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I visited my Dad in hospital after a throat cancer haemorrhaged requiring a two-litre top-up of blood. He was alive but looked ready for mummification so thin and waxy he was. Due to his Alzheimer’s an orderly sat on watch beside him bed lowered to the floor. I said I’d take over and promptly had the bed raised, after all he was just a sick and confused child inside an 85-year-old six-foot body. If he took off down the corridor the only offence was going to be his adult diaper peeking through his flappy hospital gown. A blood transfusion of that size makes the receiver feel itchy and cold but it perked the old man up no end. Soon we chatted at eye level about my just-released third children’s novel. I told how I’d dedicated it to him and Felicity, my Mum, his first ex, explained it had the sea, a salty old seadog and a shipwreck in it. Dad replied with his usual high-octave naval commander emotion. Well, well, well so there we are ... I didn’t mind, I was happy we were chatting, we’d become close in the years his mind flailed. A man who says you look very smart  when prompted Dad you can tell me I look beautiful it’s my wedding day  – doesn’t change. Most people think Mama Cass choked on a ham sandwich, she didn’t she had a heart attack in bed, at age 32. The sandwich was found untouched on her bedside table. Her minders made up the story about the snack because she’d been performing (and partying) all weekend. Beats me why they didn’t stick to the truth. They opened her up for fat shaming with that preserved pork on buttered bread, made her sound like she lolled around in the pit like Elvis in his sad days of late-night fried peanut butter and banana sandwiches. Dad’s throat cancer was at the base of his tongue so deemed inoperable. But really it was a better way to go than full circle back to babyhood Alzheimer’s. We sat in silence for a while, then he announced, I’m very tired I think I’ll go now. Of course, I thought fuck a duck he’s dying this is it good bye Papa all over red rover no au revoir just adieu. I held his hand – isn’t that what you do at the bedside of a dying loved one – hold hand between hands - a prayer book sandwich. It’s okay Dad, I assured him looking around the ward for words. Where’s the perfect psalm, the perfect Christina Rossetti death bed poem when you need it. You can go, Dad, I’m here, you must be tired. His eyes shut, I squeezed his hand probably a little too tightly because he shuddered, lay completely still for a bit took a rattly breath then tried to sit up and asked, what time are my mother and father picking me up? That fresh blood was really working. Whoever it belonged to previously, I thanked them for getting along to the blood bank, laying with a catheter in their arm while they waited patiently for a cup of tea and Shrewsbury biscuits. Each donor donates approximately 500 millilitres of blood, this means four bloody good sorts gave my Dad his last week.  The next afternoon, I wheeled him down to the hospital foyer still in his blood-speckled hospital gown and grip socks. The dementia rest home carer who picked Dad up in her battered Suzuki Swift bought him a vanilla ice cream cone on the way home. She showed me a photo of him smiling with his prize, at his wake, a week later. Queenstown, New Zealand based writer, Jane Bloomfield, is the author of the Lily Max children’s novels. Her poetry and CNF are published and forthcoming in Tarot, Turbine |Kapohau, Does It Have Pockets, a fine line - NZ Poetry Society, MEMEZINE, Roi Fainéant Press, The Spinoff, Sunday Magazine and more. Find her at Jane Bloomfield: truth is stranger than fiction - janebloomfield.blogspot.com

The Bible Class our parents forced us to attend every Sunday morning was so mind-numbingly boring that Trinity and I spent our time there trying to make each other giggle while Miss Glory rattled on about sin. One day we watched a large spider dangle from her shoulder to the back of her chair then slowly wind its way up again. Despite our hands clamped on our mouths we couldn’t contain our burst of hysteria. Miss Glory glared at us and asked what on earth we thought we were playing at. We told her she had a spider on her back and that it was huge. She swiped at her back, saw the spider drop to the floor, and screamed. Trinity and I fell off our chairs, laughing. After the roasting we got from Miss Glory, we decided our best strategy was to make her like us so that we could more easily steer her away from talking about sin. She knew we were working on local history projects for school and we knew she loved telling stories about the history of our village. She always beamed when anyone asked her questions which signalled their interest in the topic. So we told her we’d been exploring the cemetery and reading the names and ages of families who were buried there. We were so intrigued by the graves, we said, especially the ones with whole families buried there after the plague. Miss Glory nodded and told us how the plague had decimated our village in the 14th century and we could see that by counting those plague-related graves in the cemetery. Now we’d got her off the topic of sin and onto the topic of tragic deaths we told her that our teacher said women accused of witchcraft in the sixteenth century had been buried in the cemetery, but when we’d looked at the gravestones we couldn’t find any that mentioned witches. Miss Glory closed her eyes. When she opened them again she said in a quivery voice it was because those poor women had been buried in the unconsecrated part of the cemetery. She explained the meaning of unconsecrated and told us nobody was allowed to go into that part of the cemetery. On the wall that closed off the unconsecrated part, she said, there was a notice that made it clear that nobody was allowed to enter. We started to ask her why, but she held her hand up and said there were good reasons and that’s all we needed to know. So naturally we kept pushing her to say more, knowing that eventually she’d give in. Sure enough, she gave an exasperated sigh and said those poor women had been drowned, hanged, or burned alive for no good reason and there was an old superstition in the village that before the women had taken their last breath, they had cursed their accusers and all their accusers’ descendants.  She paused, blinked,  swallowed, then said,  ‘One of my own Glory ancestors who lived in that period was involved in the witch trials.’   This last statement intrigued Trinity and me and we asked her where this information came from.  She hesitated then said,  ‘Stories were passed down through the generations. Most people in this village have ancestors that were involved in one way or another.’  Another pause. ‘But it’s best to stay well clear of that subject. There are plenty of other local history projects you can explore. Go to the library and ask the librarian to point you to the right books.’ Trinity and I looked at each other and wore our good-girl faces for the rest of class. Next day after school, we headed straight to the library and asked the librarian where the records of the witch trials were kept. The librarian looked at us suspiciously. ‘It’s for our school local history project,’ we said. ‘Our teacher suggested we research the witch trials.’ The librarian arched her eyebrows. ‘Really? An odd choice.’ But she climbed a ladder to a high shelf and pulled down a book. ‘It’s all in here,’ she said. Two hours later we had the information we needed. We were disappointed to find there were no names recorded for the women who were accused, but Trinity’s ancestor Ben Cartwright, and my ancestor Rupert Halliday were right there on the page as accusers, along with the names of some of our relatives and neighbours.  ‘Does this mean we’re cursed because we’re descendants of those accusers?’ whispered Trinity. I shook my head. ‘Miss Glory said that was just superstition.’ Trinity frowned. ‘She said one of her own ancestors took part in the witch trials, but there’s no Glory on this list.’ We scrutinised the list of accusers again.  ‘So maybe her ancestor wasn’t called Glory,’ I said. ‘Maybe,’ Trinity said slowly. ‘Unless her ancestor was…’ I pushed her. ‘Don’t be stupid!’ ‘Just a thought,’ complained Trinity, rubbing her arm. We left the library and ran over to the cemetery. We walked past neatly mown grass verges and graves covered with flowers until we reached the high wall at the back that separated the well-tended part from the untended part. We found the PRIVATE PROPERTY DO NOT ENTER sign, climbed over, and stumbled our way over tree roots, nettles, tangles of ivy and long grass. No grave markers anywhere. We explored the whole sad, neglected area, making up stories about the women who were buried there, imagining who they were, how they had lived, who had loved them, how they had died. We made up stories about our ancestors, Ben Cartwright and Rupert Halliday, and wondered what part they had played in sending those women to their deaths. We wondered what kind of curses the women had put on them and if those curses had really had any sort of effect on Cartwright and Halliday descendants and how we would find out, given the reluctance of people to talk about that period of history. We decided to write down everything we’d found out at the library, but also to flesh out the known facts with our imagination to make a more gripping narrative. We finally left the cemetery and got to our bus stop just in time to see the bus pulling away.  Next morning when I picked the newspaper off the floor in the hall I saw a photo on the front page. It was the bus Trinity and I should have taken home. There was a short piece below the photo describing how a truck had crashed into the bus, overturning it, after which it burst into flames killing everyone on board. I stuffed the newspaper into my schoolbag so I could show Trinity on the way to school.  I pulled the newspaper out of my bag and thrust it into Trinity’s hands. Her eyes widened when she saw the photo. Just as we stepped off the pavement she stopped walking and talking and started reading the article aloud. Len and Matt, two boys from the class above ours, elbowed us out of the way and charged across the road, whooping and yahooing. We stared in disbelief as a car barreled into them. Someone phoned an ambulance and a crowd gathered around the boys. Police arrived and ushered us on our way.  ‘Len and Matt’s ancestors were on that list,’ gasped Trinity. ‘Coincidence,’ I told her. ‘It could easily have been us lying there, if they hadn’t pushed us.’  ‘No such thing as curses. That’s what Miss Glory said.’ ‘She didn’t say it like that.’ ‘That’s what she meant.’ Every evening after school we met at Trinity’s house to work on our project. She was a talented artist so she drew pictures to illustrate our booklet. The pictures included women burning at the stake, being ducked in the village pond, and hanging from a scaffold. The final sketches were of the unconsecrated part of the cemetery with its overgrown memories of forgotten women.  When all the local history projects were handed in they were judged by three teachers and to our amazement they announced in assembly that Trinity and I had won Best Project. All the projects were displayed in the school hall and the local newspaper sent a reporter to take photographs. Our project made the front page with pictures of our illustrations. Some people in the village congratulated us on ‘exposing a tragic part of our history’, but some said we shouldn’t have ‘stirred things up’.  When we went to Bible Class the following Sunday, we saw Miss Glory sitting in her chair as usual, her head bent over her Bible. She looked up as Trinity and I walked through the door. Her face was white and her eyes red and puffy as if she’d been crying. ‘Oh girls,’ she whispered. ‘You have no idea what you have done.’ Sandra Arnold’s work includes eight books, including her most recent, Below Ground, The Bones of the Story  and Where the wind blows . Her short fiction has  received nominations for The Best Small Fictions, Best Microfictions and The Pushcart Prize. She has a PhD in Creative Writing from Central Queensland University, Australia. www.sandraarnold.co.nz

…for I have sinned. My last confession was over a year ago. Since then I’ve committed a myriad of sins. When I drink I tend to gossip, that’s two sins right there that I blame on being Irish. A poor excuse, there’s thousands of hardworking Irishmen here in Dakota Territory who don’t gossip nor drink. I also covet other men’s wives, and frankly for no real reason at all since the local whores like my handsome face and throw me a free one every time I am down to my last cents. I also failed to read scripture regularly. Since I been locked up here I understand what a great loss that was. All I done here is read scripture. And the worst of my bad sins, when I am pushed in the corner I lie like a cat. Other times I lie even when it’s no benefit to me. Just a bad habit I can’t shake.” “Well, Mr. McCall,” said the priest, “those are venial sins, so called because they are forgivable. However, let me remind you the one at hand. Last August you shot Mr. Hickok in the back at the Nuttal & Mann’s Saloon. It is a cardinal sin, also called mortal sin; murder.” “Yes, padre, but that doesn’t count,” said McCall. “Killing in self-defense is not  a sin at all.” “How was that self defense? Hickok never threatened your life. I understand the day before he’d offered you to buy you breakfast after you lost all your money at the poker table. Then you borrowed more and you lost that too. That’s when Hickok came to you and gave you a couple of dollars.” “That part is true, but it was not about money. The reason I shot Wild Bill was because he’d murdered my brother Lew in Abilene, Kansas. I never denied killing Bill. But shooting him was revenge killing, delayed self defense. The victim cannot do it so somebody close to him, friend or family member, pulls the trigger instead. Avenging Lew’s death was delayed self defense.” Whatever, thought the priest who was annoyed he’d been summoned to the jailhouse that icy Dakota morning.  At the gallows, the clergyman, his teeth chattering and lips turning blue, asked all present to plead for mercy on the condemned man’s soul. Surveying them, McCall saw their unforgiving stoned faces but at least the hangman’s prayer seemed sincere. J. S. O’Keefe is a scientist, trilingual translator and writer. His short stories and poems have been published in AntipodeanSF, Friday Flash Fiction, Everyday Fiction, Roi Faineant, 101 Words, Spillwords, ScribesMICRO, 50WS, Medium, Paragraph Planet, Spirit Fire Review, Satire, WENSUM, Virginian-Pilot, MMM, 6S,  etc.

