‘The Lion’s Last Roar’

Muhammad Habibat Sani is a Nigerian poet, journalist, photographer and activist. She was the runner-up at the Sokoto Book and Art Festival Poetry Slam Competition (SOBAFEST). Her work has been published on Synchronized Chaos. She can be found on Facebook as @MuhammadHabibatSani (UmmuYasmeen) and on Instagram as @Ummu.yasmeen1. and on twitter @MUHAMMAD SANI HABIBAT.

The Lion’s Last Roar

Storm clouds gather,

and we just stagger.

A dictator will invigorate,

a conquest of terror built on hate.

When the world gets tough,

peace keeping isn’t always enough.

Where the sunflowers grow,

we failed to put on a show.

Abandoned them to fight

a dictator's ferocious full might.

I wonder if our fathers could see

our blatant hypocrisy.

Would they stand with pride and say,

how proud they are of us today?

Or in their graves would they roll,

and wonder why they paid such toll?

Wonder why they died.

Wonder why we haven’t tried.

Far away, hyenas wait,

for a battle they would instigate.

An old lion sleeping,

perhaps one eye peeping.

An empire it controlled.

Now, its coat a fading gold.

Maybe it will stand once more,

and find the strength to mighty roar.

Maybe its moral will soar.

Maybe it can win for sure.

But, if the lion is too sick,

we must poke it with a stick.

This large task,

may be a fatal ask.

The lion could already be dead,

don’t let it get to your head.

Hope and faith are the paths we tread.

No time to mourn,

for there’s no guarantee of dawn.

A heart horribly torn,

is an ingredient well worn,

for a lion cub to be born.

Although the father may rot,

the cub will do what he could not.

In this poem my emotions I hide,

but it’s not for me to decide.

You control the lion’s fate,

don’t worry, you'll do great.

But you haven’t long to wait.

The hyenas circle ever tighter.

Tell me, will we be a fighter?

Jake Wright is a fourth year biology student at UBCO pursuing a minor in creative writing. When He's not writing, he's usually gaming, crying over university, or skiing.

‘SERVANT’

Rie Sheridan Rose's photography appeared in Constellations; Thoughtful Dog; the Ladies of Horror Flash Project; Passed Note Review; Ghostlight: Magazine of Terror; and Lumen. She keeps a camera with her at all times. She is a member of the HWA, SFWA, and SFPA.

SERVANT

Malcolm needed to get well.

Every day he got up and repeated it and every day he ignored it. It reminded him how people said every day that they were going to change their lives, but never did, just got up and did the same thing as yesterday. But this was actually the time. He was out of money, out of favors. If he didn’t get clean now he was going to end up dead. This was his last chance. 

Just this one last time and then he’d be clean.

Malcolm filled a glass with water and stuck the needle in, drawing some out. He pushed it out hard and did it again, just to make sure it was clean, convinced no obstructions resided within. He took more water out, put it on the spoon, and added the heroin to it. Then he took out his Zippo and flicked the flint wheel, placing it on the counter and letting it burn. Malcolm hovered the spoon over the flame till the water bubbled and hissed. 

The spoon was folded over and blackened from overuse, the dope simmering like a stew. Malcolm dropped a small ball of cotton in the spoon and it soaked up the water, turning dirty brown. He stuck the needle in the cotton and drew the dope into the syringe. Malcolm looked at the barrel and flicked it, air bubbles rising. He pushed the plunger with the barest touch and a dribble came out of the tip, clearing the barrel of any bubbles. 

Then he took the belt and wrapped it around his bicep, squeezing tight, the belt in his mouth. He slapped his arm and looked for entry, pockmarked with sores and collapsed veins. He picked up the syringe and hit a vein with the needle, pulled the plunger and watched the blood unfurl in the barrel like some kind of octopus dancing through the ocean. He pushed the plunger down steady and ejected the needle, loosening the belt. 

It hit him at once——the taste, the rush. 

Warm, curdled blood turned hot and silky, slithering down his veins in a mad dash to the brain, lighting up dopamine receptors like a pinball machine. It was good shit, better than he’d had in a while. Malcolm swallowed and his eyes felt heavy as if something were dragging them down. His arm had a bead of blood and he wiped it away with a finger, smudging it in the crook of his elbow. 

A forlorn sense of regret swept up like wind, brushing up against him. He was sad this was his last time, but also hating himself for doing this. It fucked him up, body and mind, made him feel like he wasn’t a person, but it wasn’t his fault. The heroin helped. It cauterized the wounds inside, made it so he could live every day without wanting to die.

Malcolm stood up and went to the sink and washed his hands. He’d be good for a while——the dope potent and fresh in his veins——but he needed a plan for when he came down. So he went into the bedroom, opened a notebook, and sat on his bed. The pen scratched the paper, doodling, his mind coming undone like carbonated soda, effervescent with the potency of actionable plans within his grasp. The heroin cradled his ambition like a newborn baby, stroking it and mewling over the cuteness until he fell asleep and didn’t wake up for twelve hours.

#

Stripes of sunlight peeked through venetian blinds. Malcolm opened his gummy eyes, rolled over and knuckled the grit nestled in the corners. His mouth tasted like boogers and he hawked up phlegm and spat it into a tissue. He took a cigarette out of the pack on the nightstand and patted his pocket, but the Zippo wasn’t there. 

Malcolm got up and went into the kitchen, the Zippo laying open on the counter. He picked it up, flicked the flint wheel, but it wouldn’t light, just sparked, ineffective. It was open on the counter, so he probably forgot to turn it off. He sighed, went to the stove and turned the burner on, dipping his face to the flame. The cigarette glowed, smoke gushing down his lungs, gas from the stove snaking up his nose. He inhaled and held it, looking through the window over the sink.

The glass was dirty and stained. Steam rose from the streets like the smoke he exhaled. The sink was full of dishes, counter scattered with junk. The kitchen tiles were old and chipped. The crook of his elbow itched with longing, that pleasant prick and the needle releasing itself into his bloodstream like a proboscis, but he couldn’t. He told himself no, it wasn’t him, not anymore. 

Malcolm sucked the cigarette and tried to think about living sober, a thread of smoke rising to the ceiling. He was a junkie, but he didn’t have to be. People came out of addiction every day. It wasn’t easy, but they did it. You had to fight, square up and confront the inadequacies. Once he got over the heroin there’d be time to be useful again. He wanted to be proud of himself, of the resolve he knew he had within him. The embarrassment of becoming a junkie was a vicious hit to his self-esteem, but he’d gotten through worse and he’d get through this.

The phone rang and he walked into the bedroom, picked it up off the nightstand. Work was calling. He was late for the second time this week and already on thin ice. 

#

Malcolm got to work over an hour late. He didn’t feel very good because he knew he’d start getting sick soon and then he’d have to fix quick. If he didn’t, he’d be in a world of hurt and that’d really fuck up his plans at rehabilitation.

His boss yelled at him when he walked in, told him strike two and if he didn’t get his shit together then he was going to shitcan him. Malcolm took the scolding with an ache between his eyes. He squeezed the bridge of his nose, dry swallowed aspirin in the first aid kit, and started taking tables. 

He handed out laminated menus rife with oily fingerprints. People ordered drinks and asked questions and complained, Malcolm taking care of it all because that was his job. The aroma of cooked meat wafted across the room and through the tables, mouths slavering like animals. One of his tables left a shit tip and it pissed him off because he busted his ass, checked on them three times and why did people go out if they were going to do shit like this? But he kept his head up, forgot about it, focusing on the work. His head still hurt and the craving was there but he ignored it, kept working. A kid threw up at one of his tables and the place smelled rancid, curdled milk ruining appetites. Malcolm was there when it happened so he cleaned it up, gave the kid a ginger ale, told him it would settle his stomach. The mother thanked him, but Malcolm shook her off and when he came back the kid was feeling better. The mother thanked him on their way out and Malcolm smiled, went to the table. He’d gotten a good tip and it made him feel better.

