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Hidden within the Austrian and Germanic borders, the palace of the last king stands still, only ever brushed by the wind. To reach the main building, you must traverse the valley dirt road downhill to a rocky beach. A crystal blue lake sits beside Bergen waiting for you. If you turn from the water and look up the road, it will change into a multi-colored cobblestone. And beyond, another hill will arch upwards into a cluster of green-leafed trees blowing delicately in the wind. Above them, you can catch a glimpse of gold and marble. # It was hot, and German summer heat is drier than what I am used to, back home in Minnesota. The sun baked my shoulders and even through my sunglasses, I squinted my eyes. Looking wildly at all the tourists and their traps, carts and stands decked in German, Bavarian and Austrian flags, watercolors of the palace beyond and commemorative shot glasses for the trip. I stopped to catch my breath from the climb, and gazed up at the mountains through the sunlight, then down at the kinden spielen in die Wasser. “Komm gleich!” my godmother called, marching ahead, her blonde hair gleaming in the sunlight and flip-flops slapping the rocky sand. I followed the rest of my family beside and behind. We continued up the road. I could already tell that this was a strange, remembered place. We approached the palace, and looked above the other tourists in the crowd. I saw the blue and white German signs through twisting willow trees. The hot breeze blew about their wicker branches concealed in the courtyard ahead, but I peeled through the damp crowd to the shadowed stone archway to get out of the heat. The smell of water and pollen surrounded me and blurred my senses as we broke into the cobblestoned courtyard. No wonder the King went mad here. Golden statues stood at either side of a deep, clear pool, fountains blew down a light mist to help us escape the heat. Peacocks with bright blue and gleaming green tail feathers stalked about the square. At the north side of the pool, was the palace itself, dressed fittingly in gold and otherwise marble. It was small compared to the grounds in which it stayed, flanked by Bergen on all sides. The residence carefully hidden away and entombed within our unser Wesen, Deutschenvolk refused to speak of madness, despite their relationship to Freud, they rather hid it in the land. The old King had done just the same. I turned to gaze at the southern side of the pool that led up to a dual staircase, to lion statues upon another, smaller courtyard and then trestles, flanked royally by flowers and vines, and then a small gazebo that allowed any wandering tourist a doorway to venture the grounds. I gasped and my godmother smiled at me. # Linderhof Palace is the smallest and most unknown, but one of the most elaborate of der Märchenkӧnig, or our last Bavarian King, or King Ludwig II’s palaces. You will probably know him for his much overrated and famous castle, Neuschwanstein, or as many more Americans know it, the castle at Disney parks. If you ask me about Neuschwanstein, there were way too many stairs, after a much grueling uphill mountain hike that wrapped in circles about the river-soaked mountain like swirling stairs. Needless to say, Neuschwanstein is not for the faint of heart. Now, Linderhof, was much smaller, with keiner grӧßen erklettern oder treppenhäusern. Nein, it was decked with a mahogany staircase and red velvet rugs. Just a quiet place for a gay king to die… # We stood in a line, still in the baking sun, linked off by a velvet rope just outside the palace. Every twenty minutes, without fail, the fountain exploded again. We gripped papery brochures in our sweaty hands. We were waiting for the indoor tour. One of the peacocks stalked about and pecked at my skirt briefly, before my godmother and I shooed it away with our brochures. She was practically bouncing like a young girl with excitement, her sundress flowing behind her. She leaned into me, “A few mehrere minuten, aren’t you excited?” I nodded and smiled at her. She had this lovingly awful habit of switching languages mid-sentence. She, being American but having had my god-siblings in Germany and having lived here for more than 20 years, spoke with a miniscule accent, but it was still better than mine. She grabbed my wrists and hooked arms with me still excitedly bouncing. Our attention was drawn to the tour guide in black and white and as she spoke into an earpiece, she also undid the velvet boundary and gestured to us to enter. Another tour guide met us therein. He introduced himself, and began to discuss the marble foyer we were in. My godmother, giddy as ever, asked me if she needed to translate. I shook my head. I turned from her, in fact, I am barely listening to the quick German that flashed by my ears since I was only staring up at the crystalline glass walls, holding a multitude of ornate artistic objects within and above, a crystal chandelier the size of a large pond. I turned about myself, my sandals steps echoing on spotless floor, so clean, that as I looked down at my feet I could see my own face gazing back at me. My eyes were wide. When I looked back up, they passed the tour guide in his little black waistcoat to the glass walls with their teasures inside. I wondered, while peering at them if I flicked the glass with my nail, would it radiate like a great gong? I shook my head at the notion and tried to listen to the tour guide. The peacocks, den Pfauen, which was a new word for me, were explained by the tour guide to be not only King Ludwig's favorite animal, reminiscent of his favorite royal blue color, were also used to announce die Kӧnige presence when he stayed at the palace. I looked back at the door we entered from, its golden frame still as einen Schlagschatten, a vision of what is left behind here. With squinted eyes and swallowing, I wondered if that meant he was still here, somehow, waiting...I blinked, melancholy for him, knowing that even with three palaces he must’ve been the most lonely man in the world. The tour guide led us up a large mahogany staircase that parted into two swirling directions. My feet sank into the velvet rug of the second floor, my toes just edging out of my sandals to truly feel it. And it wasn’t the cheap crushed, dusty velvet I was used to. Nein, es ist Echt und it's like if honey were a fabric, it was just as sweet. The tour guide led us up into a room that I can only describe as decked in gold. Its walls were divided in halves. The top was a pinkish but graying mural of Wagner’s opera, we’d see more of these throughout das haus, the guide explained. Haus was the word he used, like home but also like building. I didn’t know what to call this place. It felt too small to be a castle, too lavish to be a home. How could it have ever been a home, how could anyone ever be comfortable here? Unless he was comforted by the sentinel Berge, his extravagance barely exceeded that of French or Austro-Prussian royals at that time, but was it the Wagner Opera and the golden walls that comforted him, that soothed his sleepless nights. No, because the Mad-King, the Mythic King did not sleep. The tour guide directed our attention to a white but gold extravagant piano, made specifically for Wagner who never visited. I gazed at it, imagining a ghostly place for a composer built there for him, and never filled. Did the King sit across from that spot and gaze longingly at it? An empty, golden and pink piano, never touched, dusted and haunted with the memory of his Zeitgeist moving beyond itself, beyond where it belonged and where it ought to remain. The loneliest man in the world, indeed. There is an echo of a chandelier in this room and my eyes cross it as I glanced out the gold-paned window into the mountainous yard, wondering how anyone could live here in such a opulatent place. What was he trying to prove? # But he did live here, a lot in his final years of life. In the