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Add sugar to the pan, and just cover with water. Don’t add too much water, like you did in your first year of marriage. You had to stir the mixture for over an hour, your muscles aching with the effort. Your mother-in-law didn’t let you start again, so that you would learn your lesson. Not too little water, either, like in your third year of marriage, when you tried to make the pan resemble your own barren body, cracked and desiccated. Stir the sugar, never stop, or it will spoil. Just like the marital bed your husband turned from when your womb never quickened; even after so many years, even after all the visits to the doctors (you, not him), all the needles, scans, blood tests (you, never him). Don’t take your eyes off the sugar. Remember how you took your eyes off your husband for one minute, just one minute, to focus on your grief, on yet another scarlet arrival on the twenty-eighth day. Keep stirring, remember how your mother-in-law blamed you when your husband wandered, saying, “What do you expect?” Keep the flame on high, so the mixture boils, just like the anger in you. Grip the ladle tight, remembering how you gripped it that day, how you used it to hit the walls, your husband, yourself. How your husband curled his lip at you, saying, “How can I stay with you now?” Watch the syrup – it is treacherous. One minute too long and you will go past one string consistency. Test it now, allow the syrup to ooze off the ladle. Is it viscous enough? Does it narrow into a pointed triangle, dripping off, just as the blood does out of the essential fault in your body? When it does, add in the almond meal. Watch the mixture turn into a sticky mess - the sort you imagined yourself cleaning up, after chubby hands. Add a dollop of ghee, warmed, to lubricate. Check that the colour is golden, just like the glass you pour yourself at the end of the day, from your husband’s liquor cabinet. Keep stirring, and watch as the mixture congeals, just like your hope. Add the ghee gradually until the point of no return, until there is no separating it out again. Watch for the point that the mixture comes away from the sides of the pan, no longer able to connect with anything or anyone around it. Then pour it out onto the tray. Make sure the surface is even, to present to the world. No irregularities, no cracks, no imperfections. Score it, making the pieces just big enough to pop into people’s mouths. Do not be too much. Allow it to harden. Turn it out, and break it up into little pieces, never to be put together again. Sumitra writes in Naarm/Melbourne. She travelled through many spaces to get there and writes to make sense of her experiences, all of which seem to involve food. She’ll be the one in the kitchen making chai (where’s your cardamom?). She works in mental health. You can find her and her other publication credits on Twitter: @pleomorphic2

You lay in bed thinking about breathing while someone in another room coughs. Someone in another house is crying because they don’t know why, they just can’t not cry right now. Someone on another block is running - for the sake of it or from something? It isn't clear. Someone in another city waters plants in their garden, evaluating the growth, deadheading old bulbs, hoping fresh ones will grow, and thinking, I can do this, I can keep these thriving. Someone in another state isn't there anymore. She was alive yesterday but today she isn’t because somewhere in between, she stopped breathing and so she’s just gone now and the people who love her (she was someone’s daughter and someone’s sister) have to say goodbye and let her go and they won’t get to listen to her breathing or feel her in person anymore. Someone in another country gets ready for bed, asking for another bedtime story and help brushing her teeth and for another sip of water because she is not ready to say goodbye to this day yet. Someone across the ocean sits cross-legged on a yoga mat in her bedroom thinking about breathing and listening to someone coughing in another room and tries to imagine what it would be like to say goodbye forever to someone you love because they went to sleep and did not wake up in this world anymore. Beth Mulcahy is a Pushcart Prize-nominated poet whose work has appeared in various journals. She has a forthcoming chapbook, Firmer Ground, with Anxiety Press. Her writing bridges the gaps between generations and self, hurt and healing. Beth lives in Ohio with her husband and two children and works for a company that provides technology to people without natural speech. Her latest publications can be found here: https://linktr.ee/mulcahea.

On the drive to Austin, when Katerina passed the Brenham exit, the anxiety hit, and the verbal processing commenced. “We have only four things in common, Sherry. We are women, Texans, have the same shoe size, and are bi. Let me make it five. We love punk rock, especially The Damned: New Rose, Neat Neat Neat, Love Song, Smash it Up, Plan 9, Channel 7, Wait for the Blackout and Alone Again, Or. Thank you again for making that tape for me because I’m listening to it while screaming into the air at my teenage memory of you.” Katrina hunched over the steering wheel, pretending it was Sherry’s neck while driving ninety on the highway to her.. “Damn, you were so adorable dressed up as the girl on the Foreigner Head Games record cover. Oh, wait. That was my skirt, and the Candies slides, too. I want them back. Okay, not the Candies, and you probably threw them out ten years ago. You can take me to the mall. There is a pair of stilettos I want. Run it on your American Express gold card, booshwah.” ”The skirt will look better on my ass now than it did then.” “Okay, on second thought, I don’t want the skirt back. However, my nightlife has changed, my self-image has matured, and I no longer do jailbait, trashy suburban girl. Personal growth. You get it while paying attention when in your 20s.” “Well, all right, sometimes I do want to. Maybe I can get away with it at Antone’s” Katerina paused, easing off the gas pedal. “No, I do not want the slides back or the skirt. And—” She stopped herself. “Let’s be clear: I don’t want you.” Katerina revised and reordered her thoughts again. “Yes, I want the skirt back, and instead of the stilettos, take me to Last Call and buy me a pair of job interview pumps. But, wait, no, that’s too weird.. I don’t want anything. It is too much trouble, and your boyfriend may think that this is peculiar and get ideas. Uh-uh, no way.” “I am afraid you may have the impression I am still interested in you—and you will be right because every other thought is of me wanting to be drawn in. But, every other thought alongside clashes, saying "I do not want anything to do with you.” “No kitty kat kisses or hanging out at the record store and watching the guys play pinball, waiting for them or each other. Knotty, complicated, tortuous, convoluted immature thoughts minus wisdom, complexities spread like a thunderstorm flying through with a blue norther, binding, tying, bonding, and always invariably left hanging” “I hated the marks you left. I