< Back to Breakthroughs Issue TIP MARJORIE MADDOX of the tongue not tickling the undiscovered decay; of the finger, stubbed into silence; of the #2 pencil, poised and pointed, suddenly stifled, its nonpoisonous lead unable to undo any tabula rasa—mine or yours or my mother’s, who keeps asking with the tongue and the finger and the blank slate of her almost ninety-year-old face, “How old? How old?” How old this silence that faces the poised, the stubbed mother tongue— yours, mine—blank as any tabula rasa before words knew how to rise, or fingers how to point at the poisonous, the decayed, or merely the undiscovered hiding behind the stifled face, ninety #2 pencils unable to answer such sudden questions. How to answer what tickles the stubbed mind, undo the poisonous—yours, mine— face the tabula rasa without pencil or tongue, the blank of silence its own discovery of decay, the pointed “How old? How old?” suddenly stifled, leading back to the undoing: blank slate where ninety keeps asking after itself as the finger points in question, and the poised tongue raises again its unanswered Tip "Tip" was previously published in Southern Florida Poetry Review and in the poetry collection Seeing Things (Wildhouse, 2025). This poem, the first I wrote during a Fall 2018 writing residency, tumbled out the evening that I arrived, the process “tipping” me into a “tip of the tongue” space that writing often pushes through. This time, the process provided insight into the early stages of my mother’s dementia. What, I wondered, did it feel like to her when words became evasive at a more extreme level than common “tip of the tongue” syndrome? “Tip” thus paved the way to other poems on dementia, caregiving, and the shifting roles of memory that eventually became the book Seeing Things (Wildhouse, Feb. 2025). Previous MARJORIE MADDOX has published 17 collections of poetry, a story collection, and five children’s and YA books. She is a Professor Emerita of English at the Lock Haven Campus of Commonwealth University. marjoriemaddox.com Next

Fourth Issue ................................................................................................................................................................... "BREAKTHROUGHS" - 2025/2026 RIVER DOG AND SHADOW MAN, a story Michael Henson Read DEAD MAN'S MONEY Michael Henson Read FRANK'S BUICK David G. Pace Read THE LITTLE HOUSE WE DANCE IN David G. Pace Read STILL LIFE WITH FLY Shawn Stradley Read PAINTING THE CAVE Shawn Stradley Read AWKWARD David Romanda Read HAIRBRUSH David Romanda Read AT THE END OF OCTOBER Dennise Gackstetter Read RECONSIDERING GOD Dennise Gackstetter Read ON THE SECOND ANNIVERSARY OF HIS PASSING Stephen Ruffus Read Street Imagination Stephen Ruffus Read JUST SO YOU KNOW Carol Coven Grannick Read WHEN HE HAD TO TRAVEL Carol Coven Grannick Read THE AWFUL THING Christina Robertson Read EXHALING CAREFULLY Christina Robertson Read REAL ESTATE Marjorie Maddox Read TIP MARJORIE MADDOX Read THE DYING ROOM Paula Harrington Read NEVAH BETTAH Paula Harrington Read THE CITY HAS CHANGED Mona Mehas Read THE CURSE OF SEVENTY EIGHT Mona Mehas Read THE GARDEN YOU MADE Maureen Clark Read LET'S SAY Maureen Clark Read PURSED LIPS Robert Cooperman Read LETTERS FROM HOME: Surprise Lake Camp, Cold Spring, New York, 1957 Robert Cooperman Read GLAMOUR SHOTS Naomi Ulsted Read A HIGH SCHOOL MADRIGAL Naomi Ulsted Read TO MAKE IT NOW David Romtvedt Read NO MORE BLOWS David Romtvedt Read REV. T. SCOTT KINCANNON KEEPS SOME SECRETS FROM HER FLOCK Michael Shay Read GEORGE RUNNING POLES Michael Shay Read FIVE DAYS INTO THE NEW ADMINISTRATION Alexandra van de Kamp Read SAFE GRAVY Alexandra van de Kamp Read WATCHING FOG Austin Holmes Read ISINGLASS Austin Holmes Read SPRING CLEANING Terry Jude Miller Read REACHING Terry Jude Miller Read THIS HORSE IS THE BOSS OF ME Mike Wilson Read FIRST RESPONDER Mike Wilson Read FOUND Shari Zollinger Read SUMMONING Shari Zollinger Read EXTRAS AT THE GATES OF EDEN Alison Moore Read AT ABU ALI Alison Moore Read FROM COTTON TO WOOL ... and Beyond Alex Barr Read THE OLD MAN AND THE FENCES Alex Barr Read COMING OF AGE ON MY 84th BIRTHDAY George Amabile Read GOING SOUTH George Amabile Read CHARYBDIS Mike Alexander Read LAST DRIVE Mike Alexander Read TIGHTENING SKATES Brock Dethier Read BECAUSE WE CAN Brock Dethier Read BACK TO TOP

