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My father took a picture of me with Santa Claus so he could remind me over and over again who was to blame when I didn’t get what I wanted for Christmas. The beer budget didn't allow for film developing for months, but the next year his contribution to holiday decorations was that picture in a dust-dulled frame that once had his wedding picture in it. He put it on the mantle since it was heavy enough to hold up a perennially unused stocking, and after a few empty Christmas mornings of dad answering my disappointment by shrugging towards the mantle, I was cursing whenever someone mentioned the Holiday Spirit, scowling at carolers, rolling my eyes at K-Mart Christmas displays. And blaming a lot on that smiling, bearded asshole with me in that picture. Then—6th grade—Jimmy and the kids at lunch laughed at me for not knowing it was my parents. Santa Claus was supposed to be my parents, which was now just my dad, a person who existed like a door ajar since mom—in his words—wanted to have things handed to her. I immediately started buying as many toys and candies as I could with whatever allowance he remembered to give me, secretly stowing presents wrapped in pages of the Pennysaver. Christmas Eve I snuck it all into a festive pile under the tree, and in the morning smelled dad's 90-proof robe before he staggered into the living room. I waited for my apology. For him to recognize my disappointment was his responsibility. Instead he pieced together the whole scheme, slowly bubbled into laughter, and said, I did it. I did it. You ever see your mother again you tell her I did it. He walked to that picture on the mantle and pressed his finger to my younger face, causing the stocking to fall to the floor. See? See? I taught you a lesson, he said, and then wobbled back to bed, leaving me to unwrap what I had done for myself. Timothy C Goodwin-Actor, writer, photographer (@)timothycgoodwin(.com)

I sat in the hospital waiting room in my full regalia — blue sequins chafing my thighs while the cut tee I was wearing made me a bit too cold. I tapped the rubber boots to keep time with the commercial jingling overhead. It was something to keep my attention while I waited for the doctors to make sure the kid was feeling ok. “Welcome back to Channel 5 News!” said the television. “Now, let’s turn over to Sam Nelson with the weather!” I tapped my foot faster to block out the sound of my voice on the screen. Looked at my boots on the linoleum so I wouldn’t have to see my face. A friend of mine from my college basketball days had taken his kid to a wrestling match of mine one weekend. It was a side gig — something to make me feel young. The studio didn’t like the bruises that would show up on my neck in the morning show, but all I got were a few slaps on the wrist. And the flips I could do, the performance of it all. Just made me feel better than being able to read a teleprompter and knowing what the readouts were from a weather observatory a couple miles away even if I was a heel in the wrestling ring. Few months later and come to find out the kid has cancer. The friend of mine calls me and wants a favor. I humbly oblige. And here I am. This friend of mine, Kent, steps out of some revolving doors. “He’s ready now, Weather Man.” My name is Greg. The kid is hooked up to a series of tubes and pumps all flashing and draining and coming in and out of his body. He’s breathing heavy in his gown, the skin like paper and barely making a dent in the bed. A window lets in some light through the blinds. Even the light is sterile as it's filtered through. The boy’s name is Victor Dun. I step into the room behind Kent. The kid’s eyes light up without Kent even having to introduce me. I flash some muscles, snarling in between some basic bodybuilder poses. “Want me to make it rain the pain?” I ask. “Yeah!” Victor says. He hocks up a lung afterwards. A frown forming with each breath leaving his body. My smile drops but Kent glares at me to keep egging the kid on. “Ahhh, what the hell do you know,” I say with the limp of a wrist. “You probably can’t even beat me in an arm-wrestling match.” “Oh yeah! Set up the table, dad!” Kent obliges, pushing a bouquet of flowers off the table. I grab a chair to sit down opposite the kid. Heart monitor beeping. My foot tapping to keep pace with the kid’s life. It takes Victor a few minutes to lean over the bed. “Come on!” I say. “You’re just giving me time to warm up!” Kent positions himself over the table, acting as an official for the match. I grip Victor’s hand. Holding it like a feather. The veins turning blue up to his naked, bald head. “Ready?” asks Kent. His kid nods. Even spits in my face. I wipe off the spit. Kent slams on the table with a fist. The match begins. I try to put on a show. Straining my neck and letting myself lower my arm ever so. And the kid is trying too. He’s really giving it his all. The heart monitor beeping faster. His dad smiling ear to ear. After five minutes of the charade, Victor Dun is victorious. I let him be — lower my fist to the laminated wood. Heave out and even sweating from the attempt to restrain myself. “Goddamn…you beat me.” Victor looks at his hand in my hand. Slinks ever so back into the bed. A frown forms on his face. “I guess I did,” he said. “What’s wrong?” asks Kent. And Victor Dun, in a moment of existential doubt, responds with, “I don’t know. I just thought he’d be stronger. But you’re weak.” I slink back into the chair. Now no better than a machine. J.B. Kalf is currently slipping on ice. Has been published within Beaver Magazine (poetry), #Ranger (art), BULL (flash fiction), and elsewhere. Palm frond fanatic and prefers limes to lemons. Can be found at Twitter or Tumblr @enchilada89.

