‘Ballelejuah’, ‘A Long Way To Go For A Turing Reference’, ‘27.99’ & ‘Molt’

Juan Sebastian Restrepo(zeb) is a Florida-based artist known for his paintings and drawings that explore the interplay between memory and storytelling. He holds an MFA from Southern Illinois University Edwardsville and a BFA from Pratt Institute. His recent exhibitions include “intersections” at New World Gallery (2023) and “Hybridity” at the Edwardsville Arts Center (2018). Upcoming solo shows include “No Further Expectations Beyond this Night” at The Art and Culture Center/Hollywood (2024) and “multitasking” at [NAME] Publications in Miami, FL (2024). Restrepo also teaches as an Adjunct Faculty member at Florida International University and Miami Dade College.

Ballelejuah

It's bally in here, today
Warm, with the scent
of axe and gym socks
The gymnasium
With it's once polished floors
And steady, irregular thumping
of basketballs, like thunder
It's early enough
The girls haven't arrived yet
with their volleyball
passing games in their ring.
The kids playing wallball
in the corner,
can't get along.
That One kid, and the other one
playing horse at the hoop
raised nearly to the ceiling,
out of the way
The herd grows with every air ball.
A swish, from half court
Nobody saw or heard.
Ballelujah

A Long Way To Go For A Turing Reference

I understand that contemplating
The mind of God is fruitless
Nonetheless I persist.
(we're commanded to put
aside our first fruits)
Objectively, prayers unanswered
are likely God's dearest gift.
Pondering deeper
(The depths of a pond)
I believe God's immense silence
to be cause and yet effect
of harmonic cancellation.
"Dear god, let our team win"
Uttered from fervent
but utterly opposed hearts.
Does God have the luxury of chance?
A holy coin flip, Eeny Meeny Miny Mo?
Mayhap, perhaps, divine consultation
With a machine, or Alan Turing
(whose accomplishments in math
FAR outweigh his harp virtuosity,
Though he probably could hit
Those high notes!).
Gods fingers too large for one of those
Folded paper fortune teller things,
He whips out his god sized cell phone
and texts Saint Cajetan, his delegate
in matters of arbitration

27.99

Thank you for your service
For the years and money you spent
In pursuit of your teaching degree
For feeding my son, my daughter.
Thank you, for making them feel seen.
Thank you, for braving dirty hands
And snotty noses, and coughs
That never get covered.
Thank you for buying all that stuff
You share with my kids
Even when i should have provided it.
Thank you for spending long nights
And early mornings, and weekends
Reading a thousand papers
That all say the same thing,
And treating each on like a work of art.
Thank you for being their friend
When they're sad, or scared
Or just plain mad at the world.
Thanks for always keeping your chin up
When they blame you for children
Who never hear "no" at home.
Thank you, for being willing
To stand between our kids
And a man with a gun, and lots of bullets.
That will be $27.99.
I'm sorry, we don't offer
An educator discount here,
But perhaps you were in the military?
Willing to die or kill for ‘Merica?
No? I'm sorry, the total is $27.99
But, thank you for your service....

Molt

If I squint past the beams
Of light flooding through the window
I see the discarded husks
Of who she was once
Strewn about the dust.
I wonder, do they give her
Pause.
And whether she knows,
Or cares that she is now
Just a bigger monster.
No kind words or whispered love
But a mouth full of rot
And venomous fangs.
More Shelob than Charlotte
Her visitors litter the sill
Tribute to her
And unheeded warning to others
Here, there be monsters...

Peter Cooke is a newish poet who works in a middle school library. Cooke also facilitates an after school poetry club for kids. He has been recently accepted for publication by Skrews Syndication and Rising Phoenix Review. He started seeking publication mainly as a way to "lead by example" for his middle school poets.

‘Out of the Woods’

Juan Sebastian Restrepo(zeb) is a Florida-based artist known for his paintings and drawings that explore the interplay between memory and storytelling. He holds an MFA from Southern Illinois University Edwardsville and a BFA from Pratt Institute. His recent exhibitions include “intersections” at New World Gallery (2023) and “Hybridity” at the Edwardsville Arts Center (2018). Upcoming solo shows include “No Further Expectations Beyond this Night” at The Art and Culture Center/Hollywood (2024) and “multitasking” at [NAME] Publications in Miami, FL (2024). Restrepo also teaches as an Adjunct Faculty member at Florida International University and Miami Dade College.

Out of the Woods 

The copper tub reflected the water splatter as the level rose. The combination of lavender and eucalyptus mixed with the steam created a calming vibe in my little pink bathroom. It was relaxing, in a way, feeling all the stress slowly leave my body almost like I was floating outside of myself. 

I watched my old cardigan fall to the floor as I stepped into the water. 

I winced for a second, then emerged deeper, feeling my skin burn. I blocked the pain from my mind as I had done before, but it was beginning to feel comfortable as the heat seeped into my pores. The water pouring into the tub drowned out the music that played in the background. When the tub finally filled to the brim, I twisted the knob to turn it off. The whimsical Folklore album played on, filling in the silence, “I think I’ve seen this film before so I’m leavin’ out the side door.” 

My body slowly sunk to the bottom of the tub. Laying there, I replayed the events of the previous months over and over. 

My break-up. 

My hook-ups. The hook-up with a co-worker and a former co-worker. 

*Beep, beep* 

That brought me back to reality. 

I reached for my cell phone that sat on top of the toilet seat. Looking at the screen, I quickly put it back down. Not tonight, I thought as I lay there. I need more time before talking to you. 

*Beep, beep* 

1

Fuck. I reached for my phone again. Adam. He was the one to blame for this downward spiral. Just looking at his name on my phone took me back to that night. 

We lay on our bed. The bed where before that night, we had talked about our future and the kids we hadn’t had yet. Where we would be tangled up in the sheets embracing each other in the comfort we needed. Where that night, while we were talking about our day of work and school, he shattered my heart. 

“We need to talk, Beth,” he sighed while guiding a stray strand of hair out of my face. His touch was soft on my face. 

“What about?” 

“Us. I don’t think this will work anymore. We aren’t doing well, and we can’t keep faking anymore.” 

The rest of that night was a blur between my blurry, tearful eyes and the half bottle of Patron I drank to numb all of my pain. I couldn’t understand how twenty-four hours ago, we had been talking about forever and how we were willing to make everything work between his nursing school degree and my night job. We had been struggling with spending time together due to our two different schedules. The night shift sometimes made it feel like we were just roommates instead of partners. Then that next night, it turned out that he wasn’t happy and thought that there was someone better out there for the both of us. 

There was a scratch at the door that brought me back to reality. A tiny black nose connected to a brown and white dog had pushed her way into my bathroom. She released a low whine and lay on the fuzzy, electric green rug. Tilting her head back and forth, she released another low whine in confusion. 

2

“Come here, Belle,” I whispered as I dangled my arm over the tub’s edge. Water droplets trickled off my arm and onto the tile. Belle was hesitant but slowly made her way toward me to see what would happen next. As she sat below me, she managed to balance herself on her back legs and extended herself upwards to put her front legs on the brim of the tub. The chihuahua/terrier tried to lean her head towards me and somehow managed to get the stray tear that lingered in the corner of my left eye. 

“Thank you, pretty girl,” I said, rubbing the three little white spots that were on her right ear. Her comfort helped me cheer up, even if it was just for a minute. 

*Beep, beep* 

I looked towards my phone while she continued to try and lick my face more. I shifted in the tub to sit up, and Belle took off out the door to avoid the water. I opened up my messages to see three texts from Adam. 

The first one, “Hey, are you okay?” 

“Hello?” 

“Beth… You have your read receipts on. I can see you are reading my texts.” A heavy sigh slowly came out of my mouth while I laid back in the tub, trying to think of something to say. I saw the three little dots appear to show he was texting something else. Lowering my arm to the outside of the tub, I dropped my phone on the fuzzy rug and then submerged my head under the water. The air bubbles quickly rose to the top as I released my breath. I wonder if I drowned how long it would take for someone to come here, I thought. No, that is awful to think. What would happen to Belle? Who would take care of her? Your parents didn’t want you to get her, and you did it regardless. What would they do? 

3

Gasping for air and clearing the hair out of my face, I reached down and moved my phone back to the toilet seat. I stepped out of the tub, grabbed my green towel to wrap around my breast, and walked towards my bathroom mirror. My eyes were still puffy and red from the nonstop crying I had been doing for the last two weeks. Looking at myself in the mirror, I removed my towel and examined myself. Looking at the stretch marks that ran down my breasts and thighs, my stomach, when I turned to the side, looked like I was about three months pregnant. Disgusted with how I let myself go these last five years in the relationship. 