am feeling them right now.” Shit. No. Katerina felt the sweat between her palms and the steering wheel, her chest pounding from the anxiety. “Sherry, I cannot do this internal dialogue anymore. I feel like I will drive off the road.” “Goodbye for now.” Katerina slowed down to switch tapes, grabbing without looking at a Northern Soul compilation, jamming it into the player, and tossing The Damned on the pile beside her. Liz Shelly, No More Love. Katerina turned it up loud and began singing. Sherry was waiting on the porch as Katerina turned into the driveway, wheels crunching on the remains of dead trilobites, and slowly guided the truck into the garage. She noticed Sherry had cut her hair short and had taken to dangling earrings. Katerina liked neither, though the white Ray-Bans and magenta lipstick were appealing. Unfortunately, Sherry’s red plaid boxers, the light green ribbed tank top, and the gold gladiator sandals did not match. Unless she was hung over, which was possible, Sherry certainly was not looking to impress Katerina. “Hey, Kitty Kat.” Sherry threw her arms around Katerina’s shoulders and gave her a smooch on her cheek. Katerina had steeled herself for that greeting and did not shrink away. Instead only patted Sherry patronizingly on the shoulder in response. While Katerina wiped her face with the back of her hand, Sherry swung the whitewashed door closed and locked the latch with a heavy bike chain. “It’s safe here until we have Arthur help us move the boxes into the laundry room. Oh shit, I’m sorry, babe—is there anything you need from the truck?” “Um, yes. I have a few bags I would like.” “I’m sorry, girl.” As Sherry reopened the garage doors, Katerina mused that she could not stand the shrill Southern girl tone Sherry put on when she was nervous and insecure. It could crack a windshield. Finally, Katerina unlatched the gate, pulled out a suitcase, and handed it to Sherry. Katerina took the two small cloth duffel bags she bought in Houston, clutching the improvised reinforced straps against her shoulder while doing a balancing act with her black leather shoulder bag. The house smelled of lilac air freshener Sherry probably sprayed when she saw her turn the corner and cooking of unidentifiable ethnicity. However, the house was immaculate, even for Sherry, and somewhat adult since the furnishings matched the posters. In addition, the television was new, a high-end Sony with a 25-inch screen. She recognized the dark walnut Moderne Martinsville credenza from when Sherry lived with her parents. As Sherry led her into the hall to her guest room, Katerina spotted the Eames chair, still broken, in the dining room, with laundry stacked on top of the seat. Katerina smiled, somewhat comforted by the continuity. “Here you go, sweetheart,” Sherry said, dropping the suitcase on the bed. The linens smelled freshly washed and were off-white, as were the towels Sherry had neatly stacked for her on the dresser, next to which was a vase filled with irises, Katerina’s favorite. Everything was so well prepared yet sterile. Katerina expected chocolates on a pillow and a Gideon Bible. She noticed Sherry and Arthur had money because the central air was running. The window frame of gossamer white silk was pulled back to expose paper-thin Venetian blinds. Sherry pulled up the blinds and pointed. “Right over there, you can see my little babies. Take a look.” Katerina looked out at the neatly prepared flower garden, ground upturned in heavy black clay. It looked modeled after a gardening club newsletter and betrayed Sherry’s obsessive compulsiveness. While technically perfect, the arrangement was dull and looked no different than the garden next door, across the street, and the next town over. Again, neatly arranged rows of lion’s ear and dianthus dominated, though Katerina loved the yellow and white Republic of Texas roses. Sherry’s gardening bothered Katerina. The sudden onset of adulthood this revealed was not the Sherry she had known. She found this somewhat disturbing, as if a doppelgänger replaced the person Katerina grew to love and hate and learned all over. While relieved that this new hobby did not involve sex, this also might mean that Sherry was not getting enough. “They’re beautiful and nicely done.” That was all Katerina could muster. “Thanks. Arthur helps out too.” Then, sounding like a dig at Katerina’s lack of a boyfriend, she responded with an inappropriate giggle. “I guess I better get unpacked.” “Sure! I set aside a shelf for your perfume in the bathroom. You got the low shelf. Oh, and be careful with the hot water. The heater has been acting up lately.” “Okay.” “When you’re done unpacking, I cooked up some jambalaya.” “Why, certainly.” Katerina wanted to laugh and throw up a little in her mouth at once. Good Lord, you’d burn water, child. After Sherry left the room to finish her now-revealed creation, Katerina walked to the window and drew the blinds closed. The garden put the room squarely in Sherry’s sight lines. Lunch was not as bad as it smelled unless one liked over-salted sausage bits and tomato soup mixed with minute rice passing off as Cajun. The conversation centered on banalities and suggestions on apartments and house shares in the neighborhood and West Austin. Sherry seemed to want Katerina living near, which Katerina decided not to get too paranoid about, given Sherry’s insecurity and co-dependency issues. In addition, Sherry was an only child and liked having a family, at least in concept. During the conversation, Sherry started with her complaints about her boyfriend and her struggles with her parents. At least she had them. Katerina still mourned her mother, who died six months ago. Katerina wanted to blurt out I do not have a tattoo on my forehead that says, ‘Please tell me your traumas.’ Instead, Katerina silently brushed her bangs and touched her forehead—just in case. The remainder of lunch was a continuation of this avoidance ritual. Katerina was glad she processed on the drive. So much of the pus expiated. Katerina offered to do the dishes and took extra care to scrub the layer of caramelized tomato soup and rice burned into the pan. The kitchen was well appointed and looked married with a microwave, toaster oven, Braun coffee maker, and as a nod to Sherry’s kitsch, a pink Hello Kitty toaster. The cups and dishes matched, and Katerina could not help but gasp to see the tableware did too. Perhaps, Sherry had an accident playing with an Ouija Board, and the spirit of Suzie Homemaker sucked through her nostrils. The woman still does not cook worth a damn. Finished, Katerina got up to go to the bathroom. Sherry was sitting on the commode, the door open in typical Sherry fashion. Katerina patiently waited in the hall until she could no longer. “What is that?” “I am practicing for my role in Salome. Please finish up. I really need to pee.” “Okay, okay. I’m done.” Sherry turned to change her shirt, pulling her tank top up slowly, showing Katerina the tiny silver clamps attached to her nipples and a hanging chain swinging over her belly button. Katerina blushed, feeling conflicted, as usual. This time, Katerina spoke