‘A Dog’s Wish’

Tammie Birdwell came into her passion for photography late in life. She found photography and was diagnosed with autism around the same time. She is self-taught and she gets better every day.There is so much beauty in the world, she doesn't have a niche.

A Dog’s Wish

How the stars prick the sky, shredding its blue-black comforter, each competing for sparkles. Leo on his haunches. Proud as ever. And at his heart, winking, is the brightest star. It’s tranquil all by itself, like me. Ares, the lamb, won’t show himself till winter; I’ll greet him when he comes. The brilliance of an ink sky, speckled with eyes. On this hill I dream. What an amazing invention the universe truly is. Sweet spring lingers before my nose and I deeply inhale. What more to say? No, I will not ruin this moment with more terms, more words and abstractions that amputate reality. No artificial frames for you. You must imagine it; if you wish to box up such a majestic experience with words, well then, be my guest. Me? I could sit here and stare all night; and most likely I will. This nightscape is not silent; howls punctuate the pulsing of crickets. My gaze sinks to the large and awkward cross below, proclaiming its stature above the diverse headstones.

Oh how they miss out, cocooned in their domiciles, like stunted caterpillars. Never transforming. Like a complacent zombie hoard, stiffened in their unachieving rigor-mortis homes and apartments. I’m transfixed by the winking treasure above, while they sit there on their couches, bathed
by the screen’s soft blue pulse. Still, perhaps even with all my freedom, I am not so different. I hunger. They hunger. I am attracted to beauty and warmth as they are in their lucid moments. And we dream. That’s what connects us—our dreams.

The food they leave out for me is good, I suppose. And dead. I prefer the thrill of the hunt. The chase. The giddy feeling of conquering my prey, standing over them, winded, panting, but high on adrenaline and life! How delicious to sink my lengthy teeth into an artery, to feel the warm uneven jet of salty thickness splash my muzzle. And how my tongue races to the rescue like an ambulance, always arriving just in time to assist in the cleanup.

They named me Rusky and this is my story.

The school bell rings, signaling our obedient walk to our classrooms, our stations. Here in my homeroom with the other level threes, we should be able to sit through the first lesson by now. It’s supposed to teach patience and obedience. We must sit, soundless, whimperless, for fifteen minutes. Torture, we used to call it. But all in all it’s not so bad. I don’t think any of us care much anymore for the concluding treat. I won’t deny them, but couldn’t they spring for something healthier? A buddy of mine told me they have organic treats in the private school up the street. Homeroom is still torture for some...

Our days proceed from course to course: Recognition of Keywords (including our names. Stupid! We all know our names); Premise Walks for Pairs (walking us through the grounds on leashes with an animal we typically don’t get along with); Automatic Sitting (sitting when our lead sits); Community Commands (including some real winners like “Make friends!”); Navigating Distractions (walking past various “distractions” [fire hydrant, unleashed squirrels, other animals...] and testing our reactions—this is one of the tougher classes). Humans think they’re so superior because they’ve trained themselves to hold up their purposeless noses, listen to fancy classical music and not give in to temptation. A friend, the same friend who’s treated to organic snacks, just started a class in

Epicureanism—something about focusing desires, avoiding pain and trusting the senses; now that’s something I can get behind. What’s the point of all this mental and physical stiffness, stubbornly avoiding pleasure?

Our school’s main purpose is to birth a real-world lions-and-lambs reality. In addition to dogs and cats, we have squirrels, a toad, panther and tiger. I know, it’s hard to believe, but we are part of this project, a project to demonstrate love, or at least tolerance, among “unreconcilable” differences. Most
of us know it isn’t really possible, not the way humans imagine it, but I still like it here. I don’t skip school, like some. But still, there’s a certain foul arrogance among our humans. I guess I should be proud that I’ve made it to level three. Marco is still at level one, but I’m confident that he’s ready to
pass to level two. I feel it in my bones.

Tigro’s a level two. He’s a beast, literally. I don’t see him ever making it past level two. Any distraction sends him mad; what an animal.

There are things I can’t do, but it’s more accurate to say I won’t do them. I don’t want to achieve level four. The level fours think they’re so superior. They get along, I guess. But let me tell you, they have some serious psychological issues. They can’t get excited about anything. Like big furry zombies. They can wait all day, in each other’s diverse company, listening for every sound until they hear their master’s command. No, I play the game. I do just enough to get by. I show them I’m making progress and then just as they’re about to send me to level four, I do something bad, like shit on the doctored lawn.

Humans feeling the need for us to get along says so much more about them than us. I mean, really—what does it say when you need to see an animal submit before you, repress his desires. How does that serve, affect, a human ego?

