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I got high on Russian poetry and terror On the soft flesh of my bedroom carpet, Red in the way it looked crimson through Hazed eyes, psychotic musings taste of Isaac Asimov and Braubaker’s Daredevil, Iron pepper on my tongue, poppy blossoms And sprawling rose bedsheets, red petals  Blooming against dark backdrops. I hadn’t yet tasted certainty, I know now, Yet I thought I had; fevered dreams and A low whine in my throat, nestling by  The fraying edges of a sweeping gale– There wasn’t much in terms of sense And red LED lights danced in sorrowful Pity above my head.  Juggle till your hands bleed, you have Nobody to perform for. Still, you curtsey, Dress catching in the thorns of a growing Vine, suffocating, lifegiving, a breath of Fresh air in the face of a slipping mind, Juggle, juggle, and blood on fingertips  Tastes sweetly speckled, coppery. Sometimes I think that rabid desperation Still lives in me. I drink adrenaline like It is a drug; Monster drinks and the pound Of hearts in chests taste of relieved shivers Down a spine– I live in illusion, in a fragile Image of perfection, cured, healed, no longer Dancing gentle ballet with sharp jaggedness– Summer of ‘21; gentle nostalgia for red madness. Aisha Al-Tarawneh, 20, is an aspiring psychologist from Denmark and Jordan who enjoys writing in her free time. Her favourite poetic movements include Soviet futurism, and her favourite poets include Vladimir Mayakovsky. When she is not writing, you can either find her reading, kickboxing, practicing archery or watching her favourite hockey players during hockey season.

You leaned toward me with your mouth open so wide that I thought your jaw had popped. Your eyes carried slivers of blue and gold on their surfaces, moody and joyful and the colors of the state of Indiana, maybe Kentucky. Maybe both, but definitely Bleed American. You put your hand on my shoulder and looked up with your eyes, not your head, your pupils shifting from the floor to me like a satellite adjusting its signal. I dreamt of being your focus forever, you mine, but in the end you’d just found it funny that I'd made a dumb joke, aren’t they old enough to be James Eat World by now? , and I found it funny that you couldn’t stop laughing, so we laughed together, fell into one another like trees propping each other up before falling, crashing in the woods. I wrapped my arm around your waist, buried my lips in your hair and kissed your head, called you by your AIM screen name while “Get Right” pounded our ears, while you cackled into my shoulder, while Jim Adkins sang I just gotta be someplace else and I dreamt of being no place else. And that’s what I want, really. The dream of being no place else. Adam Shaw lives with his wife and daughter in Louisville, Kentucky. He is the author of the novel The Jackals  and the memoir Sportsman’s Paradise , and his work can be found in Pithead Chapel, HAD, Rejection Letters,  and elsewhere. He can be found online at theshawspot.com .

Because I'm a budding flower, Monsignor tells me. Because I'm ripe with pollen, a flower near bloom, I entice bees. He’s the bee, you see. Because the priest cautions against telling. Because no one believes young girls. Keep your sins to yourself. Pray 15 Our Fathers, 10 Hail Marys. Because Mother asks what sins earn such a weighty penance. He overpenanced you. Because telling the truth feels dirty, I lie. The sin of idolatry, I tell her. My soul blackens. Using a Ouija board at the slumber party. Because Mother warned me not to wear the tank top to school.  Because Daddy told me I should never show the goods unless they’re for sale.  Because I invited desire. Because my aunt once confessed about a man slipping his hand over her breast while swimming in a pool when she was twelve, I hold back from telling Mother. Because my aunt’s voice dropped to a whisper, I inhaled her shame. I know the weight you’ll carry. I carry it too. Because Her breasts nourished Baby Jesus, I save the Hail Marys for last. The cracked leather kneeler cuts my knees like a hair shirt. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. But there, shadowed by the Holy Virgin statue, a woman nurses; the baby’s soft suckles echo in the hushed church and a sudden certainty anoints me, stings my soul— my body is my own .  Because confession wronged me, I pause my penance with a vow to protect myself from bees. Anne Anthony credits her steady diet of comic books for her ardent belief in superpowers. Her gritty, tender, and amusing stories feature compelling but flawed characters who rise to reveal superhuman traits in ordinary downward spirals of life. Mostly, she relies on her husband and Plott hound for balance. Find more writing:  https://linktr.ee/anchalastudio .

I Waited For An Ice Age I was told it would come; as I closed my book amid strawberry vapours ready to leave two came at once yes to be cold to be cold again Concerning Thursday Heyyy, how are you?  Do you want some tea – oh, you've got some.  Fab. Yeah, it's no big deal, really. We're all in the same boat or parents group ha ha. It’s been such fun, hasn't it, watching all the kids grow? I – we , I suppose – are just a bit concerned by what happened. On Thursday? You don't remember? You said 'I love you' to my son. Is... umm...  I mean, do  you love him? OH OF COURSE! No, I totally get it. We’re all training ourselves, as much as the bloody kids! Positive. Affirmation. I read those posts too. Replace instinctive annoyance with something positive. Wait – between his legs she finds  a pocket of relief and sits in it  like an old receipt. She’d said love is fireworks! He scurried home afterwards, a dog,  his tail Meat Raffle I would do anything for charity, But I won’t do that. Ewen Glass (he/him) is a Northern Irish poet who lives in England with two dogs, a tortoise and lots of self-doubt; on a given day, any or all of these can be snapping at his heels. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in HAD, Bridge Eight, Poetry Scotland, Gordon Square Review and elsewhere. On socials (and in real life) he is pretty much ewenglass everywhere.

