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

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

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

As ever, on the silent fields, wind whipped across the fresh-mowed grass. The grateful turbine blades were whizzing, whirring frantic hedge fronds waving as I peered across the waiting dale. They laughed at sunshine sneaking through the roof, seeking out the shadows, winding itself around the quiet of the corners, while the clatter of a flap, the thump of something tumbling and the rocking like a ship at sea sent shivers down my spine. the rolling storm clouds gathered like an army on the hills, preparing to attack. En garde, pale summer skies, the duel begins. Jackie had her debut novel, Shadows of Time, published by Willow River Press in 2022, at the age of 71. A retired English teacher, she has always written as a hobby, with little time to attempt publication until retiring, though some poetry has appeared in anthologies over the years. She has had prose pieces published online, by Dear Damsels and Paragraph Planet, and in 2021 she and her sister, Bonnie Meekums, self-published a creative memoir on a post-was childhood – Remnants of War. She has a second novel under consideration and has completed a third. After many years in Yorkshire, she now lives in Somerset, where she belongs to a book club and writing group and enjoys walking, stimulating ideas for the next story…

the state of being unaware or unconscious a lie i told in between truths okay, but i want you to rip me apart did my heartbeat stutter - did my breathing catch - tell me tell me tell me am i lying to you now - or now? (what is the ending of things, if nothing truly ends, what are we doing, are we looping, are we looping back on ourselves, how many times have i said the same thing twice and not even realised? if i tip over into the void will you grab my hand and pull me backwards or will you let me fall? sometimes i dream that i've woken up and you were never really gone. oh! void void void void void. endless beauty in the gore of the stars imploding and i want to live forever in the blink of a firefly and did you know that i am here and you are here and that should be enough, but it isn't?) soft, now - breathe, stuttered lungs - oblivion - delicate in the palm of a hand, you, oh, but of course lemon (haiku) i’m citrus, sour mouth - you are like the moon on skin glowing, like snowfall. Charlotte Amelia Poe (they/them) is an autistic nonbinary author from England. Their first book, How To Be Autistic, was published in 2019. Their debut novel, The Language Of Dead Flowers, was published in September 2022. Their second novel, Ghost Towns, was self published in 2023. Their second memoir, (currently untitled), will be published in 2024. Their poetry has been published internationally.

The eyes of the two brothers met across the crowded room; each glancing briefly at the other, an unbridgeable chasm of two lives gone in different directions. Michael, the elder of the two – or Moriarty as everyone knew him – smiled at his younger brother. Martin – who nobody ever called Moriarty, almost as if the name did not quite belong – returned the compliment. Each returned to what they had been doing before. Both were feeling a little bit sorry for the other, though there was a smugness to it too. Martin Moriarty's young son was pulling at his father's trousers, tears streaming down his face, a small rip in his pants, a fresh graze to a knee that was always after hitting something. He and his new best friends had been playing outside when the boy had taken a tumble. Martin picked him up; and with his gentle words, the bawling began to subside. “Count to ten,” he said softly, yet with a quiet authority. “One, two, three, four …” On the other side of the room, the other Moriarty raised his voice a little to drown out the racket his nephew was making. A man he had just met was explaining to him how the widget in a can of Guinness worked. The man was a scientist of some sort and told him how liquid nitrogen was added to the device just before shipping. 'Liquid nitrogen? And that wouldn't poison you, No?' Moriarty said as he looked suspiciously at the half-full pint glass clutched in his right hand. The man continued; a tiny sphere, nitrogen, liquid nitrogen, pressure building in the can, the nice creamy head that would then form as it poured. 'Fascinating,' said Moriarty, as he took a deep slug from his drink, his suspicions already forgotten. A stray child came thundering by, almost sending the two men's drinks flying. Moriarty was on the verge of admonishing the youngster but remembered that it was his nephew's birthday party. On days like that, you had to be willing to make allowances. 'Still nothing compares to a real pint,' the scientist said, 'but I have to make do with these most of the time these days. You know the way it is.' 'I do indeed,' said Moriarty, philosophically, 'I do indeed.' Where would he go that night? To Baggot Street or to Camden Street? Maybe a quick one down in Briody's or the Oval first. He had just enough for a taxi but might need refinancing from his friends. Maybe the brother will drop me in, he thought. No, not on the child's birthday. Pity. He'd had a bad day on the horses and could do without the extra cost. 'I don't suppose you take a cigarette, do you?' asked Moriarty. The scientist looked around furtively, seemed to see what he was looking for as his wife approached, and said: 'I used to like them. But not so much anymore really.' 'Fair enough,' said Moriarty, 'I don't smoke myself either, unless I'm having a drink.' 'I used to be the same,' the scientist said, again scanning the room. 'And there's nobody stopping me walking out with you anyway.' The two men headed for the patio, Moriarty trying to remember when exactly it was that every house in the country become a no smoking zone. He recalled house parties not so long ago with ashtrays sequestered from pubs, brimful with ash, butts, and matches, the occasional cigarette standing around left to burn out – balanced upon its filter, almost a work of art. It seemed like everybody used to smoke back then, whether they liked it or not. 'Amazing the way you can never smoke indoors now,' said Moriarty. 'Suppose it was the smoking ban,' the scientist said. 'I don't recall them banning smoking in houses,' he replied, with a little more harshness than he had intended. Moriarty stood by the back door contentedly puffing on the cigarette, gentle pulls like a man out rowing up by the Strawberry Beds on a leisurely Sunday afternoon. It was his first of the day, would not be his last. The scientist looked on longingly, his eyes almost imploring, like a dog watching a man eat sausages and bacon. There were few things Moriarty pitied more than an emasculated man. Had he been dealing with a dog, he might have petted him on the head, stroked his fur, and slipped him a quarter of a sausage. Instead, he held out the packet, sliding out a single one. 'What harm will one do you?' said Moriarty. 'Sure, I'll have just one.' 'A man needs to unwind.' The scientist sparked up the cigarette and smoked it so feverishly it must surely have set his head spinning. When he had about a third of it left, he stubbed it out on the ground, looked around, seemed relieved that his luck had held, and dropped it in an empty can, which Moriarty had was using as an improvised ashtray. 