Sad Goose Cooperative Issue #2

Sad Goose Cooperative

Issue #2

The Best Responses to 10 Terrible Prompts

Email: sadgoosecoop@gmail.com

Website: sadgoosecoop.weebly.com

Cover design by Theo Brouse

Fonts: Snap ITC, Bauhaus 93, Eras Light

ITC

Magazine design by Clair Willden

Cooperative

All rights revert to contributors upon publication

dedication

This issue is dedicated to Achilles’s dead boyfriend, Patroclus. We miss him more and more every day. <3

This issue is also, but slightly less, dedicated to Anne Lamott, because I happened to read BirdbyBird while designing this.

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#1 Write a 6-word story that evokes no emotion and that features a contrived twist such as a dead child.

Botulism

Intermission

Honey sends her six feet under

InfiniteInterlude OnTheMoving Walkway

Joined; two graves. Missing; one body.

Why Phyllis Dates

Baby Lauren Sarkissian Intermission. She flutes by; delayed upstream.

Why? Because…his plates read ZATZ-IT.

Adam’s fleas: prolific, stupid, and squashed.

Mona Mehas

Adam’s Fleas

Astrid Egger Larry Julieanna Blackwell Raisa Reina

Gratitude Sarah Freia

“Thanks!”

“Help! He stole my purse!”

Lively Conversations Sarah Freia

White Lies

“One more.” But it was two.

Sarah Freia

““I see alive people,” said Corpse.

Hewaitedforher. Shedied. Time’sUp!SarahFreia

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#2 Write something based on the common goofy writing suggestion of “Words to Use Instead of Said.”

Alternative Dialogue Tags

by Julian Mithra

Don’t you get bored of reading dramatic dialogue with nothing but “he said,” “said she,” or “they said ”? Jazz up your dialogue with this tagging inspo!

>Mood. Let out your inner brat to pick a fight. Intensify non-existent conflict between characters with hyperbolic tags like gaslighted, pressed, insisted, overrode, huffed, stonewalled, and for the opposer, mollified, coddled, fawned, wavered.

>Postmodern. It’s terribly compliant to continue to mark your dialogue with outré “quotation marks,” the name of the speaker, and fluff like adverbs. By not indicating or ascribing any speech, you’ll be at the forefront of the avant garde.

>Tom Swifties. “Shoot for the stars and you’ll reach the moon,” they wheezed breathlessly.

>Wet. Our speech organs are wet. Use descriptions that emphasize the relationship between talking and moisture, such as spat, vomited, ejaculated, slobbered, and steamed.

>Gesture. A reader will appreciate details that permit them to imagine the characters moving in space. Will your beekeeper squirt a bit of smoke when she gets nervous? A racehorse breeder might fiddle with chess pieces, while a romantic interest continually stirs their tea without ever taking a sip.

>Animal calls. By anthropomorphizing animals, we have shared understandings of their core personality, like busy beavers and stubborn donkeys. Choose an animal to match your character and let them roar, chirp, hiss, bleat, low, cry, wail, screech, or honk. I wouldn’t recommend ribbet, gobble, or ultrasonic emission.

#3 Create a society that’s just really messed up.

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Every morning, the veil sparks to life like a generator. The sound precedes the color by only a few moments, it emits a harsh grind as it tries in vain to live up to legend. The village, rigid, that once prospered along the New England coastline sits desolate as at the end of the war. Thus, only one cottage, red clay constructed, persists its practice of inhabitance in the face of the breach that broke the world. At dawn, when the magenta light crawls across the border of the little town, a foul stench begins to permeate the vacant air as the vacuum beyond removes all that remains. By the time the light of the fading sun reaches the north side of town, where the remaining Mr. and Ms. Wrights continue to eke out

Step by Lore Andreassen

meager existence on their farms, the atmosphere feebly crackles, responding to elastic energy within the rift as it struggles to spit out another encroachment. It is impotent. The damage is long done. In its wake, only the banal time of human stubbornness remain.

At 5:14, pre-dawn, the man rises from the bed, the yellowed long-underwear protects him from the draft that moves through the room.

At 6:12, the man goes to the shed.

At 7:46, the woman stands outside the chicken coop waiting for something

At 12:04, the woman takes a bite.

At 6:18, dusk, the man smashes the bottle.

At 7:59, the woman pulls the wooden spoon from the kitchen drawer.

