Riggwelter #10 by Riggwelter

RIGGWELTER #10 JUNE 2018 ed. Amy Kinsman

The following works are copyrighted to their listed authors ÂŠ2018. Riggwelter Press is copyrighted to Amy Kinsman ÂŠ2017.

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Foreword

Andy Warhol the Altar Boy

Homage

We Are Not All Impudent Snobs

As Simple As That

An Introduction to the English Class System

View Outside the Gary Screw and Bolt Factory

Urban Myth

About Looking

Nine-Tenths of the Law

Ungarden

Bears in Our Own Backyard, Bears of Our Own

Wenzhou Bonsai Garden

Vulpes Vulpes

Squirrel

Winter Walk

Holding on to a February Picnic Near Pateley Bridge

Vanishing Point

Counting Cars

Shoelaces

He was never the same after Joan died

Asemic Scattering

Violin as an ocean-going vessel

[silhouette pools]

Working the Edges

Fire and Ice

This Old Mattress

Turning Tables

Birthday

The Readiness to Hunt Lions

Howl

Blood Sorrow River

Seal

Contributors

Foreword

Welcome, dear reader, to our tenth issue. This issue is all about monstering – taking the human, the animal, the environment and twisting it out of shape into something unrecognisable. Of course, the thing about monstering is that none of these things are truly monsters, we just choose to interpret them that way. So here’s an issue full of serial killers, political disagreements, fragile masculinities, class warfare, predators, strange gods, broken relationships, eccentric artists, urban rewilding projects and semi-human mythologies. May you see them for what they truly are. For those of you wondering how Riggwelter faired at the Saboteur Awards, unfortunately we were not a winner, but we give our heartiest congratulations to Into

the Void for winning best magazine and our sincerest thanks to everyone at Sabotage Reviews (especially Claire Trévien and Abi Palmer) for making the awards possible. The indie community is better thriving for them. Many thanks to everyone who nominated and voted for us. We’ll see you there next year. On the subject of awards, we have selected Louisa Campbell’s flash fiction `The Words’ from our third issue as our nomination for the VERA this year. We wish her the best of luck.

Some thanks are in order before we begin: thank you to our reviewers S. A. Leavesley and Jack Little for all their hard work. Thank you to everyone that submits to, supports and promotes Riggwelter online - we have the very best of friends and community all because of you. Most of all, thank you to you, dear reader, without whom this would be a nonsense endeavour. We hope you enjoy.

Amy Kinsman (Founding Editor)

Andy Warhol the Altar Boy

Before the underground was velvet, it was hell. The body of Christ was a banana, his blood, soup in can. The mass was loaded and the priest was candy, darling. Edie Sedgwick was the virgin. I was no Joseph, I was God.

Kevin Reid

Homage

Eugene still remembers collecting as many matchsticks as he could constructing table top effigies of his favorite rock stars A daily pleasure, when an outlet for his panic attacks was needed His friends are crafted displays of heroes from different generations. He started with Kurt Cobain, and his most recent miniature was of Chester Bennington, but at this Moment; hiatus has begun, because itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s never easy to pay tribute, when one is still trying to find the strength in mourning. His displays were tiny wooden idols for living legends, but now theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re replicas of smashed caskets. Sarcophagi for flawed gods. Theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re all his little comfort spaces, where he can construct and admire each and every homage that gives him something to carry on for. J. B. Stone

We Are Not All Impudent Snobs

The orange juice turns tart on Brad’s tongue when Paul mentions the tear gas. His roommate is a practiced protestor, but this is Brad’s first. Nat, Paul’s girlfriend, puts the polishing touches on their placard. They joke he’s a protest virgin. Aunt Ellen has her back to him, scrambling eggs for his friends, but it’s not hard to detect her displeasure. It was a mistake to ask his aunt if they could crash in her basement. Brad knew she’d say yes, of course, but her soft spot for her nephew will not extend to his friends if they speak crassly in her house. Brad signals to them to cool it but Paul and Nat are too spirited, or maybe they’re hopped up. They’re recounting the previous protest, the one that led Agnew to lash out and call them an effete core of impudent snobs. Brad is certain everyone in his family voted for Nixon. He supports the anti-war protests, but if he’s honest with himself, he’s here to impress his history professor. To show Professor Blackwell he’s a determined demonstrator and watch his green eyes flicker with approval during seminar. Before Paul and Nat finish their chant – One-two-three-four, we don’t want your

fucking… Aunt Ellen spins around. “You two, out. Now.” They fall silent, Paul eyeing the eggs Ellen has scooped from the frying pan and is about to deposit on his plate. “We’re sorry, Ellen,” Natalie says. “We didn’t mean to offend.” “We got carried away,” Paul says, “coaching Brad here in the ways of protesting.” Aunt Ellen’s eyes become slits, her face a scowl. “I doubt,” she says, “that he has anything to learn from the likes of you.” She studies her spatula, deciding. With a sigh, she sets the eggs on Paul’s plate. “Can’t have them going hungry.” Brad exhales after what feels like several minutes.

She fixes her gaze on him. “Good gracious, Bradley. I’ve heard about these agitators, but I didn’t expect my own nephew to get mixed up with them. What are they teaching you up there in Princeton?” Oh, dear Aunt Ellen, who used to be so good at reading me. If you only knew. Locke and Rousseau and Nietzsche. But also: The Kinks and Jimi Hendrix and devastating self-awareness. My forbidden longings and ensuing loneliness. Brad can’t think of a response except: “Sorry.” If anyone in the family might understand an anti-war protest, Aunt Ellen should. “We just don’t think American soldiers should be over there. Didn’t you…have a boyfriend killed in Iwo Jima?” Aunt Ellen’s never spoken of it, but according to his grandmother this is the reason she’s never married. “A friend, yes.” Natalie is undeterred. “If agitating gets the administration to pay attention, that’s what we’ve got to do. And we’re peaceful. It’s the cops who mess with us.” Oh boy. Brad’s friends don’t know that Aunt Ellen’s best friend and sometimes roommate Doreen is a detective for the Metropolitan PD. “Young lady,” Aunt Ellen says, “Don’t start with me. The police are sworn officers of the law. I’m sure they know better than you all about public safety.” Paul opens his mouth to say something, then clamps it shut. His friends finish eating, thank Ellen for the food, and excuse themselves to pack. Brad lingers in the kitchen, feeling low. “Sorry about them,” he says. “Doreen working today?” “Why?” “Dunno, just wondering if we’ll see her.”