There has been much written about the new MLB rules this season. I read daily reports on how fast games are (2:38), how stolen bases have increased (1.32/game), and how scoring is up (4.3/game). Because game speed is the reason that fans are not coming to the ball parks. We are conditioned to speed. If the car in front of us doesn’t move at the exact time the light turns green, we grumble. We don’t have the time to wait in line any more so we order online, just drive up, and our groceries are placed in our trunks for us. Walmart knows that if their website load times are too slow, they lose millions. A one second load time increase costs Amazon $1.6 billion a year. So, yeah. Speed is the name of the new game. For 162 (or hopefully more) games each year, baseball is a constant in my life. I watch games on television and listen while I’m in the car or in the garage. TSN is bookmarked on my laptop and phone. I read Baseball Digest and memorize game facts. From the day I first discovered baseball in 1977 when the game came to Toronto and I walked to school with pockets full of baseball cards, I have not been concerned with the length of games. Well, perhaps on those April days at the old Exhibition Stadium when the wind and the rain blew in horizontally off Lake Ontario I may have muttered something about it to some of my fellow sufferers. While watching at home, I read books, putter around, fold laundry, and discuss the game events with whoever is with me. It’s the background for over half my life each year. In 1990 when I was still not sure what life had planned for me, I was working in a warehouse, picking, packing, and shipping books, a job I had done since intermediate school, both as a summer job and as full-time employment. I showed up every day, but many others had attendance problems. So, the foreman hatched a plan to encourage people to come to work every day. Each day you did, you got to fill in whether you thought the Toronto Blue Jays would win or lose that day on a large chart in the office back in the receiving area. First one to get a certain number correct would win tickets to an upcoming game. Before the Easter weekend, I put in my picks and when I returned on Monday, I had reached the magic number. (Don’t ever mention THE Magic Number to my kids.) I was given two tickets to the June 29 game against the Oakland A’s with Dave Stewart on the mound for the visitors. My best friend, Jim, was my plus one. It was the least I could do seeing as he was the source of all my Maple Leaf tickets.  We took our seats in the 500 section, first row third base line, just past the base. I don’t remember much about the first part of the game. We ate, chatted, got caught up, and laughed, while the game unfolded below. In the 7th inning, I distinctly remember noting to Jim that the Jays hadn’t had a hit yet, a fact that we should have noticed earlier if we had been paying more attention. But that’s the way it goes with baseball sometimes. Bottom of the 8th, still no hits. You could feel the buzz beginning around the SkyDome. Were we really going to see this happen? Top of nine comes and goes. I don’t even remember who was coming up to bat for the Jays. Doesn’t really matter. What I do remember was the almost 50 000 Toronto fans standing and cheering the opposing pitcher as he recorded each of the last three outs. Pretty much everyone except Jim, who sat there with arms crossed, scowl on his face. “I can’t believe you’re cheering for the opposing team,” he said. When the last out was recorded and Stewart was mobbed by his teammates, the Toronto fans continued to cheer and applaud. Dave Stewart and baseball fans were the winners that night. Each game since, I have hoped that I would witness another one. Alas, I have not. The game took 2:27 to play. Deryck N. Robertson lives and creates in Peterborough/Nogojiwanong, Ontario, where he is an elementary educator. Work has appeared with The Minison Project, Orchard Lea Press, Loft Books, and forthcoming  with Vital Minutiae Quarterly. His first chapbook, All We Remember, was realeased by Alien Buddha Press in 2021. He is the EIC of Paddler Press and has a couple of songs on Spotify. When not writing, he can usually be found drinking maple roast coffee around a campfire or in the stern of his canoe in Algonquin Park. You can find him online @Canoe_Ideas, @PaddlerPress, and deryck.ca.

It took one misclick. As a checker and rechecker I let the impulse to recheck go just once. And in one fell swoop, I airdropped my pussy to everyone in this airport. I’m still not really sure how that’s possible. The airdrop radius is only, like, 30 feet. You have to select every device that pops up by hand. My phone wasn’t even unlocked. But by some act of cosmic interloping, everyone in this airport is staring up my snatch. Nearby an old woman in a white turtleneck lets out a gasp of revulsion, nearly dropping her phone to the geometric carpet, bedazzled wallet case and all. With shaking hands she thrusts the phone into her daughter’s hand. A low whistle. “I can’t explain why,” the daughter says softly, “but I get the distinct impression that whoever did this, whoever’s snoot this is, she’s probably got a rough relationship with her mother. Don’t you think, Ma?” The old woman leans over to get another look and nods slowly. “Well… Yes, I suppose I see it too, now. Odd what all you can tell about a person, just by a thing like that.” I rush past, head lowered, and run directly into the broad back of a large tree of a man in a denim jacket. “WOAH,” he barks, and I start to apologize before noticing his attention isn’t on me at all, but rather on his phone. He turns to his fellow tree-size friend. “Look at this shit!” “My god,” his friend says as they shuffle toward the Dunkin’ Donuts line, “that thing is a looker. Doesn’t it look kinda… I don’t know. Like she’s probably a really attentive lover? Like she really cares about whether her partner enjoys it?” “Huh, it really does. I bet she’s a trooper even when her arm gets tired.” They disappear into the sea of waiting customers. I slip into a gaggle of people and push on toward my gate, fully intent on getting on this plane, reputation unmarred. I won’t be the girl who airdropped her pussy to everyone in this airport. I refuse. No one will know. No one can know. No one has to know. As I continue down the endless flecked terrazzo throughway, however, the crowd ahead gets thicker and slower, gumming up the works as they all stare flabbergasted at my pussy on their screens. I split off to the left. I still have half an hour until boarding. I figure that maybe I can weather this storm tucked into a booth at Qdoba. I order a syrupy Coke and some plain tortilla chips and approach a free seat. “Excuse me,” I say meekly to the man taking up all four outlets at the table. I try to hide my face in fear that he might match it to my snatch. “Can I sit here?” “Sorry,” he says gruffly, “I need to put my backpack there.” He slings his bag into the chair. I nod understandingly and start to flee. As I slip around behind him, I catch a glimpse of his tablet screen. “You won’t fucking believe this. Some girl just airdropped me her cooter. Honestly it’s subpar, though. Solid construction, but it looks a bit unhappy. Like she’s a smoker, or she had a really shitty boyfriend in college who fell asleep and didn’t pick her up from the bus station and made her walk 4 miles home in the dark. Maybe on more than one occasion. Overall rating? 