Hi everyone, my name is none of your business and I’m a TED Talk hater. Watching TED Talks started out as a distraction. Something pleasant to hear while putting my makeup on in the morning. But it quickly got out of proportion. I was introduced to TED Talks a few months ago, when my mom showed me one about  Pachelbel’s D-major canon, a music meant to stimulate amino acids in the brain and increase our immune response. I’m quite ashamed to say that I kind of liked it. I had to watch another one. I found a TED Talk with over 77 million views. I figured, it’s even more views that some networks get on their Late Night segment, so it must be good, right ? This TED Talk was called “Do schools kill creativity ?”It exceeded my expectations.  Evenso, I never got the answer to that question.  This is when it started spiraling. The YouTube algorithm spotted me as a potential TED Talk aficionada, so it kept  suggesting to me more and more similar content. It went from “My journey to Yo-Yo Mastery” to “SWAG : Even your grandmother has it” to “How to use a paper towel”. And you want to know what the worst part was? Not only  did I not know any of these TED ‘Talkers’, but I also learned nothing. It was  white noise. Still, I kept coming back for more.  I’ve watched every single motivational TED Talk there is. I listened to  random folks teaching me how to achieve my goals, increase my confidence, follow my dreams and all that American crap while a cheering crowd of brainless sheep who paid five-thousand dollars to be there vigorously applauding  as if they were the next Messiah. I could sum all of these TED Talks up in one sentence : People are dumb, do your own thing. It’s not that hard. You don’t need to lose 18 minutes of your life  watching a nobody mansplain it to you.  And now I’m staring at this TED Talk woman insisting that we  use a pen instead of a computer to write, claiming that I will otherwise ‘lose my focus’. Oh I’m sorry Jane Austen, I guess I didn’t realize we were still in the 18th century! Should I also wash my clothes in a river? Oh, be careful where you step, I haven’t finished digging that well yet! I guess I was too busy being traded by my own parents in exchange for some cows and estate!  Please, give me a break. But don’t, really.  Here’s another one: “Looks aren’t everything. Believe me, I’m a model”. Yes they are and no I don’t believe you.  “How to figure out what you really want” ? Well for starters I want out of this conversation.   “How to talk so that people will listen ?” Hey, maybe people aren’t listening because you’re irrelevant. But It was already too late for me. Before I could say Eenie Meenie, I was USER45679654 hating on TED Talks on Reddit.  Zoé Mahfouz is a writer who randomly bursts into improvised musical numbers when she is alone at home, then pretends to be emotional when the imaginary audience gives her a standing ovation. Also likes to kidnap the neighbor’s cat to make TikTok’s and complains when he throws up on her terrace.

In April, he rang my doorbell, and by June, he had disappeared. But I didn’t know that then, as I sat in my apartment during a worthless Tuesday, like many other days, where you bide time until all is over and you begin to forget so that you can make room for new, hypothetical, fond memories. I think I was watching a movie, not sure which one, or maybe I simply stared into nothingness—one of those two. All of a sudden, the doorbell rang; I got up, not expecting anyone. And absolutely not him. But it was him. On that day in April, that was worthless. Before I continue, I must tell you that I have an identical twin, John. We seldom speak, save for my birthday, even though he’s always with me somehow. Well, anyway. I opened the door, to my surprise, it was my identical twin, John! I said: “Hey, freak.” To which he retorted: “Hey, anus dweller.” Thus, I invited him in. Growing up, we tried that “identical twins wear the same clothes”-thing—we hated it. We’d always sought to be our own, and to be honest (and I’ve told this to John), I didn’t always like him. He was so much more…gloomy than I ever was. “Haven’t seen you in a while.” “Yeah, crazy, right?” I nodded; it was. He seized the sofa in my living room, putting his feet on the table in his own sad, off-putting manner. “So, how’s…things?” It took a while before he answered, gazing out the window until I turned my head, hoping to see whatever he saw. “Well, things are not great. Can I crash here for a while?” “For sure. May I ask why?” “Not really in the mood to put together a PowerPoint to be able to explain the fucked upness of being alive right now.” “Okay, yeah, I gotta update my computer anyway.” He smirked, exposing my brother beneath the whole surface of everything. So he slept there. My brother. Even though we were identical twins, we weren’t the same in terms of character. Physically, he also bore a scar after a car crash when he was 8 (I wasn’t in the car)—a small thing on his cheek. When he got it, I joked about it finally being possible to tell us apart, something that hadn’t been an issue, really. Me in my preppy clothes, he in his “hey, I’m inches away from my own suicide”-rags. I didn’t need a cause for him to stay with me. And it didn’t feel right to ask for one, or necessary is perhaps the word I seek. We lived together during those last months, sharing things. Everything from shampoo to clothes, at least he borrowed mine as he didn’t have an interest in doing any laundry. He adored the night, and I craved an early start in the morning. So, as I woke up, I tiptoed around the apartment to avoid waking him up. He used headphones as he watched TV during the night, not eating anything with a crunch, so I wasn’t disturbed. Quite nice, if you summarize it like that. In retrospect, this period was solid, consistent, and comforting in a way—not optimal for a proper life; I can see that now. We didn’t talk about how he was doing; instead, I sometimes snuck up to the bathroom door, eavesdropping as he cried inside, hoping that my presence might soothe him. I was supposed to have my internship at some media agency, but I lacked the energy to go, even before John. And as he moved in, I found it strenuous even to lift a comb. Because to be fair, that’s what he did: move in. He might’ve not had stuff, clothes, furniture, or money to pay rent, but this wasn’t him crashing on the sofa. I had gotten a roommate. A deformed roommate and I made sure to call him Quasimodo, Phantom of the Opera, Elephant Man, or whatever I could come up with. He reciprocated by calling me “a white-collar nothingness who held tedium and dullness inside, with only death to look forward to as a kind of blackness at the end of a drudging tunnel filled with echoes of rotting dreams and mutilated happiness.” We had fun like that. Our Dad is somewhat of a mystery. A short fling that our Mom found somewhere on the floor of a bar where the poor managed to make themselves even poorer. Including Mom. They made us on the same sofa that John, during those months, slept on. Weeks later, our Dad left. During our childhood, he swung by from time to time. Popping in with gifts that we were either too old for or bought at the nearby gas station, with price tags in bright colors. We could hear them upstairs as we tried to play as loud as possible. Usually, he took us out for steaks. He drank, Mom drove us home, and then he left the next day. Nothing wrong, actually. We’d been given great food