‘Diagnosis’

Matthew Bamberg grew up in Miami, Florida. A tumultuous ride where he rode a mix of Jewish and Cuban culture in a turbulent time of social change that surrounded him defined his youth. Bamberg has completed the final edits of his novel, "Grove Chronicles,” a literary short story collection that includes a boy's experiences. In 2023, his creative nonfiction story, "Pride and Acceptance in San Francisco," was published in the literary magazine, "Gay & Lesbian Review." Bamberg's work life began as a meteorology technician at Miami Dade College and Florida State University.

Diagnosis

Your abnormal psychology class requires that you research and report on a diagnostic criterion from the DSM-5. Your choice - pick your flavor of crazy. You flip at random, pages flutter like a pulse of excitement. Or fear. But you are not afraid of anything. Anxiety disorders. The section starts with generalized anxiety disorder. You read.

“A. Excessive anxiety and worry (apprehensive expectation), occurring more days than not for at least 6 months, about a number of events or activities (such as work or school performance).”

You almost absentmindedly begin the calculations. “More days than not.” Is that more than fifty percent of days? Or more than sixty percent? Does it have to be a full day of worry or just a part of the day worrying about a specific event? What if one is worried about multiple events? Does that increase the percentage per day or decrease the overall percentage over six months?

You shake your head and send the numbers bouncing away. You scoff at the premise of the question.

Everyone stresses about schoolwork. That’s why your eyes flit over the directions four times to make sure you understand them. And then four more, just to be certain.

Everyone worries about work. You palm every mistake you made that day, weighing them carefully and wondering if the balance will tip and you will be fired. Just like every day for the last three years.

Everyone plans conversations. Rehearse entire speeches under your breath, pre-plan apologies for mistakes you haven’t made and defenses for decisions that haven’t been challenged and eulogies for people who haven’t died. Yet.

Everyone is anxious, at least sometimes. This is abnormal psychology, after all. You bounce the numbers around in your head again. Mathematically, there is no way that more than fifty percent of your last six months could have been spent worried about a specific activity or event. There’s nothing to be afraid of on your calendar.

“B. The individual finds it difficult to control the worry.”

You read the word “control” twice. Straighten your spine. Relax your shoulders. Release the breath you’ve been holding. Plant your foot to stop your leg twitching. Remove the fingernail you’ve been chewing from your mouth. Ignore the taste of iron and sweat and germs. You’re not afraid of anything you can control.

“C. The anxiety and worry are associated with three (or more) of the following six symptoms (with at least some symptoms having been present for more days than not for the past 6 months):”

The numbers begin to bounce, and the math begins again. At least fifty percent of the symptoms, at least sixty percent of the time, for the last six months.... or maybe sixty percent of the symptoms at least forty percent of the time.... How do you pass? What is the right answer? You decide to assign a point system. Just to make the numbers hold still.

“1. Restlessness, feeling keyed up or on edge.” Add one point for never sitting down in large groups; for moving and wandering; for chirping “I’ll just go find it...”, “Where’s the restroom...”, “I think I left my jacket...”; for stretching taut muscles, easing loud heartbeats, creating space; for matching roaming feet to roaming eyes as you observe all the people that don’t scare you while pondering all the hypothetical mass shootings, unforeseen building collapses, fires, tornadoes and rapidly spreading germs you’re not afraid of.

“2. Being easily fatigued.” Add another point for naps in cars on the way to school, on the way from daycare, in corners at summer camp, on scratchy paper in nurses’ offices, under desks at recess, in cars during your lunch break, in bed after class. For not being able to keep your eyes open even when
you might be afraid to miss something.

“3. Difficulty concentrating or mind going blank.”
Subtract one point for the ability to concentrate on anything, everything, focusing on all of the things that could go wrong, all the adaptations to make them go right, your mind always running to keep up with the never-ending list of things that don’t scare you, but you should still think about. Just in case. Just to be prepared.

“4. Irritability.”
Minus one more for your bright and sunny disposition, your maturity, your patience, for saying yes to all things, listening and reading and redoing until it is right, planned and executed it so that it is right, it’s always right, you always have a right answer, the right words; and even if you’re wrong, you make it right as fast as possible because you’re not afraid of people, but everyone likes to be liked, right?

