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CW: Abortion There are no birds on the highway. They don’t nest in streetlamps as the metal machines screech past, relentless as weather. No soft down mothers huddle in their twiggy beds, feeding earthworms to eager mouths. This is no world for babies. All grey with salt and soot and when a lone berry falls onto the asphalt, we warn the hungry crow away, before it’s crushed by the tide of modern progress. So I’ll push the infants out of my womb before they’re ready, before they can even try to forage a life in this place, this paved-over road where flowers will never grow. Let their souls rest in the ether, a dream someone else can enjoy from a green field where robins sing. KS Palakovic (she/her) is a queer disabled princess. Born in Hamilton, Canada’s city of waterfalls and steel, she is currently wandering catlike through the country looking for her forever home. Please send treats.

Life’s been so-so, been good enough: I’m working at the Ken Foree Chrysler/Jeep down on Lankershim Blvd., selling lemons to degenerates—not the worst post I’ve ever occupied. Can’t complain too much, although just the other day my dad’s beloved dog Olive did die at the hands of that ludicrously negligent kennel master in Toluca Lake, you might have read about him. (He’s behind bars now.) (The city promised to give my dad a new dog, but it hasn’t come in yet.) My fiancée is now the one of us who’s having the most trouble: my counterpart in her dreams—not me, but not not me—keeps telling her lies, she doesn’t know what to think anymore when she wakes up. She asks me if I really love her (Of course I do!), if I think she’s annoying (Of course not, usually!), if she needs to stop talking through the films we watch together (That might be nice). I tell her I’d like to pick my dream-self’s brain. I write up a little questionnaire: How old are you? Where were you born? What’s your full name? And mother’s maiden? That’s the gist of my list of 60-something questions. We visit our witchiest friend Beth, she casts an incantation onto my question sheet, which apparently allows my fiancée to bring it into her dreams. The next morning, she tells me it worked, but.. He didn’t like that too much, she says, clearly exhausted. What did he say? I ask, delicate as can be. He says he wants to talk to you.

When I drove for the Mano de Plata cartel, I had no interaction with the natural world. I walked on tile and cement, drank from aluminum cans, and turned metal keys in ignitions. Even my ass sweated onto polyester seat covers. Now that I’m penniless and deported back to Mexico, nature surrounds me. The earth emits an assaultive odor from my overflowing septic tank. The sun burns brown spots on my forehead. My dog pushes his nose against my leg, asking me to pull foxglove barbs from his muzzle. * I stood in the bare dirt yard, looking out over the hill at the Pacific Ocean, three kilometers away. A Christian song in Spanish drifted through the open door of my hut. Radio Zión 540. The only station I ever listen to. Señor, Tú eres el más precioso, Señor, Tú eres todo para mi, Señor, Tú eres el Alfa y Omega, Y nada yo deseo fuera de Ti. Lord, You are more precious than silver, Lord, You are more costly than gold, Lord, You are more beautiful than diamonds, And nothing I desire compares with You. In our home in San Diego, we had everything we needed. Two cars in the driveway. Three bedrooms. A stainless-steel refrigerator. A Faber natural gas range. With so much cash rolling in, I had no problem bankrolling family trips to Target, daily lattes from Starbucks, memberships to Netflix, Amazon Prime, and the Disney Channel. I spoiled my family. Every man in my wife’s family was a soldier in the Mano de Plata cartel. Our wives and girlfriends didn’t work. Most had extravagant nails, plump lips, fake butts, and fake breasts. When my wife Rosa begged for plastic surgery I bobbed and weaved like a featherweight fighter in the ring with a light heavy. She wanted to be Instagram presentable like the other cartel wives and girlfriends. But my wife was my only link to nature. I didn’t want to hug a mess of hard plastic. In California, I drove a panel truck, carrying money south for the cartel. Guns, not often; and only twice canisters of fentanyl. The second time I was intercepted by the San Diego County police and thrown into prison. Fentanyl is killing too many whites so the judge showed no mercy. I was deported and kicked down to Rosarito Beach, where my wife’s family had a tiny plot of land and an abandoned cinderblock hut. I thought my wife and kids would follow, but that didn’t happen. I walked over to the nopal plant in the corner of my yard. Thank God it grew fast. At least three days a month I was reduced to eating nopal—and not even tasty nopal prepared with ground beef, onions, serranos and tomatoes. To fill my belly, I ate boiled nopal with salt. My white wolfhound Prudencio came out from the shade of my cinderblock hut. He padded over and sat on his haunches next to me. I’d named him after San Prudencio, famous for healing the sick. I didn’t give my dog that name right away. At first I called him Blanco. But, over time, he earned the name Prudencio. His simple affection lifted me out of the ditch I was in. I roughed the fur on his head. “You don’t want nopal, amigo.” Wielding a steak knife from my hut, I lopped off an oval pad from the plant, about the size of my hand. It was then I heard the pan dulce advertising jingle in the distance—the signal Luis the seller was on the road. Seconds later, a battered Toyota Corolla crested the hill and drove toward my hut. He came by once in the morning selling baked goods—pastries and cookies. In the evening, around ten, he’d drive by again. This later circuit he’d also be selling meth and marijuana. In my past life, I was drunk five nights of the week. Most mornings I needed a bump of cocaine to lift me out of my hangovers. My belly hung over my belt, heavy with all the grease and meat I forked down. My blood pressure was high enough to get me admitted to the emergency room, if I was ever reckless enough to consult a doctor. I didn’t need an expert opinion—I knew I didn’t have long to live. I had no relationship with my divine savior. My wife would bring the kids to church each Sunday morning while I nursed what was usually my biggest hangover of the week. The only time you found me in a place of worship was for a cartel christening or wedding. When I was kicked south of the border, Rosa told me to knock off the booze and find God or else. I went through the motions for a few months and then something funny happened. It took. No more tequila and beer. I lost 30 pounds. The ringing in my ears disappeared. In my hut, I started singing along to the Christian songs in heavy rotation. There was a small Evangelical church down the hill across