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Since my retirement, I’ve found myself with a surfeit of spare time and little but my books to keep me company.  Books – especially those who have been my companions for decades – can be both friends and enemies – succor to memory, but also demonic vessels of a challenging and hostile past.   Today I was musing on the natural contradictions in our language – words  can also be friends and enemies, even of themselves.  I can sanction an event, making it acceptable and recommended, while the government can sanction it, making it illicit and unavailable.  Our language itself betrays us and our contradictions.   *Gʰóstis is one of my favorite words in Proto-Indo-European – the hypothetical reconstructed ancestor of almost all the historically related languages in an arc from Ireland to the Ganges.  Without going all Sapir-Whorf on you – that’s not cool these days, I’m told by people outside – I always believed that the words you use drive the way you think, and the way you think, and the constraints thereupon, make you who you are.  It explains a lot. So, gʰóstis – the ultimate root for host, and for guest, and for ghost, a kind of guest, and also potentially an enemy, since gʰóstis also comes down to us as Latin hostis , a foe, and our word ‘hostile’.  A word fundamentally contradictory of itself, perhaps reflecting the ultimate sin of humanity, that the Other, the unknown, is always an enemy first and foremost, even when the Other is ourself.   As often happens, that’s when Ted wandered in.  Ted, too, was both a friend and an enemy – he tended to show up just when I needed someone to argue with, an advocatus diaboli  against whatever clever thought I was trying to develop.  Ted never liked Sapir-Whorf – he favored an orthodox Chomskyism although he once admitted that such an approach, too, was falling out of fashion.   Ted was in fine fettle today.  “We can’t blame our troubles on our words,” he argued.  “Words are only as good as the ideas behind them, and the ideas are what make us.”   “And yet, in some weird Jungian sense,” I argued, “these unified meanings of words power the subconscious that itself builds the ideas.  There’s no other absolute truth beneath them.” “Piffle,” said Ted, choosing a word with such onomatopoetic force that it either strengthened or undercut his whole premise.  “You can’t possibly think your own mind works that way.” We went on like this for some time, but since these core principles were articles of faith, not fact, we made little progress, until finally I pointed out that the very capability of maintaining disparate core models in one’s head at once disproved his unyielding universalism, which finally gave Ted pause. At this point my door unlocked itself as it does at 4pm.  An hour to go before nightly meds, so I let Ted vanish and went down to the common room to join the others.  After degrees in Greek, Latin, and archaeology from the University of Michigan, David spent thirty years in Silicon Valley building everything from dial-up networks to game platforms and AI assistants.  He lives in San Jose, California, and collects books, dead languages, and antique writing implements.

A Black Dog Sits and Waits Just to wake up on a Saturday morning and have all the answers, that would be good. This is all there is. I would start again, if I could, maybe, but that’s not how it works. I want to quit. You understand, I know, but I know the first thing to die is motivation. This is all there is, and It’s not enough, not enough at all, and soon enough even that much is gone. Scatter the ashes, smash the urn, leave nothing after the last shots have been poured and drunk down and all the glasses thrown away. This is all there is. I don’t know what else to say. I too, just wanted to wake up on a Saturday morning and be rich and be loved and to love. Por Ella she is seventeen and sitting on the curb with her best friend,  smoking cigarettes with their oversized coats  draped across their shoulders and  their doc martens hot on their feet and  there is nowhere to go, nowhere to have to be,  all things are possible, and  this is how she looks forever  when you catch her in just the right light. so, you love this small wild thing, shy like wild things are, but she carries some kind of sorrow, and is wild, like all the shy things are. November 2024 This is not something we should worry about. Leave the arguing to those who like to argue. We’ll drive out to the bridge. and watch the trains go by. I’ve been learning Spanish for you, you know, just so I could say  Yo tambien ti amo (I think that’s it) When the time is right It’s all good, is what I am trying to say. Leave all of the small and petty things to the others, because there’s nothing there for you and me.

The Very Hungry Caterpillar Imagine if March was a summer month whose beard said jadedly, you’re too young to be jaded, and the world went on jading. I thought maybe if my wings were still damp I could cozy up right where I hatched from but must have gotten fat nibbling my way out because on my eighteenth birthday the hammock ripped right out from under me and the air punched from my gut smelled like tea leaves and the darkness inside my lungs. The wettest thunder comes before the rain, wet like the last hours of pregnancy in a car at dusk, the sky flickering like this hope that it will ever be over with. Doggy style   I wish I had a cock so I could learn to be vulnerable. Instead my cravings are sad & filthy like a pitbull’s. But   don’t blame the pussy. He is a junkyard of moons, leaking radioactive fumes. He is a sizzling roux, enough flour   and fat to bloat a growling belly. By night he frolics up a funk and dances to disturb. Come dawn, they muzzle him. His   howls of smutty sorrow turn to whimpers. If the wound won’t heal, tell it to heel. Say come back to me. Say good boy. Then take me   out back to the tool shed and put me out of my misery. Say it’s for the best. An open letter to my husband’s dysphoria   I mean, this was a cavernous childhood only the small could fit into. He was just a cricket of a boy, chirping at the ceramic sky until it dropped the moon, which burst into verses and fish too plural to put a shirt on. When he touched me, my whole soul turned a fierce teal and I wept. My dad doesn’t have a beard anymore, but he bought me an orchid that only bloomed once, so it either got root rot or I forgot to water it, which is also how churches die. And so what if my husband has hairy teats like a real mammal. Not to mention gender and genre are the same in Spanish, and some novelists grow up to be poets. God knows I did. All I know is, he summoned me in the language of changelings. No other call could rouse the likes of me. Zoe "Moss" Korte is a mad & queer poet whose work has appeared in Maudlin House, new words {press}, Frontier Poetry, & more. They reside on Peoria & Osage land with their partner & two tortoiseshell cats. You can find them on Instagram @zoekpoetry .

