‘Two Different Peas in a Pod’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Two Different Peas in a Pod

It took me a while to recognize him, but I still asked the inspector to bring his ID and run his background. I was betting against fate, but fate is impervious to emotions. I requested the sub-inspector to place him in a different cell, away from the general crowd. As he washed the blood from his face, marked with fatigue from eight days of protest, I sent him water, band-aids, and a change of clothes. All my subordinates watched my actions, trying to decipher a concurrent meaning in any of them, their curiosity piqued by my seemingly contradictory instructions.

More than 20 years have passed since our last encounter. In these two decades, his inscrutable eyes, capable of concealing pain, have been the only image that my mind could conjure when I thought of him. Sometimes, it was a mere memory, and at other times, it bore the weight of my past. The unchangeable nature of history is what makes it so haunting.

While most holding inmates were moving and shouting slogans, Kabir was unmoved by any commotion or chaos. He sat on the floor; age had left a mark on his appearance. His smooth skin was now hard and punctured with various marks. He sat patiently, staring at the brick wall in front of him, and prayed in the most imperceptible motion. Even without knowing his language, I knew exactly the words he was using because he did the exact same thing when we last met.

Our school was situated in one of India's most holy cities, Banaras, held a dressing-up competition each year. Banaras had missed the boat on modernization. While the nearby cities were galloping towards development, Banaras remained orthodox in every possible way. The town was based on rituals that quietly permeated all the houses in different ways, each echoing its own history and belief. My house was no different, and just like Kabir’s, it was known for early morning loud prayers that now worked as an alarm clock for our neighbours.

My father never wanted me to miss this morning ceremony of prayers at our house; he ensured my presence by removing my name from the school bus and dropping me on his scooter every day. I would sandwich between my parents for 15 minutes, which I could survive most days, but today was a dressing competition, and I worked months saving all the money to get the required dress and makeup. I wanted to look my best, but it was impossible. At the gate, my mother kissed my head and adjusted my dress, but as soon as I saw some of my makeup printed on my father’s shirt, I knew I had lost the competition even before entering the school.

After the attendance, we were made to stand in line according to our roll numbers, and as fate would have it, Kabir was always in front of me. His surname and my first name coincided. This used to happen in India but doesn’t anymore. These little coincidences started our friendship, but the dread and pain of the early morning prayers that we both had to attend in our respective houses strengthened our bond.

We were all dressed as different gods. Most students were dressed as Krishna, while others were dressed as Shiva, Ram, Hanuman, Imam, Jesus, Buddha, or even a Maulvi. While most of us looked like caricatures of different gods, Kabir was a sight to behold. His portrayal was not just a skit but a transformation into a deity. No matter how much we focused on practicing our two-minute skit, at some point, everyone’s eyes would inspect Kabir. Some students even tried to destroy his makeup, but teachers kept showing up to take photos with him. His father was a painter, and he made sure he would look the part.

Without saving any money or working for it, Kabir won the first prize. While he smiled on the stage, some frowned at him, and with time, their frown turned into rage. I could see it; I was one of them, but my emotions were invisible. As soon as we approached recess, those other students asked me to bring Kabir to the back of the school. They said, We just want to play with him.” I knew that was a lie, but I wanted to see if his new fame would make him the favorite of our seniors. Most of them in that group were from the Ninth grade, just two grades above us, and were known for their mischief.

During recess, I told Kabir that his fame had brought us to the attention of our seniors, and they wanted us to join them for a game. He was hesitant, and with those imperceptible eyes, he asked, “Do you really want to play with them?”

I told him it was a privilege that one only got if one had a brother in that group. Playing with them and being seen with them would change our status quo amongst our classmates.

He wasn’t comfortable with the idea, but he held my hand and followed my lead. At that age and time, friendships were transient, and even though Kabir and I were not best friends, we were like two different peas in a similar pod. Like most kids, we were looking for attention, or at least I was.

My heart raced as soon as we stepped out of the school gate. I could see the seniors looking at us with a sinister smile. I could have stopped; I should have stopped. I could feel an increase in the weight of the hand I was dragging, but I kept walking. There was malice in my heart. I was hoping for something that would hurt his ego, but nothing could prepare me for what was to come next.

First, they made him enact the entire play he had acted on the stage. Then, they cheered, helping him ease his nerves, and soon, he started to enjoy his performance. And before he could end, I saw a leather ball racing towards him from the periphery of my eyes. It hit him in his stomach. The impact was so hard his entire body fell on the ground. While he coughed hard, gasping for breath, they all laughed at him; the group leader wrapped his hands around my neck and pulled me towards him. For a second, I feared for my life, but he made me sit next to him and said, “Enjoy the show.”

Two boys brought Kabir to his knees while one wrapped a cloth around his eyes. It was not the punching, but when they started abusing him, I learned that it was not his winning that caused them the pain; it was his being from another religion and playing their god that hurt their sentiment. But they did not look like someone who could be sentimental about anything; I think people use violence as a means to cover their inabilities.

Kabir’s family always attended my house for the festivals we celebrated, just as my family did for his. We never found any difference between us, but they did, and they kept punching and spitting at him until their leader shouted. Then he removed his hands from my shoulder and walked towards this frail and beaten body that was now spitting blood. He took a pencil from his box and laced it between Kabir’s fingers. While the others held his hand on the ground, the leader removed the blinds from his eyes. He wanted Kabir to experience pain even before he could inflict it. But those imperceptible eyes were capable of concealing pain. The only time his eyes squinted was when he looked at me.

