‘I Feel Like No One Will Love Me’

Pt. 1

Pt. 2

Pt. 3

Pt. 4

Pt. 5

Pt. 6

Eliza Scudder (she/her) is a writer who creates comics, flash fiction, short stories, and poetry inspired by her life. You can find links to her work via instagram @elizascudderwriting.

‘Pillow Dates’, ‘Sidewalk Stamping’ & ‘Yellowed Head’

Janice Kim is a Korean-American writer living in NYC. She takes photos regularly as a practice to keep appreciating the innumerable details every day that otherwise might go unnoticed. She believes that it is all about how you see.

Pillow Dates

Point and laugh, which I deserve.
I depended on my fantasies,
never realizing they could
slip or stride away at will.
Missing misty mistresses
long and frequently visited
at twilight or pre-sleep and
they performed to my script.
I cannot, even in fantasy,
couple with potentialities.
In self-guided pillow visions,
teasing shadows blow away.
Once, always in sight and touch,
love and lust objects are gone.
When intimacies might be fatal
even thoughts scream, “Peril!”
When tipsy, tired or loose, I
directed tiny thrills to play.
Now I cannot override the real
to command performance.
Love and lust become impossible.
Dreamed-of liaisons fade to sheer.
Could-be flings leap quickly
months, perhaps years, away.
The simple-minded joys
of pretend cannot survive plagues.
Where can the joy be if we never
know the next possible when.

Sidewalk Stamping

Pre-dawn in Woodbourne,
a suburb lush of tree and bush
tucked in the crotch on the inner city.
Two of us stand apposed, mom
skunk and I, the armed and the big,
with no intent to go at the other.
Under sodium-vapor streetlight,
my skin was wan Talbots green.
Mom toddled and waddled ahead
of her string of Steiff-worthy kits.
All were fuzzy, two thin white stripes
on each black ball body. Hers was
big as a grapefruit, her offsprings’
the size and shape of apricots.
Often she and I had eyed each other
early as we passed 40 feet apart.
She led her necklace of babies
through my backyard, then
my front yard, and finally crossed
the street as every morning they
shopped for breakfast foods.
That day though, she was bow-legged
at my front gate, caring little that
my car was beyond her raised tail.
Vectors and solid geometry
seemed not to be her forte.
She stamped each front paw in turn
as a warning. We shared a stare.
What devilment dared my stand?
I channeled the striped mom, stamping
(while remembering tomato-juice
baths I rubbed into our howling
Maine coon cat to de-skunk him).
Perhaps it was the dark and quiet,
my relative size or our familiarity.
She went still, then waddled South,
passing, and not gassing, me.
Fortune can in fact favor the bold.

Yellowed Head

McCarthy came with the house,
He long roomed as other seamen.
Dad gave Johnny the townhouse
only if McCarthy could stay put.
Now he walks with two canes.
His days mean sitting in his one room
on the shabby North slope of Beacon Hill.
On the second floor over Hancock Street,
McCarthy smokes cigarettes, often
with a friend who smokes cigarettes.
The never grand, well-past-old house
is deep into its third century
with white door frames inside,
all except to McCarthy’s room.
Nicotine and tars seep and curl around
that door header all the day and night,
painting the once-white a light gold.
Har, golden from Old Gold smoke.
His friend brings cans and airy loaves
and, of course, he brings Old Golds.
McCarthy leaves his room twice a year
— not for Mass (and he has no family).
Rather on St. Patrick’ Day he takes drink.
He climbs a stool for two stouts at The Red
Hat.
Then again he hobbles out on Election Day
— a vote for some Irishman he knows or
knows of.

Michael Ball scrambled from daily and weekly papers through business and technical pubs. Born in OK and raised in rural WV and SC, he became more citified in Manhattan and Boston. As one of the Hyde Park Poets, he has moderate success placing poems in numerous online and print journals and anthologies, and being a feature at several arts centers. HeartLink published his Leaving the Party chapbook in 2024.

‘Home Base’

Faizan Adil is a Lahore-based Pakistani visual researcher and contemporary documentary photographer. He has been working as a freelance photographer since 2013. He teaches photography and media studies as a visiting lecturer at a university and college.

Home Base

Everything’s harder under the weight of a storm after a loss. Even the crossword taunts.

2 Across: Eight-letter word for an unlikely winner [ underdog ]

5 Down: Nine-letter word for when weather impacts the start of a game [ rain delay ]

When I worked days, as a doorman for one of the city’s most desirable apartment buildings, I’d complete 50% of the daily puzzle before the morning rush. I’d save the second half to solve with Bea, my wife, after my shift and over dinner – usually through dessert, strawberry shortcake was her favorite, orange sherbert was mine. While some steal bases, Bea stole my heart from the minute I met her. She was a fabulous cook, pulled all the stops, and loved all sorts of challenges – pencil games, martial arts, and, especially, baseball. A home-cooked meal and an evening solving mysteries with a Bruce Lee film and a match on the black and white TV (in either order,

Channel 6 our regular stream) was a home run for her and I.

1 Across: Six-letter word for reaching first base. [ single ]

4 Across: Six-letter word for making second base. [ double ]

7 Down: Six-letter word for a hit that brings a batter to third base. [ triple ]

Ten Down: Nine-letter word for the position between second and third base. [ shortstop]

Now, due to cutbacks, the building is short staffed. I cover nights and I’m struggling with clues and questions lobbied to residents who are unusually tight-lipped. I’m not making any excuses, but I miss Bea something terrible. Bea, who knew everyone from the times she’d volunteer in the mail room, would be on top of everything if she were still here, but she’s gone. She made friends like fast balls make home runs. What we thought was a bad case of the flu turned out to be something much worse. There were no warnings and no predictive positioning. No second chances at the plate. She rallied hard, fought through multiple innings of diagnosis and treatment, but now I bat alone. With Bea’s passing, I’ve marked many endings.