At 8:45, the man and woman go to bed.

At 11:47, the man gets the glass.

And so on.

BREAK 7:44 : Ernest sits quietly by the glass sliding door that opened from the kitchen. His sullen amber eyes sweep across the red oak porch that he and Henry installed when their mother had fallen through the old one. She had been bedridden for three weeks following the accident; he and Henry took care of every chore that had been her responsibility around the home. He remembers her fondly, a bitter old hag, but a mother nonetheless. He sips the coffee. His coffee? It is not black today. Milk. Sugar. The woman wouldn’t approve. Ernest stares through his reflection into the yard. The grass is dead. He contemplates going into town: getting fertilizer. But ultimately decides that today is not the day for travel. The woman enters his periphery but his dulled perceptions mean that it is a few moments before he realizes her visage fully. She holds three, no four, aluminum buckets in her right hand. They are stacked together. He thinks of the Russian dolls that his mother collected. In her right hand she is dragging a bloodied burlap sack. It leaves the ground behind her crushed, any vegetation too dry to recover from this final attack. When she reaches the little chicken coop that houses their six hens, she

drops the bag and rubs her calloused hand against her fore- head. She stands outside the coop and cranes her head toward the violet southern sky. Ernest takes a sip of coffee. He could use something stronger. He watches the willow stretch its arms westward, and then sees the woman quake in the culprit breeze. Her voice indicates no frailness and barrages the landscape with a single word. “DUKE.” Ernest frowns. He treats the coop to an intense gaze and scours the surface for imperfections. Nothing. He shakes his head, his voice scratchy from disuse. “You don’t need Duke, woman.” As expected, the quiet words from deep inside the house do not reach the woman. She shouts once more. “DUKE.” Ernest rolls his eyes and turns to the sink. He swigs the final gasp of coffee and throws the cup into the sink. As the cup glances off the porcelain, a long present crack gives forth and the pieces fall to either side. Ernest closes his eyes and chews on his lip.

At 6:14, the man pulls the packet of seeds from their hiding place.

At 7:52, the woman gives up.

At 9:17, the man pries the hood of the rusted green pickup and inspects the engine.

At 9:59, the woman waters the garden, paying special attention to the tomatoes.

At 12:35, the man and woman break for lunch.

Afterward, the woman comments “You are a filthy slob.”

At 1:37, the man gets into the shower.

At 3:12, the woman lets her guard down.

At 4:11, the man jumps.

At 4:12, the man jumps.

At 5:18, the woman says the prayer.

At 8:45, the man and woman go to sleep.

At 10:42, the woman rolls out of bed.

And so on.

TIMING

BREAK 1:30 : Eleanor opens the ice chest and scans through the frozen goods that remain.

There really is only one option, and she immediately pushes the frozen milk containers to the side and retrieves the frozen ham hock. Moving it to the counter, she laments how many hours she will need to waste waiting for it to boil thaw. She knows cooking the beast by dusk is no small feat, and she struggles against the urge to forget it. She wheels around as the sliding door slams open again, and the man steps into the kitchen. His hair, what’s left of it anyway, stands on end in the back, and is matted down in the front. His entire outfit is soaked and she wonders: “Is it raining? It shouldn’t be raining. It can’t be raining.” But she says aloud, in her gruffness: “Don’t you bring that flood into this kitchen. It doesn’t belong here.” She throws a small bowl at him, striking him in the side. For a moment she thinks there is a chance he will retaliate, but before she can focus too hard on the prospect, the man is gone. He has stormed down the hallway toward the bathroom. Eleanor finds herself hoping that the pipes are frozen, but they run from south of town. They always work. She storms down the few stairs into the main living room, and grumbles to herself at she approaches the hall closet. She prepares before opening it. She opens it. She has forgotten that she came for a mop to clean up the water in the kitchen. Eleanor doesn’t wish to appear foolish, so she grabs a coat so as to have done something during the trip. She determines that she wanted to check the weather. The thought that it was raining was a very strange one. As she moves back into the kitchen, Eleanor hears the shower kick on, and hears what she thinks is singing. She wants to yell at the man, but she resists temptation and moves toward the sliding door. Her feet hit the mat and she looks down. She exclaims: “Where are my shoes?” Her eyes follow around the floor, and she drops to her knees to look below the table. She smiles as she has found her boot. As she exits onto the porch, she remains blissfully ignorant that the floor she was just crawling on wasn’t wet at all.

