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Phantom Pain The little things like sitting on Zelda's Title Screen. That sad piano title theme. Pop Art, Pop-tart, spring out the toaster one day and now you're an old fart. "Remember that movie? Or the Globetrotters with Scooby?" Yeah, I remember the gang, times have changed we no longer hang. Different branches different stances, we pass each other with sideways glances. But every night, down in the park I see our blue ghosts race and tiptoe back to the start. Scrooge McDuck (a poem of crossword clues) When I was a young bit of plankton I was attacked by a Dead Duck wielding a fanny-pack and donning a Scottish cap. He came barreling down the hill like a Feudal Baron or a Boeing 757. Holding his anger like an item in a holster. "I'll do it too!" he quacked and smacked me around like an R2D2. I joined a karate school, studied Draft.com and mastered ti-chi. Now, approaching middle age and cooked like an onion ring, I visit the old dodo. He breathes the sound of an unsound floor. Years and years and years, trees with seeds that whirl like helicopter blades continue to fall. There is pity and there is compassion. "I hope that you're satisfied now." Friendshipstein We fell apart like the cuts of a dismantled Frank and Stein glasses were shared the last time we met up. Un-stressed stitches, nothing abrupt. The limbs of our friendship nosedive to the floor. “So what now?” We shift awkwardly. You look at your phone and then cough at me. You remind me of a bad band’s cacophony, an unlit dance floor and the stationary punch bowl that no one drank from at that Ogre’s 13th Birthday party. “You remember that, don’t you?” Your jaw starts to slip out of place while we recollect and trace old timelines. “Friend-ship-stein, you aren't looking too great.” “I’ll make it,” you say. Loneliness is a pile of limbs on a bar stool. And solitude is a marble hidden in a can somewhere in Poznan or San Francisco that waits to be discovered by a child and held in the air like a prize. I tell you, I’m heading home for the night. You mush-mouth something trite, but you’re long dead and too drunk for it to make any sense. I say, “I’ll see you next time.” You say, “my neck’s fine.” Another miscommunication, I know you won’t survive another New Year’s celebration. So, I stack you up on the bar, call you a car, order you water with a straw and I try to be nice. I leave you there alone, head on the counter, chewing cubes of ice. Kyle Solomon is a writer and poet from Baltimore, MD. His previously published works can be found in SUPERJUMP, The Free State Review, and Grub Street. Devoted to the strange, phantom intersection between smart and stupid, Kyle writes poetry, fiction, speculative essays, and game reviews.

Dad woke me in the middle of the night, and I couldn’t find Donatello—he always slept with me. As he shook me awake that day into this inherited new madness of ours, I scanned the room, trying to find him, not caring that Dad screamed at me. “Let’s go!” He blurted the words all over me, extracting me from my sleeping bag and dashed out the door, leaving me alone inside yet another bedroom that once was filled with now-forgotten giggles. I grabbed my backpack as Dad shouted from the front yard, and I heard that all too familiar bang of a gas canister hitting against the side of the car as it was being fueled up. It took a while until I felt how my cheek was warm—he slapped me amidst the awakening. It had been explained to me: the necessity and urgency of mild violence during these “pressing times.” I might’ve reacted differently a year ago, but that was then, and now, I seldom noticed it. I headed out—this new “out” all voided from light. In the distance, farther than we’d ever reach as gasoline ran short, I saw The Beacon. Our lodestar, getting us up every morning—Mom, Dad and my sister, who were already in the car. “Buckle up.” He always ensured we’d fastened our seat belts—an odd trace of the old world. But we always did. The infinite night stretched beyond our own understanding, where nothing ruled but blackness and a few fires seen here and there through the car window. The car started—an asthmatic vehicle, holding on for dear life. I didn’t dare ask about Donatello. Every stop was limited to four hours, not a minute longer. We could spend time looking for food, matches or batteries, but never something as banal as Donatello. I don’t know how long Dad had harbored that wound, but sitting to the right, just behind him, it beckoned for my attention. Just below his ear—red, irritated and irritating. He scratched it with vigor, his hand resting for a few seconds, then back up again, seemingly digging deeper into the flesh. I could see The Beacon from afar—I used to focus on it if I got carsick and had to look out the window. Always visible above the treetops, I could zoom in on it, avoiding whatever was rotting—not seeing classmates being eaten straight from pavements by something on all four. If it got worse, I forced the tip of my fingers as far into my ears as I could, blocking the inhumane cries. But that day, all felt calmer. Still, the revolver was in Dad’s lap. Room for six bullets, but only holding our last two. “One for you and one for your sister,” Dad had explained as Mom wept behind him, and back then, I didn’t understand and asked my sister about it, who simply implied that I was “young and stupid.” From the beginning I had the other three too — Raphael, Michelangelo, and Leonardo. Raphael got scorched as our last car caught fire. Something on the road. Dad swiveled, and I remember fear, panic, and more fear. We wormed ourselves out of the totaled car and watched it sizzle, with Raphael melting into a puddle of plastic. Then we ran. Away from the fire that was sure to tempt whatever was out there. Away from the car as it could explode, or at least we thought so, having seen it in movies. Away from whatever had caused us to swivel. If we were without a car, we often ran, even if we knew we, as a family, would never be fast enough to outrun anything. The opposite was stillness—surrendering and relinquishing our lives, becoming sustenance for this newly found ferality. I blessed that calm dark that day. Dad kept scratching his wound, and nobody else seemed to see it. After a couple of hours, I saw how his finger was red. We weren’t really allowed to stop. Or “advised” is maybe a better word. In the beginning, a lot was not “advisable.” Soon, the vast amount of un-advisables became something one could not adhere to anymore. There was no time or room for “proper procedures” and similar phrases that didn’t halt teeth from sinking into our neighbor’s