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by Destiny Herbert There is a dog. She is lying down, lethargic, being fried by the summer sun and pavement like a lump of meat in a pan that is most definitely not non-stick. She is too starved and thirsted to even pant against the heat. You see her, the poor, stupid thing, and approach her. She looks to you pleadingly, thumping his tail at the thought of having finally obtained empathy; it probably would have satiated her just as much as a generous bowl of kibble, if not more. But you do not have either and do not offer either. You have a much better idea. This will help her, you think. You get a kick in your step and begin jogging toward him. The drum of his tail quickens, matching the pace of your strides. She almost thinks she has enough energy to rise and address you properly, but can only manage to tilt up her head. You meet her halfway, stooping—how kind of you! She greedily accepts your pats and scritches. This is almost enough, almost, she thinks with his little doggie brain. That little doggie brain needs some enlightenment, you then think, and you take her fat, wrinkled cheeks in your palms and stifle a laugh because he is just so silly and so funny looking with his cheeks squished together like that. Does she know how silly she looks? Finally, she finds the strength to peel open his mouth and breathe. You stink of onions and beef. You’re just straight-up pungent. Your stench is ten times more offensive on her tongue than in her nose, but her face is still turned up in that oblivious, permanent smile that doggie muzzles make. You can’t help but give her a little smooch before gifting him your cruel, apathetic wisdom. “Silly baby. Don’t you know? Food will find you if you stop wanting it, if you stop looking for it,” you say, and her doggie smile falls, no longer so permanent, and by the grace of God she gets the gumption to make a meal out of your cheeks and nose and a little bit of your lower lip, too, and she is filled doubly by your flesh, marinated in decades of obliviousness and garnished with hot air, and the sweet satisfaction that comes with shutting you up. I have never understood those who claim that my simple desire to be loved is precisely what makes me undeserving of it, that desire is the root of all suffering. Really? All of it? Has anyone ever achieved success by not wanting it? “In time, it will come. You are young.” “In time, if it is meant for you, it will come.” And I lie in bed, suffocated by my own body heat, wondering if I am meant for it. But you insist that a brief conversation with a cashier and my dog—my fucking dog—should be enough for me. Does that same logic apply to her? Could she have remained in her frying pan, a fire lit under her and above her and inside of her, sustained by daydreams of companionship that she has never known tacked onto passerby? Passerby like you? My favorite food cannot marry me. A new pair of shoes bought on credit at 2 a.m. cannot be my maid of honor. My appreciation for the little things cannot attend my funeral. The nature walks and crafting and journaling and scented candles and bubble baths and naps and retail therapy and animals and positive affirmations and keeping busy can only do so much for me before my stomach collapses in on itself and my bones grow brittle. So, please, if you see me on the sidewalk with glazed-over eyes and me and my cardboard box cold and dampened by the rain, unless you are going to pick me up and take me home, please just keep walking. Destiny Herbert is a writer of short fiction and poetry; her work exists within the sphere of the nostalgic and the macabre and the intersection of queerness and black womanhood. She is pursuing her Master of Arts in creative writing at the University of West Florida and hopes to either gain footing in the publishing industry or establish a solid reputation as a professional editor upon graduation. She appreciates a good horror novel, JRPGs, and nature walks with her puppy, Nova.

by Arianna Kanji The first time it happened, they ripped out my spine. Or perhaps ripped isn’t the best word choice in this scenario. Gently slipped their fingers through the meat of my back and tugged it out like a loose thread would be a more accurate description. There’s not really any way to explain the feeling, except maybe the chills that you get when sandpaper runs against a chalkboard as your mouth is being smashed into gravel. But I haven’t experienced that, so I wouldn’t know. I know it was my spine because I saw it. The smooth curve of the bone, slick with blood and flakes of skin. It was clutched between their forefinger and index, balanced precariously like a pencil of sorts. As they set it down, it gleamed in the light, every arch and dig accentuated by the glow. I have to admit, I didn’t really panic. And maybe that’s a character flaw of sorts. But then again, isn’t everything just another imperfection carved onto our priceless statues, slowly picking away at their worth, like chips on smooth marble or rust on curved hips? Maybe because, in moments like these, panic is as unneeded as pain. Neither would solve anything, in the end. Then they poisoned me. Some might say drugged, but I don’t think this was it. My consciousness never slipped away, only my gaze blurring in and of focus with every unceremonious twist of my neck. At some point, I could almost make out the elusive figures whose spindle-topped fingers were fiddling with the skin around my wrist like it was a flimsy friendship bracelet, but then it vanished. Julian used to tell me I was better off wearing one so people knew I was loved even in my last dying moments, but he was definitely drugged while saying so. There’s no point in trusting those who cannot even understand the words they say. The poison was sweet, but bitter, stinging the insides of my mouth. Something moved. Me? No, not me. No, wait, yes. My head slumped against my shoulder, but still nothing occurred. Nothing except the slow sensation of numbness stretching along my body like the cocoon of a butterfly or the glass around the model ships my grandfather used to make. It tasted vaguely like blood, but in the way cracks in the sidewalk vaguely resemble remnants of a mark left long ago. I like bugs. This was why the cool sensation of thousands of wings against my skin didn’t spike panic in my heart. I assume some drew blood, or else the crimson color leaking into my palms existed for an entirely different reason. When I was younger, when my fingers were less brittle and I hadn’t yet tasted pools of vinegar, I would sketch hollow skulls with sunken eyes into the edges of notebook paper. Characters with peeling skin and teeth rotting away to orange near the tips and black mold peppering their smashed noses. More body parts than necessary - three heads joined together in a twisting pattern, a girl with seven arms and a coal black gaze, creatures with three wings and hands curved backwards and bodies contorted until basically indescribable. The idea comforted me, in some strange way. Like being mangled and distorted was better than being nothing at all. Maybe this is why the maggots didn’t scare me. Even as they festered near my forearm, slowly eating away at the surface of the flesh. Or at least they felt like maggots. They could have been thousands of phantom hands for all I know. Little shovels digging away at a soft graveyard, one that beat in time with the rise and fall of a distant heartbeat. Distant being literal. It was collecting dust and grime a few centimeters away from the spine. I believe they brought out the needle next. It was long, and thin, and resembled a pinched up version of the bones they’d extracted not a few minutes earlier. The maggots were being peeled off, hung on the walls with bits of my skin still caught in their mouths. Something strong and firm shivered against me like a moth shifting towards an open flame. Or perhaps it was another insect, maybe one with thousands of miniscule eyes. The string tugged once, twice, three times. Then they twisted parts of my face inside out and dug the needle into my cheeks. Once, twice, three times. Until there was nothing left but my own shallow breath against shadowy skin. Smooth scales grew along my features. A few extra eyes embedded themselves into my forehead. Once the sewing was complete, they left me, skin sagging and peeling away in parts, bones exposed and body inside-out. It didn’t feel half bad, actually. The light breeze shifting through my torn muscles felt almost exhilarating. The first time it happened, I didn’t scream. Julian had told me once that fear was the only barrier between living and existing. But he’d read that off of a motivational poster stuck onto the door of the place we never visit anymore, so there’s no use trusting the words of something with only two eyes and no scales. Congratulations, child, they said eventually, long after the rest of my features had crumbled away. You are ready to be born anew. Maybe I’ll come back as a worm next time. That would be nice. Arianna Kanji (they/them) is a young writer from Toronto, Canada. You can find them on Instagram at @ari.kanji

by Joy Myers Spring is here and I am dizzy with April’s loneliness. These days I live outside of love, sneaking peaks at its softness from behind corners. I write each night in bed: barbed lines about boys who left me for the ocean and girls who don’t remember my name when I call. I wonder if they bend with the weight of Spring, too, or if they’ve learned to carry it better than I do. Joy Myers is an editor and social media writer employed in Springfield, MO. She graduated college in December 2023 with a BA in English. Joy spends most of her free time playing piano, writing, and decorating her new apartment.

by Hannah Cochrane Olive Enver hit the ground running, forced from her comfortable position in her favourite oak tree by a striking vision of impending doom. After years of foresight, Olive could trust what she’d seen — or rather, what she’d felt. Olive had to tell her sister. Wet auburn leaves slipped underfoot as Olive wove through the arching trees of the forest, staying to the left of the wide, unforgiving river at all times. After all, those who cross the river encounter Death’s shiver. Her beaten satchel of woodland samples, destined for her apothecary, bounced against Olive’s hip as she paced down a hill section, then climbed again. She cursed the endlessly rolling hills, though she loved her home regardless. In this stretch of countryside, the hills rose steadily as if eased along by the salty sea breeze. The hills seemed to emulate waves, tumbling into valleys, before sharpening to mountains further north. Olive’s home was nestled in the bosom of a valley, sheltered by a huddle of pines and freshened by the river. The river dutifully ran its course from mountains to seas, feeding the source from which the hills summoned their zephyrs. Ever ambivalent, the river gave as easily as it took. Its constant water supply was essential, providing life for the inhabitants of the countryside and cities alike. As Olive entered Avondale, a delicate, unplanned collection of cottages and a few local shops, governed by a single road which wound through the moorland from seas to sierras, she slowed to a walk. It wouldn’t do to be spotted running. Avonvale was one of those dreadfully intimate villages, in which everyone knows one another too well, and with any mishap, you’d quickly become subjected to the cruelties of village gossip. Biting her tongue as she passed through the main section of the village, Olive followed the slim snicket leading to that one faulty fence panel in the Enver sisters’ back garden. She slipped through, unnoticed except by one inquisitive tabby cat. Lily, Olive’s twin sister, would be home — it was a Sunday, the religious day of rest the older twin respected as though she were truly devout. “At least one of us has to keep up appearances,” Lily told Olive several years ago when the latter questioned why she was so lazy on the last day of the weekend. “Though I can’t exactly cover for you.” The twins, though alike in the hazel shade of their eyes, scarcely had much else in common. Lily’s honey-blonde hair made her a dead-ringer for their dead mother, while Olive’s golden-bronze locks were more reminiscent of their dead father. Not that they had many references to go by except grainy photographs and faint memories from their earliest days on Earth. Their grandparents, having raised the two practically from birth, had filled the girls’ heads with fantastical images of their parents — painting them as living receptacles of joy. Though Olive felt that was one whole big lie the first time she visited their adjacent graves. *** Olive burst through the backdoor, kicking off her hiking boots which were heavy with mud. “Lily!” She shouted but was met by Gatsby, their russet mongrel. He wagged his tail, tongue lolling, knowing his presence would bring showers of adoration. “Not right now, Gatz.” Olive hung her satchel on a coat hook, keeping her gathered goods away from the dog’s curious nose. She’d sort out her finds later — when the protective cloak of dusk drew around the village. “Lil! Lily?” “What’s wrong?” Lily wandered through to the hallway, totally unconcerned by her sister’s frantic tone of voice. “I had a vision, while I was out in the woods.” Lips pursed, Lily’s eyebrows climbed up her forehead. Doubt clouded her eyes, as it always did. “It’s something to do with the river,” Olive hesitated. She watched as Lily set the copper kettle on the Aga hob to boil. “Go on.” She busied herself with mugs, filling one with coffee and the other with herbal tea. Olive tried her best to ignore her sister’s scepticism and let her eyes drop shut, transporting her back to the woods. The whispers of spirits in the trees had beckoned her attention as she’d tried to relax into the boughs of that oak tree. The mutterings of the trees’ weakening leaves had mimicked the river, brushing against one another to imitate the brook’s insistent babbling. Olive turned her attention to the river. She thought of the rain pelting the river every autumn, filling the river to the brink of overflowing. The water rushing against the banks — those constructed by man as a defence to the river’s power often useless against the overflows. She couldn’t find an answer. “Did you check the river?” Lily asked, betraying her assumed position of doubt with a slight tone of curiosity. Olive, eyes now open wide, shook her head. She swallowed. “I… I didn’t think to. It’s always there, after all. I just knew I needed to get home.” “What for?” “To warn you.” “Warn me of what?” No matter how much the older sister wished Olive would stop this nonsense, she couldn’t deny her twin’s uncanny gift. “All I know is that you’re in some sort of danger.” She rubbed her forehead. Lily forced a laugh and turned to pour the water. “You’re the one with the dangerous job, Ol. You know how people talk.” Olive opened her mouth to retort, only to be interrupted by a bird crashing into the kitchen windowpane, startling both sisters. With matching frowns, they rushed out, remembering to leave Gatsby locked inside. Olive cradled her hands around the outspread wings of the ink-black crow who lay motionless on their patio.  