TIMING

At 5:14, pre-dawn, the man rises from the bed, the yellowed long-underwear protects him from the draft that moves through the room.

At 5:15, the man pauses at the bedroom door.

At 5:28, the man enters the kitchen.

At 5:36, the man pushes down.

At 6:27, the woman rises from the bed, a strange energy overtakes her.

At 6:32, dressed and ready to face the day, the woman exits the house.

At 9:15, the man enters the garage to investigate the strange noise.

At 10:02, the man hums along.

At 11:55, the man and the woman turn southward and shield their eyes.

At 12:00, the woman finds a strange looking tomato.

At 2:16, the woman unloads the shotgun for a second time.

At 4:42, the man finds what he is looking for.

At 5:18, the woman says the prayer.

At 7:59, the woman pulls the wooden spoon from the kitchen drawer. And so on.

BREAK 5:14 : Eleanor lay awake in the bed. Her bed. She could almost see what he was up to, the strange man. He rises from the bed, the yellowed long-underwear protecting him from the draft that moves through the room. He immediately checks the seal around the west window. There is a bit of air leaking in. He decides to head out to the garage. She knows he is moving to the door. He twists the copper handle and opens it. There is a flash of violet light that fills his room. Her room. She sees it, she knows what it means. He stands there, eyes wide. In the hallways before him is a package. He has seen it before. The packages were all left. Once. They maintain themselves now. They feel more at home than her. He reaches toward the package. He hesitates. Something stops him. She is screaming in her head, “Get Away. GET. AWAY.” but she will not say it aloud. There is too much at stake. She works to go back to sleep. The man is not her problem, and he is not her choice to make. But when his hand reaches once more for the red and green striped package, the words echo in her room: “Don’t touch it!” Was that her? Minutes drag on, the man is frozen in place. Eleanor’s eyes feel heavy. She feels as though danger is averted. She watches him, behind her eyelids, as she begins to drift away. He meticulously inspects his hand. Concern wrinkles through his face, and he opens his mouth to match his eyes. For a moment he understands. The moment passes, and he exits into the empty hallway. She can no longer see him, they are alone. She hears him from inside the room. He shuffles into the kitchen. He clatters around among her pots. She considers rising from the bed and telling him what she realized. The package is dangerous. If he sees it in the kitchen he should run. But sleep is easier for Eleanor. She rolls to the side, forgetting the omen she felt she saw. She smells the earthy coffee that the man has begun brewing and wonders where he got it from. The Reynolds were not in the town anymore, so the store was no longer open. No Where to get coffee. They’d followed the small girl into the rift. Eleanor thinks: “Why didn’t we go along?”

At 5:38, the woman dreams of a blue sky.

At 5:55, the man pauses at the bedroom door.

At 6:00, the woman opens one eye, then the other.

At 6:27, the woman rises from the bed, a strange energy overtakes her.

At 6:31, the man and woman meet in the hallway.

At 6:32, dressed and ready to face the day, the woman exits the house.

At 9:00, the woman enters the garage.

At 9:12, the woman screams, grabbing the shotgun.

At 10:02, the man hums along.

At 11:55, the man and the woman turn southward and shield their eyes.

At 12:05, the woman freezes her eyes upon the girl in the distance.

At 2:16, the woman unloads the shotgun for a second time.

At 4:52, the man uses it.

At 5:18, the woman says the prayer.

At 7:59, the woman pulls the wooden spoon from the kitchen drawer.

At 11:47, the man gets the glass. And so on.

TIMING

BREAK 7:57 :

“There’s nothing to worry about, Ellie.”

“I thought I saw something outside the kitchen window.”

“Can we just forget about it? They’re long gone. They’re all long gone.”

“Okay.” ***

“I just saw it, there, again.”

“What?”

“I said: ‘I saw it again.’”

“What are you doing with that spoon? What if there were something out there? Are you going to whip it with a cooking utensil?”

“Are you just going to sit there and be rude? I’m scared, Ernie.”

“Just calm down. Come over here and –“ ***

“Are you going to answer that?”

“Who would be knocking at this hour?”

“I’ll go. Stay there.”

“Be careful.”

“Hello Miss. Can I come in?”

“Who are you?”

“We’re just cold and hungry, Miss. Can I please come in?”

TIMING

At 5:14, pre-dawn, the man rises from the bed, the yellowed longunderwear protects him from the draft that moves through the room.

