Search Results

We received a King Cake at the office the other day Part coffee cake, part cinnamon roll Bathed in an icing of yellow, green and purple A Mardi Gras rainbow Inside the cake hides a small plastic baby And depending on your view either marks the arrival of the three wise men or symbolizes luck and prosperity But I have questions as always How does the plastic not melt in the baking process? How lucky can you consider yourself after biting into a plastic baby? She was always losing things. The eraser end of a pencil floated in her nostril, it jiggled when she sneezed, but she could never find it. Her keys were somewhere in that purse that she left in the taxi. And the baby, where was that baby? The Soundtrack to My Life Here comes your debaser man to hang on your cross in the Jesus Christ pose. Don’t save it for later, just hammer another nail in my heart. It’s a wave of mutilation. What a fucking lovely day in a beautiful world. You’re under pressure, Annie Hopparen. get your gun, Remember, distance equals rate times time. Goodbye, Gemini girl, go wild in the country. Stand and deliver a swingin' safari. You are a pixie standing in a garden of sound, drumming to an English beat. Slayer of queens A blazing arrow You are Adam, bowing to the Garden of Eden. In sweet soul limbo dancing with ants, you are you and you are music to my ears. Ken Tomaro is a writer living in Cleveland Ohio whose work reflects everyday life with depression. His poetry has appeared in several online and print journals and explores the common themes we all experience in life. Sometimes blunt, often dark but always grounded in reality. He has 4 full-length collections of poetry, most recently, Potholes and Perogies available on Amazon. Nolcha’s poems have been published in Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Alien Buddha Zine, Medusa’s Kitchen, and others. Her poetry books are available on Amazon. Nominee for 2023 Best of The Net. Editor for Open Arts Forum. Accidental interviewer/reviewer. Faker of fake news. Website: https://bit.ly/3bT9tYu

The Gods of the Riff are inscrutable. They hear neither prayer nor plea. They brook no rebuke. They bestow their favor where they will, and at the time of their own choosing. Their reasons are theirs and theirs alone, they do not share these with mortals. They dwell on an iron mountain; they take their slumber in an anthracite cave wherein no ray of light can find its way. Of the gift of their blessing, I can only say: You’ll know it when you hear it. I: Bruisermania Bruiser had asked Tversky and I to help him move. Spring semester was over, and he was moving back home with his parents for the summer. He didn’t have much stuff, and he’d promised to buy beer. Tversky and I said yes without hesitation. Bruiser was not his given name. He was nicknamed Bruiser because he was all of 5’10’, 135 pounds – maybe. Even at 135 I’d have to say he had heavy bones. There was nothing else to him. The guy was built out of binder twine. He had a mid-70s Chevy pickup he’d nicknamed “Old Betsy” – it was two-tone white and purple. He had a good stereo in Old Betsy and he kept her clean. Tversky was not a nickname, it just rhymes with his actual surname. Tversky rode a ten-speed most places, and liked weed, badminton, and Heavy Metal. At one time he was very serious about starting a metal band. He and some other veteran air-banders had a name picked out, and Tversky was talking about buying leather chaps. He did not play an instrument, so he thought he’d probably have to be the bassist. Bruiser had, at one time, over-consumed at a bar in Great Falls, Montana called Tee-Jay’s. Tee-Jay’s sponsored a lot of slo-pitch tournaments. Our team went often. We’d be in Tee-Jay’s with every other team in the tourney who wasn’t on the field. The place would be packed. They sold beer in 32-ounce plastic cups called “schooners” – you got to keep the cup. Our slo-pitch team – Bruiser included, but not Tversky, who did not play-slo-pitch – made a pyramid of the cups. We impressed ourselves. Bruiser - who did a take-off on wrestler Hulk Hogan’s Hulkamania he called Bruisermania – played pool and flexed around the pool table to the raucous applause of all of us. He’d make a shot, or not, and shout What are you gonna do when Bruisermania runs wild on you? Another slo-pitch team pushed a guy forward. The dude was almost – but not quite – as skinny as Bruiser. The guy leaped on the pool table and ripped his shirt off, challenging Bruiser to a pose-down. Bruiser ripped his shirt off and jumped up there in a non-bodybuilding battle between guys with broomstick bodies and livers under siege. Everyone in the bar was off-their-ass drunk and loud. You could not hear yourself think. About thirty seconds into the pose-down the other guy fell off the pool table and had to be attended to by his friends. Bruiser, claiming victory, repeated his Bruisermania mantra to the crowd, cupped one ear, then the other, hopped off of the pool table, and walked over to the bathroom. He missed the bathroom door and took the exit (the two doors were very close) and then didn’t come back in for fifteen minutes. Someone went out to look for him. He’d passed out sitting on the sidewalk and leaning against the exterior wall of Tee-Jay’s after (evidently) urinating between two parked cars. He was still shirtless. He looked beatific in his slumber. It was just after 4 p.m. I think what I am trying to say is that if Bruiser needs help moving, I am there. II: The Soirée at the Palais The move went easily enough. We had two trucks, Old Betsey and my little black Nissan. Bruiser had, true to his word, bought beverages. We had a six-pack of Molson Canadian Super cans (think Tallboys) and some wine. Cheap wine. I think it was something called Strawberry Angel – but I can’t remember exactly. Unfortunately, there was a map hazard. By map hazard, I mean that my parent’s place was between Bruiser’s old place and his parents. My parents were out of town – Arizona to be specific. In the house I had a bottle of Mescal and a bottle of Peppermint Schnapps. Half-and-half these in a shot glass and you have a shooter called Fire and Ice. The tequila is on top, it goes down like fire, followed by the minty freshness of the schnapps. So, eight kilometers short of Bruiser’s destination I asked if anyone wanted to do some fire and ice shots. No one said they didn’t. A couple of hours in and all of the Schnapps was gone and all of the Mescal save the worm. I cannot explain that. Normally the last shot poured takes the worm, or more likely someone halfway in decides they want it. But there it was. You had to be there. The worm stayed in that bottle for a year until I threw it out. I felt shame. Not enough not to do it, but enough so that I never told anyone about it. I’m older now and don’t give a shit. Drink it or not. my older self would say, no one cares - but back then I felt like I’d failed the test. Tversky said he needed a shower and went to the downstairs bathroom where my parents had installed an over-size shower stall. Bruiser and I sat there at the kitchen table, temporarily paralyzed by the Fire and Ice. Hey, he said to me, after a few minutes. I got an idea. Let’s go get some off-sales. By off-sales, he meant buying beer by the case from a hotel bar. It was Sunday, and no liquor stores would be open. This was Alberta in the mid-1980s – all liquor stores were operated by the government and there was no such thing as a 24/7 liquor store. If you wanted anything outside of the Govt’s very specifically set liquor store hours, you had to go get off-sales. I thought this was a very good idea. I was not ready to throw in the towel just yet. It wasn’t even 4 p.m. We went downstairs to check on Tversky. Tversky had passed out in the shower. He was slumped over and still wearing jeans. The hot water had run out, he was lying there in the cold. His pants were wet down to his knees – by some miracle, no water had escaped the shower stall - but his lower legs and feet were still dry. I turned the water off. We tried to get Tversky up. No go. He mumbled something incoherent. It didn’t sound like get me to the hospital, my stomach needs to be pumped or I will die of alcohol poisoning, so we left him. He looked comfortable, to us. Bruiser and I hopped into Old Betsy – the bed still had all of his bed, boxes, and furnishings, and we headed into town to an old hotel called The Palais. The Palais had the cheapest off-sales in town and was the old reliable for Sunday drinkers. When we got there, I couldn’t get my door open. I had suddenly become too drunk to open the door from the inside of the cab. Go figure. I did, however, manage to get my wallet out. I gave Bruiser ten dollars. He left. I didn’t see him for almost half an hour. I think I rested my eyes a little. I am not sure. I remember looking at the door of the Palais – it was still light out – and waiting for it to open and for Bruiser to come out with our off-sales. The driver’s side door opened. There was Bruiser. He’d crawled across the parking lot – with no off-sales in hand – and hoisted himself into the cab via the handle. What happened, I asked him? Where’s our off-sales? Ah fuck, he said. I forgot