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by Lindsey Peters Berg It’s a Tuesday night and Chase IMs me. His away message is on, but he still says hey. We only talked once at school today, when he and Nick asked me and Shelly which of the eighth grade girls we think has the biggest boobs. I thought the question was gross but I wanted to talk to Chase. I said Sadie and they laughed. I don’t know why. I write hey back to Chase and he tells me my buddy icon is stupid. It’s a drawing of a green soda can underneath the words Do the Dew that I downloaded from badassbuddy.com. His icon looks very similar but has something to do with paintball. I tell him that his is dumb too, because I am trying to hold my own. We exchange jabs until I say jk and he says i know. He IMs me that his friend from another school started cutting and he’s afraid she will die. I think I love him. He asks what he can do. I don’t know the answer but I want to. I say, Sometimes I pray about things, and that helps. He says lol, but then he says thank u. We talk about his plans for next weekend and he calls his paintball gun his baby. He doesn’t ask me about my weekend plans, but I don’t care—I want to hear about him. ——— At school, I’m a child of Christ. I’m signing the cross over my Uncrustable at lunch, making the girls at my table feel like sluts if they don’t, too. Chase is across the room, huddled over the American Pie DVD case with his friends. He’s pointing out which actress he wants a handjob from. He eats an uncut Wonder Bread sandwich and Ruffles chips out of a brown paper bag every day. My mom puts an ice pack in my lunch box. We’re in the same Spanish class after recess. Chase sits in the back row with his head on his desk and I’m always taking extra notes for the kids who were sick that day. He passes me a note that says suck up. I write one back and he doesn’t even read it. I decide I’m done with him. I write Shelly a note: I hate Chase. At my locker, he grabs my shoulders from behind and pretends to push me in. I scream, then we both laugh. He’s wearing a rubber band as a bracelet. His teeth are so white for some reason. My shoulders feel hot for the whole next class period. He sharpens his pencil in the front of the room and I suck on an eraser, looking at him. He looks at me too. ——— AnGeL_AbBy7: hey XdownwitdasicknessX: sup AnGeL_AbBy7: nothin XdownwitdasicknessX: cool AnGeL_AbBy7 is typing… AnGeL_AbBy7: did u do the social studies hw XdownwitdasicknessX: why do u always talk about homewor k AnGeL_AbBy7: Cuz Im a *good* student unlike someone lol XdownwitdasicknessX: durrr congrats AnGeL_AbBy7: thank u AnGeL_AbBy7 is typing… AnGeL_AbBy7: but seriously your mom doesn’t care if you get bad grades? XdownwitdasicknessX: why do u assume I get bad grades XdownwitdasicknessX: im getting an 89 in langauge arts AnGeL_AbBy7: *language lol XdownwitdasicknessX: I don’t care AnGeL_AbBy7: and that’s not really a good grade lol XdownwitdasicknessX: whatever its stupid to care abt grades AnGeL_AbBy7 is typing… AnGeL_AbBy7: r u going to the dance on Friday XdownwitdasicknessX: ya my mom is making me but its gunna suck ass AnGeL_AbBy7: yeah AnGeL_AbBy7: Maybe AnGeL_AbBy7: I kinda like dances tho cuz I get to dress up lol XdownwitdasicknessX: is your dress short XdownwitdasicknessX: jk AnGeL_AbBy7: lol. Not TOO short ;) XdownwitdasicknessX: lol XdownwitdasicknessX is typing… XdownwitdasicknessX: we didnt get 2 dance at the last one remember? XdownwitdasicknessX: u were in the bathroom when i tried to find u AnGeL_AbBy7: i know!! My hair was frizzy and I was fixing it lol XdownwitdasicknessX is typing… XdownwitdasicknessX: well this time i’ll find u XdownwitdasicknessX: ur annoying but ur pretty cool My parents are in bed reading after closing the house down for the day. I’m in the basement, where the only noises I hear are the hum of the computer fan and the chime of his message. A dusty metal lamp projects a small orb of light into the room, reflecting half of my face in the glass of the window in front of me. I tilt my head and look at myself, parting my lips. The cubed keys clack when I type, Doritos crumbs bouncing between my fingers. I write back, you’re cool too. ——— Shelly and I are playing The Sims on her family computer, in her dad’s home office that he never actually uses. Morgan, Shelly’s Sim, has short brown hair with a curled bang, and she’s wearing a white crop top, mint green shorts, and loafers. Shelly makes Morgan kiss her boyfriend, Brad, three times in a row. “My brother taught me a cheat code that lets you see them naked. Should I do it?” she asks. “Ew, that’s weird,” I say, even though I want to see. Shelly burps. “You’re right, this is boring.” We watch Morgan and Brad take a dip in their backyard pool. “We should go on AIM,” I say, drinking the last of my Sunkist. “O-M-G, yes!” Shelly says. “I wonder if Nick’s on.” Shelly has a crush on Nick, and I’m afraid to tell her I like Chase again. The thick pleats of my uniform skirt scratch my thighs as I scoot closer to the computer. Shelly double clicks the AOL Instant Messenger icon on her desktop and types in her screen name, BlondeBeachGirl91. We live in suburban Illinois but whenever I see BlondeBeachGirl91, I imagine her lying on a towel in the sand and I feel warm. She scans her Buddy List for her crush and doesn’t know that I’m doing the same. They aren’t online and we pretend not to care. In hot pink letters, she updates her profile with an inside joke we made earlier that day. We laugh just thinking about it again. The sound of a door opening comes through the computer speakers. My breath stalls somewhere in my lungs. It’s Chase. “Let’s talk to him,” she says, double clicking his screen name. “It’s better than nothing.” BlondeBeachGirl91: hey whats ^ XdownwitdasicknessX: nm u BlondeBeachGirl91: nm We stare at the screen, waiting. Shelly turns to me with her mouth open. “I know,” she says. “Let’s ask him if he likes you.” My neck blooms red. “Why? He doesn’t.” Shelly types as she says, “Cause we’re bored, biotch. And I think he probably does.” BlondeBeachGirl91: do u like Abby “Shelly!” I yell, slapping her shoulder hard. “God!” She looks at me, taken aback. “What’s wrong with you?” At the bottom of the chat box we watch XdownwitdasicknessX is typing… appear and disappear and reappear. XdownwitdasicknessX: u’ll tell her wat i say BlondeBeachGirl91: no I wont A minute passes and I take a long, fake sip of my empty Sunkist, squeezing the can. XdownwitdasicknessX: ok XdownwitdasicknessX: well XdownwitdasicknessX is typing… appears, disappears. “This is so stupid,” I say. “I don’t even care.” There’s a framed photo of Shelly’s family in Door County above the computer monitor. I stare at her mom until I hear his message chime. XdownwitdasicknessX: no i don’t like her XdownwitdasicknessX: she’s a jesus lover n thinks she’s better than ppl XdownwitdasicknessX: i only like eighth graders anyway Shelly looks at me. I watch her features soften, then harden. BlondeBeachGirl91: ur a jerk She signs out and Chase is at his home, hearing the sound