Jordan Ranft

THE WORMS IN MY BRAIN GIVE ME LINE EDITS by Jordan Ranft

cicadas have exoskeletons not skin. they shed them like scaffolding

not minutes

life would be the same if you could crumple your paper bones

dawns break like eggs not news. there is a new one growing warmer

you won’t outlast it

you meant to say cottage

lure the gaze towards its own agony

too esoteric

the surface of the pond stills to hold the moon, a lover, in its mouth.

can a stronger metaphor be established between this and the egg?

how many eggs can fit in a mouth? does it matter if they break?

how do you hold your lover?

cicadas shed their bones and sing from the crown. A crown is

what you call the top of an oak tree. young cicadas burrow inches

into the dirt and feed on roots. roots are not inverse of crowns.

this image isn’t rooted in anything

A CYBORG’S BODY DYSMORPHIA by Bryanna Shaw

In June of this year, I had a surgery to implant an intrathecal morphine pump, a surgery I’d been

anticipating for years- my last resort at pain management after a long and fruitless series of failed drugs and

procedures. In layman’s terms, the pump is a hockey-puck-sized tank full of liquid morphine that sits under the

skin near my belly button, between flesh and muscle. It sends micro-doses of medication through a catheter that

winds around my abdomen, into my spine, and up directly through my spinal cord. If that sounds freaky to you,

that’s probably because frankly, it is. It is a marvel of modern medicine, unimaginable even a few decades ago.

This surgery is performed only as an absolute last option for severe chronic pain, and very seldom on a patient as

young as I am.

The incision scars themselves are fine, just standard-issue scars; a five-inch-long slice across my

abdomen, and a four-inch-long cut down my lower back. The scars look hardcore, and I don’t resent their

presence. It is the pump itself, however, that is, as I’ve been told, kind of hard to look at. After the two-hour long

procedure, I woke up to discover my new body, significantly altered. In the reliably poetic words of my brother,

it looks like “I shoplifted a tin of chewing tobacco and decided to just hide it under my skin.” I look down now

at a body that, overnight, stopped looking like mine. I now have $60,000 worth of machinery marring what used

to be smooth, velvet skin (yes, you read that number correctly). The device protrudes from my belly, far enough

to be unconcealable by most of my clothing, far enough for acquaintances to gleefully ask “how far along” I am.

I’ve gained weight as a medication side-effect, and the thin layer of fat in the area, now evicted by the new

tenant, sidles up awkwardly against its new neighbor, collecting in rolls and patches, unsure of where it’s

supposed to rest. I’ve replaced nearly all my clothes, embarrassed to wear anything that I once would have

considered flattering, opting only for loose and shapeless silhouettes. Looking at my body in the mirror, more

often than not these days, prompts the question: what the fuck have you done?

Feeling disconnected from this body is nothing new. When you’re living with severe chronic pain, the

kind that makes you wish you’d just drop dead instead of enduring even one more minute with it, you learn to

is actively, violently, perpetually trying to kill you. So, you learn to pretend it’s not yours. You become an

amorphous spirit, floating through the world somehow connected to a pair of very sensible footwear. You’re not

overly attached to your body because you’ve convinced yourself that it isn’t you.

My body image has been affected by my “invisible” disability since early childhood. Starting at age

eight, I was barraged with daily, hourly attempts to correct my terrible posture, a result of painful scoliosis. I

became the subject of candid photos, taken with the intent to shock and horrify me, to force me to see how

“awful” I really looked when I was slouched over. I never learned to stand up straight because, unsurprisingly,

attempts to forcibly straighten out my twisted bones were agonizing; shame and sheer force of will proved to be

no more successful than bracing or physical therapy. After decades of effort, all those incessant reminders led to

no tangible benefits, leaving me only with a small voice in the back of my head reminding me that the only

natural, somewhat comfortable way I am able to carry myself upright is visually upsetting to the people around

me. People have poked fun at the way I walk for just as long; for the way my hips snap back and forth instead of

gliding smoothly, for the way my knees move with bicycle-peddling movements to overcompensate for how far

they bend in the wrong direction, for the way my severely pronated feet deform my ankles and knees. Writing

out these criticisms makes me ache for the young version of myself who was subjected to them, but ultimately, I

have long since made my peace with these particular issues. Perhaps it’s because I’ve lived with them for more

than 20 years and I’ve just gotten used to them, and these specific idiosyncrasies have been a part of me for

almost as long as I’ve been a conscious person. Their ubiquitousness in my life kept them from burdening my

self-image in any major way.

