Pink Heart Mag: Issue 1

Pink Heart Magazine©

September 2023

All rights to written pieces belong to their respective owners (unless otherwise stated). No work in this issue can be reproduced without the permissions of the creator(s).

Pink Heart Magazine is not responsible for plagiarism committed by its contributors. The pieces within this issue, are to the best of Pink Heart Magazine’s knowledge, not the work of AI.

Editor-In-Chief: Liz Wride

Cover Image: Liz Wride©

Dog Photos: Liz Wride©

Other Images: Free-To-Use from Unsplash, Pixabay, Pexels.

Trigger Warnings

Works are labelled with Trigger Warnings as appropriate.

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Editor’s Q&A

Welcome to the inaugural Issue of Pink Heart Mag(azine)!

Where did ‘Pink Heart Mag’ come from? I literally just saw the emoji (I’ve been waiting for that-type-of-heartemoji FOREVER), and thought, ‘That would be a cool name for a literary magazine!

Why is this Issue called ‘Pick n Mix?’ I’d sent out some ‘pink prompts’ on social media – (aesthetics/gifs, that I wanted to act as inspiration) – but ultimately, I wanted people to submit whatever stories/poems they wanted.

What else was special about Issue 1? The sheer volume of submissions, and the eclectic mix of poetry and fiction received. People have submitted from all over the world, and I’m grateful for everyone who chose Pink Heart Mag as a home for their writing.

Anything else you’d like to mention? I hadn’t long come up with the idea of Pink Heart Mag (and was all excited and happy), when my little dog passed away, suddenly. Issue 1 of Pink Heart Mag is dedicated to her, and my other little dog, who passed away last year – they were very much loved. Hug you pet-friends tighter!

I hope you all enjoy Issue 1,

Echo – BAYVEEN O’CONNELL

The only child is playing by herself, saying everything twice, doubling her voice, making two. She is both hider and seeker. Always looking out over fields, always crouching down behind brambles. The brambles bloom with blackberries; she was taught to offer to a guest first, but there’s never anyone to share with, so she gobbles as many as she likes and lets the ruddy juice run from the corners of her mouth. She giggles and her laughter is heard by hawthorn and hazel trees, by honeybees and hares. No human ears. If she really wants company, she gathers pebbles and stands by the lake shore; choosing her stance, her perfect angle, readying her wrist to skim. Stones skip one, two, three, four. With physics , with magic, they make more selves than a mirror can. The looking -glass in her bedroom has something trapped in it, she sees it when she’s brushing her hair, or examining her irises. An echo of her face. Sometimes she shakes her reflection in the mercury, other times she tries to thrust her hand in to pull her echo out. They think she hasn’t heard the whispers: A twin said the maid. Stillborn nodded the cook.

Author Bio:

Bayveen O'Connell is an Irish writer whose fiction has appeared in Erato, Backwards Trajectory, Ekphrastic Review, Switch, Splonk, Mac Queen's Quinterly, Janus Literary, Fractured Lit, The Forge, Scrawl Place, Bending Genres, and others. Her micro fiction has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best Microfiction. She loves Sile-na-Gigs, capes, Italian holidays, and Bowie.

Louie – COLLEEN KEARNEY RICH

It wasn’t until Tad was downloading photos from the Nikon, looking for something to post on Instagram, that he realized it was over. It had been an off-season weekend getaway to Outer Banks, just the two of them and Louie. They rarely went anywhere without the boxer mix they’d rescued. In the photo, Emily is sitting on a dune holding Louie’s leash, but she’s looking off camera like she needs to be somewhere else, anywhere else. He had been so preoccupied with the camera, trying to capture the moon and the lan dscape and the dog and filling in with flash, that he hadn’t noticed her distraction. Rescuing Louie had been Emily’s idea. At the time, they were living paycheck to paycheck in tiny apartment too close to downtown, but Emily insisted she couldn’t sleep until she was sure the dog had a home. Tad told her she was sucker for brown eyes his and Louie’s, and they brought the skinny mutt home. In the photo, Emily is wearing the chambray shirt he’s had since college. She

will take the shirt and Louie when she finally goes. He doesn’t know why he keeps the photo on his laptop in rotation as one of the screensavers, but he can’t bring himself to drag it into the Trash. Yet, each time, when the photo appears, the loss is new.

Author Bio:

Colleen Kearney Rich is the author of the chapbooks Things You Won't Tell Your Therapist (Finishing Line Press, 2019) and Bunnyman Bridge (A3 Press, 2021). Her writing has been published in the literary journals SmokeLong Quarterly, Wigleaf, Matchbook, and Pithead Chapel, among others. She is a fellow of the Hambidge Center for the Creative Arts in Georgia and was a 2021 Tennessee Williams Scholar at the Sewanee Writers Conference. One of the founding editors of So to Speak: A Feminist Journal of Language and Art, she has an MFA from George Mason University in Virginia, where she also works.

Paper Hearts – KELLY-MAE MATT

With every love I experience, I form a paper heart.

There was a point where I had considered drawing the hearts on a chalkboard, in case I fell out of love. That way I could smear the heart into dust and start over again. If love could easily disappear, then perhaps I would be able to forget an experience w ith love existed in the first place.

I could not secure the chalkboard, and the feeling of chalk trapped between my fingertips as it etched into the lines of my hand both discomforted and infuriated me. So, I did the next best thing: I grabbed a piece of paper, and I cut out a heart.

The first heart was made of lined paper, ripped straight from my notebook, and smeared with ink. The next heart came from old wrapping paper decorated with balloons, and the ones that followed it would be blue, or maybe they were yellow. There were hearts that came with floral prints, bursting with a colourful love, and on a rare occasion, they would be pure and simple in white. Perhaps these hearts had been a love so rushed that I had no time to craft it in colour, but as they lay in my palm, I recall the moment of fleeting joy of a love just experienced.

Some of these paper hearts are bigger than others, and there are those that are only as small as my fingertip. There are hearts that have come out crumpled and lopsided in shape, and one or two have been torn apart from my anger and loneliness. Some are smeared with my tears of regret, and I know that hidden away there is a broken heart, once shred to

pieces and put back together again with sticky tape, riddled with the memory of a love once destroyed.

Time has since passed me by, which means that some of these hearts have been lost to the world. I have locked one away in a box until I am ready to face it again, and another was blown into the wind, fluttering away as if it were a pair of butterfly wings, returned to sender.

I have even pressed some of these paper hearts into the hands of my friends when they walked down a new path, a token of my love as I waved goodbye. I believe there is even half of a heart in someone else’s pocket, held captive so that it can never be whol e again, a reminder of the love we once shared.

And here I sit, ready to add new heart once more. The paper is pink, sprinkled in a fine glitter as I take out my scissors and cut, creating its shape until it is done. As I add the name and a date onto the back, I place upon it a kiss and send it into my sea of paper hearts, and I remember.

I remember the pinkie promises formed between clumsy hands and the loves that were renewed. I can see the blue heart that captured my nephews first laugh, and I watch as the fluttering wings of a red heart filled with a friendship now lost takes flight in the wind.

And as I look back, I feel glad that I did not secure that chalkboard, because while love can disappear, it can not be wiped away and forgotten. Love is an absurd, glorious thing, and as I sit here and commemorate this new paper heart, I feel thankful for the colour and love that has painted my life until now.

Daisy – KELLY-MAE MATT

You once told me that everyone wants to be a rose, but if I was like a flower, then I would probably be a daisy.

Why, I asked.

Because the rose yearns for love and admiration from everyone, you said. They are a prickly sort, vain and in need of constant care, protective of their beauty and incredibly vain when clustered with their friends in a pretty bouquet. If they happen to live in a garden filled with weeds, then the rose will stew in their misery, and wither.

