by George Knott: My Love Listen by Esther Fisher: Catfish by Liew Chooi Chin: Pot. Pet. Poet. A Friend From Somewhere by Willow Kang: Twin Embers by Marjan Safiyari: The White Guest Of An Old Landlord The Queen & A Little Girl by Howie Good:
by Italo Ferrante: In Memoriam Lines for Fortune Cookies You Won’t Eat Because You’ re Allergic to Vanilla by Caitlin Smith: 3 Artworks by Irina Novikova: Dark Dreams by Kayleigh Kitt: The Knitting Rest by Paul Hostovsky: The Emperor's New Clothes Howard in Heaven Latifundia by Tanvi Bachipale: Held The Crown
My love is carved into my skin with every smile line, wrinkle round my eye, dimple in my cheek, And pale band on my finger. My love makes me happy with every genuine smile, meal shared, warm embrace, and idea shared with my mind. My love gives me strength with every kind word, encouraging glance, reassuring touch, and extra hand on my bag. My love is firmly declared with every hand held, kiss on the cheek, synchronous footstep, and whenever I pick up my pen.
Listenby George KnottListen to me.
When I whisper to you at 4 am, Telling you stories I can 't even think about In the light of day.
Listen to me.
When I pass you a note In the middle of a crowded room Because I can 't bear them hearing.
Listen to me. When I show up with fear in my eyes Otherwise looking okay Except that I keep glancing behind.
Listen to me. When I'm lying on the floor Wet with tears and sweat Unable to stop the shaking.
Listen to me.
When I can barely move And I have to scream with a glance Because I cannot move my mouth.
Listen to me. When my smile seems fake When I won't take off my jumper When it seems like I just want to hide.
Listen to me.
When they read my words for me Whilst I'm lowered into the cold embrace Of the ground.
Will you listen to me then?
Or will you scream about how life is unfair? How you couldn't have known? Saying you wish you could've helped?
George Knott (they/them), is a 22-year-old queer creator from the UK. They are studying Creative Writing at Edge Hill University, and work as a creative writer for TUGZ Magazine. George has only recently started pursuing the publication of their work, but has plans to submit more pieces soon.
“What a beautiful day,” Isa sighed looking out her bedroom window. The sun was shining in the bright blue sky, cotton puff clouds lazily crossing the sky. A few robins splashed around in the bird bath in the garden below. “Welp, that’ s enough of that.” She closed the blinds, plunging the room into darkness. “Much better.”
Isa turned on her PS5 and clapped her stylish cat headphones over her ears. The gaming system booted up, its familiar jingle coming through the headphones clearly. The home screen lit up. Ready for player one.
Isa had a plethora of games, Call of Duty, Ghosts of Tsushima, Assassin’ s Creed Valhalla, you name it she played it. “Something new, something interesting,” was what she was looking for. She needed something she could sink her fingers into for a few hours. Nothing that needed a commitment to finishing. A game that was short and sweet and could be done in two days max with little effort.
She flicked to the game store and scrolled, taking in each game title in a fraction of a second. There was nothing. Absolutely nothing that piqued her interest. She groaned, going deeper and deeper into the store. It felt taboo, like going to the second page of a Google search.
“What’ s this?” The game square was a silver colour with the word ‘TeamMaker’ in the middle. She scrolled over it for the information.
Tired of crappy teammates? Carry your team to victory every time?
Download and play TeamMaker, a play and personality-based test that will put you in touch with other gamers all over the world who will make your perfect partner or perfect team.
It wasn ’t really a game, and it wouldn’t take too long. She shrugged, it might soothe the itch. If it didn’t, she’d just try and find another game once she was done.
The download took no time at all, and in just a few minutes Isa was on the home page of this so-called personality test. The first thing it asked her to do was make a profile page, so that those she was paired with could get to know her. A wicked idea popped into Isa’ s mind. What if she used an alias for the test? Something that would throw anyone seeing her profile off, if they all started playing with mics on?
