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I wish I could enjoy the stars, but I waste time out here worrying. “Can you get my wife on my phone?” I ask mission control, but the relay takes at least twenty four hours. Sometimes a week. I wander through the pictures on my iPhone–a door knob, a stove, a dog in a window. I snap pictures whenever I leave my house to ensure everything is in place. Three blocks down the street–or three hundred million miles, in this case–I might want to be certain that I locked the door behind me on my way out or that I checked the stove eyes were switched “off.” I can look at the picture I took through the window of little Rosie inside and sleeping curled beside the couch in her usual spot. If I took the picture through the window, the dog has to be inside the house, right? Neptune soars by to my right, massive and blue and beautiful, like a godly teardrop flung aside into space and drifting forever. Well, until the sun explodes. But all I can think of are worse case scenarios: my stupid, damn Playstation 6 being burglarized by some deranged junkie who adds injury to insult by hurting Rosie, silencing her for barking in his desperate gathering of electronics to pawn. What if somehow while taking that picture, I accidentally hit the knob and turned a stove eye on, leaving it burning to grow hotter and hotter and hotter until it ignited some derelict crumb? Or it simply superheated the oxygen above–theoretically, that could happen–and combusted and torched the house with my Rosemary inside. You see, my wife was away when I left for the mission. She always goes to the beach or the mountains to drink mixed cocktails and pass the time with Romance novels and Hallmark movies while I’m away–stress killers. She feels abandoned and worried, though I did warn her about marrying an astronaut. My therapist calls this type of anxiety “magical thinking,” though she says my worrying isn’t as severe as OCD but is normal for anxious people. Magical thinking is expressed in habits like touching or placing objects and then associating this with unrelated consequences. For instance, a person might think, “If I don’t position the vase on the end table in a particular way before I go to sleep, my father will have a heart attack during the night.” That is an extreme example, but I worry that my paranoia could progress to this point. NASA doesn’t know that I see a therapist. I do it covertly, like a man buying drugs. I’d be barred from space if they learned the truth. It tipped when we got that beautiful little dog I mentioned. Ironically, Rosie was to chill me out around the house. We’re childless. But, I immediately became convinced I would forget and leave the door open and then face the unbearable consequences of having allowed such an adorable, defenseless thing slip out into the woods and wander alone to starve. I’ve already got the world to look after. My wife jokes I’m no longer the man she married but one with his “head in the clouds,” a “literal space cadet.” My job dictates that I think in math, so no Ativan, just yoga. *** I’ve passed the asteroid belt, and communication with Earth is limited. I only receive clipped sentences, possibly coded messages. What if I left the stove on and it started a fire that burned out of control and there is no Earth for me to return to? I should never have agreed to fly this mission alone. Should I just switch on the warp drive and zoom onward, hoping against the impossible odds that I’ll find a new world which I haven’t destroyed or hasn’t yet destroyed itself? Or maybe I’ll just smack back at Cape Canaveral, where I left from. No one really knows. We only speculate. No. I’m turning around. I have to go back. I forgot to check all the bathroom sinks. And, I never should have left unreliable Kaylee down the block in charge of feeding Rosie. And, how could I have forgotten to check the thermostat?

My father always said he had a book inside him. As a child I had no idea what he meant, naturally being far more preoccupied with Meccano and tadpoles, although I remember well that wistful look of his from the desk in his study through the window to the shrubbery. He laboured on his writing in that dusty, gloomy room bisected only occasionally by a ray of sunshine, the shadow of the willow outside dancing upon his balding pate. Piles of paper with scrawled handwriting lay scattered about the place, presumably unfinished work, I now surmise. This is one of those memories from childhood that stay with us even though we do not know why. I recall in particular his expression beneath that anodyne suburban light, one of longing, something between determination and disappointment worn uncomfortably like an ill-fitting mask upon a face otherwise mostly jovial and ruddy. I know now that he must have been in pain. However, it was only much later, when I was called to the hospital to discuss the peculiarities of his case with the consultant surgeon, the august Mr Ferguson, that I was to find out what my father had really meant. He had a book inside him. Literally. “We call it tumor litterae, very rare,” Ferguson informed me after a formal preamble. “Sadly we got to him too late.” “Tumor litterae?” “Yes. I’ve only ever seen one case before, so I’m thinking of publishing a paper, about your father ... with your permission, of course. That’s why I asked you in. You’ll need to sign ...” The surgeon was getting ahead of himself. It was clear from his confident manner, his bushy eyebrows curling upwards in an arc that signalled a certain disdain for mere mortals, that he spared the great unwashed scientific why and wherefore and cut to the plebeian chase. But I wanted the full story. Chapter and verse. Something inside egged me on. “Doctor, I’ve no idea what you’re talking about. Please explain.” Ferguson tried to conceal a weary sigh, although I heard it at once. “The tumour. It was a book. I’ve kept it.” He reached down behind his desk and I heard the hollow suction of a bottom drawer opening before he straightened and placed a specimen jar in front of me with a triumphant smile. Of course, I was taken aback. There, amid yellowing formaldehyde, was suspended a small, leather-bound volume, about the size of a traditional missal. “Incurable, unfortunately,” continued Ferguson. “Has to be surgically removed otherwise it’s terminal. We don’t yet know what causes it. I’d like to conduct some tests. We’ll have to dissect the thing, inevitably.” I was still not thinking straight and agreed to everything, as one does when overwhelmed by sudden complexity in the presence of someone who appears to understand it. But fortunately the child in me remained stubborn enough to stamp his foot, albeit only gently. “Can I read it first?” Ferguson squinted with apparent irritation. He did not wish to share his specimen, after all, but soon relented. I suspect he knew that whatever he published at the end of the day would be so original, so unusual, that it would assure him his place in the pantheon. We agreed that I would be provided with a photocopy which, under the circumstances seemed appropriate. But as I was leaving, another question came to mind. I hovered at the door. “What happened? In the other case? You said there was another.” “Oh, yes,” replied Ferguson, already busying himself with paperwork, “we cut it out just in time. Managed to publish it, the lucky fellow. Bestseller. He rolled in a couple of years later fit as a fiddle and gave me a signed copy. I dipped into it on holiday in Cornwall. Jaunty tale, mostly biographical as far as I could tell.” We buried my beloved father, with considerable appreciation and many tears, beneath a willow in Hampstead. We had a tasteful scroll carved into the headstone with the epitaph, “He had a book inside him”. It was only later, now in fact as I sit and read the photocopy of his unfinished masterpiece in my peaceful studio bathed in light, that I can fully understand what he was getting at. It is probably congenital, this condition, for I have felt growing inside me an overpowering urge to write. I suspect I shall eventually have to make an appointment with Mr Ferguson.

