Issue One: Brimstone by Under The Wires Magazine

brimstone I S S U E

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W R I T I N G

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B R I M S T O N E

A N

A N T H O L O G Y

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W R I T I N G

All

rights

reserved.

part

this

publication

may

reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author(s).

Edited, designed and typeset by Kayleigh Mai Hinsley. Cover photo by Kayleigh Mai Hinsley. Logo by Alycia Dalfonsi @tackytypegurl.

First published by Under The Wires Magazine, January 2021.

www.underthewires.com

C O N T E N T S EDITORâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;S NOTE

LAURA TURNER

Celestial

Time and Space

Annual

Grave Sounds

Stormy Heart

Waterlogged/Emotions

JAYA SUDHAKAR water

11 12

MITCHELL SOLOMON

Horn Song

SHIVI DIXIT Sharon

SAM MCCULLOUGH Election Night(s)

15 16

17 18

ZOE CUNNIFFE

the dream

catch and release

JANETTE OSTLE

My Name is Fear

Muddied Water

Poetry (I’m not a poet but I have poems in me)

REBECCA LEE

Berries

HARRY NILL

Faith

FAIRLEY LLOYD

Common Sense

VENUS NOIRRE My Best Valentine

BRANDI SPERING What to Read When Your Edges Fuzz: A Review of Schuyler Peck’s To Hold Your Moss-Covered Heart

47 48

52 53

E D I T O R

Kayleigh Mai Hinsley is a writer, editor, photographer and tutor based in the South West. She recently graduated from the University of Leeds, where she studied Criminal Justice and Criminology, and is interested in the rehabilitative role of the arts in the criminal justice system. Through her writing, she aims to present emotive narratives

that

break

stereotypes,

particularly

those

surrounding

ageing. She once played the back end of a snake in a school play.

www.kayleighhinsley.com

women

and

E D I T O R ’ S

N O T E

Under The Wires Magazine was founded just as the UK headed into its second coronavirus lockdown. 2020 was a unique and terrible year, but there have been some small silver linings. Many found lockdown a time for reflection and found solace in writing, myself included. With so much new creativity happening, I wanted to create a magazine that would platform new writing and new voices, as well as help to provide opportunities for emerging talent. Entry into the literary industry isn’t easy, especially for marginalised creatives. Even entry-level positions often require a chunk of experience, which is why we wanted to create a platform that was a little bit different. I am proud to say that Under The Wires is a space where anyone can publish their work, or try their hand at editing, no experience needed. Our submissions and team applications are always open to all! We are committed to producing a series of quality anthologies, published quarterly, which showcase the work of all emerging writers (not just young writers), and especially underrepresented voices. If anything, the past year has highlighted just how important it is to challenge the status quo and create change. There was no theme for our first issue as we wanted to open the net as wide as possible to catch all your beautiful words, whatever the topic. We were delighted to have received so many varied and exciting submissions, which we’ve brought together

here

Brimstone.

This

anthology

features

pieces

from

contributors. We hope you enjoy reading what we hope will be the first of many online issues! Thank you all for supporting Under The Wires as we take our first steps into the literary world.

KAYLEIGH MAI HINSLEY Founder & Editor-in-Chief

I S S U E

O N E

B R I M S T O N E

P O E T R Y

U N D E R

T H E

W I R E S

M A G A Z I N E

L A U R A T U R N E R Laura Turner is a poet, playwright and screenwriter from the East Midlands exploring female-driven narratives that ask questions about who we are today, often through the lens of the past. In her poetry, she is interested to explore the female experience, mental health and the relationship between place, language, gender and identity. Her poetry has previously been published by Wild Boar Books, Juno Magazine, Dare to Create and The Postmodern Journal, and she has a poetry Instagram account, @furypoetry, focusing on female stories told with fire.

L A U R A

T U R N E R

C E L E S T I A L

Like a shooting star, she dips and dives, traversing lands that human eyes will never know. Dusk glitters like a bath of ice inside her eyes, silent in the shadow of the trees. Ears prick - is she?... creep, closer...closer still... but then - blink - and she is gone. Out of sight: refusal to be seen - refusal to be caught.

P O E T R Y

L A U R A

T I M E

A N D

T U R N E R

S P A C E

There are stories we have lived before; there are tales that weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve been told. There are a thousand floating, changing, dancing shapes that bring to life our silent hopes for more: for something far beyond the edges of our deepest, darkest thoughts. The branches of a forestâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s mind creep out across the strange, unwieldy gap between our hopes and all the endless turning world.

P O E T R Y

L A U R A

T U R N E R

A N N U A L

This year has felt more than it ever imagined it would in the cold and empty weeks of winter all those months ago: weeks that clenched and squeezed Januaryâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s closed heart as spring and summer came, with strange new feelings born from some kaleidoscope of pure sensation. Then, the harshest sting of closing, finite days: the coming-again of colder months. Until, after that aching, solid frost, the knowledge of a new, soft spring again that will wrap up dreams inside a blanket of fresh imagination.

P O E T R Y

L A U R A

G R A V E

T U R N E R

S O U N D S

The many sounds that circle in her head remind her of all the feelings she has buried in the dirt and dust; they rise up now again, like ghosts unbidden from the past that see a chance to shed their muddy graves and reclaim the life that once was stolen, harshly, cruelly: ripped violent from their bones and their blood and left them crumbling to nothing in an empty bed of grass.

P O E T R Y

L A U R A

S T O R M Y

T U R N E R

H E A R T

Remnants of a hurricane swirl inside the sandstorm of her chest; rain bounces off the tarmac of her heart. A heart that aches to break the granite cave she built to keep it safe. Safe. Alone. But hearts are good at waiting, at planning in the dark: a path that leads them straight into a new approaching storm. Alive.

