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Mountain Lion Trail  It was quiet that morning in the woods – gravel crunching, light casting  hand puppet shadows on the ground through the leaves.   We watched for the cats and kept the dog close, jumping at broken sticks  and pawprints in mud crevices.  You stopped suddenly a hand out to signal.  No predators but a Mama Turkey and her chicks bumbling through the brush. A silent harmony of bobbing necks.  We intertwined our fingers, crook of a knuckle wrapped round. A hand on the dog as she watched with us, waited for them to brave  the open.  Looking for safety wherever they were going.  Like fools. Like us.  Wearing Red Lipstick is Romantic  Even when it’s not quite the right shade  smears streaks on my teeth, licked clean.  Even when bleeding outside its penciled  lines like ink pooling on soft tissue paper or seeping deep into cracked-lip crevices or half-left on glass rims, shining spoons, red puckered rings like a signet marking  the places I’ve wrapped my mouth round. Rushing to the bathroom to check it’s still in place, not giving a reason for someone to laugh at my brazenness, my unblushing   belief that I am the crimson-soaked darling.  Even with unplucked hairs and dull teeth glaring back beneath unforgiving lighting. Still, when whispering goodbye at night – hair tousled, hand on appled cheeks, smile smudged and swollen, clear I’ve been kissed.  Sleeping on the Floor in Summer Take the crook of my elbow its dimpled meadow for my veins and your thumbprint hook held close to me back to the summer we discovered the blustering  bites of fire ants and lightning bugs in mason jars against the moth-ball perfume dusk the playing deck cards  sticky from too many  fizzed ginger ales exploding their whiskey-tinged liquid on folding tables in that back patio room  where the sun beat through the screens in mesh constellations  and the concrete floor relieved us of the heat our cheek bones growing  numb against the cool cement the fans whipping  the air so thick  you could pull it over you  at night.  College Girls  The college girls at the gym  lift heavy weights while I did hours of cardio  until the screen recorded an arbitrary  number of calories burned  then drank those back in vodka that night.  How wonderful – maybe girls don’t spend years  wishing themselves smaller like I did.  But in the sauna they talk about  how they long for a natural ass, one they don’t have to work for. It sounds so much like my 13-year-old self  that I understand girls are still craving and hating  even when they are perfect when they have no idea how beautiful  they’ll find these bodies when they’re 31 looking at pictures whiplashed by the sudden sadness  that they didn’t appreciate themselves.  I used to feel so close to a college girl like I could still be their friend.  Now I feel more like their mother thinking of leaning over to say  they’ll long for their current figures  one day but also  they’ll realize how little they matter.   Haley DiRenzo is a writer, poet, and practicing attorney specializing in eviction defense. Her poetry and prose have appeared in BULL , Epistemic Literary , Eunoia Review , and The Winged Moon Literary Magazine , among others. She is on BlueSky at @ haleydirenzo.bsky.social  and lives in Colorado with her husband and dog.

Perception “You need to give me some warning next time so I don’t laugh,” I say as we exit the elevator, but you tell me I’ll catch on with practice. I wonder if you do this with all the girls you hang out with: wait for a stranger to enter then look me in the eyes, slick your hair back, and start on a story about how grandma called and they’ll have to amputate. Your lips and tone are even.  You’ve rehearsed this. I was never good at improv but I try to play along  because I don’t want you to think  I’m not fun and spontaneous. The receptionist at the next hotel doesn’t know what to do with us  after placing two water bottles on the counter and you telling him,  “she keeps telling me I need to hydrate more.” He looks at us one at a time, stern-faced, and says, “I know better than to get involved,” as though we’re an old married couple and not a couple of thirty-somethings with reservations in separate rooms because when we booked this trip you had a girlfriend and we had a budget to fill.  Two days later, at lunch,  our server apologizes for the wait, then says, “Though it looks like  you’re enjoying each other’s company,” and you say, “we are,” before sipping your iced tea, and I know she knows there is something lingering under the surface. Just like the rental car associate  who asked if we were married but gave us  the same rate anyway.  Just like the hiker we passed at Pinnacles who offered to take our picture and said, “gorgeous” after each shot. You’re surprised when I tell you I have feelings.  You say you don’t often think about how other people perceive you or the things you say, but when I ask if you noticed vibes, you say we have a “connection,” as if the two can’t be synonymous,  as if it isn’t obvious to everyone except you.  Same Frequency    In Monterey, we swap stories from our senior proms. I tell about my friend giving the DJ a mix CD featuring “Keasbey Nights,” and all the kids who stayed until the end formed a circular skank pit and danced.  You’re familiar with ska, but not skanking, so the next morning I demonstrate in my hotel room, kicking my feet and swinging my arms. You’re entertained, but say you hate that it’s called skanking .  You sit in the desk chair, never moving closer, though I want you to.  My friends have always told me I’m too innocent, and maybe your hesitation puts me in good company.  A couple days later,  driving through Soledad and sienna mountains,  “Rude” by Magic! plays in static bursts  on the one radio station we can find not broadcasting church sermons on Sunday.  It’s catchy. I sing along.  You say you hate the lyrics,  that the fictional character in the song is the rude one, marrying his girl anyway after her dad says no . I pause before twisting the radio dial. I used to be attracted to guys who liked the same music as me, but now I’m noticing all the more important layers, appearing in static bursts like one-second clips of familiar songs I’d almost forgotten the words to, while scrolling through the FM band.  What No One Tells You About Living on Your Own After a Breakup How you won’t miss the person you lived with,  but you’ll miss having someone  to help zip up your dress, clean the snow off your car, listen to you vent after a stressful day, celebrate when you get a poem published.  How you’ll eat and sleep better, keep a cleaner house, learn to mow the lawn, man the grill,  find time to work out and get the body you wish you had when there was someone to share it with.  How you might prefer the solitude.  Chelsea Dodds lives in Connecticut and holds an MFA in fiction from Southern Connecticut State University. Her writing has recently been published in The Forge, Maudlin House, Rejection Letters, and Poetry Super Highway. When not writing, Chelsea can usually be found hiking, practicing yoga, or planning her next road trip. You can read more of her work at chelseadodds.com .

