Riggwelter #16 by Riggwelter

RIGGWELTER #16 DECEMBER 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 Vulture Whisper Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a Living For Legal Reasons I Cannot Release His Name Glass Three sample sentences demonstrating cultural spread and terminal breakdown in semantic content. The Storm What I wanted to say was, or: fuck you charles bukowski Of Dark, In Light Tell Me What You Know Through Tarot Sodom and Gomorrah Between Heaven and Hell Calendar Girls Plastic Heroes Tiresias Different kinds of truth Finding God Pieta The Philosopher in Love Black Butterfly Photographs, Shared by Post Long Distance Loyalty Pica Stop For Me Echo The Night Fisher While You Are in Iceland Fox in the Snow Red on White A Couple of Thunderheads Preludes Lovely The Hungry Ghost This Tiger, Seventy Geisha Teeth The Mothers at the Museum Contributors Acknowledgements

4 6 7 11 12 13 16 17 19 24 25 28 29 35 39 40 42 43 44 45 46 47 51 53 54 55 59 62 63 64 69 70 71 73 74 75 80 81 86

Foreword

Welcome, dear readers to the sixteenth issue. We’re closing out 2018 with a bang! This issue is all about mysticism: gods (classical and neo-classical), occultism, strange happenings, the quest for truth, spectres, folk tales, curiously knowing animals, sudden compulsions, disappearances, consumption by flames, herbal remedies and above all to be achingly human in the presence of that which is not. All of this seems more than appropriate for winter and for the death of the year. Here are thirty-five pieces to stir the blood in you and to see you through to the bitter end. Keep strong and we wish you the most heartening of winter festivals whatever you celebrate – after all, the purpose of having such festivities in winter is to keep our spirits until spring. As always, some thanks are in order before we commence. Thank you to our tireless reviews team, especially for helping me with our Pushcart Prize selections this year (best of luck to Gina Marie Bernard, Jay Douglas, Hedy Habra, Jeff Nazzaro, Hannah Persaud and Aden Thomas – for the full details of which pieces we have nominated, please see our post on our website) it was a very difficult task. Thank you to everyone that has supported us by promoting us on social media or recommending us. Thank you to all of our submitters for filling our inbox with such treasures and above all, thank you to you, reading this right now. We hope you’ve had a wonderful 2018 and wish you the best 2019 can offer going forward. See you in the New Year.

Amy Kinsman (Founding Editor)

Vulture Whisper A vulture will whisper once of its life after it is born. Birth is the corpse the vulture consumes but consumes it but once, the only time its heart stops itself. Boys kill kills with their hands in the fields before the sands consume the vultureâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s meal in a rough gray. The vulture rejects heelbone, tee-shirt, amber sphere. A vulture will whisper of life once after a potential birth. Birth is the corpse the vulture consumes and consumes until its heart stops. The vulture is rejected, whispers its similarity until we feel our own dislike of birds avoiding only the light. When does the whisper appear, the whisper is the same for all vultures, the go aheads, the yes yous, the no mores, the forget mes. The vultures are the same as any other bird, except when in the light. David Bankson

It’s a Living

Dominic runs a meat puppet shop downtown. The days in the shop are long but simple. Most of the clients are easy enough to deal with and the money is good. Dominic has already made fourteen thousand dollars by the time a man walks in with a baseball cap pulled down over his brow and a pair of shades dripping down his nose. This was a look that Dominic was accustomed to-- the decor of a man who spent Sunday evening in his basement sawing off the legs of a shrieking, terrified woman. Nearly all of his customers dress like this-- attempting to maintain anonymity. The man tosses a bloodied body bag onto Dominic’s counter. “I’d like to recycle what’s left of her,” the man says, letting his shades down even further so that he could make eye contact with the owner. A small smirk quivers on the left side of the man’s mouth. “Ain’t much left.” The anonymous man laughs. The shopkeeper does not. “I’ll have to do an autopsy salvage,” Dominic says, “I’ll find any recyclable organs or hardware and send you a check for the parts recovered.” “Don’t,” the man says, “I’ll be back soon enough. Just give it to me then.” With that, the man was at the shop door. As he exited, an upbeat tune echoed off his lips. Dominic could see him strutting down the sidewalk, nearly skipping.

The bag was heavier than Dominic thought it would be and smelled terribly of burnt toast and oil. The android was mutilated from the neck down. She was an

Anterius-12 model, the most updated form that currently existed. And expensive. Very expensive. They were capable of crying, and screaming. Some people believed that they could even feel fear but Dominic wasn’t a psychologist or a programmer. All he knew is that they sold well. Upon examination, the shopkeeper notices that an eye socket is pummeled in so deep that frail wires are erupting from deep inside the machine. Several stab wounds encircle the female-android’s naval and burn wounds rise from her ankles, ending at her breasts. The left arm was cut clean off, probably with garden shears, and sits at the bottom of the bag. The arm is broken in several places. Dominic tosses the puppet, and then her detached limb, into the biohazard waste disposal chute. The shop’s bell chimes again. A stout and aged woman wanders into the shop and takes immediately to aisle 12: adolescent units. She stands in front of a mannequin that was aged to be about seven years old. It was dressed in a baseball uniform, grinning a terrible plastic smile. Behind the mannequin a row of bagged adolescent skeletal models dangle from a hook, waiting to be gifted their prescribed lives. “New customers are rare here,” Dominic says, approaching her.

Startled, the woman retracts from the unit a few steps. In her hands she carries a manila envelope. Dominic knows what it contains; photographs, dimensions of limbs, listed personality traits, a psychological profile, and a brain scan of a deceased little boy. By the age of the woman, he deduces that it must be her grandson. She hands over the manila biography and the shopkeeper carefully folds it and slides it into his back pocket. “My psychiatrist thinks it would be a good idea,” the woman says. Dominic nods. She produces a tissue and rubs it delicately against her right nostril. This is why he got into the business, to help the grieving, but there isn’t much money in selling a unit that will last years on moderate repairs. If all of his customers wanted their children back, or their spouse, he would go bankrupt. The big money, Dominic knew, was in the strange cases. Money flowed with synthetic blood, when deals were made under a sadistic pretence. That’s why he relocated his shop from across the street of a Dairy Queen to a rotten building downtown, where people seldom asked questions. “Look,” Dominic tells the woman, “I don’t specialize in this sort of work. If you want something more realistic, more like him, and something that will last longer- I can forward these documents to a colleague of mine across town.” The shop bell chimes prompting the now sobbing woman to hurriedly leave, covering her face as she does so. The customer, another man, wanders down aisle twelve towards the shopkeeper. “How can I help you,” Dominic asks? The man, also stout but with thick spectacles, pats the arm of the mannequin outfitted in a baseball uniform. “I would like to purchase three of these units, cash up front. I also want them set up now. I don’t care how they look, or how they act, as long as it’s convincing.”

“Male or female?” “Two males, one female.” “Relationship?” “My children.” The man smiles. Dominic worked for three hours in the back of the shop, slapping skin on the tiny exoskeletons and selecting outfits for each. One of the boys was blonde. The other brunette. The girl was programmed to be shy. Each of them laughed like real children. When the shopkeeper made his way towards the cash register, the three childlike puppets following in a line behind him, the stout man applauded. “Amazing!” he said, hands clasped to his face. “A marvel of modern science!” “Daddy!” the children screamed, recognizing his facial structure from their uploaded registrar, and each rushed to wrap themselves around his waist. Giggling, the man handed over several stacks of money. Dominic felt ill. “And I would like three bags, please.” “For?” “For returning them, of course.” Uneasily, Dominic fishes three child sized body bags from underneath his counter. The two boys start wrestling. “Children!” the man shouts, “Please.” The boys let go of each other and stare down at the floor. “Until next time,” the man says, tipping an imaginary hat. Dominic walks him to the door and locks it upon his leave-- wanting drastically to retire.

Cavin Bryce

For Legal Reasons I Cannot Release His Name

That’s where I was left one night, after fanning my wallet’s options. It was low opportunity in the nineties when your search engine was blacked-out street signs. A lonely’s faith hotel in central Manhattan near its main armpit, swipe of crotches and cards transport. Covered in soot from the city’s chimneys, deposited because it looked nice with cigarette ash and resentment. The mattress on my bed so thin, coils branded my back with broken circles. An invisible blanket wouldn’t dare keep out the chill of sirens. A payphone was in the hallway, ring tone deaf from hourly visitors who called afterward. I sat down anyway picking at a pebbled carpet the green-brown of Haight/Ashbury, ignoring men, directionless stories buried in nesting beards. Pulling to straighten the cord, I managed screams and sobs, a starvation dismissed, and felt his bow through the mouthpiece. Elizabeth York Dickinson

Glass

The wound is raised, jagged. She can feel the lump beneath the scar knitted across her hand. The tiny piece of glass pushes towards the surface, pricks the skin from the inside. She runs her hand under hot water, opens the cut and slowly the piece comes. It happened months ago: she can still feel his hands tangled in her hair, his fingers pressed into her neck, see the fury on his face when sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d said no. She remembers the chairs pushed back, the table overturned. How the plates scattered, the forks fell, the tumblers smashed. She remembers how he stamped the glass, ground it beneath his feet. She remembers the punch and the fall to the floor and how he pressed her palm into the shard and watched her scream. She sees the piece of glass fall into the sink, sees it disappear with the water. Then she turns off the tap and presses a towel to the wound.

Hannah Stevens

Three sample sentences demonstrating cultural spread and terminal breakdown in semantic content.

Matthew Haigh and Alex Stevens

Three sample sentences demonstrating cultural spread and terminal breakdown in semantic content.

Matthew Haigh and Alex Stevens

Three sample sentences demonstrating cultural spread and terminal breakdown in semantic content.