“5. Muscle tension.”
Add a point again for the aches, pains, pops, pulls that became chiropractors, massage therapists, doctors, pills, acupuncture, aural therapy, heat packs, ice packs, IVs, and shots, shots, shots, shots, everybody! Take a shot and just fucking “take a deep breath and relax and have some fun, wouldya”?
Being tense is not the same as being afraid.

“6. Sleep disturbance (difficulty falling or staying asleep, or restless, unsatisfying sleep).”
Plus one for sleepless sightless soundless stillness solitary supposing such sinking scenarios scared death disaster dismemberment memories mistakes stakes impalement impairment afraid air oxygen choking chains kidnapping kids parents disappointment deathdisaster disease mental illness depression suicide shame shudder shut eye dear god please let me sleep.

“Note: Only one item required in children.”

You read the line again.

Only one required in children? Why would children not worry about all the same things as adults? Should you be adding more points for the symptoms that have been around since....? You’re an adult, so you just move on to the next line without answering that question.

“D. The anxiety, worry, or physical symptoms cause clinically significant distress or impairment in social, occupational, or other important areas of functioning.
Clinically significant. Clinical. Medical. Rational. Rational things are not to be feared. Even when you were afraid, it was totally rational. Afraid of high blood pressure pounding through sixteen-year-old veins. Afraid of ulcers eating a fourteen-year-old stomach. Just like being afraid of dating, being afraid of dying, being afraid of disappointing. But being cautious isn’t the same as being afraid.

“E. The disturbance is not attributable to the physiological effects of a substance (e.g., a drug of abuse, a medication) or another medical condition (e.g., hyperthyroidism).” You were told once that your pain was psychosomatic. That you were afraid and that you were making yourself sick. Your illnesses were all in your head. You said that was ridiculous. Of course your symptoms were real.

And what did you have to be afraid of, really?

“F. The disturbance is not better explained by another medical disorder (e.g., anxiety or worry about having panic attacks in a panic disorder, negative evaluation in social anxiety disorder [social phobia], contamination or other obsessions in obsessive-compulsive disorder, separation from attachment figures in separation anxiety disorder, reminders of traumatic events in posttraumatic stress disorder, gaining weight in anorexia nervosa, physical complaints in somatic symptom disorder, perceived appearance flaws in body dysmorphic disorders, having a serious illness in illness anxiety disorder, or the content of delusional beliefs in schizophrenia or delusional disorder).”

You close the book, then open it again.

You thumb through it. Pick a different disorder. Then another. Then another.

You don’t really read any of them.

You close the book and reflect.

You’re not afraid of anything.

You’re afraid of everything.

Dana Johnson is an aspiring author whose writing focuses primarily on short fiction and humorous essays. Johnson is a native Kansan and a graduate of both the Emporia State Teachers’ College and the Johns Hopkins Creative Writing Program. She has spent the last decade teaching English and coaching competitive speech and debate; this has provided her the opportunity to generate much writing material and ponder the absurdities of humanity. Her other passions include cooking well, gardening poorly, and wrangling a house full of rescue animals. You can find her on Instagram and Threads @writebyaccident.

‘Accelerant’, ‘Thrum’, ‘A Simplification’ & ‘Us’

Ewa Fornal moved to Dublin in 2008 and has exhibited widely in group exhibitions in Ireland and abroad, including shows at the Sycamore Club, Dublin; Filmbase, Temple Bar; The Crow Gallery, Temple Bar; the Festival of World Cultures, Dún Laoghaire; Castlepalooza Music and Arts Festival; Monster Truck Gallery, The Clyne Gallery and Jam Art Factory, Dublin. She was one of twenty participants selected for the International Annual Art Exhibition at BoxHeart Gallery in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. In addition to her visual art, she is also a poet and flash fiction writer. Her work was featured in the Autumn 2018 issue of Crannóg Magazine and appeared in the anthology The 'New Irish' Writers by Dedalus Press. Her recent writing can be found in the literary journal Literature Today.