Third Issue ................................................................................................................................................................... "BREAKTHROUGHS" - 2025/2026 POEM APPROACHING FOUR PAST TENSES Lauren Camp Read SIGHT Lauren Camp Read DOUBLE LIFE Mike White Read STONES Mike White Read BOY Jamison Conforto Read ANTELOPE BOY Jamison Conforto Read CHALK-WHITE, CANYON-DEEP Nano Taggart Read ON SELECTING THE CONTENTS OF CARE PACKAGE NUMBER THREE Nano Taggart Read TRIGGER ALERT Robert Okaji Read RELENTLESS Robert Okaji Read OUR BIG TOES Barbara Huntington Read SHIFT Barbara Huntington Read A WHISPERING BEETLE Nancy Takacs Read SWEET PEAS Nancy Takacs Read ALMOST Stacy Julin Read LAST MEAL Stacy Julin Read BALLAD OF U AND ME klipschutz Read HYMN FOR LORCA klipschutz Read IT'S OKAY Andrea Hollander Read LIVING ROOM Andrea Hollander Read BLOOD DRAW Karin Anderson Read YES, EMILY, HOPE Jan Mordenski Read AEROBICS BY GOD Star Coulbrooke Read RED CAMARO Star Coulbrooke Read HOW TO MAKE A BASKET Jan Mordenski Read CRASH RUMINATIONS (excerpt) Karin Anderson Read INCUNABULA, MOTHER TONGUE Max McDonough Read ONE SMALL CHANGE Max McDonough Read FACING IT Shanan Ballam Read THE LONG HAUL Shanan Ballam Read AN AMICABLE CORRESPONDENCE Scott Abbott Read I SAW HER STANDING THERE Scott Abbott Read COLD MARBLE, HOT MEMORIES Lev Raphael Read HARD TIMES Lev Raphael Read BIRD NEWS Cynthia Hardy Read RUDE WEATHER Cynthia Hardy Read GHAZAL WITH COYOTES, GAZA AND HEALING HERBS Pamela Uschuk Read BLUEBIRD ABECEDARIAN Pamela Uschuk Read Review of EL REY OF GOLD TEETH by Reyes Ramirez Willy Palomo Read MAMA'S HANDS Willy Palomo Read VOCABULARY Robbie Gamble Read GAMBLE PATRILINEAGE Robbie Gamble Read WEST ON PICCADILLY Shauri Cherie Read HUNTINGTON BEACH, MARCH 2 Shauri Cherie Read THE BIRDWATCHER Stephen Wunderli Read ANGEL'S DINER Stephen Wunderli Read HOT TO TURN A HATE MARCH INTO A JUBILEE PROCESSION Dana Henry Martin Read FIVE COWS, TWO CALVES FOUND SHOT DEAD IN PINE VALLEY Dana Henry Martin Read THE WHIZ KID Beth Colburn Orozco Read DEAR CARLEY Beth Colburn Orozco Read IMAGINED SCENES Mary Behan Read STARGAZING Mary Behan Read BACK TO TOP

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< Back to Breakthroughs Issue REAL ESTATE Marjorie Maddox At 92, my mother was the house I forgot I once lived in. With her bad hips, curved spine, and one missing breast, she’d still power-wash dirt off her beige, still accessorize with seasonal décor— poinsettia scarves and earrings, pastels for spring, no white after Labor Day. She’d still shuffle to the mirror to touch up the exterior with red lipstick, then welcome me home to the home that was her home away from home where living was assisted. When she pursed her lips in the Community Room in this old but beautiful house of hers where the bones of her foundation creaked, she didn’t see how her right shoulder, lower than the left, jutted just so toward the one eligible bachelor of 95 in the paisley-decorated room where she refused to fall apart or age, flirting all the way through supper— beef stew, fried chicken, or fish fillet served each evening at 5:00 pm sharp in the cozy dining room wallpapered with cottages of Cape Cod. Once, when we called her room, she wasn’t there. Once when we called after dinner, she wasn’t there. Once, or maybe more than once, this proper structure of a woman, circa 1929, retired to the bedroom on a “date” with an older man, both politely glued to Jimmy Stewart on a wide-screen TV larger than any she’d ever owned in the suburban home she owned with my father. My mother, too prim to breastfeed; who weathered two husbands (heart attack and Alzheimer’s); my mother who went back to work at forty and won awards selling real estate, top in her office; my mother whose baby body was a house abandoned by an architect and his lover, and then again by the new owner. This mother of mine, this house in which I’d lived, then lived outside of for sixty-two years, now clean and tidy, now emptied out, now for sale, now nobody’s home. It’s been almost five years since my mother’s death. Before her passing, I penned the collection, Seeing Things , intricately exploring what it meant to be the daughter of a mother with dementia. As my mother’s memories floated away, my grief came slow and steady, so much so that after she died, it seemed there were no more grief poems to write. That changed this week. Unexpectantly, when I responded to a prompt on “houses,” fresh grief broke through—four years after her death. Today, I give you “Real Estate,” a poem that has now given me permission to write more poems on loss. Previous MARJORIE MADDOX has published 17 collections of poetry, a story collection, and five children’s and YA books. She is a Professor Emerita of English at the Lock Haven Campus of Commonwealth University. marjoriemaddox.com Next

Ode to Everything by Marjorie Maddox Enough of the lamentations. Open the window and sing! The world is awash with world: color-dripping globe always tilting into some Ah! or another, clouds stretching wide plump happiness, even in the noisy stage-show of showers, such sunny ovations. And the birds— overpopulating every poem— swoop here for free— swallow, hawk, robin, gull, eagle—what else can be written but wings that wave horizon to horizon? And enough of windows. Praise doors! Step out with arms open, and eyes gathering vim and vision: grandeur trailing from worm and woodchuck, branch puzzles of woods, open boat of breeze— all brimming with Hey! and Hallelujah! and Celebrate! such green giving of thanks, such miraculous mercy of earth: calm valley and even this rugged, rocky chain we climb now as family, claiming praise as respite, holding close each breaking day, dangerous yet divine in all its gorgeous glory. Share: Facebook X (Twitter) Copy