“Oh, this is going to be good.” She put in her information as Michael, 27 years old and liked playing video games, had a dog names Cheese and lived in Toronto. It was close enough to who Isa actually was but with just enough tweaks to make it believable, and for her to remember. And then there was the issue of the profile photograph. She needed a picture that would match the name Michael. She searched through her phone, looking for a picture that would match the character she invented. Blond wasn ’t right, brown eyes didn’t work in her imagination. Finally, she found the perfect man. Dark hair with just enough length to fall over his forehead and into grey eyes. Strong jaw and lopsided smile. This was Michael, gamer and the one who would completely fool her teammates into thinking she was a man. It was going to be brilliant.
She copied and pasted the photo as her profile picture. Everything was perfect. She pressed ‘okay’ and waited for the autosave to complete.
Isa’ s fingers tapped the R1 and L1 buttons as the screen swirled the colours of the rainbow. “Let’ s go, ” she grinned.
Words rippled across the screen. Welcome to TeamMaker. This personality and gaming test will take about 35 to 45 minutes. Please answer all questions as honestly as possible. If no answer reflects you, choose the closest acceptable option. Ready to begin?
Isa clicked X. Again, the screen rippled rainbow, and the first question appeared. Rank these games in order of which you play most.
A. First Person Shooters
B. Puzzlers and Party games
C. Action Adventure
D. Multiplayer Online Battle Arena
Isa thought about it for a second. She plugged in letter A first. Then option D. when it came to between Action Adventure and Puzzles and Party Games, she had to rank the Action Adventure first. What do you look for in a good teammate?
A. Observation
B. Action
C. Helpfulness
D. Communication
E. Sharing of resources
F. All of the above
She had to admit that 'all of the above' was a tempting option. But if she had to be honest, absolutely honest, communication was one of the best traits.
You had to talk if you were going to plan an ambush. And she’d died many times because no one told her that there was someone behind her.
The questions went on, some referring directly to gaming, like the first two. And other questions were as simple as what is your favourite colour? Do you prefer cats or dogs? It was a strange quiz but it entertained her for the forty-five minutes she had been promised.
The final question, pick a number, puzzled her. she chose the number 88. The screen went dark, with the universal rotating wait symbol, calculating your results. She waited. Collecting your perfect team. She was almost there. A list popped up, other profiles of people who had already completed the quiz. Congratulations, there are 723 people who were a match! From here you can construct your perfect team for any game and any situation. Good luck and have fun!
“That’ s it?” What did she expect? It did say that the game was a quiz and it would last under an hour. It left her unfulfilled. Perhaps she should have picked something else to give her the thrill of the win.
She scrolled through the profiles with the joystick. They could be organized by type of game, location, age, most played video game. She toggled the filter, setting it to people who lived in Toronto and their preferred game to Call of Duty Vanguard. The list went from 723 to 8.
The first six shown weren ’t interesting to her. In fact, she thought that she’d played against a few of them before. One she for sure knew, bb8ntgro was her friend from high school. They played together every so often. And now that she thought about it, they did tend to win campaigns when they were paired together. Maybe the game was on to something.
She hit the down arrow to see the rest of the profiles. Second from the bottom was a picture of her. She squinted, blinking, thinking that it was a trick. The image stayed where it was. It was a picture of her, from her dating profile. She’d been down by the waterfront, on a sunny summer day. Dressed in a green summer dress, her sandy hair wavy from swimming in the lake, she was posed, looking over her shoulder, smiling at the camera.
“That’ s me. Oh my god, that’ s me. Someone is catfishing as me. Me! This is too funny, what are the odds? Suddenly a message popped up, from this other her, this Eileen impersonator. “I don’t look like an Eileen.” Her nose wrinkled in distaste.
"Hey there, handsome. The message started, I see you live in Toronto, wanna get a coffee some time?"
A slow grin spread across Isa’ s lips. It was perfect, she couldn’t have planned it any better if she tried. The look on this Eileen’ s face when she found out that Isa was a woman and the woman in the profile picture would be a once in a life time opportunity. It was the opportunity of a lifetime.
She cracked her knuckles and sent a message back. "You’re a beautiful woman, how can I say no? When and where?'"
The response came swiftly, "There’s a small coffee shop at Danforth and Woodbine, would that be okay? It’s called ‘I Brew It’."
"Sounds good to me! How does tomorrow at two o ’clock sound? Isa shot back."