At lunch we break for the supervised courtyard. Marco sees me and scrambles over. He wants to play. He always wants to play; that’s why he always gets into trouble. A branch between his teeth protrudes nearly a foot from either side of his snout. He’s slavering, nearly knocking over classmates first on this side then that, as he bounds toward me. He’s a beagle and not all there; I don’t like to admit that. He invariably stops himself by plopping down his rear, now skidding across the manicured lawn, just like his butt has sprouted a pair of wheels (I think he’s secretly scratching his rear).

His owners feed him way too much, leaving his bowl out night and day. He’s way too dependent on his free food and his body confirms it. They say pets look like their owners, but it’s only because humans shape them in their own image. Don’t laugh. It’s tragic, really. Anyway, Marco doesn’t have the discipline to stop eating. If it’s within sniffing distance, his body stiffens and there’s no stopping him; believe me, I’ve tried. But he can be stopped. Just like he’s being stopped now. It’s Tigro of course. My stomach curls inward when I think of his wide furry face, his long haphazard whiskers—spiders frantically attempting a jailbreak from his meaty head. And Ribbity stands by; always grinning. The demonic duo. I feel sick and my nose goes dry. Tigro—who enjoys seeing us shake and shiver and writhe in black-and-white pain, and sometimes we wet ourselves on the waxed school hallways.

Tigro’s breath stinks to high heaven. Chronic Halitosis, they call it. But what a clinical, safe word for such putridity. It’s a lesson in positive thinking (or being utterly oblivious) that he somehow gets away with this flaunting of his foul internal world, spilling out into the common environs, like an infected physical appendage. As dangerous as a nuclear weapon. If Marco or I possessed breath with such an otherworldly stench, it would be the walk of shame for us—day in and day out. Nobody would let us forget it.

I pity Marco. I’ve been there under Tigro’s hot and heavy death-reek panting, just like poor Marco is now. Tigro has him pinned against the base of a wide elm, just out of sight of our trainers. Marco doesn’t put up a fight; he never does. Now that he’s pinned against the tree he falls over, all fours sticking up as if he’s praying away a ball from hitting his face. Marco’s wooden bit has been replaced by a lolling tongue; it’s all placation now. His nose is animated and twitching and he’s begging Tigro with his eyes to just please let him be. He can’t get any lower to the ground. I can barely stand the tension. I wet my nose; it’s hard to describe the scent of this kind of fright, but you can think of it in parts metallic, acrid and putrid. I’m not foolish enough to move against Tigro. I just want this to be over; something tells me to wait it out. Be patient and “wait,” just like they’ve trained me as a level
three.

“Ribbity, don’t you think Marco needs to learn a new lesson today?” Tigro says. He has an audience; all of the domesticated level threes and fours stand around doing nothing at all. But we’re all listening with perked ears and sniffing for updates. I’m not sure what I’m waiting for.

“Well?” says Tigro, his stripes flashing in the sunlight.

“I think he does,” says Ribbity, with a voice not entirely convincing.

“Well now. I love when we’re in agreement. If you think he does, then show us,” says Tigro.

There’s a pause, broken only by a squeal from Marco. Ribbity’s bulbous eyes dart to something imagined in the distance; he doesn’t want to be here either. Tigro gently places his mouth around Marco’s right outstretched forepaw, and begins to exert pressure. Marco cries out. I utter a sympathetic yelp from the sidelines. Marco squirms and attempts an escape; Tigro catches him by the scruff of his neck. “Now you,” he says.

With that, Ribbity, who now demonstrates how well he responds to commands, begins to secrete—a little at first—a milky white bubbling substance that we all know as bufotoxin. This is expressly against the rules of the school, by the way; this could seriously injure or even kill Marco. If the trainers knew this was taking place, Ribbity would be kicked out of the school immediately; he knows this, and is willing to risk it, apparently for Tigro’s approval and love. The milky white substance foams from his chubby glands, creating a comical image—the froth just behind his eyes gives him a sick grandfatherly appearance. He turns his right side menacingly toward the supine and captive Marco.

“Do it. Do it. Do it!” The level-one and -two cheers grow. The scent of Marco’s palpitating terror is sticky, overwhelms my muzzle and nauseates me. Just as Ribbity begins to rub against the terrorized Marco, Brian—a trainer—runs over.

“What in good God’s name are you doing?” he asks.

We scatter. I look to the trees. I cry softly; I may throw up. With all my level-three training on getting along with my fellow animals, I was powerless to help my friend. I retch in a patch of new tulip bulbs, nearly throwing up. I don’t want to face Marco. How can he still call me his friend? I want nothing more than to spend the rest of my days with my head buried under a patch of freshly-dug earth.

I’m paired with Lucy on our premise walk. She’s one of the exceptions. My blonde fur contrasts so beautifully against her body of night.

“Tigro wouldn’t hurt a fly,” she says.