Lily crouched beside her, and the two shared a look of fear. The crow wasn’t breathing and, pressing her fingers against its breast, she felt the still void. Olive looked across to her sister and shook her head softly, unable to conceal her shock. “Let’s bury him,” Lily suggested. They carried him over to the flowerbed, where dead flowers left damp earth exposed. Olive held the bird while Lily parted the soil to create a grave, protecting him from preying cats. An echoing of dull thuds demanded the sisters’ attention. They stood, matching frowns etched into their foreheads, to watch countless more birds plummeting to their graves. So many they wouldn’t have the garden space to bury them all. A murder of crows. Olive almost could’ve laughed at the irony. *** With quaking fingers, Olive unwrapped her previously gathered specimens, before decanting them into old jam jars. Anticipation hadn’t stopped brewing in her stomach since the demise of the birds earlier that evening. Her apothecary, set up in the drafty garden shed at the bottom of the sisters’ garden, was the only man-made place where Olive felt grounded. Shelves lined the walls, home to jars and dried plants and pestles and mortars. The dark blue paint, illuminated by the bare bulb dangling from the ceiling, was cracked, though Olive hadn’t the time nor the energy to repaint the shed. A workbench was set up against one of the walls and was constructed of the same worn oak as the two chairs Olive kept in there — one for herself when she didn’t fancy standing as she worked, and the other for any visitors. Despite modern advancements in medicine, there were always those who preferred older forms of healing. While Lily’s official position as the village pharmacist was greatly revered, Olive still received a steady stream of customers clamouring for eases to their ailments. Even as children, the Enver sisters had differed in their interests — with Lily insisting she play nurse at home for her grandmother, and Olive joining her grandfather and their old red setter on hunts and scavenging trips deep into the forest. The whispers about Olive had only begun once her grandfather had passed on, no longer there to shield the girl from her neighbours’ subtle accusations. Many villagers saw Olive as possessing a talent darker than healing, and though Olive had some form of insight, her actions were never malevolent. People still went to her apothecary, nonetheless. Though did so in private, in dusky hours of near darkness to conceal the fact they visited the village healer. It was only in daylight that hearsay travelled the grapevines of Avonvale prattle. Lies and dread weighed on Olive, though she was defenceless against them. *** The next day, Avonvale was rife with uproar, teeming with people in the streets. Typically, most villagers kept to themselves, with only a few busybody gossipmongers. Yet when an unanticipated occurrence disrupted Avonvale’s way of life, chaos erupted like a fresh spring bursting from the earth. Olive awoke at the break of dawn, with dread clenching and unclenching her heart with every beat. She’d felt an acute yet indecipherable sense of change in the air. Telling her sister over breakfast, Lily dismissed Olive’s suspicion as sleep deprivation. It was true Olive hadn’t been sleeping well for the last week, though she couldn’t ignore the anticipation numbing her limbs. After Lily had gone to work, Olive positioned herself next to the home landline. If she went out to her apothecary, she’d miss the phone ringing, and she knew her sister too well to underestimate how desperate Lily would be to flaunt any new-garnered insight. Olive picked up on the second shrill, impatience prickling her limbs. “Lily?” She dialled down the radio, silencing Queen’s latest hit. God knows I want to break free— “Olive. You won’t believe how busy everybody in the village is. I’ve only just got a chance to call you.” “What’s happening?” She chewed her lip, knowing she’d snapped at her sister. “The harvest, from the surrounding farms and fields… Olive, it’s—” “Failed,” the younger twin finished. She swallowed, hard. It did nothing to displace the lump in her throat. “I’ll speak to you later…” Lily was distracted, already greeting another customer while hanging up. Olive’s hands shook. She had to get out of the house. Hoping to dispel her sickening fear, Olive laced up her walking boots, then located her father’s old hunting jacket and her satchel, before escaping through the back door. She slipped out through the ever-handy broken slat, squeezing past her apothecary, ignoring her promise to dedicate her day to healing. Whispers followed her, so she veered out of the village and found another way into the woods, away from prying eyes. Following a path lesser known, though well-trodden by Olive, she felt the woods open to her. The trees appeared to curve around her, their crispening leaves letting fractions of sunlight fall upon her hair, warming her bones. Her peace didn’t last long. She stopped in her tracks at the sight of the river. The river was drought-depleted, devoid of the usual seasonal torrent. The river had dwindled to a meagre trickle, more of a stream than a river. In the wide basin of the riverbed, the water was a child playing dress-up in her father’s, or perhaps her grandfather’s coat. Sun-baked silt and a dusting of leaves did nothing to forgive the dreadful sight of depletion. Olive sucked a breath in her through her teeth. This was what she’d felt was wrong — the lack of rainfall had gone largely unnoticed by the others enjoying the unprecedented Indian summer, yet in nature, every action has an equal reaction. There hadn’t been a day in Olive’s twenty-six-and-a-half years of life that the river had run dry — the thought itself was hardly plausible. As terrible as the dry river was, she couldn’t help but feel there was worse to come — further damage her village would have to suffer. *** A vicious wind chased Olive home, sending leaves scattering around the woods. As opposed to calming her, the woods had further worried Olive. For the first time in as long as she could remember, she’d been unsuccessful in gathering anything for her apothecary. Mushrooms were corrupted with black speckles, tree bark was ridden with woodlouse, and nettles had wilted to useless green crisps. Some of that could be explained, or at least excused, by the drought. But even the plants resistant to changes in rainfall were damaged almost beyond recognition. Though the night was coming on quickly, Olive convinced Lily to walk Gatsby in the woods with her. It was Lily’s turn to walk him, and she was grateful for Olive’s company. Olive tugged at her turtleneck sweater, holding the ends as she slipped her coat on, though not fast enough to avoid Lily’s gaze. “What did you do to your arm?” She reached for her sister, though Olive was already rushing out the back door, Gatsby clipped onto a lead. “It’s fine, Lil. I only burnt it on the stove.” Olive omitted the fact the pain had torn through her, even though it was only a light scald. They left their garden through the broken fence pane, much to Lily’s annoyance. She kept meaning to get it fixed but didn’t want to risk upsetting Olive. A dark figure at the end of the path between the backs of neighbouring cottages caught their attention. Lily smacked her flashlight to life and swung it towards the shape. Pearlescent twin moons shone back at them, the eerie eyes of the black wolf-like creature chilling the girls. Gatsby let out a half-hearted bark, though didn’t tug at his lead. “Come on,” Olive spoke first, pushing down the rising nausea as she took her sister’s arm and pulled her away. “It’s probably just a stray dog.” Neither believed her words. They hurried towards the woods with wits sharpened. Above, the sky hung heavy, bruised with the threat of storms — hurrying the girls faster through the trees, hardly letting Gatsby stop to mark a tree trunk. Lily led the way for a change, and Olive was pulled along absently. In a moment of forgetfulness, they missed the turn which would take them across a field and loop back home. Uneasiness rocketed through Olive as she found herself face-to-face with the pumping station’s valve house. An ugly grey square wedged between carpeted green mounds of earth, it seemed to loom up in front of them. “They’re playing god with that place.” Lily shook her head, voicing Olive’s thoughts. “It’s wrong having it so close to our village.” Halfway through nodding in agreement, Olive froze solid, limbs rigid. A bright flash blinded her vision as if Zeus himself had hurled a thunderbolt in front of her — right onto the valve house. Wordless, Olive took off. Then she was running through the woods and forgetting about her sister and dog. Lily shouted after her, though Olive’s ears were deaf to anything apart from the metallic roars ricocheting around her head. The trees blurred past as she stayed true to her course: straight to the village. She rushed through, grabbing passers-by and insisting on words they didn’t want to hear. “The pumping valve house is in danger,” she claimed as she shook a startled woman, before crossing the street and repeating her words to a wide-eyed young couple. “Disaster. Danger. Please listen.” No one listened, disturbed by her and brushing her off as they would a moth. She finally made her way to Avonvale Church, skirting past the village hall’s sewing group. Surely the priest would listen. Olive entered, panting, frenzied from rushing around and from being dismissed. She tried to calm her shaky breath but to no avail. “What is the matter, child?” Father Jude called out as he passed the empty pews to greet her in the centre of the aisle, distilling the stifling air of the high-ceilinged space. “Something is going to happen at the pumping station — at the valve house, Father.” She forced out the paternal name, though it felt foreign and heavy. “I was just out in the woods with my sister and… I feel like something terrible is going to happen there. I don’t know what exactly, and I don’t know when, but you must listen to me.” The priest nodded as if listening, though his words indicated otherwise. “I understand your fear, child, but the pumping station is good for this community, and for every other community in this area. Before the station, failed harvests like this year were common. For the most part, the station and the weir have supplied Avonvale and our surrounding farms with more than enough water.” “Father, I don’t have a problem with the station, or any of that.” Olive shook her head insistently. “It’s not about me, or about the station — it’s about what will happen there. Something horrible.” Disregarding her, he continued, “There’s a visit happening at the valve house tomorrow, the water company are demonstrating the workings to some locals. There’s nothing to fear, Olive.” He took on the tone as if speaking to a petulant child. “The people in control of the station know what they’re doing. They’re very capable and very qualified. You mustn’t worry — or get anyone else worried, for that matter.” “No, you must listen to me,” she implored even as the priest put an arm around her shoulder and led her towards the church’s doors. “I’ve seen it. I know something will happen… You don’t want people to get hurt, do you?” “Olive Enver, you would do well to respect this institution and not talk of such dark forces.” His tone was now stern and disciplinary. Mouth open, ready to retort, Olive turned to him only to have the heavy oak doors closed in her face. *** Having found the time of arrival for the visit to the pump house, Olive walked out through the woods the following morning. She had no intention of being near the valve house, though she followed the river down in that direction. She’d ignored Lily’s interrogations and left Gatsby at home, where they’d be safe. There was no point in trying to explain things to her; no one else had listened to Olive, so why would her sister? A sudden tremor quaked through the earth, forcing Olive to the ground. Her fingers dug into the pine needles and leaf litter, bracing herself as she looked across the river. The valve house was obscured by trees, though Olive knew the earth well — that was where the tremor had originated from. Another shockwave shuddered the ground beneath her, and the roar of an explosion reached her ears — accompanied by screeched cries as if helpless creatures were trapped under a fallen tree. Nature cried too; birds alighting from their nests and leaves raining from the sturdiest of branches. Olive closed her eyes and felt the hurt of the people, of the woods. Hannah Cochrane is a 20-year-old English Literature & Creative Writing student, based in the north of England. She mostly writes prose, though occasionally dabbles in poetry too. Her favourite genre to write is YA, with supernatural twists - though she loves exploring a whole range of genres. While she’s mostly focusing on her degree, she dreams of one day publishing her longer works and pursuing a career in journalism. She has had work published in Swim Press, Midsummer Mag and Seasonal Fruits Mag.