left cheekbone so you could hear it crack—and he had meticulously read the pamphlets. Leonardo, I lost inside a school we bunkered down in. Too many rooms. We found some dented, unmarked cans in the kitchen that we ate cold—something we made a game of: guessing what we ate as we ate it. At night, sounds of impending pain echoed across the barren corridors. I’m a heavy sleeper—Mom’s not. She whispered when peril was close; I always experienced that as much louder than when she screamed. A scream proves something is already lost, and the solution is wildness and velocity. Whispers are about hope, a faint possibility—but it seldom stays that way. We stopped at a gas station—we knew the drill. I’m usually on food detail, trying to find something edible. Dad checks for gas. Mom holds the revolver. My sister is to find clothes or other supplies. The shelves are almost always empty. I knew this before entering every store, diner or gas station we visited. Maybe sometimes a bag of chips. I once found a Mars bar and ate it without sharing or telling anyone. “Yes!” Dad’s rare merriment. We weren’t supposed to make loud noises, but I figured he’d probably found some gasoline. With a child’s imprudence, I had to use the restroom and looking back, I could’ve just gone outside, in the wild, but the bathroom stall was so close. Mom was always trying to see me through the store windows, but she had those jittery eyes—darting, unfocused, so I snuck away. The sound of her commanding Dad to “hurry up” and Dad hissing a “yesssss”—everything fading as if someone had turned down the volume. I bumped into a shelf and stepped on some broken glass—stirring a ruckus I wasn’t supposed to stir. The toilet lacked water and stunk. The small, narrow window held pointy shards of glass with blood on them—a repetitive, un-original scene I had witnessed to the edge of normalcy. There was at least some toilet paper left, a few sheets, and I, just as with the Mars bar, felt guilty for fleeing, if so, for just a few minutes. Being ten compared to two years earlier was vastly different—my dreams of going to Mars had been distilled into a dream of a Mars bar. Now, as then, the clicking came in waves, and I slowly finished, but I didn’t run. That wasn’t “advisable” in those situations—only upon “eye contact,” but it was often too late. Instead, I moved soberly through the store, treading with caution, avoiding those pieces of glass and where I’d bumped in. There’s a perverted comfort in those faint clicks—making their presence identifiable, knowing where they are. So, when I couldn’t hear them anymore, I just stood there—the air deprived of my family’s existence—a lack of belonging. Without them, it was just me. But then, Mom popped her head in—chucking a brittle “let’s go!” at me. Back in the car, it took a while before I realized my sister wasn’t next to me—and even longer to ask where she was. But I didn’t get a reply, only stern, withered faces. Her walkman was on her seat; on the floor was her backpack, unzipped; inside was Donatello. But I’d rather have her. Dad was scratching again, with Mom hunched over weirdly and a new kind of moaning. Usually, they’d asked if I had found anything, but this time, they kept quiet as the endlessness passed by beneath the car tires. That wound seemed to grow, and I tried to recollect if any news outlets ever mentioned wounds, abrasions, or anything like it, but nothing came to mind. I woke up. A rumble inside the car, and we seemed to have gone from asphalt to gravel. Dad’s collar: tainted. Blood oozing, traveling from the wound down, along his neck, caught by the fabric of his already stained shirt. He wasn’t picking or scratching it anymore, and for a long time, I just sat there, waiting for his finger to start digging, picturing how his whole hand would submerge within himself. He drove with one hand on the gun and one on the steering wheel as he usually did, but soon, I discovered that Mom wasn’t there. Looking back at it now, going over those three days in my head, as I must’ve done hundreds of times, I still can’t grasp why it took that long to learn that Mom wasn’t in her seat—that she was gone too. “Where’s Mom?” “What’s that?” “Where’s Mom?” “You hungry?” I didn’t reply, and he handed me a can of something. I know I ate it. I can’t recall what it was, but it calmed my stomach, and at that point, numbness halted me from pushing onward with questions. Instead, I reconciled with the allness that forced us to succumb to whatever was happening. As Dad looked out the window, I peeked backward, checking the trunk, thinking she might be there. Maybe sleeping, a nap. But it was empty, save for a baseball bat and some plastic bags with logos of brands that once mattered. After an hour, I tried again: “Dad, where’s Mom and Ellen?” “Who?” I didn’t ask again. He glared me mute via the SAAB’s rearview mirror, and I picked up the walkman, hoping to be taken elsewhere. The music was being hauled through mud as the batteries were on the verge of death. Cheerful and poppy, the music had transformed into a representation of Earth’s gloomy sorrow—the vein of our sins bared and up for slits and cuts and gashes. As it died, I turned it off, and Dad turned to me, asking what was wrong, and so I hit “play” again, claiming: “nothing,” just sitting there with silence in the headphones. Michelangelo was lost bartering. Dad added it to a deal without my involvement. Another father had asked for it, a treat for his daughter. It wasn’t much more than that. For dinner, we were able to have bacon, and I got an extra slice. I think that was the last time we traded with others. Shortly after that, that, too, became “un-advisable.” Eventually, we stopped, assuming it was nighttime. An old barn near an offshoot type of town where I shut my eyes hard as we went through it. Dad actually patted me on my knee as he drove, so I can only assume that whatever was out there was worthy of him letting go of the gun. We ate something flavorless and slept in our sleeping bags, in shifts. Dad stayed awake so that I could slumber. Usually, he woke me after a couple of hours, as I had to “learn the ropes,” as he put it, but spared me, just having me be on watch for two hours. Then I was supposed to wake him up, but he never seemed to be sleeping—instead, he was in a state of drowsy awakeness, a limbo-like phase where it had become necessary never to sleep but always rest for what might come. As we drove off that following day, it dawned on me after an hour or two: we weren’t going towards The Beacon anymore. The only thing solidifying our existence was behind us, our star, promising an imaginative yet uncertain