from Highway 1. The first few weeks I sat in the back pew and kept my head down. When the pastor invited the congregation to a carne asada after service, I stuck around. Drank licuados and ate a plate of beef, beans, and grilled onion. It had been a long time since I’d been welcomed anywhere. It stuck. I got proud of myself. For the first time in my life, I believed in God and living a righteous life. Luis braked in front of my house and leaned out the window. “Anything today, Orlando?” I walked over, the nopal pad in one hand, the knife in the other. Shook my head. “Not today.” Luis jerked a thumb toward the back seat. “I got some from yesterday, half-price.” I held up the nopal. “You see this in my hand and you know pesos are tight.” “When’s your esposa coming?” “In three days, on Saturday.” Luis knew where my money came from. He leaned over the back seat and took a paper-wrapped puerquito out of a long cardboard box. He handed it to me. “You gotta keep smilin’ compadre.” * Saturday morning, I boiled a pot of water to give myself a good wash. I raked the dirt in the yard and shoveled dogshit, flipping it over the high cinderblock wall, where it disappeared into the dry mustard plants and tumbleweeds. Rosa and the kids only came once a month. She’d hand over enough dollars to keep me alive and to buy materials to build the small house next to the hut. A proper house—not fancy, but with plumbing and electric. The work I couldn’t do myself was done by one crooked contractor after another. They’d start off honest but that would change in days or weeks and then I’d have to send them packing and look for another set of workers. There was nothing to be done about it—it was the way of business in Mexico, this close to the border. Prudencio knew today was a special day—he could feel it. He followed me around all morning. He knew that when I ate well, he did, too. It was close to noon when Rosa’s yellow Scion came crawling along the dirt road. She drove slower than most, always wary that if she drove too fast she’d bump the car’s undercarriage or screw up the shocks. Rosa braked and cut the ignition. The door opened slowly and she stepped out from behind the wheel. Rosa was 36, ten years younger than me. Seeing her today—with what she’d done to herself—it was hard to tell how old she was. I lowered my head and muttered, “Chinga tu madre.” My wife wore white leggings, black boots, and a yellow crop top. Her breasts stuck out, spherical and hard as mixing bowls. Her fake ass hung too much meat off slender legs. There were strips of blonde highlights in her black hair, and her lips were swollen, like she was about to quack. It could only mean one thing. A man in the cartel had swooped down and taken possession of my wife. She saw me staring and said, “I don’t want to talk about it.” I peered into the shadows of the Scion’s backseat. “Where are the kids?” “They didn’t want to come.” Rosa settled in one of the yard’s white plastic chairs, her handbag in her lap. She glanced over at the ongoing construction. “It looks the same.” “I’m looking for a new contractor.” “Maybe it will never get done.” “It will get done.” That was the payment her family was extracting from me. For the privilege of staying in their hut, I was to build a serviceable house on the property. I sat down across from Rosa, in the remaining chair. Compared to her I was dressed in rags. My shoes were scuffed. My jeans and white T-shirt were clean, but worn. Too worn. A man with means would toss them away. Prudencio stared at my wife but he didn’t go over for a pet. Rosa began rummaging in her bag. “I can’t stay long.” “The church is having a supper tonight.” She took a deep breath and her mixing bowls swelled. “I don’t think so.” She took a white envelope from her bag and held it out to me. I took it, folded it, and put it in my pocket. I wasn’t going to count money in front of her. For a moment, I imagined I was a bird riding the air currents, looking down at these two people sitting in white plastic chairs. There was nothing that would hint they were husband and wife. * Behind my hut was a wall looking out at the ocean. When I got Prudencio, I’d scavenged a long chain, which I locked onto a metal ring cemented into the wall. With the free end of the chain, and the lobster clasp in my hand, I called, “Hey, boy.” Prudencio came trotting over. I gave him a treat—a piece of stale tortilla—and clicked the clasp on his collar. Prudencio was at my side all day and if I ventured away from the property, he’d walk alongside me. This was dangerous. There were pit bulls in the community that would savage any dog daring to venture through their turf. Maybe Prudencio would come out on top in a fight, but I didn’t want to risk it. As it was, walking alone, I carried a can of wasp spray. I’d only had to use it once and it worked perfectly, disabling the pit in mid growl. I gave Prudencio a pat. “Guard our house.” It was a four-kilometer walk to the little Evangelical church. I made the walk twice a week, sometimes three. To the church, my AA meeting, and odd occasions like this. Saturday’s church supper was held on the cement patio behind the building. Folding tables were covered with dishes of grilled chicken, frijoles puercos, roasted jalapenos, yellow rice, and heaps of tortillas. I filled a Styrofoam plate and ate standing up. I thought about my wife. Her visit hadn’t lasted more than a half hour. She’d inspected the progress on the half-built house, as though that was the primary reason for coming. She said little but it was obvious she was displeased. I refilled my plastic cup with warm Squirt soda. There was no ice. In my old life, I’d be the one pouring tequila with a heavy hand, topping off my drink with a jolt of sugary Squirt. I looked around, wondering if I was the only one who missed having a real drink in his hand. Luis came around the back with his wife and three kids. It was no secret he was a drug dealer, but that didn’t affect his standing. If Mexican churches shunned drug dealers, they’d be lonely and broke institutions. As his wife set a box of pan dulce on one of the tables, Luis came over to me. Like many Mexican couples, his wife would prepare him a plate of food. Luis brushed at the sweat on his brow and wiped his hand on his shirt. “Tell me when you’re ready.” “Ready for what?” “To buy a vehicle. I don’t like to see a man penned to his own yard.” “That won’t be any time soon.” “A man with a truck can always find work.” I changed the subject. “I have to hire a new contractor.” “How many is that? Five you’ve gone through?” I counted in my mind. “Six.” “You know,” said Luis, “my nephew is a contractor. He has two helpers.” Luis’ wife handed him a plate of food and he nodded. “Thank you, mi amor.” He said to me, knowing my wife had visited earlier that day. “You have money, right?” “Yeah.” “What do you need done?” “The cement