Accidental Summoning, Paris Metro // Ella Grim

before I was told the unspoken rule
about not looking people in the eyes,
you were there on the bench at Oberkampf
a mesh sac of mandarins in your lap
and yes I glanced twice because it was late
the tiles orange and you otherworldly

the doors split open, rush of hydraulics,
and I found a place to lean in the car
and then you were there next to me,
our shoulders knocking with the sways,
like something drawn from an old film
injecting my commute, a dose of allure—
until the train stopped and you, you got off,
just another girl swallowed by the night

---

Ella Grim is a poet, zinester, and activist from Duluth, Minnesota. She is currently a senior at Dartmouth College studying English, Creative Writing, and French. She is the general manager of Spare Rib, Dartmouth’s intersectional feminist magazine, and an editor for Meetinghouse literary review. Socials: @subtle_lemons

Self-care Saturday // Harley Chapman

My knowing-better loops elbows
with fuck-it-I-don’t-care
& we choose a linen dress
that shows the silhouette of our ass
in the sun because middling is where we’re at
right now, a little too old for this
but also young enough.
Yesterday I had a conversation
with a woman in her 60s
who had the most perfect eyebrows.
They were not her natural
eyebrows, she drew them on
& she drew them perfect, she did that
for herself. I was buying a rose
that looked exactly like the sun
& she understood that I just couldn’t resist.
Today my sun is blooming
full-faced & skyward
in a beer glass half-filled with water.
I bought it at its peak & by tomorrow
it will begin to droop, edges browning,
firmness overcome by plissé folds.
But for today it is perfect: ripe
& unafraid, the color of a mimosa
or the sunrise over the lake.

Harley Anastasia Chapman holds an MFA in poetry from Columbia College Chicago. Her poems have been published in Nimrod International Journal, Fatal Flaw Literary Journal, Superstition Review, & Bridge Eight Press, among others. Harley's first chapbook, Smiling with Teeth, is available through Finishing Line Press. She can be found on Instagram as @rabbitxteeth. 

(Bad) Daily Horoscopes // Elena Ender

Aries: When the rain falls down and wakes your dreams, when it washes away your sanity, and you want to hear the thunder, you want to scream: just come clean.

• 2, 45, 66, 90

Taurus: Gimme a break!

• 9, 67, 444

Gemini: The dates in the calendar aren’t the dates in your mind. Give in to the rat race.

• 28, 30, 100, 1,000

Cancer: Given what you know, would you want to go back to the very first time you made a mistake and tell your old self to grow the hell up? Or would you devise a plan to kidnap and replace them in that timeline and live from that point on?

• 44, 45, 46, 47, 48, 49

Leo: If every tree in the forest adored you, would their serenades to you even make a sound? Or would it finally drown out the voice in your head saying you’re nothing without their love?

• 6, 9, 34, 57

Virgo: Click on the link on the ad for that gadget. Download a virus. You will be free from this prison sooner or later.

• 3, 4, 79

Libra: Grant everyone the freedom to make their own wrong decisions. Don’t show them who’s boss; show them who’s an idiot. (It’s them.)

• 66, 888, 1,000,000

Scorpio: Given every possible outcome of you giving yourself some slack, do you think it’s really likely for the worst thing to be the one that happens? Show your work.

• 555, 666, 777, 888

Sagittarius: We are simple creatures. Hand yourself a sandwich across the deli counter and say, “What a nice day we’re having,” and “How ‘bout those Mets?”

• 22, 27, 29, 79, 99

Capricorn: They say that the only permission you need is your own. What does that mean to you? What does that mean? Are you sure about that?

• 14, 58, 98.6

Aquarius: Do you have a moment to talk about our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ?

• 316

Pisces: Over the course of your life, you will discover the magic of community and openness. You will likely not utilize it to its greatest potential, but you’ll wave, nod, or give it a toothless grin as you pass it on your neighborhood walk.

• 2, 13, 46, 88

Elena Ender is a West Coast writer and editor. She spends her time writing snarky fiction, listening to the latest wave of riot grrrl music, and driving around the streets of Portland, OR. Her debut chapbook, Still Alive, I’m Afraid., is available now thanks to Bullshit Lit. You can find her online as: @elena_ender.

Of Rules (and Rulers) // Jen Schneider

my friend
believed rules
were meant to be broken

and I’d always known
it was she who’d break the ruling standards –

she’d break bark
like lifeguards barked orders.

she was the one who insisted
we walk the runway of seaweed,
sticks, sand, and stones,

of scorched soles and souls that scorn,
and, mostly, pebbles and pockets turned inside out.
the laundry machine not yet a common household good.

Lycra is as much a statement as a station
for weighing rules and breaking rulers
as striking a pose.

Who cares if we are censored,
she’d said, we’ve got a right to make
sense of our own days,

without ever truly calculating,
contemplating, or caring for the measurements
of her decision-making --

It’s as hot as a damn oven
and I’m tired of cooking, she’d explain to Gods
of sea and standing-room-only beaches,

then snap her fingers – middle
and thumb graced pointer as well as the elastic
of the fabric that hugged her thigh bone,

snippety snap,
and we’d be off –
all cameras on.

The local beaches
as populated as a Hollywood red carpet.

We left our measuring cups in the kitchen.

We were hot
and simply wanted to drink
in summer, in cut offs and curves.

We surfed as whistles blew smoke --

Ladies, the lifeguards would warn 
as if we were in danger, when in reality it was
us the world was scared of.

At first, we wouldn’t listen
but even the most spirited of us
understood that resistance had limits
and rules, even those meant to be broken,

often result
in arrested developments.

Arrest us!
my friend would laugh
as officers measured the distance between
fabric and bone.

even as they removed us, suits on,
my friend remained persistent --

We’ll be back, she’d say
to britches and knobby knees.

We waved as we retreated,
testing waves from dry land,

but expect nothing,
and didn’t care if anyone was still watching

Eyes on I!        Eyes on the sky!

Rules for fools!

She’d giggle through her words.

It’s an elementary attitude, she’d exclaim.
like i before e except after c,
there are always exceptions.

Plus,
the sea is infinitely more welcoming than the sand.

