Search Results

CW: self-harm, abuse I didn't know it then, but my friend Susan stole the five-dollar bill she gave me for my birthday right out of the card while we ate cake, but my mother assumed my cousin Deanna had taken the money and called her mother, informing her of the theft. "I told you about her," my aunt said. I didn't know it then, but when Deanna's father fell on hard times last year, Deanna stole Wrigley's spearmint gum and a Hershey bar from the corner store, and her mother told my mother that Deanna couldn't be trusted anymore and was nothing more than a thief. I didn't know it then, but later, when Deanna's father heard about my missing birthday money, he gave Deanna a beating, and then she cried herself asleep. "I warned you what would happen," my uncle told her. I didn't know it then, but the following morning, Deanna made tiny cuts on the inside of her arms to forget about the money, the strawberry-colored welt on her arm from the belt buckle, and the bruises peppering the back of her thin legs like tiny purple plums. "Please God, let me die," Deanna prayed. I didn't know it then, but my friend Susan's conscience had gotten the best of her during the party, and she tried putting the money back into the envelope. But my mom walked back into the room, and Susan got spooked, so she crammed the money into a nearby seat cushion where Deanna later sat. "Now what do I do?" Susan wondered. I didn't know it then, but Deanna saw the corner of a five-dollar bill peeking out from between the cushions and pulled it out. But my mom came in to clear our plates, and Deanna panicked, so she shoved the money into her pocket. "I hope Auntie didn't notice," Deanna worried. I didn't know it then, but I don't even want that five-dollar bill and wish I had the chance to give it back.

“Nous sommes La triste opacité de nos spectres futurs.”1 -Stéphane Mallarmé In autumn, I sit and drink coffee or tea or hot cocoa and watch the traffic on the street, the people walking dogs or rushing to office buildings or late for class. In autumn, the coffee or tea cools quicker with the nip of winter on the horizon. Those future flakes, just around the next corner, will fill the sky replacing leafy hues of amber and orange. One time, after pumpkin carving and the tears of another lost year, the coffee cup warmed my fingers and I saw a young woman run for a bus. Her collar turned to the winds and her eyes shaded behind the last vestiges of summer days: her beach-worn sunglasses. She paid her fare and was gone. The bus too, gone like the wild, youthful days loafing in Nirvanic diner bliss. One time, after the final yard clean-up with the fears of tomorrow taking hold, I watched a pair of opaque ghosts discuss tropical adventures with beer and women. These ghosts sat transparent in my peripheral dreams. “When you go,” one said, “they let you do anything; the women are up for whatever.” In autumn, the tears of lost years bathe us in predictable futures. They dampen the hems on our dungarees, our corduroys, our perfectly tailored slacks. We roll up cuffs, but the sea of tears keeps rising. Our shoes full, we return to coffee or tea or humble hot cocoa and breath deep the still, sad music, the sad opacity of long days yet to come. 1 from “Toast Funèbre” by Stéphane Mallarmé. Andre F. Peltier (he/him) is a Pushcart and Best of the Net nominated poet and a Lecturer III at Eastern Michigan University where he teaches literature and writing. He lives in Ypsilanti, MI, with his wife and children. His poetry has recently appeared in various publications like CP Quarterly, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Provenance Journal, Lavender and Lime Review, About Place, Novus Review, Fiery Scribe, and Fahmidan Journal, and most recently in Menacing Hedge, The Brazos Review, and Idle Ink. His debut poetry collection, Poplandia, is available from Alien Buddha. He has three collections forthcoming in 2023, Trouble on the escarpment from Back Room Books, Petoskey Stones from Finishing Line Press, and Ambassador Bridge: Poems from Alien Buddha Press. In his free time, he obsesses over soccer and comic books. Website: www.andrefpeltier.com