P O E T R Y

L A U R A

T U R N E R

P O E T R Y

W A T E R L O G G E D / E M O T I O N S

The canopy sinks low, made heavy with the weighted ghosts of water left unshed, like the presence of a thousand words or more that hide inside, forever left unsaid. The canopy inside herself is made of unspun thoughts that leak, persistent, out through all the tiny gaps and spaces in a barrier she cloaks about herself, impervious, she thinks, until a single storm cracks it clean apart and she must navigate the flood.

J A Y A S U D H A K A R Jaya Sudhakar is currently a blogger for the company Stardoll. Her poetry has previously been featured on GenZPoets.

J A Y A

S U D H A K A R

P O E T R Y

W A T E R

shards of glass drip from my lips, and iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m tasting salt, fennel & rohypnol the crystals on my skin melt into syrup i think thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s burnt steel and pectin in my veins (the hot white of the projector light denies me the right to use my eyes) i smell dioxins, strawberries & sand in the air liquorice and jute are tying me to the gloved hand that strokes my cheek until i open my eyes and remember that clouds are flavoured only with water

M I T C H E L L S O L O M O N Mitchell

Solomon

studied

Marketing,

Economics

and

Writing

Washington

University in St. Louis, where he earned his B.S. in 2011. Since then, he has been working in marketing in San Francisco and writing poetry and short stories.

M I T C H E L L

H O R N

S O L O M O N

S O N G

Flying learnt in smoky rooms is far from learnt at all. Have you seen him? Has he arrived? Returned migrant, Beelzebub, inflate our horns! Trembling brass and reed ring-rings arteries. Abandoned club, empower our peddling and croons. Bass drum draughts when ladles from liquorlakes cease to flow. Now mindless men, chianti charged search for food, wives, throats parched. After tonight, they havenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t a dollar. But til then, til slumbering soberly, we sell. Demons, horned til mourning.

P O E T R Y

S H I V I D I X I T Shivi Dixit is an Indian highschool student, aged 16. She is currently preparing for a medical entrance exam and writes short horror stories and poems as a hobby. Using the power of words, she aspires to create something that makes people feel every emotion, one at a time. Her Instagram handle is @shivi____dixit.

S H I V I

D I X I T

S H A R O N

I found a little white moth sitting on my window sill. It was slow as a sloth and sat seriously still.

He was looking outside the window probably contemplating life, thinking of the good ol’ meadow and his long lost wife.

Concluding, he longed for solitude, I left him hanging there. When I came back to the latitude, he was to be seen nowhere.

He might’ve flown back home, that’s my hunch. But he could’ve also landed on a gnome and become a bird’s brunch.

P O E T R Y

S A M M C C U L L O U G H Sam McCullough (she/her) is a writer, musician, and artist from the Pacific Northwest. While at college, she worked as the editor-in-chief at The Thunderword and was a finalist in Highlineâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s poetry contest. In her spare time, she's usually watching horror movies or turning herself into a horror movie with special effects makeup.

You

can

check

out

all

her

@switchblade.sam.

creative

endeavors

Instagram

S A M

M C C U L L O U G H

E L E C T I O N

P O E T R Y

N I G H T ( S )

Calloused hands of the working class, tired eyes watch the screen – refresh.

Grinding teeth, clenched fists, states change colors, hearts pound against the pavement – refresh.

Hours turn to days, we return to cogs in various machines, checking our iPhones under the desk, hoping for any results – refresh.

The windows are opened, feet dance, mouths scream, as the people celebrate.

Z O E C U N N I F F E Zoe Cunniffe is a poet and singer-songwriter from Washington, DC. She has previously been published in literary journals such as Meniscus and The Showbear Family Circus.

Z O E

T H E

C U N N I F F E

P O E T R Y

D R E A M

most days it is as thought i never knew you. i screamed and thrashed and woke from the dream unscathed. opened my eyes in brand new light. i wish you would have left a mark, somewhere secret: the underside of my knee, the precipice of my scalp, the jagged slot between my front teeth.

if i donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t remember you, did it happen at all? like fingers out a car window, air that slips through. my friends ask why i photograph the buildings, capture every inch of brick and mortar, but i canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t breathe without permanence. i go over it again and again: the party in april, sixteen years old, irregular breathing. your arms around me for the first time, the last time. they left no indentation.

now i see you in blurry crowds. your fingers crawl across my back when rain drips down my window. i breathe you in on the overpass, peering down at the lights below. you exist everywhere but in the flesh, and maybe that is all you ever were: fleeting, fictitious.

Z O E

C A T C H

C U N N I F F E

A N D

P O E T R Y

R E L E A S E

you sleep facing away from me, eyes pointed out at the rain, and i don’t know how to spit it out: that the best part of my day is the waking. it’s never cold anymore, never a startling ceiling. it’s you, mumbling with sleep. you in the shower, water in your teeth, blinding under bathroom lights. you, brushing your hair, static glittery in the mirror, lighting forest fires in the sink.

it’s catch and release, and every morning i practice clenching and unclenching my fist. you come home at odd hours, smelling of other people, and i loosen my grip around you, wandering to the window. hand on the glass, i focus on the rain instead.

it doesn’t surprise me the day you leave; i never felt like you were mine. you were always nomadic, slick in my fingers, out of my grasp. before you go, you kiss my forehead, and then i am a bird, watching your car shrink on the interstate. you wind and wind, dowsed by a summer storm, smooth and watery. at night, you fall asleep under peach-stained skies.

Z O E

C U N N I F F E

P O E T R Y

one of these days, you will call from a payphone and it will spill from between my teeth, gushing. i will say: it was more, those mornings in the kitchen, that daybreak delirium. now you are lost, gazing up at constellations, and if you ever miss the feeling of coming home at night, i will make up the bed, stock the shelves with your cereal, kiss you on the cheek in the doorway. hit the gas, iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll say, but donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t stray too far.

J A N E T T E O S T L E Janette Ostle enjoys walking and often finds inspiration from random thoughts which occur whilst out in the open air.

Prone to occasional tongue-tied moments,

she sometimes finds expressing herself in writing easier, as well as cathartic.