we couldn’t afford otherwise, gifts without any apparent reason. A few years later, Dad died and John became different. I don’t know why, and if I summoned the courage to ask him, he called me an “idiot,” explaining that “I wouldn’t understand,” then punched me on my arm or flicked my nuts. “I’m bored,” he said one day, “how bout a walk?” Being indoorsy people, this was a big step, so I hesitantly agreed. Outside my apartment building was a road going left to a bus stop and a small convenience store where I often went when I couldn’t afford a whole pack of cigarettes as the owner sold singles. I had never gone right as it led up to a cul-de-sac bordering a pointless collection of trees one might call a forest if you were generous with the definition. So we turned right. “Where does this go?” John asked as we reached the end of the street, pointing to a small path flowing into this forest of sorts. I shrugged and took the lead, with John right behind me. We walked in silence for a while until he said, “I fucking love this adulting stuff” which made me laugh, and we listed things we considered “adulting.” I remember that as peaceful. Me and him, existing somewhere, somehow together, where things hadn’t begun to go sour—us, ever so different nevertheless the same. After a while, we saw a house with an odd-looking roof. Then more houses, having reached a neighborhood. “Did you know about this?” he asked. “Naw, man, should we call the police?” “Moron.” Surrounded by trees, only one road granted access to this secluded neighborhood. Where we stood, on a small hill, we could see quite far, cracking jokes as we spotted an IKEA in the far distance, agreeing that missionary in an IKEA bed is the ultimate adulting one could accomplish. John continued downwards, with me behind him. It seemed to be roughly fifty houses. Very picturesque, quaint and serene. People might’ve been at work because we didn’t see a soul. The houses seemed to be photocopied, coming in different colors, mostly pastel—nothing that’ll hurt the eye. We began reading names on mailboxes, coming up with lives these people were living. Larson, Kerry, Joergensen. Even though our opinions about their jobs differed, we were in sync with the belief that everyone in this neighborhood was part of a satanic cult, with underground tunnels where they met up, performing rituals. They also probably drank the blood of infants, because that’s a given. That first visit to the neighborhood felt like hours. Maybe it was only thirty minutes or so. The night was rising; I was hungry. John called me “fatso,” and I said that “not all could survive on heroin that one had acquired by blowing dealers like he did,” and he argued that he was a prominent blow-jobber and that any dealer would be lucky to be blown by him. Finally, we headed home. That’s also a thing. In hindsight, I recall that John wasn’t the one who wanted to head back home. Ever. He always urged me to stay a tad longer, but I often grew weary as soon as we entered the neighborhood. During our walk back, the path felt shorter. That same evening we treated ourselves to takeaway. We watched a movie, or I fell asleep, he finished it, telling me how it ended during breakfast the next day. At this point, I thought things were going alright and that, soon, he would move out. I surely hadn’t missed anything about John or his issues; still, with him in the house, someone was there to hear my footsteps. He seemed to lose weight even though he despised exercise and ate like an animal. His clothes, or my clothes that I lent him, came off as sails as his decaying body perished inside the polyester. Like many other things, I didn’t ask why. “He’s my brother,” I thought to myself, together with all other cliche crap I could come up with—a way of procrastinating questions that should’ve been asked. Mom called sometimes. I told her we were fine, even though she didn’t ask about him, so I assumed something had happened. One night, sitting in front of the TV, watching a show about how postmodernism affected the financial climate in the 21st century, I asked John if he ever thought about Dad. He told me to shut up. I called him an asshole and proclaimed that neither of us understood this shit anyways and that we were nothing but lazy bastards who didn’t have the grit to fetch the remote. He smiled: “you’re right.” After a week or so, he wanted to go back to the neighborhood. I laughed, as he was dead serious. When I asked why he gave me a fib about exercise and when that didn’t take, he said that “it was just us then.” I had to clear my throat a bit and drink some water. “Well?” he asked. He could’ve ventured on his own. Or couldn’t he? Perhaps he didn’t find his way? After a small snack, we left. Back at the cul-de-sac, it felt like I could already see the roof of that first house. I had no idea how long that walk took the first time—now it felt even shorter. I asked John about it, but he called me “a purposeless sociopath with no emotional core whose opinions and questions slowly drained the world’s accumulated joy from every living being,” so I assumed it was just me. Maybe it was how the light fell, altering the planet’s curvature, or possibly, that we walked faster. Once there, we more or less continued where we left off, mocking fictitious people, living in those empty houses, laughing at ridiculous names on mailboxes: Glasscock and Nutter. Now, the residents weren’t part of a cult. Instead, they were aliens who’d taken over the bodies of those who used to live there. The alien master plan was, of course, to anal probe the hell out of everyone. It began to rain, and truthfully, it wasn’t that much fun going in circles. John didn’t want to leave. I pointed out the obviousness of the rain, but he meant that we’d dry up sooner or later, so I had to nag until he caved. As I wondered why he couldn’t go by himself to the neighborhood, I still haven’t figured out exactly why I couldn’t go home without him. That evening I sat down to write, for once. Not sure if John even knew I wrote, as he one day came into the living room, looming over me, asking: “What are you doing?” “Writing.” “Why?” “Why I write or what I write?” “No, why do you write?” “You don’t wanna know what I’m writing?” “Naw.” “You just wanna know why I’m writing?” “Yeah. Don’t you know why you’re writing?” “Yes. Or, well, yes, kinda, not sure how to explain it.” “Okay…is it about me?” “What I write?” “Yeah.” “No…no, it’s not.” “Okay, cool.” Then, he smacked my balding spot before he hit the sofa. It was such a meaningless dialogue in a sense, not re-enacted verbatim, but similar. I loop it in my head, and can't understand why. I hadn’t written about him or me before he vanished—didn’t dare to. I’m not even sure what I wrote before he went missing. Did he want me to write about him? Acknowledge him or something like that. He cried in the shower that same day and came out all red-eyed. I asked him if he got some soap in his eyes, providing him with an exit. He nodded. I think it was that next Friday that I looked out my window, seeing that rooftop between the trees. I hadn’t lived there long—like a year or so—though I’m sure that roof wasn’t there before. I told John, who asked: “How often do you stand staring out the window like a fucktard?” That was the end of that discussion. That day we biked to IKEA, hoping to see some middle classers humping and eating cheap meatballs. We only had my bike, so John sat behind