2025 Freshwater Literary Journal

Freshwater Literary Journal, 2025 2025 Editorial Board: R.J. Caron Cara Hanley Leah Lopez Susan Winters Smith Thomas White III Editor and Faculty Advisor: John Sheirer Cover Photo: Thomas White III Freshwater Literary Journal is published annually by CT State–Asnuntuck (formerly Asnuntuck Community College). We consider poetry and prose. The upcoming reading period will be August 15, 2025, to February 15, 2026. Acceptances and rejections will be sent on a rolling basis, no later than the end of March 2026.

Poetry: Three poems maximum, up to 40 lines each. Prose (prose poetry, micro/flash fiction, short stories, creative nonfiction, personal essay, memoir): One or multiple pieces up to 1,500 words total. No previously published material. Simultaneous submissions considered with proper notification. Submissions should be sent by email to as_freshwater@ctstate.edu. The email should include a brief, third-person biographical note, and the submission should be a single Word (not PDF) attachment. No postal submissions, please. Absolutely no AI-generated material.

The 2026 Freshwater Student Writing Contest will focus on poetry up to 40 lines.

The contest will be open to full- and part-time undergraduate students enrolled during 2024, 2025, or 2026 at Connecticut’s community colleges and public universities. The contest entry deadline is February 15, 2026. More information about the contest and general submissions is available at https://asnuntuck.edu/about-2/community-engagement/freshwater-literaryjournal/ Freshwater Literary Journal can be viewed in .pdf format online at https://issuu.com/freshwaterliteraryjournal We can be reached at as_freshwater@ctstate.edu. Please follow Freshwater on Facebook: FreshwaterACC; and Instagram: @FreshwaterLiteraryJournal.

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Table of Contents 4 – Keigh Ahr 6 – Elhassan Ait Elamal / Essam M. Al-Jassim 9 – Dee Allen 11 – Duane Anderson 12 – Rachel Beachy 14 – Lisa Bernard 16 – Brian C. Billings 19 – Cheryl Block 21 – Gaylord Brewer 22 – Brian Builta 25 – Jennifer Campbell 26 – R.J. Caron 28 – Yuan Changming 29 – Benjamin J. Chase 30 – Aja Cooper 33 – Joe Cottonwood 34 – Stephen J Cribari 35 – Philip Davison 36 – Kenneth DiMaggio 37 – Joanne Durham 38 – Ava Gagliardi 41 – Emilea Gartrell 42 – Roland Goity 44 – Taylor Graham 45 – Ray Greenblatt 46 – John Grey 49 – David M. Harris 50 – Ruth Holzer 53 – Paul Ilechko 54 – Rebecca Klassen 55 – Raylen Ladner 58 – Lana La Framboise 59 – E.P. Lande 60 – Richard LeDue 62 – Rachel Linton 64 – Leah Lopez 66 – Richard Luftig 67 – Emilia Macri 70 – Ava Majersky 72 – Lance Manion 74 – Ken Meisel !

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75 – Susan Miller 77 – Rosemary Dunn Moeller 79 – Bob Moore 82 – Cecil Morris 84 – Ben Murigu 86 – John Muro 89 – Caitlin O’Halloran 91 – George Oliver 93 – Anne Pinkerton 96 – Ann Marie Potter 97 – Diana Raab 99 – Marzia Rahman 101 – Russell Rowland 103 – Ivan Salazar 105 – Barbara Santucci 108 – Terry Sanville 112 – Bobbie Saunders 113 – Kathleen Serocki 114 – John Sheirer 116 – Keri Sholes 119 – SP Singh 121 – Dominik Slusarczyk 123 – Susan Winters Smith 126 – Matthew J. Spireng 127 – Geo. Staley 128 – Margaret D. Stetz 129 – Steve Straight 131 – Richard Stimac 132 – Allen Strous 133 – M. Benjamin Thorne 135 – Diane Webster 138 – Thomas White III 140 – Sharon Whitehill 141 – Michael O. Zahn 142 – James K. Zimmerman 146 – Contributors

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Keigh Ahr Flag It was Dave’s turn to host our monthly poker game. I waited until he’d won a hand before asking about the American flag hanging on the wall behind him.

“Rescued it from a thrift store yesterday,” Dave said.

“Don’t most people fly Old Glory outside,” I said, “instead of mounting it like an Edward Hopper print?” Everybody laughed.

Dave laughed too, but as Tommie dealt the next hand Dave asked, “What’s so interesting about my flag?” I shrugged and looked at my cards. Two jacks, clubs and diamonds. Dave looked at his cards and asked, “Does it bother you?”

His tone reminded me this was our first game since the election.

Tommie laid the first three community cards on the table. Five of hearts, eight of clubs, jack of spades. I was trips on jacks, sweet. “No it doesn’t,” I told Dave. “Hadn’t seen it there before so I asked. Just curious.” The small blind on Dave’s right called to 20.

“It’s not curious to me,” Dave said. “Just the flag of our country. You know, land that I love.” His emphasis sounded accusatory.

“I love it too,” I said. Just not the way Dave thought I should.

Tommie asked if Dave was in. Dave raised to 50; I whistled. The next two guys called, the following two folded, and I called. One more fold; Tommie and both blinds called.

“Should I have taken it down before you arrived?” Dave asked.

I laughed. Nobody else did.

Tommie added a nine of hearts to the community. Straight was in play, but who bets on a six-seven? Everyone checked until I raised another 50. Tommie called, the blinds folded, and the bet came to Dave.

“Don’t mean to be offensive,” Dave said, then called.

Fold, fold. “You’re not offensive,” I said. Amusing, pathetic even, but I kept that to myself.

Tommie added the final community card. Three of hearts, flush now in play also. Shit.

“Then what am I?” Dave asked.

Yeah this was Dave’s house, but I was fed up. “You’re the shithead who needs to bet.”

Dave remained still in front of his flag. Nobody spoke. I heard the air rushing through the vents.

Finally, Dave pushed his chips forward and said, “The shithead’s all in.”

He could’ve had two hearts, but I wasn’t backing down. I called and covered his bet. Tommie called too, and after he covered I slapped my jacks onto the table.

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Dave pursed his lips. He then looked at me with that gentle smile he beams when we’re at our daughters’ soccer games and they score. “Well played.” He tossed his cards face-down next to mine. The guys on my right exhaled.

“Not well enough,” Tommie said, showing his ten and queen of clubs. He’d caught a straight with the nine but slow-played his bet, trusting Dave and I would go all in because of our petty argument over that damn flag.

A costly reminder to watch the cards. And avoid pissing matches with Dave.

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Ports of Pain Elhassan Ait Elamal - Translated from the Arabic by Essam M. Al-Jassim The moment his body was laid in the grave, it began constricting, his chest tightening against the suffocating confinement, as though he were being pulled upward into the sky. Comfort eluded him. He resolved to rise from the grave and return home, but the graveyard’s guardians posed a problem—they rarely allowed the dead to leave. When they did, it was only at certain times, and most often that was in the middle of the night.

He was accustomed to broad expanses surrounding him in every direction.

He’d once reveled in open, boundless spaces. Now, crammed into that narrow hole for so long, he could no longer enjoy worldly privileges—savoring coffee at cafés, hailing modern taxis on the street (he detested vintage ones), switching barbers when their services declined, or tearing up a book he didn’t like. He especially missed the thrill of shouting at government officials outside their ministry.

Stripped of all these freedoms, he was aware that his body had been decaying with each passing minute. After it lost its vibrancy, his skin had become thick with dust, and worms wriggled through his veins in place of blood. He sprang from the grave without a backward glance and sped toward home.

While sprinting through several neighborhoods, he realized the shroud wrapped around his body was weighing him down, so he shed it. Though he was naked as the day he was born, people he passed didn’t pay the slightest attention to his appearance. They were surprised neither by his nakedness nor by the dirt covering his face. They also failed to notice his erratic wandering or his frantic speed. As he passed under the dim glow of streetlights, the light bounced off the worms dropping from his corroded flesh, oozing through his pores and out of every orifice.

Longing for his wife and the warmth of her scolding, he headed toward home without delay. But suddenly, he remembered his nosy and judgmental neighbor, a gossipy old hag of a woman who thrived on the deeds and misdeeds of the nearby residents—fools, drunks, and laborers alike. Her curiosity was a fire that spared nothing; she was a devil who missed nothing. To avoid alerting her to his resurrection, he slipped through the alley and blended into the shadows like a stealthy black cat.

Finally, he reached his house at the end of the alley. He knocked on the door until his decayed hand grew tired. He called his wife’s name softly, wary of the neighbors possibly overhearing and sullying her reputation with accusations of infidelity. No one responded. Exhausted and dizzy—his stomach had been empty since he’d entered the grave, and worms had gnawed holes in his insides—he

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waited. Then he remembered how he’d often come home to find that his wife had gone out.

His wife had a habit of hiding the house key under the doormat for him; maybe she’d left it there tonight. It was their secret, a way for him to enter unobserved, sparing them from idle gossip. Tonight, the idea unsettled him, for if the key was there, it meant she’d shared their secret with someone else—someone who had since taken his place. Dark suspicions churned in his mind as he slipped his frayed hand under the doormat and retrieved the key.

In his ravaged state of psychological trauma, part of his hand tore and fell off.

With difficulty, he inserted the key into the lock and stepped inside, immediately wishing he hadn’t. He moved to the kitchen, drank cold water, raided the fridge, and devoured some fruit. The worms within him consumed his flesh with ravenous greed.

More water, more food.

He headed to the bedroom. Near the door sat an unfamiliar pair of elegant leather shoes. Scanning the room with his dying vision, he spotted his blue formal suit hanging over the closet door as if recently used. Under the covers, two bodies lay entwined.

A nascent rage flickered within him. He’d sacrificed so much for his wife, working tirelessly in heat and cold to provide for her and make her happy. And she—who had sworn the most solemn of oaths, who had placed her right hand on the Qur’an and said, “I will belong to no other man after you, even if death separates us”—had, despite her vows, so quickly moved on.

The memory of her words stung, and hot dust-filled tears escaped his eyes.

Staggering from the room, he headed back to the kitchen, where he’d kept his long knife, which he’d used to slaughter the sacrificial animal for Eid al-Adha. It was right where he’d left it. He pulled it from its hiding place and gripped the handle tightly.

On his return to the bedroom, half blinded by rage and the tears streaming down his face, he stumbled over the stranger’s shoes and landed heavily on the floor. The two figures shifted under the covers, their snores filling the air.

Prone on the ground, he picked up the shoes and studied them. His best friend had a pair just like these. Then he discovered the pair of discarded socks that also belonged to his friend. Struggling to rationalize the evidence, he reassured himself of his friend’s loyalty. The memory of their shared confidences and their oncesacred bond flooded his mind. But his self-assurance was weak. His resolve, too, was failing him. The effort of walking and standing had sapped away whatever vigor remained in his bones.

He crawled on his one hand and knees toward the edge of the bed, in near silence. He inched over to his wife’s pants and strange underwear, which were scattered across the floor. A gold-colored wristwatch gleamed in the dark, while a fake gold ring twinkled in the gloom, dropped carelessly just under the bed. He glanced up—beside the bed, as if fallen from a sleeping hand, lay a phone. There !

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was no mistaking it; it was, without a doubt, the phone he’d seen so often in his friend’s hands.

With trembling fingers, he opened it and found his own contact saved as “The Dead.” For a moment, he felt grateful, assuming his friend had called after his passing in an effort to keep his memory alive. A bitter smile slipped from his decaying face. His friend had been calling him all along—not to check on him but to confirm his demise, to ensure he wasn’t around to witness his betrayal.

He dropped his friend’s phone and frantically scrabbled around the floor until he found his wife’s. With shaking hands, he checked her messages, noticing the frequency of his friend’s number. He read the messages they’d exchanged, reading backward chronologically until well before his death. Each one confirmed what he’d dreaded. His eyes welled up once more with more dusty tears.

Dear reader, I must pause my narration here. I cannot bear to reveal the betrayal that unfolded in these messages. If I were to do so, you might begin doubting your own friends, suspecting even your spouse. Or, if you are unmarried, you might abandon the idea of marriage altogether.

So, join me in guiding this broken man, lying near the edge of what was once his bed, back to his grave. Back to the peace he never should have left. Life dealt him its harshest blow, and it’s only fitting that he finds, in death, the rest he deserves.

Please, let’s return him to his grave.

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Dee Allen Wendigo Once human Lost in Canada’s snowy Northern woods, separated from his hiking party, Left to roam, starving, meets another just as lost, His appetite sated—chewing on the other’s still-warm body— Now transformed Grown bigger, more savage, everywhere white hair, Fangs, claws and a long, heavy tail— Nightmare fugitive stalks an ice-cold wilderness, Bears a strong craving for more living flesh—the human type— Once human Now transformed Cannibalism brought out the white beast.

Aboriginal gods intervene—one curse for a crime.

Strong, swift, shrieking winter threat—Fear snow-stomping steps & sound of its name: WENNNN-DI-GOOOO!

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Dee Allen The Crying Boy - Inspired by a painting by Bruno Amadio alias Giovanni Brangolin Entire wall in the kitchen Caught a spark from a flaming skillet.

The spreading blaze, spontaneous.

Window drapes gone, Sheetrock gone, Insulation gone.

Wooden framing, Seared skeleton.

But the small boy’s Staring, tearful face, Portrait of despair in a frame Remained the same.

Unscarred by ebony char.

Unmaimed by orange flame.

Untouched by inferno—unexplained.

Other homes in England Met with a similar end.

Grey smoke, black sticks and shambles.

Sole survivor: Safe In a picture frame. Face down. Intact on the sooty floor.

The fireman’s warnings to citizens Silenced to a shush, in regard to a little Painted orphan boy, forever sorrowful, that brought Calamity in fire wherever he was hung.

Did the boy’s Tears extinguish flames From consuming him?

Did the art piece Carry a “blazing curse” As a tabloid paper headline screamed?

Or was the curse The fluke of Flame-retardant varnish? !

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Duane Anderson Snack At the age of one-and-a-half-years, he climbed up the stool by the counter where he usually ate his meals, fearless in his ascent, learning another crucial lesson in life, that of taking chances, and once seated followed with the word, “Snack.”

His vocabulary, limited, but knew one of the all-important words in his young life.

For some, that urge, that word, will never go away.

He is ready Mom, at his spot for a meal, waiting for his reward.

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Rachel Beachy What I Remember of Pain Not the contractions the epidural or the pushing but the pinprick where they drew blood from my baby’s heel.

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Rachel Beachy Vigilant/e It starts and ends with a vigil The hours I would have been asleep now spent peering into her crib watching for the smallest rise and fall of her chest preparing in me the vigilance it would take once she started to crawl small, choke-able things suddenly everywhere how blind I had been!

No longer I was nothing if not vigilant and so I was a good mother To keep young children alive— this is good and necessary and difficult work I began to think of us all as vigilantes how we did not trust the laws of man or nature or the universe itself to do what we could for these babies these people who would someday should we do this well keep vigil for us.

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Lisa Bernard Andrea’s Coda Her late father’s playing was enhanced after her mother’s sudden death ten years earlier. He never dated. He partnered only with his cello. It was as if he was playing for her. To her. An audience of one. He kept his eyes closed as he fingered and bowed, sometimes very loudly, like he needed her to hear him in the language of their shared medium.

Andrea kissed the tips of her pointer and middle finger and tapped his cello case with them. She turned to leave their living room-turned-conservatory but was drawn back to the case. She opened it for the first time since his final concert and ahead of the hospitalization from which he never returned home.

It was the bow she felt compelled to see. She snapped it out of its nest. She held it at the ends, her thumbs and middle fingers like the knots of a hammock.

She rubbed her index finger across a tiny patch of the coarse hank.

So much sacrifice and craftsmanship in every millimeter.

Her virtuoso father played only with a bow of horsehair. And the traditionalist took pains to keep the stick as protected as his instrument. Its sturdy case was fashioned as painstakingly as its precious contents, insulating the cello and bow from exposure to warping and other distortions that loomed over time. Andrea gasped.

Why am I threatening the integrity of his bow with the oils of my finger?

Put it back.

Andrea promptly returned the bow to its cradle in the case alongside its partner. What a metaphor, she thought. The cello can be plucked, bowed, knocked or strummed to be heard. The bow, however, can only come to its potential when in contact with the strings of its instrument. Otherwise, it goes without recognition, the whole of its identity and history sidelined. Andrea wondered about her biological parents.

Are they merely fiddlesticks? Am I an instrument without a bow?

Weighty decisions boomeranged back.

Should I sell the house and move? Stay here and preserve these treasures and honor their memories? No. Andrea shook her head vigorously, as if debating this aloud with another person.

No. I can steward the legacies of my adoptive parents without turning our home into a museum and my life into that of a docent.

Andrea decided to take the license she would give to her patients in therapy grappling with gear-grinding transitions attendant their grief.

You can move forward with your life and plans without having all the details in place.

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Andrea closed the cello case gingerly, gently fastening its hinges like she was swaddling a newborn. She kissed the narrow top of the case as if it were its forehead, her hands loosely draped on the curves as if they were shoulders.

Her phone’s vibration nudged her back into the present. Andrea took the interruption as a sign it was time to go and get back to her practice and she did so hurriedly. She pulled out the pocket doors one at a time until they met and together elegantly sealed off the silence and the space. She smiled, content in the moment—and unaware of how the glass reflected the image of a woman poised for her next movement.

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Brian Carroll Billings The Cassowary Fight During the season of burning attraction, prowling contestants come bloated in rage.

With full-throated rumbles of challenge they taunt and they goad in a rhythm relentless as blood-riling, war-breeding drums.

Their glares promise unabashed murder.

Trampling the ferns and the cordyline screens, the younger contender scores rows in the leaves.

The musky-sweet odor of rot climbs the trees while hard-coated beetles bolt after safety.

The veteran fighter rattles his wattles and cuts his casque through the weighty air, describing an arc for his impatient partner to cross.

He is the last of his brood to survive, the pride of a father who held for ten years his nests in unbreakable lines of defense.

Both of the rivals belong at the apex of strength where the canopy stretches.

Legs bunch tightly with well-prepared muscle.

Beaks wrench open and closed in tense breaths.

Brilliant blue necks reach for openings like desperate tournament sabers, but one sword comes faster, more agile, more skillful at striking than weaving away.

The youthful competitor presses his elder.

Feathers shake and spread while trident-feet pound enthusiastic tattoos into golden undergrowth.

The senior slips backwards length by length.

He erodes while pertinacious pecks increase and crouches down into a stubborn mound.

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Then he leaps—a twisting, septenary spiral that catches slants of light in spiny wings— and crashes boulder-strong along the spine that drives the other’s needling neck.

He slams the challenger with pain and fear and sees him thoroughly ploughed under mulch.

The loser limps away wheezing, struggling for the fiery breath to feed a future duel while the victor, prepared to mate, struts high steps.

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Brian Carroll Billings Chhaupadi I am outside, taking myself away from the corruptible pure.

They say I need not go. Their eyes say otherwise.

I trudge the flat-grass path to the slanted shed where I will lay my jute rug and bundled branches.

My shoulders, my neck—now they scrape the fuzzy roof. Splinters fall along with bitter air-blades that breathe vinegar sting upon my pungent skin; I have not bathed. I could not bathe.

I sit knees out, hands in, palms up.

I think of Dhriti, snakebitten on her first night, of Idha, cow-trampled on her fourth, or Hanit, fire-ravaged on her seventh.

My nails darken with chill. I kindle the coals.

Only low flame. (One stick. Remember!)

I bend and cradle my newborn of heat.

“You will touch no man, no milk, no tree.”

My blood, my blood. You poison me.

My back cramps, Aranyani. Smoke blurs my sight.

How do they banish you, goddess? Do they dare?

The night becomes impassable; it grips my room even as I tense my thighs.

Nine more nights or ten. I envision peeling back the door. Blessings.

Bless that instant. Bless the grey-pink breath I take inside the light, the sting to my sight, the cracks upon my smiling, seared lips.

Praise on my return awaits ... if only I have wood enough.

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Cheryl Block Wishes Yes, Ptolemy, the gods have opened the heavens from a sky-dappled cream and bathed in sapphire for us to draw from the depths of our bodies the strongest desire holding our breath as the shooting star descends into nothingness.

The wish, following the star, a revelation of self just as when, seated among dandelion gone to seed, eyes tightly closed a moment before, the air milky with tufted seed, our hope for quiet in a troubled world scattered to many winds.

Illumination of the well’s deepness the tawny brightness of pennies, tossed moments before, rises, rises to greet the eyes of those who wait.

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Cheryl Block Summer Storms One strike with the trident Poseidon calls out … tendrils of light curl towards the earth navigating an onyx sky, a moment of spectacular theatre.

Rumbling accolades will come and panes will carry a film of Poseidon’s tears as a small nose presses the glass and a boy quietly celebrates the summer storm.

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Gaylord Brewer The Next Time You See Him You will remark, of course, the well-salted beard, the more intricate map bordering the eyes.

More important, he believes you will soon note the silence, how he breathes its solace, its sustenance.

How he wears solitude like an old coat shaped to the body. All that chatter and stagecraft discarded.

No ticket purchased to anywhere but here.

This is all whimsy, of course. You will never meet again except in the cruel narratives of dream. But as he sends these words into the empty sky, he wants you to know that he forgives you, truly, all heart and mind, for the man he became.

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Brian Builta Anniversary I’m sure I’ve done something on this date, lifted a mitten, kicked a kitten, shown a light on a hair you wanted to pluck. This time last year I was wearing a Galway-gray scarf amidst the mist around my neck.

I was drinking as much as I could guzzle perambulating a beach to clear my head, a lonely breeze in off the body of a woman neck deep in sea foam.

This was the day after I traded my mom for a guitar, after I traded my son for watching my mom die, shortly after my brother traded his left hand for his right hand (he was left-handed) and I traded my right mind for my left mind (I was right-minded), waaay after my wife traded youth and beauty for me. Three years ago a blizzard threatened to bury us under various bills, legal threats, a blanket woven from shattered ballerina bun.

Today water overflows into the gutter and down to some abandoned Big Gulp cup and a baggy filling with runoff and doodlebug stuff. Perhaps one day, along with that swallow-addled hawk and the fatal harvest, we will celebrate this day.

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Brian Builta For Allergy Sufferers A bouquet of daisies, picked as the field was mown, shoved in a vase with slimy water.

Three cats and a dog, rolling on your bed, your couch, the cockpit of your car.

A collection of nuts, curated from the corners of the dusty earth, finely ground and unnoticeable, almost.

A shot of milk to toast a lack of lactose— here’s to being you, kid.

Tonight we fly with the bees, their knees burdened with powder, the future blooming, stuffed with so much bright debris your lungs will clog with joy.

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Brian Builta The Edge of Totality Today I understand the egg’s scrambled pain, the hours wearing me down like a pencil, the blonde superhero yet to bail me out.

I can smell the dew like chilled Jell-o, the day chunky and suspended.

People don’t seem to understand meat keeps cooking when you take it off the grill.