up. “Jeez, girl. Why do you want to show me that?” Sherry grabbed another tank top, pulling it quickly and tight over her shorts. “Shush. Compartmentalize, girl. Compartmentalize, and stop being so paranoid. Not everything is about me trying to make you.” You just admitted that sometimes you do. I have been in this house less than two hours, and already… Sherry squeezed past her. Katerina breathed in and held her breath before slowly exhaling. She closed the bathroom door and checked that it was secure. Later, Katerina sat on the couch with Sherry, zoning out to MTV. Katerina shuddered when The Swans’ cover of Love Will Tear Us Apart came on. The anxiety of feeling trapped began. The truck was locked up in the garage. The boyfriend is eventually on his way over. Spreading her fingers over her knees, she inquired politely. “Hey, how about we go out for beers?” They pulled the tarp off the Ferrari parked under the oak tree. Sherry noticed Katerina’s expression. “Sweetheart, it’s a project,” she said softly. “We just haven’t gotten much further than this.” “Uh, huh.” The Ferrari was a Cabriolet that belonged to Sherry’s dad. She remembered it far differently than in its current condition. It used to be red, now stripped to primer gray. Sherry noticed Katerina’s expression. “We’re restoring it,” she said. “You remember there was a lot of water damage in the garage back in the ’81 flood.” The seats are finished, but some of the innards need fixin’ and a new paint job. But, I assure you, this is safe to drive.” Katerina had a bad feeling about that and proved correct when she felt her jeans were wet after they turned the first corner. She looked down and screamed. The clamp on the fuel line under the dashboard had come undone, with gasoline pouring onto her lap. Sherry looked and pulled over, repeating, “Oh, oh, oh, oh,” as they jumped out of the car. Katerina’s only thoughts were gratitude for quitting smoking the week before. Sherry stood by the car, hands in front of her face, looking like a bad Catholic girl who got the words wrong during Confirmation. “I’m sorry,” she said, the sound muffled through the intertwined fingers pressed against her face. Katerina faked calm and spoke softly. “Why don’t we just walk home, and you call your boyfriend while I take a shower.” She undid the buttons of her black 501s. “First, I am taking these jeans off. Second, I am not walking two blocks soaked in gas,” Katerina said. Sherry opened the trunk and pulled out an oil-stained beach towel. “Good thinking, Sherry,” Katerina said. “Because the panties and T-shirt have to go, too. Oh, and my flip-flops, as well.” Katerina grabbed the towel and wrapped herself before she undressed. “I-I’ll carry your clothes for you.” Katerina handed them over. “Yeah. Sure.” “I’m really sorry.” “Yes, I know you are.” Katerina remembered the time when her father said that apologizing for doing something terribly stupid or evil was for the person fucking up to feel better. Oh, Daddy, I hope you were right about being an atheist because if you were looking down at this right now…. As she walked barefoot through the neighbors’ front yards, Katerina left as much space between them as possible. Back at the house, Katerina showered, scrubbing off gasoline and some of the nascent rage. Eventually, Katerina sat on her haunches, letting the water cascade on her back. After drying off, she opened a suitcase and began putting clothes away. In the process, she set aside her outfit. Gray ribbed tank top, another pair of black 501s. Black ballet flats with pointed toes—a relic from the teaching assistant year before dropping out of the graduate program. Katerina saw the other suitcase. She remembered what was inside and unzipped it. After Katerina went off to Rice, Mom turned Dad’s study into a sewing room. Soon she filled the room with unfinished quilts and crocheted stuffed animals in various stages of completion. When clearing the house after the funeral, Katerina went through the room, knowing she intended these creations for grandchildren whom Mom would never know or perhaps would never exist. Katerina picked up a headless Snoopy, then a robin without wings before placing them back into the boxes on top of the extended school table Mom had used. Next, Katerina found an orange and brown owl with a board and tassel clearly intended for her but was missing its eyes. She searched on the table and saw them cut and ready for placement. Katerina later sewed them on herself. Katerina sucked in her lips and took a deep breath, placing her eyes on the body, thinking Mom was working on that when she died. Nevertheless, mom was proud of her Rice University Rhodes Scholar regional finalist baby. Katerina recalled the sadness while she contemplated the owl. Why didn’t she create them when it mattered--when I was growing up, instead of after I had left for Houston? When Mom died, Sherry and the boyfriend were on vacation in Cozumel. Though specifically told not to, Sherry sent flowers. Somehow, they were on the coffin, and shortly before the end of the burial Mass, a gust of wind blew them off. Mom never liked Sherry. The crocheted, stuffed owl was the last item she packed. After she returned to Houston and added its eyes, Katerina kept it on her bed between the pillows. She kept it s next to her while she slept. Owls were wise, and this one learned all the secrets and provided an audience while she dreamed. Katerina held the owl to her chest. Finally, she placed it on the bed and grabbed her handbag from the side table. “Sherry, do you have the skirt I loaned you when X played at Club Foot? The one that looked like the cover of the Foreigner album?” “That? It’s around somewhere.” “Fair enough,” Katerina said. “I need you to unlock the garage. I may be back in a few hours.” “I’m really—” “Sorry,” interrupted Katerina. “I know.” Mike Lee was raised in Texas and North Carolina trailer parks. Editor, writer, and photographer for a trade union in New York City. Stories are upcoming or published in Drunk Monkeys, BULL, The Airgonaut, The Opiate, and many others. His book The Northern Line is available on Amazon.

stubble + lipstick mingle over fluid mouth shaping words the words you’ll sing when the band meets in a room above a pub thrust to the margin of a dying town facing wind and rain the monochrome posters you designed damp, askew, peeling forward tide of friends + friends of friends lapping at your feet all eyes adoring of your blue-lit chin back curved, cheeks taut, eyes shut devour the mic beyond, fields float slashed by the silvered paths you walked as a child hand-in-hand, vodka sick I watch lyrics flow from fingers thin as the poet’s pencil I would follow you out of the carriage join the audience stand glass to teeth bass vibrating my heart hear the images I watched you order and reorder but I do not leave our lives must not intersect. Philip’s poetry has appeared in Black Bough, Poetry Birmingham, The Healing Muse, Deracine and Dream Noir. He is a London-based doctor and writes extensively on medical ethics. His creative output can be explored at www.philberrycreative.wordpress.com and @philaberry.

