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Being a teacher does not pay well. Being a teacher’s aide pays even less. Mostly the kids are fine, just loud. It’s small town school. Jeremy waited in line for the microwave. He was a small boy, a good boy. He rarely smiled. His eyes were of that particular blue the British call grey. When it was his turn, she saw him stick a can of beans in the microwave, then shut the door, looking at the controls, trying to figure out what to do. Lisa walked over. She asked him Jeremy, what are you doing? Trying to cook my beans, he said. He looked at her directly and spoke slowly. Like all small boys asked a direct question, he wanted to give the right answer and was painfully conscious of being wrong. She told him about microwaves and metal cans. She found him a bowl and a cover and a can opener and helped set the timer. While the beans cooked, she asked him, how old are you, Jeremy? Ten in January, he said. He looked at her carefully when he responded. Your mom gave you a can of beans for lunch, Lisa asked? I couldn’t wake her up this morning, he said, so I looked for something for lunch and I found beans. I like beans. Is she sick? I don’t know, he said. She’s asleep and I can’t get her up. She looked at his clothes. He didn’t look like he had dressed himself. Small boys dressing on their own often show up in orange and green with no socks and spectacular bed-head, but all small boys look like they have bed-head even ten minutes after they have bathed and brushed. She looked at the bag he had brought the beans in. It was just a plastic grocery bag. The receipt was still in it. She took it out and read it. The receipt was for two cans of beans. The microwave’s bell went off and his beans were ready. He ate furiously. It was loud in the lunchroom, no one heard them talk. After lunch was over and all of the kids and Jeremy had gone back to class, Lisa went to the office and told the school secretary about Jeremy and the beans. The secretary said that there had been problems with the family. What kind of problems, Lisa asked? Oh, you know, the secretary said. No father. The mother struggles some Children’s Services were called. They must have known the family a bit better. They called the police. An hour before school ended the secretary called Lisa to the office. The police had gone to the residence with the social worker and when no one responded they forced entry. Jeremy’s mother was dead on the couch. She’d been dead for long enough that no attempt was made at resuscitation. They suspected that she had overdosed on Fentanyl. There would be an autopsy but the F-word had been around and had lain on other couches, in other homes, here and there. But this is small town, Lisa said. I know, said the secretary, but it still happens. It happens everywhere now. The principal came out of her office and asked Lisa to bring Jeremy to the office after class. A social worker and someone from Victim’s Services were coming over to look after him. They’d be here soon. They have to find a place for him to stay. That would take time. Calls were being made. The Victim’s Services lady is really great, said the secretary. I know her. She’s been here before. She’s really kind. He turns ten in January, Lisa said. The secretary looked away. She’s good with children, the secretary said. Is anyone going to say anything to him, Lisa asked? The secretary said nothing. The principal came out of her office. Thanks for doing this, Lisa, said the principal. Does he have grandparents close by, Lisa asked? Aunts? Uncles? Anyone? That’s what the professionals are looking into, the principal said. Can you bring him here? He can wait here for them. Lisa said she would. Thanks again for doing this. Tough day to be a T.A. I feel bad for you. Lisa walked back to her class along the rows of coats hung in the hall. Most kids had their lunch boxes on top of the ledge where they hung their coats. The coats were pink or blue or green and bright. The lunchboxes had ponies or impossibly muscled cartoon heroes or professional sports team’s logos. Her heart beat in her ears and her face felt numb. Come with me Jeremy, she said. We need to go to the office. There is someone coming to see you. Am I in trouble, he asked? Lisa thought of how he was small for his age. A very small boy. No, she said, you are good. It’s just some people coming to see you. What about, he asked? His voice was getting a little higher, thinner. I don’t know, Lisa said. The floor felt hard under her feet. He walked behind her. His coat was undone and he slung his backpack over one shoulder. He still had the plastic grocery bag with the receipt for the two cans of beans. Somehow, from some habit of thought he could not articulate on his own behalf, he’d thought to save the bag. Perhaps, this was what his mother had taught him. They arrived at the office. The secretary was already gone. She could hear the principal in her office, on the phone. She was a loud talker. Stay here, Lisa said, and wait for the people. Do you know them, Jeremy asked? His voice was thin, barely creaking, and his eyes a bright and searching blue. I don’t, she said. But don’t worry. I want my mom. Jeremy said this without looking at her. He set his jaw. He believed it when he said it, and he spoke it as if it might conjure her in his presence, there to be incarnated in the most perfect form of herself and thereby make everything alright. Like those lost at night who pray to the solitary light of the Stella Maris, he hoped, and he thereby believed. Lisa left him then, sitting alone in the waiting area. She got her coat and her things and walked out. When she walked past the office he was still sitting there. The people hadn’t come yet. He saw her walk by and he smiled a little smile, wiggling his fingers in a half-wave. He swung his feet back and forth. He was not quite tall enough to sit in the office’s chairs and have his feet touch the floor. His shoelaces were undone. Am. I. In. Trouble? He mouthed the words, his features exaggerated, his eyes bright enough to light the room. She shook her head and waved back, the same wiggle-fingered wave he had given her, and she felt him follow her with his head and eyes and a kind of gravity specific to him leaning to see her as she walked out into the parking lot to find her car and go and she would not look back, would not chance that, thinking that if she did she might be cursed and become undone and be made all salt and misery and rue, rue for the day and for the boy and for all to see. Steve Passey is originally from Southern Alberta. He is the author of the short-story collections "Forty-Five Minutes of Unstoppable Rock" (Tortoise Books, 2017), the novella "Starseed" (Seventh Terrace), and many other individual things. He is a Pushcart and Best of the Net Nominee and is part of the Editorial Collective at The Black Dog Review.

