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Dorothy, my paternal grandmother, was a worrier. I grew up in the ’60s and ’70 when folk who had anxious tendencies were simply called worriers. Excessive worrying wasn’t regarded as an illness, but rather a weakness, for which the solution was to “pull yourself together.” A phrase I still find both infuriating and facile. My childhood memories of Nanny Ayres revolved around her staying mostly indoors, seated on the floral-patterned settee, her purring black and white cat, Ringo, nestling in her crimplene-trousered lap. Dorothy loved telling – and playing – jokes (she especially enjoyed encouraging her many grandchildren to amuse themselves with her whoopee cushion collection, accompanied by a scratchy 45rpm recording of The Laughing Policeman on the radiogram. Popular in 1920s music halls, it was her favourite song). Some of the family regarded Dorothy as a hypochondriac, since she always had one or more ailments on the go, and she was terrified of going to the hospital. So when she died there two days after being admitted with a sudden heart attack, my teenage self was distraught because I understood how scared she would have been that her worst fear had come true. The lesson seemed to be: whatever you are most afraid of will happen. It’s haunted me ever since. Like my beloved gran, I’m a “worrier” – a dyspraxic who suffers with debilitating anxiety issues, OCD, catastrophic thinking, and hypervigilance, which means threats are perceived and expected anywhere and everywhere. Navigating life in constant fight-or-flight mode is exhausting, stressful and damaging. Change or unfamiliarity of any kind makes me uneasy. Even buying a pair of shoes or knickers. I’ve spent a year researching what kind of sofa to buy and have not found the right one yet, so write this perched on my duvet-covered, recycled office cast-off. I stick to the same food types and trying anything different is usually a major event. Decision-making becomes a tortuous process of running round and round in never decreasing shall I? shan’t I? circles, examining the consequences of each available choice, favouring the worst possible scenarios. I won’t use a new skin product or medication or consume food I haven’t eaten before, or undertake any activity I regard as remotely risky, on a Friday or weekend in case of a reaction that leads to a hospital visit or stay, because hospitals (my ultimate terror) are far more dangerous places during weekends because of lower staff:patient ratios and less consultants, so statistically (unsurprisingly), there are more deaths. These carefully considered thought processes lead me to believe I am being pragmatic and sensibly cautious. Staying indoors offers the illusion of control. Leaving the cocoon of my familiar home for a daily walk requires willpower. I could easily never go out again but I mustn’t give in. I have to trick my brain, and access tools acquired through CBT treatment. As night draws closer, so do catastrophic thoughts. Sleep used to be a safe place, but when I’m like this, insomnia strikes and any bouts of sleep are jagged and barbed. Will I wake up seriously ill? Or not wake at all? Then the palpitations start. I can feel, and hear, my blood pulsing, pumping. My brain is constantly on red alert to new dangers, in addition to existing threats. Every niggle, ache, twinge is magnified tenfold. Could that lump be something sinister? I sometimes wonder how much my anxiety is genetic and how much due to the world we live in – nature or nurture – and suspect, with no scientific evidence whatsoever, a combination of both. When I think back, trying to pinpoint the moment I transitioned into a spiralling coil of fear, trying to understand how this version of myself emerged and solidified, I realise it’s been a slow incremental drip since my teens, accelerating more dramatically after losing both parents to pancreatic cancer, and a husband to COVID-19, with an unexpected total hysterectomy in between. And somewhere deep in my psyche is the fate of my lovely gran and the horrifying, turbulent unfairness of life for so many. Each tragedy adds to the previous one, amplifying the impact, and pervasive sadness permeating every unravelled atom of your being. Grief and guilt lock us in time, compel us to revisit that last conversation, wanting a different outcome, a better ending because the people loved and lost didn’t deserve to suffer. When the past is too painful, and the future full of fear – known and unknown - the here and now is all there is. To survive, many of us sleepwalk through life. I used to kid myself those awful things that happened to other people couldn’t happen to me. But they did. They do. An alarming prospect. If experience teaches us bad situations can always get worse, when the unthinkable happens – like the election of grossly incompetent governments, an unprecedented pandemic, or the people you love dying horrendously – anything (bad) is possible. The catastrophic global consequences of COVID-19 effectively legitimised my constant, exhausting concerns about germs and health, reinforced existing unsettling preoccupations and medical phobias. I had been validated. I wasn’t crazy. I was right all along. Along with other members of the unnaturally anxious minority. Not only were we right, our numbers are growing, and we are more visible than ever. Lessons will be learnt is something heard a lot in recent years. Usually from hospitals and governments and those who have some kind of authority. But the lesson I have learned is that lessons will never be learnt. Which makes me angry and deeply sad. This truth extinguishes hope. And although hope is a mirage, a construct that keeps us going, without it, the world is a dangerous place. Keeping hope alive keeps people alive. If there is no hope, what’s the point in anything? But hope is something that lives in the future. And right now, the future is the scariest place of all. Humans are programmed to make sense of our lives, our brains wired to search for patterns so we can delude ourselves about what is – or isn’t - likely to happen. Like the way we tell ourselves we might win the lottery, that when the dice repeatedly throws up a six it will inevitably throw up a two. Which is nonsense. Life is a series of random episodes. We are marking time in a surreal waiting room, which is pretty hard to swallow. Uncertainty is my biggest enemy and if I could eliminate it, I would. Listening to a Radio 4 programme about decision making, I heard Gerd Gigerenzer, Director Emeritus of the Max Planck Institute for Human Development, say that without uncertainty, life would be empty and boring because if we knew everything, there would be no need for hope, trust, disappointment, surprise - things that make us human. I am still pondering this contradiction. Ironically, although I live in fear much of the time, I am also immensely grateful. Grateful I have somewhere to live, food I can eat, fluids I can drink; grateful I can still go to the loo; grateful I can walk and speak and see and hear and breathe. I’m especially gratefuI I can read, because as long as I can read, I can escape. I never take it for granted this will always be the case. Using my sense of humour as a coping mechanism to distract myself, I realise in hindsight that’s probably what Dorothy did. After all, laughter is supposed to be the best medicine. (Who said that?). I don’t tell jokes or listen to The Laughing Policeman but instead, watch and listen to favourite comedies, retreat deeply into nostalgia. And I write. Because the act of writing fiction or poetry enables me, for short periods, to pretend I’m in control. In the past, I always berated myself for being “weird” but when the world is weirder, perhaps weird is the new normal. Whatever that is. Just hand me the whoopee cushion…. UK based neurodivergent writer Jane Ayres re-discovered poetry studying for a part-time Creative Writing MA at the University of Kent, which she completed in 2019 at the age of 57. In 2020, she was longlisted for the Rebecca Swift Foundation Women Poets’ Prize. In 2021, she was nominated for Best of the Net, shortlisted for the Aesthetica Creative Writing Award and a winner of the Laurence Sterne Prize. Her first collection edible was published by Beir Bua Press in July 2022. Website: janeayreswriter.wordpress.com

