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Your wings so fast you blur across my yard. Your body no more than an inch long, a blend of bee and moth, though neither bee nor moth. You flit from day lilies to roses, hyacinth and marigolds, then to our service berry bush and up to the neighbor’s locust tree—so fast that speed itself gets jealous. At 73 I am dismayed. I can’t remember your name! But then I recall that a name is not your business, not your concern— a matter of indifference to the nectar you gather, the flowers you befriend, and the merry hues that guide your flight. Charlie Brice won the 2020 Field Guide Poetry Magazine Poetry Contest and placed third in the 2021 Allen Ginsberg Poetry Prize. His sixth full-length poetry collection is Pinnacles of Hope (Impspired Books, 2022). His poetry has been nominated three times for both the Best of Net Anthology and the Pushcart Prize and has appeared in Atlanta Review, The Honest Ulsterman, Ibbetson Street, The Paterson Literary Review, Impspired Magazine, Salamander Ink Magazine, and elsewhere.

murmuration i drew a bead, wings of carnival glass plumage, he summoned a cloudburst of starlings for his eulogy where to find the sweetest mango in mumbai beg your pardon nay, manila i heard her say or perhaps that fabled garden that ruined us, either way J. R. Wilkerson is not Dr. Hurst's prized pupil, but he's working on it.

The phone rang. A shrill, uncanny sound chiming from the tiny depths of the dusty machine. It had been so long since he'd heard the noise it took him a moment to remember where the thing was. Warm morning light stretched across the floor as Arthur lumbered over to answer. The voice on the other side said something to the effect of "hello" and then delivered the news that Theodore had died, overnight. The funeral would be in three weeks, in the Central Place. "Thank you for telling me," Arthur responded. "I will see you all there." His hand just a little shaky as it returned the phone to its base, less gently than he had meant to. He received the news feeling flush, vacant, and hot. Like an empty tea kettle. A numb tingle in his fingers and the tips of his wings. Theodore had gone out of his way to be polite to Arthur a number of times, a few moments he hadn’t needed to show that kindness. Arthur had never been to a funeral. Only one other person had ever died during his lifetime, 80-something years ago, he had only been maybe 15 years out of the academy and was working so remotely that no one could even get a hold of him to tell him about it. There hadn't been phones yet at the time. Possibly that's the project he had been working on – building the telecom infrastructure that zigzagged across the continent, but he couldn't remember specifically. No funerals had taken place since then. A strange feeling in his chest. Dread? Something very dim, but lurking deep in him. It would be nice to get back to the Central Place, he told himself, be a good chance to talk to some people he’d been wanting to talk to. Everyone would be there. But the prospect of flying over for this occasion brought with it an unpleasantness he couldn’t articulate. As he packed the phone rang again, no less startling this second time. It was Leeza. They’d been friends for so long he didn’t have a distinct recollection of having met her. Just a long jumble of memories – talking about music and books over coffee and beers for almost a century. “I assume you’ve heard?” was how she started the conversation. “Hello, Leeza. Yes, I just got off the phone with… whoever it is makes these calls now.” “James makes the calls, Arty.” “I can’t imagine having to make that phone call over and over.” “Brutal,” she agreed. “Did you know Theodore well?” “I did. I think I’d say I did. There are others who were closer with him. Worked with him and such. He’s only about 40 years older than me, I can’t believe it. Got sick, and it ended up going pretty fast. Some virus.” “Weird.” “You’re coming to the ceremony?” “I am, yes. Just started packing.” While he talked, Arthur filled a kettle and put it on the stove. “Ok, well. I guess I’ll see you there. It will be nice to catch up. Feels like you’ve been off in the middle of nowhere for ages.” “I’m not isolated out here. There are seven others on this side of the mountains, never more than a day to see any of them. We get together fairly often.” “Hmm,” she sounded distracted. “Well, you said you were packing. I’ll let you get back to it, I guess. See you in a bit. Let me know when you’re in the Central Place, we can get a coffee or something.” “I’d like that. I’ll be in touch.” She hung up the phone, probably to immediately place another call. His wings twitched a bit. Arthur had just been waking up when the first call came in, and hadn’t been outside yet since the day before. So he went out on the wide deck that surrounded most of his house, felt the cool air on his skin, and yawning, stretched his feathered wings; broad and strong. Arthur was about thirteen feet tall, his wings nearly that across. He had ash brown hair, just long enough to be tied behind his head. For 50 years this had been his view, and occasionally he remembered to find it beautiful. Nestled into the foothills on the west side of the Third Mountain Range, the last ridge before the ocean started. The land rippled, like the ocean it hugged. Trees blanketed the terrain in all directions, the forest was thick, green, and teeming with tiny life. In the fall the landscape blazed like ember, and in the winter snow rested on the oranges and yellows until spring when the green returned. The kettle whistled so Arthur went inside to pour it over some tea. His home was simple and comfortable. Mostly a single large space to accommodate tall bodies and a wide wingspan. A dome, smooth and broad, open but filled with smartly designed furniture, and the occasional artwork where space and taste decided. It was likely that at least one of the others who lived on this side of the mountains would come by before it was time to leave for the Central Place, and Arthur looked around to see how much tidying would need to be done before he wasn’t embarrassed to receive guests. A large drafting desk took residence on one side of the living space, along with imposing and overstuffed shelves. For work, Arthur was currently planning and designing a dock for the region’s coast. Paperwork and plans for the project were stacked everywhere. A decade prior, one of the Engineers had invented a sort of boat that used their wings to sail great distances across the water without the fatigue of flying. Since then there has been a slowly increasing need for places to find and store these boats. These coasts