Twenty-two minutes of music. I put the phone to one side and open the laptop. I'm in bed, a place for handling numbers. Patience slips over my shoulders. The agents voice is there now searching my list of standing orders I lean back in the pillows and close my eyes. I could fall asleep here. Dog snores in her basket. The six thirty comedy winds up Sinking back the cotton is cool —he breathes out— I hear how close his mouth has been to the mic all this time, holding back air as he searched and now he asks; Can I put you on hold? Trombonist Emily White has been writing since studying in creative writing at Oxford University Department for Continuing Education graduating in 2021. A member of Huntly Writers she won the Brian Nisbet poetry prize, had short stories published in Insights (Claret Press,) Anthology (Parracombe Prize) and was shortlisted for the Wells Literary Festival Short Story Competition. Her poem; Where will the Owls Go?, was published in The Phare and her poem Pulchra Es will be performed at Dartington International Festival 2023.

Dear Sarah Imagine a world where you would have been safe, where these lines do not exist. Standing on my Poynders Road, with a lump in my throat, each time I hear. Most of us aren’t like that is no counter at all, but stupidly I imagine it a plea; the sound of footsteps gathering pace, running to where none of us are like that. A simple matter of humanity, stagnant within. A place where all the vileness has died. Dare to take the first step towards? Years of Plenty Strange the sadness lingering. A shadow of pain is not pain itself. The shape of me fits perfectly in the memory. I never cried though not for want of tears. Rather fear of the wretched exposure. An error in approach, perhaps. Heavier, yet carried, you felt out the shape of me, traced my every step through the unlit, reforging, reshaping, time and time over, all the way to the rising edge of our years of plenty. Andrew is a writer of poetry and short fiction based in Sheffield, UK. You can see Andrew’s published work at: andrewseniorwriting.weebly.com

