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Magazine design by Clair Willden
Copyright © 2023 Sad Goose Cooperative
All rights revert to contributors upon publication
This issue is dedicated to, like, the Starbucks on Snelling in Saint Paul, where I did a bunch of the design work.
We hope you enjoy your spring. And that’s a threat. Signed,
There were abundant Pterosaurs but no Pterodactyl. Triceratops was discovered by a cowboy in Colorado, whose state dinosaur is diplodocus. Diplodocus is longer and thinner than Brontosaurus and Pteranodon had no teeth. Lambeosaurus was a duck-billed dinosaur with a bony, crest on its head and stegosauri were longer than a London bus but with lime-sized brains. My toddler knows all their names and corrects my meager impersonations of their throaty
roars. After all, the seven-syllable Pachycephalosaurus makes more hum than howl. When I ask about his favorite dinosaur, he hesitates, turning the question over his tongue. Reluctant to narrow it down, he breaks into song, Dinosaurs marching one by one…
I did not know I had anger issues until I became a mother. Or perhaps I acquired them along with the flaming ball of baby that I made flesh with my flesh and brought forth smoldering.
He was born into disobedience or of it. Once he cried so long and hard, writhing his still soft head away from me which was every inch as far as he could revolt.
The rage welled up hot and clenched so that I almost dropped him and his stuffed triceratops into his crib like an armful of autumn leaves turned to fire ants. Almost.
Instead, I did nothing and that was the most infuriating thing about being a mother— the inaction, the just one more minute of it all.
for once listening to the flesh-soft, cherry-like smell of angels singing. for once conceding the car wasn’t fast, it was the hill that stood purple. for once accepting that ofsoundmindjust means you don’t have to tell the moon to shut up. for once admitting i don’t know the difference between words and advice everywhere being justdowhateveryoneelseisdoing , i thought, for once, drop dead, you know, drop like the liquid color on skin when it gets paper-torn. for once thinking back on those teenage loves screamed by american musician girls that turned out to be about bad fathers, once i learned the lyrics. you see, at first, simuovevanotroppoveloci,which roughly translates to englishisapain . for once acknowledging everything i say is real, although it’s not true and i don’t know how to say it. for instance: i was the victim of an exorcism, the priest shook olive branches shock-full of leaves all over me while shouting in latin about peace, and i wanted to correct him when he got a verb wrong, but i wasn’t sure i was sure. when i say i was the victim of an exorcism i mean i was the priest hovering about the girl, until she calmly stood up and shot me, then walked up to a mirror and perused the sacred hole in her face. speaking or hearing, whichever way, for once grazing and almost missing: you don’t taste like strawberries, you taste like the color red.
I think it’s best to recall the chapter on Archaeopteryx. I think it’s best to believe that I was a bird in my previous life. I think it’s best to find sense in something like past life regression. I think it’s best to imagine wings protruding from my hunchback, while scrubbing in the bathroom. I think it’s best to burgle any ancient stone from a museum. I think it’s best to assume myself as Michelangelo and start carving wings, obviously better than being Daedalus. I think it’s best to search Da Vinci’s notebook for cryptic formulae to start flying. I think it’s best to feign flight as an Archaeopteryx and land in some prehistoric age on a new Earth.
Can thriving alone in my apartment be a reminder that I am alone in this universe, while the Alpha Centauri of hope simmers into a neutron star of despair. Anxiety is the Sun that scorches breeze and water, only to later cough up fog and snow. The human heart is always such, until any messenger brings tidings of a long-lost sweetheart. Not only love, O Rumi, we also carry the icy grasp of anxiety in our hearts. It’s this feeling that greys hair, knocks out teeth, wrinkles the hide. You may finish that soda in one gulp, but the effervescence pervades your bosom. A single black hole of doubt can defenestrate you from sanity. Can you illustrate with neat diagrams the reasons for Lady Macbeth’s delirium?
My silence screamed, ‘I chose to be exiled’. “Why choose such fate?” - It was the ladies. And I sighed, “How else to be dignified and alive at the same time?”. And they had to accept, for nothing required their consent. I was exiled, that too without notice. What a royal drama! It amused me and appeased the audience. But while I was being swept out from the fortress of civilized to the recluse of brutes, I bore seeds that would be transplanted onto the throne. Years later, the audience returned. I know not for progeny or penitence! Those men and women of assorted births pleaded for my return. I chose to take refuge in the soil that taught me to value trees, while men will always prefer fruits. Let the royal one born of fire choose his stream!
