‘I Am the Undertow’, ‘My Memories Live in Ashtrays’, ‘The Sand That I Am’, ‘Serene Storms’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

I Am the Undertow

The birds sing above me

urging I retreat

as I swim breaststroke

in a river

that cannot project me

forward

In my peripheral vision

I notice her

diving beneath the surface

plunging deep into

temptation

before reasoning

can circle overhead

I do not swallow

more than a mouthful of air

before I find myself

barreling down her trajectory

abandoning my

airborne adversaries

Submerged in the passion

of my pursuits

the song of the warblers

is drowned out by

the sloshing of seduction

relentless in its efforts

to overwhelm my eardrums

My Memories Live in Ashtrays

In the comfort

Of my living room

I light up

Might as well

Inhale these toxins

To rid myself of

Others

With each drag

There is a greater

Demand to

Withdraw

But I must

Poison the grief

That sits

In my lungs

A tray beside me

Holds discarded ends

Of recollection

There they live

Trapped in soot

Covered creases

A reminder of

Memories that

Never finished

Burning

The Sand That I Am

It is sand that

Rains down glass

The beads

Of an hour

Dropping to

Their death

As am I

For I too

Am sand

Measured by

The minute

Often stuck

In unreachable

Crevices

Once I was

Stone

But I was

Broken down

Weathered

For the better

I am still unsure

It is sand that

Serves

As a vessel

For rebirth

Is this

The sand

That I am

Serene Storms

I awake to

summer’s storm

pecking at my window

in the early hours

of morning before

the sun tries to

peek from behind

clouds concealing

its shine. A calm

washes over with

the rain tapping

on roof shingles,

creating a concord

that coincides with

rumblings of the earth.

There is no light aside

from brief illuminations

casting shadows

of shaking trees

on shutters bearing

the wind’s rage.

Calamity prevails

outside, but within

my heartbeat settles.

I am delighted by

this interlude.

Alyssa Troy is an English teacher in Bucks County, Pennsylvania. She received her B.A. from Rider University and has an M. Ed. from both Cabrini and Eastern University. Her poems are published or forthcoming in Blue Unicorn, Cool Beans Lit, In Parentheses, 300 Days of Sun, The Road Not Taken as well as other journals and magazines. She is the author of Transfiguration (2020).

‘The Creation of Joe Costello’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

The Creation of Joe Costello

The man awoke. It felt as though a bullet was ricocheting around his skull, destroying his memories. Closing his eyes, he collected the most basic of information and then saw something glowing deep within. He reached out. From the pulsating mass of grey matter, he pulled out a name.

It was Eric.

Eric gasped. He was sat on a dusty fabric seat, travelling at a high speed, and realised that this was a train. Eric sat, knuckles whitening as he squeezed his thigh. He breathed deep as the carriage plunged into the tunnel. The overhead lights failed to illuminate, burying him and those around in darkness. He breathed out, and when he tried to inhale, his chest tightened. The darkness around was thick. Eric clutched his chest, and his vision faded; he was about to pass out. Then, light flooded the carriage, and with it, air into his lungs. No one else seemed to feel what he did. The woman across the aisle was staring out of the window with longing, and a light, thumping bass came from her headphones. Eric cared little for music; it all sounded the same. In front of the woman sat a suited man, who kept glancing over his shoulder with a look of annoyance, but she didn’t notice.

The sounds of children surrounded Eric, but all he could see was a silent, small girl, standing by the doors holding a red, heart-shaped balloon. She smiled at him, and her eyes held intelligence beyond her years. Then, an announcement rang out; the next stop was coming up. Eric couldn’t remember why he wanted to go here—or even where here was—all he knew was that he had to get away, away from his life. Eric got up and swung his backpack over a shoulder. He approached where the little girl once stood and waited. And through the window, the towering city lay bare before him. Skyscrapers stood on end like the hair on the back of giants. The streets were pristine, and devoid of cars, busses, trucks. People walked through the city; others were on push bikes. Pollution-free air wafted in through the window. Eric smiled as a light mist descended from the sky like an ashen blanket.

The train pulled into the station, and the doors slid open. The terminal was empty, except for several families that stood waiting for those aboard. A woman stripped off her headphones, and ran into the arms of another, kissing them. The suited man lifted a child into the air and smiled, tears gathered within his eyes. But no one waited for Eric, at least, so he thought. Then, from the distance, a dark-skinned man approached. His eyes were light, and his hair dyed a disgusting shade of yellow. He smiled at Eric and said: “Hey Joe, took you long enough.” Before pulling him in for a hug.

Eric went to correct him but realised he couldn’t remember anything about himself. How sure was he that Eric was even his name? The idea of not knowing himself caused a point of pressure to form within his mind—it was about the size of a pinhead. As he thought about it, the name Joe did feel more like him. He did not know who this person was, but he wanted a friend. So, he took the name with pride, and said: “Hey, how are you?”

“I’m good man,” he said. “Come, let me show you to your apartment.”

“How do you know where I’m staying?”

“That’s my job,” the man said with a smile. “Come on then.”

Joe followed the man, not caring to ask for his name. As they left the station and stepped into the street, the mist enveloped them, and Joe could only see several feet in front.

“Where are you from?”

“Nowhere interesting,” Joe said. “Always found myself moving from place to place.” He figured lying was simpler than having to explain his lack of memory.

“Ah, a drifter. Man after my own heart. You see, I’ve been guiding people to their destination for a long, long time. It always warms my heart to help someone like you find their way to where they belong.”

Eventually, the man brought him to one of many high-rise apartment buildings, which punctured deep through the mist and into the sky. As the door came into view, someone walking in ahead of them, and a red heart-shaped balloon slipped inside. He felt oddly at peace here. The city was, in his mind, idyllic and appealed to him on a level deeper than he understood.

“Here we go,” the man said. “If you need anything, just call. You still have my number, right?”

Joe pulled out his phone and looked through his contacts. Blank. “Think it got wiped when I changed SIMS, sorry.”

“No worries, pass it.” The man took the phone and tapped away. “There we go.”

Joe glanced at the phone; the man put himself down as Mike. “Cheers, Mike,” he said. He approached the apartment building and paused. He thought to himself, Do a Columbo.

Joe turned and said, “Remind me, which room is mine?”

Mike laughed. “Penthouse, Lieutenant.” He winked and walked away. After several steps, he too ‘did a Columbo,’ and said, “It should rain soon. Your favourite weather, right?”