Matthew Haigh and Alex Stevens

The Storm

Snow fills the sky, thick as bees. The lights of the city glitter far away, like stars lured to the ground. Slabs of sidewalk disappear beneath the snow, quiet and still and invisible-we could become lost here, in our own neighborhood be forced to seek shelter in a neighborâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s garage freeze to death minutes from our own front door. Holly Day

What I wanted to say was, or: fuck you charles bukowski

i. they say that if the words do not pour out of you, then the words are not worth writing. but nothing pours from patient pens, only vomit from the mouths of seasick captains, too tired to grab their bearings. which is to say, the gods are not waiting for me. ii. waterlilies look like small crescendos of the falling city so when we cross the creaking bridge, begging the current to knock us down please don’t forget my name today; the color gray is only daunting, let’s not let it define us. iii. I’m sorry for making my left leg a graveyard. I knew you wouldn’t like it very much; but I think it’s nice. in the summer I tape flowers to my thigh and in fall I rip the dead petals and black hair off with some flair am I still welcome in your home? iv. somebody told me the child you were holding wasn’t so pretty. I asked them to stop and they did. next I made a little brown ball out of clay and pushed it down the stairs of my apartment building; for you, and your son I’ll never get to hold.

v. back at the river I talk to the reeds this time. they’re twisting themselves disastrously tight, they’re going to die that way. ardent. they ask me if I understand my own words. and since I can’t I’ll leave embarrassed without finishing my thought. vi. I think when I forget how to make the words that I think of it makes it impossible to talk to anyone. much less write. much less write well. Jacob Fowler

Of Dark, In Light

Reality licks at twilit consciousness. A current of sensation carries me forward in formless space. Seagulls and surf marry memories of a moonlit beach while air moves against skin like a phantom hand stroking. The scent of menthol – familiar yet faint – whispers in and out of recognition. I am carried and a poem falls from his lips:

“i sit beside her & tie my breath to her body i see the thousandth star she looks to the thousandth star the thousandth star is us & the sky empties into a peppered blue flame”*

The light, indescribable, holds me in its hands.

---------

We met at 4 a.m. on a Monday. He was waiting for me under a street light smoking a cigarette, conspicuous even as he leaned insouciant against the pole. In the weeks prior he had made a habit of following me though I was never alarmed by his presence. He felt like a phase of the moon, waxing and waning in form and thought or a familiar shadow falling across my face. I would glimpse him while perusing clearance items at the twenty-four hour market. He appeared on an opposing team in the insomniac

league of nocturnal bowlers. Other times I would see him walking his cat on the opposite side of the street during a two a.m. run. He skirted the peripheral until I grew accustomed to his orbit. He said his name was James and I told him mine is Dawn, but that it's ironic because I have never actually seen one. He wanted to know what it was like to have spent my whole life in the dark. I wanted to know if he had ever grown tired of the light. He asked if he could walk me home and I agreed. “So, what is it?” he had asked. “What is what?” “The reason.” “A rare disease,” I told him. “What disease?” “I’m not sure.” He said he had to be at work in a few hours and asked me if he could see me again. I told him that he could.

----------

Lately the light has become a thing with which I flirt. I tiptoe around its edges, set my alarm to wake at noon, then stand behind a heavy curtain to feel its warmth. Some days the light is hot and insistent, others it is barely there at all and I must press myself against the fabric to feel even a trace upon my cheek. On occasion it feels as if it is something I can hold. I stand there in my underwear imagining a glowing orb that I might roll between my hands, press neatly between my breasts, or balance on my thighs.

I stand aside, pull the drapes and let the light sear its way across the room. Colors divulge different dimensions. Greens and blues come alive revealing depths that hide beneath false fluorescent and sixty watt rays. The room at once feels like a dream or vision willed by the power of some ancient desire; natural and moving wildly over the world just outside my door. Each day I tell myself that this will be the day with more insistence than the one before. I tell myself this then close the drapes and return to bed.

-----------

Beginnings and endings, I have always thought, are just two sides of the same coin. Both eternally intangible, opposite ends of an infinite spectrum of probabilities, and middles are the only things that truly exist. It was another month before he asked me about it again. He wanted to know why mother had never told me the name of the disease and thought it peculiar that I couldn’t recall ever having been to a specialist. I had always just thought it lucky. Lucky that I had survived this long without mishap. Lucky that I hadn’t been hounded or run out of town for being a “freak” like others I had read about down murky corridors of the internet. Lucky that, when mother died, I didn’t have to worry about supporting myself. I thought I had given up romancing the light years ago, but as the middle we existed in began to expand, the old infatuation returned. My mind started to unearth old questions that sprouted like seeds in spring under the stellar rays of a new star. One that illuminated gently and in slow palatable bursts that burned but in every good way.

I imagined my skin luminous and kissed bronze making the contrast between mine and his more sensuously stark. In the middle of the day I would wake having dreamed of a little girl with his eyes and my smile who chased his cat down a beach that I had only seen at night. The light played in strange ways upon her hair and skin making it seem as if she were glowing or if perhaps she were somehow fashioned from the light itself instead of two humans navigating a dance of opposites in which biphasic sleep cycles cleverly manipulated circadian rhythms. Some days I would go from room to room opening all of the drapes until only a sliver of shadow remained. On days I felt particularly brave I would don lambskin gloves, cover up with blankets, and make a fort of myself in the center of the deadly spectacle. I would dare myself to throw off the shroud before thoughts of a gruesome discovery would prevent me. In idle moments I would contemplate sticking my toe or hand in a pool of light, then inevitably conclude that the best option is always to close oneâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s eyes and dive all in. When those thoughts followed me to bed, I would dream of combustion and skin fleeing from bone in bloody post-apocalyptic splendor. Loosely stitched sinew would stagger out into the world lingering only long enough to startle a neighbor before it collapsed. I would wake in a sweat to see James returning from the window.

Our middle grew. We slid easily into a harmony of 4 p.m. breakfasts, 9 p.m. lunches, and 3 a.m. dinners. Questions bifurcated companionable silences. He philosophized eloquently about the merits of answers. I quoted Rilke and articulated the existential beauty inherent to living the questions.

Claudine Cain

*Verse is an excerpt from the poem, â&#x20AC;&#x153;her black hair shines among the evergreens,â&#x20AC;? by Jay Sheets from the collection The Hour Wasp, used with permission from the author and publisher April Gloaming Publishing (2017).

Tell Me What You Know Through Tarot

PAST: THE NINE OF CUPS Aged eight: build something, foundations till grave. You want to follow father. Twelve: shorthand to truth. Knock on doors, two sugars, question. Sixteen: combustion control, feline branches. The hero. You searched a life beyond postcodes and peers. PRESENT: THE KING OF SWORDS Now you climb ladders without rungs. Bravery without flames. Create space to be chair from chair. Play a symphony on your skills. The earth is grid lines and structure. You list. Pack. Sustain. Keep brawn on speed dial. Build through agendas. I know who you are. FUTURE: THE FIVE OF SWORDS Sympathy card played. Separation on prescription. Gold lines the inside. Chair still in hold. Wrinkled legs wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t make ninety. Right angles. Wrong perspectives. You see working roots. Look straight with dignity. Never up. Eight. Twelve. Sixteen. Did you expect more than this? Stephen Lightbown

Sodom and Gomorrah

Pretty soon some passengers on the planes and trains of life, like those denizens of the vicious cities of the plain, become unbearable to God, commit some grievous sin for which there is no forgiveness. The pilot closes the cockpit door, the engineer gives way to schedules and surly expediency and God piles on his vengeance, brings down a murderous rain of brimstone and fire. Among the bogus violets in the engine cab, the plastic roses in the cockpit, late in the night a scholar writes his history of those vengeful times; his eyelids close and sightless he writes on until Ursa Major, the Great Bear, runs its course, rolling around the night sky like it always does. This is the end for them, in those cities on the plain. The once fruitful earth has no sympathy for them, long bearing the blasted remains of those two shining cities brought low by God's hand. The fire and brimstone rained down in blazing whirlwinds, rough with light; upside-down towers and fiery finials, close-packed, bizarre as the stone-knobbed agonized spires of the Sagrada FamĂlia; Gaudi's masterpiece.

Abraham, bargaining with an obliging God, pled down to less than a baker's dozen to save the city by God's mercy; His holy messengers, in Lot's house compassed about, pressed by perverts, blinded them and went out searching for what they were sent to find; alas, not finding in this teeming city even ten of the righteous. Lot's family does right and gets out of town. On the smoking streets people running like ants and it's no use; His terrible face and rage, seen above the furnace of destruction. So that was that and Lot's wife, looking back that one time, turned to salt by the divine effulgence or a last fateful look at her burning city, who knows? Lot's wife become a memory, standing pinnacle of salt; a lesson to us all in the window of history.

Little room left for life after a city of calamities goes up in your face; the family saved, the mother lost by a love too strong for her old place or simply dried up by the radiance of God. Creatures made and unmade by Him and that for vengeance and that's the end of it. Jack D. Harvey

Between Heaven and Hell (Cover Image) Wioletta Seager

Calendar Girls

A beach. Blue sky. Somewhere in America. We can hear the sea but we can’t see it. Large sand dunes. It’s very hot. A girl in a bikini lies centre stage on a beach towel with her back to us. She doesn’t move or breathe. EVELYN WILDER a young detective kneels above the girl. WILDER is black, short and wears a police blue cap and jacket. Sergeant PETE REKKER stands above the body. He’s in his late forties, older, fatter, white with a Southern accent too. He talks into a walkie talkie. He squints in the sun REKKER: (Southern accent) Ain’t even a breeze WILDER: (Southern accent) I hate the Ocean REKKER: How can you hate the Ocean?

