Search Results

The sky falls to the ground it looks like small pieces of shattered glass a bit like water a bit like a broken lake of water you pick up the pieces you put them on a table you take them one after the other and you paste them on your wall like a map like a geographical map in the center of the map there is an eye it is the eye of the mirror it is the mirror the that sees you because the real mirror is not those bits of sky that you've just put on your wall the real mirror is your eye it's the only mirror it's the only way you have to see yourself you’re made but solely of flesh and bones not much with a bit of shit too and food in the end shit and piss mostly and necessarily a lot of piss because you are old and as you are old you piss yourself all the time you smell of piss most of the time and with age you're going to smell more but of shit and piss getting slowly decrepit it'll be your natural smell and then one day that smell will be replaced by that of the rot the rot eating you up alive the rot inside as one is still conscious the rot of death that itches us so often then will come the rot of the corpse and as you’re an old bachelor living by yourself like an idiot maybe you will die without anyone noticing it in your apartment located in the suburbs of Paris inside it your body will be lying on the ground and will smell more and more of the stench of the rot it will surely take some time maybe several weeks before this smell of rot reaches the staircase of the building and when one day a neighbor on his way home perhaps will realize that there is something rotten in there he will think well the old lunatic is surely gone on vacations and this idiot has left the meat to rot in his fridge and then one day the smell will be so strong that he will say to himself no there is something that is not normal so he will call the police and the police will come the police will break down the door and it will find a body finally what will be left of you half flesh half skeleton with a bit of luck there will be some skin and meat left on your head and one will only see your skull appear on the sides of it maybe you'll have that half mouth half skull weird smile partly made of scarce old teeth protruding out of the bones and on the other side rotten and green lips puffed up with worms and bacteria it will be a moment of great beauty you will have to take pictures of course maybe say a poem maybe do a drawing dance and party around the corpse in circles but nobody will be able to feast on it because it will be too rotten so they will have to bring hyenas bring vultures bring rats the hyenas the vultures the rats will perhaps eat the corpse because it takes a hell of a belly to digest a corpse and this rotten food this disgusting flesh the hyenas probably will have been brought from the zoological park next door this hideous zoo where you had no longer in your lifetime set a foot since your childhood it will be convenient nevertheless because it is really right next door in a small wood called Vincennes in short they will go get the hyenas those will eat your corpse it will save money no need to carry away the body no need to feed the hyenas everyone will be happy then one will have to burn the paintings that are in the apartment because they are useless one will have to throw away the books one will have to sell the apartment falling apart anyway and that will be it it will be all over and just the one and only thing that might be left in a corner after all this devastation could be those bits of sky still stuck like bits of mirror on a wall but these bits of sky turned into a mirror a long time ago will now be covered with dust and your eye will have totally disappeared, digested by the belly of a hyena , or maybe by the one of a lonely rat. A word from the author: Ivan de Monbrison is a schizoid writer from France born in 1969 and affected by various types of mental disorders, he has published some poems in the past, he's mostly an autodidact

Christmas Boxes They have been roaming streets and avenues long before honest souls had awakened into another Monday. It was to be a great day of much bounty for the voracious teeth of the roaring monsters driven by their half-conscious pilots. Frigid in the north, balmy in the south emboldened by some brew hot or cold before the fumes of their green robots. Customary armies of holidays passed they were dying for another piece of memories to process those joyous moments gone. Colorful cardboard boxes made for disproportionate friends papers of multicolored stars and snowflakes food for these psychopathic ogres. No more time to celebrate the birthday of a king as children shed a tear upon the passage of a strange sled too hungry to feed their dreams. Miracle of the Butterfly Crawling across the pathway she hopes for another inch to her survival under threat of the unforgiving sole blind to the many worlds below. It is a hard journey for the one who fights with nothing more than an eternal fate to feast our eyes on unknown perfection alone on the most perilous adventure. Yet she will live to hide in her precious home made of silk and promises, upon a tree limb the warm protection of an unlikely abode a place to become an instrument of seduction. The child contemplates the chrysalis cowardly trapped in a crumbling box with no food but the eye of a teen expecting miracles in a strange prison. Terror resides within her fragile home as she knows her life may be brief thus, she must dazzle with her colors and a flight to the zenith at noon. From a strange mixture of mysterious potions the eternal code will tell the tale to make this miracle true like so many creatures to be born in amazement. Poussin teaches French and English at a university in Georgia, USA. His work in poetry and photography has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and many other publications worldwide. Most recently, his collections “In Absentia,” and “If I Had a Gun,” were published in 2021 and 2022 by Silver Bow Publishing.

On the drive to see my mother, the transformation begins. By the time we hit the bypass the change from A-Grade student to underage witch is well underway. Around two junctions from complete. I catch my reflection in the wing mirror and watch in fascination as my eyes slide from sea to emerald green. In the time it takes our car to pass a caravan, my hair has grown dark, sprouting so fast I have to tease out the tangles. Raking through knots with beetle-shimmer fingernails. Only stopping when the footwell fills with spiders, snakes and other creeping things. Yet Dad’s face stays Sunday-set, far-away and flinty. His brow stamped Do Not Disturb. Focused on the road. Busy looking the other way. I try to speak. But the words creak out in cackles, fringed with maggots and frills of purple steam. Dad sniffs, sneezes. Then cranks up the air conditioning and puts the radio on. Chewing on newts and sulphur, I shrug my newly sharpened shoulders and turn my pointed chin away. I press my fresh, scarlet mouth hard against the window, sucking at the glass. My black breath yanking at beautiful, stolen sights. Pulling each one in. We wait at the roundabout, where I harvest three matching smiles in an estate car, a metallic balloon tied to a pushchair and a tree, russet in flaming symmetry. Small, rare flashes that I push high against my palate. Breaking and rolling them across my lizard tongue, before spitting them like dragon’s teeth into my palm. Amulets to string around my scaly neck. Layers of cool blue enchantment, to lay against my flaking skin. Ready to ward off white gowns, floral curtains and endless paper masks. Pushed up against the window my breath turns hot and froggy. I shift and take jagged bites of frosty silence. Before throwing my face hard, back against the glass. Long teeth jangle. Soft gums shrink. A black cat darts out of nowhere. My father swears. And the car, just slightly, spins. We move on. And I inhale rushing but perfect hillsides. My lungs glowing green, then furious purple, as they rip at the roots of wildflowers, icy streams and velvet moss. All of which I stuff into cushions, ready to strap beneath my horn-rimmed feet. All the better to hush drumming footsteps during hasty corridor retreats. We pull up at traffic lights and through the vents seeps a heady scent. Cut grass, fresh bread and the dark midnight of tarmac; as if conjured to order. Ripe for mixing, ripe for casting. The very essence of magic, ripe for breathing in. I lean forward open-mouthed, probing the tastes, as they crawl toad-like upon my tongue. Categorising them by colour, texture, slime and shape. Then I snort them up, one by one, into the gingerbread cottage of my brain. Where they sit in candy-covered rooms, waiting to coat the smell of sympathy and antiseptic. And spit cooling fires of poison on hot dry air and earnest updates, quietly given. Behind closed eyes, with frantic wizened hands, I start to uncork sapphire bottles, pop smoking corks and tap on granite lids with willow wands. Tipping, pouring, stirring, shaking; I keep on lining up the jars. Hundreds of different shapes and a thousand shifting sizes. Yet all labelled just the same. Each engraved with her many faces, the ones that smile. The ones that wink and laugh. The ones that play. Enchanted vessels; impregnated and animated by the magic of the past. Before sliding doors, rainy car parks, whispered weekly visits. And sinking cheeks that, despite my spells, refuse to stay the same. Rachel Canwell is a writer living in Cumbria. Her debut flash collection “Oh I do like to be” was published by Alien Buddha in July 2022. Her fiction has featured in Sledgehammer Lit, Reflex Press, Retreat West and Pigeon Review amongst others.