At 5:15, the man pauses at the bedroom door.

At 5:28, the man enters the kitchen.

At 5:36, the man pushes down. At 5:38, the woman dreams of a blue sky.

At 6:00, the woman opens one eye, then the other.

At 6:12, the man goes to the shed.

At 6:27, the woman rises from the bed, a strange energy overtakes her.

At 6:31, the man and woman meet in the hallway.

At 6:32, dressed and ready to face the day, the woman exits the house.

At 7:46, the woman stands outside the chicken coop waiting for something

At 9:09, the man and woman stare at the violet sky.

At 12:00, the woman finds a strange looking tomato.

At 12:04, the woman takes a bite.

At 12:05, the woman freezes her eyes upon the girl in the distance.

And so on.

BREAK 9:00 : Eleanor enters the garage and sets down her last aluminum pail. Her heart is racing. She’s been running, but she’s not sure from what. She feels around for the pull-cord and clicks the light on. Once it is on, she closes the door she entered. She thinks: “Why is it so dark?” Turning, she sees the half-empty bag. It is labelled: Dog Food. She doesn’t check to see if it actually contains Dog Food. Her thoughts instead turn to Duke, and her blood runs cold. Where is Duke? When was the last time she saw him? She advances on the bag, her eyes meticulously dance across the image of the smiling woman hugging the dog. There is a blue sky behind them, and she almost remembers. The bag falls forward and off of the bench. It lands with a heavy thud, and Eleanor jumps. The bag gives a few secondary twitches, and Eleanor questions the possibility of there being something inside. She slides her feet toward it, and kicks it once with her left boot. An angry hiss greets her foot and she takes a step back. She turns to the wall, spotting the shotgun. Her smile remembers what to do. She winds back. She kicks the bag across the floor waiting for the noise again. But the bag falls limp against the wall, and no noise emits. Eleanor shrugs, smile gone. She thinks: “What manner of person kicks a dog food bag? And where was Duke?” She peers through the window into the back yard. The violet sky greets her, and her eyes are treated to a bit of green lightning that spiders into the back yard. She cocks her head to the side. That had happened before, but she could not remember when. Eleanor turns back to the aluminum pail that she’d come here for. She would need it to water the garden later. She scoops it up and turned to the door. The knowing smile returns: Eleanor’s reflexes kick in. The outer doorway stands open, and a small, black-haired girl stands staring at her from across the threshold. Her face is thin and her skin pulls against the bone. Her stuffed rabbit is missing both of its eyes. From the moment Eleanor drops the pail and grabs the shotgun -- to the moment she pulls the trigger against the small intruder, she is certain that it needs to die.

TIMING

At 12:35, the man and woman break for lunch.

Afterward, the woman comments “You are a filthy slob.”

At 1:37, the man gets into the shower.

At 1:45, the man exits the shower.

At 1:49, the man sits in the bed.

At 2:10, the man sees the girl.

At 2:16, the woman unloads the shotgun for a second time.

At 3:12, the woman lets her guard down.

At 4:11, the man jumps.

At 4:12, the man jumps.

At 4:52, the man uses it.

At 5:18, the woman says the prayer.

At 7:59, the woman pulls the wooden spoon from the kitchen drawer.

At 8:45, the man and woman go to sleep.

At 10:42, the woman rolls out of bed.

At 11:47, the man gets the glass. And so on.

BREAK 7:44 :

Ernest sits quietly by the glass sliding door that opened from the kitchen. His sullen amber eyes sweep across the red oak porch. He sips the coffee. His coffee? It is not black today. Milk. Sugar. The woman wouldn’t approve. Ernest stares through his reflection into the yard. The grass is dead. He contemplates going into town: getting fertilizer. But ultimately decides that today is not the day for travel. The woman enters his periphery but his dulled perceptions mean that it is a few moments before he realizes her visage fully. She holds three, no four, aluminum buckets in her right hand. They are stacked together. He thinks of the Russian dolls that his mother collected. In her right hand she is dragging a bloodied burlap sack. It leaves the ground behind her crushed, any vegetation too dry to recover from this final attack. When she reaches the little chicken coop that houses their six hens, she drops the bag and rubs her calloused hand against her fore- head. She stands outside the coop and cranes her head toward the violet southern sky. Ernest takes a sip of coffee. He could use something stronger. He watches the willow stretch its arms westward, and then sees the woman quake in the culprit breeze. Her voice