Aunt Ellen lights a Lucky Strike and leans against the linoleum. “We haven’t talked in a week. We’re on the outs.” “What happened?” “Nothing that won’t blow over. But if you see her, tell her I miss her.” She looks glum. “Ah, hell, I’ve just got to swallow my pride and call her myself.” Brad stands to clear his plate but Aunt Ellen motions for him to leave it. She sits and faces him across the table. Later today, when he’s resting on a DC sidewalk, bored of Paul and Nat and daydreaming of the taboo touch of his history professor, he’ll think of this conversation and bask in its warmth. And decades later, he’ll get teary with appreciation for his dear, departed aunt. He braces himself for a lecture, but Aunt Ellen’s mind is elsewhere. “You know what she is to me, don’t you?” Her words reverberate like a rifle shot to his brain, and his hand flies to cover his mouth. He is tongue-tied. Once he can speak, he’ll tell her his truth.

Julie Zuckerman

As Simple As That

The birds on the wire seem to know my face And so does the bum I gave a quarter to in 1972 who’s now CEO of a billion-dollar company The room is empty except for a screwdriver with no handle, a ratted-out mink stole, and some broken pieces of a wind-up doll It’s time to rise and see if the tap still produces water, whether the house down the street is still burning, and whether the dog I saw yesterday at the park is still sucking on a ball that was dipped in cocaine I am blessed, a friend said to me in a recent letter, I believe in reference to the fact that after all he’d been through he was still alive And I wrote back that sometimes I wish I were not still alive after all I’ve been through, but all in all not knowing any other life than this, I’ll probably just wait it out You can take that as either a final statement or a warning that I still may come and get you It’s as simple as that. . . Jeffrey Zable

An Introduction to the English Class System

I know some who idolise with such envy severing arteries for a handful of what theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve got the brutal ones laughed at the sweat on our hands grunting in dark sarcasm in secret wooden rooms; We destroyed personalities in a square tablet prison described to us as a prestigious social retreat those working-class heroes that we once knew swapped gourmet burgers for Foie Gras in saffron, ascending into a world they couldnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t afford becoming everything that they once despised. Matt Duggan

View Outside the Gary Screw and Bolt Factory George L. Stein

Urban Myth

Waiting for a bus to the airport, I notice a commotion in the underpass to the mall, a woman tussling with a man. Fire on paper, his anger consumes her, fingers untangle leather from flesh, he shakes her off to leave her lying like kindling on the ground. My body stiffens, adrenalin replaces fear and I drop my case in pursuit. I catch him as he ducks under a barrier to the car-park. He throws the bag at me, scattering the contents. I keep going, grab his coat. Stalls him for a second, enough for my hands to invade - arms, shoulder, neck. I squeeze. Want him to hurt, to scream, give me something to fight. His eyes are empty. He knows nothing I can do will hurt him, nothing I can do will change his life, a life not troubled by the vestiges of hope, a life too stretched to afford the luxury of failure. With one last lunge he breaks free, dusts me off and strides away, eyes already trolling for his next victim. I walk back to return the bag and she has disappeared with my case. I rifle through her belongings, to find a photograph of me, my details scribbled on the back. Maurice Devitt

About Looking

This isn’t like fixing a Monet after someone has punched it. Horrible things are happening. My foremost thought is, “I want macaroni and cheese next time. I haven’t had it in years.” All of a sudden EMTs rush past with a man on a stretcher, his face covered in blood and bite marks. I scream something – in terror, I suppose. The last time I was so unsteady was probably when my mother died. I feel like any minute now I might look up and see her in the window of a plane waving. A policewoman orders me to move along. And I was just about to ask, “What advice do you have for young people?” It was only a couple of days ago that some kids grabbed a classmate and persuaded him with fists and sticks and colorful arguments that one eye is enough. Howie Good

Nine-Tenths of the Law

From my crouched position I saw them; two strangers peering over the garden wall. The man had his arm proprietorially around the woman’s shoulders. His glasses were steamed up from the rain. His black anorak was all form over function; too many zips and not enough pockets. Although I couldn’t see them from my hiding place, I was pretty certain he was wearing trainers advertised by snowboarders, worn by accountants. Next to him, she looked out of place. She clearly hadn’t got the memo about dress down Saturday. She wore a steel grey woollen coat and a scarf that screamed designer. Her hair was dyed and coiffured into a perfect helmet, impervious to the damp and murk of the morning. Despite her hesitancy she stood erect, haughty; a glamorous meerkat ready to fight or run. I’m not sure which. As I watched them, my knees started to ache; a dull rheumatic throbbing. I wanted to stretch them, ease the pain, but I stayed huddled down nervously waiting. They were still there, although she was talking on her mobile phone; her movements emphatic as she gesticulated at the house. A fly buzzed about me, lampshade, curtain and sofa. A few times it landed on my head, my arm, but I swiped it away, careful not to disturb the net curtain and give my position away. The knock when it came, made me jump. It was loud; a hard thud against wood. The chain rattled. I ignored it. I doubt I could have moved, even if I’d wanted to. I was petrified in the literal sense – a figure from Pompeii, cowering foetal position from the onslaught. The knock came again. It was a demand, not an entreaty. I didn’t move. I stayed hunkered down. A rat in a hole.

After the third round of knocking, I heard the letter box open. I could imagine the eyes staring through, kohl rimmed and mascaraed, sharp to every detail. Although having said that it was probably him, glasses glinting, that was knelt on the doorstep. She would never sully her clothing that way. I love that front door. It’s a deep bottle green, with a stained-glass poppy window panel. It’s one of the things that most attracted me to the house. Of course, being old and period it wasn’t very secure, so I added the chain and sliding bolt for added safety. You can never be too careful. I was glad of my foresight when I heard his voice bellow down the hallway. “Mrs Wilmscott, we know you are in there.” “Come on Mrs Wilmscott, we are not playing games.” “Mrs Wilmscott, we have had quite enough of this, come and open the damn door!” With each shout his tone became increasingly emphatic. Soon the ‘damn’ would become something less savoury and he’d be putting money in the swear jar. There was part of me that was intrigued to see how far he would go. I’m sure I could beat him. He looks like the type of man who’d view using vulgar names for the female anatomy as some sort of sin, when my father saw them as a form of punctuation. Disappointingly I never got to find out because she took over. Maybe I was wrong about her worrying about dirt on her knees, or perhaps she’d got him lying prostrate on the ground, so she could use him as a kneeler. “Mrs Wilmscott, the police are on their way.”

Well that got my attention. She had a voice like a BBC News presenter. It wasn’t so much posh, but very clear. It was a voice you wouldn’t argue with, one that was used to being listened to and obeyed. “This is our home Mrs Wilmscott. You have no right to move into it.”

