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Someone, please help me get these Taylor Swift songs out of my head. It’s not my fault, it’s my tween, Hailey. She plays the pop sensation on a constant loop; those perky, sticky lyrics follow her into the car, ring from her cellphone, hum from her showers, frame all her play dates and parties, leak through her now almost always closed door.    Meanwhile, Hailey can’t hear a word I say—requiring me to repeat even the simplest instruction so many times, it feels like my mouth is moving without making sounds. How is a boring, hardworking mother supposed to compete with this slick conspiracy of good looks, pop hooks, millions of dollars, and girlish fun? Even when my daughter’s gone, the songs persist. Like a cult victim, my lips move involuntarily, accompanying tunes that won't stop circling my mind. What’s a mother to do?—other than passive-aggressively eat an entire jar of her children’s Flintstone gummy vitamins?   I started noticing Hailey’s Taylor Swift obsession when she was ten, but she was probably a follower as early as six or seven. I clearly remember the day I went into Hailey’s room (her door was always open then, her “knocking rule,” not yet in place) and noticed a new wall decoration.   It wasn’t just some normal, kid’s bedroom display of posters or fan magazine pages; it was an intricate collage of beautiful women sporting a Barbie fashion parade of trendy outfits and hairdos.   At first, I didn’t realize it was all the same person—what with the hair being so many different shades and lengths—but, on closer inspection, I realized all the women had the same doe eyes and vulpine features. It was a collage of Taylor Swifts—every Taylor artfully integrated into the next, each image cut out, paper-doll style, with the loving precision of a stalker or serial killer, not missing the wispiest strand of hair or the flimsiest fold of gossamer gown. This was the work, not of clumsy scissors, but of a sharper, more precise instrument— an X-acto knife or razor blade. Though every nuance of the star’s contours was worshipfully rendered, all non-Swift-related background material had been ruthlessly excised—sky, buildings, other people. While there were easily several college tuitions worth of designer outfits on display, Hailey favored close-up cut-outs of Ms. Swift’s face (in a wide array of sizes, from poster-scale to no bigger than a grape) as if trying to burrow into her mind.   Each time I entered Hailey’s room, the collage had spread like some crazy cancer, each image a malignant cell, taking over the wall behind the bed, then spreading to the next wall, then the next.  Jokingly, I suggested that Hailey paste some teeny Taylor faces into the eyeballs of the bigger Taylors for a deconstructive effect. Unamused, Hailey labeled me “a hater.” On her door appeared a No Trespassing!!!  sign. I still went into Hailey’s room, but only to put clean clothes in her dresser, a task I performed at NASCAR speed, owing to how spooked I was by all those eyes watching from the walls (and eventually Hailey’s headboard, armoire and desk).  This many-headed Taylor mostly smiled brightly, but sometimes her plush, impish lips pouted or curled into a nonthreatening snarl as if to showcase her wide range of facial expressions. However, even Taylor’s perkiest smiles began to seem smug, at times, even sinister, as if to say, “I smell like ball gowns and Prada, unlike you, with your whiff of cooking grease and long division!” After another blithe remark on my part, Hailey banished me from her room entirely, cast me out with the same cruel insouciance as when she tossed all her My Little Ponies into the basement, along with their pricey pony accessories—their tiny hairbrushes and disco roller skates, the entire pony castle ramparts. There her ponies remain, their candy-sweet eyes permanently staring up from the damp dungeon of a cardboard box labeled Chairitee  in Hailey’s crude and childish hand. Out of habit (from when I used to freely enter her room to read to her or chat and giggle) I still occasionally absentmindedly entered Hailey's room, which she occasionally absentmindedly forgot to lock; and got a terrible shock when she screamed in that edgy, high pitched voice of hers, “Get out!”  When this happened, it was as if all those Taylor Swift heads started screaming, “shake shake shake it out, get, get get it out, GET THE FUCK OUT!” When I complained about the Taylor situation to a friend, she scolded me. She informed me that Taylor Swift was a feminist icon and billionaire who trademarked her own image and catchphrases and runs her own business. “And even the world” I added.  “You should be thrilled your daughter chose such a creative role model,” my friend continued, “at least Hailey is expressing herself through art with those collages, unlike my Emily, whose worship of Kylie Jenner has her swapping an interest in aerospace engineering for an obsession with Tik Tok twerking and makeup tutorials.”  Well, isn’t it true that there’s always someone who is way worse off than you? I realized then how lucky I was to have Ms Swift as a role model for my daughter, whose fashion sense was already way more advanced (and expensive) than my own. I vowed to conquer my selfish jealousy and made up with Hailey by procuring costly Eras Tour Concert tickets. The No Trespassing!!!  sign came down. So forget about rescuing my daughter. I’ll happily settle for some help dislodging this song that’s kinda stuck in my neural track, like when you get a nut particle lodged in your molar.   Still, sometimes, when I’m in my daughter’s room and forget to avert my eyes, I could swear those Taylor Swifts are smirking, rather than smiling, as if to say, “Face it, bitch, I own your daughter. Disclaimer: This piece is about maternal jealously and in no way meant to diss Taylor Swift. Kirsten Oerke was born in Iowa but has lived in Texas, Africa, the UK, and now New York. She earned her BA in writing and literature and MFA in screenwriting from Columbia University and has had short films selected for festivals and challenges—Her script, The Gardening Aisle was directed by Sabrina Dhawan, writer of Monsoon Wedding. Her most recent nonfiction can be viewed in on-line literary magazine, Sad Girl Diaries. Social media (which intermittently mesmerizes or disgusts me, so I sporadically check): Twitter/X handle:  @joysofjello Instagram: KirstenO ( @kirstenval )