Sixteen Across: Three outs mark the end of an ____ (six-letter word). [ inning ]

Twelve Across: Seven-letter word for an uncaught pop-up. [ dropped ]

Outside, the skies warn in shades of uniform gray. I hope this warm front doesn’t make the stadium go dark this weekend. I’ve already got the TV dial turned and the antenna tuned.

8 Across: Seven-letter word for heartbreak. [ illness ]

Eleven Down: Thirteen-letter word for heavy rains. [ stormy weather ]

I love my job but some days it’s hard to hear the sirens. They’re the pulse of a city but also a reminder of storybook endings cut short. In Bea’s final days she promised she’d stay somehow, someway. I’ve gotten nothing. No signs, no pitching clues. Only crossed signals and radio static. I haven’t been able to finish a crossword in the months since she’s passed.

Eleven Down: Six-letter word for a few feet past home plate. [ dugout ]

I’ve tried to dig myself out of a dark place, and the building’s bustle keeps me focused. I swing at each new day, but a sign from Bea would be a welcome boost and surely accelerate my forward-focused progress. Thankfully, my job requires a keen degree of curiosity and camaraderie.

“How was the Board meeting?” I ask 5B, careful not to let the game, a Yankees versus Phillies
replay after a rain delay, on the small black and white TV distract me from my own home team. I
study past games in between resident greetings. Now, it’s playoff season and everyone’s busy.

“Catch you later,” he calls as he leaves. His suit flaps wings like the parakeet that once escaped
from 14G.

As lead doorman for nearly forty years, I refer to my residents by apartment number. My job’s a blend of Trivial Pursuit and Hollywood Squares. Discreteness is prioritized. I’ve met movie stars in bathrobes and CEOs with a penchant for old films. I trade Agatha Christie quotes with literary residents and sports statistics with their better halves. I know my residents backwards and forwards. They’re high-flying hitters, some high-rollers, others place their bets closer to their chest, who love their cats, dogs, and Door Dash dinners. Together they’re more eccentric than most. The building’s my home.

Ten Across: Six-letter word for a group of ballers. [ roster ]

9 Across: Twelve-letter word for a popular sweet and savory snack. [ Cracker Jacks ]

6 Down: Six-letter word for a popular apartment dog. [ Beagle ]

Eleven Across: Six-letter word for a popular ballpark dog. [ Weiner ]

“It’s your sister’s birthday,” I yell over a crowded city street.

“Shoot, I almost missed it,” he responds and grabs his phone. “Thanks for the save!”

3 Across: Five-letter word for someone who knows their players well [ coach ]

8 Down: Seven-letter word for a team leader. [ captain ]

I do what I can to mediate – from pants that need pressing to cohabitation compromises requiring blessings. Mostly, generational exchanges. Residents joke that if the building were to disappear,

I’d have everyone’s underwear, clean and dirty, secure in my back pocket. However, faster Wi-Fi, robot-driven laundry, even cheese and caviar vending machines, leave me uneasy. With more residents working from home and new rules that allow for door-side deliveries, the lobby’s quieter than it’s ever been.

To keep busy, I vacuum flaws like a mother, or my Bea, would. Instacart (and any impending apocalypse) can’t beat my response rates. Besides safety pins and Safeway aspirin, I stock coins for lost teeth and a carousel of greeting cards. My wife, Bea, may she rest in peace, taught me to plan. Neither of us saw her illness coming, we chalked up her coughs to a nasty allergy and a price we’d pay for the lovely florals – daffodils, daisies, and a hint of hyacinth from the residents in 20A, but I’ve learned to refine my peripheral vision and practice what she preached. She colored my world, now I persist and try to color within the lines of what’s left for me – this apartment building.

I hail a cab for Ms. T, a voting member on the co-op’s board, from Penthouse B. She’ll be down momentarily. She has Glee Club on Thursdays.

“Sing loudly,” I say as she settles into a waiting cab, but she’s quieter than usual.

The air’s chilly; I return inside. At my podium, there are two manilla envelopes – stamped IMPORTANT. Someone must have misplaced them while I was curbside. Solving mysteries isn’t in my job description, but most days, I collect lost items for bins in the backroom. The building had one murder, years ago. The police chalked it up to a domestic dispute and the Board still refuses to confirm the apartment number.

Bea was always intrigued. She wanted me to solve the crime. Lord knows, I’ve tried, but all clues have been striking out. Each time I thought I may have hit a winner – a double, maybe even a triple, I’d fall flat and return to the dugout. Now, especially since Bea’s been gone, beyond random conversations, mostly on rainy days when the residents can’t get out to play, probing for details hasn’t had much chance to play. Recent concerns are much more mundane – lost dry cleaning, dirty looks, burnt pot roasts. Despite the regular hum of the building, I’ve never received a signal from Bea that she’s still watching the game unfold – not even a bunt or a hint of her presence. Maybe, maybe one of these days.

As much as I miss Bea, my days are long and full of action. There’s always a curve ball to catch and redirect. Given our residents’ high profiles, I regularly bait visitors fishing for celebrity digs.

I protect my residents’ privacy like a bird protects eggs. Some joke that the combination of my heightened attention to my resident’s peculiar preferences, my love of the seventh inning stretch as well as the game itself, and my ability to entertain myself with crosswords during extended rain delays make me a loyal hire. I always respond the same – “You digress! Those qualities are the same that got me hired here in the first instance. I have no desire to test a new bat.”

2 Across: Four-letter word for Material of most baseball bats: [ wood ]

Twelve Down: Three-letter word for a regular spectator: [ fan ]

During a lull in my duties, I retrieve the envelopes and prepare to place them, along with a shoe, a copy of Janice Lee’s The Piano Teacher, and a Stephen King paperback with a missing cover, in lost and found. I rotate the larger of the two parcels and look closer. My name’s on the backside. It says not to open until after my shift is over. It’s not quite closing time, but I’ve never been good at waiting for a surprise. There’s no time for excuses, but I much prefer a game of slow and steady singles to a bottom-of-the-ninth rally. I pull apart the adhesive -- inside are dismissal papers. A letter from Ms. T. tries to explain -- a new board, making change. I stop reading and struggle to catch my breath. Some trade, I think.

