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MASKS & MANES Fall 2021 / Issue 5 Copyright 2021 The Parliament Literary Journal, ISSN 2767-2158 (print); ISSN 2767-2166 (online) is published quarterly in November, February, May, and August. All correspondence should be sent via email to parliamentlit@gmail.com. All rights are reserved by the arsts and authors; all stories and poetry in the journal are conal. The Parliament Literary Journal and logo design are registered trademarks. Submissions are accepted for our themed issues and contests via Submiable; details on our submission requirements can be found at our website. www.parliamentlit.com

TABLE OF CONTENTS 4/5 Nikki Gonzalez 6 Oz Hardwick 7 Wendy Lou Schmidt 8/9 Lawdenmarc Decamora 10 Benjamin Jacoby 11 Edward Supranowicz 12 Divine Inyang Titus 13/14/15 Eden Herbstman 16/17 Stephen Kingsnorth 18/19/20/ 21/22 Gary Koppel 23 Amy Bassin & Mark Blickley 24/25 Ramesh Dohan 26/27 Alan Bern 28/29 Louis Faber 30 Jean Fineberg 31 Aleksandra Vujisic 32/33/34 Lindsey Pucci 35 John Johnson 36/37 Natalie Kormos 38/39/40/41/ 42/43/44 T.K. Lee 45 Karen Boissonneault-Gauthier 46/47 Charlotte Kim 48 Connor Doyle 49 Nate Maxson 50/51/52 Mark Murphy 53 Robert Alexander Wray 54/55 Sharon Lask Munson 56/57 Rita Anderson 58/59/60/ 61/62/63 Madari Pendas Artistically Inspired Contest 65 Benjamin Stalnaker (ARTIST’S WINNER) 66/67 Lucia Coppola (EDITOR’S WINNER)

LETTER FROM THE EDITOR I should have known better. The Parliament Literary Journal is now, after all, a year old. As we are now five -- FIVE! -- issues published, I should have learned by now to never assume how creative minds will interpret our themes. We built the phrasing directly into our Calls for Submission, after all, offering our writers and artists the opportunity to create “as you choose to interpret the theme”. And yet, when I developed the Masks & Manes theme, particularly for a Fall issue, I envisioned a very specific collection -- psychologically heavy works with literal and figurative ghosts; stories and poems weighted with confessions and laments of identities obscured. But in reading through even just the first pages of our (record number of!) submissions, it was clear: Creative minds will not be led or constrained or pigeonholed. Rather, they will break apart expectations (and, perhaps, mock you for trying as they do). This was not the collection I imagined I would offer to you now. And simply, I am so grateful to be able to say that. What resulted, instead, is a beautiful, most unexpected mix; the result of gorgeous minds challenged naturally to defy. In a preview I offered of the cover for this issue on our social media sites a few weeks before our official launch, I promised an explanation as to why I would purposely design a cover so hackneyed. And so there it is -- the answer: I am laughing at myself for expecting anything. These issues and themes have a will of their own and any anticipation is for the foolish. So 4

while my own brain was stuck in the unoriginal (truly, a ghost made of bedsheets!), my writers and artists here took the reins and crafted something extraordinary. And, in doing so, reminded me why I love this project so very much. (I’m still smiling, awestruck at them all, as I type this.) You’ll read this issue and perhaps find it eclectic, even jarringly so. But these works, varied as they are in their own construals of the theme, are each so very deserving of their pages here -- each one of these pieces like a curling, gentle swirl of smoke that tickled; lingered; haunted with their artistry. The same is true, of course, too, for the two winners of our Artistically Inspired contest this issue -- Benjamin Stalnaker with “Eden” and Lucia Coppola with “Aguila”. My dear friend, who goes by the stage name Marty J., helped create a very different ekphrastic for us this time -- a musical composition. With only the song to listen to and to create from -- we even removed the name of it (“Daybreak”) so as not to give any hints or directions! -- the poetry that emerged in these two works painted visions that stayed with both Marty and I long after we read them. Please have a listen to the song for yourself on our website at www.parliamentlit.com. I proudly put forward these pages to you now in the hopes that they surprise and awe you as they did for me. May the tales of masks and manes within them twirl and dance and linger around you, too -- like your very own ghost. Nikki Gonzalez 5

OZ HARDWICK Confessional When I prise off my mask, my face comes away, revealing cogs and coloured lamps, paths that weave across blasted hillsides, and metal feathers that sing when the wind rakes their barbs. Sense perceptions flip like pinball, with hollow bells and the punch of thumping electrics, clacking plastic tongues and racking up the zeros. It’s time to rewire the circuits and rewild the circus, freeing sparking tigers to rewrite the rules of engagement and estrangement. Very few gains are dependent on pain, and what doesn’t kill us is, for the most part, neutral; and it’s time to oil the wheels and replace the spent bulbs, step up to the cliff edge and relocate the flight reflex. It’s time to recalibrate the mistakes that made me who I am and to choose a new face from the last remaining high street store. As I rake the sand in the circus ring, the ringing in my ears could be a phone or a fire warning. The rings in my ears were a childhood prize for the most convincing mask. Father, although I carry darkness in my eyes and both my hands, in the petrified forest of the night, I have scintillated like Blake’s smiling Tyger. 6 Oz Hardwick is an international award-winning prose poet and a mediocre bass guitarist. His most recent publication is the prose poetry chapbook Wolf Planet (Clevedon: Hedgehog, 2020), and his next full collection, A Census of Preconceptions will be published by SurVision in 2022. Oz lives in the medieval city of York (UK) with his wife, cat, and underutilized musical instruments, and his ambition is to be bassist in a Belgian space rock band. In the meantime, he is Professor of English at Leeds Trinity University, where he leads the postgraduate Creative Writing programmes. www.ozhardwick.co.uk

WENDY LOU SCHMIDT The Queen’s Coiffeuse 7 Wendy Lou Schmidt lives in Wisconsin. She has been writing short sto-ries, essays and poetry for the last ten years. She is also a mixed me-dia artist. Written pieces have been published in Chicago Literati, City Lake Poets, Literary Hatchet, Moon Magazine and Rebelle Society, Wal-lopzine to name a few. Art pieces have been published in Rat’s Ass Re-view, Three Drops From A Cauldron, The Horror Zine, Young Ravens Review, Kissing Dynamite and Still Point Gallery.

LAWDENMARC DECAMORA Where was I when AEW announced the return of Juventud Guerrera? I was at home sitting in a small chair, floating this idea of ammos I saw on the other channel turning into red and white and green neon fixtures crucifying the evening sky. Lots of description you know. Lots of medulla function too. Ammos on TV are like butterflies, or wrestlers performing a magnificent 450 splash to remind us of our pandemic plight. Juventud Guerrera: would this be the perfect time for a legend to return to in-ring action? What about wearing a mask? Lucha or clinical? Air Juvi’s a-gonna fly like it’s 1998. I was at home polishing a lonely 7-inch record, a life so lonely that when you thought of singles a Rotoscope dream parade stages, spinning and spinning you a treat. A tradition. A chaos of flight. A subterranean fiesta. The color of the ropes is the color of the night. I was thinking that old wrestlers either were bodhisattvas leading the herd or the Woody Allen of the squared circle. ¡Pero no los luchadores, por el amor de Dios! The night swished through time and space, across the patio with its freedom-flavored call for The Juice. (continued) 8

