Search Results

My mother once told me the word for “forgiveness” in Sioux is “woakiktunze.” My mother, who taught me that to be Native was to be trapped. Lonely. Woakiktunze, she said. We weren’t churchgoers, but notions of contrition and penance, she knew them from the missionaries who tolerated the South Dakota winters because the savages had to be tamed. Because young Native women had to be domesticated before they were taken to Long Island to live among the whites. Woakiktunze doesn’t come from God, she told me. It comes from the person you wronged. My mother, who never met a stranger she didn’t like. Anyway, Bertrand, my best friend, showed me there was more to being Native. That you could be free to drink cosmos and dance until dawn, could stride into a piano bar in Greenwich Village or bathhouse in Midtown and reject the advances of every man suddenly interested. Could sleep with none of them, or sleep with all. Bertrand, the first friend I made after moving to the city, and the only Native I’d ever known besides my mother, showed me this. Showed me this and I encouraged it. Cheered him on. Asked him to show me more. Now he was sick, and somehow, this was about my mother and her Sioux words. It was about forgiveness. Despite a T-cell counting dipping perilously below 200, Bertrand bounced back from his first immune system crash, recovering from a bout of meningitis that in early 90’s usually meant it was the beginning of the beginning of the end. But he was well again–well enough, at least, to meet me at a downstairs bar called East of Eighth. “The IHS didn’t kill me!” he said, and like most of his res Indian references, he had to explain what Indian Health Services was to white-raised me, explain how Natives who went in for care never came home. I still didn’t get the joke—he’d gone to St. Vincent’s here in the city—but I laughed anyway, because I loved him. He was still striking, still handsome, and his eyes were the color of the brush that concealed wily rabbits. I was sure if I stared long enough, a rabbit might even hop out and scamper away. I told him he looked great, surprise in my voice. We embraced, and when the moment came for us to pull apart, we did so only halfway, still gripping each other’s arms as we talked. “I feel fine,” he said. “Fabulous, even.” In the evening light, the shoes of sidewalk passersby could be seen in the windows, some heading west towards Chelsea Cinemas and Eighth Avenue, some east towards the Chelsea Hotel and Seventh Avenue. Around us, older gentlemen, career homosexuals who knew exactly what they were, sipping vodka and tonics while the Bucketheads sang about these sounds falling into my mind but with the volume low, a subdued cultural reminder instead of the loud gay bar anthem it would be somewhere else. The bartender replaced Bertrand’s dwindling cocktail without being asked, said, “This one’s on me.” Bertrand pulled away, reached for it, and took a sip. “I think my status gives me street cred,” he said. “Cheers to that!” I asked if he was taking things easy. He shook his head. “My carefree days are over.” He took another sip. “I can only be careless. And, oh sweetie, am I ever careless.” He regaled me with tales of picking up strangers in bars. He said he no longer had to fear catching anything, and that the pills and condoms he’d been given went untouched—a point of pride, it seemed. I only shook my head, though whatever displeasure I might have been conveying was tempered by warmth, so much warmth. There was comfort in the fact that he was alive, that though there wasn’t much of a future, at least there was a now. Around us, the older men now had younger men to buy drinks for. It was the Pet Shop Boys’ turn to sing about how it was a sin. There was no beating around the bush with us, so I came out and said it: him getting sick was my fault, and I wanted to make it right. “You want forgiveness,” he said solemnly. We were quiet. After a while, he held up a finger, as if suddenly realizing what I could do for him. “There’s a Lakota tradition, a special soup—sunka soup. It’s got healing qualities.” I could make a soup. During the week I was a college student, but on the weekends, I worked in a kitchen. “I’m not saying I believe in everything my unci said, but…,” and his voice trailed off. I begged him to tell me how to make it. The rabbit sprang out from behind his eyes and made a break for it. “Sunka means dog, so you have to get a puppy that’s black and white—no brown fur. You have to cook it in water with carrots, celery and potatoes. And have some with me.” I opened my mouth to speak but no words came out. From his laughter, my expression must have been hysterical. “I just want to help,” I said. He shook his head. “My darling, kola,” he said, and he took another sip from his cocktail. “I am beyond help.” Bertrand, whose year in the city before me made him the wise elder to my innocent, young brave. Who, at my urging, led by example. Bertrand, who never met a stranger he didn’t like. “I am beyond help and I will never forgive you,” he said. “Because you didn’t do anything wrong.” Around us, the city and the scene Bertrand had introduced me to. I loved it as much as I loved him. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” he said. My mother once told me the word for “forgiveness” in Sioux is woakiktunze. And “ithunsni” was the word for liar. Jim Genia—a proud Dakota Sioux—mostly writes nonfiction about cagefighting, but occasionally takes a break from the hurt and pain to write fiction about hurt and pain. He has an MFA in creative writing from the New School, and his short fiction dealing with Indigenous themes has appeared or is forthcoming in the Zodiac Review, Electric Spec, Sage Cigarettes Magazine, ANMLY, Storm Cellar, the Indiana Review and the Baltimore Review. Follow him on Twitter @jim_genia.

The shallow end greets me like an old acquaintance who can’t quite recall my name. I shiver from the cold or maybe doubt, then submerge, finding my way to horizontal, hands meeting overhead, biceps cradling ears, legs kicking through resistance. I streamline underwater until my lungs yell at me to surface. My first eight, nine, ten strokes are clumsy, but then everything clicks into place. Muscles remember. Flip turns connect me to the next lap and the lap after that. My body moves without thought, syncing techniques that were shaped at eight, nine, ten years old. With each breath to the left, I match a breath three strokes later to the right, the tendons in my shoulders familiar with the ice packs required as a result of favoring one side. Curiosity and determination team up to compensate for the speed and endurance stolen by time. Water still mystifies me, it still appears at the edges of dreams that wake me with a momentary panic that I’m late for practice. It still holds fears of failure I once vowed to leave behind to drown. Returning to vertical, I bounce up and down in the water, stretching shaky triceps and trying not to compare myself to the nine, ten, eleven other adults in the pool, my competitors, as I was trained to do. The lean bald man whose snorkel eliminates the need to concern himself with air supply. The young couple sharing a lane, ticking off the sets in a workout written on a piece of paper slicked onto a blue kickboard. The chatty elderly woman aqua jogging with a flotation belt wrapped around her waist, a full face of makeup and a trail of perfume I followed out of the locker room. I wonder what series of events in their personal histories had brought them all here to converge at this exact moment, this exact place, if those events were remotely similar to mine. The ghosts of coaches past are here too, but only one still haunts me, only one I can still see pacing up and down the edge of the pool, hovering, analyzing, critiquing my every move both within and well outside the realm of his authority. The one with the twitching black mustache, the anger contorting his face and his self-important stance begging for respect. The one with the shrieking tirades he called motivation, his words shrinking me with nine, ten, eleven variations of the same sentiment. You are not good enough. You will never be good enough. I rotate and switch to backstroke, my view now the ceiling as I picture him floating up and away from me. My arms windmill in and out of the water while I silently tell him all the things I should have said but wouldn’t, couldn’t. I will not lose more weight. I will not push through the pain the doctors warn could be permanent. I will not believe I can’t succeed without you. I will not trust you. In ten, eleven, twelve seconds I see the flags lined above me indicating the wall is approaching. I inhale visions of newspaper clippings glued in scrapbooks, shoeboxes overflowing with medals, my signature accepting the college scholarship, and after somersaulting into a new lap and pushing off the wall, I exhale flashbacks of the scales and weigh-ins, the injuries and burn out, the tears and regrets. I stop to rest, wiping my goggles and the mental slideshow clean. My sight clear, I seek total release, sprinting with whatever reserves remain untapped. My heart rate spikes as it did in every race throughout my ten, eleven, twelve years of competitions, my rarely used fast twitch muscle fibers thanking me for including them. I grasp the top of the wall as it breaks my momentum, panting, internally recording an accomplishment that can’t be measured by a stopwatch, needing no one’s approval now. I begin my cooldown, my kicks barely making a splash, fatigue replacing proper form. The muffled silence underwater pulses in my temples, the stillness louder than my introspections. The solitude never bothered me back then. I never questioned the countless hours spent sharing space with peers yet able to speak only through body language. We moved around and alongside each other, sometimes offering mutual encouragement, sometimes inducing envy, always aware we were on the same team but simultaneously fighting for individual wins. Friends whose dreams matched mine, who understood me like no one else could because the demands of the sport are so unique, bonding us forever. Now I see older versions of eleven, twelve, thirteen of those friends as I scroll through social media, some reliving those days through their children, maybe some, like me, nursing mixed emotions toward an entity that consumed our lives a lifetime ago. I peel off my swim cap and sink, tilting my head back as I stand to let the water smooth my hair. I try to figure out if I got what I came for. This was a recalibration of body and mind, a test of sorts. Could I still do it? Did I even want to? I hoist myself out of the pool in one fluid motion and walk the eleven, twelve, thirteen steps to the entrance of the locker room where my towel hangs on a hook. “See you next time,” the lifeguard says with a wave. I smile and thank the teenage boy who looks around the same age I was when I finally decided it was time to stop. I’m not sure if I’m thanking him for the invitation to return or the realization I’d like to accept it. In the shower I rinse away the stink of chlorine that defined my childhood, the itch that stained my nostrils and flaked my skin, the chemicals that faded my bathing suits and left green highlights in my yellow ponytail. Every inch of me is already sore and aching a mere twelve, thirteen, fourteen minutes after stripping off my Speedo. It’s the good kind of sore though, the kind that quietly, gradually turns into power. I return to the pool twelve, thirteen, fourteen more times, my middle-aged muscles remembering again, again, again. New imprints intertwine with the old, not as replacements but as reconstructed relationships with the shallow end, the fears, the ghosts. As past guides present, as pain guides strength, muscle memory forgives, but it never forgets. Heather Sweeney is an essayist whose work has appeared in The New York Times, The Washington Post, Newsweek, HuffPost, Insider, Five Minute Lit, Brevity Nonfiction Blog, and elsewhere. She was the winner of the 2022 Writer Advice Flash Memoir contest and a finalist in the WOW! WomenOnWriting Q4 2023 Creative Nonfiction Essay Contest. She lives in Virginia, where she’s currently working on a memoir.