Joe nodded and smiled; he didn’t expect this guy to catch on to what he was doing. He figured his weather comment was a lucky guess. Rain is popular, after all. But he waved and entered the building. In the distance, he caught the face of the little girl from the train. The elevator doors slid shut in front of her; he could have sworn she was smiling at him.

Stepping across the threshold into the lobby presented Joe with a cavalcade of scents. The sanitised, sterile smell of a hospital provided a canvas for the aroma of a greasy English breakfast. And despite the smell, and the clinking of silverware, the restaurant across the lobby looked to be empty, with a dim light flickering towards the back end, illuminated various buckets of paint and wooden offcuts. An absence of presence within the hotel increased the pressure building within his frontal lobe. The entire city had this emptiness. It was the same emptiness that permeated from the depths of his soul.

The lobby itself was small, with a circular desk manned by two people sitting in the centre. Behind them, shelves ran along the walls, lined with decorations from plants to statuettes. Above, small bulbs hung onto scaffold shaped wood, like fireflies hanging motionless in the air. Joe approached the desk, and the young woman smiled. She had dark hair cascading down her shoulders and olive skin.

“Mr Costello? We’ve been expecting you. Here’s your key.” She slid it across the table.

Joe Costello? He thought. Sounds more like me than Eric Costello. I’ll take it.

“Sir?” The woman’s name tag read Genevieve. “Everything okay?”

“Sorry, Genevieve. Thank you. I’m in the penthouse, correct?”

“Correct sir. Please, just call reception if you need anything.”

“Will do.” Joe walked towards the lift and hit a button. After several moments, the doors slid open. Revealing a chimpanzee dressed in a white shirt and red vest, loose beige trousers, Joe’s attention was drawn to the red, polka-dotted tie he was wearing.

“Going up?” The chimp said.

“Penthouse, please.”

“Key card, sir.” The chimp held out a calloused hand.

“Oh yeah, of course.” Joe fumbled around and handed him the card. “There you go.” Something felt wrong. Could Chimps speak? Something in the deeper wrinkles of his brain was screaming at Joe, telling him that this was not normal. Eventually, he acted on these urges, and said, “Worked here long?”

“Most of my life, sir.” The chimp slid the card into the elevator panel, and it lurched into action.

 “Is English your first language?”

“Technically.”

“What do you mean?”

“‘Chimpanzee’ isn’t an officially recognised language. Doesn’t matter now that I’m here.”

“Got any family?”

“Please, sir, I would rather not talk about all that.”

“Of course… My apologies.”

“No worries.” The elevator bell dinged. “Ah! Penthouse Floor. Have a lovely stay.”

“Thank you…”

“The name’s Archibald, sir.”

“Thank you, Archibald.” Joe smiled and stepped out. Before him was an almost barren room. The blinds were closed, and the lights were off. The room was illuminated by a television set playing Ransom for A Dead Man. It revealed the all-white room, even the sofa and television set were white. There were no decorations, and the room was hardly furnished. Then, the sound of rain pattering down on the window broke the dulcet tones of Peter Falk. Joe rushed towards the curtain and pulled it open, revealing a large storm overhead. Rain was beating down on the city, and he smiled. Joe walked back towards the white sofa and sat down, drifting to sleep.

He awoke sometime later; the TV had stopped playing Columbo hours ago. The city lights from outside illuminated his room, and on the TV, he could see his reflection. Slouched back on the white sofa was a skinny man, no older than twenty-five. The man was clean-shaven and had dark hair, and even from within the depths of the television, his face distorted as it was, he could see the sadness in his eyes. He couldn’t remember why he was sad; he just was. And the last thing Joe concluded was that he looked nothing like a Joe Costello, the name wasn’t his—he was sure of it. But he had nothing else, so he clung to it. To have at least one thing he could call his was enough to maintain him for now. The material things surrounding him weren’t really his, were they? He had assumed this identity after all. But, even then, within his soul, within the essence of himself they felt like they belonged to him. His brain throbbed from the thought.

Joe pushed himself out of the chair and sauntered towards the television. He knelt and pushed the button; it flickered to life. A blue light bathed the sofa, and Joe slipped back into his seat. The TV flickered. For a moment, a woman’s face appeared. Joe jumped out of his seat, and again it appeared; he couldn’t make out the details. All he could see were red lips and blonde hair. He stayed standing for a moment; the TV fizzled and on it, Bruce Forsyth began introducing contestants on The Price is Right.

Joe shook his head and switched off the television. He was delirious. The day’s events had taken a toll on him. As Bruce’s face disappeared, the room reflected itself at Joe, and behind him, he could see a little girl with a red, heart-shaped balloon. But when he turned around, no one else was to be seen. He took a deep breath and checked his watch. Five A.M. and still dark out, he figured it must be late December or early January. In an instant, his vision faded, and he saw flashes from the past. Fireworks, a blonde hair girl, and liquor were all he caught before something dragged him back to reality.

Joe clutched his chest and limped towards the elevator. On the door was a scribbled note, which read:

I know who you are. Meet me. 8 pm, bar on St. Michael's Street.

Joe couldn’t catch his breath. The pressure within his mind continued to build and hit the elevator button. The memories that flooded him were dissipating fast. Who was that woman? Was she the one on the TV? What about that party, New Year's presumably? Joe figured someone had to know something. Maybe the girl with the balloon could help? Did she write the note? No one else could have. As he pondered this, the elevator slid open to reveal Archibald. “Going down, sir?” he said.

Joe stepped into the elevator and said, “Lobby, if you would.”

“Certainly.”

The two stood there in silence for a minute, until Joe said, “So, Archi, what brought you into this business?”

“There’s something satisfying about helping people who are lost.”

“My driver said something similar when he dropped me off—wait, you believe I’m lost?” 

Archibald let out a thin smile. “If you don’t mind me saying, sir, you do seem extremely lost.”

“Tell me about it.” Joe laughed in an exhausted manner. The way one does not out of bemusement due to defeat. “Honestly, I don’t even know the date.”

“Are you feeling well?”

“If I’m being honest, I can’t remember anything.”

“Why would you divulge this to me, sir?”

“You just have a trustworthy face.”

“It’s because I’m a chimp, isn’t it?”

“What? No, I hardly noticed—”

“It was a joke, sir. Either way, today is the first of January 2023.”

The elevator came to a halt, and the doors slid open. “My stop. Thanks Archi.”

“Just a moment, if you don’t mind, sir,” Archibald said, walking out of the lift. “Perhaps I could come with you, show you around the city? Help with this memory issue?”