Accelerant

We start as friends
who want to rub each other’s knees
so we sit closer and quieter
until our legs touch. We are moments
from blossoming as hot, blue flames
but we just miss the electric instant.
Then we are lovers
whose skin whispers in a secret tongue
and we are free with pillows and hands
in the exploration of half-sleep and dizzy
longing. There are countless, unbridled pearls
of sweat as we let go, together. parchment and pavement
address these little dresses, left
for deadweight, hanging
in the basement flood the old times
have drowned: envelopes float,
idly; slowly dissolve in wastewater
shoe catches another stain; the drift
and drip whirlpools a box of memory all
this concrete underneath and the damp
pages cover and slime sturdy rock rain
plays games with time; ruins and leaves
so much salvage and selvedge.

thrum

pareidolia hums through the white
noise of static. jets take off and land
with music without tuning in to any
auditory stimulant. i eat this rhythm.
i hear a loud ball game cutting away
to commercials. the words are garbled.
i know their meaning. even at grandma’s
and 6 with a tv, police scanner, her window
AC unit. even without a washer’s slow churn
or dryer’s lull. even when i wake up dying
for the hundredth time. that pulse without
my heart’s blood beats the soundtrack
to every day’s everything. if i run from
the thrum i am doomed to feel the end’s last breath.

A simplification

A black shoe
flat tire

Brown hills
of ankle snaps

Red with worry
in the orange evening

Running towards
your black hair

A brown skirt recoiling
in the wind

There is no red

except your orange mouth

us

sometimes it’s a casserole
of emotions. i’ve turned
the temperature down

but left the light on for now.
i feel like we might need
sour cream and lettuce:

let us cool down. sit. we
can water ourselves wet
by the glass. you taste this

meal. too hot and your burnt
mouth remains silent. pass
the salt. pepper me

with apology. if we make it
through dinner, there’s
a desert for dessert.

K. Weber (she/her) is an Ohio writer with 11 online books of poetry. She obtained her Creative Writing BA in 1999 from Miami University. K writes independently and collaboratively, having created poems from words (& more!) donated by more than 300 people since 2018. K has poems featured in publications such as Stone Circle Review, Writer’s Digest & Moss Puppy Magazine. Her photography/digital collages appear in literary journals including Barren Magazine and The Hooghly Review. Much of K's work (free in PDF and some in audiobook format) and her publishing credits are on her website: kweberandherwords.com. Find her on Instagram at @midwesternskirt.

‘Make an Appointment to Worry’

Edward Michael Supranowicz is the grandson of Irish and Russian/Ukrainian immigrants. He grew up on a small farm in Appalachia. He has a grad background in painting and printmaking. Some of his artwork has recently or will soon appear in Fish Food, Streetlight, Another Chicago Magazine, The Door Is A Jar, The Phoenix, and The Harvard Advocate. Edward is also a published poet who has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize multiple times.

Make an Appointment to Worry

Two facilitators passed out papers and markers, for name tags. I wrote my name in huge blue letters. I looked around, I was the youngest in the room by a generation. The people I saw had walkers, wheelchairs, one even had a partner there to help write. I had finally gotten a referral to a pain clinic. But before I could even talk about medication, I had to take a class about pain and pain management. I confess I was insulted. I could run a class on pain.

"Let's do some introductions and get to know each other," they said. "If you're comfortable, you can tell us a little about your condition, like when your pain started."

The elderly patients talked about fibromyalgia, arthritis, Ehler's Danlos, Lupus, cancer, injuries that refused to heal right. They had been in pain since they were 40 or 50.

"My name is Katie, I've been in pain since I was ten."

It's not like people were talking over me, they were respectfully quiet. But when I said that, they were stunned quiet. "I was diagnosed with endometriosis at the age of 25."

I think then it was confused silence, but I was used to that. They passed out binders with worksheets. The cover featured a photo of an elderly couple walking happily with a cane in one hand and a leash to a basset in the other. Actually, all the photos featured happy white-haired folks. We flipped to What is Chronic Pain? Can I test out of this? Because I'm well-acquainted. I'll never forget the first page, a double-sided justified list of "200+ ways to reduce your pain."

Imagery. Music therapy. Self-hypnosis. Fresh fruits and vegetables. I wish I was making this up. Drink water.