to order off-sales. Where’s my ten, I asked? Well shit, he said. I walked in and thought I’d just sit down and have a beer. So, I sat down and ordered one. The server brought me my beer, but then, when I reached for it, I fell out of my chair. I could not get up. These two old fuckers in there were laughing at me. Laughing and laughing. I tried to stand back up but couldn’t. They laughed even louder. Finally, I said fuck it and crawled out of the Palais and across the parking lot to here. I guess I left your ten on the table. Beer plus tip. I was quiet for a bit. Steve, he said. What, I said, maybe a little more sharply than I meant to. Ten dollars is ten dollars – and this was mid-80s dollars. It had buying power like you punk-ass pop-metal fans of today can only imagine. Steve, he said again. My knees hurt from the gravel. I mean, they really hurt. I said nothing. He drove me home. When I got out, I asked him what he wanted to do next weekend. While I was getting out, he rested his head on the steering wheel and had a quick micro-nap. I had to ask him twice. With my second query, he snapped to and took a big breath and held it for a second. We’re going to Motley Crüe, he said. III: Motley Crüe The next weekend we piled into my little Nissan with a flat (24) of beer and a 26-ounce bottle of Jack Daniels to go to Motley Crüe. Tversky surprised us. He said that he did not actually enjoy alcohol and was not going to drink. He was just going to smoke weed. More for us, Bruiser and I said at the same time. They have showers at the hotel, I said. You can drink and lie in there as much as you like. They never run out of hot water. Bruiser and I did not actually smoke pot. Neither of us liked it. I think you have to find your vices or let them find you, and that someone else’s vice may not necessarily be yours. No judgments. I also think Tversky was pleased that he’d not have to share. If Tversky had a character defect it was this: He was very strict about getting his fair share. If you ordered pizza, he’d recut it to make sure everyone chipping in got the exact same amount. He’d samurai that pie and if he’d had a laser, he’d have used it to measure. Do you count the pepperonis, I asked him one time? Yes, he said, do you? He had a look about him. I think he’d been shoehorning the odd-number-out pepperonis his own way and he thought I’d caught him. The ride flew by. Tversky was still talking about forming a metal band. He was very animated about it. He’d decided that for their first album cover, he wanted the art to represent him as a demon of sorts, shirtless and muscular in black leather pants with holes slit in the sides, platform boots, and he’d be holding a trident. No bass, I asked? No, he said. I will play bass, but for the album cover I envision – and he held off a little before saying it again – a trident. Yeah, a trident. The Crüe were touring for their Theatre of Pain album, and a band named Autograph was opening for them. Autograph was good, too. We were pumped. We’d booked a hotel – the venue was two-and-a-half hours away from home. Where we’re from the big bands don’t come, so you have to travel if you want to rock. We hit the hotel around 4 p.m. and checked in. Tversky lit up. He really hit it, smoking joint after joint. He’d get down to the cherry and hold it in his roach clip and purse his lips in a particular way to take those last few hits. Hey Tversky I said, you look like a guy blowing a fly. He stopped and gave me some side eye. Fuck off, he said. Keep going, I said, the fly likes it. Let him finish. Be a pro. Don’t think about us watching you, you fly-cock sucker. We had no pretensions about driving to the arena. Bruiser and I walked to a 7-11 across the street from the hotel and got some super big gulps. We went back to the hotel room and drank about a third of the cola and then split the 26 of Jack between us in our Super Big Gulps. Then we walked over to public transit and boarded the train. We were in a good mood. The train was about half people going to the Motley Crüe/Autograph show and half regular citizens who had found themselves in a Twilight Zone episode surrounded by metalheads in black-t-shirts and in various stages of inebriation. I had my best metal tee shirt on. Iron Maiden? No! Motley Crüe? No! Quiet Riot? Good call, but no again. Who then, you ask? I was wearing a Jack Daniels tee shirt. Black with the Jack Daniels label in white. Classic. We loved Jack Daniels. (Well, maybe not Tversky.) All our Metal Gods drank Jack straight from the bottle. David Lee Roth, Nikki Sixx, Kevin DuBrow. DuBrow said he filled his bottle with iced tea. On stage, he said, he was working. Roth said that only punks would do that. We drank ours with coke, and I bought the tee shirt. You can be loyal to a band – and that’s fine. You can be loyal to a genre - and that’s cool. But the bands and the genre are loyal to the deity, and that’s Jack Daniels. Bruiser sloshed his drink to the left and to the right with careless aplomb and was in a general sense, a hazard. Tversky had ceased to speak. I was starting to worry about him. A lady seated across from me looked a little tense. Her lips had compressed into a line so tight she might as well have not had any. I tilted my Super Big Gulp cup towards her, offering her a sip. She looked away, disgusted. I was not offended at all. If I had to guess I’d guess she was around thirty-five years old. I thought she was kind of hot, for an old, angry broad. In another place, at another time, she could have called the cops and had me professionally beaten (this was before the police had tasers) but for now, we were on the Crazy Train, with Mr. Jack Daniels our pilot, and everything was as it should be. Drink up or drink not, my (hot) elderly sister, it’s up to you. This train will roll how it rolls, for now. We got to the arena. It took some coaxing to get Tversky to stand up. He didn’t respond directly to anything we said to him. I think weed was better in those days. It was still illegal, and the stuff that came to our neck of the woods was often cultivated by someone who really cared about it and not a soulless corporation like today. I imagined that Tversky had scored something lovingly grown by some hippie grandmother in British Columbia, where the purest water fell from the sky and the fertilizer was from grass-fed steer manure, manure she’d stolen from some farmer’s pasture by hopping a fence on a moonless night, and that those ingredients, and the pure light of the sun – and her love, too, (yes, her love, don’t say that there isn’t any love in that specific branch of horticulture) – had rendered my boy zonked. We got into the show. I took Tversky to our seats. I actually led him by the hand. At least he was compliant. You know, some people get high and they giggle, others become philosophers. The very worst are seized by some sort of manic anxiety and can be difficult to put up with. Finally, there is the classic stoner. Tversky was of this variety. He was baked and the world was passing by him at light speed and he did not care at all. Whatever it was, it was not his problem. I’m going down to the floor, Bruiser said. He gave me his jacket to hold. I tucked it around Tversky. It was s sheepskin jacket believe it or not. All of us in that arena in denim and leather, with our black t-shirts, and there’s farm-boy Bruiser with his nice sheepskin jacket. The floor is “rush” seating, “rush” meaning there is no assigned seating. It’s folding metal chairs in row after row. Pros: Right in front of that Marshall stack that will elevate your soul and destroy your hearing – and close to any boobies being flashed. Cons, a junkyard of folding metal chairs and rowdies. Rock on Bruiser, I say, and I throw him some horns. He doesn’t hear me, he’s already on his way down. Autograph came on and they were great. Who remembers Turn Up the Radio? I do. Who remembers Blondes in Black Cars? Hell, yes. Nineteen and Nonstop? Yes, yes, yes. My Girlfriend’s Boyfriend Isn’t Me? Autograph felt like autobiography, and Steve Lynch was the best of the underrated guitar gods. Aside: You may have noticed a paucity of female characters in this story. We were for the most part, single. You know how some guys are allergic to cats? Well, some cats are allergic to guys. I think back now and think there was a sort of monastic purity to our lives. Trucks, stereos, metal, and alcohol. There wasn’t room for much else. I think girls understood this instinctively, and generously they made the choice by which we were made single for us. Sue, who I dated irregularly then, I owe you. You had beautiful rock and roll hair when you crimped it and a beautiful speaking voice and I was callow. I was not cool. You deserved better. I hope you found it. Finally: Motley Crüe. Fuck yeah, this is what we came for. Three songs in and Tversky still hasn’t spoken. There is a tug at my arm and there’s a guy in uniform – a St. John’s Ambulance guy. The first aid people. Are you Steve, he says? I am. Your friend Bruiser has been injured. You need to come with me. I look at Tversky. He gives me no sign that he’s heard anything. I followed the St John’s guy who lead me to a little first-aid room. There are multiple