4/10.” I take off like a shot out of the Qdoba, coke and chips in hand, weaving fast through the milling crowd now. Everywhere I look I see shocked, horrified, intrigued, curious, and leering faces, shoved close to phones, looking long and hard at my bare snatch on display. It’s too much to bare. I have to get out of here. As I skirt a scandalized church group in matching orange T-shirts, I hear someone call out: “Ma’am! Ma’am, wait!” I look over my shoulder and go cold with fear as I catch sight of a short man in a three-piece suit barreling toward me at overwhelming speed. I try to outpace him, but two women with strollers are stopped ahead, sharing a tablet screen with sympathetic looks on their faces. “Poor thing,” one says, “I bet she’s a middle child.” I can’t get around. “MA’AM!” I’m powerless to move as my pursuer catches up and hits the brakes just before he bowls me over. He reaches out a hand to steady himself against my arm. “Ma’am, excuse me,” he says breathlessly, wiping sweat from his brow, “is this your pussy?” He holds out his phone, showing me the picture. I look away. “No,” I say quickly, “no, it isn’t.” “FUCK!” he cries. “Son of a bitch!” And he does look genuinely devastated, lip outstretched far enough for a bird to land. “What?” I ask reflexively, though I’d rather not hear. “I just know she would love this book I read last month. I’m dying to find her so I can tell her about it. If you find the owner of this pussy, PLEASE give her this. It would mean the world to me.” He presses a blue business card into my hand and takes off, bearing down on a group of bridesmaids now, calling out again: “Ladies! Excuse me, ladies, does this belong to any of you?!” I slip into the flow of traffic once more. I’m getting close to my gate now, I can just barely see it on the horizon. I dip low and charge through families, groups of all affiliations, groggy men and women rolling suitcases. They are all abuzz about my pussy. “Really bad with plants?” “Probably hates Michael Bublé!” “Bad teeth!” “Not a strong swimmer!” I hurtle past these casual observations about my snizz, clawing desperately at air, racing for that beckoning gate sign. Boarding has already begun. I vault over a frail woman who has fainted in the aisle, my cooch still displayed on the phone clutched in her outstretched hand. “Pulse is thready,” says a paramedic crouched over her. I slip seamlessly into the line, and thank Christ, it is moving fast. In a minute’s time I stumble before the gate agent, fiddle quickly on my phone, and show her an image of my boarding pass. She scans it, smiling politely, then freezes. “Just a second…” she says slowly, slipping a phone in a cat-shaped case from her back pocket. She unlocks it, taking ages. I glance around nervously, but no. I can’t run. There’s security all around. She holds her phone close to her face, then looks at me, then back to the phone, then to my name on the boarding pass, back to the phone, then back to me again. “Is…” She laughs nervously. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but… Is this your pussy?” She turns the phone to me. I can’t speak. I just want this to be over. We lock eyes for a long moment. “I’m sorry,” she says softly. “It just reminds me so much of someone I used to know… Ever lived in Flagstaff?” I shake my head and put my phone back in my pocket. “Am I good?” “Yeah,” she says distantly, staring off toward the window as she muses. “Yeah, you can go.” When I get to my seat, I am sweaty, hoarse, and weeping with relief. This nightmare will soon end and I will be soaring overhead, rising up and far away from this awful airport, off to Connecticut, where no one has been airdropped my pussy. Perhaps I’ll cancel my return trip and make myself a life there. I could learn to appreciate a lobster roll. A college-aged boy settles into the middle seat beside me, noisily taking off and stowing his windbreaker. “Hey,” he says. “Hey,” I say. “I’m on my way to see my girlfriend, up in Hadley.” “Cool,” I say. “Yeah,” he says. He pauses a moment. “I’m actually so excited to get there. I have to tell her about what just happened.” He is looking at me expectantly. “What just happened,” I ask. “Some girl airdropped me her pussy. But it was the strangest thing… See, if I didn’t know better, I could swear that girl has a cold dread about her. Like maybe she’s lived her entire life without ever letting her feet leave the ground.” V Garmon Koski is an Atlanta native, housewife, and writer. She is a crocheter, a master of soups, and a menace to society. She has been published in Rejection Letters and others. You can find her on Twitter at @veanimator.

The Politics of Pockets Skirts and dresses should be tight arses and hips for our enjoyment nobody wants layers for exercise these tight fitting tights will make you more efficient for our gaze - show me what you have pockets will just interfere but never fear we will provide other ways for you to carry your important things you have too many things don’t show me what you have let’s make that deeper, wider, bulkier leather handbags that are ideal this desirable luxury one only $2000 for this fine pocket alternative look we created a new industry aren’t you lucky. Double Happy You say you can’t anymore I poke holes in the silence squeeze word grenades through onto the battlefield of the king where among the sheets the vacuum of your mood deadens the explosions leaving only a charred smell as if children ran through here with strings of double happys creating a lot of noise but nothing lasting to show for their investment Plum Jam The war made my father a recycler before recycling was a thing you never knew when things might be scarce gather wire ties and bread bag tags in a little box cut the shampoo bottle open and scrape the insides clean keep everything not eaten make preserves, chutney, jam the jars multiplying in the pantry the plums always sour. They say the effects of traumatic events can be laid down in the genes and passed on to future generations see my little box of tags and wires as I steadfastly eat leftovers cut shampoo bottles open and always have a jar of plum jam on hand do not tell him it is shop bought and sweet A Note From the Author: I am an Aotearoa/New Zealand based award-winning author of picture books, short stories and novels for children and young adults. I also write poetry for children and adults and my adult poetry has appeared in Poetry Aotearoa/New Zealand Yearbook 2022 and 2023 and in Takahe issue 105. I was the 2014 University of Otago College of Education Creative New Zealand Children's Writer in Residence and received the 2023 Michael King Writers Centre Shanghai Writing Residency.

I step on a scale and the numbers rise and rise and rise like my marks in primary, in secondary, in tertiary school. I wrap a measuring tape around and around and around my waist like the borrowed tapis I wore to a dance performance, to an awards ceremony. I look in the mirror and watch my arms and thighs and calves grow fatter and wider and richer like my pile of plaques like my once-starved purse. When I enter a room of faces familiarly strange, they survey me from scalp to sole. They shake their heads and say I’ve fallen short of the scale, of the tape, of the glass, of the gaze. This is the one time I flunked a test. This is the only time a high score has failed me. This is the first time I found that numbers only bind my infinity at the waist. Heather Ann Pulido is an indigenous and bisexual author from Baguio City, Philippines. Her work is in Moss Puppy and Sage Cigarettes. She has been nominated twice for the Best of the Net. She recently joined JAKE as a poetry editor. Her debut poetry chapbook "Coming Home to Myself" (Naked Cat Publishing) was released in September 2023.