“What? You know his father is Beelzebub himself,” I say.

“I know what I know; I possess excellent intuition. Everyone tells me that,” Lucy says.

“But you’re new. You don’t get it. Yet.”

“Oh, I get it,” says Lucy. “My owners always tell me about my extraordinary native understanding of things.”

Owner. I would never in a million years call Daniel my owner. She’s already internalized all of this. But I can’t help staring at her fine black feline face, and her svelte black tail. I pick up my back leg and scratch behind my ear; I realize I do this in uncomfortable moments, or when I’m aroused. Lucy is led away by a trainer. I watch the sultry way she switches her strong tail back and forth as she walks.

An amazing panther to be sure. Everyone says as much.

It’s my duty to walk Marco home. I avoid what happened at lunch entirely. I tell him we’re going to take a detour today. We’re going to get happy, I say. He doesn’t know what I mean, but follows me just like he always does, just like he never saw me standing at that elm watching his nightmare and not even lifting one paw to stop it.

“Keep Out. Danger!” the sign reads.

“Jump,” I say. He looks at me sheepishly. “Go ahead.”

I jump first over the chain-link fence and after some cajoling (I say I’ll give him one of my non-organic treats tomorrow), he jumps, ungracefully, over the fence, striking one of his back paws against the metal, causing the fence to sing. We saunter deep into the construction site, passing concrete remains
and a mostly-broken facade of bricks, like a spellbound standing carcass.

“I don’t think we should be here,” says Marco.

“Relax,” I say. “Nobody’s here. The workers never work past three o’clock on weekdays. Anyways, I think we both need an escape. Trust me, you’ll feel better.” I want to give him this gift;yes, and it will make me feel better about myself.

Marco follows me, head nearly dragging the dusty earth, glancing up at me with wide eyes of fearful questioning. We get to our destination. The sweet smell of benzene wafts up to meet our snouts from a leak in a pipe.

“Smell that little angel dust, don’t you? Isn’t it just like heaven?” I say.

Marco grins. “Reminds me of lavender.” He sighs.

“Yeah, I know. I could sniff this all day. Right?” I smile. “Tell me, Marco. How can zombies have such good teeth?” I ask.

Marco cocks his beagle head, as if to say WTF?!

I repeat. “No, really. I’m serious. How is it possible that zombies’ teeth can be so perfect?” I realize I’ve cocked my head as well, mirroring Marco’s statueism. Neither of us move. It’s like an old Western doggy showdown. I’ve never liked uncomfortable silences, so I continue. “Their bodies completely fall apart, but their teeth are so strong?! Wouldn’t they be more like geriatric patients, shuffling aimlessly, gumming and drooling their victims into submission, like a bewildered pack of rabid grandmas?”

Marco’s head cocks again and says, “It’s not the teeth, it’s their jaw muscles that would fallapart.” He stares at me. I realize he’s entirely correct. Why didn’t I think of that?

“Right. It’s the jaw muscles. Right, Marco.” I fall over, grinning.

We continue sniffing in silence. Marco lies down next to me and we settle into our own separate dreaming. We must have fallen asleep as the night now bleeds through and obscures our surroundings: enormous pipes strewn across the sandy ground; a bulldozer; numerous planks and bundles of equipment. I feel the darkness closing in. I hear the cacophony of Tigro and Ribbity, and wonder if I’m still dreaming. Even the way they talk is grotesque; Tigro can’t help spitting with any enunciation. I give Marco a look to be still. This no longer resembles a construction site, but rather a graveyard. It must be the light playing tricks, but I see tombstones ringed around us, blocking our escape. Home is distant. I recall another exit. Marco follows, obediently. I soon realize I don’t know where I am. We’re lost. I feel the worry and fear that’s crept into my German Shepard bones.

“Oh! We need to go down there,” says Marco, snout working overtime. I’m unconvinced, but I don’t have a better plan. We cross a stream and enter a dense patch of wood, along an overgrown path. Owls hoot and crickets pause their oscillations as we pass. A fox screams in the distance. Something smells familiar. When we exit the trees I realize he’s right. He actually knew how to get us home!

Marco saved us. As he’s walking, I lick his nose repeatedly and excitedly to show my deep appreciation and newfound respect. As he continues walking it seems he’s grown a few inches. It turns out Daniel, my owner, didn’t miss me. We’re no longer permitted to live in the same building as our owners, but I’m used to it. I collapse in the backyard as if I’d been there the whole time.

This must be one of his busy days.

“Hey boy. Did you walk that poor Marco home again?” says Daniel.

I look at Daniel with understanding eyes. He continues, “Did you take special care of him? We all know he’s a special needs doggie, right?” I feel bad for Marco. How did he ever earn such a misguided reputation?

