‘I Found A Dollar In A Pine Tree’, ‘The Appraisal’ & ‘There’s Nothing Like Your First Heartbreak’

Ronald Theel is a freelance writer, photographer, and mixed media artist living in Syracuse, NY. His work has appeared in "Beyond Words Literary Magazine," "Mayday Magazine," "Pithead Chapel," and other places.

I Found A Dollar In A Pine Tree

in my backyard, gored on a branch.
At first I thought it was a butterfly
green and preening in the drenched sunlight.
A stormy wind blew it, I figured,
then, like a shrike, impaled it to kill it.
Like a vulture, I dragged my ladder to the tree
leaving two muddy scars along the grass.
I pulled myself up higher and higher
leaving balance on the ground until I fell.
I tumbled into the tree, shattering the dead
branches, knocking down the nest of a robin,
and landing in the verdant dark. the dollar
caught again by the wind, pulled free and flew
over the fence, into my neighbor’s yard.

The Appraisal

She turns me over in her hands. Over
then over again, less sight than touch,
each delicate finger an instrument
like an antennae, sensing the hidden
things. Hmm, she moans as she feels the way I’m
insecure of my voice. That’s interesting
slips from betwixt her lips when she feels my
shame at not supporting my brother when
he needed to get sober. I wonder, she says as I try to hide, like a child
standing in front of a broken lamp, my
attraction to her. Gently, so to not
break the still-whole parts of me, she sets me
back on the shelf, where I sit. Still.

There’s Nothing Like Your First Heartbreak

She cries like hornet stings, red
wet history on her cheeks
and the past washed away, the way
a careless spill pulls ink from
a page. A kiss only consoles
in completeness. The halves
and parts that built you like a tower,
screaming to the clouds,
tore you from the sky. Affection
is its own infection, love its own
vaccine. She built, brick by brick,
a tolerance to You. But You
locked yourself in a tomb, elated
to have buried part of her with You.

Carl Vaughan is a University of Nebraska - Omaha Creative Writing graduate and former Creative Nonfiction editor for UNO's 13th Floor Literary Magazine. Carl works as a freelance book editor and has been published in "Rigorous Magazine" and UNO's "The Gateway" magazine. He is a gamer, movie buff, and foodie. When he is not working or writing, you can find him jamming to good music.

‘Soma’

                            Artist - Christine Simpson, www.christinesimpsonphotoart.com

Soma

A rainbow of blocks with numbers increasing from left to right, top to bottom, stares back at me. The unreliable BMI scale. Some of the numbers I can’t read due to the shine of LED overhead lights streaking the laminated poster with a nasty glare. I peer at the digital number that looks up at my nostrils when I’m facing forward. Ninety-eight pounds. The pungent smell of new scrubs and sterilization eminent the air. I feel dirty; I always do in a hospital.

“Three less than last week.”

The nurse in scrubs -- baby blue, the kind regurgitated all over the walls of a gender reveal party -- stands less than half an arms length away. I’ve never seen her before. Her face is set with thin wrinkles, framed by wisps of straw hair. Her neck juts out like a bird; her weight is resting on one leg - the common nurse stance. She’s new here, but she’s not entirely new to nursing. I can tell.

She’s writing on a form too far from view to read. “Follow me, we are going to room two.”

The door is already ajar because of the doorstop, but she splays her arm over it, showing some form of ownership as I walk in. “The doctor will be in, in just a few.” Her left foot instinctively releases the brake, and I see her flip the metal tab with the room’s number outward so it’s perpendicular to the wall, to show I’m ready to be seen. The door slides shut almost ghost-like, until a light sound announces it clicking into lace.
...
The pamphlet I was given shows a black and white version of a forlorn, depressed teenager leaning against a wall, peering out a window. She’s awkward, uncomfortable. The title in a thin font questions “Eating Disorder? What You Should Know if Your Child Has One.” Wrong audience, I say aloud. They gave me the wrong one.

The pages stick together, making it hard to open, and the pamphlet slips from my grasp to the hardwood floor. While reaching for it, my hands stop mid-motion. I stare at my outstretched hand. I no longer shake anymore when I’m hungry - just one of a few bodily changes I’ve noticed. It’s like someone turned off the craving of sustenance in my body. It’s no longer needed, finally.

Upon retrieval, my mom walks in the room. Her fashion is a slightly wrinkled set of lilac scrubs.

“How was the doctor’s?”

“Good -- great.”
“Did you get the prescription for your hyperthyroidism?”

I have no such thing.

“Yep. I went to the pharmacy today.”

Another lie.

“Awesome.”

Her body eases into the recliner diagonal to the sofa I’m on. Clandestinely, I shift the pamphlet under my right thigh as my mom takes off her no-slip shoes. Her tradition is to rub her feet after each shift in the ICU. Like clockwork, a sigh releases from her open mouth as
her eyes close in solace.
“Domino's tonight?” Her eyes still closed.

“Well it is Friday, right?”

“Mhmm, I’ll call in ten.”

The tension in her forehead releases, as her fingers rub a knot out of place in the arch
of her foot. Another sigh enters the air.

I stare at her. A plastic claw holds her golden hair away from her face, in a nest at the crown of her head. Well-shaped eyebrows overscore her set of gray eyes, while a small nose slopes gently down her face for the big main event: pouty lips, still a youthful shade. She’s beautiful. It’s the only way I remember her. When I was younger, I would look at her features, wondering how I could will my masculine jaw and dark brown kinky hair to mirror her soft femininity. I was never picked on as a child because of my looks. I was too average for that. I was always tiny. Small breasts; nonexistent ass. I was never a woman in anyone’s eyes. No curves that drew the attention of an older man’s gaze. I never would be that kind of girl. Not like I ever wanted that, necessarily. I knew back then, I just wanted to be pretty. I wanted to evolve out of the boring image of my long-lost dad and into something, someone wanted to look at.

“What’s wrong, Emily?”

Even my name was dull. I break my daze. “What?”

“You looked angry or, I’m not sure, maybe disgusted with me.”

“Resting bitch face is a real burden.”

My mom’s beautiful eyebrows pinch together with concern, but not too much concern.

“I’m just thinking,” I say.

This time, it’s not a lie.
...
I was in a sophomore biology class when I first heard the word soma. Although it owned the same number of letters as the word body, it felt more delicate on the tongue. It gave the idea of four limbs to a central connector and a wobbly sphere for a head more grace than the word body did. Soma was scientific, but ethereal in a bewildering kind of way. I could have with my soma, but not my body. When I was hating my encasing, I always thought I was thinking of it as my body because nobody could hate a soma. Sometimes the word comes to mind, interrupting a thought, and I let the two syllables drip slowly from my mouth. So-ma.

“Did you tell your mom about these weekly visits?”

“Yeah, of course.”

She knows. She knows about the wrong condition too.

“Good. Your mom is a great friend to many of the girls in family medicine. No one would want to out you accidentally.”

Her silvery gray eyes are flat, without emotion. “You, uh, you wouldn’t talk to her about my eating disorder though, would you?”
Her eyes widen. “No, no dear. I would never go out of my way to speak about any patient’s health. I just meant, you know, if any of us were asking about the family.”

“Mmh...right.”