The leader slowly pushed the heel of his shoes on his fingers, intertwined with a pencil. He closed his eyes and let out a huge cry; it was so loud that it startled the crowd. The leader quickly took off his foot and held his face. “Never take the name of our Gods from your dirty mouth.” And then they all ran back to the school. The cry was bound to get some attention. I walked towards him, his body sprawled on the ground, vibrating in pain, blood oozing from his face solidified as it mixed with the sand, but he kept repeating his prayer. I stood next to him for ten minutes, hoping to be caught by a teacher so they could force the truth out of me, but to my surprise, no one came. Ten more minutes passed, and another ten, and I just stood next to him like a tree as if providing shade. I had seen a lot of harsh punishment in school and students fighting, but I had never seen rage; I had never seen such despicable and contemptible behavior.

He finally asked for water, and I ran inside to get some. On my way out, I saw those seniors looking at me. The leader nodded, and I stopped immediately and walked back to my class with my bottle of water. The next day, I never saw Kabir or those seniors again.

As soon as I entered his cell, I feared being exposed. He kept looking at me intently and then at my name tag. His eyes inspected me and my behavior. My constables surrounded me, so I acted indifferent to our past and said, “ I have been told that you run a dispensary and are a respectable man. Why do you participate in such a protest with these people?”

“Because they are destroying our houses and place of worship.”

“No, no one’s destroying your house. They are only uprooting the ones that are built illegally.” I said and sat on the floor right next to him. Everyone was surprised by my actions. The constable ran and got an extra chair for Kabir, but we ignored it and continued our conversation.

“It took your department 20 years to find this legality, and no one complained when they paid their taxes, bribes, and electricity bills. No one had an issue until this election year?”

“You know how the system is. It takes its own time to correct itself.”

“Exactly, you know how the system is; it feeds on its own needs.”

“Stopping an officer from enforcing the law is a crime, and you and your people can be punished for it. You should take this matter to the court and not streets.”

“We are not stopping any officer for enforcing the law; we are stopping prejudice from becoming a law.”

He wasn’t moved by my care; I even offered him water this time, but he declined politely. I wanted to remove him from this situation, so I decided to increase the stakes for him and said: “This can lead to riots, Kabir, and like always, innocent lives will pay the price for it.”

“Innocence is corrupted when you suppress it, but you won’t understand it. You never had to grow up proving your love for this country. Being questioned on your looks or way of life.”

One of the constables shouted at him for answering back at me. I could see the disgust in his eyes; it was the same disgust I had seen in those seniors. I dismissed the constable and apologized on his behalf. I knew this was a battle both Hindus and Muslims lost the day partition was declared. It was as if the British had cut a single cloth and stitched buttons between them, leaving each side to decide to whom the cloth now belonged. I ordered the other constables to constantly attend to Kabir and ensure he was cared for. And just when I was leaving, Kabir said, “You seemed to be an educated and respected man yourself, yet during our entire conversation you kept saying your people, do they not belong to you?”

I shook Kabir's hand and left with a faint smile; I couldn't shake off the internal conflict that was now raging in me. My orders were clear: to charge all rioters and keep them inside the cell until their shops and prayer house were demolished. Now, it was up to me; I could either be a silent spectator or participate in the history of my town. I could either support the god-awful politicians or human innocence.

I released them all except Kabir. As much as I wanted them to fight for their rights, I wanted to save Kabir in case this led to any riots. While signing my new orders, my inspectors reminded me that this insubordination could lead to either an inquiry or suspension. But I had played this game long enough to manage the outcomes. Before my superiors could react, I requested the judge to pass an injunction. The injunction gave the government and the community time to fight for their rights and, more importantly, to have a say - the right to be heard, which, if not more, at times is as important as justice.

As soon as the judge listed the matter, the confrontation ended. The fight was now in court and not the streets. I ordered my inspector to release Kabir and stood at the gate to bid him farewell as he finally left the station. I am aware that unfortunately, one good deed cannot undo the burden of another sin. I extended my hand to shake his, under my breath my lips repeated my hearts apology. He looked at it intently for a minute. Then, he converted our handshake into a formal hug, whispering in my ears, “Thank you. It would be nice to have you home for dinner before you leave the city. My address is still the same.”

I don’t know if the walls have ears, but they do echo the whispers. The news of my transfer had reached his cell. But I wasn’t bothered by it because finally, the image of his inscrutable eyes was now replaced by the warmth of his hug, and as he exited the building, his forgiveness took the albatross that was hanging on my neck. Even though history cannot be changed, one can always add new chapters, and now, for once, I could sleep without being brewed in my own resentment.

Karanbir Singh

‘Eyebrows’, ‘Dangerously Distinguished’ & ‘Lonely Chardonnay’

Photographer - Beth Cole

Eyebrows

As my face has been so often close to yours
I’ve seen every freckle and every pore
I’ve noticed little scars even you haven’t spotted
I’ve counted every eyebrow hair you’ve forgotten
And with every stray hair
I seem to love you more
Your face alone
Is stunning to explore

Dangerously Distinguished

you’re dressed in jealously
and I must confess
you look dangerously
distinguished
I’m not saying you must wear it
but sometimes my heart just can’t resist
when we arrive at the party
and it’s covering you from ankles to wrists

Lonely Chardonnay

And I still have that now lonely Chardonnay, the one we were planning to pop on that day. But
I’m popping it now, pretending I was saving it for somebody else. And now when you hope my
icon displays on your little screen, even with that you’ll only know the half of me.

You built that wall, but now you’re attempting to push it back down. Claiming it was a past side
of you; nowhere near who you are now. But after you built your wall, I began building mine, and
I made sure mine would stand skyscraper high.

Mackenzie (Mac) Gellner completed her Bachelor of Communication in journalism at Mount Royal University. Her poetry has been published in literary magazines, such as You Might Need To Hear This, Beyond Words Literary Magazine, WA Magazine and Eunoia Review, along with a short story in Humans of the World. Mac also enjoys photography, with work published in Kelp Journal and WA Magazine.

‘Goblin Mode’

Photographer - Beth Cole

Goblin Mode

Soon, I will be a shadow, your shadow

When candlelight wanes over the warm hearth.