indicates no frailness and barrages the landscape with a single word. “DUKE.” Ernest frowns. He treats the coop to an intense gaze and scours the surface for imperfections. Nothing. He shakes his head, his voice scratchy from disuse. “You don’t need Duke, woman.” As expected, the quiet words from deep inside the house do not reach the woman. She shouts once more. “DUKE.” Ernest begins to roll his eyes, but stops, seeing something strange on the coop. He squints to make it out. Is it blood? He moves his hand to the door, but he misses the handle. He tries a second, then a third time. Ernest pulls the hand to his face in order to inspect it. He rubs his eyes and looks back out of the window. The woman is gone, or maybe he was mistaken about seeing her. Instead, it’s just the girl. She is standing there with Duke. He misses his dog. He blinks, and the thought and vision vanishes. He turns to the sink. He swigs the final gasp of coffee and throws the cup into the sink. As the cup glances off the porcelain, a long present crack gives forth and the pieces fall to either side. Ernest closes his eyes and chews on his lip.

Every morning, the veil sparks to life like a generator. The sound precedes the color by only a few moments, it emits a harsh grind as it tries in vain to live up to legend. The village that once prospered on the New England coastline sits desolate as at the end of the war. Only one cottage, red clay, continues the practice of inhabitance in the face of the breach between the worlds. When the magenta light crawls across the border of the little town, a foul stench begins to permeate the air. By the time the light reaches the northside of town, where the Mr. and Ms. Wrights continue to eke out a meager existence on their farm, the air crackles with energy as the rift struggles to spit out another invasion. But it is impotent, the damage long done. The girl went door to door, and took everyone who would let her. Everyone except the Wrights. And before she could be bothered to get them, the war was over. And in its wake, only the banal days of human stubbornness remain.

#4 Write something based on the phrase “We Came,We Saw, We Curevo’d.”

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Holiday Office Ambiance Channel

Cecilia Kennedy

The pour-the-beer-in-themiddle-of-the-day-andhave-a-slice-of-cake office party baby shower was postponed. However, the holiday party--the most anticipated gift exchange of the year--the fire-crackerswivel-chair-we-came-wesaw-we-Cuervo’d dream-is on track for the late afternoon and into the night, and I’ve pulled my back. There’s an online option for out-of-towners, so I log in.

Online, a handful of us gathers. We hit up the chat in several different time zones. Our cameras are off, but we can see the party in full swing in the secret lounge of the headquarters, which is all paper snowflakes and food and shots of tequila and bottles of beer—and I think about getting into my car and driving over there anyway, but when I stand up, an unsettling throbbing sensation in my spine reminds me my pain meds will wear off soon.

Holiday music fades in and out in the background, and our bosses stop by the camera set up at the party to look into it. They seem puzzled. It’s the camera through which we can see the party—but they can’t see our chat unless they log into their phones. Some people come by to wave. Some walk around with a phone, so we can see the different groups up close. I’m the only one from my team that didn’t show up in person, and I’m hoping they don’t care or notice.

About thirty minutes in, I see flashing lights in the background. The chat bustles with jokes about a possible holiday glitch, but then the music comes on clearly, softly; I begin to relax, watch the people mill about,

bunch up at the edges, wander around the food table. There’s still plenty to eat and lots to drink because most people, I suspect, are there for the presents and the group photo at the end. But that won’t happen for at least two more hours.

Along the edges of the wall, flashing lights grow brighter, and they can’t be coming from the tree, which is in another room. The chat grows silent as we watch. A “this meeting is being recorded” message appears, but not one of us set the recording button, and it looks like video cameras in the room are activated as well. We see what looks like sparks hitting the ceiling, and my head spins, wondering if I’m about to witness an electrical fire. Someone types into the chat exactly what I’m thinking, and they ask if the people at the party can see the chat, but they can’t—not unless they’re logged in on their phones—and no one’s looking at their phones at the moment—as the room fills with smoke.