Up until this surgery, though I prayed for a miracle to untether me from my flesh prison, I was never

afraid to look at myself in the mirror. I used to model in bikinis on occasion, so clearly, I was comfortable with

being seen, even relished it. I look at those pictures now, though, with such deep melancholy. That body that I

had always taken for granted is gone, absolutely irretrievable, now hacked up and cyborg-ified. It feels like my

body was cut down in the prime of its “hotness;” I’m not even thirty, but I’ll probably never be comfortable

I will have this device, in theory, for the rest of my life, requiring follow-up surgeries every five years to

replace the batteries. Perhaps my wizened octogenarian self will have made peace with the device or will be long

past caring about the way my abdomen looks. If the device works, the loss of aesthetics would be a very minor

tradeoff. As it stands now, though, six months out from surgery, the pump is not decreasing my pain at all; the

device simply feels like a burden, a high-tech albatross. Surely, hopefully, mercifully, the pump will start

working the magic I was promised, and with my newfound freedom, I’ll be grateful for all the scars, bumps, and

lumps. And surely, hopefully, mercifully, that day will come soon, and I will learn to show kindness to this new

cyborg body.

CIGARSOFTHEPHA by Amos Leager

TWO FLASH TV REVIEW-ESSAYS by Demitra Olague

THE INDESCRIBABLE CATHARSIS THAT IS MY MISTER

My Mister is a 16 episode 2018 Korean drama starring Lee Sun Gyun and IU alongside an ensemble cast.

Park Dong-hoon (Lee Sun Gyun) is a middle aged engineer who is going through the motions of life. His friends lost their promising careers, his brothers are stuck at home and forced to take over a cleaning business, and his wife is secretly having an affair with the man he hates most, his boss and college junior Do Joon Young (Kim Young-min). As the only hope left amongst his immediate social circle Park Dong-hoon is stuck spending his days in silent misery.

After an anonymous package lands on his desk, he gets mixed up with a temporary worker named Lee Ji-Ahn (IU) and is investigated for bribery. Lee Ji-Ahn is also barely living life herself. At a young age she was abandoned by her mother who left her with an enormous amount of debt. She is the primary caregiver for her disabled grandmother, she gets physically harassed by a loan shark and her past is constantly thrown in her face. With nothing left to lose Lee Ji-Ahn offers to help CEO Do Joon Young fire Park Dong-hoon in exchange for the money to pay off her debt.

What seems like an easy job at first becomes a journey into Lee Ji-Ahn’s humanity, Park Dong-hoon’s steps towards happiness and their unexplainable relationship.

six. However, I believe this is intentional. My Mister for all intents and purposes is a slow moving slice of life drama with some fantastical elements. It is heavy and it sneaks up on you.

The relationship between Park Dong-hoon and Lee Ji-Ahn is indescribable. They never cross into a romance, they stay in a platonic state. Misery loves company defines how the two of them begin to interact.

Park Dong-hoon has forgotten how to be happy, he’s lost his ambition, his desire to live. Lee Ji-Ahn has never been shown kindness, at least not for very long. She expects people to fear her, mistreat her and even disregard her as a human. The two barely cross paths despite working relatively close to each other until Park Dong-hoon’s lively hood is under threat. Park Dong-hoon doesn’t take a liking to Lee Ji-Ahn right away, instead he’s simply desperate for her to clear his name. When Lee Ji-Ahn plans to get Park Dong-hoon fired, their relationship slowly creates a shift inside them.