THE DAY The day his doctor told my father he shouldn't drive anymore there were suddenly so many errands to run. I ran into the mailbox, and delivered his newspaper late. There were so many errands to run but snow piled deep in the driveway. and the snowplow was late. The mail never came. The snow piled high against the walls. My mother argued with her caregiver and then read the same letter over and over. The turkeys ran wild in the yard. My mother argued with her caregiver because she said she didn't need a caregiver Later, they watched the turkeys run wild, and the starlings battle at the bird feeder. My mother said she didn't need her walker. My father, mystified by the remote, missed his favorite show. The bird feeder became a TV. My mother almost fell down. My father was mystified that he couldn't drive anymore. I fell asleep and drove my car into a ditch. WAITING ROOM The silence is a forest of bare trees. A grey sky hovers near the ceiling. Through the glass, snow covers the car the deck the hillside. Or is that just a memory? There is no child to play in it, only photographs — a couple skiing the hunt for a Christmas tree six-foot drifts from a blizzard. There are so many photographs, photo albums dominate the bookshelves, filled with people I no longer recognize. The ghosts of those still present sit with me. We wait for the bodies to arrive. G. Murray Thomas was an active participant in the Southern California poetry scene for 30 years. Then he moved back to Rochester NY to care for his parents. These poems are Living The Sundown coming in October 2024 from Moon Tide Press

It was the first really cold morning of the season, the sun was bright, the air crisp. When it was time to leave the cocoon of her cozy, varnished kitchen, Elena smelled the new weather and grabbed a wool coat and some gloves before heading to her car. She paused, almost imperceptibly, before opening the driver’s side door and getting in. The full tumbler of coffee she’d brought stayed in the cupholder, untouched, until she pulled into her assigned parking spot at the university. There, after the car was in park and the engine was off, Elena took her first sip. Lukewarm, but still good. Wednesdays were her busy day, four classes almost back to back, with only a forty-five minute break for a late lunch. Then, a long weekend of working from home. The lectures passed uneventfully, Elena holding her sighs back when she noticed a student asleep in the last row. She told her second class they’d have their grades back on their most recent assignment early next week. One girl, a student Elena knew and liked from previous years’ seminars, waited for her attention after class to ask for a letter of recommendation for a job application. Checking her watch, Elena decided to forgo a stop at her office and head straight to the café for lunch. Suzie chose a damp-looking quinoa and avocado salad with Asian slaw from the refrigerated case near the till, Elena a turkey, brie and arugula sandwich on ciabatta. It was Suzie’s turn to pay, and the cashier plucked the twenty dollar bill from her hand while shouting their coffee orders over his shoulder. He was a student, Elena recognized him from one of her foundational literature classes, but couldn’t remember his name and just smiled politely when he said “Have a nice day Professor Hobbes!” The women took their meals to a table tucked away in the back, near a floor-length window and away from socializing students. There were a few solitary diners, laptops and books open, earbuds in, studying over stale cookies and cooling lattes. “And of course next year I have my sabbatical, and I still haven’t submitted my initial research proposal because I can’t narrow down where to go,” Suzie said, before finishing the last of her coffee. “Does it all have to be for the one project or can you mix and match?” Elena asked thoughtfully. She’d never been on sabbatical. Though she loved teaching, the relentless boredom in some students’ faces year after year certainly made her itch. “That’s the beauty of it, I can see what happens. I mean I know the majority of it will have to be spent in London at the British Library, but I’m hoping to do a few smaller trips. I’ve got the entire semester, and it’s a big project of course. Going to Dublin will be easy enough for research, but I’d like to check out some smaller towns, and there’s a poet based at the university in Cork that I’ve been meaning to interview for an article.” Elena nodded and finished her coffee, placing the mug heavily on the table in front of her. A muscle in her shoulder seized and she rolled her neck subtly, frontwards, backwards, frontwards, backwards. She started to gather her things, phone, bag, keys, stacking dishes and wiping the table, waiting for Suzie to get the hint. “Have you been to Ireland?” “Yes,” Elena said, nodding tightly. She calmly plucked her gloves from the right-side pocket of her coat. “Where did you go? Dublin?” “Mm,” Elena said. Her fingers slowly slid into place against worn suede. “And to the west a bit, Galway. You know, the cliffs and everything. No I didn’t kiss the Blarney Stone,” She laughed a little too loudly and stood up hurriedly. “Spent a night or two in Donegal. Now I’m sorry to rush off but I have to speak to a student before my next seminar, I’ll talk to you later?” “Of course, good luck, and have a nice weekend.” The women hugged and Suzie settled back down into her chair. Elena left the café and turned sharply back towards the main academic building. She looked down at her feet as she walked, and tried to ignore the prick of sweat at the back of her neck. At dinner that evening, Elena’s husband Robert told her about a meeting he’d had with his business partner and the director of a film for which they’d put up a fair amount of money. “And this guy, he’s green, and we’re trying to explain to him that he needs to be more organized and he’s just totally ignoring us, he thinks this artiste cliché will get him everywhere he wants to go.” Elena nodded and sipped from a glass of chilled wine. The starter hadn’t even arrived, but by the way he gulped his drink and scoffed at his own story, she could tell Robert was growing irritable. She slid her hand across the linen tablecloth and put it on top of his. She listened as he finished his story, then lightly squeezed the fleshy part between his thumb and forefinger, wishing she could kiss him. It was hard for Robert, once a successful actor, now relegated to producing and silent partnerships. A rising star in his twenties and looking like he’d be set for parts for life in his early thirties, his career—and confidence—had crashed to a halt quite suddenly. He still occasionally acted, in quiet, intelligent plays or in small parts of films directed by old friends. But, he wasn’t happy when he talked about work, and she wished he’d just retire altogether. They didn’t need the money, he’d been smart with his finances when he was successful. Plus her modest income from the university, and they owned their house outright. But suggesting this to Robert would only get him thinking about his previous success, and they’d have the same old arguments they always had, round and round on a carousel of resentment. By the time dessert was served, Elena was tipsy and Robert was, in fact, irritable. He’d spent the majority of their meal talking about his own work, and now awkwardly transitioned to talking about hers. He must have realized how self-centered he was being, Elena could give him that. Robert was always aware of his flaws, which Elena appreciated. “And how is this semester going?” He asked. “Any shining star students?” Elena sighed and picked up her espresso. “I doubt it, they just don’t seem interested this year.” “Or maybe you’re the one who’s bored?” Robert lifted his eyebrows knowingly and smirked. “You may be right.” She set the cup down in its saucer a little too hard and sighed again. “What I really wish I could do is a research trip. Suzie’s going on sabbatical, and I must admit I’m extremely jealous. A whole semester to just learn something new for a change, have something fresh to share with students. And something different to write about, publish. Not just the same old opinions under new titles.” Her dessert spoon rattled on a small plate as she tapped her fingers on the table. Robert nodded and sipped his own coffee. Elena waited for him to ask. “Where’s Suzie going?” “She’s going to Ireland.” An awkward pause grew into an anxious silence, but Elena felt calm while the waiter cleared their table. “I’m jealous, really,” Elena said. Robert opened his mouth, but didn’t say anything. He looked at his hands. Maybe it was the wine, but the customary pricks of sweat didn’t bother her, and she calmly laid her credit card down in the folder and waited for it to be collected. When they arrived at home, Robert went straight to his office, and shut the door quietly. Elena turned the shower on and let the bathroom fill with steam before she undressed. She stepped into the shower and scrubbed her chest and arms until they were red and clean. Before applying