In Maurice Berger’s classic White Lies , part memoir, part cultural analysis, he writes about “disrupting our complacent fantasy that our racial and ethnic identities will always be manifest, simple, pure. Whiteness, like blackness is not an immaculate, concrete truth but a social construction designed to mark the boundaries of race.” (206) Berger is gone now, he died of Covid in 2020. I believe he would’ve appreciated Ben Drevlow’s Honky .  In Drevlow’s Honky  stories, creative nonfiction with a dollop of fiction, he tells of growing up in a small Wisconsin town on Lake Superior, a White, Lutheran boy in a dysfunctional family and a self-described loser, as a fan of Tupac and Tyra Banks, as someone who played basketball and revered Black college and professional players. Someone who dreamed of playing college ball himself but didn’t have the talent and wound up as a glorified ball boy for the team.  Drevlow is nothing if not self-deprecating, cloaking real sadness—especially about his older brother killing himself, and also about his unloving father—with self-derision, so that the reader wavers between sympathy and impatience. But while in Drevlow’s novel The Book of Rusty , where Rusty seems to be a stand-in for the author, the pathetic-ness of Rusty is a thick smoke for his limited and choking life, in Honky , there’s something more nuanced and rounded going on, something that demands an identification from the reader. And what a wonderfully messy identification it is. In Honky , Drevlow apologetically explores his early friendships with Black people. Well, at first, only one Black person, Boykin, because Boykin’s family is the only Black family with kids in the 150-student rural school Drevlow goes to, and the two are not really friends but sometimes friendly acquaintances. The reader switches from a relief that Drevlow found a fr-acquaintance from a family that’s different—in any way—from Drevlow’s own to a familiar horror at realizing how impossibly tough Boykin’s life was. “The whole school already knows Boykin because he’s the only black kid in the school besides his two sisters and they know how much he hates most teachers because—small town or out in the boonies—in Northernass Wisconsin they’re all racist.” (32)  In college, Drevlow’s roommate is Q, a Black basketball player, and theirs is an unequal friendship where Drevlow, unskilled with women, helps Q juggle his many girlfriends. Drevlow never stops apologizing in one way or another—directly or subtly—to the reader for exploring racial stereotypes in his writing and in his life. Some of the stories are heavy handed—Q’s condoms are too big for Drevlow’s penis—some more subtle as when he’s let off the hook for drunk driving by a White policeman in a way he knows he wouldn’t be if he were Black. Drevlow is embarrassed the contrasts are such a steady drumbeat, and unfair, and the reader feels strangely grateful to him for owning and articulating them.  As I was reading, I was reminded of watching Season 1 of Mad Men  when it first came out and feeling an intense relief that the show made mention, a lot of mention, of racism and antisemitism. I knew growing up these daily signs were constants, and know they still are—what we now call micro-aggressions, but somewhere along the way in mainstream culture they too often got painted over, yes, whitewashed. Drevlow unearths them, and his younger self even yearns for “different” friends (one of his early crushes was on a girl who was half-Native American and half-Jewish). He’s accused regularly of being a w-igger—white person aspiring to be Black. But none of it works, he’s still stuck with his White self and his awareness that he’s bad at surmounting cultural and racial differences. If anything, Drevlow’s lack of the social skills needed to cross racial lines seems to get worse when he’s an adult living in a small town in Georgia with his soon-to-be-ex-wife. The second half of the book is called Southernass Georgia, and the well-crafted stories in it are a catalogue of gaffes, some of them so wince-inducing, like when Drevlow tries to give a Black man, hanging out in a park, a man he wrongly identifies as homeless, a twenty. And then later he does it again—to the same man, who again gives the twenty back. Other stories are more relatable, about white guilt, about trying for cross-racial friendship. I read this book at a gallop, grateful for its honest, deftly written stories about the daily grain of racism, and attempts to go against that grain—and even more for its articulation, especially in the Midwestern first half, of hunger in wanting to relate, to connect through different differences, partly succeeding, partly failing. Available now! HONKY - COWBOY JAMBOREE MAGAZINE & PRESS A Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee, Maud Lavin writes creative nonfiction, fiction, and poetry. She has published in BULL, Cowboy Jamboree, Reckon Review, Copihue Poetry, BRIDGE, Heimat Review, Harpy Hybrid, and Roi Fainéant, the Nation, Harper’s Bazaar, Slate, and other venues. One of her books, CUT WITH THE KITCHEN KNIFE (Yale UP), was named a New York Times Notable Book. Her other books include CLEAN NEW WORLD and PUSH COMES TO SHOVE, both MIT Press, and three anthologies. Her writing has appeared in Chinese, Japanese, Korean, German, Dutch, Finnish, and Spanish as well as English. This fall Cowboy Jamboree Press will publish her chapbook SILENCES, OHIO, and, in May, From Beyond Press will publish her eco-novella MERMAIDS AND LAZY ACTIVISTS: A LAKE MICHIGAN TALE (a portion of the proceeds will go to the nonprofit FLOW: For Love of Water). She is a 4-H alumna and a Guggenheim Fellow.

