The Voice of God Gives Up the Act

This was years ago. God stopped speaking from the sky and admitted that there are actually many gods and they all shared the job of the voice of god. It got complicated; they could never agree on anything. Nowadays they ride the bus or go to the mall. They talk too loudly. Voicing their little opinions, all the authority drained out. They’ve become lazy and forgetful. They get distracted by nice weather or their own fingernails. If someone is hogging a public restroom it’s probably them, primping in the mirror when you really need to go. They are vain but there is something sweet there. Maybe because they have no money, or that they aspire to an ideal of love. One time a god came running out of the kitchen to bring me a smoothie but spilled the whole thing on the carpet. The small god started crying, little tears on her cheeks. A glittery river of snot running from her nose. It’s okay, I told her–I’m not mad. She gets upset about storms, too. The darkening sky, how the birds all get quiet. There’s nothing to be scared of, I say. And we sit by the window and take everything in. We listen to the rain on the house, we count between the thunder and the lightning, and we sip the smoothies we remade together because she wanted another chance to make me happy.

If it’s Not One Thing it’s a Million Things

I feel I was born at exactly the right time in history. Every day I wake up and find problems built just for me. There are things I say sorry for and things I try to forgive. I forgive a woman on the news who stole money from her boss. I’m sorry I called so late. What are we doing 400 years from now? I wonder all the time. I’m not young anymore so I don’t think about heartbreak the way I used to. I know there’s not a word for everything. Our dog sleeps in a little bed on the floor while my wife and I watch TV. Sometimes there’s a train whistle in the distance. Our dog looks up when he hears the train whistle in the distance. I look up at my dog when he looks up when he hears the train whistle in the distance. If there’s a heaven I hope it’s me walking in our front door like normal. I hope it’s my kids barely looking up from their phones to say hello. Did you hear the news? The world’s best scientists say they discovered what will come after us and it’s dinosaurs again. They’ll roam the planet like they used to. They’ll hunt and claw and forage. They’ll uncover our bones in the earth and think nothing of it.

Jeffrey Hermann’s poetry and fiction has appeared in Electric Lit, Heavy Feather, HAD, trampset, and other publications. Though less publicized, he finds his work as a father and husband to be rewarding beyond measure.

Content warning: sexual assault.

 

His hands are everywhere, squeezing your shoulders, pinning your arms, grabbing your ass and smashing you against his clammy body so close you feel all his hearts beating beating beating, and you gasp and you say Mr. Mollusk, what—but he’s covering your mouth, your eyes, you can’t move can’t see but you smell, you taste, stench of clams on his breath, tang of brine on his tongue, turn away but he yanks back your head, no, try not to gag, you’ve never liked seafood, or the sea, a bottomless murk hiding things that will topple you, drag you down, you thought you’d bob above it all, safe in your just-say-no boat but there’s so much you don’t understand, a different world populated with cold-blooded triple-hearted aliens that squeeze through cracks and hide in bespoke-suited plain sight and grow back limbs they shed when escaping, and they always escape, don’t they,

wait, he’s your parents’ best friend for god’s sake, Mr. Mollusk on the terrace with a shrimp on a stick and a hey-how-about-a-summer-job, isn’t that nice, oh he’s so nice, something’s burning and your dad hops up to check the grill and your mom hisses say thank you, pull down your shirt, behave yourself, and you know what she’s thinking but this won’t be like last summer behind the counter at Ben & Jerry’s with your friends draped like seaweed over the tables and after your shift that college boy, his mouth a barnacle on yours until your mom pulled up and honked and you shoved him away, laughing, but now,

but now Mr. Mollusk doesn’t care that you’re shoving, you’re sobbing, no, he’s biting your neck and you’re weakening, the surface so far above, wave goodbye to your parents and say thank you and he’s slithering into your mouth, no, prying apart your legs, all the soft moist dank cold salt-steeped parts of him, and that stench, putrid shrimp and something burning, how many arms does this man have,

and the phone rings on your desk, you should get that, it’s your job, your summer job, so nice, it’s ringing, right there yet unreachable, ringing, bobbing, behave, if only you were stronger, louder, if only you had more arms more hearts more sense, if only you knew how to swim, no, if only there was something you could grab hold of, a skewer a stick a pencil, a pencil, that pencil right there right here right—yes.