after Remedios Varo’s painting Mimesis I have become the focus of my tabby cat, Mimesis. She will ignore flies and mice, but rather than being lazy, she is watchful, always napping or hiding near me, as if she can sense clandestine movement and the appalling trajectory of my life. Much like Mimesis, I’ve never been an active person. I like my favorite chair, this week’s sewing next to me, an occasional cup of linden tea, perhaps with a pinch of rose hips. I do sweep and dust, but only when I can’t coax a girl from the village to do it for a coin. I’m also careful, never walking under ladders or putting shoes on the table. I’ve never dropped my scissors. If necessary, I will knock on wood prophylactically. But last time I did that, Mimesis began her surveillance. A girl I had out to clean set my calfskin pumps on a table to sweep underneath. My heart tripped over itself in its haste. I screamed. They will bring bad luck! Take them off the table! Which she did immediately. Then I knocked on both wooden arms of my chair. Imagine my surprise when they knocked back. Shortly after that event, I noticed that the limbs of furniture seemed sympathetic to my emotions. Mimesis became my mirror reflection, eyeing me always, perhaps afraid to let me out of her sight. This morning, I tried to get out of my chair to put the kettle on and discovered that my legs were wooden, and I could not rise. My hands had become one with the chair. I recognized the fear in Mimesis’ eyes. I urged her to move, no, to run away. But her fur had already begun to seep into the floor’s wood grain. Luanne Castle’s award-winning poetry collections are Rooted and Winged and Doll God. Her chapbooks are Our Wolves and Kin Types, a finalist for the Eric Hoffer Award. Luanne’s Pushcart and Best of the Net-nominated poetry and prose have appeared in Copper Nickel, Bending Genres, River Teeth, The Ekphrastic Review, and other journals.

Tamieka tried to muffle her voice. ‘I told you I’m broke…I have to go. I’m at work. Yes. Really.’ She sighed and squeezed her eyes shut. ‘Ok. Later.’ She ended the call and stared at her cracked phone, before slipping it into her ill-fitting work trousers. ‘Are you quite finished?’ Martin sneered as she rejoined the group. ‘Sorry,’ she mumbled into her chest. ‘Rule number one. No personal calls during shift.’ Martin, the team leader, was pink and fleshy like a raw sausage. ‘In this job, you’ve got to keep your wits about you.’ Eyes downcast, she nodded. ‘Come on then,’ he said to the induction group. Three men and two women in matching grey polyester uniforms. ‘I’ll show you the alarms set-up in the Grand Hall. Pay attention, alright?’ Six pairs of safety boots squeaked on the gleaming marble floor. They followed Martin through the empty foyer, past the wood-panelled ticket booth and underneath a twenty-foot-high poster for the Treasures of Eastern Java suspended from the ceiling. ‘Sounds like you’ve got trouble.’ The other woman sidled up to her, the elegant amber-skinned Eshe. Tamieka shrugged and chewed her ratty fingernails. ‘Money or men?’ Tamieka rolled her eyes. ‘Both?’ Eshe sucked on her teeth. ‘Keep up!’ Martin yelled. ‘The Grand Exhibition Hall is through here.’ Stepping through the doors, they fell silent. Bright with daylight, the Grand Hall ran one hundred metres long. The tessellated glass ceiling soared above their heads, a patchwork of skylights rippling like a stormy sea. Peanut-coloured tiles lined the walls, dotted with statues and glass cabinets. Even with their rubber soles, every footstep echoed. Open-mouthed, Tamieka drifted through the Hall until one statue made her heart stop. On a podium sat a curvaceous woman with the head of a smirking fox. She stared at the pigeon-grey stone monument, her hand fanned against her chest. ‘Come on, Tamieka,’ Martin said. ‘We haven’t got all day. The doors open in half an hour.’ She pointed at the beguiling fox-faced woman. ‘What is this?’ ‘I don’t know,’ he snapped. ‘Come on. This way.’ ‘It looks so old.’ Her eyes followed a red smear running down its neck and chest, as fine as a brushstroke. A hint of rose oil tickled her nostrils. ‘Of course it is,’ Martin said with a huff. ‘Everything here is priceless. That’s why we have bloody jobs.’ Eshe elbowed her. The rose smell was probably Eshe’s perfume. ‘Come on, dreamy.’ ‘I’ve never been to any place like this before,’ Tamieka said as she dragged herself away from the mysterious statue. ‘We used to come here for school trips," Eshe said. ‘Not my school,’ Tamieka said. ‘They wouldn’t let us in some place like this.’ She glanced back over her shoulder, the vulpine eyes were following her. ‘When I signed up for the security course, I never thought I’d end up somewhere like this,’ Tamieka said. ‘I know.’ Eshe sighed. ‘It’ll be boring as fuck standing next to paintings all day. Who’s going to steal them? At least in a shopping centre, there’ll be some action.’ ‘Keep up,’ Martin called out. ‘He’s such a dick,’ Eshe groaned as they continued down a narrow corridor. ‘Not even thirty minutes gone and I hate him already.’ Tamieka nodded, but her mind was still in the Hall. Tamieka didn’t get assigned to the Grand Hall. Instead, Martin put her in the children’s museum. ‘You’ve got kids, haven’t you?’ Tamieka smiled painfully. ‘Indy-Jade is almost seven. Rio is four.’ ‘Perfect. You’ll know how to handle the little buggers better than the young blokes.’ Tamieka wilted. Rather than guarding the statue, she spent seven hours stopping brats scribbling on the walls. While distracted parents treated the museum like a day care centre. On her break, Tamieka made a special detour to see the sculpture again. This time, a tour group of middle-aged women circled it, all intently listening to a female guide with a brutal arty haircut. ‘…fox spirits are feared and revered in many cultures, particularly Han Chinese and Japanese.’ When the guide led the women over to another glass cabinet, Tamieka stayed behind. This time she scoured the Hall, checking the cornices for cameras, recalling Martin’s instructions on the alarm system. Minutes before closing time, she made an unnecessary circuit of the Gift Shop. ‘A security check,’ she said in an authoritative tone to the shop staff, who shrugged in reply. On the shelf, she found the heavy hardback exhibition book, and after wincing at the price tag, she glanced around. The Gift Shop staff were huddled together by the till, tapping on their phones and organising after-work drinks. No one would notice if she borrowed the book overnight. Home was a blur of dirty dishes, squabbling and snotty noses. But while Tamieka cooked and folded clean clothes, the statue played on her mind. When everything was done, and she’d switched money between accounts like a shell game in order to pay her final notice electricity bill, she sat down to flick through the book. The section on the goddess was short, but enough. She took out her phone and wrote a list. Equipment she needed and phone calls to make. In the stuffy meeting room the next day, Martin droned on about safety incidents and the number of postcards being nicked from the Gift Shop. Tamieka inspected her gnawed nails while the others stared blankly at their shoes. ‘You might have heard about Mo,’ Martin said. ’Poor bloke took a tumble off his motorbike on the weekend. So this means we’re short this week. I’m looking for volunteers for some extra shifts over the next few nights?’ ‘I’ll do it!’ Tamieka blurted, her reply like gunfire. Martin recoiled, then pressed his lips into a colourless line. ‘I don’t usually like females working nights.’ ‘Can you say that?’ Eshe raised an eyebrow and Martin grumbled under his breath. ‘I could really do with the extra cash,’ Tamieka said. ‘Don’t you have kids?’ ‘I’ll sort something out.’ Martin looked at the other three men in the room, all slouched in their plastic chairs with heads lowered. ‘Well,’ he grunted. ‘if there are no other takers.’ ‘Thanks,’ Tamieka said, hiding a smile. Before taking her place in the children’s room, she visited the fox-faced sculpture. This time, when no one was looking, she laid her palm against the cool grey stone. Later on her break, Tamieka sheltered out of sight in a doorway, vape in one hand, phone in the other. ‘I need it for tomorrow night,’ she said, exhaling a fake-strawberry scented cloud. ‘You promised. You owe me.’ The call ended, and she licked her lips, ticking another item off her list. Two nights later, the skirting boards of the Grand Hall glowed with green night lights. Through the glass ceiling, a full moon hung in the sky, waves of white light cast on the marble floor. The statue, her statue, was spot lit by the moon. She checked her phone, almost one o’clock, almost time. She did another casual circuit of the Hall before returning to the podium with a bag in her hand. At the base of the statue in the moonlight, she laid out a bronze bowl, a red rose nicked from the museum gardens, and a curved Damascus steel dagger. She slashed the sharpened blade across her palm. Blood dripped into the bowl as she clenched her fist and muttered a devotional verse. She crushed the red petals and dropped them into the mixture. Rusty-scented blood and sweet rose oil infused the air. With another invocation, she dipped her fingers into the bowl and traced a bloody line down the statue’s neck and across her chest. Then she smeared a similar red stripe on her own skin. Blood. Rose. Moonlight. Three nights in a row. And after the third night, it was done. ‘Let’s make a start.’ Martin clapped at the front of the room. ‘Where’s Tamieka?’ Eshe said with a frown. ‘I thought you were mates?’ Martin said. Eshe shrugged. ‘She quit.’ Eshe sighed. ‘I told her it was going to be boring.’ ‘Got some cushy job in Asia somewhere. On a resort, I think. Thailand. Or maybe Bali. Anyway, she’s gone.’ Eshe grumbled to herself. ‘Some bitches have all the luck.’ Madeleine D'Este is a Melbourne-based writer of dark mysteries. Her supernatural mystery novel The Flower and The Serpent was nominated for the Australian Shadow Award for Best Novel 2019, and her Australian gothic novella Radcliffe was released by Deadset Press in August 2023. Find Madeleine at www.madeleinedeste.com

In the center of Old Town, where the ruins of Quevdo are located, there’s a top that’s been spinning for as long as anyone can remember. The question is this: how are any of us to know whether its movement will continue indefinitely on, or if it simply received such powerful initial force that it will only stop spinning once the last of us has passed? My name is Juan Liber Brön. I am one of thirty-seven inhabitants in the town of New Quevdo. None of us speak the same language, though those who write all use the same script(1). We are not all human, not in the old sense. What that word used to mean (what we gather it to mean from older documents) is not what it means now(2). I’m in pain. All of us are(3). Most are dying. Slowly. Parts and pieces falling off at whatever interval suits them best. Here. There. Most try to keep hold of these tchotchkes as they do. __________________________ 1 The one you, my beautiful reader, are deciphering now. 2 There are drawings in some of the books we’ve found, drawings of old humans: two arms, two legs, a loving symmetry to their structure, one nose, tussles of tangled skin atop their skulls, knotted like string… Some of us resemble these drawings, if you look hard enough, but most don’t. I know for certain that only one has what you would call ‘toes.’ And even then just two. 3 The reason I write to you, dear reader, from the past, is that you are the only audience who exists. No one here understands my meaning, and though I’m considered an optimist amongst my people, even I acknowledge that we will be the last of creatures to crawl on this earth. (We’ve found that after about a week you have enough for a meal.) And though we have no language—the reason for which must now be obvious(4)—the people of New Quevdo do not lack culture. (Even the dying revere tradition.) So, when The Urge is felt, we gather up our fallen bits and cook them together over an open fire (for the broth we use our urine, the only liquid left acidic enough to soften our flesh); and while the meat boils, we thirty-seven gather ‘round the fire to hold ourselves as best we can. We sing and dance in a way no one from past times would recognize; but though most lost the ability to hear long ago, or never had it to begin with, in those moments we all feel(5) warmth. Nothing more. Our pain does not stop. It spins on like the top. But there, sitting around my fellow shards, eating them as I open my one eye cautiously to watch them eat me, I am almost able to bear the fact of my own existence. __________________________ 4 None of us any longer are constructed in a way similar enough to allow for common meaning. And our sensory organs, too, are always shifting. I myself have no nose or tongue. My eye works only sporadically. (I’ve gotten used to keeping it closed.) It is for this that even language in signs would be pointless, since the endless configuration of fingers and appendages on our haphazard torsos has refused every attempt at standardization. 5 I know this: though of course we cannot speak, this I know to be true) L. A. Ballesteros Gentile is a musician, writer, and actor. You can find their work in Progenitor Art and Literary Journal, Pipeline Artists, and Blue Marble Review.