link Back Back to Current Issue On of my more hopeful poems and one previously published in Plough , “Ode to Everything” reminds me to slow down, look around, and be grateful. As a writer, I often wrestle in my work with challenges or struggles. In the midst of such poems, though, I need to leave room for odes. .................................................................................................................................................................................... MARJORIE MADDOX has published 17 collections of poetry, a story collection, and four children’s and YA books. She is a Professor Emerita of English at the Lock Haven Campus of Commonwealth University. marjoriemaddox.com Next - Ode to Everything by Marjorie Maddox Next

Reading by Natasha Sajé I’m bundled in another mind as if it were a down coat the world thick and quiet neurons coax words like insects grant them legs and wings a swarm that rouses me on the train or the plane in the meadow on the beach or in bed words riddle a raft full of tiny holes so I can float I love to read! Silent reading (which began in the sixth century) especially changes the brain. This poem is my attempt to understand how it feels. Share: Facebook X (Twitter) Copy link Back Back to First Issue .................................................................................................................................................................................... NATASHA SAJÉ is the author of five books of poems: The Future Will Call You Something Else (Tupelo, 2023); Vivarium (Tupelo, 2014); Bend (Tupelo, 2004); Red Under the Skin (Pittsburgh, 1994); and Special Delivery (Diode Editions chapbook, 2021). Her prose books are a postmodern poetry handbook, Windows and Doors: A Poet Reads Literary Theory (Michigan, 2014) and a memoir-in-essays, Terroir: Love, Out of Place (Trinity, 2020). Honors include the Robert Winner and the Alice Fay di Castagnola Awards from the Poetry Society of America. Her poems have appeared widely in periodicals including Kenyon Review , American Poetry Review , The Paris Review , Ploughshares , and The New York Times . natashasaje.com Next - Gradual by Natasha Sajé Next

Fake Soldiers by Kase Johnstun With fake soldiers in fake armies, we fought over fake boundaries, rivers, mountains, and countries. Our fake generals led men on fake horses into fake battle, and the roll of the digital dice decided who stayed alive and who died on the electronic battlefield made up, at its core, of ones and zeros. On December 31st, 1999, my older brother and I, in our midtwenties, played RISK, the game of world dominance, on my PlayStation 2. We retreated to our cabin at the edge of Yellowstone Park on the Idaho and Wyoming border with enough wine, beer, and potato chips to make it through the apocalypse. It was the eve of the Y2K disaster, when the world’s computers would send nuclear missiles into the air, where the World Bank and credit history of all the world’s people would crumble, and where fires would spark from the fingertips of civilized people thrown back into savagery without computers. Walls of snow, stacked five to six feet tall, surrounded the little cabin. The tops of baby trees peeked out from the snow, their lives too short to stand above the wintery ground like their elders that stretched up to the blue sky and, during the day, sliced the snow with their shadows. The sun dropped down behind the mountains before five p.m., and clouds drizzled more snow onto the already thick base that covered the ground. It was cold outside, but inside, the fire burned. Two cigars sat on the end table near the sliding glass doors that opened up to the deck. They would be saved for midnight. In the mid-1980s, my brother beat me at everything. It didn’t matter what we played, he had the upper hand, and as most older brothers do, he played the upper hand with a lot of weight. He bankrupted me in Monopoly— I went for the fat pigs on Wall Street—Park Place and Boardwalk—while he became the slumlord of the Avenues (Baltic, Mediterranean, Oriental, etc.), stacked up hotels, and made the district right after “GO” a money pit for my flying shoe. He outwitted me at UNO. He knew when to back things up, when to keep things going, and when to turn one of the wild cards I had saved up all game into my own demise. One day, sitting on the floor of his bedroom, bored in the late days of summer when the 103-degree heat finally pushed us indoors, my brother laid RISK out on the floor. I was sick of losing, so earlier that year I vowed to never place another soldier in harm’s way. Hadn’t I killed enough men? Hadn’t I waged pointless battles on imaginary borders that never ended in peace? Countless lives of men thrown to the ground on the whims of their leaders who looked down on them from the comfort of a carpeted room in the middle of summer. Hadn’t I learned my lesson? No matter how much I fought, I would always lose it all, eventually being pushed into exile with no capital or government or land to call my own. “Let’s play RISK,” he said. His