by Maria Santos words on surviving we, flesh and bone creatures, seek for blood in the veins we, intense spirits, build the scenarios we, passionate idiots, frolic on the grass when the sun is settling down and all our thoughts are washed out we, real nature’s proofs, had become the nemesis of our own kind we, blind lovers, pick the darkest wine and heartbreaks to resign from when the sun hides and the moon is shimmering we are all running gasping for breath not air searching for agreements not answers begging for forgiveness not politeness loving for life not happiness is there a purpose? there is no flame, but I can see the candles burning and melting in soft layers of red, like that hope we have for ourselves we are told the objectification of affection will meet us right in the end of the line we call a complex life the ports full of movement, but there is not a single boat. so we stay afloat and wait for the next wave to take us somewhere. if we rely on world’s instruments, are we really the owners of our future plot? can we expect something so authentic and brutal that we created under our reality of consequence? so we ask, still afloat, is there a purpose? efemero overseers of passion, we’re the secretaries, sitting behind the desks of loud and heavy expectation our chins rest on the palm of our unsteady hands, the ones who hug each other when there’s nothing else to hold the bittersweet taste of life itself is what we put on our lips before opening them breathing is like feeling the acid of the fruits we picked, fresh or rotten growing is thinking your clothes are inside out, and eventually realizing you’re wearing them the right way learning is precisely loving to know something, without ever needing it after all, since the time when angels dreamt of us, we are these ethereal sculptures, made of curves, scars, intensity, craving, softness and loss so let your chest rise and fall, like the leaves let go of the tree branches, like the sunlight looks for an entrance, like the dreams invade our sleep, because time is not one of condescendence Maria Santos, also known as Mils, is a student, who finds comfort in creative writing, reading and deepening their knowledge about what surrounds them. Their dream is to study medicine, but writing whenever they please is truly essential on their daily basis.

by Ayyub Hassain Was I someone that was always wrecking your peace? Did I have to be an unavoidable casualty? Do you not think of me every time you breathe? You needed a future without me Now you have peace We haven’t texted in a couple weeks I actually believed you’d keep up with me You’re having fun with your homies I’m in the blacked-out sections of all your stories I can only see you through your saturated pictures But you haven’t posted since you pulled the trigger Now I’m in a dark tunnel waiting for the light to flicker My hand you touched now feels like a blister You never knew that you brought a heart back to life You never knew that I wanted you to be mine Now you’ve become a star in the sky While you become another cause to my strife Is it fun out there living close to the ocean sea? Is the tropical air better to breathe? You never needed a future without me Because I was someone that always wrecked your peace Ayyub Hussain is a Pakistani-Canadian writer. His work has been previously published in Justice for Society magazine, Surge Ontario, and the Poetry Institute of Canada. When Ayyub's not writing, he is either listening to music or spending time with his loved ones.

by Afra Ahmad Afra Ahmad is a writer, poet, artist and calligrapher. Based in Taiwan, she holds a Bachelor's degree in English Literature. She writes about everything under the sun: from dark issues of the society to problems faced by teenagers to imparting chunks of wisdom through her poems, stories and write-ups. Her works have appeared in various magazines including Iman collective, MYM, Rather Quiet, Ice Floe Press, Olney Magazine, The Malu Zine, The Sophon Lit, Blue Minaret, Melbourne Culture Corner, Her Hearth Magazine, The Hot Pot Magazine, Ghudsavar magazine, Eunoia Review, Alternate Route, Ink In Thirds, Porch Lit, Zhagaram Literary Magazine, Broken Spine Collective, Duck Duck Mongoose Magazine, Afterpast Review, Unlikely Stories, Rewrite the Stars, Spillwords Press, A Thin Slice of Anxiety Magazine.

by Vasundhara Singh Meow. The neighborhood cat, Meow, on her morning hunt. Her charged claws tearing the air into invisible shreds, her gurgling screams like water boiling on high flame, the falsetto of her sadism, screeching and trembling. Meow, on her morning hunt, a vision of mundane mutilation. The children in their creased pajamas thundered out their front doors, their puffy eyes captured by the ordinary violence of faux wildlife. The claws swished, the paws thwacked, the nails hooked, the whiskers quivered, the slimy silver-streaked tail of the sewage snake slithered its last slither and froze. It hung like an extension cord from the blood-splattered mouth of Meow. Anita witnessed this tragedy from her bedroom window, her arms folded over her ballooning belly and a few hours later, as she sits surrounded by a sanitized group of civil servants and their sweet-talking wives, it’s all she can think about, it’s all she wants to think about. Meow. An afternoon garden party, they call it, a rendezvous of misery. Anita sits behind the sympathetic convex of her pregnant belly, oozing from every pore of her stretched surface, drops of sweat and nervousness. It’s early April, late spring. The semi-circle arrangement of cane chairs and tables is decorated with sugar speckled biscuits, fine china fuming with dancing vapours of masala tea, quarter plates of lethargically chewed spring rolls and the starch filling of samosas. The painted faces and mustachioed mouths grunt with jealousy, form O’s of wonder, snicker at falling servants, spill stories of their offspring entering law colleges and sometimes, rarely, become still with silence. She drives her sight from one mouth to the next in search of this stillness. Every time she spots an unmoving mouth, she sighs, but with a blink of her lids, the mouth stirs and storms with emotion, and she oozes some more. Lips trained in English medium schools. Ears filled with a stream of English words. Heads nodding in agreement with other English heads. Keep nodding, Anita tells herself. A large serving of fish fingers is being passed around with bowls of bright tartar sauce and a sour black liquid. Faces turn from one side to the next, working in tandem with hands that seem to exist for this very purpose. The smell of sea and salt travels parallel to the unifying smell of expensive perfume. One perfume, multiple bodies. ‘Here,’ Mrs Sen hands over the plate to Mrs Rehman. ‘Thank you, Mrs Sen. Oh, this smells lovely,’ Mrs Rehman passes the plate to Mrs Rajshri. ‘Thank you, Mrs Rehman. Kamaal hai! The arrangements are just wow!’ Mrs Rajshri to Mrs Guggal. ‘Thank you, Mrs Rajshri. Here, Mrs Singh, do you eat fish?’ Mrs Guggal to Anita. Anita nods a vague ‘yes’ and picks up the smallest piece of crumbling phallic fish. Her pelvis shifts under the weight of her torso, and she adjusts herself on the chair and passes the plate to a grateful Mrs Kaur. ‘How are you feeling?’ Mrs Guggal says. How are you feeling? Anita repeats the question in her head. She excuses herself and leaves for the bathroom, all marble and brass-framed mirrors. Achi hun? Badhiya? Sahi? Pareshan? Thaki hui? Ghabrayi hui? uff! She stands before the mirror and stares at the melting visage of her damp and dusty front, coming up with all the answers to Mrs Guggal’s question but none that will work for they are all in Hindi and ever since she attended Gupta academy for English speaking, she recognises occasions where one’s native tongue is sealed off. An afternoon garden party is one such occasion. How are you? At Gupta academy for English speaking, she memorised the standard responses to this greeting. The answers applicable to most situations, to most people. I am fine, thank you. How are you? I am good, thank you. How are you? I am keeping well— But Mrs Guggal asked her a different question. How are you feeling? The first three words, familiar and cozy but the fourth, feeling. Feeling. Feeling. Feeling.This is a serious question, one that warrants a serious response, she concludes. She can respond with silence. Yes, say nothing at all—wait! Did silence have a language? What language will Mrs Guggal attribute her silence to? Or, she can tilt her head to one side, squint her right eye, raise her left brow, bite one end of her lower lip. Will this suggest that Anita feels too little or feels a little too much? The expression suggests the withholding of information, intimate and controversial, not conducive for revelation at an afternoon garden party. I am feeling good—no, she isn’t, and it is too simple. I am feeling pregnant and good—okay, hm. I am feeling sweaty and pregnant and good — no, no one likes to hear the word sweat. I am feeling—what will her husband say to this?—wait, she hasn’t asked him. I am feeling—a knock on the door, Mrs Rajshri drank too many glasses of sherbet—I am feeling theek thak! No, not Hindi, Anita. Oh god, what is theek thak in English? Another knock, Mrs Rajshri begs. As she makes her way along the stone pathway, she notices Mrs Guggal glaring at her. For a panicked second, she thinks her belly, red and purple and green, is naked and vulnerable, but when she looks down, she finds it hidden under the stiff satin of her sari. She sees, instead, another disconcerting sight and her swollen feet wobble like jelly. Between her finger and thumb dangles the crumbling phallic form of the fish. It has been with her all along, an eleventh finger. ‘I—um,’ she says. Meow, her mind echoes. Mrs. Guggal rolls her eyes and slaps Anita’s tectonic knee.‘Arey! Hota hai...jab main pregnant thi...patah nahi kitne ajeeb kaam kiye honge,’ she says. She comforted her in the language Anita inherited from her mother. She drops the fish onto the grass, her fingers stained with mustard oil. Vasundhara Singh is a graduate of Journalism from Kamala Nehru college, Delhi University. Alumina of City University of London’s Novel Studio programme, she is one of the winners of City Writes Spring 2021.

