‘Past the Wall’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

past the wall

my king in my queen bed--I ask how much
do you love me?
he unwraps and stretches to the wall
in the corner of my room—our nook
his knuckles rap
the plaster

see this
past it and if you walk on
there will be another
past that one too
and the next
and again

we cocoon

what a way to say so much

Cheney Luttich enjoys write poems and historical fiction. During the day, she's Professor Luttich at Southeast Community College in Nebraska. Off campus, she's having fun being mom and wife, and she's always up for a road trip to a museum, making a new friend, a chat on the front porch, or a giving a lecture about which of the three 19th century bustle periods is the coolest.

‘Fishing’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Fishing

What you cannot bear

is the carp gone slack.

The bright hook, deadly J,

piercing the cartilaginous lip,

and the hollow, papery

sound of its removal,

like a knife tearing through a

delicate Japanese fan.

What’s dismissed, though,

is that elemental struggle

between man and nature;

a strange, primal necessity

pursued to great lengths –

the sudden, violent thrashing

just beneath the water’s

surface; the nearly-invisible line,

taut and thin as a spider’s silk

winking in the dusky light.

I remember fishing with my father

off a stony outcrop in Scituate;

the sleek stripers the color

of twilight, and the bluefish

he didn’t mean to catch

and approached cautiously

with pliers to remove the hook.

I remember, too, wading knee-high

in a muddy Ohio creek and spotting

a long gar swimming toward us

with a face like hedge trimmers

and a mouth full of tiny translucent teeth.

We spent most of the afternoon

in that creek, catching nothing.

For toilet paper, he tore off

the sleeves of his T-shirt. Old

Coke bottles were unearthed,

rinsed off, and carried home

in a plastic bag. They clinked

against each other, causing

hairline cracks and chips.

Some, like memories, shattered.

Derek Kalback is a music teacher in Cincinnati, OH. In his spare time he reads, writes, and spends time with his three daughters and fiancee.

‘Sheers of Fire and Ice’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Sheers of Fire and Ice

I am born of virgin skin and white eyes.

Matted in my mother’s blood, with strong hands I am lifted to the skies.

I hear cries and “oo”’s and remarks of my unfavorable size,

“We thought she would breed something of a prize.”

But my ma embraces me in her full-textured coat

as she exhales with me in a rhythm we both have just wrote.

The strong hands gathered to talk of me and to gloat,

their conversation continued over the first “Bah” I let from my throat.

My mother and I lay positioned in the corner,

sheltered by painted red wood and hay stored around the border.

Dirt sprinkles down onto us with smells of my unspoken fate of horror,

Something in Ma’s cradle told me our lives would be shorter.

Just feet from us, those standing note my potential and worth:

the amount I will eat, the warmth of my wool, and my girth.

All of this greatness that I have had since the time of my birth,

are they just to use it until my last days on this earth?

I looked into Ma’s eyes, downturned and pretty,

was this a look of love or an expression of pity?

This was what life would be for me, I am now privy:

I am to grow how they like, it matters not if I’m lionhearted or gritty.

My questions waned with the rise of the moon.

The weighted silence of the barn hummed with its dark history a tune;

the flesh before these bodies have been scattered and strewn,

they all asked how they could live knowing it’d all end too soon.

Before I know, my train of thought is interrupted

by a sliver of daylight on my face, I get up as it instructed.

My knees knock and shake, a confident walk they obstructed.

One hoof at a time, I move wobbly and jagged as I grunted.

The wet of my nose leaves a mark on the splintered barn door

as I swing it out of the way, the creak matching Mum’s breathy snore.

Light and color hit my crusted eyes, morning sun washed my despair of yore.

How could this bonny kingdom breed these men with the words of a boar?

The bitter wind carried a mist that studded the ends of my hair.

At the tail of the gust lingers a musk strong and agrar.

Powdery ashes and old smoke prove eruptions previously aflare,

this land’s fire and ice seem to be a balanced affair.

Warm tones of earth run up to the muted sky of grey.

Green hills are brushed with flaxen grass and charcoal clay.

Four-legged things like me are out to graze and to play,

do they know what I do– that we live to be prey?

All this beauty and wonder is hidden behind this question:

How am I to enjoy this life when it only goes in one direction?

I am to die at the hands of those who debate my perfection,

while also finding my own purpose without air of madness or objection.

I want more for my life than what I understand is given to me.

Why am I being pigeonholed into something that others think they foresee?

My death cannot be my only gateway to feeling free,

and it is now my duty to find my own true destiny.

I take a step forward and turn my petite head around,

I see the still body of my ma lying peacefully on the straw mound.

If I can sneak out while she is asleep soft and sound,

then I can come back and show her what more for me I have found.

My neck snaps back forward and my ears tense up straight,

another inch I move my hooves and pause to look at the land so ornate.

I breathe in the smells from the barn before it’s too late

to remember what it feels like before deciding my own fate.

The soft grass tickles my bony shins as I walk,

and my eyes squint from the air sprinkled with particles of chalk.

I approach some new friends lying in the pasture, hopeful to talk,

but I’m met with unbothered stares and mouths open just to gawk.

Their coat was unlike mine, spotted in brown and black.

Before I could speak, I was interrupted by one from the pack.

“Are you the one born today from inside the shack?

Why are you out here? Don’t you think you should see to your Ma and go back?”

I stand afront the group of marble-covered beasts.

Stunned at their unwelcoming and sorry attempt at my retreat.

