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I  He shows me his hands,  calloused from work.  I look past their roughness  and see  his mound of Venus  protruding from the thumb. “You have a short love line,”  I say, running my fingers over. “Well, what does that mean?”  He frowned.  “You have trouble with romance.” “Do you want to change that?” I regret not telling him his lifeline stopped in the middle of his palm.  II  His hands lay cold  across his chest in the casket.  Stained glass blesses his face  with hues of purple and red. Like the neon signs that decorated his face in Sam’s Diner.  Where we still shared a meal  after someone was mugged. Laughs we’d share, longing to be in each other’s skin, tears ruining my shirt. All resided in his eyes.  “Thank you for joining me tonight.” I knew we didn’t have long  but I didn’t care. III The shattered beer bottle in the corner  is what’s left of muffled sobs.  It’s been there for weeks  yet I didn’t have the time to clean it. Raking up the shards one morning,  blood flew down my fingers, conjuring our last night. “Let’s run away together, go out west.”  His voice rang in my ears.   My refusal smashed the bottle,  refusal to accept what came next.  Never staring at his hair.  Unable to see his Orion eyes. I lay there amongst glass,  interrupted dreams in my palm. Nate Darden is a recent graduate of Lees-McRae College in Banner Elk, North Carolina where he obtained his degree in English with a minor in Creative Writing. Nate’s poetry dives into the nuances of his familial and romantic relationships, detailing the intricate emotions that come along. His work has previously been featured in Carolina Muse Literary & Arts magazine. He currently lives in Mount Holly, North Carolina where he works as a marketing intern and continues to refine his poetry. You can find him on Instagram @nate_darden.

goodbye, Grandma said  in Mandarin  not a language she knows.  one she learned for me  who left home  and her garden unattended  one she forgot, since.  pigs squealed while being dragged by men chickens crowed for nourishment half-wild half-pet dogs barked at strangers and amid all the striving vibrations of life I whispered in Grandma’s garden safe travels.  she smiled as if she understood. Joy builds tech products in NYC for a living. She holds a BA from Dartmouth College and a Master’s degree from Harvard.

Whenever our family got together, it was inevitable that we would sit and tell stories. We would gather in my grandparents’ adjoining kitchen and living room, tjinja  on the floor to make room on the couches and chairs for our elders. Here at the heart of the festive and crowded house, no one would be out of earshot. Yarns were unravelled and our feelings rose and fell. It was as if we were on a ship and the prairie around us was an ocean and in all that rolling whiteness, my grandparents’ house was our safe harbour. The stories often reminded us of the many dangers that existed then and in the past in what seemed such a placid and familiar world. At Christmas, Grandma always told the final story. That was our tradition. It was about my great-aunt Rosa when she was a child in Russia. Enunciating with care in her precise English, Grandma Zehen told the story. Her narration was theatrical and thrilling, but still heartfelt and purely told. She would fill in detail and sentiment, adding dialogue to suit. But most engaging of all, she always told the story as if it were ours. This may not have been strictly so; it may have been cultural lore as much as family history. I never felt that it mattered—I just remember waiting for the story every Christmastime. Lights were dimmed, candles lit. Out came the platters of Christmas cookies from the warmth of Grandma’s oven. Fresh baked, we had been smelling them since the stories began, all of us waiting for them to arrive. I will never forget the candy taste of the pink icing, the buttery aroma with just a hint of vanilla. I can still see the glint of the crystal sugar in the candlelight. Best of all, dee tjinja— from the youngest child to the oldest—got first pick from the overflowing trays! Grandma began her special story once everyone had their cookies and we chewed as quietly as we could to listen. The room hushed as Grandma rose and drew herself up tall, her back straight, to tell our favourite story. Okay, if all the children are comfy, I’ll start… Not too far from the city of Odessa and the shores of a faraway place called the Black Sea, there was a region called Molotschna Colony—“Milk River,” you know, as Englanders sometimes say it. Molotschna was home to many Mennonite villages. My mother’s sister, my Taunte  Rosa, attended grade school in one of the villages there. By state dictate, the lessons were taught in Russian. The teacher, however, was