Losing Face Don’t look in the mirror. Tilt ten degrees down: the phone, not the face. Tilt face to one side. Smile. Not a real smile. No teeth. Click. Look at the face on the screen. Edit the jawline and the nose. Remove awkward freckles. Add smattering of cute freckles. Erase fatigue under eyes. Look at the new face on the screen. Smile. A real smile. Post. Don’t look in the mirror. Remove eyelashes. Pull hair back with a scrunchie. Silk. Dry. Wet cotton pad with cleanser. One pad at a time, wipe eyelids, forehead, nose, cheeks, chin, neck. Repeat until last wet cotton pad shows no color. Wash face with astringent soap and cold water. Pat skin dry. Don’t look in the mirror. Pull on sweats Braid hair. Make cup of honey lemon water (without the honey). Catch an accidental glimpse of reflection in the window. Wince. Wish you looked like the face in the screen. Papaya Summers The night before you ate your first papaya, I cried myself to sleep. The next day, eyes still swollen, I made you giggle as I danced you into the kitchen, sing-songing a monologue on the delights of tropical fruit. I sliced a papaya open while you supervised from your highchair, your baby forehead barely wrinkling despite your intense concentration. You cooed when I scooped out the gleaming black seeds, then went silent, watchful, as the tender fruit flesh was scraped and piled onto a spoon that airplaned its way into your mouth. You didn’t know what to do. Not then. Not yet. You dug little fingers into the mound of papaya and licked your fists, then missed your mouth and spread fruit on your cheeks, your head, your nose. We laughed together as orangish blobs dribbled down your cheek and you looked at me, eyes as shiny and black as papaya seeds, as if to say: Do you see this, Mommy?! Did you know this about this already? Crying had been ridiculous. I knew that. Of course children grow, and one cannot breastfeed forever. I was happy for you. It was time. You were ready. Crying had been essential. In the first months of your life, I had grown accustomed to the heady power of being someone’s everything. When I walked into a room, your face lit up. When I held you, your whole body melted into my arms, legs curled in, fist wrapped around a lock of my hair, face relaxed in contentment. When I nursed you, you were replete. Feeding you anything other than my own milk would be evidence of the obvious: I was not, would not, could not ever be all you needed. The papaya was glorious. It was time. You were ready. But the night before you ate your first papaya, I needed to cry myself to sleep. It was the pause before the step. In the decade and a half since that first papaya, you were introduced to so many other firsts. You gorged on mangoes and cherry-picked berries. You tried pastries that looked delectable and turned out to be tasteless. Sometimes you hesitated, wary, only to be surprised with bursts of flavor. You tried to eat wooden blocks or plastic Legos. Sometimes you refused to try at all. Eventually you learned that with food, as with life, you can play it safe or you can choose to explore and savor. I will not cry myself to sleep tonight, the last of your childhood summers. I understand that joy plays tug-of-war with the certainty that nothing will ever be the same again. Amy Marques grew up between languages and cultures and learned, from an early age, the multiplicity of narratives. She penned three children’s books, barely read medical papers, and numerous letters before turning to short fiction and visual poetry. She is a Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee and has work published most recently in Streetcake Magazine, MoonPark Review, Jellyfish Review, Gone Lawn, and Parenthesis Journal. You can find more of her work at https://amybookwhisperer.wordpress.com.