face cream, she inhaled sharply and rubbed a circle clear in the mirror. Her face looked tired, she thought, her eyes only halfway open. She could glimpse just for a moment a version of herself, twenty-five years younger. This was the face she pictured as her own, but wasn’t sure if it existed anymore, or the woman she’d been then, existed anymore. That night she fell asleep quickly and deeply, but woke up when Robert dropped into bed beside her. She tapped her phone on the nightstand, 04:27 lit up the room and bounced off the eggshell ceiling. Robert curled up on the edge of the mattress, his back to her. She knew he was drunk from the slight snore that escaped from his huddled body. Elena woke again before the sun rose, and softly ran her fingers down Robert’s back, he hadn’t moved and his pajama top stretched tight across his shoulder blades, before getting out of bed. In the kitchen, she brewed coffee and put two pieces of crusty sourdough into the toaster. The sun started to rise, she saw wisps of orange and pink cloud through the window over the sink. A long rectangle of light slowly made its way across the wooden countertop as Elena drank her coffee, ate her toast and remembered another quiet morning, twenty-five years ago. It was instant coffee in a paper cup then, and a plain croissant she’d picked at over the course of five hours as she sat in a cold, gray room. People came and went, asked her questions, sometimes she was with Robert, sometimes alone. Mostly alone. A woman with a very tight, sleek bun and a scratchy-looking blue Garda uniform told her the other woman and child had passed away in the hospital. An investigation was underway. Photos had been taken, broken glass splashed across wet tarmac, sparkling under a floodlight. Elena had closed her eyes then. Just before noon, Elena heard Robert walking down the stairs. The last one creaked, and then he joined her in the kitchen. She was sitting at the table, grading papers with more coffee. He poured himself a mug and stood with his back to the window. Elena reached her hand out and Robert grabbed it, hard. His face was desperate, and Elena kissed his palm, then flipped it over. She knew this hand so well, after so many decades, but she was still shocked by the sight of graying hair and a light brown age spot on his second knuckle. The day passed sedately. Robert went out for a long walk in the afternoon, said he was going to the grocery store. He still wouldn’t drive. While he was out, Elena peeked into his office. Splayed on the desk were papers they’d been given, copies of forms they’d had to sign, in that cold, gray room. Underneath them was a newspaper, curled and browning with age, Robert’s youthful, closed-eyed face on the cover under a headline in bold and a foreign city’s weather report. It was funny, to see a prediction for something so far behind them. When he returned it was dark. Elena was making a salad and boiling water for pasta. The front door shut and Robert paused in front of her on his way upstairs. “I think I’ll retire,” he said. “Now, I think I will.” Isabel Crabtree is a writer from Rhode Island, currently living in the UK. Her work has been published in Esquire, Level and Honest Ulsterman.

The Witches swoop around the downstage lip of the stage. One leans close enough to smell the sweet tea on her breath. My wife bought us front-row tickets to opening night of Drunk Shakespeare. The cast sit like benched athletes at a “bar” stage right, tossing back plastic shot glasses of water poured from falsely filled liquor bottles, each gently rocking, primed to spring into multiple roles. To their credit, the Witches slur and stammer, crack up. I’ve worked with drunk actors. Up there, they’re dead sober. It’s my birthday, and tonight’s a surprise gift from my wife, bless her. In the lobby, she gobbled glasses of rose to survive. I told her she didn’t have to come. Her existence orbits Marvel movies, romance novels, and a high-pressure job. Normal people stuff. Leaning over, I murmur along the opening lines, trying to impress her, I guess. She ignores me, listening. The show goes on. It's cute. Actors are late on cues. Toss in bits, adlib. Lady Macbeth drains a flask, offers the messengers, the doomed king Duncan, even a girl in the front row who I suspect is planted or a friend. More and more of this. It’s not exactly funny, but they’re having a good time. It’s infectious, warm. Clever, really: horror enhances comedy. Directors forget this. Finally, we arrive at the big number, the speech everybody knows. Lady Macbeth is dead, dragged downstage by a grinning Seyton, and presented to her distraught king. The audience goes quiet. The “dead” queen takes a final drink and winks at my wife who sniffs a laugh. Macbeth eats the solemnity, vamping like a professional wrestler before his provocative monologue. He knows we came for this. My wife sees I’m excited, smiles, pats my hand. But a knee goes unsteady under Macbeth, and I see them now–slick eyes. From somewhere, not those crumpled shots of water, he’s sneaking it, swimming. Drunk. Here’s the “uh oh” look–is the rest of the audience seeing this? I did a performance in summer rep once where our Prospero, shit-faced on Wild Turkey, blanked and simply sat down. Just plopped on his ass like a tantruming toddler. They curtained and offered the patrons refunds. For a queasy moment, I think that's it, but his jaws chew into motor memory. Arms, legs, and body follow and he’s tomorrow and tomorrow-ing smoothly on cruise control. The critic in my head switches off, resigned to enjoy the language.  Macbeth kneels to linger over his fallen Lady, which is right. I hate soliloquizing loftily to the heavens, or aghast clawing into the void of profundity. Direct your words; speak to something. Bending like that, over the lain out corpse of his cold queen, it’s misting us, his syrupy bourbon breath, which the others expect. It’s Drunk Shakespeare, right? Ball lighting kindles his eyes, and the verse ignites: he’s actually crying–thin, popping tears. The words wretch out in ugly, desperate sobs with no music, rhythm, or drift. I taste notes of a thumping heartbeat, a drum, realize it’s my own open-mouthed breathing. I’ve been sucked toward the stage. He sees me and our eyes meet for a moment, then he’s looking up, out, and saying, “It is a tale told by–I’m the idiot, Leah.” A mutter ripples back, unsure whether to laugh. “Wait, what'd he say?” “It was an accident. I don’t even remember.” He’s sunk to his knees and is talking to us, to everyone, direct address. “I remember her saying ‘you're so quiet.’ I’m sure I was thinking about you, babe. I don’t even know what we did, Leah. It’s a blur. I didn’t want to–” Stage right, actors are standing and looking at each other like, “What should I do?” Macbeth’s scanning eyes find what they’re after, a tall lady in the middle of the house. I can’t help but swivel and bear down on her. Most of us are. Hundreds of eyes. She clutches a bouquet of red roses. “I’ll quit all this. Stay home. Leah, nothing matters,” he says and scoots forward gracelessly to the edge of the stage nearly sliding Lady Macbeth overboard. His legs dangle. The tall lady sits, frozen. The roses crush against her denim jacket. One of the actors, Banquo, puts hands on Macbeth but gets shrugged away. Lady Macbeth, trapped by his leaning hip is desperate to be dead, feigning death like her life depends on it, like, Oh my God, get me out of here. They dim the lights, but he keeps going. “I’m sorry,” he says. “It only happened once. If it happened.” He’s all over the place. You can’t follow–pauses, sobs, hiccups. “Let’s start over. She’s gone. Please.” He apologizes like someone who apologizes for breakfast, but his face isn’t lying. People are standing in growing groups. The show’s over. It’s murderous how awful this man looks, how the tall lady, Leah, is nailed to her seat, crinkling her bouquet, speechless, looking too stunned to cry, though her cheek twitches, the mechanisms in her face attempting to remind her. “I love you. You want this, right?” Macbeth is saying. Banquo and the stage manager drag him up, freeing Lady Macbeth to scurry away, cursing. Macbeth doesn’t need to shout, the room’s still quiet, despite the lines of patrons filing outward. He’s laughing gently, amazed. “Don’t come to my show. Don’t do that; come to dinner. Let's have a date night?” It’s only Leah and Macbeth here from the look on their faces. My wife is pulling me up and out of my seat.  I’m the last one transfixed; everyone crowds the doors. Out in the cold toward the car, I take my wife’s hand. It’s limp meat, but I grip. We ride silently for six miles, save the bossy GPS. Her hand is warmer now, squeezes back. I turn to her, smile. “That was the best acting I’ve ever seen.” She nods at the road, says, “I hate Shakespeare,” and switches the radio on. Travis Flatt (he/him) is a teacher and actor living in Cookeville, Tennessee. His stories appear or are forthcoming in Bending Genres, Flash Frog, Roi Faineant, JMWW, and elsewhere. He enjoys theater, fluffy dogs, and theatrically fluffy dogs.

