Lightless hallways open and close like birth canals or whatever is their opposite. 
I can trace the scar on my knuckle with my eyes closed, but I only
recognize myself in the mirror every fifth morning. I’m becoming
something I don’t fit into anymore, and what is a body if
not a vessel for itself? More to the point—what does
a vessel become when it has nothing to carry?

I don’t want to know the answer. No—I don’t want to know
the answer.

Sophie Hoss is a New York writer who loves the ocean and is in bed by 9pm every night. She is currently pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing and Literature from Stony Brook University. Her fiction and poetry have appeared in BOMB, The Baffler, The LA Review, The Southampton Review, and elsewhere. You can read more of her work at sophiehosswriting.com.

I kissed Emmy that one time.
Who cares?
Identities trap us.
She sat up on my lap like a doll—
it was so sweet.
How could a person not’ve kissed her?
I saw her again, she asked how I was doing and how I’d changed.
I confessed an R-rated snuggle fantasy
then threw in a bit about my Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ.
“..Oh..” she said,
turning me into a child with an imaginary friend.
“I know a lot of people get hurt by that stuff.”

Identities trap us.

I saw
on the middle tennessee news
that an underage high school chick
went missing.

She ran off with her english teacher.
a possible sighting in Indiana,
they said.

He must have:
tricked her
drugged her
raped her
took advantage,
they said.

I bet she came from an abusive family— not the hard-hitting kind,
but the kind that hurts
from the inside out.
That’s not the family
they showed on TV though,
all weepy, tired and innocent.

She kept quiet in class. too quiet.
and he noticed. probably
once there himself.

As the year progressed
they’d exchange e-mails.
“I’m thinking about you”
“Don’t be scared”
little things.
life-saving things.

When they finally hit overload, he offered her a chance to start again. and yes,
HE KNEW
he’d lose his job. money. wife. family. freedom. respect. life.
All for a little warm body to lay next to.

Even if I’m full of shit you can’t really blame them.
Old perverts and sad young girls are two of the same.

Kristen Sirianni makes drunk people tacos for money. She is a Nashville-based artist who enjoys studying people at bars, going to church, and playing with her bug collection. It took her an hour to write this bio. She’s kinda slow.

We shared a small tub of ice-cream on a bench overlooking the river.  Cookies and cream.  It was low tide, which added a stench of shit to our smooth, creamy vanilla.  And because it was low tide and stank like shit, we worried about river rats scampering along wooden pylons, slithering up cracks in the boardwalk to where we sat.  I mentioned a rumour about the river rats being responsible for eating a dog that belonged to a resident of the million-dollar apartments.  So, we got up and moved.

I considered holding your hand while we walked, but you were happily devouring the last of the ice-cream.  I couldn’t interrupt that kind of enjoyment, thought one of us should at least have both hands free in case the rats launched a surprise attack.

We found a rock near the old flour mill.  Its grey surface was surprisingly soft for a rock, and if I didn’t know better, I would say it was perfectly carved in the shape of a seat, especially for us.  

You told me you had never been drunk before, and this impressed me.  I wish I had never been drunk too, but then I probably wouldn’t have possessed the energy and tomfoolery you were attracted to in the first place.  

You didn’t know anything about my mum, and then you told me about yours, how she had battled cancer.  It broke the laughter and brightness that followed us all afternoon.  I told you about mine, how she had battled the same cancer as yours.  We sat in silence for a few seconds, acknowledged we had more in common than favourite ice-cream.  We had the most painful experiences in common, and understood the joyous anxieties attached to words like “remission,” and that life was not to be taken for granted.

I felt a lump in my throat, so fumbled for my packet of Benson and Hedges; had to distract myself, didn’t want to burst into tears on that fucking rock.  I grabbed your empty ice-cream cup and used it as an ashtray.  Once said I didn’t crave cigarettes when I was around you, because you made me feel so good that I forgot all about them.  I wasn’t expecting this commonality though.

We didn’t want the afternoon to end, so continued to your house.  I made sure to walk closest to the highway, because the cars were flying by so damn fast, and I worried about your safety.  

Your dad walked into the kitchen, placed a motorbike part in the oven, shook my hand and walked away.  Your mum was so friendly and welcoming, and offered me Robitussin, because my persistent cough from the recent throat infection was annoying her.  As we walked to your bedroom, I overheard her say to your dad, “he seems lovely, but he wears a lot of black.”

You asked if we were boyfriend and girlfriend, and I wanted to jump and down and scream “YES” to the whole fucking world.  But had to act cool.  