were rich with wildlife, the region was home to a vast and beautiful underwater reef. As such, great care was needed in any new construction near the water to ensure negligible damage to the precious ecosystem. For over a year he had been observing and measuring the coast. Soon, was the plan, he would be expected to begin construction. Arthur was one of the five Builders, currently. It’s what he had been taught in the academy as a young man, and he had shown himself to have an impressive level of competency though perhaps not the excellence of some of the other Builders. He had been doing this work for 98 years. Sipping tea he looked out at the garden he had cultivated outside his house. He was proud of some of what he’d accomplished there, messy as it all looked. This was a difficult region to grow things on purpose, things quickly became overtaken by native foliage. It felt like the ferns grew faster than it took for tea to cool. The ferns here were beautiful, Arthur didn’t resent them their will to spread. But they had the habit of choking out everything he was trying to grow. And when the ferns swept in, it only took a day or two before the mushrooms sprung up underneath. Not mushrooms you could do anything with, as far as he or any of the Horticulturalists had found. His vegetables, the medicinal herbs and tea plants, none of it stood a chance. Each season he’d harvest the pittance he’d managed to grow but year after year it remained meager. Some years better than others, but the trajectory was flat. More than anything, what had grown was his desire for cultivation of plants to replace his work as Builder, though he hadn’t brought himself to tell anyone that he felt that way seriously. At the end of the week, with no announcement beyond approaching above the horizon, Charlton appeared. He was much older than Arthur and had never once used the phone that was installed in his home eight decades ago. “Never saw the need for it” he’d usually say. Someone must have delivered the news about Theodore in person. One morning Arthur looked out to see his distinctive, grey shape gliding casually toward the house. Arthur recognized the wing shapes of everyone who lived on this side of the continent, but Charlton’s he knew best. As soon as Arthur saw the speck moving toward him on the horizon he put on water for tea. Charlton flew a healthy distance above the treeline in a way that made it easier to cut through the air, took less effort to stay up. It was colder, but for Charlton easier was more important than comfortable. “Hey Carl, just finishing some tea,” Arthur said as Charlton landed. “That’d be nice, thanks Arty.” He was out of breath, his endurance wasn’t what it had been in his youth. “Good to see you. Glad I didn’t clean up for nobody.” Arthur placed the ceramic mug with tea he’d grown in front of the guest. “Thank you,” he said, blowing gently on the tea to take a sip. “How’s your work been going?” “It’s been fine. Moving along.” Charlton made a slight face at the taste of the tea. He did a good job of hiding it, but Arthur saw. “Arty, I might need something with a stronger punch after the trip. Do you have coffee?” “Sure thing, no worries,” he took the mug back and dumped the tea down the drain, putting the kettle back on to boil. “I was probably going to head east in the next day or two.” “You mind if I tag along?” “I’d be happy to have someone to fly with. I may need you to show me the way.” Charlton chuckled his deep, raspy laugh. “Sure, just follow me, son. Is that one of mine?” he pointed to Arthur’s mug. “It is, I think you made almost all the dishware I own. Makes everything taste better. When was the last time you went over the mountains?” “I don’t think I’ve been since the last funeral. Almost a hundred years I guess, then.” The kettle sang, so Arthur went back over to pour it into the coffee press. He leaned against the counter waiting for it to brew. “What have you been working on?” “Nobody out here has needed anything specific. I’ve done a lot of sculptures these last years, but it’s been a long time since anyone has taken any so I’m just populating the valley in front of my house. It looks ridiculous.” “After all this is done I’ll come take a look and get one off your hands.” “I don’t need your consolation.” “Just a visit from an old friend.” “A young friend.” “Call it want you want.” It was quiet, Arthur brought the coffee in the same mug the tea had been in. “Did you know Theodore?” he asked. “I did,” Charlton said. “Very well.” Again the air hung quiet, thick as mud. Conversation reluctantly continued, but the talk at that point remained quite small. Arthur prepped the guest space for Charlton to sleep and shortly after sundown, Charlton retired there. Arthur stayed up with a glass of whisky and a single lamp, the edges of the room swallowed by thick, jagged shadows. Cool night air crept from the open windows. He listened to the forest come alive as night critters began their business. Dutifully, the moon was flying high and bright by the time he fell asleep on the rugged, old couch. It was about a two day’s flight from his home far on the western side of the continent, to the Central Place. A few decent spots to rest in between, pavilions marked by incandescent lamps with bunks and washrooms inside. He’d built a few of them. Charlton packed light, brought almost nothing with him; simply the clothes on his back and a satchel strapped between his wings. Two large bags weighed Arthur down, but not as much as the extra years Charlton carried with him so their paces were essentially equal. They stopped three times each day for a refreshment and to catch their breath. At each Resting Place were new companions who joined them for the duration – everyone heading the same way. Adeline, Wynton, Frederich, Bernard, Regina and Abella had all become part of the group by the final night, resting at the feet of the Second Mountain Range. There was plenty to talk about among the travelers who all knew each other quite well, but there was not much talk that evening. The sky filled with more and more traffic as they drew nearer to the Central Place. Almost everyone in the world was gathering for the ceremony. Even when nothing was happening, the Central Place was still one of the largest communities in the world. There were around 20 people who lived here full-time. It was home to the only library as well as almost all of the museums and most of the restaurants they had room for. If anybody wanted any of those things they simply had to come here. The town was built surrounding three immense towers: the Staying Towers, looming in front of them as they flew in. Usually, they stood mostly vacant, but