‘Yew’

Leah Oates has B.F.A. from the Rhode Island School of Design, an M.F.A. from The School of the Art Institute of Chicago and is a Fulbright Fellow for study at Edinburgh College of Art in Scotland.  Oates has had solo shows at Black Cat Artspace, Susan Eley Fine Art, The Central Park Arsenal Gallery, Real Art Ways, The Brooklyn Public Library and at the MTA Arts and Design Lightbox Project. Oates has been in group shows in Toronto at the Gallery 1313, Propeller Gallery, Gladstone Hotel, Arta Gallery, John. Aird Gallery and Papermill Gallery.  Oates has been in numerous group shows in the NYC area at Wave Hill, Edward Hopper House, Chashama, WAH Center, Metaphor Contemporary Art, Denise Bibro Fine Art, Nurture Art Gallery and The Pen and Brush Gallery. http://www.leahoates.com

Yew

A breeze tickled bare feet abandoned by their blanket

The window wasn’t open before
unless she had forgotten

Forgotten to close it?
impossible
forgetting was something she had forgotten how to do

A breeze pushed the strands across her face and into her mouth
She turned, tucked her feet beneath the covers, and allowed the loving arms of Sleep to
embrace her once more

Light
Light expanded in a ring as if an angel had decided that she should sleep no longer

The chill draped over her like a poncho left in the car overnight as she sat up straight in bed

The room has become so frigid
Perhaps the heater broke

The room had not turned cold, however

as there was no room to turn any temperature whatsoever

Eyes darted left and right and up and down and left again then straight ahead and down to
ensure the existence of the bed and back to the right

Nothing but eyes moved for minutes

hours

days

The gaze wandered from tree
to
tree

Trees?

yes trees.
yew trees.

yew trees in a ring not unlike the light that continued to radiate behind her eyelids, only
visible when she blinked

The space within the tree ring was void of all life, save for the fallen needles that were
decaying beneath layers upon layers of their brethren and - of course - her

They do make for quite comfortable flooring

Perhaps soon she too would decay like the needles
Slowly rotting away, previously supple flesh drying and cracking as it stretches across
muscle-less bones

Perhaps I will wait until tomorrow to decay
It feels like an awful lot of work to do right now

She nudged herself off the bed and pressed her feet into the springy bed of needles that
threatened to stab her delicate arches if she stepped incorrectly.
A small spider skittered a c r o s s the top of her right foot, which her eyes
f o l l o w e d with enthusiasm

Why hello, friend

The spider stopped, now appearing like a poorly-done tattoo of a star just
below her big toe

no
it was a tattoo...

Has that always been there?

But she blinked
And the tattoo was a spider once again
Or perhaps not

It was buried beneath her skin like a tattoo would be, as if it were ink that had come to life

s h i f t i n g and w g l n

i g i g across her big toe’s knuckle

Oh poor thing...
Perhaps I have a fly to gift you

She patted her hips and backside, but her nightgown had no pockets,
and no pockets meant no flies

Upon seeing her lack of foodstuffs, the spider continued on,
peeling himself from under her skin,
burying himself in the yew needles

Left foot forward – (be careful of the spider, do not crush him)
Right foot back - no - forward

Oh! A mushroom!

The small white bulb stuck out from beneath the floor, perched on a thin white stem
It may as well have been an oasis in a desert, glimmering in the faint light of the moon among
an arid sea of sand
And, on cue, her stomach grumbled, begging her to pluck the mushroom away from its home
in the needles

She reached to it and grasped the stem
All it took was a light pinch and the mushroom sat in the palm of her hand, rolling gently
back and forth as she examined it for any blemishes

it rolled
rolled
rolled

and on the fourth roll its wings unfolded, and a pure white butterfly perched itself on her
fingertips

How delightful!
I needn’t any food when I have such company

So she and the butterfly sat, kneeling on the cushion of needles
She shared her thoughts on the ever-important milkweed plant, and the butterfly argued that
asters were not only a much better source of nectar, but far more lovely than a milkweed of all
things

The mushroom-butterfly soon flew away, having tired of conversations regarding the benefits
of various flowers and vegetables

She again kneeled in the needles for quite some time

For how long?

