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It was a nightmare.  My four-year-old self nervously paced the dining room floor. I frequently returned to the windowsill for another peek. Standing on my toes, I just barely saw up my neighborhood street as it rounded the corner. The familiar scene of clean sidewalk, green lawns, and near-identical houses could not instill the normalcy I sought. Something was wrong. My mother and older brother left to check the mailboxes. It was supposed to be a brief trip otherwise they would not have left me alone. To make it worse, the sunset quickly approached and the night would soon creep from the east. The empty house was too vast. I strained to look over the windowsill again. Still no one.  I stared past the bland houses for any movement that was not from the wind outside. My eyes drifted above to the last beams of daylight illuminating an approaching storm. I remember thinking it was terribly perfect timing for a dark and stormy night. My fingers tapped the wall. I heard the roof groan under the mounting wind. Wherever they were, they needed to hurry or they would get caught in the storm. They did not even take their jackets.  Finally, I saw my brother rounding the corner in his characteristic run. Palmer was a fast runner even though he was only six and never bent his knees. A giant sigh escaped from my tiny frame. I knew my mother was not far behind. Palmer always raced her to the nearest tree or street sign but she always lost. As he neared the house, I realized something was different this time. He ran slightly differently—desperately.  He was alone.  Cold fear chilled the room. I bolted towards the front door as he entered the house. He breathed heavily as he latched the door with trembling hands. He then rushed around the front of the house closing windows and curtains. I thought I heard him repeating something just under his breath. I peeked back out the front window before he came over and shut the curtain. Our mother was still nowhere to be seen. We were never home without a grown-up. Palmer still ran around without any explanation so I spoke up, “Where’s Mommy?”  He did not even look at me when breathlessly responded, “She told me to run home and lock all the doors, windows, and curtains in the house—everything!” He pushed past me and rushed to another window.  I wanted to cry. Palmer noticed me still standing by the door and ran back over. He grabbed my shoulders and said, “Hurry Tommy! Mommy wanted us to go and lock all the doors and windows in the house!”  Tears lingered as my questions bubbled up. “Why? What happened? Where’s Mommy?!” Palmer’s wide eyes seemed odd. They had a glassy look as he stared through me. After being too still for too long, he finally replied, “Something came out of the bushes. Mommy said she would handle it but she told me to go and lock all the doors, windows, and curtains in the house just in case…”  We both turned towards the front door before he added, “…just in case it might still be coming.”  I remember feeling my tears freeze as fear fell away to terror. The world was cold even though we worked-up a sweat closing the curtains. My small stature, little fingers, and childhood clumsiness slowed me to a feeble pace. It was like treading in molasses to keep from drowning. Everything was a nightmarish blur.  Then there was a knock on the door.  We stopped running. Palmer motioned for silence and we crept towards a front window. He slowly, cautiously peeked through a crack in the curtain towards the front stoop beyond. I knelt on the carpet beneath him. Without reacting, he slowly leaned away from the curtain and bent down to me. “Be quiet. That’s not Mommy. It’s here.”  My curiosity evaporated. I did not want to know what it was. I only wanted to hide. My brother grabbed my hand and silently led me towards the phone in the kitchen. We had to pass the door and I cringed as it knocked again. The knocking was odd. It sounded more like someone was beating the door. I thought I heard a coarse breathing coming from the other side. It sounded huge. I pushed against Palmer as we slipped past.  The kitchen landline hung on the wall out of our reach so we hurried towards an old and rusty stool. It was very heavy to lift. We had to carry it high or its rubber feet would loudly squeak against the linoleum floor. My socks allowed me to easily glide my shuffling feet but Palmer was still wearing his shoes so he had to walk slowly. Just as we were rounding the counter towards the phone, Palmer leaned forward and whispered, “We need to call 911.”  I almost protested because we were barely allowed to use the phone—let alone call the police! This was bad.  It beat at the door again.  Apparently, I froze to the spot but my brother blew air at my face to get my attention. We needed to hurry. I shuffled faster while my brother tried to quicken his pace. We were almost to the phone! I wondered what we were supposed to say when calling 911.  The pounding grew more insistent. We were running out of time. I felt my hands sweat. Just then, Palmer’s thigh bumped the stool and my grip faltered. The stool squeaked against the kitchen floor. We halted.  The knocking went silent. Moments later we heard heavy footsteps and labored breathing walk the perimeter of the house towards our location. The rusty side-gate loudly swung open and the lumbering steps neared the kitchen wall. The heavy breathing intensified. We were still frozen holding the stool. Then we looked up at the kitchen window above the sink and our heads.  The curtains were still open!  Before I could react, Palmer ducked under the counter’s overhang and pulled me with him out of sight. Soon the steps stopped and only the breathing remained. It sounded like a wheezing moan. Then we heard a fleshy face press against the glass pane. The fading glow of day was blocked by the enormous shadow filling the window frame. For an eternity, the face continued blocking the light. I could almost feel its hot gaze piercing the counter. As its breathing calmed, we then heard an odd scratching sound—no, it sounded more like crunching. It almost sounded like it was chewing on something. Even now, I still dare not ponder what it possibly chewed. I prefer to keep that a mystery forever.  Finally, it moved from the window and plodded away. My brother and I remained under the counter. We feared moving the stool again since we did not know how far away it was. It might hear the phone or look through the window again. The only other phone was in our parent’s bedroom at the opposite end of the house. We crawled along under the counter back to the kitchen entrance. When we arrived at the end of the counter, Palmer slowly peeked out, stood, and motioned me to follow. We rushed down the hallway towards the back bedroom.  