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1. I hand my father the toothbrush, watch as he struggles to apply the toothpaste. I tell myself not to intervene, just as I did when my daughter was trying to learn new skills. I hold the basin for him to spit into, clean his mouth with a towel. A stalactite of mucus hangs from his nose like it did when we were out on the hills. He never wiped it then either. When we still had the farm, my father kept a diary recording key events. Mild with light rain. Moved the lambed ewes to the Bank Park. Never anything personal. 2. A cold afternoon. Slate clouds hung low over the hills. My father stalked the ewe, crook held like a bayonet. He lunged, hooked a leg. Reined in the sheep, hand over hand along the metal shaft. Flipped the ewe onto her back. It kicked its legs, helpless as a new-born. Later, we mounted the tractor to return home for supper. “Home James, and don’t spare the horses,” he always said. At lambing time, he slept in the armchair. No time to shave, so a beard sprouted. Now he sits day and night in the bed my brother set up in the living room. The beard is back, because shaving is such a chore. Like shearing a sheep, the carer jokes. 3. He revived the orphan lambs in the bottom of the Aga. They’d go in limp as a soft toy, emerge hyper as toddlers, romping around the kitchen. We’d come down in the morning to find the linoleum puddled with pee. I take him to the bathroom in the wheelchair the council lent us. His legs are so weak he can barely stand long enough for me to pull down his boxers. Memories of toilet training my daughter. There was a time when I’d have been embarrassed by the sight of his exposed penis, but that time is long past. I leave him in peace. Fifteen minutes later, I manhandle him back into the chair. “Home James, and don’t spare the horses,” I say. He just looks at me blankly. 4. One morning, I find a fat courgette of excrement, the colour of rich soil, on the kitchen’s fake wood floor. I dispose of it subtly, trying not to cry. Neither of us mentions it, but I record the incident in my journal. The whole visit, I’ve been hoping for a shared memory, an anecdote, laughter. All he does is watch TV. But when I leave, he thanks me for coming. I’ll take that. Daniel Addercouth grew up on a remote farm in the north of Scotland but now lives in Berlin, Germany. His stories have appeared in Free Flash Fiction, New Flash Fiction Review, and Ink Sweat & Tears, among other places. He was recently shortlisted for the Bath Flash Fiction Award. You can find him on Twitter/X and Bluesky at @RuralUnease.

I was the only one who noticed Jenny’s poorly concealed black eye as she bent down to hide another Easter egg. She used to be a beauty guru with an impressive YouTube following, but Derek had long beaten the peace, joy, and love of glamour out of her. I wasn’t going to say anything to the other ladies. Jenny and I learned a long time ago, it was best to keep our failures to ourselves. Failed grades, relationships, careers—there was no need to give the others more “I told you so” ammunition. I regretted braiding my hair into cornrows and not wearing a hat as the sun scorched my scalp, reminding me that I still choose style over functionality. Our group marched on strategically hiding eggs out of sight of eagerly waiting children that didn’t belong to any of us. It had become an unofficial tradition highly encouraged by church elders that all single women should be sent out to hide eggs and reflect on their problematic childlessness. The married women and mothers all stayed inside the air-conditioned building minding the children while occasionally peering at us outcasts. Brenda, always the rule breaker, came outside to help us. She just happened to have an extra hat that matched my outfit. She knew how much I love yellow. I handed her a spotted orange egg, her favorite color, to hide at the foot of a tree. Brenda feverishly talked about the woes of having to keep a five-bedroom house clean as a single housewife with a toddler and all the fun she had with her in-laws during an annual ski trip. She didn’t notice Jenny reapplying powder under her eye or that neither one of us was listening. She doesn’t care. Brenda just needs an audience besides an exhausted overworked husband and a drooly two-toothed baby. I wondered if her jaw hurt from all the talking and what kind of person enjoys being around their in-laws that much? When she lifted her Chanel sunglasses to wipe away sweat, she revealed big black bags under her eyes. I hadn’t seen Brenda look that drained since our college days when the three of us would stay up ungodly hours to study together. She reached into my basket for two purple and pink eggs. The all-consuming thoughts in my head deafened the chatter, making it easier to hyper-fixate on hiding. Thoughts of a new condo. Living in the luxury I deserve. Could I afford it? I’m always the odd duck. Would I fit in at my new job? I wanted to talk about a local murder case. How the young victim looked just like me when I was her age. The killer was never found. Brenda finds true crime to be ghastly. Jenny never responds in the group chat whenever I mention anything in the news. I hid two green eggs in a bed of pink flowers. We’ve done 5k charity runs in the past. I was going to tell them about the upcoming mental health awareness 5k my therapist recommended but Jenny burst into tears. All the talking about how great Brenda’s husband was must have made her realize how awful Derek is. Brenda and I stood there looking at Jenny, our sunglasses hid expressions of pity and frustration. We both waited for the other to console her. It was Brenda’s turn. I hid three blue eggs near an old log. I recommended therapy when Jenny told me about the domestic violence. She flippantly told me she doesn’t believe in therapy and a more well-balanced diet of fresh organic fruits and vegetables plus a consistent exercise routine is all that is needed to be mentally fit. Then she pointed out how much tighter my clothes had been fitting. Derek didn’t like thick women. A rock pile was the perfect spot for two speckled eggs. Jenny wept. Brenda shielded her from the other women behind us. Jenny said what she always says. We said what we always say. Now was not the time to mention the change in my medication due to having an emotional breakdown at work or that I wasn’t experiencing the side-effect of weight loss like I hoped I would. I was following my dreams of moving to Austin, but the stress was making my chest tight. Now wasn’t a good time to bring any of my personal problems up. I still had two dozen eggs and I would need to keep hiding.

