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at once, I feel it all suspending permanent arteries the weight of helplessness captured in foreign memories not unlike a dream come back to me with crusted eyes to show me the way you used to hold me pacify me wait for me to soften arms waiting maybe it’s not quite enough charming angry thoughts pen tips dragging along marring pages indelicately what an unlikely place to fall apart About the poet: Mikayla Elias They/Them Engineer, Crybaby Audio Technical Producer, This is Nashville, WPLN News Author, Bending Toward the Light

Sam Szanto lives in Durham, UK. Her debut short story collection “If No One Speaks” was published by Alien Buddha Press in 2022. Over 50 of her stories and poems have been published/ listed in competitions. In April 2022, she won the Shooter Flash Fiction Contest, placed second in the 2022 Writer’s Mastermind Short Story Contest, third in the 2021 Erewash Open Competition, second in the 2019 Doris Gooderson Competition, and was also a winner in the 2020 Literary Taxidermy Competition. Her short story collection was a finalist in the 2021 St Lawrence Book Awards. As a poet, she won the 2020 Charroux Prize for Poetry and the First Writers International Poetry Prize, and her poetry has appeared in a number of international literary journals, including “The North.” Sam can be found at: Twitter: @sam_szanto Facebook: sam-szanto Instagram: samszantowriter *** NF: What drew you into writing? What was your journey to a published writer? SS: I’ve always written. It’s in my blood as my dad is a published author too, and my parents and school teachers always encouraged me to write. I had my first book published in infant school – I wrote about the elves and fairies I imagined living in my garden and my headteacher printed and bound it! I then had a poem published when I was about 16, and carried on writing, but didn’t really get much published until I did an MA in Creative Writing at Bath Spa University – that really honed my technique and I got feedback from writers for the first time, which was so helpful. NF: What, if anything, do you do to get feedback from other writers before you publish? SS: I don't get much feedback on short stories these days; I wish I had a writer's circle locally, but I've not been here long enough to find one. I do have one writer friend I will occasionally email a story to, and she'll give me her thoughts, but rarely these days. I get feedback on my poetry because I'm doing a course in that now - that's always really useful, especially as it comes from a range of poets who all see the same poem very differently. Rejections are also feedback! NF: What do you like about writing short stories/flash? SS: I’ve got a fairly low boredom threshold, so I like the fact that I can write a short story or a poem and then move on to another – harder work with a novel! I also like the way that you don’t have to say everything in a short story; I like to follow Ernest Hemingway’s suggestion of omitting the true ending of a piece to leave the reader wanting more. People often tell me what they think the ‘real’ ending of my story should be; often it’s one I hadn’t considered! NF: What do you like about writing poetry? SS: I love creating images, and writing metaphorically. I do this in my short stories, but it has to be sparing or it distracts from the characters and plot. Poems don’t have to have a plot, they can be a succession of images, a stream of loveliness, like looking at a row of stained-glass windows. NF: What makes you decide whether to write short stories or poetry? When is one medium better than the other? SS: I’m doing a Masters in Writing Poetry with the Poetry School London / Newcastle University at the moment, so I have to write a certain number of poems for that. If I do too many, though, I miss short stories. I like to play with genres, so I often write a short story and turn it into a poem, and vice versa. Sometimes an idea will fall flat as a story but work well as a prose poem. Sometimes a poem won’t have any life but will work as a story. NF: Did you always want to put together a collection of short stories, or was it an idea that grew over time? SS: No, it wasn’t something I thought of. I always felt I had to write novels, that that was the only way to get published and be a ‘real’ writer. I had also never thought there was much of a market for short story collections, which is true in traditional publishing (although I hope that changes). It was only recently that I considered becoming an independent author, and I’m glad I did! NF: I used to write short stories. When I had enough to put together a short story anthology, I approached some publishers. They all told me I had to write at least one novel before they would consider publishing an anthology. Have you ever run into that attitude? If so, what did you do? SS: That’s pretty much what I meant in my previous answer. I think traditional booksellers have this belief that people won’t buy short story collections – but how can they, if the big bookstores don’t sell them? Also, short story collections are rarely focused on in schools’ or universities’ curricula. There needs to be a perceptual change. I also don’t think it’s true that the novel has to come first. Tessa Hadley, one of the best-known UK literary fiction writers at the moment, who taught me short-story writing on the Bath Spa MA, published collections of short stories before publishing her novels. NF: When you put together “If No One Speaks,” did you have a theme in mind to tie the stories together? How did you choose the stories you included in this book? SS: Yes, the themes of voicelessness and displacement were uppermost in my mind, although with some of the stories, that’s more apparent than in others. I wanted the stories to have a dialogue with each other, for them to speak to each other in terms of tone or content – so, for example, a story about a woman who has to literally and figuratively let go of her daughter in a towerblock fire (“Letting Go”) is followed by another about a woman who is letting go of her father’s ashes on a mountain (“The Thought of Death Sits Easy on the Man”). NF: Many people write stories based on their own experiences. However, your stories appear to come from somewhere else beyond you. Your imagination? Things you heard? Things you read? Do you imbue any of your characters with your personality, such as in “Quiet Love?” Where do your stories, and their sometimes-exotic settings, come from? Were locations based on places you visited, or did you choose them another way? SS: I don’t often write about things I’ve experienced personally, but when I’ve finished the stories, I often realize that what I was writing about is a recurring preoccupation. For example, with “Letting Go,” I only thought I was creating a story based on the real-life Grenfell Tower fire, which was a major disaster in London while I lived there, but not one that I was actually involved with. But retrospectively, I realized that what I was writing about was the fear of losing a child: very much present in my life as I have young children, who were very little at the time of creating the story. I also write a lot of stories in the ephemeral tradition, from a news story I’ve read. What I try to do is ask myself “What if?” – so what if the actual ending was very different, what if other characters were involved, what if it took place in another country etc. This is where “125,” a story that was a winner in the 2020 Literary Taxidermy Competition and is also in the collection, came from. I read a news story about women living in Bangladeshi brothels and imagined one particular woman living there, and thought “What if?” a client was kind enough to her that she fell in love with him? Bangladesh is not a country that I’ve visited, nor have I visited a brothel, but thanks to the internet I was able to find enough material to bring the location to life. Other locations in the collection are places that I really have visited – Thailand, America, the Lake District, etc. NF: What is the ephemeral tradition? SS: Perhaps it's not actually a tradition, more a term - used by the poet W.H (Bill) Herbert in a Craft Poetry class I took with him to describe a means of creating poetry from the scraps of writing that accrue around you. He has boxes of news articles that he uses as source material for poetry. I find The Guardian newspaper a rich source of inspiration - many of the stories I've written have been inspired by their Experiences column, which is about ordinary people's very strange and unusual experiences. One of the most recent ones: “I was attacked by a wild boar while surfing.” NF: Some of your stories seem to revolve around confinement, self-imposed, or imposed from the outside, sometimes to the point of having no control over one’s circumstances (“If No One Speaks,” “Quiet Love,” “I25,” “Making Memories”). If this has been an issue in your life, please describe how, if you don’t mind. SS: I spent three of my teenage years at an English boarding school in the 1990s, when there was little pastoral care. I didn’t fit in very well and I felt very confined; there was almost nothing to do except lessons and we had almost no freedom, at an age when people need to start becoming more independent. Stephen Fry, who has been to prison, said that if you’ve been to boarding school you can survive in jail! I think that was one of the experiences that made me interested in the idea of confinement. Mental confinement is a big preoccupation for me as well. I have often felt unable to say how I feel, that I will be punished in some way for doing it. Literally, when I was younger, I had a bad stammer – so I really often couldn’t say how I felt. Writing about these things is a kind of therapy, because the women in the stories usually do manage to speak out in some way, even if it is just to other people who can’t change the situation they’re in (as in the title story of the collection, “If No One Speaks,” when the protagonist who is in prison writes letters and talks to her cellmates about what’s happened). NF: Some of your stories involve chance meetings with death (“Letting Go,” “John,” “My Sister the Murderer,” “Palimpsest”). Have you ever had a near-death experience, and if so, can you describe it? What attracts you to this theme? SS: I think it’s something most people are interested in, hence the obsession with thrillers and crime dramas. We’re all frail and mortal, aren’t we? I suppose for me that’s another thing that’s come with having children, the sense of needing to stay around for them. Also, having elderly parents in my 40s, when my friends are losing theirs, death seems more real than it did 10 or 20 years ago, when I didn’t know many people who had experienced loss. I guess I am fascinated by what death represents, which is not knowing; it’s a different story for everyone and not one that we can ever second-guess. I met a man on a train a couple of months ago, a very, very ordinary-looking man, who told me after about ten minutes of conversation that he’d recently been in a coma and had visited the gates of heaven and hell – that he’d been turned away from both as it wasn’t his time, and when he came out of his coma the nurse said “I can tell from your face you’ve been to the gates, it often happens to those who nearly pass.” Wow – I got off the train, ran home, and wrote a poem about that as soon as I could! NF: Some of your stories are graphic and brutal (“If No One Speaks,” “A Good Boy”). What was the genesis of these stories? SS: “A Good Boy” (about someone who has a lobotomy) is a true story – the character isn’t real, but everything that happens to him is. I’m interested in mental illness, my mum used to be a psychiatric nurse so has told me some things, and about what used to happen to patients – treatments were often barbaric. “The Bell Jar” by Sylvia Plath was an influence on me in that respect too. “If No One Speaks” is also based on truth; the Russian prison system is incredibly brutal – as are many prison systems. Pussy Riot members Nadezhda Tolokonnikova and Maria Alyokhina have spoken up about what happens in Russia, and people are starting to listen, but I’m not sure much has changed. NF: What are you writing now? Do you have any new projects in mind, and if so, what are they? SS: I’m writing more poetry, and hope to have a chapbook (which we call a pamphlet in the UK) out in the next year. I’m also writing a novel about a mother and a daughter – no title yet! Here are links to some of my recent poetry: “Night-light” won first prize in the First Writer International Poetry Competition: https://www.firstwriter.com/competitions/poetry_competition/winners/12thpoetry.shtml “On Screen” was only published last month, in Impostor Lit: https://online.fliphtml5.com/ixptq/gxpb/#p=12 NF: Do you have any plans or dreams to live somewhere else? To do something totally different? If so, please share. SS: In April 2021, I uprooted my family from London to Durham, which involved my kids having to leave their schools, so I want to stay here for the rest of their childhoods at least. I would like to travel more widely – I’d love to see more of America, and visit Canada. I do a lot of traveling in my mind at the moment! ~~~~~~ Colin Gee (@ColinMGee, he/him) is the founder and editor of The Gorko Gazette (@GorkoThe), a humor daily that publishes headlines, cartoons, reviews, and poetry. Fiction in Misery Tourism, Expat Press, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Bear Creek Gazette, Exacting Clam, and elsewhere. *** NF: When you accepted my first submission, you told me I could claim my first pizza as a reward. I asked if you could send virtual pizza, since I live in Wyoming, and you live in Mexico. A sourdough starter and fresh ingredients sound just yummy. When am I going to get my pizza? CG: Whenever you get your lazy ass down to Mexico. Of course, I have since moved and threw my starter out (tragedy and comedy often collide), so I would need probably a few days’ notice. Naw, like 2 hours’ notice, we could improv. I hear the tacos are excellent in Mexico, too. NF: How did you end up in Mexico? Did you ever live in Peoria and do you have an Uncle Toby? How did you fall into teaching? Please tell me about your life journey. CG: I have lived outside the US since I graduated college, with a brief stint back for grad school. I like the simplicity of life outside of the first world, as they call it, and the relative independence from big gov. Poor but free. And the weather helps seasonal affective issues that I remember all too well. Uncles I think are great targets for humor, and they generally know it. My paternal grandmother was from Peoria, they say, also the phrase “But will it play in Peoria.” Running joke, feeble. I am currently the director of a very good English as a Second Language program in Oaxaca, Mexico, in which we are trying to get students to B1-B2 level fluency in productive skills, despite these students coming in often with no English, or even with Spanish as their second language. NF: What made you decide to start The Gorko Gazette? When did you start it? Was it always electronic, or was it ever a paper gazette? Was it daily when you first started it? Have you always had contributors, or are contributors a more recent phenomenon? And where do you get your ideas