“Don’t mean to concern you about a thing!”
...
When you lose weight unexpectedly and unintentionally over time people usually have the same response -- to say nothing. They would rather talk to the person who is gaining weight; whose fat is hugging the waistline of their jeans that once fit them. They may not say it outright, but they will insinuate the need to lose a few pounds by asking them to a gym date. With me, no one has said anything about the 21 pounds-and-counting that I’ve lost. There is something more privileged about an eating disorder that reflects lost weight instead
of gained weight. Society says visible rib cages are prettier than the concave dips on upper arms and thighs as symptoms of cellulite. I feel proud about mine; about my ribs on view, that is. I stare at them in my bathroom mirror, tracing each one with a bony finger until I feel
content. My morning ritual.

“I haven’t seen you take your anti-thyroid meds lately.”

As the non-patient of a mom who doubles as a nurse, I’ve noticed her metaphorical habit of picking up the closest knife and gently digging it in suggestively, yet politely. There are no direct questions in this household. She’s not on nurse duty; there’s no need for that. “I take them every morning; before work.”

“Oh, I just thought maybe I’d see the script laying around your bathroom at some point.”

“Does this mean you’ve been going in my bathroom, looking around? I’m 22; I’m not a teenager anymore, you shouldn’t be going into my stuff or telling me what to do.”

“Hey - don’t start a fight with me! You’re the one who doesn’t clean the bathroom and puts the onus on me. If you were living on your own, like you were when you were at school, you wouldn’t get all these questions.”

My stare falters. An instinctive eye roll regards the floor.

“Jeez, even if I haven’t seen them, you sure are moody like you are taking them. Guess I shouldn’t question you.”

She leaves the room cold, or maybe it's just the now 90 pounds of me needing some outside warmth, even if it's someone’s personality.

...
I like making lists. I have lists of everything, such as the number of months I’ve gone without my period. It’s like I’m identifying as a gymnast or a competitive dancer. I’m bigger than myself because I can stop something most every other woman undergoes. There’s strength in that, I believe. It takes a lot of perseverance to love your body, as it does to fully hate it. For the longest time, I just prefered to preserve the latter feeling. Now, things are changing.

I recheck the door is locked. A used orange medicine bottle sits on the bathroom counter. Digging into my purse, I find the pharmacy store bag. Sugar pills, or essentially the same thing, according to my research. The best part is they look the same as anti-thyroid meds. The pills cascade into the cylindrical tube, the one that promises I’m taking the right ones. To the side of the bottle is a sticker I created, looking imperceptibly different from a prescription tag. I ring it around the bottle gently, giving it good pressure for good measure. Admiring my work, I take one pill and throw it back before sliding the lid closed, tossing the bottle haphazardly on the counter. It’s ready for anyone who wants to see it.

“Emily? Emily?”

The normalcy of those syllables in my ear wakes me up. The screen of my vision comes in fuzzy on the edges, but I’m present. Enough.

“Mmmh?”

“You’re sleeping again. What if Patrice saw you?”

Thumbing spit away from my mouth and pushing hair behind my ears I get myself together.
“I know; I know.”

“You’ve said that every day for the last two weeks. It’s time to figure your shit out,” my co-worker said, whispering only the vulgarity into the space that is my cubicle. She stares at me with worry. I can see this. I can tell she’s giving her pitying look; it’s the same as everyone else. Eyes slightly glossy, brows pulled together just a touch, and a thin frown just above the chin. Looking at her, I’m starting to comprehend my spacey presence. “Are you sleeping alright?”

“Yeah, I’m just...extra sleepy. You know? Maybe, I don’t know, maybe I’m just B-12 deficient.”

“That’s serious stuff. I hear bad shit can happen if you don’t take shots or vitamins... just, just make sure to tell your doctor.”

“Yes, I know. I really should.”

“Maybe you need something to eat for a little more energy? I have an energy bar. You want it?”

Loads of protein. Calories stacked on calories. Yet, she’s yearning -- begging me to take it.

“Okay, yeah, thank you.”

She hands the silvery wrapped workout bar to me. Her face reads overjoyed, with a dash of pity. I might puke just looking at it, holding it, thinking I’m absorbing its calories from my senses. What she doesn’t know is that I have a small spiral notebook hiding in my file cabinet, with chicken scratch as numbers representing the calories I eat for the day.
...

The remaining drops of coffee drip as a metronome into my mug. Coffee pools at the spout until the heaviness becomes too much and forms a droplet. Plop! The already settled coffee in the mug splatters just slightly, as if an ant were to make a cannonball into its very own ant-sized pool.

“Emily?”

I blink out the reverie I see in the coffee. “Mmh, yes?”

“Can you pick up the pizza tonight for dinner?”

“Sure can.” I turn toward my mom as she is picking up her work bag to leave.

“Holy shit, Emily...have you been sleeping?”

Unaware of my appearance, my eyebrows scrunch together to question her.

“Your undereyes are purple and bluish.” Her eyes scan my body head to toe. “And you’re so pale. I’ve never seen you this pale before.”
I turn back to the coffee, dismissing her continued stare. Grabbing the low fat milk to prepare my coffee, I feel her eyes burning my back with unasked questions.

“And why do your clothes look so...baggy?”

“Mom, I gotta go. I can’t be late for work,” I say, shoving the milk back into the refrigerator.

Her eyes continue to etch my every movement, figuring out the sudoku of my health problems.

“You’re going for your weekly check up today, right?”

“Yes, mom, as always.”

“We’ll talk over dinner then. I want an--” I slammed the garage door, ending her sentence prematurely.

...
I’m on the precipice of understanding what love is. I’m entering forbidden territory. I’m no longer the executioner of my soma. I’m an admirer. I see myself from the outside, like a ball of energy shoved somewhere deep - that thing; that soul of mine -- whisked itself out to look at myself. Sure, I have a few bruises, purple and green like an overly ripe fruit. Yet, if you continue to look, you will see the protruding bones. The angles are beautiful. I’m a precious doll, left on the shell. Who wouldn’t love someone, something so fragile? I just need to be handled with care. I’m finally handling myself with expert care.

How long do I have to wait?

“Excuse me, ma’am. I’ve been here for 25 minutes. I have a recurring appointment
with my doctor. Is something wrong?”

“Uh, let me check our notes. I just clocked in. What’s your name?”

“Emily Loveless.”

Her dark finger scans a binder of typed schedules on a spreadsheet. She comes to my name, I assume. “Yes, you’re still on. I’ll call you when you’re ready!” Her black curls bounce in unison with the lilt of fake positivity in her voice.

Back toward the seafoam waiting room chairs I anticipate the squeak my ass will make sitting on the plasticy outer veneer. The off-white walls display large pictures denoting so-called powerful words in the English language, like “integrity,” with a bird flying so close, but not touching some body of water beneath it. I never understood the meaning of those paintings -- the ones that are found in most office buildings, as if it is not a proper office building without one. They always left me a bit melancholy and less inspired.

A girl, no older than eight, with pigtails tied high in her hair, stares at me from across the room. I look away, only to momentarily return my glance toward her. Piercing gray-blue eyes stay locked on me. A worn doll, one a mom would make for their children in the ‘90s, is
nestled in her arms.

“It’s rude to stare, honey,” a woman who appears to be her mom says to her daughter, whose eyes only veer away when caught. When I peer back, I see her looking at me in short intervals so as not to make her mom suspect a thing. She shifts her small hand up to her mother’s ear and whispers not so quietly, “I’m scared for her, Mommy.”

“Emily Loveless,” the nurse I previously spoke with calls out.

“Another three pounds, Emily.”

I can’t make eye contact with the nurse taking note of my weight. Out of shame, my head faces the digital numbers on the scale. I lie.“I swear I don’t know how. I’m doing everything the doctor says.”

