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by Vivien Solveig Buns by Vivien Solveig Vivien Solveig studied fine arts.

by Michael Moreth Ceremonial by Michael Moreth Michael Moreth is a recovering Chicagoan living in the rural, micropolitan City of Sterling, the Paris of Northwest Illinois USA.

by Edward Michael Supranowicz Richochet 3 by Edward Michael Supranowicz Edward Michael Supranowicz is the grandson of Irish and Russian/Ukrainian immigrants. He grew up on a small farm in Appalachia. He has a grad background in painting and printmaking. Some of his artwork has recently or will soon appear in Fish Food, Streetlight, Another Chicago Magazine, Door Is A Jar, The Phoenix, and The Harvard Advocate. Edward is also a published poet.

by Kirstin Storey I’m walking back to the office after getting some lunch. ‘Looking good babe’, he says loud enough for me to hear and then laughs as the Ute truck, in who’s passenger seat he’s sitting, reverses into the street as I walk past. He laughs like it’s the funniest thing anyone has ever said. I don’t look, but I imagine he’s got that shaggy blond hair that young Aussie blokes have that’s not quite a mullet, a wolf cut, I think it’s called. By the sound of him, he couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, though probably younger. I’m not even sure he was talking to me, but I don’t see any other ‘babes’ on the street, let alone babes like me, so I assume I’m his target. I’m confused though, I’m not even presenting femme. I’m waiting for my hair to grow out; I inherited my hairline from my father and although the hormones are trying their best, their best comes second to glaciers slowly advancing down the mountain side. It’s grown maybe three centimetres in the last eight months. I went to the salon a few days ago for laser on my face, so there’s also a few days’ worth of stubble while I wait until I can shave again. While my beard is less dense than it was and now mainly white, it’s still very noticeable, I know because I notice it a lot. I ignore what he says and keep walking, knowing I’ll replay the incident in my head several times, trying to work out whether he was talking to me. I remember back to when I was I a kid, maybe thirteen or fourteen and some guy messed up on drugs got up in my face. I was walking through town with my brother and this guy thought I’d said something to him. I hadn’t even noticed him up until he was right in front of me, but there he was threatening to fuck me up. I kept calm and said nothing and eventually he tired himself out and we walked off. My brother said something about doing a good job not backing down or whatever and so saying nothing or ignoring hecklers has been my default for dealing with conflict ever since. * ‘Can you believe that dude, bruh’? Lachy, sat in the passenger seat, asks Jase once they’re back on the road. Jase is a third-year sparky, whereas Lachy has been on the tools just under a year, because Jase’s got the years under his belt, he’s driving. ‘Fuck no, what an absolute idiot. Deserves a punch just for that handbag it was carrying’. ‘Hundred per cent!’ Lachy is only too eager to agree. Secretly though, Jase wishes he could be as free as that thing, person, woman, whatever the fuck it was, looked. They hadn’t flinched as Lachy had called out his oh so witty dig, just kept on walking. Something like that would have crushed Jase, if he’d ever allowed himself to taste the freedom, she looked like she possessed. The freedom that comes from being brave enough to show the world who you really are. Jase quietly wondered what that felt like as he drove on. Working on jobsites, he felt like he always had to be on guard, always had to chime in when the old blokes were taking the piss out of the new apprentices. It was an extra layer of protective equipment that he could never risk taking off and was heavier and more uncomfortable than any of the other things like hard-hats, safety boots or respirators he had to wear while he was on jobsites. He remembered one apprentice who hadn’t lasted long, and they were merciless with him, endlessly taking the piss. Sure, these days there were company policies for everything, but he didn’t want to be the one to find out the value of the paper on which they were written. That evening, Jase was in the pub with his brother and his mates. His brother, Drew, had an easy public service job and had the baby soft hands to prove it. He’d picked a pub in the next suburb over from where he’d been working that week. It was one of the oldest suburbs in town and filled with old workers’ cottages on quarter acre blocks. The original vision for the suburb was for it to be a working-class suburb, housing the immigrants that had to be cajoled and shipped in to build the country’s capital. Nowadays, due to its proximity to the city, the cottages had either been extensively renovated or those ones that weren’t heritage listed had been torn down to be replaced with miserable mansions built so big they stretched boundary to boundary as if the people who lived in them were afraid of being outside. Jase felt uncomfortable the moment he walked into the pub. Given the catchment of the place, he knew the clientele here wouldn’t give a second thought to paying twenty dollars for a pint of some shitty craft beer that tried to combine mango, banana and coffee, or some bullshit like that. Since when had beer become the new wine? He just wanted a fucking normal beer that didn’t cost half a day’s pay. He was still thinking about that thing that Lachy had shouted at when they were getting lunch, for some reason, couldn’t get it out of his mind, and here it was standing in front of him at the bar. * I’d gone climbing after work, there’s a bouldering gym not far from where I work, and there’s a bunch of us that regularly go. It’s fun, and the gym runs queer friendly nights, so I know I’m not going to get harassed there. We usually go get beers and burgers afterwards, which honestly is main reason we go. Tonight, we head to a bar nearby where I live, it’s about twenty minutes’ walk from home. The bar is jostling as we get there, but we manage to find a table outside which is wafted by a fan misting cool moist air, a welcome reprieve from the hot dry night air. Honeysuckle flowers bloom nearby in raised planters and the sweet smell floats by the table.  At the bar, I’m waiting to order drinks, I’ve lived here ten years or more and I still can’t get used to how people line up at the bar. Back home, it’s everyone for themselves, the only place where Brit’s aren’t happy to queue, and you must jostle and make yourself seen to get served. Here, there’s an orderly line in front of each bar tender, it makes me smile every time. Only tonight there’s three lines and only two bar staff so it seems, so the service is slow. I’m waiting while a young guy in the line next to me says something about the wait.  Not sure if he’s talking to me, I look at him and say ‘sorry what?’ We get talking and he ends up complimenting me on my leggings with a bright floral pattern on them, that I’m still wearing from climbing. ‘You’re so brave’, he says after we’ve been talking a little while. I barely tolerate friends calling me brave, let alone strangers at a bar. If I was brave, I would have started to transition when I was much younger. If I was brave, I’d have continued seeing the psychiatrist who had diagnosed me with gender dysphoria five years ago. The psychiatrist that I’d had to take a day off work to travel to Sydney to see. To whom I was referred by the GP that I had sought out specifically because she’d listed trans health care as an interest in her bio. If I was brave, I would have tried to get to know the trans woman my girlfriend at the time worked with, instead of sitting in awkward silence as I picked her up from work and gave them both a lift home. Barely acknowledging her presence as I drove because I was afraid that if I did, it would open pandora’s transgender box that would carry me along with the wave of transness that would come flooding out. If I was brave, I’d have kept continuing to explore those feelings that became more intense during university, the time when you are supposed to be finding out who you are instead of suppressing who I was even deeper, where the pressure and heat is so intense your hidden self is turned to coal. If I was brave, I would tell my homophobic and almost certainly transphobic parents who I am and wait for the inevitable disowning, better they hate who I am than love what I’m not. But I’m not brave, didn’t want to be, shouldn’t have to be. I’d done none of those things, I’d waited until the last possible moment, where the choice had been between self-deletion or being myself. And even then, I’d chosen the delete button, only I had woken up. I was forced to at least try the only thing that might keep me alive, knowing that I could always press delete again later. I don’t tell anyone, but I envy those who’d been successful in choice I’d made. I envy the peace I believe they have found, a peace I believe I won’t find, while grieving the lives they should have had. I shake my head gently, “Please don’t say that, I’m not brave” I reply. “If I was brave, I wouldn’t have tried to kill myself and then spent months in a psych ward before doing, this”, waving my hands over myself, so as not to have to say the word ‘transitioning’.   I’ve read lots of people say that the process of transitioning itself should be savoured, with each new change or development in your mind or body a cause for celebration. Something to be documented and kept as a memento for posterity or placed in a transition album to coo over in the future. Fuck that, like a petulant child asking for an ice-cream, I want it done and done now and will stamp my feet if I don’t get it. The seemingly endless waiting for it to be done is so damn awkward. I’m in between worlds, neither one thing nor the other. I can’t stand it; I wish I could embrace the non-binary no man’s land I find myself in like others can. But I’m still filled with shame for what I’m doing to myself, the shame is sometimes almost as hard to bear as the dysphoria. “Woah, intense” he says, visibly recoiling from me.   “It’s ok”, I lie, “I’ve told the story so often it feels like it happened to someone else”.  After a brief silence, he starts asking questions, the way I maybe should have done to my former partner’s colleague when I’d had the chance. I find it difficult to get out of conversations I don’t want to have with people I don’t want to know, I guess it’s my fear of not being liked. So, I answer his questions, ‘how did I know?’, ‘when did I first feel like a woman’, ‘what were the first changes you’ve noticed’, ‘what have people’s reactions been’ the usual questions people ask. I’m surprised by how frank I am, but the kid is cute and honestly, it’s nice that someone is interested enough to ask me. Mostly, my friends just ignore my transition, steadfastly acting like nothing is changing, like life will go on as it was before. But everything is changing, I notice it most with male friends; I don’t get invited out to stuff as much anymore, they text me less and less. I don’t know if that’s because they don’t know what to say and are scared that they’ll offend me or if it’s too weird for them.   Then he says quietly ‘I wish I could be brave like you’.  My heart drops, so I overlook him calling me brave again. I put my hand on his arm and simply say ‘It’ll be ok’, knowing I still need people to say this to me. Kirstin is a trans woman living on the Ngunnawal and Ngambri lands of the Australian Capital Territory. She works in protecting the environment for future generations and loves cats, though her living situation doesn't allow for one so she can often be found cat-sitting.