for some of the off-the-wall daily posts? If you have a secret repository for the weird and insane, I want in. CG: I guess I do call it a daily even though that just means we publish new stuff daily, not a new edition. The Gorko is just me, so I cannot put together a whole zine every day, though I could if that was all I did. My parents encouraged me to pursue creative writing when I was a kid, and then helped me start putting out zines for friends and extremely embarrassed relatives when I was like 10 or 11. The first name of The Gorko Gazette, I think, was The Pencil’s End or something. The earliest contributors were my friends Kyle, Jake, and I think even Josh, even though poor Josh had never even read a book, but he gave it a try. I still remember the look on his face when he handed me his submission at the bowling alley, it was like a first kiss. They all have grown-up jobs now. Not sure what you mean by off-the-wall, how dare you. Everything in The Gorko is completely serious. NF: Where did the name Raddy come from? CG: I used to run my neologisms by Jake, who went to MIT on full scholarship at the age of 16, to whom I proved once and forever that Macs ARE superior to IBMs in an arm-wrestling match, and he would always shoot them down. That word already exists! he would say, doing code with one hand. Raddy is an embarrassing thing that happened, but I like to stuff my face in my own stupidity and egotism sometimes because I think our memories shouldn’t hurt us as much as they do. NF: We’ve talked about food a bit. You mention you have a dairy sensitivity. How did you finally figure out what was wrong? And how do you deal with that in a country where everything is coated in cheese (even the cheese)? CG: I was sick for about 2 years in high school and finally my mom suggested isolating food items, and it was the dairy. My dairy issues included cheese, milk, cream, and almost all commercial snacks and desserts (whey and other dairy lurking in there). I still don't eat snacks. In Mexico, I buy fresh vegetables and meat at reasonable prices and then cook them to make delicious food. Cheese or cheese products rarely enter the equation. NF: You mention in your bio that you write fiction. However, I’ve seen at least one of your published poems, and I suspect you’re Captain B, although I can’t prove it. Is poetry a closet thing for you? What do you like about writing poetry, and what do you like about writing fiction? CG: Yeah, people think that I am Captain B! I am not. Captain B is my greatest and oldest friend Nacho Puro, a teacher and imbiber of words who in fact is sitting on an iceberg tip of archived poetry and fiction that would sink Kate Winslet. He used to publish musings daily on his own blog but took them down per agreement when he published his novels, but I asked him to join The Gorko with new offerings to give it some flavor. Thanks to Captain B, we are now publishing good, edgy poetry and art from the likes of Colin James, Oliver Baer, Adam Van Winkle, Mark Blickley, Adora Williams, Laszlo Aranyi, Nolcha Fox, and others! It is great fun. I dislike most contemporary poetry. It is mostly embarrassingly bad. I was reading classical Latin, Greek, and English poetry when I was a teenager, so sorry, but I know what is good. To get into modernist poetry, I forced myself to research the Dadaists and Cubists of the early 20th century and write “Misanthropology,” a satirical commentary on the collected works of the fictional Gulliver S. Gulliver, modernist poet and chump. (A running feature on The Gorko uses the same satirical concept. See, for example, https://thegorkogazette.com/2022/02/20/gazelle-of-unfended-laatsi-by-guy-duvet/.) I am glad I did because there is a lot of amazing modernist and contemporary poetry out there. Yes, I was wrong, it is only mostly bad, while some of it is great. For contemporary indie lit poetry, I recommend anything that comes out of Outcast Press Poetry, helmed by H.L.R. and Amy-Jean Muller. Cajun Mutt Press puts out good stuff, too, and of course the three big dogs I mention below… NF: What are your future literary plans (books, podcasts, whatever)? Do you ever see yourself giving up The Gorko Gazette, or do you think it will always follow you around like a bad cold? CG: Yeah, it has been great to get into the lit underground scene and publish some short things with people who publish things I like, Misery Tourism and Expat Lit and A Thin Slice of Anxiety especially. I actually read with William and Rudy on Misery Loves Company a few weeks back, my first reading which I guess I botched, but William just eats up words, he is the best. Viva Misery Tourism. Hopefully, someday people will enjoy reading my “Battlerof Beowulf,” the only honest WTF reading of the Old English poem, sorry Seamus Heaney, and yes, I read/translated the Old English syllable by syllable, but I guess non-historical, tongue-in-cheek battle fiction may have to wait until The Gorko Press exists. NF: Do you have any plans or dreams to live somewhere else? To do something totally different? CG: Nope, this is fine. Ha ha. NF: How can people submit to The Gorko Gazette? CG: https://thegorkogazette.com/submit/ ~~~~~~ Bonnie is a British writer who mainly writes flash fiction, with the occasional short story or poem. She also has book-length publications in non-fiction, fiction, and memoir. Her flash fiction has appeared or is in publication with several literary magazines and anthologies, including those by Reflex Press, Ad Hoc Fiction, Briefly Zine, and Dribble Drabble, and she has been listed for competitions by King Lear and Reflex Press. She lives in Greater Manchester, where she shares a house with an unpredictable number of family members. Website: https://bonniemeekums.weebly.com/ Twitter: @bonniemeekums Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100063482439601 *** NF: What influenced you to start writing creatively? Have you always written? BM: Hmmm. Well, as a child I remember writing a poem at school. I must have been about ten years old, I guess. I was writing about ‘The dinosaur’, and for some reason, I decided to make that the end line of each stanza. I think the other lines were probably dedum, dedum, dedum, dedum, and there were three lines to each stanza. I had my very own book of poems by Robert Louis Stevenson called “A child’s garden of verse.” I treasured that book and knew many of the poems by heart. I think that’s where I got my love of rhythmic structure. Then, in high school, I started writing short stories and my English teacher kinda liked them. But I didn’t keep it up, despite a diploma in dance, theatre, and writing in my twenties that taught me zilch about writing. Fast forward to my late fifties. It’s 2011, and I’m a lecturer in counseling and psychotherapy at a major UK university. The wonderful staff center offers a writing course with a local writer called Ian Clayton, and that is when I rekindle my love of writing. After retiring, I also did an online course with Open University. In 2019, my creative memoir The Story Hunter was published by Dear Damsels. Then, my debut novel, “A Kind of Family,” was published in 2020 by Between the Lines publishing. Around the same time, I got into flash fiction, which is where I put a lot of my energies these days. I’ve also self-published my second novel “My Upside Down World,” set in WW2, and co-authored a working-class memoir, “Remnants of War,” with my sister, Jackie Hales. NF: You mentioned that you had polio when you were younger. How did that impact you and your writing? BM: I was three. I wasn’t writing much at the time. But I have written about that traumatic experience, as part of an autoethnography published in the British Journal of Guidance and Counselling, which included some of my poems. I suspect being paralyzed and having to learn to walk again might have influenced my career focus on embodiment (I am a Dance Movement Therapist), and that, in turn, has influenced my creative writing. NF: What kind of writing do you like to do best? BM: Definitely flash fiction (though poetry is growing on me again). I love the succinctness - I’m a bit of a nerd, and I love getting down to the essence of something. Plus, I like to find out what my story is about and go back after the first draft, to find a core metaphor. That means it can get a bit surreal as I mine that metaphor, telling the story by staying as close to it as possible. NF: You mentioned that you also write longer, book-length fiction and memoir. Tell me about them. BM: My first novel, “A Kind of Family,” follows a psychotherapist and academic called Rachel who feels alone in the world, despite having some good friends. She falls in love with community artist Fran, and shortly after this, an older woman called Aggie, who looks like she is straight out of the sixties, pays Rachel a visit. Aggie seems very interested in Rachel and Fran, and she keeps turning up. But it soon becomes apparent to Rachel that only she can see and hear Aggie. Rachel and Fran marry, and eventually, Fran gives birth to a baby boy using Rachel’s eggs and sperm donated by Richard, one of Rachel’s colleagues from the university. But disaster strikes. In the process of piecing herself together afterward, Rachel realizes who her family really is. For anyone wanting to read “A Kind of Family,” you can follow me on Twitter or Facebook and DM me for a signed copy, or it is also available on Amazon: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Kind-Family-Bonnie-Meekums/dp/1950502074/ref=sr_1_1?crid=1HA5UEWZDZR3M&keywords=A+kind+of+family+meekums&qid=1661796477&s=books&sprefix=a+kind+of+family+meekums%2Cstripbooks%2C74&sr=1-1 My second novel, “My Upside Down World,” which I self-published, is written as Lily’s diary during World War Two. Lily is a working-class Londoner who was not born in London, but she has never told anyone the true story of her origins. What’s more, she tells no one that she regularly travels in time and space, to visit her birth mother. Lily’s biggest fear is being left, which is what she has to face when her husband, Stan, is called up. Shortly after meeting Hilda, a Quaker who makes Lily question the wisdom of war and the ideas she has been fed about some people being better than others, she makes the difficult decision to be evacuated with her children, to Stan’s family in the North of England. Once there, and with Stan killed after being convicted of murder, she has to find a way to contribute financially. And what’s more, she has to find a way to clear Stan’s name. On her return to London after the Blitz, she faces an even bigger challenge when she encounters racism. “My Upside Down World” is available on Amazon: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Upside-Down-World-uplifting-injustice-ebook/dp/B09L686NWP/ And lastly, “Remnants of War” is a collaboration with my writer-sister, Jackie Hales. It follows our development in the 1950s from the era of make-do-and-mend to the time when working-class people in Britain were told we had ‘never had it so good.’ It also traces the importance of education both formal and informal, in helping us both to break out of the traditional roles delineated for girls. You can read “Remnants of War” here: https://www.amazon.co.uk/Remnants-War-working-class-post-war-childhood/dp/B091DNJDV7/ref=tmm_pap_swatch_0?_encoding=UTF8&qid=1661796292&sr=1-1 NF: Our first flash/poetry collaboration will be published by Moss Puppy Magazine in November. Why did you decide to invite people to collaborate? BM: That’s a really interesting question. I was inspired by Meg Pokrass, an amazing flash fiction writer who does collaborative as well as individual writing. I wanted also to explore hybrid forms. I had read a novella-in-flash, “Gaps in the Light,” by Iona Winter, in which she uses both poetry and flash fiction, often within the same short chapter. I thought it would be fun to work with a poet on creating a collaborative, hybrid piece. I had already collaborated with my sister on our book-length memoir, so I went for it. NF: While I hope to continue writing, even when I’m on my deathbed, as I age, I worry about the horrors that might end my writing career (a colorful illness, the zombie apocalypse, or an attack of space aliens). Has this ever crossed your mind, and what might you see happening that would move your life in a different direction? BM: Well, that’s interesting. I started writing in part because I love all the arts, but I’m primarily a dancer. I figured writing could go on longer, but I was probably wrong in that regard because sitting for any length of time (like typing this) hurts my arthritic hip. I have to move, to avoid getting too stiff and in pain. So that might be the thing that stops me. But if it does, I’ll find another way to engage with the arts. There is so much left to explore. And one day, the lights will go out, but I know I will have left a trace, should anyone wish to follow it. *** Nolcha has written all her life, starting with poop and crayons on the walls. Her poems have been published in Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Alien Buddha Zine, Medusa’s Kitchen, and others. Her chapbooks, “My Father’s Ghost Hates Cats” and “The Big Unda” are available on Amazon. Nominee for 2023 Best of The Net. Editor for Kiss My Poetry. Website: https://bit.ly/3bT9tYu Twitter: @NolchaF Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/nolcha.fox/ “My Father’s Ghost Hates Cats” https://www.amazon.com/dp/B09QP1XY3X “The Big Unda” https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0B55P2F7L

“The air’s so thick tonight.” The taxi driver shouts, head twisted towards her, turning the steering wheel with one hand, veering out from the airport terminal into a row of scarlet tail lights, zigzagging between lanes, making her stomach lurch with each acceleration and she clings, fingers tight, wrapped around the seatbelt to steady herself until he brakes. Sudden. Sharp. Bouncing her forward, into the anonymous hotel entrance. * * * “The air’s real thick here in November.” She has reached the front of the check-in queue, shuffled her way along the swirled carpet soaking up sounds of footsteps. Read the gaudily illustrated offers for corporate Christmas gatherings posted around the beige lobby. The receptionist frowns down, taps at the keyboard as she speaks. Clicks a blank rectangle of plastic masquerading as a room key onto the counter, kohl-lined eyes already flicked towards the next client in the queue. * * * “The air is thick out there this morning – you better wrap up warm. Don’t want to get sick.” The waiter in the breakfast room gestures at the looming clouds gathering over the city skyline beyond the plate glass window, placing a basket of pastries in front of her. She sips the cappuccino, drawing hot coffee through a cloud of foam, feels a freckle of chocolate dust her lip. The brioche crackles as she lifts it, fresh and warm on her tongue, a sweet slick of apricot jam leaking from its heart. Loosening her looped scarf, she waterfalls it in a silky heap onto her knee. Her fingers graze the bare skin on her neck. Right now, far away from home and him and her life, she inhales the light air of freedom. Denise Bayes writes flash fiction and has had work published in places including Ellipsis zine and Firewords Magazine. Denise is from the North of England and now lives in Barcelona.