of a door slamming through his speakers. “Well, he sucks. Good thing you don’t like him anymore.” I say, “Yeah.” My throat is tight and twisted, my eyes hot. ——— I’m dancing to “Hey Ya” with my girls, purposely avoiding him. Shelly grabs my hands and lifts them into the air. Our matching glitter nail polish glints in the reflection of strobe lights. Shelly’s wearing a scoop neck top with a lace cami underneath and a cap-sleeved shrug over her shoulders. Her asymmetrical skirt hits mid-calf, and I feel sexy next to her. Two strands of stiff curls frame my face and I smell like Love Spell. The boys are lined up shoulder to shoulder, leaning against the gym’s navy wall padding. Their mouths are moving but they’re all looking at their black or tan loafers. The girls are in front of the DJ booth, shaking it like a polaroid picture. Tina, the shortest girl in the class, is making us laugh by dancing like she’s an old lady with back problems. She folds her lips over her teeth and croaks along to the lyrics. She’s hamming it up and I’m doubled over, thinking about how I don’t need anyone but my friends. The lights change to a soft pink as the music melts into the beginning of “I’m With You.” The girls shuffle to the corner of the gym, strappy sandals catching on the vinyl floor. I pull on the hem of my dress and push my hair behind my ears. A nerdy guy walks up to a nerdy girl and asks for her hand. She is taller than him, but she smiles at her friend over the boy’s shoulder as they slow dance. A few more couples join them and I am trying so hard not to look at him. The song’s first verse is almost over and I have almost given up hope when I see him walking over. Shelly unzips her Dooney & Bourke crayon hearts wristlet and pulls out a tube of baby pink lipgloss. She nods seriously as she hands it to me. I’m sliding the plastic applicator across my bottom lip when Chase asks me if I want to dance. I say, “Sure,” looking at my nails. In my kitten heels, he and I are the exact same height. His hands form claws that rest against my hips and mine rigidly cup the tops of his shoulders. I’m worried that my deodorant isn’t strong enough to cover my stench. I sweat when I dance. I sweat when I’m with him. His hair is grown out, curls tucked into his glasses. He smells like Axe Body Spray, like a tree made of cinnamon. My dress is pale yellow and his button down is navy blue. “We’re like night and day,” I tell him. “What?” “Our clothes,” I say. “Never mind.” He looks amphibious with his wide-set eyes and round nose. I want to touch his cheek and see if it’s slick. My gaze lands on Becca, an eighth grader, dancing with her hands clasped around the neck of one of the A-Team basketball players. There’s less space between their bodies than ours. I curl my fingers inward, inching towards Chase’s collar. “Want some gum?” He removes his hands from my hips and reaches into his pocket, pulls out a pack of Big Red. He shakes two sticks out before I answer. “Sure.” He unwraps a piece and puts it on his tongue. He laps it up like a communion wafer. My arms are down now as we stand across from each other, not moving, the music still playing around us. He unwraps the second stick and drops it in my hand. There’s dirt under his nails, but I don’t mind. He’s chewing and looking at me when I put the gum in my mouth. I bite down and the flavor is so strong that it hurts. We put our hands back on each other, no words said between us. The song fades out and turns sharply into “Goodies.” The girls scream and run to the middle of the dance floor. Chase drops his hands from my waist and nods his head, mumbles, “Thanks,” as he starts to walk back to the wall pads. His eyes drift away from me and I see them trace Becca’s legs as she dances, her white ruffle skirt swishing with each sway. The music pulses in my chest and I pass the gum between my molars. It’s starting to taste bitter mixed with my nervous saliva. My tongue is coated in something artificial when I say to him, “Wait,” and grab his hand, pulling him back to me. I hold his hand and turn his palm to the ceiling. He relaxes in my grip. I tell him, “I don’t like your gum.” Everyone is in the middle of the gym, singing, as I reach my hand in my mouth. I’m looking at him as I take the gum between my fingers and put it in the center of his palm. It’s shriveled like a raisin. He looks at the gum and is quiet. My body is sticky and electric, charged with vague feelings. He closes his fingers around the gum and walks across the gym. I am dizzy and unmoving. He stops at a trashcan in front of the folded up navy bleachers and opens his hand over it. The gum sticks to his palm until he shakes it off. He dries his hand against the leg of his dress pants and walks out the doorway to the hall, without looking back. ——— XdownwitdasicknessX: wtf was that AnGeL_AbBy7: what? XdownwitdasicknessX: yesterday at the dance XdownwitdasicknessX: the gum AnGeL_AbBy7: I didn’t like ur gum :P XdownwitdasicknessX: its not funny AnGeL_AbBy7: i didn’t say it was XdownwitdasicknessX: that wuz disgusting AnGeL_AbBy7: ok XdownwitdasicknessX: it was nasty AnGeL_AbBy7: ok jeez I’m Sorry??? AnGeL_AbBy7: take a chill pill I was joking XdownwitdasicknessX: wel its not funny XdownwitdasicknessX: don’t touch me ever again AnGeL_AbBy7 is typing… AnGeL_AbBy7: im sry. i didn’t mean 2 offend you. I wish we could be friends. XdownwitdasicknessX is typing…. XdownwitdasicknessX: well I don’t want too AnGeL_AbBy7: why not? XdownwitdasicknessX: y do you care AnGeL_AbBy7: Because I do XdownwitdasicknessX: well don’t XdownwitdasicknessX: stop talking to me AnGeL_AbBy7 is typing… XdownwitdasicknessX signed off at 9:36:44 PM ——— At school the next Monday and the day after that, I don’t look at him. He doesn’t look at me. ——— He IMs me then, five days into our silence. I don’t know what made him change his mind. He asks me what’s up. I hover over the X in the corner of my Buddy List window and contemplate, like I think Lizzie McGuire would. Deep down I know that it’s just for dramatic effect. I guide my mouse back to his chat box. I type, nm u. He says nm but then we talk for forty-five minutes: about a South Park episode, the Jackass movie, paintballing, and Slipknot. ——— In Social Studies, I hear that Chase is dating a girl from another school, the one who cuts. It rains during recess so we can’t go outside. Our teacher makes us play Heads Up Seven Up and I walk past his thumb, to a different boy’s. Another girl pushes his thumb down and Chase guesses it was me. I say no, and I’m smiling. In Spanish, we watch Harry Potter dubbed over and I say to Shelly, “Draco’s sexy.” Chase makes fun of his face for the rest of the movie. We get our yearbooks in eighth period and Shelly overhears Chase tell Nick that I look hot in my picture. The dismissal bell rings and I sling my backpack over my shoulder. I can’t wait to get online. Lindsey Peters Berg lives in Los Angeles. Her short fiction has appeared in HAD and Rejection Letters. Currently, she's at work on her first novel. Follow her on Twitter and IG @lindspetersberg.