me, holding on with a blasé grip. We bought a vase that we dropped on our way home and some batteries because John held a speech about the importance of always having batteries at home “if you’re a real man.” Those weeks and months, they all get jumbled together. I’m unsure, exactly, how we spent each day. I know I wrote more and more. Probably mediocre stuff. But I had a focus I previously missed. As I wrote, he was on the sofa watching some show or sleeping, not interrupting or imploring me to stop. Instead, he asked during dinner how my writing had been. The only thing was that I began to gain weight as he kept losing. We both ate the most trans-fatty, sugar-packed, carbo-loaded poison we could find. John insisted on it. So, after a while, my clothes began to yield value for both of us. John wanted to go to the neighborhood again, as I grew bored with it. He vexed me, calling me a “lardo” and pointed out that my pants couldn’t stretch much further. I called him a “skinny abomination” and explained that there was a genuine risk that his brittle bones wouldn’t survive such a tedious adventure as a simple stroll. I’m not sure he even heard me as he was out in the hall, already putting on shoes. This trip, I could see the rooftop and the house, even before we reached the cul-de-sac. So I said: “That house is way closer than before.” John didn’t answer, as if he didn’t hear me. I often get stuck here as I ponder what happened. If he heard me, does that alter the meaning of the outcome? After he disappeared, I questioned everything, but time is, in a way, flushing memories through a strainer until only a few rememberings are left, making it hard to piece history together. I keep going over it, twisting and turning, until it’s all skewed. Did he notice the house coming closer? Because that feels paramount. At least I tell myself that. If he did hear me, was everything a conscious decision then? He shushed me when we got there. I disregarded it and joked crudely about all the drunken fathers and cheating wives that so stereotypically lived in such neighborhoods. He didn’t listen; he was in awe. Something had changed. Not inside the neighborhood—within John. We still didn’t see any actual people, making it feel like a movie set. As if it all would come crumbling down if we were to knock on a wall, ever so softly. It took three hours before we left. I was cold, hungry, pissed and jealous of the neighborhood who’d managed to nab my brother’s attention. For a few days, he was not himself. I did my best, hoping that I could reach where he had reached when it came to creative insults and name-calling, aiming to lighten the mood—I failed. Name-calling was John’s thing. One night, he woke me up, casually asking if we shouldn’t go to the neighborhood again. My alarm clock showed that even bakers were sleeping, so I rolled over, telling him that he was insane. The next day we headed back there. The house with the roof was now even closer. Enough so that we passed it before we even reached the cul-de-sac. I can’t explain it. I didn’t point it out to John as he treaded on with determination. That time, we saw shimmer from a TV, hopefully proving that someone was occupying at least that particular house. I tried to joke about it a bit, but my voice went from speaking to whispering—losing its force. Everything got eerie, and I became angry with John, for real this time. Not for choosing the neighborhood over me, more because he wasn’t predictable anymore. Our stagnation had resulted in a bizarrely suffocating routine that helped our days float on by. The only thing jolting our bubble of reality were those forced visits to the neighborhood, and change is horrible. That night I couldn’t sleep. Outside my window, the house with the roof seemed even nearer. At that point, I thought it to be the night playing tricks on me. As John was in the shower one morning, I called Mom. “John is weird,” I stated, but she just asked about me. If I’d met a girl, how my life was going, stuff like that. So I asked again, and she simply meant that “John is gonna be fine.” I hung up. “Can we go after breakfast?” I tried stalling, hoping for him to skip it. Partly, I wished to lock him up, going full Josef Fritzl on him. “Where?” He smiled as if I was the kooky one. “The neighborhood.” “Sure. Why not.” That house with the roof was close enough to semi-block the front door when we tried leaving the building so that it couldn’t open properly. John slunk out through the narrow opening as I had to suck in my tummy and squeeze through. It was all very perplexing. Something felt broken. Possibly, gravity had gone haywire over the last couple of weeks, altering life itself as a construct. It was enervating how calm John was about it. He continued, past the house, towards the forest. “We’re not gonna talk about this?” “What?” “The house” and I pointed to make it as clear as humanly possible. “You’re fucking paranoid. It’s always been there. Come on, I don’t wanna be late.” “Late? Late for what?” Again, it was like he didn’t hear me. Finally, in the neighborhood, we did our tour. John was somewhat more excited. Eager. I kept telling myself that he needed this, and what kind of brother were I if I didn’t support him? “Do you see any Satanists?” “Only you”, his usually snappy quips, now missing. Instead, I kept quiet, letting him have his thing. This place. A make-belief place. Kind of a dollhouse. The scene was all set, complete with props: cars, bikes, lawnmowers and parasols; all missing were dolls. A mailbox stood in front of a meticulous garden, packed with pruned bushes next to erect roses. I wasn’t sure then, or now, if we’d seen that house before. There were so many of them. Like the others, this too had a shiny car appearing to be hand-washed by a Dad each Sunday with skateboards scattered about in a chaotic yet idyllic way. “Hey, look,” I said, causing John to come over. “What?” “The mailbox.” It was a cute mailbox in the shape of a log, with a twig sticking out of it. On it, it said: “Butts”—I scoffed. “Don’t mock!” “What do you mean?” “That’s my name.” I was sure he hazed me, pulling some gag on me, so I said “yeah, whatever” and started walking, but John remained. “Are you coming?” He checked his watch, which I hadn’t noticed before. “Naw, it’s dinner soon. I think it’s meatloaf tonight.” “Funny John, you can do better.” He began walking, steering for the porch, and before I’d managed to react in some way at all, he had opened the door and shouted, “I’m home.” I ran after him, a bit pleased as I felt like the better brother who hadn’t turned out completely apeshit crazy. He almost faded into the house, and I couldn’t see him; instead, an older man came down a staircase and blocked me as I was about to go inside. “Hi, I’m George. Are you John’s friend?” “What? No, I’m his brother”—and I remember that the word “brother” felt weird to say aloud. “Brother? John doesn’t have a brother. Are you a little jokester perhaps?” I wanted to punch him. Smash his face with his cute little mailbox. “You wanna come in? We’re having meatloaf.” I screamed “John” but got shushed by “George” this time. “Calm down, young man. We’re about to have dinner. Maybe it’s better if you head home?” I tried again: “John!” That George guy pushed me, grabbed my arm and led me outside. He didn’t say anything or so, just left me there like a misbehaved dog. I could see John, George, some woman, and a young girl through the window, all