“Maybe we should toss a coin?” I suggested.  “Heads we’re official.”

You looked disappointed and unimpressed, but I tossed the coin anyway.  It was heads.

Your dad called us down for dinner because I think he was nervous about us spending time alone in your room.  I smiled as we walked towards the dining table, and just before we sat down, I muttered “we would’ve been boyfriend and girlfriend if it were tails too.”

On Tuesdays your family had tacos.  I had never tried tacos.  Your family proceeded to throw ingredients together and origami the shit out of these things.  I felt intimidated and you sensed this.  Your parents found it amusing as you helped fold my taco in the right places so it didn’t go everywhere; like all over the black clothes your mum felt were a bit too much.  

I liked the way your carpet felt against my socks.  I liked how your jeans felt against my hand when you placed it on your thigh under the table.  I liked how you held my hand in yours.  I liked how your mum smiled at us.

***

3 years later.

I sat on the edge of the bed, eyes watered.  I stared out the window, right knee bounced up and down.  I felt lightheaded.  Anxiety coursed through every fibre of my body.  

It was hard waking up each day, seeing the house you shared with him.  And it was all the harder while going through two weeks of nicotine withdrawals.

I dunked a large amount of coffee into my cup, waited for the kettle to boil, realised I was out of milk.  I put on some clothes; they weren’t even black.  Walked down to the supermarket, headed towards the milk aisle.  

And there you were.  

You were by yourself, holding a green basket under your arm.  I could smell your Dior perfume and thought I was going to have a panic attack right in front of the fucking milk and cheese.

“Hi,” you said.

Your smile caught me off guard.  It was beautiful like before, but somehow different; like you were happy to see me, but your whole world was falling apart. 

“Did you hear about Mum?” you asked, voice-wavering.  I hadn’t heard such fragility before.

“No,” I replied.

“She passed away on Monday.”

“Fuck,” I gasped.  Couldn’t find the right words.  “I’m very sorry to hear that.”

We shared a heartfelt hug, went our separate ways.  

My knees felt like they were going to buckle as I wandered out of the supermarket.  I didn’t even get the milk.  I walked along the water’s edge, unable to stop.  Feared if I did, I would never get going again.  I walked until I saw a rock.  The rock from that day, with its smooth contours lit up in bright sunshine.  I sat down and fought against tears, gazed across the river.  Hands shook and fumbled, as I placed a cigarette in my mouth. 

I lit the end, breathed deep, hoped it would take me back in time.

Rowan MacDonald is a writer and musician from Australia. His words have previously appeared in a variety of journals, including most recently: Sans. PRESS, Paper Dragon, The Ocotillo Review, and OPEN: Journal of Arts and Letters. When not writing, he enjoys spending time with his dog, sipping cups of tea and reading the words of others.

True blue bed sheets // fingers wrapped around my throat // fists beating on his chest // sharpies leaving permanent stains on my insides // sharpies leaving permanent stains on my psyche // a flatbed truck // the stars above the lake on Labor Day // my first cigar on the bluffs // whispers ceasing when I walk into the bathroom // heckling increasing when I walk across campus // an ever-shifting calendar with too many memories for every day and not enough memories for today // naked album covers and deleted messages // an email that resurfaces after a decade // flashes that refuse to abate, instead bashing against my eyelids until I am swimming in them // the slap of a dog’s tail // the sting of my mother’s palm against my cheek // the burn of her projections // the sharp words reminding me // even when I whittle myself down to fit in their palm // even when I expand to fill the bed // even when I break open to fill the page // even when I am Too Much, I have never been Enough // I will never be what you want // no one can give you that much power

Maggie Bowyer (they/he) is a poet, cat parent, and the author of various poetry collections including Homecoming (2023) and When I Bleed (2021). They are a co-host of the podcast Baked and Bookish. They have been featured in The Abbey Review, Chapter House Journal, The Elevation Review, The South Dakota Review, Wishbone Words, and more. They were the Editor-in-Chief of The Lariat Newspaper, a quarter-finalist in Brave New Voices 2016, and a Marilyn Miller Poet Laureate. You can find their work on Instagram @maggie.writes.

I’m no barfly but given the chance,
Sure, I’ll stop in,
To congregate,
Reveal myself,
With tall tales,
And intoxicated strangers feeling in a funk.

Barflies stop measuring words,
Intent on getting drunk,
Aloof to who can or cannot tolerate,
Extreme states,
Of mindless loves and hates.

