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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hostile Architecture We huddle closer to the space heater, close enough that the sparks will singe our blankets. “It’s a cult,” you say. “It feeds on the homeless.” I look out our grimy window at the shelter next door, the turned-away who press themselves closer to the chimney the city installed over the heating grate. “And you know,” I say, “someone will come take them.” Not all, but one, maybe two. Tonight, as every night. one sits in the doorway of the abandoned vape shop next door, threadbare blanket clutched to her chest. tomorrow, or the next day, someone will find her, cyanotic, on the church steps, sacrificed to a hungry god who thrives on the cold. The Worms Metropolis, Part 11 I He paused in the doorway, remembering the night before. In the doorway, clutched together, hard and slow, her hair like blood trickling down his chest as his love trickled down her thigh. Now, the morning. Through the doorway, the blast of air conditioning even in winter assaulting his hair and face. Into the worms' cavern, the platform, blue-white tile, pristine, cold glare. It's crowded, as always, bodies in suits and a wino or two. Spare some change for the magistrate? The customary quarters, no corned beef sandwich today. They smile, move apart. He moves to the front of the platform. Fading now: Spare some change for the magistrate? Some disturbance in the back, jostling, pressing he's on the yellow line Hey, man, I'm the magistrate! You makin' a mistake! I'll get ya back, you'll see, you'll see... An elbow, a missed ledge. He always knew the worms would come for him. II The magistrate now outside his kingdom sits, a frown begging its way onto his forehead. A form, blurred feet: Spare some change for the magistrate? He looks up: her face is soft, fresh, framed with red so deep it's almost blood her eyes, the purest Midori poured into a freckled shotglass she is clutching a brown paper bag to her purple halter top, breasts straining under a denim jacket she stops, digs in a pocket of her tight grey jeans, shaping her thighs, muscular (it must be from sex, lucky guy) She digs out a bill, passes it, smiles: I'll vote for you. She goes on to battle the coldness. Next come the cops, and the magistrate presses himself into the doorway but they run past then the ambulance and the men in white as clean as the magistrate's kingdom. III Carrying his forgotten lunch, she braves the cold, clutches her jacket to her chest down the stairs, jostled by police and paramedics she wonders idly what's the matter on the platform, faceless men in business suits milling, confused a train is stopped, unmoving sitting, hissing in its niche, it seems it may never move again one last hiss and the train dies a swarm of uniforms masses into the tunnel like lemmings looking for his sneakers and tweed overcoat in this sea of pinstripes, she doesn't see him curious, she moves towards the edge of the platform; just a quick look, she can find him soon. Police paramedics a lumpy sheet stained red a black sneaker she drops the bag, and it rips: a shattered glass bottle of soda, liquid spreading, soaking the bag. She falls to her knees, Midori spilling down her cheeks IV All those cops and no one's busting the magistrate so he slips back into his kingdom. Confusion, everyone's moving but going nowhere the beautiful girl is moving, falling to her knees possibly in prayer to the now-silent worm on its track he goes to her and she is crying there's something on the track in front of the train it's red and surrounded by cops and she's staring at it. The magistrate sits, legs dangling over the side next to the girl he was your man the magistrate says She nods, causing a shower of tears onto her jacket Hand on her shoulder, he rummages in a few pockets pulls out her now-crinkled dollar Here, girl. Lemme buy ya a cup of coffee. She nods, rises, stains spreading on track and platform. Robert Beveridge (he/him) makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in Cerasus, Discretionary Love, and Sein und werden, among others.