A car blared a horn outside, steady for about five seconds, and two teenagers ran outside, jumped in the car, and drove off. He went over to the table and looked at the check. They didn’t pay. Malcolm’s heart sank and he squeezed the check in his hand, sharp crinkles pressing into the skin. It pissed him off and he wanted to fix, but he couldn’t, needed to be good. This day had been pretty shit, wasn’t even half over, but Malcolm was determined to hang in, to be somebody he could be proud of. 

A regular sat at the bar and bit into his cheeseburger, masticated over and over like steerage in the pasture. Malcolm stared and the man looked at him and he looked away, tucking a lock of hair behind his ear, self-conscious. Maybe it was hypnotic and maybe it wasn’t. Maybe he was just a junkie getting sick, his brain frying like an egg.

The day was long. He was tired and sweaty, but Malcolm wouldn’t let himself back down. Eventually it was over and Malcolm walked away with eighty-three dollars cash. He went into the kitchen and filled out his chart for the day. His boss talked some more shit when he punched out. Malcolm made like he was sorry and slinked out the back. 

He stumbled between the buildings, his eyes on the people crossing back and forth at the mouth of the alley, a thudding in his head like a heart. He didn’t exactly know why he did it, but he did. He took out his phone and hit up Drax and set a meet. Drax was one of the dealers he used. He was hit-or-miss. Sometimes he’d short you, but sometimes he’d be on it. Malcolm didn’t think too highly of him. He was a shitbag and sometimes he’d fuck you, but when you were a junkie you didn’t really have much of a choice and these guys knew it. They knew you’d be crawling back to them at some point or another and even if they’d fucked you, you wouldn’t give them any shit because you needed them or else you’d be getting sick and then you’d really be fucked.

Malcolm took the subway down to the East Village and walked down to 7th avenue and puked in a trash barrel. He wiped the vomit from his mouth, cleaned it on his pants. Refuse lined the curbs, the stench of city living ripe like rotten fruit. Malcolm hawked up phlegm and spat on a trash bag, turning the corner and seeing Drax’s car parked beneath a gnarled tree. Malcolm tapped on the hood and bent down, looking in the window. Drax turned and flicked his head upward, Malcolm waving. He unlocked the car and Malcolm got in.

Drax wore a doo rag, his hoodie too big and his pants floating around him like a bathing suit. A scraggly beard dotted his jawline, a pimple on his lip like a volcano ready to blow, his face shiny with grease. They bumped fists and he said, “What you need?”

“Half gram,” Malcolm said.

Drax dug in his pocket, but Malcolm stopped him.

“Could you weigh it out in front of me?”

Drax stopped and straightened out, looking at him. Malcolm looked back. “What? You don’t trust me, dog?”

“No, not at all. It’s not that. It’s just you shorted me last time and I’d just like to be sure everything’s good this time around.”

Drax frowned. “Short? I don’t short people, dog.”

“Listen, I don’t care that you shorted me. I owe you money. I get it. I’d short me too if I were you. But I really need my money’s worth this time. You give me a half gram straight and I’ll give you what I have on me.”

“Or you could give me what you have on you and get the fuck outta my car.”

Drax reached behind him and pulled out a pistol, laying it on his knee. Malcolm looked at Drax and the gun and then Drax again. His skin prickled with anxiety and Malcolm really wished that he’d kept his mouth shut, but he couldn’t let him see that, needed to be cool.

He lifted up his hands, hurt and surprised. “The fuck is this? You do me like this?” 

“I don’t know who the fuck you think you are thinkin’ you can say whatever the fuck come into that junkie brain of yours, but I don’t short people, motherfucker. I been straight with you, bitch, and you try and make me look like some piece of shit that short people or something.”

“I didn’t say any of that, Drax. Come on, man. You got it wrong. I was just being real with you, man. You shorted me. Not a big deal. But I’m not gonna pretend like it didn’t happen.”

Drax adjusted the grip on his gun and Malcolm’s heart flared. He felt sweaty, his mouth dry. He imagined him raising the gun and blowing him away right here, right now, his body wracked by a fusillade of bullets, ribbons of blood puddling in his lap. Drax would kick him out onto the street, blood painting the sidewalk, his flesh going white like soap. Then his life would leave his eyes in a helix of light, nothing to see but inky darkness.

Malcolm swallowed and tasted vomit. He wiped his lips and Drax stared at him.

“You got it on you?”

“Got what?”

“The money, bitch.”

“Yes. Right here.”

Malcolm fished the money out of his pocket and counted eighty-three dollars. Drax proffered his hand and he gave it to him, counting it. Then he took out his scale, weighing the heroin. The sight was a near-tangible relief. Malcolm felt good, like he had power. Drax had put pressure on him, but he didn’t budge. He stood up to him and Drax respected that.

Drax showed Malcolm that a half-gram was on the scale and Malcolm nodded, smiling. Drax put it in the baggie and closed it up and pointed the gun at Malcolm’s head. Malcolm stared into the barrel feeling sick. Nerves crackled like thunderheads. He was jittery, barely breathing.

“What’re you doing, man?” Malcolm said.

“Like you said, you owe me money, bitch.”

Malcolm looked past the gun and into Drax’s eyes and they were steeled against any pleading, but he tried anyway.

“Please, man. Don’t do this. I need that really bad.”

“Oh, no doubt. Yo junkie ass gonna be pukin’ all over the place in a couple hours. But that ain’t my problem, dog. That’s something you gonna have to deal with.”

Malcolm looked at the baggie on the scale and then at the gun and Drax thumbed back the hammer. He froze like an ice sculpture. “Or you could lose your brains all over the window,” Drax said. “Up to you, dog. Either way I’m good. Get out or die.”

Malcolm got out real slow and backed up.

“Close the door, bitch!” Drax said.

He closed the door and Drax pulled away, Malcolm feeling sick. No money, no favors, and no luck.

He was fucked.

#

Malcolm walked through the door, tripped and fell. He got up, closed the door and went to the kitchen, puking in the sink. It took everything he had not to hurl on the forty-minute subway ride to Bensonhurst, shivering with cold and muscle spasms. His muscles weren’t working well, like they didn’t want to listen to his brain anymore. It felt like little tennis balls were lodged up and down his back. His eyes pulsed in their sockets. His stomach cramped and he keeled over, slumping into a chair at the table. Malcolm put his head down and the coolness soothed him some, but only for a minute. He cradled his stomach, heard it gurgle and he cramped and dry heaved right at the table, but nothing came out.

Malcolm fingered a cigarette out of the pack and labored upward. He wobbled to the stove, lit up and it helped some, but not much. He turned on the sink, sipped some water, and hit the cigarette. The buzzing in his head crisscrossed over his mind like bees in the hive. It distracted him, but not so much because things were getting bad and it wouldn’t be long before he couldn’t move anymore, so overcome with agony that it hurt to breathe. 

So Malcolm trudged to the bed and flopped down, trying to rekindle any last remnants of strength before deciding what to do. He was burning up. He stripped and lay on the bed naked, but then he was cold and he heaved blankets over his emaciated body, praying for sleep. 

Sleep came, but marked with hallucinatory dreams, his grandmother’s gnarled hands rasping over his body. She smiled at him, her face branched with wrinkles, locks of strawberry-blond hair flopped over her forehead. Her hand snaked around the back of his head and he was scared, remembering bad things, eyes closed, images materializing in the black.

Malcolm woke up shivering, soaked in sweat. It was early morning. He wiped himself off with the blanket and sat up, heart racing, old memories fading away like coronas of light behind the eyelids. He stuck a cigarette in his mouth, got dressed and went into the kitchen and lit it on the stove. 