Bea always said I trusted too much. Eyes on my residents, I’ve been caught off guard as I
guarded; lost, not to be found. I refuse to accept defeat. I smooth the fabric of my vest and puff my chest, just a little. I’ll fight the dismissal. I know the condo’s rules better than anyone. I deserve two weeks’ notice. I’ve got a pension, as well. It’s vested.

Something’s definitely amiss. It’s too late in my season for this type of high stakes trading
drama. I don’t wish to debate but I feel slighted by fate.

I look closer at the other package -- this one is unnamed but suddenly strikes me as important in the context of the day. In contrast to my usually reserved self and willingness to wait patiently for the next play, in the spirit of this disconcerting moment, what might be my final inning, I pull at it. The seal is already undone -- inside are two tickets – prime seats, right behind the dugout, to the weekend’s play-off game. It’s a big deal. The city’s been abuzz with anticipation. The game’s been sold out for days.

Fifteen Across: Eight-letter word for the oldest Major League Baseball (MLB) Stadium still in use,

Park [ Fenway ]

Fifteen Down: During an average MLB season, each games averages between 90 and 120 of this eight- letter word [ baseball ]

Suddenly, I have an idea. I had promised Bea I’d solve the murder mystery but never did. If I can solve the mystery of the ticket, and make sure it’s delivered to its intended recipient, perhaps the Board will rethink parting with my company. And perhaps I’ll get a message from Bea. Either way, she’ll enjoy the story – if she’s listening. I hope she’s got a front row seat in Heaven, sneakers cleaned of excess soil, head covered from a scorching sun, watching over me.

1 Down: Six letter word for the type of ground rule called when a player tries to use their hat to stop a ball on the ground or in the air. [ triple ]

2 Down: A special type of ___ is used to prepare baseballs for MLB games (three-letter word) [ mud ]

I quickly get busy. I make a list and plan my calls. Instead of cracking clues in the daily crossword, I
collect clues like Bea would. She’d love this game. Her favorite part of living in this building were the
residents’ stories, anonymized of course. She always knew who was on first. Second and third,
too.

I start with Apartment 1, a baseball regular. I toss some clues, careful not to give anything away.

“Hey, It’s Mr. B., from downstairs. By chance, will you be needing anything this Saturday?”

“What? Saturday? No. I’ve got my niece and nephew visiting for brunch. The deli’s going to have everything delivered. We’re going to watch the game from my couch – all three of us.”

Apartment 5 enters the lobby.

“Got any plans for the weekend?” I ask innocently.

“Headed upstate,” she says. “It our anniversary.”

“Enjoy the scenery,” I reply thinking of Bea. She’d always make a fuss of days that marked something special. Even foul balls sometimes turn into unexpected catches. We too would have had an anniversary coming up, but I try not to think about that much.

“Would a pre-order of a bouquet of wildflowers be okay?”

“You know it!” she says as she heads out the door.

I continue to hunt.

Ms. F. walks by.

“Excited for play-offs?” I ask.

She looks confused. “What do you mean? I gave up tennis when my knee went out.”

“Don’t forget to make your semi-annual check-up,” I urge. “Months fly by more quickly than the pigeons can pounce on discarded crumbs.”

Despite multiple innings of pitches looking for the envelope’s intended recipient, I know nothing more about the tickets than when I first started my shift. I also feel increasingly down about how my time on the team has transpired.

Bea would enjoy the mystery. She always rooted for the underdog. I can imagine what she’d say.

“Don’t give up Bennie, the game’s got nine innings for a reason.”

She loved baseball as much as I do. I return to my podium, check on the replay that’s still streaming, then continue to pitch in a
steady way.

I ask questions.

“Just checking; trying to be proactive. Have I reached a resident expecting a delivery?”

“No,” they reply. “Not today.”

I drop clues.

5 Across: Four-letter word for an acknowledgement before a game. [ wave ]

3 Down: Nine-letter word for baseball during a storm. [ rain delay ]

Fourteen Across: Eight-letter word for a game-day greeting. [ play ball ]

Nineteen Down: Fill in the blank, four letters. Going to the ___ game [ ball ]

Seventeen Across: The call when a ball touches a player’s foot, three letters. [ out ]

“In a betting mood?”

“Is this the resident who dislikes curve balls?”

I drop baseball puns and hints at playoff runs.

I ring the penthouse, but Ms. T’s husband doesn’t answer the phone.

In apartment 12D, I field further, but catch nothing.

A small dog, unleashed, runs across the lobby.

“Play by the rules, please!” I call as the Board’s accountant runs after his poodle. I’m low on bleach and my knees don’t much enjoy up close stain removal these days, but the building has to take priority.

I drop more clues and ask more questions, but I catch nothing. All the residents seem otherwise occupied or disinterested in an inning of conversation or the playoff game. I’m thirsty – for truth, energy, and a reason to make them want me, but there’s no time for a break. Not today.

7 Across: A pitcher has twelve __ to pitch after receiving a ball from the catcher when bases are empty.

Seven words. [ seconds ]

Twenty Across. A caffeinated drink typically seen in a high-rise lobby, six words: [ coffee ]

Twenty Down. A caffeinated drink typically seen at a ballpark, four words: [ cola ]

Eighteen Across. An inning with a stretch, seven words: [ seventh ]

Not only does no one seem interested in stealing a base, no one seems to know my time in the role is limited. It’s getting late.

As I begin to close up shop, most of my team home for the evening, Ms. T. returns. Her umbrella is still open as she enters the lobby. I’ll need to wait and mop up any puddles before someone gets hurt.

She moves quickly, as if she’s looking for something.