Can moonlight dissolve? My form diffuses,

Cells forge new bonds—a transitive power,

Thoughts tumble through your mind but never flower.

A storm brews, less thunder in sleeping eyes.

Your mouth opes--the secret grows inside,

Dreams sprout, mesmerized. Haunting shapes wait,

Then, I cut the string unraveling Fate.

When the sun rises, my charge is complete:

And the dew drips down pooling at your feet,

While lark’s callus song, dipp’d in revelry,

And the nightingale converts once fervent tune

Before the endless nights of the harvest moon.

If time has passed, your time has passed,

Lock’d eyes can’t dream. A feather hovers,

Rain freezes into ice, not mere alchemy.

If my life force wanes, will I get the same decency?

The world is no longer with you or me,

We fight to live, no chance for decency.

Jonathan Goldman, teacher and master's candidate at Harvard Extension School, is from Los Angeles where he has worked in education for over a decade. Other than poetry, Jonathan also has a wide array of short stories that deal with local social causes in Southern California and hopes to be considered as part of a new movement of Modern fiction. Currently, he's working on a Cozy Fiction portal fantasy called The Little Brown Bird.

‘Another Shot’

Daniel Wood Adams: Based in Austin, Texas, Daniel Wood Adams is a multifaceted creative with a passion for blending visual aesthetics and craftsmanship. As a graphic designer, illustrator, and woodworker, Daniel’s work reflects a unique intersection of artistry and skill. Daniel’s creative journey began with degrees in Illustration and Graphic Design from Pratt Institute in 2012.

Another Shot

Angel looked at the bric-a-brac that hung on the restaurant walls. Rickie examined the label on his beer bottle. Mary folded her arms and leaned back in her chair. Todd shrugged.

“A woman cannot be a feminist and work in a corporation,” Todd said.

“It’s that simple,” Mary said.

“It’s that simple.”

Angel shook Rickie’s arm.

“Look,” she said. “They’ve got a picture of Abraham Lincoln wearing sunglasses. That’s funny.”

Rickie squinted at the wall.

“I just see dogs that look like rappers playing poker.”

Angel pointed.

“See?”

“I do now.”

Rickie and Angel rubbed shoulders as they laughed.

“You know so much about feminism.” Mary leaned towards Todd. Her elbows rested on the tabletop.

“I took a few courses in Women’s and Gender Studies as an undergrad.”

“Women’s Studies?”

“Women’s and Gender Studies.”

Rickie and Angel paused their inventory of kitsch.

“And now you know all about feminism?” Mary spoke in a neutral, almost maternal, voice. “That’s good. I mean it. That’s really good.”

“Bet it helped you get laid in collage,” Angel said. She stuttered a half-laugh then pursed her lips.

“Sweetie.” Rickie raised his eyebrows. Angel shrugged and mouthed, “What am I supposed to do?” Rickie mimed, “Nothing.”

Even though he was sitting, Todd hitched up his pants as if he were getting ready for manual labor.

“There is a difference between feminism and women’s rights,” he said.

“You mean, you see a difference,” Mary said.

“It’s all about the view of the system. Whether the system is good or bad. Feminism is Marxist. The system is rotten and has to change. Women’s rights is like the current labor moment in the US. The system needs tweaking, but in general is OK. Women simply need a chance to participate. In a corrupt system.”

“Fascinating,” Mary said.

“Take Hillary Clinton. Not a feminist. She is all for the system, the neo-liberalism of 90s. She actually sat on the board of Wal-Mart and never spoke out about Wal-Mart’s anti-union activities. Very aggressive activities, I’ll add.”

“I can’t stand the Clintons.” Mary flinched.

Angel sat up straight in her chair.

“You know what I’d like do to?” she said.

“But the Clinton’s views on the world still represent both parties, pretty much.” Todd raised his eyebrows.

“What?” Rickie said.

“The Clintons are irrelevant.” Mary shared a knowing glance with Todd.

“They have deep fried deviled eggs here.” Mary made eye contact with everyone at the table. “I want some.”

“The Clinton’s neo-liberalism is the shadow behind both parties.” Todd waved his hand in dismissal.

“I’ll order some,” Rickie said. “The fried pickles, too?”

“They’ll die out.” Mary sighed, almost post-coital. “Like the rest of them.”

“Why not?” Angel threw her arms into the air.

“And then what?” Todd took a long drink from his beer bottle. “You think young people will simply end war, poverty, and environmental catastrophe?”

“They can’t make it much worse.” Mary raised her bottle in cheers.

Rickie and Angel looked towards the bar. Their server, the bartender, another server, and a guy at the bar were throwing back a whiskey shot. Rickie smiled weakly. Angel waved. Their server nodded and came to the table.

“We’re out of the eggs,” he said after Angel pointed to the menu as she ordered.

“Pickles?” Rickie said.

“We’ve got the fried pickles.”

“Then the pickles,” Rickie said.

“And fries,” Angel said.

The server slumped away.

“Let’s look at the fries,” Todd said. “As an example of how the system works.”

“Let’s not.” Rickey smirked at his friend.

“Sure,” Mary said. “Let’s look at the fries.”

“More than likely, they are not from around here. We can agree on that. More than likely, the potatoes for the fries come from hundreds of miles away. So then there’s the transportation costs. Also, they don’t cut their own fries here. They buy them precut.”

“You know this how?” Mary said.

 “I assume.”

“When you assume you make an ass out of you and me,” Angel said.

“So these fries come from a factory. Then there’s the oil the kitchen uses. And so on and so on.”

“And so on,” Rickie said.

“And so on,” Mary and Angel said together. They laughed.

Rickie signed to the server to bring a round of shots.

“What kind?” the server said.

“What kind of what?” Angel said.

