Pixel Heart Literary Magazine Issue One by pixelheartliterarymagazine

Pixel Heart Literary Magazine

ISSUE ONE: LOVE

Letter from The Editor

Dear Readers,

I hope you enjoy Pixel Heart: Issue One! We had many absolutely stellar submissions - thank you so much to everyone who sent something in - and it was really difficult to make some of the choices that had to be made. However, I believe that we have a great first issue that explores so much around the issue’s theme of Love.

We have some incredible pieces of flash fiction, poetry and short stories on love, as well as pieces that explore the before and after of love, including grief and betrayal.

I’m really proud of each included piece, particularly what they’ve allowed this issue to become, working together as a whole. Issue One: Love really does - aptly - have a whole lot of heart.

I hope you enjoy reading Issue One as much as I did putting it all together.

Thank you so much, Chloe Smith Editor

Contents ‘the truth is...what?’

‘treading’

‘Evening Revisions’

‘The Suitcase’

‘Paper Darts’

‘would you cease to love me?’

‘Crazy in Love’

‘Three Little Words’

‘Love’

‘My House’

‘All Over Again’

‘The Stranger’

‘Maeve’

‘Dementia’

‘Somewhere Behind The Clouds’

‘Bake Until Done’

‘Silk’

‘Five Smiles’

‘Extrasensory Perception’

‘Playing Nicely’

‘Forbidden Memories’

‘Monsoon’

‘Aura Aurora’

‘Surprised at a Wedding’

Contributors

Acknowledgements

the truth is...what?

you may as well pour the drinks from wherever you are you may as well tell me the truth from wherever you are tell me if i'm losing you or i've lost you already are we finished? have we reached the end of the line? run our course after all these years? you already made me your silent enemy you already made me your silent enemy i think you took too much of me i think you took too much of me have i tried to fight in a match i just would not win? the truth is...what? Vanessa Maki

treading

we continually tread water & for what exactly just so i can drown? or for her to prove some point? my feet can't touch the sand not anymore at least i use her as a life raft too damn often

Vanessa Maki

Evening Revisions Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m changing how that night went down: I will gather the moral courage to crack a joke fling open the release valve on the room. A smile spreads thin on your face and once you realize how sweet it tastes you allow a generous helping to grow into a grin. That grin bubbles over into a chuckle, short at first, then, boiling into guffaw, you will wipe your tears with the sleeve of your shirt. I join in; your laughter will stir into mine. You take my hand, fiddle with my fingers, and, as if to signal that all offenses are forgiven, your laugh eases into a sigh. Not the weary kind, but the kind that fills and exits your lungs after a good long cry. You will not beg me to say something, anything or let your anger reveal itself in shades of red or bulging vein. You will not gather your purse or let the slamming of the door speak for you. Instead, for the next few beats you will nestle your head against my shoulders breathe deep. And we will move on. Stephen BriseĂąo

The Suitcase

She packed her story into a battered old suitcase. Tucked away letters, diaries, photographs – mementoes of her time in the war. She hid it away – somewhere she thought no-one would find it. Somewhere it could sleep, untouched. * She had been a British nurse, stationed in a hospital in Kent, feeling like a prisoner of war in her own country as day after day she worried for her brother – missing in action, feared dead. Yet, she cared for those who fought for the other side. Not only cared, but comforted, calmed, reassured them they would have a home to go back to when this was all over. Patriotism was not enough. Human kindness didn’t have to be a fatality of war. And when peace returned to their shores, she told the soldier she attended to he would get to see his little sister again and give her the teddy bear Nurse Vera had lovingly made. Emma De Vito

Paper Darts Amy reached into her rucksack and pulled out a notebook. She tore out some pages and passed them to me. On certain occasions all actions become symbols. We began tearing and folding the paper into tiny darts, as we had done right at the beginning, and one after another we floated them down the side of the hill, in the quiet summer air. ‘It’s still okay to wish,’ Amy said. ‘I don’t know what to wish for,’ I replied. We had done this on the day we got together, when our darts sailed freely on the breeze, and our wishes, though unspoken, surely coincided. Then I thought again. ‘Could I wish things for you?’ I asked. ‘Of course you can,’ said Amy. ‘Make sure you think of things I’d want.’ ‘You can always send them back,’ I said, then immediately regretted it. ‘I’m sure I’d like to keep them,’ she said. So we flicked our darts silently in a last semblance of what had been before. But wishing, I saw then, is an act of imagination. It involves the future. It’s difficult to do when you’re locked in a room called the present moment. And the only available corridor leads to a past you’re about to lose. So I tried, but it was as though I was throwing my thoughts away, rather than planting small acts of hope on the wind. It was a place to go to be alone, although we had usually gone there to be alone together. And if there had not always been a lot to say, mostly there had been no need to. We would decide to climb the hill, or sometimes just find ourselves climbing it, and once at the top took conversation or silence just as they came. But now both options felt weighted, as though the simplicity of the past had fallen into a chasm somewhere between where we sat.

We met three years previously when we were both just fifteen. Amy was my first girlfriend. We were introduced by a school friend, who had ‘gone out’ with her some months before. I still wasn’t sure what going out with a girl entailed, but Amy made it easy. Even then she was well ahead. Before that, in the strange territory of early puberty, I had wondered if I would ever have a girlfriend. I went to a boys’ school and had no sisters or indeed brothers who might pass on tips. I had no idea how to talk to girls, or what you were supposed to do in their company. So, strangely I suppose, when Amy asked me if I would like to come round and listen to some music, it felt as though she had accepted me on behalf of all women. And so now, because she was going away, it was the same in reverse. Lives have trajectories. You see this more clearly in retrospect. And perhaps when you’re young the qualities that give life shape and impetus are easier to recognise in other people. Certainly, sitting on the hill in those moments, I felt no clarity, or confidence, about what might lie ahead. Amy was different. She was full of hope. She seemed to befriend the present moment and to see the future as a benign extension of her immediate circumstances. Everyone noticed this. I often heard people say ‘Amy has a lot about her.’ And it was true. She exuded the promise of a rich life. It was partly that so much attracted her interest, partly that when she was with you she was really with you. But what I remember most, looking back, is the freedom she seemed to bring into new situations: she just did things. They didn’t seem to cost her the amount of psychic energy I could leak when faced with something unfamiliar. So, inevitably, she was always first to move forward; where possible doing her best to bring me with her. When she suggested going climbing with the local club, she said she