St. John’s people in there, in their uniforms with their nice white shirts. There’s Bruiser, hunched over with his arm at an odd angle. I played hockey, I’ve seen this before. I bet it’s a broken collarbone. We think he’s broken his collarbone, says the St, John’s guy. I broke my fucking collarbone, says Bruiser. His eyes are watering. How did this happen, I ask? Some fucking guys pushed me off of a chair, Bruiser says. He says some guys pushed him off of a chair, the St. John Ambulance guy added. Seriously. The St. John’s guy turned to me. You are going to have to take him to emergency. Did you call an ambulance, I asked? Ha! The guy said. We’ll call a cab. Have they played Smoking in the Boy’s Room yet? No, I said, they’ve just started. Good, he says, I want to go out and hear that one when they play it. Then he turned to Bruiser and said, they haven’t played Smoking in the Boy’s Room yet. Bruiser’s eyes were still watering. What, he said? I turned to the St John’s guy. I have to go get our other friend, I said. He’s in a coma. A coma, the St John’s guy asked? I went and got Tversky. I told him what had happened. He looked at me like he was surprised to see me there, at a Motley Crue concert, one that he had driven up to with me, but he got up, handed me Bruiser’s sheepskin coat, and followed me back to the first aid room. With the St. John’s guy’s help, we draped the sheepskin coat over Bruiser’s shaking, bony frame and then followed a different St. John’s guy - The first one was bound and determined to wait for Smoking in the Boy’s Room - down some access corridor into to the bowels of the arena to an exit door. A cab was waiting. The cabbie was an older guy and knew to take us directly to emergency. These metal concerts, he said. They are the worst for this sort of thing. Fights and shit, I asked? No, he said, people getting too drunk and falling down and breaking things. A couple of guys pushed me off of a chair, Bruiser said, between gasps of pain. The cabbie looked at Bruiser via the rear-view mirror and he had the look in his eye you get when you don’t believe a word of what you have just heard. Ah well, the cabbie said. At least it’s not drugs. Overdoses are the worst. Mind you they wouldn’t be calling me for that. For that you get a real ambulance – or a hearse. None of you fellas are high, are you? We’re just drinkers, I said. Bruiser (still gasping) added that we were all just drinkers. Social Drinkers. Heavy social drinkers. Me too, the Cabbie said. Tversky smirked. Hey, he said to the cabbie. What, the cabbie said. Hey, Tversky said again. Hey what, the cabbie said. HEY, Tversky shouted. WHAT, the Cabbie shouted back. Tversky leaned forward, and in a normal inside-speaking voice and with surprising clarity of enunciation (all things considered) asked the cabbie: Have you ever really, really, really had to take a shit and were both scared and excited at the same time? The cabbie laughed. Ah, I thought, Tversky is coming back around. We arrived at emergency. In emergency – which was busy – a doctor came over right away. She was a short, stocky, no-bullshit kind of woman. I could see that right away. When dealing with authority – the police, teachers, doctors, and their kind - I always take a deep breath and remind myself to answer honestly and to remember that whatever it is I am there for, they have seen/heard worse. What happened to you, she asked Bruiser? Basically, some no good fucking cow cunts pushed me off of a chair, Bruiser said. I cringed. She looked directly at me, forcing me to make eye contact even though I tried to avoid it. How much has had to drink tonight, she asked me? A lot, I said. Not that much, Bruiser said. We’re just social drinkers. An aide appeared and Bruiser was put into a wheelchair and wheeled into an examination room. Tversky and I waited. I looked at him – he was still smirking like he had been when the Cabbie brought up drugs and he’d responded with defecation. But whatever he was thinking he wasn’t saying, and he stayed quiet. We sat in silence like an old married couple. It didn’t take too long and Bruiser was pushed back out to us. They’d had to cut his t-shirt off, but they’d set his collarbone and put his arm in a sling and, most thoughtfully, put him in his sheepskin coat. He no longer gasped when he moved and seemed to me to be way better. We called another cab and when it arrived, we piled in and asked to be taken back to our hotel. It wasn’t even 11 p.m. yet. I asked Bruiser how he was feeling and he said great. They’d given him some Percocet for pain and it had kicked in. He said he was ready to party. He told me to look in his coat pocket, he had four more courtesy of the emergency room doctor. Help yourself, he said. I demurred. When we got back to the hotel Tversky finally spoke. I am going to bed, was all that he said. Let’s you and I get a beer, Bruiser said to me. The hotel had a club and we could hear the music thumping. We went to walk in but two bouncers stopped us. Five-foot eight-inch fucksticks in yellow polos with crew cuts and the confidence of law-enforcement students who had been lifting weights for two months and had discovered Dianabol at the same time, but separately, and had not told each other about it, each convinced he was superior to the other. You can’t get in wearing biker regalia, they said to me. I was wearing that Jack Daniels t-shirt. The black shirt with the label in white. That one. It’s a Jack Daniels t-shirt, I said. Sorry, no biker regalia, they said. Can I get in, Bruiser asked? Yep, they said, without hesitation. He doesn’t even have a shirt on, I said. The one bouncer spoke directly to Bruiser. You are welcome but your friend can’t come, he said. Fortunately, the hotel had a lounge and we got in with no problem and sat there and had a beer surrounded by old people and tired travelers. You know, Bruiser, I said, would you recognize the guys that pushed you? I had begun to formulate some plan for vengeance. Not that real vengeance was likely, but it felt good to think about. In the plans for imaginary revenge, we are all ninjas. Nah, said Bruiser, probably not. I never saw who did it. It felt like I was pushed from behind. Did you fall, I asked? I would never fall, he said, offended. I had to have been pushed. We called it a night and went back to the room. The next morning on the way back a much-refreshed Tversky told us about his plans to start his own metal band, and about the album cover he wanted to see where he was a shirtless, leather-pant-covered demon in platform boots holding a trident. Bruiser and I looked at each other. Apparently, Tversky had forgotten about telling us this yesterday, on the ride up. Yeah, Bruiser said. A trident. We all agreed that it would be cool.

THE MALL OF MEN She chooses men the same way you’d pick a detergent bar or a cereal box at a hyperstore Carefully; after looking at the expiry date manufacturing details, ingredients, trademark, et cetera (At best, we are museum exhibits or broken seats of the last matinee) Her aching prurience sways under the glib talk of poetry While she measures our frame on the totem pole of her abstinence Our libido must equal her void Our despair must average her thirst for bestial lunacy Our rough skin must hold the salt of her childhood Our torsos must resemble dim hotel rooms or borrowed flats (Because she has stayed in seven stars with her husband) Our tongues must carry her bittersweet words So, when we sweat above her she can taste herself, more Her trained irises hunger-spot us for signs of buried trauma That way, we could be cold-pressed for character arcs first and then smoothly molten into stories The acid of our triggered abuse could be used for quick exits Someday, We could become poems too So, she can read the in-between of our giving breaths, in festivals far and near, like a lost huntress while tasting our blood, forever unpublished. EXTRA MARITAL We have an extra-marital affair - with time Standing at the door with bags packed ready to move out At the slightest hint of infidelity, ignorance or negligence Time claims everything when it leaves - The past sharing of rooms, kisses and windows pasted with evening skies The earth of our souls and quantum of every journey The stories we kept repeating and the ones we couldn’t tell It takes too much when it leaves you for someone else And worse, for nothing but itself It’s painful to let time depart So, we write and rewrite our lives with the desperation of a thousand atoms Hoping that time understands our honesty waits for some more time a day or two calling it true love Sanket Mhatre has been featured at Kala Ghoda Arts Festival, Jaipur Literature Festival and Glass House Poetry Festival. His first book of cross-translated poems, The Coordinates Of Us won the prestigious Raza Foundation Grant after been shortlisted at IWrite2020 at Jaipur Literature Festival. Sanket’s poems have appeared in multiple anthologies such as Shape Of A Poem, The Well Earned, Home Anthology by Brown Critique, Poetry Conclave Yearbook as well as literary magazines such as Punch, Borderless, Muse India, Madras Courier, The Usawa Literary Review, Men Matters Online, Anthology by Querencia Press and many others.

