I want to ————————-. This is Orlando. I love it. But goodbye. Adam Johnson lives in Minneapolis. His first poetry collection, What Are You Doing Out Here Alone, Away From Everyone? was recently released through HASH Press. His second collection, White Paint Falling Through a Filtered Shaft is forthcoming through Anxiety Press.

The Unfilled Branch My father tells me that there was an Indigenous woman who married into my family back when my family was divided based on the spelling of our Irish surname, back when one of my grandfathers named a farming community in Michigan after the Garden of Eden. I do not know her name. I do not know her tribe. That information was left out of the three-ringed binder passed around at my grandmother’s funeral. I do not know if she walked through the woods owned by my grandfather, if she braided her hair while sitting on a fallen log, if she collected acorns, pebbles, or feathers she found along the path. I do not know how her hair reflected the sunlight that peered through the trees of if the sounds of the creek gave her a respite from the sounds of the white men harvesting nearby. I know she is a part of my life and the lives of my siblings, cousins, aunts, grandfather, and my father. I know she probably cooked for her children and sang them songs to help them fall asleep on cold winter nights. I know she once lived on this earth, even if she’s now spread out through those woods like my grandfather’s ashes. I know she’s out there. I just wish I could find her. Then I could slip a page about her into that binder the next time it’s passed around. After Joy Harjo You In the Pond I stare at the water’s surface and wait for you to emerge, your skin pulling you deeper into yourself. I imagine the lines form curves like your signature on the last letter you sent to me before you went into the depth. I toss a rock into the pond, hoping to stir you from the sand you blanket yourself in. I imagine what you dream about as you sleep down there. Maybe it was the moment you sank, or of what you hoped to do once you stepped back onto the shore. It will take hundreds, if not thousands, if not millions, if not billions of years for the body to swallow me from my post on the shoreline bringing us face to face, vision marred. I imagine I’ll see you then, but I’ll stare until your flesh, white as the full moon’s reflection on the mirror above breaks apart and becomes part of the body’s ecosystem, until I’m left alone with bubbles for company. Then, I can confront what I caused and allow myself to be chained to the bottom as well. After Rita Banerjee