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Meet Grace Sinkins, The Malu Zine’s 05 contributor and writer of “Sweet Tea and Artificial Intelligence.” SR: Could you give us a quick introduction to yourself? I’m Grace Sinkins, a freshly turned eighteen year old poet from northern Virginia. I’m still in school but I’m looking at continuing on to a higher education after I graduate. So far I have been published in a little bit over thirty literary magazines and I have started working on my first poetry book which is currently untitled because it turns out that picking a name for a wide collection of poetry is quite hard. I briefly considered naming it liminal space and time but that sounds like I’m preparing a will and considering that the majority of the poems are not about death, I decided against it. But in all seriousness, I hope to release the book by my early twenties. SR: Who inspired you to become a writer? I was inspired to write after I learned that Taylor Swift wrote her own songs and when I was little I thought Taylor Swift was the coolest person on the planet, like I wanted to be her. Looking back it was definitely kind of parasocial. Before I wrote poems, I wrote songs. Eventually I realized I had no desire to go into the music industry, but instead wanted to be a writer. I stopped writing songs and started to experiment with writing poetry. It didn’t take long for me to realize that writing poems is exactly what I was made to do. Writing poetry has helped me process a lot of events in my life and reading poetry has helped me learn more about the world. SR: What is a word you often use in your writings? Reflect. I feel like I put that word in more than half of my poems. Sometimes I jot it down and just cringe afterwards because I’m so aware that I overuse it. I think I overuse “reflect” because a lot of my writings are about looking into my inner emotional state, and to really dig deep I have to do a lot of internal reflection. I think reflection, whether it be internal, or external, is a very personal and beautiful thing because I believe to grow as a person, you have to reflect back on your past and figure out what makes you the person you are today. SR: What is a song that takes you back in time? Definitely Lua by Bright Eyes. Growing up, I had a lot of babysitters because my parents were busy with work. One of the  babysitters would basically only play early two-thousands soft acoustic emo music. I remember sitting in the backseat of the car with my brother and listening to the “I’m wide awake, it’s morning” record and not really paying attention to the lyrics on the tracks but just appreciating the music as a whole. That album definitely influenced my music taste a lot. Now that I have gotten older, I listen to a lot of acoustic and folk artists such as Nick Drake, Julien Baker, and Billie Marten. SR: What advice do you have for young writers who’ve just started their publication journey? It’s never too early or too late to start focusing on publishing your poetry. Age has nothing to do with hard work and talent. I also think it’s important to mention that rejections are just temporary setbacks and not a reflection on the writer you are. A fantastic poem can get rejected from a magazine just because it wasn’t the right fit for the current issue. Don’t be discouraged and keep on writing. SR: What are your future plans as a writer? My short term writing goal is to continue writing poems and to improve as a writer. I guess my middle term writing goal is to publish a poetry collection. I’m not quite sure yet what my long term goal is. Maybe my long term writing goal is to develop a long term writing goal.

Meet Maitas Travieso-Diaz, The Malu Zine’s issue 05 contributor and the writer of “Two Odd Animal Stories.” SR: Could you give us a quick introduction to yourself? My name is Matias Travieso-Diaz. I was born in Havana, Cuba, on February 21, 1943. I came to the United States in May 1963 as a refugee, to escape persecution by the Castro regime. (The fortuitous circumstances and details of my departure from Cuba are described in my short story The Black Pen, published by The Quiet Reader in 2020.) in I lived in Miami, Florida, for four years, during which I obtained Bachelor’s and Master’s Degrees in Electrical Engineering. In the fall of 1967 I moved to Columbus, Ohio, to attend Ohio State University. I received a PhD Degree in Electrical Engineering from OSU in 1971 and worked in the aerospace industry until September 1973, when I moved to New York and enrolled in the Columbia Law School. I graduated with a law degree in 1976 and settled in the Washington, D.C. area. I worked a lawyer in a major law firm for thirty- nine years (thirty-two of those as a partner); I retired from legal practice in March 2015. SR: Who inspired you to become a writer? I always enjoyed writing and, as a lawyer, I had many opportunities to write professional briefs and other articles. However, my current occupation as a fiction writer began in 2017, when I had a vivid dream about a plot by extra-terrestrials to take over the Earth. I turned the dream into my first short story, “Something in the Water,” which was ultimately published in The New Accelerator a year and a half later. The bug had bitten me and I began writing short stories and sending them out to magazines in the hope of getting them published. In the six years since waking up from that dream I have written many short stories and two novels. I am happy to report that my most recently published two stories – which round up a total of one hundred – appeared in Issue 5 of The Malu Zine only a few days ago. SR: What is a word you often use in your writings? I try not to repeat myself much – and I have two rules that I try to apply as much as possible: (1) use few adjectives and (2) avoid adverbs like the plague. I also find that the first sentence of a story sets the tone and often serves to predict whether the story will meet favor with the readers. SR: What is a song that takes you back in time? I came to America in the early 1960s, a time in which the country’s spirit was fresh and full of noble expectations. The song that exemplifies in my mind that bygone, innocent era was Peter, Paul and Mary’s "Puff, the Magic Dragon," which to this day brings tears of nostalgia to my eyes. SR: What advice do you have for young writers who’ve just started their publication journey? Do not be discouraged by rejections of your work. Rejections are the daily bread of writers, regardless of talent. The list of rejections of my stories run for thirty-five single space pages. On the other hand, review and revise your work time and again, not only to catch typos or poor choices of words, but also to pare down the text as much as possible. And send the work out to as many potential outlets as possible. SR: What are your future plans as a writer? I have completed two novels. The first, The Taíno Women, is based on the first century of colonization of Cuba by the Spanish Conquistadores; the second, The Travels of Lázaro Serrano, takes place two centuries later. I have started writing a third novel, which occurs in the second half of the Nineteenth Century, during Cuba’s wars to gain independence from Spain. I expect working on this third novel will occupy much of my time in 2024, with occasional detours to write short stories as ideas occur to me. I take pride in never repeating myself, and have not needed to do so because the world is like an immense summer meadow, full of diverse, beautiful stories waiting to be plucked.