When I complain about peri-menopause—weight gain, hot flashes, dark spots on my face—the doctor insists on a pregnancy test, and I laugh because I’m 46, soon to be 47, but when it comes back positive, I say, “I’ve already raised my kids.” And then I remember this same sentence came out of my mouth when Eunice returned from her freshman year of college in tears because she was pregnant and had waited too long and needed our help. And I said, “I’ve already raised my kids,” and now Eunice waits tables and Parker is two and I’m a grandmother, a grandmother with a baby on the way, and I wonder if now is payback for then. And sometimes I hear talk about girls taking emergency camping trips to Maryland or Illinois or Michigan, and I consider the possibility of an emergency vacation, but I’ve waited too long too, never imagined menopause could turn out to be a baby. And I remember how Jim and I got down on all fours with our kids, gave them horsey rides through the house, slid down the slides at the park, rode all the rollercoasters at Six Flags, and I wonder how we will do that now that our knees pop when we move and Jim groans when he pushes himself up from a chair—his back bad from years of manual labor—and we’ve been talking about moving into a townhouse now that the kids are grown so we don’t have to do yardwork. And I picture us standing at this new kid’s graduation, both of us old and gray and tired and someone will ask us if we’re here to see our grandchild, and we’ll hesitate before we say no no no. Laura Leigh Morris is the author of The Stone Catchers: A Novel (2024) and Jaws of Life: Stories (2018). She's previously published short fiction in STORY Magazine, North American Review, Redivider, and other journals. She teaches creative writing and literature at Furman University in Greenville, SC. To learn more, visit www.lauraleighmorris.com .

Mark Twain on growing old: Beats not. James B. Nicola is a returning contributor to RF.   The latest three of his eight full-length poetry collections are Fires of Heaven: Poems of Faith and Sense, Turns & Twists,  and Natural Tendencies .   His poetry has appeared internationally in erbacce, Cannon’s Mouth, Recusant, Snakeskin, The South, Orbis, and Poetry Wales (UK); Innisfree and Interpreter’s House  (Ireland); Poetry Salzburg  (Austria), mgversion2>datura  (France); Gradiva  (Italy); the Istanbul Review  (Turkey); Sand and The Transnational  (Germany), in the latter of which his work appears in German translation; Harvests of the New Millennium  (India); Kathmandu Tribune  (Nepal); and Samjoko  (Korea). His eight full-length collections (2014-2023) include most recently Fires of Heaven: Poems of Faith and Sense, Turns & Twists,  and Natural Tendencies . His nonfiction book Playing the Audience  won a Choice  magazine award.

Sonnet for a Real Slag One day, she’s gonna be obese, that slag. Salt and vinegar McCoy’s for breakfast — pulls at your bedsheets like she’s hoisting masts; tugging pleasures, snatching at this ragbag assortment of whatever she can blag. Telling you half-truths no matter what you ask. Exposing cream cake thighs, she walks past your office window. You joke, call her a hag . . . It’s her youth what you want of her, really, in that desperate, total way that you do. And it’s her fault, feelings you’re frightened of . . . Strength of a mother, her anger nearly bursts through the lust. Maybe you’re ready to fill up her, whole, with the shape of your love. Classy Birds Our screen name was ClassyBirds and we roosted in chatrooms. Crude wit flying out our fingertips: sleek and shocking — rude, like a plume of blue-tipped feathers. Blowjobs/wankstain/illsitonyourface. High on the power of the giggle. Teehee! Quod we. We soared on the winds of our swelling sexiness. The thick screen was a thick armour. We perched on an office chair my dad had nicked from work; told old men about our dirty knickers. They kissed our virtual arses, while our real bums — warm and pressed together — shared the heat of an intense intimacy. Fledgling flights for later, our real wings shorn, in nests we made with men false as cuckoo’s eggs. Thin screens now, in our pockets, like terrible flat runes we carry always. Unanswered text messages vibrate; our flesh, hungover soft, ripples rejection. Worms hang from our beaks, limp and wet — heavy with the weight of wanting. Eating In Today, I read a poem about eating peaches after sex. The poet luxuriated in sticky sweetness; warm, fragrant juices, on her mouth and the sheets. I’ve never eaten peaches after sex, but once I sat naked at the foot of my boyfriend’s bed, still fizzy from orgasm, and ate cold leftover curry with a spoon, straight from the takeaway tin. The container sent its metallic hum across my teeth. I upended the last of the yellow sauce into my throat as my boyfriend looked on, his face a grimace of horror and arousal. I licked my oily, spiced fingers and stepped into dirty knickers, laughing and sated. Subchorionic Hematoma There, inside my steep walled womb, an egg of blood. The nurse moved the wand with precise turns. I had lost dark clots, and concrete-coloured strings of meat — held them in a wad of tissue and tried to identify human parts: an arm the length of a fingernail; some dot of foot. My boyfriend clasped my hand — he was already crying. The nurse rotated the wand inside me and said: There’s your baby . She was no baby — she was a pulsing pearl, wedged into a far nook of me. And as the egg bled its bleed, she pulsed her pearly pulse and became my daughter. After Swimming We stand by the river eating chips; wet hair whips our faces. Knickerless. In the wind, under the plastic flume — twisting tubes of yellow/green where just now we whizzed outside ourselves. Salt burns paper cuts on our water-wrinkled fingers. Vinegar and chlorine on our tongues and the air. Cars speed by, flashing headlights in the glow of street-lamps; orange on orange. We suck vinegar off our fingers. Suck the ends of our chlorinated hair that just now underwater floated around us like soaking clouds while the hands of all these boys ran over our wet bodies. Up our legs. Their lips our lips/For once I am not only watching. Author’s Note: These are coming of age poems taken from my chapbook Plumstead Pram Pushers, which explores the intersections of class, sex, desire,  motherhood and popular culture. Katie Beswick is a writer from south east London. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in a range of publications including Ink Sweat & Tears; English: Journal of the English Association; Harpy Hybrid Review, The Citron Review, Dust Poetry Magazine and Ballast among others.