“You can’t just leave work, can you?”

“Oh this? This is a hobby. Come on now.” He walked past Joe and gestured for him to follow. “Hey, Genevieve.” He waved to the receptionist. “I’m off out.”

“Stay safe.” She waved to Joe. “If you want breakfast, I recommend the café just down the street. The hotel restaurant is under renovation.”

Joe jogged to catch up; the ape moved faster than expected. He ran out and looked up and down the street. Archibald was nowhere to be seen.

“Archi? Archibald!” His voice echoed across the empty streets, but no one returned the call. His guide disappeared and Joe didn’t feel as though he truly knew himself. The pressure within his mind had swollen so much that it was like a balloon had been inflated within; it was close to bursting.

Not being sure what to do, he decided the best idea would be to follow Genevieve’s suggestion and find the café. As he walked, he continued to yell out for Archibald, but as he did, the rain rolled in and his words were lost in the wind. He couldn’t hear himself over the pattering of rain. It pounded down, harder and harder. It obscured his vision, and he couldn’t see more than three feet in front.

Despite this, Joe was fine. The rain was warm and pleasant to the skin. As it enveloped him, depriving him of all senses, he felt at peace. But then, from the silence and within the grey void outside his vision, came the sound of music. Joe stood still. He wasn’t sure what it was, but it was familiar. He stood, letting the rain drench his clothes; they were heavy. Cogs in his mind turned, and he stepped closer. Then another. Soon, he could hear a voice over the bass synth. It clicked. The song was Believe by Cher.

Joe shook his head. Tears ran down his cheeks and into his mouth; their salty taste was the only thing differentiating them from the rain. Wiping his face, he ran. As he did, the café broke into his vision, destroying the sense of deprivation. The music was coming from within but seemed more subdued and, as he entered, it had almost faded in its entirety. It played in the background, overridden by the bustle of conversation. The sweet scent of a buttery sweet coffee dancing up his nasal passage, accompanied by the soft cinnamon notes of a pastry. Taking it in, he figured the beans must have been sourced from Guatemala. When Joe first saw his reflection, he didn’t take himself for a coffee connoisseur, but he figured looks deceive—a fact proven as he approached the counter.

Behind it was a tall, well-built man. A man you’d expect to be cutting into a tree in a forest or cutting open wolves and saving grannies. But here he was, smiling and working at what looked to be a coffee shop.

“Hello,” the lumberjack said. “Can I get a name?”

“Sorry?” Joe was taken aback. The pressure continued to build within.

“Your name.” The man’s tone never strayed away from pleasant.

“But, why?”

“To mark your order. It’s just so no one else takes it by mistake.”

“But I know what mine is.”

“Aye, but no point taking that risk, is there? Just tell me who you are, and we’ll know what yours is.”

“I don’t…” Joe paused. He knew his name wasn’t Eric, nor was it Joe Costello. Was it? If anything, he was more Joe Costello than anyone else—it was all he had. He didn’t know who he was. Letting people assume you are someone is one thing, but pretending to be that person? How long does that last? How long until you are that person and no longer yourself? Joe didn’t know. He had no other identity and didn’t want to let go of what little he had. But also, he saw this as an opportunity. He could become anyone with any name. The name’s Lucian Ambrosius Everard. No, that’s ridiculous. Bruce Willis maybe?

“Are you okay?”

“What?” Joe shook his head.

“Are you okay? What’s your name?”

With that one simple question, the balloon within is mind burst. “Shut up,” Joe said. “Just shut up. Who cares who I am, Eric, Joe, Raphaël, Bruce? I don’t have to tell you anything, you’re just some guy. Leave me alone.” He ran out of the café.

As Joe ran to the door, a girl stood watching across the street. A red heart-shaped balloon hung above her, and she smiled. He pulled open the door, and she was gone. Joe ran across the street, to where she was once stood and looked around. On the floor was a small polaroid which displayed a couple; both of their faces were burnt out. But Joe could make out a man with brown hair and a blonde girl. Joe let his thumb fondle the Polaroid for several moments, before sliding it into his back pocket and heading back to his apartment.

When he arrived, the receptionists were gone. He drifted through the lobby and pondered on what had occurred. The poor barista didn’t deserve that, but the question was too much. What is my name? He thought. I towards the elevator. Soon it arrived and inside stood Archibald. “Archi!” Joe said. “What happened?”

“What do you mean, sir?”

“We left, remember?”

“I never would have left my post.” His lips twitched into a forced smile.

“Are you okay?”

He paused, then pulled Joe in closer. “I shouldn’t have got involved. This is something you must do alone.”

“What? What do you know, Archi?”

The bell rang. “Penthouse!” Archibald said. “See you soon, sir.” With that, he ushered Joe out of the elevator and smiled as the doors shut.

The room had changed. Believe was playing, and Joe realised he enjoyed the song. The room, whilst still white, now had a desktop computer in the corner. It was switched on and its fans hummed beneath Cher’s pitch-shifted notes. On the monitor, a video game was booted, titled, Disco Elysium. The other recent addition was on the television; no longer was it condemned to play solely Columbo and late-night game shows. On it was a homebrew streaming service, which advertised Columbo, alongside all the Die-Hard movies. The time was in the corner of the television, and it read One Thirty in the afternoon.

Somewhere within Joe’s reptilian brain, synapses fired. He stepped back in fear. What was happening? The names he contemplated taking were here. He ran out towards the bedroom. Inside was a plain, white bed facing a bay window revealing the city skyline. In the distance, the sun was falling behind the skyscrapers, which now looked like the silhouette of a hand reaching out, trying to escape an earthy entombment. Joe checked his watch; it was now six in the evening.

“What the…” he muttered and looked to the bed, a suit had been lain out for him, with a note. Wear this x.

He got dressed and returned to the elevator. When the doors opened, inside was a small, bald man. He was so old that it was impossible to guess, anywhere from seventy to one hundred. The man smiled as Joe entered. “Going down?” he said.

“Where’s Archi?”

“Say again, my hearing ain’t what it used to be.” The man’s hands were shaking as he hit a button.

“The ape? Archibald?”

“An ape? As an elevator operative? Surely not.” The man shook his head in disapproval.

“I’m being serious. He was here just a few hours ago!”

“If you see an ape, you should call the zoo or something.”

“But he could talk!”

“I see what you’re doing. Very funny kid, it isn’t polite to prank the elderly.” The old man smiled as he spoke, and the bell rang. “Lobby!” he called out.