by Caitlin McCarthy Hestia and I were both swallowed alive, forced deep into the recesses of our fathers’ bellies, left to wallow in that acidic, pungent darkness. The eldest daughters reborn the youngest once we were poured forth from our fathers’ gullets, completely intact but never to be whole again. Hestia washed away the bile, found a purpose, existed as the oldest and the youngest without becoming a burden to her siblings, to her mother. I am left coated in grief, sick at the thought that I could have gone with you into that grave, stayed in your belly as you withered into nothing while I remained blissfully whole. I am a piece now, a fractured segment of the daughter who found solace in the pit of your stomach, even in death. Caitlin McCarthy is a writer existing just outside of Houston, Texas. She graduated in 2017 with a BA in English and is pursuing an MA in Teaching with Stephen F. Austin State University when she's not funneling years of pessimism and familial turmoil into words on a page.

by Kevin Brennan The boys went out for a Saturday joyride in Tom’s vintage International Harvester Scout, dubbed “Ol’ Yeller” by Tom for its awesome lemony paintjob. The top was down, padded rollbar bright in the sun as they tooled south down Missouri Highway 30 looking for a rutty backroad to tackle. Huck spotted an opening. “Fence down over there, Tom. On the left.” And there was a clear entry where it was obvious other vehicles often went in for off-roading hijinks. Tom steered into it, but neither boy noticed the sign nailed to one of the downed fenceposts, spiraled in rusty barbed wire. PRIVATE PROPERTY, it said. TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT. This would be a fine ride, they told each other. The trail was scarcely wide enough for Ol’ Yeller, branches and vines grasping at the doors and quarter panels like animate creatures. Ruts aplenty too, giving them a nice rough tossing as Tom yanked the wheel back and forth to accommodate obstacles and quick turns. “This here’s one great find, ain’t it though, Tom?” “One of the best,” Tom said. “Let’s not tell anybody ‘bout it, all right? It’s our secret hideout.” They rambled through the brush and berms for a while, laughing and relishing the pure freedom that belongs to young men of a certain age and character, until they came to the lip of a formidable ditch. “That’s a ravine, I’d call it,” said Huck. “Maybe not a canyon, but yeah, definitely a ravine. Whatya think we ought to do?” Both boys hopped out of the Scout to estimate the angles. Tom, who owned Ol’ Yeller in the first place and had installed the heavy-duty suspension gear, shook his head. “I ‘magine it’s too steep for the ol’ dog. We’ll either hang up on the edge or go butt over head on the way down.” “Best turn around then,” Huck said. “Looks like this ain’t the Garden of Eden after all.” Just then they heard a shrill finger-whistle and turned to see an older fella in bib overalls, standing at the edge of the woods. He had a shotgun angled at his waist, with the muzzle still pointed, to their relief, toward the earth. “Whatchyall doin’ back here on my land?” he asked them with a growl in his throat. The boys explained in stuttering voices that they didn’t know it belonged to anybody. The trail wasn’t fenced or gated. “Y’all didn’t see the sign then?” “No sir.” “Sign says PRIVATE PROPERTY. TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT. Don’t know how y’all coulda missed it.” The boys realized they were well and truly trespassers at that moment, according to this man, and, according to the terms of that sign anyway, they were about to experience the second half of the warning. Tom took the initiative. “Look here, sir, we’re real sorry but we didn’t see no sign. We’ll turn right around now and head on out.” “The hell you will.” Huck said, “Hey now. They’s no reason—” “Y’all leavin’ but chain’t leavin’ that way.” They tried to whisper a strategy, guessing at their chances of surviving if they were to jump into the truck and speed on out of there as that man fired a funnel of buckshot at their back end. Lousy odds. Tom said, “Just tell us what you want, and we’ll go.” He waved the barrel of the shotgun at the ravine that was so steep the boys now thought it might well be called a canyon by some, or even a damn gorge. “You’re goin’ out that way. Trail on the other side loops around back to 30. Otherwise I’ma have to shoot you.” A buzzard floated overhead as if to presage the imminent tragedy. Tom tried to explain to the man, who shot out a wad of dark tobacco from his thin lips, that the Scout couldn’t make that drop into the gorge, nor the climb up the other side. “It’ll surely flip,” he said. “In which case you’ll crawl out, leave the goddam truck, and walk home.” “Get in,” Tom said to Huck, and the two boys hopped into Ol’ Yeller like they had wings on their heels. What an ordeal then commenced. Tom eased the front of the truck over the edge, and there was a sudden sliding and a lurch as the rear wheels slipped over half a second later, flung by gravity. Tom was braking and gunning at the same time, hoping the four-wheel drive was muscular enough for the steepness. Huck had his eyes only on the side mirror to keep tabs on the armed man back there, who now stood at the edge of the ravine with his gun lazily aimed, more like a water divining rod. It seemed like decades, but they found themselves at the bottom and then began the roaring push up the opposite wall, which crumbled like red chalk and raised a huge choking cloud all around them. Huck could not see the man now because he was flung back against the seat like a spaceman getting launched to Kingdom Come. With a sudden jolt, they landed more or less horizontally on terra firma, and without looking back Tom sped into the welcoming forest there. On the way out they went past a hip-high groundfire, where blackened volunteers bearing anaconda hoses looked at them like they were apparitions in the smoke. Huck said, “This is fuckin’ Dante-esque.” Tom said, “Totally.” When they emerged back on the highway, a few miles down from the deceitful entry, they laughed without control for no more than twenty seconds, then made the rest of the ride home in heavy silence. Kevin Brennan is the author of seven novels, including Parts Unknown (William Morrow/HarperCollins), Yesterday Road, and, just released, The Prospect. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Berkeley Fiction Review, Mid-American Review, Twin Pies, The Daily Drunk, Sledgehammer, Elevation Review, Tiny Molecules, Flash Boulevard, Fictive Dream, Atlas and Alice, LEON Literary Review, MoonPark Review, talking about strawberries all of the time, Atticus Review, and others. A Best Microfiction 2022 nominee, he's also the editor of The Disappointed Housewife, a literary magazine for writers of offbeat and idiosyncratic fiction, poetry, and essays. Kevin lives with his wife in California's Sierra foothills.