“I came out to see you, to see the earth and its sweets.

Truthfully, I stand here in pursuit of finding what makes me complete.”

Their pink snouts turn away and some of them even huff,

a small creature from the back stood up from behind the green fluff

to tell me how none of them believe in all that kind of stuff:

“We sit here together in the sun and the flowers, that’s more than enough.”

I scan over the crowd cuddled tightly and nestled in,

not one of their bovine faces not in a grin.

But they’re just like those before me, they failed to ever begin

looking for their own purpose, their lifeline, failing to look within.

I retort and tell them that I have a purpose I must find,

I thank them for speaking with me and for being open and kind.

They wave me goodbye as their bodies again intertwined,

I turn my back and sigh, thinking that all their lives have been resigned.

My infant joints are adjusting as I turn upwards on a hill,

perhaps what I am looking for is up at the top near the mill.

I notice the beauty of violet poppies and Mountain avens just until

I remember my mission is to fulfill and not to find thrill.

I finally reach the peak after much huffing and heaving.

Catching my breath, thin air pierced my dry throat, so much for speaking.

The grass was not as long near the windmill that was achieving

a wind that gustoed and shouted, leaving me grieving.

As the weather was less than desired at the top,

I was pleased to see a peaking hoof just behind the mill to the left of a flower crop.

I skip toward the wooden structure, moving like a marionette with a flop,

hope builds for my purpose and down my cheek rolls a teardrop.

I hop around the corner to the back to look for the owner of the foot,

but my upturned mouth quickly shuts in horror as I see what’s afoot.

Another white creature just like me is standing facing me, covered in soot.

Her eyes had something old in them, and her wornness sank in her caput.

Still did I stand. Unsure what to say, suddenly I forgot the meaning of today.

Feeling my confidence dwindle, I fought to keep this new feeling at bay,

then I move myself closer to explain why I have intruded on her day.

“Ma’am,” I say softly, “I think you can help me on my journey. That I pray.”

The nearer I came to her, the more I understood

that she was closer to my age in my young girlhood.

Why were her eyes dark and her hoofs chipped like aged driftwood?

Why did I feel a sadness when she looked at me such as Ma under the red wood?

“Are these your flowers?” I questioned, “They’re really quite nice.”

She stared at me with an expression rather empty, blinking twice,

“If they are beautiful as you say, what do you say is their price?”

I wondered what she meant, “Oh, I didn’t come here to buy, I came for advice.”

The girl motions behind me and down the hill I just scaled,

“Do you see all of the floral lives you ended all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed?”

Flattened stems show my trail and under my feet the delicate petals were unveiled,

“I wonder why you think your journey is worth the lives of flowers?” she exhaled.

“I’m sorry I didn’t mean to hurt them, my ma would be upset.”

“Oh, and your mother, I see you’re a babe, don’t you think that she frets?”

I remember Ma’s soft breath, her warm full coat. “Where is your ma? I haven’t seen her yet.”

The lamb before me looked down at the earth, the wind held our silence singing a duet.

“What is it you wanted to ask me?” Her voice cracked and low.

“I came to find my purpose. My reason for living, Something to relieve me of my woe.”

The babe shook her head, moving it over to glance at the crushed indigo,

“Don’t you see that what you had before is all you need tomorrow and all you needed long ago?”

“The perfume that called you out, the musky air, the land charcoaled and chalked.

The sun the cows lay in, the wheated grass that prickles your legs as you walked,

the flowers you forgot to admire before leaving them, with your life you now mock.

Not to mention your home in that barn nested below this bedrock.”

Before I had time to think of an answer that would suffice,

her eyes met mine and her voice bellowed the worst words one could splice:

“My mother is dead, killed the day of my birth. Slaughtered with sheers of fire and ice.

That’s what we are here for, you know this, to be served atop a bed of rice.”

My heart was ignited and my eyes flowed over with water,

“They cannot kill her when she has a newborn daughter!”

“I know that you have feared your own death since you understood the slaughter,

but the first to go are the oldest. It is not you, it is her.”

I turn to run back to my red barn to find my ma and make things straight,

but not before I could hear the last words spoken from my mate.

“Your fate may be death, but so is every living thing’s to date.

Do not get lost in finding a purpose when you lose what matters before it’s too late.”

Tears burn my hot face,

I think I let out a cry one could hear from outerspace.

The keratin covers of my toes scratched and chipped from my pace,

I can’t think of anything else other than picturing Ma in her same place.

Finally, I reach the large splintered door still ajar,

my heartbeat reached my ears when there was no sight of movement near or far.

It was then that I hear the sound of metal, perhaps the shot of an engine from a car?

To my left, I see a sliding door, sealed with a bar.

Ramming my head through the wood to get through,

I know I must muster every ounce of strength in order to breakthrough.

I hear shouts from the voices I knew early in my birth, corrupt and evil. Ugly, too.

The wood cracks and springs out after one final push as I come flying through.

Shaking myself off, I feel my knees weak again and now bruised from the thud.

My eyes adjust to the light that entered my irises with a flood,

but in this moment I regret ever opening them and expecting a truck with an engine dud.

Instead, what I see is far worse: Ma laying still. Covered in blood.

Her face looks at me, painted red like our barn.

Her eyes are wide open looking at me, metal sticking from her head like a horn.

The men that I remember who once held me when I was born,

now held onto the smoking gun and the firey sheers. And now my ma I must mourn.