WILDER touches the girl. REKKER: (sharply) Wait for forensics Wilder. She ain’t got no pulse. WILDER: No burns neither

REKKER laughs REKKER: You don’t believe him Sir? WILDER: What that crazy boyfriend by the Dairy Queen? Tell me again

WILDER takes a note book out and reads WILDER: (reading) She jumped up. Raced round the beach. ScreamingREKKER: And screaming WILDER: And she spokeREKKER: All fast WILDER: Sped upREKKER: Like ’TV’ WILDER: He said REKKER: ...And she sweat? WILDER: Like rain REKKER: But she stops?

WILDER: To look REKKER: And that’s when… WILDER: She done it...- SheREKKER: (suppressing laughter) I can’t...WILDER: ...She burst into flames.

REKKER laughs again REKKER: That is truly original! WILDER: Maybe she did. REKKER: Detective. A bubble bursts. So does a dream. I once saw a guy eat sweet corn and burst into tears. But not flames. WILDER: I heard this thing back in Cross. Lady lost her son. REKKER: He burst into flames? That the case you drove some witness to the nut house? The one they transferred you here for? WILDER: ...You don’t like me very much do you Sir? REKKER: You don’t let people like you. We got a nice town here, Derry Sands. And all you do is look for trouble, like right now. WILDER: SirREKKER: This girl is dead. From what, we don’t know. So we wait for the guys who do. Go check.

WILDER exits. REKKER blinks in the hot sun. WILDER re-enters. REKKER keeps his back to her. . WILDER: You don’t sweat much Sir. REKKER: So? Forensics?WILDER: It’s funny. It’s low tide. But the water’s like that. REKKER: Water make you nervous? WILDER: My brother drowned on a beach. You born here? REKKER: Sure. How do you like Derry Sands? WILDER: Same as Cross. No crime, no drugs. NothingREKKER: She leave any residue? WILDER: What? REKKER: (smiling) Fires leave residue don’t they? Or is that cats? I never seen a body on fire. Or a house. WILDER: Never? REKKER: Seen a monkey play the drums. This heat’s driving me nuts. WILDER: You never had a fire here? REKKER: Course we had!

WILDER looks at the girl.

WILDER: ...Where’s forensics? REKKER: (smiling) You know it’s funny. Bout your brother. Not funny just- I got this memory. Out on a beach too. It was Christmas Eve. Snow. White beach. Nothing like it. WILDER: Let’s turn her overREKKER: (absently) Who? WILDER: The girl REKKER: (angry) Wilder I’m sharing an intimate detail with you, Jesus! WILDER: ButREKKER: (shouting) Now you shut-up!

Beat REKKER: See, I raised my voice? I never raise my voiceWILDER: SirREKKER: Look Wilder. I like you. Don’t know why but I do. So take my advice. Stop looking where they ain’t nothing to see!

WILDER nods REKKER: And have a few beers with me sometime!

The stage lights flicker. They look up REKKER: Must be a cloud. WILDER: You know I remember? That thing in Cross? With the missing boy? The lady? Give me that book... Sir?

REKKER throws her his book and WILDER reads. WILDER: (reading) Right! ’Spoke sped up. Like TV’. Same words. Then pop. Flames! We thought she was crazy. REKKER: She was? WILDER: Three neighbors saw the same thing. It’s all coming back! We put him down as missing. REKKER: So? WILDER: He turned up. Three weeks later. With his Mom. Eating Dairy Queen. They forgot anything had ever happened REKKER: Good. WILDER: But how can you forget? REKKER: You did. WILDER: Don’t you see the connection? They both got crazy, they both get worked upREKKER: So mind you don’t.

Beat REKKER: Remember when you transferred Wilder? I came to get you from the station? That was nice a thing to do wasn’t it? Eating Oysters and beer at that station? What a nice memory that is? Just think about that. WILDER: ...Never took no train though REKKER: Huh? WILDER: I never took no train in here. Or out REKKER: You ain’t got too many friends Wilder? Or family. I checkedWILDER: How did we get here today? REKKER: We walkedWILDER: NoREKKER: Don’t you think I know? I know every goddamn grain on this beach. Since that first day. When it snowed. WILDER: It snowed that day too. When I lost my brother. Christmas Eve. Just the same REKKER: He swam on Christmas Eve? WILDER: No. Course he didn’t. Too cold. He never swam REKKER: So he never drowned. WILDER: ...How come we got the same memories? REKKER: Shut up. Or I’ll lay you out.

The lights flicker again. A low whining noise starts and gets louder. We hear a crash in the distance. WILDER: What’s going on? REKKER: Give me your badge. You ain’t fit to serve. WILDER: Serve? REKKER: I SAID SHUT UP!

His voice echoes: shut up, shut up, shut up. REKKER: You wanna end up like her? Don’t you get it? Stop looking. More you look the worse it gets.

Beat REKKER: Ever notice how clean things are in town? How there ain’t no dirt? Or death? Ever feel like you been watched? Ever feel like you see something. Outta the corner of your eye. A flash. A flame? But you look away. Cos if you don’t.

They both look at the girl. Another crash. The wind howls WILDER: But why? REKKER: (impatient) Why does the sun shine? The sea move? All I know is you start looking at thingsWILDER: (looking at the girl) You burn up. REKKER: And disappear. And turn up 3 weeks later. Fine. WILDER: Renewed. REKKER: Like that boy in Cross. Like her.

WILDER turns the girl over. Her eyes are wide open. She’s smiling. She doesn’t speak. Just stares. Smiling. REKKER: But first you gotta burn. That’s the way this world protects itself. You get too close to it. You burn. You renew. But you. Don’t. For some reason. And I can’t either. So instead. The world deletes itself. WILDER: I don’t understand. REKKER: Don’t try to! We just someone’s...idea of a person. Our memories? Our lives? We straight out a movie! We just two big clichés! WILDER: So nothing’s real? REKKER: What’s real? WILDER: Your wife? REKKER: And I love her! And my kids. And you love your brother.

Beat REKKER: I know where he is Wilder. Oh sure. He burnt up that day. He never drowned. He’s close by. I’ll show you. Remember his voice? His face? WILDER: He’s not real REKKER: (sharper) Well my kids are!WILDER: The water’s so closeREKKER: Just believe Wilder. Just forgetWILDER: I can’t.

REKKER takes out his gun and points it at her. REKKER: I’m warning you!

Beat. REKKER fires the gun at her head. But WILDER’s unharmed.

WILDER: I’m sorry Sir.

REKKER gets on his knees REKKER: Look Wilder, it’s my life. I know it don’t mean nothing to youWILDER: I can’t. REKKER: (in tears, audience address) Why won’t you let me burn?! WILDER: Maybe you will. REKKER: No. We’re being punished...for not believing. Together. We don’t get to renew. Unless... We both believe? WILDER: No. I couldn’t. Not now. Even if I tried. REKKER: ...Please...WILDER: Sorry. REKKER: :...I couldn’t either.

He looks up at her. REKKER: You know I think I never could really. Not properly.

He looks at audience REKKER: That’s why I’m getting it now. And that’s why you-... That’s why I always liked you.

WILDER gets on her knees too. She holds him. REKKER: And so we die. WILDER: Or wake up. REKKER: ...Where? WILDER: I don’t know. REKKER: ...Maybe? WILDER: Maybe...

They hold each other as the spotlight dims around them. The last thing we see are their spot lit faces. A white spot decreasing. Like when an old TV would be turned off. And finally. Blackout. Max Wilkinson

Plastic Heroes

The only thing keeping Duke, Michelangelo, and He-Man from being discovered was the din of the air compressor. Its rumble covered their footfalls as they made their way through the dark, twisted recesses of Robbieâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s fatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s garage. They were perhaps the greatest collection of heroes Robbie had ever assembled--tireless and brave, without thought to their personal safety. It was their third ultra-dangerous super-secret mission that day. Previous outings had seen them conquer the flower bed and liberate a toy mouse from the familyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s feline, Cat Man Dew. But nothing had prepared them for this. Empty, the garage would have been large enough to fit several cars. Instead, it was a tangle of metal, the lair of dozens of machines, each of them larger and more complicated than the last: tool boxes great and small, saws of every shape, vices and presses and sanders and machines with so many belts and pulleys that neither Robbie nor his squad could say for sure what they were. Michelangelo, the scout of the group, went first, picking his way over the sharp edges, clearing a path in the dust for the others to follow. Trained in ninjutsu, he was the stealthiest and the funniest of the group. His dexterity had proven vital when scaling the flower bed and his repertoire of knock-knock jokes had distracted Cat Man Dew so that the captive toy mouse could be freed.

Next came He-Man, the enforcer of the squad. Once he’d been a prince; now he was hired-muscle for the rag-tag band. It was he who had the strength to flip the rocks in the flower bed, revealing the earthworm enemies that threatened to overrun the entire garden. Using that same power now, he scooted the assortment of cardboard boxes that blocked the way through the garage. Duke, a real American hero, brought up the rear. He was the leader, and it was his tactical ability that had brought them victory twice that day. Bravest and smartest of them all. He was a soldier, one of the few and proud, like Robbie’s dad. Exactly the man they had come to rescue. Robbie’s father was not to be trifled with. A retired marine with arms still thick from a million push-ups, he had wanted nothing more after his tour than to live quietly in the suburbs with his family, collecting his bevy of machines with the hope of one day opening a shop out of his garage. But he had never expected a dragon. Even a marine was no match for a dragon. At least not alone. The squad found him in the back, wrestling with the fire-breathing monster. He wore a visor over his eyes and thick gloves to shield himself from the heat. He had the mouth of the beast pointed toward a table on which rested a broken piece of the iron fence that surrounded Robbie’s yard. The monster’s breath was so hot it was fusing the metal. If it managed to turn that back on his father…. There wasn’t much time. It looked hopeless, but Duke had a plan. Michelangelo grabbed a bolt from a nearby basket and flung it at the dragon, while He-Man overturned a toolbox to provide cover.