by Anshi “I will always be afraid of forgetting. “When I was younger, I was afraid of sleeping in the car for two reasons. The first was because I thought I’d disfigure my face in a horrible accident; the accident remained an overwhelming burst of fire akin to that of a TV set explosion in my dreams, jet streams of oil running down my sleep heavy body as it hung limp over my seatbelt. We would crash into a large transport truck—or so I speculated—and I would be asleep so I’d remain oblivious to my mauled face, the wall of flame amplifying cries of anguish, and the puddle of sticky blood dissolving into gasoline tracking a slimy trail through the gutters. I often sat back in my seat as my eyelids began to close, shaking myself awake with the vision of what my pores would look like when they screamed against my burnt brown skin. I forgot to account for the smoke, sometimes, and the absence of smoke scarred me on long car trips more than the fierce gales accompanying thunderstorms we often encountered on our way to the beach. I am rooted to my memories. “The second reason I couldn’t sleep in the car was a reason cultivated from ingrained instinct: prediction. What if I won’t make it back to the house ever again? I still grow patches of stories to feed my undying anxiety, keeping my posture ramrod straight so the world cannot break my spine into clean halves. If worst comes to worst, what should I take with me? I replayed the same scenario in my head while confined to the accursed car seat, rerunning moments of indecision, hardwiring my memory to circumnavigate through the same situation via a series of planned events. I would take my favorite books, the cat lamp my grandmother gave me for my fifth birthday, my new phone, and the pack of ‘be your own feminist’ stickers my aunt had bought me for my tenth birthday that I was ‘saving for later.’ On my way down the stairs—or if the fire or quake or firework gone awry happened to originate or amalgamate in my bedroom, I planned to crawl under the debris by keeping my figure slimmer than the average skeleton—I would take the steps two at a time to avoid getting caught in the toe with a protruding nail or other bit of shrapnel. “In my sleep, whenever a spasm caught me off guard as silent scenery whirred past me while strapped into my car seat, I jolted awake, feeling around my seat and my surroundings for a grasp on my senses. I melted into the rough fabric of my plastic-formed seat, the smell of caramel candies my sister would be sucking on, and the abandoned laundromat overlooking the steady rush of traffic. “The lists came soon after my memory traumas extended beyond the average road trip. First, however, came the thunder and diaries. “Every time a flash of thunder chanced my bedroom window, I flew out of bed before the deafening crack, clutching one of my mother’s tote bags for dear life as I listened for the soft rustles inside the bag. My books, phone, stickers, and a photo of my family in case I would never see them again. I didn’t leave the room, my emergency plan stripped of all logical reasoning and abandoned at my feet as I sat with my back to the closet with the monsters, trembling because I had already lost. “Soon after, I decided to clean my closet and stumbled upon a collection of journals bound by a single thread of twine and empty sandpaper pages. The world is too vast, the duration of my existence too fleeting. I trembled at the thought of losing my connection with the world, its veiny thread awarded to another individual, halfway across the globe consisting of seven million flesh beings. “In that magnified moment, I decided to gather them in my hands and sweep them to the center of my room. I collected them and wrote a sentence in each every day, documenting a single aspect of my existence I deemed memorable from each twenty-four hour time block. The smell of gasoline reminds me of our old home; it always smelled like rubber and sometimes the herbs from our neighbors’ home where she did tai chi in the morning. “I wrote the lists in these journals, too. They took up more time, scavenging through lost time and peeling back layers of  fading memory. I’d read a book and find the words I didn’t understand, or the words I’d read before countless times but forgot the meanings of. Then, I would make a list of their definitions in the waxy journals, the twine snapping its hold on my loose inscriptions so they danced around me, effortless in their recall, in their documentation. I shoved these journals into my emergency tote bag, pushing their crisp edges to the bottom of my carved ocean. On the nights when thunder appeared on our horizons in bright, silent flashes, I slept with the bulging bag on my bed, setting alarms in five minute increments. The next day at school, I counted the smoothed white bricks dancing across our walls, the amount of tiles I stepped on that day, or the amount of steps I had taken in total. I managed to convince myself the numbers soothed me. Perhaps that is the problem—the self-manipulation, the self-destruction.” I do not know the woman sitting across from me in her leather-backed chair, cerulean blue glasses, and kind eyes with faint creases framing her angular face. She’s pretty, severe, and professional, as I can determine using menial strategies and basic cognition, but I will never know her story. I may document certain aspects of her life, but her life will be hers to command and remember, and one cannot afford to fail such a duty to their body, to their elevated soul. To dispel her quiet gaze, I cycle through the same facts I wrote on the palm of my hand. I am twenty-four years old, and I cannot face the world if I don’t count to a thousand within the confines of my room, because sometimes I forget number 20. I walk with a limp on purpose; I tell myself I am limping so I can force myself to slow down, to ingest the world and understand what makes it tick. Every night, when there isn’t a severe thunderstorm and I have to drag out the tote bag, I sit on my bed and wait. In these abstracted vessels of time, I forget my name. When I reach that point in my descent, I weep, because I forget numbers when I count. If someone asked me to name three countries in Africa, I’d falter before responding. The faltering sends me into spasms. The woman across from me will not understand my ailment, though she might cure its impossible presence settling around me like a choking fog. She hands me a waxy, leather-bound journal with flowers engraved onto the front cover. Our time is almost over. She pulled the journal from thin air, commanding the atoms around her to part ways for my cure. I receive it in my paunchy hands, and move my eyes up from the creased pages. My new therapist speaks for the second time since our session started. “I want you to tell me why. Write it down in one sentence,” she hands me a pencil, “and the sentence must speak for itself.” Her instruction sends a chill up my spine, twanging as if I am a screwed-over instrument. My sweat clings to the pencil; the one-syllable question sending tremors spiking through my knees. I forgot. Anshi is a high schooler from Maryland who has work published in several literary magazines such as the Eunoia Review, LEVITATE, and Mobius Lit. When she’s not writing, Anshi enjoys reading while drinking (too much) coffee and listening to music.

by Ben Davies Therapy for Therapists Helping Hearts & Minds 245 San Mateo St San Francisco, CA Client Name: Wayne Johnson Client DOB: 09/14/1975 Date: 11/07/2023 Start Time: 17:03 End Time: 17:58 Client’s Subjective Concerns/Chief Complaint: “I feel bored right now. That’s the flat-out truth. I think I always need that something exciting and I ain’t sure I got it.” Client noted concerns about his mood, urges to isolate from his romantic partner. Clinical Observations: Client sat in a hunched position upon the beginning of the session. Client appeared dishevelled, which is unusual for him, and a marked change since last session. Therapist observed client might be under the influence of alcohol as evidenced by his thought process. Issues and Stressors Discussed/Session Description: Client discussed experiencing increased difficulty with his romantic relationship, following an argument with his romantic partner. Left him feeling dissatisfied in his relationship, exacerbated by appearance of a new individual in his life who seems to show a romantic interest in him, something that has troubled client. Interventions/Methods Provided: Discussion of symptoms, more counselling, identification and exploration of emotions. No medication. Assessment: Client’s endorsed symptoms and presentation show little signs of depression. Life dissatisfaction is more likely due to the impact of his romantic relationship and the pressure of his job. Plan: Client has committed to having productive conversations with romantic partner and not ignoring her needs. Client has also committed to getting more help to reduce the demands and stress of his current job. Clinician Signature: Michael Walker You’ve heard this one before, too many times. Copy and paste, just with a different client digging their nails into the seat. The middle age dissatisfaction, the pressures of a career, the various strains on a relationship and then bam, the exciting new person magics onto the scene and chaos duly follows. It’s almost like you get one every year, invariably always lost males. A tale as old as time and here it is again rearing its serpent head, Wayne the latest to fall. He’d mentioned this Mia before of course and even from the very first time you’d sensed she was someone to keep note of. Over the following sessions Mia then continued appearing, each time with a bit more mental weight behind her whilst simultaneously Jazmine, his wife, was talked about more and more negatively. It was like a set of scales that over time changed balance. As one side comes up the other goes down. That’s just how it was. You knew that, of course. After all you’d experienced it first hand, just from the other side. You’ve been seeing Wayne for a good five years now, one of the many too wealthy clients you gave therapy to in and around the Bay. Wayne was a little different from the rest though. Whereas literally every other client you had was white, largely because most people search for a therapist that reflects themselves because they think they might be able to understand their issues and experiences better, Wayne was black. He was black and not only was he black, his dad was an ex-Panther, Jazmine worked for a non-profit in Oakland fighting black oppression whilst Wayne himself had aspirations to be Mayor of Oakland running on a very politicised campaign. From the start you flagged this as an issue and awkwardly said you might not be the right fit, listing other reasons alongside the main one you skirted. Wayne ignored them all. At your first meeting he told you, this is your job man, and that he very purposely sought you out because he wanted to understand the psyche of the standard white guy. This you told him was a bit of an insult and also not the point of therapy, in fact it was the opposite. That you were there to help him, not act as a case study. To that he slammed his hand down on the table and said, exactly, this is exactly what I’m talking about. We haven’t even started yet and damn, here it is. And so your therapy began though you never talk about race, only about life. About jobs, about relationships, about kids, though over time you realised that race played into every single one of them, something you were depressingly ignorant of before, and you began to understand a bit better why Wayne chose you. Not that you give him any details about your own life, that was therapy 101, but your life comes through in your questions, in your responses and your reactions, a counterpoint to his experiences. The scales once again. Where Wayne does see a more direct value with your services right now is with this Mia, who was also white and who he hoped you might better understand. So you try to unlock her train of thought for him, though the psyche of a white women in her twenties is even more remote and in reality every second you spend talking about Mia, your mind is being dragged back to your own Mia-like conundrum. The one that finished with the car crash end of your marriage. See, for Wayne’s Mia, you had Dylan f-ing Jones, the man wonder himself. Only Wayne was in the role of Sarah, your wife, and Dylan was Mia and you were Jazmine left on the side. You wish it had been the other way round. That you had been in the alpha-Wayne position making all the calls, deciding who to love, but inevitably that was never your card to draw. Instead for you it was Sarah and Dylan f-ing Jones popping up in practically every conversation you shared. Dylan who burst onto the scene at exactly the wrong time in your relationship and wreaked havoc in the kernels of your brain. A jealousy you were unable to contain. Even now, six months later, sessions like this with Wayne bring it all back. Suddenly Dylan’s face is right there again like a dart flying straight for your forehead. Dylan with his Ginsburg glasses, his flowing, dark hair and deep blue eyes. Dylan with his pseudo-celebrity History Channel career and adventurous academic past. Dylan with just his name, Dylan, which meant a set of parents who combed the hippy fields in the seventies looking for daisies to string round their neck compared to your accountant bore of a father. Why he had had a thing for your Sarah, why he pursued your wife instead of all the millions of women who no doubt fawned after him, only added to the frustration. It’s not like Sarah was a knock-out. Sure, she is funny, smart and beautiful in an intelligent kind of way, but you thought you were the only person who saw that. It’s why the whole thing took you so much by surprise and made you act like you did. It all kicked off with Sarah’s new job, she the producer to Dylan Jones’s award winning Discovering Fidel show. Just the fact that he was presenting a show on Fidel Castro was enough to highlight your stark differences. In one end it was you, Mr Play-by-the Rules with your school pick ups, your sudoku before bed and your intermediate Spanish, whilst in the other was Indiana Jones reborn with his books about revolutionaries, his second home on the beaches of Mexico and his death defying tales involving murderous priests down in the Bolivian jungle. How does one even compete with that kind of person? Instead all you could do was moan to Jenni, your ex-nanny, every time his face came on screen. Able to say all the things to her you couldn’t say to Sarah because Jenni actually listened. You felt heard by her which couldn’t have been said about Sarah, who if she wasn’t distracted by Dylan then she was by her job and then by Sam, your little boy. You were a pitiful last on that list. Last to get any attention. And it was all that that broke down your marriage. Her actions, not yours, as she lit up all your insecurities and treated you with such neglect which led to a series of unavoidable consequences that had you where you were now. A situation Wayne could be in shortly if he didn’t sort