The carpet muffled our steps so we made quick progress. Natural light illuminated the hall through a couple open doors. I hoped Palmer had closed the windows I had missed. Suddenly, my brother grabbed me just before crossing an open doorway. A peculiar shadow cast from the adjacent room’s window against the hallway wall.  It was looking through the window!  Had we not stopped, it might have seen us through the thin curtain. Some motion caught my eye. I looked against the wall opposite the door and I could see a weird shape reflected in a framed photo. Then I realized the shape blinked. Fortunately, we were invisible in the shadows but I could see it reasonably well. That was my mistake: I looked too long into the photo’s reflection. The horrid details oozed into my comprehension. To this day, I am not certain how much of what I witnessed was imagination or realization—it was too surreal to tell for sure. I thought I saw red slits scrutinizing the room while half buried in a wide and darkly wrinkled face. Black hair hung long down the sides of its head. A huge, meaty hand rested against the window as the slits searched the room. Its jowls shifted slowly as its jaws worked in a rotating motion. It must have been holding its breath because it was eerily silent. Then I realized the enormity of this monster. It was gigantic! Did it also have horns?!  My vision blurred and narrowed as this abomination began to fully weigh upon my young mind. I heard a silent scream begin hiss out of my frozen face before Palmer covered both my eyes and mouth while holding me close. Another eternity later, it shuffled away. As soon as it was clear, Palmer dragged me past the doorway and into the bedroom. He rushed over to the phone and lifted it with both of his hands. The dial tone was deafening. He muted the phone by holding it to his stomach and paused to listen. There was a slow, heavy march heading towards the far side of the house. Feeling this was the moment, Palmer dialed and quietly spoke with the police while I stared unblinking at the bedroom drapes. The daylight quickly died away, likely because of the storm clouds choking the last glow of sunset. I hoped the rumbles were distant thunder. It should have been a calm evening. Everything had stilled except for a breeze that swayed the sliding door curtains. I walked closer.  The sliding door was ajar!  Just before I could throw back the curtain and secure the door, I noticed a gigantic shadow glide across the far side of the curtain towards me. It lingered by the open door on the opposite side of the curtain cloth. The breeze turned hot. I heard Palmer also go silent and we heard it slowly start tearing at the screen door. Palmer dropped the phone and we rushed into a guest room down the hallway. We did not even have a chance to close the door before we heard the monster squeeze through the metal frames and enter our parent’s bedroom. The whole house groaned as the palpable terror intruded our home. Palmer pushed me up against a wall opposite from the doorway. I was hidden in darkness and out of direct view so long as it did not look or step into the room. Palmer tried his best to hide behind a small desk nearby. A crushing trudge started down the hallway towards us.  It was very dark and my vision started to blur again but I remember seeing a giant hulk walk past the doorway towards the house’s front. Its leathery hide contained large, dull spikes as its skin loosely hung over its massive body. It stopped. I expected it would turn and look at us. A low growl permeated through the walls before it resumed its march away from us. After it left, Palmer stepped from hiding. When the stomping was quietest, we hurried towards our bedroom and hid under our beds. I slid boxes and bags in front of me so I was barricaded against the back wall. I think Palmer did the same. My dizziness worsened and I tried to calm down. We waited for a very long time. Every sound was muffled by the fabric and boxes so I could not tell if the footsteps were my imagination or the thing searching each room. Eventually I realized my pounding chest supplied some of the phantom stomps. The storm broke outside and heavy rain washed the house—further diluting my hearing. I closed my eyes and waited for it all to end.  Then I woke up. It really had been just a nightmare. My eyes scanned the bedroom. It all looked somewhat normal. My sleepy confusion was quickly fading. I thought I had slept in since it felt later than it appeared. The morning sun was muted by an overcast of clouds. I looked over at Palmer slowly waking in his bed. Somehow, even though I knew it was only a bad dream, I did not feel the relief of reality. Everything was still eerie. It was too dark to be morning. The day did not feel like it was freshly starting, it already felt old and decrepit. We heard the sounds of breakfast and slowly ambled towards the kitchen.  Our Aunt Sarah looked over from her phone conversation and greeted us as she finished scrambling eggs. Since she just lived up the street, our aunt visited quite often. It was a comfort to see her kind face but I was still shaken from my nightmare and wanted my mother so I promptly asked about her whereabouts. “I’m sorry Cindy can you please hold on a sec—what was that, Tommy?”  I asked again, “Do you know where Mommy is?”  “Oh, I don’t know, she probably went to work early again. Go sit. I’ll have breakfast done in a second.” Aunt Sarah again pinched the phone on her shoulder and returned to conversation while the eggs popped.  Palmer and I sat dumbly at the kitchen counter. Something was also bothering him but he refused to talk about it and rested his head on his folded arms. I looked out at the cloudy morning outside. It was a downpour of rain. Thick droplets loudly pelted the kitchen window. It was a familiar dark and stormy scene—too familiar. The similarity was too much. Unease gnawed at my mind. When I could no longer stand it, I blurted, “This storm looks like the one from my nightmare last night.”  I felt Palmer looking at me. Turning back around, I saw him staring with glassy eyes that were familiar somehow. I wondered where I had seen that look before.  He carefully questioned, “Did you say… Did you have a nightmare about a storm?” I nodded.  His eyes bulged slightly. “Did—was it just a storm? Or was there something else?” “There was something else.”  Our aunt leaned over the counter. “Where did those marks come from? Did you boys smudge the windows?”  We both turned towards her. She was trying to clean the kitchen window above the sink. The smears were on the outside. Timothy’s interests in science and storytelling are both professional as well as personal. Having  studied marine science, he spends most of his time in scientific communication. His personality is largely constructed from a childhood of fantastic science fiction and explorations into the natural environment of his central California coast home.