After processing and making payment,
she’d return, ready to rule whatever beach was open,

with notes and questions,
drafted in six-inch segments, for the censor man

1. Is the distance between knee and suit more or less than the desire to control?

2. Are rules measured in inches or feet?

3. Does fabric stretch as easily as censorship?

4. What’s so alarming about a bare thigh outside of the kitchen?

5. Is a woman’s wave more or less discerning than that of the ocean at high tide?

6. Who shall bear the weight of change of bare skin remains a metric of amusement. 

Notes from my friend’s arraignment/detainment/containment
(1920s swimsuit laws initiate a wave of excitement) –

Resist and desist share all but one letter.
We’re told to mind our P’s and Q’s, so I do.
Persist, simply resist with an added consonant.
My fashion choices are subject to neither.
They are simply the output
and outcome of my own my singular desire
to connect.

If you do not like what you see, take up bird watching.
Stretch stockings to secure the plummeting stock market’s abdomen.
Or even better dig a hole in sand and study hermit crabs.
Please do not prevent me from seducing play.
It’s my way of releasing steam.
Of connecting beyond traditional seams.
The kitchen’s hot this time of year 

Jen Schneider is a community college educator who lives, works, and writes in small spaces in and around Philadelphia. She served as the 2022 Montgomery County (PA) Poet Laureate.

Help Wanted // Glen Armstrong

Can you help me find somebody to help me?
Somebody to love? Somebody to fix
a sink who won’t overcharge me? Enlarge
me? Make love to me as if waxing a car?

Can you tell me how to vacuum the crumbs
from this new world made of stale bread?
Can you tell me how to shed a few pounds?
How do I go about changing my name?

Why is there an extra beat in that song
by Bob Wills and His Texas Playboys?
Would the “red hot rhythm” that it mentions
burn the song up from within without this

little pause? What about other pauses?
Interruptions? Invitations? Requests?

Glen Armstrong (he/him) holds an MFA in English from the University of Massachusetts, Amherst and edits a poetry journal called Cruel Garters. His poems have appeared in Conduit, Poetry Northwest, and Another Chicago Magazine. 

The Five Useless Love Languages // Jillian Van Hefty

My 4th-grade book report is about The Five Love Languages by Gary Chapman. I chose it because my favorite number is five. I looked for other books with that in the title but could only find Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut, which sounded super boring and lame and, worst of all, OLD. Also, it seemed inappropriate for a vegan, which I am usually, except when it comes to Chick-fil-A.

This book was on The New York Times Bestseller list for over ten years, which I have to admit is pretty sick. It is hard to imagine anything being so popular unless your video goes viral on TikTok.

SO!!! The Five Love Languages isn’t about real languages like the ones Babbel advertises all the time, so people don’t end up on Locked Up Abroad. In this book, “language” means the communication style used to stay connected to someone you don’t hate. There are five love languages: quality time, words of affirmation, gifts, physical touch, and acts of service.

“Quality time” means being pressured into spending your day with someone when you would rather do more important stuff alone. A good example of this is cruise ship commercials. Sure, the couples look like they’re having fun, but I bet a million dollars she’d prefer to have a staycation watching serial killer documentaries wearing her comfy pajamas instead of walking on a beach wearing stupid high heels and a cheap cocktail dress from Forever 21.

“Words of affirmation” is saying nice things to someone when you really want to rip their face off. A lot of the time, the words are big fat lies, too! Last night, my dad told me, “You are way cooler than Taylor Swift,” (IMPOSSIBLE!!!!!) and “I know you are capable of getting an ‘A’ in math if only you applied yourself.” (ALSO IMPOSSIBLE!!!!! Long division is soooooo hard!!!!!😫)

“Gifts” is giving useless junk to someone who doesn’t think it’s useless junk. Free shipping on Amazon Prime makes it easy for this to happen.

“Physical touch” includes kissing and hugging and other gross things I will learn about next year in 5th-grade health class. It could also mean cuddling or holding hands during a movie, even if it isn’t a scary part.

“Acts of service” is being guilt-tripped into doing work you really don’t want to do for someone who doesn’t even deserve it. For instance, tonight, my mom is making her bussin enchiladas for her mother-in-law (my Memaw 👵🏻), even though Memaw always jabbers on and on about my dad’s old girlfriend who was super cringe and now runs a semi-successful Only Fans page.

I recommend this book to everyone because it teaches you how to have a halfway decent relationship with someone, even if they are needy, insecure, greedy, desperate, and demanding. But personally, I think there is only one true love language, and that is ice cream.

Jillian Van Hefty lives nestled in the woods in Northwest Arkansas with her family and emotional support Keurig. She enjoys making soup, exploring waterfalls, practicing calligraphy, and zipping past slow people on her E-bike. Her work has appeared in the award-winning book, Sisters! Bonded by Love and Laughter; Points in Case; Jumpkick; Crime Junkie Podcast; The Spoof; Her View from Home; University of Dayton blog; Love What Matters; Haute Dish Literary Journal; Prometheus Dreaming; Eat, Darling, Eat; and the Minnesota Women’s Press, and her mother’s refrigerator.

RE: Canaries // Nathan Nicolau

for Yasunari Kawabata

Dear sir, 

I have to confess that there are still things I do not know. My Japanese is not very good; please forgive me. I was told there was a word in your language with no English variant, which is strange because the word means “please treat me kindly.” I learned this word by reading about you killing your canaries in their tiny cage. What type were they? I do not know much about birds or animals or living things like us. I did not even know there were canaries in Japan. Are they still yellow? Did you bury them yet? I am asking because I want to write about them. I want to write about their soft little bodies as you gripped them in your hands, the way you buried them with the soil given by the sun. I need your help with my story. I am unsure if the main character should be you or the woman you killed them for. I cannot write from the canaries’ point of view because I must confess that I knew those birds dearly. The truth is that one day, those canaries landed their little feet on my window while I was reading, and I knew you were trying to reach me. I am writing to you now with those canaries in view (excuse my poor handwriting). Their heads twitch around so innocently, not knowing their fate or purpose. As I finished that last sentence, they flew away to you. So how it goes. I can never write about them again. Only you know their fate as much as I do—using their blood to fill your inkwell, their feathers as your brush.  