things out fast. Date: 11/14/2023 Start Time: 17:02 End Time: 17:59 Client’s Subjective Concerns/Chief Complaint: “It ain’t easy being me. Doing what I do. This helps keep my mind off that.” Client shared stress of his professional life and how he is distracted by new individual in his life. Clinical Observations: Client appeared more content this week, more alert and engaged in the session. A new energy and purpose shown by the way he sat in his chair and spoke. Issues and Stressors Discussed/Session Description: Less issues and stressors as client discussed how getting extra help in his professional life has helped his romantic. Interventions/Methods Provided: Discussion of symptoms, more counselling, identification and exploration of emotions. No medication. Assessment: Client’s endorsed symptoms and presentation show little signs of depression. Life dissatisfaction similar to last week, though improvements suggest progress Plan: Client will continue getting help in his work. Client wants to continue conversations with new individual and is convinced that is right course of action. Therapist does not tell him otherwise. Clinician Signature: Michael Walker Wouldn’t be good for his mayoral campaign, disastrous even, especially because of his race which is the shit reality of the day. These things always come out in the end, but Wayne knows that. He’s a smart man, smarter than you. It’s not your job to tell him what to do, you’re just there to listen. To listen and tell him you understand. Other therapists are more direct than you, give advice. Some even give their clients a step by step of what to do. You’ve always been the gentler type. A nodder. Quiet man they say, but that’s only around people you don’t know. Sarah used to nag at you to find more friends. That you needed a different outlet as if that was the problem in your relationship and not Dylan f-ing Jones. Go out and meet some people, she’d crow, as if finding male friends in your forties was the easiest thing in the world. I’ve found loads, she’d brag, ignoring the fact they were all work colleagues or linked to work colleagues whereas you worked alone out of the rented office two miles down the road from where you used to live. After her pressure became overbearing you gave Bumble meet-ups a go, swiping your way through the city. It just made you feel rotten. Every single man you saw on there either worked in tech or was into gaming which was the last thing you wanted. Not your scene. But you’re weren’t looking for friends anyway. You just wanted your absent wife. That was enough for you and moreover, for little Sam too. Not that Sarah was having any of it when you used to ask for her to be home a bit more, for his sake and yours. And sacrifice my career, she’d grunt. Everything I’ve worked at for years, smashing down all these walls around me, to just give up because I’ve had a baby and now you want me to be a fifties housewife. Is that what you want? You wonder how much she actually spends time with Sam now, considering she got custody. The horrid irony that she got him after all you did to raise him whilst she was away flirting with Dylan f-ing Jones. You barely get to see him now, things ended that badly, and when you do there’s a distance there that she has clearly manufactured. Another resentment of yours to add to the list, especially as if it was the other way round you’d be at his side non-stop. Sam used to love all your trips around the city. Those days in Dolores park, to the MOMA, to watch the Giants. All memories he’s likely forgot now. Date: 11/21/2023 Start Time: 17:04 End Time: 17:58 Client’s Subjective Concerns/Chief Complaint: “This isn’t how I thought it would go. We were like one person once, but these days I can’t be dealing with her.” Client returned to his dissatisfaction in his romantic relationship, though it did not get him as down as before. Clinical Observations: Client appeared energised, with greater purpose, even though his romantic relationship is under duress. New individual in his life has had a clear impact, alongside growing success of his professional life. Issues and Stressors Discussed/Session Description: Client discussed how his romantic relationship is struggling. Interventions/Methods Provided: Discussion of symptoms, more counselling, identification and exploration of emotions. No medication. Assessment: Client’s endorsed symptoms and presentation show little signs of depression. Life dissatisfaction is more likely due to the impact of his romantic relationship. Plan: Client will continue getting help in his work. Client wants to continue conversations with new individual and is convinced that is right course of action. Therapist does not tell him otherwise. Clinician Signature: Michael Walker Walking out the session you feel empty. Hollow at the way he talks about Jazmine because you can only think that these are the same, sad words Sarah used too. Did she also feel turned off to come home and see you in slacks putting the kids to bed? Did she feel annoyed when you painted the sink in hair? Did she feel unhappy when she realised this was her future, forever? Every word Wayne says about Jazmine just cuts deep into you as it brings it all back. How small you felt, how little. How you retreated further and further back into a clamped, little shell. A shell you couldn’t seem to break from, which you imagine Jazmine is now locked inside too. You almost wish you could get in touch with her to talk her through what she’s going through right now instead of listening to Wayne mutilate you unknowingly. It’s almost impossible to keep your lips clamped. At times your listening persona breaks and you bark back. You can’t help yourself. It’s too personal now. Even more problematic, your questions are loaded, not the innocent therapist you’re meant to be. How do you think that makes Jazmine feel when you do that Wayne? Would something with Mia be real, long-lasting, like you have now? Do you think Jazmine deserves this? Questions you never should be asking but you can’t help yourself. As if pushing him back to Jazmine might bring Sarah back to you. And when Wayne replies there is a guilt there but also a confidence in his actions, a sense of security that he is in complete control and you’re jealous of it. Wishing you could had been that type of person instead. Date: 12/12/2023 Start Time: 16:55 End Time: 17:56 Client’s Subjective Concerns/Chief Complaint: “I feel good, alive. First time in a while. No complaints from me, life is on the up.” Clinical Observations: Client appeared energised and content with current life situation. Stark improvement from a month prior. Issues and Stressors Discussed/Session Description: Client discussed how this new individual in his life was impacting him positively. Interventions/Methods Provided: Discussion of symptoms, more counselling, identification and exploration of emotions. No medication. Assessment: Client’s endorsed symptoms and presentation show little signs of depression. Client is content and happy with support counselling gives him. Plan: Client has no plan other than a continuation of current affairs. Therapist does not tell him otherwise. Clinician Signature: Michael Walker A few weeks away from sessions and you can’t believe how much things have escalated. One day Mia was a story, a temptress in his complicated life. Now she’s a familiar feature as they’re meeting up for a coffee, “bumping” into each other on the street, messaging every day. All above board but how long before that breaks? You can tell Wayne is trying to hide his emotions, his lust, even though you should be the one person he can speak openly with. Highlights how careful he is, which you respect. Couldn’t have got this far up the political chain without it. He seems a man reborn though, a new zest in the way he carries himself and tells you his thoughts. This is no doubt influenced by his Mayoral campaign too, one that’s gathering steam at a rapid rate. This despite the fact he’s up against the self-dubbed, “White Knight”, his rival in the Democrat primaries. Zach Lawrence, with his shiny bright teeth and his endless funds due to his tech start-up. Zach Lawrence with his beautiful house, his obnoxious wealth and his bachelor life. The Bruce Wayne of Oakland they say, yet it’s your Wayne who’s rising up the polls, not Zach. It’s Wayne who is bringing in more and more followers to his aggressive socialist platform with a hint of black nationalism to boot. Not overly dissimilar to his dad’s Panther beliefs, he tells you proudly. Exactly what this city needs and even though you shouldn’t share, you tell him you completely agree. In return Wayne says, that’s good to hear Michael, this city needs more white guys like you. Then he starts listening off a load of other white guys he likes until it inevitably ends with, that guy on the History channel, the one who does loads about Latin America liberation. I’d love to meet that guy. Your throat clams up and even if you wanted to say something, you can’t. You just nod like always. Nod, nod, nodding your way into nothingness. Date: 12/19/2023 Start Time: 17:04 End Time: 17:59 Client’s Subjective Concerns/Chief Complaint: “Things are good, things are really good” Clinical Observations: Client appears completely turned around from a month prior. Happy with his current life situation, shown by the way he sat in his seat, gestured and smiled. Issues and Stressors Discussed/Session Description: Client discussed limited stressors. Interventions/Methods Provided: Discussion of symptoms, more counselling, identification and exploration of emotions. No medication. Assessment: Client is happy with current life situation even if it is precarious and could quickly fall around him. This does not seem to bother him as he lives day by day, not looking too far ahead. Plan: Client wants to keep things as they are and continue on current trajectory, wherever that leads. Clinician Signature: Michael Walker Messages here, meet ups there, the whole secrecy of an affair even though one hasn’t actually started yet. Just puts a sad mirror up to your life and how depressing it is. You weren’t born to be the exciting type, to live a life people talked about. Any attempt at that was just a facade. You think back to the day you pathetically tried to change things and add some spark into your persona. To hopefully sweep back Sarah in the process. In hindsight the whole thing just looks as painfully naive as it was painful. You had decided for once in your life to just act. To do something bold and try and gain back some of that control that Dylan f-ing Jones had stolen. So you’d ordered an Uber because where you were going you wouldn’t be driving your car back. You remember how charged you were as you skipped to the entrance to wait. That this was your moment. This was how you clawed it all back. Your marriage, your self-esteem, heck even your masculinity. This was all now. The Uber arrived quickly, a Latino called Pedro, and you scooted across the city in a flash. From then on everything was a blur, the whole transaction taking place scarily quickly. One hour later you were gliding out of the car dealership in a bright red Tesla. Reflecting now it just screams mid-life crisis but back then it felt powerful. Cruising through the hills of San Francisco in a car that made a statement. That said I am Michael and I am here. Listen to me. And for the first time in ages you had felt as if your rocket had launched. That you were worth something and the sensation was electric. Utterly electric, just like your fancy new car as you drove through the city streets on your way home, ready to surprise Sarah later that night. A car you were only able to afford because of all the money she was rolling in at her work. And on that note, an even better idea blossomed, because why hit one when you can hit two at the same time. If only hindsight were a guidance that appeared in advance. You had spoken to your car, because it could do that now, and it directed you straight to Sarah’s work for your master plan, arriving just as things were coming to a suspiciously early wrap. Adding logs to that fire, just as you glided into the parking lot you had immediately spied Sarah in a conversation with none other than Dylan f-ing Jones himself. You’d slowly crawled up to them both in what looked like quite a heated conversation. Certainly not romantic. A lovers tiff you’d deduced. Well, not on your watch. You whirred down the windows to make your entrance, your big entrance, and suddenly you were there. Face to face with the man you despised. They’d both turned and so you pinched down your shades like you’d seen in the movies so many times. Then you said, voice weirdly low, evening Sarah. For a second she had looked confused. Didn’t recognise you or the car. Then the fog cleared and she simply questioned, Michael? Ignoring her, you went straight for the reason you were there. And you must be the famous Dylan Jones, you muttered nonchalantly, pleased to meet you. You had then extended your hand out the window and offered a shake and when it was met you made sure to hold firm and let him know you were no weasel. A creature just going to lie back and let his wife be stole. Oh no, you were a man. A real man who made bold, exciting moves. When Dylan finally replied, after breaking free of your fierce shake, he did so with a question. Nice to meet you too. Sorry though, but who are you? Have we met? Have we met indeed Dylan Jones, you thought to yourself, only in all my dreams. But you didn’t say any of that of course. Instead you had lowered your voice and explained that you were Sarah’s husband, here to surprise her and pick her up from work. Sarah had then interjected at this point to say she was nowhere near finishing and now off to the office so couldn’t come home. Then she bent down to your eye level and asked, Michael, whose car is this? And as you explained you didn’t see any of the admiration you’d hoped for. None of the wide eyes you’d dreamed of at this out of the blue, so unlike you, move. Instead it was just confusion on both her and Dylan f-ing Jones’s face, which in itself made you confused. And so you had rolled quietly away, back to Jenni, Sam and Baby Shark. And when Sarah finally did make it home later that night she burst into the room and asked, what the hell was today all about, and when you went to reply you realised quite quickly that you had no idea what to say. Nasty even to think about, but all memories now. No Sarah in your life anymore, no Dylan Jones, no Jenni and barely any Sam. The only thing you have left is the red Tesla, the one remnant that stays with you forever. A sad, depressing reminder of everything that’s been and one you see far, far more than you’d like. Date: 12/26/2023 Start Time: 17:00 End Time: 18:05 Client’s Subjective Concerns/Chief Complaint: “I can’t think about anything else.” Client is nervous and excited about upcoming meeting with the new individual in his life. Clinical Observations: Client appeared agitated this week, perched on the edge of his seat. Anxiety highlighted by the way he played with his wedding ring and rubbed his fingers against each other. Issues