Dulcet Literary Magazine, Volume One, Issue No. 2

VOLUME ONE

issue no. 2

FEBRUARY 2025

DULCET

STORIES + ART

DULCET STORIES + ART

Volume One Issue No. 2

dusk + dawn FEBRUARY 2025

ISBN: 9798310449190

dulcetlitmag.com Copyright 2025 Dulcet Literary Magazine. All Rights Reserved. All rights to all original artwork, photography, and written works belong to the respective owners as stated in the attributions. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and publisher.

ABOUT Dulcet is a digital and print literary magazine featuring fiction, poetry, and visual artwork that takes readers on a journey and leaves them changed for the better. Amplifying powerful and nuanced words of vulnerability and relatability, Dulcet stories dive deep into the center of things and untie the knots. Like life, not every story has a happy ending, but all will have a sense of resolve or a weighty revelation that promotes hope.

ENGAGE Instagram: @dulcetlitmag Threads: @dulcetlitmag Newsletter: dulcetlitmag.com/subscribe

CONTACT General Inquiries: hello@dulcetlitmag.com Editorial Team: editor@dulcetlitmag.com Submissions: dulcetlitmag.com/submit

MASTHEAD EDITOR-IN-CHIEF KRISTIN HELMS

ASSOCIATE EDITORS ANNA BRUNNER TERVELA GEORGIEVA ALISON KEISER TYLER MARTINEZ SOFIA MOSQUEDA DREW SANSON TEATREE TAYLOR

ENGAGEMENT EDITORS

-Jack Gilbert, “Waking at Night”

“THE BLUE RIVER IS GREY AT MORNING AND EVENING. THERE IS TWILIGHT AT DAWN AND DUSK. I LIE IN THE DARK WONDERING IF THIS QUIET IN ME NOW IS A BEGINNING OR AN END.”

SYDNEY GERMAN RENEE HOLLOPETER

TABLE OF CONTENTS Front Cover GJ Gillespie - What Is and What Should Never Be

Fiction

Heather Thorn - Ladybug

19

Wayne Lee - Kingdom of Clay

20

Jesse Curran - Athena, Push Back the Dawn

22

Kirsty Mac Dougall - My Night

33

David Serafino - Firebreak

10

Joseph Chelius - Root Vegetable Soup

35

Charlie Keyheart - Until the Window Opens

25

Frederick Livingston - Choose This Winter Morning

37

Cassie Tatum - Lydia’s Dance

42

Carolyn Martin - Entreaties for remembering...

39

Allison Burris - Nocturne

41

Shana Ritter - Here

45

K.R. Rose - Red Fruit Used to Grow

47

Anna Ojascastro Guzon - Homestead

51

Suzanne C Martinez - Florence Waited 55 Adeeb Chowdhury - Dead Mango Trees 70

Poetry

- Solution

79

Wilson R. M. Taylor - Gifts

3

Elaine Dillof - Un-rivals

52

Katrinka Moore - Fireflower

4

Aaron Lelito - Vicissitudes

64

Sheila E. Murphy - from Jazz Fingerings 5 26/

Glenn Marchand - Through the Years

67

DJ Murphy - In the Chattering

Zoe Freihofer - Golden Hour

69

- War Wears Two Faces

7 50

Jenny Dunbar - Waking

8

Joanna Hope Bricher - Seventeen (from ‘January, or Bog Snorkeling’)

9

Hugh Findlay - Aging: haiku

17

Kait Quinn - Live, As In Feeding on 77 Beach Wind and Other Mundane Things

TABLE OF CONTENTS Visual Art Sean Ewing - Dreaming Dawn - Sunset Impression

1 36

Ann Calandro - City Sunset

6

Kathleen Gunton - Seaview Dusk & Dawn

16

- Early Light on London Bridge

54

Jennifer Frederick - Mountainous

21

- Sun Over the Water 68 M Patrick Riggin - Cape 2018 - Union Station

24 32

Heather D. Haigh - Whitby at Dusk

40

Stella Newmoyer - Darkness of Water

44

- Mystical Patch

78

GJ Gillespie - What Is and What Should Never Be

46

Sherry Shahan - Dusk

66

María DeGuzmán - Apparition

76

READ INTERVIEWS WITH WRITERS AND ARTISTS FROM THIS ISSUE AT DULCETLITMAG.COM/INTERVIEWS

“THERE IS A MOMENT IN EVERY DAWN WHEN LIGHT FLOATS, THERE IS THE POSSIBILITY OF MAGIC. CREATION HOLDS ITS BREATH.” ― DOUGLAS ADAMS, THE ULTIMATE HITCHHIKER'S GUIDE TO THE GALAXY

A NOTE FROM THE

editor-in-chief

Welcome to Volume One, Issue No. 2 of Dulcet Literary Magazine.

In this issue, writers and artists explore our February theme of Dusk & Dawn. This theme was thought up by two of our editors, Anna Brunner and Sydney German, and perfectly aligns with Dulcet’s foundational themes of moving through darkness to find the light. Just as we find ourselves in the month of February, teetering on the edge of winter and spring, so, too, do our stories teeter concepts of dark and light.

When considering the contrast of day and night, and the inevitable in-between hours of dusk —light surrendering to the dark, and dawn—darkness caving into light, there’s much to examine.

The following short stories, poems, and visual artworks beautifully capture transition, movement, and variations of light. Depending on where the artist stands in a moment, a dusk can either be eerie or magical. Similarly, a dawn may be perceived as harsh or calming. I love how each piece featured here dips in and out of light, sometimes wandering through more haunting lines like in, “Red Fruit Used to Grow” by K. R. Rose, or offering words that lean into hope, like “Gifts” by Wilson R. M. Taylor. As we all know, life is not easily tabulated into black and white, dark and light. Instead, it’s staggered and layered, like our cover art, “What Is and What Should Never Be”

by GJ Gillespie. Here, we see darkness thrashed across a page, though woven in and out of that darkness—surrounding it, really—beautiful shades of color and lots and lots of light.

Thank you for reading and we hope you enjoy this issue as much as we have loved curating this journey through thoughtful dusks and dawns.

~ Kristin Helms

CONTRIBUTORS Joanna Hope Bricher lives with chronic illness in a beautiful valley in the North of England. Her writing has appeared in Rogue Agent, Lammergeier, Twin Bird, and Press Pause Press among others.

You can see some of her linocut and letterpress printing at pennybloodpress.wordpress.com.

Allison Burris grew up in the Pacific Northwest and currently lives in Oakland, California. Her poems embrace the whimsical and cozy, explore human connection, and affirm the power of stories. She received her MLIS from San Jose State University and her poetry appears or is forthcoming in various journals, including Muleskinner, After Happy Hour Review, Passionfruit, The Marbled Sigh, and Avalon Literary Review. Connect with her via https://linktr.ee/allisonburris.

Ann Calandro is a writer, collage artist, and classical piano student. Her poems, short stories, and creative nonfiction pieces have appeared in literary journals, and her collages have been exhibited and published. Serving House Books will publish her short story collection in February 2025, and Shanti Arts Press published three children’s books she wrote and illustrated. Calandro received a master’s degree in English from Washington University in St. Louis, where she studied with poet Donald Finkel. See her artwork at ann-calandro.pixels.com.

Joseph Chelius is the author of two collections of poems, both with WordTech Communications: The Art of Acquiescence and Crossing State Lines. His new collection, Playing Fields, is forthcoming with Kelsay Books in 2025. Joe's work has appeared in Cider Press Review, Commonweal, Poetry East, Poet Lore, Rattle, and other journals.

Adeeb Chowdhury is a 22-year-old aspiring writer from Chittagong, Bangladesh. He is a graduate of the State University of New York at Plattsburgh, where his written works of fiction and nonfiction have received the 2023 Feinberg Undergraduate Research Prize, 2024 Skopp Award on the Holocaust, 2024 North Star’s Best Nonfiction Writing Award, 2024 James Augustus Wilson Award on an AfricanAmerican Topic, among others. His personal essays and nonfiction papers have been selected for preservation in the SUNY Open Access Repository (SOAR), a collection of notable work by students and faculty. He has also written extensively for publications such as Brown History Magazine, Pluto Literary Magazine, and Shuddhashar Publishing House, which received the 2016 Jeri Laber International Freedom to Publish Award from the Association of American Publishers.

Jesse Curran is a poet, essayist, scholar, and teacher who lives in Northport, NY. Her essays and poems have appeared in dozens of literary journals including About Place, After the Art, Allium, Blueline, and Ruminate. She teaches in the Department of English at SUNY Old Westbury. www.jesseleecurran.com

CONTRIBUTORS María DeGuzmán is a scholar, photographer, writer, and music composer. Her photographic work has been exhibited at The Institute of Contemporary Art (Boston, MA, USA), Watershed Media Centre (Bristol, England), and Golden Belt Studios (Durham, NC, USA). She has published photography in Typehouse Literary Magazine, Apricity, Phoebe, deLuge Journal, and MER; creative nonfiction phototext in Oyster River Pages; photo-text flash fiction in Oxford Magazine, The Bangalore Review, and Bombay Gin; visual poetry in TAB: The Journal of Poetry & Poetics, Roanoke Review, 45th Parallel, Inverted Syntax, The Banyan Review, and La Piccioletta Barca; and short stories in Mandorla: New Writing from the Americas and Huizache: The Magazine of Latino Literature. Her SoundCloud website may be found at: https://soundcloud.com/mariadeguzman.

Elaine Dillof is the author of Anna and Solomon, a book about her grandparents’ emigration to the U.S., published by Farrar, Straus and Giroux. She has recently returned to an early love: poetry. Elaine lives in Mystic, CT. Jenny Dunbar is a published writer of prose and poetry, based in the U.K. Her work appears in several publications. Landscape and people are a constant inspiration, in all their moods. Jenny is working on short fiction as well as poetry. She has previously been nominated for The Pushcart Prize and The Best of the Net Anthology in poetry.

Sean Ewing is a visual artist inspired by the natural world and the delicate interplay of light and shadow. He endeavors to capture the quiet beauty of ephemeral moments, evoking a sense of serenity and introspection. His work often reflects the serene landscapes of dawn and sunset, creating a space for viewers to pause and explore their own reflections. Sean’s art invites contemplation and offers a peaceful retreat from the chaos of daily life.

Hugh Findlay’s writing and photography have been published worldwide. Nominated for The Pushcart Prize in 2020 for poetry and the Best Microfiction Anthology 2024, he is in the third trimester of life and hopes y’all like his stuff. Instagram: @hughmanfindlay. Portfolio: https://www.hughmanfindlay.com/.

Jennifer Frederick is an artist, writer, and lawyer in Maryland. They have been writing since a young age and creating collages since 2016. On top of being the author of the Coffee Table Book of Pride Flags: Discovering the LGBT+ Community Through Art, their work has appeared in places like Coffee People Zine, Beyond Words Literary Magazine, and 1807: An Art and Literary Journal.

Zoe Freihofer is based in Melbourne, Australia, and her writing has either been published or is forthcoming in The Amphibian Literary Journal, Last Stanza, Letters to Lovers Zine, and the Daydreamer Anthology by Bowen Street Press. When not writing, she works in Supply Chain and spends as much time as possible in her vegetable garden. She can be found on Instagram @zoe.freihofer.writer.

CONTRIBUTORS GJ Gillespie is a collage artist living in a 1928 Tudor Revival farmhouse overlooking Oak Harbor on Whidbey Island (north of Seattle). In addition to natural beauty, he is inspired by art history, especially mid century abstract expressionism. The “Northwest Mystics”, who produced haunting images from this region 60 years ago, are favorites. A prolific artist with over 22 awards to his name, Gillespie's work has been exhibited in 65 shows and appeared in more than 170 publications. Beyond his studio practice, Gillespie channels his passion for art by running Leda Art Supply, a company specializing in premium sketchbooks. Whether conjuring vivid collage compositions or enabling other artists through exceptional tools, Gillespie remains dedicated to the transformative power of art.

Kathleen Gunton is a poet and photographer. She believes one art feeds another. Her images grace the cover of literary publications such as: Arts & Letters, CQ, Flint Hills Review, Thema, and Studio One, to name a few. She lives in Orange, CA. Heather D. Haigh is a disabled spoonie who has recently returned to photography after making adjustments to becoming sight-impaired. Living in Yorkshire, she is also an emerging writer and fledgling artist. She has won several small photography competitions. Her latest work is published in Sunlight Press.

Charlie Keyheart's stories have appeared in Ireland, England, and the U.S., and have finaled for the Vonnegut, Dau, and won the Sparks Prize, among others.

Wayne Lee (wayneleepoet.com) lives in Santa Fe, NM. Lee’s poems have appeared in Tupelo Press, Slipstream, The New Guard, The Lowestoft Chronicle, Writer’s Digest, and other publications. He was awarded the 2012 Fischer Prize and has been nominated for The Pushcart Prize.

Aaron Lelito is a visual artist and writer from Buffalo, NY. His poetry chapbook, The Half Turn, was published in 2023, and he released a collaborative notebook/art collection titled, If We: Connections Through Creative Process in 2024. His work has also appeared in Stonecoast Review, Barzakh Magazine, Novus Literary Arts Journal, SPECTRA Poets, Peach Mag, and Santa Fe Review. He is Editor in Chief of Wild Roof Journal.

