‘6.15.24’ & Collected Works

Gamaal El Attar is a filmmaker, photographer, architect, and urban planner. Originally, he is a Palestinian refugee whose resilient journey is driven by an unwavering passion for storytelling through film. 10 years ago, Gamaal started his dream of filmmaking activism. His documentaries amplify refugee stories and advocate for social inclusion, earning widespread acclaim and establishing him as a beacon in global filmmaking and social advocacy.

6.15.24

and in this house i am catching my foot in the screen door
and in this body i am entitled to what i am not
and in this place i am the galaxy standstill /
i wake whenever i please, and know not the meaning of calories. i take eyes turned upwards
towards me as submission. i take myself as oppressed for wanting to submit sometimes.
and in this town i am licking bookshelves clean
and in this building i ask the only questions
and in this room i am not receptive to consequences
and in this universe i do no wrongs
at the time of inception i am unbridled
by what is necessary or what is sufficient
by to whom to lend a piece of heart
and where tears go for those
younger with unaddressed ailments
those
the wiser with unheld hurt
and what it means, in general, to feel
fatalistic tie, to give to fatal degree
and in this situation i
can ride a bike, and better correct english, and welcome the dogs biting at my forearms
in this instance i know everything you don't although i
don't really quite know much at all

6.18.24

on your birthday i pretend to forgive you
i let it last, though just on paper
on the late train i’m asked if i mind a bitter man’s drinking
and he laughs when he says thank goodness no one smells, right?
i’m alright walking around when i know i’ll be found
make eye contact with the notary to
prove that we have mutual understanding i am who i am
thirty eight days ago i didn't think twice about
her girlfriend holy fuck, its been thirty eight days
i didn’t know phones rang through the halls on trains
i’m leaving sticky notes so they don't forget me
thirty eight days later i’m trying to untie her laces
i’m not infatuated, i promise, only if
it weren't my due diligence to gnaw at your eyes
i’m reframing feigning forgiveness and
wondering if you keep her afraid
thank goodness i don’t let it happen to me, right?

6.20.24

i think if no one is obsessed with me soon i might die
blackberry liquid palms and
on a case by case basis requests to not /
no knowing grins and no lies for benefits and for
those things i am sorry, i’m
sunken and in need of love my
lover does not give me.
eleven drinks, silent pre-phrase pauses, what i’d
trade for corrections and wrong visions of what’s real
the requests i made are not fulfilled and the
things i wished for all are horribly disappointing
apple behind the eyes and tree sprouting good roots but would leave you to burn alive;
negligent to burn a house down, conscientious enough to plan for a birthday.
who am i if no one is in love with me?, –
clearly i am not good enough for myself this yet

Ariana Eftimiu is a student at Barnard College, Columbia University, in New York City. When not writing, she is making a several-hour-long playlist on Spotify or on a long walk accompanied by a coffee and her loved ones. She has published work in the National Poetry Quarterly, Not Very Quiet, and the Columbia Daily Spectator, among other places. Follow her co-run online music and arts magazine at pottedpurple.com or catch up with her @arianadrinkingcoffee.

‘Eaters’, ‘St. Stephen's Green as a Lavender Field’ & ‘Venison’

Jules Brassard: This artistic approach is a world of spontaneity and reality. Mainly focused on street and event photography, humans remain the main subject. He likes to transmit emotions through his photographs, transmitting moments of sharing, of laughter, of joy, of pain... all these emotions that make us all human. These spontaneous moments where we reveal ourselves to others without a mask, without a filter.

Eaters

Your ghost sucks my torment like peaches
hand-picked from the summer tree
tethered to the shitty soil in the backyard.
Peach fuzz gliding against chains
rusted, bleeding, (rotting)
from deep sun and moths.

Plucking the meat off the stone
till it rolls along a vacant tongue
dry and ridgid, flesh fibers
confined between teeth. I floss
until my gums gush copper
and heavy
yet juice drips from my chin
it’s red and dying and of plums

St. Stephen's Green as a Lavender Field

The river reflects the silhouette of two bodies,
two souls merging on a stone bridge.
Evergreen oaks still bare, begging
to sprout and bloom and sing the prologue
of new desire, simmering to a craving
for how each others’ names linger
on swollen tongues like wine.