Look and see. He knew where. He took the stoned path, now more grass or correctly just plain but lovely weed, to the wooden structure, where the magic had lived and died. He'd only been allowed in once, and so many years ago, it felt like a dream. Smell. Hidden at the far woodsy back of the vast estate's fields, beyond the lily pond, and almost to the river where the gators lived to themselves, the structure of the dank, damp retreat looked the same. Musk, cologne spilled, mold. One room, perfect square, hipped roof, architecturally designed (for a shed? Yes, he'd had his ways with creation, and the money to boot). Most windows per square meter for maximal light, floor to ceiling their cast, and the windows could slide fully up the wall's height, for as he remembered the frogs, spiders, and gnats, three cats, two dogs, tamed deer,  wild fox, and even one snake of some venom had crawled in, but to no one's care of a whiff. The uncle? Drew inspiration from any and all. The music of nature, his cure. His muse. All alone. Do.  The nephew peered in, seeking a memory or a wish of what lurked behind the smeared window almost opaque in the darkness of the shady afternoon light. He'd come too late to see best, but the court had ordered a report by the morning and he'd had, well, all the other duties had sapped him. Feel.  He spotted uncapped tubes of thick oils littering the main room. Antique settee's threadbare fabric. Smashed gilt frame sulked. By the half-open, odd shape of what made for a bathroom door. Vague remnants of blood. Caked, clinging to its glass-knob handle. Microscopes could reveal such of the tired mess of colorful memory, but no cause for medical or legal worry, the red only a test of research for yet another interrupted work in progress, a novel mystery that particular year decades ago and still unsolved without its creator to sleuth, or so the nephew reasoned. He had his own notebook today, that list from his pocket, to check off one last time, final receipts, all to submit to the court. Always a deadline, something his uncle had known from his work. But silence today. Taste.  The baby grand hid like the bad kid he'd been so many years before, the nephew mused, under layers of ill-stacked, unfinished musical scores scattered as if by a hurricane but long, long ago that ego's wind quieted, years before sheets of dust – mmm mmm mmm , even now in his mouth – had calmed the strident scene and would-be creator moved along to next medium or genre of project, it all to be abandoned as well and too soon. Nephew, as keen-eyed attorney and legal heir to uncle-artist's all, noticed the broken glass. In the French door. Leading to the second entry. Nothing missing. Unless all are complete. He'd been advised what to do, jot it all down, take it all up where left off. Know.  Notebooks full of scribbles of sound, musings of far-fetched idea, spent pens discarded on the floor, and thin pencils snapped in two, strings of violin popped in a corner, harp's much the same opposite the scene, more brushes both new and unwrapped as well as more used, nubbed, garish from labor, hair-worn, and with every tint of crying rainbow bled dry and holding, even them clutching, at what might've been, could be in him. Be.  The nephew knew what to finish, his own artist's life postponed, there were funds enough, enough paints, papers, implements, instruments, canvases, colors, where to begin, what story to tell first, in word or by note, then he remembered, thought like a child, that day he'd interrupted uncle, glimpsed glory of creation to child's eye, uncle shouting No sneaking , driving him out, tripping over cats and dog, losing his grip on control of the moment, afraid of all art, banished self and surrendering to guaranteed normalcy, that greatest of art, all out of puerile urge, mistaken misunderstanding, forlorn the deep fear. Into a life like us, all the rest, well-meaning and stable, forty hours or more every week every month thirty-five years now. He thought back. Wise remembered, knew where to begin: love what you do. Every day, the dear life. Die doing, live happy. Listen. For the music. And make some, hmm-make-sommm. A rural native of the southeastern United States, R. P. Singletary is a lifelong writer across fiction, poetry, and hybrid forms and a budding playwright with recent fiction, poetry, and drama published or forthcoming in  Literally Stories, Litro, BULL, Cream Scene Carnival, Cowboy Jamboree, Rathalla Review, The Rumen, Wasteland Review, The Wave - Kelp Journal, the coalition (Coalition for Digital Narratives), LEON Literary Review, The Collidescope, Mystery Tribune, Teleport, CafeLit, JONAH, Ancient Paths Christian Literary, EBB - Ukraine, The Ana, Flora Fiction, Ariel Chart, Syncopation, Last Leaves, Stone of Madness, Written Tales, Wicked Gay Ways, Fresh Words, The Chamber, Wingless Dreamer, Screen Door Review, Microfiction Monday, mini plays, Pink Disco, Lost Lake Folk Opera, The Stray Branch, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Brief Wilderness, In Parentheses, The Taborian, Active Muse, Bending Genres, D.U.M.B.O. Press,  and elsewhere.

I am particles. Mist. Smack. Ice flakes. Grit. Ash. Floating fur. Loose and moving you can put your hands  Through me Snag on hard places that hurt more to shatter  Where I should have just drifted apart. Born blue and yellow Cyanotic. Jaundiced The colour of bruises Pain is always metal Steel spikes in soft skin Bullets bearing bald gifts Blunt blades biting bare veins Cars carving up carcasses. Anger began as I swang Upside down. Not the erupting volcanic sort. The old, cold withering waiting kind. Moving slower than erosion. Writhing under the blood transfusion Nervous new Mother. She needed me to behave badly. To exonerate her as she mixed glue in the kitchen. Happy over the congealing pot. Ready to stick veneer tiles of acceptability all over me. But they slid off, dropped The glue weakened by her tears. Every time I jumped off a roof she would catch me. One long meandering jump. Evading her forays into the forest. In her red cloak. To find the wolves with PHDs. Who prescribed the Thorazine. That would keep me still, While she sank her teeth into me. Hoping the saliva in her bite Would turn my bad bile into good behaviour. Let’s see who'll crack first? Always losing my asthma inhaler. Stealing my own breath. To hand back to her. Dancing on the edge of death. A delightful Snoopy dance of joy. Head back, nose up, ears afloat. In a smack serrated voice. I could tell myself, 'Shut the fuck up willya, I'm heading out in headlines.’ But  You won’t let me come to nothing Willya? Whatever the price. georgë kear is an artist and writer exploring in poetry, modern fiction and digital collage how personal history shapes us and ultimately encloses us, juxtaposing the medieval and modern, rural and urban. She currently lives up a Welsh mountain and is not sure this amount of isolation is healthy…

One day the sky turned red and the public blamed it on the new Secretary of State for the Heavens. On the contrary, said the Secretary of State for the Heavens by way of learned contra-interjection, the sky has turned red because of the previous Secretary of State, I am just having to deal with the consequences of her inactions but believe me I will do so vigorously and find a solution. Also I am very virile. Time passed and eventually people forgot that the sky was ever blue rather than red. They even began to enjoy the warm red glow that the new red sky cast over everything. So much of our world had previously seemed so cold and unwelcoming, they thought to themselves. But the Secretary of State for the Heavens persisted quietly in his plan to solve the Red Sky Problem until many years later on a cool November morning the sun rose and suddenly the sky was blue again. Needless to say there was general outrage and the Secretary of State was summarily dismissed for allowing the sky to turn blue on his watch. He was replaced with an even newer Secretary of State for the Heavens who promised that she would work vigorously to turn the sky red again and so restore that enervating warmth so beloved of this society for so long. Simon Ravenscroft is a Fellow of Magdalene College, Cambridge.