Everything here is overdone, the day curating headaches and dry heaves.

Whoever wins the business meeting gets to cut off everyone else’s sleeves.

My THIS MEETING IS BULLSHIT socks have a big toe hole but I keep wearing them anyway.

At lunch I’m in a movie holding a martini kissing the woman with wavy hair.

We never speak or scream.

I carry a concealed heart at all times fanning the flames with a funeral pamphlet.

I’m most likely to fail a mental health exam on a Monday, most likely to mow my lawn with a nose-hair trimmer on a Tuesday.

It helps to be mindful. If you don’t stab too many people you might be invited back.

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Jennifer Campbell Experts Say The mind can take months to process things too terrible to name, yet the body works on its compartments before we even know they are at risk.

You felt different than your brother, making me pull over the car to be sick in a parking lot.

You raised questions about perseverance.

My body knew you weren’t all mine, protecting me from unfair attachment, sending warnings in waves of energy I shouldn’t have had twenty weeks in.

Something told me not to rush on the nursery, to plan a lifestyle change if it didn’t work out.

A milestone race before my next big birthday.

I didn’t know how to run, but I would learn for you.

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R.J. Caron Do You …

Do you look, and not see?

Do you live, or just be?

Do you hear, and not listen?

Do you see dim light, or does it glisten?

Do you observe, or only glance?

Do you have purpose, or only chance?

Do you make commitments, or only try?

Do you live passionately, or live to die?

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R.J. Caron Why? Why can the highest high Sink to the lowest low, And turn everything dark, When all was aglow?

Why can love produce a spark So vibrant, and alive, Releasing sweetness through pores Then morph into emptiness, leaving nothing more?

Why does the ecstasy from love Pull us high through the sky Suddenly punch us in the stomach, And well tears in our eyes?

Love is full of wonder, Or it can be cruel.

Love can be crushed coal, Or can be diamond, a jewel.

Hold onto love.

Squeeze it tight, with all your might.

Or choose to refuse it.

That way, you won’t lose it.

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Yuan Changming The Present Interior For now let’s forget all troubles & miseries In this world of red dust, forsake our family & Friends alike, forgive each & every other’s debts & wrongdoings as well as our own sins; for now Let’s not get stuck to our pasts or try squeezing Into our futures, foreseeable or otherwise Where we may easily become too lost in Character as in imagination; for now, just Let it be, including everything & everybody While the little cloud above the horizon drifts Along, & the tiny fish keeps bubbling on & off In the creek; for now let’s stop & separate Our selfhoods from our minds, observe how They are making whims & wishes, & watch How they become conditioned by concepts & Constructs; for now let’s stay put as the handWritten book of history is being torn off Page by page, until we find our innermost Being in the heart of our soul at a crowded Corner; & let’s take off our masks, identities Even awareness as if we were peeling off An onion, though we may find nothing for now

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Benjamin J. Chase Bag O’ Snakes For once, I’d like to leave a duffle bag of snakes— tangled and wriggling— on some street corner like a ransom drop curated to the curious soul who craves a sudden change of fortune.

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Aja Cooper Of All the Sam Goodys in All the Malls The 90s were a weird time to be a girl. By all historical and scientific accounts, we’d existed just as long as boys, but it seemed like we were still somehow figuring out how to be in the world. This felt particularly difficult the day Britney Spears came into our cultural Zeitgeist. I’ll never forget it: I was at my cousin’s house, watching MTV as teenagers in the 90s were wont to do. The MTV veejay who announced her debut video primed us for something exciting. A new pop singer!

A new pop song! It’s a girl! I turned optimistically to watch, but to my horror was met with … a naughty Catholic school girl? With pigtails wrapped in pink fluff?

And the voice of a baby?? (Oh my god, do I sound like my grandmother?) I was mortified. “Oh no,” I remember saying out loud. I was a fourteen-year-old girl who had been trying desperately to figure out my place in late 90s America, feeling constantly thwarted by boys’ opinions, and I knew this meant nothing good for me.

You see, before this, it was like we were just starting to get taken seriously.

We had Fiona Apple, thank God, and there was something wise and Bukowskiesque in Courtney Love’s bleached blonde craziness. We had Bikini Kill and The Breeders, we had female authors making names for themselves in literary pop culture that were not just Jackie Collins and Kitty Kelley.

Women were writing and directing more movies, and we had Winona Ryder for Christ’s sake! We were on the precipice of our own kind of greatness, something that belonged to us, but now Britney put us back in a high school hallway, wearing pigtails and barely enough clothes.

Now look, I wasn’t the kind of girl who shamed other women about their choice of clothes, or how they did their makeup, or how fluffy their hair ties were around their braided pigtails—dear god why did it have to be pigtails? It’s just that … boys thought we were dumb. Even when we weren’t. I don’t know who was doing boy’s PR in the 90s, but somehow they’d gotten the word out they were actually the arbiters of all that was cool, and smart, and good, and the best a girl could hope for was to somehow stumble upon that knowledge so that she might like cool things too. (With the full knowledge she’d never actually be cool.)

Later that year, I had an … incident. I had gotten some money for my birthday, and I knew immediately what I wanted to buy: Metallica’s And Justice For All on CD. They were one of my favorite bands, and it was the last CD of theirs I didn’t have.

My mom dropped me off at the mall, and I walked into Sam Goody like a secret service agent sweeping the premises before the president walks in. Who was here? Who will witness me as I make arguably the most important (and coolest!) purchase of my life? I looked up at the counter to see who was working, and !

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there was Justin: Broward Mall legend. My friends and I were mall rats, a bunch of punk and metal kids who spent weekends dodging mall security and eating $1 chicken sandwiches from the food court Burger King, flirting and laughing and throwing french fries at our crushes. There was the core group of us, but then there were other mall figures with their own mall lore. Justin was the Sam Goody music store guy. He was our own personal celebrity. Older, always wearing an obscure band t-shirt and perfectly mussed hair, and seemingly entirely unaware of our existence despite our near-constant presence in his store. He carried an air of unbothered cool that we all strived for. We’d often see some of the older girls who worked at the mall hanging out in Sam Goody, leaning over his counter and giggling. He must be hilarious, I’d think to myself. I’d imagined his entire personality: laid-back but intense in his interests, quick with a joke and even quicker with a song recommendation, playful humor but the kind of big-brother protective vibe that teenage girls loved. I was always too intimidated to talk to him and secretly wished I had a reason to.

And here it was. I had a reason to talk to Justin. A good reason. (A cool reason!) I envisioned the scene in my head: I would walk up to the counter, lay the Metallica CD down like a poker player laying down a hand he knows just won him the pot, and Justin would look at it and say, “Wow, great choice.” The most captivating, brilliant conversation about music ever had by two people would ensue. We’d tell each other our favorite songs, we’d say things like, “What about that part in that one song where the drummer does that thing?” and then we’d both nod in agreement at its genius. I felt confident walking up to the counter, beautiful even. I put the cd down, and Justin looked at it, then at me, and then made a face filled with the kind of disdain usually reserved for realizing your dog has crapped on your carpet. He then said mockingly, “Psh. What are you buying this for your boyfriend?”

You know that thing in movies where the room starts to close in on the character, and everything around them kind of zooms out? That was me, I was that character. My face immediately flushed, my ears felt hot, and I felt … stupid.

I don’t think anything else could have made me feel more ridiculous in that moment. Not even necessarily for what he said, but that I had anticipated anything else. I suddenly remembered that I was a girl, and because of that, cool things didn’t belong to me. I’m a creature that lives and dies by the whim of boys. If I like Metallica, it must be because my boyfriend does. If I didn’t like Metallica, it would’ve been because I was such a girl.

He pointed to a sleek display behind me. “The Britney Spears CDs are over there,” he said.

“Oh, uh, I don’t even like Britney Spears,” I said dejectedly.

He rolled his eyes. “Yeah, okay,” he replied and rang me up.

After paying, I went and sat by myself in the food court and imagined a hundred different scenarios of putting him in his place. I pictured myself marching back in and yelling, “Hey, Justin!” He’d turn to look at me, as would everyone !

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else (in my fantasy, the store was suddenly filled with people, including the boy in my math class I had a crush on), and I’d say, “Just a little FYI for you, Bud, I don’t even have a boyfriend.”

Okay, wait, no, let me try that again.

I’d say, “listen man, making fun of a young girl buying a Metallica CD because you haven’t cultivated enough of a personality beyond “guy who works at Sam Goody” to know that girls have actual interests other than what some dumb boy likes is really uncool, and your hair is actually kind of stupid looking.” And then everyone would applaud, Justin would cry, his manager would come out and fire him immediately and hire me on the spot, and then I’d be the Sam Goody music store guy.

In reality, I just sat there and stared at Sam Goody from the food court, with a giant poster of Britney Spears in the window staring back at me. My unwanted avatar. I gave her a half-smile, reluctantly acknowledging that we were somehow in this together.

I look back on this incident more than I’d care to admit, and honestly, it still pisses me off. Not because of what he did, but because I didn’t yet know then that being cool wasn’t something a boy could ever grant me, and that my insistence on being myself- whatever version of girl I chose to be on any given day: metal girl, punk girl, pink fluff around my pigtails girl—was what made me cool.

I still have that Metallica CD, and last I heard, that’s more than Justin can say for his hair.

First Prize, 2025 Freshwater Student Writing Contest

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Joe Cottonwood Love Poem for a Sunday Afternoon First, undress. Put on worst clothes.

Plus headlamp, gloves, dust mask.

Enter crawlspace. Think not of Hades.

Slither on belly over rat shit.

Curse plumber for poor design.

With wrench, unscrew cleanout plug.

Recoil from explosion of black goo spraying face, eyeglasses, worst clothes, mask.

Ignore smell.

Feed metal snake into pipe. Ignore phallic thoughts. Keep feeding, turning until you feel a breakthrough.

Pull snake out bringing more disgusting goo.

Repeat—feed snake, twist, bring out.

Find cleanout plug that blew ten feet away in puddle of black muck. With wrench, reinsert plug.

Turn it tight.

Slither out. In driveway blast snake with hose water. Blast self. Remove clothes before entering house.

Take hot shower. Scrub. Soap generously.

Watch water swirl around drain, then disappear.

After shower, get dressed. Or not.

Tell your love it’s fixed.

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Stephen J. Cribari Know Thyself “Embrace what comes,” the mantra of his life.

No longer operative. Nothing came.

His past irrelevant now, no longer real The life that he had lived, the way he’d lived it.

“Embrace what comes.” His elaborate excuse For never having had to choose his life.

Who had he been that he had chosen to be?

Who the man in the din of irrelevant noise With which the world preoccupied itself, That had assaulted him daily, claimed him, owned him?

“Embrace what comes.” A whisper, a fading echo From a vacant life left half-unlived Diminishing daily over vacant sands— The desiccated bones of seas and monsters, Of mountains and of men, long forgotten, Insensate, awaiting resurrection.

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Philip Davison Gone The smallest child’s bike pink with a bell and streamers and white plastic training wheels Where was it?

There was just the space it had occupied She kept hold of her father’s hand continued to chew her index finger looked from the space to his face to the space, to his face No tears They would come, but not yet for now there was the mystery Where did it go?

It was for him to answer to explain the word ‘stolen’ to stumble over the why of it Some people

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Kenneth DiMaggio Ode #2 To A New England Rock Wall Moss The fuzzy stuff I found on a centuries-old rock wall in a forest once fields Rubbing the bristly but soft until it was time to go back to a home I forgot how to go back to The trees Walling up around me as the day got darker 8-year old idiot Sitting & crying atop stones that would probably become my anonymous cemetery if not for a hiker and her dog who ran and jumped up to greet me hugging hugging & hugging fur instead of stone and now the hand holding mine to bring me home but not before stealing a look back at something bigger than even Mom Dad this nice lady and her pooch— And did you just wink?

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Joanne Durham Fish Eye I lock eyes with a fish as she spurts onto the beach, heaves a last, useless flap, hook snaring her mouth.

Her stare shudders my spine. Unwitting witness to her final terror, I don’t know drum from snapper, can’t even grace her with the dignity of naming. I only know the juicy taste when she’s cooked, flakes like snow, scent of sea, hum of brine.

Was she warned in her school about dangling bait and line? Did she dream the death leap—sudden arc, slap of sky, thud of sand? She writhes against the triumph of her captor, camera’s shutter declaring his prize. Perhaps he’ll toss her wounded body back for some bigger fish to feast on easy prey.

Is prayer enough before I slit her open, celebrate her flesh, reject her bones?

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Ava Gagliardi Just Say No I kissed Wesley three times that night.

I invited my best friend over because I couldn’t bear to be alone. Just hours earlier, my mother, pale and wide-eyed, had pulled me aside in the dimly lit living room to tell me that her cancer had spread. I gave her a sad grin, holding her frail figure close, choking back tears that threatened to suffocate me. As soon as she retired to her room, I called Wesley, my voice trembling as I whispered for his presence. He had always been there for me, never hesitating to take care of me when the days became unbearable.

The first time I kissed Wesley was after he greedily stole my first kiss. I laid on my bed, curled against the cold wall, grief pulling my eyelids shut. Wesley sat beside me, a movie droning in the background. Without warning, he unapologetically placed his lips on mine. I had trusted him to control his urges. Normally, he’d ask to kiss me, and normally, I would chuckle and say no. But tonight, he was selfish.

I looked up at him, the light from his phone illuminating his face in the darkness of my room. Anxiety crept to the edges of my brain. Then, without a word, I kissed him. It wasn’t a terribly bad kiss. Wet and quick, but softer than I expected.

I didn’t want to kiss him. But I thought that if I kissed him back, I could make it mine—something I chose, not something taken from me. Instead, he took it as a greenlight.

He crushed his lips against mine—once, twice—each kiss growing rougher, more frantic.

“Stop. Please stop,” I murmured, not wanting to alert my mother, who was resting across the hall. The thought of waking her filled me with dread. She couldn’t know, not tonight, not when she was already fighting for her life.

I didn’t want this.

With each kiss, my panic rose, a rising tide that threatened to drown me. I covered his mouth, but he grasped my arm and pulled it away, crashing his lips on mine.

“No, please,” I begged, in between kisses.

I tried to sit up, but his body pinned me between the bed and against the wall.

“Stop,” I said.

I silently struggled, but he kissed me again. And again.

“Please,” I begged.

My limbs were small, useless. He was too heavy, too strong. I couldn’t move him—couldn’t move at all.

“No,” I whimpered. !

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I didn’t want this.

He couldn’t comprehend the words coming from my mouth. He was a wolf, and I was his prey. His lustful brown eyes stared at my lips, hunger glossing them over. His gentle nature was gone, replaced with frenzied aggression.

Is this all it came to? A year of friendship reduced to this moment? I always knew he liked me, but he promised to let me take the reins if I ever felt the same; I didn’t. I trusted him.

I didn’t want this.

Desperate to end the attack, I covered both his mouth and mine. My hand trembled against his face as he gave me a strange look—one that told me he took joy in my struggle.

The second time I kissed Wesley was after he grabbed both my hands, pinning them over my head. I didn’t want to kiss him, but I was trapped. I couldn’t move; there was no escape. I leaned in, kissing him gently, because at least it was my choice—not another one stolen.

“There,” I whispered, my voice shaking. “Is that what you wanted?”

He didn’t answer. The kiss was wet, again. I didn’t know how to kiss, but he didn’t care. All he cared about was taking more than I was willing to give. But he finally unbound my wrists, his hunger momentarily satiated.

A moment of silence passed before I gathered the courage to break it. “I think it’s time for you to leave, Wesley,” I said, the words sticky in my throat.

He laid next to me, pushing me over so that his back rested against the wall.

“Let’s just cuddle,” he murmured, oblivious to the turmoil inside me.

Disgust boiled beneath my skin as I turned to face the darkness. My stuffed animals stared at me from the top of my dresser, silent witnesses to the atrocities that had just occurred. I studied their faces, which suddenly felt alien in this room that was once my sanctuary.

The third time I kissed Wesley was in the foyer, his shadow dancing across the tiles from my phone’s dim flashlight. The cold air seeped through the cracked door, curling around my chest, sending a chill down my spine.

“Can I kiss you again?” he asked after saying our farewells.

“No,” I chuckled—as I normally did.

“Come on, just one more,” he pleaded softly.

It was never about me. His selfishness ravaged my mouth, my mind. I may have kissed him, but it was never me. I stared at him, defeated and so, so tired.

So, I kissed him one last time, the third and final kiss.

I tenderly grabbed his face, his scraggly beard scratching my hands, and pulled it closer. The kiss was wet, just like the others.

I wiped my lips and laughed. I laughed because that’s all I could do—laugh to keep from crying, laugh to keep from screaming.

“You know,” I muttered, almost to myself, “your kiss reminds me of how my dad used to kiss me on the cheek.” !

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I hated when my dad did that, leaving wet stains on my face. And yet the comparison left a bitter taste in my mouth, as if I had tainted those memories with the poison Wesley had left on my lips.

“Bye Ava,” Wesley said quietly, ignoring the words that escaped my lips and walking out the door. “Thank you.”

The words hit me like a punch to the gut. Thank you? For what? For giving in? For letting him take something I never intended to offer? I wanted to scream at him, to ask how he could thank me after I had said no, over and over again.

What kind of person says ‘thank you’ after crossing a line? The words echoed in my mind—a thank you for my submission.

It wasn’t until I sat on the edge of my bed, staring out into the darkness at my glassy-eyed plushies, that it really hit me. The weight of it all, the violation, the betrayal—it washed over me in waves. He had assaulted me. My best friend, the person I trusted most, had taken something from me that I didn’t even know I had to protect.

I felt foolish, as if I should have known better, as if I had let this happen. But the reality was, I had said no. I had begged him to stop. And he didn’t.

I didn’t want to be angry. But I was. Furious. How could he take advantage of my vulnerability? I only invited him over for comfort, to tell me that I would be okay—that my mom would be okay. Instead, Wesley twisted that moment of weakness into his own personal fantasy.

I didn’t want this.

The next few days were a blur. I couldn’t stop texting him, searching for solace in his apologies. I called him a monster, and every time he said, “I’m sorry,” I felt brief satisfaction, like I was finally getting something back from him, but no matter how many times he apologized, it was never enough.

I needed him to feel what I was feeling—the shame, the anger, the hollow emptiness. I needed him to be more broken than I was, to suffer the way I was suffering. But no amount of “I’m sorry” could make up for the nights I stayed up replaying the events in my head, torturing myself again and again, over and over, trying to understand how he could ignore my desperate pleas.

Eventually, he began to beg me to stop talking about it. The irony didn’t escape me. I had begged him to stop that night, and now, he was begging me. But I didn’t stop, not right away. Only after his blubbering apologies lost their meaning, I cut him off. Blocked him.

For weeks, I recoiled from any kind of physical contact; I couldn’t even hug my own dying mom. Just thinking about that night would send my heart racing, my body shaking. I could say moving on was the only thing left to do, but truly, how can you move on? My body will always be stained with his lust—I’m just learning to live with it.

Third Prize, 2025 Freshwater Student Writing Contest !

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Emilea Gartrell You Love Me (You Love Me Not) Like a tall glass of lemonade on a warm Summer day, the first few sips paired with the clinking of ice cubes- sweet and refreshing.

But by the next few, the acidic lemons begin to burn the tip of your tongue, leading to a change of heart, gently setting it down and looking for something else to quench your thirst with a little less of a zing.

A big piece of strawberry bubble gum, bright and pleasant.

Blowing the biggest bubbles - leading to laughter, but the more you chew, your jaw gets tired.

The once powerful flavor fades, and you ultimately opt to spit it out.

A vase of pastel wildflowers, placed on the counter with a smile.

Admired as a thoughtful gesture of gentle kindness - a representation of joy and hope.

But as they are observed, with each day that passes, their colors suddenly look duller, a couple of leaves have crinkled and fallen.

No longer fitting their initial desire, slid into the nearest trash receptacle, and quickly replaced, for roses are less tangled and messylasting extensively in their best form.

I am so afraid that the more people know of me, the less they find that they love me after all.

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Roland Goity Between Twins Elliot Gallagher and I met in second grade, Mrs. Applethorpe’s class. We lived one bus stop apart. We bonded over bullfrogs we’d catch, fart noises produced with our armpits, and awestruck gazes at the sight of Jesse Mahovlich’s American flag underpants every time she came down the slide. His twin brother Luke had a different home room, but we were three peas in a pod. Every day after school I was at their home, or they were at mine.

I became the twins’ triplet, and had a front-row seat to their never-ending rivalry. Each disagreement circled back to one fact. “Even though I’m younger than you,” Luke would say, and he was only younger by like twenty-three minutes, “I’m stronger than you, more popular than you, and doing better in school.” As if on cue, the fisticuffs and headlocks commenced.

Luke was indeed stronger, and he won the bulk of these fights. But Elliot fought dirty and kept things interesting. Later, I discovered Elliot was dyslexic and clinically hyperactive, but back then he just seemed wildly unpredictable. I tried to reason with him when he acted out, but rarely calmed him. Only one person could.

Mr. Gallagher was a freckled redheaded like Luke, not a dishwater blonde like Elliot. Yet, although Luke was molded in his image, Mr. Gallagher erred on Elliot’s side when the twins came to loggerheads, and always encouraged him.

Like one particular weekend afternoon after we’d worked in the Gallagher’s yard, clipping shrubs, moving dirt via wheelbarrows, and raking leaves. Luke and I halfassed it, but Elliot didn’t. When Mr. Gallagher doled out the promised payments, Elliot got twice what Luke and I did.

Elliot’s father reached his “eldest” son in ways no one else could, not even Elliot’s mother. That’s what made what happened on a blustery late October day at the Gallaghers, the year we were ten, so unusual. Leaves were flying all around and so were Elliot’s and Luke’s fists after Luke accused his brother of punching him in a backyard game of tackle the pigskin.

The Gallagher’s home was large, three stories high if you count their sunroom off the attic with its terrace. Luke had climbed up to that terrace and taunted Elliot who was still on the lawn, nursing a bloody nose after the beating.

I rarely took sides, but fought with Luke periodically and knew he could be a real dick. So, I understood the anger, shame, and frustration that Elliot must have felt then, wiping blood away with the bottom of his t-shirt. But then, Elliot caught my eye and smiled. It was as if we were in cahoots about something, only I had no idea what. He dashed inside the house momentarily before returning to the lawn, arms folded across his chest. From above, Luke started shit-talking him once again.

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“Keep yapping away, Luke. I got a surprise for you,” Elliot yelled. When he unfolded his arms I saw the wrist rocket he’d carried out.

At the same time, we heard a car motor into the driveway on the other side of the house. Luke, with his view from the perch, announced: “Dad’s home, loser.

He’s gonna kill you if he sees you with that thing.”

Elliot seemed oblivious. He pulled a sizable rock from his pants pocket and placed it in the slingshot pouch. Then he stretched the bands back as far as he could, closing one eye and focusing the other on his target above.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Luke said. “Even, you’re not that stupid.”

Just then, the back door slammed and Mr. Gallagher rapidly approached.

