‘When we die, can we become mycelium?’, ‘Isn't it enough to see that a garden is beautiful’, ‘I’m keeping my hands busy lately’

Alicia Garrett is a nature enthusiasts who is looking for a creative hobby to justify her antisocial behavior.

When we die, can we become mycelium?

In constant communication?

A new form of regeneration?

I hope your consciousness remains a constant companion.

This is not quiet reincarnation, but

unbecoming to become intertwined with what already exists.

My shoulders used to shudder at the thought of smoldering into ash

or being packed beneath 2,597 pounds of earth.

Now I hope we are devoured by the same worm colony,

deposited in the same soil, that we sprout the same mushrooms,

feed the same flowers; to nourish into eternity.

Our hearth has become my heaven

and our dirt is the afterlife

being tended to today

Isn't it enough to see that a garden is beautiful

without having to believe that there are fairies at the bottom of it too?

After Douglas Adams

My lover wraps his arms around me, crushing me into the couch cushions, my scowl tunrning into railleries;

why does my body fall back into the past like a warm lake in the summer rain? When my head breaks the

surface, it is sleeting and I am shivering; why do my toes keep stretching to the sandy bottom? He holds me as

the shudders subside, wipes the deluge from under my eyes, and my insides feel crystallized. If only there were

life rafts for the resivoirs of trauma. If only there were daisies beckoning from shoreline. If only the bank wasn't

covered in snow. If only I could see the icicles as nature’s ornaments instead of another danger to avoid,

slinking into more devastating waters. The fae keeps me up late, dancing in a pool of my own destruction; my

lover hangs on as I do summersaults through surrealism.

The fairies are having a ball at the bottom of the lagoon, whispering invitations I know will lead me astray. I

bolt the doors with iron and shelter myself harbor of my lover. We exist in crackle of a candle, the light from the

flame, the shadows on the wall; we frolicked in the future, and I find him shrewn through every version.

I’m keeping my hands busy lately

Digging into dough, my mind needs me to knead

until my arms are numb and memories are subdued.

This is not quite dissociation or distraction;

the smell of freshly peeled apples assails my senses

and the crust crumbles between my forefinger and thumb.

Soft serenades drift from the stereo

and I hum along, not quite absently.

There is no outrunning the past, so I decided to bake with it.

We laugh in the kitchen and I fold it into a new recipe, taking my time.

The weather is warming and bread is rising faster.

Early spring flowers are blooming

and we plant herbs in the thawing garden beds.

I make a blueberry pie and you tell me it tastes just right.

Maggie Bowyer (they/he) is a poet, co-host of the podcast Baked and Bookish, and the author of various poetry collections including Homecoming (2023) and When I Bleed (2021). They’ve been published in Chapter House Journal, The South Dakota Review, Wishbone Words, and more. Find their work on Instagram @maggie.writes

‘Traps’

Donald Patten is an artist and cartoonist from Belfast, Maine. He produces oil paintings, illustrations, ceramic pieces and graphic novels. His art has been exhibited in galleries across Maine. His online portfolio is donaldlpatten.newgrounds.com/art

Traps 

It’s a good thing no one lives upstairs now. I’ll bet this whole fucking building smells like weed.

Amy took another pull off her joint and set it down on an ornate blue and white china plate. The plate had served as an ashtray for some time, years actually, but only for weed. The plate was regularly cleaned so it looked as though someone could very possibly have eaten off it just the day before and had none of the yellow stains that might give away regular use.

 She almost never smoked cigarettes in the apartment. As long as she had been a smoker and as much as she liked it, she could not abide the smell in her home. Besides, Daniel would never tolerate it. While most of the time she would never care what Daniel could or could not tolerate, this seemed like a fair ask on his part. On the rare occasion when they had a party or a substantial gathering of people, he would concede to putting a fan in the window of the kitchen and allow smoking there, but only if the weather was disagreeable.

Her eyes felt dry and heavy, her back stiff, her arms had a slight chill and the skin was even slightly cool to the touch. She wrapped the flimsy robe tight around her and sunk a little deeper into the big orange armchair. The chair had been with her for so long, had been moved from one apartment to the next, at least a dozen times. She could feel spots where the stuffing in the cushion had loosened or wadded up, making hard knots. Springs or wires or some piece of the internal structure could be felt through the upholstery, but the chair remained a comfortable place to retreat from the realities of life for someone on the cusp of 40 years old.

She squeezed her eyes shut and held them closed tight several times, yet there was still the sensation that no matter how much she blinked the dryness would not abate, and in a sort of distant way wondered if it was possible for one’s eyelids to stick to their eyes. She certainly felt as though hers might. She lingered on the thought for a moment at what a medical anomaly that would be.