'I thought you were going to eat it at one stage,' said Moriarty. 'I don't think I ever saw a man smoke one as quick.' 'If you knew the hassle if she saw me,' he replied. Moriarty nodded thoughtfully. Pathetic, he thought; no, not pathetic – that was unduly harsh on a fellow. Sad, he thought instead; yes, sad – that was more apt. Moriarty took a pack of chewing gum from his packet, surveyed the area, and ushered the scientist to take one. 'Just in case,' he said. The scientist reached over, took one, unwrapped it from its foil and popped it into his mouth. And to all the world, the men – by their appearance and heightened caution – may as well have been passing a bag of heroin. Their conversation continued. His wife popped her head out the French doors. 'I hope you haven't been smoking,' the scientist's wife said. 'Of course not.' 'Ah sure I know you wouldn't do that with the kids around.' He nodded guiltily. Moriarty looked at some of the kids; it wouldn't be long before they'd be off sneaking cigarettes themselves. He noticed his glass was getting perilously close to its end, and the prospect of it going empty was not something he wished to entertain for very long. 'I suppose we might have another drink,' he said. 'Why not?' The two men walked back inside. Moriarty had hidden his remaining Guinness cans behind some lettuce and a large tub of yoghurt in the fridge, just in case anyone else might take a fancy to them. He was happy enough to share one more – just one more – with this chap. After that, he was on his own, Moriarty thought. He certainly wasn't expecting them to be gone already. He pushed the lettuce aside, upended the yoghurt, then rifled through every drawer. He stepped back, considered his options for a moment, tried to think of how much he had already drunk; and was sure it was not much yet. He buried his head back in the fridge, checked the freezer box above it, thinking that was no place in which to store porter. He stepped back again. Not only was the fridge cleared of what rightfully belonged to him, there was nothing else to pilfer either except some bottles of Budweiser and Miller Light and it would be a frosty day in hell before he would be reduced to that. He considered his options again, knew this was something to do with the brother's wife Penny. There were few things she hated more than seeing a man like Moriarty enjoying himself. Should he say something to her? Ask her what she'd done with them or just be done with it and go to town. His brother walked by. 'Looking for something?' he said. 'I was just wondering where a man might get a drink,' Moriarty said, feigning calm. 'I was almost sure I had a few cans of Guinness left in there.' 'They're in the cool box.' 'The what?' 'The cool box. Out in the porch, Penny put them out there with the other six she got for you.' 'Oh, did she indeed?' said Moriarty. She wasn't a bad sort Penny, thought Moriarty. She could be a hard woman at times, but sure maybe that was what his brother wanted. There were some fellas who needed that, needed a bit of discipline brought to their life. Moriarty didn’t need it but he understood – although understood was a strong word – that there were others with different requirements. 'I'll be back presently,' said Moriarty. 'Hope this cool box lives up to its name,' he whispered to himself as he made towards the porch. 'I nearly forgot,' he said turning back to his brother, 'do you want another?' 'No thanks, I've had a few already. That'll do me.' On the short walk to the porch, Moriarty recalled the old days when his brother would drink all night; when a few pints meant six or seven and not two or three. Hollow Legs, they used call him. Good days, long gone. His brother’s main ambition in life now seemed to be getting an early night. Moriarty pulled two cans from the icy water, was surprised at how cool they felt and wondered if he shouldn't buy one of those boxes. No, he thought, the fridge was the right place for a beer, either that or a keg. He returned to his companion. 'I was worried it might be warm,' said Moriarty, 'nothing I hate more than warm beer. Very English.' 'I don't know,' said the scientist, 'some of those ales and bitters can be very nice.' 'No,' said Moriarty, 'I prefer to stick with what I know. Mind you, if I was stuck, like in Cheltenham or that, they’d have to do.’ 'Cheltenham, eh?' the scientist said, 'I've never been. Would love to go.' 'I go most years,' said Moriarty, thinking of the horses he might back that year, pondering odds and remembering the twenty-five to one winner he had had the previous year. That had kept him in high spirits right through March all the way to mid-April. Contented times, he thought, then turned to his new friend: 'Tell me,' he said, 'how exactly do these cool boxes work?' Moriarty always found adult parties that involved children a little confusing. They had all the signs of a normal party; finger food, drink, reasonably good, if slightly distracted, company – but it was very difficult to judge when they might end. Were it an old-fashioned party, you could be sure it would keep going until the early hours but this type of affair was much less clear. At some indeterminate time after the RTÉ six o’clock news, one set of parents would announce they were leaving as a mystical 'bed time' was approaching. Now, that in itself was not unusual but it was the way in which it seemed to set off a chain reaction. Next, everybody would start checking their watches and phones and before you knew it, the house was empty, except for the parents … and perhaps one remaining stranded interloper. Moriarty had been in that awkward spot before and he knew Penny would not be slow in letting him know the festivities were done. There was also the small matter of getting into town; was there a chance some of these parents lived that way? That would avoid the taxi fare. Then again, being stuck in the back of a car with some snot-nosed kid – who wasn't his own snot-nosed nephew – had very little appeal either. The scientist's wife made up Moriarty's mind for him as she came over to tell him about 'bed-time'. 'I'd best be going,' he said. 'Yeah, it's getting to that time,' said Moriarty, looking at his wrist, then remembering again he'd lost his watch. He checked his phone but it was gone dead. Another by-product of the night before; there was little point in plugging your mobile into a charger if it was not attached to the wall, he recalled bitterly. 'That reminds me, I left the present in the back of the car,' the scientist said. 'Present?' said Moriarty. 'For the young lad.' Moriarty looked momentarily perplexed. 'Your nephew,' the scientist said. Moriarty knew he had forgotten something. 