“One second, sir,” Joe said with as much politeness as he could muster. “Which way is it to St. Michael's Street?”

“Left when you leave, cross the street and head straight until you reach a crossroads. Then right.”

“Thank you.” Joe walked away, confused. What happened to Archibald? Whatever it was, he didn’t have time. He ran outside. He had to find this bar. Maybe it had the answers.

He was met with crisp air and empty streets; the lights of the city were off. In the silent darkness, the only sound came from Joe’s feet beating the concrete. He ran for twenty minutes, and soon he came across a sign for St. Michaels. Doubling over, he hyperventilated. He couldn’t remember the last time he ran, and then he laughed at the thought. He gave himself two minutes before standing straight. This street was like the others, apart from a neon sign in the distance. The words were hazy from where he stood, so he couldn’t make out the name, but it had to be the bar; nowhere else was open.

As he approached, the sign came into focus. In pink neon, it read: Claire’s Castle. Below the sign stood a bouncer. As Joe came closer, the man nodded and gestured for him to enter.

Something changed as he stepped through the door. The bar was of a higher class than it appeared. The lighting was dim, but warm. And within were red sofas, all of which were occupied by familiar faces. Mike was sitting with Genevieve and the other receptionist. The suited man from the train was here with the elderly elevator operative, and behind the bar was Archibald. Serving a drink to the barista Joe had fled from. For a moment, Joe and Archibald locked eyes; the ape shook his head and nodded towards the end of the bar. Standing there, alone, was the girl with the red balloon.

She smiled and gestured for Joe to approach. As he did, someone walked past him, and the scene shifted. The girl in the red balloon was gone. Replaced by a small table and two chairs. Sat down was the blonde-haired woman, the balloon in hand.

Joe sat opposite her, and she smiled. After several minutes, he broke the silence with, “Who are you?”

“Wow, straight to business.” Her voice was that of a child’s. “The better question is, who are you?”

“I’m—”

“Easy, no need to decide right now.”

“What?”

“Ask me another question. Humour me,” she said.

“Right… Where are we?”

“Come on. Look around and you’ll figure it out.”

Joe looked around the room and concentrated on the faces. Recognising no one, he shifted to the smell, and finally the sounds. As he did, the music faded into existence. Believe. “New Year’s Eve, 2022,” he said.

“Great work, detective.” A wry smile danced across her lips.

“Why are we here?”

“To find out who you are.”

“What about that other place?”

“Where do you think that was?”

Joe paused. Deep in his heart, he knew, but he had never accepted it. Even now, he couldn’t say it aloud. “Does that mean you’re…”

Her smile was sad. “You’re an interesting case. Before arriving, you were stripped of your memory. It took me a while, and some observing, but I figured out a way for you to take it back. All of it.”

“How?”

“Look. If you do this, there’s no going back. The pain of the past will haunt you. Forever. And you will live with it. Leave this memory, return to the city and you will enjoy a new existence, as someone without the weight of the past haunting them.”

“Say I leave and abandon my memories. What about my name?”

“Why do you care about a name?”

“That’s who I am.”

“Is it?” She cocked her head. “Have you ever heard of the ship of Theseus? The idea is, if you have a ship and over the years, you replace the parts. You change everything about it: the crew, the sails, the type of wood used for the stern. If all that is changed, is it still the same ship? Just the name remains unchanged. In my mind, the ship ceases to be when the crew is gone. Without them, the ship is simply a ship—no matter the construction.”

“But I’ve only lost my memories.”

“Your crew,” she said. “You’re just an empty vessel now.”

“Even without the crew, the ship still belongs to Theseus.”

“Does it? If an empty vessel is drifting across the sea, would you know which ship it is? Without the crew, there’s no identity. Without memory, you’re nobody. What are we, if not our experiences?”

“I don’t want to be nobody.”

“Then become someone new. You need to let go of the past; the name means nothing. I am giving you an opportunity to be someone else, to live a new, better life. You’re more Joe Costello than the man who walked into this bar on New Year’s Eve. If I tell you this other name, then it is meaningless without the memories to go with it.”

“But those memories are already leaking through. I can’t change who I am.”

“Are they? What if those flashes of memory are simply your brain attempting to fill in the gap? Your brain reached into its depths and pulled out what it could. The name Eric?” She paused. “Just a Pratchett novel.”

“What? I must have reached out to that for a reason.”

“Do you remember anything about it? Do you like it? Maybe you hate it. You don’t know, your brain just took what it could. It knows Columbo exists and decided you like it. Storms? Everyone loves them.”

“But why? Surely I’d remember nothing if I didn’t care for them?”

She sighed. “Without something for your consciousness to spring from, you’d be a philosophical zombie. Yes, your body would continue as normal, but you. A conscious individual. You’d be nothing. It saved you. And you should know that creating a personality on the fly isn’t easy, and memory is such a fickle mistress; most memories from childhood are not real. They’re events created by your brain based on the anecdotes of those around you.”

“What are my options, then?”

“You can relive this night and spend the rest of your time holding on. Or you can leave and continue living as Joe Costello. A fresh start. That’s what you wanted. That’s how you got here.”

“Will I see these people again?”

“Only if you stay. But then, you won’t want to.”

Joe looked back towards the doorway. From it came the warm, welcoming light of Claire’s Castle. He couldn’t see anything within the orange haze. Having decided, he looked back toward the woman; she was gone. In her place was the little girl, her red balloon slipped out of her hand, clinging to the ceiling. Joe stood and took one last look around the room. At the faces, which he realised now meant nothing to him. He approached the door and leaned against the doorframe.

Without looking back, Joe Costello smiled before letting go.

Jordon Jones has a MA Creative Writing and a BA in History from the University of Lincoln. He is originally from the northern town of Warrington, and his passion for storytelling started young.

‘On the Gobi’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

On the Gobi

steaming goat’s milk
&, supple buuz dumplings
as sunlight streams through
the ger: there are camels
to be milked, floor to be swept
cattles and horses to be attended
before dusky sunset
when gobi is painted crimson
& we dance in the fading light

Erin Jamieson’s writing has been published in over eighty literary magazines, including two Pushcart Prize nominations. Her poetry chapbook, Fairytales, was published by Bottlecap Press and her most recent chapbook, Remnants, came out in 2024. Her debut novel (Sky of Ashes, Land of Dreams) came out November 2023.