Frederick Livingston grew from the southern tip of the Salish Sea in Olympia, Washington. Ecology and experiential education have taken him around the world ever since. He is the author of the poetry collection, The Moon and Other Fruits as well as the award winning, Trees are Bridges to the Sky. More info at fredericklivingston.com.

Kirsty Mac Dougall has loved writing in all its forms and glory since childhood. Her poetry follows a stream-of-consciousness process, the outcome serving as a mirror to understand the world and herself.

Kirsty’s work has appeared in Free the Verse, Litmora, WordSwell, KUDU, and elsewhere. She lives with her cat in Johannesburg, South Africa.

CONTRIBUTORS Glenn Marchand is an African American poet holding an MFA in Creative Writing from Mount Saint Mary’s University. Marchand is a poet-writer speaking to various realities captured by the human condition.

Carolyn Martin is a recovering work addict who’s adopted the Spanish proverb, “It is beautiful to do nothing and rest afterwards,” as her daily mantra. She is blissfully retired––and resting––in Clackamas, Oregon where she delights in gardening, feral cats, and backyard birds. Her poems have appeared in more than 200 publications throughout the U.S., Europe, and Australia. For more: www.carolynmartinpoet.com.

Suzanne C Martinez’s fiction has appeared in North American Review, Wigleaf, Vestal Review, The Citron Review, and The Broadkill Review, among others, and was nominated for Pushcart Prizes (2019, 2020), The Best of the Net (2020, 2024), and Best Short Fictions (2022). She was a finalist in the 2023 Tartts First Fiction Award and WTAW Press Alcove Chapbook Series 2024 Open Competition, as well as a semi-finalist in the Hidden River Arts-Eludia 2024 Award for her linked story collection. She lives in Brooklyn. Website: www.scmwrites.com • X: @SuzanneCMartin3 • IG: s.martinez1441 • FB: scm1441 Katrinka Moore is the author of five poetry books, most recently Diminuendo (Pelekinesis, 2022). Her poems and artwork appear in Terrain.org, Otoliths, Utriculi, Cold Mountain Review, Wild Roof Journal, and SWWIM, among other journals. A longtime Tai Chi practitioner, she lives in New York City and the northern Catskills in upstate New York. katrinkamoore.com DJ Murphy’s poetry has appeared in The Raven Review, Last Leaves, and Ariel Chart, and received the People’s Choice Award from the Art Alliance of Idyllwild. He lives in Coachella Valley, where he serves on the board of the Palm Springs Writers Guild and guest lectures at UC Irvine on the power of empathy. A preview of his debut collection, Seeking Ordinary Joy, is at www.djmurphypoetry.com.

Sheila E. Murphy’s work has appeared in Poetry, Hanging Loose, Fortnightly Review, and numerous other journals. Her most recent book is: Permission to Relax (BlazeVOX Books, 2023). Sheila received the Gertrude Stein Award for Letters to Unfinished J. (Green Integer Press, 2003) and was awarded the Hay(na)ku Book Award from Meritage Press (2018). She resides in Phoenix. Sheila’s Wikipedia page can be found at: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sheila_Murphy.

Stella Newmoyer is an aspiring artist who enjoys looking at the world through an empathetic lens. She takes to watercolor, oil paint, and poetry as her muse. Other works created by Stella can be found on her instagram: @stellarrt.

Anna Ojascastro Guzon is a writer, mother, teacher, former physician, and a co-founder and director of YourWords STL, an arts and education nonprofit. She received an MD from the University of Missouri-Kansas City School of Medicine and an MFA from The New School Graduate Writing Program. Her writing may be read in McSweeney's, Best American Poetry Blog, Bone Bouquet, and The Boiler Journal, among other publications.

CONTRIBUTORS Kait Quinn (she/her) has published five poetry collections, and her work has appeared in Anti-Heroin Chic, Olney Magazine, Reed Magazine, Slippery Elm, Watershed Review, and elsewhere. Kait is an Editorial Associate at Yellow Arrow Publishing. She lives in Minneapolis with her partner and their very polite Aussie mix.

M Patrick Riggin is a writer, artist, and musician from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.

Shana Ritter’s poetry and short stories have appeared in various journals and magazines including Lilith, Fifth Wednesday, and Georgetown Review. Her chapbook, Stairs of Separation was published by Finishing Line Press. In the Time of Leaving, a novel of exile and resilience, is set in late 15th century Spain and newly published in 2024. Shana has been awarded the Indiana Individual Artist Grant on multiple occasions. For more, please visit https://www.shana-ritter.com/.

K.R. Rose is a blind poet and storyteller living in Boston, Massachusetts. She studies fiction writing and poetry at Emerson College and finds inspiration in the unusual. When she’s not writing, Rose may be drawing, crafting, or exploring antique stores.

David Serafino holds an MFA from the University of Virginia and a BA in English from the College of William and Mary. He has short fiction appearing in the Los Angeles Review and Radon, where he was nominated for a 2025 O. Henry Prize, and has been shortlisted for several awards, including Zoetrope's AllStory Prize, the Big Moose Prize, the Henfield Prize and the Master's Review Novel Excerpt contest.

He is a translator and lives near Medellín with his wife and son.

Sherry Shahan is a teal-haired septuagenarian who lives in a small California beach town. Her photos have appeared in the Los Angeles Times, Backpacker, Country Living, San Francisco Chronicle, and elsewhere. She holds an MFA from Vermont College of Fine Arts and has been nominated for The Pushcart Prize in Poetry (2024) and The Pushcart Prize in Short Fiction (2025).

Cassie Tatum is an artist, writer, and collector of strange jobs in Buffalo, Wyoming. She received her BA in Fine Arts from Centre College, and is working toward her Master’s Degree in Creative Writing from the University of Denver, where she seeks truth, community, and beauty through story and language. She has previously been published in Motherwell Magazine.

Wilson R. M. Taylor is a poet and writer living in New York City. His work appears in Chronogram, Clockhouse, Superpresent, and a number of other publications, as well as on WNYC. He was a winner of the 2024 Alpine Fellowship Poetry Prize and the 2024 Bacopa Literary Review Fiction Prize. For more, please visit https://wilsontaylor19.wixsite.com/wilsonrmtaylor.

Heather Thorn is a current undergraduate student at Emerson College in Boston studying creative writing in pursuit of her life passion. Other works of hers can be read in Dreamworldgirl zine, Dollheart zine, Flowermouth press, and Emerson College’s only poetry-based publication, Concrete Literary Magazine.

Dreaming Dawn

By Sean Ewing DULCET LITERARY MAGAZINE

1

Gifts

By Wilson R. M. Taylor

On Friday you brought home lilies, white petals, stamens orange with pollen, for a dinner party: a small, temporary gift of beauty. Days later the smell remains, explosively alive in our living room.

In the courtyard across the street ivy twines up the fire escape—latticed shadows fall on brick, lean and die against the gloom of the vacant fourth floor window. One day we’ll move and we won’t imagine anyone taking our place, the minute hand slowly sweeping past the hour. You gave me a watch that tells time beautifully. Today we’ll cross the river, sit in the sun with friends, light passing like water through our fingers or being reflected back to the sky. I’ll briefly remember why I’m alive. You’ve never forgotten.

DULCET LITERARY MAGAZINE

3

Fireflower

By Katrinka Moore

Bud burst into blossom brightborn out of nightfall Now stormwind wild now clearnight quiet Early rays seek out the shadows of streamside trees in meandering mouthfuls of sky

splash

Dappled light as hard to unravel as darkness

4

from Jazz Fingerings 26/

By Sheila E. Murphy

As close as kiss, this whispered wordless text alive and softly from each bell alert. The purpose of an evening edging into night. What only sound can find its way into. Listen to unfractured load from radio running free across the fields caressive as a warm blanket. Not needed, needed, slow as romance that ceases trying. As one tone becomes a mansion of imperatives that wants itself and stretches past the diary, flying first class figuratively. Hand drawn everlasting warmth ready for the hands. And no concluding anything. Just this figured bass apart from purpose, flexed in depth. The mood of candle moving to the breath's simplicity as ample as a crowd of hearing. Suppose a winter could evaporate and we'd be here repairing the amnesia according to the lore. What needs to be lived again will rise. Suppose heavenly washes of dry paint upon a canvas yet becoming. Long tone simple from a trumpet tasted into still sonority. A smooth lift and lingering this soft while to lure the listener to a lonely bed. No perhaps about it. Intention is the sole credibility.

Hear fear be erased one morsel at a time. Imagination is the freshest paint. Now here it goes. Blue silver inference, forthcoming episodes anticipated. Only melody to bear.

The color hair in overtones. And mist yet unformed. The one may stay evincing only partial supple grace soon realized. Spun forward rippling with what tone would be.

Unceasingly near you. Breath of trombone meant to space a single thought from roan to wilder wood. This long time toned approximate young heat about to burst with plum light in the unflowered case filled with only velvet that caresses source code the way kiss breath contains what will not be let go again until the piano folds.

DULCET LITERARY MAGAZINE

5

City Sunset

By Ann Calandro 6

In the Chattering

By DJ Murphy

Breeze-blown leaves semaphore a coming storm, flashing their light green backsides while city streets start to chatter with arrhythmic rain drops, nature’s morse code, its discordant beat a metrical muse embraced by a street corner beat boxer dueling with Coltrane’s brooding sax sauntering from a second-story window, a jam joined by my fingers strumming a cafe table contemplating the lack of cabs and my choice of shoes as the rain ripples a child’s boat in the fountain like a ship wrestling a rogue swell, the moment when the weather’s gentle acoustics give way to its symphonic might, forcing me to choose whether to outrun nature or stand still and be cleansed.

DULCET LITERARY MAGAZINE

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Waking

By Jenny Dunbar

On September mornings, in the becoming light, sense alters, echoes of passing seasons pinch the mind’s eye, carry me in random lines across the oceans of my hours and compass, recollecting the years I have known and sometimes, all too quickly, left, a soft quilt around my waking form comforts, smoky minims of light spin and rise, catching the threads that bind, I am all my mornings, gathered in the turning, caught in free fall against the murmuring embrace of a bounteous house, whose sturdy walls make good shelter against a world of altered song and pitch, swept space and kitchen scents, each one particular, and a complement to the other’s function and bond, hold me in a long memory, opening the resonance of what was and what is still a promise.

8

Seventeen (from ‘January, or Bog Snorkelling’)

By Joanna Hope Bricher

“Linear time,” I say, “Oh yes, I remember that old chestnut,” and touch the place where my fingers meet, feel snow crunching under rubber soles, no— this one slow crushing of ice crystals, this one slantlight sunset hitting Whirlaw. Only one thing needs to be done at a time Return return. I fill my lungs to begin and the body in me takes off from this sun-slipped hill anchor myself on grey-lined bark, Hawthorn the gift, one lone haw still offered to the winter animals Turn away from the housing estate and sing for the hill that sheltered me on three quarter nights, touch the place where my fingers meet.

DULCET LITERARY MAGAZINE

9

L

Firebreak

By David Serafino

anky and shorn, two weeks from twenty, Tim was the only obvious soldier in the baggage claim, camouflage working in reverse. People waved. Someone took his picture.

Another gave him the finger. A whole family swooped in for some close-range gawking. Their daughter was about ten, clean and pale with all her organs inside. The boy was six, unarmed.

Tim figured his brother must be around the same age now.

“Salute the man,” father told son, “and say thank you.” The boy looked up, all bashful enthusiasm, easy to imagine him splattered and smoldering, dogs foraging in his belly. “See any action?” the father asked. No. Tim had served his time walking dusty streets, staring into shadows, studying roadside litter, handing out bubble gum waiting to get shot. He thought he was enlisting in History, but instead they'd sent him back in time. People were poorer there, life was harder, but otherwise it was the same as the place he'd come from. An older, more miserable version of home.

“Must feel great to be back,” the mother said, laying a restraining hand on her son, who'd begun to vibrate. Tim shrugged, listless smile. Everywhere you went smelled like cowpat. The movie theater, restaurants, and the church all stank. People thought he left because his mom died. He left because of the smell. He would've quit high school the day he turned eighteen, except she'd said she'd hold on to see him graduate. She almost did. A week after the funeral and two days after graduation he was on the bus to Fort Benning.

“Lemme see your gun?” the boy demanded, polite enough to make it sound like a question. Tim told him the gun was Army property. They made him give it back. The kid looked less impressed. Tim knew men like that. Then the carousel alarm blared and he lunged toward the children, arms outstretched. That spooked them pretty good, and the lot of them cleared the hell out.

Across arrivals, dad looked about the same: wiry, straight-backed, chin up. Closer, he seemed older. More gray in his hair and stubble, denim shirt dangling from slumped shoulders, jeans bunched where he'd cinched them with his same old belt. Seeing Tim, he lifted his hand. He still wore his wedding band.

His father talked on the ride, which was odd. Drought, the neighbors who'd gone under or got bought out, ranches getting bigger, economies of scale driving down prices, commodity speculators upping feed costs, corporate farms draining the groundwater, more and bigger wildfires coming earlier, lasting longer. There was a fire right now, up Olustee, not fifty miles from home. Wind shifts, who knows? Could hit the house in under an hour. His father sounded cheerful, even happy.

Tim stared out the window at the flat land, clouds scudding, cacti with their arms in the air, forever surrendering. Passing through town he ticked landmarks from a mental checklist 10

he hadn't known he'd kept. Courthouse and church, roadhouse and ice cream parlor. The antique store and the bookshop were boarded up. They'd put in a traffic light at Jupiter and Main. All the yellow ribbons were down from the trees. In fifteen minutes they were home.

