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I open a library book of poems, a mix of earthy and intellectual I’d say, if forced to label the flavor after a few pages. And there she is – the Queen of Spades. She’s come all the way from Vegas, a casino/spa I find when Google does its thing. A perfect combination. A dozen personas flash by: the poetry-reading gambling addict, the math teacher at a conference indulging in blackjack and a scrub, the bachelorettes, ill-suited and loud, and on and on. But coming from a card-playing family – pinochle on holidays around grandma’s table – I feel affection for these royals, although it’s bothersome the king always beats the queen. But this queen has escaped and though I’m tempted to welcome her into my home, to give her the privilege of marking the pages of many books over time, I finally decide to send her back, tucked somewhere in the middle, to be discovered by another who might be intrigued and conjure countless backstories although it’s just as likely she’ll be tossed in the recycling bin with only the electric bill and a coupon for Greek yogurt for company. No more couplets and metaphors, slant rhymes or similes, and whatever began in Vegas is still there, as, according to the rules, it should be. Mercedes Lawry’s most recent book is Small Measures  from ELJ Editions. She’s also published Vestigesfrom Kelsay Books, three chapbooks and poems in journals such as Nimrod  and Alaska Quarterly Review . Additionally, she’s published short fiction as well as stories and poems for children.

In my twenty-first summer, I learned how to be nocturnal. Once I realized I prefer the dark, it was simply a matter of reorganizing my time. I got a job as a night shift security guard on a college campus and started going to bed right as my apartment yellowed into morning. I ate Chinese takeout for breakfast and IHOP waffles before I fell asleep. It was hard to be friends with anyone, but at the time I wasn’t worried about that. I was a freshly minted grown-up, and everything in my life felt suitably upside-down. The chosen weirdness of that summer made the far more frightening chaos of simply existing easier to stomach. The job at the college was boring. The campus was in the most affluent corner of town and didn’t need half the security guards it hired. My duty was not so much safety as to keep up appearances of safety—if an alumni donor were to enter campus at any hour of the day or night, my job was to make sure they wouldn’t reconsider their donation. I wandered in a lot of slow, menacing circles. I picked up lots of trash using those little metal tongs. Sometimes I’d find a half-empty pack of cigarettes or a nice new lighter.  Mostly, I just walked and listened to the dark. There were a few weeks I was seeing a girl at the college, a cute redhead I’d swiped right on because her bio said bet I can outsmoke you  and I like a challenge. She’d meet me midshift, like one or two a.m., and we’d get high behind the physics building, and she’d rant to me about posthumanism and dystopia and economy collapse and I’d say it sure turns me on when you talk like that  and we’d fuck against the cold cement wall and then right away she’d stumble off to bed and I’d stand in the solid darkness, listen to everything invisible and alive surrounding me, then shrug it off, zip up my pants, get back to the job. It didn’t last. Turned out she was a bit crazy. When I broke it off, she tagged the side of my golf cart with a lopsided owl and the words hoot hoot motherfucker. I’m still trying to figure out what that means. Not that I think about it anymore, really, not her or the job or even that whole summer. But when I do remember, I wonder. There was one night that comes back to me still. Or morning really, those first strains of light meaning it was almost time for me to clock out and head off to bed. On my final lap of campus, I spotted a homeless man staring into a hole in a tree. I thought he must be drugged up on something, a substance that animated the unmoving, conversing with what he took to be the tree’s open mouth. Then the man turned around. I remembered abruptly that I was wearing my deliberately intimidating black security guard uniform, that by all the rules of my job I should eject this outsider from campus. All summer, I’d never actually been confronted with a situation in which I was expected to do any guarding. I didn’t want to now. He was just a guy, a down-on-his-luck guy.  I waited for him to become frightened by my imposing appearance. I waited for him to run from my obvious institutional power so I wouldn’t have to assert it.  Instead, the man pointed into the hole in the tree. Hey kid,  he said,  check this shit out.   I approached, a bit cautious, and saw movement in the opening. Inside the tree was a nest of baby birds.  I said, would you look at that?   And the man said yes, yes I would.  We smiled at each other, and he was the one without teeth, but my mouth felt hollow and empty of something important. In the half-light, we watched the babies move over and around each other, making tiny bird murmurs. Their speech felt very nearly comprehensible. We stood there for a long time, trying to understand. Then there was a whir of great wings and the owl mother alighted above us. She was huge and flat-faced and angry and her claws were sharp and we gave her plenty of space, backed up from her nest and stood at a respectful distance. Her world wasn’t one in which we belonged, but I think, in that moment, we both wanted to.  