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Fishing the Dawn Day again breaks grey, briny mist rising from the wild sea. Into the froth a quartet wades, clad only in thin briefs, muscles thick, firm, flexing beneath sun-browned skin. Leaping over wave heaving wave fractured by their thunder, these men toss hand-lines, pull out silvery fish. The young son of one guards shorts, shirts spread upon a grassy slope. Among palm fronds birdsong begins to punctuate this drying morn & the sun is seeping through thinned clouds. Nighttide, Santa Marta Bay The moon waxes behind fractured clouds A breeze blows from snowy mountains In the clear waters people bob with each flow Each ebb of this sea shushes against the beige-grey sand The shouts of children slice the night Rhythm of drums float upon this noche On a rock island at the mouth of this bay A faro flashes & further out are the lights of boats Lorraine Caputo is a documentary poet, translator and travel writer. Her works appear in over 300 journals on six continents; and 19 collections of poetry – including On Galápagos Shores (dancing girl press, 2019) and Escape to the Sea (Origami Poems Project, 2021). She also authors travel narratives, articles and guidebooks. Her writing has been honored by the Parliamentary Poet Laureate of Canada (2011) and nominated for the Best of the Net. Caputo has done literary readings from Alaska to the Patagonia. She journeys through Latin America, listening to the voices of the pueblos and Earth. Follow her travels at: www.facebook.com/lorrainecaputo.wanderer or https://latinamericawanderer.wordpress.com.

Awoke at 12:12 on the 12/12/21 and thought about words and how dogs laugh where we can see it and cats where we do not. The way ice cream will never deliquesce completely though it tries. Look, there's the sword of truth lying on the ground in a vacant lot underneath a broken "For Rent" sign. So, come on, we said, name that fig. It's yours. And then they invented zero. Kyla Houbolt (she, her), born and raised in North Carolina, currently occupies Catawba territory in Gastonia, NC. Her first two chapbooks, Dawn's Fool and Tuned were published in 2020. More about them on her website, https://www.kylahoubolt.com/. Her individually published pieces online can be found on her Linktree: https://linktr.ee/luaz_poet. She is on Twitter @luaz_poet.

I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me every night too much birthday in the big city the craziest year of my life & Kendall Roy that deeply broken soul, has been with me every step of the way, like a guardian angel with more money than I’ll ever need but with the same taste in music, all bangers all the time, here it comes the white lines here it comes the radios replacing our mouths so every word coming out is disingenuous rhythm something thought up by someone else yet we still shake our hips through boardrooms or treehouses always acting like young dinosaurs having their first roars pathetic little fucking narcissists who started this big war against the world, but more so against ourselves now watch us fall apart, here it comes the hangings of Babylon, here it comes the family rubble in our eyes so every time we try to form a memory of tenderness the flowers don’t feel quite right but wouldn’t it be nice? building a treehouse above your grave where I scribble swallowed blood, all of the depraved mistreatments I will always crave because you needed something small to be a sacrifice to seem a deity I need to be the last of us alive undulating in a dying tree inside your architecture, I survive I blossom here if indecently the walls are papered velvet cashmere sheets I wrap around the men who climb to me up rungs I hung the afternoon I grieve an idea of you I refuse to save no room inside a treehouse above a grave here it comes the white lines here it comes the family rubble in our eyes Justin Karcher (Twitter: @justin_karcher, Instagram: the.man.about.town) is a Best of the Net- and Pushcart-nominated poet and playwright from Buffalo, NY. He is the author of several books, including Tailgating at the Gates of Hell (Ghost City Press, 2015). He is also the editor of Ghost City Review. Kristin Garth is a Pushcart, Rhysling nominated sonneteer and a Best of the Net 2020 finalist. Her sonnets have stalked journals like Glass, Yes, Five:2:One, Luna Luna and more. She is the author of many books of poetry including Crow Carriage (Sweet Tooth Story Books) and The Stakes (Really Serious Literature) and the editor of seven anthologies. She is the founder of Pink Plastic House a tiny journal and co-founder of Performance Anxiety, an online poetry reading series. Follow her on Twitter: (@lolaandjolie) and her website kristingarth.com