"It’s a date! See you then <3" Isa shivered in delight. Tomorrow was going to be an interesting day. She couldn’t wait to see the woman ’ s face.
The next morning dawned in the blink of an eye and Isa was ready to go by the time noon rolled around. She paced the length of the living room an infinite number of times. There was sure to be a rut in the fabric by the time she left for the coffee shop.
Quarter to one. “That’ s it! I can ’t take this anymore. ” She threw the strap of her purse over her shoulder and locked the door behind her. As long as she felt like she was moving, everything would be okay.
The first two busses that came roaring past she waved by. The third bus she boarded, leg bouncing as she sat there. Why was she so nervous? She was the one with the power in this situation.
The short walk to the coffee shop was nice. There was a slight breeze that took the sweltering edge off. She slightly raised her arms so that it could dry her armpits. “I’ ve got the power. ” She encouraged herself.
Arriving, she ordered herself an iced coffee and took it to the farthest table. Facing the door, she sat. She didn’t know who she was looking for, but felt like she would know when they walked through the door.
Two o ’clock came and went, and there was no sign of the catfish. She pulled out her phone and started scrolling through Instagram. Not only was she being catfished by her own picture, it looked like she’d been ghosted as well. She sighed, liking a picture of a fluffy cow.
“You must be Michael,” a deep voice said from above her.
Isa looked up, her jaw dropped. Dark hair with just enough length to fall over his forehead and into grey eyes. Strong jaw and lopsided smile. It was her own ‘profile picture’ picture looking down at her.
“You’ re the catfish!” She near shouted, catching the attention of the barista for a brief moment.
“Takes one to know one, Eileen,” he grinned offering his hand. “I’ m Austin, not Michael. Pleasure to meet you. ” “Isa, not Eileen. So, you reached out because I was using your photo?” “Yes. And I assume you ’ re here for the same reason?” Isa nodded. She fumbled with her iced coffee, “Please have a seat.” Austin took the chair across from her. “Sorry I’ m late, bus was running slow.” “It’ s fine. So why did you use my photograph?”
“If I’ m being honest, you look like my perfect imaginary woman. ” “Me too! I mean, but as, you know, a man, ” she fumbled, taking a sip of coffee.
He raised an eyebrow, “Really now?” He paused, thinking deeply for a moment, before nodding at looking into Isa’ s eyes. “Would you like to get coffee sometime?” Isa snorted, “You know, if you go up to the counter, and order some coffee,” she leaned in, and whispered “this could be a coffee date.” Austin blinked, flushing red. “Idiot, she’ s right.” He whispered under his breath. “I’ll be right back.” “I’ll be here.”
It was the most interesting accidental date she’d ever been on. Two catfishes using each other as bait. What were the odds of that?
Esther Fisher (she/her) is a graduate of York University with a BA in English and Creative Writing. In her spare time, she writes poetry when she’ s not trying to plot a novel. She has been published with Forget-Me-not Press, Poetry Undressed, Humana Obscura, Firefly Magazine, The Graveyard Zine and The Garden of Venus Zine. She lives in Toronto.
A poet stirs chicken soup in a pot; Her dog shivers in feverish heat. She is writing; It is eyeing. She finishes her book; It is slurping her soup. One day, on its headstone, she notes: My dog ate my soup and Left me alone.
John promises people that he has a high return investment plan. The promise, in turn, attracts people who want to make big money fast. After enough people put money in his plan, he will change his name, dye his hair a new color, and move to another place.
He is happy with his “job” . He often tells himself that he is not really cheating people’ s money, but he is only making them pay for their own greediness. After all, what he tells them is really too good to be true, but they believe him anyway. He does not dwell in one place for long, he cleans up his trail, and moves on.
Like any other working person, after a hard day's work, he needs to wind down too. He chats online. There, in his alter ego, he presents himself as a company director who works in an ordinary company; on weekends he volunteers in a nursing home. He puts up photos of him dancing in company parties; handing out goodies bags to old folks; pushing an old woman in a wheelchair. He makes a few friends in this other world; they even go out for drinks. With these friends, he exercises restraints; he does not tinker with the ideas of selling them any of his “investment plan” . After all, his altered ego wants to live a normal life; he craves companionship.