by John Tavaers Once upon a time there lived a middle-aged man, Anthony Andrews, who defied parental authority. He plain hated vanilla authority, authority of any kind, in fact. He quit his regular nine-to-five-day job where he worked as a financial advisor, after his mother died. He ended up working for himself at home as a day trader, somehow managing to earn a living from trading stocks and investing.  He liked the stocks of food companies, especially those that produced the brands of delicious foods he enjoyed like yoghurt, oats, peanut butter, ice cream, whole wheat bread, and Black Forest chocolate cake. He really loved creamy peanut butter spread on fresh multigrain bread, with no added preservatives, additives, or chemicals. He particularly loved ice cream and Black Forest Chocolate Cake. He also loved yoghurt, although not in equal measures, but he ate more yoghurt than ice cream because the food, especially Greek yoghurt, was high in protein. He also liked peanuts, although he tended to avoid buying peanuts because his appetite for seasoned and flavored snacks, like barbecued and honey roasted peanuts, was uncontrollable and insatiable. He had become health conscious after his father died from a combination of chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, diabetes, and coronary artery disease. In any event, because of the stock investments, his thrifty and frugal habits, his buying food and stocks on sale, Anthony built up his savings. So, if he had a problem, it might be that he simply had too much money and nobody upon whom he could spend, like a wife and kids.  At times he thought he wanted a wife, but he had to admit he simply did not have charm or looks. He believed no amount of plastic surgery, working out at the gym, and reading Miss Manners was going to help, although he liked exercise and physical activity. He simply loved to walk, cycle, and hike outdoors and through the trails and pathways in Toronto parks. During the summer he relived his favorite activity, which he discovered several years ago: walking along the beaches in Toronto. Sometimes Anthony attempted to hike along all the Toronto beaches in a day. He started at sunrise and walked along the beaches from Sunnyside Beach in the West end of the city of Toronto in Etobicoke to Woodbine Beach in Scarborough in the west end of the sprawling city. That is an awful lot of beach and beaches to cover in a day, so he carefully prepared, packing trail mix snacks for protein and carbohydrates in plastic sandwich bags, cans of Diet Coke to keep hydrated, and an insulated bottle of strong sweet creamy coffee to stay perky, and energetic. He also checked and rechecked the weather forecasts, hoping the day would be hot, sunny, and calm, because he might want to take a quick dip along the way, or even stop at an outdoor Toronto pool, or splash pad. Even if the weather was cool, rainy, and windy, he hiked to the beach. As he continued hiking, walking, and strolling along the beaches from dusk to dawn, ignoring all curfews, hurricane, and tornado watches and warnings, he often came across parents who behaved in a fashion he found personally annoying and authoritarian. Parents hollered at their kids to pack their gear, even though the kids already had their gear neatly packed and ready. Meanwhile, the parents’ gear was disorganized. After all, even though they were only day tripping on the Toronto Islands, they packed as if for a week-long camping expedition, including the barbecue, the stereo system, the wireless speakers, the folding chair, collapsing umbrella, and the case of empty beer cans. Or Mom ordered them to stop swimming, even though they had only dipped in the water for a minute or two. But Mom chose to end the fun when the day was hot and sunny, the water was calm and even tolerable, since the water of Lake Ontario was often intolerably cold and chilly, and too many lifeguards were on duty.  Stay away from that man, the concerned parents said, even though Anthony was clean shaven and wore luxury brands, freshly laundered or dry cleaned. After all, he did not want people to think he was homeless and crazy, and wanted to abduct their kids. Soon, though, the commands and directives from the parents started to irritate him. The parental orders he overheard shouted from booming voices started to annoy him, and the parent’s voices grated on his nerves. So, Anthony ended up countermanding or contradicting the parents' orders and commands. If Chad was still building a beautiful sandcastle and the day was still long, with plenty of daylight hours ahead, and Dad said wreck the sandcastle, Anthony told Chad to keep building the sandcastle and might even lend a hand. If Karen was taking a swim and Mom ordered Karen out of the lake, and the water was safe and warm, and there was lifeguard supervision and the lifeguards weren’t distracted by their smartphones or their chattery gossip and nonstop conversations about parties and nightclubs, and all the truly evil things lifeguards do when off duty, Anthony ordered Karen to keep swimming. Oftentimes Karen or someone like her would follow his instruction and keep swimming. If Chad was playing on the beach with kids beside him, and Dad or Mom suddenly shouted at him to stop, because the parents wrongly believed that these neighboring kids were exerting a bad influence on their own kids, Anthony often ordered Chad to keep playing frisbee, Marco Polo, or beach volleyball, or to keep building sandcastles.   The lifeguards started to notice, though. The lifeguards loved to take notes, filling their little black notebooks with neat handwriting about him. Once a parent complained to a lifeguard. When the parents were not satisfied with the lecture Anthony received from the lifeguard, she called the police, who said it was not their jurisdiction; but she insisted the police investigate from the nearest precinct on the city’s mainland, across Toronto harbor. Meanwhile, at Centre Island beach, police happened to be patrolling around the amusement park on the island. They cycled along the boardwalk and walked across the sand to their antihero.   The police warned him about intentionally defying parental authority. They interviewed him and interrogated him for approximately three hours, in the hot sun and sweltering humidity. They even asked him his favorite flavors of ice cream. He was surprised when he noticed them taking notes about his ice cream preferences. The police warned him again about defying parental authority. Never do it again, they strongly advised. Unless he complied and submitted, they would be forced, at the very least, to arrest him and press charges, multiple counts of a violation of the criminal code of intentionally annoying a parent. The mother seemed satisfied to allow Anthony to be free. He continued to walk along the beach. Then he took the ferry and the subway and streetcar across the city. As he walked along Woodbine Beach, he worried and felt afraid he was out of control. He feared he simply could not resist the impulse to defy parental authority.  The following day was also hot and sunny. On the beach, a girl paddled her kayak, a small inflatable, under full lifeguard supervision. When the woman saw Anthony marching madly along the beach, she, holding her hand and arm against the brilliant sun, ordered her daughter to abandon her kayak and to tow the lightweight watercraft onto the shore.  Anthony noted, though, the sky was still sunny, the waves were nonexistent, and the weather was perfect for kayaking. He shouted at her to keep kayaking. She only wished she had a handy inflatable kayak like hers. The mother was mortified, aghast, and perturbed. She started to turn red, quivered, and quavered. Her blood pressure and her heart rate skyrocketed. Her husband warned she would suffer a stroke.  So, the police were ordered down to Sunnyside Beach to question the suspect who dared defy parental authority. Having recognized Anthony, the police officer told him he had been interviewed, warned twice already, and nearly charged. The police officer gave the mother permission to waterboard him on the beach. She put him in a headlock, and wrestled him to the sand, while her partner, her husband, kicked sand in his face. The police also permitted the father to shout verbal abuse in his face and splash him with chilly water and to dunk his head beneath the surface of the lake. Then the mother was allowed to kick sand in his face, and so was the little girl, but she refused. She was already gobsmacked and awestruck by the man who dared defy parental authority. In fact, the previous evening she had joined a supersecret exclusive social media group: Young Friends of the Toronto Walker Who Dared Defy Parental Authority. She wanted to ask him for his autograph because she recognized him from his pictures and the articles and news stories that had already appeared about him. She did not dare ask him for his autograph then because she knew her mother would be extremely annoyed.  The man who dared defy parental authority, though, did not know about the articles and news stories about him because he never read the local newspapers. He only read business newspapers and magazines like The Economist . He underlined and underscored the text, scribbled notes in the margins, and attached sticky notes to the article pages. Anthony also was not on social media, because he knew he had an addictive personality. He was not keen on stalking his lady crushes online, so he never heard or read about his newfound celebrity and the media hullabaloo or heard about the commotion made by his young fans.  The police officer warned him that next time, if there was a next time, that he would be charged and arrested, and jailed. He grew anxious—the opposite of certain and confident. He feared he could not resist the urge to defy parental authority. He felt so worried and afraid he seriously considered seeking professional help. When he procrastinated on making an appointment or getting a referral, because he did not like psychologists and psychiatrists, or social workers, or mental health counselors, he took a whole week off and went madly hiking the beaches of Toronto. Despite the glorious weather, the heat and the sunshine, Anthony felt depressed and empty.  