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Twenty seventeen was the year the starling got trapped in the wall. It was seeking warmth from the cold in order to survive. It clawed and fluttered behind the wall and inside my mind. After two days, I took a hammer to the plaster. I must have forgotten birds have wings. I was prepared to reach down and grab the tiny creature, but as soon as I put my hand through the hole, it stuck its head out. Its wings brushed my skin as it flew past me into the kitchen. I opened the window and it flew back into the cold. It flew back in order to survive. Starlings are mocking birds. They can be taught to speak. They sound ungodly. Like a demon mimicking the voice of a child. I think it’s beautiful. After that, it got worse. I know what you’re thinking. What got worse? But if I could name it, I’d be able to control it—like a golem. It is something like air. I know when a house is haunted because it feels empty even when it is not. Whatever you try to do to make it feel like home, it doesn’t work. If you put a vase of flowers on the hutch, for example, the bouquet no longer looks beautiful like it did in the store. It just becomes another thing for the echos to bounce off of. But this is not a haunting, no. It is more like the feeling you get when you drive by a shop that sells headstones. All you can imagine is what person, on earth, will have one of these for their markers? It makes you think of illness, accidents, and violence. But it is not death either. It is like the feeling when you are alone in the ER, and nobody knows you are there, fearing there could be something very wrong with your body. Hours bleed into an eternity, and you wonder if all you’ve ever experienced is sitting in that emergency waiting room. Everything that went before is just a thought, a dream, a fancy. And there will never be an after. When they tell you there is nothing wrong, you think, what about the pain in my chest? You realize it is heartache. This is not quite heartache, though. When I say it got worse, what I am talking about is the thing that lives on the other side of hope. As it gets stronger, the hope gets stronger until the hope is overpowered and shrivels like a flower in a drought. But it is not hopelessness I am talking about either. It is more like if you are a statue wanting to be human—so much that you believe you are made of flesh. You dream about it. And you live in the dream. And the more you feel your hardness, the more vibrant and fluent the dreams become. Until one day there is a mutiny you cannot run from, and someone has lopped off your head. There is no more denying that you are made of stone. And now you understand that humans are the enemy, so you do not want to be one anymore anyway. The dreams stop. That’s what this is. That’s precisely it—the stopping of dreams. Or maybe it is not exactly the stopping of dreams, but what enters in their place. Lately I have been looking at my hands, checking to make sure my fingers are still there. I first noticed the gray color on the foot of the stairs. I did not think anything of it because the stairs are a whitish sort of concrete anyway. It must be paint, I think. Or weathered. Or maybe it was always here, and I haven’t noticed it before. Then, the ceiling—which had always sagged—grew a crack overnight. My husband purchased renter’s insurance because of it. I stare at it often. On occasion, I imagine the roof caving in. A giant hole reveals the sky. In my imagination, years and years of dead critters, bird shit, bugs, leaves and rot come down behind the plaster. It falls on top of me like a message: “After all you’ve accomplished in life—this.” Every week, my husband measures the crack to make sure it isn’t growing. I am not sure why it matters. It will not change our fate. It—the thing that worsens—peeks over my shoulder while washing dishes and slithers away out the corner of my sight, like an elusive animal. After a while, it started to grow in my throat. At times I cannot breathe. Sometimes, I want to vomit it out. Instead, I care for it. It became my darling. I covet it and protect it like a mama bear. If you were to ask me why I am like ice, I would answer, “My darling makes me very, very cold.” I will not tell my husband about it. He would not understand. I won’t tell anyone. It isn’t like a secret, but more like an ancient manuscript written in a language that only I can read. Then, the gray appeared again in the form of footprints. It looked as though someone with large, bare feet had stepped in paint and into the bathtub. But it was less like paint, and more like gray light. Like an old black-and-white film that had been colorized except for in those two spots. I could not figure out how there were not more footprints. There was no path. It was as though someone had teleported from the outside steps directly to the tub. “Do you see that?” I asked my husband. “See what?” he said. I wished he had just said no. “Nothing,” I said. Because that’s all it was. Nothing. I went to bed that night and pulled the covers up to my chin. Then I pulled them over my face as though I was a child trying to hide. There was someone in the bed next to me. It wasn’t my husband. It was a stranger. And it is still there, night after night. Every night, I stay awake with fear and sleep very little. If I laugh it isn’t because I’m happy. I think people only laugh when they need to. Like when they’ve had enough of not laughing. Or some people are always laughing and making jokes because deep down inside they are too serious. And they don’t want anyone to know that they think of death often. For me, laughing is a fortress and within it I am free to go mad. My smile tricks people. It makes them think I’m lovely when I am the opposite. Now it is winter. The cold seeps in through the cracks in the beadboard like tiny hands stretching toward me and pinching my skin. We don’t turn up the heat. It is a waste. I used to hate the cold. I am accustomed to it now. I touch my face to make sure I’m not dreaming. It feels rough. I turn around. I do not see it. I only feel it expanding out. It is not nothing. It is like air. It is like a haunting. It is like death. It is like heartache. It is like hopelessness. It is like the thing that replaces dreams when they stop—but it is none of these things. It is