Poet Laureate recipients tend to get elected to their positions because they have something important to say. Sheila Packa, Minnesota’s Duluth Poet Laureate 2010-2012, and Jim Ferris, Ohio’s Lucas County Poetry Laureate 2015-2019, are two proven examples. Both poets are vocal and passionate about the social justice issues that they care about and the social justice organizations that they feel close to—for Ferris, it’s ADAPT, and for Packa, it’s the American Civil Liberties Union. After getting to know their work while co-editing the anthology Undocumented: Great Lakes Poets Laureate on Social Justice (Michigan State University Press, March 2019), I found myself wanting to get to know both writers even more intimately and the result is the following interview where we discuss social justice, Donald Trump, climate change, and so much more. Ron Riekki: What are the most important issues of social justice that need to be written about right now? Sheila Packa: Lately, following the news of the ICE detention centers and the huge increase in prison populations in our country, I’m concerned. Under GOP leadership, these have become privatized, run by private, for-profit corporations. Incarceration is an expensive and ineffective method of addressing social problems. Regarding privatizing social services, it’s important to remember that corporations always put profit above all else, and they should not be in the business of providing social or human services, including education or criminal justice services. One can see the problems that have happened under the Trump policy with the detention centers. Small children are separated from their parents; this is an institutional form of child abuse. It breaks the family unit, it traumatizes the children, it hurts human development and penalizes the most vulnerable. It has not and does not address the problem. Children who are taken from their parents are at high risk of abuse and neglect in the institutions. This same thing happened to Native American children in the past. Horrendous treatment. I personally don’t want my tax dollars going to these institutions. A second concern I have is the need to protect water resources. Water = Life. We all need clean water to maintain our health and the quality of life and health of future generations. Sulfide mining, fracking, oil pipelines, refineries, and the residual effects of chemicals contaminate our land, air, and water. Cleanup is costly and usually borne by the taxpayer. Instead of using “profit” as the central organizing principle, we need to use “people’s health” as the central organizing principle. Jim Ferris: There is a powerful temptation to decry the forms of oppression that are most in our faces at the moment. But I want to resist that temptation for a moment, because the oppression that hampers the world is like one giant World’s Biggest Knot, and focusing on one or two threads is unlikely to untie the knot. Racism has been called America’s Original Sin, with plenty of justification. But I find myself thinking that ableism may well be the most fundamental form of oppression, because of the ways that the ability/disability continuum has been used to oppress people of color, women, sexual and religious minorities as well as people labeled as disabled. I think we need to write about all of it, with the care and detail that will not only make beautiful compelling art but also will shift the culture. Ron Riekki: What is not being written about that needs to have a larger voice? Jim Ferris: As I write this I am participating in a wonderful writers’ conference in the mountains. The conference organizers have worked really hard to make the conference a rousing success. The faculty is excellent, wonderful writers and human beings who clearly and deeply care about good writing, about the participants, and about making the world a better place. And there is still a disturbing undertone of ableism lurking. The ableism is not just in the challenges of making charming old buildings accessible, though using a wheelchair here would be difficult indeed. Mostly, the ableism is in the assumptions about who we are and what we are doing: the desirability and indeed the primacy of normativity, that excellence cannot be achieved without in some way re-inscribing normativity, without bowing at the altar of the normate even as we try to make something wholly different. If all we can do is try to surpass what has already been done, then we are stuck on the same track, just trying to go a little farther—rather than forging new paths, not just illuminating but creating different ways of being, knowing, and doing the world. What is not being written enough is why well-intentioned normals should change their minds and their ways of engaging, recognize that the problem is not just behaviors, not even just attitudes, but the fundamental concepts, the pressure toward norms that prescribe who is fully human—and who isn’t—who can fully participate in society—and who is not allowed to—who is ‘one of us’, and who is, to call on an old phrase, ‘beyond the pale.’ Explicitly, we should be noticing and calling out ableism wherever it arises. We are nowhere near done exposing, let alone correcting, the deep problems caused by racism and white supremacy, sexism, homophobia, and the all-too-wide range of other human differences that lead some of us to oppress others of us. But I think ableism is the least recognized of these pervasive ills. Since ableism is about all of us—every human is variably situated on the ability/disability continuum—this ongoing and desperately harmful construct of ideas dearly needs the light. Sheila Packa: Women and children’s needs: over the past 30 years, women’s rights have diminished in many regions of the world, and with this, children are adversely affected. More attention is needed to access to health care, food, safety from domestic abuse, and access to education. Countries have been destabilized because of war, gang violence, religious fundamentalism, and climate issues. There is a worldwide refugee crisis (and its roots are often in government policies) that must have a global response to help stabilize governments and communities. Ron Riekki: Do you often write about social justice issues? What incites you to write those poems? Sheila Packa: The poem I wrote is a cento, and it is a collage of quotes from Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels about the way that change happens. It is intended to give heart to people who work for positive change. I came to write about this while doing research for my latest book of poems, Night Train Red Dust, about my Finnish immigrant grandparents and women’s and labor history in Minnesota. In the early 1900s, a progressive movement occurred that supported women’s equality (and the right to vote), immigrant services (like settlement houses, language classes, etc.), and a concern about how big corporations exploited the working class and poor (and as a result child labor laws, occupation safety measures and the forty-hour work week came into being). Farm and other types of cooperatives helped create sustainability for the immigrants at that time. Good things happen when people work together for the common good. Jim Ferris: I can’t help but see how power is implicated in just about everything we humans experience. It can’t help but surface in my poems. One of the big things I find myself using in poems is the conflict between the normate ways of experiencing and using the world and the lived experience of those situated as Other. Is the elder driving slower than everyone else because she is old, or because she is African-American? Or both? Other reasons? Just because? Ron Riekki: Trump. Your thoughts? Sheila Packa: Trump fails to treat others with dignity and respect. He lies and blames others. He prefers spectacle over substance and celebrity over integrity. If a leader cannot take personal responsibility, maintain accountability to the public, and work toward the common good, then he or she shouldn’t be in office. Jim Ferris: (Sigh.) He is a reflection and an outcome of something that has been a part of American thought (if we can call it ‘thought’) for a long time, the idea that this land was given to a select group to use, enjoy, and rule over—or we could use verbs like dominate and pillage. I’m reminded that Ronald Reagan’s Interior Secretary James Watt didn’t think the country needed to practice stewardship because end times were coming soon so go ahead and use it all up. Trumpishness shows the same level of thoughtfulness and responsibility. Ron Riekki: Climate change. Your thoughts? Sheila Packa: Serious wildfires are going on right now, and these impact regions much larger than just the places in flames. Smoke and particulate pollution are impacting large swaths of territory in the west and north, and