Didi Wood’s stories appear in SmokeLong Quarterly, Wigleaf, Fractured Lit, Milk Candy Review, and elsewhere. Her work has been chosen for the Wigleaf Top 50 and nominated for Best Small Fictions. More at didiwood.com.

Giovanni: son

Marco: grandson curly hair

Giacomo: grandson glasses

Mum: dead

Dad: dead

Olga: wife? Gentle 

In his poem Montale describes the scorching Ligurian landscape as a metaphor for the desolation of life

Wife: where?

White pills are not candies are not don’t give the children don’t eat

Dante’s journey may be a dream but the passages in the text where he says that are too obscure and the scholars are

Paratore: mentor dead

Virgilio: Paratore’s grandson glasses tall

Si quicquam mutis gratum acceptumue sepulcris accidere a nostro Calue dolore potest quo desiderio ueteres renouamus amores ¹

Read Cicero

Wife: vacation? Dead

 

¹ If the silent grave can receive any pleasure or sweetness at all from our grief Calvus the grief and regret with which we make our old loves live again

Michelangelo Franchini is an Italian author and screenwriter. His short stories have appeared or are forthcoming in many Italian and English literary zines, such as Carmilla, Pastrengo Rivista, Tuffi Rivista, Isit Magazine, Neuro Logical, the big windows review, Maudlin House, and Sublunary Review.

Volunteering

At the nursing home, the soft and brittle were flipped twice a day to keep their skin from melding to the bedsheets. As I passed one of the cots, a papery hand grabbed mine and pressed something sticky into it. It’s candy, the old woman said. I opened my hand to look. Some were oozing from their wrappers, some had teeth marks. Some were whole and new. They were from a brand that had gone out of business in my childhood. It’s dementia, a passing nurse explained. No, it’s candy, the old woman said. No, the nurse said, carrying a bucket of human waste out of the room, it’s dementia.

In Some Ways I Have Changed

As a mature and gifted child, I did not often play with my sister, because she was five years younger than me and thus unwaveringly stupider and worse. But when we got a catalogue in the mail—Sears, the local grocery store, American Girl Dolls, any catalogue—I made an exception. I would play with my sister for hours at a game we invented, a game that brought us together, a special game we loved. The game would go like this: we’d hover over the catalogue, each holding a marker. On the count of three, I’d flip open a page and we’d scan the glossy spread for the best thing, the one item we wanted most, and circle it with our markers as quickly as possible. This meant we “got” the item. Each item could only be circled once—we could not, for instance, co-own the Truly Me Western Horse and Saddle Set. Twice, I attacked my sister because she was quicker to circle the thing we both wanted. The things she took from me, or, more accurately, the pictures of things she circled that I wanted to circle, for which I attacked her physically, were a 2002 Toyota Camry and Premium Shredded Turkey Breast.

Hedgie Choi received her MFA in Poetry from The Michener Center for Writers and her MFA in Fiction from The Writing Seminars. Her fiction and poetry can be found in Noon, American Short Fiction, Poetry Magazine, The Hopkins Review, The Adroit Journal, and elsewhere.

Wendy  

Wendy goes to school and becomes a professional. There’s no rationale for why she loves accounting, but she does. It reminds her of when she used to count money for her parents’ business. Each transaction feels exact and explicit, like Wendy.

In her spare time, Wendy likes to cook. She has many recipes that tell her exactly how much sugar for this and show her explicitly what kind of sugar for that. But Wendy never follows a recipe exactly or explicitly. It reminds her of science class in high school. Each measurement feels too exact and too explicit, too much like Wendy’s science teacher, a big-breasted woman with a manly jaw.

Sometimes Wendy wonders what it’s like to have big breasts. She has no big breasts. Her ma has no big breasts. Her ah-ma has no big breasts. Her other ah-ma has slightly bigger breasts but Wendy doesn’t like her or them. One of Wendy’s breasts is slightly bigger than the other and she counts the difference between them, between two, between one and half.

Titanic

My piano student came here on a boat when she was two years old. Maybe that’s why she wants to learn how to play that song from Titanic. She was there and a part of her goes on and on.

Week after week, my piano student talks to me about boys. She places her hands on the keys as she talks, her nails long and polished, her fingers flat like water. She wants me to play for her instead. I don’t know why I give into her purple-shadowed puppy eyes.