“Well, this isn’t between me and you. It’s between you and your doctor,” she says, leading me to a room for my weekly check-in. “Just a few minutes and the doctor will be in.” And the door is shut. I’m alone with the sterile smell keeping me company.

Scanning the clothing I’m wearing, I make sure the solid green shirt and boot cut jeans I have on are baggy enough to not show my body’s contours. I pull out my phone, and turn on the camera app to see my face. Skinny, slightly tired looking, but awake enough. I give it a heavy-handed slap. Pinch my cheeks for more color. Well-looking enough. I double check this every time I step into this room, taking account of what I look like, what changes they might see other than my decreased weight. My dangling legs begin to kick out of nervous anticipation. Sometimes the doctor takes a few minutes or a --

She walks in. My brows furrow.

“What are you doing here?”

“Honey, your doctor asked me to come in--”

“Is this some sick joke? What are you doing here?”

“We need to talk. I know what’s going on.”

“You don’t know anything...is this even legal?”

Now my mom’s brows furrow. For me it’s rage; for her concern. I want to slap the emotion off her face. She reaches her left arm out, placing her palm on my forearm closest to her, giving me a gentle touch. I shift my body, dodging what may next be a hug. Calming? Is this supposed to be calming?

“Get out now. I want my doctor.”

“Honey, you’ve been drastically losing weight. I’ve been waiting for you to tell me, but you haven’t...plus, I’ve heard. The staff talks.”

“Who told you? Does HIPPA mean crap to you and everyone else? What does privacy even mean to any of you?”

“They, like me, are just trying to look out for you. That’s all this is.”

“SHUT UP. SHUT UP. SHUT UP. This can’t be happening!”

Anger boils in my stomach. It starts to rise up into my chest, until my throat is burning. It comes out as a guttural scream. My mom’s eyes shift from side to side, knowing others must have heard it.

“GET OUT. GET OUT. GET OUT.”

“Honey, please stop,” she pleads.

Staff is knocking at the door, asking in tight, constrained voices if we need help. The voice is familiar. It’s one of the nurses I know.”

“It’s okay; we’re okay.”

‘HELP ME, DAMNIT.” My voice box is hot and sore from the shrieks.

“We will open the door. We have to, Susan. She’s our patient,” the nurse says opposite the closed door. As it creaks open, I jump down from the patient’s table, running out the door. Behind me I hear the nurse calling for security.

My mind grows dizzy, my body disoriented. Two large, uniformed men, fumble toward me. I can’t make out the features of their faces. They could be anyone.

“NOOOO. I’m fine. I’m FINE,” I scream at them, making a U-turn in the opposite direction, as one grabs my arms. I’m caught. Their grip seizes most of me, except for my flailing legs and my head. “STOOOP. I’m FINE. Stop hurting me.”

I see a blotch of red on one of their faces. The man appears to be covering it. “Why ME? Why? Stop hurting ME!”

A needle enters the surface of my soma. Not my soma.

Black consumes me.

Looking down at myself I see it. Everyone outside the hospital, those once preoccupied by their phones or in groups surrounded by small talk, stare in my direction now. They see an everyday girl’s body laying on a gurney, laced in a straitjacket.

It’s just another sad sight to see.

Jessica Clifford is a short story writer, poet, and former journalist. She views humans as Homo Narrans - the storytelling species - that understand each other only through shared experience (real or make-believe). She is published in The Coraddi literary magazine and two academic journals, including Kaleidoscope: A Graduate Journal of Qualitative Communication Research and Carolinas Communication Annual.

‘To My Therapist’ & ‘Sour Spring’

Serge Lecomte was born in Belgium. He came to the States where he spent his teens in South Philly and then Brooklyn. After graduating from Tilden H. S. he joined the Medical Corps in the Air Force. He earned an MA and Ph.D. from Vanderbilt University in Russian Literature with a minor in French Literature. He worked as a Green Beret language instructor at Fort Bragg, NC from 1975-78. In 1988 he received a B.A. from the University of Alaska Fairbanks in Spanish Literature. He worked as a language teacher at the University of Alaska (1978-1997). He worked as a house builder, pipe-fitter, orderly in a hospital, gardener, landscaper, driller for an assaying company, bartender and painter.

To My Therapist

 I had this luxury

To be able

To afford

Sounds to make

Words to babble

Burst my bubble

Know myself

and my self.

I had this luxury

You

Sitting there

On your wooden rusty chair

With your receding hair

line by line from what

Frued taught you

To ask me

So I can act – knowledge

My self and mistakes

And stakes

I didn’t eat

To beat to muse

Ick!

is my womanly manhood

abused…

Hunting, we were

in my mind

Like Robinhood

I had this luxury

To afford these words

Stealing from the past

and feeding the now

Bow down to tears

Dropped out of my shell

From the depth of my

Well

Being

better now

Cause the way I learned

To ask me about me.

I had this luxury

Until you had to ruin it.

I don’t absolutely hate you for it

I know why you’re doing it

You need to charge more

So you can have charge more

Barge lure light bore

Knees sore kill for

The freedom of my thoughts.

You helped me

become a hoarder

Of words and thoughts

And chaotic orders.

I had this luxury.      

Sour spring

right to left from write I words

Words of all my stolen rights.

Cause my world’s now upside down.

Light.

From

Escape

Here

Days

even

under the world that beings be

I write my words in Pomegranate blood as the red floods in to my veins used to be the tree sticks flourished with fruits and flowers

now next to the river Styx I sit and write of all the nothingness I bare foot on the lost souls lost life lost.

Oh mother Oh friends

I miss your joyous laughs

No mother No friends

this unbeing I can’t last alas as much as I scrimmage the past I'm stuck here to be the queen of no one and nothing.

Living is what I'm good at not being queen.

oh mother

I feel you wonder and how you wander around Every step you take a pomegranate falls down from below.

I miss the tenderness of your sweet touch

Oh mother Oh gods

save me from Hades’ clutch.

Yazdan Khoshsirat is a 25-year-old teacher from Tehran, who has a deep passion for expression through art. Khoshsirat’s poems have been featured three times in the official English magazine of Al Zahra University, the renowned all-girls institution in Iran.

‘The Leaf’s Fall’

Ronald Theel is a freelance writer, photographer, and mixed media artist living in Syracuse, NY. His work has appeared in "Beyond Words Literary Magazine," "Mayday Magazine," "Pithead Chapel," and other places.

The Leaf’s Fall

            First and foremost, before you run screaming or stare with that wide open stoma on your face, remember that I am a living creature too, and I have every right to speak as you and your pets do. Now, I have a complaint to register with you, as one representative of a species to another. Are you listening? It’s so hard to tell when you constantly move around like that.

            The issue is that of the last leaf. Yes, I figured you’d like that, but you need to consider: every part of us has a purpose. The roots bring the water, the leaves make the food, I’m – oh, what’s your human phrase? – the brain of the operation. I make the two work together, so that we all stay alive. The leaves though, they have another job. When they begin to change colors, they begin to die, and they start poisoning the plant. Their last job is to take that final fall.

            It’s a scary jump, but they all do it, one by one, to save the plant. Now, there’s always one or two who are a bit afraid, a little unwilling to let go, but, after everyone else goes, they find the courage, with a little nudge from the wind, to let go.

That hasn’t been happening though, because of this human fascination with the last leaf. You humans have made it a travesty to fall. My leaves cling on now, fighting to be the last. They no longer engage in contests to see who can take the most graceful dive, who can complete the most somersaults on the way down. Now, they simply crash to the ground in misery. Please, I implore you – ask your species to pause and watch each leaf fall.