and Stressors Discussed/Session Description: Client discussed how meeting up with new individual was causing him stress but also excitement and he wasn’t sure what that meant. Interventions/Methods Provided: Discussion of symptoms, more counselling, identification and exploration of emotions. No medication. Assessment: Client seems on edge this week, unsure of himself and what to do. Is fighting an inward battle yet seems determined to continue on with current course. Plan: Client has decided to meet with new individual in his life, despite recognising the impact it could have on his romantic relationship and professional life. Clinician Signature: Michael Walker So this is it. Wayne, after all your sessions, has made his decision. This Saturday, with Jazmine visiting her parents over the Christmas period, he has been invited round Mia’s for a meal. When he tells you this, instead of trying to talk him through the whole process and his thoughts and feeling around the event, you just feel dumbstruck. Unable not to compare it to you and Sarah. And the whole thing just makes you feel so sick and hollow. Disgusted. You hark back to when it was you. The night when the new production kicked off. This time Dylan f-ing Jones’s Who Killed Camilo Cienfuegos? The night Sarah didn’t come home. You were there waiting for her with Thai takeout but she never arrived. Instead she just sent a message saying, so sorry love, everything has overrun. We have kick-off drinks now and then they’re putting me up in a hotel. I’ll see you tomorrow. And you knew what that meant as you read the message again and again and again. And then you cried because what else could you do. And now Wayne was going to do the same, like Sarah no doubt did, whatever she says now otherwise and it makes you want to cry all over again. Date: 01/02/2024 Start Time: 17:08 I go there, anxious, walking up the stairs to her small, featureless apartment, as if something in my gut was off. Wayne is reclined back in your leather chair, staring intently at you as he speaks. And Mia is there, dressed up in this slinky, tight fitting orange dress. Her chest out and her smile glistening like some blonde-haired, blue -eyed, Margot Robbie, Barbie. And I was wowed, struggling to keep my eyes off her, but as we sat and shared a bottle of wine, I finally began to realise there wasn’t much more to this Barbie. I suddenly realised, as if a message from above, that I’d rather be back home with Jazmine in her slacks, sat on the couch watching re-runs of New Girl, than be here. It’s taken me long enough, don’t I know it. I’ve been a bad partner this past month but new year, new me, ain’t that right. How could I start this fresh year betraying the women I love. And sure, I’ve been tempted, but what was a fling when you had true love and I choose love. Love, love and love some more. I choose love. And so I cut the dinner short and ran all the way back home and waited for my Jazzy to get back. And me and Jazzy are like newlyweds again. Laughing like we’ve never laughed, fucking like we’ve never fucked. And it’s all just as well, Wayne continues to tell you, because the next day I got a card from Zach Lawrence, you know, my closest rival for the primaries, and all it said was, waste of money. See, the whole thing was a dirty, underhand tactic to get me to mess up in the run for the Mayorship and it almost worked god dammit. Mia was never into me. She was a poor pawn being used by that rich white guy probably for crazy amounts of money. The truth of it is she was a challenge sent to me. Not from Zach Lawrence, but from the Lord himself, and it’s a challenge I overcame. I’ve never been more sure of myself and I’m so darn grateful for your help for leading me there. He goes on to say that he thinks he’s going to win the Democrat Mayoral primary. That the polls are looking good, and he thanks you for that too. Wayne then breaks out into that huge, booming laugh of his and he expects you to meet it, but you can’t. Of course you should feel happy at all this. Happy that your client made the right decision. That he did the right thing. But instead you feel empty inside. Because they succeeded where you and Sarah tore apart. Wayne and Jazmine blossoming where you were trampled. They were better than you, as simple as that. And that hurts, but it also jolts another feeling in you. One of a shame. Something you’ve suppressed for a good while now because previously your actions felt justified. But hearing about Wayne saying no, not only puts a mirror up to Sarah but it also puts a big fat mirror up to what you did on that foggy night in October. The one you like to side line. Unimportant alongside Dylan f-ing Jones, but now seemingly very real and relevant. Because where Wayne decided no, you actually said yes. Wayne did not step over to the other side, but you did. Cool, popular Mayor Wayne shook his head, but awkward you, Michael the therapist, did. And him telling you all this just takes you straight back to that horrid day when you walked in your front door to find Sarah sat on the floor playing with Sam. Where’s Jenni? Why’s she not here? You had mumbled, knowing full well the answer. Sarah snorted in response, I was going to ask you the same thing. She called me this morning to say she’s quit. That she has to leave suddenly but she can’t explain why. I tried to call you but you didn’t pick up. You felt the colour flush into your face as you mumbled again, I was in session with a client. Then, she quit? Like quit, quit? Yes, Sarah replied, a bite in her tone. Did she not tell you this when you drove her back last night? What the fuck happened? And that’s it. You can’t lie to Sarah, never have been able to. And so you finally told her about how unhappy you’ve been. About not being heard, and most of all, about Dylan f-ing Jones. Let her know that you knew all about what she’s been up to and how it has ruined you. How it’s eaten you up inside and made you more jealous than you’ve ever thought possible. And she cut you short there and then and said, okay Michael, I’m listening, but how is any of this relevant to Jenni? And so you then go back to the night before. That cold, mist strewn night in October. The night you wanted to get your marriage back, to feel like a man again and get control of your life. To shape your narrative like Wayne, not have someone do it for you. And so you told her it from the start. How you had looked up an event for them in the city. How you settled on some live music, the type you used to go to when you were young and in love and laughing, and you put the event in her calendar with no chance to say no. And how that whole morning before you’d been nervous but excited too to try and pump some energy back into your relationship and finally compete with Dylan Jones. To make your story your own again. Then you tell her how when the night came she was as emotionally unavailable as ever. Polite, kind, friendly but just talking logistics and stuff with Sam and Jenni. And when the music started you put your arm round her, just like you used to, yet you felt her body shudder. And that’s when you accepted that you’d lost her. That she’d gone and Dylan Jones had won and you were the crumbs down the side of the sofa. And how that thought sat with you as you drove home and then as you drove Jenni back to hers because it was too late for her to get the BART. And then you told her about how whilst you drove Jenni you talked to her about how you were feeling, how low you felt, how down and the whole time Jenni had listened. She actually listened which no one but Jenni had done in so, so long. About how you spend your whole life listening to others, but here was someone who listened to you. Who gave you therapy without even knowing it. And then you took a pause, one breath, maybe two, and told her the final part. Told her how it was that, the whole emotional attractiveness of that combined with how low you felt and how crushed you were by Dylan f-ing Jones, that sparked your next action. See when Jenni was just about to leave the car you had turned to face her, nose to nose, and then lifted your head gently forward. Closer and closer until you could fell Jenni’s nervous, excited breath on your own lips. Then you had kissed her. Kissed her hard, with passion and with force, taking back everything she, Sarah, had stolen from you over the past months. And for a few seconds the two of you were locked in this moment of exhilaration before Jenni roughly pushed you away, no doubt just because she was worried about what problems this would cause which made sense. Then she had rushed out the car but you didn’t mind because you hadn’t felt that good in so long. Hadn’t felt that alive. And then you finished your story, thinking that was the end of it. That you’d said your piece and all was square now, failing to notice that a fire was now lit in Sarah. One that rarely ever shows. Our nanny? Our actual nanny? You kissed Jenni. My god Michael. Actually. I can’t believe it. When she finished berating you, when there was no more anger left to give, you decided to fight it. To not back down for once. Well you shouldn’t have started this. You shouldn’t have got with Dylan in the first place then none of this ever would have happened. It all stems from you. To that Sarah threw back her head and laughed. What kind of therapist are you? Like seriously? What do you even teach your clients? I don’t teach them, I listen, you reply resolutely. Then what is this, Sarah jabs back. You take a moment before the tip of a smile touches your lips. An eye for an eye, you reply before adding, just like the priest in Dylan Jones famous story. Sarah sighs despairingly. For what eye Michael? Dylan? Dylan f-ing Jones. The single most annoying man on the planet – after you that is. Michael, I can’t stand Dylan Jones. No one on set can. He’s literally unbearable. The worst. Constantly relaying stories we never ask for. Oh this one time in Bolivia, oh when I was in the Congo or Mali or Venezuela or wherever the fuck he goes. Never asking any questions, just telling, telling, telling. The fact that you thought I could be with him just shows how little you know me Michael? Dylan? I can’t even. Dumbfounded you didn’t know what to say. You were and still are convinced she was lying but you never got the chance to question it. Sarah threw you a suitcase and out you went, on the road in your Tesla like you still are now. Heading to the office because you’ve got nowhere else to go. Because that’s your home now. And while Wayne snuggles into bed tonight with his Jazmine, the man who dabbled with an affair for god knows how long, you are the one who sleeps alone. And that thought follows you every day as you drive to restaurants in your flash car, gliding down the San Francisco streets. It weighs down on you as you sit down to eat alone once again and replay everything that’s happened. As you try to figure out if you’re a fantastic therapist or the absolute worst. Cleaning Tesla’s Wash, rinse, repeat. Wash, rinse, repeat. Arms flexed, biceps tense. You press down and you wipe. Scrubbing away the dirt, the grime, the dust. The dark. Everything you wished you could scrub away inside of yourself, but you can’t. Only on cars. High quality cars of the rich men and women of the Bay. Expensive electric cars that couldn’t even work in your country but speed the roads violently here. Always shining, always glistening, especially after you’ve been to work. Sometimes the owners tip, sometimes they don’t, sometimes they buy you something from the store. It’s harder now no one carries cash. Only the tip is what you rely on, the money you need to save to get you back home, because that’s all you can think of these days. To get back to Guatemala. To your country, your people and your little brother rotting in his cell. To the country Americans are scared to visit even though this country, the land of the free, has had nearly three hundred school shootings in the last ten years and your dangerous, violent, no-go-country has had none. Zero. But home is the new Wild West and this country is developed. At least that’s what they say whilst you just count down the days until you can return. Back to your black sand beach with the swaying palms and the mangroves and the cocos and the mangoes falling from the trees and the fresh fish caught that morning and the cervezas outside the tiendas and the laughter on the streets. The smiles and the warmth of your people, not this fake Californian niceness that makes you feel hollow inside. But to do all that, to get back home, you need money. Because that’s the reason you came, why you made that trip you try your best to forget. Bodies packed above you and below. Some alive, some dead. Hidden in a truck compartment for days on end to make it over the border to this strange land where the only people who really talk to you are the people who speak your tongue. But you didn’t come for gringo friends. Instead you came to work and to graft and do everything they say you should to live the American dream, a phrase that makes no sense, but you did it anyway. You worked your way up the country, from LA to San Diego to San Francisco and now into San Rafael. The first months nearly broke you but you had expected that. You could do hard. From pot cleaner to gardener you did your best. Not saving much, but at least opening doors. And then you became a nanny, the one job you were really good at. The one job you truly loved and the one you couldn’t believe what they paid. More in thirty minutes than you’d got for a day’s work back home. All for something that everyone did for favours or for free there anyway. And then you really began to save, to put money in the bank. Saving, saving, saving in the most expensive city in the world. Not that you lived there but you worked there, taking the BART up into the Mission every day from San Jose, to an area full of people from home. Them on the streets, mingled together with white people paying crazy amounts to stand by your side and call it culture. And it was there with a gringo family that the bills vanished. Pocketing more and more until you could almost touch home. Nearly enough saved to build something liveable for your family on your abuelos empty land. Not that you had much family left with your papí and mami both gone and your little brother in his cell. But that didn’t mean one day you wouldn’t have a new family of your own. That’s what you want and Julio always said he would wait for you and you still believe him even though you know he hits the parties hard. But that’s the dream that loops like a cassette on rewind. The one that keeps you alive. The dream that had become more and more of a reality as you took on hour after hour after hour until it was so painfully close, there, dusting the tips of your stubby little fingers, right until the moment it happened. The one you can never wash, rinse and scrub away. You were in a car which it even more depressing that you work at a car wash now. His car, one you had been in so many times. Of course a show-off red Tesla like all the other road dominating, dick swinging Tesla men. Despite that, he was actually a nice man at the start. Smiling, a bit goofy, interested in your life. A good papí to his boy and a therapist too which made him sound clever, though everyone’s a therapist out here. Everyone’s got problems, everyone’s got trauma and everyone’s got a therapist. Everyone but you because no real people can afford that even though you probably need it most because your papí swung his fists, your little brother is in prison, and you were sexually assaulted in your employers car.  