In the early episodes Park Dong-hoon constantly harasses her to admit she took the bribe money for herself. Lee Ji-Ahn simply responds by telling him she threw the money away and in turn her actions inadvertently help his case. As a form of thanks when Lee Ji-Ahn asks Park Dong-hoon to buy her food he doesn’t reject her. This exchange leads to a series of others where they eventually grow closer. The two almost silently recognize each other's own misery. In a way it is this ability to see one another that sparks hope in them despite their words stating the opposite.

As the story progresses Lee Ji-Ahn ends up loving him, something Park Dong-hoon never reciprocates. She begins to see life through his eyes, his kindness to her rarely falters in fact it devastates her and asks her to take his side against Do Joon Young. When she ultimately does, she sacrifices her own found freedom for his happiness.

By the end the two pitiful souls find a way through their misery onto a new life where they promise to be happy.

My Mister is not a show for the unseasoned K-Drama watcher. It demands the right mood, the right atmosphere and overall the right timing. You can’t just jump into it because you won’t like it let alone appreciate it. Lee Ji-Ahn may not be a sympathetic character for many at first but you should let her be. Park Dong-hoon is perhaps too real for some of us. He is a reflection of the fears we hold due to the weight of success and societal obligations. In a lot of ways My Mister asks you to confront those very fears if you choose to watch it.

My Mister is often referred to as a healing drama. However, in my opinion it is a cathartic one. At its best it will leave you in tears begging you to ease up on yourself and truly live life. At the minimum it’ll remind you shit is hard but the hardship is not everlasting.

THE PERFECT MIX-UP: BOYS’ LOVE AND ROM-COMS

Kieta Hatsukoi also known by its English title My Love Mix-Up! is a Japanese Boys Love or BL drama adapted from the manga by Wataru Hinekure and illustrated by Aruko. My Love Mix-Up! aired in the final months of 2021, starting from Oct. 9th and ending on Dec. 18th. The show consists of ten episodes with a runtime of just over twenty minutes each. It stars Shunsuke Michieda and Ren Meguro as the main couple, Sota Aoki and Kosuke Ida. Riko Fukumoto and Jin Suzuki also round out the cast as supporting characters, Mio Hashimoto and Hayato Aida. A year after its original transmission and my initial viewing of the show, My Love Mix-Up! Found its way back to me during a drama slump.

The story is about a high school student Aoki (Michieda) who finds himself in a bit of a bind. During an exam Aoki borrows an eraser from his crush Hashimoto (Fukumoto). At first his heart flutters and the memories of Hashimoto’s previous generosity flood his mind. When he finally looks at the eraser more closely he finds another classmate's name scribbled on it, Ida (Meguro). Shocked Aoki assesses the new information and mistakenly drops the eraser right next to Ida. The situation gradually escalates with Ida now left under the impression Aoki likes him. Afraid exposing Hashimoto as the true culprit of love would embarrass her, Aoki lies. He pretends to like Ida until he can clear the air during lunch. From one love mix-up to the next Aoki and Ida find themselves exploring their identities and turning a lie into reality.

Rewatching it their early interactions hit a deeper cord within me. Ida initially rejects Aoki; he’s flattered but not open to anything. It’s in the moments that follow the rejection where Aoki’s behavior is seen as genuine heart ache over Ida. This misinterpretation on Ida’s part accepts Aoki’s “feelings” as being serious enough to warrant reconsideration. The weight of this otherwise small gesture is even more significant in the grand scheme of

things.

Ida didn’t need to rethink his decision; Aoki didn’t pressure him too. Ida chooses to give Aoki’s crush more thought. Ida’s change of heart shows the audience why someone would be drawn to him and why Aoki falls for him in the end.

