|| VELA ||

By Dylan A. Smith

RECEIVED 2021 APR 30 | 10.39AM ||begin|| MRWOOD ||stop|| ||space|| this is DYLAN ||stop|| ||space|| writing you this by candle by flame in the jungle ||stop|| will return mid|MAY to the desert | to the lake | to the dark in america ||stop|| would like very much to make on beds w. you to swim naked lakes w. you before ships make haste back east ||stop|| JULY ||stop|| think waterfalls making rivers filling bays like blue lakes down here etc ||stop|| ||space|| must say that life you had it was admirable mr.wood ||stop|| regret what was lost and respect all decisions you made throughout ||stop|| anchoring westward seas by casting inward nets etc ||stop|| ||space|| daddy going north for the coast come autumn ||stop|| plans to go w. him to make new life in green america w. him to eat right and catch clean fish w. daddy etc ||stop|| would like to work on boats | to write about my body my breasts my aching shape on boats in winter ||stop|| caught word of you twice|a|week|teaching in summer ||stop|| vessel on the lake called bluebell i heard ||stop|| very nice yes very fitting ||stop|| ||space|| would like to do something similar ||stop|| a lake like the neon|blue|casino|screens you cracked w. fists like thrown rocks in the desert ||stop|| ||space|| sometimes i wonder what a moonless|neruda might do ||stop|| his word for candle the same as his word for sail you said ||stop|| VELA ||stop|| ||space|| mr.wood the chapel caught fire it burnt down ||stop|| that chapel w. the blue roof w. the blue door you remember ||stop|| southward winds felled white candles unmooring white heat up the altar cloth etc ||stop|| chapel built w. century|old|chestnut of course not growing anymore in america ||stop|| tragedies all spring in america ||stop|| like from what dark what womb might a sail|shaped|flame twist out and swallow up your life etc ||stop|| daddy reading JOB again ||stop|| very nice yes very fitting ||stop|| ||space|| but how are you mr.wood ||stop|| you always were the best of em ||stop|| really mr.wood i mean it ||stop|| i remember everything | you always were true ||stop|| ||space|| but the sins of our youth make feast in my bones mr.wood ||stop|| make blossom in my thighs make fountain of my center mr.wood ||stop|| ||space|| and oh mr.wood please w. these moonless nights in the jungle ||stop|| please let us bind face again in bright lakes in secret again mr.wood ||stop|| and mr.wood please give my flower to america ||stop|| america our lighthouse its candlepower our greed mr.wood ||stop|| ||space|| or mr.wood please come north come to help make brighter days ||stop|| come to make repentance w. me w. daddy mr.wood ||stop|| or please mr.wood please remember ||stop|| when this baby comes i ask for only this ||stop|| ||space|| let us please | please let us call this baby VELA ||stop|| ||space|| warmly | DYLAN ||stop|| ||end||

Dylan A. Smith has stories in Maudlin House and Vol.1 Brooklyn and sometimes helps to curate fiction workshops with a project called Think Olio in New York City.

Art by Dylan A. Smith.

Pecking Order

By Katie Ganfield

Doug swung the saddle easily over his left arm, cradling the skirt on an arm sudsy and stained mahogany by the hard work that must be done in the tack shed, and it was obvious he was strong and I was not, the horses knew that as well while they gorged themselves in the pasture, where soon they loosed manure in steady plopping streams, in rhythm with their shearing of the hip-high grass that surrendered to eight efficient sets of 40 (less some bridle teeth in the mares), and every tooth yellowed at the base and seven times as long as ours and deserving of my respect, for when a chestnut pinto snapped like a small novelty firework on a sidewalk, he snuck a bite of Doug’s daughter’s bare shoulder and that wound bruised black-purple, the color of the nightshade berries that dangled over every trail.

Kathryn Ganfield is a nature writer and essayist who has always lived in river towns, including her current home of St. Paul, Minnesota, from which she’s rafted words to Up North Lit, Portage Magazine, Tiny Seed Journal, The Talking Stick, and soon the Eastern Iowa Review.

Art by Jeff Kallet.

Floatation Therapy in the Subjunctive Mood

By Keely O'Shaughnessy

What if I could hold my breath long enough to dive the depths of a murky ocean, could submerge myself and marvel at the softness of my skin under the water, the way my limbs feel larger yet somehow ethereal and light, before sinking deeper, traveling through each layer, past the midnight zone, leaving angler fish blinking in the dark, where I could refuse to be crushed by pressure mounting in my body, or what if my diaphragm didn’t need to inflate, what if I didn’t need to concentrate on my ragged breath, the sound of it caught in my chest while I have sex with my best friend’s guy (the one that works at The Sub Shop, dolling out warm, moist, sliced meats that look as appetizing as a blob fish,) what if I didn’t have to suck air into weak lungs and pant and, rasp like a deflating balloon animal before he came, what if I were alone in my flat, save the one scorched and wilting cheese plant, what if when the guy leaves, after wiping himself on my hand towel, the one with the appliqué, silk starfish, the one mum bought as a housewarming gift, our family’s only tradition, everything could be calm and still, what if, once he was gone, I didn’t have to feel my body expand as I buried my face in the pillows letting out big, heaving sobs, what if instead of diving, running the risk of decompression sickness, of gas bubbles forming in the circulatory system, I could remain on the surface, face up, floating and weightless.

Keely O’Shaughnessy is a fiction writer who has been twice shortlisted in Retreat West contests, she has writing forthcoming in the 2021 National Flash Fiction Day Anthology and has been published with Ghost Orchid Press and Ellipsis Zine among others.

Art by Andy Gardiner.