Search Results

CW: Hell, death, demons, alcohol. When we entered Hell, we got these little printouts that justified our damnation. The demon handing them out told us not to look at them until we got to the debriefing room. The people who looked at them anyway were set on fire, which was a great incentive for the rest of us to do as we were told. To stop myself from looking, I did deep breathing exercises and tried to imagine the pattern of a peacock's plumage. This proved to be a rancid choice of imagery. My girlfriend, Penelope Chiu, loved peacocks. On our last date before I died, we’d spent hours trailing peacocks at the Prospect Park Zoo. We gave them names and elaborate backstories, then went home and made out under her peacock-print blanket. I was never going to see Penelope again. I bit my lip and tried not to think about it as we were herded into the debriefing room. It looked like the kind of conference room where you have meetings that could have been emails, except that the board was oozing cyan slime, and the boss leading the meeting was an 11-foot demon with blood-red skin and goat horns. Part of me was still in shock - it's not like I was expecting a drunk driver to send my body flying across 5th Avenue. I didn't remember dying. Part of me still felt like I was late to meet Penelope for coffee. If you'd asked me before I died whether I'd be going to Hell, I might have jokingly told you that I was, but I wouldn't have meant it. I didn't even believe in Hell; if I had believed, I would never have thought I'd led a life deserving of eternal torment. Was it because I didn't believe? Everyone looked equally ill at ease. Some people were looking at their papers, while others pwere just staring at the ground or straight ahead with haunted expressions. A few people were whispering, but I couldn't hear what they were saying. Finally, someone spoke out loud. A freckled woman with curly red hair shouted, "There's got to be a mistake. I've lived a good life! I haven't done anything to deserve going to Hell!" "Check your paper," the goat-horned demon said. “But—” "Check your paper!" I'd also lived what I thought was a decent life. But I drank Coca-Cola even though I knew that Nestle's shady business practices had starved thousands of babies to death in South America. I only gave money to homeless people sometimes, not because I didn't have it or didn't think they deserved it, but because I was too lazy to pull out my wallet. I'd been to fourteen different countries knowing full well how bad air travel was for the environment. I thought about those things when I was alive, but I never thought enough to change. Any one of those things could have bought my ticket to Hell. Was that fair? I didn't know. I wanted to hear why the red-haired woman had been condemned before thinking about my own reason. After a few seconds of sputtering, the woman finally checked her paper. She read it out loud. "God attempted to hit you with lightning on 12/13/2007. You went inside a Starbucks and spent seven extra minutes telling the barista about the cat you were going to adopt from the local shelter. God thought you would only take three minutes doing this, so They released the lightning early." She bit her lip and furrowed her brow. "That can't be right," she said. "Are you serious?" "Everything on your paper is absolute," said the goat-horned person. "God tried to kill me and failed, so I have to go to Hell for it? That’s totally unfair.” A man with a greying handlebar mustache waved his paper in the air and shouted, “I killed someone while driving drunk, but my paper says I’m in because my son downloaded a Hoobastank album on Limewire. This must be a mistake.” My stomach twisted. Was this man the one who killed me? I couldn't remember. Whoever it was, I knew I didn’t want them to burn in Hell. I wanted them to get home safely to their family. I wanted them to get help with their drinking. To live a good life. Why, if I was the victim, couldn’t I have that? “No mistake,” said the demon. I wanted to punch them. A woman wearing a Sailor Moon T-shirt and horn-rimmed glasses squinted at her paper and wondered how she could be getting sent to Hell for not going to Iceland. “God didn’t tell me to go to Iceland,” she said. “If I’d known God wanted me to go to Iceland I would have gone.” The demon shrugged, their many wings lifting with their shoulder. “In 1988, you heard an advertisement for trips to Iceland. That was a message from God.” “I was born in 1989!” “Yes - your mother was listening to the radio. You had ears by then, you could have heard it.” Someone got in because they killed a mosquito that was supposed to give their brother Lyme Disease. Someone else got in because his mother was supposed to go to Hell, but she was accidentally sent to Heaven so he has to take her place. The noise level was rising, so I decided to take a look at my own paper before I couldn’t process it anymore. Sweat collected in the dip of my collarbone, and my heart sank like a wrecked ship. I didn’t want to see my entire existence boiled down to a stupid technicality. My paper, which was folded and wrinkled with nervous energy reads: “Caroline Romero, DOB: 1/14/1994, DOD: 6/20/2018 On 5/9/2015, you began dating Penelope Chiu. Two weeks prior to this event, God sent Joel Ploskett to your workplace at Uniqlo. He asked you out while you were folding clothes. You rejected him. God intended for you to marry Joel, and give birth to five of his children. Each of those children would have had a different type of deadly tumor. God wished to observe the development of these tumors. This defiance of God’s plan has earned you an eternity of torture in Hell.” My vision was replaced by electric fuzz. If God wanted me to marry a guy who spent 45 minutes sexually harassing me while I was working and couldn’t leave… If God wanted to use my body to gawk at human suffering… If God didn't want me to feel the awesome power of my infinite love for Penelope… If God was punishing us for defying a plan we weren’t informed of… if God didn’t care about the things we’d actually done wrong… then God deserved to be here, not us! The demon pressed a folder into my hands. “This is your torture assignment and schedule,” they said. “Please look through all the provided information, and then let me know if you have questions.” Before I had the chance to stop myself, I slapped the folder onto the ground. Everybody quieted down and stared at me. “I’m not staying here. Nothing about why we’re here has anything to do with our moral quality. None of us have done anything to deserve eternal suffering.” I thumped my chest, wincing at how hollow it sounded. “There’s got to be an exit somewhere. If we work together, we can find it. Who’s with me?” Sweat waterfalled down the small of my back. Who did I think I was, spouting nonsense like that? I didn’t have a plan. I didn’t know where the exit was. And what was I going to do, overpower all the demons? In life, I was lucky if I could drag myself to the gym once a week. But no one seemed to think it was nonsense. They shouted in agreement. They started throwing around ideas. “I think I saw an exit earlier!” said the woman in the Sailor Moon shirt. “It was on fire, but if we can find some water we might be able to use it.” The demon insisted that there was no way to escape Hell, but nobody listened. Instead, they rushed out of the room. I tried to join them, but there were too many moving bodies. I was almost knocked over before a man with a wiry beard and a lavender down vest yelled, “No stampeding! We might