“Well,” his father sighed, like he was apologizing. “Here we are.” Tim had seen mansions with their roofs and pillars blown apart, tin huts where goatherds slept, cities with empty streets. Home looked better than he remembered. A ranch rambler with white wooden siding, bit wind-scarred on the south side, bit moldy on the north, but a structurally sound dwelling with a wrap-around veranda and a view of absolutely nothing except a couple lazy oil derricks near the horizon. Beside the door, two mint green rockers sat together.

“I suppose he doesn't remember me,” Tim said.

“You're his brother. ‘Course he remembers you.”

His father cracked the door, then paused. “Look, Tim, before we go inside, I oughta tell you. Man stopped by from the bank, week or so back. Lee Morgan. He's offering a fair amount for this place. Enough to put me out to pasture, set you and Buck up in something.

College, maybe, look–” He turned slightly towards Tim, one hand reaching, then falling back into his lap. The veins stood out from the backs of his hands, rigid and green. His fingernails were permanently stained the color of this earth. How long before those hands belonged to Tim? “Way I see it, it's your call. Yours and Buck's, but mostly yours. See what I'm saying?”

“I figured I'd stick around to help fix up for winter,” Tim said. “See how we go, let the world spin. That's what I was thinking.”

“I know,” his father said. “I know you were.” Tim grimaced. “I'm gonna need you to talk to Buck about it. He clams up around me.” __________ Buck crouched behind the grain locker. He'd left the barn door cracked, though dad said the wind would take it right off like that. It soothed him, that sheet of sunlight spilling through the mote thick air, knowing those tens of thousands of swimmy particles, usually invisible, would reveal themselves here at a certain time if Buck kept low and in the dark. The swirl of golden dust reminded him of the worlds hidden inside this world, the complex beauty underlying and sustaining everything he normally saw. It reminded him of mom. He watched the light and played the blowing game, ballooning his cheeks, watching the air whirl and eddy. Just wiggling a finger, he could make the specks bob and dance. It was easy to imagine his mother all around, to know that the littlest thing he did, she'd feel. One day he would pick every last particle from the air and set them all in a line, and when that was done, when he'd fixed it all perfect, his mom would come back.

DULCET LITERARY MAGAZINE

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Some days he'd play the game until his knees wobbled and his head ached, but today he puffed softly, wondering about Tim, trying to remember. Tim had red sneakers. He had blue, blue eyes. One time, mom made Buck's birthday cake and Tim wrote Happy Birthday in cursive. He was as tall as dad, and he could throw a baseball over the house. Sometimes he drove the truck. Sometimes he got angry. Once he slammed his door in mom's face and broke her nose. Another time he threw a plate of spaghetti, and now there was a pink splotch on the wall like smashed brains. When mom got sick, Tim didn't fight. He stopped talking.

When his memories started to prickle, Buck grained the calves. They gathered and their lowing and their hard, clumsy hooves knocking the red clay and the bells tinkling in the corral comforted him. The pail's rusty handle bit the skin behind his knuckles, a little pain to lessen the larger, like biting your lip before a spanking.

He heard the truck idling out front. Tim was in the truck. Buck crept behind the house.

Both voices sounded like dad. Like a talking echo. Like a stranger, not a brother. Buck watched. They went in with no bags.

When the voices were gone Buck went to look. Tim's duffel was in the bed. It was big as Buck and about a million times heavier. He got behind it and shoved it over the corrugated metal to the tailgate, to lump it on his back. He stumbled, weaving to the front porch and dumped it, then draped himself over it panting. Inside the bag was Tim's whole life. It was heavy, but not too heavy for Buck.

Inside was crowded with voices. Buck dragged the bag across the hall, spent some time arranging it by Tim's door. Creeping closer to the kitchen, he tried to hear. He understood some—grain delivery Thursday, clearing ditches, rotted fence rails. Most things, Buck had no idea. Tariffs, farm bills, the imbecile congress. It didn't matter. The main thing was his father was talking, a lot. That worried him. His father, who never changed, had changed.

Buck peeked around the corner. That was Tim. His face used to be thinner, but it was him. Buck felt a knowledge so intimate it made him squirm: he is who I will be. Except Tim was enormous, sitting on a high stool with both feet on the ground. His shoulders cast a shadow over a tiny coffee cup. Then he looked back. The surge of blood was so loud Buck couldn't hear nothing but ecstatic beating as he was hoisted and smothered in the dark of his brother. He smelled like dad. Sour and soap and shaving cream. Tim didn't forget. Tim remembered. His voice trembled through Buck. What was he saying? It didn't matter.

He swayed when Tim set him down. The room seemed too big and empty, the light too bright. He wanted to run and hide in the barn. Instead he stood at attention, lightheaded, fixating on oddities. His father using a saucer. Cloth napkins, a pewter tray for the sugar bowl, a tiny ceramic pitcher of milk. Mom's things. His father kept talking, moving his hands.

As they talked (and talked, and talked) Buck searched for hints, clues. Would Tim leave?

He seemed too tired. Would they fight? Dad looked happy. Buck dangled from the closest chair, knees on the seat with his arms hanging over, rails between himself and them, watching 12

the sink under the window. The curtains were pulled and the sun almost gone, but a few rays filtered into a gleam wrapped unbroken around the chrome basin. When the dusk rose and the gleam settled Buck climbed up a stool, near but not too near Tim, who sat sipping coffee like he couldn't see, until he reached through all that empty space and cupped his hand around the nape of Buck's neck and pulled him close, where he stayed until dinner. __________ Once, twice a month, father said, I stir the herd. Churn the turf, let the water in, let the manure in. Break the soil, you expose new seeds. Seeds been buried since God knows when, before my grandfather. Break the earth and life fills in the cracks. You'll remember that for when I'm gone.

Tim strained to listen. Dropseed, gamma grass, texoka. If he could remember their names, and the portents in the clouds, could he remember himself? Right now he was a thousand miles above the ground, staring down on a motherless land. To the east the sun broke free of the dirt. In the north, smoke. Tim lifted his trigger finger, aimed it at the sky. __________ The next morning their father had them stir the herd. Tim took the Appaloosa, so Buck rode Mary, their Welsh pony. Trotting over grass brittle as a field of matchsticks, Buck hung back.

The herd was in the north. The smoke smell made them skittish, though they mostly ignored Tim, waving his hat and hollering. Sometimes they gathered around him, when Buck and Mary charged into their blind spots, scattering them like dandelion puffs. After half an hour Tim was sweating and breathing hard, and Buck was bored.

“Guess I'm rusty,” Tim said.

“Me too,” he lied. He said maybe they should spook the yearlings, so the heifers would circle up, and they could drive them all together. Buck stole a look. Tim was grinning.

“You're pretty good on it,” he said. “Bet you could run this place.”

“Reckon not.”

“When you're older.”

“When I get old I'm joining the Army.” He glanced again. Tim looked like dad. You couldn't tell anything from his face. Buck wondered if maybe he had to kill somebody. But Tim smiled again.

“Know what I saw over there?” he said. “Snow. It was up the mountains, mountains so huge you wouldn't believe. You're down in the desert sweating like a hog and the whole time they're right there, ice cold.” Buck saw snow once, too, on TV. On TV, the kids ran around with their tongues out catching snowflakes. “What do you think about living somewhere like DULCET LITERARY MAGAZINE

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that? Someplace with mountains and snow.”

“Nah.” “What about going to college, doing something easy, like being a banker, or if you could go somewhere exciting, like the beach or some city somewhere?”

“Nah.” “Gimme one reason.”

He had a lot of reasons. School, his friends, his horse, which Tim was only borrowing just for now. But the reason that mattered was the sunlight through the kitchen window, and the dust in the barn. He needed to stay by the light.

“Just don't wanna.”

“So you're happy here?”

Sure, Buck said, because it was the right answer. What else could he say? Of course he wasn't happy. He would never be happy until she came back. The only thing now was to keep Tim home. Keep him there, close, and dad, so the three of them could stop anything else from happening.

“I don't wanna leave,” he said. He spit in the dirt to make it official. __________ Carl stood on the porch at sunset, sneaking a chaw. Eileen'd made him give it up the year Bucky was born. Tim was twelve then, and she'd caught him skulking in the barn with a wad of mud tucked in his bottom lip. She'd thrown the gob smack in Carl's chest, told him to eat it his own damn self, and since then he'd kept a tin in a plastic baggie in the stable rafters. He only took it down when he needed to think, and he was trying hard now, but his mind kept getting caught on the breeze, still safely from the south, bending the double line of prairie fire sumac along the drive. Carl planted those trees with his father going on fifty years ago. Pop was ten years in his grave, but the trees still looked good.

While the boys were in the pasture Carl had taken the tractor and plowed a firebreak twenty-five feet wide and a mile long. Pitiful. Back then, all the neighbors would get out and dig. Now the companies just let it burn. Good for the soil, they say. Make it up next year.

Fire stained the northern sky hellish yellow, like an old bruise. “Big dogs want the land.”

That's what Lee Morgan told him. “They gonna get it. Next year, five years, ten. They live forever, Carl. Don't get old, don't get sick. Now's your chance, right now, to walk with some real money.” Lee's smile never wavered. Carl had imagined him in air-conditioning, shiny shoes on a shiny desk, waiting for a living. He spat over the porch rail. One-hundred and forty-four prairie fire sumac all bent north, toward the light.

The boys had decided to stay. Tim, who'd been half-crazed to get out, wanted to stay.

Neither of them could say why, but that was alright. Like the decision grew from the ground.

14

It meant another ten, fifteen years of the same drudgery, the same fears. If he was lucky. It meant sleeping in that half-empty bed. Dying in that bed, hopefully. That was alright, too. It's where she died. It meant the boys would have a home. Buck would come up from the same soil as the rest of them.

The fire was close, but the insurance was paid up. Better to let the place burn than roll over for the likes of Lee Morgan. The breeze was still out of the south. Carl would be up all night, drinking black coffee, watching the trees. The trees would give him a half-hour's warning. By morning things could be clearer. If not certain, at least more certain.

“What's that?” Buck asked. The boy could creep up on you. Both of them were lurking in the door. Carl ducked his head, tossed the chaw into the pachysandra. “Dad? What is that?”

He pointed at the glow.

“Nothing to worry about,” Tim told him. “Come inside, let's get dinner started.” Onehundred and forty-four prairie fire sumacs rustled, turning their heads toward the house.

Buck coughed. Fat gray flakes sprinkled the lawn, hanging suspended in the electric light like ornaments against the dark. Buck whooped and leapt from the stairs, and though he knew it was too hot for snow, he ran in the yard, mouth agape, straining to catch the ashes on his tongue.

15

Seaveiw Dawn & Dusk

By Kathleen Gunton

Aging: haiku

By Hugh Findlay

facing a new day, different dawn, same sunset — darkness shuffling in

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18

Ladybug

By Heather Thorn The other side of the thorn pierces bloody, its color the brown of a brute to be ceremoniously lightened. Likewise, the sister gone to France refutes discussion when it comes to Rennes. I imagine the combed streets to unspool like thread fallen, spiraling doodles upon notebook paper during lectures that widen the language barrier. There are so many things I want to tell you. None of it makes it overseas. Somewhere between homebound and homesick is the question: How much has changed since the beginning? And: did I ever tell you about the ladybug that died in my bedroom screen window? Unable to lift the weighty glass, I watched the ladybug, inarguably mine upon its destined resting spot, lose its red in a new bedtime ritual. I checked on it nightly despite knowing, of course, that death is stationary if anything at all. Selfishly, I hope I’m someday thought of with such careful attention– myself a presence to return to. On the other end of another international call, I listen to your silence.

Though I was first to learn how to ride a bicycle, you far outrun me into autumn. Spit dribbles from your lips’ correct pronunciation of words I’ve forgotten. I rewind. Cribs side by side, we create a language (or as close to it as we can) and work our words around it. I know you as well as myself– before we earn the vocabulary for dismissal.

Now, I consider asking you something else, needy as I am.

The question mark’s tail turns up to smooth itself into December. Until then, every day boasts a bouquet of moments in which each petal reminds me of you like you never planned on leaving. All of this is to say that maybe we’re the dead ladybug turned white: a war trophy. Or maybe we’re not a dying thing, yet.

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Kingdom of Clay

By Wayne Lee You need this mountain with its brave rock facing the dawn.

These gray-blue scrub jays devouring sunflower seeds at the feeder swaying in the drought-starved juniper.

This squat, green pumpkin, its promise of enormity concealed beneath its bumbershoot of leaves.

You need this day to be alive.

You taste the air manufactured in the weeds, the light born in the burst of marigolds.

You know the core of the planet is a pebble in your shoe you do not choose to remove.

You can feel the pull of the invisible moon in the cave of your ribcage.

This is what it means to breathe, to be a citizen of the kingdom of clay, to grow your bones from carbon, to slow to the pace of amazement.

To receive each glimpse of the infinite and not look away.

You need this mountain, this fierce rising of the sun.

These evening grosbeaks crowding the fountain, tilting forward and back, taking in the water of life one sip at a time.