Two Shades of Green Hopeful soul stands alone, calling to fate with come-hither eyes. Self-abandons at opening credits, never reviews the synopsis. Soft, unblemished, translucent skin longs to touch what lurks in shade. Babe in the woods sings gospel to wolves, no hustle, no endgame, no chance. Safety junkie exterminates all problematic desire cells. Gaze beyond reach, wise beyond treasure. Handcuffed, but not for kicks. Most inert by morning's light, alivest in sinuous, cryptic dreams. Cursing a world that never slows for an egg that declines to hatch. My Favourite Number Two is my preference. Shared, yet screamingly private, potential conspiracy. While perhaps I could manage one more, things bend under the weight. I was one of a trio of teenage boys. I told the others who I loved and it spread throughout the school, both able to point the finger. Two has its drawbacks - when I was bullied, I hated its guts - but when we decided to change the world and when I dared to kiss your lips, no other number came close. Lawrence Moore has been writing poems - some silly, some serious - since childhood. He lives in Portsmouth, England with his husband Matt and nine mostly well behaved cats. He has poetry published at, among others, Dreich, Pink Plastic House, Fevers of the Mind, Sarasvati and The Madrigal.

It was a toffee door, open for everyone, closed after midnight. There was family and dogs on the staircase; coffee-drop lozenges going up and down and round and round; the hum and sex of beautiful boys, talking, happy coffee in corners, laughter staring up at blueberry slush puppy skies, asking if it would rain on freckles and noses in that summer when we were as happy as fruit. Who would have known that it would end like it did, in leaves falling jagged on despair and gritty ice cream clouds the day after, sirens shrieking down the brown-orange carpet towards us? The party had been of mutual decision. No one remembers whose lips had said, “See you at ten-thirty at the solid house on the lake.” Picture us together, on blankets of swimming, picnics of cool water, drying off and sandwiches, heat spilling unexpectedly from the sun. Help us to go back and put the pieces together in our vacuum of petal happiness to the point where it all went wrong. Glasses raised to a life too easy and a xylophone of good sounds; all of us safe in our breezy cotton lightness. Life had taught us to be sure-footed, but that day Jody died and we need to know how unsteady moments got in and drowned her. She was the youngest in our blundering herd and we should have protected her. Julia writes small things which often have no beginning or end. This is no exception.

A Bible brond woman blows out unruly brunette hair, darkens your virgin eyelashes, light lengths, “who knew those were there.” Unholy ceremonial maquillage, the masses must be mesmerized in far away seats Doe eyes under theatrical lights must adore a borrowed infant, discretely cheat out towards the house where you are discussed, deified an hour with an object of lust two years older than you, “Joseph,” 16, whose surfer tan fingers grazing your bust, caressing faux Jesus, not his most obscene dalliance in a crowded chapel tonight. His latest conquest watches on from stage right. Kristin Garth is a Pushcart, Rhysling nominated sonneteer and a Best of the Net 2020 finalist. Her sonnets have stalked journals like Glass, Yes, Five:2:One, Luna Luna and more. She is the author of many books of poetry including Crow Carriage (Sweet Tooth Story Books) and The Stakes (Really Serious Literature) and the editor of seven anthologies. She is the founder of Pink Plastic House a tiny journal and co-founder of Performance Anxiety, an online poetry reading series. Follow her on Twitter: (@lolaandjolie) and her website kristingarth.com