“Come on...”

“Where is....”

She mumbles and refuses to make eye contact, but I intercept and confront her head on.

“That was some curve ball,” I say.

“I’m sorry,” she says as she continues to press and push through the collection of items at my stand. “Please, where are the envelopes I left. I need the larger one back.”

“And the tickets, too?”

“What? No, of course not.”

“What do you mean? I’ve spent the past few hours trying to find their intended recipient.” Ms. T. stops moving and looks right at me.

“Bennie, those tickets are for you. They’re from your wife, Bea. Didn’t you see the sticky note – it said to keep both envelopes and not open them until later? Did you read my entire letter?”

“No,” I say sheepishly. “I stopped as soon as I saw I’d been fired.”

I pull the letter back out and smooth its creases. It pains me to reread, but I continue. My eyes well like the rains in Hong Kong come monsoon season. Bea always wanted to visit. I always had an excuse not to get us tickets. Ms. T. explains. “Bea gave me the money and made me promise to get you tickets, she insisted on two, for the next playoff. She knew she was nearing the end of her run. She also knew the home team would go to bat again. It was her hope that the two of you could go on your anniversary. It’s Saturday, you know.”

“I know,” I say, as tears well. My right hand shakes. The light strikes my wedding band and there’s a slight rainbow at my feet. About a foot away, on the floor, I see the blue sticky note, waiting.

“You know, through the years, she often wished for a playoff game on a Saturday, as it’s always been your day off. She wanted it to be a surprise. She said she was sad that she didn’t have enough cash for three.” Ms. T. laughs as she, too, wipes away tears. Bea and Ms. T. were the best of friends. I’m in shock. It’s a sign from Bea. Like the code between a pitcher and a catcher – we always made, and make, a great team.

“And now?”

“I’ve got some news,” Ms. T. says as she takes a tissue from her pocket and dries her face. “I didn’t go to Glee Club today.”

“No?”

“Instead, I met with our Board of Trustees. I threw some hard ball. They’ve agreed to reconsider our budget. I’ll need that envelope back please.”

Sixteen Down: 9-letter word for plot twist [ surprise ]

“I already opened it.”

“Bennie, the sticky note said not too.”

“Too late,” I reply, more confused than ever.

“Oh dear. Well, it said not until the end of your shift for a reason, even if not a good one. If things didn’t go our way, I didn’t trust myself to not break down. I’m sorry, I should have planned to tell you face to face.” She casts her eyes down. All pitching signals concealed.

“I never thought I’d be sent back down to the minor leagues,” I say, feeling confused.

Thirteen Down: Five-letter word for a come back win: [ rally ]

Nineteen Across: Four-letter word for a sprint to first base. [ dash ]

Fourteen Down: When a catcher meets a runner at home plate, Seven-letters: [ collide ]

6 Across: Four-letter word for a tip out of play. [ foul ]

Thirteen Across: A comeback win, eight letters. [surprise ]

9 Down: Eight-letter word for a game for everyone. [ baseball ]

As her face contorts like a well-used uniform, I scan the ground. There’s a note – a blue square, it must have fallen off.

My thoughts are increasingly both less and more crossed. My tongue is at a loss. Tied in time with the playoffs a message from my Bea. Finally.

While the long game might not be for the faint of heart, Bea and I embraced baseball and played with heart. “If you build it, they will come,” I’d been told. While growing up, I wanted to know who “they” were. Now, I know better. Bea’s my game, and life, saver.

I stole a base. And then another. I think I can see home plate.

“So, no pinch hitter?” I ask. “No trades or reneged offers?”

“You’re still our first draft pick,” Ms. T. smiles. “Always have been. You and Bea are dear friends.”

My crossed words come undone as I process this unexpected comeback. A win amidst loss. Binary depictions of defeat melt like Rolos when in the sun past one. This building is mine and Bea’s favorite stadium -- We are one. I watch as Ms. T’s eyes travel then settle on the black and white TV.

“I sure hope you’re not goofing around,” she laughs.

She scolds in a joking way. I know she’s as much a fan of the game as I am.

“You know me better than that. And thanks for saving my spot on the team. You’re a good
friend.”

“I miss Bea terribly,” she says.

“Same,” I reply, then ask, as a doorman who loves baseball, his residents, and his wife – “Will you go to the game with me? Please. For Bea. I may not have gotten the ticket she wanted, but I now have two for tonight’s game. We’ll do the crossword in her honor.”

“Ready. Set. Let’s go.”

Jen Schneider is a community college educator who lives, works, and writes in small spaces in and around Philadelphia.

[11001 – 11101] & [11201 – 11300] & [14701 - 14800]

John Beckmann

[11001 – 11101]

After the exceptionally wayward
courtship of Fernando & Teresa
marred the commune’s continuity
like a lithe bubble with hazy complacency,
its once conversant nightingales forsook
elated frolic for studious prescription
& underwent credulous trespass.
Now eagles loft to discordant guitar
& mania stamps their blurred yet alluring
halo with perplexing footstep. The
feathered reel & the membrane revels
slap, lending unfavorable awkwardness
to reciprocal despondency—asatirical
impostor seasoned with hoary taint.

[11201 – 11300]

Saintly Osiris accompanies Wizard
on his traverse of infinity, twofold
likelihood adrift upon ferment
immeasurable. Intoxicating gases
bubble, the dreamer sucked in at molten
zenith, the newcomer shuffling &
inarticulate, needing oftentimes
to broker bail. Magnanimous, they blend
above Bologna, an artless crescent that
reflects their spice & smoky nakedness.
Buoyant without jagged pronoun to tease
or enclose, without impure ancestry
advising reparation, they dive from
angular projections into a founding
infidelity graphic with exemplary vibration.