I Southern California smells of honeysuckle, pomelo, orange blossoms, lavender and the Pacific Ocean, always the ocean. All scents are carried inland from the water, across the sand and the pavement, up from the leaves of the trees and flower petals and across the whole even into the San Gabriel Mountains. In the beginning, before there were missions and buildings of stone, and before the permanent marks left by the broken hearts out on the 405, the Los Angeles floodplain was heavily wooded with willow and oak trees. Aloft on the winds from the ocean and fed on the nectar of flowers, a thousand hummingbirds fly like bees. II Michelle sat on the park bench across from the assisted living facility with a tote bag holding her service weapon and the wireless kit. She had on her sunglasses but wore her hair long to cover her ear-piece. She didn’t wear body armor. This was strictly surveillance, so she was able to take her jacket off and put it in the tote and sit there with just her black t-shirt, jeans and boots. You doin’ OK? Rick’s voice came in over the radio. All good, she responded. She and Rick and been at the DEA for a few years and had worked together before. He had overwatch. Michelle had to sit there and look like anyone else while she watched traffic. They were looking for five to seven-year-old GMC pickups with toppers, with two Hispanic men and clean California plates. The Tijuana Lonely Boys – an affiliate of a larger Tijuana cartel – were moving P2P methamphetamines in false bottoms in the beds. They’d deliver to the rear of the restaurant kiddy-corner from the assisted living facility and then distribute to the street-level dealers from there. Michelle would sit on a park bench near the intersection to spot and call out trucks. The rest of the team observes, and counts, and then one day will be the last day and they’ll make the bust. The “TLB” were smart enough not to use the same truck, the same drivers, or the same day of the week to make their run each time so the case had to be built from surveillance, one run at a time. So, Michelle sat. The DEA were smart too, and it wasn’t always Michelle, and Michelle wasn’t always in the same clothes. This is how the game was played. On most of her days, but not all, an old man using a walker came out of the assisted living facility and just stood in the sun for a few minutes. Some days he would walk as best he could and he got as far as the intersection and waited for the lights to change, but then went back, as if he wanted to cross but then thought better of it. You see that guy? Rick? Ricky? You see that guy? That old guy with the walker? Yes, Rick spoke. Yes, I got him. What – you think he’s spotting for them? No, no, no – I think he’s just trying to cross the street. How sad. He’s not wearing an ankle monitor, Rick said. He can’t be too bad. It was true, many dementia and Alzheimer’s patients in these places had monitors to alert the staff when they get past the doors. They were an escape risk – a hazard to themselves and others, but this guy looked clean. Any trucks yet, Rick asked. Any Lonely Boys? No, she said, but you’ll be the first to know when I do. The Park had been mowed that morning and it still smelled of fresh cut grass. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky. There were no trucks. Hey, Rick said over the wireless. The old guy made it into the crosswalk. Michelle looked over. It was true. He’d been waiting for the light to change and then had started to cross the street. He was maybe a third of the way when it changed again. Traffic had to stop but no one shouted or laid on their horn. Instead, they waved. He looked like he was doing some sort of a victory lap. He paused and held a fist up high in salute to the onlookers before making his way across to Michelle’s side of the street. Go old guy, Rick said. Go old guy, Michelle echoed. Michelle watched the old man, who rested a bit, his chin tucked into his chest, before jerking his head up and coming, step by painful step, towards her. Some old men get old and they have a belly that falls down like a half-empty sack of grain. They have to wear suspenders to keep their pants up. If they don’t their pants fall down and they look like their legs are too short to even have knees. Other old men, their belly tucks in and rests up tight against their spine, and these old men belt their pants up just under the armpits. The old man with the walker was one of the latter, his brown pants worn up high and tight. He got to the end of the bench Michelle sat on and waited a bit, catching his breath. Rick came in over the radio. Is he ok? Should I call an ambulance? Michelle said nothing and just looked at the old man. Hey baby, the old man said. I’ve been watching you. How come you never smile? You should smile more. I’ll try and remember that, sir, Michelle said. She used her cop voice. She looked