Maybe this is what my former co-worker meant when he said that ‘curvy’ girls were more fun to fuck, because their extra skin made it easier to hold on to. 

“Stupid Irish men,” I muttered as I ran my hands along the side of my body. I knew I had let my body go, and maybe this was the reason that Adam had left me. Of course, he would never say that to my face. He was too nice in that way. He was always being considerate of what he said to me. 

*Beep, beep* 

Picking up my phone, I looked to see who could be texting. 

Zayne. My co-worker. The guy who was the rebound two months after the breakup. We had agreed that we wouldn’t be an item, just FWBs. He was my go-to, middle of the night, can’t sleep kind of text. 

“You okay?” was his text. Never before had he reached out like this. It wasn’t like him. “They say all’s well that ends well…” I replied. I need to cut the Taylor Swift crap, I thought. As I had moved to my bedroom, his next text came in. 

“Seriously, are you okay?” 

4

I sat there with my legs crisscrossed, thinking of how to respond. Do I tell him that I thought of drowning myself in my tub less than ten minutes ago or lie and say everything is fine? Normally I would be against lying, but tonight that was the winner. 

“I’m fine.” 

The three dots appeared and then disappeared. Zayne was never one to care about how someone else felt; instead, it was all about him. That was why these hookups would work between us. He got what he wanted, and I did too—my chance to escape my mind and shut down for the few minutes that it lasted. Our ‘situationship’ wasn’t healthy, but sometimes I didn’t need healthy. I just needed to escape. 

I tapped on Adam’s last text. The text bubbles still showed like he was still writing out another message. 

Why is he doing this? Shaking my head, I laid back on the bed and saw a white and brown fur ball jump up. 

“Make yourself comfortable, Belle. It’s just going to be you and me for a while,” I said. She walked towards the pillow I was lying on then curled herself right up against my shoulder and gave a heavy sigh. “Well, aren’t you just being dramatic,” I smirked. She licked my nose in response and then burrowed her head into the black comforter. 

I looked back to Adam’s text. The bubbles had gone away, and now all I could see were the texts he had sent over the last week. I began to type out my response, and instead of thinking before hitting send, I did the complete opposite. I hit send. 

“We were built to fall apart. Then we broke each other’s hearts.” That was my response. I didn’t know what else to say to him. 

5

Laying in bed, my mind began to wander back in time. I met him close to six and a half years ago. We worked together at Applebee’s, but we also were hurting at the same time. It was the same relationship that I had with Zayne currently that I had with him in the beginning. We helped each other heal in different ways, but we couldn’t let each other go. So our story had begun, not the way that a normal story would start, but it was something. During this time, he was the person I thought I was meant to spend my life with. We were both in school working towards a better future. He was determined to be a nurse and live in the big city. I wanted to be a writer who could travel the world. We had always supported each other. We thought this was love, but we never called it what it was. Toxic. We were always worried about each other being honest. It made Adam paranoid any time I didn’t immediately answer the phone when he called. I chose to overlook that side of him. 

That was a choice I shouldn’t have made. 

*Beep, beep* 

Was it Adam? I thought to myself. 

Nope. 

It was a notification from Bumble. I forgot about this app. As I clicked on it, I couldn’t remember who I had swiped right on. The few memories I have of this were when I was at the bar with my friend Sam. We had been doing Patron shots left and right, along with her constantly advising me on how I needed to get back out there. How now that I have been single for four months, I need to start talking to people again. She had been telling me about all the apps she was on and meeting all of these men who made her feel special. 

Checking my messages, I was surprised to see I had one guy reaching out to the question I had asked him. 

6

“Favorite childhood memory?” 

He had replied, talking about all of the trips he and his family made to his grandparents. Seems like a sweet guy, I thought. I swiped through his profile. He was a good-looking guy, about 6’3”, and very family-oriented. He had included that he was a dog lover, though he didn’t have a dog currently, and that he was a teacher/coach. The more that I looked at his profile, the more I wanted to know about him. There was this attraction to him that I didn’t know how to describe. As I went to reply, there was a sudden knock at my door. 

Belle was alert and barking up a storm. My wall clock showed that it was 10:30 pm on a Friday. I looked out my little peephole in the door and felt my heart drop to my gut. “What do you want, Adam?” I yelled through my door. “Why are you here?” “Your text. I’m here because of your text, Beth.” 

I slightly opened the door and put my head between it and the black doorframe. “My text didn’t say for you to come over.” 

“Yes, but you quoted Taylor Swift lyrics. I know you only do that when you hit a low point. Let me in, please?” 

My head and heart were at a battle. My heart wanted him to come inside, while my head was saying to close the door completely. 

“Come on in,” I sighed, opening the door completely. As he walked by me, I could smell the alcohol on him. He must have been out drinking when he was texting me. Turning to face him, he placed his right hand on my cheek and gently pushed me against the door. 

“I can’t shake you, Beth. I tried that night we broke up and the nights that followed, but I can’t get you out of my mind.” 

7

I could feel his other hand running up and down my body, exploring every inch of my black silk nightgown. 

“I can’t do this, Adam,” I whispered. “You can’t just come back after four months of leaving just because you saw me post a sad tweet.” 

His breathing was getting heavy as his face inched closer to mine. “I know, and I regret leaving you behind, Beth.” 

I could see the hurt in his brown eyes. It was the same hurt that I saw that night and every day when I looked at myself in the mirror. 

“I have missed you,” I said. “I missed you since that night you said we were over.” Adam’s hand tilted my face up towards him, his lips right in front of mine. For a moment, nothing but good memories flashed before my eyes. He made me smile and would surprise me with my favorite flowers, white daisies. 

“I want you,” he whispered. “I want all of you again.” 

I felt this sharp pain enter my gut when those words flowed out of his mouth. There was no going back from this, and I couldn’t tell what the future would bring, but at that moment, all I wanted was him. 

“I’m yours.” I pushed my face forward to where our lips collided. I could taste the Jameson on his lips and the hint of cigarettes. He never smoked when we were together, but I wasn’t going to stop and ask why he started now. Our hands explored each other like it was the first time all those years ago. His touch made me feel safe and weak, all in one. He made a grunting noise as he picked me up, my legs wrapped around his waist, and carried me to what used to be our bedroom. 

8

I wanted us to make up for the lost time. To stay frozen while time continued to move around us. His embrace was what I missed the most. His touch. His taste. The way we got tangled up in the sheets and then would lay there and giggle about how we were as twisted as a pretzel. We lay there that evening, his head resting on my chest, yet I could still feel the pain. The same pain I felt the night where he called it quits. I looked over at my neon clock, where I saw it was 12:03 am. 

Crap. 

I needed to sleep, but I couldn’t. 

*Beep, beep* 

I quickly reached for my phone so it wouldn’t wake Adam. He began to quietly snore, my signal that he was completely passed out. I clicked on my notifications to see that it was from Bumble. 

A message, to be exact. 

Butterflies arose in my stomach, along with a shiver that ran up my spine. Never had I imagined that I would be in bed with my ex and also want to meet this new guy in person. Beth, what a shame you're fucked in the head, I told myself. 

Bumble guy had asked me what my favorite childhood memory was, and it was nice to think back to when I was a little kid. I told him my favorite memory would have to be all the summers that I spent rodeoing with my grandparents and how it shaped my love for horses even more. 

Laying my phone on the side of my bed, I looked towards Adam. He was everything that I wanted when I was twenty. He was the kind of guy who had a great career and knew what he wanted in life until it came to his relationships. He and I always struggled with getting out of our 

9

comfort zone of a relationship. Yes, we loved our date nights in the same three places, but it always was the same old routine. He never wanted to venture out and try new things, while I practically had to beg for those experiences. 

The vibration went off on my phone, and as I looked at it, I had to grip it tight so I wouldn’t drop it. 

Bumble guy wanted to meet. 

He wanted to take me on a coffee date and get to know more about me. 

I could feel my heart begin to race. What do I do? 

I knew I had to make a choice. 

In my response to him, I said one simple word. 

Yes. 

Tabatha Franklin is a passionate 5th grade ELAR teacher. She has a love for words and literature, and this passion is what she uses to encourage her students. She loves to spend time with her two dogs, her husband, and a good cup of coffee. Previously published in October Hill Magazine and is currently a Non-Fiction Editor for Chaotic Merge Magazine.