be dead, but that doesn’t mean we can’t be orderly!” “That’s right!” shouted a person with pink cornrows and spiderweb earrings. “We don’t want to risk dying again and ending up in Super Hell!” Everyone started to walk slower, with purpose. The demon sprouted leathery wings and tried to fly in front of us, but we just plowed past them. They shot fire at us from a forked spear, and we started running, but this time we were paying attention to where everybody else ran, too. Nobody got trampled. A few people got burned, so the larger members of the group stayed behind to pick them up. I found myself carrying a baby, who clung to my hair and howled into my ear. More demons swarmed the entrance to the conference room, trying to stop us as we marched forward. A teenage girl with ice-cream printed overalls and massive muscles doled out roundhouse kicks, while an equally powerful old man picked up demons and spun them over his head. No matter how many demons appeared, somebody fought them off. Sometimes, it took five people to deal with a single demon - they were two or three times our size, and they had weapons and fire. But we kept fighting and we kept running, and when someone couldn’t run anymore someone else picked them up. We had surrendered our individuality to become an invincible collective. One that could find the exit. One that could sweep through enemies and make sure no one got left behind. After what felt like hours, we got to the exit. Unconscious demons littered the landscape. Half of us were limping and some of us were being carried, but none of us were on the ground. The exit was a wreath of flaming rock, and we had nothing to put it out with. We started talking about where to find water, but before we could come to any conclusions, the burning rocks began to collapse. I leaped backward, arms crossed over the baby’s head. The rocks blocked the exit completely. It sizzled, then disappeared. The baby was sobbing and I felt like sobbing too. I had just been transformed into a single cell in a powerful, purposeful animal, and now our purpose had been thwarted. New waves of demons would be coming soon, and we’d have to submit to fiery torment. I didn’t want that for me, or for any of the souls that I suddenly loved like family. I knew that escaping didn’t mean seeing Penelope again, but oh, part of me had hoped… “You,” said the man in the lavender vest. “What’s your name?” “Caroline,” I croaked. “Caroline, you inspired us to escape. Can you inspire us to take the next step?” “Come on, that’s too much pressure to put her!” said the woman God couldn’t kill with a lightning bolt. I wasn’t sure why this was my job, but I’d been trusted with it. I needed a minute - to wipe away my tears and rub the baby’s back until they quieted down. I needed a minute, but I would speak. “We’ll look for another exit,” I said. “And if we can’t find one, we’ll find a way to survive Hell together. We’ll fight off any demons who try to mess with us. We’ll protect each other. We’ll find food together, or figure out how to grow it. We won’t let anyone be tortured. If we have to stay here, we’ll make an afterlife worth spending eternity in — one where our loved ones will be happy to meet us. Are you with me?” Everyone’s fists flew into the air except for one person’s - the man with the handlebar mustache. “Caroline, I think I killed you,” he said in a tear-stained voice. “It was an accident, but you shouldn’t be here. I deserve to be punished. I’m so sorry.” I didn’t care. He was sorry, he was forgiven, and now he had work to do. “What good will torturing you do?” I said. “We need your help to build the future. We need all of us.” Anna Lindwasser is a freelance writer and educator living in Brooklyn, New York. Her work has been published in Bridge Eight Press, (mac)ro(mic), and Selcouth Station, among others. When she's not writing or teaching, she's volunteering at the local cat shelter and drinking way too much tea. She can be found on Twitter @annalindwasser and at her website annalindwasser.com.

I’m weird, I say into saltine-air: dry, and untasting. I forget what I used to like to do, when I’d envelop boys and come back for more, or find tulips in the residue of shifting Seasons. I can’t turn on the heat, I almost say to my therapist, But I don’t. I shiver, instead. There was an almost-fire last year: the firemen came And said “oh shit”, when the flame sparked and culled and beckoned to engulf The overhangs, the portraits my dead grandfather made, And the cuckoo clocks, with the tongues split open On the hour. But I lived through it. I still thought it uncanny That a fireman would swear, For they saw fire and flame All the time. But they did. A flamingo has to eat with his head upside down, or he refuses. He’s weird, too. All pink and tilted like a clock at half past six– And I wonder if I get vertigo, too. When I shuffle down grocery stores looking for exits, When I quit jobs that don’t serve me, but often because I’m too afraid – anymore – to feel connected. I’m safer unmoored: paddling, wading, waiting for the next Flurry of feeling to grab me. A lover at my throat, but gently, A petal waiting to be picked. A dolphin only turns off half its brain to sleep; It needs the rest to scour the sea. When I curl up with a weighted Blanket, as heavy as the moon waxing pretty, as light as the way we devour each other’s names as they are said in winter air that will not last forever– I, too, keep half my nerves for safekeeping. Wondering where you went– If you, like me, scour the sea at wintertime, Wondering if you can break the ice. Cracked and fissured, Alone and somewhat pretty, Looking for me with your scarf wound tightly, the northern lights cooing quietly, A lullaby in the way I wind myself up, in the ways I cannot stand the way I flee from all of this, from you, From ice-fishing travels where you must leave land to feel anything but frost. From my spiraling thoughts, the way I even loathe myself into a froth – sometimes – Too. I’m safer at sea than with me, I’m a constant plea, lost and unchanging. I’m salt streaks & cascading winds. I’m To remain upside down, stricken, Wintery & opaque. My locks catching snowflakes like spiders: open, Needing, awake. Leslie Cairns (She/her): Leslie Cairns holds an MA degree in English Rhetoric. She lives in Denver, Colorado. She is a Pushcart Prize Nomination for 2022 in the Short Story category ('Owl, Lunar, Twig'). She was an honorable mention in Flash 405's call in Exposition Review (2022). Leslie has upcoming flash, short stories, and poetry in various magazines (Full Mood Magazine, Final Girl Zine, Londemere Lit, and others). Twitter: starbucksgirly