by Louie Anne she bows her head every night, knees to the floor; whispering prayers. Blasphemous promises and words of worship –god in its absence. she doesn’t even understand a single syllable, yet she chants with great pronunciation; duolingo might need to take notes. in just two months, almost fluent. even saints sin. under the protection of incognito mode, she forgot that her headphones were unplugged; revealing the smut spewing from her speakers. beats of unrecognizable breaths, copyrighted instrumentals, and the eerily-familiar groans; only a few seconds was heard –enough to color her cheeks with shame. they say only the youth find joy in times like this, but i disagree. while they sow bottomless pockets for their vices; i earn a seat next to our graces. clutching the torch forged by blood, sweat, and tears –i promise my hands were meant to be here. in the midst of copy-pasted tweets, fanfiction, and battles; i carry devotion. hear as i quietly hum lyrics i cannot enunciate or conjugate; watch as pennies escape the chambers of my leather clasped wallet, offering all that i can to feel the glow of your paper card presence. cold from the sleeves that bare your name, this is credence; i hold so much love even if i only have blank pages. An avid reader with a book-buying compulsion, Louie Anne (they/she) is a queer writer and poet. Their work has appeared in the Southeast Asian journal Anak Sastra and Ukiyoto Publishing's anthology of love poems and stories, Magkasintahan. You can read more of their work on their website: dearjulietblog.com or follow them on Instagram @cupofinsanity.

by Keith Huettenmoser The girl touched the boy and said, “You are dead. You have to wait for the deer to bring you back to life.” So the boy laid on the infield of a baseball diamond and waited. Everyone laughed and he still waited. When it began to feel like a joke, the whistles blew for classes to resume, but the boy didn’t move. He didn’t breathe. Lines filed behind brick. Students left. Hours ticked on, history homework passed out, and the boy laid in the orange dust. He was so good at playing dead that everyone started to believe he was dead. No one laughed anymore. There was a parade and a baseball game. He was made the honorary 2nd base, because no one wanted to move him. They wanted him as a reminder, but no one knew what of. The little league team he played for wore his name on their sleeves. There was a potluck barbecue, a microphone for the eulogies. Everyone cried and ate snow cones after extra innings. The girl looked at her hands and trembled. She didn’t know what magic she wrought. No one had warned her of such power. Even the dandelions thought he was a dead thing. In the offseason, their ragged yellow heads bloomed from his ribs, and with time, the dandelions turned to clouds dispersed by wind. When the leaves started to fall, the girl came back and touched him. “It’s okay, you can get up now. You’re alive and free.” But the boy didn’t move. He knew the game. He’d wait for the deer. Keith Huettenmoser is a New Jersey born writer. His work has appeared in Badlands, Sooth Swarm Journal, Poetry Online, Cathexis Northwest Press, and more.

by el tucker Cassandra hated the way her clothes fit her body. She was wearing an Amazon-sourced leather corset, a black crushed velvet dress with a long V for a neckline, and a messy [read: unwashed] bob. Her eyeliner was accentuated by the smudged remains of yesterday’s. She looked like that emo girl wojak, she thought to herself, if the emo girl wojak was at least thirty percent more of a femcel. She was out in front of the club—her last chance to turn back. She almost didn’t come tonight. She could’ve been curled up in bed, Switch in hand, Evangelion in the background, munching on Goldfish and pizza rolls. But no, she just had to force herself to come out for goth night at the local queer joint. Whatever. She approached the bouncer, who asked for ten bucks cash and a driver’s license. She showed him her non-driver’s ID. She never learned how to drive out of fear of hurting someone else - a noble excuse for an embarrassing problem. What embarrassed her more, though, was the six year old picture of herself. Post-coming out, pre-transition. That moment in her life when she covered up her insecurities with hyperfemininity was so different than now, where she was… doing anything but that. Her corset felt tighter somehow as the bouncer handed back her ID. Cassandra felt his eyes assess her features, comparing them to who she once was, and it made the most distinguishing ones—nose, forehead, jaw—burn against her skin. She held out a lanky wrist, and the bouncer wrapped a band around it. Inside the club, she was immediately assaulted with a wall of noise, a sea of black, and the smell of sweat and cheap alcohol. A DJ to the right was playing a barely legible remix of a track ripped from a Bauhaus B-side. A bar to the left was serving up overpriced drinks. And off to the back was a raised stage, where eyeliner-clad faux-goth college students were bouncing violently to the beat. She submerged herself in the pulsing crowd. In the crowd she was confronted by a mass of writhing bodies, none of whom seemed to know the definition of personal space. Instinctively, she compared herself to all of them. She noticed someone else, someone ‘like her,’ and clocking them sent ice-cold contractions of self-hate through her spine. Her mind scrambled at a relevant reference to tie in, trying to distance herself from her body. She couldn’t find one in time, and instead had to wait for the chill to thaw. The crowd wasn’t a bad place to wait it out. Who cared if her body hurt, if her clothes didn’t fit, if she felt like a mockery of herself? The music was bumping, the alcohol was flowing, and the people didn’t pay her any mind, too lost in their own rhythm. She forced herself to dissociate, plastering over her self-perception with rigid dance moves. And dance she did. Until her eyes landed on a guy standing away from the crowd, hands in his pockets, head bobbing to the beat. He had shaggy blond hair and the beginnings of a goatee. He was clad in full mall goth ensemble: Tripp pants, oversized sweater with an ironed-on patch, platform boots. He had an eyebrow piercing. Was it ironic? Post-ironic? Cassandra couldn’t really tell for sure. He wasn’t dancing, but he wasn’t… not-dancing. She couldn’t tell if he was enjoying himself. Moreover, she couldn’t tell why she cared. He caught her eye, quirked his head to the side, as if to ask some sort of question. She was too new to the club scene to understand what he meant, and she froze up attempting to derive an appropriate response. She was split between nodding with a smile and shooting finger guns at him. Both could be seen as cringe in a certain context. She