‘Flipped’

Juan Sebastian Restrepo(zeb) is a Florida-based artist known for his paintings and drawings that explore the interplay between memory and storytelling. He holds an MFA from Southern Illinois University Edwardsville and a BFA from Pratt Institute. His recent exhibitions include “intersections” at New World Gallery (2023) and “Hybridity” at the Edwardsville Arts Center (2018). Upcoming solo shows include “No Further Expectations Beyond this Night” at The Art and Culture Center/Hollywood (2024) and “multitasking” at [NAME] Publications in Miami, FL (2024). Restrepo also teaches as an Adjunct Faculty member at Florida International University and Miami Dade College.

Flipped

Meghan's seat belt cut into her stomach as she drove to work. She fiddled with it, trying to get it to sit the right way as she sat at a stoplight. She got it after a second, the light turned green, and she kept driving.

A week later, something jumped onto her bed as she slept in her apartment. It shocked her awake and bounced her up. Her heart pounded as she looked for the intruder. Someone had broken in. She flipped the light on, and it burned her eyes.

No one. Nobody stood on the bed or next to it. The covers twisted around her legs, and she sat at an angle, turned ninety degrees, staring at the wrong wall. She spun on her bed and took in her empty bedroom.

She grabbed a gymnastics trophy off her dresser and spent ten minutes hunting through her apartment, testing the locks on windows and doors and peeking into closets. She held the trophy like a cudgel, upside down. She found nothing. A nightmare. It must have been. No one would break into an apartment on the tenth floor of a fifteen-floor building. She went back to bed, setting the trophy on the nightstand next to her phone.

A few days into the next week, she headed to an account manager's office. She had to talk to him about the new accounts for Q2, and then she had to speak with the marketing director about the Q1 ad campaigns. She hummed "Free Fallin'," which had come on in the car.

Her tan flats left the floor as she turned a corner. Her body shot upward, she pitched forward, and her back slammed into the drop ceiling. She punched through a panel before she fell back down to her stomach, skinning her knees on the brutal, unyielding office carpet. She chomped her tongue hard enough to draw blood.

Voices approached, and co-workers found Meghan sitting on the ground, rubbing her head and looking up, face a twisted mask of surprise and confusion. Dust and broken ceiling pieces littered the ground around her. “I...I flew up and hit the ceiling.”

“What do you mean?” a man said as he helped her to her feet. “You jumped?”

“No, I....” Meghan looked at the gap in the ceiling. “It was like gravity had reversed. And then I fell.”

“Fell? Haven't you learned how to fall after all those years of gymnastics?” A woman said. She looked up as Meghan glared at her. “It looks like a piece of ceiling fell. Did it hit your head?”

A few minutes later, Meghan sat at her desk, ice pack pressed against her head. She spat blood into the wastebasket and glared at the ceiling. Maybe a panel had fallen onto her.

Three days later, on Saturday, Meghan carried a box of old cookware down to the storage of her apartment building. She took an elevator to the parking garage and crossed to the storage area. She balanced the box on her leg while she fished the key out. Key in, pull open door, enter storage space. Once she found her apartment's closet, she had to rearrange things to make space for the cookware and spent the next ten minutes playing Tetris with old Christmas decorations from her mom, clothes she meant to donate, and a surfboard she had never used.

If I move this box of ornaments over here, that means I can put this bag of old jeans on top of it. Ah, dammit, the surfboard fell over again. Have to...prop it up...in the corner. At last--enough space. She stood up, picked up the box of cookware, and fit it into the space she had made. 

She dusted off her hands, closed the door to her closet, fished her phone out to check the time--plenty of afternoon left--and flew up until her body hit the ceiling.

Her head hit first, and then her body crumpled into a fetal curl. Breath blew from her lungs. The shock jolted her hand open, and her phone crashed to the cement floor, nine feet below her as she lay on the ceiling. Her body pressed against the dirty surface, and she let out a painful cry. She rolled her back against the ceiling and looked down at her phone. The screen had a deep, flickering crack.

Her stomach bucked. Her vision spun. White dots flashed. A lump on her skull pushed her hair aside. Her right wrist shouted at her, and her hip stung. Something pulled up onto the ceiling. She ran her hands over her clothes but found no wire, no rope, nothing to lift her. She rolled to her hands and knees on the ceiling. Dust flew down her throat, and her stomach twisted as she coughed. A fluorescent light blared a foot away. She rubbed her eyes and tried to stand.

She collapsed back against the ceiling, eyes shut as the world spun on every axis it had. She groaned and whimpered, pulling her sore body toward the door. She pushed herself to her knees and reached for the doorknob; a full foot separated the handle from her fingers. Hands pressed against the wall, she put one foot flat on the ceiling--her legs shook and failed her. Meghan slumped to her side. She looked over her shoulder, at her phone, on what used to be the ground. Panting, swallowing, Meghan turned around and pulled herself until she laid over it. She got to one knee. 

She fell, striking the cement ground next to her phone. Several minutes went by; her body lay under grimy fluorescent lights, motionless.

The door to the storage area opened, and a black middle-aged woman came in, carrying a box. A moment later, she found Meghan and ran to her side. "Miss? Miss, are you all right?"

One of Meghan's eyes cracked open. She shifted and grabbed the woman's wrist. Everything hurt. "What on earth happened to you?" the woman asked.

Meghan tilted her head back at the ceiling. She picked up her phone, squeezing it tight. "I got stuck to the ceiling," she said. “And then I fell.”

The woman, Cynthia Anderson from the sixth floor, helped Meghan limp back to her apartment. The elevator, as it sped to the tenth floor, sent her into nauseated spirals. Meghan collapsed onto a chair as Cynthia ran around, finding painkillers and something to pack ice in. Meghan's wrist swelled, her knee bled--again--and thoughts bounced inside her head like rubber balls inside a bathroom. Crashing everywhere. "Meghan, I need to get you to a doctor," Cynthia said. Meghan looked at her. She'd been sitting in the chair for an hour. Or a minute. "I'm a nurse, and I think you have a concussion. You said you fell?"

Meghan looked up at the ceiling. A popcorn ceiling, with millions and billions of tiny, jagged stalactites. "No, I...." She swallowed a lump in her throat. “Something happened and I was lying on the ceiling, and then I fell and hit the ground.”

“That concussion must be worse than I thought. Let's get you to my car.”

She had a concussion. The doctor recommended sleep. “No, you don't have to wake up every two hours. Just sleep.” Meghan hung on to Cynthia like a high bar as they went up to her apartment. Cynthia offered to check on her in the morning. Meghan agreed, holding tight to the counter.

Pain rocked Meghan from one side to the other, splashing over her like waves on a ship. Fragmented thoughts and vivid, feverish half-dreams boiled her skin.

She stood in the center of her bedroom. Her bed floated over her.

She stepped over the lintel to get to the hallway.

She looked out the window, up at the distant ground. A friend beckoned to her from far below.

She woke up the next morning in the center of her living room.

"I'm really sorry," Meghan said Monday morning. She sat on the floor under the kitchen counter, one hand squeezing it. "I feel awful. I've...I've been lightheaded for a few days now, and I fell really bad on Saturday. I got a concussion." Her cracked phone flickered in her hand as her boss spoke. "Because of the ceiling tile? Uh...maybe. I feel a little better, but...I don't even think I should be driving, much less working on sales reports." She let a long breath out as her boss went on. "As long as I can get a little extension for the Q3 after-report, I'll have enough time. I hope to feel better by tomorrow."

She said goodbye and hung up, rubbing her forehead. She replaced the ice pack atop her head. The swollen lump had shrunk, and she shivered, but it weighed her down.

Twice more since waking up on Sunday, confused and cold in the middle of her living room. 

The first time as she showered, minutes after Cynthia had called to check on her. She had grabbed for the shower handle, and her wet hand had slipped. She crashed to the ceiling--the popcorn ceiling had sliced hundreds of tiny cuts up and down her left side. She reached out and grabbed the shower curtain rod, counting the seconds. She'd spent her entire childhood grabbing bars, and she focused on her landing. At her best guess, she spent five minutes on the ceiling as the shower ran, gusting steam up onto her. When it ended, she swung on the rod. Her hands slipped off the warm, slick metal, and she crumpled to the hard tile. She gasped as more new pain shot through her. 

The water ran on, crashing onto the floor of the shower. She stretched her body out, bracing herself between the shower stall, the toilet, and the wall, breath coming faster and faster, heart swelling in her throat. Steam stung her eyes. The cold tile dug into the marks on her side. She inched herself across the floor until she curled herself around the toilet, shivering, dripping, hurting, and crying.