I almost raked my hands, again, down my throat, searching for the miasma of the college story love poems I almost wrote. I inched myself on the treadmill, ran three miles while my friend Talked to me in a flurry of alcoves, in daughters gone missing– How the world was ending – How there was our fancy friend, and there was us– And, I pretended not to cry; I just kept running. There’s a song without the words, The notes clear but the hollows of the singer in the background, muted in manatee spirals, slow and loafing. And I realize that I want to fill in the blanks; I want to know what the future holds; I want to know if I can talk to my deceased grandmother again, somewhere along the meadow Of where we land, when we don’t know where we’re going. I almost panicked about what will be lost, All the lost moments, the jobs I left, the poems I almost wrote but fluttered asleep To comedy instead. The pinch near my brain that I hope is fine, The way there are diagnoses and mad women and bills gone unpaid– & I read on reddit that means I’m a deadbeat, & so I contemplate dying my hair lilac, Hoping I’ll sink in the midnight hours between rushing And worrying. & I almost hold myself closer when this happens: when the world spins tighter and tighter to the last note– And, I don’t know if it’s going to be flat, Or ruin everything. Or, hold us steady, wanting to rise to our feet, Again. Will I end in a standing applause? Will I end with a monotone note at the end? Will I end with a familiar chorus Like the faces of your favorite children That you hope never ends, but you know the last note And when it’s coming? I wait for the ending. I grip my knuckles tighter, hoping it’s a fluke, that the underbelly of ending won’t come for me, and won’t come when I’m standing. Fists clenched, worried About the goodbyes I wanted to say to you, plain. I wait for the note that could be a middle C; it could be a low base; It could touch high parts, where the fingers almost leave the ribcage of the piano. The note could bleat openly, hoping it lulls you to sleep. I don’t want to ruin, don’t want to spoil– Don’t tell me the note that will stay with me, The rose that I hold in my hands, as the blood-red petals live longer Than I do. This piece is about imagining what last note would be played on your last day. What would it look like? Leslie Cairns has a recently released chapbook, titled 'The Food is the Fodder' through Bottlecap Press. Find her on Twitter.

Matt McGuirk teaches and lives with his family in New Hampshire. He’s a BOTN 2021 nominee. His debut collection with Alien Buddha Press, “Daydreams, Obsessions, Realities,” is available on Amazon. His second collection, “Oil Stains Like Rorschachs,” is out with Anxiety Press and available on Amazon. Website: http://linktr.ee/McGuirkMatthew “Daydreams, Obsessions, Realities” https://www.amazon.com/Daydreams-Obsessions-Realities-hybrid-collection/dp/B09M4YKHBV/ “Oil Stains Like Rorschachs” https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BKMS59Y8 Twitter: @McguirkMatthew Instagram: @mcguirk_matthew *** NF: Tell me about your personal writing journey. What drew you into writing? MM: I’ve been writing for as long as I can remember. I even remember putting together little nonfiction pieces with pictures way back in 1st and 2nd grade. From there it progressed to writing novels in spiral bound notebooks and sharing them with friends throughout my grade, some students would even be waiting for the next chapter to see what happens next, so that always made me feel good. I wrote a pretty terrible novel, well over 200 pages, in high school, but I was thankful my sister clung to each chapter I had her check out. I took two creative writing courses in college, and then shortly after college, writing took a backseat to work, making money, and building a family. Years later, the drive to write kicked back up around the time the pandemic started, and that’s when I began writing almost daily again, and for the first time in my life, shipping pieces to literary journals (my wife’s idea, and I’m still thanking her for the push, and saying the work was good enough). I’ve been rejected a lot but feel fortunate to also have found a lot of success, and now I have two books published (Daydreams, Obsessions, Realities with Alien Buddha Press and Oil Stains Like Rorschachs with Anxiety Press), and it has all seemed like a whirlwind of a few years, but I’m thankful for the opportunity to do something I love and share my work with anyone who is willing to give it some of their time. NF: You write both short stories and poetry. What do you like about writing short stories? MM: Short fiction was something I’d never really written much of until I took a creative writing course in college, and my professor had us work in that length almost exclusively. I love being able to tell a story that’s engaging, drive home a theme, and know someone will be able to sit down and in minutes absorb what I’ve put on paper. I think a lot about the aspect of space and how a writer can really take a reader to a lot of places, even in a place as small as a micro. I feel my process works pretty fast, and I feel like short fiction provides me an opportunity to work through some pieces I may not have approached if they needed to be novel or novella length. NF: Your short stories cover a range of genres (science fiction, fantasy, horror). Which genre is your favorite, and why? MM: I always say Stephen King has been and is still one of my favorite writers, and I’ve always loved the horror genre, primarily because of him. In my own writing though, I find it really difficult to pick one genre that stands out more than the others, because I think a lot of my work really blurs lines and often has a literary spin, even if it seems to gear towards a certain genre. NF: What do you like about writing poetry? MM: I’ve always really liked reading poetry and didn’t really start writing it until college. I love that poetry can convey so much emotion in so little space, but I also love, that at times, a poem may speak one way to one reader and a different way to another. I also think that because of the small spaces most poems take up, an image in a poem can really hit hard, and maybe even harder than a similar one in a story, because it is taking up that much more of the physical space provided. NF: When is writing short stories better than writing poetry, and vice versa? MM: There is not one set method for me, but oftentimes it is just which feels right, and my initial intuition on that has seemed to work almost all the time. I have swapped a few ideas that I initially thought of as stories to poems, but for the most part, my initial thought between the two has worked well. Otherwise, short stories for me tell a story or a snippet of a story, it’s more plot, but still with a focus on character many times. Poems tend to start with an image for me or an emotion, and there still may be elements of plot, and you’ll still oftentimes learn about the speaker, but it is more tailored to thought or emotion. NF: I’ve found that the longer I write poetry, the more I remember my own childhood, and the more sensitive I am to the relationships around me. How has writing changed you? MM: I think writing is a reflective process, and when writing poetry or even fiction, there is a semblance of truth and a semblance of self presented in the work. As far as changing me, I think writing adds an additional awareness of environment and self in a current state and helps you think about what you are thinking about at the moment, but also adds documentation of thought process, interests, etc. as