wake of the Wars of Unification perpetrated by Barvaria’s ultimate enemy and nӧrdisch bruder Prussia, King Ludwig, our King of Myth, had succumbed to madness or exhaustion and would not be, could not have been the man to lead der neuen Vaterland into the next century. Many don’t know this but the German nation is about a century younger than America. Its final proclamation was made by the Prussian military Commander Bismarck only ten-some years before the death of the Bavarian King in 1870. Before Germany was Germany it was 200 or so principalities, some of the biggest already previously mentioned. Before the King died, he had fought the Austrian Habsburgs in the Seven Weeks War and with his defeat was forced into an alliance with the Prussians and Bismarck, bringing four more wars down upon his head. These being the Wars of Unification, which left the newborn Deustchland similarly scrabbling and divided. # Before we entered the next room, I glanced at my godmother, sie ist bayerisch, through and through. Yet here we stand at the border of her, his, our land, not knowing what our ancestors called themselves or what we should call ourselves. Bayerisch oder österreichisch, but it certainly wasn’t German. She squeezed my hand tightly in hers, soft and warm, but still as comforting. She smiled at me. “Können Sie es glauben?”. I shook my head, awed and equally appalled at the temptatious golden walls. We stood together in the reminiscence of an old nation. Her eyes gleamed as she held my hand, as if she was trying to tell me something. I’m not sure what, yet the words of some old song echoed in my head, Du gehörst heirher, Du gehörst heirher. As we were guided into the next room, I felt melancholy engulf me, like die Berge hug the vallies. At the moment I didn’t really know why but now it was not only for my godmother and I, but also der König. He was the one trying to save our names, our place, our country and he lost. Prove us to be worthy as any other nation. His palace was not exactly what one may call homey. If the previous room was decked in gold, this one was leaking it. Wall to wall, ceiling to ceiling, encased in it like der Kӧnig was attempting to recreate a more elegant mine for the metal. Ja, the tour guide assured us it was real gold. This room is called das Spiegelsaal oder the Hall of Mirrors, as each gold plate upon the wall resembles such. Even gold paint, made from real gold, was used for the decorations. The room also featured a magnificent view of the mountains from massive windows and a small seating area across from it. Although to me it was a blue velvet throne trimmed in gold. All while the tour guide spoke, and others looked around in awe, I drew my eyes nearer to the immaculate details of the walls. I wanted to dig my nails into the gold and steal it away. What the hell was this all about? I wanted to touch it, feel its tired memory on my fingertips, peel it up to hear his words and wishes therein. For if I turned back I could see his cordial throne, his Victorian ghost sitting there, where he took tea perhaps, spoke to his doctor and advisors about his ills and that of his nation. I would bring the gold paint home and put it under a microscope, investigate it, discover its historical purpose, and find his echoed conversions within. Then I would use it to pay for college. # King Ludwig never married and lost his title, throne and kingdom to the expanding Prussians. He was declared insane before he turned 40 and died. He loved art, architecture, and music with a passion. His queerness has little real basis and is only contingent on the facts given above. He built three castles yet only lived to see the completion of one, Linderhof, named ever-affectionately for the linden tree upon its grounds. He built castles to save Bavaria, believing his love and conserving of culture could preserve his dying state. He paid more and more zeit und geld to his Wagner murals and gold rooms, and less and less to the encroaching Prussians. He did that until he only remained in his gold-trimmed palace alone, except for his doctors. # His bedroom resembled that of das Spiegelsaal, all gold, except for the sitting place now was a massive fluffy blue velvet bed, looking as any other royal bed, canopied and caged away from the world. This room also lacked golden mirrors. I stood apart from my godmother, and wandered freely throughout the room. How could anyone sleep in such a place? was it for lack and therefore need of comfort? All his life he was rejected and perhaps unloved. Handsome and charming, so they tell us, ja. Doch der Man war Kӧnich erst, a failed one at that. Yet he was not mad, having failed against Austria and now failing against the Prussians, his advisors began plotting against him, to remove him from his throne. He, being a constitutional monarch, could not simply be removed, but had to be proven unfit to rule. Two separate psychologists diagnosed him with insanity. It must have been easy to get away with, too, as he retreated into the safe space of art and music as well as away from the public eye. Although he might have been relieved to give up on his dream of preserving his kingdom. Could castles save a nation? No. Could castles preserve the memory of the land? Ja, remarking upon its beauty. I had seen all die Märchenkӧnigen palaces. He’s the one king I knew the name of...national pride, national awareness trickled from the golden walls and velvet sheets, it ran in rivers down der Deustchen mountainsides. My godmother helds me, clinging to my side, and all the while I felt frozen in time, the quick German rushing by my ears and my mind morphing with memories of then and now. Blinking I looked over at her as she squeezed my shoulders, her sweetness emerging from her and into me. She smilied and nodded. She had seen this place a thousand times, she brought me here, because I wanted to come. She whispered translations to me and I finally met her eyes saying, “Danke schön,” “Alles für dich,” she responded calmly. I took her hand again, tightly, realizing that she was my comfort, and I might be luckier than our last King. # The next two rooms that captured my attention were firstly, a room smaller than the two previous, one with little more than elegant walls and a table that underneath had an specially-made dumbwaiter to conceal the king’ss food if he was ever interrupted while eating. He was exceptionally private and embarrassed, as with extremely poor teeth he could not endure to eat the elegant meals of his royal counterparts. So, if a servant or his doctor ever stumbled in, he had a way to ensure his comfort. The table itself, one made of iron, partly wooden and marble was extraordinary. I bent over to inspect the mechanism at a distance. It also has dark wood constructed of odd pieces and spindles. Head cocked, I looked up at the tour guide who smiled with an odd pride and began to talk with the group about how der Kӧnich commissioned the piece himself. The last room, simply referred to as das Telefonzimmer, held only that. A very old-fashioned telephone that sat upright in the middle of the room with the familiar talking piece and the face-like sound receivers and nose for which to hang the mouthpiece. Beside those features, it had a dialer for a mouth. This, within the King’s lifetime, was the first phone in Germany. Why’d he have it? Who the hell did he call? The Prussians? His doctor? Its box was bronze and brown in color, but we could not inspect this piece up close, only peer into the room. Perhaps the phone itself was too delicate and too worn with time. As we ended our tour and descended the other side of the red-carpeted staircase, and re-entered the courtyard, the fountains exploded again. We wandered past them back to the gorgeous blue, rocky shores lake where we had hiked to and I bent to dip my hand in the water and cool off. I gazed up slowly at the reflection of the green mountain that straddled the Austrian border within the water and