these permanent hotels needed space for their entire population for occasions such as this. Each tower was 10 stories tall, with three rooms on each floor, a large balcony and window in each room for access. No doubt since the news about Theodore, Central Place’s residents had been hard at work to prepare for the visitors: cleaning each room and calling for the extra food that would be needed. Arthur helped Charlton to his room and then found his own, dropping off the bags and collapsing onto the mattress, his wings screaming with exhaustion. Arthur slept for the evening, the night, and some more. The sun was bright when Arthur woke up but it wasn’t hot, not this time of year. Blinking, he squinted out the window. Central Place was a collection of squat, rugged buildings that the town had been accumulating for a few thousand years. Each showed the architectural influence of its era, making for a collage of styles throughout the valley. Some buildings had come and gone, but in general, things were built with the intention that they would last and they were maintained so that they did. At certain times, Builders had also worked to make structures beautiful. Each of the buildings was beautiful, Arthur found, but he did admire those that made decorations of themselves. People were making themselves busy throughout the valley. Central Place was buzzing with activity in all directions. Arthur pushed both of his hands across his face to try and press the grogginess away. He reached for the phone near the bed and waited for the operator. “Morning,” he said. “Is this James?” Arthur asked. “No, it’s been a very busy few weeks and James took some time off. I’m an apprentice. Mitchell.” “Nice to speak with you Mitchell, my name’s Arthur. I’m a Builder from out west.” “Hello, Arthur,” he said, sounding harried but there was courtesy intended in his voice and Arthur detected it. Mitchell must have been quite young. Arthur had never met him. “Can I help direct a call?” “Yes, I am looking for Leeza. Could you get me in touch with her room?” “Of course, one moment. There’s a lot of people here now and I’m very new at this.” “Take your time, Mitchell. I understand.” The phone clicked and started to play the same ambient, drone instrumental that had been used as hold music for the last 60 years everywhere on this continent. The same piece that had been composed in an afternoon by Claire, one of the Musicians, an old friend of Arthur’s. She’d had a little phase where everything she wrote were these drifting, mutating drone compositions. Different structures and instruments, but always the same relentless sound. Even though she had long since moved on from the ideas of it, that era of her work lived on as the hold music any time an operator needed to find a phone connection. The last concert of hers he had attended was a performance of the jaunty, chamber music she had been interested in lately, but that was years ago and possibly she’d since moved on from that, too. When everyone was at their regular homes, and when the main operators weren’t delegating to apprentices, only a tiny snippet of the hold music was ever heard because connections were made without much delay. This time, it took much longer. It was sort of nice to listen to the piece, give it some time to breathe. It reminded Arthur of hearing Claire’s work from that time. It did sort of wash over him, like she used to talk about. Wrap around his head and squeeze his body. Fill his ears and then his lungs. Until abruptly it clicked away and Mitchell’s voice returned. “Arthur?” “Yessir.” “Alright, I’ve got Leeza’s room. I’ll transfer you over. I don’t think she’s there now but you’ll be able to leave a message.” There were a few rings before he was, indeed, sent to a message machine. He told Leeza which tower and which room he was in, and that he’d be heading out to the bookshop now that he was in town. She could call the room back and try to make a plan or catch him out and about. He tried to leave a simple message and hung up, hoping he had said everything that made enough sense for her to find him without being too much bother. There was a peculiar feeling in the city. It was bustling, crowded, crackling with energy. People were eager to meet and reconnect with old friends and acquaintances. It was only for deaths and births that the entire population gathered like this, and it had been a long time since either had happened. Decades. The excitement of greetings and conversations floated through the air. Still, it felt burdened by the purpose of the gathering. The death of someone almost everyone here had known at least a little. The weight of the death floated through Central Place like fog. The bookstore had enough open space to accommodate their large bodies, but still, if there were ever more than a few people at a time it felt cozy at best and cramped at worst. One corner had a population of tattered old furniture each with people sitting, looking at a book or just looking. He picked up and leafed through the same horticulture books he’d already read at home. There was nothing new on the subject since he’d bought everything he could find. A new edition maybe, but it was hard to see what was different. Arthur wanted to be seen looking at the books, though he was embarrassed when he realized that. He put the books back on their pile and paced over to the new releases table. A sign for the table had been assembled, by the looks of it in some haste, with which a black marker that shouted simply: “NEW”. It had everything that had been published in the last three to four years by every writer in the world. Chances were decent that the table would be empty by the end of the month, with so many people looking to refresh their shelves while they were in town. There were a few bookshops dotted here and there, but this was certainly the most robust. “Have you read ‘Walking a Vine-Bitten Trail’ yet?” came Leeza’s familiar voice from behind him. “I did, yeah. Really good work. Parker is still doing stuff worth doing.” “Exciting that there can still be such compelling storytelling, even after all these centuries. Sometimes I wonder if we’ll live to see the end of that.” Leeza was a little taller than him, her arms were lean and muscular and her black hair was kept short. “I don’t think we will,” Arthur answered. “We’ve got at least one more generation's worth of stuff to read.” “You want to go see Malcolm and get a cuppa?” Arthur was happy to see her, but couldn’t decipher her current feeling. “Yes, let’s.” Malcolm’s coffee shop was almost on the other side of town. Leaving the bookstore Arthur and Leeza scanned the sky overhead for clearance before hopping up into it. Three