[14701 - 14800]

Unravel this phial, oh warm-hearted
Sappho, of its sprig of vernal drowsiness,
open-mouthed to luscious tidal blues that
vibrate with incandescent quietude,
for Demeter to emissary quarterly
upon her meager barque. Tillage of twos
& cancelled presidents, bedclothes blood-
shot with the nag & squeak of propagate,
drummer at the typewriter of a cleaner
metamorphosis: What foreword defines
such untenable circumcision to probe
the inimical markings of a sacrilegious
& bullying celibacy?

Peter J Grieco is a poet, song writer, musician, former professor, and retired school bus driver from Buffalo. His collection of ekphrastic verse, "The Blind Man's Meal," is available from Finishing Line Press.

‘When I Wish I Was A Knot’, ‘Summer Storms Are Exhibitionists’ & ‘It’s a $300 Fine If I Don’t Cut My Backyard’

David Summerfield’s fiction, nonfiction, poetry, and photo art has appeared in numerous literary magazines/journals/and reviews. He’s also been editor, columnist, and contributor to various publications within his home state of West Virginia. He is a graduate of Frostburg State University, Maryland, and a veteran of the Iraq war. View his work at davidsummerfieldcreates.com

When I Wish I Was A Knot

They’re:
vintage spools;
discarded twine;
a rat king’s crown;
thrift store necklaces;
cloud-hugging contrails;
tossed around paperclips;
hand-me-down Christmas lights;
calcified remains of a prehistoric mother-to-be;
prematurely torn hair in a dollar store scrunchie;

Summer Storms Are Exhibitionists

the electric pulse meets in the middle
between the forlorn lovers of earth and sky
lost long ago before records could remember
and their excitement climax is exerted
in a brilliant blast of jagged light that sears
through unwilling, unwitting victims
witness to the exhibitionist ways
of nature’s smitten heart
and the rumbling thunder that floods
ears open to the whispers of hidden
birds protected in their nests
but instead subjected to the screams of joy
heaven and hell have come together for

It’s a $300 Fine If I Don’t Cut My Backyard

a sadness rocks back and forth
with the shuffling and
tension building in the arches
and soles of
feet coated in socks the colors of ashes
wiped in mourning
as the morning comes
and the dew settles upon the decapitated
stalk of freshly wacked grass and
plants designated weeds
by the city council
long before I moved in and let my yard
grow wild
around me
where my dogs played hide and seek
running like predatory antelopes
and I can’t help but cry for the loss
of lightning bugs as their innards
twinkle in the grass
mutilated by strings moving the speed
of helicopter wings
that took insect wings for their own mechanical gain
and I can’t help but ache for the loss
of safety that the
wild rabbits native to the midwestern suburbs
as their ground cover is removed
their barrier between life and
my dogs’ overenthusiastically deadly teeth
and I’m left with soon-dead seeds
in the canvas crevices of
sawdusted sneakers
and I hold the borrowed weed whacker
hoping that the battery lasts so
I don’t have commit atrocities against nature
for much longer

Kelly Lynn (she/her) is a queer author originally from northern Maryland but now lives in east central Indiana, where she lives with her two polar opposite rescue pooches and one rehab horse she calls Pony Boy. She holds a double BA in Creative Writing and Communications from Susquehanna University where she attended college six years late as An Old. Her first published poems are forthcoming or recently published with Gabby&Min, Moonstone Arts Center, and/or TPT Magazine. In her free time, Kelly pretends to write her debut novel but mostly just watches YouTube.

‘UNCLE FRIDAY’ & ‘THE CARAVAN MOVES ON’

N.J.J. Smith is a photographer, electronic musician and philosopher based in Sydney, Australia.

UNCLE FRIDAY

Running a sleeve over his face, blood from his nose smears his cheek, the smell of it making his
stomach churn. Climbing to their flat eight storeys up, he curses the older boy who’s made vicious
sport of waiting for him outside their building, Jakob’s malformed lip an irresistible fixation for the
thick-faced bully and his entourage. With blood dripping from his nose into the dimpled channel
above his lip, Jakob coughs as he climbs, misting the concrete walls in a queasy pink spray.
On the landing below his flat, he stops, realizing it’s Friday—visiting day. The idea of another
nameless uncle wobbling about their flat brings a fresh fury; spitting like an asp, he settles on the
stairs, head between his knees, arms over his head, watching the blood splash between his tight
secondhand shoes. Squeezing his fists, he waits for the bleeding to stem, for the anger to ebb. But
when he hears his mother’s voice echo in the stairwell—unintelligible, her drunken cackle punctuated
by her visitor’s slap to her backside as they slur their prolonged goodbyes—he bites his lip to restrain
a wail that, if unleashed, would splinter every atom in its path.

When the door finally slams shut, Jakob’s temples throb to Uncle Friday’s heavy tread; his
breathing, loud and labored, accentuates his every step until they stop directly behind Jakob—his
shoes squeaking, the breath from his open mouth thick with the gin and cigarettes Jakob’s mother
serves up as a prelude, as a pretense. As Friday steps around him, Jakob peers over his arms to watch
him stagger, clutching at the railing as he turns back. Jakob recognizes this Friday’s uncle as the older
man who visits more often than the others, the one who always brings a sad-eyed smile and little
dime-store gifts. Catching his watery eyes, Jakob tucks his head back under his arms.
With Jakob’s mother’s scent still wafting from his skin, Friday offers a salutation.

“I want to wish you a very happy birthday tomorrow, Jaapje. And I want you to always
remember this: we’d never know a good pear if we’d never tasted the bad.” Getting no response, he
sighs. “I’m just saying you’re one of the good ones, Jaapje. Stay that way.” Still getting nothing from
the boy, Friday shakes his head and turns to resume his unsteady descent.

Lifting his head again, Jakob watches Friday’s greasy hair gleam under the fluorescents until he
disappears into the well. Having forgotten the date, the idea of another birthday party for two brings
his fury back to a boil as he stands to trudge up to their flat. Pausing at their door, all those birthdays
past rush to assault him again, one after another: the black pits of her eyes; the twist of her mouth; the
heat of her breath; the determined grind of her hips, cleaving away any distance he struggles to put
between them. His lip curling into a snarl, the taste of blood metallic in his mouth, he takes a deep
breath; opening the door, he enters silent as snow.