floor and after that, the electric.” * It was a day later that Luis’ nephew, Gonzalo, came to my hut. I was surprised to see he didn’t drive a pickup and instead arrived in a tiny, sunburned Honda. He had a tape measure in one hand and piece of cardboard in the other. He was younger than I expected—maybe 18. He walked around the house-in-progress, taking measurements and making notes on his piece of cardboard. When he was done, he said, “My uncle says you don’t have a truck.” “No, I don’t.” “You’re going to need 20 sacks of cement, a half-load of sand and half-load of gravel. You have water?” I pointed to the five-thousand-liter water tank on the top of my hut. “Yeah.” Gonzalo glanced at the piece of cardboard. “For the electric, I need 25 meters of size 12 wire, boxes, and covers, a few more things. I have all the tools I need.” “When can you start?” “Tomorrow. I can also get you a good price on materials. The job will take at least four days. I need to start right away. I have other work scheduled.” I was silent, wondering how I could get the materials that quickly. I guess Gonzalo sensed my wheels spinning and said, “If you pay my gas, I can pick up and deliver the materials so we can start first thing in the morning.” I took the white envelope from my pocket. “How much do you need?” * Human beings know when something isn’t happening. The realization comes quick with some, slower with others. But the truth of a situation eventually arrives with clarity. Next morning, I woke early. If Gonzalo was like other contractors, he’d arrive at eight. I put the coffee on and fed Prudencio. An hour went by, then another. I attempted to call Gonzalo but it went to voicemail every time. When I woke up this morning I was six contractors down. I guess I was down seven now. But of all the contractors, Gonzalo made the biggest score—my month’s budget to build, with nothing to show for it. I waited in the front yard until the familiar jingle of the pan dulce seller carried over the hill and Luis’ Corolla came into view. As usual, he braked in front of my house and leaned out the window. “Que tal?” I walked over. “Where does Gonzalo live?” His eyes darted away. My days in the cartel had taught me when men were preparing to lie. “Why?” said Luis. “Is there a problem?” “Call him.” “Me?” I said nothing and Luis dug his phone out of his pocket. He got the same result. Voicemail. “Something must have happened,” said Luis. “Give him time.” “He has money of mine.” “You gave him money?” said Luis, his eyes wide. “Cabron. That wasn’t smart.” “Where does he live?” Luis was a beat slow answering. “He moves around.” * When I called my wife about losing this month’s budget she listened in silence and then ended the call. The rest of the month dragged along. Luis drove by twice a day but he was smart enough not to brake in front of my hut. I did what work I could on the house, which wasn’t much. At the AA meeting in the church, all I could think of was cracking the seal on a bottle of tequila and taking a deep glug. When it was time for me to talk, to tell them, “My name is Orlando and I’m an alcoholic” I passed. My sponsor mumbled. “One day at a time.” Where was the hope? Where was the hope in taking life one day at a time? * The month passed and my wife’s yellow Scion crawled along the road to the hut. She climbed out of her car but this time stood in the dirt by the driver’s side door. She wore sunglasses and didn’t smile. Her face was a mask. She was alone again. I guess the kids had something better to do. “It’s been a hard month,” I said. “We had a family meeting,” said Rosa. “We decided to take the offer.” “What offer?” “On the property. The hut and the partly-built house. It’s not a good offer but we’re taking it.” “What about me?” “There’s no work to do here so it’s time for you to find a job and a place to live.” “Maybe I should take my chances crossing the border.” “That wouldn’t be a good idea.” That put a long pause to the conversation. I don’t know what she was thinking, but I was wondering who she was with now. I was never very powerful in the cartel. It was obvious Rosa had traded up. Did it matter? Not really. What’s the sense of a showdown when nobody has your back? Rosa reached into her handbag and took out a white envelope. She held it out to me and said, “This is the last of it.” * Prudencio stared at me as I clasped the chain to his collar. “I’ll be back,” I said. “Watch things for me, okay?” I started walking along the dirt road. It was so rutted, and with so many loose rocks, I had to walk staring at my feet. Otherwise, I risked stumbling and taking a fall. There wasn’t much time. I needed to find a bed. Someplace that would accept Prudencio. There was a string of shops along Highway 1 selling what they called curios: Talavera tile, clay suns, decorative iron work, rustic furniture. I had a simple plan. Go door to door asking for work. My back was wet with sweat by the time I walked the five kilometers to the highway. One shop after another turned me away. I reached the end of the shops on one side of the highway and crossed to the other, the ocean side. I was close to calling it quits when I approached a shop owner—an old man with a gray mustache—drinking a can of Tecate Light. I had only just begun my entreaty when he held up a hand to stop me talking. “I need a man,” he said. “The job is 24 hours, seven days a week. Our tile comes from Tonalá and Puebla. Sometimes the trucks arrive in the middle of the night. Your job will be security and helping them unload. They don’t cheat with the count. They know if they are off by a single tile I’ll stop doing business with them. The rest of the day, you help with customers and keep the place clean. At noon, you go up the street to bring me my meal. From the little restaurant, Cocina Nanci.” “When do I sleep?” “Fits and starts. You’ll adapt.” “I have a dog.” The old man gave this some thought. “Big or small?” “Big. He’s a good dog.” “Keep him tied,” said the man. “If he bothers my customers with barking, he goes.” “He won’t bark. Not if I tell him not to.” “There’s a shed in the back for you to sleep.” Going from a hut to a shed. “How much is the pay?” “We’ll talk about that at the end of the first week. You’ll get two meals a day from the restaurant. Tamales in the morning. Rice and beans at night. All the water you can drink.” There was a long pause. I saw what was happening. I was being made into a slave. He took a sip of his beer. “Don’t waste my time.” There was a man clawing inside me, when I said, “I’ll take it.” * It was late afternoon when I topped the last hill and saw my hut and the half-built house, surrounded by a cinderblock wall, highest on the south side, where a white sack hung slack. Five steps closer and I saw the body of Prudencio, hanging from his chain. I set off at a run, something I hadn’t done in years, hoping I was in time. I