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For the first time in his adult years – not that he often thought of himself as an adult, or made much of an effort to behave like one – Mickey Rose spent an entire week pondering the meaning of life. It wasn't that he had suddenly become a philosopher, or had embraced some form of Eastern spirituality. The ability to sit around his apartment and do nothing but think owed to an unexpected change in circumstances: After nearly two decades of relevance in the world of sportswriting, Mickey was suddenly unemployed. For far too long, Mickey was finally recognizing, he had been under the illusion that barring a serious car accident or some catastrophic disease, his path was more or less set. Like many of his heroes, he had entered the newspaper world as an intern, covering high school football, basketball, and baseball, plus an occasional county or state soccer or softball tournament. After a year of dues-paying, he was promoted to full-time sportswriter, with a focus on professional baseball – the Dodgers and Angels – and basketball – the Lakers and Clippers. Thirteen years later, when two people with seniority left the paper within the span of six weeks – Tim Dooley, the sports editor because of a debilitating stroke; B.J. Riley, the provocateur who wrote a three-times-a-week column, because of a salary dispute -- Mickey made the leap to columnist. His expectation (or at least hope) was that like the icons he revered – Ring Lardner, Jim Murray, Larry Merchant, Dan Shaughnessy – his punditry would continue until he ran out of words, died, or found some new challenge. All that changed during the lead-up to an event that had long been a source of joy: the annual baseball All-Star Game. In contrast to the World Series, where the focus was solely on winning, All-Star weekend was baseball as fun, with the main event sharing time with the Home Run Derby, the Futures Game, and even Celebrity Softball. For sports lifers, it was the perfect opportunity to hang out with colleagues from other cities and papers, catching up on each other's lives and trading tales, as well as providing insights and anecdotes that might find their way into future columns. Mickey's delight at being in the center of things came to an abrupt halt when he got a call from his paper's former columnist, B.J. Riley. “Get ready for a shit storm!” Riley warned. “What's that mean?” asked Mickey. “That new sports editor –“ “Linda Molina –” “She's trying to turn the Sports Section into happy news.” Riley's warning cast a pall over the joy Mickey was anticipating. Though he should have realized that the world he knew was changing when the New York Times bought the Athletic, then reduced its daily coverage of sports, Mickey assumed – or hoped – that would remain an East Coast anomaly. In Los Angeles, where the Dodgers and Lakers engendered a religious fervor, where UCLA basketball and USC football were obsessions, and where the Clippers, Chargers, Galaxy, and the LA Football Club had passionate fans, such a cataclysm seemed unimaginable. There was no way, Mickey thought, diehards would be willing to start their day with coffee and iPhones instead of old-fashioned newsprint. That's why he kept a framed quote from former Chief Justice Earl Warren above his desk: I always turn to the sports pages first, which records people's accomplishments. The front page has nothing but man's failures. “Try to view this as an opportunity,” Linda Molina began when she and Mickey met face-to-face. “Won't it be fun to re-imagine the Sports section as a human interest magazine?” “Really want me to answer that?” asked Mickey. “Absolutely.” “Sounds as much fun as elective root canal.” “You don't think human interest stories will expand our readership?” “Give me what you call human interest.” “A piece on a Dodger's kids,” replied Linda. “Or a Laker's puppies. Or somebody on the Rams' family vacation.” Mickey grimaced. “Are you aware of the devotion of Dodgers fans? Or Lakers fans? Or UCLA basketball and SC football?” “What're you trying to tell me?” asked Linda. “All the papers in driveways I see on my early morning jogs?” “What about them?” “After a week without box scores, half'll be canceled.” Linda frowned. “Will you at least give it a try?” “Have you read my contract?” “Why?” “Three columns a week.” Linda took a deep breath while eyeing Mickey. “There's also a clause about insubordination.” “Meaning?” “You're with me, or I call legal.” “Start dialing,” said Mickey, heading for the door. Though Mickey was enraged, the initial target of his ire wasn't Linda Molina. It was the powers-that-be, either for giving her a mandate or for accepting her brainstorm. By the end of the second day, it was himself that Mickey was starting to blame. In the year or so before the pandemic, when The Athletic, The Ringer, and ESPN were poaching columnists from the newspaper world, Mickey was one of the first writers approached. Always a team player, he immediately went to see his editor. “I know it's tempting,” Ernie Ryan, who replaced Tim Dooley, said to him. “But what about loyalty? Here you're dealing with a known commodity, plus you've got me on your side.” “And if something happens to you?” Dooley sighed. “Like a piano landing on my head?” Mickey shrugged. “Shit happens. “What if I ask as a personal favor? Plus, I can probably use the offers to get you a raise.” To his chagrin, Mickey yielded. Day four of his time at home began with Mickey thinking about the world he had inhabited. Though there were late nights, deadlines, and other pressures, the key word in sports was play, not work. In baseball, basketball, football, soccer, tennis, and other sports, games were played. In the same spirit, his byline read Mickey Rose, not Michael – just as it was Red Smith, not Walter; Dan Barry, not Daniel; and Skip Bayless, not John Edward Bayless II. Another perq was that except for games that he attended in person, Mickey could watch sporting events in his pajamas, or write columns in sweatpants and a t-shirt. Plus his years in sports enabled him to spend time in cities across the globe at his paper's expense, witnessing everything from the Olympics to Wimbledon to the Kentucky Derby. Those travels yielded friends galore: other writers, hotel managers, restaurateurs, bartenders, and fans, as well as a good amount of athletes, and even some interesting women. If there was a downside, it was the number of times Mickey woke up with no clue what city he was in. Plus the ever-present temptation to spend too many hours shooting the shit with pals in a bar in Baltimore, Atlanta, London, or wherever. Then there was the reality that it was largely his job that undermined his marriage. Anita, his ex-, wasn't entirely wrong in thinking that work often took precedence over her. Nor was she incorrect in thinking that money was never sufficiently important to Mickey. People like Bayless, Michael Wilbon, and Tony Kornheiser added exponentially to their earnings by moving to cable TV. Others, like his New York friend Hal Byers with his series of sports biographies, or his Philadelphia buddy Jerry Wald with his Young Adult novels employing sports as a backdrop, used their bylines as tickets into publishing. But Mickey, at least as Anita saw it, never cared about either fortune or fame. Though deluged with texts and emails – some praising his refusal to capitulate; others wondering about his well-being – Mickey was surprised by how few calls he received. Those who did ring were mainly what he once, in a column about a Mets manager whose phone seemed to ring only when his team was on a losing streak, termed “foul weather friends” who secretly delighted in others' misfortune. Real friends like Hal Byers or Jerry Wald, Mickey figured, were giving him much needed time to himself. Tossing and turning in bed on Friday night, Mickey found himself slipping into panic mode. It took a nearly Herculean effort to sit up and accept that neither the world nor his life had ended. His bank account, though not substantial, wasn't empty. The rent on the small Echo Park apartment he found when his marriage ended wasn't extravagant. Unlike those concerned with status, he didn't have to pay upkeep on horses, a Maserati, or a yacht. Nor was he burdened by child support or a coke habit. Taking a deep breath, Mickey listed the three key considerations for the days and weeks ahead. In case of an accident or illness, he needed medical insurance. Plus he would sooner or later require some income. Above all, there was an existential question: What in hell was he going to do with his life? Over green tea and toast the next morning, Mickey stewed while pondering the examples that Linda Molina offered as human interest. Zealously, he began to contrast them with the columns that gave him the most satisfaction. Never content to tell readers what they themselves had seen in a game, match, or fight the night before, he considered it a duty to focus whenever possible on the human side of sports. A personal favorite was a story about a running back who built houses for poverty-stricken people in his hometown in Alabama. Another was of a pitcher who walked away from a sizable contract to look after his kids while his wife was undergoing cancer treatment. An additional source of pride – especially because of the right-wing hate emails it generated – was the award from a feminist group for his series on the Atlanta Dream, the WNBA team that forced its owner to sell because of her attacks on Black Lives Matter. Nor was that Mickey's only source of angry emails. He got plenty for his repeated defense of Dodger manager Dave Roberts. Even greater venom came when Mickey was a key voice in demanding that baseball move its All-Star Game out of Georgia because of a new law designed to suppress voting turnout among people of color. But at the top of the list in terms of responses – good and not-so-good – was a series about Little League parents. Whether it was moms and dads yelling, “Run, Johnny, run!” – or coaches giving bad advice like “Keep that elbow up!” – or parents cursing out umpires and putting far too much pressure on their kids – Mickey insisted that it would be an infinitely healthier experience if kids were left to themselves. Still, Mickey's all-time favorite series was one he had to fight for since it wasn't deemed local or national news. What caught his attention was a pitcher seemingly destined for the Hall of Fame until one day he simply could no longer throw strikes. Trying to correct the problem, his team sent him first to an orthopedist to examine his shoulder. Then to an ophthalmologist to check his vision. Next to a sports psychologist to determine his mental health. Ultimately let go, he was signed by another team, who had him see a psychiatrist known for curing phobias and blocks. When that, too, failed, the pitcher dropped out of sight for a couple of years, then reappeared at a tryout for the sport's lowest rung – an Independent League – not as a pitcher, but as a left-handed hitting center fielder. To the astonishment of general managers, players, and fans, he quickly rose to the Majors, enabling Mickey to dub him “The Comeback Kid.” Though he'd never given it much thought while on the job, it gave Mickey great satisfaction to know that he'd often used sports as a metaphor for the world at large. Nor did hate emails, threats, or resistance from his editor ever deter him from his convictions. But pride didn't solve his problems – economic and otherwise. Not wanting to seem desperate, Mickey sent off a series of “Checking in” emails – to friends, editors, and others who might be resources or potential employers. The absence of a response was disheartening. After waiting a week, Mickey followed with calls. Most recipients proved to be unavailable, then failed to get back to him. Another notion popped into Mickey's head while shooting baskets at a playground. He reached out to Journalism Departments at local universities where, over the years, he had spoken on panels, as well as in individual classrooms. Once again, the silence proved deafening. Has all the work I've done been for naught? Mickey found himself wondering. Am I consigned to hoping for work at Big Five Sporting Goods, or driving an Uber? Those thoughts made Mickey muse about what the future might – or might not – hold. Would a wife, kids, and a family ever be part of his life? That painful question begged three others. Am I suited for a normal life? Can I ever again afford one? Have I blown the chance for anything resembling normal? Despite the plaques on his wall for journalistic honors, plus photos of him together with Shaq, Kobe, LeBron, Clayton Kershaw, Justin Herbert, and Gretsky, Mickey found himself thinking that beyond being prematurely obsolete, he seemed to have become invisible. The following morning, Mickey was rousted by a call from Jerry Wald. “I've been thinking,” his friend told him. “You've got a lawsuit begging to begin.” When Mickey protested that he wasn't litigious, Wald doubled-down. “Like it or not, I'm gonna find you an attorney. And if need be, spring for his fees.” An offer of lunch from B.J. Riley got Mickey to a sports bar where the two of them used to convene with Tim Dooley. Seeing Mickey enjoy greetings from patrons and staffers, Riley smiled. “Beats sitting home alone, thinking the world has ended.” Mickey nodded. “It's too damn easy to start feeling like a dinosaur,” Riley continued. “Or that they're right, and we're not. Got anything in mind?” “Besides hitting a gun shop?” Mickey joked. “Hal Byers is trying to get me to sue.” Riley sighed. “Might make you some bucks, but there are consequences. You'll be a pariah.” “Are there alternatives?” “Sure!” joked Riley. “Male model. Stud. Oligarch. Plutocrat.” Mickey chuckled. “That's the Mickey I know. I started with a blog. That led to a podcast.” “And?” “Aside from making me feel alive, there are some bucks coming in. Plus, a few guest columns here and there, and even a couple of appearances on Cable TV. But gotta warn you –” “About?” “It means showering and shaving.” Still confused, but somewhat more hopeful, Mickey was headed home when he got another call from Byers. “Please tell me you're not sitting around feeling sorry for yourself,” said Hal. “Actually, I'm driving home from a lunch with B.J.” “Going out to lunch is one thing, but sitting with somebody for three or four months is something else.” “Why would I be sitting with somebody for three or four months?” “Because,” answered Hal, “you're about to become an As Told To.” “What's that mean?” “I pitched you to help an ex-Dodger with his memoir.” “Why me instead of you?” asked Mickey. “First, I'm booked for several months. Second, it'd mean leaving New York, which Harriet doesn't want to do. Plus, you know much more about the Dodgers – and LA. Best of all, it's a door-opener.” “B-but –” “What but?” “I never did that kind of thing,” said Mickey. “Which won't be a problem when you go to your second. Or third.” “Why? Think it won't be a one-shot?” “Because,” said Hal, “you write well, you know your shit, and you get on with ballplayers. And here's the big thing. Ready?” “Sure.” “There's an inexhaustible array of athletes with stories that people want to hear. You in? Or have you miraculously been offered a job running the Dodgers?” Mickey smiled. “I'm in.” Only once he hung up did Mickey realize that this could be his much-needed second chance. If he did it well, above and beyond escaping from his funk, plus getting some much-needed cash, he could potentially reinvent himself. Maybe that could allow him to have something resembling a real life. Maybe, like the ballplayer he once wrote about, he, too, could be a Comeback Kid. Alan Swyer is an award-winning filmmaker whose recent documentaries have dealt with Eastern spirituality in the Western world, the criminal justice system, diabetes, boxing, and singer Billy Vera. In the realm of music, among his productions is an album of Ray Charles love songs. His novel 'The Beard' was recently published by Harvard Square Editions.