But a daisy can grow anywhere, you told me. They are unmanaged and unruly, often trampled underfoot. If a daisy gets plucked from the ground, nobody cares. You told me that no one pays mind when their petals are pulled with ‘He Loves Me Nots’, or if their stem is skewered to create fairy crowns and necklace chains.

A daisy is as common as a weed, you say. So, I ask: Then why am I a daisy?

You smile as you tell me that, come sunrise, there will be a hundred more. Even if one gets crushed, a daisy will still rise again to greet the new day, unbothered but sure.

A daisy is a survivor.

You are not a rose, you tell me, and it is not because you aren’t beautiful, and neither are you unloved, but because you wake up each day with a renewed hope. Despite the troubles you face and the boots that trample you down, you look up to the sky and begin again.

A rose has its thorns and thrives with its beauty, but you are a daisy, you say to me. Even when you have been pulled apart, you will always start anew, and grow.

Author Bio:

Pen collector, kinder bueno addict and a lover of words, Kelly-Mae Matt (she/they) hails from the land of teapots and crumpets, also known as England. A university student, KellyMae spends their spare time writing, thinking of writing, or wishing they wer e writing.

You’ll Find Me Sleeping In The Stream – RHYS

EVANS

*Trigger Warning/Content Warning: Drowning, Death*

Death was waiting for me in the stream. Plucking the fallen wreath of wildflowers; patient and knowing, her hand outstretched, guiding me, a forgotten friend.

“Come in, the water's fine,” she whispered in my ear, “Have a rest, you're very tired.” I willingly accepted the invitation, sealing my fate. Water bit my ankle first, before stinging my thighs and belly. The dress spread, spread wide enough for me to float on the surface of the water; singing hymns loud, scattering the words along the strea m, now merry with delirium, a tincture so sweet, so intoxicating.

“Get back, please, let's talk this through at least?” Harriet pleaded from the riverbank, digging her knees into the earth, tears smearing her features distorted like dripping wax, but I could taste the guilt that lingered on every letter.

“There's rosemary, that's for remembrance. Pray you, love remember. And there is pansies, that's for thoughts…” I hummed.

Algid water continued to bite every inch of exposed skin, its teeth clamping down to the bone. I can no longer wiggle my toes, and the in my jaw no longer allows me to get a word out; molars jangling, arguing over every syllable I utter.

“I don't understand what you're saying. You've gone mad!”

“There's fennel for you, and columbines. There's rue for you, and here's one for me; we may call it herb of grace o’ Sundays. You must wear your rue with a difference.” I sang softly, to the slowing thud of my heart.

“Look at me! It doesn't have to end like this?” grabbing at my limp, lifeless arms; too waterlogged to be heaved ashore.

“There's a daisy. I would give you some violets, but they withered when my father died. They say he made a good end.”

“It was an accident, you have to understand that! I never meant for all this grief, this sorrow.” she wept, “You have to believe me.”

“There is no home for me here, amongst the living, and come tonight I'll be long gone. This guilt, this guilt that's brewing inside you will override everything you know, it'll consume you, and eat you alive.”

I turn to death, waning, dimming. “Turn me blue, grey, and purple just as the violets that choke my neck.”

She took my hand once more, and pulled me below.

To muddy death.

Author Bio:

Rhys (He/His) is a Welsh queer writer. A fan of tea, horror and has a pet axolotl called Mayo. He writes stories that address death, social constructs with a strong emphasis on highlighting and championing the LGBTQIA+ community and marginalised groups. Hi s work has featured in Hot Pot Magazine and Fifth Wheel Press amongst others. Twitter: rhys_evanss

To The Sun – OLIVIA RYCKMAN

*Trigger Warning/Content Warning: Descriptions of drowning, studentsteacher relationship (not graphic, definitely not condoning), hopelessness*

The captain’s son said I was murmuring your name when they pulled me aboard. A drunk passenger saw me fall over the guardrail to catch a glimpse of

the dolphins playing hide and seek. But I wasn’t looking for the dolphins—I wanted to see if it was really you reaching for me beneath the water’s surface.

I remember the fall, plunging into the deep, the waves spinning me like clothes in a washing machine. My eyes stung with salt when I opened them to find your hand. I grasped it once, twice, and lost it as the rush pushed me further away from the ship, the sun, and from you.

I’m not sure how long I was disoriented; I came to when you finally grabbed my hand. It was soft like I remembered, but it hurt like it used to. You don’t know your own strength when you squeeze. I didn’t care about my stinging eyes I wanted to memorize your face one last time before water filled my lungs. I knew I only had a short time with you. We better make this quick. Holding my hand, you dived towards the orange coral, stopping to wave to the mackerel and swordfish on our way down. They waved back. Behind the coral was a small cave with an iron gate spotted with algae. No sunlight shone here. A perfect hiding spot, you said. You unlocked it with a rusted key with a starfish charm. We swam up the set of stairs.

Here was an air bubble. Both of us were dripping wet all over your new hardwood floor with our clothes clinging to our frames. You mopped up the puddle before moving to your office. You don’t like to leave a mess. You didn’t say anything as you showed me the walls plastered with posters from your favorite movies, your college degrees hanging above the desk in the corner, water-damaged within their frames. The comforter and pillows on your bed were soaked. How do you sleep at night? The food in your fridge was soggy, algae grew in your mugs, on your silverware and plates. No matter how much you try, you said, nothing will dry. How do you live like this, without dry clothes and solid food, without the sun? There’s no need, you said. You don’t need the sun. It’s too much. You have your friends and your family, and they’re closer now than before. That’s enough.

You drag me back into the cold water. Your school was just past the coral and seagrass. It was painted with cans of crimson and gray that your custodians stole from cargo ships. We walked through the empty halls, your sneakers squeaking on the tile just as loudly as I remember. The art display cases illuminated the dark, just like our previous late-night visits to the school that used to be ours. Your classroom walls were your favorite shade of blue, a contrast to the yellow of your first classroom where we confessed our secrets to each other: how we’re still damaged from old flames, how I quit three jobs within a year due to bullying from management, and how your ex took your virginity and left you feeling used. You held my hand and rubbed it with your

thumb when I said you could leave if my boundaries were too much. I’d rather be too much than not enough. You didn’t leave. You didn’t force me to do anything. You stayed that time. You stayed.

Your new chair was premium black leather, something the school got you as a welcome present, to give you a new beginning. They must really like you. You invited me into your lap, and I accepted. Your knees were bonier than before, and you lost weight since the last time I saw you. You’d been eating better, working out, walking the track visible from the window by your desk every morning while the girls’ track team warmed up on the football field in the center.

I’d gained weight since the last time you saw me. I had a pudge. I no longer wore makeup. Almost all the clothes you liked on me were sold or donated, but some are buried in my closet back home, hoping to reemerge when you return. I knew you would. I prayed for it.

Suddenly, it was time to leave. Your class was starting soon, and I needed to go home. I belong there. You belong here, you said. It was only 7 AM. School didn’t start until 8:20. It’s not like anyone will care. They didn’t last time. I came all this way. I fell overboard. We haven’t had enough time. My lungs are fine. I’m fine. We’re fine. We have time.

Then she came in. Hair like the darkest part of the sea, eyes the color of pearl, and long legs with sparkling green scales in place of skin, Her blue veins were stark against her translucent skin, pale from a life living in deep water. You pushed me off your lap like my warmth suddenly burned. You pulled up a sunbleached rock from the front row her rock, you said and sit her beside you, behind your desk. She needs help, you said, to analyze some story, and she’s a lot like me. You stared into her eyes. She held your gaze and grinned at you, her pupils narrowing. You smiled back. I have to leave. Out the door, other mermaids lined up. They stopped giggling when they saw me. Some bore their razor-sharp teeth. She isn’t the only one. I looked back right as you pushed her wet hair behind her ear and leaned in.