I wince at the alien sound of my own voice. We’re bickering playfully in the clip. I’m awkward, pedantic. She’s adorably careless, as ever. Her laughter is like birdsong. We’re grinning care-free on Perranporth beach under cloudless sapphire skies – sea-tousled hair and skin sparkling with salt and sandy grains. “You’re doing it again. It’s a crime against nature. Every time you record a vertical video, an angel dies – you know that, don’t you?” “Why? What’s wrong with vertical video?” She glints with a gleeful mischief, knowing we’ve had this conversation a dozen times, knowing that a sliver of genuine annoyance hides beneath my jokes. She wheels the camera in selfie mode, turning the world around our fixed point in a joyful looping blur of cool seas, rugged cliffs, and golden sands. I stop the whirling with an arm around her waist. We are about to kiss, but the video ends abruptly before our lips meet. Sitting alone in the strangely quiet house, I stare at this final image, frozen on the widescreen TV we chose together. The vivid picture of us lives in a thin strip, sandwiched between blocks of empty black. Mathew Gostelow (he/him) is a fledgling writer, in Birmingham, UK. His strange tales have been published by Lucent Dreaming, Ghastling, Ellipsis, Stanchion, Cutbow, and others. He was nominated for the Pushcart Prize in 2022 and has won prizes from Bag of Bones, Bear Creek Gazette, and Beagle North. @MatGost

The summer before my senior year of high school, I was in a youth production of Measure for Measure (one of the Shakespeare plays that scholars have collectively packed up into a little box and hidden in the attic behind some old snowshoes). I played Duke Vincentio—one of the leads—which I was excited about at first, until I realized that I needed to memorize 194 lines, or just about a third of the entire text in the play. This meant I spent a good deal of July pacing around my basement, squatting and kicking and dancing along to iambic pentameter in a desperate effort to memorize all my lines. Because I was speaking so much (and because I kept straining my throat), I ended up needing to go on vocal rest for the two weeks leading up to the show—first as a casual measure, and later because I could only get through all my lines if I was on constant vocal rest. I could also only say all my lines once every day. During rehearsal, I would have one run-through where I actually said the damn words. All other times we worked scenes, one of the adults would read them off-stage and I’d mouth along. To run lines, I would lip-sync along to a voice recording of myself saying all my lines. I talked to my family and friends by typing everything through a text-to-speech app. Beyond the app’s absolute lack of comedic timing, it took so long for me to type out what I wanted to say that by the time I was ready to press “play,” the conversation had already moved light years ahead, leaving me with endless drafts of robot monologues. Backstage, I used an electric kettle to brew up to five cups of tea every show, and I was popping cough drops left and right. The adults—from the director to the stage manager to all of the fantastic teaching artists—were endlessly patient and accommodating. We only had five performances, and boy, oh boy, was that enough for me. On the fourth and last day of shows, we had a matinee in addition to our regular evening show. That night, we had barely made it to the end of the first half of the show when my voice started giving out. I could hear myself barely mustering a talk-whisper until the lights finally went out and the first half was over. Backstage at intermission, I went to Lindsay and Anneke, two of the teaching artists for the show, and told them that my voice was getting really weak, that I wasn’t sure if I could make it through the end of the show. They said that I hadn’t sounded half as quiet as I’d thought I had, that they knew I could do it, and that if I needed extra time to chug a half gallon of honey lemon tea, they’d make it work. Because they believed I could do it (and because of exactly two cough drops and one and a half cups of tea), I was able to pull through. Later, when the second half of the show was over, Lindsay confessed, “I actually was really scared—I was frantically like, ‘Oh God, do I need to go on and read their part?’ But I knew that saying that would just psych you out, so yeah, I definitely lied about how confident I was.” The next morning—the day we were going to strike the set and say our last goodbyes to our fellow cast members—I woke up with absolutely no voice as well as a nasty head cold. I went to strike, of course, because I’m a good little theatre kid, and because I wanted to see everyone one last time. In addition to playing the lead, I had also decided for some reason to take on the role of a costume designer. So on strike, I went upstairs to help organize costumes, sorting out which pieces had come from storage and which had been brought in by actors. “Hey Noah, where should this one go?” one kid, Jeff, said, holding up a grey military jacket. I gestured to the rack in the corner of the room. “What?” Jeff said. I pointed more forcefully and mouthed ‘Over there.’ “Where?” “On the rack!” I said in a barely-audible croak. “Oh, okay,” he said, a little taken aback by the state of my voice. Downstairs, I ran into Mike the director while organizing a pile of clothes to get dry-cleaned. “So you really can’t talk, huh?” he said. I shook my head. “What does it sound like if you try?” he said. He’s not a cruel man so I was surprised by this question. “Like this,” I wheezed, annoyed. “Oh geez,” he said. “You’ve really lost it.” After strike, Lindsay was kind enough to give me a ride home. “So what are you doing for the rest of the summer?” she asked as we headed onto the highway. We sat in silence except for the sound of me tapping frantically. Then: “I don’t — have — any — big — plans. — Probably — just — hanging — out — and — getting — my — driver’s license,” my app’s robot voice said. “Oh, okay,” she said, shifting uncomfortably. “Is your mom going back to work on that project with Sarah?” More tapping. “Yes, — she — is.” “Nice, nice,” she said. She started to speak again before she noticed that I had started typing. “What — are — you — doing — the — rest of — the summer,” my robot said. It never quite got the hang of question marks or exclamation points so every sentence sounded the same. “I’ll be spending a lot of it working on writing up grant proposals,” she said before pausing. “Man, this is weird.” “Yeah — I know. — I’m sorry — you — have to — talk — to — a robot.” “I’m more sorry for you, having to type everything out,” she said. “You’re not mad at us, right, for making this happen? Giving you such a big part?” “No. — It’s — more — my fault — for — not — being able to — take — supported — breaths.” “Well, I guess it’s a little of both. You know, we were like, ‘Noah will be the Duke because they’re the only one who can learn all those lines.’ And if it took you down this hard, I really doubt another kid could’ve handled it.” “Yeah, — it — was — a pain — in the ass. — But — I’m not — mad — at you — guys.” “Good, good,” she said. We pulled into my driveway soon after, and I waved as she drove away. I went upstairs and crawled into bed, immediately zonking out. I spent the next two weeks under the covers sleeping, watching old episodes of Scooby Doo, and stockpiling tissues. I hurt for two entire weeks because of Shakespeare, and of course, all I wanted to do afterward was jump back into another show and dig into some more iambic pentameter. A word from the author: A personal essay about how I lost my voice during a high school Shakespeare production, or, an exploration of the absurd lengths I will go to out of devotion to the bard.

I read Patrick Nevins’ Man in a Cage in one sitting on an airplane. My real movement through time and space in an engineering marvel was an apt location to take in Nevins’ work. The novel moves deftly us through time, space, and the science, or, to be more accurate, the pseudo-science of its day, the late 19th century. Man in a Cage fictionalizes the experience of the real Richard Garner, a man who fancied himself one of the leading naturalists of the day and who set out to expand Darwin’s theory of evolution through the study of primates. Nevins’ work is fiction but it is clear he sourced his material carefully and he does not shy away from the pervasive racism of the epoch. At the novel’s outset, Gardner shares his belief that primates make use of language, albeit in a primitive manner. He first developed this theory through the observation of primates in captivity and becomes convinced that he can prove it with the use of the phonograph as a recording machine. Garner cites a scientist who recorded the songs of Maine’s Indians. “If a scientist could use the phonograph to study the primitive speech of America’s savages, then it followed that an intrepid thinker could use the same technology to capture the speech of monkeys and apes –”. As a reader, it was tempting to put the book down at that moment. Why would I want to read about an individual with such repugnant thoughts, even in fiction? But Nevins is too good of a writer to let go. He nimbly walks us through Garner’s quest, giving us brief history lessons in the process. Gardner, himself, despite displaying these bold-faced prejudices is drawn as a complex character. He questions slavery, frowns upon the institutions of religion, and appears to hold a deep affection and caring for his simian companions. He’s a sworn man of science but can only get published in a popular magazine and struggles to fund his research. Finally, he’s also an unreliable narrator. The novel’s core revolves around Gardner’s eventual trip to Gabon where he intends to study chimpanzees in the wild and ultimately prove his theory. Gardner’s journey is never smooth. He