Your Custom Text Here
About the artist: Susan Lee Simpson is an emerging BIPOC poet and collage artist seeking to create connections through the written, visual, and book arts. After leaving a 30 year pre-pandemic career in research/statistical consulting, she is enjoying a “new chapter” of life, full of right-brain awakening. She lives and creates in Chapel Hill, NC.
Find Susan on Instagram.
March 8, 2023
Across the street,
the new building rises
like a twisted spine.
Family homes! Deluxe:
three bedroom, two bath, just
4,800 Euros per square meter!
A man on the roof shouts
into a phone:
The truck can’t make it through.
A worker hacks onto the street.
No, I told you. The road is blocked.
Another hack. A drill
screeches. Its shrieks cut
across his conversation –
behind schedule buyers nothing
and the women appear.
Somewhere someday someone will complain
that only fifteen showed, that despite the
masses gathered in the city center the fight
is here, where the neighbors hover
along their balconies as fifteen teenage girls
block the street, their voices rising like doves
from the debris –
Visca, visca, la lluita
feminista! [1]
The worker’s shouts are drowned
by these words, these fifteen
young women, fifteen
voices, a single megaphone.
The drills stop and there are
no shouts, no sounds, just
silent machines, men staring
at the street, men grinding
their teeth, men losing money
as fifteen women stand
their ground, the trucks can’t
pass, the voices chant
and the neighbors gather
like rainclouds along the street.
Tell me, again,
how powerless we are.
A Catalan exclamation loosely translated as “The feminist fight continues!”
“Fifteen” first appeared in the IHRAM Publishes anthology Reflections of Feminine Empowerment.
About the author: Ana Reisens is a poetry farmer. Born and raised in the Midwest, she now tends to her crop in the sun-bathed soil of Spain. She was the recipient of the 2020 Barbara Mandigo Kelly Peace Poetry Award. You can find her poetry sprouting in The Bombay Literary Review, Sixfold, and forthcoming in The Threepenny Review, among other places. In her free time, she enjoys thinking about how to change the world, eating with chopsticks, and traipsing around forests (often at the same time).
You can connect with her on Instagram.
Motherhood in the Capitalist End-Times
2023
Glass baby food jar with hollow core house image and Gerber's lid
From Debra: Parenting an infant upends one's sense of self and stability in the best of times. Choosing to become a parent during the era of (potentially catastrophic) climate change can be even more fraught and frightening.
The house inside the baby food jar is sliding off its foundation, accompanied by the text on the lid "MyGerber.com/ClimateJourney," representing the monumental changes of both parenthood and global warming.
Heap
2022
Bronze, steel, aluminum
In many ways, we live in hopeful times where institutions that have defined the Western world are changing. Each of the crowns is made to represent an aspect of society that has undergone an upheaval - religion, royalty, capitalism, war/ the military-industrial complex, patriarchy, and white supremacy. This work represents the hope that each of these institutions will soon find itself in the trash heap, replaced by egalitarian structures.
Time (or Squirrel Capitalism)
2023
Wood box, velvet, bronze
This box examines the concept that the stages of an acorn are a measure of time for a squirrel. The hiding of acorns also represents a form of wealth for squirrels, as a large cache will ensure the lives of an entire squirrel family. Human beings have exploited animals and treated them as objects - this work attempts to address the squirrel as the subject of his or her own life, while also illustrating similarities to human desires and needs.
About the artist: Debra Couch is a sculptor living in Chicago. Her work focuses on the intersections of human and animal consciousness as well as the human experience under late-stage capitalism.
See more of her work on her website.
She is sick now, this woman
who when 12, fell 12 meters while sleeping
into the sewers of Tehran. The floor just dropped—
flowing water, erosion, miscalculations by men hurrying
to build a modern city caused falling floors everywhere—
the earth gulped other beds, other dreaming children.
She is pregnant now, this woman
whose metal bed frame was found twisted like a toy,
4 meters above the hole where she awakened in darkness,
until she heard the scraping of shovels against gravel
and was lifted out of the mud of death.
Still, every morning she wonders why she was saved.
Then she slumps in her chair, hurries through the bright office
to the bathroom to be sick, this woman
who as a girl took off the nightgown she wore into the earth
and cut it into tiny squares to give to all the people
who gathered to celebrate the miracle of the girl
with the gift of second life.
About the author: Susan Jelus is a former technical writer, instructional designer, and poetry publisher. She lives in Utah where she writes, teaches fretted instruments and folk music, plays with paints and fiber, and explores the land. Her work has been published in several anthologies and little magazines.
Portals
From Ralph: This collection of latex pieces explores ways in and out of a body, of a space, & of a psychic state. It includes casts of the artist’s navel & nipple. It was created during the height of COVID lockdown, while craving skin to skin contact & escapism.
Ossifications
This disparate and immersive installation explores architectural abstraction and memory held within spaces. These sculptures are ghosts as well as pendulums, keepers of time and memory. They are bulging reminders that history and human experience cannot be plastered or painted over.
First Dress
I often ask myself whether femininity is ingrained like skin, or performed like the clothes we wear, like a dress. This piece imagines that there is a secret layer under our skin that holds the answer, like our fascia is a text that can never be read.
Future Fossils
This series of memetic & fabricated historical documents explore the earth and the body as a database amid an impending apocalypse. The pieces are an attempt to remember small moments and memorialize the trans body, which has historically been left out of archive.
I Almost Became an Angel
This levitating sculpture is a celebration of the body I still have, one that could have easily ceased to exist, one that with all its pain and failures still wakes up with me every morning, lifting me up amid immaterial legislation and very material violence.
About the artist: Ralph Skunkie Davis is a transdisiplinary transgender artist whose sculptures act as liberatory tools, complicating the perception of non normative bodies in space through biomimicry, installation, prosthesis, and body modification.
You can use this software when you
feel tired. When you’re holding yourself
up by your elbows. When the thoughts
come and go like the sea receding
before a tsunami. When you really
should be laying down. There will be
errors. Yours and ours. And it is your
responsibility to correct them. For
example: When you dictate
gesticulating we might hear testicular
eating. It is unclear what is the meaning
of this? At other times, you may want to
talk about inspiration ****. How disabled
people don’t always overcome their
difficulties. Don’t always get medals.
Just sometimes get through the night.
But the software will ensure that your
darkest thoughts are filtered. You
cannot say ****. You cannot say ****.
You cannot say ****. Don’t say ****
when the pain gets too bad. We will
censor you.
About the author: Samantha is a PhD Creative Writing Candidate at University of Plymouth. Her work explores chronic illness through autoethnographic poetry. Her work has been published in Arc, Acumen, The Storms Journal and Cephalopress.
Find her on Twitter/X.
Driving on Fumes Across the Social Divide
If you’ve ever stood holding
a maxed-out credit card
in hand
after midnight
in February
at a multi-pump gas station
in Rawlins, Wyoming
and realized that you
had finally arrived
in a place
clearly not created for
nor hospitable to
human life,
you may have also
come to understand
how little your failures matter
and how the gleaming steel
that surrounds you
and the toxic fumes
you breathe
will likely endure long after
your own
small difficulty
is or isn’t resolved
and that you must
simply drive on
for as long as you possibly can.