She was wrong about that. Not the bit about it being their home, but about me moving in. That implies that I had boxes, suitcases and furniture; that young men with familiar carelessness had carried in my belongings, labelled and organised. Instead when I arrived at 57 Maple Gardens last week, all I’d had was my handbag and a few clothes in a Tesco’s carrier. “For heaven’s sake, open the door right now.” This final summons was accompanied by some more banging on the beautiful front door. The same one that had glinted so invitingly when I first saw it. A vivid green and red, contrasting with the over grown front garden. A little window pane that meant that I could see the piled-up post. A simple lock that gave easily. I remained in my position, clutching my handbag to my chest. I would wait for the police to arrive. They would take me home.

Clare Read

Ungarden

oh – garden when we met you were devoid of things that Grow – oblong in ostensibly sterile concrete bound by naught but house and wall, but for one corner in which – in some lieu of décor – the landlord laid out 12 square feet of tarpaulin covered with toenail-size nuggets of stone. that was a year ago, and since in unnoticed overnight months long boom you have sprouted, exploded – into a veritable jungle of shambling self-rooted shrub life: the first intrepid clusters of dandelion winsome winks which whiten, wither, in the wind, their lemon-yellow grins echoed in buttercups, tufted throngs of other unidentifiably familiar flowers the colours of your grandmother’s favourite teapot, knotgrass creeps through the neighbour’s fence as the wilderness throws itself a party – masses of brambles erupt from nowhere thick thorny stems cementing the feral cheer, nettles settle along the mossy, brick edge as if keeping watch – of this Miraculous

Impromptu

Gathering.

oh Garden – you were never tended to, had anything deliberately planted into, had anything visibly resembling soil, yet what Greenery has brought itself forth upon you perchance more beautiful than had you been tamed! who can really say how these things happen? these weeds, their seeds, propelled by cycle, struggle, skirmish, seek dirt to survive – and their tenacity oft warmed my heart on days it had been unplugged like a bathtub, I would open the kitchen door to gaze upon this mindless uninvited horde, marauding quietly, inexplicably, on gravel-topped tarp,

and feel vaguely encouraged – enough to contemplate flinging used teabags, coffee grounds, apple cores, potato peels, a housemate’s forgotten leftover mouldering concoction, into the Growth – as some mild gesture of haphazard thanks, to feed with waste that which never asked to be fed but whose mere presence, rampant riot in slow surprise, was abiding testament to possibility in persistence. Nature is its own explanation – Life happens, continues, in, across, the cracks and tiny spaces, just as light slips through the smallest crevice to pierce the Dark. Isaac Stovell

Bears in Our Own Backyard, Bears of Our Own

Dark coats prowl, heavy on winter’s broken back. I count scruffy prints on fresh snow from the window. Next to you on the bed, an ache starts to open against your ribs. It will hibernate there, in the cave of your body, blind and breathing. You’ll find me because you look for me, improbable searcher, eyes heavy for dark fur on snow. You know me: I want to dream one marvellous thing. I mean embrace something from the beginning, without dying. With words I can understand as light. Paw me like a jar of blue ribbon prize honey. I want the right to bear arms. I mean a fierce embrace sometimes—evidence of your improbable, visible crime. Michael Dwayne Smith

Wenzhou Bonsai Garden Jeffrey Toney

Vulpes Vulpes

You scream in the face of the mewling morn as you roam in search of a lock for your key; someone to share your collective skulk and compose screeching midwinter songs. Handsomely musk drenched, swathed in a neglected paintbrush swagger of fur, you prowl with scavenger's greed. Pointed ears curled like the trampled tapestry of leaves beneath your balletic paws, you dance to the magnetic resonance of the earth's throbbing molten heart. Warmed only by the bonfire of your eyes, you perform lonely rituals in the smoke of dawn, your name the hiss of a spell from fraudulent lips. Marie-Franรงoise de Saint-Quirin

Squirrel

On Station Road at two forty-three on Saturday afternoon, a silver Mondeo runs over a squirrel on the zebra crossing. The engine revs; the tyres churn. The bones crunch. It’s a two-minute walk from the centre of town and the people come and go. The zebra crossing is halfway down the road. Its black and white markings have been freshly painted, and the lights wink in the autumn sunshine. The speed limit is 20mph, but with the horde of people crossing and walking and crossing again, the traffic is stuck in a stop-start conveyor belt. A tannoy at the train station floats over the hum of people and traffic. When the silver Mondeo runs over the squirrel, a teenage girl approaching the zebra crossing slows to a stop. She’s chewing gum, and the strings of the substance cover her teeth as she gapes at the squirrel. She’s recently become a vegetarian. Her mother disapproves and continues to put plates of steaming hot flesh in front of her at meal times. The girl imagines being served the flattened squirrel. She glances around at the crowd, thinking maybe they too will stop to witness this animal cruelty, but the silver Mondeo has gone and the people mill about their day. On the zebra crossing, the fresh paint is smeared dark red. The girl feels vomit at the back of her throat and thinks she can smell the squirrel’s entrails. It reminds her of a beef cobbler her mother made the previous weekend. She looks again at the squirrel and blinks fast when she realises it isn’t dead. Not yet. It’s twitching and jumping up and down. The girl glances around her again then forces her legs to move until she’s half running through the crowd. She thinks about the forums she’s joined online, how she’ll explain something like this to them,

how it will make her look. Then she decides that maybe it didn’t really happen at all. That no-one needs to know.

The next car in the queue of traffic nears the zebra crossing cautiously as though expecting the squirrel to complete its journey to the other side of the road. The woman hunches herself over the steering wheel. The engine judders and threatens to stall. In the passenger seat sits a baby carrier, and in the baby carrier is a small pink face swaddled in swathes of blue. The woman’s t-shirt is stained with baby food and the smell creates a weird mix with the blueberry scent of the air freshener. She inches the vehicle forward again. The car radio fades in and out but all she can hear is the revving of engines around her and the shouts of people on the pavements. She can see the squirrel flapping about in its death throes. It’s the way she imagines her lost baby did in the cot. She rests a hand on her boy, something she finds herself doing too many times in the day, and feels the soft rise and fall of his chest. Her hands are shaking and her boy moans in his dreams as she turns the wheel and edges slowly, slowly around the dying squirrel. A horn squalls in her ears, but she’s made it past the squirrel and it’s still alive. She continues to drive and knows that she’ll see her lost baby flapping around in her dreams tonight just like that squirrel. She doesn’t know how the image will ever leave her.