He was somewhere on the Oregon coast, heading north on his bicycle with the wind and rain in his face. 17 years in the desert and now here he was in all this rain, his bicycle loaded and clownish with front and rear pannier bags. “GOD FUCKIN’ DAMN YOU!” he yelled. It was a tiny coastal town, a 1-taxi town. He rode in around noon. Exhausted. It was so dark it seemed like 7 o’clock at night. He found shelter next to an abandoned building with a roof over the sidewalk. He was soaked and miserable. He locked his bike to a gas pipe and walked toward the only sign of life anywhere: the neon light in the little tavern across the street. The handle was made from a tree branch nailed to the door. Wind and rain came in as the heavy door closed behind him. There were three old men and one middle-aged woman at the bar. They all turned and looked at him. He sat down on the end stool. The bartender was maybe 60 years old with a wart on her forehead. She walked over and leaned on the bar and smiled at him. “You look like a wet chicken.” “Yes, ma’am.” She looked at the way he was dressed. Shorts over a blue pair of athletic tights and a blue sweatshirt. His short salt and pepper hair was matted to his skull. “What can I get you?” “Pitcher of whatever’s cheap, please.” She poured the beer and set it down in front of him. It was warm in there. The smell of hot dogs and onion rings. “What’s the name of this town?” he asked, taking a drink. “This is Port Orford, honey.” “Port AWFUL!” one of the old geezers down the bar called out. “It ain’t all that bad,” the old lady said. “But it’s close.” She winked at him. His wife used to wink at him like that. He and Melissa had been together for 12 years, since they were 15. They were best pals. She was always a little tormented, but so was he. “Have you heard anything about the weather for tomorrow?” “Just more of the same,” she said. “I figured.” “You need anything, you let me know.” She walked back to her friends. He wanted a hamburger and onion rings but was afraid to spend the money. Old photographs of loggers covered the wall, tiny men standing next to trees as big as skyscrapers. You didn’t see trees that big anymore. A pool table in one corner. An old piano against a wall with a chalkboard on the wall above it: LIVE MUSIC EVERY SAT. NIGHT. Another sign on the wall behind the bar said PITCH’S TAVERN. When the phone rang the bartender picked it up and said, “Pitch’s!” But it sounded like “Bitch’s!” He stood up and headed to the bathrooms, which were designated QUAILS and WOODPECKERS. He took a piss and walked to the tiny sink. As he washed his hands he looked at himself in the mirror. He was only 27, but looked 40, already had quite a few gray hairs, circles under his eyes. He’d been riding 75 miles a day in terrible weather, eating cans of Chef Boyardee and gas station bread. He came out and sat back down. One morning a couple of years ago his wife had awakened him and told him she was a man now. He was not to call her Melissa anymore, but instead, Eric. He knew why she had chosen that name. “Eric” had been the name of her little brother who had died when he was two months old, when Melissa was five. Her parents began to fight a lot and sent Melissa to stay with her grandparents until she graduated high school. She rarely talked about it but sometimes when they were drunk on Boones Farm wine down by the Peoria River at night she would open up. He never knew what to say when she told him about those horrible memories, her old creep grandpa and the things he did to her. He just hugged her and listened. And tried to understand. His mother had always told him that good people win. That was her motto. Never get upset, she told him, because it isn’t worth it. You can’t change people and you will only do more damage to yourself. She was married four times and at age 45 she looked 80. She never liked Melissa. It wasn’t easy learning to call Melissa, Eric. It seemed like a joke. She said she had been living a lie all her life. She was not a woman and had never been a woman. She was a man. She hoped he would support her and stay by her side. And he did. She was his whole life. He’d been with a couple other girls in high school but it had been awkward and fruitless. There was always a great gap between him and them and when the sex was over there was nothing but the gap. He immediately wanted to get away from them. With Melissa it was different. The sex was lukewarm but the kinship was real. She was a friend, a sister. A brother. The middle-aged woman began telling the bartender and the three old men a story.    “You know the Johnsons who live way out off the highway?” They all nodded. “I was up there the other day,” she said. “You know, to read the meter, and they’ve got this big Rottweiler. I mean, they warned me about this Rottweiler. It’s just the sweetest thing, really, just a big pussy cat, only thing is he hates trucks. I guess he got hit by a truck when he was a pup and he just hates trucks. Cars are ok, but trucks, no. I was up there the other day, trying to read the meter, and this damn dog’s just barking and growling his fool head off. I wasn’t worried, I brought my binoculars to read the meter through. I didn’t even have to get out of the truck. Sally down at the shop told me to take those binoculars. But after I wrote down the numbers, I felt the truck start to shake and then there’s this loud WHOOSH and one side of the truck goes down. He bit right through my tire!” They all laughed. “I had to sit there until the kids got home from school and called the dog off.” A man in a cheap suit came into the tavern and sat down near him. He looked wild eyed and a little crazy and sad and he was wet from the rain. He ordered a coffee and a bunch of change for the pay phone, but he never got up to use it. He just sat there smoking and sipping his coffee. “Rotten fucking weather,” he said. “My name’s Ed.” “Robert, nice to meet you.” “You live here?” “Just passing through.” “Where to?” “Washington, maybe.” “You got work there?” “No, just a vacation.” “Some vacation.” “What about you?” “I’m on vacation too,” the man said. “I’m with my wife.” “Where is she?” “She went on ahead, she had some things to do.” “How long’s she been gone?” “Just a few days. But she’s coming back.” “She took your car?” “It’s her car. But she’s coming back any time now, and not a moment too soon, because I’m getting tired of this town.” “Staying in the motel?” He nodded and sipped his coffee. Robert looked at the pile of quarters on the bar.     “She’s a beautiful person,” the man said. “She’s not much to look at, you know, really, on the outside, but she’s got this inner beauty. She’s really a beautiful person.” “I’m sure she is.” Melissa—Eric—began hormone treatments to raise her—his—testosterone levels. Robert was continually calling her “Melissa” which pissed her off. He supported her on social media, always calling her “they.” But it was confusing. They stopped having sex completely. She had never dressed in a truly feminine manner but now started buying all her clothes from the men’s department. She didn’t seem happier but Robert figured he would give it time. He was always the one to do the dishes and cooking and laundry anyway so not much really changed in their daily routine. He went to work at his job at the insurance company as a phone rep and came home and tried to tread as lightly as possible. The bar door opened and fresh wind and rain came in. Boots clumped across the floor. An old man took a barstool between the regulars and Robert. The bartender clanged the cow bell that was hanging over the bar. Then she came and sat a beer down in front of Robert. “J.R. just bought a round for the house,” she said. Robert lifted the beer in thanks toward the old guy and the old guy smiled and returned the gesture. Then he got up and walked over and sat down next to Robert. He slapped Robert’s back. “Hiya,” he said in a loud voice. “I’m J.R.” “Robert.” They shook hands. “You riding that bicycle?” “Yep.” “Goin’ a long way?” “Pretty long.” “I like people,” the old man said. “I like people and I saw you ride into town on that bike in the rain and I thought I’ve got to talk to that guy. And now here you are.” “Here I am.” “Say,” he said, “you going to the wedding later?” “Wedding?” “Didn’t Mollie tell you? We’re having a wedding later on today. You should come. It’s gonna be up on Nate’s Hill, a little west of town.” “Outdoors?” J.R. looked out the only window at the rain. “Hope the weather breaks. Anyway, Mollie will tell you how to get there. Maybe you could catch a ride with somebody.” “We’ll see how things go.” “Well,” J.R. said, draining his beer and slamming it down on the bar, “I’ve got to skeedaddle.” He slapped Robert for the last time. “I just saw you and I wanted to say hello. I wanted to make sure you remember this place, you remember old J.R. Remember me young man, remember J.R. from Port Orford!” “I promise.” Then J.R. was gone and it was quiet again. Robert and Melissa had been married at the court house in Peoria. Just the two of them. No honeymoon. They had gone out to eat at the Crab Shack and then went home and watched movies. That’s when they decided to move to Tucson and make a fresh start. “Fresh start” was the phrase Melissa used the day before she got her breasts cut off. She was groggy in the hospital room and Robert sat by her bed. She opened her eyes and looked at him like he was a stranger. He asked her if she needed anything and she said, “More painkillers.” With a flat chest the men’s shirts fit her better and she even began to walk differently. She sprouted a little mustache like a 13-year-old boy. Her teaching job had given her a sabbatical and she sat around the house, spending most of her time in front of the mirror looking at her scars and her jaw line. Or she was on social media. Robert couldn’t do anything right. She went to therapy once a week and always came home angry. An hour later another man came into the bar and sat down on the other side of Robert. The man was around 60 years old and had thick, completely white hair. He also had a white mustache and a smoothly tanned face. The bartender came down. “Jim,” she said. “How are you this afternoon?” “Hangin’ in there, Mollie.” Robert looked up and Jim was staring at him. “How ya doin?” he said. “Good,” Robert said. “You ain’t from around here.” “Tucson, in Arizona.” “Mmmm, hmm.” “You going to the wedding?” Robert asked. “Who told you about that?” “J.R. He bought me a beer.” “I don’t think I can attend,” Jim said. “What brings you down this way?” “Bicycle trip.” “Bicycle?” He looked at Robert’s clothes for the first time. “You must be crazy.”    “Yeah.” “I’ve never even been out of Oregon,” Jim said, his mustache twitching. “I’ve lived here all my life. I was a logger here for 40 years.” “Long time.” “Naw, it all just flew by, I loved every minute of it, except when my friends got killed. That happened sometimes. But mostly it was fun, I loved it all, life is something to enjoy, don’t forget that. What’s your name?” “Robert.” “Nice to meet you, I guess you know I’m Jim.” “I heard.” “You married?” “Yes.” “Back in Arizona?” “Yep.” “Miss her?” “Yes.” “I miss my wife,” Jim said. “She died a few years ago.” “Sorry to hear that.” “Oh, don’t be, it wasn’t your fault. She was a good woman, a real good woman, stayed married to me for thirty-seven years.” “Sounds like a Saint.” “Any kids?” “No,” Robert said. Robert had never wanted kids. In fact, he had been thinking about getting a vasectomy for a few years but when Melissa got her tubes cut out it seemed unnecessary. “You’ll change your mind.” “I don’t think so.” “Oh, mark my words, you’ll change your mind.” “It doesn’t matter. She doesn’t want kids either.” Jim almost fell off his chair laughing. “Son, you got a lot to learn about women.” “Can’t argue with that.” “I know you may think you don’t want kids, maybe even she thinks that, but just wait—How old are you?” “Twenty-seven.” “Damn, I thought you were older than that. You’re just a pup.” Without exactly knowing why, Robert said: “I got a vasectomy last year, so I don’t think I’ll be having any kids.” Jim just about choked on his beer, and looked at Robert like he was suddenly some kind of monster. “You what?” “Vasectomy. It’s when you—” “I know what it is! Why’n hell would you do something stupid as that?” “Because I don’t want kids.” “Son, I sure wish I could talk to you again in 15 years. I just wish I could be there to see the look on your face when you realize how much you’ve missed out on.” “Sorry.” Jim’s face was red. “I logged these mountains for 40 years. Look at these hands.” They were huge and wrinkly and gnarled and scarred. Robert’s hands were tiny in comparison. Soft. “I retired 10 years ago because I could afford it and I wanted to enjoy my remaining years. I love life and I love this town and now you tell me that you’ve let a doctor—” Robert was sorry he had lied. Jim got up, disgusted, and went to the bathroom. He called her “Melissa” instead of “Eric” one night and she went ballistic. She started throwing plates and utensils around and knocked a hole in the plaster wall with her hand. He started going on longer and longer bicycle rides, to all parts of the city he’d never been and beyond the city to the desert. One day when he got back from a bicycle ride the car was gone. He didn’t hear from Melissa for a couple of days. Then he got a phone call. She’d been in an accident and died on the way to the hospital. They said she was drunk and also killed a woman with a small child on the interstate. They asked him some questions, like what sex category to put on the death certificate. He didn’t know what to tell them. Jim returned from the bathroom. “So, what are you going to do later, if you’re not going to the big wedding?” Robert asked. “Just go on home and cook some supper I guess.” “I hope you’re not having Chef Boyardee,” Robert said, thinking of the cans of Ravioli that he had been eating for 2 weeks straight. Jim stood up so fast his stool fell backwards on the floor. “Listen to me, young man! I don’t know who you think you are, but if you think you can come into a town and insult the locals, then you’re looking for trouble.” “But, I—” “That’s a darn good way to get hurt! Good day, sir!” He stomped out. The bartender came over. “What’s going on? Where’d Jim go?” she asked. “Home, I guess,” Robert said. “He’s got quite a temper on him.” His hand was shaking a little as he lifted his cigarette. “Old Jim?” the bartender lady said, laughing. “Old Jim’s gentle as a lamb. I’ve ever seen him mad at anybody, and I’ve known him forty years.” She wiped up the bar where Jim had been sitting although there was nothing to wipe up. Then she walked away. Robert stood up and bent over and grabbed Jim’s stool and stood it on its legs. A couple hours later Robert sat huddled next to his bicycle under the awning trying to keep out of the rain. He dug a can of ravioli out of his bag. The little Chef Boyardee guy on the can looked at him and Jim looked back. The picture on the label looked just like Jim from the bar with his big white mustache. Robert shook his head, laughing a little. He hadn’t realized the similarity at the time. Sorry, Jim. Robert thought about all the things he’d left back at the house, which was only half paid for, never to see again. The morning after the funeral he’d put some clothes in his pannier bags and rode away. His money was nearly gone and he didn’t have any idea what he was going to do. In his living room across town Old Jim sat forward on his chair and took a bite of porterhouse steak. He chewed the steak and thought about the smart-ass kid from the bar and wondered what was going on with today’s youth. He shook his head and dismissed the ugly episode, the whole idea of it. He turned up the volume on the tv. The weather was on. They called it “El Nino,” the system that was bringing all the rain and wind to Oregon and causing hurricanes in Mexico. There was a cute little name for everything these days, he thought.