fails to secure his vaunted phonograph and finds himself ridiculed rather than hailed in London. In Africa, he becomes beholden to Father Buleon, a Catholic Priest who oversees the mission of St. Anne’s which will become the base for Gardner’s foray into the deep jungle. Buleon also sees himself as a naturalist having been employed by the France’s National Museum to study primates. The two men meet and Nevins gives us a perfect window into Gardner’s mindset. “I nearly choked on claret so surprised was I by Buleon’s declaration, for I never would have guessed that an esteemed museum would trust scientific work to a missionary.” As the novel continues, and we see the conflict between the two men escalate, we’re never quite sure of whom to trust. Nevins also begin to weave in African characters. On his first foray into the jungle, Gardner falls sick, hallucinates a speaking gorilla, and is rescued by a native translator, Odanga, who quickly shows himself to be Gardner’s intellectual superior. In discussing slavery, an institution that greatly benefitted Gardner’s family, Odanga says, “I have learned enough to know that American slaves were machines whose backs and families were broken to build up that nation.” This statement, from an African in the late 19th century resonates across the ages and causes Gardner to reflect that he “could no longer come to his country’s defense.” Unfortunately, Gardner is not enough of a thinker to extend this epiphany to an understanding of racial equality, maintaining his view of the African as a savage. Eventually Gardner installs himself in a cage in a jungle, derisively named Fort Gorilla. Despite the hardship and detractors, Gardner does not let himself be deterred from his mission. Once settled, he writes his neglected wife that he fully expects his phonograph to arrive and that his trip will be a “major contribution to natural history.” The ensuing pages contain hilarity, tragedy, and pathos, but it is not giving away too much to say that Gardner, though firm in his beliefs to the end, doesn’t make that contribution. He does find an orphaned chimpanzee, befriends and possibly lusts after a young nun named Sister Marie, and alternates between the comfort of the mission and his cage in the deep jungle. Late in the novel, we learn that Fort Gorilla sits but a mile from the mission and that it’s unclear how many nights Gardner actually spent there. His reliability varies with his scientific acumen. Nevins gives us hints of Kurtz’ descent in Heart of Darkness but never let Gardner go that far. Man in a Cage also provides a nod to Conrad’s great critic, Achebe, in its portrayal of the humanity of the African characters, a humanity Gardner does begin to greater appreciate over time. Unlike Kurtz, Gardner does manage to leave Africa and his return to Europe and America is marked both in comedy – he’s amazed by people commuting on rubber wheeled bicycles, as well as introspection – he finds himself, for the first time, looking squarely in the eye of a free Black man in America. Ultimately, Gardner never finds scientific fame but cannot resist returning to the African continent where he continues to evolve in his views of the native people. The final paragraph and final line of the novel are beautiful and haunting. Man in a Cage highlights the blatant racism of colonialism, ponders on the scientific method, and gives a portrait of a complicated man exposed to both, but not fully aware of either. The writing is fluid with precise historical details and subtle humor. But this novel does not strictly belong in the realm of historical fiction. We live in a time when basic scientific facts are disputed by charlatans with power. In a time when some of those same powerbrokers are mandating that books about folks who look different than they do, be removed from school shelves. Nevins’ novel aptly illustrates Faulkner’s famous quote about the past and gives us a view of our current realities. This debut novel is remarkable and this reader is left to wonder where Nevins’ interests and talents will next lead. A word from the publisher: you can purchase Man in a Cage by @Patrick_Nevins from @MalarkeyBooks here: http://malarkeybooks.com/man-in-a-cage