Mountainous

By Jennifer Frederick 21

Athena, Push Back the Dawn

By Jesse Curran They would have wept until the rosy Dawn began to touch the sky, but shining-eyed Athena intervened. She held night back, restraining golden Dawn beside the Ocean -The Odyssey

Athena, push back the dawn— let the night be longer.

Let it lengthen for the lovers.

Let Odysseus and Penelope linger a little longer.

Lend them more hours for twenty aching years of weaving and unweaving for tales and yarns of wine dark seas and cedar fragrant isles.

Let them dwell in one another.

Let them bridge the distance and how uncertainty comes to this: a fight set right by an olive tree bed and the night of words and flesh that follows. See how a gesture shapes landscape in the flux of time.

Athena, push back the dawn— for all whose bodies ache for those who shovel in hard earth and those who ax the winter wood.

Athena, let the weary rest.

Let them find ground in sleep—Athena, do with time what none of us can do— let ease fall like lilac rain let golden dawn drift away to distance.

Athena, push back the dawn— let me stay a little longer in this dream of one whose absence roams my darkest chambers.

I am a foreign language that only he might read.

Athena, it’s been twenty years since our bodies filled a room.

In the dream I might linger between lucidity and longing.

Athena, give me this.

And then, as it must, let morning come.

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Cape 2018

By M Patrick Riggin 24

Until the Window Opens

S

By Charlie Keyheart

he knew it couldn’t last. Whatever “it” was. She was still half-convinced it’d been a dream. Cradling the laptop against her heart (gone were the days of grabbing it by a corner so the plastic buckled, or tossing it on the bed—if she were drunk enough, sometimes missing), Abby slippered to the bay window, the one with the padded seat, big enough for her, a cup of licorice tea, and Maxwell, her cat. If he wanted. Abby looked. Max was curled by the shoe rack, all that leather and damp odor of foot keeping him under. Better than an anesthetic.

“Maxwell,” she cooed, not to wake him but to keep him dozing. His tail gave the slightest sweep on the hardwood floor.

“Yes, Abby,” she sotto-voced in her ‘Maxwell’ voice. Deep and gravely since he was so very old. His next birthday, his sixteenth, would make him a “super-senior.” Eighty human years. Abby tried not to think about it.

“Would you like to join me?” she asked. “It’s snowing. Big flakes tumbling down on Main Street. Look. You can see another cat’s tracks on the hood of a car.”

Maxwell yawned (Not really. The shoes were a powerful sedative). “No thanks, Abby. I know what you’re about to do. Do you really think you should?”

Abby considered this. “I don’t see why not. Anyway, it might not work.”

Maxwell snickered (again, not really). “Did it work the first time? And the second? And—” “Okay, Max. You’ve made your point,” Abby grumped. She realized she was still cradling the laptop to her chest. Putting it down, she tested her tea. Too hot. She set it on the window ledge, hoping she wouldn’t forget. No reason everything had to be too hot or cold— unless you forgot. Abby was good at not doing that.

“What do you think it’ll be this time?” Maxwell surprised her by asking.

“I really have no idea,” she said.

“What if it’s…” he paused to lick a forepaw (yes, really).

“Yes?” “You know. Bad?” In their fifteen years together, Maxwell had learned to ask only the most cutting questions. Even when he was asleep (yes, that fast) his tongue curled and peeked from his mouth.

“So far it’s all been lovely. Better than any dream I ever had. Anyway,” Abby reasoned, “I don’t see what there is to be afraid of. It’s my life. I lived it.”

“Yes,” Maxwell allowed. “But what if you see… him?”

Abby drifted off—until she started shivering. Which was good. It reminded her to check her tea. Ancient medicine, this. She’d read somewhere the Egyptians had loved their licorice.

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It was one of the treasures they found in pharaoh’s tombs, along with golden slippers and instruments of various kinds. Maybe she couldn’t afford a Córdoba Torres with a sleek spruce top, or even the best factory-made Yamaha, but at least she could sip luxury. Ah, much better. Abby licked her lips, warm and sweet, and what she said next surprised even herself.

“If I see him, I see him. He can’t hurt me anymore. I mean, c’mon. You can’t keep giving the worst people in your life that kind of power. It’s just…”

“Yes?” “Crazy.”

Maxwell lifted his chin from the hardwood (yes, really) and slow blinked. “Are you crazy, Abby?”

But she’d had enough of Max by then. Huffing, she took a sip of tea. Then one more.

Finally, she opened the laptop resting on her thighs and waited for the lights.

The window seat got cold during the winter, even when she wore a sweater. The old panes rattled and iced and let in frigid drafts. But it was a lovely spot with panoramic views of the small main street, and when Abby tired of her bed or the rickety kitchen table where on the coldest days she’d sit with the oven on high, she liked to bring a drink and watch, maybe some Tom Jobim in the background, playing on the little owl speaker that cost more than her first guitar. It was where she’d been when it first happened. She’d never forget the shock. It’d happened twice more since—each time in the same spot. “Well, we’re about to find out, aren’t we?”

“Evasive. Typical.”

“Be a friend, Max,” Abby said.

The screen lit up and she tapped her password: YellowSubmarine$!

“Can you—” “Shh, Max.” “Just trying to be a friend.”

“Thank you, Mr. Silver.”

Her wallpaper appeared, displaying a shot of Abby in Central Park on that path with the statues of all the famous poets. It was a warm fall day and there was a good crowd, a dozen people at least, mostly tourists who’d stopped to hear her play Malagueña and Capricho Árabe on a green park bench. If she remembered correctly, she took home $40 in ones and fives, a twenty-euro note mixed in. Not bad for a few hours in the park.

Next time, she’d thought, stopping for a cranberry scone on 57th Street, her treat to herself, Carnegie Hall.

Abby waited but nothing happened. To stall disappointment, she drank tea and looked out the window. Two men in Carhartts were urinating outside Eleanor Bigby’s right under the neon sign blinking in the night. There were restrooms, so they couldn’t be customers— though you never knew. Maybe they were drunk and hot and wanted to mark the fresh, white 26

snow (Males liked marking things. Max had taught her), the first fall that winter. Under the old-fashioned streetlamps, it looked like mounds of lemon icing plopped up and down the block. Yes, lemon icing—much better than yellow snow.

“Anything?”

Abby sighed. “No. I guess that’s it. Whatever it was, it was only meant to happ—” She stopped mid-plosive as her screen filled with an old image of home. “Oh my god.”

There was her father coming in the front door, its three small windows set at a slant, even the lowest too high for young Abby to see through. He carried a donut box from Mabel’s Diner, a sloppy cross of ribbons around it because it was her birthday. She was eleven.

“Oh, Max.” Though mature for her age (in comments, teachers called her “Miss Abby” or an “old soul”), Abby still met him at the door after work. Mostly to assure herself she wasn’t alone anymore.

“Abby Jude Prudence Michelle!” her father bent.

“You forgot Rita, Penny Lane, and Eleanor Rigby,” she hugged him. “What’s that?”

As if he’d only just remembered it, he whipped the box out from behind his back. “This?

Well, dessert, of course! I’m sure you can wait till after dinner. What did you make tonight?

Pancakes? Waffles? Strawberry Pop—” “Daddy!”

“Do you really want to see?”

“No,” she suddenly pretended, knowing he was as excited to show her as she was to see it. Abby twisted on a heel, thumbing her cuticles. She could be stubborn.

“Then I’ll just stick it in the closet—” “Dad!” “Okay. Have it your way. Happy birthday, Sweetie.”

Rather than handing her the box, he set it on the floor and backed away. Strange. Abby knelt and at first couldn’t make out what it was. She brushed away the snow that had fallen on his short walk from the car, and couldn’t help thinking school might be closed tomorrow.

Through the clear plastic top she saw a couple of silver-frosted donuts—without sprinkles— clumped together. Despite herself, Abby felt a sinking in her chest. That’s when she noticed it.

The bottom of the box was warm, much warmer than even the freshest donuts could ever— Abby tore at the knot, but feeling the slack—it had been hastily tied, as if at the last minute—she slipped a ribbon and opened it. “Oh my god.”

It was a kitten. The smallest, silveriest kitten she’d ever seen.

“Is he—” “All yours,” her father beamed. Funny. Even now she remembered that, his beaming over her, but on the screen she stared only at the kitten. Her younger self didn’t look up once.

“Oh, he’s asleep. Can I touch him?”

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“Of course. You two are going to be very close, I can tell. Might as well make the introductions now.”

Somehow, though they’d never had a pet, Abby knew precisely how to scoop him up and hold him without waking him. She brought him to her chest, where the tiny warmth over her heart— he was purring now—seemed to jumpstart her own. It was like being zapped with those thingies doctors used to restart your pulse. The paddles of life. Or whatever you called them.

“He’s beautiful. How old is he?”

“We don’t know. They found him in the alley behind Mabel’s. Alone. Eating old French fries. The mom was gone. Maybe she’s coming back. Or maybe…”

Suddenly, Abby faced a predicament. You couldn’t go around kidnapping kittens just because you were poor and it was your birthday and your dad probably didn’t have money for a nice present (any present, really) and your mom had left long ago and you spent your days alone. Kittens had a right to mothers, too. If they had one.

“Maybe we should wait? In case she comes back?”

Her father expected this, you could tell, but it still hurt to hear. He nodded. “Maybe give it a week before naming him?”

“Okay.”

Abby’s heart skipped as the stream blinked off… but just as quickly reappeared, showing her bedroom later that same night. The little cat was in bed with her (her father slept on the couch) nestled in Abby’s hair. She’d tried giving him a shoebox to sleep in—didn’t cats love boxes?— and even her felt guitar case, lined with two fuzzy sweaters, but she tossed and turned with the kitten’s meowing until he joined her. She made space for him on her pillow, but the little thing wouldn’t stay. He insisted on kneading her long black hair– “making bread” her father would say– finally curling up wrapped in the strands. His little heart going like a silver hammer.

The next day, school was closed. Abby spent the day nursing him. Not that he was ill.

She just figured he needed it. From the way he followed her everywhere, pawing her slippers, lick-biting her toes, and being a general nuisance, maybe he did. Abby was terrified she’d step on him. Finally, she traded her sweater for an old hoodie and piggy-backed him in the empty hood, drawstrings pulled, only his face peeking out. He was so tiny, it didn’t choke her, even a little. Abby spoke to him constantly, answering in a high-pitched kitten’s voice. She was pleased to discover he was very talkative. When her father came home, there was nothing to eat.

“No prob, Abbs.” He handed her chicken soup and a tuna sandwich from Mabel’s. At the time, Abby’d thought there was more in the bag for him, but now she could see from the way it crumpled behind his back it couldn’t have been more than soup crackers. If that.

Abby reached for her tea but had to wipe her eyes. “Oh, Daddy,” she said in a strange voice, 28

neither hers nor Max’s.

That snowy December week had been the longest of her life. Abby was smart, and knew she might lose him, but after a full day of nursing understood that you didn’t choose who won your heart. You only chose if you went along with it. On the seventh day, her father came home—late—with a grave look on his face. “Bad news,” he said, shaking.

Abby watched as her young heart skipped four beats—a full musical bar.

“We found one of his sisters.” He took off his hat, lowering his head. “She didn’t make it. I guess the mom never turned up.”

With a wild scream, Abby charged him, tackling him at the waist, nearly knocking him over. “Don’t ever do that again!” she swung at him. “Ever!”

“Sorry. Jeez. Where is he?”

“Come and see.” Abby tug-boated him to her room, where she’d arranged their best terry cloth towel, her own, in the bottom drawer of her giant bureau. She pulled it open. The kitten was lying on his back, silvery-white tummy exposed, tiny leopard spots running down his belly.

“He looks happy.”

“I’ve got a name.”

“Let me guess,” her father stroked his chin. “Donut.”

“That’s actually pretty cute,” Abby admitted. “But then I’d have to stop eating donuts.”

“Forget I said that!”

“It’s Maxwell.”

Her father smacked his head. “Like the song. Can he breathe in there?”

“I cut some holes,” Abby twisted, hands behind her back, minimally revealing.

Her dad nodded, proud, weary, and content all at once. “I bet you did,” he kissed her forehead, but slowly, like the bending hurt. “Your dad needs sleep, hon.”

“Rough day?”

He slump-nodded. “I’ll have dinner for breakfast. Which means I’ll have breakfast for breakfast, right?” He kissed her again. “Good night, Abby Jude.”

“Night, Daddy.”

The stream stopped there.

Abby waited nearly an hour, but it felt like minutes, the rush of memories erasing all semblance of passing time. Finally, she closed the laptop and gently laid it on the kitchen table on her way to Maxwell, who she scooped up. He was much heavier now, nearly fifteen pounds. More than a Gibson Les Paul Custom! Bending under his weight, Abby brought him to the window where she lay him on her lap, belly up. He was so warm! To keep him there, she scratched under his chin. As long as she did, he’d stay, an upturned turtle.

“Did you see what you wanted?” Maxwell asked.

“Better,” Abby said.

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Max cleaned an ear. “And now?”

“Now?” Abby sniffed. “Carnegie Hall. Then maybe health insurance. I can’t believe that in a week I’ll be in New York. Playing on my birthday, of all days.” She stroked the cat’s belly against the grain, which Max tolerated. “Sorry, you can’t come.”

Maxwell switched paws. “Traveling’s overrated.”

“Says you,” Abby kissed a wash-paw. “Some of us might like to leave our small-town life.”

“Leaving’s overrated.”