Daniel enters the house. I hear the screen door clap the wooden frame. And then there’s silence. I’m soon fast asleep.

The next day the animals talk about a party that happened the night before, at Ribbity’s house in the woods. Or, rather, word is Tigro had the party at Ribbity’s house in the woods. The house apparently is wrecked. I go to Marco’s house.

“Did you hear about the party?” I ask.

“I did hear about it. I saw Lucy earlier; she went,” says Marco.

“Ah. OK,” I offer.

“She said they trashed the place,” says Marco.

“I heard. Hey, let’s go check it out. Let’s see what a mess it is. You know Ribbity is just freaking out right now. Wouldn’t you want to see that?”

We saunter over to Ribbity’s house in the woods. Even from a distance we see Ribbity hopping frantically all over his yard. His house is not trashed; it’s demolished! I was never too impressed with his house anyway—made of large rotting logs. It’s always been shabby—various growths all around him. But hey, I guess it works for him. I’ve seen him at night, all snuggled up in there, his limbs tucked under his pudgy body, his deadly bufotoxin glands resting. But that was during more peaceful, restful times. Now, he’s hopping mad. So upset that he doesn’t appear to know where he’s hopping or what he’s hopping on. With every jump he breaks off another remaining piece of his rotting-log house, cursing on every third hop. It’s quite cathartic to see, at least for me.

“Hey, Ribbity. What happened?” I ask.

“Leave me alone,” he says. “This is what happens when you try to be nice and generous. What a mess. And do you think they cared at all in the morning. Why No! Of course not. They all suddenly had to get back home for something important. I can tell you yesterday that they didn’t have any damn thing so important going on. Now, I have to clean all of this up, and rebuild my house! This is the last time I’m ever doing this, ever ever again! Do you hear me? Have I made myself quite clear?”

“Clear as a whistle,” I say.

Ribbity just looks at me, glances at Marco, and deflates. His scent begins to change. “I’m sorry. I’m terrible,” he says.

Marco, always one to avoid conflict, says, “That’s OK. Really. I know you didn’t really want to do that yesterday.”

The silence is unbearable. I feel that Ribbity’s on the verge of divulging something secretive and important. I’m not disappointed.

“You’re right, Marco. I didn’t want to do it. I’m such a coward around Tigro; I can’t help it. It’s really bad,” says Ribbity. “I’m trying to do better.”

“I get it,” I say. “I also just stood there yesterday. Marco, I’m so sorry too.” It feels good to commune in this humble honesty.

“It’s OK guys. Tigro’s just not to mess with,” says Marco. An idea strikes me. “We may have a way to solve this. What if the three of us stand up to him?
Unified. Maybe then he’ll get the message that his campaign of violence is unacceptable.”

“Or maybe he’ll chew us and spit us out one by one,” says Marco.

Ribbity mulls it over. “Not a bad idea,” he says. “Let’s give it a shot.”

At school on Monday, I’m filled with giddy confidence. This will be the day we solve our problems. We’re going to stop Tigro’s endless run as bully-of-the-year.

At lunch the bell rings and we rush out into the courtyard. Marco has another stick in his mouth, awkwardly trying to run and hold it simultaneously. When I turn I see Tigro blocking my path—wide, angry, impassable.

“Do you want to repeat for me what you told Ribbity yesterday?”

“What?” I say, my confidence slurping backwards into a microscopic hole I didn’t even realize existed. “Nothing. I said nothing.”

“That’s not what Ribbity said. You mean to tell me you didn’t say anything about turning against me?” Tigro says. His long whiskers twitch. I’ve been outed, but I resolve not to tell a lie. “You know, you are a terror to everyone here. Do you realize that?” I tell him.

“Lucy likes me,” he says. He knows this is a stab in my heart.

“It’s just because she’s new,” I say.

“Do you think you can really stand up to me? I mean it’s like you’re a comedian all of a sudden.

How about if I stand up to you? How do you feel about that? Yeah, I like your idea, Rusty. Let’s make this fair. How about you stand up to me. And then I’ll stand up to you. Let’s see what happens if we make this even-steven.”

I see his claws in full protrusion; it’s all slow motion now and I’m powerless to make it stop.

Tigro wastes no time. He slashes my nose. The razor sting is unbearable. My eyes are so filled with liquid I can’t see anything. I feel the warm blood droplets. Now it’s running fast over my snout, down my blond fur. I’m not thinking; I run away yelping and crying. Brian embraces me.

“What happened, boy? Did you get into a fight? What happened?”

Why do humans always say shit like this. No, you idiot. I didn’t get into a fight. I just got my ass kicked! I say this to no one.

“Who did this to you?” asks Brian.