Health Care in America
I didn’t have insurance
but couldn’t stop
the bleeding,
so a young
Urgent Care physician,
who’d recently
arrived from Bangladesh,
sewed up my forearm
without bothering
with the paperwork,
and later, when I couldn’t
afford a follow-up visit,
I found myself a pair
of needle-nosed pliers
to pull out stitches
one by one, dapping the wound
(I’d cut his knots too soon)
with the tail
of my work shirt
as a clear white fluid oozed
from the holes
those stitches left.
About the author: Michael Colonnese is the author of Sex and Death, I Suppose, a hard-boiled mystery novel, and of two prize-winning poetry collections, Temporary Agency and Double Feature.
He lives in the mountains of western North Carolina, near Asheville.
Speak Up
From Tracy: Witnessing the unrest in my country, I have created a series of three powerful protest art pieces that display the essence of the #OccupyJulorbiHouse protest and the struggle for a voice in Ghana, following the declining costs of living and the apathy of the government towards the people's struggles.
Sika No Ashe
As an artist, I felt compelled to create these artworks to call out the media's selective reporting and to give a voice to the unheard—through “Aftermath of Our Rise,” as well as present the resistance and solidarity of Ghanaian youth to let themselves be seen in “Speak Up.” “Sika No Ashe” sheds light on the fleeting value of the money in the average Ghanaian's pocket, and how cash seems to fly right out of us with every purchase.
Aftermath of Our Rise
They are a visual representation of the frustration and determination of the people to be heard and acknowledged.
About the artist: Tracy Arthur, popularly known in the creative world as Slimm, is a 21-year-old self-taught digital artist based in Accra, Ghana. She is currently pursuing a business degree at the University of Ghana, using time off from studies to hone her art skills. Deeply rooted in her cultural heritage, Slimm has a profound love for her roots and seeks to make a positive impact in her community through the art she creates. She explores her creative side through art, skillfully combining Ghanaian culture with contemporary elements in her works. Her artistic journey has centered around the exploration and reinterpretation of tradition to resonate with modern audiences. Slimm's diverse portfolio showcases captivating book cover illustrations of published novels and character art, demonstrating her talent and distinct artistic style.
Check out Tracy’s portfolio, and connect with her on Instagram and Twitter/X.
Cellblock B 5:15 a.m.
What does one pray for…a cooler cell…more digestible food…longer hours of light…a cellmate? Does one pray that the man with fat hands, cold eyes, and a short stubble of hair not return to my cell today, not pull me out for questioning, doesn’t insist I am who he thinks I am—when I am not?
Did I carry that bomb? you ask. Actually, I tell you, it was a vest the authorities insisted I was wearing, a vest that was meant to explode and kill me as well as all those around me. Besides, what does it matter if I say yes, I carried it, or if I say no? Your people have chosen to believe that we are all terrorists. Your interrogators believe nothing I have said.
It matters, you say, pen in hand, because you cannot record me having bribed your way inside.
Do you mind? I ask gently. It is time for me to pray.
As you step out of the cell, you turn toward me. In your eyes, I see fatigue and frustration but also hope, and I wonder if perhaps you are what you say you are: a journalist who wants the real story about this place and about me to tell the world.
I lay out my blanket, bow, and pray that we will overcome the need for violence one day, that the spirit of compassion and peace will envelop this world and seal the cracks humans have created, returning us to wholeness. I lift my blanket, fold it into a neat square, and place it at the end of my cot, which takes up one entire wall of my cell. There is a sink and a toilet as well. I am one of the lucky ones. The vest they said I was wearing did not go off. I am not accused of murdering anyone, only planning to do so, so I have a toilet, sink, and cot. I have heard that others have nothing, just a concrete slab and four walls. Perhaps this is untrue, propaganda from others who are incarcerated, I really don’t know.
When you return that night, I apologize for my stubbornness. I will try to give you the story as I experienced it.
I was in the market they speak of because I was in that market every day. I sell cloth, or I used to sell cloth when people had lives there, when the streets were safe, and there was money to spend. Yes, I know our leader was a brutal man and that he murdered thousands, maybe tens of thousands, but our city had peace for many years, and our market flourished, and I sold cloth. Then your soldiers came and told us they were bringing the flag of freedom. Still, all of these years later, the market is not safe; bombs go off, guns are fired. There is neither freedom nor peace.
Why, you ask, was I in the market that particular day? I repeat, I was in that market every day, for where else would I go? I had gone there every morning for thirty years. My father sold cloth. My grandfather sold cloth, and so I sold cloth as well, lovely fabrics that traveled from the villages to the city, woven and embroidered, to be sewn into long shirts for men and dresses for women, long skirts that flowed around their legs when they danced. Yes, we do dance. Once we danced in joy. Not anymore. Fanatics and war. Now women cannot be seen on the streets without an escort. Now women get blown up by terrorist bombs. My daughter, did I tell you I had a daughter? Ah, I see from your expression that you already know this. Yes, I understand they believe that she was my motive to hurt people, but how is my one-legged daughter a reason to create more one-legged daughters? I do not understand this logic.
And so, you ask me again, and I say, No, I did not wear the dropped vest found near my stall in the market. No, I had no desire to harm anyone, let alone the people who bought my cloth, but I have said this before, and no one has believed me because we are all the same to them. You think we all look alike, and what does it matter if they pick up the wrong man as long as he looks right, is in the right place, lives in the right city, the right country—the country of terrorists? But your actions helped create such a country, so perhaps you should jail your politicians and generals. Not an innocent cloth seller.
How long have I been detained? I have been here for four years, two months, nine days, and I will be here until they let me go. Or not. That is how destiny works. I am just a tiny speck in the enormous fate of the world.
Thank you, you say, promising to print my story in your magazine.
I wish you a safe journey home.
Cellblock B 10:00 p.m.
I unfold my blanket and touch my head to the ground. I pray for the innocent children of this world, and then I go to sleep.
About the author: Vati loves nothing more than to write and has been writing in some form most of her life. Though currently bedridden, her imagination travels daily. She has a finished novel for which she is trying to find a home and is working on a collection of flash. She was a founding editor and writer for Stone Walls II journal and is a longtime member of Straw Dog Writers Guild. Her novella was published in Scarlet Leaf Review.
Contact her at vatisreiberg@gmail.com
After Fady Joudah
I wouldn’t hurt a canary
that had nested in the garden’s shady nook.
I waited till Autumn
until it flew away of its own will.
My father said, “If you tear down the nest,
it will know this isn’t a place
it can call home.”
I said, “Is that how people become refugees?”
About the author: Oladosu Michael Emerald (he/him) is an art editor at Surging Tide magazine, a poet, a writer, a digital/musical/visual artist, a photographer, a footballer, a boxer, and a political scientist.
He is the author of the self-help book A Step Beyond Failure, published in 2020.