One by one, the headshots popped to life on the Zoom conference which was supposed to have started promptly at 12:30 (it was 6 minutes past). Two of them waved silently, but the remaining faces stared blankly ahead, as if not quite convinced there were eyes and ears beyond their laptops. After waiting a beat for everyone to settle, the infamous gray dome of Malefactor, complete with ornate cowl, called the meeting to order. “Can everyone see and hear me?” he asked, voice booming. “I had some problems on our last call, the video kept cutting out and my mic was too low. I think Arachanoid fixed the bug, but hey, that’s the reality of using hijacked technology on the lam.” “We can hear you,” Sister Sinister muttered, sipping her drink. “Though you might want to move your camera down a little…your nose is where your eyes should be.” “Oh…right, what about this?” he asked, fiddling with his laptop screen. “Better?” She only shrugged, as if to say, ‘whatever.’ The other heads smiled or shifted in their tiny squares, though one was conspicuously absent in the top right corner. The wall behind showed several tattered centerfolds and the corner of an unmade-bed. “Sneak, are you there or not? We’ve talked about this, wear a hat or something. Hello? Guys, can you hear him?” “I just tried him on chat, he’s not there,” Memento Mori said, whose death’s-head grimace belied his high-pitched chirp. “That invisible degenerate,” Malefactor muttered. “Look, we’re not waiting for him, it’s time to start. I apologize for the informality, but thank you so much for coming today, Bel Canto. It’s a real privilege to interview you, especially after your work with The Grifters, and your brutal take-down of Captain Canary. Is she still in the ICU?” “Oh, thank you, the pleasure is all mine,” Bel Canto said, her music-note earrings dangling over bare shoulders. “And yes, the last time I checked she was still there, though her condition is stable and she’s respected to make a full—if lengthy—recovery.” “Sorry to hear it,” Malefactor said, with a polite laugh. “Before we begin, allow me to introduce the other members of The Infernal Brigade. Of course you know me, notorious mastermind and longest-lived human on the planet, Malefactor. Next is Sister Sinister, our resident witch and hex-master. Memento Mori is the grim-looking fellow beside her, but rest assured, it’s just a mask…not that we’ve ever seem him without it. And that’s Kikimora, the muscle of the group. Oh yes, you’ve crossed paths before as rivals, haven’t you? No hard feelings, I hope. And finally, Sneak should be joining us eventually, though he tends to make him self scarce as often as possible…I sometimes wonder if he’s even on the team.” “Thank you, it’s a pleasure to meet you all,” Bel Canto smiled, adjusting her hair. “So…tell us a little bit about yourself and why you’re so interested in this position,” Sister Sinister said, her eyes narrowing. “Well, I don’t know anyone who hasn’t wanted an opportunity to work alongside The Infernal Brigage,” she began, excitedly. “Since I was a kid, long before I came into my powers, I remember thinking, the only difference between the good guys and the bad guys is who’s telling the story. And if not for your selfless work keeping megalomaniacs like Kid Atlas and Sunstone in check, we would all be enslaved, mere nothings in a world of conformity. I want to be a part of that anarchy, pushing against our ‘saviors.’ If that makes sense.” “Oh yes, wonderful,” Sister Sinister said, distractedly. “Mori?” Malefactor prompted. “Ah yes, I’m a big fan—I’ve replayed the fight against Captain Canary endlessly on You Tube,” he said, with a little cackle. “But being a member of our team isn’t just a knock-down, drag-out fight with our foes. It’s also plans and schemes, whether masterminding the next heist or delivering a doomsday weapon. So tell me, what assets can you bring to the table besides your superhuman abilities?” “That’s an excellent question, and may I say, I’m a big fan of yours as well,” she said, leaning forward. “As you all know, my powers come and go with my voice. I can snap steel, break bones, bend thoughts, and seduce with a whisper. But only if I’m in voice, and I sometimes need hours, or even days, to rest. So in that time I hone my other abilities, and as you’ll see in my resume, I have a BA in Psychics and an MA in Laboratory Technology, so I can assist the team in developing various infiltration devices, as well as the concoction of toxins and serums to assist in our nefarious schemes.” “That’s right, The Grifters had those snazzy outfits you couldn’t grab; the heroes’ hands slipped right off them. Your invention?” Malefactor asked. “Among others, though I was never given the appropriate credit,” she muttered, with a less-than-sugary smile. “Fabulous, thank you,” Memento Mori concluded. “Is Sneak back yet? Sneak? Are you watching? Shake your monitor or something,” Malefactor shouted, waving his hands. Sneak’s screen remained perversely still and silent. “Insufferable twerp. Kikimora, we’ll skip to you.” Kikimora, a female bodybuilder with green tentacles snaking from her scalp and writhing around her torso, responded with an impatient snort. She hated Bel Canto after the two took a very public tousle that quickly went viral, particularly after it became a meme. “Does my ass look fat in this?” was the most popular one, showing Kikimora waist-deep in a taxi, after Bel Canto had smacked her clear across uptown. Kikimora was itching for a rematch, and perhaps if they joined forces now, she could find the opportunity sooner than she thought. “Bel Canto…is that Spanish? Are you like ethnic or something?” “Er, no, no, Kikimora, we can’t ask questions like that. Didn’t you read the e-mail I sent you? About inappropriate questions?” Malefactor interrupted. “No, no, please, I don’t mind,” Bel Canto said, shrugging it off. “It’s actually Italian, and it means “beautiful singing,” which is sort of ironic, since my beautiful voice is the last thing you’ll hear if you cross me…as you might recall.” “You were sharp, actually,” Kikimora muttered, crossing her arms. “So, were you actually born with your abilities, or are you just one of those Test-Tube Heroes, like that idiot, Saberwing? You two dated, didn’t you? I thought I read something in People—” “Please, don’t answer that—and I do apologize, she’s still a little sore after all that negative publicity,” Malevolent said, with a nervous laugh. “It’s fine, I understand,” she said. “We really are excited for the opportunity to work with you, which is why we want to make sure we can all…ah, get along, and that you share our vision for the future. Perhaps Sister Sinister has another question—” “All right, you big babies, I didn’t mean to ruffle her feathers,” Kikimora interrupted, leering at the screen. “But if she can’t take a few difficult questions, what’s she gonna do when we find