“No, Elliot! Put that down now!” It was the first time I’d ever heard him shout.

“See!” Luke gloated from on high. “I told you so.”

Elliot’s expression didn’t change in the least. He stretched any remaining slack in the bands and then let the rock fly. It hit Luke right in the forehead, sending him to his knees, stunned and bloodied, yelping in pain.

What happened after that is a bit of a blur. This was over half a lifetime ago.

I remember Mr. Gallagher going apoplectic and me going immediately up the road for home. I don’t remember much else, except that night, on the phone, a grounded Elliot told me his parents planned to send him to a different school, one they said was “special.” I hadn’t asked, but he told me he disobeyed his father in that moment because “he looked like Luke in twenty-five years.”

This whole story came back to me earlier this evening when I met the twins for a happy hour. From the seventh grade on, I went to private schools and we lost touch. The only time I’d seen the twins was when my parents and I attended Mr. Gallagher’s memorial service six years ago. But I received a Facebook friend request and message from Elliot recently and learned he and Luke were no longer just twins but also roommates and co-workers; they shared an apartment uptown and worked for a drywall contractor.

As the beers kicked in, I expressed how shocked I’d been to learn they still lived together.

“All our battles, you mean?” Luke said.

“I figured they took a toll on you both.”

“After Dad’s heart attack, Luke manned up,” Elliot said. “He told me I could always count on him and I told him likewise.” It was touching the way he said it, with such sincerity.

“Plus, we have a rule,” Luke said. “No slingshots in the house.”

It was just like old times. Once we made for our vehicles in the parking lot, however, I got a hunch this might be the last time I’d see the twins. I sat on my hood and watched them pull away, their taillights fading in the distance, their ongoing future together just around the corner.

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Taylor Graham Translations What language did Adam use, I wonder, for his naming of things? Was the first tongue God-given too? Surely, when I say “apple,” I’m translating from the Fall. Fallen fruit from a tree planted by farmers in the earlysettler days, the coming of white-man to this Divide. The farm’s been given back to the wild, now, nature area where I walk my dog. A fallen apple is free for the taking.

No transgression. But my dog said, in her silent language, “Don’t go there,” a perfect U-turn on the trail.

I dropped forbidden fruit and we proceeded fast-walk back the way we came.

Next day, imprinted in mud, a footprint— pawprint larger than my hand, spelling “bear” in ancient and that very morning’s script without a spoken word.

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Ray Greenblatt Theology I could no longer enter the confessional the shadows depressed, I went home with pints of color to smear on a wall until it was one with the sunset.

I couldn’t kneel and nod to take a blessing, so I wandered the beach picking up colored glass to glue to a cross-piece planting it in the yard.

I couldn’t even open a prayer book, so that I stood beneath the stars as hard as tears till from my mouth a song rang out to fill the night echoing back from the void.

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John Grey How Things Turned Out Her fantasy is in the trash heap.

Her son never did earn a medical degree.

He is not a doctor.

Instead, he’s a thirty five year old shelf-stacker in a local department store, divorced with two kids and currently fighting with his ex’s lawyer for more visitation rights.

There are some benefits to this.

Through his employment plan, she can buy stuff at a small discount.

But her varicose veins are a different story.

Radiofrequency ablation, sclerotherapy and laser treatments are in the hands of someone else’s offspring.

Sure, she can get ten percent off dark stockings to hide the worst of those lumps on her legs.

But, sadly, she can’t hide her son that way.

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John Grey My Ghosts I am glad of my ghosts.

They inhabit the moon, the stippled lake, peer out from the dark oak curtains, the restless underbrush.

As I climb the hill, up from the town, my phantoms haunt from all sides, as my steps chronicle my life, glean between the layers of memory.

Alone in darkness, I am the shaman of a tribe of one, as my subconscious casts spells, wakes the dead, gives them their lives back, if only for this night, this moment.

They walk with me. They run on ahead.

They stalk but in a good way. They speak.

They gesticulate. They can occupy all ages or settle on the one.

Lenore is here. Nicole is over there.

And Marcia. And Coll. And so many.

Having lived and known people, it’s no wonder presence has its way with me.

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John Grey The River and the Drought The river’s remains still boast a current, though it’s no longer a sprinter, more like an old man with a cane.

It doesn’t penetrate the hills anymore.

Instead, it creeps through openings like a snail.

Its path bends slowly through the shadow of denuded trees, the brown grass of its banks.

It doesn’t look to the sky like the farmers do.

It merely works, uncomplainingly, with the meager water at its disposal.

Most remember the fishing and the swimming.

A few still talk of the time the river overflowed its banks.

And everyone in town owned a boat of a sort or could fashion a raft out of bough and vine.

A drought is good for the memory but poor for the crop in the field.

It quells a river’s movements.

Yet still sends it on its way.

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David M. Harris Dead Letter Office: Gizmo Dear Giz: I hope you knew how much we wanted you to live. That force-feeding wasn’t just torture, but a campaign to convince you the world hadn’t ended, that you had new humans and a reason to go on. We knew you were a good cat with bad luck, a round-faced cat out of a Japanese woodcut, serene and handsome in white and orange.

We were your witness protection program, even though you could not testify about the murder you must have seen.

One of your humans stabbed the other.

Your family ended that day. Your old family, that is.

We tried to be the new one, and you found your place, curled into a warm disk behind my knees, with your comrade Furlough and the dog, Tinker, all on the bed. Now, too soon, you lie, your loud purr silenced, with others we loved.

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Ruth Holzer After I Left After I left, was I missed at all?

Did anyone notice an empty space in their day or night?

I assume that my seat in the café was claimed by another and my room promptly rented out to the next impoverished soul, but did someone turn to speak to me and, finding I wasn’t there, feel diminished by my absence?

I hope they mourned in secret, regretting our pleasant passages.

Then I would not always be the pliant red wax that bears the stamp’s impression, but the stamp.

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Ruth Holzer The Daily Mail If I were to heed all these invitations, I’d pay a visit to the new dentist in town and have my smile whitened to a dazzle at a discount. I’d join the gym to restore my boyish figure. Then I’d call in the landscapers, have them design perennial beds and borders, re-green the balding lawn. Plant a few dogwoods.

And since I’ve been pre-approved, why not use that premium platinum credit card and take a cruise down the Rhine, drink the blood-red wine, see the castles again.

I wouldn’t ignore charities, either; I’d give and give until world hunger ended, the North Atlantic right whales were saved, and grateful veterans lived happy in their wheelchairs. Or maybe I’d just sell the house to one of the flippers making an offer and get the hell out.

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Ruth Holzer Parisians Watching the Solar Eclipse, April 17, 1912 - Eugène Atget photograph Children, shopkeepers, men of affairs, the small crowd cranes its neck as one, gazing at the sky through cardboard viewers as an eerie darkness begins to fall upon the Place de la Bastille.

Most of them don’t understand why the afternoon light is failing, the wind rising, the sparrows silent, but they’ll all remember this day and talk about it for the rest of their lives, even the person who has climbed onto a lamppost and is staring at the camera instead.

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Paul Ilechko Darkness Falls at the Office Complex Deer are visible from the office window as dusk approaches melding into the background woods as they move across the visible field I wonder how and where they sleep and do they have one of their number stand guard unlikely as their predators are mostly gone from here other than humans and these woods are not a place where hunting is allowed the skin of the earth in this location is coarse as rock salt and glitters when reflected light collides with the glass of my window there is so much I fail to understand about the natural world as I burrow into the alternate universe which hides behind my monitor the glare from its screen reflecting from the window glass as the outdoors becomes ever darker and the deer vanish along with everything else which had been visible earlier there used to be many people in this building but now there are so few of us the parking lots are beginning to crumble and weeds are growing in the cracks foxes are seen here frequently they make their dens in drainage tunnels or so it seems feral cats are out there too they kill so many birds but not the geese who coat the rain-drenched asphalt with a greenish tinge there was a time when I would run from lot to lot across the interconnecting buildings of this complex returning sweaty and in need of a shower but ready to dig back into the painful necessity of work now I wait for the colors to tinge the evening sky and dream my way through until dawn when new colors wash the sky in the minutes before the sun staggers up from its overnight rest along with the myriads of small animals surrounding us and the birds which sing us awake if we choose to listen these buildings are becoming more and more like giant mausoleums disconnected from reality either human or wild. !

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Rebecca Klassen Pests The spider scuttles on the stairs but doesn’t hide from my gargantuan shadow.

His desire to find a mate before he freezes overrides his will to live. I’ve had enough of horny males, of my husband’s persistent hands, my son’s long, steamy showers, and the dog dry-humping my leg. Launching my slipper with a primeval yell, it hits the spider, and its legs fold up like an umbrella in a storm. When my husband, son, and the dog come to investigate the noise, I throw my slipper at them, too, but they don’t fold. All I can do is shoo them out into the impending winter and lock the door, hoping the cold will extinguish their loins.

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Raylan Ladner Predator In the Night I wonder how long it will take before he notices me.

Not all bears are dangerous, I remind myself, Their intentions are simple: hunger, survival.

I grew up loving the Berenstain Bears, And cuddled my Teddy through storms and nightmares.

His paws are massive, claws glint in the moonlight, He could crush me in an instant, But his eyes are honest, and I reclaim my space.

Not all bears are dangerous— Even wild, they follow the rules of nature.

But this one? This one stalks with a different intent.

The weight of his gaze pins me in place, Not hunger, not fear—something more deliberate.

His shadow stretches, his breath grows closer, Yet still, I stand, defying his presence.

My heart races: instincts are to scream or to run.

But I’ve learned not all threats wear fur.

His breath fans the back of my neck, And I repeat: Not all men are dangerous.

A bear may maul flesh and bone, But a man can tear apart the soul.

Perhaps if he were a bear, I’d trust him faster.

Bears retreat when the fight is not theirs; Men, with their charming smiles, Mask fangs sharper than any beast.

Not all men are dangerous, I whisper, But some wear the skin of safety like a predator’s camouflage.

I did not know space was a privilege Until I stood here, sharing air with predators.

A bear threatens only the body— A man, the entirety of who I am.

Both breathe my air, But only one can inflict wounds worse than death. !

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Raylan Ladner All That’s Left “Mom, don’t you say that. Don’t you say that.

Don’t you say that she’s gone.”

My screams rattled the house, neighbors peered from their doorways wearing faces etched with concern.

I screamed until blood vessels burst, until my voice could barely carry the weight of a whisper.

My heart bled. My mind unraveled in disbelief, tethered to an insanity I pray I never know again.

All that’s left are photographs that haunt me with their smiles, words that sting my throat, and a wound that refuses to heal.

How. Could. You. Go? I remember the messages flooding in with concern.

Me being 4 hours away at college and sending my mom to the hospital.

Unblocking you, desperate for answers.

We were fighting, as we always did, like sisters entwined with love and chaos, sharing secrets and pain.

You started this one at the worst timing while I sat by my grandfather’s side, in a sterile room, 14 days of waiting, fear and grief consumed the room that my family and I waited in.

I said things I shouldn’t have, words sharp as knives, but in the end, –I lost you first– I guess you won that argument.

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At my grandfather’s funeral, a month after yours, I wore my grief like a shroud, numb, struggling to breathe, realizing I was mourning two lives at once.

A senseless accident, a boat ride turned fatal.

Why you?

I missed you before the world turned cold, empty, and unfamiliar, before I knew what it meant to lose you forever.

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Lana La Framboise us writers, we collect our lovers into ourselves. Collect them in the crevices of lands and seas, deep memories in our subconscious— unfinished poems, pieces of characters too much like ourselves to display on blank pages.

Gather our lovers as fine threads dancing along starlight soaking dewy grass.

We remember how lovers smile; the quirk of lips and tracing fingertips—a g h o s t in gulped red wine, but lovers always drink beer or something bitter because we are too loving, too sweet, and we’ll never see them again. So we save too much— our body, our sins, our fears—in fine-tip pens and leather journals drip words from our bellies and our lovers stain the corners—delicious and all too bright to keep.

Us writers tried whiskey lovers and bourbon burning bedsheets gathered in soft skin tender with smoke and sugar—still lingering on hips, thighs, and shoulder blades that lovers/us, writers will never get back under b r e a t h s cascading along collarbones.

Still the mountains snowy and the cosmos vast; us writers search every atom remembering how lovely lovers/writers are under a city at the brink of collapse— against steel. Against cement. Pen against paper. Mountains growing from our backs.

See how insurmountable anxiety traces our insecurities into love. But we’ll keep our lovers impossibly, ineffably, i n f i n i t e l y in all these words that we’ve salvaged hoard them into notebooks lined with stencil drawings. We keep each of them safe inside layered skeletons and worry what would happen if they were immortal, if they lived forever in a world not even we, the writers, can touch.

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E.P. Lande A Biblical Sacrifice José burst into my office, his hands gesticulating wildly.

“You let my Spanish casserole burn.”

I knew he was upset, but I’d had an important email to answer.

“I told you, five minutes, and what did you do? You went to your office and started writing on your computer.”

“I guess ....”

“You guessed? It took me all morning to prepare that dish, and you let it burn. All you care about is your writing, never about my cooking. I should unplug the fuckin’ computer.”

“I was sidetracked, José. One of my stories was accepted.”

“And for that you sacrificed my casserole? How do you expect me to serve it to our dinner guests tonight? It’s nothing but a burnt offering.”

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Richard LeDue Real Strength Life can be broken glass slicing through a tire 30 miles from the nearest garage on the hottest day of summer, but you’re strong enough to get through it, and strong enough to cry at 6 AM, thinking about the abandoned house down the road, where a neighbour died alone and wasn’t found for a week.

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Richard LeDue On Turning 43 Sunday morning bottles seem emptier now, while hangovers heavier, like pebbles piled into pockets at the beach, and the Christmas Brass record I rescued from the thrift store has settled for being married to dust, but my slurred words still seem to say more than a doctor’s lecture about getting eight hours of sleep, long phone calls from an accountant, the ingredients in flavoured water, or farewells I never wanted.

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Rachel Linton ambiguous omens on the I-15 I keep thinking I see animals on the side of the highway but so far they’re all just shredded tires.

That’s probably a metaphor for something.

It’s billboards all the way out to Vegas, and then afterwards they give way to the landscape— Okay, we’ve had our fun, but the desert always gets its due in the end.

It stays green longer than you expect it.

It’s a myth that nothing grows in a desert— not just cactus, either, but real shrubs and grasses that probably conceal the animals I keep imagining.

That’s a metaphor, too—the things you don’t expect hiding the things you do.

My dad, in the passenger seat, asks if this feels special, remarkable, like some long-worked-toward Goal. The only revelation I’m having is how much easier it is to drive with cruise control. The mountains are beautiful.

Utah, Colorado, places I’ve been before. Is this new?

Is there something special about my foot not on the gas at seventy-five, this stretch of highway, these four days in August where I uproot my life and replant it elsewhere, like I’m a plant that needs a new pot?

I was growing just fine in the desert. Real green, not just shrubs. No, it isn’t remarkable, special.

The only revelation is that this, this is an animal thing—demanding migration, hiding in my chest, ready to burst forth and leave nothing behind on the side of the highway but shredded tire.

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Rachel Linton End Escrow We moved in when I was three years old.

The palm tree around the block on the corner was a baby, a little tree among giants. Now it’s all grown up.

So am I. The house sold; with it the lemon tree which always produced five or six giant mutants instead of normal lemons and the avocado that made fruit faster than I could eat it, even in guacamole on sandwiches on toast every morning. Goodbye to them, and the tree that sheds yellow flowers and sap like cool rain, to the big oak out front, the little baby oak beside it that has had ten years but has not got the memo about growing up.

I’ll trade with it. I, too, want to be a child again, among giants, mixing poultices from leaves and petals, the usual backyard magic. But only trees have the luxury of lingering in adolescence. Someone else will have to cover these stones in sidewalk chalk, dig in the earth, bring home mantises and release them in the garden. Someone else will never remember when the palm tree was young.

I say goodbye. I go. The trees stay; only people have the luxury of roots that still let them get up and walk away.

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Leah Lopez A Quick Visit It’s always hard visiting Mom. “Harry? That you?”

Is my heart pounding? No. That’s impossible. “Hey, Mom.” She gets up from that worn-out lazy boy in her living room, letting out an “oomph!” Once she sees me, her brows furrow. “You’re so skinny. Bah! Just like your father. Skin and bones before he passed.” Dad was always skinny—even before he got sick.

“I can’t change how I look anymore, Mom.” I really can’t. She shrugs.

Before I died, she said that I’d see Dad once I’m gone, and that I’d get a new body.

Sorry, Mom—both are wrong.

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Leah Lopez Christmas Comes Early “Open it! Come on … I know it isn’t Christmas yet—but I couldn’t help it. Go ahead!” He vibrates excitedly. She looks at the neatly wrapped box and taps the pink bow.

A pink bow, just for her!

“I don’t want to rip it,” she offers, her voice low and cautious.

“Don’t worry about that. But you can save the bow. If you want!”

She nods quickly, reaching to grab the present; the chains around her wrists clank as they rise. After tearing the wrapping paper, she opens the box. “... A pink water bottle. Why?” “You always get so thirsty down here.”

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Richard Luftig Along Elk River Tenacious willow branches crowd the sloping banks.

Roots hang on for dear life.

Crickets gossip in thrushes at water’s edge.

The news isn’t good.

A solitary crane beats her wings in search of a mate.

Only silence returns.

Birches struggle to take a toehold among pebble-strewn bank.

Bare trees pose, part.

A curtain for a waterfall.

The river at play.

Stalks lean, curve, twist like calligraphy in twilight.

Message uncertain.

Darkness. Moon is down.

Black water rushes by on it’s way to winter.

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Emilia Macri The Swell He wished seagulls were more like roosters. All day and night, they cried, never ceasing. At least roosters were akin to alarm clocks. After however many days, he was able to tune them out just long enough to sleep. He chose to rise with the moon, finding it gave him a better sense of normality to rise with something rather than wake in the middle of the day. Bleariness didn’t follow his waking anymore, lazing in bed hardly felt any different from pacing back and forth by the light. That was all there really was to it, just pacing back and forth by the light.

He’d taken the job for that very reason. Every job he’d ever had asked him to run himself ragged, give everything so that he had nothing left for himself. Not the lighthouse, though. All that was asked of him was to be there if the light ever went out.

The vibrant mechanism turned like a lazy ballerina in the center of the circular room. He’d learned the perfect blind spots, where the rays couldn’t catch him wrong. There weren’t many boats out on this specific night, the sea was particularly rough. He could see the waves crashing against the shore even when the light didn’t reflect on the coast. It left him uneasy. The sky gave him no signs of storm, as he’d learned to track the weather in his boredom. It was one of the many small habits he’d taken up in his time on the job. Before the lighthouse, it felt as if he never had time to pursue his own interests—now that the time was there, he found himself with a profound lack of passion.

He set his sights on the sky, voiding the self-pity from his mind as he’d done every night for the past month. There was something entertaining about watching the stars until the light passed over his view and sent his own reflection staring back at him. It made him feel bigger. He controlled the light; sent it shining over the sea and blanking out the stars. His light kept the sea unimposing. He never left the lighthouse for that very reason. It seemed unfair to leave all of those helpless sailors alone with the raging black sea. They’d all be blind without his guidance. He was staring at the countless stars in satisfaction when he realized his reflection had yet to bounce back at him. The light had flickered out, its mechanism stopped dead in its tracks. He was at the light in seconds, checking the lamp, checking the fuel reservoir, but he found nothing. The light wasn’t dead, there was still ample fuel. This had never happened before.

The room was filled with yellow illumination. As quickly as it had gone, the light was back up, making its rounds over the coast. He stepped up to the window, the one that made it feel as if the ocean was all-encompassing. The sea was particularly rough that day. It was out of pattern. The clear sky gave him no indication of a storm, and yet the water told him of great unrest. A dread had settled over him, nothing that he could place. Yet, staring at the foamy waves as they crested and crashed, he felt as if he was witnessing something entirely unfamiliar. !

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Once more, the light was gone. His eyes were still fixed on the sea, glued to the melodic rise and fall of the waves. After a particularly large wave crashed, loud even from his great height, more did not rise to greet it. The sea had gone entirely still, calmer than he had ever seen it. The world outside of the lighthouse had fallen silent. The absence of seabirds and surly tides was deafening; a silence that he’d never before experienced. But then the water rose. Like a bubble rising from beneath the tide, swelling up higher than the newly absent waves.

“Impossible,” he muttered to himself. He stared at the swell, overcome with a horrible curiosity that drew him so close he felt it would swallow him whole.

He’d strayed from the light’s blind spot. The flash of yellow caught him and he stumbled back, scrunching his eyes closed as dots colored his vision. The world had yet to return to view by the time he was running towards the window once more. The sea was particularly rough and yet the sky was clear, waves reaching up and touching the stars. The swell that came from the water, whatever it was, had disappeared under the surge. The light was back on, spinning as it always had.

“It’s completely impossible.” Whales didn’t come that close to shore, not unless they were beaching. Even at that, no whales had ever beached on the shore, not while he was manning the lighthouse. He set to pacing, circling the light, turning his head whenever it caught up to him so that he wouldn’t be blinded again. The tile clicked beneath the heel of his shoe with each step. He was never one to pace before he took on the job, believing that pacing was the act of a man trapped in thought. He’d never thought himself a prisoner of his own mind. Still, he did not think himself to be such. The circumstances were extraordinary, any man with an ounce of sanity would be pulling his hair out at such a thing.

The light was gone. His nose was pressed against the glass of the window in seconds, watching the water. Waiting. Again, the tide smoothed over, flat as the tile he stood on. The sea and sky were nearly indistinguishable, dark and vast. He held his breath, afraid that it may cloud the glass and block his view. The surface of the water swelled up. Once more, something like a bubble rose from the tide, too dark for him to see or comprehend. It would all make sense if it were just a bit closer. Such a magnificent occurrence, he didn’t doubt he was the first to experience it. He widened his eyes, as if that would get him a better view. It was nearly upon him.

His shadow was cast around him as the light blasted its powerful glow back over the water. The waves picked up, particularly rough, the sky was as clear as ever, and the swell had retreated beneath the water.

“No!” he screamed, making for the light. “Stop it! Stay off!”

It continued its lazy spin around the shore in defiance. He pounded on its large walls, not caring if it dared to blind him.

“You stupid light, you stupid light!” His hands madly found their way past the lenses. “Stay off!” With a swift swing of his arm, he shattered the lamp. Glass erupted from its socket, spraying his sleeve. He hardly noticed. !

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He turned for the window, nearly tripping himself in his eagerness. The water swelled, like a bubble erupting from its surface. Higher it rose, parting from the tide entirely. It was nearly close enough for him to see, just a bit higher. Water fell from its shape, rejoining the sea beneath it. A chord, like a tether, followed the orb out of the depths. He was concerned by nothing but the anomaly which was now so close to him that he felt he could reach out and touch it if not for the glass. In all his life, he’d never experienced something so remarkable, something so divinely monstrous. He stared at it, trying to memorize each individual detail, as if the moment it left, he would forget it. Unbeknownst to him, it stared back.

