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I can say now that maybe I shouldn’t have pestered the chef and irritated the hungry folks lined up and shuffling behind me in a queue like the one that snaked across the London Bridge to see The Queen in a quarter-tonne box, God knows how much embalming fluid plunged into her wizened purple veins to keep her from melting for, say, 10 requisite days. Had I been a monarchist and anywhere near the UK at the time of her demise, I’d’ve paid my respects at the very start of her lying-in-state so as not to face leaks from Her Majesty’s lead-lined casket. I’m a sensitive soul, fussy about substances, the kind of person who likes to know where my food comes from and what else is in it, which is how I know what a hammer looks like when it’s hurling toward my face, thrown like an Olympian wannabe by the pissed-off cook at Bob’s Best Byrgers and Fysh who probably keeps brass knuckles under his counter and mascaras his pubic hair: it’s a comet with a cold steel head, a hard hickory tail. And I can say now it’s not the greatest idea to question an underpaid, exhausted worker wearing a faux chef’s hat about the ingredients in the patties he’s flipping and what percentage of sodium and protein do they have per serving, because what does he know and besides his twirling hammer is speeding its way to my forehead, a cool whoosh of air heralding its imminent arrival and I can say right now I don’t really give a rat’s what’s in the goddamn burger, I duck. I’ve got dogs at home to feed. Mikki Aronoff’s work appears in New World Writing, MacQueen’s Quinterly, Tiny Molecules, The Disappointed Housewife, Bending Genres, Milk Candy Review, Gone Lawn, Mslexia, The Dribble Drabble Review, The Citron Review, and elsewhere. She has received Pushcart, Best of the Net, Best Small Fictions, Best American Short Stories, and Best Microfiction nominations.

I’m always so much smarter when I talk to you in my head a cinema smile, stars leaping off my tongue like kamikazes we never needed those seas foam between tables my hair down my shoulders again and frontiers fold in the sweet impairment of memory glinting between my lashes nights snatched from fate and dipped in chrome—a promise a picture of what might still be. In my head I am not afraid to touch your hand you touch me back your finger smoothing the creases of my agonies so I can barely speak. I can barely speak the damning syllable lodged in my throat deviant aigus ellipsing like gnats towards the lamp you swat one, standing, scanning figures, let’s go— and I empty before I remember you will be with me when I am alone Aishwarya Jha is a writer, designer and entrepreneur from New Delhi, India. Her work recently appeared in a digital anthology by Oxford University and is forthcoming in multiple literary journals, including Livina Press, Boats Against the Current and Isele Magazine. In another life, her award-winning one-act plays were performed around the world, in addition to being taught at workshops. Her debut novel will be published in 2024 and she is drafting her second as part of the Asian Women Writers programme.

The classic Irish mythology surrounding Étaín is one rooted in a feeling of excruciating envy; the bitterness of an old love set to destroy a new one, playing out over thousands of years and generations, sometimes with disastrous results for children born amid the fray. An optimist might argue that it illustrates love conquering all; a realist might add “but at a cost.” Either way, it is an ode to beauty in all its forms, from that which one wants for themselves to that which one cannot tolerate in someone else’s possession. Lilies on the Deathbed of Étaín and Other Poems by Oisín Breen explores these themes in detail, coupling mythology with natural elements and other magnificent wildness, illustrating the existence of things we desire but, despite our best efforts, may never fully obtain. Draped in equal parts longing and anger, death’s inevitable grip looms large over the speaker, but never quite enough to put the fiery flame of emotion out. Sometimes flowing and melodic, the rich metaphor ranges between lyrically dreamy and strikingly real, changing tone just when you think you know what to expect. Still, a rhythm carries forward in a collection that feeds seamlessly verse-to-verse. From III: Or it was where scoliosis stitches up once beautiful women into the shape of feuding Christmas birds; and where I once sat hammering out inconsistencies, where others fled to the soft arms of pretty girls as a means to find a rum-soaked chin-splitting escape that happened to the clock, every fourteen years; and where I held hands and felt whole, totally and utterly whole. ~ Here then, the beast is holy, the haar is holy, and holy too is the red honey, so too are lips, each others’, especially yours, for which I have such a thirst. From A Chiaroscuro of Hunger I was tired then, worn out by hundreds of poor choices, And passions that burnt red hot, only to turn white hot, And sunder skin from bone, prompting the perennial Reassembling of fragments of a jigsaw puzzle, That, at times, resembles my face. From love and hate in all their forms to the shades that live in between, this work lays itself clear and bare without falling into a trap of predictability. Lilies on the Deathbed of Étaín and Other Poems offers a complete and three-dimensional examination of reckoning, with oneself or with others, about the possession and loss of beauty; what we want, what we’ll do to get it, and what it feels like when we don’t. A word from the publisher: Lilies on the Deathbed of Étaín and Other Poems by @Breen is out on @beirbuapress and can be purchased here: https://beirbuapress.com/2023/01/01/lilies-on-the-deathbed-of-etain-and-other-poems-by-oisin-breen/

