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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I ran into a kiwi bird while hiking up the sledge track, early morning. It had news from my dad. He says he has made friends with Chester Bennington, Kurt Cobain, and Curtis Mayfield. All the music icons I look up to. He says he has finally taught himself how to play the piano and is finishing up a song dedicated to Remedios Varo. I gently picked up the kiwi bird with my wounded fingers and brought it closer to me. My dad says he has also been appointed to hunt down the beasts that frequently ambush the paradise! I found that amusing, reminiscing what a tender and humble being he actually was. All of a sudden, the bird took its flight, before announcing aloud how proud my dad was when I shielded my prose from the Hellhound, the other night. And I thought kiwi birds were flightless! Indranil Ghosh is a Ph.D. student in applied mathematics from India, currently living in New Zealand. Highly inspired by Nirvana, Led Zeppelin, and Robert Frost, whenever he is not working, one may find him either reading classic poems or listening to music from the 70s and 80s. He has his poems published in The Unconventional Courier, Aphelion Webzine, Sixpence Society Literary Magazine, etc.

Matt hoped to God he wasn't wearing the Cookie Monster T-shirt. While he might be able to afford one or two minor embarrassments today, he doubted such a lapse in taste would be forgiven by his colleagues on the committee. Particularly on the day he ascended to the Chairmanship. It was bad enough that he was soaking wet. The rain had begun at the precise moment he identified his turn. Matt had walked some distance to find the building, en route checking at least three promising looking sign boards which turned out to be, in not at all short order, a printing firm, a football club for disabled children and a kennel for elderly dogs. He'd then had approximately five to ten seconds of elation when he found the conference centre right at the end of the road before the bruised sky ruptured above him. His new shirt – the better to suit his new professional and personal position in life – was quickly soaked through to his already sweat soaked skin. And the threat of the Cookie Monster beneath. It was not a warm day. The sweat was not the result of the weather. It was more that the motorway had been heaving and driving really was not his thing. Matt had told Sheila as much only last week, when she had asked if he might be able to give her a lift to the meeting, and he had reached for the lie that he wouldn’t be coming in from home this morning. And Sheila had believed him, because she’d heard his stories in the office about his nights away from home and his new life. Because he couldn’t help himself. Because maybe he was hoping somebody might stop him. The Cookie Monster might stop him. Matt looked back up the road to the car, sitting there, engine still running, lights slicing through the stair rod rain. He’d arrived early, the better to ensure he wasn’t going to get lost, because – heaven alone knew – he had form when it came to getting lost. Because Sheila would worry about him getting lost. He thought he’d have at least an hour before the other members of the committee showed up, but he still had to fetch the car, get into the building, and find the most powerful warm air hand dryer to dry himself out. Matt risked a glance down at his shirt front. There was a definite hint of blue through the material. A definite hint of the Muppet’s googly eyes. If he closed his own eyes and concentrated really hard over the downpour and the sound of the motorway in the distance, he could even hear the monster making its demands known. “Cookie!” He could. This, Matt knew, would not do in front of his new colleagues. This would not do when he was giving it the professional act as Chair. The agenda could not be disrupted by cries of “Cookie!” The AOB must not be derailed by acknowledgements of the monster’s overweening appetite. The Cookie Monster was meant to be his special secret. Like the photos in his phone of his weekend activities. Of his new part-time, evenings and weekends, family life. The T-shirt, bought for him as a joke because he just “wasn’t the type” and he needed to “lighten up a bit” now he was going to be spending time around the kid, was there to remind him what he was doing this all for. His hair slathered across his face with the driving rain, Matt heaved himself away from the contemplation of his shirt front and back up the road to the still chuntering car. There was a moment or several when he couldn’t find his keys. When he remembered that he had left them in the ignition. When he cursed himself for his inability as an adult. But hadn’t he proved that he was an