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Ava Majersky My Bathroom Mirror My bathroom mirror. It’s always blurry, with dried water droplets from the sink all over the lower half of it. No amount of Windex will ever properly clean it. The mirror is a rectangular, silver medicine cabinet. The house it resides in is over seventy years old, so the mirror has housed the reflection of many people. But when speaking for myself, that mirror has witnessed a lot throughout the nineteen years of my life. Its contents include a variety of objects. For example, stored on the bottom shelf, a pair of eighteen-year-old nail clippers, a fifteen-year-old jar of expensive eye cream that hasn’t been touched in over a decade. I think it was kept around to make the bathroom feel fancy. A five-year-old nasal spray still in the box, untouched. And my favorite, a one-year-old sunscreen that turns my face two shades too dark and makes me look orange. If you needed something at night, you’d have to open it at a snail’s pace due to the fact it squeaks and creates a huge bang when you close it, which in turn makes it sound like a bomb just went off.

It’s normally kept ajar to avoid this.

I’ve spent many years examining myself in this mirror. It watched me get ready for various school picture days where my mother blow-dried my hair, momentarily pausing to demand that I stay still. The mirror has watched me get hairspray in my mouth and act overly dramatic about it, yelling out that I’ve been poisoned. But what else could you expect from a nine-year-old?

It’s witnessed me cut bangs during mental breakdowns on three separate occasions. The first two in middle school, the last in my freshman year of high school. And, of course, the time I ruined my mother’s pristinely white shower curtain dip dyeing my hair cherry red. A month later, I dyed it again, this time a pretty sapphire blue. Then I had to grow it out once it faded into a pale green that I still think back to and cringe. I’m sure it has various stories to tell about all the times I came back from the hair salon with tears in my eyes, crying over how I thought my hair had been cut too short. Feeling exposed, having my long hair that doubled as a security blanket gone.

Over the years, the mirror has helped me apply my concealer and various lip glosses. It’s been front and center to my failed color matches. Mostly, concealer shades that were too light and glosses that made me appear like a badly drawn 90s cartoon character.

Now, with my greatest love, my lip products, the history is complex.

My rectangular mirror saw me start with lip smackers, then watched as I moved onto low-budget lip glosses. Shades of pink, coral, and even brown if I was feeling adventurous. Clear or sparkly. Peppermint or vanilla scented. Standing on my tippy toes and pulling weird faces so I could get a precise application.

And, of course, wiping away the imperfections with my fingers. !

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Jumping up and down excitedly when I thought I looked especially good that day or the gloss matched my outfit. The mirror seemingly helping me become more confident before sending me out into the world.

However, the mirror has also contributed to some of my darkest days. Many instances come to mind where I would find myself standing in front of the mirror, squishing my cheeks and wondering why my face was so full. Studying my lips and questioning why they appeared to be so pale or why my eyebrows were so dark and thick. The practice of tearing myself down would result in doing something irrational. Usually by taking the tweezer to my eyebrows and plucking too much off, leaving me with uneven gaps and bald spots. They wouldn’t even look like sisters. By that point, I would glance at my reflection and acknowledge that my eyebrows appeared to be more like distant cousins after the self-sabotage.

This would result in me not wanting to be seen by anyone for at least a week until they grew back. Over the next week, I’d stare at my reflection and wonder why a time machine hadn’t been invented yet so I could go back and redo my mistakes.

Then I’d realize that there had never actually been anything horrendous about my appearance in the first place and that it had an overreaction.

The mirror observed me leaning over the sink countless times so I could pick at my acne, and it watched as I paid the price in the form of scarring. Small and medium red bumps all over my face that you could connect with a pen to create a constellation. Crying over feeling so defeated, wondering if I’ll ever think I’m beautiful. Debating with myself over the possibility that I’ll find the confidence to leave the house again.

The mirror has watched me wash my face after crying countless times. Shoulders slouched, the faint sound of sniffles as I wiped my eyes on my sleeve. Standing up straight to look in the mirror and taking in just how red my eyes would be.

How swollen and dejected they looked. I’d stand there, staring at my reflection, silently praying that I’d find a way to get over my depressive slump as I gave myself one final glance before shutting off the light and retreating to my bed.

And then a week will pass by, and I’m back jumping excitedly in the mirror, smiling at my reflection as I start to believe again that I’ll be okay. The mirror in my bathroom watched me grow. It’s seen my failures. The mirror has watched as I found the courage to get back up day after day and try again.

Second Prize, 2025 Freshwater Student Writing Contest

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Lance Manion a cardinal comes a-calling Now I don’t want to start off by casting aspersions, although given the fact that the following might lead you to believe the girl in question is either a witch or has witch-like abilities, casting might be a good choice of words.

The aspersions part is where it gets dicey.

She might even like being called a witch these days. I’m certain that she’d love being thought of as possessing witch-like powers.

In the good and bad old days, whenever she wanted me to think about her she would send dragonflies. Sometimes a lone dragonfly, sometimes she’d send them by the horde. Or swarm. Or whatever a group of dragonflies is called. Sometimes I’d be happy to see them and sometimes it would cause my heart to ache.

It’s been a while since I’ve talked to her so I was surprised to find that apparently she’s upgraded her spellbook.

Now she sends a cardinal to tap on the window outside my kitchen. Every day now for a week. Two or three times a day. Tap tap tap tap tap tap.

And before you start to give me the various perfectly reasonable reasons that a bird might tap on a window, just know that I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that this bird is her doing.

Now all there is left to do is figure out why.

Is she thinking about me?

Is she in trouble?

Does she regret leaving me?

I want to pluck the bird out of the air and yell these questions at it until it gives in and spills the beans. Frothing at the mouth and pointing out that I wouldn’t even have to change the initials KFC. “The C can just as easily be for cardinal.”

I’ve never been adept at threatening birds.

There was always a reason behind the dragonflies and now I’m left wondering why she has sent a Cardinalis cardinalis after all this time.

Why not a carrier pigeon? That way I can strap a note to its leg asking her why she has chosen to send a bird instead of picking up the phone.

Then of course I wonder if I’m jumping to the wrong conclusion and the cardinal is just a way of saying goodbye. A symbol that she’s found someone else and is happy. Letting me know I can stop worrying about her.

Which I still do.

They say birds are just what remain of the dinosaurs. In the same way I guess that a cardinal is what remains of the monstrous brontosaurus-like feelings I used to have for her. Romantic lumberings through the forest of poor metaphors reduced to pecking on a window.

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I want to wait until Halloween and send a swarm of bats to engulf her. Circle her until she is lost from sight. And when the flittering dark cloak is finally pulled back she will be dressed head to toe in black with a pointy hat perched atop her head and a broomstick in her hand.

Why? Because cardinals are songbirds, but all I get is tap tap tap tap tap tap.

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Ken Meisel Under Water We are swimming in a pond, somewhere off a campsite, (it might have been out west where the chilled water would refresh us, the pine trees & sloped ridges surrounding us like conifer castles.) & I dive in, go deep to search the gravel stone & murky bottom while you float on top. & if I could pare down gravity just enough, so I could pull you down underwater w/ me, the both of us sudden gilled fishes, caudal tails flickering like wet matches lit by flame so that the understory of the pond’s arboretum could be cathedral light, then down there, we’d find all our other hidden lives, their agile bodies eager & waiting for us to discover them, their blossom hands & tubular fingers reaching out to greet us, all our varied souls, oh mirror of water, reveal us to ourselves.

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Susan Miller White Claw It’s 6:30 a.m. at a brooding bus stop of blurry commuters when a man in a greasy T-shirt and baggy Levis cracks open a White Claw with all the gusto of a crisp-collared sommelier.

He doesn’t see the doe-eyed teen with heavy mascara snapping furiously with a boy who just won’t listen. Or the spent nurse in worn yellow crocs arguing mentally for fewer overnights.

Or the well-manicured mom brushing cereal crumbs off her tot’s face into the wind. Or the programmer in chinos bouncing nervously on the pavement, passwords stuffed inside his head.

And they don’t see him: 42 going on 60. Sturdy hands that once rebuilt engines, cradled little ones, made the block’s zestiest huevos rancheros.

Now calloused, and mostly unsure.

All islands in the haze of waiting for the M22. When a hard seltzer snapped up from the corner bodega seems like the right tonic for another forgettable Lower East Side morning.

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Susan Miller High The first time I saw you high we were 13, just babies really.

You were pimpled and proud to share this sneaky moment.

Yes you—the honor roll kid, the fast-tracking Eagle Scout, the neighborhood’s favorite lawn boy—rolling papers and taking drags in our treehouse, tucked quietly under the sky.

You were a Teflon teen then.

Clarinet in concert band, chess club king, debating star. At first, no one seemed to notice when cracks started to form, when the SAT ace began to crumble deep inside. When you took too many shots at prom I gripped your sweaty hands as you cradled a gurgling toilet and you swore with achy gulps never again.

I tried, we tried to catch up just about every Christmas break.

Me all about finals, frat boys, anything to silence my sadness.

You still pitching a fantasy world where you didn’t bag groceries, stalk street corners, skip rehab.

Where we towered above the fray in a house made of sticks: 13 and untouchable under the sky.

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Rosemary Dunn Moeller Ignorant Gardener Extracting ugly fuzzed weeds, I grew tired, sighed to a neighbor about futility. He said, “They’ll bloom.”

Expecting dull, short insignificance, I grew resigned, acquiesced, ceased.

Today, on tall strong stems, red blossoms, randomly left to flourish, remind me how I’m ignorant of soil’s productions.

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Rosemary Dunn Moeller Competing Absences Some days I miss my daughter’s dogs more than I miss my daughter. I believe they miss me, maybe more than my daughter misses her mother. It’s probable. I can talk to her on the phone but the pups (two eighty-pound chow-German shepherd-rottweiler mixes) don’t respond to my voice. I send them postcards.

The cards are randomly selected from a pile of travel souvenirs never mailed to anyone. I take two (one for each, Memphis and Dakota) and rub them on my pants legs when I come in from the barn. They love the pigs and chickens on the farm, at a distance, always. Work boots fresh from chores and grain dusted are easily at hand. Cards get stamped and addressed and sent out from our rural mailbox to Chicago.

When my daughter gets them, she tapes them on the wall above their food dishes in their second-floor apartment. It’s warm and cozy in there. Memphis and Dakota sniff and lick the cards until they’re mangled messes that go into the trash.

I send more because the dogs miss the farm and it makes me happy. They’re happy in Chicago as well, especially Memphis, where the back yard and nearby parks are lovely. He decides who comes into the apartment and who doesn’t.

When the refrigerator went on the blink, and a repairman came, he wasn’t admitted. Our daughter apologized for the trouble but said, “If my dog won’t let you in, you’re not coming in. I’ll get someone else.”

At the park, which they drove to one day, Memphis took off through the car door before my daughter could attach his leash. She ran after him, noticing the police cars on the perpendicular street, and heard the yelling. Memphis headed for a nearby hedge and let out a chow howl that got everyone’s attention. A twoyear-old toddler had wandered off and taken a nap under a big bush. Memphis woke the child with his chow howl, having figured out the situation and what he needed to do before the car door was fully opened. The mom was grateful and Memphis was pleased.

On a street walk around the neighborhood one day, Memphis and Dakota decided my daughter didn’t go the right way and didn’t move fast enough. In spite of being well-trained, they forcefully dragged her four blocks at full trot to an alley where a line of garages were all there was, doors closed. They clawed at one until my daughter heard a quiet elderly voice saying “Help Me.” She called the police who came right away, opened the garage door and got the seventy-nineyear-old woman out from under her car where she’d fallen and gotten stuck. The pups walked home, very well behaved after lots of pats and rubs from the police.

These are Chicago dogs, but they’ll always be farm dogs as well.

When I visit, I’m licked for joy for the smells I bring along, a rough tongue licking, wet noses, and gentle pawing (from their viewpoint). My arms have fur babies to cuddle, and my daughter. !

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Bob Moore Frankie I was driving one warm autumn day on a highway between two mountains, forest on either side with occasional bursts of sunshine, road twisting and turning, when I heard the news over the radio, which I seldom turn on. “Frankie Messenger has died,” said the newscaster. The radio segued into the song Frankie was best known for, Soul in a Mine, which knit with his upbringing here. Growing up in Wheeling, I had identified with Frankie, though thank God I’d never been pointed towards a mine when needing money. Dad managed a hotel and Mom was smart with money and I’d gone to college.

I’m looking forward to Medicare soon, so you know that was a long time ago, and my promising youth of good math grades and a fearful inclination to poetry had spun out. I had no career in mind, even by my junior year when the college expected evidence of some choices. My folks were disappointed when I dropped out, my father a little mollified when I took a job in the hotel he managed. He had a small office behind the front desk, ledgers and a typewriter, even when computers were commonplace. He didn’t trust them. Dad was lean and prematurely gray, and always wore a suit. After a night drinking beer to celebrate my quitting college, with other ne’er-do-wells, I stood in his office after making my announcement. “Didn’t spend all that money on tuition to make you the night bookkeeper,” he grumped, but he and Mom were also happy to have me at home, and no more tuition bills frittered away on poetry. Dad spoke vaguely of me inheriting his job.

Frankie Messenger’s first album, ‘Skylight’ came out shortly after I started at the hotel. He somehow fused country with metal, odd in the early eighties. His lyrics were forgettable but he screamed a lyric well and his guitar was both poetic and slashing. I would blast his music, as best I could off an old radio in Dad’s office, while working the graveyard shift. I tried writing some songs and picked up a guitar and learned enough to get by, so long as I was the only audience.

Frankie and I, it turns out, were only a year apart, though somehow he always seemed a generation older. I lived vicariously through him, though the folks hereabouts disavowed him early on, a rocker, born God knew how in good country soil. Meanwhile I remained wonderfully directionless; I dated but all the girls moved on. Dad had the fatal heart attack early in life and I became the manager while still dreaming of somehow going to California, or New York, though I had no clear vision of myself there. I lived mostly through movies and music.

I bought all of Frankie’s albums, even the regrettable Broadway show tunes cover. They were gathering dust in a closet the day I heard of his death, and so you know I went home and dusted off the turntable and put on his first one, his best. I was forty-two years older than the first time I’d heard it, and his keening about going down into the earth, well, I’d only done that once, on a field trip. So !

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then I had the idea—I would become Frankie Messenger, and I’d start by going down into a mine.

“You’re fuckin’ nuts, y’know that?” said Bert Chapman, an old classmate of mine who was now a supervisor at Shaft 15, a coal mining operation half an hour away. He took my call with a volley of happy profanities. “Damn, I thought you were fuckin’ dead! Hey, I’d sit and have a beer with you and we can talk about this, but you, you’ve been sittin’ behind a desk, managin’ a ho-tel. I send you down in a mine I’d best have a pine box ready for your trip up.” Bert once was a great football center, squat and sturdy, qualities also good for descending into a mine. He was chewing a cigar, I knew, and sat behind a desk of his own, piled with paperwork. “How’d this idea even get in your damn head?”

The last thing I could answer with was the truth. “It’s part of my blood,” I claimed.

He laughed loudly. “No blood I know. Your dad wasn’t a miner. And your mom’s a Welker, right? City folks. You turning into a tourist?”

This was news to me. “Do tourists go into the mines?”

He hawked up something. “We get some requests. We charge ‘em a fortune, mostly insurance. Would that suit you?” he had the thought. “Wanna be a tourist for a day?”

“Is it really going into a mine? Would I be swinging a hammer at the rock face?”

He burst out laughing. “First you come down here and prove to me you can even swing a hammer.” He tapped some keys. “What’s your email address? I’ll send you some info. You want to follow through, you call me back. The tours we do are once a week, Thursday, and you have to be here at seven in the morning.

Don’t wear your Sunday best.”

I responded, and I felt the excitement build all week.

As most living souls know, mines are dark, noisy, claustrophobic cracks in the earth where man is not meant to be. As the days passed, my enthusiasm faded against my own common sense, but I showed up just past dawn at the mine entrance. Three others, two women from Chicago and an old guy with a big gut, were already in jackets, denim, hard hats perched on their heads. Bert whizzed through paperwork with me, pointed to a jacket on a hook. Addressing the others, “soon as our late friend here dresses, we can begin the descent.” He chuckled dryly, then handed out masks.

We went down in two crawlers, the lowest slung jeep you ever rode in, and passed two teams of working miners, keeping as much distance as we could. The air at times was foggy with dust, and I coughed in spite of the mask filter. It’s hard to even describe the trip to the face, without employing terms like darkness and hell. For a long ten minutes I watched a team chipping away at the rock face, one with a very noisy pneumatic tool, breaking off chunks that his partner loaded on a conveyor, all in a space no more than thirty inches high. We’d been promised !

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half an hour but came up after fifteen minutes because they were preparing a blast. None of us complained. “Ain’t enough insurance in the world to cover that,” joked Bert up top, and I thought of Frankie Messenger singing of this place.

That song, I could now say, could never have been written by anyone actually in a mine. Perhaps by someone looking at a picture of a mine.

Back up top, I thanked Bert and drove home with a cd of Frankie’s hits playing. ‘Coal Mine’ came up again. Some of his lyrics, ignored for years, picked at me. ‘Little bird singing’ and ‘I look at your picture’ struck me as ludicrous; missing was any reference to the noise, the dust, and the gallon of water we each sweat.

“Frankie, it saddens me to finally realize, but you were a fake.” As I drove from the mine, down a wooded country road, I ejected the Cd and frisbeed it into the woods.

And by the time I was home I regretted it, and bought another copy. My vicarious life was mine to live, however fantastical it was.

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Cecil Morris An Offering, A Prayer I could be spring for you, could be the first day of unabashed sun spilled like accident of spin and whirl, a sudden brightness seeping into soil, a green breath of new leaves unfurled from yesterday’s buds, from winter’s chill and rain. I could be the fresh warmth you have been longing to feel kiss the palest skin you are willing to bare.

I could be renewal, could be red splash of azalea flowers, salmon flush in dawn sky, giddy convocation of finches, wrens, and sparrows for you.

Please, let me be the new start you need, the rose bushes’ offering of buds about to open. Let me be the ray, that shining vector that arrows always ahead and lights the way to your joy.

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Cecil Morris Her Mother Visits, Not Ghost Exactly Her mother, gone more years than she can count on her appendages, still speaks to her.

She underlines failures with flatline lips, a looking away that says you could have if you tried, if you did like I showed you, if you put your mind and back into it.

She thinks she has passed her to her children so she will never die. She will live on, look of disappointment inherited, a family legacy, our own Lady Macbeth to scrub us toward eternity.

Gone but not forgotten or forgiven, that’s the truth. Vexation she can’t escape because she keeps her mother inside herself, in her liver, a place of darkest red, her heaviest organ, chamberless slab, rusted anchor weight attached to the past.

Well, she thinks, seeing how one of her looks has spoiled her own daughters’ satisfaction, Larkin was right, our parents fuck us up but we lend them a hand, help them do it, and then we helped them fuck up our own kids.

Why don’t we learn anything from the past?

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Ben Murigu Man in My Shed There sits a man in our shed His grey hair uncombed His baggy clothes rugged His knuckles bloodied.

They claim he is mad Has been since he was a lad Who watched his father hanged And his dear mother maimed.

By a pale-skinned intruder confounded Irked, amazed, and oh-so-perplexed By a group crafty, dreadlocked That had his new Chief slaughtered.

But the man I’ve watched On rainy nights fed Though weird and reserved Is not at all bad, or mad.

He’s a good man haunted A darkened mind now besotted A kind soul somewhat trapped Forcibly yoked in a yesterday marred.

A kind heart oaked in a past poisoned By memories sorrowful and sad That keep his vision forever blurred And make him forever mad.

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Ben Murigu As Far as They Go Their opinions spoken by their eyes sometimes and by their lips all the time are as loud as they’re misleading.

They know why my fence remains untrimmed three at last count and why my Dalmatians refuse to bark at cars.

Worry ceaselessly about my health waning with each day’s passing this cough dry that rings hollow, loud across the entire court.

They’re acutely aware of my inability gross and utterly-disconcerting to keep my sexagenarian husband sated my bloody dogs warm my bony, veiny self-fed.

They pray daily for my recovery as they wine and dine wish me well in their dreams and debate my prognosis from a safe, far-off distance.

But that I’m afraid is as far as they go: Willing not daring Talking not doing hoping not helping.

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John Muro Advent Early spring and for a week or more the sky has been fleeced with coastal fog and faint drips of rain, and it seems as if all the world has been bereft of light and left to languish, but today an urgent dawn is filling the space between the hills and I’m wanting to buy the promise that all will, at last, be made whole again beneath a sky of damsel-fly blue and a procession of pink that most resembles a dense field of wild heather that, together, buckle the knees and stagger the heart, staining every aptly named cloud—cirrus and stratus and such—that extend across the far horizon like an archipelago while an orphan moon steals away, pale and pitted, which is but another way of saying that, in this world, nothing truly keeps, including this brief moment of excruciating splendor when steps slow and a sudden trembling spreads across the chest— though we try our mortal best to hold onto those very things that will ultimately come to haunt, bruise and abandon us.

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John Muro Morning: Piazza di Spagna - Dedicated to Amy Clampitt I suppose him in Rome, a body ruptured and wild with grief, on a day that gives rise to adoration and makes us thankful for life and forgetful of our fall, wanting to capture the beauty and promise of this world and take in a morning sky of pearblossom pink and vellum blue and the melodic chorus of birds clearing slumber from their throats from somewhere beyond the prattle of the piazza’s fountain and forgive me for wondering if he, in such moments of pearled stillness, could see how this city appears both a portal to the past and the afterlife and has seamlessly fused itself to one and the other or even if he, in wakeful anguish, might have considered the grandeur of clouds such as these, sulfur-struck and illuminated from within, hung high above the paired towers like an opulent baptistery placed so much closer to God and so very different than the small, cheerless room that still holds pieces of his life where, specter-thin and sick for home, he wished what remained of himself out of his body and the sad majesty of his final days consumed with the distance between this life’s high requiem and the louder silence he feared might follow.

(Note: Homage to John Keats)

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John Muro Windward Day’s drifting away from its mooring, sails bloated by a gentle gust pushing it from behind, leaving in its wake the shoreline’s spectacle of ghostly shells, marine metals and the lunar stillness of the harbor as it pursues the channel’s aquatic light where a nomadic wind lifts the waves up and out of themselves promising easeful passage into the brightening air where they can, perhaps, see more closely how an early morning sky arcs away from—then bends back towards—itself and the terrible quiet of distant swells, glistening like fresh bundles of hay spread across a rutted field, while white-winged gulls wheel above me, assessing the precise distance of the tide’s tinsel flare from shore and I stand motionless as thoughts slow, and I immerse myself in the sudden upswell of scents weighted with salt, tomorrow’s rain and the sweet decay dislodged from somewhere beyond the periphery of the marsh, slowly retreating then curling back to remind me how the world can strike the heart then just as quickly fall away while time moves on without us and how this day’s exquisite undoing will, piece by piece, fall to memory but will never be ours to live again.