ourselves sandwiched between Dr. Parnassus and The Void?” “Sorry, guys, I had to take a whiz and I think I missed—my shoes sound squishy,” Sneak said. “Is that him?” Malefactor shouted. “You little punk, I told you 12:30 sharp! What, did you think time vanished along with the rest of you? Now hurry up and ask Bel Canto a question.” “Oh, sorry—yeah, hi there, pleasure to meet you,” he said, placing a cap on his head, which seemed to bob in empty space. “Okay…let’s say you were at a business lunch, and you ordered a medium-well steak and they brought it to you rare. What would you do?” A beat followed, as Malefactor was about to object but saw that Bel Canto smiled, nodding her approval. “Well, since I’m vegetarian, I would probably say, excuse me, sir, but I think you have the wrong table.” Everyone laughed politely except for Kikimora, who screwed up her face sarcastically. “But seriously, I’m a pretty spontaneous person, and I tend to go with the moment. I would at least take a bite, and see if rare steak is something I could roll with. Like the time Captain Canary discovered my lair when I was nursing a hangover from the previous night (I’m not ashamed to admit it!). However, I just had to slip on my spandex and lace up my boots and roll with the punches. And boy, unless you’ve been on the receiving end of her fists, you have no idea: she really packs a whallop! Knocked out my entire front row; they’re all replacements.” “I’ve fought her--she’s a sissy,” Kikimora responded, with a snort. “And I prefer my steak rare. If they so much as carried my steak near a candle I’d teach them what raw feels like!” “See, that’s why we never take you out,” Sneak said, with a laugh. “Or at least I don’t. You always stick me with the bill.” “I stick you with the bill?” she said, slamming her desk with both fists. “Bitch, you’ve run out on me twice with your little invisible act. Last time was just payback. You still owe me!” “Good god, are we still arguing about this?” Sister Sinister groaned. “Look, I have to get my nails done, so can we wrap this up? Not everyone in town will book an appointment for a super villain, so I can’t stand them up.” “Of course, it’s always about you,” Malefactor said, shaking his head. “I’ll ask just one more question, then: Bel Canto, what personal goals would you set for yourself over the next five years if you got this job?” “Oh, that’s an easy one, so I shouldn’t take too much more of your time,” she said, with an arch expression. “#1, I want to work on breath control, so I can sustain a hypersonic scream for longer than three minutes. I haven’t been able to do it longer than a minute-ten, though that’s enough to incapacitate a rhino…or someone the size of Kikimora.” Memento Mori burst out laughing, but quickly hit mute and turned away. Kikimora, also on mute, gave the appropriate hand gestures in response. “#2, I want to work on my social media campaign, since people still confuse me with that late 80’s villain, Verismo. And you remember his lip-synching scandal with Sunstone? I have to spend the first ten minutes of every fight proving that I can actually sing…it’s like an audition! Anyway, I know you guys are much better at communicating your brand, so maybe you can distinguish me from the competition.” “Yes, Arachnoid handles all of that for us, he’s quite talented. Though he makes a terrible cup of coffee, even with the Keurig; it’s always cold,” Sister Sinister remarked. “I’m sorry, you were saying?” “Yes, and finally, #3: I want to take someone really big out. I agree with Kikimora, Captain Canary’s small potatoes. I have a much bigger appetite. Kid Atlas? Or maybe Dr. Parnassus himself? We shared a flight once. I was so tempted to send an A above high C right at his head just to watch his ears bleed.” On this, all of the villains were in complete agreement. They chuckled and tittered amongst themselves at the thought of beating him (for once) into submission, or making his ears (and eyes) bleed. Though it wasn’t entirely clear if he did bleed, as no one had ever lasted long enough against him to find out. Indeed, the very reason they were hiring today was because Darkstar had taken it upon himself to find out, and had to be retired from active duty. “What a wonderful list—quite inspiring,” Malefactor agreed, nodding his head. “We so appreciate your time today, and in closing, I just want to ask if you had any questions for us? While I’m sure you know us quite well already, we’re more than happy to unlock our secrets and give you the insider’s tour.” “Oh, that’s so kind of you,” she said, with a quick glance at her watch. “I guess my only real question is about your facilities, which I’ve only heard rumors about. Do you have a central lair, or are there multiple locations? I even heard something about a submarine.” “Sunk, thanks to Kid Atlas,” Sister Sinister said, draining her cup. “It never even set sail. As for our central lair…” “I’m afraid that caught fire some years ago, so we’ve been mobile since then, setting up shop wherever we can: Tashkent, Riga, and similar out-of-the-way locales,” Maleficent said, uncomfortably. “But we have plans underway, just as soon we get our personnel settled, and tie up a few loose ends—” “We’re in debt up to our eyeballs,” Kikimora interrupted. “Okay, real talk, sister: we’re living in a pair of repurposed tour buses. I haven’t been paid in months; Memento Mori needs back surgery; Malificent has a personality disorder; Sister Sinister is an alcoholic; and Sneak…well, no secret there, he’s a little perv.” Memento Mori disappeared. Malficent went on mute, and Sister Sinister raised a glass, more than half full, to the screen. “Ah, that’s very helpful, thank you,” Bel Canto said, her smile going flat. “Well, I won’t keep you any further, since I have another appointment—” “You’re interviewing for them, aren’t you?” Maleficent demanded. “I knew it! They’re always trying to steal our thunder. I told you guys we should have moved on this last week! Frightwing will promise you the moon, but don’t listen to him. He can’t even fly on his own. I taught him everything he knows!” “No, I’m not really on the market, and I’ve never spoken to Frightwing—” “You wouldn’t, not directly. He’s such a snob,” Maleficient continued, pulling off his cowl and tossing it behind him. “He’s the kind of guy that sees you in Target and says, hey, we should catch up! Why don’t you call my assistant and make an appointment? The insufferable nerve, after all I’ve done for him! And that’s who you want to work for? A man who’s never even infiltrated a military-grade installation? Who sold all his plutonium for a house in Beverly Hills! Would we have done that? No, we may be poor, destitute, but we have standards! We’re still fighting the Power!” “I appreciate everything, thank you,” Bel Canto said, nodding quickly. “Your ass is mine, bitch! Just you think twice about leaving your house!” Kikimora shouted. “So nice to meet you! We’ll be in touch,” Sister Sinister said, with a tipsy laugh. “See you in the shower,” Sneak snickered. “Or rather, you won’t.” The Zoom call was abruptly terminated. Joshua Grasso is a professor of English at East Central University in Oklahoma, where he teaches classes in everything from Batman to Beowulf. He has a PhD from Miami University in Ohio, where he studied 18th-19th century British literature and wrote a dissertation on pirates. His fantasy/sci-fi stories have most recently appeared in Cosmic Roots and Eldritch Shores, Metaphorosis, Allegory, and the Tales to Terrify podcast. He has also published many articles on literature and teaching, some of which can be found on Medium.