the time between the written piece and current time expand. NF: Now let’s talk about “Daydreams, Obsessions, Realities.” How did you choose the works that appear in this book? MM: I’d been doing a lot of writing from around late October of 2020 through 2021, and I had a lot of material (stories and poems) and a few collections that were taking shape, one following a group of narrators and an auto shop now collected, finished and published as Oil Stains Like Rorschachs with Anxiety Press. Additionally, I began seeing the shape of something more abstract in nature, that didn’t follow a set of narrators or a single person telling a bunch of stories, but a similarity in theme or branches of themes, some elements that felt closely paired and a feeling that there was something there. I began pulling together everything that seemed to fit and shuffling pieces slightly in the order I’d originally selected. As I started to feel happy with the mix (down to around 15 pieces), I saw a few holes in my abstract storyline or order and wrote 6 other pieces specifically for the collection that filled in those holes. There was a late cut from the collection, a story I really like but that didn’t seem to quite fit, but otherwise, I was/am very happy with what I came up with: a collection of stories and poems that each stand individually, but collectively says something broader. My hope is that people will enjoy the collection as individual pieces or a collage of interconnected themes, or look for something broader or abstract in nature and find an arc to follow. There really isn’t a right way to read it and that’s one of the things I really love about the collection. NF: I always enjoy your descriptions that appeal to the senses, especially in pieces like “The Chickadee’s Song” and “Green Grass.” How did you develop your descriptive skills? MM: Really appreciate that and am glad you like that aspect of my writing! I think a lot of it is just a quiet observation of what is already right in front of me. Both pieces strike a contrast between rural and urban or natural and manmade, and all kinds of playoffs of scenes, sights, and sounds that I’ve walked through or near before. After observing, it is just a matter of putting the words to what I am seeing, and at that point, my mind and fingers are moving too quickly on the keyboard to figure out exactly where it is all coming from. NF: Your writing is often influenced by your relationships with children, both as a teacher and as a father. Even when a piece deals with dark subjects, such as the emotional and physical scars children carry from their family life (“Crop Rotation”), there is still an element of sweetness. Conversely, you can turn sweetness upside down, and go dark (“Ray and the Frog,” “The Day the Little Mermaid Died”). How do you manage that balance between light and dark, both in your work and home life, and as a writer? MM: I think the world is full of both light and dark, and it is all about how they come into balance and how we deal with these aspects. The three pieces you mention take different looks at the darkness in the world and approach them with varied mindsets as well: the teacher in “Crop Rotation,” the father in “The Day the Little Mermaid Died” and the perpetrator in “Ray and the Frog.” Not one situation is just black and white or light and dark or good and bad, but varying shades of gray, and there’s really a lot that goes into each moment in life. I think my writing reflects my thought process on the world, observing the evils or bad situations people have to wade through or sometimes put themselves in, and I think as a teacher at a high school, I see many students in these situations on a daily basis. As a parent, I hope to keep my children away from the bad or give them the tools to deal with it. When they inevitably come into contact with that is one aspect of “The Day the Little Mermaid Died” and why I think it’ll appeal to many that have children, know children, or even think back on their youth and their first interactions with that darkness of the world. NF: “We Be Squirrels” takes the reader inside the imagination and emotions of a child. In the poem, imagination is more tangible and interesting than the real world. How much of this poem is based on your own childhood experiences, and how much is based on your own children? MM: “We Be Squirrels” is a poem I wish I could jump into at times, and get away from whatever is going on or the difficulties of every day, and I guess in a way that’s what we writers do when we’re scribbling words in the moments we can. I hope everyone can relate to the concept of letting your imagination take over, as you stated, and I’d say I was a pretty imaginative kid overall. I hope the same for my children because I think that has a creative element to it and is just a part of being a kid. NF: Several of your stories (“Spud the Potato Farmer,” “Green Grass”) deal with how to survive in a hostile environment. If you are willing, please describe your own experiences that you drew from to write these stories. MM: Hostile environments are something we all see at some point, at least in my opinion. “Spud the Potato Farmer” and “Green Grass” both outline the situation, which can be brought on by others, as in Spud’s case, or a situation as in the case of the narrator in “Green Grass,” but it is really all about how we deal with these situations or cope with these situations that matter. “Spud the Potato Farmer” is based once again around observations and thoughts as a teacher, but also as someone who went through school. “Green Grass” probably spurred from my family moving and takes root in that. My general thought process or reaction, when confronted with hostile environments or obstacles, is closer to the thought process of the narrator in my “Green Grass” story, but I think Spud’s story and reaction are probably one people will see a lot of truth in as well. NF: Some of your stories (including “Mac the Pirate,” “In the Weeds,” “287 Riverview Road,” “Crudely Crafted Characters,” “11:11”) are so fantastic, the events and images are so unexpected, how do you come up with these ideas? MM: So glad you liked them and I agree that many of these have that surreal edge to them. Someone once said that I always seem like I’m thinking about multiple things at once, and I’m still not sure if that is a compliment or criticism, but I feel that is where a lot of my writing in general stems from, and pieces like these reflect that pretty well. Sometimes my writing is spurred on by a certain phrase, “in the weeds” which is a common phrase in kitchens for being behind…something I learned while working at LongHorn Steakhouse for a couple of years in my 20s. Other writing is spun from everyday situations like how “Crudely Crafted Characters'' started. My daughter and I were actually using chalk on our deck and I’m a pretty terrible artist, so that’s where the title came from because in my mind they truly were crudely crafted, and then my imagination just ran wild, like the squirrels again I suppose. “11:11” is a riff on that saying, “11:11, make a wish” and then I just turned it upside down. My wife and I had seen enough houses in the number of times we’ve moved to imagine a scenario like “287 Riverview Road,” so that’s where that one jumped off. “Mac the Pirate” was spun out of a writing prompt or theme call from a journal. Ironically, it was not accepted there, even though I really love(d) the piece! It was quickly picked up by Bombfire, and fits really well into this collection too, so I’m happy about that. Writing pieces that go toward the surreal or really