eating their dinner. After a while, I walked home—lost as to what to do. The next day I went back there. That house with the roof wasn’t blocking the front door anymore, and the walk to the neighborhood felt longer again. As I reached the house of the Butts, I knocked on the door, rang the doorbell, screamed “John” like a maniac. The place felt empty, deserted. Over the next few days, I tried again. I called him on his phone but got told that the number was disconnected. Mom didn’t know anything; she asked about my day and told me that John always survives in “his way.” The police didn’t buy my story, and I was too poor to hire a sleuth, so I was limited to printing flyers. I wrote: “HAVE YOU SEEN ME?” with a picture of me as I didn’t manage to find a photo of him—we looked the same, so it didn’t matter. Then my number. At the neighborhood, I stapled some on trees and telephone poles. One afternoon I spent outside IKEA, handing out flyers. Some got irritated with me as they thought it was a prank. Some laughed and pointed at me, shouting, “I found you.” Most didn’t care. So after a while, I followed—also not caring. A few weeks later, I was still writing and had begun to lose weight. I returned to the neighborhood once or twice, and each time, it felt further away. Eventually, I stopped going there. And I stopped missing him. Maybe I began grieving him instead? John started to become something else. I granted myself all of those expected thoughts one thinks as someone is gone: that they’re somewhere better, that their memory lives on and whatnot. I had never really lost anyone before, except our father. Still, Dad’s passing was utterly plain; his absence had always been a fact in our lives—so as he died, it was almost as if nothing changed—the next step in evolution. Nowadays, my memories of us two growing up are with me, of course. However, those few months of intenseness are what I treasure the most, weirdly enough. They provide me with substance, even though I’m glad they’re over. I’m still writing. A few days ago, I phoned Mom. We talked about our jobs and her hip that was acting up. I casually mentioned John at the end of the call. She cut me off, saying that I need to accept things and “let that ‘John thing’ rest.” Born in Sweden, Julius writes anything from flash fiction and books to games and screenplays. He’s been both longlisted and shortlisted and received a Pushcart nomination. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Flash Fiction Magazine, Roi Fainéant Press, Isele Magazine, Lavender Bones Magazine, The Airgonaut, Sage Cigarettes, The Heimat Review, Hidden Peak Press, and elsewhere. His debut chapbook Moebler  (Anxiety Press, 2023), came out in May. He’s found on X as @PaperBlurt  and at www.juliusolofsson.com

Leopard print Grease My small cat daughter, Simone Leather Sugar My large cat son, Lugosi The Tom of Finland men who live in my sinew and swivel my neck to look at Justin Theroux types on the street The green dress Keira Knightley wore in Atonement  that I would have worn in Jovani knockoff form to prom The night I skipped prom to watch the new Star Trek  movie and eat Garden State Plaza food court cheesesteaks with Nick Messina Skull rings Carrie Fisher Lactose intolerance Velvet Eyeliner Honeyed goat chevre The photo of my grandmother grabbing Sylvester Stallone’s ass when he filmed the movie Lock Up  at our family auto body shop The fact that I didn’t have an imaginary friend as a kid but an imaginary boyfriend The fact that his name was Jonathan and I still have no idea where that came from I didn’t even have a crush on Jonathan Taylor Thomas Geminis Aquarians The Romanov execution Silver Oxblood Anna Karenina buying that train ticket the tension of routinely calling poly people “fedora fucker street magicians named Tyberon and their ren faire ass girlfriends” but having participated in polyamory myself, at least twice Fucking Paul Not fucking  Paul …but definitely fucking Eric ***** ****** of Tulsa  Whether stuffed animals have abandonment complexes and the ache I feel at those I haven’t rescued from curbs a stream of Emotional Support Snapple Zero Sugar Razz, steady a stream of emotional affairs, unsteady Rocky Network Fran Fine The smell of gasoline The smell of chlorine Fran Drescher (they are different) The riveting debate as to whether Sally Bowles is secretly American and The New World stages production of  The Woodsman My mother making me get my second holes pierced at 14 because the cool (meaning: thin, not respected) girls all had them, and how they grow pregnant with pus twice an infected year Feeling morally superior for not wearing open-toed shoes The vulgarity of a Lindt truffle bursting in your mouth Singing “Lua” into the casket of my high school best friend Leslye Headland’s Sleeping with Other People Ascending the stairs with my dress in my hand like an Austenian heroine  The Vincent Van Gogh episode of Doctor Who , because I’m not a fucking  sociopath Carrie Coon, and how I wish I had a mother The moon (sorry) Two-thirty a.m. The drummer I want to put me through the drywall Seashells, and soap rendered in their honor Mosquitos and their cis male counterparts Laura Palmer and I sharing a birthday If my inner child will ever come out of there The animatronic Christmas display on the second floor of the Fountains of Wayne store the band is named after The priest from Fleabag Catholicism Judaism And the Westchester father who fucked me into God’s palm  Whether that palm was loving or closed Death Cab for Cutie’s “Cath…” A nice man I know who can hold 60 Dixon Ticonderoga pencils in his fist Carly Rae Jepsen The terminal overuse of the phrase “iconic” Dylan Baker playing that child molestor Signs that say “no dumping” The written oeuvre of Louise Rennison, may her memory be a blessing Christmas snow and the fact that my dad is a retired fire chief who to this day forbids me from owning candles but puts 75 pounds of radioactive lava lamp ass ornaments on the Christmas tree every year That in my last fit of suicidal wishin’ and hopin’ and thinkin’ and prayin’, I couldn’t shake that my dad would not, in fact, be better off without me here, and that is the first time I have ever added anyone to that side of the list Tom John Mahoney in Moonstruck John Mahoney in anything Diaphanous 1950’s bathrooms, in pink The way Bruce Springsteen sings “move” at the end of the bridge in “Spirit in the Night ”The Saddle Brook Diner Watching my friends brown out in Tony Clark’s mom’s hot tub VH1’s I Love the 80’s  in lieu of middle school friends My allergies Unrequited love Checkerboard Vans Gene Kelly’s ass Rainbow sprinkles An exile from Pittsburgh Cardinals, whether I like it or not … Sally Rooney (obviously)             Tara Giancaspro (she) is the creator of xoxo Gossip Giancaspro, a weekly Substack ( taragiancaspro.substack.com ) including personal essays, pop culture commentary, and the various and sundry of her silly little life. She has released music under the name Sweaty Lamarr, available to stream everywhere, including "Abbey, I'm Sorry I Stole Your Man," a Jolene sequel from Jolene's perspective. She has been published in Bullshit Lit, Wig-Wag Mag, Drunk Monkeys, Meow Meow Pow Pow Lit, Dusk Magazine, and got bit by a dolphin once, establishing a potentially generational blood feud. Giancaspro can be found on Instagram and Twitter at @SweatyLamarr . She is based in New Jersey, if you couldn't tell by the hair.

