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“Where does the moon go during the day?” The child stands with his hands in his pockets, his head craned towards the sky. A wide expanse of blue that hasn’t disappointed him yet. He has lived for seven years now and I don’t know how I ever loved without him. I tell him that the moon doesn’t go very far away, it’s just that you can’t see it. Like the moon gets shut off, just like the light in his bedroom. “Why does an elephant have such big ears?” I tell him it’s because they have to hear predators approaching. I do not know if this is true but it sounds right to me, and I hope it sounds right to him. An animal must know when something dangerous is coming, I tell him. With the big ears, they know what is coming, so they can prepare. “Like if a coyote comes at them?” he says. I say, yes, just like a coyote. A snarling, evil little package of fur and teeth, rabid, cursed. The child begins to sprint, away from me, his little feet slapping against the ground a ticking clock. My life is running towards an end. I catch up to him, breathing heavy from the effort. I get it. My chest, my head, my heart, they’re all broken. My bones picked clean by some mangy creature. The doctor called it Takotsubo Cardiomyopathy. I don’t have answers for the child. I’ll never have the answers. Not the right ones, anyway. “Where did mommy go?” I raise him up. His flaxen hair cascades almost to his shoulders, obscuring his face, tickling mine. His bony clavicle so fragile and perfect. I hug him tighter, the sharp angles of his body pressing into my ripened flesh. Even still I am amazed at where he came from. What man was I that made such a perfect person? How many versions of me died so that this one could live, so that he could be here? “Dada, why are you crying?” Chris Gilman Whitney is a writer from Western Massachusetts. He has an MFA from Bennington College, and his work has appeared in Gulf Stream, Anti-Heroin Chic, and Complete Sentence.

baby boy i love the way you fight your demons it really gives me something to sink my teeth into they say don't bite the hand that feeds but jesus christ you're delicious when you're crying come home covered in blood and shaking and i'm all yours for the taking you smell like death and i'm all over that you drop the bat and the thud as it hits the ground is a death knell is it fucked up the way i want you to tear me apart or i could tear you apart - maybe we could take turns, i'm easy i'm always easy for you in the distance there's a fox shrieking, and boy i can relate there's a harshness to its call that can only be feral and that's either you or me or both of us and maybe we're going to collide in the most awful way and it's all going to end in tears but god i always loved a good firefight let's go down in flames baby boy i'm all for oblivion these days. Charlotte Amelia Poe (they/them) is an autistic nonbinary author from England. Their first book, How To Be Autistic, was published in 2019. Their debut novel, The Language Of Dead Flowers, was published in September 2022.

You fall out the bottom of a bad dream and land ass-up in the swamp your uncle ran off to after the car accident that killed his wife. Parallel lives, he says, and you want to say no, not really, but the words get lost somewhere in the muck. It’s a cartoon of a place. A rust-eaten school bus, half-buried. Trees draped with dark curtains of wet moss so thick and heavy the light can’t get in. Smells like lettuce left in the veggie drawer way, way too long. But your uncle has a wild-ass beard and gun and a guy who brings him groceries once in a while and he says you’ll be okay here, he says no one’s looking for you anyway, which how the hell is that supposed to make you feel better about your life choices, but whatevs. A few days, a week, a month, who knows how long, time passes and you’re already feeling as off the rails as he looks, and it’s not just the beard. Back home, you imagine, things have died down, everyone’s moved on, or maybe they haven’t, it doesn’t much matter because you’re never, ever going back to that place. Not ever. You will be here, in this underbelly, this marshy thicket at the wrong end of the world. It’s just like in that song, your uncle says, and you say you have no idea what he’s talking about and then you disappear. Amorak Huey is author of four books of poems including Dad Jokes from Late in the Patriarchy (Sundress Publications, 2021). Co-founder with Han VanderHart of River River Books, Huey teaches writing at Grand Valley State University in Michigan. He also is co-author with W. Todd Kaneko of the textbook Poetry: A Writer’s Guide and Anthology (Bloomsbury, 2018) and Slash/Slash (2021), winner of the Diode Editions Chapbook Prize.

It takes me four or five poems To learn to read a poet. I haven’t written many yet So you and I don’t have that luxury. I mean what I say but Trouble saying what I mean. If I draw a comparison Please go with me there: It is usually to a nice vacation spot Like a beach or on a wing. Granted many poets use Ocean and avian metaphors. I do too. I hope you’ll continue To find them alternatively Freeing or tragic. If you come to a line That doesn’t interest you Skip it. If it’s better that way Cross it out and mail it to me: My editor is pretty ‘hands-off.’ If a poem spills Onto a second page It’s either because I couldn’t Shorten it any further Or because it became a friend I wanted to properly introduce. How else could I ensure You spend enough time with it? The word Love I use as I do In year two of a relationship When we can no longer deny Each others’ flaws and when For the first time the honied Vision of our future ends In my death. If I make an obscure reference Or literary allusion the poem Can be as well understood In ignorance and with a nod To tradition might be tolerated Forgiven or even enjoyed Like a Christmas Tree. So now if you please Choose one: salt or pepper Buying or making Drum or drum-machine? If you answered any of These questions correctly Please turn to the next page… Alexander Mint can be found in and around the cafes of New York City practicing poetry and entertaining politics.

