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I was born in a country that seems unimaginable today — India before the internet and smartphones. Like many growing up in the early nineties, my pre-teen sources of indoors-entertainment were limited to books and parentally-supervised television (not past 10 p.m., obviously). I’d quickly outgrown the ‘He-Man’ toys and hide-seek games of my childhood. Noting a penchant for reading, my parents bought me a monthly subscription to the widely loved comic book ‘Tinkle’. Today when I have to describe that series, I paint it as India’s answer to Aesop’s tales padded with educational, humorous comic stories, all hand-drawn and brightly coloured. Marvel and DC had nothing on it! Instead of the usual postal delivery, or ‘snail-mail’ as it was called once email appeared on the scene, a local paperboy dropped each month’s Tinkle copy at our doorstep in New Delhi. In a flurry of few days, I’d read and, during the remainder of the month, re-read all the stories featuring familiar recycled characters: a wise monkey called Kapish with super-powers (evidently modeled on the simian Hindu god, Hanuman), a bumbling forest-guard called Shikari Shambu and an incorrigible simpleton called Suppandi amongst others. On the last few pages of that comic book were puzzles, crosswords, quizzes, letters to the editor and a contact list of children, from across the nation, looking for “pen-pals”. To the current social-media savvy generation, a pen-friend (as it was also called) might seem antediluvian and arcane. A pen-friend was someone you could exchange handwritten letters with and build a long-distance bond. Today, you can instantly text or video call to any corner of the world. But to many in the pre-tech epoch, pen-friends represented a grand adventure — the possibility of an otherwise impossible friendship across vast, sweeping distances! The temptation of getting to know a remote stranger, through written words, lay in the promise of novelty, of expanding the narrow scope of one’s monotonous life. The unknown has an easy allure. So when I was around ten years old, I decided to send out short introductory letters to contacts in a Tinkle issue. I tried desperately to sound funny, smart and engaging in the hope that people I had never met would want to befriend me. Back then, the Indian Postal Service provided sky-blue, pre-stamped origami-style paper for routine correspondence. These folded into a rectangular envelope when creased along the correct edges. You wrote your letter on the inner side, filled out an address on the back, licked (and this was the crucial step) the gluey flap-shut and put it through the metal visor of your nearest red, squat mailbox. Then you waited, for weeks, at times months. In my case, the wait could’ve been indefinite. Indeed, I had no idea if my epistolary doves would ever be reciprocated with equal ardour. After long spells of silence, one was. I was overjoyed to receive a reply, any reply. My euphoria amplified as I read each lovely, neatly written out word in the response. My correspondent had the most exquisite handwriting for any child. Until of course I understood that he was no child. He was older, much older than the average Tinkle reader. A real person, a grown-up, an adult deigned me worthy of his time! R was a businessman. He lived between New Delhi and a small town in the neighbouring state of Uttar Pradesh. He was the president of his own company, he mentioned something about owning alcohol distilleries. In his introduction, R also mentioned a wife and two children. His son was nearly my age. R said he travelled often for work, to Delhi but also to far-away wonderful places such as Los Angeles and London! Already in that first letter, I was awestruck. R disarmed me with his easy charm. Quite quickly, he managed to convince me that I, too, was special. He complimented my writing skills, my way of thinking and expressed a desire to continue our exchange. I felt flattered by the attention and told my parents about my new “pen-pal”. They took it to be a natural nod to my penmanship that an accomplished industrialist should be interested in pursuing a remote dialogue with me. In hindsight, someone ought to have asked why R had advertised his contact details in a comic book meant for children and teenagers. Yet no alarm bells rang, nothing seemed off the mark. In the absence of anything sinister, our friendship began. Unbridled, effusive letters were written in a golden haze of innocence. R always answered with assured confidence of adulthood and beautiful calligraphy. Over time, we exchanged photos : old-school printed photos taken on film and snuck into a thick envelope along with the increasing number of sheets our letters slowly spread over. I even knew what he sounded like. R had offered to call on the fixed ‘landline’ phone after a few letters. We spoke at length. I took this to mean he was undeterred by the mounting inter-state telephone (STD) call charges. The calls were free for him, he told me, in his casual way of flaunting wealth knowing well that it would entice a middle-class boy. Our friendship, albeit