Another man’s shoes squeaked down the hall, approaching the classroom. It was the Principal, a man not unlike you dressed in a suit adorned with a starfish pin and a blue tie sprinkled with seaweed. His eyes were bright, deadly cerulean. For a moment, I was relieved you’d been caught. But he smirked at you two before turning his attention to the line of mermaids. Morning girls, he greeted. They resumed their giggling before responding with “Good morning, sir” in unison. No.

I bolted from the room, slipping on water pooled on the floor. I must leave, I must get far, far away from you. I slammed the door open and run into the courtyard past the students and other staff members, past the school resource officer who screamed at me to stop and dove into the open black sea, inviting as the path to Hell. Alone.

I wasn’t sure how long I’d been suspended mid-ocean, staring in the direction of the sky. I was shrouded in shadow, the sun’s rays barely breaking through. I didn’t care that my lungs are on fire, it was the only thing keeping me warm and alive. If I died in the depths, so be it. I couldn’t return to the school, to the girls, to you. Nor could I have returned to the cruise, to a life without the you I once knew. Now you were someone who hurts, and I couldn’t do a thing about it. So I floated.

A large figure appeared next to me like a ghost. When I turned my head, one massive eye stared back.

He saw that, the whale said.

What do I do?

Swim. Swim?

To the sun. He’ll watch me break the surface. He won’t leave.

What will happen afterward? To him, to me?

I’ll be taken care of, he said, when I’ll go above and long, long after. And so will you, in other ways.

I choked, the water dripping into my lungs. I’d have to leave you down here and make my way back to shore. If I stayed, I’d never see or feel the sun again—and I didn’t want that. For the first time in months, I was afraid of the end. There were places to visit, stories to write, a cruise to finish—a life without you. I must go. I kicked my legs and breaststroked my way to the top, to the sun. I didn’t stop until my head breaks the surface and felt the glow’s warmth envelop me despite the freezing water. I gasped for air as if it was my first breath. As the rescue boat approached and before I passed out, the low hum of a whale call wavered below the sea.

The captain’s son said I was murmuring your name when they pulled me aboard. I wasn’t embarrassed when he found me in the cruise ship’s infirmary with frizzy hair, cocooned in three thick blankets to prevent shock. He claimed

that this wasn’t his first rescue in these waters. A few people have fallen overboard during his career, and all of the survivors repeated names or phrases or both upon rescue. He asked if you had done something to me. I laughed and nodded. Yes, long ago. He’ll get what he deserves someday. The son agreed with me. Eventually, he said, I replaced your name with “To the sun”. It didn’t stop until I woke up. I could only say that it’s a mantra of sorts, from someone wiser than I. The captain’s son looked at me for a long moment before nodding in understanding. He asked what I’m going to do next, where I’ll go now after all of this. Outside the porthole, a storm brewed over the area of the ocean where I was found, but the sun shone above our boat like a spotlight. Ahead, I could see some rays escaping through the clouds, a promise. The sun, I answered. I have to keep going, to the sun

Author Bio

Olivia Ryckman is a writer from Indiana. She earned an MA in English from Indiana University East in 2022. She is the founder and Editor-in-Chief of the evermore review. Her work appears in Johns Hopkins University’s Richard Macksey Journal. Find her on Twitter at @livie_evermore

Third Time’s The Charm – A. R. TIVADOR

Dennis squeezed shower gel on the washcloth like he was glazing a doughnut. He frantically scrubbed himself, leaving red lines on his arms and torso.

“Why didn’t you tell me I smell?!” He demanded from his little sister. “I can’t see Alice like this!”

“If she agreed to date you when you smelled like a dog, then she probably didn’t mind.” Nadia replied, the bathroom door muffling her voice. One hand was petting the husky lying across her lap, and the other was texting.

“It’s not funny! Aagh!” In the frenzy of getting himself clean and presentable, a soap sud flew directly at his eye with sniper precision.

Nadia calmly closed the messenger and looked at the time. Her lockscreen and homescreen were a photo of herself, Dennis, Alice and Jade. Dennis dropped the phone as he took the selfie and everything looked smudged. Their expressions were caught in the second between posing and realising it was falling. The blurred lights of the city behind them looked really pretty.

“You have half an hour left!” Nadia said.

“Fuck!” Dennis screamed.

Alice stood inches away from the mirror, inspecting her skin. Her sister, Jade, was lying on the couch in the living room, one leg gracelessly up, her fingers texting away.

The silence of the apartment was broken by Alice cursing out loud.

“What’s up?” Jade asked.

“I look like a pizza!”

“Quattro stagioni or capricciosa?”

“Why am I breaking out before every date with Dennis?!” Alice stomped out the bathroom in a tank top and undies.

“You can’t even see it! It’ll be fine!”

“One date!” Alice mumbled to herself or perhaps a higher being. “One good date with this boy! That’s all I want!”

“Wasn’t the other one good?” Jade asked, contorting herself to look over the couch and see her. Alice was searching through her closet.

“We got lost at 1 am and Dennis got his phone smashed to bits.”

“We all had fun though! What about the first one? That went well!”

“I fell down the stairs!”

“You got up and walked!” She waved her hand dismissively.

Alice groaned, rolling her eyes, and shoved the coat hangers around.

“Don’t go on another date then.” Jade said.

Alice paused, involuntarily looking down and pulling a blouse close to herself, as if to hug it. She blushed pink. “I want to see Dennis again…”

Jade didn’t say anything, watching her sister’s reaction and texting Nadia:

“Bruh, she is completely whipped”

Nadia promptly replied:

“So is he”

A few seconds later she added:

Dennis was rinsing himself off in the shower, willing himself to relax. They were just going to the mall today. Nothing should go bad. Their first and second dates were plagued by bad luck and ended on sour notes, but Alice still agreed to go a third one!

Dennis felt his heart ache. He really liked her. He really wanted things to go well.

He took a step away from the showerhead and one of his feet almost slipped on the wet tiles. His heart seized with dread instead. Imagine dying right before a date, naked in the shower no less. He shook his head, whipping water around. He really needed to calm down.

Dennis turned the water to a pleasant hot, only mildly scalding. He sat under it, letting his muscles relax. He got a stupid idea that made him laugh, then decided to do it to cheer himself up. He slowly spun around under the hot water, like a rotisserie chicken. After doing it a couple of times he did it the other direction too.

Alice walked in front of the mirror. She was wearing a long skirt, black and warm-toned purple, black tights and brown boots up to the knees. On top she wore a purple shirt, a cooler-toned shade than the skirt, and a knitted blazer. It was a dark fir green with bronze buttons, making her look wide-shouldered and rectangular.

She stared at her reflection in tense silence for a few seconds, then screamed, bending forward in agony.

“What’s wrong now?” Jade called out from the living room.

“This looked so good in my head!” She cried out. She took off the blazer and chucked it at her bed with disappointment and disdain.

She looked again at her reflection. The skirt, high-waisted, was abruptly cutting her torso in half. She snarled and shoved it off.

“Girl, calm down!” Jade said. “The neighbours are gonna complain again!”

“I have nothing to wear! Nothing goes together!”

“And who bought them like that?”

“Shut up!!”

Dennis stared through the steam he created in the bathroom. It was getting hard to breathe and think. Nadia banged on the door.

“Are you done yet?” She called out.

“Y-Yeah!” He stepped out of the shower, very much dizzy. He dried off and put on a t-shirt and shorts. The air of the apartment, at a normal temperature, hit him like a cold wall.

He snapped out of it when he saw their husky charge towards him.

“Back off, beast! Back!” Dennis took a defensive stance, using the wet towel as a flimsy shield.

The dog threw its front paws up playfully, thinking it was a game.

“Come here, buddy!” Nadia said, reaching out her hand. The husky walked up to her perfectly well-behaved.

