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Time is a white but yellowing thing. I’ve got an ibuprofen bottle packed with psilocybin And a mind packed to the brim with thoughts I can’t quite dodge.   So we drove down to Oregon upon a winter lark And swam within the green green ocean of ponderosas That all bent their heads so rigidly toward God We thought our bodies had dropped out from beneath us. We ascended And You turned to me and said how sad it was That nothing gold can stay and everything just gets gutted On the way to the slaughterhouse. But I kissed your cheek and built a mustache From the low hanging moss while The Look of Love Played on a distant radio.   Time is a yellowing thing, this is true. You are borne of shadows And you die in the light. The air you breathe stretches on forever until it stops. The air your steed from birth to whatever comes after. My brittle and broken steed. My skeleton-shaped catacomb My stilted heart high above the hollows. Faking pain inside an aching brain Of some absent father’s design Fractured and flawed, line by line. All whimsy and strained Unreasoned and even-keeled. Like Carol Channing’s voice through crackling waveforms.   Age ain’t nothing but a number, they say. But time is a yellowing thing. Eric Subpar is a poet from Washington State where he lives with his wife and three sons. Find him at @EricSubpar  on Twitter.

Everyone said the sniff was to blame for Rob going off the rails. They thought it was why he stopped hitting his sales targets. Ruben warned him that if he came under on his numbers for the quarter again then that’d be that—he was done.  Fucken Ruben.  That guy’s not real sales. You and me have both gone on pitches with him and he’s embarrassing. He can’t build rapport with prospects to save his life. It’s all product knowledge, not relationship building. He hides behind that serious, I’m-in-charge, Sales Director nonsense.  It was freaky when Rob went missing after the company Christmas Party. Whoever booked a burlesque-themed Crimbo lunch in Camden needs to take a long look in the mirror. If you’re drinking prosecco from noon and doing cheeky lines on the side, then you have to expect total carnage.   Am I wrong?  Rob was funny in the bar, doing his funky robot moves and dry-humping an inflatable reindeer.  Ruben’s face said it all.   None of us ate the lunch as it was rank. Drinking on an empty stomach was why everyone was extra mashed in the pub we went to afterwards.  End of days stuff. The marketing girls, dressed in their sexy Elf outfits, rolling backwards off that couch, legs in the air, giving everyone a flash of their coochies as per usual. Katie blowing chunks into her handbag.  Not like you noticed.  You were too busy snogging the face off Barbara from procurement. She’s so ancient but I always said she had a naughty side. I bet she was up to all sorts when she was young. Shame that was fifty years ago. Jokes. And then the whole drama of no one hearing from Rob and us realising he’d disappeared.  So, that’s what I’m telling you: I’ve found him.   I thought he was just battered at the party, waffling on about the hole in the garden terrace of his flat. He tried to explain how the hole got deeper and wider the more he scratched with his hands and burrowed. He bought himself a shovel from the DIY store. Once he’d dug to about chest height, he said he found a tunnel.  “You’re chatting shit,” I told him.  He got moody and said, “I mean it. I’m going in tonight.” “Oh, do me a favour.”  “All the way.”  “You need to chill out. Let’s get some shots in.”  I forgot about his story at first. My memory was still mush when the police questioned us. Prosecco. Lager. Flaming sambucas. Untold amounts of Bolivian marching powder. No wonder none of us had a Scooby what happened to him. We were well and truly arseholed. They searched the canal near the places where we’d been drinking. I gave a detective the details of his ex, that crazy Aussie girl, Tarryn. She told the police Rob sent texts to her on the night of the party, gunning for some ex-sex. She didn’t bother answering Rob because she said he was a two-timing druggie who hung about with a bunch of knuckle-dragging losers.  Like she can talk.  It was the CCTV footage of him buying a shawarma in the kebab shop near his flat that made the police realise he’d got at least that far back from the festive fun. What unfolded afterwards was anyone’s guess. If this was a genre for TV, it’d be called a mystery, a suspense thriller. Until, that is, yours truly had a spliff-inspired flashback and recalled Rob talking about the tunnel. Brace yourself.   Last Saturday afternoon I took the Northern Line to Rob’s gaff and let myself in, searching for clues. Evidence. It’s Rob’s place so there’s the old skool collection of VHS porn, all themed and alphabetised like a library, and his record collection. Black and white pics of The Jam-era Paul Weller on the wall, Quadrophenia and all that Mod pap. Let’s be honest, Rob’s pretentious.  I found his infamous ‘Box of Delights’ and had a dab of MDMA. Don’t ask me how the police missed it. I used the key for the back door to the terrace. It looked like a building site with a pile of rubble and a spade. Guess the coppers were in a hurry and thought Rob was in the middle of renovations. If they’d lifted the planks of wood, they would’ve found the hole. I dropped into it, switching on the torch on my phone. The tunnel was there, like Rob told me.   I crawled through the soil and mud. It got hotter and I started to sweat my nads off. Made me realise I’ve piled on the pounds in the past 12 months. I’m not great in confined spaces either, but luckily I’d brought the MDMA with me. It’s scientifically proven – by Germans no less, so Rob said – to help combat stress. I tell you, crawling is fucken knackering. I had to stop to catch my breath.  