All we hear is holiday music, running on a loop. The lights go out in the lounge; then a massive burst of light erupts near the food table, as coworkers jump back from the explosion. The flashes along the walls in our view seem to pop and send sparks. Someone, somehow has planted and activated fireworks in pots scattered about various places in the massive lounge. We have no choice but to watch coworkers run to the spillover room on the other side and

hope they make it. Plates and plastic cups hit the screen of our camera. The lights come back on, the music still playing. Our co-workers are trying to break down the door, which appears to be locked, while bits of plaster fall like snow in the background, “Silver Bells” lilting. The words, “Thank you for your submission to the Holiday Ambiance Channel” light up our screen in the chat, just as company board members, bottles of José Cuervo in hand, jump out from a closet near the back, laughing, yelling “surprise” over the holiday music. They slap the backs of our stunned coworkers, who stumble about, pulling bits of streamers and cake from their hair. The board members then raise their glasses for a toast, surely because they think they’ve nailed the Holiday Ambiance Channel competition. With their footage, they’ve provided a lasting end-of-year bonus: a wild holiday snow-globe office party unfolding chaotically, to replace the traditional crackling fireplace on hundreds of screens.

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#5 Create the perfect Tinder bio.

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I only know derogatory swear words but I want you to think about my mouth since I will try to kiss you ten minutes into our first date.

#6 Write something based on an instruction manual.

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Some Assembly Required by

Eli S. Evans

This story shall be composed of the following elements:

Setting: The room in which, having failed to assemble the couch that was purchased for the purpose of replacing the worn-out old couch that was recently removed, I have just written: “The room in which, having failed to assemble the couch that was purchased for the purpose of replacing the worn-out old couch that was recently removed, I have just written…”

Plot: If the couch was assembled only until I sat on it, can it truly be said to have ever been assembled? (No.)

Point of view: The desk at which I am writing this story, facing the wall opposite the disassembled couch my failed assembly of which is the subject of this story and yet aware of its presence in pieces behind me, in the room in which, having failed to assemble the couch that was purchased for the purpose of replacing the worn out old couch that was recently removed, I have undertaken, instead, to write this story about having failed to assemble the couch that was purchased for the purpose of replacing the worn out old couch that was recently removed, perhaps so that it will at not be able to be said that, having entered this room intending to accomplish something in particular, I left it having accomplished nothing at all.

Character(s): The type of person to wonder whether, taking into consideration his personal history with regard to activities such as the assembly of a couch, if he failed to assemble the couch but did not die trying, his efforts, despite having failed, might nonetheless be considered a success? Also, arguably, the couch.

Style: Metadiscursive.

Themes: Man vs. Furniture/Self

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#7 Write something using lyrics from one (or more) of the top 10 songs from 2007.

We are the same age

by Julie A Dickson

We are the same age

both over 40 you feel young perhaps 30ish you look at her as if you’re 25 but she knows you’re not

if she looks closer it’s at your wallet not your face lame apology to me

but know this I see you as you are we are the same age

Delilah Unchained

by Leslie Cairns

Wilted forms of daisy chains fall apart, but we still wear them around our heads, as if they’ll listen to us. As the petals fall near our ears, fall neatly near our chins. I watch the willows whimper, weeping, and repeat the nostalgic litany of questions: Don’tyoumissme?AmIgood?Didyoufindme?

And, Delilah,

Did he ever come back for you? I doubt he did. He wrote the songs with guitar picks, then picked up the purse strings as you took off– glistening –and he kept wondering where you went, Without him.

He was jealous of your travel, maybe, the way the job paid for everything. Or, the way you adopted a puppy and didn’t ask him if it was okay with him–

He was floppy ears and prudent kisses, until you decided You wanted a beast, All unconditional, And newness, And rhythm of fur, and sharing your side of the bed.

It’sokaytowanttobewaitedfor,it’sokaytobecalledout.It’sokaytoleave beforeheleavesyou,it’sokaytoplaythesong–sometimes–whenyou’re stillindoubtaboutyourself.WillImakeit?Wastherealovethatlaidmein thegrass,insummer,asweheardtheconcertsplaydownthestreet,that wecouldn’tafford?

Did he really cup your cheeks and blaze them pink from kisses, did he lap you around the track and tell you to keep running towards the worn Sun; past the restaurant windows of tiramisu, alfredo, shrimp scampi, and other such dishes we could not afford. Not back then. Or, is he on the radio, all the airways, even in the pods

That do not connect to anything, almost as if they are disconnected just like

him. & he plays and he sings and it’s on repeat and it’s on every streaming station–

& you just want to throw your slurpee – slush purple and bad for you, iconic– down the screen? Atop his washed out face, his touring place.