the evidence he left after he died, I wandered the stacks to find asterisks penciled over seven letter words in the Miriam Webster the faintest lines under verses from Stevens and Michaux a tuft of his salt and pepper hair between psalm 120 and 121 a splotch of ink from his Santo de Cartier on an old world map of Europe bookmarks in prewar novels worn thin as tissue highlighter stains on the binding of Anne Frank’s Diary his Flemish notation in the margins of Polish folk tales I fell asleep on a bed of books, a pile of ash Annuals annals Winter pre nazi Europe a sunken glacier Spring the old world melted out of its slumber Summer another book burned on American soil Fall the colors faded, crushed by military boots Winter history has frozen over wars trapped in ice Spring memory flourished cherry blossoms dropped Summer forgetting burned the evidence Fall the swastikas decomposed devoured by mushrooms Winter flags pierced, the blizzard purpled the soles of soldiers Spring our grandmothers rose from their graves ran home from Kew Garden Hills Summer the ghetto trapped them in a furnace Fall history books rose from the ashes sparks fell on the sidewalks Winter their tombstones stood alone buried in an avalanche of prayers Spring the towers they built of roses turned to brambles Summer Jerusalem smiled on high its resting place, the sun Fall they cried out for the holy land stacked corpses in the bunkers Winter their ashes fell like asterisks dusting our bodies with snow Spring the chimneys burst forth with wildflowers Summer chambers full of light blue with flame Fall the leaves disappeared the trees disappeared Rebecca N Herz is the author of Homecoming with publisher Prolific Pulse LLC. Her individual poems can be found in Sinister Wisdom Journal, The Last Leaves, The Madrigal, Prolific Pulse, Fine Lines, Cobra Milk, and on Medium. Rebecca is a graduate student of social work at Rutgers University and lives in New Jersey with her wife and cats. You can follow Rebecca on Medium(@homecoming poet). Check out Homecoming! https://a.co/d/aVaAjTG

Origami I only find you in the dark. Groping for a door handle when all is black glass. Just clocks picking locks. Everyone hates us our guts, our body licking my hands on your waist how we taste. You're hopping and skipping, glimmering gloom molly popping wan face shimmering. Your scarlet sofa lips part to smile for me, belying your not-there stare. One day, we will writhe together at the dawn of day. We'll do the easy part now furiously folding each other. He Leads Us Into The Depths I've just seen Nick Cave. He is the vampire king his feral symphonies drowned by the rattles of pearls from balconies. There are no spirits or sparks in Montreux town. Every thought and deed billed on green paper noted in black books. I thought Switzerland was cold he says, leading us from the steam chamber past the food and bible stalls into the bubbling Lac Léman. The thin dark spook screams and the thin dark spook shouts. Slicked back hair falls lose as he sneers and spits. He parts the lake across to Evian's orange lights. The waves are walls. Bankers and traders and watchers drown until they're dead. Moneychangers prospectors too. Little fish eat through their heads. His deep blue suit wicking every drop, he walks and wades through the deep. Up the thousand steps. Up to the long black train, no more pain and suffering. In the train of hope and intent where cash and souls are never spent. Adrian Harte is Irish but has lived in Switzerland for twenty years. He has been published in the Peregrine Journal, Vita Poetica, Beaver, Embryo Concepts Zine, Awakenings, Roi Fainéant Press, A New Ulster, and Abridged. He has also written Small Victories: The True Story of Faith No More (Jawbone 2018).

Her Last Room She asked to keep the windows open all night. With greeting cards collapsing under dust, cobwebs blanketing bouquets, Lucy and Desi muted on an eternal loop. The cold didn’t scare her. The quiet did. She wanted to hear the shrieking cats, dogs barking back. Arguing lovers, police sirens, helicopters humming, first dates begging for kisses, sorority girls wobbling home, the drunk guy announcing he’s Jesus, the airplanes flying too low. Where were they headed so late at night? She wished she could go. She knew she didn’t have much time. This would be her last room. blades (TW: suicide) as I etch a pebble over cement I stumble back into that night purple and ash bracelet his wrists smoke and blood tattoo his broken veins from the fold of his elbow to the curve of his nails blurred memories of pressing his wounds, pounding his chest, blowing life into his lungs waiting for a trembling lip, a flickering lid, a gasping breath, a voice whispering I want to live I dug for an unsent letter hiding with unpaid bills, a quivering message begging for an urgent call back. How did I miss gazes out windows, meals untouched, missed appointments, tear-soaked tissues tucked in pockets did his pain cut so sharp he’d choose dirt and nothing over coffee walks on Sunday mornings, three o’clock bourbon on the beach, counting pigeons at the park, confessing Friday night lies until we cry, locking fingers while we sleep, holding kisses until we drift into dreams. How did I miss his nightmares and empty days, his mind slipping from his grip How did I miss the blade hovering over his arm M.R. Mandell (she/her) is a writer living in Los Angeles. A transplant from Katy, Texas, she now lives by the beach with her muse, a Golden Retriever named Chester Blue (at her feet), and her longtime partner (by her side). You can find her work in Chill Subs, Boats Against the Current, The Final Girl Bulletin Board, Dorothy Parker’s Ashes, The Bloom, Jake, Stanchion Zine (April, 2023) and others. Twitter: @mrmandell8 Instagram: m.r.mandell

The gym I went to was old-school. No internet/wireless. No air-conditioning. It had racks and plates and bars and dumbbells that went to 160 pounds and two giant standing fans for the hottest days of the summer. It did have a water cooler. There was a stereo, an assemblage of cast-off equipment and a CD player. Excellent volume, by which I mean you could crank it up. The gym had a lined notebook at the counter. The policy was that everyone, before changing/training, had to sign in with their name and the date and time they were in. I was standing in line to sign in behind a guy we called Big B – an enormous man who weighed well over three-hundred pounds and one of only two guys I knew that ever benched over five-hundred drug-free. As Big B was signing in, the owner, from behind the counter, nodded towards a woman training in the back of the gym. Big B, he said, is that your wife? Big B didn’t even look. Nope, he said. My wife runs about three-fifty, chews snuff, and has hail damage on her ass. He walked into the changing room without looking. The owner and I still laugh about that one. I know Big B’s wife, by the way, they were clients of mine. She did not, in any way, fit the description. I Another time I was signing in, a woman who trained there regularly stood behind me. Her name was Paula. The owner asked her about Trucker D – her boyfriend. He’d been coming in with her regularly. She had him on a diet and a training regimen – he’d started to lose some weight. I haven’t seen Trucker D lately, the owner asked Paula, where’s he been? We broke up, Paula said. That’s too bad, the owner said. What happened? Well, Paula said. It’s like this - D is a long-haul trucker. He was never around. Once a week he’d stop by, leave the truck idling, and I’d give him a blow job and make him a sandwich. Then he’d be out the door and gone for a week. There’s gotta be more to life than that. Paula finished signing and walked into the ladies changing room. Nope, the owner said to me, there’s not much more to life than that. I said it sounded pretty good to me, too. After I had signed in and changed, I got on a treadmill beside Paula. Did I tell you about my friend, she asked? She had a bladder-lift – do you know what that is? I did not. Anyways, she had a bladder-lift, Paula said, and it didn’t work. She sued the gynecologist who performed the surgery but she lost. $60,000 in legal fees. She’s paying it off now, eight-hundred and change per month, just like a second mortgage. II Big B told me that in order to own a weight you had to rep it 100 times in a single training session. After that it would never feel heavy ever again. He told me that to own 140-kilos (308 pounds), he’d benched it one-hundred times. He started with an eleven-rep set, and did sets up until three reps was all he could do, but eventually he benched that weight for a hundred total reps. It took me about an hour-and-a-half he said, but I own it. III Leo was not