I’m Aware that when I do all the dog walks at night, I should carry my car keys. That my job is laced with sloppy kisses, but just under that, the potentiality for nighttime To carve its name inside of me. I should carry metal, the kind that smells like blood,  in between my thumb and ring finger– Just in case the past comes back in the ways we do not name. I spend Thanksgivings alone but I think of ones I’ve been to in the past: laden with pie and cards and games won for a quarter, near farms and rosy cheeks. A former teacher’s kids telling me – a virtual stranger– what they’re grateful for  the year ahead, as I memorized her linens. She put the fork tines in, towards the gut, like the sharp pieces should be close, to keep them safe. If you see me alone with a carving knife, and I’m smiling It’s because I’m not fully alone, I’m thinking of the dinners past, the glimmer of the ones you loved me then, But did not linger. I grab the husky’s leash – one of three– from the apartment, which was painted black with spires. To be transparent, they said. To remind us where we stand. The way my work told me therapy was okay once in a while, the notes they didn’t say (about my brain) were quite plain. Half smiles & they still hand me coffee, out of politeness, but I notice their downturned mouths.  & the way my braid is too frizzy for corporate life, but I wish I could change, for them, or if I outta. Now, brisk pace and shallowed haunting breath; I walk the dogs one at a time because a pack Is too strong To contend with, The owner said. One at a time, and they’ll love you. In a pack, they’ll overtake you. They’ll sense you don’t belong. I recognized that song, that refrain from smudged glass and vodka shots that I didn’t ask for And the college boys pressed too neatly When they kicked you out at midnight, with swirling flakes Because you didn’t say their names Correctly. My Mom kicked me out in winter solstice once– The light from space holy The snowflakes landing in the hottub Where I stood for a minute, before I left, crumbling. Feeling the steam sink into me Slowly. Snowflakes (so pulsing, so delicate, so unique) disappear under Arguments too hot, temperatures rising too boldly. Still, I lingered: one more time. Taking her words in for another minute, if only I could hold the heat Inside, like a glove that wasn’t really mine. As she told me with fang– To go away. The dog I walk now: she had a puppy. &  the owner kept one from the litter. Couldn’t separate all the baby heartbeats From the ones that loved them diligently, hovering. When I say her daughter’s name, even though she’s banal fang, The husky looks at me with a look that is unexplainable; the dictionary couldn’t give me a word. It tried (lunar, part, kisses, dark). The look the mother gave me:  part delicacy, part despair & a little bit of haughty integrity. The way she still takes time to mark the rock in front of her before Going back to her young, as if to remind her daughter of her place & where she came from. & yet I cry, counting spires that once used to be dressed in candlelight color, Thinking that this part-wolf mix That I walk for twenty bucks Loves her puppy more than my own mother Ever Loved me. If only I could be so lucky to have a mother recognize the way another Says my name in vowel sounds, the hesitancy– If only I could get her to envelop me with paths that lead me back From midnight hours, clutched car keys, too much therapy All the way To safety. If only she would bellow out for me To come back. Leslie Cairns is from Denver, CO. She has a chapbook out with Bottlecap Press ('The Food is the Fodder'). She is a Pushcart Prize nominee (2023).

When the self-driving vehicle was in a bad accident but still in drivable condition, it selfishly bypassed the local hospital on its way to the dealership’s repair shop. The car was fixed up while the passenger inside suffered their injuries. The company that sold the vehicles received a slap on the wrist and they used the incident as a case study during their annual summit. Some employee suggested they reach out to a large hospital conglomerate. Soon thereafter, the two entities made an agreement. Now there were trauma bays staffed by board-certified surgeons attached to the dealership repair shops, where the battered self-driving vehicles and their unlucky inhabitants could be taken in the event of an accident. A one-stop shop. It could be said that the blood and oil stains on the ground complimented one another beautifully. It wasn’t long before car wash businesses began offering elective surgeries. A win-win for all, but especially for industry. The employee whose idea led to this remarkable symbiosis received a small honorary plaque for her innovative spirit. Regrettably, due to rising costs of inflation, she could not be offered a paid promotion at this time. Eliot S. Ku is a physician who lives in New Mexico with his wife and two young children. His writing has appeared or is forthcoming in The Raven Review, Maudlin House, Meow Meow Pow Pow Lit, and Whiskey Tit.

I thought I was fine right after my car accident. I'd slid off a rain-slick highway in Michigan onto a grassy median and knocked myself out. I woke with the top of my head feeling slightly sore, wondering why there were so many trees and shrubs in front of me. And where were all the cars? Before I could reach for my phone to call home, I saw a deep-blue Michigan State Police car pull up behind me and two blue-uniformed officers came out to check on me. I exited my SUV with no problem and was apparently too coherent to be drunk because they only asked if I felt all right and if I needed help getting home. I didn't. They cut the deployed airbags and then got in their car to lead me back onto the road. Driving home under the speed limit, I noted at some level that I'd had a very lucky break: while I'd gone into and out of a ditch, at least there was a median. Five or ten minutes further north there was no median and I would have merged with southbound traffic and ended up dead or close to it. The fact registered, but didn't take root since I was calling home to tell my husband what happened and that I'd be there soon. I was still shaken when I pulled into our driveway, but the whole thing felt a bit dreamlike. Had I really gone off the road? Three days later, my husband took me to the ER with what was quickly diagnosed as a concussion: I was nauseous, dizzy, couldn't stand or see straight. Several hours of tests didn't find any other damage and I was advised to take things easy for a few weeks, though my avuncular GP gave me permission to teach my classes at Michigan State University if I was driven there and back, and otherwise rested at home. Easy-peasy, right? And then the panic attacks started. As a mystery author, I watch a lot of crime movies and series, but suddenly I couldn't tolerate them. Watching a movie or TV show with a car chase of accident of any kind left me shivering and afraid, my heart beating so hard that my head hurt. I was reliving the moments of waking up confused, and experiencing something worse: the knowledge that I had escaped possible death or at the very least terrible injury by minutes. I stopped feeling safe in the world and gradually became afraid of even driving to the local supermarkets. I had to steel myself for the short trips, reminding myself that there was no highway driving involved, no heavy traffic, and there sure as hell weren't going to be any dangerously slick roads because I stayed in if it was raining or if there was even a forecast of rain. Worse than the way my world was starting to shrink were the vague dark nightmares that thrust me from sleep and left me almost breathless and terrified—as if the nightmare still had its claws in me and was determined to draw blood and drag me down. My GP prescribed Xanax for the panic attacks and it worked when I was awake, though the nightmares continued. But in the middle of all the mental and physical turmoil, my writer's brain was minutely noting each and every symptom, each and every shock, each and every moment of terror.  One thing was very clear: I could use this someday. Journalist and author Janet Malcolm once wrote that "Art is theft, art is armed robbery." And I wonder now, can you steal from yourself? Lev Raphael is a 1st-generation American who has authored 27 books in genres from memoir to mystery. He escaped academia many years ago to write and review full time.