Bit by bit, I let my piano student talk me into helping her quit piano. We go rollerblading by her house, her idea of Big Sisters. Her mother shows me how to make Vietnamese spring rolls. Her father asks where I’m from and smiles with half of his mouth that I have no sea in me like his daughter does. That I’m more grounded somehow.

We have our picture taken on the front steps. We are both in shorts and short sleeves. My piano student looks older than sixteen. Her makeup is all wrong, her posture too ladylike. I tell her she doesn’t need all that stuff on her face, but she hands me a Sprite and tells me about getting a job at the music store, about the guy at the music store, goes on about his motorcycle and leather jacket, goes on and on.

Convocation

 A classmate asked me out after he came back from teaching English in Asia one summer. He said he had tickets to see the Yankees in town. In truth, I didn’t know what to say. We attended the same lectures and sat near each other from freshman to junior, but we never went anywhere or did anything together. We were the perfect classmates.

So I said I was busy. He didn’t speak to me in senior year and I thought what the hell. When we convocated, he acted like we were strangers even though we sat in the same row under the same alphabet. Even though we used to greet one another with a wave and a smile and exchange notes and glances.

I could’ve really been busy, also, and had to say no. And, honestly, he wouldn’t have asked me out in the first place if he hadn’t gone to Asia and seen so many Asians and come back to the one Asian girl in class.

He was probably destined to marry an Asian girl after that, and that was what he did in the end. When I saw their photos on Facebook years later, a part of me couldn’t help but wonder if that’d be me in the photos instead, had I said yes to the Yankees, and if we’d be a good couple or not. But mostly, I just felt relieved that someone else had said yes to him.

The Cellist 

She tightens her bow and flips that fine ponytail of hers that flaps and sways in a Beethoven sonata, the contours of her posture shaped by the cello between her legs, the right one has a habit of making little circles on the floor when crescendo.

Then in limbo, she sticks a pencil in her hair like a meat thermometer and taps the score with the tip of her bow, denting markings of forte, fortissimo, piano, pianissimo, and chanting, bar by bar, tap by tap, Loud, loud, loud, soft, loud, soft, soft, loud, loud.

Once in a while, she pictures someone watching her perform from a distance, listening to her play and admiring how beautifully she plays. He loved her once but she didn’t play the cello then.

Tiffany Hsieh was born in Taiwan and moved to Canada at the age of fourteen. She is the author of the micro chapbook Little Red (Quarter Press) and her work has appeared in The Los Angeles Review, The Malahat Review, Passages North, The Penn Review, Quarter After Eight, and the Best Microfiction anthology among other places. She lives in Kingston, Ontario.

Autobiographical

The magus reaches into her hat. One rabbit, one gun. One water moccasin. One blunt. “It feels like fighting home,” she says. One stone, one button. “Finding home?” a cast member in the audience asks. The magus does not like that question. The audience member is encouraged to exit. The magus assembles her found objects on stage. “Like a farmer’s market,” she says. “Like a graveyard.” She places prices next to each item and waits for interested buyers that never arrive. “Alakazam,” the magus says, defeated. Her rabbit catches fire. The light guy dies.

Sunflowers and Debt

On stage, the business man is in a cafe. He tries to pay his bill with a bouquet of daisies. The magus is the waitress behind the counter. She is still wearing her tuxedo, but she has a hairnet instead of a top hat. “We do not want a bouquet of daisies,” says the magus. “We want money.” The business man does not have money. The business man is struggling. “I don’t have money,” the business man says. “I’m struggling.” The magus behind the counter walks over and hugs him. Then she stands back and with her wand she lifts the man and shakes him from his ankles. From his pockets there falls but lint and whimpers and dust. The daisies are to the side, thriving in a puddle. “I hate flowers,” says the magus. “I hate money,” says the business man. “The sun above has been above forever,” says the magus. “And yet no one knows its birthday,” says the business man.

Cake vs. Pie

On stage, the business man runs around the kitchen, waiting for his cake to finish. Bereft in mittens he walks in circles. He looks at his watch and he looks at the clock and he continues to walk in circles. “Any second now,” he says. His suit is covered in flour and batter and dough. A cast member in the audience stands and throws a pie. It hits the business man’s face. “A pie?” he says, licking his fingers. “Blueberry.” He smiles, then cries. He opens the oven and blue balloons fill the room. The audience is encouraged to be in awe. “It’s perfect,” he whispers, looking into the oven and climbing inside.