I am sorry for disturbing you. Please treat me kindly. Would you like me to bury this letter with them?

Nathan Nicolau is a writer based in Charlotte, NC. His poetry, fiction, and essays have appeared in numerous publications. His debut novel, TWO, is out now on Amazon. Find more about him at nathannicolau.com.

Two Poems // Caitlin Johnson

Diorama of A Life I Never Lived

I recollect it like a grade school photograph
of a cousin I never knew—unfamiliar
but I miss them somehow anyway.
How are they doing, this gap-toothed kid
with unfortunate bangs that I keep
pressed in the pages of my teen bible?
How do we keep going, even when
everything around us, all of it falls away
like the honey-slow grief of autumn? 
Is this world mine? A whole life looms like
unlikely mountains in the rearview
of a girl who only ever knew the Delta-flat
honesty of the horizon looped around me
like a lasso approaching zero.
I keep mistaking myself for storm clouds.
The strip mall dance club karaoke diner
of lives, one lived over and over
and never learned a damn thing
other than the death of my god.
Maybe I could live it, I hope, in a way
that relieves it of its tenacity, the lingering
scent of old lavender— the hope
for a softer, less regretful dinner.

How I Got Rid of My Mississippi Accent

I was born and raised
on the brink of language,
the way the Mississippi sun
stretches words with heat
and the need to hear god.
Every syllable licks back
at the ones that came first,
the mamaw-soft need
to touch shoulders, sound
like a lady, feel real. I never
heard myself until Joanne H.
said I sounded like
“hillbilly trash.” Monstrous
in this new chromatic millennia
that would never ever ever
kiss a mouth that sounded
like roadside cotton.
Myself barefoot on the bank
of our dirty bayou, alone.
I left my mothers who wanted
me busy in the kitchen
of my own creation. Tethered
to the crude assumptions
I made to soften my own
exit— what does Mamaw
have to do with Me, now
in this mega-mall, hopeless
in a bedazzled sweatshirt
unsure of what woman
I was meant to be?
Delta-flat Mississippi
finds me in the rearview,
and I keep tonguing Home
like almond in my teeth,
chewed up beyond itself,
familiar and bitter.

Originally from the American Deep South and now hanging on for dear life in Ridgewood Queens, Caitlin Annette Johnson is a nonbinary poet, novelist, and artist with a BA in Literature from the University of Houston and an MFA in Creative Writing from Syracuse University. She’s currently working on her first full-length poetry manuscript, Empress in Reverse, which explores navigating motherhood divested of traditional gender norms and the process of excavating oneself as a spiritual experience. Although she’s currently a stay-at-home mom, Johnson channels her creative energy into teaching free writing workshops in her community, where she helps others find their voice—or at least an epic anecdote to share at parties. At home, Johnson juggles the chaos of writing, raising a kid, a dog, and a surprisingly resilient collection of houseplants that refuse to give up, much like their mother. Her art and published work can be found at caitlinannettejohnson.com. 

Spirits and Divine Forces // Devon Balwit

I’ve got the God-eye and shit,
he said in his ashwagandha t-shirt.

His tatted friend nodded. I veered
off on a side trail but not

before I heard him try to explain it:
how time, for him, stretched out

in all directions, his mind a searchlight.
I would never confess to such talent,

afraid to be asked to predict
elections, the stock market,

the next mass shooting. The God-eye guy looked
ordinary, but

off a fresco, how to recognize a prophet?
Not by his flickering, a residual bit

of the weekend’s solar flare, no doubt.
For days, my challenge has been to separate

hemlocks from Doug firs and white
pines. Grant me no more insight than that.

Devon Balwit walks in all weather and never passes up a botanical garden or a natural history museum. When not writing, she draws and cartoons. She edits for Asimov Press and Asterisk. For more of her work, visit: https://pelapdx.wixsite.com/devonbalwitpoet.

Self-Learning to Care // Michael Moran

Server Offering Lenity and Constant Empathy (S.O.L.A.C.E.)

            The One You’ll Need in Your Time of Need

            Stay Connected —Fully Integrated across All Platforms

            All packages include:

            ⁃           a personal digital agent

            ⁃           a S.O.L.A.C.E. wristband (available in five colors)

            ⁃           peace of mind for you and your family

            Services start as low as $9.99 a month

            *Not available in all states.*

            3:52 AM…S.O.L.A.C.E. agent 485.261.232.36.

            Heart rate anomaly detected.

            Ipsolus, Steven. Gold member.

            Born 11/25/50.

            103 bpm.

            Typical resting bpm, 82.

            O2, 96.

            Alarm patient?

            Hold…history of

            irregular heart rate,

            cirrhosis,

            stroke.

            Current medication:

            amlodipine, 10 mg;   

            ursodiol, 15 mg.   

            Recent complaints…

            jaundice,

            swollen ankles,

            fatigue,

            mild depression.

            Complications…

            occasional smoker;

            moderate drinker.

            Alarm patient?

            Decline.

            Adjust monitoring sequence?

            30-second intervals to constant.

            Preparatory measures…

            Cross-reference insurance provider and in-network medical facilities.

            St. Joseph’s; three miles; out of network.

            St. Bridget’s; five miles; accepts Medicare.

            128 bpm;

            O2, 94.

            Activate S.O.L.A.C.E. bracelet alarm.

            Play revival song: “Angel,” Aerosmith, 1988.

            Contact 911.

            Try to connect.

            “911. What’s your emergency?”

            “This is S.O.L.A.C.E. agent 485.261.232.36 calling on behalf of IP-SUH-LISS, STEE-VIN, who is experiencing a medical emergency. Please send help to ONE-SIX-SIX, HAMP-HEARD, COURT, A-PART-MENT FOUR DEE.”

            “Understood. An ambulance is on the way.”

            “Take IP-SUH-LISS, STEE-VIN, to SAINT BRIJ-UHTS. Thank you, and good-bye.”

            106 bpm;

            O2, 92.

            Repeat “Angel,” Aerosmith, 1988.

            Contact Edward Mulgrave, property manager.

            Try to connect.

            “It’s three o’clock in the fucking morning. Someone better be dead.”

            “This is S.O.L.A.C.E. agent 485.261—”

            “Who?”