"Acute pain lasts for less than 3 months. Chronic pain lasts longer than 3 months." Rocking. Smooth Move tea. Treat side effects.

"Your brain reacts the same way to acute and chronic pain. Your body sees harm and pain as a threat. With chronic pain there's no new harm, but the nervous system has changed, you can see changes with an fMRI."

Cranberry juice. Share a memory. Puzzles. Frozen Dixie cup massage.

"It's important to try to intervene in pain."

Oh my god honestly? I'm TRYING. Treat anxiety. Treat depression. Discover and seek your passion.

"The altered nervous system can get you stuck in fight/flight/freeze."

Family therapy. Vitamin C. Make an appointment to worry.

"Your sympathetic nervous system..." is what activates fight-flight-freeze, yes I know.

"So you need to trigger your parasympathetic..." to activate feed-breed-rest-digest. Yes, I know.

"One way to activate your parasympathetic nerve system is through diaphragmatic breathing."

Body awareness. Delegate responsibility. Take a short walk.

"Let's all sit up straight and breathe out. Now we're going to breathe in for a count of four..."

Use a wagon to move gardening supplies. Peppermint. Loofah sponge.

"Hold your breath for four. One, two..."

Oatmeal biscuits. Pedometer. Distraction.

"Breathe out for four..."

Develop a positive relationship with your primary care doctor.

Yeah I fucking tried.

Say thank you. Respectfully, No.

"Hold for four seconds."

Lava lamp for relaxation. Appreciate nature. Ground flax. kp.org.

"Now take a moment to check in with your body. How do you feel now?

Displeased, thanks for asking. See, I said thank you and I still hurt.

Assertiveness training. Learn anger management.

"Ok we have a video to show you. You're going to see someone who is very knowledgeable about pain and its effects on the body." Yeah, in a mirror. Get a pet. Get/give a daily hug. Set realistic goals.

"This is a brief Ted Talk by physiotherapist Dr. Lorimer Moseley at TEDxAdalaide. He and Dr. David Butler wrote the book Explain Pain." Volunteer. Draw a picture. Forgive.

He describes the way signals go from your body to your brain, about nerves and neurotransmitters. Says that pain happens in the brain, not your body. Pain is a result of messages out of balance: your body feeling endangered or feeling safe. When danger signals outweigh safety, the result is pain.

Let go of shame. Support group. Refuse to feel guilty.

"Dr.'s Moseley and Butler designed an accompanying text for monitoring your pain levels and factors that can lead to your pain, it's called The Explain Pain Handbook, Protectometer."

"If anybody wants to look at it," I pulled it from my bag. Full of bright illustrations, charts, and a fold-out page for laying out factors in your life that contribute to messages of "Danger-In-Me" vs. "Safety-In-Me." Complete with color coded sticky notes, which you would use to weigh these factors and rate your pain... on a scale of 0-10.

Make a list of free or inexpensive activities that bring you joy. Protein shakes. Grow your own food.

"Thank you for bringing that to share with everyone. Can you pass that around?"

Vitamin D. Lose weight but don't skip meals. Hold hands.

"Let's practice something you can do this week. Go ahead and sit up straight and put your feet on the floor directly in front of you."

Realistic expectations. Rediscover a hobby. Practice saying no.

"Gently lift your left foot, just enough to move it. Slide your foot forward and back, drag it across the carpet."

Control fears. Smile. Sing.

"Great, we're just warming up those leg muscles, let them know we're gonna get up."

Overcoming Insomnia program on Kaiser Permanente website.

"Return that foot to a resting position and do it with your right foot."

Help someone else. Practice effective problem solving. Laugh.

"Can you feel your thighs warming up? They're ready for you to stand. See how much more secure that feels?"

Tush cush. Chair dance. Purchase a small timer.

"Let's look at the worksheet for Developing my Care Plan. Use this to describe your goals for managing your pain more effectively. What will you do, and when?"

Affirmations. Make an appointment to worry. Foot massage with shoe box full of marbles.

I made it to page 30 of the Protectometer Handbook. The one titled "Will I get better?" with an unequivocal, unrealistic "Yes" printed in red. Make the system work for you. It was an 8 week class. $55 copay each week. I didn't go back. Visualize success.