We deffo need to get the five-a-side lads back together and lace up our shooting boots. It was a right laugh and decent exercise too. We shouldn’t have let that slide. COME ON THE HOOPS.  It felt like it took forever to worm down the tunnel. I was in darkness for a while, trying to save the battery on my phone. I properly thought I was losing the plot when I saw a dot of light in the distance and heard voices.  The brightness made me blink and the chat got louder. When the tunnel came to an end, I peered to see an enormous chamber beneath me, filled with the noise of people at desks and talking on phones. This room goes on forever and it’s spotless. Imagine Heathrow airport, all the terminals combined, but sparkly clean. I used a ladder to climb to the ground. It was made of metal and that’s when it hit me how the place was roasting. I’m not kidding. Hotter than in the tunnel. The ladder itself scalded my hands.  Our boy was waiting for me when I reached the bottom.  He said, “Alright, mate, you took your fucken time.”  I gave him a hug. “What you playing at?” I said. “You’ve got us running about like headless chickens up there.”  “I told you where I was going.”  “We had you for a goner.”  “Maybe I am,” he said, grinning. “Come meet the boss.”  We walked to a desk that was fancier than the others. I noticed how there were no computers, only rotary phones with curly cables like your girlfriend, Barbara, would use… Jokes.  There was a woman at the desk, wearing a designer suit.  “Catch you later,” said Rob.  “Hold on, we need to speak.”   “Later.” “Money never sleeps,” said the woman in a flirty American accent that’s the right side of husky.  “Nice setup,” I said, taking in her tight-fitting trousers and jacket with a red carnation on her lapel.  “Let me show you around,” she said, giving me the eyes.   Everyone was chatting on landline phones. Pitching in different languages, French, Spanish, Arabic, Mandarin, you name it. They were dressed in shorts and t-shirts because of the heat. Don’t think that means they’re on holiday and dossing because that’s not the case. These lot are grafters. They’re on it. Not like you, playing fucken Football Manager at the start of every quarter—flicking screen tabs when Ruben does his office patrol.  “You need some computers and air con,” I said.  “Do we?”  “This is the twenty-first century.” “You English are funny.”  Seems she’s gathering all the sales people on the planet who keep missing their targets, got fired or ‘released’. She wants the rejected, the outcasts and the mavericks. In her mind, that makes them genuine sales. They’ve earned their stripes doing door-to-door. Done the hard yards cold-calling. They’ve known the dizzy, champagne highs of the multi-year mega deal and the fucken heartache of the verbal ‘yes’ from a prospect which never turns into a written confirmation and purchase order.  “Sales is gnarly,” she said.  “Yeah-it-is.”  She took me to a vacant desk. “This’ll be where you sit.”  I couldn’t take my eyes off her. Mate, you know I’m a sucker for blood-red lipstick and I like women to have curves. Something to hold onto. Not like these skinny, yoga-obsessed, selfie-taking gym bunnies.  “But I don’t belong with rejects. I’m a top performer,” I said.  “You’ve not made your target in the last three quarters.” “A deal’s been verballed for Q4 and that’ll get me over the line.” “It won’t happen. They’re going to tell you that a key decision-maker is on maternity leave. They’ll go quiet, refusing to answer your calls or reply to your emails.”  “Fuckers,” I said.  I’d felt something was off in the sales cycle. Did I tell you about how Ruben, in my last appraisal, suggested I wasn’t a closer?   Twat.  She said, “I’ll give you 24 hours to decide and then we have to collapse the tunnel.”   “What would I be selling?”  “Does it matter?” “Not really.” “You’re sales through and through. All I ask is that you approach each sale like it’s a matter of life and death.” “It’s not insurance?” She did a deep, smoky laugh. I swear, it gave me wood. She said, “No, it’s not.” “I’ll sell anything except insurance.”  “Speak to your friend—he can join us too,” she said, gesturing to another empty desk next to mine.  That’s right, she’s heard all about you.  So, Rob collected me and showed me to the tunnel. He wouldn’t let on about what they do precisely, or the commission structure. I reckon the basic pay will be ropey, but he seemed convinced it’s the best sales job he’s ever had.   “The boss gets us,” he said. “She gives us confidence.” “It’s a confidence game.”  We bumped fists and I climbed up to the tunnel.  Fuck Ruben and his performance quartiles. I’m done. What do you reckon? You, me and Rob together—the dream team reunited.  Let’s meet at Rob’s gaff for seven-thirty. We’ll do some lines and play tunes before going in.  All I’m packing is a suit, tie and shoes. The rest will be shorts, t-shirts, a pair of trainers and oven gloves for that bastard ladder.    Rob’s well up for five-a-side too, so bring your football.  The boss is going to want us to graft but I reckon it’ll be a laugh. Think Ibiza in July / August, minus sunlight.  We’ll be livin' la vida loca. Good times.  Mark Burrow has published a novella, Coo, which is about an alcoholic turning into a pigeon in a world where people are turning into birds (Alien Buddha Press). His short stories have appeared in a range of titles, such as Literally Stories, Punk Noir Press and Hunger, an anthology of stories published by Urban Pigs Press.