Well, the treatment is probably pretty easy, and relatively pain free.

Amused, she giggled imagining Daniel drunk and stumbling in the door to find her unable to blink. He wouldn’t believe her at first. Who would blame him? It did seem an absurd thing, eyelids stuck to your eyeballs. But eventually he’d believe her and then he’d pack her up into her car and bring her to the hospital. Once there she would regain her credibility when a doctor would tell them that this sort of thing was more common than one might realize and was easily treated with some eyedrops. He’d say something like, “oh yeah, at least a couple times a week,” or “happens aaallllll the time.”

What the fuck is wrong with me? Jesus, I’m really fucking stoned.

 She shook her head, pushed her glasses up her nose. She reached for a few loose sheets of paper and refocused on the essay in front of her. It was perfect reading for the stoner art enthusiast. She could buy into the idea of Jackson Pollock as a cubist. It was a neat idea and had a certain unique appeal to her. Just the sort of idea that seemed fringe enough that not everyone would know, but not entirely out of left field either.

 Plausible.

In any case, it was just one more idea to add to the mass of knowledge she had spent years accumulating. One more point of reference for when she started to paint again.

If…

If that ever happens.

The room was lit, but just barely, by a single small lamp, placed on the floor rather than on an end table as it should have been, wedged between the wall and the chair. A full third of its potential illumination was lost to the wall, and another third blocked out by the chair, casting a long shadow across much of the room. While the lamp did surprisingly little to actually illuminate the room, the light was blinding if the bulb was within sight, even if only in one’s periphery. Most people would find this arrangement unpleasant, but Amy thought it had a sort of gritty charm.  Yet now, stoned and uncomfortable, she began to feel the unevenness amplify as her mind fixated on external annoyances. Despite her efforts to focus on her reading, and as interesting as the subject was, she was having difficulty engaging her attention fully.

Something else was distracting her though, a nagging feeling of…what? A lack of inertia? No motivation?

Ennui

So it was, she was realizing more and more, when she read her histories and essays. More frustration. Anxiety, anger, doubt and disappointment. It ate at her, gnawing at the edges of her attention. She told herself it was going to pass, even if it got a little worse for a little bit. She would do that from time to time: obsess over some mundane nonsense only to turn her attention to some other insignificant issue. She was sure that being high only served to excite this tendency. Yet she reached for the joint again.

I’ll chill out eventually…

She never smoked as much as she had been recently, and her drinking had picked up as well. Most of her life she had only had a passing interest in getting stoned, but the stagnant regularity of her routine left her with a growing boredom and more and more the answer seemed to be getting high. It didn’t help that Daniel smoked all day, every day. He was enjoying her newfound interest and actively encouraged her substance intake. At least it made the usual shit more interesting.

Well, sometimes. I think “tolerable” is more the word I would use. It amplifies the minutiae of the banal is all. Or maybe those are the things we should be noticing all the time.

She let the pages drop to the floor with a sigh. She couldn’t think or concentrate through the haze in her brain. It was as though she inhaled the smoke directly into her skull, gathering, increasing in density until it became a fog so thick that signals would no longer be able to navigate a way from one nerve to another. The cognitive fog cast a shade over the already dark room. She didn’t like this feeling of uselessness and was surprised to be overcome with a feeling of disgust for letting herself become so… pointless?

That is exactly the word. Pointless. There is no point to any of this. It all leads nowhere. What the fuck am I doing?

She went to the bathroom and studied her bloodshot eyes in the mirror, blinking constantly to fight back the cloudiness growing in from the edges of her vision. Tears welled up and she marveled at how the redness around her irises made the blue of them deeply vivid. She found the faucet handle and turned it all the way to the cold side. When the water met her eyelids, her head cleared a bit. She rubbed her eyes and looked again in the mirror. Seeing the redness recede and her cheeks flush made her feel a touch more composed. She pulled her long, curled mess of hair back into a loose bun, sighed and strolled back into her studio.

Studio, office, whatever…

Standing there in the sparsely furnished room, surveying the gathering dust on her drafting table, boxes of art supplies and reams of unused paper, she suddenly and surprisingly felt lucid in a way she hadn’t for some time. As though she had willed away the effects of the half-burned joint and the fog of ennui. And she felt worthless, but no longer hopeless. Anxiety was giving way to possibility. It was weak, but it was there. She knew that if she didn’t seize this sensation it would retreat into the hazy recesses of her brain.

I’ll start now. If I don’t, I know where this will end up. I’ll get more and more out of practice and I’ll be too scared to start again. I’ll just keep putting it off. I have to do something. Even if it isn’t very good. Pointless isn’t worthless. Now, while I’m alone. Daniel’s not here to distract me. Now!