much, much worse. I am choking. “My darling. My darling,” I say. I cannot breathe. My husband asks me what is wrong. I caw the word in a low eerie whisper with a bit of a whistle, “Nothing.” He leaves the room. I begin to doubt my memory of the starling flying out of the window. It had flown into my throat. It is mocking my thoughts. There are mice living in the oven. All three cats are lined up in front of it, waiting for one to emerge. The mice do not come out. I have only ever seen their tails escaping into the vent. I sometimes think it is not tails I see, but giant spider legs. I am concerned there is a very large spider living inside of the oven. I become hungry for it. “What should we have for dinner?” My husband asks me. I do not speak because of my darling. I’m afraid of what I will say. Of what it will say. I write down on an old receipt: Pasta. My husband looks at me and looks at the paper. He walks away, his face gnarled with scorn. I have done something wrong. I look at the paper. It does not say Pasta. It says: Worms. I decide to go into the living room and read my book. It is about a ten-year-old girl trapped in a cave. She is trying to make a fire by hitting rocks together because she saw it in a movie. She creates an imaginary helper named BoBo. I put the book down and look out the window and think, BoBo is not real. It is not BoBo who helps her, but she who helps herself. I become sad because I know that she will not succeed in making a fire. Bobo fails her. My husband interrupts my thoughts. “The crack has grown a centimeter,” he says. I do not care. I look in the mirror. The gray has attacked my hair. For the first time since twenty seventeen, I panic. I dye it with box dye. It works. “Your hair is gray. What happened?” My husband says. I look at my reflection in a butter knife. My hair is black. “No. It isn’t.” I slam my fist on the table, tired of the lies. For the first time, I think I might want to kill him. The violence does not bother me. I glare at him and look down at my plate of worms. They squirm around each other like they are one entity. I try to grab my fork, but when I look down at my hands, I see that my fingers are gone. I slurp the meal directly into my mouth. My husband is disgusted. He grabs my plate and throws it across the room. The worms scatter. “I am not cleaning that up.” I say. I go to the bathroom and the entire bathtub is gray now. Because he can see my hair despite the dye, I say to my husband, “The bathtub is gray,” hoping he sees it. He corrects me, “The bathtub is white.” I am confused and alone. He spits in the sink without rinsing it. It is a message. He is angry with me. My darling is growing bigger now, and it is becoming more and more difficult to breathe. My coughing is more violent, but my darling does not come out. I think about reaching down there and grabbing it, but my hand is too large and my fingers are gone. I am followed by the thing that is becoming increasingly worse. It expands like an uncomfortable silence as my darling grows. Its density increases like the yearning of a house after many years abandoned. I stare at the ceiling again. The growth of the crack is more powerful than a clock. I am relieved to know that time is passing. My husband does not speak to me unless to inform me of whether or not the crack has grown. I have started to care about the length of the crack. When it does not grow, I am afraid. Today, the entire bathroom is gray. I have not left the house in three days. I am uncertain if the patch on the outside steps has become bigger. I feel that it has. My husband arrives home from work. I do not tell him about the bathroom. He approaches me as I stare at the crack in the ceiling again. He asks, “What do you want for dinner tonight?” I do not mean to open my mouth. It just happens. In a high-pitched, sibilant voice, I ask, “What do you want for dinner tonight?” I gasp. “Darling, hush!” My husband steps closer to me, looks into my eyes, and says, “What the fuck is wrong with you lately?” He leaves the room, heavy-footed. I hear him throw or break something at the other end of the apartment. I walk into the bedroom. The mirror is shattered. I look at my reflection. It is not so much that I am broken, as it is that there seems to be more of me than is necessary. Too many eyes. I tell myself this was an accident. I pull a black, shiny feather from my mouth. This morning, as usual, the stranger is there, but this time it fills the room. It follows me as I walk into the kitchen. I do not think it is everywhere. Rather, it is as though I am inside of my own atmosphere. It no longer peeks over my shoulder, or scurries away from me, because I exist inside of it. My darling scratches at my throat. I cough up blood and more feathers. I have an even harder time breathing. I think I might die if my darling does not leave me soon. I am sitting in front of the stove with the cats waiting for the spider to emerge. I am ready for battle. The crack grows, little by little. By March, something exciting happens. My husband says, “I think the ceiling is sagging considerably more now.” My eyes alight, I spend an entire day fixated on the damage. The robins start to nest in the hole on the side of the house that will never get fixed. The landlord does not fix things. The hole is right below the window frame. The white cat tries to stick his paw into the crevice in the wood from the inside. I feel the fear of the birds, and I begin to dread all three cats. They look at me now with hungry eyes. They wait for my darling. The rest of the time, they sleep as though they are innocent. The crack has grown significantly. It is shaped like a giant, half-closed eye or a bad gash—wide in the middle. It is only a matter of time. I go outside for the first time in four days. There is no fresh air, and I do not feel free in the space around me. It is filled with the thing that will soon become the worst. A neighbor says hello and starts a conversation. I smile, swallow and pray for her to go away. “How have you been?” she asks. Great. I answer. Except I do not say it. I smile a little larger and nod. Finally, she leaves. I let out a sigh of relief while my darling releases a soft squeal. The gray is conquering more things. The sycamore tree—doused with a bucket of colorlessness. A streak across the neighbor’s