The next morning, in the kitchen, she maneuvered to the sink as she held tight to the edge of the counter. She wrapped her arms around the edge of the sink and pried open a cabinet with the tips of her fingers. By tenths of inches, she worked a mug out and turned the water on.

The second time had come at night, before bed. She had called Cynthia again.

"It happened again. In the shower. I was on the ceiling for five minutes, Cynthia, you have to believe me!"

"Oh, hon, you poor thing. Confusion and dizziness are common concussion symptoms--it just felt like you were on the ceiling. My husband is home right now, he could come up and help you out. If you're okay with that, of course."

Meghan's eyes had been on the ceiling. "I guess that's okay."

"Okay, he'll be up in a few minutes. I'll have him bring some oatmeal cookies. They might not help your head, but they'll taste good."

Ten minutes later, a short, middle-aged black man appeared at the door to her apartment, beaming and holding a plate of cookies. "Meghan, right? By God, you look...." His eyes flicked up and down her body. "Uh, Meghan, you live with anyone? Boyfriend?"

"No, no." Meghan turned around and led him in. "I'm here alone."

"But...you have a boyfriend?"

Bruised. Fearful. "Mr. Anderson, I'm single. No one is doing this to me." She sat on the floor, near her coffee table. She reached out and wrapped her arm around its leg. 

"Oh, good. Good. Because, you know, I've seen that kinda stuff a few times. Here." He held out the plate of cookies. "Go on. Cynthia's a dynamite baker."

"Thank you," Meghan whispered, taking one of the cookies and slipping the edge between her teeth.

Mr. Anderson--Boyd--had asked her about possible triggers for dizziness and falling. Slips? Momentary losses of thought? Meghan didn't know. She tried to explain what had been happening. It couldn't be, of course. She had hit her head. She nibbled the cookie down to crumbs as she hung on to the coffee table. Boyd told her to be careful, get some rest, and to call him or Cynthia if she needed help. He left the plate of cookies in the kitchen and said goodbye.

Meghan sat, clinging to the table. She swallowed hard and slipped her eyes shut. Darkness spun around her. She let the table go. She remained on the floor. Staggering into the kitchen, she stood in the center until she grabbed the edge of the counter. Moments later, her feet flipped over her head. She lost her grip and crashed to the ceiling, at least escaping another head wound. A few moments later, the tenant above her stomped on his floor.

Meghan stared down at the plate of oatmeal cookies on the counter until she fell ten minutes later. She ended up on her back on the kitchen floor, crumbs scattered around her, after bouncing off the counter and rolling.

The next morning, the mug she held ran over with water, soaking her hands, and she dropped it into the sink as cold struck her. She slapped the faucet off and sank to her knees in front of the sink.

A jagged crack ran around where she had hit the ceiling the night before. Enough force to almost punch through to the apartment above hers.

She put her hand to her pocket for her phone. It still rested on the counter after she talked with her boss. She shoved it into her pocket. With one arm over her head, she made her way to her bedroom, clinging to the refrigerator, the couch, and her bed. She wrapped herself in a duvet and balanced a pillow on her head. After creeping to her dresser, she took out a belt and began to find a way to strap the pillow down. She got as far as looping the belt around her throat before throwing it into the corner, shaking her head. She took her phone out and sent a message to Cynthia, asking if she had a bike helmet she could borrow.

And then she sat in her bedroom, holding the pillow over her head, sweating under heavy blankets, staring up at the ceiling.

She jolted awake, poison slicing through her veins. She looked around and found herself still on the ground, sleeping on the pillow she'd been holding over her head. She pulled her phone out. Almost noon. She sat back against the edge of her bed, clutching the pillow to her chest. She buried her face in it, and her stomach woke her an hour later. She grabbed a fistful of carpet and took a deep breath.

Crawling across the carpet, pillow and duvet covering her, she returned to the kitchen. From her spot on the floor, she opened the fridge and grabbed the closest item, a tub of yogurt. She pulled open a drawer and grabbed a spoon sight-unseen, and huddled under the open drawer as she ate.

And nothing happened. She emptied the tub of yogurt and tossed it toward the garbage. Soft food in her belly strengthened her. She closed the drawer she hid under. Licking her lips and breathing out, she stood. Everything spun. The ground quivered under her feet. Afternoon light shifted through the window, but she didn't go anywhere. 

Until she bent for her pillow.

Her hands caught the edge of the counter, hanging on this time. The entire length of the countertop cracked and separated from the cabinets underneath it, groaning as it pulled away.

It held, attached at the end against the wall, and for a moment, Meghan hung under the ceiling. It waited a foot below her; she released and landed on her feet. She'd ruined her countertop. At first, it had been a minute. Then five. Then ten. How long this time?

She walked to her bedroom, stepping over the lintel, wincing every time her foot came down on the popcorn ceiling. She stood over her bed. Her gymnastics trophy remained on the nightstand. When she fell, how hard could it be to summon those championship skills back and keep from hurting herself? As she fell onto her bed, of all things? Even softer than a mat!

She knelt and then laid on her stomach--when she fell, she flopped onto her back without pain.

A laugh escaped her. It turned into a roar and a scream. I've been flipping and grabbing bars my whole life! It's not like it's anything new! Laughing until her stomach hurt, she laid on her bed, hair spread out around her head and sheets in disarray.

She sat up and put her feet on the floor, curling her toes into the carpet. A foot away, the golden gal on top of her gymnastics trophy applauded her. She picked up the trophy and held it to her body.

But what next? She could keep herself safe--now she had to figure out why. She'd call Cynthia and Boyd and try to convince them. What about her friend Marie? Marie would back her up. She'd be there to he--

She hit the ceiling hard enough to punch through it, cracking through the plaster and wood and shooting into the next apartment, an empty bedroom. She screamed and clutched the gymnastics trophy as she continued up. Her body turned, and her back hit the next ceiling first, denting it as she came to rest and forcing all the breath from her lungs.

Pain rolled down her spine. She squeezed the trophy to her chest, eyes shut tight. They have to believe me now. How else could I do something like this? As long as they look--

The pressure pulling her up surged; she crashed through the ceiling, shooting upward into the next apartment, smashing apart a bed and the next ceiling, shrieking as she plummeted toward the top of the building. She gained speed, crashing through two more levels until she entered the penthouse. The old woman who lived there jumped out of her skin when Meghan shot through her floor and crashed into the ceiling, crumpling into a ball.

Meghan looked up. She curled around her trophy. Years of taking falls hadn't left her just yet. She spotted the old woman. "Help."

A force yanked on her, and the final barrier between her and endless sky cracked. "Help! Help me!" Meghan shouted. "I need help! Call someone, please! Do something!" The ceiling crackled, crumbling dust to the floor. "Please! Please!"

It gave way, and bright blue sky greeted Meghan.

She fell up with nothing to stop her. Arms and legs spun. Buildings flashed in and out of her sight. The sun carved arcs in her eyes. Her trophy caught the light and turned it to golden spears, attracting attention from anyone near windows.

She glanced off the edge of a cell tower on top of the building, and it knocked the scream out of her mouth. Her thigh struck a dish, and she cried out in pain, still climbing. Her shoulder hit something, and numbness filled it to the fingertips as she twirled into the sky.

You spent your entire childhood grabbing bars!

Her numb fingertips caught part of the tower, and she jolted to a stop. Her toes hung up toward the sky, her hair gusted around her face, and her right arm cradled the gymnastics trophy to her chest. Her left hand squeezed the metal bar with all the strength it had. 

Breath pounded in and out of her. She craned her head up, taking in the immense height of the cell tower and her building. Distant, tiny cars drove through streets far under her head. 

The cell tower creaked. Metal squealed and bent. The bar Meghan clung to twisted, pointing upward. Meghan's fingers dug furrows into it. 

It snapped; the sky grew, and the ground shrank. The cell tower's final segment flashed closer and closer, a red light atop it glowing every few seconds. She reached out her hand as she spun, and her shoulder pulled out of its socket as her fingers wrapped around the final rung on the cell tower's metal skeleton. Pain tore across her back, and she let out a howl. She looked up.

Endless sky waited to swallow her--licking its lips as she hung under it, pointed straight down its throat. Gnashing its teeth, spittle flying, tongue darting out and in.

A circular opening widened past her feet. Crackling red static ringed it, and bloody darkness waited inside. Moans and howls and screams poured out. The opening in the sky grew around her, and her separated shoulder lost strength. Her hand squeezed harder, just like when she swung on the bar in high school. 