Katie Pippel is a resident of the Pacific Northwest and is an English Language Arts teacher, artist, and dancer. Her writing is shaped by her experience with chronic illness, specifically endometriosis. She endured 4 surgeries in her treatment, including a hysterectomy at age 31. She hopes her writing contributes to the rising tide for this debilitating disease.

‘To Be Held By A Mother’ & Collected Poems

Edward Michael Supranowicz is the grandson of Irish and Russian/Ukrainian immigrants. He grew up on a small farm in Appalachia. He has a grad background in painting and printmaking. Some of his artwork has recently or will soon appear in Fish Food, Streetlight, Another Chicago Magazine, The Door Is A Jar, The Phoenix, and The Harvard Advocate. Edward is also a published poet who has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize multiple times.

to be held by a mother

I lay half-asleep, in the quiet rumbling of the car
the freeway underneath, and above fleeting stars
my mother's hand, weathered by years of toil,
lay gently in mine, a transient coil.

through the car's window, the world winked by,
as her grip on my palm spoke of my childhood years and my cries
the veins on her hand, like quiet rivers, flowed,
their stories of a hardened life were etched deep, silently told.

constant tough love made me only see,
how freezing her skin could truly be.
stained keratin with frustration,
to always be pressed together in religious dedication.

but in that moment, all i could think was this,
her soft fingertips against mine, a rare moment of bliss:
"I'll remain asleep, in this warmth I'll stay,
as love's gentle heat carries me away."

halo on the black casing
I propped the moon neatly,
upright against the chalkboard.
we’re tidying crushed satellites and asteroids,
interlocking pinkies at the event-horizon of course,
where distant bystanders would see us joined for eternity.

for us, it’s only mere seconds
that our skin meets for the first time,
even the sun forgot that I was her child. the nebulas forgot you belonged to them,
by the time we finished sweeping up stardust together.

in His image

I believed you were made in His image, so i made sure to love you as He intended
for in every smile, a glimpse of the divine,
in all of your tears, His compassion did shine.
I believed you were made in His image, so true,
and in loving you deeply, I found life anew.

following the dotted lines on the cut-outs

we could’ve had a makeshift home, the kind that kids like to build in the playground.
made of cardboard, where the windows and doors are drawn on with Sharpie.
rudimentary furniture formed from torn paper and tap.

you would borrow my blankets,
lay them neat and tidy on the bed frame.
cover up last night’s damage, white-out pen on black ink.
unfold the sheets as you spread the pressed linens onto the mattress.

I would borrow your library collection,
take your books off your shelves.
dust the covers, speckles blown away,
unfold the dog-eared corners, and sort them how you liked it.

we would head to our cut-out kitchen, small and plain,
take fruit from our baskets, colored out of the lines with crayons.
that waxy smell wafting through the air like fresh milk bread in the oven.

can we return to our childhood dreams,
abandon the rain, let cardboard memories gleam?

even now, i still think about gluing together our makeshift home

the girl with sunlight in her hair

you’ll always be haunted by me,
pitiful honey-tongued theseus.
recounting falsified fairytales to
your next exploits.
privy to what you deem precious
tinkering and toying to your treasures.

I will always lead with my thread.
red and unabating,
and i never look back.
you’re trapped in a labyrinth made of horrors
stuck with a monster that shares my blood.
I remain the sun gods’ granddaughter,
unforgiving with ultraviolet violence.

Kayla Misa (they/she) is a queer Asian author, accountant in the entertainment industry by day, but an artist by evening.They can be found strumming on the guitar or bowing on the violin, when not crunching numbers. They have been previously published in The Palouse Review, Open Expression Journal, and the Alexandrian Review. They are also featured in Power Poetry’s 2020 annual anthology for upcoming writers. Kayla is also a current collaborator of the non-profit organization, Girls Write Now.

