Coming in at number 25, was a scientist who had created some freak humans including multi-sexuals, sea freaks and animal men. She said, “The future will be a freak show, like it or not. And there’s no limit on the human body’s form. And she had dumped sea freaks in the oceans of Moon Europa, Moon Triton, and Earth. And they too had eternal life…”

Then at number 24 was a writer who had written screenplays like, “A.D. 2235” about a World of svelte people who lived in numerous intellectual Utopias in which everyone was clever and continually improved their minds. And everyone was good-natured and kind. It was Worlds of perfect humans, who became more perfect by the day. And he also wrote about a World on Mars in which everyone was an ordinary human but loved android love dolls instead of each other and it was a true Dystopia. And he wrote, on the subject of human evolution. Noting new races of homo sapiens that were springing up everywhere. And so on.

Coming in at number 23 was a famous gigolo/intellectual who said, “I predict a loving future for humanity. In which everyone has many lovers, and everyone was imaginative to one another. And everyone was constantly trying to become more imaginative. And everyone, in Space, which was mainly for the elite, was required to make a movie every year. Most of the best intellectuals wanted to come to Space and hobnob with one another. And this man had made a number of movies, that were pornographic, but with deep plots. Like, “Reaching for Aphrodite,” which depicted debauched, but clever people who try and create a Goddess to rule them. And another was, “Looking at You,” which was a documentary of people who are interviewed and state their sexual fantasies. And so on. He made porn mainstream.

Then at number 22, was a philanthropist who was a zillionaire and had spent most of her money helping to wipe out poverty by 2130 A.D. She said, “In these days of eternal youth and progress, surely no one should go hungry.” And she got the UW (United Worlds) government to agree to make sure that everyone received a generous stipend. Taxes were higher but the economies of the Worlds were booming.

At number 21, was a woman who talked about improving male EQs. She said in this World, those with the highest EQs are the most successful. And she wanted to ban android lovers and ban sex workers. But at the same time, she wanted to make sure everyone had lovers from dating sites to find one’s soul mates. And she said, “Men should receive genetic therapy to make them non-violent.”

Number 20 was a woman, Beatrice R., who was an advocate for the “Beautiful World.” She wanted to beautify everything and everyone in existence. And she herself was gorgeous and inspired many men to create art.

Number 19 was a female android, who was the leader of the android love doll movement. Love dolls were all fashion, and she said, “Soon all loves for humans will be android loves.” But many people worried about android loves taking over…

Number 18 was a self-proclaimed Superhuman who had contributed to the wiping out of all diseases, including new ones. And he had made movies like, “Son of a Gun,” which was about how gun ownership should be totally banned and what that would look like. Another movie was called, “Superhuman Dreams,” which detailed the Utopias he and his clever friends had envisaged. Like a World of no work where everyone’s task was to dream good dreams. And another Utopia was a World of no poverty in which everyone was trying to become cleverer. And so on.

Number 17 was a woman who was known to have said, “Anyone can become a genius with the right tutors and inspiration.” And she herself was a popular musician who made concept albums. Like, “The Chimes of Heaven,” which was about how modern-day saints would go to real Heaven when they died. And their body would be reconstituted in Heaven with all their memories intact. And would experience intellectual conversations with other saints. And another was “Professional Dreamers,” which featured people who dreamed for a living. They were in 3-D dream machines which every 5 minutes were stimulated with new topics and people to enhance the dream. Mind Reading Technology (MRT) was used to stimulate them. And so on.

Number 16 was a business magnate who seemed to have the Midas touch. He was the second richest persona in the galaxy. And lived on Mars in unparallelled splendour. He claimed he could help anyone be rich. And he had many followers. He said, “I envisaged a day in which everyone would be relatively rich…”

Number 15 was a woman who often said, “AI is not the future!” She imagined total automation, but no thinking androids, holograms, or Supercomputers. And this made her wildly popular. And she was herself a plastic surgeon who drew faces and bodies and then guided computers to do the surgery. Her patients won a lot of beauty contests and many famous gigolo studs had a face and body from her.

Number 14 was a scientist who had tripled the speed of Spacecraft by following the curve of Space and developing new engines. This scientist was on record saying, “Speed in Space was theoretically unlimited.” And she said, “Everyone should have a science degree. We must use the best thinkers to design curricula for the people.”

Number 13 turned out to be a writer, who wrote a lot of famous screenplays. Like “Living it up on Luna,” and “A Brainiac for President.” And also “Aladdin Sane,” which was set to the music of David Bowie. She told people, “The future is bright and will be peace and love for all.

And everyone will look up to the clever and try genetic therapy to become cleverer themselves.”

Number 12 was a man who designed hologram adventure Worlds. Such Worlds were illegal in most places but were prominent in Space. He said, “My Worlds occupy one’s time and challenge them to be better. Some even want to change into holograms which I can make happen. There were a great many humans who had too much time on their hands and craved adventure.” Of course, he was a highly controversial choice, but he was like a God to countless millions. Many wanted a World specially designed by him and his company.