Suddenly, Abby needed a drink. All this gravely talk hurt her throat. Outside, one of the urinating men reappeared, adding a new fluid to the mixture. From across the quiet street, you could hear it. So much for fresh, white snow.

“Why do you think it happens?” Maxwell asked. He meant the streams. “It’s like time travel without leaving the present.”

Abby thought about this. And about her father. But not about how he went. She rarely thought about that. People without health insurance died differently. Sad but true. Maybe it wasn’t the dying so much as the indignity of the living—what little life they had left. Abby’d come home from the conservatory for winter break and found him in her bed, under every blanket in the apartment. Abbey Road playing on loop, Maxwell curled by his feet, like a furry foot warmer. Abby hadn’t seen him in months, and when she nuzzled him, he purred, yawned, and bit her—all at once.

“Where’s Max, Honey?”

“Here, Dad.” “Can you bring him?”

Abby lifted and plopped him down where he already was. Maxwell blinked. “Thanks, Hon. Remember, your lesson’s in an hour. Don’t forget the sheet music to—” He was out again.

Instantly, Abby was in the kitchen, making chicken soup from scratch. No more frozen pancakes or Eggo Waffles for dinner. She cut leeks and onions and long stems of dill, chopping them fine, the way he liked, and she broke the bones to loosen the marrow and let the pot roil, uncovered. Soon every window in the tiny apartment was weeping from the steam. Or maybe it just seemed that way.

“I don’t know,” Abby finally said, back in the present. “What do you think?”

Finished cleaning—Max always had a good clean after waking—he struggled to his paws, careful not to claw Abby’s thighs. “I think he’s got a window too, wherever he is, and he’s watching you, always, even now. He’ll see you in New York next week. He’ll be so proud.”

And why not? Abby thought. If life wasn’t ‘but a dream,’ like the song they used to sing at bedtime, Abby rowing the imaginary oars of her bed to a place they called “Dream-sea,” 30

(Corny, maybe, but it worked. Even now, Abby was a great sleeper. And dreamer…) if these things really happened so you could watch them years after, maybe someone, lots of someones, were watching them now. Maybe God wasn’t judge or jury, but a divine bingewatcher in the sky. Abby wondered if he liked reruns. Anyway, it was hard not to believe the things you did left a trace somewhere, some record or energy others could pick up on. Like your path through life left a trail in the universe, an actual physical track that, once made, would never not be. Wasn’t that why people loved time travel stories, this idea that you could backtrack on the trail sometimes, even if not to change it, but to relive it for a while?

Abby wondered if it was God letting her relive these scenes now. She wished she knew.

She wanted to thank someone. It was the second-best birthday present ever.

“Remember those bike rides to guitar lessons?” Max asked. “Back before he got the Civic?”

“Winters were the worst.” Abby smiled.

“But they paid off. Which, if you ask me, is the way of the world. Everything, good or bad, pays off eventually.”

“Said the dozing cat.”

“I’m fifteen-and-nine-tenths years old. Do you know what that is in human years?”

“So?” “So give me a flipping break. Ms. Abby Jude Prudence Michelle Rita…. Penelope? Lucy, right? Sorry. I always forget the rest.”

“You got it, Maxwell Silver.” Abby forced a hug—she didn’t always, but c’mon, this was a cat—before letting him go.

“Who knows?” Max eased down, Abby helping. He sashayed to his food bowl in the kitchen. “Maybe you’re watching each other. Maybe through the same window.”

Abby pictured it, a smile warming her lips. Pressing fingers calloused from years of fretwork against the glass, Abby left five small prints in the frost—just like the cat’s paws she’d made as a child.

“You have to,” she finally said. “Until the window opens.”

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Union Station

By M Patrick Riggin 32

My Night

By Kirsty Mac Dougall

your night is clear. as day. and my ashen winds sweep over. casting a thick fog that trips you up. like gravel stuck. between your toes. and your night gathers clouds. like a family coming together. for a funeral. silent. but stirring. buzzing with uneasiness. concern. as a tear leaves my eye. sorrow rains. along your shoreline. swept out by the tides. overflowing the oceans. till they part. fracture.

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a fault line cracks. down my centre. I fall into rocks. and they fall in an avalanche. leaving a rubble pile. of a person. bare and raw. open. and cut. open. you reach out your hand. and my night gives way. to day.

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Root Vegetable Soup For my wife

By Joseph Chelius When I put on my navy wool coat for the first time that winter, I dredge from a seabed of lint in the right-hand pocket a peppermint, a lip balm, a creased grocery list on which the poet in me had crafted with a soft lead pencil the words parsnips and rutabaga, imagery that has me conjuring here in the hallway— with new errands to run— the frosted glass door and four swaying pines; snow on the feeder like an igloo, a watch cap, a domed city church.

And inside the table set with the everyday spoons and two Blue Willow bowls so I can savor once more the tang of root vegetables that had simmered on the stove and misted our windows— dusk coming on before we knew.

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Sunset Impression

By Sean Ewing 36

Choose This Winter Morning

By Frederick Livingston

eventually you must choose the raw sun melting ice that snapped and dragged entire trees down while you slept yesterday’s treacherous road thawed to slush swelling river milky with its message of sediment. when the ache is enough, hang your heart among summer’s withered plums. either live where your silvery artichokes collapsed into a crushed mess of thread or walk until you find a patch of ground untouched by bitter beauty. all around you are hoofprints where a mother and her fawn came scraping cambium.

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robins are tearing rotten apples apart and drinking drips from icicle tips. you can only begin here with the sharp air in your lungs just as spring does. commit your mortal chlorophyll or love nothing at all

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Entreaties for remembering...

By Carolyn Martin

mistakes are molehills misdefined as mountains peeking through a wrinkled sky every thought we conceive starts to think itself moss is older than grass and deserves to bask in any swath of shade the talent of weeds: pluck one day, return the next the honesty of a white rainbow or the Fuel Empty light on our Honda’s dash everything—a sugar ant, frost-bitten leaf, groans beneath an overpass—is grievable when hiking becomes cumbersome, strolling is a worthy alternative to bless wrinkles, moles, scars, and liver spots that hold our narratives memory is a travel guide that never settles in one place the Future knows what it’s about and waits to erase regrets before Eternity laughs at our absurdity remembering everything would be unbearable

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Whitby at Dusk

By Heather D. Haigh 40

Nocturne

By Allison Burris

Some forms of rest are deeper than others some have stars forming myths at night we go traveling under upholstered tombstones while ghosts dance to music boxes tinkling under their flower-sprigged shrouds my aunt taught me to become a shadow bark at the moon with teased hair someone is knocking at the cave mouth and night is purple like that one phase of a bruise it swallows and spits pinpricks deep into the universe to snatch away the light bats flap while the bugs are out across the courtyard yellow light in the window behind the blinds streetlights fuzz the outlines hungry cats are on the prowl.

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I

Lydia’s Dance

By Cassie Tatum

t was nearing seven o’clock, and Lydia had misplaced the curry seasoning. The once tidy, Lysol-embalmed kitchen quickly turned into what looked like a jungle gym: cabinets flung open, chicken juice puddling on the countertop, blotted paper towels dotting the floor. She rummaged through drawers, one after the other, shifting bottles and skimming labels. The stand mixer was turned on high, dusting the granite with flour and turning the air to chalk.

Time was running out—had been running out.

Lydia sat on the crumb-coated hardwood and began picking at the skin around her thumb. Maybe he’ll be late, she wondered. I could call and cancel. Twirling long strands of hair into knots, she peered up at the clock on her oven and flinched.

From her huddle on the kitchen floor, Lydia grabbed the leg of a chair and stood slowly, hoping to avoid dizziness. The heat bouncing off the stovetop begged for a breeze. She opened three windows, poured a glass of wine, and turned the mixer off. It was five past seven. He’d be arriving any second, and the chicken had yet to marinate. Her shower had worn off, and the blush on her cheeks was smudged with sweat and tomato paste.

She went to the bathroom to wipe her armpits down with a wet towel and hand soap. She stared at her face in the mirror, willing herself to keep her hands still. The edges of her eyes blurred with liner from the night before. Her bottom lip cracked, and she gently applied chapstick. The length of her rusty hair furled at the edge of her collarbone. She clumped on another layer of mascara and tied her hair back, hoping the man coming for dinner would notice her soft, pink shoulders.

Lydia had only just started dating after her divorce three years ago, which left her maimed and sour and in desperate need of a warm glass of milk. She’d met her ex, Roy, in standstill traffic on I-90 heading toward Lake De Smet. He was twenty-six at the time and Lydia had just graduated high school. She inched up the right lane and stopped next to Roy’s Jeep. They’d been listening to the same radio station and laughed, introducing themselves across engine exhaust and rolled-down windows. She remembered the gentle slope of his nose, and how the first thing he’d ever said to her was, “You’ve got a nice face.” She hoped the man coming for dinner would think so, too.

Roy’s cologne still sat behind the bathroom mirror. Lydia opened the cap and inhaled, spraying a bit on her inner wrist. A lagging breeze from the window drifted into the room, reminding Lydia of the potatoes roasting in the oven. She blew her nose in a handful of toilet paper, shoved it in her pocket, and entered the mouth of the kitchen.

Raw chicken sat in a bowl on the edge of the counter. Lydia covered the breasts with salt, pepper, cumin, and olive oil. She sliced a lemon, a drop of juice spitting up and into her eye.

She used the tissue in her pocket to blot it out. After a slug of wine, Lydia gently placed the

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chicken in a spattering pan and thought of Roy sitting in the chair across from where she stood, watching her fix dinner, dancing in the kitchen to John Prine.

The radio on the windowsill had gone untouched since Roy left. Lydia considered turning it on but worried she might not hear her date pull up the gravel driveway. The clock read seven-thirty. She flipped a chicken breast, popped a burnt baby potato in her mouth, and poured another glass of wine.

The sun melted beneath the edges of the blinds, leaving faint traces of dim light across the dining table. Lydia ran her fingertips along the slanted lines. She imagined what it might be like to reproduce that deep periwinkle shadow with oil paint.

It hadn’t been long since her last commission—about a month or so. The Johnson County Library asked her to paint three landscapes of the town: one off Rock Creek Road, and two of the Occidental Hotel, interior and exterior. Her garage still smelled of turpentine and mineral spirits, her knuckles dry from washing brushes.

She looked up from the table and over to a painting hung above her sofa. It was one of the first that she’d been proud of—a large seascape, feet nestled in sand. She painted it on her honeymoon with Roy, the memory of soft hues now muddled with the dark slush of heartbreak. She remembered her pruned, sticky sea salt fingers—the kind good for rolling cigarettes—from wading in waves. She remembered how quiet it had been. How quiet it was now.

A brake light flickered through her window, skipping Lydia’s driveway for the next house down. It was five till eight. She stood and began eating over the countertop; a meal for two for one. She grabbed a napkin from an open drawer, finding the jar of curry tucked below a clutter of cloth. Placing it neatly on the counter, Lydia began to laugh. She laughed at herself, at her burnt potatoes, at the paint-blotched apron clinging to her hips. She laughed at the idea of making a meal for a man she’d never met. She laughed at the lipstick stains on her wine glass. She laughed.

Lydia took off her barely worn kitten heels, shoving them in the corner of the kitchen, before going to the bathroom to wash her face. She scrubbed away the stains and blotchy makeup, studying the scattered freckles across her brow line. She let her hands run through the knots in her hair. Without thinking, she unclasped the mirror and watched it swing gently open, the smell of Roy’s cologne lingering in the air. She grabbed the bottle, turning it over in her hands, before placing it gently in the garbage bin. She laughed.

The kitchen looked different, less frightening, with the absence of sun. Lydia moved slowly through the space, putting containers away and filing the chairs neatly under the table.

Her mess was hers. She plugged the radio in and turned the knob, whirring until song. Lydia cleaned her kitchen, swaying with music, laughing alone. She laughed and she danced.

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Darkness of Water

By Stella Newmoyer 44

Here

By Shana Ritter It is not the dusk that slopes sadly toward night. The night is brilliant, full moon, deep blues in the far west the trees all reaching as if they still believed everything would green as if spring would truly bring renewal.

The gray morning tries to tip towards sunshine leaning into the small slack pond hoping for something beyond suffused illumination.

Today I am dull my edges softened beyond my own recognition I stay so close to home that the walls of my house and my skin merge.

I find after all my seeking I had only to remain.

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What Is and What Should Never Be

By GJ Gillespie 46

Red Fruit Used to Grow

By K.R. Rose

He is gold in the gray like the strip of light on the horizon. Long legs brush skeletons of shrubs. maned wolf lumbers through straw, once grass, now bed of ghosts pale as bone. Cool air licks dust from Paws with each step—tickles whiskers, rustles fur.

A dozen steps, one hundred. Still hungry.

Silence is the predator.

Did it leave behind any scraps?

Rotting fruit is better than maned wolf’s rotting stomach.

Roar-bark into the dawn. Silence devours the call — no response.

It is the sacred hour when night animals sleep, and day creatures have yet to wake. It is unclear if they ever will stir. This is the hour of maned wolf, so roar-bark into the dawn.

D e a d f l y half - buried in naked earth between paws.

Dirt so rich it suffocates meal —smallest carcass on the plain.

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maned wolf dips head, nuzzles Carcass into the cold.

Tastes like drought.

Ten paces.

maned wolf pauses in the frail arms of brambles. Dead leaves nibble Paws.