His works have been published or are forthcoming in many magazines and have won numerous awards in writing and art; a few to mention: Better Than Starbucks, Flash Frog, Icefloe Press, Undivided, Feral, Lyra, Afrocritik, Providus Bank Anthology alongside Professor Wole Soyinka, Oriire, Necro, Ev0ke, shortlisted in Paradise Gate poetry contest (top ten), shortlisted in the AprilCentaur essay competition, Kalahari Review, Con-scio, Madness Muse Press, Cultural Daily, Spill Word Web, Paper Lantern Lit, The Maul Magazine, Zoetic, Pinch Journal, penumbric, Motheaten Magazine, Native Skin, Nymph, Naija Reader's Buffet, Terror House Magazine, Spring Word Web, Third Estate Art magazine, thehearth magazine, kalonipa, and elsewhere.
He's a man who does not know how to give up, and art chose him before he existed.
“do what you can for a bag”
From GRVNGE LESTAT: This is a good example of wage survival and living paycheck to paycheck having to do what you can to make ends meat (pun).
Forgotten Call
The justice system fails once again.
Spare souls? Anyone?
Not only feeling like a void in my own body, but not being able to love or be loved for it.
About the artist: Haley King, also known by their artist name GRVNGE LESTAT, is a Chicago-based LGBTQ+ mixed media artist who primary uses illustrative methods and combines that with their photography in an effort to create their artistic world of liminal spaces and hauntingly provoking atmosphere in their pieces.
See more of their work on Instagram.
Did heaven look on,
And would not take their part?
MacDuff in Macbeth, Act IV, Scene 3
Grandmother, from your bones
nearly a century deep in Dakota’s
frozen plains, call out to deeper
bones across the ocean and time;
rouse the flesh who gave your flesh,
the voices who taught you Хліб
and Хлеб, brot and Chleb, bread
on many tongues, but still the same
wheat born from the earth, the same
water cascading down the mountains.
Your ancestors, the tiny bit of you
that still lies in your homeland,
shudder beneath the rumblings
of the frightened bear, the flash
of fire, the demolishment of words
and the spirit they carry. Speak
from your bones, grandmother,
speak to the older ones
in the older dirt, tell them
the hour of darkness has come,
the blessed hour of woe,
command them to forego vague
promises and seek revenge,
tell them you would never
have left Kalush if hatred
and hunger and love had not
conspired, an unholy troika
that compelled you to flee,
to trek and sail and burrow
across the new world to find
a husband and land and seven
children, the last one who tore
you so your life was lowered
so soon; tell them, Grandmother,
that you are sorry, you are
sorry for what you did and how
it hurt, sorry for the betrayal
that freedom demands, sorry
for the lack of flowers on
their graves, tell them you repent
but tell them, sweet mother
of my father, to rise up,
to speak, to walk over broken
toys and bottles of defiance,
and fight, struggle, defend,
defy this land you loved,
this country in flames, this
world that cannot stop killing.
About the author: I am the author of the poetry collections The Devouring Land (Main Street Rag Publishing) and Quitting Time (Atmosphere Press) and Breathing in Minneapolis (Finishing Line Press). I’ve published poems and prose in over 85 journals, including Crannog, Ilanot Review, North Dakota Quarterly, Water-Stone Review and Lunch Ticket. Nominated three times for a Pushcart Prize and won awards from the Loft Literary Center and MN State Arts Board. My novellas Searching and Returning were serialized in 33 issues of The Alley News. I am the founding editor of The Phoenix of Phillips, a literary journal by and for the most diverse community in Minneapolis. Find me on my website.
It starts with cake in the workroom, white with bright pink frosting, dripping in sugar and high fructose corn syrup.
I stare at the frosting. I can already feel the inevitable stomachache. It’s probably left over from a kid’s birthday celebration, one of the over-involved parents that wanted to one-up every other kid’s parents.
As I cut myself a slice on my break, I push down the nagging feeling of deja vu. The frosting, the writing on top, everything even including how much is left feels like it’s been taken directly from the dream I had last night.
Still, it’s cake, kid-wrangling is exhausting, and I haven’t slept in weeks. I need this.
So, I eat as much as I can in five minutes, then rush to the bathroom. I only have seven minutes before I need to pick my kids up from Art, and I know Mrs. Chang will glare at me if I’m late.
#
Whenever I tell people I’m an elementary school teacher, they look at me like I told them their dog had died. Then, if they’re the touchy type, they put a hand on my shoulder as though that single act will revitalize my zombie-like state and bring back the passion I’m supposed to have. Or, if they’re a parent, they ask if I provide after school tutoring, for a discounted rate of course.
Truth be told though, I don’t have time to hate it or love it for that matter. I only have time to grade, teach, eat, and sometimes sleep.
In fact, grading is the only time I can actually relax. I turn on HGTV and watch a couple or sibling pair renovate a house into something grandiose and beautiful.
In many ways, I like to imagine I’m the house. Full of beauty, only if someone took a sledgehammer to my walls.
I yawn and stamp the third test with “You’re Out of This World.” I’ve debated switching to online tests in the past and this time is no different. Twenty-seven to go, and even though I have a key, it doesn’t make the process any faster. But, having to help 30 third graders navigate taking a test online will be more work than grading paper copies in my own time.
I’m not sure when I fall asleep, but when I wake up, I’ve drooled over Shanni K’s second page, and the family on TV is gasping in joy at their new home. It has a built-in pool on the second floor—something I know will cause water damage in the long run but looks gorgeous now—and a miniature basketball court in one of the kid’s rooms. I chuckle and wipe drool off my face. That kid will be interested in basketball for two more years, maybe, then he’ll move on to something else. It’s how kids are.
In the back of my head, I feel a fuzzy image of my dream: the Property Brothers giving me an exam on architecture in my classroom, except for every question I get wrong, they rip off a motivational poster or ram a stapler into the wall. By the end, my classroom is barely recognizable.
I shake my head and turn off the screen, telling myself that this will be the last time I watch a show while grading, but I know I am just lying to myself. Time grading in front of the TV is the only moment I have fake relaxation. The only time I can convince myself I like this job as much as I did when I started.
It’s gotten dark, so I reach over to the lamp by the couch and flick it on. That’s when I notice, on top of my stack of done tests, one that has my name on it. I drop the pen in my hand in shock. Then shake my head and back up until I hit the lamp. It falls over and the plug yanks out, covering the room in darkness.
I blink a couple times, take a few deep breaths, and plug the lamp back in.
The test is still there, my name staring at me from the shadows that surround it.
I flip it over and go to bed. I must still be dreaming.
#
The test is still there that morning, ink matching the pen that has rolled under the couch. I rub my head, pushing away dreams of pulling out the teeth of my students.
But, after last night with the test, I want to be sure. So, I spend the morning searching for the teeth under the couch, pillows, and anywhere I can think of until I realize I’m running late and should’ve left five minutes ago.
Maybe I need to stay home to sort this out, but I can’t. I have sick days, but I have no time to write sub plans, nor deal with the chaos that always comes afterward when I learn my kids are inevitably the worst they’ve ever been with the sub.
So, despite my better judgment, I grab my keys and head to school.
When I’m there, seven students tell me they lost a tooth last night, but the tooth itself disappeared so they have nothing to put under their pillow.
I let them draw paper smiles during morning announcements. It gives me time to stop my brain from spinning. Then, while they’re at recess, I frantically search my classroom for teeth.
Nothing.