The sun came up for real then, forest shot through with perpendicular golden light. The owl went flurrying into her hole. Together, the homeless man and I turned, like we’d been summoned by the dawning back to our human lives, and walked away. I gave him four dollar bills and the half joint I had in my pocket. Then I drove home and slept until the sun went down. That week, I got fired from my job because another security guard had watched me watch owls with a homeless man rather than telling him to get lost. He followed the man afterwards, told him to get lost, and reported me. I didn’t care. I wanted to work somewhere I didn’t have to fuck people over. I sent my resume out in great paper flurries, worked one bad job, then another, then two at once, realized everyone was fucking each other over all the time, kept at it anyway. Hell, I’m still here. I’m still working, a desk job now, something that doesn’t keep me up all night and gets the bills paid and at least keeps the damage I do at a manageable distance so I don’t have to think too hard about it. Some nights, though, the insomniac of that summer still comes out in me, a nightbird which spreads its wings when the sun goes down and urges me out of my house. I walk again, in the silvered moonlit blackness, listening for living things. I think if I throw myself out into the night, again and again, I might begin to see a way forward through the dark. “What is the difference between a cathedral and a physics lab? Are not they both saying: Hello? We spy on whales and on interstellar radio  objects; we starve ourselves and pray till we're  blue.”  —Annie Dillard, Teaching a Stone to Talk:  Expeditions and Encounters Whale If you are a child, you might find the world a perfectly comprehensible place.  Let’s say you are, because otherwise the suggestion is ludicrous.  Let’s say you are six years old, your shirt is sticky with strawberry ice cream and your parents have taken you to the natural history museum in order to demonstrate that you are not the only creature that has ever lived. Say you fall asleep in the car on the way there, and dream of a universe which exhales neon all over you. Say you are disappointed to wake up. You know what,  your parents probably don’t figure into this. Your parents know of the multiplicity of the natural world and don’t care much about it. They probably don’t think it is worth explaining to you, at your young and tender age.  It is much more likely you will have to figure this out for yourself. So let’s say you are six years old (but let’s leave out the ice cream, it’s too sticky), and say you go on a toddle down the street and happen to find your way into a natural history museum (say you have five dollars in your pocket from selling lemonade, or however it is that children earn their incomes). So you get to the ticket stand, your head rising just barely to the counter. You put your small hands on the plastic surface streaked gray to look like stone, and you look up into the tired eyes of the ticket-taker.  Say you say, I would like to learn about all the living things who have ever lived. How much does that cost? Say the woman behind the counter looks down at you over half-moon glasses and wonders who has lost their child. But say she is a good sort of human who has devoted her life to helping others find meaning in a dying world. So when you come dawdling into the museum in search of knowledge, something so simple, say she feels a stirring of camaraderie between herself and you, six years old, trying to make sense of your place in the order of things. So she comes out from behind the counter and takes your small hand in hers.  She says to you, we’ll start small and get bigger. How does that sound to you? Say you agree this sounds wonderful. It is your most tried and true strategy, to begin at the roots, closest to your eye level, and work your way up. So say the ticket-taker brings you first to the entomology wing, where opalescent beetles and fuzzy green moths and great long-legged spiders are pinned to slices of clean white paper. The invertebrates , says the ticket taker. The spineless ones. The phylum which has dominated the earth, although you won’t catch many people saying it.   Say you imagine yourself without bones, just a skin-bag of life-juice skittering across the ground in search of sustenance. So this is how most of the world lives, you think. You wish for a million billion creepy-crawly legs. You wish for an exoskeleton, jewel-bright and impenetrable. Then you are on to the fish, fins flashing phosphorescence through the dark of the water. Here is where the bones begin,  says the ticket-taker. Next are the terrariums, scaly loops of snakes and beaded lizards lazing in the warmth of false suns. And from there, say you walk to the hall of taxidermy, where a thousand birds fly through painted skies above fields of frozen megafauna, trapped in crystallized time, like amber, all feeling drained from their clear glass eyes as their bodies live out forever their most characteristic movements, one paw caught poised in midair, a tail swiping away a long-dead fly, all those heavy hooves which will never hit the ground. And then you have reached the final hall, the hall of the whale, where the great creature’s skeleton swims suspended from the ribbed vaults of the museum ceiling, and you look up through its long-fingered phantom fins to its vertebrae, fit together, the world’s puzzle solved and hung on iron wires, a kind of art enough to shift the bedrock of history, enough to make you think there must be some maker out there with a scalpel and opposable thumbs, or else one able to enact the simple magic of everything which calls itself different but arises from the same cosmic soup, even you, even the whale, its great beaked skull, its mouth which could inhale you like plankton and spit you out all fluorescent-glowing, its empty-socket eyes which watch you way down there, tiny feet on the museum floor, a brand new life form, a cosmic speck, yes, which is beginning to understand its place in the universe.