Meet Saoirse Palmer, The Malu Zine’s 05 contributor and writer of “& in your chest, you’ll feel the fireworks.”! SR: Could you give us a quick introduction to yourself? My name is Ashton, I am a 16-year-old A-Level student from Northern Ireland. I have had many publications in various magazines, such as Catheartic Magazine Issue 2, Adolescence Magazine Issue 1.5, Gypsophila Zine Volume 3 Issue 1, Ink and Marrow Issue 4, The Mosaic Journal Issue 2 and of course, The Malu Zine Issue 5. I also have upcoming publications in The Encephalon Journal Issue 1, Spiritus Mundi Review Issue 5, The Elysian Chronicles Issue 3 and The Diamond Gazettes blog. I am also an editor at Peiskos Literary Magazine, which is presently in the early stages of development. As well as exploring and reading novels and poetry, I love to create pencil portraits of myself, friends and family; I believe art and literature are wholly intertwined and influence each other's expression immensely. SR: Who inspired you to become a writer? Family is the basis of my inspiration. My Great Aunt, a previous English teacher, always encouraged me to read. She adored the DiscWorld series by Terry Pratchett and had bookshelves I would stare at every time I went to her house; the novels and poetry that resided on those bookshelves, and the words spoken by my Aunt acted as the catalyst for my experience with writing today. Discovering my favourite writers also came from my family; as my most cherished inspiration, Ocean Vuong’s novel ‘On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous’ and his poetry book ‘Night Sky With Exit Wounds’ was a Christmas gift from my Mum about a year and a half ago, which formed my understanding of poetry, and the limits I can break with it. SR: What is a word you often use in your writings? I find myself often using words such as ‘anywhere’ ‘together’ ‘entirety’ and ‘nothing,’ but the word I feel I imbed most into my poems would be “everything.” It began unconsciously at first, I had just started writing the way I wanted to write, and that word seemed to be a guiding torch for what I wanted to put on paper (or computer screen). The word ‘everything’ exists in images of held hands, open skies, small bedrooms and connected hearts, it really is the sole connection: everything is everything, and It leaves a casm from which I can discover the parts of ‘everything' that I want to write. SR: What is a song that takes you back in time? A song that takes me back in time, and I listen to mostly when I'm writing, would be ‘her ribbon in there’ by sundots. I find that song represents the sounds of a yearning, crying child, but also the weird, yearning, uncomfortable feeling in your chest when you're a teenager still working things out. The lack of lyrics also allows me to develop those sounds to suit myself, allowing me to translate those sounds into the words I currently feel. That desperate, cramped feeling is what inspires my poems almost every time; my poetry is a battle with myself, which sometimes develops a revolution by the ending lines, or connotes bitter syllables, so by having that music on and reminding myself of both childhood and recent years of anger, I can develop my poetry into an interconnection, a connection of both past and present, so that my work confides within myself, it becomes internal and external - it becomes ‘everything.’ SR: What advice do you have for young writers who’ve just started their publication journey? Write everything down, and never feel embarrassed over sending your writing. Before I got a large amount of magazine acceptances, I have had many rejections, but that didn't stop my writing, in fact it encouraged me. No matter how ‘cringe’ you think your writing is, I guarantee you there are people out there who will love it, so always send it, and never feel discouraged. Also remember to unrestrict your Google docs. SR: What are your future plans as a writer? I'm only 16, so I have no idea where my publication journey will follow, but I know that I want to become a lecturer in creative writing - inspiring people and uplifting them with my words is my main goal in life, and I want to be able to share that goal with the new generation.