Karlyn Rainey is a 22-year-old writer who studied professional writing and rhetoric and film and digital media at Baylor University in Waco, Texas. She has always enjoyed creative writing, especially longer-form poetry and fictional short stories. While creative writing is one of her hobbies, she also enjoys hiking, making bread, making collages, and painting for her online website, karlynrainey.art, in her spare time while balancing job hunting in technical writing or editing. She hopes to continue writing creatively while growing her career and continuing to do everything that she loves.

‘Tambourine Man’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Tambourine Man

            An icy cloud blankets the barren trees of central Kentucky. Mounds of brown decay become covered in a blinding sheet that will glisten and shimmer off the sun’s glorious beams when it eventually rises and pokes through that gray fog like a filled water balloon. Both complete and broken icicles tender the roof of a covered bridge, the tin creaking against the wood as a tundral breeze winds through the forest like a forlorn spirit.

            Although it is still dark, and the moon provides more light than the sun does at this current moment, two boys push through the cold. Their meager jackets, the pockets furnished by minor holes and an invasive chill, do poorly to protect against the morning zephyr. Despite the porous weather, perhaps even in rejection of it, one of the boys pulls a small, handheld camera from his pocket. He records the snow falling. The limbs transitioning from brown to white. The hills developing a delicate, translucent armor. He pans between gaps in the wood, capturing tall shadows and distorted shapes, as if searching for something within them. The two boys walk in silence for some time before returning to an RV on the outskirts of the great unknown. There, they will hold onto the past and examine figures in the treeline.

            It was 2013 then. They were filming “The Tambourine Man.” A short found-footage horror film about a fabricated local legend permeating the labyrinthian trees of Danville, Kentucky. Inspired heavily by online mythology of the time period and popular mediums of communication, “The Tambourine Man” was a nauseating collection of innocuous footage collected over a two-and-a-half year span. Intoxicating perspectives conveying abstract portrayals of rural property and urban exploration. The lore behind the being was just as muddled and confused as the adolescent shot composition: contradictory and immature. Six years later, this footage would be lost forever, and, by association, so too would the memories.

            In 2019, a home on the outskirts of Burgin, Kentucky burnt down overnight. The family lost everything. From two dogs and clothing, to easy breathing and childhood. Their lungs heavied beneath black soot and ash, those embers staining their pupils and marking their flesh like cattle. At first, nobody thought much about those lost times, or the lost tapes that preserved them. But as days turned into months, and the years passed by, those are what they miss most about that house. Being able to go back and inhabit who they used to be. Living within those moments like vagrant time travelers in search of some abandoned purpose.

I was a different person then. A complete stranger to who I am now. The memories that link myself and that child feel like fleeting visions from another life, transmitted through dream and packaged by some terrible fog. Really, all I can remember is how cold it was out in those woods. The exact narrative of “The Tambourine Man” is missing, and the footage those boys captured on that frigid morning has become inconsequential. I’ve become separated from the time spent pillaging those beaten trails and mangling intricate cobwebs.

On the rare occasion that we’re all together again, we reminisce on these times. Our tongues act as devices of transportation, muddying our sneakers and polluting our jeans with grass stains and pollen in an instant. Specific moments do come to mind on occasion — trivial fights or comedic bloopers — but the details are half buried beneath plateaus of dirt and bone. Each story contradicts the next and we argue about the truth, distorting the past like expired film spiraling from a dusty reel. Nothing is how it’s supposed to be.

This is why we miss these tapes so dearly. Not because we believe “The Tambourine Man” to be a cinematic masterwork lost before it could be found, but because these tapes were the truth. These tapes were our lives. In lieu of something extraordinary, they became scrapbooks in motion. Moving images depicting our growth. The changing of pitch and the sprouting of facial hair, prepubescent discussions of life and the paltry challenges that came with it. Immature humor and teenage angst. Although the film was about a fictional local legend, it was a complete and earnest documentation of childhood. Our childhood. Images, and memories, that we will never get back. No matter how hard we focus or how deeply we sleep, these moments are lost. Forever. These years exist within a vacuum. A bottomless pit, blacker than night and entirely void.

In 2024, with a new camera, I attempt to fabricate time. I craft my own souvenirs through a fuzzy lens, echoing an accidental entrapment of reality. I fixate on shot composition and lighting. The framing of faces in conversation and staging of missed opportunities. Instead, however, these recordings feel cheap and hollow. They are false rememberings of plastic mannequins and scripted dialogue, no more true than those drunken discussions of nostalgia through toothy, dejected lips. In a few years time, all I will have are these videos. Disconnected from memory, entirely null of context and history.

I return to those central Kentucky woods on another cold winter day. They are different than I remember them being, and their current state forever alters their past form. The paths that we walked all those years ago have since faded into overgrown clusters of serpentine shrubbery and that bridge boasts an illness only contracted through bouts with human touch and time. I can never be certain that this was the road traveled, or that we saw anything of importance within these very trees. I like to think that those videos would help. But, in actuality, they would reveal nothing but our own shrill, impotent voices ricocheting through an abyss of jagged limbs, fearful beasts, and a stark, domineering cold. No matter how often we return, or how firmly we squint into the darkness, those kids are gone. There is nothing out there. Nothing for us in these woods.