The embers of memory smolder but no longer flare. I hold her in stolen moments of dreams, my mind altered, untethered from the ravages of melancholy and age. Her lips burn brightly, glowing with sadness as I rage behind sunken eyelids. * Those who consider me misanthropic fail to understand that I detest the commonplace in mankind. I scoff at its inhabitants who find me peculiar. Perhaps fate ordained such a life, desiring what others dismiss as foolish or self-destructive. They know not the sensations of living in the ethers where contentment secretly dwells. I keep a keen eye fixed in the hour of the wolf, when time is no longer calculated by chiming clocks, but in uneven footsteps—treading lush gardens of exotic scents and sounds, flavors and visions, where all is possible. One evening, unable to resist the addictions of my muse, I entered a café during the hours when simple men wear the sleeping caps of the dead. I took a seat at the back of the room and opened a tome of Baudelaire. I had just stepped inside a poem when my waitress appeared, perfectly proportioned, her hair combed back revealing high cheekbones and full red lips—much like the classical women of yore. She introduced herself as Madeline. “I don’t mean to pry, but why, in the devil’s name, would a lovely woman such as yourself work these infernal hours? Are you not afraid some crazed nighthawk might haunt this café? Or, perhaps I am mistaken, and you yearn for him.” “Would you be that nighthawk, sir, and if not, have you no fear walking the dark and misty streets alone—more likely than I the mark of a madman?” “I am not that of which you speak,” I replied. “Rest assured, I do not think you a fiend,” she said. “As for my choice of hours, I live for the night, when one’s fortune cannot hide behind the light of day. I sense you are of the same ilk. What is your heart’s delight? I regret we’re out of crème brûlée.” “How unfortunate,” I said, pretending to wipe away a tear. Her lips affected a pout. “We have a large selection of fine desserts. Care to see a menu, though none exists?” “Very clever, my dear. I leave the choice to you.” Oh, how this fanciful woman impressed me, her language and beauty articulated far above her station. Had my mind been seized by the sighs of the poet? I whispered: “The café is quiet. Join me?” She raised a finger, suspending her reply, then left and returned with two braided cakes glazed in unidentifiable sweetness. She gestured to an idle waiter, who reluctantly brought us porcelain cups, flatware, and a pot of espresso. “I am in love with these twisted pastries,” she said. “They are called crullers, but worthy of a grander name: Perhaps, labyrinths de doux mystère, for each mouthful strikes the palate with unexpected surprises.” “You bestow upon this pastry the greatness of myth,” I said, eager to taste those sweet mysteries. She tilted her head as if angling for a kiss. Her hair lightly brushed my face, its scent the leafy dew of autumnal nights. “Do not allow impatience to rule desire,” she advised. “Savor it slowly. We have all the time in the world.” I slipped into utter subservience, a state where one no longer suffers the angst of destiny. “Yes! The flavors are remarkable,” I said. “I shall buy this café and make you my partner.” “I assumed by your appearance you were no stranger to wealth,” she replied. “Vanity and prosperity do not impress me. A beggar might show more discretion. Could you see yourself as one?” “Myself as a beggar? I hope never to honor that rank. I’d rather lavish my wealth on you.” She neither blushed nor took offense. “Let the labyrinth decide,” she said. We lowered our heads as if in prayer and plunged ourselves back into the euphoria of the twisted pastries. Madeline and I left the café. The air turned wintery. She proposed we steal away to her nearby flat. I raised my collar then held her close, warming her with kisses each step of the way. As we crossed the boulevard, our senses engaged in restless ardor, and neither of us noticed the horseless carriage speeding out of control. It struck us and continued on as if no transgression had been committed. The impact shattered my leg. Madeline lay across the cobblestones, her body twisted and draining life. “Don’t leave me,” I begged. Love looked up and spoke in labored breath. “Marcel, take this. It is our only hope.” She placed a card in my hand as her head fell limp and the unobtainable was lost. I shoved the card into my coat pocket. Pain raged through my body, yet nothing matched the agony of witnessing the death of perfection. I received the best medical care yet the damage to my leg left me with a permanent defect. I became a cripple, dependent on a cane. Each day, I paced my flat attempting to strengthen my gait. The healing of the shattered leg slowly progressed yet I remained morose. The mortuary sent a message to announce the headstone I purchased had been set at her gravesite. I asked no one to attend the advent, seeking no consolation, for pity is a fool’s elixir that provides no relief. Storm clouds threatened the day I slogged to the cemetery. I kissed the cold granite on which was etched, Madeline, I will find you again. Rain fell and I placed my hand in my coat pocket. There was the card Madeline gave me the night she died. Months passed and I had forgotten about it. M. Mage Nu.1 Rue de Rêves What good was this? If only the card were a letter of transit to the sphere Madeline now inhabited. Marcel, it is our only hope. Her words resounded in my ears. That evening, after the showers let up, I set out for the address, traversing the gas-lit walkway that followed the river southward. The unexpected distance and damp air caused my leg to ache with each step. I found myself in a remote district I’d never visited. A gray wall loomed high and upon it the address, Nu.1. I passed through an iron gate and hobbled along a sodden path toward the door, then struck the portal with my cane. When no response came, I called, “Open up! You have a visitor in search of the impossible.” No one greeted me. I stepped back, looking for another entrance when I tripped and fell. “Ouch, you clumsy fool. Watch your step! You nearly spilled the dinner from my bowl.” I’d stumbled over a disheveled man who wore the slovenly garb of a beggar. He lay on a mound of dirt near the door. I apologized to the poor fellow, then picked up my