I was at home when I heard AEW breaking the news to Juvi’s long-time foe, Chris Jericho. Social media has tens of thousands of cheers to rekindle the rivalry. I was in the kitchen asking my mom for some juice. There was no juice, only the memory of Juventud “Juvi” Guerrera in my glass of milk. Kiddos might ask: who the hell is Juvi? This I dove into the night’s sweat. Lawdenmarc Decamora Lawdenmarc Decamora is a Best of the Net and Pushcart Prize-nominated writer with work published in 23 countries around the world. He is the author of two book-length poetry collections, 'Love, Air' (USA: Atmosphere Press) and 'TUNNELS' (India: Ukiyoto Publishing). His work has appeared in, or is forthcoming in, Seattle Review, North Dakota Quarterly, The Common, California Quarterly, Yellow Medicine Review, Comstock Review, Osiris, Pedestal Magazine, AAWW's The Margins, and elsewhere. He was long-listed for The Alpine Fellowship Writing Prize 2021 (UK) and was an August 2021 alumnus of the Tupelo 30/30 Project of Tupelo Press. He is also a college professor who has an MFA in Creative Writing. 9

BENJAMIN JACOBY Year of the Wonderboy Anthony Kiedis said it best mentioning that his brain had bled. I’m not far off from that. Every moment meant something tragic could be happening in those three pounds inside my skull. There is no escaping it, unless you had a lobotomy. But hope is here. Blocking it out is key, but even more precious is the comfort I receive from others. Good company trumps bad thoughts. Disrupt and distract are two words I hold dear to me. Re-place those evil notions with something positive whether it be watching the best duke it out on the gridiron or actually coaching others to duke it out on your version of the gridi-ron. It used to be a matter of self-preservation or self-destruction. Luckily, my dice always rolled to the former. So, here I am, trying hard to remember the steps I took back in ‘96. This happens often and when asked about my experience, I just tell everyone, “It was a quite a ride.” I hide it, but not because I’m ashamed to mention it, but because it would take a few joyful hours to disclose every single detail. It was so genuine and novel, every single bit of it. Aside from the experience, I think of what I gained and what I lost. It’s a healthy balance of both. The friends I made and could have made in a potential future that eludes me to this day continues to haunt me. Damn, the freshmen! One moment of bliss hanging with the most beautiful people on campus to another moment where I couldn’t even sit still in front of a 13x13 inch viewing of a Michael Crichton adaption. THOSE were my bookends and every time I look back, I realize that as every day goes by, the farther away those beautiful peo-ple are from my desperate grasp. How did I get here? From writing my nickname (Wonderboy) on the walls of a freshman dorm basement to watching myself being pulled away with flashing lights. Was it fate? Is there a master plan? Instead of a crisp, cold can of Natty Ice, it’s a handful of multi-colored ovals in the palm of my hand that fit much nic-er than that chilled cylinder of liquid refreshment. Kiedis (once again) said that music and love could save us and did. Well, maybe not love, but a heavy dose of his latest album. Hearing that melody and reciting those lyrics brought me comfort and a punch to the gut of this wretched disease. He and his music had saved me and I will never forget that as long as the time that I spend on this green earth. So, to close, think of those people. Think of those words. Think of that music. And most of all, think of that one perfect moment that will ring true in your mind which will take you to the place where it all makes perfect sense and you will think one more thought, “Oh, that was why!” 10 When Benjamin Jacoby is not creating stories and characters in his mind, you can find him coaching youth sports in Highland Park, New Jersey, working as a paraprofessional in Highland Park Middle School, or getting together with a writing club on Tuesdays via Zoom with members from all over Middlesex County. He has written four complete rough drafts of novels and is hard at work on editing.

EDWARD SUPRANOWICZ That Disembodied Feeling Edward Michael Supranowicz is the grandson of Irish and Russian/Ukrainian immigrants. He grew up on a small farm in Appalachia. He has a grad background in painting and printmaking. Some of his artwork has recently or will soon appear in Fish Food, Streetlight, Another Chicago Magazine, The Door Is a Jar, The Phoenix, and other journals. Edward is also a published poet. 11

DIVINE INYANG TITUS today I christened my voice a stranger sometimes, it isn't even my voice I hear when my mouth cracks open. perhaps you say there is an amorphous organism bobbing in my throat. I say I hatch a novel, unknown self every new cycle of moments. do i ever surprise myself? picture a tiger encountering a cricket in his roar. or a butterfly vomiting a hippo's growl to nectar. I am the shock horror of both worlds. moons ago, I tried to recover my voice from my ex-lover's mellow drawl. it had once been that I tempered its brash temperament to draw parallel with pale love. but in the afterglow, when I listened back to that tempered time; I cringe at the injustice of binding the wild in a demure cage. yet, something tells me this is the art of the natural world. to curse the shift is to wish the fittest are no longer the most adaptable. like that, integrity wars my inner chameleon. but I wonder if the day will ever come when survival will cease to glorify the changeling dream. today, I sang melodies to myself before a mirror that once knew me, to name how much of me did not abrade into other. I did not know I was finally christening my voice a stranger in my own body. 12 Divine Inyang Titus is a writer, performance poet, and songwriter keen on exploring the nuances of the human experience through art. He is the author of the chapbook "A Beautiful Place To Be Born" and his works have appeared or are forthcoming in Brittle Paper, The Kalahari Review, The Shallow Tales Review, The Fiery Scribe Review, Eye To The Telescope and elsewhere. He deeply enjoys reading, making music, and observing the rudiments of excellence.

EDEN HERBSTMAN Cold Sashimi I overwrite, usually, so I’ll try and keep this simple. Brief. I need to clean my fishbowl. Guilt mounts, like the muddied color of water in the bowl. I can’t see my fish anymore. I hope he’s still in there, or did he quietly leave out the side door, like how you used to leave me, so many times before. 13

EDEN HERBSTMAN When Mental Health Checks Did Not Exist I should probably write about you. The voice in my head, that’s had residency in my brain for ten plus years. You don’t pay rent, you live there for free, and I let you. a parasite- a leech- but you’re also apart of me. I neglect you, I should be better to you, that’s what you say. those incoherent thoughts, please just fucking go away! Maybe I should be more honest and talk about you more. Maybe it will make me feel better? or one of us feel better? But you’re tiring, you’re depressing. But like beautiful chronic pain, I’ve learned to live with you, learned to mute you, and listen to you, hate you, love you. I don’t like to write about you though. Because you’re always there. Somewhere. A topic that has become boring, like an article of clothing over-worn to the point it becomes a standard uniform. (continued) 14

I tried in a poetry workshop once. You were insinuated. The workshop caught the drift, they knew, and picked up on the clues. But my teacher critiqued and said “it could be a lie,” and that I should be more honest, and clarify what “it” is. what “you” are. Okay, here it is… Eden Herbstman 15 Eden Herbstman is a writer and journalist from New York. Her articles and profiles have been published in PMc Magazine, Bullett, Interview, and Miami Living Magazine. She currently lives in Miami, and is working on a larger body of poetry.