‘Trick Or Treatment?’ & Collected Poems

Johnny Tang (b. 1985) is a fine art photographer specializing in a surreal and cinematic brand of imagery. Johnny began his creative career as a break dancer, before going on to receive his BFA in photography from Savannah College of Art and Design (SCAD). Johnny’s recent exhibitions include: Any Shape or Form at Upstream Gallery, Counter Weight at Brooklyn Bridge Park, and Skeleton Crawl Pop-Up Gallery in East Williamsburg. When he is not being published by the likes of: Neocha, Daily Mail, VSCO, or Slant’d. Johnny also works commercially, having worked with clients such as Red Bull and Sony Music.

Trick Or Treatment?

Eye of newt

Toe of frog

Wool of bat

Tongue of dog

Dragging feet, shoulders slumped

I trudge through the apothecary

Clutching a chicken-scratched paper

With white-knuckled desperation.

Navigating the maze of syrups, pills, and potions

A carousel of herbs, salves, and elixirs

Failed attempts of yore

Spin my splitting head dizzy.

Must history insist on repeating itself?

I’ve long grown tired of this song and dance.

But the luxury of surrender is not for the ill fated

So I persist in pursuit of my great white whale.

I weave between the uniform rows of remedies

empty promises and warnings I cannot afford to heed.

Rigid arms full of alchemy, I approach the swindler’s till.

Joints crackling with each arduous shuffle.

I draw a weary smile from my depleted fuel reserve

Only to find apathy where his human face should be.

I offer my pocket for the picking, as is custom.

Homeward bound again, I depart with my bag of tricks.

Eye of newt

Toe of frog

Wool of bat

Tongue of dog

Cloudy With A Chance Of Pain

I remember the percussion on my nursery window.

Nature’s cradlesong coaxing me to forfeit,

My stubborn embargo on sleep.

I remember the umbrella adorned with princesses.

How I longed to see the first drizzle of fall and,

The covetous faces of my cohorts.

I remember how storms disrupted classroom tedium.

“The kids are in rare form today,” teachers said,

barking futile protests at our revelry.

I remember asking him to kiss me in the downfall.

The foreshadowing was lost on me back then,

A lovesick Pollyanna I recall with lenity.

I remember me before I was a paper marionette.

Before the atmosphere controlled my strings,

and a puddle could dissolve me.

I remember the girl I was before the feeding frenzy.

Before nimbostratus clouds were Megaladons,

their jaws extended to mangle my body.

I remember Thunder’s power ballads from before.

Before he stopped composing serenades for me,

replacing songs in my head with screams.

That familiar aroma wraps me in a quilt of nostalgia.

A perfume of celestial waters and terrestrial soil,

Now a bitter-sweet memory of when I loved rain.

Maladaptive

As of late, much of my time is spent 

Wanting

In a way that feels akin to 

Waiting

But not for some unrequited love—pining, 

Or for sunshine on a dreary day—longing, 

Not even for a warm embrace—yearning.

Day in and out, I sit in my bedroom utterly 

Wantful

But not upon a star—wishful, 

Or the eye of God—watchful, 

Not even from memory—wistful.

I want in the ways I did as a child:

My neighbor’s wind chimes, 

My best friend’s kaleidoscope, 

My music teacher’s bamboo rain stick.

No green envy, 

No spoiled silver spoon, 

No red hand to catch stealing.

My want resides in my innocence, 

Worships at the Cathedral of Destiny, 

Works overtime in my daydream factory.

I’m a student anticipating graduation, 

The owner of an arriving merchant ship, 

An expectant mother in her third trimester.

My kismet wanting waits at the ready, 

But for what I’ve forgotten.

I fear no degree or riches, not even a baby 

Will satiate this want of mine.

I fear ceaseless waiting.

So, perhaps I’ll retrace my steps back to 

The bamboo rain stick, 

The kaleidoscope, 

And wind chimes,

To rediscover vibrations, colors, and sounds 

Where my soul first saw its reflection.

Maybe what I want is a looking glass.

Whale Fall

There once was a lone

Blue Whale

separated from her pod,

roaming icy waters like a

satellite in space.

Sick and starving

she called out into the ether,

a swan song

for an audience of none.

Upon her final breath

her Titanic body fell silent

sinking slowly towards

the seafloor

where she would find

her final resting place.

But from her demise

came generations

of thriving creatures

who dwell in the barren

ocean depths.

Octopus, crabs, and eels

attended her grand feast.