A man squeezes into the middle seat beside me. ‘Could they make these seats any smaller?’ he puffs. I don’t answer, pressing my face against the window as drizzle weeps onto the tarmac.  ‘I wasn’t always this big,’ he says. ‘It’s the meds.’ I sneak a glance. He’s stretching the seat belt over his stomach, sweat beading on his brow. On the seat next to him, there’s a black instrument case, buckled up and ready to go. From its shape, it has to be a banjo. I shudder and want to ask him why the hell he didn’t put the thing in the hold. But I don’t want to strike up a conversation with him in case he thinks I’m being friendly. I close my eyes and hope for sleep.  Two hours into the flight, I’m woken by turbulence making the plane pitch and keel through an ocean of air.  ‘I’m terrified of flying,’ my neighbour says. I want to tell him not to worry because plane crashes are more efficient than car crashes. No chance he’ll wake up from a coma to discover he’s the sole survivor. But instead I tell him I’m scared of banjos. An encounter with a banjo-playing nun when I was a little girl.  He laughs. ‘So we’re both making progress.’ ‘Are we?’ ‘Yes. I’m taking my first flight in decades and you’re within reaching distance of a banjo.’ The plane lurches and my stomach with it. ‘What are you doing here if you’re so scared of flying?’  My bluntness stuns him momentarily. ‘I’m going to see my son. I’m bequeathing him this fella.’ He strokes the neck of the case.  ‘Bequeathing….’ I echo. ‘Yes.’ We go back to silence. But it’s different now. Conspiratorial. After we land, I stretch on my tiptoes to reach the bag containing the ashes of my husband and daughter from the overhead compartment.  ‘Allow me,’ he says.  ‘Thanks.’ He hands me the bag. ‘That’s heavier than it looks!’  I want to say it’s not heavy enough. That two lives should weigh more than this. But then I’d have to tell him everything. So I just nod and smile. I see him one last time in the arrivals hall, banjo slung over his shoulder. He’s waiting for someone. His son, I guess. I give a half-wave. He waves back. Then I walk towards the sliding doors. Eleanor Luke lives in Spain with her husband, one teenager, another tweenager, and a small menagerie. Her stories have appeared in The Birdseed, FreeFlashFiction, FlashFlood, Retreat West. Longlist Reflex flash fiction. Top ten Oxford Flash Fiction Prize 2022, shortlist Welkin Mini 2024. When not writing, Eleanor can be found eavesdropping on other people’s conversations.