STEPHEN KINGSNORTH Bridge I’ve voiced it by so many pyres - know ash will fertilise the ground - death not for storage, mantel pot, the issue shelved, if passed retrieved. But comma, not full English stop, or period as cousins have. And over space, with bridge of grace, the spirits live, not wraiths in wights, nor manes, as stuff from spectre mares, like horses of apocalypse, but what remains when flesh is gone. It’s what was learned through discipline, that classic pool, genetic code, twin helix spiral held in cells, as eremite, or pilgrim’s trail. In that sense dead are never lost, deceased, but wear another face, the offspring of their future race encapsulated in the seed. 16

Manes to Masques You know that mane draped old mare’s neck, a Charleston shawl with tassel strings, long earrings like her swinging fringe, the twenties style on eighty years. The young embarrassed by her style, Quixotic, in her dreamy way, poor sighted, eccentricity, exotic dancer prancing free, recalling balls, masques of the past. Would she be harem sherbet girl, for navel bauble belly dance, or Cleopatra in a trance - more spirit of the dead on floor? Those ancient rites she celebrates and fools herself as mask has slipped? Stephen Kingsnorth Stephen Kingsnorth (Cambridge M.A., English & Religious Studies), retired to Wales from ministry in the Methodist Church with Parkinson’s Disease, has had pieces published by on-line poetry sites, printed journals and anthologies, most recently Academy of the Heart and Mind, The Parliament Literary Magazine, Poetry Potion, Grand Little Things, The Poet Magazine. https://poetrykingsnorth.wordpress.com/ 17

GARY KOPPEL I Met the Lone Ranger (or “Who Was that Masked Man?” Chicago. November. 1969. Sunday afternoon. Currently: cold and bleak, with the promise of ‘nothing’ in the forecast. Ever optimistic, my buddy and I, found ourselves wandering around Grant Park, smoking a joint and waiting for our luck to change. This was the very same Grant Park, where Chicago’s Finest, beat, bashed, and bloodied the anti-war protestors, during the summer of the ‘68 Democratic convention. The brutality was televised, directly in front of the posh Hilton Hotel. Outside the hotel: Tear gas and the sounds of sirens, screams, and cracking skulls. Inside the hotel: A piano bar, cigar smoke wafting, and the sound of ice cubes clinking against a glass. The whole world was watching. With the wind whipping off the lake, I turned up my collar, as the promise of ‘nothing’ had suddenly turned into pelting rain. My buddy and I decided to duck into the Hilton to avoid the elements. I think that’s what we did in the 60’s….Avoid the elements. We stumbled upon a huge ballroom buzzing with people with a purpose. Unbeknownst to us, we had just discovered what is known as a ‘franchise show’. Dare to dream. Own a piece of America…Buy a franchise; McDonald’s, KFC, Holiday Inn, Midas Muffler, you name it. Just sign on the dotted line. Businesses in the business of trying to do business with people who know nothing about business. For a longhaired, bead wearing, tie-dyed, non-conformist, this was counterculture comedy gold. Let the cynicism begin. (continued) 18

But in a moment everything changed. Off in the distance, “A fiery horse with the speed of light, a cloud of dust and a hearty Hi-Yo Silver! The Lone Ranger rides again!” If you listened closely enough you could hear The William Tell overture trumpeting in my head. There he was! The Lone Ranger, Himself…in all his splendor… signing 8x10 glossies, and pitching The Lone Ranger Family Restaurants. I was transfixed. As a kid growing up in the 50’s, television was brand new. Every week, we’d wait for The Lone Ranger to gallop into our living rooms. He made Saturdays, ‘Saturday’. We grew up with him. You could count on him. He’d be there. My mission was clear. I had to meet him. My buddy, still cynical, wondered what all the excitement was about. “What are you going to do? Get his autograph?” I stood in line waiting. Waiting to meet The Lone Ranger. Was I excited? Like a four year old kid, wondering ‘how did he get out of the TV?’. My buddy on the other hand, straddled the line somewhere between annoyed and embarrassed. “Come on…Let’s get out of here.” I wasn’t going anywhere. I had a date with destiny. There were only two people ahead of me waiting for his autograph. A rush of adrenalin. And then…That deep sonorous voice called out unto me…”Son, come ‘ere. I want to talk to you.” Me? The Lone Ranger wanted to talk to me? I was pulled out of line and found myself standing shoulder to shoulder with the Lone Ranger. While he continued to sign autographs and seemingly, without looking up, he asks me, “Why the long hair?” I said to him, “Why the mask?” Momentarily stunned, he thinks and then says, “It’s part of my image.” “Likewise…Mine too.”. Now, it’s on. The Lone Ranger counters with, “Well if you are going to have long hair, you might as well be wearing frilly shirts, don’t you think?”…Implying anyone with long hair must be gay. “Don’t talk to me about being gay, I said…Look at you.”. (continued) Gary Ko 19 ppel

A quick note here. The most striking thing about seeing The Lone Ranger in person was, it was the first time I saw him in living color. Prior to that, I only saw him on TV…when the world was still seen in black and white. Naturally I had assumed his outfit was either white or beige. But in fact there he stood, dressed in a powder blue outfit…that’s right, powder blue, with a red bandana, and a white hat. Red, white, and blue. Get it? The autograph seeking line had now transformed into a throng of spectators, watching me go one on one with the Lone Ranger. Make no mistake, I had no intentions of sparring with The Lone Ranger. I loved the Lone Ranger. He was my childhood hero. No, from my experience, you’d be a fool to mess with him. He always got his man. (So to speak) The only reason I was there in the first place was to get out of the rain. But, remember, he not only questioned my masculinity but the masculinity of hippies everywhere. Let’s face it…this is one of those moments you don’t want to miss. So I said, “Don’t talk to me about being gay. Look at you…wearing those skintight powder blue pants. You have to admit, that’s a bit effeminate.” He thought for a moment and then shot back, “Yeah? Well, wrestlers wear skin tight pants.” Really? Wrestlers? This was his defense? He was actually making my point. I think he lost sight of the fact that two, half naked men, wearing tights, sweating and rubbing up against each other is a touch homoerotic. But I went on…”And what about the fact you always saved more men than women? Huh? What’s up with that?” The crowd was suddenly in my corner. He was losing ground. Our banter continued for a bit, but mostly The Lone Ranger just wanted to know what was happening to our country, to our kids, and to our culture. He didn’t understand. And suddenly, I had been thrust into the position of designated spokesperson for an entire generation. "Some are born great, some achieve (continued) 20

greatness, and some of us have to explain the world to the Lone Ranger " Sure, the pressure was on, but duty called. I shared the irony, that he himself was one of the founding fathers of the baby boomers. He had a major impact on our generation. TELEVISION had just arrived. For us, the whole world was watching HIM; our first televised American Hero. We grew up with him. Watching him save people, watching him deliver justice, watching him take charge. Singlehandedly, all problems could be resolved within thirty minutes, including commercial breaks…And then he’d just ride off into the sunset in search of his next adventure. If you were a kid, growing up in the 50’s, all you’d needed to do was put on a mask, and you too, could take on the world. He had no idea what I was talking about. Hey, I barely knew what I was talking about. But what he did respond to was, being a mythic hero…An American icon. He confesses to me, “I wish I could have been that person, living in the old west.” And he meant it. But this wasn’t just some fantasy of his, this was a full blown identity crisis. And here’s the ‘tell’. He’s standing there, resplendent, in his Lone Ranger regalia, hat to boots, and on his finger is a huge diamond studded ring with his initials on it. But the initials are not L R. for the Lone Ranger, but rather C M…standing for Clayton Moore…the name of the actor…the man himself. The actor and the myth had become one. He didn’t just admire the character he played, he spent the rest of his life trying to become the character. For the next 30 years he was rarely seen in public without wearing the mask. Now, instead of riding the open range saving people in distress, this American hero was here at the Hilton Hotel, on a cold, rainy, November Sunday afternoon in Chicago, pitching his fast food hamburger chain. He needed to get back to work… but had one more question for me. “Can I ask you something?” “Sure”, I said, “shoot”. The pun was lost on him; probably, just as well. Still trying to make sense of the world around him, He turns to me and asks, “Tell me, son, do you take (continued) 21

drugs?” Without hesitation, I say, “Yes.” He thinks for a minute and then says, “Well, you’re still a good boy.” “Why am I good boy?” “Why? …Because you came to the franchise show.” And then, with the speed of light and a cloud of dust, the Lone Ranger was off …signing those 8x10 glossies. My buddy and I savored the moment. Then, as we walked away, my buddy turns to me and says, “Who was that masked man? He never gave us the chance to say ‘thank you’.” In the end, all the Lone Ranger or Clayton Moore, or whoever he was, wanted to do was ‘make a difference’. I know he’s made a difference in my life; a profound, life altering difference. But not the one that either of us had hoped for or imagined. Hi-Yo Silver… away. Far, far, far away. 22 Gary Koppel has been working in the entertainment industry for over 20 years, writing and producing movie trailers and television promos for a number of studios and TV networks. Additionally, he is teaching memoir writing and storytelling to older adults with the City of Los Angeles Recreation and Parks’ Wellness program. He currently lives in Sherman Oaks, CA. For more information, see his website: Koppelconsulting.com