The steam rises, with a hiss. Its smell, warm and damp, with the humid undercurrent of green-blue river smell, speaks of something comforting, something warmly familiar.
Their figures are impressive, even hunched down to fit on the narrow wooden benches in this small room. Their long hair, which they had coiled tight to meet the municipal pool’s regulations, runs loose now, in shining rivulets down their backs. The towels around their waists, down to where their knees would be, are a ratty grayish white, frayed at the edges.
Look down beyond the towels and through the steam, if you let your curiosity overcome the awkwardness you feel at looking too long (more people than you’d think round here have something to hide, and they won’t thank you for the attention) you’d catch a tell-tale silver-blue glimmer.
KZZZZZNK. The machinery at the canning plant next door bleeds through to the steam room. The noise makes the walls shake.
“I don’t know Marv,” says one. He screws up his aquamarine eyes in concentration. “I’m not sure I do remember her.”
“You sure you don’t, Merv?” asks the other. “She’s the only thing I CAN remember from back then. Why, she....” He starts, and looks at his companion sheepishly. “Of course, I know it’s different for you, what with...”
“Yeah. It was different.” Merv reaches out to Marv, places a webbed hand lightly on Marv’s arm. “But it’s ok. I wasn’t alone.” Ma might not have stuck around after she’d laid the eggs, but Merv had always had company. “Hundreds of us.” He smiles to himself. He’d never been short of a brother or sister to talk to, even if he’d wanted to be alone. “And there was Dad, of course, sometimes”. Merv remembers those visits all too well. The shadow of the fishing boat above. The solemn face, obscured by the diver’s mask, the tentative hand. Half curiosity, half concern. Maybe the ghost of questioning love, beneath the fear.
“If mine had stayed, it might have been different,” says Marv. His father had swum away for good, after his mother had given birth. “The sight of the blood was too much for him. Not what he came from.” Marv has seen pictures of his father, his sleek fins and smooth, strong body. He knows his gills are from that side of the family.
“I wish I’d had that, Marv. What you had. A mother who could hold you in her arms. To be held, so warm.”
KKZZZZZNK went the machinery next door. The lights flickered.
“It was good.” Marv smiles at the memory. “She knew how to make me feel safe. It wasn’t easy though. The other kids...” Marv can see their faces, twisted into jeers, now. However hard she tried to help him hide it - however sturdy the wheelchair, however many layers of blankets, hair grown out seaweed long - it was only a matter of time before word got out. Only a matter of time before their things were back in boxes, tied to the rattling flatbed of the pickup, on their way to somewhere new.
At first Marv had remained wary. This place may have been different from the other small towns Marv and his mother had tried to settle in, but it was still a small town after all. Until one night, under a blood streaked moon, it happened. As the wicker hare crackled and melted, the banners advertising the
annual May Festival fluttering in the updraft, he’d looked at the orangered flame-lit faces around him and realized he was home.
“I can see that Marv, I really can.” Merv looks down at what might have been his feet, had the tides been a little kinder to his father’s ship those long years ago, the wind less vicious. “But it’s not easy. This place.”
KZZZZZNK goes the machinery next door. Another batch of tuna canned and ready to load onto the delivery trucks. Merv shrinks down on the bench, hands over his ears.
Marv frowns. He’d tried to get Merv out the house. It was easier to stay home. The water in the bathtub was warm, and they were safe. Merv had his painting of course, but Marv still sensed that there was something wrong. A sense of distance, as if a part of him were trapped under glass.
With hindsight, a trip to the aquarium may not have been the best way to get back out into the wider world. Not after the ghost turtle had let them loose, Sid the Fortune Telling Squid and Mad Martha and the rest, to exact their revenge. They had been lucky to escape with their lives. And this trip wasn’t turning out any better.
“I know Merv. It’s not perfect. But it’s what we’ve got. We aren’t the only ones who need a place like this. Look at Murray. The guy may be a parcel of eels in a skin suit, but he
makes the best of it. Do you think we’d have it any easier at sea? The clownfish would laugh us out of the water. And the sharks.” Marv shudders. The great shadowy shapes moving through dark tides haunted his dreams.