            Amy walked swiftly to the kitchen to retrieve another beer. Alcohol didn’t have the same tranquilizing affect the pot did.

            At least not nearly as bad.

            …and it would loosen her up a bit and help break down her reluctance.

 And she was reluctant. Almost to the point of fear. She didn’t want to fail, to try to produce something of value and have it fall short, which she knew was likely, almost a certainty, especially after all this time. But she knew that this was like building a fire. She had a spark, now she had to gently and deliberately tend to it. It would require all her attention, for a time. But, if she did it right, if she could keep this focus, she could build that fire and maintaining it would require only the occasional stoking and fuel.

 I’ve been giving up ground inch by inch to my own complacency. Not every failure is obvious. But I’m going to stop now. If I’m going to fail, it’s going to be a spectacular failure of action, not a weak fizzling of laziness. It’s the best time. What the hell else am I doing? Sitting around all the time getting stoned and reading. Sleeping all day. I hardly work. Music… I need music!

Jackson Pollock painted to music.

            The conviction of the truth of this thought was so insistent, it demanded action. She selected a record from the line of them against the wall, carefully pulled it out of the sleeve and placed it reverently on the turntable. Her skin tingled as the pops and fuzzy crackling of the needle on the spinning record floated out of the single ancient speaker. The music started suddenly with a jolt of guitars and drums. Even expecting it, she was briefly startled. She turned the volume up as high as she could without making the music clearly audible outside the building. She really had no idea what that threshold was but made a guess anyway.

            It’s a good thing no one lives upstairs.

            She started with the paper.

 Amy had spent some short couple months working at a failing art supply store. It was failing because the owner exhibited none of the aptitudes one may need to run a business. He was controlling, short-tempered and a terrible manager, speaking down to his staff at every opportunity. He showed more contempt for his customers for taking up his time than interest in taking their money. He inspired no respect in his small staff, all of whom he paid very poorly. So, most of them swiped a tube of paint here, a sketchpad there, a misplaced paintbrush every now and again and maybe, just maybe some canvas that “didn’t show up with the shipment” in an attempt to makeup the shortfall in their monetary compensation. Amy took paper. She took a lot of paper.

Paper bordered on something like sacred to Amy. Good paper is something artisans crafted with meticulous care. Paper is responsible for the advancement of civilization; the recording of laws, thoughts, ideas on the nature of existence and being, divine inspiration, grand gestures of love and disdain, imaginations accessible to billions, and untold numbers of works of art and learning. Amy wondered often at the number of lost pages that could contain unseen truths and beauty, an unquantifiable tragedy. Humanity owed a lot to paper and the weight of this history was always in her hands when she went to make a mark. She knew that this played some small part in her hesitation, a feeling that whatever she might put on the page ought to be worthy of the contribution that flattened wad of cotton has made to the world.

Tonight though, she didn’t let herself stop to consider the weight or texture, after all, she had wasted enough time already. She tore open the closest folder and pulled out a blank sheet. With a forced sort of theatrical conviction, she slapped it on the surface of her drafting table. She yanked off the delicate robe, balled it up and tossed it into a heap on the floor. With a bit of self-conscious melodrama, she shoved the frayed cuffs of her sweater up to her elbows.

Paint?crayon?pastel?char…Charcoal! Perfect! Back to the basics. No erasers. The most primitive of methods! Walk before you run, or crawl before you…oh what the fuck ever… This is how I’ll do it. Nothing pretentious, just simple, naked, honest. Nothing to use as a crutch, no hiding behind concept.

She rifled through the box of charcoal not caring that her hand had quickly turned black from dust of years of jostling and storage. Very much the opposite really, she felt quite empowered by it. And while the sensation of her nails scraping against the sticks and the hollow, metallic clattering of the sticks colliding was on its surface physically unpleasant, there was a certain romantic charge she got out of it.

The sounds of the stick scraping across the paper yielding to a smooth hiss as the point of the charcoal stick rounded off, the vibration across the rough paper surface, the smell of paint and turpentine rising in the room like a slowly filling bath from the boxes and drawers of supplies she had upset in her search for the right medium. All of it satisfied her somewhere deep in her chest. Guitars howled and shrieked, and drums rattled somewhere in the periphery of her consciousness.

 Every so often Amy stepped back to view the gradually sharpening image. She pulled her sweater over her head, dropping it straight to the floor. Dark streaks crisscrossed her forehead as she brushed hair away with blackened hands. As yet, the sketch had little discernable form, and all she could really understand was something to do with train tracks and skyscrapers. Lines upon lines, overlapping curves and uneven grids. The most complex forms of human achievement depicted most simple and understated.

“Hey babe, that looks amazing!”

Amy jumped with a start. What time was it? How long had it been? Surely not so long that Daniel would be off work yet…

“Oh, hi. What time is it? Are you off already?”