Ancient trees are a dying breed. They are a dying breed because they are steadily going out of existence, yes—but, more than that, ancient trees are a dying breed because they have mastered the art of dying. In the current Anthropocene, old lifeforms are disappearing. When one is found, there is rejoice and grief in equal measure: anything that old is from a time before, and the now  is killing it. The only reason ancient trees have lived long enough for us to find is because they have dragged out their dying breaths into centuries.  There is a huge skeleton of a tree in my backyard, looming over my house. The tree is so rotted through that a branch fell and burst on the ground on a clear and windless day.  When visitors see the tree, they comment on its terrifying potential. “Your landlord really should get that removed,” or, “That thing would make me nervous.” They always talk as if the tree can’t hear them. Because trees have mastered the art of dying, it logically follows that they have mastered life in death; in fact, that they exist outside of the life and death dichotomy entirely.  Trees live in spacetime—that is to say, time within place, place within time—beyond our understanding. We are connected to trees through the rotation of the sun, the rise and fall of the seasons, and no more. To believe otherwise is human pride. The separation between humans and trees allows trees to judge us. I see that now.  The skeleton of a tree is my executioner. Judgement from death, action from release. Executioner and sword in one. Trees do not move when they do not feel like it, and when a tree moves, it moves once: to fall. Something that has mastered the art of dying will only die in the way it sees fit.  One day, one day, the tree will fall, and it will either fall on my house or away from it, and I will be judged. Until then, I wait, relieved that I will have an answer, more than happy to give up trying to find significance in my daily life. Honored to be removed from human discourse and absorbed into the world of trees, if just for a moment. Louis Frank is an aspiring writer based out of Asheville, North Carolina. His obsessions with gothic literature and nature take up most of his time. Pheobe and Salem, his two cats, take up most of his heart.

First, dig a hole no deeper than memory, beneath stones that shudder through flames. Whisper its dirge or invite its misery, and press silence into the soil like seed. Measure the time by the heartbeats of three— one for each October removed. Weep once—for the breath you offered. How else could grief grow anything but shadow? Boil the ghost of tomorrow slow, but salt the silence it left behind. Place a stone at the door each dawn, but leave the latch unhooked for frost. Peel back the skin you’ve worn for years. Hang it high in salt-stung wind. Pray thrice to names never spoken— but never kiss the thing in the dark. Adrian Weston writes dark fiction and poetry that explores grief, ritual, and the spaces between the sacred and the haunted. Their work blends gothic, folkloric, and speculative elements, with a focus on voice, body, and memory.

As Aeneus carried Anchises  out of burning Troy  towards the stars and away from crisis,  their creator cradles you, old boy,  from the frozen core.  Ascend fallen light! From grief to joy,  Wisdom Supreme, a Primal paramour.  Lucifer’s faces—  a trinity. The colors of coral  snakes: black and yellow are adjacent  to a red center.  Mouths agape. Stripping victims naked  and flayed. Three betrayers, now hindered,  a Hieronymus scene—  captives of artificial winter.  The Scarlet King, slumlord Supreme,  on the day of rent.  Your tenants, neither dead nor living,  deprived of either state, are akin  to Schrödinger’s pet—  shades with flesh as warm as sin.  Oh, Isis, sister of desert Set,  —Io, a life prior—  rebirth owed as interest for the debt  of the deathless. Place in Hell’s fire  Osiris’ feather.  Shuffle Tarot cards, deal, and scry or  ponder. Death of Christ. Death of Caesar.  Victims of their vices.  Leave them here in ancient theater. John Wise (he/ him) is a middle school English teacher living in Florida. Whether writing on his own or when working with his students, he promotes writing that is deeply rooted in curiosity, craft, and the sheer joy of creating. John has poems published or forthcoming in Midsummer Dream House, Seedlings, JAKE, Pine Hill Review , and Moonlit Getaway , among other publications. You can find him on BlueSky @central2nowhere.