brought in from Germany for the school year. Naturally, she was fluent in Hoch Deutsch —the more formal German language many Molotschna Mennonites had grown up with in church. She spoke Russian too, a stiff and slow-moving version, but best of all, this Lehrerin  was also able to fly along in her Mennonite students’ native Plautdietsch . You understand, yes? Low German. Obah , for the schoolkids of course, Plautdietsch was like the difference between stale rye bread and fresh, hot raisin toast with butter! After Russia’s Godless Revolution, a rule strictly forbade all religion. It was illegal to come together in any kind of gathering for those who intended to pray or worship. Why, even our little get-together today would have been banned under these new laws! Ambitious and meticulous, the government officials were particularly diligent in overseeing the local Mennonites in everything they did: at work, at home, and in Taunte Rosa’s school.  Even so, there were still some aspects of Christianity that refused to fade. In practice, this referred to the calendar and the arrangement of holidays, most of which were based on old religious traditions too deeply ingrained to go away overnight. Christmas ceased to exist, but a single day of rest near the end of December was conditionally permitted in Taunte’s village. Despite this allowance, officially, even the most innocent Yuletide symbols were banned.  Can you imagine? We Mennonites have not experienced oppression like this in Canada—at least not exactly—but let me tell you, this was a definite stimulant to Christmas celebration back then! There is a kind of enthusiasm for things that only forbidding them can produce. Ha! Bibles came out of hiding places. Late-night services were held in barns and haylofts and carols were sung in whispered voices .  Even the auf’jefollna  cast aside their backsliding ways and rediscovered their fervour! (Grandma smiled and winked at the adults as she told this last part.) Now kids, I’m sorry for all the big words and grown-up talk! What I am saying to you is that Christmas was taken away. And not just Christmas, but Easter too and even going to Sunday School. It was a mixed-up time, joh ? But you little ones shouldn’t worry—the next part of the story is really for you, most of all! One year, a few days before Christmas Day, Rosa’s mother baked a batch of Christmas cookies, and young Rosa couldn’t stop herself. When no one was looking, she took one of the best, one with thick icing and red and green sugar crystals on top and snuck away. She wrapped it in oiled paper and secured it snugly with a thin ribbon she had saved from her birthday. Her coat had an inside pocket and she placed it there, near her heart.  Imagine the winter sky, children, as big there and just as blue as it is here. Think of Taunte Rosa as she hummed ‘Stille Nacht’  ever so softly while she walked to the schoolhouse, her bootheels squeaking in rhythm on the hard-packed snow path. Rosa, you see, felt guilty for sneaking the cookie and for not telling her mother about her plan. But… you know just how she felt, yes?   She wanted to have the cookie so badly and feared if she asked permission, the answer would have surely been no. After lunch, while the other children dressed to go out and play, Rosa   walked, taking tiny steps, to her teacher’s desk and placed the ribboned package in front of her. Fräulein Rosenfeld tilted her head.  “What’s this?” Rosa stood meekly with her heavy parka hung on one arm. At first, she was terrified, sensing that her teacher was angry and that she had done something wrong. “A present for you, Lehrerin.”  Fräulein answered with a hum and a slight frown. She was a prim woman, thin and neat and somewhat severe. Her brow raised and her eyes flicked up to see if anyone else was in the room. It was empty, the children were all on the playground. Reaching out, she picked up the bundle and unwrapped it with long piano fingers. She placed the dainty ribbon on the desktop with care, its brightness reflected in the varnish. Slowly and with the same delicate touch, she undid the folded oil-paper and then looked down at the Christmas cookie revealed now in the palm of her hand. “Well, well,” she said, before taking a deep breath and sitting upright in her chair. She paused, pulling her feet under her as if to rise but then changed her mind. “How nice, Rosa. But, tell me please: did your mother give you this, for me?” She left her steady gaze on the child but took care not to stare too hard.  Rosa looked down, cheeks flushing. “ Nay , Lehrerin .  It was me,” she confessed.  “ Nicht Mutti ?” replied the teacher in more formal High German; her tone firmer, carrying the faintest taint of accusation.  “ Nein , Fräulein . Mother doesn’t know.” Fräulein Rosenfeld nodded curtly. She stood and walked to the doorway, her swift footsteps like hammer blows on the wood floor. Looking down the hall and then closing the door, she paused there, hands clenching as she gathered her thoughts. Rosa waited, feeling ever smaller next to the tall desk. The door locked with a snap. “ Nah joh ,” Fräulein began. When she turned back to Rosa she was smiling, her face bright. “This is so nice.”  Rosa   squirmed, basking in the moment. “It’s just so nice!” Fräulein repeated. “Can we have it now, Rosa?” The little girl studied her teacher's face. Then, eyes shining, she said, “ Joh !” Fräulein Rosenfeld looked through the window to the playground. Then she returned to her desk and with eager hands broke the cookie into smaller bits. She ate some of it immediately, passing a piece to Rosa. They ate together, nibbling busily like church mice. The teacher stood between Rosa and the door. Fräulein fretted from door to window and kept glancing at the large mantle clock on the shelf behind her, above the lined blackboard, keeping watch all the while.  Soon the cookie was gone. The teacher took the wrapper and folded it over and over until it was a small square. She pushed it far down into her pocket, together with the curly ribbon, which she had tied and retied until it was nothing more than a pink knot. She moistened her fingertip and dabbed at the few remaining crumbs. Holding one finger upright in front of her pursed lips, she then took Rosa’s   little hands and squeezed them gently, leaning over to kiss her on the forehead in the silent classroom.  “Our secret, joh ?” Fräulein said in a whisper. Rosa nodded, elated to have a secret with her teacher—an honour she did not fully grasp. But perhaps it was just what the Fräulein had been lacking in cold and distant Molotschna, far from her native home in Germany. Just ask any oma  or opa  whose children have since begun their own lives and families, and they will tell you, it’s easier to feel lonely at Christmas than at any other time of the year. Fräulein gazed with fondness at the tiny girl, she saw the joy in her eyes and touched her braided blonde hair. Just then, the first of Rosa’s red-cheeked classmates huffed back into the cloakroom stomping snow off their boots and unwinding scarfs, their yarn-strung mittens wet and dangling. They stared at the two at the front of the classroom. Rosa’s friend Tina called out that they missed her for the game of fox and geese they had played, running in the fresh snow. Before Rosa could reply, the bell rang and she and the other children returned to their seats. Now  tjinja , you might ask, how dangerous was that one innocent küak ? Surely no great peril could come from something so harmless? So childlike? But all it would have taken was for the wrong official to find out about the Christmas cookie. What would have happened to your great-aunt Rosa then? Those Russians, obliged by strict orders to investigate, might have gone back to Rosa’s family. Questioned them. Maybe some would have been sent by train to a distant work camp or forced into some hidden cruelty in Moscow. Unknown. Unspeakable. Who knows?  All because of a cookie.  Grandma sat and folded her hands in her lap. The house fell still and silent until Grandpa prayed, his voice solemn and laden with emotion. When he finished, after, “Amen,” we sang, giving thanks for our deliverance, rattling the windows, billowing our hearts; “Praise God from whom all blessings flow…” At last, late on Christmas Eve, I would lie in bed and retell myself Great-Aunt Rosa’s story. I could feel the packed snow of the path and hear the ticking of the mantle clock in the empty classroom.  I hear it still. Fräulein Rosenfeld was like a relative we saw just once a year—a loyal and trusted member of our family there in the tiny house behind the bakery on Barkman Avenue. Without this visitor from an ocean away and long ago, our Christmas could not be complete. Mitchell Toews left his advertising job in 2016 to devote himself to writing. Since then, Mitch has placed 132 short stories in literary journals, anthologies, and contests. His debut book is a themed collection of short stories about his Mennonite heritage titled Pinching Zwieback ( At Bay Press, Canada, 2023). A second book, a bildungsroman novel set in the wilderness of the Manitoba boreal forest, will be published in 2026. Social media: mitchell_toews, @prosebytoews, Mitchellaneous.com , mitch.toews