When sixty thousand people from the North-West of England marched and danced to brass bands in their Sunday best on the sixteenth of August, 1819, some carrying children, others with banners bearing words like ‘Reform,’ ‘Universal suffrage,’ or ‘Equal representation,’ they had no idea. W hen someone started singing and the entire crowd joined in, out of time and out of tune, yet united in one harmonious purpose, they didn’t foresee what was to come. When they listened enraptured to John Knight of Oldham, protesting about the Corn Laws that robbed the people standing peaceably before him of the money to buy flour with which to make bread, how could they foresee amidst their disciplined roars of appreciation that terror was about to rain down on them? Picture this. You’re watching from a window near St Peter’s Fields in Manchester, England. You crane your neck. You’ve never seen so many people in one place. The women have picnic baskets and many wear white, but the men are muscular workers shod in shoes too small, with soles hanging off – those that aren’t barefoot. You, whose belly has always been full, wouldn’t want to meet them on a dark night. It befalls you to read the Riot Act. You open the window as wide as you can. You do your best, but your voice doesn’t carry above the speeches, chatter, and cheers. You can almost smell the acidic alarm growing amongst the magistrates behind you, polluting the smell of homemade, hard-won bread being lovingly placed in the mouths of children in the streets below. Someone suggests calling in the Salford Yeomanry, led by Captain Hugh Birley and Major Thomas Trafford. If they arrest Henry Hunt and a few others, the crowd will likely disperse. You wait nervously, hoping the plan pays off. But the men of the Yeomanry have to be hauled from taverns. Their beer belligerence is palpable. Your hand, resting on the windowsill, begins to shake. The crowd links arms, despite hot, tired, thirsty bodies, to resist their comrades’ arrest. That’s when the Yeomanry charge, swords ready to slash and kill. Some have old scores to settle. You can hear them calling men by name as they strike. A few people storm the Quaker Meeting House. Some get in. Others flail, pinned against its walls. Then six hundred of the fifteenth Hussars arrive on horseback, brandishing clubs and sabres, led by Colonel Guy L’Estrange. As white dresses turn to red, a child falls like your discarded smock at the end of a hard day. You turn and walk from the room in deathly silence. If such a heinous crime were to be committed today, would I be as brave as the cavalry officer who tried to strike up the swords of the Yeomanry, crying ‘For shame, gentlemen: what are you about? The people cannot get away!’ Would I risk my liberty and publish the names of the dead and injured? Would I raise money for their families? Would I speak truth to power, as some brave souls did? I’m humbled when I read that John Edward Taylor set up the Manchester Guardian in response to what he had witnessed on the sixteenth of August, 1819. I am in awe of Shelley, who wrote ‘The Masque of Anarchy,’ calling on reformers to ‘Rise like lions after slumber, in unvanquishable number.’ I applaud William Hone’s book ‘The Political House that Jack Built’, illustrated by Cruikshank. Using a nursery rhyme to get its message across, it became devilishly popular, daring its critics to make a fuss in the face of such mockery. What would I do when the government responds to ordinary folk’s desperate demonstration by passing a law like the Six Acts, severely curtailing the public’s freedom to meet and protest? My body trembles as I contemplate echoes in the UK Conservative government’s determination to clamp down on peaceful protest through the Policing Act of 2022 and the Public Order Act of 2023. We can, and must, learn from the past. There must never be another Peterloo. As I age, I’m less able to march and stand for hours listening to speeches, and still less to contemplate a night in a police cell. But as Butler remarked in 1839, the pen is mightier than the sword. And so, I write. Bonnie is a British writer whose short fictions have appeared in several literary magazines and anthologies, including those by Roi Fainéant, MsLexia, Tiny Molecules, Flash Boulevard, Ellipsis Zine, Reflex Press, Ad Hoc Fiction, Briefly Zine, and The Dribble Drabble Review. She shares a house in Greater Manchester, UK with an unpredictable number of family members, grows disobedient vegetables and finds inspiration when walking in the hills. She sometimes travels alarming distances to see loved ones in Aotearoa/New Zealand. Website: https://bonniemeekums.weebly.com/

I have a terrible time picking my favorite anything. What’s your favorite movie? Favorite band/singer? I have no clue. I could never pick a favorite genre of fiction or favorite type of poetry, never mind a favorite author or poet. So, Iridescent Pigeons by Candace Walsh was a gift from the universe that fell right in my lap. This collection contains poems that range from Sapphic stanzas to a cento sourced from Virginia Woolf to abstract poems and free verse to a poem written after William Wordsworth. No need to pick a favorite. While there are so many different poetry formats in Pigeons , they all share a unique voice and use of language. It’s not flowery like the wallpaper in an old stuffy manor, but it is flowery like a hillside in the sun, covered with wildflowers, attracting bees and hummingbirds. Walsh’s language is as iridescent as the pigeons in the title.   From ‘Not Fell but Fall’:          Childhood summers I would stand waist-deep within the gentled sea as if it were my vast and rippling skirt and sunlight my chemise.   Below my feet a ballroom floor of glossy stones.   From ‘Visiting My Son, Foreign Student’: I could carry you the last time we were here. My hips still know your weight notched in my waist, your fingers at my neck light as love, your nodding head’s dense rest. Snail tracks of your saliva on my chest.          Walsh’s brilliant language imparts a natural beauty to the everyday events in these poems and heightens them to something extraordinary, a subject worthy of poetry. And what is more poem-worthy than love? Familial love, romantic love, the love of and for a loyal pet, and even the loss of a loved one.   From ‘Innocence and Mercy’: I had done so many things to make my mother cry but this was accidental. Mercy came in the form of my grandmother’s bemusement, her calm amid my mother’s mascara-flowing storm.   