front lawn looks a bit like field marking. The mailbox has been tainted by it. I have no reason to be out here, so I turn around to go back inside. The entire building is gray. I do not understand how this is happening. I do not care to know why. My darling is hungry. It pecks at my uvula, mistaking it for a worm. The pain is terrible. I walk into our building hoping it is only the outside of the house that has lost its color, but I know the opposite is true. I ascend the gray stairs, open the gray door and enter the gray room. The white cat scurries by with a baby bird in its mouth. The calico bats around a terrified mouse. The surrounding pressure prevents me from weeping. I stare at the ceiling. The crack has become a hole. A sliver of blue peers through it. In a world of gray, it is the most beautiful sight. My husband comes home from work. The dishes are not done. The floor has not been vacuumed. The bed is not made, and supper is not prepared. He emerges from the bedroom, livid—stepped in spilt water with a freshly socked foot. I am preoccupied with the ceiling. He stands in front of me, as he is wont to do. He does not speak. He is a very large cat. I no longer fear being eaten. He swats at me with the strength of a lion. I try to shield my face with my fingerless hands, but my arms do not move. I am paralyzed—a carved replica of myself. He swats again, rendering me headless. The ceiling collapses. A storm of rot descends toward me, then—black. I am no longer distinguishable from the debris. My darling pokes its tiny noggin from the stone hollow of my throat. To my delight, I now see with its eyes. I hop upon the edge of a neck which is no longer mine. I wonder how to escape into the blue through the unclimbable air. Then I remember: Birds have wings. Inside my fortress, I go mad. Or maybe this is happiness. Elizabeth Jacobs is an artist and writer hailing from Boston, Massachusetts. She has a BFA in painting from Massachusetts College of Art, and an MA in Mental Health Counseling from Boston Graduate School of Psychoanalysis. Her artwork has appeared in local exhibitions, and has been published in the French magazine 3e’Millénaire, Emerson College’s Thread, and most recently in Broken Antler Magazine. On her fortieth birthday, she decided to be a writer. She loves channeling unreliable characters struggling with the conditions of reality. In her spare time, she operates Mystic Blue Studio, where she practices energy healing, reads tarot, paints and makes jewelry out of antique buttons. She currently lives in Providence, Rhode Island with three cats, an unreasonable amount of plants, and one husband.

I sleep in a dream generated in the nightmares and eat scraps of hope, milled in the impersonal and mechanical time’s machine. Scraps that feed me to be no more than a dry tree, searching for pulling and unwinding roots that capture me on the ground. I prevailed over fate that once deceived me and now walk and will spread my life around. I wish distemper, hallucinate and extrapolate, horrifying who has enchanted and eluded me in that dark and deaf land, that was not mine. I will go, doubtlessly renewed man, in search not of a drop of water but of one rain that rains thunder and lightning, the same like the flood that has baptized our era. I will reap fruits that, blessed by my hands and hard a toil, by sure will make me more and more strong. I will make love to my wife in sheets of soft Chinese silk and we will be asleep in a bed of fragrant Lebanon woods. Not that I deserve more than Abraham, who only had a glimpse of the Promised Land, but, of this new one, God willing, I will take secure possession. Edilson Afonso Ferreira, 80 years, is a Brazilian poet who writes in English rather than in Portuguese. Widely published in international literary journals, he began writing at age 67, after his retirement from a bank. Since then, he counts 190 poems published, in 300 different publications. He has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and his first Poetry Collection – Lonely Sailor – was launched in London in 2018. His second, Joie de Vivre, has been launched in April 2022. He is always updating his works at www.edilsonmeloferreira.com.

So it (just perhaps maybe) DOES turn out That those psychology class bummer tropes --Sadder But Wiser and Depressive Realism-- Simply ain’t true, leading toward other old conclusions About Positive Illusions’ ability to enhance our performances By bits of self-delusion which are helpful for getting through life: Gerardo must believe in yourself a little more than reality warrants Per minister Norman Vincent Peales’s 1952 Power of Positive Thinking. Gerard Sarnat won San Francisco Poetry’s Contest, Poetry in First Place Award, the Dorfman Prize, and has been nominated for handfuls of 2021 and previous Pushcarts/Best of the Net Awards. Gerry's published in Tokyo Poetry Journal, Buddhist Poetry Review, Gargoyle, Main Street Rag, New Delta Review, Northampton Review, New Haven Poetry Institute, Texas Review, Vonnegut Journal, Brooklyn Review, San Francisco Magazine, Monterey Poetry Review, Los Angeles Review, and New York Times as well as by Harvard, Stanford, Dartmouth, Penn, Chicago and Columbia presses. He’s authored the collections Homeless Chronicles (2010), Disputes (2012), 17s (2014), and Melting the Ice King (2016). Gerry's a physician who’s built/staffed clinics for the marginalized, Stanford professor and healthcare CEO. Currently he's devoting energy/resources to deal with climate justice, and serves on Climate Action Now’s board. Gerry’s been married since 1969 with three kids/six grandsons, and is looking forward to future granddaughters. gerardsarnat.com

Lift the sash, let your pale leaves taste the late summer air. Welcome the balmy wind, all pollen and dust settling on sad arms of empty furniture. Hear more clearly the dove’s lament, beauty and sorrow, a home remembered from last night’s dream as the owl drew close, the blue jay’s taunt setting sparrow eggs trembling in their hidden nests. Now, go ahead, raise a stuck window, breathe in the breath of August that kills us and lets us live in this life. Nels Hanson has worked as a farmer, teacher and editor. His fiction received the James D. Phelan award from the San Francisco Foundation, and his poetry the Prospero Prize from Sharkpack Review.