AMY BASSIN & MARK BLICKLEY Terminal Blue 23 New York artist Amy Bassin and writer Mark Blickley work together on text-based art collaborations and videos. Bassin is co-founder of the international artists cooperative, Urban Dialogues. Blickley is the author of 'Sacred Misfits' (Red Hen Press) and proud member of the Dramatists Guild and PEN American Center. Two of their videos represent the United States in the 2020 year-long world tour of Time Is Love: Universal Feelings: Myths & Conjunctions, organized by the esteemed African curator, Kisito Assangni.

RAMESH DOHAN Storied Life This is a photograph that has conjured up myriad of memories to reflect on in a day it is a story so, leave your shoes at its doorway Love is but a trick of the light some conundrums I let lie 24

Namesake Every spring night The dreams star more pale ghosts Some are hotel beds I enter And spend forgotten nights I mourn a different city The easy nights I’d spent In placid arms The memories need no Lanterns to find me Ramesh Dohan Ramesh Dohan hails from the city of Toronto. He earned a BA from the University of British Columbia. He has also seen his poetry published in several literary journals including South Ocean Review (2007), Osprey Journal (2008), Boston Literary Magazine (2011), Ascent Aspirations (2011), Bywords Journal (2012), Allegro Poetry Review (2015), and VerseWrights (2015) & Bosphorous Review of Books (2021). 25

ALAN BERN cracked mask 26

doves’ morning Alan Bern 27 Alan Bern is a retired children’s librarian and cofounder with artist/printer Robert Woods of Lines & Faces, an illustrated poetry broadside press and publisher, linesandfaces.com, in the San Francisco Bay area. His work has recently appeared in Mediterranean Poetry (odyssey.pm/contributors/alan-bern/), Slouching Beast Journal, and Mercurius. He is the author of No no the saddest (Fithian Press), Waterwalking in Berkeley (Fithian Press), and greater distance and other poems (Lines & Faces). Alan perform with the dancer Lucinda Weaver as PACES: dance & poetry fit to the space and with musicians from Composing Together, http://composingtogether.org

LOUIS FABER Carney Barker You there, walking along the midway come into my tent, for only a dollar I will show you wonders beyond your meager comprehension but this offer is only good for the next fifteen minutes for that is when I start my show, It’s not something you want to miss. I know you’ve seen quarters pulled from ears, doves fly off from and oversized top hat that moments before was empty but you have never seen the likes of what I will show you. Here is my father, watch him closely cast his seed, closely and like that he is gone. Not good enough you say then watch again, even more closely this time, see her lie on my table, her gown draped over her, see me reach and pluck a small baby better than a pigeon isn’t it, but you blinked, where has she gone. Only tepid applause, so I guess you want one more, and I am never one to disappoint. See him standing there it almost looked like he is standing before a mirror shaving and now he, too, is gone before your very eyes. If you still aren’t satisfied if you haven’t gotten your monies worth then please, please step forward, for I can work with others than my parents, truly I can, so where are you going. Step into my tent ladies and gentlemen the next show starts in only fifteen minutes, all for a single dollar. 28

The Wall The wall is black granite, highly polished be an unseen hand and the fingers of countless thousands present but each unseen by the others. At first glance you want to count the names, but you lack fingers enough for the task and others are quickly withdrawn as are their eyes. You know where the names are, Willy, who they now call William, Little Joey, who was so large in your memory, climbing into the cockpit. You wonder if things had been different, if you hadn't enlisted, chosen the Air Force, if the Draft Board anointed you cannon fodder, who would trace their fingers along the cold unfeeling stone that has been washed by untold tears bidding you farewell or thanks, rarely both. We have grown so good at wars we no longer need etched walls, bronze statues, for before a design is complete the next must be begun. Louis Faber 29 Louis Faber’s work has previously appeared in South Shore Review (Canada),The Poet, Glimpse, Dreich (Scotland), The Alchemy Spoon (UK), Atlanta Review, Arena Magazine (Autsralia), Exquisite Corpse, Rattle, Eureka Literary Magazine, Borderlands: the Texas Poetry Review, Midnight Mind, Pearl, Midstream, European Judaism, Greens Magazine, The Amethyst Review, Afterthoughts, The South Carolina Review and Worcester Review, and in small journals in India, Wales, Ireland, Pakistan, China and Japan, among many others, and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.

My best friend’s parents banned her from my bat mitzvah and took her to church After they died, their hidden documents outed them as Jews My college had 27 sororities - 22 Christian, 5 Jewish, none lesbian Nobody knew I was a lesbian I dated fraternity boys and hung out with townie girls My father drove across town to a golf club where nobody knew he was a Jew His brother Abraham became “Albert Christian” to get a job in the sewer His overalls smelled of shit and methane and lived outside the garage No amount of scrubbing could buy them a ticket indoors JEAN FINEBERG Hiding is a Dirty Job 30 Jean Fineberg is a poet and professional jazz saxophonist. Her poet father left a new poem on the table every morning, and she recently unearthed a book of poems she wrote when she was eight. Jean has studied with celebrated poet Kim Addonizio, and her poems have been published in Modern Poets Magazine, Soliloquies Anthology, Vita Brevis, Dove Tails, Uppagus, Literary Yard, FLARE: The Flagler Review, Riza Press, High Shelf Press, The Fibonacci Review, The Creativity Webzine, Quillkeepers Press, Superpresent Magazine, Lucky Jefferson, Unlost Journal, The Jewish Literary Journal, Kerning, Jerry Jazz Musician, Parliament Literary Journal, Montana Mouthful and Shot Glass Journal. Her first chapbook, A Mobius Path, will be available from Finishing Line Press in February, 2022. She is currently at work on her second chapbook, tentatively titled Memoirs of a Mean Sax.

ALEKSANDRA VUJISIC Death I wanted you to die! There, I said it, with my half bitten lip, and my lost eyes, my burnt sky and my broken hip - I wanted you to die because I thought this could be such a beautiful gift for me, climbing the difficult hills, coming down from a broken tree. No fruit was ever good enough for you, that is why I broke too many times, reading hurtful lines with no rhymes, losing my senses and my mind, quiet like a newborn puppy, half lost and half blind. I wanted you to die, because I didn’t know how to kill you and leave no traces, there is still blood on paper, a ticket for all deserted places. 31 Aleksandra Vijisic, from Montenegro, is a professor of English language and literature and is a passionate writer of prose and poetry for children and grownups. She has participated in poetry festivals and contests across Europe and her works have won prizes and acknowledgements in Montenegro and worldwide. Her works are part of more than 30 anthologies and books. In 2017, she started a literary project to promote the importance of reading for children and is a member of the Association of Montenegrin Authors for Children.