Phototograph courtesy of Slobbered Lens. His skinny arms wrap around my torso, his face buried in my shirt, a makeshift handkerchief catching his tears. This wasn’t a posed picture; it was captured. Trapped. Caged in black and white pixels, then frozen in time. An eternal goodbye. We raise Guide Dog Puppies, so goodbye is a part of the parlance of our family. While others might divide time by seasons or the school year, we do it by housebreaking, socialization outings, training benchmarks, and, of course, letting go. You might think it gets easier with practice. It doesn’t. If anything, it is harder now than when I started, pre-kids. Now I carry not only my own grief, but his, and his little brother’s. A burden three times greater with every farewell. But the tears are bittersweet. We will see them again, uniformed in a leather harness, navigating a dangerous world with poise and strength, shoulders wider, head higher. Their partner – this unknown person – will become a part of our family. This closing door will lead to one thrown wide open to the future. So, I let his skinny arms squeeze, even in the unposed, unscripted moments. He is eleven, and I have no doubt that these moments are fast-receding in the rear-view mirror of growing up. The top of his head reaches my chin, his talk has turned to the future, and I saw him walking down the school hall with a girl last week. I’m not ready. Thirteen goodbyes. One for every puppy. It’s a good thing I have so much practice. It's a good thing I know that the small goodbyes lead to greater hellos. Because someday, those arms will squeeze one last time. And that will be the hardest goodbye of all. Phototograph courtesy of Rebecca Minelga. Rebecca is an author and speaker who uses the power of words to navigate the liminal spaces between who we are and who we are becoming. Rebecca raises Guide Dog Puppies and two sons - in that order - with her husband just north of Seattle. She have been previously published in The Mark Literary Review, Crêpe and Penn, and The Hooghly Review.

Unboxed As if returning a forgotten memory, like an abandoned child, Back to the banks of the subconscious which violently pushed it, Womb-like, away from my fleeting paternal grasp, my eternal awareness, To live desolate, desperate, neglected, and alone in What I image to be a plain brown box In a chilly, musty, secluded basement, my mother, In an act of shedding the echoing voices of recollection Which embody the home I grew up in, the one from which she Is beginning the process of post-retirement departure, Casually hands me a palm-sized, black and white, 60-minute cassette tape With the all-too-familiar, hieroglyphic-like penmanship Of one of my fleeting friends from middle school on it, A circle of sound that hasn’t met my senses, hands Since approximately the mid-90’s Along with a paper printout of my first full-length feature script, Whispers in the Darkness, Which I wrote with one of my best friends in middle school. And as I note the immaculate condition of both items And my finger traces over words, pages, wheels which once Spun forwards and backwards in an endless cycle In the now ancient, near-extinct beast Us 90’s kids once called “a tape player”, I can’t help but think of how far I’ve come, How little I’ve grown in taste, How quickly friendships vanquish yet stay the same, And how art, In all its various forms, Is a time machine Which, especially when stumbled upon without preparation, Can connect you to a mindset, a person, A younger, less experienced, but far more optimistic version of you, As if attached with invisible wires which record your thoughts In a taut, all white cat scan-like tunnel of claustrophobic screeches And all-too-personal restrictions of movement and breath, You’re simultaneously happy to have unboxed, Delighted to have grown into someone else from, And yet, in the same instance, dearly wish To avoid. Third-Person Self-Portrait A swarm of angry bees, a honeycomb of darkness, Hovers behind the nerve-laden riverbanks of the swampy eye. Spastic reverberations, seventeen years of breathless warehouse labor, Shudders with an exploding anguish, a timebomb between the shoulder blades. Thus, your back is arched. Thus, your heart is coffin, anvil heavy From the barrage of emails, responses from publishers about your eagerly submitted writing, You sigh every time you see because you know the pleasantly worded outcome Is rejection before your stinger-strewn, hive-like brain fools you with a burst of dopamine into Clicking on the electronic retort: The orange construction cone placed in horizontal lines Along the once promising roads of your lifelong passion. And you again sigh, swim in the Upside down, marshy edges of your gaze as a sensation of drowning, a visage of your Lifelong regrets, failures, childhood taunts that, like the yellowjacket, still cause a redness, Swelling, itching beneath the flesh where your true self, naively rejuvenated with a youthful Vigor to create a still-burning dream of setting the world on fire with your art, rises Like a pimple that you can never quite get to, pop despite the lifelong scratching, indention Of fingernails to wounded, infected flesh. And it is because your mind is so laser-like In its focus on what is currently wrong that you can’t see all you’ve done right. You miss the happiness trickling down from your hard work onto the smiling faces Of your children as they grow, learn, pursue their own pleasures and hone their own skills. You miss the beauty of the fall leaves outside your home which reflect, like a mirror, Your dedication to providing for your loving family. You miss seeing the progress Made with your auteurship: The innumerable novels, short stories, plays, songs, scripts, and Award-winning films that wouldn’t exist if you didn’t have the can-do spirit that hides in the Closet of your marrow, sits on your shoulder, and whispers positive affirmations in your ear. You miss the way the sunlight bends around your frame and admirably fills your form When your back is bent, the tiny creatures are ready to attack, and doubt clouds the eye. You miss the luminosity spilling from your fingertips, illuminating your every movement: The quiet, kind-hearted essence of you being distinctly you. Andrew Buckner is a multi award-winning filmmaker and screenwriter. A noted poet, critic, author, actor, and experimental musician, he runs and writes for the review site AWordofDreams.com.