‘Call for Navigation’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

call for navigation

I should hire someone to memorize
the streets in my city,
my hometown that i never learned
my way around, I still find strange
sounds that could be gunshots
or could be shouts,

I should figure out which
intersection holds that
ironic embassy, learn the location
of the closest grocery store,
maybe I’ll speak to the manager
get all the labels torn off the food

so I don't have to look at them

maybe I should buy a house
or get a ride, I don't think
walking tired and sleepless for
hours is good for my heart,
it's not good for my bones to
be lost in my head,
someone should tell me what
to do, who to speak to, to buy
myself a life, I thought I was
taught everything I needed
to know but somehow still ended
up back home, now it doesn't

feel right.
here, see this flier just posted, covered
in the most nostalgic, happy
polaroids I could find
in my two pockets, advertising a
position as a navigator.
advertising a position
to hold the taxi door for the
better things that always drag behind
but can never walk through in time.

Chris Taylor is a young writer of poetry and prose, hoping to connect with others through their own experiences as a queer person and as someone with mental illness. Their free time is filled with family, their dogs, and electronic and alternative music.

‘Winning Ugly’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

Winning Ugly

Sage:

By the time you read this I’ll be dead.  But as for the present, I’m just trying to get from today to tomorrow.  It wasn’t always like this, but we live in the reality of the day we are in. I want to savor my last few months on earth.  I want to go out with grace and dignity knowing full well that death is death and there’s very little that’s dignified about it. Life is a struggle, no matter who you are.  Everyone has problems of one kind or another.  Mine stem from being poor, mostly because of bad decisions made in the past that I can’t change now; so they are eating me alive.  While a rich person’s problems seems petty and insignificant to a poor person, they are important to them and weigh on them just the same as my problems weigh on me.  For the vast majority of people life is a struggle. You struggle. You struggle. You struggle.  And then you get to the end and wonder why you let the struggle steal your happiness?  For most, just like the poor, struggle will always be amongst us.  Struggle is an affliction that we wouldn’t wish upon our worst enemy; and like cancer it just doesn’t care.  The only good news is that soon my struggle will be coming to an end, but for Kid the struggle is just beginning.

Nobody came to save us, so we had to save ourselves,  This required letting those unwilling to work together for the common good to fall by the wayside.  Emotions got stepped on, egos got bruised, and there was hard feelings all around.  Well…tough shit, and doubly so for the whinners. Pitch in or get the fuck out, and don’t let the screen door hit you in the ass as you’re leaving.  So it’s just me and the step-grandson now, and my only responsibility is to leave him in as good a position as I can before checking out, with the only problem being that if I don’t check out soon the bank will force my hand and foreclose, and he will get nothing.

Kid:

The old man just went crazy.  He threw everyone out, and told them not to come back.  I don’t know exactly what set him off, but I do know that it was a long time coming.  Then he told me that it was us against the world; that I could continue to live here if I didn’t give him any shit and went to school every day.  If I wasn’t down with that he could send me to my mother or call Child Protective Services, either way I would be the big loser, so hurry up and decide.  I fucking hate school, but I know he means it, so I have to buck up and start going back to school again.

My older cousins started calling him Sage as a putdown because he was always giving unwanted advice as if he were some kind of a guru or something.  They didn’t have the nerve to tell him to shut the fuck up, but you could tell that anything that he said to them just went in one ear and out the other.  In private conversations with each other they would make fun of him and laugh at what a fool he was.  Whenever he defended himself  within earshot of Grandma she would tell everyone to calm down, but what she really meant was for him to cool it, and I could see that he hated it. She was surprised when he blew a gasket and told everyone to leave, and she was really pissed when he said that if she didn’t like it, then she could go right along with them.

Sage:

I had enough and hit the boiling point.  Thirty years of putting up with losers and malcontents.  A steady stream of tools and mooches who always say that they will help out and then they never do.  First it was her kids, and then it became her relatives and her grandkids.  They argued with me by agreeing with me.  They would tell me that I’m right about everything just to get me to stop talking.  And then nothing changed.  The folly inherent in believing in the supposed generosity of any communal living situation always presents itself in the kitchen where the dirty dishes get piled sky high and accumulate until there are no more dishes to be had.  Thereafter, paper plates are employed, and any pots or pans that do get washed are for individual meals only and then returned to the pile.  Talk all you want of the brotherhood of man, but in the kitchen it quickly becomes each brother for himself.  In truth, they waited me out, knowing that I’d get fed up and go ahead and wash them just so I didn’t have to keep looking at them.

When it came time to collect rent, they were all broke.  When it came time to split the bills, they were all broke.  Then they went off and ate in nice restaurants.  Then they went off to the movies even though we have satellite TV.  Then they were playing brand new video games.   And the drugs; somehow they managed to score and keep a steady stash on hand. They sure seemed to have a lot of money for someone who was always broke.

Grandma:

I know the situation is hopeless, and I don’t know why he fights it so hard.  If he could just be more accepting, life would be a lot easier for everyone else.  I’m hurt that he thinks of my family as a bunch of losers.  Things are different today than when he grew up.  You have to see that children have self-esteem.  You have to encourage them; you can’t put them down.  I want the kids to be strong-willed and independent, but I’ll admit that it seems that the independent part gets lost in translation.  I can see that they take advantage of us, but we disagree on how much.  Is it that hard to just accept it and keep the peace?  All this contention makes me a nervous wreck.  He tells me that it’s hard to keep the peace when no one cares about peace – just what’s good for them, and if they have to shit on others to get it – so what?

He doesn’t seem to get that people don’t change.  If fact, he demands change.  He expects it.  And he gets upset when it doesn’t happen.  I didn’t like what was going on, but I knew that there was no real solution and that the best course was to go along to get along. But three weeks ago he just went berserk and started screaming for everyone to get out, and when they laughed at him he started throwing things at them and then he said he was going to get a baseball bat and start breaking knee caps.  Then it was shoe soles and assholes as everyone vacated the premises.  It was an ugly scene, and I wasn’t going to put up with it.  So now I live with my youngest daughter in Oklahoma.  She tells me he was always a bastard and that she couldn’t understand why I tolerated it for so long.  Kid didn’t want to go with me, and I don’t know if he is going to make it there, but that’s his decision.

Kid:

I didn’t want to go to Oklahoma because Aunt Laura is worse than Sage.  She’s lazy and manipulative and self-centered.  Grandma will basically be her slave down there.  I know because that’s how it was here, and he hated it that she took advantage of them, and then he had it out with her.  Grandma said that she didn’t like being caught in the middle, and Sage told her that they weren’t joined at the hip, that she had her own car, that she could go over to Aunt Laura’s house whenever she wanted to.  He just didn’t know why he had to put up with her when it was so obvious that she hated his guts.