grabbed an extension ladder from the yard and scrambled to where Prudencio hung. As soon as I touched his body I knew he was gone. It's a mystery how the life force disappears. Where does it go? I undid the clasp from Prudencio’s collar and settled his body on the ground. Maybe he thought if he leaped the wall, he could follow me. Unwept tears are poison and I was full of poison. * The sun was almost down when I finished burying my dog. * I hotwired a beater, a rusted-out Taurus. I got lucky—it had half a tank of gas—enough to get me to Tijuana. I was wearing my dark green suit, pale yellow shirt, and brown dress boots—clothes I’d brought down with me when I was deported. I’d never worn them in Mexico. I was done playing in the dirt. The rpms on the beater were set too high and the car lurched every time I gave it some gas. Even so, it felt good to be behind the wheel. How do you move up in a cartel? You make yourself useful. * It had been a long time since I’d contacted anyone in Mano de Plata. One call and I had a number. A second call and I had a meeting. At the end of the meeting, I had an assignment. Take back the Calle Jacinto corner in the El Florido neighborhood. There was only one way to do it—assassinate the street dealers from Rey 2000. They were making a push westward from Tecate and if they weren’t stopped they’d be in Tijuana, sparking the kind of war that gets the Mexican army involved. They handed me a loaded Hi-Point C-9 handgun and eight extra rounds. I was expendable. If I failed I’d get a lesser burial than Prudencio. I found a parking space for my beater five spaces down from the street corner. There was an OXXO on one corner, an abarottes on the other, a dry cleaner, and a taco stand. It didn’t take long to pick out the dealers selling meth and oxy. I’d been told there was one dealer, two at the most. There were four, probably all armed. Maybe there was a fifth out of sight. In my other life I’d been a driver. I had no skills with a gun. I didn’t know how good I’d be. There was only one way I was going to come through this. I kept the Hi-Point in my pocket as I walked toward them. I tried to give the impression I was heading to the OXXO. In my mind, I pictured myself buying some chips and a six-pack. I was a nobody. No one had to give me a second look. Parallel to the nearest dealer, a meter away, I pulled my gun and shot him in the neck. I rushed toward the second dealer and pushed the barrel of the gun into his chest and fired. The third was reaching into his belt for something when I rushed him and only fired once my barrel broke the skin on his cheek. The fourth turned to run, but he stumbled. I caught up to him and jammed the gun into his back, over the liver, and fired. Were they dead? Maybe. I trotted back to my car and drove off at a normal speed. No one followed. No one cared about me. No one cared about them. * That night, with pesos in my pocket, I rented a room in the Cesar Hotel, in the heart of the redlight district. I didn’t have skin hard enough to venture out into the nightclubs. Instead, I bought a 900 mm bottle of Jimador and sat back on the bed in the dark with the window open to the street sounds and took jolt after jolt. Thinking of Prudencio. Rosa. Spineless Luis. The motherfucker with the gray mustache. My children. As I drank, dozens of others flowed through my mind. The bottle got lighter in my hand. The street sounds drifted to almost nothing until finally gray dawn arrived. * It took almost a year to move up a step at a time. From street assassinations to having a crew of my own, a corner of my own, and then a whole neighborhood. The beater was quickly replaced with a Jeep Rubicon. Women came and went. The hotel room was left behind for a tenth-floor two-bedroom condo in Playas Tijuana. Fuck AA. Fuck the church. I was a drunk and I’d die a drunk. But I kept my drinking behind locked doors. Too many would see it as a weakness. I’m not so sure it is. The floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the ocean reflect slices of black, slices of light. I slid the doors open and stepped out to the balcony and looked up at the night sky. Maybe one of those stars is mine. Maybe stars are sharks in the sky. Sharks in a deep black ocean. Mark Rogers is a writer and artist whose literary heroes include Charles Bukowski, Willy Vlautin, and Charles Portis. Rogers lives in Baja California, Mexico with his Sinaloa-born wife, Sofia. His award-winning travel journalism for USA Today and other media outlets has brought him to 56 countries. His crime novels have been published in the U.S. and UK. Uppercut, his memoir of moving to Mexico, is published by Cowboy Jamboree Press. NeoText publishes his Tijuana Novels series and Gray Hunter series. You can reach him at markrogers627@gmail.com.

—you wrote about the bluebird. They snapped its neck. Then you wrote about the red-bellied woodpecker. But they plucked its feathers. So you wrote about the Carolina wren. And they clipped its wings. You tried to write about mourning doves. They shot them out of the sky. You stopped writing because it was someone’s birthday. Then you were on vacation. A graduation. Binging that new show on Hulu. Soon you remembered that you enjoy writing about birds. You wanted to open your laptop but found they had cut off your hands. You tried to tell them about the great blue heron, but they had sliced out your tongue. You spent the remaining days watching a tufted titmouse, listening to the Eastern towhee. They threw acid in your eyes and beat you upside the head until your eardrums burst. You strained to recall Keats’ nightingale, Clifton’s crows, Oliver’s geese but found only oil spills, flooding, and wildfires. Now you try to sleep, to dream of feathers, song, and flight while they stand at the end of your bed and scream, slapping the soles of your feet. Bluebirds perch outside your window and watch. You want to write how they lament your loss of habitat, sing of your fate, but all the words have flown north — CANDICE M. KELSEY [she/her] is a poet, educator, activist, and essayist from Ohio and living bicoastally in L.A. and Georgia. Her work appears in Passengers Journal, Variant Literature, and The Laurel Review among others. A finalist for a Best Microfiction 2023, she is the author of six books. Candice also serves as a poetry reader for The Los Angeles Review. Find her @candice-kelsey-7 @candicekelsey1 and www.candicemkelseypoet.com.

Aiyana is the author of the chapbook Stone Fruit (Bottlecap Press, 2020). Her poems have appeared in Cordella Press, Thimble Literary Magazine, Vagabond City Poetry, Rogue Agent Journal, Impossible Task, Illuminations, and elsewhere. An interdisciplinary artist and educator, she was the featured artist in the West Trestle Review and at Roots Cafe. Currently based in Brooklyn, New York, more work can be found at www.AiyanaMasla.com.

