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Welcome to C’est La Vie Ranch. Please take your personalized itineraries for your stay, I say to the thirtysomething women in Neiman Marcus blouses and dress pants in the lobby. We pass by the vaginal eggs, coffee enemas, and joint holders displayed in the window of the gift shop on the way. I tell them their journey into becoming an evolved person begins now. By being here, they are cleansing the negative energy infesting their souls. When can we meet Chelsea, they ask in polite voices reserved for shareholders and compliant children. Chelsea is practicing new meditation techniques, I say and advise them to schedule a session with her. Standing by the computer, I stare at the open slots and tell them times are filling up quickly. I assure them their other classes can be rescheduled once they pick an appointment with Chelsea. I charge their credit cards in the system and tell them to be at peace. Chelsea, with her devoted following of 100.5K followers hearting each inspirational cursive written meme, rummages through the cabinet of confiscated toxins. Found it, she declares as she brandishes a fired secretary’s pack of cigarettes. Did you see, she asks, that a former medium Twitter’s thread was trending. Flicking her wrist and dropping ash on the floor, she says her empire is and opens her fists. I remind her the camera crew will be coming over next week. Pam Avoledo is a graduate of Oakland University

Handling Bind up myself in a bubble wrap of poetic warmth and make my moves on the roadway of reality. When the air balls puncture: the tab of fresh picks fall before my eyes. Unyielding passages are the meanest to maneuver. Eye-rolling helps no one. Scouring inwards offers succor. As if all solutions dart for a date. Duologue Perils in palaver: while weaving a narrative from the thesaurus of our minds sometimes we lose sight of the quintain. Commas in conversation grease the extemporization drive, helping us ply little-known openings. Sanjeev Sethi has authored five books of poetry. He is published in over thirty countries. His poems have found a home in more than 375 journals, anthologies, and online literary venues. Recent credits: North Dakota Quarterly, K’in Literary Journal, Kairos Literary Magazine, The Big Windows Review, Stand Magazine, and Litter Magazine. He is the joint-winner of Full Fat Collection Competition-Deux, organized by The Hedgehog Poetry Press UK. He is in the top ten of the erbacce prize 2021 UK. It has over twelve thousand and five hundred entries. He lives in Mumbai, India. Find him: Twitter @sanjeevpoems3 Instagram: sanjeevsethipoems

Ronnie hung over a sea of green. The pain in his lower back non-existent. A combination of deep concentration and self-medication. The high-intensity discharge lights glowed inches from his face, but Ronnie remained unfazed. Every now and then, he squinted through the jeweller’s loupe. Pausing to prune leaves he deemed redundant along the way and banging his head to music playing throughout the grow room – The Action is Go – Fu Manchu. He believed plants benefitted from great music. His colleague was less convinced. But despite his disapproval for Stoner Rock, he did appreciate Ronnie’s growing results. And even modest Ronnie had to agree, his shit was good. He couldn’t take all the credit. No. Stephen “Boxer” Cook was as much a part of this as Ronnie. For better or worse, the underground air raid shelter they’d refurbed on Boxer’s land was a joint venture. Now, a name like Boxer may indicate a fighting man, but a fighting man Boxer was not. His moniker a harsh combination of his height leading to ‘small man’s syndrome’ and an underbite that mimicked the dog he always had in tow. Ronnie checked the time – 21:29 – Boxer was late. Not like him at all. Ronnie didn’t mind, he spent most of his time down here now. Ever since the ‘intruder’ it felt the right thing to do. That had been a violation, he didn’t care what Boxer said. Just because they dealt with that one doesn’t mean there won’t be others – they had been lucky. If Boxer hadn’t forgotten his keys, then who knows what the uninvited guest would have done. Instead, Boxer had come through the hatch startling the stranger. It gave Ronnie the narrowest opportunity to swing his baseball bat at the back of the intruder’s head. Perhaps a tad too heavy. The man’s skull exploding just as easily as a pumpkin after Halloween. Ronnie was instantly overwhelmed with hysterics. Were there more of them? What if the police found out? What if Bobby Cavendish found out? That would be the end of their arrangement and subsequently business. Boxer had taken control. If Ronnie wasn’t so relieved, he might have been worried about his friend’s ease at handling the situation. Comfortably – Boxer guided his friend in wrapping the body and cleaning up the mess. Without hesitation – Boxer provided the solution of disposing the body. A seemingly ingenious plan involving the help of the local gravedigger, a weed fiend eager to win himself a free bag. Boxer had met the man when arranging his nan’s funeral. The freshly dug grave the perfect place to hide another body and with the gravedigger’s help nobody would suspect a thing. Ronnie had worried about the man’s ability to keep his gob shut. But they were all culpable now. All three men had dirt under their