cane and handed him twenty francs. “Ah, twenty francs for my suffering. How generous,” he said in an irritable tone. “If it were twenty thousand I would still remain poor. You’ll soon understand.” “Careful with that tender leg,” came a voice through the encroaching fog. An odd little man stood attired in a mourning dress and top hat. One hand twisted his waxed moustache; the other held a key. “Doctor Mage, at your service,” he said, bowing. “You have come to the end of a tedious journey. Please, come inside,” he said, pointing to the house. Mage didn’t see the fellow lying beside us—or ignored him. My host turned the key and opened the door, then ushered me in. He took my overcoat and cane and led me toward a smoke-filled chamber that exuded a sharp floral scent. We made our way through a maze of sleeping men, then entered a room illuminated by the reddish glow of hanging lanterns. The faint beat of a high-pitched drum entrained my heart. “My assistant will handle the preparations,” he said. I turned to inquire what he meant. Mage vanished and in his place stood an old woman. From her apron, she extracted a metal rod with a tar-like substance at one end, then lit it with a lantern’s flame. She placed the smoky nugget into the bowl of a pipe and handed it to me. “Here you will find what you seek,” she said. “You are no different than the others—men who believe they can cheat Death.” Without pausing to think, I inhaled deeply. The second puff stupefied me. The room turned upside down and I found myself standing on the ceiling with no ill effects, recalling pleasant memories that flickered across my mind like a newsreel. When it ended, Madeline appeared before my drowsy eyes. The buried treasure had been exhumed. “Marcel. My cheeks are so cold. Here, feel.” I touched Madeline’s sullen face and felt nothing but a gust of cool air. She faded away and the old woman appeared. “You cannot have her unless a bargain is struck,” she chided. “The girl is yours if you have the courage to strip yourself of all possessions.” Yes, the opium held me in its sway. I agreed to her terms, choosing the immortality of dreams rather than a miserable existence without Madeline. I stood numb and shameless as the hag undressed me. She placed my garments on a rack and called for the poor wretch whom I stumbled over. He disrobed and dropped his tattered rags in a pile, then stuffed his leprous body into my clothes. “Now, Marcel,” said the hag, smacking her loose lips. “You will wear his scraps and eat from his bowl.” The beggar strutted about the room in my haberdashery—twirling my cane—glowering as he handed me a paper and quill. I signed away my fortune with a single stroke. “Excellent,” said Mage, who mysteriously appeared. “Now you must leave.” “Where is Madeline? I gave everything for her.” “She resides here,” he said. “You may see her tomorrow, then the next day, and the next. In time, you will have no desire to leave this sanctum. Madeline will lie in your arms forever as you sleep among the other men who dream they have found what was never lost.” With those curious words, Mage opened the door to his madhouse and tossed me out. I fell atop the filthy mound of dirt where the beggar once dwelled—now my domain. I dined on scant morsels placed daily in my bowl. Festering sores covered my body. I grew weaker each day and longed for the hour when entry into the asylum would be granted. There I inhaled until my phantom lover returned. In time, I was given a cot and a medicine chest beside the other men whose opium dreams became their reality. In such atrophy, I claimed the unobtainable, lingering like the poet in his artificial paradise, dreaming of Madeline. Stephen Myer is a writer and musician based in Southern California. His stories and poetry have been published in online and print journals, such as Goats Milk Magazine, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Grand Little Things, The Literary Yard, The Avenue Journal, The Quiet Reader, Close To The Bone, and others.

The tragedy of touch is a multi-sensory dive into the self, a collection of poems presented across a range of formats that invites the reader to explore their soul on a voyage through the emotional spectrum. I open The tragedy of touch to be immersed in colours and Venn diagrams and aesthetic layouts, to prose that makes sense left to right and top to bottom, and think: I'll never wrap my thoughts around all this. But here it is - and this goes for everything Shiksha Dheda writes - the author walks with you, guiding and engaging with you and inviting you to see what's within; and not just the words on the page, but within the self. For me, the challenge in Shiksha's highly accomplished chapbook lies not in the comprehension of its multifaceted elements, but, as it turns out, in having the courage to investigate my own inner workings. I haven't studied poetry since school. I've read a lot, but not sought to extrapolate prose the way I was taught to: they used to urge us in class, 'What does the poet mean here?' We were forever interpreting the concepts delivered to us by the author. But reading The tragedy of touch (absorbing actually, because there's much more to this chapbook than just words on a page) I find myself exploring not what the author means, but what I mean. Because every line reflects back on me and sends me willingly into my introspection, and this is the genius of the writing here: it's fluid and it runs through me as a reader until I'm a part of its sentiments and its sentiments are a part of me. It's the skill of a writer who doesn't paint by words, but hands me, the reader, the canvas and brushes. The intensity of the writing is immediate: Shiksha has invited me to explore the world she's created, but it's a world that exists within, a collision of thoughts and feelings that demand self-inspection of the soul. The tragedy of touch is a ride deep into the emotions, a very stellar example of the author's voice which is woven like a current through the prose: Shiksha's words are surrendered to the reader, to be absorbed and interpreted on an individual basis. Throughout this 19-piece collection there's a tidal ebb and flow, sometimes soothing, sometimes heart rending, always powerful. A recurring sense of drawing to an edge and touching without grasp. Of slipping back, inexorably, to the realm from whence we came. To