'I'd better go out and get it,' said his companion. Moriarty pulled out his wallet, and checked inside. There was a twenty euro note inside and a few betting slips, all losers. Pay day was a few days away still, and his account was already overdrawn. He rifled his pockets in the hope there might be a spare note lurking from the night before. No luck – six euro in coins exactly, the remaining shrapnel deposited in the poor box earlier in the day in a fit of charitable madness. Then, lo and behold, a folded piece of paper in his pocket, the feel of a note. Alas, it was just the cloakroom ticket he had lost the previous night; its disappearance had nearly caused a row. A taxi to town was at least fifteen euro, he thought, that leaves five, and the six in coins, but how to break the twenty for two tenner’s. And besides, a tenner as a present is pretty mean. The scientist returned, gift under his arm, and handed it to young Jack, who carefully placed it in a pile of unopened presents. It was not actually his birthday until the next day and his mother had issued strict instructions on when the gifts could be unwrapped. Moriarty was becoming dispirited. I’ll be on the f**king bus, he thought. He drained his remaining half pint of Guinness in one gulp and shouted: 'Jack, come over here to me.' His nephew came over. Jack had no particularly strong feelings about his uncle, which was fine because his uncle felt more or less the same about him. 'Here you are,' said Moriarty, handing him the twenty euro note as he ruffled his hair. 'Buy something nice with that.' 'Thanks Uncle Michael,' the boy said, a genuine glow on his none-too-innocent face. Moriarty turned around, saw his scientist friend being ushered out the door by his wife, their boy in tow, being pulled along reluctantly by the left arm. Moriarty waved him goodbye and went to seek out his brother. 'I'm going to hit the road,' he said. 'Are you sure you won't have one more?' said Martin. 'Ah, I think I'll leave you to it,' he replied remembering vividly the time the one more with his brother turned into three more, before Penny came and rudely turfed him out with a stern warning about leading her husband astray. 'Have you a coat with you?' asked Martin. 'I think it's in the study.' Moriarty went off up to the front of the house and into the study. There was a pile of jackets draped across a computer desk in there and he searched around for his. Penny came in the door, brandishing the twenty euro note: 'What’s this Michael?' 'A present for the young lad,' he said. 'Twenty euro?' she said 'That was all I had, and I'm on the bus because of it.' 'Could you not have put a bit more thought into it. For your godson? You know, an actual present; with wrapping paper and a bow. Did you even get him a card?' 'He seemed happy enough with it.' 'Jesus Michael,' she said, 'will you ever grow up?' He wondered if she might at least return the money. She did not. Ken Foxe is a freelance writer and transparency advocate in Ireland. He has written two non-fiction books based on his journalism and when not working or minding his two kids, enjoys writing short stories and speculative fiction.

Line Not drunk, he walked between the spaces, spaces where the faded yellow line would stutter, change its mind, begin its job of separating bad from good, from here and there. No cop could stop the fault he felt was his, a fault, a quake that waved the faded yellow line, he thought it drunk the way it wavered down the road that stopped at nowhere good, that faded yellow into good intentions gone the wrong side of the empty road. Real Nothing is real. What he really sees is nothing but happenstance. Reality is a tourniquet wrapped around a pile of empty coffee pots. Reality is a tourniquet wrapped around a bag of frozen peas. Frozen peas don’t stop the pain. Any pain is better than staring at nothing. Any pain is better than wrapping happenstance into a coffee pot and stuffing it into a frozen bag of peas. Nolcha’s poems have been curated in print and online journals. Her poetry books are available on Amazon and Dancing Girl Press. Nominee for 2023 Best of The Net. Editor for Open Arts Forum, Chewers & Masticadores, Garden of Neuro. Accidental interviewer. Fake news faker. Website: https://bit.ly/3bT9tYu Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/nolcha.fox/ Twitter: https://twitter.com/FoxNolcha Medium: @nolchafox_14571

- Photo provided by the author —Loop: A Reductio— A bowl of fruit loops completes another revolution in the microwave, making 13.7 minutes and counting on high, the milk still boiling over in rainbows burning on the cloudy tray and the spoon sparking primordial. Let it turn. There is no gravity. Eating them cold feels like giving in preemptively to entropy that unspools everything eventually- so be volatile now; chase lightning and catch it by the spoonful, accreting chaos that a bowl of fruit loops completes. —TO THE RIVER— The wooden sign with black background and carved letters painted gold hanging over the stairway to the underpass in downtown Middletown at the back of the public parking lot that crosses under the highway reads: TO THE RIVER And I imagine it being shouted by an ancient hero pressed into urgent courage, running toward the concrete stairwell, fist raised to the dusk, head turned back to address the weary mob just long enough to spark them into obedience, and for me to capture the moment in my mind and join them on the banks to lay down my weapons, too. —Nanaimo— Brown needles fall like anxious thoughts on the trail I did not expect to walk today, becoming path and past below me far enough to watch them blur away. New trees sprout from dying stumps, as signposts leading to my clearing, where the water in the lake is still enough for every splash and echo, hearing in them the Father’s voice from sky reflecting - I am loved and good enough. Ryan Keating is a writer, teacher, and pastor on the Mediterranean island of Cyprus. His work can be found in publications such as Saint Katherine Review, Ekstasis Magazine, Amethyst Review, Macrina Magazine, Fathom, Fare Forward, Roi Fainéant, and Funicular. His chapbook, “A Dance In Medias Res” is forthcoming from Wipf and Stock.

I hustled for a hundred years underneath the shifting sky the revving of the mythos the taste of death still unswallowed I hustled in the disturbed earth where scorpions raised their tails like a call to battle water covered your body like the swimming of hands like a year and a day of silk gloves over every breath of skin I hustled every medium, every flavor of death I hustled through the gullies where fishermen’s boats still look like children’s toys through sun-sucked clay and passages of smoke from terrestrial gas stations to wild ranges and unmapped lights from lovers’ shelters to naked, open nights I have hustled blood into hard-packed soil in foreign tongues, in wars where the heart beats the marching drum I’ve hustled tears and I’ve hustled laughter into arms and legs of those I didn’t deserve I have hustled piano runs and numerous prerogatives of dope every time I hustle art I quit the next day phony moments in time as soon as you pull the ribbon it turns to ash in your hands I’ve hustled myself in the style of those around me phony, regrettable I’ve hustled every religion, every sign of the zodiac I’ve hustled the man, the minion, the nobody messiahs, shooting stars, bags of cheap coke I’ve hustled confessions like a cult leader putting a design on death I’ve hustled rain and sun, drought and flood desert and jungle and fields of pavement days and nights that roll into years the tides and the traffic rides to nowhere down a sunken road and where has it gotten me? where have these roads converged? where am I now? Walker Rose was born in Roseburg, Oregon. Raised in Las Vegas, Nevada, he left home to explore a life on the margins of society. Caught in the throes of constant travel, black market farming, and working the occasional odd job, he sought to bring back a story worth telling.