About three months ago, John met Amy in the chat room. They clicked instantly, and chatted everyday. In her profile, Amy was
working as a kindergarten teacher. She put many photos of her playing with children in the playground, making arts and crafts, and donning funny party dresses. She is about his age; ordinary, plain looking. But she has a pair of attentive eyes that gaze warmly at him while they are talking; her eyes seem smaller when she is thinking; her eyes grow rounder when they are talking about happy things. Soon, John dated Amy; and he fell in love with her. Amy told John that she came from Ipoh to Singapore to work as a kindergarten teacher. She was brought up by her mother alone as her father left them when she was still very young. She dreamt of earning sufficient money to buy her mother a house and let her live a comfortable life in her old age. When she talked about her childhood, her eyes grew dim and not a trace of the big, round happy eyes a moment ago. John sympathized with her pitiful childhood; maybe he could bring her happiness.
In the remotest corner of his altered ego, he yearns for love. With Amy, this dream may come true. This dream came with a price; John could be badly hurt when Amy discovered his “real job” ; or John could abandon his current trade. John thought, maybe he could lead a normal family life with Amy. The more he saw Amy, the more he was convinced that he had found his one true love. When they spoke about their future and their dreams; he could see that Amy’ eyes grew rounder and sparkled with happiness. He grew more convinced that a steady, stable family life is possible with Amy. The faint flutter of living a “normal” life was beginning to flap its wings in his heart.
He thought about quitting. He even thought about what he should be doing after he quit his current “job” . He even read up on “How to Write Resume” . His desire to quit his vice became so intense that he decided he would just clinch this one last scam. The would-be-victim was already halfway biting into his hook. He wanted to quit his trade, but he would not refuse this one last bundle of money. The would-bevictim had called to meet him to close the deal. Just as he was going out to meet the would-be-victim, his phone rang.
Amy called him from Ipoh. “I am in Ipoh now. ” Amy said. “What are you doing there? Yesterday, you were still in Singapore. ” he asked in a surprised tone. Over the phone, he could clearly hear that Amy was sobbing. “Last night, a relative told me a car knocked down my mother and she was in hospital. I was so scared for my mother that I hired a taxi to take me all the way to Ipoh to see my mother. It was past midnight, I did not want to disturb you so I did not call you. ” Her sound muffled a little as if she was wiping her teary face. “How is your mother now?” “She is dead.” They were silent for a while.
John wanted to be with Amy at this moment, but he had already planned to meet his “client” that morning. One last scam, one last bundle of money and I will be off forever. He thought to himself. “I cannot come over this moment, but I hope to support you in whatever way I can. ” John muttered to Amy, as he checked time on his watch.
“
I wished you were here.”
“
I am sorry. Anything that I can help you with?”
“
I wish to give my mother a decent funeral. But, I don’t have enough money for such an emergency. ” “I can help you with money. ” John quickened his step to the car park, “
Just tell me the sum. ” He opened his car door and went in. He checked his watch again, he must not be late for this last deal. Amy told him the sum needed for the funeral. He took out his phone, and opened the banking app to transfer the money to Amy. “It’ s done, my dear love. I will call you again after my meeting.” He started his car and drove off to meet his last client. And John has never heard from Amy again.
Chooi Chin studied Library Sciences and Computing (which she absolutely hated) at university. She now lives at a coastal city with a sneaky cat who regularly sneaks into the kitchen to steal food. Chooi Chin continues to enjoy writing. Her other hobbies include studying Japanese language, playing the piano, and trying out fantastically whacky recipes.
by Willow Kang
Twins lay in the cold earth’ s embrace, each suckling from the same primordial vein their slumber too heavy to be weighed upon scales, only paralleled by a celestial goat’ s horns one weeps a waterfall for all the forsaken stars, beheaded before they can form constellations & the other watches passively, understanding, but never quite discerning the many tricks of steel blades sifting through reptilian coats whoever sees them knows too the loudness of the humming void which drowns their heartbeats
I sow for them each, an ember cast into frosty windows
Willow is a writer from Singapore, where she is studying. Her current preoccupations include taking naps, and taking naps. While not in school, Willow reads a copious amount of fairytales and writes the same way to keep herself sane. Coffee breaks are also on her mind.