Framed in the open French doors that let out onto their tiny balcony eight storeys above the
Kleinevossenplein, she wears a short t-shirt that covers none of her nakedness from the waist down.
Waiting for Friday to step out into the street below, muttering to herself, she doesn’t sense Jakob
moving behind her, his arms stretching out before him as she leans over the railing to shout down to
Friday, now lurching from the building into the deserted Kleinevossenplein. Hearing her vulgar
sendoff, Uncle Friday chuckles; stopping to look up, he blinks as the smile freezes on his face,
entirely unprepared for the terminal velocity of her graceless farewell.

THE CARAVAN MOVES ON

The grey landscape stutters by like movies Samil remembers from before everything changed—images
cast upon taut canvases spanning horse-drawn carts, the silver apparitions flickering for gatherings held
rapt in the luminous dusk. Those silent ghosts had ignited the twilight, quavering for a congregation of
the mesmerized. Today, though, it’s the horizon shimmering with strange light as a mute cargo lurches
into every bump and jolt shuddering through the bus’s chassis. Today, crossing the cratered floodplain,
Samil and Eyal are being taken to a depot from where they’ll be freighted back to a place once called
home. But home means nothing to Samil now—just a mournful word denuded of everything but the
fading spectres of what might have been.

Watching lightning spider behind the virga of a summer tempest whorling through the far-off
Dinara, he’s trying to remember his mother’s face, how it creased when she spoke of the sea—of
where the earth fell into the waves, of where the tides rose and fell with the breath of time. Smiling,
she had promised that one day they would journey there together, all of them. But some promises,
Samil has since learned, are doomed from the making.

Turning, he watches Eyal’s fingers pick vacantly at his shirt, at that ever-alien mark burned into
his forearm. Mimicking the tic, Samil’s fingers trace the contours of his own stain, buried beneath the
tattered sleeves of his sweater. He knows his mother never imagined this sea, the one in which Eyal is
slowly drowning—lost to a different tide, the one dragging him deeper within by the day.
In those final hours that he’d believed his last, Eyal’s mind had finally pushed out the horrors it
could no longer bear, severing itself from the temporal world. Wife and daughters lost, he collapsed
inward, his psyche indiscriminately stripped of both its wretched debris and any remaining shred of
hope. Samil had been stripped away, too, that black tide leaving his son as alien to Eyal as the brand
on his arm.

Now, staring out at the ravaged plateau, it finally sinks in for Samil just how alone he really is:
his father now his charge, their roles reversed, left to scratch and beg their way through this savage
new world. Leaning into Eyal’s absent slouch, Samil sighs, their quailing future looming before him
as he begins to calculate everything that he and Eyal have already lost against the uncertain value of
the precious little they still have left to lose.

Cor de Wulf divides their life between the Pacific Northwest, Normandy, and the Netherlands. Their short fiction has appeared in Club Plum, Coffin Bell Journal, Flash Fiction Magazine, Bright Flash Lit, The Writing Disorder, Every Day Fiction, Ink in Thirds, and Blood Tree Literature. Their work has also recently been nominated by editors to the Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize 2025 Anthologies.

‘IF YOU FORGET’, ‘FIGURES IN WHITE’, ‘MORNING IN AUGUST’, ‘LANGUAGE IS PRISON’ & ‘WHAT IS NEW IS PASSING AGAIN’

王翰林 Hanlin Wang, https://wanghanlin.art/

IF YOU FORGET

I deceive myself. After a year of silence, pretending
recovery from the death of the imagination or some
such moaning, I face my block as an architect, head-
on. I don’t want to build or spirit people along
carrying lumber to job sites, muddy with concrete,
and toting steel tools, cut hands, lost funds, and
critical rejection. I’d rather sleep than bet my time on
art, though I say to myself it begins here, my best
work is coming, previously repressed by
circumstances. Prepare for me, public, I’m here! It’s
an old line and an older deception: lolling or sleeping,
you die of work, if you forget how to play.

FIGURES IN WHITE

My friends surround me. All figures in white.
I’m a sheath wearing my old jeans. Lunch on
me. I’ll give you some old things. Take yours
with sadness. I may be last to see you.

MORNING IN AUGUST

You enter a warm room. Light. Levers and tools
everywhere. You empty from an over-size shirt
and paint with blue everything not tool.
Impossible. On the balcony is a wind, trees,
never tools and you stand and you do not know
why but you won’t go back inside. Warm wind.

LANGUAGE IS PRISON

Language is prison. So is heartbeat, though silent.
It’s sad when the only true path is obedience to our
own chains. I promised to try something new (your
attention is old.) Try sleep reading. The ball is old.
The cat is new. The birthday party is tomorrow.
Were you paying attention? The keyboard floated
left on top of itself. Nobody stops this. Levitate from
your bed, regard doorways as croquet hoops, hop to
something simple, Work work work. Seek no local
rewards, gain only from the constructions, believe
you’re in the business of magic. This, the playing.

WHAT IS NEW IS PASSING AGAIN

The cycle begins again. And yes, you can leave the program,
clean, hair brushed, and with new luggage, then arrive for
the cruise under another good name. The firings, the
resignations, the downsizing, the self-criticism, all this
behind you – and yet everyone else wants to keep going.
These days are now stress-free. Starting this month, you’ll
rescue gadgets from obsolescence until you look hokey
holding them. You can blame yourself for wanting to stop
by roadside rocks dripping with spring water and bathe, find
someone, anyone, and play ping-pong, find others, and form
cubicles where you have to walk around to pass each other’s
games. The plan was health, not progress, and really, would
you leave now and abjure your demesne? The washer
knocks, the trash truck moans, the dripping arm of an alien
sea creature rises in the bay, watched by cliffs of witnesses,
who flee with their refurbished tools. I’m not that old but it
reminds me of something - what is new is passing again.