When she stops, it stops, and when she starts again, it also starts again . It’s loud going up hills but quiet on the flat. It thrums in queues and pitches up a semitone round corners, and, finally, she’s forced to accept that the whirring sound she’s been hearing for months is coming from her. “You have motorised hips,” the doctor concludes. “It’s fairly common. I’m surprised you haven’t noticed.” “Will I live?” she asks. “Oh yes,” he replies. “And some.” For a start, she has gears.  And until now, she’s been stuck in first.  Clicking her fingers takes her to second. In third, she catches the bus she’s been running for. Overtakes it in fourth. Trips a speed camera in fifth, and cruises in the woods by the reservoir where she keeps pace with deer.  There’s more. “Don’t do that,” her husband says when she makes her eyes move in different directions. “Why not?” she asks, watching him on the sofa and the twins in the kitchen.  “It makes you look weird.” “You should see how it makes you look. Watch this.” She blinks, taps her temple,and sneezes. An eyeball pops into the palm of her hand. The twins applaud.  “For God’s sake,” her husband scolds. Later, she hides the eyeball in the bathroom, by his shaving foam. “You didn’t floss,” she says when he comes to bed. “Also, who were you texting?” “Work,” he says. “Wait. Could you see me in there?” “Oh yes,” she says. “I’m finding things out all the time. Look!” “Christ!” he shouts. “Where are your hands?” “I unscrewed them!” she says.  She waves her stumps.  “What? Why?” her husband asks. “Where are they now?”  He slides into bed. “What the …” “There’s one,” she says. His bedside light turns off. “There’s the other.” At breakfast, her husband asks, “If bits come off, can you put different ones on instead?” “Apparently,” she says. “There’s a website. With next-day delivery. I’ve ordered chunkier calves.” “Why?”  “They help with running. I might get a spleen. It’s good to have a spare.” She buys a hand, a right, half as big again as her own and a slightly different colour. She clicks it into place. She opens pickle jars and loosens wheel-nuts. She crushes full cans of beans and explodes cartons of milk. She grinds a house brick  to powder on the patio because she can. “Who wants a tickle?” she asks The twins squeal. In bed, her husband says. “Show me this website of yours.” They browse. “They do legs,” he murmurs. “Hmm,” she says. “And washboard stomachs.” “I’d prefer a spleen.” “I just thought … ” he begins. She takes out her eyes, leaves one on the landing in case a twin gets up in the night, and the other under the Velux to look at the stars. “I’ve always wanted a bigger nose,” she says, feeling her way back to bed. “I like the nose you’ve got,” her husband says. One of her hands runs its fingers through his hair. “Oh. OK,” she says. “Thank you.” The nose he gets her anyway is small. But neat, she thinks. And sensitive. Ketchup and fries , she guesses when the twins come home from school. Plimsols. Wet dog. Paint. Jalapeño peppers, she speculates, when her husband comes through the door.  Polos. Single malt. He kisses her cheek. “What a day,” he says. Gin spritzer. Someone else’s Eau de Cologne. “No problem,” she says.   But the next morning, she unclips an ear and hides it in his Audi. Poolside at the leisure centre, while the twins perform widths, she hears him indicate, get honked at by oncoming traffic. The engine purrs down. The passenger door opens. “Hi,” he says, but not to her. Clothes rustle. There’s a bout of urgent breathing and, as one twin dive-bombs the other, further towards the deep end than they’re supposed to go, then a gurgle he’s never made with her. Heart-broken, her heart broken, she shops for another, but, uh, what the ...  her heart is the one thing she can’t replace. So, she buys another hand. The left, even bigger than her mighty right.  And two evenings later, when the twins have gone to bed and he’s at five-a-side, yeah, right … she snaps both hands into place, and goes out to the garage to bend the crossbar of his trail-bike ninety-degrees and crumble a breezeblock.  Back in the living room, she dims the lights. She lays on the sofa, hands folded like walrus flippers across her chest.  “What are you doing?” asks a twin from the top of the stairs. “Nothing,” she says. “Waiting for your dad to come home.” “Are you going to tickle him?”  “No,” she says. “I’m going to bloody well tear him a new one.” Mark Barlex began writing fiction in 2021. His stories have appeared in Bandit Fiction, Flash Fiction North, Your Fire Magazine, Scribble, Coalition Works, Litmora, Roi Fainéant, Fireworks, Spank The Carp and Streetcake Magazine,  accepted for Sci-Fi Lampoon , and performed at Liars’ League  events in London. He was a semi-finalist in the Wergle Flump Humor Poetry  competition, shortlisted for the Bath Flash Fiction Award , and runner-up in the Missouri Review Jeffery E Smith Editors’ Prize .