Does a Bear shit in the woods? Sometimes. Usually, even; but not today and not this Bear. I’m going to break into this cabin and shit in a drawer. I might shit upon the sharpest knife in there. I might also shit upon a knife that is not the sharpest. Once you’ve accepted this drawer-shitting conceit, said drawer’s contents (let alone the relative sharpness of utensils therein) fade into the vague peripheries of interest and relevance. Let's be honest. It’s going to be a Bear shit apocalypse for the contents of this drawer. I will pollute spoons, forks, spatulas, and garlic presses along with any knives in there. I’ve been holding it for half the day, and I’ll be leaving the cabin a few pounds lighter than when I entered. Half measures are for lesser beasts. The Hunter who lived in this cabin had much in common with the least-sharp knife in the drawer. He had a low cunning that made him periodically effective in his travails, but nothing more. The Hunter’s mate had complained of his dullness, at great length and at great volume, when she departed months ago. Her viperous shouts had filled the valley and brought many animals around to spy on the drama of her leaving. I know a Squirrel that does a passable imitation of her infamous rant, chittering away and stalking back and forth. In contrast to The Hunter, I am smarter than the average Bear. However, gaining stealthy access to the cabin (let alone opening a drawer with a smooth plastic handle) were daunting tasks for a shaggy beast with no opposable thumbs. I had tried and failed to gain entrance on my own; the battered brass doorknob resisted the efforts of my paws and teeth, forcing a haunch-clenching retreat to consider my options. For such a jape, a Bear needs an accomplice. Fortunately, I am on good terms with a Raccoon whose name I can’t pronounce but who owes me a favor. I made a point of eating a Coyote that was giving his family trouble; as a result, this Raccoon is rather well disposed towards me. He speaks passable Bear and we chat occasionally about the weather and how to find the finest garbage for scavenging. He’s more acquaintance than friend, but close relationships are scarce when you’re an apex predator. I located my neighbor the Raccoon and explained the jape; he agreed to put his clever paws to work on my behalf. In a trice, we were in the cabin with the cutlery drawer opened. There were indeed many knives (both sharp and less so) in there. My excitement at the thought of a successful caper layered upon the ongoing, overpowering urge to void. Imagine an eight hundred pound Bear climbing onto a narrow countertop in a tiny kitchen. Then, envision the geometry of aligning said Bear’s posterior above a drawer. Several minutes of careful clambering were required. After three false starts and much Bearish grunting, I got into position. Nothing happened. I put forth considerable effort, straining and pushing. Still nothing. I bore down harder, a basso growl escaping my throat. The Raccoon wisely fled. Anxious thoughts chased one another through my mind. What if I couldn’t go? What if the Hunter came back early? What if I slipped and fell? Crouched awkwardly on the counter, I tried to relax. I envisioned the first fat Fish of the season, knocked out of the creek while I stood belly-deep in icy spring runoff. My favorite knotty pine tree beckoned to me with its coarse bark, perfect for an itchy back. I imagined the serene heaviness of head and limb that descends as you begin hibernation. That did it. I trembled for a solid minute and then enjoyed a gloriously powerful loosening of my sphincter. I struggled to hold still over the open drawer. This was better than fishing. Better than an epic back scratching. Better even than covering a willing female after defeating her other suitors. Afterwards, I was lighter both in body and in spirit. I shuffled sideways and began another awkward climb to get down. With a gentle paw, I eased shut the (very) full drawer. I had not felt such pride since my first kill as a yearling. Raccoons are gossipy at the best of times and the news of a Bear invading The Hunter’s home for comedic defecatory purposes was far too juicy a morsel. By the time I ambled up to my intended observation point overlooking the cabin, the valley was teeming with hidden wildlife. Despite his incompetence, most animals had lost a friend or a family member to the man’s traps, baits, and (less commonly) to his indifferent aim with the rifle. When The Hunter returned home and discovered my gift, his cries and antics provided fodder for generations of clever Squirrel mimicry. He cursed and ranted and shot at stumps he thought were lurking Bears. Scores of hidden animals watched him run back and forth across the valley; their quiet laughter warmed my heart. The Hunter stumbled on the porch steps while carrying the full and still-steaming drawer out for disposal. Don’t let the Squirrels embellish the tale; he did not land face-first in the drawer. He did, however, trip and spill it all over his porch. His slung rifle scraped against a wooden porch-post and bit deeply into the weathered pine, leaving a bright gouge in the gray wood. Eventually the scar faded, but now and then I go look at the grooved wood post that bears mute witness to my jape, and I smile. My shenanigans bought me a measure of goodwill among the other animals. Still no close friends for this apex predator, of course, but more Squirrels and Marmots and even the odd brave Rabbit are apt to greet me while I roam. When they’d ask me why I did it, I took to replying, “Well, sometimes a turd in the drawer is worth two in the bush.” Scott O'Neill works hard, plays hard, and writes speculative fiction in Canada. He once saw a real bear in a real house having a bowel movement. Not in a drawer, though. Just like, on the floor. Then he ran (Scott, not the bear). He tweets as @wererooster. (Scott, not the bear)

“Richard, can you tell me why she still smells like urine?” Dr. Paolo asks the orderly. “Um…” “I told you to get her cleaned up. That was yesterday. So why does she still smell like urine?” I look down at my hands. I don’t even smell anything. Apparently, I’m just that accustomed to the stink of my own piss. When Dr. Paolo receives nothing but stunned silence, she barks, “Next time I tell you to clean her up, you’re to do it well.” “Yes, doctor.” Richard bows his head and lets himself out of the office. Dr. Paolo turns to me and proceeds to ask the exact same questions she asked yesterday. I cross my arms over the ridiculous cotton gown I’ve been issued. “Look, I already told you the absolute truth about what happened to me. And legally, you can’t keep me here more than 72 hours. You may not like what I told you, but that doesn’t mean I belong in a place like this.” I gesture at the scene that’s transpiring on the other side of the plate glass window in Dr. Paolo’s office: a writhing, screaming man being carried along by two muscled orderlies. “There are all sorts of different people who stand to benefit from being in here, Ms. Birch. I’ll be the one to decide who stays and who goes. Now, let’s start with Friday night.” I sigh aggressively and gaze up at the ceiling. “I was driving from Colorado Springs up to Denver for a weekend with my friends. At one point, I checked my phone. I looked back up and suddenly I was driving on a desert road. From one second to the next—” I snap my fingers. “—everything had completely changed. And—trust me, I know how crazy this sounds—I…I just knew I was in Utah.” Dr. Paolo regards me coolly. “Utah deserts are hundreds of miles away from Denver, Ms. Birch.” “I…” Every time I tell my story, the details get a little harder to recall, and I’m a little more embarrassed. “I know it sounds wrong.” “It does sound wrong, Ms. Birch. Very wrong. Wrong, wrong. Perhaps you simply ended up in an unfamiliar part of Colorado. Getting lost on the road can be quite disorienting.” I bristle at the doctor’s odd cadence, but I keep mum. Last time I asked her why she kept repeating certain words, she gave me some bullshit line about extreme clarity being essential for a patient suffering a psychotic break. I flew off the handle at the use of such an offensive phrase to describe my situation, and before I knew it, I was being sedated and carried back to my room. My room is a weird, exhausting place. I’d prefer to stay in Dr. Paolo’s office as long as I can, so I offer, “Well, it’s true I was lost.” “I have no doubt, with how tired you must’ve been. Things get blurred when you’ve been driving for so long in the dark. Perhaps you’d put the car on autopilot and fell asleep at the wheel.” “I didn’t fall asleep at the wheel.” Before the doctor can come up with another patronizing hypothesis, I add, “But, I admit…I’ve always been terrible with maps.” This seems to appease her. “Anyway, I didn’t see one damn person or sign or building for a long time. There was a mountain off in the distance and an empty reservoir every now and then. Just when I was about to run out of gas, I came across a gas station.” “Hmm. Very convenient.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” “Well, it happens, you know. In the desert. Mirages. Sometimes, in the desert, there are mirages. Mirages.” I roll my eyes. It seems Dr. Paolo will grasp at anything except the truth. But I know better than to point this out. “Ms. Birch, if there was a gas station, then you would’ve filled your tank and been on your way. Instead, you ended up missing for weeks.” “I didn’t fill my tank because the place was closed. And even if the place was open, the pumps looked weird. They had clock faces on them.” “A clock face on a gas pump. Doesn’t that seem like your subconscious telling you that it was time to get some shuteye and stop driving around in a confused state?” I grit my teeth. I want to scream, rip this fucking gown off, and cinch it around Dr. Paolo’s dainty little neck until her eyes go flat. It’s by the grace of god I’m able to calmly say, “I’m not sure why you’re even interviewing me again. You’ve clearly got your mind made up about what happened to me.” For ten long seconds, the doctor observes me. “Fine, Ms. Birch. What did you do then?” I allow myself to be reabsorbed by my stint in White Sands. The scene is slightly less vivid than it was yesterday, but salient nonetheless: A dusty Ford Ranchero with unlit headlights flies over the road. But then it slows and pulls into the gas station. In the passenger seat is a woman with a gray strands woven through her braided black hair. “What are you doing out?” she demands. “Curfew started hours ago.” “Curfew…?” I chuckle amicably. “I may look young, but I’m 26. I’m allowed to be out at night, trust me.” The driver, a white man with a flap hat, seems to be keeping watch for something. “She ain’t from here,” he says even though he still hasn’t so much as glanced in my direction. “Then she’s our responsibility.” The woman throws open the door and scoots toward the driver. She beckons me and says, “Quickly, now.” “Oh…I just need some gas is all. Any chance you’ve got a can to spare?” The driver and his passenger make wry sounds. “The best thing we can offer you is a place to sleep until we can drive you back here in the morning,” the woman says. After a few minutes of back and forth, I finally give in. I collect my purse from my car, lock it, and climb into the Ranchero. “Beautiful truck.” “It’s actually a coupe.” The man pulls out of the gas station. “It needs a wash,” the woman says. “But…water rations have gotten to be less and less.” Water rations? I’m curious but I don’t pry. We drive in silence, the heavy night air scented with sagebrush. We enter a tired residential area with single-level adobe houses nestled directly into the coarse blond sand and pull into the driveway of one such house. It isn’t until the woman locks us into the modest but scrubbed home that she introduces herself as Aponi and the man as Red. “I’m Willa,” I say. “Willa, meet our children. Kimana is eight.” Red flicks his head toward a girl with Aponi’s chiseled cheekbones and thick, braided hair. “And Jeb is fourteen.” He claps his hand onto the shoulder of a boy that closely resembles him. The children mumble bashful hellos and cling to their parents. Weird. When I was growing up, I wouldn’t’ve been caught dead cuddling up to my mother or father. “Welp…” Red sighs and turns off a lantern. “Best we all get some sleep.” It sinks in how meager the accommodations are. The home is solely lit by the warm glow of oil lanterns. There’s no sink, only a basin with an empty pitcher next to it. So no electricity, and no running water. As much as I’d love to hit the hay and deal with my problems in the morning, I just can’t tolerate these conditions. I say, “Oh…I thought I’d use your phone and get Triple A out here to help me.” “Triple what?” Red says. Without waiting for an answer, he says, “We don’t have a phone.” “Oh. Well, do you mind if I use your bathroom?” That way I can clear my head and check my cell in peace. Ever since I’ve been in Utah, the screen has been scrambled and I haven’t even been able to let my friends know I probably won’t be joining them this weekend. “The bathroom?” Kimana squawks. “It’s after dark!” She looks up at her mother. Red’s fist connects with the kitchen table, sending the children’s school supplies an inch into the air and my shoulders into my ears. “GOD DAMN IT!” he roars. “We should not have brought her here!” I take a step backward and gulp down a dry knot of trepidation. The man’s eyes blaze at his wife, but she ignores him. “Here.” She hands me a pot. “Do whatever you have to do in this. Then you can sleep on the couch.” Aponi extinguishes the other lanterns and the family disappears into two small bedrooms in the back of the house. I stand in the dark living room, shocked at the absurd trajectory my life has taken in the last few hours. I set the pot aside. I don’t need it. I suppose I’ve gotten exactly what I’d wanted, though: a moment alone—undistracted by the strange people in this strange village—to collect myself. I press the home button on my phone and cool blue light reveals that Red is looming less than a foot away from me. I startle hard. “If I woulda known you had one of those things, girl, I woulda left you at that gas station,” he growls. “I—I’m sorry, I just need to—” “Don’t waste your time. That thing won’t work no matter how hard you try.” “Oh. Is there no service here?” “‘Here.’” Red emits a cold snicker. “It ain’t the place that’s the problem, sweetheart. Now turn that thing off and go to sleep.” Seeing as my screen is still garbled anyway, I do as I’m told. In the morning, I wake up with my clothes sticking to my body and an awful parchedness in my mouth. The children eye me from the kitchen table, where Aponi is schooling them. “You can visit the outhouse now, Willa,” she says. I test my bladder and find that its fullness is surprisingly bearable. I can definitely wait until I find a place more savory than an outhouse. “Oh, that’s okay. Can I just have a glass of water?” Aponi walks to the corner of the kitchen and edges a heavy stone lid off what must be an in-ground compartment. She uses a clay tumbler as a ladle. I can hear the clay scraping against stone. She hands me the tumbler, which bears about an inch of water that tastes like rock. “Thank you—for the water, and for all your hospitality. I’m so sorry to ask for more, but do you think you can give me a ride back to the gas station?” “There’s gas?” Jeb asks excitedly. Aponi says to me, “I’m sorry. Red’s out with the truck.” “Oh…I guess I can just walk. It wasn’t that far away.” The woman studies me for a few seconds, then hesitantly lets me go. Upon leaving the house, I’m stunned by the monstrous heat. Inside the adobe domicile, despite the absence of air conditioning, it was much cooler than it is out here. Not too far up the sun-bleached road, I have serious doubts about whether I’ll make it ten more steps let alone two-and-a-half miles. I soldier through what I’d guess was four city blocks before I spot a flattened rock about ten feet off the road. It’s sparsely shaded by a Joshua tree. As I plop down on the rock, I realize I can smell my own sweaty scalp. Ugh. How is this my life right now? I fiddle with my cell, praying for a miracle. Out of the corner of my eye, I notice a subtle movement on the ground. I jerk my gaze toward it, terrified that I’ve happened upon a rattle snake. But what I see instead is an opening. I