J A N E T T E

M Y

N A M E

O S T L E

I S

F E A R

Pounding heart and paralysis seized me when the creature crawled under my bed. Covers can’t shield cruel cackle, shroud from strange, or the demon’s dark dread.

His tongue tasted sweat-scented fear. I felt the rot of his teeth, tainting thought. I could see how he’d bark in my mind’s eye; hold me back, weigh me down, keep me caught.

I sheltered in safe, comfort blanket, let wild imaginings win ‘til I dared to search below the mattress, traced my mirror with monster within.

I wondered why no-one else heard him as he taunted and teased ‘neath my bed, ‘til I bravely tackled reflection; tamed the beast that dwelled in my head.

P O E T R Y

J A N E T T E

M U D D I E D

O S T L E

W A T E R

Falling, flailing in the muddy puddle of your memory, caught in circles of dark, disturbed water, wading and wallowing.

Splashing, surfacing in the clearing puddle of your memory, I find forgotten rivulets, revealing rainbows and my reflection.

P O E T R Y

J A N E T T E

O S T L E

P O E T R Y (Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m not a poet but I have poems in me)

You had me from an early age, luring me with rhyme. Thoughts and stories, crisp and short; novels took up time.

On writing my own verses, aware of breaking rules; a looser style brings freedom. My words, my only tools.

My style may be simplistic and that is my intention. My hope is to be understood; avoid critical intervention.

My aim - to be considered, thoughts shared, reflected on. My wish - to bring enjoyment and connect with someone.

P O E T R Y

I S S U E

O N E

B R I M S T O N E

P R O S E

U N D E R

T H E

W I R E S

M A G A Z I N E

R E B E C C A L E E Rebecca Lee lives in Ireland and has no idea what she wants to do in the future. She loves reading, film analysis and spending hours not writing. This is her first published piece.

R E B E C C A

L E E

P R O S E

B E R R I E S

I tell you not to eat the berries.

You don’t listen.

They glisten in your cupped hands, like glowing rubies. Or throbbing pustules pulsing under the sun. Your laugh is clear and full enough for both of us as you raise your hands and feast on the fruit.

We have spent hours in the overgrowth, trampling briars under our shoes while you whistle. The sun burns strips into my shoulders. Our hands are stained. Our baskets are full. Your hair gets tangled in the leering branches. Your knee gets stung by a wasp. The overgrowth isn’t as friendly as we remember. It grins through a wall of nettles.

Now I watch you paint your face with the ruby juice. Smear the berries across your cheeks as you swallow. Your teeth look like you’ve been caught in a fight. The trees tower over us and I can’t stop you. You eat and eat until the last of the berries slip between your fingers and roll by your feet. The creeping bushes are full of silence. Their twigs pinch and pierce.

You tell me it burns. I tell you they aren’t poisonous. I know I’m right.

You tell me it itches. Like you’ve swallowed a fur coat. A sleek thing that might have ran wild. Your hands stain my clothes, my face, my hair. The berries aren’t poisonous. I told you not to eat them.

R E B E C C A

L E E

P R O S E

The paint across your face is garish. If I look close enough I can almost forget it’s you. The sun dries the colour to your face. Maybe it was always there?

I close my eyes. My basket falls to the undergrowth. You say it burns. It itches. You have no face. There is only the smear of fruit, the stain that crusted and peeled under the sun’s glare. The twitch of leaves and the deadly loud of the overgrowth, twisting to pull me into it, to swallow me whole like a dormouse. You are silent.

I open my eyes. The sun makes tears roll from their corners, watering the grass. The smell of fresh sap and rot fill the air. Now, where you once were, a deer stands. Was it always there?

It turns and walks into the trees ahead.

It raises its head, eyes smooth and sharp as pine needles. Its nuzzle is sullied in red. Berry juice.

I turn to my fallen basket and gather the cool fruit in my hands. I told you not to eat the berries. You don’t listen.

I cup the red fruits in my hands, like pulsing hearts or swollen blisters. I laugh enough for the two of us.

The overgrowth isn’t as friendly as we remember.

I feast on the fruit and follow you into the trees ahead.

H A R R Y N I L L Harry Nill is a 21-year-old Greek undergraduate student of Law at the Aristotle University of Thessaloniki. He is also a flash and short fiction story writer. He has been writing fiction for the past three years, taking part in a series of writing workshops. He is currently working on his first book.

H A R R Y

N I L L

P R O S E

Warning: This piece contains descriptions of violence and domestic abuse. It also contains profanity and the sight of blood.

F A I T H

People will say we don’t get religion. And they’re probably right. -----Walking into church with a battery powered CD player in our hands wouldn’t seem very Christiany to most. But Momma always had a different view on things. -----Momma’s probably smiling on us either way. -----“God loves all, no matter what,” Momma would say, “God doesn’t give two shits whether you agree or not.” -----My sister Mary and I, though, really hope these people here agree. -----“Have faith in people,” Momma would go on as Jacob snored. -----The mahogany doors always creak as they open. The smell of candle wax fills our nostrils. Feels like home. Chants and prayers echo through the speakers, the sound all crackled up and loud with static. -----Paintings and mosaics of saints hang on the walls of the anteroom. Martyrs and priests, holy men and women who lived lives of simplicity. Who humbly served and praised a god who was or wasn’t there for them, with or without signs he existed. -----Crystal chandeliers here and there, books on display, under glass or plastic cases, open on specific pages for so long it makes you wonder if there is anything else written in them. Colorful windows changing the colors of the sun, seats reserved for the same people every week. Every chair’s got its own ass-print. -----All these people are holding their red, blue or black little books bearing the title ‘New Testament’, manuals on how they’re supposed to believe. Momma suggested we only read this book once and then throw it away. -----“You’ll

figure

out.