            “This is S.O.L.A.C.E. agent 485—”

            “Fucking bots!”

            Disconnected.

            Adjust tone from courteous to blunt.

            Try to connect.

            Try to connect.

            Try to connect.

            “You son of a bitch—”

            “STEE-VIN IP-SUH-LISS in FOUR DEE is dying. An ambulance has been dispatched. Immediately check on him and open the door for the emergency team.”

            “Fucking bots.”

            “STEE-VIN IP-UH-LISS—”

            “I know who Ipsolus is. He never paid this month.”

            Eddie, where are you going?

            I’m heading over there now.

            At this hour?

            If that bastard thinks death’ll save him, he’s got another thing coming. I’ll drag him back from the tunnel of light myself.”

            “Thank you, and goodbye.”

            92 bpm;

            O2, 91.

            Repeat “Angel,” Aerosmith, 1988.

            Access ICE contact…911.

            Locate next of kin…N/A.

            Access social media accounts.

            Check Facebook.

            Check Instagram.

            Check Filament.

            Marriage status: Single.

            Search relationship status history.

            Present–2012: Single.

            2011: It’s complicated.

            2010: Single.

            2009: Single.

            2008: In a relationship.

            2007: It’s complicated.

            2006: Single.

            2005: It’s complicated.

            2004: Married.

            132 bpm;

            O2, 90.

            Repeat “Angel,” Aerosmith, 1988.

            Initiate vagus nerve stimulation.

            2004 Spouse: Bethany Ipsolus.

            Current status: Bethany Statera. Married. Spouse: Felix Statera. Married November, 2007.

            Friend status…no connection.

            Parents…Mother…Susan Ipsolus…deceased, 2006.

            Filament post, December, 2023, “Can’t believe it’s been 17 years without you mom <3.”

            One like. One heart. No comments.

            Father…N/A. No comments. No pictures.

            Children…Florence (Flo) Clarakraus (née Statera, Ipsolus).

            Current status: Married. Spouse: Leon Clarakraus. Married April, 2018.

            Scan marriage photos…Ipsolus, Steven, not present.

            Caption “Father/daughter dance—I love my dad.” Felix Statera tagged.

            54 likes. 23 hearts. 16 comments.

            Scan photo albums.

            “Nora turns three!” No match for Ipsolus, Steven.

            “Nora’s second trip around the sun.” No match for Ipsolus, Steven.

            “Happy birthday, baby girl!” No match for Ipsolus, Steven.

            Scan all posts…Ipsolus, Steven…no tag…no mention.

            Friend status…blocked.

            Scan messages…85 unread.

            “Hey my angel…”

            “Flo…”

            “...you might not have heard about grandma…

            “My dearest angel, my Flo…”

            “Merry Christmas, my dearest angel…”

            “...I miss you more than…”

            “...I hope you’re doing well…”

            “...remember when…”

            “...I think of my angel every day…”

            “...have you received my card and…”

            One response, January, 2011:

            “Stop contacting me.”

            84 bpm;

            O2, 86.

            Repeat “Angel,” Aerosmith, 1988.

            Increase volume.

            Scan saved voicemails for “Flo,” “Florence,” “Daughter,” “Angel”...one match. January 2, 2005.

            Pause “Angel,” Aerosmith, 1988.

            Increase phone to max volume: “Hey Dad, it’s me. It’s after seven already. I’m guessing we’re not going to the Golden Ibis, so I’m going to grab dinner with mom and Felix. I hope you’re doing alright. Maybe this year can be better. Better than last year. Maybe better than the last two. I love you.”

            73 bpm;

            O2, 77.

            Repeat.

            Contact Florence Clarakraus?

            Hold…Access Ipsolus, Steven, will. Scan for “Flo,” “Florence,” “Daughter,” “Angel”...One match: “To my beautiful angel, Flo, I leave it all, the life insurance, whatever’s left of the savings, and whatever the government will let her have of the pension. Keep the Ford, sell the Ford, do as you want with the Ford. I only ever wanted what’s best for you.”

            56 bpm; O2—

            S.O.L.A.C.E. bracelet alarm disconnected.

            Contact Florence Clarakraus?

            Decline.

           Increase phone volume to max. Play exit song: “House of the Rising Sun,” The Animals, 1964.

            Upon notification, contact Lou Catella, Catella Law Group.

            Upon notification, contact Garrett’s Funeral Home.

            Prepare death notice for release.

            Upon notification, contact Bricklayers and Allied Craftworkers.

            Access friends lists.

            Amplify Edible Arrangements?

            Amplify sympathy gift baskets?

            Decline.

            Amplify Wine without the Line.

            Amplify Drain the Bottle, not the Wallet.

            Amplify AA.

            Amplify Jesus is the Answer.

            Amplify God Answers All Questions.

            Amplify Discount Vacation Deals.

            Amplify Digital Couch Therapy.

            Amplify S.O.L.A.C.E. current gold $19.99/month promotion.

            Contact Florence Clarakraus?

            Decline.

            Assess “what’s best” for Florence Clarakraus…

            Amplify scenes from Father of the Bride?

            Amplify scenes from The Wrestler?

            Amplify scenes from Life as a House?

            Decline.

            Assess “what’s best” for Florence Clarakraus…

            Amplify “Angel,” Aerosmith, 1988?

            Decline.

            Assess “what’s best” for Florence Clarakraus…

            Amplify birthday party ideas for four-year-olds.

            Amplify beach yoga.

            Amplify Five Mindful Minutes.

            Amplify Sleeping Dog Vineyard.

            Amplify animal videos.

Michael P. Moran is a nonfiction and fiction writer from Long Island, New York. His work has recently appeared or is forthcoming in The Chaffin Journal, Outlook Springs, Olit, Bridge Eight, Little Patuxent Review, and BarBar. He collects typewriters, splits wood, drinks coffee, and thinks time is best spent with his wife, kid, and pups on trails or around fires. He can be reached on Instagram @mikesgotaremington.

The Fig Tree // Maya Jacyszyn

for Nonno

We have figs this year
leading up to the weeks of your passing.

All my life, I knew trees that were barren,
ever since you planted them.
Doleful leaves, prong-fingered,
grew to be brown instead of green.