I wear a hat. I play golf. (Sermon from The Donald)   Let golf be elitist. Be expensive, take the land. Let people work hard and aspire to play golf one day and let the rest play basketball (trademark wink and a nod) I wear a hat. I play golf.     Factory Setting   Slurry pasted faces Grey,boiled to death grey shuffling along in grotesquely overwashed costume.   Might as well go on living- (howl in piercing silence, eyes of searing red that once were green with life)   Aspiring to coping- (epitaph punched on a UC50 form by an ashen kapo in pissmark blue)   Shame is such an unflattering colour. Sophie prays to trees Sophie prays to trees to shirtless Jesus on alternate days   Random German family Each and every meal served with a side salad of sneering contempt fetus soft coddled eggs boiled (two to three minutes, no more) peeled hidden (under a thick trenchcoat of leaves) mashed and each and every beaten mess a benediction  KG is a Poet and Author based in Wales. The Author of the best selling 'Troubadour Tales' series of books on Bob Dylan, he has now embarked on a poetic journey. Published in Wales, Ireland, England and now in the US his first book , 'Poetry For The Feeble Minded' was published to critical acclaim. His current WIP, 'A working Class Book Of Psalms' from which these poems are taken, is due to be published in 2026.

messy, always messy void of time - memories made spent instead mouth fixed to the neck of a bottle and sleep but still dreams full of nightmares   sheen of sweat with the tightness of dehydrated skin, same clothes, no clothes food stuck to the bottom of saucepans or rotting in the fridge corks and openers litter the kitchen top unmade bed, dripping tap what looks like a stain in the carpet, a wet cloth discarded on the sofa cushion a hunger, a desperate need to vomit up nothing there   for late morning regrets scroll through phone   where there, at least is a trail of where that time went - on dancing to music videos, unread messages, and photos of my partying   the party i left, for the isolation and privacy of home, a meeting with depression, that and alcohol, my guests where i disconnect   i don't want to live and yet - this cycle of misery is as if the anticipation of being on a rollercoaster, reaching the top - only to fall over and over   until   i   stop   and get off. From the South of England, Kate is a writer/poet and blogger. Their writing is largely based on the themes of belonging, loss, and wonder. They have been recently published by Partially Shy Magazine, Libre and Anti-Heroin Chic https://katelouisepoetry.wordpress.com/

People have no problem being cruel. Find a dying rattlesnake  On the side of the road in the Angeles National Forest? Google if you can eat it. How to Skin it. Dare your twelve-year-old daughter To make the first cut. And now your daughter is my client. I work with her to write a college essay On her desire to study bio medical engineering at UCLA. What if I demonstrate my interest in animals? Compassion if you can tolerate it. How she Butchered it. Told me not to worry It tasted like chicken . And I email my therapist asking if we can call. Hit send before I finish Explaining I had an upsetting night. Tutoring The sister of a previous client. What went wrong? We needed a hook to catch their attention And I am hooked in the throat Like a bass or a pike or trout in Lake Isabella. Cincinnati and I’m twenty-one again Ready for the law firm picnic. Just an intern am I in love? He’s a law student telling me what to file And I’m in the fax room in heels. I miss my bus and call my brother to pick me up At the nearest station northwest  Of the city. You’ll learn the system  he tells me. It’s different from making tuna subs at Subway, huh? When the law student meets him He doesn’t shake his hand. Cruelty keeps us  From each other. They make fun of his name And explain he’s not up to snuff. Don’t you know you can do better, Candice? And I don’t want to do better But learn life is nothing like Richard Scarry Told us. Rattlesnakes skinned and eaten by a little girl. Candice M. Kelsey [she/her] is a writer and educator living in Los Angeles and Georgia. Her work explores the intersections of place, body, and belonging; she has been featured in SWWIM, The Laurel Review, Poet Lore, Passengers Journal, and About Place among others. Candice reads for The Los Angeles Review, and her comfort-character is Jessica Fletcher.