Celestial Visitors  imagines a moment of cosmic arrival—an encounter between the earthly and the divine, the known and the unknowable. In this painting, two abstract bird-like figures float in an ethereal space: one shaped like a meteorite, dense and ancient, and the other adorned with an astronaut’s helmet, both strange and strangely familiar. Though abstract in form, these birds are not creatures of instinct alone—they are, to me, angels. The concept of angels has long existed in both Persian and global traditions, often depicted as messengers between realms, intermediaries between humanity and the divine. Here, I cast my angels as wanderers in the void, travelers not through religious heavens but through the deep unknown of space—celestial beings carrying messages from beyond our material world. They are not fearful or fearsome. They are curious, patient, and otherworldly. Their presence is meant to inspire wonder, not dread. Around them bloom alien flora—plant forms that suggest a sacred ecosystem, a landscape born of myth, dream, or other dimensions. The faint image of a child reaching out to the helmeted bird hints at humanity’s perennial longing for connection with what lies beyond: the unseen, the spiritual, the magical. The child, blurry and almost ghostlike, represents both innocence and the ancient impulse to touch the infinite. This painting draws from themes common in Persian miniature painting, especially the Bird-and-Flower tradition, while embracing the aesthetics of science fiction and speculative mysticism. The birds are abstract, yet carry with them symbolic weight—they are signs, omens, carriers of something sacred but unspoken. With Celestial Visitors , I wanted to ask: what would it look like if angels arrived from the stars? How would they appear to us—as threats, saviors, or quiet witnesses? This work invites the viewer to consider the spiritual within the extraterrestrial, the divine within the abstract, and the possibility that our myths may yet be written in the language of the cosmos. Zahra Zoghi (she/her) is a multidisciplinary artist from Tehran with over 30 years of experience. Her work has appeared on the covers of Assignment Literary Magazine, LETTERS Journal and Making Waves: A West Michigan Review , as well as in Stoneboat Literary Journal, Welter (University of Baltimore), Ignatian Literary Magazine, Midway Journal and Levitate Magazine . Holding a Master’s degree in Art Research, she has taught many students and exhibited her work worldwide. Passionate about bridging art heritage with contemporary expression, she reimagines traditional techniques for today’s world.

I found my brother’s body.  No one else thought to look.  To call him mangled would be  an understatement:  razors had lacerated the arterial strings of his vessels; the sky-black shades of his hair shifted into auburn; the carob of his irises (the same as mine) swirled with a milky gray (galaxy).  And I knew I  knew I knew  that medical staples would not clamp his limbs back to his torso. A seamstress could not sew his skin into layers.  I shook him, but he did not stir.  He would never wake again. My mother beat her chest when the news  reached her ears (Who could be so cruel?)  My father held his head in his hands, body bent and crumpled like discarded paper. (He’s gone.)  Our family will remember his absence, but not what came after: the paperwork, interviews, and condolences.  Where were you last Saturday? (I was at home, waiting. The midnight shimmered in a paraselene.)  When did you last see the deceased?  (I saw him every day. His pictures filled our halls antemortem, and we prayed for his success every morning.)  How did you meet the deceased? (He was my brother.) If I was the one who did it, I know  I know I know  how quickly I could get away,  He liked to keep his room clean and traceless,  and he took a solemn jog when the sun rose.  At night, he went to old observatories  and pointed at the endless void.  When I was small, he showed me how to find a parallax. He snickered if I blurred the telescope’s lens, but I could never see what he saw.  I could not detect the chromosphere without his help. Everyone loved him.  I think I think  I loved him, too. Blood shines like skin when it’s dark outside. We scattered his ashes at dusk.  The dust of his corpse twisted in a halo—a cluster. If an astronomer squinted up into the sky,  he might smile at what he found.  There would be no difference between the soot and stars. Good night. Sweet dreams.  I am all that remains of him. Gayeng Makinang grew up amongst the rolling hills of San Antonio, Texas, and recently graduated with a degree in Integrative Biology at the more extensively hilly University of California, Berkeley. Their forthcoming novels are represented by Eloy Bleifuss Prados at Neon Literary. You can find them on Instagram  @piaxov .

when my cat licks my palm,  i wonder what it’s like  to have a tongue  of stars.  “can you see them?”  i ask her. “the particles of  andromeda? there on the lines?”  how many meteor showers  those whiskers must sense.  she pauses, turning her  attention to the open window.  “what do  the Sun and Moon and Star  mean to a cat? and  Death? what about the Empress?”  when she recedes,  green eyes wide, a breeze  picks up and chills  its way into the room,  billowing the curtain.  “does the universe scratch  behind your ears, like i do?  you know any secrets?  do you know  how it all  ends?  have you seen the stars  twist and distort  into pretzel shapes?  is water hiding its colors  from us and that’s why you  paw at it in the  kitchen sink?”  she licks  and when i ask  too many questions,  bites. Sierra (they/them) is a genderfluid writer based in Oregon and loves to challenge the line between poetry and reality. Some of their work can be found in  Bending Genres, Main Squeeze , and  Southern Exposure . They featured in the 2024 season of the Oregon Fringe Festival with their chapbook  Garden Skull .