The impact of Ida’s turn around and Aoki’s empathy for others has left a lasting impression on me. Something I hadn’t appreciated when I originally watched My Love Mix Up! Furthermore this time around Aoki’s straight best friend Aida (Suzuki) is more likable despite his inability to read the room. He learns about Aoki’s dilemma then pushes him to resolve it. An action which leads to more confusion as Aoki begins to want Ida to like him back. There’s a bit in the early episodes where Aida wears a detective hat but is clearly unable to figure out why Aoki isn’t instantly relieved when he tells Ida the truth about the eraser. Hashimoto has to step in to knock some sense into him, literally, and Aida offers Aoki an apology for his insensitivity. In fact he encourages Aoki to pursue Ida letting him know their friendship wouldn’t change.

Hashimoto herself shows her support for Aoki’s feelings towards Ida the second he confesses them to her. She reassures him they’re normal and even if they have to be rivals she’ll cheer him on. Both Hashimoto and Aida were characters I wasn’t fond of when the drama first aired. I saw them not as valuable to the story rather detractors of it. I blame my desire to see Aoki’s true confession to Ida rather than whatever was going on with the straights. This time around Hashimoto and Aida add to the humor, they help cause some of the chaos and are Aoki’s biggest supporters. Yes, there are still moments I may be annoyed with them while recognizing how they can serve as mirrors to Ida and Aoki's relationship.

After Aida’s meddling diverts the main couple from each other they come back together. They aren’t officially in a relationship but they are dating. The innocence of the romance between them is never taken away, instead it matures as they do. The show doesn’t demonize them for exploring or being uncertain. Aoki is allowed to keep their relationship a secret. Not because he’s ashamed of it but because he is afraid of how exposing it will affect Ida. Within the pairing Aoki is the most concerned about the external world while Ida the internal. Ida may not see the need to keep their relationship under wraps but he’s not thinking about the “other” surrounding it. The other in this case refers to his friends, peers and society at large. He is more concerned with figuring out Aoki’s thoughts and internal desires. Ida repeatedly shows up for Aoki the best he can, and vice versa.

One of the most poignant moments for Aoki’s external fears comes around in episode eight. After seeking help with his grades Aoki meets a student teacher who he grows close with. Simultaneously he is stressed about his recent interactions with Ida. The student teacher asks Aoki questions about his personal life in order to connect with him. When Aoki tells him he’s currently seeing someone, the student teacher smiles and teases Aoki. It’s only when Aoki and Ida clear the air the student teacher realizes who Aoki had been talking about. His friendly demeanor quickly turned into prejudice.

Aoki’s disappointment is obvious from the get. The outside world has proven who it is. At first he doesn’t want to make a big deal out of the situation. Later it gets the better of him and Aoki expresses his frustration with the student teacher's ignorance. Embarrassed by his actions the student teacher sticks to the promise he made Aoki before everything had unraveled. The two along with Ida share a celebratory bowl of ramen because Aoki’s grades improved and the student teacher apologizes for his behavior.

By the final stretch of the show Aoki and Ida’s relationship suddenly meets its end. They break up as a result of their inexperience and fears. Ida’s friends find out about their relationship and rather than shy away from it Ida openly claims it. Something Aoki doesn’t seem to be ok with. Most importantly Ida’s initial consideration of Aoki’s feelings becomes his downfall. Ida from Aoki’s point of view behaves more like a friend towards him rather than a boyfriend. This leaves Aoki wondering if Ida is simply being kind to him out of pity rather than true interest. Finally, the cherry on top of everything is Aoki's fear that Ida will be ostracized from his friend

group, most of whom are on the volleyball team with him. The break up is frustrating, however, it exemplifies Aoki and Ida’s behavior as characters and young adults. By the end Ida the internal thinker is forced to express himself in a way he hasn’t. Aoki with his external fears is asked to dismiss the outside world and accept that he and Ida can be together if they want to be. Their realizations ultimately bring them back to each other.

In the show's final moments Ida lets Aoki borrow his eraser before an exam. This time when Aoki uncovers the eraser he finds his name etched in the center. A clear declaration of Ida’s feelings and a nod to the start of their mixed up romance.

My Love Mix Up! was the perfect fix for my drama slump. From its original run to my second viewing, it brought me back to my love of rom-coms. A great pick for anyone looking for something sweet and long lasting.