drug-free. He benched 575 pounds. He had the worst bacne I’d ever seen. bacne is a type of acne you get on your back when running a steroid cycle. Acne Vulgaris of a sort, a moonscape of red and yellow. His bench workout consisted of working up to a few heavy single reps and then some incline dumbbell presses. That’s all. No secret Soviet formula. No curls for the girls, no beach muscle. I’d spot for him. After he’d finished benching, he’d do the incline dumbbell presses with 160-pound dumbbells. He’d do three sets of eight repetitions. After he’d done eight, he’d drop the dumbbells to the floor. When he was ready for his next set, I’d pick them up and hand them to him one side at a time. Picking those 160’s up from the floor was one of the more difficult things I’d ever do in the gym. Leo, I said one time, I’ve gone as far as I can go doing what I am doing. I need you to hook me up. He knew what I was asking. You don’t need steroids, he said. You just need to learn to handle weight. Picking those 160’s up off of the floor and handing them to him felt like handling weight to me. He never admitted to using. That’s fine. Some guys never do. Some are proselytists. I like the proselytists. Leo ate like no one else I knew. Not in terms of volume, but in what constituted that volume. I’d seen him take a loaf of bread, still in the plastic bag, and crush and mold it with his hands until it was a large, dense, ball of bread. Then he’d take it out of the bag and eat it like an apple. IV Super Ed, the other guy I knew who could bench five-hundred drug-free, asked me if I took steroids. I do not, I said. Good, he said. Don’t ever use them. He was very serious when he said this, but Ed was always very serious. He then told me that when he was sixteen, he was being, in his own words, a shithead. I was skipping school, he said, smoking pot every day, breaking into parked cars looking for change – stuff like that. One day, I got up around eleven, put on my leather coat, and went to walk out the front door. My mom blocked me in the hallway. Are you going to school now, she asked me? Fuck off, I said, and tried to shoulder my way past her. My mother was a large woman. Six-feet-two inches tall,two-hundred-and-forty pounds. She grabbed my head in one hand and slammed it through the drywall. She stepped over me and then walked back into the kitchen. I was sitting there with pieces of drywall and drywall dust in my hair and on my clothes. So, I got up and dusted myself off and walked out the front door and went and found the nearest pay phone. I called my older brother up – he had a good job on a drilling rig – and I asked him for a job. By the end of the week, I was working full time, and I never told my mother to fuck off ever again. I believed him. V Paula’s daughter had posed nude for a glossy men’s magazine so Paula brought in a few copies. The girl had sometimes trained at the gym but I didn’t really know her. I looked. The girl was very attractive, and the photography high-end. It looked a lot like fame. Paula put the copies on the counter, beside the sign-in book and over top of the supplements that were under lock and key. The owner and I discussed it. Neither of us had daughters, and we agreed that although we wouldn’t dissuade a theoretical daughter from posing for a legitimate publication, we also would not bring copies into the gym. Too many fuckin’ pervs, the owner said, starting with me and you. I laughed. In about a week the copies were all gone. The owner said that he thought a Hutterite had stolen them all. The Hutterite sometimes came in to use the bathroom when the colony was at the feed mill next door. That guy comes in just to take a shit, the owner said, and now he stole our locally-sourced porn. That’s wrong. The owner went on to say he felt he could not say no to the Hutterite for asking to use the bathroom because the mill was the gym’s landlord too, and they did a lot of business with the Hutterites. VI A guy named Saul trained there. He was a real biker. Flowing hair, a Fu-Manchu, and a metric ass-load of really good tattoos. We shared the same taste in music. You don’t look like a Motorhead guy, he told me once. What can I say? I am a Motorhead guy. He and his brother promoted Tuskers – a kind of biker-bash. A mini-Sturgis. Bands, hot-dog eating and wet-t-shirt contests, a motorcycle show and a burnout pit. He booked the bands. He had a good working relationship with the clubs. I knew he was real when he said the clubs. No one in that world ever refers to the clubs by name. It’s considered disrespectful. Back to tattoos, he said he always got a new one when a relationship ended, to mark the passing of whatever the relationship-thing was back into the annals of his personal history. It was how he moved on, he said. He took off his shirt and turned his back to me. I got this one done after the last one, he said. The tattoo, a full back-piece, was of a screaming eagle diving, wings outstretched, talons forward. Below the eagle was a nude woman reaching up into the eagle’s chest, tearing out its heart with her one hand. Blood from the eagle’s heart dripped down onto the classical masks of comedy and tragedy that lay at her feet, and this blood ran down from the mask’s eyes like tears. Holy fuck, I said. I know, he said. She was something. Saul was one of the best people I ever trained with. He was AA and spent every Christmas driving drunks around, having coffee with them, nursing their battered souls through their worst time of the year. He'd had his moment, he said. We kept a party room at a local hotel, he told me - we meaning the club. I woke up hung-over for two straight years. The first thing I did every morning was puke. I woke up one morning and puked, then looked in the mirror. I saw a dead man. I kid you not, dead. Grey skinned and grey-eyed. I knew what I would look like dead. I cleaned myself up as best I could and went to AA. I’ve been sober ever since. Saul rubbed Tiger Balm into every joint before working out, and wore wraps on his knees, elbows, wrists. I gave him a hard time about this. It takes you forty-minutes to get ready to work out for forty-five minutes, I said. Wait until you are my age, he said. He was right about that. When I got divorced, he complimented me on my weight loss. Divorced guy diet, he said. Working out, lots of coffee, not much real food. He was right about that too. VII The owner had gone to a seminar on running a gym as a business. I asked him if it was helpful. Yes and no, he said. There are really only three rules to running a gym: Firstly, never let anyone in the door whose membership is not paid up to date and in full. Secondly, no juicers. They intimidate the more casual members and the casuals are who you make money off of. So, no juicers, not even in the parking lot. Finally, no one touches the music but the owner, no exceptions. Just like the juicers, a steady stream of metal or rap at volume ten sends the majority of members running the other way. That all makes sense, I said. The first one especially, he said. They still let me touch the stereo. It’s metal for breakfast, lunch and dinner when I am in. Rock on. VIII Once in a while they’d have to kick a member out for some transgression. There were only two reasons for this: Creepy shit with women and fighting. One day I was in and a creeper sat on the leg extension machine and stared at women using the mirrors in a thinly-veiled attempt to hide what he was doing. He sat there for at least an hour. Never even moved his legs. I asked if I could work in – he shouted at me. No. I’m still on it. The weird little dude was just another creeper, for sure. The next time I was in I mentioned this to the owner, that I was sure Creepy McCreeperson was just checking out ladies. Already kicked him out, the owner said. One of our members came asking for a refund. She said she couldn’t train here anymore. She’d come here because he was doing that shit at the gym she used to go to. I kicked him out and he didn’t argue. I called the other gym she’d mentioned to give them a head’s-up and they said they’d already booted him too. There were a couple of fights, both started by young guys with room temperature IQ’s and the confidence born of exogenous testosterone. After they’d kicked the one guy out, one of the female members told me that she’d used to room with one of the guy’s ex-girlfriends and that her roomie had broken up with the guy for asking her if he could watch her take a shit. I thought that was fucked up. The guy was like, twenty-one. Odd kink to start with. I told her exactly that, about the kink/age etc. and then told her that what made it weirder is that everyone knows girls don’t poop. We both laughed. Want to hear about period