A true story about faith narrated by a faithless writer. Atheists frequently call on other people’s Gods when they’re desperate. Worn down by circumstance, my back to the proverbial wall, I accompanied my husband, a believer, to South Mumbai’s Mahalaxmi temple in the summer of 2022. In tight blue denims, a black Puma exercise t-shirt and a heavy mangalsutra, I looked every bit the modern-day Mumbaikar, playing it cool, but secretly eager to get Devi Ma’s attention that evening. There are many things a newly-wed Indian couple can pray for at the feet of Goddess Mahalaxmi, but that evening, the storm in both our hearts had everything to do with the American consulate. We went there to pray for my visa, one of the more commonplace prayers in the country, especially among the middle class. For us, at the time, my visa was the be all and end all of everything; we’d been married for three weeks and my husband was scheduled to board a flight to San Francisco, without me, in a few days. Our visa agent said I’d have to wait anywhere between 18 and 22 months before I could join him there. It usually doesn’t take that long; this was symptomatic of some post-covid red tape that the American embassy in India was notorious for, back then. The situation was hopeless enough to put a haughty skeptic in a long line at one the busiest mandirs in the city, just before the auspicious Maha Aarti. It was uncomfortable to say the least. The line I was in was flanked by two other lines. There was no elbow room in that disproportionately crowded area, full of aggressive devotees trying to out-pray one another, each one audaciously confident that She was actually listening to their inner voice in that cacophony of temple bells, mantras and chatter. I inhaled a concoction of sweat, mogra, agarbattis and Mumbai’s salty June air. Dizzy from the humidity and bored because my husband was in a different line, far away from me, I was losing patience. I started trying to squeeze my way out when suddenly there was absolute silence. The special 20-minute window for intense worship, that people had travelled across the city to experience, had opened and a new sound filled the room. I thought the pandit had begun a different song, but quickly realised it was coming from my left –haunting, guttural and distinctly female. One of the ladies in the adjoining queue – heavyset, 40-something, sunburnt – had begun to swoon as if possessed, screaming “Aaaaaaa, aaaaaa….” every now and then, swinging to her own music, arms raised above her head, eyes closed. She seemed to be in a trance, her long hair loose about her face, swaying this way and that, as she dipped her head low, then arched her back the other way and bent backwards. Thick strands of black hair clung to her face and neck as she moved around in circles, perturbed neither by the cleavage that showed as she danced with abandon nor the sindoor that was seeping onto her forehead. Her bindi fell off as did her dupatta. Her companion grabbed her purse just in time. Onlookers stared at this sweaty spectacle for a few seconds before making their way to her one by one, gingerly touching her head, her feet, muttering their deepest desires, as if to seek her blessings. That’s when it hit me – to them, she was the Goddess incarnate. There’s a term for this in almost every Indian language but the ones I’m familiar with are ‘devi angaat aali’ in Marathi and ‘mata chadh gayi’ in Hindi. It means, for those few minutes, the divine feminine energy of the Goddess had ‘entered’ the body of this lady, making her a temporary avatar of Mahalaxmi. Kamla, Padma, Aditi, Vimla, Siddhi, Indira… whoever she was, ceased to exist. For those few mad minutes, she had socio-religious sanction to go hysterical in public, she had a holy license to pause her templated life and let her hair down and… misbehave. The rules of social censorship were temporarily suspended. She, who was probably reprimanded by an elder for a peeking bra strap or untamed hair that very morning, could put up an unsolicited, wild performance for a roomful of strangers in such close proximity to her, allowing her flesh to shift around beneath her salwar kameez, only because that behaviour was... blessed. And just like that, her self-induced fugue state came to an end. Her mannerisms were regular once again – she adjusted her clothes, tied, then untied, then retied her hair, urgently took her purse from her friend, and wiped her face with a handkerchief. The people who’d gathered around to touch her suddenly felt they stood too close for comfort and moved away, reclaiming their original positions. Before I could process what was going on, my husband appeared out of somewhere and grabbed my hand, pulling me to the front. Suddenly the Goddess was back in the garlanded idol facing the crowd. All eyes looked at the golden murti once again. All but mine. After scanning the place for a few seconds, I saw her again. She was chewing something while looking at her cell phone – ordinary, human, mortal. When she looked up, she noticed my gaze and we locked eyes for a few moments. Cynical, questioning and piercing, my eyes challenged her. Appealing to the unspoken sisterhood that all women share beneath the surface, she held my gaze and smiled conspiratorially, aware that I was calling her bluff but telling me to let it go because she knew I understood. I heard her, loud and clear. Everyone went home. We got busy with packing my husband’s suitcases and he left for America as planned. My visa arrived in four months.