future. “Aren’t we going to The Beacon?” “What beacon?” And even though fear was familiar, this was new. Dad, Mom and my sister Ellen had been concrete, tangible and trusting. We weren’t without purpose or goal. A hardship-packed journey, aiming for that bright light that winked at us, a smile of sorts, an embrace of rays—The Beacon—but what if that ended? Survival would then be a mere charade without vows of life anew—no pledge about a once again domesticated uniformity amongst those left. We had something, at least. “The Beacon? Aren’t we going there?” But he didn’t answer. “Is Mom coming back?” “Are you tired?” I nodded, as I got the feeling that’s what he expected, even though we’d just woken up. “I’ll wake you in a bit.” So I got as comfortable as I could, my head where Ellen used to sit, Donatello in the backpack with his ninja stance ready to go. I sought comfort there, in those plastic eyes made in China, as my eyes closed. I’m not sure if I heard voices outside, what language it was or if it was all in my mind. As I opened my eyes again, I had no clue how long it’d been. Dad wasn’t in the car, and above me, I saw a crown of trees. I sat up—it was probably advisable to suppress as much of any pointless feeling one could muster. I opened the door. “Dad?” But he wasn’t there. I stepped outside on something once labeled as “road,” but now, grass and dandelions had taken over, seizing what was once theirs. “Dad!” I turned around, not seeing him anywhere. I yanked Dad’s door open to be met by an empty car seat, not knowing what I had expected. The backrest and seat had blood on them—a river flowing down, a pool of wound ooze—not coagulated. His scent lingered, not yet diluted by oxygen. I stepped out on the road—spruces and pines as an audience, watching my performance as I took on the role of the “abandoned son.” “DAD?” But he wasn’t there. I know that now as well, as I knew it then. But retelling is a way to keep them breathing, if just so inside my own mind. After that, I walked, not knowing how to start the car or drive it. So I began my journey with no plan— except moving towards The Beacon. I’m still walking. My feet hurt, and I got a can of something in my backpack. I haven’t seen civil behavior for years, and now, The Beacon went black just two weeks ago. I also have a Mars bar that I’ve been saving. You just have to eat around the mold—enjoying whatever goodness is left. Born in Sweden, Julius works as a narrative designer in video games. He writes anything from flash fiction and books to games and screenplays and makes his own sausages in his spare time. He's been longlisted in The Bath Short Story Award, The Bath Flash Fiction Award and The Aurora Prize for Writing and is published in JAKE Magazine.

You say you want a revolution? What if that revolution meant turning yourself inside out instead of turning you around. What if it meant accepting the Hieronymous Bosch painting of your soul and letting the world leer at it through gritted teeth? Courtenay Schembri Gray’s “The Maggot on Maple Street” is a deep dive into the psyche of a woman in modern society where the inside must be turned over like earth, and the growth must take place in the public view. The pitfalls, insecurities, judgment and the violence that can be a woman’s life upon examination, is explored in beautifully gruesome language. This exploration takes you to the dark and hidden places and there is nowhere to hide. In the poem “Saturn (De)vours” Schembri Gray contemplates the what-ifs of societal judgment vs. the sometimes much harsher personal judgment. It’s a cage match and there are no clear winners. For example: “What if I want to turn myself into a stain on the white shirts of men? Would that be unwomanly of me?” I imagine the lipstick stain of the passing fancy, I imagine the passing fancy as a real person. One who wants to be there, but wonders. “Bare Fruits’ starts at the transition from the perfect protected feminine pre-menses, including the rose scented sanitary pad, to the transformation into reviled, controlled woman. Turning this poem over in my mind, it felt like it was written far in the past, and that there was an ancient truth that we have long ago stopped talking about. It made me angry. The line that provides the best example of this is “To the peanut gallery, my labia is no Longer something fragile, rather a vessel To be butchered by a baby’s head” The peanut gallery as social media or the public at large, reducing the narrator to a holding cell. Timely for the current attack on reproductive rights. This is something that has always been the case in our world. Everyone’s always had a front row seat between your legs. This poem points it out bluntly and without apology. Poetry should move you, but Schembri Gray’s gives you a shove. “June Bug” has an Emily Dickinson style sentiment, and I love a good rhyme, but it must be a GOOD rhyme for it to not feel stilted or stodgy. Schembri Gray uses the rhyme to make her indelible mark in the reader’s mind. The imagery of bloody coat hangers and lanterns, an ominous glimpse into the future, surfs the edge of woman’s folly and its potential dangers. “Charge of the Revolutionary Gun” uses a creative rhyme scheme working its way through every line. The rhythm isn’t predictable and surprised me a few times. These poems sing. Throughout the collection, we are witness to transformation. “No Baby, No Cry” is one of those pieces that make you cringe, and brings up feelings you may not be ready for, but are part of the plan. We shift from child to woman and back again in the same poem. Maybe on the precipice of forced ‘womanhood’, she explores the fine line, always in question. The following line, reminiscent of Plath, ushers the concept in. “If they knew the fermentation of his blood they would call me a doe-eyed baby riding the storm, unaware and muddy.” “The Maggot of Maple Street” is wearing its guts on the outside. This is a brave collection. It is an angry collection. Schembri Gray isn’t looking for sympathy. Maybe not even for understanding. She is just trying to show you something, and that can be hard to accept. She collapses the notion that bringing the dark into the light cures. These concepts don’t look prettier in the illumination. What she is doing is inviting the reader to recognition. This collection is a mirror held up, and one can be changed by reading it, whether or not you are ready for it. Kellie, well, she’s tired and cranky and the only way she gets through the day is by reading other people’s incredible work and interviewing authors she finds interesting. She is the AEIC of the beyond description, and always perky, Roi Faineant Press.