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Caitlin O’Halloran The Milk There are some moments that come to mind so many times, these sticky memories I can’t let myself forget.

I have no idea why I keep thinking of the gallon of milk we found in my Great Nana’s fridge the day that we buried her.

She hadn’t lived in that house for many months.

All her furniture was gone, moved to the nursing home where she spent her last days.

I remember the marks on the carpet from the heavy television that still had knobs and the shadows of dust left behind from the figurines she collected that used to live on her shelves and on her kitchen counter.

The milk somehow still looked good, but since no one knew how it got there, we poured it down the drain and ran water until the white turned clear.

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Caitlin O’Halloran School Picture Day My mother would brush my hair until my scalp stung, then tie the top half with an elastic band.

Every year was marked with a new outfit, a black long-sleeved polo, denim overalls with a pink baby tee, an olive-green cardigan over a cream-colored shirt.

When it came time, we lined up along the hallway, each waiting our turn.

Lights flashed above our classmates’ heads in time with the staccato sounds of the camera shutter, its rhythm broken only by the brief pause as the next kid shuffled over to the wooden stool.

We always sat in front of a patterned backdrop, some years a swirl of blues and purples, others dotted colors of blue and gray, and every year I tried to lift the corners of my lips to create a smile that seemed natural with a slight sliver of teeth.

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George Oliver High Press There’s all this talk about playing with a high press or a low block these days, his Dad would say. When his Dad was a kid, football was much a simpler game.

Jacob’s Dad died three years ago today. Jacob doesn’t know how long a commemorative afternoon on the exact date will last—with five adult children travelling in from four counties; with their Mum barely holding it together but digging out a new, old VHS tape of memories; with the compromise of shared, externalised grief.

Jacob doesn’t know how long he will be able to stomach the stares by easier pasts from dusty photo frames. He wonders if the clutches of loss—its tight grip and malign snarl—will relent. He reminds himself that things can only get easier, so he looks forward to utopian days with lower heart rates and fewer depressive magnetic pulls.

When I was a kid, football was a much simpler game, his Dad would say, waxing lyrical about muddy quagmires on slopes so devoid of green grass that there was no alternative to playing old-fashioned, direct, route one football.

Jacob, his three brothers, and his one sister had inherited a passion for football and/or a proclivity for playing it, at varying levels of competition and with different frequencies. It was entirely their Dad’s fault. Their Mum had always preferred rugby: a diluted interest passed down from her own Dad. Regardless, on the anniversary of her husband’s death their Mum is always responsible for steering the conversation in the direction of football. The patchwork of this connective thread is never at risk of unravelling, unlike others.

We played on muddy quagmires on slopes so devoid of green grass that there was no alternative to playing old-fashioned, direct, route one football, his Dad would say, relishing the purity of the sport as he knew it, ever resistant to change and progress in all walks of life but particularly wound up by the increasingly complex mechanics of modern football, which had become full of what he called nonsense position-based tactics like inverted full-backs and needless technology like VAR. Four years ago, their Dad was still here. Three, he suddenly wasn’t. Two and one, they sat in the room they are in now, the seconds passing like shots to the kneecaps, each silent space between conversation a conviction without trial.

Gloating, the silver birch tree dominating their parents’ garden lets the wind dance with its leaves. Free of moral codes, its actions not checked against expectations of decency and kindness, judged by and hurting no-one, the silver birch !

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consumes a ray of sunlight and refracts it, smiling the sun at Jacob through his Mum’s window.

His Dad’s armchair used to face this window. A rolled-up £1 broadsheet would rest on the coffee table next to it, beside a mug holding a conspicuous double measure of Laphroaig whiskey. Remembering his Dad, a coldness travels through Jacob’s body. Looking at the silver birch, Jacob smiles back.

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Anne Pinkerton Borrowed Angels The entire store can’t be much bigger than twenty square feet. Three of the walls are covered floor to ceiling with narrow wooden shelves holding CDs, neatly lined up or stacked atop each other with spines facing out, like books. On and among them, squeezed into every nook and cranny, are photos, knickknacks, and flyers.

An old vinyl Polydor record hangs behind the counter, suspended by a nail through its center hole where the spindle would have held it on a player. Handwritten notes, band stickers, and Irish symbols are stuck to the few places the pale yellow-painted walls can peek through. Though it is jumbled—and perhaps crowded—it is not exactly what I would call messy. Everything here seems to have its place, and its meaning.

The sales counter is tiny and compact, positioned in the corner against one wall and part of the plate glass window that makes up the front of the shop. The window looks out onto a walkway that leads to the patio of a legendary pub called Dick Mack’s and a great smelling bakery. Except you can’t really look out because most of the window is also outfitted with shelves packed with hundreds more CDs and musical paraphernalia, facing outward in a sort of haphazard display. A woman is perched on a stool behind the counter. Her fluffy light red hair looks soft, and a kerchief is tied jauntily around her neck.

Nearby, I spot a clipping from the Irish Independent, dated March 2014—the year before—with the headline “Beautiful Day as Bono has a Dingle Mingle.”

Beside it is a full-color photo of the door of the very Dingle Record Shop I’m standing in with the front man of U2, Guinness pint in hand, leaning casually, even familiarly, against this friendly-looking woman who I have now determined to be the proprietor. On a wooden placard tucked into the stacks directly across from her, where I imagine she stares all day, these words are etched: “Be kind to strangers lest they be angels in disguise.”

“Are you Mazz?” I ask.

In a deep brogue, eyebrow raised, she answers with another question, “Who’s askin’?”

I’ve come by to see Mazz here at “the smallest record shop in Ireland” at the request of my friend Matt back home in the States who met her on his previous trip to Dingle. When he learned I’d be visiting this jewel of a town on the coast of Ireland, he asked me to stop in and pass along his best.

I notice her pale blue eyes are almost crossed—or one is wandering. I try to figure out which eye to look at while speaking to her without seeming rude.

We get to chatting, and I realize they met seven years prior, so I’m a little surprised she remembers him so well. He used to run a record store too, but I’m still impressed with her enthusiastic recall, what with entertaining some of the

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most famous rock stars in history among mere mortals like us. And I am touched that my association with Matt seems to have made us automatic friends as well.

Matt had also recommended I visit the pub in town called O’Flaherty’s for live music. He hadn’t told me, and I don’t put it together until we’re mid-conversation that Mazz is both an O’Flaherty and a musician who plays trad songs. She’ll be playing there that night, and I promise to pop in.

She pulls me in conspiratorially close and tells me she doesn’t see well, that she won’t recognize me. I promise that when I see her, I’ll remind her that I’m friends with Matt.

I can’t foresee then that I will be up past one a.m. with Mazz that night, leaning on the bar at O’Flaherty’s after she finishes playing her last set. We talk about her life in Dingle, my life back home, music and Ireland, laughing over multiple pints.

“Are you Irish?” she asks me.

“Well, technically, no,” I say, though the truth is more than technical. “But ever since I first visited Ireland for the first time five years ago, I’ve felt that deep down, I really am. Or I should have been. I wish I was. I love it here so much.”

She inquires further, “What’s your heritage?”

I sheepishly admit, “I’m a mutt—a bit German, English, and Scottish.”

“Oooh, German and English? That doesn’t seem right.” Mazz wrinkles her nose disapprovingly. She cracks me up. “But Scottish, that’s close and pretty good.”

I am regularly embarrassed by things out of my control, like my ethnic background, and am thankful for my Texan gran who told me we were “Scotch,” as that quality seems like a real face-saver right now.

Mazz and I get sillier and seem to like each other even better as the evening— and the beers—wear on. I start patting her arm familiarly and we look into each other’s eyes—or I look at her eyes and I think she looks into mine. At a late, buzzed hour, she decides that I can become “an honorary Irish” with the help of her “borrowed angels,” a term she uses throughout the evening and that I accept without question; Mazz seems to have a kind of divine connection I can’t quite explain, and I am honored she deems me worthy of adoption by her country. She says I simply need an Irish name.

I turn to my friend Danielle and tap her shoulder, interrupting her talking with someone else. “If I were Irish Catholic and getting confirmed—God forbid,” I shout above the din of the bar, “what should my name be?”

“Siobhán,” she replies instantaneously, as if she were anticipating this bizarre question, and turns right back to her conversation. I love this about her, my traveling companion who happens to be both Irish and Catholic.

I tell Mazz about my other names, and she declares to all who can hear that I am now officially “Anne Alece Siobhán Pinkerton.” It’s as though I’ve been rebaptized.

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I ask Danielle to take a picture of us to document my “christening” and my new Irish mother—or angel. As we pose leaning close toward each other, elbows propped on the bar and our cheeks in our hands, Mazz looks directly at me and meows. It seems only right that I should meow back. We are not drunk enough to be doing this but we continue to laugh and talk to each other like cats until we have a picture we like.

Before I leave town, Danielle and I walk to the shop again to say goodbye and pick up a note for Matt, which she says she wants me to take back to him.

“He doesn’t know about my eyes. I wasn’t like this when I met him,” she tells me. “Will you tell him?”

“Of course,” I answer. “If that’s what you want?” Not knowing exactly what this will mean to him, or what it means to her.

She says, “I have to use all my senses now.”

“Right,” I say, as if I really understand.

Mazz puts a flyer for the store in my hand, on the back of which she has written a sweet note for Matt in crooked handwriting with gratuitous quantities of Xs and Os. I tuck it into my purse and tell her I want to buy her record.

I pick up one with a photo of her and her brother on the cover, and despite whatever she can or can’t see, she’s clear about what I’m holding. She shouts, “Not that one! You want The Borrowed Angels.” She hands me this collection on which she sings all of the songs.

I press a ten euro note into her hand, and she immediately forces it back into mine. I try to take advantage of her impaired vision and tuck it under a notepad on the counter, but she can hear me. Despite my insistence, she refuses to let me pay. She opens the jewel box of the CD, grabs a pen and writes something on the sleeve inside for me. I give her a big hug, feel her soft hair against my cheek, have Danielle snap one more picture, and tell her, sadly, we have to go.

I open the CD once I’m home, eager to read her note, only to realize that Mazz couldn’t see whether the pen she used was making a visible mark inside. It didn’t. But there is a trace impression, indented into the cardstock. I can feel the imprint with my fingers, like braille. I can make out what I need to: “XXX,” three kisses.

Having to rely on our other senses, I feel fully seen. And when I’m back next time, seven or ten of fifteen years from now, I know Mazz will remember me.

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Ann Marie Potter The Shadow of the Flag My father was named after my mother’s brother Arlo, dead at eighteen in the Argonne Forest. I have a picture of his casket, draped with ten pounds of woven flag.

We’ve been a red, white, and blue family for a long time.

I have a picture of my father, military man and diplomat walking across a tarmac somewhere in Asia. The Philippines or Taiwan, maybe Da Nang. Oriental soil branded with fluttering stripes and stars. The American Flag casts a long shadow.

These days, my picture of myself, my world, is dividing in ways I never thought possible: cracking along the midriff, popping, boiling, freezing, breaking. Fissures too deep and dangerous for an old half-blind horse to navigate.

Those who had peopled the trust part of my brain: soldiers with knife fingered salutes, buzz cut boyscouts waving flags on the fourth of July, bring something closer to shame than pride.

It’s all coming apart, you see. The red from the white from the blue. Three great piles on the ground, like plastic slats from summer beach chairs. Stretched to breaking, cracking in the sun, smelling like soldiers too long in the mud.

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Diana Raab Neonatal Love Yesterday when you asked me as your date to your senior prom, I thought the joker in you wanted to warm my heart, but moments later realized the sincerity of your invite.

You said you’d rather have your mom because years down the road the girl in the photo will be but a blur of some passing fling or fleeting bird, but you’d never forget the loving eyes of your mother.

Your request dazzled me, and the school principal leaving a wordy man with blank verse and short-skirted secretaries ballooned with envy and me wondering how I could have birthed the confident loving man that you’ve become.

This evening, you strolled into my closet and from the same rack where your baby clothes hung you pulled down the chosen dress, walked me to the mirror to describe the hairstyle for me all in celebration of you.

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hormone-raged teens after arriving in the car you drove, my corsage neatly pinned upon my lapel with the finesse of a man who’s lived numerous lives, and something tells me you have, as wise men like you are but charms planted, rarely in a life time and bless miracles on our earth.

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Marzia Rahman Trapped in a Dream He often wakes up, sweating; often, a sobbing woman shatters his sleep. Sometimes, there is a man too, hurling abuse. Sometimes, there is a little boy, crouched under a table, holding a red truck. Trying very hard not to look outside, not to hear a word, but the howling always reaches him.

When the sun peeks through the window, and little specks of dust dance in the sunbeams, he stares at them. And later, when sunlight floods the room, he goes outside and looks for his friend, John. John is a very smart fellow who always says the funniest things, that makes him laugh so hard that his stomach hurts.

He finds John sitting under a banyan tree in the small backyard garden. They climb up the tree. Sitting on a branch, they munch nuts and talk about weather and world affairs. John says that he wants to make friends with Dalai Lama. He nods earnestly, though he cannot remember who this Dalai Lama is or what he does. Dalai Lama must be a poet, he thinks in his mind.

It’s Sunday. It’s sunny. And there is a slight breeze. Overall, it’s a fine day.

And both of them agree to that, smiling, when a man in blue uniform comes and ask them to climb down. They, of course, do not follow his orders, and keep dangling their feet, talking loudly. The man brings a long bamboo with an iron hook in its head. They come down reluctantly. John slaps the man on his back, and they ran inside, giggling.

In mid-noon, he feels a bit drowsy and sits in the big hall room, listening to an old woman playing piano. She plays so beautifully that it brings tears into his eyes. He wanted to sit near her and listen to her all day. But he feels very sleepy and goes to his room. He lies down and counts cracks on the walls, imagining nameless faces and features.

A young woman in a white dress enters his ward and gives him pills. She has a very nice smile. He smiles too. He tells her about John and the woman says there is no one called John here. He sits up and glares at her. The pills will calm you, she says and leaves hurriedly.

He wanted to tell her that he is calm. He has always been calm. He can remember only one or two occasions when he lost his cool, but it was not his fault.

The man with grey beard, wearing long white robe talked too much and it irked him. John was bored too. It was actually John’s idea, but he wanted to show John how brave he was. So, he threw a knife at the bearded man, cutting his forehead.

Blood dripped down his face, and he looked profound. Almost poetic.

Afterward, they dragged him down the hall and locked him in a small room.

It was there he learned how to conjure faces on the roof, features on the walls.

Sometimes the figures crawl down the wall and sit beside him, and they engage in long philosophical talks.

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Sometimes he imagines he is elsewhere, in a white-walled cottage with a fence and a small garden. And there is a swing in the garden. And a red truck in the wet grass. And a woman pruning yellow roses. John is there too. He wants to imagine a little more, but he cannot keep his eyes open. He drifts off to a deep slumber until the wailing starts. And the shouts, and the child presses his ears. And he peeks under the table and gives the boy his hand, but the boy never looks up, never comes out. And he suddenly feels no matter what he does he’ll always be there—trapped in a dream.

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Russell Rowland Wind On Squam Lake In windbreaker trees we can stand upright; at shoreline we lean forward.

With both hands you hold your hat in place; hatless, my hair is a weathervane.

Birch behind, old Shakers, are not ashamed to bow and to bend.

Whitecaps flee the wars, rumors of wars, of oncoming panzer gusts.

Like refugees they swim toward the safe harbor of this broad beach on which we watch, legs braced well apart.

One by one they collapse on the verge and expire— it cost the very lives of them to get this far.

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Russell Rowland Font of Mercy The young family came forward.

Pastor baptized their little girl at the font of mercy, in the presence of us saints.

The little girl was hugging a doll tight in her arms, and in the back-and-forth with holy water, the doll’s head came off.

Reddening at his clumsiness, Pastor almost cried aloud: “Depart from me, for I am a sinful man, O Lord!”

The little girl’s mother adroitly and firmly screwed the head back on. “It happens all the time,” she assured Pastor.

This took place one Sunday at the font of mercy—in the presence of us saints, all with our own secrets.

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Ivan Salazar The Dawn of a New Era In the dawn of this new era, where possibilities bloom, We stand on the threshold, dispelling the gloom.

With hope in our hearts and vision in our eyes, In the dawn of a new era, we reach for the skies.

Oh, the promise of tomorrow, a canvas so vast, Each brushstroke of kindness will create a contrast.

With the colors of courage and the hues of our dreams, In the dawn of a new era, sunlight brightly gleams.

For we are the pioneers, the architects of change, In the landscape of progress, we’re destined to range.

With every step forward, we embrace what’s in store, In the dawn of a new era, possibilities soar.

Let’s gather our voices, let them rise like the tide, In the symphony of hope, we’ll stand side by side.

With harmonies of justice and melodies of peace, In the dawn of a new era, our unity will increase.

With every act of compassion, we’ll build bridges of trust, In the heart of our mission, we’ll uplift the unjust.

For the strength of togetherness will guide us each day, In the dawn of a new era, we’ll find our own way.

As we nurture our planet, our home we revere, We’ll cultivate a future where all can draw near.

With every tree planted and every heart healed, In the dawn of a new era, love will be revealed.

Oh, the laughter of children, a beacon of light, In their dreams lies the promise of futures so bright.

With their eyes full of wonder, they’ll show us the way, In the dawn of a new era, we’ll seize every day.

For we are the guardians of the dreams yet to flow, In the vision of tomorrow, we’ll help each other grow.

With every heart open, and every hand reached, In the dawn of a new era, we’ll rise as we teach. !

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Let’s celebrate our differences, the beauty they bring, In the mosaic of cultures, we’ll find common spring.

With every shared story, a new thread will weave, In the dawn of a new era, we’ll learn to believe.

As the sun rises higher, illuminating our quest, We’ll embrace this adventure, feeling truly blessed.

With every step taken, may our purpose be clear, In the dawn of a new era, we’ll conquer our fear.

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Barbara Santucci The Coolness of a Pebble on Your Cheek What if kindness felt like the tenderness of raspberries in the palm of your hand, delicate and sweet, their lush red orbs of brightness, ready to be tasted. Or the fresh scent of new grass, wet with morning dew, soft between your toes as the wind wraps you in a warm cloak, or the sounds of a child singing the alphabet for the first time, or kindness towards oneself in the cold light of morning as you look in the mirror and greet what the years have pressed on your face. What if kindness is watching the sun rise like a yellow daffodil just for you, so it can lighten your day and warm you, then witnessing its glow as it slips away beckoning you to rest in the stillness of the night. Maybe kindness is what keeps us from screaming at the harshness of the world and encourages ripples of grace.

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Barbara Santucci Sitting by a River at the End of Summer A family of geese glide back and forth, a pleasing profile, father in front, mother in back protecting their young in the middle, the couple on the bench next to mine chat about their dinner tonight, flowers to weed, lawn to mow, effortless joy. A jogger whisks by, short shorts, tank top, tan legs, I admire those legs. Weeping willow roots like to get their feet wet, their wispy ground-sweeping branches are a falling canopy shading a fisherman. A great blue heron stands motionless in the shallows, then hovers over the water stretching out his long neck, diving deep for his lunch. Dandelion puffs float in the wind like little Tinkerbells. Wild bergamot and black-eyed Susans wave across the river, rooted to the ground, kissed by the sun, no desire to be anything but themselves.

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Barbara Santucci Spring Mornings The last snow thaws as it trickles down the hill towards the pond. Delicate white snowdrops peek from the soil, teasing the eye, promising spring. Tiny slivers of ice melt in the warm air waking the slumbering earth. A robin sings from a budding river birch tree as she flits from branch to branch gathering twigs for her nest. Early swallows do a circle dance over the ripples in the water. Before long, their nests made of mud and grass will appear under our porch beams. Walking down to the pond, lovely soft moss grows in the damp soil, a carpet under my feet. Rain starts slow, droplets create dimples in the pond and little kisses in my hair, setting free the earthy smells of spring. Spring, like the delicate smell of my newborn daughter in my arms, her dimples like raindrops on water, her hair like tiny tuffs of moss. I have prepared her nest with feathers and violets and snowdrops of love.

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Terry Sanville Shadows The heat attacks Jackson, the air heavy on his chest, making it difficult to breathe, to suck oxygen from that moist miasma of gases. A headache pounds. He rubs his graying temples and opens his eyes, slowly, fearing what might await him.

Dense teak trees, their trunks scarred by shrapnel from past firefights, surround him. He sits with his back to one of their trunks, his body almost hidden by the undergrowth of ferns, vines and creepers. Clouds of buzzing insects blur the air. Songs of yellow gibbons and colorful birds echo throughout the jungle while a nearby stream offers a background chorus. Jackson knows exactly where he is, has been there many times. It never ends well.

Sucking in a deep breath, he pushes himself up, clutches his M16 and breathes slowly, listening. His heart thunders. He scans the trees upslope from his position. Filtered sunlight breaks through their canopy and catches the outline of a conical-shaped straw hat worn by a beautiful baby-san. Binh stands perfectly still, her flawless face smiling.

She raises a hand and waves, and then moves toward him. From behind her, great clouds of smoke blow through the trees, engulfing her. She turns, tears streaking her perfect pale cheeks, and disappears into it. The screams of women, children and old men overpower the jungle sounds along with rapid small arms fire and the thump of mortars.

“Wait, Binh, stop!” Jackson shouts and stumbles forward, every movement painful. He trips on a tree root and goes down hard. Struggling up he turns slowly in a circle. All directions look the same. The sounds of human anguish come from everywhere, the jungle a beautiful tangle of anarchy. He moves blindly through it. The smoke thickens. Choking, he drops to the ground and buries his face in his hands, old hands with bent fingers and brown spots. The air fills with a nauseating sweet smell of something roasting. The light and sounds slowly fade and a soft black silence envelops him. Then light.

“Are you back with us?” Dr. Lily asks and places her hand on Jackson’s shoulder.

She holds a pair of sunglasses and noise-canceling ear muffs that she’s removed from his head.

“Back?”

“Do you know where you are?”

“I think so … in your office at the clinic, right? Still a bit out of it. Did you give me the medicine?”

“Yes, 25 milligrams of psilocybin. It’s powerful. You were gone for almost 10 hours.”

Jackson shakes his head. “Really? It didn’t seem that long.”

“Well, you were definitely in a different space.” !

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“I think I still am, at least part way. So … so now what?” Jackson asks and sits up.

“Now we talk.”

“About what?”

“About why you’re here and what we hope to achieve by administering such a powerful psychedelic.”

Jackson’s face reddens. “What do you mean, why I’m here? Christ, I’ve taken just about every damn medication for my depression. Had electro-shock therapy up the wazoo. And Zippo! I feel lucky just to get into this trial.”

“You’ve felt depressed ever since you came back from Vietnam, right?”

“Yes, yes, so many years ago. I tried to work through it, focus on my job, my family. But now I’m old and retired. It takes me down and I can’t climb back up.”

“Tell me what you saw today.”

Jackson sighs and lies back on the exam table. “I was back in the Central Highlands, in the jungle among the trees. It was … it was actually quite beautiful there.”