Ed grabbed his keys and walked into his kitchen. His wife sat at the small table, catalogues spread before her, smoking a Winston Light. Between taking drags and turning the pages of her Country Living  holiday catalogue, she sipped a tumbler of Diet Coke spiked with Captain Morgan. She didn’t look up when Ed walked in. Ed glanced her way, shook his head, and opened the cupboard and pulled out his plastic Stuckey’s travel mug.  “Going to work tonight,” Ed said, as he filled the mug with coffee. His wife nodded and said nothing. “I got to take that woman to the bar again and then I’m running Mr. Horowitz and his wife to Port Columbus. Will be late,” Ed said. “That woman, eh?” his wife said. She looked up and shot him a glare. “We need the money,” Ed said. “Well, if your dumbass didn’t get fired from Uber and the vending machine company for getting a DUI, we wouldn’t need the money now would we, Ed?” she said. Seeing no point in answering her, Ed pulled his winter coat from the hook by the kitchen door, pulled it on, and opened the door, a cold blast of air hitting him in the face and instantly chilling the kitchen. “Close the goddamn door, Ed…and stay out of that bar with that slut,” his wife chirped. Ed said nothing, closed the door behind him and walked across the small path leading to his garage. Nagging bitch. And she wonders why I fucking drink. Ed climbed into his 2017 Honda Accord and set his coffee in the holder. Goddamn, I need a drink. He put the key in the ignition and gave it a half-turn, illuminating the dashboard and the small device mounted next to the radio. He took the plastic tube from its holder on the device and blew into the interlock. The small machine made a series of shrill beeps as he exhaled. After a few seconds, three red 000s lit up the digital display and a green light flashed. This damn thing is killing me. Yes, I’m stone sober, you little fucker. Ed turned the key the other half-turn, stomped on the gas pedal and the engine caught to life. He pressed the button on the remote on the sun visor, watching the garage door open in the rear view mirror. He thought about Lynette. ## Lynette peaked out through the blinds of her bedroom window. Ed was already there, his Honda sitting in the shadows, lights off. Shit. Shit. Always running late...and that idiot is always early . She tipped the pint of Smirnoff up and took the last sip. Damn it, last dead soldier.  She tossed the bottle under her bed. Deal with that later.  She looked in the mirror. You still got it, girl. ## Ed clicked on the wipers, slapping slush to the edges of the windshield. He looked at the remnants of her mailbox laying in a mound of soot-covered icy snow left from the plow. And they took my license away… He texted her: Here. No Hurry . He looked up at the window of the master bedroom again, hoping he might catch a glimpse of her half-dressed—it’d been a couple weeks since she last walked past in the black lace bra and panties, lingering just long enough to give him both front and back views. Ed wondered if she did it intentionally. Tonight, in the gathering dusk, he only caught a glimpse of her face peer out at him. Back inside, Lynette picked up her phone and texted her husband, Tom: Book club tonight. Home later.  She knew Ed wasn’t leaving without her. I think that guy really wants me. Good lord, how pathetic can a man be.  She scrounged through her purses, pulling out loose bills. Seventeen dollars…damn it . Not enough for drinks and to pay old Uber Ed.  She jammed the money into her jeans pocket, reached under her thin, tight V-neck t-shirt, unfastened her bra, and pulled it through one of the sleeves. Her silicon D-cups bounced. She sighed. Fuck. The things I need to do to get a drink and a free ride. She made her way through her McMansion to the kitchen door without saying anything, walking past her kids and their nanny eating Wendy’s take out at the kitchen table. She grabbed a thin coat and slung it over her shoulder. “Going to eat, Mrs. Kane?” the nanny asked. This lush won’t waste her calories on food. “I’ll grab a bite at my book club. I’ll be home before Mr. Kane, probably around 8:30.” Lynette thought, I can’t deal with him giving me shit about my drinking again. The nanny nodded.  “Have a great time,” the nanny said. At the bar… Lynette headed out the side door into the cold. Slush pelted her. Fucking Ohio…why did that goddamn husband of mine have to take a job here? What the hell was wrong with regional sales manager in St. Pete?  Her coat held over her head like an umbrella, she walked unsteadily out to the car, doing her best not to eat shit on the slush-soaked driveway. Her flesh instantly goose-bumped; her nipples popped erect like little pencil erasers, straining through the thin cotton of her tight black t-shirt.  She jumped into the passenger seat of Uber Ed’s car, turned to him, pressed her breasts into his shoulder, gave a lingering hug and a wet kiss on his cheek. “You’re an angel for waiting on a night like tonight,” Lynette said. “Oh, no trouble Ms. Kane…I mean Lynette. I like getting out of the house…and truth be told… my damn wife is driving me nuts,” Ed replied.  I know the feeling. Ed felt his 49-year-old, seldom used, Johnson stir firm in his pants; since his wife had cut him off, the closest he’d come to pussy was jerking off into a lubed sock thinking about Lynette. “Ok. Let’s go. I’m in a hurry, Ed,” she said. No need to ask for a destination. Ed put the car in reverse and backed out of the driveway. His tires spun as he pushed the gear shift into drive and headed for the Red Fox Tavern on Miller’s Post Road. Lynette’s leg bounced as they drove. She could feel her buzz waning. She drummed her fingers on the seat. “Can you speed up a little, Ed?”  Ed accelerated an additional two miles an hour, still traveling just below the speed limit.  “Pretty slick out here tonight. Gotta be careful. After my last accident and getting fired by Uber, my insurance doubled. I’m toast if I crash or get another ticket.” Lynette sighed. This idiot is killing me.   “You mean your DUI?” Lynette said. “Um, yes…I don’t recommend it,” Ed said. “Well, since I wrecked the mini-van, I don’t think I need to worry about that,” she said. They drove in silence for a while, passing the large houses, populating increasingly sparse lots, Christmas lights twinkling. On a rural stretch of the road, Ed slowed when the headlights caught six sets of green eyes standing in the brush at the roadside. Lynette was about to complain about the reduced speed, but Ed beat her to it: “Deer.” ## Ed pulled into the bar parking lot and stopped at the front door. Lynette had one foot out the door before Ed had completely stopped.  “What time do you want me to pick you up?” Lynette pulled her foot back in.  “Is today Tuesday?” she asked. “Wednesday.”   Fuck, Tammy is tending bar tonight…no freebies.  “I won’t be long. Maybe twenty, thirty minutes. Can you just wait?” Ed considered his options. Before Uber fired him, he’d cruise around hoping to catch another passenger or two while Lynette drank, but tonight he didn’t have a second trip—the Horowitz airport trip was some bullshit he invented to keep his wife off his ass. I’d rather drive around until she goes to bed so I can have a few drinks. “Sure, Mrs. Kane…I mean…Lynette.” “Good boy,” she said, giving his upper thigh a squeeze before jumping out. ## Ed sat in the car with the motor running, heat on low, listening to sports talk radio. Goddamned Buckeyes blew it again. Just as Ed got ready to turn the station, sick of hearing about yet another loss to that team up north, Lynette walked out the Red Fox’s front door, shuffling toward the car. She didn’t have her coat. Damn, she looks pissed off. “So soon?” Ed asked, as she fell into the seat and slammed the door. “That bitch Tammy wouldn’t give me credit…It’s not like I don’t pay. I pay every damn time!”  Ed buckled his seatbelt and pulled the shifter into drive. Lynette turned to him and put her hand on his knee. She began softly rubbing his leg. “Ed, why don’t you come in and buy me a drink? You always want to hear my stories about the bar.” “Um…I um…I can’t be drinking and driving,” he said. “Just one won’t kill you…Come on, buy me a shot or two. It’ll be fun!” She slid her hand toward his package. Ed squirmed. He was almost hard. “I…shouldn’t…,” Ed said. “Tell you what, you come in and have one drink with me, and I’ll take care of that little problem you have growing in your pants,” Lynette said. Ed turned red. His mind reeled.  “Well…It’s been a while…and I could use a drink. My wife isn’t expecting me…I don’t need to be back home until around 11:00…” Good god, I’m hitting bottom here…I’m not fucking him for a drink. “To be clear, I’m a married woman, so it will just be a hand job,” Lynette added. Ed considered this. “And I get to see your tits, too?” For fuck’s sake… “Three drinks for that…and tonight’s ride is free…And no touching them,” she said. Play it cool…use the free ride. “Three drinks for you and two free rides but I get to feel them…While you do it,” Ed said. Jesus! This is a new fucking low…but…he’s not bad looking for an older guy. “Ok, Ed. We have a deal,” Lynette said, reaching for the door handle.  Ed turned the car off and it hit him. “Shit. Wait…I can’t drink. I got to blow into this goddamn thing to start the car. Even one drink will kill the engine and jam me up with the judge,” Ed said. Jesus, this guy is killing me.  “Well, you can have a Coke then,” she said. “That would be like you jerking me off and stopping just before I came. Worse even,” Ed said. Lynette frowned, thought for a second before the solution came to her. “Sally is in there tonight. She just hangs out, but she doesn’t drink. I can ask if she’ll blow into your thingy,” Lynette said. Ed looked at her cleavage for a second and smiled. “Go ask her. If she says yes, we got a deal.” ## Lynette polished off the first three shots before Ed finished his first beer. He glanced down at his watch—6:23 p.m. He watched Lynette’s ass as she walked toward the restroom. Fuck it.  He called the bartender over and ordered another round for him and Lynette. The bartender looked at Ed and shook her head. “Listen, I haven’t seen you in here before so maybe you don’t know…but she’s trouble. I end up cutting her off most nights. You keep her under control, and you all are welcome to stay and drink…otherwise I’ll have to 86 you both,” The barmaid said. “No problem,” Ed said. Lynette squealed like a child opening a new bike on Christmas morning when she saw the fresh shot sitting on the bar. She reached up, grabbed Ed’s shoulders and planted a wet kiss on his cheek. Ma. “Ed! I knew there was a fun version of you in there,” she said. “You have no idea,” he replied. He signaled the bartender over and ordered himself a shot of whiskey. “That’s the Eddy I’ve been waiting for! Not that boring Eddy who is afraid to drive the speed limit!” Lynette said. Ed smiled at her. I haven’t had this much fun in…Jesus…I can’t even remember . “I want to dance; can I have some money for the jukebox? Come on Eddy! Don’t you want to dance with me?” she asked. Ed reached over and took a five-dollar bill from the pile of his change the bartender had left on the bar. Lynette leaned in, took the cash in one hand and squeezed his package with the other. Ed blushed and grinned, flashing his nicotine stained teeth. Ed’s eyes burned holes in Lynette’s jeans as she stared intently into the jukebox at the selections. God, what an ass . She pressed a button or two and Born to Run  began blaring through the speakers. Her hips swayed to the music as she made more selections. Ed slugged his drink. After a few minutes, Lynette returned and pulled Ed onto the tiny dance floor next to the jukebox. ## After a couple dances, Ed replenished their drinks and gave Lynette another fiver for the Juke.  “Play a slow one, Lynette,” he said. Lynette smiled and rolled her eyes playfully, walked over, and made her selections. They listened and drank and complained about their spouses. When Into the Mystic  came on, Ed pulled Lynette onto the dance floor. He fondled her ass as they swayed. She could feel his hardness pushing into her jeans. Oh, he’s big . She kissed him. When the song finished, they headed back to the bar. Ed ordered another round and looked down at his Casio watch: 9:45 p.m. “It’s getting late; I better settle up. Let’s head out to the car. I know a nice place nearby we can park and…well, we can have some fun and sober up,” Ed said. “What time is it, anyway?” she asked. When Ed told her, Lynette’s mind sprang into damage control mode. “Shit, my husband will be home and wondering where I am,” she said. She reached into her purse, grabbed her phone and texted her husband:  Late start to book club, running late. Home in a bit.  She clicked off the phone before he could respond. Ed paid the bartender for the final round, and left her a fat tip. As they reached the door, Ed remembered the interlock device.  “Hey, go grab that lady to blow into the device so we can start the car,” Ed said. Lynette looked at him blankly.  “Remember, I can’t start the car without being sober. I have to blow into that device.You  said some woman in here could do it.” Lynette turned and scanned the bar. Her expression fell. “I don’t see her,” Lynette said.  “What? Go see if she’s in the bathroom,” Ed said. Ed walked a few steps back in the bar as Lynette staggered toward the bathroom. She returned looking concerned. Instead of coming over to Ed, Lynette headed to the bar and motioned the bartender over. Ed watched the two women exchange some words. The bartender shook her head, a look of amusement mixed with annoyance spread over her face. Lynette returned. Ed couldn’t read her expression.  “Well, Ed…I got good news and bad news. She’s gone for the night. That’s the bad news. The good news is the bartender will do it for twenty bucks...” Lynette said.  Ed reached for his wallet. “Ok. Let’s go, then,” Ed said.  “Well…that’s the rest of the bad news…she won’t do it until they close. I hope he’s sleeping when we get home…If not, I don’t know what I’m going to tell him….” Ed sighed. I thought she was a pro… “The same thing I’m telling my wife. We slid into a ditch on the ice and had to wait for a tow. It took forever. Roads are bad out there tonight,” Ed said. She looked at Ed and grinned. She hugged him.  “My god Ed, that’s brilliant. That’ll work. Well, we might as well have another round or two while we wait,” Lynette said. Ed grabbed her hand.  “We have some business in the car first…and the tab is a little higher now,” Ed said. Lynette smiled and shrugged.  “Well Ed, maybe we can make this a regular arrangement,” she slurred. Ed shrugged.  “Maybe we can, Lynette. Maybe we can.” ##             Ed strapped Lynette into the passenger seat and rested her head against the window. He watched the bartender get into her car shaking her head. Ed cranked the heat and let the engine warm. I’ll take the farm roads all the way to Mill Road. Should be good to go…no cops on a Tuesday night. Hope she can walk when we get there…Jesus, what a mess. Glad I stopped drinking earlier. He looked at the dash clock, 2:11 a.m. He clicked on his phone. Nothing from his wife. Dumb bitch . Ed pulled her phone from her purse. No message from her husband either. This was too easy .  Ed put the car in drive, clicked on the radio and pulled onto the road. Lynette moaned as they pulled away. The sheriff stood and watched the wrecker driver struggle at the controls. The Honda was hung up on a fallen branch in the river. He shook his head. His partner walked over, brushing snow from her pant legs.              “Looks like they were in there for a while. They’re both popsicles. Should I call the divers in?” she asked.             “Nah. Let’s see if this guy can get them out of the river. I’m in no hurry to figure out who we need to inform two days before Christmas,” he said.             “Car is registered to an Ed Harris. He has a recent DUI,” she said.             “Let’s see if that’s his wife or some other woman before we do anything,” he said.             She sighed.              “Merry fucking Christmas,” she said.             “ ‘Tis the season,” he said, “let’s wait in the cruiser until we can get her ID. It’s cold out here.” JD Clapp is a writer based in SoCal. His creative work has appeared in over 50 different literary journals and magazines including Cowboy Jamboree, The Dead Mule, trampset, and Revolution John. He is a two- time Pushcart Prize nominee (non-fiction) and a three-time Best of the Net nominee (fiction and poetry). He has two story collections (2024/2025): Poachers and Pills (Cowboy Jamboree Press) and A Good Man Goes South (Anxiety Press). He can be reached at www.jdclappwrites.com   X @jdclappwrites ; Bluesky@jdclappwrites.bsky.social ; IG @jdclapp

Asterisk Mouths swill with passions no mouths could slake, maladies shifting, new madness waits, shiversome tryst above sacred bough* * None of these things will happen now. Eyes fixed on faraway kingdoms, lands, spy (through their suffering) schemes and plans, learn from each riddle some truth undressed* * Noble in vision, but lost no less. Creatures of order (still love to dance) launder, restore given half the chance, tippex unhappy, erase despair* * Time machines languish, beyond repair. Binaries banished, torn dreams entwined, stacking of metaphors, yours with mine, creeping through cemeteries, haunting trains* * Metaphors, morbid, alone, remain. Epilogue If disguise proves too painful, exit now; otherwise, as politeness must allow. Lick your wounds, take a shower till they shine. Feeling comes, bumps and bruises, grease and grime. Stifling urge for evaluation, blame, love endures, nothing poisoned, just the same. Shoot with verbs, optimism, self-belief (final third, truth re-enters, shows its teeth). There's a place, sans admittance but for you, always there - oft-forgotten, as it suits - where to bide on your lonesome never stings, full of trees, childhood whimsies, useless things. From within, at your leisure, find new fruits, epilogue, all adjacent era brings.