The Curse In the smoke of his words comes a sign that we can’t sleep anymore under the calm dome of the moon when auburn wildfires race to breed both needle and cone, and black water floods flatten horizons to mock hereafter, like pine martens plundering a nest of snowcocks, the hungry red anguish of boyhood hunger— “Father, your children!” My eyes fall at radiant openings among limbs of hemlock and cedar, Canadian or Himalayan, suffering in landscapes of handsome stone faces, like the chateau in a leafy French valley, or the Lake of the Little Fishes, where the First Nations gathered roots south of the Arctic Circle, all totems watching and waiting in wood or marble for a wondrous new birth to martyr, as if my sight into forest and sculpture might find a way back to a syntax of reverence for home, for his house, a wistful miracle of badlands to scrub my hair and skin, a self-portrait where the artist defies the margins by symbol, by prophecy, with a thick pith of betrayal and my apology for his absence, the golden embrace of another dread far from the one I thought I’d inherited, the feast of forgiving oneself the torment of a boy’s bloody mouth of open wings trying to fly higher, high enough to span one more wink from him, of my father in the canopies, escaping the pedestal I made him without knowing the desolation of the drowned, or the ironic reward of burning in the sky so far below. Summer Is Another Cliché The fan blades spin down sunken, my bed without his bald crown because he lies in another room, black eye down a crescent hall of dead prey, their neck and shoulder mounts on shields of spalted maple, his face a shearing force with cheek, an amuse-bouche, he startles easily, what he sees beneath the light, trains rumble by hobo fires crackling like teeth, a doll armature, his tracks are my coastline of submergence, all the sheets balling up behind closed doors, in outpatient lamplight, I pause to consider the heft of his chest, red velvet skull plate in September, of what’s denied by sleep, by taking a door off in pieces, the unexpected kiss from under his chest, the undertow of a new planetary body. Mikal Wix is a queer writer from Miami. Their poems are found or forthcoming in Uncanny Magazine, North American Review, South Florida Poetry Journal, Berkeley Poetry Review, Moss Puppy, Portland Review, Roi Faineant Press, and elsewhere. They are Associate Poetry Editor of West Trade Review. All published work here: https://linktr.ee/mikalwix

A lot of things, you found, were a lot like murdering someone. You tried very hard for a long time to avoid murdering anyone but then you slipped and murdered someone. Having murdered your first person you discovered that it wasn’t as bad as you expected. You got over it quickly; life went on, it didn’t really affect you in any way. You worried for a while what everyone else would think but gradually you realized that no one cared all that much; as time passed you weren’t even sure that anyone noticed you murdered someone. But this morning you woke and all at once the compound walnut leaves fell in the frost and the sunshine and now you find that murdering someone is not at all like murdering someone—it’s not a thing like murdering someone, at all. Matthew King used to teach philosophy at York University in Toronto, Canada; he now lives in what Al Purdy called "the country north of Belleville", where he tries to grow things, counts birds, takes pictures of flowers with bugs on them, and walks a rope bridge between the neighbouring mountaintops of philosophy and poetry. His photos and links to his published poems can be found at birdsandbeesandblooms.com.