fingernails – the ‘thunk’ of the body as it fell onto the coffin stayed with them. Ronnie would have forgiven his friend for showing some emotion at the scene. Nothing. That had been three weeks ago. Was it too early to think it was behind them? He removes the latex gloves and drops the loupe into his hand. Maybe Boxer isn’t coming tonight. I bet he finally got that bint from the bookies to fuck him, fair play boyo. Ronnie starts to think about his own raw hormones. He turns off the music and opens the laptop. The bootup sequence takes an agonisingly long time and Ronnie’s fly is already threatening to burst when the unthinkable happens – the hatch opens. It’ll be okay – it’s just Boxer. Ronnie moves rapidly to close the laptop and in one fluid motion, arranges his raging boner under the belt buckle. He looks over to the stairs connecting the weed farm to the outside world – it’s not Boxer. The man who eases his way down the stairs with practiced balance is someone demanding instant respect. The well put together gentleman sweeps through the rows of plants in rehearsed delight – he’s dangerous. Ronnie no longer needs to worry about his modesty. He knows who it is even before the notorious face comes into view. “Can I help you?” Ronnie’s shit attempt at formalities. No baseball bats this time. Not for this visitor. Without looking at Ronnie, the man continues to look adoringly at the plants. “Beautiful. You clearly know what you’re doing.” Satisfied, he finally makes eye contact. “Sit down Ronnie. We need to have a little chat.” He pulls up a chair by a small table covered in tobacco and weed, clearing it with one swing of an arm. Ronnie promptly sticks his arse to the vacant seat. “Sorry for barging in like this Ronnie. It goes beyond my usual exceedingly good manners. Here I am, acting like I own this place when I’m just a guest! Very rude. I haven’t even introduced myself.” He rearranges himself, softening his body language and extending a hand to Ronnie who accepts it with trembling anxiety. “Bobby Cavendish. I’m hoping you’ve heard of me?” Of course, he had. The man was Bristol-crime-royalty. Where was Boxer? Ronnie couldn’t do this on his own. He dealt with the plants – Boxer the finances. It wasn’t Ronnie’s job to meet with people like Cavendish. “Mr Ca… Cav… Cavendish sir, it’s a pleasure,” Ronnie stuttered. “What can I do for you? Is the yield okay?” It didn’t occur the visit would involve anything else. “Your weed is not in question Ronnie. I can honestly say that you are a true master of your craft. I mean, the streets of Bristol can thank the fragrance to you and you alone! Ha-ha!” Bobby Cavendish was known for his manic dramatics. “Thank you, Mr Cavendish. I pride myself on my product… well, myself and my colleague Boxer.” “Oh yes. I met your friend Boxer earlier tonight. Ever such an informative fellow. Lovely dog he has.” Ronnie wondered what significance that had. Instead he succumbed to Bobby’s charm. “He had a great deal of good words to say about you. But let’s not blow smoke up each other’s chuff here Ron. Do you mind me calling you Ron?” Cavendish didn’t wait for a response. “Ron, I want to tell you a story. About somebody I know. It’s not pleasant I’m afraid. But tell I must.” Ronnie hated being called ‘Ron’, but Bobby Cavendish could call him whatever he fucking liked. “I like to think I run my business well Ron. Do you think I run my business well Ron?” “Oh yes, Mr Cavendish,” spluttered Ronnie. “Please. Call me Bobby. We’re all friends Ron, I see all employees as family. Do you feel like you’re a part of my family Ron?” Ronnie could tell that Bobby Cavendish was playing with him. Like a well-fed cat toying with a baby bird, slowly breaking down its resolve until becoming bored – or hungry again. Why was he here? The last harvest had been perfect. The price more than fair. After it left the shelter Boxer was responsible for the rest. Boxer – what had he done? “Yes Mr Cavendish. I’m honoured to be a part of it.” “Bobby. Please,” Cavendish continued. “I’m glad you think so Ron. I really am. But it’s come to my attention that one of my flock doesn’t feel the same way. And after listening I can’t say I blame him. Let me tell you why.” Cavendish dragged air into his chest before letting it out with a well-rehearsed sigh. “In my line of work, you never know who might become useful. I have cannabis farmers like yourself, police in a whole range of ranks, bookies, lawyers, plumbers, doctors… a lot of different fuckers Ron! Too many to divulge you with except of course, the vicar. Now you may ask yourself, what does Bobby Cavendish want with a holy man? And that’s a fair question Ron. I couldn’t give a fuck about God and all his mumbo-jumbo bullshit. I am the true giver of redemption, not some poorly imagined deity. This man though, he’s helped me out in the past and in return I turn a blind eye to his… interests. Therefore, he is now in my family. Are you following Ron?” He wasn’t sure. There was something in what Cavendish was saying but Ronnie was too preoccupied with controlling his trembling body to connect the logic. Instead he said the only thing he could, “Yes… Bobby.” “Good. Very good Ron. You really seem to get it. I was so worried after seeing Boxer. He didn’t follow at all. You’ve got something about you though, I can tell.” What had Boxer done? Ronnie wasn’t so distracted