The slant The revocation of his voice We are revoking his voice from society His poet's piercing and longing Song of how things really are Robert Haas' poems in Summer Snow I can see why the Nazis And by Nazis in this case I mean the German Nazis Stomping through countries like they Were jelly. Not the current bastardized Brainwashed Nazis, led by dumb People who only care about Crawling raw power. I’m sick in the heart. On top of an old Heart The tulips pretend they are sunflowers But fail to grow 11 feet tall. The cypress trees That grace the driveway of the Influential man Fall one by two To say they have had enough. Even though the natural world Rejects Naziism and longs For the poet's voice It has been revoked By those pretending To be wise and brave, But they drink us all In fear.

By lunchtime, Ollie had processed thirteen 1085 forms, seven 91B forms, and opened two new case files. He saved his current work (an 89C form) and made his way to the kitchen. Ollie found an empty table next to Bonnie and Nora. Bonnie’s back was to him, but he caught her voice as he approached. “I told him not to recommend that one,” Bonnie said. “But he got greedy.” Nora opened her mouth to respond but hesitated when she saw Ollie. Bonnie turned, fork held midair above a large salad. Ollie nodded in greeting. Bonnie waved her fork, then shifted back to face Nora. Ollie sat and retrieved his sandwich. “Tuna again?” Nora asked. “Don’t you get sick of it?” “No, I like tuna.” “Have you always been picky?” “I’m not picky. I like food,” Ollie gestured with his sandwich. “Including tuna.” “Then why do always eat tuna?” “If I like it and it’s easy, why change it?” Nora let the question hang in the air. Ollie took another bite of sandwich. Bonnie stabbed at her salad with her fork. “How the mutts treating you?” Bonnie’s voice was sharp and slicing. “Don’t call them that.” Ollie’s warning was met with a silent smirk. Ollie sighed. “They’re fine.” “Fine,” Bonnie repeated. “And you’re ok with ‘fine’?” “Bonnie, just say whatever it is you want to say.” “There’s more to life than ‘fine’, Ollie.” “Not everyone has to be you, Bonnie.” Bonnie pursed her lips. “Maybe, but at least I know what I want.” “And you’re saying I don’t?” Ollie dropped his sandwich back in its container. “The loans are reasonable, the pay is good, and there’s rarely a default.” “Rarely.” Bonnie’s dark eyes hooked into Ollie. He dropped his gaze. Beneath the table, he crossed his right leg behind his left. “I’ve only had one of my loans default.” Ollie stood, grabbing his lunch. “And not that you care, but the lender was very apologetic about the collection.” Ollie was already walking away, but Bonnie’s voice taunted him from behind. “I’m sure,” she said. Ollie would never admit it, he’d never give Bonnie the satisfaction, but the conversation replayed in his mind throughout the rest of the day. When Charles Finch approached his desk the next morning, he was still mentally reciting what he wished he’d said to Bonnie. “Ollie.” Finch was trying to catch his breath. “I need you to drop what you’re doing.” “Sir?” “We’ve got an applicant here for an interview. I need you to take over the account.” “Our department doesn’t usually conduct interviews for applicants.” “It’s not a werewolf account son.” Ollie stared at his boss. “Consider this a promotion.” “A promotion?” “Look,” Finch leaned over Ollie’s desk and lowered his voice, “Bonnie’s latest account defaulted last night, which now makes you my most senior underwriter.” Ollie shifted in his seat. What he wished he’d said to Bonnie now seemed hollow and childish. “There’s no one else?” It was all Ollie could think to say. “I’ll give you triple Bonnie’s salary.” Bonnie would’ve been pissed to know Ollie was taking over her account. But Bonnie wasn’t here, and Ollie pushed away thoughts of where she might be now. “Ok,” he said. “Get me the paperwork.” Ollie flipped through the folder as he walked to the conference room. The client was Sam Caulfield, age 35, she/her pronouns, single. She’d requested the loan six months ago and had passed all the previous protocols. Ollie’s eyes shifted from the file to the woman seated in the glass-walled room before him. Sam wore a slim-fitting white dress, her red hair cascading to her shoulders in soft waves. Her lips were painted red to match her long nails, which had been filed to a point and rested on the table in front of her. A quiet sniffle pulled Ollie’s attention from Sam. Nora sat a few cubicles away, a tissue held to her nose. She met Ollie’s gaze with red, puffy eyes. Ollie turned before his stomach could knot further. Sam rose as Ollie entered, extending a pale hand. She was at least six inches taller than him, but she carried her build elegantly. The tips of her nails pressed into Ollie’s skin as they shook hands. Ollie settled into a seat across from her. “Alright Ms. Caulfield, can you tell me the purpose of the loan?” “Isn’t that information in my application?” “Yes, but a loan of this caliber requires a particularly thorough process. This interview is to ensure I feel comfortable recommending your loan to the lender.” “So you can be sure I won’t default?” “Yes.” “And what happens if I default?” “Are you concerned you might default?” Sam’s face lifted into a grin and a short laugh escaped her crimson lips. Ollie caught his features rising to match Sam’s. He settled them into a cordial smile before they could betray the lightness he felt. “I applied for the loan as a means of taking over my father’s business.” Ollie flipped through Sam’s file. “Silver City Hospitality?” he asked. “Yes, that’s correct. My father gave me a portion of the family business, but he’s set some…” “Restrictions?” “You could call them that. Though they feel more like shackles most times.” “And you’ve tried other avenues?” Ollie asked. Sam’s face tightened. “Many,” she said. “It feels like we’ve been caught in this struggle for ages.” Ollie looked at the front page of her file. ‘HELLHOUND’ was stamped in bold red letters. “So how would this loan help you?” When Sam didn’t respond right away, Ollie looked up and met her intense, shimmering gaze. Though his pulse fluttered, he waited for her to respond. “Would you humor me?” She said. “I’m sorry?” “Pick ‘A’ or ‘B’.” “I’m not sure I understand.” Sam gestured for him to indulge her. He feigned an annoyed sigh. “Fine, ‘B’.” Sam rose from her seat and leaned across the table. Before Ollie could react, she’d pressed her lips to his. Ollie’s shock melted into her soft heat. As she moved against him, her lips parted, allowing him to taste her more deeply. She raised one hand to rest the tips of her nails against his jaw. Her touch sent a prickling sensation through his body. When she pulled away, Ollie’s breath went with her. “Now,’ her voice was almost a whisper. “Do you want to know what Option A was?” “Yes,” Ollie managed, though his voice caught in his throat. Sam plopped back into her seat, somehow managing to make the move look graceful. “Well, too bad.” Ollie blinked at her. “That’s the type of game my dad plays. He feigns like he’s giving you a choice, but never actually reveals his hand. He controls everything, pulls all the strings, but does it deftly enough that all his little marionettes,” Sam moved her hands across the table to mimic puppetry, “think they’re real boys and girls”. “So,” Ollie cleared his throat, “what would a hellhound do for you?” “Straight back to business, I like it.” Sam crossed her arms. “Being the manipulative bastard he is, my dad has gained an almost infinite amount of power. All my previous efforts to dethrone him have failed. But a monstrous undead hound that’ll tear his soul apart and drag him to hell for eternity? I don’t think even he could survive that.” “I see,” Ollie flipped to another page in the file. “Regarding the repayment terms-” “I understand the terms.” “Well, I’m still required to read them to you.” Sam sighed and gestured for Ollie to continue. “Ms. Caulfield, this loan is for the services of one hellhound, which you may dispatch at your disposal. However, as part of the terms of the loan, the hellhound must be provided with at least one human soul. In addition, at the time of your death, your soul is required to spend a minimum of 1,000 years in the services of the lender. The ultimate duration of your repayment period will be up to the discretion of your lender, but shall not exceed 5,000 years. Do you understand these terms?” “Yes I do.” “Do you have any questions or reservations about the terms of your loan?” “No, I like the heat.” Two short knocks sounded on the door. Ollie excused himself and met Finch in the hallway. “So, how’s it going?” Finch asked. Ollie glanced over Finch’s shoulder. Nora’s desk was empty, but he could see tissues piled in her waste basket. “I’m going to recommend her for the loan.” Finch searched Ollie’s face. “You understand what you’re guaranteeing? A pound of flesh might satisfy the wolves, but that won’t be enough for…” Finch gestured vaguely to the ground. “I know, sir. I understand” “Alright then,” Finch smoothed his tie, “I’ll get the hound.” When Ollie reentered the conference room, Sam was standing at the window. “Ms. Caulfield,” she turned to face him, “we’ve tentatively agreed to recommend your loan to the lender.” “Wonderful,” Sam clasped her hands together. “There’s one final step in the approval process. In a moment I’ll escort you to the holding area, where you’ll meet the hellhound whose services you’re borrowing.” “Oh, I see.” “We’d like to make absolutely sure you understand the agreement you’re entering.” Sam raised an eyebrow. “As well as observe my reaction, I presume? Make sure I don’t get cold feet?” “Something like that, yes.” “Very well. Lead the way.” Ollie sensed the office’s stares as they walked through the corridor. Sam was striking, but Ollie wasn’t sure if it was her appearance, or his presence with Bonnie’s client that drew the attention. “Do me a favor, Ollie.” Sam’s voice cut through the tension. “Pick another one for me. 121 or 122?” Ollie considered for a moment, then replied. “121.” “Hmm,” she looked satisfied. “Interesting.” “Are you going to tell me what I chose?” Sam responded with a crimson smile. When they reached the holding room, Finch was already there. He stood against the far wall, while a large, four-legged animal sat calmly in the center. The air was hot with the smell of burning flesh and tar. Ollie did his best to appear unfazed. Sam strode into the room, slowly making her way to the hound. The beast’s head almost reached Sam’s. Its paws were roughly the size of a human skull and what was left of its ears extended above its head in jagged points. The hound’s skin, if you could call it that, roiled and shifted as wet, reddish-black flesh dripped from its bones in chunks. Blood and meat pooled around it. The shedding skin revealed patches of cracked, blackened bones that smoldered like firewood. Each piece of fallen flesh slowly regrew, once again obscuring the creature’s exposed bones. All the while adjacent pieces cycled through various stages of swelling, sagging, and melting. “Ms. Caulfield, I’m Mr. Finch, I run this branch-” Sam looked at Finch. Ollie couldn’t see her expression, but Finch’s voice died on his lips. Sam turned to the hound and the