about that blood but it does not make me think, it only repeats cleverly all the things. felt slippers. ugly but warm. so much of value like that, no shelf appeal, but hey, does the job. make of it what you can. all right I say here. this is what I make of our life together on this -- and now the selection of cliches rolls out in my inner eye: this rock, this lonely planet, this tiny ball in deep space, this hell. I go deep into the soil of it warming among roots who are my friends. yes we have lost much, they say, but not all. not all. that would be impossible. (Written after reading about climate activists throwing tomato soup on Van Gogh’s Sunflowers.) here comes massaging my melancholy with piano music, red berries, oats. the sharp stony peaks soften under moss imperceptibly. oh water oh rain, do what you're known for. any kitchen needs a recipe for a distinguished dark fruit cake. it says. my kitchen comes up wanting, no such recipe to be found. how loud the street sweeper, the leaf blower, after the rain. sweet singing in the choir. Kyla Houbolt's first two chapbooks, Dawn's Fool (Ice Floe Press) and Tuned (CCCP Chapbooks), were published in 2020. Tuned is also available as an ebook. Her work has appeared in Neologism, Barren, Juke Joint, Moist, Trouvaille Review, Janus, and elsewhere. Find her work at her linktree: https://linktr.ee/luaz_poet. She is on Twitter @luaz_poet.

Truth. Your truth; mine. We have our versions, but for it to actually be the truth, we must first be honest with ourselves. In john compton’s ‘the castration of a minor god’, we get it; unvarnished, harsh, and beautiful. compton’s collection of poetry masterfully explores the connections between the manufactured and oppressive ‘truth’ of religion, and the holistic truth of who we are as human beings. He doesn’t hold back the reality or the brutality, but the language is a phoenix on the brink of rebirth. Fire feels important in his imagery, as a cleansing, sacrificial and purification rite. For example, in “the men who made bonfires’, he explores the torture and public shaming of two men, ‘when their secret is revealed’ and this rebirth is seen in the last line at the moment of their eventual murder: "they clothed them in fire, made them women in orange dresses dancing" compton explores familial relationships in beautiful and heartbreaking pieces like ‘aelena’, ‘rowland’ and ‘john'. There were times when I had to pause, and catch my breath. We have all been that child, an amalgamation of the trauma and pain of those who came before, as well as the love and filial loyalty with which we struggle to understand. These poems feel universal and therefore, very personal. He does a brilliant job of creating a human landscape that is complex and multi dimensional. In ‘the news slips off your tongue like hot soup’, for example, he invites us into the intimate moment of the realization of a parent’s imminent death, and the realization that they have reconciled long before this moment. It’s brilliantly executed but it’s hard, very hard. You will realize with compton’s work that there is no easy ‘out’. The only way to understanding, is through. Sex; blooming, curious, humorous and sometimes violent, is explored with an honesty that is liberating in this collection. compton enmeshes the ritual of church and the violence of the religious towards LGBTQ marriage and sexuality in general. In ‘your fear becomes holy’, and ‘mary’ for example, he is almost wondering aloud at the preposterousness of the dogma. Where the humorous turn around of religious mythos in ‘your fear becomes holy, 2’ and the idea of dildo as animal in ‘dog’ are the said ‘phoenix’ rising from the ashes. His poems lead you to and inside intimate experiences, ones you may recognize and others foreign to you, and you carry them with you for a while. My favorite poem of the collection (if that’s even possible) is ‘somehow the hips move wildly’. I just ask you to read it. I won’t tell you why I love it, it’s up to you to see what you think. But here is a line from it that has stuck with me and made me want to sit down at this computer and implore you to read this collection. ‘“you should agree with what dean young said about why we created god, there is a need to call people liars, you, reader, are a liar.” ‘the castration of a minor god’, is a collection of worth and you will learn something about yourself when you read it. If you write, it may make you go back and take a look at some of those half truths you’ve told yourself when you committed something to the page. To sum up my experience with this collection: I felt love when he asked me to, I felt inflamed when he willed it, and I understood a little more about what drives the human spirit against all odds. compton is telling us the truth, and I, for one, am grateful for it. Pre Order your copy at ghostcitypress.com/books/the-castration-of-a-minor-god john compton (b. 1987) is gay poet who lives in kentucky. he lives in a tiny town, with his husband josh and their 3 dogs and 2 cats. his poetry is a personal journey. he reaches for things close and far, trying to give them life: growing up gay; having mental health issues; a journey into his childhood; the world that surrounds us. he writes to be alive, to learn and to grow. he loves imagery, metaphor, simile, abstract language, sounds, when one word can drift you into another direction. he loves playing with vocabulary, creating texture and emotions. he has published 2 books and 5 chapbooks published and forthcoming: [books]: trainride elsewhere (august 2016) from Pressed Wafer; stranger in the attic of clouds (tba) from dead man's press inc; [chapbooks]: that moan like a saxophone (december 2016) from kindle; ampersand (march 2018) from Plan B Press; a child growing wild inside the mothering womb (june 2020) from ghost city press; i saw god cooking children / paint their bones (oct 2020) from blood pudding press; to wash all the pretty things off my skin (sept 2021) from ethel zine & micro-press. he has been published in numerous magazines and anthologies.