Someone, please help me get these Taylor Swift songs out of my head. It’s not my fault, it’s my tween, Hailey. She plays the pop sensation on a constant loop; those perky, sticky lyrics follow her into the car, ring from her cellphone, hum from her showers, frame all her play dates and parties, leak through her now almost always closed door.    Meanwhile, Hailey can’t hear a word I say—requiring me to repeat even the simplest instruction so many times, it feels like my mouth is moving without making sounds. How is a boring, hardworking mother supposed to compete with this slick conspiracy of good looks, pop hooks, millions of dollars, and girlish fun? Even when my daughter’s gone, the songs persist. Like a cult victim, my lips move involuntarily, accompanying tunes that won't stop circling my mind. What’s a mother to do?—other than passive-aggressively eat an entire jar of her children’s Flintstone gummy vitamins?   I started noticing Hailey’s Taylor Swift obsession when she was ten, but she was probably a follower as early as six or seven. I clearly remember the day I went into Hailey’s room (her door was always open then, her “knocking rule,” not yet in place) and noticed a new wall decoration.   It wasn’t just some normal, kid’s bedroom display of posters or fan magazine pages; it was an intricate collage of beautiful women sporting a Barbie fashion parade of trendy outfits and hairdos.   At first, I didn’t realize it was all the same person—what with the hair being so many different shades and lengths—but, on closer inspection, I realized all the women had the same doe eyes and vulpine features. It was a collage of Taylor Swifts—every Taylor artfully integrated into the next, each image cut out, paper-doll style, with the loving precision of a stalker or serial killer, not missing the wispiest strand of hair or the flimsiest fold of gossamer gown. This was the work, not of clumsy scissors, but of a sharper, more precise instrument— an X-acto knife or razor blade. Though every nuance of the star’s contours was worshipfully rendered, all non-Swift-related background material had been ruthlessly excised—sky, buildings, other people. While there were easily several college tuitions worth of designer outfits on display, Hailey favored close-up cut-outs of Ms. Swift’s face (in a wide array of sizes, from poster-scale to no bigger than a grape) as if trying to burrow into her mind.   Each time I entered Hailey’s room, the collage had spread like some crazy cancer, each image a malignant cell, taking over the wall behind the bed, then spreading to the next wall, then the next.  Jokingly, I suggested that Hailey paste some teeny Taylor faces into the eyeballs of the bigger Taylors for a deconstructive effect. Unamused, Hailey labeled me “a hater.” On her door appeared a No Trespassing!!!  sign. I still went into Hailey’s room, but only to put clean clothes in her dresser, a task I performed at NASCAR speed, owing to how spooked I was by all those eyes watching from the walls (and eventually Hailey’s headboard, armoire and desk).  This many-headed Taylor mostly smiled brightly, but sometimes her plush, impish lips pouted or curled into a nonthreatening snarl as if to showcase her wide range of facial expressions. However, even Taylor’s perkiest smiles began to seem smug, at times, even sinister, as if to say, “I smell like ball gowns and Prada, unlike you, with your whiff of cooking grease and long division!” After another blithe remark on my part, Hailey banished me from her room entirely, cast me out with the same cruel insouciance as when she tossed all her My Little Ponies into the basement, along with their pricey pony accessories—their tiny hairbrushes and disco roller skates, the entire pony castle ramparts. There her ponies remain, their candy-sweet eyes permanently staring up from the damp dungeon of a cardboard box labeled Chairitee  in Hailey’s crude and childish hand. Out of habit (from when I used to freely enter her room to read to her or chat and giggle) I still occasionally absentmindedly entered Hailey's room, which she occasionally absentmindedly forgot to lock; and got a terrible shock when she screamed in that edgy, high pitched voice of hers, “Get out!”  When this happened, it was as if all those Taylor Swift heads started screaming, “shake shake shake it out, get, get get it out, GET THE FUCK OUT!” When I complained about the Taylor situation to a friend, she scolded me. She informed me that Taylor Swift was a feminist icon and billionaire who trademarked her own image and catchphrases and runs her own business. “And even the world” I added.  “You should be thrilled your daughter chose such a creative role model,” my friend continued, “at least Hailey is expressing herself through art with those collages, unlike my Emily, whose worship of Kylie Jenner has her swapping an interest in aerospace engineering for an obsession with Tik Tok twerking and makeup tutorials.”  Well, isn’t it true that there’s always someone who is way worse off than you? I realized then how lucky I was to have Ms Swift as a role model for my daughter, whose fashion sense was already way more advanced (and expensive) than my own. I vowed to conquer my selfish jealousy and made up with Hailey by procuring costly Eras Tour Concert tickets. The No Trespassing!!!  sign came down. So forget about rescuing my daughter. I’ll happily settle for some help dislodging this song that’s kinda stuck in my neural track, like when you get a nut particle lodged in your molar.   Still, sometimes, when I’m in my daughter’s room and forget to avert my eyes, I could swear those Taylor Swifts are smirking, rather than smiling, as if to say, “Face it, bitch, I own your daughter. Disclaimer: This piece is about maternal jealously and in no way meant to diss Taylor Swift. Kirsten Oerke was born in Iowa but has lived in Texas, Africa, the UK, and now New York. She earned her BA in writing and literature and MFA in screenwriting from Columbia University and has had short films selected for festivals and challenges—Her script, The Gardening Aisle was directed by Sabrina Dhawan, writer of Monsoon Wedding. Her most recent nonfiction can be viewed in on-line literary magazine, Sad Girl Diaries. Social media (which intermittently mesmerizes or disgusts me, so I sporadically check): Twitter/X handle:  @joysofjello Instagram: KirstenO ( @kirstenval )