animal cocked its massive head. Sam extended her hand. “Ms. Caulfield that’s not-” Ollie watched as the creature regarded Sam. Pinpricks of glowing orange were the only hint of a pupil within its obsidian black eyes. The creature raised its rotten nose to Sam’s hand, then nuzzled its head into her palm. Sam stroked its head with her fingers, flesh sloughing off beneath her touch. Blood and tissue covered her skin. She used her nails to scratch beneath the beast’s chin. One side of its jowl fell to the floor as she did so, revealing a mess of dark, glass-like teeth. She brought the creature’s muzzle to her mouth and kissed the top of its snout. “My beautiful monster,” she cooed. “You have been so good.” “Ms. Caulfield?” Ollie’s voice sounded distant, even to his ears. “Did you know gentlemen,” Sam’s gaze remained on the creature as she spoke, “that all hellhounds are the same animal?” When neither Ollie nor Finch responded, she whispered to the beast. “Show them my love.” Sam took a step back and the creature stood, lowering its head and arching its spine. More flesh fell to the floor in wet clumps as a low growling sound bubbled from the hound’s throat. The skin along one side of its body swelled and grew in a pulsating mass. Sharp edges of bone pushed against the fleshy confines of the tumor as it undulated against the existing hound. The skin tore as it stretched, oozing blackish blood to the floor. The hound remained standing as the mass of flesh grew and formed legs of its own. The shape of a head became visible as it pushed against the inside of the new skin, eventually tearing free and splattering Sam’s white dress with shades of red. She didn’t flinch. The remaining skin between the two hounds tore in long, ragged strands. Sam leaned down to stroke the neck of the first hound, then the second. “You see, I’ve been lending you the services of my hound for some time.” Ollie glanced at Finch, who was flattening his large frame as far into the wall as possible. “And while I’ve certainly benefited from our arrangement, I think it’s time you considered new management. I’m sure the other lenders will be most sympathetic to my causes.” Sam’s fingers twitched and the first hound lunged at Finch. Its jaws closed around his throat and the lower part of his face. Blood poured down the front of Finch’s shirt and there was a garbled noise that might have been a scream. The hound’s jaws closed tighter and the garbling noise was cut off by a wet crunch. The hound tore free of Finch and his body slid to the floor. His lower jaw and most of his neck was gone. Ollie rushed towards the door but didn’t make it more than a few steps before the second hound knocked him to the ground. The beast bit into Ollie’s right leg and shook its head. Ollie’s pants ripped at the knee and he felt a piece of himself be wrenched away. The hound dropped Ollie’s leg and it landed on the floor with a dull thud. As Sam retrieved the limb, the torn fabric fell away, revealing the smooth synthetic skin of Ollie’s prosthetic. She crouched in front of him. “Hmm, a previous default perhaps?” Ollie’s breath came in ragged gasps. “Just get it over with.” He said. Sam furrowed her brow. The expression didn’t suit her. “Oh Ollie.” The hounds slinked out the door behind Sam, their enormous paws padding silently on the hallway carpet. “Of the one hundred and twenty-two souls in this building, I think you’re my favorite.” A drenching cold washed through Ollie as the consequences of his previous choice settled in his mind. “No,” he rasped. “That’s right. It was your choice, so I won’t collect.” She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. “Yet.” Screams cascaded through the open door as Sam stood and dropped Ollie’s leg. She flattened the skirt of her dress, smearing the drying blood into streaks. The last thing Ollie saw before passing out, was Sam’s long legs striding into the hallway. M. Rose Seaboldt (she/her) obtained her engineering degrees so she could study structures and fire science. She writes so she can explore characters and the trials they endure. Find her on Twitter @boldtsea.

Kelly called J.J. and Brooklyn her “kids” and fed them drugs. A mix of fox terrier and Jack Russell, J.J. Larue was an absolute cutie pie, and Brooklyn Helaire was the biggest Rottie I’d ever seen. Both suffered from severe allergies and ear infections, which Kelly treated with Benadryl. Frequently having to up their doses, she left J.J. and Brooklyn laid out in our house for most of her visit. She’d driven into Terrebonne Parish from Texas on a Friday morning to see my wife Nadia who referred to “Kell Bell” as her sister, as the two were former roommates and offensive linemen for the Austin Outlaws. I liked Kelly because she could hold her own. Even as a bayou boy raised on bourbon, I struggled to keep up. Selling offshore equipment for Brady Oil used to require my attention in Austin at least twice a month, and some clients had taken me out to Moontower Saloon where Kelly and Nadia were slow dancing around a bonfire to a live rendition of “Tennessee Whiskey.” From all the folks watching, Kelly picked me to join in. I’d seen plenty of golden curls, but Nadia’s were natural looking, and shining brighter than the fire. “Put your arm around her,” Kelly said. I did, leaning into Nadia’s ear. “She’s a character.” “Kell Bell’s not interested,” Nadia said. “No, I figured as much,” I said. “You paying rent for that or what?” she asked, eyeing my arm. I ordered us a round and learned how strict Nadia was as a manager for Olive Garden. She’d line up her staff, check their socks and ironed uniforms and couldn’t stand their utter lack of appreciation for customer service. Pickings were slim among the new generation, she explained. A smarter generation refusing to work like dogs for insulting pay. Nadia went on to curse local traffic and the stupid number of tourists leaving poor Yelp reviews. “Not a big fan, eh?” I asked. “Don’t get me wrong,” she said. “This place used to be special, but the secret’s out, apparently.” A few more trips to Austin, and Nadia and I had fallen into a reason for her to leave. Kelly was able to go at it alone by securing a warehouse management gig for a media mogul. Unfortunately for Kelly, her high-profile employer landed himself in a major lawsuit that left her with a severance package. Nadia insisted she get out of town for a few days, and waking up to Brooklyn in my kitchen was like having to pet a horse while sipping coffee. She had thick black fur but brown circles around her sleepy eyes, and the loudest, most endearing one-and-done bark. ROO! JJ.’s fur was mostly the color of caramel, the creamy white around his nose extending into a stripe between his sweet mahogany eyes. Finding Brooklyn’s hair on our floors, I asked Nadia for a quick word in the bedroom. “I know you see it,” I said. “Be a good host and grab a broom if it bothers you,” Nadia said. That first night, we brought Kelly to the corner store, and she insisted on paying for Nadia’s Pino Grigio, my eight-pack of Miller Light, and her case of Yuengling. “Bucs aren’t looking the best this year,” she said on the way back home. “They’ve only lost two,” Nadia said. Kelly despised Tom Brady and called him “the cheater.” The ultimate insult to Nadia who’d dedicated her social media to TB12. “Kell Bell’s just jealous like J.J. when it comes to Brady,” she said. “How’s that?” I asked. “J.J.’s awesome.” “Just wait,” Nadia said. The dogs greeted us at the door, and Kelly gave her attention to J.J. first, rubbing his cheeks. ROO! “Oh, stop,” she said, massaging Brooklyn’s ears. She brought J.J. and Brooklyn to the backyard and watched them take care of their business without cleaning up. I asked Nadia for another word. “Think she could at least get the shit?” “I’ll tell her later, but grab a bag for now,” Nadia said. “Brooklyn shits eggs, Nadia. I’m not kidding. Shits the size of actual eggs.” “Man up,” she said. We joined Kelly in the living room, and I figured it was on like the ol’ days, but she was out by seven on the smaller couch despite the sixteen cans she had left. “So much for competition,” I said, smiling at J.J. who was on top of Kelly while Brooklyn snored on the floor. “She drove through the night,” Nadia said, “and don’t even think about touching J.J. while she’s sleeping.” “What are you talking about?” I asked. I got up and J.J. brushed his forehead against my palm. “See?” I tried rubbing his cheeks, and J.J. growled before snapping at me. “Jesus,” I said. “You were warned,” Nadia said. “Hound from hell,” I said, sitting back down. “You ever see that movie? The Lost Boys?” “To me,” Nadia said. “J.J.’s more like the square on Sesame Street that doesn’t fit in.” She wasn’t wrong. Next morning, J.J. snapped at Brooklyn for no reason. “No,” Kelly said, backing J.J. down with a stern finger. She subdued him with raw meat bites and crushed-up Benadryl and gave Brooklyn the same. “I want to see the Superdome,” she said. “Plus, I’ve never been to New Orleans.” Kelly also loved the 49ers for some reason. If it wasn’t the Texans, she rooted for San Fran but hated Jimmy G. and called him “the devil’s sperm” due to his time as Brady’s backup in New England. “Here we go,” Nadia said. “I get you don’t like him, Kell Bell, but you seriously don’t think Brady’s the GOAT?” “He’s the luckiest to ever play the game,” she said. “Told you,” Nadia said. “J.J. Larue when it comes to Brady.” Yeah. That damn J.J. Larue. We finished our tour of the Dome and enjoyed oysters on Royal Street, but conversations between Nadia and Kelly had nothing to do with me. “Want another beer?” Nadia asked, surprising me. So, I wasn’t invisible after all or an odd man out like J.J. Larue. It hit me on the Luling Bridge heading back to Terrebonne that Kelly had used a GPS to find the city and was using it again to bring us home. A bit odd considering I couldn’t count the times that Nadia and I had made the trip. Kelly took Highway 90 and got off on 182 as instructed but came to a set of orange roadblocks. “Yeah, this goes too far toward Raceland,” I said. “Bring her back to ninety, honey.” “I’m following directions,” Kelly said. “Nadia,” I said. “Are you getting frustrated?” Kelly asked, her eyes meeting mine in the rearview. “Yeah, with Nadia,” I said. “You’re acting like we don’t live here, honey. Seriously. What’s with all this robot shit?” “It would’ve taken me a lot longer than eight hours to reach Terrebonne without it,” Kelly said. “No, I get it, Kell Bell. GPS is great for when you don’t know bumfuck from wherever you’re going, but Nadia’s letting it confuse you when she knows the way.” “She told me,” Kelly said. “I didn’t listen.” A conversation I’d missed apparently. Either way, GPS had become bible for some folks. Nadia even used one to shop in town, sounding ridiculous when trying to sell me on avoiding traffic. It was as if she’d forgotten the backroads. Like New Year’s Eve when we’d taken an Uber to Bayou Blue. GPS had instructed the driver to take a left on 311 past Summerfield Plaza. “Valhi’s coming up and gets you there faster,” I’d said. “I’m just doing what this thing tells me,” the driver said. But why? I didn’t know my own backyard? The dogs greeted us at the door, and J.J. allowed Nadia to caress his backside while