Content Warning: Sexual Assault In bed with your eyes closed you’d run your right thumb across your left cheek, sweeping it gently under your eye out toward the temple, followed then by your fingertips, which would cradle your jawbone and pull it slowly forward, your lips parting. The boy you pictured would tilt his head, brown hair falling down over his eyes as he opened his mouth and met yours. Then you’d roll over and mush your face around into the pillow, but by that point, it all felt particularly desperate.   You were the only one who hadn’t been kissed. You weren’t blonde and funny, or thin and sporty. You got zits each month before your period and you were pale, your flesh soft and mushy, your hair a boring, flat brown. You’d tried kissing Lisa Trimble once when you slept over at her house, but it didn’t feel much different than the pillow. She made you swear not to tell, which was an easy promise to keep because people calling you a lesbian was definitely not going to help your cause.  By the time it finally happened, everyone else was already having sex, moving through life as though they were part of some glamorous club. You’d spent an entire summer throwing yourself at a guitar-playing boy who’d had sex with a lot of girls, and it was all pretty pathetic because he clearly wasn’t into you, but finally relented on a night when he was drunk and stoned and bored enough. You wanted to feel magic, but he just seemed bored. There was no tender cupping of your cheeks or pulling you in close, and there would be no phone calls or dates, but rather jokes with the guys about how he finally put you out of your misery—you were smart enough to know how all that worked.  At least you were able to arrive at college a little less than completely chaste and be around people who were a little less judgy, all of which combined to make you begin to feel a little less unappealing. There was a boy who kissed you one Thursday night in your dorm hallway, telling you to tune in during his next DJ shift for the school's radio station, and you smiled when he dedicated “Ziggy Stardust” to “a certain special woman”. There was the art major you met in Shakespeare class who invited you to the brightly lit, high-ceilinged concrete studio to sit on a metal stool and watch him paint, pausing every 20 minutes or so to  stand between your legs and kiss your neck and collarbone as you inhaled the smell of acrylic and turpentine. It was all finally happening for you.  And then on your birthday at a bar to which you’d gained entry by smiling like the girl on your fake ID, your roommate’s long-haired ex-boyfriend appeared with his ripped jeans, leather jacket, and shit-eating grin, buying you shot after shot until he must have decided you were good and ready, inviting you to come smoke weed in his apartment above the bar, and you thought that sounded like something a hot, fun girl would do, so you stumbled up the stairs behind him, laughing as you tripped over the landing, and he pulled you up and into the bathroom which was weird because there wasn’t any weed there and it was so small and tight and he was so tall and was moving his mouth all over your chest and saying how he’d always wished it was you he’d been dating and that felt bad because he was supposed to have loved your roommate, and then he was setting you up onto the tiny counter as though you were as light as a doll and that felt good because you’d never felt like someone who could be picked up, and then he was having sex with you and wait a minute you didn’t want to be doing that, and you were telling him no but he was laughing and just kept saying not to worry, but you weren’t looking for him to make you feel okay about it, you were looking for him to stop, and you were falling off the counter and being pressed up against the wall, and then he was telling you happy birthday and zipping up, pulling you by the hand back down to the bar where he moved away from you pretty quickly, and you stood watching while he smiled and laughed, patting people on the back as he sipped his beer, and that night in bed alone you curled into a ball, pushed your face into your pillow and thought about that little girl, tucked safely under her sheets, eyes closed and dreaming about finally getting to be a part of this world.  Amy Allen has had poetry and fiction published in a variety of literary journals, and her poetry chapbook, Mountain Offerings, was released in April of 2024. She lives in Shelburne, Vermont, where she is thankful to be surrounded by mountains, water and wildlife, and she owns All of the Write Words, a freelance writing/editing business. Amy currently serves as her town’s Poet Laureate, a position that includes outreach work with local schools and organizations.