Da died suddenly, leaving Maggie no time to plan or properly pack. She’d thrown a handful of underwear, a pair of jeans, a t-shirt and sweater in her suitcase. None of it was black. She’d called Weston Gallery to inform them she’d be gone a day or two. Death in the family. There was no one else to tell since Ginny left her last year. Ginny never met Da anyway. Maggie retreated into Da’s study after the funeral, avoiding as many people as possible. She sat in his brown leather chair and ran her hands down the armrests. As a child, Da would read to her as she snuggled half on his lap, half on the billowy cowhide. Maggie tried to breathe in the scent of well-worn leather, but only the faint smell of old books lingered. Maggie made her way to the doorway. As she glanced across a crowded room of people who felt like ghosts to her, something took hold. A faint longing to have them envelope her and carry her back to childhood—back before she escaped the never-ending green pastures to attend college in Dublin. Before she’d become what Da called “my city girl.” Since then, her yearly visits for Christmas ended with the eggnog toast. Maggie always found herself snug in her flat by the wee hours of Boxing Day. Maggie watched as Mrs. McFarland, the church organist, stood at the punch bowl, cup in one hand, flask in the other. Mr. Watkins, the piano teacher who’d called her playing “charming,” sat on the couch chatting with Mr. O’Reilly, the owner of the local pub and Da’s best friend. Neither seemed to have aged in twenty years. Father Murphy was in the far doorway consoling her Ma. His face full-on Irish blush, Ma’s full-on sorrow. Maggie seemed to be floating in a bubble, as if she wasn’t there at all. She wondered if anyone noticed her multiple piercings or that she wore the black dress from high school graduation she found in her closet, slightly tight in all the wrong places. Maggie was in a time warp, but she was still the one out of place. “I can’t believe you stayed after the funeral,” a familiar voice echoed behind her. Maggie turned. It was Harriet, her first crush from middle school, all bouncy brunette curls and piercing blue eyes. “Daughterly duty.” Maggie straightened out her dress. “Nice dress by the way. Looks familiar.” Harriet offered her a glass. “You need this.” Maggie took it and drew it toward her lips. The distinct smell of Jameson’s reminded her of Da. “He was a good man.” Harriet took a step closer and leaned against the wall. Her Da was a good man. Maggie admired him as a child, and they were close until she reached puberty and withdrew the way teenage daughters do. She knew better than to discuss her fondness for girls with the man who said grace at dinner and tried to set her up with every farm boy for miles. Da went to his grave thinking she was too picky to say yes to marriage. “That he was,” Maggie said, before draining the glass. Harriet laughed. “You learn to drink like that in the big city?” Maggie wasn’t sure if Harriet was teasing or flirting. “An Irish lass doesn't have to learn.” Harriet took the glass, letting her hand linger a moment on Maggie’s. “I didn’t realize it then,” she said with a smile, “things are different now.” Piano music erupted from the living room. It wouldn’t be long before the walls would rattle from a cacophony of voices crooning Irish ballads. Someone would come looking for Maggie to ask her to play, surely she could still play. Harriet read her mind. “You’re going to have to play, you know.” “I didn’t think you remembered—” “I remember everything about you, Mags. Another?” Maggie nodded. Harriet started for the kitchen, but turned around, “It’d be nice if you stayed around longer.” Mr. Watkins spied Maggie from across the room and motioned her to join them. Mrs. MacFarland was pounding out My Wild Irish Rose when Harriet returned and handed her the glass. Without saying a word, together they took two steps forward. Sally Simon (ze/hir) lives in the Catskills of New York State. Hir writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Emerge Lit, Truffles Literary Magazine, (mac)ro(mic), HerStry, and elsewhere. Sally is a reader for Fractured Lit. When not writing, ze’s either traveling the world or stabbing people with hir epee. Read more at www.sallysimonwriter.com.

SABLE You step into this city & Everything tells you they know Of dying, of burning. They paint You war-red, paint a wedding dress Black, with a cascade of embers. Here, we’re all ghost cosplaying As humans— Waiting to be untethered from Our bodies by the next gunshots. Every day, we’re promised Armistice, by the guns empurpling Our evenings. Which is why I bear A scar above my thigh for when this City pulled me back, so I know Of my amateurish art of escapism. Now, we all drown into dreams Of living things, to escape this city, To watch the fire dancing on the Mountains of the nation below. SANS SABLE And now, the bullets have granted our Bodies armistice, but to what end? The grounds are now impregnated With the weight of a city, and they Do not groan. Ashes of ruins now Taint the wind, and the relics of what Grief leaves behind permeates The morning adhan—including Memories of fire, gunshots, blood & exit wounds. Today, I traverse A street and I’m not the next meal Of bullets, except that something Is marathoning inside me, meaning, My body is a burning house Of broken records. Everything Left in our mouths from these wa(te)rs Are the sordid aftertaste of gloom, & The drowning that accompanies the Heaviness of silence. Today, we close Our eyes and we’re not spooked by Burning mountains, but the memories Of what they burnt. Today, The oneirocritic translates a dream, And it does not end in chaos.