One future December morning Lin sits in the perfect coffee shop, secure from the relentless rain. There’s a good selection of drinks, hot and cold, and sweet and savory pastries, but not so many as to tip the indecisive into confusion. Waiting while someone chooses among too many varieties of profiterole can lead to hard words, and hard words aren’t spoken here. The barista is just friendly enough to put everyone at ease while wasting no one’s time. The staff and customers of Coffee Hero are always in accord. Accord, it so happens, is a popular name in the future. There are six towns called Accord in the Midwest alone, along with 23,743 people, spread out across the genders. Harmony and Rapport are favorites too. Dara comes in and buys a medium-sized mocha. He sits across from Lin and lines up his mug with hers. Lin isn’t a cut-to-the-chase kind of person, but then neither is Dara. They agree about the weather and touch on one or two of the latest soft news stories. It’s Lin’s second year as councilor so she smiles and takes the lead. “The way I see it, we have to make the decision that generates the most peace.” “The human right to be with people like yourself.” Dara is smiling back. Lin nods. “It’s only fair to everybody.” She blows gently on her drink and the scent of cinnamon wafts upwards. “Sixteen is what we’re used to,” Dara says. “By then a person’s generally unearthed a basic sense of who they are. Eleven, though? You’re all about protective coloration.” The rain is falling harder and the lights inside the coffee shop glow just that bit more warmly. “You’re right. Eleven’s young. But it’s our turn to be councilors and the Authority says the towns have to decide.” Dara is leaning slightly forward. “What happens if we can’t get unanimity?” Lin looks around. The other customers are chatting comfortably. “I’ve heard Equality was part of Unison until they disagreed about the date for Easter.” “So further fragmentation then?” Dara spoons the foam that crowns his mocha to one side and peers down into his drink. “It beats conflict. My daughter’s ten. People say we’re so alike I’m sure she’ll get to stay with me, whichever age we all agree on. But if kids started teasing Melissa--if she hated chutney or chocolate or chihuahuas--I’d want her to go where she’d be happy.” Lin smooths the paper napkin on her lap and glances around again. “But of course she loves them.” “Of course she does.” Dara picks his cup up, drains it, and sets it to one side. “I’m saying if she were different. I’d remind myself that peace means sacrifice. Our parents knew it.” If Dara had bought a pastry he could occupy his hands. “The thing is, I’ve stopped believing in it altogether. I felt I ought to tell you. I’m going to make my case tonight.” Lin’s laugh sounds nervous. “Case?” “At sixteen I was terrified.” Her instinct is to soothe. “That’s normal. You survived.” “You’re sure of that?” Three booths away a baby cries, but not for long. Small speakers generate pink noise that lulls her back to sleep. “As the day approached I tried to anticipate everything I could. Over and over I pictured how I’d lie slotted into the fMRI cylinder. How little I would see from in there. I wondered whether it was going to hurt, how much I’d sweat. Above all, I tried to imagine the questions. I even wrote out a script and memorized it. On the day itself I forgot everything else and my thoughts came down to this: What if I was the only one like me? What if they decided it was best to leave me lying there forever, stored inside the cylinder, my own exclusive village just for one?” “Dara.” “‘Choose,’ the Technician said. ‘The smell of raspberries or the crack of bat on ball. Punctuality or singing in tune. Winter lightning or Louis Armstrong. Choose.’” “My shirt was soaked by the time the Technician switched to telling stories about the other sixteen-year-olds she’d scanned. The ones who arrived in pajamas and slippers, certain they’d be going back to bed as soon as it was over. The ones who came with filled-to-bursting backpacks. The ones who’d carried library books, desperately hoping they’d have the chance to finish them. The ones who brought along their dogs. “And then she told me how welcome and relieved they’d found themselves, how safe, how much at home, and any minute now I’d find myself absorbed by such a welcome, too. “In the end, she managed to convince me machines like hers were far too costly to repurpose as storage spaces for stowing the odd malcontent. Too vital to the maintenance of a wholesome society was the way she put it. As far as that went I believed her, but my Village of One obsession? The dread never budged. Finally, she admitted I wasn’t like anyone else she’d ever met.” Lin keeps her voice down. “I’m not surprised,” she says. She sounds appalled. “It was her idea,” says Dara. “Her idea and her decision to falsify my results. I stayed here.” “A criminal offense,” Lin hisses. “I spoil the uniformity, but hear me out. The reason I stopped believing is I’ve visited some other places.” Lin stops reaching for her coat to ask him how. “There aren’t any barriers. Your SafeCard isn’t recognized so you can’t stay for long, but if you bring sandwiches you’re good to walk around outdoors all day. I talk to people in the park.” “They have parks?” “Very much like ours. Concord favors birdbaths. Harmony sells hot dogs.” He’s leaning forward again. “Now Comity’s an outlier. They built themselves a bandstand. A little different, but not enough to go to war over.” “You’re admitting to sedition. What’s more, you sound proud of it.” “They’re all nice places. I think you’d be surprised how much you liked them. Surprise is a thing in short supply.” “I’m glad we have surprises. Marilyn at the diner made rhubarb pie last week--in December! I was in awe. And Melissa named our puppy Tiger.“ “I’m going to propose we stop the sorting. Not anyone at any age.” “You’ll never get a consensus.” Lin laughs at him as she stands up to leave. “You’re probably right. Still, I want to say something. Plant a seed, I guess.” # By April Dara has visited upwards of thirty towns--no mean feat when one’s only transportation is by foot, but it’s not as if there’s somewhere else he needs to be. He’s fondest of the towns with gardeners, and of late he’s been cross-pollinating daffodils, seeing if he can hybridize a flower that grows wild up on the northwest slope of Unison with one they cultivate on Friendship Common. It’s only an impulse, but he wants to see if a daffodil radiant with blue petals and an extravagant green trumpet might delight someone--anyone--by being different. Having spent a year living in Scotland, Joyce Meggett (she/her) is back in Chicago working as a college reference librarian. Her fiction has appeared in Fabula Argentea, Ellipsis Zine, Bewildering Stories, and Malefaction Magazine.