It had been nearly a century since my last visit to the chateau. My light carriage, drawn by two dappled steeds, ascended the steep, narrow road that spiraled up the sides of the mountain in the warm summer evening. The journey lasted but a few hours, and during this brief period, I was serenaded by a myriad of creatures, both delicate and cruel, who inhabited that lofty terrain. Their voices grew dimmer as the elevation rose. By the time I reached the chateau, only the sound of clopping hooves filled my ears. At the gate, two servants approached and took control of the reins. They accompanied the carriage to the plaza and stopped at the foot of the main stairway. I stepped out and gazed up at the old building that towered over the land. This enormous structure, with its impenetrable ramparts and unsurmountable parapets, overwhelmed my senses. The gas lamps that lined the entryway of this magnificent architecture replaced the stars and planets that existed before all this came to pass. I bathed my eyes in this vision of delight, which loomed before me like a fortress rather than a palace. I turned to hail the servants who assisted me. They had unharnessed the horses and were walking toward the stable further up the mountain road, having anticipated the length of my stay. The chateau’s interior was decorated in the style of Louis XIV, with its marbled floors, massive ornamental cabinets, winding balustrades and crystal chandeliers. Very little, if anything, had changed during my absence. The habitual patrons gathered in the main hall. Like a silent breeze, I drifted past them. During the years between my visits, Madame, who raised her status within the establishment from chatelaine to host, mingled with her gentlemen admirers. She regaled in their pomposity and saw to their every comfort. Madame was not only a great beauty but a seasoned entrepreneur, satisfying all requirements of her clientele. I heard every word of their feebleminded conversations in which the fops flattered themselves in hopes of gaining special favors from their host. Sensing my presence, Madame interrupted her conversations with a bow and excused herself. “Ah, Count. How nice of you to make an appearance. It has been so long. I presume you arrived safely.” “Quite. My passage over the mountain roads progressed unhindered.” Her eyes sparkled like Jupiter and Saturn in a starless sky. “I do not mean to pry,” she said. “But I sense you seek refuge from your troubles.” “It is nothing more than a touch of ennui,” I replied. “Tonight, I desire something extraordinary to lighten my spirit.” “I have just what you need,” said Madame, with a gleam in her eye. “A new girl has made quite an impression.” “And, for what reason?” I inquired. “I cannot say. My guests refuse to talk about it after spending an evening with her.” “I wonder why? I insist you bring her to me.” “She is a gentle soul, Count. But, she does possess a singular manner.” “Those qualities are precisely what I seek.” “It will cost you a bit more than the customary rate,” said Madame. “She’s in demand, you know.” “Very well. I never negotiate that which must be possessed. Whatever the price, I’ll pay it.” Madame led me down a winding staircase and through a door that opened into an underground chamber. The dampness of the room caressed my body like the taffeta sheets lining my narrow bed. I inhaled the soothing scents of petrichor and perfumed digitalis. Madame took a sincere interest in my contentment. I adored her. She placed her arm upon mine and we sauntered across the floor until we reached an apothecary. Along the far wall lay several mahogany boxes, alike but for slight differences in size. This piqued my curiosity, which was immediately diverted by a gracious offering from Madame. “Prepare a solution for yourself while you wait, my dear Count. I remember your fondness for a certain potation of which we are replete.” I enjoyed the touch of Madame’s elegant arm upon mine. She was a homely little waif when first I set eyes on her centuries ago. Madame had been rescued from the perils of secret streets by the chateau’s baron. The latter had given this indelicate youth a chance at redemption as a chambermaid in his sprawling manor. She blossomed into a beautiful, well-bred woman under the late baron’s cultivation, secure in her femininity and noble character. Madame uncoupled her arm from mine and with a coquettish smile adjusted the mother-of-pearl necklace, whose cameo pressed deep into the notch of her pale neck. I began to think of Madame in a certain way, which took all my willpower to repress. I had not come for her that night. The heat flowing through my blood cooled, and for the moment, my arousal subdued. She blushed. Ah, Madame, I thought, you have read my mind. “A sofa for your comfort,” she said, pointing. She turned upon an axis like a miniature ballerina housed in a clock. Her back faced me, revealing unblemished skin beneath the décolleté gown, reigniting my passion—a torment I continued to resist. “There is a small room behind the counter with a mirror and running water, should you require it.” “Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind,” I said, smiling politely. Why should I require such amenities? They proved no use to me. Madame left my company, making her way back across the chamber and out the door to secure the girl. I cannot say, with certainty, when I first became aware of the diminution of my faculties. I experienced sudden lapses in consciousness during which I perceived time slowing to a standstill. I convinced myself this condition existed as a temporary aberration in my immortality. But, its persistence proved otherwise. My mental acuity, which served me well for centuries, became unreliable. During these fugues, I often wept, deprived of hearing the glorious cries of lost souls who begged me for release. Their futile appeals became fragments of sound, swallowed up in those distortions of time. I grew despondent by the frequency of these lapses and questioned my belief in immortality, fearful there existed an end to everything and that I had entered into the senescence of eternity. Yet, having this discontent weighing on my mind, I did not lose my insatiable lust to possess whomever I desired. And so, that night, I redoubled my efforts to enjoy what I came for, denying my troubling thoughts but, in truth, barely keeping them at bay. I prepared a favorite potion by placing a cube of sugar upon a sieve, then poured drops of absinthe over it, observing the little green fairies sidle down the glass. I never tired of spending time with these tiny demons, savoring the bitter taste of their madness with the sweetness of their hospitality. Suddenly, my tongue began to burn. I could not reconcile this attack on my senses and became anxious, fearful the pleasures of my addiction had come to an end. My disquiet was interrupted by the sound of the chamber door opening. I looked up. Beneath the flickering lights of the ceiling candelabra stood the new girl, poised erect like Beardsley’s Venus in a white diaphanous gown. A single pale rose rested between her breasts. She held her arms behind her back as if concealing a gift. Oh, Madame. You knew exactly what I needed. I set the glass down and stepped forward. “Come closer,” I beckoned. “What is your name?” “Olalla,” she replied softly. O-lal-la, I whispered. These three sounds brought more joy than a trinity of elated sighs. Her name was familiar, but I could not recall where I had heard it before. Perhaps, in a story told long ago. “May I have this dance, Olalla?” “Certainly, sir. It would give me pleasure. But, I do not hear any music.” “How thoughtless of me.” With a snap of my fingers, the music commenced. “Ah, the Devil’s Trill,” she said. “How apropos.” “Apropos, you say. In what way, Olalla?” “It is a very seductive piece, don’t you think?” She was poignant in her description, and perhaps, not the innocent I imagined. The music was indeed a demonic masterpiece of seduction. And now, I employed it to thrill us with trills of forbidden harmony. I took Olalla in my arms and we glided across the chamber floor like skaters upon virgin ice. “You dance so well, sir. Better than any gentleman I have ever had.” “I am quite experienced in these diversions,” I replied. “But, never, never have I had the satisfaction of such a blithe companion as yourself.” “Thank you, sir. What a lovely compliment. I hope you will allow me to repay it in some way.” As the tempo of the