MAKE YOUR MARK, SET IT ON FIRE, GO by Yvette Chan

Once, I walked with two right shoes, navigated quicksand in an hour under midnight blue—that I can’t do

anymore. Not unlike the ghosts that haunt, I pass through all the worlds my fingers still cling to.

Grime from worn boots grapevine up my jeans, but even then, when the underground rises,

I’ll still hide behind New York’s sewer steams, the rattling manhole covers covering my footsteps as I exit the scene.

The flickering streetlamps sing louder than the thoughts in my head. The wilting begins in the silence that taunts.

And for a moment, disco lights will take a backseat, allowing rainwater puddles to live their fifteen minutes before drying up.

They are fated to be one hit wonders—it’s in their blood.

Like old myths of vampires, I don’t show up on mirrors, so, I’ll zero in on the unseen,

make the most of my transparency, vanish into mist, hope to god that benefits those waiting for water droplets to smear their lips.

I’d watch a bubble bath deflate, wait until it’s lukewarm to bathe.

I’ll fold ten thousand paper cranes and chance a scarring on proper cared skin.

I’d light a cigarette with an iron, bite the butt with pearl teeth, hold my breath,

feel the scorch against my mouth to spit it out and stain the ground.

THE BROKEN SOUL IN MY HOMELAND by Paweł Markiewicz

When I was in the Osuszek-grove for the first time, I was fully grown. I went there on a bike after finding out

about it on the internet, a few years ago. I drove south through my whole town, on the road to Siemiatycze,

along with the place, namely: the little village of Piliki. Osuszek was wrapped in a summer mood. This is a

forest clearing by a 2km long path into the forest, marked as a small memorial site. There Hitler-Germans shot

about 1000 residents of Bielsk Podlaski and the surrounding area during World War II, probably also my late

grandfather's young sister called Leokadia. When I was in Osuszek for the first time, I thought of a story whose

witnesses were only the plaques. An angel of imagination had broken his wing at that time. His eyes caught fire.

In angelic hands there was the gold of melancholic forlornness.

My muses wept. They no longer needed joyful poems, but poetry of tearful chasms into which the

corpses of men, including those of the clergy, fell. There was sadness everywhere. A god was crying. He was

sad for humanity's sake. My homeland was on fire. And my sparks were gone for some moments that hurt. A

spirit of Leokadia left tears that were never meant to be swept away. I was in this clearing briefly, then I came

home.

When I first read about a wartime-labor-camp in Bielsk Podlaski on the Internet, it was an autumn day a

few weeks ago. People had been arrested here, forced to work, murdered and tortured. There were no more

witnesses in the form of walls or buildings. The angel of imagination wept tears again, poetically dark

Apollonian tearlets. His eyes suppressed fire. In the angelic hands there was silver of sad oblivion. My muses

burned like books in Nazi Germany. They no longer need jolly floodplain-like poems, rather gloomy elegies that

are no longer able to enchant the world. The sadness unfolds wings. The god left home again. He was angry

because of human souls. My homeland fell apart for many moments that cried.

A ghost of a forced laborer left behind the tears that could never be swept away. I thought about it for a

long time sitting at home. When I first experienced this, I felt like I was an eternal witness to eastern Calvary.

villa. Such madness as in Wes Craven's movie People Under the Stairs.