Lawrence Bridges' poetry has appeared in The New Yorker, Poetry, and The Tampa Review. He has published three volumes of poetry: Horses on Drums (Red Hen Press, 2006), Flip Days (Red Hen Press, 2009), and Brownwood (Tupelo Press, 2016). You can find him on IG: @larrybridges

‘Representational Humans’

Michelle Kohari

Representational Humans

The dentist enters the examination room with a tablet in her hand. I don’t notice her right away because I’m lying on the hydraulic dental chair and playing with the controls. I quickly remove my hands like a kid not wanting to get caught playing with a grown-up gizmo. But something gets stuck and the bottom and upper portions of the chair continue to rise toward each other. She reaches over and touches another button that stops the movement of the chair before I can be folded in half like a pen knife.

“Good morning, Mr. Dolan, Dr. Holzer here, nice to see you again,” she says, clasping her tablet in front of her and rocking back and forth.

“Good morning,” answers a voice from the examination room next door. Dr. Holzer laughs nervously as she frantically fingers her tablet. She lowers her voice as she speaks to me.

“You’re not Mr. Dolan, are you?”

“No. I’m Joe Reo,” I say. “I’m here for a crown.”

“I’m here for a crown, too,” says the man next door. “Should I come over there, Doc?”

“No, no, stay right there, Mr. Dolan,” she says, her voice crackling like a lit sparkler. “I’ll come to you.” She starts slowly backing to the exit, holding her tablet in front of her like a shield. “Sorry for the confusion, Mr. Reo. I’ll be back.”

“No problem,” I say. “Guess Mr. Dolan and I look alike.”

She hurries out of the room without responding.

I look for ways to occupy my time. I squint at my reflection in the small, stainless-steel sink next to the chair. Instead of the younger face that used to stare back at me in a mirror, I see the wrinkled face of an older guy, complete with thinning gray hair and jowls that hang from my face like an old rooster. I look away and substitute this unacceptable image with the default one in my high school yearbook. I sit back in the chair and let my eyes wander.

I’m about to close them and take a snooze when I notice a painting hanging on the wall to the left of the window. It contrasts with a series of colorful posters hanging around it, showing the many services available to patients. One shows implants complete with silver metal posts drilled through gum and bone minus the blood and gore, another, whiter teeth featuring a couple whose mouths are frozen in an artificially, open-mouthed grin.

But it’s the painting that grabs my attention. It portrays two figures shaped like humans, one slightly taller than the other. That’s where the similarity to anything human ends. They are faceless, hairless and without limbs. I see it as a kind of representation of human beings, like the artist didn’t know what a human really looks like.

I wonder what a painting like this is doing in a dentist’s office, but the sound of a whirring drill accompanied by a throaty moan puts my artistic curiosity on hold.

The crown didn’t cause me much discomfort, so I decide to run a couple of errands. As I open the door to my car, I cringe at my reflection in the side mirror. My daughter, Kaylee, moved in with me when my wife passed away. She gave most of my wardrobe to a homeless shelter (I thought I saw a man wearing my pajamas in the grocery store parking lot, but I couldn’t be sure), remarking that if I wear what I wore when her mom was around, I would think too much about death and that was unacceptable.
Today, I am wearing what she chose for me before I left the house this morning: a red plaid shirt that reminded me of the seat covers in a 1962 Chevy Nova I owned as a kid and a pair of tan, twill pants with an elastic waist band. Kaylee said I wouldn’t need a belt with these pants and that they would always fit even when I got sick and lost weight.

I drive into Ollie’s Oil outlet on Main Street for an oil change, trying not to be too self- conscious about wearing a shirt that looks like seat covers, and beltless trousers that resemble the kind they give to mental patients so they won’t get any ideas.

I pull up to the bay door and am greeted by three of Ollie’s finest descending on my car. They poke tablets with their fingers as they ask me a series of questions: “How many miles? What’s the make and model of your vehicle? Have you been here before? What can we do for you today?”

They take my keys as they stick a paper mat on the floor of the driver’s side. One of them ushers me into the “Ollie Lounge,” where the odor of musty oil mingles with the smell of freshly popped popcorn, leaving a curiously industrial taste in my mouth. He proudly points to the popcorn maker, adding with an exaggerated smile, “Help yourself, it’s on us.” I shrug as I head for the machine and take two cups of popcorn back to my seat.

A homeless man enters from the rear, his shopping cart parked outside the door. He heads for the machine and quickly fills a cup with popcorn. He stands there staring into space as he eats the popcorn. One of the Ollie guys is checking out a customer at the nearby counter, but he pays the man no mind. I remove my cell phone from my pocket and pretend to check it. I want to avoid eye contact, which might cause the homeless man to yell and make a scene, forcing us to acknowledge him. But to my relief he gets a second cup of popcorn and heads out the door, guiding his cart down the street and out of sight.

Next stop, the library to return books. As I drive down Main Street, I notice signs in the windows of several businesses proclaiming “Columbus Day Sales.” One in particular catches my eye in the local appliance store: “Old Style Phonograph Now 20 percent off.” I have several boxes of 45 records in my basement I haven’t told Kaylee about (I’m afraid she’ll sell them to some guy named Craig she mentioned a while ago). But I need a record player since mine disappeared when my wife and I moved into our current house years ago. I make a mental note.

The library is next to the town park at the end of Main. I deposit my books in the drop box on the side of the building and turn to go back to my car when I notice a crowd in the park. I walk closer and see a group of people carrying signs and marching in front of a statue of Christopher Columbus in the center of the park.

As I get closer, I hear a voice on a bullhorn engaging the crowd.