phantom music increased, so did my vitality, for the quivering of the violin strings raced through my body in tempestuous arcs of fire. My braided tresses whipped wildly around Olalla, pulling her closer, fueling the mounting flames that would consume her soul. She stared at my smile, which surely betrayed my intentions. I awaited the moment of her submission when she realized in whose arms she found herself. This did not happen. Olalla laughed in unrestrained delight, exposing two curious, pointed teeth. Her eyes grew larger, turning into swirling, crimson pools. The sudden transformation startled me and my thoughts strayed from their path. I recalled the story of a young woman who lived in a shadow-world like mine. She wandered the land, having in her possession the extraordinary power to undo the curses of ineluctable vanity, cunning, and duplicity in the undead. Each tainted soul she touched found redemption. “It is time I repaid your compliment,” she said. “You know who I am.” Before I could respond, she placed her lips against my neck. In her unholy kiss, I experienced the ineffable thrill I had so often given others through the centuries. The clock on the wall stopped and I swooned, once again sequestered inside the end of time as she feasted on my blood. I, the heartless predator, had become the unsuspecting prey. Olalla guided me to the sofa on which I reposed. With a snap of her fingers, the music stopped. She prepared a second potion of absinthe, for the first had metathesized into a clear liquid, abandoned by the green fairies whose patience had grown thin by my devotion to Olalla. I looked up. The petals of her pale rose turned grey. “Drink this,” she said. To my chagrin, each sip of the absinthe tasted more disagreeable than the last. I tossed the glass with my remaining strength. The green fairies scattered across the floor in bewilderment. “That’s right. Run, you wicked creatures. Your fealty is no longer desired.” Olalla’s crimson eyes flared as she nodded in agreement. She stood above me, licking the traces of my blood that lingered on her lips. Then she knelt and again helped herself to the tinctured remains that flowed through my veins. I could stand it no more. “Stop, Olalla! I know why you are here. You have repaid my compliment a thousand times over with your kindness.” The letting of my blood both weakened and soothed me. My eyes fluttered as I fell into a reverie, gently floating down the course of a narrow, dark river that meandered over the contour of Olalla’s body, finally depositing me at the fleshy delta of her feet. I spoke in a voice I did not recognize. “Olalla.” “Yes?” “There is something you must do.” She led me into the room that Madame had mentioned upon my arrival. Above the sink hung a large mirror. The truth, always to be found in a looking glass, no longer terrified me, for, in the absence of time, I neither dwelled on the crimes of my past nor considered the depravity of my future. I stared at my reflection in which lurked the sorrows I had caused others. Opposite me stood a man I did not recognize—feeble with white hair, pallid complexion, and untold layers of mottled skin. A villainous scar ran from his eye to his lip. It was a face mutilated by the sins of countless ages. As I continued to stare, the collection of grotesque features coalesced on the glass canvas into a portrait of something monstrously handsome. Peering deeper into the mirror, I entered the world of Pentimento and studied the sedimentations within the frame, excavating the goodness hidden deep beneath his soul—a new rendering of the man—one who no longer suffered from the incalculable cruelties he committed. Olalla released the water from the faucet, and by her hands, I was absolved. The sink filled with thick clots of rotting flesh as her fingers peeled away the scurf amassed over centuries. I gazed again into the mirror, astonished by what I saw. A monster changed into a man—one I once would have ruined for his course sensibilities. Now, I adored him. How curious that the living and the undead never relinquish their sense of vanity. Olalla attempted to drain the final drops of blood from my body. “No, no, my Sweet. You must leave me a small souvenir. Please, let me go.” She stepped back. The rose between her breasts turned black and withered before my eyes. “It was the poison in your blood that killed it,” she said. “Now, you are free.” She led me into the chamber and guided me toward the row of coffins. I lay my head upon downy pillows, never expecting such a tranquil ending to eternal damnation. Her lips touched mine, and then she was gone. Who granted me this undeserved fate? Olalla! Her compassion saved me from iniquity. Trust my words. She is real. Prepare yourself. Olalla will find you in the low moments of your high-spirited cravings, between your last kill and your next. Let her drain your veins of madness. She is kind that way, taking nothing more than your tainted blood and leaving you with a peace you could never possess without her. Olalla. Stephen Myer is a writer and musician based in Southern California. His stories and poetry have been published in online and print journals, such as Goats Milk Magazine, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Grand Little Things, The Literary Yard, The Avenue Journal, The Quiet Reader, Close To The Bone, and others.

my brother is off to school, backpack over a shoulder eyes glued to the phone in hand white buds dangling from his ears. he doesn’t turn when I wave, his head bobs and the only sound on the street are his big floppy feet slapping the pavement. as he approaches corner to cross the road alone, my heart beats hard and fast. i lean forward to catch grey hair poking from under a cap jaw set, determined all his fifty-five years. it occurs to me at 8:14 am, he is two years younger, twenty score stronger, ten times braver, than I will ever be. Karen Grose is a writer from Toronto, Canada. Her first novel, The Dime Box, was selected by Amnesty International for its 2021 book club to represent women’s issues. She has recently begun to write poetry. Switching Gears honours those in the process of retraining and reschooling, as they follow new paths and dreams.

Cardboard boxes stacked high as the kitchen window, their open wings only fit for the kid to fly past the original lino floor, back when I could have been a pilot, past long gone wall tiles grubby with patterns of stubby trees; generations of our stew ions enriching the paintwork. Still, the next people will have their work cut out to remove stains we leave behind, our aroma from the brick, memory from mortar. Pity — you had finally found a satisfactory carpet, royal blue, you insisted, deep weave of everything you could want for a living room, not worrying now that thundering feet would wear it patchy on the stairs, or radioactive with unsupervised art. A dining room table meant for dining, too, not a nest for printouts, accounts to be totted through as best you could; ravel puzzled out to beat the squeeze of university fees, promising I would someday buy you a Volvo, pity. Crates of shoes, clothes for charity, television I fixed up for the two channels you still watched, jaundiced cookery books, net curtains, tangle of regret. Why did you allow things to accumulate when we’re only going to get rid of them anyway? A word from the author: Simon Leonard has been struggling recently. Having had his first chapbook published this year, well into his forties, he tried other ways to express himself, before coming back to what he always writes.