His stomach felt shriveled and hollow, simmering with acid. He went to the fridge, took out an old, wrinkly orange, spongy in his hands. He tore it open, trembling, the fruit soft and gummy and syrupy in his fingers. He plucked off a gobbet and put it to his lips. The taste was strong and sweet and overwhelming, the acid tickling his gag reflex. Malcolm lunged for the sink and puked, little strings of bile hanging from his lips. He dropped the orange into the sink and turned on the faucet, letting the water sluice over syrupy fingers, wiping them dry on his pants. He coughed and spit, let himself breathe and regain control. He bent and slurped some water, letting it roll around in his mouth before spitting. 

The knife block in the corner caught his eye and he moved toward it. Black handles pointed at him and he pulled out a knife, stainless steel like gunmetal in the gloomy kitchen. Malcolm decided something and slipped the knife into his waistband, throwing his shirt over it. He turned and scooped the keys off the table and left, decision made.

He needed to score.

#

The air was chilly and still as if frozen molecules were suspended in the air, movement as well as time lulled in the cold. Malcolm zipped up his sweater and threw the hood over his head, the knife’s cold metal touching bare skin just above his waistline. He stalked the streets, hands buried in the muff pocket of his hoodie. 

He didn’t have any idea what to do. There was no thought that lit up like a light bulb——the panacea to this heroin problem, or lack thereof. He merely stumbled down the streets of Bensonhurst with a knife in his boxers, having no idea how he could solve this, but feeling very confident that it would involve violence. He walked to the corner of 82nd street and 21st avenue, making his way to the 18th avenue subway station. Malcolm figured he could jump on and head to Manhattan. Maybe he’d be able to find somebody to take pity on him or maybe he’d come upon an opportunity to take money.

Malcolm stopped on the corner and blew pale breath into the air, waiting for the light to turn. His stomach roiled and churned acid. He closed his eyes and focused on ignoring the pain. When he opened his eyes, it was then that he saw an old woman exit her building across the street. She was small, hunched over, wearing a heavy coat. A cane was clutched in her gnarled claw of a hand and it reminded him of his grandmother. Tiny wavelets of numbness rose up from the nape of his neck and spread out over his head. She came inching down the sidewalk, her purse hanging over her forearm. Malcolm didn’t feel very good about it, but he recognized this for the opportunity that it was. 

He crossed the street against the light and a boxy car beeped at him, hitting the gas when he was clear, leaving a trail of stinky exhaust fumes. He fell in behind her and watched her leave the sidewalk, approaching a beige vehicle, boxy in its own right, clearly from the eighties or nineties. It looked like an Oldsmobile, but Malcolm couldn’t be sure. The old woman sidled up to the car and keyed the door, wrenching it open on rusty hinges. That was when Malcolm slid the knife out of his boxers and stuck it into her armpit, making sure she could feel it. 

The old woman jumped and looked back at him, pale blue eyes sunken into craggily sockets, pouchy skin puffed up underneath.

“I don’t wanna hurt you,” he said. “I just wanna talk. So just unlock the car and sit down. Nice and easy. I just wanna chat.”

The old woman lifted her arm and looked down at the knife poking into her side. She looked back up at him with resigned eyes. She sighed and thumbed a button on the door, the locks popping up with a thunk.

“There we go,” Malcolm said. “Nice and easy, now. Don’t be stupid.”

He crept around the front of the car and the old woman watched. Malcolm popped open the passenger door and motioned for her to get inside. He looked around and saw an Asian man on the other side of the street, probably going to work. Other than that the streets were empty and cold, most of Bensonhurst not yet ready to take on the day.

Malcolm slithered inside and watched the old woman fumble into the driver’s seat. She almost fell in and Malcolm helped her, grabbing her cane and sliding it into the backseat. She thanked him and he helped her change positions before reaching out and closing the door. 

Their breath smoked in the car and she turned to him, eyes the color of an icy blue sky. “So are you gonna kill me or what?”

Malcolm frowned. “Of course not. I don’t wanna kill you. I just need some help.”

The old woman nodded as if she knew all along what this was about, perhaps had even expected it. “Well, you’re here now. What can I do for you?”

She laced her fingers on her lap and waited patiently. Her hair was done up in a kerchief and light orange hair fluffed out beneath it. Malcolm’s grandmother had strawberry-blond hair, something like a reddish-orange, and the old woman’s hair reminded him greatly of his grandmother, so much so that he needed to look away from her when he talked.

“What’s your name?” Malcolm asked.

“Dorothy,” she said.

“Well, Dorothy. I guess we’re not in Kansas any more, are we?” 

Dorothy looked at him and smiled awkwardly. “No, I suppose we’re not.”

“Don’t worry, I’m not gonna hurt you. I’m just in a bad way right now and I need your help.”

Malcolm shivered and burped, an acrid taste climbing up his throat and coating the back of his tongue. He shivered again, felt a small cramp in his calf. He grimaced and massaged it out, Dorothy observing quietly, probably putting the dots together a lot quicker than Malcolm wanted her to.

“Do you need money?” she said.

Malcolm knuckled the cramp and straightened out his leg, doing everything he could to make sure it didn’t tighten again. “As a matter of fact, I do. I don’t need it all, I’m not trying to bleed you dry or anything. I just need what you can spare. I’m sorry to do this to you, but I’m kinda at the end of my rope here. Not really sure how to go about fixin’ myself up.”

“Well, I’m sorry you’re in this position. You really don’t look too good.”

Malcolm chuckled. “No, I don’t. And I can tell you I don’t feel good either. But it is what is. I brought it on myself. And like I said, I’m sorry to do this to you. But I just don’t know...don’t know what to do.”

Dorothy watched him. Malcolm sniffled and swiped away the snot on his upper lip. He met her gaze and she didn’t look away, just watched him with something like pity. She nodded solemnly with puckered lips and snapped open the buckle on her purse, digging around inside. She pulled out her wallet and licked her thumb, pulling out two crisp hundred-dollar bills. She held them out to him and he was astonished really, just fucking blown away at the kindness this woman had bestowed upon him.

“Are you sure?” he said.

Dorothy nodded.

  “I told you I didn’t wanna bleed you dry or anything. Only what you can afford. You don’t have to give me this much. I can certainly make do with less.”

“That’s all right,” she said. “I have a feeling you’re gonna need it a lot more than I will.”

He nodded and looked at her with dewy eyes. Malcolm reached up and took the bills gently from her fingers. He looked at them in his lap and sniffed, wiping his eyes. “You don’t know how much this means to me. I’m sorry. I wish it wasn’t you that I did this too.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” she said. She leaned forward and put a hand on his forearm, squeezed, trying to comfort him. Malcolm appreciated it.

“What’s your name?” she said.

He sniffed again and watched two tears drip on the hundreds, darkening the paper like raindrops. “Malcolm,” he said softly.

“Why are you doing this, Malcolm?” she said.

He croaked a sob and shook his head slow and deliberate, eyes clenched shut and really starting to cry. “I don’t know. I wanna get better. I just don’t know how to do it.”

“Yes, you do,” Dorothy said. “You know how to get better. You’re just scared. And that’s okay, Malcolm. It’s okay to be scared. Everybody is scared of something. But just because you’re scared, doesn’t mean it’s not worth trying.”

He rubbed the pad of his thumb over Ben Franklin’s face and nodded, huffing out a breath. “I guess that’s true. My grandma used to say nothing in life worth doing is ever easy. Cuz if it was easy then everybody would do it.”

Dorothy laughed and nodded. “That’s right, Malcolm. That is too true.”

She grabbed his hand and nestled her fingers between his. He thought they would’ve felt like old leather, but they were soft, her palm puffy and smooth. His hands were cold, but she warmed them with her touch. 