Number 11 was a man that was a famous lover. He was bisexual and was thought to be the most skillful lover and most charming man in all creation. But his price for a 3-day romance was $3 billion, so most could only dream of loving him. He said things like, “All humans are capable of deep love with the right motivators,” and he “Guaranteed the 3-days spent with him would be the highlight of one’s life.” He never loved the same lover twice and some people became rich, just so they could have a chance at loving him…

Number 10 meanwhile was a woman who was a sex researcher who had developed computer programs which played cupid with would-be lovers. Typically, she matched people based on brain activity. Similar thought patterns brought all sorts of people together. And she guaranteed she could find anyone a soul mate lover. Many people agreed that her system was the best…

And number 9 was a man who was thought by many to be a Superhuman God. He said things like, “I am in every human and will save humanity from itself. I am the long-awaited saviour.” And he said, “Humanity is destined to rule the Universe and all future people will be clever and satisfied and at peace.” And he offered brain surgery to make people peaceful, happy, and cleverer.

At number 8 was a woman who was the chief spy for the UW (United Worlds). She said on several occasions that, “The UW was destined to control all humanity someday soon.” Already the UW controlled most militaries, and most political leaders were UW supporters. Everyone thought if there was a war the UW would win. And this spy said, “The UW is watching everyone, everywhere…” And they used neo lie detectors, hypnosis and MRT to help them monitor people. This spy was ranked #2 in the UW, behind only the Secretary General.

And number 7 turned out to be a man who started out with a hairstyle business but was now the richest persona in the Worlds and he owned many Planets and Moons in the Solar System and beyond. He primarily got rich by speculating on Space real estate. And they called him the “Emperor of Space.” He employed tens of millions of people and was a multi-zillionaire. And he had 100,000 children, most of whom worked for him. They were born as adults with his memories.

At number 6 was a woman who was instrumental in creating “A History of the World,” which featured detailed computer reconstructions of the history of the Earth. And people could visit any time period in a conscious dream, and many wanted to experience life in previous times, even millions of years ago when early man walked the Earth. Also popular was the Jurassic and Cretaceous periods. And this woman was considered Chief Librarian of the official UW history.

Number 5 meanwhile was a woman who was a writer. She wrote, “All the Queen’s Men,” a fictitious account of a woman who was desired by 86% of males. She was the perfect woman, but she only gave her love to the best looking, cleverest men. Many men changed their face and brain in order to try and love her. And she also wrote, “Digging the Island of Love,” a documentary about archaeology in Cyprus where they found a boat 6 000 years old offshore and found some bones preserved and cloned them. The clones were just like modern people and worked in a maritime museum. And she wrote a fictional tale called “Days of the Cobra Man,” which depicted a creature with the head of a man and the body of a snake. And this creature tried to tempt people to become animal men and organized animal men into a union. And they demanded the vote. But most people thought they were an embarrassing freak show. And finally hunted them down and killed them. And she wrote a lot of other screenplays that were also successful.

Coming in at number 4, was a man who was an advocate of MRT love. He was known to have said, “MRT love brings people closer together, and in the future all communication will be through MRT.” And he depicted, in a screenplay, such a future in which everyone was part of the whole and no one slipped through the cracks and there were no more secrets and there was no need for spies to watch people. Everyone was watched by their peers. And this man said, MRT will set up lifetime bonds between soul mates. So far 40% participated in MRT love affairs.

Then at number 3 was the prime mover behind the invention of eternal youth. This scientist said, “It was the greatest discovery of all time. And the drugs were free to all and 96% took them.” And she said, “Travel into other Star Systems was now possible and people now had time for everyone and everything.” But some in the small minority said it was unnatural for people to live on and on, but nearly everyone seemed to be enjoying eternal youth. And this inventor wanted to work on long-distance teleportation next. And said she had many scientific goals…

And number 2 was the Secretary General of the UW. He was thought by many to be the cleverest persona in existence. He was a Renaissance Man who excelled at making movies, chemistry, and biology. His movies included, “Death in Space,” which was about a future in which no one dies for years and then finally their leader kills himself so as to freshen up the leadership. Another of his films was “People of Leisure,” which portrayed a future in which only the top 1% did any work. But this was a good thing and freed people up to enjoy hobbies and parties. And another film was, “Our Time,” which was about modern-day intellectuals who all lived for pleasure and were debauched. And in chemistry he invented “peace drugs,” which made people non-violent and non-confrontational. And in biology he helped develop anti-android people who arrested androids and forced them to become human. Some said arresting androids was violent, but he didn’t agree.

Number 1 meanwhile was a woman who was a panacea drug researcher who had her own multi-zillion dollar company and kept coming up with affordable drugs to make everyone happier and happier. She often said, “There’s no limit to human happiness!” And she also made drugs which were specifically made for those who were suffering from depression and were suicidal. She alone had cut the human suicide rate by two-thirds. And she said, “Very few people today are unhappy because of my drugs. But one of my goals is to wipe out unhappiness altogether.”

Rhonda’s list was very influential and made the people in the list more popular and influential. And she was mulling creating a list of the top 1,000…

About the Author

Tom Ball has published novels, novellas, short stories, poetry and flash in 49 publications. He’s senior editor/co-founder of the online journal: https://fleasonthedog.com. Visit: https://tomballbooks.com

Zehra Habib

Like Brothers

He promised to take me to juice bars and samosa shops in the morning, knowing only a few things to do with such a wife. I should have sat on the rose-canopied bed, waiting for him to lift my red veil to gaze at me for the first time, but I didn’t know the custom. Instead, before he entered our bedroom in the family house, I changed into cotton pajamas and unpinned my bun, the hairsprayed strands falling into midnight curls. Someone had placed a bottle of mineral water on the nightstand, fearing that I might, in the middle of the night, accidentally drink from the tap.