away after she said it, to make it clear that she was done with him. So, tell me something, he said, breathing hard again, trying to right himself after his marathon. Tell me: What does a guy have to do to get into your guts? What? Michelle said, looking at him. She could hear Ricky laughing out loud in her ear piece. Yeah, what’s a guy got to do to get into your guts? Rick was nearly in hysterics in the earpiece. How old are you Grandpa, she asked? Old enough, he said. You know what they say: The older the buck, the harder the horn. OK, look Buck, she said, you can’t get into my guts, or anyone’s guts. I doubt you ever could. We’re going to turn you around and send your ass back into that assisted care bed of yours, and the care attendants there are going to let you lie in bed in a puddle of your own piss for three days because they are sick of your shit too. MICHELLE, MICHELLE, MICHELLE. Rick was shouting into her earpiece. The old man just stared. RUN! She shouted at the old man. The old man’s head jerked up at her command. “MICHELLE! TRUCKS! LOS LONELY BOYS!” Rick shouted into the earpiece. A large woman in a green uniform with a name tag on a lanyard had come out of the assisted living facility and was looking around. Michelle stood up and waved at her. The woman shook her head and began to run towards them. Michelle stood up and grabbed the old man’s walker and yanked it hard around so that he could not face her. He very nearly fell but somehow held the vertical. His hands and knuckles were spotted and his fingernails long and yellow. The woman in the uniform came still shaking her head. What’d he do, she asked? Michelle rolled her eyes, and the aide led the old man away. Eventually, Rick shut down surveillance and sat down by Michelle for a while. She did not speak. What are you doing tonight, he asked? Off to my sister’s place to make antipasto and get my hair cut, she said. Once a month or so we get together. We make something useful because Teresa wants us to remember how we grew up. Our mom made everything from scratch, and Teresa cuts our hair. Mom always wanted us to keep our hands busy, and to get good marks. Family traditions. Your sister is still doing hair? Rick asked. Just for friends and family, Michelle said. She married well, so she doesn’t have to spend twenty years standing over the chair. No carpal tunnel syndrome or an osteoarthritic back for her now. How’s your younger sister doing? Rick asked. Still going through lots of men, lots of wine, and feeling sorry for herself, Michelle said. Is she still hot? She’ll always be hot. She’ll always be a flake. You know, today, Rick said, with that old guy – that was hilarious. Ain’t no perv like an old perv. I thought you might shoot him. I thought about it. Think of the attendants. He needs one of those monitoring bracelets – one with some sort of electrical shock control. I’d light him up first thing in the morning and then a few more times every day just in case he was even thinking about thinking about pulling more of that shit. If you want, Rick said, we can make a complaint to the P.D. They’ll have a uniform go on in there and talk to him. Scare him a bit. What for? Michelle said. I bet he already shits himself. Have a good weekend, Ricky. III Daisy, the youngest of the three Guzman sisters, sat on a stool at her sister Teresa’s kitchen counter with her wine and watched her sister start to prepare the vegetables for homemade antipasto. Mushrooms and peppers, black pepper, sugar and salt. She cut the vegetables with a thousand-dollar knife. She’d been a hairdresser before getting married, and knew the value of having good equipment. Daisy drank her wine. How is the Canadian? Teresa asked. Gone back to Canada, Daisy said, then refill! Ah, that’s right. I remember you crying. Is it an Australian now? Teresa poured. He was British, and he was before the Canadian. I’ve got a local guy now, a good guy. A great guy. One-hundred percent All-American. He even played football in high school. I never can keep track, Chica. Hey Chica, don’t you be calling me Chica! Daisy laughed. We grew up in the same house. It’s not 1988 anymore either. It’s not my fault our parents named me Daisy. You got the best name, and then Michelle is Michelle. Still good. And I get Daisy. I was doomed from the start. And you could keep track if you paid attention. It’s possible. Teresa acknowledged her sister’s complaint about her name. Why did you dump the Canadian? He seemed nice. I don’t know, Daisy said. I didn’t so much dump him as he just left and never came back. Men, hey. Who knows? Teresa looked at Daisy. Because Daisy had always been beautiful, she’d never had to be kind. What had she said or done to the Canadian? She had always been at war with her men. Other women too, except for Teresa. Daisy and Michelle did not get along all that well. Teresa felt sorry for the