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After all this time, my father shows up. Only thing is, he’s dead. “Good to see you,” I tell him. “Don’t get smart,” he says. So, it’s like that. We both know it’s not good to see him. That’s because he was always broke, gambling or something like that, and he’d yell at my mother all the time. A couple of snarly dogs, they were. And then him selling my stereo when Iwa s in school and calling me a baby for being upset. It was for the family, he insisted. Put those tears back in your head. Now he shows up, all ghost and out of excuses. “Why are you here?” I ask. “I don’t have a stereo for you to steal.” He’s grayer, more prune than I remember. He looks old. He looks dead. Dead is older than old. “You should forget about that.” He sits down. He doesn’t even need a chair. “Tell me,” he says. “Is it cold where you are?” “You mean here?” I say. “You mean five feet away from you?” “I’m not really here,” he says. “It only seems that way.” I was always making that mistake. Like the time I was little and I sat on his lap. He was a cradle. A home. Who’s my best little girl? he said. I said me? Is it me? He booped my nose. He was right. there. “It’s warm here,” I tell him. “It’s the temperature of your hand when someone has squeezed it and the heat of it is still on yours.” “I have to go now,” he says. That’s the father I know. Always one foot into tomorrow and me never invited. “It’s burning where I am,” he says. I think yeah, I think about the devil licks toasting his feet. And then, just as he disappears for forever, I hope, I remember the other nights like that one. Me, a shiver in my bedroom. My parents downstairs. Thud of furniture, breaking of plates and me turning up the volume to full blast on the stereo, that one album, The Who, the one I played so often, even when the needle skipped and played that one part over and over and over. Francine Witte stories are forthcoming in Best Small Fictions 2022, and Flash Fiction America (W.W. Norton.) Her recent books are Dressed All Wrong for This (Blue Light Press,) The Way of the Wind (AdHoc fiction,) The Cake, The Smoke, The Moon (ELJ Editions,) and Just Outside the Tunnel of Love (Blue Light Press.) She is flash fiction editor for Flash Boulevard and The South Florida Poetry Journal. She lives in NYC.

My sister and I lost our allowance this morning betting against Sixth Grade Ciara. We were a thousand percent sure that Alaska was (Is too! Is not! Is too!!)—a fingernail’s length beneath California and to the right of that was us, Hawaii. We googled “maps of the 50 states” and showed Pa, but Pa cooed that we were just being girls when Ma snickered at us, when Ma ignored us but slapped plates on the table, barked LUNCH! more as a threat than a calling. We were so tired of living on the edge. “Ciara’s stupid!” We could always count on Mynah-Mynah, our bird, to root for us from the corner of the living room. Mynahs mate for life, but if its mate dies, it will quickly find a new mate. But Pa said he loved Ma no matter what. “Lunch was great!” We could always count on Mynah-Mynah’s reminder, but even if we said it (which we did), Ma would only acknowledge Pa, or snap at Pa, or nag at Pa until he melted out a sigh when she complained how we weren’t growing up proper—on the computer too much, our noses in too many books. If we grew up too smart, no one would like us. Mynahs prefer to build nests in shrouded holes and tree cavities. That’s probably why Mynah-Mynah waddled through our door one morning last year on our way to school. In captivity, just like in some families, animals are forced to live in groups made up of strangers. Mostly my sister and I felt embarrassed for Pa and tried to be his best girls as much as we could stand to be. But we loved reading more than movies, phrases and words we’d written on a long list and rolled it up like toilet paper. We had accumulated two twelve-packs hidden in the closet beneath our dirty laundry. In captivity, most animals live shorter lives due to being stressed out all the time, never knowing when it’d be cleaning day and all our drawers were emptied, every bottle, pencil sharpener, reading light, books off the goddamn book shelves, were dumped in a pile in the middle of the room we shared. You’re their mother—were the last words Mynah-Mynah said under our roof. Later that day, my sister and I sat on the stoop and watched two mynah birds continue their fight. Facing off, they’d lift up in the air, dive at the body, twist and evade then land, like a dinner plate, squawking and yelling back louder is Pa’s voice, “You’re really something else!” One bird gets kicked in the head, dodges more humiliation, and its body slides against the sidewalk. As if on cue, the two take to the air again, stretched legs rake at what it can. Another kick, and one bird is ready to clamp down, its toes spread wide enough to read the signs. In the end, we couldn’t tell if it was our Mynah-Mynah. We didn’t know how to feel about birds eating their own kind. Pink and red bits appeared where feathers once covered. It was missing a wing or a hat or heart. No, maybe it was folded under, like a napkin or a loyal husband. My sister and I start to feel queasy remembering most organs need covering up.