Nathaniel rose from a deep slumber to find himself lying on a black stone river bank, hearing only the sloshing of ice-cold water. The starless night sky above had no moon or celestial brightness. Only a pale violet aurora of dread, a color out of space, offered a slight glimmer of light behind the clouds that breezed along. Nathaniel gazed far into the distance seeing only desolate, scorched earth and withered black lands. This was a land beyond any semblance of life. The sound of ripples on the shore was interrupted by the crushed stone of hollow dead wood, which frightened Nathaniel. He quickly jumped to his feet and turned to see a weathered old man draped in tattered robes standing on an old wooden skiff, holding a long oar. Nathaniel took a moment to collect his thoughts before he asked the old man, “What is this place?” The old man’s mouth didn’t move, but instead, a disembodied voice answered, “nowhere.” “Who are you?” Nathaniel inquired at the figure while looking around to find the source of the voice. “I am that which will accompany you to the end of the river of time.” “You’re Charon? The Ferryman? You are death—the grim reaper. I died? But I was nowhere near a river, I….” Charon reached forth his hand to collect payment. Saying only, “Obol.” Nathaniel padded down his pockets before realizing he had nothing from his life besides his clothing. Nathaniel could hardly stammer out, “I have nothing to pay you with.” Charon retracted his hand, grabbed his long wooden pole, and began to push his boat away from the dark stone beach. Nathaniel begged in desperation, “Where are you going? You can’t leave me here!” Charon did not reply. He only pushed his boat further back into the deep black waters. Nathaniel continued to shout toward Charon and chased him into the cold water. He scrambled and screamed as he waded through the riverbank mud and eventually toppled into the shallow water. Tumbling forward and sinking into the frigid stream. The water felt vengeful, digging into his skin and dragging him further into its icy depths. A drowning sensation immediately swept over him, numbing him as he sunk beneath its waves. Charon’s shriveled hand sunk into the waters and dragged Nathaniel back up through the water’s surface and into the boat. As Nathaniel spat out water, Charon again held out his hand for payment. After gasping for air, Nathaniel cried out, “I have no money, but please do not leave me here.” Charon retracted his hand again, placed his long oar into the water, and the boat came to an immediate halt. He stirred the pole, and Nathaniel could feel the vessel turning as he did. The ship started to jostle against the current once it faced upstream. Nathaniel was confused and asked, “Where are we headed?” Charon did not reply. He merely steadied the boat against the current and used his pole to press the vessel forward. Nathaniel could feel the cold wind strike against him, his wet clothing tearing at his skin from the freezing temperature. In desperation, Nathaniel rubbed his arms to warm himself. He looked around to either side of the boat and could no longer see a trace of the river banks. After a short while, a faint light began to glimmer in the distance. Just enough for Nathaniel to see his breath in it. A silhouette could be seen in the distance, a figure sitting in a chair. Nathaniel waved an arm and cried out for the figure’s attention. Only when the ferryman sailed them closer did he hardly believe what he saw. It was himself from just a few years prior, sitting in a chair, crying as he filled out forms that cold lonely December. “Is this a reflection of my life?” Nathaniel asked, but Charon did not respond. “I was tired and in pain. That’s all I could feel,” Nathaniel explained as he watched his past self. Still, the ferryman did not respond and continued to press forward up the river. In time, the memory faded as they pushed past, and all other light but the faint purple stream above dissipated. Nathaniel’s clothes started to dry as he continued to rub his arms. “Where are we headed?” He asked Charon again. Again, Charon did not answer. Instead, another light from further up the shore lit up. A small room with cheap holiday decor. Nathaniel saw several forms moving about in it, working over a long table. As the boat drew nearer to pass it, Nathaniel could again see himself, but with two others, a stressed woman laboriously kneading dough while he and another man were in significant disagreement. “Those were the final days of my bakery. I never heard from them again, Martiál and my wife. They both left me. Together.” Nathaniel could only look for so long before turning away and back to Charon. “Please, no more. How much further till the end of the river?” Charon reached forth his hand and demanded, “Obol.” Nathaniel could only shake his head in response. Charon regripped his wooden oar and pressed onward. Nathaniel felt relieved once the light dimmed and again was enveloped by darkness. His clothes dried, and the cold breeze died as another light from the shores began to grow. The shadow of his pregnant wife looked on as a younger Nathaniel and Martiál moved in a new thrift couch into their old apartment living room. As the old torn sofa was pressed against the wall, friends and family burst in the door with celebration, bottles of wine, and laughter. Nathaniel shouted to grab their attention at the top of his lungs, but his memories played on without him. Nathaniel turned to the ferryman, “We just got into the new apartment with my promotion at Tamberlane Supply right around Christmas. This was before the bakery… and the miscarriage.” As the cheer faded with the light, Nathaniel could only watch on in yearning of the days that passed by. Before he knew it, music from his days at university could be heard in the distance, growing bright with multi-colored lights. Dozens of young drunk men and women shouted and danced. A young Nathaniel pressed against his young, not-yet-married bride as Martiál, surrounded by women, stared at them from a distance. “Martiál could always get what he wanted and always wanted what he shouldn’t have. Those parties were fun, but I only ever wanted her.” Nathaniel gawked at the raging party as they passed by, peering at it from the distance until he could see it no more. The ripples under the boat seemed to rise as they pressed forward, and another light was shown. Martiál’s annual family Christmas party at the local pizzeria they owned near their old school. Nathaniel was just a boy. A boy who had finally built up his courage to ask a girl on a date. A girl that would one day become his wife. Nathaniel could not think of anything to say. His recollection of the night was hazy yet clear. He did not remember the words he used, but he remembered her response, “I thought you’d never ask.” Nathaniel’s eyes swelled from bittersweet heartache, and the boat moved on. Soon, another faint glow arose, and Nathaniel didn’t have the strength to look up and focused down at the bottom of the boat. Only once the boat nearly passed did Nathaniel look up to see a young boy sitting on top of a bright green hill covered with tall grass and wildflowers with a beautiful girl, unaware of how little time they had left. A tear streamed down his cheek, and Nathaniel turned to Charon, demanding, “What is this? What is the point of all this? How much further to the end?” The light from any memory faded, and again he was alone with Charon. The violet aurora overhead gave a subtle hue that it hadn’t before, and the voice from beyond finally spoke again, “You have spent your life, and now you must pay your debt. If you do not give that which is owed, then you must begin again.” Nathaniel was confused and did not know what that meant. “Obol,” Charon demanded again. Another light grew, not from the shore but the river before them. Charon and Nathaniel sailed into the threshold of the warm, bright light and faded out of time and space. * * * * * * * Once upon a time, a little boy sat on a hill and played with the most beautiful girl he would ever meet. C.J. Goodin is a science fiction, horror, and weird fiction writer obsessed with death, the infinite, and self-navigation. He has published works on Vocal and was a finalist in the Vocal+ Fiction Awards with THROUGH THE OBSIDIAN RING. He lives in South Florida with wife and two kids, often enjoying Minecraft or ‘Love, Death, and Robots’ when he should be writing.