adult? With Cyn, every other weekend when Simon was away with his dad. Until that one weekend, last weekend, when she’d told him she had to have the boy for the weekend because Ray wasn’t free. Matt stalled the car. Matt swore precisely as the old him used to swear. He wiped the rain from his eyes, dried his hands on his trousers, told himself that surely now he had proved he was capable of anything, he could make it to the car park and ensure he was presentable for both Sheila and the meeting. “Mr. Button!” Sheila was waiting for him at the entrance. Of course she was. She’d made her own way perfectly well without his assistance. She’d brought the agendas and the minutes from the last meeting, and she looked, as she always looked, the very definition of “the business.” “I wouldn’t ask,” he said, as he attempted to make his way past her. He’d put his dry jacket on over the soaked shirt. If there was a glimpse of blue or googly Muppet eyes to be seen on his chest front, he hoped his smile might distract Sheila from making it out. She wasn’t looking at his shirt front. “What happened to you?” she asked. “The car broke down,” he lied. If she had come by taxi, as he suspected, she must have arrived before he’d turned into the road. She couldn’t have gone by him while he was tromping around looking at signs. She couldn’t. He would have seen. Wouldn’t he? Sheila helped him with his bag, suggesting that he take his jacket off to spare its lining, at the very least, from the damp. He refused this as soundly as he’d refused to contemplate driving her in. He asked where the nearest toilet was. So he could “clean himself up.” Now, there was a thought that he might text Cyn later. This was what passed for a joke in the maybe no longer alternate weekend world he was sharing with her. Sheila didn’t look disappointed at his refusal to take her advice. She had so much practice in not looking disappointed where Matt was concerned. He left her to set up the room while he went to acquaint himself with what turned out to be a very underpowered warm air hand dryer in the gents. The new shirt dried. But it only made the situation worse. “Christ,” he said, because he was the kind of person who could afford to relax his rules on language now. At least with Cyn on evenings and weekends. “Cookie!” the Cookie Monster said, through the shirt. Matt near tore it in his anxiety to take it off and hold it closer to the jet of almost warm air. “Cookie!” the Cookie Monster said, pleased at its liberation. It was Matt’s little secret. Like the band on his wrist – pushed so very far up his wrist – from that festival he’d been to with Cyn some weeks back. Where the teenagers had laughed and pointed at the pair of them doing their thing, and Matt had actually liked being referred to as an “old man.” When he wasn’t. When he hadn’t lived long enough. When he’d not had these moments back when he was supposed to be having these moments. But he was damn well having them now. So, let them laugh. The Cookie Monster was a reminder for him and him alone of what he had waiting for him when he was done here, and when he was done with the working week, too. The Muppet wasn’t there for anyone else. He wasn’t. Which was why it was okay to take the T-shirt off, stuff it in his bag, risk wearing the shirt on bare skin. Now, there was another thought Cyn would have liked. He didn’t take the T-shirt off. “You’re sweating.” Sheila leaned across to Matt with handkerchief in her hand. Everything was working. Everything was fine. He was sitting at the head of that table in front of those people, and they had accepted him as their Chair. He had scrutinized the faces and not a one of them had wrinkled their nose at him as he started the proceedings. If they were a little reticent in coming forward with questions and observations, and if there was a distinct lack of eye contact, then perhaps that was to be expected from a confident performance on his part, too. He himself hadn’t liked to push himself too far forward in meetings of this kind. He understood. He took the handkerchief. And Sheila helped him through the remaining agenda items and AOB and she coughed - how could he not notice? - when one particular rumble of "Cookie!" from the depths of his chest threatened to be altogether too audible in the awkward pause he left for himself when he forgot Tony's item about the Porchester Project. Sheila fielded the questions about the next meeting's venue and timing, and she was the one to thank everyone for attending, taking the compliments at the smoothness of the meeting under its new Chair and Secretary as perhaps, Matt knew, she ought to. "Cookie!" Which only left the question of what to do about the threatened lift back into town she might be expecting. Running out of time to tighten, Matt was