Yesterday was one of those snow-stormy I’m-not-going-out Saturdays so I built a fire and started writing a letter, longhand, but it came out looking like I’d knitted it, all messy and stringy and I didn’t feel like it anyway and then something shifted and I wanted to be outside, so full snow gear later I went out and started walking down the big hill to the lake and it’s a long way down through gorgeous shifting layers of colour and when I got down to the harbour the ice was thick but broken and I couldn't see the rink but spotted what I thought was a dead goose until I saw it was a forgotten goalie pad and I kept walking through the forest where the ground was dirt here and deep snow there and by the time I got to the lighthouse where the lake opens up I was warm and there was one little duck hurtling around in the waves like he was the only one kept his promise and then a huge rectangle of ice floated from the harbour, slowly with swing, edging itself into the lake proper and when I realized it was the rink I said to the duck well you don’t see that every day do you. Sherry lives in the wilds of Ontario where she writes the kind of stories she longs to read and can rarely find. feelingfunny.ca

He asked her out in junior high, and they were inseparable for seventy-one years—he loved her thoughtfully and sincerely. Dementia had set upon him when cancer crushed her on Christmas. He clawed against the end of life like a cat over an ice bath. In his final days, he forgot she died—daily learning her fate until he passed on Good Friday. My poor Pop—that’s cold, Jesus. Jess Levens lives with his wife, sons and dogs in Holliston, Massachusetts, where he draws inspiration from New England’s landscapes and history. He is the author of the chapbooks, A Break in the Spine (Alien Buddha Press, 2022) and Lurk & Other Undead Darlings (Roi Fainéant Press, 2022). His poetry has been featured in Fevers of the Mind, The Dillydoun Review and Prometheus Dreaming, among other literary journals. Jess is a Marine Corps veteran and Northeastern University alum. Follow Jess on Twitter @levensworks.

His last name was Sugar. At least that’s what I thought, until he wrote the characters on a napkin, and showed me, with his grass-fluid Japanese writing, his stumbling English words: “Sound same . . . but . . . meaning different.” “Sato” was, he said, a surname as common as “Smith.” I was disappointed, since “Sugar” made such an apt name for a crafter of shockingly sweet powder cubes that melt on a tongue hot with tea, globulous balls of bean jam and glutinous sticky-rice cakes scented with cherry blossom, black sesame, and mugwort, the last of which sounds noxious, but tastes of dulcet sage. Mr. Sato, the young confectioner, let me sit in his shop, at 6:20 a.m., and served me tea, just because he’d happened to see me on a morning walk, looking red-nosed and friendless, tall and lonely, in the chill of dawn. Mr. Sugar, rough-haired, petal-cheeked, his small, dry hands with skin fine as the rice paper in which he wrapped a dozen pink and green swirls, out-sparkling the lingering spring snow, for me to take home. I said, “No, I couldn’t,” and he gently insisted. Francesca Leader is a self-taught writer and artist originally from Western Montana. She enjoys exploration and experimentation, working in and across all genres. Her story "Now You See Him," in the Fall 2022 issue of the J Journal, recently was nominated for a Pushcart Prize.