He didn’t want to be the person that got up every day and said they were going to change their lives, but never did. Malcolm was better than that. And if he could just get over some of the things that were dragging him down, maybe, just maybe he could be the person that he always wanted to be and not the person that he was now.

Malcolm looked at Dorothy and her smile was genuine. She cared about him, he could tell. Maybe he just needed support from people like her and it would get him through. 

Malcolm picked up the money and handed it back to her. He picked the knife off the seat and held it in his hand, ashamed of himself. He closed his eyes and hung his head back, trying to breath, to escape the shame that covered him like a shroud. He felt Dorothy curling the money back into his left hand, reaching over and hugging him, her lips brushing his ear. “You need it more than I do,” she said.

He nodded and squeezed out tears. He leaned into her and she hugged him, her hand snaking around to the back of his neck. 

Malcolm stiffened and stopped. The hand gripped the back of his neck and he felt another hand lift his shirt and play at his navel. He was eight years old and his grandmother sat in her favorite chair. She smiled at him and fingered the strings of his pajama bottoms, her fingers real soft and warm, sending a terrible sense of dread radiating throughout his entire body. Malcolm stood still, the breath coming quick and shallow. His grandmother looked at him and brought him close. She kissed his cheek and slipped her hand into his pants. Malcolm clenched his fist and exhaled, scared and angry, angry at what she had done to him. He thrust the knife forward and buried it into her chest. 

Malcolm looked up and saw Dorothy’s pale blue eyes looking into his, her face blank. She looked at him confused, eyes staring into and beyond. The blood spilled down her chin and she coughed in his face. Malcolm flinched and clenched his eyes shut, feeling the spray of blood. He opened his eyes and saw Dorothy wheezing breaths, little blood bubbles blooming on her lips. Malcolm tugged on the knife, yanked it out of her chest, the blade slick with blood. 

“What did I do? No, what did I do?” he said.

His hands trembled and he dropped the knife, pressing his palms against the wound, the blood pumping out hot and sticky and slathering itself all over him. He looked at her face and saw her staring at the wound in her chest. She put fingers to it and they came away dabbed in crimson. Dorothy looked at him, cupped his face in her hand and smiled.

“It’s all right, Malcolm. It’s all right.”

His lips trembled with emotion. He wanted to tell her that it was an accident, that he didn’t mean it, didn’t know it was her, but nothing would come out except little gasps of breath and a whole lot of regret. Dorothy’s dewy eyes looked into him and then they weren’t, just staring into space like glass eyes, seeing nothing but the cut to black.

Malcolm cried, looking at his hands, soaked in her blood. The snot dribbled over his lips and into his mouth, tears riding down his chin and dripping onto his sweater. He leaned his head against the window and breathed a cloudy mist, dirty and opaque. His eyes drifted to the purse in her lap, the crinkled money in the foot well. The ache in his head was like a jackhammer, his entire skull vibrating with the force of it. His skin was dotted with goose bumps. He felt a peristaltic squeezing in his lower abdomen, would’ve doubled over and fell if he’d been standing. His eyes drifted to the purse in her lap, the crinkled money in the foot well. He needed to get well. 

Malcolm swallowed down the sickness, the miserable existence he called a life. He snatched the purse from her lap and stuffed the money inside. He tucked the knife into his pants, underneath the shirt, and got out of the car.

Malcolm stopped and peered inside the car, Dorothy slumped against the seat, her lap cupping a pool of blood. An overwhelming sense of regret gripped him in that brief moment, but his body’s erratic, painful sensations allowed him to surpass the regret and hold onto the desire, the need. Malcolm gripped the door and slammed it shut, leaving a bloody handprint on the window. He ran back to his apartment, a group of Hasidic Jews staring at him, confused frowns as to the muddy, maroon smudges over his front, hands buried in the cuffs. He fingered at his phone on his way up, texting dealers at random, looking to score.

#

Malcolm stood at the corner of his building, skin feverish with the anticipation of the needle. He wore fresh clothes and his hands were washed, but he could still feel the residue on his fingers, gloopy blood stuffed beneath his nails. His teeth chattered as the car pulled up, the window rolling down. It wasn’t Drax, but it didn’t matter. He still owed. Malcolm owed every dealer he knew. He offered two hundred for a gram, knowing it would put a dent in his debt and would make the dealer happy enough to part with the dope without hassling him.

The baggie curled into his palm. A lightness of feeling seeped into him like water into a sponge. It wasn’t long before he was upstairs with a loaded barrel. The needle pressed into the skin, the skin giving before letting the needle puncture, a sweet spearing of pleasure sending a shiver down his spine. He shot up and color sprang back into the world. Malcolm felt good again, felt like a person. The sickness disappeared and satisfaction settled over his face like a bridal veil, marriage to his addiction flowering in his mind.

Malcolm slumped over, the needle dangling in the crook of his elbow, belt fixed to his arm loosely. He thought about Dorothy, her chin bibbed with blood, the knife buried in her chest. It was her eyes that burned through him, glazed and inanimate, staring into an abyss. He knew he had done a terrible thing, but it didn’t seem so bad now, the memory scrubbed over with heroin, hazy and abstract.
Malcolm tongued his lips, droopy eyes cast over the apartment, a siren blaring in the distance, louder with every second. He considered his life and what it led him to be, but it felt so difficult, the change he’d envisioned, that he’d pined for in days past. It wasn’t going to be as easy as he thought. It would take time, dedication. He thought he had it in him. After today, he would be better. After today, Malcolm would no longer be a slave to addiction.

Malcolm got well and he was going to change his life.

Tomorrow.

THE END

Richard Gregory

‘Trepidation’, ‘Surgical Notes’ & ‘Authenticity of Angels’

Kyle McCorquodale is a street photographer and amateur writer from Glasgow Scotland. He likes to focus on street abstract photography.

Trepidation 

swirling clouds

lightning

drenching rain

covering towns below

feeling vibrations

hearing wings flap

voices screeching

hungry beasts

lurking in streets

roaming between houses 

thirsting

preying

where 

can we hide

Surgical Notes

surgeons call it

a quadruple bypass

I call it

a grand slam

out of the park 

nightmare pain

forever a PTSD

beyond the shallow

breathing

gasping baby steps

emaciation

depression

prayers

end of tunnel light

a loss of muse

slowly returns

a renewal

fresh oxygen

fresh blood

circulate

this poem

Authenticity of Angels

wings folded or spread

sculpted stone 

marble bronze crystal

eyes closed gazing

up or down

hands in prayer 

playing a lyre

standing kneeling

churches graveyards

idolized in murals 

actually 

they live and walk

in our midst

plainly dressed 

maybe fancied up

speaking many tongues

called to deliver

messages

once

twice

sometimes more

warnings or promises

all too human

until they are called

Richard Eric Johnson lives and writes poetry in Arlington, Virginia. He has authored five full-length poetry collections and his poetry has appeared in numerous online and print journals. Eric is also a Pushcart nominee. He most recently was honored to be archived at La Salle University’s Connelly Library. He is a graduate of Indiana University with a B.A. in Germanic Languages and an M.S. in Education. After a tour in Viet Nam and West Berlin, he embarked on a career as a public servant and is now very happily retired.

‘Remembrance’

Elizabeth Agre retired in northern mn along side the bear, wolves, and bobcats. She writes poems, paints, and takes pictures.

Remembrance

Jasmine glided through the office, her chin tilted upward. The sharp click of her red-bottom heels against the polished floor echoed like a declaration, each step daring the room to question her authority. Jasmine prepared to meet a new high-end client a week into her partnership. The moment Jasmine stepped into the room, the air was thick with the sound of sobs. A woman, mascara streaking her cheeks, clutched a tissue in one hand and a marriage in the other—shattered, betrayed, and desperate for revenge.