“I don’t want to do it.” Dorothy scowled at her little sister Margaret as she opened the box and pulled out the ouija board, being careful not to knock over the candles when she set the box aside. “You never want to do anything,” she replied, taking the planchette and offering it to Margaret. Margaret flinched away, but their youngest sister, Ruth – only six but brave as a lion – grabbed it herself. She settled herself on the rug across from Dorothy, legs tucked under her dress – black, just like those of her sisters. “I’ll do it,” said Ruth, turning the planchette over and sticking her finger in the hole at the center. “What are we doing again?” “Something silly,” Margaret said, at the same time Dorothy said, “Talking to Mama.” “We’re talking to Mama,” Dorothy said again, louder and stressing every word. Margaret huffed and sat heavily on the chair at the desk next to the window. Since the attic playroom also served as their school room, there were three desks, one for each of them, but the one next to the window was the best because it had a nice view of the town square, just across the road from their house. On this day, the view was not quite so nice. The sky was gray and rain fell heavy, as it had every day since Mama died. Red and orange leaves had fallen from the trees that lined their yard and turned to brown sludge that clogged up the drains, causing little floods in the streams that ran down the gutters. Mama’s funeral had been that morning, a wet and dreary affair, and then everyone had come to the house for a party. The children thought it was strange to have a party about Mama’s death – weren’t parties for happy occasions, like birthdays and Easter and Christmas? But Papa insisted it was right and also insisted that they needed to be quiet and behave as long as there were people in the house. Dorothy took it on herself to keep her younger sisters in check; they accepted cheek pinches and saccharine words of sympathy with grace. Once the door closed on the departure of the last guest and Papa released them, Dorothy grabbed the ouija board from the hall closet and herded the other two up to the attic. Back in the room, which was growing dimmer by the moment as the sun set, Ruth’s eyebrows pulled together in confusion. “Mama’s in the ground. How can we talk to her if she’s in the ground?” Dorothy answered, “We can talk to her spirit. Remember how Reverend Jones said Mama’s spirit is with God now?” Ruth frowned, but nodded. “Well, we might be able to use the ouija board to find her spirit, and talk to it. Her.” “I’d like to talk to her. I miss Mama.” Ruthie tried to spin the planchette around her finger, but it kept slipping off. “I miss her too,” Margaret said with a sigh. “I don’t want to forget her. I’m going to name my daughter after her.” “I’m going to name my daughter after her,” Dorothy said firmly. “I’m not having any babies at all,” Ruthie added. “But I won’t forget her.” “Who is going to teach us, now that Mama is gone?” Margaret asked into the silence that followed. She picked up one of the pencils from the cup on the desk and then dropped it, causing the whole cup to rattle. Dorothy answered self-importantly, “I heard Papa talking to Reverend Jones earlier. He’s going to ask Miss Miller to teach us, until he has a chance to hire a live-in governess.” Margaret kicked the desk leg. “I don’t want a governess.” Dorothy snorted and carefully lifted the planchette off Ruth’s finger, in order not to hurt her. “You’re going to have a governess.” “What’s a governess?” Ruth asked, watching with interest as Dorothy set the planchette on the board. “It’s like a new mama,” Margaret grumbled. “New Mama!” Ruth exclaimed, her expression a combination of hope and horror. “Hush, Meg.” Dorothy shot her a reproachful glance. “Ruthie, a governess is a private tutor. She’ll teach us during the day, like Mama did, and at night she might spend time with us. Reading, and the like.” “Like Mama did.” Dorothy ignored Margaret that time. Ruth frowned. “Dotty, why can’t Missus Clark be our governess?” “Missus Clark is the housekeeper, she has enough work to do. And Miss Baker can’t do it because she’s the cook. And Papa can’t do it, because he has to go to work every day to pay for the house and everything else.” “I understand.” Ruth nodded. “So how are we going to talk to Mama’s spirit?” “Through the ouija board. Look, put two fingers on this – that’s the planchette.” Dorothy placed two fingers of her right hand on the wooden object. Ruth quickly followed suit. “Margaret?” Dorothy glanced up at her other sister, who stared at the rain running down the windowpane. “It’s not going to work,” she said quietly. Dorothy turned her attention back to the board. “Fine. We’ll do it ourselves. Ruthie, let’s move it around a bit, to warm it up.” Together, the girls pushed the planchette around the board in a loose figure eight pattern. After a minute, Dorothy took a deep breath and began to speak. “Spirits of the realm. We’d like to talk to our Mama. Um, please?” Nothing happened. She tried again. “We’d like to talk to our Mama, Emma Danielson. She died on Wednesday.” The air around them moved, causing the light from the candle to flicker across the wall. Ruth gasped. “Mama?” Under their fingers, the planchette shifted, pulling their fingers until the circle landed over the letter Q. Dorothy stared for a moment, confused. “Q?” “What does Q mean?” Ruthie asked. “Maybe it wants us to ask a question.” “What kind of question?” “That’s not Mama,” Margaret interjected. Dorothy ignored her again, and instead asked the obvious question. “Oh, spirit, are you our Mama?” The planchette shivered and moved again. Ruthie narrated letters as it moved. “W… H… A… T.” “What,” Margaret translated. “Maybe it didn’t hear the question,” Dorothy said. “I’ll ask again. Oh, spirit, are you our Mama?” “L… O… L,” Ruthie spoke again. “Lol.” Dorothy shook her head. “What on earth does lol mean?” “That’s not Mama,” Margaret said again. “Maybe this spirit speaks another language?” “Or maybe L O L stands for something else? What is that called?” Ruth scrunched up her face in