From the diary of Cassandra Austen, sister of Jane Austen I have a choice, one which I fear may attract some consternation and regret. Circumstances dictate that I must make a decision soon, as time pushes me on like an angry mother lamenting filial disobedience. I have in my possession many letters written in your fair hand; my dear, departed sister. They hold within them much that is secret; secret and steeped in venom, the venomous barbs with which only you knew how to pierce. You were private, and you confided in me many things too dreadful to see the light of day. You were not in the habit of withholding your scathing understanding of the very darkest edges of the human condition. And as I walk through the winter of my life, I fear that there will come a day when the world seeks to know what was hidden in the private chambers of your heart. But what right do they have to speak of your heart? What claim can they make upon your laughter and your tears? You and I shared more than your novels, more than your stories and your imaginings. You let me in, utterly, and between us we made a pair, which some struggled to tell apart. I was always there, the useful sister, bidden to a bedchamber of childbirth, chained to the scrubbings of a dirty floor. And I was content to do it, to be the ‘sensible and pleasing Cassandra’, my head always ‘full of joints of mutton and doses of rhubarb’, so that you might be everything that your talent would create. You called me a phoenix once, and I have kept that image close to my heart, even now, after all of these years. I am old, and increasingly of little good to anyone, but I remember what you said, and I sincerely hope that there will be another rising once all is sunk into the ashes. Not for myself, but for you, dear sister. For you and your blessed children; the brilliant works you left behind. It has been my privilege to care for them and help them to their proper place, and now I am tired. I busy myself in my garden and I knit calmly by the fire, but I am lonely. All have left me, and I am burdened with the oppressive hours of a life now spent in painful isolation. I find the hours have leant me great means of reflecting on your words, and I imagine how others may feel and judge without understanding the real nature of who you were. Your tongue and your talent were tied together; one did not exist without the other, though I fear this will not be recognised if your ungenteel utterances are laid bare. I feel honour bound to protect you as I prepare to follow you into the unknown; to follow you as you once followed me to school, because you could not bear to be separated. You have been gone these many years, but I love you still, and I know in my heart what I must do. This will hurt me, but it will hurt you more if I do not act. I have given them pieces, but the masterpiece that was the true Jane Austen shall remain with me. I have shared your work, but I will not share you. I will commit your letters to the flames. I have made my choice. I had truthfully made it before I even took up my quill, and I take this action now, not out of pride, or selfishness, or jealousy. My dearest Jane, forgive me. This is an act of love. Esther Byrne is a writer from Yorkshire, UK. She has had short stories published with fiftywordstories.com, Toasted Cheese and Secret Attic. In 2021, she was runner-up for the Val Wood Yorkshire prize. She lives with chronic illness and is passionate about encouraging people with disabilities to express themselves creatively. You can see more of her work at estherbyrne.com.

She liked doing it to music. It relaxed her, she said, helped her focus. “On what?” I asked. “The situation,” she said. The niche between her fingers looked like it was missing a cigarette. *** “I’m not a performer.” “I can tell.” She reached for her phone. The side of her face changed color as she scrolled. “You don’t feel like you’re onstage? Exposed?” “Isn’t that the point?” She laughed as her eyebrows turned orange. *** “What about an instrumental? No words—just atmosphere.” She turned her phone so I could see. I squinted at the display and shook my head. “I have awful associations with that album. With everything she’s done, actually.” “But she’s just playing piano. You don’t even hear her voice.” “Doesn’t matter. It’s still her.” She crossed her legs and sat up. The side of her shirt rippled over a wedge of skin. *** “Did you know singers save their voices sometimes? Like if you go to a matinee, the leads will be onstage, walking around and doing all the poses and gestures. But someone else sings their part from offstage?” She nodded. “I didn’t know that.” Her eyes traced the crawl of text near her feet. “Of course they try to hide it. When we went for school, the singer was in the pit. You couldn’t see him or his microphone, or the stand he was using to turn pages. But once you know, you know.” She typed something and set the phone down. “I never liked theater after that.” “That’s understandable I guess,” she said. *** The traffic outside bore with it a song that for months had been inescapable. It was playing in the café where we had agreed to meet. I watched her from the table where I sat, early for once. She glanced from booth to booth as her mouth moved around the words of the chorus. *** “I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s just—” Her phone chirped and trembled, then came to rest. Its silver edge formed a perfect parallel with the nightstand’s edge. She ignored the noise and uncrossed her legs. The room around us receded into vague shapes. I could see her eyes roving the wall opposite from behind a scrim of hair. “Your eyes are green,” I said. We both liked doing it in the dark.

We talk a lot about process—not outcome—and trying to consistently take all the best information you can and consistently make good decisions. Sometimes they work and sometimes they don't . . ." --Sam Hinkie, General Manager of the Philadelphia 76ers, 2013 Concession Fighting his way from the concession stand, Josh saw her pass. He stopped, turned, unthinkingly called out: “Liza!”—the woman he still thought of as the future mother of his kids. Boys. Two of them. Sixers faithful all the way. She looked good, and he said so. Could he see her again? Next Saturday? There was this awesome new sports bar in Manayunk. Turned out she was quite busy—would be, in fact, for the foreseeable future. He did his best to insist. “Josh.” She cocked a hip. “No offense, but you are the spitting image of a first-round exit.” He winced as if struck. “It’s splitting.” “What?” “Splitting image.” A lanky teen in an Embiid jersey preened by, saying, “Dude, you couldn’t be more wrong,” before bouncing with friends up the concourse ramp. Liza smirked. Josh looked down to see his Yuengling had already lost its head. “Fair enough,” he said, his words mostly trounced by the announcer’s rousing call for the crowd to stand for the anthem. “I’ll give you—” She rejected his response with a hand. “Whatever you have you can keep.” Someone bumped him from behind, and beer splashed upon his Nikes. Defeated, he tried to take solace in the sight of her walking away. Those crazy thin heels, that flimsy crimson blouse, the tight white leather pants. So hot. The colors, in fact, of the Heat. And still, despite this evening’s outcome, he held out hope that they might someday be a team. Obsession Beads of sweat were leaving streaks in the white paint around his temples. Davey hadn’t anticipated the heat of the Wells Fargo Center lights. And the rage radiating off his wife certainly didn’t help. “Of course I care, honey. I—excuse me,” he said, rising with his fellow die-hards. “What are you doing! Get after it or get gone!” he shouted as the Sixers played catch around the perimeter. “Yeah, get after it!” A nearby dad of two mimicked, winking in Davey’s direction. “See, he understands!” Davey threw arms in the direction of the man so hard that the faux red mullet almost slid off his head. The section cheered in agreement. “Hit me up at the half, man. We’ll get a pic for the gram.” “Hell yeah!” The man gave his eldest an exuberant high-five. Davey sat back down. In tears, his wife asked, “Are you serious?” “I know it’s not easy being married to the Sixers Superfan, but we wouldn’t be able to pay for your hormones without it.” He rubbed her arm. “Let’s make a TikTok. It’ll cheer you up.” She pulled her arm away. “Hardly feels worth it. Not like you’d be around.” Davey watched her watch the clock run down to zero. Already down by sixteen points, catching up for the Sixers would be as difficult as this damn IVF. Or getting back into his wife’s good graces. Regression The sound of his father’s hand hitting his own was so loud that it drew the attention of the fans heading for the stairs for a stretch and snack. “I can’t believe it!” his father shouted. From his seat, Knox could see the slot in his mouth where a missing premolar should be, ejected by an elbow in a pickup game of hoops during the old man’s “glory days.” It reminded Knox of Ricky Sheetz when he got his tooth knocked out during an after-recess scuffle. He rolled his eyes. “It’s not that big a deal, Dad.” “Not a—are you kidding? The OG superfan is a legend, and he wants to take a picture with us? It’s the epitome of cool. Can’t wait to tell the boys.” He stared into his phone, not noticing how his son winced at his embarrassing use of slang. Knox pulled the plate of nachos off of his father’s lap to avoid spillage. Things had been different when his father