“My relatives already say we look alike,” he whispered, as if this similarity were proof that we were meant for each other. He sat on the edge of the bed, mixed himself a tonic of honey and water, and downed it stiffly. His linen kurta revealed the swell of his chest. I pulled the bedsheets up beneath my chin.

“Why did you bolt from the car into the house? My mother was waiting to usher you in with the Quran held over your head.” He lay beside me, clutching the pillow I had placed between us. Next time, he’d teach me the traditions, so I wouldn’t make mistakes.

“You made a tough decision,” he admitted. “And you’ll miss your family, but in our culture--your mother culture--girls leave home and become fixtures among strangers. If it makes you feel better, my parents love you like a daughter, and your cousin told me to take care of you and called you, his sister.”

He reached across the pillow and held both of my hands lightly. “I hope you’ll learn to love me as a girl loves a doll, caring for it but occasionally wanting to hurl it across the room. That’s how women love. But I love you as men do, as my honor. I will guard and protect you. Once honor is lost, nothing is left. We’ll wear each other like garments, clothing each other’s shame. So close, nothing can come between us, all the rest of our lives.”

His eyes met mine. The electricity tripped. With the air conditioner and ceiling fan inoperable, all other sounds became apparent. The rustle of kicked-off bedclothes, the popping of joints, the arachnid crunch of hair near the scalp as it moves upon a pillow: the unspoken casualness that, in its betrayal of the human body, breeds intimacy between strangers.

A night too hot for sleep, with a husband too polite for sex. I lay on my back, my hands crossed upon my breast. In the dark I imagined his hands folded against his lower abdomen, both of us as if in prayer or death.

“I’m proud to have a wife as pure as you.” His black curls neared mine. “The thought of you with anyone else makes me crazy. I don’t know what I’d do.”

The room grew hotter. Our sweat crystallized like sugar on the sheets. The wind that blew in from the balcony, scattering bougainvillea outside our window, did nothing to cool our bodies. Perspiration collected beneath our eyes, like reservoirs for new tears.

A year before the wedding, I visited my aunt in Karachi. Cancer took her left breast, and in her sixties, she had the fragility of a woman beyond eighty. Life left her skin sallow and pockmarked, but she had my mother’s face.

We sat in her garden. Stray cats crouched under dusty lawn chairs. My aunt rubbed her watery eyes beneath her glasses. My cousin’s four-year-old son was busy tearing down the clothesline with the Pakistani flag. I studied an Urdu dictionary that my cousin Nabeel and his wife bought for me, while pondering my wariness of sleeping in strange houses.

Nabeel’s friend was a catch, my aunt kept repeating, trying to convince me to marry him. “They’re like brothers,” she said. “They even look alike. When he comes home from Kuwait, he brings gifts for the kids. He refers to Nabeel’s wife as his ‘brother’s sister’: they’re that close.”

That’s the nature of our culture. Urdu uses the same word for “yesterday” and “tomorrow,” yet gives every relative a specific name. The language has at least five words for “aunt,” depending on which side of the family the aunt is from, or whether she is older than the speaker’s parent or younger. Some relatives may be “spoken,” claimed through verbal declaration. Even children nursed by other women find themselves with a second mother, a “milk” mother, and a new set of “milk” brothers and sisters.

And these distinctions are blurred in everyday discourse to suggest intimacy, transposed on friends or strangers. Everyone, even street vendors, is a brother or sister, son or daughter, aunt or uncle, regardless of true relation. My aunt calls me her daughter, and her friends her sisters. Cousins are treated as brothers and sisters, yet marriage between first cousins is often encouraged. Marrying a girl who already knows the family ethos promotes harmony within the existing family structure, since living jointly with in-laws is common.

I imagined my cousin Nabeel and my fiancé-to-be in a business suit smoking cigarettes at the top of the stairs, amid the bougainvillea--both adamant about not quitting because, “Well, what else are we supposed to do?” —blue smoke coiling through my cousin’s deviated septum. In college, a group of men, protecting their sister’s honor, had broken his nose. It never healed right.

My cousin’s four-year-old dropped his flag and pulled at my arm. Weak from a case of dysentery, sore from where the doctors stuck drip needles into my arms, sitting upright was challenge enough. “The day after the day after tomorrow,” I told him. “I’ll be better then, and we can play.” He wanted me to wrestle with him, a game that consisted of me picking him up and throwing him on the bed, while he squealed and kicked. “Three days, then this bruise will be gone, I won’t hurt anymore, and we can wrestle. I promise.”

Weary of my excuses, he began roaring at the cats huddled beneath a chair. The cats hesitated, then, as if scripted, ran off. They had become adults in my time away, and had only returned to this house waiting for life to happen, as had I.