didn’t choose one in time. He looked away, and kept nodding to the beat. She kept her eye on him as she moved throughout the crowd. It was easy enough: he didn’t move around, so finding him again whenever she got lost within the sea of people was always pretty easy. She should approach him. Probably. Or would that seem too needy? Or would it seem needy, but in a way that made it obvious that she knew how it would seem but didn’t care? Damn, she really needed to stop spending so much time on /r9k/. He was leaving. Or maybe not. No, he was going out the back, which meant he was probably planning on coming back. Cassandra followed him out, almost tripping over her Docs. When she got there, he was pulling a cigarette out of a half-full pack. American Spirits. They were in a small alleyway, dank and dark. The music blared from inside until the door shut, and then it was quiet. She stared at him, wide-eyed, before forcing her dissociative-detached mask back on. “Um.” she said, leaning against the wall. He put the cigarette in his mouth instead of responding. “Borrow your light?” she asked. She fidgeted against her will, playing with the band tied around her wrist. Wordlessly, he lit his cigarette, and then offered the lighter to her. Taking it, she followed up with: “And a cig?” which made him laugh and choke on his. He pulled another cigarette out of the pack, holding it by the end. She reached out to take it, but he moved past her hand, hovering the filtered end by her mouth. She paused, blinking, before taking it between her lips. She was suddenly hyper-conscious of the way her body fit together again. She felt gangly and totally unbecoming of this situation. And then he lit the cigarette for her, and it turned her on, and she breathed it in, and she forced the building cough in her chest down as she exhaled the smoke. It was similar to the joints she usually smokes, but a little harsher. And it tasted worse. He smiled at her. “Finn.” he says, his voice a little raspy. “Short for Finnegan.” Looking closer at his face, she can’t tell if she’s attracted to him or not. He looks like shit, but in a way that makes her wonder if it’s on purpose, if he was trying to do something with it. She settles on yes. Underneath all the guyliner and mild cystic acne, he was pretty cute. “Cassandra.” she replies, forcing down her disgust at the name she chose for herself, as though it was damaged by her ownership of it. “But you can call me Cassie.” She opts for a “I like Finn, too.” It makes him smile. “Do you come here often?” she asks. God, she sounds like a normie. >boringsmalltalk.exe. “Not really. Just on goth nights. I like the excuse to dress up a bit.” “Me too. Gets me out of the house.” Anything that gets her out of the house is a godsend. “I know what you mean.” No, he doesn’t. She’s a social reject, an antisocial loser, a faggot in a skimpy dress. He’s normal by comparison. Probably. “Yeah, well.” Yeah, well? Seriously? C’mon, keep the conversation going Cassie. “Um. Do you play—” “I like your Docs,” he interrupts. It’s a little basic (half the people inside are wearing Docs), but she can work with it. “Wait, shit, were you saying something?” She was, but it didn’t matter anymore. It was a shit line, anyway. “No! No, it’s okay. I like your… um… face.” Cassie desperately needed practice in real-time conversations: her mind was scrabbling for the backspace key to replace that with something a little more polished. Actually, wait, scratch all that, is he blushing? “Um.” He takes another draw from his cig. She reciprocates by drawing from her own. They stand there for a while, taking turns smoking. He steps a little closer. “I saw you looking at me out there.” Her mind was slowly starting to melt. A few seconds of silence pass. Finally, he asks, “Can I buy you a drink, Cassie?” “I’d like that,” she says. He rubs out his half-finished cigarette on the wall, and puts it back in the pack. He opens the door for her, and the alley is filled with noise once more. She followed him inside. She wanted to keep talking to him (for some reason, even after that disastrous performance, she still trusted her mind above her body), but the noise made it impossible, and she didn’t really want to drag him outside again. They sipped on their drinks by the bar. Eventually, they both had their fill, and she went back to the dance floor. He followed close behind. He finally started dancing with his hands out of his pockets, and Cassandra was struck by how cute it was to see him emerged from his shell and actually having a good time. It was a stark difference from the somber figure that she saw at the back of the club: he was throwing his body around to the music, completely uncoordinated. The vodka pushed her to do something she wouldn’t normally even dream of doing: she grabbed him by the hips and pulled him in (leaving about two inches, of course, between their waists). His eyes widened for a moment, lips falling open, but he reassembled his cool and confident mask fairly quickly, and smiled. He was a little bony, but the warmth emanating from his body, and the smell of his sweat—god she loved boysmell—made her eyes flutter. She took inventory of the current situation: she was at the club, all dressed up, dancing with a cute femboy who bought her drinks and gave her cigarettes and seemed pretty damn into her. She couldn’t wait to tell all 171 of her mutuals about this. Finn brought her back to reality with a hand on the back of her neck. Fuck. Okay. That’s a bit too fast, maybe. She wasn’t really ready to kiss him yet. But on closer inspection, he didn’t seem like he was moving in for one. They just kept dancing. After a while, his hand dropped to her side. She smiled at him, signaling that this was an appreciated change. █████████████▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ Finnegan was having a good time tonight. He wasn’t really expecting to meet anyone. He reasoned that, sure, one went to the club to meet new people, but he didn’t actually go with the expectation that he’d find someone like Cassandra. But she caught his attention from across the room (it was the hastily-done eyeliner that had endeared her to him), and when she joined him for cigarettes, he could barely hold a conversation. He’s glad they were back inside. Dancing was so much easier than all that. God, he wanted to kiss her. But he saw the look on her face when his hand grazed her neck, and he knew it wasn’t time yet. But the way she looked him up and down, grabbed at his hips, smiled at him… she was, simply put, intoxicating. Her breath was at least fifteen percent cranberry juice. She tightens her grip on his hips, and pulls him in a little closer. She says something that he can’t hear. He smiles and nods anyway. She kisses him. She pulls away. She smiles sheepishly. He