thought. “Acronym.” Dorothy answered, at the same time the planchette moved again. “W… H… Y… R… U…” “This is…” Dorothy looked up at Margaret. “Can you write this down?” Without a word, Margaret opened up a notebook and pulled a pencil from the cup, and started writing the letters as Ruth recited them. When she was done, she read out what was written there. “Why ru doing this.” “Roo?” Ruthie said. “What’s a roo? R O O?” “No.” Margaret shook her head. “The two letters, R and U.” “Are you,” Dorothy said. “She means ‘why are you doing this.’” Then, addressing the board again, she said, “Spirit, we are doing this to reach our mother, Emma Danielson. Do you know Emma Danielson?” The planchette swiftly shifted up the board, settling on YES. (Emma, come on. What are you doing?) The excitement in the room was palpable. Even Margaret leaned forward. Ruth, too, lifted herself up on her knees and leaned right over the board, never taking her fingers off the planchette. “Yes? The spirit knows Mama?” “May we speak to her?” Dorothy’s voice shook. Again, Ruth narrated. “L… O… L… YES.” “Ugh.” Margaret leaned back again. “So confusing.” “But the spirit said yes,” Dorothy insisted, and took a steadying breath. “Is… is this our Mama? Emma Danielson?” (Emma! We’re going to be late!) “It’s still moving!” Ruthie said. “I… M… E… M… M…” “I M–I think that's I'm–Emma Dan–” Margaret began, but Ruth interrupted her. “Emma Danlielson!” “Let me finish, Ruthie. I am Emma Danielson Smith. I am not your mama.” “Oh no.” Tears gathered in the corners of Ruth’s eyes. “Did Mama forget us when she died?” “Don’t be ridiculous,” Dorothy chided. “Emma Danielson Smith. This is the spirit of someone else with Mama’s name.” “Or the spirit is taunting us.” Margaret signed and set down her pencil. “Or Dorothy is taunting us. Ruthie, do you think Dotty is leading the planchette?” “No!” The youngest and oldest sisters cried out together. “She is not!” Ruthie used her free hand to wipe a tear from her cheek. “The planchette is moving on its own. I’m sure.” “I’m not doing anything, Meg,” Dorothy grumbled, reaching across the board to wipe her sister’s other cheek with her own thumb. “I’m only trying to get in touch with Mama.” “Fine.” Margaret huffed. “Then ask another question.” “Spirit of Emma,” Dorothy began. “Where are you?” Ruth spoke, and Margaret wrote, and when the planchette finally came to a halt, Margaret read back what she had written. “How did u–you–get my pound sign.” Dorothy frowned. “What an odd thing for a spirit to say.” “We don’t have her pound sign, do we?” Ruthie asked. “I don’t even know what that means.” Dorothy shrugged. “Spirit of Emma, we do not have your pound sign.” After a few seconds, the planchette moved again. (Come on, Sweetie. You don’t want to be late to the funeral.) A minute later, Margaret read: “Did my mom give it to you.” Rain dripped in the silence that followed. “Her mama?” Ruth’s eyes, wide, shined in the gathering gloom. “Is Emma a child, too?” (Emma, I'm sorry but if you don’t come right now, I’m going to take your phone away. We need to get in the car now.) (I’m coming, Aunt Kay! Please don’t take my phone. I need it!) “Spirit of Emma, are you a child too?” They had to wait several long minutes for an answer, and when the planchette finally started to move again, aside from the illumination of the candles the room was completely dark. The rain had quieted, so the only sounds were the rasp of the planchette across the surface of the board, in harmony with the scratch of Margaret’s pencil across the page. Dorothy and Ruth sat patiently while Margaret made sense of the letters. “How old are you. What is your name. And just call me Emma.” “Emma, I am Dorothy, my friends call me Dotty. I am thirteen. My sister Meg is ten, and Ruthie is six.” (What are you doing? You’re being awfully quiet. Do you want to talk? It’s okay to talk.) The planchette moved again almost at once, swiftly moving from letter to letter. “I’m 12. Why are you looking for your Mama.” “Because she died, and we want to talk to her. To her spirit.” It was Ruthie who spoke this time, her voice soft and low, but it didn’t seem to matter to Emma. Not even a minute later, the planchette moved again. (I’m texting with a friend. Some new friends.) Margaret translated again: “My mom died too. I’m driving to her funeral now. I miss her so much.” The girls in the attic looked at each other, the orange glow of the candlelight dancing strange shadows across their faces. “Emma doesn’t sound dead,” Margaret said. “Her mama died too,” Ruth said wistfully. “I like her,” Dorothy added. (That’s good, Sweetie. It’s important to have friends.) Footsteps sounded slow and heavy on the stairs. “Girls,” the housekeeper, Mrs. Clark, called as she climbed. “It’s time for dinner! Miss Baker has cooked up quite a feast. What are you children doing up here?” “We need to put this away before she sees it,” Dorothy whispered, before raising her voice slightly and speaking quickly. “Emma, we need to go. Can we talk to you again?” The planchette’s movements were rapid, but thankfully Emma communicated more quickly than Mrs. Clark ascended stairs. “Me too. And yes, you have my pound sign, call any time. Ttyl.” Margaret read the words breathlessly as Dorothy packed up the ouija board and planchette, shoving the box under the desk just as Mrs Clark opened the door. “Oh, goodness!” She exclaimed. “Why are you sitting up here in the dark?” “We were talking about Mama,” Ruth said, pushing herself up to stand. “Well, that’s good,” Mrs Clark said. “Emma was quite a woman, and deserves to be remembered. Blow out the candles, now, and let’s go downstairs. Your Papa’s had a long day, and he wants you all to himself tonight.” As the sisters followed Mrs Clark down the stairs, Margaret whispered to Dorothy, “What do you think T T Y L means?” Dorothy shrugged. “I don’t know. But if we get in contact with Emma again, perhaps she’ll tell us.” Kay glanced over at her niece sitting quietly in the passenger seat. The only sound was the patter of rain on the roof of the car, and the flap of the windshield wipers working hard to toss