waited. Was this where he died? # This is the last story they tell us of The Fairytale King. He and his doctor, von Gudden had taken supper, separately and after der Kӧnig felt the need for some air. His doctor insisted on attending him, but der Kӧnig wished specifically for no other attendants to come. Which was customary for his safety, in 1886, he wished otherwise. It was a windy evening, and the men left through the courtyard and walked together back to the mountain lake and the rocky shoreline toward the east side of the park. All that the servants and attendants knew from then on was that a rainstorm blew in and lasted until the morning. When it passed they found der Kӧnig and his doctor’s bodies bloody and water-logged. Some say der Kӧnig jumped in and his doctor tried to save him. Others say it's the other way around. Der Arzt hat der Kӧnig ermordet. Or it was some jealous artist or cleric from the bushes with a gun or a club. Nein, they may say, it was the storm itself that blew them in and drowned them both. Nobody really knows what happened to the last King of Bavaria. Und wenn wir kennenlernen, was passiert mit der Kӧnig? What if he didn’t die? What if his Königreich lived beyond him? Und Bayern remained Bayern. Nein. The Prussians were too close, Austrians were too angry. War is always inevitable, perhaps his death was the beginning of it. I pause a moment with pursed lips, looking at my reflection overlaying the reflection of die Berge in the crystalline water. I lost my breath, my chest tight and hand still. For a moment I was transported and I knew him, I knew why. We cannot always go on. Sometimes grief and time catch up to us like water in a rainstorm and we become lost to die Geschichte. I blinked. My godmother called me, I rushed back to her and embraced her, resting my head on her chest and my nose in her blonde hair. She brought me here to show me a bit of das Vaterland, aber sie ist meine Mutterland, my home. “Danke schön,” I whispered again. “Du bist Bayerish jetzt.” she joked, breaking from me. I laughed, looking back at the palace and think if he lived, we would have had a proper title. A.J.M. Aldrian is a graduate of Hamline University with a BFA in Creative Writing. She has publications in both Sharkreef, Apocalypse Confidential Magazine, and many other journals. She loves many genres including fiction; horror, sci-fi, literary, fantasy, and poetry, and non-fiction, historical, nature, and memoir. She collects books and loves spending time with her partner and cat.

CW: Reference to indecent exposure/sexual harassment Before the thing with the man on the street, she picks the blue cotton dress because it complements the veins on her neck, and the perfume of violets because she read somewhere once that Marie Antoinette wore a perfume of violets and she’s wondered since if the guillotine caught the queen where she once dabbed the scent, if her death smelt of the flowers. She is given to these kinds of thoughts. She chooses the long walk instead of the train and is rewarded with dry weather and a whippy breeze that twirls the skirt of her dress around her, the hem of it tickles the backs of her calves. Inside the Natural History Museum, the bones of the museum’s prized blue whale curl down from the ceiling, threatening to scoop up tourists like stuffed bears in a claw machine, and tour guides direct schools of kids to lie on the floor head-to-foot to measure the breadth of that blue whale, to understand the depth of the ocean. Just outside of it, he blocks her path—unzipping his pants, rubbing his crotch. “Hey! Hey, you in the dress!” He stands the distance of three kindergartners from her, about 17 short of a blue whale—she remembers that exercise, stretching her neck, pointing her toes to fill the space left void by absent classmates. It’s a shame really. He isn’t terrible looking. In a different world, if they’d met, actually, maybe they could’ve shared a bottle of wine. She would ask which of his parents he looks like the most and he would probably say his mother, that they share the same, sweet, round cow-like eyes and, maybe, on a second date, he’d take her to a nice restaurant, and he would wear Sunday clothes, even gold cufflinks, and she would flirt by fingering them, teasing, threatening to undo them (and he wouldn’t say anything about her pointer and middle fingers being the same length, already intuiting how she feels about that) and she would ask if the cufflinks were vintage and maybe they were, maybe they were the nicest things his dad’s dad, the war hero, owned, and they would share a chocolate lava cake, or a melty cookie, and when they finally had sex, she would stare into his eyes like his mother’s and think of grass and sunshine and butter. But. They were in this world, the one where he crouches, squashed down a little like a toad about to jump, knees splayed so one points uptown and, the other, downtown, pelvis open, better to thrust himself deep into nothing. His penis, fish-belly pale, hangs from the unclenched teeth of his Levi’s, and he cups his hands below imaginary breasts, cradles them gently, bringing one to his mouth. He sucks the air through his lips, slurps through his teeth. He nurses from a ghostly teat. She looks to the people passing, can you believe this? They can, they’ve seen it before. What if she bared her breast on the street, what would the people do then? And what if she gave him what he wanted? What if she shoved her breast, the slightly bigger one, the whole thing, in his mouth – yanking his head back by the hair, to better poke, push herself down like punching over-proofed dough in a too-small bowl and what if her nipple pressed past the little wiggly thing in the back of his throat, reaching towards something primordial, unknitting his brains, taking him all the way back to before his mother and his dad’s dad, the war hero, all the way to the moment that distant ancestor of his chose to leave the water and the mud, and grow legs? The people on the street would look at her then– they would stop and stare and tell her just how beastly she is. She’s sure of it. But if she is a beast, what of it? Her go-to order at Waffle House, smelling every tube of deodorant at the store before making a decision, the Mitski show last summer, the patch of eczema on her left elbow, her high school boyfriend at the movies tunneling his way in through the leg of her jean shorts with popcorn-butter slicked fingers, the dark humor she honed in middle school, the hairline she inherited from her paternal grandmother along with a predisposition to heart and kidney issues, the molecules that build up a world dedicated only to the creation of her unruly cuticles, even the smell of her violet perfume—it all fades away, far, with the breeze and the clouds, out to the sea. Sometimes, all it takes is recognition. The man, too curious, steps toward her, his penis almost forgotten now, turning pink in the sun. He says something but she can’t quite hear it and even if she did, she wouldn’t be able to understand him, her heart beats too close to the surface of her salt. There are krill caught in her teeth and she likes to feel them wiggle before sucking them down her briny tongue. From three kindergartners away, her skin is glossy and wet even here on the street, but up close there are wrinkles thin as a cat-scratch where algae have started to grow. She smells of rot because the tiny organisms living in her crevices are feeding on even smaller organisms who are attracted to her very fine bacteria. It’s ok though – she is an ecosystem, what are you, anyway? Still she is smooth and slick and if you try to grab hold, she will simply slip away. Janice Leadingham is a Portland, OR based writer and tarot reader originally from somewhere-near-Dollywood, Tennessee. You can find her work in HAD, The Bureau Dispatch, The Northwest Review, Bullshit Lit, Diet Milk Magazine, and Janus Literary, among others. She is @TheHagSoup and hagsoup.com.