While the woman with the baby boy deliberates and the teenage girl watches in chewing gum horror, a truck chugs along behind, rolling forwards and backwards. The driver, a man sweating engine oil, shakes his head. He’s been stuck in traffic for much of the afternoon. He agreed to do the Saturday shift as a favour for his boss in the hope

that, this time, he won’t be passed over for promotion to the office. He’s done this runaround job for ten years. It’s about time he went to work in an office with a DSE chair and a desk fan blowing cool air into his face while he passes on his wisdom to some pock faced school leaver. He sighs as an estate car in front of him hesitates over the dead squirrel. He can’t see the squirrel from his current vantage point, but he saw the Mondeo do the deed. He remembers taking his daughter to a red squirrel sanctuary, once. She screamed the whole way round after the trauma of dropping her ice cream onto the floor. They saw a total of three grey squirrels and one bird for their efforts. When his daughter had eventually calmed down, she asked why there were no red squirrels anymore. But he didn’t think a girl who cried at a dropped ice cream would be able to cope with a tale of dominant species and murder. Better to have some peace. The man beeps his horn and finally the woman in the estate car is moving. He revs the truck again and rolls forward, determined to drive over the dead animal and get on his way. The traffic ahead is clearing, and as soon as the woman’s car is clear of the zebra crossing, he puts his foot down – then brakes. The squirrel is still alive. Not for much longer, he figures, but alive nonetheless. Perhaps he should run it over anyway and put it out of its misery; perhaps then his daughter would be able to see some red squirrels in the world. But now it’s him deliberating and annoying the cars behind him, so as soon as there’s a gap in the oncoming traffic he swerves around the flailing animal and speeds down the road, the tyres squealing. His boss probably wouldn’t promote him if he found a dead squirrel smeared around the truck’s tyres, anyway.

There’s a pause in the traffic and the people, but by now the squirrel is expending its final energy. It’s small for a grey squirrel, and if you look close enough there are flecks of auburn in its hide. As the squirrel heaves its final breath, the tide of the crowd swells. A train has just pulled in and an array of people make their way to Station Road: tourists, children enjoying the weekend freedom, walkers kitted out with boots and waterproofs. A boy is cajoled by his friends until he steps out onto the zebra crossing. Cars brake to stop for him. Then, he takes his phone out of his pocket and snaps himself grinning with the dead squirrel. A beep from another frustrated motorist jolts him to the other side of the road. The boy’s friends run in parallel with him down the road, cheering and shouting. It’s this moment that springs to mind when, years later, the boy holds a sheet of paper detailing his failures while his friends scrape through and start apprenticeships and buy cigarettes with the money they earn. From this moment on, the moment of the squirrel selfie, he is always on the other side of the road.

As the flow from the train station abates, the sunlight starts to fade. By now, there is not much left of the carcase on the road. Inattentive drivers have forced the animal into two dimensions. The tracks of a bicycle are visible on the hide. At the end of the afternoon, a council worker turns onto Station Road. He holds a litter picker, and his colleague drives a small vehicle to carry away the rubbish. They make their way down the road, collecting beer bottles and sweet wrappers. When they reach the zebra crossing, the council worker points at the carcase lying in the road. He shouts at his colleague to stop and hold a bin bag out for him.

He has to peel the carcass away from the tarmac piece by piece. From nowhere, from a glut of memories he didn’t know he still had, the rabbit he doted on as a child comes to mind. It too was run over, and no matter how much he begged his mother he wasn’t allowed to see or bury the body. A pair of headlights approaches and he’s conscious he’s standing in the middle of the road with a dead stinking squirrel in his hands. He tosses the remains into the bin bag his colleague is holding. They throw it into the vehicle and nod to each other. This is the final road of their shift, and it’s time they went home.

When they’re gone, the zebra crossing is clear and the motorists and the pedestrians continue with their day. Somewhere, a teenage girl refuses to eat another meal. A woman sheds tears while holding her baby boy without quite knowing why. And a boy continues to lap up the glory of taking a dead squirrel selfie. The carcass sharing his fame lies quiet and still at the bottom of a bin bag.

Julia Molloy

Winter Walk

We trudge up the familiar streets past the dingy defeated houses, the dogs wincing on the porches, the television gods flaming from the windows. Each day is a glove-point of soot. Winter of study creased and gone sour, the work gone sour. Take my hand, he said. That is enough. Joan E. Cashin

Holding on to a February Picnic Near Pateley Bridge

i) Holding on to geese muttering, mallard laughter distant cockerel echoes a plane flying low, playing at Dambusters ii) Swirls of lapwings twinkling mirrors catching sunlight tufted ducks diving, wee coot battling a perilous gust over fresh blue water where white gulls boomerang Delft tiles, a Chinese vase iii) Tasting sesame bread soft sandwich turkey, chive cream cheese, red pepper an apricot biscuit with sips of icicle Pepsi iv) Moors winter brown ochre, sienna, hamster fur beige clouds of whitish sheep v) Cleansing spiky Arctic wind thick woolly pink scarf snuggling over warm heart beating vii) Like a remembered trip turquoise ribbons of endless sky golden strands across the empty moor leaving a mark on every pore and cell with a soundtrack of rock music sixties Pretty Things vii) CloisonnĂŠ pheasant sparkling in a sun flash heading home, heart still beating, holding on. Teffy Wrightson

Vanishing Point Joseph S. Pete

Counting Cars

I pass my driving test on the first try. I have the DMV guy that all my friends have warned me about --- the one with the right eye that turns out to the side and you don’t want to look at it but can’t help it, because you can’t really tell when he’s looking at you and when he isn’t. He speaks with a slight lisp and smells of Old Spice. He reminds me a lot of that guy in The Princess Bride. He tells me, Congratulathunth, you pathed. I talk that way to my mother the entire drive home. ### The popcorn is slightly burnt and Morgan, the six-year-old I’m babysitting, refuses to eat it, even after I try to bribe her with a ride down the driveway in the front seat of my car. I make a new batch and divvy it up for us to share. She tells me when her parents get home they will be able to tell right away that I burnt the popcorn. I grab the can of Glade from the bathroom and spray it all around the kitchen. Morgan tells me that

spray is for bathrooms. I show her on the can that it says it’s for household odors. We eat the popcorn while Morgan flicks through the channels. She stops on a documentary about a man with a severe head deformity. She says it looks like his head is filled with macaroni and cheese. I think, damn, she’s right. ### I’m working with Carol, the lady with the horrible dye job who likes to meddle and complain and wear orange lipstick that extends past her lip line. We’re supposed to stand when we’re behind the register, but she sits on a stool, which she takes home with her every day. Her husband always picks her up at the end of her shift. He comes in, winks at me, and watches Carol count down her till, which she’s supposed to do in

the back office, but she never does. I watch them get into their car, Carol’s husband holding the door open for her as she slowly heaves her plump bottom onto the seat. He pops open the trunk and throws in the stool. Reluctantly, I speculate on whether or not they are still having sex. I decide, out of pity, I will flirt with her husband the next time I see him. ### My car has been broken into. I stare at it in disbelief. Shattered glass crunches under my shoes. It happened sometime this morning while I was in class. I peer in through the broken driver’s side window. Whoever it was took all of the spare change I had thrown into the console, all of my quarters for laundry and bridge tolls. A miasma of funk emanates from somewhere inside the vehicle and I see that they’ve taken a shit on my back seat. Motherfucker.