Somewhere on the southside of Chicago, a clock-radio alarm blasted heavy metal at 4:30 a.m., soon followed by the sarcastic disc jockey Lawrence of Chicago. Jaybird got up and looked out his bedroom window and to his delight, an overnight blizzard hit the entire city, burying it in all white. Clearly the northeast winds whipped up Lake Michigan, causing the body of water to dump more snow than expected, perhaps a foot or more. For Jaybird, it meant digging out a lot of people. Good thing he used a nice amount of rock salt and cat litter, both at home and for his customers. It made his job a bit easier. Particularly at his favorite hang out, a two-story brownstone a block from where he lived. Just thinking about the place made the job worthwhile, for it gave him something to look forward to, and provided an early education into manhood. After so much snowfall, he hoped his preventive measures took hold and the walkways would have less of it. Shoveling snow is an unpleasant task and not for everybody. And in all honesty, Jaybird's friends hated clearing their own porch steps and sidewalks. Especially in the month of January, which is often the coldest and snowiest. It produced many cowards. His friends only went outdoors when absolutely necessary. Besides their unwillingness, a good number of walkways remained untouched, icy, and outright dangerous. Seniors suffered it worse for obvious reasons. Knowing this, Jaybird offered them his services. At first, it began slowly but over time his clientele slowly grew from two to five. Unfortunately, he unburied people in substandard winter clothing. Even when bundled up, Jaybird often returned home as cold as a popsicle, having to thaw out his hands and feet. He spent many a day standing atop a heat-blowing floor grille and holding something hot to drink to warm up his shivering soul. His mom figured he would ultimately quit and surrender to Old Man Winter and his frigid demeanor. But Jaybird wouldn't. Not after he picked up his sixth client, now his favorite, that two-story brownstone sitting on the corner on the next block. They paid him handsomely, four times above his $25 asking price and $15 for continued maintenance, to faithfully keep their walkways free of ice and snow. Now the spring before, his mother contacted Dr. Howell, a close family friend, who lived year-round in Gustavus, Alaska, working for the National Park Service. As a cultural anthropologist for the federal government he studied Inuit societies and tribal organizations. He became intimately familiar with not only their customs and cultural practices, but also in the frigid conditions, and what the locals wore to stay warm as they performed their routine outdoor activities. Sometime in July a large care package arrived. The box contained black moon boots, ski goggles, a bunch of fleece-lined thermal underwear, elk-wool blend socks and a skull cap, a black, triple fat goose down, fur-hooded jacket, and a pair of custom designed sea otter skin and fur-lined gloves. Jaybird tried them all on and they fit well. For the first time, he felt confident he could shovel as much snow for as long as possible without fear of freezing to death. So when winter arrived, Jaybird could walk city blocks after city blocks without leaning forward, stand upright at any bus stop, or at a L-platform in below zero weather. No more jogging in place. No more hiding behind a solid obstruction to block the wind. Even the blowing hawk became a mild breeze. His only problem: he must change into dry clothes from all the sweating. After his alarm went off, Jaybird took fifteen minutes to go through his morning ritual of winterizing his face, lips and hands with vaseline, getting fully dressed, and stashing a few high-protein granola bars inside his coat pockets, and eventually going downstairs onto the back porch. There, he shouldered an old Northface backpack lined with a garbage bag full of rock salt and cat litter and grabbed his large square shovel. He soon made his way onto the front porch, looking out. Block after block, as far as his eyes could see, he saw everything flat, curved, and irregularly shaped layered in snow dunes. Even the sidewalks lacked footprints. The only signs of human endeavor came from the constant snow plowing by the city, the road crews tossed as much dirty snow as possible atop every parked car from one end of the block to the other. Otherwise, the streets remained