intergenerational, became gradually consolidated and, given my parents’ approval, it felt entirely legitimate. Several months passed before R offered to visit me. When I told my mother my pen-friend was passing through Delhi and wanted to ‘hang out with me for the day’, she did not mind. R organised it all, he even called ahead and spoke to my mother to get her permission. The day arrived and I had never felt such a rush of excitement. I was to finally meet my pen-pal, in flesh and blood. I’d seen him in photos, a bald, round-faced, physically unremarkable man. R came home on a hot summer afternoon and spoke ingratiatingly to my mother, who was also taken in by his upper-class status and genteel demeanour. We had tea and then R whisked me off in his fancy car to a bowling alley. I’d never sat in an expensive car and definitely never stepped into a bowling alley until then. My mind does not recall the murky details of that day. We bowled, had lunch, laughed and talked until it was time for me to be dropped back home. I had a great time. Then something happened that I blocked out of my mind for years. On the ride back home, we were stuck at a traffic signal. R grazed his hand over my thigh, touching my inner thigh gently. He was not aggressive but definitely insistent in the way he caressed my childish limbs. Then, before parting, he hugged me for a long time to say goodbye. Later in a letter, he would tell me my ‘tight jeans’ made me very handsome. With the advent of the internet, our communication switched to email. Although my parents never read any of our handwritten letters, the absolute privacy of email emboldened R and revealed a new side of him. His messages became less obscure, more vulgar. For example, he mentioned sleepovers with his son and his son’s friends, where he’d lay with all of them. He told me repeatedly he enjoyed bathing his son. In one email, he told me he would love for me to visit his farmhouse in the hills, at Shamli, and spend a weekend with him. There were other perverse suggestions that I could not decrypt or even fully fathom at the time. My mind was jolted by the newness of all that he wrote. There, starkly apparent in the hyper-sexualised landscape he drew out for me in each email, lay the truth of R. He was a pedophile. A truth I did not understand until I was an adult. At that age, I lacked the vocabulary, the emotional and intellectual frameworks to comprehend, report, and challenge what was happening to me. A year after my first meeting with R, my father’s work led our family to a new life in Mumbai. I stopped mentioning R after our move. I never lay eyes on him again. However, sporadic emails from him continued into my early teens. I did not block them, something I regret. They became increasingly vulgar, explicit and pornographic in detail. In some, he forwarded erotic fiction of a particularly depraved and fetishist nature. In others, he simply mentioned things —acts — he wanted to do to me, with me. Things he claimed to have experimented with his son’s unsuspecting friends. I lived in the silent shame of being the recipient of those lurid emails. At the same time, the precocious sexuality of a confused pre-teen found its trigger and release in those inappropriate exchanges. As I grew older and more uncomfortable, I stopped responding to him. Eventually, we lost touch before I had even finished middle school. I changed my email address but the shame still haunts me. Years later, I wondered if I was culpable and complicit for partaking in his sick, monstrous schemes. Until one day, in my late 20s, a barrage of repressed memories came rushing back. I was struck with cold terror. I was living in New York and childhood was merely an irretrievable mirage. But as an adult, I now understood what pedophilia was. My brain blurted out in bold letters “You were lucky. You could have been one of those children.” Just like that, the floodgates opened. I had relegated the episode with R to a dark, blurry cell in my mind’s cave. A cell I have avoided visiting, out of humiliation and guilt. Questions crawled out of that cave to haunt me: Why didn’t I stop replying sooner, what did I even write back? Why didn’t my parents seem more concerned? Why didn’t I immediately see it for it was — rampant pedophilia? What would he have done to me had I fallen trap to any of his deviant propositions? How many children has he physically molested in the guise of being a “friend”? Is he still lurking around there somewhere, free to hurt others? Are we all so fragile, unprotected and vulnerable? I will never have all the answers. But laid bare, I can now live with my truth. Luckily he never managed to get to me although I shudder to think of that version of events. And that, to me, is worth something. For one, I know that I am not the heinous criminal in my story. Tejas Yadav is a polyglot writer & scientist whose work has been published in Burnt Roti, Active Muse, Borderless Journal, and Literary Traveler etc. Themes of identity, race, alienation, social justice and mental health inspire him. His published writings can be found at https://writejas.wordpress.com.