“It doesn’t stop me wanting it, Marv. I could see them again. Maybe I could find her...” Merv too wakes restless from dreams: his hundred brothers and sisters playing in the current, so tiny a guppy could swallow them whole. The seaweed forest they could get lost in for hours, rippled light down from the surface of the water. His mother’s eyes, round and shining in the dark.
“You found me, didn’t you?” Marv blinks his clear gray eyes a little more rapidly. Time had passed, Marv had grown, his wariness had ebbed, and this town had begun to feel like somewhere he could stay. But that retreating tide didn’t last. Soon it was replaced by something else, a new need that grew, a trickle at first, but gathering little by little, into a rising flood, until its current ran in a surge through his body. He didn’t know what it was. All he knew was that he needed to be near water, and he needed to sing.
They were far from the sea. Its whisper well out of the range of even Marv’s hearing. But there was still the river. Marv saw visions of the river, night after restless night, until the weight of his longing was too much to bear. So one night he slipped out of bed, listening for the
deep, even breathing in the next room that showed his mother was asleep, and wheeled himself quietly out of the house.
“You found me, more like.” Merv smiles. So many lonely nights. So much time swimming in memories. The ocean he’d lost, and everyone he’d ever loved with it. Merv had begun to think he’d never find anyone who could bring him back to the soothing water.
“You were beautiful.” Marv remembers the faint blue-green glow that had risen from Merv like a halo that night, as he lay on the jagged rocks in the center of the river, the moonlight flashing silver off his scales. His voice, deep and clear, over the water. Marv knew then what it was that he wanted, as he slipped from his chair and struck out through the chill towards the rocks.
“And so were they.” Merv remembers the small knots of men gathering along the banks of the river, as the song rose into the night in harmony. They stood perfectly still, or swayed ever so slightly to the song. Sometimes one of themwith more courage than the others perhaps, or more deeply under the spell - would wade out into the water, and get close. No watery doom would meet him, only the kiss of silver as legs and mouths and muscled tails entwined. How good it felt to share each one of them with someone Merv could love.
“Maybe we could go there. Tonight.” Marv shifts along the bench, so that his tail presses against Merv’s.
A slow smile begins to spread across Merv’s face, as gentle as a ripple of a soothing tide. “You know Marv, maybe we could.”
Leave the steam room now. Leave the pool behind you, and the canning plant next door. Leave the stink of chlorine and the tang of hot metal and smoke. And walk. Down through main street, past the general store and the portal to somewhere you’d rather not see. Past the tumbledown outer suburbs, and down to the river.
The sky, grey-pink and rippling as salmon moving upstream. The dark rocks, shining. And something new, rising now. Merv and Marv’s voices rising again into the night, notes entwined as deep and as sweet as warm wine in winter. Rich with the promise of scales on glistening scales, the precious gleam and the warm flesh and the song of salt running underneath it all like a blessing.
For whoever may care to listen. For each other, and for you.
Protestantism encourages a deep, interpersonal relationship with God outside of church- take God to the mall, introduce him to friends, laugh and eat and tell him all the things you are too ashamed to tell anyone else
in the car outside outside his house He already knows, of course, but is a good sport and will play along
Lately my prayers have become more and more formal I feel lousy asking my friend for things
Grant me good health (too small) Grand my family good health, grant the whole world good health and food and shelter (too big?)
It’s always selfish or grandiose
Sometimes I fear the part of myself angling towards defeat Perhaps I will dig my hand in and pull out nothing
It’s happened before but what if this time is different?
Will I grow bitter- let a second skin crawl across my once holy palmslet such callousness pervade me?