Author’s Note: "Some Tracery of Stardust" maps one woman's history with cats, in parallel to her history with chronic illness. This is a story of resilience and determination, of five cities and six cats, of chronic illness and true love, of mortality and suffering, of whiskers and paws. As you move from one city to another with the writer, you will experience her increasing pain and suffering, but you will also experience immense joy and love, as she is taken care of in sometimes surprising ways by her genuinely life-saving feline friends. Ultimately, this is an essay about love triumphing over illness— if you've ever loved an animal deeply, you may find yourself nodding along as you read! Alexandria, Virginia Boo was my first cat, though if you’re at all like me, your first cat was also your first love. He was in my life from his infancy and from mine. As a kitten, he liked to jump out from behind bookshelves or potted plants, and startle people. It was a hop and a leap from there to his name. Boo was a striking seal point Siamese, with a meow that made people ask Do you have a baby in your house? when they called, and heard him hollering. Boo was not allowed to sleep in my parent’s room. I think this was my father’s rule more than my mother’s, and have always hoped it didn’t hurt Boo’s feelings. Every now and then, and always at midnight, as if to make a point, he would yowl pitifully at their door. This meant bedtime with Boo, who liked to sleep pressed close against you, burrowing into the warm circle of your arms— was split between Sister and I. On occasion, a fight broke out over whose night it was with him, but we managed pretty well. When she went away to college though, every night became a cat night for me. I missed Sister so much that I began sleeping in her bed with its hand-splattered comforter; red, yellow, blue. Boo followed me there, not about to spend a night alone. His naked trust, his dogged loyalty, his ample affection— in many ways, he taught me how to love. Eventually, I moved back to my own bed, and Boo followed me there as well. He taught me so much just by showing up and curling into my arms. He never questioned whether or not he was wanted. He never doubted that our love was rightfully his— just absorbed it, like oxygen. Boo made it almost twenty-one years with us, dying in the springtime of my junior year at Sarah Lawrence College. I remember lying with my head next to his, keenly aware this would be the last time I would ever see his lovely, regal face. One salt-slick tear after another dashed from my cheeks to my chin. The tears were lukewarm, but felt like they could burn me. When my mother took Boo to be put to sleep, I cried until there were no more tears left to give, face swollen and sore. Of course, there were plenty more tears to give. I cried into my pillow for weeks after Boo’s death. Arms empty of marshmallow-soft fur, ears void of sonata purr. My first cat— my first love— gone. New Orleans, Louisiana Melanie, my college roommate, found the kittens before my plane even touched ground in New Orleans. (We’d decided, on a whim and a wish, to live in Louisiana for the summer. It was Melanie, Micah, and myself— all three sensitive Sarah Lawrence students, all three artists, all three queer. Our apartment had no air conditioning or working oven, and I was the only one who’d set up a job in advance.) The kittens mewed at Melanie hungrily from behind the neighborhood post office— one sleek black, one gray with what we would soon realize was a fine coating of dust. She did the only sane thing. She gentled them home with her, tucked into the wicker basket of her lime green bicycle. They arrived the same day as me. Not yet possessing names, we called them by lazy shorthand, Black kitty and Grey kitty. Melanie and Micah wanted to name them something along the lines of Elephant and Montana. I rejected these outright. Within a day or two, Grey Kitty would reveal herself to be a soft cream, with the bandit markings of a Siamese just beginning across her face, paws, tail. A seal point, just like Boo. I’d thought I’d never have a Siamese cat again, less and less easy to come by without breeders. Thought I’d have to break my family’s forty-year Siamese streak. This streak began even before my parents married, with a cat named Petrushka who drew blood at random. My dad gave Petrushka to my mom; her first cat ever, tucked away in a small, buzzing building full of graduate students in Norman, Oklahoma. Later, Petrushka went to live with my mom’s parents; a stern, slim woman who wore meticulously pressed, hand-sewn wool suits, and a round-bellied, wink-prone man I swear to this day was the real Santa Claus. Away from the clamor of graduate students, Petrushka almost immediately stopped biting. Next came Ebenezer, who lived with my parents in Virginia before Sister and I came along. He was a private gentleman of a cat who would never dare chomp your ankle. So now, this new, minute seal point strikes me as the very gut of a miracle. I was still mourning Boo, would be mourning him for some time. When I saw friends snuggling with their cats, I had to subtly edge my glance away, occasionally biting my lip until it drew blood. Yet here was this unnamed marvel curled on my chest, kneading outsized paws into my sky-blue sleep shirt. Her purr, hesitant to get going, but when it did: The rumble of a tiny railroad yard. Impressive, really— something so huge coming from something so tiny. Wall cats, that’s what we called the New Orleans cats. Wall cats, because our very first night with them, they both appeared to escape. We briefly panicked, but quickly discovered that our sketchy apartment had sketchy holes scattered throughout its thin walls. We pulled the cats out of their respective holes, their bodies elongating as they resisted. Stuffed the holes full of paper towel rolls, cans of generic brand black beans, anything we could find that might serve as a barrier. We closed our bedroom doors, flipped over any furniture that wasn’t flush to the ground. Call it a kitten intervention. Black Kitty remained mostly aloof, allowing an occasional scritch under his chin. But soon enough, Grey Kitty turned Siamese Kitty took to sitting out in the open. Lounging on windowsills, batting at flies. Rubbing against our hands when we reached for her. She began taking naps on my chest, purring herself to sleep. The plan was to stay for the entire summer, but I was simply too sick to manage it. Melanie and Micah stayed, and both later had partners move into the apartment, but I only made it three weeks in New Orleans before I had to return to my parent’s home in Alexandria. I remember the city in flashes and glimmers— an evening here, a meal there. I remember riding the trolley to a doctor’s appointment, nauseous, folding in on myself with pain. I can see the trolley’s jovial reds and yellows with quartz clarity twenty years later. Breeze in my shoulder-length pink hair, it was impossible not to love New Orleans. I was equal parts nausea and glee. I remember the night we pretended to be British tourists, wandering The French Quarter. We scooped handfuls of change from fountains outside of gilded hotels, and used our dripping coins to buy lurid orange margaritas. British accents growing sloppier as we progressed down the street, alcohol dipping into our veins. I remember eating in the African restaurant across from our apartment, food flavorful but dry; remember going to the Latin market to buy plantains and pupusas; remember taking ice-cold baths