Tiny Reprieves There’s a goldfinch walking in the road daring cars to brake. Highways with faded yellow guardrails cutting through selfish mountains that want our dangerous love all to themselves. Hidden baseball fields kept up by forgiving grazing goats and water from ex-holy tarns. On the way, we swerve around sweepers with spinning splintered wire brushes that make us think of couples therapy: We’re running from empty pantries. Forest fires we may have started. A green hydrant on the curb by a graffiti’d downtown warehouse and redacted versions of National Geographic stacked on end tables in relationship oncology waiting rooms everywhere, making us the numbest of numb before figuring out what dinosaur we can be for the kids and also still come back as oil. Interpreting Weightlessness If everyone on the Chemical Destruction Community Advisory Board is us (and everyone on the board is us) then when we stand charred and disfigured in front of the bench, we are the gallery, the photographers, the chairman declaring the last weapons were destroyed too late anyways. And when our priest smears us in the press we are the reporter, the delivery boy, and the ink. And when all our terminal velocities happen at once, we think of ourselves not as softgels falling into a clear blue glass, not just as throats opening, eyes watering like a hydrograph finally becoming aware of its own flows. No, we think of ourselves as the plunge too, not the shove before the plunge, or the black that will come after, not the tiny-looking people spiraling within the withholding clouds, nor the clouds themselves. We are the arch, the just-wait, the verb as we swell and somewhere the wind slams a door. KG Newman is a sportswriter who covers the Broncos and Rockies for The Denver Post. His first four collections of poems are available on Amazon. The Arizona State University alum is on Twitter @KyleNewmanDP and more info and writing can be found at kgnewman.com. He is the poetry editor of Hidden Peak Press and he lives in Hidden Village, Colorado, with his wife and three kids.

I'm a sensual person and I know where you live. So when I'm walking in your direction on my way home from work, I fleetingly consider walking all the way to your place and getting there in just under an hour. I won’t be doing that because that would be weird and psycho – I do have limits. I don’t write continuously but here I am, turning down a corner. What is it to be sensual? Surely not about pleasure or gratification – rather an attunement to frequencies of dispersed lust: through smell, sight, sound, taste, texture – maybe extrasensory perception but I don’t think I have that. It's psychogeographic, not pornographic. Not political or efficacious or Thingness. I need headphones to dull any remembrance of your beauty and abrasiveness. Music enhances the wistfulness, though nothing fortifies yearning more than a good old fashioned cig. Smokers are very sensual. Stoners are just stoners. I'm so sensual I can't stand it. Nor can I stand the sound of hand dryers. So loud and unnecessary. I let my hands drip dry. Crying in public is cathartic. Being told by a stranger from across the street – things will get better honey, things will get better, things will get better. Surely he knows that’s not true, just because you say it three times. Too far gone for improvement but no matter. Senses currently in overdrive over a Macy's bag set down on a stoop with FREE inscribed on the front, packed with discarded yet neatly folded garments – all there for the taking. This moment of discovery is one to relish not resist. I pull each item unabashedly from the bags. I don’t care who sees, though I’d be embarrassed to watch myself. This is not high-end stuff by any means, just delightfully practical. Their purchaser clearly liked to buy things in pairs, two high rise jeans of the same style in a different color. Choices that would be my choices if I didn’t restrain myself from paying for anything beyond food and booze and cigs. It seems the discardee even washed them before discarding them. I can smell the lavender softener, but I'm going to wash them again. On my way to and from the laundromat, I pass by a dim lit bar you’d like, where I’d get you drunk on old fashioneds. I'd be wearing some of this new second-hand shit – this miraculous compensation for the price I paid for all that I can't have at any price. My eerily irrational glee over free stuff is interrupted by a displaced notion of coming to see you, in your neighborhood. Remember when you said – you know you’re moving here, right? That was all. I was to be nearby until such time you'd never want to see me again. And then a few months later you died without leaving a body behind and I had tried to wear something different every time I saw you hoping you would see me new even though. Even though I’m just walking. Jessica Almereyda has work published in Fence, Hotel, Juked, and others. She's a contributing editor at The Ersatz Experience. Twitter (or X... whatever): jalmereyda

Me and Vinnie from New Jersey as told by Google’s Oxford English Language Dictionary want v. have a desire to possess n. a lack intention n. an aim or plan n. a person’s designs n. the healing process of a wound feel v. be aware through touching n. experience of sensation or emotion partner n. either of a pair n. any of a number among whom losses are shared n. a lover lust n. a sensual appetite regarded as sinful v. have a strong sexual desire curiosity n. a desire to know or learn n. a strange or unusual object connection n. the action of linking one thing with another n. a person with whom one has contact n. a supplier of narcotics have v. to own; to hold n. someone with plenty communion n. common participation in a mental or emotional experience n. the service of worship (similar: fellowship) sweat n. moisture exuded through the pores of the skin, typically in profuse quantities as a reaction to heat, physical exertion, fever or fear n. a state of flustered anxiety or distress n. hard work, effort v. get rid of something v. worry v. to heat (chopped vegetables) slowly in a pan with a small amount of fat so that they cook in their own juices climax n. the most intense, exciting, or important point of something n. the final stage in a succession of which a state of equilibrium is reached v. culminate v. peak fleet n. a group of ships sailing together v. move or pass quickly v. fade away cold adj. lacking warmth adj. objective, not affected by emotion adj. depressing or dispiriting adj. of the scent or trail of a human or animal no longer fresh and easy to follow adj. without rehearsal, unawares adj. completely, entirely shame n. a powerful feeling of humiliation or distress caused by the consciousness of wrong or foolish behavior v. to cause someone to feel inadequate loss n. the feeling of grief when deprived of something of value n. a reduction of power within or among circuits alone adj. having no one else present adv. used to emphasize that only one factor out of several is being considered and that the whole is greater or more extreme release v. enable to escape from confinement; set free v. remove restrictions or obligations from someone so that they become available for another activity v. allow something to return to its resting position by ceasing to put pressure on it v. discharge a debt v. surrender Lisa Thornton is a writer and nurse living in Illinois. She has work in SmokeLong Quarterly, Bending Genres, Roi Faineant, Cowboy Jamboree and more. She was a finalist for the 2022 SmokeLong Quarterly Award for Flash Fiction and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. She can be found on Twitter @thorntonforreal.