Rereading

only

Momma’s opinion.

leads

misunderstandings,”

was

H A R R Y

N I L L

P R O S E

Momma’s opinion. -----I never got what makes people enjoy this book so bad. Little Mary says she prefers Little Red Riding Hood. Sure God’s word is important, but take one good look around and you might as well start appreciating fairy tales. -----The tales of wonder were a given for us. It was Momma’s way to put us at ease. Heroes, witches and all kinds of magical creatures filled those books. Jacob would say we were too old to still be into them, but since he was rarely home, his opinion on stuff like that didn’t stand. Now that I think about it, after marrying Momma, Jacob would only show up when he was hungry, drunk or drowsy. -----Stepping on the red carpet, no one will notice a sixteen-year-old boy holding his nine-year-old sister by the hand. No matter how sharply dressed we may be, sharp enough to accompany Cinderella to the ball, nobody’s eyes turn to meet ours. -----And to think Mary’s dress almost didn’t make it. -----The scorch mark is more than just visible. Had the flames burnt up a little higher, my sister’s bottom would be catching a breeze right now. -----As we walk through the Royal Doors, the mystery of Eucharist is reaching its end. People forming lines to receive the Holy Gifts are splitting up. Having drunk the blessed wine, the blood of the savior, they reach for their seats once again. -----The same spoon being used to feed the believers out of that goblet. One of them has a recent scar on their tongue and now everyone can enjoy their blood transmitted diseases. -----The priest is standing in front of the Beautiful Gates, talking through his yellowish beard. He’s probably the first to see us closing in on him. -----Must be funny. Kids wearing adult clothes. Me, pulling a classic style with the unbuttoned dark tuxedo jacket, over the light gray waistcoat, over the carefully ironed white shirt bearing a papillon tie around the neck collar, the matching single pleat dress pants and oxfords of the same color. -----But Mary is the one shining. Her emerald ballgown, tight around her chest and waist, with thin straps over her shoulders, blossoms around her hips, the fabric reaching

H A R R Y

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P R O S E

reaching all the way down to her feet, except for the burnt area on the back, only revealing her tiny, short-heeled white dance shoes. Any bride ever married in this church would feel lesser. -----Specially tailored clothes, unique and expensive. Much more than you’d think our family could afford. It’s why Jacob thought Momma’s idea of a gift was such a waste of her savings. -----Some memories just happen to strike back. -----The past repeating itself. -----When the plainsong starts again, everybody is back where they should be, praying and eating the Communion bread. Everybody, except for the two of us. -----Mary is thinking how people aren’t going to like this. I know this because I’m thinking the same thing. This isn’t Momma, the church is full of strangers. -----“Believe in human affection,” I whisper, quoting Momma. “Don’t be afraid to express how you feel.” -----As the last person standing sits down, with my heart pounding at my chest, I lower the CD player onto the floor. The muffled noise the plastic makes on the carpet isn’t loud enough to alert anybody, but it does cause whispering between the rows of stacidia. Looking at Mary, offering and asking for assurance at the same time, I press play. -----The button clicks and echoes through the nave, as the chanters finish singing some verse out of their books. Like the laser scanning the contents of the disk, most eyes in the room start searching around. Before anyone can move, before the incantation resumes, the speakers start playing My Sweet and Tender Beast by Eugen Doga. -----What I don’t seem to find the strength to do, is what little Mary does for me, extending her arm towards me, opening her palm, reaching for mine. It’s all I need to get me going. -----My moves are swift. One arm around my sister’s waist and the other stretching till my pulpy red hand gently cups hers. There is nothing else now.

H A R R Y

N I L L

P R O S E

-----“Looking at your feet is how you screw up a good dance,” Momma taught. “Look your partner in the eyes.” -----The piano fades in to give the bassline and the clarinet begins to sing. Violins answer the call in a bittersweet tone. It’s a wonderful reply. Instruments conversing, flirting and falling in love with each other. Momma would go on and on about how beautiful this is for hours. And we would listen. Listen till our senses gave out and we fell asleep. -----“Music is a language we will never completely decipher. It existed before us and will exist forever.” Momma muttered while teaching us how to dance. “One-twothree, one-two-three.” How meaningless Jacob thought this was. -----This is new to the church people. You can hear them uttering their confusion under their breaths. They have no idea how to respond to this. -----“Ta-ta-ta, Ta-ta-ta.” -----My legs follow the basic steps of waltz. I don’t think. I just move. As automatic as Momma said it must be. To let it pour out of my soul, as a way to feel, to communicate, to declare. It’s the same with every ballroom dance. -----If I wanted to learn, all I needed to do was follow Mary. When my sister dances, the world disappears around her. She puts her very being into it. You know what she has to tell you, what she’s thinking of. You know how she feels. -----The tear running down the side of her cheek also says a lot. -----“Ta-ta-ta, Ta-ta-ta.” -----Mary recalls Momma teaching us tango. Even though the steps looked easy enough to follow, I’d still mess up with every try. But the stakes were high. Promises of an upcoming surprise came out of Momma’s mouth every time my face hit the floor under Mary’s feet. The memory of my continuous failures makes my sister’s lips move into a half-moon shape. -----A surprise waiting for us, when we both mastered tango. And a week later, that surprise turned out to be a visit to Momma’s friend John, the tailor. John’s store was something you’d only read in books. Classy old furniture decorated the place, a big pendulum