daily. I remember long hours spent lounging in the living room, taking turns standing in front of the enormous black fan Micah found under an overpass. I remember a three hundred pound man fisting my lace-clad breasts in his enormous hands, seizing them like thick slabs of cherry pie. Casually, passing me on the street, as if this was just the sort of thing people did. I remember our bizarre lesbian landlord, her soot-rooted blonde hair in stringy waves to her shoulders, trying to bully us into dressing up as cartoon characters for her children’s entertainment company. I remember when we told her we needed a real oven. She brought a second microwave instead, and refused to admit all summer long that it was, in point of fact, absolutely not an oven. I remember cutting Melanie and Micah’s hair on the balcony at dusk. They each had short, ink-black locks, and I gave them vaguely different versions of the same haircut. Micah’s bangs slightly spikier, Melanie’s cut a shade more Tinkerbelle. I remember buying biscuits at Popeyes— which were everywhere, absolutely everywhere— for fifty cents. Devouring them, crumbs falling to the cheap plastic tables. We were always hungry. We were always hot. I was always sick. I took Bastien back to Virginia with me. That became the Siamese cat’s name. I started with Sebastian, but decided that sounded more like a Sheep dog’s name. On the flight home, she mewed relentlessly. The flight attendants let me open her carrier and murmur to her, whisper my fingers through her fur. Melanie and Micah would later have stories of a wild, madcap summer full of love affairs and drum circles, of dressing up as Barney during the day and cavorting in the neon-smeared city at night. I was sad I’d missed out. But I had Bastien now, didn’t I? Surely the precise reason I was meant to be in New Orleans at all. Bronxville, New York/Portland, Oregon/Alexandria, Virginia I snuck Bastien with me to college my senior year, and though she loved to sit in the single wide window, preening in sunlight, we were somehow never caught. By Spring semester, I was too sick to manage school. Between brutal abdominal pain and twice daily panic attacks, I’d stopped going to classes. At one point, I stayed in my room so long, eschewing calls and voicemails and knocks on my door, that my best friends had the campus police threaten to knock down my door. Bastien, smart and timid alike, ducked instantly under the bed. I frantically covered up her litter with a bath towel, opened the door with a polite smile, and promised I was fine, really, I was fine— and yes, I would call my friends. Sarah Lawrence is a fluffy sort of school, one where you meet one-on-one with professors every other week, and develop independent studies for every class you take. It’s very DIY, but it’s also sharply academic, and you do actually have to show up to class. I double majored in Psychology and Creative Writing, and those departments did not play. I remember sitting in the Dean’s office, pulse palpitating, abdomen constricting cruelly: I’m sorry, I’m too sick. I don’t think… I can’t finish school right now. What intense shame. It feels as if I remember the exact slant of my green eyes to the Dean’s expensive grey carpeting. What intense shame— what dizzying relief. After leaving college with just nine credits left to complete, I tried moving again, this time to Portland, Oregon. Sister was there, and I would live just a few short blocks from her and her partner. Reed College was in Portland as well— Sarah Lawrence’s sister school. I thought I’d have my degree in a year or two, easy. If you’d have told me that it would, in fact, be seventeen years before I held that holy, embossed paper in my hands, I’m not sure whether I would have laughed or despaired. Portland was amazing. The kind of city where strangers stop you on the sidewalk if you look sick; where you can still happen on a date by wandering through the aisles of a bookstore; where a worker-run, worker-owned vegan café has enough power to run a Starbucks out of business. Well-fed neighborhood cats don’t prowl through alleyways— they plop themselves onto your porch furniture, climb in your windows, ample bellies swinging. I lived first in the basement of a house that would be condemned not many years later, and later, in two different Victorian homes. Sharing large orange or pink Victorian houses with three to five roommates was how many of us made do in Portland— the rent just a few hundred dollars a month. I fell into a career as a pin-up girl; work I could manage through pain, hours I could make myself. I looped limbs around other women’s threadlike waists or ample hips, pressed glossed lips to their breasts, and was paid handsomely for it. The photos went onto assorted alternative erotica websites— whatever they asked for, I played the part. Sometimes I was a goth girl, sometimes a raver, sometimes a nerd. By the end, I had my own queer, feminist pin-up girl website, populated by myself and thirty dreamy models or so. There I was just myself, and naked. Mostly, this career consisted of long nights entwined with cute girls, laughter fluting up to the ceiling— a beer cracked here, a line of cocaine there, soon enough it’s four a.m. I was the photographer as well, so we managed to avoid the predatory men too easily found in that field. There was Melissa, who looked like a modern-day Bettie Page, and whose heart I inadvertently smashed into pieces. There was Meret, who worshiped Hilary Clinton, and asked me to photoshop the I.V. drug marks from her arms. There was Aerlinn, whose pink hair matched mine and who could have ecstatic nipple orgasms, one after another. There was Luna, a ferocious redhead I adored beyond reason, and would later lose to suicide. There was Poppy, who kept chickens in her backyard and resembled a Renaissance painting. If you’d made a chart of who’d made out with whom, who’d had sex with whom, it would have resembled a very messy spiderweb. It was a funny sort of thing: To be in so much pain, and yet use my body to make a living. All day long, I would arch my back and tilt my sharp jaw. I would grind my hips and stroke my inner thighs. But at the end of the day, I would always collapse back into bed, where Bastien waited for me. I pulled my black and grey comforter up to my glitter-encrusted eyes. I pressed my heating pad to my abdomen until a mottled pattern of burns formed. Bastien slunk to my side, curling against my chest, eyeing me wisely. I know, I know, I sighed. She purred back loudly, inching closer to the heating pad. I turned the temperature level to low. Portland was amazing, it’s true. But no matter how many cute cafes and vintage clothing shops there were in this charming puddle town, I could not out-run my illness. I got the first of many abdominal surgeries there as well. I was given the diagnosis of endometriosis after nine years of steadily rising pain levels; of going to specialist after specialist; of being told the pain would go away if I ate a head of broccoli a day. The surgery changed nothing, and it would be another thirteen years before I got one that did. In Portland, Sophie— a gregarious tortoiseshell who purred if you so much as looked at her— joined Bastien and I. She had hypnotizing green eyes, white mittens on her otherwise black and orange explosion of fur, and came running like a puppy when you called her name. She and Bastien got along right away— not a hiss, not a growl passed between them. Just some cursory sniffing. They shared a bed by the second night they shared