this impacts people with asthma and other lung conditions. Plastic in the oceans impacts marine life and the food we eat. Loss of the arctic regions raises the temperatures of the oceans and amplifies hurricanes. In the near future, high temperatures will get worse. Our government and citizens make a dramatic change in policies and practices otherwise our grandchildren’s quality of life will drop. Each of us must reduce our carbon imprint. This means developing more alternative energy, stopping driving as much, conserving and protecting water resources, avoiding using plastic, and providing assistance to those impacted by drought, flood, fire, and hurricanes. Jim Ferris: I worry that we are dancing close to the tipping point. I do think Trump will be seen to mark the end of an era; I hope we don’t have to endure even more widespread pain, chaos, and destruction as a result of waiting too long to address this clear and present problem, this imminent catastrophe. Ron Riekki: For people who are interested in more writers who write well about issues of social justice, who would you recommend? What particular writing by them? Jim Ferris: Eli Clare (Brilliant Imperfection: Grappling with Cure and Exile) and Jamaal May (The Big Book of Exit Strategies), Sheila Fiona Black (Iron, Ardent) and Patricia Smith (Incendiary Art), Marilyn Nelson (A Wreath for Emmett Till, How I Discovered Poetry, American Ace) and Ross Gay (Catalog of Unabashed Gratitude) and Alison Kafer (Feminist Queer Crip) and Kaite O’Reilly (peeling, And Suddenly I Appear, the ‘d’ monologues), Ellen Samuels (Fantasies of Identification: Disability, Gender, Race) and Sami Schalk (Bodyminds Reimagined: (Dis)ability, Race, and Gender in Black Women’s Speculative Fiction), Kim Nielsen (A Disability History of the United States) and Liat Ben-Moshe (Disability Incarcerated: Imprisonment and Disability in the US and Canada) and Tim Seibles (Fast Animal) and Toi Derricotte (The Black Notebooks: An Interior Journey) and Thylias Moss (Wannabe Hoochie Gallery of Realities’ Red Dress Code). I could keep going, but this is a good start. Sheila Packa: I recommend reading Roxane Gay, Zadie Smith, Claudia Rankine, Joy Harjo, and Barbara Kingsolver. Read George Orwell’s essay, “Politics and the English Language.” I recommend the writing of Michael Ondaatje because his writing is beautiful, and his characters experience the effects of war. Find writing you love and make art. Write your own stories and share them. Help others in your community tell their stories. Jim Ferris: I’m also looking forward to Leah Piepzna-Samarasinha’s Care Work: Dreaming Disability Justice, due out in Fall 2018. Ron Riekki: Other than writing about social justice issues and reading about these issues to learn more, what actions need to be taken? Recommend some steps that you advise people to follow to make significant improvements to this world. What are you doing to make change? Sheila Packa: I spend less time on Facebook. I donate money to political candidates who I think have the right values. Last year, I worked on a committee in our local community focused on changing police policy with undocumented immigrants. This was initiated by the ACLU). I support the ACLU, the Southern Poverty Law Center, Planned Parenthood, and arts organizations. I do writing workshops in the community. Art is a powerful tool in social change. Jim Ferris: We can’t recycle our way out of this mess. I still believe in the slogan “think globally act locally.” The best actions to take are specific to place and community. Don’t wait for the government or for others to take action; find the best things available to you and do them. Connect with young people: it’s their world, we’re just using it for a while. Recognize the future that is already with us, live in that future, the world will follow. You don’t have to solve all problems—or any problems—all by yourself. Find community, make community. Team up with one other person and get started. That’s how we turn this corner—together. Bios: JIM FERRIS, Poet Laureate of Lucas County, Ohio, 2015-2019. Books include The Hospital Poems (2004) and Slouching Towards Guantanamo (2011). Chair of the Disabled & D/deaf Writers Caucus (2016-2018) and past President of the Society for Disability Studies. Ferris holds the Ability Center Endowed Chair in Disability Studies at the University of Toledo. SHEILA PACKA was Duluth Poet Laureate 2010-2012. She has four books, The Mother Tongue (2007), Echo & Lightning (2010), Cloud Birds (2011), and Night Train Red Dust (2014)and recently collaborated with Helsinki composer Olli Kortekangas. The Minnesota Orchestra premiered their work, Migrations, in 2016. She teaches at Lake Superior College and in the community.

After five o’clock, we got together at La Siesta for margaritas, fajitas, and tacos to celebrate Cinco de Mayo, and someone asked what the holiday represented. None of us cared what it meant, other than eating great food and, more importantly, drinking margaritas, but we all thought it was to commemorate Mexico’s Independence Day, a victory over Spain. Marty, the human resources manager in our group, corrected that it was to celebrate Mexico’s victory of a French occupation and that our mistake was yet another example of false memories of a group referred to as the Mandela Effect, named so after people who’d had an incorrect memory of Nelson Mandela dying in an African prison when he hadn’t. Marty shared other examples that seemed less significant: people remembered the name of Jif peanut butter as Jiffy; Curious George had a tail when he didn’t; the theme song for Mister Rogers was “It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood” when it was “It’s a beautiful day in this neighborhood”; and Hannibal Lecter said to Clarice Starling in Silence of the Lambs “Hello, Clarice” when, in fact, he simply said, “Good Morning.” “Get out,” Frenchy said. “That movie scared the hell out of me.” “100% all true,” Marty said. “It’s even true individually. What people say in interviews about their own experience in previous jobs seems to be false memories compared to the reports from their supervisors when we check.” “You’re kidding,” Jan commented. “How do you know the former supervisors are telling you the truth?” “We don’t, but we have to somehow find middle ground,” Marty said. “I have come to wonder what reality is.” “Well, the reality is these are the best damned margaritas I’ve ever had,” Frenchy said, and everyone laughed. “Except for the ones you had last week that you don’t recall because you had too many,” Jan said. Niles Reddick is author of a novel, two collections, and a novella. His work has been featured in over 450 publications including The Saturday Evening Post, PIF, New Reader Magazine, Forth Magazine, Citron Review, and The Boston Literary Magazine. He is a four time Pushcart, three time Best Micro nominee, and a nominee for Best Small Fictions. He works for the University of Memphis, and his newest flash collection If Not for You has just been published by Big Table Publishing. Website: http://nilesreddick.com/

On the Shawangunk Mountains behind the Correctional Facility, I trip on boulders I cannot see in low luxurious slanting sunlight. Bruise-kneed, again and again I get back up, giddy on freedom and the tinsel dazzle of New Year’s sunbeams. Ivor Daniel lives in Gloucestershire, UK. His poems have appeared in iamb, Fevers of the Mind, Roi Fainéant, Ice Floe Press, The Dawntreader, After..., Alien Buddha, TopTweetTuesday, Black Nore Review, Lit.202, and elsewhere. Twitter: @IvorDaniel Instagram: ivor.daniel.165