“No, I just swung by to grab some records.” Daniel did in fact have a dozen or so records under his arm. “You should come up. Everyone’s there.”

“Yeah, maybe. I dunno, I’m really into this right now.”

“Okay, yeah, well if you change your mind…” He hastily closed the distance between her, gave her a perfunctory kiss on the forehead, turned on his heels and walked out in a couple long strides.

Amy stood there for a time, bewildered. It seemed the moment had been broken and her attention shattered. She felt the pull of her friends and the seduction of the easy thrill that always went with staying up far too late and drinking a little too much. Without summoning it, the image of Daniel slapping the bar jovially across from Doug wiping tears, Justin reeling and gasping, Janie and Adrienne leaning against each other, teetering precariously on their stools as the whole lot of them laughed deep intruded into her mind. The laughter was a light that glowed like a halo around them, golden and radiant. Warming. All of this was there and gone in an instant, followed closely by the usual sleepiness.

She wasn’t tired or exhausted, but the abrupt interruption of the flow state jarred and disappointed her and she just felt weary. So quickly all the doubt came back, and she knew that this time there was no recovery. Suddenly aware of what she might look like, she trotted to the bathroom and again peered into the mirror.

Her face was a mess of charcoal smudges. Tiny dots shown where the dust settled into pores on her forehead and nose. Almost-clean lines followed the contours of her cheeks where tears had cleaned them. She couldn’t recall crying and wondered if she had just not noticed or if the persistent dryness she felt in her eyes had caused them to water. Large strands of hair had fallen out of the knot, splaying out from her head like solar flares from the sun. Wisps stuck to her forehead. The front of her shirt was marked with grey smudges as well.

While it seemed far to late to concern herself with the idea of cleanliness, Amy turned on the faucet to wash her hands. No reason to get any more charcoal on her clothes after all. The sight of the grey water running down the drain was surprisingly pleasant. The amount of it and how long it took to clean her hands thoroughly seemed to remind her that she had accomplished something, marginal though that accomplishment may be.

With clean hands she loosed her hair from the knot. She shook her head and her hair fell into a sort of lofty halo. The mirror was starting to fog over. She peeled her clothes off and in doing so became aware of the musty odor coming off her. It wasn’t yet offensively sour, but she did notice that she was unable to easily recall her last shower. Happily, the fogged mirror saved her from seeing her naked body in the mirror.

I can hate my body some other time.

She pulled the curtain back. The metal curtain rings made an abrupt screech as they slid across the bar. Steam poured out from the shower. She inhaled deeply as she stepped in.

The hot water was invigorating, and she felt sober, or sober enough. Only in the warm stream did she realize that she had been cold. Maybe cold wasn’t the right word. She had worked up a sweat after all, but there was a chilly clamminess that had been with her. The drafty, old apartment often meant that fall and winter would have an attendant chill throughout, no matter the ambient temperature inside.

 Feeling again clean and refreshed she turned the water off, stepped out and dried herself with a clean towel. She brushed her hair, enjoying how the brush glided through the long, curly strands smoothly and without much resistance from tangles and knots. She didn’t bother to wrap the towel around her to retrieve some fresh clothes. Amy had little compunction about walking around the apartment naked and never gave much thought to if any neighbors or passers-by could see.

The bedroom was fairly spartan relative to the eclectic potpourri of furniture and artwork that decorated the rest of the apartment. A queen size bed sat on a frame with no head or foot board in the middle of a long wall opposite the door, flanked by two small tables that did not match. One was a wide but short end table meant to go next to a couch while the other was very much it’s opposite: a tall stand with just enough room for the small lamp which sat upon it and a glass of…whatever.

In the corner to the left of the door was another lamp that stood about four feet tall. The paper shade, the obvious focal point of the lamp, was an uneven geometric shape with several sides of all different sizes. A foot switch turned it on and off and it gave off a bright pure white light that could illuminate the entire room. The light built into the ceiling did work but the bulb had burnt out years ago and was never replaced, nor was it missed for that matter.

Along the wall to the right of the door was a simple, but large dresser and a metal rack for hanging clothes, all of which were Amy’s. The top of the dresser was a heap of clothes, makeup, jewelry, CDs and cassette tapes. A small boom-box style stereo lay half-buried under the mess. Several strips of electrical tape kept the cassette deck face affixed to the rest of the unit, a trivial detail since the stereo gave off a perpetual soundtrack of indie-rock, jazz and blues from a local public-access radio station. The floor was worn hardwood and random heaps of books, clothes and shoes rose up like foothills to the bed and dresser, increasing in size and number closer to the furnishings. Fluffy tufts of dust clung to the edges of most anything on the floor.