begin with I meet Red, Shiksha's warm sunrise, and it's an element that will expand throughout the book to fill our emotions; I meet cool Blue, whose calming influence is at once guiding and heartbreaking, on a journey to eternity. Red and blue come together in Then there were two and Fresh air, ocular poems with two gently contrasting voices each reaching for the other, yearning for an understanding that never manifests. I am lured in with visionary formats that switch on the bulbs of comprehension and then, just as I follow their sequence, the circuit flips and I find new meaning. Words run from left to right and top to bottom and can be read in two or three directions. These are poems and puzzles combined, literary conundrums that invite me to solve them. I'm up for air, literally, with Fresh Air (very different to the almost identically-named Venn diagram that precedes it) a traditionally formatted piece that is equally patent and beautiful, a simple tribute that speaks of relief from pain and a tonic to the soul. This book is a visual and poetic pleasure but it isn't all one way or the other, image or text: the deeply sensual and heart rending Stardust is presented without diagrams, but the font descends in a staircase dripping with passion and despair. It's a poem which can be interpreted in more than one manner, as is the theme throughout this collection. I read Stardust on two separate readings and found distinctly but beautifully contrasting sentiments each time. In Under(stand)ing and Understand me Shiksha draws red and blue closer still and invites me to further explore passion versus logic, and what happens when contrasting personalities come within touching distance, each clawing to assuage. Green is introduced, a voice of equanimity on this voyage that's pulling me ever deeper into my own reflection. I continue into prose in which I become gladly entangled, through incarnadine emotions, cool rejections, colours and shapes and thoughts and feelings, through text and images (including the wordless Do I only want you, proving the author's competence to quite literally paint a display of emotion). The journey - and if ever there was a literary journey it's this, because we begin in the depths of the cosmos and travel lightyears - transports me on through a middle earth of understanding and coexistence. The beautifully complex notion of counter-passions are explored in A negative and a negative make a positive, and I am taken to the edge of emotional acceptance but never quite beyond: the theme of reaching but never holding recurs, that pervading sense of nearing some vital discovery, but by now I've seen enough to know that the object may be beyond me. I arrive with racing heart and rushing blood at the book's titular piece, a breathtaking work that is tragically poignant and speaks of the evanescence of love. The journey is complete and whether it ends conclusively I wouldn't deign to divulge: not for fear of giving away a spoiler, but because, of course, my conclusion will be markedly different to yours. And that is the beauty of The tragedy of touch. To read it is to learn about myself, a trademark that Shiksha Dheda has made her own. No poet I've read has the same ability to deliver words straight to the reader's soul, to allow me the space to explore my own spiritual components. At least, I never came across one during all the years I spent reading the classics at school. 'The tragedy of touch' is written by Shiksha Dheda. It's an image-rich feature that includes Venn diagrams and text that's structured in various visual formats. 'The tragedy of touch' is available here: https://www.fahmidan.net/the-tragedy-of-touch-digital-chapbook Matt Kruze is an occasional fiction author who writes stories that cross several genres. Normally a crime has been committed, but whether that's part of a thriller, mystery, fantasy or sci-fi, is often open to interpretation.

Note from author: Soft Serve is a little piece voiced by two narrators, one a young girl full of enthusiasm and just making her way into the world. The other narrator is a middle-aged man engaged in a futile battle against the increasing flood of dog waste taking over city sidewalks. HEADS-UP: this piece has some icky bits, mainly references to dogshit and melted ice cream. It's nothing gratuitous. I hope you have fun reading Soft Serve. I sure had fun writing it. Ice cream drips, first in a trickle down their faces, then into the parking lot. Soon it’s dripping off the scoop before I can get the cones packed. Today is the day we were supposed to help people forget their problems for a while and unite the town through the magic of ice cream. The whole walk here, I could see the cars driving down to get a good spot alongside the hill. The crowd stretches off, snaking a bit past where I can see, quite a big deal with the heat and all. Mr. Tibbetts is sweating quite a bit. He isn’t his usual self. Last year took a lot out of him. He’s polite and stuff, but not much beyond the formalities. “We’re going to have to get everybody served quickly as we can. The power’s out. Radio says the grid’s blown.” I hand a family their cones, watch the son’s chin goateed in drippy liquid. “Ruined,” Mr. Tibbetts says. “An American tradition completely destroyed. “ Like most losing armies, we knew we were doomed from the get-go. Deborah and I pry nuggets of shit with a shovel, depositing them into a contractor bag. The stuff seems to be everywhere: all over the sidewalk, laid in chunks on the strip of dirt abutting the curb, logs of shit scattered among the mini-garden. This is the same little garden a group of volunteers arduously cultivated in the dumping site by the wall overlooking the train. For a brief while, the presence of the garden led to a cessation of dumping. Occasionally someone leaves a discarded toilet or tub, which we repurpose and use as planters. Deborah, one of the strongest people I know, cries silently. “This is horrible,” she points out a tomato plant, shit smeared down the sides of the planter. Someone must have picked up a dog, squeezing its belly like a ketchup dispenser, spraying the shit everywhere. As I squeeze the chocolate syrup on top of a vanilla cup, the very sweaty customer lets out a groan. “That syrup is probably the most solid thing in that cup,” he says. I feel terrible and I tell him as much. It’s not like