Cara made it to the railing first, a few seconds ahead of Brooke. Although her lungs felt like they were going to explode, Cara did her best to breathe evenly, to make sure everyone knew that she could have run up all those stairs faster than that if she wanted, it wasn’t even hard. The two sisters leaned on the cold metal rail and blinked at the cavern below, trying to spot bats or other cave creatures. Nothing moved other than a few trickles of water.  In time, Mr. and Mrs. Trudeau joined, not bothering to hide the fact they were gasping for air. Mr. Trudeau sat on a small bench next to the rail and coughed at his shoes. It echoed back to them a half second later. “Ha!” Cara shouted. Ha , the cavern replied. Brooke said, “Hello!” and waited for the sound to bounce back. It didn’t. Cara gave it another try. “Hello, cave!” The cave returned her greeting. Brooke frowned. “This is stupid,” Brooke said, loud. She pretended not to listen for an echo, but her scowl deepened in the silence. Fifteen minutes and a few pictures later, they all left together. When they arrived at the SUV, Mrs. Trudeau said, “What did you think? Did you guys like it?” “Yeah!” Cara saw her sister’s face and said, “But why didn’t Brooke’s voice echo like ours did?” “That kind of stuff never works for me,” muttered Brooke. “Physics,” Mrs. Trudeau said. “Some pitches just don’t echo. Or, I guess, you just can’t hear them. Like a duck! Did you know that you can’t hear a duck’s quack echo?” Brooke said, “I’m not a duck.” Mrs. Trudeau rummaged through the plastic bag of snacks, looking for something or other. She said, “Of course, you aren’t a duck. You’re our beautiful butterfly.” Mr. Trudeau said, “OK, let’s get going. We need to check into the hotel and hunt down some dinner.” # “Cara!” Mrs. Trudeau stomped down the hallway, late in the morning. “I told you to get up. I’m not going to tell you again.” Brooke always woke early. She stayed quiet in her small dark little room waiting for her sister to drag herself out of her own room across the hall. Brooke lay on her side and watched Mrs. Trudeau open Cara’s door and turn on the lights. Cara muttered something meaningless, thrashing the bedcovers. Her feet hit the floor with a thump. “Get moving, young lady.” Mrs. Trudeau walked away. “Good morning,” Brooke said to the disheveled lump moving into the hallway. Cara had taken her blanket and wrapped it around herself. “Can we play soccer today?” Cara squinted and nodded. “Mm hm. Yeah.” “Yay!” Brooke threw aside her sheets, hopped from her bed and yanked open her dresser. “Where are my blue shorts?” Cara shivered and pulled her blanket closer. She yawned. “Are you going to ask Mom and Dad to join a team this summer?” Brooke closed the drawers in the dresser and moved to her closet. “I think so.” She kicked aside a pile of clothes. Dust stirred, wafting into the air. “I think they’ll say yes,” Brooke said between sneezes. “They said I could play if I practiced enough.” Cara yawned again. “You should be on a team. You’re good.” “Cara, put that back.” Mrs. Trudeau had returned, carrying a basket full of laundry. “You know you need to make your bed on the weekends.” Cara pulled her blanket up to her chin. “I don’t see why I have to make it at all.” “Because you do,” Mrs. Trudeau said. “It’s as simple as that. Please stop arguing with me.” She set the laundry inside Cara’s room. Cara made eye contact with Brooke and rolled her eyes in an exaggerated motion, crossed them, and stuck out her tongue. Brooke laughed behind her hands and looked back at her own bed. It was already made, even though Brooke couldn’t remember making it. The covers were pulled tight and smooth. # “Do you think I’m imaginary?” Cara opened her eyes. She had nearly fallen asleep and it took a few seconds to realize she was in bed and her sister was talking to her. A gap in the curtains let in enough light to illuminate Brooke, propped up on her elbow facing Cara. Cara said, “You can’t be imaginary. That’s for make-believe. Like, you could pretend you have a giant talking panda as a friend, but it wouldn’t be real. You’re real.” “Are you sure?” Brooke looked at her hand, spreading her fingers. “Nothing works for me.” “What do you mean?” “The hand dryer didn’t turn on in that bathroom. The grocery store door doesn’t always open for me. My echo doesn’t work.” Brooke picked at a thread in the blanket. “Maybe I’m not real.” “That’s dumb. You’re real.” Cara closed her eyes. “I’m going back to sleep.” # Flat noodles with butter and mountains of parmesan sat waiting for dinner. Cara’s favorite. She made it halfway through a second plate before realizing Brooke hadn’t eaten yet. “Hey, mom? Can we do cereal tomorrow night?” Cereal was Brooke’s favorite. They never ate it for dinner because cereal was for breakfast. Mrs. Trudeau was refilling her glass with water. “Cereal is for breakfast,” she said. Brooke gave a small nod. Maybe as a thanks to Cara, maybe just to say, I knew that. “Just once?” Cara said. “Maybe.” Mrs. Trudeau scooped a spoonful of steamed vegetables onto Cara’s plate. “If you both finish your zucchini, I’ll think about it.” Cara didn’t like zucchini and her mother knew that. Well, too bad, she was going to eat every bite. Cara put two pieces into her mouth and chewed with a grimace. “Thanks, mom.” Mrs. Trudeau gave her a hug from behind. “You’re stubborn but I do love you.” She kissed the top of Cara’s head. Brooke’s eyes were boring into Cara’s. “Don’t you want to hug Brooke?” Mrs. Trudeau stopped, halfway back into her chair. She stood. “Of course I do.” She approached Brooke from the side and hugged Brooke with one arm. One quick squeeze and Mrs. Trudeau sat down, smiling. Brooke stabbed a noodle and tried to twirl it around her fork. Mrs. Trudeau said, “Cereal for dinner! Aren’t we fancy?” Mr. Trudeau said, “Eat your vegetables, now.” # “I need these markers.” Mrs. Trudeau squinted at her phone. “Markers aren’t on the list.” “No, but I