I look at him with a look of incredulity; I’m able to make out some of his face, my vision slowly returning. But I’m angry and ashamed. He knows very well who did this to me. There’s only one asshole that could have done this. Let me give you a hint, he’s a big fucking Tiger in a lion-lambs fantasy school filled mostly with dogs! These are the times I sincerely wish I could communicate with humans through speech. I would lay into Brian so badly. My god, the shit we have to put up with as animals.

Brian temporarily bandages me and sends me to the infirmary for treatment. They stitch up my nose. They give me extra treats (still not the organic tasty kind). They excuse me from all classes for the rest of the day. I get to eat and sleep. For now I’m in doggie heaven. Lucy sees me, her jaw hanging. “What happened?” she asks.

“Tigro happened,” I say.

“What did you do to make him so angry?”

I just shake my head and look far away out the window. My stomach is churning with rage. She gets the message and walks away. I’m doubly hurt now. I wanted her to care for me, to do what I would have done if she had been damaged the way I am now. I must face it; Lucy’s just not into me. OK, Rusky. Now your fate is in your paws, and yours alone.

Tonight after Daniel goes into the house, and I see the lights turn off, signaling that I’ll be unbothered for the rest of the night, I’ll storm over to Tigro’s house to confront him. This will end today.

As I approach his abode down on Witherspoon Ave I hear loud thwacks and bangs; the house shakes intermittently. I pounce on a crate outside his window and peer in. I see a skinny, angry, green man, stiffened by rage, holding a belt. He’s screaming at Tigro, who cringes in the corner, snarlin
impotently. The lighting is so skewed, I can’t make out his stripes. I see the thin green man crack the belt, like a lion tamer, and slam it against Tigro’s head. Tigro whimpers and cries. I have never seen Tigro suffer before. I know Tigro could kill his skinny owner if he wanted to, but he doesn’t dare. He ceases his whining; he makes no noise at all now. His fear sublimated, he suffers valiantly, stoically, like an ancient soldier. I remember the quote "It's not the events that upset us, but our judgments about those events." So strange; I’m seeing Tigro as virtuous, even as he’s whipped and cut and bleeding. He barely registers now the whips of the leather belt.

I understand it all now. It all makes sense. I run from Tigro’s house, weeping. This is the cause of his misery, the reason he’s such an asshole. It all makes too much sense. Strawberry Hill calls to me again tonight. I sit on my haunches and look up. What brilliant spectators, the stars. They laugh and twinkle and wink from above while they watch our imperfect and violent dramas down here on earth. Once again I find the largest of the stars, Leo’s heart. It hangs heavy above my head, perfect in its station. It too is obedient and waits on a command. I imagine the heart falling, slipping from its regal thrown, and crashing into this earth, ending all of our tragedies.

But it doesn’t. It just hangs, like everything is perfect, like the world is exactly how the world is supposed to be, like this is the way and no other way is possible, like our little Christian community really does believe that lions are ready to lie with lambs (or tigers are ready to lie with dogs), like God has it all in his paws after all, like everything works itself out over time, like what more could we ever want or need. I tell myself something tonight—and tell myself never to forget it—so often when something’s wrong it has nothing to do with you. And everything to do with that someone else. And you will never know all the wrongs that surround you, and all of the causes. Compassion then is key. I am a shepherd. No dog is an island. Each of us change the world through our insignificant interactions on this planet, and the world is richer for it, even if those interactions are bumpy, rocky, dangerous, charged. This is the way the world turns—each of us influencing and being influenced in important ways. This is enough. The world changes; Tigro can change. I resolve to reach out my paw and make friends with him, and Lucy too. After all, if I have to interact, I will do the best I can do. No one—not Daniel, Brian, Marco, Lucy—understands my dreams or my resolve that even the most dangerous among us can grow a bright and stable heart.

John Guchemand is an MFA candidate in University of Baltimore's Creative Writing & Publishing Arts program. You may find him furiously writing and reading stories against life's sundry deadlines, while attempting to balance family and work.

‘Sand and Strawberries’

Dane Kaiser

Sand and Strawberries

Jonah’s best friend Julie had just got off the swing. She was always having all the fun with Jonah. They never shared. Kenny stepped in and held back the leather seat. He let go and its hard edge smacked into the back of Julie’s neck, she crumpled onto the sand.

Kenny ran to where everybody would line up at the end of play and waited alone, with the same blank look on his face. Jonah had seen what happened but couldn’t take it in. All through music Julie lay on the smelly grey mats with a hard blue freezer pack on the pillow. The freezer packs were for when they went to the wooded park. They were permitted to pick one pine cone and one leaf. They had Juicy Pops before heading back.

Music had been moved up because some of the others were crying to go home. Without Julie only Jonah sang and performed the gestures for “Up on the Housetop” that Marie was teaching them for the Christmas show. Marie kept telling the others to make the peaked roof over their heads with their arms the way Jonah did, but so far only Julie had been getting it.