Scorpio Moon What I have been wanting to hear - I'm not afraid of you. I love the gaping, bottomless pit inside you I will not try to fill it but will stand on tip toes with you and howl just to hear the echo you tell me my hair smells like dirt and then are embarrassed by it As if I do not dream of growing from the earth of smelling like universes of microbes teaming with life Three Bears what is that a piercing hot sound a whine mechanical and high just before the tumble in the other room no one is home. just me and these angry bears demanding a towel and a place to sleep I don't have any doors, I patiently say again. you can't sleep here, the barking from under my bed will wake you, I promise you won't like it isn't there someplace else you can stay? they don't hear the sound, they talk amongst themselves in a language that I don't understand I reach in the fridge but I already drank all of the orange juice which I planned to drink for dinner, I'm doing this thing, see, where I drink my fruits so the colony in my gut can be nourished and they keep asking for oranges but they're out of season and I can't keep going to the store without a jacket and all of the jackets are gone because the bears are wearing them. They look quite nice actually, the tallest in my pink coat with faux fur trim and the middle in a cameo coat my old neighbor gave me and the youngest swimming in my warm winter coat. as a smile spreads across my face, delighted by the bears I fall to my knees two hot rods of sound waves entering my ear, burning through my brain what are you doing, the middle bear asks. get up. my skin goes ash and the rods enter my ears, my mouth the sound grows louder and burns my throat I am more fire than flesh now get up, the oldest bear says, I am not I anymore we are a pile of ruby ash and grandmother's class ring that we wore on a distal appendage we're sleeping in your bed, the smallest bear sighed we are. ally noyes is a schemer and dreamer studying traditional and allopathic medicine in Bulbancha (New Orleans) Louisiana. They delight in strangeness - deep sea creatures, photosynthesis, astrology and pharmacology. In their work, they infuse a queer curiosity into the weathered patterns of fairy tales, medicine and societal structures. They believe anything that can be dreamt can be built.

Pietro Brown was his name; when you were first getting to know him, and queried the Italo-English name, he’d just shrug, say something to the effect that his English parents had named him that after an Italian-American friend they’d made upon coming to the U.S. when Pietro’s mother was six months pregnant. People whispered that he was a spy, people who knew people around in places, oh, not just average places, but the sorts of places I ventured to in order to write my cheap fiction for a penny-ante publishing house in Tucson. The publishing house itself was planning a big move to London the year after I met Pietro, and I was angling first of all not to get laid off, and secondly, to go live in London. That seemed close to both London and Paris, and God knows how many other fine and wonderful places that I thought I might see. But Tucson was my home base at first, and I never returned there without making a note in my private journals about him: if I had seen him; where and when; what he was doing; what he was drinking and eating, usually on some lovely patio above a seaside resort, or along some crowded boulevard with beautiful trees and cafés. I told myself originally it was because I wanted to write a story about him, but then it became clear to me, when I was honest with myself, that I was just fascinated. The word “love” was a little bit off, perhaps too extreme, but I certainly was taken with the man. Finally, the great move came, and as opposed to having to cart my belongings back and forth in luggage lines that were ever so much longer from the U.S. to the European cities I’d rarely been able to visit, I was suddenly in London and able to get back and forth with more ease. And with more charm and dignity to the European cities, I persuaded myself, thinking of Old Quarters and fancy restaurants, and jugglers and buskers in city squares by the droves, and on and on and on. A tiny voice also whispered, “And with more chances to see Pietro where he apparently goes most often, to Europe.” I giggled a little, sighed at myself, suppressed the thought, but hugged myself and decided at 10:30 at night to have a latte. As I prepared it, I said aloud to myself, in reproach, “You are very badly behaved!” But I didn’t mean it, and I sat up when the coffee had done its work, watching for the dawn and trimming my nails and toenails as I mused. It was the next year, though, a whole six months later, that I finally ran into Pietro again, in Barcelona, where the young men hang around the outside of hotels and coo at approaching female patrons who are first-time checking in. After the doormen get to know you, of course, they shush the supposed offenders and drive them away with big whooshing sweeps of the arm, and exclamations of something that sounds like “Hasta! Hasta!” But another female patron grinned wisely at me and told me that they were there to help the doormen earn a tip for driving them away from the richer women and that the doormen shared their takings with the better performers. Somehow, the cynicism of this didn’t ruin the dangerous charm of the approach, possibly because I once dropped a valuable theater ticket (valuable to me, anyway, a ticket to see Romeo and Juliet performed in mime). One of the loungers came running up to me a block later, where I had hurried away from them, but as I motioned at him impatiently in a female imitation of the doorman, he said, “No, no, señorita, mira, mira!” And he held up my precious ticket. I groped in my bag for a small tip, but he held up one hand and said, “No. Romeo e Julietta? So, give kiss here!” And he pointed to his cheek, dead center. When I stared at him, astounded at his temerity, he tapped it again, three times or so, grinned at me and nodded encouragement, then tapped again. “No tricks!” I responded, then leaned gingerly forward and brushed his cheek, backing away even as I did it, and looking around to see if anyone had seen me. For just a second, Pietro flashed through my mind. He held out my ticket to me, which I grabbed and placed in a safe place in my bag. He saluted me with his hand raised, then skipped off backwards down the street still facing me until the very end. I noticed as he went that he was quite young, much younger than my twenty-nine years, still full of fun, probably intending to share his joke with his friends. I had to hope that it didn’t result in a profusion of such outrageous requests. But when I returned to my hotel that night after working on my latest potboiler all day in a small café I’d taken to frequenting, he was nowhere to be seen, and there were fewer of the younger men around; evidently, there was some kind of festival on in Barcelona, and the few who were there outside the hotel were a little drunk, a lot tired, and more interested in sharing smokes and jests with each other than in earning indirect tips. Even the doorman looked bored working when he wanted to be elsewhere. I too was tired from the heat of the day, and entered the lobby with nothing else on my mind than a cool shower in the indifferent stream of water that came from the hotel sprays in the rooms, and possibly a small repast ordered from room service, which was slow but cheaper than some. I had no notion of meeting anyone I knew there, as