need these.” Cara held the package of sparkly gel pens out for Brooke to admire. Her face made an expression that said, help me out here . Brooke took the pens. She said, “They’ll help Cara write better.” Cara’s expression scrunched into irritation. She grabbed the package back and set them down. “Never mind.” Brooke rubbed her finger where the plastic edge had scraped it when her sister pulled the package out of her hands. “When do I go to school?” “Hey, yeah,” Cara said. “She’s supposed to start going this year.” Mrs. Trudeau sighed and pushed her grocery cart down the aisle. “Next year.” Brooke ran her fingers along the school supplies. “That’s what you said last year.” “Next year.” Mrs. Trudeau wrestled the cart around the corner. “Let’s go find you guys some ice cream!” # “That’s enough sugar.” Mr. Trudeau took the shaker from Cara’s hand and poured a healthy stream into his coffee. Cara stirred her oatmeal and spooned a glob into her mouth. While she chewed she said, “I met someone named Cassidy yesterday.” Brooke said, “I didn’t meet anyone yesterday.” Mr. Trudeau sipped his coffee. “Who is that?” “She was picking up this boy Graham from school. She said she used to babysit us.” Mrs. Trudeau dropped the cup she was rinsing into the sink. “Cassidy Ruth from Fort Collins?” “I guess so. She said her family just moved here and she recognized my name from when I was a kid. She asked about Brooke.” “She knows me?” Brooke sat up straighter and smiled. “I don’t remember her. What does she look like?” “You two were very little,” Mrs. Trudeau said. She locked eyes with Mr. Trudeau. “How lucky someone like that ended up close to us even after we moved so far away.” Mr. Trudeau downed his coffee. “You know what? I have some time later today, I’ll come pick you up after school. Speaking of, it’s past time you headed out.” Cara looked at the clock and gasped. She ran to the door and heaved her backpack into place. Mrs. Trudeau said, “Have so much fun today!” Mr. Trudeau said, "Don’t miss the bus.” # “Mom?” Brooke looked through the fridge, found nothing. She wandered the house for a bit. “Mom? Can I play on my phone? I’m bored.” The door to her parents’ room was closed. Brooke tried the knob. Locked. She went back to the living room where her phone lay dark on the end table. “I’m going to play for just a little bit, if that’s OK.” A lack of an answer was as good as a yes. Brooke tapped the side button and the screen lit up, asking to be pointed at her face. Brooke held the phone out and held it directly in front of her. The phone waited a moment and then dimmed again. Brooke tapped the phone back to life and failed once more to get it to recognize her face. She tapped in her backup code, but the phone refused to acknowledge her efforts and the numbers on the screen didn’t react. The phone dimmed again. “Mom?” Faint music drifted in from the closed bedroom door. The sort of music Mrs. Trudeau liked to play while she dozed in the bathtub. Brooke went back to her own bedroom, sat on her bed, and waited for her sister to come home. # “Cara? Are you OK?” Cara nodded but didn’t look up from the floor. She removed her shoes and walked to her room without saying a word, her face drained of color. Brooke picked up Cara’s backpack where she had dropped it by the front door. She hung it up before Mrs. Trudeau could see it and make a fuss. Then she put Cara’s shoes on the shoe rack. Mr. Trudeau came home later, making loud whooping sounds about the danged heat out there. He filled a glass with ice water and flopped onto the couch. Cara emerged from her room. Her face had regained some color, but she still looked unhappy. “Hey girlie,” Mr. Trudeau said, crunching on an ice cube. He hadn’t said hi to Brooke, who was already sitting in the living room and had been for some time. Mrs. Trudeau came in from the backyard, hair plastered on her face. She pulled off her gardening gloves and scrubbed her hands at the kitchen sink. Cara sat next to Mr. Trudeau and squeezed him in a tight embrace. He smiled, then frowned. He said, “You doing OK?” Cara released him and pulled a pillow into her lap. Her chest heaved with each breath. She looked up at Brooke. “Vee’s brother is sick.” “Who is Vee?” Mr. Trudeau asked. Mrs. Trudeau entered the living room, drying her hands. “Vee is a boy in Cara’s class,” she said. “He’s my friend,” Cara said. “His brother is sick. He’s worried he’s going to die.” Mr. Trudeau took a gulp of water. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “I’m sorry, muffin. What’s wrong with him?” Cara was still looking at Brooke. Her eyes shimmered. “Did something happen to Brooke? I can’t remember. I always get so close to remembering.” Now they were all looking at Brooke. Water dripped onto the couch, from the glass in Mr. Trudeau’s hand, from Cara’s eyes.  Brooke gripped the arm of the couch. “Is something wrong with me? Did I get sick?” Mrs. Trudeau ran an arm over her face. She said, “Nothing’s wrong with you. Cara, you stop that.” “But why?” Cara choked out her words. “It’s so hard to pretend sometimes.” “I’m sorry about your friend but Brooke is fine, and we are not talking about this,” Mrs. Trudeau snapped. Cara buried her face in her hands. Mrs. Trudeau said, “Now. Do you need help with any homework this evening?” Mr. Trudeau watched the glass sweat in his hand and said nothing at all.