### The laundromat is packed. It’s Saturday morning. I debate leaving and returning later, but the desire for clean underwear compels me to stay. I sit with my two laundry bags on a bench near the front of the laundromat and wait for a machine. I observe at least five different ways to fold a towel. A petite Hispanic woman with three small children in tow struggles with a heavy laundry basket. Outside, a car is waiting for her at the curb. One of the three kids opens the back door and all three hop in, bouncing around like socks in a dryer. The woman gets herself and the clean, dry clothes into the car just before it starts to rain. ### We’re at Finnigan’s Wake in Northern Liberties. A friend of a friend who’s visiting from Ireland is performing tonight with his band. We have primo spots, right up near the

stage. The music isn’t typical Irish music. It’s weird and wild and funky. When they’ve finished their set, our group grabs a large table. The bass player’s name is Niall and he has exquisite bone structure, a perfectly shaped mouth and a buttery smooth Irish voice. We connect in a way I’ve never connected with anyone else. We leave together and I drive us back to my apartment. In the morning I take him back to our friend’s place in the city and I cry as I drive away, knowing we will never see each other again. ### I’m at work when I get the call that one of my roommates has committed suicide. At first I think it’s a joke. One of my other roommates found him on the kitchen floor with a trash bag over his head and a belt around his neck. The dead roommate’s girlfriend was asleep in their room and the police have to wake her. She’s distraught. I don’t want to go back to the apartment after work. Instead, I drive to my parents’ house, where my mother makes me a cup of tea. We stay up late, talking. In the morning my dad asks me

when was the last time you had your oil changed.

Janice Leagra

Shoelaces

Tom sat at the long wooden bench waiting for his Greyhound to depart. The terminal was small because it served a small town. It was empty save for a few souls, who no doubt where well known to each other, except to him, because he hardly ever went to town, and even in a small town, you must actually go out and meet the folks in order to know them. A cricket outside made great efforts to be heard in the terminal, and if Tom closed his eyes he could almost transport himself to the porch where he had spent most of his eighteen years’ worth of evenings. An old black janitor, sagging in clothes and flesh, wept the floor behind Tom, and the scratching of the straw broom on the concrete floor broke Tom’s porch spell. As the janitor passed behind him, Tom shrank into the bench. He clutched the boarding pass in his hand, and held his lone wicker suitcase close to his chest, in part to keep it latched. He wore his grandfather’s old Pace-Setter Resistol low over his forehead, because that is how he had seen Humphrey Bogart and James Cagney wear their hats in the flicks they showed at the Palace, which to that day was still the finest place he had ever set foot in his life. Unlike Bogart and Cagney, he didn’t wear his PaceSetter that way to look tough, but rather to hide as much as possible from the few in the crowd, all of whom seemed to be staring at him, glaring even, as if trying to tell him to get out, go back to the farm.

You don’t belong here. A child, not even half his age, peered at him intently from across the room. He tried to look at the child from under his hat brim, without being spotted. He noticed that the

child looked at him, then down as if at his feet, then up again at his eyes. He clutched the suitcase just a bit harder. The child started walking towards him. Tom felt the accelerating beating of his own heart, which for a moment seemed to drown out the cricket.

Calm down! What can a kid do? The child reached him. “Hey mister.” Tom looked at the child, but didn’t respond. “Hey mister.” Tom tried to control his breathing, and to answer in as off-handed a way as he could. “Yeah?” The child pointed to Tom’s feet. “Your shoelace is untied.” Tom looked at his right shoe. “Yeah, thanks.” The kid stayed put. Tom did not want to try to tie his shoelace, not in front of the kid. These were Grandpa’s shoes he was wearing, and he had just slid his foot in when he put them on earlier. Tom looked at his left foot- no problem there, lace was tied and good. “You should tie that, else you might trip, break a bone or something, my dad tells me all the time.” “Yeah, I’ll do that later. Thanks.” The kid finally turned and started walking back to his spot.

I’ll try it now, before he turns around. Tom set his suitcase next to him, and crossed his right leg over his left. He took one end of the lace on either hand.

Over or under? Tom tried to remember which side went under. What was that rhyme that Grandma

tried to teach me? He felt more than saw a presence in front, and he looked up. The kid was back, standing in front of him. “You need help with that?” “I’m not very good tying shoelaces,” answered Tom. The kid pointed to Tom’s left shoe. “How did you tie that one?” “These are my grandpa’s shoes. He tied them long ago.” “Is he here?” the kid asked. “No. He’s dead.” The kid thought for a moment. “My dad taught me how to tie shoelaces. Here.” The kid knelt in front of Tom and took his right foot. He set it down on the floor, and proceeded to lace it up. Tom looked at the whole process, as if mesmerized.

Grandpa always tied my shoes. He always tied everything for me.