Or, maybe you’re still in love with him. No throwing cold in others faces. No words unbroken, daisy chains hung around your door, the kids romping in the yard. The cynic in me dares to think you’re heartbroken–

But maybe you’re not, and you’re still re-playing the way he called you Delilah in your arms: purring, self-awares, as if the world was bad then, as if the way the world squeezed us apart had already come in 2007. All we needed, back then, was a plane ticket to get to one another. We thought it so fraught. We’d buy our cheap sweaters, and our motorcycle jackets and a drink made for sharing, instead of fronting the costs to a red eye flight. Thinking we had time to fall in love, other planes to hurry to & catch, like a stubborn, toddler-like fever.

Now, we know,

The separation hadn’t even begun. The Longing hadn’t even started. The way the cemeteries became bloated, unfed, canaries never sung. Held in storage centers, nursing homes, and mass burial graves that were once storage containers. Where kisses were 6 feet apart, and we were never allowed to cough into our sleeves for fear of losing ourselves, forever. Where we stayed apart from strangers, and we listened to the music, apart, in our own heads. Twiddling our thumbs

Dreaming of the falling, lost loves

Of the cities.

#8 Write the poem of your teenage dreams.

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Teenage Poems

by Vanessa Rickertsen

9 9 #9 Make something based on a piece of IKEA furniture.

Coffeebot by Noll Griffin

blåhaj shopping for valentine’s day

by Jona L. Pedersen

after IKEA closes and all the shoppers leave, a blåhaj comes to life. in this warehouse kingdom, anything is mulig after dark: the haj swims through the mörker of deserted aisles, past vacant beds and couches. it sniffs out fragmented light of a nymåne, scattered across the tidvatten of Svartsjön rippling throughout the store. the haj muses, strangerswillfallinlove intheseloveseats.familieswill raisetheirchildreninthese rooms.theywillsleep inthesebeds,thenwake again.

the blåhaj swims past the many lives and futures which lay shelved in each aisle. but, come morning, the famnig of IKEA magic releases the marionetted haj. the store doors open once more—as they will until the end of days. in an oumbärlig moment, the haj comes to rest on a blue couch. but soon, a pair of hands will reach for its soft plushie skin healing all hampdån scars.

there will be a home in these hands.

Author’s vocabulary of IKEA furniture

blåhaj = blue shark

mulig = possible

mörker = darkness

nymåne = new moon

tidvatten = tidal waters

Svartsjön = the Black Sea

famnig = embrace

oumbärlig = inevitable

hampdån = nettle

10 10

phone or computer background.

#10 Write something based on your

Into the Impossible

by Mona Mehas

Webb delivered unseen images

Such that careers and dreams are made of We science fiction fans fell in love

With magic, near-infrared footage.

Colors highlight billion-year-old dust

Webb delivered unseen images

Like snowflakes gathered as old sages

Their wisdom blatant; must combust.

Stars wave to earth, dark matter, heavy

We’re left searching distant messages

Webb delivered unseen images

Was this a trap, a hidden levy?

Sweep me in bent light, fill my urges

I’ll care for tomorrow at daybreak

No gravity holds me down to ache

Webb delivered unseen images.

C

O N T R I B U T O R S

Lauren Sarkissian

Lauren Sarkissian (she/her) is an irl plague doctor based in Seattle. She is a health communicator, infectious disease researcher, and full-time corgi mom. You can find more of her ramblings, art, and photography at @lrnsark on Instagram.

Astrid Egger

Astrid Egger lives in Daajing Giids, Haida Gwaii (Canada). She loves to watch the tide line and Great Blue Herons. Her stories have appeared in Understorey Magazine, Sleet Magazine, CultureCult’s anthology Haus, and Blink-ink (forthcoming). She is a longterm volunteer with the Haida Gwaii Arts Council.