Dear issue 05 readers, I used to think that we grow from the things we find. But I’ve came to realize that we grow from the things we lose instead. We don’t only lose ”things” we can touch. We also lose “things” we can’t touch: thoughts and memories. Sometimes these “things” leave us with a stinging feeling deep inside our chests. But often after the sorrows, acceptance follows. Then does acceptance bring us happiness? I believe that acceptance will continue to sting our bodies. But it’s okay to sting. as it shows how much we can love. And we will never stop loving, stop being human. So let us appreciate the things we have lost throughout our lives. And write a letter for the little things we couldn’t let go. Because it is okay to let it sting. Sincerely, Seohyun Ryu Founder and Editor-in-Chief The Malu Zine

by Yuu Ikeda behind the horizon, summer and autumn mix together. my pallet is still full of vivid colors. so, i can't draw autumn. my eyes are still full of vehement waves. so, i can't see autumn. autumn is there. summer is here. behind the horizon, they whisper to me. i'm on the bridge of mixed seasons, at the same time of being in the sea of summer. this benumbed world might not be able to feel them. i feel, i can feel, all i can do is to feel. Yuu Ikeda (she/they) is a Japan based poet and writer. She loves writing, reading mystery novels, sugary coffee, and japanese comic “呪術廻戦 (Jujutsu Kaisen)”. She writes poetry on her website. https://poetryandcoffeedays.wordpress.com/ Her first essay “DROPOUT” was published in MORIA Literary Magazine. And her latest poetry chapbook “Phantasmal Flowers in The Eden Where Only I Know” was published by Black Sunflowers Poetry Press. You can find her on Twitter and Instagram : @yuunnnn77

by Jasmyne LaBeau You must know the lore of the woman The woman who would cry The woman who would sink For you must know who she was The woman with a broken heart Her lover gone to war To only return in her dreams rather than flesh You must know what she had done The woman who would sink beneath the water To never surface, only as a spirit roaming through the village Searching for her soldier Only to find her way back to the water Rising, then sinking beneath the lilies once more. Jasmyne Labeau is a twenty-three year old poet based out of Michigan. She enjoys creating written pieces that are full of the deepest emotions such as love, heartbreak, mystery, grief or nostalgia. When she is not creating, you can find her canoeing on the river, adventuring in the woods, reading fantasy novels, or spending time with her loved ones.

by Shamik Banerjee I woke up from a decent sleep—more sound Than all the intermittent ones. A glad Mood came to me, then something strange occurred: It seemed as if I barely touched the ground, My weight was feather-like, my flesh unclad, Some voices from the joining room I heard. On reaching there I saw a seated crowd Of relatives and neighbours, dressed in white. They circled my old parents who were weeping And gave their sympathy. There was a shroud. The corpse's face filled me with shock and fright— I saw myself so motionlessly sleeping. A garland of bright flowers draped my chest, And paste of sandalwood adorned my face, A pack of incense sticks perfumed the room; My cousins tended to each outer guest— A constant murmuring soon filled the place, Yet none could see me. I did not know whom I could approach to say I was not dead. I cried out, "I'm alive!", but none could hear. Rapped on the panes, but that too was in vain. "So many sinful things I've done and said. Hence, their resulting Karmas brought me here." I told this to myself to ease the pain. The guests then started leaving one by one. They played their part, proceeded back to life. The neighbours had to do their daily chores. My relatives were tired—their mourning done. This home then had a husband and his wife And their young son gone to the airy shores. I could not stop myself from not believing That this was true, I'd left my earthly stay. My parents were bereft, their lives were shattered; Oh how I prayed to God to ease their grieving, Regretted my unsympathetic way But, then it was too late and nothing mattered. My dream was dead. I could no longer be A poet. I wept but tears did not fall. I wished to turn the hourglass of fate To once again embrace humility Like I did as a child. "I love you all", I wished to say aloud and not to wait. How easily a moment is quick taken, How late we realise the worth of love, We dig our own pitfalls and later weep; As I felt these, my soul was hardly shaken As if a lightning struck me from above And perspiring I woke up from my sleep. Shamik Banerjee is a poet from India.

by Morid Hadi My Wings are pomegranate leafs on fire I have no choice but to burn them until they turn black like the blindfolds in they're mind's Just because I'm multicolored My flag is wanted And my pain is zipped shut inside me The buds of my branches may be visible Underneath the layers of lies I hide them in I may as well be a living Prism Bending what people see in hopes to hide Twisting and turning the light away from the truth So it can hit what they want to see And I cage my soul underneath it all But surely one day They're arrows will hit directly at my chains And I will be carried out for my death My branches will be cut with they're ignorance and all the color will fade from me And in the end I would be no-one And just pomegranate leaves on fire Morid Hadi is a 17 year old who's mission in life is to inspire people with art and make people care about art and it's importance in human culture

by Matias Travieso-Diaz The Ambitious Drone By Matias F. Travieso-Diaz To be successful, one has to be one of three bees - the queen bee, the hardest working bee, or the bee that does not fit in. Suzy Kassem, Rise Up and Salute the Sun Buzzy was unimpressive. Even by apiary standards (according to which the males, or “drones,” are much smaller than the Queen) Buzzy was puny. Barely half an inch from the orange tuft above his huge eyes to the tip of the abdomen, he could have been mistaken for a worker bee. But he was no worker. Indeed, as is the way with drones, he led a life of idle pleasure. The workers fed him honey, and he spent his days chatting with other drones or resting in his cell and watching the hive’s thousands of workers in their continuous activities: feeding the larvae and the Queen, adding and cleaning honeycombs, removing dead bees and other debris, storing pollen and nectar, and flying in and out in search of food for the hive. Buzzy took note of the diligence of the workers but had no desire to emulate them. His mother, a common worker, had been tasked by the Queen with laying