you & i would sing taylor swift songs in your jeep as we cruised along the tennessee highways, you would sing the lyrics with the steering wheel as your microphone once, we decorated the jeep with red roses & blue violets & a rainbow of washable car markers & we climbed onto the roof of the car to look at the sun set we would pick up books from the used book store & you used to smile when the boy who worked there glanced over at us, you used to make a list of books you needed to read & i would add some to my notes, too hours of roads to a body of water where there is no end in sight, we giggle as we eat pancakes with syrup that spills onto the table at the "vintage" diner post floating, we drive back along a series of different roads, & i wonder how many more years we will be able to drive to take in the beauty of the nature around us & the new sights without a purpose in mind. Ilana Drake is a rising junior at Vanderbilt majoring in Public Policy Studies, and she is a United Nations UNA-USA Global Goals Ambassador for Sustainable Development Goal 4, Education.

We were waiting for a star to fall - constellations predicting futures, a future possibly one shared together perhaps another lived alone dictating footsteps in the dark darkness enveloping hands hands evolving into embraces strangers eloping in the haze of moonlit delirium - because it works like that doesn't it? starlight dreams and star-crossed lovers crossing paths, crossing songs words in harmony, voices in sync we'll consider the formations count the pros as they weigh up against the cons a circumspection of the celestial we'll shield this romance in a veil shroud ourselves in a mist let them think this is nothing when, oh, it's everything and maybe, just maybe, we'll make it - burning like asteroids ablaze in the stratosphere, accumulating into asterisms eclipsing lifetimes lived, wished, glimpsed and it's perfect, better than perfect, it's - lovely. This predilection of moments coinciding colliding combusting into alignment. and yet, I'm still waiting for my star to fall whimsical wishes on the tails of meteors, a second too late, a second fated to be missed but I'm still waiting, I'll never stop in the company of flailing stars waiting to form their own connections amongst the haven of constellations lighting the way. Savhanha Small Nguyen is a writer currently residing in Birmingham, UK; her interests include the sheer magnitude of storytelling through word games and the manipulation of language.