thought I’d be good at it. Undoubtedly she was: trusting herself, trusting the experience, able to bring her whole attention to gaining foothold or handhold. As it happened I was okay too. But often I found myself observing; like when unstable scenery threatened to sabotage her school play. I can still picture Amy sharing the joke with the audience, and of course they were straight on her side. It was in her nature to include: even a stage couldn’t get in the way. Then there were the languages: French, Spanish, German. For Amy simply other ways to talk to people – no great impediment, even with a learner’s vocabulary. It was inevitable that she would get opportunities. So now she was about to take her gap year. A year that causes a gap. But a gap implies something on the other side. For Amy there would be: it was a year with a purpose, a moving towards something new. I was no longer new. The end, I realise, would have come anyway, because of who we each were. Perhaps that was the most confusing thing. It wasn’t that I was being abandoned as such, simply the result of where life, by its nature, was taking us. She had a different path. She had a path. I know now a path lay ahead of me too, but it didn’t seem so at the time. Just for a moment though, as we sat together, I thought I could see into the future. I would be the boy she might sometimes remember fondly, decades into a happy marriage and successful career. As much as I wanted to wish her well it was a lowering thought. ‘What are you thinking? She asked. Even then I had a face that gave things away. What could I say? ‘I was thinking that you’ll have a great life,’ I said. ‘I really hope you do.’ Suddenly Amy began to cry. She never cried. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, and as I said it realised that we understood the same things; even that we felt the same way about them. Also, for the first time, I saw that special people suffer

for being special. If talent takes you towards something it takes you away from something else. ‘Everyone’s glad for you Amy,’ I said. Amy dabbed her eyes. We both looked down towards the streets that had been our childhood home. ‘A scholarship isn’t everything,’ she said. I turned my head towards her. She looked as alone as I felt. How can you share something so completely and yet be isolated by it? ‘But you really deserve it, Amy,’ was all I could think of saying. ‘What will you do?’ She looked at me, and kept looking. ‘I’ll stay here,’ I said. ‘And do what?’ It was unlike her to press a question. ‘Wait for chances.’ ‘Then be careful what you do with them,’ she said, and pressed my hand tight before letting go. ‘I’m going back down now – are you coming?’ ‘No, it’s okay,’ I said. ‘I’ll stay up here for a while.’ So she rose, and I watched her treading carefully down the winding path, her small form slowly growing more diminutive, until it merged easily into some other fruitful world beyond our lives together. Mike Fox

would you cease to love me? "you better not be a lesbian" i'm not, but once i loved a girl who can only be best described by the hue of pink; i find her in roses and sunsets in anime and in girls who have pink hair as she once did— i find her in whispers of my memory, and in the songs of our mutual friends; she no longer speaks to me over a misunderstanding because i wounded her in a way she could not forgive— i still remember she always smelled of roses, and she woke in me the dreaming when i thought it was dead; she taught me our scars make us beautiful and unique because of her i can remember my voice and speak as i was always meant to— you saw a strange soul i saw a kindred one, and if i were a lesbian; would i not still be your daughter or would you cease to love me? Linda M. Crate

Crazy in Love Urmila lay rigid, focused on breathing evenly, as Bai left their bed. The alarm-clock flashed 2.42, she was due at Crowhurst Road police-station in five hours. Bai's next DJ set is in two days, sleep was her passion like baking and singing Beyonce at karaoke, and this was the third Wednesday this month she'd sneaked away in the night. Bai saved her crusts for pigeons, once gave her coat to a homeless man. But there was trust and there was willful ignorance. No unusual activity on their bank account, and they now gave money monthly to the Multiple Sclerosis Society as well the RSCPA. Urmila sat in front of her computer-screen as it blinked temptation. She craned her head to check her boss was submerged in paperwork and typed in her girlfriend's name. No recent arrests for Sheng Bai. One speeding ticket on Marine Parade at 3am. When she told Bai she'd swapped to the nightshift as a favour to a colleague, she clutched her plait to restrain herself from covering her mouth. Bai kissed her on the forehead, said "I'll miss you, sweetie," and carried on ironing her purple blouse as Urmila waited for her ears to stop melting. She brought banana chips and masala tea to the stake-out, comfort-food, and tried not to speculate on who would emerge at Brighton pier. Some random hook-up from Patterns? When shaven-headed Danny Blake, recently released all-purpose villain, sauntered out, she sprayed luke-warm tea over the dashboard and set off the windscreen-wipers. Bai rushed over, bobbed hair swinging. "It's not for me! Grandfather gives me money, and I bake the stuff into brownies. His muscle spasms are worse!" Urmila mopped up with her denim jacket sleeve, eyes on the steering-wheel.. "I'm off-duty, miss. You better get home, it's dangerous here at night." Anita Goveas

Three Little Words He shows up every morning—eyelids droopy, baseball cap adorably askew—and utters those three little words I long to hear: large dark roast. I wish I could leap over the counter and throw my arms around him, but I must maintain professionalism. Gaze glued to my register, I total his order. This is our daily interaction, the highlight of my workday. Digging deep in the pocket of his cargo shorts, he retrieves his money. He always has exact change. As he hands over the coins, his warm fingers brush against mine, and I whisper, “Thank you.” Lori Cramer

Love Love Never floats between us Like a stream of stars Smiling childishly

Love No fountain of elated Sun Beams spluttering everywhere An overjoyed laughter

Love Bubbles of reverie Never blow Us a Moon

Love Lavenders breathe not Warm fairytales Against tingling skin

Love One touch A mundane masterpiece 12

Of worn out fingertips Declares the dayâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s gone, the night sets off tender...

Christiana Sasa

My House You knocked at the door and suddenly, like magic, the whole house was covered in apple blossom: branches for walls and fragrant flowers like curtains upon the windows. The silky petals clung to my skin and transformed me, for a moment, into something beautiful, covered in flowers. The blossom falls. You may not be here in autumn, but the house will be clustered with bright shiny apples and my face, as I peep between them, will glow rosy in their reflection. One by one I shall taste the sweet crisp fruits, remembering you and wondering what my house will be made of next spring. Tina Morris

All Over Again I sat in the brown leather chair once more. When I sat here three years ago, I swore I'd never be back. I was a completely different person then. I remember sitting on my couch watching my favorite show, and suddenly this commercial came on about a new local dating service. True Match guaranteed to find you your soulmate. If it didn't work out, they wanted you to come back and do a sort of exit interview. The same grey-haired woman I had met years before walked in and sat down at her desk in front of me. "I have to say, I'm surprised to see you here." She said. I nodded because I was too. "So, what happened?" She asked. I felt my insides crumble. I didn't have anything bad to say. There wasn't really a good answer to that question. I thought back to our first date three years earlier. "Hi there!" A beautiful brunette woman stood in front of me in the park extending her hand. I can almost smell how the air had that first day of spring smell. I can hear her infectious laugh and see her crooked grin. I remember walking through the park and not being able to take my eyes off of her. The first year with her was pure bliss. I spent every free moment I had with her. She talked about wanting to be an artist. She surprised me on our first anniversary with a painting of the park with us sitting on the bench by the fountain. We decided to take a trip and drive up the coast to Maine. Hours of old-school playlists and talking about our future made the trip the most memorable. Every time I would get us lost, I cursed under my breath and she'd laugh. Looking over at her sleeping and seeing her bare feet on the dash, I knew that I never wanted to see anyone else in my passenger seat. That Christmas we went to her parent's home in Vermont. The snow was falling, the fire was burning, and her entire family was gathered in the living room opening presents. I knew that this was the moment. The last gift was handed out and I watched as she ripped the paper away from the box. My heart swelled when I saw a gleam in her eye like a child opening their most wanted gift. She said yes and we started planning our future. The night of her first art exhibit, I was full of pride. She was glowing and everyone that walked by was enamored with her painting. A gentleman in a black suit strolled up to her and handed her a card. After the show I wrapped her in my arms. "I'm so proud of you." I whispered in her ear. She showed me the business card. He was an art dealer and wanted to