or four gentle flaps basically got them where they needed to go. The day was temperate and sunny, so there were many tables outside the shop and most of them were full. Arthur saw a crowd full of faces he knew, though it had been a long time and many challenged him to find their names. People were catching up on their lives and exploits. He heard some talking about Theodore; telling stories and laughing or ending in a sigh and a heavy quiet. “Leeza!” Malcolm said when they walked in. “Nice to see you.” “You too Malcolm. Arthur and I have been looking forward to a cup from you.” Arthur noticed she’d used his name to let Malcolm off the hook if he didn’t remember. She was in the Central Place a lot more often than he was for her work fixing machines. Though she didn’t live here she was closer than he was with the people who did. “Nice of you to say. What’ll you be getting?” “I’ll just take it black,” she answered. “You, Arthur?” “Same,” he said. “Dark and hot, please.” “Two connoisseurs.” He ground the coffee beans by hand and poured fresh, filtered water for each individual cup. Arthur wondered who made these mugs, they were definitely not Carl’s, that’s for sure. He’d left this region a long time ago. Before he and Arthur had met. With their coffees in hand Leeza and Arthur navigated the crowded landscape to an empty table. “How’s your work been?” he asked as they sat down. Leeza blew on the coffee and attempted a sip but stopped short of her lips. “It’s been steady. There’s always something broken that needs to be looked at. Flying out to fix appliances or whatever. Repair power stations. I was here to look at Malcolm’s coffee roaster earlier this year. That was a fun thing to figure out how to fix. How about you? How’re the docks coming?” “They are definitely coming,” he took a sip of his coffee and it was incredible. Truly shocking how much better it was than what he made at home. “I’m done with the locational observation, the Biologists I’d been working with are satisfied and they headed back over the mountains. Finishing the details on blueprints and then I guess it’s on to building, and that’ll be my thing for a while.” “That’s exciting, right? Getting to the fun part!” “I guess so, yeah. I guess building will be the fun part. I haven’t done it in a while and honestly, I’m not super looking forward to it.” “What part of it?” “The building part of it.” “The whole thing, then.” “Yeah.” “How long have you been feeling like that?” “Last couple projects. More and more each time.” “You’ve got a lot of building ahead of you still, young guy like you.” “Mhmm,” he nodded. “Hm,” she sipped her coffee. “I’ve been working on my garden. Around the house.” “That’s good, find a constructive thing like that to do in your free time.” “Constructive.” She chuckled, “I didn’t mean it that literally.” “No I get it,” he smiled as he sipped his coffee. “This garden, you want to tell me about it.” “Yeah, I’ve really liked working out there. I like seeing things grow, and I’m trying to get good at it.” “What are you growing?” “I’m trying vegetables, some tea herbs. Stuff like that.” “And you’ve seen some success with that,” Leeza said with a tone that was flat but not rude. “Sure, some.” “Would the vegetables agree?” “Depends on the year.” “Depends on the year,” she repeated. “Look, I want to get good at it. I like doing it, I want to be good at it.” “You are a good Builder.” “Sure. I know.” “You think you could be a good… gardener?” “Maybe.” “What do you want to do with it?” “I’ve thought about figuring out how to preserve some of the vegetables. In jars, with seasonings I could also grow. With vinegar. Provide some food for others who live past the Third Mountain Range.” “So you want to make pickles.” “Yeah, make pickles. People like pickles.” “Some people do,” she paused. “This is a tough thing. I’m sure you’re not the first person to feel this way. Or even the only person here today that does. But I dunno, Arthur, it’s a hard thing to think about.” “Mhmm.” He looked into the half-drunk coffee. Dark as he’d asked for it. “Are there any apprentice Builders coming up?” “Not that I know of. It’s only a matter of time, though.” “You know a lot of people would love to be able to have such an obviously productive job. Something you can really point to and say ‘That’s what I did, I built some damn thing and now it’s there and we all use it.’ You know what I mean?” “I’ll teach ‘em.” “Who? There’s no one sitting around.” “I know.” “We’re all needed. Everyone’s pretty much doing something.” “I know.” “If Malcolm left and went to be a Builder out by the seaside, in the verdant hills of the Third Mountain Range there’d be nobody here making coffee and roasting beans for you to take home.” “I know! It’s just a drag, that’s all. I’ve just been thinking about these plants and everything. Learning more about how to do that.” “Well,” she drank the rest of her coffee. “I dunno. You can definitely keep working on the garden. Work on learning how to grow things and whatever. I don’t think this is the time for this. I don’t think you can do anything about it this week. You wanted to talk about it, and I’m glad we did. But we did talk about it.” She was right, Arthur knew it. Or at least he knew that would be what everyone thought about it. A feeling of resignation in his gut conflicted with the jitter of strong coffee. But, she was right. “These beans are great. Obviously, Malcolm can make a good cup, but there’s something to the fresh beans. Any other good Central Place stuff I should get while I’m here?” he asked. “You like whiskey right?” “That I do, Leeza.” “They just bottled a new batch that’s done aging. It’s supposed to be really lovely. It’s a long flight to carry a case of liquor, but see what you can do.” “Thanks, yeah. I’ll start with a bottle.” Finishing the coffee, Arthur felt a bit slumped. Many around him also did by the look of it – at a funeral, he wasn’t totally out of place looking slumped. He made an effort not to let himself feel disappointed about the garden talk, because he couldn’t expect anything else. It was a few more days until the ceremony, and after that, his life would continue, his job would continue, and he’d continue not to enjoy it probably, but it would continue. Shrugging he told himself that his garden could also continue. Arthur and Leeza hugged, made plans to see each other again before too long – there was a show coming up that he should definitely come see, she said. And he returned to his room in the tower, with a stop to get a bottle of the beer Brewmaster Holly made. He sat by himself with the drink, reading a comic that had been provided in the room. It felt half-assed. The sun went down and