I am the ghost though they say you are dead. A brain composed of stardust won’t rot. Those bones stacked underground I pled for you to take survived only to be forgot. My body was buried before yours would breathe though I clawed through six feet, compacted dirt toward a whisper of death already grieved. The provocation for haunting is hurt. My spirit’s entangled with yours on some star while my bones mimic youth in a grave. You once made a map of my private scars. No one was found, discovered or saved. The curious natures of alien girls is ephemeral in these primitive worlds. A word from the author: I wrote sonnet about feeling destroyed by another’s death you physically survived.

A Fine Zenith A stone in my chest radiates the blue color of new fallen snow under the full moon. It rises from my gut through my diaphragm and lungs, heart and throat, through my eyes and the top of my skull to a fine zenith around which the universe rotates, around which I rotate radiating light from the cracks in my battered heart. The Other Side I stand at the precipice the view cliff and chasm river winding far below the other side lush and inviting gravity pulls me forward I’m not afraid of falling I know if I fall I will burst into flight My Muse Calls at 3 AM I rise in the dark, dream myself into being. Whose face peers back from the morning mirror? What spice runs through my veins? My hair awaits the comb of dawn. My pen scratches paper, bleeds incarnadine ink. From those wounds, flow poetry. The perfume of night blooming flowers meets the aroma of dawn. In the flow of scents, a new day is born. I sense the curves of my ever-changing body, feel the delicious breast pain that informs me I'm a growing girl. Light from Your Eyes I like the idea of surrounding you as you enter my cave I imagine your adagio inviting me to grip you tighter pull you deeper into the darkness of desire the animal of my heart purrs and howls as you become a horse galloping in place until you surrender I want light to shine from your eyes fill sweet space as we glow in the embrace of the moment while radiance surrounds and suffuses our convergence I Am an Ocean I am deep and dark. I am bathed in light and shade. I am home to minute and immense. I give birth, I nurture. In my deepest, darkest places, there is light. When I feel darkness, when I feel I am not enough, when I feel self-doubt or self-loathing, when I feel I don’t fit or belong, I will try to remember in my deepest, darkest places, there is light. Emily Moon (she/her) is a queer transgender poet from Portland, Ore. She is Editor at First Matter Press. She is author of "It’s Just You & Me, Miss Moon." Her work includes appearances in or forthcoming from Pile Press, Boats Against the Current, Banyan Review, The Dawn Review, Culinary Origami, [inherspacejournal] and elsewhere. You can find her on Instagram @emilymoonpoet and Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/Emily.Moon.57/.

The red tide poured from every side. I call my shrink and ask - 'when are you free?' A tormented body rolled in blood and brine. There seems to be a problem with the line. So tense, engaged, and pulling taut. The red tide poured from every side. Now, on the couch, I lie as prone as death. Its trauma, heart and pulse quite out of sorts the monster horribly wallowed in his blood. And whalemen oftentimes misunderstood their ties with nature and the deep. A red tide poured from every side. ‘The trouble is, I cannot sleep'. * Stubb is the Second Mate on whale ship ‘The Pequod’ in Moby Dick, the novel by Herman Melville. (Lines in red are verbatim Melville, or close to. Lines in blue by Ivor Daniel).