Look and see. He knew where. He took the stoned path, now more grass or correctly just plain but lovely weed, to the wooden structure, where the magic had lived and died. He'd only been allowed in once, and so many years ago, it felt like a dream. Smell. Hidden at the far woodsy back of the vast estate's fields, beyond the lily pond, and almost to the river where the gators lived to themselves, the structure of the dank, damp retreat looked the same. Musk, cologne spilled, mold. One room, perfect square, hipped roof, architecturally designed (for a shed? Yes, he'd had his ways with creation, and the money to boot). Most windows per square meter for maximal light, floor to ceiling their cast, and the windows could slide fully up the wall's height, for as he remembered the frogs, spiders, and gnats, three cats, two dogs, tamed deer,  wild fox, and even one snake of some venom had crawled in, but to no one's care of a whiff. The uncle? Drew inspiration from any and all. The music of nature, his cure. His muse. All alone. Do.  The nephew peered in, seeking a memory or a wish of what lurked behind the smeared window almost opaque in the darkness of the shady afternoon light. He'd come too late to see best, but the court had ordered a report by the morning and he'd had, well, all the other duties had sapped him. Feel.  He spotted uncapped tubes of thick oils littering the main room. Antique settee's threadbare fabric. Smashed gilt frame sulked. By the half-open, odd shape of what made for a bathroom door. Vague remnants of blood. Caked, clinging to its glass-knob handle. Microscopes could reveal such of the tired mess of colorful memory, but no cause for medical or legal worry, the red only a test of research for yet another interrupted work in progress, a novel mystery that particular year decades ago and still unsolved without its creator to sleuth, or so the nephew reasoned. He had his own notebook today, that list from his pocket, to check off one last time, final receipts, all to submit to the court. Always a deadline, something his uncle had known from his work. But silence today. Taste.  The baby grand hid like the bad kid he'd been so many years before, the nephew mused, under layers of ill-stacked, unfinished musical scores scattered as if by a hurricane but long, long ago that ego's wind quieted, years before sheets of dust – mmm mmm mmm , even now in his mouth – had calmed the strident scene and would-be creator moved along to next medium or genre of project, it all to be abandoned as well and too soon. Nephew, as keen-eyed attorney and legal heir to uncle-artist's all, noticed the broken glass. In the French door. Leading to the second entry. Nothing missing. Unless all are complete. He'd been advised what to do, jot it all down, take it all up where left off. Know.  Notebooks full of scribbles of sound, musings of far-fetched idea, spent pens discarded on the floor, and thin pencils snapped in two, strings of violin popped in a corner, harp's much the same opposite the scene, more brushes both new and unwrapped as well as more used, nubbed, garish from labor, hair-worn, and with every tint of crying rainbow bled dry and holding, even them clutching, at what might've been, could be in him. Be.  The nephew knew what to finish, his own artist's life postponed, there were funds enough, enough paints, papers, implements, instruments, canvases, colors, where to begin, what story to tell first, in word or by note, then he remembered, thought like a child, that day he'd interrupted uncle, glimpsed glory of creation to child's eye, uncle shouting No sneaking , driving him out, tripping over cats and dog, losing his grip on control of the moment, afraid of all art, banished self and surrendering to guaranteed normalcy, that greatest of art, all out of puerile urge, mistaken misunderstanding, forlorn the deep fear. Into a life like us, all the rest, well-meaning and stable, forty hours or more every week every month thirty-five years now. He thought back. Wise remembered, knew where to begin: love what you do. Every day, the dear life. Die doing, live happy. Listen. For the music. And make some, hmm-make-sommm. A rural native of the southeastern United States, R. P. Singletary is a lifelong writer across fiction, poetry, and hybrid forms and a budding playwright with recent fiction, poetry, and drama published or forthcoming in  Literally Stories, Litro, BULL, Cream Scene Carnival, Cowboy Jamboree, Rathalla Review, The Rumen, Wasteland Review, The Wave - Kelp Journal, the coalition (Coalition for Digital Narratives), LEON Literary Review, The Collidescope, Mystery Tribune, Teleport, CafeLit, JONAH, Ancient Paths Christian Literary, EBB - Ukraine, The Ana, Flora Fiction, Ariel Chart, Syncopation, Last Leaves, Stone of Madness, Written Tales, Wicked Gay Ways, Fresh Words, The Chamber, Wingless Dreamer, Screen Door Review, Microfiction Monday, mini plays, Pink Disco, Lost Lake Folk Opera, The Stray Branch, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Brief Wilderness, In Parentheses, The Taborian, Active Muse, Bending Genres, D.U.M.B.O. Press,  and elsewhere.