The key was right where I left it, beneath the loose brick in the path that led up to the door, but I left it gleaming gold in the black earth, took the brick in hand instead, wound up and threw it through the pane of glass in the door. I aimed right for the little flyer taped to the inside: WARNING: THIS PROPERTY HAS BEEN WINTERIZED. Crash. The first day I ever stepped through that door, the air rushed in at my back, and the new house heaved a sigh, it was exactly as I’d always dreamed it. Now, I broke the last of the door pane’s jagged teeth down with my foot, stepped through and into the foyer, the soles of my boots scraping the fragments against the smooth stone floor. Crunch and gristle, as if across packed snow. High ceiling, wide walls, the empty house spread out around me like a pair of open arms. It was summer when I raised it. The sun sat heavy on my shoulders; my body moved under a crust of sweat and granite. When I brought the first wall up, and its shadow fell across my back, it was as blessedly cool as a mountain creek. A cold wind shoved me from behind, blew up into the reaches of the dark house. I pulled my jacket tighter, scraped the last of the glass from my boots, and moved in deeper, ran my fingers up and down the walls, into their old grooves. That made me smile. The bank may have taken it, but here was proof that I had been here—some last trace of me left to haunt the bankers, the realtors, whoever came next. It was still ten steps to the living room. I stopped at its threshold, looked into it. When I designed it, with lead-stained hands and a crick like a hot coal in my neck, I drew wide windows, drew doorways without doors—everything open and flowing like ventricles to a heart. When it was finished, before I moved anything in, I moved through it, imagining all it could hold. The light shining in caught on all the angles of the place—the hollow in the corner where a couch would go, the shelves carved into the wood of the walls. I couldn’t make any of that out now; it was too dark. The room was formless. Just a hole full of holes. I pulled the lighter from my pocket, flicked it on. A ring of orange light spilled out. I thought of the clear pus of plasma ringing beads of blood. In my other hand, the bottle sang—liquor against glass. Before I lit the fuel-soaked rag stuffed into its neck, I held it to my ear, listened. I always loved the sounds they made, glass and stone. That was my favorite part of building this place—with every stone I took in hand and slid into another, with every nail I drove into a plank of wood—the noise, the rugged texture of it all. As the bottle left my hand, I stumbled forward, reached out, as if I could pull it back. Crash. I watched the fire unfurl in great red petals, brush the walls, the ceilings. A crooked little sound escaped my throat, and then whatever part of me made it blackened and fell silent. Vasilios Moschouris is a gay stay-at-home writer and Best of the Net nominee from the mountains of North Carolina. His writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Chautauqua magazine, Hobart, Press Pause Press, and in the museum of americana. Unfortunately, he can be found on Twitter @burnmyaccountv.

The House Ghosts All Read the Time Traveler’s Wife and Now Have Something They Want to Tell You The morning ghosts are subtle and subversive, beginning with bread possession of the ancient toaster, the heating elements pulsing with overhead lights in a one-two-three gentle broadcast from the Other Side with breakfast and tea before moving on to the larger appliances of brunch, like the refrigerator and oven which makes it hard sometimes to predict if you will have over easy or fried to a crisp eggs, smoking slightly on the edges, though by lunch the microwave is nearly hopeless and best for transcribing messages directly from the spiritual world to beef stroganoff, a mark especially clear in the still-edible sticky noodles of the afternoon ghosts, which are more direct but not without compassion, as there is not much you can say about the evening ghosts except you will be lucky to get a jelly sandwich from the glued cabinets unless you shout very loudly to the walls, “yes I will get a better job, I will take a shower, and maybe I’ll trim my toenails and check the dating app, if you will let me have a bit of dinner before bed” which will often quiet them for the night except for the one ghost who watches television romances in addition to reading and there is nothing to be done except nibble leftover crumbs on the bedsheets until the morning shift takes over. Librarian, mother, and minor trickster, Janna has published in SmokeLong Quarterly, Cheap Pop, Whale Road Review, Necessary Fiction, Best Microfiction 2023, and others. Her story collection, “All Lovers Burn at the End of the World” is forthcoming from SLJ Editions in 2024. Generally, if the blender explodes, it is not her fault.