So, for another week, he walked the beaches until late at night, even after midnight, until he was stopped by a bylaw enforcement officer who warned him that Toronto beaches and parks closed at eleven. The bylaw enforcement officer wore a French braid, which he could not resist admiring, until the officer ordered him to stop staring at her. She warned him he would be fined and could be charged if he defied the warning. So, he resumed walking, strolling, and hiking the beaches during the day. When Anthony rounded Centre Beach, he heard a mother command her child to stop talking loudly and then to stop talking, period. Unbeknownst to him, the parent earlier conversed in shocked tones with a fellow beachgoer about the man who dared defy parental authority. Then the parent saw him strolling along the beach shoreline with his colorful Valentine’s red hearts boxer shorts. Anthony asked her child why she stopped and encouraged her to keep talking. Her mother called 911 to complain. The police dispatched a helicopter, a boat, a dune buggy, and a whole squadron of police officers on bicycles to apprehend him. A squadron of police officers on bicycles sped on the bike path, roadway, and boardwalk to arrest Anthony, considered armed and dangerous, and whom bystanders were warned to avoid approaching, and contacting, because he dared to defy parental authority. The helicopter landed in a whirlwind and storm of sand on the beach. Enterprising journalists and reporters heard about the imminent arrest of a notorious Toronto celebrity. The journalists headed in speed boats, water taxis, and helicopters across the harbor and sped across the island to capture the arrest on video and broadcast live coverage on their nightly news programs.  The police charged out of the helicopters like Allied soldiers, Rangers, and commandos on D-Day, as the dune buggies with police and police on bicycles approached from the western side of the beach while the police boat landed on the beach shore and camouflaged police emerged from the bushes on the eastern side of the beach. Anthony was ordered to kneel on the beach. The SWAT team from the emergency task force ordered him to wrap his hands around his head. Then, since the police knew he was particularly proficient at mathematics, and quick thinking on his feet, he was ordered to count aloud backwards from a thousand, in a tepid attempt to distract himself, while he was arrested, since he was considered armed and extremely dangerous. Police also commanded him to lie face down on the sand and think pleasant thoughts. He felt deeply ashamed and embarrassed, and his face was red and livid. On live television news broadcasts, he was arrested by over two dozen officers in body armor, armed to the teeth. This force did not include the lifeguards, undercover police officers, and reporters. Anthony was handcuffed, forced into a bulletproof vest, and surrounded by tactical police. Meanwhile, the kids on the beach cheered Anthony and shouted messages of support. The parents attempted to stifle, hush, and even in some cases choke and spank their kids into silence.  Anthony was forced aboard a police helicopter and transported to the helipad on an island point, where more police officers boarded, and then ferried across the harbor to the police marina. Then he was taken by a convoy of police cruisers with a motorcycle escort to the precinct where he was officially charged with fourteen counts of defying parental authority and four counts of conspiracy to commit defiance of parental authority. Even after Anthony hired a lawyer, who made a halfhearted attempt to obtain bail, he was held in jail until his day in court. Dozens of kids tried to visit him in the detention facility, but their parents would not permit the visits. Hundreds of kids hand wrote subversive letters of support and sent old fashioned illustrated cards with sentimental messages.  A priest came to pray and meditate with Anthony. The priest lectured him and warned him in a Scottish brogue about the risks and dangers of defying parental authority. A Jewish rabbi visited him and prayed in Yiddish and Hebrew. An Imam dropped by his cell in the detention facility and prayed with him in Persian and Arabic. All the clerics lectured him on the virtues of parental authority. On his day in court, in a trial by judge, thousands of children went on a school strike; they skipped school, classes, detentions, and the playground. First, some visited dollar stores, buying candy, chocolate bars, and chewing gum from their piggy banks, which contained the money they earned from their lemonade stands and from shoveling snow and mowing lawns. They mobbed buses, subways, and streetcars, and stretch limos to attend his trial not by jury but by judge in an overcrowded courtroom, protected by armed security guards and police officers, in the provincial Supreme Court on University Avenue. The criminal case was open and shut, though, prosecutors claimed. And his own lawyer, already a mother of four, was pregnant. The court appointed lawyer had little sympathy, empathy for him as her client, or even interest in succeeding in defending his case. She only represented Anthony because he agreed to pay her exorbitant fees and paid her per diem and retainer on time; he did not believe in leaving unpaid bills or paying late. Secretly, she confessed to her best friend and her husband in pillow talk she hoped Anthony lost his trial and case, and he was convicted. She privately revealed she would mount a weak defense. And she warned her friend, if she ever encountered this client on the beach, messing with her kids, lecturing them, hectoring them, or whatever was his schtick, she would shoot him dead with her semi-automatic pistol or the derringer in her vintage Coach handbag. It was no surprise when Anthony’s own lawyer agreed to a trial by judge, Maximum Mary (or Mad Max Mary, as she was known by Stoney Mountain Inn penitentiary inmates because of her reputation as a motorcyclist and her love of Harley Davidson choppers), who possessed a well-earned and deserved reputation for her merciless, retributive, and punitive sentences, which often violated federal and Supreme Court sentencing guidelines. Anthony’s lawyer told him she did not think they could find a jury that was not tainted by the widespread news coverage. Anyway, the court racked up thirty-six hours of arguments, rulings, cross-examinations, objections, sidebars, whisper sessions, and witness testimony. Witnesses testified in court suffering sunburn, bleached hair, mosquito bites, bee stings, wasp stings, and even skin cancer, wearing flip flops, sandals, slides, and even ugly Crocs and Uggs, with sand still stuck between their bare toes and painted and broken toenails.  Anthony’s lawyer made tepid, half-hearted arguments. The prosecutors confronted Anthony where he doodled, sketched, and penciled in a coloring book in court. The prosecutors made fierce, passionate arguments, demanding a restoration of public order and protection of parental authority. The judge made a summary judgement and found him guilty as charged. At the sentence hearing, Anthony was forced to listen to endless hours of victim impact statements from over six dozen single parents or pairs of parents. The parents, guardians, and nannies read their victim impact statements, claiming his defiance of their parental authority had radically changed the nature of their relationship with their children. They felt heartbroken that their children no longer respected their parental authority. On and on they droned: “My son will no longer eat broccoli because of this contemptible man….” “My daughter will no longer brush her teeth when she’s told because of Anthony Andrews.” “Mr. Andrews contributed to the juvenile delinquency of my son, who no longer combs his hair and wants tattoos.” A father protested and insisted Anthony, with his head of wild, scraggly uncombed hair, was no role model. “My twins will refuse to say their nightly prayers because of Anthony.” “My sextuplets decline to make their beds in the morning because of that, that, that, bastard Andrews.”  On and on went the list of grievances and complaints from aggrieved and distressed parents, many in pitiful tears, sobbing, recited in unsteady, nervous, and emotional voices during their victim impact statements. Many of these victims, though, Anthony had to admit in the privacy of his jail cell to his lawyer, he had never seen or encountered during his entire lifetime, anywhere in Toronto, never mind the beaches.  The kids were indignant and outraged. After they spilled over the courthouse steps, they rampaged in the square, rioted on the avenue, and committed mayhem. Curfews were announced, and martial law was declared in the city of Toronto. Riot police patrolled the streets after dark, launching rubber bullets and canisters of tear gas against protestors and demonstrators as well as rioters. Most of the marauding groups and a few ring leaders were dispersed by dawn as police with truncheons and tear gas cracked down hard.  Anthony was more than tut-tutted. The judge sentenced him to 101 days in jail, single man’s jail, eleven days for each incident and episode of defiance of parental authority, minus time served. Secretly, he was delighted because he believed he would have the opportunity to do undistracted reading in the Toronto prison for single men.  The judge who sentenced him was secretly smitten. Moreover, daily she received painful and poignant reminders that she was single. She secretly visited Anthony Andrews in Single Men’s Penitentiary, where indeed he tried to do penance and said prayers and read from the Bible before bedtime. Every weekend the judge visited him with a file baked into a customized cake, after she had it specially baked at her favorite bakery and café in Kensington Market. Anthony amazed her when he sometimes ate the whole cake with coffee, which she also brought for the visit, such was his love and passion for Black Forest Chocolate Cake and caffeinated beverages. But Anthony never resorted to the file buried in the batter and baked into the cake. He never defied prison authority and respected the prison guards and even received a day’s early release for good behavior.  After his bewildered and scandalized lawyer petitioned the court, Judge Mary allowed him connubial visits. When Judge Mary visited him incognito every weekend, he confessed and admitted his days of defying parental authority were over. He also admitted, though, he never wanted to have his own kids. Instead, he wanted the freedom to behave like a kid, whenever he wanted, for the rest of his life.  The judge, who now considered Anthony her boyfriend, was secretly delighted; she herself never wanted to have kids, although she was open to adoption in the future. After the prison warden and guards released him from Single Man’s prison, Anthony and the judge eloped and were secretly married, by a civil magistrate in cowboy hat, cowboy boots, and a snakeskin suit in the chapel of a Las Vegas casino. Then again, they were married on the spot where Anthony was arrested, which helped turn his life around as it headed in an entirely new direction. Judge Mary, a well-respected jurist, who had decided precedent setting cases, received a twenty-one-gun salute from a formation of honorary police guards in summer dress uniforms, with shorts and knickerbockers, when she kissed the groom.Once upon a time there lived a middle-aged man, Anthony Andrews, who defied parental authority. He plain hated vanilla authority, authority of any kind, in fact. He quit his regular nine-to-five-day job where he worked as a financial advisor, after his mother died. He ended up working for himself at home as a day trader, somehow managing to earn a living from trading stocks and investing.   