Black light surrounded her. A small opening let the cell tower through and showed her world. Alien color dug into her eyes. Flickering figures appeared--stretched and narrow, three fingers on each hand as long as her arm, and they reached out for her. They stood on the sky. The closest one's boiling hand touched her face.

Bellowing, Meghan snapped the base of the gymnastics trophy through its head. It turned to a red smear. Blazing beams of white light shot out from its body, blinding her, and screams drilled into her head.

Whistling air replaced screams. Her eyes cracked open--blue sky replaced red. She hung from the cell tower, toes pointed toward the ground, waves of pain from her shoulder washing over her. Red powder covered the trophy's base.

She turned her head. Pain and flipping perspectives dizzied her. Light reflected off windows, each one containing staring people. Her toes found cold metal. She groaned as her shoulder redoubled its painful argument. She wrapped her other arm around the cell tower, still holding the trophy, and eased herself down.

After a few minutes, she had to work her way around the tower to a small, narrow set of metal rods--the tower's ladder. Her stomach rolled inside her, and every time the cell tower's red light flashed, her head snapped up, looking for a red wound in the blue. 

Her foot touched gritty cement, and she lost her balance, yet her feet kept her upright. Open sky swirled around her. The door to the roof pounded open, and people rushed for her. She cradled her wounded arm. The gymnastic trophy base's sharp, stained corner pressed into her collarbone. They had all seen her.

Daniel Deisinger is alive and he dares you to prove otherwise. His work has appeared in more than thirty publications, including 'Havik,' 'Defenestration Magazine,' and 'Ripples in Space.' His serial “Voices in My Head” is available on Kindle Vella. His X account is @Danny_Deisinger, and his website is saturdaystory-Time.weebly.com.

‘TRAUMA BOND’

Juan Sebastian Restrepo(zeb) is a Florida-based artist known for his paintings and drawings that explore the interplay between memory and storytelling. He holds an MFA from Southern Illinois University Edwardsville and a BFA from Pratt Institute. His recent exhibitions include “intersections” at New World Gallery (2023) and “Hybridity” at the Edwardsville Arts Center (2018). Upcoming solo shows include “No Further Expectations Beyond this Night” at The Art and Culture Center/Hollywood (2024) and “multitasking” at [NAME] Publications in Miami, FL (2024). Restrepo also teaches as an Adjunct Faculty member at Florida International University and Miami Dade College.

     TRAUMA BOND                      

     First off, Candy was not old enough to be a grandmother. She had just turned forty-eight and did yoga at the YMCA twice a week. Real grandmothers had to be at least sixty with white hair and glaucoma and wearing three pairs of glasses. Like her Grammy Barnes, once upon a time, doling out gardening advice and oatmeal with blackstrap molasses. That was an earlier era, before opioids and Suboxene. Before teenagers covered themselves with tattoos and got pregnant without knowing it and lost their parental rights by leaving their toddler wandering the neighborhood in diapers. Repeatedly.

     “It’s all my fault,” Candy said. “I must have done something wrong.” She and her neighbor, Sheila, were sitting on the back porch, drinking ‘sun’ tea. Candy brewed it in a big jar on summer weekends. Sometimes they added a touch of vodka.

     “No, you were great. I saw it all. The neighborhood crew loved it when you’d load them in your van and drive them through the carwash. Anymore, it’s the luck of the draw, having kids,” Sheila said. 

     “Your daughter seems to be doing okay,” Candy said.

     “I hope so,” Sheila said. “She only calls home once a month now.”

     The toddler’s name was Max. A puffball rascal who pulled the cat’s tail. Named for Mad Max, his absent mother’s favorite movie. After several 911 calls from neighbors in the trailer court, Child Protection Services got involved. They placed Max in foster care with Candy. The unrepentant daughter also lost her right to a name in Candy’s house. Candy tried to not even think her name.

     “It’s a shock, but eventually you’ll forgive her, just like when our girls got expelled together,” said Sheila, who had just lugged over a dusty Pack-N-Play crib from her attic. 

     “Remind me what they did,” Candy said.

     “Called in a bomb scare to avoid taking a final exam.”

     “I never forgave her for that. I just forgot,” Candy said.

     “This time, she’s inpatient and receiving a medical detox. She’ll get clean,” Sheila said, “and, honey, your little houseguest is a champ.”

     Sheila waved both hands at Max and scrunched a funny face, and the toddler stared back impassively. 

     “When his dad comes for the supervised visits, Max looks up at him like, hey, who’s the grown-up here?” Candy said.

     Max’s father, Gator, was a scrawny, wannabe rapper who freelanced as a plumber’s assistant. He rarely showed up on schedule at Candy’s house and when he did, played with Max as if he himself were a two-year old. Gator was so skinny that the local plumbers hired him to slide into narrow crawl spaces that nobody else could enter.

     “No worry of Gator ever trying to get custody,” Sheila said.

     “I kind of wish he would,” Candy said. “No, I don’t really mean that.”

     “Relax. I won’t tell CPS.”

     Caseworkers came and went with clipboards and cameras. They studied everything in Candy’s bungalow on Bridge Street. They told her to address her ant problem. Everything was under observation. Everything was being supervised and noted. And everything was getting more tenuous, as Candy second-guessed all her choices. How much screen time is healthy for a toddler? And, of course, the sugar thing. 

     To provide the required level of care for her grandson, Candy would either have to quit her job at the mall optician, or hire a nanny, or put him in a certified daycare. This was according to the red-bearded caseworker who came to inspect Max’s bedroom.

     “What if I took him to work with me?” Candy said, “They have child-care for the retail employees at the mall.”

     “We’d have to inspect those premises too,” the red beard said.

     Silence, while Candy rubbed her eyes with her fists.

     “Are you all right, ma’am?” the caseworker asked.

     “I’m remembering something from high school science class about the act of observation changing the thing observed,” Candy said.

     “You’re feeling… changed how?” the caseworker asked.

     “Way more paranoid,” Candy said and shrugged and pulled her glasses down to the tip of her nose. “They should sell insurance for my predicament. Parental Screw-up Insurance. God, I never expected this to happen to me.”

     “Don’t blame yourself. It happens a lot. I’ve got a twenty-five year old living in my basement, playing video games all night,” the caseworker said.

     Candy appreciated the sentiment. “My grandmother used to listen to a radio show, Queen for a Day, and when it got toward the end and the prizes were being dangled in front of the contestants, she’d say, ‘Just try and get it, sweetie. Just try and get it.’”

     “I’m not sure what that means,” the caseworker said.

     “Most everything in life is too good to be true,” Candy said.

     After her husband bolted when she was six months pregnant (life lesson: never fall in love with a carpet salesman), Candy went back to Central Tech to become an optician’s assistant. She had to pay the bills somehow and, what the heck, she’d always loved eyeglasses. In her will, Grammy Barnes bequeathed an entire collection to Candy. Horn rims, rhinestone cat-eyes, polarized aviators. Candy wore them for fun, for dress-up, and when she needed to feel serious. She wore the serious glasses a lot now. Would Grammy Barnes approve of her decisions about Max? 

     At work, Candy displayed a soft touch with her customers, literally and linguistically. A purchase of eyeglasses is an intimate experience. When gently placing the product on the customer’s head, Candy always added a slight stroke at the temples. And a warm word.

     “You look ready for the beach at St. Tropez.”

     “Is that in Florida?”

     “Somewhere around there.”

     “Do the bifocals make me seem fuddy-duddy? Maybe I should get the progressives.”

     “No, on the contrary. I was thinking the traditional bifocal line adds some gravitas.”

     Candy decided to put little Max in the daycare at the mall. No choice really. She couldn’t afford anything else and Social Security was years away. She was afraid that Max would get expelled for biting or throwing toys. He liked to throw stuff out of his crib. And he never spoke. Age two and a half and Max hadn’t uttered a single word to Candy or the bearded caseworker, whose name was ‘Bill’. 

     “Should I be worried about that?” Candy asked.

     “Let’s give it a while longer,” Bill said.

     “Would you like something to drink, a glass of sun tea?”

     “Yes, thank you, ma’am. I’m parched.”

      They sat out on the porch and shared a cold drink. It became a habit. Bill had come by the house several times now. Max crawled around and eyed him, turning slowly left and right, as if the toddler had the world under observation too, and felt speechless at the sorry state of affairs. Or rather, Max spoke out with his eyes, big blue discs, astonished and perplexed. Twice, Max reached up and yanked at Bill’s red beard. Ouch. Somehow he took it in stride.