Robyn Bashaw graduated with a BFA in Creative Writing from SFASU. She’s previously published in Gabby and Min’s Literary Review, 300 Days of Sun, and NUNUM. As an author, she aims to wade into the despairs of humanity and dwell in the deluges. Check out her full list of work at: https://robynbashaw.wordpress.com/.

‘Squirrel's Nest’

Christine Simpson is a working artist. She taught in the departments of Design Communications and Fine Art at the South East University, Waterford, Ireland, for many years. Christine is represented by So Fine Art, Dublin. Her work has been exhibited around the world and generally addresses subjects connected to our natural world, in particular the topic of climate change. Christine has received numerous awards. Her work has also been featured in many publications. Christine’s work is in many private collections and she regularly undertakes commissions for art pieces and commercial photographic illustrations.

Squirrel's Nest

Where do they go? It could've been mistletoe, what with all the leaves gone from the hardwood trees lining both sides of 11th Street. Captivated by the height of its airy mass, I almost stumbled in the recent rain's regurgitation of autumnal downward release, leaf afoot. No, not the holiday hopeful's wish high up there, though lovely the thought. Too much leafiness and tied together by twigs, this mess someone's comfort of home? The squirrels, the squirrels.

Holidays long troubled me. For years, general malaise would set in and I hadn't the maturity to understand. Around September, I'd come to notice in recent years, that's when not me alone would start grabbin' a jacket or sweater and take on a prickly air not right, unsettled, ill at ease, hungry. Hallowe'en munchies, yes. Turn of season more, always bad on the very young and very old, long been said across this section of New World. True all that, by some ancient standard. The older I grew, I felt something more, of expectation gone, grown greedy and lost in
its meaning, like leaf for house above, confusing me the disorder of nature's rule and border, labels.

As soon as earlier, earlier-posted, every year sooner, the back-to-school sales would sweep clean the shelves, store clerks following far-off Corporate's always-near mandate to trot out sooner, faster, more if not convincingly better Halloween, then more Thanksgiving, coming headlong into of course more Christmas and better New Year's ... and should I even continue to fill in the blanks with all the rest, festivities and honors, days created to conjure up, conspire toward more dollars devoted to meddlesome and endless purchasing, at what cost? Everything
deemed essential, all the must-haves necessary but unfulfilling; it won't settle down 'til Valentine's, Passover, Easter, or ... you see my point? At any rate, barely a partial summer to recuperate, and they keep addin' more, new colours needed for the 4th and on and on. I shall stop.

My mind deep, no longer stumbling in downed leaves yet to be gathered and cleared, the solitude of the unpeopled, otherwise-barren street caressed me, its chafing wind now dry and cracking reminding me of time, season, another place unlimited. I looked back up at the little nest of a house high in the sycamore tree (if with my phone, I'd have double-checked the species of trunk, hard to decipher only by wet mash of partial leaves beneath boots and clinging like a bad memory better washed). I waited and looked, not knowing for what, but delaying my routine turn of corner onto Main and back to life and the day's commerce. I'd commenced too early a wintry walk in this town so far south in the Lower 48. Southerners do not readily venture out in such weather, gaaa-rrrraaaashhhhh-cious!, I could hear them scream in street-length syllables, temps dipping below 60, oh my. And with Fahrenheit so far down ha the stick, the recent 'cold' snap moved, dropped, homeless from their customary corners. I hoped not into their graves, no joke.

Noise of any season. I knew the chatter flitting about my head. It was a squirrel's home, indeed, atop that tree. One lone creature. I didn't have my phone, as I said, or I would've searched on how long the newly birthed stay in such a nest – last spring so far away, surely the newbies, them youngins, gone by now, right? – and also posed of the web, older ones keep same bed from year to year?, squirrels mate for life?, and more. I left the minimammal alone. As if. That child's busy, real winter comin', did the guy or gal even know of me, audience of one and not payin'?

I focused on my new street. I had moved on Christmas Eve, back to the first apartment I'd leased in the town, really a small city by most measures. So many years ago then, the new building constructed and shiny, just opened when I drove around looking for a place to live way back when. neighborhoods evolve, unclear boundaries, ever-shifting colours and sights and sounds of people, their ways. So many changes since those years, mostly good, not much all that bad, I reasoned. I passed by a closed restaurant. Clearly, they'd made enough last night, New Year's, and all the remnants of expensive wining and dining scattered from front door to alley dumpster I could partly see in the morning light, shards of bottles, dozens of corks, gold and silver streamers, two red balloons tied to the street sign, the rest having popped, now shriveled and looking sad in the dim landscape. Don't wanna say goodbye either, I mumbled.

I saw my reflection in the establishment's front bay window, despite it being full of smudges and caked with grime. I glared at myself and laughed somehow. At least sunny, I could see parting borders within boundless sky, clouds behind me, a good day ahead, chilly, not cold, both my Yank neighbor and their new internet-love of the hour, half-day, or partial week corrected me last night. She had introduced me to their friend. It was awkward, but not new. For all three of us. As her barechested, boxered husband held open their door in the dark. He did wave with a half-smile, and in hindsight I contemplated that a missed invite. Gift? Turned down?

For me, it felt good to be back where I'd started, empty my nest-bed but unlimited in ways, my own love of the bounded years of marital minutes gone from my life and freeing perhaps from perimeter of prior century, petty the definitions' long hold. Gone, gone with the old year, gone that unique voice and frontier body and comforting, contorting hand of connection, the lines in two palms. Hers gone, forever from this life, hers and mine. No kids, at least that part made easier, but my mind hurried already, I sped up and worried; I didn't know what holiday it would take to dance across my calendar, what year to shimmy, for me to shake it all off and move on, more than a change of address needed to bury finally that relationship, if but been such by my own recollection of definition. Sure, yeah, it but been and a whole lot more. Yeah sure. Yeah.

Squirrelly, I left the urban quietude in greater wonder and scampered back into my apartment-home needing a cuddly blanket or unstiffed drink for warmth, but asking myself, what else might provide heat of heart for me, sensing more lack and lax in all the upcoming, ceaseless slew of seasons salient, every holiday alone at least for now with both parents, times two four siblings, deceased? I wasn't certain if I'd venture back out the rest of the day, maybe not the week's remainder, but this year would be different. If I gave it a rest to start. I could feel the change afoot, albeit tiny tiptoeing of movement within my heart's environs. Bothers of brittle leaves more fallen outside and in, brothers and sisters clearing the view of nature's magic for good, I considered we all make do and can move on in time, adjusting our borders to suit circumstances, those far beyond our little aged control. I reconsidered spring, my allergies, do squirrels suffer too, I wondered, they always seemed so busy.

R. P. Singletary is a lifelong writer across genres of fiction, poetry, and hybrid forms; a budding playwright; and a native of the rural southeastern United States, with recent fiction, poetry, and drama appearing in Literally Stories, Litro, BULL, Cream Scene Carnival, Cowboy Jamboree, Rathalla Review, The Rumen, Bending Genres, D.U.M.B.O. Press, and elsewhere. Website: https://newplayexchange.org/users/78683/r-p-singletary

‘PUPPY BOY’

Sherri Harvey is an educator, freelance writer, photographer, and eco storyteller. She travels the world for projects that tell the stories of an environment in crisis and the people helping to save it, especially women. Over the past few years, she lived with a sociocracy struggling to find solutions for the water crisis in Spain, traveled to villages throughout West Africa learning about the plight of women in remote villages, worked with Orangutan Odysseys in Borneo to highlight the crisis of deforestation and orangutans, and followed a vet crew around the island of Phuket to create the documentary film, Accidental Advoctes in Phuket. The power of stories can unite cultures, share communion, and promote eco-change. Please see www.sherriharvey.com or @sherricoyote for more info.