A miniature roly-poly white rabbit girl called Jenny is playing hide and seek with her brother, James in the kitchen of an old landlord. Jenny hides herself in the full milk flagon placed next to the refrigerator. This was her first such hiding spot. When James finishes counting, James starts trying to find his sister, but the thought that she might be next to the refrigerator, in the milk flagon, never crosses his mind. He looks for her everywhere except around the refrigerator. He searches high and low, inside all the cabinets, in every jam jar, and all the yummy pantries. Yet, he still cannot find her. After a few moments of head-scratching, James starts to become frightened. What if she is lost forever? Something bad must have happened to her that she disappeared, James thinks. James quickly makes a decision to return home and explain this event to his parents. When James leaves the kitchen, Jenny peeks out slowly from the calm, milky waves. Jenny’ s stomach starts rumbling, but she cannot see anything she can eat. She looks down at the milky sea around her. “I'm starving, surely no one will notice if I just take a tiny sip of milk?”Jenny murmurs to herself. Jenny peers out of the glass that covers the milk bottle. Out of the corner of her eye, Jenny sees the old landlord strolling into the kitchen. “Abort mission!”Jenny yelps silently and delves back down into the liquid. The landlord retrieves the milk flagon, and poor Jenny is involuntarily pulled along. Jenny holds on to the bottle's side for dear life, the kitchen floor suddenly seeming murderous. When the landlord turns a corner, Jenny wobbles, and splashes deeper into the milk.
In the landlord’ s room was a cup of hot coffee. When he starts pouring the milk into the coffee, the landlord hears a stifled yell from inside the bottle. It must just be me hearing things, he thinks, and ignores Jenny’ s screams. At that moment, Jenny is hanging from the mouth of the bottle, limbs flailing wildly. The landlord is shocked by this scene. He has never encountered such a tiny rabbit before. After recovering from a few stunned moments, the landlord removes Jenny from the bottle. He gently holds Jenny and assures her that he will not hurt her. Jenny is frantic at this point, but after hearing his words, she nestles in his hand. The landlord makes a beautiful and comfortable chair for Jenny. He brings out a toy cup from the corner of his bookshelf, and pours Jenny some coffee. Jenny tells him about her days of playing in the garden and racing through the burrows, while the landlord tells Jenny all about his days exploring the big cities. When the coffee pot is finally empty, the landlord tells Jenny that she is welcome to return to his house any time. Jenny skips back to the kitchen, accompanied by the landlord. James, still anxious, arrives with his parents. They are all relieved to see that Jenny was safe and sound. James hugs his sister, and the rabbit family returns home in a joyous mood.
Far from a town, crossing from the sharp small mountains, on a soft rock. A little girl was sitting there. She looks at the sky without noticing the presence of the Queen. After two minutes, she becomes aware of some teeny tiny bright blue sky beings coming toward her and all of them are crying, she asks them “Why are you weeping?, What is wrong with you all?” , then one of the blue sky beings tells her, “Our Queen is sick, she has no energy to come up to the sky, Are you able to help us?” , the little girl responds “Of course, I will help but I want to know what I should do!” . One of the beings tells her that she needs the pure energy which comes from the inner love radiating from the heart of a little human being, and hope. And now we found you. So, then a bigger being of sky takes one of her hands and flies toward the sky, goes to the depth of the sky and then flies toward the Queen’ s palace. In her room, all the sky beings have gathered around the Queen’ s bed. She doesn’t have enough energy to get up, and her face is really pale, so one of the sky beings approaches her and whispers in her ear that the little human being is here. The little girl goes next to her, closes her eyes and puts her both hands on her chest. After that a big bright energy is transferred to the Queen’ s body, and the Queen opens her eyes. She realizes that she can fly easily like before, so she takes one hand of the little girl, brings her up to the sky and thanks her for what she did sincerely. The little girl gets so delighted that she could help her very well. The shiny Queen gives her a bit of her existence as a memorable present for the moments where she feels lonely or afraid, so she can use the power of this present to fly anywhere that she likes.