After college I came to Pakistan from America for vacation before settling into a job. All my life I had kept myself busy, aware that a moment free from books or work and a glance at an America in which religiously and culturally I could not (or would not) participate would lead to unproductive confusion about my identity and sense of belonging. But I felt at home in Pakistan, able to eat everything behind the counter without worrying about beer-marinated meat, or bacon tucked between the loaves of a sandwich. I fought the proposal of marriage with no’s until I returned home, thought about it, and said yes.

When I was eight, I came to Karachi with my family to spend the summer with my mother’s relatives. From the airport, for the first time in my life, I saw night succumb today. The morning’s smells of diesel fuel and tropical flowers mixed with last night’s smells of fire-roasted corn, wet with lemon. Men in loose-fitting pants at Quaid-e-Azam International smiled into the air, hot, hazy, and humid, like memory.

At dawn we walked on Clifton Beach at low tide, searching for seashells but not finding any; not searching for Portuguese men-of-war but finding several, haunting bluely the northern floor of the Indian Ocean. The dupattas that women draped over their bodies to protect themselves from the gazes of men, scarves metaphorically referred to as their honor, threatened to fly away on the beach, drifting out to a fetid sea.

Before breakfast I washed the black sand between my toes by the faucet outside the house. My cousin Nabeel, whom I hadn’t seen in five years, came out from the side door and sat on his haunches beside me.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, pointing with his chin toward the trees in the yard. I had never seen coconut trees before. “Ammi says they’re from the same plant our grandmother grew in her garden, so they’re as much yours as they are mine. Come on, I can climb up, like a monkey, if you want.”

“No, I don’t want one,” I said sullenly in English, taken off guard by his familiarity, and continued washing my feet, while my older sister came down the front path to call me for a breakfast of egg and paratha.

We would stay a few weeks apiece with each of my mother’s siblings. I loved riding to visit them in rickshaws, the rumble of the chassis beneath my seat, on streets lined with tree trunks painted red and white. At twilight we would drink tea on flat roofs, the wind blowing from the mountains on the other side of the steppe. My uncle bought four goats for the Eidul-Adha sacrifice. He tied them to the rusty swing set in my grandmother’s palm-fringed garden. We fattened them up with anything we could: trees, grass, branches, leaves. I looked into a goat’s eyes. They were cataract-gray, like human sickness.

My aunt would take us on walks every evening we stayed with her. White bungalows were built high in the hills. We went to the house of her friend, a green-eyed crone with hair half-covered by an embroidered dupatta, who swung on a giant bed hanging from her living room ceiling. When we walked into her garden, I thought we had reached a temple at the summit of the world. We saw dozens of servants and children playing, each named for mountains or flowers, and a girl with a ring in her nose.

My mother would take us shopping when the sun went down, once to buy me bangles. The men who sold them from their carts pushed painted glass or metal hoops onto my wrists, until my hand would bleed from forcing them on. We attended weddings at night, with light and color and food.

Somehow this all wasn’t enough, and still isn’t. What began as adventure took on the color of inconvenience. I kept a journal to show my teacher after the summer but one of my cousins found it and circled the spelling errors, so I stopped writing. Despite my mother’s efforts and how much we liked them, we thought of our cousins as distinct others. We’d get jealous if our mother gave any of her nieces or nephews attention, and they’d get jealous when our aunts or uncles gave us money to buy candy. And I never had enough to read. So, when we went to stay with my aunt, she took me to one of her relatives’ houses for books. After that, my lap piled with comics, we drove through crowded streets to Nabeel’s high school. The other students at the boys’ school walked by in brown uniforms until Nabeel showed up, jumping into the driver’s seat when my aunt moved over.

“Hey, cousin,” he said while starting the car, “So you’re finally coming to stay at our house. You want some fresh juice, maybe a samosa, now that we’re out and you’re my guest?” He shifted his body on his thighs, leaning forward while reaching for the wallet in his back pocket.

Instead, he reached behind his seat and squeezed my thigh. “Don’t!” I squealed. My aunt hit Nabeel on the back of the head. “That’s your sister. Leave her alone and drive.” Nabeel had bothered me all summer. He would pull me toward him for a rough embrace, carry me over his shoulder, slap me. “Keep reacting, and he’ll continue,” my mother said. But in the car, I was in no mood. The skin at the backs of my thighs burned against the leather seats. I felt sticky from sweating. I wanted to be at my aunt’s house, reading from the stack of books in my lap. On the back seat I caressed Archie’s and Betty’s faces on the water-warped cover of a comic book. Jughead reminded me of Nabeel. When we got out of the car and his mother wasn’t looking, he tried to kiss me. He slapped me when I screamed. I had been rude for refusing his offer of refreshment anyway.

At night, only a few days before our flight back home, in the semi-darkness of a lamplit den with paper-stuffed shelves, my cousin stood behind me, his chin pushing into the tendons of my shoulder and his cheek against mine, forcing me to look into a mirror with him. His hands tight on my arms left hot patches that reduced to sweat and then immediate coolness. “Look at us,” he said. “Aren’t we beautiful together? Someone ought to take our picture.

“You know,” he confided, secret as a lover, “We only have four days to live.” He stroked my chin. “The first, childhood, second, youth, then married life, and then senescence. Do you understand? Two days have already passed for me. You haven’t seen past the first day, but I warn you, it will go by fast. We have barely any time left. Do you understand me?”