crashed into the foreign door of a person i’ve met and i don’t know at all watched your hand around a mug and counted times you kept it empty conceptualized a bed and the way they fall asleep white green mountain creek keep this out of reach run birds over carry on wait for rivers to turn red plaster torn-up signs on pavements look for me in sounds that slip out of your mouth onto the cd you kept in case of emergencies watch me laugh  and stir your coffee in the wrong direction  whisper rotten words to express all i know  about giving you the moon

“Black with two teaspoons of raw sugar. I want it hot. I mean fire hot. I don’t want it to be that lukewarm crap this place serves us. I want it to be so hot that it nearly melts the cup. Make it a large cup too, not one of those juice-sized cups. You understand?” “Food?” “Nothing. I just want to enjoy a steaming cup of coffee and be left alone. I just need to be left alone to think. So no, I don’t want any food. I just want my cup of coffee just like I ordered. You understand?” “Yes.” Turning to the Watch Captain, the young officer stated, “No food. Only coffee for his last meal.”

On nights my soul is ablaze, I whistle a tune for Charon and his Ferry. Strange we are on speaking terms, but we have met once before. This ride is not for the Underworld; he says I no longer belong there. I would be inclined to believe him if I did not still feel so hollow. Charon guides me into his carved-out oak vessel while Moonlight Sonata plays my head; we sail through his mother's womb. His boat reminds me of the foundation of a banana split.  We never need to speak; the company of another for a little while is more than enough. I always want to reach out and taste the stars, wondering if they would feel like pop rocks on my tongue. I do not dare touch them, for such beauty should remain undisturbed. Charon is less awe-inspired, as he was born of the night and will one day return to it.  For now, we glide through the silky umbra to a place that was once a planet. I crave ice to quench the inferno in my mind. We touch down on Pluto, which Charon calls Hades. Now it is time to play. He and I dance through the crimson snow, soothed by the chill on my skin. Even in the absence of sound, there is music between us.  This waltz at the top of an ice cream cone-shaped valley is not one of romance, only of fellowship in loneliness, for we have both witnessed the bounds of devotement and no longer wish to be a part of it. Charon only wishes to hold and be held; I am more than happy to indulge.  Through the glacier mountains and snakeskin ridges, we leave our troubles behind . Here, there is no death, no hurt, nothing anchoring our souls to pain; our ultimate ecstasy, feeling like oblivion among stars that will never be our home.  Sadee Bee (They/Them) is a queer artist and writer inspired by magic, strange dreams, and creepy vibes. Sadee is the Art Director for Sage Cigarettes Magazine and the author of Pupa: Growth & Metamorphosis (Alien Buddha Press), Magic Lives In Girls (kith books), and Viscera (Bottlecap Press). Bee can be found on Twitter @SadeeBee , on Instagram @sadee__bee , and on the web at  linktr.ee/SadeeBee .

America 101:  The big mansion the marriage broker raved about in Chennai turns out to be a one-bedroom apartment with linoleum flooring and mini cockroaches. My brand-new husband is an entry-level programmer and not an executive. But there’s a dishwasher, a washing machine, and running hot water all day. He tells me not to get too friendly with the Indian neighbors in 2B, they will start borrowing sugar and coffee just like in India. The masala dabba contains more than spices : The seven little containers transport me to Amma’s kitchen, her soft mul cotton saree a bouquet of spices enveloping me in its warmth, the clink of her bangles as she whips curd into buttermilk with the mathu a melody I yearn for.  I tell him I’m out of spices, saving the last of Amma’s. Cooking perfect rice is an art : The first day I make rice, I undercook it, the grains unevenly cooked, the texture jarring; the next day, it’s an overcooked mush. Patti and Amma never let me help in the kitchen, and Amma didn’t write down the recipe. Over two days of hot rice thrown at me, as his name hidden in the wedding henna on my hands starts to fade to an ugly orange from bright red, hot rice grains slithering down my cheeks like fire ants, I discover that he married me for sex and maid services, that it takes two cups of water to one cup of rice and soaking the basmati for twenty minutes to get that perfectly fluffy rice.  I don’t tell him the sex isn’t all that great . Know your neighbors : I ran  into 2B Aunty at the trash receptacle today. Aunty is wearing a saree, and says softly: “help venumna kelumma.” Tamil! I smile tentatively, scurry back to my apartment, restlessness in my bones. I try to hide my smile from him. Soak tamarind in hot water to soften it : Amma can make rasam in her sleep, but I struggle with this most basic dish. Some days it’s too sour - like my marriage, some days the heat of the pepper singes my palate. He yells about the little bits of tamarind fiber that resemble striations from the second-degree burn on my stomach.  Amma says rasam, like life, is a perfect balance of sour, sweet, and heat. Wash okra before  chopping : He curses my family the day I wash the ladyfingers after  chopping them, making a sticky mess beyond salvage. He makes me eat it while he eats the pizza he ordered for himself. These days, I make the crispiest okra perfectly seasoned with chili powder and hing that he greedily finishes, leaving me the blackened pieces in the bottom of the pan.  I don’t tell him those are the best pieces. Garlic for a happy married life:  My mother-in-law advised me to use plenty of garlic in my cooking, winking “It’s good for the bedroom ” . When I come to bed smelling like garlic, he turns away disgusted. I know lemon juice gets the smell off my fingernails.  I pretend I’m sorry for forgetting to use lemon juice on my garlicky fingers some nights.  