Canadian, whom she imagined to be bound in heavy coats and scarves, his face invisible beneath them as he forged through the snow to find whatever sad fate awaited him up there. She could only imagine what Daisy had said or done. Daisy spoke again. Just give me the bottle, Chica; I’ll refill my own glass. That’s how it works: You prep, I pour. Michelle can run the food processor. When will Michelle be getting here? Michelle is late, Daisy said. She’s always late. It’s a fact, not an answer. Work, or traffic, or both, Teresa said. The antipasto was all in mason jars now, and in paper shopping bags, four jars for each sister. When will Mark and the boys get back? Daisy asked. Whenever the Dodgers game is over, Teresa said. That’s where he took them. That’s nice. You know, if he took the boys out, I bet he’ll expect a little something-something when he gets back. Know what I mean? Uh-huh uh-huh? Teresa laughed and said, He’ll be home and will fall asleep in the chair watching the news while I get the boys to bed. Besides, I haven’t shaved – shaved anything – in ten days. I’d need to shower and take care of myself first. By the time that’s all done – it’s tomorrow.” They both laughed. Hey, sister, will you cut my hair tonight, Daisy asked Teresa, once they had stopped laughing. Of course. Do I ever say no? Teresa said. I’m thinking of going short. Don’t. You won’t like it. It’s just hair, it’ll grow back. True, but you won’t like it. Michelle walked into Teresa’s carried on the scent of jasmine. Teresa had managed to grow some on trellises framing the doorway and it carried inside in the wake of everyone’s passing even in the still of early evening. Hey Chicas, she said as she walked in. I’m sorry I’m late. Hey Chica, said Teresa. Long day at the office? How’s the Canadian, Michelle asked as she took her jacket off. Teresa shot her a look that said: Don’t. It’s okay, said Daisy, He’s gone. I have a new guy now. What did you do? Why does it always have to be something I did? Why would you assume that? At any rate, I have a new man. You should meet him. Judge for yourself. You know what, Michelle said, if you can keep him for six months bring him around. I’ve always wanted to witness a miracle. Daisy didn’t hear. She had taken out her phone and was getting ready to take some selfies while Teresa cut her hair. Daisy’s hair, long and golden-brown and rich was the gift of her mother and her mother before her and probably from a line of women with the same beautiful hair going back to the holy woman Toypurina even, and past her to women whose names aren’t remembered. Hair like that is the miracle born of many, not just of one. Michelle poured herself a glass of wine and watched Teresa cut Daisy’s hair. We all have beautiful hair, she thought. It will be steel grey by the time we are forty, it will be a shame to cut it short, even though our mother had cut hers short, and the scent of flowers, all flowers that we pass by, stays in our hair for hours and that’s why those little hummingbirds follow us. Let our hair grow long, if only for our mother’s sake. The wind stirred, coming from far out on the Pacific Ocean, and took the scent of jasmine from the doorway up into the mountains along with the orange blossoms, the pomelo, the honeysuckle and the innumerable scents of growing things. In the vines and flowers, the white hummingbirds jostled and fought to feed, their wings buzzing and their tails popping with each warning dive, living as they always have, even before there were men and roads and buildings of stone. She did not think of the old man with the walker again.

i. the name is a little thing someone else thinks of as a big thing but there you go collapsing their abomination to make it fit into your hand ii. anger simmers in the city sewers and in the county’s shallow wells handshake religion is gone along with provable facts most pumpkin filling isn’t all pumpkin but try Libby’s it’s slick as grandma’s otter there is often nothing for dinner despite our hunger and the polity longs for fame not serenity we hold the memory of who we were to our friends before the great sickness iii today’s godhead resembles a goat’s head elegant polar he knows it’s alright to overdress for a riot sunrise is a cavity in his yellow tooth his robes are layered like a tree-split moonrise the words of his prophecy are knives and hatchets masquerading as divination he carefully oils and sets them aside hung on pegs over his sideboard which resembles the Altiplano he fancies they will come in handy when he has to explain how he robbed us of divinity gave us cell manacles and a prisoner suit of humanness and why he hurls ice and lightning at us from the same sky Wendy Taylor Carlisle is the author of four books and five chapbooks. Se her work at www.wendytaylorcarlisle.com, Follow her @wtcarlisle.

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.