TODAY I MISREAD CARBON COUNTY AS CARRION COUNTRY by Rebecca Martin

and even more bugs die audibly against the glass. No eagles. Once we left your home state, the scrub brush, dead hills, and religious billboards persisted, but in a green field deer graze like slender cattle. I want to ask if there is such a thing as a deer farmer. Lick my lips for salt. Touch the velvet shoots poking from their skulls. Touch is like this: in Bliss, Idaho, I used my hands to feel for a release button along the underbelly of an unfamiliar car. In Boise, last night, I dreamt my mother tried to strangle me. Her hands were around my throat. Her sleeves were purple. Why aren’t you scared, she kept asking. The hood popped open and stayed where I asked it to. In Utah, spires cough smoke and RV Worlds stretch out, long and relaxed. The mountains have nowhere to be anyway. When I reached into that humming black ribcage I judged the color of oil. Like honey, we decided. I almost forgot: this is a poem about the red rocks red sand red ants scurrying around my sandals. Of course the stones and views were perfect. I expected the baking sun, but not the silence. Like you, I was the owner of soundless feet and not only soundless feet but a soundless body next to a soundless rock next to soundless red sand. What I thought an enormous crow with a plaintive open beak walked by without a word. I waited for it to say something in a man’s voice, maybe Steve from Budget roadside assistance or my former landlord who told me he’d miss my smiles. Its mouth opened and closed, but nothing ever did come out.

JOURNEY by Sulola, Imran Abiola

CONTRIBUTORS

Ag (he/him/his) is a librarian from Maryland with a Bachelor's degree in English and a Master's degree in Library Science. This is his first published work.

Ololade Akinlabi Ige (he/him) is a Nigerian poet, he was a nominee for Nigerian Writers’ Award, 2017. In 2018, he was shortlisted for Albert Junger Poetry Prize and won Ken Egba Poetry Prize organized by Poet in Nigeria (PIN). His poems have featured in Sabr Literary Magazine, Dissonance Magazine (UK), Voice Journal (USA), Teach. Write (USA), Otherwise Engaged Literature and Engaged Journal (Mexico), Madness Muse Journal (USA), Dyst Literary Journal (Australia), Northern Otter Press Journal (Canada), 2020 anthology (Canada), Knight Literary Magazine (USA), Harbor Review Journal (USA), Minute Magazine (USA); his poems are forthcoming in Poet in Response of Peril Anthology (Canada) and Writers Resist (USA). He can be reached on Facebook and Twitter at Ololade Ige and @Ololadeige1 respectively.

Sylvia Candiote (she/they) is an American-Argentine poet. Drawing on the rich history of Latin American poets, her work explores her childhood in America as well as the intersection of LGBTQ and ethnic identity. She currently resides in Buenos Aires with her cat and fig tree.

Yvette Chan is a poet, screenwriter, and storyboard artist from Hong Kong. Her work seeks to cross boundaries between art forms, often combining visual and aural elements when presenting her writing. She is a First Class graduate of the University of Warwick in English Literature and Creative Writing, and served as head editor of their literary and arts magazine Kamena. She has been published by the borderline, celestite poetry, Tigers Zine with more publications awaiting. Her poem 'One Year Older' was shortlisted by Wells Festival of Literature, Young Poets’ Competition 2021. Twitter: @yve__c. Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/@yvettechan

Jaime Jacques is an itinerant writer who currently calls the east coast of Canada home. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Birdcoat Quarterly, Cagibi, Anti-Heroin Chic, Brazos River Review and others. She is the author of Moon El Salvador and her reporting and travel writing can be found in Salon, NPR, Narratively, and Roads and Kingdoms among others. Find her on Instagram @calamity__jaime.

Rebecca Martin (she/they) creates poetry that centers embodied queer femme experience through the personal, familial, and political, simultaneously in conversation with and troubled by the parameters of history, archive, and myth. Their work has most recently appeared or will appear in Peach Mag, Good Luck Have Fun Press, Muzzle Magazine, DATABLEED, Cotton Xenomorph, Dream Pop Press, Birdcoat Quarterly, Pretty Owl Poetry, and others, and received an Honorable Mention in the 2022 Gulf Coast Poetry Prize. They are a recent graduate of Oregon State University's MFA program, where they were awarded the Graduate Creative Writing Award in Poetry and served as poetry editor for literary magazine 45th Parallel and department steward for their graduate employee union. She currently teaches writing at the University of Pittsburgh.

Jordan Ranft is a writer living in NYC. He has been published in Rust + Moth, Bodega, Midway, and others.