Back when I used to tell my famous bed story, I told it slowly. In my mind, its events needed to undulate like a flag filmed in slow motion on a windy morning in an old TV commercial for a losing presidential candidate. But from the first time I told my famous bed story, I sensed that no matter how carefully I orchestrated my story’s details, my listeners weren’t entirely satisfied. Where I expected head shakes, grins, and guffaws at the story’s lively absurdity, where I expected head shakes of comradeship with all I had endured, I saw a blankness, perhaps even hostility, I couldn’t quite interpret. My famous bed story begins with my wife, B., telling me that I take up too much space in our bed. I expect the absurdity of this opening to be readily apparent to all who hear the story. I am a small person, so lacking in physical presence that I hesitate even to think of myself as a person. I rush to assure my listeners that throughout the course of the bed story, I will be entirely objective in my description of our relative physical space. I tell my listeners about my attention to the width of our bed. I describe my pains to measure the percentage of that width I occupy and ensure it is less than half of the total width. I recount my attention to my legs, lest they stray past that boundary; perhaps my knees, when I lie on my side facing B. and bend my legs, extend past their allotted space. In the story, I recount how each night, before I go to sleep, I remind myself to be very careful during the night to maintain my position, I tell how sometimes I wake up in the night and check to see that my body has not strayed past the center of the bed. A detail I am particularly proud of in my bed story, one I always expect to elicit gasps of glee, is my study every morning of the indentations on the mattress and the patterns of wrinkles on our sheets, both of which indicate that I am keeping to my side of the bed. Nonetheless, most mornings B. tells me that the night before I was bothering her, that I was in her space. In a burst of unexpected camaraderie, B. and I attack the problem together: We buy a wider bed. The first morning after the first night in the new, wider bed, B. tells me that I take up too much space in our wider bed, too. This is one of the story’s several intended punch lines, but the audience reaction never amounts to much. I suspect I could refine the wording, weight the sentence more toward the final couple of words. However, I have more confidence in the next part of the story, in which I describe my increasingly desperate efforts to reduce my presence in the bed, positioning myself further and further toward the edge until I am barely not falling off, my knees and elbows actually hanging over the side, like Wile E. Coyote after he has unknowingly dashed off a cliff’s edge and hangs there before plummeting to the canyon’s bottom. I really like this image, and once in a while, I do see someone in my audience crack a smile, although it’s possible the smile is merely a response to how hard I am selling this part of the story. At this point, I usually become aware that my famous bed story has no end. Sometimes I just finish with the Wile E. Coyote part. Sometimes I improvise a closing reminder of the absurdity of the original claim of my bed-hogging, just something to signal that the story is over. But no matter what, my listeners just stare at me, and I am left with the task of shifting our conversation to a new and less perplexing topic. When I sat down to write this piece I had a hazy ending in mind. Something like this: I would realize that what my audience found so confounding was the passiveness and compliance of my response, the absurdity that I did not finally make some bold statement asserting my right to half the bed. What I did not consider, however, was another possible ending: just how loathsome B. found it to share a bed with me, and with that revelation, the understanding of just how much of a failure my famous bed story, and I as its teller, has always been and will always be. Robert Fromberg is author of How to Walk with Steve (Latah Books), a memoir of autism, art, death, and embarrassment. His other prose has appeared in the Los Angeles Review of Books, Hobart, Indiana Review, and many other journals. On Twitter, he is @robfromberg.

porchlight-lit lovers, they spoon tabby over white— dream their own warm home. let the sun burn out, freeze black, so as not to interrupt. Jack Apollo Hartley (@jackpollyharts) is a trans bi poet who wrote this with a teeny little tear in his eye because oh my god, those poor cats, oh no, jeez, and it's about to be winter, too.