Alex Lobera

He was never the same after Joan died

For Gilles de Rais

Your hearth was not hellfire, swallowing bones and guilt as you tripped up rungs from fury to murder. If the scale of the betrayal is the size of heaven, revenge must span the forest, the sea. I see a forest: no discernible path, small ones go in, become part of the tale, never come out. Never to make sense of why they made you Bluebeard, when you shine darker. A death in October is the happiest death. The lives you ended were a matter between you and Godâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;you approached the noose like youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d settled up at last, like the playing field was even, knowing in the end angels and demons want the same things. He only wanted you to understand sacrifice. And with your last strangled breath they burned you. And when they burned you it still was not hellfire. It was warmth. It was light. Kate Garrett

Asemic Scattering (Cover Image) Federico Federici

Violin as an ocean-going vessel

Sometimes your sadness is a Violin; sometimes the sad violin decides to set to sea. For ballast we sit either side of the bridge we are waxed so we shed water and hold a tune in a squall. Though the keys roll and slip what is left of us is held in the belly in the wood against the chop-slap of the seas conversation with itself. Your vibrato makes the sky line an uncertain question, like reading tea leaves. Neil Richards

[silhouette pools]

we slept on a black basalt beach / fell into creeks filled with horses and stone / arctic as my fingertips / what brought you to the shore / butterfly effect and buttermilk / sheep rode waves of afternoon tumble / echoes of our bellows / twice our planet was a ghost / you slept inside me / under covers made of moss / stone pillars dotting the island / mark our territory / coal beats towards a symphony / suffocate waves / crash on cliffs Jamie Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Connell

Working the Edges

Undetected until birth, she lay hidden behind her twin brother, later came abandonment. But always constant, her work in all its forms. Drawing, Sculpture, Neon and Appliqué. Her hands worked at her sewing; blood flowed through finger-tips. Fabric words sewn into dark nights, bright days of a blanket. Needle piercing until it appears:

TRACEY EMIN The Simple Truth, neither paint nor stone, but

blanket stitch. Regular, easy; loop and knot. Things not in straight lines but circles, so what passes, passes again and again. She stitches outside, in parks – alongside ducks, children, blades of grass – in shades of beige, purple, green and pink. Will keep from sleep to have it finished; her blanket. A woman's labour. Confessional word, word as messenger:

HERE TO STAY

Belinda Rimmer

Fire and Ice Sandy Coomer

This Old Mattress

Your shape is gone from the place where you used to doze, on Sunday mornings balled up with your back turned to me in the turquoise stillness of dawn, rising, then falling again in time to the gentle purr of the boiler at the end of the hall. When you woke it was almost noon and while you went to the bathroom in my pink shirt I stared at the spot where you had been sleepingit was flattened, the memory foam crushed down, the top layer of the mattress crumpled up like an empty cigarette packet in a tightly bunched fist. Now your shape has been lost in time and the lonely bird chatter melodies of grey morningsit is as if you never slept beside me at all. Your side of the bed lies as perfectly smooth as footprints in the snow after it has rained.

Bristol, March 2017 Ciaran Dermott

Turning Tables

She harbours her grudges like catâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s-eye marbles in a thick-skinned bag. Now and then she takes one out, worries the hard roundness of it, regards the lick of fire immured in the beady eye. She knuckles down for a strike hits the mark, spark on spark, knocks it out of the ring. You catch the scathing flame within. Her artfulness is in the spin, the deft, breath-halting reversal, the altered inclination when the crystal eye rolls back and the burning hurt it caused drops wounded in her blameless lap. Stella Wulf

Birthday

To sing the birthday song is his one goal, He has bought cake, a thick tray bake with gooey chocolate icing, he has candles in two tubs, they are silver and gold. He has both lighter and matches. He has helium-filled foil birthday balloons. He has books wrapped carefully in stiff brown paper and tied up with string (just how she likes them). He has drawn a card – a picture of two embracing baboons with a heart hovering in the air above them. He has fizzy wine on ice, a take away ordered – pad thai – her favourite. He has unplugged the phone, cued up the music, changed the sheets, tidied the house. He is washed and groomed and subtly perfumed. She is all he needs now, but where is she? He checks his mobile for texts, he plugs in the house phone and checks for messages. The take-out will be here in less than an hour. He has planned her a bath, a massage, now there won’t be time. She should have left work at five – that was hours ago. She should be here by now. Maybe she has stopped off with friends or work colleagues for a birthday drink. He imagines her reeling in loud and clumsy, apologetic, messing up the house. He pushes the images out of his mind and cracks his knuckles (something she hates). He goes upstairs to the bathroom and pulls the plug, blows the tea lights out. He takes a piss, watching his urine stream its golden arc into the immaculately clean bowl. He washes his hands carefully, scrubs his nails, sees his reflection in the cabinet mirror – it catches him off guard. He looks older, more tired, more serious than he expects. He moisturizes his face, switches the light off and goes back down. The doorbell rings – it’s the pad thai in its waxed cardboard boats. He pays the girl and puts it on the kitchen

counter. He decides to ring the office even though it’s getting late. A woman answers on the seventh ring, her voice clipped, unfriendly.

Mister Stevens, I thought the police warned you not to call here. She’s not your wife and she never was. Please don’t call again. He replaces the receiver back on its cradle, everything measured, everything calm. He empties the food into clean white dishes, eats his fill. He opens the cake box, looks at the cake with its careful lettering: To My Darling Wife. He lifts his fist and brings it down again and again sending showers of chocolate frosting up into the air.

Julia Webb

The Readiness to Hunt Lions

Around here, a father kisses his son one last time. That’s the way it is around here; it’s not like it is in France, or Spain, or Italy. I was late to the game, but was in time to see Ewan mouth the word ‘cunt’ at the boy he’d tackled and left curled up on the pitch. I’d never heard him swear before. “Good game,” I said when he walked off the pitch. “We lost,” he said. “But you played well.” He shrugged. I rubbed his head, “Where’s your hair gone? Skinhead.” He stroked his head where I’d touched him. “What did your mom say?” “Hates it.” “I bet.” He moved his head to look around me. “You’re with me next weekend,” I said. He nodded. “Yeah.” “We’ll do something.” I wasn’t sure he was listening. I saw him look over to where the other team were gathered, cheering. On his lips I saw that word he’d used, heavy, cut with sharp edges. The whites of his eyes had darkened, his jaw appeared rigid, his cheeks grown more angular. His shaved head displayed the ridges of his skull, revealing two small scars. The looseness and ease with which he’d moved as a child had fossilised.

Seeing the coldness in his expression made me think of Dad, all those years ago, in his shed, closing a vice around a long tube of steel, a cigarette hanging from his bottom lip, the radio reporting football scores. Without looking at me, he said, “Boys don’t kiss boys.” With a blue-handled hacksaw, he cut through the steel tube. “You hear?” he said, turning his green eyes on me, arrowed through dark cigarette smoke. “Have to go,” I said to Ewan. “Work.” Ewan broke from his trance, looked at me and tried to smile. His height grew a little, his neck extending, his eyes focussed on my mouth. Stood behind him, I saw two of his team mates watching. I held my fist to his cheek, pretending to punch him in slow motion. With a flick of my head, I told him to go. He looked confused, but relieved we’d not kissed. Holding up the palm of his hand to say bye, he turned to his team mates. When he reached them, one of them put his arm around Ewan’s shoulder. I imagined the three of them, with their shaved heads, together on a hunt, sounding yawps, barking instructions, wailing at the kill. Across their red shirts, their legs and faces, was the same wet mud, the same war paint. Ewan stood shoulder to shoulder with the other boys. I saw in his hands a spear, gripped with the readiness to hunt lions. I wanted to call him back. But I didn’t. Around here, a father kisses his son one last time. That’s the way it is, around here.