pulls her back in, and this time, she doesn’t pull away. He’s getting tired of dancing—his legs aching, toes cramping up. He jerks his head towards the door. She follows happily. ███████████████▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒▒ After a brief discussion of where to take things, they settle on her place. Cassandra isn’t really excited to show someone her den, but Finn has roommates, and she really doesn’t want to be judged by anyone new tonight. In the rideshare that he called, she rests her hand on his thigh. They don’t kiss (the driver is right there, and she feels incredibly awkward). She squeezes his thigh at traffic stops, and she can tell that it’s making him flustered. She tries to hide her slowly growing bulge by crossing her legs and leaning forward. Finn doesn’t notice: he’s staring straight ahead at the car seat headrest (ha!) in front of him. They’re almost home. Cassandra lives in a small studio apartment on a very gentrified corner of Greenpoint. It smells surprisingly clean, given that the boxes of last night’s takeout are still on the counter. Finnegan takes a second to marvel at the setup: a snazzy PC sitting in the corner, a red and black gamer chair nestled against it. Mounds of junk food fill the desk on the right, stacked high with towers of BBQ Pringles cans and Dr. Pepper 6-packs, little figurines of anime characters (Nendoroids of assorted JoJo’s/NieR characters). It was the kind of mess that made you wonder what sort of undiagnosed neurodivergencies she had running under the hood. “Holy shit, is that a Gundam?” Finn asks, attention captured by a 3-foot tall winged mecha dual-wielding machine guns. Cassandra nods, blushing deeply. The walls are taken up by posters of Lain, Asuka, Miku, Jotaro/Kakyoin, and the bookshelf shows off her surprisingly neat record collection, all sourced from /mu/, including a rare pressing of No Love Deep Web. A few series of her favorite manga—most notably a full run of Chainsaw Man, and Junji Ito’s assorted works—filled the rest of the shelves, with a bong and an eighth resting on top, surrounded by a handful of empty pill bottles and a bar of Old Spice Fiji. Dirty laundry is piled on a chair, and a box of tissues is on the nightstand, alongside a mass of tangled jewelry. A well-loved shark plushie holds dominion over her bed. “It’s not normally this messy,” she explains. A lie, but he doesn’t need to know that. “I wasn’t exactly planning on bringing anyone home tonight.” “This is… awesome.” he finally replies. “I mean, you have it all figured out.” Her face burns red. “Shut up and get on my bed already.” “Yes, ma’am,” he replies. He sits down, and begins unlacing his platforms. “So, um… before we do all this, there’s something I kinda have to tell you…” she starts. It’s awkward in a way that makes it obvious that she’s rehearsed this before. Finn laughs. “Stop. You don’t need to. I mean, you have a poster of Hatsune Miku on the wall. And a BLÅHAJ. I knew as soon as I walked in. I am, too. It’s fine.” She stops in her tracks. “You’re a virgin?” He’s taken aback. “What? No, I just thought you were gonna say that you’re trans.” “Oh. Well, that too. Wait, you’re a…?” she trails off, not exactly wanting to finish that sentence. He lifts up his sweater, flaunting his scars. “Yeah.” He tosses it onto the laundry pile. She admires his bare chest for a while, before realizing that he probably expects her to reciprocate. She sits on the bed beside him, and starts unlacing her corset. She fumbles around with it enough that he takes pity on her. “Let me.” It only takes him a minute of pulling and unlacing for it to come off. She lifts her dress up, revealing plain black panties (home of a small bulge) and a plain black bra (home of small tits). Finn sucks in his breath. “Um,” she says, unsure of how to proceed. She realizes that her Docs are still on - a reason to delay things a little further. She spends the next minute fumbling with her laces before finally pulling them off. Finn smiles. “So… maybe you can get underneath me? Or on top of me? I’m not really sure how you wanna do this. It’s up to you, really. It’s your first time.” She was getting redder and redder. “I don’t wanna freak you out or anything. I should probably shut up. Right? I’ll shut up.” “I… think I need to smoke first.” She gets off the bed, grabs the bong and her grinder. “It’s nothing against you, it’s just-” “I get it, don’t worry. Can I join?” he interrupts, which makes her feel significantly better. “Be my guest.” She loads the bowl with weed and puts it back in the stem. “You first.” He takes it, placing it against his mouth. She lights it for him, and the chamber fills with smoke. He pulls the bowl away, takes it all in, and pulls her in for a kiss. She closes her eyes, drawing the smoke from him, and then pulls back to breathe it out. “That was… fun. Nobody’s ever… um.” She takes the bong from him and takes a hit of her own. She tries to replicate his maneuver, but it feels so awkward now that she has to initiate it. “Feeling better?” he asks, smiling. “Much.” She puts the bong away, and climbs onto the bed. He follows suit. She desperately tries to remember all the things she’s read about, but everything feels useless now. He pulls her in for a kiss, and presses his hand against her thigh, squeezing at it. Woozy, she grabs at his hand, pulling up higher and higher, until it settles between her thighs. She can feel him smile into the kiss. He climbs onto her thigh, riding it slowly while he kisses her. The denim of his Tripp pants isn’t exactly pleasant against her skin, and he notices it. “Um. I’m gonna take these off.” he says, getting off. He undoes the belt and fumbles with the zippers and laces for a while, and then finally steps out of it, kicking it to the ground. “Get back on, please.” she says. It’s the most forward thing she’s ever said. ██████████████████████████▒▒ The night was long, the bed was sweat-soaked, their makeup was ruined, and yet, at the end of it all, Cassie felt weightless. ███████████████████████████▒ She wakes up the next morning curled against Finnegan’s nude body. Her arm is across his chest, and her legs straddle his thigh. She nuzzles her head against his neck, and breathes in his scent. It was a strange combination of tangerine and sweat. The cologne from last night must’ve washed off by now - was that what he naturally smelled like? She goes in for seconds to try and confirm her hypothesis, waking him up. He laughs, and runs his hands through her hair. She feels safe. El is a creative writing student at Pratt Institute in Brooklyn. They specialize in experimental fiction, exploring themes of reflections, vampirism, and peri-apocalyptic situations. They have recently re-read Kafka's "Metamorphosis", and have been very annoying about it.