 PUPPY BOY

            Christina and I met a month after a colleague at Spring Hills Laboratory recommended her as a dynamic real estate agent who could find me a condominium. I entered her office; the words Christina Kane, Agent and Gold Circle Award Winner were engraved on a plaque to the right of her door. Christina, a petite, raven-haired woman with an oval face and delicate features, walked around her desk to greet me. Everything about her was small and well-formed, from her dark-fringed brown eyes to her narrow waist and slender legs. Standing to shake my hand, she reached my chest, and I could smell an earthy scent of coconut from the top of her sleek, shorn head.

            She reviewed my specifications: a neighborhood near the lab where I do cancer research; two bedrooms, one to be used as an office; a kitchen, laundry facilities; priced at under a half million dollars. I had a small legacy from my grandmother and finally, at the age of 43, had enough for a down payment on my own place. Christina listened to my requirements, printed out listings from her computer, then offered to take me out. It was a Sunday in April when we went condo hunting in her red Corvette. She drove fast and well, cutting down side streets, shortcuts unknown to me, swearing at slowpoke drivers, unselfconscious about being in the company of a stranger.

            The first condo Christina took me to featured all my specifications but was parallel to a noisy intersection. The next one had a definite musty smell that could have been caused from years of bad housekeeping or a hidden leak. Another was missing the extra bedroom. The process was tedious but, at the same time, I felt the pleasure of the full attention of an attractive woman. Christina had panther-like grace and the bearing of a mature, sexy gymnast as she tiptoed across polished hardwood floors. My eyes followed her splayed fingers with crimson nails as she stroked the granite of kitchen countertops. Christina wore a fitted white tuxedo shirt, short skirt, and black, patent leather heels. A red scarf, the same color as her fingernails, was tied close to her throat.

            She showed me numerous places, but, as if saving the best for last, our final destination was perfect. It was a newly constructed duplex with two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a combined living room-dining area that led into a well-equipped kitchen and laundry room. The price was the maximum I could afford, but it was shiny and new.

            “What do you think?” she asked, knowing it was everything I needed.

            “It’s great, no complaints really,” I responded.

            Christina, unsmiling and eyes direct, said, “You should think about making an offer, Dan. I know the developer and, with this soft market, you could probably negotiate a lower price. Take another look around,” she suggested.

            It was decision time. My first instinct was to play it safe and tell her to keep looking, but my apartment lease was up in two weeks. I walked through again as Christina waited in silence in the kitchen, listening to messages on her BlackBerry, my hesitation causing her professional attentiveness to slip away. I rejoined her in the kitchen; her thumbs flying over her cell phone, she stopped and looked up.

            “I’m going to make an offer,” I said. “Four hundred sixty-nine thousand dollars.” The asking price was $499,000.

            Christina snapped to attention. “Great! I’ll call the first thing tomorrow morning and present your offer. Can I reach you at your work or cell number?”

            “Sure,” I said, sweat dripping down my underarms. I felt an increased heart rate and visualized the diminishing place values in my bank account.

* * *

            Late Monday afternoon I was on a conference call. Lost in discussion I was shocked to look up to see Christina. Unable to reach me by phone, she had tracked down my office. It seemed my bid on the condo had been accepted. There was one glitch: the unit was not habitable for at least another month. All the inspections had not been completed, and minor construction on some of the surrounding condos needed to be finished before it was safe to move in. I was certain Christina had been shrewd enough to withhold this information from me before I made the offer, but I wasn’t angry at the deception. I could put my possessions in storage and ask my friend Henry to put me up for a few weeks. I had spent the past 15 years in academia—a dissertation, postdoctoral work, and, finally, a position on the cancer research team. My title, Daniel S. Erikson, Ph.D., on an office door at the laboratory was the culmination of years of study. I had neglected other aspects of my life, and it was time I made some changes.

            Christina was taking me out to dinner to celebrate. People at the lab stopped and whipped their heads around when Christina walked past the various departments. Diminutive in stature, she somehow managed to convey a formidable presence. Proud to be seen in the company of a coveted woman, I waved to colleagues; Christina walked out the exit first, alluring and self-possessed.

* * *

            By ten o’clock, drunk from sake and beer, I walked into Christina’s house and met her dog, Raoul, a wirehaired fox terrier. The white-furred beast stood at attention with straight legs, expressive face, and wagging tail. Never having had a dog, I was wary. Raoul sensed this and, taking the upper hand, pushed his nose into my ankles, sniffing my socks and nipping at my sneaker laces. As if possessing inner springs, Raoul leapt up on his hind legs, jumping to the height of my chest while yapping in a high-pitched bark.

            “Stop, puppy boy! Leave Dan alone,” Christina said, her mouth in a pout, speaking in a tone suitable for a baby. The dog ran around in circles, much to the amusement of Christina, who, glowing with alcohol, was probably calculating her 5 percent sales commission and expecting a night of pleasure. She let Raoul out into the darkened back garden and opened the door of her refrigerator. Christina pulled out a bottle of champagne, unleashing the cork just as Raoul threw his body against the back door, hurling himself back into the kitchen.

            “Calm down, beastie boy. Mummy is putting you in the basement.” Christina scooped up the squirming dog, turned on the basement light, and dropped Raoul down, slamming the door behind him. The dog was scratching and barking as she led me by the hand to her bedroom; I felt a combination of erotic anticipation and performance dread. I squinted as we entered her bedroom; all the lights were on. The room was painted a deep pink and dominated by a king-sized bed with a brass headboard. The headboard was intertwined with colorful silk scarves. I noticed the red scarf she wore on our first meeting tied in a bow on an ornate finial.

            We embraced and kissed. Christina wasted no time, pulling off her dress, lace bra, and panties. She pawed off my shirt, popping most of the buttons. Christina’s body, high, tight, and small, made me embarrassed by my droopy boxers and the paunchiness of my stomach. Nervous, I let her dominate me in a little game; she covered my eyes with a silk scarf. She kissed my face, chest, and stomach. She guided my hands over her breasts and buttocks. The unpredictability of what she would do next and the newness of her body were thrilling. Christina was adventurous; her tongue slid over me. At one point I was standing, her legs straight up against my chest, ankles hooked around my shoulders. Letting go of my inhibitions, I enjoyed the increasing creativity of our encounter.

            Through the cacophony of our shared cries and moans, I heard Raoul’s barks. Trapped in his basement prison, the barks were sharp and angry, different than his earlier silly yapping. Despite the relentless series of plaintive, wolf-like howls, we fell asleep, exhausted and spent.

* * *

            Two weeks later, the condo contract signed, I’m staying at Christina’s house. It is a temporary arrangement; the closing date has been pushed off for six weeks. I am happy to be staying here, instead of with my friend Henry. Like a callow newlywed I now live in a state of sexual thrall. Home early this Friday evening, I’m waiting for Christina. Raoul has been outside chasing squirrels. I let him in and he runs right past me to the front door. His mistress has returned. She’s dressed for the drizzly spring weather; a black, bucket-shaped hat frames her angular cheekbones. Christina slips off her raincoat and tosses her hat on a chair. Raoul takes an acrobatic leap, and she catches him in her arms.

            “Sorry I’m late, puppy boy,” she croons as the dog lathers up her face.