LINDSEY PUCCI Come Play 32

Lindsey Pucci 33 Percussion

Lindsey Pucci Sir 34 Lindsey Pucci has a B.S. in Art Education from U.W. La Crosse where she was the recipient of the Carol Quillins Scholarship Award for her digital photography. Her work has been shown in the La Crosse Center for the Arts and The State Street Gallery in Wisconsin as well as being published in Nightingale & Sparrow. She teaches and lives with her husband and young son in Minnesota.

JOHN JOHNSON Hidden Behind Masks alter-egos : bank robbers : candy seekers : deep desires : executioners : frustration with loved ones : guilty consciences : Hannibal Lecter : ironworkers : jealousy : Kabuki warriors : love and love forbidden : martyrdom : nudity : original sin : peccadilloes : quirks : raccoons : scuba divers: tragedy & comedy: unvaccinated visitors : vaccinated visitors : wrestling luchadores : x-ray technicians : yesterday’s worst moments : Zorro. 35 John Johnson is a poet from Northern Virginia. His recent work has been published in Cathexis Northwest Magazine, Bluepepper, Cabinet of Heed, and The Poet.

NATALIE KORMOS If You’re Being Me, Then Who’s Being You? If you’re being me, then who’s being you? Who is there doing, all the things you can do? Who is there to smile, with light sparkling in your eyes, Wind blowing through your hair, your face turning to the sky? Who would there be, to twirl as you do, Spinning around, in your dancing shoes? Who could ever shatter sadness, with your melodic laughter? No one I’m sure, could cheer me up faster. ~~~ If you’re being me, then who’s being you? Who would take joy in the small, details of every view? Who would point out to me, the wrinkles of the man in the moon, The carefree dance, of a bunch of bobbing balloons? Who would there be to notice, the rays of sunshine through the clouds, The crickets and birds singing, the peaceful summer evening sounds? ~~~ If you’re being me, then who’s being you? Life is more interesting, when to each their own it’s true. Follow in my footsteps, but blaze a trail all of your own, I’ll still always be there beside you, a place to call your home. (continued) 36

Natalie Kormos For there is only so much I can teach you, of which to show you the way, With energy and adventure grasp each moment, of every coming day. There is no other on the Earth, or in existence of all time, That carries your very own imagination, the thoughts and adventures of your mind. Only you can pursue your owns dreams, from the fibres of your soul are spun, Through your actions learning who you are, shaping who you become. If all your life you mimic the ways of another, then in a shadow you shall al-ways be, The true person that you are, no one shall be able to see. It is good to share lessons and ways, with those you love so dear, But promise me you’ll never lose sight of your person, keeping your spark ever so clear. Hold closely your loved ones, but to yourself always stay so very true, If you’re being me, then who’s being you? A 2020 graduate of University of St Andrews, Scotland (Biology BSc), Natalie competes on the horse polo and ballroom dancing teams in addition to taking part in golf, sailing and reeling. Natalie began writing poetry when her mum read Hailstones and Halibut Bones to her at a very young age. Natalie’s work has been featured in North American and Canadian poetry competitions hosted by Creative Communication, The Poetry Institute of Canada, The Royal Canadian Legion and Polar Expressions Publishing. Natalie has been featured in The Parliament Literary Journal's inaugural issue as the Ekphrastic poetry competition’s Artist's Choice winner. Most recently her work has been accepted to the summer issue of The Parliament Literary Journal. Natalie has a great passion in writing to share messages in a rhyming form for all ages, that challenge perspectives, inspire innovation and allow for creativity. 37

T.K. LEE Native Sylvia, my birthday was Sunday. 42. I needed—well, I wanted so I’d ordered— a new jacket, nothing else. I didn’t want another thing not really. I didn’t want a heavy coat, either, lined like the trench you preferred a long shoulder, a high collar. I’d do fine with a lighter sleeve, a tender mercy of cloth, a thick enough thread against the little rain that lies in wait for the small walks I say I’ll take at least to where the foothills start I told the UPS man My asthma keeps me pebble-level. No mountains for me I told him. I say he listened but I have also told a lie already. Sylvia, I wanted a day at the zoo too. I wanted a new jacket and a day at the zoo. So, I went to the zoo in my new jacket, Sylvia. If you could’ve seen me! (continued) 38

At how I walked to the car waterproofed, slick-creased, wicked against a coming sweat— at how I walked up to purchase a day pass slick as water creased proof in a dusty gray, deep-threaded pattern. I felt attractive in that color despite what you said about me in that color. (It’s not a color, you said, You know what looks good in that color? Nothing, you said, which means, I suppose, I’m nothing to look at— I know that’s not what you meant). I went to the bathroom with the good mirror to take a picture of myself on the iPhone. I wasn’t alone in the bathroom. A fish was there in the mirror, in the bathroom mirror. It was your fish, Sylvia: Same side-silver streak, same wide, stupid mouth, open, same fat, stilled by bloat. Same dead left eye, right eye missing. (You named him Gilbert—you said to keep that T>K. Lee (continued) 39

to myself, I know). I snapped a picture of him too on the iPhone. (I made the same face as he did, standing there staring—I brushed my teeth, too hard as usual, spittle on my nose—on the faucet— this is how I tell the truth— asked him how he’d been). Then, I snapped the picture. Then, I went to the zoo in my birthday jacket. I stood in line for a ticket on the train that circles the zoo. (It was a short line dragged along by that same horrible no-respecter-of-persons minute as is every minute when you wait for what you think you want, and then the train came finally, and I had doubts) There is a young girl put beside me, her mother the row in front— the sun, even in December, Sylvia, was hot. I didn’t even need a jacket— The rain had even stopped. This young girl. Her arms, her box of a head, baked apples. T>K. Lee (continued) 40

She didn’t speak to me. Children shouldn’t speak. Her mother spoke to me. Mothers shouldn’t speak either. We sat there, a zoo-family, among the thousand-felt-like other children and mothers who had guts of noise and who, dirty fingers all, pointed as round and round and round we go!, yelling out animal names, as we choo-chooed beside each exhibit: Alligators!!, Flamingoes!, Monkeys!!, Lion! Lion? Yes. Lion. Just the one, Sylvia, in a stated cage beneath the wooden bridge—the train idled— for people to get off, for people picturing, to give them room to air their mock-surprise of finding just the one lion, Sylvia. His wife died last month, the conductor hollered through the grinning static of his microphone. Her name was Loo-Loo, the conductor hollered, his fingers pinching the cord, my zoo-wife pretended at a tear, squeezed our zoo-daughter — who was cooked from the sun, remember? — she cried at being squeezed after being cooked by the sun. And now he can’t roar…ever since the conductor hollered. All the zoo-families ogling, rubbering their necks with T>K. Lee (continued) 41

more genuine surprise of a lion that stopped roaring. Laid out, as he was, on the top of a concrete slab, jaws open, all-capital-letters-like. The very idea of a lion who couldn’t roar, the conductor hollered, Or wouldn’t. Some child yelled, “Look, he’s about to roar!” But he wasn’t. He was yawning. He does that a lot, the conductor hollered. Maybe that’s why he won’t roar anymore, Sylvia. Maybe his jaws have grown a permanent yawn. Same child yelled, “What if it’s a new kind of roar we can’t hear!? The conductor hollered, Well, he’d catch you for sure then! Call it a fool’s instinct; since I found myself at the rail of the bridge, but I showed him the photo of Gilbert— don’t worry, I didn’t tell him Gilbert’s name— he wasn’t even interested, he looked away from me. So I yelled—you know I never yell— “Oh, what?!, you too good to look at a picture T>K. Lee (continued) 42