Turpentine   I am stealing a pine tree:   Blimp as my getaway vehicle:    In this velocity of recklessness, lighting matches in the ether only for the smoke  and possibility of explosion.   When I get back down I bite the heads of flowers to make room for the new/ used roots in my yard.   I do not think of how quickly pink evaporates from above the mountains in the morning or of windows that neither   open nor close. I dirty  my hands and rock forever  on a porch choked with   bindweed. Wait for, then out,  and then through winter again  as I distill from my thieved tree and come to see myself as an orange  in perfectly untouched snow. Roth IRA   I stuff my spare dollars into a coffee can until I can afford her an old, beautiful bridge   which we’ll walk over to a ghost coaster in a nearby slice of quiet rural urban sprawl somehow overlooked.   This is not about the people we were when we let fear undress us or the mess we made with chains of   unhinged texts. It is just a red button which I hit repeatedly with a long stick; rickety restraints.   The bridge crumbling into water by the brick as our screams  unfurl into nothingness to atone for   mugs once left so full, and cold. Anywhere Like Tomorrow   A rubber duckie floating down the gutter in a rainstorm  and a barrel of incense at my door waiting for a flame:    That’s what this year has been.    Eating juicy steaks at the table with my hood on.  Later, doing my best Duke Ellington impression by sitting shirtless in bed downing four pints of mint ice cream. Dreams evolving from   habit. Seeing the beauty in winter foliage while never losing the longing for summer.   Streams running after the black moon like the duckie guns toward the sewer. If only I had a rainboot to stop it or an everlasting prop to dam the water   and cause me to realize that all the twined sunflowers in the world will still turn brown long before  January, ready to become a tea. What’s Left To Give   Play-Doh left open for a year or as long as you want: There is no floor to the universe or limit on mask words like Oh, great  to utter when planting the mums ends with stepping on a praying mantis. Amid this   a purge arrives at your drawers and no loved graphic tee is safe. Shirtless fathers tuck in sons under a sky of plastic stars. We are all ghost-hopping  sunrises. Finding the lid to  the tub of blood-orange Doh    just to use it as a coaster. Bulbs   Along the windy two-lane death trap leading to my house out in the country there’s a seedling in the middle of a field  lit up in a strand of red and green and blue that always gives me hope   that I too am capable of running the county’s longest extension cord down from the porch where I sit alone and watch trees content with darkness, ready to swallow the stars whole. Gills   I am most comfortable struggling to breathe  under a pile of couch pillows with two sons heaped on top and our search-and-rescue dog sticking his snout into a tiny crevice between the padded tan squares. This is where   I do not care about fistfuls of ephemerals or pulsars titled away from us. With  stilted inhales I just focus on what’s left of the half-lives of their invented portmanteaus.  I picture a fishing line untangling itself in a   refracted river. Where there’s two honest clouds  in the sky and a faded johnboat on the shore,  tied to a mossy stump. An open invitation  for open air and a hover of rainbow trout  praying for bait. The grip of small hands. KG Newman is a sportswriter for The Denver Post. His first five poetry collections are available on Amazon and he has been published in scores of literary journals worldwide. The Arizona State University alum is on Twitter @KyleNewmanDP  and more info and writing can be found at kgnewman.com . He is the poetry editor of Hidden Peak Press and he lives in Hidden Village, Colorado, with his wife and three kids.