There was another new one today. The man rose from bed, feeling the bandages covering his body. The white carnation had bloomed out of his forearm. It squeezed between the layers of wrappings, and the petals stretched towards the rays of gray light peaking through the wooden planks nailed across the window. No matter how many layers of bandages he used, the flowers always poked through. He held the carnation gently between his fingers, stroking the petals, before plucking the stem from his skin. It floated down and joined the others blanketing the floor like a wilting meadow. Some were blue and some were purple, and some were white. But after falling to the floor they all were black. In the bathroom, the man picked out another roll of gauze and wrapped it around the open patch of flesh until it was hidden again. A small dot of blood soaked through from where the flower had pierced the skin. It didn’t hurt because it must have bloomed while he was resting his eyes. But it never hurt much anyway. He didn’t mind. The house talked sometimes as he walked between rooms. It sighed and moaned, and the floors creaked. But the house wasn’t looking for conversation. The man never responded and this didn’t seem to bother the house. It had its own life. It just liked to hum to itself. Over time nails started protruding from the floorboards, and the man used to pay them mind to avoid the pain, but after a while he’d plucked enough flowers from his body that they cushioned the sharp ends. It hurt less plucking the flowers than it did when he’d stepped on the nails. So he didn’t mind. He didn’t wrap the gauze around his eyes though so he could see. Just in case. Down the stairs was the living room. He must have forgotten to buy furniture. His memory wasn’t so good anymore. But the piano was still there. It was dusty but that didn’t make it sound any worse. The G chord was still a G chord. There were old photographs that littered the floor, and if it weren’t for the piano he would have avoided going into the living room. The photographs lay atop the flowers, but the people didn’t have faces he recognized. The film must have been faulty. There were blotches like sunspots and the edges were gnarled like someone had tried to burn them. He hadn’t though. Tried to burn them. Sometimes he would let a few flowers bloom before plucking them all at once, so he could cover the photographs with lilies and marigolds. There must have been a crack somewhere though that was letting in wind, because the photographs always came to the surface of the dead garden. The photographs made him uncomfortable. He didn’t know why. He didn’t know who was in them. He didn’t know anyone. Sometimes a rose would bloom. Not often. But sometimes. They were always different colors. The thorns made it more painful when they pierced the skin, but he didn’t mind because they were his favorite flower. Once, a rose had bloomed from the back of his throat, and there was nothing he could do but wait for it to mature so he could reach the stem without pricking his fingers. If it hadn’t been gagging him and cutting his insides, he may have left the rose where it was. It was a purple rose, and there were drops of blood dripping from its petals like red dewdrops. That was his favorite flower he’d grown. That flower, he put in a vase with water and placed it on top of his bedside table. It felt like a labor of love, picking that flower. The others felt like parasites. Like he was removing a tick from his skin. Sometimes. But the purple rose felt like giving birth. He was proud of that rose. He spits up blood for a few days after plucking that rose. There was no gauze that could wrap the wound. But he didn’t mind. When the rose wilted and died, he walked outside and placed it on the earth. The man sat down at the piano, wiping away the lining of dust on the keys, and played a few notes. It was better that the room didn’t have furniture. The sounds shimmered and stretched out across the walls. He never learned to play the piano but he knew what music sounded like. You press enough keys enough times and you begin to hear which notes go along with other notes. It was cold inside the house, and playing the piano made him feel warm. He liked to imagine his fingers dancing across the ivory to the music they created. Another flower started to bloom from his neck. It always felt at first like a worm burrowing through to the surface of the skin. The petals exhaled and stroked his ear. He didn’t recognize this type of flower. It was exciting when a new flower bloomed that he hadn’t seen before. There used to be a mirror in the bathroom where he could admire the flowers but it wasn’t there anymore. He thought there used to be a mirror. Maybe there never was. It didn’t matter. He decided to leave the flower alone for now. He had an audience. It liked the music. As he continued to play, the man wondered if the flower saw what covered the floorboards and recognized what it was looking at. He hoped not. It was best not to think about. Just keep tapping the keys. It’s getting colder. Stay warm. Sometimes the man liked to go outside, but not often. It was a lot of work removing the wooden boards from the door, and it wasn’t always nice out. More often than not it was not nice out. It didn’t use to be like that. But it was still outside. It’s good to leave the house sometimes. If the flower hadn’t bloomed he would have stayed inside today. He hadn’t decided that but after thinking about it he realized that’s what he would have done. The flower had never seen the outside before. It might be good for it to see. The house always protested when he pried the wood from the doorway as if he were tearing a ligament from the bone. But it liked when the gray sunlight shined through. Its walls glowed and quieted when the light reached inside. This was the house’s answer to the flowers that bloomed from the man’s skin. It hurt when it was happening, but the result was worth it for a time. And like the flowers, it couldn’t stay for long. The man liked to think of it that way. The house didn’t tell him. Each new day the man stepped outside it was different. He was sure there used to be grass, and the grass was alive and green. Sometimes it would rain and the rain was warm when it soaked through his bandages. He always had to change all his bandages after going outside when it rained but he never minded. Now there was just dirt. It looked like it was going to rain, but it never rained anymore so he didn’t think about it. There used to be a bright yellow sun. He figured it was still there somewhere, but gray clouds covered the sky like they always did now. The flower on his neck breathed and tasted the air. It wasn’t much. Not like it used to be. But he hoped the flower still liked what it saw. On the edge of the property were dense woods. He used to take walks in the woods when it was nicer outside, but after a few walks he realized there was no life in the woods but the trees themselves. He didn’t like going into the woods much after he realized that. The trees were dying. Not like how trees turn orange and red before shedding their leaves in the fall. They were wilting like the picked flowers lining the floors of the house. Death wasn’t always pretty. It was never pretty anymore. Just inside the woods was a small clearing. At the center of the clearing was a gravestone. It had been there as long as he could remember. It could have been there for days or weeks or forever. But that part didn’t matter. What mattered was that it was there. The man decided to introduce the flower to the gravestone. It was the only thing worth showing the flower. He sat down upon the lumps of earth and looked at the gravestone. There were no words written on it. . There had never been. But every so often he’d return to the gravestone to see if any words had appeared. It made no sense that this would happen. There was nobody else. It was hope, though, he decided. There was hope in places where the unknown existed. That was a nice sentiment, he thought. He liked to think there was someone buried beneath the earth he sat upon. He liked to think that there used to be someone else. Even if they were dead, it was less lonely that way. He wondered what the house looked like when the dead person was alive. Or if there was more grass. More sunshine. Rain. He liked to imagine that the dead person lived in the same house, and when they were alive so too was the world. He liked to imagine there were animals that ran throughout the woods. Sometimes he thought it would make him sad to dwell on that possibility. But it didn’t. It made him happy. It made him happy to think that the world used to be a nicer place. That it wasn’t always like this. That meant one day it could come back. The nice place that it used to be. The flower on his neck stretched out