The sky gives her one of its soldier souls and wants him to be her protector in all situations, so the soldier soul promises that he never leaves her alone in any situations. Then he takes her hand and flies in the sky, after that he puts her on a soft rock slowly. The little girl looks at him with her sweet smile and wants him to come to her house as she likes to share her room with him, so he flies over her to her house.
Her name is Marjan Safiyari, a published fiction author. She was born in 1989 in Shiraz, the charming city of art and literature. She has a BA degree in English Literature at Zand Institute of Higher Education. Her first book titled “Devil Shadows and Golden Lantern With Other Stories” was published in 2017 by Austin Macauley Publishers based in London. Two stories titled “Rabby & Zabrina” besides “Coralline & Her Caring Circle Clock” were published by Cordelia magazine based in Scotland. And two other stories titled “Jimmy, A Different Plumber” and “Emanuel & Emma, An Unforgettable Night” besides two artworks were published by meditatingcatzine magazine based in Singapore. Her flash fiction story titled “My Brilliant Belly Button Bubbles” and short story titled “Austin & Bella” besides six photos in her creative way were published by Contemporary Jo magazine. Her flash fiction story titled “The Best & Memorable Winter Days” besides six poems and her photo as the cover of Issue 1 were published by The Dried Review. Her two flash fiction stories titled “Good Gary” and “The Experience Of My Detective Work At Night” besides three creative photos were published by Meditating Cat Zine Magazine. Her other flash fiction titled “A Gleaming Giant Monster“ was published in Issue 1 of Creative Bastards magazine.
(1) Am I dying, or is it my birthday? Nothing soothes pain like human touch. Only those tortured by love can understand what I mean. (2) Codeine . . . bourbon. God will forgive me. It’ s his profession. (3) I believe we should adjourn this meeting to another place. The fog is rising. I’ ve got to get to the top of the hill. Oh, do not cry. You can keep the things of bronze and stone. (4) I’ ve a lot to say, not just something. Write. . . write. . . pencil. . . paper. Now comes the mystery. The paper burns, but the words fly free. &
(1) I can ’t sleep. Too dark. . . too light. I am seeing things you know nothing of. Southerly gales, squalls, lee rail under water, wet bunks. . . The whirlwind, the world whirlwind, carried me and my work away. (2) I owe much; I have nothing; the rest I leave to the poor. Yeah. Why not?
(4) Fetch my fiddle. I’ m going away tonight. I’ m going over the valley. I’ m going in search of a great perhaps. Don’t you dare ask God to help me.
(5) The orchestra is still playing bravely. What does it signify? How much longer will it last? Don’t sole the dead man ’ s shoes yet. &
(1) Twenty-seven letters! What is the use? I am not able to explain myself. Only one man understood me. And he didn’t really understand me. (2) Whose house is this? What street is this? Hello. Is there anybody in the room? Where is my clock? (3) Wait a minute. This is no time to make new enemies. It is between light and darkness, and everyone must choose a side. (4) A slight knock at the windowpane and then. . . My prisons disappear, the great of the Earth pass away. Ah, what a moment. Pull back the drapes. It is all light. I love to see the reflection of the sun on the bookcase. &
(1) More light. Open the second shutter so that more light may come in. The chariot and the horses! (2) Don’t let the awkward squad fire over me. Don’t let the children forget me. Hold me in your arms. Sing to me, if you have the heart. (3) Useless. . . useless. Do you hear the rain? My fun days are over. (4) You sons of bitches. Go on, get out. The play is finished. Curtain! Fast music! Lights! Nothing matters. The sadness will last forever. Softly, quite softly. &
(1) Time is short. Agony grows. Hope lessens. This is where the real fun starts. (2) Everything has gone wrong. The world is a bubble – trouble wherever you go. Please don’t leave me. Are we not children, all of us? (3) I haven’t told half of what I saw. The Earth is suffocating. There, do you hear that bell? Do you hear it ringing? That is my testimony.