unfertilized eggs from which Buzzy and his brothers would emerge. He was the runt of the litter that she produced that year, a fact that both his mother and his brothers were quick to point out; she with regret, they with derision. Buzzy’s only talents were an inquisitive mind and antennae that were constantly tuned to the rumors of the colony. Thanks to these traits, he managed to overhear when a senior worker responded to a novice’s question about the special privileges that drones enjoyed: “Poor devils. They will soon fly away and try to mate with a foreign Queen (ours, of course, would have nothing to do with any of them) and, whether they succeed or fail, their lives will soon come to an end. If they get to mate with a Queen, their pricks will fall off and they will die from the wounds. And if they fail to mate and return to the hive, we will run them off and they will starve or perish at the first frost. So let them enjoy their comforts, for the little time they have left.” Buzzy did not like this forecast of his future. “That’s not going to happen to me. I will stay at this hive and die of old age, in comfort and glory,” he told himself. But how? After much thinking, he came to the conclusion that the harried life of the worker bees held the key to his survival. One morning he emerged from his cell and began visiting the workers that were busy expanding the hive with more honeycombs, cleaning up, and feeding the young. “My, you work very hard, don’t you?” “Yes”, one of them replied, barely noticing him. “The Queen must be very happy,” he persisted. Still barely noticing him, the worker replied, “I don’t know.” He kept at it, asking “doesn’t she thank you for working yourselves to death?” A couple of workers paused to answer, “no.” They said this almost in unison and started to get back to their labors. “Well,” Buzzy said, “at least she works hard for you, doesn’t she?” They stopped again, this time a little longer. “Not really,” said another bee hesitantly. “All she does is lay eggs.” “Don’t you see how you are being exploited? The Queen sits on her throne while you work day in and day out. And you get nothing, no benefits from all your efforts. Let’s get rid of Her. Follow me, and I promise that this hive will be a great place to live.” Most of the workers ignored him, although a few did perk up their antennas and shook their heads in vague agreement. As spring led into summer, things became difficult for the colony. A prolonged drought and scorching heat descended on the land, and the wild flowers in the field started wilting and dying. Each day the bees had to fly longer and farther to collect less and less nectar and pollen. Buzzy redoubled his proselytizing attempts: “I was told that this colony was twice this size last year, and that we had plenty of honey and nectar, and that scores of new bees were being born each day. Now we are shrinking and getting poorer. And it is all the Queen’s fault. She does not care that your life is getting harder. Follow me, and I will make this hive great again.” Over time, more and more exhausted workers began to pay attention to him. When, in midsummer, it came time for the drones to fly away and seek their destiny in foreign encounters, Buzzy stayed behind. “I’m not interested in mating. My only interest is in staying in this hive, and making it great again.” That declaration was greeted with indifference by most workers, though a few rubbed their antennae in sympathy. Shortly after the other drones had flown away, the hive was attacked by a swarm of smaller, darker bees that came into their territory and attempted to kill the Queen, usurp the hive, and steal the honey stores. Grievous fighting ensued and, at the end, the colony was able to drive off the marauders, but at a great cost in lives and ruinous honey stock losses. Buzzy wasted no time pointing out that the attack was the result of the Queen’s inability to defend her subjects, finishing his tirades with the warning “and they may come back again any day, and will find us still unready. Maybe the next time they will take over our colony and put an end to all of us.” These warnings elicited fear or apprehension among many workers, who tended to agree that greater vigilance would be essential for them to survive. The summer was marching on and Buzzy was making little progress with his subversive campaign. Then, one morning in late July, he received a visit from a young worker. “My name is Sabeena. I will soon have to start going out to roam the fields for nectar and pollen to bring back to the hive. That is a thankless job and not what I want to do with myself.” Intrigued, Buzzy asked: “And what is your goal, then?” The answer was quick: “I missed the opportunity to become a queen for I was not fed royal jelly as a larva. But that mistake can be remedied. If you convince my sisters that the Queen is incompetent, and that they should start feeding me massive amounts of royal jelly, I may be able to make up for the lost time and become Queen myself.” Buzzy asked, dubiously: “And why would I want to do that? What is in it for me?” The young bee replied without hesitation, having already considered the matter carefully: “I will make you my prime minister. You will rule the hive in my name. I don’t want the responsibilities of power, only its benefits.” Buzzy saw Sabeena’s plan as a refinement of his own. While his exhortations had won him a number of sympathizers who grumbled at the current state of affairs, nobody had as of yet offered to actually support his subversive campaign. “All right, Sabeena. Let’s give it a try.” From that moment on, Buzzy became a passionate advocate of the merits of Sabeena and spent day and night comparing her favorably with the Queen, who knew of these attempts at subverting her but seemed indifferent to the threat. Sabeena, for her part, went around making outlandish promises to anyone who would listen. She even claimed that, once she was queen, she would order that her most faithful supporters be fed royal jelly so they could in turn metamorphose into queens and leave, leading their own swarms. Buzzy reinforced this claim by arguing that there was no rule that said that there could only be one queen. “I can make all of you queens, my dears, if you will only let me.” Events came to a head when an unseasonably early frost destroyed the few flowers that had survived the drought. There was no pollen to be had, no nectar to be harvested. A winter of privation loomed. Buzzy went around talking to every worker, repeating the same message to all: “It’s time to act. Now or never. Let’s have a new beginning, let’s regain control over our destinies, for the good of the hive.” And Sabeena vowed: “I will myself go and challenge the Queen, I’ll do it alone if I must, but will you follow me?” Suddenly, there was a swelling of emotion, and a handful of bees, and then a few more, joined in a deadly swarm intending to attack the Queen in her royal cell. The Queen, however, had received a last-minute warning and, rather than facing the mob that surged against her, took to the air and flew away, accompanied by the majority of the bees in the hive. She was never seen again. Buzzy and Sabeena were left, much diminished but victorious, in control of the depleted hive. Buzzy wasted no time in making good on his campaign promises. “Let’s post guards to forestall any future attacks by foreigners, and let’s keep them out of our territory altogether. Let’s reduce the pollen and nectar gathering obligations of the workers. Let’s start feeding royal jelly to more and more bees.” And so on. Sabeena, meanwhile, was being fed staggering amounts of royal jelly and was, if not growing into a queen, becoming bloated and getting to look less and less like her sisters. As she gained in weight and importance, she prohibited feeding royal jelly to any other potential queens, whether larvae or workers. She wanted no competition. Finally, she felt ready to declare herself the Sovereign. “I, Sabeena, am your new Queen, ruler and protector of this heaven-blessed hive. I am ready for my maiden flight.” And, to the cheers of her subjects, Sabeena rose to the air towards the lone sycamore in the middle of the prairie, which from time immemorial was the trysting place of queens and drones. No drones from foreign swarms came to meet her. Perhaps it was too late in the season, or she did not have the right pheromones, or maybe her looks were too strange to inflame the hearts of amorous drones. She hovered above the tree, swirling her wings coquettishly, to no avail. The sky remained empty, mocking her efforts. Soon enough, a scout from the hive noticed the forlorn sovereign and hastened back to sound the alarm. “She is not getting any suitors… If this continues, our hive will perish for lack of new eggs to hatch… We will all die.” The lamentations soon gave way to reproaches. “Where are our drones? Why did they leave? How come they are not back, not one of them?” An ancient worker gave them the answer: “They all went because we forced them to go away. Maybe some will come back in a few days, because they failed in getting any queen interested in them. But we can’t take a chance that this will happen.” “What are we to do then?” was the collective outcry. Suddenly, all eyes turned to Buzzy. “You are a drone. Go join Sabeena in joyous coupling.” “I? No way. I am ruling this hive, I’m not going anywhere.” But the desperate bees became insistent: “You are our only hope. Go discharge your duty as a male.” “No.” One of Sabeena’s lieutenants squared off to Buzzy and declared threateningly: “Either you go or you will feel our sting.” There was a chorus of assenting buzzes. Buzzy was not brave and, like all drones, had no sting. He reluctantly agreed: “All right, I’ll go.” He flew off in the direction of the tree, but all the while he was thinking furiously: “If I mate with Sabeena I’ll die, that is the fate of every drone. What can I do?” He then concocted a desperate plan: “I will mount her, but will not enter her. I will ask her to agree to pretend we have mated and come back and start laying eggs. I will, for my part, claim that I am such a great specimen that I can survive an experience that would be the death of lesser males.” As he approached the fatal tree, Sabeena detected an approaching drone and was heartened. “Here comes my savior, my knight in shining armor. Come to me, my love.” Then she noticed it was Buzzy and her enchantment withered. “You? Am I going to have to mate with you?” Buzzy tremulously began making his proposal, but Sabeena cut him short. “I will have none of this. If we don’t mate and I return to the hive, all the eggs I lay will be worthless drones, and I will be banished or put to death. For once, be a male and do what you were bred for. Or I will sting you.” If bees could cry, Buzzy’s huge eyes would have become drenched in tears. But nothing could be done. If he was going to die, at least he would enjoy the experience. He squared himself, took a deep breath, and mounted the awaiting female. Alas, Buzzy was small in every respect. His penis bulb barely reached the inside of Sabeena’s vagina, but everted all the same and was lodged into Sabeena’s vaginal pouch. Sabeena shuddered and quickly flew away. Buzzy was left with his penis bulb torn from him at the penis neck, and fell to earth, bleeding to death. As he lay dying, one final thought flashed through his tiny brain: “It might have been better for me to conform to the ways of the hive and not attempt to tinker with the order of things.” Sabeena returned to the hive in triumph, and proceeded to the empty cells, where she began laying eggs. Yet, Buzzy’s sperm proved inefficacious. One after another, the hatching eggs proved to be drones, for not a single fertilized egg had been created in their coupling. Sabeena was put to death and the hive, diminished and queenless, tried to save itself by hastily breeding a new queen in the face of approaching winter. They had learned a bitter lesson: if someone makes promises that seem too good to be true, they most likely will not be delivered. END The Lying Cockerel -- A Modern Fable by Matias F. Travieso-Diaz I did not see the end of the battle. I forced myself to endure it as long as I could, but it was too pitiful a sight; so I made frank confession to that effect, and we retired. We heard afterward that the black cock died in the ring, and fighting to the last. Mark Twain, Life in the Mississippi Part 1 Once upon a time, a man owned a farm in which he raised chickens. One day, his aviary holdings were increased when the widow in the farmer next door sold him her chickens: two dozen hens and pullets and an aging, overweight Orpington rooster called Rump. When he heard through the grapevine that they were to be sold and moved to another coop, Rump became very unhappy. He expected that relocation meant a lowering of his status and the loss of his privileges as ruler of the coop. Arrival at the new farm only confirmed his worst fears. Granted, hens were plentiful, among them some comely pullets that immediately attracted his attention, for he was of a lecherous disposition; but there were also a good number of roosters, most of them burlier than Rump and rather mean looking. There was no way he would get his fair share of feed and feathers under those conditions. At once Rump realized that head to head conflict with his competitors