The thought of you with anyone else makes me crazy. I don’t know what I’d do.

I did not scream for him to leave me alone. I stood silent, agreeing with what he said, until my sister came in and my cousin released me.

I’ve heard somewhere that parts of your body, or your different senses, fall asleep and wake up at different times, which is why you can hear the sound of your mother in the kitchen--metal spoon clanging in saucepan—long before you can smell breakfast or will your eyes to open. That night I remember adjusting my eyes to the shadow outlines of my mother and sister on the bed beside me, who could sleep despite the heat. The cats beneath the lawn chairs at my aunt’s house had been kittens then. I remember hearing their mewing outside the window, wailing like abandoned babies.

Then, I remember being drunk with sleep, unable to make a sound. My mother and sister had risen for breakfast and left me lying alone on the bed. Through eyes feigning sleep, the night having succumbed into day, I saw my cousin crouched above me, his knees straddling my body. Now the pulling down of bedclothes, the pushing up of my cotton shirt, the immediate coolness of my sweating flesh exposed to the air in the bedroom, and the soft wet o’s my cousin’s lips left on my stomach.

This was long before the morning my mother-in-law snapped our bedsheets, searching for blood but finding only rose petals crushed into the fabric; this was shortly before my mother’s denial that any of this ever happened, my sister’s promise that she’d never leave me alone again; before the desire not yet consummated by my husband, the friend of my cousin.

About the Author

Zehra Habib’s fiction and creative nonfiction have been featured in Hunger Mountain, Orion headless, Union Station, and Two Review in the United States. She was a regular contributor to bazaar magazine in Kuwait, where she edited and co-founded an English-language magazine. She lives near Chicago with her husband and sons.

Torjrtx

Ice Coffee

Erin Jamieson

Iced Coffee

We sip on milk and honey iced coffee with the windows open. The breeze is mild, and the night feels almost cool, a relief from a very hot day before I left, back in Tampa. I can hear cicadas chanting and someone down the street laughing. It sounds and smells like someone’s having a bonfire.

We don’t talk much. We play cards, and honestly, it’s more fun than I’ve had for a while. I don’t really know many classic card games, so Santiago has to show me. I am pretty awful at all of them, and Abuela easily wins game after game. I know Krista’s grandmother is the kind that will purposely lose games, but I am not surprised whatsoever that Abuela is nothing like that.

When it gets late, we keep playing. There is something about this night, just a night where I don’t yet have to face things, just spending time together, just being together that feels exactly like what I need.

And it makes me a little sad too. Because it’s possible we could have had something like this all along, had either Abuela or Mom made different decisions. We could have had many nights like this.

I try to shove that out of my mind. Just for now. Just for tonight.

At half past midnight Santiago says he needs to get going and this time neither of us protest. We followed him out to the front door.

“Don’t be a stranger,” Abuela says, which, I think could mean a few things.

He waves and we shut the door behind him. It’s quiet, though we’ve let the radio play. The table is littered with cards and our empty glasses and a plate of chip fragments. The smell of the bonfire has disappeared, but there’s still a slightly smoky odor in the house.

“Look at the time,” Abuela says. “You must be tired.”

I am and I am not. I feel like I could sleep for months, years and not get enough, and I also don’t feel like sleeping at all.

“Guest bedroom has been cleaned for you. I’m sorry it’s a bit messy here.”

“I don’t mind.”

“I’m afraid I’m not a very neat person.”

“You aren’t?”’

“When you were here, I made an extra effort, but you were returning on short notice-”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she laughs. “You might as well know. I’m a bit of a slob at times.”

“It’s not really that messy. You should see my closet.”

“I can imagine. When I was that age, if my madre hadn’t been right on my case all the time the whole room would have eaten me alive.”

Madre. Her mother. My great grandmother, I realize. Who I will never know. I suppose that isn’t uncommon.

She misreads my expression. “But I’m keeping you up. Why don’t you go and get yourself settled while I at least try to clean up our glasses, so we don’t wake up to an even bigger mess.”

“Actually, I’m not really that tired.”

“Traveling did that to me, too. Made me tired but also restless. Even when it was just more local.”

I pick up my glass while she picks up hers and Santiago’s. “Can I ask you something?”

She sets the dishes in the sink, and I copy her. “I think it’s a bit late tonight.”

“No, not about everything. Just…” I don’t know how to find the words for what’s on my mind. “Do you know why?”

“Why?”

“My father,” I say.

She sighs. “This is an even heavier topic.”

“But you have to tell me sometime.” I pull up a chair at the table. “Please, Abuela. I didn’t come all the way back out here for you not to tell me anything.”

“I will tell you. I just don’t know where to begin.” She looks very old tonight. I don’t mean that in an offensive way, in a shallow way. I mean that in an honest way, and it has nothing to do with wrinkles or sagging skin or anything else that people tend to associate with old age.

It has to do with the way she holds herself. How worn she looks.

She looks like she can’t handle this.

But hasn’t she been coping with this for years?

“I don’t know why,” she says finally. “I guess he lost hope.”

“Lost hope? He was the one that made the decisions he did. He didn’t have to be in that situation.”

“He was in a tough spot, then,” Abuela says quietly.