I am particles. Mist. Smack. Ice flakes. Grit. Ash. Floating fur. Loose and moving you can put your hands  Through me Snag on hard places that hurt more to shatter  Where I should have just drifted apart. Born blue and yellow Cyanotic. Jaundiced The colour of bruises Pain is always metal Steel spikes in soft skin Bullets bearing bald gifts Blunt blades biting bare veins Cars carving up carcasses. Anger began as I swang Upside down. Not the erupting volcanic sort. The old, cold withering waiting kind. Moving slower than erosion. Writhing under the blood transfusion Nervous new Mother. She needed me to behave badly. To exonerate her as she mixed glue in the kitchen. Happy over the congealing pot. Ready to stick veneer tiles of acceptability all over me. But they slid off, dropped The glue weakened by her tears. Every time I jumped off a roof she would catch me. One long meandering jump. Evading her forays into the forest. In her red cloak. To find the wolves with PHDs. Who prescribed the Thorazine. That would keep me still, While she sank her teeth into me. Hoping the saliva in her bite Would turn my bad bile into good behaviour. Let’s see who'll crack first? Always losing my asthma inhaler. Stealing my own breath. To hand back to her. Dancing on the edge of death. A delightful Snoopy dance of joy. Head back, nose up, ears afloat. In a smack serrated voice. I could tell myself, 'Shut the fuck up willya, I'm heading out in headlines.’ But  You won’t let me come to nothing Willya? Whatever the price. georgë kear is an artist and writer exploring in poetry, modern fiction and digital collage how personal history shapes us and ultimately encloses us, juxtaposing the medieval and modern, rural and urban. She currently lives up a Welsh mountain and is not sure this amount of isolation is healthy…

One day the sky turned red and the public blamed it on the new Secretary of State for the Heavens. On the contrary, said the Secretary of State for the Heavens by way of learned contra-interjection, the sky has turned red because of the previous Secretary of State, I am just having to deal with the consequences of her inactions but believe me I will do so vigorously and find a solution. Also I am very virile. Time passed and eventually people forgot that the sky was ever blue rather than red. They even began to enjoy the warm red glow that the new red sky cast over everything. So much of our world had previously seemed so cold and unwelcoming, they thought to themselves. But the Secretary of State for the Heavens persisted quietly in his plan to solve the Red Sky Problem until many years later on a cool November morning the sun rose and suddenly the sky was blue again. Needless to say there was general outrage and the Secretary of State was summarily dismissed for allowing the sky to turn blue on his watch. He was replaced with an even newer Secretary of State for the Heavens who promised that she would work vigorously to turn the sky red again and so restore that enervating warmth so beloved of this society for so long. Simon Ravenscroft is a Fellow of Magdalene College, Cambridge.