Daniel Ungs is a twenty-three year old writer from Danville, Kentucky. He recently earned his bachelor's degree from Western Kentucky University where he studied English and Film. While attending WKU, Daniel published several works in undergraduate literary and academic journals, such as Zephyrus and The Ashen Egg. He was also the recipient of several creative writing awards at the university, including the Wanda Gatlin Essay Award in 2022, the Dale Rigby Essay Award in 2023, and he took home first place in the Mary Ellen and Jim Wayne Miller Celebration of Writing Fiction Writing Contest in 2023. Instagram: @danielungs Writing Blog: onbusterpike.wordpress.com

‘Montauk’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Montauk

The sky bled pink
Upon the dark blue blanket
That made it’s way as far
As my eyes could gaze.

The high hill’s side
Stretched to the red eye
In the sky, the sandy land
Hand in hand with the cosmos around it.

That’s when I realized the eyes
Were not really bleeding,
They were weeping at the evening
They formed, yet would always long for.

The sun could see the beach,
The shadows that reached deep into the sea,
And the love affair between Neptune and her earthly lover,

But the masterpiece that she weaved
The pinks and blues that could swallow the view

Of me and everyone who could gaze at her and the ocean
Would forever be a stranger to her..

She may never see it,
But the world she infused with her magic
Reacted with the salty sea,
To create a piece better than anything by O’Keeffe.

I fell in love with this scene,
I would love to take the blanket with me
But she does not belong to any one being,
But I’ll still love all I have seen.

My only wish would be
To show her the same lovely eve
She bestowed everyone and me.

Thomas Tobin is a 19 year old poet from the New York metropolitan area. In the last year, he has become heavily involved in the Columbus poetry scene.

‘I Am the Undertow’, ‘My Memories Live in Ashtrays’, ‘The Sand That I Am’, ‘Serene Storms’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

I Am the Undertow

The birds sing above me

urging I retreat

as I swim breaststroke

in a river

that cannot project me

forward

In my peripheral vision

I notice her

diving beneath the surface

plunging deep into

temptation

before reasoning

can circle overhead

I do not swallow

more than a mouthful of air

before I find myself

barreling down her trajectory

abandoning my

airborne adversaries

Submerged in the passion

of my pursuits

the song of the warblers

is drowned out by

the sloshing of seduction

relentless in its efforts

to overwhelm my eardrums

My Memories Live in Ashtrays

In the comfort

Of my living room

I light up

Might as well

Inhale these toxins

To rid myself of

Others

With each drag

There is a greater

Demand to

Withdraw

But I must

Poison the grief

That sits

In my lungs

A tray beside me

Holds discarded ends

Of recollection

There they live

Trapped in soot

Covered creases

A reminder of

Memories that

Never finished

Burning

The Sand That I Am

It is sand that

Rains down glass

The beads

Of an hour

Dropping to

Their death

As am I

For I too

Am sand

Measured by

The minute

Often stuck

In unreachable

Crevices

Once I was

Stone

But I was

Broken down

Weathered

For the better

I am still unsure

It is sand that

Serves

As a vessel

For rebirth

Is this

The sand

That I am

Serene Storms

I awake to

summer’s storm

pecking at my window

in the early hours

of morning before

the sun tries to

peek from behind

clouds concealing

its shine. A calm

washes over with

the rain tapping

on roof shingles,

creating a concord

that coincides with

rumblings of the earth.

There is no light aside

from brief illuminations

casting shadows

of shaking trees

on shutters bearing

the wind’s rage.

Calamity prevails

outside, but within

my heartbeat settles.

I am delighted by

this interlude.

Alyssa Troy is an English teacher in Bucks County, Pennsylvania. She received her B.A. from Rider University and has an M. Ed. from both Cabrini and Eastern University. Her poems are published or forthcoming in Blue Unicorn, Cool Beans Lit, In Parentheses, 300 Days of Sun, The Road Not Taken as well as other journals and magazines. She is the author of Transfiguration (2020).

‘The Creation of Joe Costello’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

The Creation of Joe Costello

The man awoke. It felt as though a bullet was ricocheting around his skull, destroying his memories. Closing his eyes, he collected the most basic of information and then saw something glowing deep within. He reached out. From the pulsating mass of grey matter, he pulled out a name.

It was Eric.

Eric gasped. He was sat on a dusty fabric seat, travelling at a high speed, and realised that this was a train. Eric sat, knuckles whitening as he squeezed his thigh. He breathed deep as the carriage plunged into the tunnel. The overhead lights failed to illuminate, burying him and those around in darkness. He breathed out, and when he tried to inhale, his chest tightened. The darkness around was thick. Eric clutched his chest, and his vision faded; he was about to pass out. Then, light flooded the carriage, and with it, air into his lungs. No one else seemed to feel what he did. The woman across the aisle was staring out of the window with longing, and a light, thumping bass came from her headphones. Eric cared little for music; it all sounded the same. In front of the woman sat a suited man, who kept glancing over his shoulder with a look of annoyance, but she didn’t notice.

The sounds of children surrounded Eric, but all he could see was a silent, small girl, standing by the doors holding a red, heart-shaped balloon. She smiled at him, and her eyes held intelligence beyond her years. Then, an announcement rang out; the next stop was coming up. Eric couldn’t remember why he wanted to go here—or even where here was—all he knew was that he had to get away, away from his life. Eric got up and swung his backpack over a shoulder. He approached where the little girl once stood and waited. And through the window, the towering city lay bare before him. Skyscrapers stood on end like the hair on the back of giants. The streets were pristine, and devoid of cars, busses, trucks. People walked through the city; others were on push bikes. Pollution-free air wafted in through the window. Eric smiled as a light mist descended from the sky like an ashen blanket.