Our boss was a weasley old dude who thought he was a new age Magnum P.I. because he drove a Ferrari and had a mustache. He was always bragging about hiring local girls who would’ve ended up working night shifts at the plant. We all knew the real reason he hired young girls because we were always dipping and dashing out of his reach. He let us buy stuff on credit until payday so he thought that gave him privileges. We giggled and side-stepped and tolerated a pat on our asses or a snap of our bra straps sometimes to keep him thinking we were good sports. To keep him believing we were harmless and didn’t have anything under our blowouts but empty space and hormones. Three scraps of paper with a list of charges stayed pinned to the shelf above the counter in the stock room. At first, I didn't have a pinned note. Daddy said you never buy on credit, never be beholden to anyone if you can help it, do without and wait until you can pay cash. The other girls just rolled their eyes, said they be holdin’ stuff they needed and scraps could blow away in a light breeze anyway. One stormy spring, dark, mean clouds hung low, low over our little town. Over a week without sun and pimple cream made my face popcorn with hatching pink eggs. I became a desperate 5.49 on a fourth white scrap. Old Magnum just grinned his weasley grin and thumped my scrap with his thumb. Thought he finally had me under it along with the other girls and Brandy down at the cafe. Every Saturday he would eat lunch at The Sunshine Cafe where Brandy the waitress spread her sloe-eyed sunshine pie all over him. Every Saturday afternoon his wife took the Ferrari to the First Baptist Church car wash so it’d be bright and shiny for church the next morning. She’d watch the young guys squirting and rubbing, her mouth working double time on a wad of gum. Us girls had a running bet as to which one of them would rededicate their life to Jesus the next day, being good Christians and all. This one Saturday afternoon Magnum’s wife came in the store as usual to pick up the Ferrari keys. Magnum was having lunch at the cafe. He dragged in late that day with a look on his face like a black top road on a July day, a big old stain all over his white Polo, and a wet pink wad stuck in his hair right above his left ear. He walked real fast to his office giving us the death stare as he passed. We didn’t see him the rest of the day and his wife didn’t pick him up after work. We hid behind the snowball stand and watched him stomp down a back street toward home. Chatter at the skating rink later that night was that his wife found a hot pink lace thong peeking out between the seat and the console when she picked up the Ferrari. Us girls laughed and laughed as we twirled around the rink, sliding our hands down our mini’s so as not to let our panties peek out. Charlotte Hamrick writes about, reads about, and photographs extraordinary everyday things in New Orleans. Her writing is included in a number of literary magazines and in the Best Small Fictions 2022 anthology. Sometimes she writes in her Substack, The Hidden Hour.

e s i A proportioned r after a d i v e re quires a bit of an an gle to get ho me James B. Nicola’s poetry has appeared internationally in erbacce, Recusant, Snakeskin, The South, and Orbis (UK); Innisfree and Interpreter’s House (Ireland); Poetry Salzburg (Austria), mgversion2>datura (France); Gradiva (Italy); the Istanbul Review (Turkey); and Sand and The Transnational (Germany), in the latter of which his work appears in German translation; and Harvests of the New Millennium (India). His full-length collections (2014-2022) are Manhattan Plaza, Stage to Page, Wind in the Cave, Out of Nothing: Poems of Art and Artists (2018), Quickening: Poems from Before and Beyond (2019), Fires of Heaven: Poems of Faith and Sense, and Turns & Twists. His nonfiction book Playing the Audience won a Choice award.

Each Diwali, Amma would light up Small earthen lamps From a big one, And ask us to place at Everywhere we have a connection with: The alcoves, the drain, the handpump, The manure mound, the hay-cutting machine, The tractor, bike, pumping set, The tethers where we tie cattle, And all the places and things that we own and use... As a child, I never understood the ritual, It was just a fun time to do it. But now, When I ride the Royal Enfield two wheeler For hundreds of kilometres, And it doesn’t betray me, I feel a gratitude for it, I feel a humane respect, And adoration for it, Now, I deeply understand The ritual of placing earthen lamps Everywhere and on everything we own. Maybe that is how, We feel for the things beyond humans. Padm Nabh Trivedi is a Lecturer in Govt. Girls' Polytechnic, Saharanpur and a research scholar in the dept of HSS, IIT Roorkee, India. He writes both in English and Hindi languages. His English poems have been accepted in Loftbooks (London), Dreich (Scotland) and Hindi short Stories in Setu (USA) magazines. You can follow him on Twitter and Instagram @tpadmanabh

The man and woman hiked a yellow trace, barely a road, through the countryside, bound for another town. He walked in front of her. She was pregnant and whenever some passerby in a rattle-trap pickup truck—for they were not entirely unavoidable—stopped and offered a ride, he would answer for them both. “Mind your business, friend,” or “If we wanted to ride, ain’t you think we’d be riding by now?” They climbed a long hill and the dust from the road coated their mouths and mixed with their saliva and made a paste in their throats and every several steps, they spat globs into the tall grass on the road’s shoulder. At the top of the hill, they came to a cherry orchard. The boughs of the trees hung laden with ripe fruit and spearheads of leaves guarded the cherries and the shade fell through the leaves and onto the ground so that each tree seemed to wear a skirt of shadow. “I’m tired,” she said. “It ain’t been but an hour since we last stopped,” he said. “Still,” she said, “Just for a couple minutes?” He looked up the road and looked back at the woman. He sat his hands on his boney hips and, finally, jerked his head toward the cherry trees. “Not long. We got a ways to go.” “I know it,” she said. He followed her through the grass shoulder and down into the ditch but she could hardly climb the bank on the other side, up and into the orchard, and he had to shove her up the last few steps. In the orchard, she put her back to the nearest trunk and slid slowly down until she was seated. Her clothes were all tight and sweat dripped from her hairline. “What if it comes now?” she said. “Then it comes.” He stood over her and scanned the orchard. There was a farmhouse far away, where the fields changed abruptly and uniformly into sparse, hardwood forest. “See anything?” she said. “Acres of nothing,” he said, “Same as what all we seen everyday since we started this goddamn little journey.” “Cherries look good,” she said. He looked away. “Get me some cherries?” He didn’t say anything, but stood there, staring at the distant farmhouse. “Would you bring me some cherries?” He turned on his heel and his eyes burned. “Whyn’t your baby’s pa pick you some cherries? I don’t see him. Maybe he’s coming with some gunny sacks and got held up. What do you figure?” She folded her hands on her swollen stomach and stared at a place on the ground where the shade ceded to a patch of sunlight. But a second later, she jumped like she’d been stung by a wasp. She scrambled halfway to her feet and lost her balance and plopped down again against the tree. “What? What?” he said. “A kick. I felt it all the way up my neck.” “A kick.” “The baby.” “That hard?” “Sometimes. It’s so big now.” The sky was blue, and uniformly so, and the day had been hot and utterly still. But a wind—a wind and not a breeze—blew through the cherry orchard, bending all the branches and flipping all the leaves at once so their sea green underbellies flickered and the patter of cherries raining on the hard ground was like the sudden roll of tom-toms. And then it stopped. The day was still and quiet again. She gathered a handful of cherries from where she sat and ate them one at a time and while she ate, she looked at him. His eyes were wide, but they no longer flashed. Was he gasping for air? “What’s wrong?” she said. “You done that, someways.” “Done what?” “The wind.” “The wind don’t obey me,” she said from her spot on the ground. The baby came later that week, in a rooming house run by an old man. The old man brought hot towels and water and made coffee, and after she’d labored and given birth, he scissored apart a set of sheets from another room in which nobody was staying and warmed the strips by the stove and gave them to her so that the baby, a boy, would be warm. When she and the baby were asleep, the man crept out to the porch and rolled a cigarette, put it to his lips and eyed the road that wound past the rooming house like a black vein. He had no matches. But the old man, watching, followed him out. He produced a match and struck it against one of the bowed wooden columns that held up the porch roof. He held it out to the man and the man drew on the cigarette and the smoke drifted away. “What’ll you call him?” the old man asked. “Got any ideas?” the man said, “I’m fresh out.” “I haven’t named a baby in years and years.” They stood side by side, looking out. “You were fixing to run just now, weren’t you?” the old man said. The man flicked the butt end of the cigarette into the yard. “That boy ain’t mine and I ain’t no kind of father anyway.” Water sprang into his eyes and he flashed it away with the back of his wrist. “Come inside. There’s coffee. We’ll sit up and talk awhile,” the old man said, and his face shone like moonlight. Paul Luikart is the author of the short story collections Animal Heart (Hyperborea Publishing, 2016), Brief Instructions (Ghostbird Press, 2017), Metropolia (Ghostbird Press, 2021) and The Museum of Heartache (Pski’s Porch Publishing, 2021.) He serves as an adjunct professor of fiction writing at Covenant College in Lookout Mountain, Georgia. He and his family live in Chattanooga, Tennessee.