this should be a surprise. All the way up the line people are pointing out the melty ice cream in astonishment. What are they going to do, go somewhere else? Everywhere, the same blown grid. The same tragic situation. I hand the man his change, avoiding eye contact as he stiffs me on the tip. His sweat drips onto his side of the takeout window, just as the ice cream will soon follow the same trajectory. I’m getting good at recognizing the different types, the taxonomies. Little dog, medium dog, big dog. Human. The horrors of the smells. Hector has been driven a bit crazy by all of this. He’s taken to staying up all night, perched with coffee and lawn chair, inside the community garden entrance. He’s on stakeout, he calls it. When I arrive at the garden to get the supplies for my cleanup shift, Hector’s got some guy by the neck. He’s on top of the dude pushing his head towards a pile of dogshit on the sidewalk. “Motherfucker, this is payback.” “Hector! That’s not the mad shitter, that’s Ephraim,” Deborah yells, running up from around the corner. “He’s a garden volunteer.” “Look, I’ve got my dog’s poop in a bag,” the guy says, waving a gushy blue bag. “Sorry,” Hector says. “I see a dog walker near the garden, I flip out.” With his foot, he sweeps away some of the garbage away from the bodega candles by the garden entrance. He brushes a leaf off a picture of a young man fastened to the fence with zip ties. Ephraim, the garden volunteer says something, but I’m taken by the candles, the stoic assertion of the flames. I know the face in the picture. Part of the group of guys who drink on the sidewalk outside the garden. Could’ve sworn I just saw him the other day. One customer, a nice old women from the church where we used to have girl scouts, gives me very detailed directions on her ice cream sundae. “Just another scoop, here. Now lay the banana across, nice, good.” Who am I to begrudge anyone their futilities, I who have been assiduously scooping liquid all afternoon. She tips me two dollars as her banana sinks into the ice cream. Mr. Tibbetts sits, head in hands, face possibly covered in tears, but it could be sweat. “Finished, I’m finished,” he says. “You are a good girl. It is up to your generation to come up with a solution. We crawled out of the sea, evolved from apes, all that we’ve weathered. The transition from feudalism to capitalism, we made it so far. It’s just too hot, humans can’t live like this.” He says more, but I don’t follow, I’m thinking of humans crawling back into the sea, an all-consuming, biblical sea of melted ice cream. “Flee. We must flee.” Mr. Tibbetts still carrying on. His bowtie uncharacteristically rumpled. “This place is an institution. Built it up from the ground. We made people happy. We were there for them when they lined up after little league games. We were there for their birthdays. We employed people. You are good girl. You must survive this, work for a future worth living. Flee!” Where will we flee to? I scoop more liquid onto a customer’s cone. “There you go, rocky road, sprinkles on top.” Young Maggie accompanied me yesterday. Sweet, young Maggie, absolutely the most pleasant, upbeat human, not an ounce of cruelty in her. Together we sang joyous songs. She sculpts common experience into song the way I sculpt the scoops into cones. With purpose, unashamedly. Walking to the ice cream parlor, woo hoo! Everyone will be so happy, woo hoo! The boys hurl epithets and handfuls of muddy gravel. The gravel muddies our Cream Beacon uniforms a bit, but we keep our chins high. Today, Maggie doesn’t have the energy to come help me. She says it’s the heat, but I wonder if it was the boys. If I have ever felt something so resembling hate, I feel it for them. “She’s not well, mother says, she needs to stay home and rest. The heat just too much. I wish it would rain and take the edge off. Cool things off some.” It hasn’t rained in forever. It’s been raining so long I can’t remember what it was like in the days before. Will the rain ever stop? Will the shitting ever stop? No one person, no one dog can be behind this. It’s got to be some kind of concerted campaign. I’m sure of this. Hector scoops a tremendous shit that looks like it came from a moose into a contractor bag. He’s got knee high fisherman’s boots on. Running for the bus through Poop Alley, that’s what the kids call it, the strip of street that crosses over the surface line, where the train ravines the neighborhood, making the rows of drab apartment blocks look like a badly assembled montage. We’re running for the bus in the rain, first my daughter, then me. The bus barely moves among the truck traffic, but it’s dry. Through the resentful stares they register their olfactory displeasure. My boots and hers have brought the shit with us. “Papa, I don’t think this is dog poop.” The halitosis tinge, reek of rotting innards and humanity rendered something interminably foul. We leave the bus, make our way home in the rain. No way can she go to school like this. A group of kids pass by, cartoon characters on their umbrellas. Hector’s on some bullshit about the youth, “…their fresh faces, fresh smells…so clean, like that new car smell…” Deborah stares out at the traffic, forever clogged, never moving. “Cars, the highest stage of civilization,” she says. Mr. Chablis, that’s what they called him. The latest local memorialized on the fence around the garden. Where they got the picture zip tied to the chain link I have no idea. Must’ve come from a family member. This Mr. Chablis is from another era, younger, with a smiley glow, in a tuxedo. Where could the photo have been taken? A wedding? I only knew him as someone drinking wine from a paper bag, engaged in screaming matches with some of the other street characters. The carboard box shielding the bodega candles is getting soaked, the flames still flicker hopefully. Someone has smeared shit on the inside of the box and the base of the candles. I have no strength left to fight this. If only there was somewhere to flee to. Rico Cleffi’s work has been published the Brooklyn Rail, Flatbush Review, Urban Omnibus, the Village Voice and elsewhere. He edits the radio-issues website, Frequency and Amplitude (freq-amp.com). He lives in Brooklyn, New York, where he spends his days attempting to traverse the sidewalk without messy encounters with man’s best friend’s chief export.