The howling winter wind rattled the brittle window frames of the attic apartment so loudly in their withered sills that it caused Vernelle to jolt awake from her coma-like slumber. Sitting up with an already thick hangover, she gazed toward the foot of the futon, her mind slowly thawing as she watched the tortoiseshell-colored kittens begin to stir. She threw off the heavy blankets, stood, and staggered to her pea-green recliner, over the back of which last night’s jeans held a pack of cigarettes. “I’ve got to stop, '' she said between her pressed lips, striking a match. The trail of cigarette and sulfur smoke followed her from the bedroom into the cramped, awkwardly constructed living room where, after sidestepping her chaise lounge, she flicked the lock and opened the fire escape window. Immediately, the freezing air bit at her bare legs, causing her muscles to tense instinctively while goosebumps shot across her skin. “Sheezus” she said with a clenched jaw, resenting the winter season itself. She wanted to have a conversation with it. Reason with it. Lately, it seemed that the sky had decided to be permanently grey. In the deep winter months, it was rare to be able to tell what time it was with any real sense of accuracy. Not that Vern cared to keep time with a clock anyhow, preferring the tender paw of a kitten, a rattle of a window, or her own natural inclination to wake her up in the morning. Bracing herself against the draft of cold air, she took another hit. Aoife, the kitten who, it seemed so far, would be responding audibly to almost everything, announced himself in the bedroom. Then, he announced that he was headed into the middle room, and finally that he had arrived at the door frame that separated the two rooms. The typically spry and mischievous kitten raised his tiny pink nose into the stream of cold air pouring in, meowing with an inquisitive inflection. “Why yes, Aoife. It is colder than a witch’s tit!” she said, exhaling smoke through her nose, watching as her vocal pet jumped onto the chaise. As Aoife meowed affirmatively, his expression quickly shifted from lazy to laser focus while his ears turned around and back. Vern’s foggy mind cleared for a moment, quickly realizing that, by smelling the fresh air, Aoife had determined to be part of that frozen world outside. After lowering himself into a hunting stance at the foot of the chaise, he prepared to leap. “Oh, no you don’t,” she said affectionately while stepping forward to scoop the kitten up. But her blurry mind, not accounting for the sharp edge of the dormer, led her to smack her forehead so smartingly that she reeled back and off-balance. Through tunnel vision and stars, she saw that she was knocked to the ground, lying on her back between the chair and the window. “Wait!” she heard herself say, watching Aoife, unfazed and determined, leap from the chaise to the windowsill. She sat up dizzy while he quickly ascended the rail and hopped up to the gutter of the roof, missing with his back legs. Vern gasped in horror, leaning out to catch him if he fell. After a brief scrambling, he had disappeared. The faint smell of burning carpet crept into her nose, causing panic greater than her pain. She ran to the kitchen, found and poured a dirty mug full of water. Dashing to douse the quarter-sized ember that her cigarette had made on the rug, she noticed that Zenna, the quiet observer, had entered the room and was sitting calmly, grooming herself while she worked. “Enjoying yourself?” she asked. Zenna raised her chin inquisitively to observe the frazzled human, then returned to licking her paw, passing it over and between her ears. Stepping out onto the iron plateau, the winter air freezing her lungs, she clenched her chattering jaw and steadied herself. Past the gutter, halfway up to the ridge, she saw that Aoife was trying and failing to negotiate the icy asphalt shingles— clinging where he could find a grip. Vern yelled out to Aoife, who heard her plea through the harsh wind but responded in a defiant, determined tone. As Vern stood helpless, watching while her kitten gripped and slipped, a strong wind pushed him upside down, popping what little grip his front claws had. Tumbling in cartwheels, he howled out helplessly until finally landing with a plunk into the gutter. “Gotcha!” She said as she grabbed the scruff of his neck. Carefully, Vern sidled half-naked, frozen, battered and hungover back into the stale smoke-filled room with a fist full of kitty, dropping it onto the center of the living room floor. After securing the latch, she stood for a moment, looking over the roof of her next-door neighbor to the row of sturdy houses across the street. Over their roofs, further back, the horizon offered the faintest glimmer of golden sun. She turned and walked to her jeans, pulled out the pack of cigarettes, and crumpled it in her fist. When she missed the trash, Aoife pounced on the cellophane-wrapped ball, then flicked it between his paws as if it were a pest. J. William Ross writes poetry and prose from Lakewood, Ohio. Along with winning the Press-53 53-Word Story Competition, he has been published in The Lakewood Observer and Prime Number Magazine. After recently committing the bulk of his free time to cultivating his literary endeavors, he has felt a deepening sense of purpose and solace. He enjoys spending time with his creative, kindhearted son and their exceptionally vocal cat.