its stem towards the forest canopy. He stroked its petals and plucked it from his skin. Between his fingers its petals were like velvet or fur. They were shaped like bells and they were bright red. The man didn’t notice the blood that had been drawn. The blood looked like it had always been a part of the flower. He placed the flower at the foot of the gravestone, next to the wilted remains of the rose. It wasn’t his favorite flower, but it was new. Its newness felt exciting. Not all change was atrophy. That was a nice thing to know. He decided that was reason enough to leave it outside the house. And besides, everything needs to know it’s not alone. Nothing wants to die in isolation. The man stood to walk back inside the house and bandage his wound. It had not been a bad day. * * * The man was in a great deal of pain when he awoke the next morning. The longer time went on, the longer he would allow himself to sleep. It didn’t matter how long he slept. Unconsciousness was a blink. It was a brief gap in existence. It had never been anything else. Sometimes he would awake and force himself back to sleep, knowing by the sighs of the house and the gray light shining through the wooden boards that the world had continued to atrophy. Though it had never happened, and somewhere inside he knew it wouldn’t, the man still held on to the hope that one day he would awake and the world would have returned to a state long before his memory. Without that hope there was nothing worth waking up to. There were at least a dozen of them. Like a bouquet grown from his flesh. A pink orchid bloomed from his abdomen, purple nightshade protruding from his calves and shoulders, black roses erupting from his chest and biceps, their thorns latched to his skin like scared children grasping their parent in a crowd. Red poppies hung from his forehead, obscuring his sight with a film of deep scarlet. He ripped out the poppies, throwing them to the floor as the blood streamed down his face. Black, crusted spots dotted the bandages beneath each new flower like potted soil. One by one he tore the flowers from his skin. The blood came, more and more blood like death howls, and he pulled out their petals and ground them between his fingers. Roses’ thorns dislodged, taking with them pieces of bandage, unfurling the wrappings. Pockets of pale, weeping flesh revealed themselves, and the man felt naked and cold. Once each flower had been removed, he lay drowning in a bed of crumpled petals like Millais’ Ophelia. The man walked to the bathroom and closed the door. He began removing the bandages starting with the feet, and undressed himself. When his face was bare he reached for a new roll of gauze, and began again. He was glad there was no mirror. Walls and floorboards moaned as the man walked down the stairs to the living room. The house seemed upset but it wouldn’t talk to him. It hummed to itself about its grievances. The blanket of flower petals had begun turning to black paste beneath the weight of his constant footsteps. He sat down at the piano to play and to let his fingers dance to its sounds. The notes felt hollow and out of tune. He hated what he heard. He hated what he’d done. But he continued to tap the keys because the cold was setting in. The cold was so much worse than it was before. And it was all he knew, and it was all he understood. The G chord was still a G chord. The house and the flowers and the cold wouldn’t take that away. But as he played the notes a terrible pain erupted from his fingertips. Thorns pierced through the bandages, sticking out of the sides of his fingers like pieces of broken bone, and something was forcing its way up to the tips as if his veins had come alive and were determined to exit the body through his nails. It was like he had placed his hands into an open fire, and he could do nothing but watch as black roses sprouted and bloomed from the ends of each finger. The man, horrified, fell off the piano bench and collapsed atop the floor of wilted flowers. The roses continued to grow until they were as long as the fingers from which they were born. Ten black roses stood sighing and aching for the gray light outside. The man stared at the growths and at the streams of blood that ran down the thorns as if a razor blade had been taken to each appendage. Sometimes things hurt and they are beautiful. Sometimes things can be both. Through the cracks in the boarded windows he saw the gray light expanding into a blinding white that reached the farthest walls of the living room. He pushed his face against the cold wood and looked out into the world. Something was watching. He saw only the white light, but he felt it watching. Magnetized, focused eyes staring through the leaking walls. The man pried the nails from the blocked door, and he felt such anger. There was so much anger, boiling his insides, anger in anticipation for the house to protest and moan. But no sound came. The white light burst through the door the moment it came loose, and the house was bathed. The house was cleansed. It became quiet. He opened the door, already recoiling from the cold he was to let in, but it wasn’t cold. It wasn’t cold at all. The white light shone from just beyond the forest’s edge. Growing pains struck different parts of his body like the piano’s notes as he approached, and he looked down upon himself to see flowers sprouting. New flowers and familiar flowers: hydrangeas and dianthuses and morning glories and tulips and roses. They inhaled and exhaled in the fresh warmth, and the man’s body was the soil for a vivid, phantasmagoric garden. They grew and grew, and they peeled off the layers of bandages adorning his being. And shedding his mummified skin, basking in the fertile heat, the man crossed the tree line into the clearing. There, standing at the foot of the empty gravestone, was a deer. Behind the glowing light it produced, the deer was white and the deer was small. Its antlers had maybe once been antlers, but were now two long stalks of foxglove. It wasn’t afraid of the man. It stood watching. But the man was afraid. The man was so afraid. There was a reason, but he didn’t know how to articulate it. The deer wasn’t looking for an answer, anyway. It was just a deer. A white posy clawed its way to the surface of the man’s cheek, and he winced. It was becoming harder to breathe. The deer watched, and the man watched a flower bloom from the deer’s snout. And together the two living things stood with the empty gravestone between them, cultivating gardens. A creeping melancholia settled across the man’s weeping flesh, and he felt what he had wanted to feel for a long time. He didn’t know this is what he had wanted to feel until this moment. But without another heartbeat the concept would never have been visible. Without a mirror the gray light was black and void. The man stepped across the lumps of earth, over the wilted twin flowers, and reached out his hand to the deer. He watched the droplets of scarlet blood staining its white fur from the flowers that had bloomed. And he wanted nothing more than to know the deer wasn’t in pain. If it was, if the flowers cut and burned and stung the animal like they did him, then he wanted the deer to know that. He wanted the deer to know that they hurt him too. The man stroked the deer’s fur, weaving his fingers around the flowers, only touching the fur that bled and burned, and the deer stared. More and more flowers bloomed, piercing every inch of the man’s flesh. But the man was tired. He was tired of plucking the flowers. So the man sat down upon the earth at the foot of the empty gravestone. His breaths grew shallow and congested as something beautiful grew inside him. He didn’t know why he thought it would be beautiful. He just knew. There was no other way to see it. The deer came around the gravestone and lay down beside the man, and together their gardens continued to grow. As the deer rested its head on the man’s lap, and its body became the planted flowers blanketing the earth, the man felt the weight of fear release through his open mouth. A bouquet erupted from between his teeth. His naked skin became the roots that intertwined beneath the gravestone, and the man dissolved into the flowers that bloomed and bloomed and bloomed. Until the two lives became the only life that remained. It only hurts for a second. Jack Moody is the author of the novel Crooked Smile, the short story collection Dancing to Broken Records, and the novella The Monotony of Everlasting. He is a contributor to the literary newspaper The Bel Esprit Project and Return magazine. His stories have appeared in publications such as The Saturday Evening Post, Expat Press, Misery Tourism, Maudlin House, Scatter of Ashes, Punk Noir Magazine, Bear Creek Gazette, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, and many others.