not to suspect the worse about his friend’s fate. But what? “I can’t pretend, it’s been hard to tolerate the vicar’s extra-curricular activities. A man who preaches about love, kindness and forgiveness yet has no moral dilemma over fucking the cold limp bodies of the recently deceased. But who am I to judge Ron? We all have our quirks – our raison d’étra. I have tried to understand but the answers only demand more questions. Like, his preference for the embalmed. I tried offering him a selection of deceased I’d recently acquired. I was open to watching him in action, for morbid curiosity alone you understand. You don’t think I actually want to fuck a dead body do you Ron?” Ronnie tried to mouth a response, but his jaw was welded in open awe. “Relax Ron! I know you don’t actually think that,” Cavendish laughed. “Anyway, it wasn’t to be. Apparently, my dead bodies were no good. The sick pervert has a fucking type! Elderly women Ron. Now I know what you’re thinking,” Ronnie seriously doubted that Cavendish knew what he was thinking. “…geriatric women must be in abundance for a twisted child of the lord. I thought the same thing, but I have since learned, it’s not necessarily the case. Cremation is very much the popular choice of the nation when disposing of our loved ones. Finding a good, solid former member of the blue-rinse brigade is somewhat of a rare find. Imagine if you will, the pent-up sexual adrenaline. Days of meeting with grieving family members, the unstoppable purge, sneaking home a picture of the deceased. An attempt to satisfy his primal desires. Digging up the freshly made grave under moonlight, the vicar no spring-chicken himself, all on his own. Then, once he finally feels the solid mahogany lid of the coffin, he knows the wait is over. At long last! They are alone together… except… they’re not. As the vicar clears the last foot or so of earth, the long wait ruined by the scent of rotting flesh. A lifeless grey arm caught around his shovel. It doesn’t belong to the ancient body he intends on penetrating. No. it’s the body of a much younger male. As he clears more damp soil, he can clearly see the broken skull of the body. He knows it shouldn’t be there” Ronnie doesn’t know what to do or how he should react. A part of him is pulling toward staying silent but Cavendish has stopped talking – The silence is torture – He stares at Ronnie with those beautiful and deceiving blue eyes. A slight smirk as one corner of his mouth moved upwards – a snake raising its head before the kill. Ronnie decides that a confession would be best but before he can fill the void, Cavendish takes the choice from him. “You’re a lucky boy Ron. Your weed is the best… the fucking best! You don’t need Boxer. I’ll send one of my guys to help with that side of the business.” Cavendish stands up from the chair leaving the quivering form of Ronnie. As he reaches the stairs he turns back. “I take it you know this furry mutt.” He opens the hatch and Boxer’s dog comes bounding down towards Ronnie – blood stains the muzzle. The dog instinctively rubs its head into Ronnie’s lap. Cavendish heads up the stairs and pauses one last time. “Oh, I almost forgot. You owe the vicar a body… an old one.” James Jenkins is a Suffolk based writer of gritty realism. He has work published or forthcoming in Bristol Noir, Punch-Riot Mag, Bullshit Lit, A Thin Slice of Anxiety and Punk Noir Magazine. One of his short stories appears in Grinning Skull Press Anthology – Deathlehem. His debut novel Parochial Pigs is available on Amazon and published by Alien Buddha Press.

When I spot Nonna’s Fiat 127 across the ice-cream parlour, my heart skips a few beats. I tug at my white denim miniskirt, desperate to unpin the hem I shortened on my way here. She’s followed me before, watching and spying my teenage world, but this is the first time she doesn’t hide behind one of her Christian magazines with happy families on the cover. She waves, summons me aboard. Has something happened? I ask, worried that she’ll say something about my clothes (I was wearing trousers when I left her house). She shakes her head and takes the longest route back to the beach where she lives, in an old house surrounded by old pines. Once in her kitchen, she pulls her apron from a cupboard and throws a new one at me. We’re making cappelletti, she announces. But Christmas is four months away! I protest, thinking of the boy I won’t get to see this afternoon. I know, silly, but I won’t be there this time. What do you mean? Where will you be? In a place no one wants to visit, not even those believing it actually exists. Nonna tends to speak in riddles when she is not ordering people around like a retired officer desperate to regain some purpose. My grandfather stepping on a mine a month into their marriage may have something to do with it. At eighteen, she was a pregnant widow in a country plagued by a civil war. I’ve been mourning Freddie Mercury for the past nine months. After emptying a sack of flour onto her marble counter, Nonna digs a hole in the middle. With her left hand, she cracks egg by egg against the stone and drops them in. A pinch of salt, a teardrop of olive oil, and plenty of elbow grease, she says, gesturing for me to help her. I push the flour from the edges into the hole and mix it quickly with the tip of my fingers until it has absorbed all the eggs. I don’t