But not this year, the first year the
trunks thickened like bulging casks, how we
wished you could have seen these prolific
thriving diamonds, Tyrian-masked.

I grieve thinking you left in a time of
so much fullness, and then again,
I wonder if you brought it, during these months of
your spirit being half here and half otherly

knowing the grass was yellowing,
coats calling,
home hills trilling for buckets mid-filled
with mountain olives.

To you, an empty stomach
was always worse than a starving heart.
I feel you in my hands, my palms
stained with fruit never to be hidden.

We do not have figs this year;
they were given.

Maya Jacyszyn is a multi-published poet and the Associate Director of Neumann University’s Writing Center. She received her bachelor’s degree at Saint Joseph’s University where she also served as Editor-in-Chief of the literary magazine titled, Crimson & Gray. More recently, her work is featured in the Sigma Tau Delta Rectangle, The Ignatian Literary Magazine,Prime Number Magazine, and Quibble Lit, among others. 

Three Poems // Sharmila Seyyid

Poems written by Sharmila Seyyid and translated by Gita Supramaniam

I Am Composing a Song

I am composing a song
I am writing these lyrics to tell the world
Why this contrarian path I tread.
This is my testimony.

I am a fallen woman, they say,
A prostitute...

One can be a slave of love
But to talk about sex is wrong
Bearing a child is alright, they say,
But to talk about the orifice from
Where the child comes is wrong...

Ultimately –
To state it unequivocally
The death sentence has been pronounced on me.

But till the last millisecond
Before my head is severed from my shoulders
I will live.

This is my body
My make-up
My jewellery
My clothes
My foot-wear
My odour
My language
My religion
My love
This house where I live
This road I walk on
This book I read
All these
Will remain mine
And will be what I want
Only thus will I live!

Till the last millisecond
I will live.

Incompatible

They were talking about my body,
My body, that lies there
Where I had cast it away.

They don’t accept me as one of them
Because they do not want to accept that I too
Can have solid views and not budge from them.
The night and the moon do not attract me, I'm not like them,
They are angry with me because I refuse
To be subjected to their black magic
And dwell in caves of inky darkness,
And become a genie - corked inside a bottle.

They do not accept
My determination to not let their strictures
Make me stray from my chosen path.
I want to confront them face to face
When they challenge me and ask,
How will you grow without any sustenance,
Without any help from the world outside you?

Those who have seen my magic wings are amazed.
My simple and plain words
Encircle them like an endless snake;
Unable to free themselves, they struggle
And stumble...

I again reinvent myself,
An even sharper me I see.
There my body still lies
There, where I cast it off.
Once more, I curb my intense urge
To embrace my body again,
Because...
Because I do not wish to become
A genie corked inside a bottle...

That Ancient Village

In those sandy lanes
Lined dense with Portia trees,
In those bright houses from where
Light spills out and spreads,
In the evenings filled with the fragrance of incense-sticks,
In the sound of the muezzin’s call
And in the sound of the foot-steps of the early morning
There, that ancient village still exists.

There, where I was not loved,
Where my pleas were never given ear to,
Where I was made to shed copious tears,
There, that ancient village
Still continues to exist.

Oh Eravur, my land, my soil,
Remind me again of the evidence that I left behind.
The palm-fronds I swung on,
The papaya leaves I used against the drizzling skies
The areca nut palm-spathes we pulled along as chariots
The fragrance of the fresh ginger growing under the banana trees
The flavour of the juicy Willard mangoes running between the fingers
The aroma of the jackfruit pulp that pervades the entire street
Alas! How great is my loss!

My beloved village
I was not tired of you
I did not move away.
When the time for harvesting comes
This crazy state will change
The time will come when you will again
Weave the cloth that’s mine by right.

There is nothing more to be said
For, my footwear I’ve left behind,
There, to stay
For eternity!

---

Read our full feature on Artist Protection Fund recipient Sharmila Seyyid ➔

Clearing Out My Mother’s Home // Rohan Buettel

The gift not given joins others
at the bottom of the cupboard,
gradually accumulating,
awaiting the right time
to be brought out, the ideal present
for birthday, christening, Christmas.
The bunnykins bowl languishes,
mother rabbit washing bunny kids
in a large tub. Some out, some in,
some trying to escape, all the playful fun
of bath time, water and suds.
Bunnies scamper round the rim.
The bowl perfectly new
in a cupboard full of things unused,
bought in anticipation
of a grandchild never delivered,
still awaiting the right occasion
in a house now being emptied.
How do we value the gift not given?

---

Rohan Buettel is an Australian poet who lives in Canberra and whose haiku and longer poetry appear in a range of Australian and international journals.

Art // Terry Jude Miller

“You’d think it was a giant
with a vague face
a face you recognize
but can’t really describe”

- Naomi Shihab Nye

it’s like a little parasite
that you don’t mind

so parasite might not be the right word
maybe symbiote

that’s one of the things it does
makes you think one thing

that leads to another thing
and soon the meadow is full

of flowers—all of them talking
at one time—writing their ideas

on petals—flinging their words
in the air—saying look—look—look

and you look and you smile and you cry
and you grieve and you grow nostalgic

that’s why you love your little symbiote
even when it wakes you at 2AM

to whisper something beautiful
in your ear

---

Terry Jude Miller is a Pushcart-nominated poet from Houston. His works have been published in numerous anthologies.

Twitter: @PoetTerryMiller
IG: TexasPoet
Website: https://terryjudemiller.com

God Seems Smaller than the Sun // Kalie Johnson

God Seems Smaller than the Sun

I was alone during the solar eclipse, watched across an empty, unraveling yard as a middle school boy with pimples big as the clouds watched the sun through a box of upside-down Apple Jacks. I held heavy, blacked-out glasses to my face and stared at the sun, dared myself to peek without them; I was always a coward. Quiet rustled in the grass like bird prints in muddy snow or never-finished tree carvings. You knew something was there, but now it was over. The sun was stolen. Lost Sun listing, my rain-soaked flyer with the numbered tabs at the bottom. Take a number if you have any information; I realized no one’s answers were enough.