I start my day by finishing it the sun is creeping down like that spider under my bed and I really need to clean it out but my back aches like an old man god I really need to stop curling up in the bath like it’ll make me feel young again. Anyway I start my day by finishing it the sun is creeping down the bell has rung and they’re all flooding the street around me. I must look like a rock in a stream. Honestly I feel like one sometimes. Not in the fact that I’m not moving I’m always moving - me and my brain are on a high-speed train called the gifted kid and it’s taking me all the way to Cambridge and everyone’s so proud. I’m like a rock because I’m all hard shell because I’m all alone while you’re all connecting twisting, curling, flowing with each other. It’s like what the Smiths said about charms and arms. I’m not alone as in alone but I don’t know if anyone has ever really met me. Anyway you put your earphones on and I put my hands on my ears. Life sounds better this way let me hear it through a wall of grey. And I start understanding that I’m not understanding something that everyone else is. Alone in that I’m the only one who’s here. (Only one who’s not?) … I scuff my shoes on the concrete and I get the bus home. Benjamin Bowers is a student from England. His work has appeared in Backwords Trajectory. You can find him @benkb_poetry on Instagram.

my, my sister calls too early in the week, an early hour unallotted for pleasantries, especially for those a certain age a flinching, momentarily before i steel myself i say hello hello too muted to be received, ghosted in the background, in between the pauses of familiar voices, familiar sounds: the dog barking the door slamming clearly misplaced clearly unheard, all at once i am relieved and melancholy and am suddenly reminded of the true meaning of nostalgia J. R. Wilkerson is a resident of Northern Virginia by way of Lawrenceburg, Missouri

Homemaker Animal aches live in your belly. Susurration of hearts in an oblong vase on the kitchen island. Boil the bear delivered in an oak box. Pick its fur from your incisors. Outside, a snowglobe of suffering bursts into star crystals. You want to hide, but this weird world whispers your name. Sure, Call Me a “Homemaker” One-eyed cockroach sips toothpaste on the sink. Brazen blackbird bites my baby’s nose and toes. A cumulonimbus fills the kitchen sink with tears and lightning bolts. Bigfoot’s hair clogs the shower drain, so the bathroom becomes a lake, where Medusa’s snakes now want to mate. Shakespeare pens a tragedy with alphabet magnets, grape jelly. Curious George swings from ceiling fan, one foot-hand squirting bananas across the room like torpedoes. Cupid’s arrow jammed in the toaster, bent and blazing, smoke alarm blaring. Just then, my mother-in-law phones—she’s on her way. After the 12th Bedtime Story Open the night sky like a medicine cabinet, inside you’ll find God sitting on a stool, elbows on knees, chin resting on hands, glowing in the light of a moon-shaped night light, listening to a toddler whose weary parents have sent him to bed, listening to a toddler’s run-on sentences, run-on stories, run-on suggestions—that with a flick, burst into meteorite showers, thousands of word particles burning in a glorious celestial flourish. 6 a.m. A milky quiet, doughy stillness, refrigerator’s hum, my pen scratching against paper, the house inhaling & exhaling with sticky slumber, my toddlers’ lollipop dreams. I’ll imbibe this moment, melt it on my tongue, savor each morsel, molecule of peace for when tiny voices start calling Momma, Mommy, Mom when small humans hailstone their emotions, needs, desires, upon me I’ll swallow the hailstones, chunk by chunk until they melt inside me, on top of me, around me— I will drown. This moment will be the straw through which I sip oxygen. I’ve never been so elated to be awake alive at 6 a.m. Bethany Jarmul’s work has appeared in more than 50 literary magazines—including Salamander, Emerge Journal, Cease Cows—and been nominated for Best of the Net and Best Spiritual Literature. Her prose poem chapbook This Strange and Wonderful Existence is forthcoming from Bottlecap Press. Her nonfiction chapbook Take Me Home is forthcoming from Belle Point Press. She earned first place in Women on Writing’s Q2 2022 & Q2 2023 essay contests. Her essay “Intersections” earned the award for “Best in Show: Creative Nonfiction” for Winter 2023 from Inscape Journal. She lives near Pittsburgh. Connect with her at bethanyjarmul.com or on Twitter: @BethanyJarmul.

