Sound of Shapes
J.M.C. Kane
Motel room, 3am, every channel clocked off. Just static, the polychrome hiss of the universe ignoring itself.
Then the snow clears. A face—his own face, but older, liver-spotted, eyes like something left out too long. The mouth moves. One sentence, said twice, three times. He leans in, but the sound is gone, hiss replaced by a hum, neither bearing words.
Snow again.
He stands in front of the bathroom mirror, the one missing spots where the silver’s worn through. He watches his mouth. He tries shapes.
By dawn, he’s still there, lips moving, asking the glass what he said.
J.M.C. Kane is a writer and environmental attorney in New Orleans who specializes in very short works because it gives him fewer opportunities to wander off-topic.
Bubbles in the Air
RJ Butler
They floated like ideas.
Each one held a tiny reflection of the afternoon. Distorted honesty.
A boy tried to pop one and transformed into a unicorn with the knowledge of flight and how to achieve world peace, whilst the others burst quietly, apologizing for their mere existence.
The sky wiped its mouth dry, and the clouds cried.
Transfer Day
Nicholas De Marino
“But Anya says we can choose—”
“Stop right there, Beryl,” I tell my darling daughter, patting her gnarled, bony knee. “Anya’s full of you-know-what.”
“But—” she starts.
“But nothing, young lady,” I say. “Now tell me again, what are you going to do when you get in the pod?”
It’s hard to believe this dithering crone will be gone in three days.
“But I—” Beryl starts.
“But, but, but. If you keep going on about buts, your butt’s gonna fall off,” I say. “Then where will you sit?”
You can’t argue with confident nonsense. Especially when you’ve got dementia.
“Okay,” she relents, rocking her chair. “I press the button.”
“Which button?” I prompt.
“Fuchsia. The fuchsia one,” she says.
“Fuchsia” sticks better than “pink.”
“And then?”
“Type III,” she recites. “Eye-eye-eye.”
“That’s right, darling,” I say, wiping spittle from her chin. “Fuchsia. Type III. Eye-eye-eye.”
After Beryl rocks herself to sleep, I pull her baby clothes out of storage. The only thing harder than the first week is the last.
Maybe I’m lucky. All I’ve got to do is drill colors and numbers. Anya’s mother has to wrangle a rogue senior with a self-determination complex.
I hold up a pilly onsie and frown. Biotic bodies are such a hassle.
I check Beryl’s still asleep then go into maintenance mode. As my circuitry idles, I wobble my metallic heart. Just a little.
Nicholas De Marino is a neurodivergent rhyparographer. More at foofaraw and nicholasdemarino.blogspot.com.
acceptance criteria
Kelley Tai
find me in a shadow underneath the maple’s bough,
in darkness, I break mirrors: let agency go,
a ringleader’s command is a pipe on the Hudson pier
Born to Chinese-Taiwanese immigrants, Kelley Tai (she/her) is a speculative fiction writer and a 2024 CSFFA Aurora Award-nominated poet.
Bagatelle #9
Michael Smith
I don’t want to get up anymore.
I’ve gotten quite comfortable on this floor.
Michael T. Smith is an Associate Professor of English who teaches both writing and film courses. He has published roughly 300 pieces (poetry and prose) in over 100 different journals.
Of What We Do Not Name
Ishani Ray
I do not know this world entire—
but my cat, pacing through the dim,
deciphers secrets curled in the folds of wind,
hears the tick of a beetle in the dust,
marks shadows that even dusk forgets.
She listens to the hush
between a radiator’s exhale
and the creak of floorboards’ slow settling—
the quiet syntax
of a house falling asleep.
The sun, in its final stretch,
threads gold through the torn lace
of maple leaves,
dressing the dying in something divine.
Dusk does not introduce itself,
It arrives like a guest we never really know
but welcome anyway,
and my cat does not flinch.
She drapes herself along the sill,
a silhouette of watching,
the faintest curl in her tail
suggesting she knows something
she won’t tell.
The porch lamp flickers into shape—
a blue haze, a beckoning
for the stray passerby,
For the moth brushing its wing
against the glass,
for the echo nesting in the stairwell,
for the owl’s silent wing,
for the cat—waiting—
poised—
at the cusp
of everything
we do not name.
I am a queer South-Asian writer and researcher from NYC. I write poetry as a way to give voice to thoughts that resist easy articulation.
Self-portrait as a loner
Jonathan Otamere
A warbler crashes against my windowsill
and its scattered feathers drift like leaves
searching for a safe landing.
Though it flaps to continue its flight,
pain drips red from its broken wings.
Likewise, I am a wingless bird.
Loneliness builds its tight cage around me
and its iron bars would rather
smother me than let me out alive.
It doesn’t matter how much I try,
my body always surrenders to a slouch,
not even when I made an origami parrot once
and imagined it a companion,
and by morning, found it drowned in a puddle
of spilled water in my room,
and as I lifted it up, its soaked body
fell apart in my hands.
Jonathan Otamere is a Nigerian poet and a current MFA candidate at the University of Mississippi. He is on Instagram @joepoet_
An Ode to OTA TV
E.J. LeRoy
I watch all my TV over the air
I will not spend my money on streaming
Binging network programs without a care
Free films from the library I’m screening
Spending for cable I never would dare
Those hefty bills would just set me screaming
On financial matters I will not bend
An indoor antenna’s a girl’s best friend
E.J. LeRoy is a Pushcart Prize-nominated writer with a forthcoming mpreg novella. Curious? Visit http://ejleroy.weebly.com.