     “I hung a photo of his mother on the wall beside the changing table,” Candy said, “but he doesn’t seem to recognize her.”

     Bill said, “I notice that you never use his mother’s name.”

     “I’m trying to forget her. It’s awful, but otherwise I just couldn’t cope.”

     Bill murmured something far down in his throat and thumped his chest.

     Candy added, “The truth is, I’m really mad at myself.”

     Bill nodded and said, “Been there, done that. Try hanging a photo of yourself with Max’s mother. And also one of his young dad.”

     “That’s a good idea, thanks,” she said, “How’s it going with the gamer in your basement?”

     “Obsessed with Grand Theft Auto and a webcam site that streams the daily existence of a guy crossing the Atlantic ocean in a barrel.”

     “Say what?” Candy asked.

     “You heard it right,” Bill said.

     “My Grammy Barnes used to complain that the world was passing her by. And I never really understood that until now.”

     “I’ve been feeling some compassion for the dinosaurs too,” Bill agreed.

     Bless his heart, little Max did okay in the daycare. He was content to sit in the corner and watch the other kids play, occasionally lobbing a stuffed animal at them. 

     “Somehow he knows this has to work out, or else we’re in big trouble,” Candy said to Bill, when he came to inspect the daycare. “He still isn’t talking, by the way.”

     Bill shrugged and said, “Nature gives us the first couple years of life to experience basic human connection, before language comes along and screws everything up.”

     “So… he’s enjoying it while he can,” Candy said.

     “Exactly, while he’s got someone who really cares for him,” Bill said.

    “Hey, you’re sweet,” Candy said. And Bill was sweet, sort of, in an affable lunkhead manner that hinted at scar tissue not far underneath and that Candy had been assiduously avoiding ever since her lunkhead husband abandoned her. In the minus column, Bill sported pathetic, drugstore readers. 

     He surprised her with a come-on. He turned to Max and said, “Kid, your grandma is hot.”

     Max blinked his blue eyes. Candy blushed and said, “Bill, I know you mean that as a compliment, but I’m not sure it’s really appropriate, you know, given the situation with your agency.”

     “Sorry, you’re absolutely right,” Bill said. “Please don’t tell my supervisor.”

     “Is he the one who called to tell me that my daughter has run away from the recovery center?”

     “Yeah, that’s one. I couldn’t bear to tell you myself. Have you heard anything from her?”

     Candy shook her head. “I’ve resigned myself to the fact that the next thing I’ll hear is that she’s overdosed.”

     Her daughter had been missing for over a week. Nothing, no requests for money. Even Gator claimed to know nothing. It was scary. Candy lit votive candles on the dresser at night and grew clingy with Max, allowing him to sleep in her bed. She did not tell Bill about that. At the store, she experienced some unsettling, hallucinatory encounters with former selves. Weirdly personal. She’d be sitting with a young customer and suddenly see herself in the person’s face. A mirror reflection at an earlier age, all hyped up about a band, weekends in roadie mode, hitching a ride to the casino bar in the equipment van. It got worse when sparkly floaters started to appear at the edge of her vision. She offered unsolicited advice to her customers.

     “Can I make a recommendation?’ Candy said.

     “Sure, go ahead,” the customer said, thinking it was about eyeglasses.

     “Don’t ever gamble with the rent money.”

     “What do you mean?”

     Someone filed a complaint with her office manager, who knew the situation with Max and was tolerant enough to give Candy the rest of the week off. News of the overdose came two days later, after a night of hailstorms. Her daughter’s body was found in a dumpster where she had taken shelter. The news cracked Candy’s armor of anger, and she cried for hours, while Max stared quizzically at her from his crib. His blue eyes pleading, “What’s going on? I’m the one who’s supposed to cry, not you.” 

     Candy’s friends rallied and brought food. Sheila, in her frayed, flowery bathrobe, came over and kept the coffee on and helped write an obituary and organized a memorial at the funeral home. 

     “Do you want to include the story of our girls building the chicken coop in your backyard?” Sheila asked.

     “Yes, that’s a good one,” Candy said.

     “How about playing on the high school softball team?”

     “They won the sectional championship her junior year, before she dropped out,” Candy said.

     “Who should we list as survivors, do you want to mention her biological dad?” Sheila asked.

     “Her sperm donor, you mean. No, please, no mention of him,” Candy said, “I don’t want him to read the obit and show up at the funeral home.”

     The chances were slight, but it was hard not to stress about that ghost re-appearing. What if the sperm donor wanted to claim grandparent rights? Or get back together with Candy? Or even worse, what if Candy felt so overwhelmed at the prospect of raising Max alone that she would actually entertain the idea? Bad form. A violation of her pact with Sheila not to date handymen just to get the grass cut. 

     The gathering at the funeral parlor was sparse. Sheila and Gator and two people from Candy’s yoga class and a staff person from the recovery center. The officiant was a pastor who had known the deceased during her brief forays to the local church. Gator performed a memorial rap. And there was a mystery man at the back, in a trench coat and cheap sunglasses. It was Bill. The mystery being, why had he come?

     “I’m not here as a caseworker,” he said, grasping Candy’s hand in the receiving line. “I’m here as a friend. I’m here as another single parent with an only child. I’m here because I understand what you’re suffering.”

     Sheila elbowed Candy and whispered, “For chrissakes, invite him to the reception.”

     The reception being a box of Krispy Kremes and coffee in Candy’s kitchen. She also prepared a bowl of Grammy Barnes’ sweet-carrot salad, featuring mandarin oranges and tiny marshmallows. Gator goofed around with Max in the corner playpen. Max distracted them with a rolling happy-baby pose and silly-guy Gator copied it.  

     “What’s the latest on your son and the webcam barrel traveler in the ocean?” Candy asked.

     Bill said, “It’s taking him longer than expected. The currents shifted and the man is running out of food and the livefeed followers are taking up a collection for him.”

     Sheila said, “Webcams are a popular thing. We should set one up here. A ‘Raising Max’ webcam. I bet we could get a lot of followers.” 

     “People watching every day to see when Max speaks his first word.”

     “And shows off another happy-baby pose.” 

     Candy laughed. It sort of hurt to laugh, but in a good way.

    They chatted about devising a method for Max’s site to provide remote babysitting. What started as a light-hearted fantasy slowly shifted to a serious discussion. Perhaps advertising dollars could be invested in a college fund.

     “Whadya think, Max?” Candy said.

     “Do you want to grow up as a reality TV star?” Sheila asked.

     In the corner, Max blinked and grabbed for a pair of Grammy Barnes’ glasses that Candy had put in the playpen as a toy. He carefully rested the frames on his stubby nose and squinted at the big people, as if that could help bring them into focus.

     Candy went back to work the following week. Slowly, life on Bridge Street returned to some version of time-passes normal. It took a lot of deep breathing and floor twists. It took a lot for Candy to resist blaming herself. With her daughter’s death, Candy and Max were no longer on the caseload at Bill’s agency, so he had no official reason to visit. They texted occasionally. Bill sent links to grief support podcasts. With Gator’s consent, a lawyer took over the formal adoption process. 

     Candy felt lonely and lapsed into thoughts about cutting. A stress-relief method learned from her daughter. It was one of the earliest warning signs, back in junior high. Candy grieved for her misguided daughter and every time someone said, “she’s in a better place,” ouch, Candy wanted to break something. She forced herself to heed Sheila’s advice about not making any big decisions for at least six months after a major loss. 

     Candy enlisted Sheila to explain to Bill, “I’m afraid that includes not starting anything new with a guy, at least for now.”

     “Understood. It’s up to her,” Bill said. They were standing outside on the slushy sidewalk. “I wanted you to know that I quit my job, so there would be no gray area. I’m driving a school bus now.”

     “Guess I’d rather be safe than sorry,” Candy said, from up on the porch, which apparently was not what he wanted to hear. And not what she really wanted to say. “At least for six months,” she added.

     Sheila added, “I think she means that in a positive way.”

     “Right, I get it,” Bill said, ruefully.

     Candy didn’t see him for six months, but she didn’t forget about him either. Sheila did some online, background snooping on Bill, just to know if there were any red flags. Most everything checked out, no gaps in the resume, no priors. There was one puzzling discovery. The kid in the basement did not exist, or rather, yes, Bill did have a gamer son, but the son had died of a fentanyl overdose three years ago. For whatever reason, it seemed Bill still spoke about him in the present tense. Sheila thought this was a red flag. At first, Candy did too, but, gradually, she sort of understood how that could happen.