Arthur decided to go to sleep along with it. The days brought opportunities to visit what Central Place had to offer – see people, acquire the recommended whisky – then they passed. A pink sky welcomed the day of Theodore’s funeral. At the ceremony, Arthur found a seat and saved a spot for Charlton. A ring of stone benches surrounded a broad platform on which sat a great kiln, already heated and smoking, and a workbench, positioned like an altar. People gathered over the course of the morning until the benches were almost full. Charlton was one of the last people to arrive, Arthur waved him over, gesturing to the open seat. With lethargy, he drew toward the opening, and sat down slowly. “Every time I come to one of these I hate them more and more,” Charlton said, almost in a whisper. “I know.” “Here we are.” “I’ve never been to one.” “You are lucky. I couldn’t handle being the Potter. Making the urns, after…however long it was, 400 years. It’s why I left the Central Place.” “That’s why you went out west?” Charlton nodded. “Has it been easier out there? Easier to do your work?” “Most of the time. Sometimes I feel the weight of the clay. There is beauty in the possibility of a new thing it makes. Most of the time that is what I feel. But sometimes the terror, the weight of our ancestors in it. It does become a lot on occasion.” The Central Place Potter, Dion, flew to the kiln at the center of the circle and the ceremony began. Taking a deep, deliberate breath, he began to speak, each word clinging to the solemnity of the moment: “In this kiln is the vessel of the departed Theodore. His body, already passed into ash, has been rendered in its glaze.” Dion opened the kiln, which exhaled a pillow of smoke, and retrieved the urn. It was an empty jar. Empty and sealed shut. Theodore had been cremated in the same kiln, and his remains had been used to craft a glaze for the urn. Theodore’s glaze was a vibrant, shimmering green. Placing the still-hot vessel on a tray, the potter held it high and walked around the platform for all in attendance to witness it. They did so with a great, expansive quiet. Charlton looked at it and then down at the ground. Arthur rested his hand on Charlton’s knee for comfort, Charlton took the hand into his own. The population was quiet. The breeze gently pushed through the air. Birds chattered. Dion continued, “Theodore is returned to the clay that has borne us all. His body and his name will now return to the earth that bore the clay.” A wide wooden bowl was placed on the altar, and the urn was placed inside the bowl. Dion took hold of the hammer from the ceremonial tools. In the silence of the morning, he brought the hammer above his head, and gracefully down onto the urn. The crack echoed in the stillness as the urn shattered. He swung again, and a third time, and then returned the hammer to its place among the tools. Dion gently lifted one of the broken pieces from the bowl, holding it delicately between his fingers. “Each piece will be taken, and placed in the old dirt of our homes. Scattered. Permanent. Anonymous. A final journey, in a hundred directions. A hundred partners. And we all say: farewell.” Every voice in the circle repeated: “Farewell.” Dion holding the first piece, bowed his head, saying nothing more, and then looked up to fly away. One by one, in no order, everyone stood to do the same: reach into the bowl for a piece of broken clay and depart. Leeza a piece, James a piece, Charlton a piece, Adeline a piece, Wynton a piece, Frederich a piece, Bernard a piece, Regina a piece, Abella a piece, Malcolm a piece, Claire a piece, Parker a piece, Mitchell a piece, Holly a piece, Arthur a piece. At the end the bowl was empty, but for some dust that would be taken by the wind somewhere to rest – fulfilling its own part of the process in a way. Once every fragment had been flown back to its carrier’s home, all over the world, and buried in the ground the ceremony would be complete. By the time Arthur got back to his room at the Staying Tower, many others were already vacant. He packed his bags, carefully placing his piece of the urn into a pocket he had planned for it, wrapped in thick, rough cloth. It was customary for this part of the journey to be taken alone. Alone with what was left of the departed. Standing on the balcony of his room, Arthur watched as people flew in every direction to their homes. The sky was cluttered. After checking the room one last time for anything forgotten, he entered the cluttered sky and began the journey home. It was long after dark before he stopped for the first night, finding the light of a rest area where others were already asleep in bunks. He flew at a quick, steady pace the second day to reach home before noon, and found he’d left a light on. Embarrassing. Though he was tired and very hungry, he attended first to completing his portion of the rite. With the small chunk of clay in his hand, Arthur leapt and descended from the deck of his home to the garden, looking quite shaggy today. He walked among the plants he’d grown, touching them, greeting them. Looking at their leaves. Smelling their aromas. There was a tea plant that seemed to be struggling this year. It had given him the first tea he had ever grown himself and brewed. He knelt beside it and pushed the shard from the urn down into the soft soil. Patting the dirt he said out loud again: “Farewell.” Charlie DeMott Wildey is a writer based in upstate NY. His book Lightning Bolt is available from NFB Publishing, and his work can also be found in The Rialto Books Review.

Hecate All this happens on my pillow – here travellers lay down their dreams, asking me to break them open. And I do, spread them out on the wide landscape of my blanket, where they play peek-a-boo until morning; when, narrowed by the fear of waking, they steal away again. I am an oneiric gardener. I tend to them softly, hardly understanding how my own dreams doze away unheeded. The day I went back The day I went back from being a poet of extinct thought to being a reader, saying, No, dears to the May beetles in my head, these impossible creatures, to find the relief of capitulation – how this handed me back my kinship with words! Now I let it pass me by when it comes, my voice. Not through me, I tell it, the way one’s parents’ most memorable words are, Quiet. Not now. Say later, Later. How late never is. Alexandra Fössinger is the author of the poetry collection Contrapasso (Cephalopress, 2022). Her work is published in Tears in the Fence, The High Window, Frogmore Papers, Mono, La Piccioletta Barca, and The Wild Word, among others. She is mostly interested in the spaces between things, the overlooked, the unsaid.