shits, she asked me? Mine are the worst. No, I said. Not at all. Ever. The one guy that got kicked out who wasn’t a creeper or a shit-starter was booted for stealing cds. I can’t remember much about him except for him telling me, every time I saw him, that alcohol was the worst thing that you could ever put into your body. He was a proselytist, but of a different sort, and he stole a few cds. He got my Jackyl Cd - the one with the “The Lumberjack” and the chainsaw solo. Mind you, I never saw him take it. I only knew that it was gone. A lot of people might have taken that one. IX Paula wrote a book and put it online for sale. Self-published, unedited. It described her childhood sexual abuse. It did not sell very many copies. I did not read it. I felt bad for her for a number of reasons. She’d started selling supplements in a multi-level marketing thing too. A fat burner – caffeine and ephedrine. It was hot, like 30 cups of coffee all at once, and it made my blood pressure skyrocket. I didn’t lose much weight. I quit taking it. X Big B wanted to tell me how his brother had died. He was surprised I had not heard the story, but I was much younger than Big B and his brother had been older than him. My brother’s daughter, he said, my niece – died from a rare form of cancer when she was nine. My brother got up and went to work every day after that, but he was in a fog. It hit him hard. Then, one day, he comes back from work. The house is empty. All of the furniture, all of the dishes, glasses and plates – knives, forks, bedding, the doormat even - everything except for his clothing, is gone. The phone is ringing – at least there is still a phone – so he picks it up. It’s the bank. His mortgage is three months in arrears, they are going to foreclose. They are just letting him know, as a courtesy. We’ve tried to call, they say. No one answers. His wife, of course, is gone. He went to the police to report her as missing – he feared the worst, but a different kind of worst than what actually was. The police never really looked for her. They assumed she was just a runaway. Anyways, he deals with the bank, the utilities, all of that stuff. Gets it together. Still can’t find his wife. A few weeks go by. One night the phone rings and he picksit up. A man he does not know tells him that if he wants to know where his wife is, call this number, and then gives him the number. Write it down, he says, and then call it. You have to remember all this was way before caller ID and all that. So, he calls it, and a familiar voice answers the phone. It’s his best friend. It was a different number from what he’d known for years, but still, it’s the guy. My brother adds two plus two and gets it. He got drunk after that, B said, so drunk – and he was never a drinker. He took a butcher’s knife out of the kitchen drawer and got in his car - a big old four-door Chrysler, and put the pedal to the floor. He drove wild. People from all over were calling in to the police about him. He drove to the cemetery and smashed through the gates – it took him four tries, according to witnesses. But he got in. He drove to his daughter’s grave and got out. It was his intention to use the knife to kill himself right there after talking to his daughter one last time. The cops showed up then, two uniforms and a K9 officer. They told him to put the knife down but he just looked at them, knife in hand, so the uniforms shot him. I don’t know how many rounds they fired but they hit him three times and he dropped the knife. They called an ambulance and got him into emergency and the doctors saved his life. A few months later they finally had a trial. He was convicted of a few things but the judge was lenient and gave him a suspended sentence. Under testimony the K9 officer had said that he thought the other cops were too quick to shoot and that he thought he could have put the dog on my brother and subdued him that way. Good enough, the judge said to my brother, don’t find your way into my courtroom again and we’ll all be square. Wait – so he’s not dead then, I asked? Oh, he’s dead, said Big B. Three years after all of this he was unloading trusses for a construction project. He touched up against a power line and was electrocuted. I am surprised you never heard of this, he said, it was news at the time. XI Eventually, the original owner sold the gym. He sold it to a guy who had won a number of amateur boxing matches and “tough-man” contests. He turned it into a “key club” – no sign-in anymore. No counter staff. Everyone got a key. A few people gave duplicate keys to their friends. Stuff disappeared. Fuck that shit, the new owner said, and he sold the gym over time to a fitness equipment salesman. The locks were changed. We had the sign-in sheet back. We had new cardio equipment. Good stuff, too. Then the new owner was arrested. He'd taken the equipment from his day-job and put it in the gym with neither lease nor purchase. The gym closed. The second owner got his own equipment back and many years later, still has it. He won’t sell it except as a whole. I wanted to buy a rack, a couple of bars, five-hundred pounds worth of plates, and set up in my garage but he wouldn’t sell me anything. All or nothing, he said. I don’t think he had anything against me and my four-hundred dollars, I just think he thought he could sell all of it at once. It’s out in the open I am told, in a farm-yard south of here, rusting. XII I saw Big B the other day, in his car. He rolled down the window and yelled at me. Hey you fucking asshole, how come you never wave? I waved. He laughed and drove away before I could ask him where he was training these days.

I sit down at the diner and order a cold blueberry pancake and wait for Jenny, who asked me via text to go sit down at the diner and order a cold blueberry pancake and wait for her. Jenny and I both work at the nearby pharmacy. Not as pharmacists but as people who take things out of boxes and place them on shelves. Sometimes we get lunch together and talk about how it tastes. Other times we get drinks together and say things like, "Our boss is so annoying." Jenny and I are best friends. The diner door squeaks and Jenny bounces into the room, eventually landing safely on the seat opposite me. Her hair is in a ponytail, but only about half has made it in. She smiles and says, "I replaced my teeth with dimes," but really it sounds more like, "Ithe replathe my teth with dies." Lodged in her gums are indeed about thirty-two coins. Some of them have dried, crusty, maroon blood on their front. Her gums are much redder than normal gums, probably on account of ripping out her teeth and replacing them with metallic objects. "Why?" I ask. "Thithe our tithet ouw." "What?" "Thitss our tithet ouwtthh. Weh goin tah be famouthhh ah hell." Jenny explains she could now quit the pharmacy and move to Los Angeles, where she will become famous. And I could tag along and be the friend of someone famous. I say that sounds good. I figure it must be better than taking things out of boxes. Taking things out of boxes is not my passion. We stop into the pharmacy and I tell our boss I’m quitting and Jenny tells him to go fuck himself with a roll of dimes. She then takes a roll of dimes out of her pocket and throws it at him. She takes the uneaten cold blueberry pancakes out of the diner box and throws them at him too. We leave. On the bus from Sacramento to Los Angeles, Jenny shows many people her mouth. They say things like, "Wow, dimes!?" and "Isn't that something?” One little girl throws up. Jenny's high school pal, Autumn, picks us up from the bus stop. Jenny shows her the dimes and Autumn says, "OMG, that's so you." Then she says, “We better hurry home before the wind turns yellow.” Jenny laughs. I don’t have access to the inside joke and so I fake chuckle for a moment to be part of the group and then look out the window. Autumn moved to LA to become an actress a few years ago, but now she mainly drives strangers around in her car. She says it’s nice driving us around because we’re non-strangers. We sleep in Autumn’s basement. In the morning Jenny says we should go to the local news station on Sunset Boulevard and show them her mouth. Autumn drops us off and then goes to drive other people to places so she can continue to eat and drink. The local news building is made of glass. Its name is KPLA. Jenny does not know what the “KP” stands for and she doesn’t care. Inside, a receptionist is looking at the wall. His skin is very pale. Jenny asks me to do the talking because her mouth hurts and she doesn’t want to move it. I tell the receptionist that we have an important story, that we would like to speak with a reporter. He stops looking at the wall and says a lot of words that mean “no.” Jenny grabs each of her lips between finger and thumb and pulls them open. The receptionist gives us a one-day printed pass to enter the office. The local news people love the dimes. They’ve never seen anything like it, they say. They tape Jenny for a segment to air the following morning. Jenny tells the camera the brand of pliers she used to remove her teeth and the average age of the dimes. The news people ask if she has had any struggles and she talks about her difficulty eating, about how she has to cut food into minuscule pieces and swallow them whole like a pelican. They film her mouth from many angles. After we leave, Jenny says she made up the age of the dimes. The next morning, we watch Jenny on the television. It’s just like when they taped it, except two-dimensional. Within minutes, videos and messages start to pop up on social media—people reacting to Jenny’s mouth. One man in a football jersey has tweeted that Jenny is a “dime with dimes.” She likes it. An anime snow leopard named KindCat625347922 has tweeted that Jenny is a “stupid attention-seeking cunt,” who he’d love to “throat fuck until the dimes fall out.” She doesn’t like it. A gay youth has glued dimes to his teeth and posted it to TikTok, writing, “Jenny shows us it’s okay to be ourselves.” She likes it. By the time Autumn gets home from driving, “#dimegirl” is trending all over social media. The world is awash in dimes. Jimmy Fallon’s new LA office gets in touch. Jenny goes on Jimmy Fallon. Jimmy says it's time to play a game called “Guess That Coin.” He holds up coins and asks Jenny to guess them. “Ten cent euro,” she says to one. “Halfpenny,” she says to another. She gets none of the answers right. Jimmy asks if he can touch her mouth. The crowd laughs and makes noises like “oh oh!” and “yessss!” She wipes her hands against her thighs and smiles at the ground, looking bashful. I can’t tell whether she is actually bashful or is pretending to be so because it will look better when she ultimately acquiesces. The audience begins to chant, “Let him touch! Let him touch! Let him touch!” Jenny lets him touch. The crowd explodes: one old bespectacled man knocks out his own teeth with a hammer; a teenage boy tears off his shirt and fervently rubs his crotch; a rail-thin woman attempts to snort a pile of pocket change; a rail-thin woman fails to snort a pile of pocket change; two pudgy middle-aged couples pee themselves, holding each other and moaning, “Delano!”; a child crawls the floor for loose coins. Screams of “We Love Dime Mouth!” ring through the theater. Jenny goes on more talk shows and starts to make money from Instagram endorsements. She and I move into a hotel, but Autumn stays at her place. She doesn’t want to impose. Jenny says if anyone mentions acting roles she’ll be sure to give them Autumn’s information. We fly to New York City, where Jenny makes appearances on even more talk shows. These talk shows are just like the ones in LA except colder. The two of us buy matching sequin gowns—their silver discs looking like thousands of miniature dimes—from Saks Fifth Avenue. On the sidewalk, a man with trash bags on his feet who only has a beard on one side of his face screams something at us he probably thinks is nice, but we think is frightening. We eat at a place so expensive they serve only crumbs: one crumb of parmesan-encrusted, gold-flaked salmon, one drop of Negroni, half a caviar egg. I tell Jenny how grateful I am to be her friend. She’s still the same Jenny; the fame has not changed her except in that she now looks at her phone much more often, maybe a few times each blink, and she’s perpetually making little pouts and smiles in case people are taking photos of us, and she has a more expensive hair tie in her hair, and more of her hair is in the hair tie. Which I guess is maybe a lot of changes (I don’t know how many changes are a normal amount of changes for when one becomes famous), but she is still just as nice to me and she is my best friend and she lets me try half her steak crumb. She says she loves me and asks what I’d like to do besides being the friend of a famous person, now that I don’t have to spend all my time taking things out of boxes. No one has ever asked me this before. I think about it and then say I’d maybe like to glue rocks and twigs onto paper to make art. Jenny says that sounds great. She says she’ll just continue to be famous. I put the meal on my credit card and Jenny will pay me back—hers is maxed. We sit in the airport. Done with the talk shows, the future is Jenny. Her inbox is filled with brands begging her to become their spokesperson. Wendy’s says she perfectly fits their irreverent online persona. Capital One says the money connection is impossible to resist. Crest says they want her for their new “When You Don’t Brush” ad campaign. Netflix has requested full access to her life to make a six-part origin documentary, tentatively titled, “Nickel, Copper, and Love.” Marvel has reached out about adding Dime Mouth to their cinematic universe. Jenny smiles while she scrolls through the endless emails. I think about all the ways one can arrange sticks on paper and I smile too. We get on the plane and continue to smile. But as soon as we land back in LA our phones blow up. Everyone on the flight is already staring at theirs, mouths agape. A man has cut off his dick and replaced it with a large red carrot. The carrot is the size of a small arm. “#CarrotCock” is trending everywhere. It’s horrific. Mentions of Jenny are found only in comparison and nostalgia. For example, one Instagram caption reads, “Dime Mouth walked so Carrot Cock could run,” on a photo of Carrot Cock’s carrot cock. Another user has replied, “Who the fuck is ‘Dime Mouth’?” Jenny rubs her temples and yells. Then the stewardess yells at her. Jenny shows the stewardess her mouth. The stewardess does not care. We take a taxi to Autumn’s house, essentially maxing out my credit card in the process. Autumn says we can stay there as long as we need. She and I fall asleep, but Jenny can’t due to the increasing, pounding pain in her gums and jaw. She spends all night replying to the brand offers, contacting the representatives of the shows she’s been on to ask if she could do another round. No one responds. In the morning she takes and posts varying photos of her open mouth—her mouth in the bathroom, her mouth in the living room, her mouth in the kitchen, her mouth outside. All receive a paltry number of likes. Half the likes are from me. Jenny smashes her hand into a pillow twenty-seven times. She continues this pattern of posting and smashing for a week before giving up. We go back to the building named KPLA and the receptionist refuses to even look away from his wall. Outside, I try to think of ways we can get her famous again. I suggest she chop off her breasts and replace them with balloons filled with oregano. She drops to the ground, sitting cross-legged on the curb. Salty water emerges from her eyes and falls down her cheeks. She moans between sobs, “Ithe ovah! He replathe his cothe! He replathe his futhing cothe!” I rub Jenny’s back. She says there’s nothing to do. She just wants to go home. She says we can get jobs at the local pharmacy and move back to Sacramento once we have enough money for a security deposit. This makes me sad because I won’t have much time for the rocks, but it's what has to happen. We sit in the sun and Jenny sends an email to our old boss in Sacramento to ease tensions, in case she needs to go back there once we return. She explains that in her culture—she is a white atheist—it is actually a sign of respect to pelt someone with dimes and cold pancakes, in fact, in her culture, when one turns thirteen, one is supposed to pelt their own parents. She then scrolls through her old Instagram posts and whimpers. She says she’s hungry, but there’s no food at the curb in front of the building named KPLA. At the pharmacy, we fill out applications. Jenny grabs M&Ms because they’re cheap and she’ll be able to swallow them without chewing. “Two ninety-nine,” says the cashier. We search our pockets and wallets—neither of us has cash. And of course, our credit cards are used up. Jenny shakes her head and rubs her foot into the floor and makes a noise that can only be described as a short sorrowful mewl. One by one, she pulls the dimes out of her gums. Tyler Plofker is a writer in NYC. His recent work has appeared or is forthcoming in Identity Theory, Maudlin House, Idle Ink, Defenestration, Bear Creek Gazette, Sublunary Review, and elsewhere. In his free time, you can find him eating sugary breakfast cereals, laying out in the sun, or walking through the streets of New York City in search of this or that. He tweets badly @TylerPlofker.