Like the Gates of Hell is a digital art piece initially inspired by lyrics from Mitski’s “Stay Soft”—specifically, the image contained in the words, “Open(ing) up your heart / Like the gates of hell.”  The creative process began with a simple sketch of flames over a solemn-looking face. However, as the process continued, I took more inspiration from Lucifer’s story in Paradise Lost by John Milton and The Fallen Angel by Alexandre Cabanel. Additionally, Devilman Crybaby , a web anime, inspired the use of color; the show's use of contrast informed some of the color and value choices for this piece. Because I grew up in Catholic traditions, I took some lessons from the church with me into my art, though I slightly contorted their original messages. I was first introduced to ideas of demonology within a Christian context, and I could not help but feel bad for the fallen angels, seeing them as quite tragic figures. So, then, while the horned subject presents as mysterious in the dark, the fire illuminates the “fallen angel,” giving the viewer a glimpse of the subject’s nature from long ago—or perhaps a hidden truth and sensitivity within the subject. Cabanel’s The Fallen Angel is iconic for the hardened expression Lucifer has, but when the viewer looks a little closer, there's a single tear of vulnerability on his face. For this piece, I wanted to lean into that sense of tragedy and depict the subject in a state of regret rather than rage. Rather than his face being covered and his body cradled inward, the subject is completely open, revealing part of his past through the flames. Marie McCrory (any pronouns) is a Creative Writing student and casual drag performer at Agnes Scott college in Atlanta, Georgia. They have contributed comics to Blood+Honey Literature Magazine , Agnes Scott’s AURORA lit mag, and cover/page art for the fanzine Memento Mori . All of their artwork can be found on Bluesky and Tumblr under the username @spicyspell

The first thing to hijack my awareness was the silence. Not the absence of sound—the jungle is never truly quiet—but the sudden disappearance of all human noise. The mechanical hum of civilization had vanished, replaced by a symphony so ancient it felt like another world. This was the moment I'd been hoping for: standing at the edge where curiosity and danger meet. A place called Amazonia. As a child, I was gripped by anything that beguiled my five senses. One afternoon, I sat transfixed by water striders zipping across an irrigation ditch like tiny ice skaters. Just as I leaned closer, studying their delicate ballet, two teenage bullies hurled me headlong into the water. Though my spark was briefly snuffed out, my fascination with nature remained steadfast. That encounter taught me an important lesson: sometimes our fascination with discovery can blind us to potential dangers that curiosity itself might invite. Curiosity has always been my gateway to the grandest adventures. In January 1995, while savoring Sour Cream and Onion chips, I watched a Nat Geo documentary about the forgotten tribes of the Upper Amazon. By the time the credits rolled, I knew we had to go. My wife, Kathy Kay, was skeptical. "The Amazon? With our kids? Have you lost your mind?" After some creative persuasion, she relented. That summer, our family of seven packed up our suburban Utah life and plunged headlong into a self-guided journey into Amazonia. After touching down in Lima, Peru, we faced the challenge of finding accommodations. These came courtesy of my penny-pinching ways and a meeting with a physician named Victor. After dinner at his home, our youngest son, Goose, fell victim to a dish of last month's "fresh" catch. Without a clinic in sight, the only remedy we could find was Inca Kola, a bubblegum-flavored concoction we hoped would have medicinal promise. The next morning proved surreal. Seeking fresh air along the beach, we encountered a sight to spice up any travel review. "Dad," our daughter Brighton asked, "why is that hairy naked man walking a bear?" Yes, there it was—a Russian circus performer in see-through briefs, parading a cinnamon bear down the shoreline. From Lima, we flew to Cusco, where locals insisted coca leaf tea helps combat altitude effects. At eleven thousand feet, we weren't going to argue. The Plaza straddled past and present—Spanish colonial buildings alongside echoes of the Incan Empire. We roamed ancient sites where behemoth stones were so precisely fashioned that not even a razor blade could slide between the mortarless joints. Hidden in a tourist shop was a map marked "Forbidden Zone." A sign reading "Do Not Enter" simply begs the question: how quickly can we get inside? Our relentless interrogation of locals led us to Mr. Abel Muniz, who, for reasons aside from a small bribe, orchestrated our journey into the jungle from his posh villa. Our driver, Gonzalez, met us in a miniature 4x4 pickup truck. The road to the jungle was an endless series of switchbacks that left us white-knuckled, bouncing through the Andes for seven arduous hours. We reached "Tres Cruces," where Incan sentinels once stood as the sun breached the emerald canopy. Eventually, we descended into the heart of the jungle, where the atmosphere grew dense and primal. We stumbled into Pilcopata village thoroughly exhausted. Our destination, Hacienda Villa Carmen, was like a charming Hobbit hovel illuminated by candlelight and circled by vampire bats. The communal pit toilet was frequented by spiders the size of dinner plates. Risk and curiosity meld together like the alloys of a double-edged sword. The early explorers who crossed oceans didn't know if they would find new worlds or disappear. Each small venture carries its own degree of risk, but curiosity has its own gravitational pull that defies logic. Abel introduced us to Ruben, an ethnobotanist who was our portal into the hidden wonders of the rainforest. He led us through a tapestry of plants with strange Latin names. Just as we were feeling like seasoned botanists, we came upon the wreckage of a 1947 Russian airplane, wrapped in vines like a forgotten gift. Moving beyond the wreckage, Ruben casually sliced open a bamboo stalk, revealing