like the way the dough clings to my fingernails, crusts on my hands. Some people enjoy the honesty of kneading, pushing, shaping matter into food. I just feel clumsy and dirty and after a couple of minutes I run to wash my hands in the sink. You’re not done, Nonna says. Can’t we use an electric beater? No, you need to feel it. Come here, look at me. Her shirt’s sleeves rolled above her elbows, she digs her hands in the yellow, floured dough and pummels it, as if she means to kill it. Under her effort, the lumpy blob becomes a smooth globe, taut and fierce. She sprinkles flour on it, then puts it to rest in the fridge while she gets the meat for the filling. A pound of minced browned veal, grated Parmesan, salt and a pinch of nutmeg. Don’t forget the nutmeg, understood? I watch her grind the cooked meat, grate the nutmeg, whose sweet-earthy notes quickly fill the air around us. She makes me retrieve the dough from the fridge, roll it into a thin sheet, spoon dollops of filling on it, equidistant like stars on a handmade quilt. Together, we cover it with another sheet of dough, we cut dozens of squares, each with the dollop at its centre. She’s softened her tone as she teaches me her moves and I’ve lost my sass. We push the filling in one corner of the square and fold it in half to make a triangle. Then we bring the two ends together and pinch them close, until we have one, two, three, a hundred perfect cappelletti, ready to be cooked in guinea-hen broth on Christmas day. When we’re done, and the cappelletti are aligned on a floured tea cloth on the kitchen counter, my grandmother sweeps her forehead with the back of her hand and lets herself collapse on a stool. Do you remember everything you’ve done? She asks, regaining for a second her commanding tone. I think so. Would you be able to do it all over again? With some practice, yes. I hope. Good. I have three months left, she says. The day you’ll bury me, you have to start making them or you won’t have enough for Christmas. It’s fifteen per person, remember that. Twenty if you have hungry people at your table, or teenagers. Later that night, we turn the fan on and eat flaming hot cappelletti in Knorr broth. My grandmother’s fingernails are still covered in dried dough and I wish mine were too.

Satori in a Yaris We drank until closing again last night, then, unable to get a room, discussed Kerouac and Plath before deciding to sleep in the car. But we didn’t sleep. We couldn’t. We talked and laughed; one of us cried and the other knew how not to. Jesus Christ, it was fun. It was strange. It was eight hours side by side, at last. Yet we didn’t touch. Not once. Not like that. We didn’t touch. She didn’t even let me buy her breakfast. Complications She has eyes that let everything in and everything out and I could not resist. It began with conversations behind the cupped left hand, heavy with the burden of that thin gold band. Balancing the books of anniversary gifts and nursery fees against hotel bills and secret suppers, late nights that must not impinge on civilised Sunday mornings when I kiss my kids on the face with the same lips that only an hour before were slurping on breasts that are not their mother’s. I chastise myself, alone now, without either of my old lovers. Us, Separated ‘Come in for a cuppa?’ I ask, delighted when she says she will. I let the tea stew for longer than she likes, knowing it will mean more time. While she drinks it, I want to ask her to remember, during all of this, that I am loving her and – she loved me too, once. Afterwards, when she’s gone again, I’m glad I didn’t say anything, didn’t ask, because the awkward pity in her eyes – that used to see me – and in her words – that used to tell me – would surely have been too much. Christopher P. Mooney was born in Glasgow, Scotland, in 1978. At various times in his life he has been a paperboy, a trolley boy, a greengrocer, a supermarket cashier, a shelf stacker, a barman, a cinema usher, a carpet fitter's labourer, a leaflet distributor, a foreign-language assistant and a teacher. He currently lives and writes in someone else's small flat near London and his debut collection of short fiction, Whisky for Breakfast, is available now from Bridge House Publishing.

I always found it funny that Rogue’s skin held so much power that her touch could take you whole knock you out suck you dry The thought is dizzying: the treasures that could course through that gate the world a super-charged buffet unlimited if you don’t show some restraint if it doesn’t drive you mad if you only reach out and touch My skin, my skin is something else my skin has drawn only eyes, only hands over the years at parties, in bars, offices and trains so many trespasses on that terrain My smile stayed frozen in the corner they drained a spark that was never theirs to take But listen, mister you don’t need super-senses, mutant powers to tell a change is coming the grey streak in my hair a sign as clear as lightning, if you know how to see One day, soon I’ll walk down the street ungloved, crackling you'll cross the road to greet me and I’ll hold out my hand Katy Naylor lives by the sea, in a little town on the south coast of England. She has work published in places including Emerge Literary Journal, Selcouth Station and The Bear Creek Gazette. Find her online at voidskrawl.uk and on twitter @voidskrawl.