H A R R Y

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pendulum clock with Latin numbers hung on the wall and everything was made out of polished wood. John served coffee in porcelain cups that probably come to life when no one’s around. -----At Momma’s request, John took our measurements, tried different kinds of fabric on us, chose the appropriate colors, made some notes and said everything would be ready in about a week or two, depending on his schedule. Momma sobbed with delight watching us enjoying the procedure and never thought back on the money she spent. -----Memories of not that long ago, together with the lost and found. -----If only some of those people squirming in their seats had the slightest idea. God knows this is all just a big misunderstanding. Only a sad person can mistake love for idiocy. -----The song hits its first crescendo and shuts everything out. People murmuring out of

sheer

awkwardness

unable

grasp

the

situation,

the

priest

and

chanters

contemplating how to put a stop to this, they all vanish. The house of God is now a ballroom and we’re the dancers that showed up first. -----This is not some kind of disrespect. It’s an actual cry for help. -----“Let your dancing compensate for the words you cannot phrase,” Momma would shout as we foxtrotted in the living room. “Let your body speak for you.” -----The chants start again as a response to our visual presentation of an emotional breakdown, but the acoustics in the room favor our speakers. -----A voice comes from the right wing of the chapel, the men’s section, as an old man yells “What is this?” -----“What is this?” Jacob yelled when he saw us in classy apparel. A deadbeat drunk still holding his keys because he couldn’t find his front pocket. “I rehlly hope you fish’t the moneh for all this out of yar ass”, quite the poet. -----Momma didn’t even lose her smile. Her eyes all red shedding tears of joy, picturing us as adults dancing carefree, she stared at us, almost ignorant of her abortion-of-a-husband’s return.

H A R R Y

N I L L

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-----“Who are these kids?” a middle-aged woman barks from the back of the nave. -----Half-wits. Imbeciles. Simpletons. We are black sheep and need to be exiled from God’s special barn. -----“Should we stop them?” a chanter whispers through his mic to another. -----“Love will prevail as long as you continue loving,” was the first thing Momma hummed at Jacob’s fit, still teaching, advising, still smiling. -----Jacob only lit a cigarette and raised an eyebrow. “I’m drunk asshit but ya’ve lost it.” -----On the harsh, stepped on a million times carpet, our waltz is nearing perfection, but not because of a change of pace in the box step. As the song transcends back to a lower volume, as our bodies synchronize for a Hover Corte, our gazes watery, all emotion pours out, helplessly trying to touch at least one person in the room. -----Our observers don’t speak. They’ve gone silent again. They know nothing. -----They feel nothing. Seems familiar. -----“Hope over despair. Love over hate. Nothing as important,” Momma said under her blank gaze, half to Jacob, half to us. -----Mary and I didn’t move. We just stared back and forth, still locked in a pasodoble position. Smoke coming out of his wind pipes, Jacob coughed “Ye preachin’s fun and all, but the only love yer going to be givin’ is whorin’ to ehrn muh money back, bitch.” -----Wasted. -----Momma would say Jacob fell victim to the failure of modern capitalism. Once insurance companies refused to pay for his mother’s hospital expenses, he picked up the bottle and held it tight. -----Jacob only became a sack of shit after he lost his mother. Ain’t that a shame. -----Our so-called stepdad sat on the couch, rested his head on the wall behind him and lowered his eyelids. Trying to suck what smoke was left for him to suck, he lit another match. -----“Stop…” says a man in his 20s now, not sure whether he should be polite or not.

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“What… Stop…” We know what he means. -----Jacob tried to focus on the flame. A move so soft and calm, he threw the burning match on Mary’s skirt. The silk fibers started curling up, black, emitting smoke. The smell of burnt hair choked Mary’s scream. -----As if on cue, Momma looked at me and leaped ahead to stop Jacob from standing up. “BASTARD!” she barked in his face as I wrapped my coat around Mary’s waist to put out the fire. -----Doga leads our bodies towards a fleckerl and the auditorium towards us. People stand and voices surround us, trying to shut out the noise of the music player. -----“Please, stop.” -----“This is the house of God.” -----“Turn the damn music off!” a teenage girl among the crowd yells. -----It’s the same thing Jacob yelled when he took hold of Momma’s wrists. The headbutt that broke Momma’s nose came right after. -----His eyes the same color as the fluids sprayed by Momma’s nostrils, he went in for a slap. “Cunt,” he whispered as he missed. -----Α moment of silence. -----Mary’s burning thighs fell to the floor and I tried to calm her down. “Remember Peter Pan, Mary? Remember how fearless he was?” -----Momma turned to face her daughter. -----Before she could say anything, she received his rebound slap. Jacob pulled at her hair and made her look at him. Momma shouted “Mary—” -----And Jacob bashed her head on the wall behind him. He shoved Momma forward and let her body drop to the floor to make a crimson puddle. -----“What is happening right now?” says the yellow-bearded priest. -----As the fabric around Mary’s legs stopped burning, Jacob stood up. -----“What do we do?” says an old guy in sweatpants. -----Momma’s body spasmed and fell stiff. Jacob’s hands were trembling and his cigarette fell to the floor. “No—” he made a move to reach her.

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-----And now, a little black book bearing the title ‘New Testament’ gets thrown between my and Mary’s wet faces. -----The same way I threw myself on Jacob, as he approached Momma’s motionless body. -----The same way those people now throw themselves at us and grab us by the arms. -----Jacob was crying too. -----Someone kicks the CD player to oblivion just as the song is about to end. There’s no room for order now. No maestro to lead. No place for sympathy. Only chaos. -----My fists pounded at Jacob’s face. Little Mary could do nothing but stare. -----Another teenage girl pulls my sister away from me. I try to yell but a knee hits my stomach. -----Punching someone in the face can really mess up your hand, even when they’re not resisting. -----A chanter slaps Mary across the face and tells her to stop whining. -----“Dear Father up—” she lips before they stuff communion bread down her throat. -----A knuckle hits my chin sideways the same way I broke Jacob’s jaw, and I bite my tongue. -----Blood of the martyr. -----A punch lashes at me and stretches out my jacket. -----And another. -----And another. -----“REPENT!” yells a chanter. -----An elbow between my eyes. -----An oxford on Jacob’s nose. -----A pull at my hair. -----A wet clobbering at Jacob’s chest. -----The past repeating itself.