talk to her about selling paintings. That night we went into the city and celebrated with a bottle of champagne. Another year passed and we were nearing up on the wedding. We sat at our table filling out invitations, and I remember thinking how adorable she looked with her tongue stuck out to the side as she tried to perfect her handwriting for each card. My phone buzzed and I saw that it was work. "They offered me a promotion." I said quietly and set the phone down after ending the call. "That's amazing!! I'm so proud of you!" She smiled. "They want me to cover a story in Europe. I have to leave right after we get married." I said. "I’ll come with you.” She said and placed her hand on top of mine. A week before the wedding, she got her dream job offer across the country. We fought all through the night about which one of us should go with the other and miss out on the job opportunity. By the time the sun came up, she was gone. I looked up at the grey-haired lady who was waiting patiently. "What's the last question?" I asked. My heart ached after recounting the three most wonderful years of my life. "Would you do it again?" She asked. "Absolutely. I’d do it all over again." I said and stood from the chair. Maddie M. White

The Stranger Ghosts of who we were tangle around me, loud with whispers retrieving buried things. Today your eyes unchanged: warm, tricky, knowing, evoke our impasse. I mistook your poison lips for Manna, and your hot and cold for challenge, etherised by an imagined you. After, rain flowing into gutters of memory drowned our dalliance and erased the chalk you were to me. Today you say my name. You mean: â&#x20AC;&#x153;I remember you.â&#x20AC;? Really? Yes

but only a cat’s eye sliver of me.

Bayveen O’Connell

Maeve This is the first year that Jesse and I have been able to coexist peacefully despite the fact that I’m an early bird and Jesse’s a night owl. It isn’t until 90 minutes prior to my wake-up time that Jesse finally heeds my unconscious call to our bed. I acknowledge my spouse’s touch—tentative caresses that bloom into uncharacteristic intrusion—only with appreciative murmurs and cooperative positioning. To open my eyes would be to ensure that I never get back to sleep for that final delicious hour before the alarm goes off. After our pre-dawn coupling, I drift into the oddest dream. In it, Jesse says, ‘Maeve, you’ll never believe it. I can do anything now.’ ‘I can believe it,’ I chuckle. ‘You’ve always been amazing.’ By breakfast, the dream is forgotten. Throughout my work day, I am keenly aware of my pelvic region—the subtle rawness, and the warmth that simmers inside of me. This feeling brings to my mind that phrase in the Hail Mary prayer: fruit of thy womb. But, no, I won’t let my mind run off with thoughts of how Jesse and I had been consumed with the desire to start a family. We had seen doctors and done paperwork and faced with patience countless dead ends and frustrations. We remain childless. Still, I will not rekindle that obsession. For now, I’ll simply enjoy being the object of Jesse’s voracious affections. In our early thirties, we had bought a house together and opened a nature center. I had the 6:30 a.m. to 3:30 p.m. shift, and Jesse had worked from 3:30 to 6:30, then slung beers at a local bar until the last patron would finally stumble out the door. That gossamer hour when we would reunite in bed rendered us not tired, but invigorated. I, for one, was proud of the loving diligence with which we maintained our relationship, our home, and our center. My biggest vice was and still is failing to open the bills in a timely manner. I absolutely must tend to my mail from Boutique La Femme, Smith & Sons, and Carter

Medical as soon as I get home. When I leave the nature center at 6:30, however, I find myself stopping by the boutique. The shop owner gushes, ‘Maeve, darling! We’ve just received the most beautiful resort wear!’ ‘Resort wear? It’s only February.’ ‘That’s when resort wear comes out, darling! And thank god! We need something bright in our lives during this ghastly time of year!’ He is so right. I used to adore the bubbly festivities of New Year’s Eve and the commercial sweetness of Valentine’s Day. Somewhere along the line, though, I’ve developed a biting hatred not only for those plastic holidays, but for the entire months of January and February. I leave with an aqua kaftan for myself and a lightweight sweatshirt for Jesse. When I pull up to the house, my brother-in-law’s sedan is in the driveway. He and my sister, Caroline, have taken full advantage of the spare key I’d given them. I find them in the kitchen chopping and sautéing and in all other ways creating a horrific mess. I plunk my keys down on the counter. ‘Thanks for making dinner, guys, but… I’m really beat. I might just go straight to bed.’ ‘Well, mom wants me to make sure you’re eating properly.’ Caroline turns from the stove and immediately hones in on my shopping bag. ‘Maeve. Did you go shopping again?’ ‘Relax. I only got two things.’ I pull the kaftan from the bag and hold its gauzy fabric to my shoulders. I wish Caroline would tell me that the colour really complements my eyes. But all she does is yank the sweatshirt from the bag. She ignores the tissue paper that flutters to the floor. Great. More mess.

My sister unfolds the sweatshirt. Nathan shoots me a sad look, then busies himself rinsing the cutting board. ‘This is an XL,’ Caroline states. Perturbed, I bob my head. ‘Uh, yeah.’ ‘But you’re an XS. Did you forget to put in your contacts in or something?’ ‘Give me the sweatshirt,’ I say, reaching. My sister clenches the garment with such savagery that her knuckles blanch. ‘This is for Jesse, isn’t it?’ ‘Of course it is.’ ‘You have got to stop this,’ she says, voice breaking. ‘You have got to stop.’ Nathan sighs, puts his arm around my shoulder, and leads me to my office. ‘Let me help you deal with your mail.’ ‘I don’t want to deal with the god damn mail right now!’ I snap. But I still let him sit me behind my desk and I collect the envelopes from my inbox. I open the first one. ‘Boutique La Femme. I owe 492.63. Whoop-dee-doo.’ I cast the bill aside and pick up the next envelope. It’s from Carter Medical. I hesitate. ‘You need to open that,’ Nathan says. ‘No, I don’t. It’s just a bill we’re paying down from the failed implantation last year. You know… the one with my eggs and your… donation.’ ‘No, Maeve. That bill was from Carson Fertility. Anyway, Caroline and I paid that off… remember?’ I shake my head. My throat tightens and my eyes flash with heat. ‘No, it’s… I’m still paying for my treatments…’

‘Maeve. Think about it, now. What time did you get off work today? 3:30, like you used to, or… the new time?’ When I don’t answer, Nathan says, ‘You’re exhausted, aren’t you? That’s because you’ve been working twelve hours a day.’ I hold my hand up, desperate to stop the flow of his words. He slides the next envelope toward me. Only after I blink back tears can I see the addresser: Smith & Sons Funeral Home. A ragged sob escapes my lips. Nathan pulls me into his arms, and in that warm space I’m inundated with a montage of harrowing visions: Of getting a visit from the police about Jesse’s car accident around three a.m. on New Year’s Day. Of sitting at Jesse’s bedside, life support machines whirring in the background. The weeks of praying. The days I spent agonizing over whether I should sign the release. The funeral held on February 15th. When I come out of my agonizing memory reel, I extricate myself from Nathan’s embrace. ‘It—it’s not that I don’t understand about Jesse, Nathan. It’s just… It’s so easy to forget because every night we—’ I catch myself. I don’t want to end up in the looney bin. What I do want is for Nathan and Caroline to leave. And the only way they’ll do that is if I confront every last piece of correspondence on my desk. I open the envelopes and write the checks. These expenses, at least, can be covered by what remains of Jesse’s life insurance. ‘We’ll get these stamped and sent out.’ Nathan relieves me of the stack. My pre-dawn hours are occupied only by one long, meandering dream. The best part is when Jesse dons the lightweight sweatshirt. ‘Thanks, babe. I love it.’ ‘You’re welcome,’ I say, pleased.