I step into my gynecologist's office. I didn’t even know they had ones for consultations. I assumed they only worked in rooms with complicated recliners that had weird parchment paper strewn across it.  Are you sure? What if you change your mind? I’m one of the first patients of the day. They do a pregnancy test again and the  nurse and I laugh at what a surprise it would be to see a positive result right now.  We’re going to ask a hundred times but because we have to—tell me again what  surgery you’re getting today? I’m afraid of confrontation. I twist my rings around my fingers. I sit on the edge of the chair leaning forward. I thought I was going to throw up waiting in the hallway. I have white coat syndrome. Why doesn’t Brock get a vasectomy? I look like my dad with my IV in my hand and a hair cap on. I try to keep talking  to Brock so he doesn’t feel awkward and uncomfortable but he doesn’t anyway. I  forget other people see hospitals differently than I do. And what procedure are you in for today? I explain how much cancer there is in my family, that our DNA is littered with faults and dangers, and my gynecologist refers me to a genealogist to see if I could have kids that won’t get cancer. The genealogist tells me it was just really bad luck for both my parents.  But have you considered how expensive it is to do IVF if you do want kids later? My whole team is made up of women. It’s comforting to me. In fact I only see one man working there walk the hallway past my little curtained-off room.  Both of the fallopian tubes, right? I’ve been planning to do this since I was 13 but there’s no way my gynecologist knows this. She prioritizes stopping the migraines and trying a different pill because I won’t do the arm insert and she says the copper IUD won’t fit in my uterus.  What if you and Brock break up and you meet a new partner who wants kids? I get compliments on my tattoos and piercings. I tell another nurse I like the color  of her nails. We talk about our moms and how they inspired our styles. I can’t  stop saying thank you after each of their tasks. And what procedure are you having done this morning? I lie to her and say if I change my mind I’d be willing to adopt instead. The openness to adoption isn’t the lie part, the changing my mind and wanting kids is.  You’re sure you don’t want to try another pill? I’ve signed papers, initialed, and handed over my credit card, and consented to  whatever. Each form they hand me I sign. Saying “no” is not an option to me. I  will not haggle the price or read the fine print. This costs nothing in comparison. And what are we doing for you today? For some reason she takes me seriously the second time I come in. Maybe it’s because I used the word “sterile” but the moment I use her words from the doctor’s notes of my previous visit, her attitude seems to change, to take me more seriously. I like to believe it was always going to change though.  You do know this is permanent, right? I’m told my medical record is boring, I’m so healthy. I swat the odd compliment  away and feign blushing as I thank another nurse. Years of sheltering myself have preserved me for this drastic bodily change. This is one of the few times I am  taking the path of least resistance. I think about how I will need to remember to  disclose this on medical paperwork moving forward.  And we’re removing your fallopian tubes, correct? She’s pulling out the paperwork—which is just one sheet with only a third of a page of text—before I have even said goodbye to her. Now I imagine her pushback was more out of duty than of personal opinion. She says they were booking for May last she checked, which is about four months away. I say that’s fine. Any plans I may have that day will be moved.  30% of women regret the decision later. My gynecologist finds me before the procedure to explain the details. She looks  more tired than usual. Speaks slower than I am used to from her. I wonder how  early she got up this morning, if it was as early as me, probably earlier.  Ready to have your fallopian tubes removed? Everyone asks me how the procedure went and I answer “good” because I don’t know otherwise—I was unconscious for it. There’s pain in my shoulders from the added air being reabsorbed by my body. It takes a nurse, a doctor, and my mom to reassure me I will certainly not get pregnant now.  If you know anyone else who needs this procedure, feel free to send them my way. Brenna Ebner (she/her) is an editor first and writer second. She is a book publicist for The Lit Publicity and a recent graduate of Portland State University with a Master’s in Book Publishing. She can be found in Baltimore, MD with her two dogs or at her website brennaebner.com

“Will someone come for me?” I ask out loud. The only one to hear is a Blackbird I’ve named Stanley Stub. Stanley has one good leg, the other, his right, ends at the ankle. Stanley Stub is a lot like me, in as much as he walks like a Penguin. I wobble in short, quick bursts before my feet stick, and then a tremor kick-starts me again. His orangeade beak fizzes with the speed it raps against the glass. He’s been a daily visitor to my patio for two years.   I lean forward in my armchair, body weight lifts my backside off the crocheted blanket. I’m slung onto my feet. My body’s response is sloth-like. I negotiate the edge of the mat, I stay on the laminate, feet shuffle, stop, shuffle, stop. I pour the seeds into a Yorkshire Tea cup, and ensure they’re level with the cap of the cricket batsman. My hand jitters, up, down, round as my arm windmills. The mug contents dance to the rhythm of Stanley Stub’s pecks. “Will someone come for me?” I whisper to Stanly Stub as he first selects the sunflower hearts. He pauses, cocks his head to one side, his bead-like eye, reflects the sunlight. I’m sure he nods. I thank him and slide the patio door to. My fingers grip the chair arms, like a bird of prey, I land into the cushioned seat, comfortable to observe my little mate. The tick, tick of him selecting the seeds in order of preference weave in and out of my knotted thoughts. My tissue paper eyelids float downwards, then flip up like a roller blind. I drift from 82 to 42 and to not knowing. The Blackbird serenades his thanks. His harmonized chirps, invite me into a dream. I find myself returned to 1983. It’s a murky November morning, I switch off Breakfast Time. Normally I enjoy watching it with a cup of tea and a cigarette before getting off to work. Today I can’t as it’s all about the Walton babies. I’d spent yesterday by the side of the birthday girl, Hazel. Her birthday present, an acorn child, I’d made. The acorns selected at the beginning of October. Hazel and I collected acorns from beneath the same Oak Tree. The oak is the largest amidst a group of trees at the end of our road. We don’t collect them on a school day, though it’s on our way. I smile as I hear myself ask Hazel, “How come you’re as slow as a slug on the way to school and yet you’re like Jack Flash at home time.”  “Mum, school’s not half the fun of being home with you. And, I don’t get fish fingers at school.”  I sit the acorn child next to Hazel, on the ledge at the base of the headstone. I read each word as it appears from beneath my cloth holding hand. Hazel Wright Birthday 17th November 1961 Taken aged 9 years, 1970 It was the day after her 9th birthday. Her nan had knitted her a red hat with a blue bobble, Hazel’s favourite colors. She was excited to wear the hat and walk to school by herself. As she hugged me goodbye she asked; “Will someone come for me? Or can I walk home by myself, too.” I answered, “If you want to, love.” “I do, see you later, Mum.” “See you later, love, fish fingers for tea, so straight home, you hear?” “Okay Mum, see you later, alligator!” The day I gave birth to her, I was young and unsure if I’d done the right thing, telling them all to do one. That I was keeping my little girl, no matter what. It was always me and Hazel. I contemplate how fortunate the Walton family is, they have six girls. Hazel is my only child. I wish the Walton family all the best, but I can’t witness their beautiful story.  The fish fingers got cold. I sat at the kitchen table. Waiting, waiting for the back door to fly open and Hazel to bounce in, acorns in hand and a story to tell. The back door did eventually open. I could see the lips of the policewoman moving. The sound heard, agonizing screams, and then nothing.  