It was the same every time it happened, Al thought, as he pulled on the gloves. After the bodies had been uncovered or the evidence linking the perp to the scene of the crime had been extracted from the drains, the neighbours would appear on the telly and they’d say, “oh, but he kept himself to himself. Perfectly decent, ordinary, quiet chap. It’s inconceivable that Norman Normal could have done such a thing.” Or else they wouldn’t say that at all. His balaclava dusty from disuse, Al stifled a sneeze. He could make it through the window at the top of the stairs and across to what the council were pleased to call a balcony at the back of Oliver Trethewey’s flat. The patio doors all had simple latches and none, to Al’s knowledge, had been replaced in the fifty years the building had been standing. A wiggle with the ol’ credit card and he’d be in. “We always thought he was a strange one because…” Al had heard that argument often enough, too. Sometimes in the self-same news reports. These were the people who, apparently, had “always known”. Never said anything, of course, until everyone knew full well what the geezer’s true character was, but they’d have their delete-as-applicable statements from their “Reasons Why” bingo cards. Things like, “we saw him talking to himself once and we’re pretty sure he didn’t have his phone on him,” or, “he’s different from us in a rather too easily definable way, wink, wink, you know what we’re saying here, right?” Or perhaps they’d go for the absolute and irrefutable clincher, which had them agreeing with their less suspicious fellows: “He kept himself to himself.” There was nothing, it seemed to Al, more indicative to the general public of a puppy sitting next to a pile of poo levels of guilt, than keeping yourself to yourself. The latch lifted and Al checked round for anyone watching when no-one would at this time in the morning. Except, perhaps, Trethewey himself. Up ‘til now, Al had had little choice but to keep a low profile. If the neighbours were going to think whatever they wanted then, he determined, he might as well keep out of their way. Away from Netta and her ever-fluttering fag-stained curtains; away from Simon, out walking his dog whenever Al wanted to poke his head out of the door for the milk; and – most of all – away from Oliver Trethewey, as much as it was possible to get away from Oliver Trethewey. Everyone knew Trethaway had been sent to the block, given the old crack den slap bang in the middle of their level, and tasked with Watching Over Them. Exactly who had sent him was up for debate. Ask Netta, if she let you, and she’d have said he was a Department for Work and Pensions spy, checking up on her every time she went out for that cleaning job she was doing, Cash in Hand, over at Mr Penrose’s gaff. Al had heard her say as much to Salty Sharon when he’d been hiding by the uric-scented staircase up from the courtyard one day, and then Trethewey had appeared, as if he’d been listening in. He’d tipped his hat and he’d asked how she was doing and Netta had giggled – giggled! – at his old world charm and told him she was perfectly well, thank you. Which was, of course, not at all what she’d said when she’d signed on for the old Incapacity. Oh, she’d felt caught out that day, Al could tell. It was the same story elsewhere. Simon had long tiptoed around the subject of his nephew and precisely what had happened that New Year’s Eve three years back. Trethewey was overheard straight out asking him about his relatives – if Simon had any living “abroad” and how long had they been out there, then? “Will they ever be coming back, do you think?” . It was a wonder Simon had managed to get the panic back under control. Al crept through what even an estate agent would be hard-pressed to call a lounge. It was barely furnished. The sofa, its springs out and its cushions bowed, looked as if it had come from the local tip. The coffee table was missing a corner. The walls were yellowed and the woodchip was peeling, no doubt from the cold. He doesn’t live here, Al thought. He’s based here. Nicely turned out chap, like him, with his spats and suit and hat, he’s not from the estate. He’s been sent to us. And he’d be watching even now. If Al knew anything about Trethewey’s habits – and there’d been a fair bit of studying in anticipation of this act – he’d be in the front of the flat. Watching. Al’s keeping himself to himself had worked so far. The closest he had come to being publicly outed by Trethewey was being stopped by the perpetually out-of-order lift the other day. He had arched an eyebrow at him and gave him the kind of look that wasn’t so much knowing as studying for a PhD in his many misdemeanours. There’d been but one sentence before Tracksuit Barry had bowled his way between them, half empty bottle