If I could be anything, i’d be the dying star you whisper wishes to before bed in my wildest fantasies i am your divinity akin to akemi i warp the world for your safety christ calls this is my blood i scream here is my heart! wrapped in cellophane to preserve, i only ask you peel that plastic and consume all piece by piece until we are one ode to my former eyebrow piercing to the divine hole the pristine pit of my countenance, you are comely and alluring to the lightning bug underneath my skin the sorcerer’s sword which embodies self-expression you are masculinity incarnate a childhood dream meets an adulthood reality we transcend expectations in ways such as this Theodore James is a 22 year old transsexual male who writes so that he may breathe. Words and language have been his passion for as long as he can remember. He spends his free time reading, writing, overthinking, and eating delicious vegan meals. He specializes in angst, but also lives for a little bit of humor. His favorite poet is Danez Smith, his favorite color is burnt orange, and he loves the smell of the sky after a nice long rain.

Pedestrian Living Brown house finch, God’s beauty borne aerial with heart and murmur and beat of wing all enumerate in feathers sweet, small-beaked, simple drive of wearied poet and old man’s swing— crushed dead on a one-way. Missing Person’s Report Eating day old pierogi, the line between nourishment and punishment, nearly absent now. I drink my milk, but, you know, height isn’t everything. Marta was telling me how the whole thing was a corporate lie anyway, and I made idiotic jokes about how Big Milk was coming to get us. The hashbrowns were fully sizzling, golden wads of chaos on cheapskate Waffle House oil, that last big supper I ate. Homer put it second best when he claimed, “Everything is beautiful because we are doomed.” First place, of course, goes to the eggshell, glistening in barren fullness, the best articulation of physical desire mixed with perdition. I am too young to be getting smaller, I’m told, but that won’t stop me from shrinking. When the milk cartel comes to execute me for slander, I will disown this and all other poems, having finally accomplished something genuine. Abilene Rhapsody Alive again in the American Southwest with friends and a campfire and a park full of needles, we share songs that wrap ‘round the prickly pears, Thinning over their shapes like clouds or the denim on my knees, worn pews. Oh big sky, they say the tension’s between ever-moving blood and the dry bones resisting it. Oh, worn pews. Oh, big sky. Softer Living Thinking of the mallard’s wings serrating the sky, gray thread rippers on a cloudy cotton hanging. My shoulders hurt pretty bad because I can’t lift a boat properly, I really miss Victoria right now. She’s got this coat so soft it feels something close to feathers, adjacent to the kind of kindness I’d imagine ducklings have before they’re grown up or shot or mauled by bears or whatever. Soft as the wiry margin between eggshells and Peking specials, basically. This is a poem about how I went boating on a Monday, and felt generally pretty good, duck mortality aside, but right now I’m thumbing my left earring, which got put in all slanty. It’s nearly funny that 30,000 Americans die in car crashes each year and I’m mad today because my left earring is crooked from when an armed teenager shot it askew. Victoria was there. Ask her about it if you see her. Lake of Fire Opening and closing the door with some force like the gasping gills of an upturned fish; put gently, it’s hot as balls in here. Came down last night from the mountains in blue-gray fog. Gunsmoke of possible car-crashes, the headlight trajectories of running down the slope, taillights swallowed in mist, ein flammenwerfer extinguished. Like a soldier then, running as artillery rock outcrops briefly explode into vision, heading back to find some shelter, a beautiful trout longing for the river, thrown back toward aqueous mercy to find my fucking AC broke. Too Much Fun Beneath the lemon drop sun, behind the bar for tips, I wish I could just swim in Absolut Citron. The young patrons With snide Hawaiian shirts stumble and dance between uninterested parties while I hand out shots: my knees will ache for theirs to give. Augustus C. Grohmann is an interdisciplinary writer and MFA candidate at Hollins University in Roanoke, Virginia. Email them at ggrohmann@hotmail.com.