I was skin and bone my mother said and she was right, I was Grapes of Wrath skinny, but I  guess Mr. Smalley understood hunger, its strengths and weaknesses, he knew I was a scrapper and that I’d catch on quick.  You make good coffee?  If you mean dark and strong and bitter, then yes.  We were sitting across from one another in the booth reserved for staff, he gestured to the waitress to come fill my cup which she did, she dropped two creamers, two packets of sugar, a lipstick smile.  I already knew how it would taste by the way it poured out, I could see my cup through it.  He waited for my review.  It’s okay to guzzle with food but it’s not the kind of coffee you’d go anywhere for. The coffee I  make is for farmhands, hangovers and fed-up women – fresh ground and heavily roasted.   Grit, he said.  You gotta get the right filter for the grind is all.  I mean you. Start tomorrow at six.  In the morning?  That’s right.  Can’t. I do breakfast at the farm.  Seven.  This story is not about coffee. It is not about my skinny stint as a waitress, it’s not about the farm and its brink, it’s about the little shape of pavement like a continent behind Smalley’s Diner,  not right off the kitchen but the other door, you go down the dark hallway like a passageway to what matters.  Going through that door was maybe how it feels when you get off an airplane, you sort of slipped into a different self, and people saw how you really were maybe because in that place you let them see or maybe because in that place people looked. We saw the struggles of life and how they landed, the way Sammy the cook talked about his sick child, Maureen the waitress and the way her eyes slammed against the distance,  Smalley, and how out back was the only place he wasn’t nodding from table to table adding in his head like crazy, and the dishwasher Maurice who washed invisible dishes as he stood out there,  leaning against the brick wall, he told us it was Parkinson’s, I was writing in my head, sentence after sentence, it was the way I kept track, sort of like what Smalley did but with words.   Things like age and shape and color and pasts didn’t count on our continent, I said that word once about it, that it felt like its own continent, and Maureen, she took a drag of her cigarette and in white words said, I always thought of it as an island and then Hermie chimed in and said, same thing and then Sammy the cook said, no man is an island .  That was a long time ago, the diner is just a whiff of burned toast now, the farm is a field,  our house like a broken tooth, the skeleton barns. They turned our road into a bypass and I  wonder if the people who drive by ever think what it was like on the inside of that house looking out.  I didn’t know then but I discovered that poem Sammy got that island quote from, I was in a  Goodwill looking at the books and I picked one up and opened it right to that poem and I’m kind of into poetry now, not necessarily the rigid or the romantic kind, but the kind of poetry that sort of maroons you, the kind that feels like opening the door behind Smalley’s. Sherry is from the wilds of Ontario. She writes the kind of stories she longs for and can rarely find.  litbit.ca

At the time, it seemed like a great idea and really cheap when you work out interest rates on a brand new partner every 325 Earth days, give or take 12 hours. Now that April night when Kyle double-clicked on the TL;DR contract felt like eons ago. This morning, in the orange light of July, he had a few doubts. Okay, maybe a lot of doubts. Possibly even an itty-bitty twinge of something he didn't even want to name. His latest wife acted like she was all in. I mean, of course, she did. He released his finger on the teeth cleaner for a second and stared at his foamy frown in the washspace mirror.  "She told me she was all in," Kyle insisted to his reflection. Yet the doubts continued to churn. He knew she would say yes when he suggested the upgrade—just part of the gig as a contract spouse. Of course, he knew she wouldn't be hooked up with him without comp. If she had other options, if she had her own resources, if someone else better had come along— "Kyle." There she stood on the thermoplastic floor. New threads, spikier hair, what happened to her mouth, and, meanwhile, instead of enjoying, he calculated the drain on his fin balance. Instafashion. Stylist. Surgeon? "Ky-le," she cooed. "Hey, yeah..." "Come back to beeeeed..." she purred. This version got right to it. Unfortunately, he had bills to pay. "Come. Back. To. Bed." His latest wife took his face in her strong-fingered hand and wiped tooth foam from his possibly trembling lips. "Now." This time he acknowledged the trickle of second thoughts that chased each other down his spine. After all, Kyle had never been a risk-loving, early adopter-type. He'd waited several years before plunking down for that self-driving lander. His connected condo included military-grade security protections. But when the technocrati began touting the sexual benefits to long-term relationships from brain-injected neural implants, Kyle perked up. His two planetside marriages failed when he just couldn't stay interested over the long haul. He went in with sincere regard for the women, even profound affection, but sooner or later, he got bored.   The new wife dogged his regretful steps to the master pod. On the reading cube next to his king-sized hoverbed, various devices awaited her pleasure. Kyle almost stopped then but his restless curiosity took over. It's really how he got here in the first place—this moment, this woman, this whatever would happen that would make him late again for perimeter install. Even with the government offering new rental spouses twice a year to keep talent like him on the Red Planet, six Martian months was simply too long for a guy like Kyle. I mean, he couldn't imagine spending all that time with the same woman! Same looks, same voice, same moves every single 25-hour day. I mean, isn't variety the spice of `off-Earth  life?  Wife #16 slipped under the covers and patted the spot next to her. He sighed. His supervisor would not be pleased. Again. " Kyle. " Yeah, in hindsight, probably was a mistake to order a wife with daily personality downloads. "Coming!" LM Fontanes is a multi-racial, multi-genre storyteller who writes, teaches & leads. She comes from a family of educators and first responders in working class Philadelphia. Words in/upcoming: Frazzled Lit, Silly Goose Press, JAKE, 34 Orchard, Flash Fiction Festival Anthology, The Willowherb Review, Flash Nonfiction Food & other venues.