#
“I’m worried about you, April,” Molly says after the kids leave for lunch and recess. She is my favorite person on our grade-level team, and I often find myself calling for her help when I have a particularly tough child. Every now and then I wonder if she’d ever want to do something outside of school, but finding the time for even just myself is hard enough.
When she’d called me, she laughed about how all my students lost their teeth on the same day and how we should make it a national holiday. I’d laughed with her so I didn’t have to think about how all my dreams had come true.
But when she actually sees me though, her entire demeanor changes. Not that she says anything until we are at least fifteen minutes into our independent work.
“I’m fine,” I respond. Still, I open each essay to check that there isn’t anything strange hidden beneath the staples. The dream connections are just coincidences. Nothing other than bad occurrences that happen to line up, at least that’s what I tell myself.
In my five years of teaching, I’ve never written on a test without knowing, nor have I had a large group of my kids lose their teeth on the same day.
Maybe I should tell the parents so that if anything else happens, they’re prepared.
I sigh and concentrate on filing. Me going crazy is one thing, but my kids’ parents knowing that I am crazy is an entirely different mess that I can’t deal with right now.
“You’re fine? Really? Because I just watched you file all the math tests under ELA.”
I look down at the assignment, and sure enough, at the top is Topic 7: Fractions and Decimals. I put the papers down.
“Hey, Molly, do you ever, you know… do things from your dreams ever slip out?”
She laughs, her smile filling the room. “No, if it did, I’d have a million dollars, a wife, and my mom would come back from her grave to apologize to me.”
I bite my lip and look back at the tests. Molly sighs. She pats my shoulder and it doesn’t feel strange like it does when others do it. In fact, it feels reassuring.
Must be her teacher magic.
“You know, you’re doing okay. It’s fine to take a break every now and then.”
I shake my head and continue filing, this time in the right section. “No, no. I don’t have time for that.”
“Then make time.” She leans back in her chair and stretches. We fall silent as we focus on our own grading and filing. And, just as I am about to ask her how she survives all this mess—not just the academic teaching, but the pressure of making sure she helps raise children that are kind and loving and open to more than the generation before them—, the lunch bell rings and thirty pairs of trampling feet start running toward my classroom. Molly gives me a hug and leaves.
She smells like lemons and peppermint. I try to keep the feeling in my room, but as soon as the kids open the door, it escapes.
#
That night at the pharmacy, I search for medications that provide a deep, dreamless sleep. I’m too tired to care which one, so I buy the brightly colored bottle with small print on the back.
After dinner and some planning, I swallow two pills with a glass of water and get ready for bed. I try to think about only good things, and hope that the medicine does its magic instead of my dreams.
Instead, I have nightmares. And, when I wake up, they don’t stop.
“God, I’ve been worried. Where are you?” Molly says when I groggily answer my phone. I’m more tired than when I went to bed. Ten phone calls from the school pop up in my notifications from earlier in the day.
“In bed?” I say then look at the time. “Shit.” I slept through my alarms.
“Yeah. Don’t worry, Mrs. Sanchez is subbing.”
That, in some way, makes me more worried. Danielle Sanchez was always a little bit more of a dictator when it comes to subbing. I get out of bed and head to the bathroom to brush my teeth.
“I’ll try to get there as soon as I—”
“I would stay home.”
I stop walking. Something about what she says sounds familiar. The nightmare is a little fuzzy, but I still remember important details. The dread, the fright, the feeling that my choices were being questioned.
“It’s the parents,” she says. “They… just… maybe don’t check your email today. And know that I’m okay.”
She hangs up before I can ask anything else, ask if they’re doing what they did in my dreams.
I try not to check my email. Try to do everything else.
I last about fifteen minutes.
Thousands of messages have flooded my inbox since I last checked it ten hours ago. Emails first from parents, then the principal. I feel sick to my stomach as I skim through message after message.
Ms. Springer, I’m writing to ask you who you love. We realize you are single, but with the recent events, we want to be sure that you will never engage in a romance with anyone other than a male…
Ms. Springer, last night my son was reading a book he said was recommended by you, but upon further investigation, I noticed the book has some horrendous content not suitable for third graders, such as relations between the same gender. I hope you know that by introducing my son to such topics you are forcing him to be…
Ms. Springer, I’m writing to inform you that I will be taking my daughter out of your classroom immediately, pending investigation. As part of the third-grade team, you are interacting with…
Dear Staff, I hope you are doing well in these pressing times. The admin team and I are doing everything we can to address the parental concerns that were brought up last night and this morning. The district will be having a meeting today and will inform you of any updates at the next staff meeting. Thank you for your consideration.
I put the phone down, run to the toilet, and throw up.
#
I call Molly twelve times before she picks up. By then I’m pacing while my head spirals. I dreamt this. I made this happen. I forced my nightmare into this world.
“April,” Molly says. She sounds tired, but relieved. If I timed it right, she just started her lunch break.
“I…” I don’t know what to say, once I start. Even apologizing wouldn’t solve anything, assuming she believes me in the first place. While improbable, crazy parents isn’t impossible. There are always HMPs to deal with, no matter how wonderful your class is.
“I know, I just, I checked the emails. I’m sorry. Are you okay?” I ask. There is a pause where my brain imagines a parent has come in and is hurting her.
I try to shake away the image, to clear myself of the possibility so that it doesn’t happen in real life. I don’t know how far the magic goes, and if the coincidences are beyond just my dreams.
“No,” she says. “I’m about to have a mental breakdown. But I can’t do anything else, and I want to be a teacher, so here I am.”
“I know,” I say. She is the perfect teacher, the one that truly loves her work and wakes up excited to go help kids learn; the one with the motivational posters, the handmade organization system, and a bright smile.
And if I keep working with her, my brain will keep dreaming up worse and worse situations, even if I don’t want it to. Situations that will hurt her, and in turn hurt her kids and those around her. Situations that will give neither of us a good night’s rest.
And, more than anything at this point, I need a break.
“I think I’m going to quit,” I whisper to her.
“No,” Molly says so quickly I’m not sure I heard her.
“What?”
“No. You deserve to be here. You can’t back down just because of some parents. There are always crazy ones and it’ll blow over. I know it.”
I don’t believe her. It only got worse in my dreams, ended in visions I never want to see in real life. “You’re an amazing teacher, Molly. I… I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“But the kids deserve—”
“They deserve you. And, I know it doesn’t make sense, but to save them, I have to quit.”
The line is quiet other than Molly’s shaky breathing.
“Okay,” she finally says with a sigh. The acknowledgment that she accepts my choices, just like how I accept hers. “I guess I’ll see you around then.” She hangs up.
I flop down on my bed, draft a quick message to the principal that I won’t be returning next year, and take a nap.
And, for once, I don’t dream.
About the author: Camden Rose is a queer author who loves seeking out magic beneath the everyday world. She can often be found at the ocean's edge taking notes on the local mermaid population. She lives in the Pacific Northwest with her partner, black cat, and collection of books and board games. You can find her on her website, Twitter/X, Bluesky, and Mastodon.