stretch my neck to get a better view, but I’m punished for my curiosity by a putrid odor. Is this damn heat messing with me so much that I just thought I saw a freakin’ hole in the sand instead of what’s clearly a pool of excrement from some animal whose rapid retreat was what caught my attention in the first place? “That sounds entirely plausible,” Dr. Paolo says. I’m ripped from my immersive recollection. I blink at the doctor. “What?” “It was the heat. The heat was getting to you, making you see things. See things. See things. You were seeing things.” “Yes…. There are mirages in the desert, you know,” I murmur. “Yes. So, what happened after you saw the animal dung in the sand?” “After I saw the dung…” My mind folds back into my time in White Sands. A horn blares loudly. It’s Red idling in his “coupe.” “What the hell’re you doin’ out here?” he calls. “I was walking to the gas station and just stopped for a little break. Think you can give me a ride the rest of the way? Please…. I’m not used to this heat.” “Get in.” Elated, I circle around the front of the car and launch myself into the squeaky cab. When Red doesn’t make a U-turn but continues in the direction from which I came, I panic. “Where are you going?” Red slams the heel of his hand on the steering wheel. “Don’t you get it? There ain’t no gas!” “Still…. There’ll be people who can help me—a phone I can use…” He snatches my purse from my lap, extracts my cell, and pitches it out the window. Mouth agape, I turn and stare, expecting to see a small cloud of dust rise from where the phone landed. I see nothing but unbothered sand meeting hostile sky. “Stop the car right now!” “No can do.” The bill of his hat casts a sinister shadow on his face. “You’ll just go back to get your little gadget, and they can sense those things a mile away.” “Please!” I beg, but at this point there’s no chance in hell I’ll ever be able to find it. “We ain’t in the safety of home right now, girl. We’re out on the main road. You should never let anyone out here see you with one of them gadgets.” “It’s not a fucking ‘gadget,’ you asshole! It’s a cellphone! I don’t know who the hell you think would give a shit I have a phone! You sound like a paranoid freak!” “Is that any way to talk to a man that done saved you twice?” Red spits, the back flap of his hat thrashing in the cross breeze. “I saved you from that gas station—they woulda got at you for sure last night—and today, back there… Shit, that spot was dangerous as hell. Oh, I know it looked convenient. Nice, flat rock to sit on, even a little shade. But I’d bet my life they put a vent there, too, didn’t they?” Red shakes his head bitterly. “That was for their convenience.” A leadenness settles into my stomach. “Who the fuck is ‘they?’ And by ‘vent’ do you mean that hole in the sand?” “Yes, ma’am. They use the vents for air. They live underground, see. Oh, they’re too deep down in there to see ya, but you bet your sweet ass they just got a whiff of ya. And your gadget.” I clutch my stomach. “I’m not supposed to tell you any of this, but I can see you’re gonna be a real big problem if you don’t know what you’re dealing with.” When I don’t reply, Red slows the truck to a casual speed and continues. “They control everything, see? Things you wouldn’t think could be controlled. Like the weather.” I swallow a brackish cascade of saliva. “Anyone who could control the weather here would make it rain.” Red singsongs, “No they wouldn’t.” He erupts into the raucous cackling of a soul who’s lived a life of being defeated so consistently that he’s learned to appreciate his foe’s perfect intelligence. Desperate to put an end to his frightening laughter, I wrack my brain for topics that any man would find agreeable. “I—I really like this car, Red. I like how it’s painted two different colors, how it’s got that classic look to it. Where’d you get such an old car?” “Old? I bought this here Ranchero brand new and sparkling off the lot ’bout, oh, five, six years ago. Back when things were good. ’Fore them monsters set up shop below.” “Brand new? Five years ago? How can that be? They stopped making cars like this a long time ago.” “Well, ’59 was the last year Ford made these full-sized Rancheros, but that’s exactly when I got it. ’59.” “You got this in ’59? It’s 2005.” Red is silent for a few beats. Then he croaks, “God almighty. I knew it.” “Please…this isn’t funny.” “2005. In these parts, that’s 41 years in the future, girl. Don’t let anyone else hear you say things like that. In this village, we don’t talk about all the madness that goes on. No point, really.” Red hears the threatening heave from within me. He pulls over and gets me out of the car so I can vomit on the road instead of all over his dashboard. I wipe my mouth, briefly consider running, then get back into the Ranchero. “Is that why my phone won’t work out here? Because it’s 1964?” “Course it’s 1964.” “And that’s why you call my phone a ‘gadget.’ You’ve never seen one before.” “Oh, I seen two other ones since this whole thing started. On ungrateful out-of-towners like yourself. Although, let’s be honest, at this point, it’s official: They ain’t so much out-of-towners as out-of-timers. It ain’t natural. They carry gadgets that ain’t got no cords, ain’t connected to no phone line. How can they be makin’ calls on a thing like that? …Anyway, these outsiders, they wave them cellphones around, and next thing you know…” “Next thing you know…” “Well, they’re gone. Serves ’em right. They always think they’re above the rules of this place. But, trust me, nobody’s above the rules of this place. I told you—them underground—they control everything. Once, some people I knew tried to pool their gas and drive away. Next day, their bodies were found in the town square. We never did find their heads.” I cover my mouth with my hand. I stare out the window, across the sprawling sand, at the lone black mountain in the distance. *** Aponi, livid that her husband is openly discussing “them underground” in front of the children, comes in from her outdoor cooking fire and deposits a plate of mesquite pancakes on the table with a little more force than necessary. She smiles tightly, then turns to rifle around in the cupboard. “But why?” I implore. “Why the hell would anyone want to live down there?” Red takes a swig of his agave wine. “Our sun.” He points up toward the ceiling. “It burns them, even on the few rainy days we get. Shit, even our moon hurts ’em if they’re out too long. Oh, and pollution. It poisons them.” Jeb and Kimana alternate between exchanging looks of intrigue and casting their eyes down at their school primers. Aponi slides a jar of prickly pear syrup onto the table. “Time for lunch.” After consuming an embarrassing percentage of the food on the table, I sleep. I’m too drained to do anything else. Afterward, the five of us pass the late afternoon playing card games. When the sun begins to lower, the deep baying of a horn sweeps across the desert. “What’s that?” I ask. “Curfew,” Aponi says, rearranging the fan of cards in her hand. A minute later, the quiet is pierced again, this time by a jarring, high-pitched screech. The family volleys around meaningful looks. Kimana starts crying. Jeb rubs his sister on the back and shushes her. “Don’t worry, now, Kimmy.” But soon we’re interrupted yet again by three startling knocks on the back of the house. “No.” Red scrambles out the front door and circles around the house. Through the windows, his words are muffled but audible: “We won’t, you hear me?! WE WON’T!” Red’s assertions are met with nothing but cruel silence. Kimana is in her mother’s lap hyperventilating and Jeb is on the couch, choking back his own guttural yips of panic. Red is out of breath and dripping with sweat when he returns. “The sun is touching the horizon.” “Let’s all get into the truck,” Aponi blurts, holding her daughter’s head to her chest. “Aponi…you know we ain’t had enough gas to make it out of White Sands for years.” “We would if you’d stop driving around all the time, wasting it!” “First of all, if I never drove, they just wouldn’t give me any more. Secondly, woman, I’ve only driven three times since the last gas ration! Once for water, once to fetch the lamp oil and agave—that was the night we picked this one up—” He makes an agitated gesture at me. “And today, because the work was guaranteed. Even if I didn’t do any of those things, all the gas we got at ration still wouldn’t get us outta this desert! Not to mention we’re chipped!” “Just shut up, Red! Just shut up! Look at your son! Use this time to comfort him!” Red pulls Jeb to him, his dirty nails digging into the boy’s freckled skin. Then a look of understanding crosses his face. “Now you wait just a minute. He’s not going.” “Of course he is. He’s practically a man. Kimana’s just a girl.” “Exactly. He’s more polluted. It has to be a child because they want pure, Aponi. And if they’re not satisfied, there’ll be consequences. Bad ones. We can’t let our family get hit twice when once is bad enough. I won’t allow it!” Aponi squeezes her eyes shut and shakes her head wildly. Her teeth form an agonized rectangle across her face. Father and son work as a team, Red restraining Aponi, Jeb wrestling his little sister out the door. Thus far, I’ve been paralyzed by shock and confusion, watching this tragedy unfold like it’s a scene in a movie rather than the horrifying reality. But now I make a move to wretch the door open and pull Kimana back into the house. This is when the males turn on me. Red darts over to hold me and Jeb guards the door. Aponi is collapsed on the floor, chest heaving, her eyes already swollen shut from her torrential sobbing. Red forces me into a chair and Jeb ties me to it. “APONI, GET UP! GO GET YOUR DAUGHTER!” I shout. Then I buck in my chair and yell at Red, “You have no right to do this!” “The hell I don’t. You’ve been nothing but trouble since you got here. We do not need the extra burden tonight.” With that, he and Jeb carry Aponi to a back bedroom, where they close the door and attempt to soothe her. I don’t sleep a wink. All night I wait, dread in my belly and an ache in my heart, for Kimana’s bloodcurdling scream. But I hear nothing. When the muted dawn steals into the house, I see something I hadn’t noticed before. It’s a framed photo of Aponi with Kimana and two other children. All three children look like Aponi. I never do see Aponi emerge from the back bedroom. But shortly after dawn, Red builds a cooking fire outside and makes coffee. He unties my hands. “That’s one hell of a mole you got on your neck there, girl. Big as a nipple, for chrissakes.” Scrutinizing my birthmark, he brings his face closer. If I weren’t tied to a chair, the yellow stink of his breath would blow me over. His fingers are so close to my neck I can feel their heat. Alarm courses through me. Would Red sexually assault me with his wife and child in the house? Lord knows he’s capable of anything. I force myself to stare out the window. All Red does is give me a stick of jerky and pour me a mug of black coffee. Blissfully, it isn’t some gross desert version of coffee, but actual coffee. The jerky, however, is revolting. Red notices me wince. “What’s wrong? You ain’t never had coyote?” I’m too hungry to refuse it, so I eat and avoid eye contact. Red shouts for Jeb, who quickly joins us at the table. I can tell he’s been crying. He and his father go about their eating with a somber air, but as soon as they untie my legs and we all file outside, Red’s voice turns uncharacteristically chipper. “Welp, let’s grab as many pots as we can.” We load pottery of varying sizes into the bed of the Ranchero. “What’re these for?” I ask. “You’ll see. But first, let’s get to the gas station.” I nod excitedly and slide into the coupe. Finally, I’m gonna get the fuck out of this godforsaken village. When we arrive, there are cars lined up and officials in army fatigues measuring what’s already in people’s tanks and pumping specific amounts of fuel into their vehicles. The atmosphere is bright and jovial. It makes me sick. I get out of the Ranchero, eager to reunite with my car. I’m obviously not a White Sands resident and should be allowed as much gas as I can pay for. When I can’t find my little four-door anywhere, I return to the Ranchero in tears. “My car,” I whisper. “I think someone stole it.” Red’s eyebrows jump with surprise. “Dang, girl. You thought they were gonna let you keep that?” “Who? The soldiers?” He erupts into a cackling fit. I stomp around to the passenger window. “Jeb, is there a place where they take all the things they confiscate?” “What?” “When things get stolen around here, where do they go?” Jeb’s eyes flicker with sadness. “Kimmy’s gone, Willa. You’re not allowed to talk about her anymore.” “No, I—” But I think better of pursuing the topic of my car. I sigh shakily and get back into the Ranchero. Our next stop is a reservoir, which, miraculously, is filled with clear, glittering water. The anticipation of the waiting patrons is palpable. Officials inspect Red’s pots and fill three quarters of them. Red even lets me and Jeb drink to our heart’s content from the spout of a pitcher before we reload the pots. On the way back home, I ask, “How did that reservoir get filled? It didn’t rain last night. I would’ve heard it.” “Same as the gas pumps got filled. Them underground.” “Yeah, but how?” I demand. “I don’t know how they do what they do, girl. Now settle down and don’t draw attention to yourself. Bad enough you let them smell you through the vent. They’ll chip you, you know. You’ll think it’s a dream. But that’s how they make sure you don’t walk right outta here. They control them soldiers, too. So best keep your head down and your mouth shut.” For the next few weeks, I say nothing of Kimana, my car, or the fact that I don’t fucking belong in 1964. I rise with the hateful sun every morning. I do everything Aponi would do if she wasn’t grieving, depressed, and in bed. I bathe with my daily allotment of wash water, which is barely enough to wet a cloth. I make coffee the hard way. When I gather the laundry, I wear Aponi’s heavy boots and gloves in case there are lurking scorpions. I “wash” clothes and dishes with sand. I teach Jeb what in 2005 constitutes fourth grade math. I sweep the house and watch Red make lunch. Every time the curfew horn sounds, I look at Red with pure odium. He never sees me, and if he did, I doubt he’d give a shit. I begin to accompany Red to the tavern each day after lunch. We don’t have much money, so eventually, we take turns going. Sometimes I don’t even buy anything for myself; instead, I use my meager funds to buy a drink for anyone who looks out of place. Soon, I meet a guy named Ernst. He’s a repairman who worked for some company called Pacific Bell. He ended up here after a drive down a California highway in 1980. He leans into me so only I can hear him. “Actually, it was months before I could remember exactly what happened. All that time I thought I had one of those crazy cases of amnesia…like those people who just disappear and start a completely new life somewhere and have no clue that they have a family looking for them back home. I think it’s called a fugue or something like that. Anyway, I finally remembered that I’d stopped to help a woman who had her car pulled onto the shoulder. This lady had a really nice Jaguar—black—but it had a flat. She was crying and neither of us had a spare tire but…” Ernst’s voice fades and Dr. Paulo’s office swims into view. “He gave her a ride even though he normally doesn’t do that sort of thing,” I finish. “What sort of thing?” Dr. Paulo says. “Help people in need? Sounds like a jerk to me.” I frown. The image of a shiny black Jag with a flat tire stirs something in a remote corner of my mind. “Ms. Birch? You were telling me about the man you’d met in the bar? You may proceed.” My surroundings shift to the social clamor of the stuffy tavern. Ernst and I huddle like lovers who find pleasure in being close despite the pervasive heat. What we’re really doing is planning a little rendezvous just outside the village, about an hour after curfew. When we meet, he shows me he’s obtained something of rarity here: a lemon. He cuts it in half with a small saw from his kit, which houses tools and a few loose phone parts. We each take a half and slather our exposed skin in citrus juice. “I know a hooker who makes house calls most nights,” Ernst whispers. “Hasn’t disappeared yet. Swears it’s the lemon