Kelly scratched Brooklyn’s ears. Brooklyn barged in for Nadia’s affection, and J.J. snapped at her. ROO! “No,” Kelly said, backing J.J. down. He looked into my eyes with that mahogany stare and growled. Safe to say, I was all set with knowing J.J. Larue. *** Sunday the sixteenth. Game day. Piss-poor Andy Dalton and the Saints were playing Big Dick Joey and the Bengals in the Superdome. A match-up that stung before it started. I fucking loved the Saints, but my father was an LSU alumnus and raised me on the Tigers. Kelly got on her phone that morning after letting the dogs out. “You talk to her about cleaning up?” I asked Nadia. “She’s looking for places showing the game,” Nadia said. “Cajun Sports,” I said. “You already knew that. The best gumbo, too. Get her off the phone, honey.” Against my better judgment, I decided to wear my Burrow Tigers jersey. “No robot shit this time,” Kelly said, reversing from the driveway. I smiled, needing her joke. Locals were going to punish me hard for the Burrow jersey. I wasn’t sure if that meant some shit talk or a drunk picking a fight, but I didn’t feel great inside. Dimly lit inside, Cajun Sports & Grill was jam-packed, but somehow plenty of tables were available. The glittered bar on the left was long enough to host four flatscreens above, each showing a different game. Kelly and Nadia picked a spot near the far-end wall between the bathrooms, and an elderly woman in a Thomas jersey tapped my shoulder before I could sit. “Can I take a picture of your jersey?” she asked, holding up her phone. “What? Yeah, sure,” I said. She had me turn my back and snapped two pics. “My family loves him,” she said. “We won’t ever forget what he’s done for this state.” “Yes, ma’am,” I said. “Who Dey!” a guy from a pub table yelled. He and his girl were in Bengals 9 jerseys. “Who Dat!!” some Saints fans from the bar yelled. “Who Dey!” the Bengals fan yelled back. “Okay, then,” I said, taking my seat. “This might be fun.” Nadia sipped her wine while Kelly and I shared a pail of Yuengling Light. Each of the eight iced bottles came open with a slice of lime wedged in. Good thing I was interested in the pregame show. Kelly and Nadia had relaxed into sharing exclusive memories from the Outlaw days, and Kelly and I were on our third Yuengling when Nadia suggested she move in with us. “Just until you find a new job,” she said. “About that,” I said to Kelly. “I get your boss lost in court but hundreds of millions in damages? Who’d he offend? An entire country?” “His own damn fault,” Kelly said. She downed her Yuengling and reached for a fourth. “He could’ve settled for a mil and been fine.” I reached for my fourth. “Okay, but whatever happened to the First Amendment?” “Slander,” Kelly said. “Is it?” I asked. “You’re telling me the neighbors of those victims believed the rantings of some nut-job conspiracy theorist over the reality of their own community?” Nadia stood. “I have to pee.” “Use to be, if you didn’t like what someone was saying, you didn’t listen,” I said, “but you didn’t go after their jobs or their fucking bank accounts. Like, whatever happened to grown folks debating each other?” “He was spinning bullshit and knew it,” Kelly said. “So does every politician whenever those fuckers open their mouths,” I said. “We were the ones fighting for free speech when conservatives went after hip-hop in the nineties. Us. Liberals. Now all the sudden you’re a right-winger if you support the Constitution?” “Geaux Burrow!!” the Benglals fans yelled. Kick off time. “Geaux Burrow!” I yelled, on my feet. *** Fucking Saints were up by six at halftime and I stepped out to bum a smoke. Scrolling through my phone, I was about done when Nadia joined me outside. “Kell Bell was too proud when I brought it up in front of you but agreed to move in.” “Yeah? And what did I agree to?” I asked. “Do y’all even care?” “She’s family,” Nadia said. “Sure it’s not more than that?” I asked. “Wow,” she said. “That’s a new low for you. I’m not her type.” “I’m—sorry, Nadia. I just—I don’t know.” I stepped on my butt. Kelly had waited for us before reaching for a fresh Yuengling. I downed mine and slammed the bottle on the table. “Okay, Kell Bell. Nothing against you, but I’m not interested in a roommate situation right now.” “Let’s forget it,” she said. “Let’s not,” I said. “Finish this pail with me. Maybe another, and whoever wins?” “Deal,” Kelly said. A couple more in us, and Burrow was catching up, down by two. I couldn’t sit. “Let’s Geaux! Come on, D!” Defense showed up, but the gift from heaven was the punt return. First and ten at Cincinnati’s forty, Burrow threw a sixty-yard Hail Mary to fellow Tiger Ja’Marr Chase. Touchdown. The Bengals were up by four. I high fived our friends at the pub table and finished the pail with Kelly. The Saints unleashed Kamara for a gain of seven yards. “Shit! Come on, D!” I reached for a Yuengling when the new pail arrived. Andy Dalton and Kamara did it again. Another first down. “I can’t,” I said, about to go outside until Nadia stopped me. “You’ve had your smoke,” she said. She was right. Plus, that damn J.J. Larue would become a fixture in my home if I failed to keep up. The one who didn’t fit in. The one everyone counted out when it came to not being a crank, but he’d proven capable of showing affection and simply felt inferior to Brooklyn. An underdog not trying to be one. Maybe I was wrong to have made a snap decision about him. Maybe he needed time to get to know me. “Yeah!!” the Bengals fans yelled. Andy Dalton had thrown to Kamara for an incomplete. “That’s it, D!” I yelled. Another incomplete. Third down. The Bengals sacked Andy Dalton, and I shook my ass in the air. As expected, the Saints were going for it on fourth, and another piss-poor throw was all she wrote. Burrow took his knee. “That’s it! Geaux Burrow!” I yelled. “Geaux Larue! J.J. Larue!” My fellow Bengals fans were apparently so buzzed that they must’ve figured J.J. for one of Burrow’s teammates, joining in. “J.J. Larue!! J.J. Larue!! J.J. Larue!!” *** Nadia laughed when I stared into the empty pail. “You were going on about J.J. and Kelly won,” she said. “Damn,” I said. “That’s—that’s messed up, man. I mean—hey, whatever. Win some. Lose some. Right?” Nadia had two glasses of wine before halftime and drove, and when she pulled into our driveway, we caught Blanca on our neighbor’s décor bench. “My God,” Kelly said from the backseat. “That’s your neighbor’s cat?” Aside from Blanca’s bright orange nose, ears and tail, the fur covering her body was ghost-white, and her ice-blue eyes were always stunning. “She’s no one’s,” Nadia said, taking the key from the ignition. “She’s feral. Here and there for food.” “So, get her some,” Kelly said. “Yeah,” I said. “Since we’re expanding the fam and all.” The dogs greeted us at the door. “J.J.!” I yelled. He stayed friendly when I rubbed his cheeks. “Victory!” I yelled. Brooklyn barged in and J.J. bit my thumb before snapping at her. ROO! “You’re bleeding,” Kelly said. And fast. Shit. After all I’d just pulled off in honor of his name. That damn J.J. Larue. Nathan Pettigrew was born and raised an hour south of New Orleans and lives in the Tampa area with his loving wife. His story “Yemma” was recently awarded 2nd Place in the 22nd Annual Writer’s Digest Short Short Story Competition and appeared in the winnow. Other stories have appeared in Deep South Magazine, Penumbra Online, The “Year”Anthology from Crack the Spine, Roi Fainéant Press, Cowboy Jamboree, and the Nasty: Fetish Fights Back anthology from Anna Yeatts of Flash Fiction Online, which was spotlighted in a 2017 Rolling Stone article.

Distant Rumble The child could hear the highway As he lay awake at night The distant rumble filled him with wonder Where were they all going he thought As all those cars pushed through the dark As soon as age allowed him He took to the road Taking exits to towns unknown Yet none of them held The answers he expected He only found lonely places Filled with others who dreamed as he had Wishing to take to the road But with nowhere to go Get Your Perfection Off My Lawn! The perfect life is like the perfect lawn An artificial construct pushed upon us By hucksters who think they can sell us happiness I don’t want to be evenly trimmed My edges clean, uniform and neat Let me be rough and full of weeds My ideas and behaviors, wild and untamed A mix of colors textures and hues May I never be forced into an even mold But roughly cast in nature’s image

There is nothing about the dirt-smeared past that debates can’t rise from but people are now distracted with the argument that this generation can’t build anything from the ground up and maybe every territory has a flag stamped on its sand and I have never been one to argue about its colors—I like sunshine yellow and sky blue and being alone with them, unreachable with only my unfitting frame and art traceable from afar but it turns me red how those people gut shame the easily obliging when it should not be our responsibility to speak up on the corruption we co- exist with so before you call my spirit weak let me say that history is filled with weakness and spirits, not in the way you think. History used to be my forte until only the dark skies and thundering calamities are passed on through time and I sketched the similarities between their heaven and their sky for years ‘cause I couldn’t find a reference picture I liked because it had nothing to do with me. I’m the selfish one when the debaters / social commanders already had ground the fitting shape of their body parts and I envy being a chunk of something strong; even now, it’s the silenced ones with soil in their mouths who taste all the dirt upon speaking. Grandfather said I must rise as a leader and a leader tries to change things and a leader is precise which is why they’re almost never agreeable, then he stubbornly pinpoints every last drop of my kindness to hang to dry after the pouring rain, the airspace not clouded in blue and not dusted in yellow; only gray with fogged up ancestors eyeing down from wherever they are to wherever their families are and they only speak in one tongue, the words that gave them the immortal bliss where they can pass down wisdom to everything below unlike the unluckier ones in their generation who put faith in the wrong weather and I know after having my head up in the clouds that stories have different versions which is why I write and dream that it’s not raining at another part of the world; maybe that’s where grandfather is and he can’t see the shadow left of the story I believe and unbelieve in because in the one I currently live in, I don’t think I can find any familiar faces in the heavens or the sky that this side of earth still argues for Cailey Tin is a southeast Asian-based teen creative. A vivacious reader and spirited writer, she is a critical writing manager and spoken word co-host at Incandescent Review; a columnist for Paper Crane Journal, Spiritus Mundi, and Incognito Press, among others. When not editing poetry for the borderline or Sophon Lit, she’s (imagining) chipping away at pieces—some published or forthcoming in Eunoia Review, Ice Lolly Review, Sage Cigarettes, and elsewhere. When not busy with schoolwork, it’s with school, piano, or exercising because she has scoliosis.