Artist's Statement: In this silkscreen piece, I convey the perseverance of communication throughout LGBTQ history. Included in this 18x24" print are scans of personal ads from several 1993 Advocate magazines, as well as images personally taken from displayed documents at the Gerber/Hart LGBTQ Museum & Archives in Chicago.
The resilience of the LGBTQ community through historical tragedy and uncertainty is a subject that is often bypassed in cultural discussion. These personal ads and magazine articles tell stories that may have never been spoken aloud. Not only do they capture a longing for community, but also a triumph in the pursuit of such. As a trans person myself, I feel personally connected to each and every one of these pieces of history. The intricacy and complexity of the composition expresses the depth of this communication through the '90s and beyond, implying a much longer progression backwards in time. Within the intentional over- and under-flooding of the ink through silkscreen lies a defiance to the very practicum itself. It challenges the conventional neat, clear-cut silkscreen ideal, much how the personal ads in the piece challenge conventional cisheterosexual norms.
About the artist: August Velez Miller (they/he) is a Chicago-based multimedia artist specializing in printmaking and graphic design. Focusing on color and composition allows him to create work that is both attractive and impactful. August graduated from Columbia College Chicago in December of 2022 with a BA in Animation, and currently lives on the north side of Chicago with his partner, cat, and dog (definitely a full house). He works primarily in traditional silkscreen print, the Adobe Suite, and Procreate. You can find August on his semi-personal Instagram or via his website.
Our friends’ nine-year-old daughter asked
my wife the other day, Is hoe a bad word?
In these past few years we kinda blended
our families. To the children we’re Auntie
and Uncle. We have bonds beyond blood,
and certain privileges we can enjoy, like
taking the kids home after sleepovers.
So these questions arise from time to time:
cultural norms, biology, sometimes psychology,
plus spelling rules, homophones, semantics.
Lessons a native speaker can explain
better than one’s own parents,
especially if there’s a whiff of impropriety.
A younger sister, six-year-old Dominique,
asked her parent: Mama, am I black?
Her mama explained the facts to her,
apparently insufficiently, maybe
just too black and white.
So the little one countered,
I’ll ask Auntie.
As with most things though,
context matters.
Sometimes it’s other kids
on the playground; sometimes
it’s the music that filters through;
it’s almost always the daily news
from anywhere, really.
Kids pick things up, even at six.
Why do you ask, Dominique?
And from her soft sweet lips
the small hushed voice replies,
Because I don’t want to die.
About the author: Rob is a retired English teacher. He must have absorbed his stylistic leanings from so many years of exposure, though his interest in dabbling with words has always been with him. He currently edits the OLLI (senior college) arts and literature journal at the University of Southern Maine, and facilitates a poetry workshop there, as well. He’s been published in Sky Island Journal, The Blue Mountain Review, Eunoia Review, Renaissance Review and others, as well as in the anthology A Dangerous New World: Maine Voices on the Climate Crisis. His first book of poems and essays, What Passes For a Life, is forthcoming from SCE Press. He lives in the present in Westbrook, Maine.
From above, the world is Eden. Fence rows stretch straight as Ishmael’s arrows. Corn and bean fields stitch a Jacob’s Ladder quilt. A cloud of dust fine as what God molded into man rises behind a horse and buggy traversing a dirt road.
As I bank the Curtiss over Horace Garrison’s farm, horses trot across a sun-baked field, disturbed by the roar of my engine. My hands squeeze the yoke as anger ruffles my feathers. My neighbor calls me boy to my face and worse behind my back, and lets his dogs chase Iris when she’s picking blackberries at the edge of our property. I suck in the hot wind caressing my face and focus on cottony clouds drifting above me. Up here I’m blessed with a view second only to God’s, and no man can take that from me.
As I approach our farm, Iris watches me from the shade of our ramshackle barn, a tiny figure in brown overalls. Since her mother died, she’s been my compass through long years in the darkness of my soul.
I descend and the ground rushes under me. The airplane’s fragile wheels are about to touch the ground when Iris steps into the sun with a woman I’ve never seen before. I lose concentration as my eyes linger on this stranger who seems so out of place on our isolated scrap of land. Forcing my attention back to the field, I’ve come in too fast and yank the yoke, tilting the biplane skyward. When I come around again, Iris has moved her hand to her heart.
The Curtiss returns to earth with a jolt strong enough to rattle my teeth. I take my boot off the throttle and roll to a stop. Iris and the visitor cross the field toward me. She’s half a head shorter than my daughter, who’s thirteen and tall for her age. The stranger’s skin is a pale cinnamon-rose and her light brown hair hangs long and loose, not in a bob like the ladies fancy these days. Her white dress clings to narrow hips. It’s hard to gauge her age or her people. She might be just shy of thirty and part Indian, or maybe not.
I climb out of the pilot’s perch, peel off my goggles, and wipe the sweat from my brow with a handkerchief. I don’t talk much to women, except the church ladies with their prim and proper ways, and my heart beats faster than a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.
Iris gives me a hug and turns to the stranger. “This is Miss Martha. She’s come to see you.”
I pull off my cap and nod but Martha’s deep, dark eyes make my mouth dry as dust. Iris jumps into the silence. “This is my papa, Ambrose Root.”
“You can fly.” Martha’s voice is a warm, lilting updraft.
Folks gape when they see a colored man defy gravity, but Martha’s casual tone makes my feat seem as common as dandelions. I glance at the Curtiss, my sweetheart. “Mr. Crenshaw, the man I bought her from, taught me.”
“You bought it from his widow,” Iris jabs.
I flash her a sharp reprove. Mr. Crenshaw was a rich white man. I’m mechanically inclined and he hired me to help take care of the Curtiss and a Wright he bought out east. When he crashed the Wright into a tree and broke his neck, his widow sold me the Curtiss for a song. She couldn’t stand the sight of it.
Iris never forgave her.
Martha steps up to the machine and strokes a delicate balloon-cloth-and-bamboo wing. She closes her eyes and her face softens as if she and the machine are having a pleasant conversation. “What’s her name?”
I scratch my head. “I don’t recall that Mr. Crenshaw ever named her.”
“Don’t even think about naming her after me,” Iris snaps.
Martha turns back to me and smooths her dress with a delicate hand. “Flying is the closest we’ll get to heaven.”
I smile awkward-like because that’s exactly how I feel.
“I want to fly with you,” Martha says.
I open my mouth to tell her how flying is dangerous and not for ladies. But before I can speak, Iris steps forward. “My papa charges two silver dollars for a ride.”
I take in Iris’s smug face. When I bought the airplane, I told her I was going to make money giving rides, but even my own daughter won’t venture up in the air with me. “I don’t have money.” Martha’s eyes meet mine with no hint of embarrassment.
Martha’s like no woman I’ve met. There’s a strange and alluring beauty to her that causes my heart to stray from its usual rhythm and my common sense to fly the coop. “I was thinking of taking her up one more time before I put her to bed.”
Iris snorts. “Who’s your next of kin, case I have to notify them?” she says to Martha.
“I’m all alone in the world.” Martha voice is finely etched with melancholy. A lump the size of a Spitzenburg apple catches in my throat. I turn my attention to the clouds drifting across a sharp July sun.