He liked the stocks of food companies, especially those that produced the brands of delicious foods he enjoyed like yoghurt, oats, peanut butter, ice cream, whole wheat bread, and Black Forest chocolate cake. He really loved creamy peanut butter spread on fresh multigrain bread, with no added preservatives, additives, or chemicals. He particularly loved ice cream and Black Forest Chocolate Cake. He also loved yoghurt, although not in equal measures, but he ate more yoghurt than ice cream because the food, especially Greek yoghurt, was high in protein. He also liked peanuts, although he tended to avoid buying peanuts because his appetite for seasoned and flavored snacks, like barbecued and honey roasted peanuts, was uncontrollable and insatiable. He had become health conscious after his father died from a combination of chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, diabetes, and coronary artery disease. In any event, because of the stock investments, his thrifty and frugal habits, his buying food and stocks on sale, Anthony built up his savings. So, if he had a problem, it might be that he simply had too much money and nobody upon whom he could spend, like a wife and kids.  At times he thought he wanted a wife, but he had to admit he simply did not have charm or looks. He believed no amount of plastic surgery, working out at the gym, and reading Miss Manners was going to help, although he liked exercise and physical activity. He simply loved to walk, cycle, and hike outdoors and through the trails and pathways in Toronto parks. During the summer he relived his favorite activity, which he discovered several years ago: walking along the beaches in Toronto. Sometimes Anthony attempted to hike along all the Toronto beaches in a day. He started at sunrise and walked along the beaches from Sunnyside Beach in the West end of the city of Toronto in Etobicoke to Woodbine Beach in Scarborough in the west end of the sprawling city. That is an awful lot of beach and beaches to cover in a day, so he carefully prepared, packing trail mix snacks for protein and carbohydrates in plastic sandwich bags, cans of Diet Coke to keep hydrated, and an insulated bottle of strong sweet creamy coffee to stay perky, and energetic. He also checked and rechecked the weather forecasts, hoping the day would be hot, sunny, and calm, because he might want to take a quick dip along the way, or even stop at an outdoor Toronto pool, or splash pad. Even if the weather was cool, rainy, and windy, he hiked to the beach. As he continued hiking, walking, and strolling along the beaches from dusk to dawn, ignoring all curfews, hurricane, and tornado watches and warnings, he often came across parents who behaved in a fashion he found personally annoying and authoritarian. Parents hollered at their kids to pack their gear, even though the kids already had their gear neatly packed and ready. Meanwhile, the parents’ gear was disorganized. After all, even though they were only day tripping on the Toronto Islands, they packed as if for a week-long camping expedition, including the barbecue, the stereo system, the wireless speakers, the folding chair, collapsing umbrella, and the case of empty beer cans. Or Mom ordered them to stop swimming, even though they had only dipped in the water for a minute or two. But Mom chose to end the fun when the day was hot and sunny, the water was calm and even tolerable, since the water of Lake Ontario was often intolerably cold and chilly, and too many lifeguards were on duty.  Stay away from that man, the concerned parents said, even though Anthony was clean shaven and wore luxury brands, freshly laundered or dry cleaned. After all, he did not want people to think he was homeless and crazy, and wanted to abduct their kids. Soon, though, the commands and directives from the parents started to irritate him. The parental orders he overheard shouted from booming voices started to annoy him, and the parent’s voices grated on his nerves. So, Anthony ended up countermanding or contradicting the parents' orders and commands. If Chad was still building a beautiful sandcastle and the day was still long, with plenty of daylight hours ahead, and Dad said wreck the sandcastle, Anthony told Chad to keep building the sandcastle and might even lend a hand. If Karen was taking a swim and Mom ordered Karen out of the lake, and the water was safe and warm, and there was lifeguard supervision and the lifeguards weren’t distracted by their smartphones or their chattery gossip and nonstop conversations about parties and nightclubs, and all the truly evil things lifeguards do when off duty, Anthony ordered Karen to keep swimming. Oftentimes Karen or someone like her would follow his instruction and keep swimming. If Chad was playing on the beach with kids beside him, and Dad or Mom suddenly shouted at him to stop, because the parents wrongly believed that these neighboring kids were exerting a bad influence on their own kids, Anthony often ordered Chad to keep playing frisbee, Marco Polo, or beach volleyball, or to keep building sandcastles.   The lifeguards started to notice, though. The lifeguards loved to take notes, filling their little black notebooks with neat handwriting about him. Once a parent complained to a lifeguard. When the parents were not satisfied with the lecture Anthony received from the lifeguard, she called the police, who said it was not their jurisdiction; but she insisted the police investigate from the nearest precinct on the city’s mainland, across Toronto harbor. Meanwhile, at Centre Island beach, police happened to be patrolling around the amusement park on the island. They cycled along the boardwalk and walked across the sand to their antihero.  The police warned him about intentionally defying parental authority. They interviewed him and interrogated him for approximately three hours, in the hot sun and sweltering humidity. They even asked him his favorite flavors of ice cream. He was surprised when he noticed them taking notes about his ice cream preferences. The police warned him again about defying parental authority. Never do it again, they strongly advised. Unless he complied and submitted, they would be forced, at the very least, to arrest him and press charges, multiple counts of a violation of the criminal code of intentionally annoying a parent. The mother seemed satisfied to allow Anthony to be free. He continued to walk along the beach. Then he took the ferry and the subway and streetcar across the city. As he walked along Woodbine Beach, he worried and felt afraid he was out of control. He feared he simply could not resist the impulse to defy parental authority.  The following day was also hot and sunny. On the beach, a girl paddled her kayak, a small inflatable, under full lifeguard supervision. When the woman saw Anthony marching madly along the beach, she, holding her hand and arm against the brilliant sun, ordered her daughter to abandon her kayak and to tow the lightweight watercraft onto the shore.   Anthony noted, though, the sky was still sunny, the waves were nonexistent, and the weather was perfect for kayaking. He shouted at her to keep kayaking. She only wished she had a handy inflatable kayak like hers. The mother was mortified, aghast, and perturbed. She started to turn red, quivered, and quavered. Her blood pressure and her heart rate skyrocketed. Her husband warned she would suffer a stroke.  So, the police were ordered down to Sunnyside Beach to question the suspect who dared defy parental authority. Having recognized Anthony, the police officer told him he had been interviewed, warned twice already, and nearly charged. The police officer gave the mother permission to waterboard him on the beach. She put him in a headlock, and wrestled him to the sand, while her partner, her husband, kicked sand in his face. The police also permitted the father to shout verbal abuse in his face and splash him with chilly water and to dunk his head beneath the surface of the lake. Then the mother was allowed to kick sand in his face, and so was the little girl, but she refused. She was already gobsmacked and awestruck by the man who dared defy parental authority. In fact, the previous evening she had joined a supersecret exclusive social media group: Young Friends of the Toronto Walker Who Dared Defy Parental Authority. She wanted to ask him for his autograph because she recognized him from his pictures and the articles and news stories that had already appeared about him. She did not dare ask him for his autograph then because she knew her mother would be extremely annoyed.  The man who dared defy parental authority, though, did not know about the articles and news stories about him because he never read the local newspapers. He only read business newspapers and magazines like The Economist . He underlined and underscored the text, scribbled notes in the margins, and attached sticky notes to the article pages. Anthony also was not on social media, because he knew he had an addictive personality. He was not keen on stalking his lady crushes online, so he never heard or read about his newfound celebrity and the media hullabaloo or heard about the commotion made by his young fans.  The police officer warned him that next time, if there was a next time, that he would be charged and arrested, and jailed. He grew anxious—the opposite of certain and confident. He feared he could not resist the urge to defy parental authority. He felt so worried and afraid he seriously considered seeking professional help. When he procrastinated on making an appointment or getting a referral, because he did not like psychologists and psychiatrists, or social workers, or mental health counselors, he took a whole week off and went madly hiking the beaches of Toronto. Despite the glorious weather, the heat and the sunshine, Anthony felt depressed and empty.  So, for another week, he walked the beaches until late at night, even after midnight, until he was stopped by a bylaw enforcement officer who warned him that Toronto beaches and parks closed at eleven. The bylaw enforcement officer wore a French braid, which he could not resist admiring, until the officer ordered him to stop staring at her. She warned him he would be fined and could be charged if he defied the warning. So, he resumed walking, strolling, and hiking the beaches during the day. When Anthony rounded Centre Beach, he heard a mother command her child to stop talking loudly and then to stop talking, period. Unbeknownst to him, the parent earlier conversed in shocked tones with a fellow beachgoer about the man who dared defy parental authority. Then the parent saw him strolling along the beach shoreline with his colorful Valentine’s red hearts boxer shorts. Anthony asked her child why she stopped and encouraged her to keep talking. Her mother called 911 to complain. The police dispatched a helicopter, a boat, a dune buggy, and a whole squadron of police officers on bicycles to apprehend him. A squadron of police officers on bicycles sped on the bike path, roadway, and boardwalk to arrest Anthony, considered armed and dangerous, and whom bystanders were warned to avoid approaching, and contacting, because he dared to defy parental authority. The helicopter landed in a whirlwind and storm of sand on the beach. Enterprising journalists and reporters heard about the imminent arrest of a notorious Toronto celebrity. The journalists headed in speed boats, water taxis, and helicopters across the harbor and sped across the island to capture the arrest on video and broadcast live coverage on their nightly news programs.  