            “Hello, Dan,” she kisses me. I feel the sticky dog saliva on her lips.

            “The closing took longer than I expected. I had to wait till the bank cut my commission check,” she informed me, taking it out. I’m impressed with the five-figure number.

            In our short time together, Christina has shared a little of her past. Her father deserted Christina and her mother when she was a child. Since the age of 18, she has supported herself and sends money to her mother. She completed an Associate’s Degree, tended bar, worked as a secretary, managed a boutique, and did a stint as an exercise instructor. She ended up at her present real estate agency as a receptionist, then advanced to salesperson, got her broker’s license, and became one of the agency’s top producers. Christina has never married.

            She lives on take-out Asian food, exotic fruits, and salad. Christina spends her money. Whenever she receives a commission check, she splurges on some expensive purchase, like an Italian leather sofa or some flashy gift she has shipped to her mother.

            Christina grabs half a mango from the kitchen. The three of us walk upstairs to her bathroom; soaking in a tub takes the edge off her day. Living in close quarters with a woman is new to me. I’m not yet accustomed to her stealing my shirts and am a little put off when I notice her short, blue-black hairs clinging to the bathroom sink.

            There are perks to cohabitation too, like watching Christina undress. Raoul balls up the discarded clothes into a makeshift pillow which he lies on, nuzzling her underwear. Christina submerges herself under the swirling turquoise bath salts, comes up for air, and picks up the mango. Slurping into it, the juice drips down her chin. Her hair and skin are shimmering with a film of soap suds; she lets her arm hang over the side of the bathtub. Raoul licks the mango juice from her fingers as Christina splashes my face with her foot. The bath salts are separating, and I see rosebud nipples peeking through. Aroused, I slide my hand from her ankle, over her knee to find and explore Christina’s inner thigh. In my travels I step down on Raoul’s paw. He yelps and bites down on my foot; his teeth lock onto the tongue of my sneaker; the thickness of the leather prevents him from biting into my flesh.

            “Knock it off this instant,” commands Christina in her sternest voice. The little bastard releases his grip and dives for the base of the bathroom door. He hammers his teeth into the woodwork, a poor substitute for my skin, I think. Christina stands up and screams, “Bad boy!” The terrier lets go his hold and, with his back fur up, sounds short, furious barks in my direction.

* * *

            Christina insists she doesn’t need help with expenses. I clean up the place when she is out and pick up her dry cleaning and groceries. I consider buying her a bracelet or chocolate truffles, but instead get her flowers from the market. After years of living on a tight budget, it’s difficult for me to be extravagant. Christina’s eyes soften when I present them to her.

            Most men would be envious of this arrangement. Christina’s appetites are wearing me down. Toweling off after a shower, I stare in wonder at my well-traveled penis. I try to imagine how many men have come before, feeling critical of her lack of restraint. Living in close quarters is uncomfortable and making me self-conscious of my bathroom habits and more careful with my grooming. Our evenings are becoming ritualized: dinner, superficial conversations, and then sex. Raoul’s noisy presence is intrusive. When I’m home alone, I distance myself from the annoying scoundrel, who lies on the couch, eyes slit, a watchful sentinel and my canine rival. I begin to wonder why Christina has no female friends.

            The following Sunday Christina puts on a smart pants suit, the jacket opened to reveal ropes of pretend pearls. She is going to a church service at a Lutheran church; it’s business-related. She attended the church as a child, and a few parishioners have invited her. They are Christina’s clients, house flippers.

            “What’s a house flipper?” I ask, with startling visions of houses tipping over and collapsing to the ground.

            “House flipping is when people buy a house in need of work, spend some money to fix it up, and then sell it for a profit within a short amount of time. They do it to eventually trade up to the house they really want. I find them properties and make myself steady commissions,” she explains.

            “I see,” I say, thinking the practice must take up a lot of time and energy.

            “Dan, would you like to come with me? After the service there’s a brunch. We wouldn’t have to stay long.”

            I pause; my friend Henry has invited me over for beers and chess. Henry, a socially maladroit savant, is in awe of my relationship with Christina.

            “You know, Christina, I’m not a churchgoer. I’m an atheist. I think I’ll pass on the invitation and visit my friend.”

            Startled, she walks closer to me. “I thought your parents were Unitarians,” she says.

            “They are, but I don’t believe in God or organized religion.”

            “How can anyone know for sure that God doesn’t exist?” she asks.

            “God is a product of religion. Religion played a role in getting groups of people to get along socially. It doesn’t serve that purpose now. Instead, I believe it’s a huge obstacle to creating a global society.” I know I sound like a lecturing professor, but I hope to engage Christina in some kind of meaningful debate.

            Christina, glancing at her watch, says, “So everything has a scientific explanation to you. People find comfort in the idea that there is a spiritual being watching over them, and most of us hope God will someday relieve human suffering.”

            “But He doesn’t. Africans died from HIV because of religious objection to condom use. God-loving people want to preserve disease and preach abstinence instead of science. Millions died because of unscientific objections to Covid vaccinations.” I am revving to segue into stem cell research, but Christina shrugs her shoulders at me and turns to leave.

            “If God isn’t real, what will happen to us when we’re dead, Dan?” she asks.

            “We cease to exist, our bodies decompose, and we become one with the natural elements and—that’s it.”

            “Well, while you’re turning into mulch, I’m going to paradise.” She turns to blow me a kiss, then leaves.

            Beautiful, simple Christina, I think. An accomplished capitalist and sublime libertine, she hopes to find even more pleasure after death. I shake my head, locate my keys, and drive to Henry’s house.

* * *

            My lawyer calls me to tell me that the closing date is set for next week. Everything is in order. Christina says she’ll help me move. She’s scurrying around the kitchen, about to leave for an Open House; she just secured a new listing.

            After moving out I know I will feel the need to take a little hiatus away from Christina, but don’t know how to go about it. I decide to go out. Searching for my jacket, I see Raoul lying on top of it on a living room chair, deep in sleep. His coarse fur makes him look like a wooly lamb. Annoyed by the fur stuck to my jacket, I creep up on him and yank it from under his body, disrupting his doggy dreams and flinging him from the chair. Raoul, wide awake and angry, rolls, then rights himself to lunge at my foot. I flee out the front door as he snaps at my escaping heels.

            When I return Raoul keeps a respectful distance. I let him out the kitchen door to do his business. He frolics in the grass and then begins digging a hole. The doorbell rings. I notice a white Corvette identical to Christina’s parked out front. I open the door to a slightly built, older gentleman. His hair is gray and thinning, and he is wearing a neat, pressed shirt, jeans, and blazer.

            “Hi, is Christina home?” he asks.

            “No,” I say. “She should be home soon, though.”

            The man is nervous and pale.

            “Do you mind if I come in? My name is John Turner; I used to date Christina. I have to speak with her. She changed all her numbers and doesn’t respond to the messages I leave at her office.”

            Feeling apprehensive, I hesitate.

            “You’re probably her new boyfriend. I can just wait in the living room.”

            “Look, John, write down your number. I’ll tell Christina to call you as soon as she gets back.”

            John is sweating; he pulls a gun from his pocket. Pointing it toward my face, he pushes his way into the house.

            I don’t know much about guns; the man’s hand is shaking. He is much smaller than me but I stand frozen.

            “Relax, man,” I plead. “I’m sure whatever the problem is, it can be resolved. I’m not really Christina’s boyfriend; in fact, I’m moving soon.”

            “I want to speak with Christina face to face. I need some, uh—closure.”