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-----People splash Mary with holy water and empty the chalice on her braided scalp. The priest reads some Bible verse out loud. Respectful members of our society, Christians promised of heaven, good Samaritans and God’s children stretch our arms wide open and scream. -----“Blasphemous brats!” -----“Damned souls!” -----“Assholes!” -----Slaps and curses echo against the Templon with Christ the pantocrator being the only witness. -----Jacob fell unconscious long before I stopped hitting him. Little Mary had to drag me away and, silent, she hugged me. -----I pull my arms through the tears in my jacket and break free when all hands shove me to the floor. Raising my head to look at Mary’s crucifixion, a sport shoe meets my face. Two of my teeth escape from my mouth, the same way we ran out our front door an hour ago, CD player in our hands, to come here in search of love. -----Momma would always say how church should be the ‘House of Love’, not God. Having just wrecked Jacob’s face, it seemed as our only hope. -----“Impious fucking children.” -----Mary screams as men and women pull at her braids and kick my abdomen. -----Mouth sprays blood and vision goes blurry. -----Lambs of God letting their love explode through their fists and thrusts. Showing they care by cussing away all that’s bad. -----Rereading only led them to misunderstandings. -----“...they will be consigned to the fiery lake of burning sulfur,” the priest reads aloud before he spits on my face. -----False faith and make-believe compassion. -----“...and throw them into the blazing furnace, where there will be weeping and gnashing of teeth,” a chanter sings, clenching Mary’s jaw between his fingers. -----Persuaded they follow a sacred mission. Saving their temple from desecration.

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-----All that was asked of them was love, but hate and agony was all they had to offer. -----“They will go away to eternal punishment, but the righteous to eternal life,” the righteous yell in unison as their kicks hurt my spine. -----And another. -----“Shitty devil-spawns,” an old woman barks. -----And another. -----Someone throws a little wooden cross which hits my forehead. -----And another. -----The voices around me blend with my sister’s cries as the colorful windows blind me with sunlight. -----Something rough and edgy crashes my shoulder as my knees fold to my chest. -----Indiscernible screams ring inside my head while I gulp down what blood is left inside my mouth. -----God has abandoned us, pressed the self-destruct button and sat back waiting. -----A small body falls on me and stays curled up around me. Everything would fade out if it wasn’t for my breaking bones keeping me awake. -----“Bart!” Mary screams into my ear. -----What god wouldn’t help a boy stand up to protect his sister? -----Eternal fiery pain and suffering. -----And then the beating stops. -----Everyone turns and faces the open Royal Doors. -----“What are you—” stutters the blue blurry figure across the nave before the lights go out. —

I wake up sitting on a black plastic chair. Even blinking hurts. With a blanket wrapped loosely around me, I try to swallow. -----“Sweetie, please, tell us what happened,” is the first thing I hear as I notice Mary

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Mary sitting in an identical chair in front of me. -----At the sound of my gulping, both my sister and the police officer sitting behind the desk next to me throw their gazes at me. -----My sad excuse for a brother. -----“How’re you feelin’ kid?” the officer asks in-between bewilderment and pity. Everyone else in the room shares the feeling. Policemen nod to one another, averting their eyes from the unfortunate siblings God forgot to redeem. -----Mary pushes against the chair handles and stands up. -----And I know I’ve let her down. -----“Not much of a talker either, huh?” the officer responds to my lack of reaction, looking at his colleagues. -----Mary makes a step forward. -----“You should thank your neighbor’s cat for venturing into your apartment like that,” the officer remarks. “Hadn’t they called us once the animal returned soaked in blood we wouldn’ve been able to track you down to that church.” -----Mary limps closer. She’s only a breath away now. -----And the impossible becomes a possibility. -----Policemen around the office observe silently as little Mary tilts her head to the right, her childish features hidden behind layers of loss and pain. All, except for a half-moon line under her nose. -----Like seeing Momma smile once again. -----What I don’t seem to find the strength to do, is what Mary does for me. -----Mary never lost faith. -----My sister extends her arm towards me, opening her palm, reaching for mine. Her feet are in place for the box step. -----It’s all I need to get me going.

F A I R L E Y L L O Y D Fairley Lloyd (she/her) is a bisexual writer with a BFA in creative writing and publishing certificate from the University of North Carolina Wilmington. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Armonia Magazine, Outlander Magazine, Press Pause Press, and elsewhere. In her free time, she enjoys reading, drawing, crafting, and anything creative.

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C O M M O N

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S E N S E

To say I hated the people at my high school would be an understatement. -----I sat in the amphitheater with two classmates, Maxie McAllister and Ashlyn Abbot. Like the rest of the jerks at school, they argued about nothing for no reason. But I chose Maxie and Ashlyn as friends out of necessity. Attending a private school with less than 50 students limited my friendship options, and Maxie and Ashlyn struck me as the least annoying people. -----Unfortunately, they hated each other’s guts. And they never failed to remind me of that. -----“Who dressed you this morning, Maxie?” Ashlyn said. -----I glanced from my textbook to Maxie’s outfit. She wore a short-sleeved black and white jumper with black boots. -----“What’s your damage?” Maxie snapped. -----“You look like a zebra!” said Ashlyn. -----“I like her outfit,” I said. -----They both glanced at me before glaring back at each other. -----“You’re one to talk about how I dress,” Maxie said. “You come to school in sweatpants every day!” -----“Sweatpants are comfortable!” Ashlyn protested. “You, on the other hand, can’t help but overdress!” -----Maxie and Ashlyn claimed to be friends, but that term didn’t accurately describe their relationship. -----“My outfits are gorgeous!” Maxie said. “In fact, I’m starting a petition to make my look the new school uniform!” -----“Why do you even want a dress code?” Ashlyn asked. “Not all of us want to dress ugly!” -----“Why would you say that?” I asked.