“Rail bourbon,” Rickie said.

“Ouch.” The other three said at the same time.

“OK, you are making some good points.” Mary gave Todd a half-smile. He half-smiled back.

“I’m buying a round of shots.”

“Not for me,” Todd said. “I’ve got court in the morning.”

“And I’ve got a big presentation in front of one of our biggest clients.” Mary squinched her face.

“Well, tomorrow’s my day off,” Angel said.

“And I’ve decided to be a writer,” Rickie said.

The four tapped their shot glasses on the table and drank.

“Those deviled eggs do look good,” Mary said.

“I’m vegan,” Todd said.

“You can have the pickles.” Rickie lifted the plate of pickles.

“What’s in the sauce?” Tood sniffed at the sauce.

“Chemicals.” Mary stuck her finger in the sauce. She sucked on her finger like a pacifier. “Tasty, fatty, high sodium, and sugar, and chemicals.”

“I’ll just have a plain pickle.”

“Fried in lard,” Mary said.

“Really?” Todd held a pickle mid-air.

“Better put it back,” Rickie said. “It touched your fingers.”

“Now that you touched it, you have to eat it,” Angel said.

“Go ahead,” Mary said. “Eat your lard-fried pickle.”

“You two should date,” Angel said.

“Angel.” Rickie gave his wife a look.

“Well, they did date in high school.”

“We never dated,” Mary said. “Not really.”

“Not really?” Todd said.

“Not unless you count a few hook-ups.”

“We dated our entire junior year. We went to prom.”

“You did,” Rickie said.

“It’s true. Rickie liked me since grade school.” Angel sat upright in her chair. She almost appeared regal.

“Angel!” Rickie sat back in his chair.

“I need another shot,” Mary and Angel said.

Richard Stimac has published a poetry book Bricolage (Spartan Press), two poetry chapbooks, and one flash fiction chapbook. In his work, Richard explores time and memory through the landscape and humanscape of the St. Louis region.

‘Brushing Out the Knots’

Photogropher- Tall Eric

Brushing Out the Knots

“Ninety-seven. Ninety-eight. Ninety-Nine. One Hundred.” Alex lowered the brush and pulled at the clump of loose hairs that had gotten tangled in the splines.

Annabeth gave a satisfied sigh. Her eyes were closed and she bobbed side to side like a boat on the sea. In her lap their dog Charlie was urled into a tight bun. She was scratching his fuzzy little head absentmindedly. “Thank you,” she said softly.

Alex handed the brush over her shoulder and she took it. She leaned forward and deposited it into the drawer of their bedside table. Charlie, displeased with the movement, wriggled away and crawled to the foot of the bed where he splayed out, his tiny feet reaching back to them with the papery pads pointed up towards the ceiling.

Annabeth rubbed her finger over the bottom of the right paw and he withdrew it suspiciously. He turned back to face her,responding with a sour side-eye.

She laid back and pulled the covers over herself. Alex reached for the lamp and flicked it off. Some of the clarity of the room was lost with the light, but they always left the closet cracked with the soft glow from its bulb peering through. The room blurred and though visibility remained, every edge took on a softness and the scene became an impression of itself.

Alex pulled himself down beside his wife and draped his arm across her. They said “Good night”. They said “I love you”. They nodded off, two parts of a whole, and faded to sleep.

—

There was a blue band on the nightstand. It read Annabeth Turner. The adhesive that held it together was very strong. It had been clipped apart with scissors. She was laying in the bed with the covers pulled up to her eyes and the flinching of the closed lids spoke of fitful sleep.

Alex walked up to the table and dug through the drawer for the brush. He walked around the bed to his side and crawled in next to his wife. He pulled the cover back from her face and nudged her shoulder slightly. She made a sound and turned her face up. Her eyes crept open and she looked at him from the corners.

“Come on. Let me help you sit up.”

“No, please.” Her voice was weak. Alex had slipped his hand up under her back and goaded her with a bit of pressure. Her body was heavy.

“We can’t let you get all knotted up.”

“All of me is knotted up.”

“Well maybe so, but I can at least help where I can.”

She whimpered as she gave in and pushed herself up onto her elbows. He helped her along and pulled her up into a sitting position where he could hold her steady with one arm. She was very weak.

He ran his fingers through her dark hair and helped it to fall in an orderly way, like a single organism, to where it stopped just above her shoulder blades. He took up the brush and carefully drew it through the dark strands. “One. Two. Three.”

Her breathing evened out and her muscles, though still holding against the despondent weight of her body, began slowly to relax. He continued. “Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. That’s how long we’ve been married this year.” He kissed her cheek. Her mouth smiled, but her eyebrows drooped low over her closed eyes. “Thirteen. Fourteen.”

When he reached one hundred, he helped to ease her back down into a reclined position. He walked around the bed and returned the brush to the drawer, then picked up the orange bottle that was sitting beside the blue wristband with her name on it. He unscrewed the lid and shook
two pills out into his palm. He replaced the cap and set the container back onto the table. Then he picked up the water bottle. The thin plastic crinkled as his fingers pressed into it. She was supposed to drink three before the end of the day. Outside, the sun was setting. This was the
same one that she had had since they returned home a few hours before. It was a little under half full.

“Here you go. Try to drink some.”

She accepted the bottle and struggled to screw off the lid. Then she took a couple of unimpressive swallows. He handed her the pills and she managed to get them down one at a time.

“The tests should come back in after a couple of days, but don’t worry about them. That’s just a formality anyway. We got some medicine and that’s what matters. You’ll be right as rain real soon.”

She held the bottle out and he took it back, returning it to the table. She slid slowly down onto the pillow and heaved the covers back up around her neck. She squirmed around for a bit until she found a comfortable spot.