first brought him and his brother Michael before the pandemic. It was a fun family outing, picturesque in its wholesomeness. After two years of watching reruns of games from afar, however, his father seemed to have forgotten how to behave. “Suck my farts!” his father shouted as the second half began. Knox snapped back to reality in time to see the Heat’s point guard bounce one off the side of the backboard. His father went berserk, fumbling his beer into the aisle after making a particularly rude gesture in mockery of the miss. At this rate, Knox thought, pulling down the brim of his cap, he’d have to drive them home. Suppression Sasha’s stomach dropped through her seat as the ball clunked off the rim. “It’s okay,” she said, clapping politely. “We still have time.” Anton looked at her. “You’re more optimistic than me, baby girl.” “I just think we should give them the benefit of the clock. Miracles do happen.” And she believed that. At least, she wanted to. It felt so good to be back watching sports in real time again. She was already dreading the long, lonely summer. What was she going to do? Watch baseball while eating overstuffed, juice-leaking brats? No way. Basketball season couldn’t be coming to a close already! The Sixers could still turn it around and win it all. They had before, although not in many years. There was Wilt in ’67. Dr. J. and Moses in ’83, over the Showtime Lakers no less. And in 2001, with Iverson—The Answer—well, second place was still a tremendous achievement. “It’s not all about miracles, you know. It’s about hard work…” Sasha didn’t know if Anton was being sarcastic as usual or sincere, so she ignored him. Besides, it’s not like she wasn’t trying. Intimacy was a process. It took time, not unlike confidence in the home team’s ability to get the job done. It could be frustrating, downright discouraging, but that’s what made it all worthwhile in the end. Anton of all people should get that. It’s not like he was sinking emotional baskets left and right. “I know you think I’m crazy,” she said, patting his knee, “but we’re due for a championship. It’s the law of large numbers or statistics or whatever. We’ve been losing for so long, something’s got to give. Right?” “I suppose.” She locked eyes with him. “It’s called believing,” she said, leaning over to kiss him on the temple. Digression He stepped back to the charity stripe, received the bounce pass from the referee. The first attempt had been an air ball. Behind the stanchion, fans turned rabid. Merciless. Online, they’d been going on about his game. His free throw troubles. His three-point percentage. His inept passing. His Swiss cheese D. Someone said something nasty about the Insta babe he’d dated for a week. He dribbled three times, bent his knees, saw a cut out of his face bouncing directly in his line of vision. After all, the stakes were mighty high. If he missed this second shot, the fans would win some shitty fast food. His release was flawed, and the ball grazed the front of the rim. The fans went mad. It was as if they’d won it all. Laughing, he backpedaled down the court. Let them have their victory feast. All that mattered was taking the home team down. Expulsion Even before the Beard jab stepped and shot a brick, it slipped out—effortlessly, as if it had come from his father’s mouth. Cameron winced, knowing what came next. “What did you just say?” His mother towered over him, eyes brighter than the white trim of her Sixers jersey. His father turned, soft pretzel crumbs still in his beard. “Did you hear what your son just said?” Cameron pulled the neck of his sweatshirt over his nose as his mom cupped her hands around her mouth. His father tried to hide his smile. “Oh no,” he said, “whatever shall we do?” “He’s only fourteen.” “He’s becoming a man!” Relief flooded Cameron. Dependable Dad. His mother spat, “That’s it? He just gets a pass? What about next time? What about shit or damn or twat!” “Calm down.” “You did not just tell me to calm down!” she shouted, before letting out a streak of profanity so startling, nearby parents kept their children’s ears covered long after the security guard ushered Cameron and his parents out of the arena. Concussion Their power forward went down. Blow to the head. Time was called, and referees gathered at the monitor. Miami’s coach approached, foaming at the mouth. He seemed completely unhinged. Flagrant one? Two? Was one of the game’s brightest stars going to get tossed? Slouched in a seat a friend couldn’t use, Octavius thought of all the blows he’d received in recent months. Elsewhere, striding, head and shoulders bobbing in the distance, was the MVP Octavius, the one who always won when it mattered. The one who would have not only been able to get that Boeing job, but also would have been able to keep it. To rise in the ranks. Players milled around the court, waiting for the verdict. The sad fact was he did not ask to be an Octavius. Normal people made lists, tried to find common ground. They considered current trends. His parents must have been seriously impaired. Drink, drugs, a fetish for ancient Rome. What the hell was with them? My God, if his parents were so keen on having an emperor, why not Julius? As Philly fans, wasn’t that the most obvious choice in the world? How different school would have been. Kids would have taken to calling him The Doctor. Dr. J. He would have cultivated this mystique, this air of grace and cool when the heat was on. He saw himself soaring now, pedaling his feet, extending his arm for a highlight reel dunk. Cameras flashing. The crowd going wild. Quickly—too quickly—he came back down to earth, reality as painful as a high ankle sprain. The truth was, whatever his name, school would still have been a disaster. Because there were winners and losers and although the NBA probably was not fixed, life almost surely was. When alone—when free from all the bullies—he could be man enough to accept this unfortunate truth. Perhaps later, if it was not too late, he’d call his parents and confront them about the name at last. Perhaps it would free him from the him he was right now. Through some miracle or another, he could be if not that MVP self then at least a key player with some useful, specialized skill. He nodded, conjuring an image of himself, feet planted just outside the restricted circle, smiling, stone still, waiting for the blow that would come with the charge. Depression Danny, Matt’s on-again off-again friend since first grade, said, “Grief is a process.” “I’m going to ask you kindly to fuck your motherfucking process.” Danny shrugged. “Hey, it’s not mine. It’s that one psychologist. Keebler something?” “What? The elf?” “Huh?” “You know—the stupid cookie guy.” “No, no, it’s Kubler. That’s right. Kubler…Ross!” At the light, Matt asked, “What the hell were we talking about?” “Sara. Your daughter’s not dead, but losing custody has got to be the next worse thing. There are steps you need to go through in order to heal.” “I’ll buy your beers if you’ll shut the hell up.” “See. That’s one of them—the steps. Bargaining.” “Enough!” “And there’s Anger.” “Does it count if it’s aimed entirely at you?” They pulled into Tom & Jerry’s for their traditional post-game nightcap. Inside, it was loud, Blaze of Glory just starting their second set. Matt drank in silence, brooding over the sad state of affairs. He was embarrassed by how many Bon Jovi lyrics came so readily to his lips. “Don’t worry, bro,” Danny screamed in his ear. “We’ll get ’em next year.” “Yes—of course.” Matt downed his beer, unable to keep from thinking about The Process—the bloated contracts, the piss-poor fits, the top picks who couldn’t shoot to save their lives. “Christ,” he shouted, “they could have done better by drafting out of a hat!” “Now you’re back at anger. Think that means you lose your turn.” On stage, the singer was living on a major off-key prayer. Still, Tommy and Gina were going to make it. “Let’s do shots,” Danny screamed. Shots. Matt had taken a few and missed them all quite badly. Now, all he had to look forward to was a weekend with his daughter twice a month. Decompression At the kitchen table, Josh poured another. Why did his steak look so suddenly sickly in its roll? He took a bite—cheesy, greasy glue. Checked his messages. No Liza. No surprise. Clicked game highlights on the phone: a pretty floater here, a poster dunk there. A role player sealing the win with a parking lot trey, adding insult to injury by making goggles with fingers and thumbs all the way down the court. Josh swiped greasy lips with a sleeve. Life was sad—the loss of Liza was ample proof of that. But, ever the optimist, he was determined to find solace once again. He sat back, breathed in and out, in and out. Closed his eyes, conjured up a celebration: shower of confetti, tears of joy, the foamy spray of champagne. In the end, someone was going to have what it took to win the whole damn thing. To be number one. And that, he allowed, would have to be more than enough. Jillian S. Benedict is a creative writer living in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. In her free time she enjoys yoga, reading, and listening to music while people watching from her stoop. Her work can be found in Feels Blind Literary, Schuylkill Valley Journal, and on instagram @writerwithoutacause. Michael Cocchiarale's work has appeared in online journals such as Fictive Dream, The Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, South Florida Poetry Journal, The Disappointed Housewife, and Roi Fainéant.