My girlfriend, Jolene, took it and ran with it, but I figured I should let her know. Too bad an argument ensued and it ended abruptly. She hung up. Her anger focused mostly on what I did and not our son's health and malnourishment. For the past two weeks, my newborn son cried; sometimes, throughout the day and at night. But not today, Milton, Jr., lay soundly asleep across my chest. His face fat and content, belly too. About an hour or so later, the front door flew open as fast as it shut. The loud noise disturbed my nap, but not his thankfully. I woke up slightly dazed, taking care to sit up and do it slowly. Eventually, I reclined and looked up at this beautiful but sour looking face. I couldn't make out her first words, but they became audible the more she spoke. Or, should I say curse. "What the fuck's wrong with you," Jolene said, standing above us. "Not so loud,” I said. "He's asleep, so lower your voice. Better yet, kill that attitude." I stood up just as slow so as not to wake him. Jolene tossed her hand purse on the sofa and stormed straight into the kitchen. She then proceeded to empty out the containers I told her about, pouring the milk down the kitchen sink drain, and doing it with emphasis. "Say! Don’t do that.” "I’m his mother. Me, not her." Jolene said. "Is this all of it?" "It is now." "You know I don't like her." "You can't let that go, can you?" Jolene spun and gave a frank look. She walked upfast and I expected her temper to explode. She never refrained from throwing a tantrum along with some well placed punches when the situation fit. I turned sideways in preparation for a few hard blows, but none came. "Hand him here," she said, reaching. My son fast asleep in my arms, but he squirmed a bit from suddenly being physically put adrift. The grin still on his face. His lips smacking, as if savoring a familiar and tasty flavor or experiencing one pleasant dream. "Now get out!" "Say what? I live here." "You heard me! Get out! First, you cheat on me and then endanger my child's life,” she said. “You're an asshole, you know that." "Cheated? Endangered?" “I bet you sat there and watched, didn’t you?" “I mean, of course. I've seen her breasts before.” Being straightforward didn't go over too well. I soon found myself standing outside the apartment in my basketball shorts, a tee-shirt, ankle socks, and sandals. The door reopened, but only momentarily, so she could toss out my wallet. I didn't bother banging on the door, but I should’ve. But why cause a scene? Better yet, why invite the police? Because nothing good will come from it. Instead, I picked up my wallet and walked off. I thought about going over to Henrietta's, but left the apartment complex altogether, and walked to Burger King to think. I knew I did the right thing – a good thing. I did what men ordinarily don't do;act responsibly for once. I solved a problem, but she resented how, knowing damn well there existed a scarcity of infant formula nationwide. Parents, like myself, throughout America must feed their babies sparingly. To think, newborns could literally die of starvation because of the lack of production doesn’t make sense. I hear it so often from news pundits about how bright the light shines on the hill. I mean, like, what the fuck? I now arrived at the Burger King, the lobby not as busy as the drive-thru, so I could take my time looking over the menu. I soon placed a food order to sit inside, paid for it, and then carried my tray of food to a window booth. I sat there, looking out on the world, while feasting on two double-meat sausages, egg, and cheese croissants, hash browns, and a large coffee. Thinking: Jolene's jealousy is clouding her judgment. Maybe, the idea of another woman nursing her child did it. But she, herself, refused to breastfeed our son based on supposed horror stories of nipple scarring and pain. Sure, her body, her decision; but damn, should it cost Milton Jr. his health? I just sat there, thinking, enjoying breakfast, and checking out those entering. ***** Last night, we both agreed that she would get up early and drive all over town to look for infant formula. Jolene figured the richer side of town could have some. Plus, she didn't think a six foot five black man would get as much sympathy and service as a woman. So, I should stay home, enjoy my Saturday off, and watch our son while she store hopped. After she left, a half an hour later, my son woke up wailing. No doubt hungry. So I lifted him out of the crib, tossed a towel across my shoulder, put him in my arms, and then offered him a warm sugar water bottle, which he often rejected. I wanted to save the last of the freshly made infant formula for later. Frustrated and unable to console him, I slipped on my sandals, pocketed the house keys, and then left, going to another apartment building until I reached D337. I rap-knocked on the door and waited. Then it swung inward. "Good Morning." Henrietta Greenwood, one curvy, plump, short, smart, white woman, pretty even when ordinary , stood in the doorway wearing a recognizable pair of lengthy Adidas basketball shorts and a gray t-shirt that ironically read, Got Milk. I met her several years back through a mutual friend and later learned we lived in the same residential apartment complex. Soon thereafter, we became romantically involved but remained friends, enjoying the benefits of being bed buddies rather than the push and pull related with a serious relationship. "Hey Mezz, what's up?" "Say? I need a big favor, but I'm not sure how you'll take it." "Depends on the favor." "Well? You're aware of the current baby formula shortage, right?" "I am, so what of it," she said. "It's not my problem. I breastfeed, you know that." "I know. That's why I came. I'm tired of feeding Milton Jr. watered-down formula and sugar water. Right now, Jolene is out driving all over town looking for Similac and Enfamil; and, I hope she finds some. I really do, because nobody knows how long this drought will last, and we need it badly. I'm just worried, you know. Afraid even. My son has been crying a lot. Not pooping and I don’t want to give him regular milk or Pet milk. Not yet." "So what do you want from me?" "Would you nurse him?" I asked. "That's why I am here." "Why should I?" "For me, Henrietta, please." "You should’ve called before you came," she said. "No, no, I couldn't." I said. "I'm not borrowing money. Something like this require a face-to- face." Henrietta stood there akimbo, shifting her posture, and playing with the door. I prepared for another cursing out and door slam, but as soon as those soft brown eyes and sneaky smirk looked up, I knew right then she made her decision. "And your old lady is okay with this?" "I don't know. I haven't told her yet." "Oh great," she said. "Mezz? Are you mad?" "No. Not really." I said. "But I'll tell her, promise. You know I will. You know me. I'm honest to a