of White Lightning waving in the air as he’d yet again recounted his experience with the magistrates. “Ah, Al,” Oliver Trethewey had said, and – no – he hadn’t been given permission to be so familiar, “Miss Grace tells me that you are settling in well.” And there’d been no chance of a follow up because Tracksuit Barry and the White Lightning had occurred. But Al had been thinking about it ever since. Every single time he had seen the chap in the suit and the spats and he’d noticed how much attention he was paying to everyone else’s business. Trethewey shouldn’t know his probation officer’s name, let alone have spoken to her. So, if he was prepared to be so bold – Al would have to be, too. Before the man said any more. There was no obvious spy equipment in the lounge or the narrow hallway just beyond. There was post on the door mat, though. All junk. Nothing with Trethewey’s name on it. Further proof that he didn’t really live here. If he was in the front of the flat and at the upstairs front bedroom window, then it was a matter of getting up the stairs and waiting by the airing cupboard on the top landing for the man to succumb to the call of nature. Which had to happen. Eventually. It was cold enough in the flat, after all, and Al’s own bladder wasn’t going to cope in these conditions. No longer than an hour or two, anyway. Al slammed back into consciousness at the sound of the first of the thuds at the front door. This was a council door. Al knew It wouldn’t stand up to the abuse. “Police!” Now, really, they ought to have shouted that the first time. Maybe they had. The landing was dark now and Al couldn’t tell how much time had passed. Somehow, the stand had become a squat, had become a sit, had become a sideways slide into slumber. Another shout from downstairs. The door frame cracked and, Al knew, he was seconds from the feet in the hallway before he was forced face down onto the floor with his arm behind his back and a replay of everything that had first brought him to this benighted place. Bastard Trethewey. He must have seen him. He must have known about his plans. Must have tipped them off. There was only one thing to do. If their government-paid Watcher wasn’t in the room beyond, then Al might be able to get in there, slide under the bed or climb into the wardrobe or any number of other things that had worked for him before. Apart from that one time. Not caring about the noise, given the racket from the door still being shattered in its frame down below, Al heaved on the bedroom door and tumbled inside. Tumbled inside and over. Over the body sprawled fully across the foot of the bed. Shiny shoes with spats and sharply creased trousers and a once white shirtfront covered with so much blood. As heavy feet pounded up the stairs, Al just had time to wonder which variety of “kept to himself” his neighbours would accuse him of being.

Alex kept digging until her forearms were on fire. She crouched down, clawing through layers of hats, purses, belts, wishing she’d worn leggings instead. The field of cardboard boxes surrounding her mocked her hurried efforts. Dropping her head low she moved faster, ignoring the heat clinging to her skin. So far she’d only brought out the essentials. A file box with text books and trophies now doubled as a TV stand. "MISC" was written on the box in her own hand. Bridgerton was a cruel master. Alex liked her new apartment. Mostly. The walls were a strange shade of beige, though. Neutral, like clay. She blamed her apprehension accordingly. Perhaps that was why she was still fishing out shoes and silverware weeks after moving in. When her wrists complained, Alex stopped looking and went with her only option – a mustard belt that turned her sleek outfit into a veritable Batman costume. At this point, she’d be driving like the caped crusader to get to her dinner meeting early anyways. Walking to her car, she wondered how much longer until it didn’t feel like she was winging it in the city * Alex got the greenlight from Mandy Laparkan that night, then ran right into Karen D. Andrews. At dinner, she let her tacos get cold, studying Mandy’s pout as they discussed statistics. Alex was suddenly glad for her recent bout of insomnia. She’d redo the SWOT later on and submit three new KPI's for each quarter. Potential clients loved pageantry. Mandy would have the report by dawn while Alex drifted off to the sounds of the stirring city. * Alex waddled from her car to the apartment, arms and bladder full, grateful for ground floor convenience. Dashing through the door, she was halfway down the corridor as keys-iPad-jacket landed on the only chair in one swift move. The plush, cognac-brown loveseat had seen several seasons, almost all of Alex's cliffhanger episodes since college. Alex was getting ready to shower when she