The costume is old; it smells of others' sweat; their dread woven into the fabric. The corset of scarlet velvet, good for disguising small blood spots, doesn’t quite fit. Maestro Montague has promised a new costume, he suggests crimson brocade. He suggests my name should be Ruby. Ungrateful girls have no voice here. His preference is for short knives; each has a razor-sharp edge. I watch him honing his blades, cleaning their luminous handles because brighter is better for the audience to see. “Do not move, do not tremble. Look at me, trust me,” he breathes heavily, then sucks deeply from a hip flask. A construction of clowns plays pretend trumpets, splatting custard pies as they haul a circular board, painted with silver stars, into the ring. I twirl and curtsey as I stand before the stars. Maestro Montague straps me into place. He looks into my eyes tightening the leather, my wrists and ankles throb with the constriction. He gives me a wide smile, his teeth crooked, and stained with tobacco. His spangled mask does not disguise a tremor in his left eyelid, and the drop of sweat forming on his lip. Rough splinters painted over many times worry my limbs, the haunting shapes of the others before me. He is a silhouette against the dazzling lights. I feel a trickling tear emerge. I cannot wipe it away. A drum rolls. Air thrusts towards me. A knife slices, vibrating into the board below my left arm. The audience cheer, as another knife lands at my right ear. The drum continues, my heart thuds, I must not move. A knife edge catches velvet fibers. The audience gasps and brays for more. He takes his final knife, cuts a silk ribbon, it flutters mutilated to the floor, and he turns towards me. I feel my muscles tremble, the final thump between my legs, the coldness of the blade threatening my inner thigh. He removes the straps and takes my hand, I am light-headed, the applause intoxicating. I take a gulp of the fuggy air, acknowledging the deluge of noise. Pulling me towards him, he kisses me, his fetid breath haunting my cheek. “Ruby you are a natural, we will practice the wheel of death.” I smile, walking backwards out of the ring. The Ring Master takes my hand, crushing my fingers as he kisses them, he whispers, “take care.” Maestro Montague pulls his knives out of the deep wounds on the board; he sings a lullaby as he places them with reverence into a velvet-lined box. He caresses the slits, the scars of others. He murmurs names. “Scarlet, Cherry, Magenta. Ruby.” I hug myself, try to rub the shivers away. The sting of ruby jewels of blood on my skin makes me wince. Doubt gouges as deep as knives, the wheel of death spins. Ungrateful girls leave while they still can. Joyce Bingham is a Scottish writer who enjoys writing short fiction with pieces published by Ellipsis Zine, FlashBack Fiction, VirtualZine, Funny Pearls and Free Flash Fiction. She lives in the North of England where she makes up stories and tells tall tales. When not writing she puts her green fingers to use as a plant whisperer and Venus fly trap wrangler. @JoyceBingham10

Someday In one thousand years (if I can wait that long) I shall reemerge as the red-winged blackbird I wrote about clinging to the tall bended grasses and flitting about the summer-sweet’s branches. I will land on a small book which someone left behind on a stone beachside bench. I will turn to the very page where I wrote about me and read each word again as though for the first time. Seeing White Horn Brook Behind the house flows White Horn Brook, but the underbrush guards its banks. Unfair I can’t walk through the woods to witness the wondrous clear purl. Good fortune I have to live close by a weather grayed sturdy bridge that crosses over the slow brook just a short pleasant walk away. From the rails of that perfect bridge I have seen all that little brook has carried from the upstream flow through the woods and onward downstream. I’ve often gazed down into the eyes of the old man staring up from the mirrored smooth brook below who stared back through me with wonder into the depths of the vast clear sky blue universe up above knowing White Horn Brook carried him to me and me to him those days. Andy Perrin is a writer/photographer/cyclist/teacher from southern Rhode Island. Andy often explores the roads and trails near his home on one of his bikes. On occasion, while he is out exploring, he is moved to stop to take a photo of some inspirational thing. On the best days, the thoughts of the things photographed turn into words and the subjects of his writing.

Poetry Reading (Explanation 1) Everyone expects a poem to rhyme at some time or another. My brother blames it on those creatures - English teachers. I don’t! I won’t! Rather let me say, the poem begins to roam while most people stay at home. It would be easy and kind of sleazy for me to blame TV. Let me just say that today poems don’t have the time to rhyme. So don’t get upset just let your mind find the pulse in the words, just like flocking birds, you see poems are wild and free. Hollow Notes In Philadelphia for the third day of an I.R.S. audit, I visit the Liberty Bell during the lunch break. About to lose My shirt and with nowhere to turn, I suddenly realize that this bell ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. R. Gerry Fabian is a poet and novelist. He has published four books of his published poems, Parallels, Coming Out Of The Atlantic, Electronic Forecasts and Wildflower Women as well as his poetry baseball book, Ball On The Mound.

Running in the Winter silence, The season holds its breath. The sky, A wrapping paper blue Gifts us a perfect Winter scene. Ice decorations hung in a promise Of a Christmas card moment. We breathe, pain forgotten, The cold too, will pass. Mist hangs in the valley, Darkness capturing the shadows, the gifts we bring making it light. The egg yolk sun spills its promise, There are better days to come. Helen Openshaw is a Drama and English teacher from Cumbria. She enjoys writing poetry and plays and inspiring her students to write. Words in Green Ink Poetry magazine, Words and Whispers magazine, The Madrigal, Fragmented Voices, Forge Zine, Acropolis Journal and The Dirigible Balloon magazine. She has just had her first chapbook, 'A Revolution in the Sky', published by Alien Buddha Press. Twitter = @pocket_rhyme

On Contemplating Consciousness Open sky with whittled clouds splintered by rain. A bitter tang loops through ideas of matter that shore up solitude. I’m dizzy with concentric thoughts, framing myself one way or another, in light or in shadow. In search of a place for my lack of faith, what lugs my sorrows along, what tests my need for fit, tongue and groove, hook and eye. The drudge of January pushes me inside the house, under the afghan my mother made, a cloud of cream wool. The lamp is always on, pooling around me to make a cocoon. I should light some candles too, for their tenderness. Missing Where are the birds? Not among the still trees iced and crystalline, but asleep in the rules of winter, slow heartbeats with no echo. Such Winter Lies such winter lies, the labored boughs empty of birds, the wind, bitter then convulsive a note disturbs silence, high and unwitting as if the dead had long memories the carry of memory, stiff, garbled at other times, extravagant, we twist and turn, examine and decipher some of it left behind the solemn months where forgiveness comes easy, isolation smoothes what we hoped for and lost, insects burrowed in glad sleep words boiled down to letters, pause such winter lies, the stubborn sky vacant above drifts of gold leaves and broken ferns an old grief with no shadows furled beneath Mercedes Lawry is the author of three chapbooks, the latest, In the Early Garden with Reason, was selected by Molly Peacock for the 2018 WaterSedge Chapbook Contest. Her poetry has appeared in such journals as Poetry, Nimrod, and Prairie Schooner and she’s been nominated seven times for a Pushcart Prize. Her book, Vestiges, was just released by Kelsay Books.