The first time Nicole encounters him, they are at a youth event, one of those big multi-church affairs, across several days. Nicole’s church is only here for one day, a volunteer afternoon, BBQ picnic, and concert. Her church’s volunteer contribution involves hauling junk, trash, brush, and leaves out of people’s yards, in a crumbling downtown neighborhood. So when Nicole arrives at the picnic, she’s still got a big old t-shirt on over her concert clothes and a pair of her mother’s gardening gloves scrunched up in her back pocket. Her arms are sore. Her purse is with a youth leader, locked in his car, so she can’t touch up her makeup. She’s scarfing down a couple of hot dogs, when a school friend taps her on the shoulder. “Hey!” the girl says, “Have you met Jonathan? You know, from my  church? You should talk! I think you’d get along.” Nicole turns to see she’s got this boy, this Jonathan, standing beside her, looking bored. Jonathan isn’t wearing work clothes. He’s wearing a Christian band t-shirt, a slouchy black sweater, and un-distressed jeans. He looks her over, evidently unimpressed. Nicole offers a hand, introduces herself. He barely returns her greeting, glancing back into his book, his fingers tucked between tented pages. “What are you reading?” she says, for lack of anything better to say. “You wouldn’t know it,” he says. Nicole already can’t imagine why anyone would think she and this boy would get along, but she tries again. “Well, try me. I know a lot of books.” He shows her the cover, rolling his eyes, with a can-I-go-now attitude. She barely gets a chance to read the title, only catches the author. He’s right, she hasn’t read it. Because it’s old. Really old. And boring. She excuses herself from the conversation, and he seems just as happy to be done with it as she is. So much for that, she thinks. But then, there he is again. This time, they’re at a youth retreat. One she didn’t expect him to be at. This time, it’s because someone wants to win an argument. A stupid theological argument. Something about forgiveness, and who does and does not get a chance at heaven.  On this issue, Nicole will not budge, and she’s not really interested in arguing about it. In fact, she’s been trying to leave this conversation for the better part of half an hour, by the time this boy, Jonathan, walks up. But the friend arguing with her refuses, absolutely refuses, to drop it, insisting that Nicole’s reluctance to judge, to condemn, is just as morally suspect as if she’d committed the sins in question herself. “That basically makes you a murderer , you know?” the girl says, “You know that, right?” “I’m sorry you think that,” Nicole says, and tries to leave it there. Grace means grace, Nicole thinks, whether you like it or not. Grace means grace, and grace is for everyone. Not just the people you like. That’s what Nicole’s Grandma always says, and Nicole loves her Grandma, trusts her, with a deep and ferocious loyalty.  Jonathan is here to tell her why that’s wrong. As if she should care. She tells him as much, right away, “Why should I care what you think?” “You never know,” he says, “you might learn something.” Nicole’s mouth snaps shut. For a moment, she can only seethe. But, she shouldn’t speak out of anger, she thinks. So she swallows her words, breathes in, collects herself. “I’m not even sure what your church’s theology is,” she says, voice full of forced calm, “I don’t know you. You’re certainly no better qualified than I am. Why should I want to learn anything from you?” That gets him. Really gets to him. Jabs right up under his skin, at something deep. Something she didn’t even know was there. He begins to rant. He rants and rants. Gets right up in her face, in the middle of a room full of other teenagers trying to carry on their own conversations. His voice rings in her ears, a fine mist of his spit, his contempt, dusting the powdery finish of her makeup.  She listens quietly, while he enumerates his pedigree. His father is a pastor, he says, and a venerable one, a truly great  teacher. So are both his grandfathers. It’s a family tradition. Something she  wouldn’t know anything about. Soon, he will be going away to seminary. And then he too will be a pastor. He’s been reading theology since the seventh grade, he says, not on his own, but with the guidance of “great leaders.” Like his father. He wants to know why she thinks her mere “thoughts” can compete with this kind of quality education. He wants to know why she thinks she can “logic” her way out of biblical authority. His biblical authority. Which is not just his, but his father’s and grandfathers’ before him. How lucky she is, to get an opportunity to benefit from so much learning, so many generations of wisdom. How foolish, to throw it all away in favor of her own, craven  will. He really uses that word, “craven.” She’s not convinced he knows what it means. “Are you done?” she says, when he finally peters out. “No,” he spits, but clearly he is done, because he spirals back through a few of his points before falling silent for a second time. Then, the punch, “What do your parents even