)))wind unravels fingers— tones pores which gasp as sudden cold sneaks up on you like an icicle down your back, between your breasts stamps a crescent moon on your forehead as wrinkles huddle in its gusts skin dances, its electricity pungent in the snap of so much air fingers search for you your furred belly announcing its softness into my waiting hands Now You See It, Now You Don’t There is a pool where everyone can drink, liquid sliding down throats like cool tea on a hot porch-- eyes glisten in half-light as pinks and oranges give up the battle against darkening sky— It can ease the whocha and whatcha of life— at least for a while, but stay too long and the pool shrouds you in the woven hair of others whose time has come and gone-- crumpled into dust on some bench under stars that were once too hot. We lie in the grass above— the hills tendering their forgiveness one star at a time as we lose our names among falling petals— pinks and purples clinging to their scent— until the pressure of our hands releases it and thirsty skin drinks. A Man Stops The Clocks My time at Barnhouse & Timble stopped one afternoon when spring’s bright light leapt off marble columns in a tilt-a-whirl --- time fell away— a crazy man with a gun, a judge, two attorneys, and a soon-to-be ex-wife –the gunman looking to make her an ex-wife, lickety-split— Stood next to her, is all I did— that and calling a spade a spade – maybe he was drunk that day, but that is granting an awful lot of benefit-of-the-doubt. More likely, it was a grinding hate that unwinds clocks, turns a man inside out. Either way, a gun is a gun, especially when loaded and handled by a man wearing his innards as a suit. The sun glinting off that gun pointed in my general direction— the slowing tick of the clock, tears rolling down his face— tears as he pulled the trigger—and the breath that whooshed out so fast I didn’t feel it—not at first. Watched red cover white marble, slowly pooling, an ambulance on its way, turning inside out right there on the floor. They got divorced alright—later that year. Same judge, but no more appearances from the husband. They put a straitjacket on him to keep his innards contained. He’s jacketed still. On quiet days, I still hear that whoosh— so loud, it drowns out everything else, takes my pen away and stoppers up all the words inside— just me and him, and his tears as I struggle for air. Audrey Howitt lives and writes poetry in the San Francisco Bay Area.  When not writing, she sings classical music and teaches voice. She is a licensed attorney and psychotherapist. Ms. Howitt has been published in Purely Lit: Poetry Anthology, Washington Square Review, Panoply, Muddy River Poetry Review, Academy of the Heart and Mind, Total Eclipse Poetry and Prose, Chiaroscuro-Darkness and Light, dVerse Poets Anthology, With Painted Words, Algebra of Owls and Lost Towers Publications among others.

It’s the early aughts. I’m no older than eight, stuck at a Hannaford grocery outlet. While my father was elsewhere gathering items for weekly survival, I found myself browsing the magazine aisle, skimming Sonic the Hedgehog comics while attempting to sneak peeks at the softcore pornography on display. It’s no wonder I blossomed into the mustachioed dirtbag I am today. As I perused various publications, my eyes often wandered toward passing shoppers who struck me as odd. Many walked hunched over, shuffling across the grimy floors in misery as harsh LED lights emphasized their struggle. Where had these people gone wrong, and what had they done to warrant such debilitating discomfort? I didn’t have answers, but I wasn't too concerned. Then and there, I convinced myself I'd never succumb to such significant chronic pain. Smash cut to fall 2023. Now thirty, I lay sprawled on my bedroom floor, clenching my lower back in distress. For the second time that year, I was battling sciatica, and unlike the previous tango, I was losing this match in a big way. Cushioned surfaces had become my number one enemy. Lower surfaces, like toilets, were impossible to use without emitting tears. Standing perfectly still felt okay, but bending the body in any capacity felt torturous. The activities that once brought me joy were impossible to execute. Exercise? Please. When I walked, it looked like I was doing an impression of my grandfather in hospice care. Writing? Unlikely, as sitting for more than five seconds felt impossible. Masturbation? Doable, but at what cost? Getting there was a challenge, and climaxing felt like someone was dragging a garden rake across my spine. Bottom line: I couldn’t sit, stand, or move without experiencing violent pain. This suffering was all I knew for three months. The origin of my chronic pain isn’t hard to pinpoint. Despite enforcing daily exercise habits since my teenage years, I neglected stretching, which resulted in my muscles becoming tight balls of fragile, useless tissue. On top of tightness, I was the victim of a silly sledding accident in December 2022. A word of advice: two inches of snow is not enough powder to warrant the construction of a makeshift ramp. The result of these Jackass shenanigans proved to be severe. My tailbone collided with the frozen earth multiple times, and in a matter of days, the right side of my lower body began to retaliate. Armed with an internet connection, I slipped into the role of armchair doctor and diagnosed my symptoms. To my horror, it appeared I was suffering from sciatica. Sciatica usually occurs when a herniated disk or bone spur in the spine pushes on the sciatic nerve, which travels down one or both legs from the lower back. In my case, the damaged nerve originated in my right glute. At its worst, the pain would slither down my right leg and across my lower back, sending me into a crippling state of uselessness. After enduring several weeks of unbearable bed rest, I decided it was finally time to see a doctor. Under their supervision, we developed a stretching routine that targeted tightness and alleviated the sciatic nerve. Several weeks later, I noticed progress. I continued to stretch daily, with the naive assumption that I had overcome my chronic pain. A feeling of agitation began to develop in my lower back towards the end of September 2023. Simple tasks like bending over started to feel incredibly risky. I continued to stretch, hoping my issue was the result of tightness caused by fatigue and not necessarily my chronic pain coming back to haunt me. One day, while squatting down to pick up a lightweight object, I felt a shockwave permeating the right side of my lower body. The sciatica was back with a vengeance. Reunited with my ninety-year-old mobility, I shuffled to my room and collapsed on the floor. This spell of sciatica felt much more severe than anything I had previously faced. After mustering up the strength to send my doctor an email, I returned to the hardwood floors of my room. I found their firmness to be much more tolerable on my spine when compared to the cloudlike structure of my once beloved mattress. While slipping back into armchair doctor mode, I discovered a community of online sciatica dwellers who praised the benefits of hard surface sleeping. Though intrigued, I was skeptical. I decided if I was going to rest on the ground, I needed to invest in some comfort. Rummaging through my closet, I discovered a thick wool rug, a yoga mat, a sherpa comforter, and extra pillows. I used the wool rug as a base layer. Next, I wrapped my yoga mat inside my sherpa comforter and placed both atop the wool rug. Finally, I set up pillows for my neck and lower body to achieve maximum posture support. By the end of October, I was COMMITTED to hard surface sleeping. Despite this pledge, the pain continued to linger. It was only a matter of time until drugs entered the picture. Desperate for solace, I began to smoke grass each night before bed. The pain receptors of my sciatic nerve suffered heavy delays when inhaling THC. I would be on the ground, trying to enter my zen palace, when suddenly, I’d feel the delayed ramifications of a slight shift in posture I made thirty seconds ago. Marijuana tends to magnify feelings of euphoria and dread simultaneously. The discomfort was gut-wrenching enough when sober, but when stoned, the effects became elongated to a hilarious degree. Throughout the night, it felt like I was being shot to pieces by the antagonists of The Matrix, all while performing a botched slow-motion bullet dodge. Keanu Reeves, I am