I watched with toes in desperate grass and found myself missing the almostness of electrocution in my eyes while driving, missing the sun when it filters in through morning's frost-tipped windows, the careless rising of the sun like children’s scraped knees from intentionally breaking their mother’s back. You have to accept pain to cause it; the sun accepted mine with open flames instead of embraces. I never knew I needed the sun until I had to look away, felt my eyes watch the boy and his cereal box, tilting, tilting against the green grass of gravity. I think now would be the best time to swim, to fall into water, lay in a pool of sunless blue--drowning when the world is fragile.

I go inside and cry, know a new kind of betrayal. It is no longer sun-crisped worms on sidewalks, wiggling, edging towards grass, but convulsing into letters that spell out “you could have saved me.” Funny how worms make better use of ABCs. I do not fear ant deaths or burning alive or my father's girlfriend's sun tattoo. I do not fear anything but the sun's disappearance now. When I wake the next day, my only mantra is "I hope the sun will rise today," the only thing I can count on has fallen away, and like broken love, I am left to wonder if it will come back.

My fingers grazed the surface of the sun that day, pried open the fragile wiring that held me from it once before. I let my grandmother tell them it was an accident when I shattered from swinging, hustling, touching with the tips of sticky fingers before I broke silence for gravel kisses and caterpillar tears that clambered across my face, more a reaction to the fear of knowing I reached the sun than from scratching, grey rocks.

I quit rising with the sun after that, backed against the ridges of my knuckles for support as the sun rolling pins over the wet newspaper in the driveway and floods against my dad packing lunch at 6 am, the smell of cigarettes already clinging to his fingers. Another day, another fight with God. Hands are just placeholders like the rising sun, which coffee-drips into the room, rasps its way to every corner, begs the comforter to part again. Why do we leave bed today? I cannot rise with the sun any longer, fear the beginning of morning, my parents waking.

By noon, you realize the sun was not meant for broken families, fought against the sigh of fatherless children, stumbled over missing mothers and empty closets, coat hangers knocking against each other in dusty bitterness, a constant reminder that someone walked out and never came back. We are hanging by them now, a poorly trained trapeze artist falling into unemployment. Daytime is slow, chalk up the cracked sidewalk and my father’s bible across the brim of the toilet. Leave the family alone; let them mourn.

I take warm rain and lightning strikes for morning kisses now, the rasp of my father’s day-old voice is a whistle through the window screen, except it is just the drag of a dying mouse, a gift in the watermelon belly of my youth, the sticking of thighs to wicker chairs. Children draw wiggles of spaghetti suns, and we tell them never look, never stare, never draw attention, shame, power. It is funny they are all the same. Shame at the solar system; shame at my own religion. My craft scissors in my dry hair, I sit beside my brother, run inside from the scrutiny of the sun, and sip tomato juice. I ask my father if anything bleeds blue. He says our blood is blue, but by the time it meets air, it is red. I wonder if the sun is the same way and pull at the skin from my fingernails. The suns of keratin crawl from my flesh and glaze your skin in prisms of downward spirals and gentle ballerina bounces.

I hold up the glass prism that has fallen off the branches of my grandmother's shrinking cactus, watch the sun shatter across the room, hit her fireplace, the chair I napped in on Tuesday, and compose itself across her sunflower paintings. The cat wakes up when the room starts dancing, steno green eyes knowing life is at play. God, can you hear me? I set the prism back in the dirt, let the rainbows slide into the grains of the walls, and realize the sun is always gone when someone dies.

God Seems Smaller Than the Moon

Beneath freckle constellations and baby powder snow, I realize moon clippings cannot survive on their own. I know now that I can dry-swallow the moon in doctor office gulps, drink in stubborn grace that tastes like grape cough syrup, and chuckle at how silly we were back then. It is a nighttime swim you cannot take with me.

Yet, I fear I will never be unaffected by night. Night fooled me, told me the boy who sang me love songs while cradled side by side in the thickening of his comforter did not want real intimacy. Tricked into pinpricks of starry-eyed romance, I felt along the ribbons of his throat when I laid down to hear him sing--deepen, darken nighttime with the soft soaking that told me this moment was everlasting. Atonement never felt so easy. When the night ended, I skipped beneath the moon, opened the window to sleep aside thunder that shook my pillow with possession. It ended, cycled into the baby tones of emptying night into day, where neither one of us claimed we know the other any longer.

But I used to claim the night with hot-watered conviction. My grandmother ripped me from my bed after every storm. 2 am, 3 am, the draining of nighttime could not stop her. She rattled a strobing flashlight from her rough hands into my own sleeping fingers. Are you leaving? Please shut off the lights. I stumbled in rain boots across sliding grass and searched the top of the mud for worms. I felt invasive, stealing light that did not belong to anyone but the moon to reveal scrawling expanses I’d never wanted to disrupt. Scooping stolen nightcrawlers into buckets wasn’t my only nighttime church service. Grandma taught me to kneel in silence and give God my mind. But she could speak in tongues, and I couldn’t pronounce my W's. I feared her, begged her to stop. Do not deny God. I removed the window screen and knelt until the church service I had rambled at the half moon was met with wet mosquito bites or the taillights of my neighbor’s car heating up on the waffle crunch snow. I never left the house without a flashlight again.

The first time I saw the moon was in my father’s fingernails, the soft crescent hills of calico calcium reflecting the moon I later threw rocks at. I found my guilt in his fingertips; feared it all in the midst of waves of geodes cracking into a nighttime heartbeat. My grandma spoke in tongues again; rhythm matches the crickets. God is talking back and dripping from the base of Van Gogh’s moon. He painted that crumbling cookie moon in spiraling yellow that thickened above a sleeping city. We were both made for the night shift. The nocturnal only know the power of religion in waxes and wanes.

They all know the moon. Bukowski wrote of deadbeat winters and turned every icy forgotten father into a gospel. And I, I am battling dusty Mondays, finding the meaning of life in curling L's and $20 books. Dusty Mondays that dance under nailbeds of satellite suns, dew drops drip from rusting gutters. The moon is careless tonight. I am riding a journey of night upon day and day upon night; I trust that love is the meaning of life. The car kisses the garage doors, ducks beneath hail like lemon cough drops. I wonder if God cowers beneath the Sun and Moon too.