“Dad, run now! While the dragon is distracted!” Robbie’s father jolted in surprise and the dragon jumped in his hands, sending sparks flying, some of which landed above the long gloves, up on his father’s arm, and filled the garage with the acrid smell of burning hair. His father kicked the workbench in anger and the flame died out. After setting down the welding torch (because that’s what it was now, a welding torch; Robbie was unsure how he had ever mistaken it for anything else), he marched over and grabbed the boy by the front of his t-shirt and screamed at him from behind the glass of his welding mask. He slapped Robbie for impact when he was finished yelling, as if putting a period on a sentence. The gloves were still warm from holding the torch. Robbie could see his fear in the reflection on the mask. He gave the proper replies. Yes, Sir. Never again, Sir. Then his father took Duke, Michelangelo, and He-Man over to the bench and brought the flame back to life. To their credit, they held up to the torture like heroes. They never spoke, never cried out, even when their faces melted away from their heads and dripped onto the floor. Robbie didn’t cry either. But it was so hot in the garage, with the summer sun shining outside and the torch blazing inside, that when sweat began to run down his forehead and into his eyes, he was afraid his father might think he was.

****

“I’ve never seen so much equipment. Did you own a business, or something?” the man asked Robbie, who was now two inches taller than his father had ever been. “Dad wanted to. Never got around to it, I guess.” Robbie waved his one arm at the collection of sanders and saws and vices that were arranged for the yard sale. “Have at it.” “You sure? You don’t want to….” “Keep ‘em? Nah. What am I going to do with all this?” “On account of your…?” The man pointed where Robbie’s other arm should have been. Robbie fought the impulse to sneer. “No, I can use most of them just fine.” The man, who was in his late forties, touched his finger to a circular saw, then drew it back sharply and stuck it in his mouth. “Damn, that’s sharp!” When he pulled the finger out a drop of crimson welled up on the tip. “Dad ran a tight ship.” “Military man?” “Yep.” “You too? Is that where…?” He indicated the arm again. “Afghanistan.” “Ah. That was a rough one, huh? Well, thank you for your service. You’re a real hero.” Robbie gave the proper reply. “Yes, Sir.”

Barlow Adams

Tiresias

My eyes fell into the cool clear blue water; the pool in which they claim the goddess bathed I did not see her the breasts and buttocks the diamond of blonde hair dripping from the water I never saw; my eyes pawed the clear blue saw right through the molecules of water patterned into woman I only saw the clear blue turn cloudy for a moment Robert de Born

Different kinds of truth

It's impossible to lick your own elbow but it’s fantastic when our lovers do. Rats and horses can’t vomit so the ones who make it in rock cannot die at 27. Pigs cannot look up so are unable to question if they can fly, or not. Sloths take two weeks to digest their food so like to take their time when eating mixed grills. Ostriches are rarely taken seriously, like poets, priests and that woman famous for being nasty on Twitter. Chewing gum while peeling onions will stop you from crying, even when your heart is broken. Women blink twice as much as men so often miss useful things men do really quickly. More people are allergic to cow’s milk than any other food but it’s not why Thatcher banned it from schools. Earth is the only planet not named after a god as humans are born to be heathens. A Giraffe can clean its ears with an extraordinary tongue. Gene Simmons from Kiss can also do this.

A pig’s orgasm lasts for 30 minutes. It’s why they always smile even when unhappy. If a scorpion drinks beer It will sting itself to death so don’t buy one a pint. All of you who read this won’t try to lick your elbows but some of you might. Mark Connors

Finding God

You sat amongst the hollyhocks that grew in your Amherst garden, picking up their discarded stems as a mother would pick up childâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s clothing from the floor. I sit, in a sea of golden tulip petals, amongst the invasive bamboo, listening to their muted voices. Peace is in the garden. God is not. It is not in the brilliance of the petals, or in the strangling bamboo, that I find God. It is only in recollecting the warm sun on the back of my neck as I pluck the curly red stems from the sandy earth, that I am close to you. God is not the tulip. God is not the hollyhock. God exists in the memory of the flower. In the solitude of nature, and the ancient roots that entwine us both, the divine mystery grows.

Christine A. Brooks

Pieta Wioletta Seager

The Philosopher in Love

I’ve been where blood is ink, flesh parchment, and every tome the tomb of one who gave up hammering for air to draw his own conclusion on the inside of a coffin lid. At the feet of the philosophers I’ve learned the only thing the wisest of them know is that they know nothing. And now I lift tired eyes from the dusty book of the world’s wisdom and your eyes are there and the clear light that flows from them, unaccountable but sufficient. And my busy brain is stilled. And my heart bows down in homage. Anthony Watts

Black Butterfly

And I will write a speck that crawls across your neck and burrows in your shoulder and forms a chrysalis as soft and dark as this Robert de Born

Photographs, Shared by Post

Start with my baby secrets, half-buried, lost feathers poking through sand dunes and marram grass. My squinting eyes, dazzled. by a lost sun. Cyphers and signs in faded photos. Tainted memories, so hard to understand. You have seen it all now, my naked past. My baby bottom peeking out from rock pools, in the glare of values from another, crueller time. My bruised buttocks stung by Father’s heavy hand. Will these childhood runes fix me in your blood? Or spell distance; miles too wide to yield? Will your pulse be brave, tangle with mine – a metronome of loose beats and knotted rhymes? Today, I climb steep, uneven steps and fall dizzy at the Pension door. I come to you, in Vézelay, hoping your lens will focus on tomorrow, click. Not see me marred by what has gone before. Ceinwen Haydon

Long Distance Loyalty

Engaged. Another one. Nothing in the realm of reason or fairness could explain the four young women in Jenny’s class all receiving proposals, one after another. If it had been anything to do with their shared major, then maybe she would be engaged, too. Studying journalism in graduate school didn’t seem to be the elusive formula, at least not in Jenny’s case. Probably it was her boyfriend. Mark. She wasn't dating the type of guy whose first priority was getting married. They weren’t even close to moving in together. The bedroom door swung open, interrupting her thought process. “Sorry, I’m here finally. What’s up?” She looked up to see her tardy companion enter. He ran a tanned hand through his dark hair. He crawled into the bed beside her, punching the pillow. It took her a moment to even register that he was speaking to her. Would Mark ever drop down on one knee, the independent free spirit that he was? He’d been romantic at the beginning and there was little doubt that he was committed to her and faithful. He was affectionate when they were together. Yes, he was all those things. Jenny couldn’t pretend that Mark wasn’t a good man. “Hello, you hear me?” Her back was to him, so he tapped her on the shoulder. She turned over on her side to face him, a forced smile on her lips. “No, I must have spaced out. Long day.” “You seemed out of it. How's that article you're working on?” “Not bad. I might have you take a look at it later.” She leaned in and kissed him on the forehead. “Sure, no problem.”

“I’ll be right back.” As she swung her legs over the side of the bed, she turned back to ruffle his black curls. Once alone in front of the bathroom mirror, she began brushing her teeth and returned to her earlier concerns. Would Mark come to his senses and realize that they were adults now, surrounded by other adults, and that all of them were getting married? No, Mark wouldn’t notice. He would only notice that the Earth was getting warmer, certain species were going extinct, and too many children in the world didn’t have enough to eat. His beliefs and causes were always taking him to the far reaches of the planet, away from Philadelphia and away from her. How was Mark going to find the time to realize what a fabulous wife she’d make when he was constantly boarding planes to protest and write about injustices in remote villages? She spat her blue toothpaste into the sink too soon with a surge of violence. She tried to wipe the sticky blob away with her finger, streaking it across the white porcelain in a zigzag. She ran warm water over it, but the stain remained. She returned to the dimly lit bedroom to find him on his stomach and propped up on his elbows, reading. Closing the book, he heaved a dramatic sigh. “Listen, I got some weird news today. Martha called me.” She cocked her head to the side. “And what did she want?” “She and Tim—they’re having a baby. She wanted to make sure I heard it from her.” Jenny slung one leg over his waist and sat up, placing her weight on the small of his back. She began rubbing his tight shoulders. “I’m sorry. It does seem like everything in their relationship has moved pretty fast.”

“It has! But I don’t care. Or I shouldn't. It’s been two years already since she left me for him. Geez, I’m an ass. You probably don’t want to hear about this.” “No, really, I don’t mind.” “Thanks, Jen, you’re sweet.” This comment made her mind wander again. Maybe that was the problem—she was a far too giving and supportive person. Why should Mark need to marry her? He was already getting all the wifely treatment without it. “Come here.” He shifted so that she’d have to climb down from his back. He turned over and pulled her on top of his chest until their noses were almost touching. “I’d rather focus on you now than think about pregnant Martha.” “Soon to be fat pregnant Martha.” He laughed. “See? You’re just the best.” Her attention now solely on the attractive face and caramel brown eyes in front of her, she began kissing and undressing him. He flipped her onto her back. His breath on her neck was hot and hungry and his knees parting her legs were confident and sure. After, she curled up and fit snugly into the shape created by his curved figure behind her. She was a good person, even if she wasn’t daily trying to save the world like Mark. Her life was meaningful, too. He couldn’t look down on her, just because she wasn’t shouting, “Free Tibet!” in the streets surrounded by the Tibetan people, grasping their hands, and then scribbling the inhumanity of their situation down on paper.

She'd be a trustworthy news anchor for the people of Philly. She’d be a devoted mother and a loyal wife. What more could Mark want? How many more engaged journalists could she bear to congratulate? And yet, she’d understood early on that the man she was falling for was not the settle down and cuddle on the couch type. Mark was a selfless and noble crusader. Loving him meant accepting he’d often not be there. She’d known that. She snuggled in closer to the strong, hard body beside her, breathing in the warmth he radiated. Her cell phone began vibrating atop the nightstand. She sat up. He looked at her, a little nervous. “Who’s that calling? It’s kind of late.” She caught the image of sandy haired, blue eyed Mark smiling at her from the phone’s lit up display screen. The knots in her stomach returned. “Dammit. It’s my boyfriend. Be quiet while I answer. It must be daytime where he is in China.”