fault. But right now, I've had it up to here with his crying from hunger. He needs milk." "Okay, okay." "So you'll do it?" "Yes, I'll do it." Henrietta said. "But your girlfriend better not knock on my door." "She won't, promise." "Come on in." I arrived at feeding time. Henry lay in his playpen, tasting his foot. She picked him up and got situated on the couch, and then she lifted up her t-shirt and began feeding. Henrietta then beckoned for mine and I tucked him into her opposite arm and helped him latch on. Soon both boys lay face-to-face, each suckling on a tit. Neither fussed about the other's presence. I sat in the chair across from her, looking on happily. I almost got up and sat beside her, but changed my mind. Checking my emotions, thinking by doing so I could interrupt the bonding taking place. Milton Jr. fed much longer than Henry and without being told, I took hold of Henry. He gave a 'don't I know you look' as he stared at my black face with those big hazel marbles and fat grin. I circled the sofa repeatedly, carrying, and patting him on the back gently until he finally burped and puked. As I cleaned his mouth, I noticed the clock on the microwave, shocked at the time. "It's almost 10 o'clock. I've been here that long." "I guess," Henrietta said. "Say? Since you're walking around and being a good daddy, go look in the fridge. I have a large plastic juice bottle in there. It has a red lid. It's full of my breast milk. You can have it. Take it. I have plenty in the freezer." "No shit?" "No shit. I figured, why not. Give it to him. It won't go to waste." "What about Henry?" I didn't want to deprive him, but she clarified her kindness. Henrietta produced every two hours and could share, but for a short period. Two weeks, tops. By that time, the federal government, Abbott, Mead, and Nestle should have their act together and shelves restocked. "Damn, that often. No wonder he’s so big." Henrietta looked at me looking at her and blushed, a habit she couldn't get rid of whenever I turned her on. She soon hid her bosom, but did it slowly, and then we exchanged sons. "Look at him. He's smiling," I said, gently laying him against my toweled shoulder and repeating what I did before: patting his back to encourage burps. "My apologies for him being so greedy, but I'm grateful. Really I am." "It's okay. He's just like his daddy." "Really now?" I hung out a bit longer for further small talk and to snack on a pack of frosted Blueberry Pop Tarts for breakfast while both boys lay asleep in the playpen. After that, we embraced tightly and kissed. I soon left, promising Henrietta that I would let Jolene know what transpired. As soon as I returned home, I telephoned Jolene and shared the good news. The conversation quickly became lopsided. I argued my point that our child's health outweighed her jealousy, but she disagreed. "No! I didn't fuck her…Yes, Henrietta breastfed our child…So what! It's not like it's going to be permanent or anything." I said. "And she's willing to do it until formula becomes readily available…She even gave us some of her spare milk." Jolene hung up after that. ***** While I walked to Burger King, an upset Jolene called Bernice, her mother. Unknown at the time, I gained an advocate which likely caught her off guard. Her mom explained the role of wet nurses back in the day before the invention of powdered milk. How enslaved black women commonly breastfeed and cared for slaveholders' and wealthy white men's wives' children. Even poor white women and immigrants did it to supplement their income. Sometimes at their own child's detriment. "Mama? You're siding with him?" "On this," her mother said. "Yes, I am." "Really, Mama." "So let me ask you?" Bernice said. "What do you want him to do? "Not that." For an hour or two, mother and daughter debated; discussing several issues, both old and current. Milton, Jr. soon woke up, disrupting their talk, apparently hungry. Jolene told her mother goodbye. She opened the refrigerator and soon realized in her blind pride, she discarded the large plastic bottle of breast-milk and inadvertently tossed the infant formula Mezz made earlier. She looked down into the trash can and confirmed her stupidity. There, buried with all the other refuse rested an empty Enfamil can. Now Milton Jr., as before, rejected the warm sugar water bottle. Jolene sat down and tried to soothe him, but unsuccessfully. She looked at her own chest, but opted against any attempt at feeding him. She then scoured the apartment and car for forgotten unused infant formula, but nothing. She then wondered about Mezz's whereabouts after throwing him out without his phone. And then it hit her, she left her own apartment for Building D and made the deliberate walk up three flights of stairs. Jolene knocked on door D337. Soon the door opened and two women who shared the same man's love, stood before each other holding his son, looking at each other suspiciously. "Henrietta." "Jolene." "Is Mezz here?" "No," Henrietta. "He was earlier. I did a favor for him." "Yeah, yeah, you did. He told me." "Now, why are you here?" "I kind of overreacted and threw him out, along with the milk you gave. He doesn’t know I'm here." "Really?" Henrietta said. "You did that?" "I was mad. Mad at him, but I want to make it right." "I see." "So, from one mother to another: could you find it in your heart to help me out again?" "I'll think about it." Henrietta swiftly shut the door in Jolene's face. The sound of the lock latching could be heard while Milton Jr. continued his crying and she repeatedly knocked on the door, begging and apologizing. "Henrietta? Please. Please don't punish his son for my stupidity." Suddenly, the door unlocked and then opened. Henrietta thrusted at her a plastic grocery bag containing a few frozen packets of breast milk. She took it and looked inside. Thanks followed. Then, Jolene tried to offer Henrietta a hug, but faced outright rejection. "Just tell Mezz," Henrietta said. "Do that, okay. And let him know his promise lasted only four hours and he should do better. He'll know what I mean. Oh yeah? He's probably at Burger King, thinking, sucking up the soda machine. Bye, Jolene." The door closed. Jolene stood there misty-eyed. She then left Henrietta's building for her own, still feeling conflicted, but happy she could feed her son. As soon as she reached her building's floor, she recognized this lanky dark figure sitting beside the door, sipping on a large drink. Wayne McCray was born in East St. Louis, Illinois, in 1965, and grew up in Chicago until 1984. He attended Southern University A and M College in Baton Rouge, Louisiana. He currently lives in Itta Bena, Mississippi, enjoying country life. His writings have appeared in Afro Literary Magazine, The Bookends Review, Chitro Magazine, The Ocotillo Review, Ogma Magazine, Pigeon Review, The Rush Magazine, and Wingless Dreamer.