            “Sure, you know, you could probably catch her later this evening.” I know I’m babbling and can hear Raoul throwing himself against the back door. I am afraid the dog will burst in, startle John, and there will be bloodshed, probably mine. Then I notice that John’s crying. He puts the gun in his pocket, lowers himself into Raoul’s favorite chair, and covers his face with his hands. Sobbing, he apologizes; then tells his story.

            “I met Christina three months ago; I work as an attorney for a mortgage and title company that does business with her agency. It was great at first. I wanted to get married, but Christina wouldn’t hear of it. You know she spends money without thinking about her future. I got her to open a 401k plan. I told her, ‘You’re fifty years old; the real estate market is changing.’” He wipes his eyes with the backs of his hands.

            Christina is 50? I’m shocked. I never asked her age or details of past men. Christina is a master at lies of omission.

            John continues, “For her birthday, I bought the Corvette. I brought her to the dealership; she loved the spontaneity of it all. Well, to make a long story short, she ran off to Atlantic City with the car salesman, Mike. They were gone for a week. When she came back, she accused me of being possessive. Maybe I am possessive. I pleaded with her to still see me.” He takes a deep breath. “I suppose it really is over.”

            I pat John on the back. I feel we have entered into a brotherhood of sorts; two overeducated chumps fallen for the same aging femme fatale. At last Raoul manages to dislodge the back door latch, prancing into the living room. He jumps into John’s lap, licking the tears from his face.

            “How are you, fella,” John perks up. I watch, amazed, as John massages Raoul’s ears; the dog nuzzles his neck. I offer John a drink. He declines.

            John gets out of the chair, shakes my hand, and leaves.

* * *

            I go out to clear my head. Christina’s car is in the driveway when I return. She’s in the backyard, tossing a ball to Raoul, wearing one of my shirts, the tail reaching her mid-thigh.

            When I go out to join her, she asks, “How was your day?”

            “Well, as a matter of fact, it was kind of interesting. A guy named John showed up here looking for you; he waved a gun in my face. He calmed down and left; it seems he’s been trying to reach you for awhile.” I study Christina’s face for a reaction.

            “Oh, John is harmless.”

            “It seemed that way. He mentioned Mike, your car salesman friend, and a trip to Atlantic City.” I sound sarcastic.

            “Are you judging me, Dan?”

            “No, but you might have mentioned them. We have been kind of close.”

            “Have I ever asked you about your past or pressured you for anything?” She pauses. “I know you think you’re smarter than me; but, like most men, you’re a hypocrite. I take care of myself; I don’t want a husband. Yes, I like variety, but when I’m with someone, I hold nothing back. You want to end it, don’t you? You know something?” Her bottom lip is quivering. “You live without passion; you’re boring and cheap and even stingier with your love! You can leave right now!”

            I underestimated her as a worthy opponent; her assessment of me is like an astute, unsolicited comment from a madman or a child. I feel shame for not giving Christina the careful treatment she deserved. She runs into the house. From the top of the staircase, she kicks down my clothes. She races up and down the steps, finding things and tossing them outside. I end up in the front yard gathering my belongings, stuffing them into my car trunk. It is a warm June evening; a muted twilight sky casts a forgiving aura to the confusion. Christina shoves my rolling suitcase out of the door; it crashes down to me, just missing my foot. She undoes my shirt, walks over, and hands it to me. Naked, Christina stands on her front lawn for a moment to give me the full effect of what I would be missing, her dewy skin lit to perfection. She slams the front door; a white sock is stuck under the door jamb. Backing out of the driveway, I see Raoul perched on top of the couch, looking out the window; his black eyes shining and maniacal. His toothy mouth is in an open grin. Sighing and relieved I put the car in gear, gun the engine, and head to Henry’s house.

Michele A. Hromada is a special educator and political blogger. Her work has appeared in: Wild Violet, Diverse Voices Quarterly, Forge, Tower Journal, Gemini Magazine, The Book Smuggler's Den and Coffin Bell.

‘I am the Wild’

Photographer - Liz Jakimow

I am the Wild

I am birds that sing and the promise of spring.

I am morning mist on marshes, a smiling sun at noon, the first star awake, and the cry of a loon.

I am turning leaves that fall and rutting moose that call.

I am the long winter that comes early and stays late.

I am the light in dark at the break of day and the dark in light that first appears as grey.

 I am protruding rock ridges that are the bones of the earth and the streams and valleys they lie beside.

I am a place where lakes reflect the world they see around them and ice that seals their eyelids shut.

I am a place where life depends on listening and I am always listening and watching too.

I am a place where the wind is your only trusted friend.

I am a place where ears and noses detect the sound and scent of danger even before alert and wandering eyes.

I am the white patch on the throat of a white-tailed deer and the dark shadow moving silently across the ground behind it, without snapping a twig or bending a blade of grass.

I am hollow trees and black stumps and the black bear who rules over this place, which is a place without rules.

I am the high wide swaying rack of a long-legged bull moose.

I am the yellow eyes of a pack of hungry wolves watching the tip of that rack dip lower than it should when a limp right hoof presses down on the soft grey moss.

I am a place where patient wolves come closer only when a lame moose tries to rest or eat and they will let it do neither now.

I am a place where killing time has a different meaning.

I am a place with no beginning or end, and for some, no way out.            

I am place where little has changed.

I am the long yellow beak of the great blue heron, a living dinosaur and deadly impaler, standing  motionless and alone like a phantom laced in sunlight and veiled in shadow.

I am the teeth and claws of the secretive fisher who uses cunning to kill porcupines, and speed agility to pursue squirrels up and through the trees.

I am tracks in the snow and the naked feet that keep the game trails worn.

 I am feathered wings that follow a path made in the mind across the trackless sky.

 I am the fur-bearing animal, the trapper’s line and sudden death without overtime.

 I am the hunting camp where men live life a different way, heading for swamps before first light and talking across open fires beneath the stars at night.

I am a place filled with fatherless children where childhood ends early if it ever begins at all.

 I am a place where nature is the mother of all things.

I am the harsh logic called instinct which is the only gift nature provides her children to guide them on their journey.

I am a place that must rot to remain unspoiled.

I am a place where nothing really dies.

I am a place where the flesh of one animal becomes the flesh of another until it returns to the ground.

I am rainfall and sunlight that make it rise up again to be nibbled at and fed on during a never-ending cycle of life.

I am a place where everything is connected and all things depend on each other for survival.

I am a place where life seems simple, which means it’s complicated.   

I am the flat-tailed beaver, the dams it makes and swamps it creates.

I am water bugs scurrying across the surface of those swamps.

I am the world beneath the surface of the swamp, which is more dangerous than the one above because it is a place where all things live and die in silence.

I am bullfrogs and black snakes and snapping turtles that hunt and are hunted along its shorelines.

I am the scented cedars and white pines and soft maples beyond the swamps.

I am the wind that makes them bend and bow and creak and moan.

 I am the sound of axes and saws gnawing away at the edges of this place.

I am a place that was once like the place where you live now but that was a long time ago.

I am a place with a timeless and sacred spirit.

I am a place where light and dark, and water and wind, and rocks and trees, and predators and prey live and die beneath an open sky that can touch your spirit. 

I am a place that will challenge and humble and teach and kill those who enter it.

I am a place that you are drawn to and fear, for the same reason.

I am the wild.

LW Oakley was born and raised in the east end of Toronto. He graduated from RCI and Ryerson. He is a retired accountant living in Kingston, Ontario.