Anna Vangala Jones

Pica

Lucinda peeled a strip of paper from the back page of her notebook, folded it three times onto her outstretched tongue and chewed it between her front teeth. She turned the wad over in her mouth, separating and swallowing it bit by bit as she continued with her typing. The other women in the office assumed she had taken up chewing gum. Lucinda did not correct them - she didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t want to discuss her habit with her colleagues. Somehow, she knew it would be just another thing for them to use against her. Rhonda in particular had made no effort to hide her annoyance when Lucinda had announced the pregnancy. Her daily mutterings about targets and weight-pulling, and general huffing and puffing whenever Lucinda went to an antenatal appointment were about as subtle as the colours of her polyester blouses. Lime green and fuchsia today; wherever did she find them? The baby was flipping over and over in Lucindaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s stomach like it was churning butter with its feet. She had extra time to make up, but knew she must take her lunch break and eat some proper food soon or she would begin to feel faint again. It would not do to pass out halfway through a letter- her typing speed average would never recover. Lucinda glanced down at the clock on her computer screen and dimly recognised the movements of the others around her setting down their headsets and heading through to the kitchen area. She finished the letter she was working on and joined them, managing to force down half a banana and a cheese sandwich, leaving the crusts untouched.

The smell of Rhondaâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s tuna salad made Lucinda gag. She bolted to the staff toilets, leaned over the basin and splashed cool water onto her face and neck as her stomach heaved and lurched. As she looked up, she noticed the blue paper hand towels in the dispenser. She pulled out a few and inhaled their dry, chemical smell before ripping off huge pieces with her teeth and filling her mouth greedily. They tasted as amazing as they looked.

Rebecca Field

Stop For Me Kenna Lee Edler

Echo

There is a gap between thought and speech, like a flooding mouth when cooking steam meets hunger, where my words gather even now crammed in and going nowhere. I pick the point of repetition carefully express myself as best I can but outside of exchanging pleasantries, hello/ello, goodbye/bye, rain again/again, I soon run out of things to say. Sometimes, in bed, we’ll go for days without him noticing he’s being reflected love you/love you, want you/want you until his feelings refract off the refrain don’t you love me?/don’t love me please don’t go/please go Charley Reay

The Night Fisher

Hart walks alone through the small seaside town, along the narrow road towards the rocks. In one hand he carries an old fishing rod. The tip of the rod, bent down with lead weights threaded onto the line, jounces up and down in time with his footsteps. In his other hand he carries a tackle box that rattles with spare hooks, spinners, floats, spools, other ephemera never unpacked - their purpose long since forgotten. Sat outside at pub tables, under umbrellas advertising cider, holiday-makers take their eyes off dinner menus and watch his passing. They survey his gardening boots, his unfashionable coat, the gathering gloom. They think, ‘Night fisher. Local. He’ll catch.’ Hart doesn’t live anywhere near the coast. He hasn’t been fishing since they last stayed in the same seaside town two decades ago. They had their boys with them then, eager with their new rods and brightly coloured buckets. After thirty minutes of catching nothing the boys would rest their rods on the rocks and throw stones into the swell, or disembowel the bait with penknives. Their mother would fetch them for bath and bedtime. “Any luck?” she’d ask. They’d show her a crab they’d picked out of the rock pools. “After all that money” she’d say. As a boy, when he’d fished with his father, Hart had always caught. His mother had sat with them, poured tinned tomato soup from a thermos and handed out sandwiches. Bedtimes were later then and baths were once a week. In the morning his father would gut the fish over the sink and his mother would fry them for breakfast. They’d wipe

their plates with sliced bread, wash it down with cups of milky tea then, at low tide, go and dig fresh lugworm from the harbour mud. Hart walks past fishermen’s cottages converted into holiday lets. Crew-cut lawns slope down to the water, wet-suits drip from clothes-lines. Larger detached houses with bottles of sparkling wine on teak garden furniture. Yacht tenders rock alongside private moorings. The road narrows into a grassy track. A wooden signpost points to the coastal path. As he walks he watches a crab boat leave the harbour on the flood tide. Fishermen in oilskin trousers lean on the gunwales. A small passenger ferry with white bunting chatters over to the opposite side. There’s just one other fisherman on the rocks. The usual detritus around his feet. Bloody bait on a newspaper, rusty knife, tin of tobacco, plastic carrier bag with the arc of dead fish at the bottom. They nod. “Anything happening?” “Couple of mackerel. Not a lot.” Hart hopes that will be the end of the conversation until one of them catches, or leaves. He has only known one way to set up a rod. Float stopper, bead, float, weights, spinner, tracer line, hook. He’d assembled it earlier, at the cottage they’d rented for the week, out on the small sunlit patio. Like setting a trap or mending a clock. Everything in its careful place and correct order. Pinhead knots. Balanced weights. The glint of metal, fine as cotton. “You’re not going fishing again?” his wife had asked, “leave me on my own?” “You could always come. Keep me company.” “It’s not as if you ever catch anything,” she’d said, and gone back into the cottage.

Hart finds his spot on the rocks, puts down his tackle box and unclips the lid. The shelves expand outwards and upwards like stairs. Each plastic compartment ghettoised into type. At the bottom of the box, a vacuum-packed plastic envelope of sand-eels. She’d made him wrap the sand-eels in two layers of newspaper before he’d put them in the fridge. “Stinks the place out otherwise,” she’d said. Hart slits open the plastic with his penknife and takes out a single sand-eel, silver and sharp as the blade. He threads the hook through the eye socket and out through the mouth, then cuts it in half and keeps the tail end for later. He slides the float stopper up the line to give himself around ten feet of depth and casts. The float, weights and hook with bait, swarm through the early evening sky. The float lies on the aluminium water for a second or two as the weights sink and take up the slack, then stands up straight, ducking and weaving on the tide. Across the estuary the larger town reflects light and sound over the myriad of craft at anchor. People dawdle on the streets, sit at outdoor restaurant tables. Children swing on the harbour railings, pull crabs from the weedy shallows on lines baited with bacon. On the rocks, the only sound is from the rising water that sucks and swells into every nook. The sulphur yellow top of Hart’s float jerks slightly under, then up. His eye is already attuned to the float’s small differences in downward movement; between wave and fish. He puts both hands onto the rod handle. Unconsciously, he holds his breath. The tendons in his wrists wait for the instinct to snap. The float goes under. He flicks up, feels the opposing tug and twist of living muscle. “On one?” The soft voice of the other fisherman.

“Something.” Hart tries to keep his voice low, unsurprised. He reels in. Flashes of silver and gold, imperfections in the black emerald sea. He lifts his treasure onto the rocks. He remembers the rest as though his father was there, looking over. Push the hook further down the gullet till the barb comes loose. Hold the fish in both hands. Smack its head on the rock. Hard. Quick. Hart had wanted to teach this to his own sons. “Is that breakfast taken care of?” He starts at the voice. His wife had come down onto the rocks. She shares the food she’s brought and pours hot drinks from a thermos. “Tide’s turned. I’ll stop now,” he says. They sit shoulder to shoulder on the rocks and watch the night haul in the catch.

Steven John

While You Are in Iceland

Day 1: First Meal I wake with sticky eyelashes, with unbirthed tears transformed to glue, while you fly across the forests and wheat fields of my childhood, above sea-monsters and icebergs, into a rising sun that will not arrive at my window for five long hours. You walk on frozen volcanoes and I brew the last of my coffee, walk barefoot across old wooden floors, searching for the jeans I wore yesterday, a clean cup, a photo of us on the train last December. It is raining here, the sidewalks shimmering like witch-cursed mirrors, the rabbits confused by early heat, my ankles swelling as if it was already June. I know I should eat breakfast, but without you, I can barely crack an egg. Day 2: The News The television says that more students are dead in Texas, gunned down while mixing paint and imagining their summer vacations, of stripping to near naked for sun, for water, for love. You send me photos of ice sculpted by the old Gods that they will never see or maybe have already seen in the instant of their slaughter. Outside my window honeysuckle is dying on the vine, sweetness turned to rot, the rain continues, I envy your escape. There is nothing here but children ripped at the seams, we are cannibals, we suck the marrow of our young and change the channel. Day 3: The Funerals Today you immerse yourself in a frosted blue lagoon and send me photographs, blurry and surreal. Today the mortician will have no rest, the florist will rally her network, import white roses and orchids of violent pink hues, enough to cover ten coffins, like thick salty water where no one can truly drown. Reporters shift their gaze to a royal wedding, displays of white fabric, of floral-stacked hats that will never be worn again, shoved to the back of the closet and pulled out to say, I was there. I saw what happened. This was her favorite stuffed animal, she kept it hidden from her friends, should we put it in the ground with her so that she wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be alone in the dark? Day 4: Geysers You tell me that sleet appears without warning, hard pellets that sting your skin and wild horses on the highways edge and around every turn, another eruption, thick and brilliant green. Ancient Romeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s collapse is written in arctic ice, the lessons long forgotten, now melting onto our lawns.