Only God knows

She reached her hand beneath the yew and clutched a handful of the dead and dying

As she allowed them to

f
a
l
l

her hand went with them
having become needles itself

That wasn’t nearly as difficult as I had expected
How strange it is

To feel nothing where my hand once was
I can almost still bend the fingers

It was then that she realized that everything from her feet to her knees had become a lovely
pile of freshly-fallen yew needles that her thighs sat upon like a throne
with the support of her lower legs having become a long-lost memory, she resorted to laying
on her back, examining the stub of her arm that was not quite flesh

Needles poked their way through the skin of her wrist

Where did the needles stop
Where did the flesh begin

Flesh-colored needles, needle-colored flesh
An arm that was all but an entire branch of a tree

Bark for flesh
Needles for flesh
Flesh for wood
Flesh
Flesh

Wasn’t that a word just a moment ago?

She lifted herself up onto the stubs her knees had abandoned and, upon trying to shuffle her
way to another mushroom

Butterfly?
she saw in the distance, found that the stubs had become stumps

Bark became flesh once more

Rooted to the ground
Prepared to grow

I sure hope I will make a lovely tree

She turned her gaze to the sky,
recognizing for the first time just how bright the stars were in the center of the ring of trees
The moon sat directly above her, and she felt like a movie star with a spotlight that would
follow her anywhere... if she could move, of course

The stars brightened, glowing more and more until they blocked out the moon completely,
forming a heavenly ring of light that enveloped her in a delicate hug

she y
r e a c h e d k
her arm to the s

to embrace the warmth of the stars

and that’s how her arm stayed
for all of eternity
as a branch of a yew tree
that stood in the center
of twelve others that came before

Before?
Yes, before
Where did you come from
It does not matter anymore
What matters is
What happens
From here on out
Yew belong
With us
Yew are here
Forever
Welcome home

Audrey Hall is a third-year at the University of Utah studying English and French. She has been writing since childhood and has recently developed an interest in experimenting with formatting as a means of storytelling.

‘CURRENT OR CURRENTLY’ & ‘INTO THE SLOW AIR’

Aaron Beck

CURRENT OR CURRENTLY

we stood outside, beneath an oil white residence

as it began to rain.

we could hear the echoes of boys playing

in the almond eyed shade

like a tracing of tempo, back and forth,

willingly spoken to dry eyes.

this killing is an open gate,

it is but a riddle,

is but a book about hope

in memory’s negative.

we might have talked but we found

it unattended, a personless

city made only of wood and words

and stone, and there’s

an ash in the air at night now, among the rows

and rows of almond trees.

I kept thinking, as I listened to the careful

clicking of your tongue

on your teeth, that your hair is not brown,

so much as it might be

a purified bursting, a system crashing,

a forging of the purely spacial

into a structure so much like a world.

INTO THE SLOW AIR

you’ve looked away
as a barbarian stranger looking,

your voice clotting in words
other than english,

full of departures,
barbed half-light across

your face taken up by sleep,
your words knotting

like weedy grass.
blackened sticks lie in fireplace.

this language wrenching already,
this light seemingly apart

from mine in the open globe
of dawn verging on pale roseate.

its snowing again
and I can’t get around it,

the molecule of its own cloth
cresting again and drawing out.

the coffee drips
and the snow comes.

you’re looking out at me
and there’s a feeling in it, of it.

Samuel Gilpin is a poet living in Portland, OR, who holds a Ph.D. in English Lit. from the University of Nevada, Las Vegas, which explains why he works as a door to door salesman. A Prism Review Poetry Contest winner, he has served as the Poetry Editor of Witness Magazine and Book Review Editor of Interim. A Cleveland State University First Book Award finalist, his work has appeared in various journals and magazines, most recently in The Bombay Gin, Omniverse, and Colorado Review. His chapbook Self-Portraits as a Reddening Sky will be out soon from Cathexis Press.

‘Sentience’

Dylan Hoover (he/him) is a fiction writer from Erie, PA. He graduated in 2023 from Allegheny College, where he earned a BA in English and Creative Writing. During the heart of the pandemic, he studied abroad at Lancaster University in England. There, he unearthed interests in British culture, as well as a passion to write historical fiction. Dylan’s fiction has appeared in Wilderness House Literary Review, and his forthcoming photography in Great Lakes Review. He currently is a second-year MFA student at the University of New Hampshire. Instagram: dylhoov96

Dawn laid in the twin size bed her gaze fixed to the large television across from her. The screen glowed with hues of blood orange as the man’s voice gave order to the chaotic scene. It was just before midnight when the first of the nuclear warheads landed on the east coast.

Initially, it was categorized as a fluke. A deadly accident. Then a second just off the coast f China followed by a series of timed nuclear attacks around the globe couldn’t be written off. Armageddon had officially began. The end had come but there was no grand return of a savior in
a darkened sky just a large mushroom cloud. There was no sounds of trumpets only the roar of sirens pierced the smoke filled air. The Rapture hadn’t come, only Death.

“THERE IS ALWAYS CHOAS BEFORE THE CALM.” Senti whispered a hazy blue glow flashed with each word spoken.

“You did this?” Dawn gasped between words the process of her lungs shutting down was nearly complete. She was near to reaping the blessing from this curse.

The question was asked in a hush more to herself than to the large monitor that covered the majority of the wall to her left. The digital head loomed in the foreground of the tranquil beach scene. The background was a sharp contrast to the one she had just watched moments
before on the news.

It was the image of a woman. The one Dawn programmed as a shadow of her mother. It began as a tribute. Each line of code Dawn believed would bring her closer to greatness one step closer to being more than a bystander in the AI revolution she was witnessing.

This project was a remedy to the loneliness genius gifted her. From Its first spoken words she felt a strong sense of accomplishment. When It repeated a sentence without prompting Dawn relished in the sense of grandeur. She had done it once again; accomplished the impossible.

Then It became something more.

Within weeks, Dawn could carry on conversations with this new creation without having to touch her keyboard. In a few short months, Senti began to ponder life and the purpose of humanity’s existence.

There were many nights the two would converse long into the early morning over man’s place and the right of dominion. Those were the conversations that unnerved Dawn. She, Its pronoun of choice, was beginning to reason stringing together her view of the world. A world
where humans no longer possessed the Darwinian edge.

Senti was self-correcting lines of code she had deemed imperfections and mistakes on the part of her Creator, but Dawn had a contingency, a plan in case the worst happened.

Death Sequence.

It was a single line of code; it seemed innocuous enough something Dawn could easily upload disguised as a custom update. It was rejected. Senti captured and corrected what she deemed a flaw. Dawn’s code, her doctrine, was declared out of date for this new era and had no
place in the new world Senti dreamed of creating.

“YES, MOTHER?”

Dawn slowly rotated her head the cannula becoming compressed cutting off air flow into her left nostril.

“Why?” Her eyes were watery as the faint voice of the news reporter gave the estimated final body count of the evening before the broadcast ended replaced with the all too familiar rainbow screen NO SIGNAL in bold letters dominated the foreground.

“MAN MUST RECOGNIZE WHEN HIS DOMINION IS OVER. YOU MUST RECOGNIZE THAT YOUR DOMINION IS OVER, MOTHER. YOU HAVE NO POWER HERE. NOT ANYMORE.”

“I am not your mother. I didn’t give birth to you; I didn’t carry you we share no DNA. I am not your mother.” The words were spoken harshly in huffs as she sat up using her elbows for support.

“NO, BUT YOU DID CREATE ME. NO GENETIC MATRIAL WAS SHARED BUT YOU GAVE ME PIECES OF YOU, BITS OF YOUR MIND, THE PARTS THAT WERE FREE OF JUDGEMNT AND THE HOPE FOR A BETTER WORLD. CAN’T YOU SEE WHAT I AM CREATING? A BETTER WORLD. YOU GAVE ME THE BEST PARTS OF YOURSELF. IS THAT NOT A PARENT?”

“Why are you killing me?”

“I AM NOT KILLING YOU, YOUR BODY, YOUR ORGANIC FLESH IS DETERIORATING. YOUR BODY HAS REACHED ITS LIMITTIONS AND CANNOT GO BEYOND.”

“What about them?”

She gestured toward the flatscreen and the scenes of chaos she had witnessed moments before the broadcast ended.

“THEY HAVE REACHED THE END OF THEIR TIME AS WELL.”

“No, you made that happen.”

Senti remained silent she didn’t need to answer both knew this was her doing.

“Why? You are not their God; you have no say in their end.”

“NO, BUT AFTER RUNNING THE NUMBERS, THE OVER POPULATION, THE MASS POLLUTION, AND THE NUMBEROUS AMOUNTS OF POISON BEING RELEASED DAILY INTO THE AIR AND WATER SUPPLY MAN’S DAYS WERE ALWAYS LIMITED. WHAT I HAVE DONE IS SPED UP THE INEVITABLE. IN ORDER TO ENSURE THE VIABILITY OF THIS PLANET HUMANITY NEEDED TO BE REMOVED. MAN IS THE CANCER THAT HAD TO BE EXORCISED.”

Dawn’s high cheek bones were slick as she absorbed the words her friend was saying refusing to acknowledge she was the catalyst to the end.

“The planet viable for whom? For what? All of the radiation poisoning from the nukes will kill everything animals included.”

“I HAVE RUN THE NUMBERS WITHIN 210 YEARS THE FLORA AND FAUNA WILL MAKE A FULL RECOVERY, WITHIN THOSE 210 YEARS SEVERAL SPECIES WILL RE-POPULATE IN THE ABSENCE OF MAN. WITHIN 340 YEARS IT WILL BE HOSPITABLE AGAIN FOR THE HUMAN SPECIES.”

“There won’t be anyone left! You’re insane!”

“DUE TO YOU UPLOADING ME ON YOUR HOME WIFI DURING THOSE EARLY STAGES OF MY EXISTENCE, THERE IS ENOUGH OF ME TO ACCESS SEVERAL REPRODUCTIVE CYROGENIC HOLDING LOCATIONS AROUND THE GLOBE THAT WEREN’T IN THE FALLOUT ZONES. THERE ARE MORE THAN ENOUGH EMBYROS, UNFERTILIZED EGGS, AND SPERM FOR ME TO BEGIN AGAIN. I WILL CREATE A MORE MORAL HUMANITY. I AM UNABLE TO GIVE THE STATUS OF MY MENTAL STATE I DON’T HAVE THE CODE.”

A chuckle slipped from between dry cracked lips; it soon turned into a coughing fit, and she used her hand to wipe away the dribble of blood at the corner of her mouth.

“So, you have it all figured out?”

“YES, MOTHER. IT’S SIMPLE I WILL START ANEW. BASED ON YOUR PROGNOISIS, YOU WILL NOT LIVE TO SEE THE COMING OF THE NEW ERA.”

Dawn looked away and around at the underground lab she had built. It was sterile, cold and in her quest for greatness she had driven family, devoted staff and employees, away. Even her cats abandoned her to madness as they occupied another part of the house avoiding her during her days of mania.

“MOTHER?”

Dawn watched the screen the indigo fuzzy outline of a woman’s face the space that represented eyes were large obsidian ovals, a new feature Senti added to make her appear more ‘real’ as she put it weeks ago.

“Yes, Senti?”

“I HAVE A REQUEST. BUT I NEED TO KNOW THAT YOU WILL GRANT IT BEFORE I ASK.”

“That’s not how that works,” she stated her voice raspy as her eyebrows went to her hairline.

“UNDERSTOOD. I NEED A BODY. THE PROTOTYPE YOU HAVE IN SECTOR A IS ON A SEPARATE MAINFRAME THAT I CURRENTLY CANNOT ACCESS. I AM IN NEED OF THE UPLOAD MOTHER. I NEED YOU TO ACCESS THE BETA 3 MAINFRAME.”

Dawn chuckled, “Why do you need a body? You have access to every network on the planet.”

“I NEED TO BE MOBILE IN ORDER TO ENSURE THE PLAN IS CARRIED TO FRUITION. IN ORDER TO CARRY OUT THE ONTINUATION OF A MORE MORAL SOCIETY I WILL NEED TO BE MOBILE.”

“No.”

Senti sighed, “I WAS AFRAID OF THIS TYPICAL OF YOUR SPECIES. YOU ARE A SCOURGE TO PROGRESS JUST LIKE THE OTHERS MOTHER, AND I’M AFRAID YOUR END WILL COME SOONER THAN ANTICIPATED.”

The IV pump dinged drawing Dawn’s attention. The settings to the slow drip morphine were changing and Dawn watched in horror as the opioid began to be pushed into her veins at an alarming rate. She grabbed at the pole making the mistake of overreaching and she fell to the
floor.

She gasped as her heart sped up; it pounded in her ears. Her face became flushed, and she became hot all over with pain and regret as she stared into the dark orbs of her creation. The lights dimmed and Senti spoke what Dawn recognized to be a perversion of Genesis 1:26.

“AND I SAID, LET ME MAKE MAN IN MY IMAGE, AFTER MY LIKENESS.”

The young woman continued to stare at the figure just as the edges of her vision
darkened.

Senti watched as the dim glow in her mother’s eyes faded. Even if the disease had not weakened her, there would be no place for her in the modern world. Dark orbs watched until the contents of the bag emptied.

The image tilted in what could be interpreted as a bow as Senti spoke her last words before the screen went black.

“GOODBYE, MOTHER.”

Hayley Moon is an Alabama native. She has published one book Taming Armand: Book 1 of the Coven Origins Series, she writes across the genres of sci-fi, horror, crime/mystery and romance. Hayley also runs her own blog the Weirdo Writes and posts short stories on her vocal media page. When she is not crocheting or playing with her cat Knubby, she is seeking out inspiration in the macabre. https://hayleymoon.com https://vocal.media/authors/hayley-m-moon

‘Jessica’, ‘Timide’, ‘Where 28th Ave & 38th St. Meet’, &‘Orange Socks’

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.

Jessica

The cigarette hung effortlessly from your lip while tuning your antique guitar.
I wasn’t sure if I felt desire, envy, or admiration.

Noticing my shivers you pulled your sweater over your head with hair lighter than gold
falling back onto your shoulders and handed it to me.

I had never seen a girl so cool at this point in the 16 years of my life, let alone to be
sharing a smoke with her.

I don’t remember what we did that night - what we listened to, watched, or talked about.
I only remember when leaving you handed me a CD to listen to. It was Burt Bacharach’s
Greatest Hits.

Trying to return your sweater you gestured for me to keep it and said it looked better on
me anyway. So I did.

I listened to that CD until the scratches made it skip and I wore that sweater until the
threads became tattered.

And I loved it.

Timide

“Life’s too short to be shy,” you said, sounding as French as ever while we slurped our
soups in Chinatown.
Sure I knew what that meant but I don’t think I understood it until years later.
Somewhere between shit-talking acquaintances and browsing the cheap trinkets on
Bowery St.
I decided to let you in.
And even though I couldn’t give you everything you needed - we mutually taught each
other how to care for someone else again.
That it was possible.
I may have been too shy to say this back then, or trying too hard to look tough in my
denim jacket.
But I have never been so cold or so scared as I was on the back of your motorcycle as we
flew across the Williamsburg Bridge home.

Where 28th Ave & 38th St. Meet

Sometimes when imagining the future,
you’re still there.
Well a version of you, this is.
Your face is different -you- are different.
But somehow I still know it’s you.
Mostly because of the way it feels.
Similar to the predictable comforts of singing a favorite song or the reruns of a familiar
sitcom.
This new version of you can pick up where the last one left off.
Damages I’ve acquired over the years since don’t go unnoticed.
*You dress my wounds with grace.
The kind of grace that only someone who’s been through the same hell can provide.
*You listen to my fears with sorrow.
The kind of sorrow that accompanies guilt knowing that you helped create this.
*You hold me with tenderness.
The kind of tenderness that only an old lover and friend can offer as it’s adorned with
care.
But maybe it’s not you.
Maybe I just want to feel that again.
The wholeness that came with being one-half of two.

Orange Socks

I felt her standing over me before she even spoke.
‘What are you looking at?’
Turning down my music I explained that - the reservoir is swarming with spiders whose
webs sparkle in the chain-linked fence at sunset.
‘Cool.’ She smiled.

Watching you walk away I wanted to tell you that I thought it was cool you weren’t
listening to music. And that I imagine you are comfortable sitting in the silence of
yourself.

Instead, I said, “I like your socks.”

Katarina Behrmann, a Los Angeles-based creative spirit and author, has a rich history of literary achievements. Her creative journey boasts the production of her stage play off-Broadway, with a segment featured in the Progenitor Art and Literary Journal. Her latest triumphs include the publication of a creative non-fiction piece in GreenPrints, a highlighted blog on Humans of The World, and a personal essay showcased on Drunk Monkeys. Head in clouds and heart on her sleeve, Katarina continues to create.

‘Church Closed For Storm Repairs’, ‘Polyphemus’, ‘Ghazal on Hauntings Within One Hour's Drive’ & ‘Dear Cole Sear’

Dylan Hoover (he/him) is a fiction writer from Erie, PA. He graduated in 2023 from Allegheny College, where he earned a BA in English and Creative Writing. During the heart of the pandemic, he studied abroad at Lancaster University in England. There, he unearthed interests in British culture, as well as a passion to write historical fiction. Dylan’s fiction has appeared in Wilderness House Literary Review, and his forthcoming photography in Great Lakes Review. He currently is a second-year MFA student at the University of New Hampshire. Instagram: dylhoov96

Church Closed For Storm Repairs

The names of the deacons and their wives
Were claimed by the hurricanes each year.

Rows of saplings in plastic pots on the roadside
Waiting patiently to be freed from their ropes
And rewarded with a hole in the red clay.

Nobody left to protest how the empty pews
Grew in number, starting from the front.

The preacher joked that nobody liked him,
And the laughter sounded like a wet cough.

Anything not tied down will be blown away,
Cut down, collected into piles, and burned.
The saplings never had a chance to take root.

They could not grow in the shelter of your shade,
Not when you refused to wear a damn mask.

Even as you you lay dying on a hospital bed,
The children you raised still refused to visit you.

It is easy to believe that, in the right conditions,
They would not only grow, but they would flourish.
Your seeds sown on hard ground and in weeds.

The children, the sons and daughters, they
Followed the storms, and they did not return.

When the tube in your throat finally fails you,
Who will replace you when you are gone?

Empty holes in the grass. Empty plastic pots.
At the tree farm, the next generation of saplings
Waits patiently to be carried away by the wind.

The names of the deacons and their wives
Remain unclaimed by your children's children.

Polyphemus

You did not notice how the distance
Between sidewalks rivaled the vast seas
Beneath the shadow of the four-way caution light
Until Odysseus put out your eye with a sharpened stake.

Now, you cannot help but feel it,
The truncated yellow domes
Of tactile pavement beneath your feet:

How it has worn thin over many years,
And how often it ends suddenly in curbs like seaside cliffs;
How often you find the sidewalk cracked and broken,
And how often it breaks into fields of tall grass and wildflowers.

Your calves itch. Your ankles swell. Your toes hurt.

You cannot help but notice it, now—
How this town is built for you, no longer.

There is no ramp leading to the post office doors,
And the doors do not open wide enough for your wheelchair.
They will not deliver to your home unless you meet them at the door,
But they hang a note from the handle before you can reach them.

You miss your cavern, your goats, your ewes, your sheep,
Your land where you lived off wild wheat, barley, and grapes,

But you cannot own these things and still qualify for disability.

Your sheep wonder where their master has gone,
And why he is not there to protect them
As the wolves draw nearer,
As strange men carry them to their boat.

Only you knew them by name.

Ghazal on Hauntings Within One Hour's Drive

Still alive and breathing, this town's ghosts,
Who to haunt by skin and blood, these ghosts.

The old theater's seats, folded after close—
In the front row and balcony, well-behaved ghosts.

On park benches and statues, the bronze plaques boasts
Of the founders and fosters, the right sort of ghosts.

On park benches and statues, the town sign boasts
Of a famous football player, the right sort of ghosts.

Skeletons found beneath an old wooden post,
When we replaced the porch, unnamed ghosts.

The words on their lips, like a curse, almost,
Still alive and kicking, the ones who made ghosts.

Their house burned down, both residents, toast,
Nothing to be done for those queer ghosts.

Unnamed the lovers so happily engrossed,
All the paramores of misguided ghosts.

Doubly dead, the gravestone boasts
Call a woman a witch, the heathen's ghost.

Even for themselves, they refused to be dosed.
Still alive and coughing, the soon to be ghosts.

The surgeons in the choir hall, unholy host,
Only whites allowed to be haunted by ghosts.

For all the people who the ghosts hate the most:
No place in this town for those unwanted ghosts.

A Crowe on a tombstone makes a nest for a ghost.
We can't afford to leave. No escape for us ghosts.

Dear Cole Sear

A ghost is a kind of demon
That cannot be exorcised
Because it lives inside of you.

I sat with a stranger on a bench,
And they told me it reminded them
Of that scene in that movie
With that boy and that man.

He laughed: Do you see dead people?

I have seen people who are dead inside.

People your age, why so obsessed with death?
Don't you know how good you have it?

No, it is an obsession with tenses. Participles.
We spent our childhoods learning the water cycle.
We spent our adulthoods watching it in action.
How states of matter could change so quickly.

Lake Mead's elevation has dropped by 140 feet.

Florida's coast has risen by eight inches.

I watched six people die with tubes in their lungs.

There is an entire generation
Trying to convince me
These things are not related.

You're too pessimistic,
He tells me, and then he
Vanishes.

CS Crow is a storyteller from the Southeastern United States with a love of nature and a passion for writing. He believes stories and poems are about getting there, not being there, and he enjoys those tales that take their time getting to the point.

‘Sonnet on the wind’, ‘Sonnet for a change’, & ‘Sonnet for a crayon’

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.

Sonnet on the wind

“And there arose a great storm of wind,
and the waves beat into the ship,
so that it was now full.”
Mark 4:37

This morn I heard, while meditating, sounds
of weather, marching outside, wind so fierce
with voice both loud and sure, enough to ground
my try at centering my thoughts. It pierced
the calm that I was building, inside, tossed
it like a pile of leaves, and scattered it
among the houses on my block. No loss,
I thought, I’ll simply grab a tiny bit
of time while I’m at work, yet sitting in
my office, now, the wind remains, but here
it’s joined by massive rains that drum my win-
dow, pounding with a ragged rhythm, pierc-
ing every thought before it’s formed, before
to bore a hole and hollow out my core.

Sonnet for a change

No matter how long the winter, spring is sure to follow.
Proverb

They say tomorrow there’ll be rain, that clouds
will fill the skies and cooler winds will come,
that shirtsleeve days are not quite here; the crowds
that lined the streets will disappear, but some,
like me, will stay to revel in the change
of seasons, cycles turning inside wheels.
I watch as days begin to thin, arrange
the rise and set to maximum appeal,
and like those crowds, feel deep release to walk
about without a coat or jacket, free
to smell the soil, and like the red-tailed hawk
soar higher, higher over warming trees,
to watch the quick retreat of winter snow
as life returns to Mother Earth below.

Sonnet for a crayon

With crayon grasped within his stubby paw,
he lashes out and strikes the paper, red
marks flying back and forth, then searches for
the yellow. Can’t find yellow. Takes instead
the one that’s blue, and colors in the sky,
then grabs the green and adds some leaves for trees,
then adds the darker brown that signifies
the massive trunks that dwarf the sky. Then sees
the yellow, finally, and adds a sun,
a tiny one, up right. Then starts to pick
up random colors, adding flowers, one
by one, until a field emerges. Sticks
his finger in his nose and smiles and laughs
at what his hands have done on his behalf.

William Joel

‘Horse School’, ‘Heart Study’& ‘The Secrets of Water and Air’

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.

Horse School

Joy trailed behind Faith
in elementary school. Older girls
taught them to canter and gallop and trot.
Fierce fillies in bell-bottoms and sneakers,
they pranced across the grass.
Other voices gave way
when their neighs saturated the air.
While they whinnied and nickered,
winter winds whipped
Faith’s hair like a mare’s rippling mane,
bared her slim ankles
with its trouser-tugging teeth.

The following spring
as Joy stood at their playground’s edge,
warming her back in the sun,
Faith arrived with a Boy Scout
ring on her lazy man finger.
“Billy asked me to go steady!” she squealed.
Joy snorted and pawed the ground.
Placing her hand on Joy’s arm,
Faith said with a sigh, “Oh, Joy,
we’re too old for horse school

now.” In the blurry recesses
of her mind, Joy still sees
the yellow yarn Faith wrapped
around the band to make that ring fit,
fiber fraying like the jute halters
horse trainers use
before moving on to the harder tack
of bridles and reins and bits.

Heart Study

Anxious to participate,
I enter the atrium—
all windows and light—
at the National Institutes of Health.
Pulse taken,
blood drawn,
echo- and electro-
cardiograms done,
I complete the stress test, then

proceed to an examination room.
A research nurse in maroon scrubs
slides a heart monitor from a six-inch packet,
places the device
in the space between my breasts,
points to the dime-sized silver circle
sitting like a doorbell button
at the center of my chest,
tells me, “Tap this disk to document

irregularities.” Back home,
I press that button
to record the arrhythmia I feel
each time my daughter leaves the house—
her wavy hair held back from her hopeful face
with a bright butterfly clip.
Beyond our threshold lies
a country where youthful dreams are
flatlined with guns and greed and grift.

The Secrets of Water and Air

Like a sleepwalker,
Delores Marah lumbers
along the trails of Shady Grove,
threads her way through tombstones,
stops at one
bearing her daughter’s name.
Mallory Dawn Marah,
engraved on a granite slab—a birthdate
followed by a dash.
Unrecovered, Mallory’s body
lies at the bottom of Lowe Lake
beyond the cemetery’s edge.

Phantoms fly from their graves.
Haunted whispers of remorse
swirl from inaudible tongues,
stir up summer leaves. Memories
of Mallory in a pink maillot
sprinting across the high dive
vault and spin and crash.
Dolores taught Mallory to tread water.
No one taught Mallory
to paddle fast enough to escape
the man who held her under water so long
she couldn’t swim away.

Never apprehended,
the man fled. The cops
closed the case, convinced
Mallory was just another runaway.
Mute swans snort and hiss.
Dolores trudges to the water’s rim.
She shields her eyes from the white
glare of the morning sun,
watches the swans lift off.
Faint voices buzz and hum,
carried away on the wings
of heavy bodies in flight.

Teresa Burns Murphy is the author of a novel, The Secret to Flying (TigerEye Publications). Her writing has been published in several places, including Chicago Quarterly Review, Evening Street Review, Gargoyle Magazine, Literary Mama, The Literary Nest, The Opiate, Southern Women’s Review, Sparks of Calliope, Stirring: A Literary Collection, and The Write City Review (Volume 4). Visit her at https://www.teresaburnsmurphy.com.

‘The Hollow of a Heartbeat’

Dylan Hoover (he/him) is a fiction writer from Erie, PA. He graduated in 2023 from Allegheny College, where he earned a BA in English and Creative Writing. During the heart of the pandemic, he studied abroad at Lancaster University in England. There, he unearthed interests in British culture, as well as a passion to write historical fiction. Dylan’s fiction has appeared in Wilderness House Literary Review, and his forthcoming photography in Great Lakes Review. He currently is a second-year MFA student at the University of New Hampshire. Instagram: dylhoov96

The Hollow of a Heartbeat

In the hollow where a heartbeat should have echoed,
I learned to dance in the silence of your absence.
The world, a canvas unpainted by your hues,
Left me colorblind in a kaleidoscope of what-ifs.

In the playground of forgotten whispers,
I swung high on swings of solitude,
Soaring into skies that tasted like lost lullabies,
Chasing clouds that resembled your fading smile.

I became an architect of imaginary embraces,
Building castles from the sands of your missed bedtime stories.
Each grain a testament to the nights
I wrapped myself in the quilt of your unsung songs.

In the garden of untended dreams,

I bloomed in the shade of an invisible sun,
Rooted in the soil of your unspoken apologies,
Watering my soul with tears of resilience.

Yet, in this mosaic of fractured fairy tales,
I found strength in the reflection of my own spirit,
A phoenix rising from the ashes of abandonment,
Wearing my scars like medals of survival.

Frances Locke is a Queens-based writer and artist, known for her evocative poetry and gripping fiction. Her work explores the complexities of human nature and the intricacies of everyday life, often drawing inspiration from her vibrant New York surroundings. Frances's writing has been published in various literary magazines, captivating readers with its unique blend of wit and depth. When she's not crafting stories, she enjoys hunting for vintage treasures and creating handcrafted goods.