Since my retirement, I’ve found myself with a surfeit of spare time and little but my books to keep me company.  Books – especially those who have been my companions for decades – can be both friends and enemies – succor to memory, but also demonic vessels of a challenging and hostile past.   Today I was musing on the natural contradictions in our language – words  can also be friends and enemies, even of themselves.  I can sanction an event, making it acceptable and recommended, while the government can sanction it, making it illicit and unavailable.  Our language itself betrays us and our contradictions.   *Gʰóstis is one of my favorite words in Proto-Indo-European – the hypothetical reconstructed ancestor of almost all the historically related languages in an arc from Ireland to the Ganges.  Without going all Sapir-Whorf on you – that’s not cool these days, I’m told by people outside – I always believed that the words you use drive the way you think, and the way you think, and the constraints thereupon, make you who you are.  It explains a lot. So, gʰóstis – the ultimate root for host, and for guest, and for ghost, a kind of guest, and also potentially an enemy, since gʰóstis also comes down to us as Latin hostis , a foe, and our word ‘hostile’.  A word fundamentally contradictory of itself, perhaps reflecting the ultimate sin of humanity, that the Other, the unknown, is always an enemy first and foremost, even when the Other is ourself.   As often happens, that’s when Ted wandered in.  Ted, too, was both a friend and an enemy – he tended to show up just when I needed someone to argue with, an advocatus diaboli  against whatever clever thought I was trying to develop.  Ted never liked Sapir-Whorf – he favored an orthodox Chomskyism although he once admitted that such an approach, too, was falling out of fashion.   Ted was in fine fettle today.  “We can’t blame our troubles on our words,” he argued.  “Words are only as good as the ideas behind them, and the ideas are what make us.”   “And yet, in some weird Jungian sense,” I argued, “these unified meanings of words power the subconscious that itself builds the ideas.  There’s no other absolute truth beneath them.” “Piffle,” said Ted, choosing a word with such onomatopoetic force that it either strengthened or undercut his whole premise.  “You can’t possibly think your own mind works that way.” We went on like this for some time, but since these core principles were articles of faith, not fact, we made little progress, until finally I pointed out that the very capability of maintaining disparate core models in one’s head at once disproved his unyielding universalism, which finally gave Ted pause. At this point my door unlocked itself as it does at 4pm.  An hour to go before nightly meds, so I let Ted vanish and went down to the common room to join the others.  After degrees in Greek, Latin, and archaeology from the University of Michigan, David spent thirty years in Silicon Valley building everything from dial-up networks to game platforms and AI assistants.  He lives in San Jose, California, and collects books, dead languages, and antique writing implements.

A Black Dog Sits and Waits Just to wake up on a Saturday morning and have all the answers, that would be good. This is all there is. I would start again, if I could, maybe, but that’s not how it works. I want to quit. You understand, I know, but I know the first thing to die is motivation. This is all there is, and It’s not enough, not enough at all, and soon enough even that much is gone. Scatter the ashes, smash the urn, leave nothing after the last shots have been poured and drunk down and all the glasses thrown away. This is all there is. I don’t know what else to say. I too, just wanted to wake up on a Saturday morning and be rich and be loved and to love. Por Ella she is seventeen and sitting on the curb with her best friend,  smoking cigarettes with their oversized coats  draped across their shoulders and  their doc martens hot on their feet and  there is nowhere to go, nowhere to have to be,  all things are possible, and  this is how she looks forever  when you catch her in just the right light. so, you love this small wild thing, shy like wild things are, but she carries some kind of sorrow, and is wild, like all the shy things are. November 2024 This is not something we should worry about. Leave the arguing to those who like to argue. We’ll drive out to the bridge. and watch the trains go by. I’ve been learning Spanish for you, you know, just so I could say  Yo tambien ti amo (I think that’s it) When the time is right It’s all good, is what I am trying to say. Leave all of the small and petty things to the others, because there’s nothing there for you and me.

The Very Hungry Caterpillar Imagine if March was a summer month whose beard said jadedly, you’re too young to be jaded, and the world went on jading. I thought maybe if my wings were still damp I could cozy up right where I hatched from but must have gotten fat nibbling my way out because on my eighteenth birthday the hammock ripped right out from under me and the air punched from my gut smelled like tea leaves and the darkness inside my lungs. The wettest thunder comes before the rain, wet like the last hours of pregnancy in a car at dusk, the sky flickering like this hope that it will ever be over with. Doggy style   I wish I had a cock so I could learn to be vulnerable. Instead my cravings are sad & filthy like a pitbull’s. But   don’t blame the pussy. He is a junkyard of moons, leaking radioactive fumes. He is a sizzling roux, enough flour   and fat to bloat a growling belly. By night he frolics up a funk and dances to disturb. Come dawn, they muzzle him. His   howls of smutty sorrow turn to whimpers. If the wound won’t heal, tell it to heel. Say come back to me. Say good boy. Then take me   out back to the tool shed and put me out of my misery. Say it’s for the best. An open letter to my husband’s dysphoria   I mean, this was a cavernous childhood only the small could fit into. He was just a cricket of a boy, chirping at the ceramic sky until it dropped the moon, which burst into verses and fish too plural to put a shirt on. When he touched me, my whole soul turned a fierce teal and I wept. My dad doesn’t have a beard anymore, but he bought me an orchid that only bloomed once, so it either got root rot or I forgot to water it, which is also how churches die. And so what if my husband has hairy teats like a real mammal. Not to mention gender and genre are the same in Spanish, and some novelists grow up to be poets. God knows I did. All I know is, he summoned me in the language of changelings. No other call could rouse the likes of me. Zoe "Moss" Korte is a mad & queer poet whose work has appeared in Maudlin House, new words {press}, Frontier Poetry, & more. They reside on Peoria & Osage land with their partner & two tortoiseshell cats. You can find them on Instagram @zoekpoetry .