relatively pristine and free of traffic. As he stepped down, the snow crunched under his feet, signifying its softness. Jaybird dropped his backpack, took a deep breath, and then repeatedly knelt, scooped, and tossed. Shortly thereafter, concrete slabs became exposed and the rock salt-cat litter mixture applied. By 6:20 a.m. another home got dugout. Another one completed at 7:15 am. Jaybird looked at his watch and smiled, glad on being ahead of schedule. Jaybird shouldered his shovel, then headed to his favorite house. There, he would take a break and eat a few granola bars. As the brownstone grew closer, he heard a loud whirring noise. Right then, he knew what it meant. And, by the sound of it, it is really stuck. As he reached the corner, he saw a black sedan spinning its back tires, rocking back and forth, but failing to gain any traction, which made things only worse. Jaybird shook his head, but gave a big smile underneath his scarfed face. He recognized the car, a Dodge Diplomat. It parked on the side street every Sunday, right around twilight. And like all the other Sundays, two of the three second floor windows went dark while the third one changed colors, turning from red to an electric blue. Besides the color switch, the amount of foot traffic entering and exiting this brownstone also changed. Going from typical to zero. Now Jaybird knew what went on there, but the color change stumped him. *** Sean spent the morning tangled up between two women. It took some considerable prodding to get them to untangle their legs and arms so he could squirm free and get up. Now standing, he stretched out before reaching down to the floor to pick up his discarded clothes so he could put them on. Sean soon checked his wrist and saw the time: 6:23 a.m. He sat down in the chair next to the window to slip into his socks and shoes and then the weather caught his attention. The world he knew from last night had whitened significantly. "No way," he shouted, stunned. "It couldn't've snowed that much." He stood tall so he could get a better view of the street and saw buried car roofs. Just recently, he gave his daughter his foldable shovel, window scraper, bag of cat litter, old blankets, and car mats he kept in his own trunk for such an occasion. Not having them meant trouble. A ginger-colored woman with unruly hair sat up in the bed. She leaned back on the oak headboard, her chest buoyant and nipples erect, taunting him with that black curly bush, and beaver tattoo on her inner thigh. Her sweet voice beckoned for him to come back to bed, to find satisfaction, warmth, and love, but he kept his pants on and ignored her magnetic pleas. Besides, he didn't wish to spend his last five hundred dollars and leave there broke. It already required a hefty payout to secure the house and pay-off the other girl for losing a night's work. "Sean? Are you tired of the origins of this world?" she joked. "Scarlet?" Sean replied, gazing at the capital V that was taking shape. "Do you have a shovel I could use? So I can dig my car out." "Ummm," Scarlet replied. "Sorry, I don't need one." "So how do you keep your sidewalks cleared?" He asked. "We pay a local kid to do it," Scarlet told him. "Really?" Sean replied. "He's a child. The boy ain't even fuckable yet," Scarlet replied. "So, no. But he is at the age where he enjoys looking. That much I do know." Sean shook his head while Scarlet reached into the bedside nightstand, taking out a King Edward's box. The other woman began whining softly about how her sleep and comfort had been ruined by him and that he didn't have to get up so soon and should come back to bed. She then slowly rolled onto her chest, squeezing the silk pillow, and taking a supplicant position, which showed a bunny tattoo on her round left buttock. "How about another quickie?" she suggested. "I can't. I have to get to work," Sean replied. "If the weather is as bad as you say," Scarlet replied. "I suggest you wait for our little friend to show up. He could help you." "And when is that?" He replied. "I don't know exactly," Charlotte said, now pulling the silk bedding over her naked skin. "But I know when he is out there and it's usually before 9." "That's too late," he replied. "And with the weather being what it is, it's going to take me a while to get dug out and get to the precinct. So I better get going." Throughout it all, Scarlet had rolled a fat blunt. She then fired it up, blowing clouds