It happened right at the end of the night on a drive back to San Jose, like the last pages of a horror novel. You’d been looking after his little boy because Michael was at a concert with Sarah, his wife, on one of those organised date nights to try and save a marriage that was falling apart. Not that anyone had told you that but you had seen it all with your curious, deer-like eyes. The growing resentments, the arguments, the tiredness over being parents, the jealousy over her relationship with the TV guy. All of it heating up, up, up before burning black under the flame like a tortilla left on a comal too long. And that night you could sense the date had gone bad. Had seen the resigned, defeated look in his sad eyes. The short, monosyllabic sentences, different to the normal friendly Michael as he drove you to your place. Your dark, overpriced one-bedroom condo with it’s small windows and cold walls which you couldn’t believe because you always thought California was meant to be the sunny state, not a carpet of fog. Just before you arrived however, Michael suddenly jolted out of his misery, a spark reborn and you soon found out that spark was you. He pulled up slowly to the street where you lived, edging into a parking space under the dark of a London Plane tree that sat outside your house. Then he started asking you questions, being nice and friendly again and you were happy because you liked Michael. You enjoyed his company and being nanny to Sam, so you weren’t ready when he lunged like every shit stereotype you’d seen in the TV shows. The dad and the nanny. The husband and the immigrant desperate for a visa. You felt the bristles of his beard scratch against your face before you felt his tongue. A warning sign, an alert to your body of what was coming. Big and sloppy and wet and you were horrified which surprised you as guiltily you’d always found him kind of attractive but now he was here you felt repulsed. Sick at him, sick for his wife Sarah and sick for little Sam. But you couldn’t move, couldn’t react, couldn’t respond, you could only take it. Sat there on the sweating vegan leather of his stupid Tesla as his tongue lunged into you again and again like a line searching for fish. For its’ prey. Only you weren’t prepared to give him that and after the longest few seconds of your life, which is surprising considering every other shit you’ve been through, you found the strength to lift both hands up and plant them on his chest and roughly push him away. Michael stop, you cried and first he looked confused and then his face changed as if he understood, but there was no remorse there. Instead it was as if the reason you said no was for all the other reasons you couldn’t do it, like Sarah and Sam, and not because you felt ruined. Because how could a poor, short, broad-shouldered Guatemala girl feel sick being kissed by a rich Tesla-owning therapist like him. But sick you were as you pushed the fancy button to lift up the Tesla's door and darted out before another word could be shared. Then you ran up to your room, your small, dark, little room, and fell face first into your pillow and cried. Cried not just for him and for what happened but also because what it meant. About how there was no going back now. How your dream job was done. Gone. You could never face Michael again, but also Sarah and little Sam, and more, it had rocked your faith in the whole idea of being a nanny. That the films and the cliches were all true and that turned you rotten, because maybe that’s how everyone saw you. The Guatemalan nanny, one of many, who fucks the dad on the sly even though you’re not that person and never could be. And so the next day you called Sarah and told her you were resigning, then you packed up your bags, moved out your flat and made your way north again, settling this time in the county of Marin. Here there were more Guatemalans and community and even a Guatemalan restaurant near where you lived, though the prices were ten times of home. And for your first few months there, things were good. You found a room with a family who also led you to a job at a local car wash which you didn’t like but you didn’t hate either. It was good enough, a place to earn before you could finally make your way home and so you were happy. The car wash didn’t pay as well as the nanny job, nowhere near, but it was steady and it was easy and the sun shone most days which was different from San Francisco and reminded you of home. There was a group of you who did it. Guatemalans, Mexicans, an El Salvadorian, with a gringo in charge. You had fun as a crew, helping each other out, covering each others backs, some with the same goal as you, others building their life out here hoping for something better for their hijos. Maybe that’s why you wanted to go home so much. Because you didn’t have hijos here and all you could think about was yourself, your own needs and how much happier you were back there where the pace of life moved to the gentle rock of the hammock. No gringo hustle down at the beach, though your brother told you that was changing in his calls to you from his cell. A smuggled phone for late night calls with his sister, whispering as he told you of his innocence and what had actually happened on the beach where he was accused of murdering a gringo for raping a Latina. The history of your countries in a nutshell. What he did you supported, especially after what happened with you and Michael. An eye for an eye as the Mayans say. Only you wouldn’t be taking Michael’s eye too because you’d cut all ties and vanished from his life. You often wondered if Sarah and his relationship survived it, though you kind of hoped it did for little Sam’s sake. It was something you had accepted you would never find out, right until now. This moment when the car you are washings’ window buzzes it’s way down and Michael’s face is suddenly there once again. Close. Smiling right at you, his horrid tongue flopping about between his shiny teeth. It is a Tuesday. The heat aches confrontationally in the air, as if it knows what is to come. To break it Eddie plays around with the hose of the car wash, spraying you all down under the blaze of the sun whilst you waited for more cars to arrive. Laughing and joking as the little droplets of water fall down upon you, covering your sweat stained face and the white T-shirt underneath. The T-shirt you wish you never wore. You don’t notice the red Tesla when it pulls in, they are so common round here so it’s normal to see a few each day, even red ones. Watching it glide forwards in a silent buzz sparks no alarms and quickly you all go to work. First Eddie and Ricardo scrub it down before the car goes through the machine. El gran secador de pelo, your nickname for it. Then the Tesla whirs its way round to you and Gaby to vacuum the inside. You point for the driver to pull the car close to the curb then knock on his window to ask him to unlock. He must of seen you by now, seen you covered in the spray of the hose, all before you know it’s him. But then the window glides down and Michael’s face is there and instantly you feel shock and then you feel green and vulnerable as you wrap both arms across your chest and the flimsy white T-shirt behind. And there he looks right at you and he smiles. Jenni, he says, eyes wide in manufactured surprise. You work here? You can’t smile back, you won’t. All you can do is nod, say yes and then slink back into the shadow of the shitty shade your boss put up last month. There you stand, breath shallower  by the second until it’s hard to suck any in and Gaby sees you and comes to your side and asks what’s wrong but you can’t even reply. You just say that you’re hot and you need a break and ask if Ricardo can cover you for a second. She says yes, so that’s when you run. Bolting across the cracking concrete that lines the garage, over the road, weaving through the traffic and right into the Nordstrom on the other side. There you skip up to the ladies department, grab a dress from a rail and then dodge into the changing room and hide. Waiting for thirty minutes or more until you exit, putting the dress back on the rail because you could never afford anything that nice from here anyway. When you get to the road you scan every direction around to make sure you’re in the clear. Then you shuffle back to the car wash where everyone is looking even though they pretend they’re not. Then Ryan, your boss, storms out and asks where the hell you’ve been and you lose an hours worth of pay. The rest of the day passes in a blur, worried glances over your shoulder, scared he might reappear. But for now he doesn’t. Gaby tries to find out what’s wrong but you can’t bring yourself to tell her. Feels too degrading somehow. The only person you can tell is your brother from the dark of his cell and he comforts you. Warms you with his words and that he’s here to help even from his damp, shitty cell. And then you fall asleep. That night you dream of cars, but not just any cars. Tesla's. You’re in a field. A great, big grass field though the grass isn’t yellow and dead like it is in California, but green and healthy and full of life like what they say about the South. And you’re in the middle of this field when all these Tesla's arrive and they start circling you, going round and round and round, the circle getting smaller and smaller with each loop. And they’re all pearl white and solid black and silver metallic and deep blue metallic but not red. Just those colours circling and circling until they’re so close that you can feel the rush of the wind as they speed past sweeping into your face. And just as they’re getting so close you could reach out and touch them, that’s when the red one arrives. Only one, joining the circle but standing out, alone, forcing the other ones to all start circling wider. And you’re scared and terrified because you know this Tesla and so you try to run but you can’t because the other cars won’t let you. They just keep you there and that’s when the panic kicks in. Anxiety they call it here in California but for you it’s just fear. The same fear you had when your papí was drinking and you knew what was next. And it’s here now but you try to be greater than it. To breath deep and to conquer it, and finally you see that your feet are able to move and you start skating across the field which is no longer green and healthy but yellow and dead just like a Californian summer, and you think you’re going to escape. But just as you are, just as you see a gap to make your exit, out the corner of your eye you see a flash of red and suddenly the red Tesla is there in front of you. It is driving straight at you, head on, but instead of run away this time you have found your courage and now you charge straight back at it. You, toes pressing off from the dead grass, against the Tesla, electricity humming like blood thirsty mosquitos at sunset. But you’re not scared anymore. You’re fierce. The next morning you get to work early, determined to make up from the lost hours of the day before. You wash, scrub, vacuum faster and harder than you ever have, surprising all your colleagues. Even Ryan notices, little eyes glancing through the window, though of course he won’t give you any dollars for it. But you don’t mind. You’re here to work and work hard. To earn your money and to leave this shit-stained land as soon as you can. Also the work distracts you from thinking about him, though if he does come now you’re ready. Almost wanting it to happen so you can say your piece. But he doesn’t come that day, nor the next. Tesla's do of course, red ones even whose windows whir down in a suspense, but they’re never him. For a whole month nothing, yet a leopard stays a leopard and can never change its spots When Michael returns it’s a different version from last time. You can see it in the length of his beard, the stain on his shirt and the rough of his hair. When you get to work vacuuming his car this becomes even clearer. Empty coffee cups, cheese puffs stamped into the floor and a pillow stuffed under the seat. The whole time you’re cleaning you ignore him. Don’t share a word as if he’s any other customer, but towards the end it’s you who breaks the silence, unable to dance anymore. Why are you here Michael, you ask in English so your colleagues don’t understand. I need to talk to you he replies, desperation painted over every inch of his unkept face and for a moment you feel sorry for him, imagining everything he’s been through. But then you see the clumps of his unshaven beard and you remember how it felt when they spiked you and all mercy is gone. You decide to let him have his moment and then be done for good. Okay Michael, tell me what you need to tell me. And the two of you walk over the road to the cafe, Ricardo covering you yet again, Ryan watching from the window no doubt calculating everything he’s about to deduct. Sarah left me, he says straight out and you act surprised even though that was obvious from the moment he rolled down his window. I told her about us and what we did and our feelings for each other and why you left and well everything. And it was the final straw, she left me for good. I still see Sam but I’m basically living out the office and the Tesla while we work things out. I was so lost, not sure of myself, then that day I came here, which was by pure chance by the way and I saw you and I suddenly knew. That we are meant to be together. That the moment in the Tesla was the end of something corrosive and the start of something beautiful and I’ve decided that I really do want you. I’m sorry I’ve been distant and not committing but now I’m ready for something between us. I really am Jenni. I’m just angry it took me so long to get there. The whole time you stay silent because you’re so shocked you can’t think of a word to say. Shocked and amused and outraged all at the same time at this clown who just thought he could waltz in and take you like you were some Disney princess counting down the minutes until your white saviour came. But you don’t tell him any of this. You just nod your head silently and thank him for sharing and tell him you need time to think. That he should return next week after you finish your shift at two. To that his face lights up, his imagination on fire and you feel wrong for encouraging him but also you’re happy with what you’ve done because it really gives you time to think. Then you cross back over the road and Michael gets back in his shiny clean, show-off car, his face now a sorry smile of happiness, and drives off. That night you give your brother a call and together you decide upon how you should respond. The rest of the week you think it all over and by the time the day