juice.” “How the hell does she get so many lemons?” “She grows ’em. Her clients pay her with water.” “And how does she manage to go out after curfew like that? All the villagers are chipped.” “She’s not a villager. She’s from the 90s. Had a bag of groceries in her car when she ended up here. That’s where she got the lemon seeds. She was a lawyer. Likes it here better. Can you imagine?” He lets a chuckle slip. “Sshh!” I hiss. I’m trembling. Ernst takes my hand. We arrive at a phone booth located in a particularly desolate spot. I keep a lookout as my companion begins to salvage the phone. “It’s a miracle this is even out here,” I say. “Yup. There used to be a miners’ camp here. In the 40s, a rotary phone was installed for the miners to call their families. I sure hope my supplies will work on a phone this old.” I look at the oppressive black mass sitting in the distant darkness. “I hate that fucking mountain.” “Actually, it’s a volcano. Scary, right? Anyway, I heard that when those fucks underground took this place over, they cut the electric, confiscated all the radios, and took away the post office and phone lines. But I’ve been coming to visit this phone ever since someone at the tavern mentioned it a week ago, and I think there are lines underground. The villagers have no clue something like that would even be possible, of course. But I think there’s phone and electric down there. This would be the first time I heard of underground lines in the desert, but hey, this place is full of surprises.” Sure enough, three feet under the sand are sleeved utility lines. “I’ve never seen material like this,” Ernst says, examining the sleeve. “Easy enough to cut into, though.” He smiles as he nears the completion of his task with purposeful alacrity. Finally, we hear the most wonderful sound in the world: a dial tone. My pal calls his father, who was a prominent journalist in the 50s and 60s. The first thing Ernst tells his dad is not to ride any elevators on August 9th. He covers the mouthpiece and whispers to me, “My dad died on August 9th of ’64. Come to think of it, isn’t tomorrow August 9th?” I shrug. The older man hangs up on Ernst, who redials right away. When the man picks up again, Ernst begins a rehearsed monologue that proves his identity and reveals the situation that “future Ernst” is in. He implores his father to come find him in White Sands, Utah, but that’s as far as he gets. Dr. Paolo’s voice pulls me back into her office. “You keep saying ‘White Sands.’ Now, I’ve already told you, Ms. Birch: You were found in Black Sands, Utah. The desert there is called Black Sands.” “The sand was white. But then it turned...” Suddenly, I’m with Ernst again. We hear a deafening screech—just like the one that preceded Kimana’s horrible expunging from her home. That the scant contents of my bladder trickle into my jeans. Ernst grabs my arm and turns my attention to a creature standing a mere ten yards away. It’s obviously female, with skin so devoid of melanin that there’s no contrast between her lashless lids and her glazed eye whites. Her pupils are enormous and red. The only reason I don’t cover my nose against her fetid body odor is because I’m paralyzed by abject terror. “Oh my god. That—that’s you!” Ernst stutters. I hear him take a back step. “That’s you, Willa.” Bewildered, I want to tell him to get ahold of himself. But then I take in the creature’s facial structure. And the mole on her neck. Mine is brown and hers is pink, but it’s still the same shape and size. Jesus Christ. Ernst is right. I have no idea how that’s possible, but he’s right. When I hear the sound of Dr. Paolo’s voice—“Send Richard in, please. The patient has urinated.”—I look down. I don’t see my denim-clad legs, but the worn fabric of a hospital gown draped across my thighs. I’m sitting on a seat cushion that’s wet and warm. How the hell does the doctor know I peed? My cushion isn’t visible to her. As if reading my mind, she says, “You always have an accident at this part.” God damn it, she doesn’t have to speak to me this way. I’m not some obstinate toddler who’s refused potty training. I catch sight of the schedule book she’s left open on her desk. It says September 9. “Wait….” Dr. Paulo sees what I’m staring at and closes the book. “Well, that was careless of me.” “What the… How long have I been here?” The doctor purses her lips. “You’ve recounted your story many times. You’re a stubborn one, Willa Birch. You hold on to your truth.” “My truth? Don’t you mean the truth?” The orderly arrives. “Perfect timing. Sedate her and clean her up, please. We’ll begin again tomorrow.” Before I can even stand, a needle is plunged into my arm. My head lolls as I’m loaded into a wheelchair and taken to my room. Although my body refuses to move, my mind replays the harrowing scene of my final night in White Sands. A black Jaguar pulls up on the unpaved road behind the albino creature. “That’s the car from my last night in California!” Ernst, slack jawed, watches as who I now know as Dr. Paolo saunters toward us. I squint at the doctor, at her car. And then I remember. I saw her out on the highway in Colorado. My god, I pulled over to help her just like Ernst did. It was only after she got into my car so I could give her a ride to the next oasis that I somehow ended up in Utah. “What are you waiting for, Miner 2005 Dash One?” Dr. Paolo says to the creature. “We’re sort of on a schedule here.” Ernst claws at my wrist. “Come on.” When I don’t move, he takes off in the opposite direction, a powdery cloud of sand haloing his feet. Miner 2005-1 looks to the doctor. “Let him go. This whole place will be under a nice, toasty blanket of lava soon. No one above ground will survive.” Dr. Paolo directs her icy gaze at me. “Except you, Willa. You will survive this calamity and live to suffer the worst fate I can possibly think of. You earned it.” She winks at me. “You’ve been an unbelievable pain in my ass, and now it’s time for me to return the favor.” Vibrations emanate from the ground and travel up my legs. “Miner, hop to it. We’ve gotta get you back underground so you can help raise the iron vent shafts.” The albino humanoid closes the distance between she and I with dizzying speed. I clamp my eyes shut, but tears still manage to leak down my sunburned cheeks. Dry, bony fingers curve around my neck and compress my windpipe. My eyes fly open. All I see are the miner’s vacant, wideset orbs. My heartbeat thuds in my ears, but I might pass out from shock before lack of oxygen. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Miner?” the doctor barks. “Death is too good for this sneaky little bitch. Get her in the car. Now.” As the creature drags me toward the car, Dr. Paolo rambles zealously. “I brought this miner up here as a special treat for you, Willa. Actually, I guess you’re a treat for her. What she subsists on is human fear. That’s why we needed this village, you see. The miners can easily absorb the negative emotions from the surface without even leaving their tunnels. But you and your little pal ruined all that, didn’t you, with your call to that journalist?” Dr. Paolo supervises Miner 2005-1 forcing me into the car. The miner shuts the door, then starts trekking to some unknown destination. “She can get back down on her own,” Dr. Paolo explains. “She’s not allowed in the car.” The woman puts her Jaguar into gear and drives. “Maybe it was all for the best. If I can be honest, aside from the one night every four weeks they had to sacrifice a child, those darn villagers just didn’t stay as afraid as we needed them to be. They got used to things, you know? They were mostly just bitter and resentful. But when I brought in outsiders like you…oh, the fear—the confusion—was such good eating for the miners.” The doctor watches, a thin smile on her face, as I test the doors and windows. Of course, everything is child-locked. An ominous rumble shakes the desert. Dr. Paolo clears her throat. “Of course, I can’t just stay here in 1964, abducting people left and right. The public would catch on. But a person gone missing from a highway in 2005, 1980, the 90s…. There’s no way anyone could ever put all that together. “Yes, thanks to one of the many projects we have going on underground, I’m able to travel in time. We use a very, very complicated machine. You’d be amazed how much energy it takes to power such a thing. Not all the gas and electricity in the world could do it. We needed something special—something that can only be mined in the vicinity of this volcano. Don’t worry, you’ve never heard of it.” She sighs wistfully. “Of course, in order to prize it from the earth, we need miners. Disposable ones. It’s a deadly job, and frankly, we can’t use workers that can blab all our secrets. So we use a virus that was originally designed for biological warfare but got shelved. We inject it into the random subjects we collect—hookers, druggies…single people…and they transform. They need very little rest or air. They’re incredibly strong and have amazing night vision. They can’t tolerate sun or pollution. They stink something fierce but...thankfully, they can’t talk.” Stomach acid burns the back of my throat. “Don’t you dare throw up in this car.” Dr. Paolo pulls over. She opens her glove compartment, probably to locate a barf bag or some Pepto. But then I feel the painful invasion of a needle in my thigh. As my consciousness leaves me, I hear the doctor call someone and instruct them to “get rid of the old man from the 60s who just took a call from his idiot son. Make it look like an accident.” After that, the next thing I remember is sitting in Dr. Paolo’s office answering the same questions over and over again. I’m disappointed to find myself back in the present moment, trapped in my sedated body. Richard wheels me into my room. It’s stark white except for the ceiling, which is fully comprised of a flat screen. The orderly changes me into a fresh gown, lays me in my bed, and applies my restraints. He presses a button in the wall and the screen comes to life. It’s me. A jumbo version of my talking head. “On Friday, July 8th 2005, I was driving from Colorado Springs to Denver for a weekend with my friends. Even though I’ve made that drive a thousand times, I got off at the wrong exit—I really had to pee and I was looking for a bathroom—and I ended up hopelessly lost. Somehow—this is going to sound insane—I ended up in the desert. Can you believe it?” The huge version of me rambles on about thinking I’d arrived at a gas station and then realizing it was a mirage, finding animal dung in the sand, living in an abandoned hut and being able to collect water in a barrel the one magical night it rained, and being rescued by the military out there. I even speak about how caring and wonderful Dr. Paolo has been in helping me sort fact from fiction and remember what truly happened to me. In my peripheral vision, I see movement. I turn my head to find that Dr. Paolo has let herself into my room. She looks up at the ceiling and smiles. “The crazy thing is, that’s actually a video I snatched from later this year. I tell ya, this time travel stuff really bakes my noodle. I mean, does this video exist because I brainwashed you so well, or was I able to brainwash you so well because of this video?” She shrugs sheepishly. “The world will never know! Anyway, Willa, I’m just checking up on you. Did that Richard wipe you down, or did he just change your clothes?” She’s holding a pack of cleansing wipes, so she already knows the answer to that question. I turn my gaze back to the ceiling. “He was probably just trying to let me rot away with dignity.” “Oh, Willa. Leaving someone to marinate in their own piss is not an act of kindness.” She sits at the edge of my bed and treats me like I’m an infant on a changing table. I grind my teeth so hard I feel pain deep in my ears. “You’re all set, dear,” she says. “And if it makes you feel any better, Willa, I’m doing this for my own sake, not yours.” She boops my nose with her index finger and then practically skips out of the room. “AND I’M THE ONE LOCKED UP IN A PADDED ROOM!” I scream after her. It could be the next day or it could be months later—I have no clue anymore—when Richard escorts me back to the doctor’s office, where she’s finishing up a conversation with a male coworker. “Today must be the last day,” he says. “We’ve all tolerated your personal vendetta against this subject long enough. Your obsession with brainwashing her is a tremendous waste of time and resources. I mean, really, Paula.” Shaking his head, the man walks away. “Paula?” I ask incredulously. “Your name is Paula Paulo?” The doctor smooths down the front of her shirt. “Don’t bother sitting down, Ms. Birch.” I sit in my chair anyway. “Wow. Now I see where you get your sadistic streak. My god, your parents must’ve had a personal vendetta against you.” “Richard,” is all she says. I am devastated when I feel the orderly prick me with a needle. He transfers me to a wheelchair and pushes me through a maze of hallways and elevators. All the while, Dr. Paolo walks a few feet ahead of us, chattering like it’s just an ordinary day. Before I know it, I’m strapped to a table in a cold laboratory. That’s when I get the last injection I will ever receive. Toxic liquid scalds my veins, and I feel everything that makes me Willa Birch slip away quickly. “Name?” a lab worker asks Dr. Paulo, pointing at an electronic identification form. The doctor looks me right in the eye and says, “Miner 2005 Dash Two.” One of my last thoughts is of Miner 2005-1 choking me in the desert. I now realize she was just trying to kill me so I wouldn’t end up like her. Apparently, I’ll still be capable of compassion after my transformation is complete. Great. Dr. Paolo picks up the phone and dials. “Sergei? Please get my machine started. I’ll be down there in ten. Oh, and please swap out the Jag for a van—no, a bus. We’re gonna need to procure at least two dozen ’fraidy cats for the miners. I think I’ll get them from the 70s this time. Obviously they’ll have to live underground with us. One big happy family.” She winks at me and hangs up the phone. As if I’ve issued some sort of comment about being famished, Dr. Paolo says, “Don’t you worry, Miner 2005 Dash Two. Food is on the way.” Sophie is a writer of long tweets and short fiction. Her work has been featured by Lumiere Review, Isele Magazine, Popshot Quarterly, Horror Tree, Litro UK, Sazeracs Smoky Ink, Ellipsis Zine, New Pop Lit, Pigeon Review, and other publications. In 2023 her poem Nothing was spared will be featured in Black Spot Books’ UNDER HER EYE: A Women in Horror Poetry Showcase. She loves coffee in tea cups, clothes with pockets, and Oxford commas. She’d love to connect with you: https://twitter.com/SophieKearing