1) Discuss the theme of butterflies. What do they represent? 2) What does this story tell us about the role soup/gender/usury plays in American society? (Choose one.) 3) Do you agree that the story was written in English? If not, what language do you think it was written in? 4) Without looking, how many characters are there in the story? 5) Must a story have a hero? 6) Was the story published shortly after it was written? Or do you get the feeling the author left it lying in a drawer for a very long time? 7) For what reasons was this story not written by Mark Twain? 8) If the first page of a story is about a woman character who is not being observed by a male gaze, do you think it was written by a woman? 9) “This story is suspended on a tightrope connecting the individual and society.” Agree or disagree? 10) At what age, if any, do you think you will pick this story up and read it again? 11) “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that every single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.” In what way could this quotation be altered to apply to this story? 12) Did you eat or drink anything while reading this story? Why or why not? 13) In your opinion, why did the author of this story choose to remain anonymous? Do you think she/he will be identified in your lifetime? 14) If you live in a tropical climate, was it hard to imagine the snow and icy roads and icicles in this story? 15) According to U.S. law, is this story still subject to copyright? How do you know? 16) Okay, it’s not the same story, but we just have to ask: did Young Goodman Brown dream the witch-meeting? 17) Is it ironic that the widow loses her eyesight? Or is it just one of those things that happen to people when they get old? 18) Is it a comedy? Is it a tragedy? Explain the difference between the two in your answer. 19) Can this story be compared to the work of Edith Wharton? An auto-repair shop? A nebula? A spool of thread? 20) In what way was the ending a surprise, and in what way was it totally expected? Kate Deimling is a poet, writer, and French translator. Her work has appeared in I-70 Review, Ellipsis Zine, Waxwing, The Midwest Quarterly, and other magazines. She’s an associate poetry editor for Bracken and a flash fiction reader for Reservoir Road Literary Review. A native New Orleanian, Kate lives in Brooklyn.

It’s the last weekend in September, and it’s warm for a fall night in North Dakota. I’m in the backseat of a Ford Zephyr, losing my virginity. My boyfriend’s birthday is two days away. And he definitely keeps reminding me about it. If you’d like to know (and you obviously do, because you’re here, right?), it took about seven seconds. Maybe. If I’m being generous. I grew up in a small, Catholic town, and my older sister had always told me she wanted to wait until she was married (she didn’t.) I considered it. Then realized I may never want to get married, or worse—what if I don’t marry until I’m in my thirties or forties? It’s an odd thing to be thinking about as a 14-year-old, but my boyfriend was 15, about to turn 16, and was putting a lot of pressure on me to “give in.” You’re now thinking: what good parent lets their 14-year-old daughter date a boy that’s almost 16? Well, you know. Small towns. And he was a stellar athlete. And popular. And had nice parents. And was also Catholic. And… When I did finally (sorta) say yes, it’s only because he guilted me into it by saying that he was going to be turning 16, and it was some sort of goal to lose it before then (what a goal!). That all his friends were losing theirs, too (they weren’t). Anyway, here’s some things I remember about those seven seconds, and mostly, after them: Rise Against was playing in the background. “Swing Life Away” surrounded us in the car. What a good song. I’m going to listen to it now while I write this. The vanilla-colored car from the ‘70s had a maroon velvet-ish interior. I always knew my first time wouldn’t be special, but really? The backseat of a car? An old, rusty car? Parked in what my town called The Hot Spot (sort of like Make-Out Point in That ‘70s Show). Could this get any cheaper? *Cut to me in the future: it can and most certainly does.* My grandmother’s empty house was only two houses down from where we were parked. And I felt horribly guilty. She had just passed away a few months before. I felt like her ghostly head was shaking in shame while she watched me undress with some small-town boy who would grow up to be a republican. I remember lip syncing to the Rise Against song, and my boyfriend/virginity stealer asked if I had said something to him, and I quickly said no, embarrassed. For some reason, I was always feeling embarrassed around him. After we were done doing you know what, we sat awkwardly in the car, his arm draped around my shoulders. My thighs looked so fat next to his scrawny legs, and all I wanted was to put my clothes back on. Our awkward, naked, arm-draping cuddling session lasted several minutes. I’m not good at math, but that’s, like, a million times longer than the actual act itself lasted. And afterwards, he said he “had to get home” and dropped me off. I didn’t cry. A new girl had just moved to our school. She was very tall and lean and athletic, which was very important in our town, because all we really had going on for us was that we were impossible to beat in sports. She had long, beautiful blonde hair, almost down to her butt. I had just cut mine the summer before and still had short, black hair; It was in that weird in-between stage of growing out. I was also (and still am) very short, about 5’. So, as you can see, the literal complete opposite of New Girl. She was my boyfriend’s age and quickly went from New Girl in class to It Girl in school. Without even trying out for volleyball and/or basketball, she was instantly put on the varsity team. About a week later, after The Seven Second Event, there was a wedding in town. In small towns, everyone goes to the wedding, followed by the dance, whether they’re invited or not. There’s free food and beer, and who doesn’t love home-cooked meals and endless free booze? I met up with my boyfriend at the dance hall. We walked the few blocks from the wedding dance to his parents’ big, grey house on main street (which is still there, and I still drive by when I go home to see my parents). We had sex for the second time. Only this time around, he lasted considerably longer. It was about thirteen seconds. I said out loud that I should probably get on some birth control, beings as we just had sex twice in less than a week, and that was most likely setting up the premise of what our sex-life would be. I had nothing else to base this theory from, beings this was A) my first boyfriend and B) my first-time having sex. He said nothing back to the birth control statement. I was thinking he’d have some sort of input, like, “yeah! We probably should be smart about this; we’re going to be having LOTS of sex in our long future together!” Or whatever boyfriends usually say. Anyway, I laid down beside him on his bed, and thinking that since his parents weren’t home, and we were also in his room this time (and not a car), that we’d spend more time together post-coitus. There were no streetlamps shining in on us like in the backseat, so I didn’t feel ashamed about my bigger-than-his-thighs. Except he quickly put his