eyebrows and lips turned upward with the vision of another imminent victory and the slaughter of my men. “No,” I said. “I’m not playing again. I always lose.” “Come on. What else are you going to do?” he asked. At the time, he was right. “I’ll even spot you Australia.” My greed welled up inside of me. I could own a continent right from the start. I would own all its extra armies. I could demolish Indonesia and its people with two turns. “I’m in,” I said, thinking he had sealed his own fate. I owned Australia, and with much bravado, I pushed forward into Indonesia and Thailand before his Asian forces punished me on the Indian mountains and forced my troops backward. Then the onslaught came in full force, and within two turns, he had vanquished my armies, rolling the dice and his forces across the globe, pushing me out of Kansas and Ontario, cornering and conquering me on the Sahara, and, one army by one army, killing my Australian stronghold until I had one guy standing on Cape Pasley, begging for mercy. I had enough, and instead of waving my white flag with honor, I flipped the entire board upside down, tossing armies across the room, into the AC vent, onto piles of dirty clothes, and beneath my brother’s bed. I was done losing. If I couldn’t conquer the world, I couldn’t handle the thought of anyone else doing it. It was supposed to be mine, all mine. “You cheated!” I yelled, the world upside down at my feet. “I can’t cheat,” he said calmly, which made me even angrier. “ The dice do what they do. I’m just better.” “You cheated,” I yelled. Then I stormed out of the room and vowed to never play him again. In 1999, some people far away from our secluded cabin partied, some sang along with Prince, some prayed, some hid in shelters, and others slept without worries—midnight in 1999 had finally come. We held our controllers in our hands and watched our armies fight on the screen. Our brains floated in a bath of wine, and our game of RISK had yet to be completed. We knew the game could stretch out for many more hours, so my brother grabbed the cigars from the table, and we walked out onto the snow-covered deck and beneath the moon. The cold surrounded us. It was quiet, very quiet, like there-wasn’tanother-soul-for-miles quiet. My brother looked at his watch and counted down to the end of the millennium, a slow methodical count that added to the feeling of seclusion. We knew that if things really did go to hell that night that we would be together out there in the wilderness. “It’s time,” he said. “Let’s do this,” I said. I wish I would have said something less cheesy, but none of us really believed in Y2K. He handed me one of the cigars, lit his own in his mouth, and then handed me the lighter. I clumsily lit mine and inhaled the rich smoke into my lungs. It warmed my gut. We stood in silence for a few minutes. Snow flickered on its descent. At the end of my cigar, I saw the bright red flame that circled the cigar edges like the sun burning at the edges of a solar eclipse, bright reds sparking out from behind the curved edge, but beyond the cigar, no fires burned, no sirens screamed, and no missiles cut through the sky. We stood in the snow until the cigars burned down to the edges of our index fingers and thumbs. Then we walked back into the cabin to play a game between brothers. Share: Facebook X (Twitter) Copy link First published in 1:1000 . “Fake Soldiers” was published a decade ago, but it is the one I read 7 out of 10 times for nonfiction readings. It is by far a favorite, still timely and sadly, timeless. Back Back to Current Issue .................................................................................................................................................................................... KASE JOHNSTUN is an award-winning essayist, memoirist, and Manager for The Utah Center for the Book (Library of Congress). Kase is the author of the award-winning memoir Beyond the Grip of Craniosynostosis (McFarland & Co., 2015), the award-winning novel Let the Wild Grasses Grow (Torrey House Press, 2021), and the novel Cast Away (Torrey House Press, 2024). kasejohnstun.com Next - First Sighting by Trish Hopkinson Next

That Time We Got Married at a Tent Revival by Michael Shay On the third day of her first semester, Bobbi was getting ready for what her dormies said was a ballbuster of a chem course when Joanna came running into their room wrapped in a towel. “You gotta see this.” Joanna grabbed her hand and pulled. “I got chemistry, Jo.” She pulled away and went for her books. “No. Come with me.” There was really nothing to do. Jo was bigger and taller than Bobbi, a mismatched pair through high school that Bobbi’s Dad called Mutt and Jeff although nobody in the St. Francis class of 1969 knew what the heck he was talking about. One hand on the towel, Jo used her other hand to pull her through the dorm room door, down the hallway, and right to the big windows at the end of the hall. “Look,” she dropped her friend’s hand. Bobbi saw another sunny Florida day that would make her a sopping mess by the end