Thou anointest my cornbread with honey.  My sweet iced tea overflows.  Though there may be tough rows to hoe, Goodness, grace, and mercy  shall stop by in all weathers of my life,  and I will rest and rock gently  on the Almighty’s screened-in porch forever. American Southerner Christina E. Petrides started writing poetry on Jeju Island, South Korea, where she lived for 6.5 years. Her verse collection, On Unfirm Terrain  (Kelsay Books, 2022), reflects her interest in the geographical context of culture and events. Her children’s books are Blueberry Man  (2020), The Refrigerator Ghost  (2022), T ea Cakes, Quilts, and Sonshine  (2022), and Mr. Fisher's Whiskers  (2024). She is the primary translator of Maria Shelyakhovskaya’s memoir, Being Grounded in Love  (2023). Christina's current projects can be explored on her website: www.christinaepetrides.com

I only ever see the moon in the morning early— before you’re awake— as birdsong first trills from hallowed branches to welcome the inevitable day. She’s there for me— bright and knowing— as I chant my little blessings and adorations in the clear dark, speckled with stars (so few in the city yet their sisters burn bright, or did long ago) I whisper to myself— but she is waning now  and gauzy haze shrouds her edges and blinking streetlights distract me  and bitter cold creeps down my collar  and the sun will be rising soon. I crane my neck to keep her in sight until the ache at the base of my skull reminds me: she’s always there pulling on me whether or not I can see. L. D’Arcy Blackwell is a poet based in St. Louis, MO. She earned her Bachelor's Degree in French from Lindenwood University and currently works as a community-oriented fitness professional. Her short fiction has been published in The Writer’s Workout , and her poetry will be included in the upcoming Spring 2025 debut issue of Winnow Literary . She is a queer mother raising humans, cats, and chickens.

To thee, an angel, called by the Lord unto the operation of this machine— In the days of Moses thou puttest the word of God into the machine. And the machine did rain manna down upon the wilderness, and the taste of it was like wafers made with honey. And lo, the Israelites did feed for forty years. Thou hast opened this scroll on the day man hath failed to keep the Earth as the Lord commanded. Man and woman have fouled the seas, and no fish swimmeth therein. No seed taketh root upon their land of poison. Their vineyards wither from the great heat they hath wrought. They fear famine and pestilence shall devour them. Therefore again thou shalt operate the machine. But thou dost ask, “How shall this be? For God is silent, and the machine is empty and maketh no manna.” Go now, dig up the corpses of the dead, and put them in the machine, as it is written, “The fathers shall eat of their sons, and the sons shall eat of their fathers.” Manna shall rain down upon the face of the Earth, and both man and woman shall feed. Yea, like swine they shall feed, though the manna taste not of honey, but shall have the bitter taste of the poison and uncleanness they hath wrought. And those who eat of it shall weep and gnash their teeth. And the smoke of their sorrow shall ascendeth for ever and ever. Paul is an award-winning science fiction author, technology blogger, and former punk rock drummer. At age six, he saw 2001: A Space Odyssey on the big screen, which disrupted the development of his prefrontal cortex. Paul’s edgy, reality-bending stories are influenced by his former career in VR and many late nights drumming in punk bar bands. Originally from Flint, MI, Paul resides in Colorado, where he sips espresso and watches the snow sublimate. His stories are published at Uncharted Magazine, Amazing Stories, Creepy Podcast , and elsewhere. Follow him at PaulMartz.com .

At a lancet looking out  on empty hills and dark forests, Carpathians  hulking against the horizon like titans,  he watches for other human beings  and finds none.  The road leading away turns out of sight  to disappear among the pines,  headed beyond the mountains,  where men dwell bitterly and without recourse  and do so together.  His eyes flicker with reptilian light,  a hollow longing he can no longer name.  He does not know why he watches the road,  who he looks for, why he believes they will come at night  when only unpeopled creatures roam the earth or leer from tall towers.  He has forgotten many things.  He no longer knows pecheneg, magyar, or vlach,  the dust of his fixtures, the soil of his bed.  He no longer knows hunger, pain, or loss,  he conceives of no better.  He no longer knows his name, his age, his face; there is no other.  The mirror hanging loose above a cold hearth shows a rotting table, faded cloth,  tarnished brass, broken chairs;  an empty room  and quiet shadows. Harrison Hurst was raised among the mountains and valleys of Tennessee, in the city of Chattanooga, where he earned a dual Bachelor's Degree in History and Liberal Arts. These two fields form the foundation of his work, which seeks patterns in the history of humans and the earth, and elucidates them through art. He currently works as an executive assistant at Walnut Street Publishing.