Wooden spear forgotten in the earth beside Shoulder; It is Old Tree’s rib. maned wolf looks away. Old Tree is dead. Trees still alive stand in solitude,

gripping leaves arched over dry ditches like they grasp onto life and breathing. Near the muddy roots, unfamiliar green sprouts where Red Fruit used to grow.

maned wolf licks the residue of Carcass from Nose, wanting more. Soundless thread pulls Snout forward. Sshhh, sshhh, says the shrubs against Flank, but today is already silent.

Over the grass that bows to Starvation, a silhouette lays

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in the dirt like the haze of a hill. maned wolf steps near

to matted fur in a dull heap claimed by flies.

Snout draws closer, brushes Shoulder of Ground Sloth.

maned wolf breathes the death rot

of Another .

And walks on

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War Wears Two Faces

By DJ Murphy

The day after the war they packed the bombs in boxes, recalled drones to their nests, summoned tanks to silence their turrets and come crawling back, refugees returned home to find none, fathers stared into the rubble of a school, silent hatred took root in young witnesses, mothers suffocated from the smell of memories still clinging to clothing.

The day after the war, people oceans away went shopping, networked at conferences, tried that new coffee shop, framed their child’s drawing of the cottage, planted a rosebush to replace one that died.

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Homestead

By Anna Ojascastro Guzon

Eventually, feelings pass for most. There are a few, though, who remain enraptured. Imagine: feeling as if you've swallowed that fluorescent sunset and kept it safe behind your sternum, so it never bleeds beyond the edges of that one afternoon when you first felt you were a part of everything that houses an instinct. The tint of that memory makes temperatures rise a half-degree Fahrenheit inside of capillaries.

But you let go of that neon bouquet that flickered and bloomed arbitrarily, so often that it kept you up at night. You’re a better human than me for releasing the helium wish. You, instead, plant your soles into promises, made to your earliest days.

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Un-rivals

By Elaine Dillof

Death drew you towards her with a silken scarf, her slender and lithe in a white slip of a gown.

She whisked you away––shoulders bare, eyes demure, a hint of languor. How could you resist her?

She turned the music on. A quick step. Her in your arms, you tripped across the ebony floor. She melded with you.

With flourish and verve, you spun her around, her gown flaring, her ankles flashing, herself a swirl of sequins

and pearls. How could you deny the rising clarinets, her blue underlids, her falling in with your lead?

In a coma you slept, myself at your side. I pressed down on your lips but you didn’t press back. Were you thinking

of her? I prayed you were not in a dark soundless place.

At the last she spoke to you of Shakespeare and Proust,

of Beethoven and the Duke, and you went. You went to her.

When she kicked off her slippers, silver slippers

with a single strap and very high heels, and led you to her bed of deep repose––fragrance of talcum, amaranth

and rose. I was glad there had been music, a terrace and palms, glad there had been dancing,

moonlight and her.

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Early Light on London Bridge

By Kathleen Gunton

Florence Waited

A

By Suzanne C Martinez

few weeks after she buried her mother, an envelope arrived in the mail with the payout from her mother’s insurance policy. Julie stared at the check propped against the toaster while she drank a cup of coffee and ate breakfast. She then booked a round-trip flight to Florence, Italy, and spent the rest of the week in the house sorting her mother’s possessions. When her mother died, Julie cried for days. She cried for the mother she’d nursed for twenty-one years. Then she cried for the time lost that could never be replaced, for the husband and children she might’ve had, for the many friendships abandoned, and for everything else she couldn’t name. Then she stopped.

Three months later, Julie set off from her hotel on her first morning in Florence along the Via della Vigna Nuova. The sun sliced through the narrow street, blinding her despite her new Gucci sunglasses. She avoided being hit by a Vespa by hugging a building. Sidewalks in Florence were medieval afterthoughts that lost the battle for space to vehicles a hundred years earlier.

Julie’s people were quiet Midwesterners transplanted to New Jersey who mowed their own lawns and didn’t buy on credit. A trip to Europe was inconceivable—a week at the Jersey shore, maybe. Julie had a happy childhood with Barbie dolls, swimming lessons, and friends.

The youngest of three, her two older brothers had both left home for college by the time she was twelve. She was good at art and enjoyed it, so she went to art school but lacked the passion to pursue a career as an artist. Julie married briefly in her mid-twenties.

She walked to the Strozzi Palace to see the Picasso show, but she was early, and it wouldn’t open until later. The unfiltered sunlight made her eyes water as she proceeded east toward the Bargello, her next stop. As she passed through the Piazza della Repubblica, she noticed an empty table in the shade at an outdoor café. Julie craved something she couldn’t quite determine, but maybe some biscotti and coffee would be good.

When her father’s war injuries triggered his early retirement, and her mother suffered the first of a series of strokes, Julie agreed to become their temporary caregiver. It seemed practical. Her brothers each had families by then and lived hundreds of miles away. Her dad died five years later, but her mom lingered and became increasingly irascible and critical of Julie, her only daughter. Julie had been in a half-life, a hibernation until her mother died, and now she was awake and hungry for sustenance, but untethered on her own.

“Buongiorno, madam.”

“Buongiorno. May I have a caffè americano?”

“Certamente, madam,” said the waiter.

“Isn’t this sunlight astonishing? It makes everything shimmer, doesn’t it?” The woman DULCET LITERARY MAGAZINE

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speaking from an adjacent table grinned at Julie like a fool.

She ignored her. People usually wanted something, and Julie had given enough. The coffee arrived with biscotti.

“So, where are you from?” asked the woman.

The woman was clearly American, about Julie’s age, she guessed, with brown eyes and a thick waist. She had corkscrew grey hair and an embroidered skirt, probably a refugee from a commune.

The woman waited for Julie to answer, “New Jersey.”

“Hey, I’m a Jersey girl too. I’ve been here for a week with my husband, but he left this morning to return to work. I have four more days.” She used lots of hand gestures. “How long will you be in Florence?”

“Ten days,” said Julie evenly.

“I love Florence. I’m an art teacher in Brooklyn. Are you in the arts?”

Julie took a sip of her coffee before turning toward the woman. “No.” She saw a flash of herself at twenty, showing one of her paintings at her school’s art show. “Almost. It was always my plan, but life got in the way. Or rather, other people’s lives.”

“Life has its twists and turns.”

The woman had a calmness about her that Julie liked. She heard herself continuing to talk, as if she was no longer in control. “My parents needed a caregiver, and none of my siblings were as free to help as I was.”

“Are they traveling with you?” asked the woman.

Julie looked away; her voice cracked slightly. “No. My father died sixteen years ago, and my mother passed earlier this year. It took me a while to regroup.” Julie turned to the woman. “So, here I am, twenty-some years late, to be inspired by Firenze.”

“Florence waited.”

Julie nodded. “I usually have trouble talking to people.”

“You’ve probably been short of listeners.” The woman had a friendly smile.

“So, what is your favorite place in Florence?” asked Julie.

“My favorite? I climbed the Duomo, and it was magnificent. Also, I loved seeing the Uffizi and the Bargello, of course.”

“I’m going to the Bargello today, but not the Duomo. I’m not sure. Was it difficult to reach the top? I’m sort of claustrophobic, acrophobic, agoraphobic, and a little OCD.” “I doubt that!” said the woman laughing. “It’s over thirty stories though, about five hundred steps, but you don’t go straight up. You can set your own pace. And there are windows cut into the walls so you can see out. The view from the top is breathtaking. The climb might change your life. It’s another world up there,” she said, leaning toward Julie, almost touching her arm. “You really must do it since you’re here in Florence.”

Julie sipped her coffee and watched a toddler grab a biscotti from his mother’s plate and gnaw on it. “I’m trying to force myself to try things after living a monotonous life for so 56

long,” she said with glassy eyes.

“That’s all over. You can do whatever you want now,” the woman shouted over the din of a noisy tour group passing by.

“When you haven’t asked yourself what you want for a long time, you have no desires.”

“I’ll bet that isn’t true. You probably have a secret list in your pocket.”

Julie reddened and blew her nose. “I do. My list has more blanks than marks. I need to change that, starting here.”

“Good! I encourage that.”

“I’ve been in quarantine for half my life.” Julie’s hand covered her mouth.

“Or prison,” said the woman, sipping her coffee.

“Yes, exactly, a grey-haired parolee finally sprung from the joint.” Julie was enjoying herself. “I’m Julie. And you are?” She extended her hand.

“I’m Lucy. ‘Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds.’ You remember the Beatles song? Though I was always a Deadhead. Still am.”

“I think I remember, but I’m not sure it was my lifetime. I’ve forgotten so much.” For years, every day was about giving medicines, cooking meals, feeding and cleaning people and the house. Going out was for doctor’s visits or groceries only. Hauling the trash cans to the curb and back was a big outing. “I cursed the planes that flew overhead because they were going somewhere. The years passed like flocks of winged ghosts.”

Lucy reached out and almost touched Julie’s shoulder.

“It’s your time,” Lucy said.

“Yes,” Julie said, standing. “I hope I’ll run into you again.”

“It’s likely. The center of Florence is tiny. I’ve been seeing the same people all week.”

––––––––– Julie walked to the Bargello Museum. The narrow streets and massive buildings felt comforting. Florence was built on a more human, intimate scale than Manhattan skyscrapers, which she hated, but not suburban like her home in Pennington with grassy yards and empty windows, which she hated too. Things in Florence were old, but historically old, not falling apart old. The streets were treeless, but many buildings had atriums with private gardens hidden from view unless a door opened. Julie enjoyed spying on them as she passed.

Her feet hurt from the walk despite wearing sensible shoes. Once inside the museum, she sat on the first empty bench and observed the eager museum visitors trek up two long flights of stairs to the galleries, a stream of insects carrying digital cameras and smartphones on selfie sticks. The Florence architects never located anything significant on the ground floor, and elevators were non-existent. They designed each building to guard the critical stuff thirty feet up from warring hoards or flash floods. They’d had both. She'd read that the Bargello DULCET LITERARY MAGAZINE

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Museum, the oldest building in Florence, was a barracks and a jail once.

She closed her eyes and relaxed. It was still a novelty to have nothing expected of her and no one to please. Her mother always sensed when Julie would steal a few minutes to read or linger outside enjoying a sunset. She’d call for Julie to help her with some urgent need and shatter the quiet.

She’d come to the Bargello Museum specifically to see the bronze David statue she’d admired in art books. It always intrigued her that the artist, Donatello, had chosen such a slight boy for his model, unlike the muscular youth portrayed in Michelangelo’s marble statue across town in dell’Accademia. Goliath was a giant, after all, and even Michelangelo’s massive David looked beatable. But Donatello’s David was a real loser. Goliath would have found him laughable, even ridiculous. Pictures in books could be deceptive, so she wanted to see both ‘Davids’ for herself.

Julie caught herself nodding off on the bench and left the Bargello with Donatello’s David statue unseen. Jet lag hit hard. She’d return another day. She leisurely strolled to her hotel, enjoying window shopping in the shoe, clothing, and pottery stores along the way.

Her hotel, The St. Regis, situated in an elegant eighteenth-century building, was expensive and unlikely to attract a young crowd or noisy tour groups. Her mother would have chosen something cheaper on a side street. Julie was given the Botticelli Room with views of the Arno river and the Duomo. She opened the balcony doors and surveyed the afternoon activity in the plaza and across the river from the third floor—crowds of tourists assembled on the Ponte Vecchio for the approaching sunset. Couples strode, hand in hand, in small groups or rode bicycles in tandem along the river road. Not many solo walkers.

Years ago, when her parents contacted Julie for help, she gave up her tiny apartment and tedious job in a craft store in Princeton to move back into her childhood bedroom. Her friends in the area initially tried to include her in evening and weekend activities, but as years passed by, they started having babies or moved away for better jobs. Julie could hardly leave her parents alone for more than a few hours, anyway.

At first, Julie felt lucky not to have to make the big life decisions that were so easy to get wrong, like her brief marriage, which was probably her fault. She’d only married because she assumed it was the next step after college, and he asked. The longer she lived with her parents, the more frightened she was of leaving. She’d had no desire to challenge their demands of her, neither thinking of anything but the present nor dreaming of a different future for herself as half a couple. Their marriage counselor felt Julie’s husband needed medication and many years of therapy. She advised Julie to move on.

She kicked off her sneakers and crawled into the expansive bed. A cool breeze from the balcony teased her into sleep. She dreamed she was dancing alone in the Piazza with the music surrounding her. Wearing a flowing, vivid blue dress, she pirouetted gracefully, moving across the pavement as if she were weightless.

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A quartet played on a small platform under the arch. The musicians’ shapes mimicked their instruments—the clarinetist was skinny and small; the trombonist was tall with long arms; the bald guitar player was chubby, and the young woman playing the string bass was voluptuous. Julie laughed and woke herself up with a start. She’d never dreamed of dancing in Pennington. It was midnight. She closed the balcony doors, got undressed, and slept until morning.

As Julie ate a late breakfast, she made a plan. She didn’t want to squander a moment but was paralyzed by what to do first. For decades, it had been her nightly fantasy to come to Florence and see the art and architecture she'd loved and studied in college. But it was more of a prayer to relieve her frustration than anything else. She never thought it could happen.