Rien de rien You now believe you know me. You send letters laced with praise, stories about your good daughter. But I remember I was like the girls you hated/ a flirt/ crazy cause you were his birth the only good thing I did with my life/ not-wanting-to -live a provocation Between the strokes, true to form, a void between abject and accusing I´m all but nothing like you, a reminder of words conveniently forgotten, no fight worth fighting anymore Signed this truce three years ago, cradled my sorrows, absorbed all truths crossing my path I have birdsong now, gentleness, unshrinking violets and warmth, wild snouts digging for traces of Jerusalem Alice She was five back then, red-haired and freckly, a wild girl who bit into the lids of yoghurt pots with sharp teeth, didn´t want to comb her hair, didn´t want to go to bed, could scowl with the best of them, a tiny rebel with a cause. So when she was allowed to choose her first pair of shoes, no questions asked, she didn´t choose the Mary-Janes, the dainty red sandals, the pink lacquered pointy- toes. She chose Doc Marten boots, black, laced up her wiry legs and stomped through the house and through life with brazen delight at what it had to offer. I still know her. She is a grown woman now. Forever that hair though, those freckles, the spark of those boots. Annick Yerem is a Scottish/German poet who lives and works in Berlin. Annick tweets @missyerem and has been published, among other places, by RiverMouthReview, Anti-Heroin-Chic, Rejection Letters, 192, Eat The Storms podcast, Green Ink Poetry, Open Collab, Sledgehammer Lit and The Dirigible Balloon. She is currently working on her first chapbook (Hedgehog Press, 2022), St.Eisenberg& The Sunshine Bus.

Sweet Corn You were tough as beetroot, cracked skin and bloodstains, seeped through my guts until my waste was only you. I was loose Russian sand, smooth and curved, packed with holes for you to fill. You punctured my youth, your growth my hope— I needed you to save me. When they grasped you from our plot, left me empty and alone to recon with your truth, I did not know how. It was you who dug my holes, flattened each bend of my hillock body. I know this now—I am tough as corn, too high in sweetness for excessive consumption, each kernel its own full life. Memory Is a Broken Disguise My body remembers what my mind does not, twitches the remnants of the eight years since I left you out of itself. The brain scan calls me perfect, but the bruise on my temple from the last time gravity played God with my balance says otherwise. Though my memory can’t carry your weight alone, my body has always been too weak to save me. As my heart chases your ghost beyond the realm of the living, my breath flees my chest in hopes of escaping your pull. I want to forget the muscles in your hands, the scrape of your beard against my tender skin. I’m gone now, but so are you. You’ll always be with me. My Father Is a Human Curse My brother calls it The DiFonzo Rage, says he wouldn’t be on his deathbed had our father’s ghost not lured him there. The nurse gives him five more years of Rx cocktails, and I wonder if that’s longer than he’d hoped for. At fifty-four, he’s outgrown our family despite his own best efforts— the lack of shock his daughter felt when she found him unconscious, pool of empty bottles around his head; his promise never to speak to me again after men who kill for a living conspired to save his life. I, too, have felt the pull of this curse, have forced a nurse to summon those men, catch the pulse dripped from my arms as I gazed in the mirror, its cracked surface the same shape as the razor in my hand. When asked why, I said, it’s just who I am. It was a lie I didn’t mean to tell. I have not divorced myself from my father’s pain, his parents’ failures still alive in my own nightmares. So echo this a prayer. Give me the strength to find myself alone.

CW: references to violence Cheap Beer, Madden and Hold ‘em How would I have known there was so much more, just a kid with a 30 rack of Keystone or maybe some Bud Lights on a good night? Too many hours singing the wrong lyrics to Counting Crows or Nickelback. “Pass me a bottle, Mr. Welling” wasn’t quite Mr. Jones, but we were always “down with hanging out those afternoons” nights, or whenever for that matter. English papers by an English major busted out in an hour behind locked doors as we alternated games on a Madden franchise. Back in ’09, who would have thought the Browns could have been so good? Online poker with fake money and funky avatars and overdrawn bank accounts at Best Western tables across from architects and lawyers who wouldn’t miss the money anyways. How would I have known there was so much more? Trading cheap beer, endless hours of video games and half remembered hold ‘em hands for promises slid onto fingers in glowing afternoon light, endless giggles and smiles through dirty diapers, big moments and small ones; photos carefully placed in an album to look at again and again. Active Shooter 101 They always tell teachers to leave room for silence-time to think-but what happens when the silence is brought on by the buzz of bullets, shattering time? Writing utensils and classroom tools normally used for learning and creating turn to weapons: is that pencil sharp enough or can we throw that chair hard enough to make the violence stop? What if the only thing a student learned in school today is what blood smells like or what shells falling to the ground sound like? When did attendance at school put you on the front lines of war? One Too Many Cocktails After one too many cocktails, my mind drifts not minutes or hours away, but days and weeks-buried in a fog or swirling like the churning ocean after a storm. One moment bleeding into the next, a dizzying suggestion, prompt from my gut to move, push forward, searching and galloping to find the porcelain shrine to submit my offering. When in an instant it bursts from me like confetti across clothes, furniture and the room, nothing untouched and I want to fade as far away as my mind in that moment, sink into the furniture and disappear like the rainbow of dinner and drink was already doing. Matt McGuirk teaches and lives with his family in New Hampshire. BOTN 2021 nominee with words in 50+ lit mags, 100+ accepted pieces and a debut collection with Alien Buddha Press called Daydreams, Obsessions, Realities available on Amazon and linked on his website http://linktr.ee/McGuirkMatthew Twitter: @McguirkMatthew Instagram: @mcguirk_matthew.