From “I want to see you in the lamplight, in your emeralds.”:           I want to touch you in the mottled dawnlight mist of larkspur shadow pressed thin   Another engaging aspect of Walsh’s poetry for me is her genius wordplay. It feels like another expression of love. This time it’s a love and appreciation of language itself. From ‘If the Wound Is How the Light Enters You, How Do You Heal?’:              Remember how mar  means flaw and also the sea How ding  means dent and also a peal How rupture  is the godmother of rapture How pain  is also bread.   From ‘Things I Broke’: First marriage, on purpose. Wine glasses, canaries of a certain coal mine.   The sugar bowl my mother made in arts & crafts to get a break from me. Walsh ends the book with ‘Love Poem for Laura #4, 2009”. This tender love poem seems a perfect closing to a collection that explores and portrays so many aspects and versions of love in so many various forms of poetry. As the blurb from Margaret Ray, author of Good Grief, the Ground  says, “Come for the influence of Virginia Woolf, stay for the ‘Dogs and Their Lesbians’!” She is not wrong. I’m so happy to have come, and so glad I stayed.  Candace Walsh's poetry chapbook, Iridescent Pigeons is available from Yellow Arrow Publishing: https://www.yellowarrowpublishing.com/store/iridescent-pigeons-paperback Candace Walsh holds a PhD in creative writing (fiction) from Ohio University and an MFA in fiction from Warren Wilson College. Her poetry chapbook, Iridescent Pigeons , was released by Yellow Arrow Publishing in July 2024. She will be the visiting professor of English (creative writing and literature) at Ohio University during the 2024-2025 academic year. Recent/forthcoming publication credits include Trampset, California Quarterly, Sinister Wisdom, Vagabond City Lit, and HAD (poetry). March Danceness, New Limestone Review, and Pigeon Pages (creative nonfiction); and The Greensboro Review, Passengers Journal, and Leon Literary Review (fiction). Her craft and pedagogical essays and book reviews have appeared in Assay: A Journal of Nonfiction Studies,Brevity, Craft Literary, descant, and Fiction Writers Review. At Ohio University, she co-edited Quarter After Eight literary journal for three years, founded and produced the QAE Reading Series, and coordinated the English department’s Visiting Writers program.

I’ve figured out that if I run the bath for 10 minutes on full heat and two minutes ice-cold, the water in my clawfoot tub will reach the perfect temperature. Scalding, sort of. Steaming.  I’ve figured out that if I get out of work around 17:00 and walk three blocks to the train station and catch the southbound line that comes through at, or around, 17:07 and take it for five stops I will get off at, or around, 17:19 considering there are no major delays. It takes another 12 minutes to get to my apartment building and two minutes to check the mail and only one minute to climb three flights of stairs and so I can usually make it home before 18:00, considering the fuck-ass old lock on my door opens on the first try and I don’t run into one of my geriatric neighbors who I am certain hate me. If I make it home around 18:00 that only leaves four agonizing hours of conscious living and then at 22:00 I’ll allow myself my daily allotment of 150 mg of Trazodone that will allow me to jump right into tomorrow.  I no longer light candles or listen to music while in my clawfoot tub. I set a face towel and the book I have been reading and my cigarettes and the various accessories needed on top of the closed toilet lid, which lies just enough outside of my reach that I will have to rise and kneel and strain my arm to retrieve anything.  I only have four hours, three days, and 17 weeks of bearing my teeth and grinning through it until my contract is up and I can put in my two weeks and quit in a way that is respectful but firmly absolute; so I can use Angie as a reference for jobs in the future. Then I can get the fuck out of this city, get the fuck out of this country and break this awful spell I’m under. I moved here in June, freshly graduated from my prestigious coastal elite just-as-much-preppy-as-it-was-party New England university that had severely insulated my worldview and gave me the connections needed to get this ‘lucky break’ of a job.  I remember how excited I was to see my work visa in my passport and telling my fellow graduates with a condescending glee that I had landed this big-shot job abroad. I mean yes, Canada is still continental, but Montreal was exotic! Francophone, Quebecois. While you losers were stuck in America, I was getting the fuck out of dodge.  I’ve figured out that about half a cup of lavender bath salts is just enough for the water to feel smoother and smell nice, but not too much that it leaves a gross film on my clawfoot tub and my skin. I am standing while my clawfoot tub fills up and pacing up and down the bounds of porcelain in attempts to dissolve the bath salts sooner and after a while my legs won’t be able to bear the full heat of the tap and I step out for a second and my feet and calves are a stinging bright red.  I moved here not knowing any French, the company I work for is based out of Vancouver and so all of business is done in English anyway and I was hired on to bring an “American perspective” and so I thought I would get by just fine and everyone here speaks French and English. In my pompous American perspective, I had made this fatal assumption that I could get by with merci and excuses-moi and si vous plait and if anything my foreignness would be charming and exotic and I would be accepted, even as a stranger in a strange land. I have made little to no progress on my French. I find the accent here to be ugly and offensive.  I’ve been living here for about eight months give or take and I have been taking baths in my clawfoot tub every day after work beginning in November, at first in an attempt to beat the oncoming frigid Canadian winters and supplement the less-than-par heating system in my apartment and apparently baths are supposed to regulate internal circulation or something like that and I guess it’s nice to meditate and relax. But then my days began to drag on longer and longer and I could feel each agonizing minute and second pass me by and I began to feel so desperate for the day to end and for me to sleep and skip to the next day and bring myself closer to getting out of here and I was so desperate to distract myself and fill my time and quiet, if not entirely eradicate, my internal monologue and so desperate to fill the time in a way that did not involve leaving my apartment and feeling the curious and condescending eyes of everyone around me and feel the dread of being watched and so sure that everyone was looking at me. So there wasn’t much else to do in my 45 m2 apartment besides spending more time in my clawfoot tub.  