of smoke at the ceiling. The pungent odor mingled with the perfume-scented bedroom. Charlotte turned over, threw off the bedcovers, and then sat beside Scarlet. Pretty soon both began puff-puff-passing, sharing shotgun kisses, and much, much more. "Scarlet? Charlotte?" Sean protested. "You two are so wrong." Since they wouldn't stop, he looked around, patting himself down to make sure he had everything on him. He left the bedroom fast, closing the door behind him, but hesitated in the hallway, fighting back his impulses. Another door suddenly opened, a short plump woman came out, half-asleep and groggy, donning a silky nightgown and nothing else. "Hey Pamela," he politely said. "Morning Sean," she replied. "You're leaving kind of early aren't you?" "Yeah, I am." Sean replied. "I need to get to work. The weather outside is horrible. I say it's about 10 inches out there." "That much, huh," Pamela replied. "Do you mind?" Sean had unwittingly blocked her route to the bathroom. He moved aside, said goodbye, and then continued on his way. The front door automatically closed and locked itself as soon as he stepped beyond its threshold. He made the short trudge from the front door to reach his car and simply stared at it, wondering where to begin. Left without choice, he crotched and began hand digging at the wall of dirty snow against the driver side door. He soon succeeded in getting inside and cranked the motor. It took him a while, but the engine soon thundered. The heat and defrost came on and set high. Sean sat there, letting it run, sometimes stepping on the gas pedal, begging for the car to warm up faster, and once it did, he made a few futile attempts to drive off. He tried the rocking method, believing at some point the snow would give, but couldn't he free up his car. Too much snowdrift and plowed snow around the parked cars hindered him. Then he saw walking in his general direction a stocking faced kid, sporting ski goggles under a furry hood of a dark bubble-coat and wearing space-looking boots, and shouldering a shovel. "What's up?" Jaybird said, as he approached the dark sedan which honked at him. "Sounds like you're stuck." "I am," Sean replied. "Say, could you dig me out?" "Sure?" Jaybird replied. "I can do that, for $100." "$100!" Sean shouted back. "How about $20?" "$20? You're a funny guy," Jaybird replied. The window went up and the door flung open. In his rush to climb out, Sean nearly slipped and fell, but used the car door to brace himself. Eventually, he straightened up, so he could reach into his back pocket to remove his wallet. Instead of paying Jaybird, Sean handed him a business card. "What's this?" Jaybird replied, reading a beige cardstock with bold font and a slant phone number. "And why do I have this…Detective Sean O'Donoghue. 7th District. Homicide." "That's a get out of jail free card," the detective replied. "Who do you think I am and do?" Jaybird replied, pocketing the card. "You got me confused, for real, for real. Is that what they teach you guys at the Police Academy? You're not the first cop to offer up such a favor. I'm hip to the fact that it's more trouble than what it's worth, but thanks anyway." "I see," Det. O'Donoghue chuckled. "That wasn't my intention. I'm just trying to get to work. How about $20 for the shovel and I'll do it myself." "Get out of here with that," Jaybird replied, walking off. "My shovel and I are one, you dig?" "Hey! Where're you going?" Det. O'Donoghue cried out. "Right here." Jaybird pointed. "I need to dig them out before 9 a.m." "Say, I know them," he said. "They're friends of mine." Jaybird froze and then gave him and the building short connected glances. Then it became clear. He returned with a new outlook and price in mind. "So you're the reason for the blue light special," Jaybird replied, as the officer gave him a confused look, unaware of the implication. "Okay? Now, I know you got it, Mister CPD. Pay $250. That's their bill and to dig you out." "What!" Det. O'Donoghue shouted. "How do you know that's a —? Nevermind. How about $50?" "Just as I thought. You do know that's a cat house?" Jaybird replied. "Plus, I have your card. $200." "You little bastard," Det. O'Donoghue replied. "$100 and I won't have you arrested." "Dude, get out of here with that, okay," Jaybird replied. "But you…you're a trick with an itchy gun and a badge, Detective O'Donoghue, and you've been scratching it for what, about six months