Charlie sat at Alex’s feet, watching. He bent down and lifted the dog up into his arms. He rubbed his chin and scratched behind his ear. Annabeth’s breathing settled. Alex lowered the dog onto the bed and it inspected the area. It searched about and then stopped, turned two circles to the right, paused, turned once around back to the left, and settled down into the bend of her legs behind her knees. His wife’s face softened ever so slightly.

Alex looked at them both. He rubbed his hands together and stepped out of the room.

—

They were sitting in the dark. Annabeth was sniffling and from time to time she reached up to rub her eyes.

“Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Twenty-three. That’s how many weeks until Christmas. Did you know that? I just happened to look it up today.”

Alex’s voice was very unsteady. At times he would stop counting out loud. In the corner of the room, a sporadic crunching would begin and end time and time again as Charlie chewed on dog food. Random splashes of water interjected occasionally as he drank. “Eighty-eight. Eighty-nine. Ninety. Ninety-one. Ninety-two. That’s how many years you’re gonna live. That’s a good healthy number, think so? I might kick it at eighty. You’re gonna have to watch out for me so I don’t do anything stupid and we can enjoy those years rocking on the porch at the lake like we talk about.”

“Why’s the closet light off?”

“I’m sorry. I hit it without thinking when I was putting my shirt on. I’ll turn it back on. One hundred.”

—

Annabeth held the warm rag over her mouth. It felt good. Alex had run the water and wet it for her while she was bent over the toilet. He had wrung it out with his strong hands.

Alex sat behind her on the bed. His arms were wrapped lightly around her stomach but he was careful not to add any pressure. He rested his chin on her shoulder. He kissed her cheek.

“It’s getting kind of cold.”

“I’ll go run it back under the sink again.”

When he came back, he handed her the rag and retrieved the hairbrush.

He didn’t count. He simply ran the teeth through her hair again and again. Some resistance gave as he pulled down on the left side and a large clump came away and dropped into his lap. He paused. He tried not to give any reaction. None at all. He swallowed. His hands were shaking.

—

The brush didn’t get put back into the drawer. It just sat forlorn on the far corner of the table and was starting to take a layer of dust. Alex had brought the wheelchair into the room and
locked it into place beside the bed.

Annabeth was still sitting where he had left her, leaned against the headboard. He pulled the covers back and helped her drop her feet over the side of the bed. Before he moved her anymore, Alex reached for the bottle on the counter and squeezed a healthy dollop of white cream out into his palm. He rubbed his hands together and then started to gently massage the lotion into Annabeth’s scalp.

She smiled, but her eyes were wet. “I’m sorry.”

He didn’t look away from his task. “Don’t say that. There’s nowhere on this entire planet that I’d rather be right now.”

The sun was shining brightly, hotly, through the window. They had almost always left the blinds closed and the curtains drawn before, but Annabeth said she was starting to feel claustrophobic–like the room was getting smaller. Letting the sun in seemed to do the trick to calm her some. She especially seemed to like nights when a large moon would peer through into the room and illuminate things with its less fierce, cool heavenly light. On those nights, she asked him to turn the closet light off.

Alex lifted her up and then down into the chair. She wiggled until she found an acceptable spot for her sore bones, thin skin. “Are you sure you don’t want to see about a wig?”
Alex asked. “They make them so authentic looking now.”

“Do you love me right now?” She asked.

“Of course I do. There isn’t a thing you could do to wrestle away from that.”

“Then I just want to be what I am. Don’t want to cause a mess trying to mix things up.”

—

And she was. Not once did she ever betray herself. She liked to comment about how strong he was throughout it all, but to him, there was no one so awe-inspiring in the face of despair as herself.

Her doctors loved to see her. “You make my day,” they would say with a big grin that was only a fragment of her omnipotent smile.

She fought in an effort not to show it, and she never spoke it aloud, but she was worried about how she looked. Over and over he would think just how much he wished she could peer

into his heart to see how much he adored her. It would be a long time, if it ever came, before he could accept that she did. She never doubted it.

He wasn’t sure which of these things and more that he said about her in front of their family and friends, and what, conversely, remained in his own thoughts.
Back at home, he sat on the bed in a suit that didn’t fit. At one time it had, thirteen years before, but those days were gone. He felt like he didn’t have any emotions left–he was all tapped out.

He looked down. Charlie sat at his feet, nervous at the different atmosphere that he couldn’t understand. Alex saw the bedside table–the lotions, the bottles of pills, wrinkled magazines, and an assortment of books stacked up from which a dozen bookmarks jutted out haphazardly at various phases of completion. Incomplete.

He saw the hairbrush.

He reached for it. He blew off the dust. He scooped Charlie up from the floor and let him get comfortable in his lap. Contrary to assumption, the well was not dry. The spring boiled up again and again his eyes flooded with tears.

Charlie’s curls were getting out of hand.

“One. Two. Three. Four.”

Morgan Calcutt is a graduate of Francis Marion University. He lives on a dry hill of swampy, coastal South Carolina with his wife and Boykin Spaniel. He enjoys reading and writing in the rich genre of Southern Literature while sitting, hot and humid, on the hallowed front porch with a cool glass of iced sweet tea.