they journey together, on the breaths of winter blinking under streetlights, in twilight intricate, in their remarkable essence it’s impossible to tell them apart, as no two are alike you watch them dance their last dance part of nature’s charm, before final chapters are written, all that’s left is a snowy quilt reminding of life’s brevity fragile, like cottony seeds of dandelions in spring *** incidental passengers, on their way to the unknown Andrea Damic, born in Sarajevo, Bosnia and Herzegovina, lives and works in Sydney, Australia. She’s an amateur photographer and author of prose and poetry. She writes at night when everyone is asleep; when she lacks words to express herself, she uses photography to speak for her. Her literary art appears or is forthcoming in Roi Fainéant Press, The Exphrastic Review, Door Is A Jar, The Dribble Drabble Review, Five on the Fifth, Your Impossible Voice, 50 Give or Take Anthologies and elsewhere. She spends many an hour fiddling around with her website damicandrea.wordpress.com. You can also find her on TW @DamicAndrea, Instagram @damicandrea and FB @AndreaDamic

When Dad got sick in the nights his eyes would ignite and he’d yell, —Where is she? He’d prop himself up by the elbows, his head a searchlight. —Too long, too long, too long, he’d say, as the blind clacked against the open window. In the mornings he wanted Weetbix sprinkled with sugar and softened with boiling water. A mist of fine sugar first. I watched the crystals dissolve. Gone. No milk. His stomach could not take milk. That morning he dug his spoon in but did not eat one bit. The aroma of scalded wheat intensified and he said, —I know you know. He heaved my sister’s doll, Raggedy-Ann, out from under his pillow. His lips were trembling and I could not look. —Go. Find ... out. I shook my head, tears heating. —I’m not like her. —Yes, you are. ... Up before the birds on Saturday mornings my sister Elisa and I watched Aerobics Oz Style religiously. Half-asleep, hair-matted, pyjamas staticky and settling into the cracks we were primed for criticism. On the floor close to the TV I inspected the lithe bodies and strained muscles. —Oh, she can’t hold that for much longer. —Look at her face! Elisa made her body liquid, oozing it into the couch. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, lizard-like, every so often she’d jolt her Raggedy-Ann doll into the air and shake it emphasizing her words. —Effie’s putting on weight. — She won’t be happy with that. — She’s out of time. Her eyes would slide to meet mine, their look both sorry and disappointed, as if she were Effie’s coach. I just want so much for her, she’d whisper on the side lines. —Ye Gods! That colour really doesn’t suit her. —She looks shocking. —Can’t keep up. — Late night fight with her boyfriend. And Elisa would raise her brows and the doll—its red, string hair quivering and settling. At Christmas dinner one look between us was enough. A hint of a chance of a look, and our eyes widened at the mound of minted peas Uncle Rod was attempting to shovel in. One pea toppled. Two. Three green balls rolling. A plop into the gravy boat—quick sand. My sister snorted lemonade out her nose and I fell off my chair. Elisa told other kids that she had a horse called Maple Towers and that the only person Maple would let ride her was Elisa. —You’ve got to hear them. Horses. Get up close and listen. By then kids had gathered round wondering if it were true. I’d nod along, and exaggerate, which was my job and I was pretty good too. That was the old days when it was easier to understand what was required of you. Plus, there weren’t consequences, or if there were, you could talk your way out. Why couldn’t she talk her way out? On the phone she said, —It’s ok. I’m a foreigner. They don’t want attention. They leave foreigners alone. ... On the plane I sat Raggedy-Ann in the spare middle seat. I looked at her but she couldn’t look back because her eyes were black woollen crosses. Raggedy-Ann could speak in my sister’s voice and she said, —Anything I can do, you can too. I almost believed her. When my flight came in we flew low over the city for a long, long time. I couldn’t believe the city was everywhere; its white haze of houses stretched beyond the horizon in all directions. Above, a veil of cloud was so thin in places that I could peek through. Stacks of bleached houses crawled up mountainsides. From the blue of the air, and the way it hovered I knew straight away that everything was ancient and half-between. The worlds had mingled and it was hard to tell what belonged to this world or that. In a place like this you did not assume anything. Entire hillsides were slotted with rectangular orange houses, on the next slope the houses were pink then blue. They grew like fungi or black mold smothering an organism. Ghosts could’ve danced from one rooftop to the other for weeks and weeks and never leave the city. From the city I took the bus. In the middle of nowhere a dust cloud got up and out of it emerged an army truck. Soldiers in camo, guns first, boarded. One poked an assault rifle into my red backpack, barking something. The passengers swivelled to point me out. The soldier took one step toward me, his chin bucked and he turned and disembarked. I clutched Raggedy-Ann tight in my fist. Maybe my sister was right about them not messing with foreigners. An hour later we lurched into town. What I would say about this place is that it was not old. It was temporary, tattered, coated in dust as if a tornado had just whirled it together. The hills kneeled in, looking down on it, sorry for it. From the moment I stepped off the bus I thought of getting out of there. That night I slept with Raggedy-Ann tucked under my pillow despite the fact that the lump of her hurt my neck. In the morning I walked to find coffee and on the corner a woman sold some from a huge aluminium pot atop a cart. Before I could stop her, she squeezed in a plop of condensed milk. Certainly, it’s a strange thing to walk the streets of the city in which your sister died, disappeared, well ... died. I know she’s dead. I hate getting to that point in explaining because I do NOT know which word to pick and then I have to go on and explain the official report and agreed upon fact is missing and then also, do I mention the thousands of local girls? Gone. Dead, too. All the while my heart is holding her, because she was mine, MY sister. Then I have to go on too much with my heart already torn out, and this tissue thing in its place that can’t absorb anything and I’m afraid I’ll whimper instead of a word. So I do NOT mention her. ... It’s two in the afternoon and Raggedy-Ann feels like she knows these streets. I tuck her and a bottle of water into my red backpack and walk. I wander the miraged avenues under buzzing power lines and suddenly, HERE: a pink ribbon and a wreath of cloth petals, lavender, pink and blue, framing a photo of a girl just like my sister. My howl comes out a whimper. HERE! On a street corner, at a crossroads, where no one goes. A shrine. Lucky I can squeeze Raggedy-Ann. Lucky despair does not rise in my throat. No, it is a cinder of anger, glowing. I choke it down into my gut. Scorching. My fucking sister; quick of limb and swift of wit. My fucking sister with her no one’s going to tell me what to do. Across the road a kid on a bike rides side on so he can stare at me. A rooster emerges in a pod of dust from a gap under a house. He struts, looks behind and darts around the house leaving a streak of gold. I’ve got to focus, but I can’t. —Stay with me here. That’s what Elisa said the last time I spoke to her. Her voice was very clear and quiet. I heard the dread in it and I heard the traffic far away and music closer. —Where? Where? For God’s sake! But she would not say and if I yelled I knew she would hang up. I imagined the countryside: flat plains, threatened by distant blue sierras, gangs of dusty dogs and mounds of stones gathered. The air was high up here, dissolving with every breath. Fuck, I wish I could keep on track. Elisa went away to school. She worked nights cleaning office buildings and sometimes slept there with the light of the copier a robot in her dreams. She became a journalist. We argued about it sometimes, especially when she wanted to investigate what happened to the girls. She said she’d sworn to tell the truth. An oath, she said. Bullshit. There is no truth. In a booth at the pub we had a screaming argument. Elisa stood on the booth seat, tapping her toe on the table shouting, —This here’s reality. This table right here. Tap tap. I showed my teeth and gave my derisive laugh. —Reality doesn’t exist. FUCK ... —Out! The barman pointed to the door. —Reality. I finished, real quiet, because something in me could never leave things undone. Two years back when Elisa arrived in this town she messaged me the name of the hotel. La Garbancera Internacional. WTF. Neither of us spoke Spanish but Google translate said it meant The International Chickpea Farmer and brought up etchings of La Catrina. I looked into those black orbits for eyes and I knew nothing good would come of it. But would she listen, of course not. I was the dreamer; my curse a too vivid imagination. She was the practical one. Now, two years after, it is my imagination getting me by. The wondering I did led me here. I want to know what happened, to imagine what it was like for her. I bought practical shoes and a camera. I restrain myself from taking photos of weird, beautiful things like the shiny skins of gaping pumpkins on the roadsides. Instead, I record landmarks and business names. I take photos of girls. Most of them are factory workers wearing grey marl track pants, sneakers and long hair in plaits or rolled into dollops on their napes. If no one ever sees them again, I have them here, in a photo. Back in my hotel room a woven cloth covers a glass table. The cloth’s tasselled ends are scribbles of sky blue, pink and orange thread. Beside the TV a brown plastic tray holds sachets of international roast and powdered creamer. Two amber glass lamps guard a thatched seat which comes from a particular town where the main road is workshop after workshop full of men with machetes whacking and weaving wood and flax into a seat of comfort. Maybe one of them had been a resting place for my sister. My idea is to take a taxi at 8pm. This is the same time Elisa called me from her taxi. ——Don’t worry about me. I know what I’m doing. Oh God! I am thinking. Very quiet now ... —It’s always the same taxi. North. How does she know? She hums as if to cover what she’s saying. —out of town, past the storehouses, past the calzada, the old train station ... I hear the voice of the taxi driver. —My daughter, hija, work there. —Where? She never speaks to me again. —Ok, she says after a long while. Car doors slam. That’s it. Out the window the night is a blue haze, decorated by distant lights. I have no idea what I will say to the taxi driver. I know you know. What happened? At ten minutes to eight I take Raggedy-Ann and go downstairs. Her dress is now a line of purple at her navel and she has threads for hair. The foyer of the hotel is dim and loud from the TV behind the reception desk where a man in a crisp white shirt bounces his leg from the knee and does not look at me. Out front, three yellow cabs are spaced evenly. What if I get the wrong one? I squeeze Raggedy-Ann’s waist and I get the sense that I should wait. I go to the 7-Eleven and come away with two packs of gansitos that feel fleshy under their orange wrapper. One of the taxi drivers is eating. He sets aside his red plastic basket of tacos and wipes his moustache with the back of his hand. Before he’s done I’m in. —North, I say. I’m meeting a friend at a hotel. He watches me through the mirror. He spreads his hands wider than his head. —Big hotel? I nod. I’m not nervous. I swear to God I’m not. The taxi moves silently through dark streets. Street vendors wheel carts home. Dogs lay on the curb sides. Kids kick grubby balls high into the air. Soon there are long warehouses with tin roofs, and fewer houses. A field of agave, blue under the moon. No people now. I’m frightened already and Raggedy-Ann is no help. I spy a white arch that marks the entrance to the calzada and swivel to watch its retreat. I could push the door open, roll out and run. I’ll tell Dad we were wrong; this is not the town. Here’s a grove of dark trees, oranges, I think. A factory and beside it a shop and more houses now. —Mi hija. Work there. The driver stretches an arm out indicating the factory. I hug Raggedy-Ann to my wild, running heart. My fingers are so tight on her that I can feel my blood move in them. I see lights now. White stairs. Pillars. Two palms either side. A grand hotel. We’re slowing, nearing the entrance. We wait while a woman and her daughter cross. The little girl looks back at me with big, sad eyes. —Embarazada, mi hija. Daughter. The taxi driver moves a hand in a semi-circle in front of his belly. Pregnant, he means. His eyes go all big and darty. I feel him tighten. He turns right around, looking me up and down. I can tell he wants to hate me but his eyes turn to jelly and his face crumbles. —Ayyyy, he cries. Two men wait at the top of the hotel steps. One wears a soft, brown bomber jacket. He races down. There’s a gun on his belt. Raggedy-Ann knows. The taxi driver’s body has gone limp. His neck shakes. He yanks the wheel and squeals away as I reach to lock the door. I am thrown across the seat. I lever up. We are back on the highway, heading straight into lights. Brakes screech. I scream too late. We skid away. Side on, the truck slides towards us. It’s one of those with wooden side rails, stacked high with water melons. Bang. Thunder. God, it’s loud. I yell, but I can’t anymore. Darkness rises quick in my head. My eyes. Glass flies. Melons leap and splatter. Raggedy-Ann flings away. When the silence gets up, the little girl breaks from her mother. She snatches up Raggedy-Ann, and coos at her, —Eliiiiisa. Shh-shh, Elisa. Tina Cartwright(she/her) lives on Wurundjeri country in Naarm/Melbourne. She taught Languages and Creative Writing in New Zealand and Mexico. Her work has appeared in Overland, The Victorian Writer, The Saturday Paper and SBS Voices, among others. In 2023 her novel The Krill and the Whale was longlisted for The Michael Gifkins Prize for an Unpublished Novel.