“Being up there makes you forget your troubles.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
I fetch an extra pair of goggles from the barn while my mind searches for words of comfort I can offer her. But I sense that, like me, the vault of heaven is her consolation. When I step outside again, Martha and Iris are talking low. I pause for a moment. Martha’s a wisp of a woman, nothing like my late Elizabeth, but I want to take her slender hand and get lost kissing her lips the color of ripe acorns.
“I can’t stand here all day.” Iris’s voice snaps me out of my daydream. Her hands are on her hips and she’s got a look in her eye that could scare an old hound dog. I don’t blame her for hating the Curtiss. If anything happened to me, she’d likely end up in the colored orphanage, even though she’s smart and tough enough to run the farm on her own.
I hold out the goggles to Martha but she shakes her head. “I don’t need them.”
“Lot of wind up there.”
“I know.” Her lips turn up slightly, as if I was explaining that air’s for breathing. I slip the glasses into my overall pocket. The three of us turn the plane around so it faces westward toward the sun. I climb into the pilot’s seat and offer my rough paw to help Martha up to the passenger chair beside me. Her delicate fingers remind me of the spiderweb of control wires that stretch across the fuselage and wings.
“I’ve got ham hocks simmering so you best not be long,” Iris calls to me.
I flash her a grin and check the aileron, the stabilizer trim, and the canard. Iris slips on a pair of ragged work gloves and walks slowly to the machine’s tail. She stands behind the pusher and turns the propeller slowly clockwise.
“Propped,” Iris calls out.
“Contact!” I reply.
The airplane shakes as she gives the propeller a hard yank, once, twice, until the engine roars to life. She hurries out of the way.
I blow her a kiss and press my boot to the throttle. As we bounce across the dirt, Martha’s hair blows wild and she pushes it from her face. We pick up speed and I pull back on the yoke. The ride immediately smooths as we take flight.
The first time Mr. Crenshaw took off with me in the passenger seat, I prayed I wouldn’t lose my lunch. But as we gain altitude and land recedes, Martha’s face is calm, like we were taking a slow buggy ride.
“How you doing?” I shout to Martha over the engine’s roar.
She cocks her head and gazes at me sideways. My heart swells bigger than a hot air balloon at her gentle smile. “Thank you,” she replies.
We soar above the trees bordering my land. A flock of starlings floats on the wind to our right. Martha watches them, her face awash in longing. I’m looking at her with the same desire. I nod toward the birds. “I wonder what they think, seeing us up here?”
“That you don’t belong.”
I’m used to white folks judging a colored man with property and a good name. But I sense no rancor in Martha’s tone. I want to learn more about where she comes from and why she’s here. When we land, I’ll invite her to supper so Iris and me can get to know her better.
A prickle of worry tickles the back of my neck to remind me I’m probably running low on fuel. I should turn back but I let this moment linger. I’m in no hurry to be anywhere but with this woman.
Common sense finally prevails and I lean right to bank back to our farm. The weathered barn appears. Iris has returned to its shade. The Curtiss flirts with the ground before we touch Earth again. I jump out and offer Martha my hand. Our eyes meet as she steps to the earth. I open my mouth to extend a supper invitation but my words float away before I can catch them.
“You going to stand there till midnight or help me roll your contraption into the barn?” Iris says as she strides toward us.
“Sorry,” I say to Martha. “I’ll be right back.”
She smiles demurely, and I hurry to one of the airplane’s wings. Iris pushes from the other side and together we roll the machine into its nest.
“I’m going to invite Miss Martha to supper,” I tell Iris.
She frowns but says nothing. I step back outside. The sun is settling toward the horizon. My eyes sweep the field and farmyard.
Martha is gone.
###
Iris places a bowl in front of me. I’ve got no appetite and listlessly stir the thick soup with my spoon.
“She was a strange one,” Iris says as she settles across from me. Her dark, intelligent eyes remind me of her mother.
I wrinkle my brow as my mind circles. “Where did she disappear to? It’s five miles to town and she didn’t have a horse or conveyance.”
Iris balances ham and beans on her spoon. “It’s just as well she’s gone.”
“What’s got your knickers in a twist?” I ask, though I already know. Iris was six when her mama died. Elizabeth was practically a ghost by the end, swallowed by our big feather bed. It’s been just me and her since, and we’ve both gotten used to it.
Iris takes her time chewing before she answers. “There’s a sadness about Martha, like she’s carrying the weight of the heavens on her shoulders.”
I reach across our rough oak table and take Iris’s hand. “Maybe she’s lost someone like we did.”
Iris focuses on her supper. “I just don’t want you to get hurt. You’ve been through enough pain.”
I break off a chunk of crusty bread from the loaf between us. She rarely speaks of it, but I know the same sorrow lies deep in Iris’s heart. “Pain is a part of living. The good Lord requires us to persevere.”
###
I don’t want to hold onto a hope that might never manifest so I bury myself in farm work and tinker with the Curtiss’ engine. But my mind is continually pulled to Martha’s slim figure and dark eyes. I pause my work and look for her, not on the dirt road that fronts our farm, but in the sapphire sky because that’s where she seemed most at home.
Two days later, a knock brings me to our front door. Martha’s face is indistinct through the screen and for a moment I believe she’s a beautiful dream.
“I’ve come for another flight,” she says when I open the door.
“I’ll get my hat and boots.” My feet seem to float over our hooked rug as I hurry to dress.
###
The next weeks passed in a fog of delight and misery. Martha appeared every few days, always in the same white dress. Her sweet smile encouraged me to fly higher and farther than I’d ever dared. The Curtiss is a temperamental lady and something’s as likely to break as not. Thankfully, Iris doesn’t know the risks I took. She grudgingly accepted Martha’s presence and her papa walking around in a sweet daze.
As we floated above the earth, Martha’s words were few and laced with sadness and loss. She spoke of the earth’s beauty and the joy of being untethered from it. I feared to press her with questions and break my bubble of contentment. Her presence was enough to release joy that had been shackled for too long.
###
But now I stand before the closed barn door, unable to bear even looking at my Curtiss. It’s been twenty-three days since I last cherished Martha’s company. I ride into town and ask guarded questions of Mr. Evers, the white grocer, and my friend Ollie who works in the stockroom at the five-and-dime. Nobody’s laid eyes on her. When I return home, I sit on the front porch whittling a stick as my mind chews on the mystery of Martha.
Iris cooks our meals and tends to the house and the chickens. She encourages me to take the Curtiss up, even offering to join me. Worry creases her brow when I shake my head. I know she’s thinking I’m lost in that shadowed land again because I fear the same.
###
One morning a few days shy of September I lead our old mare Gwen into the barn and am startled to find Martha standing next to the Curtiss, her perfect features alight in the gloom. “Martha!” I rush forward to embrace her but stop short. She’s thinner and paler, and her eyes have lost some of their intensity.
She steps into the narrow slit of sunlight streaming into the barn and my heart takes flight. Gwen dips her head to accept Martha’s touch and I wish I was a horse. “I don’t have much time.” Her words are barely a whisper.
Fear courses through me. “Are you ill? There’s a colored doctor in town. You don’t have to worry about the money.”
Her eyes are fixed on the Curtiss and I’m not sure if she even heard me. “I want to fly your machine.”