of a dead fish, you dumb lion!” The conductor winked at a nearby family, “All aboard!” I went to place the iPhone back into a new gray jacket pocket of its own when I realized it was the photo of myself I’d shown him not the fish which made the rain we found— so quick! —ourselves standing in — plop plop! — somehow more urgent, all front-page, if risible and Sylvia, if I’m being honest, as rude as you used to be, the more necessary you decided to become. I got back on the train. I wanted to sit very still. I was upset— wet when I shouldn’t be— I didn’t even look up to see the elephants, which you know is my favorite animal. Sylvia. No, I kept my hands in my pockets, that’s a thing I like to do now, T>K. Lee (continued) 43

kept my elbows at my side. I opened and closed my mouth several times to take hold of my best breath. I held a few in, pretended I was a fishing pole, or a casserole dish, or a night light, something quiet so I wouldn’t bite the ears off everyone on that train pretended even there were no such things as elephants or new jackets or zoos or baked apples or daughters or trains or fish or Sundays or widowed lions. I’m sorry….lion. There’s just the one, Sylvia. There’s just the one lion. T>K. Lee A poet and playwright, T.K. Lee is firmly planted in the southern tradition of gothic storytelling. His award-winning work has appeared in respected national and international publications. Among those are several prize-winning short plays (On How To Accommodate Marlo’s Frying Pan; Sindication: Off the Wall Plays, London; Loose Hog: Smith Scripts, UK) as well as full-length dramas (Paper Thin: Next Stage Press, CO) — which will receive a world premier in October 2021 in Florida and his play Bob and the Tree, about eccentric painter Walter Anderson, was awarded a highly coveted Literary Artist Fellowship from the Mississippi Arts Commission in August 2021. His first collection of poetry, To Square a Circle, debuted at the 2018 Eudora Welty Symposium and continues to garner critical praise for its “uncanny wit; impeccable sense of pacing and tone; [and for] bringing a dynamic new voice to southern poetry.” Lee currently serves as MFA faculty at the historic Mississippi University for Women, in both the Creative Writing and Theatre Education programs. For more information, vis-it: www.tkleewriting.com; on Facebook at www.facebook.com/tkleewriting; and on Twitter/Instagram: @@thecleverkris. 44

KAREN BOISSONNEAULT-GAUTHIER Face Forward 45 Karen Boissonneault-Gauthier is an Indigenous visual artist, writer and photographer. Most recently she's been a cover artist for Arachne Press, Pretty Owl Poetry, Wild Musette, Existere Journal, Vine Leaves Literary Journal, Gigantic Sequins, Ottawa Arts Journal and more. When she's not walking her husky, she's also designing with Art of Where and sometimes writing poetry or essays. Karen now uses some of her artwork on non-medical face masks, hoping to be a better global citizen. See www.kcbgphoto.com to find out more.

CHARLOTTE KIM Mirror’s Desire An aging mirror bore faces of many, but it wanted its own. 46

Charlotte Kim Arachne the Grandma Leathery hands weave our last smiles and tears as life’s spool meets death’s thread. Charlotte Kim is a poet based in Los Angeles, the City of Avocado Toast and Expensive Coffee. A recent graduate from the University of Southern California, you can find her dancing, writing, and talking nonstop—sometimes all three at once! 47

CONNOR DOYLE Doing Just Fine Connor Doyle is a photographer and filmmaker based in the Chicagoland area. Graduating from Hampshire College’s Film/Photo program, Doyle’s work focuses on the idiosyncratic details of daily life in Northern Illinois, specifically his native Wheaton, IL. In his piece "doing just fine", Doyle reflects on human denial and the inability to fully accept one's dire circumstances, a feeling that is all too relevant today. Connor’s work has been published in the Hole In The Head Review, the Burningword Literary Journal, Humana Obscura, and the Parliament Literary Journal. You can visit his website at https://connordoylephotographyfilmmaker.cargo.site/ 48

NATE MAXSON The Magic Hour “World without end/ remember me.” -Laurie Anderson The stones you leave on loved ones’ graves Are always smooth and round Like the ones you’d skip on the water Are you supposed to leave stones there? Or did I just ascribe meaning to habit? I’m always doing that, Always feeling for just the perfect flat skipper no matter how far I am from any seas or lakes, how far into the desert I’ve gotten Old photo albums, used to be how you remembered things You used to flip through the arranged pages, stare at the frames of all the days someone chose to rescue The raindrops caught brightly on your long hair years ago, now cropped short like a mili-tary man If I still did things the way they used to, that’s what I’d choose to keep No old photographs for us though, we’re too young for that anachronism But we’re getting there, What will it be like? When we’re the junked cars in the fields, windows smashed by neighborhood kids armed with bricks and bats When we’re the small animals, peering out from such dark spaces at the very edge of Autumn’s sightline When we’re frost on the prairie grass in the storm-lit summer of your memory, pale and golden 49 Nate Maxson is a writer and performance artist. The author of several collections of poetry including 'Maps To The Vanishing' which is coming out in 2022 from Finishing Line Press. He lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico.

MARK MURPHY Lusus Naturae i You stumble forwards with your crutches as if you might walk before you crawl Your father turning into a rare shade of yellow and black No amount of stage presence can prepare the organism for disease as it wipes the slate clean, killing all you wish to preserve You look for solution, but the riddle of history forces its hand, as you play devil and advocate for historical inevitability The forgone conclusion already concluded by fatigue, fever, weight loss, bad temper ii He who eschews the doll’s house for Thoreau’s cabin pays the highest price in the lottery of pain because the whole is forever multiplying and dividing (continued) 50

as it kills like paranoia in a police spy iii Now the unsecured pledge shoots down dreamer and desire, as father and daughter retire to the seaside in the hope of resurrection, redemption and therapeutic certainty iv You ask if perpetual dread is the result of boundless knowledge Your father is doubled over hunched back, gathering dust and facts like a thesis as he coughs up tar and blood – insists on another cut-rate, Cuban cigar v He who would ration need in a bid to rationalise, demonise and demonetise – Mark Murphy (continued) 51

might well, fall foul himself, of poaching the ear of corn vi Could’ve been the port and tobacco Could’ve been the pills Could’ve been the poverty, the love, plain old hope Could’ve been the dreaming that had to end Mark Murphy 52 Mark A. Murphy is an Ace poet, living with GAD, and OCD. His work has appeared in The Magnolia Review, ISACOUSTIC and DREICH Magazine. He has poems forthcoming in Cultural Weekly and Acumen.

ROBERT ALEXANDER WRAY Autumn Tale JESS Through my window, I see such beautiful fall weather…All the leaves wandering to the ground, burning with color; such heart-melting beauty, the way the wind kisses them away and lays them atop a blossoming sea of gold. Such beauty, such bliss, and this little body stopped. I see it in the distance, lying on the road. I’m not sure what I see is real or some bright deceit of the sun. It seems impossible, with all this beauty around, death should be lingering here. I don’t want to start my day by staring at a dead body, so I…I check the mail. Thank God, no bills. Nothing. Just that…silent body, strange and frozen…Maybe it’s only a large shirt that’s been ripped. I decide to go and look. The wind picks up as I do so, sending a series of yellowing flakes my way. As I move closer, I spot a nearby newspaper torn from this morning. I lift it up, whereupon a striped snake that had been resting underneath slithers off. This is not good. I freeze in panic, letting the paper fall where it lay. My eyes fix on the front page, the bold print: “Attacked…Struck…War.” I wonder if the entertainment section might of-fer relief…No…I walk onwards…Yes, it IS a body: White, tinged with red, its face turned to mine. I realize it’s still alive. Its child-eyes stare at me. I’m scared, sunk with what to do. I step over it and go past. I stop. I look back. Its face has turned in my direction, glaring. Its eyes seem to say, ‘If you want to find me again, I’m the one eating carrots.’ After that, I decide to sit in a café the rest of the day, and wait for winter. 53 Robert Alexander Wray is a graduate of the Iowa Playwrights Workshop, has won awards, and his plays have been done in New York, regionally and abroad. Other works include: Bullet for Unaccompanied Heart, Ocean View Odyssey and Melancholy Echo. He's based near Charlottesville, Virginia where he writes to his heart's content and is endlessly entertained by his crazy cat Sylvo.