Day 5: Ring Road Sea urchins and waterfalls and empty oyster shells so fragile they crumble at the flash of your camera, their final essence absorbed into the nest-less dirt that seems to promise nothing. Night 5: Black Out Curtains You tell me that the sun does not set until eleven o’clock at night. It’s impossible to sleep. I tell you the sun will never rise here again, that I have drawn the shades and refuse to look outside. Day 6: White Wooden Chair Carved with two hearts, three large stones hold it to the unsteady ground, resistant to shifts in tectonic plates, volcanic whispers, skyward eruptions of skin-melting water, of bacteria that thrives in molten heat. Silent and immune to my need for answers: Is someone buried here? Day 7: Homesick You stay in the hotel room, let your burning back keep you from whales and puffins, from the mermaid waters and rocking boat. Measure the circumference of your wrist to calculate the amount of sodium, of oxygen in your blood. Take your pulse and try once more to pass the breathing test, to no avail. The extra hours of sunlight should be like fairy dust and lift you from your pain. Instead you message me on a Tuesday afternoon as if you were not 3,000 miles away. Day 8: Emergency Rooms And hospital beds are the same wherever you go, and your kidney does not know it is in a land with icicle stairs and wooden chairs that sit, mute, leaning against stone giants wielding long-rusted axes. I study the sterile white room and search for your shadow. Reports appear across every screen, with names and ages and last known photographs of the already forgotten dead. Day 9: Seal Pup He will die on ice and rock, without the comfort of his mother’s skin because a man who walked this path two hours ago could not resist the urge to touch a creature not his own. The churches and sea are the same shade of grey, speckled with blue, like robin eggs. You tell me you are sad.

Day 10: Homecoming Darling, stay where you are. Without saddle to separate your skin from their skin, ride the untamed ponies into the dragon mountains, across glass lakes, swallow a potion of raven feathers, of lichen and mold that will transform your arms into wings, fly into the unmeasured sky. Do not exchange magical incantations for sirens, for shrieking and gnashing of teeth, for countless bloody corpses. I will miss every moment of you: our morning eggs, the way we trade words like lemon drops on the tongue, the setting sun that paints orange onto the muddy Mississippi River as we drive together, singing about nectarines, your voice reading the poem you wrote for me, but I beg you, do not return. While you are in Iceland, the murders continue. Beth Gordon

Fox in the Snow

Blood red in the snow, a tiny spray of drops an arc of unjust accusations frozen in time. This place is more oil than air, echoes rusted metal teeth snapping taut on a hand full of claw. This spot, here, where her foot landed, where the trap is sprung. She is white against the snow, like soft spikes of thin mercury, liquid, tufts of white fur glowing bright against the brutal iron clasp her nose quivers black and tiny, sees me, knows who I am. Holly Day

Red on White Kenna Lee Edler

A Couple of Thunderheads

I got struck by lightning twice—once as a kid while playing hide and seek at a memorial park, and once as an adult at a Dave Matthews Band concert. What people don’t tell you is that while a charge of lightning races through your body, you are so out of it that you never hear the thunder. As a result, everything that I hear has a delayed response, so it takes about three seconds for me to catch up. So, my girlfriend, Caitlin, keeps snapping her fingers at me, calling me “dummy” and “slow-poke.” She once claimed that it was a “term of endearment,” but lately, she has been abusing the privilege. “Are we going to see this Duran Duran concert tonight or what?” Caitlin asks. Tired of waiting for my responses, she carves into her steak and plops it into her mouth, shooting me the stare of shame. That look assures me that she plans on ending it soon. Dating someone with a hearing delay has its complications, sure, so I make a mental note to put “patience” as a pro on my future eHarmony account. In all honesty, I hate Duran Duran. “Hungry Like the Wolf,” “Rio,” and “Girls on Film” are total chick songs and I’d rather get struck by lightning a third time than sit through two or three hours of such drivel. Actually, being hit with wild voltage again seems like a possibility, given we could only afford to sit in the grounds, since tickets sold out so quick. “Why don’t you take Cassy?” I ask. “She does karaoke to ‘Rio’ every time when we all go out.” Caitlin tosses the fork down and waves the waiter over for more wine.

“You don’t like doing anything with me anymore. It’s like all that lightning has fried your brain. Are you really that worried about being whacked a third time? I mean, has that ever happened in the history of the world?” Having lightning hit your body on multiple occasions happens more often that you’d think. The world record holder is a man named Roy Sullivan, some force of nature that survived seven showdowns with the bolt and lived to tell the tale. I’m only five away from tying that record, a distinction that I have no desire in sharing. “I know indoor concerts are our thing and all, but this one’s outdoors,” I say. “And why does it have to be Duran Duran? Can’t we go see The Darkness a month from now?” Caitlin folds her arms, bats her eyes, and says, “Do it for me? Please.” After we pay the tab and pack our unfinished food, I agree to take the chance, even though five minutes into driving toward the amphitheater, we hear a distance rumble. Cumulus clouds converge in the sky and sheets of rain slant violently a few miles ahead. “Don’t worry,” says Caitlin, grabbing my hand. “I promise thunder won’t hit us, John.” I roll my eyes. I try to focus, but it’s a winding road. To make matters worse, “Hungry Like the Wolf” blasts through the speakers. Before I can change the dial, Caitlin slaps my hand away and decides to pump up the volume. “That’s a foolish thing to say!” I yelled. “You can’t predict nature’s plans.” She closes her eyes, jamming and cocking her neck like being dangled puppet on strings.

Caitlin didn’t always use to be this cruel. We first met volunteering at a soup kitchen, feeding the homeless and talking over Nirvana, Kurt Cobain, and the music that could’ve been. After a few weeks, we donated clothes to Salvation Army, pooling together our mismatched outfits. Our relationship began on the pretences that she cared about people and liked rock music and she took pride in the fact that I opened up about being struck by lightning. As time moved on, she grew more critical. She manifested into a poser of people’s rights as opposed to being a true champion for the causes. The rumbling of thunder blasts through the sky as we parked. I dread every quake. Caitlin grips my hand, pulling me around like a battered wagon. With my spare hand, I cover the crown of my head. I know that it’s no use. If a current makes its way through the universe, a human hand will not stop the inevitable. Our tickets get scanned at the gate and I stare at fangirls drinking overpriced beers and buying Duran Duran T-shirts. Caitlin insists on buying one, too, so I take shelter under a canopy when the downpour arrives. Beads of water slap the pavement, causing buzzed rockers to slip and slide, barely keeping their balance. My teeth chatter, counting the seconds before more thunder. Another thing people that don’t tell you about being struck with lightning is that your arms become more apt to nearby electricity. Hairs stand along your arms at attention and await orders. During the second time I was struck with lightning, I woke up with hair obliterated all over my body. It was as if it pulled away before I was dealt the blow.

We listen to warm-up bands like Josephine’s Igloo and Five-Star Battalion Confederacy for the first hour and a half. Between guitar riffs and long stage changes, the clouds grow darker, even though the rumbling ceases. I begin thinking it’s just the music blocking sounds from the sky. Rain pelts off and on, making the weather less predictable to the average person, but I’m not fooled. I feel the storm’s presence. Caitlin, who now wears a cheaply made black shirt with just “Duran Duran” plastered on it, keeps downing rum and Cokes, pleading that I drink one, more to forget about the probable thunder than to actually enjoy the concert. “Stop being a stick in the mud,” says Caitlin, shaking my shoulders. “Loosen up. We’re at a concert.” “Like I wouldn’t know,” I say, folding my arms. The hairs along my arms inch toward the sky and my heartbeat accelerates. I step aside, trying to forget about my paranoia. “If you don’t drink this drink, it won’t be the storm you’ll have to worry about,” says Caitlin. “It’ll be my hand upside your head, so you’re going to pound this like a man and clap to ‘Rio’ or else.” Duran Duran takes the stage and women scream. Fans crowd the aisles up front, but I’m standing on the grounds along a hill, without shelter and exposed, trying to avoid my crazy girlfriend’s threats. She raises a hand, ready to hammer a drunken, angry swipe. She can’t understand what it’s like to fear lightning. She lives a life of luxury, one of blind bliss. I used to know such ignorance before my duels with the bolt. While I cover myself, blocking the strikes, I smell marijuana. A few people sitting on a blanket and sipping from a flask laugh and yell, “Rock and roll.” After taking a chop to the ribs, I collapse, sliding backside down the hill. I peer into the sky.

Two electrical lines connect and lightning shoots downward, except the current veers away from me. It bends to the right, striking Caitlin in the head, blowing her ten feet away. Everyone screams as they run toward coverage, some fools tripping over themselves and slipping down to the barricade separating us from the premium seats. The sound of thunder follows, its mighty roar vigorous and alarming. I sit humbled as an event coordinator warns everyone over a loudspeaker to evacuate toward safety zones due to inclement weather. Minutes later, an ambulance follows. Everyone stares at Caitlin, who lays there unconscious, and though it’s terrible for me to say, I thank God that I escaped this third battle and if my wretched, soon to be exgirlfriend cheats death, she’ll at least know what I’ve been going through.