The queen appeared on the tv screen,
In her coffin parading through a crowded scene,
All eyes on her were glued, quiet, and serene.
Suddenly a black man sitting near me,
Sputtered, how obscene.

That one was one wicked wretch,
He shouted appearing distressed.
And now she’ll meet the almighty,
Unprotected and without flesh,
Viewing her malice less lightly.

The English accented man,
Was South African,
Holding truths in mind,
Of a perilous history for his own kind.

We suffered oppressive regiments,
That now are cynically denied,
By those same evil-doing elements,
Never indisputably tried.

Dude, so what else is new?
Interjected an inebriated woman,
Covered in tattoos.
Rulers need to rule,
And subjugate for revenue.
She shrieked and argued.

Ignorance is not bliss
Oblivious to Britain’s legacy
You would be remiss.
Us Kenyans were lynched, and rampaged,
To the bone.
For her majesty’s supreme glory,
And deceitful throne.

Tattoo woman sipped her cheap wine,
While everyone wired to his story,
Muttered under our breath,
Good man, I’m sorry.

Pondering over my Jameson on the rocks,
He drank his pint,
Spoke of death,
Of internment camps with locks,
And of families expelled from ancestral lands,
For refusing to relinquish tribal troths.

They think they’re so refined.
Robbing us blind
Of our treasures
For their grotesque museums.
Sacred ancestral objects confined
To treacherous frivolous pleasures.
And my own government,
Embroiled in duplicitous measures.

He went explaining on until,
The anchor pronounced
With convincing skill,
Funeral costs will go into British legend,
Exceeding six billion pounds,
After all, it’s for Queen Elizabeth the Second.

I read later in Wikipedia,
The Koh-i-noor
Belonging to India,
Sits front center in England’s crown,
With thousands other looted gems around.

Human contact is the privilege,
Afforded by bars in the East Village,
Where spirits fermenting in alcohol,
Reveal the nectar of experience,
Unfolding heart souls
In an alchemy royale of deliverance.

I
FROM THE ANSWERING MACHINE OF CAROLINE MAYHEW

20/09/1998
Hey, this is Denis. Denis from high school… Yeah. Er – it was nice speaking to you again earlier today. Good to catch up. And – well – it’s just nice to not be the only one to know what’s happening. Listen, I have that information you wanted me to get for you. I, uh, I’d like to meet up. I’ll be at the south entrance of Rosemoor Park at seven o’clock tonight. Uh – wear a red shirt and jeans?

20/09/1998
Hey, this is Denis again. You – um – you didn’t show up tonight. You’re not getting cold feet, are you? … Alright, uh, I’m gonna be at the Black Bear Grill tomorrow for lunch. Stop by. I’ll have the documents with me.

21/09/1998
It’s me again. Listen, I don’t know what’s going on… You know – you’re the only other person who does. Did you tell someone about – about all of this? There was a guy… at the Grill. I don’t know. I’m being paranoid. Tell me I have no reason to be.

22/09/1998
Caroline, it’s Denis again. I called your office. They haven’t seen you in a while. What’s going on? Are you okay? Do you still want that information?

22/09/1998
Okay, Caroline. You’re really starting to scare me. Don’t make me come down there. Pick up the phone.

23/09/1998
Hi. This is Denis… Listen, Caroline. I’m sorry I scared you. I need you to know that I had nothing to do with – with all of that stuff you found. I just wanted to make sure you were alright. Please call me back.

25/09/1998
Hey, it’s me. I’m calling from a hotel. I was right – they have someone following me. Someone tried to break into my house last night… I’m okay. I still have the documents. I think we should find somewhere safe to store them for now. Let’s meet at our usual place – I don’t think it’s safe for you to stay at your place, either.

II
EARS

BROWN: That’s it? That’s all we have? They were onto something. Something big. We need to find out what hotel he was staying at. Maybe we can get access to the cameras, see if we can find anything else out.

GAGNE: Well, you’re in luck. I’ve got a hit on Denis Lawson’s vehicle. It’s parked at the Forest Inn Hotel.

BROWN: Well, come on! Get your coat. Maybe we’ll find something in his car or his room.

GAGNE: En route to Forest Inn Hotel. I repeat: en route to Forest Inn Hotel. Get there before we do. I’ll stall.

BROWN: Hey, you coming?

GAGNE: Right behind you!