I have to agree with the old man that Aunt Laura was a problem.  She would come over here with her three kids and plop her ass down on the couch and put her nose in her cell phone while the old folks fed everyone while her kids tore the place apart, and then she would finally come to the table and eat before just getting up and leaving.  She never helped cook or do the dishes or clean up.  I guess she felt that they were guests, and that guest didn’t have to do nothing.  When he bitched about it Grandma just tuned him out.  When Aunt Laura wasn’t around life here was just fine.  They mostly left me alone to play my video games and when I refused to go to school he just gave up which was fine with me until the blowout.  Now I have to either listen to him or live with Ashley, and let me tell you that no one is ever going to nominate her for mother of the year.

Ashley:

I can’t take the kid in.  I get that he’s my son, but he’s fifteen and has a mind of his own.  I live in a fifth wheel and there is hardly enough room for me.  Mom seemed capable of handling him until the old bastard stripped a gear and tossed everyone out.  I hope Kid listens to him because he will throw the child to the wolves.  That asshole is responsible for the way I turned out.  He got with Mom when I was thirteen and he started interfering and telling her  that I was getting away with too much.  I couldn’t stand him and went to live with some people down in the desert who were the parents of one of my friends, and that was okay until her father hit on me and I was forced to move back.  The good part was that he worked all the time and was rarely ever home.  Mom was dependent on him because she had to stay home to look after my two younger sisters.  They didn’t like him either, so he got even by ruining their lives, also.

He tried to buy our love with new cars and other expensive shit.  I got pregnant at seventeen and he gave me an acre lot with a piece-of-shit single wide on it and expected me and the baby’s father to make the $250 a month payment saying I would own it all at the end of five years.  Then he gave me a swimming pool maintenance business that I didn’t really want and expected me to turn it into some big successful enterprise.  I got as much money as I could out of it and then let it drop like a nasty habit.  After the baby came Mom told him that they were going to have to pick up the payments on my trailer.  Then I got hooked on drugs and my life became a blur for the next fifteen years.  Many times I wish that she had never met that abusive bastard because all our lives would have turned out better without him in them.

Kid:

Sage isn’t so bad.  When I started living with him and Grandma at age four, I didn’t like him, and I made every effort to show him just how much until he moved over to the other house and didn’t come around much except to eat.  He helped with the dishes and bought the groceries and just basically stayed in the background.  Mom lives in a fifth wheel up higher on the lot and would come in when he was over here, and they would get in fights that she started, and Grandma would plead with him to just leave.  Kicked out of his own house; how pathetic was that?

I felt sorry for him after a while.  Anyone could see that he was working his ass off, and that everyone seemed to hate him for it.  But somehow time went by, and when I went to middle school he would pick me up every day after school and oftentimes give my friends a ride home.  I got to see that he was okay.  He would use those times to try to talk to me about my future and about how I looked at life.  Like I said, after I started refusing to go to school, he backed away and gave up on me until now. I think I can ride it out. Grandma will come home after she gets enough of Aunt Laura.  All I have to do is listen to him until then, and things will go back to normal.

Laura:

He is the biggest asshole on the face of the planet.  I don’t know how Mom put up with his shit for thirty years.  What a misogynistic prick.  A couple of years back when I got him alone, I let him know just what I thought of him, and he told me to go to hell.  Then he wouldn’t look at me or talk to me for two years until I finally moved away.  He didn’t cause me to move, I was going anyway because that’s what I wanted to do, but I will say that it’s great being away from him.  Mom’s here now so I have someone to take the kids to school and prepare the meals and do the laundry and keep the house somewhat clean so I can concentrate on my new job. 

I heard him tell Mom when I was back there that just having a job wasn’t enough and that I should do more.  Just because he was a workaholic doesn’t mean that I have to be.  The truth is he worked that hard because he was stupid and couldn’t figure out a way to get ahead.  He had the Midas touch in reverse because everything he came into contact with seemed to turn to shit.  He thought that I should be eternally grateful that he bought me a new car; an underpowered, undersized,  and slow Suzuki Forenza.  I hated that car and I hated the double-wide trailer on their lot that he forced me to pay $400 a month in rent for after I got a job.  He always acted like he was some big fucking hero for helping you out when the fact is that he didn’t really help very much at all.  Just ask my older sister Amanda.

Amanda:

Yeah, I know that Laura can’t stand him, and it seems that he has gotten to feel the same way about her.  I felt the same way as Laura until I moved away, got into some trouble, and started to see that he was only trying to help in the best way he knew how.  As for Ashley – she really hated him and feels that he has ruined her life.  What Ashley really hated was that I was his favorite and she felt that that was so unfair.  He would say that there’s a reason that favorites get to be favorites and that he wasn’t going to apologize for being nice to anyone who was nice to him.

I was ten when Mom and Sage got together.  At first, he was a lot of fun and treated her well.  Ashley didn’t like him right from the start, but then again, Ashley didn’t like me either.  Sage saw Ashley bullying me, and put me in karate, and that pretty much backed Ashley off.  I gave him a hard time when I got to high school and went to live with dad for a while.  After that, Laura and I went back and forth depending upon who gave us a better deal.  I got into drugs and partying in general, and didn’t go to school much.  Dad didn’t like the father of my first child so we all went to live with Mom when I was seventeen.  I’ll admit that we weren’t much for working, and that relationship ended after two kids, and I went back to Oklahoma for a while.  I came back with boyfriend number two and Sage tried to give him a job that didn’t much interest him.  After a year we both went back to Oklahoma and split up and I went to prison for a while.  That woke me up.  Now I can see that no matter how hard both he and Mom tried, I just wasn’t ready for any help and that my choices is what the problem really was.  Laura can never admit that she’s wrong, even when she is.  I don’t see Mom lasting there with her for very long.

Kid:

Sage loves Aunt Amanda, and I can see that she loves him too.  When Grandma and I went to see her in Oklahoma she told me that she could have had it all and now regrets that she didn’t take it.  Sage tried to mentor her and set her up in business even accepting that he would have to train and put up with boyfriend number two in order to help her.  But he only wanted to drink, and she was into drugs, and they thought that Sage expected too much of them, and there was an ugly argument, and he told them to move on.  He tells me it broke his heart and adds that she at least had the decency to move away.  Down there she had a change of tune.