‘I’m just bursting with excitement, you know? I have no limits. Everything’s possible for me now. Possible for us.’ The months come and go in an exhausting haze. Luckily, the Sunday after Thanksgiving is surprisingly mild. I walk down the cemetery’s wide path, brown leaves crunching beneath the wheels of the stroller. When I arrive at Jesse’s headstone, I kneel before it, a precious bundle nestled in my arms. I’m so wracked with emotion that my words come out in a wet, inconsistent whisper: ‘Thank you, my love. Thank you so, so much for… for finding a way to give me what I’ve always wanted.’ I pause, then speak in an easy, casual voice. ‘People gossip about me now… They say that I must be bisexual, or worse, straight.’ I laugh. ‘Anyway… I’m sure you know this already, but I’ve named our daughter after you. After both of us, actually. Her name is Jesseka. Jesseka Maeve Ross.’ Sophie Kearing

Dementia

I sit and dream, stroked by fine mists of lace, meander down streams that gurgle delight. Memories empty to yield open space. Words change their meanings, shifting time and place, a gentle smile calms me to feel alright. Do I know your name? Thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s love in your face. Flutterby impressions dance as I chase, run barefoot on grass, dizzied by sunlight. Memories empty to yield open space.

Sometimes I weep from a sore, fretful place, all lives know loss and my pain is not trite. Do I know your name? Thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s love in your face. A kiss on my cheek, a gesture of grace, parts my pea-soup fog to give me delight. Memories empty to yield open space. I live in each moment, no need to race as I doze and wait in the dim twilight Memory empties to yield open space. Do I know your name? Thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s love in your face. Ceinwen E Cariad Haydon

Somewhere Behind The Clouds “Another,” she insists. “Please, Daddy, just one more.” I’m perched on the edge of her bed, still as stone and serious faced. She gives me her sad-panda eyes, “Pretty please,” she says, “with sprinkles on top.” “Okay, then,” I concede, “five minutes at the most. Look!” I say, pointing to her timeteaching clock, “it’s way after your sleepytime.” She doesn’t bother looking, but instead starts to wiggle her torso like she’s got a Baloo-like itch she can’t quite reach. I wait, and listen to the gentle ticktock of the second hand. It’s almost two minutes later when her twisting and turning finally stops, and she slinks a little deeper into the mattress. “Ready now,” she announces, like a princess to her man-in-waiting. She looks too cramped in there, so I lower the blanket a touch. She huffs minty-fresh breath at me. “Just enough to let Mr. Teddy breathe,” I tell her. “No Mr. It’s just Teddy,” she says, “and he says he was fine with it as it was.” She sounds just like her mother. I brush wispy hair away from her forehead and kiss it softly. Her eyes fall shut, her breath fades to a whisper. There’s a tear in my eye I hope she hasn’t noticed. She hasn’t, or at least pretends she hasn’t, so I begin... “Once upon a time there was a boy named Peter, a boy who never wanted to grow up...” “No... not that one Daddy,” she blurts out, “I’ve heard that one zillions of times before. I am nearly seven, you know.” Damn it. Of course she has. Would have. Zillions of times. “No, not that boy, this is... hmm... a different one,” I reply. “He’s quite a different boy.” Dagger eyes stare up at me. I pause, look away, roll my shoulders, buy time with a slow breath hoping she won’t call my bluff. “Come on now,” I say, “please close your eyes.” She does, but only after an everlong moment of thought. Her eyelids are pinched tight enough for furrowed lines to run across her forehead. I can tell she’s pretending, say nothing, take a deep breath, and... “So this boy, this very different boy, well, he’d heard about this special place on Earth, a magic place where time, as we know it, goes backwards. A place where there is no Today, because if you take just one tiny step to your left, you are back in Yesterday!” I pause for impact. “How amazing is that?” I ask, but get nothing back because she’s wearing her super-busy-concentrating face, so I decide it best to thrash on. “But there’s only one place in the world where this phenomenon happens, and it’s found far, far away. And so, our hero, Peter, lay in his bed night after night, dreaming and scheming of reaching this magical place. He studied all the maps and charts he could find, plotting and planning the best way to get there. And when he couldn’t sleep from excitement, he’d walk circles around his garden for hours at a time, just so he would have legs strong enough for the journey. It would be fair to say

he was the happiest boy in the world, and he thought that if he could step back in time whenever a bad thing happened, then he could be this happy forever. As you can tell, he was a very determined young man.” “I thought you said he was a boy,” she suddenly blurts out. “And what is a feno-me-no?” Crikey. Obviously this was not going as well as I thought it was. “Oh... well... hmm... young boy, young man, they’re the same really. After all, sometimes you are quite the young lady.” I snigger. She smiles, well, sort of. “And a phe-no-me-non is... how can I put it? Well, it’s a happening, an event, an occurrence. A thing.” “Then why didn’t you just say that then?” She growl-huffs like a dragon. Why not indeed? “What a silly old Daddy,” I say, in a Daffy Duck voice from my youth, but it sails right over her head. Of course it would. “Please try not to interrupt me, Sweet Pea,” I say, “I’ll forget where I am, and that’ll ruin the story.” Once again she squeezes her eyes over-shut. “And so, Peter, the young boy, began saving up all of his pocket money until the day his piggy bank was so full he couldn’t squeeze in a single penny more. Then, on a sunny morning in his favourite month of all, which happened to be June, he filled each and every one of his trouser pockets with the coins, laced up his walking boots, and set out upon his grand quest. He walked merrily for days, whistling his favourite tunes as he went. He walked from dawn to dusk, and only when the sun had disappeared behind the hills would he seek out a room for the night, somewhere he could find a hearty meal and a soft bed to rest his travel-weary body. And being so eager to reach his destination, he set off early every morning, even before sunrise, ignoring the breakfast laid out for him, and breakfast was his most favourite meal of all. Instead, he would snaffle away a few bread rolls, jams and cheeses, and snack on them whilst on his journey. After all, he thought, time is a thing far too precious to waste when you’re on a quest of such importance.” Considering I was making this all up as I went along, I thought it was going pretty well; at least her eyes were closed, and not clenched anymore. “On about the sixth day, when walking through a valley bordered with enormous snowy-tipped mountains, he happened across a huge golden statue. It was of a man with the biggest and roundest belly he had ever seen. He was just sitting there, hands resting in his lap and smiling a wonderful smile. In fact, it looked more like he was laughing. He wasn’t wearing any clothes, just what looked like an old and creased bed sheet around his waist, and he had ears that seemed too long for his face. It stopped Peter dead in his tracks. He stopped whistling, and gazed upon the statue. “‘And where are you going young man?’” said the statue. His voice sounded chocolate rich, and full of wisdom. “‘To a magic place where Today can become Yesterday,’” said Peter. “‘Or is it where 26