III
FROM THE ANSWERING MACHINE OF ELIZA BROWN

30/09/1998
Detective Brown, this is Denis Lawson calling. I got your number from… a colleague who told me that the police is looking for me and Caroline – Caroline Mayhew? Well, I just wanted to let you know that we’re both just fine. We’re not missing, we’re not taken – uh, we’re just taking a little trip together. Er – reconnecting. That sort of thing. Anyway, um, thanks for your concern, but I just called to tell you we’re… really alright. Bye now.

IV
EARS

GAGNE: Let it go, will you? The guy called you, and he said they’re OK. False alarm.

BROWN: I don’t buy it. Not for a second. No – seriously! We never heard from Caroline, we still don’t know where they are, and this Denis guy sounds like he’s not even sure about what he’s saying. And he got my home number from a colleague? What colleague? How? I don’t like it.

GAGNE: Well, I do. And so does Becker. Case dismissed, Eliza. Let’s move on. We’ve got five fresh missing persons cases this morning. We can’t waste time looking for someone who’s obviously doing ‘just fine’.

BROWN: That’s just it. I don’t think they’re doing fine at all.

GAGNE: Eliza…

BROWN: Okay, hear me out. We go to the hotel. The car is gone by the time we get there. How does that happen?

GAGNE: So, he came back and took his car. That’s the opposite of criminal.

BROWN: No – it’s more than that. We start getting close to anything with this case, and something gets in the way. Like this message. Like the car. Like Caroline’s landlady suddenly remembering that she saw her get in a car with Denis, suitcase in hand. It’s so neat – too neat.

GAGNE: Maybe it’s neat because there’s nothing wrong. Seriously, Eliza. Let it go, huh?

BROWN: What I want to know is… How did they know? Hm? It’s like they’ve been with us every step of the way…

GAGNE: …Eliza.

BROWN: Yeah, yeah. I know. Five new cases. Alright, let’s see what we’ve got.

V
FROM ROSEMOOR FM, 6 O’CLOCK NEWS SEGMENT

3/10/1998
And, in a shocking turn of events, Detective Eliza Brown of the Rosemoor PD was attacked by one of her own in her home late last night, and is currently in critical condition despite fighting bravely for her life. The culprit, who died during the struggle, was Detective Robert Gagne, Detective Brown’s partner of five years. Rosemoor PD has refused to comment but assure us that a spokesperson will speak to press when more information is uncovered regarding this brutal attack.

VI
FROM THE ANSWERING MACHINE OF ELIZA BROWN

17/10/1998
Welcome home, Eliza. Sorry to hear about your partner. We gave him one job… You’re a very intelligent woman. Be satisfied with knowing. Otherwise, we’ll find someone else to finish the job Robert started. We took care of Denis and Caroline. We can take care of you, too. Get well soon.

In her younger (and spritelier) days, Hyba devoured stacks of books every week, and they, in turn, stoked a passion for the craft of writing. Now, she has published her psychological thriller, Apartment, and is excited for her next release: Marie/Elise, an all-engrossing, twisted murder mystery. When she isn’t writing, Hyba is teaching languages, playing video games, podcasting, and jumping from one passion project to the next.

is death:
a liman at the mouth of that profound dark,
the salt river Styx, bracken,
the loamy shores
thickly painted against a silt sky.
But here sits a cradle, a creche,
a place for birth and breath.
Mud foam bubbles with whispered life,
it is the hand that molds itself
from itself – creates its own worth
from being, breathing. And
what is worth anyway
when there is so little measurement
beyond useful and not,
beyond lovely and not,
beyond the shortness of thought
that refuses ability to think beyond
I like it or not.
Who are you to say –
not God, not Nature
(and these thoughts are unnatural).
The true judge here is the hand,
the maker making of itself
good bones that bend (or don’t);
a wide, smiling mouth that speaks (or doesn’t);
bright eyes that see (or don’t);
life itself from the dark profound,
from matter you scrape from your boot,
or ignore. You do not get to name this place,
bitter, sour, deep place of dark,
of ugly. But you belong here.
The surprise ending to your course,
to all courses, of course,
is this place that exists
before and after beauty.

Rhiannon Conley is a poet and writing instructor living in North Dakota. Her work has appeared in Occulum, Literary Mama, Longleaf Review, the Penn Review, Rust + Moth, Stirring and more. She was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2016 and 2018 and for Best of the Net in 2018. Her chapbook, Less Precious, was published by Semiperfect Press in 2017 and her newest collection The Most Common Symptom is Pain was published with Bottlecap Press in 2020. Find more of her work at http://admidas.net