Optimism, my girl, optimism
Soak your hands in cocoa butter, Take razors to those callouses and dig in again Such is the nature of faith, that yearning, that belief that one day you will dig in and find yourself a plum
frog disobey cloth well-made necessary shave stocking cry furry elbow vest answer abashed sea satiate obese letter well-off hope ball mint wine sisters send crowd kidmanager occur railway ancient metal high cure seashore ill-informed super dizzy squeamish surmise bite bite silver camera wrench translate compare impeach kitty unruly orange the a one an or but to so by where when midland enoch footprint keynote attract dodge photopost waiving roleplay transcription denials mortuary watchdog devotee confluence showed checkout identifier stinging patched safeway pathologists pollutant napkins blogged moss opticians entirety spanked prudent tooltip medals heres nightly cinematical program safer deceived rambling practices chosen subdomains dragonfly arcs careless sitemap goddess fallacy repose precaution thatched ontology dignitaries cumulative busted ground jolly controls marginalized preventing reload coordinated endure offers injure prosecution pruning aforesaid starved undertaken gnostic admins sworn has pronounce yeast crossing pickle oxygen then grannies lawfully resuscitation balloons displaying stepped enclosed warn receipt multiplicity wallet lighted specialise freeze parker inhibit subsidised directional sis considerate archaeologists tome insurgents pleasure neutral pichunter remind holland persists bowes gladstone freezing reefs encounter thermostats tacoma biologists honorable foreseeable harvester barter redeemable labs outcry afro convergence summary girlie publication deference vandal hill beggars improbable rousing cowboys accountant everlasting emulators movers armband fertilized weaving phonological appear vacant transitions compensate journeyman abnormalities and
Valerie opened the car door for Alec to gently drop Robert into the backseat. Robert was clutching his stomach and moaning, something about God and something about his mother.
“Listen, man. It’s going to be just fine. The ER is only like 15 minutes away,” Alec said to his best friend.
Robert grunted in reply.
Valerie and Alec slipped into the front of the car while Valerie rummaged through her bag; she was carrying all three of their wallets, Robert’s shoes, and a half-eaten bag of potato chips.
“Do you have the car keys, Val?” Alec asked.
“No, why would I?” Valerie replied.
“Because you said we had everything while I firefighter-carried Robert out of our apartment.”
“Please, he had his arm around your shoulder with his feet on the ground,” she said. “I wouldn’t call that a firefighter carry.”
“Can we please go?” Robert whispered from the backseat.
“Check the ground—maybe you dropped them on the way to the car,” Valerie said.
Alec swung the car door open and leaned down. The keys were resting on the concrete. Valerie smirked as Alec started the engine, but didn’t say anything. They hit every single red light on the way to the emergency room. Robert’s moans from the backseat bounced around in Alec’s truck. Valerie resisted the urge to cover her ears. When they
arrived at the hospital, they were all given neon wristbands and ushered into the waiting room. Robert immediately laid down on the floor and curled into a ball.
Valerie twisted the band around her wrist. The nurse had tied it much too tight, as if she thought Valerie was going to rip it off and run wild through the corridors. Maybe she would if the man behind her didn’t stop coughing in her ear. In the corner across the room, an elderly woman was sobbing. Valerie grabbed her leftover bag of potato chips and started to eat.
“How can you eat right now?” Alec said.
“Our three year anniversary dinner was interrupted by our roommate’s blinding pain. I’m starving.”
Alec rolled his eyes and muttered something under his breath. A twenty-something woman three seats away from Alec vomited into her hands. The smell of parmesan cheese filled the air. Alec looked furious.
“How are you doing, Robert?” Valerie asked.
“I would like to die now,” he said.
“Aw, Rob. You’ll be okay, don’t worry. The nurses will come to take you back soon.”
“I doubt it.”
Valerie and Alec exchanged a glance. This was the most commotion Robert had caused since the three moved in together two years ago. When Valerie and Alec decided they wanted to live together, they quickly realized they couldn’t afford to do so without a roommate, so along came Robert, Alec’s best friend from college.
“Maybe this is your very elaborate way of telling us you don’t want to live with us anymore,” Alec joked.
“That makes absolutely zero fucking sense,” Robert said. “Anyway, I like living with you guys—minus all the yelling.” He clutched his stomach and groaned loudly. He slowly pulled himself up and climbed into the empty chair between Alec and Valerie.
“We don’t—” Alec began. Valerie looked over at him, black mascara streaked under her eyes, and he stopped. The trio was silent for a moment. Other patients were called up, but Robert’s name had yet to be announced. Valerie started a game of Scrabble on her phone while Alec stood up and paced around the room, weaving in and out of the rows of chairs. Valerie updated Robert about her game; she was destroying the other player. She knew he wasn’t listening, but she was desperate to fill the desolate room with something other than groans. An hour passed without Robert’s name being called, without a single glance from Alec to Valerie.