The monstrous key ring hanging from Jack Oliver’s belt fascinated us. The top large hoop held smaller ones, in a complicated interlinked puzzle. We had theories about the keys, none of them satisfactory. Jack Oliver didn’t run one of the storage facilities in town, he didn’t own the wreckers salvage dump or the RV park, and he didn’t sell golf carts or other recreational vehicles, all occupations that generated a significant number of keys. He lived alone with his dog, a border collie named Peggy, on the old farm that had been in his family forever, where he took care of a bunch of horses rescued from various ranches and overgrazed public lands. We often spotted him riding in fallow fields or rights-of-way, with Peggy tagging along. The animals looked happy with Jack. In my book, that made him a good guy. “How many keys does your mom have, Cassie?” Ethan said. “Two,” I said. “The house and the car.” “My dad has four,” Lucas said. “The house, the car, the garage, and the ATV.” “What, not the boat?” Ethan smirked. Lucas was the rich kid in our trio. Rich being relative. The Summervilles weren’t millionaires. They just had more stuff. Ethan Maher, my best friend, wasn’t as well off. He lived with his grandparents in a sagging old pile that needed a new coat of paint, on top of the peeling multi-colored previous ones. Not poor, but he took good care of his bicycle because there wouldn’t be another set of wheels under the Christmas tree for a long while. My circumstances were slightly better. I lived with my mom in a bungalow, midway between Lucas and Ethan. The closer to the lake, the more expensive the houses. The Summervilles were on the water. “He must have a tractor,” Lucas said. “Maybe a baler or a loader, and a wagon.” “Okay, so maybe six or seven keys,” Ethan said. “It’s more than a regular person, but it doesn’t explain the clanging pile.” “Padlocks,” I said. “Anything that isn’t locked down tends to grow wings in this place.” My two buddies agreed. Jack Oliver must carry a large number of padlock keys. “Why doesn’t he keep them at home?” Lucas said. “That ring is so heavy I’m amazed he’s not listing. You know, like a boat.” “We know what listing means, Lucas, you dolt,” I said. “He must want to keep his stuff with him. Can’t blame him. What’s the point of locking things up if somebody can break into your house when you’re out, and steal everything.” We were hanging around the feed store, one of our favorite spots, especially when the mobile vet was in town. We watched the cats and dogs being dropped off and picked up. There were always puppies. Caitlin, the assistant, drafted us to register the animals when she was swamped. Lucas was good with the paperwork, and Ethan and I bonded with the animals, sometimes with the owners, although there were grumpy ones among them that looked at all teenagers as if they were juvenile delinquents. Jack Oliver wasn’t a cranky type. He was taciturn but not sour, and Peggy was a sweet dog. We’d seen him walk into the feed store, tall and lanky with that battered cowboy hat of his, a distinctive silhouette recognizable from a quarter mile away. “I think we should ask him,” Lucas said. “What? Walk up to him and say: Pardon, Mr. Oliver, sir, but what the hell are all these keys for?” Ethan laughed. “That’d be something to see.” “We can’t do that,” I said. “It’s very rude.” “Why not? Either he’ll say it’s none of our business or he’ll tell us. What’s the harm?” Lucas’s suggestion was common sense, but I couldn’t picture myself doing it and judging from Ethan’s face, neither could he. “Well, you go ask him then,” Ethan said. The gauntlet was thrown. Lucas pondered, weighed pros and cons. “What do I get if I do it?” “Bragging rights,” Ethan said. “Uh-huh, not enough. The largest pizza with all the trimmings, at Napoli.” “You know how much that’ll set us back?” I said. I had twelve crumpled dollars in my pocket, what was left from babysitting an ornery toddler last week. Ethan, who was even more cash-strapped than me, shrugged. “He’s blowing hot air through his ass. He won’t do it and Jack won’t tell him anyway. We’re safe.” That led to a lengthy discussion of the fine points of the challenge. Was the pizza for the ask only, or was an answer from Jack Oliver required? We haggled worse than horse traders. After we’d dissected the arguments, we agreed that the ask was worth a small pizza with two toppings. An answer would earn the big pie. And we had to witness the conversation. Lucas was devious. He might walk up to the guy and ask him what time it was. I could tell the thought had crossed his mind because he winced when Ethan said we would go with him. We hovered around the mobile vet truck, waiting for Jack to exit the store. He was really tall when you stood close to him and his boot heels added a good two inches to his frame. He was old, but not like Ethan’s grandparents. He was strong and brown from working outside. I felt heat flush my face, thinking he must have been a handsome man when he was younger, with these gray eyes and a nose like a hawk. I stepped back a few steps. Mom said nothing intimidated me, but that wasn’t true. Ethan gave Lucas a light push between the shoulder blades. “Time to shine, bud,” he whispered. To his credit, Lucas followed through. “Hi, Mr. Oliver,” he said. “Beautiful day, ain’t it? Is Peggy at the vet, is she okay?” Ethan glanced at me and winked. Smart way to start the conversation. Jack leaned forward and down. Lucas stood his ground and looked into these knowing gray eyes. “The old girl was sleepy this morning. She’s fine. Thanks for asking.” “Now it comes,” Ethan mumbled and Jack turned to look at him. I couldn’t put words on what passed between them in these few seconds, but it gave me goosebumps. I moved closer to Ethan, so close our elbows touched, and the clean smell of his freshly laundered shirt tickled my nose. He leaned on me a bit as if Jack’s stare had unbalanced him. Lucas swallowed so hard I thought he would dislodge his tonsils. “Uh, Mr. Oliver, why do you have all these keys?” His voice dipped on the last syllable. Jack released Ethan–that’s what it felt like–and smiled. “Well, well, Master Summerville, how long has that question been burning you? For quite a while, I believe. You wonder, like most people around here. They’re just too polite to ask.” I felt myself turn beet red. “Ah, fair Cassandra had misgivings, didn’t she?” That didn’t help my crimson complexion. I wished I was five miles away. And nobody calls me Cassandra, ever. “Was it a challenge, Ethan? They’re big on challenges and dares in the Maher family. It sends them crashing down more often than not, poor suckers. At least you hide behind your friend.” Ethan jumped as if he’d been poked with a cattle prod. “I don’t fucking hide behind anybody!” Jack laughed. It crinkled a riot of wrinkles around his eyes. I noticed he had a silver tooth. The sun put a sparkle on it. “I recognize that trademark spunk. It’s caused so much damage among your relatives.” He jangled the humongous key ring. “You know the expression: Curiosity killed the cat. Are you dying to know?” “I’m not,” I said, when that cat he was talking about gave me back my tongue. “Sensible. Females are so much more sensible than the males of the species.” “Sir,” Ethan said. His fists were bunched in his jeans pockets. “We apologize for bothering you. Goodbye and have a good day.” And he turned on his heel. “Wait,” Jack said and Ethan cringed. His shoulders slumped, and