Her brothers, who’d come home for their mother’s funeral, insisted Julie take whatever money was left, including the insurance money and the proceeds from the house, to repay her for all the years she’d cared for their parents. Julie was relieved. She could do whatever she wanted. It was daunting.

After idling for an hour in the Medici garden, enjoying the fruit trees and flowers in bloom, Julie wandered south and was soon at the Piazza del Duomo, the heart of Florence.

The Cathedral, the Baptistery, and the Campanile were enormous—much larger than she’d imagined from the pictures in Janson’s History of Art, her bedtime storybook for years. They loomed over the crowded plaza like a quilt—green, pink, and white marble in intricate patterns covered every inch of the façade. The complex embellishments made her eyes vibrate.

The stained glass windows and the elaborately carved doors were more beautiful than the pictures.

Dozens of leather vendors created a ring surrounding the small plaza packed with people checking their cell phones, sitting on benches eating gelato, taking pictures, or hovering near shouting tour guides with numbered placards. Hundreds of conversations in a host of languages all chattered at once. The plaza sizzled in the afternoon heat with the smell of smoke, leather, sweat, and fish, all melding into a reeking stew.

The sound of her name amidst the clamor made her search frantically, but she couldn’t see anyone familiar. Julie always hated being surrounded by intense noise. She couldn’t bear to take a long shower until a few months ago because she’d hear her sick parents crying her name over and over, pleading for her help in the sound of the gushing water.

Disoriented, she needed to leave. Julie searched for a break in the building façades, twisting back and forth between the shifting clusters of people. She spied a gap and wiped the sweat from her forehead as she pushed through the surging crowds. Too short to see where she was going, Julie pressed blindly on and eventually found a quiet side street where she slumped against a wall and caught her breath, her heart beating hard. The cold stone touching her back made her shiver.

She recalled her panic attack at JFK Airport when the taxi dropped her at the departure level. Outside, she had paced from one end of the walkway to the other, dragging her rollie DULCET LITERARY MAGAZINE

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bag, resisting her desire to escape and return to her now empty house. After an hour, she mustered the nerve to enter the glass doors, go through the TSA line, and find her gate. It took all the courage—or desperation—she possessed to get on the plane. But she’d done it in the end. However, Julie hadn’t buckled her seatbelt until the flight attendant noticed. She took one of her mother’s sedatives and slept all the way to Rome, where she changed planes for Florence.

“I can’t do it. There are too many people. I won’t be able to climb up to the Dome,” she said. Her mother always insisted she had the resolve of a doormat.

“Hi there.”

Julie looked up, and Lucy was leaning against a wall opposite her. She forgot her distress and disappointment. “Lucy. Where did you come from?”

“Did you decide to go up in the Duomo? You’ll love it. I’m sure,” she said.

“I came for that, but it’s too crowded. It’s so hot and smelly and noisy. I got all turned around and panicked, I guess.”

“Come back in the morning. It’s cooler and far less congested.” She took Julie’s hand.

“We can still see the Baptistery and the Cathedral today. They’re never crowded.”

They returned to the edge of the Piazza and slipped inside Ghiberti’s towering bronze doors into the relatively small Baptistery. The noise, heat, and chaos of the square vanished inside where, at one time, every resident of Florence had been baptized. Later, they entered the main Cathedral, which was more cavernous than it appeared from the plaza. Though there were hundreds of people inside, it felt empty. The visitors studied the artwork and the interior of the Dome, prayed quietly, or lit candles.

“My dad died five years ago and my mom died of a brain tumor when I was in college,” Lucy said. “The cancer in her head whacked her out so much that she didn't even know she had kids and a husband. But she said her rosary every day until the end.”

“I’m so sorry, Lucy. We’re both on our own,” said Julie, touching Lucy’s arm. “Losing a parent when you’re young leaves a hole in your heart that can’t be easily filled.”

Julie lit candles for her parents and Lucy for hers, which joined the thousands burning for the dead, the sick, and the remembered in the cathedral. They sat in a pew and listened to the organist practicing with the faint smell of incense in the air until the cathedral closed for the day. Lucy invited Julie to join her for dinner with friends from Brooklyn, but Julie refused, saying she was too tired.

She walked back to her hotel, worried it was now too late for her to learn to be independent. It might be like learning to drive. If one missed the window of opportunity between teenage indestructibility and the adult realization that driving was propelling a lethal weapon at deadly speeds, it was impossible to be a confident driver. She had loved her parents, but she’d used them to hide from life until her mother died. She knew that now.

––––––––– 60

After a dreamless sleep, Julie returned to the cathedral the following morning. Lucy was correct; there were far less people in the Piazza. Most of Florence rose late. She found the entrance to the Dome and waited in line. The guard let in a few dozen people at a time. The stone stairway was cool and very worn. The passage of millions of hands smoothed the walls to a sleek shine. It smelled of dust, stone, and sweat.

At first, she avoided touching anything and held a tissue to her nose. The steps were shallow, made for tiny medieval feet, but the stairway was straight and wide. After each flight, there was a landing where groups of ascenders congregated, sipping from water bottles and catching their breath. Eight flights up and completely winded, Julie considered giving up the hike, but there was no room to descend. The steady procession upward blocked her path.

Maybe this was a bad idea, Julie thought, trying not to panic.

She could hear her mother muttering that Julie never finished what she started. She breathed as deeply as she could and used the walls for support as she continued upward.

People chatted quietly in dozens of languages as they rose, commenting on the graffiti that covered every surface despite signs forbidding it. Some inscriptions may have been old, but Julie could see much of it was recent. Bob was not a Renaissance name.

“I’m just standing here, letting my grandkids get a good head start,” said a woman well into her seventies to anyone walking by.

Julie chatted with her until she felt ready to continue.

A few flights later, her knees were on fire, and Julie started to get dizzy. She thought she’d have to wait on the side again to rest when she reached the walkway around the Dome’s base. From here, she could see down to the massive floor of the cathedral, where tiny people were looking up at the altarpieces and wall frescos like she had the previous day.

Difficult to see from the cathedral floor, one of the most sizable Renaissance paintings ever created was installed inside the Dome: The Last Judgment by Vasari and Zaccari. Julie could almost touch it from the catwalk. The painting was a continuous panorama of hundreds of figures arranged in five tiers. Naked sinners tortured by fire, amputations, and flogging were on the bottom tier, while the clothed devout, cradled in clouds, were welcomed to Paradise above. The beatitudes, virtues, choirs of angels, Christ, Mary, and the saints with the twenty-four Elders of the Apocalypse were painted going all the way up to the oculus at the top of the Dome.

Despite the height, Julie enjoyed viewing the floor, but several people were uncomfortable on the catwalk and hugged the walls. She walked around the circumference of the Dome and enjoyed a good rest before continuing the ascent inside the Dome’s shell.

“This is worth all the effort,” Julie said to herself. “I didn’t think I could do it, and I’m more than halfway. I have to finish.”

As Lucy promised, windows cut into the outer shell let in a cool breeze and afforded a slice of the sky and a peek of Florence every hundred feet. Julie zigzagged farther and farther upward, resting more and more frequently.

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A guard stopped a woman ahead of her to let a group of people descend from the observation platform at the top. After a few dozen people descended, Julie’s party climbed the steep final stairway to the observation deck at the top of the Dome.

When she reached the top step, Julie gasped. All of Florence lay beneath her. The top of Brunelleschi’s Dome was the tallest structure in Florence. From the Dome’s platform, the orange clay roofs, the hidden gardens, and the narrow streets below were arranged like a miniature medieval toy village.

She could see for miles in every direction to the rolling green hills that surrounded Florence and the Arno river. She spotted tourists who’d scaled the less arduous Campanile, not as high as the Duomo deck. They had a vista of the Dome and fewer steps to climb, but she preferred her loftier view of the city. The tile roofs on homes and buildings at hundreds of angles spilled across the terrain below, and the forested hills off in the distance were alternatingly shrouded in mist and lit brightly by the sun.

Julie took dozens of pictures from each side of the platform, forgetting her fear of heights, crowds, and everything else. She took photos for fellow tourists, and they took pictures of her. She took selfies. Julie was exhilarated. She was alive. She was strong, confident, and tall, standing on the top of the Duomo.

The wind was brisk on the Duomo despite the cloudless sky, and it grabbed everyone’s words and tossed them across the tops of the roofs of Florence—dozens of conversation fragments aloft in random scraps.

Julie laughed and cried. An hour later, she started down the hundreds of steps to the street. When she reached the bottom, she treated herself to a chocolate gelato. In the evening, she’d invite Lucy for a Florentine Steak at the Trattoria near the St. Regis.

As Julie strolled back to her hotel, something shiny in a shop window caught the light, and she stooped to get a better look—silver shoes, delicate with high spindly heels and narrow ankle straps. They were perfectly proportioned, flawless, and impractical. Julie found herself inside, trying on the shoes warmed from the sun in seconds. They fit perfectly, and she bought them without hesitation for 300 euros pulled from her fanny pack.

I’m an idiot! These are dancing shoes! she thought.

Julie could hear her mother’s voice. “You’re reckless for wasting so much money on such gaudy shoes.”

As she passed through the Piazza, Julie spied an empty table at the café, and she sank into a chair, dropping her shopping bag, which ripped open. Her beautiful silver shoes bounced in opposite directions over the rough cobblestones. She fell to her knees to grab each one quickly, as if thieves were lying in wait to steal them, before settling breathlessly into the chair with a shoe cradled in each arm. The waiter approached for her order.

“Buon pomeriggio, madam. You were here yesterday, no?”

“Buon pomeriggio. Si, I was.”

“What can I serve you today?” He leaned toward her, bowing slightly.

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“May I have a caffé americano?” Julie asked.

“Belle scarpe, argento.” He reached out and almost touched one of the shoes she held.

“Yes, I just bought them. I’m not sure why.”

He clasped his hands. “You must go dancing!”

“Yes, I must,” said Julie. She considered one shoe, then the other.

“Please, put them on so I can see how they look,” said the waiter, winking at her.

Julie did as he requested while he left to retrieve her coffee.

The silver shoes made her feel elegant, not a dumpy fifty-ish American tourist on her first trip anywhere in over twenty years. She had dressed in a plain beige knit top and pants she’d found in her mother’s closet when she died. Julie’s hair was brownish-grey, chopped at shoulder length; she wore no makeup. It was not the correct outfit to show off stylish footwear. She wished she’d worn the silky blue dress from her dream, but Julie forgot all that when she buckled the silver shoes.

Julie stood and turned slowly. The sprawling Piazza, buzzing with people, was overshadowed by its massive stone arch with the inscription: “The ancient center of the city restored from age-old squalor to new life.”

Julie repeated the words. “New life, indeed.”

The crowds moved in all directions like scattered beads escaping from a broken necklace.

Children, men, women, and dogs surrounding her, all rushing somewhere. No one noticed Julie.

Across the Piazza, Julie heard a group of musicians begin to play a tune. The song drifted toward her clearly, silencing the raucous sounds of traffic and people, making them disappear. It was a tarantella. She became a willing captive to the melody, uninterested in escape. And though Julie could not see the musicians, she slowly danced in her silver shoes toward the music.

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Vicissitudes

By Aaron Lelito

1.

Hands in the upturned dirt, granular as the gap between a raindrop and a fearlessness to see how much the world can swallow

2.

Colors wash in the dawn, turn pale into complexion and blush abundantly as I look from windows in a room of the past at all the waking at all the movement— one world, then the next

3.

The flicker, the essence of holding oneself without adding on more to the meeting place

of sense organ and sense object where it’s all happening— and is this a futility and is this all I can know

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Dusk

By Sherry Shahan 66

Through the Years

By Glenn Marchand

Through the years the many dreams; refocused, seeming similar, life is on repeat—such warmth, the changing winds, to have altered existence. A rabid heart, an alluring mind-cave, to feel part elated—a defeated soul, roaming many wells, infinite climbing. Such paradox, those verboten wishes, as not in one’s occasion. Life is adventure, so proud to say it, so grave by its meaning— livid happiness, caged freedom, to settle into a comfortable type of gravity. Days into waning lights, dimness speaks to nightfall, such former beauty, an aesthetic storm, we have evolved swiftly, and still behind the times. Through the years, much inside, moist eyes, reminiscing on many good souls. Riven in parts, torn by determination, asking by humanistic depth, those forbidden moments, such undoing science. Many octaves lower, listening to excitement, debating what each person is experiencing; same observations, different responses, many are enjoying their journey. So much into a feeling, a confusing emotion, tented memories, righteousness with its slant, trying at purifying, sliding on a scale. Such susurrous details, to collect letters, unsaid literature, to carry division—through many years, those skies watching, by tyranny of the unspoken. And loving was marvelous, so underdeveloped, semi-unsculptured.

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Sun Over the Water

By Jennifer Frederick

Golden Hour

By Zoe Freihofer

There is this perfect moment of us Caught in beating hearts and fractured lenses As the light hits breaking waves Crashing white onto coral reefs Blues so deep they’re postcard perfect In those seconds we are glowing Whisps of fabric and soft laughter Eyes locked in a temporary trance Strands of lavender brushing exposed ankles Sun dancing in tiny spaces between us Capturing smile lines and grass reeds A butterfly pushing through a cocoon In hope of the fragility we offer Between those glimpses of heat and light And when these moments are taken We are both brought back to the analogue seconds Trapped in the ambience and warmth Of a setting sun in golden hour

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Dead Mango Trees

I

By Adeeb Chowdhury

sat on the floor with my arms wrapped around my knees, feeling the coolness of the crimson tiles under my bare feet. Freshly sucked lychee seeds lay clustered atop a copy of Prothom Alo, the ink of its headlines oozing into the juices that dampened the front page. A slumberous silence blanketed the summer afternoon, perforated only by the television’s dim murmurs and the faint grating of a saw against wood.