when hollywood got off the phone some days before he found the nerve to take his gun to bed wanting to be already lying down we had spoken for an hour or more back in touch following a reunion engineered by friends he could not sleep he said could not think straight was troubled by voices in the sky by memories in the guest room do you remember he said do you remember that night we ran i do remember we were four in the car young and running scared the car behind us full of killers sabo was driving and that was good he saved our lives that night no question he started the beef for some bullshit fun with a little pistol i had brought along and there we were on a big old ride hollywood next to sabo calm and mute hollywood handsome and strong carson in the back with me and shit completely out of hand and carson carson the maggot carson the fool wanting to stop and fight sabo had to wreck the family car but that was good it saved us sprinting from the wreckage scattering into the lebanese night to safety by the old beach road sabo and hollywood both died headshot selfshot in the deep safe heart of america in their middle years but just the other night dead these five years past crazy grinning sabo showed himself to me i survive but do hallucinate speaking with the dead i said hey sabo where you going with that hole in your head that silver ghostly blood i had to ask seeing the hole where the bullet went in a rapid blessing the gun held long enough to speak i kid myself with all this talk of oblivion of forgetting of forgiveness i do think of carson sometimes and how we all disappear w v sutra was born in Africa and raised in Southeast Asia and the Middle East, borne hither and thither on the surging tides of cold war and soft power. He has been at various times a rock musician, a public health professional, and an educator. He began writing poetry during the Covid-19 lockdown. His work can be found in various print and online journals He lives and works on a horse farm on the shoulders of the Holston Mountains in East Tennessee.

I admit, there's nowhere left to bury you I've never been good at graveyards, at leaving what's dead behind there are so many corpses tied to my legs, that I drag around in the name of nostalgia- I loved you but whatever it is that now lies dead between us, once plump and red-cheeked, now smells of rot- of time lost, plans abandoned, so much love unspoken Zakaylah Shyanne (She/her) currently resides in her hometown of Lansing MI, where she is becoming her absolute worst self. She has poems and short fiction on personal blogs as well as non-fiction essays. She is also featured in Sophon Lit’s inaugural issue, Issue 3 of Sad Goose Coop, and Amphibian Lit's 5th issue.

Playground I lie In a basket swinging, looking at the clouds, feeling a chilblain of sun on my face. Watching an Irish flag wave its patriot colours. I Hear a distant tinkling a cow bell ringing. ‘Hey diddle diddle The cow jumped over the moon.’ Baby bunting floating downstream. Diddums. The boisterous noise of the boys playing calls me back. ‘Laughing To see such a sport.’ shooting like stars down the slide. On The Edge Weekends spent on the edge of bouncy castles, gathering muddy socks and shoes. Soccer pitches, watching balls fly left and right. On the orbit of playgrounds, pushing swings. Swimming pool changing rooms, holding towels. Waiting aside, head left behind. Heavens Open I rest my finger tips upon my breast bone, just below my clavicle. I feel crumbling, a silted river bed. Rain pits the windows. My stomach chamber raises its roof to meet the pouring heavens. Like the Pantheon we stumbled into once, tipsy in Rome. Arching our necks back to look at the circle of blue sky, streaming light through its open belly button oculus. My heart for once, does not want to river free. It holds firm and full, a ripening plum. I hear the walls begin to crack and crumble. Hands fumble for pen, paper, light to write this down. Melanie is finding her way back to words through poetry. A born lover of words and avid dictionary reader, during Covid, she immersed herself in others’ poetry reaping the healing salve of shared experiences over space and time. Poetry seemed to whisper to her soul of a wider connection to the world and all that’s living in it. Recently discovering her own voice, Melanie has completed a four month mentorship bursary through the Kerry Arts Council with Máire Holmes, has been widely published in respected literary magazines and journals and is completing her debut collection under the guidance of Rachel Long. Melanie is looking forward to sharing her poetry through spoken word events.

I think of you more than I need to. I don't know how to make it stop. When I try to write, I find myself bursting with stories of you - tiny, infinite memories I can't seem to stop pulling from within me. It feels like I have unspooled my coiled guts into ink And turned you into prose. I am four years old and you are acting like the characters in that cartoon I can't remember the name of now to make me laugh. I am eight years old and you are lying down to sleep with bandaids on your arm after a long dialysis session. I am two years old and you are feeding me tomato soup on a rainy day. I am twelve years old and you are not there. You didn't show up to our shared birthday. You didn't show up to my high school graduation. You didn't show up when I turned eighteen. You will not show up when I graduate college. You will not show up when I get married. You will not show up when I have children. Yet, I will have to carry you with me, small pieces of you burrowed into my beating heart, I will have to carry you with me through it all. I see you in flashes of old men who give up their seats for their wives, I think if I talk to them will they sound like you? I see you in paan shops as betel leaves with red paste smeared in, I think if I eat it will I feel like you? I see you in ambulances that cross me everyday on the road, I think if I let it run me over will I meet you? I see you in my genetic code and the way I deal cards with a quick finger, I think if I just deal it well enough will you come back? I could never stop writing about you. I have nightmares of forgetting you if I do. I don't know how to lose this embolism of grief that exists within me with the remnants of you. I let it cut me open from within and think is this how it hurt before you died. I continue to let the pain move my hand across paper. A word from the author: My grandfather passed away when I was 11, a month before the birthday we shared together. It's been seven years now, almost eight and I still don't know what to do with the grief inside me. I turn him into poetry and prose and hope it will fix me. It has not yet.