Tomorrow is Today?”’ questioning himself. “‘Oh dear, I seem to have forgotten which one it is. Well it’s something like that,’” he said. “‘It’s a very special place. I’ve read all about it.’” “‘Sounds mighty confusing to me,”’ replied the statue, ‘“might I ask why you are going there?’” “‘So that bad things never have to happen,’” Peter beamed, shielding his eyes from the blinding midday sun. “‘I see,”’ said the statue, “‘and why would that be?’” The boy threw his arms wide open to the world and whooped as loud as he could. “‘Because I want to stay as happy as I am now. FOREVER AND EVER!’” His voice echoed through the valley. The statue waited until it drifted away, then said, “‘But nothing ever stays the same forever, not happiness, not sadness, neither sea nor flower nor cloud.’” Peter frowned. He then caught sight of something moving behind the statue. He realised now that it was not the statue talking, but a wire-hanger of an old man who’d been lurking in the shadows. Peter was already annoyed with the reply, and now he was properly embarrassed at actually believing a statue could talk. His face turned red and began burning like the sun. The old man’s body was draped in a dark blue tunic and he wore a funny triangular hat. In one hand he carried a wicker basket and with his other he appeared to be scattering seed over the ground. “‘Are you a... a wizard?’” asked Peter. The man chuckled. “‘No, no, young man, I am a simple farmer.’” I look down again, and see that she’s sound asleep. There’s a gentle whistle escaping through her lips as she breathes a breath that’s just enough. I lean across her to switch off the bedside lamp and whisper sweet dreams in her ear. Maybe I’ll get to finish the story tomorrow, if she wants me to, and if I can think of an ending, that is. I slope off downstairs, grab myself a beer from the fridge, flop down in front of the TV, and wait an age for sleep to come. “Daddy, Daddy, wake up! Why are you sleeping on the sofa again?” I shake awake, taking a moment to emerge from that uneasy, groggy place - that one where you don’t know who, never mind where you are. Once free, I check my watch. “Bugger, look at the time, we’ll be late.” I mutter, hoping it was under my breath. “No we won’t, silly, today is Saturday, it’s not a school day, it’s SWIMMING DAY,” she roars like a lion, “and,” she adds, “that word you said is a very naughty word.” My apologetic face comes to my rescue, making her laugh. She’s dressed in her pyjamas; but there’s a bright orange armband half inflated tight around her arm. I grab her to give her a hug. “Let me go Daddy,” she says, “you’re squishing me.” She’s right. I am squishing her. I love her so much I could squish her forever. “Breakfast first.” I say. Her mind ticks away between taking spoonfuls of chocolate flavoured rice-puffs with 27

a spoon a tad too big for her tiny hands to control. “That one is only for babies. I haven’t used it for years,” she informs me, pointing to the unused plastic one I’d put out for her. She looks up. “Daddy.” “Yes,” I reply, apprehensively. I put my near-empty coffee cup down on the counter. I sense this could require undivided attention. She’s looking rather serious. “I really liked your story last night. It was very nice.” She pauses, and gives me the quizzical look I know so well, a little incline of the head, a tight pursing of the lips and the slight squinting of the brow. “But he’s you, isn’t he? You’re Peter, the boy in the story?” “And what makes you think that?” I ask. She puts down her spoon and sits up, making herself extra tall. “Well,” she says, “because you have been so very sad since mummy left, and you used to be so very happy. And you don’t think you’ll ever be happy again. And that statue in the story is the same as the one you have in your bedroom on the cupboard next to your bed, but in the story he’s a zillion times bigger, and the one next to your bed is white. And... your birthday is in June, so that’s your favourite month. It is you, isn’t it Daddy?” I didn’t know what to say. “I knew it,” she exclaims, clapping her tiny hands together, my silence being all the confirmation she needed. “But Daddy,” she says, “there’s no need to be sad. That’s what Mummy told me before she left. She sat down on my bed and told me that every time I was feeling sad, or lonely, or frightened, that I was to look out of my bedroom window up at the night sky, and to look for her star, sparkling like a diamond, because that’s where she lives now. She showed me exactly where to look, right above the big red chimney pot on Mr P’s roof. She said that sometimes it will be really bright and sometimes it might be a little dull, and on really cloudy nights I won’t be able to see it at all, but not to worry, that of course she’ll still be there, it’s just that she’s hidden somewhere behind the clouds. She said that just because I can’t see her, it doesn’t mean she isn’t there. She’ll always be there, Daddy...She’ll always be here,” she says, laying her tiny hand over her heart, “forever and ever.” She looks up at me. My throat is tightening and I’m trying not to cry, I really am. “If you like, I can show you tonight,” she says. “I would like that very much, Sweet Pea, very much indeed,” I say. “Thank you.” She goes back to finishing her cereal, grappling with the much-too-big spoon, spilling more chocolate coloured milk over the counter than she manages to eat, and all the while singing along to the nursery rhyme that’s playing in her head. Once done, she slides the empty bowl away and springs up out of the chair. “Finished!” She reaches out for my hand and looks at my wristwatch. “Come on Daddy, look at the time,” she mocks, “we’ll be late for swimming.”

Lee Hamblin

Bake Until Done She was reminiscent of a freshly baked Victoria sponge – her breath warm and sugary, her face round and golden. I longed to press my fingers into her flesh and watch it yield, in the same way mum assesses the readiness of our cakes. I’d stand close to her whenever the opportunity arose, breathing in that sweet scent and allowing her soft cardigan to settle against my arm. My skin would crackle as our tiny hairs entwined and for a fleeting moment, we were one. I greedily savoured those delicious moments, regurgitating them in my mind until they no longer resembled the truth, ripening into tales of the adventures I believed we’d have together. My tummy would fizz and flip excitedly, as though a pod of dolphins were inside me performing tricks and I wished for them to never cease. Although I’d known her only a short time and I didn’t understand my feelings, I couldn’t fathom a world without her. It was like she’d always been there, and always would be. Until that day when, as with my cakes that have been left in Tupperware too long, it all staled. That morning she had us gather around and to thirty intent faces, she announced that she was to be married. Married! It didn’t matter to whom, because it wasn’t to me. She invited us all to the wedding and while everyone else chittered excitedly, I choked back an acrid lump and protested, stamping my Mary Janes as my world imploded. How could she do this to me? I never spoke back; I never left snot in the sandpit; and I never peed my pants in class. It wasn’t fair! I ran all the way home from school, leaving a stream of tears in my wake. I shouldered mum out of the way and slammed my bedroom door with a force that tipped my Smurf collection off the shelf. I trod through the tangle of blue limbs and pushed over my beloved kitchen on wheels, scattering plastic ham and eggs and miniature cutlery across the floor. I reached for Teddy who was still asleep under my duvet and hugged him tightly. I held him against the place my heart had once occupied and wept into his tattered head that smelt faintly of slivers. I wept and I wept until I thought I might suffocate or at least drown poor Teddy. It hurt so much – the dolphins in my tummy had been replaced with a heavy ache and I missed their playful presence. As Teddy absorbed my distress, there came a tentative knock. It was mum with some silly idea about baking a celebratory cake for the soon-to-be married Miss Jones. ‘Won’t that be nice?’ she chirped. ‘Why would I want to bake her a cake?’ I scoffed, perplexed. 29