When Julie sat up she got a cherry popsicle. She was still sleepy. Her mom and dad picked her up. Then everybody got a Juicy Pop. The teachers acted happy. Marie had a talk with Jonah, who was able to say what he’d seen. Julie’s mom phoned Marie and said that she would still like to have a talk about the incident. Then everybody got a second

Juicy Pop. Even Kenny, who also got a quiet talking to from Marie. When he wasn’t looking blank, Kenny was crinkling his forehead. It's free-play period, Jonah’s favourite time after music. He is trying to pat the sand flat with the plastic strawberry mold, but it keeps making a strawberry shape in the sand.
Strawberries are his favourite food, though Mom makes him eat other stuff first.

The Sand Table is his favourite station. When he presses harder it looks even more like a strawberry hole in the sand. He points to show Kenny, who has come alongside. Kenny likes strawberries too, one time he ate all Jonah’s. He will show Marie too, and she’ll say “Good work, Jonah!” and hug him. Maybe she’ll put his name into the song again—“Up on the housetop Jonah goes.” He told Mom and Dad about his being in Marie’s song, then sang it with the gestures. They clapped and hugged him.

Kenny had moved to the Sand Table from the Water Table, where there’d been
squabbling till teacher Marie went over and Kenny left. He looks at the sand where Jonah points then reaches for the strawberry mold, Jonah knocks his hand away with the plastic strawberry and Kenny says “Ouch.” Kenny wants everything, teachers are always telling him to share. Jonah is smiling across the sand table past Julie at Marie’s back when the blow hits his stomach—it’s like when he fell off the slide and couldn’t breathe, only this time he wants to strike something.

Julie is crying and spitting. Two teachers are crouching beside Jonah and looking mad. They ask him why he did it. He is rubbing his stomach. Kenny is over at the Puzzle Table, where the teachers are always trying to get him to go. Jonah hears Marie say, “Good work, Kenny! See, you are so good with blocks!” Jonah wants Marie for himself.

Julie manages, “Kenny hit Jonah then put sand in my face.”

Teacher Terry frowns and says, “But Kenny’s not even here, dear.”

Terry recalls the picture of Kenny hurrying away from the Sand Table. “When did
Kenny hit Jonah, dear? Where did he hit him ... Julie?”

“In the tummy, he swung his hand way back like the swing when it’s too high.”
They talk to Jonah differently. Is he going to be sick? He can’t answer. His belly hurts in one spot and feels like it’s getting bigger all over.

“Jonah? ... Marie!”

Marie’s palm is cool on his cheek. “Did Kenny hit you, Jonah?”

He gulps a breath. “Kenny doesn’t share, he smells, my belly’s funny.”

Marie’s smile is worried. “Would a strawberry Juicy Pop help your tummy, Jonah?”

He speaks between gulps of air: “Kenny has the best snacks. Red Twizzlers and Oreos. Never strawberries. He drops mine in sand and still eats them.” Jonah feels his swelling stomach with both hands. Marie puts him on the mat on his side with a pillow.

Kenny’s mom picks him up before lunch. She arrives in a small noisy car with a man who waits by himself and doesn’t turn it off. She talks with Marie in the foyer where everybody hangs their coats on hooks with their names over them. The car horn blows sharply twice. Marie plays the guitar and smiles when they’re practicing “Jingle Bells” for the Family & Friends Christmas Show. She told the others to shake the bells like Jonah. Marie’s like the mom of the other teachers. She put him and Julie out front for making the rooftop with their arms over their heads. The other kids were doing it like feeling sore heads. Marie said to Terry, “Parents have to learn too.” But Kenny’s mom wants to teach Marie a thing or two.

On his mat, hugging his worsening belly, Jonah is close to the foyer. Marie raises her voice: “Of course Kenny is welcome back tomorrow, but you must have a serious talk with him, you and your partner.” Her face is all red like when she sings at the top of her voice, Ohhhhhhh, jingle bells, jingle bells, Jonah all the way ... Kenny’s mom makes the sort of face Mom makes when Dad says Jonah is coming into his study too often, like she’s forgotten how to use her words.

Till she crouches in front of Kenny and takes both his hands: “Kenny, did you hit
your little friend Jonah?”

“I wanted the strawberry, he hitted me.”

“Jonah had strawberries and wouldn’t share?”

Marie says, “No, he means a plastic strawberry toy at the Sand Table.”

“I see.” She looks seriously at Kenny: “So the other boy hit you with a toy he wouldn’t share and you hit him back.”

“I share.”

“And Jonah wouldn’t share, is that what happened, Kenny? ... I see. But we should never hit.” She hugs Kenny but he pushes away with both fists on her chest. She uses the top of Kenny’s head for balance and stands up straight. She looks at Marie with a pinched face. Kenny’s face pinches forward, then resumes its usual blank look.