it aside. Emma had finally set her phone down and was staring out the window at the rivulets running down the sidewalk. “Done chatting with your new friends?” “They had to go.” “You know them from school?” Emma thought for a moment. “Something like that. They’re sisters. Their mom died too, so…” Kay swallowed around the lump in her throat, the one that formed when she got the phone call and hadn’t really gone away since. Emma’s mom Leah had been Kay’s twin, so Kay knew something about sisters, and about loss. “It will be good to talk to someone who understands how you’re feeling.” “Yeah.” Emma finally turned to look at her aunt, and smiled for the first time in days. “I think it will.” Inspired by H. P. Lovecraft, M. R. James, Shirley Jackson, Robert Aickman, and a ton of fan fiction, Cassandra Daucus (she/her) writes soft horror and dark romance. She is intrigued by how the human mind responds to the unknown, and also enjoys a good gross-out. She has stories in Ooze: Little Bursts of Body Horror, October Screams, Mouthfeel Fiction, and Witch House, and forthcoming from Hungry Shadow Press, From Beyond Press, and others. Cassandra lives outside of Philadelphia with her family and three cats. Her social media and website can be found at https://linktr.ee/residualdreaming

Those who debunk the supernatural can’t have ever experienced it When I read about Blake seeing the soul of his brother rise up through the ceiling clapping with joy I remember thinking… Did this really happen? Wasn’t it just his imagination? Surely it must have been After all, he chatted to an angel while he and his wife sat naked in their garden in Peckham Am I really expected to believe all that? And yet he wrote poems we still recite and sing today I was dubious I must admit until my wife died Being a Buddhist, her body should not be moved The police wouldn’t have it. Were quite adamant Said I had to phone an undertaker right away When I explained that this was a matter of faith they called their supervisor, who finally arrived even younger-looking than them but understood gave his permission as long as it was just three days At first lamas and friends came and chanted while candles flickered and incense burnt On the second night, going to bed I stopped Decided to sit quietly beside her There I soon became aware of a brightness I looked around for a source. Maybe the streetlights? No, the blinds were down. It was nothing I could see Then I saw the light was moving upwards I breathed in and realized what I’d been told was true This was her consciousness leaving her body rippling like small waves moving towards a shore upwards gently without a sound Dai Vaughan lives in Glasgow, in the West of Scotland, having moved there from the Western Isles. He’s an artist and poet. His main subjects are travel and the esoteric. He’s published seven books and has given several readings in the city. He has a website, daivaughan.weebly.com, and lived and worked with his wife Jenny, also an artist and writer, for fifty-four years until her death in April 2022. Some of their work can be seen at jennyvaughan.co.uk/jenny-cv/

Might I decay, in russet brilliance, just like you, leaf. Fall adopts her prettiest dress when the singing thrush appears. With age might an empathy of improved humanity suffuse my being and radiate, outward, like the color of a maple tree. The sap of youth cooks to the sugar of measured thinking. The leaf, with its final dissolution, breathes into the earth’s garden newfound joy and rebirth. Children play in mounds of yellow and red whispers that are only the laughter of those jolly souls who have gone before. Heather Sager lives in Illinois where she writes poetry and fiction. Her most recent writing appears in The Basilisk Tree, Backwards Trajectory, Black Poppy Review, ZiN Daily, Cosmic Daffodil, Remington Review, ActiveMuse, The Closed Eye Open, Magma, Spinozablue, and more journals.

It’s the Ace of Wands, of Clubs. The card of talent. On its head. Telling me to look before I leap, but please, “Do not forget to leap.”* The Five of Cups questions if the bottomless glass is half full or fully empty, and I’m simply nudged to drink it up. Transcendence depends on my mood. “It all depends on the moon.” The Queen of Hearts intervenes. Generally reminiscent of my mother, always drowning in emotion, but today the archetype prompts my stoned heart to unravel the inebriation. Show the World I care. Last to arrive is Salvation, The High Priest, the fifth, [ The Pope ] pleads for a return to my vocation, to abandon my abdication. Addiction is only a throne for the wicked, and “The bottom of the bottle hits back.” * From Tarot Secrets: A Fast and Easy Way to Learn a Powerful Ancient Art by Amy Zerner and Monte Farber Gina Moriarty is an emerging writer who earned her MFA through Chatham University in Pittsburgh where her thesis was the recipient of the Katherine Ayres Award. She's mostly a nonfiction writer but dabbles in poetry. Typically, her work covers the themes of addiction, heartache, and coincidence beneath an umbrella of hope. Her nonfiction has been published by Permafrost Magazine, the AROHO Foundation, the Braided Way Magazine, and 3 AM Press. Her poetry has appeared in the Brief Wilderness, the Ekphrastic Review, and the Classical Poets Society. http://ginamoriarty.com Twitter: @GinaMoriarty