would be fruitless and potentially fatal. Lucky for him, this coop was ruled peacefully. With so much ground to peck at, and so many available hens willing to oblige, the rooster leadership did not need to be determined by fighting, and was instead established by contest. A cultured rooster long ago had developed the concept of a singing competition to establish who among them should rule. From that day on, there was an annual crowing contest, the winner of which would be declared ruler of the coop. The rules of the contest were simple: roosters were paired off, each pair being given the chance to hop atop a high tree stump and crow in a high voice to demonstrate their excellent qualities, and then proclaim their intentions as presumptive leaders. After each pair was finished, the entire coop – roosters, hens, and even chicks, for this was an egalitarian society – would vote by cackling loudly on behalf of their favorite. The contestant that got the healthiest endorsement from the crowd would win the round and move on to the next stage, until at the end an overall winner was declared. When Rump arrived on the scene, that year’s competition had been recently held and had been won for the second time by a Jersey Giant, a handsome dark bird who combined a powerful yet pleasing croon and the ability to make pronouncements on the weather, the food supply, the state of the world, and other topics. As a newcomer, Rump was subjected to scorn and derision from everyone. He was not helped by his physique: he was pudgy, had a broad body with a low stance, his feathers were no longer buff but tended towards the orange-brown, and even though he sported a generous comb, it was wrinkled, drooping and unhealthy looking. Other roosters, and even a number of hens, taunted him as “the cockerel” because of his unimpressive looks. Rump was vain and did not take criticism well, but was forced to go along. He was playing the long game and believed his revenge would come when the next contest was held. And that day finally came, one morning in late autumn. It started with a parade of all candidates, proudly displaying their multicolored plumage, to the cheers of the assembled multitude. There were eight roosters in in all, plus Rump. He marched in last, to virtually no applause as he had nothing to recommend him. The reigning rooster announced his intention to retire because “he had served his time” and stepped out of the queue to preside over the proceedings. As tradition dictated, the favorite among the remaining candidates – a handsome Black Spanish named Herbert -- strutted in first, head up, one foot forward, calm, fully embodying the word “aristocrat” in his demeanor. Behind him ambled Rump, the last placed, attempting to look imposing. Herbert fluttered to the top of the tree stump, perched himself elegantly there, cleared his throat, and uttered a sustained, well-modulated crow, and started his campaign speech: “My friends, you know me well, as you know my family, which for generations has provided sound, progressive leadership to this coop. I stand here today to ask for your support in continuing this tradition…” At this point Rump, from the ground, started jumping up and down, shouting: “Liar… you and your family are just a pack of thieves, who have bled this coop dry, stealing the feed that is thrown to us.” Herbert was somewhat fazed by Rump’s speaking out of turn and his poor manners, and stumbled for a second. He then continued in the same calm, magisterial voice: “That is wrong. We respond to no interests other than those of our people, and the best cock…” Again, Rump interrupted him, shouting even more loudly: “Herbie, everyone knows your mother was unfaithful to her sire and you are the product of her illicit relationship with our current leader. You are just a pawn of his, who is secretly backing your campaign!!” Herbert did not know how to respond. Finally he answered, indignantly but still in measured tones: “That is a calumny. Nobody has ever accused us of being illegitimate…” The rest of his response was drowned by Rump’s retort, which was loud and sarcastic: “Herbie, you not only lie about your shameful origin, but you have such low energy that you can’t defend yourself. You are just a weakling. Can this coop rely on you to defend its interests? Get out of here, you are a coward and are not fit to lead us.” Herbert stood there, dumbfounded, and remained silent as the crowd began to hiss, fluff feathers and flap wings in disapproval. Finally, he slumped erratically to the ground. Rump immediately hopped to the stump, gave a victory crow, and was greeted with some loud cackling and clucking, as he basked in self-admiration. * * * The rooster he had to contend with in the second round was a youthful but smallish Cubalaya. That rooster wilted under a barrage of loud charges in which Rump called him robotic, shallow, and unprepared for assuming control of the coop. “You are just a little chick. Go back to your mommy.” The Cubalaya countered with references to Rump’s questionable physique, age and lack of experience. Rump brushed those claims aside: “I am a much more experienced rooster than you. You should respect your betters and shut your beak.” The Cubalaya cowered, and Rump crowed in triumph once more. Rocket, the last rooster Rump faced, had had time to prepare. He was a brawler, and would have brawled with Rump had the rules so allowed. A multi-colored bantam, Rocket made up for his small size with a ferocious attitude. The match between Rump and Rocket was a remarkable trading of insults; Rocket called Rump a pathological liar, a self-serving narcissist, and an insatiable philanderer and defiler of pullets, citing the testimony of some of the hens that had come with Rump to the farm. Rump, for his part, pointed to Rocket’s “obscure foreign origins,” and made accusations about the mixed race of Rocket’s ancestors, a matter that did not sit well with some chickens, who took pride in the purity of their lineage. This time the assembled multitude seemed divided in its allegiances and disheartened at both candidates, but at the end Rump won the contest because he managed to out-shout and out-insult Rocket, something that many found surprising. Rump rewarded the support of the crowd with a stentorian crow and was just getting ready to take charge as leader of the flock when there was a stir in the back of the gathering, leading to a shifting of bodies to make room for something. The something turned out to be a Rhode Island White hen, a female named Gertrude (Gertie, for short) with a broad, deep body and an oblong and brick-like overall appearance. Gertie waddled to the front of the audience, and asserted in a strong