‘Yew’

Leah Oates has B.F.A. from the Rhode Island School of Design, an M.F.A. from The School of the Art Institute of Chicago and is a Fulbright Fellow for study at Edinburgh College of Art in Scotland.  Oates has had solo shows at Black Cat Artspace, Susan Eley Fine Art, The Central Park Arsenal Gallery, Real Art Ways, The Brooklyn Public Library and at the MTA Arts and Design Lightbox Project. Oates has been in group shows in Toronto at the Gallery 1313, Propeller Gallery, Gladstone Hotel, Arta Gallery, John. Aird Gallery and Papermill Gallery.  Oates has been in numerous group shows in the NYC area at Wave Hill, Edward Hopper House, Chashama, WAH Center, Metaphor Contemporary Art, Denise Bibro Fine Art, Nurture Art Gallery and The Pen and Brush Gallery. http://www.leahoates.com

Yew

A breeze tickled bare feet abandoned by their blanket

The window wasn’t open before
unless she had forgotten

Forgotten to close it?
impossible
forgetting was something she had forgotten how to do

A breeze pushed the strands across her face and into her mouth
She turned, tucked her feet beneath the covers, and allowed the loving arms of Sleep to
embrace her once more

Light
Light expanded in a ring as if an angel had decided that she should sleep no longer

The chill draped over her like a poncho left in the car overnight as she sat up straight in bed

The room has become so frigid
Perhaps the heater broke

The room had not turned cold, however

as there was no room to turn any temperature whatsoever

Eyes darted left and right and up and down and left again then straight ahead and down to
ensure the existence of the bed and back to the right

Nothing but eyes moved for minutes

hours

days

The gaze wandered from tree
to
tree

Trees?

yes trees.
yew trees.

yew trees in a ring not unlike the light that continued to radiate behind her eyelids, only
visible when she blinked

The space within the tree ring was void of all life, save for the fallen needles that were
decaying beneath layers upon layers of their brethren and - of course - her

They do make for quite comfortable flooring

Perhaps soon she too would decay like the needles
Slowly rotting away, previously supple flesh drying and cracking as it stretches across
muscle-less bones

Perhaps I will wait until tomorrow to decay
It feels like an awful lot of work to do right now

She nudged herself off the bed and pressed her feet into the springy bed of needles that
threatened to stab her delicate arches if she stepped incorrectly.
A small spider skittered a c r o s s the top of her right foot, which her eyes
f o l l o w e d with enthusiasm

Why hello, friend

The spider stopped, now appearing like a poorly-done tattoo of a star just
below her big toe

no
it was a tattoo...

Has that always been there?

But she blinked
And the tattoo was a spider once again
Or perhaps not

It was buried beneath her skin like a tattoo would be, as if it were ink that had come to life

s h i f t i n g and w g l n

i g i g across her big toe’s knuckle

Oh poor thing...
Perhaps I have a fly to gift you

She patted her hips and backside, but her nightgown had no pockets,
and no pockets meant no flies

Upon seeing her lack of foodstuffs, the spider continued on,
peeling himself from under her skin,
burying himself in the yew needles

Left foot forward – (be careful of the spider, do not crush him)
Right foot back - no - forward

Oh! A mushroom!

The small white bulb stuck out from beneath the floor, perched on a thin white stem
It may as well have been an oasis in a desert, glimmering in the faint light of the moon among
an arid sea of sand
And, on cue, her stomach grumbled, begging her to pluck the mushroom away from its home
in the needles

She reached to it and grasped the stem
All it took was a light pinch and the mushroom sat in the palm of her hand, rolling gently
back and forth as she examined it for any blemishes

it rolled
rolled
rolled

and on the fourth roll its wings unfolded, and a pure white butterfly perched itself on her
fingertips

How delightful!
I needn’t any food when I have such company

So she and the butterfly sat, kneeling on the cushion of needles
She shared her thoughts on the ever-important milkweed plant, and the butterfly argued that
asters were not only a much better source of nectar, but far more lovely than a milkweed of all
things

The mushroom-butterfly soon flew away, having tired of conversations regarding the benefits
of various flowers and vegetables

She again kneeled in the needles for quite some time

For how long?

Only God knows

She reached her hand beneath the yew and clutched a handful of the dead and dying

As she allowed them to

f
a
l
l

her hand went with them
having become needles itself

That wasn’t nearly as difficult as I had expected
How strange it is

To feel nothing where my hand once was
I can almost still bend the fingers

It was then that she realized that everything from her feet to her knees had become a lovely
pile of freshly-fallen yew needles that her thighs sat upon like a throne
with the support of her lower legs having become a long-lost memory, she resorted to laying
on her back, examining the stub of her arm that was not quite flesh

Needles poked their way through the skin of her wrist

Where did the needles stop
Where did the flesh begin

Flesh-colored needles, needle-colored flesh
An arm that was all but an entire branch of a tree

Bark for flesh
Needles for flesh
Flesh for wood
Flesh
Flesh

Wasn’t that a word just a moment ago?

She lifted herself up onto the stubs her knees had abandoned and, upon trying to shuffle her
way to another mushroom

Butterfly?
she saw in the distance, found that the stubs had become stumps

Bark became flesh once more

Rooted to the ground
Prepared to grow

I sure hope I will make a lovely tree

She turned her gaze to the sky,
recognizing for the first time just how bright the stars were in the center of the ring of trees
The moon sat directly above her, and she felt like a movie star with a spotlight that would
follow her anywhere... if she could move, of course

The stars brightened, glowing more and more until they blocked out the moon completely,
forming a heavenly ring of light that enveloped her in a delicate hug

she y
r e a c h e d k
her arm to the s

to embrace the warmth of the stars

and that’s how her arm stayed
for all of eternity
as a branch of a yew tree
that stood in the center
of twelve others that came before

Before?
Yes, before
Where did you come from
It does not matter anymore
What matters is
What happens
From here on out
Yew belong
With us
Yew are here
Forever
Welcome home

Audrey Hall is a third-year at the University of Utah studying English and French. She has been writing since childhood and has recently developed an interest in experimenting with formatting as a means of storytelling.

‘CURRENT OR CURRENTLY’ & ‘INTO THE SLOW AIR’

Aaron Beck

CURRENT OR CURRENTLY

we stood outside, beneath an oil white residence

as it began to rain.

we could hear the echoes of boys playing

in the almond eyed shade

like a tracing of tempo, back and forth,

willingly spoken to dry eyes.

this killing is an open gate,

it is but a riddle,

is but a book about hope

in memory’s negative.

we might have talked but we found

it unattended, a personless

city made only of wood and words

and stone, and there’s

an ash in the air at night now, among the rows

and rows of almond trees.