Hel is perched in the large bay window of Hemlock Tattoo Removal. Her serpentine tail curls around her, flicking in time with the sound of distant thunder. She cleans her front paw with a sandpaper tongue, lulled by the storm outside. Her owners move about the shop, readying for the day’s appointments. All three beings are unaware of Hel’s impending death. Mimicking her Norse namesake, the fur on Hel’s face is split between creamy orange and obsidian black. Her eyes are similarly mismatched, golden-yellow on one side and piercing blue on the other. Her owners often joke that she’s two cats in one body, either bounding with lively mischief or lounging in subdued repose. Currently, she’s chosen to engage in the latter. Hel stops cleaning her paw and flops onto her side, her back to the window. She stretches in feline satisfaction, readying herself for her morning nap. She’s soothed by the sound of rain pattering the glass. Her eyes drift closed. A BANG reverberates against the window. Hel leaps from the ledge, scurrying behind the reception desk. Her owners jump, their preparations briefly halted. The woman walks to the front of the shop, cautiously peering out the rain-streaked glass. She gasps softly. “It’s a bird...” “Seriously?” Her husband moves to join her at the window. “Yea, look.” She points to the sidewalk. A large black crow lays on its back, wings splayed. “Is it alive?” “I don’t-” The bird twitches, then flutters to its feet. “Huh, must be disoriented from the storm.” The crow looks around, then flaps its wings and flies out of sight. The woman shakes her head. “Weird.” After a moment, they both return to their morning activities. Hel peers out from behind the reception desk, eyeing the window suspiciously. Her ears perk up when she senses movement along the far wall. A needle-like tail flits out from beneath the radiator as a creature darts amongst the shadows. Forgetting her fright, Hel crouches low and slinks slowly around the corner of the desk. A small black mouse with fiery red eyes pokes its head into the light, whiskers twitching. Hel stops just beyond the desk, plotting her approach. Before she can move, the mouse darts beneath the radiator again, disappearing into a hole in the floor. It’s a dissatisfying start to the day, but Hel is undeterred. She leaps to the top of the desk and finds a comfortable position in a basket of papers, where she finally naps. The rest of the morning passes in a blur of soggy people and buzzing machines, all relatively typical for Hel. She’s sleeping on the lobby sofa when one of her humans returns with a paper bag clutched to his chest. He deposits the bag on the reception desk before walking towards the treatment rooms in the back. “Anna!” he calls. “Lunch time!” There’s a sound of a reply, but Hel doesn’t hear it. She’s already trotting silently towards the desk, following the scent of fried chicken. Once at the bag, Hel spots the tip of a golden-brown wing. Without hesitation, she lunges, sinking her teeth into the warm, crispy flesh. She draws back, pulling the wing with her, but it’s bigger than she anticipated. The wing catches, causing the bag and its contents to topple toward her. “Hel, no!” her human calls from the doorway. He starts towards her and Hel leaps from the desk. There’s a loud SQUEAK as his wet shoes slip and he falls backward. Hel’s other human steps out from an adjacent room. “What-” She trips over her prone husband, causing the stack of files she’s carrying to fly forward. Hel drops her prize and scampers away, narrowly avoiding being crushed as the stack crashes down onto the stolen chicken wing. Hel freezes, watching her groaning heap of humans. Her eyes flash to the pile of folders and papers that now harbor her fried loot. As she contemplates her second robbery attempt, the small black mouse with red eyes skitters across the floor in front of her. Hel doesn’t hesitate. The mouse screeches and zigzags between the toppled folders. Hel’s paws slip on the spilled pages, but her eyes remain fixed on the demonic rodent. Hel’s humans are still trying to right themselves when the mouse scurries through a gap in their legs. Hel bounds over the pile of limbs and tears after her prey. “Hel!” the woman calls, but Hel is already gone, chasing the mouse down the corridor. The mouse turns abruptly into a side room and Hel follows without missing a step. Backed into a corner, the mouse tries clambering up the wall. Hel slows, stalking forward on liquid limbs. The mouse turns, eyes and head darting. Hel pauses for an instant then pounces. Instead of running away from her, the mouse leaps with one final screech and latches onto Hel’s leg. There’s a burning sensation and Hel yowls in pain. She crumples into the corner and instinctively bites at the mouse, ripping it from her flesh. She tastes blood. It should be sweet and metallic, but Hel only tastes foul sulfur. She drops her prey, retching in vain as the blood slides down her throat. Hel’s throat is closing. Her little heart races as her lungs starve for air. She collapses, wheezing and twitching until her small body can fight no longer. This is how Hel dies. “Hel?” a woman’s voice calls from the corridor. Hel is dead so she doesn’t hear. “Hel?” a man’s voice this time. Silence echoes in response. “Where’d you get to?” Hel’s eyes flash open, revealing fiery red irises. She shudders and blinks slowly. There is no rise and fall of her small chest, but there’s a hunger deep in her belly. “Hel? Come on out sweetie.” This time Hel hears, and her hunger roars. M. Rose Seaboldt (she/her) obtained her engineering degrees so she could study structures and fire science. She writes so she can explore characters and the trials they endure. Find her on Twitter @boldtsea.

Shoveling Out Dust haloed, scratcheyed, kneedeep in grain, we shovel toward the buried shriek of the auger. Our masks press sharply into our tear ducts as we slowly heave forward, exposing the rough concrete you laid the summer that boy beat up your brother and you got suspended for threatening him on his home answering machine. You spent June helping Grandma fix fence, haul hay, dig, mow, and sweep, walking the pasture out back, becoming patience in the empty, finding a milkweed there, bursting loose, unable to contain its own entropy, and knowing the warning of that. When we slow up, exposing the drill, the grain bin rings with mechanical crows, and, as we snort, scratch, and tumble out, wheat pours from our shoes like old blessings. Cemetery Mower after Ted Kooser The sun rose up at 6:15 today. I’d already primed the mower by then, drank half my coffee, the painted glaze chipped into my mouth as I rolled out of my truck. I spit & cough the night’s bad humors away. The clients don’t seem to mind. They don’t pay me to pull away the bindweed from iron crosses, to wipe bird scat from the gazebo railing. Nope, just to mow, shearing the grass with the loud metal teeth, the petroleum breath and oil sweat rising acrid above the many dead and the one living. Wind sprays the coarse irritant grass on my legs and I hesitate to pinch a dusty snot bubble out from under my nose, afraid I’ll only make my upper lip dirtier. No one is here to judge me, and I try to do the same, but when a stone catches my eye and I notice how small the years are between dates, I wonder why. I always wonder, when the granite reads “Our Angel” or the ceramic photo looks too damn young. A boy’s Senior photo catches me cold and I nearly crash into his grandmother, the mower’s deck grazing her stone like an eager calf nicking fingers held through a fence. This is the only red prairie grass I cut, all of it too close to the names. I course correct and return to my duty, the only one here who can’t yet escape their shame.

yes, i’m the heat of a promise of snow. my friends think i’m a Vegetarian, so i lie and say i am. if only i could have black sunglasses, cross my knees and stare into a horrifying use of contrast (white jackets mean a blizzard for sure). i don’t even drink hot, so what difference will it make? still, i keep putting off roasting some heavy meat, watching air run off—an inverse precipitation. pick me, the slight jostle of a woman getting shit done. my nose is running, but—validation for validation! eating gummies is the closest i can get to ham: touch my neck please. i’m not needy! i’m a Vegetarian; i’ve got something for patience. Aaliyah Anderson (she/her) is a junior majoring in Literary Arts at her high school in Petersburg, VA. She's obsessed with storytelling.