go off the deep end is so fun because it is very outside of what I normally write, and I’m glad for the questions you’ve provided that have really tackled many different aspects of my writing in general. NF: What are you writing now? MM: Now that Oil Stains Like Rorschachs has dropped with Anxiety Press I’ve been focusing a lot on promoting that and continuing to promote Daydreams, Obsessions, Realities, but it is always thinking ahead and about what is next to and this question really hits that. I’m always writing something! I still have a pile of short story and poem ideas that I’ve been slowly chipping away at, but they always seem to pile back up…not complaining though because I realize that’s a good thing. Also, I’ve been trying to keep up with the #vss365 prompts, but have had to slide a few into a single day here and there because of a recent move for my family. I’m closing in on the end of a couple of collections at this point, and have a few more pieces to write to finish others off. NF: Do you have any new projects in mind, and if so, what are they? MM: I’m working on compiling some more pieces (formerly published, written, and newly constructed) into another couple of collections, but not sure when to peg a time to send these out to publishers because they are still mainly in the curation phase at this point, and I’ll need to go back through and read the whole collections to see how they flow. I’m also jumping back into longer-form work as well. I had a story published with Bear Creek Gazette for their apocalypse contest and wrote another one to that prompt as well. The other piece that was not submitted to the contest was a 3,000-word story, but as I was writing it, I saw places where expanding would really strengthen and benefit what is being presented, and in the end, I realized the piece would work so much better in a novella or novel length. I’m excited to continue down this road with this story because I really haven’t written anything in long form since around October 2020. Those pieces are still buried in my computer waiting to have eyes on them at a later date too! NF: Do you have a vision for where you want to be as a writer 5 years from now, and 10 years from now? MM: I feel my process has continued to change and evolve so much since I jumped back into writing in late 2020, and I’m excited to see where everything goes over the next 5 years, 10 years, and beyond…but I’m not sure where I’ll be at that point. My hope is the ideas will still be flowing, and I’m sure I’ll be working on several projects at once, which is sort of the usual for me. I can say I’ll probably have sent out collections or books to publishers again in that time and hopefully had a chunk more work published online so people can check it out. My other hope as a writer over the next 5 or 10 years is to have more conversations like this about my work and sincerely thank the people that have checked it out so far, because it truly is so cool to be able to share my ideas and work with people around the world. Thanks again for doing this interview with me. I really appreciate the support and I’m so impressed with the questions, they were so well thought out! I enjoyed connecting with you through this and hope to do it again soon! *** “Twenty-Four Poems,” available at: https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BRCC2LTW/ Published by Meat for Tea Press Price: $14.00 53 pages In a career spanning more than 50 years as a working writer, John Yamrus has published 35 books (29 volumes of poetry, 2 novels, 3 volumes of non-fiction, and a children’s book). He has also had nearly 3,000 poems published in magazines and anthologies around the world. A book of his SELECTED POEMS was just released in Albania, translated into that language by Fadil Bajraj, who is best known for his translations of Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Bukowski, Ginsberg, Pound, and others. His most recent book is SELECTED POEMS: THE DIRECTOR’S CUT (Concrete Mist Press, 542pp). https://www.amazon.com/Selected-Poems-Directors-John-Yamrus/dp/0578284138 For a review of this book: http://www.compulsivereader.com/2022/08/19/a-review-of-selected-poems-the-directors-cut-by-john-yamrus/ A number of Yamrus’ books and poems are taught in college and university courses. He is the most widely-known proponent of the minimalist style of poetry. *** NF: I was taken by your first poem in the collection, “i remember the last time.” It was a coming-of-age poem that was both sweet and sad. Please tell me more about that time. JY: I think that everything I write is coming-of-age, whether it’s me at ten years old or in my 70s...no matter if it’s something that actually happened to me or something I’m makin’ up...in one way or another it’s all happened and happening...all part of a whole and the hole is in me and I’m just writing, trying to fill it. I know that’s an arrogant and ignorant answer, but it’s the only one I’ve got. NF: You have a couple of poems (“this guy,” “he,” “why do you write,” “it seems”) that speak to your attitude about your poetry. Why do you say it is nothing special? JY: Because it is...nothing special. I mean...it’s ALL special...anyone’s work is special. I never thought because I’m a writer that anything I do is different or special. It’s all part of the whole. I really wish I was better at other things...I can’t snake a toilet or fix a pipe...there’s not much of anything other than writing that I AM good at, so in many ways I’m less than special. NF: You make fun of other poets and what poets have to put themselves through as part of the creative life (“the poet sent me,” “he read,” “i think”). What are your expectations of other poets? JY: I don’t have any expectations of anyone. I’ve got my wife and my dog and my books...beyond that, what more could I ever want or expect? And as for making fun of poets...that’s low-hanging fruit. They’re an easy target. Most put themselves up on a pedestal and it’s fun to take a shot. NF: I laughed at “i’ve,” your poem about rereading Hemingway (who is one of my favorite authors). How do you think your growth as a writer has changed your attitude toward other authors? JY: The older I’ve got my feelings about guys like Hemingway have changed...Hemingway (especially) used to bore the shit out of me...as a kid, reading stuff like OLD MAN AND THE SEA and some of his other books, I just didn’t get it...I was looking for too much...and now, reading him at my age, I can see that just a little is more than enough. So, now, in just the last year or two, I’ve re-read just about all of Hemingway and much of Fitzgerald and the one I’m still having trouble with is Henry James...although Washington Square is a darn good book...it also might be one of his shortest. As for my attitude toward any of my contemporaries...I think most of them are lazy. Most of them sit around doing too much talking about what they’re going to do...waiting for inspiration...do you know what I mean? I have more respect for writers who do the deed every day than for writers who’d rather sit around talking about it. Journalists...they’re real writers...I’d like to see some of my contemporaries try and come up with something new and different and real every day, every day, every day. That’s hard. It takes a real writer to write like that. NF: It’s obvious that you love dogs. Tell me about the dog you wrote about in “it was.” JY: I could talk about my dogs forever. There’s been five of them, so far. All of them different and all of them fun. Anyone who’s ever had a pet knows the feeling of sadness and loss and the heartache of coming home and