his head went down to his chest. I knew how hard it was for Ethan to back down on anything. If Jack Oliver insisted on a more formal apology, he wouldn’t get it, no matter the consequences. Humiliation set fire to Ethan’s tinder-dry temper. I wanted to comfort him, but he would explode if I reached for him. “I shouldn’t have implied you lacked in courtesy,” Jack said. “That was wrong of me. Your friend asked an honest question, and he asked it straight, which is more than I can say about the entire population of this benighted place.” He held out his hand to Ethan who stared at it, hesitant. He wiped a hand on his jeans and shook Jack Oliver’s hard-callused big paw. “Thank you, sir.” He stood straighter and seemed to grow before my eyes. Ethan wasn’t used to being given much respect by adults. At best they ignored him. It was grossly unfair. He was no more responsible for the misdeeds of his boneheaded family members than I was for the absence of my deadbeat father. It didn’t matter, we got daubed with the same dirty brush. Small-town gossip is relentless and unforgiving. According to the local babblers, Ethan was destined for jail, sooner or later, like the rest of the Maher clan, and not much good could be expected from me either, being raised by a woman whose husband must have had good reasons to leave her. Some days, the whispers were hard to ignore. Jack smiled. “Tell you what, youngsters. If you come by the farm this afternoon, I might–just might–tell you a thing or two about my keys.” I didn’t like the icy feeling at the base of my neck. “It is not necessary, sir,” I said. He tilted his head and studied me from under that slouchy hat. I forced myself not to blink. “Concerned about secrets revealed, Cassie-the-sprite? Your two knight servants don’t have the same qualms.” I wanted to say: They’re boys, of course, they don’t. They’d jump off a bridge to prove they aren’t chicken. “We shouldn’t impose on you, sir,” I said. “It isn’t proper.” That made him laugh so hard he shook all over. He pointed a big knuckled finger at me. “It is my fancy to unlock a few boxes for your benefit, kids. I insist you come.” And he turned away. It was the same cheeky move as Ethan’s, with more years and more inches added to it. “Oh man, oh man,” Lucas muttered. “What have we gotten ourselves into?” I wasn’t the only one feeling prickles of dread. “Can’t bow out now,” Ethan said. “It would be like I slapped his hand away.” He rolled his shoulders. “What can happen anyway? There’s three of us and he’s alone with an old dog. And it’ll be daylight.” “I won’t drink or eat anything unless I see him eat and drink it first,” Lucas said. “Good luck when he pours himself a big glass of whiskey,” I said. “That too,” Lucas said. “I’ve taken a nip before. Have no fear.” We all needed a big laugh to feel like ourselves again. # The farm was well-kept, without the rusted tools, machinery, or carcasses of discarded vehicles that littered a lot of neighboring properties. Bales of hay were neatly stacked in a barn and the horse paddock was clean. We pushed our bicycles to the top of the hill where the house stood, a long log cabin with a wide wrap-around porch that was newer than the main structure. It wasn’t screened and the ceiling fans buzzed at high speed. Peggy came bounding down the steps, black ears flopping. She wasn’t young anymore but like her master, she was in terrific shape. She ran circles around us and came to a stop in front of Ethan. He extended a tentative hand and she bumped it with the top of her head. We were cleared to proceed. Jack Oliver pushed the screen door open. He was wiping his hands on a checkered kitchen towel. “Good timing,” he said. “The pie is out of the oven. Needs to cool.” He pointed at the cane chairs, one of them a rocker. “Sit.” The border collie, used to the command, flopped down. “Does she work with the horses?” Ethan said. He took the middle chair. There was no need to discuss seating arrangements. We were as well-trained as Peggy. Jack’s smile was a thin amused line. “You all must be what, fourteen? Barwin Middle School?” Lucas nodded. Ethan sighed. School talk bored him. It was the go-to topic for adults that didn’t know what to say to kids. As if school was the only thing in our lives. It sure took up a lot of our time, but less than what work sucked out of grownups. I thought Ethan’s reaction was funny because of the three of us, he was the best student, straight As, and he didn’t give a shit. Or pretended not to, rather. He told me once that he planned to go to college. He said it with a determination that gave me the shivers. I felt Jack’s keen eyes on me. “What kind of pie did you bake, Mr. Oliver?” I said. “Blueberry. Made the crust from scratch.” “I love blueberry pie,” Lucas said. His vow not to eat anything before Jack test-proofed it was forgotten. Resolutions couldn’t resist the wafts of freshly-baked pastry that came from the kitchen. Ethan was fidgety. The dog put her head on his sneaker and he got the message. Settle down, you’re a good boy. “How many horses do you have, sir?” Ethan said. “Twenty-two. That’s as many as I can handle. A lady from Lufkin is taking one off my hands, so there’ll be a spot for a new adoptee.” He tapped a booted heel on the planks. “I wished I could take more, but I don’t have the room.” “You can’t ride them all,” Ethan said. “They’re on a rotation, but yeah, I can’t give them the time they need.” He leaned forward with his hands clasped between his knees. The rocking chair creaked. “I could use a bit of help. You like horses?” “I don’t know them well,” Ethan said. “Not been around them much.” Jack extracted his long body from the chair. “Let’s go take a look.” We spent the next hour in the stables. They were as ordered as the rest of the property. The man must work his butt off to keep them that way. “Do you have any help, sir?” I said. “Sometimes, but I’m tough to please and it’s mucky work. You have to love the animals and not be afraid to get dirty.” He smiled. “Interested?” Lucas groaned. He pinched his nose and his mouth against the smells. Ethan stroked the silky muzzle of a chestnut mare. He was lost in her long-lashed caramel eyes, smiling, falling in love. I suspected this was why Jack Oliver invited us to come over. The keys were bait. He needed stable hands. “That’s Carmen,” Jack said. “She was a wreck when she got here. Skin and bones. Her legs are good and she’s fast, but you wouldn’t have known.” He swiped her forelock to the side, tender. “She loves a good headlong run.” “I don’t know how to ride,” Ethan said. I sighed. That was it, slam dunk, seduction complete. Lucas revived as soon as we exited the stables. He didn’t care for horse and manure talk. He was a reasonable boy. A true Summerville. Destined for solidity in banking, or insurance, or nuclear physics, anything with logic at its core. Having a crush on a four-legged animal–even one named Carmen, that fiery lady–was outside acceptable parameters. I was, as always, between them, one foot in step with Lucas’s common sense, the other one kicking at the clouds with Ethan. We had blueberry pie with lemonade. Jack had double helpings of both. I elbowed Lucas. See, he’s eating and drinking with us! Even Peggy had a small bite. We were sated when Jack put his massive keyring on the table. “There used to be forty keys on this ring,” he said. “There are many more now. Jesus spent forty days in the desert. It rained for forty days in the great Flood. Lent