That makes me irritated. More than irritated. It makes me think I made a mistake coming here. “So, he made on mistake then he took his own life because his kids didn’t mean anything--”

“No. You two meant the world to him.”

“I can tell,” I say sarcastically. “That’s why he left randomly in the middle of the night.”

She turns to me, her face eclipsed in shadow. “He didn’t leave randomly, Sofia. Is that what your mother told you?”

“She didn’t really tell me much of anything. Except that he left a note.”

“She was trying to get him to seek help.”

“With what, a marriage counselor? Don’t think he was interested.”

“No. With a therapist, anyone. She knew he needed it, so he went for a while. I knew he needed it; he probably did. But your father was so lost by then. I don’t think he wanted to drag his family through it any longer.”

“Oh, so killing himself was the solution.”

She winces. “No. No, that is never the solution.” Her voice has hardened; I can almost visualize a part of her shutting off, away from me. Not that I entirely blame her. I’ve been anything but diplomatic.

But I don’t know how to be diplomatic about anything right now.

“But I think that’s what he thought.”

“Then why didn’t you stop him?”

“How could I? I tried. I didn’t know he’d gotten that desperate.”

She brushes off stray crumbs from the table. “I wish things were different, Sofia. I wish I could tell you a happy story. I imagined years ahead of all of us, years of happiness, holidays with you kids and your father--”

“We were happy,” I say. “Santiago and I. We had good memories. We did things. We made our own way.”

“And I see that. I see how you’ve grown up and I’m so proud of you.”

But there really is nothing to be proud of, I think. “Tell me how he got to that point. Why he cheated--”’

“He never cheated on your mother,” Abuela says suddenly, sharply.

“What do you mean? I saw the letter; I said something to my--”

“It was a misunderstanding,” Abuela says. “He never cheated on your mother.”

“It’s too late for that, Abuela. I already know.”

She has tears in her eyes, but now she looks more angry than sad. “But you don’t know, Sofia. You don’t understand.”

“And whose fault is that?”

“That,” she says, “Is a good question.

Silence falls between us.

“I know my father cheated, Abuela.”

She shakes her head. “I wish you understood, Sofia. That man loved you all so. More than himself.”

“More than the woman he cheated on mom with?”

“Sofia, listen to what I’m trying to tell you.”

“I am listening.”

“He never cheated on your mother.”

“The letter I found says otherwise.”

“In my room?’

“Yes.” I no longer care that she knows I was snooping. Let her think whatever she wants about me.

“You didn’t read it. I wish I’d shown it to you.”

“Maybe you should have.”

“Come with me.”

It’s nearing one but it doesn’t matter. I doubt either of us could sleep if we tried. The letter is where I left it, tossed on top of the dresser.

I read the introduction. It’s still in my father’s hand, and it’s still addressed to another woman. Now that I’m reading it again, there’s nothing blatantly romantic in the opening, just details he’s sharing that I don’t think anyone close to him would know. The woman’s name is Cheri, I remember that from before. I am halfway down before I realize my mistake.

Dear sister.

“My dad didn’t have a sister.”

Abuela’s eyes mist. “He did. She died when she was seven. You never knew her. We never talked about it, because well, because we had to leave it behind us.”

“How do I know you’re telling the truth? Why would he write a letter to his dead sister?”

I realize, belatedly, that death was an insensitive way to put it, however true. If it is true, that is.

“Because he was going through some things, those last few months. I think he was thinking of her a lot, now that his own daughter was the age Sheri was when she died.”

“So, he just wrote her a letter? He thought she was alive?”

“No,” she says quietly. “Not like that. But he couldn’t stop thinking about her. He kept calling me, asking if I thought you would be alright. I had no idea it stayed with him like that, after all these years.”

“So, his being distant from Mom, and those phone calls, those were all to you.”

“Yes. That’s part of why your mother and I never talk much. She held it against me then, and she still does now, I think. I think she never told you what happened not just because she was afraid, but because, mistakenly, she thought you’d come to me and shut her out of her life. Just like your father.”

I don’t want to lose you like I lost him.

“She told me…. she acted like she was afraid I was going to, you know.”

“That’s part of it, I’m sure. But I don’t know everything. I don’t know if I really have any more answers for you.”

“Did he get like that with my brother?”

“No, and that’s why it was so strange. I think it must have been something about having a daughter.”

So, this is my fault? I feel cold all over even though it’s far from cold in the room.

“Sofia,” she begins. “I don’t want you to take this the wrong way. “

“How am I supposed to take it?” I whisper.

“I don’t know. But it wasn’t just that. Your father had depressive spells for a long time, long before he met your mother. Ever since he saw Cheri die--”

“He saw her die?”

Abuela sighs. “This is a lot for one night.”

“You might as well tell me.”

“Sofia--”

“I’m not a little child,” I say, in a way a child would. “I need to know.”

“Well,” Abuela says, “Maybe so. But I’d feel better if Santiago was here too.”

I can’t sleep.

Every time I close my eyes I see my father. Hugging me, tucking me in. Reading me stories. I see him holding my hand and showing me a setting sun. Trying to teach me how to make Medianoche sandwiches. Pretending to check for monsters under my bed and setting bunches of flowers underneath, because he always said that would drive them away.

I saw him one night when I was determined something was in my closet. Instead of checking for monsters, he looked at me and slowly peeled open the blinds.