a home. The plane ride back to Virginia with two cats was a little trickier, the flight attendants a little stricter, but we made it. Back in Alexandria, I tried surgery again— this time with Tori Amos’ doctor, one who’d warranted a section in her memoir. I was sure he’d be able to help me as well. Instead, he told me I was too young for a hysterectomy, and when the surgery he was willing to do instead changed absolutely nothing for me, seemed to take it as a personal affront. Raising his voice, he told me the only option left for someone like me was a pain clinic. Eventually, I was so sick I couldn’t make it to appointments to get refills for pain medication. I went through cold turkey fentanyl and oxycodone withdrawal. Writhing on icicled bathroom tiles, vomiting until only thin yellow strings dripped from my lips. I’d already been mostly bedbound for seven years— but for the next four, would leave the house just twice, each of those in an ambulance. I saw no one but my mother and father, save Sister a few times a year. I’ll never forget her carrying her first baby, my first niece, into my bedroom. How struck I was by profound joy for her existence, and profound shame for mine, all at once. How instantly I fell in love even through the haze of pain. Throughout this entire sour rollercoaster, Bastien and Sophie watched over me. Most of the time, Sophie slept tucked at my feet, while Bastien kept watch by my pillow. Is it Bastien I’m telling you about the most because she was my cat alone, whereas Sophie was gladly everyone’s? Or is it something deeper, something a bit farther from the realm of explanation? Bastien was an actual miracle of a cat, finding me at precisely the right time. She contained, I suspect, slivers of Boo’s soul, something of the starshine he left behind. I did not realize when I began to take care of her that she would also take care of me. She slept by my head every night for fourteen years. She was a timorous cat, a one human cat, and I was very lucky— she had chosen me as that person. She heard me begging my mother to please let me die, please, and was having none of it. The second my mom left the room again, sobs still scraping from my throat, Bastien leapt back onto the bed. She pressed herself into my chest more firmly than usual. Blinked at me, twice and slowly— which in cat means I love you, I trust you. In Bastien, I think it also meant Don’t you dare think of leaving me. In the end, I did have to leave Bastien, though just geographically— moving to seek expert, ultimately triumphant medical care. For months, my empty bed in Baltimore seemed to actually ache, her absence as distinct as her presence. Five years later, when she died, I asked my parents to take prints of her paws. I wanted to frame them, or wear them in a locket. I lost the paw prints shortly after my parents gave them to me. Every now and then, I search for them frantically; tearing through drawers, tears streaking my flushed face; but nothing ever turns up. She is gone, her precious inked paws are gone. But against all odds, I am alive. Bastien made sure of that. Baltimore, Maryland I have three cats now. We’re only allowed two pets in my building, so one of my babies is a fugitive. First came Sushi and Edamame, a bonded pair of tuxedo sisters. Originally called Joey and Rachel, they came from a litter named after the characters from Friends. I changed their names before even signing the adoption papers. Sushi is primarily interested in food and knocking things over, up to and including toasters and knife blocks. Once, she actually managed to nick my forearm, my mouth a pale pink “O” as I watched the blood well up. Sushi is a lap cat when it pleases her, ramming her way onto the pretzel of my thighs. Sometimes she is angelic, wrapping her white mittens around my legs and purring for hours. Lucifer was a fallen angel too, you know, I whisper with my face pressed to her cheek. She wiggles her whiskers in response, tickling my nose. Edamame is known to lick walls and floors. On occasion, I wake to find she’s gnawed apart a book while I was sleeping, chewed it to bits. She likes her chin scratched so hard that I sometimes worry I’m hurting her. She will rub her face in a frenzy against almost any imitation meat product— vegan hot dogs, shrimp, crab cakes. She’ll never actually eat any of it though. She, like Bastien, is a one-person cat— if you’re not me, she’ll sooner dash away from your reach than let you pet her. She also likes to hop up on my shoulders like the cat lady’s version of a pirate’s parrot, sometimes staying there for long stretches, needling her paws into my upper back. Ice Cream Muffin is a grey and white floof of a cat. A princess, easily startled. On occasion, she refuses to eat unless you feed her kibble directly from the creased cup of your palms. She fiends for bacon, but only from Five Guys. She’ll leap onto the dining room table, and yank a whole piece straight from your bacon cheeseburger. As my best friend feathers her bizarrely soft fur, he sing-songs softly: Meanie, you meanie, because she always prefers him to me, prefers my father to me, prefers anyone who identifies as male to me. She also poops in the bath tub. Once daily, twice on special occasions. When I get sick again, Edamame goes from being a mildly standoffish cat to a clingy cat, overnight. Maybe that’s not really how it happened. Maybe she had slowly, steadily been becoming a more affectionate cat, and I only noticed when my need became full and ripe as strawberry moon. She begins to sleep on the pillow next to mine. Every night, I crash into bed, curl fetal in pain and exhaustion. I begin crying or trying not to. Edamame announces her arrival with a chirp, hopping in after me. She meanders across the bed first. If this cat were a person, she would always swing her hips when she walked. She stops to nuzzle the rainbow owl my best friend gave me after my most recent surgery, pauses to paw at the cord of my heating pad. A tiny hop!, and she’s on my chest. Her purrs are quiet, but vibrate like a Harley-Davidson doing tricks on the highway. I feel as if I’m made of honey, warm gold drizzling through my veins. She rubs her face against mine almost aggressively, headbutting me, rubbing her gums against my cheeks. I like to think she’s saying something along the lines of: Look, I know you think I’m just a cat, but I really do love you, silly human. She stays there for a while, kneading my chest. Sometimes she stays long enough to fall asleep on my chest, tiny black chin tucked under mine. Even in the absolute ravages of pain, even in the moments when I’m questioning if I actually want to live through this: It is impossible to be anything but happy when Edamame is a small, dark curl on my chest. A sort of bliss that defies disease. When she sleeps next to me, Edamame likes it best when she has one pillow, and I have three. I think she likes this so I can prop above and curl down into her— tangling my trembling hands into her fur, scratching behind her ears, under her chin. She just keeps purring and purring, and every now and then, stares golden-eyed up at me. Then she goes back to sleeping, or perhaps bathing herself. She never runs away when I start to cry. She doesn’t even budge. To say that I did not grow up in a religious household is to understate the matter. My father is an atheist astrophysicist, who genuinely doesn’t understand how intelligent people can believe in a God. The closest you got to religion in our household was my mother’s bright orange yoga