Adam Lock

Howl Amy Kotthaus

Blood Sorrow River

my friend paints bears every day because they are beyond everyoneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s best intentions * i asked her once why would bears need her assistance and the answer lulled me into a fat sleep * my dreams awaken me from hibernation so i can imagine the many ways to help my friend * you have given up your pelt to cover my abject horror so i will never have to tremble again * this voluminous warmth held so close violates laws of the seasonal hunt * that lustrous buzz when you want to sleep with me in a honeycomb cave of our own kisses * terrible claws to maul and pin against a rock, or a tree which squalls with osprey dreams of fish * as the black bear sits among the stones by running water to listen to a celestial gleam *

our infatuation with bears is unnatural never about the bear but forgiving a bearâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s friend * i chase after belief and offer unhelpful prayer you roam actual woods at blood sorrow river Michael Dwayne Smith

Seal

Foot passed foot in the curl of the wind and left the spars of riddled wood behind and split the rippled walkway of the sand and I am far away and crossed the sweeping streamlets of salt encircling sand to strand the bandy tortoisebacks of beach reached across by weeping wounds and I am far away and touched, at times, wet & shell & corse of crab & light feather littered on the leavings of the land and sea angelically formed feather of the filth of the sound and I am far away and stepped on babble, crunching words and whickering as bones on the mend and printed their passing and pasturing off the grey dream of the sand until they paused at the waterside and stepped where the wet wept around wrapped the ankles in chill and whitened the knuckles with wind

and I am far away he dipped his hand in the wash and crossed seawater spelled (take my hands: I do not need them) bridge of nose (take my feet: they are no longer necessary) cords of rib (take my eyes: they are surplus to requirement) stepping-stone belly (I am far away) and sloughed off the juts of bones that fastened on feet like ropes hold bridged bones and rippled rounds of fat hair blossomed anemone fur & coloured as a harvest's brown-gold blend and spilled into the sea splashed towards turbines seal & smooth he sped from the seaside tat where bottles crawled down the beach and a seagull took off with his fag (for man is man's delight) and I was far away. Robert de Born

Contributors

Joan E. Cashin writes from Ohio in the USA. She has published in many journals, most recently in Allegro, Two Hawks Quarterly, and Ariel Chart. Sandy Coomer is an artist and poet. She is the author of 3 poetry chapbooks, including Rivers Within Us (Unsolicited Press). Her art has been featured in local art shows and exhibits, and has been published in literary art journals such as Lunch Ticket (Antioch University Los Angeles), Varnish, The Wire's Dream Magazine, and Inklette, among others. She lives in Brentwood, TN. Robert de Born is a poet and musician. His work has appeared online and in print. He lives in Sheffield with his wife, his cat and his two beautiful daughters. He is becoming an unwilling authority on My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic Marie-Françoise de Saint-Quirin is a London based poet who was born in South Wales. Often using her mixed heritage and unconventional childhood as inspiration, she particularly enjoys writing about the mundane things that make up the fabric of who we are. Her work has previously been published by Message in a Bottle and Reach

Poetry. Ciaran Dermott is a 25-year-old writer currently residing in Bristol and studying a master’s in literature. Originally from London, UK, Ciaran has eternally itchy feet and has spent several years travelling in Australia and Japan, where he spent a lot of time lying on beaches watching sunsets and reading the poetry of Allen Ginsberg. An enthusiast of all things literature related and breathless adventurer of the vast and confusing cosmos. Runner-up in The Interpreter’s House Poetry Competition in 2017, Maurice Devitt was winner of the Trocaire/Poetry Ireland Competition in 2015 and has been placed or shortlisted in many competitions including the Patrick Kavanagh Award, Listowel Collection Competition, Over the Edge New Writer Competition and Cuirt New Writing Award. He is also the curator of the Irish Centre for Poetry Studies site, a founder member of the Hibernian Writers’ Group and has a debut collection upcoming from Doire Press in 2018. Matt Duggan is a Bristol born poet. In 2015 Matt won the Erbacce Prize for Poetry with his first full collection Dystopia 38.10 and in 2016 won the Into the Void Poetry Prize. He was made a core – member at erbacce-press in 2017. Matt also has two new chapbooks available One Million Tiny Cuts (Clare Song Birds Publishing House) and, due out in April 2018, A Season in Another World (Thirty West Publishing House).

Federico Federici is a physicist, a writer and a media artist across the fields of soundscape, visual arts and installation. He lives and works between Berlin and the Ligurian Apennines. His website provides detailed information on his oeuvre, as well as video documentation, text excerpts and portfolios. His latest book is The way I

discovered the Berlin wall has fallen. http://leserpent.wordpress.com Kate Garrett writes and edits. She is the founding/managing editor of four online journals, including Picaroon Poetry, and her own most recent pamphlets are You've

never seen a doomsday like it (Indigo Dreams, 2017) and Losing interest in the sound of petrichor (The Black Light Engine Room, 2018). She was born and raised in southern Ohio, but moved to the UK in 1999, where she lives happily/grumpily ever after (depending on the day) in Sheffield. Howie Good is the author of The Loserâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Guide to Street Fighting, winner of the 2017 Lorien Prize for Poetry from Thoughtcrime Press. He co-edits White Knuckle Press with Dale Wisely. Amy Kotthaus is a poet, painter, and photographer. Her poetry has been published in

Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Yellow Chair Review, Occulum, and others. Her photography has been published in Storm Cellar, Typehouse Literary Magazine, Moonchild Magazine, Crab Fat Magazine, and others. She currently lives in Maine with her husband and children. Janice Leagra is a freelance writer and mixed media artist. She has a BA in English from Rutgers University in New Jersey and is a former middle school English teacher. She lives in central North Carolina. She has a writing blog at www.janiceleagra.com and an interview blog at www.voxlaurus.com. Connect with her on Twitter: @janiceleagra and on Instagram: janiceleagra. Alex Lobera is a graduate student of Creative Writing at the University of Texas at El Paso, and of Film Directing at the Academy of Art University School of Motion Pictures and Television in San Francisco, California. He has had short stories published in Ascent Publications and BorderSenses and a poem accepted for publication in the March 2018 issue of Azahares Literary Magazine. When not writing, he works as a physician in El Paso, Texas. Adam Lock writes in the Black Country, UK, waking far too early in the morning to find time to write. Adam's stories have appeared in various publications, such as STORGY,

Fictive Dream, Spelk, Here Comes Everyone, Retreat West, Fiction Pool, Occulum, Syntax & Salt, Ghost Parachute and others. You can find links to these stories on his website: adamlock.net. Heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s also active on Twitter @dazedcharacter.