Sometimes you just have to let some light in, to see things more clearly.

I toss my sheets off and get up, even though it’s only half past four in the morning. I see that my phone is buzzing, probably with unanswered messages. But instead of heading towards the phone, I go near the window and part the blinds.

The room is transformed, painted in silvery light.

Sometimes you just have to let some light in.

I close my eyes and imagine I am back at home. Only it isn’t the home it’s been the past few

months. It’s the home where I can go to the ocean whenever I want and take it for granted, where the coldest nights are a warm spring day here, where you can’t go for more than a block without seeing a palm tree or something like it and colorful siding, where the sidewalks forever smell of sea salt and sunscreen.

My father once told me that if you listen hard enough, you can hear the ocean when you pick up a conch shell. That way, you can take in the sounds and feeling of the ocean wherever you go.

But I know better. It doesn’t take conch shells or anything like that. And maybe it really isn’t about the ocean after all. Maybe it isn’t anything like that.

Maybe it’s all about taking those memories with you.

Maybe home has been inside me all along.

About the Author

Erin Jamieson’s writing has been published in over 100 literary magazines, including two Pushcart Prize nominations. She’s published two poetry chapbooks titled Fairytales (Bottlecap Press) and Remnants (2024). Her debut novel Sky of Ashes, Land of Dreams came out November 2023. Visit: @erin_simmer

Alex Kabat

mother as the other

my first heartbreak was gifted to me

by the same woman who gave me breath

born into bruised arms

and my own tender flesh.

i was undone by the smallest things at first:

took cigarettes from the pack so she’d survive

chased bottles of wine down the sink

with cold water just to feel alive.

she took her time shattering me

most nights she’d kneel at my feet:

a mess of tears and fear

am i a bad mother?

i became an expert on lying

and ignorant in the face of reality –

promised every fifteen-year-old

watched their mother dying.

some days,

i imagine a world where my first heartbreak

would also be my last.

About the Author

Alex Kabat resides in Ithaca, New York, and believes writing can soothe the soul's deepest aches. She learned to read before she could walk and hasn’t stopped since. Her work has previously appeared in Stillwater Literary Magazine, Chapter House Journal, and Earth's Daughters Feminist Literary Collective.

Krysztof Slusarczyk

Colorful and Aromatic Spices and Herbs

Sandhya Krishnaswamy

Spice Ghost, Hold Me Again

I never noticed it at home, a constant aroma of

Turmeric, cumin, coriander,

Garlic, curry leaves,

Ginger, mustard seeds,

Everything vibrant, warm

Sprouting from bubbling oil

The sort of scent that permeates every surface,

Becomes part of the architecture

Of a home, not just a house,

Imprints itself on a person

Who is loved, by a mother, cared for

Cooked for

No, I never noticed it until I left for the city

And in my apartment there was a

Reverse haunting,

A lack of aromatic ghosts,

Hiding in the yellow stained dishcloths

And the brown-bottomed pans,

No longer swathed in spice

Just a house, not a home,

And I feel as if I am

All alone in the world

Digital Death Spiral

On my phone, there are:

Fundraisers

Pussy in Bio Porn Bots

People arguing, quote retweets that stretch for miles,

War footage

Celebrity home tours

Labor strikes

More scam bots, this one will help with my essay, apparently,

War footage, again

Something I scroll past so easily,

Something so horrible it doesn’t really register until the dead of night,

When I’m far disconnected from that

Wave of information that compresses everything,

Horrific news, annoying remarks, cool images,

Into just

Information

God, I never wanted to be so insensitive I just

Wanted to keep up with friends, I think

Yeah, that girl from high school just posted, see

And right under that post

AI Generated cats and dogs

And, you know, the Francis Scott Key bridge collapsed

And carbon emissions are up, there's nothing you can do

And the world is totally falling apart,

And sometimes I feel so hopeless

But when I look up from my feed and see you,

Bright eyed and lively,

I don’t think that's true anymore,

That the world is horrible and ironic I think

There’s compassion to be felt when I stick my head out from under that river

About the Author

Sandhya Krishnaswamy is a Chicago-based architecture student who is also interested in writing poetry. Krishnaswamy grew up in rural Maryland, which fostered an appreciation for nature in her work.

Katharyn Howd Machan

Nice

I still have the deep pink lace

triangle scarf I bought in the airport

the day after the night I fled

the man with wrong fists in Marseilles.

Somehow I wanted to hold onto roses

instead of the stench of his Gitanes

staining his tongue and his fingertips

as he tipped back dark beer after beer.

As my belly swelled I wore it close

back in New York as winter turned

to a long hot summer far away

from the waterfall of Lasalle.

I keep it now in a small carved box

hoping my daughter will one day see

that sometimes a truer, deeper love

can call a woman to run.

About the Author

Katharyn Howd Machan, an enthusiastic professor in the Department of Writing at Ithaca College, has served as coordinator of the Ithaca Community Poets and director of the Feminist Women’s Writing Workshops, Inc. Her poems have appeared in numerous magazines, anthologies, textbooks, and collections (most recently Dark Side of the Spoon from the Moonstone Press in 2022 and A Slow Bottle of Wine, winner of the 2020 Jessie Bryce Niles Chapbook Competition from Comstock Writers, Inc., and she has edited three thematic works, including Adrienne Rich: A Tribute Anthology with Split Oak Press. For body and spirit, she belly dances.