crashed into the foreign door of a person i’ve met and i don’t know at all watched your hand around a mug and counted times you kept it empty conceptualized a bed and the way they fall asleep white green mountain creek keep this out of reach run birds over carry on wait for rivers to turn red plaster torn-up signs on pavements look for me in sounds that slip out of your mouth onto the cd you kept in case of emergencies watch me laugh  and stir your coffee in the wrong direction  whisper rotten words to express all i know  about giving you the moon

On nights my soul is ablaze, I whistle a tune for Charon and his Ferry. Strange we are on speaking terms, but we have met once before. This ride is not for the Underworld; he says I no longer belong there. I would be inclined to believe him if I did not still feel so hollow. Charon guides me into his carved-out oak vessel while Moonlight Sonata plays my head; we sail through his mother's womb. His boat reminds me of the foundation of a banana split.  We never need to speak; the company of another for a little while is more than enough. I always want to reach out and taste the stars, wondering if they would feel like pop rocks on my tongue. I do not dare touch them, for such beauty should remain undisturbed. Charon is less awe-inspired, as he was born of the night and will one day return to it.  For now, we glide through the silky umbra to a place that was once a planet. I crave ice to quench the inferno in my mind. We touch down on Pluto, which Charon calls Hades. Now it is time to play. He and I dance through the crimson snow, soothed by the chill on my skin. Even in the absence of sound, there is music between us.  This waltz at the top of an ice cream cone-shaped valley is not one of romance, only of fellowship in loneliness, for we have both witnessed the bounds of devotement and no longer wish to be a part of it. Charon only wishes to hold and be held; I am more than happy to indulge.  Through the glacier mountains and snakeskin ridges, we leave our troubles behind . Here, there is no death, no hurt, nothing anchoring our souls to pain; our ultimate ecstasy, feeling like oblivion among stars that will never be our home.  Sadee Bee (They/Them) is a queer artist and writer inspired by magic, strange dreams, and creepy vibes. Sadee is the Art Director for Sage Cigarettes Magazine and the author of Pupa: Growth & Metamorphosis (Alien Buddha Press), Magic Lives In Girls (kith books), and Viscera (Bottlecap Press). Bee can be found on Twitter @SadeeBee , on Instagram @sadee__bee , and on the web at  linktr.ee/SadeeBee .

“Black with two teaspoons of raw sugar. I want it hot. I mean fire hot. I don’t want it to be that lukewarm crap this place serves us. I want it to be so hot that it nearly melts the cup. Make it a large cup too, not one of those juice-sized cups. You understand?” “Food?” “Nothing. I just want to enjoy a steaming cup of coffee and be left alone. I just need to be left alone to think. So no, I don’t want any food. I just want my cup of coffee just like I ordered. You understand?” “Yes.” Turning to the Watch Captain, the young officer stated, “No food. Only coffee for his last meal.”

When I first got the chance to check out Amy Marques’ Parts , I had no expectations. I knew it was a poetry collection. And I knew it was visual poetry. That’s about it. Then I saw the subtitle:  A visual poetry erasure of Thomas Wolfe’s “The Party at Jack’s”. Having limited experience with erasure poetry, I was a little apprehensive. Would I like it? Would I even get it? After taking some time to explore the collection, I realized my worries were absolutely ridiculous.  Marques includes a fantastic introduction that lays out how this work came to be, how she came to painting, to poetry, to Thomas Wolfe. It works as a helpful intro to not just the collection, but to erasure poetry itself, easing in a novice like me. Did I mention this is not just erasure poetry, but visual erasure poetry? In other words, there are pictures! Perfect for a visual person like myself. One of the first erasures in the collection is one I keep coming back to. It’s a page filled with colorful paint spots, a cut out of a hot air balloon, and the words “They sometimes used obviously hypocritical voice.” (p.11) left strewn throughout the spots.  I love the whimsy of the image juxtaposed against the more serious-sounding language.  The next page is a collage that closely resembles the cover of Shel Silverstein’s The Giving Tree.  The words on this page read “The Giving Tree / To make someone secure and artistically privileged until maximum story appears.” Even though each page can be read and enjoyed as a separate poem, these first few erasures seem to be connected, laying out a description of the very act of creating erasure poetry. “I succeed somewhat trying to work on complex web of themes.” (p.13) And succeed she does.  Marques artfully covers themes that range from nature, to family, to dreams, to love. From birds and bees to the birds and the bees. A page painted with the colors of a sunrise leaving bare the words “Morning erect. Sense of power, with the sultry and lavish aromatic play. And then umph. And, finally, considerable satisfaction. Earnest.”(p.52) This is followed by a page painted in shades of red, a magazine cut out with a woman’s lips, and “Side to side. Pleasantly. Firm stroking finger tip. Gently holding. Arched. Grunted. Slight tug for a moment. Satisfied. But always excellently.” (pg 53)  To take a single page of existing text and create a meaningful poem from the words already there is a feat all its own. But to consistently find your own meaning on every page of a book filled with someone else’s words, from beginning to end is beyond impressive. Marques accomplishes this and more all the way through this collection and masterfully ties it all up with her final erasure. A page covered in black paint sponged over the words, leaving us with “Everyone should be compelled to read.” (p.188) A sentiment I could not possibly agree with more. And should you feel that compulsion, you should start with this book. Available Now! PARTS ( lulu.com ) Amy Marques grew up between languages and cultures and learned from an early age the multiplicity of narratives, which continues to inspire her work of blended genres and hybrid art. Published widely among journals, she is a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, and Best Small Fictions nominee, as well as editor and artist of the Duets Anthology  and her first full poetry collection, PARTS .