Friday afternoon became interesting following a hard knock at the backdoor. I rose up from the kitchen table, abandoning my hot coffee and slice of cold sweet potato pie, and shouted: "Who is it?" No answer. "I said, ‘Who is it?’" I peered through the closed blinds and saw standing there a clean shaven and wiry built white guy. A Mr. Julius J. Shonuff, a man I called Sho', in a T-shirt which read: “I Pity The Fool,” denim jeans held up by his father's championship rodeo belt buckle, some grimy western boots, and a bent-up cowboy hat that hid a carrot-colored crew cut. I opened the backdoor and greeted him. “Sho'? Say man, is your mouth broken? People have gotten shot for less, you know." I said, looking at his red-face. "So what's up with you and where's your truck?" He sauntered away without saying a word and I followed him. He simply pointed, and there I saw it, down the road a ways. His propane truck, apparently stuck. "You're kidding?" "I wish." "Say? This isn't my gas order before the flood, is it?" "Maybe?" "I notified your company earlier that I didn't need any gas. Not yet anyway. Not until these backroads and the elbow of my driveway have dried out. They didn't tell you?" "I thought I could make it." "Come on Sho'," I said. "You know damn well how difficult it is to deliver gas out here after a serious downpour, let alone a flood." "Yeah, yeah, I know," Sho' replied. "The soil gets all soft and shit," I said. "That's why my driveway turn looks the way it does. All torn up from your truck's backing end and leaving out. Just look at it. I can't keep paying contractors to fix it." "The County won't do it?" "Yeah, right." Both of us looked out onto the saturated landscape courtesy of nature's wrath. More than a month ago, God wrung the sky dry and released as much rainfall as possible over three days and forced whatever the Mississippi River couldn’t hold to drain into other waterways, tributaries, and natural reservoirs until they failed. Soon thereafter, farm land and lowlying residences scattered throughout the Mississippi Delta found themselves underwater. In my case, the sudden deluge affected the nearby recess ponds. Thankfully, my house sat on higher ground and remained relatively safe; at one point, I prepared my flat boat for evacuation once the backroads took on water and became impassable, shrinking my dozen acres to four. But once the water's progress halted and remained still, my anxiety lessened, and a newfound enthusiasm rose. I treated everyday as best as I could. I watched with alacrity from my front window the comedy of farmhands driving their Chevy or Ford pick-up trucks into high water to only falter. Many abandoned them and then waded to dry ground, usually my place where they sat, dried out, and talked noise until the tow came for them. From then on, they used farm tractors and off road vehicles as their best means of transit to get to and from the grain bins and silos since those farming structures required constant vigilance for fear of them being compromised. For a month, nobody, and I do mean nobody tried to drive trucks of any kind onto these defunct roads. Nobody. Even my mail came by drone, and still does, until further notice. Sho' reached into his back pocket to take out his snuff can and began flicking it. Dip soon fit in his mouth. He started sucking hard, absorbing the nicotine. Something he often did when stressed out. A quirk I picked up on after many years of friendly chit-chats during his deliveries. Talks happened when I would help him unspool the black hose from the truck, where he normally parked it at the garage's entrance, then thread it through the garage, out its rear door, and straight for the propane tank. Not today, though. "Fuck!" Sho' said. "This is his fault." "Who's fault?" "Quincy. That's who. Like, how hard is it to maintain these backroads? Look at them. Rutted. Puddle rich. Sand over sand. No rocks. No limestone. No gravel. It's like that all over. Shit! I nearly got stuck over yonder the other day," pointing off into some altogether different direction. "Somehow his family and friends all have nice roads and driveways layered in crushed white rocks. Whereas country folks, like yourself, pay taxes but have poorly maintained roads. It's unfair. That's why my brother is a candidate in the upcoming election. I'll bring you a yard sign." "Do that," I said. "And I wish him luck." "Thanks. For the past two decades, Quincy's been in office just long enough to reward himself and do the bare minimum. People describe him as one shady politician," said Sho', and then spat in the grass. "Now, I'm not saying it just to vent. Okay. But he keeps getting re-elected and what have you all gotten in return? Not much. And this from a man with only one job to do. Just one. One, goddamnit." Sho' let loose a frustration spit. "The residents of this fine county deserve better." Sho' said. "Not getting stuck in the mud, driving across poor bridges, and having their cars torn up by potholes?" Sho' spit again. "He fails at it miserably." “It seems so.” I said. "It seems so." "Now I don't know if you know this, but the City Council recently forced him to fire his own son, Stacy. Somebody caught him improperly using county equipment for personal reasons. I wish I knew who told it, so I could say thanks.” "Hold up. His son?" I said. "Yep. His son." "I think I know about that." "Really?" "Yeah, yeah. A friend of mine talked about this incident the other day. It had something to do with the mail lady, Mrs. Angelos. She came beating on his door as mad as a motherfucker, face sunburnt, clothes sticking to her skin, and her silvery-blond hair matted dark from sweat. Despite her anger, she remained professional and handed him his rubberband of mail before asking if she could use his phone since hers died. Now whoever she called, she let them know the situation. About how she blew a tire, lost control, and then skidded off into an open field." "Good, she didn't get hurt?" "Not really," I said. "Just mudbound and behind schedule." "Go on," Sho' replied, listening intently. "I heard she walked down the county road in her mud-caked shoes and rolled up pants to the nearest house to obtain help when this Caterpillar road grader rode up. She screamed and flagged down the vehicle," I said. "Now after pleading for relief and pointing toward her whereabouts, the driver agreed to tow her, but only after he completed another job. Mrs. Angelos asked him his name, thanked Stacy, and then made the winding trek back to her truck. She sat there and waited, and waited for almost an hour, under a blazing sun, based on the assumption he was doing county business. But when he finally arrived, she saw differently. Stacy had a half-eaten slice of deep dish sweet potato pie in his hand when he jumped down and got busy. She knew instantly he'd been at Jocelyn's house. This bright-skin woman, known for baking and selling cakes and pies, but also had one beat up drive-up. Jocelyn didn't live not far from where Mrs. Angelos lay stranded." "You lie?" "No shit," I