do?” he says, “Because they’re not any Christian leaders I’ve ever heard of. And frankly, I think someone should talk to them about the kind of guidance they’re providing to their kids if they’re going around spouting off ideas like yours. ‘ No unforgivable sin,’ ” he repeats, the claim he finds so offensive. Adrenaline pumps through Nicole’s chest, lingering after his display of aggression and authority has ended. She should walk away, leave this conversation, walk right into the women’s bathroom, if that’s what she has to do to end the argument, but he’s got her hackles up now. Nicole’s Grandma is a recovering addict, an AA Mentor, a respected church member, who volunteers for anything and everything, especially if it will put her in contact with the kind of women, the kind of people, this boy seems to most resent. Inconvenient people, difficult people, down-on-their luck people. People like Nicole’s Grandma. People like Nicole, who have issues, who have made mistakes, and who know they will keep on making mistakes, and needing grace, probably for the rest of their lives. Sometimes, Nicole thinks, her Grandma’s grace is not the grace of this church, or any church, at all. But something more akin to love. Unconditional, empathetic, whole with the understanding of having walked the same paths, worn the same shoes. Not that her Grandma would ever agree. When Nicole has complained, in the past, about people like this boy, their dogmatism, their strident, arrogant Christianity, Nicole’s Grandma has been firm, unbending. ‘Oh, Nicole,’ she says, ‘Jesus doesn’t care about any of that! Ignore all that crap. Focus on Jesus. Focus on his grace. It's the only thing that matters.’ Nicole wants to get up in this boy’s face, ask him if he’s ever really had to seek forgiveness for something, if he knows what it’s like to really need grace, the kind her Grandma talks about. The kind that actually matters. Instead, she says, “Show me in the book, then.” “What?” “Show me where it says that in the book.” She pulls a Bible from her bag and holds it out to him. He sneers at the NIV on the cover. She rolls her eyes. “You can use your own Bible if you want. Show me where it says any of that? Chapter and verse.” He sputters. Takes the Bible and looks at it. Then shoves it back at her. “You expect me to provide citations? To a verbal conversation? Is that it? Look up my father’s sermons on the subject and you’ll get all the chapters and verses you need. You’ll see that I’m right.” She flips through the book, finds a verse, clears her throat, “Luke 6:37. Do not judge, and you will not be judged. Do not condemn, and you will not be condemned. Forgive, and you will be forgiven.” She flips forward. “Romans 2:1 …for at whatever point you judge another, you are condemning yourself…” He scoffs, “Well of course. But there have to be limits.” “Tell me,” she says, “tell me where in the book it says there are limits.”  “So what, you think people should just be able to do whatever they want ,” his tone is mocking, “and then come to God and no matter what it was, it all goes away and we all just have to welcome them  into our community?” “No,” she says, “I don’t think that. But I’m not God. I don’t think it’s my place to decide who’s forgiven and who isn’t. Do you?” “I’m done with this,” he says, “This conversation is a waste of my time.” And with that, he turns on his heel, and marches out of the room.  With a shrug, Nicole returns her Bible to her bag. That’s enough of that for one lifetime, she thinks. She tries to walk away, but a friend trails after her, down the hall. “I really think you should think about what he said… I mean, his dad is my pastor, and he’s a really smart guy, and…” “Why is excluding people so important to you?” “What? I’m not… I’m just…” “What? You just think some people  don’t get the same forgiveness you do? Because some guy at some pulpit said so? I don’t care who he is. He’s human. He’s fallible .”  “That’s so disrespectful! He’s a rightful authority. You can’t… That is so wrong ! I’m going to tell one of the leaders you said that!” Next thing Nicole knows, she’s being hustled into a corner of the retreat space, to sit with one of the female small group leaders and two male pastors. They quiz her about her ideas, ask her if she knows what it means to have a “rebellious heart.” The female leader tells Nicole she thinks it’s important for “us women” to remember that we don’t have biblical headship over male religious authorities.  Nicole says that’s fine, this pastor is not a pastor in her church and as far as she can tell, no one believes in following anything any random pastor says, just because they’re someone else’s pastor. The woman tells her that’s true, but she feels it's a bit different when that pastor is part of the same spiritual “conference,” and that, regardless, it’s important to be polite. Nicole says she’ll keep it in mind, and they let her go.  The following morning, Jonathan stares daggers at her across the room. But he doesn’t move to speak with her. And, for the last day or so of the retreat, she manages to avoid him entirely.  