Robert sighed. “I’m sorry I interrupted your special date night. I know you guys were looking forward to it.”
Val crushed up the now-empty bag of chips and attempted a smile. “We just want to make sure you’re okay.” Alec looped back around, and removed his hands from his pockets to pat his friend on the back, but didn’t say anything. A nurse in blue scrubs carrying a clipboard called out Robert’s name. “Thank fuck. It’s been long enough,” he said. He slowly raised himself out of the chair with help from Valerie.
Valerie wrapped her arms around Robert. “We’ll see you soon.”
The nurse and Robert disappeared behind the double-doors, leaving Alec and Valerie to confront their silence, their eroding relationship. Valerie glanced toward the vending machines. “I’m going to grab a granola bar. You want anything?”
“I could go for some Chips Ahoy,” Alec said. “I’ll buy.” Valerie could count on two hands the number of times Alec had offered to buy her something in their three years of dating. He was frugal. She had liked that. In the blinding fluorescent lights, Valerie watched her boyfriend type in the codes on the vending machine and swipe his credit card. He returned to his seat, leaving an empty chair between them, and they ate their midnight snacks in silence—surrounded by sputtering, coughing, and screaming.
Picture this. We’re in this grey apartment in Paris. The windows are wet, we wait for instructions. I wear a contradiction in the form of a beret and denim booty shorts.
Picture Olga. She has the face of a young cherub, round pink cheeks, blood orange lips, you’d like it a lot. We stroll right into January, her and I wordless, beautiful, and hungry.
We drop into golden bakeries, curl our lips around the words: Mille Feuille, Religieuse, Choquette. Isn’t that gorgeous? You’d love to see it. Picture her
leaning over a toilet, tight abdominals pulsing, all the goodness returning, blonde hair falling into the bowl like a violent Rapunzel.
See how we live, a measuring tape on the nightstand, young hips, pretty collarbones popping, glistening like chicken wings at a sports bar.
Now Olga’s so thin I could carry her like a puppet in the crease of my elbow, we could put on a show for you. Delightful! She’s Russian so she won’t understand me, that’s tricky, but she will look delicate and erotic in a dumb way, like an ornate slipper. We’d be dumb together! and we will do exactly as we are told, just look at these open mouths.
When did you get so dull? You fucking nerd. That’s the thing with you soft bois, one minute I’m tilted at a bar feeling beautiful and heard next, I’m waiting to hear about some exhibit. As if I’d be impressed by that anyway, get laid! All so you can tell me about Pollock or probe me till I’m dumb beneath some sculpture that wasn’t made for me? Honey, I wear suits. Take me seriously. I don’t need you. You’re lucky I spoke to you late that night or kissed you by that neon arrow. I hate your boring stories. I don’t wanna hear your latest novel blurb, lick my naked collar pull up this lace skirt, fix me a cold beer, moan my name three times and watch me disappear.
Feast your eyes on the mouth of Spoon River meandering brackish belly bottom lip plate curve along margins of territory only man observes
This is where you meditate well lie mostly like chicken scratch under pregnant clouds thinking strange thoughts when from the split sheath of bulrush husk blooms red-winged blackbird—
common migrant of sea shaped prairies Now you’re sinking you’re thinking into silt and sand through black loam then earthenware right into the riverbed Staring into fogged fisheye lens—northern pike reptilian striped a saline dry burial—then vanished again
Somewhere out there (you think) there’s a snack that mom packed and you can’t wait to see what’s inside
I’ve got a glass of water and a pill on my windowsill.
I’ve got another new book coming in next week,
I’ve got a succulent in a Diet Coke can with minty green hands
Dripping wet condensation silently on the rug.
I’ve got a beaker of caffeine and anxieties that jiggle up and down on my leg.
A beaker of caffeine and the taste of nicotine
being forced inside my mouth. I don’t smoke and I never have but I remember the taste. I don’t know why I go there. Pills with their color coded languages love speaking in tongues. Tongues that can taste but not speak. I’ve got a closet of clothes and a roommate with a lockbox on a shelf in her room. I’ve got to get into that box but I can never find the key. I’ve got solar eclipse darkness shining over me from the hallways and in between bedroom doors that sit still closed and unaware.