“I have to get ready.” Dennis said, more for himself, searching his bedroom. He picked up a nice shirt and sniffed the armpits. He let it go with a disgusted face. He picked another one to the same effect.

“Did you put on deodorant?” Nadia asked.

“Of course I did!” Dennis said, offended. “Where are all my good clothes?!”

“How should I know?” She replied. “I’m not touching that, that’s your mess to deal with.”

“Then where-” He spun around and saw the dirty clothes hamper by the door, a small mountain emerging from the top of it. “Oh.”

Jade looked at herself in the mirror. She put on a comfortable matching set hoodie and pants, light blue like the sky. Underneath was a yellow t-shirt with magenta strawberries, and ankle socks.

She and Nadia were going to walk the dog and gossip at a cafe outside the mall while their siblings were on their date.

With nothing else to do but wait for Alice to be done as well, Jade lay down on her bed and continued texting Nadia.

“How’s it over at you?”

Nadia promptly replied:

“Freaking out, but slightly less than last time”

“Same here,” Jade texted, “tho Alice is in a constant state of freaking out”

“lolol”

“I’m glad my sister met your brother. I love Alice, but she’s a disaster woman”

“Same. They were made for each-other fr”

“Idk what they’re freaking out so much for”

“I guess nervousness”

“I never got it tbh. If you both like each other, then it’s all set, right?”

“Yeah yeah”

“Does being in love make you unable to think rationally?”

“So they say, lmao”

“I’m never gonna understand this shit”

“Me neither. I’m 99,99% sure I’m aro”

“Me too”

They sent each-other black, white and green hearts.

“We need more grey emojis.” Nadia texted. “A wolf and a freaking rock is all we have to work with.”

“It’s even more dire with purple emojis.” Jade replied.

Alice walked in her room and searched Jade’s closet. She had to sit down on the ground and move over stacks of folded clothes. Jade, without taking her eyes from the phone, kicked at her to try to push her off balance.

“Stop it!” Alice said in a high-pitched voice.

“Where do you wanna go?” Jade texted.

“Idk, I kinda want to eat fudge cake. Haven’t had it in a while.”

Alice stood up with a huff and made her way out the room, then came back to kick at Jade’s legs a couple times before leaving.

Nadia picked out a hot pink t-shirt with the outline of a woman’s abstract portrait in dark blue. Her skirt was hot pink too and her sneakers were white. She gave their husky a bright red collar.

“How do I look?” Dennis asked.

Nadia looked up to see him posing with his hands on his hips. He wore offwhite pants, a white t-shirt and a short-sleeved button-up shirt on top. The latter was yellow, orange, purple and dark green, a watercolour pattern.

“Like someone’s uncle on vacation.” She said.

“Perfect! Come on, let’s go! We’ll be late!”

“How do I look?” Alice came out of her room. She wore a long black skirt, her fake Gucci belt, and a white button-up with very sparkly buttons and puffed sleeves.

“Like a Victorian substitute teacher.” Jade replied.

Alice took a deep breath through her nose. Today was going to be a good day. Positive thoughts only.

“Let’s go! We’ll miss the subway!” She said.

“Hold on.” Jade said.

“What?”

“I want candy.”

“The subway leaves at 12:30!”

“Chill out, we’ll make it.”

“I am chill!” She said through gritted teeth.

Dennis and Nadia made their way down the grimy subway stairs, Nadia holding their dog’s leash. Dennis was in a very good mood. They made it early!

Last time they nearly had to jump through the closing doors. Things were already much better! They were going to keep going better! His heart soared thinking about seeing Alice again and touring all the shops and eating together and laughing together-

His foot missed the last step and his body lunged forward. Nadia caught him by the arm in the last second. People were staring.

“Are you okay?” She asked.

“… yes.” He said.

The station announced the arrival of their train.

“You got it?” Dennis asked.

“Of course.” Nadia pulled out a large shopping bag from her purse.

Their dog hopped inside and Dennis hoisted the bag on his shoulder, bypassing the law that pets that couldn’t fit in a bag weren’t allowed in the subway.

The train was surprisingly empty. They took seats in front of each-other. Nadia was texting, most likely with Jade. Dennis felt so nervous. It was the wonderful, excited kind, whenever Alice was involved, but also anxiety over their date going well. He really, really liked her. He never got along so well with someone from the start. Even when unpleasant things happened and even when he was being annoying, she still wanted to see him. He smiled sappily and involuntarily hugged the dog closer. He wondered what she was doing, if she was on her way. Dennis really needed to get a new phone.

The train stopped and two girls rushed in from the station, one with a lollipop in her mouth. They were Alice and Jade!

The four all smiled and sat together: Jade next to Nadia and Alice next to Dennis. The girls greeted each-other, while the couple didn’t say anything. They looked at each-other for a moment, just smiling like dorks. Nadia sneakily snapped a photo.

“I, uh, I thought we could look for a new phone! For you!” Alice said. “At the mall, I mean.”

“Sure!” Dennis beamed.

“We can go there first, if you want!”

“It’s alright. We’ll check whatever you want first!”

“The phones, then.” She giggled.

It took a couple stations to reach the mall. Alice forgot all her worries when she was sitting next to Dennis. She knew she was a handful and too much sometimes, but so far it didn’t seem to bother Dennis. It made her so happy! She could remember lamenting to Jade that she was too weird and loud, pushing people away and it being her own fault for feeling lonely.

“You’re not too much! Shut up!” Jade replied. “You just haven’t met your people.”

Alice was very glad to have met Dennis, and Nadia too. With Jade she was stuck with from birth, but she loved her as well.

They walked out of the subway back into the sunny city above, freeing their dog from the bag. The mall, huge and silver, had a large green space next to it and smaller shops with terraces open to the streets.

“I want her back by 6 pm sharp. Got it, son?” Jade said, holding the lollipop like a cigar.

“Of course!” Dennis said while Alice rolled her eyes.

The two went on their date, holding hands, while the other two headed for the park.

Author Bio

A. R. Tivadar is a hobby writer from Romania and a graduate of the University of Oradea. She has been published in underscore_magazine and has self-published stories on kobo.com.

Twitter: @artivadar

Instagram: @a.r.tivadar

10 Things I Overheard At Starbucks Yesterday

Afternoon – LORI CRAMER

1. The Toronto Blue Jays beat the Tampa Bay Rays in extra innings.

2. Marcie, one of the baristas, once dated a baseball player, but she broke up with him because he didn’t spend enough time with her.

3. Clair, another barista, suspects that her boyfriend is cheating on her.

4. Though Marcie’s never been cheated on, she once had a friend whose boyfriend flirted with her whenever her friend wasn’t around, so she told her friend about it and her friend called her a liar!

5. Clair is a terrible liar and wishes she had a better poker face.

6. Marcie used to date a poker player, but she broke up with him because he spent too much time in Vegas.

7. Clair would love to vacation in Vegas with her boyfriend and maybe even elope in one of those adorable little wedding chapels.

8. Marcie doesn’t understand how Clair could consider marrying a guy who might be cheating on her.

9. Clair doesn’t understand why Marcie can’t just let her dream a little.

10. Marcie hates to be the one to tell her, but Clair’s boyfriend is cheating on her.

Author Bio:

Lori Cramer’s short prose has appeared in Ellipsis Zine, Fictive Dream, Flash Fiction Magazine, Unbroken Journal, Whale Road Review, and elsewhere. Her work has been nominated for Best Microfiction. Links to her writing can be found at https://loricramerfiction.wordpress.com. Twitter: @LCramer29.

FOMO – MARTHA LANE

*Trigger Warning/Content Warning: Chronic Illness*

The last streetlamp blinks itself awake as a frill of ballerinas fan out onto the street. Still on my knees, I tug the laces on my heavy, oxblood Doc Martens tight

enough that rope burn gnaws my fingers. The flock of dancers flutters past without a glance down at me. Oblivious, they leave the heavy studio door open a crack.