“Please choose your heaven,” said the ethereal voice in my head. I looked around but I couldn’t see anything—everything was a shifting, blinding white. I winced at the shining brightness. “Would you prefer darkness?” said the voice, “I wasn’t quite sure when assessing your life preferences and experiences. Sorry about that.” The bright light then changed abruptly to total darkness. I felt more comfortable, though still confused. “Now,” said the voice, “Please choose your heaven.” “Choose my heaven?” I responded, “What the fuck are you talking about?” “We need to know where to send you,” said the voice, “You have to select your afterlife.” “I’m dead?” “You are indeed,” said the voice. “It happened while you were sleeping. You probably didn’t really notice.” “Oh.” “Yes,” said the voice, “Now, choose your heaven. Please.” “How do I even do that? What are my options?” “Your options are literally limitless. There are heavens innumerable. Usually, we provide a selection of options based on the subjects’ beliefs and life experience, but at the end of the day—no pun intended—it’s up to you.” The shapeless voice chuckled at itself. “You have a weak sense of humor,” I said. “Don’t chastise me,” responded the voice, hurt, but in a voice incapable of expressing anger. “I never get the opportunity to talk to people in light-hearted situations—only after they’ve died. I try my best with the jokes.” “I’ll bet you’ve used that one before,” I said. “That’s none of your business. Anyway, it can be difficult to wade through so many possibilities, so it's probably best to choose something you’re comfortable with. That seems to work for most people.” “Good point,” I said. “Here are some afterlife selections I’ve picked up by examining your personal beliefs and life experience. It seems like you were heavily subjected to the Christian worldview early in life, which is common these days, so you can choose that one if you want.” “Wouldn’t I go to hell? I never prayed or went to church other than when I was a kid.” “That’s up to Jesus, I guess. You probably would. I haven’t spoken with him in a while though—he changes his mind about things as the followers of his religion change their views. Needs to keep his numbers up. So who knows? You may yet sneak through the pearly gates.” “Are they actually pearly?” “I have no idea.” “Oh. What are my other options?” “You could go the Hindu route and be reincarnated; you seem to have been interested in that option during your adolescence. Though I must say—you weren’t a very enlightened individual, so you may not like your new form. You may come back as a slug, a bat, or a plant." “A bat sounds nice,” I said. “You do like the darkness. You could also choose the Ancient Greek tradition, which I’m noticing you were intensely interested in.” “Down the River Styx?” “Indeed. It’s not so bad as it seems, I don’t think. It’s as good as any other option, I suppose.” “Can I create my own heaven?” “You can—that’s actually our most popular choice outside of Christianity, Islam, Buddhism, Hinduism, and Judaism—but I wouldn’t recommend it; creating your own world is both difficult and exhausting; most of the time it turns out badly. And once you’ve created it, you’re stuck with it. It’s not easy being a deity. Even Jesus—currently the most successful deity in terms of numbers—gets really flustered with the whole thing sometimes, and he was far better prepared than you; he began creating his own heaven well before he had even died.” “Damn,” I said. “Yeah,” said the voice. “How did you get your job?” I said. “Me? I chose this job! After I died, I made a choice to be the voice which helps deceased souls choose their heaven. I died young—crashed my moped oner night after leaving a bar in Bangkok. I think my everlasting soul was still somehow riding the beer buzz when I was asked to choose my heaven, so my loud mouth chose this option. It wasn’t a bad choice, though—I got lucky. Maybe I could have done better, but who knows? I sure as hell don’t.” “Didn’t you have to steal someone else’s job?” “Yeah. She seemed happy about it, though. It’s rare that someone gets the opportunity to move to a new afterlife once they’ve made their selection, so it was probably an incredible surprise for her.” “Would you like it if I took your job?” “I wouldn’t really care either way. I didn’t die all that long ago—I’ve only been doing this for a couple decades; haven’t had the chance to tire of it yet.” “I guess I won’t do that, then. Can I choose something fictional?” “Of course. Everything is some combination of fiction and nonfiction, anyway. Makes no difference whether you go to Valhalla or Jahannam, whether you choose Wonderland or Middle Earth. I must warn you, though, that there seems to be a problematic nature to those who choose culturally accepted fictional realities for their afterlife.” “Problematic?” “Yes. With major worldviews—whether religious, philosophical, scientific, or political—there is a more complex interconnection between inhabitants. Souls, to some degree, know what to expect, and can coexist in that afterlife more communally. In intentionally fictional worlds, it gets a bit dicey because the existence of the afterlife itself is based around whatever those who inhabit it think up about it. Essentially, it’s based on its inhabitant’s interpretation of the world itself, which is constantly changing as new members join. It’s a real mess, honestly. It gets quite a bit less shifty if the creator of the world joins—I know HP Lovecraft joined his own afterlife community; he was too horrified to try anything else—and that has really helped to codify that world. It’s a terrifying place, the afterlife of Cthulhu, but at least it has structure. Most fictional afterlives don’t, other than those from major worldviews.” “Damn,” I said, “This is some complicated stuff. Can I just be a ghost? Can I haunt my former house?” “Of course. Why do you think ghosts exist in the first place?” “They do?” “Yes, they do. It’s actually a popular choice. I don’t think I would advise it, though. Most souls who choose to become a specter soon lose interest in it once they realize how difficult it is to make contact with the living. It’s a lonely existence. There is the rare occurrence in which two souls will choose to be ghosts together in the same location, but that isn’t common—it usually requires some pre-death planning. Pre-death planning is really the best way to secure a comfortable afterlife—the religions did get that part right—just ask Jesus, or Mohammad, or Buddha. Hell, you could even ask Satan! He seems about as content as you could expect from him.” “Your jokes aren’t getting any better.” “I’m trying my best.” “How much time do I have?” “Time?” “To make my decision.” “Spacetime doesn’t exist here. Nothing exists here; it was weird place! So… I guess you have as much time as you would like.” “Aren’t I wasting