Marie turns towards the room and calls, “Terry, will you please bring Julie here!
Jonah too if he’s able!”

Marie crouches in front of Julie and cups her shoulders. “Dear, did you see Jonah hit Kenny?”

“Yes, with the strawberry.” She starts crying. “I wanna go home.”

Standing there with his swelling belly hurting more and no one noticing him, Jonah’s face droops towards crying too.

Terry takes Julie back to the main room, where the others are wandering about and the teachers have their heads cocked to the foyer. Terry calls out generally, “Who wants a Fruit Juicy!” Jonah does, but Marie holds him back with a hand on the crown of his head.

“Terry?” she calls again. “Will you please take Jonah back to his mat, I can feel his head hot.”

Kenny’s mom looks at Marie the way Jonah’s mom looks at him when she finds something lost in one of his toyboxes. “Well, that settles that: a kids’ spat, with Little Lord Fontelroy there getting the worst of it ... uh, I really am sorry to say. But good for my Kenny, for sharing, and for defending himself.”

Jonah looks up and sees Marie’s eyes get big. She again calls across her shoulder.

“Terry?”

Kenny’s mom uses her fingers to fluff her hair. “I must say, though, that I do not
appreciate my son being blamed. That is prejudice pure and simple.” She makes a pursed face. “Of course, we are the outreach family. From the stories Kenny brings home, I get the distinct feeling that this Jonah is always favoured and my Kenny treated like some sort of ... oh, I don’t know, second-class citizen.”

Marie’s face is as red as when fully into Jingle Bells. “But that doesn’t come into it whatsoever, Ms. Bonham, ever. I would never stand for it, we’re very happy to have Kenny with us. It’s just ...” Her fingers flit about her chest. She turns to call again and halts when she finds she’s shouting into teacher Terry’s face: “Ter—oh! Would you please take Jonah.” Which Terry does.

Kenny’s mom says, “No? Then why is my child being blamed now on no evidence whatsoever?”

On the mat when Jonah rubs his belly he feels grains of sand on the blue velour top, his new favourite. The corners of his mouth turn down.

Marie turns all business with Kenny’s mom, as when she herds them on stage to practice for the Christmas show. “Jonah is in pain, his stomach is swelling up
frighteningly. Kenny was the only other child beside him, and Kenny is fine. Jonah didn’t retaliate. His parents are on the way. Jonah will likely have to go to Emergency.”

“Nor do I appreciate being called here over a little dust-up. I work out of my home, selling organic cosmetics. As you know from the means test, Madame Forget, I am a single mom, getting by on one unreliable income. I had to Uber here for this. Will I be compensated?”

Marie looks like she doesn’t follow. “... Perhaps, Ms. Bonham, you and your partner could arrive half an hour before school starts tomorrow. I’ll ask Jonah’s parents to do the same.”

“You’re not listening, Marie: there’s been no partner since Kenny was eight months, and no support. But I’ll try to be here, though I see no call for a special meeting. Or did you also not hear what the little girl said: your Jonah hit my Kenny first? You need to talk with that boy and make sure it doesn’t happen again. You were all over Kenny when the little girl knocked her head on the swing.”

Marie talks distractedly: “Kenny is a student here just like all the others, like Jonah and Julie and ...”

Jonah’s head hurts from trying to follow from his mat, where he now lies on his back with a blue freezer pack balanced on his incredibly swelling belly. It’s like a balloon has been stuffed under his shirt. They blow up balloons for birthdays, but only the teachers can do it all the way. The kids’ always shoot from their mouths and fart around. If he could switch the air in his belly into a balloon ... Toot, fart’s a bad word. Teachers are looking at him with angry-worry, like when somebody doesn’t get to the bathroom. Mom picks him up in the quiet car and acts funny, like when she talks to him but really to her phone. Dad takes a taxi to Emergency because there’s nowhere at his work to park the noisy car he still likes better. Jonah’s stomach has ballooned even more, so that the shirt is lifted and the air is tickly on his belly. The nurse is very nice but a doctor as white
as grandad pokes him till it hurts. Keeping his big hand on Jonah’s back he says, “Nothing broken, but I’ll order an ultrasound. I’m fairly certain, going from what you reported, Mom and Dad, that it’s a case of paralytic ileus.” He grins.

“The blow froze his peristalsis function. Not to worry, it’s just trapped gas, it’ll soon pass. If it doesn’t, have me paged, I’ll tell Reception.”

He gently pokes Jonah’s stomach: “Get ready to fart like an Arab, champ?” He’s in the doorway and waving off Mom who’s saying “We’d prefer ...”