NB: “Dying Words” was composed by remixing the last words of various historical and cultural figures, including Leonard Bernstein, Jean Cocteau, Marco Polo, Richard Halliburton, George Engel, Vincent van Gogh, Theodore Roosevelt, Heinrich Heine, Salvador Dali, James Brown, Cosmo Lang, Babe Ruth, Georg Friedrich Wilhelm Hegel, Siddhartha, Frederic Chopin, Bobby Fischer, Tallulah Bankhead, Johan Wolfgang von Goethe, Gertrude Stein, Sam Bass, Lady Nancy Astor, Voltaire, James Dean, Captain Lawrence Oates, Hart Crane, Pablo Picasso, Joseph Lucas, Martha Beck, Joan Crawford, Laurence Olivier, Thomas Edison, Anna Pavlova, Jessica Dubroff, Ethel Barrymore, Timothy Leary, Francois Rabelais, Florenz Ziegfeld, Thomas Hobbes, John Abernethy, Miguel de Cervantes, William Cowper, James M. Barrie, Rupert Brooke, and William Cullen Bryant.
(1) Women, take note. There will never be silence. Autumn is for bells –and a crow-like bird that carries an ominous egg. (2) To hell with facts. There is no truth. There is only perception. Some see a kind of concentration camp blending into its surroundings. Some – and no one knows who exactly or how many – see the face of Jesus in a slice of toast. (3) The only light streams in from artificial hells. What you see before your eyes today is being repeated across the cosmos. As you walk through room after room, it becomes clear that the worst has happened, that you can live with the worst. There is dance in the roiling turbulence.
by Howie Good
Howie Good is a poet and collagist on Cape Cod.
I, too, got straight A’ s and refused to say the c-word in playgrounds and graveyards. I, too, added the noun OREO to my crosswords because of its vowelconsonant ratio. I, too, hoarded books on breatharianism and read them like prescriptions.
I, too, Tipp-Exed the letter C from a library dictionary: caramel, carb, cake, cake eater, cakewalk. I, too, survived 22 winters without a taste of hot cocoa. I, too, felt ribs poke against the skin of somebody I couldn’t recognise. I, too, saw grey eyes, puffy gums, skeleton face. I, too, smuggled aspartame into treatment centres.
I, too, won an elocution competition but failed to articulate “help me ” properly.
Why don’t we sign off with ‘all the worst’?
Mrs Puff needs to issue a restraining order against SpongeBob.
Look at me missing you everywhere.
Patrick shouldn’t have popped the oldest living bubble.
Should I post a letter of complaint to myself?
Look at me framing the socks you wore.
My favourite episodes involve Squidward getting hurt.
Can I send you a Trojan virus via text?
Look at me looking for you in a Kinder Surprise.
You like it when Sandy shames SpongeBob for his lisp.
Will you fax me a list of my skin problems?
Look at me transcribing our chats in a fluffy notebook.
You’ re Larry the Lobster. I’ m Plankton. Squish me.
Can I become the junk in your inbox?
Look at me.
Italo Ferrante (he/him) is a queer writer who earned a BA in English Literature and Creative Writing from the University of Warwick. He is currently undertaking an MA in Creative Writing at Lancaster University. To date, his work has been selected for publication by Train River, Nymphs & Thugs, Dreich, Queer Zine, Flash Journal, Reinvention, Poetry Salzburg, Impossible Archetype, Sage Cigarettes, Cardiff Review, and Orchard Lea Press.
Caitlin is a multidisciplinary surrealist completing her master’ s degree at the University of Sunderland. Working at present as a freelance commissioner, with Cats Commissions, outside of her practice, Caitlin frequently is requested to draw portraits of humans and animals.
Working with a plethora of mediums, Smith favours relief printmaking processes & painting, acrylic being her preferred choice. At present, her practice explores the figurative narrative of the internalised femme fatale conjuring fragmented paintings and prints. She strives to eradicate the unspoken autocracy and biased attitudes implemented within both society & the Arts, alongside prioritising inclusivity, and representation. Smith visually transcribes an outrageous oeuvre displaying themes of politics, societal taboos, and conflict.
by Irina Novikova
Irina Tall (Novikova) is an artist, graphic artist, illustrator, writer. She graduated from the State Academy of Slavic Cultures with a degree in art, and also has a bachelor's degree in design.