When she stops, it stops, and when she starts again, it also starts again . It’s loud going up hills but quiet on the flat. It thrums in queues and pitches up a semitone round corners, and, finally, she’s forced to accept that the whirring sound she’s been hearing for months is coming from her. “You have motorised hips,” the doctor concludes. “It’s fairly common. I’m surprised you haven’t noticed.” “Will I live?” she asks. “Oh yes,” he replies. “And some.” For a start, she has gears.  And until now, she’s been stuck in first.  Clicking her fingers takes her to second. In third, she catches the bus she’s been running for. Overtakes it in fourth. Trips a speed camera in fifth, and cruises in the woods by the reservoir where she keeps pace with deer.  There’s more. “Don’t do that,” her husband says when she makes her eyes move in different directions. “Why not?” she asks, watching him on the sofa and the twins in the kitchen.  “It makes you look weird.” “You should see how it makes you look. Watch this.” She blinks, taps her temple,and sneezes. An eyeball pops into the palm of her hand. The twins applaud.  “For God’s sake,” her husband scolds. Later, she hides the eyeball in the bathroom, by his shaving foam. “You didn’t floss,” she says when he comes to bed. “Also, who were you texting?” “Work,” he says. “Wait. Could you see me in there?” “Oh yes,” she says. “I’m finding things out all the time. Look!” “Christ!” he shouts. “Where are your hands?” “I unscrewed them!” she says.  She waves her stumps.  “What? Why?” her husband asks. “Where are they now?”  He slides into bed. “What the …” “There’s one,” she says. His bedside light turns off. “There’s the other.” At breakfast, her husband asks, “If bits come off, can you put different ones on instead?” “Apparently,” she says. “There’s a website. With next-day delivery. I’ve ordered chunkier calves.” “Why?”  “They help with running. I might get a spleen. It’s good to have a spare.” She buys a hand, a right, half as big again as her own and a slightly different colour. She clicks it into place. She opens pickle jars and loosens wheel-nuts. She crushes full cans of beans and explodes cartons of milk. She grinds a house brick  to powder on the patio because she can. “Who wants a tickle?” she asks The twins squeal. In bed, her husband says. “Show me this website of yours.” They browse. “They do legs,” he murmurs. “Hmm,” she says. “And washboard stomachs.” “I’d prefer a spleen.” “I just thought … ” he begins. She takes out her eyes, leaves one on the landing in case a twin gets up in the night, and the other under the Velux to look at the stars. “I’ve always wanted a bigger nose,” she says, feeling her way back to bed. “I like the nose you’ve got,” her husband says. One of her hands runs its fingers through his hair. “Oh. OK,” she says. “Thank you.” The nose he gets her anyway is small. But neat, she thinks. And sensitive. Ketchup and fries , she guesses when the twins come home from school. Plimsols. Wet dog. Paint. Jalapeño peppers, she speculates, when her husband comes through the door.  Polos. Single malt. He kisses her cheek. “What a day,” he says. Gin spritzer. Someone else’s Eau de Cologne. “No problem,” she says.   But the next morning, she unclips an ear and hides it in his Audi. Poolside at the leisure centre, while the twins perform widths, she hears him indicate, get honked at by oncoming traffic. The engine purrs down. The passenger door opens. “Hi,” he says, but not to her. Clothes rustle. There’s a bout of urgent breathing and, as one twin dive-bombs the other, further towards the deep end than they’re supposed to go, then a gurgle he’s never made with her. Heart-broken, her heart broken, she shops for another, but, uh, what the ...  her heart is the one thing she can’t replace. So, she buys another hand. The left, even bigger than her mighty right.  And two evenings later, when the twins have gone to bed and he’s at five-a-side, yeah, right … she snaps both hands into place, and goes out to the garage to bend the crossbar of his trail-bike ninety-degrees and crumble a breezeblock.  Back in the living room, she dims the lights. She lays on the sofa, hands folded like walrus flippers across her chest.  “What are you doing?” asks a twin from the top of the stairs. “Nothing,” she says. “Waiting for your dad to come home.” “Are you going to tickle him?”  “No,” she says. “I’m going to bloody well tear him a new one.” Mark Barlex began writing fiction in 2021. His stories have appeared in Bandit Fiction, Flash Fiction North, Your Fire Magazine, Scribble, Coalition Works, Litmora, Roi Fainéant, Fireworks, Spank The Carp and Streetcake Magazine,  accepted for Sci-Fi Lampoon , and performed at Liars’ League  events in London. He was a semi-finalist in the Wergle Flump Humor Poetry  competition, shortlisted for the Bath Flash Fiction Award , and runner-up in the Missouri Review Jeffery E Smith Editors’ Prize .