saved the need to lie by the message that came in from Cyn. A string of emojis, only some of which were acceptable in public, promised an evening this time without the boy. She suggested the first of the bars,where they might go on to from there, what they might do with the rest of their evening. "Cookie!" "I'm sorry, Sheila, but something's just come up." It was, of course, raining again outside as the delegates heaved their way back to their cars. Cyn would have liked the purple of the sky. It was her favourite colour. They were standing under the porch, watching the puddles deepen. Sheila had the paperwork in her folder, and she'd promised the minutes would be with him by Monday morning. Matt was as grateful to her as he always was. Within reason. "I can get you a taxi," Matt said. "On expenses," he added. And there was that look again. The one he could usually deflect with the smile. If he wasn't in the open like this. If she wasn't already staring at his chest. He'd try for 45 minutes this time, he told himself. The journey to Cyn's was a good hour and a half in bad traffic, but if you knew where to gun that accelerator, and where to slow down again to avoid the speed cameras, it was possible to do it in under an hour. The man he was now would be able to manage the journey in one hour. He didn't need Sat-Nav or, as he'd sometimes joked, Sheila-Nav to help him. "Cookie!" "Thank you, Mr. Button," Sheila said, repeating it to be sure he knew it was for the offer of the taxi. "But," she added, leaning in again in such a fashion that he had to look down, had to glimpse the spreading blue front of a jacket that had surely been grey this morning, "I really would change before you get to your destination, if I were you." Mike Hickman (@MikeHicWriter) is a writer from York, England. He has written for Off the Rock Productions (stage and audio), including 2018's "Not So Funny Now" about Groucho Marx and Erin Fleming. He has recently been published in EllipsisZine, Dwelling Literary, Bandit Fiction, Nymphs, Flash Fiction Magazine, Brown Bag, and Red Fez. His co-written, completed six-part BBC radio sit com remains frustratingly as unproduced as it was the last time he updated this biography. So here it is, line by line (we're going to be here a while): "What happened to your lovely new uniform, then?" "My robes met with a slight accident, if you must know. In the members' entrance." "Ouch. Nasty."

Brevity Capsized pyramid, shake the details down. Distilled to facts and nothing more, briefly smudged across the page; dissect in parts by four. Introduction—born, and bridge—we grow. Body—fail and try to mend. Conclusion—ties us back to naught; Full stop. We’ve reached the end. Self-portrait as a Dead Gray Squirrel The car in front didn’t even swerve or attempt to miss the fat, gray ground-rocket. Oblivious, the blue station wagon kicked up a heap of fur and bushy tail. Am I the squirrel? Are my words the nut worth dying for? Is Time the car? Is Life? Is it the World, or is it you? My mouth is full—I’m ready to be pressed to death. Jess Levens lives with his wife, sons and dogs in New England, where he draws inspiration from the region’s landscapes and history. His poetry has been published in Fevers of the Mind, The Dillydoun Review and Prometheus Dreaming, among other literary journals. Jess is a Marine Corps veteran and Northeastern University alum. Follow him on Twitter @levensworks.

Reasons I Cried During Pregnancy Part I and II* Written in 2017 Part I I tend to be a bit of a crybaby already so it shouldn't have come as a surprise to me that I've cried almost every single day of my pregnancy for some reason or other. I am totally aware of how irrational this response is in many of the situations in which I've found myself, but I still can't quite keep the waterworks from turning on. Luckily, in most instances, it passes quickly. My husband has theorized that irrational crying is a way to prepare parents for the magnitude of crying they will be experiencing once baby arrives. Here is a list of some of the reasons I've cried since I found out I was pregnant: 1.) The initial positive pregnancy test - tears of joy. 2.) In Ikea as we perused storage solutions for our apartment, I cried that I won't have a nursery to decorate and this is probably the only baby I will ever have so it's not fair and we should move immediately to a bigger place. 3.) I was tired and went to bed, but my husband stayed up watching episodes of "Big Bang Theory" and didn't come to bed to cuddle me. 4.) I woke up in the morning and my husband was not in bed to cuddle me. 5.) My boss called me right at 5 p.m. and gave me an assignment that made me have to work 30 minutes late. 6.) The first episode of the "Gilmore Girls" revival because Lorelai and Rory are such an awesome pair and I want a daughter so I can have that relationship, too. This was before I realized how bad the four episodes would be (I still haven't finished watching them.) 7.) I tried to make deviled eggs for a party and the eggs did not cook right. 