your time though?” “I just told you that time doesn’t exist.” “Oh.” “I understand what you mean, though—I haven’t been dead that long, like I said. No, you’re not wasting my ‘time’. I have literally nothing else to do. You’re not the only person I can guide through their decision, anyway. It’s not like I’m really in a ‘place’ or spending ‘time’. I’m in nothing, and I’m spending nothing. I’m ushering numerous other souls into their afterlives simultaneously while also dealing with you.” “My head hurts.” “You don’t have a head.” I chuckled at that. “Okay, that was a good one.” “That wasn’t supposed to be a joke. It was just a statement of fact.” “Facts can be funny.” “I guess that’s true. So, what are you going to choose?” “I have no idea. Am I being difficult?” “You are less sure of yourself than many others. People uncertain of the nature of reality in life tend to likewise be uncertain in death. It’s natural, and like I said, I have nothing else to do.” “I think I’m going to choose The Big Lebowski.” “Really? LA in the 90’s?” “I’ve never been to LA, but it’s my favorite movie. I’ve watched it probably hundreds of times. I feel like, if I have to stay somewhere for eternity, that’s as good of a place as any. I like bowling.” “Good point. Make sure to take care of your toes. So that’s your final decision?” “Yes. Final decision.” The pitch blackness shifted abruptly to a flashing brightness, the blinding invisibility quickly taking shape into the form of the fictional Los Angeles from the movie. I felt muggy air blast into my face. I opened my eyes further, feeling the hot asphalt of a cracked street under my feet. A beat-up Ford Gran Torino with a shattered windshield sat outside a dingy apartment building. A tumbleweed bounced across the street. I was confused, but I knew where I was. Robert Pettus is an English as a Second Language teacher at the University of Cincinnati. Previously, he taught for four years in a combination of rural Thailand and Moscow, Russia. His short stories have been accepted for publication at The Horror Zine, the International Human Rights Art Festival, Allegory Magazine, Litmora, The Horror Tree, JAKE magazine, Horror Sleaze Trash, The Night Shift podcast, Libretto publications, White Cat Publications, Culture Cult, Savage Planets, Short-Story.me, White-Enso, The Ana, Soft Star, Aphelion, Tall Tale TV, The Corner Bar, Super Present, Red Rose Thorns, Lovecraftiana, A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Schlock!, Black Petals, Inscape Literary Journal of Morehead State University, Yellow Mama, Apocalypse-Confidential, Mystery Tribune, Iron-Faerie Publications, Blood Moon Rising, and The Green Shoes Sanctuary, among others. His first novel, titled Abry, was published this spring by Offbeat Reads. He lives in Kentucky with his wife, Mary, his daughter, Rowan, and his pet rabbit, Achilles.

I am the devil’s anvil he beats on me daily it doesn’t hurt all that much you get used to it and the pounding drowns out all the white noise of all those people yammering even though you tell them to keep still they haven’t caught on to what I know – that to shorten a conversation, just agree to whatever people say no they are a little thick-necked in that regard but him he knows he just keeps his trap shut and pounds away like there’s no tomorrow Paul Smith is a civil engineer who has worked in the construction racket for many years. He has traveled all over the place and met lots of people. Some have enriched his life. Others made him wish he or they were all dead. He likes writing poetry and fiction. He also likes Newcastle Brown Ale. If you see him, buy him one. His poetry and fiction have been published in Convergence, Missouri Review, Literary Orphans and other lit mags.

How many borders exist within a single universe…what is the one true, crucial border? —Jenny Erpenbeck Close to my house, a five-story apartment is being built on a former Halloween pumpkin patch, one side faces a homeless encampment. Across the street, there’s an entrance to the freeway where the oldest trailer park in Oakland is on the same side of an outdoor beer garden. I am told to be on the lookout for early signs of dementia, for confusion and depression, for time and places escaping into a spotlight where I play the leading role in a surrealistic rendering of my life, for signs of road rage where an abandoned car is pocked with bullet holes and a cat catches an eyeball in the gutter. Gunshots heard around the lake. A body dumped a half mile away. Babies killed in car seats as the air vibrates with helicopters. Elsewhere, men wake up to gunfire and bombs, crowd into boats, their arms capsized with memories. No work permits. Housed inside tents and church basements. Families stitched to the border. Lenore serves as the Associate Creative Nonfiction (CNF) Editor for the Mud Season Review and lives in Oakland, California with Zebra the Brave and Granola the Shy. Her environmental novel Pulp into Paper is forthcoming from Atmosphere Press. Her blog resides at www.lenoreweiss.com..

The steps to the basement are dark. The basement itself is even darker. Something scurries across the damp floor. Most likely a rat. At least, that’s what I’m hoping. The kitchen is bright enough. But, as a creature slips in and out of the cranny under the stove, I see only its shadow. I thought I saw a tail. If only I’d seen the whole thing, my mind would not be racing with such possibilities. The walls of my bedroom are hollow. My attempts at sleep are filled with much scampering. More rats. At least, I pray they’re rodents. On this cold night, the bed is warm. But I’m not alone beneath the sheets. Something is in here with me, darting up and down my leg. Gnaw on my toes, if you must. I’ve got ten. But I have just the one soul. And there are beings extant that will take liberties John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, Santa Fe Literary Review, and Lost Pilots. Latest books, Between Two Fires, Covert and Memory Outside The Head are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Seventh Quarry, La Presa and California Quarterly.