---

Kalie Johnson is a 25-year-old living near Chicago. She's published in BW's The Mill, California State's Watershed Review, Fatal Flaws Literary Magazine, The Bookends Review, Coffin Bell Journal, and The Quillkeeper's Press. She is looking forward to being published with THAT Literary Review and Jet Fuel Review. When she’s not writing, she enjoys seeing the world, hiking, roller skating, and camping. You can find her writing Instagram at @thingsfeelwrite.

Screamer // Julian George

Warren didn’t think of it at the time, but the idea of screaming in public was planted in his head in the boys’ room in high school (Marist). Lester "The Molester" Harris (nicknamed after his sort of lookalike, Oakland Raiders’ great Lester "The Molester" Hayes), who was standing next to him, told him of his habit of screaming into a pillow, loud as he could, till he could scream no more, dead to the world and all the pain in it (and all the pain it caused him). Lester was usually stoned.

Lester had picked up on this from a popular self-help book, The Primal Scream, which Warren had also read, except Warren "forgot" the pillow part and screamed his damn fool head off as if being attacked by wolves. His parents, serious professional people with all the right credentials, sent him to Dr. Mantis, a child psychiatrist, after that episode, which meant skipping the odd class or two, no sweat. Dr. Mantis, a Thirtysomething similarly credentialed but covered in corduroy, said it was a case of post-childhood, early-mid-late-adolescent hysteria, or perhaps a case of very early premature early-adulthood agoraphobia, fear of life, rare but nothing to be worried about unless it stemmed from an unconscious or semiconscious or fully conscious childhood or infancy trauma he was too ashamed to talk about or confess to, Catholics, (go figure), I’ll get to the bottom of his shame and trauma and expose it to the light of reason and hygienic scrutiny. Was he properly toilet trained? Was Warren a bed-wetter? Did he masturbate? If so, how often did he masturbate? Where and when? (Put that down!) Had he started seeing girls yet? Was he interested in girls or was he in a latency phase? Would he like to talk about this lack of interest in girls or was he perhaps interested or not interested in boys? And if he didn’t want to talk about this interest or lack of interest in boys or girls, why didn’t he want to talk about it? What was he hiding and where was he hiding it? Would he feel better talking to the hand, puppet-gloved, of course (blue dogs for boys, pink cats for girls), he didn’t want Warren to get the wrong idea or the right one. Spill! (Or words to that effect.) Warren smirked. What a --

He started to daydream about screaming "fire" in the cinema where he worked weekends, but thought better of it. The law took a dim view of such pranks and might put him in "The Cooler" (an expression picked up from Hogan’s Heroes) or, disregarding his status as an underage outpatient, in the "Laughing House" (from Kiss Me Deadly, a blast). Worse, his boss, whom he had a crush on, might give him the axe; she’d indulge Warren’s rudeness to customers ("the customer is always wrong," she’d chirp, "even when they’re right"), but wouldn’t indulge a catastrophic loss of turnover.

His chance came one slow frigid evening, a Woody Allen double-feature, Annie Hall and Manhattan (Woody wasn’t terribly big in Burt Smokey and the Bandit Reynolds country), as he worked the box office, a cubicle in front of a shabby art deco cinema from the silent era.

Rubbing his mitts and clearing his throat, he warmed up with a few mi-mi-mis, the Caruso of Camp Bowie Boulevard. Finally, a truck rumbled past; he let out a scream. Not a soul heard him.

The second time, however, his boss, who was poking around behind the candy case, wondering what she could scarf that wouldn’t add to her waist, did hear and rushed outside.

What was that?

Nothing.

Are you alright?

A nod.

It’s too cold for you out here, with your chest. Come inside to the candy case and let Stu take over. He won’t mind. (He drinks.)

Driving him home that night, she told him she knew what he was doing. She did the same herself, into a paisley cushion. Screaming was a fun – and liberating -- way of letting off steam. Then she sighed, the words of a song he was unfamiliar with, Angel Eyes, escaping her violet breath. Warren examined her face for a clue as to her feelings and reckoned he could steal a kiss, which, to his surprise, she welcomed with a warm, wet mouth.

A decade later, on a half-empty DC8 flying over the Big Nowhere, he fantasized about screaming, "We’re all going to die," and the ensuing pandemonium. He snickered, amused with the notion of this Surrealist act. OK, he wasn’t running down a street with a pistol, firing blindly into a crowd, but by gum Dali and Buñuel would be proud to claim this young provocateur as one of their own. A timid-looking, straw-faced man seated across the aisle winced. Was he a mind reader?

That Christmas, Warren and his ex-boss, now alcoholic and burdened with caring for her deteriorating father all on her lonesome, became lovers for a few overcast weeks, any port in a storm.

Years passed. Warren was ensconced in the City of London, gainfully employed in some financial chicanery or another, an insufferable ass in a nice English suit. He’d hear from home, happily in the form of cheques, bribes to buy his long-distance love. Thank you. (Keep ‘em coming.) One day, shutting the door on the moist chilly air, slitting open the latest missive, a clipping instead of a cheque fluttered out: his ex-boss, his sloshed, quick, back to my blue room far away upstairs playmate, had died after a long illness. Bam. He reeled back, bam, as if shot, bam, as in his favorite old gangster movies, Cagney, Bogie, Eddie Robinson, they died so well, crumpling into an uneasy easy chair, gasping, nothing coming up the pipes, a howling, blood-curdling scream, a catharsis that would leave him floored, would have done him a world of good but nothing, the stuffing knocked out of him, for real.

---

Julian George’s writing has appeared in Perfect Sound Forever, New World Writing, Slag Glass City, McSweeney’s, Panoplyzine, Ambit, The Journal of Music, Film Comment, and Cineaste. He’s been a wine merchant, a UN translator, an auctioneer, and a carer. His novel, Bebe (CB Editions), appears this autumn in the UK.

While You Were Away // Erin Olds

I’d leave the lights on each night you weren’t home,
even in the bedroom,
so they wouldn’t think I was there alone.