The hatch in back my house leads to a crawl space. This crawl space, made of mud, winds wormlike, creeps, full of centipedes, and delves downward to a lake. The lake beneath my house wets everything above. The wet warps my floorboards, bows them hunchbacked. Upward from the ruined floors drift spores. The air within my house is poison, smells like sour cantaloupe. On the lake beneath my house drifts a canoe. The canoe is built of boards ripped from my bedroom. The boards were nailed together by a man who lives in my garage. He oars with a rake handle. The lake he knows by heart and glides in dark. ### I invite friends over to drink beer and swim in summertime. My text reads: “Let’s go down to the lake.” I don’t say what lake. Sitting on a cooler in my dead yellow yard, I greet my friends. They pull up, find me daydrunk, beer cans crunched beneath my flip flops, and semi-circle around, grin. I grin. Grinning. “Where are we going?” they ask. I stand, open the cooler like a treasure chest, and they take cold cans. We listen to each other drink. Someone thinks to ask after my wife. I tell the truth: my wife left me for an older man. They check their phones, glance at their trucks. We drink. They ask about the smell. It clouds my yard, wax thick like an early August dumpster. “My house is sick,” I say, tender and hushed. Someone recommends a good handyman. When I Iead them around back, open the crawl space–the maw–and beckon with a flashlight to show the curious my lake underneath, they grow upset.. “This isn’t funny,” they call down to me. “It isn’t funny,” I call up to them. It’s hot. It stinks. No one wants to swim. ### Before I texted my friends, I dug a firepit out back. I can still dig because I’m not disabled. It was years ago when I got sick. I’m better now. I can drink cheap beer with friends; I can swim; I can dig a firepit; I can row a canoe. The last friendly conversation I had with my wife, before I moved into the garage, she suggested I go on disability. “I’m not disabled,” I tell the firepit. I’ve done many things a disabled person doesn’t do. And this firepit–I thought my friends would dry themselves after swimming. Anger is a side effect of the pills. The pills make me well. Do you see how this rows circles in the dark? Now I’m alone, poking embers with my rake. I set the house aflame and climb down to the lake to drift along in my canoe as rotten ashes snow down. Invisible things are beautiful. Invisible things devour us. I dive beneath the ash flecked surface to wait. Come back. I’m better now. When the house collapses and lets in the sun, we’ll have our own lake. A lake to ourselves. Travis Flatt (he/him) is a teacher and actor living in rural Tennessee with his wife and son. He earned his English BA at U.T. Knoxville and his education MA at TTU. His work appears or is upcoming in Dollar Tree Magazine, BOMBFIRE LIT, Many Nice Donkeys, Drunk Monkeys, and other publications. For more info and writings, check out www.travisflattblog.com, and tweet him @WriterLeeFlatt

When Gran-Gran’s Pearl Necklace Goes Missing she narrows her eyes at my brother, Dusty. He’s forever misplacing stuff: LEGOs, socks, mouth guards. “What would I—” He stabs at his chest with his forefinger. “Do with your pearl necklace?” Throwing his chin in the air, he points to Gran-Gran. Arms folded, Gran-Gran stares at Dusty over her tortoiseshell glasses. Then at me. Then at Dusty again, and harrumphs. “Maybe you misplaced it,” I offer. Gran-Gran sucks in her lips, then peers at her mint-green parakeet, Jo Jo. She runs her wooden cane across his cage. Rat-a-tat-tat. “Damn bird eats anything. Ain’t that right, Jo Jo?” “Ain’t that right, Jo Jo?” her parakeet says. “No way,” I say. “Jose,” Dusty adds. Jo Jo flaps his wings and squawks. Moments later, Gran-Gran stabs her gnarled finger into the front window. “Now there’s the thief!” Dusty and I turn to see a doe trot onto the front lawn. It stops, lifts its head, then looks our way as if it knows we’re staring. “Let’s go,” Gran-Gran says, ushering Dusty toward the front door. “Get a wiggle on.” It’s wet out from last night’s downpour, so I want to argue, but something in her voice stirs up memories of when Pa-Pa used to take me geocaching as a kid—memories that’d lodged themselves deep in the back of my brain after he passed away. So instead, I help Dusty with his Superman rain boots and we head outside where we find ourselves trudging through the mud, brown muck flecking the backs of our legs. Gran-Gran shields her eyes from the sun and scans the area. “Use your x-ray vision, Dusty-boy. My pearls are here somewhere.” Dusty grabs my hand, and we roam the yard. Before long, he points to a bulge in the ground and bounces his legs up and down. “Here! Here! Here!” With our hands, we rake the mud and unearth a pile of LEGOs, ping-pong balls, and mouth guards. I clear my throat loudly as he stuffs as many of the items as he can into his pockets, flashing me a dimpled grin. “Ah-ha!” Gran-Gran exclaims from a few feet away. Arriving by her side, we find a collection of brown pellets on a small patch of grass. “It’s scat,” I say. “Yeah, scat,” Dusty says. She hunches for a closer look. “But they’re so round. Why are they so round? Deer scat isn’t round. Are they round?” Dusty and I bend over and place our hands on our thighs. Gran-Gran’s right. The pellets are unnaturally round. Their unusual shape reminds me of square Wombat poop, something I learned in class last semester. I’m in the middle of telling Dusty this when I hear Gran-Gran squelching through the mud. Garden hose in hand, she offers me the spray nozzle then raises her eyebrows. “Seriously?” I say. “Seriously?” Dusty says. She gives me a laser look that says I-am-so-so-serious. As the water washes off the mud, shiny spherical objects appear. I hmm. Dusty hmms. “Ah-ha!” Gran-Gran laughs hysterically. I shake my head, bending to gather the objects. “Uh-uh, Gran-Gran. They’re marbles.” “Marbles?” Gran-Gran grabs one and studies it like a jeweler, peering at the white cat’s eye design inside. A few seconds pass before her lips creep into a smile. Wrinkles emerge from the corners of her mouth like a dry lakebed and tears gather in her eyes. “Your Pa-Pa gave me these before he died. He used to collect them as a boy. I thought I lost them.” I let out a sigh. “Me, too.” Dusty wipes imaginary sweat off his forehead. “Phew! Me, too.” Gran-Gran gives me a once over, then beckons me with her hand. I raise an eyebrow as she wraps her bony arms around my waist. Dusty grabs the back of my thighs. My arms lift, ready to embrace, when I feel her tug at the waistband of my denim shorts. “You need to wear a belt,” she says. “I can see your underwear.” She shoves me away with the strength of a superhero, and Dusty and I fall onto our haunches. Marbles and LEGOs spill into the mud. I side-eye Dusty, who’s side-eyeing me. I shrug. He shrugs. Gran-Gran stands akimbo in her purple flowered muumuu and looks off into the distance. “Now, where are my pearls?” Jennifer Lai writes mainly micro and flash fiction. She has work in Bureau of Complaint, Flashflood Journal, hex, and elsewhere.