of the day when she collapsed in her room. Another girls’ dorm was across the creek and the boys had three dorms off to the left and they all looked like they were built as barracks during her father’s war. “What?” Bobbi said. Jo hitched up her towel and cinched it tight. “Down there.” She pointed to the grassy swatch of territory that began at the dorm and ended at Creekside. An army-green pup tent was pitched right in the middle of the summer-browned lawn. “It’s a tent. So what?” “But whose tent? I ask you. Whose?” “How am I supposed to know. Am I in charge of tents at the U?” “No, but…” The tent flap flew open and a guy’s head poked out. He had lush sun-streaked hair and she was beginning to get a strange feeling when the guy looked up and saw her. “Oh my God. What’s he doing here?” He scrambled to his feet. He wore a T-shirt and shorts. He smoothed the shirt which was a bit wrinkled and then looked up again. “Hi Bobbi,” he said. She couldn’t hear him as the big windows were shut to keep out the gathering heat. Her heart beat faster as she raised her hand in greeting. “Hi Paul,” she mouthed to the window. Some of the other girls in various states of undress had gathered. Linda pushed her barely covered chest up against the glass and looked down. She ran her fingers through her blond hair. “He’s cute.” One of the other girls who she didn’t know yet said, “He is cute. Is he a surfer?” “He was. And he’s not supposed to be here,” she said, first to herself then she raised her arms, pounded on the glass and shouted, “You’re not supposed to be here. You’ll lose your scholarship!” He shrugged. “Is he your boyfriend, Bobbi?” someone else asked and all she could do was nod. “He’s not…” she began again. “Someone open the window.” Linda cranked open the window. What passed in Florida for a cool morning breeze swept in. “Paul,” she yelled out the window. “What are you doing here?” He smiled. “Hey Bobbi. How you doing? I’m coming up.” “You can’t. It’s not allowed.” “You can meet in the lobby,” Jo said. “Is he your boyfriend?” Linda said. “I don’t have a date for Saturday’s game.” Paul disappeared around the building. “Oh God no,” Bobbi said. “Is he your boyfriend?” Bobbi wanted to take Linda by the bra strap and strangle her. She’s forgotten all about chem class. “He’s not my boyfriend,” Bobbi said. “I gotta get down to the lobby.” She turned around. Linda stood in her way. “Not my boyfriend.” She moved past Linda and sprinted to the stairway. She shouted over her shoulder. “He’s my husband.” * * * * * Husband. That was the word on Bobbi’s lips when she awoke. That dream again—damn. She looked over at the clock and gasped. Lunch with Carol! She had showered after aerobics class and dressed before stretching out on her bed “just for a few minutes.” Should have known better. The elevator was at the far end of the hall so she took the second-floor stairs. Take your time—stairs are the enemy after 65. Slowly, cane at the ready, she made her way down and shouldered open the first-floor door. The sun-drenched lobby illuminated a fountain surrounded by a flower garden and she noticed other people in the room and someone was calling her name. “Bobbi!” A woman with gray-streaked short hair, a sweater around her shoulders, sat in one of the comfortable chairs that surrounded the fountain. She returned the wave and knew exactly who this woman was. Carol . “You were expecting someone else?” Carol took her hand and looked through thick glasses. Bobbi slid into the adjacent chair and sighed. “Your hair looks nice.” She primped her short hair. “My glam chemo look. Did I tell you that the cancer center has its own hair stylist?” “Yes.” “Chemo brain. I repeat myself a lot. Why so late?” “Took a nap after morning chair aerobics. Had a crazy dream.” “That’s what we get, Bobbi. Dreams, and tuna surprise for lunch.” “Again with the tuna surprise?” “Again.” She jerked her thumb at what they called the food court at Sea Wind Villas. “They never tell us what the surprise is.” “Food poisoning.” They laughed together. It was the early-to-lunch crowd and she and Carol liked to sit and watch, naming names, talking about which of the women may have slipped into which of the men’s rooms last night. It was always a guessing game because by the time sneaking into rooms had begun, Bobbi usually was snug in her room, watching what the kids call streaming channels and there were a million choices. “That dream again,” Bobbi said. “The tent?” “The tent. It always seems so real.” “It was, wasn’t it?” She had to admit it was, a big part of it. Fifty-five Septembers ago, a handsome boy had once traveled 357.5 miles to see her during that first week of college when she was only thinking about getting to chemistry class on time. She scolded him for endangering his and possibly her college scholarship and sent him back on the bus the next morning. They kissed madly and deeply at the station. He waved to her from the Greyhound window. “We phoned a lot during the next month or so. I flew up for the last football game in November. He told me all about the Gamecocks.” “The Gamecocks? Sounds slightly salacious.” “It is, or was, I guess. Paul’s friends always said it with the accent on the ‘cocks.’ Ah, freshmen boys. They still had panty raids on his campus.” “You time travel to 1959?” “It was 1959 in 1969. Freshmen had to wear beanies during registration.” “You’re kidding. Kids are getting naked and tripping balls at Woodstock and 18-year-old Gamecocks in Columbia wear beanies and go on panty raids.” “The Deep South, what can I say? A few weeks later, I got a pair of skimpy panties in the mail. Carolina Red. Big black lettering: Gamecocks with Cocks capitalized.” “Did he snag it in a panty raid?” “God no. The price tag was still on it. Give him some credit.” “OK, I’ll give him some credit. But what was he like? Was he nice to you?” The first time she dreamed the dream, she cried into her pillow. a thousand tears. It might have been the boy—his name was Paul—or it might have been her dead husband—his name was Jim. Paul had broken her heart or she had broken his—they were only 18. Jim broke her heart a dozen times, mostly without meaning to, just the way men do. The kids too, all three of them, their visits tapering off with time, as they moved away from Florida to make their own memories. They were all heartbreakers. “It’s more memory than dream. He did hitchhike to campus and pitch a tent outside my dorm,” she said. “Not sure where he got the tent. Caused quite a stir. He was a handsome boy. He spent the night in my room and my roomie—she was my best friend from high school—was kind enough to go elsewhere.” “You shoot off any fireworks?” She laughed. “There were fireworks that night at Disney Resorts. People might have heard me all over the hotel.” “Great memory.” “God love you. Those visions hang on, don’t they? Doctors lie about old age. You forget something and they say Alzheimer this and Alzheimer that. It’s not the forgetting that’s the problem. It’s the remembering.” She paused. “I was reading a book of stories by Jane Campbell, Cat Brushing, it’s very sensual. Anyway, it was her first published book when she was 80. One of her characters talks about the ‘persecution of remembering.’ The character, I can’t remember her name, says that we remember so much and late at night ‘remorse bites hard.’ ” “Cheery.” “Not supposed to be. You ever felt it?” A shadow passed across her friend’s eyes and she composed her mouth in a grim line. “Of course,” she said quietly. “Sure.” “You want to talk about it?” “No.” “OK, but you would think our imaginations would be in tatters by the time we get to Sea Wind Villas. But here we are, talking about the past.” “You ever see Paul again?” “That November, I took the bus to Columbia for the last football game of the season. Stayed with him in his dorm which was a definite no-no. Went to the game and then an all-you-caneat buffet place that didn’t like the students coming in and scarfing down all the food. We cruised downtown after. Went out into the sticks and drove by a tent revival—see a lot of those in South Carolina. We parked and went in. Preacher up front chided his audience about this and that. Halfway through, he asked if there were any couples in the congregations who wanted to get married in the eyes of Jesus. Paul pulled me up there and I was too buzzed to resist. The preacher came over, peeked down my halter top, and put his hand on my forehead the other on Paul’s. “Do you believe in the Lord God as your savior?” he asked. “Paul said yes. I nodded.” “The preacher told us we were married in the eyes of the Lord. He had strong hands and gave us a little shove and we fell into the arms of some of the preacher’s people and they showed us a donation plate and asked for money to do God’s work. Paul dug into his pocket, grabbed some change and dumped it on the plate. He took my hand we ran out of there into the night. A beautiful fall night with lots of stars. Paul wrapped me in his arms and said, ‘Bobbi, we’re married now.’” " 'Not in the eyes of the church we aren’t.' 'This was a church. Sort of.' 'Not our church.' I told Paul to be sensible. Told him this tent revival was a carnival religion, all show. “I may have hurt his feelings. His eyes looked so funny. He said that Catholic priests put on a show. He had a point. “I told him I was getting cold and he slipped my arms into his high school letter jacket and led me back to the car. His friends joined us. Paul said let’s go dancing to celebrate and we went to one of the 3.2 bars. Paul danced with a succession of women and I just watched. There was something off about him. We’d smoked a joint in the car but he was flying high on something else. He came over and pulled me to the dance floor. Showed me how to do the Carolina Shag and I caught on pretty quick. I started dancing with another guy and looked up to see Paul hanging all over this other girl. He just wasn’t there, you know. We got back to the dorm at 2 a.m. and had to slip in the back door—the guys propped it up with a rock on weekends since curfew was midnight. The R.A.’s didn’t make a big deal of it. We got to Paul’s room and