mat, her books of Buddhist poetry. I went to church a tiny handful of times as a child— church picnic when visiting West Virginia, Christmas Eve Mass with my best friend’s family, a charity dinner with another friend. I remember serving sweaty meatballs, moderately creeped out by all the wooden crucifixes on the walls. I tell you all of this, so you will understand a bit of my spiritual genealogy. So you will understand that I do not come by it lightly when I say that I think my cats are trading souls. I can’t tell yet if I completely and factually believe this, full swallow, or if I believe it like the memory of a feather’s touch. Something so exquisite that, even if it’s not happening, it can easily feel as if it is. But something is happening here— something I thought stopped with Boo and Bastien, those Siamese spirit siblings. Then I fell flat-faced into illness again, and Edamame proved me wrong. Boo ferried me into this life, in our home from shortly after my birth through my twenty-first year. Boo is childhood afternoons spent playing on sunshine-dappled hardwood floors; is adolescent memories of crying into brown-black fur after my first broken heart; is early adult memories of always being greeted eagerly by the front door when I came home from college. Bastien carried me through an illness I never thought I’d survive, carried me through eleven years that sucked the very marrow from my sanity. She was loyal to me long after I moved to Maryland, taking a full two years to accept my mother as her new person; to nuzzle onto her blanketed knees every night instead of mine. And now I am sick again, and it appears Edamame has taken on the mantle of guardian cat. Edamame, who bathes her sister so zealously that sometimes Sushi has to yowl her objection. Edamame, who gets so excited about dinner that most nights, you have to guide her, spinning in half-circles, to her food dish. Each of these cats have had their own quirks and kindnesses. Boo’s passion for red yarn and sleeping, through the night, right in the warm circle of your arms. Bastien’s fondness for sleeping under the bed on the rare occasions she wasn’t busy guarding me. Edamame’s zeal for rubbing her face against vegan hot dogs; the way she meow-ows hello in the morning. They are clearly not the same cat— but do they share some piece of the same soul, some tracery of stardust connecting them through the tissue of time? Has this very stardust been protecting me for forty full years? I cannot pretend to know. I can only suspect. This new disease is even more brutal than endometriosis, and obscenely rare. Mesenteric panniculitis. It causes stupefying, zombie fatigue that leaves me stumbling, tripping over bare feet. It causes nausea so intense that I guzzle ginger beer for breakfast, keep a sliver of raw ginger in my mouth when even that doesn’t cut it. And the pain. The pain is surreal; unreal; more than I thought one body could contain. Eight months into living with mesenteric panniculitis, when I’m finally able to have a consultation with a specialist, he says: If the disease progresses to the next stage, the pain will never stop. We’re going to hope that doesn’t happen. It turns out this disease can also kill you pretty easily. Soon, I can’t even sit without stingrays sniping through my abdomen. My dining room chairs are bright orange, wooden and boxy, from IKEA. My parents bring me one of the family chairs I’ve long coveted. Blue mid-century modern wonders that now go for $900 a pop, which they dragged home from Europe for $35 apiece. It’s a warm chair, a soft chair, a chair that slopes sweetly around my lower back. I can eat meals at the dining room table again. Chronic illness never fails to humble you; to remind you that you’re breathless-lucky for a thousand tiny things which are, as it turns out, not so tiny after all. All three cats love the chair, instantly and obsessively. I can’t enter the dining room without finding one of them sitting in it. Sushi stares me down when I try to budge her, whines pitifully as I pull her off. Ice Cream Muffin eyes me cautiously, flicks her ears and looks away, then glances back. She lets herself be transferred gently into my lap, but soon leaps off. Muppet-mop of a tail raised high. And then, Edamame. She leaps off the chair the second I enter the room. Sways a few feet away, settling into a cardboard box. She protects me. She keeps the stingrays at bay. When I first learn the mortality rates for mesenteric panniculitis, I wail and wail. Inconsolable. Within a few days, though, I become calm and practical, banging out a will in under a week. (What other choice is there?) I leave my nicest vintage furniture to my soulmate from age fifteen, also leaving her my favorite (and most sapphic) framed art. I leave signed prints by my favorite artists to one best friend, and all my gorgeous vintage dresses and slinky pajamas to my other best friend. I leave my cats to Sister, who I know will either home them herself, or find homes where they can thrive. She will make sure Ice Cream Muffin has her favorite sherbet-striped blanket. Make sure Sushi, the most jealous cat I’ve ever known, gets petted when she pleads. Make sure Edamame has someone she can share a bed with, her small, black head nestled next to theirs. I do not like thinking about this part. I tuck my nose into Edamame’s neck, breathe deep the sweet smell of freshly bathed cat. I’m not going anywhere, I whisper into her velvety ear. She perks up for a minute, waggles her spray of white whiskers. Beams her golden eyes right into mine. It’s as if I can hear her speaking directly to me. Damn right you’re not, she says. You’re staying here with me. She curls back into a tight sphere in my arms, yawns enormously, rubs her face against mine. It's settled then. I have no choice but to live. Robin Kinzer is a queer, disabled poet, memoirist, editor, and occasional teacher. Robin has poems and essays published, or forthcoming, in Cleaver Magazine, Kissing Dynamite Poetry, Blood Orange Review, fifth wheel press, Delicate Friend, Anti-Heroin Chic, and others. She’s a Poetry Editor for the winnow magazine. She loves glitter, Ferris wheels, vintage fashion, sloths, and radical empathy. She can be found on Twitter at @RobinAKinzer and at www.robinkinzer.com

We have slipped on ice and toys. We have slipped out of our clothes, dog tired at the end of the day. We have slipped an extra tablet into our mouths. We have not had enough money to feed ourselves. We have not let the children go hungry. We have not had the energy to read a bedtime story. We have been told we are made in the image of Mary. We have been told we must try harder to roll that boulder up the hill. We might, if we’d had enough energy and not been stuck inside all day cleaning and crying, have marched with banners like we did back in the day. We need to learn to be all things. To all people. We need to learn to manage our time better. But maybe tomorrow, just for a change — We will stop bending over backwards. We will pause our saying sorry. We will give ourselves time to repair. We will seek help, grasping it gratefully with hands and hearts connected. We will lie down, nourishing body and soul. We will stand Amazon-tall and banner-broad. We will write our own futures. Bonnie is a British writer whose work has been previously published by, among others, Roi Faineant, Reflex Press, Ellipsis Zine, the Dribble Drabble Review, Ad Hoc Press, and Tiny Molecules. She loves the form of flash fiction - paring words down into molecules of beauty.