“There was a full moon that night,” Smith said, “so we didn’t go outside.” # # # By the time Jake had finished with his photographs and covered up the corpse with a couple of rubber sheets and weighted them down with river rocks—But how, he wondered, did river rocks get way up here?—the other deputy had arrived. Wakefield was a long way from the county seat, and it had taken him a couple of hours. It would take the coroner even longer. Jake started the interviews next, nearly a dozen of them, but nobody had much to say, and he’d finished up by 11:00. Then, after filling in the other deputy, he’d just stood on the edge of the clearing, breathing in great breaths of the chill October air. The way the body had looked was bizarre—so bizarre, in fact, that he was dismayed. The word had just popped into his head, a word he couldn’t remember using or even thinking before. But there it was: I’m dismayed. And then he’d looked back over his shoulder, back down the barren valley. # # # A fire was smoldering in the stove in the general store, and most of the men Jake had interviewed earlier were sitting around the tables with their coffee and cigarettes. A couple had bottles of Pabst, and Jake was tempted, but he thought better of it and filled a cup from the urn on the counter and stuffed a dollar bill into the Mason jar beside it. Then he took a chair at an unoccupied table and tasted his coffee. He’d had worse, but not recently, so he poured in some sugar and went back to the counter and filled up the cup from the pitcher of milk before he sat back down. They were all watching him, the old man behind the counter and the customers, so he said, “Morning again, folks. I think I’ve taken all your statements, so I wonder if we could just talk for a few minutes, just talk informally?” Several of the men shrugged and a couple more nodded, so he cleared his throat and went on. “It turns out that our friend out there was carrying ID, so we hope to get ahold of his next of kin right away.” As he also knew, but didn’t mention, the man had been carrying over a hundred dollars in cash in his wallet. The fact that it was there spoke well of the townspeople’s honesty and was an indication that he could trust them, up to a point. “This wasn’t an accidental death,” he continued. “You all know that. We’ll learn more after the coroner has examined the remains, but right now I’d just like to … Well, I wonder, do many people pass through Wakefield on bikes?” The place didn’t strike him as lying on any kind of picturesque route that might attract bicyclists. Or campers for that matter, although the man had been carrying a folded-up pup tent in one of his panniers. The men glanced around at each other and shook their heads. “Never seen one before,” one of them said. “Any tourists at all?” The men shook their heads again. “With luck,” Jake said, “we’ll figure out sooner or later why this fellow was here, and why he was here at night, but we need to understand something else, too.” He started to pull out his notebook, but caught himself and took a sip of his coffee instead. He was used to people not wanting to get involved, but this felt different. He took another sip and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “The victim ended up practically on some of your front lawns, and judging by where we found most of the blood, that’s where he was attacked. Something that bad,” he went on, “there must have been a hell of a lot of noise. A lot of commotion. The man may have had time to scream. A lot of you may have heard it. So did you think about seeing what was going on, maybe … I don’t know …” And that was when Les Smith—Jake had taken his statement earlier—made his comment: “There was a full moon that night, so we didn’t go outside.” Jake looked from face to face, and several of the other men were nodding. One of them, maybe prompted to speak because he was sitting right beside Smith, said “Not when there’s a full moon.” Jake took another sip, and several of the men stirred in their chairs. “That’s right,” one of them said. “Yeah,” another one said, “don’t none of us in Wakefield leave our houses at night when there’s a full moon.” Another one said, “Yeah,” and then so did another. Grove Koger is the author of When the Going Was Good: A Guide to the 99 Best Narratives of Travel, Exploration, and Adventure; Assistant Editor of Deus Loci: The Lawrence Durrell Journal; and former Assistant Editor of Art Patron magazine. He blogs about travel and related subjects at worldenoughblog.wordpress.com/author/gkoger/.

Something my wife Pointed Out Last night: More of my friends Are dead Than alive. It is common Stains Decrease Yet I am only 41. More of my family Are dead Than alive. I have a list Of people Who I speak of In the first tense Who Can only be expressed In the past. A soup: Suicides Cancers Cars Bursting Hearts Haemorrhages Drownings Alcohol Substances. Sludge. There is no meaning to be found in lists.

circles edging out the spaces the circles are going nowhere a pixel paces it- self unable to walk a straight line I think I’d run circles around oscillating sighs if this tinfoil life wasn’t wedged between frames and time couldn’t tell where I begin or I end in Oz when you were finally taught to speak you called me human without laughing but were hard put to prove that without wincing not surprising if only for the scarecrow inciting the squalls and the spells frightening the parts of ourselves strung out over the fields intimidating the crops and the crickets straw heads hindering tin words sounds made of meat staring down the lions and the legs recoiling at your feet ribs just crumbs cast off by you a smile too human too confident to shriek George Taxon is an emerging poet living in Brookline, Massachusetts. He’s worked as an antiquarian bookseller, a medical editor, and an administrator, among other things, and his interests include psychology, physics, and metaphysics.

The heavy fragrance of the white Casablanca Lily mingling with the white Baferrari Lily blooming in the ninety-degree heat of my July garden takes me back to an Upper West Side street corner in the early morning winter dark twenty-five years ago. Once a week, before work on Fridays, I hurried a mile downtown to buy a bouquet of white lilies from an old man who sold them from the back of his white van. He was a round little man with a gap between his front teeth, and a gold filling. He taught me how to clip the sacs of pollen on the anthers of the stamens to prevent shedding. He was one of those oddballs who eked out a living on the city streets in those days, like the knife grinder or the seltzer deliveryman. After about a year, I stopped going to buy them. I never saw him again. but he inspired me to grow my own white lilies. My mother hated lilies. She wouldn’t let them into her house because they reminded her of funerals and death. I am not my mother. In the summer of my convalescence, I sit under the wisteria arbor. The heavy flowers droop on their stems, the air buzzes with insects. After weeks of illness, of waking up in the morning feeling sore and bruised, I rose from a dream, in which a beautiful young man told a table of enthralled listeners how he’d survived a motorcycle accident. When I woke, I remembered the dream. I felt rejuvenated, no longer in pain, all the parts of my body relaxed and released, like a pond turning over in springtime, or a lily perfuming the air.

Snapdragons are killer curveballs a violent wrist twist to reap a white terror, red stitching slicing sky, bending air, bursting ash a hissing arc seeking ready leather but also a flower—puffed pastel petals erupting upward, a plant best placed at property’s edge both share the same season blooming by spring and wilted by winter, perfect when partnered with sunshine in baseball they’re best when sown with restraint, for excessive snapdragons will impel elbow’s ulnar to tear into two producing a “pop!” an internal turmoil like a stem being ripped from its roots and the petrified pitcher will visit a surgeon and soon see a smiling scar on their arm though such forecasts are scarce and must not prompt pitchers to stop snapping off their best breakers since the sharpest snapdragons are invasive to hitters, bats planted on shoulders means strikeouts but a hanging snapdragon blowing free in the breeze is sure to be sent into orbit. Grant Young (he/his) spent five years throwing snapdragons at the University of San Francisco—and has a smiling scar on his arm to show for it. He is the founding editor of Clinch, a literary magazine for the martial arts. His work has been published by HAD, The Twin Bill, Idle Ink, and elsewhere.