Ceremony for a mouse not long gone I can see the ghost of an outline through my mostly closed eyes. The light is still grey. She touches with my face with a gentle hand. “Papa,” she whispers, “there’s something downstairs.” I struggle to consciousness. “Is it bad?” She shrugs. “I didn’t wanna wake Mama.” I stand up, trying to be quiet, bang my knee on the bedside table. “Shh,” says my daughter. “This way.” She leads the way downstairs, points into the middle of the living room. On the floor is a mouse. It’s dead. I’m relieved. Dead is better than alive, when we have to chase it out from under the sofa. Dead is much better than half-dead, and I have to spend half an hour searching online for ethical ways to dispose of mice. I’ve found if you search long enough, they mostly dispose of themselves. I fetch a tissue and pick up the mouse. We admire its little face, tiny ears, stiff little feet. We say we’re sorry for its death, while the cat winds herself around my ankles, proud of her gift. I wrap the tissue around the mouse’s tiny body, and we say goodbye. I move into the kitchen, open the compost bin. “Wait, I have an idea.” She grabs a banana from the counter, peels it, and eats the fruit. Then she holds open the peel. “There,” she says. “It’s like a coffin.” I wonder where she’s learned about coffins, but I don’t ask. It’s too early. She fetches the little compost bin, and lays the banana peel open inside. She points. “Here.” I lay the tissue-shrouded mouse on the peel, and she gently covers it, and nods. “That’s nice. Thanks, Papa,” she says patting my arm. “You did a good job. You can go back to sleep now.” Charity shop book The charity shop smells of dust and sweat dried into clothes that haven’t been worn in years. It smells of abandonment. I walk up the narrow aisles trying not to touch too much. I already want to wash my hands. I eyeball the limp scarves at the end of the rack. My mother had been very clear, nothing new for her birthday. It is a trap. If I don’t give her something, like a pre-loved perfect-condition cashmere sweater or a grandbaby, then, honestly, what’s the point of me? The scarves are dreadful. One of them feels like plastic wrap, and another tries to strangle me with a knot I don’t remember tying. I abandon the scarves. Maybe a funny mug will do the trick. Books are stacked haphazardly across two tables at the back, in and around plastic children’s toys and kitchenware. I can’t resist. Maybe I can save a book from anonymity, from neglect, and this dust trap shop. I finger the edges of a mid-nineties romance, and a white man saves the world crime-thriller. The shop assistant comes over, tells me there’s a box of books just arrived, if I’m interested. I nod, show willing. She’s clearly desperate to make a sale, any sale. She brings over the box from behind her counter, neatly packed, says it arrived just a few days ago. I thank her and put it on the table, on top of the pre-bitten board books for teething babies. Some of these books are good. My style of reading. I start to make a small pile. And there it is. My first novel, released to medium acclaim. It is in pristine condition. I run a finger down the spine, then flick to the back cover, as though anyone but myself would stare out of the flap. It’s a good photo. I look sharp. It had taken hours to get that portrait out of the frustrated photographer. I flip to the front of the book, and stare at the inscription, the handwriting gut-punchingly familiar. I remember writing it, presenting it as a gift to Achara a few months into our relationship. I thought she’d treasure it forever. Here it is, shiny and new, in a box of rejects. I wipe away the tear that has travelled through my nose and become snot. I grab a ‘you’re pawsome!’ mug from the shelf, and tuck the book under my arm. There is a sign near the till that begs you to take three items for a pound. I bend down, and grab a mostly un-damaged BBQ kit from a lower shelf, and carry the items to the counter. Subject: Your Recent Order Dear [insert name], Many thanks for your recent order: How to Manage a Zombie Infestation. We are following up to see if you need any of the products outlined in the manual. Our online shop currently stocks: Large machetes Flamethrowers and canister refills Sprayable brainkilling pheromones (not FDA approved) Plus more! Orders over $100 will automatically receive two easy-assembly Molotov cocktails, our gift to you in these trying times. All deliveries are done by drone, so no worries if you’re boxed in! Best of luck, The Final Shop Please don’t reply to this automated email. Our office is currently inaccessible. Emma Burnett is a recovering academic. She’s big into sports, cats, and being introverted.

France, November 1916 My dearest Elsie I hope this letter finds you well, as it leaves me. I'm still in one piece, so I can't complain, in the circumstances. He scratches urgently at his groin, where the lice that nest in the seams of his uniform have emerged to feed. His skin is thickened and discoloured in places, and his underwear is flecked with dried blood. He stamps his feet to get the circulation going; numbness gives way to the tingling of trenchfoot, but warm, dry boots and socks are a distant memory. There is no point complaining. Things are relatively quiet in this part of the line. There has been some respite from the thudding bombardment as the main attack has moved further south. He can still hear the wailing as the shells go over, though, the crump as they land, the screams of wounded and dying men. I have not seen the enemy. He knows they are there, but to raise his head above the trench would be to risk having his brains blown out by a sniper. He wonders if their living conditions are as bad as his. He hopes so. I’m not allowed to tell you where I am. A trench is a trench, mud is mud. They are facing east. He knows this by the way the distant ridge is silhouetted in the mornings. The days are short now, the light dimmed with smoke from the shelling. Dusk lasts all day, until the weary sun drops to its knees and sinks back into the mud. I'm with a great bunch of lads. We watch out for each other. He checks each morning to see who's missing, who’s fallen victim to snipers, collapsing tunnels, gangrene. And who couldn’t take it anymore and made a run for it or put a pistol to their head. The ones they never talk about. We spend hours sitting around waiting for something to happen. Gas! Gas! Gas! Every hour he wets his finger and holds it above the trench to test the wind direction. Too many men have been caught by the insidious yellow tendrils because they were too slow, too clumsy, too scared to save themselves. I miss you more than I can say and dream about you every night. He tries to stay awake. Sleep brings only visions of severed limbs, mangled flesh, headless corpses and the remains of men hanging on the barbed wire like khaki sheets on laundry day. I can't wait to see you again and hold you, dear. If he still has his eyes. If he still has his arms. If he survives. Take care of yourself, my darling girl, and pray for me. He’s given up talking to God. God stopped listening to him a long time ago. I send you all my love, He has no use for it here. Here there is only fear and hate and mud. Endless mud. Harry Hilary Ayshford is a former science journalist and editor based in rural Kent in the UK. She writes mainly micro and flash fiction and short stories and has been nominated for Best Of The Net. She likes her music in a minor key and has a penchant for the darker side of human nature.