it was so late on what I had at first forgotten was a festival day. But there in the lobby, standing at the front desk, was Pietro. All my weariness vanished in a second; should I go up and say “Hi?” Was he checking in? Yes, as the clerk had handed him one of the room cards. I said to myself, “I mean, I haven’t done anything wrong; I don’t think he’s married; I’ve never heard of a girlfriend; why shouldn’t I just say ‘Hello?’” And before he could disappear into the anonymity of the elevator alone, while he was still lifting his suitcase and briefcase, I hastened to go up and speak. He looked startled. “Oh, Penelope, hi. I didn’t expect to see anyone I knew here in this hotel. I’d forgotten all about the festival. Just a small, local thing of the regional bread-makers, I think, so it slipped right out of my mind. How are you? Are you here for long?” “I’d forgotten, too! I’m here until I finish this stupid lump of writing I’m on right now. I can’t wait until I can work on more serious work again, but money considerations, you know. What about you, how long are you here for?” “Not sure. Here for work,” and promptly, he clammed up. We were both walking to the elevator, though, so I waited as tactfully as I could for the relative privacy of the elevator, and then resumed the subject he seemed to regret having brought up. “So, you’ve never said, Pietro; what is it you do? You know I’m a hack writer right now, who hopes for better things to come along. What engages your attention?” I tried to look encouraging, but he flushed and for a moment was silent. Then, he said, brief and to the point, “I work for the government.” “U.S.?” “Yes.” “Sorry, Pietro, I don’t mean to be intrusive; but a number of people now have told me you’re a spy. I guess that’s just gossip?” To my surprise, he hesitated, then grimaced. “That’s kind of over-glorifying it; I started out as a private bean-counter sort of person, true enough, in an espionage department, but that’s all I can say. Can’t talk about it really, you see, even counting beans means something to somebody higher up.” And he grinned down at me, obviously pleased at having both answered and not answered at the same time. I smirked back at him and was preparing to exit the doors, which had whooshed open on my floor, when he raised his arm to hold the door, as it started to shut too fast. I glimpsed a fine, shiny revolver tucked into a shoulder holster, and couldn’t help but gasp. “And that’s why I can’t talk about work. Sorry you had to see that. But I’m not really a spy sort, just for self-defense, you know. I mean—” “That’s okay,” I hurried to reassure him, and that was really my intent; he was so very ashamed of himself and apologetic in his manner. “I’m just glad to know that you are able to defend yourself. Even bean-counters have a right to.” He laughed with sudden relief, and answered, “That’s right. Thank you,” and then for the second time that day, and to my everlasting astonishment, I was again party to a display of affection, though private in this case, and not public; he leaned down and gave me a small, warm, peck on the cheek. This was immediately followed by, “Sorry, sorry, I shouldn’t have done that! Just this—this horrible, sultry weather and no break to it, and checking in so late, and having something revealed that I didn’t intend, after finally seeing a friendly face. Can you forgive me?” “Of course I can! I am, as you remarked, a friendly face and I am rather glad you did it.” “Well, but, well—it’s just that nothing can come of it, you see? I mean, as my life is now.” “Please don’t worry about it! I’d rather you than anyone else!” And I meant that. He looked worried for a minute, but as I got off the elevator and spoke my “Goodnight, hope to see you sometime around the pool, if you go in for such amusements,” he watched me walk off backwards, as I had just imitated the posture and stride of my young friend from earlier that day. Finally, he gave a short, sharp laugh and shook his head at something unspoken, and I turned back in the correct direction and went on towards my room. “Well, at least there was that!” I said to myself as I brushed my teeth and flossed and got ready for bed, my thoughts of a late meal already given up. I wasn’t hungry! “And you, my girl, had best forget about it, and not expect miracles,” I said, pointing meaningfully to my reflection. But she looked back at me with a gleam in her eye, not repentant in the least. When I woke up the next morning, however, more sobering thoughts came to me. I knew myself very well; I was the sort who, when in love, tended to hang around like the female version of a mooncalf, waiting for great things to happen, and I knew I had to get to work on the “dumb crap,” as I apostrophized it, which was currently paying my bills. Somehow, though, I knew I would only rebel and create a bad situation for myself if I didn’t let myself have some headway, so I aimed a bit for middle ground and decided to work at a table by the pool. There were portable chargers for my laptop for rent at the front desk, and luckily I could write it off as a work expense, since it was one. I did catch sight of my own silly face as I hummed and made happy noise, and I once again pointed the comb I’d been preparing to place in my hair in the local fashion: “You’re not fooling anyone, you!” I said, then predictably enough, went on vocalizing, just a little lower. I didn’t really expect Pietro to show, as we both were working people and had things to do. So I concentrated the best I was able, and to my surprise got a whole chapter done. That was something I could respond to my inner critic, anyway, that he’d been “good for business.” Around two o’clock, though, soon after I’d finished a late lunch brought out by the languid hotel staff, he sauntered by, saw me as if for the first time, then said, “This seat taken?” as he lifted the back of the chair across from me. “Not a very original opening, I’m afraid, but at least direct.” And he grinned in a way that to my startled mind was similar to my young friend of the day before. “No one here but us chickens,” I responded, and continued, “That’s not only old hat from me, but country as well.” I gestured, “Have a seat.” The upshot of it all was that we spent the afternoon and early evening together, chatting, but mostly about safe topics and surface politics and culture, both of us careful not to tread on certain subjects. I noticed that he was watching with a certain sort of bemusement three teenagers in the pool, who were there almost as long as we were. The two boys and one girl were horseplaying as a threesome at first. Then, after what seemed like a long while but could only have been an hour at most, the last hour, it was clear some choice had been made. As if led away by pixies, who had somehow enchanted him and kept him from a kinder fate, one boy watched with regret and drifted away as the girl and the other boy separated off. “Ah, isn’t that always the way that it goes?” said Pietro softly, with a certain melancholic or philosophic turn. “What?” I asked though I knew well enough what he referred to in the scene before us. “Two stay, one is always drawn off alone.” “Well, not if he didn’t want to be, for goodness’ sake!” I objected in a cheerful tone. “They’re very young.” “Patterns are established young, sometimes.” This was his only response, and the next moment he was scraping back his chair, and I was afraid I’d lost him. But then he said, “Are you going out somewhere yourself for dinner, or do you have a fancy to accompany me to a small place I know