not. Upon learning of my situation, my doctor prescribed me prednisone, a steroid used to treat inflammation. My doctor provided me with enough medication for seven days. On the first day, relief was present, albeit fleeting. But by the third day, I noticed a significant change. I was no longer calculating each step in an attempt to reduce irritation. Moving felt fantastic! And the more I moved, the better I felt! By the fifth day, I realized I was Superman. I was faster than a speeding bullet, more powerful than a locomotive, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound. Look up in the sky! It’s a bird! It’s a plane! No friends, it’s me on steroids. There were downsides. On top of irregular bowel movements, my personality had taken a chaotic turn. I had two speeds on prednisone: mind-numbing optimism and stubborn impatience. Had it not been public knowledge that I was taking medication for an injury, those closest to me might’ve assumed a cocaine addiction. I can’t say that I blame them. Despite these grievances, the drug proved to be effective for the seven-day window. But what would happen after those seven days? Would I lose my newfound mobility? Would the pain slowly creep back with each passing day? I notified my doctor of these concerns, who suggested I take a month-long physical therapy course at the local hospital. At physical therapy, I wouldn’t shut up about getting an MRI. In my mind, an MRI would provide concrete answers. I had already acquired an X-ray earlier that year to check for bone damage after my sledding incident. The results were negative, but I didn’t get any information on the status of my nerves. An MRI could provide those details. My fellow physical therapy mentors quickly pointed out that my lackluster insurance would barely cover the steep price of an MRI. Sensing my disappointment, they reiterated that I was on the right path to recovery. “Just stick to your stretching routine and incorporate hip, core, and stability exercises. If you do those things, you should be okay.” Should. I hate that pesky word. This incident marked the second time in a year that sciatica had thrown a giant curveball into my life. It was hard enough for me to be happy without chronic pain getting in the way. I was by no means a successful person. The strenuous labor I relied on hardly paid the bills. I aspired to work in a creative field, but those dreams had yet to materialize. To make matters worse, I was now suffering from a condition that made activity and inactivity equally challenging and painful. If I couldn’t beat this thing now, what would become of my future? The act of embracing uncertainty was not a concept I willfully enforced on the regular. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve always believed a little fear is good for the soul. But in a world filled with no guarantees, how could I be excited at the prospect of change, especially if I wasn’t one hundred percent over my sciatica? I think back to when I was a snot-nosed child at Hannaford, observing shoppers with chronic pain out of the corner of my eye. The world is a cruel, unforgiving place, especially if you’re suffering from a permanent injury. What consequences would beset me if I couldn’t prove to everyone that I was pain-free? When engulfed in darkness, we tend to find light via community. During my three-month struggle with relapsed sciatica, I met several people suffering from similar conditions of chronic pain. These allies provided hours of reassurance and positive vibes. They patiently listened to my unrelenting rants as I riffled off all my fears. Most importantly, they stressed that my life was far from over. That being said, adjustments were needed. Activities that were once constants were no longer accessible. Embracing change wasn’t a mere suggestion anymore; it was an order. Failure to comply would result in another heartbreaking setback. But how did they do it? When faced with uncertainty, how did my newfound colleagues embrace significant change? Simply put, they didn’t have a choice. As terrifying as a sink-or-swim scenario sounds, for many, it’s the only way forward if we wish to grow. The path to rebirth won’t be easy. Some will question our ability to function. Others will unfavorably compare us to our non-chronic pain colleagues. But for every apathetic asshole we’ll encounter on our journey, we’ll also cross paths with those who find our voyage inspirational and relatable. And if we can inspire others to free their minds from the unrelenting grip of chronic pain, perhaps they can also embrace uncertainty and evolve. So, where does this leave me today? I’m in the process of embracing change. My updated exercise routine is serving me well. I notified my labor clients of my condition and canceled all future projects. I also sought advice from several graphic designer pals who helped give my shabby resume a sleek makeover. I started writing again for the first time in three months! And every thirty minutes, I remind myself to get up and stretch my muscles. While jobless, I’m taking on small occupations that don’t require back-breaking physicality, such as house and pet-sitting gigs. I’m also in the early stages of developing an OnlyFans account titled Softcore Smut on a Shoestring Budget, which is totally not a desperate ploy for cash driven by financial anxieties. The point is I’m trying, dammit! For the first time in years, I’m optimistic about my future. Had I known chronic pain was the secret ingredient to embracing positive change and diving head first into uncertainty, I would’ve fucked up my lower back a long time ago. If you wish to take that as an endorsement to injure yourselves, by all means, go wild. I only ask that you refrain from using my name and referencing this piece when authority figures question your actions. Good luck, my friends. We’ve got this. Torrey Kurtzner is an out-of-work writer and master of self-deprecation. Against the better judgment of his peers, he’s determined to pursue a career within the creative arts, even if it kills him.

I pointed at that deer in the brush with my finger held out like a gun. It was just standing there after all it’s white-tailed friends hoofed off, and it didn’t even turn to look my way. I bet I could SHOOT you if you’re gonna stand in the clear like that. Three fingers back, pointer finger out, thumb up, I took AIM, squinted my left eye, closed my right, exhaled to steady, steady, steady my GUN like this. The damn deer didn’t move and I was still pointin’ and I started feelin’ bad because I wasn’t even HUNGRY and even though I don’t have a dollar to my name my mom is serving me dinner on a nice plate— as a matter of fact I’m gaining weight. So I told myself to put the gun down and lower my fingers at EASE but right before I made  my move of compassion, that deer turned around lookin’ me straight in the eyes without blinking without shifting without shaking in its hooves and there it stood straight up looking me straight down like the SOB was gonna KILL me now, it’s eyes locked and loaded, piercing through my body and into my SOUL, just like that. And I shit you not, I was SCARED. There were maybe 20 meters between us two, (hold on let me count) - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - it was 31 paces to be exact. I started to think, this DEER is going to DEFEND itself and the others that ran off— rightfully so. I’m an INVASIVE SPECIES in their land pointin’ finger guns for fun with the eyes of a KILLER so it only makes sense it’d come back and RETALIATE, throw its hooves in my face, give me a BLACK EYE, sock me in the GUT, kick me in the HEART, and leave me good and DEAD. A split second of self-reflection and I was SICK with self-disgust. I turned around with my head down and walked the other way sure it would go on its own way… but when I looked back, it was still there still staring at me with all the dignity in the world; and I saw myself from outside and above—IDIOT. which made me SHRINK inside, CRAWLING deep down, up into my guts to hide away from my SHAME. The TRUTH is, I’m no better than the rest and I might’ve always been and always be the countryside’s biggest COWARD and the world’s biggest FOOL. Ash(ley) is a country-girl, romantic scum, pastoral eroticism poet. She's genre fluid; and her style—she got it at ross and stock shows. Her poetry has been published in SWAMP, Bullshit Lit, Tiny Spoon and is self-published on the streets in what appears as trash poems.