entry #1 - november 29th she has been following me, Journal. when I turn my head I can sometimes catch a glimpse of her. I don't know what she wants. I don't know if I want to know. my watch reads 9:02 A.M. entry #2 - december 1st the garden is far too gone, I don't even know where to start. the dirt has cracked, my lemon tree has soured. even the worms have left. the ivy has claimed everything as its own, and weeds reign supreme. I'm sorry. I remember when it was better. she watches me from the brick wall. silent, save for the flutter of wings. I kneel and weep, cradling the dry earth. entry #3 - december 3rd she follows while I walk, keen eyes on every move. she does not dare to creep too close; I do not dare to stop her. we continue our dance, the moon orbiting the Earth. the wind is whispering secrets through the trees in a language I recognize yet cannot understand. she parrots them back at me from a distance still. my watch reads 12:01 P.M. entry #4 - december 6th my mother visited today. remarked dryly on the dust covering the piano, the tables, the stove. only I see the small footprints trailing across them, the pointed eyes watching from a high perch. something unhappy squirms inside me. there’s a clock on the wall above the couch. it reads 3:37 P.M. entry #5 - december 8th all my plates were shattered. I don't know if it was her or I who did it. how long has she been here? the clock reads 3:37 P.M. entry #6 - december 11th I remember a cool morning on the porch, tea in hand. I could see my breath with every exhale. she sang me her borrowed songs from her place among the corn stalks, standing proudly in their bold youthfulness. the garden was green, I think. entry #7 - december 16th I’ve been trying to keep my eyes closed more often. maybe if I can’t see her, she can’t see me. entry #8 - december 19th I keep finding feathers when I sweep the floors. the clock reads 3:37 P.M. I feel trapped. entry #9 - december 22nd she follows me everywhere, like a tick stuck to the side of a stray dog. what does she know? my head hurts, Journal. I want a break. entry #10 - december 30th I pleaded with her today. begged her to stop watching. I feel that I’ve shattered a balance that I wasn’t meant to touch, brutalized a fragile vase with my hammer of a self. I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry. she’s gone. it’s too quiet. please come back. there’s a dent in the wall where I threw a book. I was an idiot. the tide has receded now, and I am terrified of when it will surge back to me again. the clock reads 3:37 P.M. entry #11 - january 3rd she’s always been here. as long as I breathe she will be. I recall oil paintings, long tucked away in locked closets. mockingbird resplendent. entry #12 - january 5th I want nothing more than to sink my teeth into her flesh. tear away feathers and skin, crush hollow bones underneath sick hands. warm blood to wash away the rot deep inside me. the clock reads 3:37 P.M. entry #13 - january 6th there are shards of ceramic under my nails. embedded in my palms and the soles of my feet. the chilled, unsympathetic tile of the kitchen floor soothes me. the clock reads 3:37 P.M. entry #14 - january 10th she is back. I don’t think she was ever gone. there is a cold peace inside me. the wind is whispering again. I’ve begun to understand their secrets, I think. she’s been perched at the foot of my bed. wary but understanding. no longer does she linger solely in the corner of my eyes. I haven’t stopped sobbing. entry #15 - january 11th I apologized. I pray she will accept it. I sat out on the porch too long listening to the wind. the wood is old, it creaks at every touch. my hands and knees ache as I write this. the heat of summer has long gone, and each night brings a sharper chill. my watch says it is 3:37 A.M., and she is sitting on the windowsill while I write. entry #16 - january 13th she spends so much time watching the clock, as if it confounds her. Journal, I found old boxes today. I’ve always been a collector of bits and bobs. in one of them, nestled between half of a wasp’s nest and several small shells, I found a set of feathers. pristine, soft, grey and white and black. identical to hers. entry #17 - january 14th we shared blackberries today, and I remembered why the garden was ever green. she chirped at me, my lips are stained purple, and I hope that is forgiveness. scabs have formed on my hands and feet, I’m trying to leave them be. she still watches me. entry #18 - january 16th I don’t know how long I was in the garden. the clock has been lying to me. since when did I have a clock? she watched me as I tore the weeds from the ground, ripped ivy and fig from their grasp on the shed and the trees. I don’t know when my hands began to bleed again. don’t really care. she contemplates me, almost. watches tirelessly, at a forlorn king tending to his desolate kingdom with a loving touch he no longer knows how to use. I will sleep now. I will try again tomorrow. slower, this time. entry #19 - january 17th too tired. entry #20 - january 18th still tired. my body is filled with a deep ache. I am a cavern. the clock reads 3:37 P.M. entry #22 - january 19th it’s still early morning. the wind nips but I know it is meant affectionately. I am in the garden. she is not with me and there is a light on in the house. she must be resting still. I know she watches me though. I am softer today. entry #23 - january 20th my blood is an act of love, the garden knows it. I have meticulously removed the trash and the barren remains of long-dead plants. I am sat here now, Journal, to tell you of something beautiful. my mint lives on, with a will and strength I envy. little sweet-smelling sprouts wave in a lazy breeze, and I in turn whispered to the plants the secrets I was taught from the wind. she watches on, small feet clicking on the brick. the company is soothing. entry #24 - january 27th I was digging today– I want to put in a mango tree. I found a skeleton. it looks to be of a small bird, but I recognize it as my own. entry #25 - february 4th I am still thinking about the skeleton. entry #26 - february 9th I can’t seem to find the box with the feathers I mentioned, Journal. I feel off-kilter. entry #27 - february 11th I feel fragile today. I opened the piano’s lid today, hands still healing and still aching. playing it is a muscle memory, I slip back into it like a well-fitted glove. she likes the music, as far as I can tell. she darts back and forth through the room while I play. I lit the stove, ate at the table. my shoulders feel lighter. I will visit an auntie tomorrow, I’ve decided. I want to plant again this spring. entry #28 - february 12th I am home, with seed corn and beans and squash and six jars of pumpkin puree that my auntie insisted I take. I feel warm. when did I ever stop reaching out to people? auntie told me to call again soon, and I think I will. she told me I ought to keep a journal. isn’t that funny? that’s why I have you, Journal. entry #29 - february 17th I fixed the clock today. at least I think I did? I don’t know if it was broken. but it seems to be working right. the clock and my watch read 11:15 A.M. she has taken her eyes off of me, but only to preen. entry #30 - march 30th oh Journal, I am so sorry for leaving you be so long. I’ve been caught up in life, and I left you behind without meaning