I have seen suffering It even has a scent You tip your poison and gulp the numb Words slow, steps falter Pitch changes, eyes flutter Rock bottom does not exist when you’re always searching for the bottom of the bottle The merry-go-round circles again Dizzying for us both, too fast to get off I tell you things and you pretend to remember You were there but not here Double letters exist to help you The stale coffee, echoes of support But what about those who don’t anesthetize, the ones who remember it all? A caregiver should not be a child Now I have dysfunction, too Codependent, it’s called I try and fix things, to control I’m only trying to help Boundaries mean nothing when they’ve been trampled, invisible The cycle starts over you were doing so good I dive in to save you I hold you as I swim to shore I’m kicking for both of us Don’t you want to live? The burden is too heavy to hold My body shakes with adrenaline Crisis strikes again Maybe it’s my drug of choice now all thanks to you I thought I could save you, it’s all I want But I can no longer carry us both You have to swim, too My face tilts for oxygen, the water laps my face I’m in over my head now It may be too late There’s no chance I can save you If I hang on, we both drown You anchor me to this deep abyss But if I let go, maybe I can save myself Natalie Nee is a bibliophile, graduate of Colorado State University, former ghostwriter, and latte enthusiast. She is passionate about creating stories that provoke both thought and emotion. Her debut novel, a domestic thriller, will be going out on submission in 2023. Her poem, Unnoticed, was just accepted with Half and One. When she's not writing or getting lost in a book, you can find her with fam enjoying life. She’s cooler on Twitter @WriterNatalieN.

One night, I got on my hands and knees and crawled back to the night that boy flung his tongue down my throat. All around me, massive caverns kept opening and opening. His fingernails dug tunnels under my skin as his tongue slid down the walls of my lungs, planted leeches in my stomach, then slithered back to suck on my youngest cavity. Later, as we pretended to sleep, his hands planted orchids in my wrists as our taste buds bloomed. Those leeches fed on absolute blackness until I starved myself so dry they suffocated on air, and once I knew they were dead, I filled every hole in my body with salt and vinegar until nothing grew back. I crawled into the cave behind that boy’s couch the first night you slid your hand up my shirt, and my whole body opened and opened as you touched the youngest part of me. Robin Arble is a poet and writer from Western Massachusetts. Her poems and prose have appeared or are forthcoming in Oakland Arts Review, beestung, Door Is A Jar, Pøst-, One Art,Overheard, ALOCASIA, Midway Journal, and Your Impossible Voice, among others. They are a poetry reader for Beaver Magazine and the Massachusetts Review. She studies literature and creative writing at Hampshire College.