Formaldehyde smells just like pickles. After a month of the sour scent, the similarity still surprises Tracy. Sometimes it clings to her when she returns to her room, reminding her of pickled onion crisps until she slips into the warm shower spray. Reminding her of home. The scent drifts out of the laboratory, welcoming Tracy in the doorway with cardigan-covered arms. As usual, she is early and there are only a handful of students sitting at their desks. Normally when Tracy enters it is to people rolling their eyes, or pretending to pick their nose then eating it, before they laugh and turn away. But today the students don’t glance up from their notebooks saturated in looping letters. Diagrams with empty labels. Tracy takes her place behind the middle desk; the one she has gravitated to since the first class. She had been the first to arrive that day, waking when the sun was a running yolk through her curtains. Unsure where to sit in a place so foreign, Tracy had opted for the middle. Not too close to look like a try-hard but not too far back to disappear. Tracy was fed up with being forced to the back. Tracy shrugs on her lab coat, the long sleeves brushing her desk. She folds them until they fit, before tying back her split ends. The smell of formaldehyde is strong; it reminds her of grandmother. Tracy’s grandmother is a small woman. The type of old that turns you into a shuffling, sighing bracket. Before Tracy had moved to Hereward University, it was just her and her grandmother in their small home. It might have had peeling wallpaper, a temperamental gas stove, and a leaking shower head, but it was their home. The same place she had recited her fractions, three quarters wobbling on the chipped dining-room table. The wood stank of mildew from where they had wiggled it free from under a wad of rotting wallpaper at the skip. Now her grandmother was alone with the drip, drip, drip. This morning, Tracy’s grandmother would be waddling through the house in her favourite cigarette-burned slippers, her hand digging into a share-bag of pickled onion crisps. Pickles would be thick in the air, an attempt at closing the gap between them both. A pang shoots through Tracy’s heart, a sharpness that always comes whenever she thinks of her grandmother. It had been on a late night over greasy pizza that her grandmother suggested she should apply to Hereward. Tracy had sent the application to make her grandmother happy; she knew that it was only ever going to be a few pixels, the confirmation ending at the sent tick. How much would it even cost to visit Hereward? A number Tracy had never seen before. One she would most likely never see in the future either. The acceptance letter had been crumpled in the letterbox, trapped in a tilting limbo above the muddied doormat. Tracy had fainted. When she woke up, groggy on her childhood bed, she pinched herself until her wrist bled. The birthmark there warped under her nails. Not even her dreams allowed her to step onto Hereward’s stone paths. To people like her it was just a flat brick building shining on glossy paper. The sun catching the window in a way that would forever darkened the halls. The black letters told her that the Hereward science department had a scheme. That they were honoured to accept her. Was she really that gifted? Enough to leap from the muddy grass and into the darkened hall, through the shining glass? There was no point asking her grandmother; if it was up to her, Tracy would be prime minister, the lead scientist in every experiment, the head of Hereward. She would find the cure to everything. Once the heavy feeling had sunk into her stomach, Tracy sobbed her grandmother’s arms. When she looked up, there were silent tears swimming in the wrinkles on her grandmother’s face. Her eyes had a faraway look, as if she was already miles away searching for Tracy in the stars. Today Tracy had woken up before her alarm, the moon an uncracked egg behind her curtains. No more highlighting phrases and writing in blocky coloured letters. Today she would get her hands dirty. The desk digs into the soft flesh just above Tracy’s hipbone, scratching against it like a saw. She shoves her hands in the pockets of her lab coat. Slime slips over her fingers. A stretched latex glove flops out of the pocket, slapping the linoleum floor. In the excitement of the experiment, she had forgotten to wash her hands and slip into clean gloves. Tracy pinches the shed silk skin from the floor, dropping it back into her pocket. Behind her someone giggles. The blonde girl and the one who wears her skirt too short. Tracy can’t make out what they are saying but it is about her. She knows it is about her. The laughter erupts into a shriek and Tracy’s body tenses up. She is fifteen and walking home again, not enough money for the bus that chugs past, and people wearing the same uniform as her are pointing. She is Holey Tracy. Frayed tights and leaking shoes. Ignoring the whispers, Tracy walks to the sink and scrubs her hands red. A light brown splotch stays stubborn on her wrist. Tracy strokes the birthmark with the rough skin of her thumb. In the fresh gloves, the birthmark looks misted like it is on the other side of a steamed window. It looks like a love heart. Tracy’s stomach flips at the thought of telling her grandmother about the experiment tonight. It had crept into their most recent conversation; by the end of the call, Tracy had been unable to talk about anything else. Tracy was always the one to call her grandmother, never the other way around. They would speak weekly so the phone bill wouldn’t stack up too much at home. The first call had been full of questions: are you liking it love, made any friends before shifting to, I’m so proud of you, I miss you, I love you always Tracy. The next conversation had been about the stray cat that sometimes got into their bin bags on rubbish day, the one with chunks of orange fur missing. Her grandmother had found it on the pavement, reaching its paws to their front door, its stomach flattened by a tire track. But last week Tracy’s grandmother had been unusually quiet. The only sound at the end of the line was the rattling breaths of a woman in her eighties. Tracy had asked if the student down the street had botched up her grandmother's monthly cut and dye again. She hadn’t gone yet. So it had been left to Tracy to carry the conversation about the water fountains they had at Hereward University. Big glass containers with slices of lime and cucumber floating inside like shiny fishes. And then, I wonder what the first experiment is. Beside the sink is a line of labelled metal trays. TRACEY is sellotaped to the tray at the end. Tracy keeps her head down as she carries the tray of utensils back to her desk. In her rubber grip, the metal tray shakes. The knives jangle like loose change. Laughter stalks her. Even though she had clawed her way through mock tests and every textbook the library had, she still came from hand-me-down pyjamas and an electricity card. Sometimes when she was laid in her bed, staring up at the clean ceiling she wondered how she had got here, to Hereward. Little, Holey Tracy. Why had they let her, and her squeaking suitcase through their doors? Had she really earned it? The scent of pickles is stronger as if Tracy is back at home, the purple crisp packet held under her nose. An offering. Tracy leans into it with a smile. Rattling metal follows the growing smell and Tracy itches her palms. She wants to crane her neck and watch the trolley, but the girls will laugh even more. It will probably earn her a new nickname; one she can’t shed, like a layer of mould on her skin. One that still lingers after she has returned the graduation robe. In the morning sun, the trolley’s thin legs glint as they turn into the classroom. For a moment Tracy is blinded by whiteness. Her smile grows into a grin. This is what she has been waiting for. Everything she has done, everything she has prayed for, has led her here. The first student in her family, and even better a doctor. At graduation, her grandmother will brush Tracy’s defiant baby hairs off her forehead and give her that necklace she always wears. The one with the small, blue pendant. Tracy will have finally earned it, no more waiting for the something blue of her wedding. Tracy will be a doctor. Thick goggles materialise through the light, then two assistants. From their formless white suits and big boots, it is impossible to tell who they are. Next year that could be Tracy. Only those from the scheme get staff jobs. Tracy would need it; she may be on scholarship but how long would that money last? It was always good to be prepared, save as much as you could. Every day could be a rainy day. Once the assistants have wheeled the trolley in front of the lecturer’s desk, they scurry out with their heads down, silent except for the squeak of their shoes. The class falls quiet. Tracy stretches her back, head popping out of her shoulders like a turtle. A long, white sheet covers the trolley, burying mountains beneath snow. Tracy huffs out a heavy breath. Footfalls clink in the hallway. Dr Owen ducks under the door frame and strides towards the trolley, taking his place before the sheet. He readjusts his glasses and they catch the sun, stealing his eyes. When his eyes appear through the haze, they land on Tracy. A scoff gets trapped in his wet throat. ‘Goggles on,’ he says. Tracy fumbles for the goggles on the desk, slipping them over her face so quickly that she hears the snap of her ginger hair. She imagines the girls are smirking behind their hands. ‘Today is our first practical experiment. A simple one. One I am sure you have done before, but that doesn’t mean it is any less necessary,’ Dr Owen says. His shoes clack throughout the laboratory as he walks into the small gap between his desk and the trolley. After shaking his hands into latex gloves, Dr Owen shifts the sheet on the trolley, revealing that it is actually three thin ones. With a rustle, he slides off the middle sheet and folds it into a small square. Skin is peeled back from the chest cavity, leaving the inside exposed. There is no bleached ribcage. From her desk, Tracy can only make out the red wall of the body’s side. She can’t help the smile that trembles her hands. ‘A simple organ dissection,’ he says. ‘You will each come up and take an organ from this body, return to your station, and wait until I give further instruction.’ At secondary school, Tracy had only performed dissections on animals. A cow’s lungs between a group of five. Students crowded around a splayed open frog on the teacher’s desk. From the outline under this sheet, it isn’t a cow or a frog. It is a human. A fully grown, once alive, human. At that moment she knows. It is a sense. Just like the prickle of eyes on the back of her neck. She knows this is a woman. They have scooped the body out, but it is still a woman. A knot forms in Tracy’s throat. She looks out the window at the thick tree trunks so close to them all. Just like how she can’t see the leaves, Tracy can’t see this body’s face, so it is just a body. A body of organs to be investigated. What would she choose? The lungs? No, they were too boring, she’d already touched a pair. For a second, she wanted the gallbladder but the idea of carving through its tissue was too much, too real. There was no way she could pretend it wasn’t once part of a human. A functioning part. She wants the kidneys. The organ that shrivelled and yellowed under abuse. Who had this person been? A drinker? A mother? Tracy gulps. Sweat begins to slick her palms. The latex sticks to her skin. ‘First, Elizabeth.’ The blonde girl glides past Tracy. Roses suffocate the scent of pickles for a moment before the vinegar is wetting Tracy’s tongue again. Elizabeth keeps her back straight as she ponders over which to take. The class is silent, air thick with body heat and thumping hearts. When Elizabeth turns around, her face is blank, and she holds something long and pink in her hands. The pancreas. The organ is flat, stretching over both her palms. She walks back to her desk and this time it is only pickles that float past Tracy. Next is the boy in front of Tracy. He chooses the liver. Yellow and small in his large hands. Tracy imagines what her liver looks like. Maybe it would have hints of yellow and brown from the Bucks Fizz she has on Christmas and birthdays. The energy drinks she used to chug every day. When she got accepted to Hereward, she shared a bottle of red wine with her grandmother. It had been the first time she had drank wine. Even though the bottle was only seven pounds, Tracy had never felt so elegant in her life. Next is the spleen, then the stomach, the kidneys. Tracy chews the inside of her bottom lip, her nostrils flaring. Everyone has had the same idea as her: take the interesting and rarer organs. She wonders what they dissected at their schools. Human brains? The girl who wears her skirt too short chooses the gallbladder. As she spins around to walk back to her desk, Tracy spots a glimpse of pink knickers. Tracy’s skirt brushes her knees. She can’t afford a glimpse of pink, or nail varnish, or even lip-gloss. They would throw her out without a chance to pack. She can’t leave Hereward unless it is with a first-class degree and her tassel switched. She has worked so hard, sacrificed everything. She has nothing else. Seeing the gallbladder has reminded Tracy of her grandmother again. Of the pain she has endured over the past few years. The nights that leaked into dawn as she grunted, hunched over at the waist in her favourite chair or halfway up the stairs. The tears that burned Tracy’s throat as she watched. All Tracy could offer was a hand, a shoulder, and a half-empty hot-water bottle, the exposed red rubber carved like gills. The waitlist for gallbladder removal surgery was excruciatingly long. Her grandmother would have to suffer from gallstones for much, much longer. Tracy’s heart aches at the thought of her grandmother trapped in her chair, alone. She wishes she had chosen the gallbladder now. That it was beneath her knife and critical eye. Cradled in the next student’s arms are the deflated lungs. Thank God she didn’t get those. ‘Heavy smoker huh,’ someone whispers behind Tracy. Heavy smoker is an understatement. The lungs have been consumed by smoke and ash. Maybe whoever had the stomach would peel the tissue back and find the last cigarette, eaten after being smoked to a nub. Tracy had never smoked, the bitter tang that coated her tongue whenever she stood in the kitchen was enough to turn her off. So did her grandmother’s thin, yellow nails. She can still hear the scratch of them against thin skin. If it was possible to itch off a birthmark, her grandmother would have done it by now. There are only a few organs left. Tracy hasn’t figured out what she wants. From here, she can’t see anything inside the hollowed-out torso. What is left over? A skinny boy walks past her desk, a uterus in his large hands. She had forgotten about it. The organ is shrivelled, the tubes thick and drooping over his fingers like slugs. An itch forms in her abdomen. That is inside her. Tracy cringes. The uterus slaps down on the desk behind her, or at least she imagines it does. ‘Tracy,’ Dr Owen says. Tracy rubs her sweaty palms on the sides of her lab coat, and they slide around inside their second latex skin. She glimpses at the red lumps splattered on the other students’ desks. The air is cold and sharp in her lungs. The last chosen, and for once it isn’t because of her grasshopper arms or nervous laugh. She knows exactly what it is. The same reason girls would never let her sleep over, or play, or even borrow a pen. It is because she is wearing the same socks she has worn since she was ten. Striped, with a hole stretched around her big toe. Holey Tracy. Would she ever escape it? Even when she had that degree, would she just go back to that small house with its pickles and smoke, sit on that dusty chair until she too was paralysed with gallstones? The pang returns. How dare she think of her grandmother like that, as if she hadn’t given Tracy everything she could. Done everything she could. People like Tracy, like her grandmother, gave and gave until all they had left was their failing bodies. Every identifying aspect of the body is covered, leaving only its cleaned innards exposed. The face is an outline, a tent pitched by its nose, the feet ski slopes. How did they die? When? How did they get here? The goggles are steamed from Tracy’s breath; she wants to reach inside and rub them clean like a windshield wiper, but everyone would laugh at her. Here, the pickles are smothering. Two sheets soaked in juice. Or is it her? Have the pickled onion crisps lingered on Tracy? Crumbs that have burrowed into the skin bending her elbow, the wrinkles when she smiles, a stain on her wrist that she is unable to hide beneath knock-off rose perfume. Holding her breath, Tracy peers into the body. Into the unnatural spaces and shadows. This is all we are in the end. Empty and gaping. Alone. No designer shoes and heavy, diamond necklaces. Tracy’s fingers float at her throat, the latex dry like a powdery kiss. No blue pendant waits for her there. Only the heart is left inside the cavity. Thick and heavy in the centre. Boring. No wonder everyone had bent around it, their hands dodging and searching for something softer, something more interesting. But this is all that is left, all Tracy can afford. Beneath her touch, the heart is freezing, and she presses the tough tissue. Who had this belonged to? Who had it breathed for, lived for, hugged against? Tracy gulps; she shouldn’t think of it like that. This body as a person. It is just a body. With the heart in her hands, Tracy begins to turn. Her shaking hands knock the sheet, and it tumbles over the body’s arm, revealing saggy skin. Brown age marks and freckles dot the faded flesh, but it is the birthmark that catches Tracy’s attention. She freezes and leans in closer. Pickles clog her throat, forcing her to pant with her mouth open. Just above the inner crease of the elbow is a birthmark. A pale brown splotch. But if she looks closer, tilts her head, the splotch curves and smooths into a love heart. Just like the one on Tracy’s wrist. The one she inherited from her grandmother. Oliviah Lawrence is a horror and speculative writer from the North East of England. In 2023 she completed an MA in Creative Writing with distinction. Lawrence is inspired by horror video games and the uncanny. Her writing explores the female experience, body horror, and obsession. You can find her @oliviahlawrence on Twitter.

“You could have spread a newspaper,” she says. Mother, the dogs leave their fur everywhere in the house, how can father’s white beard falling in the yard disturb you? Also when you groom yourself you drop talcum powder on the floor. No one says “You could have spread a newspaper.” Father, you are lazy when you spread a newspaper on Sundays but a hero when you spread a newspaper to cut open the jackfruit, her favourite. Today while mowing your cheeks and chin, I see fear in your eyes—first time. There was a time your wife feared you. “History changes like newspaper,” grandpa jokes. I see she aggravates your Parkinson’s and my compliment about your perfect stubble angers you. If you had teeth, they would grate. You smile only when the electric shaver tickles your ear. Next week, as promised, I will shave your white hair and we are going to spread a newspaper, the day’s newspaper, to remind her that she is a drop, not any wave. I think I’m a good son who doesn’t spread the newspaper about that other woman. You’ve been a good father, giving us a bit of everything. Mother is giving us arrogance nowadays; it sticks to her like jackfruit glue. It worries me that no newspaper reports such news. The past has been unfair to her, agree. The present is unfair to you, Father, agree. The past and present have been unfair to me, and so will the future, but how can this disturb you both?