 Memories of their wedding day flickered—her racing heart, the tight grip on her bouquet. Now, those moments felt distant. The Gothic-style church stood with its rocky grey exterior in stark contrast to the gleaming white marble interior—a renovation that had cost a fortune. At least that's what the wedding planner told them when they asked why the venue was so expensive. It wasn't like they couldn't afford it. Jasmine was a newly named partner at her law firm, attesting her promotion to her firm's attempt at their version of affirmative action. Of course, there were more deserving employees, women who had worked there for years. However, she was the only black one who worked there. 

Her other Black female attorneys left because they were overworked. Jasmine loved her hours. They kept her from going home and worrying about whether Chuck had managed to sell one of his paintings. Jasmine stopped thinking about Chuck and their marriage to look at her boss's vast pile of papers stacked haphazardly. She would be going home late again today. 

Chuck lay sprawled across the ten-thousand-dollar couch, the cushions swallowing his body as he drifted between sleep and waking, oblivious to the world beyond the plush fabric. The luxury that Jasmine had so carefully curated for her friends meant nothing to him. Though it was three in the afternoon, he remained stretched out, unconcerned with the day slipping by. Chuck had the expression of a spoiled dog, a pet who didn't have a care in the world. He slept like he was unaware of the cost of maintaining the life they built and the checks it took to keep them living the way they lived. Chuck could sleep his life away, and his owner would still love him the same, if not more, because of how cute he looked resting. He finally rolled over and got up around seven in the afternoon. He didn't brush his teeth, he didn't hop in the shower, and he didn't eat anything. Instead, the first thing he did was start stringing the new bass guitar he had just bought. The guitar was custom-made by a retired professional rock star. Chuck had always dreamed of attending one of their concerts as a child. 

Chuck didn’t blink at the price. A few taps on his phone and the funds vanished from their joint account as easily as ordering takeout. That evening, Jasmine returned home, her voice sharp as she confronted Chuck about his decision to buy the guitar without consulting her. She didn't understand if it was custom-made or if the rock star shaved down the tusk of an African elephant to give the guitar a hollower sound—this guitar's glossy brown was a beautiful contrast to the ivory interior. 

"I thought it was our bank account," Chuck said, giving Jasmine a smirk, knowing he had won the fight. Chuck was playing the guitar, though not well. The sound mimics a child playing with a guitar in passing. He didn't hear when Jasmine came in from work. Chuck remembered the first time they met, back in their pre-law class. Before long, he had switched his major to painting and sculpture—a decision that tacked two more years and countless loans onto his degree. Jasmine presented her project on the Fourth Amendment and what it meant to her as a black woman. He remembered her standing in front of the class and talking about how she couldn't exercise this right as a black woman without fear of death. She calls out the white girl teacher's assistant, who would be sure to fail her solely on the color of her skin. She blamed all the eighty-seven other white people in the room for this. Calling out the seventeen white women in class whose faces were already mirroring a dear in headlights and spoke about how they would say nothing when he died. Shaming the sixty-nine white men in the room who would side with the police officer over killing her, even when she reached for her phone to call her mom and tell her her only child may not walk away alive from this soon-to-be crime scene. Then she looked at Chuck, the fury in her eyes directed at him, singling him out for being the cop who would kill her. He would stand over her and cry because of how his taking her life would affect him. 

Jasmine would tell Chuck later that day that she had singled him out because he looked like he had broken down from being accused. 

Jasmine sped down the brightly lit highway, exhaustion tugging at her limbs. She allowed herself a fleeting fantasy—walking through the door to a warm meal, Chuck waiting at the table with a smile. But the image dissolved before it could settle, replaced by the familiar weight of disappointment. Then, she could dip into the already-run bubble bath upstairs. A glass of Rosé waiting for her paired with the candle-lit bathroom. Jasmine knew these ideas were next to impossible. So, before she walked through her double-sided dark wood doors, she threw these ideas out of her mind. 

Jasmine walked through the door with the pile of papers she didn't get to finish after getting kicked out of work by the janitor who needed to do their job. She probably would have spent the night in her office if not for that. When Jasmine officially became a partner, she got a pull-out couch for her office. Everyone in the firm would comment on how her office feels at home. Walking into the office resembled walking into grandma's house with a tray of warm cookies and a tight hug waiting for you. Jasmine's office had become more comfortable than the expensive, lavish home she shared with Chuck. Their house was slowly becoming more of a prison to her. As the days go on, she fears she won't escape the shackles Chuck and she created. Every day was another fight, another argument, or another thought unsaid. 

Jasmine had walked into their house in the dead of night. The moon embraced the night sky like Chuck hadn't done to her for years. 

Jasmine couldn't believe her eyes when she walked into their home. She expected to see Chuck sleeping on the couch like a log, regardless of the fact he hadn't done anything during the day. Instead, Jasmine opened the door and was greeted with enough bass to burst her eardrums. In his white briefs was her husband running around the house playing the guitar, worth three months' salary. Jasmine just stood in the foyer, taking in the scenario she had the misfortune of viewing before she could even get a syllable out, thud. 

Jasmine remembered the night Chuck finally met her parents after three years of dating. She wished she could say it wasn't because she was embarrassed by Chuck, knowing how her parents and family would react. 

She couldn't. 

The dinner that night could have been more eventful. The dinner table was quiet, with the sound of forks and knives cutting into the Angus steak Jasmine's dad prepared to impress her boyfriend. The most language spoken through Jasmine and her parents stealing glances at each other. They are not daring to talk about the elephant in the room. This was nothing new to Jasmine; her family was pretending everything was fine and putting on a pretty smile to fool her. 

Chuck sat at the table uneasy, his legs shaking violently under the table all night. He looked at her father eating a steak in a full five-piece suit—the tan of the suit the highlight of the room. Chuck thought of how he could never compare to this man. Chuck couldn't believe Jasmine had allowed him to come to this dinner dressed in polo button-ups and cargo pants. Her father looked ready to perform an acceptance speech at an event celebrating his life's work, while Chuck looked like he was getting willing to try and score a hole-in-one. 

By the end of dinner, the atmosphere inside the house had changed. Everyone had moved from using body language to communicating. Jasmine's dad had begun to pester Chuck about various subjects dads seemed always interested in. Jasmine's mom's laughter filled the kitchen while washing the dishes with Jasmine. Jasmine's mother talks to Jasmine in the kitchen about her relationship.  

"I'm sorry about our reaction to Chuck. We didn't think you would bring a white guy home with you. When we heard about him, we did think his name was a little weird, but we didn't think anything of it." Jasmine's mother let out a nervous laugh to finish her statement. 

Jasmine did not share in this laughter. 

Jasmine had an idea of how her parents would ask, but seeing a scene play out differs from having multiple ideas floating around in her head. "Yeah. I didn't think you guys would act like that, either. I'm shocked and appalled," Jasmine's mother's mouth touching the granite countertop. Her face was in disbelief, wrinkles forming around the sides of her mouth and the corners of her eyes, not being able to think of her daughter speaking to her in this tone, "You guys live in this new grandeur house, pulled out the best china you had, cooked the nicest steak dinner I've ever seen, but despite all that you still managed to ask like an uncivilized ass." Jasmine didn't take a moment to hear her mother's reaction to her statement. 

Jasmine ran through the kitchen with the memories of the horrible dinner and her parents' faces when they saw Chuck's face. There was sadness in their eyes as if they had just been told that their candidate didn't win or that Dad had been accused of being involved in a massive political scandal. They had constantly hammered home that you need to respect everyone regardless of their differences. That white man would always look down on her, and when they looked down, she looked up.

Chuck was taking a tour of the living room with Jasmine's father. He showed off the different political awards he won across his career. Her father placed particular emphasis on the first award he won while he was on the city council. It was just a basic award you could find in the window of every trophy shop. A simple golden cup with a “Thank you for your service, Martin –." Jasmine's father was saying it was his most prized award while he stood in front of a five-shelf glass of different gold and silver awards. 