They thought stone awaited the imprint of incisors,
the splatter of blood faded to raspberry stains.
That their love would be bound to a diary
with the pronouns changed (just in case). Confined
to the spine of some journal in an underwear drawer,
imprisoned behind ribs.

That the scent of grass
(taking deep breaths)
didn’t belong to girls like them.

Here, the cobblestone just hums.
Stripped of rainbow flags and shirts reading
“i turn mascs into bottoms”
here, there is no audience
only sediment lining water. Here,
they sip the glitter of midnight without choking.

Wide gazes narrow with each glimmer
of robin calls, charmed
by one another’s reflection
in the glistening river—
a mirror of softened lips becoming one.

Venison

Crushed by hands slick with sanguine—
not his. A doe
who looked through his father, too,
sits submissive in the truck’s trunk, blackberries
blurred into the sand of her chest.
She still has that charming
sparkle in the echo of her pupils
where boy eyes gaze the reflection
of a voice choked. Years ago. Trailed off
the way murmurs do.

A fluttered heart hushed
to a whisper, there’s a boy buried
under flesh colored bricks
too heavy to bear, heavier
with age.
Reduced to an easy stone mug
and words
iced and antlered.

Like a willow or a mine he demands
to be felt.
White-tailed exhales caught
in a stranger’s throat
the way potted water boils,
rolling and regular. Pillow-feathered breaths
bittered by the whisk of early morning,
strict rises. Of unfounded blood.

Hear the boy sing ripped apart
caged behind ribs.
He laments the scent of pine
though he, too, becomes ash.

Sarah Mengel (she/her) is a sapphic poet and English grad student from PA. Her work has been published with The Ekphrastic Review and others.

‘Creek Onions’ & ‘Damp Woodland Earth’

Sarah E N Kohrs / As a photographer, Sarah E N Kohrs contributes to Foundation for Photo/Art in Hospitals. Her artwork is in CALYX, Culinary Origami, Genre: Urban Progenitor, The Sun, Quibble, Voices de la Luna, and more. Sarah has a BA from College of Wooster and Virginia teaching license in Latin and Visual Arts. http://senkohrs.com.

Creek Onions

Bubbles and babbles
on flatstones and shale
with splashes and dribbles
that climb up the banks with
dirt softened to mudpots where
creek onions grow tall
hoof prints and paw prints
sunk deep in the earth while
squirrels and chipmunks
scamper over
the windfallen tree trunks
that give them a bridge
from this side to that
up above the gurgle
and the gush of
blue-green translucence
that flows from
nowhere and streams
to somewhere spilling
into rock-split channels
all the time
burnishing and polishing the
stones left over from
the dinosaurs

but shallow pools still form
their surfaces peppered with
wide-legged water striders
and leaves dropped by the trees
the leaves that sink and
carpet the creek bed pools
sealing each basin and
keeping it deep and
bubbles and gurgles rise up from the muck
no matter how hard
the leaves try to stop them
still the water
bubbles and babbles
on flatstones and shale
it splashes and dribbles
up onto the banks where
the creek onions grow tall
and life sinks its
tracks down
deep in the earth.

Damp Woodland Earth

For the lingering scent of
damp woodland earth
after a storm and
the stinging stink of ozone from the mountaintop
lightning strikes all just
wisps of smoke without a flame
for the squish of damp moss and mud
sliming out from under my boots
the tracks that sink and
then pop back out from
the damp moss and mud
deep within the woodland earth
for that lingering scent
accompanied by soft piano plinks
from a piano that
doesn’t exist still the
perfect accompaniment to the
flutes and clarinets of the
wild birds’ songs and the
soprano songs of the eagle
surveying the valley
we all watch the eagle
from inside the brush in that
damp woodland earth -
me, the deer, the birds
a spider from his web
probably a wandering bear, too
we all, all of us, hear the piano plinks
and the flutes and clarinets and
we all go about our ways
following the lingering scent of
the damp woodland earth
after the storm.