The gas is already passing on the drive home. Dad laughs at Jonah’s puzzle-worried face and says, “We’d not hear all that tooting in the old diesel Volvo!” But Mom is distracted. Dad is driving her car and he begins firing questions at Jonah in the rear-view mirror. Mom says Dad’s name like a caution, “Dan,” as she reaches and tips his cheek to face-forward. “We don’t need another incident.”

Back home Jonah is soon able to tell them about the day’s main event. He tries to answer Dad and says Kenny is still his friend. “Kenny can burp—”

“That’s very good, Jonah, we shouldn’t judge others,” Mom says. “Kenny has problems at home, there’s a history there, he doesn’t have your advan—as many toys—”

“Like a gigantic frog! But only Marie from the teachers laughs.”

Suddenly exhausted, Jonah wants to nap but Mom and Dad keep him moving, though his belly’s down and nothing hurts. Mom says more to herself, “We must be tolerant and vigilant.” To please her, Jonah forces another fart, his eyes big as he worries he’s pooped.

Dad says, “That’s my boy—farting like an Arab!”

“Dan!”

Jonah shouts, “Farting an Arab!”

“Jonah!”

At the meeting with Principal Marie next morning, with Jonah present but not Kenny and his mom, Dad says they pay good money. “This Kenny is a charity case, right? Isn’t he also the one gave Jonah’s friend Julie a concussion?”
Jonah looks puzzled: “Kenny got the cushion for under Julie’s head and Marie put a cold pack.”

Mom smiles small at Marie and looks at Dad. “We should take a cue from Jonah, dear—tolerance. Obviously Kenny has a history of problems.”

“That is not our immediate problem, dear. We can’t change this kid’s history or
solve his problems, which I expect his single mom milks for all it’s worth.”

“Dan.”

“I am not going to tolerate some little thug beating on my child!”

Marie stiffens in her chair. “We will be extra watchful where Kenny and Jonah are concerned. I agree: it’s not important who hit whom first.”

“What? Who are you agreeing with? That’s not what I’m saying. Of course it’s
important who started the fight!”

“Dan,” Mom touches Dad’s forearm, but it doesn’t settle him.

Marie deflates. “I know Kenny is a problem.” She said “problem” a funny way, with her fingers making wiggly bunny ears in the air. “For no obvious reason he’s taken against Jonah. He is expressing what they call territorial fixation”—again the bunny ears—“and it doesn’t matter whether it’s the swing or the Sand Table or the sand itself. I agree with you, Mr. Stormont: our immediate problem—”

“The only solution to our immediate problem is that this Kenny be removed from
your pre-school. Otherwise, you are exposing my son to the threat of future attacks.”

Mom says, “Can we talk about this later? Little pitchers.”

When they leave, Dad and Mom hug him extra. At music he misses Kenny and
wishes he could burp. Marie would smile more. He tries and throws up a little inside his mouth. Kenny could teach him.

After school, Jonah is not listening to his mom. He speaks as if to the front-end loader with which he’s been moving sand from one end of the box to the other and back again, again and again. “Kenny sick at home today, Marie said.”

Mom hurries to meet Dad at the front door and whispers with him. They come to Jonah’s play area. Dad is still holding his case like when they drop him at the Transitway.

Mom says, “I have an idea! Why don’t we have Julie over for a play day this Sunday! How does that sound, Jonah?”

“Kenny.”

“Kenny?” Dad says. “What the ...”

“He can burp Jingle Bells. My tummy’s all better now.”

“Well,” says Mom making googly eyes at Dad. “Maybe next weekend for Kenny,
which will be closer to Christmas. But first Julie.”

Kenny is dropped off by his mom, who won’t come in for a coffee or a latte or whatever she’d like. Dad didn’t come out of his study. Jonah waits until Mom is fixing a snack.

Kenny is absorbed at Jonah’s very own sand table and the big yellow bulldozer. Jonah grits his teeth and from behind smashes Kenny on top of the head with the wooden block box. Kenny’s fingers come away dabbed with sand and blood the colour of ripe strawberries. But illogically it’s Jonah who’s wailing.

Gerald Lynch was born on a farm at Lough Egish in Co. Monaghan Ireland and grew up in Canada. His latest novel, Plaguing Jake, was published in June 2024 by At Bay Press. The Dying Detective (2020) was the concluding novel of a trilogy comprising Omphalos and Missing Children. These novels were preceded by Troutstream, Exotic Dancers, and two books of short stories, Kisbey and One’s Company. He has published numerous short stories, essays, and reviews, as well as having edited a number of books. He has also authored two books of non-fiction, Stephen Leacock: Humour and Humanity and The One and the Many: Canadian Short Story Cycles. The recipient of a few awards, including the gold award for short fiction in Canada’s National Magazine Awards, he lives in Ottawa. Website: http://geraldlynch.weebly.com/

‘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.