I rub the bruises blossoming in the crooks of my arms, the little button plasters itching like gnat bites. I try not to think about the doctor’s appointment and the phone call I need to make. The one explaining I won’t be coming home for Christmas. For any Christmases in fact. That we knew this day would come. That I’ve never liked turkey anyway, so I’ll get over it.

The streetlamps, standing to attention, cast their muddy orange glow. Theatrical lighting for all the dog shit, plastic bottles and last night’s dropped food smeared across the pavement. The light escaping through the studio door is an electric shock. An icicle of bright slicing the murk.

I look around.

I am alone.

And I want to dance. I was never allowed to dance.

My boots are heavy as they move me inside, from tarmac to laminate. There I am, in the glare of mirrors.

Alone.

I twirl, realising how sad it is that now I’m going to lose it; I have never loved this body so much.

I stamp my foot and remember a swaddle of hospital blankets, fever raging, the day my year eight rounders team won their only tournament. Without me.

Hand on hips, I remember my legs in traction the day of the school production. My part was given to Alex. She brought me M&Ms to celebrate. I didn’t eat a single one.

Another crash of the boot, and I remember the injections I was having the day the rest of my class were separated into girls and boys and taught about their changing bodies. I was left to guess.

Hands over my head, arms bent into a pyramid, fingers stretching, back arching. I remember all the things I didn’t miss and to a beat that isn’t there, I dance.

Author Bio:

Martha Lane is a writer by the sea. She writes extensively about grief, love, and all things unrequited. Many of her stories can be read online at marthalane.co.uk. Balancing too many projects is her natural state. Tweets @poor_and_clean

An Odd Feeling – SARAH OAKES

As a writer, I should enjoy bookshops. And I do, for a time. I enjoy their quiet nature, with comfy chairs and soft-spoken floors, places where the world fades away for a while. I enjoy feeling stories, fingers tracing titles. I enjoy discovering new worlds, doors within doors to which I alone hold the key.

I turn brightly coloured books over, like beached whales, excited to find out more. But then the joy shifts; twisting, turning, churning. For books aren’t made for partially sighted people. Not really. Not here. Not for you, the spines whisper. The blurb mocks me, with writing so small it could be ants, and even the magnifier on my phone doesn’t help. And if I do use the magnifier on my phone, people think I’m shopping online, and I feel their glares. I still enjoy reading, in digital forms. I think I’m okay. But in bookshops, it hits home.

They remind me of old ghosts, of childhood joys, of weekends when bookshops were my friends. Of things I cannot have, days when I could see to read. And it hurts, to be a stranger.

I wish the world wasn’t so visual. I wish my sight wasn’t fading. I wish there were more audiobooks in bookshops. I wish books were made of sound. I wish I could gather all the publishers in the land, like knights at a round table, and create change, explain why I would like books in large print, or colour inverted,

or in audio. But these are things that cannot be. and I know that. And I must manage the best

I can.

As a writer, I should enjoy bookshops. But they just leave me, with odd feelings.

Author Bio:

Sarah Oakes is a visually impaired science fiction and fantasy writer who loves music, mythology, and plays the clarinet. She has had one short story, one poem and several flashes published, both in print and online, and is working on a novella in flash. You can find her on Twitter at: @SarahOa64492096

A Pox On Your Lips – JULIA SMITH

Things delude like beds you can’t believe in, the offer of the ‘best fun you’ll ever have’ outside a circus, a sparkling dress that doesn’t turn his head.

But not your lips

Things devastate like the turning back of a clock that should have only gone forward, like your own child crying with loss, like torrential rain for soft fruit and bugs and tomorrow’s parties.

But not your lips

Yes, things disappear like teenage love over summer, like money bet on a dubious winner, like magic moments savoured beforehand, then lived briefly, then gone.

But not your lips

Things die like fires that once burned brightly, like a gentle man and a wrong decision at high speed, like a lolloping hare caught midway, like my dog, eventually.

But not your lips

Your lips are my daydreams, my dancing thoughts, a destination. They’re newborn deer in their standing.

I dissolve as a soft ‘sorry’ bubbles near my hearing. A pox on your lips, It is just the murmer of yesteryear, of over and over, of never again.

Author Bio:

Julia Ruth Smith is a mother, teacher and writer. She lives by the sea in Italy. She has fiction in Flash Frog, New Flash Fiction Review, Vestal Review and the latest Bath Flash Fiction Anthology. On Twitter @JuliaRuthSmith1 She/Her.

Love Without Words – JONATHAN HUNTER

Those striking blue eyes were the cutest I had ever seen. Wearing a mob cap amplified her delicate, angelic face. I wanted to tell her, but being mute, I could only smile.

***

The handsome man came in every morning and sketched amazing cityscapes. I felt butterflies every time I saw him. His gorgeous smile melted my heart. Amongst the bustle, I prayed that he would talk to me, but he was always silent and pointed for an Americano. I had just moved to Birmingham from Constanza and knew little English. ***

Waiting at the bus stop, I saw her. She looked drained and was coughing. I wanted to help her, but I didn’t know what to do. ***

I saw him coming. I felt terrible. My mind was mush; I couldn’t think. Looking concerned, he handed me a tissue. I remembered how to say thank you in English. ***

She looked expectantly at me. I did a thumbs up but didn’t know what to do next. Pointing to my mouth and doing a cross with my fingers, I hoped that she would understand. ***

That explained it. He drew a smiley face and handed his sketchbook to me. I drew a smile as well and handed it back. Giggling, I waited for his next move. ***

I was elated, but what now? After pausing for an eternity, I took my chance. Drawing a heart, I handed the notebook back with bated breath.

Seeing the heart, I felt ecstatic. My dreams had come true. Beaming, I drew hearts all over his notebook. He was in tears.

We hugged until the sun went down. Her smile was worth more than a thousand words.

His smile was worth more than any word.

Author Bio

Jonathan Hunter is a Flash Fiction Writer from Solihull, UK. He enjoys writing flash fiction that stretches the imagination and pushes boundaries. Jonathan has had pieces published in the Secret Attic Anthologies, Neuro-Logical Magazine, Bombfire Magazine, Corner Bar Magazine, Arasi Magazine, Written Tales Magazine, Trash to Treasure, Commuter Lit, and on the Free Flash Fiction website.

Twitter @JonTea22

A Deal With The Devil – COREY BRYAN

Sarah’s fridge was on an incline. The fractured tile in the kitchen slumped slightly to the gossamer kitchen wall. Each time she closed the fridge door, the glass measuring cups stored on top would slide a tenth of an inch toward the back. She stood on a wooden dining chair, memory-soaked wood creaking beneath her tiptoes as she rescued the cups from falling behind the fridge.

Everything else sat ready and prepped out on the faux-marble counter. The eggs were cracked, little orange suns suspended in that viscous liquid. Freshly picked blueberries almost overflowing their glass bowl. Butter slowly melted, sweating in the afternoon sunlight. All she needed now was the sugar and flour. Baking was precise, baking was her love language, one she spoke fluently.

Her mother was the one who trained her in the art. She began teaching her what love was through baking as soon as Sarah’s tiny hands could crack an egg. Her mother’s cookbook lay open on the counter on the page titled “Sinful Blueberry Pie,” penned with a flourish by her mother’s careful, cursive hand. She had the recipe memorized, however, after making it a thousand times before. She liked having that book open though, letting her mother into the kitchen again. Baking was a restorative practice, too.