I crank the temperature knob all the way to cold, lean back and stretch my bare feet, which are even more red and the red is even more bright and the stinging is even worse, under the freezing water, which is just as pleasantly uncomfortable as the scalding water.  I learned that zero is freezing, and ten is not. Twenty is pleasant, and thirty is hot. I still cannot visually conceptualize a kilometer.  I moved here with the expectation that I would have at least a few coworkers my age, hoping for a Canadian camaraderie with my professional peers. I’m the only one in the marketing department who is both under 30 and unmarried. Christophe, the project leader I seem to always be working under, refuses to wear his wedding ring and compulsively degrades his seemingly gentle and perfect wife and is hellbent on taking me out to experience "true Montreal nightlife." He disgusts me. I turn off the tap and the water line is so high that if I move too much or too abruptly water will spill out onto the floor and so I just sit there, hugging my knees into my chest and not reaching for my book and not reaching for my cigarettes and just staring, staring at the wall and trying to only feel the heat of the water and the bones that protrude out of my hands and elbows.  I’ve figured out that if you point and nod and feign shyness with the old women who work in the bakeries by my office they won’t take your American accent as an excuse to stumble through a numbingly boring story about some trip they took to Miami with their husband god knows how long ago and ask you about Trump and your barbaric health care system and the bloated sense of self-importance my motherland carries within the international community.  I moved into this apartment specifically for the clawfoot tub. I was so charmed by it, that I signed the fucking lease before even seeing the place in person and before seeing the nearly century-old windows that don’t close all the way which let snow blow in all winter long. Before knowing there was neither a garbage disposal, nor a dishwasher, nor a single clothes dryer in the entire building. I was sure I would never see a clawfoot tub like that ever again and so I signed the lease.  I can feel the water in my clawfoot tub becoming lukewarm and so I’ll drain it about a quarter of the way and fill it back up with scalding hot water and this time I do not put my feet under the running tap.  I’ve figured out that I am completely alone and I’m trapped until the end of that stupid fucking contract and I signed up for it and I put myself here and I was just an undergrad who was so blissfully unaware of how hard it really was to grow up and I’m trapped in an apartment that makes me feel claustrophobic in a way that infects me with hatred and malice and resentment and all the different synonyms for angry.  I’ve figured out that the only reason I am here and hateful and unhappy is because of decisions I made and that I have overestimated my independence and resilience and ability to “make it” in a country I will never call home.  I am beginning to see goosebumps on my legs and feel my chest tighten and my hair stick to my back and the water in my clawfoot tub has shifted from lukewarm to outright cold.  I’ve figured out that humans are not solitary creatures and we need people and more importantly I need people and this bath is the next best thing I’ll have to a warm embrace from someone whom I love and who loves me.  I pull the rubber stopper out of the drain and lay it on the tile floor and listen to the whirl of the drain and lay my head back on my clawfoot tub and feel the water line slowly recede across my body mimicking the feeling of fingertips as it moves lower and lower. My clawfoot tub will be empty and I’ll lay there and water will drip from my hair onto my skin and I’ll stare thoughtlessly at the ceiling until my back begins to feel numb.  By then I won’t need a towel. A word from the author: I am currently writing and bartending in St. Paul, Minnesota. You can find hanging out in the local music scene and working on local zines. I spent 2022-2023 teaching English in rural Japan, and my 1619 word short story is informed by that experience.

Found I Unmoored by  spectacles, my  features float like  boats adrift in  the vast ocean  of my face. From  land—claims  that shadow and  light will tow  them where they  need be. From  water—curiosities  about the shadow  of doubt that  contours need .  II Grow fond  almost of this  constructive  pain, this  satisfying  soreness that  ushers back  stubborn  adventurers  attempting  beyond their  rightful place.  Though, who’s  to say these  teeth are  straying, not  returning?  Still, wear out  this retainer  before it turns  retriever turns  retreater, before  you wear out  this belief that  healing should always hurt.  Nothing These days, I only ever see you in slumber and memory, your manifestation never more than light and air. Yet, your physicality from a lifetime ago remains, confusing all my senses. Lingers on, the warmth of your arm around my shoulder, solid of your chest against my cheek, and soft of your hoodie brushing my fingertips, till it feels like if I hold my breath—I could hear yours again. It only makes sense, then, that I live leaving space for all that endures of you. So I walk off-centre on a path wide enough for two. Sleep on the edge of a king-sized bed. Look to my sides from time to time, ostensibly at nothing at all. All Things Yet, in some mélange or murmuration, you’ll return to me over and over, memory and emotion stretched thin to detritus just to draw some tenuous connection. Going from that’s us  out loud, to that’s you  internally, to silent glances exchanged with someone else who knows of , but will never truly know . Look—I may never again lay eyes on you as you were, are, and will be; but I saw, am seeing, and will see you in every horse running wild, and sneaker left untied, and bear standing on its hind legs, and hair tie broken, and chocolate tin overpriced. For the rest of my life, you shall be in everything that you are not, such that even when I do not see you, I do.  Allison Thung is a Singaporean poet and project manager. She is the author of Reacquaint (kith books, 2024) and Things I can only say in poems about/to an unspecified 'you' (Hem Press, 2025). Her poetry has been published in ANMLY, Heavy Feather Review, Cease, Cows , and elsewhere, and nominated for Best of the Net, Best Microfiction , and Best Small Fictions . Allison is an Assistant Poetry Editor for ANMLY . Find her on Twitter  and Instagram  @poetrybyallison, or at www.allisonthung.com .