a hidden reservoir of pure water. After Abel and Ruben laughed at our elaborate survival preparations, they arranged for a proper jungle expedition. Kath and I hiked to the remote village of Atalaya in search of a motorized longboat. The following morning, Abel introduced our guides, Jose and Santiago. Jose, dressed in nothing but a loincloth, contrasted sharply with Santiago in his khakis and button-up shirt. Accompanying them were four boatmen from Atalaya. After launching upriver, the boatmen jumped overboard to push our boat over rocky shallows. Above, macaws flashed brilliant streaks of blue and yellow while toucans and harpy eagles added their own splash of color. Just before nightfall, we found the perfect campsite. The men of Atalaya turned the boat downstream, bidding us farewell until our pickup in seven days. While we fumbled with tent poles, Jose and Santiago settled on the sand using driftwood for pillows. Why bother with tents when endowed with a roof of stars? One evening, they invited us fishing—a simple affair for them, but a comedy of errors for us. While we wrestled with tangled lines, Jose had already speared a massive catfish. They transformed their catch into a jungle stew, while we quietly nibbled granola bars. The next morning, peeping through fog, we saw a bloated animal resembling a naked cow with a stubby elephant trunk. Further along, we stumbled upon tracks looking almost human. The air felt thick with tension, as though we were being shadowed. Yet downstream, our daughter Britni swam blissfully unaware of the piranhas we imagined lurking beneath. Perhaps the real paradox isn't that curiosity and risk are in opposition, but rather they tango together, striking an equilibrium. The mind may want safety, but the soul yearns for adventure. Our adventure took a somber turn when Brighton fell ill with a burning fever. Santiago proposed an evacuation plan—float downstream on log rafts. As the men searched for raft-making materials, Santiago handed Kath a vintage rifle and three bullets. Following our guides hacking through undergrowth, we heard eerie whistles penetrate the jungle. Our guides exchanged looks of alarm before changing direction abruptly—we were probably passing through ancestral grounds of the Machiguenga tribe. At the river crossing, Goose lost his footing and plunged into the water. Only his brother's quick reflexes saved him from a long ride downstream. Reaching the opposite bank, Jose and Santiago revealed ivory-colored balsa wood beneath emerald bark. With practiced skill, they shaped logs into three rafts, each twelve by seven feet. Like a teeter-totter, curiosity and risk perform a delicate balancing act. Take too many chances, and curiosity may burn us. Play it too safe, and risk avoidance will suffocate curiosity. The current picked up as our boys, B.J. and Beau, commandeered their own raft. They disappeared around a bend, and dread began to settle in. Within hours, they were scrambling to repair their raft after being sucked into a sinkhole. While repairing it, a nearly naked man with a spear glared at them from the opposite bank. Despite his menacing appearance, they kept their heads down as they drifted away. After hours of separation, we spotted their bare-chested figures bobbing toward us. As we approached journey's end, Brighton's eyes were glazed over like dim light through clouded glass. Slipping through jungle mud, we dragged ourselves toward the hacienda. A figure emerged from the shadows—barefoot and bare-chested with wisps of feathers adorning his head. Like a guardian of secrets, he appeared shrouded in timeless wisdom. Without a word, he gently scooped Brighton from Kath's embrace and laid her on a makeshift bed. He began to chant—a hypnotic melody infused with humid jungle air. He drew three smooth black stones from his pouch, placing them on Brighton's stomach. Santiago presented him with a burlap swatch, water basin, and curious-looking egg. He pressed the egg against Brighton's arms and stomach with circular motions, then placed it in water. Iridescent colors streamed off the eggshell. After Santiago reappeared with emerald-colored slime, the potion's effects were swift and miraculous. Brighton's fever dissipated as color returned to her cheeks. "Is there something to eat? I'm hungry!" Unable to comprehend the shaman's healing ritual, we were awestruck at the miracle we had witnessed. The jungle had given us back our girl. The next morning, we learned his name was Alejandro, a traveling shaman who possessed the knowledge of a naturalist. Like other shamans of Amazonia, he might someday find a cure hidden in the bark of a tropical tree. The annals of ancient pharmacopeia reveal how traditional medicines play vital roles in developing modern drugs. The Machiguenga tribe, avoiding anything we might recognize as "progress," follow a matrilocal order and practice eco-smart agriculture with tools considered primitive by others. As empires crumbled and nations faded, the Machiguenga remained, their culture intact—timeless guardians of future discoveries. Perhaps we should pay closer attention to our own curiosities and nature's whisperings. Curiosity is the great leveler, the great teacher. A brief time spent with curiosity will teach us more about ourselves than a hundred years of indifference. While yesterday's trials grow dim, tomorrow's allure is bright and untamed, whispering promises of adventures yet unseen. What it reveals may be exhilarating, but with it comes the truth that some adventures, once experienced, cannot be undone. And so, we march on beyond the next horizon, captivated by boundless possibilities only curiosity can reveal. Barrie Brewer is an adventure seeker with a background in organizational development and process engineering. He is the chief executive of The Syloet Leadership Academy. Working closely with C-level executives from a variety of organizations around the globe, he and his team have helped both nonprofit and commercial enterprises of all sizes leverage their assets and operating capacities beyond pro forma expectations. He has authored a handful of articles on “agile/lean” business practices.