Frank Weber is a freelance writer from Erie, Pennsylvania. He is a published author, featured in several magazines, anthologies, books and advertising campaigns as both writer and model and is a Staff Writer for Bare Back Magazine. Frank draws inspiration from the Kerouac-Bukowski-Thompson vein, and his work encompasses a simple honesty in written word and enough of a raw edge to make people feel what they read.

‘Superman Is Dead, Long Live Superman’

Kai Kim-Suzuki is a high school senior at Fieldston School in New York City. He particularly enjoys monochromatic, minimalist nature photography. His other main creative outlet is cooking a mean breakfast for himself every single morning. He hopes to pursue mechanical engineering in college.

Superman Is Dead, Long Live Superman

11 years old
Queens, New York
1959
We’re stone silent after cracking wise
about the news of George Reeves’ suicide
each joke a variation on TV’s Superman
shooting himself with a Kryptonite bullet.
We huddle in the cavern of a fallout shelter
each of us holding on dearly desperately
to the latest Superman comic book
still beguiled by this all-American alien
still keeping secret his transparent dual identity
this hero both mild-mannered and so daring
who kills something in us along with himself
yet still joins us on our fitful flights of fancy.

Robert Eugene Rubino has published prose and poetry in various online and print journals. He's old enough to remember the Cuban Missile Crisis and smart enough to solve The New York Times crossword puzzle on Mondays (other days not so much).

‘The Oedipus Myopus Mystery’

Wendy Wahman’s illustrations have appeared in the Los Angeles Times, the NY Times, the Boston Globe, Harper’s Magazine, and more. She is best known for her children’s picture books, ”Don’t Lick the Dog,” which was a Bank Street Best Children’s Book of the Year, starred for Outstanding Merit & accepted to the Society of Illustrators Original Art Show, "Old Pearl," "Pony in the City," and others. Her new work, shown here, are meditative, improvisational drawings she calls, "Wenderings," as they begin with a line and go from there. www.wendywahman.com; Instagram: @wendywahman

This story requires some context. I wonder how far back I should go? In fourth grade I couldn’t read the board. Everything was blurry. I moved closer for the year and got glasses that
summer. This may be too far back.

Let’s fast forward to my sophomore year of college, when this story transpires. I was sitting in the campus café. Buckle in, because this is a bit of a mystery story. No murder, no sexiness, just an unsexy man and his terrible eyesight. But trust me, as poor as this premise sounds, it could be interesting... I was working on my laptop in the campus café. Writing an essay or doing a project or something. I sat alone at a table intended for 4 and capitalized on the space. Notebooks, pens, my water bottle, my glasses (note this) and other things were littering the table. I was honed in on my work. Instead of my prescription lenses, I wore blue-light glasses. For those who don’t know this obvious fact, blue light glasses do not rectify vision in the slightest.

Most of the time I worked in the library, but Tuesday was the day I always ran into her. A romantic interest? Maybe. Just keep following along.

He was- wait- I was feeling low because of the disappointments of the World Series. I mean, they weren’t even putting up a fight. 3-0, are you kidding me? I wasn’t even going to tune into game 4, but then again, you never knew...

So Tuesday in the campus café. I don’t know how many times I have to reiterate this point. Maybe until I reach the minimum word count. Okay, I trust you understand where I was now. I was sitting close to the screen so I could actually see what I was doing. I typically wore my prescription lenses and leaned back in my chair, but that day, for whatever reason, in the campus ca- okay, sorry. That day I wore my blue-light glasses for the first time in my college career.

For the past few weeks of the semester on Tuesdays, without fail, she’d come up to my table as I worked in the café. I understand we live in the information and cell-phone social media age, but she was terrible at using these things. She was a videographer for the TV club, writer for the school paper, a full time student with a part-time job and... I forget what else, But I think that’s enough to illustrate that she was a busy person.