Brian Kushner

Solar Eclipse, April 2024

Tara Menon

Solar Eclipse

The horrendous traffic

made us miss our destination:

St. Johnsbury,

where we would have watched

night swallow day

while the moon triumphed

for two minutes.

From the side of the highway,

we watched the moon carve

the sun into a golden crescent,

dimming the severity of its brightness

but unable to usher in the night.

The next day, I settled for pastels.

Russet or green against bark.

The brook a swamp.

Trees with knobs running up,

as if they were diseased.

Perhaps they harbored nests

and life will emerge

now that spring is

tingeing the surroundings.

In my mind, the sun is still

a golden crescent that will erode with time

just like the Sistine Chapel did

after I viewed it with stark wonder,

trying to burn it into my memory.

About the Author

Tara Menon is an Indian American writer based in Lexington, Massachusetts. She was a finalist for the Willow Run Poetry Book Award 2023/2024. Some of her latest poems have appeared in Tipton Poetry Journal, Cider Press Review, Global South, Raven’s Perch, Calliope on the Web, and Wink: Writers in the Know. She is also a fiction writer whose most recent short story is forthcoming in Pennsylvania Literary Journal.

C. Mikal Oness

A Room in My Hermitage

Once I kill the last

fly buzzing and bouncing his

drumroll off windows,

he comes back from the dead, armed

always with more songs of praise.

About the Author

C. Mikal Oness is the author of Oracle Bones, winner of the Lewis & Clark Poetry Prize, and Water Becomes Bone. His poems have appeared in journals throughout the U.S. In 2017, “On the Sprocket Side of the Hayrake” was a finalist for the Ireland’s Ballymaloe Poetry Prize and appeared in The Moth. He is the editor of Sutton Hoo Press, a literary fine press (www.suttonhoopress.com) as well as a new imprint The Last Press (www.thelastpress.com).

James T. Stemmle

Taboo

the place chaotic and messy

is walled off because of the

danger where there are no rules

you may only stay a short while

and do whatever your heart desires

even act on suppressed impulses

hidden in your helix by your long

forgotten ancestors that irrupt to

consciousness that you fear might

be part of your dark nature that you

cannot acknowledge and though

you can go there you should not

and cannot stay but only visit you

and your partner in crime hand in

hand passing under the arches and

through the gate whilst the loud

speakers blare a warning caution

your actions may be monitored

or recorded by hidden cameras for

quality assurance purposes what

happens here does not necessarily

stay here but may be turned into a

lovely souvenir albatross necklace

for a lifetime of enjoyment available

for purchase at our gift shop as you

leave cash or credit accepted long

term financing available with easy

monthly payments

About the Author

James T. Stemmle, born in Louisville, KY, is an old man, currently living retirement in Riderwood, a senior village, with his wife of 58 years. He writes poetry during morning meditations in his third-floor apartment looking out on a parking lot frequently decorated by flashing ambulance lights. He had a Federal Government career mostly with EPA; he earned a doctorate from Catholic University in chemistry. He is eager to share his poetry. Already he has published 38 poems in such literary magazines as: The Octillo Review, Evening Street Review, The Raven’s Perch, Deep South Magazine, Hektoen International: A Journal of Medical Humanities, Literary Veganism: An Online Journal, Cheofpleirn Press, Seattle Star, Poetry Superhighway, Open Arts Forum, Journal of Expressive Writing, The Light Ekphrastic, Midway Journal, Literary Heist, Open Door Poetry Magazine, The Pennsylvania Literary Journal, Poetry Pacific, The Indian Review, The Oakwood Literary Journal, and, The Front Range Review.

Issue 202

Alan Bern

tree bathing—

climbers' laughter falls

Copyright © 2024 by Alan Bern.

About the Artist

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2h9ib-sJYao), is a published/exhibited photographer, and runs a fine press/publisher with artist/printer Robert Woods, Lines & Faces: linesandfaces.com.

Tom Ball

The Top 25 Thinkers in the Galaxy, A.D. 2130

About the Author

Tom Ball has published novels, novellas, short stories, poetry and flash in 49 publications. He’s senior editor/co-founder of the online journal: https://fleasonthedog.com. Visit: https://tomballbooks.com

Zehra Habib

Like Brothers

About the Author

Torjrtx

Ice Coffee

Erin Jamieson

Iced Coffee

About the Author

Alex Kabat

mother as the other

About the Author

Krysztof Slusarczyk

Colorful and Aromatic Spices and Herbs

Sandhya Krishnaswamy

Spice Ghost, Hold Me Again

Digital Death Spiral

About the Author

Sandhya Krishnaswamy is a Chicago-based architecture student who is also interested in writing poetry. Krishnaswamy grew up in rural Maryland, which fostered an appreciation for nature in her work.

Katharyn Howd Machan

Nice

About the Author

Brian Kushner

Solar Eclipse, April 2024

Tara Menon

Solar Eclipse

About the Author

C. Mikal Oness

A Room in My Hermitage

About the Author

James T. Stemmle

Taboo

About the Author

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