The police charged out of the helicopters like Allied soldiers, Rangers, and commandos on D-Day, as the dune buggies with police and police on bicycles approached from the western side of the beach while the police boat landed on the beach shore and camouflaged police emerged from the bushes on the eastern side of the beach. Anthony was ordered to kneel on the beach. The SWAT team from the emergency task force ordered him to wrap his hands around his head. Then, since the police knew he was particularly proficient at mathematics, and quick thinking on his feet, he was ordered to count aloud backwards from a thousand, in a tepid attempt to distract himself, while he was arrested, since he was considered armed and extremely dangerous. Police also commanded him to lie face down on the sand and think pleasant thoughts. He felt deeply ashamed and embarrassed, and his face was red and livid. On live television news broadcasts, he was arrested by over two dozen officers in body armor, armed to the teeth. This force did not include the lifeguards, undercover police officers, and reporters. Anthony was handcuffed, forced into a bulletproof vest, and surrounded by tactical police. Meanwhile, the kids on the beach cheered Anthony and shouted messages of support. The parents attempted to stifle, hush, and even in some cases choke and spank their kids into silence.  Anthony was forced aboard a police helicopter and transported to the helipad on an island point, where more police officers boarded, and then ferried across the harbor to the police marina. Then he was taken by a convoy of police cruisers with a motorcycle escort to the precinct where he was officially charged with fourteen counts of defying parental authority and four counts of conspiracy to commit defiance of parental authority. Even after Anthony hired a lawyer, who made a halfhearted attempt to obtain bail, he was held in jail until his day in court. Dozens of kids tried to visit him in the detention facility, but their parents would not permit the visits. Hundreds of kids hand wrote subversive letters of support and sent old fashioned illustrated cards with sentimental messages.  A priest came to pray and meditate with Anthony. The priest lectured him and warned him in a Scottish brogue about the risks and dangers of defying parental authority. A Jewish rabbi visited him and prayed in Yiddish and Hebrew. An Imam dropped by his cell in the detention facility and prayed with him in Persian and Arabic. All the clerics lectured him on the virtues of parental authority. On his day in court, in a trial by judge, thousands of children went on a school strike; they skipped school, classes, detentions, and the playground. First, some visited dollar stores, buying candy, chocolate bars, and chewing gum from their piggy banks, which contained the money they earned from their lemonade stands and from shoveling snow and mowing lawns. They mobbed buses, subways, and streetcars, and stretch limos to attend his trial not by jury but by judge in an overcrowded courtroom, protected by armed security guards and police officers, in the provincial Supreme Court on University Avenue. The criminal case was open and shut, though, prosecutors claimed. And his own lawyer, already a mother of four, was pregnant. The court appointed lawyer had little sympathy, empathy for him as her client, or even interest in succeeding in defending his case. She only represented Anthony because he agreed to pay her exorbitant fees and paid her per diem and retainer on time; he did not believe in leaving unpaid bills or paying late. Secretly, she confessed to her best friend and her husband in pillow talk she hoped Anthony lost his trial and case, and he was convicted. She privately revealed she would mount a weak defense. And she warned her friend, if she ever encountered this client on the beach, messing with her kids, lecturing them, hectoring them, or whatever was his schtick, she would shoot him dead with her semi-automatic pistol or the derringer in her vintage Coach handbag. It was no surprise when Anthony’s own lawyer agreed to a trial by judge, Maximum Mary (or Mad Max Mary, as she was known by Stoney Mountain Inn penitentiary inmates because of her reputation as a motorcyclist and her love of Harley Davidson choppers), who possessed a well-earned and deserved reputation for her merciless, retributive, and punitive sentences, which often violated federal and Supreme Court sentencing guidelines. Anthony’s lawyer told him she did not think they could find a jury that was not tainted by the widespread news coverage. Anyway, the court racked up thirty-six hours of arguments, rulings, cross-examinations, objections, sidebars, whisper sessions, and witness testimony. Witnesses testified in court suffering sunburn, bleached hair, mosquito bites, bee stings, wasp stings, and even skin cancer, wearing flip flops, sandals, slides, and even ugly Crocs and Uggs, with sand still stuck between their bare toes and painted and broken toenails.  Anthony’s lawyer made tepid, half-hearted arguments. The prosecutors confronted Anthony where he doodled, sketched, and penciled in a coloring book in court. The prosecutors made fierce, passionate arguments, demanding a restoration of public order and protection of parental authority. The judge made a summary judgement and found him guilty as charged. At the sentence hearing, Anthony was forced to listen to endless hours of victim impact statements from over six dozen single parents or pairs of parents. The parents, guardians, and nannies read their victim impact statements, claiming his defiance of their parental authority had radically changed the nature of their relationship with their children. They felt heartbroken that their children no longer respected their parental authority. On and on they droned: “My son will no longer eat broccoli because of this contemptible man….” “My daughter will no longer brush her teeth when she’s told because of Anthony Andrews.” “Mr. Andrews contributed to the juvenile delinquency of my son, who no longer combs his hair and wants tattoos.” A father protested and insisted Anthony, with his head of wild, scraggly uncombed hair, was no role model. “My twins will refuse to say their nightly prayers because of Anthony.” “My sextuplets decline to make their beds in the morning because of that, that, that, bastard Andrews.”  On and on went the list of grievances and complaints from aggrieved and distressed parents, many in pitiful tears, sobbing, recited in unsteady, nervous, and emotional voices during their victim impact statements. Many of these victims, though, Anthony had to admit in the privacy of his jail cell to his lawyer, he had never seen or encountered during his entire lifetime, anywhere in Toronto, never mind the beaches.  The kids were indignant and outraged. After they spilled over the courthouse steps, they rampaged in the square, rioted on the avenue, and committed mayhem. Curfews were announced, and martial law was declared in the city of Toronto. Riot police patrolled the streets after dark, launching rubber bullets and canisters of tear gas against protestors and demonstrators as well as rioters. Most of the marauding groups and a few ring leaders were dispersed by dawn as police with truncheons and tear gas cracked down hard.  Anthony was more than tut-tutted. The judge sentenced him to 101 days in jail, single man’s jail, eleven days for each incident and episode of defiance of parental authority, minus time served. Secretly, he was delighted because he believed he would have the opportunity to do undistracted reading in the Toronto prison for single men.  The judge who sentenced him was secretly smitten. Moreover, daily she received painful and poignant reminders that she was single. She secretly visited Anthony Andrews in Single Men’s Penitentiary, where indeed he tried to do penance and said prayers and read from the Bible before bedtime. Every weekend the judge visited him with a file baked into a customized cake, after she had it specially baked at her favorite bakery and café in Kensington Market. Anthony amazed her when he sometimes ate the whole cake with coffee, which she also brought for the visit, such was his love and passion for Black Forest Chocolate Cake and caffeinated beverages. But Anthony never resorted to the file buried in the batter and baked into the cake. He never defied prison authority and respected the prison guards and even received a day’s early release for good behavior. After his bewildered and scandalized lawyer petitioned the court, Judge Mary allowed him connubial visits. When Judge Mary visited him incognito every weekend, he confessed and admitted his days of defying parental authority were over. He also admitted, though, he never wanted to have his own kids. Instead, he wanted the freedom to behave like a kid, whenever he wanted, for the rest of his life. The judge, who now considered Anthony her boyfriend, was secretly delighted; she herself never wanted to have kids, although she was open to adoption in the future. After the prison warden and guards released him from Single Man’s prison, Anthony and the judge eloped and were secretly married, by a civil magistrate in cowboy hat, cowboy boots, and a snakeskin suit in the chapel of a Las Vegas casino. Then again, they were married on the spot where Anthony was arrested, which helped turn his life around as it headed in an entirely new direction. Judge Mary, a well-respected jurist, who had decided precedent setting cases, received a twenty-one-gun salute from a formation of honorary police guards in summer dress uniforms, with shorts and knickerbockers, when she kissed the groom. Born and raised in Sioux Lookout, Ontario, John Tavares is the son of Portuguese immigrants from Sao Miguel, Azores. Having graduated from arts and science at Humber College and journalism at Centennial College, he more recently earned a Specialized Honors BA in English Literature from York University. His short fiction has been published in a variety of print and online journals, magazines, and anthologies, in the US, Canada, and internationally. His passions include journalism, literature, economics, photography, writing, and coffee, and he enjoys hiking and cycling.