I’ve never met the person in my passenger seat, but  she smiles when I refuse her offerings of marijuana and psilocybin mushrooms. "I Got Heaven" by Mannequin Pussy comes on the radio  and we sing along like we know the words.   We’re going 45 on the interstate and  the cops behind us are all corpses already. We laugh at their misfortune, but they mock us.  “Why would anyone want to be alive lately?  These two women just don’t make sense.”  The cops are crashing their cars into oil rigs and  going up in beautiful fireworks.  Gaea has my hand in hers and is kissing it,  each time telling me she loves me like she is incapable of love. We admire the planets we shouldn’t be able to see in the sky,  the ships sailing between stars that can’t be there. She loves the way Saturn’s rings look.  Once upon a time, the Earth had rings, too.  Saturn and Earth must have been lesbians, then, and married. Gaea’s hand is soft, cracked, and warm, like she’s been out working in the earth. She  tells me she has a tea garden, where she  grows saffron and silver tip and brews yellow tea.  She kisses me on the mouth and  tells me she hopes I see in her what she sees in me,  which is nothing, and that she has to leave now.  I pull over to the side of the road, and watch her  until she vanishes behind saw-glass and rocks.  I hope we never meet again. Viviane Fae-Moss (she/her/hers) is a young poet, baker, musician, and storyteller hoping to make a name for herself in the world of writing. She has had her work published previously in Sexy Grammatical Errors and Main Squeeze . Viviane hails from the creative writing program at Southern Oregon University.

Some soothsayer told you it was me. Had to be. You’d know by the constellation of moles on my neck or the shape of my friendliness. He found me for you under a tarot deck. In this lifetime, I fit in the palm of your hand. The Magician, the Empress. You drew us both, predicting your own sorcery and my compassion. When I unveiled your sleight of hand, the lovers slipped out in reverse.  Julietta Bekker (she/they) is a writer, educator and illustrator who lives with her family in Portland, Oregon. Bekker's illustrations and writing appeared in the newsletter,  Lessons of Survival , published by The Immigrant Story. One of her essays was published in  La Gaceta Hispánica de Madrid , a Spanish-language journal of Middlebury College and New York University. Her poetry will be published in the upcoming Issue 10 of  Pile Press .

The setting sun shines without tiring, as if held in place by a giant hand. Cast at a low angle, pastel light gleams on the wet street, reflects from car windshields, and glints from Portage Avenue storefronts.  I walk home from class, the sun at my back. Traffic is brisk and the sidewalk is clogged with weary pedestrians, most carrying bags or packages. The people look straight ahead and walk with purpose. I’m often the exception to this rule, my eyes on theirs as they walk towards me.  “That's how you tell the country people from the city people,” one of my University of Winnipeg classmates commented as we walked home a few weeks ago. “Country people make eye contact.”  Alone today, I hurry, lengthening my stride and looking ahead only to plot a course, rather than to catch anyone's eye.   As I approach an intersection, I see a crowd congregated. Slowing, I strain to see what is causing the delay. A few horns sound and a long line of cars, turn signals flashing, is strung out in the right turn lane on Colony Street. They wait to merge with the western stream on Portage Avenue, but something blocks their way.  With the change of the traffic light, many of those in the front of the pedestrian crowd walk out onto the westbound curb lane to get around the obstruction. The knot of people cause an oncoming city bus to brake hard. It makes a metallic grating noise, as if upset by their intrusion. I’m close enough now to see what is wrong. A teenage boy is lying with one foot up on the curb, his head on the pavement. A few years younger than me and about my size, he’s wearing a dark tweed car coat and Adidas track pants. A brown glove is on one hand and the other is bare. The missing glove, I notice, is on the far sidewalk. Standing next to him now, I see his face is slit open from the corner of his mouth to the underside of his cheekbone, below the eye.  I stare at him, stunned by the severity of his wound. People push by me from behind. I lean back against this human current, setting my book bag down beside his foot like an anchor. Unable to take my eyes off the slack flaps of skin and the whitish, puffy edge of the cut, my impulse is to run, but I can’t. His torn cheek trembles with each breath and black, dried blood is caked on the front of his coat and his neck. His head has lolled sideways and his eyes are closed and I hear people in the crowd speculate: A fight? A robbery?   The driver of a Buick Riviera—the car bumper only a few feet from the injured boy's head—stands beside his vehicle, an arm resting on the roof, fingers drumming on the metal.  I look up to see an older woman across the street reach down and pick up the boy’s stray glove. Seeing this, I think, country people . She returns my gaze and I beckon her, calling, “He’s here!”  She hurries towards me and looks at the Riviera driver. “Excuse me, sir. Would you please help us get this poor child off the street?” “I can't just leave my car unattended because some street person is drunk...” A girl beside me says, “I’ll help,” her voice clear. “Thank you, dear,” the older woman says to her. Then she looks at me. “You lift his arms and she and I will lift the legs.” Before we begin, she bends down to put the glove into the fallen one's pocket. “And please don’t dirty your lovely coat, young lady” she adds, smiling at the girl. Hearing her comment about the coat and her calm confidence, I suddenly feel as though the injured boy will be alright. “Support his head,” she says to me, enunciating with care. Then she clears her throat, takes a big breath and says, “Lift 'on three' and we’ll carry him in there.” She motions with a nod to a sandwich shop behind her. How gracefully she has taken charge of us,   I think. Sleety rain falls on the boy’s face. His eyes open as we lift, lids fluttering, and he moans. As in a dream, I hear a low voice: “Where, here quiet, awaits my watcher? Wo weilest du? ”   I’m confused and look around to see who might have spoken. I don’t speak German, but recognize it as such.  “I’ll get the door,” a thin man with a gray beard and a skull cap says as we struggle to move the injured man inside. Might this tall man in the skull cap be the one who spoke in German earlier? Unlikely, his voice is high and strained. We jostle against the door as we enter and the bell jangles to announce our strange procession.  We get him inside just as a Winnipeg Police cruiser arrives and parks with two wheels up on the sidewalk boulevard, causing a small flock of redpolls to rise suddenly and bear away on the wind. The car’s turret light revolves, swathing curious faces in coloured light, as if a ruddy residue from the startled birds. A crowd gathers, peering through the windows as one of the police hurries into the shop. The other cop stands on the street, talking into a radio mic that stretches out from the cruiser window on a curly cord. I can see his breath as he barks into the radio, his head in a halo of glare from the oncoming headlights and the last horizontal rays of the sun. I linger inside the shop for a moment. It smells like baked bread, familiar and reassuring. Plastic roses in cheap vases decorate the tables, the flowers pale yellow like the victim’s long hair. My bag leans against a fire hydrant outside and I push through the crowd to retrieve it. The radio policeman shouts to his partner that an ambulance is on the way. Still mildly nauseated by the sight of the slashed face, I unzip my jacket to the cool outside air. I feel strangely content with myself. Guiltily so. I had stopped—an act not in my shy nature. It seemed selfish to congratulate myself now with the boy lying on a restaurant table, unconscious—but I could not help but to at least recognize my response. More than that, I am now somehow confident the boy will live; that he will recover fully. I am certain.  I scan the sidewalk for the three others who had helped. I want to do something, I don’t know what. Exchange names? What do you do? I look for them but they are gone in the rush-hour throng. The cold is in my throat as I take a breath. It’s oddly quiet, like after a chime has rung and you think you still hear it but you are not sure. A bystander beside the police car says, “Hate to see the other guy!” He speaks up, almost shouting, as if he is addressing us as a group, like a tour guide or one of those revival tent preachers. I see another man nearby watching him intently. He’s a short fellow who carries a gallon can of paint, slung from one thick finger. He is swarthy and barrel-chested and it strikes me that he clearly is alone despite the closeness of the people around him. The paint label reads “Robin Breast” and he is wearing a faded Detroit Red Wing hockey sweater. It’s number 44 and the name Schutzengel is screen-printed in white lettering across his shoulders. He sizes up the man who spoke so rudely. As he shifts his weight I wonder if he is a boxer or a gymnast. He seems light on his feet, nimble, despite his muscular torso and the stretch of the crimson hockey sweater tight across his back. Lips moving, Schutzengel glowers at the loutish man but says nothing.  The whine of a siren echoes up the wide avenue. It’s the ambulance, working its way through traffic from the east. Darkness gathers around us as the sun has finally set. The loudmouth continues, a little bolder. “You reap what you sow!” Several people turn their heads. Faces register disgust and anger. Puzzlement. “Well, den it coulda chust as easy been you,” Schutzengel replies quietly, his voice a deep rumble, without emotion, chin tilted up, defiant and unafraid. “ Chust ” he said; an accent betrayed. He shifts the can of paint to his other hand but his eyes do not waver. “Don’t be too quick to judge. Your false pride is a demon that will bring you down.” Only when the man turns and walks away does Schutzengel glance at me—irises dark amber, long lashes curving. He comes closer and reaches over to touch my arm lightly. In a whisper: “I seen you. You did good and you are right—he’s gonna be okay. And don’t feel guilty.” Then he smiles brightly with creased eyes, swings the paint can back from his body and pivots around it, his back to me.  A few streetlights flicker on as I stand watching him. I feel warm, there in the crowd of jacketed strangers on the sidewalk. Looking down Portage Avenue, I see how beautiful it can be; the tops of buildings catch the last of the light; the whitish car exhaust lends an expressionist softening—blurring headlights and the fluorescent glow from thousands of office windows. The walkways stream with people; undulating as one, roiling in eddies and coursing along beside the street.  I have a sudden sense that I belong here; that I was meant to come upon the teenager with the terrible injury. I wonder if I have in some way earned a credit or maybe it is that someone has spent one on my behalf. On the wind, gusting now and making a faint sound like a distant orchestra tuning their instruments, comes the sweet fragrance of roses. A scent both incongruent and peaceful. I see the girl with the beautifully beaded jacket, the country woman, and the skull-capped man. I blurt out, “Oh!” at once happy and surprised to see them. The girl looks to me, touching a hand to her throat. The man wipes a tear from his cheek. The kind, brave older woman who led us so well waves proudly, her arm raised high and I think of how I will never forget her.  Around us—shoppers and clerks, people pushing shopping carts loaded with clothes, office workers, early movie-goers, and students like me—begin to move forward as the animated walk symbol flashes and I am part of that slow surge to cross the street. The confused sound of many boots on the concrete grows as we shuffle forward in a mass. Schutzengel is ahead of me and he looks back, his features indistinct in the fading light. His eyes sparkle with wonder. In a moment he seems to vanish, swept away among the gray and dun overcoats—a bright red leaf on the muddy current. Unseen, but still not quite gone. Mitchell Toews, author of the 2023 collection of short stories, Pinching Zwieback (At Bay Press) has placed stories in numerous journals, anthologies, and contests. A novel is forthcoming in 2026. With 136 publications in literary periodicals to date, four Pushcart Prize nominations, and work translated into Spanish and Farsi, his following is growing in Canada, and his gritty, character-driven literary fiction has found readerships in the UK, the US and other markets.