8.) I made lentil soup and it came out too salty. 9.) A homeless man was begging for money at a freeway entrance and I started thinking what would I do if my little bug became homeless someday and it led to hysterical sobbing in my car. 10.) Lori's death on "The Walking Dead" after giving birth to a baby girl. I made my husband promise he wouldn't lose it if I die because he has to take care of our little bug. 11.) I almost lost my phone at The Habit Grill when it fell out of my pocket. To be clear, I did not lose it. I just almost lost it. 12.) I got sick for the second time in two months and cried because it was not fair. 13.) My sister accidentally knocked my favorite chocolate out of my hand onto the floor. 14.) I ate French fries and my blood sugar got too high. 15.) I forgot to test my blood sugar after a meal. Part II My emotions leveled out in the second trimester, but as I started the third trimester some of the irrational responses started to reappear though not yet with quite the same vengeance as the first trimester. Here are a few of the reasons I cried later in pregnancy: 1.) My husband's cousin planned a kid's birthday party for the same day as my baby shower. 2.) We watched "Forrest Gump" and I started crying because I don't want to die and leave Baby Lucas without a mother. 3.) The baby kicked me and I said he was a bad baby—I immediately started bawling and felt like if anything were ever to happen to the baby it would be my fault for saying he was bad. 4.) I read a blog post about a woman whose baby had anencephaly in the middle of the night and bawled uncontrollably. My husband made me swear off reading any community posts on blogs or pregnancy apps about sick or dying babies, especially right before bed. 5.) The jungle-themed wall decal we put up at my parent's house fell down. 6.) We watched an episode of "Futurama" and there was a reference that reminded me of the moving "Hachi" in which a dog faithfully waits for his dead owner to return for years. 7.) I had to create a Google form for work. 8.) At a childbirth class, the health educator told us our bodies are not lemons - I started crying because my body is a lemon. 9.) The perinatology nurse said that numbers over 140 make baby’s pancreas work harder I and I started to worry that I am destroying my baby's pancreas. 10.) A song from the "Juno" soundtrack came up on my iPod and I started thinking about how sad I would be if I had to give my baby up for adoption. 11.) My husband snored too much and I couldn't get to sleep. 12.) I couldn't get the soundbar to work on the television when I was home alone. 13.) I went to a U2 concert and the band took too long to come on stage (they had the audacity not to start until 9 p.m. and I was tired.) 14.) I read the book "The Wonderful Things You Will Be" that I got from my parents at my baby shower. 15.) My husband set up the hand-me-down bassinet and put a Winnie-the-Pooh mobile on it - and it was too fucking cute. And don’t even get me started on the reasons I cried during that postpartum, no sleep, the baby-is-crying-all-the-time months after I gave birth. But eventually, I mellowed back into my normal crybaby ways, and now I only cry at sad movies, sad books, sad songs, well, you get it. Melissa Flores Anderson is a Latinx Californian and an award-winning journalist. Her creative work has been published by Punk Noir Magazine, Livina Press, Variant Lit, Roi Fainéant Press, and is forthcoming in Daily Drunk Magazine and the Write Launch. She served as a co-guest editor of Roi Fainéant Press’ first special issue, HEAT (6.26.22). Follow her on Twitter @melissacuisine or IG @theirishmonths.

That summer we took your father’s boat Off the coast for sunsets we smoked and called it seaweed. We locked toes, gritty with sand and called it love. Sunkissed and spent we felt a swell. You swore you saw the slick of a giant squid. I thought it was a whale and understood how sailors centuries past could’ve sworn encounters with sea monsters, merfolk, magical things. Who’s to say what made waves beneath the surface? Michael Chin was born and raised in Utica, New York and currently lives in Las Vegas with his wife and son. He is the author of three full-length short story collections and his debut novel, My Grandfather's an Immigrant and So is Yours came out from Cowboy Jamboree Press in 2021. Chin won the 2017-2018 Jean Leiby Chapbook Award from The Florida Review and Bayou Magazine’s 2014 James Knudsen Prize for Fiction. Find him online at miketchin.com and follow him on Twitter @miketchin.