Sean Trolinder

Preludes

Before the storm, a mustard sky, the bloody sun, might cause Richard of York to double-take. No serious portent though, just sand blown from a desert too far away to care about. Stress-head brought on by scuppered plans, is made worse by the local news. Chinese chemists offer tinctures and teas to sooth body and mind. I’m taken in. Outside, Ophelia is picking up, the willow pours its heart onto a train-track, planned departures are delayed, and two boys leave but don’t come back. Herbal tea won’t shift the ache in me tonight; supermarket drugs numb the worry of displacement, Rue, like regret, should be taken with caution and for the time being, this house is still my home. Gillian Lambert

Lovely

A strong-legged girl with height and Monroe’s hourglass when waif was the moment’s fancy; middle child – gawky among wispy sisters who stuffed their bras with bog roll and condemned her C-cups udderly gross; giggled prettily when boys yelled Oi! Melons! She learned to slump her shoulders, curl back into her grey blazer – bought carefully too big. Her mum let her do her own lunch, unimaginable freedom I’d’ve killed for. She’d bring a single white slice gummed triangular by a scrape-on-scrape-off of spread. Wolf it at first break, or sometimes in the corridor us scuffing our feed before assembly; unnaturally white teeth – like the teenagers on Neighbours – making dirty putty of the bread. Later she’d eye my cheese and Marmite, my Granny Smith and Blue Riband, but Nah, not hungry. A twig next to me of course. Better to be called melons than tree trunks. I hope it helped. Her first proper boyfriend told her not to wear low tops, tight tops, her favourite River Island jeans –

Doesn’t want blokes gawping, me making a show of him. She glowed – at last she was something lovely enough to keep hidden. Holly Magill

The Hungry Ghost

It came as a shock. It hit me hard, full in the chest, an electric jolt like a lightning flash followed by a long, booming thunderclap of despair. It almost knocked all the air out of me. And then it was fading, rumbling haphazardly away down the booze aisle like a drunken cloud. I held onto the supermarket trolley for support and wondered if Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d been taken ill. I was well into my fifties. Was this how it felt when you had a heart attack, a stroke? Was it something to do with my hormones? Slowly, the panic subsided. Whatever it was had passed on. But the encounter had left me weak and tearful, like a maudlin drunk. I felt drained, my mood had nosedived and Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d forgotten which wines Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;d meant to buy. Maybe it was just the menopause, after all. It was weeks before it happened again. Gentler, this time, amongst the refrigerated fats in the dairy aisle. Milk, butter, yoghurt, cheese. The soft sadness blew through me like a wave, and my flesh rippled and billowed in its wake. I sensed longings and regrets for which I had no words, and the present faded to a thick white curd, milk of amnesia. I lost my appetite in its depths.

I met it fairly often after that. Never when I was expecting it; always when I was absorbed in something else; a conversation, a plan, a hunt for some new ingredient. It roamed up and down the warehouse superstore, patrolling the food aisles but never venturing as far as toiletries, homeware or clothes, never going near the sliding doors or the bleeping cash registers. It haunted this human refuelling stop, invading, insatiable, hungry for our hunger, feeding off our greed. In time, I began to feel sorry for it, stomachless, tongueless as it was. I wished I could lend it, just for a moment, the taste of butter or the smell of wine. But I feared it, too. Its ravenous emptiness knew no restraint. If it could, it would swallow me whole. I haven’t felt it for a while. Maybe its hunger has burnt itself out. Maybe it’s simply starved to death as it drifts uselessly through so much plenty. Or maybe I’ve just moved on, my skin thickened, my ageing senses no longer primed to detect its desolate hunt. I almost miss it. I watch the other customers as they fill their trollies. Do they feel its hunger? Commerce continues. The registers ring.

Clare O’Brien

This Tiger, Seventy

When I was seven, I believed there was a tiger between my legs— a tiger smells like this. A tiger is why you shouldn’t touch there. I’ve learned some things since then. I’ve learned, the tiger is my fingers. The tiger, my lips. The tiger, a quiet a shouted over resilience. A swallowed quarter waiting to emerge. This tiger, debt. This tiger, shrinking and growling desire. This tiger wild with needlessness. This tiger bald, but still striped. A tiger smells like this one time I did not look away like I could cup the earth in my jaw and crack him or bring the blood back to his stiff, cold hands in benediction. This tiger a gray shag and a skinned knee— remembers. A.J. Wolff

Geisha Lexie Peavy

Teeth

“Mommy! Mommy!” Jessalyn wails from her room down the hall. And as any good parent would do, when they heard their child scream in the middle of the night, I toss my covers aside and run into her bedroom. My feet slide on the carpet runner in the hallway. She’s sitting upright in her bed when I flick the light switch on. “What’s the matter?” I rush to her bedside, panic in my voice. Her hands are covering her mouth and her eyes are filled with what seems like pain. She pulls her hand away from her mouth, a light layer of blood covering her bottom lip. In her hand sits a small, bloody tooth. The worry I had been feeling melts away as a wave of relief washes over me. I take the tooth from her hand and smile. My little girl is growing up. “Let’s go wash this off. We can put it under your pillow for the Tooth Fairy!” Jessalyn mimics my smile which causes some more blood to come out of the tooth’s old home in her gums. I help her out of bed and she runs into the bathroom across the hall. We rinse her baby tooth in the sink. The blood swirls around the drain. It’s always mesmerizing that something so vibrant of a color is inside of everyone. I dampen a wash cloth and wipe her face clean. “Alright, back to bed.” As I stand up and guide my daughter back out to the hallway, I look over to the stairs because I see something out of the corner of my eye. But, there’s nothing there. “The Tooth Fairy may not come tonight because it’s so late… But maybe she’ll come tomorrow, okay?”

As she walks into her room, Jessalyn runs and jumps into her bed. I follow behind her and put her tooth under her pillow. My daughter turns onto her side and looks at me with the biggest smile. I sing her favorite song to help her go back to sleep. Her eyes flutter shut and when I’m sure she’s asleep, I slowly put my hand under her pillow and produce the tooth. As quickly and quietly as possible I grab some money from my purse. A sound comes from the living room, I don’t take my time to check on it, it’s probably just the wind knocking something with the drafty windows. Before going back to my room, I place the five dollars under Jessalyn’s pillow as slowly as I had removed the tooth. I sigh when I stand, the sight of my sleeping daughter bringing a brief moment of joy to me. Stepping foot into my room, I peer over at the digital clock on my end table. It reads 03:00. If this were a normal night, I’d just now be settling in for the night. I normally would be hard at work in my home office trying to get a head start on the next day’s work. I open the nightstand drawer and place the tooth inside of it. I’m going to scrapbook it later, right next to Jessalyn’s first haircut. I did this in hopes that when Jessalyn’s older she’ll open the scrapbook and see all of the important things in her life she may have been too young to remember. I enjoy keeping a prolific record of events. I turn the switch to have the light turn out after I settle into my bed. I hike the blankets up to my chin and let the darkness of the room consume me as my eyes slowly shut. Ever since my husband, Jessalyn’s father, died five years ago… I haven’t been able to sleep as well. I always worry that I’m going to slip into oblivion, never to wake up, and not be here for our daughter. But tonight, my body just lets go of everything. The fear. The anxiety. I slip into a dreamless slumber.

Give me my tooth! I sit iron bar straight, my breathing catches as I try to take in a breath. I look around my bedroom and see that it’s as dark as pitch. The sun hasn’t even thought of rising yet.

My tooth. Where is it? Give it to me! I push my hair out of my face at the sound of the unfamiliar voice. It sounds far away, but very close. My hand reaches towards the light to switch it on, but the drawer from the bedside table opens violently and comes crashing to the floor. Its contents scatter. My body shakes with fear and confusion, but I fumble for the switch to the lamp. Light spills across the room and nothing is there, but the contents of the drawer and its carcass splintered to bits. I scan the room trying to figure out a logical explanation and to try and decide whether what had just happened was a dream or real. I focus on the shadows in the corner, they irregular. There among the darkness is a woman. “Who are you?” is the first question I think to ask. She does not respond. “What do you want?” I try asking a question that would guarantee a response. In a faint whisper the woman says, “My tooth...” As her voice trails, off she appears right in front of me. Her face is inches from mine, as a high pitched shriek flows from her mouth, blood spraying like a dragon’s fire. Her mouth is void of teeth. It’s just an emptiness. She smells of death and decay, the skin of her face is grey and peeling. Where eyes should be there are just vast abysses. I try to scream, but no sound leaves my mouth. Just a whistle of air. Within the same amount of time she was in my face, she disappears.

Jessalyn’s screams of pain echo through the air. I try to throw the covers off of me to go get her, but a force unknown to me shoves me back. My body is pinned to the bed. I struggle against my invisible captor, but it’s no use. As I fight I notice the walls turn red as blood flows slowly down them. A claw rakes across my face towards my mouth, I clamp my jaw tight, but the unseen claws try to pry it open. Their points dig into the tender flesh of my face. The door to my room swings open and crashes into the wall, the force shaking the room as if we were experiencing an earthquake. Jessalyn stands in the doorway. Her tiny body stands out against the cold darkness. Whatever was holding me down is gone. I scramble to remove the sheets from my legs so I can get out of bed. As I step down onto the floor, the warmth of the blood sends a shiver up my spine, and as I take a step towards my daughter, my feet slip. I fall hard onto my knees. My palms hit the floor with the sound of a pig eating from a trough. The slapping of wetness. The blood on the floor covers my nightgown, but I don’t care. I need to get to my baby girl. My arms are around Jessalyn and I hold her close to me, but instead of the warmth she would normally give, she is cold. Almost as cold as ice. My daughter falls limp in my arms. I pull away from Jessalyn and look into her eyes. They’re soulless, void of any light. Her once bright green eyes are now milky and all color is gone. It’s like she’s blind.

Her jaw falls open to reveal her empty mouth. All of her teeth are gone, just like the woman I saw before. A sob explodes out of my body as I cling to my baby’s body. The woman’s voice comes again, but this time it’s much closer to me, she’s right behind my ear.

I’ve got my teeth.