to. I’ve spent many evenings with family lately. there is a beading workshop next weekend I plan to attend with my cousin. she comes with me of course. and watches. I don’t think I mind as much though. entry #31 - april 3rd she sat in my hands today. I held my breath the entire time, scared of ruining something so beautiful. the clock reads 3:37 P.M. entry #32 - april 15th every day I go into the garden now. I’ve been tilling the ground, preparing it for the season ahead. sometimes I lay out there on the grass and do nothing else for hours. just her and me. entry #33 - april 17th she still watches me. however, it is never silently anymore. she trills and chirps and barks and warbles and sings all the stories she has learned. I planted the corn in their mounds today– yes, a tad bit early. I know. I was so excited though. the wind doesn’t visit as often now, but I always pass on its words. entry #34 - april 19th the scabs on my hands and feet have long since healed, some leaving shiny little scars. I finally ordered new plates too. no more eating everything out of bowls. I splurged a little, got bone china. don’t think I ever want ceramic plates again. I’ve gotten specific bowls for her to use too. thought I might as well. I caught my own eye in the mirror. I am wearing my great-grandmother’s earrings, worn brass. she is perched on the clock behind me. it reads 3:38 P.M. entry #35 - april 21st she’s begun watching from a distance again. not out of any unkindness, I don’t think. I miss the closeness though. entry #36 - may 2nd the corn has sprouted. it is beautiful. the beans and squash will go in soon. the mint has grown wild and tall. my lemon tree has been blossoming, and honeybees have joined the symphony of the garden. my hair brushes my shoulders now. I think I’ll let it keep growing. entry #37 - may 5th there are certain things that are inseparable, Journal. don’t you think? that includes endings and beginnings. may is abuzz. the mornings are still cold, but the garden is so green. she dances distantly from corn stalk to corn stalk, carried by the occasional wind. they both sing, and I sing back to them, from my own perch on the porch’s chair. I’ve begun making mint tea in the mornings. it’s more of a hand warmer than anything else, but I’ve come to enjoy the taste. I put in lupine and yarrow recently. I am going to check on it now, as I write this. she follows me still. I don’t know what she wants. that’s alright. yadriel v. s. alvarez is a leaf in your hair, an old painting, and the small bird in your electronic device. it is also a transsexual indigenous poet and photographer with a deep love for the world in its heart. it is new to sharing work publicly, but can be found on twitter as @choraldroning.

We cocooned ourselves in our sleeping bags, still high from the marshmallows and campfire smoke, seeking warmth from polyester fiber filling and the nearness of our bodies, and I saw your eyes widen as you experienced a darkness you’ve never known, heard a quiet murmuration in the safety of our tent, a humid womb, empty and full, pulsating with fear and wonder while the unknown lurked just beyond the thin walls. I can’t sleep, you whispered, so I sang to you, trying to harmonize with the crickets and the wind and the shushing of the trees, our isolation so fragile, so momentary, and when night finally receded, I liquified into memory while you emerged into the dewy morning, spread your wings, and searched for the bloom of life. Elena Zhang is a freelance writer and mother living in Chicago. Her work can be found in HAD, Bending Genres, Exposition Review, and elsewhere. Find her on Twitter @ezhang77

Early mornings the birds were hungry and bold. The ibises landed on the netting above the flamingo pond and dipped their curved beaks through the gaps to snatch minnows from the water below. The flamingos had been moved to the gift shop, cleaned out, and temporarily retrofitted at the behest of a wealthy donor who had sent the Foundation a six-page letter (attached to a substantial check) calling them the ‘scurge [sic] of the earth’ and ‘shit-dirt-sucking snobs’ for effectively condemning the flamingos to a sentence of death by bird flu. There was no space to move them before, but now, thanks to the generosity of one big-hearted donor, the flamingos were unhappily pacing their makeshift habitat looking for a way out. On her drive to work, with a half-piece of toast in a dog’s soft hold in her mouth, Luisa’s filling had suddenly come apart. She was left with a black crater in her molar but no pain, at first. She made it to work in time to start morning rounds of food and medicine while the owner, Mike, was still there to witness her punctuality. It was only her second week on duty with the birds, and she hated it. She took the job because she thought she’d get to work with the alligators, and she had, until the flu. The alligators had been sent off to Tampa, the manatee to Kissimmee, the turtles to Orlando and tortoise to the Keys. The butterfly collection was held back at the Center, not because there was any credible risk posed by the virus, but because so many members tweeted their concerns it was just easier to keep them with the birds. Everything was temporary, until the birds could be allowed back outside, but it was hard to remember that when she was standing in the echo chamber of the Old Reptile House with 107 of them squawking for vitamin pellets. Luisa had begun plotting her escape before she knew what she was doing, skipping lunches so she could transfer a few extra dollars into savings at the end of each week. There was a gator camp in Louisiana that hired a fresh crop every August before the eggs started hatching, if she could get out there in time. Some birds, it was obvious why they were chosen for inside or outside. The bald eagles were inside, and so were the litter of endangered Hoffs warblers they planned to release to the wild, whose sweet, aerated song was often the only pleasant sound Luisa could find among the din. The peacocks were outside, though the real reason for this went unspoken: no one was brave enough to wrangle them. The Center was closed to visitors but they still walked over from the beach and peered through the fence most days. As Luisa made a minor repair to the netting around the stork habitat where more ibises had torn at the weak spots looking for an easy meal, a family walked up and watched her work. The mother explained to her daughter that the Canadian geese in the park at home were, like all off-season geese, stranded after having become too heavy eating off the American food chain to fly back north. Luisa didn’t know if this was true but it sounded true enough. “We’re closed,” she offered through the fence. “Bird flu.” She didn’t tell them they couldn’t stand around outside but she hoped that’s what they heard. She winced at a sharp twinge in her jaw and felt a sudden desire to be as alone as possible. On her way to the Reptile House, Luisa got a text from Mike. Warblers have to be segregated. Put them in travel cages in auditorium mens room. Something perm later. Can you let Biscuit out thanks. Luisa wrote back, ??? Report in email It turned out that the first generation of Hoffs warblers released back to their native islands were doing terribly. In the Center, surrounded as they were, their songs had