The train pulled into the station, and the doors slid open. The terminal was empty, except for several families that stood waiting for those aboard. A woman stripped off her headphones, and ran into the arms of another, kissing them. The suited man lifted a child into the air and smiled, tears gathered within his eyes. But no one waited for Eric, at least, so he thought. Then, from the distance, a dark-skinned man approached. His eyes were light, and his hair dyed a disgusting shade of yellow. He smiled at Eric and said: “Hey Joe, took you long enough.” Before pulling him in for a hug.

Eric went to correct him but realised he couldn’t remember anything about himself. How sure was he that Eric was even his name? The idea of not knowing himself caused a point of pressure to form within his mind—it was about the size of a pinhead. As he thought about it, the name Joe did feel more like him. He did not know who this person was, but he wanted a friend. So, he took the name with pride, and said: “Hey, how are you?”

“I’m good man,” he said. “Come, let me show you to your apartment.”

“How do you know where I’m staying?”

“That’s my job,” the man said with a smile. “Come on then.”

Joe followed the man, not caring to ask for his name. As they left the station and stepped into the street, the mist enveloped them, and Joe could only see several feet in front.

“Where are you from?”

“Nowhere interesting,” Joe said. “Always found myself moving from place to place.” He figured lying was simpler than having to explain his lack of memory.

“Ah, a drifter. Man after my own heart. You see, I’ve been guiding people to their destination for a long, long time. It always warms my heart to help someone like you find their way to where they belong.”

Eventually, the man brought him to one of many high-rise apartment buildings, which punctured deep through the mist and into the sky. As the door came into view, someone walking in ahead of them, and a red heart-shaped balloon slipped inside. He felt oddly at peace here. The city was, in his mind, idyllic and appealed to him on a level deeper than he understood.

“Here we go,” the man said. “If you need anything, just call. You still have my number, right?”

Joe pulled out his phone and looked through his contacts. Blank. “Think it got wiped when I changed SIMS, sorry.”

“No worries, pass it.” The man took the phone and tapped away. “There we go.”

Joe glanced at the phone; the man put himself down as Mike. “Cheers, Mike,” he said. He approached the apartment building and paused. He thought to himself, Do a Columbo.

Joe turned and said, “Remind me, which room is mine?”

Mike laughed. “Penthouse, Lieutenant.” He winked and walked away. After several steps, he too ‘did a Columbo,’ and said, “It should rain soon. Your favourite weather, right?”

Joe nodded and smiled; he didn’t expect this guy to catch on to what he was doing. He figured his weather comment was a lucky guess. Rain is popular, after all. But he waved and entered the building. In the distance, he caught the face of the little girl from the train. The elevator doors slid shut in front of her; he could have sworn she was smiling at him.

Stepping across the threshold into the lobby presented Joe with a cavalcade of scents. The sanitised, sterile smell of a hospital provided a canvas for the aroma of a greasy English breakfast. And despite the smell, and the clinking of silverware, the restaurant across the lobby looked to be empty, with a dim light flickering towards the back end, illuminated various buckets of paint and wooden offcuts. An absence of presence within the hotel increased the pressure building within his frontal lobe. The entire city had this emptiness. It was the same emptiness that permeated from the depths of his soul.

The lobby itself was small, with a circular desk manned by two people sitting in the centre. Behind them, shelves ran along the walls, lined with decorations from plants to statuettes. Above, small bulbs hung onto scaffold shaped wood, like fireflies hanging motionless in the air. Joe approached the desk, and the young woman smiled. She had dark hair cascading down her shoulders and olive skin.

“Mr Costello? We’ve been expecting you. Here’s your key.” She slid it across the table.

Joe Costello? He thought. Sounds more like me than Eric Costello. I’ll take it.

“Sir?” The woman’s name tag read Genevieve. “Everything okay?”

“Sorry, Genevieve. Thank you. I’m in the penthouse, correct?”

“Correct sir. Please, just call reception if you need anything.”

“Will do.” Joe walked towards the lift and hit a button. After several moments, the doors slid open. Revealing a chimpanzee dressed in a white shirt and red vest, loose beige trousers, Joe’s attention was drawn to the red, polka-dotted tie he was wearing.

“Going up?” The chimp said.

“Penthouse, please.”

“Key card, sir.” The chimp held out a calloused hand.

“Oh yeah, of course.” Joe fumbled around and handed him the card. “There you go.” Something felt wrong. Could Chimps speak? Something in the deeper wrinkles of his brain was screaming at Joe, telling him that this was not normal. Eventually, he acted on these urges, and said, “Worked here long?”

“Most of my life, sir.” The chimp slid the card into the elevator panel, and it lurched into action.

 “Is English your first language?”

“Technically.”

“What do you mean?”

“‘Chimpanzee’ isn’t an officially recognised language. Doesn’t matter now that I’m here.”

“Got any family?”

“Please, sir, I would rather not talk about all that.”

“Of course… My apologies.”

“No worries.” The elevator bell dinged. “Ah! Penthouse Floor. Have a lovely stay.”

“Thank you…”

“The name’s Archibald, sir.”

“Thank you, Archibald.” Joe smiled and stepped out. Before him was an almost barren room. The blinds were closed, and the lights were off. The room was illuminated by a television set playing Ransom for A Dead Man. It revealed the all-white room, even the sofa and television set were white. There were no decorations, and the room was hardly furnished. Then, the sound of rain pattering down on the window broke the dulcet tones of Peter Falk. Joe rushed towards the curtain and pulled it open, revealing a large storm overhead. Rain was beating down on the city, and he smiled. Joe walked back towards the white sofa and sat down, drifting to sleep.