Stephen Sorensen

The Mothers at the Museum

Sit stone-lipped like the shores of Medusa’s shoulders They, too, hold the gates of hell like smooth shells of raw eggs. But just because they hold a power that doesn’t mean they’ll use it. A.J. Wolff

Contributors

Barlow Adams is the author of two novellas (ReadLips Press, Grinning Skull Press) and an upcoming novel (Smarmy Press). His most recent publications include pieces in formercactus, Pine Mountain Sand and Gravel, The Disappointed Housewife, The Molotov Cocktail, Ghost Parachute, and Finishing Line Press. He has lost more heroes than he can count. Follow him on Twitter @BarlowAdams. David Bankson lives in Texas writing more garbage like this. He was finalist in the 2017 Concīs Pith of Prose and Poem, and his poetry and microfiction can be found in concis, (b)oink, Thank You for Swallowing, Artifact Nouveau, etc. Christine A. Brooks is a graduate of Western New England University with her B.A. in Literature, and is currently attending Bay Path University for her M.F.A. in Creative Non Fiction. She has been published multiple times in Chicken Soup for the Soul and various other worldwide publications. Most recently a series of poems, The Ugly Five, are in Door Is A Jar Magazine and her poem, The Writer, in The Cabinet of Heed Literary Magazine. She lives in Springfield, Massachusetts with her very opinionated dog, Clancy. Cavin Bryce is a twenty-one year old graduate from the University of Central Florida. He spends his time off sitting on the back porch, sipping sweet tea and watching his hound dog dig holes across a dilapidated yard. His work has been published in Hobart, CHEAP POP, OCCULUM, and elsewhere. He tweets at @cavinbryce Claudine Cain studies philosophy at UNC Greensboro. Her fiction, poetry, and visual art have appeared in Public Pool, Dime Show Review, Eunoia Review and elsewhere. Mark Connors is a widely published poet and novelist from Leeds. His work has appeared in Envoi, Prole, Dream Catcher, The Salzburg Review, The Interpreter’s House and many other magazines and anthologies. He has won prizes at Ilkley Literature Festival and North London Lit Fest. His debut poetry pamphlet, Life is a Long Song was published by OWF Press in 2015. His debut collection, Nothing is Meant to be Broken was published by Stairwell Books in 2017. www.markconnors.co.uk Holly Day’s poetry has recently appeared in The Cape Rock, New Ohio Review, and Gargoyle. She also has many nonfiction publications. Her newest poetry collections are A Perfect Day for Semaphore (Finishing Line Press), I'm in a Place Where Reason Went Missing (Main Street Rag Publishing Co.), and Where We Went Wrong (Clare Songbirds Publishing) and The Yellow Dot of a Daisy (Alien Buddha Press).

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. Kenna Lee Edler has lived around the world since she emigrated from Honduras as a child. Kenna holds two master’s degrees (in development aid and English studies) from the University of Cologne. Her first publication is in the first issue of Funicular Magazine. Rebecca Field lives in Derbyshire and works in healthcare. She has been published online at Literally Stories, 101 Words, Flash Fiction Magazine and Spelk and was highly commended in the 2018 NFFD micro fiction competition. She can be found on Twitter at @RebeccaFwrites Jacob Fowler is a recent graduate from Pitzer College where he earned his BA in both Psychology and English. His poetry has been featured in several student publications and two separate small literary magazines. He currently lives in the Bay Area where he enjoys surfing, hiking, and spending time writing in the city. Beth Gordon has been landlocked in St. Louis, Missouri for 17 years but dreams of oceans, daily. Her work has appeared in Into the Void, Verity La, Quail Bell, Calamus Journal, decomP, After Happy Hour Review and others. She can be found on Twitter @bethgordonpoet Matthew Haigh lives in Cardiff. He has written poetry for both adults and children, and has been published in a number of anthologies, magazines and websites. Some of his most recent work features in Aquanauts, a book of aquatic-themed visual poetry from Sidekick Books. His website is www.matthewhaigh.net Jack D. Harvey’s poetry has appeared in Scrivener, The Comstock Review, The Antioch Review, Bay Area Poets’ Coalition and a number of other on-line and in print poetry magazines over the years. He has been a Pushcart nominee and over the ensuing years has been published in a few anthologies. He has been writing poetry since he was sixteen and lives in a small town near Albany, N.Y. He was born and worked in upstate New York. He is retired from doing whatever he was doing before he retired. Ceinwen E. Cariad Haydon lives in Newcastle upon Tyne, UK, and writes short stories and poetry. She has been published in on line magazines and in print anthologies. She graduated with an MA in Creative Writing from Newcastle University in 2017.

Steven John lives in The Cotswolds, UK, and writes flash, short stories and poetry. He’s had work published in pamphlets and online magazines including Reflex Fiction, Fictive Dream, The Cabinet of Heed and formercactus. In 2017 Steve won the inaugural Farnham Short Story Competition and has won Bath Ad Hoc Fiction a record-breaking six times. Steven has read at Cheltenham Poetry Festival, Stroud Short Stories, and Flasher’s Club. Twitter: @StevenJohnWrite Gill Lambert is a poet and teacher from Yorkshire. She has had work published widely in print and online and her pamphlet Uninvited Guests has been published by Indigo Dreams this year. She runs the spoken word night Shaken in Sheeptown in Skipton and comperes at Word Club in Leeds. In 1996, aged 16, Stephen Lightbown experienced a life changing accident whilst sledging in the snow and is now paralysed from below the waist. Twenty years after the accident, Stephen started writing poetry about life as a wheelchair user. He has since spoken at events across the UK and in 2019 his debut poetry collection will be published by Burning Eye Books. Holly Magill’s poetry has been published in numerous magazines, including The Interpreter’s House, Bare Fiction, Ink Sweat and Tears, Picaroon Poetry, and The Morning Star; and anthologies, including Stairs and Whispers: D/deaf and Disabled Poets Write Back (Nine Arches Press), and #MeToo: A Women’s Poetry Anthology (Fair Acre Press). She co-edits the online magazine Atrium. Her first pamphlet is The Becoming of Lady Flambé (Indigo Dreams, 2018). She is fond of cats and strong tea above most things. Clare O'Brien lives on the north-west coast of Scotland. Her fiction and poetry has recently appeared in The Cabinet of Heed, Fearless Femme, The London Reader, Northwords Now, Biggar Science Festival’s The Powers Of Nature anthology and was shortlisted in the National Flash Fiction Day 2018 micro-fiction competition. Her day job is archivist and researcher, and she is also working on her first novel, a dystopian fiction called Light Switch. Follow her on Twitter at @clareobrien. Lexie Peavy studies creative writing and philosophy at the University of South Florida. Charley Reay is a Northumberland based writer from the Lincolnshire Fens. Her poems are published by Ink, Sweat & Tears, Prole and Three Drops From A Cauldron, among others. She also performs on the North East spoken word scene. You can find her on Twitter @charleyreay

Wioletta Seager is an artist whose work covers the entire range. She is very tuned to herself and the surrounding world, and she reflects this awareness in her works. She obtained a Fine Art bachelor's degree (with distinction) as well as prizes, such as: FAPA / Fine Art Photography Awards - Honorable Mention /Portrait / 2015 LICC -London International Creative Competition- Honorable Mentions/Painting/ 2009 Summer Exhibition/ Royal Academy of Arts in London/ Shortlisted/ 2007. She experiments with various media such as photo collage, photography, painting, drawing, and illustrations. She has published a children’s book, Do you believe in Santa? Discovering herself gives her a lot of joy, and this is her personal evolution. wiolettaseager.portfoliobox.me Stephen Sorensen is a long-time resident of Kingston, NY and is currently a teacher’s aide at a school for children with Autism Spectrum Disorder. He's also a member of a Hudson Valley writer’s program and spends his free time writing and watching all things horror. Alex Stevens is a mixed media artist living in Cardiff. His main areas of interest include mythology, monsters and animals, and he uses a variety of materials to create images and sculptures around these themes. He works for the NHS. Dr. Hannah Stevens is a queer writer currently based in Leicester in the UK. She writes short stories and flash fiction. Her influences include Daphne Du Maurier and Joyce Carol Oates. She has a PhD from the University of Leicester, works part-time in the voluntary sector and lives with my house-rabbit Agatha. Sean Trolinder received his MFA in fiction from Texas State University San Marcos, where he was a W. Morgan and Lou Claire Rose Fellow. His fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in Louisiana Literature, Map Literary, Midwestern Gothic, Cagibi, The MacGuffin, MARY, The Sand Hill Review, Oracle, and many other journals. Currently, he teaches 11th grade English at Ocoee High School in Florida Anna Vangala Jones is a writer, educator, and MFA candidate at Antioch University Los Angeles. Her fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in several print and online journals, including Berkeley Fiction Review, Sea Foam Mag, Pidgeonholes, Fiction Southeast, and The Airgonaut, among others. Her stories have earned honorable mention and placed as finalist and semi-finalist at Glimmer Train, Gigantic Sequins, and American Short Fiction. Find more at annavangalajones.wordpress.com and on Twitter @anniejo_17.

Anthony Watts has been writing ‘seriously’ for about 40 years. He has won prizes in poetry competitions and has had poems published in many magazines and anthologies, including Acumen, Frogmore Papers, Obsessed with Pipework, Orbis, and The Rialto. His latest collection is The Shell-Gatherer, published by Oversteps Books. His home is in rural Somerset. His main interests are poetry, music, walking and binge thinking – activities which he finds can be happily combined. Max Wilkinson has had plays produced at the Arcola Theatre, the King’s Head Theatre, Theatre 503, Paines Plough and many others across London. He's collaborated with the Wooster Group in NYC, The English Theatre Berlin, the British Museum and has been part of the Finborough Writer's Group, The Lyric Hammersmith's Lab, Arcola Workshops and the National Theatre's Playwright's Development lab. Calendar Girls is part of a series of short plays Max will be developing with Potrvá Theater as part of a residency this summer in Prague. A.J. Wolff is a midwestern feminist, poet, mother. She's in love with great lakes and stubborn eyes. Her work has been recently hosted in Hypertrophic Literary, The Mantle, Yes Poetry, Parentheses, Rust + Moth, and other beautiful publications Elizabeth York Dickinson received her MFA in Writing from Sarah Lawrence College. She has work published or forthcoming in Eunoia Review, Drunk Monkeys, Picaroon Poetry and These Fragile Lilacs, among others. She currently resides in Evanston, Illinois.

Acknowledgements

`Vulture Whisperâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; by David Bankson was first published in Gold Dust Magazine #34 (Autumn 2018).

ISSUE #17 COMING JANUARY 2019