comes you’ve made your peace with the idea. The Tesla rolls in at exactly the minute you asked, as if it had been patiently hiding round the corner waiting until he could skulk for his prey. Michael pays for another wash and clean because the car needs it. Then he pulls over at the side and waits for you. Wordlessly you enter his car, the stupid doors going up instead of out in parade. For a moment you’re scared to sit down, remembering what happened last time you were in it. Then you think of your plan and it gives you enough strength for those fears to melt. And so you tell him where to go, to a hidden hiking trail up in West Marin, and together you glide away and even you are impressed by how swish the car is. How silent it is as its wheels roll across the concrete before it leaves the buildings behind and already you’re zooming into the hills and nature and towards your trail. When you park by the side of a road, towering redwoods all around you, Michael asks if it’s safe to leave his baby here and it’s that phrase, my baby, that removes any doubts over what you’re about to do. You shake a no back and tell him we’re not in San Francisco anymore and reluctantly he lowers the doors and you start marching through the woods. Whilst you walk Michael talks like every white man who loves the sound of his own voice. Though this time he’s not bragging but he’s opening up, telling you about his life, his failures, his marriage, his parents and being a parent and his work, all like he’s had it rough, not you. And the whole time you nod along, say yes and no and I understand as if you’re the therapist, not him, and it makes you think how easy this therapist gig is and maybe you should have trained in that and no wonder everyone does it these days. When he finally reaches the end of his monologue you’re back at his car and he takes a deep breath and looks at you. Looks you up and down like he did that night and you dart your eyes around, panicking that it’s only you and him here. The only people for miles around and suddenly your breathing starts to race and you doubt your plan. He takes a step towards you, places a hand on your shoulder, his breath hot and his forehead sweaty and says, Jenni, I’ve really missed you. Then, only then, do you reach for your phone. You pull it out, your heart thudding relentlessly into its cage, and go to call who you need, only there’s no signal here, something you’ve never been able to get your head around. Living near the tech capital of the word yet the phone signal is worse than the rural beach village where you grew up. And you start to sweat and panic as Michael looms in closer and suddenly there is a hand on your back sliding its way down the curve of your spine. Lower, lower, lower and all breath stops and you’re as paralysed as you were before, but just at that moment your phone spark into life. Michael’s hand immediately jumps off your back as your brother’s face comes into picture on the blurred pixels of your phone. You hand the phone to Michael and slowly he raises it until your little baby brother is looking right at him. Then Juan begins to talk. A relentless attack of words, fire in his breath and Michael just stares back whilst his colour drains. Occasionally saying sí, claro, claro, because his Spanish is actually quite good. When Juan finally finishes Michael calmly hands you back the phone and then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out the keys to his shiny red Tesla. He lifts them up, a sob in his throat, and reluctantly drops them down into the palm of your hand. Your fingers smartly clamp around them and you say nothing as you bolt over to the driver side of his car and open up the stupid doors. Then you fall down into the light vegan leather of the seat and press the button to bring the whole fancy electronic vehicle to life. Suddenly a dashboard of lights are flashing back at you, like the clearing of a throat before speech, but you’ve watched Michael drive this enough, had studied him as you came here today, so you know what to do. And with that and a light press if your foot down on the accelerator, away you go, leaving a confused, expressionless Michael stood alone amongst a sea of redwoods. Then you snort. You snort and you snigger and then you erupt. Doubled over with a delirious kind of laughter full of relief and then joy. An uncontrollable satisfaction at the thought of Michael’s face as your brother told him that he needed to stay away from his sister. That he had harassed her for far too long. That he’d lost her a dream job, all her money, shifts at her new job and worst of all, he had touched her without her permission. Then he had asked Michael if Michael knew his story and why he was in prison. Michael had nodded sí, and even though your brother is one of the sweetest boys you know, Michael had always been terrified of him and you used that fear to attack Michael now. Juan had said slowly, let me tell you again, and he then told the whole story of why he killed the gringo for raping a Guate women and an eye for an eye and how that’s the way things go. And the whole story got Michael more and more worried until your brother started telling Michael what he was now going to do. How he was going to give his sister his fancy car, give her the keys right now, and he was going to let her drive away. Drive wherever she wanted to go and never contact her again. That he was never going to contact the police about it but instead do nothing and return to his little therapist life. And if he did contact the police or tell anyone or cause even the tiniest bit of a problem for his sister then he, your brother, was going to make it his lifetime mission to get him. That he might be in a cell but that meant he had connections, not just in Guatemala but in the United States too and all he had to do was make a call and Michael would be in more trouble than he ever could imagine. And the whole plan never should have worked in a million years as it was so beyond stupid, but for once in your life the reputation of your home country helped you. The stupid reputation that your beautiful land was a world of death and destruction and this land of school shootings and new Nazi’s wasn’t. But Michael was stupid. He believed it all even though my brother quite obviously had no dangerous connections in Guatemala and definitely not in the US. Michael never doubted it though, just handed over the keys and away you go, heading south, all the way home. Of course you’ll sell the car along the way, this thing only works where the rich people live, but that money will be more than you’ve ever known. Real money to finally build something on your abuelos land, to try and help get your brother out of jail early, to be in Julio’s arms once again and start a new, happy life in the beautiful country you call home. So you glide smoothly along, through the hillside roads, the redwoods, the rivers and the vineyards, a painting of American happiness before you, lounged back inside your sparkling clean red Tesla which shines brightly under the Californian sun. Ben Davies is a writer based in California. Originally from the UK, Ben has had fiction published or forthcoming in LeftBrain Media, Downtime Review, MiniMag, Firework Stories, Unlikely Stories & Short Story Me, with articles published in magazines including Huck, Lost and The International Times. He is currently finishing a short story collection, And So I Took Their Eye and debut novel, A Question of England.

In the country where I'm from, the sciences are promoted and commercialized to a great extent. Some parents force their children to take up science as a subject after their high school is over. It has been an age-old saying that pursuing any field under science means that you have the brains. Many influencers make content about how arts is not a commercial field, which I think is an irony in itself. Considering how making videos and posting them to a platform can also come under expressing oneself. It is a form of contemporary expression of art. Arts has been a neglected field because of the idea that drawing, dance and other forms of art are secondary forms of knowledge. In various English medium schools across South Asia, fine arts and other forms of arts are a part of the curriculum but they are given less importance and less time. People who want to pursue a career in these fields are told that artistic abilities suit better as hobbies, as they cannot offer better career opportunities than science. I do not mean to say that one field is above another, but the deprivation of arts has led to people neglecting their roots. I have learned two languages alongside English, i.e. Sanskrit, and Gujarati which are close to me because they connect me to my roots. While learning English has its own benefits, learning about languages and literature that connect you to your roots help you in understanding  arts in a better manner. You can enjoy literature, folk songs, folk tales, drama, dance, spiritual texts, religious texts and so many things which you would have otherwise missed out on. Many people avoid conversing in their mother tongue for a plethora of reasons, one of them being that they are ashamed of their roots. While some people love to embrace their cultural diversity. They embrace every form of literature, whether it's a part of their diasporic identity or the literature that belongs to the West. Along with the deprivation of arts, the rise of science has taken place. It has made a new subfield come to the forefront. Artificial intelligence and its wonders are not new to the techno-savvy generation. But, I'm here to talk about how artificial intelligence is affecting the imagination of young writers. Poetry is said to be emerging from the individual unconscious or collective unconscious of many individuals. Emotive poetry helps us in understanding the thought process of a writer. If artificial intelligence learns to write emotive and authentic poems, it would mean that AI has more power and control over humans which is a concerning thought. Artificial intelligence can even produce an original poem from scratch, which is what I've heard people say. I am here to contest it, though. AI or artificial intelligence can only reproduce what is fed. It can copy data from various sources and come up with an amalgamation of poetic sentences. While reading poems written by artificial intelligence, I've noticed that they cannot evoke a sentiment. It cannot start a revolution like poets and historians have done. It avoids controversy and political narratives. It is unaware of the existing diasporic writings. That is why we need artists, writers, poets, novelists, musicians, etc. to create work that will be traced down into legacies. Even though the rise of AI can be used for beneficial purposes too, the idea that it can take away people's jobs in the field of Arts is scary. Science and Arts are not only two separate fields, but can also be connected. Both the fields have their individual importance because of their contributions to humanity. While science gave us the reality of factual questions, arts helped us in understanding the conscience of an individual. While science helped us in understanding basic equations, arts helped us in understanding the beauty of civilisations. Hence, both are equally important for the development of the society, but overpowering one over another would lead to downfall as in the case of artificial intelligence taking control which can be a possibility in the nearer future. With so much ongoing discussion about science and arts, we arrived at some fundamental questions: What is art, and what is science? Should we follow the textbook definition for these or create our own definitions? While I read many definitions of these two fields, the one that gained my attention is 'Art is a way of recognizing themselves, which is why it will always be modern,' Louise Bourgeois. and that of Science "Science is the knowledge of consequences, and dependence of one fact upon another." - Thomas Hobbes Science and art are not rigid opposites of each other. There is a thin line that separates the two, and the two can always come together to help people reinvent themselves and their thoughts. One great example of the intersection of science and arts is STEAM. "STEAM" (Science, Technology, Engineering, Arts, and Mathematics) is a term used to describe the nexus of the arts and sciences that highlights the blending of creative and analytical thinking. As demonstrated by disciplines like science communication, digital media, and design thinking, this kind of cooperation can result in creative solutions. Individuals and projects can bridge the gap between two historically distinct disciplines by integrating creativity with scientific rigor, promoting a holistic and multidisciplinary approach to problem-solving and knowledge growth. Here are two success stories involving STEAM, Dr. Jane Chen is a notable figure in the STEAM field, particularly in biomedical engineering. Co-founder of Embrace Innovations, Dr. Chen utilized her STEAM expertise to address a critical issue in global healthcare—infant mortality in developing countries. Embrace Innovations developed an affordable infant warmer that became a life-saving solution for premature babies in resource-constrained areas. The innovative design provided a cost-effective alternative to traditional incubators, offering a practical solution to a widespread problem. Dr. Chen's success exemplifies the impact of STEAM disciplines in creating real-world solutions to pressing global challenges, showcasing how technology and innovation can positively influence healthcare outcomes. Katherine Johnson, a trailblazing mathematician, made significant contributions to space exploration during her tenure at NASA. Johnson's role in the STEAM field, particularly mathematics, was pivotal in the success of the United States' early space missions, including the Mercury and Apollo programs. Her calculations were crucial for trajectory analysis, orbital mechanics, and launch windows, ensuring the accuracy and safety of spacecraft. Johnson's work played a vital role in John Glenn's historic orbital flight in 1962. Her achievements paved the way for women and minorities in STEM, demonstrating the profound impact individuals in the STEAM disciplines can have on groundbreaking scientific endeavors. Hence, It's true that science and the arts are not inherently opposed to one another. They might enhance one another by providing different viewpoints and approaches. Both creative thought and scientific concepts can inform artistic expression and advance scientific inquiry. This awareness of their interdependence encourages cooperation and interdisciplinary methods to solve difficult problems, leading to a more comprehensive view of the world. written by Tej Nagar

by Erika Lynet Salvador Erika, born and raised in the Philippines, is an incoming first-year at Amherst College with an intended major in Statistics. In her free time, she loves to go down a poetry rabbit hole, discuss pop culture, and explore digital art and graphic design. You can discover her art at @bodeganierika on Instagram.