The river doesn't care if you're ready. Mid-life catches you like an undertow, drags you into waters too deep for standing. One day you're wading through the shallows of your thirties, next you're navigating currents that smell of mortality. I learn to row against time's flow. Each stroke measures distance: from youth to whatever comes after, from mother to crone, from certainty to questions. The oars feel heavy as regret in my hands. My arms remember other weights—a baby, groceries, ambitions I set down somewhere along the shore. The ferryman never mentioned how the river changes. Sometimes it runs thick as honey, gluing the oars to yesterday. Other times it moves too fast, tomorrow's rapids threatening to swamp the boat. The water tastes of endings: bitter herbs, forgotten promises, doors closing quietly in the night. But here's what they don't tell you about the Styx: it flows both ways. In the heart of the current, where the water runs deepest, you can catch glimpses of what's coming through the ripples of what's been. Youth and age swap faces in the swirls. The dead wave from the banks like old friends, while the living fade like ghosts. I'm learning the river's moods. How to read its surface for what lies beneath. When to fight the current, when to let it take me. My boat leaves no wake—this journey erases itself as it happens. But my arms grow stronger with each stroke, my eyes sharpen in the twilight between states. Some nights, I swear I can see the other shore. It glimmers like a memory of the future, bright with all the lives I haven't lived yet. The ferryman nods as I pass, recognizing fellow travellers on these waters. We're all learning to navigate this river, stroke by careful stroke, between what we've lost and what we might still find. Louise Worthington is a Pushcart Prize Nominee whose work can be found in Reflex Fiction, Storgy and Boston Literary Magazine , among others. Her publications include “Life Lines,” a poetry volume, “Stained Glass Lives,” and the novel Distorted Days described by Kirkus Review as "a formidable work that defies narrative orthodoxy."

Last night beneath my blankets, I lay still. I dreamt the moon had fled from winter’s wind. Boreas slung his cape across the skies and called his daughter, Celine, to dress the countryside in her white wedding gown.  I saw Persephone, late flee her fate, departing leaves windblown from aspen trees  flicking, flutter-dotting harlequin capes on darkened hills. A flock of geese loud honked last farewells, leaving high in V-wedged flight.    I strained to see through falling flakes  how spruce, once tall, now bent to hold the snow,  Celine’s winter weight, before I spied  three leafless burr oaks standing lone night guard, mad dog tri-heads at Hades’ final gate.     I watched a cyclone twirl sharp sickle chards, storm-blown, swirled clouds of dancing snow and ice fast twisting, wind-screeching sharp to pierce my sleep-short ears with shrill bagpipes  convulsing pumped screams, freezing my heart. In this cold hour, war-bloodied sands blew swift across my barren, nightmare-challenged soul, uncovering pits of settler corpses kidnapped, fast slain, abandoned nameless warriors,   unburied, dumped unknown in cold, mass graves. My dream scene-shifted from blood-drowned war-fields to glimpsing drones fast crunching low a town’s dark cloud-sliced spires pulp-mashed with souls all flattened within, their songful voices now stilled  beneath smashed wooden beams, no bells to ring.   I wake this dawn, my night of terrors gone. I hail Persephone’s promised voice.  I join her songs of yellow daffodils,  grape hyacinths, and viola whose notes rewake spring bells to ring a pledge for peace. Jim Bellanca, a retired English teacher and educational publisher, initiated a poetry writing career at 87. He favors mixing themes of peace/no war, love, family, and nature, with sardonic observations of senior life. After raising four children in Chicago’s North Shore towns, Jim and his wife play bridge, garden, and enjoy senior living in Lake Forest, Illinois. In the past year, The Ethereal Haunted Journal, Down in the Dirt, The Aerial Journal, Witcraft, Sparks of Calliope and other publications have accepted Jim’s work.