America 101:  The big mansion the marriage broker raved about in Chennai turns out to be a one-bedroom apartment with linoleum flooring and mini cockroaches. My brand-new husband is an entry-level programmer and not an executive. But there’s a dishwasher, a washing machine, and running hot water all day. He tells me not to get too friendly with the Indian neighbors in 2B, they will start borrowing sugar and coffee just like in India. The masala dabba contains more than spices : The seven little containers transport me to Amma’s kitchen, her soft mul cotton saree a bouquet of spices enveloping me in its warmth, the clink of her bangles as she whips curd into buttermilk with the mathu a melody I yearn for.  I tell him I’m out of spices, saving the last of Amma’s. Cooking perfect rice is an art : The first day I make rice, I undercook it, the grains unevenly cooked, the texture jarring; the next day, it’s an overcooked mush. Patti and Amma never let me help in the kitchen, and Amma didn’t write down the recipe. Over two days of hot rice thrown at me, as his name hidden in the wedding henna on my hands starts to fade to an ugly orange from bright red, hot rice grains slithering down my cheeks like fire ants, I discover that he married me for sex and maid services, that it takes two cups of water to one cup of rice and soaking the basmati for twenty minutes to get that perfectly fluffy rice.  I don’t tell him the sex isn’t all that great . Know your neighbors : I ran  into 2B Aunty at the trash receptacle today. Aunty is wearing a saree, and says softly: “help venumna kelumma.” Tamil! I smile tentatively, scurry back to my apartment, restlessness in my bones. I try to hide my smile from him. Soak tamarind in hot water to soften it : Amma can make rasam in her sleep, but I struggle with this most basic dish. Some days it’s too sour - like my marriage, some days the heat of the pepper singes my palate. He yells about the little bits of tamarind fiber that resemble striations from the second-degree burn on my stomach.  Amma says rasam, like life, is a perfect balance of sour, sweet, and heat. Wash okra before  chopping : He curses my family the day I wash the ladyfingers after  chopping them, making a sticky mess beyond salvage. He makes me eat it while he eats the pizza he ordered for himself. These days, I make the crispiest okra perfectly seasoned with chili powder and hing that he greedily finishes, leaving me the blackened pieces in the bottom of the pan.  I don’t tell him those are the best pieces. Garlic for a happy married life:  My mother-in-law advised me to use plenty of garlic in my cooking, winking “It’s good for the bedroom ” . When I come to bed smelling like garlic, he turns away disgusted. I know lemon juice gets the smell off my fingernails.  I pretend I’m sorry for forgetting to use lemon juice on my garlicky fingers some nights.  Getting rid of garlic smell:  See above. Handling pregnancy cravings:  During the first snow of my life, in the first six months of my married hell, the little life in me makes me crave Amma’s hot peppery milagu kuzhambu that she made on rainy evenings. I write to Amma for the recipe along with news of my pregnancy. It turns out perfect, tamarind cooked with a spicy paste of black pepper, red chilies, and coriander seeds. I spread the white rice on my plate, ladling the jam-like kuzhambu on top. When I reach for the ghee, literally salivating, he smacks my hand. “You already look like a cow. Get it, a cow gives milk, doesn’t need milk or ghee? ” I hate him. Chilies are nature’s narcotics : One day my brain loses control over my hand, the hand loses control over the number of chilies I put in the coconut chutney for the soft white idlis. The fiery heat numbs every other pain, the river of endorphins washing away the debris of scars. In the burning euphoria of that moment my secret cookbook is born.  One I promise to never pass on to my daughter.  Baby makes three : My hope that he would change when the baby comes are dashed. He is irritated by the colicky crying of Nitya. Blames me for the cost of diapers, baby formula. As if I went and had the baby all by myself. 2B aunty brings a gift for Nitya and pathiya sappadu, after he leaves for work. I find $10 in the pudgy folds of Nitya’s palm after she leaves. Tears that wouldn’t fall at his cruelty fall freely at this kindness.  I don’t tell him about 2B aunty’s visit.  Sneaking veggies into your child’s meals while starting a business to escape your dreadful marriage: Nitya is three and has learned to fear her appa even though   he hasn’t laid a finger on her in love nor anger. She chatters nonstop when he’s not around. When she refuses to eat her vegetables, I trick her into gobbling it down by mashing them with her favorite dal rice.  I see 2B aunty on our walk today. She mentions she’s been cooking for the desi students in the building but is unable to handle all the orders. Would I be interested in making a little extra money? I think about it all day. When I tell him of cooking for the students, how much they’re willing to pay, adding facetiously  ‘why would I cook for strangers?’, he yells at me for saying no to easy money, to get off my butt and do something useful other than watching tv all day.  I don’t tell him what the students pay, or that I now have my own bank account. Author’s note: The story is about survival, an all too familiar story of (Indian) brides promised heaven and finding hell in their new homes abroad, when the "marrying a boy abroad" trend was at its peak in India.