Now Sage is telling me that all this dysfunction is a cycle that needs to be broken, and that I’m smart enough to go to college, have a career, and make something of myself.  I don’t want to do any of that shit knowing that it will be easier to be a You Tuber and a gamer and that I’ll make plenty of money doing what I love.  Aunt Amanda works eighty hours a week at a fast food restaurant and says it’s making her old before her time.  She tells me to listen to the old man but I’m not going to fall into the same trap she did.  I’m not having any kids, that’s for sure.

Four Months Later

Amanda:

I helped Mom move back to California, and she’s happy to be back.  I don’t think that Sage is too thrilled.  Sage registered Kid in school and takes him and picks him up every day.  So far he hasn’t missed, but I can see that that will change now that Mom is back in charge.  Ashley is happy to see Mom again, and Kid seems relieved.  As for the others that Sage threw out, Mom will have to see them off site because Sage made her promise not to let them come to their place by telling her that if they ever got back onsite that they would worm their way back in.  She and Sage just look old and worn down and resigned to taking care of Kid until he’s eighteen.  I can see their future that they don’t want to look at.  Kid isn’t going to go anywhere unless they throw him out.

Ashley and Sage mostly avoid each other.  He says he’s happy that she pays her rent and she says that $500 a month is too high even though it includes utilities and trash removal and rides to wherever she wants to go; and she’s invited to supper whenever she wants to attend.  Her presence in the main house makes Sage nervous, and I understand why.  Ashley is like a human ticking time bomb, and no one ever knows what might set her off.  I can tell that Sage will soon retreat to the other house.  He’s seventy-two now with four heart stents and doesn’t need the drama.  An uneasy alliance is what I would call their association, and for all their sakes I hope it continues to work.

Laura:

Mom bailed on me.  Amanda showed up one day while I was at work, and the kids were at school,  and they just loaded up and fled.  Mom called from the road to tell me.  I need her Social Security to make it and now I don’t have it.  How could she do this to me?  The kids had no idea what was going on.  Amanda got on the phone, and we had it out.  Fucking bitch telling me that Mom was tired of me expecting her to do all the house work.  I work!  Jesus, do I have to do everything myself?

I know that bastard is behind it.  Probably got tired of taking care of Kid.  Probably didn’t want to continue on with the cooking.  He only thinks of himself, the asshole.  What about me?  What am I going to do now?

Kid:

It wasn’t so bad living with Sage.  He’s a good cook, and as long as I go to school, he doesn’t give me any grief.  But school is boring.  The first semester I got five A’s and a B, and he told me I should talk to the teacher that gave me the B and see if there was anything I could do to pull it up to an A.  Jesus Christ!  Nothing is ever good enough for that guy.  Then this past semester I got four B’s and two C’s, and he acted like I was falling off the edge of the earth.  I told him I didn’t care about my grades, and he said that the only problem with that was that the rest of the world did.  He said it would lower my prospects for a good college, and he just couldn’t see that if I was capable of getting A’s then why would I ever settle for B’s and C’s?  He admitted that he never did as well in school as I’m doing and that he had tried really hard, so he couldn’t understand why I wasn’t willing to put in a little more effort.  Like I said, school is boring and I don’t care about my grades.

Now that Grandma’s back, and Mom will be coming around more often, I suspect that he’ll go back over to the other house again.  I don’t dislike the guy, it’s just that I don’t want to be anything like him – always busting his ass and not getting anywhere.  This place is a dump, and it’s the best he could do.  Over seventy years old, and this is it.  It’s pathetic.

Grandma:

I missed him and I missed Ashley and Kid.  Laura treated me like the hired help with the sad irony being that I wasn’t paid anything and she pounced on my Social Security payment the  moment I got it.  The grandkids treated me like a maid and they kept me busy constantly picking up after them.  I had to work miracles to buy groceries and put meals on the table, and they all acted like they were doing me a favor just to sit down and eat them.  Amanda stepped in and called him.  He said I could do whatever I wanted to: come, go, stay, leave – just don’t expect him to get too torn up by any of it.  Laura’s my daughter, and I know that she’s dealt him dirt, but what can I do about it?

Kid’s attitude really hasn’t changed much.  He goes to school because he’s afraid of winding up in a foster home.  I don’t know how Sage managed to get him registered this year; not being blood kin and all.  Both of them had very similar childhoods, so I guess that they understand each other.   The passion left our relationship years ago but I think he’s a good man for the most part, and I’m not taking the responsibility for Kid away from him.  Anyway, it’s good to be home.  I had no idea how much I would miss this place.

Ashley:

I’m so fucking glad Mom is back.  I lost count of how many times I had to hold my tongue when he was telling Kid how it was going to be.  He doesn’t get parenting at all.  He says that he isn’t buying all the bullshit the psychologists are selling: everyone gets a trophy, there’s no winners or losers, just competitors,  nobody should ever feel bad about themselves.  He pays Kid $25 for every A and nothing for a B.  Christ!  It’s all or nothing with this guy.  I can see now why my life got so fucked up.  That asshole just needs to take a chill pill.

My fifth wheel is falling in around my ears, and all he’ll do is fix what’s absolutely necessary saying he’s only going to do for me what he would do for any other tenant.  I’m sorry, but I think I deserve a little bit more than that.  He’s always short changed me, and I’m afraid he’ll do the same with Kid.  Mom won’t let him throw my son out, I know that much.  Kid treats me like shit, and Sage doesn’t do a goddamned thing about it.  He tells me that if I don’t like it then I can stay out of “their” house.  This is Mom’s house, not his, I tell him.  Then he says that they have equal shares as tenants in common, and that I have none.  He’s a bully I tell you, a real first class bullying dickhead.

Sage:

Her two daughters are so full of shit that it’s coming out of their ears.  I miss Amanda and wish she lived closer by, but like I say, at least she had the decency to move far enough away.  I’m happy her mother came back because I still love the woman and didn’t like how she was treated out there, even though I could see it coming from a mile away.  But she’s hard-headed and has to find things out for herself.  She says that she won’t interfere with Kid, but I don’t believe it, so we’ll see about that.  Concerning Laura; I could hate her,  but I could also hate a lot of other people, but to seriously hate anyone is hard work, and they just aren’t worth the effort.