She’d respond to my texts once a week or so. Now, I wasn’t a very busy person at this point. I had a chunk of savings that I drew sparingly on and spent my free time that wasn’t spent doing homework (which I usually finished quickly) reading. So texting someone was a nice change of pace from my very sexy and exciting schedule. (I think I’m undercutting myself here. I was, after all, chairman of the poetry club. I was the only member and I didn’t advertise it at all. In fact, when people asked if they could join I’d say I didn’t know of any poetry club. I wanted to put it on a resume, but didn’t want to put much
work into it). So I was sitting in- wait, you get it, I’m sorry.

I’d be hard at work (or sitting around bored, reading or writing poetry) and she’d come up and with the cutest and most innocent voice ask “can I sit here?” It was like hearing “Here Comes the Sun” for the first time every time those words blessed my ears. I’d laugh, close up my book or finish a sentence/stanza and say: “You don’t have to ask every time you know,” with a smile. She’d smile sheepishly and say in a quiet voice: “I feel rude not to,” as she settled down.

She’d open up more as we talked and caught up on events from the past week. She’d tell me about her clubs and urge me to join and I’d always say I’d “think about it” (my thoughts always came back ‘no’). Then we’d both have to go to our 1 o’clock class in the same building, so we’d walk together and part ways.

It was hard to tell if she liked me.

I’d like to think “yes,” but I couldn’t prove it beyond a reasonable doubt to the people of the jury. I wrote a note once of a thought that came to me that I intended to incorporate into a poem sometime: “It is in uncertainty that God tests our faith in Him” or something along those lines. So I bounced back and forth. Should I trust God, go with my gut and just tell her, knowing that anything that happens is His will? But then I’d think about the relationship broken like taking a firm step on an old wooden plank just for your foot to go straight through. Crack and now my leg was broken and splintered and she’d never want to talk to me again.

Sigh. What to do?

To make this story dramatic and interesting, I could say that that day was the one I resolved to tell her. Yes, with certainty I was going to tell her that day. I was sure I’d see her because I saw her every Tuesday without fail. I could hardly focus on my work that day because I was so eager to tell her. Not anxious or nervous or even confident. I just calmly was. But I wasn‘t resolved to tell her that day. I didn’t carpe that diem because I was just cruising along waiting for the moment to be right. Whenever it felt right, I was going to say: “You like reading, right?”

And she’d say something like: “Duh” or “are you stupid, I’m an english major and a writer for the school paper, you know this” (this, of course, after she settled in and opened up). So I’d say:

“You wanna go to this local used bookstore?” (probably some other details about it, I’m not too sure).

And she’d say:

“Just you and I?”

I must interject for fantasy clarification here. We had hung out outside of school only once. It was with two other people. It was the worst double date ever because the girl she brought along had a boyfriend and the guy I brought along had a girlfriend. I wasn’t too sure about her relationship status and I don’t think she was certain about mine. I’m assuming the reader can guess mine and no, that’s not the mystery of this story. It would be a quick one if it was.

The four of us had gone to a movie. At one of our Tuesday meetings I absentmindedly brought up my desire to see a certain new movie and she expressed eagerness. It wasn’t my intention to suggest plans at all, but she was quickly telling me how we should go, how she was free this weekend and her friend wanted to go too and if I had anyone who might want to go to feel free to invite them- if I and they were free of course.

I had no qualms with this. I suggested matinee for the sake of my savings. I knew my friend would be free because we had talked about doing something that weekend and so it was. Her friend and mine sat on one end, she sat next to her friend and I sat on the other end next to her. I hope this isn't hard to keep up with.

She was focused on the screen and I snuck glances at her in the flashing blue light of the screen. Our arms brushed once and I felt electricity (not static, but metaphysical) between us. I quickly moved my arm because I am constantly self-conscious about women not liking me. I had been rejected and abandoned many times. (A clue? No, this isn’t the mystery).

The rest of the day was platonic and ordinary. I dropped them off at campus and went home.