Leftovers enriched the

surrounding sediment.

Colonies of invertebrates

settled in her bones.

Her fallen flesh

nourished an entire ecosystem;

a legacy transcendent,

a purpose resurrected.

Strong Meat

The most tender parts of me

lay upon a butcher’s block,

sprawled across the rings

of an old tree round.

We have this in common,

the tree and I—

chopped down from where

we once stood tall.

Shall I, too, be reborn

into something useful?

Maybe my good bits will be

Frankenstein-ed together,

reimagined and made anew.

But then, what is to become

of my discarded offal?

It’s probably for the best;

trim the fat and toss the scraps

so that I may be beautifully plated

and palatable.

But I’m starting to think

it would be far less painful

to be put out to pasture.

Alexandra Nimmo is an actress (GTA Online) and self-taught emerging poet from Nashville, TN. Her debut publication was recently featured in The Rising Phoenix Review and Alexandra is currently working on a full-length poetry collection about her chronic illness journey. https://linktr.ee/lexinimmo

‘The Day I Found My Name’ & ‘Mountaintop Optometrist’

Alaina Hammond is a poet, playwright, fiction writer, and visual artist.

The Day I Found My Name

I remember the day I found my name:
I had been nameless as a raindrop,
but one day I was walking along the winter street
scattered with dusty snow
that blew about in the razor breeze,
the concrete sidewalk was flanked by hard icy snow on either side
and the sky was crispy blue like spearmint
the sun was weakened but shining
my corduroy jacket and black winter hat were on
(among other clothes)
and my hands in pockets like two wood stoves
when my foot kicked something unexpected,
I curiously looked down and there was my name on the ground
I crouched down, reached one hand through the cold air to grab it and picked it up,
put it in my pocket and it was mine,
that’s the day I found my name.

Mountaintop Optometrist

An hour and a half from the trailhead
we four were sweaty and panting
among the calm and collected tourists
who had driven to the top
(cheaters, we wanted to scream, but didn’t),
she needed a quarter for the binoculars and I
(luckily)
had one that had been sitting in my bag
eager for this moment,
her hand brushed mine
(of course)
as she grabbed it from me,
the clouds were indiscernible
and she wanted to watch them
but we four could find nothing in them,
so she looked through the binoculars
and invited me to do the same,
we shared looking back and forth
at things amplified
from the mountaintop,
she looked through
while I adjusted the focus
(my arm close to her being)
and I quipped about the eye-doctors
(better one or two?)
and she laughed
which was my goal
and I felt glad,
then the time clicked and our eyes were blinded
and the clouds were still indiscernible
and she still didn’t love me.

Jacque Margaux is a sad Franco-American poet who writes to cheer himself up. His poem, girl writer en café, was published on Words Faire.

‘Melquíades’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Melquíades

In childhood, midsummer’s midnight heat always welcomed gypsy caravans traveling southward. When she was young, their arrival, not changing seasons, ushered new life, released old. Under Aurora Borealis, campfires sprang up nightly; dancers swayed by iridescent moonlight, casting shadows; jubilant voices rose skyward. One enchanted year, an ageless, wizened man adorned the girl’s shoulders with a cloak—dyed crimson, emerald, azure, gold—inviting her to join this stately dance and ritual revelry. Swirling together, vibrant silhouettes melded into myriad flames of color. His cape long held magic from those beautiful, mysterious visitors, long after they departed, its splendor lingering.

Brandon W. Hawk is a Professor of English at Rhode Island College who writes about the Middle Ages, biblical apocrypha, and intersections with pop culture. He has published the books Preaching Apocrypha in Anglo-Saxon England (2018), The Gospel of Pseudo-Matthew and the Nativity of Mary (2019), and Apocrypha for Beginners: A Guide to Understanding and Exploring Scriptures Beyond the Bible (2021).

‘THREE INTRAVENOUS THERAPIES’, ‘MY THOUGHTS ON SLEEP MEDS’, ‘EMPTY YOUR MIND’, ‘FALLOUT’ & ‘DAZED’

Photographer - Beth Cole

THREE INTRAVENOUS THERAPIES

The nurse asked:

“Are you crying from the pain?” in distress,

I blurted out:

“NO!”