clothes back on and said that his parents would notice he was gone from the dance and needed to get back. I thought it all felt a little cold and emotionless. All of it. But his parents were strict and Catholic, so I didn’t argue with him. We went back to the dance hall. He made me walk in a different door than him because he didn’t want his parents to see us walking in together, knowing they’d assume we had left somewhere together. I joined my friends, tried to enjoy the dance, even though I felt terribly disconnected from them and everything going on around me. The dance was coming to an end. I hadn’t seen my boyfriend since we walked back together. At one point, I think I had even asked one of his friends if they’d seen him, who said they thought he was still around. Whatever. I’m a cool and casual girlfriend, right? I don’t NEED to know my boyfriend’s whereabouts or who he’s with. I continued to try to have a good time with my friends. None of my friends knew at the time that I had started having sex. My friends (which are just your classmates in small towns, because there’s literally no one else) were very much goody-two-shoes, and I would have rather died than let them find out. I looked around for my boyfriend later again and still didn’t find him. He had clearly left and had been gone for a couple of hours. I saw that his parents were still there at the dance. They looked pretty not concerned about their son’s whereabouts. In fact, I’m fairly certain they were very drunk. I figured he went with his friends to go drive around, as that was the thing to do in small towns— “cruising main” or “dragging main”. Only the cool kids with a car were able to do that. And he had a car. (See how cool I was? Dating someone older? With a car? So cool. So casual.) A couple more hours passed, and the main doors opened to the dance hall. The lights turned on. The dance was ending. My friends and I turned around to look at who could possibly be coming in so late. There in the full light, my boyfriend and The New Girl strolled in together, drawing more attention than the newly married couple. How small towns love to talk. They might have well had been holding hands or making out. I tried my hardest not to fully turn around and stare at them. Them. Walking in. Together. In front of our whole town. Through the same doors at the same time. Where his parents were. My mouth dried. My face got hot. Not even because I knew that they had clearly just fucked, but because everyone else saw it and also knew. I didn’t cry. Andrea Lawler is a poet, essayist, and short story writer. She holds a degree in English Language & Literature. Her poetry collection, Let Me Take You Out of This Town, debuts in February, 2023. She lives in North Dakota with her three cats.

Max drank whiskey on his porch, one bottle for him, the other upon Henry’s return. By his calendar, Project Annihilation should have been be completed weeks ago, with Henry disposing of remaining humans. Birds chirped in the distance, a summer breeze washed Max’s face, and sublime acceptance seeped into him. In a rusted out car, like something out of Mad Max, Henry speeds over the horizon. Max downed another glass while waiting. Henry stagged out of the car, sweat and blood congealed on his shirt. “Is it done?” Max asked. “Everyone’s dead.” “You sure?” He nodded. “Absolutely sure?” “The last person I saw was a bearded shut-in. We drank coffee and smoked his last pack of cigarettes.” Henry paused. “Hell of a thing being with someone during their last hours.” “Hours?” “I got to know this man.” A long pause. “Somehow all of this don’t feel right.” Max lit a stale cigarette. “Did he know who you were?” “No, just an old timer happy to see someone. His town was empty, though not by my hand.” “And?” “When we finished, he pulled out a gun, and blew his brains out.” “Just like that?” Henry took a seat next to Max. “Just like that.” “But you’re sure everyone’s dead except us?” “As sure as anyone can be,” Henry said. “I mean, goddamn, I’ve been out there for what? years?” “Little over a decade.” Max handed Henry his bottle. “We’re the last humans then. Ain’t that something?” Henry admired the bottle and took a swig. “You know, I think I’ll miss this world.” Max leaned back, his whiskey almost gone. “I’ve had a weird and interesting life, but I won’t miss it.” Henry took another swig. “You never told me when this all started.” “My father looked at me with sadness. Not a sadness that I was his son, a melancholy that I was born. Not resentment. No. Something deeper. A kind of existential depression of foisting existence on a meat puppet.” He took a long drink. “As I aged, he told me he longed for extinction. His reasons made too much sense to ignore.” Max took another drink. “You never ask many questions before. Why now?” “You’re a friend. The only one I ever had. A smarter than anyone I knew. No point in questions at the time. But now I’m curious.” Max took a drag and exhaled through his nostrils. “Thank you, friend.” “Did he start the program immediately?” “Took him until I started college to perfect the formula and work out the logistics.” “Whatever happened to him?” “After he taught me how to keep it going, he went to the garage and hung himself. I think I was twenty? Maybe twenty-one? Shot my mother first.” Max paused. “He didn’t say goodbye, but his eyes leading up to his suicide didn’t lie. My mother once told me he’d long suffered bouts of anhedonia” “Anhedonia?” “He couldn’t feel pleasure.” Henry took out a cigarette, lit it, and stared off in the distance. “I’m not sure I’m ready to die.” Max put his wrinkled hand on Henry’s shoulder. “The planet’s a sentience void now. This moment we have, right here, right now? That’s it. And Henry, thank you for your friendship, and service.” Henry let the cigarette burn. “It’s been a wild ride.” “No more human misery. No more needless suffering of beings thrust into a world to suffer and die. No more cradles that become coffins. You understand the humanism behind it all, right? The compassion of saving countless future lives from this wretched world, right?” Henry inhaled, then snubbed out his cigarette. “Yeah, sure, I suppose.” “One more glass?” Henry nodded. Both downed a final glass in silence, then Max produced two cyanide tablets. “You were more than a friend. A brother.” Max said. “Thank you.” # Off the coast of California, on a derelict boat, a baby cried out as the mother finished birthing. “It’s ok,” she said. “Mommy’s here. Everything will be ok.” “It’s a miracle,” the doctor said. “You’re one of a few fertile women left. You’re a hero.” The woman looked out at a crumbling L.A, then back at her crying infant. She wept. Sebastian Vice is the Founder of Outcast Press devoted to transgressive fiction and dirty realism. He has short fiction and poetry published in Punk Noir Magazine, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Outcast Press, Terror House Magazine, Bristol Noir, and Misery Tourism. He contributed a chapter to Red Sun Magazine's forthcoming book The Hell Bound Kids (May 1st, 2022) and writes a regular column called "Notes of A Degenerate Dreamer" over at A Thin Slice of Anxiety. His flash piece "One Last Good Day"was nominated for Best of The Net 2021. His forthcoming poetry book Homo Mortalis: Meditations on Memento Mori will drop April 4th, 2022 through Anxiety Press.