The first personal exhibition "My soul is like a wild hawk" (2002) was held in the museum of Maxim Bagdanovich. Writes fairy tales and poems, illustrates stories. She loves mythological images. She is inspired by people, their depth and ambiguity, she loves the evening forest. Sometimes she picks up and heals injured birds. Her works were published in the magazines "Little Literary Living Room" , "Gipsopfila" and others. In 2020 she took part in Poznań Art Week.
The pattern reviewed. The knitting taken up from the knitting rest. The yarn snakes down from needles to ball, resting on the sofa. The twisted plies are pulled, releasing more yardage.
Lightning reflexes, snatching, grabbing, stabbing and slamming the yarn down.
The knitter screeches. Eyes widen. Ears flatten. A flash of tabby. The knitting rest flees the scene.
“Has she drawn blood?”
“Not this time, but there’ s a hole in my tights.”
The knitter rubs the claws’ entry point, sighing. “And now I’ ve got a ladder.”
Kayleigh Kitt lives in South Shropshire, UK with her husband and a disgracefully ageing tabby cat. She started writing in the pandemic and found that it was delightfully addictive and hasn't stopped since. She’ s had work published in Flash Fiction North and the Bangor Literary Journal.
Ahh there's melted marshmallow all over the place!! The sticky clean up will be anything but merry, yet for homemade gingerbread cookies its totally worth it!
for creating the Gingerbread Marshmallow Cat!
Sophia provides much-needed advice on designing this zine's instagram posts and website. She has drawn for the Meditating Cat Zine, a cast of unique cats. Fuelled by shibas & tea, Sophia finds solace in scribbling lil’ doodles in between the draining yet amusing life that is her school life. While most of her interests & fantasies constantly come and go, thoughts on what to draw next stays on her mind 24/7, rent free. Other than her hopes of pursuing a path in the visual arts or graphic design sector, she strives to actually fill up a full sketchbook (and fix her sleep schedule) someday. Find her on IG: @kumo.yoko.
I stole a bathmat from the Royal Copenhagen Hotel because it said Royal Copenhagen on it and how cool is that for stepping out of your shower onto every day of your life in America as a souvenir of a few dissolute days in Denmark?
I like to snuggle the rich velvety pile with my ten poor stubby toes while I’ m still dripping from the shower, where I get all my best ideas–then I feel a little like Soren Kierkegaard, and a little like King Frederick, and a little like Hans Christian Andersen stepping out of his claw-foot tub and getting a great idea, and standing there for a few timeless
dripping moments, then rushing to his writing table and spinning the yarn, still naked, in one inspired sitting, his trail of wet footprints disappearing before the ink has dried.
by Paul Hostovsky
All we needed was a dictionary and our imaginations and a few good players. One of us would look for a word the others didn’t know, like latifundia, and one at a time we ’d take turns making up definitions to rival the real one--
latifundia: a fungal infection of the inner ear latifundia: a landed estate worked by slaves latifundia: a species of salt-water marsh grass --and then we ’d vote on the best and most plausible. And the one that got the most votes won. It was very democratic. It was bullshit at its best.
Latifundia: the capital of Tanzania
Latifundia: the Latino diaspora in Pakistan and India
Latifundia: the genus of horned ungulates
that includes the gnu. And it was always a real coup whenever the invented trumped the true because that was how we knew our bullshit was some powerful voodoo.
I hear licking coming from the bathroom. It’ s my cat Howard in the shower after I have showered, the damp hanging there rich as a rain forest after a rain, so thick you could drink it which Howard is doing in delicate little sips, licking the tiles, nipping the droplets
clinging there with the quick pink arrow of his tongue, and it sounds downright delicious.
Paul Hostovsky has kept his day job all these years as a sign language interpreter working in the Boston area, just in case the poetry thing didn't work out. Which it hasn't.
The moistness in the air brings back memories which were dear how the darkness of clods thunders and roars broke the wall around me and forced me to flee how the world broke down but I kept hold of the crown there was no way back facing the problems, I couldn't lack Now...I have no fear my past misère and rage are now my courage
Tanvi Bachipale, born on 14 may 2007, is an emerging writer. She likes to write to express her thoughts and feelings about nearly everything.