by Libby Welch “Have you heard from Mom since the funeral?” Dahlia asked.  “I haven’t.”  “I’ve tried calling her, but she never picks up. I wonder if she even listens to my  voicemails,” she continued.  “Maybe she just needs… Time.” I could feel tears forming in my eyes, but for only a  moment as I swallowed the grief. The fresh pain of loss lingered over my shoulders. “Frankly, I think she’s losing it,” Dahlia said, crossing her arms. “Ever since Dad died,  she’s stopped going out and she never calls me back.”  “She’s still grieving. We all are”  Dahlia didn’t respond.  There was a ring of a bell as we pushed open the door to a small, brick interior. Warm  lights hung from the ceiling and artwork flooded the walls. The bitter smell of coffee flooded my  nostrils.   A new barista took our order. He spoke quietly, stumbled over a few words, and it  seemed like he was avoiding eye contact.   “What are the, um, names?” He asked in a low voice.  “Dahlia and Penny–”  “–Penelope,” I corrected. I only let Dahlia call me that nickname. Dad too, when he was  alive. Dahlia tapped her foot impatiently until our names were called. 2  She poured a packet of sugar into her coffee, while I carefully balanced a hot mug in my  hands to bring to the table by the window. We sat at the same table every Sunday morning, with  the sun spilling over the tall buildings outside and casting an orange glow over the room. We  talked about how our week went, and how work was going. It seemed like small talk compared  to our normal conversations. I knew she was just waiting for the chance to talk about Dad again,  and I was dreading every moment. I wasn’t sure how she was able to talk about it so casually.   “So, I wanted to ask,” Dahlia said. “Have you been okay? Since, everything… You know,  if you ever need anything, and I mean anything at all, you can always call me.” “I know that…”  Tears, yet again welled in my eyes. Dahlia gave me a blank look, then handed me a  napkin.  “Look Penny, I know neither of us want to say it, but Dad could be a real prick  sometimes. Remember how he always yelled at Mom? And how controlling he was to her? At  least now she has some freedom,” she said.  I gripped the mug in my hand tightly, feeling a slight burn.  She looked like she was about to speak more, but stopped herself. I noticed she was  glancing behind me, then she leaned over the table to get closer.  “Remember the guy who took our order?” She whispered. “He’s been staring at us this  whole time.”  “Hm?” I questioned, then glanced back to see him quickly turn away.  “That's weird as hell,” she spat quietly.   “I guess. Maybe he’s just awkward?”  “It’s more like creepy.”  3  Dahlia was glaring at him now. She was harsh–much harsher than me. She had always  been protective of me growing up too, as the older sister. In high school, she would be skeptical  of any guy who came near me–not that anyone was particularly interested.  “We should leave,” she said.  We stood up and turned toward the door. But before we could, we heard a voice behind  us. We turned around to see him standing there, fidgeting with a piece of paper in his hand. His  shaggy hair fell under his black visor. His face was soft, with hazel eyes.  “Penelope?” He said. “It’s Penelope right?”  “Can I help you?” Dahlia asked firmly.  “It’s okay,” I tried to ignore her hostility. “And yes, that is my name.”  “I, um, thought you were… Your hair is very pretty,” he said, then handed me the small  slip of paper that was neatly folded in half. “It’s my number. Sorry, I'm not very good with this  kind of thing.”  “Oh,” was all I could muster. I stood there, completely still, with a red face. I was only  able to stare up into his eyes–his soft eyes–staring intensely into mine. He towered above me. “My name, is uh, Henry. I’ll see you around maybe?”   “Yeah… Maybe,” I smiled, faintly.   Dahlia scoffed and grabbed my hand, pulling me toward the door. I turned back and could  tell he was watching us as she dragged me outside. It smelled like gas and cigarette smoke now.  People crowded the streets and cars raced past us. I could hear honking in the distance. “What was his problem?” Dahlia asked, crossing her arms.  “I think he was sweet. He said my hair was pretty.” 4  “Yea, that's why it was weird. That guy doesn’t even know you. And remember the  staring?”  “I think he was just,” I paused. “Nervous.”  She frowned.  “I’m like that too, you know? He seemed sweet. And… No one’s ever given me their  number before,” I said quietly.  “Yeah, cause if they tried, I’d scare em’ off.”  “We’re not teenagers anymore. I have my own apartment now. Maybe this could be…  good for me.”  “Right now? After Dad just died?”   I winced at the mention of Dad. I didn’t know what to say to her, so I kept my mouth shut  tightly. As we walked back to her car, I unfolded the paper and traced my finger over his number.   We started texting soon after. He asked me if I wanted to get dinner with him at a small  Italian place. My hands were shaking as I typed out “yes.” Fear plagued my mind–I didn’t know  this person at all. But, for a reason I couldn’t understand, he had some kind of interest in me.  That’s never happened to me before.  He was quiet at first, when we got to dinner. We greeted each other with an awkward  “hello” and sat down quietly at the table. His head hung low and his voice was barely above a  whisper.   “This is my, um, first date,” he finally said. “Ever.”  “This is mine too. I’m not really used to anything like this.”  “Neither am I,” he chuckled. 5  My tense shoulders relaxed.   “Your dress is beautiful,” he said, looking down at my beige dress, dotted with bright red  flowers. “They look like Poppies”  “Oh, thanks. I borrowed it from my sister. I guess I wasn’t really prepared to go on a date  anytime soon.”  He smiled, staring straight into my eyes. He was unlike any man I had ever known–much  softer and more observant. It was difficult at first, to keep the conversation going. But, it got  better. He told me about how he just started working at the coffee shop and about his love for  photography. I told him how my sister and I went there every weekend, how I had just moved  into a new apartment, and how I just started working somewhere new as well: a small  convenience store down the street.    By the time we finished eating and the waiter placed the check on the table, I felt like I  was beginning to know him.  “Do you have a nickname?” He asked, right after we finished our food.  “Oh, not really. Well, I guess my sister calls me Penny, but only her, and… she's the only  one who calls me that.”  “What about Poppy? Could I call you that?  “Oh? I–okay. I've never had any other nickname than Penny,” I said, unable to hide the  excitement in my voice. I wasn’t even sure why I was so excited. “Did you get that from my  dress?”  “Yes, I love poppies! I’ve taken photos of them before. They're very pretty.” “I like it. It's sweet!”  I laughed. 6  He pulled a small Polaroid camera out from his pocket. I hadn’t realized he had it with  him.   “Can I take a photo?” He asked. “I want to remember this night.”  “A photo?” I was confused for a moment. I didn’t expect it, but I was also flattered in a  strange way. He wanted a photo of me .   “You can say no,” he said, though I could hear the disappointment in his voice. “I  shouldn’t have said anything.”  “Oh, no! It’s okay, you can take a photo.”   He held the camera up to his face, which looked smaller when placed in his large hands.  Click.  “You’re going on a second date?” Dahlia asked over the phone. “With the guy who  watched us. Remember that?”  “Yes… I remember. But I think he's just awkward. He seemed to open up a bit with me.” “You barely know this guy!”  “I want to get to know him.”  Dahlia sighed. My face turned red with shame. I didn’t think there was anything wrong.  He was a sweet guy and he seemed to really like me.   “Have you talked to Mom?” I asked after a moment of silence. I wanted to change the  subject.   “Well,” she began. “She left me a voicemail the other day. Apologized for all the calls  she's missed. She said she hasn’t been leaving the house much or talking to anyone. I can tell…  She misses him. Dad, of course. I don’t think she knows what to do without him.” 7  “I miss him too.”  “I…”  There was silence. For the next minute, neither of us spoke.  “Still there?” I finally spoke.  “Penny, how would you describe Dad growing up? What was he like?”  “He was… loud. And he wasn’t around all the time. But he would show up when it really  mattered, like that time I threw a birthday party for my sweet sixteen. No one from high school  came, but he showed up. I thought he’d still be away on one of his work trips, but he surprised  me by coming home early.”  “He showed up drunk,” she stated flatly. “And it’s not like he ever showed up to any of  my birthdays.”  I bit my tongue.  “What about when we were kids?” She continued. “When I would bring you into my  room and we would hide under the blanket? We would sometimes watch TV, as loudly as we  could. I didn’t want you to hear Mom and Dad. They would always be yelling at each other.” “Are you trying to say you don’t miss him?”  “What? I… of course I… I just–”  My phone buzzed. It was a text from Henry.  “Penny?” She asked.  “Sorry, I have to go. Henry’s here.”  “Oh, he is? Well, bye then. You should really try calling Mom sometime. Maybe she  would talk to–”  I hung up. Libby is currently an undergraduate student studying Graphic and Animation design, with a minor in Creative Writing. This interest in both art and storytelling is a strong motivator in her work. Libby is also interested in exploring human nature and relationships, delving into the complexities of humanity and emotions. As a beginning writer, she has not had any work published yet.