The policewoman held my hand. I was sat on the sofa, no idea how long I’d been there.  “Betty, can you hear me? My name is Lorraine.” I nod my response. I put my hands over my ears, block out Hazel’s voice, “Will someone come for me?” “Betty, can you hear me? I’ve come to talk to you about your Hazel.”  “Will someone come for me?” “Betty,  your mum’s here, no need for anyone to come for you.” I clung to my mum, she absorbed my sobs. The policewoman informs us that Hazel is dead. The tapping on my patio door wakes me. The rat-a-tat takes my dream. My eyes take a moment to focus as sleep crawls away, dragging with it my heinous reality.  I can’t see Stanley Stub, in his place brown woollen tights over sparrow thin legs. I look up, a woman’s face. I can’t say I know who she is, or have I forgotten? “Can I come in, Betty?” “Do I know you?” “Can I come in, so we can talk? I know you, from a long time ago.” I study her for a minute or two. She’s tiny, got a look of Una Stubbs about her. I think I’ve heard that voice before. There’s only one way to find out if I’m right. I tell her she’d better come in. As it turns out she’s my neighbor, moved in two doors down last week. She tells me her name, Lorraine. My right hand starts its shaking and wants to windmill, I place my left hand on it.  “I know who you are, Lorraine, you’ve aged the same as me. Why have you come?” I recall she was gentle and kind on that day in 1970. The only words I heard, Hazel, dead, murder. My only thought, I didn’t go for her.    “I recognize your voice now. Lorraine, you were kind.” “Can I sit down for a minute, Betty?” “Course you can, love. Would you like a cup of tea?” She sits down but she doesn’t want a cup of tea. Lorraine tells me that she left the police a few years after Hazel. Said once the case was filed as a cold case, she knew they’d never find him. As it turns out she didn’t give up looking for him. She holds my hand, this time I have the strength to listen. Lorraine informs me she knows the person, the monster who took my Hazel, who never told her no one was coming.  I grip onto her hand. Funny I’m not shaking. I concentrate on what she’s saying. She speaks in a quiet yet strong voice, void of hate or revenge, full of compassion. She reveals that she had known the individual due to his job. It took her until earlier this year to find the final piece of evidence. She’d stayed in contact with him, sat in his lounge, had a cup of tea and a chat. All the time she’d been listening, watching, searching. Bit by bit placing the pieces of evidence together. The final fragment fell into place due to his pure righteousness. He told her he’d found the bobble hat on the pavement, outside the Newsagents. Said Hazel was wearing it when he guided her and her friends across the road. He smiled, telling Lorraine the kids had shouted back to him. ‘Thank you Mr. Lollypop Man.’  I lean forward, let my body weight lift my backside out of the chair. My body’s response is sloth-like, my mind is quick.  “Have you got the bastard?” “Yes” “Thank you.” I navigate the edge of the mat. Make us both a cup of tea.  When I sit back down, Stanley Stub has returned. He chirps, aware I have the answer. Sally has an MA Creative Writing from the University of Leicester.  She writes short stories and is currently working on her novel based in 1950s Liverpool. She sometimes writes poetry. She gains inspiration from old photographs, history, her own childhood memories, and is inspired by writers Sandra Cisneros, Deborah Morgan, Liz Berry and Emily Dickinson.  She has had short stories and poetry published in various online publications, including The Ink Pantry and AnotherNorth and in a ebook anthology ‘Tales from Garden Street’ (Comma Press Short Story Course book 2019). Sally lives in the countryside with her partner, dog, and bantam.

The audience, crammed shoulder to shoulder in tight, neat, curved rows, stared upwards, mouths agape like stunned goldfish, semi-chewed popcorn clogging up the crevices between their teeth. They were captivated by the two acrobats a hundred feet in the air. They defied gravity, flinging themselves and each other around on perilously high trapezes attached by gossamer-thin wires to the roof of the big top. A safety net would break their fall if a trick were to go wrong, but collectively the crowd ignored its presence to avoid detracting from the thrill. The trapezists, Freya and Federico, were an item. A couple of years of hurling themselves at each other, wrapping their arms and legs sinuously around each other, trusting one another with each other’s bodies, had eventually led to them sharing first a kiss, then a bed. Freya had dared to believe afterwards that Federico might be the one. Now they shared a trailer, travelling from town to town together, their own little moveable hideaway among the other  circus performers. Freya leapt back to her starting pedestal and pirouetted to face back out towards the void. ‘Hup!’ shouted Federico – trapeze artist terminology for ‘go’– from across the void. She flipped herself from her pedestal to her trapeze, swung 360 degrees once, twice, three times, then used her momentum to rocket herself forwards and upwards, flying freely, serenely, oblivious to the unknowable faces that stared up at her. Then she began to fall, arms above her head, certain to plummet to the ground – until she was snatched from the air at the last moment by Federico, who dangled from his bar by his feet. The audience oohed and ahhed in appreciation. Federico winked at her from above. The only thing preventing Freya from falling was his powerful hand around her slender wrist. The protective warmth of his grip sent Freya’s mind flying back to a few days earlier, when she’d spotted Federico emerge from the trailer belonging to Leanora the lion tamer, his hand in hers, before scuttling away in the direction of the trailer the two acrobats shared. She’d confronted him later. She’d expected denials, excuses. Instead, he’d just shrugged. ‘I never promised exclusivity,’ he’d said. ‘Freya.’ Her name coming from his mouth returned her sharply to the present, just in time for Federico to blow her a kiss and say ‘See you in the trailer later’. It wasn’t a question, it was a statement. Freya hated him for it, but his arrogance had always been part of the attraction, and she hated herself too for that. She shimmied up Federico’s body, trying not to enjoy the feel of his contours beneath her fingertips, hopped from his shoulders onto his trapeze, then leapt over to her own. Hup!’ yelled Freya, fists clenched and fingernails tearing into her palms. Her voice echoed loudly around the arena. ‘Hup!’ Federico knew Freya well. He knew she’d be hurt. He knew she’d be angry. So it came as no shock to him, as he double somersaulted towards her, that she adjusted her outstretched hand at the last second in just such a way that it looked to the audience as if he’d messed up and mistimed his jump – the sort of amateur error that could destroy the ego of most showfolk, particularly a proud, preening man like Federico. As he hurtled like a brick towards the safety net, Freya knew Federico would have expected something like this. Indeed, as he vanished into the distance below, she half fancied he winked at her again. Something else that can destroy someone’s ego, showfolk or not, is their partner cheating on them, and that can tip anger over the edge into revenge. Federico knew Freya well, yes, but he didn’t know just how vengeful she could be. He also didn’t know that she’d begun an affair of her own just the night before — with Roy, one of the circus’ safety technicians. Silly, sweet, stupid Roy. He’d been mad about Freya for as long as she could remember, always saying how he’d do anything for her. But Federico didn’t know that either.  And, as Federico slammed straight through the sabotaged net and onto the solid ground below, Freya reflected that now he never would. David Cook’s stories have been published in Ellipsis Zine, Janus Literary, the National Flash Fiction Anthology and many others. He’s a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee. He lives in Bridgend, Wales, with his wife and daughter. Say hi on Twitter @davidcook100  and Instagram @davidcook1001 .