Amy crossed the room to the dresser, again keeping her eyes from the mirror. Once dressed in fresh underwear and a tank top she went back to the office in search of her robe. The idea of going out hadn’t been completely discarded. Her tall black boots were toppled over on the bedroom floor and she imagined slipping them on and lacing them up. They came up almost to her knees…

 and would go so great with that pleated skirt I have. The one that was longer in the back. And that new sweater I bought the other day. I could wear the lacy bra under it and maybe let the sweater fall off one shoulder. I could wear my makeup a little more neutral and understated but with slightly darker eyes. If I start now it will probably take me just under an hour but would be so worth it.

 She could get looks if she really put her mind to it and that was always a bit of a charge.

She picked the robe up and shook it out. The thing had been with her for so long, and if she was at home alone she was probably wearing it. Sometimes it was a cape, sometimes a towel, sometimes a cocoon. Sometimes she wore it over just underwear and a bra and strutted around the apartment, as she imagined herself as some glamourous woman of leisure; cigarette hanging from her lips or held gingerly between the tips of her fingers, a glass of wine in hand, legs crossed and dangling over the arm of a chair. She pulled it on and wrapped it around herself as one would a blanket. The robe was far too thin to offer any significant measure of warmth, but she felt warmer none-the-less. And with the growing feeling of security coming over her, the desire to seek thrills receded.

It’s so late already. Everyone will be drunk but me. I’ll probably get there, and everyone will just leave and what’s the point of sitting there and watching my boyfriend serve drinks while I sit by myself.

She sighed and resolved to go to bed.

 Not bothering to remove her robe, she peeled the covers back and slid between the sheets feeling that refreshing coolness on her legs. That was the best part, it’s all downhill from here. As soon as the heat started to radiate from her body it would be an unending dance to keep herself cool. She propped a couple pillows up behind her back and sat up against the wall. Neither Amy nor Daniel watched television and she didn’t often miss it. They both had tablet computers they would watch their separate shows on but that wasn’t much good for falling asleep.

 Most nights she would read until she dozed off. Science Fiction and Fantasy. Daytimes were for smart things; essays, classic literature, poetry, but bedtime was for escape. An easing into dreams. She always felt like she slept better when she read before bed rather than falling asleep with the tinny, empty sound of the tablet or the tethered restraint of headphones.

Tonight, she missed television though. She wouldn’t mind falling asleep to something funny. Maybe a good sitcom or sketch comedy. She wouldn’t mind being woken up later from the light and noise. There wasn’t much to do, and Daniel would be out most of the day.

She turned the lamp off and sank into the bed. She crisscrossed her fingers and laid her hands on her chest. Her hair was still damp, but she didn’t mind, it helped to keep her cool. Looking up at the ceiling of the room, she could make out small cracks in the plaster. The room wasn’t completely dark. A streetlight outside the window projected two large squares onto the ceiling on white light. The light used to be more yellow, warmer. But Amy supposed that the bulb had been changed to one of those new bulbs that last forever and saves energy. While that was all well and good, she found the new color harsh and cold. It put her in a sour mood as she lay there missing the warmth of the past.

Reflecting on the evening she wondered if she might be able to capture that same energy at another time, or would it be months again before she did anything else. She resolved to give it a try at least once a day.

I wonder what time it is.

But she did not want to look. She worried that if she looked it might somehow distract her from her current project of getting to sleep. While she lay there in bed, her anxiety grew and she became more and more restless. She felt as if she may not be able to sleep, yet seemingly just moments later Amy opened her eyes to full daylight. None of her anxieties were present in her mind as she staggered toward the kitchen to start the coffee. Her mood was upbeat, and she looked forward to a relaxing day, free of commitment.

Matthew Derouin is an author, musician and artist from Saint Louis, Missouri. A former student of philosophy, his work across all mediums is concerned with free will, the search for meaning, creativity and aesthetics, and identity. His literary work has appeared in Waxing & Waning. His art can be viewed at www.mattderouin.com or at https://www.saatchiart.com/matthewderouin. His band, Future/Modern appears on El Gran E Records out of Dallas, Texas, and can be streamed on Apple Music, Spotify and Amazon Music

‘Amphibious’

Lizzie Falvey is an artist and professor from Boston, Massachusetts. Her photographs, videos, ceramics, and monoprints have been shown in galleries across New England. She takes photos on an old Nikon film camera and enjoys capturing images that evoke a sense of the vastness of time and geographical space.

Amphibious

…borrowed from Greek amphibious, "living a double life"…-Merriam-Webster

i.

Salamanders regenerate limbs and tissue

Without scarring

& afterwards no one questions

What they learned

The trauma unapparent

ii.