now?" Det. O'Donoghue paused, "Okay? Fine. $150." Jaybird shook his head, then threw up deuces. Det. O'Donoghue knew he must get to work, and soon, but he didn't foresee an immobile car and being blackmailed as the hold up. After sizing up Jaybird and the situation, he finally went into his wallet again and extended two one hundred dollar bills, which Jaybird kindly pocketed and said nothing else. The detective got back into the warm car and sat there until Jaybird dug him out. Thirty minutes later, that black sedan successfully pulled out. Sean let the window down, telling Jaybird how he better watch himself. Jaybird simply smiled an unseen smile, then gave a halfhearted salute, as the car slowly drove off and disappeared into the snowy landscape. Tired, Jaybird glanced at his watch: 8:29 a.m. He took a moment to catch his breath, and then began on his favorite residence. After clearing their walkways, Jaybird stood at the backdoor, the shovel put to the side. He pressed the doorbell four straight times. Soon the blinds parted, then the door opened, as a female voice told him to enter quickly to keep the cold air out. Situated behind the door is Pamela, in her lace leotard and rainbow colored flip-flops, cash in hand. Jaybird apologized for his late start, then declined taking the money, telling her why and by whom. "Really?" She chuckled. "So what are you doing, Miss Pamela?" Jaybird asked. "Exercising," Pamela replied. "Really?" Jaybird stated. "So I can watch?" "And only that," she made clear. "Nothing else." "Nothing else," Jaybird replied. "Okay," Pamela agreed. "Come on." He unshouldered his backpack, stomped the snow off his boots, removed them, his gloves, jacket, and facial wear, and then followed that swishing booty into the recreation room. There, he sat back quietly on the sectional couch and looked at a decorative leopard tattoo on her backside and hips as she did morning pilates. Jaybird marveled at its twists, along with her own wild poses and flexibility. Too bad he had to cut his visit short, but he hung out long enough to enjoy two granola bars. It was 10:57 a.m. when he left out. Two more homes required his shovel. Wayne McCray is a Susurrus 2022 Pushcart Prize Nominee. He's short stories have appeared in Afro Literary Magazine, Bandit Fiction, The Bookends Review, Chitro Magazine, The Dillydoun Review, Drunk Monkeys, The Green Hills Literary Lantern, Ilinix Magazine, The Ocotillo Review, Ogma Magazine, Pigeon Review, Roi Faineant, The Rush Magazine, Sangam Literary Magazine, Swim Press, and Wingless Dreamer. He works diligently at becoming a Minimalist from his book-laden junk room.

How is it up there in your rectory of plated gold? Your arms—torn spaghetti strings—reach down to disturb the guts of what you’ve created. A cave of paper cocoons. How do they taste? The funeral procession follows every victim of yours with hot pokers locked and loaded. Your hat tipped low, you ignite the surrounding cornfields with a fat cat of a cigar (one from your box of memories). Where does it all go? Take all the coats you want, with their nettle-pricking flaps; the cold will still find a shroud for your soiled soul. Courtenay Schembri Gray is a Northern writer of the weird, the eerie, and the macabre. She is the author of The Maple Moon newsletter on Substack: https://themaplemoon.substack.com

Static. Hissing, voices just out of reach. No contact with the mainland for weeks now. I try every day to tune in to the base camp, but no one answers. There is only the crackle and whispering of atmospherics. It never stops. This landscape is never silent. Cold blue light blinks from the radio console, northern lights dance green across the night sky. It has been dark for months. Wind moans and howls outside the weather station. Sometimes it sounds like singing. The ice floe groans, floorboards creak. The bears are moving again downstairs. When the first paw prints appeared in the snow no one was concerned, of course we were curious, just take care, carry the flare gun outside with you. We set out wires to trigger an alarm if they came too close. Continued with the science, the collection of data, study of the weather. Just one set of paw prints. One wire sheared through. I look at my desk, the detritus that has collected over the months, like flotsam drifting through the ocean onto the seabed. Notebooks, cigarette ends, the tiny carved bear I use as a paper weight. There are