I inspect the fence post, and Beechie trots over and nudges my hand with her nose. She’s always asking me for a pat on the head or a handful of grass. She acts more like a dog than a goat. The other goats are always out in the field standing on one of the old cars, pulling up weeds with their wobbly lips, or singing monotone songs. It seems like they’re all waiting for what’s next. The horses watch me with their black pearl eyes and follow me with their pointy ears. All of them, the horses, the goats, even the rattle snakes, they all know what’s going on. I’m thankful for the job, but Mr. Crawford didn’t mention the long stretches of time between seeing an actual person. I thought I'd enjoy it, but after the first two weeks, I realized I need social interaction from time to time. The only other people I see out here are the butchers and, sometimes, equestrians. Once a month the butchers arrive, all greedy and bug eyed. They leer at the goats, rubbing their hands together. I saw one of them lick his upper lip while inspecting a billy goat the last time they were all here. I turn to the goat trotting beside me. “Not you though, Beechie. Nobody’s interested in you.” She thumps her front hoof on the ground and bends down to uproot a few dandelions. She stares at my nose as she chomps the weeds. After pouring some feed into the trough, I check each stall. Only one needs scooping this afternoon. This is my life, now: talking to an old nanny goat and scooping horse shit inside of a stable that’s nicer than the cabin I sleep in. I grab the chain saw from the barn and make my way across the field to the tree line. The tree woke me up last night when it fell. Louder than anything I’ve ever heard before. I rode the four-wheeler over to inspect it this morning first thing. It’s a fallen hickory and if I remember right, it’s just beyond the edge of the forest. Working out here, I realize why so many fables are set in the forest. I’ve already started seeing things our here, hallucinations, I guess you could say. Two tall dark figures in the woods. They weren’t actually there, I know that. But the shadows out here are deceiving. The mind wanders, you know. A branch cracks above my head and a bird cackles behind my back. The tops of the trees sway, and the wind whistles through an alley of pines. This is where some songs come from: the plump silence here. It swells if you stand in it long enough. Mr. Crawford not only sells goats, but he’s got about four hundred acres of pine forest out here that I’m in charge of. Row after row of pines, all for paper. As part of my job, I also have to maintain the logging roads back here in these pines. Got to make sure the trucks can get back here and scoop all the young trees up. I yank the pull-chord, and the chain saw jolts to life. Rattling and wailing, its echo bouncing around the forest canopy. Sending all the fauna back to their burrows. I assess the angle of the cut. After careful consideration, I slice into the massive tree trunk. Cutting into a freshly fallen hickory smells dense, like my grandfather’s sweaters, like dirt and campfire, a hint of old tobacco. Before I slice my way to the middle, I back the saw out and start a cut from the bottom. Almost everyone that uses one of these things eventually gets hurt. My moment with this chainsaw hasn’t happened yet, but it’s probably coming. Mr. Crawford happened to be here inspecting the property on the day the last farm hand got his (chainsaw lesson, I mean). Mr. Crawford picked up the guy on the other side of that ridge. He nearly bled to death in Mr. Crawford’s truck. The hospital had to amputate his leg, and he lost this job. Mr. Crawford said he couldn’t use him on the farm anymore after the accident. No severance. No help. No nothing. He said he hired me to help get me back on my feet. I’m not complaining. Since getting out, I can’t even get a job at Burger King. I always have to check that box: PREVIOUS CONVICTIONS YES [ X ] NO [ ] And then fill in that section below that says explain. It doesn’t matter if I’m honest or if I lie on those applications, they all know. They can look it up. And they do every time. The guy that lost his leg was a former prisoner too. Mr. Crawford probably thinks people like us are expendable. He works in the city as a stockbroker. He says he bought all eight hundred acres for the day when it all collapses. The way he talks about it (the market, the economy) makes me think running a chainsaw and trading in the stock market are equally dangerous. Just when you think you’ve got the hang of it, something unexpected can happen, the chain gets hung on a knot and kicks the blade back at you, or some bit coin bro fucks with a stock no one’s ever heard of, and the bottom falls out. Still, the life of a stockbroker and a farm hand look pretty different to me. Mr. Crawford’s co-workers and their families came out here two weekends ago. He asked me to be one of the bartenders, but I told him I couldn’t be near booze since getting sober in prison. So, he asked me to run the coat check at the front door. That’s the only time I’ve been in the farmhouse. I saw all those families pulling up in their black Benzes and yellow Porsches. One family drove up in one of the first Lucid electric cars. The guy said it was built by one of his friends who is a prince in Saudi Arabia. Then he threw his coat at me like I was a rack on the wall. I spit in the breast pocket before I gave it back to him at the end of the night. It’s probably all dry and crusty now. He'll never know. No one ever uses those pockets. As I cut nearly all the way through the fallen Hickory, the crack of the tree trunk thunders over the buzz of the saw. I kill the motor and set the machine on the ground. There’s that hazy quiet again. I take it in before the wrens start warbling again. With all my weight on top of the cut, I stomp. The tree fractures into two pieces and my heel slips on the bark. The two pieces thud down to the forest floor, and I land hard, my ribcage on top of the tree’s trunk, graceless and exhausted. I remain in that position, feet resting on the earth, fingers dug into the dirt, my body twisted and arching over the hickory’s carcass. One broken and limp body on top of another. The squirrels emerge, then the wrens. I lay there until I see a red-tailed hawk fly overhead. I’ll finish the job and drag the pieces to the fire pit tomorrow. The saw is still warm when I pick it up. By the time I reach the cabin, the cicadas are crooning and the sky is blushing. I thump my boots on the edge of the porch. The mud, manure, and hay crumble down on top of a growing mound of dry earth. The screen door grinds along the floor as I open it. I turn to take another look at the field. I