she did not stretch 60 feet tall like that day on the Clearwater building in Florida when the city had to install sidewalks and portable restrooms for thousands of pilgrims nor did she appear on a griddle at a restaurant on the California-Mexican border. She remembered that Jesus had a thing for showing up on fish sticks or bacon on a banana peel or as a ruffled dark spot on a potato chip by all accounts Mother Teressa was partial to cinnamon buns. Our Lady of confided all of this to a guy seated at a pew scrolling absently through his phone Damon Hubbs is the author of two chapbooks: "The Day Sharks Walk on Land"(Alien Buddha Press, 2023) and "Charm of Difference" (Back Room Poetry, forthcoming in 2024). His most recent poems can be found in Does It Have Pockets, Apocalypse Confidential, South Broadway Press, Yellow Mama, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, D.O.R, and Fixator Press. He lives in New England. Twitter @damon_hubbs

One Million Years Ago Yesterday A big girl now she recalls the first dress purchased with money of babies sat perfect for endless summers with boys bare feet on sands so hot she cried. Always willing arms protected her when rains fell heavy onto the shore lightning struck wild waves on the horizon she begged for another day to come so bright. Little stars crowd her memories as they fall innumerable from distant worlds she cannot assemble the fragments of moments lost in a shapeless cosmos. The large mirror tells a precious tale as she stands in earnest by a jealous star so little seems different for the aging child woman of centuries and universal truths. Weakness I give you the weakness of my skin so you can press your finger upon my soul leave traces of your prints on my thoughts. I submit to you the tenderness of my heart so you may handle it with your care its beats at the mercy of your will. I surrender all that might be strength in your palms so you may weigh its authentic measure and smile when you understand its truth. It is my gift to you in earnest so you will embrace this offering and hold it into your breast forevermore. Poussin is a professor of French and. His work in poetry and photography has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and hundreds of other publications worldwide. Most recently, his collections In Absentia, and If I Had a Gun, were published in 2021 and 2022 by Silver Bow Publishing.

Start the tape. and Richard says: Okay, dena. Are you ready to talk? Do you want to answer some questions? dena says: Umm. Stares at the ceiling and: Umm. Richard: Are you ready to -- dena: Sure. I'll talk to you. You and only you. Darling. And you'll remember your promise? The dust-wind autumn day we came here together, dry leaves -- Richard: I remember. dena. with a small 'd'. dena: Yes. She laughs. Yes: with a small 'd'. I want to see it printed that way in the transcriptions. Richard: If I promise, will you tell me everything? dena: Yes. Richard: Will you tell me the truth? dena: Oh yes. She looks at Richard, her smile cracked glass, a peek into deep-fathom space where cold, oiled machines hum. I will tell you the truth. And you will not scream. You will not run. Only because you are Richard. Richard: Because I understand you. dena laughs, the scratch of a stylus across the grooves of an old vinyl record. she says: I will watch your eyes while we talk ... No one can ever get dena to talk. Except Richard. So: tell me about the first night. Tell me about the rose. dena: why start there? Why not last week the week before the season before? The ancient seasons? Richard: I want to know why you chose him. dena: It was just the shine young shine coming out of his skin -- Richard: Tell. dena: I didn't know him, knew I'd never see him again his boyfriend waiting in the car outside the flower shop, old Nashville Road bluemetal Volvo, peeling flakes, bright orange primer vanity license plate: GUNS-R-US the boyfriend yelling at him and he talking, crying eyes red and wet face pale red wet but not so pale as later ... Richard: And the rose? dena: Bought it inside and gave it to him -- Richard: Why? dena: The depth there, in his sadness. Didn't know he shined, but knew exactly why he cried. Most of them cry in confusion, but he -- dena pauses, sips water. Richard waits. then: I said 'you are someone who needs' he smiled through silent tears and I made sure Richard: You made sure dena: Yes my blood was on the briar to mark him for later. His eyes so sweet -- Richard: You said you would tell me all of it. You said you would tell me the truth. dena: and the truth is that his eyes were sweet and his tongue bitter, and I drank a cup of ice water after. dena smiles. Depths slide through the smile, depths that are always trying to move out beyond the edge of the world. The black smile wants to live in the bright sunlight world of happy things. The tape is rolling. dena: How much do you want to know? Would you like to know why the sun sings? Would you like to know what crickets dream? Richard: The truth. Only the truth. He looks at his watch. He's late. Half hour. dena: Truth. Richard: Without poetry. dena giggles: There is no truth without poetry. She laughs, breathing frost, shifts in her chair. The room is cold growing colder. Cold growing colder ... Richard: Who was next? dena: That night, or after? Richard: That night. dena: That night I heard the