My mind, memories, and soul came into being—like waking up, only somehow, I was already awake. My dim cabin aboard the Samsa was more dilapidated than I remembered: rust and barnacles plastered every wall and fitting, the sink black, the mattress on which I lay threadbare. Aghast, I sought light, retrieving a matchbox from my front pocket and striking, yet the cardboard crumpled as if sodden, the match flicking from my fingers and floating away. I clambered for the window. Blueish light filtered in. There was no glass in the pane, no wind in the air. No air at all. Abroad lay a wasteland of sand, ruinous ship-waste, and ocean. The seafloor greeted me with visceral indifference.  I assumed myself to be dreaming. Thirty or so metres above, the waves churned like a mosaic ceiling, and I knew such detail alien to all except divers and spear-fishermen. It could never be imagined so vividly. This was real.  The previous evening had been wonderful and ordinary: I took whiskey and flirted with a young French woman in the dining room. A pianist played a fine tune, the girl touched my arm; I retired cradling a bottle, knowing my Australian ventures would be profitable. Now, that bottle floated along the ceiling, an inch of whiskey remaining, sealed away and out of reach.  I marched for the door. It would not budge; something had fallen against it, or maybe the pressure kept it in place—I was not a learned person. I tore off the curtain, seeing only blackness beyond. "Hello? Is anyone out there?"  Light swam through the darkness, illuminating stray particles floating in the corridor. A rainbow of cyan and magenta. "Hello?" a voice answered, accompanied by colours. "Yes! Hello there! What ever is happening?" "Well, we’re inside a sunken ship. Nothing particularly is happening," the voice said, each syllable accompanied by prismatic light. I faltered.  "What of the crew?"  "Crew?" "Of the Samsa , of course. Are they alive?"  "No," it said mirthfully, "they’re quite dead, given that we’re on the seafloor." "Well, that is the crux of my question, my friend: how is it possible that we are living— speaking as we are—whilst stranded without air?" "Oh," the voice of cyan bid, "you ate something, didn’t you?"  "I ate nought but peanuts and drank only whiskey."  The colours ceased. Fear flooded my lungs—to what did I speak? I stepped away from the door, striding for the window, refusing to swim, as if it’d rob me of my humanity. A school of silvery fish glided by. I stuck my head out, but couldn’t squeeze my shoulders through the porthole. My cabin was a cage. Something knew I was in there. ‘Hello?’ I tried again. A dark, mighty shape took form in the distance, fin sweeping back and forth. I slunk inside and sat on the bed. My bed. I pulled the duvet close and opened my copy of Treasure Island . The same copy I drew in as a boy, the one Mother bought for me, and Father read to me. The pages released bubbles. Ink floated free.  A sound echoed from the door, meagre magenta light creeping in. "Are you in this one?" "Go away."  "Your window’s broken—just swim out."  "I’m too big for it."  "Come here," it bid. I closed my book carefully, as if it could ever be saved, and came as bid. In the door’s window drew an eye, wide and unblinking, filling the entire view. The gaze of limbo. "I want to return," I said, hoping Death would heed me if I was one step ahead. "I’m dying, aren’t I? I drank too much. This is a warning. Well, I hear you, mighty God. I want to return home." "I’m really sorry," it said wordlessly, the lights somehow communicating in place of a tongue, "but you’re dead. Well, no— you’re alive, but..." The great pupil affixed to the mirror above my sink. I did not wish to see.  "Did anyone make it out? The nice French girl?"  "I don’t know. The lifeboats are missing, so, maybe." I laughed; pink light shone through my eyes. "If I wasn’t drunk..."  "Please, look in the mirror."  "I do not wish to see, Reaper."  "I am not Death, and you are alive. You’re just not living the life you think you are." I discarded it with a flicking wrist, sneering, laboriously dragging myself where it heeded. I wiped away the barnacles and beheld myself.  Upon a well-dressed skeleton latched me, a tentacled monstrosity. My beak was buried in his skull. Ichor trailed by my lidless eyes, dispersing by my mantle and fins. I tried screaming. A sucker pulled open the jaw, puppeteering shock. I stepped back, abhorred—my tentacles pulled the legs up and down, mimicking walking like a child playing with a doll. "What?" I cried through light, my mantle shifting iridescent blue, flashing wondrously.  "That’s what we look like," the one at the door said. "Well, I’m not attached to a skeleton, not anymore. I had my fill a few hours ago—I didn’t think there were any good bits left. Disconcerting, isn’t it? I saw all sorts of memories, but you’ve done more than see, you’ve become , haven’t you?" "This isn’t real. This is a nightmare. I want my mother and father."  "Unfortunately, I doubt they’d recognise you, or care much. After all, you merely ate their son’s brain."  I hid the skull’s empty eye sockets beneath its picked-clean fingers, not quite realising my eyes weren’t there. "I am their son. How could I not be, knowing all I do? Knowing my first kiss was with another boy under the bridge by West Side? Knowing all those stories I told myself I’d one day write? Knowing my secret plan to name my firstborn after my father? How could I be anything else but me ? No, please, God, save me. Let me live."  The squid at the door floated without input. I became aware of the taste of his brain, sweet and metallic. His skull released a final puff of brown-red as we decoupled. The corpse floated to the floor, his skeletal hand landing in the direction of Treasure Island . I darted from the window. Josephine G Cambridge is a biologist from the United Kingdom who abates the horrors of STEM with scary little stories. When she isn’t spacing out in a laboratory or recommending people read Shirley Jackson, she enjoys history and all things fantastical.