I mostly just want to talk about this one Mountain Goats song. It came out pretty recently, but I’ve listened to it a hundred times because I think my gender is just that song. I told my evening manager at the Taco Bell about it when we were closing the other night. “There’s this line, it goes ‘Stay independent, make adjustments as needed, it’s losers all the way down, you stay undefeated.’ Such an asshole thing to say, and I love it so much. Am I just another toxic man?” She shrugged as she counted cash. “Do you think you are?” “If I knew, I wouldn’t have to ask you.” “You’re not a man. I don’t think you can be a toxic man if you aren’t a man in the first place, right?” She was right, but it still worried me. Was there such a thing as nonbinary toxicity? “Do you think I should cut my hair?” “Do you think you should?” I threw a rag at her. “It’s like you don’t get the point of me asking you questions.” “Jesus, it’s your hair. Do what you want.” My apartment is terrible, so I figured it wouldn’t matter too much if I cut my hair in the bathroom. My roommate disagreed when he saw all of my coarse bleached hair coating the tile. “Are you using my razor?” he asked in disbelief. “Yeah. Sorry. I didn’t think you’d mind.” “You should have asked. It’s two in the fucking morning. Can’t you go to sleep?” “Gender waits for no man.” I turned my newly shorn head around, trying to see every angle. “Can you fix the back?” He’s a pushover, which I knew when we moved in together. I haven’t had to clean the toliet once in six months. He took the razor and cleaned up the back of my head. “I have a history exam tomorrow,” he muttered. “Can’t we at least listen to a different song?” “No.” The next day I returned to my workplace and my evening manager raised her eyebrows. “Glad to see you can make a decision on your own. Looks good.” It didn’t, actually, but it did make me feel good, which I guess matters almost as much. A few queer customers throughout the evening smiled at me, that secret look we give each other that is really nothing more than an acknowledgment of existence. But that matters. “Can I play you the song?” I asked my evening manager when it was eleven-thirty and we were getting ready to close. “No.” “Okay.” I played it anyway, right before we parted ways for the night. She didn’t like it nearly as much as I did. I got home at one in the morning and did my homework for an hour. When I turned in my Statistics problem set the next day, the TA looked at me in shock. “Oh. Thanks.” She didn’t have to say that she’d given up on me ever doing my homework. That night I worked with the alternate manager, who actually is a toxic man, and for some reason I couldn’t stop making self-deprecating jokes just to get him to laugh at me. “You’re funny, for a girl,” he said before he got into his car. I opened my mouth to correct him, but just grinned instead. My roommate was cuddling on the couch with his partner when I got home, both of them actually drunk, and he invited me to join them. I like her well enough, and she’s my only trans friend. I don’t have many friends in the first place. I sat next to her and put my head on her shoulder. “So what is masculinity?” I asked them. “Can it be separated from all the bad stuff?” My roommate giggled. “No. I don’t think so. Maybe you’re an asshole because you’re transmasc.” His partner elbowed him. “Jesus, don’t be a dick. They’re not an asshole.” To me, she said, “Gender is just a collection of aesthetics and feelings. There’s some kind of masculinity outside of the toxic kind, I think. I know tons of men who are fine. Some who are great.” “But are they masculine?” I pushed. “Or are they fine because they’re not masculine? What if all I want is power?” “Do you want power?” she asked. “How come no one understands how questions work?” My roommate spoke up, and his voice reflected the several empty wine cooler bottles on the floor. “I hate being a man. I’m fine looking like one, but I can’t stand being one.” “Maybe you aren’t one,” I told him. His partner winked at me. “We’re working on it.” I didn’t work the next night, but I ended up at work anyway, after a very good date. My evening manager was behind the register, and she raised her eyebrows at me. “What are you doing here?” “Getting burritos,” I grinned. I was arm in arm with my date, who was as tipsy as I was. We looked at each other and laughed. “Just one, actually. We’ll split it.” My date, as he told me, had been on T for four years. He had several earrings and a respectable beard, both of which I envied. I asked him what he thought masculinity meant, and he shrugged. “It’s nice to feel like I can live in my skin,” he said. “Does that make sense? I don’t think of it much beyond that.” “Let me play you this song I’ve been obsessed with.” He didn’t get it, and I figured maybe I’m doomed, but it felt good when he kissed me in the parking lot. C. M. Green is a Boston-based writer who spends all their time thinking about history, memory, religion, and messy transmascs. The latter obsession is the subject of this short story about Taco Bell and masculinity.