said. "He left Mrs. Angelos, went there, and fixed Jocelyn’s driveway." Sho' remained silent, standing akimbo, and then burst out laughing. He laughed so hard he nearly choked on his chew and used his hand to brace himself against the house to stay upright. "Now that's funny. A piece of pie got him fired." “I know, right.” I said. “He should’ve taken care of Mrs. Angelos first and then sent her on her way, but that's too much like right." "It is when you have sweet stuff on your mind." "Shut. Up," I said, now laughing. “Maybe, he thought he'd teach the old lady a lesson. You know, her being another white woman. She won't mind." "Now there you go, getting into the weeds and whatnot," Sho' said, still laughing. "But that's what happens when you don't do what's right?" "Stupidity will get you there and fast, too." "I don't know how you know, but it sure will. Say? How much gas do you have anyhow?" "More than enough. Another month, easy." "Let's go check anyway." The both of us walked toward where the propane tank rested, Sho' still giggling, and cracking jokes. He then read the meter. "You're right. A month, easy." Afterwards, I asked him if he wanted to come indoors and sit down, drink something cold – a beer, ice-tea, water, a shot of whiskey, maybe a bite to eat, or simply to get out of the heat. He declined. Instead, I learned from him prior to knocking on my backdoor and disturbing my breakfast, he notified his boss, and his boss notified the county. The calvary should arrive. Sho' then looked down at his watch and it made him say: "The quarry isn't that far from here. So what's taking them so long?" "So what do you want to do?" I said. "Wait at the truck." "Hold up," I said. "I need to grab something." As we retraced our steps, I fisted the garden hoe from the garage's tool room and threw it across my shoulder. "What's that going to do?" "What?" I told him. "This? This is for snakes. You know whenever it floods, but not as bad as this, or when farmers grow rice, they slither out of their holes. I look out for them and don't walk the property without it. Shit, I killed one sunbathing water moccasin a few days ago. Now let's go, already." Across the driveway we walked and then down the red gravel road without any deadly encounters. As soon as we reached his propane truck, Sho' circled and counter-circled it. He must’ve discovered his error of why he couldn’t get out, and quickly got behind the steering wheel. And after cranking the truck and flooring the accelerator fitfully, and turning the front tires hard right, the rear tires simply spun, whirring ceaselessly, and sinking even deeper. Soon the engine shutoff. He climbed down and out of frustration kicked the truck for its insubordination. Sho' took up a seat on the front bumper and then folded his arms. As for myself, I used my garden tool as a crutch. Just then, I saw coming off the highway a caravan of mint-colored pickups. Behind them, two red dump trucks. One carried an orange road grader on its long trailer. Sho' left where I stood and met the first approaching truck, then the next, and finally the main one, looking quite new. It shined cleaner than the others, from tire to hood. Mr. Jackson Quincy, The Boss Man, The Head Negro in Charge, and The County's Road and Bridge Manager, drove the last truck. The door opened and out he stepped, looking impeccable. His white shirt and blue jeans bordered on immaculate, being starched and pressed. Even his shoes gleamed, as if freshly shined. His bald fade haircut, nice and tight, and pushed back far enough to increase his forehead size. I also noticed his neatly manicured fingernails, so I seriously doubt they ever did a day of hard labor. His appearance, albeit frank, couldn't disguise those jaundiced eyes. They betrayed him, but soon hid behind a pair of dark shades. Meanwhile, Sho' laid into Quincy and spat near his shined shoes. Saying how the voters will finally get rid of him and his graft this time around for a better candidate: Arthur Shonuff, his baby brother. Someone he personally considered a far superior man and one who would do the job and its duties as intended. Quincy looked down, stared at him with incredulity, and then told him in a not so subtle manner: "You better control that mouth of yours and watch where you spit." He then turned and walked away from him, advanced toward the problem, and ordered the white men in navy work shirts to get to work, which they did. They hustled around the propane truck, looking underneath it to find a secure place to put the tow hooks. Soon one of the red dump trucks maneuvered itself upfront so it could pull the propane truck free and put it back on the highway so he could complete his other scheduled deliveries. Throughout all of this, none of the beige work shirts – all black men – offered a helping hand. Instead, they simply looked on and nothing else. No words. No action, just looks. I found this quite peculiar, almost disturbing. Feeling somewhat awkward and not wishing to get involved in whatever kind of punditry they had going on, I turned around and took my butt and garden tool back to the house. Halfway up the driveway, I heard a shout from the bossman. Quincy ran up and handed his fancy business card, along with sympathy. He just learned how the Sunflower Gas Company's propane truck often ruined the elbow of my driveway when backing in to make its delivery, and a nice load of rock and gravel would go a long way into rectifying that problem. I agreed; however, he couldn't do it for another week or two. All the flood damaged backroads required his attention first. But I should call him afterwards and set a date when ready. A sunny day preferably and think about him when election day rolls around. "I will," I said, thanked him, and then shook his hand. Three weeks later, I called. And then I tried again. Then every Monday and Thursday. My calls and messages went unanswered, including the one about how the gasman nearly got stuck making his last delivery. Eventually, I forgot him altogether. Forgot about him until election day came when I looked at the two names on the ballot and voted. Months later, on another Friday, I sat at the kitchen table, enjoying a slice of sweet potato pie and hot coffee, paying bills. Then I heard a loud beeping noise – a backup signal. I stood up and looked out the window. I saw a red county dump truck backing up. Confused, I went and looked into it. I found a black guy in a beige work shirt giving backup directions to the driver. He beckoned and yelled whoa. Soon limestone and river rock poured out. The truck slowly rolled forward, gradually spreading it. I approached him and learned the newly elected County Road and Bridge Manager, Mr. Arthur R. Shonuff, sent him. Since Quincy lost the election, the office he once managed has kept the road crew busy regrading all the County's backroads, patching paved roads, repairing bridges, and fixing specific driveways. "Now that's what's up," I said. "Maybe, I'll put my yard sign back out," and then left, smiling, as I headed back indoors.