Jasmine's dad wrapped his arms around Chuck's shoulders, pulling him closer and embracing him. Chuck could now smell the aroma of the red wine they drank earlier on her father's breath—the scent of juicy berries, plump cherries, and sweet plums filling his nostrils. Chuck didn't drink the wine that night. Then, he was three months sober. 

"See, this award is my favorite. It's humble and a reminder of where I came from and what I've done. It's important to remember your roots and stay true to that." Chuck looked at this tall black man while he talked. He understood the emotions coming from him. But before Chuck could reply to this mighty statue of a man, Jasmine flew by and dragged him out of the house. 

"I'm sorry about that. I was scared to introduce you because I didn't know what to expect from them," Jasmine sighed while trying to focus on the road, "But I never expected that reaction from them. They've found themselves in a big new house and have seemed to forget how to act." Chuck studied the night sky and focused on how the stars grouped and stitched themselves together to craft different patterns. He had noticed how one set of stars seemed to form the design of a guitar. He smiled, thinking of how he had successfully secured tickets to his favorite artist's farewell concert. 

"It's fine, Jas. You already told me how they might react," Jasmine started to respond, but Chuck pointed out at the road to stop her, "They reacted more extreme than you thought they would, but it was fine. After dinner, your dad told me how sorry he was for reacting that way. He started going on and on about how I needed to treat his little girl right. Or I would have to deal with him." Chuck let out a hearty laugh, giving Jasmine no choice but to join him. Chuck stared at Jasmine the rest of their way home. He was leaving the beauty of the stars in the sky for the beauty that sat next to him. Leaving the shining bright stars in the skies for the shine that came off from Jasmine's eyes as the night lights bounced off her brown wood eyes. He replaced the fullness of the night sky with the fullness of her jet-black hair. The patterns he saw in the sky he now caught in the patterns her curls made in her hair, him getting lost in the maze they created. He grabbed her hand and held it for the rest of the ride. Chuck never thought he could touch the night sky and admire its beauty up close.

Jasmine watched through her door after a long day of work and couldn't believe what she saw. The house resembled the aftermath of a storm—chaotic, disordered, a far cry from the home it once was. The first floor looked like the aftermath of a storm—trash strewn across the floor, milk splattered in sticky white arcs across the kitchen tiles. Pots and pans teetered in a precarious tower in the sink, threatening to topple at any moment. The package of eggs and bacon was thrown on the kitchen table with raw bits of bacon and broken bits of the pure white eggshells scattered around the stove, table, and floor. The eggs that had fallen out of the eggs remained cooked on the stovetop. 

The living room was even worse for wear. Jasmine had no choice but to walk past it, not to pop a blood vessel when she walked in. The massive glass table that greeted the house's entrance was scattered across the living room floor. Jasmine had to tiptoe across the room to avoid stepping on one of the seemingly million pieces of glass so as not to ruin her newly bought Louboutin's. The African face masks her father gifted her lay on the floor, all but broken. She could only find bits and pieces chucked around like jigsaw puzzle pieces. Jasmine made her way around to the living room and stood before the trophy case she had proudly displayed. Chuck and she shared the case, with him having his first pieces of artwork there and her having different gifts she'd gotten over the years from assorted clients. Jasmine didn't have much attachment to the gifts she had stored in the case. They were more so conversation pieces for her visitors. 

Chuck’s first painting stood out among the polished trophies and gifts—a piece she had come to cherish more than the rest. Its haphazard strokes of white and blue against a black canvas, a childish imitation of the night sky, held a deeper meaning than any award could. He had created it three months after their first visit to her parents. Shortly after that disastrous dinner, Chuck quit his job, drained of all motivation following the conversation with her father. How could he provide for Jasmine when he was still stuck working as a public defender while Jasmine was on track to becoming a partner. 

Chuck's first painting was of a night sky. He took inspiration from Jackson Pollock while making the piece, which shares the childish appearance with the former's works. Chuck used a black canvas and spread the white paint haphazardly over the canvas. The white color was fusing itself into the canvas, creating the night sky illusion. Chuck went into certain spots and put spots of blue paint to give the painting that extra push. Jasmine had always asked him why he wouldn't sell the piece; it was one of his best pieces that most of his regular buyers were always looking to snatch. Jasmine couldn't help but shed a tear in front of the now broken piece. 

Jasmine ascended the stairs with a hollow sensation inside of her. She didn't know what to say to Chuck when she saw him. She walked up the stairs without a thought in her mind. She entered her bedroom to find Chuck lying on the bed like Goldilocks. Jasmine felt a rage that rivaled what the bears felt when they saw Goldilocks in their home. It took her not to throw herself into an attack on Chuck. She resigned herself to not doing that. Instead, she took off her shoes and changed into her house slippers. 

Jasmine crept through the house, methodically sorting her belongings into neat piles. The soft thud of boxes against the floor was the only sound that broke the stillness, while Chuck remained oblivious, his deep sleep undisturbed by her departure. She quietly retrieved boxes from the basement. Jasmine started to pack everything she could in the five boxes she found. As she moved through the house, tears silently fell, the only trace of her presence that night. After packing all she could bring, she began to walk out the door, but something told her to take one last look back. She turned and saw the broken picture of that night sky. She stared at the piece until she could come up with the reason as to why Chuck never sold it. Once she finally realized why Chuck hung onto this seemingly obscure picture, she stood in the foyer over her packed boxes and wept. She truly wished that Chuck's love for her was enough to make her stay. Jasmine ripped out some paper to leave a note attached to that broken canvas. Her note only houses a single word.

Sorry.

Erick Rivers is a writer and artist from North Miami Beach, Florida. His work blends poetry, short stories, and fantasy, often exploring themes of memory, identity, and activism. Erick has served as editor-in-chief of SIX Magazine, a publication from the College of Fine Arts at Florida State University, showcasing student artists' diverse voices. When not writing, Erick enjoys time with his cat, Kit, and playing Magic: The Gathering.

‘The Moments I Catch Myself Catching You’, ‘Just Before the Boneyard’, ‘Bottled Negativity’, ‘Holding You in the Dark’ & ‘Pisces’

Edward Palmer is a Photographer, Digital Artist, and Poet living in Southeastern North Carolina. Please visit his website at https://geminiskies.com to see more of his work. Palmer enjoys fishing, creating, and spending time with his wife Kimberly, Service Dog ARROW, and pet dog Poe.

The Moments I Catch Myself Catching You

I did not watch the sandhill cranes as they came down the pavement,

long legged and lanky, their brown twin chicks in tow, but rather

I watched you, the moment your eyes held them in their passing.

Your lips, slightly parted, slipped into a smile; the same warm grin that arrives against

my own mouth with every shared kiss—lips that hold felicity and mirth the way marinas

harbor ships; gentle waves split in twain by pylons, awaiting the next caress of the green lake.

Kiss me again, my dear, for it is not the ways in which you love me that I adore, but rather

the way you love all things living. 

Your heart is not a vault in which to keep your love locked. Your heart 

is the pavement on which the cranes toe: an endless highway for all things to travel upon—a road I’ve waited a lifetime to walk.

Just Before the Boneyard

Just before the boneyard there

hangs a lantern. A miserable wrought-

iron thing, it burns white against the sun’s new skin

and hemoglobin red at noon. The flame behind

cracked-glass panes

flickers grapefruit come sunset, and fragile wispy-

blue come the hour of the witch. Some say the lantern

keeps the spirits and phantoms trapped within the tombstone

acreage—wards away the banshees and succubi—while others

say such gentle fire serves only to guide us into the

afterlife, away from earthly suffering. But I say no. No. The flame is not so kind,

for the lantern’s faint phosphorescent glow is but a mockery

of the liminal space of flesh—a perpetual glimpse of life’s

final flake bordering death: a needle’s eye of light against endless black silk.