The shadows in the kitchen marked time as they lengthened across the tile floor. The sun peeked through the windows as she rolled the dough flat with a wine bottle. Don’t waste your money on a rolling pin, Sarah. One bit of baking advice Sarah had long since internalized. One hand on her hip, one holding a wine glass of chilled chardonnay, she surveyed her pastry labors. The dough lay flat like an unmarked map and she was a cartographer. The rolling-knife held in her hand ready to carve canyons and mark borders of a perfectly sliced world. Her dexterous hands cut the map into little strips, three-quarters of an inch thick, dozens of times, never missing the desired length. She lay the dough carefully across the pie, creating a filigree of perfectly layered lattice.

The oven beeped as it finished preheating. Sarah was always precise, the process of baking more instinct than thought. Her internal clock was calibrated to the perfect golden-brown crust she wanted. She opened the oven door, holding the pie in one hand, ready to greet the blast of hot air from the oven. She opened it, but nothing happened no heatwave caressed her face. There was nothing. She set the pie on the counter and checked the green digital numbers again. It read 375 degrees. She frowned, taking a sip from her chardonnay, ice clinking on the glass.

Frustratingly, she had no instinct on what to do about a broken oven. She didn’t want the pie to sit, getting too warm; she didn’t want to refrigerate it, making the dough too cold. So, she did what she had done dozens of times before in her baking career—she consulted her mother. Maybe there was advice in the cookbook on how to store the pie while she tried to troubleshoot the oven. Her finger scanned the recipe. The page, dry with time, crinkled beneath her finger as she followed her mother’s cursive. There was a footnote at the bottom of the recipe she’d never noticed before. She pulled her glasses from her apron pocket and squinted. It was written not in the practice cursive penmanship of her mother, but in blocky scratches. Surprised, she read aloud from the footnote,

“How to achieve the perfect golden-brown crust with one simple trick: Tolle corpus mei coquendum hoc crustam tolle animae meae in Baker ego confido”

The recipe book snapped shut. Sarah took a big step back, and dropped her wine glass. She heard a whoosh followed by faint screaming. Just as the recipe book snapped shut, the oven door flew open, hinges creaking at the force. The screams grew louder. This time, when the door opened, the heatwave came, much hotter than 375. Her baking instincts reacted before her thoughts did. She leapt over the shattered glass, grabbed the pie in one hand, and slid it gracefully on the oven shelf.

It was only for a moment, but she caught a glimpse of the scene inside. It felt like she was standing in a bell tower, hundreds of feet off the ground. It couldn’t really be called ground, though. It was more like an ocean; an endless sea of magma. Flames bubbled and burst from the surface. She saw something flying in the distance, no, falling, flailing. It hit the magma surface and the screams were amplified. She slammed the oven door shut, eyes wide. Oh, Hell, she aptly thought.

The digital green numbers began counting down. 30…29…28. She waited, frozen, with bated breath. 3…2…1. The oven beeped its familiar tune. She hesitantly pried the door open, and absorbed the awesome heat inside. Donning her thickest oven mitts, she pulled the pie out—perfectly golden-brown lattice work on top, a devastatingly enticing smell of blueberry wafted up to her nose.

She set the pie on the iron stovetop, and removed the singed oven mitts. She reached for a new glass and poured a huge glass of wine, gulping it down quickly. She poured another, and sipped it slowly as the pie cooled. God, it looked perfect. She cut into it, and the crust broke with a crisp satisfaction; the center was warm and gooey. She took a heaping slice onto a plate and stabbed it eagerly. That first bite, beyond perfection, the pinnacle of baking, a blueberry pie apotheosis. She chewed slowly, savoring each delicious bite. She swallowed. When the first bite was down, a grizzly voice sparked to life in the back of her mind.

“You’ve summoned the Baker. The greatest pie to you I’ve bestowed Part of your soul it has cost Three new souls I am owed.”

Sarah didn’t even hesitate. “So worth it.” She took another bite, closed her eyes, and smiled.

Author Bio

C.W. Bryan is a student at Georgia State University. He lives with his clowder of cats (the best to ever do it) and girlfriend in Atlanta, GA where he writes poetry and short fiction. He is currently writing daily poetry prompts with a friend of his at poetryispretentious.com.

Let It Be So Quiet – SAM CALHAUN

Let it be so quiet that we sleep through the screech of mice as they tear through our walls They only know the cold wet grass. Forgive them their burrow of straw tucked against the water heater, they seek warmth the way I only want to lay here with you, quiet still, and watch the sun traverse the yard to the hollies, then the far trees, each seeking no more light

than was ever offered for free.

Poet Bio

Sam Calhoun is a writer and photographer living in Elkmont, AL. He is the author of one chapbook, “Follow This Creek” (Foothills Publishing). His poems have appeared in Pregnant Moon Review, Westward Quarterly, Offerings, Waterways, and other journals. Follow him on Twitter or Instagram @weatherman_sam

The Lotus Queen – QUILL C. ELSKA

I've got butterflies in my tummy, I'm overwhelmed with grace, I can't seem to stop smiling, When I picture your face.

I've craved this for so long, Needing love but the right kind, It's tough when you're so open, Almost impossible to find.

Though I've never laid eyes, Upon the face of this flower, I could kiss her all day, Making love for endless hours.

To spoil her with everything, I can't help missing how it feels, To treat her like a queen, Speak to her like she's real.

Like the walls I built around me, She has many of her own, Petals colourful & strong, Petals fearlessly grown. With striking beauty, A lotus flower, Warrior queen, I feel your power.

Poet Bio

• Name: Quill C. Elska

• Social Media: @QuillElska on Twitter, @authorquillcelska on Instagram

• Pronouns: She/Her

• Bio: Quill C. Elska is a published empathic author. She has seven selfpublished novels on Amazon and several more on the way. She mostly dabbles in sci-fi, dystopian, fantasy, paranormal, horror, and romance fiction. All her novels are LGBT+ and her signature is writing polyamorous relationships. Aside from that, she also enjoys writing poetry, painting, sketching, and photography.

Long Beach 2015 – BRANDON SHANE

flashes of thunder lit the pictures they took of us in hot summer rain

as cars sputtered around roundabouts and asphalt shed its mechanical dirt

a journey began to reach the uncharted cityscape of

my heart, and yours too,

wanderers who had only known the concrete, fatherless, indebted teens on ocean blvd

thighs meet; lips already acquainted, police sirens wailing in the back, waves usurping the shore,

sundown and we did it again; melting sky, bruised morning, emptied wallets on coffee, falling in love

Poet Bio

Brandon Shane (he/him) is an alum of California State University, Long Beach, where he majored in English. He's currently pursuing an MFA while working as a substitute teacher and writing instructor. You can see work in Acropolis Journal, AURAL Magazine, Bitterleaf Books, Salmon Creek Journal, BarBar Literary Magazine, Discretionary Love, various Wingless Dreamer anthologies, among others.

It Had To Be Said – JAMES HARTLEY

In Greenwich

where the old, grey river flows is the Cutty Sark and the park where you told me.

London skies and lean elms surrounded us –as long as you’ve been my brother

this conversation has been coming and I know it was important to you although to me, it changed nothing. That day you needed to make a declaration, not to me, not to anyone else but yourself and you did. It was the start of your adulthood – of you saying ‘This is who I am’. And I was proud of you but couldn’t wait to just get to the pub and get on with drinking as we always did as we always do.

Poet Bio: J.A. Hartley lives and works in Madrid, Spain.

Squids In – BERNARD PEARSON

I’m an octoplus

Instead of eight tentacles, I have nine. It gives me an advantage At buffets, when one Waits at the end of the line, I’m able to pick and chose What I like and still have A hand, for the wine.

Poet Bio:

BERNARD PEARSON: His work appears in over one hundred publications worldwide, including; Aesthetica Magazine , The Edinburgh Review, The York Literary Review In 2017 Heart of Flesh a selection of his poetry ‘In Free Fall’ was published by Leaf by Leaf Press. In 2019 he won second prize in The Aurora Prize for Writing for his poem Manor Farm. He has also published two novels 'Where the Willows End ' and 'In Red Blood' both published by Leaf by Leaf Press.