Julia Molloy is a short story writer whose work has appeared at STORGY, The Fiction

Pool, Fictive Dream and Crack the Spine. Her work was shortlisted for the Fresher Writing Prize 2016. She graduated from Lancaster University in 2015 with a degree in English Literature and Creative Writing. Jamie O’Connell currently lives in the Bay Area, where she received her MFA in Writing from California College of the Arts. Her poetry can be found in Menacing

Hedge, Troop Zine, Newfound, and Forth Magazine, and her multimedia work has been exhibited in College Avenue Galleries in Oakland. She spends most of her time with her majestic zebra-striped dog/direwolf, Daisy. Visit her site here: www.jamieoco.com. Joseph S. Pete is an award-winning journalist, an Iraq War veteran, and an Indiana University graduate. He is a 2017 Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee who was named the poet laureate of Chicago BaconFest, a feat that Chaucer chump never accomplished. His literary work and photography have appeared in Dogzplot, Gravel

The High Window, Synesthesia Literary Journal, 404 Ink, and more than 100 other journals. Like Bartleby, he would prefer not to. Clare Read is reasonably new to writing. Two years ago she joined Marvellous Writers, a community group, and hasn't looked back. She’s recently been accepted for publication by The Cabinet of Heed and is working hard to develop her skills. She particularly enjoys writing about people others might consider underdogs and really likes to explore the internal world of her characters. In the non-fictional world Clare works in the NHS with people with a Learning Disability. Kevin Reid lives between Scotland and other lands. His poetry has appeared in various online and printed journals such as, Ink Sweat and Tears, The Interpreter’s House,

Under The Radar, Seagate III, Scotia Extremis and Visual Verse. A mini pamphlet Burdlife (Tapsalteerie) was published in 2017. He is the editor of short poem blogzine Nutshells and Nuggets. His website can be viewed at http://eyeosphere.com Neil Richards is from Worcester and has been writing poetry for around a year. He is a regular on the local open mic scene and has just started to get published. A first pamphlet will be published this year, and he has a reading at the upcoming Cheltenham Poetry Festival.

Belinda Rimmer has had a varied career: psychiatric nurse, counsellor, lecturer and creative arts practitioner. Her poems have appeared in magazines, for example, Brittle

Star, Dream Catcher, ARTEMISpoetry and Obsessed with Pipework. She has poems online and in anthologies. She recently read at two events in this year's Cheltenham Literature Festival. Michael Dwayne Smith lives near a Mojave Desert ghost town with his family and rescued animals. His most recent book is Roadside Epiphanies (Cholla Needles Press, 2017). Twice nominated for the Pushcart Prize, recipient of both the Hinderaker Award for poetry and Polonsky Prize for fiction, his work haunts many literary houses-including The Cortland Review, New World Writing, Skidrow Penthouse, Word Riot,

Heron Tree, Pirene's Fountain, Gravel, San Pedro River Review, Monkeybicycle, burntdistrict--and has been widely anthologized. When not writing or teaching, MDS is editor of Mojave River Press & Review. George L. Stein is a photographer living in Michigan City in Northwest Indiana. George works in both film and digital formats in the urban decay, architecture, fetish, and street photography genres. His emphasis is on composition with the juxtaposition of beauty and decay lying at the center of his aesthetic. George has been published in

Midwestern Gothic, Gravel, Foliate Oak, After Hours, Hoosier Lit, Gulf Stream Magazine, 3Elements, and Darkside Magazine. J. B. Stone is an emerging poet originally from Brooklyn, NY, now residing in Buffalo, NY. Stone has poetry featured in Occulum, In Between Hangovers, Anti-Heroin

Chic, and Vending Machine Press. Isaac Stovell is a native and student of Sheffield still figuring out how to best balance a creative life with an enjoyable research day job. Alongside writing poetry, he is working on The Improbable Interplanetary Revolutions of Naomi Moss, his first novel. Dr. Jeffrey Toney has published scientific peer-reviewed articles, news media opinion pieces as well as short fiction stories in Sick Lit Magazine, O-Dark-Thirty, the literary

journal of The Veterans Writing Project, The East Coast Literary Review, Storyland Literary Review, No Extra Words, 600 Second Saga, Crack The Spine and in 2 Elizabeths. Recently, he was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. He serves as Provost and Vice President for Academic Affairs at Kean University.

Julia Webb studied creative writing at Norwich University College of the Arts and has an MA in poetry from UEA. She lives in Norwich where she works for Gatehouse Press and is a poetry editor for Lighthouse. Her prose poem 'Lent' won the Poetry Society's Stanza competition in 2011. Her first poetry collection, Bird Sisters, was published by Gatehouse Press in 2016. Teffy Wrightson is an elderly Yorkshire writer with an interest in many subjects including history and sheep. Given to strong views on politics, human rights and the environment. Twitter @belledujour208 Stella Wulf lives in South West France. Her work has been widely published both in print and online. Publications include, Obsessed With Pipework, The High Window,

Raum, Prole, Ink Sweat & Tears, and many others. Her poems have also appeared in several anthologies including, The Very Best of 52, three drops from a cauldron, and the Clear Poetry Anthology. She has an MA in Creative Writing, from Lancaster University. Jeffrey Zable is a teacher and conga drummer who plays Afro Cuban Folkloric music for dance classes and rumbas around the San Francisco Bay Area. His poetry, fiction, and non-fiction have appeared in hundreds of literary magazines and anthologies, recently in MockingHeart Review, Colloquial, Ordinary Madness, Third

Wednesday, After The Pause, Fear of Monkeys, Brickplight, Tigershark, Corvus, and many others. In 2017 he was nominated for both the Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize. Julie Zuckerman hails from Connecticut but moved to Israel 22 years ago, where she works in high tech marketing and lives with her husband and four children. Her stories have appeared or are forthcoming in (b)OINK, SFWP Quarterly, Salt Hill, Sick Lit

Magazine, Sixfold, descant, 34thParallel, The MacGuffin, Red Wheelbarrow, The Dalhousie Review, and American Athenaeum, among others. She is working on a collection of linked stories and a novel. Twitter: @jbzuckerman

ISSUE #11 COMING JULY 1st 2018