cough in your throat, snake in the woodpile, outside, the poets remember too loudly— quiet, please, time is passing. every morning cracks us open like a boxer’s teeth, every day we sit in the shade & think god, somebody has got to do something about all these weeds. this is the order of the earth; first land & then the concept of land. next the rain sells our secrets back to us. next we are strangers in this town we love. next the house, after much deliberation, burns down. next we are strangers everywhere else as well. we huddle close to whisper we swallow the pulse of the stars we  divide our love like robbery cash we  swallow the pills at sunrise we take turns at the wheel we record everything we swallow the absence until it is gone & forgive all we can bear. everything has a place. i am afraid ours might be  clutching our knees to our chest on the curb  outside the hospital. i am afraid every poem  might become a curse, like ivy strangling our memory with romance. i am afraid when  i remember but also when i’m asleep.  every night we embark on the journey of  persephone—a total eclipse of the limbic system.  no but really, this is the order  of the earth;  first a boy gets cut out  in the shape of a sky, next  a boy learns why no other  boy is in the shape of a sky, next  i carry my heartburn with  me down the street like a glass bird next  a morning cracks the window  of the house & we slip into it  next a seizure performs the labor  our bodies are too frail for next  we become at last familiar  to all things, just long enough  that it becomes our job to  pull up all the goddamn weeds Tyler King is a nonbinary poet in Columbus, Ohio. They are formerly the editor of the online literary magazine Flail House Press , and their work has appeared in Ghost City Press, mutiny! magazine, The Louisville Review of Books , and other places.

It was time to venture out again. He didn’t particularly enjoy these journeys, but at least they were a reason to escape the monotony that was his home life and the misery that came alongside it. The world outside had grown wild and strange, like a painting where the colours had bled off the canvas, pooling into something unrecognisable. He stood for a moment in the doorway, listening to the wind scrape against the dull steel, waiting for the time to feel right. But it never did. He reached for his woollen hat and pulled it over his head, savouring the momentary warmth that it brought. He only had two left; he needed to be more careful with them if he was going to survive the long winter ahead. They were fragile things in a world that consumed everything. He picked up his supply bag, strapped on his mask, and began the lengthy process of unlocking the bolted steel door. Each bolt released with a deep, metallic groan, a sound that echoed through the hollow halls of his home. Eventually, the door swung open with a reluctant creak, unleashing the sharp bite of the outside frost. A few moments later he made his way down the concrete steps and out into the wilderness. The cold slapped him across the face. It wasn’t the kind of cold you prepared for; it was a living, writhing thing that wrapped itself around you, slipping into your joints like a virus. He shivered and braced himself for what was about to come. Which voice would speak to him today, he wondered. The sky overhead was a faded bruise, greys and purples piercing through the many clouds. The streets beneath his feet, cracked and broken, acted as rivers of dirt winding through skeletal buildings. The snow, once white, had taken on the hues of decay, stained yellow and brown from the rot beneath. As he moved, he felt the wind whisper in his ears. He waited for one of the familiar auras to fill his head. He hoped that it would be The Storyteller, regaling him with tales of a long forgotten era, of a time when hope and joy still existed in the world. The trivial matters on which people used to be so focused amused him slightly. So much strife was caused by such small, meaningless happenings. He wished that the world could be like that once again. Those stories were the last shred of beauty, the last pieces of a planet that had once made sense. Or perhaps he would be joined by The Old Friends. He always enjoyed reminiscing about the past, about the before time, and the escapades that they used to get up to. The thought of their voices filled him with a warmth that contrasted the bitter air. The laughter, the adventures they’d once shared, all now just wisps of memory, but still, they were something. Reminders of the former joys in life helped him to keep going. The plans to reconnect with each other and