We were hitting our stride this Saturday morning, bodily rhythms in sync. Then came the first thud: a strange knocking from somewhere at the other end of the house. Something against a window, cutting against the grain of our syncopation. “What was that?” Barbara asked. “What,” I said, trying to sustain the rhythm. “What was what.” The second thud came. Louder, harder. Solid. “There it is again,” Barbara said. She froze, and her attention shifted to the noise beyond our bedroom. “Dan,” she said. “Stop. Listen.” Another thud. A pause. Then a fourth. I rolled aside, defeated, and we grabbed our robes from the floor and stumbled toward the noise. We followed the sounds to the sliding glass door that led from the kitchen and dinette area to the deck. There we found a solitary robin hurling itself repeatedly against the glass. “He sees his reflection,” Barbara said. “He thinks it’s another robin. A girl robin.” She stood at my side. I put my arm around her, still feeling amorous, or trying to. “Must be spring,” I said. Our son Casey stepped toward us. He walked stiff-legged, his high forehead furrowed in ire as he rubbed sleep out of his eyes. “What’s going on?” He wore a Chicago Cubs robe loosely around him. “A crazy robin,” said Barbara. Another thud. “He sees his reflection in the glass, and he thinks it’s a female robin.” “He’s in love,” I said. “Like Narcissus.” Barbara rolled her eyes. Casey shrugged, blinked his eyes hard twice, and opened the refrigerator. He stood leaning against the open door, inspecting the contents. Again the bird rammed the glass, dropped, and skittered across the wooden deck floor, away from the door. Then it flew toward it again. Ram, crash, drop, skitter. Ram, crash, drop, skitter. “What should we do?” Barbara asked. I shrugged. “He’ll leave soon,” I said. “We can’t just leave it like this, Dan. Look at the mess he’s making already on the deck.” “Yeah, Dad,” Casey said as he poured Frosted Flakes into a mixing bowl. “We’ve got to do something about it.” He poured milk over the cereal and set the plastic jug on the table. “I’m telling you both, the bird will leave in time. He’ll get tired of crashing into the glass. He’ll come to his senses and leave. We just need to give him time.” “Give him his space,” Barbara said, her voice tinged with sarcasm. “Exactly,” I said. She rolled her eyes. “Casey,” I said, “what time is your ball game?” “Not until ten,” he said, scooping cereal into his mouth with a soup spoon. “You’d better get ready, Casey,” Barbara said. “That’s only a little over an hour from now.” The boy nodded and slurped. Turning to me, Barbara whispered, “I really wish you would do something about that bird.” “Fine,” I said. I cinched the sash of my house robe, walked into the garage, grabbed the push broom, and stepped out to meet my adversary. “Hey, little guy,” I said as the bird hopped against the glass, then careened backward. The walnut-stained deck planks were splotched with robin droppings. I brandished the broom like a pike.  The bird ignored me, made another run for it, flitted up against the window, fell, and staggered backward. “That’s not your mate, matey,” I said as I waved the bristled end of the broom at the robin. It fluttered and chittered and flapped its wings like madness, a bird possessed. “Listen,” I said, swiping the broom on the ground toward its tiny taloned feet. In the window, I saw Barbara and Casey watching me, a reluctant gladiator thrust into the arena. My honor and manhood were now on the line.  “Listen, little guy. I know what it’s like to be in love.” The bird paused as I brushed the broom closer. It appeared to be tiring of this ritual. “Or to think you’re in love.” Again the bird threw itself against the glass. Again it fell backward. “I know how you feel,” I said. “I know what it’s like to be misled, mistaken.” Ram, crash, drop, skitter. “I know , dammit!” I said as I swung the broom hard like a baseball bat at the elevating bird.  The wood of the broom head connected. I heard the hard, dull thwap  of it as the bird soared a few feet before dropping to the deck. A bloop single.  It did not get up. I nudged the robin with the broom. A faint spot of red on its beak began to leak onto the walnut-stained boards. “ Dad! ” came Casey’s muffled cry behind the glass.  Then, from my wife, “Oh, Dan. Did you kill it? You didn’t kill it, did you?” I glared into the glass at them both. In unison, they turned away. I stepped off the deck and back into the garage. Barbara and Casey were both in there, standing at the door connecting to the kitchen, when I picked up the dustpan and stepped back to the deck. “I’m pretty sure it’s dead,” I said. They both stood silent, watching me with judgment in their eyes. “Well, you wanted me to do something, right?” “Yes, but –”  “But what, Barbara? Not kill it?” She said nothing, just looked at me with tight lips and saddening eyes. My son in his Cubs robe looked at his feet. “Well, I did something,” I said.  “I didn’t mean to kill him,” I said, turning my back to them and, dustpan in hand, returned to the deck, to the bird, whose only crime, only mistake, was to crash into the illusion of love. A word from the author: " Narcissus on the Deck " could be described as a love story. Or a tale of murder. (I'll let the reader decide.) The author, Andrew Careaga, recently retired from a 40-year career in journalism, PR, and marketing to return to his first love, creative writing. His most recent short stories can be found in Bulb Culture Collective, Club Plum Literary Journal , Paragraph Planet,  and Red String.