taken on the wrong inflections, and in the wild they couldn’t find mates. Luisa coaxed each of the tiny birds into a cage and walked them two by two down through the sunken auditorium to the abandoned men’s room behind the stage. The bathroom tile amplified their cries so that the sweet cacophony of duress followed Luisa all the way back up the theater steps until she closed the auditorium door behind her. Before continuing her rounds, Luisa headed toward the office for the dog. The only upside to the flu situation was, now that the park was closed and they could let Biscuit out, he was an entirely different dog than the nightmare Luisa had met on her first day. Apparently, when Mike adopted the chihuahua he’d imagined the dog would roam free, greeting guests and comforting the kids scared of the toothier, scalier creatures behind the glass. Biscuit had proven too stupid for this job. Biscuit knew no enemies, nor danger, and was small enough to squeeze beneath the fence around the alligator exhibit, which he did several times before being sequestered to a small round bed in the office. All that time cooped up inside made him irritable and nervous, prone to keen at every sound with wet goldfish eyes that looked ready to burst, and Luisa had once overheard Mike fretting on the phone about whether it would be better to give up the dog, which he treated like a child, to a happier home. Now that Biscuit got several hours of outside time each day, he was all peace and love, and Mike had seemed to gain some inner sense of equilibrium that made him a little easier to work for. Biscuit greeted Luisa at the door and waited patiently by his leash, smiling serenely at the wall, while Luisa went to the back of the office, retrieved the first aid kit from beneath the sink, and dug through the little packets until she found the Orajel. The packet contained enough numbing gel for at least three or four uses, so she opened it carefully and squeezed a pea-sized glob onto her fingertip. In front of the mirror, she found the bad tooth and gasped as her finger made contact. Within seconds she felt some relief. Her jaw relaxed. The tension had been spreading through her whole face, and she hadn’t realized how much pain she’d been in until it started to dissipate. Now that she finally had a close-up view, she started to worry. She tucked the Orajel into her shirt pocket, crossed over to the other side of the office, and pulled down the Benefits binder from the HR shelf. Her dental was finally active, but she’d had no intention of using it so soon and didn’t know if her coverage was good or bad or what. She thumbed through the binder until she found the dental plan documents and did some math on her phone. With coverage, a root canal and crown would eat up three months of savings. Having the tooth pulled would set her back eight weeks, and she assumed under present conditions she would never be able to afford an implant to close the gap. Luisa slammed the binder shut. Biscuit turned away from the wall and trotted over to her. He sat at her feet and gazed lovingly at the carpet. “Okay Biscuit,” she said. “Let’s go.” She put on his leash just in case and headed back out to finish rounds at the Reptile House. Biscuit sprang out ahead and beelined towards the alligator enclosure, but lost interest when he found it still empty. Luisa dawdled behind, thinking of the time her Uncle Tim babysat over a long weekend her parents were away for a wedding. She’d been six and a half, and her front tooth had been loose for what seemed like an eternity. When Uncle Tim noticed, he told her he’d give her $10 if she’d let him help. He tied a string around her tooth, attached the other end to the heavy oak door, and that was all Luisa remembered. Her parents had been furious. She kept the bloody string for months and would stay up past her bedtime to suck on it in the closet, willing it to take her back to that moment of oblivion. “It’s a daaaaaawwwg!” As soon as Luisa heard the child’s high-pitched voice she turned around. “We’re CLOSED. WE’RE CLOSED. Haven’t you heard of the bird flu? WE’RE. CLOSED.” The kid started to cry, and the sound was a hot nail in Luisa’s jaw. She turned away from the fence to pull the Orajel out in privacy and squirted it directly into her mouth. As soon as her pain faded she was mortified that she’d yelled. She sat on a bench by the picnic lawn and checked her phone. Mike wouldn’t be back until lunchtime and the cleaning crew never arrived before three. Nearly all the staff had been furloughed when they closed to visitors, so Luisa spent most of her shifts alone with the birds and Biscuit. The chihuahua came running out from under the bench, something silver flashing in his mouth. “Biscuit?“ Luisa called, her sudden interest confirming the dog’s hunch that it had found something valuable. It picked up speed and hummed off like a tiny beetle across the grass. Luisa slowed her approach and tried to adopt a posture of nonchalance and total indifference to the dog, which had stopped at the edge of the lawn to inspect its spoils. She tried his name again, this time raising her pitch and softening her voice like she held something sweet and warm in her hand just for him. “Biscuit!” As stupid as he was, he wouldn’t be fooled by a change of tone. He ran a few feet to the left and settled back down to resume licking the Orajel packet. His leash had come to rest behind him, where Luisa couldn’t grab it. If she could come at him from the other side, she could pin the leash with her foot and stop him from running, but Biscuit had closed in on the fence. This edge of the park bordered the grim, brackish estuary Luisa grew up calling Colon Firth for its persistent resemblance to toilet runoff. When the facility was built, the fence had been six feet from the bank of mangroves that stood high above the water; sixty years later the mangroves have grown into the fencing and each quarter the landscapers chop off buckets of new growth pushing in through the gaps. Biscuit had found a puddle of shade beneath the towering trees and was completely engaged with the packet of sweet numbing gel. His trembling eyes narrowed to ecstatic filaments and his little pink tongue grew looser and sloppier by the second. A hard-to-place sound sent Luisa’s head spinning. Everything was still in the moment it took to scan her surroundings. It wasn’t until her gaze returned to Biscuit that the knot of plastic scraps wafted down from the treetops and landed a few feet from the dog, dislodging two tiny pink eggs. Biscuit stood and took two halting steps towards the scavenger’s nest, forgetting the packet of Orajel and entirely missing the growing shadow closing in on him from above. Luisa had never seen a heron that large. Instinctively, she stepped toward the dog, but she balked as the heron’s dead blue eye crossed her gaze. Biscuit had just enough time to whimper and start to the left before the heron made purchase on his leash and, pulling it taut, silenced the little dog and hoisted it into the trees. Now, Luisa could see the spot where the bird had been biding its time. Meghan Ritchie's fiction has appeared in the Rathalla Review, surely mag, and the PS Reader, and has been supported by the Kenyon Review Writers Workshop. She lives in Berkeley, California and is a graduate of Sarah Lawrence College.