remembered her leftovers. Grabbing the paper bag, she pinched at the cling-wrapped contents and almost tripped over a box marked ‘Assorted’ on her way to the fridge. She eyed the box sullenly, suddenly sure of where her chic black belt was. Alex closed her eyes and sighed. As she lifted her head, she stared straight into a curious gaze at her kitchen window. * “Hi there!” came the cheery voice. The woman waved as Alex blinked to banish the mirage. “I came by earlier. I hope I’m not intruding,” she continued. “I’m Karen…Karen D. Andrews. From upstairs. Well, not from upstairs, but you know what I mean,” she said, laughing at her own joke. Alex’s breath was still lodged in her chest. It was her turn to say something. “Um, hi,” she managed. She checked the watch on her left hand. “I just thought I’d check if you were settling in ok. I brought you these,” Karen said holding up a package. Her smile widened. It was 9:11pm. But Karen wouldn’t budge. Beaming in bright pink gym clothes, watching her through the blinds. “That’s nice of you,” Alex began. “The thing is –” “Oh, I won’t stay long, dear,” Karen chirped. “Right,” Alex sighed, crawling to the side door. “I just thought I’d introduce myself, see how everything’s going,” Karen said as she entered. Her eyes wandered around the space — long duffel bags, boxes stacked in corners. “These are for you,” she said, handing Alex a new set of kitchen towels. Fruit print. Neutral. “Thanks,” Alex said. “I’m great actually. I’m kind of in the middle of ten things right now though so…” “Oh! Well, I’ll let you get right back to it then,” Karen said, slowly stepping off. She stopped again suddenly, picking up Alex’s rag doll off the kitchen counter. More signs there was still much to unpack. “Is this your daughter’s?” Karen asked, smoothing the doll’s brown tresses, wearing a different grin. “Nope,” Alex said casually. “Not about that life.” Karen D. Andrews pulled her eyebrows together. “Do you have kids?” Alex asked, leaning against the door. Karen’s answer was in her eyes. “Not yet,” she said. “Anyway, good night dear,” Karen said, disappearing into the dark. * One morning, Alex was awoken by a faint knock. Whoever it was guessed correctly that she was still straddling sleep and wakefulness. It was Karen’s husband dropping off the new gate remote. Like his wife, his eyes darted elsewhere, everywhere when she cracked the door. Without a greeting, he gingerly handed her the remote. There was a chill in the gut of his silence, even at dawn. * On a windy Saturday in the summer, the neighbors threw a birthday party for their daughter. Alex watched Karen from her living room window flitting among the parents, sans spouse. When she saw the birthday girl, Karen brushed back the little girl’s curls and bent to tie her laces. The toddler ignored Karen’s smile, busy bouncing a large pink balloon. As she watched her, Alex remembered the dull pains in her legs, times she’d gone numb in her new home searching for essentials not yet unpacked. Sometimes she’d kneeled while looking, trusting it would be there. Hopeful. Staring as Karen slowly spun the shoelaces, she pictured the couple’s matching Toyotas, always several paces apart. She thought of Karen's sunny bearings; her husband, a shadow. When the laces were in neat bows, Karen scooped up the toddler, spinning her in the air. The shocked child shrieked as the pink prize left her palm. Her tears fell harder the higher the balloon went. Alex’s eyes followed it until it was a dot in the sky. A withering stare was waiting. A florid face met her own. Karen eyeballed her in static silence, the bright balloons between them lined up like ellipses. Nikki is a multimedia journalist and writer. Her work appears in The Citron Review, Ellipsiszine, Sublunary Review, LEON Literary Review, Literary Yard and is forthcoming in HOOT and PreeLit. She munches trail mix and takes stunning photos when not busy writing. She tweets: @ohsashalee / See more: linktr.ee/writenowrong

CW: Sexual abuse I listen to a survivor of incest telling an interviewer about how there were days when we would sit as a family for a TV dinner, a plate of sausage, egg and chips on our laps, watching Top of the Pops as if we had not a care in the world. Sometimes, a few peas rolled off my plate onto the floor. I would scoop them up and put them in the bin. Our delusions of normality, our figments for the outside world. Doryn Herbst, originally a scientist in the water industry, now lives in Germany and is a deputy local councillor. Her writing considers the natural world but also darker themes of domestic violence and bullying. Doryn has poetry in Fahmidan Journal, The Dirigible Balloon, CERASUS Magazine and forthcoming in Sledgehammer Literary Journal. She is a reviewer at Consilience science poetry journal.