Getting rid of garlic smell:  See above. Handling pregnancy cravings:  During the first snow of my life, in the first six months of my married hell, the little life in me makes me crave Amma’s hot peppery milagu kuzhambu that she made on rainy evenings. I write to Amma for the recipe along with news of my pregnancy. It turns out perfect, tamarind cooked with a spicy paste of black pepper, red chilies, and coriander seeds. I spread the white rice on my plate, ladling the jam-like kuzhambu on top. When I reach for the ghee, literally salivating, he smacks my hand. “You already look like a cow. Get it, a cow gives milk, doesn’t need milk or ghee? ” I hate him. Chilies are nature’s narcotics : One day my brain loses control over my hand, the hand loses control over the number of chilies I put in the coconut chutney for the soft white idlis. The fiery heat numbs every other pain, the river of endorphins washing away the debris of scars. In the burning euphoria of that moment my secret cookbook is born.  One I promise to never pass on to my daughter.  Baby makes three : My hope that he would change when the baby comes are dashed. He is irritated by the colicky crying of Nitya. Blames me for the cost of diapers, baby formula. As if I went and had the baby all by myself. 2B aunty brings a gift for Nitya and pathiya sappadu, after he leaves for work. I find $10 in the pudgy folds of Nitya’s palm after she leaves. Tears that wouldn’t fall at his cruelty fall freely at this kindness.  I don’t tell him about 2B aunty’s visit.  Sneaking veggies into your child’s meals while starting a business to escape your dreadful marriage: Nitya is three and has learned to fear her appa even though   he hasn’t laid a finger on her in love nor anger. She chatters nonstop when he’s not around. When she refuses to eat her vegetables, I trick her into gobbling it down by mashing them with her favorite dal rice.  I see 2B aunty on our walk today. She mentions she’s been cooking for the desi students in the building but is unable to handle all the orders. Would I be interested in making a little extra money? I think about it all day. When I tell him of cooking for the students, how much they’re willing to pay, adding facetiously  ‘why would I cook for strangers?’, he yells at me for saying no to easy money, to get off my butt and do something useful other than watching tv all day.  I don’t tell him what the students pay, or that I now have my own bank account. Author’s note: The story is about survival, an all too familiar story of (Indian) brides promised heaven and finding hell in their new homes abroad, when the "marrying a boy abroad" trend was at its peak in India.

When I first got the chance to check out Amy Marques’ Parts , I had no expectations. I knew it was a poetry collection. And I knew it was visual poetry. That’s about it. Then I saw the subtitle:  A visual poetry erasure of Thomas Wolfe’s “The Party at Jack’s”. Having limited experience with erasure poetry, I was a little apprehensive. Would I like it? Would I even get it? After taking some time to explore the collection, I realized my worries were absolutely ridiculous.  Marques includes a fantastic introduction that lays out how this work came to be, how she came to painting, to poetry, to Thomas Wolfe. It works as a helpful intro to not just the collection, but to erasure poetry itself, easing in a novice like me. Did I mention this is not just erasure poetry, but visual erasure poetry? In other words, there are pictures! Perfect for a visual person like myself. One of the first erasures in the collection is one I keep coming back to. It’s a page filled with colorful paint spots, a cut out of a hot air balloon, and the words “They sometimes used obviously hypocritical voice.” (p.11) left strewn throughout the spots.  I love the whimsy of the image juxtaposed against the more serious-sounding language.  The next page is a collage that closely resembles the cover of Shel Silverstein’s The Giving Tree.  The words on this page read “The Giving Tree / To make someone secure and artistically privileged until maximum story appears.” Even though each page can be read and enjoyed as a separate poem, these first few erasures seem to be connected, laying out a description of the very act of creating erasure poetry. “I succeed somewhat trying to work on complex web of themes.” (p.13) And succeed she does.  Marques artfully covers themes that range from nature, to family, to dreams, to love. From birds and bees to the birds and the bees. A page painted with the colors of a sunrise leaving bare the words “Morning erect. Sense of power, with the sultry and lavish aromatic play. And then umph. And, finally, considerable satisfaction. Earnest.”(p.52) This is followed by a page painted in shades of red, a magazine cut out with a woman’s lips, and “Side to side. Pleasantly. Firm stroking finger tip. Gently holding. Arched. Grunted. Slight tug for a moment. Satisfied. But always excellently.” (pg 53)  To take a single page of existing text and create a meaningful poem from the words already there is a feat all its own. But to consistently find your own meaning on every page of a book filled with someone else’s words, from beginning to end is beyond impressive. Marques accomplishes this and more all the way through this collection and masterfully ties it all up with her final erasure. A page covered in black paint sponged over the words, leaving us with “Everyone should be compelled to read.” (p.188) A sentiment I could not possibly agree with more. And should you feel that compulsion, you should start with this book. Available Now! PARTS ( lulu.com ) Amy Marques grew up between languages and cultures and learned from an early age the multiplicity of narratives, which continues to inspire her work of blended genres and hybrid art. Published widely among journals, she is a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, and Best Small Fictions nominee, as well as editor and artist of the Duets Anthology  and her first full poetry collection, PARTS .