really can’t believe this is where I’ve ended up. I thought I was going to end up in San Francisco. Ebby thought that too. The metal spring quivers, and snaps the door closed. I look down at my rug. It’s not really mine. After the accident, I just took the rug. Every time I look at it, I think about the first time I slept on it. Ebby had hosted a birthday party for one of our friends in San Francisco. She had made this incredible Birria from her mother’s recipe. I ended up helping her clean up after the party. The stew was amazing. The meat was tender and the adobo sauce was divine, but someone spilled a huge clump on her rug. I don’t think we ever figured out who it was. After a cleaning session where we had a debate about which method worked better to take care of the gleaming red blemish on her treasured rug, we split what was left of an open bottle of wine and sat in her kitchen talking until three in the morning. She offered her freshly cleaned rug for me to sleep on for the rest of the night. After a few months of us seeing each other, I moved upstairs to her bedroom. We had three good years before the accident. It seemed important to grab the rug before Ebby’s parents came and got everything else. My side throbs in unison with my heartbeat. I grab a blanket and pillow and lay down on my back. I center my torso in the medallion of the rug, take a deep breath and glance out the window toward the tree line. There is a small shred of orange light left in the sky. The trees are outlined by what’s left of the day’s light. I always try not to look into the forest after a certain time. I can’t stop thinking about Ebby and that day she lost her sunglasses riding on the back of my motorcycle. I had told her how to ride on the back but it was still my fault. I should’ve slowed down when I felt her lean over like that. Should’ve known to stay away from the curb, that fucking fire hydrant. I don’t want to keep looking at the forest tonight, but I can’t look away. The trees sway. The moon is dim and blue. The sky ripples above the treetops. One shadow in the forest seems different, more energetic, than the others. I’ve never tried talking to the figures I imagine I see out here, but tonight I pose a question. I hesitate and brood about whether the figure is truly there. “If you are there,” I whisper, “why don’t you take me with you?” The spring on the front door tings. I sit up and snap my head toward the door. My ribs sting my insides. I palm my side and watch the door. The spring crackles twice more. It’s just the coiled metal cooling off from the heat of the day. I turn and look back out the window. My eyes widen and my back stiffens. I lean forward, toward the window. It’s undeniable. “Ebby,” I say. Her thick black hair glistens in the moonlight like coal shimmering in a flickering fire. Two of her fingers rest on her collar bone. She says nothing and stares at the bookshelf on the other side of the cabin. She must know that I’m down here on the floor. I stand up. Her gaze doesn’t falter. She still seems to be looking past me, through me. I wave my hands. She turns away from the window, like she’s in an orbit with the forest itself. “No. Wait.” I bolt out of the cabin without any shoes on, one hand waving through the night air and the other grasping my rib. I trot around to the other side of the cabin. Panting, I shake my head and look down at my feet. Chasing ghosts, with no shoes, and what feels like a broken rib. I wish someone else was here to see this. Before I round the corner of the cabin, I hear it. A deep and big inhale breath. I can hear the loneliness and the surrender in the exhale too. Before turning around, I hold still for a moment and listen. The breathing was coming from a few yards behind me, toward the tree line. I hunch down to line up the moonlight with the horizon. I see a silhouette laying there, and know right way, it’s her. The ryegrass crunches under my socked feet. She doesn’t move as I get closer. She’s barely alive when I kneel beside her. Her feet are stretched out; head thrown back. Mr. Crawford told me this might happen soon. Her body is not as warm as usual, her belly is rising and falling, peacefully, slowly. I place my hand on her forehead and rub my thumb on the knot in-between her eyes. I swat a fly away from her open mouth. Her yellow eye meets my green eyes. Beechie’s mouth opens wider. I hear her breathing change and I begin to stroke her neck. She lets out one more breath and closes her eye. I gently close her mouth. I stand up and survey the field and the darkness beyond the tree line. My shoeless feet plop through the dry and prickly grass once more. Inside the cabin, a fire glows inside the iron stove, and I can smell the faint yet tender aroma of warm birria. A word from the author: Fallen Hickory is inspired by the time I spent working on a six-hundred-acre pine tree farm. I didn’t see a person most days during my time there and this work of fiction aims to point to both the allure and the drawbacks of being completely alone in a landscape.

while damp and sticky I’d watch you make yourself comfortable lining my side head on my chest fingers at play with the hair stroking each in its turn as though each deserved a tenderness it is rare to see this side of anyone rare for anyone to stay after the act even rarer for them to come again weeks later odd messages of day-to-day workloads and wants for the weather to change smile emojis and how are you doing todays I was almost a landslide fumbled footing of words tripping out on the tongue edge so often I end up dragging my voice back reminding it not to wander teaching it the dangers of temporary homes A word from the author: The poem explores intimacy and the want to be a part of something, while fearing what that means. Dale Booton (he/him) is a twenty-six year old queer poet from Birmingham. His poetry has been published in various places, such as Verve, Young Poets Network, Ligeia, Queerlings, Fahmidan, Tealight Press, Dreich, Spelt, Acid Bath Publishing, and Muswell Press. He is currently working on his first pamphlet. Twitter: @BootsPoetry

Dive after the gale in desolate shafts of light to opaque fish stare and flurry shifty answers, They’re unaccountably gone. In yearning I swim hunting for that purple-tinged torrential back pulse, Where’s beauty? I’d ask again, It’s inexplicably gone. Joan García Viltró is a poet from Cambrils, on the south Catalan coast. His poems reflect Mediterranean mythologies and Nature under human pressure. Published in Borders and Belonging (anthology, Cephalopress), The London Magazine, Full House Literary, etc. Shortlisted in 2022 for the Aesthetica Creative Writing Award, longlisted for the erbacce-prize for poetry.