Jesus, it was hot in Finn’s attic studio, hotter than it should have been by any reasonable right on any reasonable winter’s day. But Bloody Mary downstairs had cranked up her heating higher than any reasonable person should. He stooped to the floor to listen. Nothing. Where had the skulking crone gone? How artfully he had sneaked into the Hammersmith house an hour ago to avoid being ambushed by ‘aren’t you just the marvel’ Mary, yet somehow his sex-for-a-studio landlady still knew he’d arrived. Sure, he’d be ‘just the marvel’ if she hadn’t driven Tabia away yesterday with her shrieks and caws. Wasn’t it enough for Mary to have banished his muse without today’s attempt at driving him out with this shitting heat? He went to the window and cracked open the painted hinges. The sharp winter air whacked him in the face. “Jealous bitch,” he called and then paused to cough out the frost that caught in his throat. Curvaceous Tabia. Gorgeous Tabia. Oh Tabia. Chilled traffic fumes gritted his eyes. He turned to his jumble of paints and readied his palette with stripes of alizarin crimson, burnt umber and lamp black. A blotch of turps followed by a swipe of brush through the paint and, tra laa, could that be a smear of optimism? Could be. A glug of turps. Tabia, his creative soul. So ready to be herself, so simple. What right did studio-for-a-fuck Mary have to interfere? “Cavorting as though he has no wife,” Bloody Mary had yelled. “For shame!” Wife? Since when did painting in someone’s attic form a sacred bond? The Devil’s hag, more like. A globule of sweat dripped from his nose. “What the hell are you burning down there?” Finn yelled. “Your spite?” The wind whistled and the drub of a pausing cab rose from the street. Thank Christ the breeze was picking up. A crack or was it a cackle? How tickled Mary would be at her ironic twist on freezing an artist from his garret. Ah well, if she insisted on wasting her money on heating the whole fucking universe, so be it. A fresh sheet of cartridge paper, a newly prepared palate and, as turpentine evaporated through Finn, Tabia’s absence swelled in his bereft core, propelling his hand. How readily the brush’s bristles now bent, curving with the urban breeze. Tendrils flurried across the paper, dispersing like the tributaries from an estuary seeking their ditch sources. A caress of turps et voilà, a set of ruins rose on the shore and a man materialised. More strokes, and luscious Tabia, glorious Tabia, salsa-ed into the scene to join the man who had morphed into a king, a god, no, the one true artist. Astonishing, astounding. How visionary was that! A louder crack and the turpentine bottle toppled, sparking red. Flames trickled across the floor and up the easel leg, quickening the painting. And lo, out of the paper pirouetted a three-dimensional Tabia, her palms eager to press his face and soothe his pacing guts. This creation was truly phenomenal. Eureka. Bloody eureka! “Go finger yourself, witch,” he yelled. “You have not won!” And as the air sirened and tangoed, he and Tabia shimmied onto the floor to writhe in the tranquilising scent of artistic fulfilment. Ruth Brandt’s prize-winning short story collection No One has any Intention of Building a Wall was published by Fly On The Wall Press in November 2021. She won the Kingston University MFA Creative Writing Prize, has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Write Well Award and Best Small Fictions Award. She tutors creative writing and lives in Surrey, England with her husband and has two delightful sons.