Pronouns: He/Him Twitter @BernardPearso19 website www.abookatberntime.uk

Sharing Oranges – C. E. ALVARRAN BELZ

Love is sharing the orange on the table, each of us taking a slice. Back and forth, back and forth.

I keep the tiny satsuma oranges in my bag in case you get hungry, and you have an orange tree in your backyard to grow the big, heavy ones that I prefer.

You bring me orange juice when I’m sick. Fresh squeezed orange juice, the pulp floating around inside it. It works better to heal than any medicine could.

We sit underneath your orange tree, watch the sunset and talk about nothing.

You flinch every time you think an orange might fall on you, and I laugh, but in the end, I’m the one who gets hit on the head.

You say it’s karma. I rub my head and watch you peel it. You hand me a slice, and take one for yourself. Back and forth, back and forth. Love is sharing an orange.

Poet Bio:

C. E. Alvarran Belz is a writer from Seattle, WA. They are currently in undergrad at the University of Washington. When they aren’t writing, you can find them practicing circus arts. They are on twitter @/hopelikeyou.

Wake Of The Party – TEJASVEE NAGAR

I am in the wake of the party, I bring in the disco lights while I dance, covering my skin in the shimmery dress that you love so much, my head feels like a tornado, It keeps on spinning, when I see you wearing those blue jeans, I am surely winning. I tasted cola on my lips, It was velvet, it melted like marshmallow, At this point, I am just comparing every single thing with another. baby, you're the only one that can take me to places, baby, you know how to tame me, they leave, but you don't, because you are the lines written all over my face,

you sing me like a melody, you bring back the morning, when I don't feel like waking up, oh, baby, you're in a band t-shirt, You love the same band as me, And we dance to their songs, While I feel my worries fade away when I am around you, oh, baby,

I am the wake of the party, and you're all the blinking streetlights that I see.

Poet Bio

Tejasvee Nagar are an avid reader. Their pronouns are he/she/they. They follow literary news and keep themselves updated about the literary world as they plan to pursue their degree in English. They have a keen interest in poetry, cooking, baking as well as creating playlists for leisure.

I’ll Be There – YASMINE DIAZ

And oh

They say the hardest part is letting go

You’re the best person that I know

Give me one good reason and I’ll choke

On my sword and take you back once more

So I’ll

I’ll sit back and replay all your lies

You were never good at ending fights

I cried all alone in bed so many nights

The same one that we made at sunrise

Be here

You’re the one that gave me all my fears

All my screams just fell on deaf ears

What a waste of all my good years

Now I’m tired and no longer what I appear

For you

I did all things I was supposed to do

Now this thing is over and I’m blue Didn’t notice, no not even a clue

How could I when you were all I knew?

Poet Bio

Yasmine Diaz is a writer and recent graduate hailing from New York City. While indulging in horror movies and curating playlists for beloved characters she loves to cook savory meals, take pictures and shout into the ether on Twitter @librarants.

Sather Gate – CHRISTIAN GARDUNO

You know it might get better but never better than this you used to make typos

I miss those days, honey we used to spin to the records that were spinning we had dreams that slipped out of bed

I don’t know how you ever got that song in your head it must have been on the A.M. radio station

By the time it jumped to F.M., well I guess I lost the plot you were in the pocket a lot so I left you under Sather Gate

I knew you were going to be great best thing to do was to get out of your way and I even miss breaking up with you but we knew it was the best thing to do it’s hard these days to paraphrase you

Poet Bio

Christian Garduno's work can be read in over 100 literary magazines. He lives and writes in South Texas.

The Garden – MADISEN BELLON

Barbie pink peony buds are on the cusp of blooming.

Honeybees clad in pollen waltz on lavender foxgloves. An old woman toils away in her flower gardens.

Fluorescent red cardinals chirp away in tulip poplars.

Honeybees full of pollen sleep on lavender foxgloves. A black garden snake glides among plant down.

Fluorescent red cardinals are quiet in tulip poplars. The sun begins to set and solar lights flicker on.

A black garden snake hides among plant down. Barbie pink peony buds will bloom tomorrow. The sun has now set, and all solar lights are on. An old woman sits among the flowers in her garden.

Poet Bio

Madisen Bellon is a poet and fiction writer. In her spare time, she enjoys reading fantasy novels, bird watching, and playing video games.

Overgrown Garden – SK MEENAKSHI

Bluebells and daisies; sunlight pooling softly in my overgrown garden, Green and white butterflies flit between the petals of a rose, A wind chime peeling out scant notes in the humid air of April; a crumpled letter on a wooden desk, A patch of dandelions, a summer of sweet slumber and clandestine dalliances.

Barefooted and gauzy dresses draped over the river stones; tinkling laughter in silver shimmers,

Wine-soaked confessions; stealing glances across party halls and buffets, A summer painted in hope and inevitable separation; our very own cottage-core romance,

Straw hats and gardening shears, buttermilk and lavender perfumes.

Perhaps we lost ourselves in the whisperings of dreams and second chances, Do you remember our entwined hands and talks of childhood crushes?

Do you remember the blissful repose and pretentious brunches in fields of rainbow flowers?

Your eyes, a shade of orchid and blue pansy, swaying evasively in March winds.

Do you remember our forever promises under indigo skies and melting dawns?

Do you remember crystal tears and blushing cheeks, whiffs of devotion intoxicating us?

Do you remember honeyed bodies splayed under moonshine, fingers of sugar and spice?

Do you remember chequered aprons and torn hems? Do you remember our kitchen music?

Beethoven and Debussy- did you ever think of abandoning me in dandelion fields?

Do you remember the lipstick smudge on my cheek the day you left me?

Twitching faces of grief and tightened throats; words souring on my tongue like curdled milk,

Fingers sinking into strawberry jams and upturned skirts, lace and silks on your skin.

Yellowed photographs; rocking in my wicker chair and whispy white strands of hair,

I remember a girl I fell in love with 20 years ago- Claire, Always tasting of surging agonies and strawberry-kissed desires, A mole under her lip, raven locks and calves like pink lilies, a fairy of heartache.

Long nights and chill winds; I remember lulling her to sleep, Blowing raspberries on her neck, how her eyelids would flutter!

Claire Claire! You haunt me anew every daybreak and nightfall alike!

My dear Claire! Where shall I seek for you again? How do I clutch the ghost of you? Always slipping through my fingers, out of my reach, the blaze of your grins smite me!

A tune I played for you on my violin, I hear it everywhere! Soundtracking the way to my deathbed, blurring landscapes and buried memories.

Claire, my sweetheart, I wish I'd written to you! Which nook of the world have you nestled into?

I'll jerk every nest of our repressed longings until I weave you into existence! I plunge my hands into the cold of the lakes, shall I find remnants of my Claire here? A bowtie perhaps?

I sift through the grass, shall I find my Claire here? An earring perhaps? I ransack my cabinets and drawers, shall I find my Claire here? A chapstick perhaps?

The clucking swans; their white circles on damp turfs, A silver archway and a swing; Claire's mirthful laughter and her fair feet dangling in the air,

I recline on the swing and uncover a note folded between the leaves of honeysuckle,

"Of all the flowers: YOU."

Claire's beautiful penmanship, a lipstick mark on the edges of the crumpling paper. I burst into tears, dizzy with a yearning for a lost love.

Tender-hearted for that warmth of forgotten touch and the maroon crush of a kiss.

Passion trickling from a sliced peach; under the shade of bamboo trees, Goodbyes and hellos, love and hate, anger and fondness- a squall of choices pelting us.

I chose her, she chose to walk away. California and a doctorate in microbiology, square-framed glasses and a husband in a lab coat, Sleek cars and walkways dusted with autumn and pink blossoms in spring, The backyard of toys and softball, are you happy, Claire?