by Jay Geeslin Staring through the haze of shower-steam at my reflection in the cloudy mirror, I’m still not happy with my hair. Shooting a glance at the clock in the corner of the small, tiled restroom reveals the time to be 6:43; I’ve been messing with my still-damp mousy hair for almost ten minutes now, and I’m running out of time. Glancing once more at the clock, I freeze in debate for a few moments. Screw it; I roll my eyes and grab the hand towel, running it over my hair a few times. I pull open the cabinet on my right, and grab a pair of scissors. I have time.  Snip. Snip. Snip. “Shit,” I murmur, pulling my hand away. I cut a little too much off the right side, but it doesn’t really matter; I’ve already accepted that it’d be a mess either way, and it’s not like I cut off too much–it shouldn’t be noticeable.  After a few minutes, I throw the scissors back into the cabinet and leave the restroom, closing the door behind me. Stepping into my room, I grab my silver glasses, throw my black leather jacket over my white Serious Moonlight t-shirt, and sling my worn satchel, barely latched shut over the hundreds of papers crammed within, over my shoulder. Before leaving, I clip my Sony Walkman onto my belt, and drape the earbuds around my neck.  Passing through the kitchen, a piece of paper pinned to the refrigerator door catches my eye; I must have missed it when I was eating my breakfast earlier.  Rachel,  We have to work late shifts tonight, so you’ll be asleep by the time we get home. There are leftovers in the fridge.  Love, Mom and Dad   I sigh, and continue with my routine; they’re always working the “late shifts,” so this is nothing new. I’ve long since accepted that I’m a latchkey kid, but the leftovers are, at the very least, appreciated.  I’m out the door at 6:57.  The walk isn’t anything interesting. Being late November in northern Ohio, everything is cold, damp, and gray. The buildings are gray, the snow is gray, and the sky is gray. Trudging through roads covered in dirty snow, I eventually make my way to the bridge that crosses over a small river, connecting one suburban wasteland to another. Stopping halfway across the bridge, I pull a cigarette and a lighter out of my pockets. I light the end and take a deep breath of the smoke, before exhaling and sticking the lighter back in my pocket. I pull my earbuds out of my neck to place them over my ears and hit the play button on the Walkman, quickly drowning all other sounds with David Bowie’s Life on Mars? ; I never get tired of it, which is a good thing, because it’s the only cassette I own. I take one last puff of the cigarette, and cross the rest of the bridge, dropping the cigarette and stamping it out with my foot along the way.  I eventually push my way through the double doors of the high school right as the song ends; the whirring of the cassette player fills the ensuing silence. I make my way through the crowded hallways of students who couldn’t care less about getting to their classes at all, let alone on time. I slip into my first period class and take my seat in the back left corner of the room, farthest from the door. Pulling the earbuds out of my ears, I shoot a glance at the clock mounted on the wall; it’s 7:10, exactly five minutes before class starts.  Four minutes later the door swings open to the sound of laughter, and in walks Claire DuBois along with her usual group of friends. I can’t help but roll my eyes at her perfectly cut bob and her neatly ironed sweater; she always looks so perfect .   As she takes her seat in the front row of the room, the clock changes and the bell rings. The teacher, a tired man with a dull and droning voice, rattles off his list of names for attendance. It’s really hard to find someone here that actually gives a shit about anything, save for Little Miss Valedictorian with her sweater and straight A’s.  I go through my next few classes on autopilot, ducking through hallways and taking my seats and doodling shitty cartoons in the margins of my nigh-illegible notes. At noon, we’re released for lunch and I make my way to the cafeteria.  After dropping my bag at a round and empty table, my own personal island amidst the sea of dirty windows and uncleaned tile floors, I grab a cheaply-made plastic tray and make my way to the line; they’re serving spaghetti today. A few people ahead of me is Claire, surrounded by her friends, loudly talking about something I couldn’t give a shit about. God, I see her everywhere . I stick the earbuds into my ears and hit play .  Life on Mars? again. As is the usual.  The lunch lady loads a heap of noodles onto my plate, before ladeling marinara sauce on top. I nod at her in acknowledgement, and make my way back to my table. I’m not really watching where I’m going; I’ve walked this exact same path so many times before, that I really don’t need to. I hum softly and quietly to myself, holding the tray with both of my hands. My island is across the sea, right in view, and I’m only a few steps away; the waters are just as clear as they’ve always been, and–  I’m ripped out of my trance as I’m knocked onto the ground by some unseen force, spaghetti and red sauce smearing onto the floor around me, onto my jeans, and onto my white t-shirt. The force of the fall knocks my Walkman loose, and the music is replaced by a familiar mechanical whirring. The whirring continues, the waves of sound exuding from my earbuds and   morphing into waves of color, filling the room like an explosion of paint. I’ve never noticed the faded blue of the tables, the chipped red of the lunch trays, the flaking off-white of the walls, or the myriad colors of clothing and people dotting the entire cafeteria, a torrent of sounds and visages flooding and swirling like a monsoon.  On the floor across from me is Claire DuBois, with not so much as a speck of red on her clothes. She’s staring at me, her blue eyes wide, and her brow furrowed apologetically. She’s looking at me .  “Oh my god, I’m sorry! Are you okay?” she asks, scrambling to her feet and grabbing a fistfull of napkins from the table next to us.  I don’t respond. I don’t really know why, but I’m completely frozen. I can’t so much as muster a word.  “I absolutely did not see you there, that’s entirely my fault.” She holds out her hand to me.  Finally, I’m able to move. I grab her hand, and she pulls me to my feet. She starts to frantically pat my shirt dry with the napkins, doing her best to wipe off as much red sauce as possible.  I still can’t speak.  “And it’s a white shirt too, I’m so sorry.” She pauses, tilting her head. “You know, I don’t think we’ve met before; some first impression I’m making, right?” She laughs, and extends a hand, this time for a handshake. “I’m Claire.”  I take a deep breath, and grab her hand. “Rachel. I sit in the back of your homeroom class, near the window.”  She squints at me. “Back of homeroom? Hm. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before.”   I shrug. “Most don’t.” I shoot a glance down at my stained shirt. “I, uh… I should probably see if I can get this stain out.” I motion in the direction of the restroom. “Tap water and cheap paper towels should do the trick.”  “You sure about that?”  “No, not really; I’ll throw it in the wash when I get home, see what happens.” Claire takes a step back. “If you say so. Jeez, I feel terrible. If you can’t get the stain out, let me know; I might be able to try and get it out, or just get you a new one.” I wave my hand dismissively. “No need. I’ll live either way. Plus,” I add, pointing at the graphic on the shirt, “I seriously doubt you could find another one of these; it was a Bowie tour special. You’d have to pry one from someone’s cold, dead hands to get one yourself.” I feel myself recoil a bit; why on earth would I say that?  She smirks, and giggles to herself. “Sounds like a challenge. Well, let’s hope it’s not one I have to take. I’ll see you around.”  She waves, and steps around me to walk back towards wherever it is she’s sitting. With her departure, I let out a breath I hadn’t known I had been holding, and it feels as though a weight lifts from me. I instantly become aware of my surroundings, of the hundred other students in the cafeteria that hadn’t so much as batted an eye, and of my own burning face.  I open my Walkman and pop the cassette back into place. It whirs for a moment, and the music resumes. Quickly, I gather all of my things, cram them into my bag, and make my way to the restroom, ducking my head and pulling my jacket close.  The restroom is dirty. Unidentifiable grime is caked into the creases between the tiles of the walls and floor, and the mirror is stained. And now, in the middle of all those stains, is myself. I try to focus on my shirt–which is a lot more red than it should be–but my eyes can’t   help but drift upwards to my face. My hair looks like shit, my glasses are crooked, and my face is also a lot more red than it should be.  Why is my face red? Why was I not able to say a single thing to her? Why was I acting like a goddamn deer in headlights?  Claire’s never noticed me before; no one has. Why the hell should I care? And my shirt is a mess. I try dabbing wet paper towels on the stain, but it doesn’t do much. After a few minutes of this, I cut my losses, zip up my jacket, and resolve to throw my laundry in the wash tonight.  The rest of the day slips by, just as much of a slog as always. When the bell finally rings, resonating like a shrill scream that echoes through each hallway and room, I pack my things, step back outside into the cold, and trudge back home down the street, across the bridge, and through the gray neighborhood, stamping out yet another cigarette on the way home.  I don’t do much for the remainder of the evening, besides pulling off my stained shirt, throwing it in the washing machine, and microwaving a tupperware of day-old leftovers. After moving my laundry to the dryer, I wait about an hour to see if I can catch my parents before going to bed.  My parents never come home, and I decide that I’ll just grab the laundry in the morning. Today was weird, and I want to go to bed. Jay is a college student majoring in Biology and minoring in Creative Writing. He's never been published before, and despite spending much of his time doing lab research, he still enjoys writing as a creative pastime.