claws scratching at the wood of the stairs. Michael disappeared first. The next day there were two sets of prints. The rest of the team lasted for a week. The last skein of geese passed over head days ago, a grey and black arrowhead, their inconsolable cry fading into silence. Just me now up here in this tiny room, looking out over the bone white landscape. The bears leave things on the landing. Gifts? Offerings? Seal carcasses mainly. The sweet, fishy smell of decay has started to fill the house. I am hungry. I see them coming and going from the ground floor. Yesterday the smallest one turned, stared at me, its eyes black as chips of jet. I looked away first. At night I hear them pushing at the furniture, grumbling, and muttering. I imagine them conversing, deciding what to do with me. I am so hungry. It never gets light, and the wind will not stop. Today they left a quivering reddish- brown lump of meat outside the door. Seal liver, I think, still warm and steaming. I am so hungry. In the dim indoor light, I see that my nails have become thick and overgrown. Perhaps it is a vitamin deficiency. The seal liver looks delicious. I venture onto the landing, pushing my hair back from my face, fingers caught in its tangles, I catch my own scent rising from it, salty and sour. At the foot of the stairs, the bears are silent, watching me. Blood hot bear breath hangs in the cold dry air, and the wild, musky scent of animal fur rises like incense, heady and intoxicating. I crawl on all fours towards the gleaming meat and plunge my hands into it. I feel a roar building in my chest. I am so hungry. Karen Arnold is a writer and psychotherapist living in Worcestershire.

Death stands in a dark alley, smoking a cigarette, watching a scrawny black cat slink behind an overflowing dumpster. Greasy fast food wrappers, beer cans, and rotting food surround the dumpster like offerings to an absent god. Tendrils of smoke wrap around Death's cloaked head before fading into the starless night sky. Music pours out of an open window, reverberates off the brick walls, and echoes through Death's empty chest. He closes his eyes, takes a long drag, then blows out smoke in the shape of a heart. He opens his eyes again and laughs as he wraps his bony fingers around the smoke heart and crushes it. A couple walks down the alley, the man's arm wrapped around the woman's waist. They laugh, too drunk on alcohol and passion to worry about the cold or anything that might be hiding in the shadows. Before they can exit the alley, Death whispers something. The couple stops walking, suddenly frozen. Everyone thinks Death knows nothing of love. But they are wrong. Death knows much of love. He knows the man and woman live for each other. He knows the pain the woman will feel when the man suddenly falls ill and fades into the abyss. He knows the grief that will wrap itself around the woman's heart like a carnivorous vine. He knows how it will grow and grow and squeeze and squeeze, until the woman struggles to breathe, to live. Death almost feels sorry for the woman. Almost. Death flicks his cigarette and walks around the couple. He looks into the man's grey eyes, sees the woman through them. The way her golden-green eyes sparkle when she's had too much wine. The way her lips tremble when she's fighting for the right words. The way her hands flit about like baby birds when she gets excited. Death then looks at the woman. A caramel curl hangs over one eye. He brushes the hair away, letting his cold hand linger near her warm skin. A raindrop falls on the woman's cheek, slides slowly down to her chin, then disappears down her neck. More raindrops fall, slowly growing in size and speed. Death takes a last look at the couple, then turns and fades away. The man and woman begin walking again, unaware they had ever stopped. "Hurry, " the man says. "It's pouring." "It's just rain," the woman laughs. "It won't kill you." Lisa Lerma Weber doesn't like being cold but she loves sweaters and scarves and fires. Her words and photography have been published in print and online. Follow her on Twitter @LisaLermaWeber.

An impractical weapon: it drips, but never gore, and its birchwood hilt will hardly fill a child’s hand. I cannot eat a popsicle, though— not even a green I have to halve, two lime blades in one sheath— without a thought for the Zambonis hijacked at ice knifepoint and rumors of Good Humor trucks stuck-up with their own wares.