Darling (Always) What lies behind those inscrutable eyes, darling? The longer I watch you gravitate towards that which glitters, the more I yearn for you to care why it does. For long as I can remember, I have watched you pursue the bright with no care for whether it was foil or fluorite—have you truly no concern but that it sparkled? Did you know, darling, it is but a myth? That those of the corvine persuasion are drawn to shiny objects? In fact, they are likelier to be frightened than fascinated, and so the metaphor I was so ready to launch was a failure before it ever took flight. Nonetheless, darling, won’t you come home to roost for a while? Sit by me and survey the treasures you’ve already gathered. And know that when you return from your inevitable next pursuit, there they’ll still be, lustre dulled only by your seeking eyes. Rain All Tuesday, it poured, as if some intentional attempt to dissipate the palpable ache that had hung heavy in the air for the past few weeks or years. At 4:37pm, I stood by the open window in my living room and watched a slate sky weep relentlessly, recalling how you used to say It’s raining like a bastard with a glint in your eyes, the first time simply because it was part of your vernacular, and every time after because you loved the way it made me cackle. As droplets ricocheted off the sill onto my fingers, I thought about the time I touched your face and asked about the melancholy on the edge of that glint. You smiled then, and with sangfroid I had encountered again only in one other person, replied—I’m afraid it’s just the rain. Allison Thung is a poet and project manager based in Singapore. Her poetry has been published in Chestnut Review, ANMLY, Heavy Feather Review, Cease, Cows, and elsewhere, and nominated for Best of the Net, Best Microfiction, and Best Small Fictions. Allison's debut poetry chapbook is forthcoming with kith books, and she reads poetry for ANMLY and Chestnut Review. Find her on Twitter and Instagram @poetrybyallison, or at www.allisonthung.com.

Recipe for Averting Disaster (contributed by: C.E. Hoffman) ⭐️ ⭐️ ⭐️ ⭐️ (7) 30-45 min 287 calories (burnt) 18 servings of self-doubt 212 servings of catharsis You will need: 1-2 garbage bags 1 pair scissors (sharp) 1 Fuck You, Breakup, and/or Emo Party playlist (ad-free ideal) 2-3 items of clothing belonging to or bequeathed by the dearly departed lover who doesn’t care if you end up homeless 1-3 items of sentiment belonging to or bequeathed by the dearly departed lover, same (fabric items ideal, eg. stuffed animals, like the two-headed cat he got you at the Freakshow Museum in Cliché Falls) every ounce of long-buried rage you can muster Directions: (Note: this recipe requires a willingness to accept that the dearly departed lover was a narcissist or at least exhibited emotionally-abusive tendencies.) 1. Whip your rage into a frenzy. Remember: he cheated. Remember: he sabotaged your housing. Remember: he has never, ever been accountable, and never, ever will be. 2. Crank the music. Suggested openers: P.S. I Hate You (Simple Plan), Vigilante Shit (Taylor Swift), Gives You Hell (All-American Rejects.) 3. Funnel your freshly-whipped rage into a concentrated stream of destructive vitriol on his clothing. (100% cotton is best for warming up; save thicker hoodies and polyester for later to avoid overstraining the mix.) 4. Stir the tatters of your love life thoroughly until all identifying marks are removed. 5. Let sit 5-10 min. 6. Transfer tatters into one of two garbage bags. Set aside. 7. Pick up the two-headed cat he got you at the Freakshow Museum in Cliché Falls. (Remember Medea: the pain is fine as long as he’s not laughing. Remember every scorned woman and all hell’s furies.) 8. Behead the beloved memento from the last time you were naive enough to think you were happy. (Remember: live things bleed; dead things keep smiling.) 9. Garnish the stuffed garbage bag(s) with the cat’s deflated, grinning heads. 10. Leave outside the house the dearly departed lover made sure you wouldn’t get. Best served chilled. C.E. Hoffman (they/them) was born, gave birth, and tried to die in Edmonton, AB (not necessarily in that order.) A grant winner, Elgin Award nominee, recipient of a Silver Honourable Mention in the L. Ron Hubbard Writers of the Future Award, and winner of the 2022 Defunct May Day Chapbook contest, they wrote their first novel at eleven years old, and have continued writing ever since. They’ve been published widely online and in print since 2010, and edited Punk Monk Magazine since 2012. Current releases include SLUTS AND WHORES (Thurston Howl Publications, 2021), BLOOD, BOOZE, AND OTHER THINGS IN NATURE (Alien Buddha Press, 2022), GHOSTS, TROLLS, AND OTHER THINGS ON THE INTERNET (Bottlecap Press, 2022- Elgin Award nominee), and NO ACTUAL SIN (May Day Press/Defunct Magazine, 2023.) LOSERS AND FREAKS is forthcoming from Querencia Press. Find their publishing CV at cehoffman.net/publications, follow them on Twitter @CEHoffman2, and listen to their podcast Scribbles & Spills.

‘Mummy, look, a ghost did a painting.’ Maddie looks. On the kitchen table is a painting of a bucolic country scene. There is a farmhouse with a blue door and a white gate leading to two fields: one of sheep and another of cows. The picture strikes a dim chord in Maddie’s memory. She puts a hand on her daughter’s shoulder and says: ‘I don’t think ghosts do paintings.’ ‘Did you do it, then?’ Elodie’s face is caked in glee. ‘When I was asleep?’ Elodie’s thought that a ghost would be more likely to do a painting than her mother says a lot about her creative talents, Maddie reflects. ‘No, not me, darling.’ She wonders if Elodie did the painting, but she has never seen her eight-year-old daughter produce anything as proficient as this. And Elodie would have given the game away by now. Yawning, and wondering whether this tiredness means she’s coming down with a cold, Maddie takes out the breakfast foods. Cereal for Elodie, a bagel for her and porridge oats for her husband Rob. She’s given up trying to make everyone eat the same thing. ‘Daddy says he didn’t do it.’ Elodie exchanges the Special K for chocolate granola. ‘He must have.’ Maddie swaps the cereal packets back; Elodie makes a face. ‘I didn’t,’ calls Rob from the utility room. As Maddie picks up the painting, she realises where she recognises it from. It’s the farmhouse in Scotland that she stayed in as a child. The next painting to appear is of Elodie as a baby. Elodie decides these two artworks are early gifts from Santa, and Blu Tacs them to her bedroom door. ‘But where are they coming from?’ Maddie asks Rob. ‘Do you think Elodie has a talent for art we’ve never known about?’ ‘Not according to her school report. Maybe Banksy’s coming into houses now.’ When Maddie mentions the paintings to her mother, she says, ‘Well, of course you’re doing them, darling! Don’t you remember what happened when you were a child?’ ‘What?’ Fear slides down Maddie’s body. ‘You used to sleepwalk,’ her mum says, as gaily as if she’d said You used to ice skate. ‘You’d scribble on the walls with your felt-tips; such a pain getting it off. When we took you to Doctor Cole, he said not to overstimulate you, whatever that meant. It stopped after about six months, thank the Lord.’ Rob holds his phone aloft, like a priest with the body of Christ. ‘We have proof, Maddie.’ Maddie and Elodie watch as he starts a video. Maddie’s fingertips tingle as she sees herself painting the church in which she and Rob married. In the film, her expression is somewhere between vacant and intent. When she has finished, she tidies the paints away and goes upstairs. The film stops. ‘Put it on TikTok, Daddy,’ Elodie pleads. ‘Mummy could get famous.’ ‘Oh no, you don’t,’ Maddie says. ‘Mummy could become a laughing-stock. How did you know to film me, Rob?’ ‘I heard you get up,’ he says, ‘and it was obvious you were sleepwalking. It was amazing to watch you in action. You’ve got a real talent, Maddie.’ Maddie looks at the painting on the table. It is more abstract than the others: angels hovering in the top corners and noisier colours. Though she too thinks these drawings and paintings are good, it’s unnerving to do something she’s unaware of. And what if she falls downstairs or decides to bake when she’s asleep? What if she drives her car? If she could produce paintings in the daytime, maybe the sleepwalk-art will stop. She wouldn’t be so tired that she falls asleep while putting Elodie down at eight o’clock. Maddie has Fridays off work. She goes late-night shopping one Thursday and buys a sketchpad and watercolours. She lays the brushes, pot of water, paints and paper out reverently. She has no idea what to paint, and tries to recall an image from memory. Nothing comes. She closes her eyes and listens to distant voices and disordered traffic noises through the open window. By the time she opens her eyes, it is three o’clock and she is late to pick up Elodie from school. When Rob takes Elodie to a birthday party, Maddie sits down to paint. This time, she tries to recreate a photo of Elodie. What she produces looks like her daughter, but doesn’t capture her spirit. It’s as if someone who doesn’t know Elodie has drawn her. Maddie, Rob and Elodie travel to Rob’s parents’ house for a weekend. It is unseasonably hot and they have a barbeque. Maddie wakes the next day and encounters the absence of a body next to her. The room is filled with light. She falls back to sleep. When she gets up, there is no one in the house. Everyone is outside, staring at a charcoal drawing on the white garden wall. As she walks over, Maddie feels as if she is underwater, her limbs moving through heavy silken liquid. She hadn’t wanted more people to know about the sleepwalking episodes. Especially people who worry as much as Rob’s mum and dad. ‘You dipped chicken bones in charcoal,’ Rob says to Maddie. ‘Very resourceful.’ Elodie’s laughter floats across to Maddie as she scrubs her hands in the downstairs toilet. After Rob has taken photos, he and Maddie wash the wall. ‘Have you seen your GP?’ Rob’s dad murmurs as they are leaving. ‘Perhaps you should visit a counsellor,’ Rob’s mum whispers. Maddie makes an appointment at the doctor’s surgery. The doctor asks how many units of alcohol she drinks and if she is stressed. Maddie says there’s been talk of redundancies at work. Her weekly alcohol intake is within normal parameters. The doctor suggests downloading a mindfulness app, lowering her alcohol intake and turning off her phone at least two hours before going to bed. Maddie is made redundant. She had not enjoyed her marketing role for a long time, but it is a blow to her self-esteem. Rob says that he earns enough to support them. Maddie doesn’t tell him that she’d rather they made an equal financial contribution to the household. Maddie’s sleepwalk-art rate increases. In one week, she does five pictures. Once they run out of paper, and she uses knives and forks on the kitchen table. Rob doesn’t say this is very resourceful. They have a small party at home for Rob’s birthday. Maddie’s best friend, Gillian, and her husband, Dev, stay over. Elodie goes to Maddie’s mother’s for the weekend. In the morning Maddie is woolly-mouthed and headachy. She finds Gillian, Dev and Rob nursing mugs of coffee and looking at two paintings. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Gillian demands, as Maddie says: ‘Any more coffee in the pot, Rob?’ ‘It’s her secret super-talent,’ Rob tells Gillian, as he pours coffee grounds. ‘I’ve scoured the internet and never come across anyone who can do this. I keep telling Maddie that she could be a YouTube sensation.’ Embarrassment and anger swirl in Maddie’s gut. She knows Rob is proud of her, but he doesn’t understand that it can be a frightening thing to have your body making different decisions to your mind. She wonders how he’d feel if when he was doing a Park Run, his legs involuntarily ran backwards instead. ‘Who wants toast?’ she asks. Gillian puts her hand on Maddie’s arm. ‘Rob showed us the pictures and videos: all of your stuff’s fab. You should have an Etsy page and sell it.’ ‘That’s a great idea.’ Rob pours boiling water over the coffee grounds. ‘Maybe,’ Maddie says. She would feel like a fraud, she thinks. She doesn’t consider herself an artist, it’s like she has a creative doppelganger. ‘Is everything you do this good?’ Dev asks. ‘Oh no, some of it’s lousy,’ Maddie says. ‘And sometimes I do something I like but paint over it another night.’ She turns away to make breakfast and the conversation changes. Later on, though, walking on the Downs boy-boy girl-girl, primary-school-trip style, Gillian mentions selling the art again. ‘I can create an Etsy page,’ she says, fingering the plait snaking over her shoulder. ‘All you’d have to do is send me pictures. Think of the extra cash.’ Maddie recognises that her friend is being tactful; what she means is You could do with the extra cash. In the distance, church bells bang and bong. Maddie wants to say no to the Etsy page, sensing this is getting out of control. But she could do with the extra cash, she’s still not got a job and the interviews are thin on the ground. With the headlines stating the UK is about to plunge into a recession, it seems possible she won’t be working again for a long time. ‘Okay, thank you,’ she says. ‘Can I just ask, Gill – don’t tell anyone how the art’s come about. I don’t want to be trolled.’ The art sells well on the Etsy site. Joy coursing through her, Maddie sends Gillian a bottle of prosecco and puts up her prices. Told you so😉 Gillian texts. Think how much more you could charge if people knew how they were created! xoxo The bank that recruited Rob a year ago makes cuts, and he too loses his job. Last in, first out, his boss says apologetically. Maddie and Rob have savings but their mortgage is large, and Elodie does many activities, the latest of which is expensive horse-riding lessons. At least the stress makes Maddie artistically productive. She starts selling on BigCartel, where she makes more money than on Etsy, and uses Pinterest and Instagram to generate a buzz; she soon has hundreds then thousands of followers. She tries not to let impostor syndrome take over, and puts her prices up again. She pays to make the sites feature her art more prominently. Despite this additional income, they have to cancel Elodie’s horse-riding lessons. Maddie sees from Rob’s face that he feels as bad about this as she does. Their relationship has taken on a barbed texture. She knows that he both does and doesn’t like the fact that she is the one earning the money. ‘Can’t you paint when you’re awake, too?’ he asks one day. Maddie gives a huff. ‘I have tried. I’m not really an artist, Rob.’ ‘You can literally do it in your sleep, Maddie. Of course you’re an artist.’ Maddie is ironing Elodie’s school uniform when her phone rings. It’s an unknown number, so she doesn’t answer. Maddie returns to the ironing. A beep indicates that a voicemail has been left. Maddie trembles as she listens. ‘Why would I talk to a journalist about you?’ Gillian demands. ‘I’ve no idea.’ Maddie tries not to shout into her phone. ‘You tell me.’ ‘Well, I wouldn’t, and I didn’t. Maybe you called them in your sleep.’ ‘Not funny. Did she offer you money?’ Maddie paces the room, averting her eyes from her paintings which Rob has framed and hung. ‘For God’s sake, Maddie. This has got nothing to do with me.’ ‘Well, how about Dev? You and he are the only two people who know about it, apart from my in-laws, and I can’t see them doing it – they’d be far too embarrassed.’ ‘Dev would not have done it.’ ‘Well, then, who?’ ‘I suggest you look a bit closer to home,’ Gillian says, and ends the call. ‘I’m sorry,’ Rob says, ‘but you’d have said no if I’d asked. I just thought it would increase sales – and I’m sure it will.’ Rob’s face morphs and melts as he speaks. Maddie’s thoughts are ants, centipedes, spiders as she listens. ‘It’s one article in a local paper.’ Rob puts his arm around her; she shakes him off. ‘You declined to comment, so they may not even print it.’ Maddie puts on her coat and steps into the brittle cold. She has no plan, apart from to walk as far and as fast on the Downs as she can. The article appears on Page 2 of The Chronicle. The headline ‘I Can Do It in My Sleep’ appears above Rob’s photo of Maddie’s Scottish farmhouse painting. There are links to her Etsy and BigCartel sites. There is a photo of Maddie, and her name and age are given. ‘You’re famous, Mummy!’ Elodie says. ‘Can I bring the paper to school to show my teacher? Please?’ The Chronicle’s article is syndicated. Maddie’s story appears in the Guardian, the New York Times, the Times of India, China Daily. And many others. In one day, Maddie receives one-hundred-and-sixty calls. She is asked to go on This Morning, Loose Women, the local and national TV news, the local and national radio. Her Pinterest and Instagram sites have thousands of followers. Maddie sells all of her paintings. She has no more, as she has not painted in her sleep for weeks. She is so tired from the media furore that she sinks straight into sleep and doesn’t wake until morning. Her story fades like colours into a rainbow and vanishes. And then there is another unexpected phone call. Editing a WhatsApp message to Gillian, seeking forgiveness, Maddie swipes right and accepts the international call by accident. ‘Hello,’ says a female, American-accented voice, ‘can I talk to Mrs Madeleine Woods, the artist?’ ‘This is she,’ says Maddie, warily. She has never said ‘This is she’ in her life. ‘I represent the singer, Rihanna,’ says the voice. Maddie laughs in disbelief. ‘Rihanna wishes to purchase your painting of her. Please arrange to have it sent as soon as possible, we will pay all shipping costs.’ Maddie remembers how many of the news articles featured her painting of Rihanna, one of the first she had done. Quite a few used a photo of the singer alongside headlines such as ‘I Paint Rihanna in My Sleep’, which Maddie thought made her seem like a crazy fan girl. ‘I’m sorry.’ Maddie pushes her untidy morning hair out of her face. She imagines this woman coiffed and highlighted and styled in an office overlooking the Hollywood sign rather than in a bedroom overlooking an unruly apple tree with two fat pigeons in it. ‘I’d love Rihanna to have my painting, but it’s not for sale. Someone bought it.’ ‘That is a problem.’ The woman’s accent stretches out the vowels. ‘Yes,’ says Maddie, the word catching like a fly in her throat. ‘You could paint another?’ But whatever she attempts will be lifeless. She doesn’t try to explain this, as people can’t fully comprehend her being an artist who cannot paint unless she is asleep. She gets asked about ideas and influences, as if she has either. ‘I’m like a thumb with no fingers,’ she said to one journalist, who did not print this pearl of wisdom. ‘No, I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘I’m so flattered, though, and I hope Rihanna can find another painting that she likes. Or another painter.’ ‘Would it help to know the amount she’s willing to pay for your painting?’ The woman names the sum. Maddie’s teeth vibrate. ‘Oh my God,’ Rob says, as if light has poured through a crack in the clouds. ‘Never mind Elodie starting horse riding lessons again, we could buy her own horse – scrap that, we could buy the Pony Club.’ ‘Yes,’ Maddie says. ‘We could.’ But this is hypothetical, the idea of the sale sliding away as if they’re trying to grasp it with wet hands. ‘You could try to get the painting back, Maddie,’ Rob says. Anita Lorenz lives at Fifty-nine Cemetery Gardens, Gateshead. It will take Maddie six hours and nine minutes to drive there, or six hours and thirty-nine minutes by train and bus, according to Google Maps. It takes eight hours and fourteen minutes by train and bus, and nobody answers when Maddie presses the doorbell. The sound echoes through the beige new-build. Maddie wonders why on earth she didn’t email. Anita Lorenz might be away for the night. At least she’s booked a hotel; she can return in the morning. But what if Anita goes to work in the morning? Maddie’s train is at ten thirty. What if Anita Lorenz is on holiday? Maddie sits on the wall. At least it’s warm, thin slices of early-evening light falling onto the path. She scrolls aimlessly through her phone, ignoring Rob’s texts. ‘Are you wanting me?’ The woman speaks with a North Eastern accent, sounding somewhere between nervous and irritated. She is wearing an electric-blue furry coat and has a shiny handbag over one shoulder. Maddie puts away her phone and stands, smiling. ‘Anita Lorenz?’ ‘Who wants to know?’ The woman narrows her eyes. Out of sight, a dog barks. ‘My name’s Maddie Wood,’ Maddie says. ‘I think I recognise the name,’ Anita says. ‘Are you on the telly?’ ‘No – well, not really. You bought a painting of Rihanna from me. Online.’ Anita Lorenz grins. ‘Ah, right. I gave it to my sister, Donna. She really loves Rihanna. Thinks she looks like her – she doesn’t.’ Oh no, thinks Maddie. A woman who really loves Rihanna has her painting. ‘So what are you doing here?’ Anita asks. ‘Could I come in for a minute?’ Maddie wishes she’d brought a bottle of wine. There is a moment when she thinks Anita will refuse, and Maddie will have to trudge back to her hotel with the bathroom that hasn’t been cleaned properly and try to reconcile herself to the loss of the largest sum of money anyone has ever offered her. ‘You’re not trying to sell me anything?’ Anita asks. ‘Definitely not.’ ‘Okay,’ Anita says. ‘My daughter’s at her dad’s until tomorrow, so I’m doing nothing.’ Maddie takes her coat and shoes off in the small porch. To her surprise, Anita offers her a drink. She says yes, and Anita leads the way to a sitting room the colour of a disappearing coral reef. There are squashy sofas and, on the windowsills, the blocky signs that Rob takes the piss out of: ‘Family’, ‘Live Laugh Love’. There is lots of art on the walls, including a huge painting of the River Tyne and many of a girl who looks about Elodie’s age. Anita brings in a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and a tube of Pringles. ‘What do you want me for, then?’ Anita pours the wine into two of the largest glasses Maddie has seen. ‘Okay, I’ll come straight out with it. Would you sell my painting back? Or rather, would your sister?’ Anita stares at Maddie. ‘I know how I know you! You’re the sleepwalking artist. I read about you on social media – a friend shared an article. I didn't realise it was you who'd done the painting. Should’ve read your bio.’ Maddie realises the likelihood of getting the painting back has now reduced; Anita will think it’s more valuable having been painted by someone sort-of well-known. She asks what it’s like to sleepwalk, which is a question Maddie has been asked before and still finds strange. How can she know what it’s like to do something she’s not aware of? She says that it’s like your brain deciding to have a rest while your body decides it’s time to go snowboarding. Anita throws her head back as she laughs. ‘And do you get lots of free things, being famous?’ ‘I’m not really famous,’ Maddie says. ‘I mean, not like Rihanna. I don’t have much of a talent – or not when I’m awake.’ ‘You’re the only famous person I’ve met. So why do you want the painting back?’ Maddie and Rob have rehearsed this, although the best they could come up with was that it has sentimental value. But Maddie doesn’t want to lie to a friendly woman who is filling up her wine glass. She tells the truth, and Anita’s eyebrows shoot up. ‘Shall I open another bottle?’ she says. ‘We could order a takeaway as well.’ Gosh, Maddie thinks. Is this what happens to ‘famous’ people, because non-famous people feel as though they know them? She offers to pay for the takeaway, and Anita accepts. By eleven o’clock, Maddie and Anita are drunk and full of Pad Thai, and Maddie has failed to get her painting back. ‘There’s nothing I can say to make you change your mind about asking Donna?’ Maddie hears the defeat in her voice. ‘No. Well… okay, let’s make a deal.’ Anita drains her glass. ‘If you stay the night and do a painting I like, I’ll try to make Donna give Rihanna back. If you give her some of the money from the resale, anyway.’ ‘Oh, but I haven’t done a painting in ages,’ Maddie says. ‘I can’t do it on demand. I wish I could.’ Anita shrugs, and as nice as she is, it’s clear this is her one and only offer. Maddie accepts it. ‘You can sleep in Lily’s room,’ Anita says. At least, Maddie thinks, when she is squashed into Anita’s daughter’s bunk-bed wearing a pair of Anita’s pyjamas, her sleep-art seems to coincide with the times she has slept badly and drunk too much. Maddie wakes at seven facing a Rainbow High poster, her foot on a fluffy bunny. She follows the rich smell of coffee. Anita is at the kitchen table, looking at her phone. There are no paintings on the table. ‘I’ll get you a coffee,’ she says. Anita’s coffee is thick and strong. Maddie sips it while Anita makes toast, and tries not to think of the hotel breakfast she has paid for. She looks at the pictures of Lily, at every stage of life from babyhood to pony-tailed in a blue school uniform, on the walls. There are also ones of Anita and Donna, who is not just a sister but a twin. Donna has braids while Anita has an Afro, but they otherwise look identical. ‘That’s a lovely painting.’ Maddie indicates a framed picture of a horse. With a pang, she thinks of Elodie’s love of horses. ‘Did you get it online?’ ‘Ha, no. I did it, actually. Years ago, I took an art foundation course, had dreams of being the next Gwendolyn Knight. Nothing came of it, obviously. I’ve done a lot of the paintings in the house.’ ‘Wow,’ Maddie says. ‘I mean, I don’t know much about art, ironically. But this is much better than most of the stuff I’ve seen online. Better than my paintings, too.’ If only Rihanna was into horse pictures. ‘That’s kind.’ Anita puts the plates of toast on the table. ‘I’d love to have the confidence to sell my art.’ ‘Can I see some more after breakfast?’ Maddie asks, as an idea starts to form. Maddie and Anita sit in the green room of a Cardiff TV studio, sipping sparkling water and smiling nervously at each other. Rob and Donna are in the audience. Elodie and Lily are at school, and will be picked up by their respective grandparents. A runner takes the two women to the studio. As they walk down the noisy corridors, Maddie squeezes Anita’s hand. The host, Rosella, who has sleek blonde hair and wears a dove-grey dress, introduces Maddie and then Anita to the audience. ‘I’m so fascinated by this story,’ she says, with a white-white smile. ‘I wish I could paint when I’m awake, let alone when I’m asleep. I also hear Rihanna is one of your biggest fans, Maddie!’ Maddie returns her smile. ‘So,’ Rosella says, ‘you, Anita, witnessed Maddie creating this brilliant picture when she was sleepwalking, right?’ A large painting of the River Tyne is projected onto the screen to Oohs from the audience. Maddie feels her face redden. Anita says nothing. ‘Would you like to tell us the story, Anita?’ There is a brittle edge to Rosella’s voice, although her smile stays in place. ‘Sorry, er, yes. Well, it was a really strange thing… Erm, Maddie’s a friend of mine, we met when we were younger on holiday. I read her story and got back in touch. I couldn’t believe she was really able to paint in her sleep, but she came to stay at my house and did just that. I heard noises and followed her downstairs and watched her do the painting. There’s so much detail in the picture, it was like she was actually there.’ Stop now, Maddie thinks. ‘It’s a fantastic painting,’ Rosella says. ‘And you’re auctioning it live on this show.’ ‘Donating part of the proceeds to the Equine Trust,’ Maddie chips in. ‘It’s a charity that provides horse therapy to children with special educational needs and disabilities.’ At least this speech is true. The Equine Trust’s logo is projected for the viewers, and Rosella reads facts about the charity from an auto-cue. ‘Let’s open the bidding!’ she says. Someone calls in and bids three hundred pounds, the amount flashing neon-green on the screen. Anita looks incredulous. ‘And we have four hundred,’ Rosella trills. The painting sells for a thousand pounds. ‘I feel so bad,’ Anita says. ‘We conned that woman.’ ‘Anyone called Lady Rogers-Hythe can surely afford a thousand pounds,’ says Rob. ‘Plus the Equine Trust will benefit.’ ‘And it’s a brilliant painting,’ Donna shouts, her head in the mini bar. Maddie wonders whether to say that although the TV company is paying for the hotel room, this generosity might not extend to a bottle of champagne. She decides not to. ‘But she wouldn’t have bought it if she’d have known I’d painted it,’ Anita says. ‘She thought she was getting Maddie’s artwork.’ ‘You’re the real artist,’ Maddie says, as she has said many times in the past few weeks when Anita has had a wobble about the plan. ‘I’m a sideshow. You deserve to be famous, and Lady Rogers-Hythe is lucky to have your painting.’ ‘I’m going to use some of the money to enroll in a watercolour course,’ Anita says, ‘and to take Donna and Lily on holiday. Lily’s never been abroad.’ Donna opens the champagne, and liquid froths down the sides. She pours four glasses. ‘Oh,’ she says, ‘I almost forgot.’ She passes Maddie a cardboard tube. Inside is the painting of Rihanna. The lights dim, and a woman strides onto the stage wearing a black leather bustier and a frothy pink tutu. As the first chords of ‘Diamonds’ plays, Maddie and Gillian scream along with everyone else in the London O2 arena. ‘Thanks for bringing me,’ Gillian yells in Maddie’s ear. ‘So nice she gave you the complimentary tickets. Didn’t Rob want to come?’ ‘Oh,’ Maddie says, waving at Donna and Anita who are walking over from the bar. ‘Rob’s not really into Rihanna.’ Sam Szanto lives in Durham, UK. Her debut short story collection ‘If No One Speaks’ was published by Alien Buddha Press in 2022. Her collaborative poetry pamphlet, ‘Splashing Pink’, was published by Hedgehog Press in July 2023. Over 80 of her stories and poems have been published/ listed in competitions. In 2023, her novel ‘My Daughter’ was longlisted for both the Yeovil Prize and the Louise Walters Page 11 Competition. She won second prize in the Strands International Flash Fiction Competition 18 and wrote one of the winning entries to the Southport Writer’s Circle Competition. In 2022, she won the Mum Life Stories Microfiction Contest and the Shooter Flash Fiction Contest and was placed second in the Writer’s Mastermind Short Story Contest. Her short story collection "Courage" was a finalist in the 2021 St Lawrence Book Awards. As a poet, she has won the 2020 Charroux Prize for Poetry and the First Writers International Poetry Prize, and her poetry has appeared in a number of international literary journals including 'The North'.

I was talking to a friend of mine. It was early but we were both late out And we mouthed at the reflection In the other's eyes. And as we hugged and headed back down She gave me my umbrella. (Forgotten some night before). We traced : zn+1 = zn2 + c on our ways home talking through the marvel of telephony Warding off the highwaymen of this Babelbound city. We each in turn reached our houses and struggled with the keys, Flung our luggage on the floor groped our way up on hands and knees. But before then, the most important part, Yeah, there was this - this umbrella - Yeah, and I was walking home, swinging it in all kinds of orbits, both hands locked in tighthand fists mapping how Mandelbrot taught us, Wave-particle duality between my wrists. The umbrella canopy leaked the fourth colour into my eye, which Since has never opened so wide To the prospect of some sort of meaning; I fell in love for the last time - I was walking back with it in my hands. Wish I could remember where I got that umbrella. I left it somewhere I shouldn't have. But still I can see the umbrella spires, Spinning through my hands. I was a match glowing in the dark And I thought for maybe just a second I was floating a couple feet high; it was like a renaissance. My lungs opened up to the smiles of a kind of symbol, beckoning me into the sky. Will Staveley is a poet whose work has been featured in Poetry Quarterly, The Dawntreader, and Poet's Republic amongst other journals. He was also runner-up for the 2021 erbacce poetry prize and is looking for an unlikely home for his book-length imaginary translations of Ezra Pound's Cathay.