I shake my head. ”Flying an airplane isn’t for a lady or for anyone who ain’t a bit crazy.” Her face is set. “I was born to fly, not you, Ambrose Root. I want to take you somewhere.”
I scratch my head. For the first time, I fear she might be off her trolley. “You know I’ll take you anywhere.”
“You’ve given me something I thought I would never experience again. Please do this one last thing for me.”
I gaze at the dust-covered floor, unable to refuse this woman. Her fingers flit across the back of my hand. “Trust me.”
My heart lurches like a slipped gear. “Just tell me what’s wrong.”
Her eyes flash with dark intensity. “We used to be innumerable, turning the sky storm black. But now I’m the last and I need to do this for the others who are already gone.” I don’t understand her words but the disconsolateness in her voice causes tears to flow down my cheeks. I haven’t cried since my Elizabeth died. At this moment, I’d stop the world on its axis for Martha.
Together we open the barn doors wide to embrace the glorious late summer morning and push the Curtiss into the sticky Ohio air. I don my goggles and Martha climbs into the pilot’s seat. I sit next to her and explain the throttle pedal, how the wheel controls pitch and yaw, and how to use the shoulder yoke to bank the airplane.
She nods and asks no questions. Fear hangs tight in my gut as I climb out and walk to the back of the plane. Falling in love is one thing, but dying with this woman who’s got me spellbound isn’t how I want this story to end. But deep in my heart, I trust Martha. It’s the same blind faith that allowed me to climb into the Curtiss the first time I flew with Mr. Crenshaw. Something so heavy shouldn’t defy the gravity that holds us to this plain. Flying made me believe in miracles and Martha is nothing short of one.
I turn the propeller a couple of revolutions then grip the blade above my head and rotate the prop until I feel compression. I reach up again to the highest blade as I shift my weight away from the arc of the prop.
Then I mutter a brief prayer.
“Propped!” I shout.
“Contact,” Martha calls back.
I pull down hard. The engine never starts on the first try but this time it roars to life immediately. The airplane rolls forward and I run around the wing to jump into my seat. Martha offers me a contented smile that makes my heart soar.
As the wheels lose contact with the ground, my fear falls away. Martha tilts the machine upward, banking smoothly so we’re heading east towards a hazy horizon. We sail over Garrison’s farm but I don’t give him a second thought. It’s been a long time since I was this happy, not since the day Iris was born.
Martha flies over farms and roads I don’t recognize. I’ve never taken the Curtiss this far from home and my palms are sticky with sweat. “We should turn around,” I say.
“We’re almost there.”
We cross a meandering stream and thick woods. A lush green pasture lies beyond them. Martha begins to descend. There’s no farm or house in sight, but I’m still nervous. “I don’t know if we should land here. We don’t know who this land belongs to.”
“No creature owns the land or the sky, Ambrose. You should know that.”
A red-and-white checked square jumps out against the bottle-green landscape. It’s a blanket spread in the middle of the field. A wicker basket waits at its center but there’s no picnickers nearby.
I grip the sides of my seat. Take-offs and landings are the most dangerous moments of piloting an airplane. “Take her in gently. Pull back on the wheel as you let off on the throttle.”
“I know, Ambrose.”
Martha sets the airplane down zephyr-like and I laugh with joy and relief. “I couldn’t have made a better landing myself.”
Martha gives me a sideways look with impenetrable eyes. “Let’s eat.”
She takes my hand and tingles of heat lightning shoot through my body. Birds sing their joy in the bordering woods. I scan the field for picnickers.
“You don’t need to be afraid,” Martha says.
I scratch my head in confusion. “But how’d the basket get here, and how do you get out to our farm for that matter? I’ve never seen any conveyance bring you. You just show up like an angel.”
She turns to me and touches my arm. “I can’t explain it, Ambrose. I’m surrounded by wire, but when I close my eyes, I can go anywhere I please.”
“But where do you come from, and who’s keeping you prisoner?”
She rises on tip-toes to press her lips to mine. Questions flee from my mind like flushed rabbits. Being with Martha is all that matters.
She lowers herself onto the blanket and stretches her bare legs across it. I sit opposite as she pulls three cloth sacks from the basket. Opening the first, she shakes shelled beechnuts into her hand. She pops the seeds in her mouth and swallows them without chewing, then holds her open palm out to me. I nibble on the seeds and she watches with amusement as I enjoy their oily texture.
The other sacks hold thistle and sorghum. I try my best not to gag as I chew and swallow. This is the strangest picnic I’ve ever attended, but I’d rather be here with Martha than eating pepperpot on Christmas Day.
“Martha, I don’t know who you are or where you come from, but I’m so blessed to have you here.”
She offers a melancholy smile. “I knew a man who could fly would understand me better than the others. I’m sorry we have such a short time together.”
I lean forward and grasp her hand. “If you’re sick, there’s got to be something I can do. Just tell me what ails you.”
“You can’t take away my pain, but you can do one more thing for me.”
My whole body courses with the desire to make things right for her. “Anything.”
Martha rises and turns her back to me, perching on two delicate bare feet. “Help me with these buttons, Ambrose. I’m not used to them.”
I stand but my legs almost give way. “Martha, we don’t need to hurry things. Let’s get to know one another. I’ve never even had you to supper.”
She turns again, her face set with determination. “It has to be now. There’s not much time left.”
I shake my head slowly. “I don’t understand.”
“You don’t need to.”
Despite my pounding heart and shaking fingers, I manage to release the long row of buttons. When I’m finished, she faces me and drops the dress from her shoulders without a hint of modesty. She is completely naked. My heart and body are overwhelmed with love and desire. Her voice is an intoxicating whisper. “Get undressed, Ambrose. I need you.”
I’m in a strange dream where thought ceases and only senses remain. I lay next to her and when we kiss, the distant birds hush. I bury my face in the soft curve of her neck and breathe in the scent of oak moss and mast. Something tickles my nose and I brush away a feather.
Afterward, we lay side-by-side on our backs, naked and unashamed. I close my eyes and a wood thrush’s melodious song rises from the woods. I’m shrouded in a wave of peace that I’ve only felt while airborne.
I must have drifted off to sleep because when I awake, the birdsong has ceased and the breeze has picked up, rustling the leaves. I reach for Martha but find only empty space. The surrounding meadow is empty. Only Martha’s white dress remains, a ghostly vestige draped across the blanket.
Iris doesn’t appear when I land the airplane back at our farm. I find her at the kitchen table, an untouched cup of coffee in front of her. I can’t explain to her what happened. I’m not sure myself. Instead of my heart rejoicing at the memory of our passion, it beats with a slow, mournful rhythm.
###
Each morning I perform the same evocation, rising early, pulling on my overalls, and walking out to wait in the middle of the field. I gaze up at the dawn-kissed sky, waiting for Martha’s return, but I sense the hopelessness of my yearning. Something precious has been sucked out through a hole in the world, and what has vanished can never be replaced.
Ten days after I last saw Martha, Iris hitches Gwen to the wagon and rides into town for supplies. She returns late afternoon, her market basket on the seat beside her. A newspaper pokes out from between dried goods. She always brings one back to catch up on the outside world.