We were hitting our stride this Saturday morning, bodily rhythms in sync. Then came the first thud: a strange knocking from somewhere at the other end of the house. Something against a window, cutting against the grain of our syncopation. “What was that?” Barbara asked. “What,” I said, trying to sustain the rhythm. “What was what.” The second thud came. Louder, harder. Solid. “There it is again,” Barbara said. She froze, and her attention shifted to the noise beyond our bedroom. “Dan,” she said. “Stop. Listen.” Another thud. A pause. Then a fourth. I rolled aside, defeated, and we grabbed our robes from the floor and stumbled toward the noise. We followed the sounds to the sliding glass door that led from the kitchen and dinette area to the deck. There we found a solitary robin hurling itself repeatedly against the glass. “He sees his reflection,” Barbara said. “He thinks it’s another robin. A girl robin.” She stood at my side. I put my arm around her, still feeling amorous, or trying to. “Must be spring,” I said. Our son Casey stepped toward us. He walked stiff-legged, his high forehead furrowed in ire as he rubbed sleep out of his eyes. “What’s going on?” He wore a Chicago Cubs robe loosely around him. “A crazy robin,” said Barbara. Another thud. “He sees his reflection in the glass, and he thinks it’s a female robin.” “He’s in love,” I said. “Like Narcissus.” Barbara rolled her eyes. Casey shrugged, blinked his eyes hard twice, and opened the refrigerator. He stood leaning against the open door, inspecting the contents. Again the bird rammed the glass, dropped, and skittered across the wooden deck floor, away from the door. Then it flew toward it again. Ram, crash, drop, skitter. Ram, crash, drop, skitter. “What should we do?” Barbara asked. I shrugged. “He’ll leave soon,” I said. “We can’t just leave it like this, Dan. Look at the mess he’s making already on the deck.” “Yeah, Dad,” Casey said as he poured Frosted Flakes into a mixing bowl. “We’ve got to do something about it.” He poured milk over the cereal and set the plastic jug on the table. “I’m telling you both, the bird will leave in time. He’ll get tired of crashing into the glass. He’ll come to his senses and leave. We just need to give him time.” “Give him his space,” Barbara said, her voice tinged with sarcasm. “Exactly,” I said. She rolled her eyes. “Casey,” I said, “what time is your ball game?” “Not until ten,” he said, scooping cereal into his mouth with a soup spoon. “You’d better get ready, Casey,” Barbara said. “That’s only a little over an hour from now.” The boy nodded and slurped. Turning to me, Barbara whispered, “I really wish you would do something about that bird.” “Fine,” I said. I cinched the sash of my house robe, walked into the garage, grabbed the push broom, and stepped out to meet my adversary. “Hey, little guy,” I said as the bird hopped against the glass, then careened backward. The walnut-stained deck planks were splotched with robin droppings. I brandished the broom like a pike.  The bird ignored me, made another run for it, flitted up against the window, fell, and staggered backward. “That’s not your mate, matey,” I said as I waved the bristled end of the broom at the robin. It fluttered and chittered and flapped its wings like madness, a bird possessed. “Listen,” I said, swiping the broom on the ground toward its tiny taloned feet. In the window, I saw Barbara and Casey watching me, a reluctant gladiator thrust into the arena. My honor and manhood were now on the line.  “Listen, little guy. I know what it’s like to be in love.” The bird paused as I brushed the broom closer. It appeared to be tiring of this ritual. “Or to think you’re in love.” Again the bird threw itself against the glass. Again it fell backward. “I know how you feel,” I said. “I know what it’s like to be misled, mistaken.” Ram, crash, drop, skitter. “I know , dammit!” I said as I swung the broom hard like a baseball bat at the elevating bird.  The wood of the broom head connected. I heard the hard, dull thwap  of it as the bird soared a few feet before dropping to the deck. A bloop single.  It did not get up. I nudged the robin with the broom. A faint spot of red on its beak began to leak onto the walnut-stained boards. “ Dad! ” came Casey’s muffled cry behind the glass.  Then, from my wife, “Oh, Dan. Did you kill it? You didn’t kill it, did you?” I glared into the glass at them both. In unison, they turned away. I stepped off the deck and back into the garage. Barbara and Casey were both in there, standing at the door connecting to the kitchen, when I picked up the dustpan and stepped back to the deck. “I’m pretty sure it’s dead,” I said. They both stood silent, watching me with judgment in their eyes. “Well, you wanted me to do something, right?” “Yes, but –”  “But what, Barbara? Not kill it?” She said nothing, just looked at me with tight lips and saddening eyes. My son in his Cubs robe looked at his feet. “Well, I did something,” I said.  “I didn’t mean to kill him,” I said, turning my back to them and, dustpan in hand, returned to the deck, to the bird, whose only crime, only mistake, was to crash into the illusion of love. A word from the author: " Narcissus on the Deck " could be described as a love story. Or a tale of murder. (I'll let the reader decide.) The author, Andrew Careaga, recently retired from a 40-year career in journalism, PR, and marketing to return to his first love, creative writing. His most recent short stories can be found in Bulb Culture Collective, Club Plum Literary Journal , Paragraph Planet,  and Red String.

Time Time loops like scalloped embroidery; rises, billows, then rejoins its stem – like on the head of a blooming flower, each petal is rooted in its pistil.  Time blossoms, flares from the core of lives. Temporal flights travel to all spheres of our beingness...  We weave and thread: now here, now there, now then. And, even when we die, time’s cobwebs catch us. Her silk skeins stroke us, hold us, in our survivors’ minds.  Time loops, like scalloped embroidery – she gifts time-travel, until the time when all who remember us have passed into the mist. Excitement Equals Excitement is a howler monkey screeching and swinging wild through the charged summer air, from branch to swaying branch. Brother-sister creatures soon appear, numbers double then treble, on and on; they all dance dizzying derangements and shriek their cacophonic calls Disturbed leaves fall, detached from their petioles – so lightly attached to their steady branches – and fall to the forest floor. Their loss is ignored as aroused primates whirl and jump, squeal and squawk. Excitement equals howler monkeys delighting in whirling-dervish orgies before spinning from high-up to free fall and land on the solid ground beneath it all.  The Find Up in the hills, in the borderlands we unearthed a rusted horseshoe, half-covered in sandy soil, by our path. I saw it first, exclaimed and pulled it out, warmed by its promise of good fortune. Your brow creased, And who’s going to carry that. We’ve miles to cover before we reach the car. I smiled and stroked your arm; once you’d have done anything for me, when I smiled like that. No, you said, Your find, your responsibility. So, I carried it in my smaller rucksack, along with our packed lunches, careless of rust dust soiling our sandwiches. Back at home, I placed the horseshoe on our windowsill, between my jars of sea-glass. Next morning, I found you’d turned our good-luck totem upside down. It was already empty, all possibilities spilt upon the ground.  Ceinwen E Cariad Haydon, [MA Creative Writing, Newcastle, UK, 2017] Ceinwen writes short stories and poetry. She has been widely published in web magazines and in print anthologies; these include Northern Gravy, Ink, Sweat and Tears, London Grip, Tears in the Fence, The Lake and Southbank Poetry.  Her first chapbook 'Cerddi Bach (Little Poems), was published in 2019 by Hedgehog Press and her pamphlet 'Scrambled Lives on Buttered Toast' was published by Hedgehog Press in June 2024. She is developing practice as a participatory arts facilitator, mainly working with elders and intergenerational groups. She believes everyone’s voice counts.