SHARON LASK MUNSON Smile Behind Your Mask Laughs are infectious, smiling a natural response. Smile as the family gathers on Zoom for your father’s 95th birthday. Smiling is good for your heart. Smile often. Your eyes will show pleasure, private amusement, or simple happiness. Smile behind your mask. A smile elevates your mood, lowers blood pressure. Smiling feels good. Smile on your daily walks. Wave to neighbors! They’ll wave back. Smile at the line of cars honking up and down the boulevard. Someone is graduating or having a birthday. Wave, even if you don’t know that person. Smiling makes you look younger. Keep that secret behind your mask. 54

Little White Lies The dress looks lovely on you, beige is definitely your color. Regretfully, I never got your message. My cell phone went out with the trash. Wish I could have made the conference. No, you weren’t too surly at Beverly’s party Friday night. Everyone was glad to see you. Hardly anyone gossiped about your divorce. Of course it wasn’t your fault. I didn’t mind your little rant. You have a right to your opinion. Really, you weren’t that drunk at the party. Just having a good time. No, I didn’t see anyone take photos when you landed in the punch bowl. Yes, we should get together more often. Next Thursday won’t work, or the Thursday after, but I’ll give you a buzz when I’m free. It will be good to see you again. Of course, I mean it. Sharon Lask Munson 55 Sharon Lask Munson is a retired teacher, poet, old movie enthusiast, lover of road trips—with many published poems, two chapbooks, and two full-length books of poetry. She says many things motivate her to write: a mood, a memory, the smell of cooking, burning leaves, a windy day, rain, fog, something observed or overheard—and of course, imagination. She lives and writes in Eugene, Oregon. www.sharonlaskmunson.com

RITA ANDERSON Jogger Found I. Epilogue Just two weeks ago, you saw your Mother on the end of your bed: It is a sign, you whispered and, now, You are gone. We find out in the morning paper, a headline which read, “Dead Jogger Found.” II. The Past Let us start with the end —your heart attack at dawn, a trail in the park your damp canvas— and row back to an ignoble Tennessee birth. Then, linger where the bulb swings shadows against exposed rafters at the orphanage, your narrative’s attic, another cold beginning. Abandoned and up for adoption. This oldest memory like the horizon: The picture never changes. (How does one not focus on what is missing?) Mother is in the earth like a wild onion succumbed to a ruthless frost, which leaves the widower more inconvenienced than bereaved and so he buries himself in work until he replaces her. --Were your father’s last words dramatic, engine idling in apology to the Sister in charge whose black habit swept sensible shoes? 56

Rita Anderson He saw himself as the victim, deserted by a frail spouse who was thoughtless enough not to take the children with her. III. Your Future Reinvented, the patriarch —your grinning father— returns; his new wife, a gloved handshake. Then, reunited, winters pass. Traveling quicker, now, to a future where you stand (and eventually fall) next to your own sons, a successful businessman and father: Why, then, did your spirit never escape that children’s home? No matter how big the subsequent houses, you slept hearing the wind, your history slithering up through the floorboards, memories like that stark light- bulb which hung your childhood. Abandonment, a tireless pendulum marking time, so achievement fails to bring rest. Nothing is enough to regain peace for such souls. 57 Rita Anderson has an MFA Poetry & an MA Playwriting. She was Poetry Editor of Ellipsis (University of New Orleans), and her books of poetry: The Entropy of Rocketman (Finishing Line Press) and Watched Pots (A Lovesong to Motherhood), have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. Rita won the Houston Poetry Festival, the Gerreighty Prize, the Robert F. Gibbons Poetry Award, the Cheyney Award, and an award from the Academy of American Poets. Her work has appeared in 100 literary publications including Spoon River Poetry Review, Waves: A Confluence of Voices (AROHO Anthology), EVENT Magazine (British Columbia), Blue Heron Review, Old Northwest Review, Cahoodaloodaling, The Stonecoast Review, The Blueshift Journal, Persona (50th Anniversary Edition), The Stardust Gazette, and Explorations (University of Alaska Press). Contact Rita at her website www.rita-anderson.com

MADARI PENDAS Peluda 58 Peluda: Hairy One. A mythical beast that terrorized the environs of the River Huisne, France, in the Middle Ages. The Shaggy Beast in English. The monster had a serpent-head and body covered in green fur. In folklore, it was excluded from Noah’s Ark, but survived the deluge. In modern Spanish peluda is a derogatory term for a hairy woman. In Latin-American culture the quality that we as little girls are taught is of greatest significance and virtue is our beauty. We need to presumir, look good, and not like mama-rachas, unkempt women. While boys are taught to be macho, we are taught to “fix” or “hide” or “disguise” anything that obfuscates our beauty. I wish we were taught ac-ceptance and to not myopically focus on physical charms. Beauty is like a bird in your hands. It pecks furiously, cutting your palm, biting on the exposed muscles, wearing you down, until finally you limply open your palms and watch the bird flutter above and away. And you are simply left with the memory and the scars from when you once held the pajarito, your beauty. I thought of the school days where I covered my forearms because they were coated in coarse, black hair that zipped across the sides like field grass. It was (and is) so swarthy it made my arm look a shade darker or like I was wearing a sleeve. Then there was facial hair. The dark twisted spires that formed along the lengths of my sideburns. My abuela called them “spider legs” and would grab at my cheek to pluck them out. We would sit on the sofa, watching some telenovela when suddenly I'd feel the attack--her

Madari Pendas 59 sharp and precise sewing fingers tugging at my cheek as if attempting to free Excali-bur. “Beauty is pain,” Abuela said. She held up the strand, examining it in the air, marveling at the black curl in her palm against her ivory skin. I think she was surprised at how hairy a young girl could be, especially one from her family. Abuela made it known that she was of “pure Galician genetics,” and would flaunt her hazel eyes and blonde hair (before it wilted to white), as if to say I was not of a superior stock, and this hirsute little problem of mine was brought about by the un-fortunate darker members of my gene pool. You get that from that father of yours, she’d say in the summers when my skin turned a dark tawny. Despite my grandmother's protests, I didn't mind these little cheek hairs be-cause I could hide them under my hair. They also tickled my hand when I washed my face, my little whiskers I called them affectionately, unaware that I needed sheering. *** At twenty-seven years old, when I was already a working public relations profes-sional, I stared at my knuckle hair, combed down like a flattened stalk of wheat. There was a candle on my desk, a small lavender scented one with a high wick. I put my hand over the fire, and I slowly rotated my skin over the flame. I was trying to singe the imperfection off. I dipped my knuckles into the fire one by one until all the hair