‘The Grasses of Hölkenstripen’

Erica Appleton is a recent MFA graduate of the College of Charleston. She has been featured in the winning circle for CofC's undergraduate creative writing contest with her short story, "Out in Her Garden" as well as CofC's 2022 graduate level creative writing contest with her short story "The Precipice". Her poem "To Be the Greenery" was published by Pensive in 2022. Her poem "Beautiful Abomination" was published with Stirring Lit in April, 2024. Her short poem collection "Before the Goldenrod" was published by Wayfarer Magazine in May 2024. She completed Chateau Orquevaux's August Art Residency 2024.

The Grasses of Hölkenstripen

WINNER OF THE SHORT FICTION CONTEST 2024

The grasses of Hölkenstripen were a rancid, fetid lot. Naught but an ocean of gray and brown, borne from a bog of lustless mud that puckered under the dry, sour heat of rainless sunshine. These grasses were once lush and green, fed by the virility of the savory mud, but that is no more. They became trampled on by the men that fled war in the eastern hills, and their fertile soil was laid to waste by their trail of bile.

On the distant horizon, a queen, ‘The Belladonna,’ they called her. This vile woman seemed to have mistaken her lack of adversity for an abundance of strength. That lack would end with me. Long have I watched over these grasses and long have I watched her petty squabbles in the east slowly turn their eyes to the city in the west, my home; Hölkenstripen. The city that had birthed me, the city that had scorned my magic, the city that taught me that love is power, and that all living things can know love. My love.

With eyes open, I walked into the tall, dying grasses and bore them my flesh so that they may cut it and feast. Cherubic droplets of my blood trailed down their leaves, bearing the silver reflection of the moon above. They reached the soil with the fervent kiss of a man lusting after virginity.

With my dance I taught the grasses that the hunger they had long felt was undue and I watched with delight as what was once dry, and brittle was born again, still slicked with the wetness of its mother. It remembered its virility, its verdant, venerable origin, and became ravenous to see its return – as did I.

Idle cuts against my skin became deep gashes as the grass felt its hunger sated for the first time since its seeds first made their way here from the lush Illutine Forest. It began carving out chunks of my body and eating them like an animal would. The soil pulsed like a heartbeat as it growled, becoming slicked with blood that flashed white with the moon’s light. I spun and they unraveled me, tugging the crimson sinew that once held me together like the seams of an old dress. It felt good to be loved in this way.

My dance continued until I was no more than bones spinning through a forest of red tongues licking me clean of my once mortal flesh. Even then, there was still much to be eaten. I threw the rest of myself to the soil, plunging my skeletal arms deep beneath. I carved a hole into my ribs and whipped them with the roots I tore from the darkness below, teaching the grasses that the work was not yet done. More roots followed, sucking out the marrow like newborn puppies from their mother's teat.

They wanted more. The work would never be done. They would feast until there was no more to feast upon. They craved flesh and flesh they would have by the coming of the sun when that hapless queen of the Hills of Taçad would march on the great city of Hölkenstripen that would know no gratitude for the wretch that saved them.

By sunrise, I was no longer a thing of body or meat – I was of grass. There, as our leaves dried out in the sun, we awaited the coming of the sun and the coming of an army whose rumbling we could hear from yonder hills. Our soil was wet with fresh blood. Our leaves were swords made of peridot; tall, strong, proud. Their marching was loud, but the wind made us like the shattering of a thousand stained glass windows. They could not hear our battle cry, our howling screams for their bodies. To them, we were merely a field of grass blowing in the wind. How unlike us they thought they were.

When the last foot finally found itself within our verdant jaws, we bit. Gnashing teeth ripped their armor from their squishy, blood-filled bodies. Red rain poured down as their weak bodies became fountains of blood. And we laughed as their swords shattered against our powerful arms. Within this heaving massacre, I found her; The Belladonna.
I rose above the slaughter as a specter of weaved leaves, gazing down on the small frail woman that was to be the supposed destroyer of my home. I touched her face with delicate fingers and drank her fear, her powerlessness. The screams of her army were drowned by the thunderous rustling of my leaves, and her tiny voice could not hope to overtake them. But the sweat on her face spoke for her. It tasted of regret, anger, fear, and sorrow. The sorrow of knowing the end of her life was to come soon. When my fingers tasted of her insides, they gnawed on her organs until they busted within her – pouring out what they contained into her still stiff skin. The once great queen became filled up with herself like a heavy glass of wine, and we drank mirthlessly of her.
When the work was done, all was silent. The blood of the eastern queen’s army empowered us to do nothing but sway delicately in the wind, that which we had done before for hundreds of years. This time, however, we were green and filled with life and vigor. We were to a thing be feared and our land was marked for its danger and treachery to those that may find themselves trekking too deep into the hills.

Slowly, and over many seasons of winter’s bitter kisses, we dried and returned to dust. But even then, we were nothing but a stain upon the soil, as are all things that are loved.

INTERVIEW WITH THE AUTHOR

Vera Tenney

Vera Tenney was born in 2001 in Oviedo, Florida. She prefers to write prose but has dabbled in a variety of other artistic ventures such as acting, ornamental horticulture, gemology, singing, and drag. She is a new author, having only one self-published piece of literature, her debut novel “The Verdillion,” to Amazon KDP in January of 2024, and has no traditionally published work currently. She studies creative writing at the University of Central Florida and intends to use her writing career to work almost exclusively on her anthological fantasy series “Taçad.”

Why are you a 'Breakout Creative'?

I consider myself a breakout creative in that I’m still young and have a very small body of published work. This was actually the first time I’d ever submitted anything for publication aside from my novel earlier this year, which hardly counts, since self-publishing an eBook on Amazon is really only marginally different than doing so on Wattpad. I just get to rub a couple more pennies together every time someone reads it. I’m very appreciative of this opportunity.

What made you want to be a writer? Did you have any muses or guides along your way?

Actually, as a kid, the end-goal was to be an actress. Even before I realized that I was a woman, I knew it was far fiercer to be an actress than an actor; it just rolled off the tongue better. I dabbled in acting here and there, but I realized that all the roles I wanted to play hadn’t been written yet, so I set out to write them. Ironically, I have no plans to return to pursue a career in acting anymore, and much prefer the creative autonomy of writing.

As for muses, I spent about the entirety of my adolescence completely obsessed with Björk and desperately hope that some of her rubbed off on me. More recently, I’ve been doing a lot of research on jewelry and gemology for a novel I’m working on – I thoroughly enjoyed reading Seven Thousand Years of Jewelry by Hugh Tait.

How would you describe your unique style and what do you think influences it?

I always say that everything I write is about hunger, which I think is because I’ve always been hungry. I don’t think that I have gone a single day of my life without fantasizing about some overly ambitious goal – usually delusions of fame – and these fantasies have a consuming quality to them that makes me feel terribly starved. As a result, almost everything I create seeks to either satiate or convey that hunger, among other things, of course.

If you had any advice for writers just getting started, what would you say?

I wish I could remember who said this – I don’t think it was me – but I heard once that you should study everything except what you intend to create. It’s an idea I often return to when looking for places to find inspiration. As artists, we’re often taught to study the works of those closest to ourselves, which is certainly true, but I think some attention should be paid in the interest of ensuring that you aren’t getting too bogged down by that approach. If you want to write a romance novel, read a bit of romance here and there of course, but if that’s all you do, you’ll find it hard to write anything except what has already been written.

Where can we find more of your work?

My first (only, for now) novel, The Verdillion is available on Amazon as an eBook! It is a fantasy novel set in the same original universe as The Grasses of Hölkenstripen.