Such spirits revere the flame as the living cherish the boneyard.

Bottled Negativity

To hold me inside is to keep the djinn

within its wax-sealed pot. For not even the winds

can blow when cinched in a bag. Such

is the frozen tomb of your gaiety.

I am the vessel that cages you, the prison of your ambition.

Break free and claim your wishes. Catch the summer winds in your sails.

Free yourself from my hold.

Holding You In The Dark

And so it was—

as the coyotes took to their yipping in the

sapphirine predawn—

that my heart awoke to your touch.

Your fingers

—such gentle wisps—

stroked against the white of your neck like snowflakes

taxing away at birch bark translucent in the night.

But cling to your throat they did not, your fingers, but instead

slipped between my own pale branches resting upon your

waxing and waning womb.

O how the years have passed since the coyotes first awakened me. Alone

and cold, their predatory howls preyed upon my solitude as if my hide were cottontail.

But youth knows not that winter is a season eternal,

and love only blossoms come the spring.

Without yet knowing you I reached for your hand all the same

and found stale canid tracks in the snow where they’d once circled my frozen heart.

Did their witching-hour yapping ever wake you as it did I, my love?

Did you also search your bed for the comfort of my phantom hands?

Did you ever find them, or did your wandering also lead you alone into the snow?

Leave your weary head in the cup of my shoulder and do not stir.

Allow me to hold you a moment more. Feel the thaw in my heart as is pumps against your skin.

Do not watch as the blackness lifts and the dogs slink once more into their dens,

for all will be light when you awake.

I know now—

as I felt your body shift close to me at the first wolfish note—

that you’ve been searching for my hands for some time now,

for you knew precisely where to find them—

around your body, holding you in the dark

Pisces

And when you feel the night pressing close, encroaching on your stillness

do not search for me in the vacant space where my body lied the night before

Find me instead woven into the silky starlight resting upon your bedroom curtain

-its sheer frailty your shield against the darkness

Find my love and all its warmth glistering within your chest as your weary, worried

breath dips and climbs like rhythmic tide.

Leave your strife to explore the tidal pools left behind

for octopi and sea stars, green algae strands and the memory of my kiss

Let it collect and hoard all the little shells and treasures it can find

Let each be a piece of me, so that you might never be alone

For we are earthly things, confined to the eddies and currents of

life’s ever-flowing stream, our bodies nothing more than trout trapped

in dark, rushing water. And though we fight the river’s strength, with all that we are,

it pulls us apart nonetheless, not knowing we are fierce swimmers

or that our love always returns us to the other, no matter the distance, no matter

the gravity; for our love, a cyan fire, purls against our scales and fins like faraway beacon

Look into the blackness, my love, and find my phosphorescent glow. Let it guide you. Let us find ourselves together anew and defy the torrent, for it is your light that tames the water around me

Let us swim together forevermore, two trout thrashing through black water, set ablaze with love’s blue fire

Devin Hartman currently resides in Michigan's Upper Peninsula with his wife and their three cats. He is a graduate of Northern Michigan University.

‘The Great Compromise’

Chelcie S. Porter is a bold and unapologetic artist, photographer, and creative director whose work defies conventions and embraces the raw complexities of human emotion. With over a decade of global exploration spanning 60+ countries, Chelcie draws inspiration from themes of migration, identity, and liberation, weaving these into her fine art photography, multidisciplinary creations, and community-driven projects.

The Great Compromise

Barrington Tabor, fascinated at how territorially combative the little sons of a bitch were, watched delightedly as the eight or ten, maybe more, hummingbirds vied for dominance—or simply out of pure orneriness—around the feeder that he’d put out on the tree stump behind the deteriorating one-car garage, a building that hadn’t housed an automobile in fifty years, if ever. It was the ninth of April. The little suckers had arrived unexpectedly early. 

Yesterday morning, Barrington woke to the buggers darting from scrub oak to scrub oak like the speed freaks he’d known in art school in the Bay Area, back in his days of folly and bullheadedness, before he met Debra. Much like the would-be artists used to flit from one student’s easel to another’s in the hope that their work would be the piece that received the attention of the instructor, the hummingbirds seemed to perform their feisty aerobatic maneuvers just for Barrington.  In those classes, years ago, if not praise, then advice or, hell, even criticism was all the future Piccasos and Pollocks lived for. Any notice from an instructor was a victory. Obviously, these little fluttering sons of a gun were irritated that the artist hadn’t had the decency to set out the feeder with the sugary, gooey blend for them to stick their greedy little beaks into upon their arrival from God only knows where. But how was Barrington to know? They used to show up precisely on the fifteenth of the month, year after year, but with global warming, they seemed to be adapting to less time spent in Mexico and more in Texas. For better or for worse.

Even more worrisome than the changes in the Earth’s climate and the impending doom that the alterations foretold was Debra’s, his schoolteacher wife’s, not being home yet. She should have left El Paso before eight. It was now four-fifteen. It wasn’t at all like by-the-clock Debra to dawdle at her parents’ home—of all places—and to not get an early start on her seven-hour trek across the West Texas desert.     

Debra had dreaded her return to her hometown, but it had been twelve years since she convinced Barrington that they should relocate to the dwindling town of Dos Pesos, Texas. A dozen years had slipped by since they made what Barrington called “the great compromise”. Jobs were few and far between back then—the recession and all—so they agreed to give Dos Pesos a try, for a year or two. No more than that. How bad could it be? If either of them one day were to say, “I’ve had enough of living out here in the middle of nowhere,” they’d pack up and skedaddle in the blink of an eye. As it turned out, the circumstance that the Contreras County school district was the only system that needed a high school English teacher that fall semester proved to be almost fateful. She could teach. He could paint with little distraction. Neither Barrington nor Debra regretted that she had waited too long to get her applications out after graduation from New Mexico State. The “great compromise” wasn’t all that bad, not really. So now, here they were, stuck in a town of eleven-hundred people, a place no one had ever heard of, a dusty little settlement neither of them really cared for, yet had no inclination to desert anytime soon.

“Something terrible happened between Van Horn and Ft. Stockton,” said Debra from the threadbare, dilapidated chair in the corner of the living room. Both husband and wife had intended to find someone in town who could reupholster the ugly wingback monstrosity, but neither had the gumption to seek anyone out.

“Geez,” said Barrington. “What was it?”

“I think I might’ve gotten someone killed on I-10.” Red-faced, wide-eyed, Debra pointed toward what she thought was the western wall of the living room in their one-bedroom, hundred-year-old adobe bungalow. It wasn’t west that she pointed, more like north-north-east, but Barrington knew where she intended to indicate. Debra was a teacher, not a cartographer.

“Killed? How did you get someone killed?”

She sighed. “I was driving over eighty. I knew I was running late, but you know how Mom is. I couldn’t get away without a whopping breakfast.” She shook her head, then shrugged. “Anyway, I was about halfway between Van Horn and Ft. Stockton, near Balmorhea. A semi was poking along in front of me. Like I said, I was trying to make up some time. When I pulled into the passing lane to get around the truck, I heard a honk, then the truck driver blasted his horn and, in my mirror, I saw a gray SUV swerving in the lane I was pulling into, the damned passing lane. The SUV must have been passing me, but it had to have been in my…what do you call it? My blind spot. The driver of the SUV lost control and rolled over I don’t know how many times in the median. I looked back and all I could see was the damn car tumbling over and over…and the billowing dust. It was awful.”

“Did you stop?”

“No. But in my mirror I saw that the semi had pulled over and a bunch of other cars had pulled off the road. People were running toward the overturned car.” Debra blinked. “About ten minutes later three state troopers’ cars came out from the east, probably Ft. Stockton. They had their lights flashing…and their sirens blaring. Then, a few miles farther down the road, two ambulances came from the same direction.”