60 Madari Pendas was seared and all that was left was a mild sulfurous odor and turgid burnt skin. I bit my lip and looked over the cubicle walls. Slowly and with measured resistance I held flesh to flame. I didn’t care how much it burned or how much I wanted to pull away. I held the skin down as if I were drowning someone. I kept going. I bit harder into my lip, my skin burning, pink and tender. I pressed it, watching as the fire climbed the hair and crumbled it quickly. When I was done, my hand convulsed, and I was surprised by how much I could tol-erate. And shocked by what I could inflict on myself. *** Pubic hair—yet my autocorrect insists on public hair, as if it too is trying to correct the overarching shame of a shock of fuzz, peaking over and out of a bikini. Hair, publicly and privately, condemned. In Spanish, it’s pendejos. A word that has come to mean cow-ard or fool. In all languages and spaces (to an audience; to the self) these climbing vines must be beaten back, trimmed, cut, salted—so nothing may grow in its place. When my pubic hair comes—brown wisteria that makes me look away from the mir-ror when I change— puberty is announced. Once it grows in, I look at my bathing suits and underwear differently, noticing little black spikes poking through the material, or spi-dering out the sides as if trying to spread. “Can I shave it?” I asked, following my mother from kitchen to minivan as she packed for the beach. Stacks of ham sandwiches, Cheetos, Capri Suns, and aluminum

Madari Pendas 61 bundles of codfish croquettas. “It looks ugly.” Her oversized Panama hat flopped into her eyes. She pushed it back like she did with her fringe bangs. Already her arms and chest are red (the sun, an opportunist). “Not until you’re older.” “You shave it. I can tell.” “And it’s not fun.” To this she laughed, hips swaying up the driveway back to the kitchen. I’d seen her in her bikini, the bare flesh, unmarked and unspotted. Sometimes she walked around na-ked, the towel on her head and not on her body, making me think she wanted me to see. An exhibition, a recital, a lesson in what girls turn into—an echo of girlhood. Even she re-jected this aspect of adulthood, I thought, taking that to mean my feelings were right. “Come on,” I shouted. *** From Barbara McKay’s “Hair Removal History” Washington Post article: North Ameri-can doctors of the mid-1800s had tried numerous harmful procedures in futile attempts to remove hair permanently. These included: inserting into the hair follicle needles dipped into sulfuric acid, injecting carbolic acid directly into the follicle or rapidly twisting a barbed nee-dle in the follicle. Pain and scarring were the most common results. ***

62 Madari Pendas At thirteen, my grandmother, Mima, referenced my pubic hair whenever she want-ed to remind me that I was a woman and that I needed to do womanly things around the house, like wash the dishes, devein the thawing shrimps, place the washed items on the clothesline, clean the countertops, or bring my grandfather his flan de coco dessert. "Ya tienes pendejos, ponte a fregar; you have pubes now, go do the dishes," Mima would command with a specific rage that made me wonder if this had been done to her. I still felt like a child, I was thirteen and I still couldn't understand why this patch of hair added more responsibility to my life. What had changed? When my younger brother turned thirteen there were no commands made of him, no new household responsibilities, no prompts to make all the beds in the house or to wipe down the dried crud on the stove elements. It’s not atypical in Latin culture for boys to be coddled by their mothers and grandmothers. I asked Mima why I had to do all this housework (a broomstick in my hand and a game controller in his), and she said, “you are the girl.” She said it with such detached ob-jectivity, I believed her in that moment. I believed she was reciting a plain fact, a truth of the universe like what comes up must come down or blue is the rarest pigment in nature. “This way you’ll be a good wife,” she added, pointing at the corners of the living room where the swirled clouds of dust accumulated. “A useful one.” I wanted to respond what about him being a good husband! Shouldn’t we both have

Madari Pendas Madari Pendás is a writer, painter, and poet. She was the college 2021 Academy of American Poets Prize winner. Her work has appeared in Minerva Rising, Pank Magazine, Lambda Literary, Jai-Alai Books, Sinister Wisdom, and more. Her latest book, Crossing the Hyphen, will debut in February 2022 with Tolsun Books. 63 to learn! But as I dragged the thick clumps of matted hair and dust into the pan, I studied her as if that was what awaited my future. Perhaps she too had made these useless pro-tests; perhaps these obligations were as inevitable as hair. Mima was trying to instruct me, prepare me for life—a type of life—and pubic hair signaled the end of childhood and the beginning of womanhood. This made me detest body hair even more. It had taken away my care-free summers and games on the street that ran until the streetlights came on (or someone’s mother called them back in). Childhood was over and I swept it out the front porch along with the dust and all the undesirables of the home.

64 An Art-Inspired Contest featuring “Daybreak” by Marty J. A statement from Marty J.: Hi. I'm Marty J. I make music. Some of it is good. I was given the same 12 notes and silence just like everyone else. I have chosen to arrange them in the following ways … https://soundcloud.com/martyjmusic/sets/bipolar-skies https://soundcloud.com/martyjmusic/sets/ancient-oceans www.marvelousorchards.com https://soundcloud.com/martyjmusic

BENJAMIN STALNAKER Eden Benjamin Stalnaker is a writer and artist residing in Lexington, Massachusetts. They graduated from Brown University, where they were a writer and co-editor-in-chief for Vagabond Magazine as well as an editor’s assistant for differences: A Journal of Feminist Cultural Studies. Their artwork is included in the fall issue of Bait/Switch and another piece was featured in the In Color exhibit at the Cultural Center of Cape Cod. 65 We roleplayed Genesis by the creekside; no serpent in sight of the young lovers who knew, with certainty, in those tender moments that we alone walked this world. The fruits on the tree remained immaculate, as we revealed to each other everything that God had blessed us with. Naiveté left us wanting, until youthful eyes ate our fill as we lived a creation myth of our own making. The sin wasn’t original, even if it felt that way to untrained hands fumbling in the darkness, as we thanked God we weren’t the only double feature showing that night. Our garden was short-lived, even if a year felt like forever; the entropy of emotions too much for curiosity long since passed. ARTIST’S WINNER

LUCIA COPPOLA Aquila Cliff diving fearless and freestyle - acuity of the offbeat, furtive glance from a window between bursts of sunlight, clouds and rain, the desk, the sink, the flow of ink on a page that’s plain the flutter of awareness, the weird and wistful eye - the sharpened focus fortified with feathered eyebrows - the blink within the heartbeat and the singular breath when scanning with a specific charge, zooming in to specks of dust, the table’s varnished glare, the doorknob's neutral stare as booted spikes emerge from matted down - to streamline the feral dancer’s flight, cling with a velociraptor’s tenacity - to ensnare when landing onto solid ground and glisten with principles embedded in a mesozoic somewhere - there the surge of mighty wings the whistle in the moment, alien and familiar - this truth Listen! There’s a high pitched squall almost hidden within - the dive amidst smaller breezes the swoop and blaze just then that curves, fancies and free falls Watch! the deftly quilled trace and catch of diaphanous blue the aerial orbit, the wise fool’s freakish gaze – the lustrous affirmation carries courage enough to permeate empty air - to indulge motley textured sinews the blood, the sand, the tide, the land, the sweep away - fantastic dreams between cliff , treetop and cave, between the click and save between the I and love and you - the erstwhile stance 66 EDITOR’S WINNER (continued)

Lucia Coppola 67 Lucia Coppola is an ESL teacher who is originally from New York and has lived in France since 1985. She has a professional background in dance and body techniques. Her writing is largely informed by nature, traditional storytelling and by where she lives near the forest of Paris. Some of her work has been read on the New River Clocktower Radio program in New York City and published with Inspirelle, The Parliament Literary Magazine and the Plants and Poetry Anthology. atop the bedded nest and the cliff’s decisive edge the magnanimous day and the stark night will know one another - Aquila out of darkness espies the here and there clasps the still beating heart - in its talons A quila, aqui la singular, soft, high-pitched - piping thin arrowed, thitherward call - la la laaaaa