Confirmation Bias CW: Infertility Every fucker’s pregnant. Every single one. You follow a parade of swollen bellies, sashaying from side to side. Mothers-to-be click-clacking along, glowing stars of their own sell-out musicals. My Fair Baby, Jersey Babies, The Sound of Baby. All teeth and jazz hands, the costumes, Bretton stripes. You know some have got one already, screaming in the pram. Doesn’t matter to them. Their ovens are still stoked, cooking up a bun. Fucking three-tiered cake is what it fucking looks like. It’s not their fault, you do know that. But you absolutely hate them. Every single one. Your friend is pregnant. Your colleague is pregnant. And your dentist too. Your sister. Your cousin. That stray cat. Good for her. Whoop-de-fucking-doo. Gym instructor. Bus driver. Bobbies on the beat. What a bunch of fuckers. Every. Single. One. You found a gynaecologist; hoped she could tell you why. Why you’re the only one. The only one who’s rootless, labouring fallow land. Very sorry. Unexplained. Didn’t take. Fat lot of use she turned out to be. You long for an escape. A break from this tiresome fucking thing. An antithesis of maternity. Something adventurous, something ill-advised if only you were a fucker too. Skydiving, abseiling, wing walking all at once while juggling fire, swallowing knives, and drinking yards of ale. Maybe just the yard of ale. A pub. You know the one. Where the carpets looked old 20 years ago and five o’clock shadows cast dark and wide. Where the closest thing to fecundity is infrequent jets of Cif squirted down into the toilets. This pub is what you need. The barmaid grins like the Cheshire Cat, pleased with herself, like she’s the greedy Mr Man. She sends nuts and crisps skittering across the floor with her gargantuan bump. ‘It keeps getting in the way.’ She laughs a fruitful, fertile laugh. Pot-bellied pig. Pregnant twat. You sip your drink. Suppose at least you can – a threadbare silver lining, a bright side dim as dusk. Wonder how many more it will take to douse the scorching hate. The door bursts open, a flood of tulle and satin crowns into the room. The glee repulsive, triumph nauseating. A baby shower. Fucking marvellous. A clucking brood of women surround a bulbous hen. It’s the bastard gynaecologist. Up the fucking duff. Because every fucker’s pregnant. Every. Single. One. The Whale Rider CW: Loss of a child They refused to listen to me when I said there was a right whale in the road, slowing down the traffic. Crashing its great body through the puddles and sending waves over the kerb to swallow the feet of everyone who was stopping to stare at it. They just told me not to be silly. Mum. And Dad. With their faces like pebbles. Told me to be quiet, but then carried on with their conversation. Whispered but sharp. Their mouths full of esses, like the tide creeping closer. Steve, please. I don’t think I can do this. We don’t have a choice. Jesus Christ, his whole class is here. But it definitely was a right whale. I know because they’re really slow swimmers. I remember all about them from the last time Joel read to me. Joel knows everything about the sea, and he has this heavy hardback book he reads to me at night, when Mum and Dad have given us our last warning to get to sleep, flicking off the bedroom light as they leave the room. First, we lie quietly but as soon as the lounge door clicks shut downstairs, Joel’s torch flashes like a lighthouse, and he pokes his head over the top bunk and tells me about what his favourite fish was that day. And the last time he read to me it was all about the right whale. The first time he read to me I didn’t believe him that seawater was salty. Then we all went to Scarborough on holiday, and I scooped up the foamy white wave in my hand and swallowed a mouthful to see if he was lying. He wasn’t. And if water can be salty then why couldn’t a right whale turn up in the middle of the road and slow down all the traffic? The whale stopped then. We stopped too. Close enough to hear its sad cry. I told Mum again, that there was a whale in the road, but she wouldn’t even look at it. Its skin is shiny, wet, and black as coal. Or as dad’s suit and tie. Its upside-down smile is full of baleen, flashing as it hunts for more food to swallow in giant gulps. Behind its head, a smooth rounded back with no fin sticking up. That’s how I know it’s a right whale instead of anything else like a killer. Their back fins grow tall like yacht sails. Right whales don’t need those fins because. Actually, Joel never mentioned why. I turn to his seat, to ask him but it’s emptyempty. Mum unclips me, hauls me up into her arms, even though she normally says I’m too big to carry. Her eyes are full of the whale now, and of Joel tucked up in a wooden box, deep in its belly. I taste the sea as I kiss her cheek and tell her not to be sad, Joel would be so happy he got to ride a whale. Martha Lane is a writer by the sea. She writes extensively about grief, love, and all things unrequited. Many of her stories can be read online at marthalane.co.uk. Her novella, Lies Over the Ocean is available to buy on Amazon. Tweets @poor_and_clean

I dream of your house often. Musky, earthy mold tickles my nostrils as I climb the stairs from the garage; gradient gray speckles on the pale blue wall like a black and white butterfly emerging from a cocoon of damp. Each step creaks under my slippered feet, a plaintive rhythm beating the cadence of my ascension back into childhood. Crack, crack, crack. The wobbly wooden railing scratches my palm; I hold it too tight for fear it might disappear. I reach the kitchen. The hours of days gone mingle as your long, flowery dressing gown floats from the cooker to the counters; a plate of croissants, piquant coffee grinding tintamarre, butter cuddling homegrown shallot, then a pork chop joining their embrace. The sizzling feast titillates my constricted throat. The living room door groans as I push it open. Beeswax greets me; warm, lustrous, slippery with whiffs of our evening chocolate treats. I find a hidden door in the pretend fireplace that obsessed me as a child. It takes me to the attic. The forbidden kingdom. You never slept on the top floor, so you didn’t know. Sleep evaded me that night. The open window let in traces of freshly cut grass mingled with an ethereal mist of soil, mushrooms, leaves. It was those empty dark hours when all is quiet, allowing one’s own thoughts and melody to be heard. The mattress on the bed was too soft. What had always been a comfort in childhood swallowed me whole that night. The quilt and all those extra layers you insisted on adding to fight the chill of darkness pricked my skin like tiny beaks taking nibs at my limbs. I kicked them off; the bed now an empty nest of torment, a witness to my spiraling grief of memories lost. When the pacing in the attic began, I held my breath, ears prickling. My body grew still. The rhythm soon soothed me like a sweet lullaby pulsing alongside my sorrow. Chocolaty. A melancholic smile uplifted the corners of my trembling lips. I knew it was him. I dream of your house often, and I wonder. Now that its flavor lives in the past—a tasteless store in its place—do you haunt the place together? Delphine Gauthier-Georgakopoulos is a Breton writer, teacher, mother, nature and music lover, foodie, dreamer. She loves butter, needs coffee, hates easy opening packaging, and likes to create stories in her head. She lives in Athens, Greece.