Iris climbs out of the wagon, brushes the dust from her skirt, and lifts the basket from the seat. I stand on the front porch but she doesn’t acknowledge me, as if her mind is far away. A bile of vague fear rises in my gut. My voice shakes as I ask, “Anything new in town?”
Iris doesn’t speak as she passes me the newspaper. I unroll it and stare at the front page.
Last Passenger Pigeon Dies
CINCINNATI, Sept. 2. – Martha, the last passenger pigeon, died yesterday at the Cincinnati Zoo. She was 29 years old. The zoo had offered a $1,000 prize to anyone who could find a male to preserve the species. The carcass will be shipped to the Smithsonian Institution in Washington.
The North American passenger pigeon was once ubiquitous in our skies, with flocks of thousands being observed overhead. They were slaughtered with ruthless thoughtlessness until they diminished and disappeared from our world.
The newspaper slips from my hand. A breeze kicks up and scatters the pages across the dreary landscape. Neither of us attempts to chase them down. I collapse into the front porch rocker and don’t stir for a long time.
The sky is the color of a ripe apricot when I finally rise and stumble toward the barn, my mind intent on what I must do. I yank the door open and the sunset illuminates the Curtiss waiting patiently for me. I grasp the axe hanging from a hook on the barn wall. Only a few weeks ago, I sharpened it on my whetstone until the bit could split a blade of grass. I grasp it by its throat and approach my former love. I only wish I could destroy all the airplanes in this world because no man deserves to fly.
As I raise the axe, my eyes are drawn to a small object in the pilot’s seat, wrapped in burlap. I drop the weapon and gingerly lift the bundle. My breathing ceases as I unwrap a pure white, elongated egg.
I sense Iris standing behind me. Her eyes widen at the treasure cupped in my outstretched hands.
“One of the hen’s gone broody,” she says as she takes the egg. “I can slip it under her and we’ll see what hatches.”
About the author: My fiction has appeared in Etched Onyx, Jelly Bucket, and the collection Unforgettable (Walkabout Publishing), I received a BA in Comparative Literature from Indiana University and a MA in Film from Northwestern. I’m the recipient of an Illinois Arts Council Fellowship in Screenwriting.
From Lia: “Searching for My Roots” is about a village in Bulgaria. During the Great World War, my grandparents were forced to leave their village, Akalan. They settled in Northern Greece. One hundred years later, my family and I decided to reverse the route of our ancestors. The village was almost abandoned.
The last residents
There is no bus stopping here
Black bow on a white door
Wood and wire
The old bench
About the artist: Lia Mageira is a Greek photographer who graduated from The University of West Attica. Her art has appeared in Spectaculum Magazine, Private Review Magazine, Press Pause Press Magazine, The Sunlight Press, Zoetic Press, Mud Season Review, Edge of Humanity Magazine, Orion Magazine, and others. She was the cover artist in Typehouse Magazine, Rivanna Review Josephine Quarterly Art and Poetry Journal, and Absynthe Magazine. She was also nominated for the Best of the Net 2020-2021 awards.
Find Lia on her website, Instagram, LinkedIn, Twitter, and Facebook.
How Amal's Father Died During the First Intifada [1]
He was a farmer.
He had a truck
to take our produce
to the market.
The truck was small,
a flatbed with high
wooden fencing.
When it started,
the shih-bahb [2]
used to hide
in the back
to throw stones
at the soldiers.
My father put a lock,
but they would climb in
anyway.
First
the soldiers
tore up the back
of the truck.
My father made a new one.
Then we heard them
destroying it again.
He went to ask them to stop,
and they arrested him
for being outside
during curfew.
My father went to jail
for six months.
When he returned to us,
he rebuilt
the back of the truck.
Then one night he heard
the soldiers.
Afraid to go out to be
arrested again.
We could hear them
attacking the truck.
They called my father
by his name.
They pounded
our door
and demanded
he join them.
And he stayed in.
So they set his truck
on fire.
When he saw the flames
he went.
And they shot him.
[1] from a transcript I made to document human rights abuses in the West Bank and Gaza, 1993. Amal is her real name, used with permission.
[2] bunch of young kids
Paraphrasing from a Video of a Retired Mosad Agent on Twitter that I Lost but Can’t Forget
We used to go from house to house
to show them we're here
there's a phrase for it
to sit on the back of their neck
so they can't forget.
We worked in shifts in groups
walking down the street.
We'd pick a random house.
It could be 2 in the morning
whatever pound on the door
wake everyone up. You can
imagine the scene.
Families asleep, all their things
we'd line them up, search the house
for what for nothing
just to be there, to show them
here we are.
We can touch your things
do this to you
whenever we want.
Walk out leave their mess behind
pick another house or break for lunch
whatever eight hour shifts
five days or nights a week.
This was my job like
combing for lice you divide
the head into sections
only we weren't really looking
only sitting
on their necks.
About the author: Emma Goldman-Sherman's plays have been produced on 4 continents. Abraham's Daughters, about Palestinians and American Zionists, is available as a podcast at The Parsnip Ship. Emma's poetry has been published or is forthcoming in The Bangalore Review, long con, Oberon, Queerlings, Non-Binary Review, Writers Resist & others. Their first flash fiction won 3rd prize in the new Fish Anthology in Ireland. They've received residencies at the Millay Colony, Ragdale & twice at WordBridge. They teach for the Dramatists Guild Institute and offer support to writers and artists at Substack and Brave Space.
When I was in high school, one
of ninety-nine in the Class of ’62,
the school was integrated,
but the colored boys and girls
still danced at one end of the gym
while their fathers drank at the one bar
that had end stools for them
and their mothers were “the help.”
All I wanted was to get out of town,
and I did. I thought I’d left it behind
for good or whatever those fools had in mind
for the Alabama Side of South Jersey.
Sixty years later, a classmate sends me
a local video of black and white kids
marching right down Main Street,
past the hotel, the deli and the diner
that were segregated back then,
to the high school I hated for so long.
They wave placards: “Black Lives Matter,”
“Existence is Resistance,”
and “Defund the Police.”
Most of them are so young.
I hope they stay in town.
About the author: I’m a patent attorney/poet who has a biotech PhD and a JD from the University of Wisconsin – Madison. At my undergrad school, I took a creative writing class from A.R. Ammons and started writing poetry, just as Viet Nam was heating up. I co-founded Abraxas Press and WORT-FM in Madison. I have authored six collections of my poetry and received fellowships in poetry from the NEA, the McKnight Foundation and the Wisconsin Arts Board.
Find his books on Amazon.
Of the Earth
From Zoephia: To some degree, I think all of my work is inspired by the devastating forces of capitalism.
Number One
In close relationships people are recognizable by their hands alone, but in an unsettling way we are more commonly known for what we are capable of accomplishing. Certain labor is apparent simply by glancing at a worker's hand.
Sold
When I was making the first two hands named Sold, I was thinking a lot about ableism. People are shunned and neglected, because in this cruel world we are not seen as worthy of love by simply existing.
Yeah
This dehumanization insidiously spreads to us all as we are known to acquaintances by our job titles and our potential handyness to others.
Vulnerable