He awoke sometime later; the TV had stopped playing Columbo hours ago. The city lights from outside illuminated his room, and on the TV, he could see his reflection. Slouched back on the white sofa was a skinny man, no older than twenty-five. The man was clean-shaven and had dark hair, and even from within the depths of the television, his face distorted as it was, he could see the sadness in his eyes. He couldn’t remember why he was sad; he just was. And the last thing Joe concluded was that he looked nothing like a Joe Costello, the name wasn’t his—he was sure of it. But he had nothing else, so he clung to it. To have at least one thing he could call his was enough to maintain him for now. The material things surrounding him weren’t really his, were they? He had assumed this identity after all. But, even then, within his soul, within the essence of himself they felt like they belonged to him. His brain throbbed from the thought.

Joe pushed himself out of the chair and sauntered towards the television. He knelt and pushed the button; it flickered to life. A blue light bathed the sofa, and Joe slipped back into his seat. The TV flickered. For a moment, a woman’s face appeared. Joe jumped out of his seat, and again it appeared; he couldn’t make out the details. All he could see were red lips and blonde hair. He stayed standing for a moment; the TV fizzled and on it, Bruce Forsyth began introducing contestants on The Price is Right.

Joe shook his head and switched off the television. He was delirious. The day’s events had taken a toll on him. As Bruce’s face disappeared, the room reflected itself at Joe, and behind him, he could see a little girl with a red, heart-shaped balloon. But when he turned around, no one else was to be seen. He took a deep breath and checked his watch. Five A.M. and still dark out, he figured it must be late December or early January. In an instant, his vision faded, and he saw flashes from the past. Fireworks, a blonde hair girl, and liquor were all he caught before something dragged him back to reality.

Joe clutched his chest and limped towards the elevator. On the door was a scribbled note, which read:

I know who you are. Meet me. 8 pm, bar on St. Michael's Street.

Joe couldn’t catch his breath. The pressure within his mind continued to build and hit the elevator button. The memories that flooded him were dissipating fast. Who was that woman? Was she the one on the TV? What about that party, New Year's presumably? Joe figured someone had to know something. Maybe the girl with the balloon could help? Did she write the note? No one else could have. As he pondered this, the elevator slid open to reveal Archibald. “Going down, sir?” he said.

Joe stepped into the elevator and said, “Lobby, if you would.”

“Certainly.”

The two stood there in silence for a minute, until Joe said, “So, Archi, what brought you into this business?”

“There’s something satisfying about helping people who are lost.”

“My driver said something similar when he dropped me off—wait, you believe I’m lost?” 

Archibald let out a thin smile. “If you don’t mind me saying, sir, you do seem extremely lost.”

“Tell me about it.” Joe laughed in an exhausted manner. The way one does not out of bemusement due to defeat. “Honestly, I don’t even know the date.”

“Are you feeling well?”

“If I’m being honest, I can’t remember anything.”

“Why would you divulge this to me, sir?”

“You just have a trustworthy face.”

“It’s because I’m a chimp, isn’t it?”

“What? No, I hardly noticed—”

“It was a joke, sir. Either way, today is the first of January 2023.”

The elevator came to a halt, and the doors slid open. “My stop. Thanks Archi.”

“Just a moment, if you don’t mind, sir,” Archibald said, walking out of the lift. “Perhaps I could come with you, show you around the city? Help with this memory issue?”

“You can’t just leave work, can you?”

“Oh this? This is a hobby. Come on now.” He walked past Joe and gestured for him to follow. “Hey, Genevieve.” He waved to the receptionist. “I’m off out.”

“Stay safe.” She waved to Joe. “If you want breakfast, I recommend the café just down the street. The hotel restaurant is under renovation.”

Joe jogged to catch up; the ape moved faster than expected. He ran out and looked up and down the street. Archibald was nowhere to be seen.

“Archi? Archibald!” His voice echoed across the empty streets, but no one returned the call. His guide disappeared and Joe didn’t feel as though he truly knew himself. The pressure within his mind had swollen so much that it was like a balloon had been inflated within; it was close to bursting.

Not being sure what to do, he decided the best idea would be to follow Genevieve’s suggestion and find the café. As he walked, he continued to yell out for Archibald, but as he did, the rain rolled in and his words were lost in the wind. He couldn’t hear himself over the pattering of rain. It pounded down, harder and harder. It obscured his vision, and he couldn’t see more than three feet in front.

Despite this, Joe was fine. The rain was warm and pleasant to the skin. As it enveloped him, depriving him of all senses, he felt at peace. But then, from the silence and within the grey void outside his vision, came the sound of music. Joe stood still. He wasn’t sure what it was, but it was familiar. He stood, letting the rain drench his clothes; they were heavy. Cogs in his mind turned, and he stepped closer. Then another. Soon, he could hear a voice over the bass synth. It clicked. The song was Believe by Cher.

Joe shook his head. Tears ran down his cheeks and into his mouth; their salty taste was the only thing differentiating them from the rain. Wiping his face, he ran. As he did, the café broke into his vision, destroying the sense of deprivation. The music was coming from within but seemed more subdued and, as he entered, it had almost faded in its entirety. It played in the background, overridden by the bustle of conversation. The sweet scent of a buttery sweet coffee dancing up his nasal passage, accompanied by the soft cinnamon notes of a pastry. Taking it in, he figured the beans must have been sourced from Guatemala. When Joe first saw his reflection, he didn’t take himself for a coffee connoisseur, but he figured looks deceive—a fact proven as he approached the counter.