Mid-August, my parents dragged me out to watch my sister, Jackie, lose the championship to Tackett’s Auto Supply. Even in early twilight the ridges of the aluminum bleachers held enough heat to burn the bottoms of my legs. Whirls of bugs clustered around gangs of 1500-watt lights. I worried that one would carom off and flutter, broken and chalky, into my Coke; I kept my hand over the top until I finished it. They told me she went 2 for 3. Back in June, Dad “encouraged” me to skip a piano lesson with Mrs. Fant and try out for Jackie’s Dixie Youth team. One afternoon I followed her a short mile to Andrews Field. I could never keep up; even though Jackie outgrew her mountain bike two years ago she refused to pass it on, consigning me to her exhausted ten-speed with squealing brakes, handlebar tape that flaps in the wind, and a scuffed leather saddle that’s hard in all the wrong places. I leaned my bike next to hers on the chain link fence and tightened the drawstring on my shorts. “Got any advice for me?” Jackie took off her Braves cap, re-creased the red brim, then pulled it snug. Dad bought the hat on our family trip to Atlanta to see the home of Hank Aaron and Chipper Jones and Dale Murphy. Real wool and sized to fit. Momma asked why Jackie needed a $40 hat; Dad just said, “A real player needs a real cap” as sure and final as his other child-rearing apothegms, like “Boys don’t wear pink” and “Children are made to be seen and not heard.” She looked across the freshly-cut grass, bright green before the Mississippi summer drained the life out of it. “Don’t suck.” Coach Ronnie smacked Jackie’s shoulder when she walked up. She’s the only girl on Johnson Bottling but he knew she had shortstop covered cold. “Who’s this, Jack?” “My little brother. Bobbie.” She waved her glove in my direction. “Glad to have you,” Coach Ronnie said. A lump of chew clung to his left lower canine when he smiled. I nodded, even though I knew I was not the brother he hoped I was. Jackie took the field with the starters while I milled around with the new kids, caps pulled down earnestly to show they’re ball players. I didn’t have a hat. My glasses kept slipping down my nose when I tried to bat. I managed to hit a weak grounder straight at the mound; I did not manage to run it out. Jackie shrugged. “Maybe fielding is your thing.” Coach Ronnie put me in right field. Dad’s high school number 17 was painted in crisp, white letters on the fence boards. I stood around a while, appreciating the symmetry of the lines mowed into the grass. After a few to the infield, Coach called to me. “Ready?” I pushed my glasses up and nodded. I lost two fly balls in the blue—ran up too far then waved my glove as they thudded behind me. Finally, he cracked a blur just inside the baseline. I stepped to my left, then lost track of the ball until it slammed into my hip. I spent the rest of practice sipping cold water from a soggy paper cone and wincing whenever someone looked over. Over the next week, the circle on my bone turned purple, then blue, and eventually an unsettling shade of green. When I didn’t make the team, Dad said I had problems with depth perception, probably from Momma’s side of the family. The season’s over, but Jackie’s got her Dixie All Stars game tomorrow, so our parents went to Safeway to get chips and root beer for the potluck. “Jack, you’re in charge,” Dad said as they left. I want to watch cartoons, but Jackie wants to ride, so we pedal through the thick Delta morning, down Spruce to Cuyahoga, past the old high school and across the bridge to downtown. By the time I bump over the cracked yellow curb on the corner of Yazoo and First, she is leaning against the bright blue wall of J.C. Penney. She pushes off, twists a narrow branch from the oak that clings to life in the packed dirt by the sidewalk and beats a staccato rhythm against her right leg. I lean my bike against the bricks. “What’s that for?” I ask. “To use on you if you don’t shut up.” She shakes the twig at me. A leaf detaches, glides to the concrete. “No, really.” “I’m gonna stick it in the escalator, see what happens.” Satisfied with her explanation, she heads in. I like the escalator. When Momma brings me here, I steal moments to watch the steps fold and unfold, hypnotized by the rhythmic meshing and parting. I can feel the calculations involved in making it work. The air conditioning shocks my legs, still sheening from humidity and exertion. I shiver and stop. “Move it, Bobbie!” She drags me down linoleum aisles bordered with carousels of bras and panties that make my neck itch. I know better than to fight. Jackie lives up to her name; a lanky thirteen, she can line a ball into center, sink a turnaround, and hop her mountain bike over a stump. I trail in her wake. The cover is off one of the escalators and a repairman is rooting in the void. I was ready to go back out into the heat, maybe sneak a snow cone, but Jackie tucks the stick behind a pile of crisp yellow oxfords. walks over, leans against the black rubber handrail, and pops her gum until the man stops. “Need something?” She pops again and shakes her head. He looks at her, then goes back to wrestling with a piece of metal enrobed in thick grease. I come a few steps closer and look over the repairman’s shoulder at the mystery of chains and gears. He glances up. “Chain’s slipping.” He points at something, and seems to expect me to understand, so I nod. I push my glasses up. “We want to ride the escalator,” Jackie says, then resumes chewing. I don’t have her facility for knowing how to talk straight to the men who do mysterious things with their hands; I look at the grease in the cracks of their fingers and my tongue freezes. “You can still ride the other one. Down.” He doesn’t look at her. “No fun if we gotta take the stairs to get up there.” “Then, you’ll have to wait until I’m done.” He pulls a dirty red rag from his back pocket and wipes something until it shines. A crescent wrench lays off to the side. Jackie moves it a few inches with her blue Converse. She has drawn stars on the white rubber toes with Magic Marker. The man stops wiping and looks at her again. She absorbs his glare like a pond being warmed by the sun. He picks up the wrench and sets it in his toolbox. His walkie-talkie squawks from his belt, unintelligible and loud. He sighs, puts the rag back in his pocket and levers himself up with stiff knees. He glances at us, then turns away and starts talking. I pull Jackie’s elbow. “Let’s go, Jackie.” “Hold your horses.” She grins like she does when she leaves me behind, knees hitting her elbows as she hunches to pedal. Jackie braces on the end of the handrail and leans over. She straightens quickly as the mechanic looks back. His eyes rest on her for a second, trying to weigh how much trouble she can be. He decides wrong. He turns away again and presses the speaker against his ear as he struggles to make out the important parts. Jackie smiles, leans over, and opens her mouth. The wad of gum hangs on her teeth for a moment, then tumbles into the opening. She bends further to watch it land and her Braves hat slips off and falls into the maw of silently spinning gears. Jackie moves smooth and sure like a middle-distance runner. She has the hat by the brim when the upper chain clunks into place and catches the teeth of the gears. The escalator bumps and jerks. The hat wraps into the tight space between the steps. Jackie’s hand follows the soiled blue-and-red wool into the darkness. Teeth of flat silver reach for her fingers. “Jackie!” My leg muscles clench like I’m too close to the edge of a cliff. I almost feel the soundless tug on her arm as her hand is pulled along into the waiting teeth. There isn’t the slightest slowing of the mechanism as the stairs move as gently and smoothly as a procession of ocean swells. One step now carries three fingers and a dappling of blood up and away from us. Jackie stares at them as if she’s watching a second basemen take her feed to turn a double play. She backs up and sits down heavily next to the escalator. Cold air surrounds new sweat as I watch the mechanic grab a shirt from the display and wrap the stumps of Jackie’s fingers. Jackie turns pale as she looks at her useless throwing hand. Even her hair is limp. “Get Dad.” Her voice trembles the slightest. The man is holding Jackie’s swaddled stump. He has forgotten about his walkie-talkie, which has gotten splats of bright blood on its black plastic. I nod as the emptiness swallows my stomach. I stare at the fingers as they reach the top; they tumble and gyre as the silver steps push them against the black bristles that keep trash out of the mechanism. I think they wave at me. “Go get help!” he barks. I turn and run through the aisles past the shirts, past the ties, past the panties. I dodge an old man and slam the front door open. Huffing outside, her mountain bike seems to glow in a spray of light bouncing from the bricks. I grab it and buck off the curb. My fingers flex on the knobby handgrips, warm from the sun. My feet nestle into the toe clips. The padded foam cradles all the spots that my familiar leather saddle doesn’t. It’s a good five minutes to Safeway; I can see Dad’s face when I tell him I did it in three. I shift gears, stand on the pedals, and disappear under the arching oak trees as my tires hum. Stuart is a recovering lawyer and expatriate Mississippian, now living in the Mohawk Valley of New York. He was previously EIC of Causeway Lit, and currently serve as Fiction Editor for the Veterans' Writing Project. He is published in Emerge Literary Journal, Reckon Review, and elsewhere.