voice: “I am placing myself in nomination for the leadership of this commonwealth.” There was a clamor of protests. A hen had never tried to lay claim to leadership. Most roosters, including those that had been defeated by Rump, opposed having a hen as leader. “This has never been done.” “It’s absurd.” “The place of a hen is over her eggs.” “Hens are weak and have no leadership ability.” These comments were followed by others, more colorful and demeaning. Even a number of hens agreed. “How can a hen protect us so that we can safely raise our chicks?” The outgoing leader, who up to that point had kept silent, let out a loud crow, drawing everyone’s attention. “It’s true that there is no precedent for governance by a hen. However, we are a progressive society and should look at the merits of an applicant, not its gender. We all know Gertie. She is an accomplished and much respected hen. Let’s see what she has to say.” Chickens still shook their heads, but Gertie seized the moment and flew like an arrow until she stood on top of the stump. And the final debate began. * * * Whatever one thought of her, there was no denying that Gertie was well prepared, as if she had spent all of her nine plus years grooming herself for this opportunity. She offered a dazzling array of facts and figures and statistics, and presented a detailed plan of action describing what she would accomplish as the next leader. Her initiatives included ways of protecting the unborn from predators; ways of keeping the coop warmer in winter; new methods for digging the ground for grubs, lizards and other morsels; and measures to force roosters to contribute more to the welfare of society. Rump’s tack was the exact opposite. He didn’t say a word about his governing plans. Instead, he painted Gertie as an insufferable biddy, a crone with one foot in the grave. He cited her raspy voice and unsure walk as clear signs of her unfitness for the job. Could she guarantee that she would be around for a full year to lead the coop? Wasn’t it true that she had been in poor health just days before? Would she be able to provide security against all the enemies that were gathered, just outside, ready to pounce on them at the first sign of weakness? When Gertie pointed to her many years of service to the commonwealth, he sarcastically demanded to know what good she had accomplished in all that time. He screamed and ranted, flew around the stump, hovered insolently over her as she tried to compose her speech, and hurled demands for her banishment or worse. When Gertie repeated her plea for making roosters do their fair share for the benefit of all, he shook his head in disbelief, declaring: “such a nasty hen, and she can’t even crow.” Gertie remained calm and collected and spoke with an even voice, never bringing herself to personally attack her opponent. “When he goes low, we go high” she declared. Some were left unimpressed by her lack of passion. They went back and forth for hours, and the choice among the two remained unclear. The roosters were a small minority but all squawked vociferously for Rump. They were joined by a surprising number of hens, who apparently were turned off by Gertie’s coolness. On the other hand, Gertie’s supporters launched vituperative attacks on Rump’s credibility, his lack of a clear program, his chauvinism, and his many other sins. The sun was setting behind the distant hills, marking the time when fowl retired for the night. The outgoing leader crowed for attention again, and declared: “the vote is close, but it seems that Rump’s supporters have the upper hand. He is our new leader.” There was a collective gasp among Gertie’s supporters. No less surprised was Rump himself: he was heard muttering to his friends: “I really didn’t expect to win.” Part 2 “What do I do now?” became a mantra as Rump had to face his new responsibilities as head of state and an unending parade of supplicants approached him with problems that called for mature judgment and experience, both of which he spectacularly lacked. His approach to governing was the same that had won the position: talk tough and give every indication of being in control. Within days of assuming power, he had elevated friendly roosters to positions of authority regardless of merit. He had denounced and countermanded most of the policies of his predecessor. He had declared big portions of the yard surrounding the coop off limits to all but his supporters. And, throughout all of this, he had denounced his critics as lily-livered scum and sought to silence them by threatening to let loose a squad of enforcers to shut them up for good. Emboldened by his victory, Rump dispatched couriers with self-congratulatory messages to all nearby coops, announcing that he was the new cock of the walk and they better behave or else. One of his emissaries, sent to a rival coop, was slain. The others were sent back with warnings never to return. Rump had insulted the world, and now the world was paying him back. * * * Sometime in mid-February, Rump was visited by a committee of supporters, who put a question to him: “It has been several months and you have given us a lot of blunt talk but you have accomplished nothing. The winter is hard, and many blame you for not having enough to eat. You have to do something quickly, because this can’t wait ‘til spring.” “Yes, but what? Any ideas?” he queried. A young rooster ventured forward: “Sir, you may want to consider a show of force, a reminder to everyone that you are their greatest leader. A bit down the river is the coop that slew your messenger. Why not send an expedition there to punish those bandits, retrieve their food, and bring it back to the coop?” Rump – who tended to follow the last piece of advice he received – warmed up to the idea, and soon adopted it as his own. “I will lead the expedition and demonstrate to all that I am the greatest leader they ever had,” he pronounced. The following morning the sky was bright and cloudless, although it was very cold. Shivering, Rump gathered his entourage and set out towards the river. As they approached the rival coop, they loudly chanted war cries and uttered threats at the enemy. Rump sought to hearten his troop even more with tales of his exploits as leader in earlier days. “And I stood valiantly as this huge wolf, growling and drooling spit, came ….” At that point, from behind the shrubs and bushes materialized a host of angry fowl: their noisy approach had alerted their target and well over two dozen roosters and hens descended upon them and dove in their midst with unbelievable force while issuing hoarse, rasping screams. The bravos that accompanied Rump scattered in all directions, fleeing in terror. Rump