*** Illegal Activity on Mayberry Street Last Tuesday, Mrs. Frobisher and her alleged lady friends broke up an illegal parade of wild turkeys down the middle of Mayberry Street by throwing poker chips at the birds. Parades are only allowed on weekends. The wild turkeys retaliated by chasing the ladies around the block and eating Mrs. Frobisher's flowers. The police, who were called by neighbors to restore order, found an illegal gambling casino in Mrs. Frobisher's basement. The police were able to arrest the ladies, but the wild turkeys scattered before the police could catch them. Policemen are still stationed at the golf course to question the wild turkeys when they fly down from the trees. However, it is doubtful the big birds will give up the identity of those involved in the parade. *** House Cleaning Company to Drops Lawsuit Against Client Darci Doolittle, president of Clean Freak Homes, Inc., contacted her attorney to start a lawsuit after her client, Joe Austin, didn't give her a 24-hour cancellation notice, and didn't pay the cancellation fee. Love Your Lawn landscaping services joined in the lawsuit. The police officer who delivered the summons found Joe dead on the floor. Because Mr. Austin had nothing valuable except a cranky old cat, Ms. Doolittle decided not to pursue acquiring Joe's assets to make up for the loss of income, as she is allergic. She plans to contact her state senator to draft legislation requiring people to notify everyone before they die unexpectedly. *** Deadly Grizzly A grizzly wandered into a lodge restaurant kitchen this weekend, looking for food. Restaurant workers evacuated the building before they became lunch. The grizzly ate all the pizzas, lumbered outside, and began rolling on the ground in pain. Park rangers subdued the bear long enough to pour a bottle of antacids down its throat. The bear immediately farted, knocking down several trees. Everybody within a mile radius of the fart fainted and had to be airlifted out. The cook surmised that the grizzly wasn't Italian, and couldn't bear the pizza sauce, garlic, cheese, and pepperoni. *** Serial Killer Caught on Camera An unknown dog in a mask and cape was caught after hours on a pet store camera ferociously shaking a stuffed animal. White puffs of fluff flew from the victim until it expired. When the manager opened the store the next morning, she found all the toy bins emptied, and unstuffed animal carcasses littering the floor. Several employees spent over an hour cleaning up the grisly scene and filling the bins with new stuffed toys. By the time police reviewed the camera footage, the murderer was no longer in the building. They are on the lookout for this dangerous criminal. Keep your doors and windows locked. *** Wife Drives Husband to Drink That's right. Marge Castle, our own town gossip, drove her husband to the bar yesterday. Maybe she just wanted to show off her new used Mazda. But will she pick him up? Harry Castle isn't sure. *** Man Taken to ER after Lawn Mowing Accident Kenneth Bailey, unhappy with his neighbor, Devon Patel’s, choice of political candidate, attempted to run down a sign that was close to the boundary of their adjacent yards. The lawn mower ejected a wooden shard into Mr. Bailey’s leg. Mr. Patel drove Mr. Bailey to seek medical help. *** Death Completes Time Management Course Death was just plain tired of responding to every unimportant and non-urgent prank death call. Now she carries a planner to prioritize her appointments. Her new phone number is unlisted so that she can focus on increasing productivity. Not to worry. She'll show up when it's your time. You're important. Nolcha has written all her life, starting with poop and crayons on the walls. That led to a long career in technical writing. She retired into creative writing. Her poems have been published in WyoPoets News, Duck Head Journal, Ancient Paths, Dark Entries, The Red Lemon Review, Agape Review, Bullshit Literary Magazine, and Storyteller’s Refrain.

We thought you’d remember us. Trisha dreamt her kid tumbled down the stairs and opened the flesh below his knees. She’d woken up, sweating, trembling, and his sharp cries ringing in her ears. The next afternoon, as they left the local mall, the memory like a framed photograph still nailed to the insides of her skull, she recognized the bobbing head of her kid hopping down the white stone steps. Trisha leapt in an attempt to grab him but knocked him over, and there he was, wailing, blood everywhere. Soon, the neighbour’s dog was squelched under a mini-van. Angry wasps attacked an old woman who’d poked the hive with a stick—she was dead and it made the local news. Trisha dropped a kitchen knife on her foot while chopping carrots. A Russel’s viper bit the gardener of their countryside house in India, left him foaming from the mouth under the scorching sun. Her twenty-year-old nephew was mugged, beaten, stabbed, and left to die by a couple of gin-soaked thugs in the wet and dingy streets of East London. Trisha didn’t want to sleep. She was terrified more of her nightmares would manifest. She would lie awake for as long as she could beside her snoring and oblivious husband. But then she’d fall asleep, and dream. We thought you’d remember us. We remember you. # Trisha dreamt again. Vivid as always. But this was good. Her husband was on top, and he wasn’t the lifeless machine she was used to. His muscles shifted under his smooth sweaty skin while he fucked her, smiling, breathing heavily, the scent of his favourite musky cologne lingering in the room. Trisha didn’t want him to stop. She squirmed in her sleep, moaning, her cotton panties wet. He grabbed her breasts, her tiny, pointy… those weren’t her breasts! Trisha looked around frantically. She didn’t recognize the stained green wallpapers or the red neon lights bleeding through the shabby white lace curtains or the soft hum and the occasional clunk from the air conditioner. She was horrified, but he continued to fuck her as if he never noticed—smiling, breathing heavily. We thought you’d remember us. We remember you. We remember the sight of your muscles shifting under your smooth sweaty skin while you fucked her, after you’d finger-fucked her whilst twisting her perky little titties, making her feel things she’d never felt before. We know she breathed in the scent of your musky cologne determined to remember it. We know she ignored her usual amusements: the nasty green wall, the stupid red neon lights outside the shabby white lace curtains, the barely-functioning air conditioner. We know she’d fuck you every day had she not been pimped out to the fat bald uglies that grunted like breathless pigs as they emptied themselves inside her in less than thirty seconds. Trisha