On a breathless night in Malta, light fragmented by bedroom shutters pries Maria’s eyes open. She leaves her empty bed. The church bells across the square toll five; just as they did fifty years ago, when the islanders prayed for oil, medicines, and food to reach Grand Harbour.  Maria slips a robe over her cotton nightdress and retrieves a hair tie from its pocket. She is worrying about the job interview she had last week. Maria gathers her dark curls into a loose bun on the top of her head and goes downstairs to the kitchen.  She rations coffee into the smaller pot and places it over a flame on the range. While she waits for water pressure to build, she counts the eggs in their wire helter-skelter. Maria wonders if May and Carl, still asleep in their beds upstairs, are old enough, at nine and eleven, to cope if she were to work longer hours.    The dark, oily liquid gurgles and splutters as it's forced upwards to pool in the pot and fills the kitchen with its familiar aroma.  Maria takes her coffee to the terrace and looks across Mosta to the arid countryside and villages that radiate from the harbour. Sat amongst her orange-scented pelargoniums, she imagines her husband, Anthony, asleep in his bunk somewhere at sea. She sips her bitter brew and listens to the squeaking washing line wheels of women hoping to dry their washing before the Festa fireworks rain down later.  Carl appears next to her, looking as if he’s grown in the night, and says his usual replacement for Good Morning , ‘I’m hungry.’  In the kitchen, May, with her halo of sun-bleached curls framing her face, sleepily sets the table for breakfast. Carl plonks himself on the sofa to watch television. Maria starts making their breakfast. May watches her sauté minced onion and then finely slice a courgette, reserving the two tomatoes for tea. The courgette sizzles when it hits the pan. Maria sprinkles them with sea salt flakes to draw out the moisture and prevent them from burning. She taps the spoon on the edge of the pan, freeing the translucent slivers that cling to it, then places it on a deep blue spoon rest. While Maria whisks the eggs with a pinch of thyme, May pushes the courgettes around with the spoon. Maria pours the frothy eggs into the pan. May scrambles them carefully and turns off the heat, then taps the spoon like her mother on the edge of the pan. Maria divides the eggs between two plates and puts them on the table for her children.  Sitting at the table with a second cup of coffee, Maria says to her children, ‘Don’t forget you’re with Nonna while I go to the office in Valletta this morning. I’ll be back for lunch.’  ‘Okay, okay. We know. Are you going to speak to Papa?’ Carl asks, polishing his plate with a crust of yesterday’s hobz. ‘I am going to try. If his ship makes it to Cadiz today, he’ll call.’ ‘When will he be back?’ May asks. ‘In four or five days,’ Maria replies. ‘What’s for lunch?’ Carl asks.  ‘ Madonna!  You’ve only just finished your breakfast! I’ll pick something up. May, eat. We need to get moving.’ As they set off for her mother’s in Sliema, the bells of Santa Marija strike seven.  In her faded housecoat, Doris opens the front door, where she has lived since her wedding day. Determined to have room to host all five of her sons and their families for their infrequent visits back to the island, she refuses to move to somewhere smaller.  Beginning with Carl, Doris’s lips assess each of their temperatures with a kiss. Her caliper fingers test for sufficient flesh as she embraces them. Doris holds their faces between her hands and scans their eyes. The children go through to the kitchen and find a second breakfast waiting. As Doris shuffles behind them in her house shoes, she calls, ‘Wash your hands! And remember, you must give thanks to God before you eat!’  ‘Thank you, Ma, but I fed them. I’ll just file the shipping orders and try to speak to Anthony. Do you need me to get you anything while I’m out?’ Maria asks. ‘No, no, I’m fine. Children need to eat. They’re growing. You’re too thin, Maria . No wonder you haven’t had any more children , ’ she says, pinching her thumb and pointer finger together in the air. ‘Leave your car here and take the ferry. They’ve closed more roads for the Festa this year. It's bigger with all these tourists from the UE.’  ‘Ma, it’s the EU . And I’m fine . Please, for your sake, make sure Carl runs around, or he’ll drive you up the wall.’ ‘I’ll take them to Mass at ten. He can run there and back. What about you? When will you go to Mass?’ ‘Ma. I’d better go, or I’ll be late getting back. Carl, May, I’m off! Be good for Nonna!’ she says and shuts the front door quickly behind her.  Outside, the windows and shutters of flat-fronted houses are open wide before the midday sun forces them closed. Maria follows the worn cobbled streets that slope towards the harbour and turns left at the church where she was baptised.   The first time she sat in the coffin-like confessional, Maria peered curiously through the door’s star-shaped cutouts, searching for clues. The priest reminded her of a bull she’d seen kept in a small shed to strengthen its amorous resolve. She was sure that if the bull turned, the shed would explode, firing splinters into her and the docile heifers grazing in the fields around her. Maria waited on the hard wooden bench, staring at the hollow stars, unsure what to say.  ‘Hello?’ she tried, twisting one of the tight plaits that pulled on her scalp. ‘Well, my child, go on. Confess your sins,’ said the priest, strumming his fingers impatiently on his seat. ‘Sins? I don’t have any,’ she said. He snorted, ‘No one but God is perfect. Reflect  my child. I can’t forgive you if you don’t confess.’  She ran through the Ten Commandments in her mind but couldn’t think of any she’d broken.  ‘I’m only eight, Father,’ she said, wishing she could see his face to find the answer that would free her from the stifling box.  ‘Well, my child, on your head be it. But remember to be obedient. God sees all.’ Maria crossed herself and was replaced by the next child. The following day, Maria refused to go to Mass, so Doris used the spoon she regularly administered to her sons. Maria spent the rest of the week perched on the edge of her seat to avoid the bruised flesh. Dressed as a child bride for her First Communion, Maria stood before the same priest and reached her tiny hands towards him for her first holy wafer. Mechanically, she placed it in her mouth, bowed her head and crossed herself.  The tasteless disc caught in her throat as Maria returned to her pew. Sat amongst the other girls, she tipped her head forward. Pretending to sneeze, she spat the disc into her handkerchief and tossed the wadge under the pew in front of her.  Now on the promenade at the end of Tower Road, Maria boards the empty ferry. Its red and white bunting flutters in the breeze. A woman swats four children onto a bench opposite Maria before claiming her spot in the middle.  