I've been stacking rocks. Igneous, metamorphic, sedimentary—I don't know. We learned that in school last year, yes, sure, but I don't know what kind of rocks these are. And I don't remember what it even means for a rock to be one or the other. I just know my rocks are rocks and I’ve been stacking them. Some are brown and some are black and some are white. Some are as big as a shoebox and others as big as a fist and others as big as a, like, paperclip and others as big as an ant. Obviously, the biggest ones go first. I stand in my backyard and stack as many as I can until they fall. When they fall, instead of being one rock on top of another in a big skinny tower, they become a layer of probably like fifteen rocks, and then maybe another layer of like ten, and then five, and blah blah blah. You know what a pile looks like. It’s much harder to knock down the pile than the tower. If you want to knock down the pile, like make it one single flat layer, you really need to kick it and push it and do some serious work. And the more rocks I start with in the tower, the harder it is to knock down the pile. Also, I forgot to mention, sometimes my friend Jack comes over and pushes down the tower to fuck with me, and then I punch him in the arm. My English teacher explained a few months ago that Curley's wife wears red in Of Mice and Men because it represents danger, and that when you read a book the happenings are not just the happenings but represent things and allude to things and you can analyze them like that. Like also the farm George and Lennie talk about going to is not just a farm but independence. And so, after class last week, after all the other students left, I told my English teacher about how I stack the rocks and how they fall and how I think this means that in life if you develop good habits and traits and skills and other such things, then even if you fall on bad times those developed traits and things become a big pile that’s hard to knock down completely. And I told him my friend Jack knocking down the tower means that sometimes others might wrong you and cause you to fall on the bad times, but that punching them or, like, you know, seeking revenge or whatever, doesn’t put your life back together. My English teacher said it was a nice thought, but that you can't analyze life in the same way you can books. I asked why not. He said the reason you can talk about books in that way is because someone created them and they’re art, but life doesn't work like that because it isn't art. I asked why something needs to be art to be analyzed. He started to sweat. Probably not because of our conversation, he just often sweats. He is a short, fat, often sweaty man who once told our eighth-grade class that he got into poetry because—being a short, fat, often sweaty man—it was his best chance to attract women. I don't know why he told our eighth-grade class this. He then wiped his forehead with a napkin and said, "That's just the way it is, I guess." Which was another way of saying what he had been saying, which was nothing. Angry, I asked again, and he started organizing his papers while mumbling more words that still meant the same thing. It was the end of the school day and he was trying to brush me off and wasn’t answering my questions and couldn’t just admit he was wrong. This made me mad, but I wasn’t going to punch him in the arm or anything, because it was my teacher, you know, and so instead, like it was an essay assignment, I just said in our Honors English class way, I said, "Can we not make the case that you wiping the sweat from your brow moments ago, can we not make the case that that wipe represented not just the wiping of sweat, but also your desire to rid yourself of the negative externalities of your actions?” Barely listening, he said, “Let’s talk about this another time,” and started stuffing his papers into folders and his folders into his messenger bag. I slammed the classroom door shut. He turned to the noise. “What are you—” “Yes, yes, yes,” I said, stepping back toward his desk, “and can we not say this stuffing of papers is merely a symbol for your attempt to keep hidden what cannot be hidden? To keep hidden what is causing the externalities in the first place!” He started sweating more than normal. He looked surprised, guilty even. I pulled a chair up to his desk, stood on top of it, and pointed down at him. “The sweat! The sweat! A manifestation of dread! A symbol of nervousness! Lest, yes, I say it, lest! Lest! Lest we forget the lessons of The Tell-Tale Heart, that physical things, no, no, more precisely, furthermore, moreover, physical phenomena can represent spiritual and mental ruin. Lest! You have been sleeping with Mrs.Gladis, have you not?” “What?” My English teacher jumped up from his desk, his hair now looking like he just got out of the shower and his face looking sad. This made me happy, but not happy enough. I jumped down from the chair. I stepped toward him and he stepped back, closer and closer to the window. “Yes, how wonderfully ironic. A perfect example of literary irony! That a man who by his own admission has had extraordinary difficulties with women has now attracted two—not only his wife, but also Mrs.Gladis! And that this would be his undoing!” “How do you—” “But can we also not say,” I continued, “can we also not say that your steps, your steps right now, can we also not say that these are a symbol of your want, your wish, your hope to move backward in time, to reverse what you have done. Or perhaps, they’re a metaphor for how you have backtracked on the agreement implicit in your marriage. Implicit and explicit! Or, furthermore, it may conceivably be, perchance, an allusion, yes, an allusion to Bob Ewell in To Kill a Mockingbird, who also will not admit his guilt, and who also steps! Irregardless, all are damning symbols of your infidelity and your guilt!” Looking like he was about to cry, he bumped up against the window. He turned and pulled it open, then climbed out and into a shrub. “An open window,” I screamed after him while he ran, “Oh boy, an open window! Need I say anything else!” The power of good analysis was made clear. Obviously you can analyze life in that way and obviously I was right, because it worked. I felt a little bad about my outburst but figured it was probably just a representation of the early-teen angst that affects all youth. We’ve had a substitute teacher each day since he ran out the window last week. I think that may represent he’s thinking through his wrongs and becoming a new man. Anyway, the most rocks I've stacked up is forty-three. Forty-three rocks! Tyler Plofker is a writer in NYC. His recent work has appeared or is forthcoming in Identity Theory, Roi Fainéant, Maudlin House, Idle Ink, Defenestration, Bear Creek Gazette, 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.

Love Poem to Myself, Number Five Forty-two. That’s how old you are when you finally put down the knife aimed at your own chest. That’s how old you are when you finally begin to love your own precious body. You’re not quite sure what did it, but suspect that seeing disease winnow and wither your weight away tore your eyes wide open. Made you see what marvels had been there all along. You even love the pocket of abdomen fat that droops below your narrow waist now— have looked it straight on in the mirror as you change, and smiled, patted your little kangaroo pouch. (When I say narrow, I mean compared to the rest of you. You are all hourglass, the inward dip of your waist feeding right back into full hips. Your breasts are pendulous and large. Delicious.) This year, the year you finally begin to love yourself, is also the year you can’t stop wearing orange. Orange velvet wiggle dress; rust orange swing dress; skirt rung round with delicate fruit. You begin to associate orange with self love— dying streaks of tangerine into your pink hair, smearing on gleaming orange liquid eyeshadow, sliding orange daisies into the raspberry and russet of your hair. It only turns into a bit of a sitcom episode when you decide you really need an orange jumpsuit. When you look them up, you’re shown mostly Halloween costumes of people as prisoners. Perhaps you’ll hold off this once. But not for long. Soon you’ll find the next perfect orange thing. And you’ll look into the mirror as you put it on, whispering just this, over and over: I love you. I’m sorry it took me so long. Sometimes orange is hard to come by. I love you. I’m sorry it took me so long. You’ll cradle your little kangaroo pouch, then glide your brave, thick body into something orange and satin and sweet. I love you. I’m sorry it took me so long. The Kind of Woman I’d Write Poems About She’s the kind of woman I’d stay up all night talking with, her giggle a balloon animal. Inching my own joy closer to the ceiling, where hers wiggles its tail happily. She’s the kind of woman I’d buy blue velvet dresses for, chain daisies through her rainbow of soft hair. We’re both pale, voluptuous. Small hands, chipped nails. I want to take her to Rehoboth in Autumn, when the season is just dying down. When there are still boardwalk fries, but no boardwalk people. I want to show her the blue and white hotel with the prints of seahorses on the walls. I want to leap through waves with her, barefoot and cackling, glee hooking to pink clouds that swirl above us. Sanderlings darting between our toes. She’s the kind of woman who loads up her cuddly hatchback with snacks and luggage, when you fall ill and desperately need to see a small heap of doctors. It’s literally life and death— she eases in beside you. Grips the wheel, phosphoresces. Fends dirge-dark away. She’s the kind of woman who asks questions; who actually cares about the answers; who talks in rushes of bubbles, but always leans in to listen as well. I tried to tell her how I feel tonight, as we sat across from one another in a crowded sushi restaurant, and we both nearly turned to tears. Ever since Kat and Heather died, I’ve thought I would never love friends that way again. She’s the kind of woman who makes me think I’m wrong. She glows in the dark, human turned constellation, and doesn’t even know