Sulola, Imran Abiola (The Official Sulola, he/she) is a Nigerian phone photographer, poet, public servant, and art enthusiast & a student of the prestigious university of Ibadan with some of their work published in The Quills, Kalopsia Lit Magazine, Lumiere Review, Undivided Magazine, Wondrous Real Magazine, ARTmosterrific, Kaedi Africa, Best Of Africa, Rasa Literary Review, Odd Mag, Macro Magazine, The Roadrunner, Conscio Magazine, Olney Magazine, Lemonspouting Magazine, amongst others. Connect with him via Twitter @official_sulola and Instagram @official_sulola

KJ Hannah Greenberg tilts at social ills and encourages personal evolutions via poetry, prose, and visual art. Her bold, textural, colorful images have appeared in various places, including, but not limited to: Bewildering Stories, Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, Kissing Dynamite, Les Femmes Folles, Mused, Right Hand Pointing, Stone Coast Review, The Academy of the Heart and Mind, The Front Porch Review, Tuck, and Yellow Mama. Additionally, her art is featured alongside of her poetry in One-Handed Pianist (Hekate Publishing, 2021).

Greg Rapier's work has appeared or is forthcoming at places like Dream Pop, The Nervous Breakdown, Five on the Fifth, and Fathom. He has degrees in English and film and is working on his doctorate in creative writing and public theology (Yeah, that’s a thing).

Salena Casha's work has appeared in over 50 publications in the last decade. Her most recent work can be found on Pithead Chapel, Scrawl Place, CLOVES, and trampset. She survives New England winters on good beer and black coffee. Follow her on twitter @salaylay_c

Matt Dube teaches creative writing and American lit at a small mid-Missouri university, and reads submissions for the online lit mag, Craft. His stories have appeared in Construction, Literary Yard, Front Porch, and elsewhere.

Paweł Markiewicz was born 1983 in Siemiatycze in Poland. He is poet who lives in Bielsk Podlaski and writes tender poems, haiku as well as long poems. Pawel was educated in Warsaw (Uni – Laws) and Biała Podlaska (college – German). In 2007 and 2010 he was a participant of Forum Alpbach – the village of thinkers in Austria.

Bryanna Shaw is a disabled writer and editor living in South Florida. Other essays, mostly about disability, can be found on her blog, bryannashaw.com. Her work has also previously been featured in Variety Pack Issue III.

Eleni Stephanides is an LGBTQ bilingual writer and Spanish medical interpreter, Eleni was born, raised, and currently resides in the California Bay Area. Her work has been published in Them, Curve Magazine, Tiny Buddha, The Mighty, Elephant Journal, The Gay and Lesbian Review, and Introvert, Dear among others. She currently writes the monthly column "Queer Girl Q&A" for Out Front Magazine. You can follow her on IG: @eleni_steph_writer and read stories from her time as a rideshare driver at lyfttales.com

Desiree McCullough (she/her) is a creative writing graduate student, copywriter for the odd and provocative, and an occasional substitute teacher when her district is really desperate. She lives with her family in the Walla Walla Valley of Washington State. Find her on Twitter @dmccullough_

Michael Barron (he/him) writes about twins who continually create the world, family squabbles that could end humanity, and roommates who share the same body. His writing also poses the question: what happens to kid magicians when they are forced to grow up and get jobs? His short fiction has appeared in a number of publications, including The Sonora Review, Ink Stains Anthology, and After Dinner Conversation. He is a member of the neurodivergent community, which often influences his writing. He blogs at michaeljbarron.com and you can follow him on Twitter @Barron_Writer.

Shannon Frost Greenstein (she/her) resides in Philadelphia with her children and soulmate. She is the author of These Are a Few of My Least Favorite Things, a full-length book of poetry available from Really Serious Literature, and Pray for Us Sinners, a short story collection with Alien Buddha Press. Shannon is a former Ph.D. candidate in Continental Philosophy and a multi-time Pushcart Prize nominee. Her work has appeared in McSweeney's Internet Tendency, Pithead Chapel, Bending Genres, and elsewhere. Follow Shannon at shannonfrostgreenstein.com or on Twitter at @ShannonFrostGre

the other in her daydreams.