Tuesdays in February Distracted, I stare blankly out the window- The frosted glass obscures The view I'm not even looking at. People pass by, their own lives busying them, Lock-step with their distractions Not looking in at me looking out. Heads down, hands shoved angrily in pockets Filled with coins and tissues and their own business Which I know nothing about. I dream of their lives, are they better than mine? What drives them through the streets? What lunchtime errands make them brave the elements On a cold Tuesday in February? Lost among my wonderings, I conjure myriad Scenarios of spies and assassins, and tradesmen and ladies-in-waiting. Of lives of others, with jet-setting and expense accounts, and poverty-stricken urchins begging for scraps. The world passes by my window, and every step a story, and Every bowed head no more than a collection of memories. Why do storms have names? Why do storms have names? Why do we need to personalise them? To make them our friends? They blow in...and blow us away. They uproot our trees and capsize our trampolines And knock down our wheelie bins They are not our friends When they blow our cars off course and The trees land in our living rooms And in our roads on our way to work. Dudley and Eunice and Franklin Came round this week like visitors round for tea. I haven't had this many people round for two years. Huffing and puffing and trying to blow the house down But the last couple of years Have given my house of straw a bricked-up base And I weather these storms And their names. Council Estates Building sites and welfare checks Put a fiver in the lecky Jumpers for goalposts Tyre swings on the big oak tree Stinging nettles and docking leaves Bee stings and a dab of vinegar Shinning up the lampposts Scraped knees and torn jeans Out too late sitting on kerbs Conversations long forgotten Curfews were 'when it gets dark' And mornings were lazily slept through. Sean Smith is a writer & poet from County Derry, and is currently finishing a degree in English Lit from University of Ulster after a 20 year absence. He spends entirely too much time shouting at the TV when Liverpool are playing and reading crime novels when he should be writing.

The Balloon Artist For many years, I was a clown traveling and performing with an infamous circus company. I enjoyed sparking smiles and laughs. However, as the years passed, the audiences became bigger and my connection with the show guests became smaller. So, I left the circus life to perform at children's birthday parties and the occasional adult birthday party. While working at birthday parties, I unexpectedly discovered my hidden talent: amusing children and adults alike with my carefully crafted balloon art. I brought to life the impossible: lush landscapes, gorgeous galaxies, and fantastical dreamscapes. The news of my balloon art masterpieces slowly drifted, like one of my lofty balloons, into the ears of people. People watched with wonder while I created my balloon art. In turn, I loved sneaking peeks at people’s smiles. I felt as ethereal as my creations. So, I stopped clowning around and became a balloon artist. I opened my balloon art gallery. From time to time, I travel around the world, showcasing my new balloon art creations and meeting other balloon art enthusiasts. To this day, many of my friends and family think I am full of hot air when I passionately talk about balloon art. They’re wrong. I am full of fiery passion. The Farmer and the Alien One day a farmer was struggling to sow seeds by himself. It had been a rough year for growing crops, and a rough year in general. He lost loved ones to an unexpected and awful plague. He was a lone survivor. As he was planting seeds and seeking a miracle, an alien spaceship landed on his farm. The farmer stood shell-shocked as the spaceship’s door slowly opened. An alien emerged and they were badly injured. Without hesitation, the farmer ran to the alien and helped the alien back to the farmer’s house. The farmer patched the alien’s wounds as best as he humanly could. The alien grinned with gratitude at the farmer, and then returned to their spaceship. As the alien’s spaceship departed, the farmer’s land was instantly populated with ready-to-harvest vegetables, fruits, and grains galore. The farmer uncontrollably wept. He frantically waved goodbye to the stranger-turned-savior in the sky. He believed. Oh, how he believed.