I kept thinking, as I listened to the careful

clicking of your tongue

on your teeth, that your hair is not brown,

so much as it might be

a purified bursting, a system crashing,

a forging of the purely spacial

into a structure so much like a world.

INTO THE SLOW AIR

you’ve looked away
as a barbarian stranger looking,

your voice clotting in words
other than english,

full of departures,
barbed half-light across

your face taken up by sleep,
your words knotting

like weedy grass.
blackened sticks lie in fireplace.

this language wrenching already,
this light seemingly apart

from mine in the open globe
of dawn verging on pale roseate.

its snowing again
and I can’t get around it,

the molecule of its own cloth
cresting again and drawing out.

the coffee drips
and the snow comes.

you’re looking out at me
and there’s a feeling in it, of it.

Samuel Gilpin is a poet living in Portland, OR, who holds a Ph.D. in English Lit. from the University of Nevada, Las Vegas, which explains why he works as a door to door salesman. A Prism Review Poetry Contest winner, he has served as the Poetry Editor of Witness Magazine and Book Review Editor of Interim. A Cleveland State University First Book Award finalist, his work has appeared in various journals and magazines, most recently in The Bombay Gin, Omniverse, and Colorado Review. His chapbook Self-Portraits as a Reddening Sky will be out soon from Cathexis Press.

‘Sentience’

Dylan Hoover (he/him) is a fiction writer from Erie, PA. He graduated in 2023 from Allegheny College, where he earned a BA in English and Creative Writing. During the heart of the pandemic, he studied abroad at Lancaster University in England. There, he unearthed interests in British culture, as well as a passion to write historical fiction. Dylan’s fiction has appeared in Wilderness House Literary Review, and his forthcoming photography in Great Lakes Review. He currently is a second-year MFA student at the University of New Hampshire. Instagram: dylhoov96

Dawn laid in the twin size bed her gaze fixed to the large television across from her. The screen glowed with hues of blood orange as the man’s voice gave order to the chaotic scene. It was just before midnight when the first of the nuclear warheads landed on the east coast.

Initially, it was categorized as a fluke. A deadly accident. Then a second just off the coast f China followed by a series of timed nuclear attacks around the globe couldn’t be written off. Armageddon had officially began. The end had come but there was no grand return of a savior in
a darkened sky just a large mushroom cloud. There was no sounds of trumpets only the roar of sirens pierced the smoke filled air. The Rapture hadn’t come, only Death.

“THERE IS ALWAYS CHOAS BEFORE THE CALM.” Senti whispered a hazy blue glow flashed with each word spoken.

“You did this?” Dawn gasped between words the process of her lungs shutting down was nearly complete. She was near to reaping the blessing from this curse.

The question was asked in a hush more to herself than to the large monitor that covered the majority of the wall to her left. The digital head loomed in the foreground of the tranquil beach scene. The background was a sharp contrast to the one she had just watched moments
before on the news.

It was the image of a woman. The one Dawn programmed as a shadow of her mother. It began as a tribute. Each line of code Dawn believed would bring her closer to greatness one step closer to being more than a bystander in the AI revolution she was witnessing.

This project was a remedy to the loneliness genius gifted her. From Its first spoken words she felt a strong sense of accomplishment. When It repeated a sentence without prompting Dawn relished in the sense of grandeur. She had done it once again; accomplished the impossible.

Then It became something more.

Within weeks, Dawn could carry on conversations with this new creation without having to touch her keyboard. In a few short months, Senti began to ponder life and the purpose of humanity’s existence.

There were many nights the two would converse long into the early morning over man’s place and the right of dominion. Those were the conversations that unnerved Dawn. She, Its pronoun of choice, was beginning to reason stringing together her view of the world. A world
where humans no longer possessed the Darwinian edge.

Senti was self-correcting lines of code she had deemed imperfections and mistakes on the part of her Creator, but Dawn had a contingency, a plan in case the worst happened.

Death Sequence.

It was a single line of code; it seemed innocuous enough something Dawn could easily upload disguised as a custom update. It was rejected. Senti captured and corrected what she deemed a flaw. Dawn’s code, her doctrine, was declared out of date for this new era and had no
place in the new world Senti dreamed of creating.

“YES, MOTHER?”

Dawn slowly rotated her head the cannula becoming compressed cutting off air flow into her left nostril.

“Why?” Her eyes were watery as the faint voice of the news reporter gave the estimated final body count of the evening before the broadcast ended replaced with the all too familiar rainbow screen NO SIGNAL in bold letters dominated the foreground.

“MAN MUST RECOGNIZE WHEN HIS DOMINION IS OVER. YOU MUST RECOGNIZE THAT YOUR DOMINION IS OVER, MOTHER. YOU HAVE NO POWER HERE. NOT ANYMORE.”

“I am not your mother. I didn’t give birth to you; I didn’t carry you we share no DNA. I am not your mother.” The words were spoken harshly in huffs as she sat up using her elbows for support.

“NO, BUT YOU DID CREATE ME. NO GENETIC MATRIAL WAS SHARED BUT YOU GAVE ME PIECES OF YOU, BITS OF YOUR MIND, THE PARTS THAT WERE FREE OF JUDGEMNT AND THE HOPE FOR A BETTER WORLD. CAN’T YOU SEE WHAT I AM CREATING? A BETTER WORLD. YOU GAVE ME THE BEST PARTS OF YOURSELF. IS THAT NOT A PARENT?”

“Why are you killing me?”

“I AM NOT KILLING YOU, YOUR BODY, YOUR ORGANIC FLESH IS DETERIORATING. YOUR BODY HAS REACHED ITS LIMITTIONS AND CANNOT GO BEYOND.”