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-----Ashlyn ignored me. -----“You have no self-respect, Maxie,” she went on. “I don’t know why I even bother with you.” -----“I have a lot of self-respect,” Maxie said, “which is more than I can say for you!” -----“Maxie!” I exclaimed. -----“Stay out of it, Sutton!” she snapped. -----“Yeah!” Ashlyn said. “Unlike Maxie, you have common sense!” -----Maxie’s mouth fell open. -----“How dare you! I can’t believe you just said that to me!” -----“It’s the truth,” Ashlyn said. -----“Stop it!” I shouted. -----“I can’t believe you just said that!” Maxie gaped. “You have the least amount of common sense of anyone I’ve ever met!” -----“Very clever,” said Ashlyn, “throwing my words back at me. What, you can’t come up with your own comeback?” -----Maxie spat at Ashlyn’s feet. -----“You’re such an idiot!” she snapped. -----“Really,” said Ashlyn. “What does that make you, then?” -----“That doesn’t make any sense!” -----“This argument makes no sense!” I said. -----“I told you to stay out of it, Sutton!” Ashlyn snapped. -----“No!” Maxie interrupted. “I told her to stay out of it.” -----“Who cares who said it?” I said. -----“You’re so pathetic!” Ashlyn yelled at Maxie. -----“You’re pathetic!” Maxie shot back. -----“I hate you!” -----“I hate you!” -----“Go to hell!” Ashlyn screeched.

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-----Maxie made a gesture at Ashlyn that got us sent to the principalâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s office. I didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t do anything, but the principal named me guilty by association. Once again, I was at the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong people. -----It was time to find new friends.

V E N U S N O I R R E Venus Noirre is a Black, queer sex worker and writer currently living on the Lekwungen and W̱SÁNEĆ territories (Victoria, BC Canada). After many years working as a community art organizer and in communications, this fluffy Dom has decided to publish her stories and is currently working on her first book; sharing stories about being fat, Black and a Dominatrix.

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M Y

N O I R R E

B E S T

P R O S E

V A L E N T I N E

I’ll never forget the first time I met her. She was wearing this beautiful blue satin dress that hugged every single one of her curves. She was so stunning that I couldn’t help but tell her how amazing she looked in the dress. She stopped, looked me right in the eyes and thanked me. I was coming into my favourite bar and she was on her way out. I got to my usual seat at the bar and was greeted by my favourite bartender. “Happy Valentines’ day and I’m so happy that we get to spend it together,” he said. I giggled not only because I’d forgotten but because I was feeling magical. -----I ate some mushrooms just before leaving my place. Since I didn’t have a valentine, I wanted my evening to sparkle just a little. Feeling the snug embrace of my most preferred psychedelics, I was starting to feel good, warm and happy that I came out. As I was enjoying my sparkle, I looked to my left and saw the woman who made my heart drop standing right next to me. Feeling brave, I shouted to her “I thought you left”. She smiled right at me and in the sexiest way (it might’ve been the shrooms adding to her mystique), she replied that she hadn’t left. She was here with someone and the evening wasn’t going well. Since it was Vday, I assumed that she was here with her boyfriend. She assured me, again with another killer smile, that she didn’t have a boyfriend. He was just a friend. -----She pulled the stool next to me and she asked for my name. I happily gave it to her and we started to talk; about nothing, dating and everything. I asked her if I could buy her a drink and she accepted. This entire time, I was staring at her skin. Her brown complexion glowing under the dim lights and candles that were packed on the bar for Valentine’s day. As we’re talking and sharing, we’re approached by someone that recognizes us very well, another patron called Adam. Now, Adam and I have a shaky history. He tried to ask me out but flailed at every chance. Being the person that I am, I told him that I had zero interest in his inconsistencies. We deaded the issue before it became something else, where one of us had to find a new bar. As

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Adam makes his way towards us, I slowly realize that he’s meeting my new crush for drinks. I greet him and she asks if we know each other. To which we both politely say yes, while wearing the fake smile reserved for in-laws and the mother that you never call because she’s insane. -----It’s also then that I realize that there is some sort of situationship going on that has nothing to do with me. It’s at that precise moment that I decided to shoot my shot. I ask her if she’s ever dated women before, while Adam just stands there ruining the moment with his gaping mouth. She tells me that she’s never really dated women but she’s had sexual relationships with them. I realize that this may be moving fast but it’s just that I wasn’t born with patience or tact. I tell her that I would love to take her out on a date and that we should exchange phone numbers. Adam seems to be confused by the events unfolding in front of him. It should be noted

that

Adam

immensely

religious

and

has

“difficulties”

understanding

homosexuality. -----Adam was raised a little differently than most of the people he befriended or dated. I knew Adam and didn’t suspect that he was a religious nut and I mean that in the nicest way possible. He kept his religious opinions to himself until by some random conversation, I told him that I was bisexual. I could see his mind and his pulse racing. He also looked very confused, as if I was the first black, bisexual woman he’d ever met, and turns out that I was right. As an African man, I don’t think he’d been around too many queer people. And that thought was also confirmed when he felt the need to tell me that homosexuality was a sin. I don’t think that Adam ever saw me as a woman that he’d like to fuck, but more as someone he could no longer connect with. Wanna hear the worst part? He works at my local bank and he still likes to pretend that he doesn't see me. I don’t want to see you either Adam, and thank fuck for masks. -----I know that it may appear as if I’m condoning what might be perceived as homophobia.

queer

black

woman,

can’t

that.