In a perfect world, I can hand in my resignation letter and call it quits. In this world, I squeeze my breasts for milk before collapsing from fatigue the way some clients return overseas because they could no longer afford to live in Flushing. I have no home but here, and best vibes only cannot help me much when they want to hang me upon the stilts for show. I feel cynicism in the photos of mansions you are so eager to show me, flipping through your phone. O mi amor, I want to say, kissing your ears, don’t be naive, your home is right here, the way I want to lie down, dampening my ankles with wet sand. At night, when I can no longer believe in that toxic positivity when I’ve poured all my heart in and look where it’s gotten me, I wonder if I wear the mask and smile in this redemption arc, will I truly be saved, and if so, whether I won’t become a shell imprint of my former self, and be unable to love? Tiffany Troy is a Critic, Translator, and Poet

CW: Suicide I don’t mean the ranch, with Little Joe and Hoss, and their calico-caricature women —pointy breasts, big hair— No, this was a cafeteria Dead cows strung up in the walk-in it wasn’t like the meat counter at Publix I herded customers through the line with a fake smile under my cowboy hat Side salad, ma’am? Right here While Alan bussed tables Hey, listen to this! He’d raise a stack of trays like a set of chocolate wings and release them perfectly, drumming the song: In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida With the kit from my fringed suede purse I sewed a button on his shirt The night our manager’s hand brushed my ass and I stomped his foot—that was instinct, and striped Adidas fury— Alan said, Right on, Mad In the end, I was no more his friend than our hats were real straw All he said was they broke up; his girlfriend hated him But she’d made a wish he was dead, and he granted it Fifty trays beating a dirge now hoofbeats clattering down a canyon of grief Would you like sour cream, sir, on that baked potato? In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida Madeleine French lives in Florida and Virginia with her husband. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Dust Poetry Magazine, West Trade Review, The Madrigal, Hole in the Head Review, Schuylkill Valley Journal, Door Is A Jar, The Westchester Review, and elsewhere. You may find her on Twitter, @maddiethinks

a crumbled yellowed note maybe love — a written sentence faraway stare no epitaph on a tiny tombstone death note — stepping on slippery ground i want to see you she touched me i feel my heart passing through her then vapourises in thin air she & I on a journey my thoughts roam about on empty field frame after frame of endless dandelions after the heated confrontation cold thought her lips frozen events passes by Christina Chin is a painter and haiku poet from Malaysia. She is a four-time recipient of top 100 in the mDAC Summit Contests, exhibited at the Palo Alto Art Center, California. She is 1st prize winner of the 34th Annual Cherry Blossom Sakura Festival 2020 Haiku Contest and 1st prize winner in the 8th Setouchi Matsuyama 2019 Photohaiku Contest. She has been published in numerous journals, multilingual journals, and anthologies, including Japan's prestigious monthly Haikukai Magazine. Uchechukwu Onyedikamis a Nigerian creative artist based in Lagos, Nigeria. His poems have appeared in Amsterdam Quarterly, Brittle Paper, Poetic Africa, Hood Communists and in print anthologies. Christina Chin and he have co-published Pouring Light on the Hills (2022).

cicadas seventeen years ago beneath the bridge i drift along our names still scrawled below still the cicadas sing their song babe in the woods dead plants by the door handshake just a touch too strong dull knives in the drawer pray my intuition’s wrong J. R. Wilkerson is a resident of Northern Virginia with roots in the Missouri Ozarks. He has an amazing wife, a bonny girl, and a handsome boy.