Behind it was a tall, well-built man. A man you’d expect to be cutting into a tree in a forest or cutting open wolves and saving grannies. But here he was, smiling and working at what looked to be a coffee shop.

“Hello,” the lumberjack said. “Can I get a name?”

“Sorry?” Joe was taken aback. The pressure continued to build within.

“Your name.” The man’s tone never strayed away from pleasant.

“But, why?”

“To mark your order. It’s just so no one else takes it by mistake.”

“But I know what mine is.”

“Aye, but no point taking that risk, is there? Just tell me who you are, and we’ll know what yours is.”

“I don’t…” Joe paused. He knew his name wasn’t Eric, nor was it Joe Costello. Was it? If anything, he was more Joe Costello than anyone else—it was all he had. He didn’t know who he was. Letting people assume you are someone is one thing, but pretending to be that person? How long does that last? How long until you are that person and no longer yourself? Joe didn’t know. He had no other identity and didn’t want to let go of what little he had. But also, he saw this as an opportunity. He could become anyone with any name. The name’s Lucian Ambrosius Everard. No, that’s ridiculous. Bruce Willis maybe?

“Are you okay?”

“What?” Joe shook his head.

“Are you okay? What’s your name?”

With that one simple question, the balloon within is mind burst. “Shut up,” Joe said. “Just shut up. Who cares who I am, Eric, Joe, Raphaël, Bruce? I don’t have to tell you anything, you’re just some guy. Leave me alone.” He ran out of the café.

As Joe ran to the door, a girl stood watching across the street. A red heart-shaped balloon hung above her, and she smiled. He pulled open the door, and she was gone. Joe ran across the street, to where she was once stood and looked around. On the floor was a small polaroid which displayed a couple; both of their faces were burnt out. But Joe could make out a man with brown hair and a blonde girl. Joe let his thumb fondle the Polaroid for several moments, before sliding it into his back pocket and heading back to his apartment.

When he arrived, the receptionists were gone. He drifted through the lobby and pondered on what had occurred. The poor barista didn’t deserve that, but the question was too much. What is my name? He thought. I towards the elevator. Soon it arrived and inside stood Archibald. “Archi!” Joe said. “What happened?”

“What do you mean, sir?”

“We left, remember?”

“I never would have left my post.” His lips twitched into a forced smile.

“Are you okay?”

He paused, then pulled Joe in closer. “I shouldn’t have got involved. This is something you must do alone.”

“What? What do you know, Archi?”

The bell rang. “Penthouse!” Archibald said. “See you soon, sir.” With that, he ushered Joe out of the elevator and smiled as the doors shut.

The room had changed. Believe was playing, and Joe realised he enjoyed the song. The room, whilst still white, now had a desktop computer in the corner. It was switched on and its fans hummed beneath Cher’s pitch-shifted notes. On the monitor, a video game was booted, titled, Disco Elysium. The other recent addition was on the television; no longer was it condemned to play solely Columbo and late-night game shows. On it was a homebrew streaming service, which advertised Columbo, alongside all the Die-Hard movies. The time was in the corner of the television, and it read One Thirty in the afternoon.

Somewhere within Joe’s reptilian brain, synapses fired. He stepped back in fear. What was happening? The names he contemplated taking were here. He ran out towards the bedroom. Inside was a plain, white bed facing a bay window revealing the city skyline. In the distance, the sun was falling behind the skyscrapers, which now looked like the silhouette of a hand reaching out, trying to escape an earthy entombment. Joe checked his watch; it was now six in the evening.

“What the…” he muttered and looked to the bed, a suit had been lain out for him, with a note. Wear this x.

He got dressed and returned to the elevator. When the doors opened, inside was a small, bald man. He was so old that it was impossible to guess, anywhere from seventy to one hundred. The man smiled as Joe entered. “Going down?” he said.

“Where’s Archi?”

“Say again, my hearing ain’t what it used to be.” The man’s hands were shaking as he hit a button.

“The ape? Archibald?”

“An ape? As an elevator operative? Surely not.” The man shook his head in disapproval.

“I’m being serious. He was here just a few hours ago!”

“If you see an ape, you should call the zoo or something.”

“But he could talk!”

“I see what you’re doing. Very funny kid, it isn’t polite to prank the elderly.” The old man smiled as he spoke, and the bell rang. “Lobby!” he called out.

“One second, sir,” Joe said with as much politeness as he could muster. “Which way is it to St. Michael's Street?”

“Left when you leave, cross the street and head straight until you reach a crossroads. Then right.”

“Thank you.” Joe walked away, confused. What happened to Archibald? Whatever it was, he didn’t have time. He ran outside. He had to find this bar. Maybe it had the answers.

He was met with crisp air and empty streets; the lights of the city were off. In the silent darkness, the only sound came from Joe’s feet beating the concrete. He ran for twenty minutes, and soon he came across a sign for St. Michaels. Doubling over, he hyperventilated. He couldn’t remember the last time he ran, and then he laughed at the thought. He gave himself two minutes before standing straight. This street was like the others, apart from a neon sign in the distance. The words were hazy from where he stood, so he couldn’t make out the name, but it had to be the bar; nowhere else was open.