I was part of the joke as soon as I arrived: Nerve Rat had just gone big with their second album, Edge of Rain, and been on a world tour of all the dive bars in the world when they returned to Portland and rented—I wouldn't call it a mansion, but a big fucking house down in Oregon City overlooking the Willamette River, with three stories, including The Rat's Nest, which, since the house was set into a hill, was just a big basement that opened out in back to the lawn and river. They immediately had problems with hangers-on, groupies and randos in the house, all the time, at all hours, and shit getting stolen, so at a band meeting they decided to only allow authorized people most of the week, with Unauthorized Nights on weekends. That is, parties. And, only Authorized Girls—that is, girlfriends—were allowed to be (live) there the rest of the time. So, six of us. I was the Authorized Girl of Kant, the drummer. I gave them all philosopher nicknames because I was just finishing up a BA in philosophy at PSU and it amused me. Kant I guess because he was a drummer, was very logical, or tried to give the appearance of being so. The rhythm thing, I guess. The steady logical flow of rhythms. Aristotle was the bass player—he talked a lot and wasn't very interesting, though I got along with his Authorized Girl, Iris, a waif of eighteen, and they had been seeing each other for two years and Aristotle was twenty-four. Iris was a nerd, a gamer and cosplayer and all that, and she'd had three years of french in high school so we could have joke conversations like, —Ça va? —Oui! Ça va bien! —Qu'est que tu fais? —Rien! Et tu? —Rien! And everyone would look all impressed. And we would laugh to ourselves in a french way. Because we, the Authorized Girls, actually really didn't do anything there. Just fuck, eat pizza, and listen to the band rehearse down in The Rat’s Nest. I'd wash the dishes and the nearest bathroom to keep it from total filth. I could cook basic meals, like scrambled eggs. And spaghetti. I can still boil a mean pot of noodles. Sometimes at night (we were all nocturnal) I would wander down to the cliff edge over the river and watch the water and the lights from the other houses and wonder what people did with their lives that they could actually buy houses like that. Probably nothing good. I'd read in our room if Kant wasn't around. I never told him I was a philosophy major. He would have freaked the fuck out. I never told anybody in that crowd—men get scared when they think a woman is smarter than them. That's why I never dated anyone in my department, even if I had wanted to, which I didn't because they were all, like, on the spectrum. Nice guys mostly, but not good around women. They would have loved Iris. The singer/songwriter/guitarist I nicknamed Nietzsche, because he had that earnest madness and, when I delved into his lyrics I felt like he had the one-liner aphorism and also a mockingness, mockingbirdness, towards christianity and societal morality. I had never listened to Nerve Rat before I met Kant. I am, or was, more of an americana gal: Joni Mitchell to Gillian Welch, Bob Dylan and Leonard Cohen, and even a little bit country with some good ole cheesy (artists-formerly-known-as) The Dixie Chicks if I was in the mood. I met Kant at a party down off of Morrison, near the bridge. We were both along as friends of someone invited to the party. He was like, yeah, I'm in a band and I was like, Oh really, that's interesting—visions of some high school garage band I'd seen play back in Ann Arbor in high school. But, he was ruggedly handsome with his trimmed black beard (only in Portland were young dudes sporting beards in the 90s)(maybe Seattle too). And he had some ripping arms—not huge, but lean like a primal hunter. So I gave him my number and while he went into the kitchen to hit the keg, my girlfriend's friend, Tia, came over and whispered, —Do you know who that is?! So then I had to go home with him. Which was the first time I was at The Rat House, which felt creepy when we got there because we were the only ones, at least at first. I met Aristotle and Iris the next morning and we all had scrambled eggs and toast. Which I made. I can also make toast. Kant was even good in bed—he licked my pussy and liked me on top, which is where I really can come hard. And, a very decent cock. Plus he was funny and a little charming. I did let slip that I was in college and I could see his eyes grow wide with fear, so when he asked my major, I fluttered my lashes and said, —Communications. I didn't move into The Rat House as an Authorized Girl until the end of winter quarter—so, end of March—after about a month of us 'dating'. That is, fucking. But when he asked if I wanted to move in, I of course said yes, and wrote off spring quarter—what woman wouldn't? Which began my research into Nerve Rat. Like I said, I wasn't into grunge, so I focused in on the texts, the lyrics, as a way to find a connection. I even printed them all up, one song to a page, and put both albums together, stapled with underlines and marginalia. Which I guess sounds kind of stalky now. Nietzsche did all the songwriting, lyrics and main music 'riffs' and chords, though they as a band had an agreement that all three shared songwriting credits. Which wasn't fair: After a summer of observation, I could tell Nietzsche was the driving force of the band. Kant I grew to appreciate and, later, musician friends would tell me that he was good a good drummer. But the lyrics were what made Nerve Rat Nerve Rat. They were actually probably less like Nietzsche and more like some french poet like Baudelaire, but the name had already stuck, in my mind. Nietzsche was short and scruffy—he never seemed to shave but always had a two or three day stubble. Brown with some dark reddish strips. He mumbled when he talked. He even mumbled when he sang. I may be the only one to know what he was actually singing. I'm not sure he was a guitar god or anything. If he was noodling around, it was usually with his sound effects pedals, making his guitar sound weird, though I always felt their actual songs just sounded either what was called 'clean' (no distortion) or 'dirty' (with distortion) and mostly with distortion. It was like the weird sounds invited him to try weird chords. Or, weird lyrics too maybe. So, suddenly I was in the band family. Not a groupie—I became