I’ve got a basket of pitch black Easter eggs filled
with feelings, secrets, cries for help. You won’t notice.
I’ve got another voice and another set of memories, another pair of lips that spit and sneer. I’ve got that voice whispering in my ears sending me back to the hallway during Easter of 2005. There is a pink dress with lace and buttons
hanging in the sun. Then there’s two hands leading the way to hell. It’s a long way up the stairs. It’s a long way to this moment,
my legs pulled into my chest. I’ve got friends ringing my phone outside a locked door like I’ve gone missing. They’ve got their eyes locked on me for “safety.” I’ve got a doctor who pries in my mind and hypnotizes my invisibilities. Who wrings them out and hangs them to dry. I’ve got a pill sliding down my throat, slithering into my brain. I’ve got a soul that tries to catch butterflies in a fishnet. I’ve got a perfect view that I can’t get rid of. I’ve got an idea that
memories can be forged like second-hand thrift-store-lies. I’ve got an urge to turn black with the closed blinds worrying about whether I ruined something or another. I don’t know why.
Sometimes nightmares shake me awake with rough and calloused hands. Sometimes rough and calloused hands like nightmares shake me awake. I don’t know if I say no or yes or stare at family portraits. If I desperately shriek or become sidetracked staring at his beads of sweat when they pierce my flesh without warning. It’s still 2005. My lungs overflow and parted lips
are on a one-way train to my own. I’ve got a ticket to that moment. I’ve got him shushing me, his fingers searching, up and down my small arms. Those fingers
sharper than rusty nails sticking out from haunted houses, confetti falling through my hair and Easter eggs hidden in the backyard shushing me, he says it’s not a big deal, but it’s a big deal, it’s a huge deal. This is what nightmares are made of.
C N R O T I
B T R U O S
Jess L Parker lives in Fitchburg, WI with her husband and two-year-old son. Her debut poetry collection, Star Things, is winner of the Dynamo Verlag Book Prize. Jess’ poems have appeared in Gyroscope, Kosmos, and Blue Heron Review. Jess holds an M.A. of Spanish Literature from UWMadison, and an MBA.
gloria glau is italian. she lives in rome, where she is good at mental illness and bad at everything else.
Ankur Jyoti Saikia (he/ his/ him) is a forestry researcher based in India, who writes poems and believes in his self-coined maxim: ‘scribble, submit, repeat’. Twitter & Instagram: @ amythfromassam
Katy Naylor lives by the sea, in a little town on the south coast of England. She has a deep and abiding affection for pigeons. Katy is the editor of voidspace zine (@_voidspace_zine) and has had work published in places including Ellipsis Zine, Reflex Fiction and Misery Tourism. Find her on twitter @voidskrawl
Zakaylah Porter (She/her) currently resides in her hometown of Lansing MI, where she is pursuing a degree in creative writing and publishing. She has poems and short fiction on personal blogs as well as non-fiction essays. She will also be featured in Sophon Lit’s inaugural issue this summer.
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.
Grace Tsichlis is a creative writing and publishing graduate student at DePaul University. She lived most of her life in Texas, but now resides in Chicago for school and work. She’s a huge fan of baking, earl grey tea, and stand-up comedy. You can find more of her work in They Call Us, a feminist literary magazine, and Runestone Literary Journal.
Charlie Brogan is a poet and model living in London. She is currently studying for her MA in Poetry at The Poetry School. Her work has been featured in PEACH Mgzn, ASH, Dear Damsels, Stylist, and Aurelia. You can find her on @charlieblergh
Daniel J Flosi sometimes thinks they are an apparition living in a half-acre coffin within the V of the Mississippi and Rock Rivers. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Funicular Magazine, Olney Magazine, Rejection Letters, Feral Poetry and many more can be found at dkflosi.wordpress.com. Find his chapbook at BullshitLit.com Drop a line @muckermaffic
Maddie Holm is a 26-year-old counseling intern finishing up her final year of graduate school. When she is not working, she enjoys writing poems and short stories in her free time. Her current passions are treating eating disorders, watching horror movies, and adding fried eggs to her ramen.