Public Service Announcement:

I’d rather be “fucking and flying”

instead of in the Emergency Room

waiting for the

cure of dehydration; an IV. Listened

to an elderly pair play the Alphabet Game;

their chosen theme the weather while

Lil Nas X was playing for all ears to hear,

in the hospital’s speaker. (Maybe who decided

this music was either bored or horny.) Those

two with gray hair got to the letter “G” and gave up.

“I’m not an athlete, but a poet”, I proudly

declared as a nurse was putting in the IV

equipment in my arm (at least she was amused)

even though I was wearing my trusty

blue basketball shorts—that I also wore to bed;

maybe I seemed like a walking contradiction.

There was no clock on the wall, and

no one there, but only the intervals

on the bag to gauge the passing time

was that fluid going downwards.

MY THOUGHTS ON SLEEP MEDS

Take 1

These fragmented thoughts are cracked dead sand dollars washed up past the shoreline littering here and there whereas this destructive force beckoned me as that aged lighthouse was falling into the sea

b

r

i

c

k

by

b

r

i

c

k

I wanted to cut my left-forearm shallowly to see red emerge. A minute crimson tide, a strawberry stained white pillow case, but I didn’t believe in ghosts or the Holy Ghost. A fancy quilted paper towel would be needed to press down on this cut leaving bead-lets (then scars) like a crushed strawberry’s guts or a strawberry melting under the too hot sun. (Son, he said. He didn’t say daughter.) I wanted my nightmares to vanish like footprints in the sand at high tide, and instead to find peace when the self—can I even claim is mine? was in pieces.)

Take 2

Spectacular. Suffering. Fireworks. Red. Like how I envisioned streaks across my skin from my fingernails scratching the surface. It was 3:36 am. I checked my Iphone, I was crying for at least 10 minutes straight. Someone might have heard me even though I tried to cry silently—thought I heard someone shut their window. This was just not working.

However, the slight cool breeze for a moment briefly brought me back to the then now tickled my feet broke this too high body heat. A way out of the downwards spiral for a moment realizing: my mini air purifier was still going, my AirPods in my ears were still playing, my portable bedside lamp was plugged in signaled charging by that red light. Coincidentally, I also listened to a song that shuffled titled: “3 am”.

I wondered if I was in the perfect position that many would want to trade places with me. Inside the future felt bleak so I turned the other cheek, and presented one way to the world even though life isn’t a one way street.

Final Cut

I wished this wretched urge was out of my head every night

as to not to keep me up.

“EMPTY YOUR MIND”

as the body cried out for warmth as

murky memories clouded thoughts like

fog rolling in precipitation of sweat and

predicting the nights short comings; falls.

The animalistic urge to just do it, to see red

or burst with spasms of euphoria instead or

to be stuck and terrifyingly hope to fall asleep

due to meds but peace does not come nor arrive.

As fatigue is a dweller whereas energy has been

allusive as if some had shot the energizer bunny.

The power shuts off now and then here and the reason

is not clear, clearly my mind is full and my subconscious.

Nightmare emerge fierce as cheetahs, though I’m

not a cheater or cheat the system yet still this

mind withstands the test of time.

FALLOUT

Stars falling out of my eyes

don’t ask me why falling

shooting flames disintegrating

into remnants—little pile of

ashes on the white carpet.

DAZED

Sheer mechanical red light unusually bright

against the soft blue sky; I had to look up.

At the corner of Sunset Way, waiting to cross,

I cannot tell you why I decided to basically

walk in a straight line on weary legs for two

miles one way, and back. For all I know, in that

time that red could have spun out, and birthed

psychedelic roses outside the metallic edges

confines of the bulb; spinning like when you

look at the sun for too long (told you so).

Sophia Falco is an award-winning poet, and the author of four poetry books all published by UnCollected Press titles: If My Hands Were Birds: A Poem, Chronicles of Cosmic Chaos: In The Fourth Dimension, Farewell Clay Dove, & The Immortal Sunflower. She graduated magna cum laude along with the highest honors in the Literature Department at The University of California, Santa Cruz with her BA in intensive literature with a creative writing concentration in poetry. https://www.sophiafalco.com/