As he approached, the sign came into focus. In pink neon, it read: Claire’s Castle. Below the sign stood a bouncer. As Joe came closer, the man nodded and gestured for him to enter.

Something changed as he stepped through the door. The bar was of a higher class than it appeared. The lighting was dim, but warm. And within were red sofas, all of which were occupied by familiar faces. Mike was sitting with Genevieve and the other receptionist. The suited man from the train was here with the elderly elevator operative, and behind the bar was Archibald. Serving a drink to the barista Joe had fled from. For a moment, Joe and Archibald locked eyes; the ape shook his head and nodded towards the end of the bar. Standing there, alone, was the girl with the red balloon.

She smiled and gestured for Joe to approach. As he did, someone walked past him, and the scene shifted. The girl in the red balloon was gone. Replaced by a small table and two chairs. Sat down was the blonde-haired woman, the balloon in hand.

Joe sat opposite her, and she smiled. After several minutes, he broke the silence with, “Who are you?”

“Wow, straight to business.” Her voice was that of a child’s. “The better question is, who are you?”

“I’m—”

“Easy, no need to decide right now.”

“What?”

“Ask me another question. Humour me,” she said.

“Right… Where are we?”

“Come on. Look around and you’ll figure it out.”

Joe looked around the room and concentrated on the faces. Recognising no one, he shifted to the smell, and finally the sounds. As he did, the music faded into existence. Believe. “New Year’s Eve, 2022,” he said.

“Great work, detective.” A wry smile danced across her lips.

“Why are we here?”

“To find out who you are.”

“What about that other place?”

“Where do you think that was?”

Joe paused. Deep in his heart, he knew, but he had never accepted it. Even now, he couldn’t say it aloud. “Does that mean you’re…”

Her smile was sad. “You’re an interesting case. Before arriving, you were stripped of your memory. It took me a while, and some observing, but I figured out a way for you to take it back. All of it.”

“How?”

“Look. If you do this, there’s no going back. The pain of the past will haunt you. Forever. And you will live with it. Leave this memory, return to the city and you will enjoy a new existence, as someone without the weight of the past haunting them.”

“Say I leave and abandon my memories. What about my name?”

“Why do you care about a name?”

“That’s who I am.”

“Is it?” She cocked her head. “Have you ever heard of the ship of Theseus? The idea is, if you have a ship and over the years, you replace the parts. You change everything about it: the crew, the sails, the type of wood used for the stern. If all that is changed, is it still the same ship? Just the name remains unchanged. In my mind, the ship ceases to be when the crew is gone. Without them, the ship is simply a ship—no matter the construction.”

“But I’ve only lost my memories.”

“Your crew,” she said. “You’re just an empty vessel now.”

“Even without the crew, the ship still belongs to Theseus.”

“Does it? If an empty vessel is drifting across the sea, would you know which ship it is? Without the crew, there’s no identity. Without memory, you’re nobody. What are we, if not our experiences?”

“I don’t want to be nobody.”

“Then become someone new. You need to let go of the past; the name means nothing. I am giving you an opportunity to be someone else, to live a new, better life. You’re more Joe Costello than the man who walked into this bar on New Year’s Eve. If I tell you this other name, then it is meaningless without the memories to go with it.”

“But those memories are already leaking through. I can’t change who I am.”

“Are they? What if those flashes of memory are simply your brain attempting to fill in the gap? Your brain reached into its depths and pulled out what it could. The name Eric?” She paused. “Just a Pratchett novel.”

“What? I must have reached out to that for a reason.”

“Do you remember anything about it? Do you like it? Maybe you hate it. You don’t know, your brain just took what it could. It knows Columbo exists and decided you like it. Storms? Everyone loves them.”

“But why? Surely I’d remember nothing if I didn’t care for them?”

She sighed. “Without something for your consciousness to spring from, you’d be a philosophical zombie. Yes, your body would continue as normal, but you. A conscious individual. You’d be nothing. It saved you. And you should know that creating a personality on the fly isn’t easy, and memory is such a fickle mistress; most memories from childhood are not real. They’re events created by your brain based on the anecdotes of those around you.”

“What are my options, then?”

“You can relive this night and spend the rest of your time holding on. Or you can leave and continue living as Joe Costello. A fresh start. That’s what you wanted. That’s how you got here.”

“Will I see these people again?”

“Only if you stay. But then, you won’t want to.”

Joe looked back towards the doorway. From it came the warm, welcoming light of Claire’s Castle. He couldn’t see anything within the orange haze. Having decided, he looked back toward the woman; she was gone. In her place was the little girl, her red balloon slipped out of her hand, clinging to the ceiling. Joe stood and took one last look around the room. At the faces, which he realised now meant nothing to him. He approached the door and leaned against the doorframe.

Without looking back, Joe Costello smiled before letting go.

Jordon Jones has a MA Creative Writing and a BA in History from the University of Lincoln. He is originally from the northern town of Warrington, and his passion for storytelling started young.

‘On the Gobi’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

On the Gobi

steaming goat’s milk
&, supple buuz dumplings
as sunlight streams through
the ger: there are camels
to be milked, floor to be swept
cattles and horses to be attended
before dusky sunset
when gobi is painted crimson
& we dance in the fading light

Erin Jamieson’s writing has been published in over eighty literary magazines, including two Pushcart Prize nominations. Her poetry chapbook, Fairytales, was published by Bottlecap Press and her most recent chapbook, Remnants, came out in 2024. Her debut novel (Sky of Ashes, Land of Dreams) came out November 2023.