is forty days long. It’s a good number, but I couldn’t stick to it. Too many things happening.” “You only have twenty-two horses,” Ethan said. Jack grinned. “Don’t be a smartass. I’m making a point here.” He started slipping the keys off the ring. “These are the usual ones. The house, the barn, the stables, my truck.” He listed them. Machinery. Padlocks. It still left a bunch of unexplained ones. Jack gathered them in a pile. “I could tell you they are the flotsam of life. Accumulated things that I have no use for anymore, that I don’t know what to do with. That I’ve forgotten what they were for. That I keep them because I’m not sure what to do with them and maybe one day they’ll come handy because I’ll find out what they open.” He picked up one shiny and intricate silver key. “This one is for you, Lucas Summerville. I remember when I took it from your aunt Clarissa at the county fair. It opened her jewelry box. She said she kept a lock of my hair in there. It wasn’t gray then, it was as dark as yours. I like this key. I like it more now than I liked Clarissa then. She went to marry that used car salesman in Huntsville. How is she doing?” Lucas was surprised to be called upon that way. “Uh, I saw her at Thanksgiving dinner. She’s okay I suppose.” “Well, at least she’s still alive.” Jack picked up a sturdy rusty key from the stack. “This one has a story that could get people in trouble, me among them. It touches you like the brush of a heron feather, Cassie. Do you want to know what it is?” I didn’t. I felt the eyes of my friends on me, inquisitive. I was trapped, like Ethan with the horse named Carmen, but in a much less pleasurable way. “Will it hurt, Mr. Oliver?” I said. “Hurt you, sweetie? Maybe a little. The people you love? It could complicate their lives.” “Then put the key away, sir.” He nodded and pushed the key aside. He didn’t put it back on the ring. He pulled another one from the pile, a long, flat piece of metal unlike any key I had ever seen. “It opens a cash box. You know what that is, Ethan?” “I’ve seen movies. That’s where people keep their jewelry, fake passports, and running away money.” Jack walked the key across his fingers. We watched, rapt. He was good. “There was nothing glamorous in that box, Ethan. Only pain and heartbreak. Connor had the other key. Your father, my best friend.” Ethan pushed his chair away from the table. “My dad is dead.” He stood up. “What does he have to do with all this?” “You don’t remember him, do you? He was charming and quick to light up, like you. He had a gift for friendship.” Jack shot a glance my way. “He passed that down to you, looks like. With a few other things.” He put the key on the table, among the pie crumbs and the sticky silverware. His head was down and his clear eyes were as glossy as the silver tooth had been. He blinked. “You say you were his friend,” Ethan said. “I know what people say about my dad. They say it to my face. He was a drunk. He got into fights. He couldn’t hold a job.” His voice broke. “He was a gambler and a thief. He should have been locked up. Connor Maher. Wild, dangerous. We all are. The entire family is garbage.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “We don’t have friends.” I hated when Ethan was like that, stiff from the anger he worked hard to keep inside. It was exhausting. For both of us. Jack shook his head. “That isn’t true. There is so much being said around you that isn’t true. Your father upset people that he should have stayed away from. He also loved where he shouldn’t have. I warned him, and he didn’t listen. Will you listen to me, Ethan?” “You’re nothing to me.” I reached for him and pulled him close. He resisted at first, then leaned over my chair, with my arm around his waist. “Listen to him,” I said. “He made Carmen healthy again.” Ethan was tense as a bow string. “I’m no fucking horse.” My eyes locked with Jack’s. “It isn’t the same,” I said, although it kinda was. “His keys are history, memory, something like that.” Ethan seethed. “And why is he telling us? People don’t do things out of the kindness of their hearts. That’s Bible bullshit!” He tried to pull away from me and I held tight. Jack Oliver swiped his loose keys and strung them back on the rings. “Good point.” Ethan unhooked my arm, gently, and walked to the window. He spoke with his back to us. “I don’t need more bad memories.” “What about truth?” Jack said. “Lucas, would you mind taking Peggy for a walk? She likes the barn. There’s always a mouse or two that she can go after.” Lucas sniffled. “I’m no dummy, Mr. Oliver. You want me out of here. You don’t want me to hear what you’re going to say to Ethan. I get it. What about Cassie?” “She has a stake in the story. She can stay or go with you. It’s her choice.” “I’ll stay,” I said. We waited in silence until Lucas was off the porch with Peggy at his side. I was sorry for him. It stung to be excluded. # “There were family papers and a bracelet that belonged to your mom in that cash box, son,” Jack said. “I didn’t touch any of that, but I took the letters. I burned them. Connor was dead and there was vicious talk all around town. There was no need for more.” Ethan snickered. “You didn’t burn enough. Dad’s been dead ten years and people are still jabbering.” His head dropped. I was hurting for him. I wanted to get him out of there. “We’re cheap entertainment,” Ethan said. “For a few years after your mom passed, Connor couldn’t find his bearings,” Jack said. “He loved her like he did everything, no brakes, never. He wasn’t bad, Ethan, but he was damn unlucky, and people took advantage of him. When they didn’t blame him for all the nasty stuff his brothers and cousins did. I told him to pack the truck, take you, and get out of here. He was going to when he met Mina, and I knew there would be no happy ending.” Mina. My heart did a jump and raced. I heard its beat in my ears and I couldn’t find my breath. “Cassie?” I heard Ethan’s voice through the wad of cotton that stoppered my ears. Jack’s rough hand grabbed mine so hard it was painful. “Pour her a glass of lemonade, son,” Jack said. He pressed the cold glass against my lips, pushing my head back. I drank a little and it made me feel better. “What happened?” Ethan said. “She asked if it would hurt, when I pulled out her key,” Jack said. “I’m an idiot. Wanting to show off to you kids. Show you how cool I am, with my collection of secrets hanging from my belt.” I drank the rest of the lemonade. Jack had said the story touched me like a heron feather, it was more like the swipe of a vulture’s wing. “My mom’s name is Mina,” I said. Ethan slid a chair close to mine, and took my hand. “My dad knew your mom?” He was in awe, a smile in his eyes. Jack leaned on the table. “I saw it happen. They were both in pain, and they helped each other. Connor stopped drinking himself stupid. Mina smiled again. That was good. I could see the good they were doing to each other.” I wiped the dew off the lemonade glass. The darkness of the bird wings was still on me. Jack said it would hurt. Ethan’s smile hurt. Something was coming, I didn’t know what, but I didn’t want him to hear it. It was too late to stop, however. Jack had already said too much. “I warned them to be careful,” Jack said. “Your father was a hard man, Cassie. Jealous, vindictive. He wanted his wife at his feet and he used his fists to keep her there.” It knocked the breath out of me again. Words that hit like my father’s fists. “He beat Cassie’s mom?” Ethan