CW: unplanned pregnancy, termination, gaslighting/emotional manipulation, acute manic episode There’s a clamour, a buzzing like a hive. No, a swarm. Discordant glasses clink, people chatter. A woman’s laugh rings out. It’s hers, I know it is. I look over. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but not the understated elegance of the lace bodice and gentle swell of the chiffon skirt. She has a tiny lace and rhinestone horseshoe dangling from her waist. So trite. If that were me, I’d be in a sari, blazing red, gold embroidery weighing me down, hair engorged with jasmine. I’d be cloying, I’d get in your nose. “Isn’t she gorgeous?” Pei Yin asks. I pooch my lips like I’m considering, like I haven’t been wondering the exact same thing. Is she gorgeous, or isn’t she? “Let’s get a drink,” I say, dragging her to the bar. “Gin and tonic,” I waggle two fingers at the bartender. “The church service was good,” says Pei Yin. She says it like a statement, but really she’s asking – what kind of scene are you going to make? Something fizzes inside me – I decide it is excitement. Excitement at our erstwhile housemate’s wedding to a wonderful girl. Just wonderful. She’s a vet nurse. What’s not to like? Mife -PRIS- tone. I waggle another two fingers at the bartender. Pei Yin hasn’t finished her first one, so I shrug and down them both. “Let’s dance!” I say. “But they haven’t opened the dance floor yet!” she says, her voice dopplering after me. I move into the centre of the room, tables and chairs are strewn about the space. Purple-orange light from the setting sun streams through the glass walls. I bump a couple of chairs out of the way and begin moving my hips, arms up in the air. They’re playing some kind of nineties shit. “Maybe she chose the music!” I say to Pei Yin. “Why aren’t you dancing?” I bump her on the hip. “That’s my seat,” a woman in a black cocktail number says. “Do you want to dance?” I yell at her. The chatter in the room is deafening. “This fuddy-duddy over here doesn’t want to, can you believe it?” “Could you dance somewhere else please? That’s my seat.” “Okay, geez,” I say, grabbing Pei Yin. “What is wrong with people?” “You need to take it down a notch, Sana, okay? I said we shouldn’t come. This was a bad idea.” Miso-PROS-tol. “Relax, Yin! It’s all good! I’m so fucking happy for Daniel and his wife Leanne.” “You know her name is Leigh, Sana. Stop it, you’re being obnoxious.” “You’re being obnoxious, Yin. Always telling me what to do.” My arrows always hit home with Yin - I’ve known her since we were twelve. “Shit, sorry Sana, it’s just…well, I’m worried about you.” Ma had called, also trying to talk me out of going to the wedding. “What dose has Dr. Rehman got you on?” she had asked. Everyone is so worried about me having any feelings. Mife-PRIS-tone. Miso-PROS-tol. I give Yin a hug. “I’m okay – see?” I flash a bright grin at her. We head back to our table, in the far reaches of the Daniel-Leigh galaxy. I think he’s seated us with his old football buddies. I grab the champagne flute, bubbles tickling my nose. “How do you know them?” a lanky man in an ill-fitting blue suit asks me. “Yin and I used to live with Daniel,” I shout over the din, pointing at Yin. “I used to play basketball with him,” he shouts back. “I really don’t care,” I say. “What?” he says. “Isn’t Leigh wonderful?” I say. The man smiles and gives me two thumbs up. “Get me a refill?” I give him my flute, empty now. “Back in a tick,” he says, getting up. Yin is looking at me. “You good, Sana? Are we going to be okay today?” “Such a worrywart, Yin! I’m having a fabulous time!” She has always been a buzzkill. My body fizzes again, the velvet cover on the chair feels really itchy. I don’t know why I chose this satin dress. I wanted to wear a sari. I am Durga on a tiger. “Stop fidgeting so much!” Yin says as I knock her drink over. I put my napkin on the spill to stop it staining her dress. “There’s Daniel’s mum!” I stand, pointing at the tall woman in purple. Yin rushes after me as I walk towards her. “How are you girls? I hardly see you anymore!” she says. “We’re well, Mrs. McDade, thank you! How are you?” Yin, like a horse out of the gates. “I’m so happy today – don’t they look wonderful together?” ‘Just wonderful,” I say. Mife-PRIS-tone. “Yes, it was a great ceremony,” Yin says, dragging me away. “Enjoy your night!” “What was that about?” I hiss at her. “Why didn’t you let me speak to her?” “I was worried you might say something -” “Something what, Yin? Something true? Something real? You are fucking afraid. That’s what you are. Just afraid. And that makes you dishonest. It makes you say she’s wonderful. When you know damn well we’ve spent hours bitching about her!” “Keep your voice down, Sana!” Yin is looking around us. She has always wanted to please everyone else. She continues, with that look on her face – the ‘I love you, but – ‘ look. “You’ve been obsessing about him a bit, Sana.” The fizzing is making my skin itch now. This dress is too tight. I mean that’s why I picked it, but I feel like I can’t breathe. Yin has never approved of me and Daniel. I remember the look she gave me that time when she woke up and saw us kissing. We had collapsed on the couch after one of our parties, Daniel in between, an arm around each of us. I tucked right into his armpit, snuggled my head on his chest. He was lazily twirling my hair in his fingers. I looked up, and he was looking down at me. He smiled, said hey, then kissed me. There was a split second when I might have stopped him, but I didn’t. Miso-PROS-tol. There’s a plate on the table in front of us. I am starving, so I grab it. It’s a flaky onion and feta tart. Delicious, but I have crumbs all over me. A bewildered man comes to me and says “I think that’s my -” A set to my jaw, I say, “your…what? Your what? Speak up man!” “Never mind,” he backs