AGAIN, I SEE THE DAWN of my childhood when women stood lonely in Edward Hopper windows, still in their full slips, or already in flowered housecoats. They took in these moments after their husbands left for work and before their children woke up clamoring for those tiny boxes of cereal, perforated for easy opening, the milk poured right into the boxes’ wax paper lining, a miracle— only a spoon to wash. Soon the laundryman would deliver the wet wash and each side window opened, rusted pullies creaking as clothes were clothespinned to ropes that spanned alleyways in arcs. The women shopped wearing one of their three weekday dresses, stockings rolled over rubber bands just below the knees. Tasks, tasks, tasks, then dusk when front windows opened again and women leaned out, shouting down to their children Get upstairs in Italian, in Greek, in Yiddish, in German, in brogues, in dialects. But at dawn, all spoke silence. VICTORIANA How imprisoned she is by the high neck of her Gibson Girl blouse, the edge of lace beneath the chin, the yoke, the puffed sleeves that taper to wrist flounces. She can’t wait to take off the swan-bill corset that forces her torso into an S-shape. She hasn’t patience to put her dark hair up in a perfect pompadour nor does she sport even one strategic waterfall curl. I wish you could hear her belt out in her thick Cockney, Lottie Collins, she ’ad no sense. She bought a fiddle for eighteen pence. She was no suffragette, but she bought and ran a millinery shop, a candy store, owned four large rental houses and birthed three kids. My daughter, before you empty my house someday and decide you don’t want a sepia framed photo of a woman you never met, before this photo lands in an antique shop and a customer tries to get a few bucks knocked off because the white nicks in the frame reveal that it’s a faux mahogany finish painted over plaster, I want to introduce you to your great-grandmother. Meet Ada Bloom. WAYS OF ENTERING A DREAM You can waltz into a wobbling raindrop, become its iridescence, its sheen. You can be a figurine in a Fabergé egg spirited out of a tsar’s palace and into a glass case at the Met, yet you’re free to gallop into the ocean, that cradle of all raindrops. You can bumble into the basement of bugaboos, a spider you only know is there by the web that breaks on your face and you don’t know if the spider is still in it or dangling somewhere. It’s so Miss Muffet to be scared of spiders. You can fly into a dream, feel your spread-eagled self lift off your mattress, the whoosh of wind, the squeeze in your stomach and your limbs as you fly over the roofs of your childhood. Last night I entered my grandfather’s parlor in his torn-down house on East Raynor Avenue. There he sat, plump and pale, his hair dandelion fluff. He told me his mixed-up story of the Gardener and the Three Bears, and laughed his rumbling unfiltered Camels laugh. His cheeks bloomed with a shot of schnapps. Rochelle Jewel Shapiro has published in the New York Times (Lives). Nominated for a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, her short stories and poetry have been published widely. Her poetry collection, Death, Please Wait (Turtle Box Press). She teaches writing at UCLA Extension. http://rochellejshapiro.com @rjshapiro

BINGO I find her in back, mid-game around the table, playing two cards at once. O-9, N-17, G-46… Mini packets of Cracker Jack are today’s prize. She has won three already. Her sweet tooth, suppressed for decades, now thrives on jelly beans and ice cream. She doesn’t remember it’s junk we don’t eat in this house. As cards are called… B-29. I-43. N-17… she full-on concentrates. Not long ago, when invited to play, she had sneered, For losers. It was awful when, between reading the Times, completing the Sunday crossword and discussing politics, she could still track her memory loss, could still reflect on her own mind. Now, like the child she never allowed herself to be, she thrills over a complete row of plastic coins. It should break my heart. But it’s so much easier to love her this way. MANSION Fifty-two years later, I still dream of the house where I grew up, its pitched roof, mock-Tudor gables, and wainscoted walls. Thick spring-green shag suffocated fine oak floors; heavy yellow brocade humiliated the view of Lake Michigan with her tormented moods. Given life and left to figure it out, we well-off, at-risk children fostered avoidance; we seized what space we could for ourselves, which, despite its size, was never enough. Deprived of protection, we stashed secrets in walk-in closets and yawning attic annexes, hid hopes inside the drafty shafts of disabled dumbwaiters. Unschooled in the ways of rage, brothers became autodidacts of abuse. Pleas and protests echoed off leaded stained-glass and high-beamed ceilings. Foreboding closed my throat like the swinging door between kitchen and formal dining room where I hid to cry. Bedrooms were no barrier to the threat of absence. Bruises barely hinted at the depth of harm. My older sister modeled love in the updated kitchen where orange-and-yellow daisy wallpaper lied about the dangers lurking upstairs. I watched her feed our Great Danes ground beef, cooked hot and sizzling, mixed into kibble with her bare hands, distributing pink juice evenly, marbled linoleum floor slick with drool. (continued) (Cohen, Mansion, page 2, new stanza) Where she learned to nurture, I cannot say. She became a mother whose grown children still break her heart in big and small ways every day. I remain childless by choice, unpartnered by preference, a student of my upbringing. But so was she. Maybe our education doesn’t explain her grief-laden choices any more than my own. My black Lab and I are the same age in dog years, her perfect love guaranteed to leave me before I am ready. Every day, she teaches me that the space that is mine to fill is small indeed, and this is good news, though I have yet to claim it. THE RED LINE Since you left, I have spent days gazing through glass at the blazing Japanese maple, at the sparrows in the beech, at the squirrels in the feeder foraging for nuts. Come sundown, the rat ambles up, fat and slow; doesn’t flinch when I knock to scare him off. He lives under the deck. I’ve tried baffles and traps, ammonia spray and high-pitched ultrasonic waves. He always returns, like the song I loathe and can’t stop hearing— the one about the serial killer, the one I asked you to stop playing. You’d make grotesque gestures instead of dance, mouth words instead of sing. I teased you about your sublimated rage and your fetish for violent death. We never fought, but used compromise like a weapon. You shaved your beard. I dyed my gray hair. You quit inside smoking. I cut drinking to weekends. Recently, you said I was foolish to think that there was only one rat, that if I was serious, I should put out poison. But first I would have to stop feeding the birds. It came as a surprise to us both when I told you that was the one thing I was unwilling to do. THERE IS YET TIME We stand together in great darkness, some distance apart on the beach, to wait for sunrise. First a hint of not-quite-night, a mirage perhaps, whisper of color, blue maybe, maybe. A pastel hush of lavender in a skyward streak that a moment ago was not there. The sand is hard as a sidewalk. My toes and fingers sting in the eye-watering wind. Laced ice kisses the shore. An apricot-orange stripe appears as a reward. Being human, we want more: to cheer, applaud. Instead, slate-gray clouds blur the horizon. Those who’d come for evidence that, forget yesterday, today is another, return, disappointed, to their cars. I get it. And I’m also relieved when they leave like guests after the party is over. The beach belongs to me and my dog, who wants her stick thrown again. Fetch, return, the point of life being whatever is happening now—a botched sunrise on Lake Michigan as a winter storm rolls in. It’s the peril and cringe of exposure, the balm and dread of being alone. It’s the squirm and scrape and ache of making selfish choices. I cannot be the only one with a voice inside that says, “I don’t have to,” after I’ve already said I would. I think I believe there is not enough of me to share. What if I’m wrong? Maybe that is why I am restive as a cloud churning hot and cold, braced for lightning. Lynn Cohen has been published in Amelia, Amethyst Magazine, Brushfire Literature and Arts Journal, Burmingham Arts Journal, Cantos, The Chained Muse, El Portal, Evening Street Review, Flights, Front Range Review, Grand Journal, The Midwest Quarterly, Oberon Poetry Magazine, OPEN:Journal of Arts & Letters, Peregrine, The Phoenix, SLAB, Spotlong Review, St. Katherine’s Review, Swamp Ape Review, Thin Air Magazine, and Trampoline. Her novel, A Terrible Case of Beauty, was published by Trebol Press in 2013. She received a Best of the Net nomination from Apricity Magazine in 2023. Lynn has attended various writing conferences, including the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference and the Columbia University Summer Writers’ Workshop. After a brief tenure in the Jerusalem Symphony Radio Orchestra, Lynn received a Bachelors in Music from the New England Conservatory of Music, concentrating in double bass performance. She received a Masters of Social Work from Simmons College in Boston and practiced as a clinical social worker for several years in Boston and Baltimore. She then moved to Vermont and received her MFA in Creative Writing from Emerson College in Boston. She has worked as a massage therapist and Certified Advanced Rolfer™ in Los Angeles and Milwaukee. Lynn plays the cello and is quick with stir-fries and pasta.