“Hands off Columbus, Keep him among us.” The man screaming into the horn stands on the steps of the monument, holding the bullhorn to his mouth with one hand and pumping his fist in the air with the other. A line of people snake in front of him like a bicycle chain in motion as they repeat his words.

“Chris is our Hero, the Council’s full of Zeroes.” They scream the words as they pump their signs up and down. Several messages are emblazoned in bright red letters on them like,

“We love you, Chris,” “Say No to Columbus Haters,” and “Columbus was not in the Mafia.”

A young woman with dark frame glasses and a wide grin frozen on her face thrusts a flyer at me. “Come to our march today at city hall protesting the town council’s decision to remove the Christopher Columbus statue from the park.” Before I could respond, she threads her way through the crowd of onlookers handing out flyers as she does so.

I look down at the flyer and wonder if I should attend. In grammar school I wrote a poem about Columbus and got an A. Besides, he discovered America. Why would anybody want to tear down his statue?

As I walk around the monument, I encounter a smaller group of protesters directly behind it. There are several native people dressed in traditional garb. One wears a buffalo robe and soft moccasins. Another is dressed in full regalia, like for a ceremony or something. I am impressed by the large war bonnet with its feathers of many different colors.

A young man approaches me and hands me a flyer. He wears a black tee shirt with a bust of Columbus in yellow on the front and a red ‘no symbol’ over it. His hair is tied back in a pony tail.

“Welcome. Please join our counter protest today as we defend the council’s decision to remove the Christopher Columbus statue from here.”

I shrug. “But why do you want to do that? He discovered America, didn’t he? He’s a hero.” An older woman approaches, wearing the same nix Columbus tee shirt along with jeans and a pair of beaded moccasins. Her eyes are narrow slits and I can’t tell if they’re actually open when she starts speaking to me. “That’s not all he did,” she says. “When he got to the Caribbean, he took native people on his ships and sold them as slaves when he returned to Spain.”

The young man folds his hands in front of him as though he is about to deliver a presentation at school “He insisted the natives bring him gold and when they didn’t, he cut off their hands.”

“Your hero.” sighs the woman, her eyes wide open now as she steps closer to me. “He tortured and killed many native people.” She points to the flyer in my hand. “If you care about the truth, then join us later as we make sure the council sticks by its decision to remove that devil from our park.” Her eyes return to their original slits as she hurries to greet a couple pushing a baby stroller. I look down at the flyer.

“So will you join us?” asks the young man.

I look up. “I don’t know if protests really do anything,” I say. “Though I was quite the protester in the 1960’s.”

“Really? Then come and join us. It will be like old times.”

“There was this one protest,” I say smiling at the memory. “When I was in college, the girls basketball team couldn’t use the gym for practice as much as the guy’s team. They wanted equal time.

“So, I’m watching the girls getting ready to march in front of the gym. They got signs and all and they’re wearing their uniforms, shorts, tee shirts. That’s when I notice one of the girls. Tall, lanky, gorgeous, with the biggest blue eyes you ever saw.”

The young man folds his arms. “What did you do?”

“I introduced myself to her. Her name was Gina. And I told her I agreed with their cause
and that I wanted to protest with them.”

“Good for you. You got involved.”

I savor the memory for a moment. “Sure did. I followed Gina in line all day, shouting slogans and screaming at the guys as they entered the gym for practice until I was hoarse.”

“So, what happened? Did they give the girls more practice time?”

I shook my head. “Don’t know. But I got Gina to sleep with me that night. What a night. Did all kinds of things to her. Yup. That’s a protest I’ll never forget.”

As I walk back to my car, I look at both flyers wondering which one I should attend. But then I remember the phonograph on sale at the appliance store. I fold both papers and place them in the recycling bin at the end of the park.

The folks at the appliance store play Elvis Presley’s “Hound Dog” on the phonograph for me to demonstrate the machine’s high sound quality. I close my eyes and see the King shaking his legs and swiveling his hips, damming all those swooning girls to hell according to the religious norms of the time. I buy it and have them place it in a plain brown shopping bag to prevent Kaylee from seeing it. I don’t want her getting any ideas about my record collection.

I drive past the park and notice the demonstrators have all gone. I pull into a parking space next to it, not quite sure why I am stopping. A gravel path that winds around the park catches my eye. I get out and walk on it, the crunching sound of the stones under my feet welcome and familiar.

It winds through bare maple trees, having given up their leaves with the onset of Fall. But I close my eyes and see them bursting with leaves, like when I was a kid and went to the park to play baseball in the summer. Afterwards, hot and sweaty, my friends and I would lounge under trees exactly like these to cool us with their shade. I close my eyes. I see us lying on the soft grass, hands behind our heads as we talk and joke with one another, or on our sides as we pull at the grass and toss handfuls at each other.

I think of the painting at the dentist’s office. It troubles me that there isn’t anything to identify the human shapes. I imagine the faces of my friends along with their youthful bodies on those shapes. That would make it a real painting, something familiar and definite, not something that leaves you wondering.

I think about the protests. Maybe I should go to city hall and talk to some more of the protestors. Or, go back to the dentist’s office and take a cell phone picture of that painting and have Kalee print it out in color so I can hang it on my bedroom wall and stare at it each night.

But then I think about the phonograph.

I hurry to my car as I remember that the “B” side to “Hound Dog” is “Don’t Be Cruel,” and I can’t wait to hear it.

Joe Cappello lives and writes in the picturesque desert country of Galisteo, New Mexico, USA. His short story about the battle for the heart and soul of language, “The Codex of Lady Lucy Bugg,” appeared in the October 2024 issue of “The Write Launch.” Another story, “Running Errands” was a finalist in the 2024 Earnest Hemingway Short Story Competition and published in the 2024 issue of “Hemingway Shorts.” His short story, “They Only Showed Elvis from the Waist Up,” took first place, Short Story, General Category, in the Southwest Writers 2023 writing contest. He is thrilled to be part of the thriving Santa Fe artistic and creative community.