away, looking at Yin who is mouthing sorry at him. “Why is it so hard for people to just speak the truth, Yin?” There’s a waitress passing with a plate of canapes. It’s a scallop on one of those stand-up spoons, with a little hillock of orange roe on top of it. The orange reminds me. “Have you seen my tiger?” I ask her. Quite solemnly she shakes her head. At the next table there is a kid, about ten. She’s reading a book. “I loved Judy Blume too,” I say, sitting next to her. She glances up then back at her book. “Are You There God, It’s Me Margaret was my favourite,” I try again. She shrugs, “it was okay”. Mife-PRIS-tone. I had read that book in the window seat in my room. The cushion on the seat had a pink and purple checked cover. It felt soft and hard at the same time, like I could sit there for hours, and it would hold me up as long as I wanted it to. I would sleep there sometimes, looking out at the luminous sky, stars winking that they’d keep the secret. “Anyway, I’m not a kid anymore. I’m a goddess now. It’s just that I might have misplaced my tiger, so be careful, okay?” I say to the girl who finally looks at me properly. “Come on Sana. Let’s go sit down,” Yin butts in. I don’t want to sit! I want to fly! “Let’s get another drink.” I run to the bar, and she can’t keep up with me. She’s too slow, weighted down by all the lies and half-truths she tells. Like how she’s my best friend. That second time, she was in the kitchen when I came out of Daniel’s room. She’d raised her eyebrows at me. When I had finished in the shower, they were having breakfast. Munching their toast like it was a normal day. She’d poured me a coffee and he’d left without even looking at me. What had she said to him? The bartender is ignoring me on purpose. I know he is. “Hey! I asked for two gin and tonics!” I call out. “He’ll get to us soon, Sana.” Yin says. She has the exact same exasperated look on her face she did when I went into her room that morning a few years ago. I had wanted her to explain the two blue lines on the pee stick to me, to tell me what to do. But I’d said the wrong thing. I’d said “Yin, it’s about Daniel and me,” and she’d rolled her eyes. “Will you just let go of it, Sana?” she’d said. “He’s with someone else now.” I spin around to her, suddenly realising the truth “it was you all along, wasn’t it?” “What?’ “You fed him that poison. You told him to break it off with me, didn’t you?” Yin is about to cry. I knew it! Fucking lying bitch. “You have never loved me. You are a taker, Yin. At school you were at my place every fucking weekend because your family wouldn’t have you!” She’s proper crying now. Good, the truth always hurts, but you have to hear it. You have to hear it to set yourself free. I am so encumbered. By my hair all tied up in a stupid knot. I pull the hairpins out, and they scatter like the confetti we threw into the air earlier that day. People are saying something. What? At the table next to me there’s a woman, and she has a baby in a pram. He’s the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. His skin is the exact colour of a toy chest I had once. It was from China, with a carving of a junk on it. Gold and caramel and coffee and pepper. “Oh my God,” I say to his mother. She’s more latte. “Is Daniel the father of this baby too?” I ask. “Mine is littler. Much littler. Just an embryo really. Might have only been an idea in my mind. I would have called him Sachin. Means truth.” She looks alarmed. I’ve frightened her. My tears are running in mascara rivulets down my cheeks. “Are you okay?” she says, half standing. I wave her back down and nod, “I’m fine,” then I shake my head, and I am wailing. “All you have to do, to turn a real baby back into an idea, is to take mife-PRIS-tone, then twenty-four hours later, take miso-PROS-tol. That’s it! And if you’re really careful and you tell no one, you can even trick yourself that it was one of your little delusions.” I look down at the baby, and it is wailing too. The baby knows. “This is not your baby,” I hiss to the woman. Her eyes widen and she looks around wildly. “This baby belongs to the Universe.” “Ma’am?” a voice says at my elbow. “I’m only called Ma’am when I go shopping, and everyone can tell I have pots of money, just pots! It’s just me on my corporate salary. No husband! No kid!” Alarmed, I look around, where is it? “Have you seen my tiger?” I ask the waitperson. She looks to the mum, like the truth might be in her eyes. “Don’t ask the mum! Ask the baby! The pepper baby!” This is the truest idea I’ve ever had. I lunge towards the table and the mum makes a little scream. She is not one who sees the truth. I grab the salt and pepper shakers and stand over the baby. Or I try to, but the waitperson gets in my way. Suddenly – it is his face. His beautiful face – grey-green-brown eyes, the hint of brown stubble. “Sana, come with me.” With you, Daniel, anywhere. He takes me to the bathroom, and hands me a drink. Ugh. Water. “Have you been taking your meds?” “They’re a cage, Daniel. A cage for the mind. You wouldn’t understand. You just entered a cage voluntarily. One called marriage. To a wonderful girl. So happy for you.” He sighs. He says my name, voice all husky, and it breaks me. “Oh fuck, sorry. I’m sorry.” My cat eye is ruined. I think there’s snot all over my face too. He gets some toilet paper for me. “Why can’t you let it go, Sana?” But I did let it go. I let it all go down the toilet. Mife-PRIS-tone. Miso-PROS-tol. I stand up and move closer to him, I must show him the truth. I reach for his waistband, pulling down his zip. He grabs my hand. “Stop it.” I titter. “You don’t really want me to.” I am down on my knees. “Stop it, Sana!” He turns away from me, doing up his zip. “I am married to Leigh. I love her. Please stop this. I knew I shouldn’t have invited you.” “Why did you then?” I say from my place curled up on the floor. It’s so comfortable here. “Leigh wanted me to.” That stops me. “She thought it was right. She said I shouldn’t ignore the fact that we had something.” He looks at me, and I think he is saying sorry. Why does everyone speak in riddles? Daniel turns to leave. When he opens the bathroom door, there is a balloon of sound – chatter, cutlery, laughter. The door shuts and abruptly cuts it off. I stay on the cold floor, completely alone, like I have always been. There’s an orange light on the ceiling, buzzing at a frequency that hums in my bones. I am five, out in the moonlight for a stroll with my dolly Gina