It’s been raining since Christmas yet the water is lower than ever before and there’s a newly revealed rock looks like the hood of a car and all sorts of imaginary accidents play consecutively in my head before I finally agree with Maggie that it’s a rock, although I don’t entirely agree, mostly because I can’t believe such a gigantic thing has kept its secret for so long. We were born in this house and thought we knew everything. And then around the curve, another. What else goes on that I don’t know about? I keep losing them in the fog until I get them again with a crash like chewing tinfoil and then three more around the next bend and although I do not feel quite as betrayed by these, this time I say it out loud. What else goes on that I don’t know about? And that’s when she told me Claire was coming. But first, our beach. It’s mostly rocks but before you picture it, before you let rocks similar in size and greyness roll into your head, let me tell you, our beach is an exuberation of rocks. How can I say it? Imagine you’re in audience at the OG explosion and you’re like I’ll take that one, that one, that one, that one over there, yes, that one, and that entire galaxy on your left, that one, that one, those three there, that one, that one, all of those, that one. I mean our beach was mind-blowing rocks some big as trains I bet but we only saw what poked out like the way icebergs are, their colours you’d have to make up names for like Spriken or Youtza or Lomury, and some so black your definition of black changed, some with stripes like flashes of light and you could see the similarities between them like family, you knew they hurtled eons (also a good colour name!) in one mass might have been their own planet even. And it was only our stretch of beach they populated so generously like the playground of a giant blessed child they were strewn and tucked and any other adjective you can think of. I just want you to understand the celestialness of it you see. When? When what? When’s Claire coming? Now. She’s coming now. Today. We had already turned back, all five of the new rocks were visible, the fog was ebbing or maybe it was me not minding so much I mean if you’re talking about being blindsided, the new rocks had nothing on Claire. Sherry is from the wilds of Ontario. She writes the kind of stories she longs for and can rarely find. thestoryparade.ca

Across fields of languid wet grass dotted with grazing cattle we walked, a weary band of silent souls. Carefully picking our way across a gently meandering stream, our minds embellished by the smells and sounds that enveloped us. We gazed at the grey clouds high above, floating in their sombre procession, disrupted by noisy crows careering through the dimming light of the wounded sky. Our tired legs stung as we carefully picked our way through hedgerows of thorns and nettles. Glancing behind us to see how far we had come, and in the distance the Lough and ancient woodlands watched on as we left them behind. Our trembling hands cupped in a spring of fresh cool water, no one talked, we just stole furtive looks at each other, afraid to speak. Our journey continued without another backward look, on we walked to the mountain, now cloaked in the veil of night. A single word was spoken…. And at that we struggled up the pebble strewn slope. At the crest we drew breath, a wretchedly timid light shone from the broken moon. And we gathered, to watch the world we had known begin to fall. Gareth Greer is a short story writer and poet from Northern Ireland.

My boss, Who’s worked In our district Through nine presidencies, Refers to The students As children. Yesterday, During second period, One student Attacked another In the boy’s room, Which is located Across the hall From my room. A passing teacher Glanced into the restroom, Screamed— I called security And returned To teaching My B-level Sophomores. I later learned that The assailant had Banged the victim’s Head against the floor And, For good measure, Bit a chunk of Flesh Out of his Forehead. Some teachers Said that it Could’ve been worse: He’d need stitches, Maybe even plastic surgery— But at least he hadn’t Lost an eye. My boss’s Office is two Floors below; Unless she asks, I’ll not mention The incident: There’s something about Letting her think What she does, Yet there’s something Else— Greater, More difficult— That tells me That there’d be No point. S.F. Wright lives and teaches in New Jersey. His work has appeared in Hobart, X-R-A-Y Literary Magazine, and Elm Leaves Journal, among other places. His short story collection, The English Teacher, is forthcoming from Cerasus Poetry, and his website is sfwrightwriter.com.

I Think I Could She asked, “What could I have done That would have made you stay?” She saw your error and crime and implicated herself in your own devices. She sought not for an apology but had sewn a reconciliation from patches of guilt and heartbreak. Stained, but unacknowledged. She heard that you cheated and wondered what she did wrong. And you wondered nothing at all. A Former Friend Said “You must be fun at parties. You can hold my discomfort for me like a purse as I go take a piss. Parties are not the time to think or remember. I can’t block out the past with your presence here. Be more fun. More cool; Less aware. Please wrap up your wound. Your blood is dripping on the floor. This is such a nice Oriental rug that is being stained by you. I can’t hear the music as well with the sound of your cries. Please consider how your pain affects me. For once.”