“So what happened?”

“I … I saw my Vietnamese girlfriend, Binh.”

“You’ve mentioned her once before.”

“Yes … yes. I was only 19 and she was so sweet, said she loved me. We’d meet in the jungle. It was so strange ... in all that tangle of craziness, we fell in love. We were discreet. Nobody knew about us.”

“I know you’ve told me this story before. Can you add anything more to it?”

Dr. Lily leans back in her chair, holds the tiny recorder in her lap and fingers her long black hair.

“Well, not much. It was after … after our unit destroyed her village and Binh was killed that I ... I fell off a mental cliff and bottomed out. It got so bad that I couldn’t get up for reveille. They shipped my ass to Japan for a psych evaluation.

The Army shrinks said I was showing symptoms of psychosis. I eventually received a medical discharge.”

“I know your history. But let’s go back to the jungle. You’ve been there before in your dreams.”

“Yes, often.”

“Did anything seem different this time?”

Jackson thinks for a moment. “Only little things … the images seemed clearer … I was more … more aware … and the jungle more beautiful.”

“What else?”

“Seeing Binh … hurt more. I know, I know, it’s been almost sixty years and I’ve been happily married for forty. Why can’t I shake it?”

“Was she your first love?” Dr. Lily tilts her head and smiles. For a moment Jackson thinks she looks like Binh.

“Yes, I suppose she was.”

“How close were you to where she died?” !

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“Close. Real close. I … I was one of the soldiers that lit the fire … I didn’t know … I didn’t know.”

Dr. Lily stays quiet.

Jackson sits up and rocks back and forth at the edge of the exam table. He squeezes his eyes shut. “I … I didn’t know.”

Behind his closed eyelids a flash of orange causes him to jump. Under enemy fire, a platoon of soldiers advances on the village at the edge of the jungle, the air already thick with smoke. Flames burst through the thatched roofs of simple houses, their wooden walls ablaze.

“Screams, oh so many screams. The Lieutenant thought they were VC, or at least feeding the enemy. I tried to tell Sarg and the Lieutenant but they wouldn’t listen. I … I was just following orders. We moved fast, taking sniper fire from the trees. I thought Binh had escaped from her family’s hooch into the jungle.

But they must have stayed behind and …”

“But following orders wasn’t enough for you, was it?” Dr. Lily whispers.

“No … but I did it anyway.”

Dr. Lily lets the silence build. Jackson opens his eyes and wipes the tears away with a tissue that she hands him.

“So … so now what?” he asks.

“You’re going to stay here for another four hours. One of my assistants will bring you breakfast and then if you seem okay, you can go home.”

“That’s it?”

“Hardly. We’ll give you a schedule for coming back to see us every few days throughout the next month and a half … to test how well psilocybin has treated your depression.”

“Great, more testing. So what are the results from these kinds of trials so far?”

Dr. Lily sighs. “More trials are needed, longer ones with more participants.

Some trials have shown a significant reduction of depression up to a year after a single dose of psilocybin. Time will determine its long-term efficacy.”

After a huge breakfast, Jackson drives to his Portland home. The sun blazes, the sounds of ships’ horns echo in the Columbia River Gorge. As he pulls into his driveway, his wife, Sophia, rises from her chair on the old Victorian’s porch and comes to greet him.

“So did you enjoy those magic mushrooms?”

Jackson grins, “They were something. Took me out for ten hours though it felt like only a few minutes. Must have gone down a deep rabbit hole.” He chuckles.

“Are you all right?”

“I feel tired. Gotta lay down for a while … but outside in the air, under the sky.”

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Sophia gives him a strange look but nods. She follows him into the backyard.

Their home perches on a hillside that overlooks the city and the river. Adjacent pines scent the warm summer air. It had been a rainy year and the weeds and tall grasses had taken over. Jackson lies on their soft chaotic tangle, in partial shade, and watches overhead clouds drift by.

Sophia kneels beside him. “You sure you’re all right?”

“I’m … I’m feeling better already. But, I’ve got something to tell you that I’ve kept to myself until today.”

Sophia smiles. “Really, after all this time you still have secrets? Tell me. I really want to know.”

Jackson sucks in a deep breath. “Okay. I … I once loved a girl named Le Thi Binh, and I think I killed her.”

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Bobbie Saunders Closure Just have to take care of “loose ends” Contact list for attorney unfinished, Wonder who writes their own obituary Sunset more profound, pink, purple, light blue Could this one be the last—

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Kathleen Serocki Ode to a Comma though I try to comprehend you, you still confuse and upend me, I’m unsure whether to use you pardon me, if, after all these years I still abuse you you dangling pork chop, little black tadpole, a sprite dancing across the pages, your perfectly arched back adds a little swagger to your step ennobled by an Oxford decree you can make me look like a scholar or make a fool of me you irk me and berserk me in a frenzy I overpunctuate and find you easier to misplace than my glasses or keys your little black shower of hail rains down upon the page a bunch of you line up like oarsmen constantly stroking your oars ever-sweeping phrases forward do keep my poems afloat my comely little comma

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John Sheirer Moving On The memory of that day so long ago is as clear now as it was then. It all began when Benny growled low and quiet at the stranger we saw standing alone on the trail ahead. The man’s broad back faced us as we approached down a steep incline into a small valley near the frozen wetlands. Benny, off leash as usual, stayed close to me as the man heard us and turned in our direction.

“Good morning,” I said as we approached, noticing how tall he was, his square shoulders at my eye level. I had to look up to see his face, loosely encircled by a down jacket hood, lined to look as old as the largest of the rough-barked trees around us.

“Beautiful day,” the man said. His voice held a hint of tremor but resonated in the chill air.

The day was and wasn’t beautiful. The morning temperature had barely reached double digits, and the sky was a dull gray that matched the duct tape on the battered hiking pole the man leaned against. A corrugated layer of tan leaves provided the broadest color variations of this snowless January day.

Benny slid into formation along my right knee, no longer growling but tensed, ready for anything, a true Border Collie.

“Great morning for a hike,” I said. Since I’d gotten Benny as a pup two years ago, I was learning that every morning could be a great morning for a hike.

The man kept his gaze on Benny, and I noticed a shine in his eyes. “Oh,” he said, pulling his big, heavily veined hand from a glove and reaching curled fingers toward Benny. Usually shy, Benny stepped forward and sniffed. The man relaxed his craggy fingers to dangle and slide gently along Benny’s furry muzzle.

“You,” the man said. “You.” Benny returned the man’s steady gaze.

“This is Benny,” I said, not sure what to say.

“Benny,” the man said, studying Benny. “A good name for a good dog.”

We stayed like that for a long moment, both of us watching Benny as he calmly accepted the man’s simple affection.

“I haven’t seen you here before,” I said. “I live across the street from the trailhead. Benny and I hike here all the time.”

The man stood and looked toward me for the first time. He replaced the glove over his bare hand. A streak of moisture on his cheek seemed on the verge of freezing. “I lived about half a mile from here,” he said, gesturing vaguely east.

“Used to bring Tulip to this trail all the time. Funny name for a Boxer, but it worked for her.”

“Tulip,” I repeated.

“She’s gone now,” the man said. “Well, gone since 1949.”

I did the math. Forty-one years. Two years before I was born.

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The man chuckled. “1949,” he said, slowly drawing out each number, and his chuckle ebbed into a stifled sob. His beard scruff was mostly salt with just a dusting of pepper, and the hair that poked from within his hood was as white as the deep snow expected tomorrow. He turned his eyes again to Benny.

“I’ve buried my parents, a brother, my wife, one child,” he said, stumbling through this devastating list like each syllable kicked him hard in the shin. “Terrible, every time, and we think we’ll never recover. But we buck up, tell ourselves death is part of life.” He looked up to meet my eyes. “But … but … one thought of Tulip here on the trail with me and I gush like a geyser.”

The tears came hard now, shaking the man’s shoulders as he slumped forward. Before I knew what I was doing, I stepped forward and pulled him into an embrace. He hooked his shaking arms around me and bent his big, hooded head to rest on my shoulder. His hiking pole dropped into the leaves with a quiet rustle.

I have no idea how long we stood like that. There was no time. Just the warmth of this stranger against me, cold everywhere but where we touched, his shuddering back beneath my hands, the fast, gulped breaths that eventually slowed and deepened.

Against my leg, I could feel Benny’s warmth as well, flowing into me. I opened my eyes to see his furry body leaning into our entwined form, his solid mass pressed into my thigh and the tall man’s knee. Benny’s gaze went straight ahead, unassuming, patient, protective, alert to the woods around us.

The man stepped back, looked me in the face and nodded, retrieved his battered hiking pole, mumbled something, and gave Benny one long, graceful stroke along his back before he strode away and was gone from sight in less than ten seconds. The only evidence that he’d been here was the fading phantom afterpressure of his embrace. That, too, disappeared as quickly as a dream upon wakening. *** For more than a decade after that encounter, Benny and I hiked that trail several thousand times. Benny always jogged ahead as we approached that small valley near the wetlands. Benny’s pace grew slower as the years passed. If I’m honest, so did mine. Over the years, we explored every twist and turn of that trail, took every fork, even blazed a few new paths of our own. But, no matter what route we took, we inevitably found the spot we shared with Tulip’s human that day so long ago.

I’m probably older now than the man I naïvely thought was as old as a human could be. Like that man, I’ve seen my share of loss—including Benny. I still dream about those moments with that man and Benny, the only dog I ever had. How could I have another? There was only one Benny. And, I’m sure, only one Tulip.

In my dreams, Benny always sniffs the air where that old man had extended his hand, waits for me to stroke his muzzle, and leans into my leg for just a moment.

And then we move on. !

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Keri Sholes Tap, Tap, Tap “The house has a history.”

That was the first thing Lisa had told me when I called to inquire about her advertised rental property. She had said history the way someone might say terminal disease. Naively, I had thought that history could mean lots of things. A history of the basement flooding or a history of spotty Wi-Fi. Lisa had quickly cut those thoughts off at the knees.

“It was once a crime scene involving some of my family. Murder-suicide.”

I was stunned, but I really shouldn’t have been. She was offering astoundingly cheap rent for a two-story house. Logically, there had to be some catches. The house was plopped out in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by abandoned farmhouses and miles of wilderness. I wasn’t worried, though. I had told myself that isolation would be a good thing, a chance to connect with nature and get away from the craziness of life. Besides, I’d be there only from August to May, just until graduation. And that rent price? Unbeatable.

I had seen enough horror films in my life to know that you should never move into a house with that kind of history, no matter how fresh of a start it promised. But those were just movies. I wasn’t superstitious, never had been. I feared the high price of campus apartments far more than any ghost.

“I’d like to take a look,” I had told Lisa. I was utterly determined to make it work. The situation was tragic and scary, but it was also deep in the past. And how could the past harm me?

I’ll admit, things were strange from day one. The doors, for instance. I was forever shutting the ones of the dusty, unoccupied bedrooms, only to turn around and find them wide open again. I had confidently told myself that it was nothing—just a drafty house and some old wood. Nothing I couldn’t handle.

But then there was the noise. Most old houses came with a guarantee of odd sounds, but this one was different. A soft tap-tap-tapping that came from the basement door at all different hours. Lisa kept that door locked tight, informing me that there was nothing down there but old family belongings. Whenever I pictured those belongings, my mind unwillingly conjured up an image of an empty cellar with bodies wrapped in white sheets.

That tapping sound slowly started to eat at me. I would stand with my ear pressed to the wood, trying to decipher what exactly it was that I was hearing. If I let my imagination run, I could picture fingers tapping gently from the other side. Tap tap tap. Ridiculous, of course. I convinced myself it was some trapped animal, maybe a bird. Something harmless. When I tried to mention it to Lisa, she hadn’t seemed interested.

“If there’s something down there, it’ll die eventually,” was all she had to say.

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One day, after hours spent listening to that infuriating tapping, I had found myself in front of the door. In a fit of frustration, I had pounded a fist angrily against the wood and shouted, “Stop that! I’m not leaving this place until May! I have an agreement with Lisa!”

I had put emphasis on her name, as if the landlady was some grand threat that I was invoking. I was trying to make myself sound more defiant, less scared.

Because I absolutely was not scared. In fact, I was starting to feel a little indignant.

Yes, there was no such thing as ghosts, but what if there were? What gave them the right to try to tap tap tap me out of a house they no longer needed? Dead people didn’t have to worry about rent, or school loans, or anything at all. They were gone. I was the one stuck here.

The silence that followed my outburst had felt heavy, almost accusatory, like I had offended whatever was on the other side. I had stood there for a second, almost anticipating a response, but of course, nothing came.

I felt like a complete idiot then, yelling at an empty door. Even worse, I felt alone, the isolation hitting me harder than ever before. But I wouldn’t leave. I couldn’t leave. I just needed to get through the year.

From there, things only got worse.

The persistent tapping had stopped, but something else began to stir, something darker. I started having nightmares, bad ones. Dreams where I was being dragged by my legs like a sack of flour down the hall and into the basement. I would wake in tears, completely drenched in sweat. Unexplained bruises began forming on my legs, ugly and black. They were oddly shaped and stretched long across my calves. Some people may have even suggested that they resembled fingers.

The rent is cheap. It’s just until you graduate. There’s no such thing as ghosts. I repeated this to myself daily, like a mantra.

I know anyone with a shred of self-preservation would have called it quits at this point. Packed up their belongings and left to deal with a lifetime of knowing there were things in this world that could not be explained. But I refused to be that person. Leaving would mean defeat and worse yet, would acknowledge that I had tangled myself into a situation that I couldn’t manage.

One morning, as I brushed my teeth, I noticed something felt especially off.

As I straightened from spitting toothpaste, I noticed him—a man looming behind me in the doorway. I gasped, assuming it was an intruder, some freak who had broken in. But as I looked again, I noticed something horrible that had my whole body seizing and turning to ice. The lower half of the man’s jaw was missing, seemingly blown clear off his face. A clearly fatal injury.

Our eyes locked in the mirror, but I couldn’t turn around and face him. If I looked at him through only the reflection, then it felt a little less real, like watching a scary movie on TV. His face was twitching strangely, like maybe he wanted to say something, but couldn’t.

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A jolt of pure panic hit me then, and my hand shot out, knocking over an open bottle of mouthwash. It toppled to the floor, the purple liquid gushing out and soaking through my socks. When I glanced frantically back to the mirror, the man had completely vanished. I stood rooted to the spot, my mind shifting wildly from denial to confusion to fear. In the total silence of the house, my ears rung with a strange, piercing shrill. After a moment of processing, I shakily grabbed a towel and knelt to mop up the mess on the floor.

“You’re just sleep-deprived,” I told myself as I worked, pretending I wasn’t biting back tears. I clung to the thought of how much money I was saving living here. How graduation was just around the corner. How ghosts weren’t real.

Down on the first floor, almost too quiet for me to hear, a sound had begun to drift up through the cold tile beneath my knees. Tap tap tap.

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SP Singh The Shawl A landslide in the pre-dawn hours a few kilometers before Leh town had blocked the highway. It forced me to halt my convoy at the Budhkharbu Transit Camp.

The troops were delighted to get some rest. After breakfast, we lazed around. The men lay on the open ground, sunbathing. With a tea mug, I sat in the chair. The Ladakh wind was dry and cold and seemed far from welcoming. The cold desert was harsh. Their hostility lay hidden under layers of fragrances. An hour in that barren place was like an eternity. I battled the frigid wind and the homesickness with hot ginger tea. And it didn’t disappoint me.

From behind the tall, jagged mountains, the sun emerged. The cold ebbed.

The shiny, black, winding road cut through the undulating brown and white lands with stretches of moonscape. Lung ta prayer flags fluttered along the trails and on the peaks. The silence there was omnipresent. It melted with the icicles on the ground. It glowed with the golden red. It glistened with the dewdrops that clung onto the eaves and the branches. It gurgled with the currents of the river. It lifted my heart and soul and made me forget my home. Ladakh has a distinct identity, history, and culture from the rest of India. Ladakh is home to Buddhists, who share their ethnicity with the Tibetans.

My gaze turned to the valley. The junipers stood out among the clumps of apricots and almonds. Out of the trees, a man emerged. He was rushing towards us. Curious, I got up from the chair and waited. Between quick gasps, he asked me if I had a doctor with me. He was a shepherd whose family lived on the village periphery, a short distance from there. His son had been unconscious since yesterday, and there was no doctor in the village. I shouted for the nursing assistant.

The Junior Commissioned Officer rushed to me and whispered that I shouldn’t go with him. It could be a trap, and the militants might be waiting for us in the hut. For a fraction of a second, I froze in terror. The cold sweat pricked at my temples. I could hardly blame him for looking at every Kashmiri with suspicion when most people in the rest of the country believed that all Kashmiri Muslims were militants. And every terrorist attack in the valley added to their belief. It was sad that they never thought the violence had caused immense suffering to the Muslims as well. I overcame my fear and listened to my heart. The man’s tears had moved me. A past incident where I’d failed to save a precious human life returned to haunt me. I didn’t want to burden my soul with guilt. I had tremendous faith in God, who wanted me to go.

I told the Junior Commissioned Officer he was unduly worried, and I didn’t think the shepherd had any connection with the militants. If we didn’t go, his son might lose his life. I asked him to follow me with armed escorts. Then I asked the shepherd to hop in the jeep, and we drove out.

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Wading through a thin, swirling mist, we reached a hut atop a hillock outside the village. I asked the soldiers to take up position outside and keep a watch. The shepherd led us in. The embers glowed in the hearth. The half-filled pots lay scattered around it. A girl with two little boys clinging to her skirt leaned against the wall. She was biting her nails. The mother got up and took a step away. Relentless crying had made her eyes bigger and redder. They had more despair than hope in them. Our presence brought a glint of hope to her face. A young, fair, handsome boy lay on the blanket on the mud floor. With his eyes shut, he was shivering and mumbling. The nursing assistant checked his vital parameters and sighed. The boy was running a fever and looked frail. He gave him the injection, antibiotics, and paracetamol. His assurance the boy would gain consciousness in a few minutes eased my tension. I decided to wait.

We came out and sat on the rocks. The shepherd brought me a plastic chair.

In the meantime, his daughter served us hot tea in the enamel mugs with locally baked biscuits. My joys knew no bounds when I heard the patient’s feeble voice, asking his mother for food and his parents’ cries of happiness. I, with the nursing assistant, rushed inside. The light broke in through the ventilator and illuminated the boy’s face. He gave us a cute smile. The mother shed tears of joy. In front of us, the father was holding back his. The nursing assistant told me the patient would walk by tomorrow. Then, he handed five days’ medicines to the mother and told her how and when to give them to the boy. She nodded, wiping her tears with her dupatta.

I shook hands with the shepherd and walked towards the jeep parked on the road below. After a few minutes, I heard a male voice urging me to stop.

The shepherd was running towards us. Catching his breath, he said that we had saved his son’s life. His wife had a gift for me. She had weaved the shawl last winter. I thanked him but refused to take the gift. I told him that God had saved his son’s life, not me. He said though Allah had saved his son’s life, I’d taken the risk of going to his house. The man was not sure if another officer would have done that. His eyes welled up, and he said if I didn’t accept his wife’s gift, it would make her sad. I couldn’t upset the boy’s mother and took the shawl. I thanked him, blessed him with a prosperous life, and turned back. He invited me for tea at his place on my return journey. I promised. We parted with a warm hug. I walked back to the jeep. The Junior Commissioned Officer with twenty armed men was waiting for me. I told them the patient was safe and asked them to mount the vehicle and return to the camp.

Almost three and a half decades later, I enjoy the warmth of that shawl every winter. After retirement, my woolens have worn out or perished during various postings crisscrossing the country. But the shawl has survived because of the pure Changluk wool and the pure love of the weaver. Over the years, it has become softer and lighter and lost some of its shine but not the warmth.

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Dominik Slusarczyk The Giraffe The giraffe laughs At the lion.

The lion cries.

The giraffe bends its Big neck and Quietly apologises.

The lion says It’s quite alright Then The lion eats the giraffe.

The giraffe continues to laugh.

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Dominik Slusarczyk Many Men They made us make Many sandwiches for Many men.

You broke the bread while I buttered up The butter.

The men will be here Soon and they will be Lambs licking lemons.

They will stare and Compliment our hair.

We will say Thank you and Fuck you and Take your damn Hands to a different field.

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Susan Winters Smith The Boardwalk Martha finally convinced her college friends to go for a walk with her on a trail near the seaside cottage they were renting at Cape Cod. A true spirit of nature, she longed to hike again those trails she had explored in her childhood; one out into a salt marsh, one up through fields by an old fort and especially the one down through the cedar swamp, but Betty and Kristen wanted to spend their days soaking up the sun out on the beach, and Alyssa chose to read fashion magazines and go on shopping sprees. She was happy that they would finally do something she liked.

So, when the air cooled a bit in the late July afternoon, reluctantly pleasing their friend and vacation hostess, they put on sneakers, slacks, and long-sleeved shirts, sprayed themselves with bug spray, and climbed into the old blue van to go walking. They started with the Cedar Swamp Trail since it would be the coolest.

Martha brought along her best camera hoping to get one unique picture, but the others were so noisy with footsteps, giggles, and chatter that they scared off every bug and bird within miles, except the horse flies. Martha was about to give up when it finally got quiet. Her friends had gone on so far ahead that she could no longer see them and barely heard their laughter.

Happy thoughts ran through Martha’s head. This is wonderful. Maybe if I’m quiet as a church mouse, some birds will come back.

She walked along slowly in the still oppressive humidity, swatting off horse flies, but hearing no further sounds of her friends. Soon the bird songs returned, and she saw beautiful dragonflies landing on the edges of the boardwalk, iridescent green and sparkling blue. She got some wonderful close-ups of them, and then a couple of purple polyanthus butterflies and a cardinal before she came to a split in the boardwalk. I didn’t see this on the map. I don’t know which way they went.

Oh, I don’t care. I’m sure either way, I will catch up to them eventually.

Martha took the path to the right and soon realized how lucky she was. The foliage got thicker and wilder, and the swamp beside the boardwalk got wetter and teemed with life. It was so beautiful, she ignored the humidity and took magnificent shots of woodpeckers, hummingbirds, and more bright butterflies. She got fantastic pictures of speckled green frogs and black and orange painted turtles in the bog and was in seventh heaven, chuckling to herself. I don’t care if I never find my way back. She cherished hearing the tinkling birdsongs, recognizing most of them, and delighted in the noises of the strident daytime summer bugs.

She walked along, enraptured, indulging her love of nature, until it dawned on her that it had been a long while, perhaps an hour, and the boardwalk hadn’t come to an end. She realized that she had no cell phone to call anyone or even to

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check the time. Oh well, it doesn’t make sense to walk hours back to the fork, and this path must come to an end soon, so I’ll just keep going. Wish I’d brought an extra bottle of water.