Mercy The only thing I remember from last night’s dream is the word mercy, spoken by a spectral figure. Was it my soul, crying out because it had been a hellish week of floods and fury and dithering idiots spouting lies, and in the petty annoyances of my small life, that included ants swarming in my kitchen cabinets? I scattered diatomaceous earth till it looked like a bakery explosion, swabbed vinegar until it smelled like an aging salad, to no avail and so I put aside my eco-spirit and dragged out the killing traps. I allow daddy longlegs to live peacefully in corners but I can’t abide the sci fi vibe of the little black bugs who I imagine might be nesting in the walls and floors, seething, ready to take over some night I’m dreaming another mercy dream. Allergic to the stinging sort, I do not try to rescue or dispatch the sonorous wasp that flings itself at one window then another like a vaudeville routine, not noticing the open door for a good long time. When she finally does and exits, I puff out a sigh of relief until, moments later, she’s back at it – smack, frantic buzz, repeat, for several days, until I find her on the floor, no autopsy needed. None Of It Lasted We dodged the drought, the cyclone, the taxmen, even the hoarding impulse but we couldn’t stay lean and limber, go without sleep, remember everything. Now creaky and layered in dun spots, creased and folded, slooped and drooping with crinkled knees and fleeting night vision, we are old, old I say, no longer with a chuckle. It could be any day, any loose minute in a drab weekend. Let the roof cave in, the grey paint curl from the porch, let the rotted steps crumble to dust and the mold reign supreme. We’re inside the last chapter and there’s no surprise ending, no rescue. Mercedes Lawry’s most recent book is Vestiges from Kelsay Books. She’s published three chapbooks and poems in journals such as Nimrod and Alaska Quarterly Review. Her book Small Measures is forthcoming from ELJ Editions, Ltd. in 2024. She’s also published short fiction and stories and poems for children.

I’m at my first court-mandated anger management meeting when a woman with frosted pink lipstick bleeding into her smoker’s lines leans in against me at the coffee table. “Honey, I can hear your heart beating.” She smells like that raspberry body spray my mom loads up on. I ended up here because I’d been on my phone, fighting with my mom, listening to her tell me to kick Billy to the curb once and for all, while I pushed my cart with one hand down the frozen foods aisle. I’d yelled back she needed to mind her own damned business, and why was she always there for her stupid church friends and not for me? When I’d looked up, a man was standing in front of the DiGiornos and Tombstones, listening, and he looked just like Billy, all squinty-eyed and half-cocked.  So I'd lobbed one of those family sized Stouffer’s lasagnas at him, and the next thing I knew, cops had me pushed up against the pizza doors. Now, I imagine drawing a box with each breath in, hold, breath out, hold. It’s a trick my probation officer taught me, and it’s surprisingly effective in stopping me from doing stupid shit. Doesn’t seem to help me much with Billy or my mom, but I figure family takes a little longer for the feelies to kick in because they’re so much more work. The woman shrugs and walks away. I keep drawing the imaginary box. These meetings are in the Black Oak Baptist basement where Billy and I were married, with those cheap folding chairs that pinch my hips and hurt my back. The man leading tonight’s meeting keeps shoving his hands in and out of his pockets and rocking on his feet. He’s going on about how his wife simply packed up their kids and most of the kitchen utensils while he was at work one day. He starts crying when he tells us he came home to a dark house, surrounded by holes in the walls he could throw coffee cups through. The next day he broke down in his boss’s office, where his boss told him to man up and get back to work. The man then laughs like he’s embarrassed to tell us this next part, and he rams his hands back into his pockets. “That’s when I punched him,” he says. “Wife found out about it and doubled down on the divorce proceedings. I was forced to come here, just like all of you.” “Boo!” I yell from my seat. “Where’s the happy ending of how you got your family back? That’s what I’m here for.” “Now she speaks,” someone a few rows in front of me says. It’s the frosted pink lipstick lady. I grab my purse and tear off up the stairs. I force myself to go back the next week. I have no choice if I don’t want to end up in county for thirty days. Lipstick lady greets me at the door, like she already knows how this plays out. Turns out her name is Nadine. Same as my mom’s name. Nadine calls these meetings “joy recovery.” Says in the span of a week, she lost her job, her husband told her he was leaving her for her cousin, and her house burned down. Says she was rightfully mad at the world but that was no way to live. Says she’s been coming to weekly meetings for a decade, and now she makes lemonade out of lemons. I’m almost convinced she really believes it. I tell her she reminds me of my mom, all crow’s feet and chicken skin and the same habit of going down stairs sideways like a crab, one tentative foot at a time. I immediately apologize, that I’m working hard on not saying stupid shit or throwing punches anymore, but it takes time for the desire to turn to belief to turn to action and so on. She smiles like she knows exactly what I’m saying. Today, she smells like that honeysuckle cologne the Avon lady used to sell, and there are undercurrents of cucumbers pulled from the garden and yeasty dough doubling on the countertop. And that right there is my mom, all of it, and I mean it a complement. Nadine takes my hands in hers. Her skin is thin and cool, and she has a little mole between her thumb and index finger that I keep touching the edges of. She doesn’t say a word. Just patiently waits. And there’s something about her that warms me, how she doesn’t pull away as my finger dances around the mole on her hand, how she doesn’t tick off a list of everything that’s wrong in my life. So I start in the middle: Sometimes I get so mad I punch the walls, and one time there wasn’t a wall, only glass, but I’m not that stupid to punch glass, so I punched a man who looked like Billy, and my fist slamming into him stunned me, how much it hurt, how time stopped and everything was quiet and still, and there was my mom again, and it’s just the two of us again, and we’re sitting in the backyard eating ice cream sandwiches again, and she’s whispering, Ruthie, can you hear it? Listen hard, Ruthie. It’s you. And I did hear it. For a split second, I really did. L Mari Harris’s stories have been chosen for the Wigleaf Top 50 and Best Microfiction. She lives in the Ozarks. Follow her @LMariHarris and read more of her work at lmariharris.wordpress.com