Elijah is next to climb into the baptistry tank, the kind of tank you would see at a carnival that dunks your obnoxious sister, or dorky dad, or clowns, and he knows his mother is bananas over him being baptized by The Cross and the Switchblade pastor, probably the most famous pastor in the country, probably the whole world, and there is his mother now in the front row, her goofy grin threatening to split the rest of her wide open, with all of her arm waving and glories to God, and Elijah wishes she would stop making a scene, thank you very much, mostly because he notices Heather Dampier a few seats down from his mother in the front row, and realizes he is naked under the long white robe the deacon had given him to wear, along with a new pair of tighty-whities so his own underwear would stay dry, but Elijah hates tighty-whities, only baggy boxers for him, never thinking about how thin the robe is when wet, as it is now floating around his half-submerged naked body like a billowing parachute, or how it will stick to his skin when he climbs out of the water, like it stuck to that old man baptized before Elijah, giving the whole congregation a gross show of the old man’s droopy tighty-whities before the deacon handed him a towel no bigger than a washcloth, or about the possibility that she, Heather Dampier, the only one who calls him Eli and buys him the brand new Bubble Yum at the church bookstore after services, would see everything before Elijah had a chance to grab the towel, realizing what a little kid he is, a little baby, really, and leave the service with the forever image of Elijah’s little baby EVERYTHING, but even worse is that her brother Tony Dampier, a boy constantly bragging about his boner this and boner that, also will see his little baby EVERYTHING from somewhere out in the crowd, and the unmerciful teasing Elijah will endure for eternity is too much, although Tony’s bragging does give Elijah an idea how to stay in the water until Heather and Tony and everyone else goes home, but only if The Cross and the Switchblade pastor cooperates once he is done praying with what his mother calls the smooth, buttery voice before the dunking, but Elijah can not wait another second and interrupts the smooth, buttery voice, calling out, Oh, save me, save me, save me and clutches the pastor’s arm, noticing the most famous pastor in the world wears a hawaiian printed shirt and swim trunks under his flimsy robe, and whispers close to the pastor’s ear that he has popped a boner, a really big one, and no way can anyone see it, especially in a church, and Elijah begs the most famous pastor in the world to Save me, save me, like you saved those gangsters without a gun, or a knife, or anything but a cross, and then Elijah whispers, Please, make them all leave, please, which causes the pastor’s wincing eyes and gleaming smile, the smooth, buttery voice, to turn to the congregation and ask everyone for their Patience and forgiveness but you all need to go out into the foyer so I can minister to the boy, which causes Elijah’s mother to burst out in a thunderous, guttural cry, which causes Heather to wipe her own eyes, which causes everyone in white robes waiting in the super long line behind Elijah to shake their heads and glare at him, which causes Elijah to dunk his own head under the water to escape, hearing only the muffled drone of sin and shame and how Hell will probably sound once he is there, but soon realizes being under the water is not so bad, really, with the warm surroundings bobbing him around like a jellyfish in a smooth, buttery current, his safe place for the rest of his life, sure–then suddenly, cruelly, Elijah is yanked back up to the surface as if caught in a net to face the smooth, buttery voice and wincing eyes, an empty auditorium, a glowering deacon thrusting a tiny towel into his face, and after covering as much as he can, Elijah scrambles into the office and changes back into his dry clothes, hoping to sneak out and maybe hitchhike to another state, or country, any place to avoid his mother’s thundering, guttural cry, but, of course, there she is waiting for him outside the office door, her eyes red-rimmed, her arms reaching and reaching out to grab him, going bananas over the glorious awakening the whole congregation beheld that holy night, how everyone in the foyer buzzed about witnessing the Holy Spirit overcome Elijah, how the most famous pastor in the whole world took the time to minister with the boy in the divine presence of God and Jesus and the angels and My Elijah, my miraculous boy, my Abram transformed and renamed Abraham, prompting Elijah to say he would rather have his name changed to Eli, not Abraham, thank you very much. Dan Crawley is the author of Straight Down the Road (Ad Hoc Fiction, 2019) and The Wind, It Swirls (Cowboy Jamboree Press, 2021). His writing appears or is forthcoming in Jellyfish Review, Lost Balloon, JMWW, Milk Candy Review, Atticus Review, and elsewhere.

A crimson mist, shading to pinkish-brown, burnished the tips of the red maple trees, but otherwise it was still late winter drab as Andrew pulled into the development. The only other splash of color to be seen was the bright gold of a few straggling forsythia bushes, forlornly scattered along the edge of the woods that marked the property line - the border where the new development’s grandiose houses, almost mansion-like in their blocky immensity, squatting like giant toads on their two acre lots, backed onto the more modest housing that lined the through-road. As he drove past the Garretts’ house, he could see a figure peering out of the window. It would be old Mr. Garrett, the father of Jessica. Doctor Garrett – Jessica – was a lovely woman, a pediatric surgeon who had never married, had no children of her own. Her father, however, was an oddball. He never left the house, as far as Andrew could tell, but could frequently be seen staring out. It was not clear what, if anything, he was watching or waiting for. There was definitely something a little disturbing about him. Andrew turned into his driveway, and pushed the button that opened the leftmost garage door. It was a three-car garage, but a third of it was full of the kids’ junk – bicycles, sporting equipment and so on – as well as his gardening tools. The door to that section was never opened. The other two bays were used by Andrew and his wife to park their vehicles. What would happen when Mike, his eldest, got a car, he didn’t know. That was coming up soon; he didn’t like to think about it. The idea of his children being old enough to drive was not something that he was ready to accept. He was almost fifty, and wasn’t ready to accept that either. He parked inside, and walked back to the garage door, gazing out into his yard. It was a warm day for the end of March, even though it had been raining for the last three days. He looked at his garden in distaste. They had spent thousands of dollars, and this was what they had to show for it? Of course, he couldn’t blame the landscapers; they had done a good job, exactly what their plans had shown. The problem was the rawness that was inherent in a new development. It had been carved out of former farmland a mere five years ago, land that had gone badly to seed. The trees that surrounded the little neighborhood on all sides were mature, but the ones planted by the builders, and by the new owners, were just saplings, and looked much scrawnier bare than they did when full of summer leaves. The lawns were struggling still, weedy and thin in the clay soil of the region, and a dirty straw color at this time of year. Some of his neighbors still had bright orange stakes lining their driveways, although it was unlikely that there would be any more heavy snow. Another three weeks or so and everything would look different – the grass would be green, especially with all this rain; the pear, cherry and magnolia trees would be taking their turns to blossom, and daffodils would be blooming in the edges. Spring – his favorite season, something to look forward to. ‘Time to get the bicycles serviced,’ he thought to himself. “She’s going to be fine,” said Jessica. “She’s feeling a bit groggy still from the anesthesia, and she’s going to be in a little pain when that passes. I’m writing you a prescription for something a little stronger than the over the counter medication that you already have, but don’t give her more than she needs, and please not more than three times a day. I will want to see you here again for a checkup in a week, so make an appointment at the desk on your way out. Someone will be calling you tomorrow to make sure that she’s doing well, and there are no problems with the incision. I don’t think that there will be, it was a nice clean cut and everything looks as good as it can be.” “Thank you, Dr. Garrett,” said Mrs. Lee. “Have a happy Easter.” Jessica was stunned. She hadn’t even realized – it had crept up on her unawares. Yes, it was this weekend. She’d been so busy the last two weeks. Dr. Foster had disappeared for his annual trip to Hawaii, leaving her and Bob Gatti to cope by themselves. In order to keep up with the appointments the schedule was compressed, leaving her feeling harried and stressed out by the end of the day. Then, of course, once she did get home she had to deal with her father. She stood up, tucked her elbows into her sides, and pushed her shoulders back, leaning hard to stretch out her spine. She walked over to the window. It was still raining, just like it had been all week. Thick, heavy cumulonimbus clouds marched past, darkening the sky. The lights had been on in every room of the little surgery all day. There was a soft tap at the door, and Jessica turned. “Last patient of the day, Jess. Mr. Warren is with Bobby in room two for his checkup.” “Thanks, Lizzie.” Jessica sighed briefly to herself, then ambled out into the corridor, stopping to pick up the chart. “Sushila,” called Mrs. Sivachandran, “what are you doing? I called you ten minutes ago and still you are not coming down, what is wrong with you, girl?” “I’m just finishing this chapter. It’s very exciting, Count Olaf has caught Violet, and Klaus has to rescue her.” “I have no idea what you are talking about, child, but I need you immediately.” Sushila groaned, put down her book, and clomped noisily downstairs. “What is it?” she asked in an exasperated voice, expertly copied from the one that her mother frequently used with her and her two elder siblings. “I don’t have any honey, I need you to go and see if you can borrow some. Try the Ryans, or maybe the Wangs. Put on your boots and hat, otherwise you’ll get soaked. I don’t want you catching a cold, and spoiling everything for your sister’s birthday party.” “I’m sure that Lakshmi will find a way to spoil her own birthday,” murmured Sushila. “Don’t be so mean, child. Now go, hurry.” Sushila stepped out of the front door. The houses here were so far apart, it was such a long walk to visit anyone else. She loved it when they visited family in India, where everyone lived so close together, piled up all higgledy-piggledy on top of each other. All the women chatted, and shopped together, and drank tea, and the children played their intense foreign games in the streets and alleys. How she missed that life when they returned home. She trudged down the sidewalk to the driveway and walked out to the street. She would try the Ryans first, they were right next door. Mr Ryan answered the door. “Hello, Sushila. Have you come for Agnes? She isn’t home from school yet.” “No, my mother sent me. Do you have any honey? She’s cooking and she needs some.” “No, I’m sorry, we don’t buy it. Susan - Mrs. Ryan - is allergic to it. Perhaps the Wangs might have some, or the Ashburys.” Sushila walked back down to the street. She didn’t want to walk all the way around to the Ashburys’ house in this rain, and she wasn’t talking to Lily Wang after what happened at school yesterday. She looked directly across the street at the beige stucco house. Maybe the Garretts would have some. Dr. Garrett was nice, even if her father was a little creepy. She headed up the driveway, stopping to splash in a large puddle. Mr. Garrett was watching the rain, as he had been watching it for three days now. He was pleased with the rain; it was a sign, a sign that the Lord was finally making his move. “And God looked upon the earth, and, behold, it was corrupt; for all flesh had corrupted his way upon the earth,” he muttered to himself. He knew that the earth was as corrupt now as it had ever been, even to the time of Noah. His daughter, Jessica, had taught him how to use the computer. She had shown him a program called ‘Google’ that let him find information. He had used it to search for proof, and had found it in vast quantities. Jessica had been upset. Somehow the computer had told her what he had looked at – he didn’t understand how that was possible, it was only a box of plastic and metal – and she accused him of viewing pornography. He wanted to explain to her that he didn’t do it for pleasure, that he only did it for confirmation of the fact that mankind was sinking into sin and despair, but how do you talk to your own daughter about such things? He kept quiet. He didn’t use the computer anymore; she had changed something, and now it asked him if he had forgotten his password. He didn’t really know what that meant, but it didn’t matter. He called the computer Jezebel, that ‘which calleth herself a prophetess, to teach and to seduce my servants to commit fornication.’ He would have liked to destroy it. He regarded it as an agent of Babylon, one that ‘made all nations drink of the wine of the wrath of her fornication’, but not yet, not yet. The time would come, and he felt that it was going to be very soon. In his bones he knew, and the rain only confirmed it for him. There were other signs that this was the end of times. He had begun to see animals and birds in pairs. ‘Of fowls after their kind, and of cattle after their kind, of every creeping thing of the earth after his kind, two of every sort shall come unto thee, to keep them alive.’ They were not coming to him yet, not exactly, but he was seeing them. He had seen two white tailed deer, two squirrels, two groundhogs. He had even seen two foxes together, something that he had never seen in all his years living in the area. This very morning a pair of crows had landed on his roof and then, cawing, had flown down to perch on his neighbor Ryan’s trash container. Later, two blue jays had flown from the woods and perched in the young red maple trees in front of this house -- his daughter’s house. In Revelations it is written ‘Behold, he cometh with clouds; and every eye shall see him, and they also which pierced him: and all kindreds of the earth shall wail because of him.’ Mr. Garrett had read this many times, and had come to the conclusion that the second coming would be ushered in by another storm, like in the time of Noah. He believed that he would be saved, and this house would, metaphorically speaking, be his ark. He was ready to meet his savior. He looked out of the window again, and saw a young girl coming up the driveway, through the rain. She was dark skinned, and was wearing a yellow slicker and a baseball cap, with big rubber boots on her feet. He wondered where the boy was; there should be two of them. The girl rang the bell. After hesitating for a minute, he went to the door, and opened it. “Come in out of the rain, my dear,” said Mr. Garrett. “Where is the boy?” “What boy? Do you mean my brother? He isn’t home from school yet.” “No … never mind, come in, come in. It’s good that you are here.” “Do you have any honey? My mother needs it, but she forgot to buy any from the store.” “Honey? I don’t know, let me check. My daughter does all the shopping, you know. I don’t go out very often. Come and sit down while I look. Would you like something to drink? I’m sure that we have juice.” “Do you have any Coke?” asked Sushila. “No, I don’t think so … do you like Sprite?” “That’s fine, thank you.” Lily Wang was sitting in her bedroom, pretending to do homework. She was bored. Usually Sushila would come over after school, but today they were not talking. This was because of the stupid thing that happened yesterday at lunch time, that argument about who was supposed to get the last seat at Giselle and Amanda’s table. They don’t even like those girls; it’s all just about status. Lily understands that, and hates herself for wanting to be in with the cool crowd. Middle School is so hard. It seems to be different in High School - at least that’s what her brother says. Not that boys know anything, but Sushila’s sister, Lakshmi, says the same thing. She hopes that it’s true, although it’s hard to imagine girls like Giselle Cappelletti or Amanda Spenser ever changing. She had seen Sushila go over to the Garretts’ house. That was odd, nobody ever visited them, and as Dr. Garrett had no children there didn’t seem to be any reason at all for Sushila to be there. She hadn’t seen her leave, but then, she hadn’t been watching all that closely. It was curious the way that the Garretts had planted those two trees right in front of their house, almost as though they wanted to hide behind them. Most people in the development were proud of their houses, and used elaborate walkways and plantings to set them off, make them look even more impressive. She looked at the reddish-brown spatterings among the tips of the branches; whether they were leaves or flowers she couldn’t say. The reminded her of the stains from her first period. That had been disturbing, but at the same time she was pleased that she had started; she knew that Sushila hadn’t yet, and it made her feel a little superior to her friend. She turned back to her school books with a sigh. When the phone rang, Andrew was preparing dinner. He turned down the heat under the skillet and picked it up. It was Mrs. Sivachandran. Yes, Sushila had been over; no, he didn’t know for sure where she had gone next, but he thought it was probably to the Wangs. “Who was that on the phone,” called Susan from upstairs. She had just got home with the children, and was changing into