I ain't quite ready for war

Two years from retirement

Our garden needs tending

& my parents are getting old

I am getting old

But when they set fire to the world

To burn us out, we'll scatter

Submerge just beneath the surface

& gather like we do

Until it's time

For sons of mothers who were sons

& asphalt heroes turn

As one to face the hounds

Match them tooth

For bloody tooth

& we know our bodies might betray us

Forget to breathe

Enough of us remember

There are other ways

To survive

Ghosts of the good queer

Poets sing

We are divine, molecular

& hate has no power

Past our skin

iii.

None of us will know them

Who come next

But we know

They will continue

As if we never left

Jason Clemmons is a Tar Heel poet and long-time university administrator with works appearing in several publications, such as Slippery Elm, Havik, and Fifth Wheel Press. His writing reflects his experience as a gay man in the US South, often touching on themes of memory, family, and resiliency. Jason lives in central North Carolina with his husband, Peter.

‘Lady English or Her Body Herself’

Matthew McCain is an author and fine artist with 3 of his novels reaching the top #10 on Amazon Kindle Unlimited. His paintings can be found all around the world from London to Alice Cooper’s Teen Youth Rock Center in Phoenix, Arizona. He’s currently represented by the Bilotta Gallery in Florida.

Lady English or Her Body Herself

It's almost rotting, it's so sweet. An end of July kind of heat brings the moisture and everything around welling to the surface. Skin beads in sweat and the fruits are sweating too, but Eden English is crying tears that would have poured in any weather. Sitting up in bed, her acrylic nails are digging just slightly into the skin above her eyes. There's a passing thought, the tears always seem to stop when the eyes are torn out of your face. It passes. And when she trembles she does so in silence.

There's a tapping on the window in the bedroom. The sheets and the blanket are rippling around Eden's kneeling body, she's an island alone and the bed is the ocean. There's another body beneath the surface, another breathing beneath the blanket, the sheet to the side. More tapping, and Eden brings her nails deeper into their press against her skin. The other's breathing steadily, he doesn't snore, and he doesn't tremble sitting up in bed when it's hot.

More tapping, it's slight and high pitched like a bug confused and flying continuously into the clear glass barrier that separates the outside from the heat and the light and the garbage inside. More tapping, it's a fine sound like the end of a needle beating and bouncing back from the glass. Eden English tears her hands away from her eyes then, the movement is ferocious but no blood is drawn. She turns, and in the cruel sudden churn of her movement the other sleeping mound almost wakes up. His breath draws inconsistently for a moment, but Eden English goes completely still and the stirring does stop. There's a finger in the window, visible only as a sprout rising and tapping from the bottom of the glass.

The single illuminated finger is all that there is, the 3 A.M. dark is so thorough that it swallows everything in the background to match its ubiquitous black. It's unmissable, steady at first then harder and faster when it seems to notice it's been noticed. Eden turns away, brings her hands back to her eyes and clutches her nails into the skin. She draws a bead of blood this time, but the tapping doesn't stop and the body stirs again by her side. He grunts, closer now than he's been to waking up, and the blood drips to fall in the path of the tears that stream on the English cheeks of the illustrious, the notorious Eden English.

It has to stop, and she whispers as much when she opens the window. He's smaller, below and reaching up just barely stretching from the tree he'd climbed. The finger is as far as he can reach, and he doesn't respond but draws his finger back down by his side. He gestures to the ground below, and raises his brow. Any sound is a threat, he knows that as well as she, and she complies to the ask of the gesture. She meets the man at the front of the house. He's covered in sap and smiling. "You're bleeding," He says.

“You have to go.”

“I felt young,” He’s blurting, words preplanned and emanating from a part of his brain that fossilized in a moment only ever revived when revisited. “Didn’t you? Didn’t you feel young?”

She looks away, eyes trailing off and to the left. She stares then at anything that isn’t the man, the grass in the slight night wind that tugs gently up and away from their roots. None will ever pull completely out of the ground, they're stuck and the movement is nothing but a tease to those that are anchoring them to the place they were born, the place where each blade will die. “I wasn’t young,” Eden scoffs an English snobbish kind of a scoff, “There’s no regret in the having of youth. Maybe it’s more likely I’ve never been young.”

“You were young.”

A light flashes on in Eden’s room. Just hardly visible from their place in the front yard, it lights a dim-white glow and beams flashing slightly for a moment before turning off, then on again, and off more permanently. Eden looks back down, back to the dark and the boy in the yard, “You have to go.”

“I will, you know I will,” He stops, but his hands are moving like gears working against one another, and anyone can tell that there’s more to say. Eden waits, watches while the boy’s ghostly night fingers work in twirls taking action like a five-way-thumb-war pitting one hand against its brother. “Tomorrow,” He says, it's a civil war, “You know I’m gone, you know I’m gone and I don’t have to say another word.” He waits again, wishing for something that will never come. Not in the front yard, not with the dim-white glow still lingering as a scald in her vision.