They’re a lot older, next time. The final time.  It’s been years since Nicole last attended a youth or young-adults group. Though, for the sake of Nicole’s Grandma, and her fervent, no-nonsense faith, she’s tried to continue attending church. She’s not at church, or even a church event, this time. Instead, she’s standing in the entryway of her friend’s parents’ house, waiting while her friend tugs on shoes and a jacket, then searches the entire house for her purse, so they can rush out the door together. He, Jonathan, arrives with a guitar case in tow, a friend of her friend’s older brother. They’re in a band together, it turns out. Some kind of Christian rock group. They eye each other warily.  “Hey,” he says, “Nicole, right? Still got a lot of strong opinions?” “You’d probably think so,” she says. He laughs. “Did you ever check out my dad’s sermon?” “No.” “Pity,” he says, “he’s a good speaker.” “I’m sure he is.” “You should catch a service at our church sometime,” he says, “hear him speak in person. Or me. I’m preaching at the church now, first Sunday of every month.” This is why he’s talking to her, she realizes. He wants to make sure she knows about this. Who he is now. Who he is becoming. How he has walked in the well-worn tracks of his forefathers, taken on their mantle, as if it were his own. “That’s nice.” “You should come by sometime,” he says, “Who knows? You might like it.” He turns to go. Tosses the last line over his shoulder like he’s been harbouring it, holding it close, all these years. “Might even learn something!” Unsure of what to say, Nicole says nothing. Pulls out her phone and stares at it, as if anything were happening on the quiet screen. And then her friend is ready. And she leaves. Emily Strempler (she/her) is a queer, German-Canadian, ex-fundamentalist writer of inconvenient fiction. Raised in a deeply conservative prairie community, she married at eighteen before leaving the church and moving out west. Her work can be found in numerous publications, including Broken Pencil, The Bitchin' Kitsch, and Agnes & True.

As we enter the barn, I prepare myself to be hit by a stench, but I’m greeted by the aroma of a bakery. The interior shouts success. It’s spotless and bright like a cloning facility. Large screens scroll commodity prices and flash Cake Cattle — The Sweetest Investment in Agri-tech.  Might make a good headline for my article.  I remove my notepad and ballpoint pen from my shirt pocket as Wilkins leads me to the first stall where a brown steer munches at a trough. “Our best-seller,” he says. “What do they eat?” He scoops his hand through the feed and lets it trickle through his fingers. “This is the maintenance diet — a proprietary blend of grain, sugar, and flour.” The animal looks normal but feels spongy when I press my finger into its side.  As Wilkins cuts a small chunk from the neck, I wince, and the beast snorts. I hesitate when Wilkins hands me the morsel. Seems strange to be eating something that’s looking at me. I take a breath and put the sample in my mouth.  “Rich and moist — good chocolate cake.” I scratch the steer’s forehead. “Sorry, buddy.” I nod to a calf in the next stall. Its hide is a patchwork of cowhide and what appears to be frosting. “That one —”  “Is about halfway through its transition.”  “Walk me through the process, Mr. Wilkins. Not too technical though. Our readers have short attention spans.” Wilkins explains how calves, at birth, start on nano-bot feed that modifies their genetic structure.  … their genetic structure , I scribble.  “By the time they’re yearlings,” Wilkins says, “beef flesh has become cake. And trust me, the market’s devouring it—our quarterly returns have never been better.” … never been better. I   look up and shake my head. Wilkins leans close. “I don’t understand all the ins and outs, but it’s a great way to diversify my herd.” He snaps off a horn from the chocolate cake cow. The steer stamps its hoof.  “That doesn’t hurt?”  He takes a bite of the horn. “Marzipan. It’ll grow back. And they’re more profitable. Regular steers are a one-off, but cake cattle are productive for five years.”  “Some people think it’s cruel to turn cattle into walking birthday treats.” Wilkins shrugs as if he’s heard it all before. “No worse than being walking sirloins and roasts.”  His words bite more than I think he intends. As bad as being  … I write, then tuck my pad in my shirt pocket.  “Now, let’s take a look at those pig pies,” Wilkins says. “You’re going to love the cherry.” I tell him I’ve had my fill. David Henson and his wife have lived in Brussels and Hong Kong and now reside in Illinois. His work has been selected for Best Microfictions 2025, nominated for four Pushcart Prizes, Best of the Net, and two Best Small Fictions. His writings have appeared in various journals including Roi Fainéant Press, Ghost Parachute, Bright Flash Literary Journal, Moonpark Review, Maudlin House, and Literally Stories. His website is  http://writings217.wordpress.com . His Twitter is @annalou8 .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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