But then an image materialized of me adoringly presenting her with a cake I’d lovingly prepared and a calm descended upon me. I played in the garden while mum combined the butter and sugar and beat in the eggs. ‘Honey, it’s your turn!’ she called through the kitchen window. ‘Remember to wash your hands!’ I washed up, donned my Peppa Pig apron and slipped my hands into the batter. I sploshed and sloshed with zeal, ignoring instructions to ‘fold’ and ‘be gentle’ until my skin was no longer visible beneath the beige slop. Cocoa powder muddied the mixture and I assured mum I was almost there. She went to ready the soapy water for my hands. As soon as her back was turned, I dug around in my apron for the little jar that gran had gotten with her cream tea the other day that had somehow found its way into my pocket. I liberated the lid and to the cake mix I added a generous splash of my secret ingredient: a slurry of worm guts, dismembered beetles, and whatever else I’d scooped out of the soil not ten minutes before, all thinned down with milk three-weeks old found lurking in dad’s shed. Bugs and batter bound together, the cake baked. As it puffed up under my watchful eye, those sprightly dolphins returned to their rightful place. Well, if I couldn’t have my cake and eat it, I’d instead delight in her having hers. Fee Johnstone

Silk In the darkest recess of a cupboard opened daily is a dress that tells the bittersweet stories that bind you and me. We alone can see the secrets that hide within its soft silk drapes. We see the ghosts of first dates and racing hearts, the fiery foolish, fight that forced us apart until, like rivers to the sea, I found my way back to your arms. Perfume lingers. Jasmine evokes a snatched and sultry memory of sleepless nights under the velvet cloak of darkness, as we raced the coming of dawn to steal one more moment, one more kiss. Always one more. But now those days are gone. I reach out a tremulous hand and sigh. Silk beneath my fingers, time upon my mind. My hand frees trapped dust to fly and quiver, uncertain in the still and breathless air. Memories unleashed by an opened door hover restless, cavorting with the dust to remind me of the carefree times when I wore silk and dreamed of forever more.

Time proves happy ever afters belong to fairy tales and fiction, a wistful dream mere mortals can never reach. Even Juliet knew it was so. But real life is ours, in all its tired, tarnished beauty. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Romance is dead,â&#x20AC;? you once wistfully said. No, love. Not dead, but merely slumbering under the weight of love that bloomed in its place, cultivated by tender hands and amorous kisses just as softly-sweet. Love is what remained when the crimson dress was pushed behind the milk-stained faded tops and jeans stained with grass, or by podgy little hands that smear jam and defy our weary attempts to remember what it was like when I wore red silk and we were young. But the dress will wait for us. Our old friend shares our story and whispers a promise for the future, wrapped in a silken bow. Cara Fox

Five Smiles ‘Can we talk about something else please?’ Lizzie plopped her mug down so hard some of the tea spilt on Alec’s newspaper. She looked at all the faces at the table. ‘October isn’t only about Halloween.’ Alec dabbed at the spilt tea and smiled. ‘Your mum is right. It’s time for school anyway.’ He hustled them into the hall. ‘Shoes and coats on.’ Smiling, he blew Lizzie a kiss, and chased her kids out to the people carrier. The sudden silence threatened to overwhelm her. She turned to the radio to fight the melancholy she felt rising in her chest. Radio Four always kept her company; the discussions and stories distractions until the children came home. But not today.

By mid-morning the sun was highlighting the red and orange leaves of the trees. As she walked beneath the thinning canopy she spoke to Chad. ‘You’d love it here my darling. Like Boston in the fall, but very British all the same. I know it was right to come back to England. Ethan has finally stopped wetting the bed. He’s so like you it hurts sometimes. Eloise and Brad still sleep with your picture under their pillows, but at least they’re in separate beds now.’ She stopped. Before her lay a huge expanse of green and beyond that, the North Sea. Hesitating for only a second, she strode on. The wind grew wilder, fighting her as she neared the cliffs. ‘The twins are five tomorrow. I was so angry that you were late that day. I thought giving birth early and alone was the worst feeling ever, but you dying in the Atlantic Ocean, drowning as Abi and Taylor drew their first breaths, topped that.’

Nearing the edge of the cliff the wind dragged at her hair, flinging it over her eyes, causing her to stumble. She welcomed the fear that invaded her. Finally she knew with absolute certainty that she wanted to live.

As she arrived at the school she heard Taylor call, ‘Mummy!’ The twins bundled into her. ‘Where’s Uncle Alec?’ Taylor looked puzzled. ‘We don’t need him, Mummy’s here.’ Abi dug her brother in the ribs. ‘Let’s find the others, and then we’ll buy gingerbread witches on the way home. And after tea we can bake your cake.’ She reveled in the joy she felt as two small hands grabbed hers.

With the children in bed, she was clearing up when Alec walked in. ‘Wow sis, have we had an explosion in here?’ He looked at her. ‘Hey you’re smiling, I like it.’ ‘I walked up to the cliffs today, finally watched the sea without wanting to throw myself in.’ She hugged him hard. ‘Thank you.’ ‘What for?’ ‘I’ve heard you on the phone, cancelling plans because I am… was a mess. We’ve been here a year now. You opened your home to this grieving family and saved us.’ She pointed to the self-portraits the children had drawn that night. ‘Every one of those pictures has a smile because of you.’

Karen Lawrence

Extrasensory Perception I hold up the star you say star I hold up heart say heart through the glass, I know I am reshaping the wire between us I hold up circle, say ring, I think,

say you thought of it while we were on our way to that church in my hometown, in the square Say square I think of it, the white of this room same as that church, Say house I hold it up and you scratch on that one Say moon Remember when we pitched our tent on that mountain and I looked up at saw the creatures there

like they were running all night I was trying to sleep and also read your mind I hold up a wavy line heartbeat brainwave hiking, the next day, green ferns, steep drops into blue ravine, blue then green, you say them faster than I can shuffle the deck The straight line is the shortest distance I hope like that hold up line mind to mind Amy Alexander

Playing Nicely We’re always taught not to hit. Share, take turns, be nice. Aren’t we made of sugar and spice? * I was a good girl. Did what I was told – mostly. Didn’t answer back, didn’t make a mess, said please and thank you and washed my hands and made my bed. I got up when I was told to, ate my veggies, didn’t have sweets, cleaned my teeth, TV was a special treat. On the rare occasions I acted out of turn, didn’t want that last pea, stamped my foot, I had my bum smacked, sent to the naughty spot. I’d sit there, head down, shame tinting my face. Wondering how I could stop the obstinate part of myself that kicked out from time to time. Be-bad, it beat away inside of me, be-bad. And then my sister arrived. Round and plump like a cherry. Cute and cuddly, bright as button, eyes like chocolate drops, a curl on her forehead just like the rhyme. We were cast together in a boat of a playroom, adrift in stuffed toys and fancy dress and puzzles. We lacked for nothing, matching smocks, walked hand in hand, posed prettily for family photos. But the be-bad ticked away inside me. I knew it would come out somehow. * My nails sank into that tempting ripe flesh. A chubby arm, a luscious leg. A wail and a scream and then she’d cling to me for comfort, a cuddle, a kiss. Only I could make it better. And tattooed across her body was the evidence of our bond, tiny red pinches of love. The bebad beat on, our hearts together, in unison.