moon scream and I flew with owls across a stained sky and when I looked, I saw everything. I saw the fever at the edge of the world all of the big world and two boys, running like kites with cut strings Pinocchio-boys paroled from sleep singing and kicking leaves and howling out too late on a school night pillow-ghosts propped up scarecrows of bedclothes in empty beds to fool foolish parents. Richard, smiling: I remember doing that. dena: Yes. The magic. The boy magic: I took them fed pushed darkness into their veins and when I stopped they weren't little boys anymore. When I stopped They weren't anymore. She grins. Her teeth are jagged slates, eyes crystal pomegranites. If she wants, she can be beautiful. She has that choice though Kafka called her Gregor Samsa ... Richard: Is there anything left? dena: Sometimes. Of little boys, no. Little boys have soft bones with warm, sweet, taffy centers -- Richard: I will never see this. dena: You asked me. Richard: Only the truth. dena: Don't you believe? She smiles again, the smile of living things, fluid crescent against the alien darkness of her rippling face. Now she is beautiful again, moonlight on flawless white skin. dena: Driving here, through sweet scents of jasmine and potpourri pine and country homes, dirt roads, I saw her drugged and beautiful, thumb cocked dripping deliciously from light yellow summer clothes I took her to that winter farm where you used to rehearse the band, remember? There in soft straw and gauze of cobweb she kissed me thought to shock me when I took her into my arms she cried out; and no one heard but spiders ... Her mind filled with sketchbook fantasies, never realized I read her hunger as I read her mind and made sure she came before she died. Richard: How many? How many years? dena: You want centuries. Richard: The truth. I want the truth. How many? dena: Lost count long before volcanoes cooled; great beasts roamed the earth and I; in another shape. I'm older than stars, didn't I tell you? Older than light. Richard: No. You never told me when you were born. dena: Before God. Light bends around me, when I feed Rainbow Halo dreambubble, silent and beautiful, I think. Richard: I will never see this. I will never. dena: You exist in second's space, casual eyeblink -- see time from my side and your mind slides sideways. You are privileged to know; only because you know me. You hear me. You are tranced by Mayhem. You hear the song. You are kin. Richard: dena: All God's children are red dreams of violence; God's children hear voices singing of meat. Second's space lures them away; parents teach them away from it, the true nature. We are Hunters all: Killers. dena: before seasons of bright time took you over painted you pastel colors you were red, too. Richard: dena: Say something. Richard: Teach me. dena: you already know. Look -- your hands stretch skin into blood shape Now you sing feast-ballads hymns to tearing flesh. She smiles. Moves to him. Kisses and kisses and unlocks him. dena: Come with me. Richard: Um. Richard: Richard: The moon is waning silver the moon doesn't matter. Beasts drink water Beasts cross the river Singing of murder. dena: Richard: The tape is rolling -- The tape is rolling. Dave Duggins is a writer, artist, and musician. He’s written four books--three novels and a short fiction collection--and a bunch of music, with a couple of blues rock albums on Spotify. He currently releases all his creative work through Silvern Studios, his little multimedia company. You can find out more about what he does at daveduggins.com, but the site's pretty static. He’s more lively on Twitter. His new novel, Romae Futurum: Invaders, is now available in the Kindle Store: https://tinyurl.com/yck8qpow

The Dry Spell It hasn't been raining since it had. I sound vague? You haven't stared at the spearhead of a midday road. You haven't tried to track rain and heard the summer roar. Everything set for the rain - that cup of tea, those books and music, social media posts, bad mood, sudden sex, uprooted sadness that breathes on and perishes at the same time - all hold a bowl. No noise, tune, ting - the bowl remains an arch of aching. It waits. Nothing is nothingness; even a dry spell gets wet with our sweating. Halo- rainbow around my sins (To Robert Frede Kenter) A halo-rainbow surrounds my sins, its glow almost motherly callous and concerned as if she stands in our longevous balcony and see us playing soccer in the street without watching us, and hence we can be the truants from good behaviour, moral language. I blink. I cannot remember a rainbow in my life let alone a halo around the sun. I murmur, "Forgive me for leading a monochrome life." Cold breeze feels for my pulses, touches my neck. "Am I alive?" I desire to ask and decide not to. The grass smells of a memory falling from a great height, from the parapet of Eden. The air thronged with the particles reminds me of how the crows circle and scream when one of them falls. Light has fallen. It is sundown soon. I can call you Rob and say, "Slainté Mhaith." or hear the sobbing water of a lake nearby. An author, journalist, and father, Kushal Poddar, editor of 'Words Surfacing’, authored eight books, the latest being 'Postmarked Quarantine'. His works have been translated into eleven languages. amazon.com/author/kushalpoddar_thepoet Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe