‘July’, ‘August’, ‘Extended Summer’ & ‘Lovers’

Jules Brassard: His artistic approach is a world of spontaneity and reality. Primarily focused on street and event photography, humans remain his main subject. He likes to convey emotions through his photographs, to convey moments of sharing, laughter, joy, sorrow... all these emotions that make us all human. These spontaneous moments where we reveal ourselves to others without a mask, without a filter.

<july>

i remind myself magic is realer than evil

but this is impossible to prove

so we comfort our cages + bellies

with laughter or seasonally decorated

blankets

get cozy my lover,

i whisper to the hair clumps on my shoulder

growing despite the burning cream

my healing lower back scratches protest

dancing under hot water 

to open the wound

grinding absence of bone on uncovered shin

bitten by every angry fly

close enough to smell my meat

the goats + i influence each other

tails wagging against greenery

guilt is familial 

(the concept of comfort)

worn tightly around the index finger

or wrapped elegantly in a modern knot

at the throat

i let you bleed the sad out of me

watch as u suck the bitter into ur mouth

contorting ur body to access the wound

cautiously spitting over the shoulder

to ward off unpleasantness

while i feed local ghosts tobacco

from my backseat lungs

contaminated knee circle

i look for the familiar fungus beneath a tree

to eat + bury the ache

i steal air from my lungs 

let it sizzle until keeping it so

i’m sure fire still exists

cicadas scream desperate to be fucked but
i can’t relate

<august>

after Kristin Lueke

i carry childhood icons beneath a bloodied tooth

always remembering ur gentle wrinkles

at the outset,

reminding me of my own

well-fitting ugly shift dress

ripping in a different era

the cost of adoration is to be bleached by the sun

over years of stickyfingered longing

daughter behaving daughterlessly

legs sitting, crossed

in stomach acid

my calves sizzle

drawstring belly tight

like fresh leather redemption

thick skinnnnnnnnnnn 

juicy cabbage breath i overextend

ignorant of sore, bloody

knucklemesh

i only love the hot neck of summer

split open on the pavement

gushing forgotten ancestral guilt,

damp rings + palms searching

for the cold sheet (a promise)

that change will always be 

familiar in its terror

<extended summer>

small window to another dimension

worn on the tops of my hands

like a spell

i cried so hard my eyelids flipped up

all capillaries + inflammation +

salty sopping wet

there’s always an escape //

basil hands rubbed on a horrid body

i sense suspicion + potential

but i imagine -

youth

high on a nauseous rooftop

potential or friendship or accolades

in a stolen legal envelope

like an unexpected chewing gum kiss

she asked what i tasted,

surprised when i revealed my secret smell

  (i stink like the foil pull out

on a new pack of parliments

recessed filter)

music notes stumbling down my leg

hair, the sound numbing +

deep in my infection

// //

the following stage means violence

begging or wool slippers

stuck to the screen

windows guide the dirty velvet

swallowing lightning shirtless

lip catching on a broken tooth

we watch the flesh tear

in warm silence

hot air holding breath 

between us

<lovers>

sometimes i’m perfectly mismatched

my torso a cavern of angles + stones

pleasantly vintage + often musty

w/ nostalgia

(like a terry gilliam cartoon)

heavy patterns pull my eyes 

to wave pools thriving in my belly button

protected by rows of hearty leaves

my flowering heart remains

billowing + unfinished

clavicle moons reminiscent 

of a moment wrapped at the hip + spilled

like cereal milk or episodic fixations

playing doctor w/ the neighbors

wrapping broken twigs 

clutching math homework

peelable polish

how crawling is movement

i cut away scars on my palms

glowing like a misspelled word

i wonder if the sizzle  b/w synapses

is enough burn to light by when

no one admits 

a sword laid upon the weight of trust

is thicker than the steel it yields

Sara Matson’s poetry can be found in Impossible Task, The Chicago Reader, Kicking Your Ass, Bone Bouquet, and elsewhere. Sara’s recent chapbook, (Women) In STEM is available from Bottlecap Press and her pop-culture inspired chapbook Special Features: DVD Poems is available from Alien Buddha Press. Sara hosts the seasonal online reading series Words // Friends + can be found on Instagram @skeletorsmom and Bluesky @saramatson.bsky.social. More of Sara’s poetry can be found at https://linktr.ee/saramatson

‘Marble Girl’

Briarwood Bohemian is a multi-disciplinary artist in New York City focusing on sustainability and color expression.

Marble Girl

When she was eight, Alesha Henderson briefly held the world record for filling her mouth with marbles. It was an unforgettable experience.

At the mayor’s invitation, the Book of World Records crew traveled to the high school auditorium of the feisty town of Morocco, Idaho, to run competitions in three new categories: marbles in mouth, books on head, and bats being juggled. But only one caught Alesha’s fancy: the marbles. 

The final rounds for marbles in mouth began in the evening. Sitting in the first row, her handsome, rumpled father looked on, half-anxious, half-pleased, and a hundred percent proud. The small crowd watched as the clock began to tick. Could this girl retain 29 marbles in her mouth for a full minute? 

Mom’s well-coiffed head swivelled from side to side to ascertain the location of the paramedics. Sometimes contestants choked or hyperventilated during the competition. 

Alesha looked around frantically. Her mouth was ready to bursting. Each contestant had a white plastic spit-tub nearby but somehow hers had been pushed aside by the man in the gray suit with the stopwatch. As the time ticked down, her nostrils flared. She grew red-faced, bug-eyed, and her hands were dog-paddling the air.

The audience gave a clap here and there, cresting to full applause when the timer buzzed. 

Her father leaned forward, ready to hold out something—a pan, his coffee cup, or even his outstretched hands—to catch the torrent, as he had during so many practice sessions at home in the garage. Then he saw the tub she was looking for. “There,” he shouted. “It’s behind him!” 

Awkwardly, Alesha ducked behind the man in the gray suit and grabbed her tub. She spat out her marbles, gulped in fresh air, and sighed.

Her name went on the digital marquee and, beside it, flashed the number 29. Two more children tried to keep 29 marbles in their mouths for the requisite minute. They failed, and Alesha Henderson was declared World Champion in the 8-and-under category.

She was exhausted from weeks of practice and preparation, plus the hours spent waiting for her event to begin. She could barely keep her head up. The cameras snapped as the officious man from the Book of World Records approached with the fancy certificate in his left hand, and his right hand extended for a handshake. She stood blinking, her mouth open.

“Alesha, please shake his hand,” Mom said from her front-row seat. 

“Oh.” Alesha limply extended her left hand. 

“Right hand, please,” Mom clarified.

A flashy ceremony ensued, with fanfare from the high school brass band, and speeches praising world champions in all categories. Alesha watched and dozed while seated upright, giving the impression of a calm, cool demeanor. A champion’s demeanor.

Then, mercifully, the hoop-la was over. Alesha was free to go home, hang out with her father and Mom, and play with her infinitely amusing robotic dog, Tootsie. She tiptoed out of the spotlight and into the shadows as the thick velvet curtains flapped around her. The sweat on her shoulders turned to a chill and her eyes strained, looking into the darkness. Where was Dad?

Usually he was here by now, with his warm hairy arm pressed gently around her shoulders, a brisk chin rub of two- or three-day stubble as he embraced her. Saying “atta girl” and puffing a little as he lifted her up for a bear hug. Or—better yet—maybe he would say, “Are you hungry? Should we go for a quick lick of ice cream?” She wasn’t hungry yet—still running on adrenaline—but she loved visiting the fancy ice cream shop with its parlor of wrought-iron chairs and sparkly black-and-pink striped wallpaper with her dad.

“Hello, Alesha,” Mom said, extending two arms to catch the girl by the shoulders. Mom scanned the girl’s face, head tilting briefly one way, then the other. It was the same motion made by Robo-Rover, whenever Alesha mumbled her commands and Tootsie couldn’t discern if she’d said “beg” or “bag.”

“Where’s Dad?” Alesha asked Mom.

 “Dad received an alert on his pager before the closing ceremony,” Mom said. “It was urgent, so he left immediately.” 

“Oh?” Alesha knew that Dad’s job as one of only three doctors in town meant some days he had to carry (and answer) the pager. Apparently today was his day. Still, she kept looking around at other children gabbling excitedly, volunteers stomping across the plywood stage, and parents hollering over the din of metal chairs scraping. But no Dad.

“Oh,” she said again. Her shoulders slumped. She didn’t know if she could take another step. 

“He-ey, Alesha! Great job!” Frenchie, the new mayor of Morocco, Idaho, stepped forward and made a big show of formally shaking her hand. This time she correctly extended the right hand. “What a pro!” he gushed. “Morocco, Idaho, is the town of champions!”

Alesha felt her face grow warm. She tried to smile, like she knew she should, but her face felt like rubber. Her chin quivered. She reached for Mom’s wrist and steadied herself.

“Oh, hey, hey, don’t strain the hamster muscles.” Frenchie patted his own mouth, grinning, then gestured at hers. 

Alesha blinked, remembering Fluffy, the soft brown hamster kept in a cage at the front of her Grade 2 classroom.  Fluffy loved to stash sunflower seeds in his cheek-pouches. She could watch that little critter for hours.

Frenchie said to Mom, “You must be very proud, Mrs. Henderson. Alesha is a born performer. She kept her cool and stayed on point. She’s a credit to our town.”

“I agree. Alesha did very well.”

Frenchie drew back slightly, as if seeing Mom for the first time. “Well! I should let you go. See you soon, Alesha!”

Alesha never used to notice how different Mom was from her friends’ mothers. But now, she wished Dad had never ordered that premium deluxe Robo-Maid. 

She also wished Dad hadn’t, in the ultimate “Dad joke,” named their model “Mom.” It was too confusing to people. Most adults didn’t realize the moving mannequin was a robot named Mom—until they closely watched the Robo-Maid’s hands or face. 

When they finally did realize Alesha was in a modern “hybrid family,” one human parent, one robotic, most went along with the situation, like accepting a neighbor who kept chickens in his front garden or a postmaster who only wore pajamas. They tolerated such people but did not become close friends.

Alesha knew, because Dad had told her, that her real, biological mother had died of an aggressive blood cancer when Alesha was but a toddler. “Some people have companion pets… some people have robot maids,” Dad explained, “so I figured, why don’t we get a companion housekeeper.” Alesha also knew her real mother, a computer scientist by trade, had recorded many hours of her speech and “woven” her speech phonemes with AI so that this prototype would speak to Alesha and Dad with her real mother’s own voice tones. And Mom’s silicone face was a replica of her real mother’s face.

Mom scanned Alesha’s face. “You look disappointed. Why is that? You won the contest.” 

“I’m tired,” Alesha said. This was the thing about robots. They did not know “tired” the way that humans did. And they never would know. Unless someone programmed it into them—but why would anyone do that?

People kept streaming out of the school. Some nodded at Alesha and some nodded at Mom. For whatever reason, the people kept their distance from the new World Champion marble-mouth. Alesha’s vision became blurred by tears.

“Please put this on.” Mom held out a light jacket. “The evening is breezy and cool. Eighty-two percent of the children here are wearing jackets.” 

Alesha wiped her arm across her runny nose. “Did he see it? Did he see how many?”

“Yes,” said Mom. She scanned the crowd for the male they had spoken to and reported, “The mayor, Gustav Laframboise, commonly known as Frenchie, saw the proportion of children wearing jackets is eighty-two percent.”

“No, you idiot!” Alesha sniffled. “I’m talking about Dad! And marbles! Not Frenchie and jackets… Did Dad see my marble count?” Alesha thrust her arm into the jacket with such force she tore the sleeve. 

“That is rude. Do not say ‘you idiot,’” Mom said. “Please apologize.”

“But you are an idiot! You’re not my real mother. You don’t understand a thing I say!” Alesha’s face was turning purple. “I’m talking about marbles, and you think it’s jackets!”

“I do not think,” Mom said. “I detect word patterns in your speech and respond to them.” She recited, “As a secondary function, I detect voice tone and volume. Your elevated voice correlates with anger and frustration.”

“Arrrgh!” Alesha flung herself onto the nearest thing, which happened to be a rubbish bin, and hammered it with her fists. She didn’t understand words like “secondary function” and “correlates,” but she knew she was fed up, utterly fed up with this expensive gadget called Mom that Dad had brought into their lives. 

From the corner of her eye, Alesha saw shocked faces, the citizens of Morocco, Idaho, turning toward her and the Robo-Maid—and then quickly away. She suddenly remembered seeing a boy in the park last winter who had kicked his Robo-Rover—and how wrong it seemed because she couldn’t imagine harming her own little Tootsie. Alesha stopped hitting the bin. She said in a monotone, “Sorry, Mom.”

“I acknowledge.” Mom blinked her eyes then began to recite the information: “Dad saw Alesha take marble 29 into her mouth. Two other finalists took 29 marbles for less than one minute. They gave up and released 29 marbles into their spit-tubs and conceded to Alesha Henderson.”

“Yes! I won! I’m World Champion!” Alesha pumped her fist. Her mouth was starting to feel more normal so she smiled. “And what did Dad say?”

“Dad said, ‘Aha, I knew she could.’” This was an actual replay of the recording of Dad’s voice—coming from the partially open lips of the attractively molded female face.

Alesha giggled. “Oh yeah? What else did he say?”

The Robo-Maid obliged with the next sound-clip. Dad’s voice said, “Let her try 30! 31! Give her more marbles, you numskull!”

Alesha threw her hands over her face and squealed with laughter. Dad must have forgotten that Mom had this auto-record feature. Mom did not seem to register that Dad had said a rude word. But Alesha knew. And Alesha didn’t want to change it, either. She wriggled with joy. “Yeah, Dad and me got right up to 31 marbles during our last practice. So I’m ready to break my world record!” She forgot she was speaking to a robot—she just had to boast to someone. While chattering, she began playing with her jacket. 

“Do you need help with your zipper?” Mom asked.

Alesha fiddled with her zipper. “Thirty-one,” she said dreamily. “Can you believe it!” 

“I notice you had difficulty with this jacket yesterday,” Mom said. “I conclude you are tired in the evenings and cannot focus on a mundane task. Please stand still.”

This was another thing about robots. They mimicked polite speech, but they relentlessly executed their tasks. Alesha sighed, stuck out her arms like a T, and froze while Mom’s pincers precisely joined the two sides of the zipper and zipped her from tummy to chin.

One woman, walking with the boy who had made it as far as marble 28, paused and cackled warmly, “Oh, there’s the lucky gal.” She beamed at Mom. “You must be so proud of your girl! What an achievement! Tell me, what’s your secret?”

Mom tilted her head from side to side, and said, “Please clarify what you mean by ‘secret’.” 

Alesha blushed. 

“Oh, you know,” the woman said coyly, blinking her eyes behind smudged glasses.

“Yes, I know about secrets.” Mom recited: “Humans may attempt to consciously conceal information due to shame, or from fear of violence, loss of acceptance, or loss of employment. Animals conceal the location of their den or nest—”

The woman squinted, her mouth opening and closing like a fish.

Alesha yanked Mom’s arm. She spoke loudly, trying to cover up Mom’s exegesis. “My secret is lots of practice! Dad is my coach! Mom here reminds me of homework.” She pulled Mom away before the situation got any more embarrassing. 

When they reached the car in the parking lot, Alesha said, “Mom, text Dad to meet us at the ice cream place right away.” She rolled her eyes and added “please.”

“I can only drive to the home address,” Mom said. “We must wait until Dad confirms the change in destination.”

Alesha fidgeted with her seatbelt. “I coulda done 31,” she muttered to herself. “Next time, I’ll do 31.”

“May I suggest the Baskin-Robbins ice cream parlor,” Mom said. “They have 31 flavors.” 

Alesha laughed. “Silly Mom!” She fidgeted in her seat, wishing she had Tootsie there to pup-wrestle with.

After a long minute, Mom said, “Incoming message from the hospital dispatcher.” 

Alesha’s screen flashed and the sound of Dad’s voice filled the car.

“Aw honey, I guess you’ve heard about the bus crash. I was called in to work.”

“Bus crash!” Alesha said. An accident meant hurt people who needed patching up, as Dad called it. He would be at the hospital, maybe already operating on someone. Her throat ached. She had dreamed about celebrating their victory in the ice cream parlor, getting stained and sticky with Tiger Stripe running down her hands. Licking it off her wrists. Teasing Dad about Lemon Fizz dribbling down his chin. And now the silly people with their silly accident…

Tears filled Alesha’s eyes. She’d had an accident, once. Falling off a swing, spraining her wrist. She knew it was not silly but very very hurtful. “Mom, go home,” she said. “Please.”

Around them, other children were holding parents’ hands. Or refusing to hold parents’ hands, scampering off with friends, and being rebuked. Running wild. Parents were threatening, cajoling, attempting to reason. All for naught. Because high spirits ruled what was left of the day.

Another message flashed from Dad: “We will have to move our celebration ice cream to tomorrow night. Meanwhile,” he said with his voice picking up the excitement that she loved to hear, “check out this new challenge!”

She clicked on the link to a contest featuring bowling balls: How many bowling balls could an eight-year-old carry?

“Bowling balls?” Alesha laughed. She shook her hands like the fingers were wobbly springs. “Count me in.”

V.J. Hamilton calls Toronto home. Her work has been published in The Antigonish Review, Amsterdam Quarterly, and The Penmen Review, among others. She won the EVENT Speculative Fiction contest.

‘A Friendship Distilled’

Briarwood Bohemian is a multi-disciplinary artist in New York City focusing on sustainability and color expression.

A Friendship Distilled

(1970-76)

Boston’s dead-of-winter day 

dawns mellow mild

pretends to be spring 

so two fast friends pretend too 

pretend they’re ten years younger 

and not early twenties dropouts

playing catch with beat-up ball 

and musty unearthed mitts 

on snow-melt slushy streets. 

Year later they’re in Berkeley 

living different lives entirely 

with entirely different girlfriends 

but they’re still pretending

pretending friendship indestructible 

pretending girlfriends don’t pose threats 

then pretending friendship repairable 

until that solo fatal head-on crash

back in dead-of-winter Boston.

Robert Eugene Rubino fantasizes about rewriting the screenplay of "2001: A Space Odyssey" so that HAL is the sole survivor.

‘Mirage’, ‘On the Curb’, ‘A Letter to the State Regarding the Statewide Pothole Repairs Sign’ & ‘My Friend'

Briarwood Bohemian is a multi-disciplinary artist in New York City focusing on sustainability and color expression.

Mirage

The mirage of the good old days

is dissolving like salt

in a dead sea of memories.

Let the mixture soothe their sore throats,

irritated from screaming at today’s concocted crisis:

How they can’t drink without a plastic straw. 

How they can’t piss without a gendered bathroom.

God forbid they hear Spanish in a public place.

Let the better times of smoking indoors,

their novel nostalgias,

comfort their troubled, wrinkled minds.

The demented sun finally sets,

and the elderly lose all lucidity.

The mirage has faded.

New generations are left with

the sand that we have inherited.

We will try to make vegetables grow in this desert,

as our ancestors remind us

how beautiful the oceans were.

On the Curb

Pull up some curb next

to me, dear. As we witness

the tire deflate.

Did I see the nail

sticking out of the roadway

like hitchhiker’s thumb?

Of course I didn’t.

You were putting on lipstick.

You know what that does

to me. How am I

supposed to concentrate, when

Venus de Milo

has grown back her arms

to put on mascara in

my passenger seat?

Well the good news is

the hitchhiking nail has just

made a rubber nest

and soon, the tow truck

will play Charon and carry

him down the river

to our mechanic.

To be kicked out of the nest

to see if he flies.

Perhaps he will try

spitting worms in the nail’s mouth

as encouragement.

Maybe he will ask

politely for it to fly

South for the winter.

Likely he will just

pull left and right without the

nail’s consultation.

Like forcing a kid

from a warm bed. Oh, the dream

it was just having...

The nail dreamed it was

a bird, autonomous, and

could choose its own path.

What a pleasant dream

it must have been. Paling in

comparison, though

when weighed against what

distracted me at the start

of this fiasco.

Would you dream with me?

Can we pick up where the nail

left off? I believe

we were chickadees.

You can be Carolina,

I will be black-capped.

Let’s plan a date night

where the mating grounds mix up.

What a lovely dream...

In the meantime, dear,

would you do me the honor

and pull up some curb?

A Letter to the State Regarding the Statewide Pothole Repairs Sign

To whom it may concern:

Are you only repairing potholes that are as wide as a state?

Are you seeking out the widest potholes physically possible a state can manifest,

to fill them with gravel, returning them to a state of solid street?

What state are you using as your unit of wideness?

Delaware?

California?

Texas?

Do you use the Big Island for the width of Hawaii, or

do you take an average of all the islands?

Does Puerto Rico have territorywide pothole repairs?

Are you finished with all 

the townwide potholes,

the citywide potholes,

the countywide potholes,

and are climbing the construction ladder all the way up to statewide?

What’s next for your ambition? 

Do you go all the way to nationwide potholes?

Or can only the feds fix those potholes ?

Or (less likely) 

are you looking to bring together

single, shallow, recently divorced potholes?

Or potholes that have tried the online pothole dating scene

and it just isn’t working out for them?

Are you matchmaking lonely potholes, and re-pairing them anew,

with a like-minded, experienced cut of road

to unite in holy pothole matrimony?

I doubt it.

I know one thing, for damn sure.

I know you aren’t repairing the potholes in this state.

My Friend

The birds do not need

your hair, your teeth, your carcass.

Save them for the worms.

Save this corpse for dirt, 

for this corpse is not my friend.

My friend is sunlight.

My friend is pure rays

golden, breaking through the clouds

on Spring’s first warm day.

My friend is more than

flesh, my friend exists in the

eyes of the minds of

all who cherish him.

My friend is a tapestry

of our memories.

Take this tapestry,

you birds, and quilt together

an eternal nest.

So that my friend may

live on in your lives as he

has been blessed in mine.

So that your young can

feel the warmth of his presence,

and bask in his glow.

And when they outgrow

the faceless form of my friend

and take their first flight,

I hope they carry

a block, or a patch of the quilt,

some parcel of him.

When their seasons change, 

as seasons are meant to change,

they will remember

the meaning of warmth,

the glow of our history,

the light of my friend.

Matthew Bailey is a musician breaking into the world of poetry. He graduated with an albatross of a Bachelors of Science from York College of Pennsylvania in Music Industry and Recording Technology. He lives with his soon-to-be wife Dylann and a poorly-behaved akita named Ursa in New Jersey. You can keep up with Matthew on his Instagram or Bluesky @mymattisname.

‘You Are Beautiful Like the End of the World’ & Collected Works

Jack Bordnick’s sculptural and photographic imagery is a reflection of my past and present forces
and the imagination of his life’s stories. They represent an evolutionary process of these ideas and how that all of life’s forces are interconnected, embraced and expressed thru creative art forms.
These works, represent he has accomplished with this art form. It is his quantum and metaphoric moment, the changing from one form to another.

You Are Beautiful Like the End of the World 

A truth: as I am unraveling you in a field of poppies, your eyes reflect the sunset. that is the end of it – and am telling you now, the beginning we will find along the way, but it will sound like this – “A truth: you are beautiful like the end of the world.” 

A truth: On the gold-planet, the suns make color flee from everything, and the world is like roe, and the surface is smooth like your face after a wash, but it does not shine, no, we have unwound all the reflections and all things that might breach the surface, and it is calm. 

A truth: the night you sit on the roof, you will tell me you do not want to know how it will end. and I know already I will never understand it, so I do not ask, because I have always known that the end will be beautiful, and we will all fall apart. 

A truth: past does not exist without memory. We come from distant tributaries, and we flow into the river of time. You are a stream, you flow with gravity. I am a lake, and all things pour from the river into me. The river is the same, I am just tall enough to see where the water leads. 

A truth: we need no ships to travel from world to world, we simply raise our arms and let the light carry us away, like the leaves off the tree in your yard. We are seeds that plant ourselves upon your planets, and eventually, something always takes root. 

A truth: Of all the worlds I will see, this one will be the most incredible. In the moments when I

watch your mountains fall, all I can think of is how high they have grown. One day, you describe to me “remorse”, which is a thing one can only have when they cannot see the riverbed. 

A truth: I do not want to unwind this world, it is just a product of the oils on my skin. On this world it waves behind me like long pennants, and your mesosphere tints me colors I’ll never see again, and I only wonder what it will look like when all of it is done. 

A truth: You are beautiful like the end of the world. See, I promised we would find it: it emerged when our tributaries merged, the day you ask me to tell you the truth. And so I do, and we begin as we do, as we did, as we will, in the poppy field and the car and the roof, with 

A truth: The end of the world is beautiful, and you have actually guessed it quite accurately, although you have asked me not to tell it to you. It ends in a bed of poppies, and their petals are hovering off of their stems, just as you hover away from yours.

Nightlily 

We’ll shed our names for offerings of 

skin and silk and creamsicle petals 

and hot cinders on our lips 

Someone will cuff my wrist 

and spin me into the reeds 

Tonight we are remembered by taste alone 

And when the sun rises, there’s 

a gift of grasshoppers 

rattling within our chests 

A life unlived made manifest 

by impossibly familiar breath 

still simmering softly on the tongue

Green Blood 

He’ll make his way back home eventually, But for now, he’s drunk on morning mist 

And crossed with pale light breaking through the leaves. Baby boy with a name on a registry. It’s 

All he needs, a shot of loam right to the bloodstream, And mycelium wrapped around his lungs, this, This is what it is. Someday he knows they’ll Hang him over with steel and oil, and he’ll vomit black, But this morning he’s riding it, 

on the draft towards the rising sun.

גלמי) The Golem) 

You didn’t cry when you were born, 

Tired, wrinkled hands your womb; you came into this world knowing How it felt to be handled. 

They used their spit to knead your soil 

And their first act of creation was to carve your destiny onto your face And they called you Truth. 

And you have to remember, these were men 

Of peace in a time where all they knew was war, so I’m sorry that 

I can’t find it in myself to hate you. 

The spit they made you from had bile in it already, that’s the Truth. The Truth is, nobody weaned you from the clay. 

You were carved out. Torn out. Pulled from your mother’s arms. 

All you knew was how it felt to be handled. 

So I’m sorry, that when people say your name today they spit on the ground. And call you a brute, and call your clay dull, well 

You, unlike them, have not forgotten the dust you came from. 

Your fathers birthed what they needed, and they knew that. 

They knew it when they put you at the ghetto gates, and let you see the world For the first time, and you saw that it had fire in its eyes. 

I’m sorry I can’t say they were wrong. 

I’m sorry they wanted you to change the world, when all you were was a reflection of it.

They were so afraid, you know. They didn’t see 

that Truth and Death are two sides of the same coin. 

Or they did, but they didn’t want to remember it. 

That’s not your fault. You’re your father’s son. 

And when the world came marching towards you with knives bared And you opened your arms to embrace them, it’s not your fault 

You thought that was how an embrace was supposed to feel. 

All you knew is how it felt to be handled. 

And that’s when they remembered Truth and Death were two sides of the same coin. I’m sorry I wasn’t there to tell them sooner, or maybe they wouldn’t have Put you up at the gates. 

Maybe they wouldn’t have spit in your soil. Maybe they wouldn’t have birthed you at all And they would’ve let the world burn down around them. Maybe they Didn’t deserve it, but neither did you. 

And so when your father climbed the wall to look you in the eyes, 

And he saw that he had forgotten to put them in, 

Did you think he was there to fix you? 

Did you hold him in your palm and draw him to your face 

Because how could a father do wrong for his son? 

Your mother never had. 

But Truth and Death are two sides of the same coin, and your destiny Was carved on your face from the beginning. 

So no, I couldn’t have stopped that. I’m sorry.

But as you crumbled under your own weight, and you remembered The dust you came from, 

In your last act, you lowered your father to the ground 

And set him on his feet. 

No, you didn’t deserve it. You came into the world knowing how it felt to be handled And all a reflection can ever hope to do is to be more than its origin To be framed in the dying light of the sun, as your hand comes apart below him And know that you did exactly what you were born to do. 

And they hated you for it. I’m sorry, I know you can never understand why But I want you to know; Death and Truth are two sides to the same coin And when you fell that day, you showed the world that all it takes Is for someone to hold you in their arms, 

Cradle you in the dust, 

And scratch out the word.

Man in the Foundation (for Cassandra) 

They found his body still fresh when they took the walls down, in a cage of rebar and stone. There was no ceremony, his burial where they found him unsanctimonious, Two lines of yellow tape across the grate and the doorway, 

And the storefront above him with cardboard over the windows, nothing to keep them from Sneaking down the basement steps with raiments donned 

Sweaters zipped and little red flashlights. 

He whispered to them from his throne in the irons, 

The city is inside you, it rides the highways of your varicose veins, 

and drinks of the wells of your postnasal drip, and inside you as her there are Five hundred thousand people breathing as one, and that makes you the city. His nervous system a tangle of copper wire sparking across his tongue, 

He said; 

The city doesn’t need you the way you need her, she ate the stars already long ago And you will dissolve in the Sodium Vapor of her stomach long before they do. He said; 

I am you, you just don’t see it yet, 

She has metastasized inside you since you were flesh upon flesh, and our only difference is when you die they will not bury you whole. 

And your skin will blister and crack as you age, and you will not wish for them to see you in a tomb anyhow. 

He said;

Give yourself to her if you wish, it makes no difference, 

She has taken the great poets and movie stars and scientists and you are but one more track to the train, 

His teeth were like polished mirrors, they saw their eyes in them. 

He said; 

She killed the earth with a million knives, and drank the oceans until they bled, but still You make her beautiful, you tattoo her arms and paint her face with light, And she remembers you. 

His breathing became labored then, a spilling of insulation, then 

He said, a final testament; 

Keep full your notebooks and draw me on the soles of your shoes, his 

Face upside-down twisted in a frozen laugh, and they fled up the stairs through her arteries And past her ribs and ‘cross the battered scaffold, 

As the man in the wall gazed in, arms-splayed, at she who took him whole.

Milo Duclayan is a student in Burlington, Vermont, but in his free time in the summers he is out LARPing in the woods, back in New York. There’s a kind of magic he has found there that he’s sure comes from another world, and it’s always his pleasure to use writing to bring some of that magic with him wherever he goes.

‘A Letter to Wellbutrin’, ‘Kinda Woman’, ‘Body Cover’ & ‘Tree Funeral’

Jack Bordnick’s sculptural and photographic imagery is a reflection of my past and present forces
and the imagination of his life’s stories. They represent an evolutionary process of these ideas and how that all of life’s forces are interconnected, embraced and expressed thru creative art forms.
These works, represent he has accomplished with this art form. It is his quantum and metaphoric moment, the changing from one form to another.

“You so winningly said, ‘People come first’ meaning before the writing. You forced me to say the truth.

he writing comes first…this is my way of mastering experience.” -Anne Sexton in a letter to her psychiatrist, Dr. Chase

A Letter to Wellbutrin

If I don’t walk the long hallway,

nor take the cellar stairs,

If I don’t coat myself in ashes,

Will I still be a poet?

If I remove the rosy glasses,

see things sharp and clear,

If I live by the T-chart,

Will I still be a poet?

If I cannot feel the petals,

the velvet of the air,

If I cannot smell the sunset,

Will I still be a poet?

If I step away from the guardrail,

steer well before the turn,

If I take the keys from the ignition,

Will I still be a poet?

If I pull on the lambskin,

sheath myself from pleasure and pain,

If all the lines are measured,

Will I still be a poet?

Kinda Woman

I’m a wake up and lift the blinds kinda woman,

a make the bed before I’m out of it kinda woman,

a finished five tasks before you even get started kinda woman,

a move over I’ll do it myself kinda woman.

You’re a make pyramids out of empty cans kinda guy,

a save it up till the last minute kinda guy,

an hours of research on a truck you’ll never buy kinda guy,

a spontaneous, pull the trigger, let’s see how it goes kinda guy.

I’m a take me to the water kinda woman,

a give me space, but don’t leave kinda woman,

a clear my head with your voice, kinda woman,

a take charge of me, fist full of my curls kinda woman.

You’re a spend all day on the couch with the dogs kinda guy,

a gotta listen to music while you’re cooking kinda guy,

a flip the omelet with one hand kinda guy,

an I don’t know, let’s find out kinda guy. 

I’m the chaos, you’re the order.

Or is it the other way around?

I’d get it done but there’d be no place to put it.

I organize my life with post-Its and planners,

But where would I go without you?

Maybe you’re the planner after all —

the dreamer, the believer, the faithful one.

Maybe I’m just a mound of raw edges,

like the leftover yarn from 1,000 intended sweaters.

There’s something. There’s something there worth a damn—

Right? I'm a damn kinda woman,

a plain materials, set to be something kinda woman.

Gonna take more than Post-its notes to make sense

of all that’s swimming around in my head,

doing laps. The front crawl. The butterfly.

Make sense of it.

You’re my translator.

Tame my thoughts like you tame my curls.

Keep being my turn it into something kinda guy,

so, I can be an I surrender kinda woman. Finally.

“Can you think of any laws that give the government

 power to make decisions about the male body?” - Sen. Kamala Harris

“I’m not thinking of any right now, Senator” - Supreme Court Nominee, Brett Cavanaugh

Body Cover

My body has scars,

but they're all a secret,

not the ones you can celebrate.

and name tiger stripes and battle wounds,

there are no stretch lines nor C-section marks, 

my slices cannot be seen but

they rest all over.

Fingertips soaked in the acid of pubic must,

wrists viced and stormed,

biceps pinned,

eyes pierced,

breasts squeezed and pinched and mangled,

my womb is scraped clean.

Inside me lives a thousand cuts,

beats and blows,

ripped open and scooped out,

burned,

torched.

My body is a cemetery with no stones,

blanketed over with blades of grass,

a swing set and

an IOU. 

Tree Funeral

I’m watching the death of the trees next door.

Giants converted to mulch,

Fifty rings exposed,

Severed and mutilated.

I think of the love it took to grow, the courage.

The years of adaptation.

Adjusting to floods that fell from the sky

winds that turned and bent, gale

She withstood it.

Rooted down deeper.

Reached from within.

Then was crumbled up like a bad essay and

Thrown in the bin.

All that she endured, undone by a man.

Like always. 

Nickie DeSardo is a poet, writer, and activist whose work explores identity, love, heartbreak, and social justice. With a master’s in education and linguistics, she is pursuing an MFA in Writing at WCSU, focusing on poetry and feature journalism. Her published works reflect her experiences as a feminist, mother, and advocate for change. Nickie lives on Connecticut’s shoreline with her partner, two children, and their dogs, blending artistry and purpose in her deeply confessional writing.

‘Guilt is My Engine’

Jack Bordnick’s sculptural and photographic imagery is a reflection of my past and present forces
and the imagination of his life’s stories. They represent an evolutionary process of these ideas and how that all of life’s forces are interconnected, embraced and expressed thru creative art forms.
These works, represent he has accomplished with this art form. It is his quantum and metaphoric moment, the changing from one form to another.

guilt is my engine 

my doctors tell me 

I am ill  

I will need time to heal 

somehow not enough for me to register the fact that I am in fact ill 

I feel like a coy 

am I making all this up for a "free" salary I don't work yet 

I have an income 

what a life, huh! 

they keep saying 

not 

the good immigrant conditioning in me gives no space to any amount of mercy

I am worthless unless I am useful 

I am useless because I cannot work 

I am worthless because all I am is being ill 

I don't deserve no income for trying to heal 

voices in my head took 

everywhere possible they could 

a heavy weight on my shoulders 

a spasm down on my neck 

trembling on my knees 

who are we immigrants when we don't work?  

what is our use if we cannot earn? 

why are we here in their countries if we are ill? 

how is our presence meaningful if it doesn't help the white bodies? 

when have these thoughts become mine? 

I must really be ill

is there salvation from the hold of these thoughts  am I ever gonna be free 

from the machinery of guilt 

that drove me crazy to work over hours  take more cases 

accept more projects 

am I ever gonna be free 

from the machine of guilt that 

remind me in my every single action the pressure of my "responsibilities" 

not good enough. 

not fast enough. 

feel guilty 

not white enough. 

not sterile enough. 

feel guilty 

not cheap enough. 

not simple enough. 

feel guilty 

next thing you know 

you just 

feel guilty 

and 

feel guilty 

and  

feel guilty 

for not being able to cook for yourself 

for calling a friend to ask for help 

for falling asleep 10 minutes longer 

for not making it on time to your doctor's appointment for not going to sleep at 23:00 o'clock 

for not washing your makeup before bed time 

for not having the strength to go shopping for not being your cheerful self with your friends 

-instill it long enough in someone 

next thing you know 

you just 

feel guilty 

for just about anything 

and everything 

that comes out of your mouth  

that you cannot realize due to your bodily capacity you just 

feel guilty 

next thing you know 

it is your personality 

and they call it an illness 

it is called burnout 

or your way out 

of the job market 

fuck me 

my mind goes crazy 

isn't it though? 

be honest 

you are just lazy 

you are not sick like an old lady there is no open wound 

there is no concrete proof on your body then, you must be healthy 

and just another lazy 

immigrant bitter bossy 

who cannot work 

-sorry 

does not want to work 

but want the money 

and jobs 

and houses 

of white people 

because all you are is greedy  

greedy 

greedy.

Gizem özbek (she/they) is an emerging queer writer from Turkey based abroad for more than a decade, currently in Brussels. she works in the field of protection for human rights defenders and spends her free time with her dog, writing and reading. she lives, loves, and struggles between home in Türkiye, Brussels and her old home Berlin. Gizem's work has appeared on velvele.net in Turkish.

‘Seven Stories Down’

Jack Bordnick’s sculptural and photographic imagery is a reflection of my past and present forces
and the imagination of his life’s stories. They represent an evolutionary process of these ideas and how that all of life’s forces are interconnected, embraced and expressed thru creative art forms.
These works, represent he has accomplished with this art form. It is his quantum and metaphoric moment, the changing from one form to another.

Seven Stories Down

“You’re behaving just like your mother!” 

He had finally just said it. Lain had felt it stewing for months, each time she had stumbled through the door at an ungodly hour to find dinner in the microwave. He used to leave notes until this became a habit. “Always a seat at the table for you,” “Saved you the chewy bacon! Love you!” Lain remembered the way her stomach turned with guilt as she finished off every painfully delicious bite. She knew she had been distant, and Uncle Will had figured her out.  He had been trying to avoid breaching the subject, knew that acknowledging it would only send Lain tumbling down.  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—" 

“You…”—she paused, taking a moment to balance herself against the kitchen doorway— “don’t have to say another word… to me.” Lain found it hard to breathe, turning to lean her head on the wall. Sweat dripped from her brow; she watched the droplets crash onto the wood beneath her feet. She could feel her uncle’s eyes burning a hole into the back of her head.  She was nothing like her mother. She never would be. Right? Her mother had chosen to abandon her life for drugs, the whole reason why she ended up with her uncle in the first place. The years of neglect, however, had left Lain stunted and she never really recovered.  William had told her the whole story one late evening, finally deeming her old enough to know why her mother was behind bars and never called. This was different. She was never born to make it, and everyone knew it. Lain Elizabeth Brookes did not ask to be born, not into this cursed life. She had been a troubled child, but Uncle Will had always been gentle and patient. Even William had given up on her. Balancing herself again, Lain stood up straight. The man who raised her couldn’t even look her in the eye. 

High and agitated, Lain slipped her uncle’s keys from the kitchen counter and into her jacket pocket.  Not stopping for any of her belongings, she bolted. She couldn’t stand in that spot, in the agonizing silence of her uncle. She had been deemed a “delinquent” long enough, guess she’d better prove him right. Her uncle made no moves to stop her. He never did. He just stood with his head lowered, ashamed. Coward. Something in Lain’s chest tightened thinking about it; the last person she had was giving up on her. Had she really fallen this far?

Not another word was spoken, per her own request. She found herself almost hoping Uncle Will would come out chasing after her, carry her back inside to her bed, but there was only stiff silence. Perhaps William knew she was a lost cause. Crawling into the driver’s seat, she fumbled with the ignition, eyelids threatening to close as drowsiness took over. She was in no condition to be driving. Not now, not now… Her breath stilled at the sound of the key clicking into place, turning it forward and gasping when the vehicle’s engine came alive and began to vibrate. The only thing on her mind was getting away. She was far too prideful, and rational thought had abandoned her hours ago. Despite the drowsiness and shock, Lain scrambled for purchase on the steering wheel and gingerly tapped the gas with her boot. Reverse, she needed to get into reverse… 

~~~

Lain found herself waitressing in downtown New Jersey, across the country from William. “This is NOT how you earn tips” was written in black ink across the last party’s receipt. Great, Lain sighed. Another empty table.

She had made the venture out here after meeting touring guitarist Aspen Black. His band, Ashes to Ashes, stopped by her favorite bar after a show. Lain had been living out of her uncle’s Taurus, spending what little money she had on booze and cheap drugs, her refuge from a painful reality. Her blonde locks curled around her neck. Her short, leather dress clung tightly to her skin, broken out in sweat from either the pills or the dancing. Likely both. Heeled boots clacked as she crossed her ankles, catching her breath.

Somehow, she must have gotten Black’s attention. The lead guitarist had asked her if she wanted a bite to eat, and she said she would very much like that. Aspen bought them hot dogs and booze, and she needed little more encouragement to leave with him. Anyone who could whisk her away to a better place would do, even better a beautiful rockstar with black hair that cascaded over his shoulders and that tuft of chest hair that always peeked out from his low-rise shirts. Lain loved him. Loved him like a chapel in a hospital, desperately. This far into her shifts was when the withdrawal would start to take its hold. Hyper aware of each and every mistake, she needed to go home; she was hardly making a dime anyway.

If only. She sighed, scratching at her thin arms. It temporarily eased her anxiety, the familiar scrape of edge against skin. When she got home, maybe Aspen would scratch her back. If he was in a good mood, perhaps. Lain could never tell; he kept her so doped up. Sometimes she wondered if he was lonely, broken just like her, just searching for a companion. He didn’t like to talk about it, but Lain knew he was scarred. His parents were never present, either.  He looked to the guitar to distract himself from their absence, eventually skipping town when he realized his guitar playing couldn’t replace a mother’s or father’s affection. He would never tell her much more than that, but Lain understood his sadness. Other times she felt like she was drowning in his presence, his silence weighing heavy in the air. He got antsy between shows, his anxiety taking the form of frustration. But he loved her so much, he took such good care of her. He kept her pretty and quiet, just the way they both preferred. She never had to worry about a thing with Aspen.

“You know, baby…” he had mumbled to her once. “We could get you on stage sometime, in somethin’ real blingy.” Lain’s heart had jumped at that, icy blues fluttering open. The dark yellow walls of Aspen’s apartment greeted her and she wondered why they hadn’t turned the lights off before laying down. A collection of their clothes kept the floor buried, and the holes in the walls were never a pleasant sight. Candy wrappers cluttered the end table, the edge of Aspen’s aviators just barely visible. Crushed beer cans collected in the corner of her eye. As much as she wanted to just close her eyes again, the idea of the stage brought a foolish hope to mind. The waitressing gig was less than ideal, and it was only a matter of time before her poor customer service got her fired. On the stage she could be herself, free of judgement. Showcase herself in all her unholy glory. Bring the spectacle of her cursed existence to light, for all to see. Everyone would hear her voice. The idea was liberating to her.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” His calloused fingers ran through Lain’s freshly dyed hair. He had felt that pink suited her much better than blonde. Lain remembered nodding, she would’ve loved that very much. Aspen played lead guitar on brilliant, bright stages, while Lain waited offsides. She had always been drawn to the stage, the performance… She had spent years crawling around bars watching spiteful, punky rock bands. Perhaps because they felt the same frustration and isolation she had been feeling all this time. Not one had enraptured her like Ashes to Ashes, in all their trashy glory. Lain admired their confessionalism, their transparency. She understood the mess of being alive. The idea of joining them onstage excited her like no other, though that had been months ago. 

Maybe this time. Lain just had to brave this shift and then she could escape to Aspen’s embrace again. Maybe now that it’d been a year… 

Lain flipped the “OPEN” sign to “CLOSED.” Freshening up in the restroom, she smoothed her skirt down in the mirror, picking apart her own reflection after closing time. She had grown thin; the serving job made little and Aspen only made a chunk of his flashy band’s income. Groceries could be a luxury. But they were happy, weren’t they? Lain was no longer sleeping in her uncle’s Taurus, no longer fighting the stigmas of reality. No longer trying to catch up to an ideal that seemed unattainable. She couldn’t even speak until she was seven. How was a kid like that meant to survive? Things got better when Uncle William became her guardian, he had taught her everything, loved her like his own child, but…

Lain produced a black lipstick from her skirt pocket, shakily applying it to her lips. William could not have filled the role her mother abandoned. Though she never got to meet her father, deep down she knew he couldn’t have done it either. Lain knew he had only the best intentions at heart, but Uncle Will was too soft, too afraid of responsibility. He wanted to create a quiet and gentle life for Lain, but it just wasn’t that easy. She had been doomed from the start. The adults in her life had failed her as a child; what was she to become? Failure became her middle name. Perhaps this was where she belonged. Lain took a deep breath as she closed the lipstick, gently caressing her cheek as she gazed in the mirror. The woman who gazed back terrified her. At least she could go home and close her eyes, just for a little while. She had found her escape in Aspen.

~~~

“Baby-doll.” Aspen beckoned from the couch, noticing her return. He sat with his electric guitar in his lap, all plugged in next to the open window. Nancy, he had named it. No one stood between him and that beat-up instrument. He had shattered the window with it in a drunken rage, and they had yet to get it replaced. Lain worried that the landlords would evict him, though Aspen assured her she needn’t worry her silly little head about it. It had become his new favorite practice spot, in fact, “Come hit this, c’mere honey. I missed you; I know work was rough, wasn’t it?” He patted the spot on the couch next to him, reaching for a small glass pipe on the coffee table. Lain padded over to him quietly, knowing better than to take the place of the precious instrument in his lap.

“It was,” she breathed, taking her spot on the couch. She smoothed her skirt out again, shifting her weight to catch his eye. “Writing new stuff or practicing?” Lain took the pipe from his hands. The rock offered her an escape, both sublime yet spineless. Aspen had been on a kick lately, of course, dragging her down with him.

“Practicing.” He grinned and shook his head. Had he even noticed her pretty lipstick? “Nothing you would understand, sweetness, you just relax.” Lain felt a hand on her back and let herself dissolve all over again, letting the stress of the day melt away.

~~~

Knock, knock, knock!

Weightless. Lain crumpled to the floor only hours later, heart thrashing around in her ribcage like it was trying to break out. What was happening to her? She writhed in pain, struggling to breathe. 

“Aspen.” She tried to cry out for him, though he was absent from his signature spot. Even his precious guitar was missing, how would he hear her wheezing pleas?  It was hard to think, did he have a show tonight? Would he have just left her here, in this dump? The stench of sweaty clothes around her flooded her nose, accompanied by stale beer. She had to get up, but her brain was failing her. This was worse than the shakes, far worse. Lain could faintly hear someone knocking on the front door, but her eyelids were fluttering and her chest was on fire. She still couldn’t breathe. This was too real; it wasn’t supposed to be like this. Aspen was supposed to keep her safe, protect her from the harsh reality that seemed to follow her like a thick fog. The knocking became banging. This wasn’t it; this wasn’t what she wanted. Lain panicked as she faded in and out of consciousness, unable to will her body to stop convulsing. Was this going to be how she died? A nobody, nothing more than a punk band’s groupie, dead from a crack overdose. Her heart crept up her throat, blocking airways as she continued to shake, looking up at the couch where her lover had sat just hours ago. Freezing cold air migrated in through the shattered window. Cold, it was getting so cold. This wasn’t right. She wanted to get away, but she didn’t want this…

She tried to reach for him, for anyone, but her body shut down and not a sound was heard.

~~~

“Baby, I’m just glad you’re alive,” Aspen mumbled, guitar propped in his lap once again, relatively unconcerned after Lain’s discharge. He had driven her home from the emergency room with a look of mild inconvenience across his face. “I’m sorry, I’m just tired, I spent all morning talking to the tour manager, we can’t afford to miss this show tonight. You know that though, don’t you, darling?” Lain felt her heart sink, staring at him from her spot on the couch. Only three days had passed since the overdose, and she could still feel the bony touch of death around her heart. Its nails scratched at the organ, and she was reminded of her uncle’s lack of concern. Better yet, her mother’s neglect. At least her Uncle Will had been there, had cared. She remembered the smelly, dark room she had struggled to sleep in, immobile. A small child incapable of even navigating to the bathroom, while her mother sought to escape her. She must have resembled her father too much, caused her poor mother too much pain… She had always been an inconvenience, one to be forgotten. Perhaps Aspen was no different.

“How much did you give me?” she asked bluntly, the accusation cutting through the heavy air. Perhaps it had all been too good be true. Aspen was still for a moment before turning to look back at her, eyebrow raised.

“Angel,” he breathed. “I know how much you can handle—“

“How much did you give me?” Lain repeated the question, the chilling, skeletal hand squeezing around her heart. She was awake now. Aspen fiddled with his guitar, pretending he couldn’t hear her. Lain would no longer be silent, not after this. Part of her prayed it wasn’t true, that the bond she shared with the leather-clad rock star meant at least something.

“Aspen.” She stood up, looking down at him. She might have been intimidating if not for the familiar sting of tears building in her eyes. She could see Aspen avoiding her gaze behind his sunglasses, the same way William had lowered his head in guilt. His silence spoke volumes. “We gotta stop doing this. You’d let me die; I would have if it wasn’t for the woman in the room below us!”

Aspen sighed and removed his glasses. If she could just save this, maybe they could clean themselves up and she could finally be onstage, and… 

“Honey,” he finally spoke. “You didn’t die. I wouldn’t let you die, let’s be serious.”

Lain simply blinked. Why wasn’t he worried? Suspicion and fear crept up her throat. 

“Can you at least tell me where you were?” she asked, trying to ignore the way her voice trembled. “If you wouldn’t let me die, where were you while I was dying?” Now that her eyes were open, Lain couldn’t close them again. Something had gone terribly wrong; this wasn’t where she was meant to be. Aspen looked at her as if he would rather her really be dead than interrupt his practice one more time. Perhaps he was never a good man…

“Just calm down, have a smoke, dear. It always relaxes you.”

“Have a smoke?” Lain stepped closer, nudging his beloved “Nancy.” The rose-colored glasses were gone now. He had drugged her, left her alone while she danced with death. Now he wanted to sweep it all away like a little accident. “I’m not touching anything you give me until you give me a damn answer!” It was clear the musician’s patience was running thin but Lain wasn’t giving up this time. Something had to give. All the months spent wasted in this landfill he called a home chalked up to nothing, not even an apology. Had the apartment always smelled this rancid?

“Lain,” Aspen warned, setting his guitar to the side and standing to meet her gaze. He was still slightly shorter than her, and his intimidation did little to change her mind. “I need you to calm down. Now, please.” 

“How much did you give me?” Aspen did not speak, pushing her away by the shoulders. “Why won’t you answer me? Do you care at all?!” Lain batted his hands away, tears pooling in her eyes again. She understood now. It was never about love with Aspen. “You’re no different than my mother!” Her uncle’s sentiment erupted from her own mouth as despair and regret overcame her. Perhaps she had never been any better than her mother to begin with, giving up hope on herself time and time again, relying on the kindness of strangers. She had devoted herself to chasing escape, but no one else could give that to her. Aspen’s attempts at manipulation allowed anger to eclipse sadness and Lain placed her hands on his temples. The dam broke and salty tears began to sail down her cheeks, coalescing at her chin. “Please, just answer me!”

“Enough!” Aspen barked, headbutting her. Lain held her head, blinking in response to the impact. “You want an answer so bad? I’ll give you one.” Free from her grasp, he approached her slowly. His once calm demeanor had become violent and irritated. Lain had seen this before, when she had been too intoxicated to fight back. When she had made the mistake of considering herself more desirable than old “Nancy,” her sobs background noise for Aspen’s next track. “This is all I have! I’m tired, Lain!” She already knew where this was going. Regret became fury as she recalled every time she wept for his forgiveness, endured the bruises he painted on her skin. Once, she would have compared them to art. “You never learn! No matter how many times I teach you, you just keep getting in the way of my music!” Aspen’s façade was broken. He reached for Lain’s hair. “How else were you supposed to learn your lesson?” Disgusted, she pushed him back. He stumbled backwards toward the window. She had found herself the target of his madness in the past, but now he was hers.

 Clearly perturbed that Lain managed to stumble him, she watched him try to steady himself. Lain could tell he had been drinking; he always was. She felt the blood rush to her head, the rage and adrenaline combined more intense than any high. This must be hatred, she thought. She had dedicated herself to the guitarist, moved across the country to be with him, yet she was still nothing more than a hopeless groupie to him. A year together and still he knew nothing. It was never love with Aspen; he had no love to give. He loved control, playing Lain like that damn guitar.

Blinded by rage, Lain took hold of “Nancy.” No one stood between him and that busted instrument. That was all she had been to him, as well. Just a beat-up object to show off until she broke. Until she was nothing. 

Lain didn’t miss a beat as she swung, slashing at Aspen with his prized possession. The scumbag tumbled as he tried to get purchase on his real favorite girl, losing his balance against the window frame. Both hands reached out for the guitar, but it was too late for Aspen. Too late for him to steady himself again. White-hot hatred filled Lain’s mind as she continued to hack at him, vision blurred by her gushing tears. She could hardly hear Aspen’s voice anymore. Deep down, she knew she was meant for more than this. If her mother could not love her, if the terror that was Aspen Black could not love her, she would do it for herself. Aspen never wanted a lover; he wanted arm candy. A woman young and damaged enough to fall for his harshness. Lain just so happened to be exactly that. Her mind continued to race, thought and reality blending until she noticed her lover stood before her no more. Panting, trying to catch her breath, Lain failed to process what she had done. How long had she been standing by the window? Aspen was nowhere to be found. Until Lain’s gaze shifted downward and there he was, the fallen angel. He had collided with the pavement seven stories down while Lain filled his signature space. The guitar remained in her hands. Aspen would never pluck a string again.

The dawning realization of her actions left Lain terrified. She had killed a man, murder in cold blood. Her only instinct was to flee, get as far away as possible. Aspen’s band would come by to get him eventually, and she couldn’t stay here. As panic set in, Lain scrambled to the kitchen and dug Aspen’s keys from the bottom of the silverware drawer. Rotating the key in her hand, she knew she had to leave this behind. Though she had little to live for, she knew it wasn’t her time to go yet. Death still breathed down her neck; Lain had felt its warning. She took one last look at the landfill she had once called a home, then bolted out the door and down the stairs of the apartment building. The other tenants wouldn’t question her erratic behavior, at least, unless they happened to glance out their windows and witness the corpse that once was Aspen Black. 

“See ya later tonight, Lain, darling!” called a voice that Lain didn’t even recognize. She didn’t say a word as she left the building, the image of Aspen’s body fresh in her mind. She hadn’t even seen it happen, her vision clouded by furious adrenaline. It was only now that the weight of it all began to crush her. Her hands were sore and littered with cuts, tense as she opened the car door. Lain crawled back behind the wheel, breath stilling as she turned the ignition. She just had to get away, far away… As the vehicle’s engine came alive and began to vibrate, she fumbled anxiously with the mirrors and windows. Her gut twisted and turned; her head still pounded with rage. She had no choice. She had to take the wheel, get out of there quick. Knuckles white and lips blue, she shifted into reverse.

Lain could feel Death’s eye on her, but she fled the scene. Maybe one day her sins would come back to haunt her, but this time she had to break the cycle. She had been driving for what felt like days, watching each streetlamp blend into the next. The chilling night air blew through her hair from the open window. She drove aimlessly, alone with her thoughts. A strange sense of vindication had come over her. It wasn’t until the gas light came on that she was forced to address reality again. Lain sighed. She didn’t have the slightest clue where she was. The road stretched on a while longer before she found herself approaching a dimly lit gas station. A simple convenience store was attached. The lights were on, but not a soul occupied the building or the parking lot. A lone phone booth stood against the side of the building. Lain stopped the car and got out, almost drowning in the emptiness. The breeze had been a comforting confidante to her racing mind, but she grew colder the longer the night went on. She recalled Aspen keeping a jacket in the back seat. Slipping it over bony shoulders, Lain cringed. The barren parking lot reminded her that she was alone again, the exact thing she had been running from. Precisely how she ended up in Aspen’s clutches. The lonely, dingy gas station reminiscent of their time together. Catching another glimpse of the phone booth, Lain knew she had to get help. Help from someone who cared, the only family she ever really had. Shoving her hands in her jacket pockets, she abandoned the gas pump and entered the black booth.

Lain wasn’t anticipating the pipe. Scarred flesh met glass inside the jacket pocket, but she threw it as fast as she found it. The same small ornament that caused her overdose. Lain stared at it for a moment, then another. She remembered that night, remembered thinking she would be found dead the next morning. Blue eyes remained fixated on the glass pipe, even as Lain dialed the familiar number of William. Craving and fear mixed dangerously in the pit of her stomach as the dial tone rang, and she wondered if her uncle was even awake. Would he answer?

“Hello?” Lain started, but her gaze didn’t shift.

“Uncle Will? It’s Lain,” she began, continuing to stare at the pipe’s solitary spot on the booth’s floor. “I owe you a big apology.”

Julian Macke is a Creative Writing major with a soft spot for the dark and macabre. Specializing in pieces that highlight stigmatized human experiences, he dabbles in both poetry and prose.