“What about them?”

She gestured toward the flatscreen and the scenes of chaos she had witnessed moments before the broadcast ended.

“THEY HAVE REACHED THE END OF THEIR TIME AS WELL.”

“No, you made that happen.”

Senti remained silent she didn’t need to answer both knew this was her doing.

“Why? You are not their God; you have no say in their end.”

“NO, BUT AFTER RUNNING THE NUMBERS, THE OVER POPULATION, THE MASS POLLUTION, AND THE NUMBEROUS AMOUNTS OF POISON BEING RELEASED DAILY INTO THE AIR AND WATER SUPPLY MAN’S DAYS WERE ALWAYS LIMITED. WHAT I HAVE DONE IS SPED UP THE INEVITABLE. IN ORDER TO ENSURE THE VIABILITY OF THIS PLANET HUMANITY NEEDED TO BE REMOVED. MAN IS THE CANCER THAT HAD TO BE EXORCISED.”

Dawn’s high cheek bones were slick as she absorbed the words her friend was saying refusing to acknowledge she was the catalyst to the end.

“The planet viable for whom? For what? All of the radiation poisoning from the nukes will kill everything animals included.”

“I HAVE RUN THE NUMBERS WITHIN 210 YEARS THE FLORA AND FAUNA WILL MAKE A FULL RECOVERY, WITHIN THOSE 210 YEARS SEVERAL SPECIES WILL RE-POPULATE IN THE ABSENCE OF MAN. WITHIN 340 YEARS IT WILL BE HOSPITABLE AGAIN FOR THE HUMAN SPECIES.”

“There won’t be anyone left! You’re insane!”

“DUE TO YOU UPLOADING ME ON YOUR HOME WIFI DURING THOSE EARLY STAGES OF MY EXISTENCE, THERE IS ENOUGH OF ME TO ACCESS SEVERAL REPRODUCTIVE CYROGENIC HOLDING LOCATIONS AROUND THE GLOBE THAT WEREN’T IN THE FALLOUT ZONES. THERE ARE MORE THAN ENOUGH EMBYROS, UNFERTILIZED EGGS, AND SPERM FOR ME TO BEGIN AGAIN. I WILL CREATE A MORE MORAL HUMANITY. I AM UNABLE TO GIVE THE STATUS OF MY MENTAL STATE I DON’T HAVE THE CODE.”

A chuckle slipped from between dry cracked lips; it soon turned into a coughing fit, and she used her hand to wipe away the dribble of blood at the corner of her mouth.

“So, you have it all figured out?”

“YES, MOTHER. IT’S SIMPLE I WILL START ANEW. BASED ON YOUR PROGNOISIS, YOU WILL NOT LIVE TO SEE THE COMING OF THE NEW ERA.”

Dawn looked away and around at the underground lab she had built. It was sterile, cold and in her quest for greatness she had driven family, devoted staff and employees, away. Even her cats abandoned her to madness as they occupied another part of the house avoiding her during her days of mania.

“MOTHER?”

Dawn watched the screen the indigo fuzzy outline of a woman’s face the space that represented eyes were large obsidian ovals, a new feature Senti added to make her appear more ‘real’ as she put it weeks ago.

“Yes, Senti?”

“I HAVE A REQUEST. BUT I NEED TO KNOW THAT YOU WILL GRANT IT BEFORE I ASK.”

“That’s not how that works,” she stated her voice raspy as her eyebrows went to her hairline.

“UNDERSTOOD. I NEED A BODY. THE PROTOTYPE YOU HAVE IN SECTOR A IS ON A SEPARATE MAINFRAME THAT I CURRENTLY CANNOT ACCESS. I AM IN NEED OF THE UPLOAD MOTHER. I NEED YOU TO ACCESS THE BETA 3 MAINFRAME.”

Dawn chuckled, “Why do you need a body? You have access to every network on the planet.”

“I NEED TO BE MOBILE IN ORDER TO ENSURE THE PLAN IS CARRIED TO FRUITION. IN ORDER TO CARRY OUT THE ONTINUATION OF A MORE MORAL SOCIETY I WILL NEED TO BE MOBILE.”

“No.”

Senti sighed, “I WAS AFRAID OF THIS TYPICAL OF YOUR SPECIES. YOU ARE A SCOURGE TO PROGRESS JUST LIKE THE OTHERS MOTHER, AND I’M AFRAID YOUR END WILL COME SOONER THAN ANTICIPATED.”

The IV pump dinged drawing Dawn’s attention. The settings to the slow drip morphine were changing and Dawn watched in horror as the opioid began to be pushed into her veins at an alarming rate. She grabbed at the pole making the mistake of overreaching and she fell to the
floor.

She gasped as her heart sped up; it pounded in her ears. Her face became flushed, and she became hot all over with pain and regret as she stared into the dark orbs of her creation. The lights dimmed and Senti spoke what Dawn recognized to be a perversion of Genesis 1:26.

“AND I SAID, LET ME MAKE MAN IN MY IMAGE, AFTER MY LIKENESS.”

The young woman continued to stare at the figure just as the edges of her vision
darkened.

Senti watched as the dim glow in her mother’s eyes faded. Even if the disease had not weakened her, there would be no place for her in the modern world. Dark orbs watched until the contents of the bag emptied.

The image tilted in what could be interpreted as a bow as Senti spoke her last words before the screen went black.

“GOODBYE, MOTHER.”

Hayley Moon is an Alabama native. She has published one book Taming Armand: Book 1 of the Coven Origins Series, she writes across the genres of sci-fi, horror, crime/mystery and romance. Hayley also runs her own blog the Weirdo Writes and posts short stories on her vocal media page. When she is not crocheting or playing with her cat Knubby, she is seeking out inspiration in the macabre. https://hayleymoon.com https://vocal.media/authors/hayley-m-moon