look at you afraid of a Plant City sangria you silly barrier island you don’t tell me what to do who do you think you are secret kudzu cypress secret twilight hour if all the best writers jumped off a drawbridge would you do it too don’t you tell me how to I mean I’ve been saying all along it isn’t me who doesn’t believe in me it’s you I know I can do it I hear you crying in the background sometimes things take longer sometimes years I’m waiting in a literal cow pasture there are literal eels in a bathtub what’s the takeaway here I’m waiting I’m outsiding I’m dodging I’m picture perfect I’ve been away a long time don’t worry I haven’t forgotten have you ever felt nothing I mean as if you are nothing did you hear it in the wind the word of the year just wondering if only I could find that second twin universe that runs backward in time to mirror this the right way this isn’t journal scholarship though it should be subjunctive clause causality because head full of jelly beans gets you nowhere lil miss peer review this table setting says a lot about you when you vacuum I think it’s music wouldn’t you love to listen to a song without a memory to stroke hair to give sips of water it takes seven years to overcome something bad to infinitively adverbially feel powerless you of lore you of cozy you of linger don’t you make me make that sound if you say disgusting things you will get throat cancer you will never leave gator lake some of us do it for the money some of us do it because if we don’t we’ll die thank god for Sinéad thank god the opposite of patriarchy is fraternity not matriarchy there be some low vibration bitches out here sometimes things get ugly some times are ugly this look you’re seeing is for a girl who does porn in the Valley to fund her dental school passion she needs something to wear to smoke something blue with Frank Ocean I just want to drink cherry cola at the Vero Beach Holiday Inn I just want a portable staircase with a tiny door underneath of storm bringer you of beautiful and annoying of that guy in Peach Pit unbothered and moisturized so what if I don’t take pictures I just want a normal conversation is everything okay is everything okay is everything okay are you doing things are you blackberrying are you forgiving are you feeling are you judging are you reading review: judgment used to be spelled with an e ask Flannery at least that’s how the South spelled it in pastimes I powered through 192 voids fuller than all fullness appearing by my absence I was pre-you before you and you and you I go to the movies alone sit in the same row as a safe older couple though I possess the toolkit to transform into a venomous creature it’s not likely to happen kill mosquitoes with my hands feel no grief I cut my teeth on saw palmetto no this is not confessional no this isn’t about you thank god I love it when you’re gone thank god you lost so much when you lost me the amoeba of our warm water century I don’t find it hard to be myself but find it hard to let myself be my deadline is the last awful poem my deadline is when you go my deadline is when it comes out you dim sum expert you expert beef Wellington you obscure Korean noodles cooked by Greg your husband fuck me (he did) gently with a chainsaw don’t circular nature don’t you once again don’t you dare don’t you A word from the author: The piece is about what the idea of home is (literally, spiritually, emotionally, aurally). This idea of home includes the idea of writing, because to this narrator, writing is also "home." Mary Petralia earned her MFA from the University of Central Florida. Her poems have appeared in Shooter Literary Magazine, Sein und Werden, Gone Lawn, Bridge Eight, Eyedrum Periodically, and other publications. She is based in Florida, where she is working on her first small collection.

Jody and I were in the strip club. Music blared and strobe lights pulsed on a small stage. In the spotlight, a dancer was wrapping, and unwrapping herself around a pole. One leg raised at a hundred-and-sixty-degree angle for the benefit of those gathered in awestruck wonder. This place reeked of a misguided sense of power play - Jody and I got it. Our evening’s sponsor, Richie Richman reached deep into his pocket and said, ‘Girls what can I get you?’ It was 2am, Archer St, W1, London, on a particular Saturday night. Jody and I were walking between clubs when an approaching Bentley slowed down alongside us. The window wound down and Richman nodded to Jody - ‘Want to come for a ride?’ She turned to me, ‘You want to come with?’ We echoed one another. ‘Where you going?’ I asked ‘Where you going?’ ‘To a club,’ he replied ‘What kind of club?’ ‘What kind of club?’ she asked ‘Strip Club.’ ‘You wanna go to a strip club?’ ‘Never been before,’ I said. ‘Come.’ The chauffeur pulled the car over and with great deference opened the door to the back passenger seats. Jody and I slid in. Richie Richman gave me a most unwelcome look. ‘Who the fuck is she?’ ‘She stays or I leave,’ said Jody I was her get out clause Insurance policy Buffer. I gave Richman a super warm smile and introduced myself. Jody had been chatting with him in MoMo’s earlier in the evening. This was a ‘girls night out’. Six of us in total celebrating female empowerment and the recent bank bonus awarded to gorgeous Ellie’s husband. Her best friend Carly was over from the States for a weekend. There were two other women I didn’t know, both single and both worked in the city. The doormen were hard at it that night. Access gained due to Carly’s dexterous tongue. She sucked off one of the super hot bouncers. ‘Still got it going on girls…’ she cheered, ‘despite two kids,’ and we all high-fived her. No one chatted me up in Momos. This club was for the super aspirational, deluxe bull-shitters, the glitzy, glam, groomed and made up, 100% bullshit. I exuded reality, stank of it. Jody liked me, said I was tonic to her gin - sobering. We left at two am. Jody and I broke from the rest of the group in search of further entertainment. Jody likes to play with people, especially men. Richman was a super loaded, divorced dad of two with girlfriends in the Bahamas, Tel Aviv and Monte Carlo. He told her this in Momos to which Jody replied she only fucked girls. He said, ‘Sometimes it’s good to step outside your comfort zone.’ Jody had looped my arm as we turned down into Archer St And repeated his words ad verbatim ‘Sometimes,’ she said to me, ‘it’s good to step out of your comfort zone.’ I was feeling this place more than Momos It was honest. All about money. Girls floated free and easy For a price ‘Fuck exploitation It’s about market forces.’ I said Jody agreed ‘It’s power play. It’s about owning the means of production Woman have the means of production But rarely control of the means.’ Richie Richman scoffed, ‘It’s about watching someone debase themselves in front of you. Personally, I get off on their debasement.’ ‘Still,’ I ventured, ‘a lot of girls say they find it empowering.’ We laughed. For the first time Richman looked me in the eye. Jody wanted the Cristal 93 Richman gave the waitress the order and said, ‘Let's enjoy the show. To dance is a beautiful thing, these girls…’ ‘Women.’ ‘Girls… these beautiful talented girls…’ Jody interrupted him, ‘Get one to dance for us.’ None of them wanted To bend over Expose themselves Dance for us Richman talked to the manager ‘My girlfriend wants a lap dance.’ The manager sighed, ‘They say they feel uncomfortable doing it in front of women,’ ‘Money is money,’ said the Richman, ‘why should they care?’ He offered double the money The waitress came with a bottle of Cristal She poured We clinked And waited for our lap dancer Finally, she arrived. Sneered at Jody and I Like we were traitors She was Out of order She was Sweet sweet Salome Jody and I sat back Enjoyed the show ‘Isn’t it liberating,’ Jody observed. ‘So empowering,’ I replied And sometimes I wished I had a cock My mouth was so dry