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

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

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

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

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

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

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.