The Tuesday after that hang out, she came into the café as usual and we had an ordinary chat. We talked a bit about the movie and she told me what had happened between Saturday and the day we were talking. It wasn’t much. Oh! She remembered. She wrote a review of the movie to debut in the next issue of the paper later that week. I told her I was excited to read it.

Needless to say, she didn’t mention me or the spark between us even once in her review. It stuck strictly to the subject matter. I knew I was delusional to expect anything, but I was disappointed slightly nonetheless.

And then our fateful day on which this story begins...

Wait- not that day in fourth grade with my poor eyesight. No, the day in the campus- sorry, sorry.

As I said, I was leaning close to the screen, only 15 feet from the pick-up counter of the café. This seems close enough, but anything more than two feet away looked like it was underwater to my eyes.

Something caught my eye as I sat there working (and here comes the mystery, get your magnifying glass and Sherlock hats). A tall guy was approaching the counter with a short girl next to him. A short girl with light brown wavy hair and black spectacles. She wore a brown sweater and knee-length skirt. It looked like it could’ve been her, but I couldn’t be certain. He grabbed a drink from the shelf, they turned around, she looked at me for a few moments then away, and they walked out.

Now she wasn’t the only short brunette with glasses who dressed that way on campus. But she was one of few. Then again, I couldn’t tell for certain because of my blurred eyesight. I recall a time where I thought I was flirting with a girl across the room in a restaurant, making periodic eye contact and smiling and thought she was smiling back only to put my glasses on to find out it’s a metal-head and he’s not even looking at me, but somewhere over my head. Turns out Seinfeld reruns were playing on the TV above me.

So I didn’t know beyond a reasonable doubt.

But it was the time she usually came in and it did look like her. But there shouldn't be any reason for her not to acknowledge me. Unless she didn’t want the guy she was with to know she knew me.

And my heart and stomach dropped and my appetite ran.

What if that was her boyfriend? Her new or old, I didn’t know. But she never mentioned him. Was she juggling the two of us? Living a double life? Or did she just start dating him and had no need of me anymore. Did she never like me in the first place?

Was it even her?

I returned to the ebook I was reading, The Unconsoled by Kazuo Ishiguro. Ishiguro is a master of world building, of deliberately leaving gaps in order to fill them in and make the story complete later. Of the slightly surreal. Of the-

“‘Sup Calvin,” I heard a blurry face say and they sat down and I realized it was Henry from Philosophy class.

This was my class acquaintance and, incidentally, the other contender for her heart. I liked him to an extent. He was another unsexy individual like myself (and when I use “sexy” and “unsexy” here, I mean in the Wallacean sense and not the corporate consumer sense. Or maybe those two are linked? This is not the place for such a thesis) and, as I said, contender for her heart (contender may be too strong here. I feel like that indicates that we have a fighting chance when the opposite is likely the case. I should probably say something else, but “contender” is convenient).

It’s important to note here (since no dialogue of significance is about to transpire between Henry and myself. Actually, the mystery may deepen if I ask something. Let me ask and then I’ll get to the important note).

“You seen Daisy today?” I asked.

Now, Henry was always keeping tabs on Daisy. He’d joined her clubs and tried to get classes in the same buildings as hers. Daisy had mentioned these things about Henry to me before with a laugh.

“Doesn’t he know he can’t do that?” she said lightheartedly.

“I guess not,” I responded with a laugh, hoping she was telling me this as a potential lover and not as she would “one of the pals.”

He, of course, perked up at the mention of her name. Henry was notorious for doomscrolling instead of having conversations, laughing to himself and seeming to forget he’s immersed in society. He’ll look around with slight perplexion after looking up from his phone.

But at the mention of Daisy’s name, he immediately looked up, then around us.

“Daisy? Where?”

“I asked if you saw her today”

“Oh, not yet”

Another dead end. I was hoping he’d be able to tell me “yes” and if she was walking with somebody. I considered the timing between her departure and his arrival. As the din of sound became a blanket of white noise around me, I puzzled over the entrances and exits to the building. The most popular ones and least used ones. I was just about to ask which entrance

Henry had come through when I realized that was creepy.