by Sydney Hartle We watch the beings on a planet far away from our ever-churning Solar System where the world spins more rapidly on its axis, hurtling around their sun. We live much longer than they do. One hundred of their years is an hour of our day. One of their lifetimes can be contained in sixty of our minutes. Each time a new story concludes, we gather at our screens. “Have you seen Ayumi?” we ask, and the answer is always yes. Someone always pipes up, “Ayumi the book was so much better!” but none of us respond. It’s not that we don’t like books. We read everything they ever wrote. We read their first words, the pages upon pages of practiced alphabets, the school worksheets, the notes passed in class, the flirty text messages, and the hundreds of forgotten birthday cards. We have read their signatures thousands of times—on contracts, receipts, and art projects only ever exhibited on refrigerators in their mothers’ kitchens. We read their book reports, essays, and even their grocery lists. We feel especially lucky when they leave us diary entries, because we know we are reading a life not as it was, but as they wrote it. That’s why we prefer the biopics. We love when their diary entries line up with the events. We watch everything they’ve ever done, and sure, sometimes we consult the texts to understand it all. They learn to walk and we call it “character development.” We think of their first loose tooth as a loss of innocence. We’re on the edge of our seats when they work up the nerve to say hello to a crush and sometimes we’re disappointed when they never speak to her again. Not every event leads to something else, as we have learned from the films. We watch the childhood events they won’t ever write down or remember, and we see how even the buried past informs the future. Still, we know not to expect any particular arc for the plot of their lives. We are not disappointed when they don’t overcome every obstacle. Failures and successes say nothing about them. To us, they are just events of a story that can never be told twice. We’ll see them in their friends’ stories. In Amelia, we’ll see one of them as a blur over Amelia’s groom’s shoulder instead of from where they stood as his best man. They’re in the background of that shot, melting behind Amelia’s happy tears. We see them as a watery blur in a lot of their friends’ stories: sometimes they’re happy, sometimes they’re sad, sometimes they’re just a story through the eyes of a weeping child at the mall who was denied a rainbow lollipop. We’ll see them in a big role in a lot of films that come out close together and then we won’t see them for a while. We might have to wait until their daughter’s film comes out, small eyes adjusting to the outside world and focusing on our hero’s youthful face as she’s being held for the first time. She looks back over her shoulder at them the first time she rides a bike, and she looks back ahead once she knows she’s got it. She’s mesmerized by their large hands and long fingers, the way they nimbly cut and fold as they show her how to wrap a birthday present. She scans the crowd to find them at her high school graduation, college, medical school. She checks back in on them one day to find they’ve gone gray. She worries when they stop remembering the details she’s sure they’d never forget, she worries when they’re in that papery green gown that’s loose and dry like old skin, she can barely see them at all behind the waterfall when they lay them into the ground. That’s the thing. Sometimes we have to wait a long time for their cameos, which become fewer and farther between. But we see them in so many films and we read their description in so many books that each of them is unforgettable to us. We wonder at the parts of each biography where they feel so alone, when we’ve seen them in films before theirs was ever even released, and we continue seeing them again and again long after your biography is done. We go home at the end of the day and reflect on them. We choose our favorite character—maybe everyone is our favorite character—and we try, sometimes, to imagine their stories playing out in any other way, but eventually it becomes too much to imagine at all. So we go to bed and replay the events exactly how they happened. All the triumphs, the failures, the tears, the grins, the singing, swearing, cheering, lying, sweating, drinking, the sacred hours alone with their thoughts. And as we fall asleep, we feel sorry that it happened so fast. Sydney Hartle is an alumna of the University of Michigan undergraduate creative writing program living and writing in Naarm (Melbourne, Australia). Follow us on Tweeters @sydney_hartle

by Sheree Shatsky Ocular Binoculars My optometrist says I have fancy eyes. My retinas are fine-tuned for football. I’m a wired foreseer. A pigskin psychic. I watch the game play against my closed eyelids. The coin toss, the kickoff, the touchdowns, the final score. “Dolphins +4,” I tell my dad. He calls me his Rookie Bookie. * Plaiditude My mother searches her keepsake trunk for the special skirt she wore in high school. All the skirts she finds are plaid. She loved plaid then, she loves plaid now. Tartan. Gingham. Houndstooth. Prince of Wales check. A universal fabric, she says. Always in style. She wears mini skirts these days. Pucci plaid. Dad says she’s still got game. The pink felt circle skirt she finds wrapped in tissue paper. A poodle skirt. The puffy white dog appliqué sports a black collar plump with rhinestones. She tugs on the skirt and smooths the creases with soft hands. She looks in the mirror and swirls a twirl. I hear a pooch bark - once, twice. * Nuts and Bolts We rah-rah in front of the sliding glass doors over at Melody’s house. Our reflections clap and bounce, jump herkies and eagles, pikes and double hooks. Our voices ring out synchronized pep. Melody sits in a lawn chair and critiques our moves. “Don’t sing it. Punch it!” she says. Melody can’t cheer anymore. Her right knee swells large. She pulls a jar of Vaseline from her bag and offers us a dip. We paste our front teeth with the clear jelly, a reminder to smile. * Homecoming We lean into each other dumb happy cheap wine tipsy. Our gowns are fire, yours red sequined, mine beach sand vanilla. Humidity suits you, your hair sleek smooth Venezuelan; mine wild waves. You rock a top hat. Ray-Bans dangle my lips. The lenses catch the camera flash. A double full moon. * After Midnight I don’t sleep, like my mother. We count steps instead of sheep; hers speedwalk the vacuum 12345678 one step ahead of morning, mine glide past the locker of my guy as he looks my way a 1 and a 2 and a 3 and a 4. We wake feet tangled tight in the sheets, mine flower power cotton, hers pastel patchwork percale. I find a rose on my pillow. My dad finds the vacuum, still running. Sheree Shatsky writes wild words. Her work has appeared in a variety of journals and her novella in flash “Summer 1969” is forthcoming at Ad Hoc Fiction. Sheree calls Florida home and is a Tom Petty fan. Read more of her writing at shereeshatsky.com and find her on Twitter @talktomememe.

by Eric Pinder Only sleep provides escape— a furlough, fleeting, draped in sheets that always ends in the predestined clamor of 7:01 a.m. when, with a flash reminiscent of Zeus’s red anger, the impatient ritual resumes— first, the dreaded heave of boulders and eyelids and blankets, each one weightier than yesterday’s, more reluctant to release the soulful cadaver they entomb. Next, a lukewarm splash, too rushed to appreciate, cleansing grime and the groggy imprint of nightmares until his skin is again a slate erased, though soon it will stink of exertion and engrave around his plum eyes the hieroglyphics depicting fatigue. He expects all this because the brusque baptism cannot wash away the knowledge of futility. Immortal Zeus has punished Sisyphus with an infinity of Mondays. Eric Pinder usually writes about nature and animals. His books include How to Share with a Bear, Counting Dinos, and If All the Animals Came Inside. He teaches at a small college in the woods, a few miles down the road less traveled.