Not

because

internalized homophobia, as a lot of us queers have wrestled with at one time or another,

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another, but because Adam grew up in a country where homosexuality can get you killed. I can’t say that he’s not homophobic but I can say that I’ve noticed a real effort to understand homosexuality in the context of westernized society, such as Canada. -----As Adam looks on, we make plans to call each other and go on a date. She leaves for another table with him and I can hear them arguing. Arguing about me, arguing about the fact that he didn’t know that she liked women. The insecurities that I may have exposed with my cavalier flirting, were flying off the table like hot wings at a SuperBowl party. I honestly patted myself on the back, not only for approaching a beautiful woman but also for having the confidence of a mediocre white man and not letting another man stand in my way. -----There is a lie that I tell myself. A lie that I’ve started to believe: whatever anxiety or nervousness I’m feeling, I tell it to fuck right off. Men have been moving on this earth, with literally a rock, a prayer and a dream. They don’t seem to be concerned about anything or anyone being out of their league. We as women/nonmen/NB folks might not want to steal the whole playbook but we can apply some of the plays to our lives (I’m a football coach all of a sudden). I’ve become the person in my corner, and I’m terrified half the time. What terrifies me more is thinking and believing that my day will eventually come. That after years of rejection and utter bullshit, the universe will have mercy on my mortal soul and grant me half a wish for my troubles. Which to me feels like leaving a lot up to chance and I don’t like that. -----Why can’t I just grab what I want and the opportunities that will get me there? Why can’t I fake it till I make it? Why is it that as a woman, I have to wait for my turn? Do you know who’s not waiting for his freaking turn? The Bobs of the world. They’re out there lying on resumes and getting raises simply by asking for them and they’ve gone around and convinced incredibly smart people to marry them. The world doesn’t need any more Bobs but more of you, of us. With opportunities at your feet, have the courage to take a chance on yourself.

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W I R E S

M A G A Z I N E

B R A N D I S P E R I N G Brandi Spering has a BFA in Creative Writing from Pratt Institute. She currently resides in South Philadelphia where she writes, sews, and paints. Favoring nonfiction and poetry above else, her writing tends to sway between both, carrying a little over each time. Speringâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s first book, This I Can Tell You, is forthcoming from Perennial Press, winter 2021. Other works can be found in super / natural: art and fiction for the future, Schuylkill Valley Journal, Artblog, and Stardust Magazine.

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R E V I E W What to Read When Your Edges Fuzz: A Review of Schuyler Peck’s To Hold Your Moss-Covered Heart

Schuyler Peck’s To Hold Your Moss-Covered Heart, is an ephemeral stream, traversing through cycles such as loss and recovery. Grounded through courses of nature, each poem is a meditation—an exploration to find and sustain wellness. Intention and energy are embedded through each poem as Peck provides a balance between specifics and space for the reader to project their own resonations. -----It is easy to picture oneself surrounded by pine trees, sipping “Hazelnut sin” as mentioned

Madison

County,

Peck

stylistically

embeds

patterns

within

imagery. In the previous poem, Catch Me in Your Local Wal-Mart, Covered in Dog Hair, it is established that holiness is equated with happiness, but the speaker is “nothing but sin.” It is implied that sadness is sin, which reflects how a certain state of mind can be belittled, and how it is easy to feel guilt for not being happy— especially with societal pressures. Madison County continues, “My church leader won’t use the word depression. / He suggests I sign up for a gym membership, you know, / to get the endorphins going. / I want to disappear the way water escapes from cupped hands.” -----Peck carries a lightness through her poetry, even when the subject matter conveys a heaviness. “Some people may call this rotting, / like I am a head of lettuce / left too long in the

crisper. / I feel my edges start to fuzz, / start to blue,

but I am too tired to stop it,” (After My Neighbor Catches Me Wearing Two-Week Old Sweatpants). Applying these emotions to an object that is unanimated—yet still a form of life with an expiration date—creates a more tangible representation that furthers the point. The third poem within the collection, Making Rent, mentions “Kneading dough through sticky hands.” Cooking analogies rise throughout the xxx

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book, reflecting procession and dedication, an action that will carry a result. These recipes are another landscape that Peck paints, representing a sense of home and the intention that love is being evenly disbursed like the ingredients of a cheesecake— “Graham Cracker crust / One stick of butter / Two pairs of tangled legs” (To Adore You, Vol II). -----Each poem can stand on its own but together they paint a narrative, seamlessly transitioning into the next. Although these poems do not necessarily follow a chronological order, there are clear points of rising action and climax. Toward the end of the collection, in On Wishing My Abuser Well, Part II, there is a clear sense of restoration, especially in terms of self care – forgiving self, and a clear take-back of power. “My forgiveness belonged to me.” The reader is consistently reminded that “good things require care,” (The People I Know) and often discusses how perceptions can be reformatted. “I am scrapbooking the good in humanity, the / little visions of light, and saving it when everything goes dark.” -----In To Hold Your Moss-Covered Heart, Peck emulates the purpose of moss as she lends a mold for the reader to find malleable. Aspects of nature are sewn throughout

the

collection—

almost

the

style

intertext—as

environmental

features act as a constant point of reference. Paired with witty titles, these poems have a layer of vulnerability as well as control. To Hold Your Moss-Covered Heart is recuperative, a must-read.

S P E C I A L T H A N K S To all our wonderful contributors: Laura Turner, Jaya Sudhakar,

Mitchell

Solomon,

Shivi

Dixit,

Sam

McCullough, Zoe Cunniffe, Janette Ostle, Rebecca Lee, Harry

Nill,

Fairley

Lloyd,

Venus

Noirre

and

Brandi

Spering. Thank you for choosing Under The Wires as a home for your pieces.

Alycia

Dalfonsi,

aka

TACKY

TYPE

GURL

(Instagram: @tackytypegurl), for creating our beautiful logo.

To all my new team members, who I am so excited to work with on Issue Two. Special thanks also to Rae Quinn, who copy-edited a piece for this Issue.

issue two coming soon submissions open

Under The Wires Magazine

Instagram: @underthewires_mag Twitter: @UnderTheWiresUK Email: underthewiresmag@gmail.com

www.underthewires.com

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2 0 2 1

Under The Wires is an online arts & literary magazine created to platform new writing and new voices. We are committed to producing a series of quality anthologies, published quarterly, which showcase the best new creative writing.

Brimstone is our first publication. This anthology brings together 20 pieces from 12 contributors. It features the work of Laura Turner, Jaya Sudhakar, Mitchell Solomon, Shivi Dixit, Sam McCullough, Zoe Cunniffe, Janette Ostle, Rebecca Lee, Harry Nill, Fairley Lloyd, Venus Noirre and Brandi Spering.

www.underthewires.com

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