by Hana Sor Isabella Lovestory, her head leaning against a window, woke up on a hospital bed. She opened her eyes. They felt glued shut to her like scotch tape. She did not know for how long she had slept. Edith Piaf’s La Vie En Rose filtered in from the hallway, and a strong scent of antiseptic hit her nose, making her eyes close once again.  She was sitting on this hospital bed, a fruit cup to her right and an odd stuffed bunny sitting atop her knees. It was a white bunny with red eyes that looked at her curiously. Its fur stuck up a bit, and she reached out to feel its ears. They were long and flat against her skin. Amid all the sickness that was no doubt outside of this room, she felt that this bunny was quite nice, almost sweetly encouraging her to get better.  She wasn’t ill, or so she had thought when she first came to the emergency room. She had called her only friend Marjorie, because quite frankly, she felt alone. She told her that she had had a fever for a few days and that she needed a ride. Now, she found herself in a hospital room with a window that was so stained that the only thing visible was the cedar tree that would sway every now and then when the wind blew.  Marjorie agreed to her request to be taken to a place that wasn’t so isolating, and now, sunlight was streaming in through the window of a white room she had never been in before. She turned 78 yesterday. She had just remembered this, and saw a note on her lap that said Happy Birthday Isabella!  With a Biscoff on top of a napkin. Days of food were left uneaten on the table next to her, and Marjorie had fallen asleep on the chair next to her, a crossword puzzle slipping from her hands. She turned around. C'est lui pour moi, moi pour lui dans la vie , Edith sang. She  wanted to get closer. She would remember the song playing on the radio when she was a child, the soft hum of the fan her parents brought out in the summer all coming back to her. This was the sound that held her in her arms, that sound that permeated the air and made her big heart swell.  She lifted herself up off the bed, her body feeling different. She was big. She always knew this, and people would tell her every time they saw her, all in their own ways. “Hippo”, “Belt-breaker”, “Porky”. As a child her parents would take her to the doctor and every single time, they would walk out with a new sheet of instructions detailing foods, liquids, and medication she needed to take to get slimmer. She never really knew what she was eating; her parents never trusted her and always knew what was best. Now, however, she saw herself thinner. Not thin, but thinner. Her jowls dangled  like ornaments. Her hands looked smaller, her fingers more slender, her one lone silver band hanging loosely on her middle finger. Her skin was a mass that traveled over her muscles, sitting in all the wrong places, making her clothes fit like a shapeless mound every time.  She walked over to the door, its hinges squeaking loudly, but Marjorie couldn't hear very well so on she went, dozing off, her head tipping back every now and then when the radiator would pause.  Isabella stepped out, the automatic doors sliding and the fresh April breeze hit her face, a touch of warmth making her nose scrunch with unknown optimism. Her feet squelched against the wet grass. It must have been raining the day before, she thought to herself as she walked along the sidewalk, a shirtless boy skateboarding on the opposite side.  She had lived her whole life in this town, but she didn’t go outside much. Her parents would never let her, and even as an adult, their words stayed with her, running after her, always behind even when she turned around. From an early age they had decided who she was, who she would be, and how she would die. Her life was a planning book, a calendar counting down days. As a child she would not be allowed to leave unless it was for school or extracurricular activities, which they always thought to be a nuisance, but they didn't want her to look like more of an outcast than she already was. Every time she would wake up in the morning, she would log her weight in a notebook after weighing herself on a scale. She didn’t remember much, and every time she thought of her childhood she saw washes of gray and white, slanted, italicized figures talking at her. She was never given sweets. She would see her other classmates receive stockings full of candy canes, chocolates that melted in your mouth and stuck to the corners , licorice that got stuck in your teeth, gum that got stuck in your hair.  She received spandex that stuck to her thighs.  She lived her whole life like this, stuck in her own childhood. She had never tried a sweet. Her mother said that they were sinful, especially chocolate, because chocolate meant sex and sex meant that you were worth shit. She never thought to ask her mother about what she did to have her. She never even thought to question the box of Turtles her parents would have every night after they waved her off to bed. She would always hear them through the thin walls, gleefully finishing off chocolates with red wine. And always, like clockwork, when she got up to get a glass of water long after they had fallen asleep, she would see the whole table scraped of any remnants of that sickly sweet, sinful  dessert.  She had never married, had never had a boyfriend, none that she had arranged anyway.  They would always turn her around, give her a pat on the back, and tell her that there was someone out there for her, always somewhere, but they were looking for something else, and she didn’t have that. She always knew what it was. She didn’t blame them. She remembered a long time ago, back when it was her 20th birthday, and she got set up on a blind date with Jorge Ramon, a tall, lean man with a pudgy nose who lived right across the street. He would always blow kisses at her from afar, and she would shut the door so tightly, a small grin appearing on her face every time. She didn’t eat for three days before the date. She wore her best dress, a scoop neckline with red draping down her legs. She was still big, but she had cinched as much as she could, and she was too overcome with excitement to care. All dinner he talked to her, his eyes never leaving hers. She didn’t know what to expect, nor how she felt. All she could focus on was declining when the waiter would suggest appetizers. After he walked her home, he asked if he could come inside. Her parents weren’t home, so she had agreed. When they came to her bedroom, he had  asked her to take off her clothes. She turned off the light, but he had stopped her, reassuring her that he thought she was beautiful. She turned on the light shamfeully. He never called her the next day.  She had never really done anything memorable. She had never seen a play that made her cry, had never given herself a haircut she later regretted, gone to the zoo, fallen in love, worn something risque. She had never traveled to another country. She had never experimented with what she liked, never been kissed, never felt pleasure nor heartache. As she walked, she passed by mannequins waving in form-fitting wedding gowns and bustiers that made them look like pinup dolls. She saw herself in the reflection. A clerk caught her looking, and, ashamed, she turned around, back onto the sidewalk.  Isabella felt herself getting lightheaded, and her hospital gown blew this way and that. She sat down on a bench that looked across the neighborhood she had always lived in. The same man sold newspapers beside the corn nut stand, and the same group of seniors were walking hand in hand to their yoga classes. The sky was dotted with clouds, and a bluebird perched herself on a lamppost.  She felt a figure plop down next to her on the bench, and when she slowly looked to her left, a small girl, no more than six years old, wearing a baby pink shift dress with a ribbon in her hair, was opening a box, a box she knew all too well. They were Turtles.  She had a small smile on her face, her short brown hair tangled from playing, and she carefully pulled the chocolates out of their encasing. The little girl looked up at her, a thoughtful gaze coasting across her eyes. She stretched out her short arm, a Turtle on top of her palm, gesturing to Isabella. “Wanth one?”, she asked, her mouth full with sticky caramel. Isabella stared down at the chocolate, her brown eyes matching the color of the sweet. She smiled at the girl, taking the chocolate carefully from her grasp. “They’re my favorite.”, Isabella said, opening her mouth to take a bite. Her eyes closed.  The next morning, Isabella was back in her bed, unmoving. Marjorie was in the bathroom calling her nephew, and the trees blew all the same outside. Nurses frantically checked her diagnostics, and time slowed down. Isabella was drifting away, to a place with chocolates and love and little girls who would offer her sweets from their small hands. She couldn’t hear the nurses, all she could do was look down at her hands and wait. She thought about her parents. She thought about Jorge Ramon, and about the little girl with the pink shift dress. And even now, sitting limp on this hospital bed, she thought of Turtles. A nurse waved in her face, then resumed her work with her heart monitor. She closed her eyes. And then suddenly, hidden in her molar, almost imperceptible, she found a  piece of caramel stuck to her teeth. Hana Sor is a high schooler and creative fiction writer attending Montgomery Blair High School in Silver Spring, Maryland. When she is not writing, she enjoys watching films, collecting body lotions, and listening to Lana Del Rey. Hana is assistant literary editor of her schools literary magazine.

by Penelope Bishop They prune the flowers the way they like, With the shears, sharp as knives, They look beautiful, they cut off all the thorns. But soon enough, the flowers wilt, They must’ve snipped enough to kill, What a shame, they really were a pretty sight. When Penelope’s not reading about make-believe worlds, she’s probably writing about them. Whether it’s in the form of poetry or a story, she’s always deep into some new project. She hopes to one day have a book published so people can enjoy her work as much as she enjoys others’.

by Yun-Fei Wang White moths circle the ceiling light, I mistaken their   simmers for rain: voiceless palato-alveolar affricate, you like   huskies and I like you. Special car with extra brakes   in shotgun, the driving instructor assured me   he’d save us from crashing, assured me with eyes forking on   my driver’s-seat legs, and to men like him I smile like   a cracked, ripen lychee, I look like my mother   on the Wednesday she found out I like girls, the day meant   for God’s seed-bearing plants. You grow parsnips and I   like you and I like God. Last night I dreamed I was late to my   funeral, my driving instructor on the brakes with ash in his   mouth, half a year earlier, backseat of a different white car, I let   a woman touch me when she said she’d marry me in   four years. Somewhere in Boylston my mouth   rimmed with red wine, raw salmon on the white, fuzzy carpet of my   b est friend’s Newbury dorm. I lay pills out like kibble   for a big dog and I like you and you look nothing like   my mother, who once told me to ask her   if my father has ever been unfaithful, and I bruise another fruit   in my mother’s honor. My friend opens another bottle of white wine   and I think God created us from the same set of   ribs. Butterfly shoulders in Chinese refer to girls so thin their   shoulder bones protrude their backs like wings. The Latin word lux   made both light and Lucifer, I search for your skin on God’s   lamppost, then I search for black moths. YF Wang studies at Wellesley College. Her poetry can be found in t’ART, Exist Otherwise, and more.

by Ayyub Hussain I was born to be a poet It is my greatest honour It is the source of my power Writing poetry is my hydration It is life that makes me thirsty It is life that makes me weak But, writing poetry to being strong and healthy I still have the face of a child I’m too cute to be someone’s muse Nobody can take advantage of me being young and wild The ink I write with comes from my bruise My loved ones gain immortality My life becomes a story I aspire for literary glory I’ll feel peace when my soul ascends from the territory I’m happy to be the poet I’m meant to be more than a pretty face Ayyub Hussain is a university student who has been writing since he was young. When Ayyub is not attending classes or completing homework, he can be found listening to music, watching YouTube videos or spending time with his loved ones.

by Vae Toliver When black womens bones  surface onshore for the world to see  Our lifeless frameworks get examined for  everything, except for who we were   Any vindication for why we weren’t  compliant with their little white lies  Any marginal reasons to back the  blood-stained badges narratives   All grounds for elimination of our rights to existence  But, black womens bones rattle out the bitterness our tunes drown out all forms of bigotry  They can’t stomach our precious bodies like serene waters substituting waves of war  Fluidly still at peace, regardless of the chaos —-  Our blue hues will endlessly gleam in moonlight Vae Toliver is an emerging artist from Denver who embodies the spirit of creative resilience. In her free time she loves to read, collect vinyl’s, attempt challenging yoga poses, and craft visual pieces; some of which have been featured in Denver’s Spectra Art Space Gallery. She also enjoys sharing content online through social media (Instagram/TikTok @lifeasvae). Fueled by her passion for writing and art, she fuses the two by pouring her soul into crafting poems that reflect her unscripted life. Vae’s journey culminates in 2024 with the publication of her “soon-to-be-published” debut poetry book, “She Who Earned Her Stripes". Her main priority is to inspire others to embrace their own journeys of self-discovery and transformation. As she navigates her path in this lifetime, she remains adamant in her personal pursuit of purpose.