sat up, shaking. Her husband was about to cheat on her the next evening, fuck a small-breasted woman like he’d never fucked her—with heat and love. She glared at the back of his sleep-enveloped head and fumed. Then she smiled. She used to stand before the bathroom mirror and stare at the dark green woven into her hazel irises, unsure where that green came from. Dr Barnes was a tad confused. He tested her eyes, and suggested she get thoroughly checked, but she was fit as a fiddle. Then came the dreams, the vivid nightmares, haunting her, chasing her into dark corners and rattraps. She hated the dreams, hated herself, and when she suspected her new set of corneas could be responsible for the sudden clairvoyance, she cursed the donor and wanted to gauge her eyes out. But now, she could catch her husband in the act, and she smiled. We thought you’d remember us. We remember you. You adored us, said we were the most beautiful things you’d ever seen, that we reminded you of oases in the Sahara; you said we looked sad and it broke your heart, that you’d love her and fuck her every night if you could… just to see us laugh over and over again. # “Surprise, darling! I brought you your favourite sandwiches,” said Trisha, swinging open the glass doors at her husband’s office and prancing in like she belonged. He was shocked for a split second and his secretary was amused. Trisha left after lunch, having noted the small breasts on the red-head. She lurked outside the building all day while the kid stayed with the sitter, but her husband and his lover took different routes. He returned to the house and headed straight to his study, unaware that Trisha wasn’t home, unaware that she crept in twenty minutes after he did while he was crouched before his laptop, typing away. We thought you’d remember us… You didn’t. Trisha felt invisible. She wept and screamed silently in the shower. He was about to fuck his secretary that night, yet there he was, calm… typing, typing, typing. # The detective raised an eyebrow. “What?” Last night, your wife read The Wonderful Wizard of Oz to the boy and put him to sleep. She doesn’t know… she doesn’t know… her boy only scraped his knee at school, the neighbour’s dog is still yapping away in another house, the wasps chasing the old woman was a cartoon illustration on Facebook, her foot was never sliced open, the gardener died of a sun-stroke, and her nephew was an extra on TV in a police procedural. Last night, we watched your pretty face contort in confusion and anger as she accused you of fucking your small-tittied secretary. And we liked it… “The woman says the flying monkeys from Oz are after her—” We tried. We tried so hard. We baffled Dr Barnes. We thought you’d remember us, but you didn’t recognize the little dark greens peeking through your wife’s hazel irises, part of the same deep green that you claimed reminded you of oases in the Sahara. “She the one that killed her husband with a meat tenderizer because she caught him cheating, uh… in the future?” We thought you’d remember us… Tejaswinee Roychowdhury is a Bengali-Indian lawyer, writer, poet, and occasional artist. Her fiction has been/will be published in Muse India, The Unconventional Courier, Misery Tourism, Alphabet Box, Borderless Journal, Kitaab, and Active Muse, among others. Currently, she's a fiction/screen/stage editor for The Storyteller's Refrain. Find her tweeting at @TejaswineeRC and her list of works at linktr.ee/tejaswinee.

Pearl Mussel Do not tell me to heal. I want no poems that call the wild geese home, or command me, behold the winter sunset, or, consider the fox frozen in river-ice. I want no poems that tell me how to mend, or how to mourn all the world’s little losses, and little gifts, I know what we are giving up. Do not tell me, make peace and grieve. The lifespan of anger is long in the wild, and if left alone, it will become a living relic, rooted and sightless in the deep. If left alone, its small, dark life will outlast by far this brief season. Is that not reason enough to let it live? Untitled “GOD HATES —” (A sonnet) If I believed in God, I would use Him The way He has been used against me. Those who have condemned me, I would condemn From my high pulpit, and rain hellfire down On what I deem hypocrisy. If I had faith, I would wield it like a flail, barbed-wire tails, A velvet grip, soft only to the hand That holds it. This is all to say, I know I am no better than my enemies. I know the human heart to be a sponge— When squeezed, it oozes whatever substance It has been soaked in. If mine believed, I would Seep the same pap as I’ve been fed, I would Suck up this lake of poison and call it Love. Hesse Phillips lives in Madrid, Spain. Their poetry and prose have appeared in The Bridport Review, the époque press é-zine, Embark: A Literary Journal for Novelists, and is forthcoming in Emerge Literary Journal and other publications. They were a 2022 finalist in the Irish Writers Centre Novel Fair.

Awake Raindrops hurl to the pavement, pooling, streaming, Seeking inlets in which to rest. I lie in bed hearing the swoosh of tires as cars glide by, Infrequently, at four in the morning. Too early for all but the most industrious commuters, Too late for revelers, passed out in beds. I listen, so I don’t start to think. Those thoughts that come in the dark of night Those streams of questions coursing through my mind, Demanding answers. I choose instead to listen. The rhythmic breathing of my partner, at times punctuated by a snore of surprise. The dreams of the dog, defending us. Brave, even in slumber. The shush of the rain, cleansing us, quenching us, so that we can rise, Glistening in the light of a new day. The One Who Never Leaves How quick the return. A harsh comment A look of disgust A threat to leave Brings him back to you. That weak-kneed little boy Standing so small Deep inside your soul. Eyes brimming with tears Voice shaking, whispering, “I’m so scared”. You thought you dealt with this, In years of therapy. You held him Heard him out Told him he was safe now. Then you moved on Got tough, grew a pair More polished than a brand-new pair of shoes. At least you thought so. Oh, how vulnerable we are. How thin the veneer How fragile the shell How deep the wound, That never Truly Heals. Brian Christopher Giddens (he/him) is a writer of fiction and poetry. Brian’s writing has been featured in Silver Rose, On the Run Fiction, Glass Gates Collective, Flash Fiction Online (pending publication), and Hyacinth Review (pending publication). Brian is a native of Seattle, Washington, where he lives with his husband, and Jasper the dog. Brian can be contacted at BrianChristopherGiddens@outlook.com, and his photo haikus can be found on Instagram @giddens394.