Rebecca Williams

Forbidden Memories My mind plays tricks, conjuring old, forbidden memories from dusty spaces and locked cabinets like secrets stashed beneath a bed or kept under lock and key, out of sight yet never forgotten – always lingering at the edges, waiting to be discovered and set free. Shadows morph on the walls, becoming monsters with thick fangs and glowing eyes like coal fire. When they creep close, I shrink back yet they continue to reach for me, feeding off my fear until they are physical forms capable of injury. A black hole wraps me in the darkness of its grip. I’m eaten alive by the shadows. The shadows say, nothing like what you remember happened; they tell me, you are imagining things. Why would I make something like that up? Revolting flashbacks, repetitive scenes, crippling fear, helplessness. Feeling trapped, suffocating, not knowing how to speak up, how to fight. After over two years of silence, the shadows ask, why now? Because it had to come out. I can no longer bear the burden of this pain and these memories that stain my thoughts. The shadows creep upon me at night and overtake me. Alas, that is how I shall go. Into the space of non-existence, of disbelief. That is where I shall reside. Unknown to anyone, except the shadows. The memories, the flashbacks, the nightmares – they all soon become familiar friends. I am broken in this darkness. Shattered into a billion pieces. If you try to put me back together, there will always be one piece missing. Impossible to heal something completely once it has shattered – impossible to make it whole again. Never again unbroken. Hope shines through the darkness like an offered hand, beckoning. Do I dare accept it?

The edges of my reality blur as I gaze into his eyes. In them I see my past, vanquished, and my future, renewed. I see all I could ever yearn for yet never dared to dream, never dared to desire. From this moment forward, it will be him and me. No longer only my fate in my hands but holding that of someone else, that of someone I love, and who loves me back. The thought is almost dizzying. Do I know how to be loved? I always shied away from it before. Words echo, telling me I am worthless. These are the shadows I must defeat. The ones that creep, unwelcome, unbidden, into my mind when the darkness has laid wreckage to careful walls set in place. Careful walls, built brick by brick for my own protection, to keep my feelings in or to keep others out, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll never know fully which. He tears my walls down, the ones I have constructed around my heart. My heart trembles. It throbs, its scars and battle wounds. When he came into my life, there was no thought. My heart raced back into battle without its armor properly in place. He stirred back my will to fight, my will to live and love, to experience, to embrace the sunshine among the shadows, the memories I must also make mine own. I am worthy. Of love, of life, of happiness. I am worthy of contentment, discovering a haven away from the constant consuming shadows, the devastating depression, the ravaging anxiety. Above all, I have found someone willing to place their life with mine despite my past; he sees the woman who has faced her demons, who has stood tall against adversity and told the shadows to come forward. Told them she is unafraid. She did not flinch at their approach; she held her ground. There will never be certainty that the shadows will disappear, but when I am no longer the only warrior against them they will seem less frightening, less like vultures circling, leaving me cast in constant shadow. I smile as the words leave my lips, placing my fate with his. â&#x20AC;&#x153;I do.â&#x20AC;? Tianna Grosch

Monsoon The dreams-soaked nights, Of my first monsoon Passed in your warm arms, Linger in the drenched words Of my worn-out diary, Still lying under the tender shadow Of our neglected neem tree. When it rains hard, and the winds Thrust open the window, The aroma of your dark curls Seeps in, captivating my thoughts Coiling in the corners of our locked room. Akshat Shukla

Aura Aurora Your eyes shine like burnt diamond fire blazed in your gaze from on celestial plains pillars of fire bore holes in my soul and the words dance on my tongue. I lov… and it hits me again and again and again, Hot brushed sanded velvet blisters my skin and seeps down to my bones, the flow of your aura aurora radiates from every pore of your face, your neck, your chest and every inch of the rest of you. The words are trapped in my mouth desperately clawing their way out. I lov… It seems trite. It just does not seem right to use words that have been used over and over and over again and again and again. Words used as lies, used on those we despise, speaking differently behind backs. They just seem to lack something, they don’t have the right ring. I’ll swallow them back down into the pits. There have to be others

that hit the right note, strike the right chord, toll the right bell. Damn it to hell, there’s nothing that isn’t cliché. And now I’m lost. I think it’s best to return to where we began. Your eyes shine like burnt diamond fire. I can only aspire to be one millionth of the person you deserve, the person I know I can be if I let that supernova stare devour me, divine immolation. Christopher Moriarty

Surprised at a Wedding A new dress to celebrate, she sat in the choir stalls. She glanced through flowers, checked ushers and pews noticing her dear ones, counting them in. Hum of expectation, welcome cries and greetings, soft beams of colour laid a blessing on this family, where long ago sorrows had made kindness grow. She thought of her brother, how heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d stoop to kiss her, remembered his postcards, charting him homeward, heard again the thuds as he discarded huge boots. In her mind she saw their father, floppy hat pushed sideways, smiling as he turned to tend his primus for the tea, proud of their sandy dam holding back the tide. Startled by the organ-peal, she bent to the service sheet. Lines by her brother, late father of the bride, swept away composure in a sudden flood of tears. Pamela Harbutt