staring at the bowl that’s never gonna be used again...of cleaning the windows out front and the glass on the back door one last time. That hurts. Poems like that are easy to write because everyone can relate to them...and if someone can’t, I don’t care to know them. NF: How did you meet the woman in the poem, “years ago?” JY: Her name was Claire Henry and she was a real treasure. I don’t think she was 5 feet tall, but she was a bundle of energy and like I say in the poem she was in Paris in 1927 on the day Lindberg landed and she wasn’t a writer, but she worked on a whole lot of magazines that published science fiction way back when and she knew guys like Bradbury and Asimov and she made the best clam chowder in the whole wide world. NF: Several poems describe things you did when you were younger (“TJ,” “i was 13”). How much of what you write is based on memory and how much is based on imagination? JY: Oh, the poems like that are ALL memory...selective memory, for sure...but they’re all true. As true as I remember. I did a tv show last year, and I told a story about how I met my wife and the next day we were watching a replay online somewhere and Kathy turned to me and said “that’s not the way it happened...that’s a complete and total lie”, and I looked at her and said “when you write your own book you can set the record straight.” NF: Several of your poems deal with unresolved pain, with situations we can’t control (“he was once,” “the novels,” “things”). How do you personally grapple with these issues? JY: If you figure out an answer to that one, let me know. NF: What’s your next project? JY: Well, the garage is a royal mess and there’s a lot of dog poop out in the yard...beyond that, I’ll have to let you know. *** Nolcha’s poems have been published in Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Alien Buddha Zine, Medusa’s Kitchen, and others. Her three chapbooks are available on Amazon. Nominee for 2023 Best of The Net. Editor for Kiss My Poetry and for Open Arts Forum. Accidental interviewer/reviewer. Faker of fake news. Website: https://bit.ly/3bT9tYu “My Father’s Ghost Hates Cats” https://amzn.to/3uEKAqa “The Big Unda” https://amzn.to/3IxmJhY “How to Get Me Up in the Morning” https://amzn.to/3RLDaKc Twitter: @NolchaF Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/nolcha.fox/

When your father told you That your mother’s breasts were Deadly nightshade You drew a line between You and God Pale eyes Pierced the flesh of heaven’s veil And you fell from everyone’s grace They say grief is heavy That it steals hope And children can be cruel Like the boy whose arm You slammed in a door When he spoke ill of your Mamá You prayed that the angels Felt the weight of Your grief that day Lisa Mary Armstrong is a mother and Scottish poet who loves tea and all things Greek and mythological. She is also a researcher and tutor in law with a particular interest in women and children's experiences of the criminal justice system and penal reform. You can find out more about her work and poetry @earlgrey79_lisa

On the day Sheila drives off in their new Chevy Silverado, John walks down to the lake and tests the ice. Thankfully, it holds, so he takes another step, and another, telling himself that if he can get to the other side, over there might be better than over here. Over there, he can look back over here and think, “At least I’m not over there.” Wearing only a thin parka—he’d forgotten his hat and gloves—he rubs his hands together and stares at the opaque and crusty ice beneath his feet. What the freezing fuck, he takes another step, the ice solid, his gym-shoed feet freezing—why hadn’t he worn his boots? The lake stretches out before him. Overhead, six Canadian geese wing across in a V-formation, one squawking, trying to keep up. Otherwise, it’s so silent out here he can hear his heart beating. All this ice. As if he’s standing on a mirror. If he were over at the Stumble Inn, he’d tell the bartender to “hold the ice.” Out here, he’s surrounded by ice that holds him. A few more steps, a pause, then longer strides until he comes to the end of the pier posts—the pier, taken out that fall, now waiting out winter in High-n-Dry Storage. The ice talks. Moans and groans. Like her, this morning, when she tripped on one of his size 13 boots in the living room. “You and your goddamn shoes!” She’d rubbed her knee. Tossed his work boot across the room. Said, “Another thing.” Said, “One more thing.” Said, “I can’t take this anymore.” Then, her refrain: “You never listen to me.” The other day, driving to the nursing home, Sheila yapping away in the passenger seat, he’d heard lyrics from a song on the radio: “Birds on the roof of my mother’s house.” His mother, he’d remembered, had birds on the roof of her house. She’d called him, pleading, “John, get over here now, you have to see this, all these birds, I’ve never seen so many!” He’d rushed over in the blue dusk only to find that she had bats, not birds, swooping and diving, slipping down the ridge cap, roosting in her roof. She’d stood below watching, amazed and amused. Not long after, he picked her up, told her he was taking her to the train station—she’d often talked about wanting to take another rail trip—and drove her to Golden Acres, telling her that her new room was her own private sleeping car. “All you have to do, Ma, is walk down the hallway to the dining car.” She still believes she’s traveling on a long train trip, going west. When he visits, she’s always sitting at her small table by the window, sipping coffee, looking out at the empty road going nowhere. “Look at that landscape,” she says, “Isn’t it gorgeous?” He’ll visit her later. Hugging her, he’ll feel the same old guilt inching up his spine. Her Evening in Paris cologne will take him back years, back to when he was just a boy, the whole world his blank page. He won’t mention Sheila—not that his mother will ever ask. He spins around, surprised to find he’s in the middle of the lake. In the distance, his warm cottage, white board and batten siding, set against the snow-covered ground and dappled fir trees. His solid, sturdy home on land. Out here, the ice should be thicker, should hold a 185-pound man. Shouldn’t it? In the dozen years they’ve lived “at the lake,” never once has he been drawn to the ice, not like his neighbors who drag shanties out and disappear for hours—to get away from their wives, they joke. He’s seen them haul all kinds of things on sleds: portable fire-pits and miniature stoves; cots and bean bags, a small rocking chair, ice chests and mini-freezers. Al, his crafty neighbor, once packed an easel and palette. Stan Newman told him he knew of a fisherman who’d packed wine, beer, whiskey, schnapps, hunks of cheese, frozen pizzas, burritos, and three gallons of chocolate ice cream, and had “a helluva good time.” John slips his hands in his pockets, and scans the horizon. Not one shanty. From here, the ice is light grey. Then, in slushy patches, darker. He takes another step. This time, a loud cracking, as if someone’s walking behind him—Sheila? Underfoot, a vibration, another moan, and then a spiderweb of cracks. The ice gives way, his stomach lurches, and for a moment he’s suspended in mid-air, between slippery surface and the cold, deep water below, Sheila’s crystal-clear voice bubbling up: “One more lousy thing, John.” DS Levy lives in the Midwest. Her fiction has appeared in many journals and has received Pushcart and Best Microfiction nominations. She has had work included in Wigleaf's Top 50 2021, and Long List 2022. She was a finalist in the 2022 Jeanne Leiby Memorial Chapbook Award at The Florida Review.