Martha walked along, snapping photos and reveling in the lush tropical-like plants and wildlife all around her. I don’t remember this path being so long or so much like a rainforest when I was here years ago with my parents. Wonderful memories of childhood hikes filled her mind as she followed the boardwalk around bend after bend for another half hour or more. She saw fuchsia orchid-like plants with showy flowers among the Spanish moss and red pitcher plants poked out of the bog with spotted leopard frogs hopping around them.

Daylight began to fade, and the sights and sounds of the cedar swamp were changing. Day sounds turned to the night sounds of owls and nightjars, crickets and katydids. Martha began to worry just a bit as the dusk closed in and the swamp grew dark except for the fireflies and the flashes of swamp gas drawing her vision into the dark depths of the cedar trees. Oh really, Will-o-the wisps here on the Cape? Well, that’s something to tell about.

Exhausted from heat and thirst after what seemed like many hours of walking, Martha decided to lie down on the boardwalk to rest for just a few minutes.

A cool breeze brushed her face, and cricket songs made her sleepy. She dozed but soon awakened.

Wanting to find her way back to the cottage, she got a second wind and nearly floated along the boardwalk, now with moonlight adding an eerie but intriguing glow to her path. She began to see Swallowtail butterflies Princps nireus, with blue, fluorescent patches giving them a look of tiny ballerinas dancing in the dark. She spotted a glowing ball of light near the edge of the walkway and reached down to pick it up. The light ball broke apart in her right hand, and the glowing glow worm beetle larvae crawled all over it, changing colors like a kaleidoscope. She marveled at the sight and snapped a picture with her left hand. Looking all around her in the swamp, Martha saw white and yellow flowers that glowed in the moonlight in the twining vines all around and phosphorescent fungi glowing on the trunks of fallen trees. Looking down into the water again, she saw silver-sided fish flashing and swimming in circles. Martha stared at the fish and began to feel sleepy again.

She dozed off until the sound of thunder woke her, and she saw lightning flickering in the distance as rain began to fall heavily. A bit frightened, she saw balls of light leaping toward her, but they weren’t swamp gas. They were flashlights. Then she heard people walking on the boards and calling her name.

“I’m over here! Help me!” she called out.

“Martha!” Kristen yelled. “You had us so worried. Here, get under my umbrella.”

“Where have you been all afternoon?” demanded Betty. “We’ve been looking everywhere.” She introduced a man who was with them. This is Officer Michaels from the National Park Service. He has had search parties out in all the areas around the cedar swamp.” !

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“You sure gave us a scare,” the handsome man in a green uniform said, as he helped her up and winked at her.

Martha spoke up, “I’ve been on this crazy long boardwalk. I took the wrong turn after the fork. I didn’t know which way you guys went.”

Officer Michaels raised his eyebrows as he handed Martha a bottle of water.

“What fork?” asked Alyssa. “There was no fork. We went all the way back to find you and then went back to the other end again. There’s only one pathway.

You went back and then went somewhere else, mad because we left you?”

“No, I was glad you left me alone in here,” said Martha. “It has been spectacular. Wait until you see my photos. You’ll be amazed! I got shots of glowing flowers and lighted butterflies and birds. Even sparkling fishes. These should be famous.”

Officer Michaels insisted that the girls follow him back to the Nature Center, where he got on the phone to announce that Martha had been found. “You best get this girl home and get fluids into her. She may have passed out from dehydration.” He handed her a bottle of Poland Springs, and she drank it down instantly.

Kristen drove them back to the cottage and warmed up pizza for all of them.

Betty made milkshakes from ice cream they had in the freezer, and Alyssa opened a bag of chips.

Martha wasn’t hungry, so she hurried to review her photos on the camera and yelled, “Oh no, I don’t believe this! I didn’t get any photos at all! I must have had it on the wrong setting. It was supposed to be automatic. I can’t believe it.”

Betty went over to her. “Let me see. Maybe you just filed them inside. Oh, my goodness, you’re right. There’s nothing here. How sad for you, Martha.”

Martha shed some tears and then turned away. “I’m exhausted, and I’m going to bed. Thanks for coming back for me. Talk tomorrow.”

The three friends looked at each other and shook their heads.

“Do you think she really saw what she says?” Kristen asked. Alyssa shrugged her shoulders, looking concerned.

Exhausted, Martha went to the bedroom she shared with Betty and fell asleep immediately on her bunk. But just as she dozed off, a flashing orange butterfly landed on her pillow.

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Matthew J. Spireng Setting Out I waved as if I knew them and they waved back from the pier and I thought but I don’t know them. Still, they waved and I waved, and I felt a smile on my face, the rise of my cheeks and the corners of my lips curled up, however slightly, because it seemed, though I was setting out on a boat, I had made friends on the pier.

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Geo. Staley Memory is Fluid The b&w yearbook photo from a semi-formal dance long ago.

He is suited and taller, has a glazed look in his eyes.

She wears a wrist corsage, is pointing her finger up at him.

The caption: “And another thing ...”

The 6 month relationship soon waned as do most high school romances.

55 years later, she in Arizona divorced, remarried, widowed he in Oregon widowed.

They talk often and every now and again the photo comes up.

Both like it, marvel at their youth their still being around.

One of them always wonders, silently, What could have been?

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Margaret D. Stetz Dupuytren’s: A Haiku Sequence first one digit—bent, a puzzle then a nuisance like a twig, broken soon others close up hard as winter icicles crooked rows of bones no driving, writing, a fist curled, a ball of joints, knots never untied claws rake the bedsheets no way to reach for comfort as cancer takes him the open coffin my father’s hands—now fractured to fold, rest in prayer

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Steve Straight The Tree Does Not Yet Realize it is dead.

Blown halfway over by a winter blizzard, its top now forked into another tall oak, its connection to the ground is tenuous at best, just a few roots still connected to the Earth, the rest spread wide in the air like Medusa’s hair.

Now, in April, though, leaves at the top begin to unfurl as if it’s any old spring.

Some winters ago, I dutifully watered our fresh-cut balsam fir in its stand—for weeks and weeks, until Christmas could not be seen in the rearview mirror. The tree, aroused by heat from its winter dreams, also did not realize what a pickle it was in and began to send out bright green shoots several inches long and soft to the touch.

With only water and the memory of spring, the tree decided it was still alive, and started reaching for the light.

Perhaps my fate is sealed as well and I just don’t know it yet. Perhaps a rowdy gang of cells has been bar-hopping my body, smashing bottles on the bar and then moving on, the mob growing with each new location, each new organ, as such mobs will do. The thought alone makes me want to grow my fingernails out, just because I still can, or plant a tree that will outlive me. It’s time now to absorb the light that I am given and create something—a meal for friends, a poem—before the test results come back.

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Steve Straight Study for the Madonna of the Cat - Leonardo da Vinci, circa 1478 A woman holding a child holding a cat.

The fury of scribbles around and below the figures show the cat squirms for all it’s worth, but the boy will not let go; the woman, meanwhile, maintains a face of bliss.

Botticelli called it frivolous, Leonardo recalls, but is there not a whole universe here?

A young Messiah exploring his world, one beast to another? The woman would say, if she could, that he is always like this, grasping at the cat, at the sheep, at the donkey, as if he must know them.

Angels would be far easier to paint, being still, but is not the boy’s impulse irresistible, a joyful search for meaning in creatures whose mysteries we can observe to our mind’s content?

Even now I wonder about the cat’s anatomy, its spine as limber as a snake, how the boy feels it twist in his hands like water.

But how to capture that exchange of energy through my brush and eye.

Time to turn the paper over and try again.

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Richard Stimac Consigned I use my cracked coffee cup with its broken handle, bowed wooden spoon, stained dinner plate, those home goods most of us sell for a token price, donate to Goodwill, or, at any rate, apologize for when we have a guest.

I can’t help but love things that arouse hate.

Nothing comforts like a thread-bare armrest, or thin-soled shoes, or holey underwear.

The end of things always leaves me depressed.

When life breaks into pieces, and despair spills across warped laminate kitchen floor, with pan and brush, my ritual, my prayer, I save the past’s shards and flakes. I adore the lost. Who needs a future? Who needs more?

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Allen Strous After the Fire some scattered bricks on the sidewalk looking very much like bricks, freed from the wall, from the construction, some what— more real so sure, and simple, as a brick— it is disorienting, out of place, in the place they make on the sidewalk water still rushing along the curb, bright in this bright morning, out of place black marks on what’s left of the bland stucco of the false wall, writing on the wall come out, unreadable, compelling.

The broken glass flat on the sidewalk is not bright.

In the show-window places, what were flowery spring dresses hang black-edged and soaked— what a theatre set, a set-up for this change, this joke, a custard pie through the window here is the topless, roofless department store, burned, the century-old building come back now, no more hidden, and destroyed, and in, I guess at blackened fallen bits just ruin and rearranged, arranged as now, it some arrangement, some construction, some mystery.

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M. Benjamin Thorne Non-Verbal In the beginning there was nothing but the silence sleeping in our throats, not even aware of the need for speech.

Then guttural grunts, blunt gestures at odds with the graceful flow of running meat shown on walls.

It was a soft, fleshy thing rolled on tongue-tip, cupped by palate, pushed out by lips into air: the word.

Maybe it’s the Neanderthal in me taking over at some primal root when my mouth clamps shut— ideas trapped in esophagus like lightning caught in the throttle of my muscles when you get angry.

Or perhaps its learned behavior, childhood years not talking at table, all evening the TV plugging our ears.

My parents never once fought in front of us; how could I learn to savor the peace that came after, trusting it would come if only I opened up, spat out what needed saying, that when we erupt there comes a cooling, that chasms can heal to fissures then seal smooth and seamless, fire and ash can settle into something beautiful, obsidian glass—still fragile and with sharp edges, but capable of being carved: much like thought into sound, making the words “I love you.” !

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M. Benjamin Thorne Confession Yes, I admit it: sometimes I sit to pee, lowering humble pale flesh onto cold faux porcelain.

Sometimes I’m tired of fighting gravity; others, I stare vacantly at my phone’s blue glare, and make some pretense of reading important news but instead ponder, bemused over the physics-bending improbability of Kim’s behind.

Yes, Your Honor, judge of mundane trespasses and quotidian sins, I will further cop to selfishly carving out seconds for myself in this space closed off from the world’s demands, even at the office bathroom, where my precious thoughts (punctuated by a neighbor’s flushes) can perhaps bloom into poetry.

And then wash my hands of these murdered minutes, and casually go about my day.

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Diane Webster Higher Destiny The brick wall warms itself under the morning sun with memories of kiln-fired infancy.

Drops of dew from the roof drip, drip, drip with gravity inside downspout leaks onto a vine stretching along the foundation until it grabs between mortar and brick, mortar and brick; tacks green pitons into cracks as it climbs beside the spout hand over hand, foot hold over foot hold higher, higher each chlorophyll boost of energy; pulls itself over the eave, waves triumphally in wind before it lies prone and crawls over shingles toward gable’s peak.

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Diane Webster Rope on the Dock The old mooring rope wrapped around the post imitates an aged fisherman bundled in layers of coats sitting on the dock watching boats depart.

In pre-dawn light only masts sway with ocean waves while boats navigate silhouette shadows gliding for deeper water until only the smell of sea satisfies the fisherman.

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Diane Webster Extra Firm Repose Sleeping statue never rises with bed hair sticking up.

No one hears sleeping statue snore day after night in great granite cracks bursting apart.

Sleeping statue never cringes against sunshine slicing through curtain cracks or rouses from dogs barking next door.

Sleeping statue’s pillow never fluffs into softness, and its bed is extra firm for all eternity in perpetual repose.

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Thomas White III The Victorian Woman of the Night I woke with a start. My dream had been so vivid, salacious. I dreamt I was wandering a Victorian city, late, late into the night. Marvelous and hideous stone structures lined the stone roads. Tall towers and tenement homes loomed overhead; their gables poised for a kiss above the darkened streets. I walked along this beautiful and terrible road; my path lit every so often by burning oil lanterns, seen barely through the fog. All shops and businesses were long closed, perhaps closer to opening than closing. I couldn’t but count my echoed steps, bouncing around the innumerable alleyways and side streets, echoing back to me vague suggestions of the fear of someone following behind. When through the smog of the city fumes, lit by a faint streetlamp, I saw her shadow, murky like a vision underwater.

As I approached, her silhouette painted upon the backlight in thick black ink, ran viscous and heavy across my eyes, engorging my mind with thoughts of lust and fornication, desperation and contempt. Her form danced and beckoned eagerly, motioning for my company this very instant. I could resist, only, for so long.

There in the alleyway, her face shrouded in shadows cast by that faint streetlamp, her body revealed to me as pale as pearls, shiny with light sweat and quivering. The woman guided my hands. Succumbed to her will, I followed her direction. Discretion abandoned in the alleyway.

Without heed of my surroundings, I cast off the remainder of our garments.

Regardless of possible listening ears through open windows, we embraced one another in unholy matrimony.

But after the foray, foregoing clothes, the woman wandered out into the street, under the light of the dim lamp. Her body reminiscent of Greek goddesses seemed a painting in that favorable light.

As I regained my composure, dressing myself, the woman danced under the light in the street, nakedness revealed to all. She twirled and spun elegantly to a tune I did not hear or know. Until she spun her last and our eyes locked.

Her piercing gaze met mine with daunting rage. Her eyes were hazed in red and the irises wide and black. Her face contorted in a foul grimace; she seemed more demon than delight. I shuddered in fear and gasped as she dug her nails into the flesh of her arm. I fell backward, further into the dark alleyway. Incomprehension filled my being while I watched this mad woman repeatedly slice her arms with her witch-like nails, blood beginning to pool at her feet. A voiceless cry became clutched in my throat.

After she had enough, her bloody limbs returned to their rhythmic swaying, continuing the dance, lightly humming to herself a tune I did not know. Her body shorn of her human facade, black muscle revealed to the oil lantern above her.

Dark purple blood ran down to the stone paved street, filling the cracks with regal !

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color. She danced onward, into the night, evaporating into the mist, like a nightmare in the dawn’s light …

I woke from the dream in a cold sweat and recounted its contents in my journal. Then I sought my washroom. I would not be returning to sleep this night.

I washed my face and hands. But I noticed, in the mirror upon my bathroom wall, something about my body that I could not have done myself. Nor would I have forgotten having it done to me.

I had bruises on my neck, scratches on my back, and purple stains on my torso.

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Sharon Whitehill Thank Goodness It’s Only a Myth I try to imagine the sisters as children, Procne and Philomela, absorbed in their games: dressing the family cat up in baby clothes, setting up races with their pet turtles, who constantly zigzag off course.

Unaware of the brutish young prince Procne would marry one day when he became king in faraway Thrace.

Lonely for her sister, Procne sent him to Athens to fetch her, all unaware of the lust that would lead to the rape of the girl and cause him to sever the tongue that would tell.

No more am I able to fathom such deeds than the fury that led to the sisters’ horrific revenge— Mother Kills Her Own Son, Serves Dismembered Body in Stew to His Cheating Father.

Like fodder for tabloids and lurid headlines today, human beings at their most retrogressive.

Thank goodness it’s only a myth.

Until I recall the uncomfortable truth that mythology has its source in the violent heart of our violent species.

Not only notorious names come to mind, nor the mass killers who enact genocides, but also the lethal nurse, Sunday school teacher, grocer, and clown—all who have watered the seed buried deep within each human being.

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Michael O. Zahn Afternoon at the splash pad Louder and louder, Daddy defies the smirking fiberglass whale.

“Don’t worry, Molly!

“Daddy will save you!

“Whale, don’t eat her!

“Don’t eat my Molly!”

Over and over, Daddy and Little Girl play The Rescue Game.

He shouts.

She giggles.

Louder and louder, Daddy defies the monsters he knows are waiting.

Nine people, including two children, were shot at a splash pad in Rochester Hills, Mich., on June 15, 2024.

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James K. Zimmerman Bodega Bay spy behind enemy lines, a merganser dives in secret, the scar on the water closing behind it like a razor cut black labs echo across the bay, two barks then three, two barks then three, call-and-response yesterday, the wind was a cruel master, whipwielder of stinging sand and waves that carved merciless gashes in the cowering shore today, the only ripples are afterthoughts of a trawler loping toward the marina the only storm a whisper of cars on the pock-marked road that weaves through town the only cloud the wispy plume of a stratospheric jet so I sit at the lapping shore no longer feel the need to shield windows with sheets of plywood braced in place as seagulls in saltwater glee loop in circles and figure-eights to leftovers in the receding tide

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James K. Zimmerman Cold Snap hung from a bare limb of the old sugar maple, the feeder lay fallow these past four days the snowed-in silence held me in quiet awe, but held me back, too cold, I thought sparrows and chickadees choosing a warmer place to face the bitter soul of winter today, the solitude breaks in a hint of thaw, speaks in drips and crunches though the wind still whips from eyes to feet like the sudden smack of a gunshot I go out in mocs and hood to do penance, to greet the snow the sound of breath and footfall bring the feeder in, fill its hunger with millet, black sunflower seeds and a handful of peanuts brave the shards of wind once more, hook the feeder over the maple’s waiting arm and come back to the roasting chicken fragrance of the kitchen still hushed by the chill I sit at a window rimed in lines of frost, and within a minute or two a cardinal reappears !

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brilliant against the snow like the drop of blood in the heart of Queen Anne’s lace, cracks a sunflower seed, signal to chickadees and sparrows hopeful in their overcoats they arrive in a quickening of wings, a clatter of chirps in chorus, a shiver of song

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James K. Zimmerman Trompe L’Oeil apparently I am a sparrow that sought refuge in a plate-glass window thought I saw the other side of myself there flying toward me wanted to greet him with mellifluous song or beat him with flagellating wings don’t know which it was but now I live with bruised-shut eyes, ears ringing with a sound only I can hear, feathers on my head blunted, clotted with blood sometime I may try to fly again through this labyrinth of mirrors if I can hone my eyesight illumine my vision forgive my lurking shadow

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Contributors Keigh Ahr is a phonetic spelling of the initials for Ken Rogers, a writer in Northeast Ohio. His fiction has appeared in Permafrost, CommuterLit, and Corner Bar Magazine. His journalism has appeared in Freshwater Cleveland, WISH Cleveland, and Voices from the Edge, a collection of essays by workers in front-line industries during the COVID-19 pandemic.

A graduate of Northwestern University and Loyola University of Chicago, he is now an active member of Literary Cleveland.

Elhassan Ait Elamal is a Moroccan research professor and short story writer. Mr. AlAmel is a member of the Athil Center for Scientific Studies and Social Research. He holds a PhD from Hassan II University (Casablanca) in Rhetoric and Literary Criticism. Elhassan’s collections of short stories and critical studies have gained widespread recognition and acclaim.

Essam M. Al-Jassim is a Saudi writer and translator based in Jubail, Saudi Arabia. His writings and translations have been featured in various international online and print Arabic and English-language literary journals. Essam compiled and translated the recently published anthology of flash fiction Furtive Glimpses: Flash Fiction from The Arab World.

Dee Allen is an African-Italian performance poet based in Oakland, California. Active in creative writing & Spoken Word since the early 1990s. Author of ten books: Boneyard, Unwritten Law, Stormwater, Skeletal Black, Elohi Unitsi, Rusty Gallows: Passages Against Hate, Plans, Crimson Stain, Discovery, and, coming in January 2025, The Mansion—and seventyseven anthology appearances under his figurative belt so far. He was also a previous contributor to Freshwater in 2021.

Duane Anderson currently lives in La Vista, Nebraska. He has had poems published in Fine Lines, Cholla Needles, Tipton Poetry Journal, and several other publications. He is the author of On the Corner of Walk and Don’t Walk, The Blood Drives: One Pint Down, Conquer the Mountains, and Family Portraits.

Rachel Beachy lives in Kentucky with her husband and children. Her poems have appeared in The Bluebird Word, Eunoia Review, HerWords, The RavensPerch, The Rising Phoenix Review, The Spearhead Magazine, and Steam Ticket.

Lisa Bernard is a Connecticut-based writer of award-winning essays. Since the start of this encore career five years ago, she has focused on nature and creative nonfiction, writing on equestrian and arts and cultural matters for Lakeridge Life Magazine in Litchfield County and about her up close and personal encounters with Connecticut’s black bears on her blog with an international readership, LisaBernard.WordPress.com. She is now dabbling in fiction with short stories on Medium.com and her first novel, slices of which she reads to welcoming audiences at The Westport Library’s monthly Writers’ Mic. She is proud to be a two-time CT Press Club Contest winner and a judge in the annual competitions in the agricultural journalism section.

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Brian C. Billings is a professor of English and drama at Texas A&M University-Texarkana, where he also serves as the editor-in-chief for Aquila Review. His poems have appeared in such journals as Abandoned Mine, Argestes, The Bluebird Word, Evening Street Review, Glacial Hills Review, and The Woven Tale Press. Publishers for his scripts include Eldridge Publishing and Heuer Publishing.

Cheryl Block is a retired associate teaching professor of Spanish from North Carolina State University who enjoys creative writing. Her poetry is composed in French, Spanish, and English. Some of her work has been published in Freshwater Literary Journal, Dumas de Demain, Blue Lake Review, Calliope, and Hinchas de Poesía among other journals. When not writing, she enjoys exploring trails with her husband and dog, reading, watching mysteries, travel, and spending time with family and friends.

Gaylord Brewer has been a professor at Middle Tennessee State University for three decades. The most recent of his seventeen books of poetry, fiction, criticism, and cookery is a just-published collection of brief nonfiction, Before the Storm Takes It Away (Red Hen, 2024).

Brian Builta lives in Arlington, Texas, and works at Texas Wesleyan University in Fort Worth. His work has been published in North of Oxford, Hole in the Head Review, South Florida Poetry Journal, New Ohio Review, TriQuarterly, and 2River View among others.

Jennifer Campbell is a writing professor in Buffalo, New York, and a co-editor of Earth’s Daughters. Her most recent book, What Came First (Dancing Girl Press), contains reconstituted fairytale poems. Jennifer’s work has recently appeared in Slipstream, The Healing Muse, ArLiJo, and American Journal of Nursing.

R.J. (Bob) Caron lives in Enfield, Connecticut, with his wife, two cats, and four parrots. He’s been around for seventy-four years, and he enjoys writing to combine his experiences and vivid imagination. Bob is on the Freshwater Literary Journal editorial board and has contributed several stories and poems to the journal in recent years.

Yuan Changming edits Poetry Pacific with Allen Yuan. Credits include sixteen chapbooks, twelve Pushcart nominations for poetry and two for fiction besides appearances in Best of the Best Canadian Poetry (2008-17), BestNewPoemsOnline and 2,109 other publications across fifty-one countries. Yuan began writing and publishing fiction in 2022, with his debut (hybrid) novel, Detaching, just released by Alien Buddha Press.

Benjamin J. Chase is a Connecticut native with an MFA in Poetry from Western Connecticut State University. His poems have appeared in more than a dozen literary journals over the years, and his first book of poetry, Here to See It, was published by Kelsay Books in May of 2022.