Contributors Vanessa Maki Vanessa Maki is a writer (& other things) who is queer & full of black girl magic. She's been published in Enclave, Faded Out, Rag Queen Periodical, Occulum, Five:2:One Magazine, SYS, horny poetry review, sublet press, Entropy, Susan/The Journal & is forthcoming in Sorority Mansion among others. She is founder/editor of yell/shout/scream & rose quartz journal. Twitter: ahumantornado. Stephen Briseño Stephen Briseño's work has appeared or is forthcoming in Mentor Mixtapes, 8Poems, formercactus, Riddled with Arrows, and Rhythm and Bones. He lives in San Antonio, TX with his wife and daughter, where you can usually find them lounging at a coffee shop. Follow him on Twitter: @stephen_briseno Emma De Vito Originally from the West Midlands, but now living in Northampton, Emma is an English teacher and aspiring flash fiction and short story writer. . Mike Fox Mike Fox’s stories have appeared in, or been accepted for publication by, The London Journal of Fiction, Popshot, Confingo, Into the Void, Fictive Dream, The Nottingham Review, Structo, Prole, Fairlight Books, Riggwelter, Communion and Footnote. His story The Homing Instinct, first published in Confingo, will also soon appear in Best British Short Stories 2018 (Salt). Another story, The Violet Eye, will shortly be published by Nightjar Publications as a limited-edition chapbook. Contact Mike at: wwwpolyscribe.co.uk Linda M. Crate Linda M. Crate's poetry, short stories, articles, and reviews have been published in a myriad of magazines both online and in print. She has five published chapbooks A Mermaid Crashing Into Dawn (Fowlpox Press - June 2013), Less Than A Man (The Camel Saloon - January 2014), If Tomorrow Never Comes (Scars Publications, August 2016), My Wings Were Made to Fly (Flutter Press, September 2017), and splintered with terror (Scars Publications, January 2018), and one micro-chapbook Heaven Instead (Origami Poems Project, May 2018). She is also the author of the novel Phoenix Tears (Czykmate Books, June 2018) Anita Goveas Anita Goveas is British-Asian, based in London, and fueled by strong coffee and paneer jalfrezi. She was first published in the 2016 London Short Story Prize anthology, most recently in New Flash Fiction Review, Longleaf Review, Burning House Press, Dime Show review and Literary Orphans. She tweets erratically @coffeeandpaneer

Lori Cramer Lori Cramer’s short prose has appeared in more than two dozen publications, including Fictive Dream, L’Ephemere Review, Riggwelter, Unbroken Journal,and Whale Road Review. Links to her work can be found at https://loricramerfiction.wordpress.com. Twitter: @LCramer29 Christiana Sasa Christiana Sasa loves to write. Through writing she finds a vent for her strangled feelings and emotions. She believes in love, peace and humanity. Her Twitter Link: https://twitter.com/christiana_sasa Tina Morris Tina Morris, was (with Dave Cunliffe) co-editor of Poetmeat and Global Tapestry magazine and BB Books, writes a lot of conservation poetry, and has been published all over the world including Resurgence, Peace News, The Ecologist, Tribune, Children of Albion (Penguin). 'Hidden Culture, Forgotten History" by Bruce Wilkinson (2016) was mainly about Tina Morris, Jim Burns and Dave Cunliffe - and their influence in the 60s/70s. Writing as Tina Cryer, a humorous teenage novel "Horses, Divorces & Hissy Fits" was published by Forelock Books in 2016. Maddie M. White I'm 23 years old and passionate about mental health. I hope to inspire people with my stories and the characters in them. I have work featured in Rhythm and Bones. I am currently writing my first novel. Bayveen O’Connell Bayveen O'Connell lives in Dublin and loves dark notions and travel. Her short stories, flash and poems have appeared in Selene Quarterly, Boyne Berries, Molotov Cocktail, The Bohemyth, Retreat West, Rag Queen Periodical,The Cabinet of Heed, Train Lit Mag, Tales from the Forest and Drabblez Magazine. Sophie Kearing Sophie is a coffee-obsessed night owl who writes flash fiction, short stories, and novels. Her short fiction has been picked up by Horror Tree, Ellipsis Zine, and The Sirens Call Publications. She loves writing on rainy days, reading books that smell fantastic, and Netflixing with her fur babies in her lap. Her Twitter handle is @sophiekearing. Ceinwen E Cariad Haydon Ceinwen lives in Newcastle upon Tyne, UK, and writes short stories and poetry. She has been published in web magazines and in print anthologies. She graduated with an MA in Creative Writing from Newcastle University in 2017. She believes everyone’s voices count.

Lee Hamblin Lee Hamblin lives in Greece. Stories published in FlashBack Fiction, MoonPark Review, formercactus, Reflex, Ellipsis, Fictive Dream, and other places. He tweets @kali_thea. Find links to his stories here: https://hamblin1.wordpress.com Fee Johnstone I live in Scotland and enjoy writing flash fiction and short stories. I've had work published in various zines including Ellipsis Zine, Paper and Ink, Razur Cuts and Glove Magazine. I've recently had a piece on mental health and sexuality published on Fearless Femme and my work appears in F, M or Other: quarrels with the gender binary, and in Nothing is as it was: a climate change anthology. Cara Fox Cara Fox is an English author, editor and freelance journalist trying to write her way out of the dark. Inspired by authors such as Mary Shelley, Daphne du Maurier, Bram Stoker and Jules Verne, she favours steampunk, horror and Gothic romance, but you can find her anywhere that the stories sink their claws into you and the wine flows freely. She is currently working on her debut novel, The Strange Case of Doctor Magorian. Karen Lawrence I am currently studying for an open Degree with the Open University. I write mainly flash fiction and was shortlisted by Brilliant Flash Fiction magazine in September 2017. I currently have two stories long-listed, awaiting final shortlist and winner announcement, for the Beaconlit Festival 2018. My love of people and the stories beneath the surface is what informs my writing. Twitter - @kazlawrence Amy Alexander Amy Alexander is a writer, visual artist, and homeschooling mother living in Baton Rouge, Louisiana with her husband and two kids. Her work has most recently appeared in The Coil, Cease, Cows, Anti-Heroin Chic, The Remembered Arts, Mojave Heart Review, The Ginger Collect, and Mooky Chick. Follow her on Twitter @iriemom. Rebecca Williams Rebecca Williams has had pieces in Zero Flash, EllipsisZine, The Cabinet of Heed, Retreat West and Spelk amongst others and is currently working on a novel. Her favourite authors include Bret Easton Ellis, Margaret Atwood and Alice Hoffman. She is also a senior editor for The Best of British & Irish Flash Fiction 2018-2019 list. You can find her on Twitter @stupidgirl45. Tianna Grosch Tianna Grosch has been writing her whole life and received her MFA last year. She is the recent founder/editor of Rhythm & Bones Lit (RhythmNBone.com) and has been published widely across numerous journals and literary magazines. In her free time she dreams up dark

fiction and gardens on her family farm. Follow her @tiannag92 or check out CreativeTianna.com. Akshat Shukla Akshat Shukla is a poet and short story writer based in Kanpur, India. He is a research scholar at CSJM University. He is working on Ecocriticism for his research thesis. Apart from literature, he takes interest in philosophy and psychology. Christopher Moriarty Christopher Moriarty is a librarian and writer/editor from Bury, Lancashire. He is the editor of Bunbury Magazine, an online-and-physical print arts and lit magazine. His poetry and flash fiction has been published in various magazines and 2 years ago, his debut flash fiction collection, Lightspeed, was published by Onion Custard. The editor is still waiting for a follow up! He is working class and suffers from both depression and anxiety. He firmly believes sharks only eat Red Leicester cheese. Pamela Harbutt Pamela Harbutt is learning to write fiction after a career in editing writing interpretive panels for display in visitor attractions such as museums, wildlife centres and historic houses. Where strongly-felt emotions are involved, however, she finds she expresses herself in poems.

Acknowledgements ‘Bake Until Done’ – Fee Johnstone First published in Ellipsis Zine, in 2017. ‘Monsoon’ - Akshat Shukla First published in Ad Litteram Journal, in 2017. ‘All Over Again’ – Maddie M. White First published in Flash Fiction Magazine, in 2018.