     Max settled down a bit and stopped yanking the cat’s tail. He occasionally pulled on a baseball cap that Bill had left at the house. The brim slipped down and covered his face and he pulled it up to pay peek-a-boo. In fact, his first spoken word was “peek.” He also frequently pointed to the photo of his late mother with Candy on the shelf by his crib, and one Saturday in mid-November, he spoke his second word, “shoe.” Gator showed up semi-regularly to babysit, while Candy went out grocery shopping and ran errands. 

     Toward the end of December, during a snowstorm, Bill appeared suddenly at the optician store, without any advance notice. It was just before closing time. He sat down on the stool in front of Candy’s counter. He brushed snow off his head and shoulders. She didn’t recognize him at first. He had shaved off his beard. So Max wouldn’t tug on it? For a moment, Candy felt a pang of irrational jealousy that Bill missed Max more than her. 

     Candy sucked in a deep breath and asked, “May I help you?”

     “It’s been six months,” Bill said.

     “Almost to the minute,” she said.

     “I need new glasses. My cheapo readers are terrible,” he said, “and they scratch too easily.”

     “I’m glad you can be the one to say it.”

     “I need a new look,” Bill said, and stared at himself in the oval mirrors.

     “Something… more Elton John?” 

     “I’ve heard that a person’s eyes can be a diagnostic window, you know, like medically,” Bill said.

     “What do you mean?”

     “For diseases and stuff.”

     “Can be, yes.”

     “Can you look into my eyes and diagnose what’s wrong with me?” he asked.

     Candy leaned over and peered into his left eye. She sighed and shifted her position to peer into his right eye.

     “Do you see anything?”

     “Absolutely, the problem is very clear.”

     “What is it?”

     “You can’t get me and Max out of your head.”

     Bill laughed and reached up and they hugged across the counter and knocked some demo gear onto the floor.

     “Let’s go rescue the kid from daycare,” Candy said.

     They cleaned up the stuff on the floor. Candy took Bill’s hand and led him back through the break room and down the narrow hallway to the daycare center. It was noisy, end-of-the-day noisy. They spotted Max in his corner. The toddler stood up, a bit wobbly, and did a quick double-take, but otherwise appeared unfazed. He threw a stuffed tiger at Bill. 

Ian Woollen has recent short fiction at Panorama, Millennial Pulp, OxMag, and forthcoming at Amarillo Bay.

‘Paris of the East’

Juan Sebastian Restrepo(zeb) is a Florida-based artist known for his paintings and drawings that explore the interplay between memory and storytelling. He holds an MFA from Southern Illinois University Edwardsville and a BFA from Pratt Institute. His recent exhibitions include “intersections” at New World Gallery (2023) and “Hybridity” at the Edwardsville Arts Center (2018). Upcoming solo shows include “No Further Expectations Beyond this Night” at The Art and Culture Center/Hollywood (2024) and “multitasking” at [NAME] Publications in Miami, FL (2024). Restrepo also teaches as an Adjunct Faculty member at Florida International University and Miami Dade College.

Paris of the East

Prepare me the Renaissance. Almost always true is the bare-chested Sun-stirring Americana fever  

Drenched as well till knee-deep in the sweat 

Of summer. Or perhaps the cold-as-spite bite on your cheeks 

On a Parisian evening, evening streets or 

Evening tea at the downtown Inn 

‘Twixt the sheets our thighs, your collar, spilt 

With sunlight like a hazy projection in the  

Electric theater where I first saw you. 

In the air of respected sex and gender 

I gape open my mouth, will you see that three-lettered word they carved  Into my tongue? In the Paris of the East 

Where our only soft evening-airs come from the 

Electric fan and the culture’s what you make of it 

But lack of comprehension and two holed shoes are ever your only tools Tunnels of bones is all I’ve had to bury to be like you. 

Are you from here or do I yearn for you or have you yearned like me To depart the Paris of the East, churchyard I went far, in the black dirt knee-deep. They make you monstrous before a spectacle,  

pinch the skin I scrub for stunning showmanship on the 

Alpines, cliffsides, or the undying riveras chronicled in the likewise undying art. 

The worser weather here, with the chipping varnish, 

the dense exhalation and  

My cheap and starving body and false teeth and no personified 

Dream to hold me and more importantly no strolling on those 

Evening streets where I am predestined to be happy 

I would lose their affections to be the exception of this empty cave Or what they like to call the Paris of the East 

To see the Eiffel, or the Mavericks I call like-minded 

Having the so hollowed-out cheeks I crave, and their smiles I covet Prompted by the high-rise gym I’ll die nearly every day in. 

Fate, I’ll cut you up and swallow your golden guts the ones 

That makes ambition prophetic and gleaming, too. 

Paris, I know you by proxy. I’ve seen your Christmas markets a mile an hour And the ambient jazz that enchants me into desirability. I love your old folks And they will love me, and will cherish the stories 

Of before I bit the tendrils of the Paris of the East 

In speaking for me, don’t show me the golden ticket I know exists I’d swim the Seine like an infectious kiss in all that  

I found glorious. All that I found would haloize this suitably 

Svelte waist and hollow cheeks, or the doe-eyes plus the allure of untethered threads And more and more tantalizing nakedness that makes artful ambition prophetic.

Feng Kok is a aspiring writer based in Malaysia, currently honing my craft as he approaches the end of high school. When he is not writing, he is studying for his IGCSE exams and enjoy reading, watching movies, and consuming other forms of storytelling

‘POMEGRANATE’ & Assorted Poems

Anna Karakalou is a Illustrator, creative director and scenic artist. She have worked in the film industry for 20+ years. She currently teaches Illustration and Sequential Arts at VCU.

POMEGRANATE 

I never knew I was a woman, 

until I ate the pomegranate.

Five,

I pick my nose and burp at crows,

my legs are merriments of cartoon band-aid bruises,

my arms marked by bug bites and mud pie galore. 

What are cooties?

Collecting frog bones, 

a trophy of my morbid accomplishment.

Squishing ketchup packets to decorate my bare fries,

there was no such thing as time. 

Ten, 

I mastered air guitar solos, traded sillybandz, 

wore monster pajamas under my uniform polo shirts,

wizard—vampire tournament during recess.

Please, friend, won’t you smile at me?

Distributing pizza slices on park benches,

the cheese oozes like Goosebumps slime.

Afternoons—

with long haired Patrick and brace face Abraham,

scraping our knees on concrete parking lots,

my skateboard fractured when I hit the ground.

I never knew I was a woman, 

until I ate the pomegranate.

Fifteen, 

I spent my time debating God as if he could hear me.

My body,

blossomed from spring to winter,

unconsenting. 

I was not aware of the skin I housed;

the implications that arrived giftwrapped,

and expectations greeted by strangers.

You’re a young lady now, behave like one.

Banquet dinner, fertility fruit appetizers.

no meal can complement,

the snow mint toothpaste, 

upon consuming a pomegranate. 

Twenty, 

Avoiding reflections in public bathroom;

a reminder that I do not belong.

Not on planet Venus nor planet Mars.

I sprinkled dandruff flakes of parmesan cheese,

on scrambled vermillion meatballs, 

they cruised slowly on angel haired noodles. 

Let's see how long I survive with one meal a day.

Becoming an enigma to myself, 

I snort chunks of humanity, 

until,

I can convince myself 

that I am still a person.

I never knew I was a woman, 

until I ate the pomegranate

BODY GIRL GHAZAL

What did mother say, eyes pensively grey, lightning bolt veins protruding,

through the corners of her wrinkled with age skin, “What happened to my little girl?”

As the music grew louder, hopscotch became powder, cracking carrot colored pill bottles,

Trading cheap beer for cigarettes, donating fist punches in mosh pit circles, violent girl.

When I shaved my hair, mother could not bear, then I bit my flesh torn fingernails, sneezed

 waterfall spit above incandescent birthday flames, “That is not ladylike, you are a gross girl.”

At the clear faced mirror, exhibiting plaid boxer shorts, enveloping forest grown legs, 

pulverize my chest in beige bandages, plum box bruises, flooding my ribcage, hurt girl. 

I stand, between wasteland body and mental benzene plastic, corduroy skin- twist the gears, windup toy, marching to the thump of your heart, mother protests “You don’t look like a girl!”

You supposed that is true, as shades of indigo and verdant possess, the ardor of my precarious being, I— prescribed female at birth, have never been a girl.

GIRLHOOD 

I sat there without my underwear, 

I felt my white lace dress caressing the back of my thighs

and stayed on the seat dripping

Blood.

I thought that’s how girlhood was supposed to go.

You just give and give 

Until your body is at the brink of collapse. 