The good news is that I held off killing myself because I couldn’t name Kid as the sole beneficiary on the life insurance policy and I wouldn’t dream of assigning any of her daughters as a trustee.  He would have never seen the money.  I had to do some fancy driving on some National Park back roads to mule a few loads of high grade up into Utah to get the money to keep the bank at bay.  Now that I’m old I’m all but invisible to the rest of the world.  Nobody even gave me a second glance.  I’m glad that her money is back in the household kitty and I don’t have to take that kind of risk again.  So she’s now the trustee that I was looking for because I know that she’ll be fair with Kid.  As for Kid; he’s just going to have to figure it out for himself, just like I had to do.  His mother and my mother could have been alter egos, so I know what he’s up against.  If anything, his intelligence will be his saving grace.  He’ll make mistakes and he’ll take his lumps, but I can only hope and pray that he’ll prevail in the end.  In my world that’s known as winning ugly.

John C. Krieg is a retired landscape architect and land planner who formerly practiced in Arizona, California, and Nevada. He is also retired as an International Society of Arboriculture (ISA) certified arborist and currently holds seven active categories of California state contracting licenses, including the highest category of Class A General Engineering. He has written a college textbook entitled Desert Landscape Architecture (1999, CRC Press). In conjunction with filmmaker/photographer Charles Sappington, Mr. Krieg has completed a two-part documentary film entitled Landscape Architecture: The Next Generation (2010). In some underground circles John is considered a master grower of marijuana and holds as a lifelong goal the desire to see marijuana federally legalized. Nothing else will do. To that end he published two books in 2022 entitled: Marijuana Tales and California Crazies: The Former Lives and Deaths of Outlaw Pot Farmers. John’s most recent collection of bios and reviews is: Lines & Lyrics: Glimpses of the Writing Life (2019, Adelaide Books). John’s most recent collection of fictional novellas is: Zingers: Five Novellas Blowing Like Dust on the Desert Wind (2020, Anaphora Literary Press). John’s collection of six political and slice-of-life essays is American Turmoil at the Vanguard of the 21st Century (2022).

‘On the Verge’, ‘Heredity’ & ‘Galveston Bay’

Photographer - Tobi Brun

On the Verge

I discover myself on the verge of an unusual mistake,
whether or not to lean in to the breeze and simply
be carried away on one wind or another to some place
or another where little girls and their mothers sip
nectar from bright white blossoms and there is beauty
in the simplicity of a spear of summer grass.

And it is this that sits, itching at my ears:
What has become of the young and old men?
What has become of me?
Where do I end?
Where am I going and where have I been?

And perhaps it is I, not this bird who beats inside
my chest, that is a bit too tame. Crack the bone of
my breast and peel back the sick and the hurting
and let this one stretch her wings, and maybe
she will be carried away on one wind or another
and I will find myself set down beside my mother,
her soul cool and composed before the horizon
of a million universes.

Heredity

I am half my mother, sipping sadness in the shadow of the moon, but I am not half my father, not
his fists nor his frown.

The other half I am something else, world-rich, filling myself up with all of the things I am not: a
handful of cigarettes, a mouthful of pills, a glass of cold water, a condom, a cat sitting on the
sidewalk corner.

Galveston Bay

What a waste that you came to this slum of a place where we dance and we chase and we drain
out the lake of the grapes and the gray haze of last summer’s grace, where we laugh and we rage
and paint shame on our face, where the girls all in lace with their gay little gaits place a handful
of snakes in a vase and take eight ripened dates off a plate. They wait with their hair all done up
in braids, but the dates taste like paste and the snail on the doorstep is late to the race so they’ve
wasted a day waiting ‘round for their fate. In the garden they’ve taken the down-the-road saint
and hung him by his hands from the spoke of the gate, pinned him in place with a nail made of
jade while they pray and burn sage and it rains in the glade. He goes up in a blaze and in the fray
of the flames they’ve mistaken an angel and misplaced their praise so they cry and they bray but
their wails are in vain -- come the morning what’s left is a gray bit of clay.

Mikayla Silkman is a writer and editor from southwest Connecticut. She predominantly writes speculative fiction and poetry, with the occasional foray into the creative essay. She is also an independent copyeditor. Her work has been featured in Western Connecticut State University's The Echo, Catholicism Coffee, The Hallowzine, and the 2023 CT State Literary Anthology. Mikayla is a devout Roman Catholic, an SVT survivor, and a proponent of literature and the arts. In her free time, she enjoys hiking, playing video games, and cooking. She is currently a student of Western Connecticut State University's MFA in Professional & Creative Writing program. She and her husband, Gordon, currently live in Bethel, Connecticut, and have a rescue dog named Oobi.

‘Fallen Gods’ & ‘Ophidian's Tongue’

Fallen Gods

Gods do not fall gracefully and delicately,
With fire and destruction, they crash and burn.
When you spend your life in beauty and power,
You are not given that luxury when you are cast away.
With chains of bronze, you are led away
Faces you once laughed and sang with, now smirk at the opportunity to take your place.
Gods do not fall with grace,
They poison that which surrounds their crater.
When cast from on high, to live with worms in the mud,
You are given no courtesy,
No clothes to hide your divinity.
No weapon to fight off the dogs of hunters.
You are spared none of your gifts, lest you crawl back up.
A God does not land lightly,
Even when falling, a God is grandiose.
The heavens light up, in cheer of your departure.
The cheering of old friends fills the air,
For the gods do not fall gracefully.
You are cast away, to become entertainment until the world unwrites itself.
The golden ichor of their blood, withers, crimson and dark.
Your face loses its perfection, becoming blemished and bruised. Your wings once snow white, fall into darkness, shrouding your once grand beauty.
The perpetual light above your head fades and shatters.
For gods, do not fall.

Ophidian’s Tongue

If I had but a single wish, to beseech the genie, to ask the star,
I would go back, and tell myself,
Not to sip.
The cup you drink from, is poisoned.
He’ll pinch your nose, and tilt back your head.
Drink up.
He’ll whisper soft as rebar and nails.
Little one, you’ll learn
He lulled you into submission,
With each sip from that blasted cup, he bound you,
Tighter and tighter to him.
He said, through him, you’ll fly and touch the sky,
I already know the ending of that story.
So, I’ll clip my wings, and scatter the feathers like autumn leaves.
Because even after all this time, you still think I remember the smell of you,
But it's you who lusts for another taste.

Colin Donnelly is an unpublished writer, looking to start expanding his roots, and gain more experience in the world of publication, with the hopes to someday become a full-fledged author.

‘CT 2’ & ‘Axial CT’

CT_2

Axial_CT

Katie Pippel is a resident of the Pacific Northwest and is an English Language Arts teacher, writer, and dancer. She's embroidered since 1996 and much of her work features brain imaging of her husband during the course of his epilepsy. Fourth piece features a responsive neurostimulator that monitors his brain.