her sweats. “Divya Sivachandran,” replied Andrew. “She doesn’t seem to know where Sushila is. I told you, she stopped by here looking for honey, about twenty minutes ago.” “She’s probably playing with Lily. You know what those two are like.” “Right, that’s what I thought too.” “How much longer until dinner is ready?” “Another ten, fifteen minutes.” “Great, I’m starving.” Sushila was getting sleepy. Mr. Garrett was going on and on about something, but she’d pretty much stopped listening to him. It was something to do with his religion. It had all started when she’d let on that she was in a hurry to get home and get back to her book. He’d asked her if she had ever read the Bible, and she’d told him that no, they were Hindus; it wasn’t a book that they read. He’d started going on about Jesus Christ, and she’d had to admit that she really didn’t know anything about him. He’d asked her something about God, and she’d told him that they had lots of gods – Lord Shiva, Vishnu, Brahma, Ganesh the elephant god, Hanuman the monkey god and so on. Mr. Garrett had started on about how there could only be one God, and he’d begun reading to her from his bible. After that he got to talking about the rain, and how God was coming down to earth again soon and would destroy the unbelievers and the evil-doers and purify the world with flood and fire. He really was strange, but she didn’t feel at all threatened by him; he seemed to be completely harmless. She tucked her feet up under her on the sofa, and closed her eyes. Jessica was finally leaving work. She was later than had she planned to be, and now she was worried about her father. It was unlikely that he had fixed himself anything to eat. If it wasn’t for him, she would have picked up some takeout on the way home – Chinese, perhaps, or maybe a curry. But Dad wouldn’t eat that stuff, so she was stuck having to go home and prepare dinner, no matter how tired she was. Her freezer was stuffed with the burgers and pizzas that made up his diet. She loved him, but dealing with him was becoming such a chore. It would really be better if he were willing to go and live in a home, somewhere where they had the time and energy and training to deal with people in his condition. The basic tasks of living seemed to be getting more and more difficult for him. He was often confused, and responded to any attempt at conversation by quoting the bible. Quite how he reconciled his religious tendencies with his recent interest in pornography was a mystery, and one that she had little desire to dig into. She had discovered that particular fetish when she started to get pop-ups in her browser. After a little scouring around she had found the history function. She had been shocked at the things that her father had been looking for, but when she tried to confront him, he had refused to say anything, so she had added the password without telling him. He hadn’t asked her about it, and presumably he knew why she had done it. She thought back to the time when her mother was still alive. Back then, her father had been a heavy drinker. Well, more than that, he’d been an alcoholic, although no one said so at the time. He worked as a salesman, and as soon as he got home, he would pour himself a drink. That would be the first of many. Her parents were always fighting in those days. In truth, her father had been abusive. Primarily this was expressed verbally, but sometimes her mother got knocked about. Not that her father ever deliberately hit her, but he was a big, heavy man when he was younger, and clumsy when drunk. He would push her in his frustration, or bump into her accidentally, and she would end up on the floor, sometimes banging her head on the furniture. Jessica remembered being about ten years old, hiding in her bedroom and crying, wishing her big brother would come home from the university. After his wife died from cancer, her father had completely changed. He’d joined AA and gone stone cold sober. Jessica didn’t expect it to stick, but it had. This was right after she had finished medical school and started her first internship. The sober part was good, but the old man had also got into religion in a big way. Over the next few years, he seemed to sink ever deeper into a hazy world of his own, where nothing could reach him except for the words of his bible. He’d stopped working, living off the insurance proceeds from his wife’s death. Gradually he’d left his house less and less. He didn’t clean up, he hardly ate anything. He didn’t pay his bills, so his utilities were cut off. Jessica had seen how badly things were deteriorating, and had realized that she had to do something. By this time, she had joined the practice and was making good money. She bought this new house and made him move in with her, so that she could keep an eye on him – at a minimum she could make sure that he was clean, and ate at least one good meal a day. The former big man was now all skin and bones – he probably weighed less than she did. Mrs. Sivachandran was frantic. There was still no sign of Sushila. She had called all the likely neighbors, but no one else had seen her, other than Andrew Ryan. The child had been gone now for almost an hour. She had tried to contact Gopal, but he was not available, he was in the operating room. Her husband was an anesthesiologist, and could hardly be interrupted mid-operation. She had taken out the car and driven around the development and the surrounding areas, and had sent Lakshmi and Arindam out to search on foot. She’d tried to call Sushila’s cellphone, but it was upstairs in the girl’s bedroom, she heard it playing the familiar fragment of song. There was nothing to do but call the police. They arrived quickly, two cars with flashing lights parking in the street in front of her house. Mr. Garrett woke up with a start. It was almost dark in the house. He heard voices coming from the family room. He staggered over there, and found the TV on. He picked up the remote from the coffee table where it always sat, and clicked the set off. As he walked away it came back on again. He turned back, and stood watching the screen. Was this some kind of sign? It was some type of talk show. He didn’t understand what the people were raving about, as they yelled at each other and gesticulated wildly. He shook his head and turned it off again. He paused for a few minutes, but it didn’t come back on this time. Then he remembered the girl. Had she turned the TV on? He walked back to the living room. She was there, asleep on the couch. For a minute he thought to wake her, but she looked so peaceful. All that was missing was the boy. He jerked in anguish – what if the boy had come while he was asleep? Well, it was too late now to worry about that. As he stood there, hesitating, Sushila opened her eyes and looked at him. “Where am I?” she muttered, hoarsely. “Everything is all right,” said Mr. Garrett. “You just fell asleep. You can leave whenever you want.” “OK.” She closed her eyes and went back to sleep. Mr. Garrett stood looking at her for a minute, disconcerted. Something niggled in the back of his mind. Should he have sent her home? But why? Wasn’t there a reason why she had turned up here, right now? He hurried into his study, turning on the desk lamp and picking up his bible. ‘And he took a child, and set him in the midst of them: and when he had taken him in his arms, he said unto them, whosoever shall receive one of such children in my name, receiveth me: and whosoever shall receive me, receiveth not me, but him that sent me.’ Yes, it was clear that the child was a sign. Perhaps there was only to be the one? But no, there had to be two, otherwise nothing made sense. Not with all this rain. The boy would come, he was confident of it. God would not let him down. He saw lights flashing out of the study window. He walked over and looked out. Police cars – two of them, parking almost directly across from him. Strange. What could this mean? It didn’t really matter; when it all came down to it, they were just as much doomed to destruction as everyone else, and all of their lights and sirens would make not an iota of difference when the time was right. Lily Wang saw the police lights, and came downstairs. She was hungry anyway. There was no one in the kitchen – she’d seen her mother and father out in the street, talking to Mrs. Sivachandran and the officers. She grabbed a box of cookies and extracted three of them, cramming them guiltily into her mouth and eating quickly. Her mother hated for her to eat before dinner, but it looked like dinner would be late today. She walked into the family room and turned on the big flat screen TV that her father had finally bought, after all of her endless nagging. It had been totally unfair when Sushila had one and she didn’t. She heard the front door open and close again. Her father walked into the room. “Have you finished your homework, Lily?” he asked. “Almost, Daddy.” “What is the rule about TV before finishing homework?” “Don’t be so unfair,” she burst out, exasperated. “I needed a break, and anyway, I’m hungry. Why is mommy not cooking dinner? What’s going on with the police, why is she out there with Mrs. Sivachandran?” “Sushila is missing; they are here to help look for her.” “Sushila? But I saw her, not long ago; she went into the Garrett’s house.” He father stared. “Are you sure?” “Of course I’m sure, I saw her out of my bedroom window.” “Come on, you need to tell the police exactly what you saw.” He took her by the hand and they went out into the street. Jessica turned onto Viburnum Road; she would finally be home in a couple of minutes. She had needed to stop in at the big supermarket on the way home, and it had been even more crowded than usual. Now it was almost dark. The good news was that the days were definitely getting longer – even a week ago it would have been pitch black by this time. She veered towards the edge of the narrow road to avoid an oncoming SUV that was hogging the center line. ‘Idiot,’ she thought to herself. When the doorbell rang, Mr. Garrett thought for sure that it must be the boy this time. As a result, he was highly disappointed to open the door to three police officers, one of them a woman. “Good evening, sir,” began the first officer. “We are looking for Sushila Sivachandran and have reason to believe that she may have visited your house this evening. Can you confirm that for us?” “The boy,” said Mr. Garrett. “Where is the boy? Is he lost?” “What boy, sir? It’s a girl that we’re looking for.” “Yes, yes, I know about the girl, but where’s the boy?” “Have you seen the girl, sir?” “Jesus said suffer little children, and forbid them not to come unto me: for of such is the kingdom of heaven.” “Sir, we’re going to have to ask you to step aside.” The two male officers eased Mr. Garrett out of the way, and the policewoman slipped past him. “She’s here, she seems to be unconscious.” “Right. Turn around, you.” Mr. Garrett looked blankly at the officers. The taller one spun him around and quickly placed a pair of handcuffs on his wrists. They led him outside. The rain was still falling, but very lightly, not much more than a gentle mist. Mr. Garrett looked up into the cloudy darkness. He started to intone: “for God so loved the world that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life. For God sent not his Son into the world to condemn the world; but that the world through him might be saved.” “Alright, that’s enough of that.” The taller officer pushed him roughly in the back as they walked down the path towards the driveway. “Fucking hypocrite, babbling on about God while you’re abusing young girls. Just wait till we get you inside and they find out what you did. You’re going to be sorry.” Jessica saw the flashing lights the instant she turned the corner. She stopped by the curb at the end of her drive and got out of the car. Two police cars were there, and an officer was talking to Divya and Carol Wang. As she stood, hesitating for an instant, an ambulance came tearing round the corner from Viburnum, alarm blaring, and stopped next to the police cars. Several white coated paramedics and EMTs jumped out and were pointed by the officer to her house. Jessica’s heart dropped. Something must have happened to her father. She hurried up the driveway after them, but before she reached the house he appeared around the corner, accompanied by two officers. He looked blankly at her. “Dad, are you alright?” “Of every living thing of all flesh, two of every sort shalt thou bring into the ark, to keep them alive with thee; they shall be male and female.” “Be quiet, you” said one of the policemen. That was when Jessica realized that her father was handcuffed. “What’s going on?” she said, but the officers had moved on and refused to look at her. She continued around the corner, just in time to see Sushila come out of the house, with a policewoman holding her hand. The emergency technicians were hovering around, trying to look necessary. The policewoman handed the girl over to the paramedic and walked over to Jessica. “Karen. What happened?” “Hello, Dr. Garrett. We don’t know yet. The girl was reported missing. We found her on your sofa, either asleep or unconscious. She seems to be OK, there’s no obvious sign of trauma. We won’t know what happened until we get her to the hospital.” “My God!” Jessica stood at the corner of the garage. She watched as her father was pushed into the back of one of the police cars and driven off. She saw Sushila hug her mother, and then the two of them were ushered into the ambulance, which also left. The other neighbors walked back towards their homes. Jessica went indoors. She sat in her study and looked at the computer. Was that what started it? Was it the pictures, the pornography, was that what turned the old man’s head? But surely not to the point where he would try to abuse a young girl? She called her brother, the lawyer. He had cut all ties with his father many years ago, back when their mother died, but he agreed to go over to the police station. “Call me when you know anything, OK?” “Ok Jess. But, you know, I’m doing this for you. He’s only getting what he’s had coming to him for thirty years.” “Don’t say that, Steve. We don’t know anything about what really happened yet.” Jessica walked up to the front door, opened it, and stepped outside. It had turned chilly, and she shivered. It was no longer raining, and it seemed like it was going to be a clear night; there were already stars visible between the diminishing cloud cover. She could make out Orion, and what looked like the handle of the Big Dipper. Across the street, the lights were on in the Sivachandrans’ home, although most of their house was obscured from where she stood by the maples growing in her front yard. She sighed, and turned back toward the house. She suddenly felt hungry. “Jessica, are you OK?” She turned. Andrew appeared out of the shadows between the slender trees. “We were worried about you. I’m sure that it’s all been a misunderstanding.” “It doesn’t really matter, Andrew. He’s not coming back here.” “What do you mean? Sushila is fine; she didn’t want to get into the ambulance. She told her mother that she just fell asleep.” “No Andrew, you don’t understand. I don’t want him back here. I’m tired, I’m just so tired. I’m thirty-seven years old, you know? Don’t I deserve a life of my own? It’s not too late, is it? Andrew, is it?” “No, Jessica. It’s not too late.” He watched her as she stood there, her feet shuffling slightly as her body twisted and stretched, almost as if she were straining towards the light. There were tears in her eyes, and a look on her face that seemed to be somewhere between horror and desperation. He wanted to say something more, but knew that whatever he said would be the wrong thing. He felt a sudden urge to hold her close to him, and took half a step in her direction before he paused, frozen in place. “I have to go now.” She turned and ran into the house. Andrew watched for a few minutes, then walked back through the trees and across the darkening lawn towards his own home, where his wife and children waited for him. Paul Ilechko is a British/American writer. Born in South Yorkshire, he now lives with his partner in Lambertville, NJ. His work has appeared in a variety of journals, including The Night Heron Barks, Louisiana Literature, Iron Horse Literary Review, Sleet Magazine, and The Inflectionist Review. His first album, "Meeting Points", was released in 2021.