he was all over me and I pushed him away, told him I was on my period. For a second there, I saw daggers in his eyes and I thought something bad was going to happen. But his face went from some sort of madness to the look I was used to, friendly Paul, Paul the boyfriend, Paul the guy I’d known since eighth grade. He turned and stormed out of the room. “The next morning, I found my own way to the airport. Was a bit rattled when I finally got back to my dorm. Jo said I looked like shit and what happened and I said I got married and she laughed. I didn’t have the energy to tell the story but the next day in the cafeteria, the girls asked me about my trip and I told the whole story and I could tell they were worried about me. Jo put her hand on my forehead and said I was burning up and took me to the student clinic. Next thing I know I’m in the hospital with pneumonia and I miss all of my classes. I am sad and pissed off at the same time. “My parents come to pick me up and take me home early for Thanksgiving. I had to call all of my professors. I was just a basket case. I didn’t go back to school in December. The week before Christmas, Mom brings me a letter. ‘Who do you know at Fort Jackson?’ ” “Nobody,” I said. She handed me the letter. It was from Paul. He addressed me as his ‘Dear wife.’ He then wrote he’d got draft number five in the Selective Service Lottery on Dec. 1 and didn’t like school anyway and had joined up the next day and now was in basic at Fort Jackson. His last line: I guess this is goodbye. He signed it ‘Your Devoted Husband.’ ” Carol grabbed her hand. “You’re not going to tell me he got killed in Vietnam?” “I am not. It was worse. He came back a junkie. It was my senior year and I was walking on the beach in Daytona with my new boyfriend and a car went by that looked familiar. A guy got out of the back seat, while it was moving, tripped and rolled in the sand, beer flew out of his hand. Spring break, you know, not unusual. You can drive on the beach there, or at least you could back then. Guys sitting up, swigging Bud, driving their convertibles with their feet. Guys trying to be cool for all the girls who were also trying to be cool. Paul stood, brushed the sand away, staggered, and looked right at me. “He yelled: ‘My lovely wife!’ Almost got hit by a car and stumbled over to me. My new boyfriend gave me a strange look. Paul wrapped me in his arms. Reeked of beer and sweat. He tried to kiss me and his beard scratched my face and I pushed him and he fell on his ass. He got right back up and stared at me with those dagger eyes I saw in the South Carolina dorm that night. My poor boyfriend, well, ex-boyfriend by the end of the day, walked over to challenge him. Paul looked down at Lloyd who was about six inches shorter but muscular. Both seemed ready for a fight. Paul just looked down at him, shook his head, and stumbled off, splashing through the shore break like he was going somewhere. “The last time I saw him was at the 25th high school reunion, 1994. He asked me to dance, told me he had met his second wife at an NA meeting, said he got his shit together working with fellow vets at the VA. I was a little drunk and wanted to kiss him right there, not him in his 40s but his 18-yearold face, that lovely face. But it didn’t exist anymore. I looked over at our table and saw my husband flanked by two of my female classmates who never gave me the time of day in the hallowed halls of St. Francis. I told Paul I had to rescue my husband. I squeezed his hand and let go. As I walked away he said, ‘We’re still married, you know.’ I kept walking, showed him the back of my hand and was just about to respond with ‘ No we are not.’ But the words caught in my throat. I turned to him and said, ‘I know.’ He smiled. He was missing a couple teeth but it was still a beautiful smile. I got to our table, shooed away those she-devils, took Jim upstairs and had my way with him. Several times.” She paused. Saw Jim’s face as it was that night, and then his still-life face in the casket at the front of the church. “I miss him.” Carol took her hand. “I miss my crazy Richard. Went too soon. It still stings.” The lobby loudspeaker crackled into life. “Ladies and gentlemen, luncheon will now be served at Sea Wind Villas Food Court.” There was a lot of shuffling and squeaky rollator wheels. “You ready for tuna surprise?” asked Carol. “No,” Bobbi said. “What about Mickey D’s? I love those little burgers with the shiny cheese and tiny onions and pickles and ketchup. We used to get ‘em for fifteen cents.” “Gosh you’re old.” She gripped Bobbi’s arm. “Let’s get it delivered.” Carol plucked her phone from the mostly empty spaces of her bra, punched in a few buttons and made the selections. “And two chocolate shakes,” Bobbi added. “Large.” Carol punched a few more keys, clicked off the app, and slipped it back in her bra. “Fifteen minutes. Want to eat on the patio?” Bobbi nodded, used the cane for leverage to stand. They took each other’s arms and walked into the sunshine. Share: Facebook X (Twitter) Copy link Back Back to Current