Julieanna Blackwell

Julieanna Blackwell is a writer of short stories and essays, flash fiction editor for 805lit (emeritus), and conducts Elements&Arcs Writing Workshops. Find her on Twitter @JBlackwell981, or Post News @JBlackwell, or better yet at www.JulieannaBlackwell. com

Raisa Reina

Raisa Reina is a Guyanese born writer currently suffering through editing her first novel. Her work has been featured in or is forthcoming in Rejection Letters, Unstamatic, trash to treasure lit and Six Sentences. She can be reached on twitter @sreads

Mona Mehas

Mona Mehas (she/her) writes about growing up poor, accumulating grief, and climate change. A retired, disabled teacher in Indiana, USA, she spends most days at her laptop with two old cats as chaperones. Previously, Mona used the pseudonym Patience Young. She’s published multiple essays, stories and poetry in Sad Goose Coop, Heartbalm, other journals, anthologies and two museums. In 2020, Mona watched every Star Trek show and movie in chronological order. Follow on Twitter @Patienc77732097 and linktr.ee/monaiv

Sarah Freia

Sarah Freia (she/her) is a multilingual author and actor of North African and Irish descent. She has lived and studied in Paris, London, and Toronto. She recently graduated with an International B.A. in French and Hispanic literature and a French B.Ed (Sorbonne Université / Glendon Campus), and has continued to hone her craft by enrolling at Gotham Writers Workshop and The Second City Conservatory. Sarah is rarely seen without a coffee, or her miniature dachshund, Alphonse.

Julian Mithra

Julian Mithra hovers between genders and genres, border-mongering and -mongreling. Winner of the 2023 Alcove Chapbook Prize, Promiscuous Ruin (WTAW, forthcoming) twists through labyrinthine deer stalks in the imperiled wilderness of inhibited desire. An experimental archive, Unearthingly (KERNPUNKT, 2022) excavates forgotten spaces. Read recent work in Arriving at a Shoreline, warm milk, Punt Volat, The Museum of Americana, and newsinews.

Lore Andreassen

Lore, or as they are known to the avians and god-touched: The Raven Queen, exists in this realm (namely, this Cooperative for Malady Possessed Birds) solely to ask the burning question that burns in the heart of all winged beasts: Quorum?

Cecilia Kennedy

Cecilia Kennedy (she/her) is a writer who taught English and Spanish in Ohio for 20 years before moving to Washington state with her family. Since 2017, she has published stories in international literary magazines and anthologies. Her work has appeared in Hearth & Coffin Literary Magazine, Maudlin House, Tiny Molecules, Rejection Letters, Meadowlark Review, Vast Chasm Literary Magazine, Kandisha Press, Ghost Orchid Press, and others. She currently works full time as a copywriter and does freelance work as a proofreader for Flash Fiction Magazine and as a concept editor for Running Wild Press, LLC. You can follow her on Twitter (@ckennedyhola).

Eli S. Evans

Eli S. Evans is the author of Obscure & Irregular, a small book of small stories that can be purchased from Moon Rabbit Books & Ephemera (and also probably Amazon). A larger book of mostly even smaller stories is forthcoming this spring, hopefully just in time for National No Pants Day on May 1st.

Julie A. Dickson

Julie A. Dickson writes poetry as if her life depends on it, on scraps of paper, voice files and on her laptop. Companioned by two rescued feral cats, Dickson advocates for captive elephants. A Push Cart nominee and contributor to over 50 journals, her poems resonate with life experiences in Misfit, Sledgehammer, Open Door and MasticadoresUS, among others. She has been a guest editor for 3 journals and is a past poetry board member.

Leslie Cairns

Leslie Cairns holds an MA degree in English Rhetoric. She lives in Denver, Colorado. She is a Pushcart Prize Nomination for 2022 in the Short Story category (‘Owl, Lunar, Twig’). She was an honorable mention in Flash 405’s call in Exposition Review (2022). Leslie has upcoming flash, short stories, and poetry in various magazines (Full Mood Magazine, Final Girl Zine, Londemere Lit, and others). Twitter: starbucksgirly

Vanessa Rickertsen

Vanessa Rickertsen would rather die than write one more clever bio.

Noll Griffin

Noll Griffin is a digital illustrator and linoleum printmaker living in Berlin, Germany. His work takes inspiration out of everything adorably odd, nature and nostalgia. He is also an occasional singer-songwriter with a few bedroom-recorded albums to his name floating around.

Jona L. Pedersen

Jona L. Pedersen is a recent graduate from the University of North Dakota, with a B.A. in English and B.Sc. in Fisheries & Wildlife Biology. With one foot in the arts and one in the sciences, their interest in biology often seeps into their writing. Their work appears in North Dakota Quarterly, The Allegheny Review, Floodwall Literary Magazine, and others. Find them on Twitter (@JonaLPedersen) or their website (www.jonalpedersen. com).

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Sad Goose Cooperative Issue #2