The gold medallion of the Virgin Mary dangling from her neck reflects the sun onto Maria’s face as she scavenges in her handbag. The woman produces two crinkly packets and gives one to each of the two eldest children, then continues to root around in her bag. She gives another packet to the younger two and tells them, ‘Share and be grateful!’ Unlike the old ferries Maria used to take, this one quietly glides away from the dock without leaving smoking engine oil in its wake. Docked on the other side, Maria steps off and struggles to regain her land legs. She climbs the steep path towards Great Siege Road, passing rows of terraced houses with thickly painted doors in bold reds, blues and yellows. In the office sheltered from the sun by neighbouring buildings, she’s relieved to be alone. Maria dusts the empty desks while she waits nervously for her antiquated computer to come to life. She waters the Peace Lilies dotted around to purify the air and follows crispy leaves to their bases to pinch them off. Resurrected, the computer clangs to alert her to an email.  She crosses herself and opens it, unsure which reply she wants more. Dear Mrs Ellul, We are delighted to offer you the promotion to Dock Operations Coordinator. We will be in touch shortly to discuss the details and your transition.   Maria crosses herself again. She will reply tomorrow. Today, she will work on the shipping orders and duplicate copies required with the island's new membership in the EU.    Finished, Maria locks the office and returns to the harbour. The bells of St Paul’s mark twelve.  What would her mother say if she began to work full-time? As far as Doris knew, Maria was a part-time secretary. She’d never felt able to share the progression she’d made at the company with her mother. Mothers and wives were to work out of necessity. What would she think of Maria running the docks?       She walks along the streets filled with foreigners and notices the shrapnel scars on nearly every building she passes. The fingerprints of bombs gifted during the two-year siege are darker and deeper in the midday sun.   At the dock, mobs of English, German and French tourists sing and drink beers while they filter onto the ferry. One of the last to arrive, Maria is left on the dock with a handful of other locals unused to queueing for their regular boat.  A man next to her, about the age her father would have been, shouts, ‘What about us?’   One of the boatmen shrugs and says, ‘There will be other boats.’ Maria exchanges a resigned look with the others who sit down to wait on the harbour wall. They listen to the receding foreign voices. She remembers her company’s skiff moored on one of the floating docks nearby and checks her keyring.  Further along the seawall, she finds the brightly coloured boat rocking against its neighbours. She unwinds the painter from the cleat hitch that holds her to the dock and coils the stiff rope into the bottom of the boat. She looks at the engine apprehensively. Her eyes closed, Maria breathes in the salty air while the sea rolls cyclically beneath her. She opens her eyes, inserts the key into the ignition, and tilts the engine into the water. She squeezes the priming bulb, puts the throttle into neutral, and cranks the choke. The engine grumbles and splutters to life. Maria sits down, turns the throttle, and reverses away from the dock with a mellow rumble. Sea spray and relief wash over her as she turns the boat around. Changing gears, she points the bow across the channel to cut across the harbour at its narrowest point.  She keeps close to shore knowing the wake of the larger boats is as dangerous as the naval mines which once filled the harbour.  Near the dock, she drops into neutral and glides to the seawall. She retrieves the damp, now pliable painter and winds it into a figure eight around the metal cleat, pulls it tight and kills the engine.  On the corner of Triq Tal-Katidral and Tower Road, Maria stops beneath a green and gold sign, Grech Bakery. Inside, the shelves usually brimming with loaves, pastries and cakes, have been stripped bare for celebratory feasts.  ‘ Bongu,  Lidia, may I please have pastizzi? 6 of the cheese and 3 of the beef? And a hobz too? Save me cooking tonight. Grazzi .’ ‘Ta Maria. How are you? You look tired.’ ‘Thank you. Yes, you know what it’s like. Working, children, parents.’ ‘Here you go. Don’t I just! What a relief I could only have one baby!   I could tell my mother it was “God’s will” for a change. Look after yourself, Maria.’ ‘Grazzi Lidia, you too!’ replies Maria and leaves the bakery with the loaf of bread and box of flaky pastries shaped like the skiffs bobbing around the island. It never occurred to her that God’s will could work to her advantage. On her mother’s street, Carl is playing football with some of the neighbourhood children. Progressing the ball towards the goal, he doesn’t see her wave at him.  The brass dolphin door knocker blurred by Doris’s faithful polishing raps softly when Maria shuts the door behind her. She tucks her bags under the hall table with the figure of Saint Anthony and his bald head, shiny from nervous fingers. Maria kisses her fingers and places them on the black-and-white photograph of a fourteen-year-old girl that hangs above him. ‘Hello, Auntie May’, she says quietly. Maria never met her mother’s sister, but grew up with the story of May and her cough that filled the cellar while they hid from the bombs every night. The cough that stopped, not because Saint Anthony answered their prayers. Or because May finally took notice of her mother’s spoon. But, because the night before the convoy limped in and covered the harbour with a slick of flammable oil, May could no longer draw breath with which to cough.  In the kitchen, Doris and her granddaughter are surrounded by rows of spoons balanced on tin cans. They are singing Doris’s favourite songs. All from the war. Strands of angel hair hang from the spoon handles to dry.  She’ll need to tell Doris if she takes the job. She’ll need her help with the children.  ‘Like this, Nonna?’ May asks, lowering the delicate pasta onto a spoon. ‘ Iva , well done,’ says Doris and kisses her forehead. ‘Ma, you didn’t need to make pasta,’ Maria says. ‘The children like it, and it’s good for them.’ ‘You’ll get too tired. And you’re not even supposed to eat it!’ Doris glances upwards and crosses herself, then says, ‘Le! I’ve lasted this long. We didn’t let the Germans tell us how to live. I won’t let a doctor start now. Don’t forget your father’s roses,’ she says, and shoos Maria with a floury hand towards the garden. As a new bride, Doris sporadically watered her husband’s garden in deluges when he was away for work, nearly killing the plants by feast or famine. The job fell to Maria when he became ill, despite the baby on her hip and another on the way. Thankfully, he’d taught her to be consistent and measured on the allotment that had supplemented the family diet, and she appreciated the excuse to be alone outside.  