of here for a tapas meal?” “Thank you very much, Pietro, I’d love to come along! Is it very fancy, or will a different set of togs do?” “No, since our dip in the pool, I’ve rather a desire to get the chlorine out of my hair and duck into the shower, but it’s casual dress, very easy. Just something cool, it can get quite overheated even with fans.” After all these years, I’d like to be able to score off my inner critic by pointing back and saying that I had bested Pietro’s aloneness and that his work hadn’t gotten in my way. But that’s not what happened. For reasons that I had no means of knowing until the events transpired that evening, our evening fell flat even from the start. Pietro wore a jacket that seemed to me to be too heavy for the “something cool” he’d told me to wear, and he was overly officious in watching for traffic, holding my arm when we crossed, looking up and down the sidewalk, I’d thought in overcompensation for the crowd. But later I was not surprised as much when I got pushed to the sidewalk and told to “keep down!” Since the next thing that happened was that a spray of bullets hit the overhang behind me, my angry objections died on my lips. There were sirens next and confusion, and I found that I had been hit with a bit of stone that had broken off the building, ricocheting and sticking into my upper arm, and causing a good bit of blood loss. Officers came; Pietro talked to them very fast, and very efficiently, in what to me seemed like flawless Spanish, for about fifteen minutes, while a rude and abrasive (so it seemed) female nurse asked me questions repeatedly which I couldn’t answer, not understanding. Not understanding much more, I watched them cart away two dead bodies from across the street, and it was only later that I realized that Pietro’s gun had been drawn at some point, and he had fired it. He then looked down at me and said, sad as it seemed, “I’ve got to go with the officers now, Penny. Do you mind if I call you that? I guess you may well. But if you want to—well to keep in touch—you know, letters and such, emails—I don’t know if they’ll let me see you—well, anyway—here’s my government office, on this card. You can always write there, and after a while, I could respond; if you want to.” I was near enough to him to grasp the card quite firmly but meant to be equally firm with him about some other things. “Yes, of course you can call me Penny, though I’ve never had a nickname before. And of course I’ll write to you, though I’d naturally like to see you again. But—” and here I brought up the main thing on my mind—“you aren’t under arrest, are you? I mean, someone, I can tell, shot at you first!” And he laughed. “No, not arrested. Remember what I told you, Penny. My good luck penny. Two go away together; one is always drawn off alone.” And when I visited his grave, two years later, it said on the stone, to my great surprise: For Penny: I should have stayed with you. Greater Boston, MA area, born WV. Ph.D., English/Theater. Website: creative-shadows.com. In-Print: "Poems from the Northeast," 2021; OOP but free on website: "Scenes de la Vie Americaine (en Paris)," [in English], 2022. Between Aug. 2021-Aug. 2023, Victoria will have published 42 times with: Roi Faineant Literary Press, Fevers of the Mind Poetry & Art, The Hooghly Review, The Unconventional Courier, Discretionary Love, Barzakh Magazine, Alien Buddha Press, The Madrigal Press, Amphora Magazine, Olympia Publishers, Winning Writers, Cult of Clio. She has been accepted for a fiction piece in The Hooghly Review 10/23 & for 4 poems in Dreich Magazine in 11/23. Victoria writes Fiction/Poetry/Flash/CNF/Essays. She is an organizer of the poets' collective @PoetsonThursday on Twitter along with Dave Garbutt & Alex Guenther. Twitter: @vicklbennett & @PoetsonThursday. (Trying to understand) Mastodon: @vickileigh@mstdn.social & @vickileigh@writing.exchange.

Family portrait of a passed pawn I feel as though my child has died she says but I cannot be dead because I am in check she has chased me down the family board my brother and my father implied squares we pass through on our way to where she is not prepared for me to become the one piece that moves nothing like her and can leap Aubade Eben, she says, pressing a hand against my shoulder. The cat must have nudged the door ajar in the night so Mom could slip into the room like light around the shade. Too light light. It’s late. Oh god I’m so late shit the bus will be here in like zero minutes (she presses) did I even print my essay and will I have time (she presses) to grab one slice of bread before I head out the door, head, as in my head is out the door but actually—I am still in bed because she holds me down, knows my desperation, presses against it, says, just a moment it will be okay breathe requisitioning calm, or at least, stillness. I make my inhale and exhale audible. She means to spare me, the woman who wakes at 3am to the least sound, desperate for sleep presses like she could hold back inheritance, press as in printing press, as in I need to check my binder to see if I printed my essay, press as in Mr. Hertzrog will press me for answers, as in press conference, the flashbulbs of their eyes will be blinding as I enter the classroom and the headline: Bad Boy Late for Umpteenth Time After Eking Out Structurally Unsound Essay at 1AM and the article will mention nothing of Hertzrog’s insane standards, only how kindly Mom’s hand was and she’ll want to impress upon everyone—the cat grown still in her arms, me not her intent, but the cold, hard fact that her hand was the hand of kindness, yes, even twenty years later she will impress upon me: History cannot be rewritten. The cat was purring and therefore couldn’t have been readying its escape. Eben E. B. Bein (he/they) is a biology-teacher-turned-climate-justice-educator at the nonprofit Our Climate. He was a 2022 Fellow for the Writing By Writers workshop and winner of the 2022 Writers Rising Up “Winter Variations” poetry contest. Their first chapbook “Character Flaws” (Fauxmoir lit, 2023) is out and they’ve published with the likes of Fugue Literary, New Ohio Review, and Columbia Review. They are currently completing their first full collection “From the top of the sky” about parent-child estrangement, healing, and love. He lives on Pawtucket land (Cambridge, MA) with his husband and can be found online at ebenbein.com or @ebenbein.

I’ve always been sitting at this kitchen table, even when I haven’t. My life: ash from a cigarette, swirl of torn paper. His name was… . He wore a cap pulled to his eyebrows. He said… and blink, there’s music playing over the static, chips of song with only half the words. (The trees are thickening, buds visible as a fog clinging to the branches.) I hold on to the idea of his hand, his cream-slicked hair falling forward, his leather jacket, if he had one, his smooth uncertain lips. My own hand cautious on the concrete wall by the church, my hand thinking in its stolid way that the wall was warm, my bookbag heavy, my eyes taking in the sky (always blue in memories of childhood), my glasses, if I had glasses, sliding down my nose, my head starting to fill with a thought that would later turn to ash, to paper. I am already forgetting this table, its woodenness, its grain, the jam stain that has lasted so long it’s an heirloom. The table is a prop in the play I’m staging for my twilight years. The air is filled with dust that glows and rises with the memory birds, smudged as they are, and torn, parts of a puzzle I can’t solve or forget. His name began with an F.