in her pram. My pink plastic heels with the bow clack-clacking as I walked along the pavement all the way to the park. I spoke to Gina the whole way “it’s okay baby, I know you’re scared, but it’s okay, Mama’s here”. The sodium lights at the park buzzed orange as I walked right round the track. I didn’t know what else to do so I went back home. The front door was wide open, just like I’d left it. Ma never knew. It was a dream, I think. The door opens again. “Hey,” a voice says. The dearest voice in the world. The voice of the person who is always there. Always. No matter what. “I’m sorry,” I say to Yin. My tears are falling through their own ponderous gravity. The lies I have been telling myself are pouring out of me. She says, “I’ve called Dr Rehman. We’re going to see him tomorrow.” “Okay,” I say. She has our bags and coats already. Of course. I gather myself, and wash as best I can in the shitty sink. My cat eye has run all over my face, and my hair is a rumpled mess. We head out, slinking past the mess of people and tables and happiness, to the exit. “Sana,” someone calls. I turn. And it is her. “Are you okay?” she asks. I can’t speak. “I get it,” she says. “I love him too.” She looks straight at me. “But he’s married now, Sana, okay? To me.” Isn’t this what I have been waiting for? The truth, for once? So why does it hurt so much? I lift my chin and nod at her, just once, then Yin and I leave. Sumitra writes in Naarm/Melbourne. She travelled through many spaces, both beautiful and traumatic to get there and writes to make sense of her experiences. She’ll be the one in the kitchen making chai (where’s your cardamom?). She works in mental health. You can find her and her other publication credits on twitter: @pleomorphic2

People in unstable situations I know a girl who moved from finglas in her 20s to athy. has a longterm boyfriend a little younger lately talks a lot about people she knows getting pregnant. she's into and he's into computer games. a house in athy was the only place they could afford outright, but lately it's been costing them much more than they expected to pay. and most of her friends are still renting, as well – have been having kids with people in unstable situations but she has to get windows in and has also an ant problem and her dad has an ex-wife problem and she has a mother -in-law problem and a mother problem too, since she's close to her dad. it's amazing what you can learn sitting across from someone Every sound could be a drama the wind has been moving the leaves of the plants on our windowsills like tips on the fingers of a loose cotton glove. the window's half open. out from the world this sliver is letting in snippets. sirens call: emergencies are rushed up the quaysides. a woman screams somewhere and somewhere a bottle breaks – somewhere else or close-by – I don't know. the thing about apartments in the middle of the city is that every sound could be a drama or just be things happening. in the kitchen I knock over a glass full of ashes and wine. in the bedroom my wife snores a brass band and no-one else hears. DS Maolalai has been described by one editor as "a cosmopolitan poet" and another as "prolific, bordering on incontinent". His work has nominated eleven times for Best of the Net, eight for the Pushcart Prize and once for the Forward Prize, and has been released in three collections; "Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden" (Encircle Press, 2016), "Sad Havoc Among the Birds" (Turas Press, 2019) and “Noble Rot” (Turas Press, 2022)

boyfriend diary i found poem i’ve been feeling a lot. i don’t know how i keep reminding myself to move, breathe, understand goodness, i’m crying again. i know i’m past your limit. boyfriend diary ii found poem i made mistakes, & isolated myself. it’s been difficult, unearthing, reaching for deeper understanding that disconnect is my kryptonite. mikey, the first time you pulled away it hurt. boyfriend diary iii found poem this week has been bitter -sweet. i’ve been busy with work, with friends; game nights, casinos, critical role. i’m learning how to be my own person, admitting my mistakes, acknowledging the church fucked me over. but i’m here letting the darkness warm me like embers in the cold. boyfriend diary iv found poem god, i was so scared to fail that i failed anyways. i see you, see the symbols of our journey, stars & planets & i’m in love with the orbit, the pull of gravity. i know there’s still a lot to move through but i trust in the feeling i got when you smiled for the first time in months. Michael Russell (he/they) is coauthor of chapbook Split Jawed with Elena Bentley (forthcoming from Collusion Books) and mother monster to chapbook Grindr Opera (Frog Hollow Press). They are queer, mad, and overflowing with anxiety. Currently, he has a craving for chocolate chip pancakes with bananas and thinks you're fantabulous. Insta: @michael.russell.poet

Greetings! Tis I penning this missive neath a wretchedly dark and dusty blanket. Little Arnold rests on my lap, as I endeavor to hold him still. I am uncertain he possesses the ability to fix his gaze on the camera. I picture him atop this heavy black fabric in the shape of me, cheeks flushed and eyes out of focus, lending his face the countenance of old Mrs. Biffinblotch after a goblet of gin and lemons. I can’t see him. Or the camera. No reason for mother to be in the photograph. You must be wondering how I can write as I remain still for nearly two minutes while the tintype is produced. I saw most of you at the traveling medicine show. If you can believe snake oil is a cure for lumbago and rheumatism, you can believe I’m writing. I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised by Lytton’s suggestion that I sit under a blanket and hold little Arnold. When we were courting, he once asked me to duck down in the carriage while he waved to passing maidens in the street. “Twas but a jest, of course,” he said after my sister chastised him. After she noticed part of my skirt and petticoat hanging from the side of the carriage, flapping in the breeze. They say a woman engaged in her proper duties has no time to write. I’m calling these moments under the blanket leisure, perhaps even recreation. I shant write anything serious. Perhaps a treatise on the domestic arts. The photographer’s mind and nature are much more serious, with his knowledge of chemistry, light and reflection. Were I to expect my small thoughts to be worth the ink I’m using, I could be