Issue Sometimes an idea kicks around in my head until I stumble upon a way to tell it. I first wrote this as straight narrative and then reminiscence. It’s about a dream I’ve had over the years and I decided to let the dream tell the story through one of the women characters. I thought it added a bit of magic to the telling. .................................................................................................................................................................................... MICHAEL SHAY writes short stories and essays. His work has appeared in many magazines and anthologies including Working Words: Punching the Clock and Kicking Out the Jams from Coffee House Press. His first book of short stories is The Weight of the Body . He recently completed an historical novel set in 1919 Colorado with the working title Zeppelins over Denver . Next - Worry Poem by Alexandra van de Kamp Next

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northern climate II by Gabriela Halas New morning ice floats the bay, or old fragments that calved as we blinked the days past. The scour of stranded crystals unfold as water resigns to stay. Once this bay held fast as I moved the dogs across — unsheathed the shape and shiver, the steadfast lock of mid-winter. Now I watch the land emit another kind of chorus, a cacophony of flats and sharps unfamiliar to my ears. The dogs, unable to match the measure, fall through thinned aufeis, halt in lead — my urging ended in spurious falsetto. Lungs work at half capacity, the patterned inhale and exhale of an un-patterned bay. Faithless in a future we thought would never arrive. The water, bewildered, as loosened methane destabilizes what we once trusted. Lost in a seismic language, untranslatable as a colonizer’s tongue. The dark imprint of unrequited ground. I hear an old man speak of glacier’s gone: will the river flow, it’s steady lilt, by rain alone? We should fear the shoals who rock glinting bodies out of time. In the retreat of all named matter, I hear the discord rumble on — the fight of voices gathers. A recoil from our role in all things large, mysterious. The dogs turn to me, huddle in question, eyes as brown as an Arctic March. No answer for the soft ground pressed between their toes. I unhook each in turn, let the lead run on, while the others collect in whimpered harmony. Share: Facebook X (Twitter) Copy link Back Back to Current Issue First published in The Louisville Review. "Northern Climate II" is about being on a northern landscape and witnessing change. The body feels and conveys all in these poems. .................................................................................................................................................................................... GABRIELA HALAS immigrated to Canada during the early 1980s, grew up in Alberta, lived in Alaska for seven years, and currently resides in British Columbia. She has published poetry in a variety of literary journals including The Antigonish Review , Cider Press Review , About Place Journal , Prairie Fire , december magazine , and The Hopper , among others; fiction in Room Magazine , Ruminate , The Hopper , and subTerrain, among others; and nonfiction in Alaska Quarterly Review, The Whitefish Review , Grain , Pilgrimage , and High Country News . She won first prize for her poetry chapbook Bloodwater Tint from Backbone Press (forthcoming). She holds an MFA from the University of British Columbia and lives and writes on Ktunaxa Nation land. gabrielahalas.org Next - Some Things to Do in the Face of Death by Jim LaVilla-Havelin Next

Bone Suite by Austin Holmes Staring at these bones in the utter rhythm of sun they seem inevitable, but only might have been. In the Montana mountains scanning a meadow for barbed wire I stumble upon a half-devoured carcass a meal not yet completed. I suddenly feel not so alone in that vastness. I look to the spaces between the trees for eyes in the dark night, there is rain and mud, obscure shapes of their parietal art hovering in scorched shadows, jackrabbit jawbones not quite half-moons. The underside of pelvis bones shaped like owls, these bones and bones and bones, bleached fragments on the edge, stiller than the breath of stone. Share: Facebook X (Twitter) Copy link Back Back to First Issue First published in Columbia Journal . I’ve always had a fascination with bones and wrote this after some time spent in Centennial Valley. There were many moments of vulnerability in that land, both physical and emotional. Sometimes it takes feeling small in vast spaces to understand that, as Jim Harrison said, “To have reverence for life, you must have reverence for death.” .................................................................................................................................................................................... Next - Village Fiddle by Ken Waldman Next AUSTIN HOLMES lives in southern Utah, where he spends life with his beloved partner and their dog. He contemplates what he can and falls in love with the sky daily anew.