“Can you come to lunch tomorrow, Ma?” Her whisper of a voice almost melted into the rhythmic sawing outside. It was the first thing she had said aloud in some time.

“Yes, Nanu.” I hoisted myself off the floor, making my way to the adjoining kitchen.

“Yes, I can.” Letting the lychee seeds slide off into the trash, I twisted the tap and let a smooth stream of water drum onto the steel sink. My palms lingered in its coolness, a brief respite from Khulna’s throbbing heat. The dark curls my grandmother had gifted my mother —and my mother, me—clung to my forehead. I loved my hair, and I loved that I had gotten it from them. I didn’t know if I had ever told them that. But I had a feeling they knew.

As a child, I used to stoop by the door and peek in, hoping to catch a glimpse inside the bustling, steamy, seemingly cavernous kitchen, back when it had been the beating heart of my grandparents’ home. The whistling of Calcutta tea kettles and sizzling of over-easy eggs in the morning; the wispy tendrils of smoke reaching for the ceiling and scraping of knives against cutting boards that soundtracked the readying of a family meal; the hushed, giggling exchanges of local gossip as pots were scrubbed clean after dinner. Habib Uncle, a smiling man who always smelled of molasses and somewhat resembled Bob Dylan with a Khulna tan —and he leaned into it too, the fluffy-headed scamp, with his pearwood harmonica that he could barely even play—used to slip me orange slices whenever I had tried to peer in.

I could almost still hear it all, even as the sawing outside grew louder by the minute. The kettles from Calcutta had been long sold off. Habib Uncle had died of cirrhosis four years ago.

“Hot day, huh, Nanu?” I returned to the living room, two glasses of water in hand. My grandmother responded with a blink and a blank stare. Her hands gripped the sides of her wheelchair, the veins running up her forearms prominent and blue against her graying flesh.

Her upper lip quivered ever so slightly, as if she was constantly teetering on the precipice of breaking into tears.

“See, I knew you should’ve let Umna Auntie help give you a bath this morning,” I chided her, placing one glass on the floor and the other on the table next to her. “Just let me know

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when you want some lunch, okay? I think the cabbage is almost ready.”

Her orna had slipped down her bony shoulders. Two decades ago, she would have playfully wrapped the same shawl around me as I giggled underneath its soft, checkered canopy of cloth. It had seemed gigantic back then, like I could get lost within its green and golden folds, enmeshed within its faint scent of citrus. Today, it could barely stay on her shrinking frame.

“Ma,” she said finally, speaking up a little over the sound of the sawing. “Can you come to lunch tomorrow?”

My grandmother’s Bangla was faint, fragmented, and faltering. She hesitated between words, her crinkling voice briefly trailing off before making its way back; with each pause, I could almost see her eyes dancing aimlessly across the floor, as if grappling for the direction her question had been heading in.

“Yes, Nanu. Of course I can.”

She seemed content for a little while.

“Ma,” she spoke again. “What is that sound?”

The caustic grinding of steel on wood had indeed grown more aggressive, as if repeatedly catching on something and tearing right through it. The sawing, once smooth and systematic, now sounded like an act of violence.

“Nothing, Nanu. Let’s turn this up.” I reached for the remote to the TV, a thick gray box that made everything on its fuzzy screen look like it was older than the country of Bangladesh. Not too tall a hurdle, given that most of the furniture in this house was. Heck, the house was considered old when my mother’s first cries bounced off its walls, and that was the year of the war. The television, five decades and the birth of a nation later, hadn’t budged.

It was on this screen that my grandparents had listened to the midnight declaration of war as the first tanks began rolling down the street outside; had scanned maps and tracked the continuous fighting to determine when it was safe to get baby formula for my infant mother, had read the name of Nanu’s brother on a list of soldiers whose bodies had been identified, had watched as the first flag of independent Bangladesh was unfurled from rooftops nationwide. It was on this screen that my mother had grown up watching Bangla dubs of Star Trek and, thirty years later, I watched the English reruns. Reaching across generations and the color spectrum, a series of framed photographs lined the top of the television, showing my grandmother, my mother, and me each in our early twenties. If the world around it had changed, the television certainly hadn’t noticed.

“How’s this, Nanu?” I asked, landing on a channel airing a wildlife documentary. I turned, and my grandmother’s eyes weren’t on the screen at all.

“I don’t like the sound, Ma,” she whispered. Her gaze was fixed on me.

“Nanu—” She lifted her hand off the arms of her seat, and I watched its slow, shaky climb to meet DULCET LITERARY MAGAZINE

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mine. The warmth of her colorless grasp was so startling that my wrist almost jerked back in reflex. The softness of her palm pressed my fingers into a fist and held it there.

“They’re cutting down the tree, Ma.” The last time my grandmother had been able to hold my hand like this, she still had her smile. It had been a crooked and toothy and pure smile, one that felt like the sun peeking through the clouds just to look at you. It had been a little lopsided to the left, just like mine and my mother’s.

“They’re cutting down your tree. You live there, Ma.” But time had changed her face. Her skin sagged as if slowly melting off of her skeleton.

Her eyes, perpetually glazed over in silent exhaustion, drifted to the floor even as she faced me. Her lips were pursed in a tight, thin line.

“They have to, Nanu. They need the space.”

The sawing lacerated the air with its unruly, arrhythmic screeches. Barbaric sounds that could not and should not be natural.

“No,” she said simply, her voice strained and guttural. Her hand, clasped around my fist, shook to and fro. “No, it’s your tree, Ma.” “It’s okay, Nanu.” I reached for her other hand, but she squeezed the arm of her wheelchair in a quivering grip that drained all color from her wrist. Her mouth crumpled, and she began blinking profusely. I grabbed her head and pressed it against my stomach just as she released her bated breath in a hauntingly unfamiliar cry, a sound I had never heard her make. It was an almost animal sound, wrenched from her lungs and strangled by heaving sobs. I slipped my fingers into her hair, staring at the wall as her face trembled against my ribs. “It’s alright.”

The sawing seemed to have grown deafening by now. It was impossibly loud and ridiculously close.

“Tell them to stop, Ma,” she begged, her words almost swallowed by choked whimpers.

“You live there.”

I refused to take my eyes off the wall. She pulled aimlessly on the sides of my shirt as the sawing dug into our ears, refusing to subside.

“I don’t live there, Nanu. No one does.”

The sawing cut into my head, my neck, my chest, all tightening in convulsions of agony. I wrapped my arms around Nanu’s face. The blades couldn’t get to her.

“You live there, Ma.” The horrible screeches crescendoed, enveloping us in the unforgiving wailing of a tree being gradually torn from limb to limb. The sawing was now screaming—piercing death cries that rattled the windows.

“Ma,” she uttered, but the rest of her words were cut off by a noiseless snap that plunged the world into momentary silence. For a vanishing moment, every sound stopped. The 72

hollow, lifeless thud that came after sounded distant and decisive.

I cradled my grandmother’s head, listening to the sobs of her soul seeping out of her body.

———— I sat on the soil with my arms wrapped around my knees, feeling the coolness of the grassy dirt under my bare feet. In the subdued moonlight, the garden looked black. The leafy canopy I used to disappear into had been razed, the ghosts of my childhood lurking among the headless stumps scattered around me. The winding gravel pathway my grandfather had carved with his bare hands now belonged to weeds, vines, and debris. The single lamppost in the dead center of the garden, the humming glow of which used to illuminate our walks here after big dinners, had melted into the dark.

Against the moonlight, the dead mango tree was a looming sentinel, a leafless cadaver towering above the other occupants of the garden. Its lower branches had been amputated, including the one that had been sawed off this afternoon, the husk of which looked like it had already begun its slow, rotting descent into the dirt. I hadn’t spoken to the developers in some time, but I figured the rest of the tree would be gone by the end of June. Half the garden already was.

Even in the dark, I could see the shallow, grainy patch in front of the tree where my mother’s grave had been. We had been given about a month to exhume her remains before the developers began their work. If we had known we would have to sell the property so much sooner than expected, maybe we wouldn’t have buried her here in the first place, although that wasn’t a very productive train of thought at this point. I wished we could’ve kept her here longer. At least until she had seeped into the soil and there was nothing left to dig up and haul to a cemetery she had never set a living foot in. For what it was worth, she had been buried at the base of the tree for most of Nanu’s decline, so she hadn’t seen the worst of it. She left under the impression that her own mother still knew who she was.

The sandy patch seemed bizarrely small, like a grave for a child. How my mother had ever slept there was beyond me. I almost felt the need to apologize for the discomfort. Sorry, Ma, we should’ve dug a bigger hole. But I liked to believe that for her, it was like coming home. She was, after all, back under the tree whose branches she used to swing from as a child, her little feet scraping the very same dirt and soil. My grandfather used to talk about the tree as if it were the house’s sibling—“They grew up like this,” he would say, holding up two fingers pressed firmly together—and it felt only right to call it family. My mother had been buried with family.

I lay my hand where she had been. I wish I could say I felt something—some warmth, some stirring, a disembodied heart beating deep in the dirt—but the ground was cold, dry, DULCET LITERARY MAGAZINE

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and dead. As if no one had ever been there at all.

I’ll be back, Ma. I didn’t know if I said that aloud. But I had a feeling she knew.

The house was dark apart from a single window illuminated by rapid flickers of color. As I slipped into the living room, leaving the door ajar behind me, the murmurs of the television were almost imperceptible. Nanu sat in her rocking chair as it rolled to and fro with rhythmic groans, her head bobbing along with it. Her chest ballooned with each sharp breath and sank with each whistling exhale. Nanu’s dozing face was cast in the alternating green, orange, and pink of the television’s pale glow. The February issue of Prothom Alo, the same edition she read every day, had slipped out of her fingers and lay face down on the floor.

I sat down next to her, her hand dangling inches from my face. The television was on the same news channel she used to watch with my grandfather every night until one of them was snoring away. My mother used to tell me how she wasn’t supposed to watch the news until she was older, and how this had only encouraged her to sneak in and watch from the floor whenever both of them had dozed off. She now watched me do the same from her picture on top of the television, tucked in between her mother and daughter. In the room’s dimness, one could be forgiven for thinking we were the same young woman who had been excused from aging for half a century. Our flowing black curls framed our angular faces and rested on our shoulders, slightly pinched together the same way. Although I had seen neither in a long time, our smiles looked the same, too: the toothy grin that was a little lopsided to the left.

“Ma.” The snoring had stopped. Nanu’s hands stirred next to my face.

“Go back to sleep, Nanu. I’m sorry.” I rose to leave. She raised her hand, stretching out her empty palm, and I paused.

“Have you had dinner, Ma?” Her voice was low and groggy.

“Yes, Nanu.”

“Will you sleep soon?”

“Yes, Nanu.”

She fell silent. Her palm was quivering. She looked at her outstretched hand for a moment, then raised her head, meeting my eyes. I placed my hand in hers, and she closed her fingers around it.

“Do you know my name, Nanu?”

She continued staring at my hand in hers. Her orna had once again slipped down her shoulders. In the fleeting colors of the television, she looked white, then red, then green. Her brow creased as she seemed to study the top of my hand, running her thumb gently along my skin.

It’s okay. I didn’t know if I said that aloud. But I had a feeling she knew.

“Ma,” she spoke finally. “Can you come to lunch tomorrow?”

She opened up her fingers. My hand didn’t budge. I wanted to soak in the warmth of her 74

palm for as long as time would allow.

“Yes, Nanu. Of course I can.”

From my angle, it was hard to tell, but it almost looked as if she smiled. It was a little lopsided to the left.

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Apparition

By María DeGuzmán 76

Live, As In Feeding on Beach Wind and Other Mundane Things

By Kait Quinn

As in curling up in my September blues like a dappled fawn, sun the unpaid sitter.

As in giving in to autumn sex—leaves falling, lace tearing, morning dew on the soft, amber lawn of my belly. As in microdosing love.

As in spinning webs without getting caught.

As in finding my footing among fields of flame, throwing a stone on the fire, deciduous and deafening.

As in feeding on star anise mornings, letting the blood stir with ginger. As in naps by the Carolina shore of the Atlantic, reading in the smokey tendrils of oak tree shadows, the creek a current of gossip.

As in waking in tune with the sun and calling it blackberry, clementine, placenta. As in drinking down starlit midnights like morning's first cup of coffee, calling it moonless. As in feasting on lunar sweat and backyard plums and calling it whiskey night cap, immortality, moonfull.

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Mystical Patch

By Stella Newmoyer 78

Solution

By Anna Ojascastro Guzon

It's not like I want to live in a movie where the improbable happens to strangers who meet on a bridge in Paris, in the springtime, and a man falls hard for his best friend's wife and everyone is running to their lover’s apartment.

They're running beneath street lamps that form cones of light in the fog, and I just want to sit on your carpeted floor and binge reruns of films from the nineties, where the bride is almost late for her wedding. I'd like to drink hot coffee on my front porch in the morning, with you when there's time to listen to sprinklers turning and observe the moon dissolving in daylight.

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