clear on the status of groupies versus Authorized Girls when Nerve Rat did shows in Portland and Seattle that summer, even though the record company wanted them to have a new album recorded before fall. It was all new and wild and all I had to do was amuse Kant. I mean, I liked him. I think he loved me, for some reason. He said he'd never really talked to a woman like me before. Which is odd. Maybe he never tried. He was twenty-five, had grown up in Salem, the state capital to the south of Portland, quiet and small—and had hardly ever been out of the northwest, out of the Willamette Valley, when they were suddenly touring Europe. I've been avoiding her, but Nietzsche's Authorized Girl, Hélène, was the sixth. I will say that I did not like her. And the feeling was mutual. Though she didn't seem to like anybody, not even the people in her band, The White Holes. She mocked them all the time at The Rat House. She too was a singer-songwriter-guitarist and latched onto Nietzsche after Nerve Rat's first album, Bubblebumbagoo (actually I guess it's an EP—not a full album, five songs) after it did well, though they'd known each other in the Portland music scene. She was my age and it was clear, to me and just about everyone, that she wanted to be a rock star. Which is great. Was great. But she would constantly demand that Nietzsche get his agent to come see The White Holes, or to talk to his rep at the record company, Middle I. And poor Nietzsche would kindly nod and mumble something. I swear he even said, —Yes dear. I don't know if he ever did those things. But, he loved her—she was full of energy, and even funny, and took care of him—got him to eat vegetarian and bought decent clothes for him, even though he was known for his jeans-and-flannel look. He told me once that he missed shopping at Goodwill: —You know, and you find something cool, some treasure that only works for you, and it comes from some stranger, but there's a connection! It's rad, dude. So sometimes the three of us Authorized Girls would sit up in the living room and get high and laugh and make popcorn (I do it all) while the guys rehearsed. I had learned quickly that watching a band rehearse gets old quick. But, if the band was rehearsing, you heard them anyways: they were LOUD. The whole house vibrated. And no one ever called the cops. Even the houses across the river had to have heard. As long as us three Authorized Girls were together, we could have fun, though Hélène was mean to Iris—kind of passive-aggressive, and talked smack when she wasn't around. Which of course she must have been doing with me. But poor Iris was the youngster, the 'young lass,' and was, I think, in love with Hélène and/or her glamour. And Hélène was glamorous—in a trashy way: Cleopatra eye-liner with fishnets and a brand new men's leather jacket, or green tights and a leopard-skin coat, and her hair color changed weekly. I saw The White Holes play a few times at Dante's, and they were good. She was good. They weren't great, and she wasn't a great guitar player or singer, but she had that charisma, that presence on stage where everyone in the club watched her. I never thought her lyrics, that I could understand, were that great. She kept notebooks, and scribbled, but I never saw what. I don't think she ever read that much though—she looked in Kant and I's room one time and said in her sneer voice, —Wow, that's a lot of books. What are you, a bookworm? And there were like, three. Three books on my side of the bed. In college, now even, I'd have five to seven. Nietzsche had read a lot earlier in life, I think, when he was a quiet nerd (so I picture him) before he became cool. Or, maybe he was an idiot savant. I never got to really talk to him since fucking Hélène wouldn't let me anywhere near him. If I even asked him to teach me a guitar chord she'd screech in like a harpy and physically place herself between us. Again, she did this with everyone, especially other women, but I felt like there was a personal extra distrust of me. Not like I liked Nietzsche. He was cute in a just-woke-up-with-a-hangover way, but Kant was the handsome one. (Aristotle was just kind of tall short-haired dork.) I just thought Nietzsche was interesting. And I wished he would have stood up to her a bit. Ok, I could have been a way better girlfriend to him. Ok, I liked him. I did not last long as an Authorized Girl. All it took was an Unauthorized Night at The Rat House and finding Kant in one of the extra rooms getting a blowjob from a lowly groupie for me to get the hell out. I suppose the super ability of wives and girlfriends of famous musicians is to put up with the outside sex, and today I even might be ok with it as long as I got to play around too. I certainly had offers that summer. I guess Kant did too. The bastard. The ripped amusing bastard. So I wasn't there at The Rat House for Nietzsche's suicide-by-jumping-off-the-cliff-into-the-river. Nor for the investigation about whether it actually was a suicide: Hélène was the only one at The House with him at the time. I’ve heard the 911 call, and how calm she was when reporting it. The police never called me—Kant had a acquired a new Authorized Girl by then. I was never even interviewed for the documentary five or six years later. What would I have said. Kant went on to form another band, with decent success. I've never talked to him again. Hélène's band got signed, did two albums, to minor success. She 'became' an actor, was in some Coen Brothers movie, one of the serious ones, and last I heard, married some record exec and lives in LA now. I ran into Iris about five years later, at Powell's. We laughed. We hugged. We said, Ça va? She had been at The Rat House until the end. I said, did Hélène do it or not? Iris said she didn't know. She left Aristotle after Nietzsche's death and went on to college, to study art at the PNCA and, amazingly, went on to write and illustrate a couple of well-known graphic novels—one adapted into a movie—about her childhood. She said she was going to do one about that time, our time, called The Authorized Girl Experience. Which sounds like a good name for a band. Born in Puerto Rico, John Yohe lives in northwestern Colorado. He has worked as a wildland firefighter, wilderness ranger and fire lookout. Best of the Net nominee. Notable Essay List for Best American Essays 2021. @thejohnyohe www.johnyohe.com