whiteout near waterville on the way to work, on the way home, a tunnel the road has disappeared, the snow ruts have smoothed & cold, you are cold go out of your way to let everything know you don’t care at all & then you want something mule deer are not trusting you & you saying why to their velvet & explanations for you again they run alone along white hills consider listening/ consider falling a voice in fog a feeling of of not being it becomes a list/they become lost & sad & it goes on enough that they leave tracks/ say no suddenly you aren’t quiet you call when you can & you say why & drag up some charm from a dirt basement & the deer are climbing across more fields eating grass in snow/ consider grabbing a life vest

The tinsel clad angels sing, open mouths black holes on a blazing lit stage. The families cluster outside the supermarket, watching, huddled together for warmth. Smaller children pet the donkey, their faces wide in surprise at the rank smell of real fur and the scratch and itch of the straw bales. We’re moved from our usual spot, usurped by a man selling rude pink hot dogs and frying cheap burgers. The fat hangs on the winter air. We’re standing on cardboard and newspaper to insulate our feet. Adults queue for mulled wine, hoping for alcoholic reprieve from the volunteers who rattle buckets and fumble with books of raffle tickets. “You selling or collecting?” A man eyes the confectionary packs in the cardboard box on our table. “Collecting,” we say. “For people in food poverty.” He shrugs, unimpressed and wanders away. I add brown tape to the collection box, healing the split in its side. The supermarket staff hand out blue helium balloons, branded with white and silver bold type. Older children grab and run squealing into the icy car park, weaving through shoppers wrestling their metal trolleys. “Let it go, let it go...” The singer wails, inciting the children who dare each other to release their balloons. “Let one go” sniggers my daughter, blowing a raspberry. She disturbs my concentration. I search the darkening sky, but I’ve lost sight of the balloon. I’m testing my eyesight. Without my glasses, I can’t see the balloons at all, and if I stare too hard, the floaters in my eyes disrupt my vision. But if I lock on one while it’s low and colourful, I can trace it for a while, rising over the rooftops, its string dangling, flying high on the wind current over the chimneys until it becomes a blot, a shrinking dot, then disappears. My daughter asks if the balloons will reach outer space. “Will they burst or deflate?” “Helium versus atmospheric pressure—you should know from your science lessons.” “Mu-um,” she groans, then asks, “How high is the highest that someone has jumped?” “Google the world record,” I say. “I know. It’s the men on the moon, leaping in their spacesuits.” She imitates a moon walk, sliding in her snow boots. I think of the umbilical cords, tethering astronauts, stretching taut when they bound over pitted craters, illuminated against the star-pierced black beyond. I suggest the highest jump might depend on the length of the cord, but she’s dismissive. “If you don’t mind dying, she says, you could jump high beyond gravity, you could just keep rising until….” “But there’s nowhere without gravity,” I say. “And until what?” “Just until,” she says, losing interest. I cup my mulled wine to warm my hands. I sip a little and grimace at the foul taste. ‘If you don’t mind dying’, I think, shrugging into my coat. No one my age would say such a thing. I mind. I mind, it might happen, before she has a daughter, flying helium balloons—if they’re still allowed then. I mind, knowing I won’t be able to see the grandchild, who won’t fly the banned balloon of indistinguishable colour. “Let’s jump, to keep warm. I’m so cold. My feet are frozen. I can’t feel my toes.” “I’m not cold, and you’re embarrassing,” she says, but laughing, she hops once on each foot. The supermarket manager takes the microphone. “Here is the moment we’ve all been waiting for!” he shouts at us. He counts backwards from ten. Beckoned, we all join in. “Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three...,” the shouting amplifies, and at ‘one’, we clap our gloved hands, cheer, and whistle as the tree sparks alight, a helium balloon is caught in its crowning star, twenty feet high in the air. Emily Macdonald was born in England but grew up in New Zealand. Fascinated by wine as a student, she has worked in the UK wine trade ever since. Since going freelance in 2020 she has been writing short stories and flash fiction. She has won and been placed in several competitions and has work published in anthologies and journals with amongst others, Fictive Dream, Reflex Fiction, Crow & Cross Keys, Ellipsis Zine, Roi Fainéant, Free Flash Fiction and The Phare. In writing and in wines she likes variety, persistence, and enough acidity to add bite.