“I gotta go to class, I’ll see ya,” he said, standing and still looking at his phone.

“See ya,” I said quietly. I was so sad to see him go.

The mystery thickened.

If we fast forward or rather jump cut, I can finish this story. Some context: I wanted to die.

I walked around with my glasses on. Actually, I was walking my friend to class. In the distance, in the direction we were heading, I saw her. She was talking to someone. A guy. This guy, in fact, was in my Philosophy class (not Henry) and from my ideas, seemed to be a bit of a womanizer. I didn’t direct much hate at him nor much attention. There was just this fact. It didn’t help that he was “handsome” or, rather, “sexy” and, as we’ve established, I’m “unsexy.”

This is who she was chatting with as we drew near. And wouldn’t you believe it, he was tall just like the guy from the café. She looked up at him, smiling and laughing at everything he said with his cool Bond-like gaze.

“Hey Daisy,” I said as my friend and I walked past.

She turned slightly and gave back an unenthusiastic:

“Hey”

And turned back to him.

It was overcast that day. I didn’t bring a raincoat. The forecast said sunny. It wasn’t the first or last time I’d been lied to. The Yanks lost the series. I gave a halfhearted “goodbye” to my friend as he entered his class. As I reached the front doors of the building to leave it began to rain hard.

I felt like Henry at the end of A Farewell to Arms after Catherine dies (and to hell with your spoiler alert):
“But after I had got them out and shut the door and turned off the light it wasn’t any good. It was like saying good-bye to a statue. After a while I went out and left the hospital and walked back to the hotel in the rain”

I never wore my glasses again after that. Not even to drive.

I may have overreacted.

I don’t think it’s any use at this point to return to the café with Henry. We’re beyond that.

You know what happened next. It’s similar to seeing the man behind the curtain and being expected to go back to how it was before seeing him. I’m at an impasse as a narrator. My character got a little ahead of me...

Let’s just strike that from the record, if you will. We can pretend I never revealed what happened next. The mystery continues... But the mystery is gone. It can’t be stricken from the record. Well, it can be stricken from the record, but not your mind. So I guess we’ll proceed to what happened after that.

Consider the tall man. Was he the one from the café? Was she the one with him? Survey says “yes,” but again, not beyond a reasonable doubt. As the narrator I’ll play the judge. For fun, we’ll let the mystery continue. I hope you didn’t throw away your magnifying glasses or Sherlock hats. The mystery thickens.
For the next week, I saw her everywhere. I’d be walking behind her on my way back to the commuter lot. I’d walk faster to catch up with her only to realize it wasn’t her.

She’d drive past me as I walked to the convenience store down the road. I wanted to jokingly stick my thumb out and ask her to drop me off there only to remember she didn’t have a car.

I’d walk past a classroom and- I think you get the point. I’d see her, but not her.

I started to go to the library on Tuesdays. I had watched The Notebook over that weekend and was feeling like romanticizing my life, so I wrote her a long poem. It started with the night I first saw her. She was taking pictures for the school paper (yet another activity of hers) at a nighttime carnival on campus. I prayed I’d be able to talk to her, but left it up to the Lord. The Lord answered my prayer.

“Can I take your picture?” her sweet voice asked from beside me.

I was next in line for the food truck. She apparently needed pictures of smiling students receiving their fried dough, but so far nobody had looked happy enough. I put on a huge phony smile, making her giggle as she took my picture.

“How was that?” I asked her after getting my food and moving to the side. Still laughing, she answered:
“Perfect,” and showed me the picture. I started to laugh too.

I took note of her deep brown eyes- eyes so deep brown they almost appeared velvet- and tiny beauty mark on her cheek near the nose. I asked if she minded if I followed her the rest of the night. Not solely because I wanted to soak in her presence, but because I had an interest in photography. In high-school I had taken a few classes and only ever really photographed nature stills. I wanted to see how moving subjects worked, especially at nighttime. She talked me through the settings and difficulties and how to overcome them. I held on to every word. It was good advice.