too tried to escape, but was the oldest and slowest of the group, so it was left behind as one of the assailants closed its talons in a death grip around Rump’s midriff, and its pointed beak took several bites at the chicken’s neck, comb and wattles. Rump instinctively squirmed and flattened himself upon the ground. Rump lay on the earth unmoving as the other rooster readied for a final attack, but at that time a loud barking was heard as one of the farmer’s dogs, a mean tempered giant schnauzer called Judge, hastened into the scene. The attacking rooster, sizing up the new arrival, rapidly took off with its companions. Judge came over to where Rump lay and nosed him curiously. “Are you dead or alive?” he questioned. “Pretty messed up” answered Rump. “Please don’t kill me.” Judge let out a bark that was possibly a laugh, but one could never tell with those brutes. “I am trained not to kill the master’s chickens. Come, I will take you back home.” He cradled Rump carefully in his jaws and trotted back to the coop, depositing the bird on the ground in front of his astonished subjects. “You guys are really stupid walking out in the open so far from your coop. Next time I may not be around to save you.” With that, Judge turned around and departed. Rump picked himself up and took inventory of his wounds. He was bleeding profusely from a couple of deep gouges and hurt all over. But, all things considered, he was in reasonably good shape. He started preparing in his mind the speech he would give to justify the humiliating defeat. He would say something like how bravely he had faced the enemies and how he had been betrayed by incompetent advisors. Events cut him short. You see, chickens are a bit like sharks. When chickens see blood, they go berserk. Blood sends everyone into a frenzy and they attack the wounded animal. The more blood there is, the more they attack. So, all chickens in the coop descended on Rump as he bled, pecking him everywhere. No one rose in his defense, no one remembered how they had cheered him on when he savaged his adversaries. And no one would give him credit for what he had done for the community, for he had done nothing good. Rump’s last thought, as consciousness faded away, was “I’m glad this is over. I was getting tired of winning.” END Born in Cuba, Matias Travieso-Diaz migrated to the United States as a young man. He became an engineer and lawyer and practiced for nearly fifty years. After retirement, he took up creative writing. Over one hundred of his short stories have been published or accepted for publication in anthologies and paying magazines, blogs, audio books and podcasts. Some of his unpublished works have also received "honorable mentions" from several paying publications. A first collection of his stories, “The Satchel and Other Terrors” has recently been released and is available on Amazon and other book outlets.

by Linda M. Crate i am me always, but i feel the most able to be myself around kindred spirits; those who appreciate my humor and my beauty those who won't scoff or hide from my intensity or my dreams— not everyone who smiles at you is a friend, this can be a hard lesson to learn; especially if you've ever felt starved of love or affection— a long time ago they convinced me to bury myself, present the things they thought a person ought to be; who they wanted me to reflect— but i shook off the dust, and smashed open the coffin; leaving behind the skeleton and shell of that ghost behind because i am meant to be me not a shadow. Linda M. Crate (she/her) is a Pennsylvanian writer whose poetry, short stories, articles, and reviews have been published in a myriad of magazines both online and in print. She has twelve published chapbooks the latest being: Searching Stained Glass Windows For An Answer (Alien Buddha Publishing, December 2022). She is also the author of the novella Mates (Alien Buddha Publishing, March 2022). Her debut book of photography Songs of the Creek (Alien Buddha Publishing, April 2023) was recently published.

by Kaleb Scope Capture my eyes with your memorizing dancing. As the campfire continues to roar upon the fuel which it burns, you dance around it, as if taming some sort of demonic and exotic beast. The way your eyes shine in the firelight – moves emotions within my stone-cold gaze. My enthusiasm is not visible, yet I silently cheer you on as if telepathically you can understand me. I am in complete awe, Campfire Dancer, not at the simple beauty that the campfire paints you in, but the way you have managed to captivate everyone around the fire. You show your experience by performing a number of tricks and tight turns with both your body and your arms. You showcase the movement and language of the body with your simple yet complex moves. And I am captivated by it. Held here, seemingly against (but not actually) my will. Your intelligence, your beauty, your skillset, everything. Everything about you is moving. I feel an intense heat against the back of my neck, not from the wild and free-living fire, nor from you directly, but rather from the freedom that you represent. A dancing flame whose light has not been snuffed out by the harsh and cold realities of life that surround us. And for some reason, That’s more captivating than simply sitting at a fire and roasting our marshmallows. Kaleb Scope is a Canadian writer, primarily focused on fictional writing and poetry.

by Katie Nelson Your life cycled in circles: from knowledge to success and ‘round to failure from forgetting to remembering and back to knowledge. You laughed, you cried. You teased sweet jokes, you screamed thorny jibes. Between work and talent you stayed occupied or freed yourself to friendly outings—though sparse were moments to spare. Now the final circle loops above you, the cycle closing in, concluding. You must scan the pages of your life and recline as the book falls from your lap. Like royalty look straight ahead, chin high, and the rain will drift away. Hear the whisperings of the world. They will call you determined, disheveled, disheartened, brilliant and dumbfounded. They will call you what victims call their villains, what lovers call their loves. But it was simple, the spinning of your circle: from knowledge to success and ‘round to failure. You gained, you lost. You learned, you forgot. Like lowly souls be satisfied, what more could you have done? You remembered the contents of those pages. You laid that book to rest. Katie Nelson is the author of the short story collection, "Parties All Around." Her works have been recognized by Pigeon Review and numerous writing contests. Katie is currently a high school senior with intentions of studying creative writing in college.