I was sitting in a deckchair, taking the last rays of the evening, they’re the best ones, coming in under the ozone layer at the end of the day, cutting out all the  blue, coming on strong red and orange, best suntan in the least time. Not like  the idiots out there on the beach every day, microwaving their holiday skins to  a frazzle, gone in a trouser month back home.   The sweat was running down my horizontal form in tiny rivulets of salt and  alcohol, getting out the toxins of another afternoon’s over-indulgence.  Sometimes the sweat just built up in a layer, in between the belly folds and  chest hairs, before it suddenly dropletted into a mini sweatfall through the  canyons of my skin. Sometimes, it came running down past my eyes from my hands, held above  my sweaty head, evening up the tan on my armpits and belly, dripping and  dropping through my eyebrows and lashes, stinging my eyes, tickling my  cheeks and lips, caught in my beard and dripping on, into the hairs, flats and folds below. Armpit tan is a tribal tattoo, marking your shamanic status, you’re from here, not from there, you are as one with the sun god and he has illuminated your entire person, and now he’s tickling out more drips and drops that run down my sides and darken the seat fabric under my sticky back and bum cleft. It’s important to always take in plenty of fluids in these situations, and my fluid intake at that moment was beyond reproach, in volume, and in alcohol by volume, mostly alcohol. In volume.      Actually, there are lots of ways to start sweating that don’t involve hot sun or excessive alcohol intake, but can open those pores and wring you out, whether that was what you wanted. Or not. Exercise, for instance, is a great way of getting those glands working, working to the bone. To the bone, bone, bone. One. Two. Three. Four. You can always count on exercise to get the rivers running. The stains show as the rivers flow, vertically glanding drops and drips until the salty rivers run. Stinking your thighs and stinging your eyes. Embarrassment. Red-faced, sun-hot, uncontrollable, unwanted, unloved, unexpected eruption, boiling, bubbling, bursting from every tiny volcanic follicle. Brow, bottom, brain, an internal, infernal inferno exploding heat to every face and arse cheek, armpit, sense and sensitivity. The fountains fountain, and the floes flow… Guilt. Let’s face it, we’ve all been bad at some point, made a bad decision, done something stupid, nasty, something we regret. Makes you wonder sometimes. Regrets, I’ve had a few, but then again, who hasn’t? Wrong place. Wrong time. Guilt is a blowtorch, red-necking, skin-scorching, cheek-clenching, wringing your wrongs as the trickles trickle. A thing forgotten. A molten past. Beyond sweat-sealed eyes and shades squeezes dark light then light dark. Cloud. Shade. Bright white light. Under the hot sun, under my armpits, under my skin, the drops were dripping, impurities had been purified, under the bubbling sky, under my stretched skin and under the broiling volcano, I was cool, I was hot.   That early evening sun was still doing its thing, squeezing out all my nastiness, non-fake-tanning my underarms and chins, and in the background of it all, there was a momentary sense of an approaching, an arrival, a change of tuning, a ripple of breeze fluffing my armpit hair, bustling the leaves of all the plants, blowing cigarette smoke across hot tiles. And for a few seconds, all my hairs stood up erect and attentive on end on the end of their bumped geese.  Fear is not a thing that makes you sweat. Fear can be cold, dark. Fear can be deep or shallow, fear can be everything and fear can be nothing. A distant sound. A cry in the dark. A knife held close to your throat. The deafening silence inside your head, a thing imagined. Nothing at all. Scariest of all, it’s hard to tell sometimes, which is deepest, which is darkest, which is the real fear, and which is just the fear of the fear. The fairground ride, the masked assassin.  Fearlessness is staying cool in any situation, in control, of the moment, of the past, of the unknowable, ice cool, clear as ice, everything crystal clear. When you could be drowning your fearful death underneath it. The cold eye of the killer, cold steel, cold comfort and the cold stabbing pain of the cold shoulder. The chilling second when life catches up. An ice axe between the eyes. A moment of truth. Frozen in time. Forever. A drip dropped, stinging my eye, and one sticky hand slipped from the other, jilting me joltingly to the fact that a bell was ringing. Drip, drop. Ding, dong. The sun had dropped, behind the roofs, the evening clouds, the rocks and the rustling leaves, the rivers ran dry, a bell was still ringing.  Ringing. Wringing. Peeling my head from under a hot hand and my mind from where it had wandered, peeling sun-glassed eyes open, peeling my strong sticky back from horizontal, the pealing pealed on. Dong ding. Peeling light from dark, peeling truth from fiction, achieving virtual verticality, swerving from white light to the ringing, singing song sounding darkly from beyond the staircase, drink, drunk, smoke but no fire, wringing, ringing, flip, flop, swaggering, staggering. Who’s pulling the rope? The. Bell. Told. I wasn’t listening. I didn’t hear. I wasn’t there, I wasn’t thinking, I wasn’t paying attention, I wasn’t expecting the unexpected, why should I? It wasn’t me. I didn’t do it.   It wasn’t the light, it wasn’t the dark, the heat, the cool, it wasn’t the time and it wasn’t the place, it wasn’t me who opened the door, it wasn’t locked. But as it swung open and my salted sockets bleared at the coffin-cold familiarity of the white-faced bell toller, there wasn’t a drop of sweat to be found anywhere on me.