How is domesticity treating you? How are you blending in with heteronormativity?

Do I visit you in stray thoughts? Passing fancies of illusion and colour?

Do I creep upon you in your leisure hours? Do the words in your novel tumble over your head?

Do you listen to Debussy on the radio? Do you bask in the lingering recollections sometimes?

Do you preserve them in an earthen pot? Or do you take a knife to them?

Poet Bio

SK Meenakshi (She/He/They) is an undergraduate student pursuing her degree in BA English Honours at Kristi Jayanti College, Bangalore, India. She has published a poetry collection titled, "Shades of Solitude." She is an avid reader and an aspiring scriptwriter.

Sun & Grease – DEVON NEAL

The man at the drive-through window that ordered the sizzling double-burger layered with bacon has both front windows down and in the passenger seat there are two oots of yellow echinaceas, their noses fuzzy, lapping up the early afternoon sunlight. At home, he’ll swallow the bubbles

of his soda while they sway in the thick evening, tossing plump round bees between them.

Poet Bio

Devon Neal (he/him) is a Bardstown, KY resident who received a B.A. in Creative Writing from Eastern Kentucky University and an MBA from The University of the Cumberlands. He currently works as a Human Resources Manager in Louisville, KY. His work has been featured in Moss Puppy Magazine, coalitionworks, Sage Cigarettes Magazine, Rough Cut Press, and others.

Wandering Soul – MADALYN LOVEJOY

Oh wandering soul

Come sit beside me

Under the moon

To see and to hear

All that’s restless

In the darkness of night

An introspective sigh

Is breathed out into the world

The creaking of crickets

And the howling of dogs

Fill the sky with a cacophony of sound

I find comfort in you by my side

Poet Bio

Madalyn R. Lovejoy (she/they) is a genderqueer lesbian studying Psychology and Gender, Women’s, & Sexuality Studies at the University of Iowa. They enjoy knitting, reading books, and being out in nature. Recent work can be found at Querencia Press, Delicate Friend, and sage cigarettes magazine. They are online @mad_lovejoy.

heat undulates at midnight, as if affection for you rampages in my heart. at vague midnight, at moonless midnight, i shake hands with loneliness. being dominated by tears that taste lonely, i listen to music that you love but i don't like

Poet Bio

Yuu Ikeda (she/they) is a Japan based poet, writer. She writes poetry on her website. https://poetryandcoffeedays.wordpress.com/ Her first essay “DROPOUT” was published in MORIA Literary Magazine. And her some poetry collections are available on Amazon and other platforms. You can find her on Twitter and Instagram : @yuunnnn77

Near The Red Light – KUSHAL PODDAR

From the drunken garden, from the dancing silhouettes, the clients and their mates turn their sweaty heads when the bells of the temple sway.

Summer, and yet the garden-floor muffles the footsteps with its layers of fallen leaves.

The fallen ones never leave here and now - they say.

Poet Bio

The author of 'Postmarked Quarantine' has eight books to his credit. He is a journalist, father, and the editor of 'Words Surfacing’. His works have been translated into twelve languages, published across the globe. Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe

Ho Portado Le Stelle A Letto – TRISHALA VARDHAN

(The title is taken from V.E Schwab's novel 'The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue’) today, i take the stars to bed. the constellations that curl around your lips –i catch them in my hand.

Poet Bio

Trishala Vardhan is a 25-year-old Asian Indian who has lived in the lap of language for as long as she can remember. She believes in precious little save the gravity of grief, love, and memory. Words (and the silences that serve and surround them) have always been her way of life. Twitter: @sinsofsekhmet

CHRISTINA ELLISON

He says cold water can't cut grease, which in the language of fathers means: sometimes a problem doesn't have more than one solution, and sometimes that solution means burning your hands and chapping your knuckles and feeling worse than when you started.

He asks me to help fix the roof, which in the language of fathers means:

I want to spend time with you despite the height and the weather, despite the Texas sun turning polyester into sweat, despite the Lord commanding no labor, no work on the Sabbath.

He cheers my name from the bleachers, which in the language of fathers means:

my love has to travel distances, and my love lives on the periphery, yelling and whistling in that no-handed way, sitting on the side to watch, to see you when you can't see me, because I never see you otherwise.

Poet Bio

Christina Ellison (she/her) is an MFA candidate at Sam Houston State University, an Editorial Fellow at the Texas Review Press, and managing editor of The

Measure. Her stories appear in HUMID 14 and 15. She lives in Spring, Texas, with her best friend, air conditioning. Her Twitter is @tinabinarose.

Just The Begging – GABE JACOBS

We fell in love like crashing cars

Swerving across yellow lines

Night after night

Morning after morning

Plenty of times between

We were in love for the smallest forever

A handheld Infinity

Spent sipping water so crisp

You had to tap your feet

Spent sitting in the driveway

Giving mosquitos a wonderful feast

Spent searching for all our love was missing

Time, just a little more time please

My love for you still stings

A hornets nest of remembered things

Crisper than any water could be

Eating at me more than any bug could dream

Missing every second of you I'll never see

All we ever had was a beginning

Yet the pain is endless

Poet Bio

Gabe Jacobs is a poet from North Carolina. He writes to make his heartbreak more tolerable. He is on twitter and instagram @lemon_poetry

Against Stasis – CEINWEN HAYDON

Drive me to the unexplored limits, to the far shores of our existence; adrift in our sea-loch I will scream with joy.

Why does your silence meet my tides of need; you make me expiate my guilt for everything I hope and dream. See, I know more now than I ever did; less than I ever could, before you. Now, après le petit mort, I desire to swim again, wild-eyed in your currents.

I beg waves to take me, heat my blood and carry me far beyond our habitual strokes. Distance maintains horizons, skyscapes and mountains. Proximity fixes our status quo in soft contempt. I fear our untried love worked at first, then once acclimatised, we did not, could not, survive for long.

Poet Bio

Ceinwen E Cariad Haydon [MA Creative Writing, Newcastle 2017]

Ceinwen lives in Newcastle upon Tyne, UK, and writes short stories and poetry. She has been widely published in web magazines and in print anthologies. She is developing practice as a participatory arts facilitator, mainly with elders and believes everyone’s voice counts.

Pink Pasta As A Metaphor – HEATHER ANN PULIDO

You started the evening with plans of spaghetti. Spread out the giniling, the hotdog, the noodles, only to find out in the middle of boiling

that we and all the neighborhood stores had run out of tomato sauce. Not one to squander food or labor, you had me scavenge for cream and whipped up a strawberry pink dinner for two.

As a true romantic, I’ll take your off-color capellini as a metaphor for your affection. The angel hair pasta, a symbol of a lover’s idealization. The hotdog’s redness, a mark of pure romance, if readers transcend its Freudian translations. The giniling, a sign of passion’s capacity to smash our personhood into atomic bits. The all-purpose cream, an allegory of love’s myriad reasons for existing. And your cooking, a demonstration of a youth’s stubborn devotion.

As a new pragmatic, I’ll take your creamy pink pasta and stuff it in my mouth.

The angel hair pasta is foreign to my rice-loving palate. The hotdogs taste exactly like yesterday’s breakfast. The giniling adds a curious shape and texture. The white cream, stained by hotdogs, is even curiouser. And your cooking turned a hodgepodge of ingredients into an edible course.

Our relationship may be short of grand metaphors. But every dinner made is love, broken to be shared.

Poet Bio

Heather Ann Pulido is an indigenous bi author from Baguio City, Philippines. A longtime student journalist and content writer, she is a returning literary artist. Her poems are in Moss Puppy, Sage Cigarettes, and JAKE. When she's supposed to be writing, she's doom-scrolling on Twitter (@heather_tries)