I wear a hat. I play golf. (Sermon from The Donald)   Let golf be elitist. Be expensive, take the land. Let people work hard and aspire to play golf one day and let the rest play basketball (trademark wink and a nod) I wear a hat. I play golf.     Factory Setting   Slurry pasted faces Grey,boiled to death grey shuffling along in grotesquely overwashed costume.   Might as well go on living- (howl in piercing silence, eyes of searing red that once were green with life)   Aspiring to coping- (epitaph punched on a UC50 form by an ashen kapo in pissmark blue)   Shame is such an unflattering colour. Sophie prays to trees Sophie prays to trees to shirtless Jesus on alternate days   Random German family Each and every meal served with a side salad of sneering contempt fetus soft coddled eggs boiled (two to three minutes, no more) peeled hidden (under a thick trenchcoat of leaves) mashed and each and every beaten mess a benediction  KG is a Poet and Author based in Wales. The Author of the best selling 'Troubadour Tales' series of books on Bob Dylan, he has now embarked on a poetic journey. Published in Wales, Ireland, England and now in the US his first book , 'Poetry For The Feeble Minded' was published to critical acclaim. His current WIP, 'A working Class Book Of Psalms' from which these poems are taken, is due to be published in 2026.

messy, always messy void of time - memories made spent instead mouth fixed to the neck of a bottle and sleep but still dreams full of nightmares   sheen of sweat with the tightness of dehydrated skin, same clothes, no clothes food stuck to the bottom of saucepans or rotting in the fridge corks and openers litter the kitchen top unmade bed, dripping tap what looks like a stain in the carpet, a wet cloth discarded on the sofa cushion a hunger, a desperate need to vomit up nothing there   for late morning regrets scroll through phone   where there, at least is a trail of where that time went - on dancing to music videos, unread messages, and photos of my partying   the party i left, for the isolation and privacy of home, a meeting with depression, that and alcohol, my guests where i disconnect   i don't want to live and yet - this cycle of misery is as if the anticipation of being on a rollercoaster, reaching the top - only to fall over and over   until   i   stop   and get off. From the South of England, Kate is a writer/poet and blogger. Their writing is largely based on the themes of belonging, loss, and wonder. They have been recently published by Partially Shy Magazine, Libre and Anti-Heroin Chic https://katelouisepoetry.wordpress.com/

People have no problem being cruel. Find a dying rattlesnake  On the side of the road in the Angeles National Forest? Google if you can eat it. How to Skin it. Dare your twelve-year-old daughter To make the first cut. And now your daughter is my client. I work with her to write a college essay On her desire to study bio medical engineering at UCLA. What if I demonstrate my interest in animals? Compassion if you can tolerate it. How she Butchered it. Told me not to worry It tasted like chicken . And I email my therapist asking if we can call. Hit send before I finish Explaining I had an upsetting night. Tutoring The sister of a previous client. What went wrong? We needed a hook to catch their attention And I am hooked in the throat Like a bass or a pike or trout in Lake Isabella. Cincinnati and I’m twenty-one again Ready for the law firm picnic. Just an intern am I in love? He’s a law student telling me what to file And I’m in the fax room in heels. I miss my bus and call my brother to pick me up At the nearest station northwest  Of the city. You’ll learn the system  he tells me. It’s different from making tuna subs at Subway, huh? When the law student meets him He doesn’t shake his hand. Cruelty keeps us  From each other. They make fun of his name And explain he’s not up to snuff. Don’t you know you can do better, Candice? And I don’t want to do better But learn life is nothing like Richard Scarry Told us. Rattlesnakes skinned and eaten by a little girl. Candice M. Kelsey [she/her] is a writer and educator living in Los Angeles and Georgia. Her work explores the intersections of place, body, and belonging; she has been featured in SWWIM, The Laurel Review, Poet Lore, Passengers Journal, and About Place among others. Candice reads for The Los Angeles Review, and her comfort-character is Jessica Fletcher.