Until your own blood becomes a foreign substance 

And the world holds it at the palm of its hand

Because it is theirs to claim.

Your girlhood is their plastic wrapped candy.

THE PUB ON 2ND AVE 

I am the beast, disfigured,

with my barren tongue and dead beam unsettling wet eyes.

The mirror cracked images,

shards of glass trickling over my boney knuckles.

Narrow walls quivering,

I felt my heartbeat drumming through my throat 

as the nauseating sweat ingests my pores.

The stench of my day is one breath away, 

my mouth full of absinthian spit and silver iron.

The room convulses like an epileptic performing an embalming ritual.

Bodies hovering over microphone speakers, 

the screech of leather boots conversating on the floor tiles. 

The bathroom has exhausted opportunities,

a sink trailing of snuff cocaine, pop colored graffiti adorning the vulnerable toilet. 

Cheap beer glasses shivering on the pub counter,

next to the scattered, crumbled dollar bills, a junkie's annual collection of pocket change.

The cigarette smoke shrouding over the pool table, embalms me, 

the ash sprinkled out like an interrupted ant pile.

A red head in smudged pink lipstick plants one on ripped leather jacket with a heart tattoo 

the name ‘Mabel’ written inside.

The cluster crowd, emitting friendly punches, slamming spines against each other.

Exchanging odors and fingernail samples for fragments of hedonistic pleasure. 

I am desensitized to pain, as my blood drips like raindrops against car windows, 

trailing down fever dream teeth.

Around the mosh pit cameras flashed on torn t-shirts, studded belts, 

amethyst bruised faces, popsicle dripped vomit on denim pants.

Devouring my busted lip, I heard the voice of God reprimand me;

Don’t become accustomed to the taste of your own agony.

SPIDER

My mother is everywhere 

With her silken web 

She creates a culture of fear

Spreading across from person to person.

Each face becomes an 

Extension of her

Observing and keeping me

In line. 

My mother is the spider

Wrapping me- spinning silk around me 

Keeping me hostage to her web 

Her legs can feel every movement I make. 

My mother is the spider 

The silk queen

Capturing my image in her eight blinded eyes 

Breathing death and pestilence on my shoulders.

I’ve been wrapped in the silk egg

For longer than I expected 

I have outgrown my welcome. 

Kathleen Pedraza is a graduate student of English Literature at Florida International University. Pedraza’s passion for poetry stems from a deep fascination with the complexities of the human experience—the interplay of beauty and discomfort that life often presents. In her writing, she explores the nuances of emotion, mental health, and the contradictions that define our identity. Pedraza is drawn to the moments that are both fleeting and profound, capturing the essence of what it means to be human.

‘A Letter to the Newly Chronically’

JD Baez, a self-taught visual artist from Brooklyn, blends classical realism with contemporary emotions. Inspired by Baroque masters, his art captures dramatic light and shadow, creating authentic, three-dimensional scenes. JD's work reflects his journey through fatherhood and cultural experiences, exploring human connection and emotional depth. Through his online profile, he shares how art serves as a tool for emotional, mental, and financial empowerment, fostering creative expression.

A Letter to the Newly Chronically

Hey, 

You’re not going to understand this at first. 

You’ll keep asking yourself why your body feels like it’s betraying you, Why the simplest things are so hard, 

Why you’re so tired all the time. 

It’s not going to make sense. 

You’ll think it’s just a phase— 

something you’ll grow out of. 

Spoiler: you don’t. 

You’ll be 13, lying in bed, 

Wondering why it hurts to breathe, 

why your joints feel like they’re grinding into dust. 

You’ll look around and see your friends running, jumping, 

Living. 

And you’ll wonder why you can’t. 

I wish I could say it gets easier. 

But the truth? 

It doesn’t. 

Not really. 

You’ll learn to live with it, though. 

The pain, 

the exhaustion, 

the way your muscles ache like they’ve been carrying the weight of the world. You’ll figure out how to make it through the day 

even when it feels like your body’s collapsing under you. 

I know you want to scream, 

To break something, 

to run until you forget you have a body at all. 

But you can’t. 

And that’s the hardest part, isn’t it? 

The knowing you’re trapped inside something that doesn’t listen to you anymore. 

You’ll lose count of the times someone will say, 

"You look fine,"

like the fact that they can’t see it means it’s not real. 

Like pain has to leave scars to exist. 

You’ll get tired of explaining, 

tired of trying to prove that what you feel is real 

when no one believes you. 

But listen, 

this is important— 

it’s not your fault. 

You’ll blame yourself. 

You’ll wonder if maybe you could’ve done something differently, eaten better, moved more, rested more, 

but none of that changes the fact that sometimes bodies break and there’s nothing you can do but live in the aftermath. 

It’s okay to be angry about that. 

It’s okay to be sad about that. 

You don’t have to be strong all the time. 

Some days you’ll hate your body. 

Some days you’ll hate the world for moving so fast when you can barely keep up. But you’ll also learn to be gentle with yourself, 

to celebrate the small victories, 

like getting out of bed, 

like walking a little farther than you did yesterday. 

I know you’re scared. 

I know you don’t know how to live like this. 

But you will. 

You’ll learn how to make space for the pain, 

how to survive inside a body that doesn’t always feel like home. 

It’s not going to be easy. 

But you’ll get through it. 

You’re stronger than you think, 

even when you feel like you’re falling apart. 

And maybe, one day, 

you’ll find peace in knowing that even broken things can be beautiful.

Aaron McDaniel (He/They) is a writer, reader, painter, nature lover, baker, seamstress, button collector, and much more. However he is also a young person learning to navigate the world while living with chronic pain and fatigue, mental illness and a physical disability.

‘Lap of Luxury’, ‘Selfie’ & ‘Silent Slang’

David Person

Lap of Luxury

My Cornish Rex, Imp, audits me with tameless acumen,
methodically digesting my pummeled bubble half-ponytail,
Japanese gin-varnished frilly denim, fatigued winged eyeliner,
a zingaro puddle of Prada Ocean perfume, sneaky nail file knives,
rumpled wine shop receipts, half-omitted bottles of green coffee pills,
lethal lipsticks all blabbing from the grained lambskin crossbody
I propelled leglessly onto the cream wool shag upon pickled entry.

Not all cats love catnips. They can’t taste the sweets they covet;
they sweat through the eighteen toes on their paws.
They boast three eyelids and heal themselves by purring.
Imp chatters spookily at the snail kites and little blue herons
who stop to freshen their drowsy wings on the branches
outside our cut stone patio. He is learning symbiosis
and the value of left-pawed high fives toward earning
freeze-dried minnows and mashed banana tuna treats.
He is also learning to interpret my condensation,
decoding my acute angles as I repent into Icelandic pillows.

Selfie

Shifting focus from the sharp skim of my cheekbone,
I direct my Galaxy Violet-dyed gaze
at the self-starting audience,
taking aim at their underfed hearts
with an unstable shotgun smile painted preppy red.
Rose gold gloss chastened into fishtails,
italicized with astute snowdrop ribbons.
Reheated champagne blush of electric fireplace
adorns the whittled tangents of my face,
glorifying my inner Ann-Margret in watercolor feathers
and tropical garden tiaras, searing cardinal lace.

Silent Slang

And where were you last moonbow—
hollowing out your dead larkspurs,
baking in the peony perfume?

Jeweled chiffon lights dress up your drunken cottage,
its spirited hearth soothing the turquoise forest.
Your lavish phoenix hair croons with promised secrets.

The rooftop roseate tern preens its pink wingbeats,
epitomized with a little black cap, festooned forked tail,
the puckish dexterity to enunciate black suns to serpentine seraphim.

I marvel at where it will murmur its secret garden adagio
full of lethargic leisure and fluid deflowering
come guttural gunmetal Christmas snow squalls,
the glaciating of the blue spruce,
a desensitized December sunset in Naptown.

Megan Denese Mealor resides in Jacksonville, Florida with her husband and 11-year-old son, who was diagnosed with autism at age three. Nominated three times for the Pushcart Prize as well as the 2023 Best of the Net, her writing has been featured in literary journals worldwide, most recently Bar Bar, The GroundUp, and Down in the Dirt. She has also authored three full-length poetry collections: Bipolar Lexicon (Unsolicited Press, 2018); Blatherskite (Clare Songbirds Publishing House, 2019); and A Mourning Dove’s Wishbone (Cyberwit, 2022). A lifelong survivor of bipolar disorder, Megan’s main mission as a writer is to inspire others feeling stigmatized for their mental health.