“It won’t work—”

Verbally, he jumps, on and all over the K in her word. “I’ll be back,” He starts, “Time will pass and mine will come. There’s always a return, we don’t just escape the places we come from.” He clears his throat, swallowing the lack of conviction back in his throat. He steps almost imperceptibly back, his bare tree-climbing feet shuffling cold in the dew of the night. He’s moving away from her, coaxing, it seems, an unconscious approach.

Eden English doesn’t shuffle, she stands straight digging her slippered heels into the mud. She’s not cold, but she crosses her arms and shakes like she’s loosening something at or around her shoulders.

“Turn around,” She says, “Turn and walk and leave me to my shame.”

If still uncertain, there’s a definite finality to the tone of her voice. She closes her mouth, and even in the proceeding silence there is no room to speak. She looks back up, and she yearns for the overripe heat, the dense fogged air of the room she’d just left. Life outside is a cold, cold thing in the night. Chilled to the bone, she ceases her quiver, so he complies and turns away.

Back inside, the boy-shaped lump speaks unseen from beneath his pile of blankets. “Who was that?” He asks, and Eden twists her wedding ring around a notch it’s created in her finger.

“An old friend,” She smiles, and slides in, adding her shape to the lump between the sheet and the blanket.

“An old friend climbing a tree to tap on our glass?”

The lump shifts, and Eden turns to face the blanket shape of his face. She sighs, “He’s leaving in the morning; just stopped by to say his goodbyes.”

“Where’s he going?”

Eden English sits up in the bed that she shares. She hesitates for a moment, and everything around her goes hot. The world is boiling over, bubbles rising popping at the brim of what’s bearable. Dense air had seemed so sweet from the outside looking in, but things that entice from afar have a way of constricting, of suffocating the ones that manage to find their way close. She thinks to the outside, to the shivering air and the boy’s bare leave-dying feet in the grass. He’s turning blue, but the freeze is a thing of beauty when existing enveloped by the heat.

“I don’t know,” She says, and shallow-thick air steals the conviction from her voice. “There isn’t a place in the world that would welcome him. I think we might’ve been his last try, here.”

The lump sticks his head out through the top of his covers then, he inspects the woman for a long time, and when he rolls over he says: “Let him in.”

“What?”

Facedown now, the lump’s voice is muffled as it emanates only audible through the fluff of the pillow. “He’s got nowhere to go, let him in.”

So she does; she gets up and walks out and trails the other boy for a while down the street before getting his attention. He’s shocked at first, even yelps a little when she calls after his name. Under a streetlight, everything around the two of them is golden. A beam of the brightest day within the night, he looks at her and cocks his head to the side when she tells him to follow. Open-mouthed, he lingers for a moment while she turns and leads him back in the direction of the house. She leaves their golden oasis, and he follows her willingly back into the dark.

Inside, everything is calmer, more settled than it was the last time he’d seen it. There are no broken glasses, no leftover food and liquor spilling from the countertops. It is no bachelor pad, and nobody’s left tonight. He walks, not a comfort but a desperate wanderer willing to break any bond for the sake of a bed. The other boy is there, he saw him lumpified when straining to tap on the window before. He starts to sweat, to shake watching as the glorious Eden English leads him up the stairs.

The lump is silent when they enter the bedroom. Not even snoring, he breathes the unasleep rhythm of a parent-fearing child hiding in a game of hide-and-seek. For a moment it seems that he’s preparing to jump out, to surprise, but Eden gets into bed and the boy follows and there is no surprise.

She looks at him, swapping glances between his eyes and the lump that’s breathing by his hip. She nods, and he knows. He gets under the covers and only then does she smile. She pulls the sheet, the blanket up over his face. He is silent, a lump like the other. There’s a moment of the purest, most sanctified silence you’ve ever heard. He almost sleeps, but she rocks her weight forward on the bed, and the crying comes back.

Tim Donahue began his writing career at Western Washington University in 2023 when he released his debut novel, “The James Gang” with Central Park South Publishing on June 2nd of that year. Donahue has worked for the past three years at Wavelength, a journalistic publication at Western Washington University, and in his free time he enjoys fly fishing, riding his bike, and repairing used books.

‘a little bit of rain’, ‘Louise in Paris in the World of the Undead’ & ‘New Sweetness’

Donald Patten is an artist and cartoonist from Belfast, Maine. He produces oil paintings, illustrations, ceramic pieces and graphic novels. His art has been exhibited in galleries across Maine. His online portfolio is donaldlpatten.newgrounds.com/art

a little bit of rain

My father and I were sitting in the Red Lobster.

Or the Olive Garden. In Harlem.

All my stuff was in the back of his car.

Or somewhere else but it wasn't home.

I remember the feeling of the pleather booth against my still skinny thighs.

I only have 10 memories that date earlier than this week.

All of the other things I have lived through have simmered down to a paste and then a glob and then the sticky black stuff that sticks to the pot and never comes off.

5 of the memories could kill me and the other 5 serve as sugar dusted reminders to not let the other five kill me.

There are other concepts that float around my dusty mind, concepts I was apparently

there for.

They are less memories, more vignettes. Scenes from a play.

A daughter and a father sitting together at one of America's great chains in Harlem.

In these scenes, I am flawed but in the way you are.  My eyes look like you imagine your eyes to look.

In these well lit moments, I am not trying to remember if I took my birth control or noticing a chipped nail.

In these moments I am living. Alive. Accepting the love I deserve, feeling the rain on my skin. “No one else can feel it for you”

The sunshine touches my skin and it feels familiar.

Ever since I flew away from home, every night ends with a little bit of rain. Usually it comes out of my phone, tucked somewhere by my horizontal body. Or on the TV screen a youtube ambiance shows me a simulation of rain.

A little bit of rain before all vitality leaves me. Before I sleep for as long as I possibly can. I make sure to have a little bit of rain,

so I can drown.

So I can be baptized. 

So the sound waves turn into ocean waves.

To lap at my feet, to slowly seep in through my brain.

And waterboard all the memories out. And wash all the memories into clarity.

and make me new.

Louise in Paris in the World of the Undead

When your girlhood leaves you, you are, kind of, still a girl.

When grandma speaks of her regrets it's almost as if she's right there. Like it’s almost possible to bring her twin back from the dead, away from the bottle 50 or more years ago, rearrange the puzzle pieces so that she makes it to Europe.

“Louise never got to go to Europe” she’ll say slowly every few days, almost unbelieving.

Almost as if it's something on her to-do list, she has got to get someone to show her how to get on the internet, book a ticket, and make sure Louise goes to Paris.

Today AI can make us a photo of our dear Louise smiling in front of the Eiffel tower as it sparkles. But the someday twinkle in the eye is gone. Someday came and left without her.

I get older and inherit all this melancholy, it spirals around my ribcage and turns my bones bruise purple.  I look in the mirror, wondering how they got so lonely. What is there to be done about the bed that was made?

The second before this one is so close we can almost grab behind us and snatch it,

like the subway door.

It was just here, if you can just run fast enough to catch it before it goes to the next stop.

I was buzzing with my boyfriend, the New Years in which it turned into 2023, clock strikes midnight.

I grabbed balloons from the moodily lit restaurant and bobbed with them all the way home. I was lighter then I think, buoyant with him by my side taking a selfie an inflatable Christmas minion.

We sat next to strangers who were quiet beside us while we chatted. They weren’t saying anything but we strung words together like popcorn garlands. So easy to spear the next sentence with our needle, enough popcorn for everyone.

And when my next birthday comes in 2024 I will still be mulling over those $15 weeks when I worked at the grocery store in 2020 when it was death, death, death and office politics.

The past is playing peekaboo with us, ducking behind exquisitely manicured hedges in Los Angeles and the Hamptons, places I've been but never behind the gates.

The past is coy, existential hide and seek.

And the regrets of my elders soak into my bloodstream like Aunt Louise's lidocaine patches those last years.  Every day a needle slits through fabric, another stitch nailed in, stitching you into your bed.

New Sweetness

I can live and be sad now and usually, I don't drink my coffee black,

tinkering with milk and sugar like I love myself.

The way they work me to the bone for the legal least

feels personal.

I take it personal that humanity is this cruel.

On days off we take advantage of the possibility of laziness

trying it on like we can afford to live like this, an impossibly soft fur coat in a department store dressing room.

Alone in the bed the cool sheets comfort and smooth my working city body,

ironing wrinkles out of a button down shirt.

(We were once little dreaming of sleeping on clouds,

knowing it was possible).

My bones yell at me and I yell back, a child on a step stool, fists balled.

They creak like clattery day of the dead skeletons and I don’t wanna hear it.

I spray strangers counters with a spray that smells like margaritas

and they follow me around, spinning words around my head.

They ask my opinion so they can practice their rebuttal skills on someone who doesn't matter.

Some days are like floating,

sometimes everyday words seem to turn into love songs.

Some days my body is so tired the piles of garbage on the sidewalk look like a good enough place to rest for a minute.

My insides are gray and the horizon is closing in

until all I can see is a slit of light, a gun's laser beam.

Spitting up on light

and inhaling office dust,

the ocean is real but it’s dirty and a daydream away.