House of Spirits There’s a rap, rap, rapping on my bedroom door. The rocking chair creaks. The ceiling fan light, overhead, winks in flirtatious rhythm. Who else but me disturbs the dust and haunts the cold of these walls and hungry keyholes? Shadows enter at the exit (I hear) and outstay their welcome. I yawn and stretch and rub my eyes, as if to say, “Time to go home. Party’s over,” but they don't listen. Can’t say when it started. Don’t know when it will end. Just hoping they’re not waiting for me to join the fun. Midnight Sun It’s the mornings when I miss him most. A freefall into whispers of patchouli and indentations of cold sheets, I devour ghosts of ache and breath that haunted spaces in between heated nostrils, lips, and tongues. Memory (the angles of his face) sustains me, the current that drives these limbs, ‘til night when all is gone but a hunger for the rising of my midnight sun and kisses of opiate fire on my skin. David Estringel is a Xicanx writer/poet with works published in literary publications, such as The Opiate, Azahares, Cephalorpress, Lahar, Poetry Ni, DREICH, Somos En Escrito, Ethel, The Milk House, Beir Bua Journal, and The Blue Nib. His first collection of poetry and short fiction Indelible Fingerprints was published April 2019, followed Blood Honey and Cold Comfort House in 2022. David has written three poetry chapbooks, Punctures (2019), PeripherieS (2020), and Eating Pears on the Rooftop (2022). His new book of micro poetry little punctures will be released in December 2022. Connect with David on Twitter @The_Booky_Man and his website www.davidaestringel.com.

TONIGHT I CAN’T SLEEP because all the people I know are machines and their lives have been extracted put in a glass jar on a shelf miles underground because I’m anxious about what I’ve done/not done because I’ve crossed my name off a list because God won’t take my call because I’ve left the television on because I’ve forgotten which paw my cat washed with today it’s important as the left paw means tensions will increase because the moon has grown sleepy, while clouds dig trenches throw grenades make ill-advised Advances to daffodils and crocuses because I’m lying there in that state between wakefulness and sleep on a bus jolting through an unfamiliar landscape because I’m not making a decision about the future that’s getting more and more pressing because there is no path between the trees because I haven’t even got a cat PALACE SONNET A man and a woman lived in a tent in the garden because they’re at war with beetles, bugs, aphids, badgers, foxes and moles. Their hearing has become so attuned they can easily tell the difference between slugs and snails by how their tongue sounds when eating leaves, stems, tubers and bulbs. But only she can hear petals unfurl in the sun. Only she can hear the flowers say thank you after rain. Only she can hear maggots eating the man’s soft tissue. ARISE, HER EYES Usually we made love downstairs on an overstuffed sofa listening to the light sax fingering of Gato Barbieri, gasps and grunts from the electric piano-blitzer Chick Corea, and the mellow tones from Gary Burton’s four mallets stroking bars of the vibroharp but yesterday we fancied a change so listened to The Best Classical Music where Mozart, Greig, Chopin and others eased us into foreplay until, that is, Wagner came in with his apocalyptical Ride of the Valkyries that was too urgent, too loud, fired a bolt that winged us both and we fell onto the carpet bleeding, sweating, exhausted, our mouths cursing and laughing with every sound and colour Rodney Wood is retired, writes poems because he likes to get lost in that space, is co-host of an open mic at The Lightbox, an art gallery in Woking and has many poems published in magazines including Magma, Orbis. The High Window etc.

Where did you get this coffee – Jesus Christ – middle earth? We were sitting on the Canadian Shield which is one motherfucker of a rock – I am balancing on it now as I jostle these words together – watching Lake Superior which was named not because it’s the better of the Great Lakes like everybody thinks but because of the French words for its position, lac supérieur, which simply means upper lake. The Canadian Shield is the exposed portion of continental crust underlying the majority of North America and it ekes out pines along its edges like they escaped – imposing beasts digging their heels into scant earth – relentlessly shoved by the wind they lean far above our heads, their disfigurement permanent and exquisite. You know these trees point phthalo green in living rooms, the water and sky cerulean, the horizon false because in real life you can’t tell what’s what out there. It’s like getting stabbed he said What’s like getting stabbed? The coffee. I brushed with splayed fingers indicating everything before and above me oh I thought you meant this. Well, that too. Me and my husband Max are from the north – we’d just visited our parents – but I alone was under its spell, the cool mornings, the way the sun was just starting to sparkle and amp which gave me a certain effervescence not to be confused with superiority although close. I don’t think I want to go back I said. You say that every time he said every time. I bit my lip and squinted, nodding. We got in the car, buzzed and maybe one good headache between us, drove into the sun quietly until we stopped at that restaurant on the hill, the one Max doesn’t know I’ve been to with other men on other cool mornings, sleepy and sore, before I met him. Another thing he doesn’t know is that it was more timing than him – like I suddenly got a lumbering piece of love and had to put it down somewhere – and I went with it, you know, said yes and leaned right the fuck into it. But unlike the beautiful Lake Superior pines, my disfigurement remains imperfect. Sherry is from the wilds of Ontario. She writes the kind of stories she longs for and can rarely find. Feeling Funny