There were things in between that I touched upon, but the next big thing I wrote about was the “date” (I say that feather-lightly) and my disappointments about her paper article. Then, of course, I ended with the heartbreak on the rainy day.

“I pray every day that I see you anyway because seeing you is like finding money on the ground when you’re dead broke and about to be evicted”

This is what flowed out of me as I wrote longhand in my notebook. I tore out the multiple pages of the poem (cross-outs and all) and put them into an envelope that I had asked for at the front desk. I fully intended to give it to her the next time I saw her.

By the time I saw her again the romantic feeling had faded. That’s not to say I didn’t like her anymore. I most certainly did. But the burning passion that had produced those words had smoldered into coals of comfort and I knew to give it to her would be delusional. I happened to be in the campus café. It was Friday.

“Can I sit here?” she asked.

[ins. “Here Comes the Sun” lyrics].

My heart nearly exploded and my hands were shaking. I tried to keep myself calm and cooly smiled, acted like I was finishing my sentence and said the same line I always said:

“You don’t have to ask every time you know”

She briefed me on all that had happened in between.

“Geez, I haven’t seen you in forever,” she said bewildered as she finished

You’re telling me, I thought.

Apparently the boy she had been talking to was her assigned partner for a class project. He was pretty cool and sometimes funny, she said (and I cringed) but mostly serious. He was either too serious or too funny. She was glad to finish the project and move on from him (music to my ears).

She was going home for a week coming soon, so she had to catch up on a lot of work for her classes and clubs so as not to fall behind. The paper liked her articles and was asking her to write more than she was accustomed to.

She was in love with me and had been longing to see me to finally tell me. She didn’t want to be apart from me even for a moment. There was a piece of technology she devised so that she could shrink me down and open the tiny cage of her heart and put me there forever.

There were too many “sexy” men around and she wanted someone genuine and “unsexy” and
nearsighted who read and didn’t do much else. The mystery was solved three paragraphs ago and now I’m writing nonsense. I wish she said this, but I have to take what I can get (the envelope sat eager in my bag. I ignored it). If it’s a conversation then so be it.

Riley Willsey is a 23-year-old writer and musician from Upstate New York. His short stories can be found on both Half and One’s and Wordsfaire’s websites. Sporadic posts and bursts of creativity can be found on his instagram page, @notrileycreative.

‘A Surgical Poem’, ‘Black Hole’ & ‘Stay’

Larissa Hauck: “Through the exploration of visual mythmaking, I confront the notions of queer identity, the resilience of the natural world, and the parallels between the fluidity of nature, gender, and sexuality. I place emphasis on the tension between the longing for control and the inescapability of change. Confronting the human urge to impose order onto the chaos of nature and where the line between the boundaries of the two exist.”

A Surgical Poem

In the Operating Room:
The doctor held my hand, and I knew I stood to be forever changed
Fluorescents glowed above me like some vision of a faraway heaven
The lights shone white-hot and blurred together as my sight quickly dimmed
My heartbeat hummed in my ears, the start of a symphony I wouldn’t forget
Patient laid on the operating table. Patient put under general anesthesia. Bilateral breast augmentation
with silicone prosthesis to begin.

In the Waiting Room:

I wore robes of lavender and maternal prints, creasing as they clung to semi-damp skin
I paced around the office like my time for judgment was nigh, waiting over an hour for the doctor to come in
I felt fear consume my thoughts which scattered like a startled flock of doves
I reached for my phone yet and again, to see received well wishes from those that I love
IV administered to patient along with pre-op medications. Surgical area cleaned and patient dressed in
hospital gowns. Doctor comes in to mark up the surgical area. Patient is led to the operating room after it
has been fully prepared for surgery.

In the Car:

I tapped the window and watched my fingerprints stamp and fade
We took the backroads and I was all the better for it, my aunt at the wheel softly humming
Waves of forest green blossomed before me as far as the eye could see
Manicured lawns gave way to untamed woods; both fighting for a place in this weary world
Elysium passed me by time and again and I saw the beginnings of a little life for myself
Distance from home to surgical center is an estimated 36 minutes by car. Traveling from central
Connecticut down to the shoreline. Arrive in a timely manner for the check-in.