Misandry I’ve known too many men who are only brave about the wrong things and whose swarm of tiny silences over dinner cram their way down my throat and fill me up so that by dessert, I can push away my untouched plate and say I’m full. So I guess what I mean to tell these men is Thank you. Now my bikini body will blow your dick off. If only I could scrape up some gratitude for the little things, I could journal my way to equanimity, which is basically equality if you squint at the right dude’s op-ed. Yes, if only I were grateful-as-an-aesthetic. (Because doesn’t everything look fab in that font?) If only I could gaze into their cocoon eyes and respond with grace— “choose joy”— if only, like they do, I believed that the important part of benign misogyny was the word benign. If only I were mad in the right register. Because not all men can hear the shrieking over the constant dog whistles. And that’s my bad, really. There are always problems if you’re looking for them, silly. Comparison. The thief. All that. The plan Some nights the plan is just to come home and gulp cold wine on an empty stomach; to let the monuments mean what they mean, let the tape run out and flick its tail in the player; to walk away and realize that you didn’t implode, you didn’t even die, you didn’t even fall over once on the damp sidewalk, licked by wet leaves and ignored by passersby who don’t mourn in your language. No. You wept quietly walking through the streets, blurring the Christmas lights, the Beaux-Arts streetlamps, and pressed the web of your hand to your nose like an adult. Like someone who understood that maybe the real tragedy is the bittersweet way that life does indeed go on. Shannon Deep writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction—and tries not to be a cliché while doing so even though she’s an American expat living in Paris, France. Her poems have appeared in The Shine Journal and Print Oriented Bastards, her fiction in The Grief Diaries, and her personal essays in The Huffington Post, Narratively, xoVain, Quarter Life Crisis, and elsewhere.

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

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

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