Average Interviewer: What inspired your short story “An Average Short Story on Something I Have Very Little Direct Experience With?” Average Writer: I think there’s an ongoing debate within the writing community surrounding the ethics of using people we know or have briefly encountered as inspiration—without plagiarizing their life, of course. We sometimes want to give a demographic that’s underrepresented in literature a voice without taking away their agency. Who are we to tell the life of someone we barely know without interviewing them or somehow including them in our writing and editing processes? Sometimes, we know someone for a very short amount of time and they inspire us to write a story about someone who is similar to them, but we have no way of contacting them to ask, “Hey, without asking too much emotional labour from you, would you mind telling me if this is an accurate or acceptable portrayal of your community? Of course, I can’t pay you for your time, but I would be eternally grateful.” Ideally, you would pay them as a way of giving back to someone who helps you with your craft, but [...]? It’s your responsibility to ensure you aren’t stereotyping any group of people. But writing can at times come from a very selfish place. We write because we want to tell a story or because we want to give ourselves closure. We see suffering around us and we want to write about it, so we do research and we hope we are doing our chosen topic justice. I’m still not sure what the proper etiquette is. It’s a very touchy subject, and I’m open to different perspectives on the matter. Average Interviewer: Would you like to talk a bit more about (your) Main Character? What are their motivations? Average Writer: Of course. (My) Main Character doesn’t want to be defined by (their) Central Conflict. They are looking to redefine what it means to be alive because they feel crushed by reality and the seriousness of their predicament. When writing about their motivations, I pulled from my own experiences and intrusive thoughts, but I think our characters shape themselves as much as we shape them, if not more so. I often find myself writing and suddenly feeling like I’m no longer in complete control of them. It’s like they occasionally have bouts of free will—if you believe in free will. […] In fact, (my) Main Character was inspired by someone I met at {Setting}. I changed enough about them so that they wouldn’t be identifiable to others and I made {Setting} different enough from the {Setting} it was based on. Then again, if the person in question were to read my story, I feel like they would suspect it’s about them. I think it’s easier to tell when a story is loosely about you than when a story is loosely about someone you know. Average Interviewer: Wow, I love how you said so much without really saying anything. What piece of advice do you have for emerging writers who might want to mimic your writing process? Average Writer: Haha, thanks! And my advice would be to not write the way I do. I think my writing process is very chaotic. To give you an example, I once had a philosophy teacher who said she was writing a book sometimes felt that her characters had free will and were writing the story for her. Most of the class had no idea what she was talking about and thought she had lost her marbles, but I somehow understood that feeling. I alluded to this earlier, but it’s like when I write, I don’t always have a set idea of how the story will unfold—I kinda let my characters decide how they want their story to end… which I know sounds crazy, but I think you have to be a little bit insane to be a good writer, what do you think? Average Interviewer: I think that’s all the time we have today, thank you very much for your time! Sophie Dufresne studies creative writing at Concordia University in Montreal, Canada. They fell in love with poetry after reading "Hope" by Emily Dickinson in sixth grade and recently got into playwriting. They have been published by Milk Carton Press, Oddball Magazine, Brain Mill Press, _voidspace, JAKE, Cosmic Double and Roi Fainéant Press, among other publications.

In Steady, Anne Whitehouse’s new poetry collection, the natural world takes on the role of a main character, in a manner of speaking. Interspersed with tender reflections on love, chances not taken, and the curious human experience overall, these pieces remain earth-grounded, scattering reflections of that experience through all living things. From Pond Lives The decomposing matter floating on the surface emerged from the bottom, where organisms live off the waste of fungi, bacteria, and worms. The autumn winds and rains mixed up layers of water that summer had stratified. As I paddled the canoe, glimpses of aquatic life beckoned below me: a flash of a fish disappearing in a ruffle of waving weeds, a turtle paddling towards a log, snakes, worms, and crabs scuttling into the rich murk. That’s not to say there aren’t tales to be told, however. In pieces like From the Life of Iris Origo, Frida, and Bernadette, the reader sets off on a winding road through events from various timelines, historic to the present day. This micro-storytelling in verse opens the door to familial relationships, romantic endeavors, and striving to understand the self in ways both timeless and relatable. From Bernadette I was late to marriage, late to motherhood. When I met Jamie in New York, something blossomed in me that had been dormant. His jazz club became my hangout, I dressed up every night with some place to go. He was the owner, and I was his girl. Jamie’s mind had layers of learning like geologic strata. He was a born teacher, a shamanistic poet and spirit guide for many. His love was like cool water from a deep well. Still, the path returns to a rooted place, one of rumination on life’s lengthy (and simultaneously too-short) journey during the Earth’s warmest month. It buttons up the collection using a common thread and an apt title: the steady passage of time, of the individual through their days, and the happenings and observations that shape them as they travel. From Late Summer, Block Island From the marshes comes the trilling of red-winged blackbirds, in the thicket the cardinal’s chirp, the meadow lark’s whistle, chatter of a hawk chased by crows. In the afternoon, sunlight behind banked clouds glints off a sea as pale as isinglass, reflecting back my memories as I write, until the day when words will be all that are left of me, words and images and other people’s memories. Steady is Anne Whitehouse’s fourth poetry collection published by Dos Madres Press, following The Refrain (2012), Meteor Shower (2016), and Outside from the Inside (2020). Her other poetry collections are Blessings and Curses (Poetic Matrix Press, 2009) and The Surveyor’s Hand (Compton Press, 1981); three chapbooks from Ethel Zine and Micro Press: Frida (2023), Escaping Lee Miller (2021) and Surrealist Muse (2020), and two from Finishing Line Press: One Sunday Morning (2011) and Bear in Mind (2010). She is the author of a novel, Fall Love, available in Spanish translation as Amigos y amantes, as well as short stories, essays, feature articles, and reviews. Born and raised in Birmingham, Alabama, she divides her time between New York City and Columbia County, New York. www.annewhitehouse.com