it. I’m not falling in love with her, but there’s a trail of pink calla lily petals leading from my heart to hers. Friendship is its own sort of falling when you do it right. I don’t mourn the dead less tonight, but I do sleep more soundly. I memorize the downbeats of her laughter, the alabaster arc of her cheeks when she smiles. It’s past one a.m. when she finally leaves my room for her own, next door. Her pearled nails are glittered newly teal, and she scoops up a slice of cheesecake our server gave us for free. Even in black, she’s so colorful, the room undulates. I turn my bedroom lights off, squeeze my eyes shut, practice glowing in the dark like Clara. First Christmas in Baltimore CW: Sexual Assault We crunch through mounds of grey-soured snow, arms linked loosely, on our way to the corner hardware store. Every year, you throw a Christmas Party for those who would otherwise spend the holiday alone. You need white twinkle lights. Need a sturdy shovel to clear your front walkway. A bag of rock salt. More than once, you catch me at the waist when I slip on a smear of ice. We have known each other for twenty-two years, and I trust you more than anyone in all of Baltimore. Still new in town, I spend too many late nights alone, eating Indian takeout, cross-legged on a blue velvet couch from the sixties. In the hardware store, there’s an enormous orange cat named Gingerbread. A suspiciously festive name. You gather twinkle lights, shovel, light bulbs, all while I pet Gingerbread. You going to steal that fat cat?, you whisper into my ear. I startle, then laugh. Shrug. I’m considering it. We stop to get frothed cups of hot cocoa on the way back to your home, cupping them close to our cold-bitten lips. I remember urging perspiring cans of Mug Root Beer from the rickety vending machine at YMCA camp. Offering them to you, rose-faced, stuttering like a broken metronome. Now, twenty-two years later, you usher me into the warmth of your yellow row-home. I have something for you, you smile. My hands leap to startled lips. I thought we’d said no presents. In the corner is a two-foot tall, light-up tree that matches my pink hair precisely. I glimpse my reflection in tinfoil branches. I don’t come to your Christmas party, but we have regular take-out Korean nights at home. Watch sci-fi classics, and even once, the newest Pee-wee Herman movie. We sit in the sun, eat spicy corn fritters and brie cooked with jam. We cuddle, but it never goes beyond that. Your friendship, you promise, is worth far more than sex. Soon it’s the day after New Year’s, and I’m drinking vodka alone. My first drink in a decade, but for no reason more than curiosity. You call me, insist on coming over. Don’t worry, you say. I don’t mess with drunk people. I just want to take care of you. I am giggly. Woozy. We curl under the oceanic swells of my teal comforter. I just want to be two sleepy cats. From there, my memory is hollowed out, is mostly holes. A worn-out loofah or a hunk of cratered black rock. I have snatches of hazy recall— a tongue on my nipple, teeth at my hips. I hear the crinkle of condom wrappers. Our calls stop after that night. No more good morning messages. It takes me two years to call what happened what it really was, and takes you four to confess and apologize. I don’t take your confession letter to the police. Consider that payment for the pink tinsel tree crammed in the back of my deepest closet, which I somehow still can’t bring myself to throw away. Robin Kinzer is a queer, disabled poet, memoirist, teacher, and editor. Robin has poems and essays published, or forthcoming, in Kissing Dynamite Poetry, Blood Orange Review, fifth wheel press, Delicate Friend, Anti-Heroin Chic, Rooted in Rights, and others. She’s a Poetry Editor for the winnow magazine. She loves glitter, Ferris wheels, vintage fashion, sloths, and radical empathy. She can be found on Twitter at @RobinAKinzer and at www.robinkinzer.com

I. Prologue/Epilogue The image of a screaming head, its mouth stretching, crackling like a splitting vine, the strands and follicles of flesh, hair, and expression prying vastly pulling over the top of the cranium like a cozy shirt.. The song of terror, an enigmatic soliloquy, known only to a monster. A music box upon the mantle in a tower… II. A True Night Story Ego, she hopes. Something she knows she must hide, and hide from. Seems like everything these days. Give me another chance. Promise I won’t choose this again. Her arm points at the wall, southeast. An old rooster weathervane. Her extended arm, covered by a sheet. Concealed as the hulking thing enters. It doesn’t see her limb. She knows this as best as she can know anything in this moment, in this room. A result of other moments, other rooms. Down the dim lit limb of the hall. Threads off into other rooms, going on forever. Veins of some immortal enlightened body. Seems like everyone these days. A history she can remember as intricately as she can, given all there is—said history, anxiety, etcetera. Last time, nothing happened when it came. We’ll see, she thinks, hopes, prays, grieves. That hunched back full of crawling wounds bleeding through the sheet. She hates this thing. That upward bumpy slope. She has seen rickety carriages climb this topography, the squeaking and creaking keeping her up all night. The bumpy road leads into a horse-shaped head. Red splotches where the eyes are, dark gray in the lightless room. Please keep going, she thinks to herself, like a joke she tells. Like the farce children know the world is before they are stolen. People become colonized hunks of land eventually. They are exhausted into compliance. A dance they’d never find their way out of. Being young is the slow dilapidated acknowledgment that other rituals always seem to tie back around into this grotesque one. She’d go until the truth glinted off the theatrical stage covering up Nature. This is the cover-up the confounded shriek about at the present era’s trendy altars. She’d go until everything she knew would be forgotten. That recognition of the moment, of the time. It emerges like a leech’s sucker drawing blood. Horror is the story collapsing in on itself. The process of shriveling, physically, spiritually, and what is revealed would be what is. The narrative is that youth inevitably starves into a tragic ending. Please don’t turn. Please don’t groan. A question mark would result in her presence, the answer she does not want to become. The knowledge would become Now eventually. She would know the thing she feared next —that moment the prior one leans into. The hulking thing sinks, groans downward like a crippling staircase. A scrunching accordion squeeze box. This is its music. The creature is an undiscovered hull, a mountain breaking and falling. It is a thing warting and snaking off of its previous thing. The era following the destroyed Before. The result of Now. It leans into her body, removes the pillow covering her arm. She watches its eyes through the sheet, through the gray. Based on a true story, she knows it cannot see her arm. She feels like that very source of fodder she and her friends once saw the world as. She feels her eyes inside of it. She believes for a moment she is seen, yet the fog of Unseen hovers about the inside of her head like vague hope, like its own falsehood’s tiny, unknown segment. So as according to her narrative, what is the probability..? SNAP-CRNNCH-SPLLICK. Its mouth un-crinkles, creak-slides open, like a body falling down stairs. As smoothly as a rug, the bulk of the mouth is a sight to behold: a whorl of fungal shadow, fermentation gusting out. A death wind. It hangs open like the bottom of a trunk. Unhinged, dangling in the dark, swaying like a porch swing. A foul, penduluming moan of satisfaction. The squelching rawness odorizes the room, the pith of its mouth, esophageal chamber, worldly innards, massages the space, suckles upon the broken, gnashing arm. And into permanent ruin. Iron and rot stain the walls, consumption fills the gullet of this once-sacred room. But sacred is synonymous with starved in some cultures, and often meets the definition at some point following more civil and undefiled words. They happen eventually. Stringing off and meeting down the line with this hulking thing. Its innards uncoil like a faltering cumulonimbus tower through the open mouth, flesh splaying like wings to aid the birth. As comfortable as a shy youth in a trusted friend’s basement. She thinks about her people, horror movies, and cheap beer. Every century is another dime. Payment and collection. A meat hook descends like a prize-fight microphone. It curves, swings, and fishes into the puss-warted terrain of the hulking thing’s back. It rises, a seer over all, returning to its panopticon tower. The hulking thing licks its many flittering, inter-lapping chops. Unholy mouths devouring their miniature meals. A recent rough-hewed cold sore spittles its oppressive bacteria. A newborn infection that inspires the name of a planet. Based on a true story: From its presiding position, the hulking thing awaits the next rueful dreamer. III. Epilogue And as adrift as an outsider through town, yet so intricately apart, an existential pulsation, a piercing song soars the scape like an ethereal limb reaching, calling to every true story before and after… The depraver holds its trembling, frightened guts. Attempts to reach for the music box upon the mantle. Its insides heave out of the orifices. Its unkemptness, splayed in a collage along its living room. It will not make its tower shift… Andy studied writing and film in college while working at a library. He also helped develop scripts and reviews for the college radio station. He has since worked jobs at all hours. He has been published in Dark Entries Journal, State of Matter, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Hungry Shadows Press, and has work forthcoming in Anterior Skies Anthology, Vol. 1. Writing has been an invaluable path, helping bring ruin to the most vile of monster-dom: our lord depraver, Status Quo. He is grateful for Godspeed You! Black Emperor, goofy friends, and horror movies. He currently works at a library in Iowa.