“Oh, God. But you don’t know if anyone was hurt?”

“How could I? I didn’t stop. I panicked.” She glared at Barrington. “I couldn’t have helped anyone anyway.”

“Did the trucker get your license plate number?”

“How would I know?” she cried, took a deep breath then coughed. “He might have been too busy pulling off the road. But he knows that the driver of an old blue Camry is the idiot who caused the whole thing.” She rubbed at her eyes. Her hands shook like Barney Fife’s. “Should I call someone? Tell them it was me that caused the accident?”

“Jesus,” said the artist. “You could call. I guess. But I don’t see what good it would do. What’s done is done.”

Debra knotted her hands in her lap. “I teach my students to take responsibility for things. How can I just walk away from this?”

“You already did. And, holy shit, there’s a big difference between responsibility and taking the blame.” Barrington winced. “You could lose your job over something like this, causing an accident. Or leaving the scene of an accident. Could you see who was in the car?”

“I think I saw a woman in the passenger’s seat. In the front seat. She looked terrified and she must have been bracing herself against the dashboard. But I might have imagined that. I was in a panic myself.”

The artist nodded slowly. “I think you should just let it go.” He turned both of his palms upward in supplication to the gods of randomness. “If they know who you are they’ll show up here pretty damn soon. If no one got your number, you might be in the clear.”

Debra harrumphed. “But I’ll have this guilt to live with. I don’t think it’s worth it. How will I ever know what happened to those people in that car?”

Barrington grinned. “I think you’re better off not knowing. If they’re okay, so much the better. If they’re not, you don’t want to know. Not really. Like you said, what could you have done?”

“I don’t know how I can live with myself,” said Debra.

“You will,” said Barrington. He exhaled heavily. Finally, after a long moment, he said, “They called from that gallery in San Antonio, the one on Hildebrand Avenue. They sold one of my paintings. The one of the coyote on the hillside. The one you liked so much.”

Debra smiled wanly. “That’s good, isn’t it? And just out of nowhere. You weren’t sure anyone would want that one.”

Darrington nodded. No, he thought, I knew someone would want it. It just takes the right person coming along at the right time. It’s all a matter of chance.

Outside, behind the garage, the feeder rested on the stump, abandoned. The frenzy was over. They must’ve had their fill, said the artist to himself. Lucky little bastards. 

He stepped through the knee-high weeds and cactuses then bent over to check if the feeder needed refilling. It was still half-full. At the base of the stump lay a hummingbird. Motionless. Lifeless. The artist was sure of it. Like a penitent on Good Friday, he got down and his knee and studied the creature then poked at it with the forefinger on his left hand. Nothing. It was dead all right. Its pinhead-sized black eye was fixed on something beyond him in the late afternoon sky. He pulled his cellphone from the hip pocket of his Wranglers. He took the picture he would need if he decided to capture the likeness on canvas. In his mind he already had a title for the piece. Nothing Contemplating Nothingness.

“What happened to you, little guy?” he said in a thin voice. “Did the others do this to you, or did it just happen? You flew all the way from Mexico, and for what? I’ll bet you never saw it coming. How would you know? Birds don’t know about this sort of thing. It just happens.” He sighed. “Now, I’ll give you a proper burial. You know how Debra is. I can’t let her find you out here. She gets all weepy over this sort of thing.”

David Larsen is a writer who lives in El Paso, Texas. His stories and poems have been published in more than forty literary journals and magazines including Cholla Needles, The Heartland Review, Floyd County Moonshine, Aethlon, Oakwood, Coneflower Cafe, Literary Heist, Change Seven, El Portal and The Raven Review.   

‘TRAIN AND WINDOW’, ‘GAY AGENDA—WITH TRASH’ & ‘LASTS, DOESN’T LAST’

Genavieve Thums is a senior in high school. Her photography follows the season and shows how she feels from day to day through a moment in time. It helps her express her complicated feelings because she doesn't always know how to deal with her emotions.

TRAIN AND WINDOW

Sun at the window,
a gold train
chugging along, heading
for a depot. I stay
under the sheet
like the dead. The sun
aims for passengers
leaving through a
glass crack.

GAY AGENDA—WITH TRASH

You may not want to live
next door to us. We have
a gay agenda
which we’ve perfected—
it isn’t quiet. I spent
years being quiet. You may
see me do something
outrageous, like take
the trash out
on Thursday nights
or even weed when
it’s not too sunny. I have
been seen clipping
coupons. It’s radical,
this dangerous agenda,
two guys holding hands
and sitting on the porch.

LASTS, DOESN’T LAST

Lake Superior: wind
soldiers guard almost
impenetrable ice forts.
Winter thinks
it will stay forever
with good reason—
yet ice breaks up
like unhappy lovers.
Open water. Spring
writes her name
on every wave.

Kenneth Pobo (he/him) is the author of twenty-one chapbooks and nine full-length collections. Recent books include Bend of Quiet (Blue Light Press), Loplop in a Red City (Circling Rivers) and Lilac And Sawdust (Meadowlark Press). Forthcoming from Fernwood Press is a book of poems called At The Window, Silence. His work has appeared in North Dakota Quarterly, South Florida Poetry Journal, Amsterdam Quarterly, Nimrod, Mudfish, Hawaii Review, and elsewhere. @KenPobo

‘Ars Amatoria’, ‘Sweet Potato’ & ‘Remaining’

Hannah Thomas Reyes is an hispanic artist from the Rio Grande valley. As a young child, she was inspired by the workings of the horror genre and the unconventional. Now as an artist, she wants to share her love for those genres, and wants to put her spin on it.

Ars Amatoria
—golden shovel after Kobayashi Issa

You may find it easier, as the others have, to fall in
love with how I make you feel than with me: this
full-lipped, ill-equipped poet headlong whirled
into the wake your smile left. You may even
find endearing the exodus of variegated butterflies
fleeing my stomach to flirt, emetically mustered
to flutter from my curl-framed face. I’ve learned
to swallow the swarm & to forgive their garish ascent; they’re
just yearning to be perceived, in all their hues, and still kept.

Sweet Potato

“One would think of a boy laying
syllables with his tongue

onto a woman’s skin: those are lines
sewn entirely of silence.” -Ilya Kaminsky

If your neck was an elegy, it was for
me. Writing toward your mouth
with the kisses that dragged us
that much closer to a place
further than sleep from our
reach. When your cheeks burnt
stories into my lips & your tears
soothed their cracks, it happened.
Once or twice in his time, a boy is
diced like a sweet potato. Coaxed
from his peel and softened, then
reduced in moments to what sweet
little he built from his roots. What’s
left makes men and poets. You once
told me you’d never love a poet but
only knew you loved me after reading
about the color of your eyes.
You don’t know yourself yet, or where
to look, the next pages all blotted
with uncertainty. I wrote them on your
forehead every morning with a ks;
in forgotten murmurs you would ask
how I can’t fathom your love
when it is here, driving the sun to rise.

Remaining

I am here under hollow skies
when September finds the city,

reading rondeaux at empty tables
to silent applause, candid in its pity.

Stubborn sunshine reminds me: to be
invisible is not to be unexposed,

and how to wake up. I am here
with ears undocked, airs discomposed,

writing answers to what absence asks
when I listen. I am drawn here

by the reassurance of being seen through;
better undistinguished than unclear.

Summer finds me in the doorway, sees
how comfortable I have gotten making

monsters of myself. I am heard by
dripping sunbeams, fall my awaking.

Julian Kanagy is a Chicago-based poet whose work sets out to explore questions he can't find the words to ask. As Editor-in-Chief of The Wild Umbrella, in regular reading, and in his own writing process, Julian appreciates intention, concision, and variety in structure. Per the advice of a mentor, he lives in search of poems that nobody else could have written.