Aja Cooper (First Prize, 2025 Freshwater student writing contest) is a current student at CT State Community College who feels entirely too old to be back in school. She was once a set decorator for film and TV, but a sudden neurological disorder brought that to an end. Though she is in school to be a therapist, she has long had an interest in writing and figured now was as good a time as ever to find out if she could do it. !

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Joe Cottonwood has repaired hundreds of houses to support his writing habit in the Santa Cruz Mountains of California. His books of poetry are Son of a Poet, Foggy Dog, and Random Saints. His website is joecottonwood.com.

Stephen J. Cribari’s poetry and plays have appeared in print and on the theatrical and operatic stage in the United States and abroad. In a parallel life, he was a criminal defense attorney and law professor, his coursework and commentary ranging from evidence and criminal procedure to cultural property and the protection of art, artifacts, and cultural heritage. He resides in Minneapolis, Minnesota. His poetry has been published recently in Paterson Literary Review and Bluebird Word. The verse-novella Still Life (2020), and a collection of poems entitled Delayed en Route (2022), are published by Lothrop Street Press.

Philip Davison lives in Dublin. Among his published novels are McKenzie’s Friend (Cape), The Long Suit (Cape), and Quiet City (Liberties). He has written for radio, stage, and television. He co-wrote Learning Gravity, a BBC Storyville documentary on poet and undertaker, Thomas Lynch. His poems have appeared in various journals.

Kenneth DiMaggio is from West Hartford, Connecticut. He teaches composition part time at Central Connecticut State University. He recently had a poem published in the anthology, Of Hartford in Many Lights: Celebrating Hartford’s Buildings. He is an avid hockey fan (his fave team, The New Jersey Devils) and his patron saint is St. Joan of Arc. Joanne Durham is the author of To Drink from a Wider Bowl, winner of the Sinclair Poetry Prize (Evening Street Press 2022), and the chapbook, On Shifting Shoals (Kelsay Books 2023). She is a three-time Pushcart nominee (including by this journal), with poems appearing in Poetry South, Poetry East, NC Literary Review, Freshwater, The Wonder of Small Things anthology, and many other journals and anthologies. She lives on the North Carolina coast, with the ocean as her backyard and muse. Visit her at https://www.joannedurham.com.

Ava Gagliardi (Third Prize, 2025 Freshwater student writing contest) is just a girl with a need to make her stories known, a need to be understood—to be truly seen for who she is. Armed with a computer, an open document, and her memories in tow, she hopes that, word by word, people will come to discover the truths her soul lays bare.

Emilea Gartrell is an independently licensed psychotherapist and certified end of life doula specializing in pediatric and adult oncology, grief and bereavement, and geriatrics.

She enjoys writing as an outlet with previous poetry publications in Freshwater Literary Journal including “The Ritual” (2014) and “Grief’s Humble Abode” (2023).

Roland Goity lives in Issaquah, Washington, where the summers are spectacular and the winters are made for writing. Recent stories of his appear or are forthcoming in Cirque, Landlocked Magazine, Louisiana Literature, Bending Genres, and Barzakh Magazine.

Taylor Graham is a volunteer search-and-rescue dog handler and served as El Dorado County’s inaugural Poet Laureate (2016-18). In addition to Freshwater, her poems are included in California Poetry: From the Gold Rush to the Present (Heyday Books), Villanelles (Everyman’s Library), and California Fire & Water: A Climate Crisis Anthology. Her book Windows !

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of Time and Place: Poems of El Dorado County (Cold River Press) contains poems written during her tenure as Poet Laureate. Her latest is Walking the Bones (Hot Pepper Press). Her current project is a young rescue German Shepherd-Husky born in the wild.

Ray Greenblatt is an editor for the Schuylkill Valley Journal and teaches a “Joy of Poetry” course at Temple University-OLLI. He has also written book reviews for the Dylan Thomas Society, John Updike Society, and Joseph Conrad Today. His most recent book of poetry is From an Old Hotel on the Irish Coast (Parnilis Media, 2023).

John Grey is an Australian poet and U.S. resident, recently published in New World Writing, North Dakota Quarterly, and Lost Pilots. Latest books, Between Two Fires, Covert, and Memory Outside The Head are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in California Quarterly, Birmingham Arts Journal, La Presa, and Shot Glass Journal.

Until 2003, David M. Harris had never lived more than fifty miles from New York City.

Since then, he has moved to Tennessee, acquired a daughter and a classic MG, and gotten serious about poetry. His work has appeared in Pirene’s Fountain (and in First Water, the Best of Pirene’s Fountain anthology), Gargoyle, The Labletter, The Pedestal, and other places.

His first collection of poetry, The Review Mirror, was published by Unsolicited Press in 2013. He is on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/david.m.harris1.

Ruth Holzer is the author of eight chapbooks, most recently Home and Away (dancing girl press) and Living in Laconia (Gyroscope Press). Her poems have appeared in Blue Unicorn, Journal of New Jersey Poets, POEM, Southern Poetry Review, and previously in Freshwater. A multiple Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee, among her awards are the Edgar Allan Poe Memorial Prize and the Tanka Splendor Award.

Paul Ilechko is a British American poet and occasional songwriter who lives with his partner in Lambertville, New Jersey. His work has appeared in many journals, including The Bennington Review, The Night Heron Barks, Atlanta Review, Permafrost, and Pirene’s Fountain.

His first book is scheduled for 2025 publication by Gnashing Teeth Publishing.

Rebecca Klassen is co-editor of The Phare and is a Best of the Net 2025 nominee. She has won the London Independent Story Prize and was shortlisted for this year’s Alpine Fellowship and Laurie Lee Prize. Her stories have featured in The Brussels Review, Mslexia, Shooter, Riggwelter, The Wild Word, and been performed at numerous literature festivals, and on BBC radio. She resides in Gloucestershire, England at the bottom of the cheese-rolling hill.

Raylen Ladner is a Mississippi State Graduate where she majored in Broadcast Journalism. She will be working as a news reporter/producer for WLOX. She is very passionate about writing and telling stories. “All That’s Left” is dedicated to her best friend, Savannah Davis.

Lana La Framboise is an author, poet, and professional dancer with an MFA from San Jose State University. She has a diverse background in communications, marketing, and teaching. Lana balances her passions for storytelling, education, and dance with hikes, random projects, and quality time with her dog. !

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E.P. Lande was born in Montreal, but has lived most of his life in the south of France and Vermont, where he now lives with his partner, writing and caring for more than 100 animals, many of which are rescues. Previously, he taught at l’Université d’Ottawa where he served as Vice-Dean of his faculty, and he has owned and managed country inns and free-standing restaurants. Since submitting less than two years ago, more than 65 of his stories have been accepted by publications in countries on five continents.

Richard LeDue (he/him) lives in Norway House, Manitoba, Canada. He has been published both online and in print. He is the author of ten books of poetry. His latest book, Sometimes, It Isn’t Much, was released from Alien Buddha Press in February 2024.

Rachel Linton (she/her) is a playwright, poet, and law student at the University of Chicago. Her poems have previously appeared in Emerge Literary Journal, Strange Horizons, The Deeps, and The Sunlight Press, among others. Her work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. You can learn more about her work at rachellinton.com.

Leah Lopez is a CT State college student who has been writing creatively since she could hold a pencil. She dabbles mainly in fiction and is passionate about creating and telling dramatic stories. Leah hopes to continue improving her writing skills and publishing more of her work. She views writing as an endlessly enjoyable outlet for her creativity.

Richard Luftig is a former professor of educational psychology and special education at Miami University in Ohio and now resides in California. His poems have appeared in numerous literary journals in the United States and internationally in Canada, Australia, Europe, and Asia. Two of his poems recently appeared in Realms of the Mothers: The First Decade of Dos Madres Press. His latest full-length book of poems is available from Unsolicited Press.

Emilia Macri is a CT State student from Redding, Connecticut. She is pursuing her degree in English, and hopes to become an author. Emilia specializes in horror writing, with a particular love for authors like Lovecraft, Poe, and Stoker. She enjoys literary fiction, ancient classics, and pieces that depict the human experience in fantastical and haunting ways, striving to capture that in her own work.

Ava Majersky (Second Prize, 2025 Freshwater student writing contest) is a sophomore currently enrolled at CT State Community College—Housatonic. She is pursuing a degree in English Studies. Before enrolling at Housatonic, she was a student at Masuk High School in Monroe, Connecticut, and graduated in 2023. She’s always enjoyed reading and writing and has the ultimate goal of becoming a published author. She spends her free time writing and playing with her dog.

Lance Manion is the author of twelve collections of flash fiction, the most recent of which, The Forest of Stone, was published in January. His stories have appeared in 60+ publications and have been included in over a dozen anthologies. He has been posting daily stories on his website since 2012.

Ken Meisel is a poet and psychotherapist from the Detroit area. He is a 2012 Kresge Arts Literary Fellow, Pushcart Prize nominee, best of the net nominee, winner of the !

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Liakoura Prize, and the author of nine poetry collections. His new book, The Light Most Glad of All, was published in 2023 by Kelsay Press. It was reviewed by Tipton Poetry Journal and Trampoline Magazine. He has work in Crab Creek Review, Concho River Review, San Pedro River Review, Panapoly, Sheila-Na-Gig and The MacGuffin.

Susan Miller is an editor/reporter for USA Today newspaper who enjoys writing poetry as a hobby. Her poetry has appeared in Gemini Magazine, From Under the Bridges of America, Common Ground Review, Months to Years, Sandy Paws, Written in Arlington, Whimsical Poet, Dillydoun Review, Goats Milk Magazine, Bluebird Word, and The RavensPerch.

Rosemary Dunn Moeller is author of Long Term Mates Migrate Great Distances and has had poems published by Young Ravens Literary Journal, Scurfpea Anthology, Navigating Narratives, Freshwater, The Alembic, Encore, Aurorean and many others.She draws from her years living on the farm, teaching and traveling. She writes to connect with others through images and ideas.

Bob Moore is a semi-retired librarian by day, writer and community theatre performer by night. He has published The Stone House Diaries, historical fiction set in his hometown of Niagara Falls. He has published several short stories in print and online journals. He currently lives in Clarence, New York, with his wife, Stephanie, and they both keep thinking of Florida.

Cecil Morris, a Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee, has poems appearing in The Ekphrastic Review, Hole in the Head Review, Lascaux Review, New Verse News, Rust + Moth, Sugar House Review, and elsewhere. His debut poetry collection, At Work in the Garden of Possibilities, will come out from Main Street Rag in 2025.

Ben Murigu is a versatile creative from Nairobi-Kenya who, while teaching high school English, has produced a mental-health-themed short film, Let It Go, authored an urban fiction novel, Toy Soldiers, and most recently published works in Culture Cult Press, Worldrunner Chapbook, World of Myth, Flash in a Flash, Tell-Tale Inkings, Words Empire Magazine, Steel Jackdaw, Magique Publishing, Masticadores Taiwan, Mystery Publishers, Positively Up, Cease & Caesura, Otherwise Engaged Journal, Literary Cocktail Magazine, Worthing Flash, Bright Flash Literary Review, Coachella Review, Lit eZine, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Fairy Charter, 50 Give or Take, Dear Booze, and Yours2Read.

A resident of Connecticut, John Muro has authored two volumes of poems—In the Lilac Hour and Pastoral Suite—in 2020 and 2022, respectively. A third volume, A Bountiful Silence, is scheduled for release by year-end 2024. Since the publication of his first book, John has been nominated three times for the Pushcart Prize, as well as the Best of the Net Award, and, in 2023, he received a Grantchester Award. John’s work has appeared in numerous literary journals and anthologies, including Acumen, Barnstorm, Connecticut River, Freshwater, Sky Island and the Valparaiso Review. Instagram: @johntmuro.

Caitlin O’Halloran is a biracial Filipino-American writer living in Rochester, New York.

She has a Bachelor of Arts from Boston University in philosophy and history. Her poetry has been published in literary magazines, including One Art, BarBar, Apricity Magazine, and Remington Review. www.caitlinohalloran.com !

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George Oliver is a writer and researcher based in London, UK. He has a PhD in contemporary transatlantic literature and is the author of Hybrid Novels: Post-postmodernism, Sincerity, and Race at the Turn of the 21st Century (Routledge, forthcoming). His short stories have recently appeared or are forthcoming in The Brussels Review, The Interpreter’s House, Libre, and Sybil Journal, and he was shortlisted for Ouen Press’ 2019 Short Story Competition.

Anne Pinkerton served as the 2025 Freshwater student writing contest judge. She is the author of the memoir, Were You Close? A Sister’s Quest to Know the Brother She Lost (Vine Leaves Press, 2023). Her essays have appeared in the Boston Globe, Modern Loss, Hippocampus Magazine, “Beautiful Things” at RiverTeeth Journal, and other publications. She holds an MFA in creative nonfiction from Bay Path University.

Ann Marie Potter recently graduated from a PhD program in fiction at Oklahoma State University while enjoying her first year in the beautiful state of Wyoming. Her poetry has been published in The Storyteller, Thirteen Myna Birds, and Velvet Antler.

Diana Raab, MFA, PhD, is a memoirist, poet, speaker, and award-winning author of fourteen books of poetry and nonfiction. Her writings have been published and anthologized worldwide. Her latest book is Hummingbird: Messages From My Ancestors. (Modern History Press, January 2024). She writes for Psychology Today, The Wisdom Daily, and Thrive Global and is a guest writer for many others. Visit her at dianaraab.com.

Marzia Rahman is a fiction writer and translator. Author of two books, Dot and Other Flashes and The Aftermath. Her flashes and translations have been widely published in both print and online journals and anthologies. Two of her novellas-in-flashes, Life on the Edges and If Dreams had Wings and Houses were Built on Clouds, were longlisted in the Bath Novellain-Flash Award Competition respectively in 2018 and 2022. She has received a nomination for Best Microfiction 2023. Her translated work, The Aftermath, won her PanjereeBTF Translation Award in 2023. She has recently co-edited an international flash fiction anthology, Flashlights.

Seven-time Pushcart Prize nominee Russell Rowland writes from New Hampshire’s Lakes Region, where he has judged high-school Poetry Out Loud competitions. His work appears in Except for Love: New England Poets Inspired by Donald Hall (Encircle Publications), and Covid Spring, Vol. 2 (Hobblebush Books). His latest poetry book, Magnificat, is available from Encircle Publications.

Ivan Salazar is the author of the bilingual poetry collection, Temporal Echoes / Ecos En El Tiempo. More of his work can be found at facebook.com/My.Poetry.Hideout.

Barbara Santucci is a literary and visual artist from the Midwest who loves taking nature walks. She explores the themes of nature, family, and self-reflection. Her poetry has been published in several journals, most currently in Plants and Poetry Journal, Bluebird Word Journal, Writing in a Woman’s Voice, Macrame Journal, as well as other journals. Barbara has an MFA in Writing for Children and Young Adults and has published three award-winning picture books. You can learn more about Barbara at barbarasantucci.com.

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Terry Sanville lives in San Luis Obispo, California with his artist-poet wife (his in-house editor) and two plump cats (his in-house critics). He writes full time, producing short stories, essays, and novels. His stories have been accepted more than 550 times by journals, magazines, and anthologies including The American Writers Review,Bryant Literary Review, and Shenandoah. He was nominated four times for Pushcart Prizes and once for inclusion in Best of the Net anthology. Terry is a retired urban planner and an accomplished jazz and blues guitarist—who once played with a symphony orchestra backing up jazz legend George Shearing.

Born in Cincinnati, Bobbie Saunders is a graduate of Emory University, B.A. in Psychology, and Rocky Mountain College of Art & Design, B.F.A. in Painting & Drawing. Her interests include running, baseball, swimming, and playing with dogs. Her poems have appeared in Haight Ashbury Literary Journal, Talking River Review, Westward Quarterly, Contemporary Verse 2, and others. Illusions is her collection of poems.

Kathleen Serocki lives on the Connecticut shoreline with her husband and two rescue cats. Her poems have appeared in such journals as The Heartland Review, Writers’ Bloc, Mused BellaOnline and Magnapoets, among others. She is a recipient of the Connecticut Poetry Society’s Al Savard Poetry Prize.

John Sheirer (pronounced “shyer”—he/him/his) is in his thirty-third year of teaching at CT State—Asnuntuck. His recent books include Stumbling Through Adulthood: Linked Stories (2021 New England Book Festival Award Winner); For Now: One Hundred 100-Word Stories (2023 New England Book Festival Award Runner-Up); and First-Person American: Personal Essays About Our Nation’s Public Issues (2024 New England Book Festival Award Winner).

Find him at JohnSheirer.com.

Keri Sholes lives in Storrs, Connecticut, and is a third-year student at CT State Community College. She is currently studying to become a librarian and enjoys reading as much as possible in her spare time. This piece is her first publication, and she looks forward to continuing her writing journey.

SP Singh, an army veteran, is a novelist, short story writer and painter. His debut novel, Parrot Under the Pine Tree, was shortlisted for the Best Fiction Award at the Gurgaon Literary Festival and nominated at the Valley of Words Literary Festival in 2018. He is also the author of two published collections of short stories. His story, “Palak Dil,” won the South Asian Award for Micro Fiction in 2019. His works have featured in many international journals and anthologies, including The Seagulls Post, Lit eZine, Phoenix, Rio Grande Poetry Festival, Embark, Compassiviste, and MacKenzie.

Dominik Slusarczyk is an artist who makes everything from music to painting. He was educated at The University of Nottingham where he got a degree in biochemistry. His poetry has been published in various literary magazines including California Quarterly and Taj Mahal Review. His poetry was nominated for Best of the Net by New Pop Lit. Susan Winters Smith, MA, was born in Massachusetts, grew up in Vermont, and now lives in Connecticut with her husband Stephen. She has been writing all of her life: while attending school, raising children, and working in the fields of Special education, freelance !

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journalism, and social work. Susan is a member of the League of Vermont Writers. She is also a member of the Abenaki Clan of the Hawk in Vermont. Her many interests include genealogy, environmentalism, spirituality, photography, and music. She has had articles and poetry published in newspapers and journals and has self-published eight books, most recently a book of short stories about growing up in Vermont. For more information, see Wintersmith Books on Facebook or Susan’s files on Amazon.

Matthew J. Spireng’s 2019 Sinclair Poetry Prize-winning book Good Work was published in 2020 by Evening Street Press. A 12-time Pushcart Prize nominee, he is the author of two other full-length poetry books, What Focus Is and Out of Body, winner of the 2004 Bluestem Poetry Award, and five chapbooks.

Geo. Staley is retired from teaching writing and literature at Portland Community College. He had also taught in New England, Appalachia, and on the Rosebud Sioux Indian Reservation. His poetry has appeared in Freshwater, Main Street Rag, Clackamas Literary Review, Naugatuck River Review, Willow Review, Trajectory, Evening Street Review, Paddock Review, Slab, Book of Matches, Slipstream, Change Seven, and others.

Margaret D. Stetz is the Mae and Robert Carter Professor of Women’s Studies at the University of Delaware, as well as a widely published poet. She is also the Poetry Editor of the John Steinbeck Review (a Pennsylvania State University Press journal).

Steve Straight’s books include Affirmation (Grayson Books, 2022), which won the 2023 William Meredith Award for Poetry, The Almanac (Curbstone/Northwestern University Press, 2012), and The Water Carrier (Curbstone, 2002). He was professor of English and director of the poetry program at Manchester Community College, in Connecticut.

Richard Stimac has published a poetry book Bricolage (Spartan Press), two poetry chapbooks, and one flash fiction chapbook. In his work, Richard explores time and memory through the landscape and humanscape of the St. Louis region.

Allen Strous is the author of Tired (The Backwaters Press). His poetry chapbook, Of This Ground, is part of the four-author collection, The Fifth Voice (Toadlily Press). His poems have appeared most recently in Trajectory and Blue Unicorn.

A Pushcart Prize nominee, M. Benjamin Thorne is an Associate Professor of Modern European History at Wingate University. Possessed of a lifelong love of history and poetry, he is interested in exploring the synergy between the two. His poems appear or are forthcoming in Feral, Neologism Poetry Journal, San Antonio Review, Thimble Lit Mag, Last Syllable Lit, and Salvation South. He lives and sometimes sleeps in Charlotte, North Carolina.

Diane Webster’s work has appeared in Old Red Kimono, North Dakota Quarterly, New English Review, Studio One, and other literary magazines. She had micro-chaps published by Origami Poetry Press in 2022, 2023, and 2024. One of Diane’s poems was nominated for Best of the Net in 2022. Her website is www.dianewebster.com

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Thomas White III is an avid outdoorsman, an undergraduate student at CT State, and a lover of all things horrifying. He spends his free time hiking, camping, and enjoying scary stories, horror movies, and every piece of media that is designed to frighten. He has two pieces published in student productions, one in Freshwater and another in Musings. He has a third piece, a short horror story, published in Möbius Blvd.

Sharon Whitehill is a retired English professor from West Michigan now living in Port Charlotte, Florida. In addition to poems in various literary magazines, her publications include two academic biographies, two memoirs, a full collection of poems, and four poetry chapbooks. Her last chapbook, This Sad and Tender Time (Kelsay Books) appeared in December 2023; Putting the Pieces Together is forthcoming from Fernwood Press in 2025.

Michael O. Zahn lives in Poinciana in Central Florida. His poem, “Volunteer Swim Coach: A Tribute” was a finalist in the 2022 Robert Frost Foundation international competition. Three of his poems appear in the winter 2024 issue of Door Is A Jar Literary Magazine. The service manager at the Kia dealership in Lake Wales, Florida, has tacked one of Zahn’s poems on his office corkboard. Born in 1947, Zahn was a reporter at the Milwaukee Journal.

A frequent Pushcart Prize nominee, James K. Zimmerman values his neurodivergence as an essential wellspring of his creative inspiration. His work appears in Chicago Quarterly Review, december, Folio, Lumina, Nimrod, Pleiades, Rattle, Reed, and many other journals and anthologies. He is author of Little Miracles (Passager Books), Family Cookout (Comstock— winner of the Jessie Bryce Niles Prize), and The Further Adventures of Zen Patriarch Dōgen (Poetry Box—Editors’ Choice). His poetry is also featured on websites such as The Poetry Foundation and American Life in Poetry.

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Continuing Notice of Non-Discrimination: CT State Community College does not discriminate on the basis of age, ancestry, color, national origin, gender identity or expression, genetic information, learning disability, marital status, intellectual disability, physical disability (including but not limited to blindness), present or past history of mental disability, prior criminal record, race, religious creed, sex (including pregnancy and sexual harassment), sexual orientation, retaliation for previously opposed discrimination or coercion, veteran status, members of the CT Civil Air Patrol, victims of domestic violence or any other federal or state protected class in its employment, programs, and activities, unless the provisions of Section 46a-80(b) or 46a-81(b) of the Connecticut General Statutes are controlling or there are bona fide occupational qualifications excluding persons in one of the above protected groups.

For information regarding the nondiscrimination, disability, and Title IX policies/procedures, contact: John-Paul Chaisson-Cardenas, Vice President for Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion, CT State Community College, 185 Main Street, New Britain, CT 06051, 860612-7056 or jp-cardenas@ct.edu.

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