Finished blooming for the year, the roses still need lots of water to sustain them in the dry heat. Done watering, Maria half-heartedly removes the weeds springing up in the cracked earth, then she goes back inside.  ‘You’re tired, Ma. We’ll get out of your way. Thank you for looking after the children for me.’  Doris tuts, ‘What else am I here for?’ ‘Carl, May, time to go. Thank Nonna and give her a kiss.’  Doris hands Maria a bundle of fresh pasta and a container of sharp, tangy caponata.  ‘ Eat, ’ Doris tells her.  ‘Thank you, Ma. Rest. ’ The love coded in their instructions to one another flows over their heads and down their backs.  At home, Maria puts a few spoonfuls of sugar in the middle of a plate and puts the cheese pastizzi around the edges. She sits with the children, and they dip the pastizzi into the sugar before crunching in. Maria trades the overbearing heat for cool darkness and closes the shutters.  ‘Shall we take a nap on my bed so we’re ready for tonight?’ she asks her children. May and Carl resist half-heartedly. They each claim one of her arms to curl up in and wriggle to stillness.  Where would all those other children fit?  Ring, ring, ring. ‘Hello?’ Maria says into the phone cautiously.  ‘Hello, my love, sorry I couldn’t ring earlier. We had to fix one of the bilge pumps. How are you?’ Anthony asks.  ‘Oh. I’m fine. You?’ ‘I’m all right. And the children?’ ‘They are napping for tonight. I’ve got some news.’ ‘Tonight? What news?’ ‘Yes, it’s the Festa of Santa Marija.’ ‘Ah, of course. And your news?’  ‘Is that Papa?’ interrupts a groggy Carl.  Maria hands Carl the phone and opens the shutters to the night. The pulsing sounds on the street below wake May up.  Maria goes to the cellar to get a bottle of wine. The steady marching and drumming vibrate down from the street as the processions begin and send shivers up her legs. She takes a long drink of red wine and listens to Carl upstairs excitedly planning a journey around the island with his father. The wine catches in her tight throat and sets off a coughing jag that echoes back at her. ‘Carl, can I speak to Papa?’ asks May. ‘What have you  got to tell him?’ Carl replies. May begins to wail. Maria climbs the steps quickly.  In the kitchen, Carl has a fistful of May’s hair in one hand, and the phone in the other. May is digging her fingernails into Carl’s arm.  Maria takes a spoon from the jug beside the range and raps it on the marble worktop.  ‘Stop that!’ she says, moving towards them with the spoon raised above her head. Like an electric arc, Carl and May step away from one another in a flash.  The sound of the people gathered for the Festa replaces their shouting. Anthony’s distant voice says, ‘I’ll leave you to it. Goodbye,’ and a disengaged tone replaces him.    A wave of landsickness ripples through Maria. She closes her eyes. She can feel the sea rolling beneath her again. She looks at May’s face. It is still braced for whatever will come next. Maria puts the spoon down on the counter.  ‘I’m sorry, Mama,’ May says, a tear rolling down her cheek. ‘Me too, Ma,’ says Carl. ‘Oh anglu. You don’t need to be sorry. I’m sorry,’ replies Maria, kissing their foreheads. ‘Ma, can we still go to the Festa?’ Carl asks cautiously. ‘Yes, of course,’ she replies. ‘Good. But Ma…I’m hungry,’ Carl says. ‘I’ll get it,’ says May. ‘Iva, no. I’ll do it. Hobz Biz-Zjet?’ ‘Yes, please,’ they reply.  Carl goes onto the terrace to watch the Festa. May lingers in the kitchen. ‘May, you don’t need to help me. Go watch the Festa. Thank you, though,’ Maria tells her. Maria pours a generous slug of olive oil and slurp of dark balsamic vinegar onto a lipped plate, then adds generous pinches of salt and pepper. She cuts the two tomatoes horizontally and dips the cut sides into the mixture. Pressing down gently, their red juice releases and swirls into the oil and vinegar. She rubs the impregnated tomato halves back and forth on the bread she has split open, staining it pink. After repeating the process with the remaining bread and tomato, she squashes the tomatoes to a pulp on the oily plate and spreads it on the bread. Then she cuts the loaf into unequal thirds and places the largest on her own plate.  ‘Carl, can you bring me some mint, please?’ Maria asks.   Maria can hear him whispering to May and says, ‘Not May. You please, Carl.’ Carl stomps into the kitchen with a fistful of stems, some with roots dangling from the ends. ‘Thank you. Shall we go on the roof?’ she asks, chopping a few leaves of mint finely to sprinkle onto the bread. ‘Why the roof?’ Carl asks. ‘I thought we could watch the fireworks up there.’ ‘Oh. Sure!’ Maria empties the crock of wooden spoons and ties them into a tea towel, then slips a box of matches into her pocket, and grabs the newspaper from the coffee table.  ‘Come on then. Afterwards, we can go down for ice cream. Carl, can you bring the food for me? May, can you bring some napkins?’ On the roof terrace, the Mosta Rotunda is shrouded in festival lights in front of them. A halo of fireworks sparkles around the building familiar with explosions. Below them, the locals and tourists mingle together on the streets.  Maria removes the barbeque lid and lifts out the grate. She places crumpled pages of news and politics on top of the leftover charcoal briquettes in the bowl. She holds a struck match to them and unties the tea towel. Picking up one of the spoons, she breaks it in two on her knee. She holds one end over the flame until it glows, then adds it to the fire.  Maria hands May a spoon and tells her, ‘Go on, break them.’  May struggles with the dense wood.  ‘Here, I’ll help you,’ Carl tells her.  He puts his foot on the spoon's bowl and tells May to pull the handle upwards until it snaps.  May stands on the next spoon herself and persists until it breaks.   ‘I did it!’ May says. ‘Well done, May!’ Carl tells her. The church bells mark the final flourish of fireworks as they finish breaking the last of the spoons.   Maria explains, ‘You mustn’t smother the fire, it needs oxygen to grow,’ and shows her children how to add the bits of wood one at a time.  The fire builds quickly.  Together, they watch the broken implements glow red hot and then, as the energy transforms into heat, bright white. With the celebration over, the streets return to their usual quiet.  Maria steps back and watches her children turning the spoons to ash. Sara grew up in Florida, spent her summers with her grandparent’s Penguin paperbacks in Spain, and now lives in England. She earned a Creative Writing Master's from the University of Lancaster and the Chancellor’s Medal and Best Portfolio Prize.  Her stories and poems have been published in anthologies by Praspar Press and the Writer’s Workout, the National Flash Flood, Underbelly Press, The Amphibian and is currently long listed for  Things Left Unsaid  with Motherhood Uncensored and Leicester Writes Short Story Prize 2024.