by Nadine Hitchiner He stood with cotton like you would in a bathroom, dipping seam into fabric, like my grandpa would douse a swab in Carmol and dab it on my forehead. He stood and weaved a glove before work, and one after. Behind the field there was a road like there would be behind light, like there would be to a picture. And if we took the road, we drove in an old Honda. And if we drove in a Honda, there was mother’s perfume beneath the throttle, there was a B&B, too, where on its roof was a telescope, and I could watch the darkness. He said, the night has a long way to fall, like it wants to persuade the heart. And he continued to place woodworms in the telescope like you would clean a wound, or build a star. In the room, there would be a pillow under the gun like a fly would be a fly at first and spark fire at night. He stood there next to the pillow like a safehouse, about to be abandoned, took the bullets leaving the barrel like you would a scarf. He said, you used to hang upside down from a branch and the world looked so much like it does now. He said, here. I have some silk- worms to nest in your barrel, handing me his prosthetics, gap-less and white. And if I remember correctly, I remember it like you would pour milk from a bull. Nadine Hitchiner is a German poet and author of the chapbook Bruises, Birthmarks & Other Calamities (Cathexis Northwest Press, 2021). She was a Best of the Net and a Pushcart Prize nominee. Her work has been published in Red Ogre Review, Anomaly, The Lumiere Review and others. She lives in her hometown with her husband and their dog. Find her on twitter: @nadinekwriter

By Reema Rao-Patel You told yourself you wouldn’t be like those American mothers, seduced by consumerism’s false promises. Buying this for a happier baby. Buying that to be a better mother. Yet you find yourself at Mommy & Me Paper Maché, asking to see the HER TWINN™ catalog the others are passing around. You are going to make your daughter a doll that looks just like her. All the mothers are doing it. Step 1: Please provide a photo from each angle listed. Circle the skin tone that best represents your child. Nothing quite matches your daughter – an irreproducible combination of your jaggery and his “tar.” A color that justified disowning you. Step 2: Measure the distance between your child’s eyes. Mark the width of their nose, bridge and tip. Both attributes are his. She doesn’t have enough of you to be taken back by your family. Step 3: Attach a three-inch lock of hair. The paperwork details more than a marriage license, but all the mothers say it’s safe to provide the information. HER TWINN™ arrives the next week in a box marked “Fragile: Handle with Care” on every side. You remember bringing your daughter home from the hospital four-and-a-half years ago. Only cautioned to support the neck. Someone should’ve wrapped your body, your whole soul, with “Fragile” tape. You cried for months and so did she, which made you cry some more. At some point, it was hard to tell who was making whom cry. Your husband kept researching “baby blues,” while you yelled, “It’s not baby blues!” He would take the baby from you then, until inevitably she needed to be fed. You open the box and find that HER TWINN™ doesn’t look exactly like your daughter. But it’s her. You see it, you tell yourself. You’re sure if you held HER TWINN™ up to your little girl, strangers would say, “I can tell they’re sisters.” You hold her tenderly like she’s fresh dough. Sift your fingers through her hair, minding the knots. You like that this doll won’t cry, which means you won’t either. She won’t tell another mother at a playdate that Mommy and Daddy fight louder than the television, so that mother won’t look you in the eye when you come for pickup. She won’t thrash unprompted on the sidewalk, cracking hard like a whip, so that a biker yells, “Hey lady that’s dangerous!” No shit. She won’t beg, “No Mommy! Only Daddy!” at bath time. This doll is yours alone. Even her skin, you see now, turned out the lighter swirls of packaged jaggery. HER TWINN™ doesn’t blink. It makes you think about the times you wanted to slap your daughter, hand itching, and how one day you did. She once tore your flesh, but worse yet, your heart when she still asked you to tuck her in that night. To lay the stripes of her blanket longways, not horizontal, the way she likes. She still looked at you with glossy love in her eyes. HER TWINN™’s eyes are glossy too. Her rubber face, however soft, won’t crumble from a slap. Not even a dent. All the mothers agree it’s great quality for the money. That night, your daughter asks to hold HER TWINN™. She is armed with a dripping bubble wand bound to wreck the doll’s hair and markers that’ll mar its cheek. Some damage is inevitable, but you tell your girl no. Not yet. You deserve a second chance. All the mothers say so. Reema Rao-Patel is a writer from Chicago, whose work has appeared or is forthcoming in Flash Frog, Pigeon Review, Avalon Literary Review, The Wayne Literary Review & elsewhere, as well as longlisted for The Masters Review 2022 Summer Short Story Award. She’s received support from the American Short Fiction Workshop, Key West Literary Seminar Writers’ Workshop, Chicago Asian Writers Workshop, and the Fine Arts Work Center x Kundiman Winter Scholarship. Currently, Reema is working on a short story collection and teaching her dog to roll over.

by LA Felleman to be mammal is to be teeth in flesh dependent on other lives to survive everyday plowing another field under with identical seeds scythed short, cropped close to grain’s home ground, harvested with a sigh to survive the apologies Grass Nation you were meant to be seeding your own evolving instead you are ground for us to rise rueful remorse we promise to eat you, advisedly mindful that to be mammal is to survive by othering lives ||| green things othered, raising up mammals to depend scent of what you grew in sigh of how you could have grown spring of successive unfurling large to the point of firming green things enfleshed then passing on to mush— points we dare to deny you— stunting your growth to fuel ours. mammals survive by springing sorrow so sorry we pledge to eat you, regrettably expanding into our girth ||| expand in/through red branching flavor of flowers that birthed you borne at the end of your branches carrying inside you a forest prevented from touching down deepest despair flesh in clenched teeth of mammals sorry for teeming health taken plucked like a gift meant for Abel torn open by an envious Cain we expose how grabbing marks us take an oath, we will eat you in mindfulness marked as mammals torn we can never be too much ||| there can never be too much praising cheer of orange-yellow kin your color is a smile throughout your smell is a sweetness within mammals need orange-yellow family sensing in mammals teeth the sweetest desiring your rind, your sections so easily rent resigned to pulling you piecemeal like a gin preparing cotton for spinning our favored method became dissecting continual contrition we cross our hearts, hope to die to eat you ||| hope to die dissection became us purple-blue alien strangers otherworldly out of our ordinary we press to learn secrets contained behind your skin mammals teething purple-blue strange selectively skinned life extended beyond natural we truth to tell to eat you let us speak the truth into you we only tolerate differences othered for survival steepest shame when novels tantalize ||| we solely tolerate the tantalizing white-brown family you who converse in earth tones metallic mineral mud notes teeth mammals marked repetitive resignation forgive these transgressions we own we survive by : shaking you down : cracking your shells : breaking your halves : scraping you void : leaving you husks we hand to God to eat you ||| by our hands, left halved, hunks our own meat kind strength of our strength blood in our blood mammals stalking always apologizing we acknowledge our plans to prepare to our liking : mammals enflesh the horror recipe to slice reduced to bite size numb to your pain to be dismembered from ours we swear to God to eat you ||| swearing before our maker designer of all we can sorry such sorrow stomach created to be sacrificers eaters of the unnumbered survivors of others of the same creator taught to mouth guilt as : teeth contemptible a litany of contents to the One contemplating every hue we consume still pardoning the unconvertable Currently, LA is a financial analyst at the University of Iowa. Before that, she was a seminary professor. Prior to that, she was a pastor. She credits the Free Generative Writing Workshops, the Midwest Writing Center, and workshops offered through Iowa City Poetry with her growth as a poet. To give back to the writing community, she organizes a writers open mic at the public library (or via Zoom during pandemics) and serves on the advisory council of Iowa City Poetry. She is the author of the chapbook, The Length of a Clenched Fist, from Finishing Line Press, and blogs at http://lafelleman.blogspot.com.