Sweet Softness of Dates She sits in her wicker chair, the one painted bright green because that’s how she likes it. She lets the sweet softness of dates linger on her tongue, makes a small mound of pits on the seat next to her where the others won’t see it and scold her for making a mess. The air coming in through the veranda windows smells of the sea and the bread bakery down below and exhaust from those damned motorbikes that roar the wrong way down the street day and night, day and night. Some poor dog is yowling—probably being chased by a snot-nosed kid with a stick whose family didn’t raise him right. Who am I? they ask. Who are you? What year is it? Where were you born? So many questions. Do they take me for a fool? I’ve survived war, a love that couldn’t be and a marriage without it, children who left me to go here there and everywhere, a body once sturdy and beautiful that has grown stiff and feeble and fragile. So don’t ask me who I am or what I remember. I am the air you breathe, the world you think of as yours. I am hands that have birthed a thousand babies, helped girls-barely-women in distress do what they felt they must, cooked countless meals when all I wanted was to put up my feet. These eyes have seen more than you’ll ever know or understand. So don’t ask me. Don’t feed me. Don’t try to make me sleep or walk in circles around the apartment in the building I built. Just leave me in the peace I’ve never known but have finally found. It is mine to take. Between Springtime and Night (after Persephone, by Helen Lundeberg 1950) She stood on the tiny patch of grass clutching a cluster of flowers—pale pastels. All the color she could bear. For so long it had seemed to her that every day was a choice though most days she didn’t have strength to choose. She’d seen that abyss up close, that cavernous mouth of dark that threatened to devour her, devour everything light and good. She almost wished it would, sucking away her grief as well. But then it settled—this thick, solid presence inside her, and she lost track of the days since he left, gliding through time on the rituals of the living—waking to the sage smoke smell of him still clinging to the soft quilt, watching the steam from her morning tea rise and writhe before vanishing in the sun. At the keyboard, her fingers performed their perfunctory duties as if no thought were required, obediently producing figures—looping black on a sheet of white, figures that might once have made sense to her, seemed profound, even. Sometimes, when the bright was too much, flickering and flashing as if mocking her despair, she’d pull the shades, only realize night was coming when sadness blanketed the numbness of day. The damp grass is cool between her toes now as she gazes at the darkness that once held her in thrall. A tremble of warm air fragrant with hyacinth is at her back, ruffling her skirt, lifting her hair. Even now she hesitates between springtime and night, gripping those pale flowers. Kathryn Silver-Hajo’s work appears or is forthcoming in Atticus Review, Bending Genres, Citron Review, Craft Literary, Emerge Literary Journal, Fictive Dream, Flash Boulevard, Litro Magazine, New World Writing, Pithead Chapel, Ruby Literary, The Wild Word, and others. Her flash collection Wolfsong and her novel Roots of The Banyan Tree are both forthcoming in 2023. Kathryn is a reader for Fractured Lit. She lives in Providence, Rhode Island with her husband and curly tailed pup, Kaya. More at: www.kathrynsilverhajo.com twitter.com/KSilverHajo and www.instagram.com/kathrynsilverhajo

Bowling is like anything else; when you get a little drunk you become much better at it. The rule of thumb is you go with a bowling ball that is ten percent of your body weight. But why would you heft and throw a sixteen-pound weight over and over again when you could do the same with one that is eight? If you wanted a gym workout you’d be elsewhere. You’d have skipped out on those pints of Pabst Blue Ribbon, the nips of Famous Grouse from your paper-clad hip-flask. And really, had you done that, then what’s the fucking point? Those shoes. Those fucking shoes! You kind of love them ‘cause you’ve got a kink for jesters. Everyone goes on about feet. And it’s true; shoes are all about feet. But really, you’d pass on any foot job if you could just get your hands around a clown and make the nasty. What is that shit they spray into those harlequin sneakers? You always wonder. Odor eater? Antifungal this or that? The only thing you know is you like the smell of it, the ritual of the aerosol spray upon the soles, an exchange of fluids from the man who hands you the clown shoes to your lucky little feet, kind of like a foot job. Your eight-pound ball leaves your hand to glide across the well-polished, wooden byway. It flies like a bat out of hell and by chance the jukebox plays Meatloaf, but it’s a different tune. It’s the one about the two seventeen-year-old kids fucking in the car. “Paradise by the Dashboard Light.” The Loaf wails away about how he wants to reach home plate, go all the way, get past third base with the girl of his dreams. He gets what he wants in the end but pays for it. Good song. Strikes aren’t reserved for baseball. You are reminded of this as you fist pump, watching an eight-pound projectile collide with ten pins to obliterate their neat triangular formation, their soldier-like poise. In baseball, it’s three strikes and you’re out. In bowling, three consecutive strikes is called a turkey. As to why, you have no fucking clue. You know Google will have the answer as fast as you can type the question but you really couldn’t give a shit. Some things are better left a mystery. You don’t get a turkey this go around. You avoid the turkey on the menu because the bowling alley is not a place to eat beyond safe, simple dishes; hot fries and warm pretzels. You wouldn’t eat turkey anyhow. You are vegan. Besides, you aren’t even hungry. Your best score of the evening isn’t quite 150. Your best score ever is 161, and you’re sure you’ll make 200 if you just keep at it. A turkey or two and you’ll be on your way from there. But it isn’t really about the score. It’s not about the bragging rights. It’s about the pints of beer, the nips of whisky, the rhythm of your hips as you heft and lift your eight-pound ball, the pendulum swing and release as you watch it skate down that smooth-as-ice avenue towards ten sleeping soldiers, ten erect implements that would be perfect for juggling if only there was a clown. You decide that the day you reach 200 is the day you leave Memory Lanes behind. You’ll leave the building without returning your bowling shoes. You’ll move on to other things, other hobbies. Maybe you’ll start to take life seriously. Maybe you’ll stop clowning around. Maybe you’ll go in for a career, become a doctor or a lawyer, perhaps an actor. You could join the circus. Become a clown. Hell, you’ll have the shoes for it. James Callan grew up in Minneapolis, Minnesota. He lives on the Kāpiti Coast, New Zealand on a small farm with his wife, Rachel, and his little boy, Finn. His writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Bridge Eight, White Wall Review, Maudlin House, Cardiff Review, and elsewhere. His novel, A Transcendental Habit, is due for publication in 2023 with Queer Space, an imprint of Rebel Satori Press.