Liquid Sky Searing heat rises in agonizing waves, eating away at sanity. Rippled air drips down, choking out all breath. Refracted images dance across parched land. Summer an inferno, swallowing fragile lives. Deniers will deny! Grass … brown … scorched & curled. Wilting flora cries out begging for rain. Birds refuse to fly. Countries burn Hearts stop People die The old folk tell of past canicules, but none this tortuous. A fevered sky stretches on with no relief in sight. Memories of balmy days waft in and out, as mercury soars. A liquid sky melts down upon a barren earth. Only a Few Drops Left only a few drops left no more exists I have drained it dry the bottle sits empty on its side on the counter – a silent corpse waiting for retribution – I shall not succumb it laughs I hear it I flee the wind outside unceasing in its quest – mercilessly it calls to me come follow I heed outside the darkness drinks me in as I wander lost and lonely I have imbibed one too many times – there is no escape falling into a hell of my own making time collapses inward I reach for the glass savoring the dregs of remorse all is lost emptiness rings out in a loud cry no more drops left Ann Christine Tabaka was nominated for the 2017 Pushcart Prize in Poetry. She is the winner of Spillwords Press 2020 Publication of the Year, her bio is featured in the “Who’s Who of Emerging Writers 2020 and 2021,” published by Sweetycat Press. She is the author of 15 poetry books, and 1 short story book. She lives in Delaware, USA. She loves gardening and cooking. Chris lives with her husband and four cats. Her most recent credits are: Eclipse Lit, Carolina Muse, Sparks of Calliope; The Closed Eye Open, North Dakota Quarterly, Tangled Locks Journal, Wild Roof Journal, The American Writers Review, Burningword Literary Journal, Muddy River Poetry Review, The Silver Blade, Pomona Valley Review, West Texas Literary Review, The Hungry Chimera, Sheila-Na-Gig, Fourth & Sycamore. *(a complete list of publications is available upon request)

Old Feet I walk at my own pace; in no way do I run a race, no stumble, no fall, no longer quite as tall. Still I follow behind she who is mostly blind; my hand steadies gently, concentrate intently, one foot, one crippled limb betrayed by stroke, still turns in. Sitting still, my eyes move down to my own feet, as if to prove they have not betrayed me; even though for her, I must agree mere walking is such a challenge with structural change of phalange. Feet are necessary to be stable support what’s above, to be able to walk, amble at will – hope mine will serve me until. I no longer choose to move ahead, preferring my comfortable bed. Like Him or Not nod to my father, his stance, played the game, a dance of men over women, never a chance to compete, not really; father passed me by to shake the hand of the man I planned to marry. That hand would hold an iced-filled glass like him, scotch ember sip, don’t take any lip from a girl, woman with their floozy-painted nails, their job to care for home and family while he swung hand like his watch fob, connecting or not, smiles to peers, perfect worker, friend to many who never saw jeers to children, wife, just knuckle under, support man, breadwinner; is dinner ready yet, going to read the paper, cigarette, glass in hand, their value pales beside father and the guy I married, like him or not. Julie A. Dickson has been writing since she could hold a pen. Her work appears in various journals including Misfit, Girl God, Ekphrastic Review and Lothlorien, among others. Her full length works are available on Amazon. Dickson holds a BPS in Behavioral Science, has been a guest editor, a pas poetry board member and a Push Cart nominee.

Lost She was hanging clothes on the line when I asked her, next to the garden where she beat a snake to death with a hoe. She kept her eyes on the clothespins as she nodded, her fingers clipping the shape of my father’s right shoulder into place, feeling down the wire, clipping his left shoulder next. I’d been there before-up the hill with the trampoline and we jumped until our legs were jelly and our chests burned. When we came out, policemen wandered up and down lit by swirling red and blue lights. She said you didn’t ask her, the officer leaned over. She said she never gave you permission. But I knew what happened. She was not there, next to the garden in the afternoon breeze. She did not hear my voice say Can I go and play? She was getting her degree, joining the Peace Corps, settling an argument with her smarts. Riding the trolley up Powell St., dining at La Scala, carting her bags down Fifth Avenue and I would, after that, ensure more witnesses than the silent curves of my father’s shirts. Twenties Back when I thought I could smoke it away, drink it away. Fuck it away. Dance it away. Travel it away. Pretend it away. Ignore it away. Freeze it out away. Lie it away. Cry it away. Eat it away. Run it away. A volcano is a mountain when it’s not exploding. Muscle Memory He curled his lower lip over his mustache to capture the whiskey he’d dipped it into. She imagined that resistance in her throat like swallowing Nyquil or salt water, followed by the golden warmth in her bones. These days she felt only the outside of bottles. They said during training that eventually she would feel how long to hold them inverted to pour one shot or a double. That her body would just know. She leaned with her back to the register and crossed her arms over her chest. She watched him lift the glass to his lips again. A Mother’s Wish Don’t you listen, boy to the voices that say not enough or too late. Not now or who do you think you are. Hear the mountains instead. The rocky ones topped with snow. The peaks whispering: come see. Lisa Thornton is a writer and school nurse living in central Illinois. She is a lover of identifying birds by their songs and all things James Bond. She has words published in Roi Faineant Press, Fiery Scribe Review, Bivouac Magazine and more. She was a finalist for the Smokelong Quarterly Award for Flash Fiction in 2022. She can be found on Twitter @thorntonforreal.

the walk the walk the grass the sky the blue the trees the oaks the birches the talking the gravel the mud the stones the crunch the talking the walk the walk the nature the flowers the clouds the blue the sun the rocks the ploughman’s the flask the whiskey the jokes the laughing the walk the walk the hills the woodland the trees the oaks the birches the path the crunch the snap the rustling the leaves the twigs the weeds the walk the walk the clearing the grass the sky the trees the pause the listening the cooing the chirping the cooing the clicking the cooing the clicking the pause the cooing the bang the rustling the flapping the rustling the fear the sky the birds the clouds the blue the bang the bang the bang the bang the bang the bang the bang the falling the falling the sky the grass the thud the thud the smoke the silence Daniel Findell (he/him) is a poet from Liverpool, UK. He has had work published by magazines such as The Cloudscent Journal, Swim Press and CAKE Magazine, amongst others, and won the inaugural Literary Lancashire Award Prize for Poetry in 2019. He currently resides in Lancaster, following completion of an MA in Creative Writing at Lancaster University in 2022, and can be regularly found performing at poetry events across the north-west of England.