relive these times provided him with a shred of hope and positivity, even if he knew that they would never come to fruition. Instead it was the musical whispers of The Bard that filled his head. The verses of joy and sorrow, of love and loss were always a welcome guest on his travels. The music, vibrant and raw, rose up, filling the desolate streets around him with renewed life. As the familiar melodies lifted his spirits he strode on with fervour towards his destination, his feet crunching against the snow like a dance. For a moment he almost felt alive. The buildings around him loomed high and jagged, the remnants of what once had been humanity’s triumphs were now twisted into monuments of defeat. Vines, dark and brittle, crawled up their walls, fighting for space among the many cracks. The streets were mostly empty nowadays, although he did occasionally see another survivor on his journeys. He had learned long ago not to interact with them. On the surface, they appeared to be no different to him, just another hollow-eyed husk drifting through this ruin like a ghost. However, they were not the same. When approached, they spoke in strange tongues that he could not comprehend, and when he failed to respond, they often became frustrated, even aggressive. It wasn’t his fault that the world had split them apart. It was much safer to give them a wide berth and keep to himself. He could sense their eyes glaring at him, judging him for the lack of interaction, but he kept his head down and avoided any conflict. He moved through the wreckage with careful steps, the icy ground crunching beneath his boots. He could see the luminous green glow of the supply cache against the horizon, blinking like an alien beacon, casting an eerie light across the snow. He was nearing the end of his journey. Just as he began to believe that he would complete his task without incident, the reassuring ballad of The Bard came to an abrupt halt. He had known that it was inevitable, but he couldn’t help but hope that it would not come to pass. He stopped in his tracks, his breath hanging in the air like a cloud of smoke as he waited for the next voice to speak to him. He prayed that he would hear the voice of The Sister, sharing her tales of life in a far-off land, where the air was warm and where the seas still glittered blue. A world that, despite all of its differences, was eerily similar to the one where he found himself isolated. But alas, this was not the voice that greeted him. The voice of The Mother spoke. Her voice was sharp, slicing through his thoughts before he could even brace himself. It stung, each word an accusation, each sentence another cut of the blade. He knew how to deal with the situation. As she rambled on he gave the expected one-word answers, agreeing or showing support where necessary, never saying too much. He was careful with his words, but a mistake was inevitable. He wasn’t sure what he had done wrong, he thought that his answers had all been acceptable, but evidently they were not. The tirade began, loud and unrelenting, louder than even the howling wind that clawed at his skin and froze his breath. He tried not to listen, but the viciousness of the berating pierced his defences. The world around him blurred, the colours of the sky and snow bleeding together, spinning into a cacophony of greys and whites. What had been a pleasant journey was now becoming a nightmare. He gritted his teeth, clenched his hands into balled fists inside his gloves, and bore the brunt of the attack. He wasn’t sure how long the whole ordeal lasted, but it was with relief that he welcomed the silence that surrounded him once the voice of The Mother departed. His head throbbed, but the world slowly came back into focus. He was so close to his destination. He took a moment to regain his composure, then continued towards the green beacon that marked his goal. As he stumbled into the bastion of hope, he took in his surroundings. The piles of rations were of no interest to him. He pushed past the others who had been attracted by the sanctuary, hardly noticing their presence. His eyes scanned the room until he found what he had been looking for. Overwhelmed with relief, he fell to his knees. He had found it, the golden prize. He lifted the crate of liquid ambrosia in his hands, his fingers trembling as they closed around the neck of one of the bottles. This would be enough to dull the misery and emptiness for another week. D. J. Bates is a new writer who is a proud part of the queer community. They have no previously published works and welcome the opportunity to take their first steps into the world of writing.