considered utterly selfish. And I’m not selfish. My udders are, however. They’re demanding attention. It’s about time for Arnold to nurse. Little Arnold is an unruly babe. Between the blanket and his gown, it’s difficult to hold his squirming legs. And his aroma! As the philosopher Karl Marx said, all that is solid melts into air. The digestive effusions of rutabagas under this blanket are making me so vexed my eyes are watering. It’s not just him, gentle readers. I ate the rutabagas as well. He looks like a doll in his gown. He won’t be in breeches until the age of reason. By which I mean able to visit the privy on his own. Once in breeches, Arnold can pose for a tintype with his father. Without a blanket. I may venture to say I look forward to the day. Lytton rarely shampoos his hair or beard. Just last week he explained to me how to make stewed plover more tender and a morsel of said plover fell from his beard. Due to his embarrassment, I decided not to ask how a man who’s never made stew can provide a wordy explanation of the process. By the by, I must take my leave. If I don’t feed little Arnold soon, the pressure in my breasts shall become unbearable. I must be brave and flip this blanket aside. Lori Barrett (she/her) lives and writes in Chicago. Her work has appeared in Salon, The Wall Street Journal, Barrelhouse, Citron Review, Laurel Review, Peatsmoke Journal, and Middle House Review, where she was nominated for Best Small Fictions 2020. She serves as an assistant fiction editor at Pithead Chapel.

headache split head thunderous nauseous strobe lights concussion beat drip dripping over my teeth iron tang scattered pills across the silky tiles my hands can’t hold anything right now cheekbone pressure gauge sharp as a butcher i’d carve me out to escape the tocking of the clock can barely hold my eyelids back sweet autumn release a long dark winter silence please i can’t feel the hit and i never reach it just walking dead carrying sickness in my skull ditch living such big eighteen year dreams wideness and bright-lit eyes a plan scorched and dead in a dorm room narrowing and narrowing anorexic optimism atrophied limbs and mountains to climb landslide bruises color-changing chameleon skin stronger but don’t ask for five years delusional headlights swing off I-95 all the time ditch living swamp stagnant water with the rest of the roadkill but still breathing for now still here rings on fingers only money never photos in the wallet standing in an empty parking lot midnight hum closed eyes arms wide just breathing and breathing you’re on your own lesson learned but alive still alive boots in pools of neon planted on concrete like the daisies in the cracks defiant things alive still alive Brenna Boytim writes about ghosts, regrets, and reveries. You can find her on twitter @hi_thisisbrenna.

list (a living document) for when you say ask you anything and I cannot and all my words, thoughts, feelings are caught in loop inside me and it’s probably not what you had in mind can I touch the inside of your thigh and run my fingers down can you kiss me again but not goodbye and not like that do you think about me ever too is it ok that I’m imagining all of you fill in the blanks with just about anything and yes, that’s what I want to know will you let me ______, can we ________ do you ______? it was fleeting and I miss the weight of your being pressed next to mine the absence is not real in French they say tu me manques I miss you but means so much more- you are missing to me, absent, beyond reach, lacking (in need of) I surrender to the universe it’s all I can do and you are here, even if not don’t confuse the melancholy of my music or my soulful words of longing for sadness this is me alive and well I woke up at midnight, 2 am, 4:30 and 5 I wanted to tell you I can’t stop thinking about you maybe what’s been missing is the music that time when you turned video on so I could see you for a few seconds and you said it was just for me and all the blood rushed through my body and for those seconds I was only energy- delicious desire, and while I do want to feel your skin, remembering that one moment is sometimes all I need Janna Wilson is a Vancouver-based poet, wanderer, and lover of sunshine, beaches, tattoos and music. In the other hours, she works as a program coordinator for the University of Victoria. Recent work has appeared in Paddler Press and Discretionary Love. Her first chapbook, The Octopus Hunter, was published by Leaf Press in 2010. Forthcoming work in Beyond Words Literary Magazine.

Robot baby is put in a crib at night. It bows, bows, bows under Robot baby’s weight. In the dark, Robot baby glows like a lonely firefly. Its parents kiss it on its round robot face, good night, sweet baby, and go to their bedroom and their cold little bed, lie side by side and stare up at the ceiling. One of them imagines, overhead, the starlit sky. One of them thinks of the swell of baby’s breath, the thrum of such a small, small heart. One of them put Robot baby together in the garage with forgotten childhood things, little pieces of metal and gear, springs from childhood pens, snip of hair from little-sister’s marble-eyed baby doll, fragment of bone-dust white, and, in the place of a heart, a torn page holding a line they’ve carried all this time: All children, except one, grow up.

76-degree morning already The birds no longer chirp and the hum of air conditioners mixes with the polluted canadian wildfire air the radio d.j. tells me it’s a 76-degree morning already and it’s going to be steamy today, he says hitting the mid-90s but it’ll feel 100 out there he sounds excited by this like he has a hard-on the way electric company executives have hard-ons this time of year my eyes burn and my throat feels dry my breath tastes like wood chips and stale coffee the streets are sweaty armpits waiting to envelop me they smell of eau de rotten garbage and dog shit soaked in the fetid water the fop sweat of capitalism pouring out of us from head to toe. the woman drinking a cosmopolitan alone noon is the perfect time for drinking a cosmopolitan by one’s self but then he had to show up greasy hair aviator shades bright rayon shirt unbuttoned to his belly a black heart tattooed on his chest i can see it all over your face as he tries to talk to you a small good thing that you did for yourself ruined and you chug the last little bit of drink get some cosmo on your chin that hangs there then gone gone not even waiting for the check