All roads to Foulpuddle are dead ends. The sooner this dump is swallowed up by the sea, the better. So dull, even migrating birds don’t stop! The six members of Foulpuddle Parish Council listened in silence, shivering, as the contents of the Visitor Comments Box were read out. Council meetings were already salted with envy, for the Great Eel Festival at Marshwick, just up the road, was in its third triumphant year.The Fenland Gazette  had a photo gallery of rippling silvery banners, volunteers in I ♥️ EELS  T-shirts, hundreds of visitors, and a huge foam-rubber eel that shimmied through the crowds in silver-painted waders. Foulpuddle Parish Council were convinced that Jim Platt, grandstanding mayor of Marshwick, was inside the eel suit. They were bitterly aware that few festival-goers followed the road onward and eastward, through the marshes, past mudbanks and tidal inlets, to the village of Foulpuddle and the North Sea beyond. “What makes me simply livid,” said Gloria Shaw, landlady of the Jolly Eel pub, “is that by rights the Festival should be here . It was our idea, and Marshwick stole it. Jim Platt must have bugged the Council Chamber.” The Council Chamber was a one-room hall, used by the knitting group on Mondays and the carpet bowls club on Thursdays. Now in late October, the ancient heating system had failed. The Parish Council hunched over their tea and biscuits, wrapped in winter woollies and dejection. Ray Owen, the local historian, reminded them again that Foulpuddle, not Marshwick, had been home to an eel-canning works. Now ruined and lapped by the spreading salt marshes, its once-imposing structure lay at the extreme end of a silted-up canal. The Victorian entrepreneur who had built the factory and canal, back in the 1860s, had quickly realised his mistake and moved his operations inland.  The Comments Box contained more bile: The so-called ‘pub’ serves the worst food ever. The clue’s in the name. Fall in the mud here, and you’ll never get rid of the stink! Ray was furious at the insult to the village’s name since every reputable historian knew the origin of Foulpuddle  was ‘a watercourse frequented by fowl’. Gloria found the pub comment most hurtful. She said it was probably Jim Platt who wrote those things, it would be just like him. The Parish Council adjourned, agreeing on a single-item agenda for their next meeting: How To Put Foulpuddle Back on the Map. “And teach those buggers in Marshwick a lesson,” Ray said, as they left the building and plunged into the cold fen-mist. One low-tide morning in January 1989, the first clear day after a violent storm surge, Gloria Shaw was walking her dog on the old canal towpath when she noticed a row of blackened spars poking from the mud. She rang the Archaeology Department at Fenland University, who sent a carbon-dating expert to investigate. The rest, say the guidebooks, is history.  Once the remains had been identified as an unusually well-preserved Roman cargo ship, Foulpuddle was swamped with archaeologists, historians, film crews, and sightseers. Hundreds upon hundreds of them. The Jolly Eel, which had been full only once in living memory (a sighting of the rare Western Sandpiper having attracted a horde of twitchers) was booked solid for months. Gloria drafted in two chambermaids and an extra chef. She bought new bedlinen and revamped her menu, which had previously offered a choice of eel pie and chips, sausage-and-mash with onion gravy, and lasagne. Cameras recorded every step of the operation to extract the ship’s carcass from the mud. Also retrieved was its cargo of fifty-three unbroken amphorae, containing traces of fish sauce and olive oil for Caesar’s armies. A TV documentary about the salvage operation, and the ship’s removal to a purpose-built ‘Romans in Fenland’   museum, was fronted by a celebrity historian. Still more visitors were drawn to the village by her aura of suppressed passion and wild flame-red hair, like a pre-Raphaelite Boudicca - the subject, as it happened, of her PhD thesis.  Long before the crowds departed, Foulpuddle Parish Council had begun working on plans for an ‘Ides of June’ summer festival, to feature a fancy dress parade led by the Parish Council in togas, and an Imperial banquet on the village green. One day towards the end of filming, Jim Platt shyly approached the Celebrity Historian, hoping to pitch an idea for a documentary about Marshwick’s medieval past. She brushed him off politely. “I’m so sorry, but we’re on a very  tight schedule. Gloria, I just need a quick word with you please?”  The Mayor of Marshwick retreated, with slumped shoulders. Gloria Shaw thought she had never known a sweeter moment - unless it was on that evening in summer 1957 when she and Jim lay together in mud-scented cordgrass, while he whispered that they were the Romeo and Juliet of the marshlands. Patience Mackarness (she/her) lives and writes in Brittany, France. Her stories and CNF have appeared or are forthcoming in Free Flash Fiction, Citron Review, JMW, Flash Fiction Magazine, Meniscus, and elsewhere. Her published work can be found at http:\\ patiencemackarness.wordpress.com

eternity beacons   a motorcycle cracks the crowd finds silence   the dark lamp sears white through dark days, bright nights   whispering to a world indifferent to its celestial glow, cocooned in their own search for luminosity—   defeated bulbs, a coffin of glass.   Author’s note: This poem was originally published in THE ONCE FAMILIAR WAVES by ANDREW BUCKNER, in July of 2024. Andrew Buckner is a multi award-winning poet, filmmaker, and screenwriter. A noted critic, author, actor, and experimental musician, he runs and writes for the review site AWordofDreams.com .