said. He had turned pale under the tan. Jack looked away. “There are others like him. Too many.” “Tell me, please,” I said. Jack’s voice was low. “One night, he dragged Mina to the toolshed to teach her how to behave. From what I gathered, he didn’t want the noise to wake you up. You were little. Connor learned about it the next day. He was enraged. He went to take Mina and you away. There was a fight in the shed. Connor shot your dad, Cassie. He said it was self-defense and maybe I believe him. I helped Connor that night. We made up a story, that your parents fought and your dad got in the car and left.” Nobody talked for the longest time. “I’m sorry,” Ethan said. I bristled. My nerves were raw. “It has nothing to do with you. Would Ethan’s dad have married my mom, Mr. Oliver?” “Except for the little complication that your father is supposed to be still alive. They would have managed, I suppose.” “It didn’t happen,” Ethan said. “Is that why you said my dad was unlucky?” Jack nodded. “One piece of bad luck among many others. Bad decisions too. He wanted to get out from under his gambling debt. He went to pay what he could and try to negotiate the rest. The guys got rough and knocked him around. He should have called me and I’d have come get him. I suppose he didn’t want to show these goons they’d gotten to him. He managed to get to his truck and drive away. He must have passed out from the beating. He slammed into a telephone pole.” Ethan put an arm around my shoulders. I wanted to cry and I couldn’t. I thought of Mom, and how much heartbreak she went through. An echo of Ethan’s anger rang inside me. I understood him. Oh how I understood … “The key you showed me,” I said. “Was it for the toolshed?” “Your mom tore the thing down and burned the boards. That must have felt good.” Jack portioned off the rest of the blueberry pie. “I’d give it to you to take home but your folks would ask where you got it.” He stood up and went to the door. “Your friend must be bored solid by now.” He blew a long and loud whistle. A few seconds later, Peggy came running, with Lucas trying to keep up. “How much do you pay for the stable work, sir?” Ethan said. He gave my shoulder a little squeeze. I was so wound up I could scream. “How about eight dollars an hour, and I throw in the riding lessons? Now, once you know how to handle yourself on a horse, you can help with the customers. That’s extra pay and there are tips. What about you, Cassie, wanna give it a try?” His voice was soothing as a summer rain. “I’ll think about it. I wouldn’t mind the lessons. Once Ethan is good enough, I mean.” “Smart girlfriend you got there, son. She’s roped you in, all right.” Jack fiddled with the key ring again and extracted the flat cash box key. “Take it.” Ethan reached for it and then pulled his hand away. “You keep it, sir. They’re your memories. I’ll make my own.” M.E. Proctor is currently working on a series of contemporary detective novels. The first book in the series will come from TouchPoint Press in 2023. Her short stories have been published in Mystery Tribune, Shotgun Honey, Pulp Modern, Bristol Noir, Vautrin and others. She lives in Livingston, Texas.

We Swayed Furtively I You were a shadow of rhythm In the arms, song, and body Of another man. So from a distance, I became him In order to be close to you. I Uprooted in his posture. And the song ended and I bended Smoothly, myself rooting back Inside like bass strings. After the song ended, you both said Thank you and he set you back down Like a cell phone or iPad. He would come back to you When he needed to restock On Tik Tok views. The precursors to influencers Are that when they leave, you like And leave a comment. II I recognized the music in your body, Clearly we had met before to this Music through another’s body. Los Angeles is a new country, It breaths on a different beat Then New Orleans. My hips sing something different Then this music. Music there Is hips and bass strings. Like their music, my hips slink To bass beat and my heart beats On the two and four. And he left you blessing both your Shoulders looking from side To side. I whispered the immediate next The bass string instinct of Another song. III I shadow-coaxed the note to you And you glanced across the room, Your breath on beat. We spoke as dancers do we Spoke with our bodies and Our movement. You walked into my chest where Your presence was met with wrapping Up and into me. And we let our bodies see each Other through their singing as they Laughed, a bit of flirting. We swayed furtively with each other We let our musical bodies meet and sing and kiss. We let our musical bodies rinse and Wash each other as we swayed Furtively together. Monoga-mish -At The Seven Grand Whiskey Bar -Downtown L.A. A place to share a drink with some friends. A place to discover your new go-to. A place to end and begin your night. I I first met her at a house party. Where they had turned their garage into a club. I was the new guy, from The Big Easy. New Orleans, who could dance the blues. I could not help but notice her. I am A relationship person; she is too… She was so active with men and women there I was convinced her FB status was single. After we had danced, poured each other drinks, She moved to the couch. I followed suit. I sat down next to her, as though we were both single. We laughed, exchanged some playful words. After, she rose her glass in the direction of the balcony grill. Specifically to the man, manning it. She said, That is my husband. And there was the moment, really a few seconds of a moment. Where my demeanor popped. Which is what she expected. Which is why she laughed. II We’re monoga-mish, she said, twirling her legs and her drink. I recomposed, reconcentrated, and rethought…monoga-mish? Oh? … Yes. We both work from home, cook, and eat together. And in the evenings, he plays video games and I go dancing. One night, I thought to explore those grounds In the land of Monoga-mish at The Seven Grand. My thoughts were positive, I found stools At the end of the bar. It feels more private there. She appeared, we got right to talking. I love listening, Listen enough you will always learn something. Something you didn’t know about them at the beginning. Even if it’s not directly in what they say, after two old fashioneds. She did directly say, I was homeschooled. And didn’t really expect To graduate, because I was raised in a cult. I had to turn away a few times. She was dressed casually But she was wearing the most blood-thirstiest lipstick. And we both knew at this point that our blood tasted like seven-year-aged maple wood cast whiskey old fashioneds. Cid Galicia is a Mexican American poet who taught in New Orleans for over the past decade. He is in the final year of his MFA, through The University of Nebraska Omaha. He is a poetry editor for The Good Life Review, a reader for The Kitchen Table Quarterly, and this year's FIRECRACKER Poetry Manuscript Awards. He was the recipient of the Richard Duggin Fellowship—granted for demonstrated excellence in writing, runner-up for the Academy of American Poets Helen W. Kenefick Poetry Prize, and most recently nominated for the Helen Hansen Outstanding Graduate Student Award. He is currently living in Los Angeles as an Intern to The Editor for The Red Hen Press. His work has appeared in The Watershed Review, the National Poetry Month Issue of The Elevation Review, Trestle Ties Issue 5, and the upcoming spring issue of Trampoline. (@formal_poet)