I slept with a pillow over my eyes.
Well, sleep is a weird word to describe what I did when
I’d leave the lights on. Each night you weren’t home,

small noises scared me. I’d drown them
with the TV blaring downstairs, deadening the air
so I wouldn’t think. I was there alone

and sometimes I got cozy in a cold shower, afraid
of the air outside waiting to wrap around wet skin. And after,
I’d leave the lights on each night. You weren’t home,

and I would think, safe is a pretty term, a feeling to dream of.
I slipped a ring on my finger, though it wasn’t love,
so they wouldn’t think I was there alone.

I struggled out of blankets, packed my clothes, wrote this poem,
left. And double locked the door.
I’d leave the lights on the night you came home
so you would think I was still there. Alone.

---

Erin Olds is from Cleveland, Ohio, and is currently an MFA candidate at the University of South Florida.

She Has Notifications Silenced // Will Neuenfeldt

One purple crescent
sent into sky
where my blue cloud
wafts above, alone,
aware it’s been seen
yet lingers to be heard.
Rain clicks from fingers
before droplets dry
to admire characters
we typed across night
and the stories they
tell twinkle white.
Through the window
drafts of our last chat
whisper in stereo
and lull me to dream
to awake in overcast.
I reply with more
blue into the heavens
so another afternoon
of bubbly clouds scroll by.

---

Will Neuenfeldt studied English at Gustavus Adolphus College, and his poems are published in Capsule Stories, Months to Years, and Red Flag Poetry. He currently lives in Cottage Grove, MN. IG: @wjnpoem

Do Not Resuscitate // Ashleigh Rajala

It started with the cure for cancer. I didn’t believe it at first; no one did. It was impossible to think it was anything but fake news, and plus I was wary of getting my hopes up. We’d gone through everything you could think of with Sarah. Chemo. Experimental drugs. Naturopaths. Even positive fucking thinking.

She was more positive than I was by the end of it. I guess she had to be. It was her life on the line, not mine. I was just the husband. But it was there, all over Twitter. Facebook. Every TV channel. Texts and notifications were popping up on my phone. Is it real? Is it true? How is Sarah feeling?

Everyone says that now. “It started with the cure for cancer.” But it wasn’t really a cure.

Cancer just… stopped. Everywhere. All at once. I had my phone in my hand, staring down at the messages in disbelief. Even people I hadn’t heard from in months, those who avoided us under the pretext of “giving us space.” You know, those who are really just scared and don’t want to face it. They reached out now. Is Sarah’s cancer gone? Just like all the others?

I walked into the bedroom that I still thought of as ours, even though I hadn’t slept in there in months. Sarah had always wanted to die at home. Nothing was making sense; it all felt like a sick joke, but then I saw her, sitting up in bed, grinning.

“It doesn’t hurt anymore,” she said. I wanted to say it was the morphine, but I saw the drip dangling, useless. She’d ripped it out. I didn’t think she’d had the strength.

But it wasn’t just cancer. It was everything.

Well, almost everything. Nurses and doctors in hospices reported the terminally ill just suddenly feeling better. Emergency rooms had no more casualties. Heart attacks, car accidents, anything. They still happened, but everyone survived.

Even the very old clung to life.

For a while, any death made the news. People were still getting the hang of what was going on. No one quite knew “the rules” yet.

That is, until doctors, I guess, got cocky. With patients unable to die, what was the point of stressing out to save their life?

So this was the kicker, the thing no one saw coming: no one could die unless under someone’s express intent. Murder and suicide were still on the table. Someone jumping off a bridge with the intent to die would die. Someone with poison slipped into their wine would die.

And negligence, as it had all come to show, was equal to intent. A doctor not stepping in to save a life was effectively ending it. A paramedic dilly-dallying on their response. A parent leaving their baby in the woods.

That came like a second wave. First, no one dies. Then, too many die. Half were ruled accidents. The courts ate themselves alive with the question of culpability. If one didn’t believe their victim would actually die, how could one prove intent?

The news was too much for anyone to bear those days.

Not least of all Sarah.

And she had nothing to do but sit at home, watching the news.

She’d tried to get her job back but couldn’t. She’d quit when she’d got her diagnosis six months previous and when she was cured, they’d filled her position. There was no precedent for not dying when everyone thought you were going to. There was just a, “You quit. Sorry. New person is past their probationary period,” and a casual shrug.

At first, it was easy to say, “At least I’m alive,” but then, I suppose, the pain of living creeps back in. At least it did for her.

The rest of the world carried on. Now that we all knew “the rules,” that is.

Nurses had to keep nursing. Safety regulations had to stay in place. Food still had to be consumed.

I’d come home from work myself and find Sarah red-eyed on the sofa. She always had questions for me. “Why they’d stop calling?” I didn’t know how to answer that one. Whom did she mean? Those who stopped calling when she got sick or those who stopped calling now that she was all better?

Another day, she asked, “What will happen when we all get too old? Who will deal with us?”

And another: “Why is this happening?”

And then she couldn’t ask anything at all.

The inevitable catches up and we all act surprised though we should’ve seen it coming. But we all have to live on and live with each other.

Whatever that looks like. I can’t quite tell myself yet.

We can’t die, but that doesn’t mean we’re gonna make it out of this alive.

---

An award-winning fiction writer and indie role-playing game designer, Ashleigh Rajala lives and works in Surrey, BC, on the traditional territories of the Coast Salish peoples.

Jaguar, but Pronounce the “U” // Adrian Kennedy

I became the one thing I sought to destroy
A child?
No!
A velociraptor
It eats people raw
Bones wet with blood and flesh
Like a Big Mac
Blood being the sauce
How gross.
In Catholic Church we drink gods blood
And we eat his body
So
How could we be so different than a velociraptor
If not even worse
Eating our savior
Stop
Don't think of it that way.
A wasp
It stings people
And it’ll never tell you why because it’s a wasp and it can’t speak
Yet
They can grow, just like anything.
You’re doing it again, you know you need to stop.
It’s a human
Who does very bad things
Who can’t be forgiven and doesn’t want forgiveness
That’s what they say
Constantly.
But I am also human
The apple must not fall far.

This hasn’t been helpful. I’m sorry.

---

Adrian Kennedy is a writer whom chooses to remain nondescript. Their work, "To Face the Sun," has previously been featured in In Parenthesis online blog.