Content warnings: Mental illness, suicidality, self-harm, disordered eating, addiction, death, sexual assault. Notebook Fragments: 2018-2022 after Ocean Vuong Obsessively worrying about my Ukrainian photojournalist ex-boyfriend was not what I had planned for this year. I fear that he will Get Shot while trying to get The Shot. x I’m scared that one day I’ll forget what I’ve always been so angry about—then my life will no longer have an explanation, and my character won’t have a reason for being the way it is/I am. x Never Have I Ever… felt more powerful than when that creepy man in the gym maintained eye contact with me for a moment too long and flew off his treadmill. x Why do I keep writing to raise awareness about BPD? Because too many people still hear the term ‘personality disorder’ and think it means I have multiple personalities. I mean, I do, just not in the way that they wrongly assume. x Very cute of me writing my sad little poems by candlelight like I’m Emily fucking Dickinson because I can’t afford to turn the lights on. x Every time someone calls it ‘Notes from *THE* Underground’, I imagine Dostoyevsky on the Piccadilly line during rush hour, trying to write embittered monologues in his little notebook while getting slowly crushed to death. I think he’d have loved it. x Things That Make My Daily 5km Run Difficult: Running past the fish and chip shop. Running past the ocakbaşı. Running past the pizza place. Running past the patisserie. x Pain, that parasite, depends on me to be its host; suffering is the needy child, and I am the parent who never says ‘no.’ x The Biggest Lesson I Learned at University: Blindly squeezing your tiny body through the gaps in your cage and jumping to your death is a far better fate than getting eaten by your mother. [This refers to my housemate’s baby hamsters, but it’s still a hard relate.] x As a child in Poland, my family always called me Nerwusie. I just looked up the English definition: NERWUSIE — shakes, hothead, disgrace, high-strung, a worrier, twitchy, nervous type, restless, jitters, slugger, annoying, neurotic, bundle of nerves, edgy, jitterbug. Incredible that I was all of those things when I was only seven years old. x Reminder: organise a small party to celebrate the 8th anniversary of having my bipolar diagnosis rescinded. x I mistakenly sent a mag a poem they’d rejected before, just with a different title. They accepted it the second time – same poem, same editors, same mag, just a different title. I have cheated the system. I have won Poetry! x Furious that I can never enjoy the sight of a murder of crows ever again. Every time I see a crow, I immediately think of Ted Hughes, and get SO angry. Ugh. Bastard. x Alexa: How many calories are there in a sugar-coated 500mg ibuprofen tablet? And can you multiply that by 8? Then multiply that by 7, then again by 52??? I’m trying to see something. x The Second Biggest Lesson I Learned at University: Don’t ever make somebody your Everything. Because, when they suddenly decide one day that they don’t love you anymore, you’ll have Nothing. Absolutely Nothing. x Reminder: book day off work to spend crying on the 8th anniversary of receiving my borderline personality disorder diagnosis. x Aspiring to maintain the same level of writerly consistency/deliberate thoughtfulness as Dante ending all three books of the Divine Comedy with the word ‘stelle.’ x Is it strange that I have so many little packets and boxes of different humans’ cremated remains residing in my flat? They just sit quietly on their respective shelves, they don’t affect me at all. But now I’m wondering if they should? x NEVER EVER LOOK UP YOUR OWN BOOK ON GOODREADS. x When I tweet a Very Good Poem: 10 likes, 5 people unfollow me. When I tweet a Not Very Good Selfie: 1000 likes, 50 people follow me. Social media is fucking RIDICULOUS. Sick of it. x From now on, I will always know how to spell haemorrhage. x Spent this morning reliving the embarrassment of walking past Her Majesty The Queen while wearing a COMME DES FUCKDOWN slogan t-shirt, men’s boxer shorts and flip-flops. Did a silly little curtsey as well, hungover as fuck. Mortified. x I am the type of tired that cannot be cured with sleep. I wear this exhaustion like a skin—I can’t imagine ever shedding it. x Today at the office I told [redacted] that I’m ‘the type of tired that cannot be cured with sleep’ and he suggested that I take iron tablets. Like, no, MY SOUL is tired because of trauma/grief /capitalism/Tories/men in general. I’m not anaemic, you absolute bellend. x When people come round to my flat, they look at the claret stains on the walls/ceilings/floors and find themselves privately playing the game, Is That Blood or Hair Dye? I keep my sleeves down to add to the mystery. x Laughing remembering that deal I made with myself: “As soon as that plant dies, I’m leaving him.” The plant is still fucking thriving. x Forever baffled by the number of “writers” who constantly moan about “hating writing.” Like, okay, so don’t fucking write then? If you hate it so much, simply don’t do it. Nothing bad will happen if you stop doing a hobby that you profess to loathe, that makes you miserable—in fact, your life will improve if you spend your time doing something that brings you joy, something that you love. It really is that simple. x H, if you hate [drugs]/[smoking]/[binge eating] so much, simply don’t do it. Hahahaha. x I have to die before my cat does. x Why I Don’t Gamble: a) That time when I put £5 each way on Cornish Cowboy. Dad always bet on that horse, so I bet on it on his behalf, as he would’ve done were he still here. And it DIED. Cornish Cowboy died. Broke its leg during the race and was promptly shot. Guiltguiltguilt. b) I do not have the money to gamble with in the first place. c) I have enough addictions as it is. d) Winning doesn’t suit me. x These twisted tangerine sunrises would mean so much more to me if you weren’t standing beside me with your arm around my neck telling me how much it means to you to watch the sun rise with me. x I will never know what people see when they see me. However I am certain that if I met me for the first time and looked at my self with objective eyes, I’d still utterly repulse myself. The number of days that I am too ugly to leave the house will soon outweigh the number of days that I feel my face is okay-looking enough to go outside. The temptation to disappear altogether… x I’m scared that you don’t remember all the things about us that I do. Or worse: you do remember, but you really don’t want to. x Very frightening knowing that my brain could switch to psychosis at any given moment. What if it happens again??? I can’t go through that again. I can’t. I won’t. The next time will surely kill me. But when will The Next Time be? I’m so scared. I am terrified of my own brain. It is a horrible way to live—perpetually frightened of your own mind, of its propensity to murder you or, at the very least, destroy your life on a whim. I have learnt in recent years to treat my brain with the respect it deserves, to try to appease it, and yet I’m still (and always will be) at its mercy, begging it not to keep hurting me, to just give me one day off, please. x I’m confused about consenting to sex when you’re in a relationship. I shouldn’t be confused, but I am. Because I said I didn’t want to. I said I really didn’t want to. But… x Worried that I didn’t vomit up the Twix quickly enough. Fucksake. Idiot. x I need to leave him I need to leave him I need to leave him I need to leave him I NEED to LEAVE HIM. x It’s not that everything is wrong, it’s just that nothing is right. Nothing is right. x Crying after reading an old poem of mine. It’s not a particularly sad one—actually, it’s quite fun and romantic—but I’m crying at the memory of it. The memory of us drunkenly cartwheeling down the silent corridor of another nameless hotel that summer, the summer of the Tottenham Riots. The memory of you standing at the bottom of that stairwell. The memory of you telling me to jump, telling me to trust you, telling me you’d catch me. And I did, and I did, and you did. The memory of you promising me you’d make me happy. And you did. The memory of you promising me you’d never let me go. But you did. HLR (she/her) is a prize-winning poet, working-class writer, and professional editor from North London. She is a commended winner of The Poetry Society's National Poetry Competition 2021. She also won The Desmond O'Grady International Poetry Competition 2021, and was longlisted for The Plough Prize 2022. She is the author of History of Present Complaint (Close to the Bone) and Portrait of the Poet as a Hot Mess (Ghost City Press). Twitter: @HLRwriter

We prefer to receive when we only encounter a pair of wide eyes an invitation on fire to smother a Gate beckoning with a glare off the Pearly only so gaping after receiving so many to make room for another presumptive surprise a marquee, now rheumy advertising every private thing you’re hiding where the only way to scream is through your eyes Gabriel Hart lives in California's high desert. He's the author of neo-pulp collection Fallout From Out Asphalt Hell and his new poetry volume Hymns From the Whipping Post, both from Close to the Bone. He's a regular contributor to Lit Reactor, L.A. Review of Books, and the Last Estate.

Dead Woman Hollow is a hiking trail in Pennsylvania. In 1988, a woman named Rebecca Wight was murdered there. The morning of the 4th, I set out to cross Dead Woman Hollow, a narrow tunnel of gray-greens and damp, deep browns. July rain had swollen the bones of the trees, their soft, white roots, scraped bare, lay like scattered ribs. My old Nalgene sloshed at my side all through the day-long trek: half-filled, quarter-filled, then quiet. When I stopped to rest, I thought of the woman killed in those woods, then I thought of myself, alone. Near dusk, I reached the end: a bleach-blonde grandma ushered me into her plywood hostel, flicked her lipstick-stained cigarette at a room lined with bunk beds holding hikers’ packs and boots, heavy with the scent of men. I sighed, sat down on the communal couch next to a young jock, his red-rimmed eyes reflecting the bright designs of Scorcese’s Goodfellas playing on a small TV. I had watched it as a kid, recalled only splattered red and a man smiling, telling a woman to go look at something over there, back there—then the fear on her face once she understands that the gesture is a trap. Minutes crept. I sank into a sofa cushion, spotted a web in the window starred with dark husks. But where is the spider? I searched for her until my muscles went slack. Clink! I jerked awake. An empty bottle of SoCo had fallen against another of Crown. The clear sound rang out like a clap. I turned and saw myself cut up in the young man’s eyes: thighs, neck, breasts. Quiet. He lunged; I leapt off the couch, shot through the room, smooth as a fish or an electric current. All night, alone, I drifted under flickers of light at the edge of the Hollow, felt fireworks burst heavy above my head, felt the smoke enter and enter my body, the sky showering the ground with red, red, red. Taylor Mallay is a Vermont-based Midwesterner who enjoys tinkering away at poems here and there. Her work has previously appeared in The Dewdrop, The Write Launch, and West Trade Review, among other publications.

you can stop visiting my dreams now for Corinth, when I look into spaces to fill up a void that is more vacant than a bullet fleshed into your skull— or when I Iook at the words wall on the left & see the portrait of a boy hanging within the spaces of letters— or when you come visiting in those dreams where your face is starting to fade into a dull echo— I want to ask you to find your arm & attach it to your torso— I want to ask you to find your leg & attach it to your hips— instead I find myself grabbing my sheets in sheer despair to hold you close— until all i can do is scream our dreams into oblivion— Ọpéyemí Ọlájùwọ́n is a Nigerian and was born in Abeokuta, Ogun state. She is also a law student of the University of Ibadan. She loves writing poems and novellas. When she is not writing a poem or rereading Sherlock Holmes again. She is teaching, editing a book, enjoying the peace that comes with nature or perhaps if there is time she is visiting Shakespeare through the doors of his books. You can find some of her works on Instagram; nyxiasinclair

when the plane landed & i walked through the airport, i felt the way i do when i enter the apartment & my parents crowd me with hugs: home at 16, i walked through dachau, tears falling into the ground as i tried to put the sites together, tried to piece the information of my identity in a place where my eyes and ears could not translate the german language quickly enough as i walked through jerusalem, i did not walk alone, my steps were in sync with the others i clutched the wall & let my body kneel, holding onto the stone, my letter is tucked into a corner of the brick, space. Ilana Drake (she/her) is a sophomore at Vanderbilt University, and she is a student activist and writer. Her work has been published in Ms. Magazine, YR Media, and The 74 among others. She is also the recipient of multiple Scholastic Art & Writing Awards. She can be found on Twitter @IlanaDrake_ and her website is https://ilanadrake.wixsite.com/mysite/projects