In My Apartment:

I hastily dug through my closet which seemed to stare questioningly back at me
I threw on a button-up and short skirt, starched white and midnight black contrasting each other
I was barer than I’d ever been, gold jewelry and ornate perfumes sat disappointed on my vanity
I kissed my cat goodbye, slipped on my shoes and walked out into new beginnings
No food the midnight before surgery. No clear liquids two hours before surgery. No oils and lotions on the
body. No jewelry or piercings. Have on comfortable clothes, preferably a button up shirt and loose
bottoms.

In the Post-Op Room:

I came to with spots in my vision, two nurses stood bent over gazing at me
I splayed out like some lounging goddess gracing some gilded Renaissance scene
My aunt stood waiting by the door, her gaze of concern washing all over me
I felt my body come alive again, and I knew I had been forever changed,

No lifting any object over seven pounds for the next five weeks. Take two weeks before going back to a
sedentary job, five for an active job. Immediate bed rest is recommended and take medications as
directed. There will be pain, but it all will feel better. Just give it time.

Black Hole

I disguised myself amongst the people at the bus station, a woman interrupted by her own mind
I wonder if they knew of the beast that lived deep within, making a home in the pit of my stomach
My leather purse lay slung over my arm, my eyes scanned the street as cars passed by in droves
I spoke gently to myself under my breath, cooling the storm that churned inside
I clutched my stomach with my hands, pressed down and took a deep breath
I tapped my feet to the beat in my head, my sandals slapping back against cracked concrete
The beast lay satiated for now, but I knew sooner or later it would be time to feed
I ran my sweaty palms through my hair and gazed up at the cloudless sky seeking sweet relief
Let me tell you about the beast, tell you how it came to be
It was born of bloodcurdling agony and all the moments I’d spent courting death
I was once a hunted deer; the more arrows that pierced the more the beast grew
I was broken down to the bone again and again, death by a thousand cuts come true
Whenever I fall to harm, whether purposeful or incidental it grows, oh it grows
Doesn’t matter if it’s by the hands of a stranger, myself, or my closest friends
For the beast feeds on misery, tears it apart like a vulture fresh at its kill
And after it feasts it still needs much more, crying for the hunger that sets in again

The bus pulled up in time and I stepped back as it creaked to a stop
I stepped on and fisted the dollar bills and spare change for the waiting conductor
I went all the way to the back, sitting all by my lonesome watching the others board
I felt the beast growl so softly; I gazed out the open window and knew I couldn’t yet let it go

Stay

Soft loam births the expanse of your being, you burst all at once from salted earth
Angels shot down, angels shot down
I found two- no three crows perched upon my windowsill
I listened to their chatter, talk of the coming winter and the frost that followed suit
Of kites dancing in the breeze and the bubbling laughter of little children
Like dandelion seeds in their sheer multitude
You tried to call to them but your kite lagged behind the herd
I found a penny on my nightstand, rusted ochre and faint emerald
I held it between my thumb and forefinger and flipped it in the air, tails
I knew that to love was to give, to love was to yield your guard
Memories came and went, celebrations danced around my line of sight
You were whole then, simple with your worn-out boots and sweat pooling upon your brow
I did not know what it was to love until I knew what it was to lose
I did not know the path to choose until I saw it in your eyes
Moments passed me by in your embrace, the perennials waited with baited breath
A thousand years condensed into a smile, the words followed suit, “please stay for a while”

Marceline Campbell-Ogbunezu is a 21 year old who lives at the crossroads of multiple intersections. She is a plus-sized transgender Nigerian woman who is currently living in Middletown, Connecticut. She has been published in many journals including The Periphery, Havik Poetry, and the Adirondack Center for Writing. She also served as a guest editor for the Inlandia Magazine 2019 Teen Issue. She dreams to one day be one of the great American poets and is hell-bent on making her mark.

‘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/