It’s All So Very Polite

On stage, Death knits dinner. Her utensils are yarn and so is her carpet. The pie she provides is made of yarn. She knits plates and napkins. She knits the table. She knits it all. When she is finished knitting a bib for her black cat, a door is brought down through the cardboard clouds. There is a knock from the other side. Death stands in front of the door. Again, there’s a knock on the other side. She sits and hums and knits a gun. It’s all so very polite.

Sitcom Laughter

On stage, the business man and the magus are on a roller coaster, hanging on to the harnesses. They hold hands. They try to kiss but they’re too far apart so they laugh it off. It appears to be a fifth or sixth date. From the sound of the consistent click, the audience knows the ride is climbing. Their feet dangle. “I can see my house,” she says. From the speakers, sitcom laughter is heard. “I don’t like how this feels,” he says. Sitcom laughter. “Maybe we can go to the water park to hide your tears,” she says. Sitcom oohs. “Every day feels like fighting life,” he says. Sitcom awws. “What if I dropped my shoes?” she says. Sitcom laughter. The coaster reaches the top and stops. She looks down and screams. He closes his eyes and prays. The cart behind them is empty. The sun, it sets. The moon arrives. The magus’ confidence and humor fades into fear. “Is this what it means to die?” she asks. “It only makes sense,” he says. Sitcom laughter. A cardboard cloud passes by with seat belts and supplies but the two can’t reach no matter how far their arms extend. “I don’t have my wand,” the magus says. She brings her legs up to her chest and looks afraid. The business man’s feet continue to swing.

Benjamin Niespodziany is a Pushcart Prize nominee, Best Microfiction nominee, and Best of the Net nominee. His writing has appeared in Wigleaf’s Top 50 Very Short Fictions, as well as in Cheap Pop, Maudlin House, Pithead Chapel, Tiny Molecules, and various other places. His debut, full-length poetry collection, NO FARTHER THAN THE END OF THE STREET, was released by Okay Donkey Press in 2022.

José Martí shakes off a 127-year dead sleep as he wakes up on Calle José Martí, according to the street sign. José Martí checks his thin pigskin wallet for his national ID to confirm he is still José Martí. Revolutionary sycamore trees stretch from the sidewalk, shade cloud-scraping brick apartment buildings. The street’s concrete is cut in curves from iron trolley ruts, sloping to a city beach too brown to be Caribbean. Hijo de puta, the poet mutters to himself. Estoy muy lejos de los platanos. “Where am I? When am I?” José Martí asks a man walking nine canines that shine like a starburst, him the wiry stem of their dandelion. “You’re right there,” he tells the poet but is quickly pulled up Calle José Martí by the harnessed manada. “Where am I?” José Martí asks a woman overacting an enthusiastic power walk in tight and colorful elastic. She removes white metal plugs from her ears, presses her finger against a dark glass square strapped to her forearm. Pauses. “Perdón, I didn’t hear.” “The date, the year.” “You’re not from here,” she says. The poet offers her his Cuban cedula. “Oh dear,” she says. “This is not my island,” José Martí says. “This is not your island.” She shakes her head. “But you’ll certainly be a guest of honor. We take our poets and our revolutionaries very seriously in Uruguay in 2023.” La republica oriental. Dos mil veintitrés. Further away than I thought, José Martí thinks. José Martí smooths his mustache and tips a hat he doesn’t wear. “I hope I’ll see you again.” “I need to keep running, but I’d like to have you sign my first edition.” The poet smiles, a little less lost, a little less lonely. Not because he has a street named after him. But he, José Martí, has more than one edition.

Chip Livingston is the author of three books of poetry, a novel, and a story/essay collection, and editor of LOVE, LOOSHA: The Letters of Lucia Berlin and Kenward Elmslie. His short prose and poetry have appeared in Prairie Schooner, Ploughshares, Subtropics, The Cincinnati Review, and on the Poetry Foundation’s and Academy of American Poets’ websites. Chip teaches in the low-rez MFA program at Institute of American Indian Arts in Santa Fe, NM, and lives in Montevideo, Uruguay.

Link to PDF: Swallowing Teeth with Illustrations

 

Zhu Yue has published three short story collections, The Blindfolded Traveler, Masters of Sleep, and Chaos of Fiction. In English translation, his work has appeared in Litro Magazine, The Margins, Paper Republic, The Portland Review, and The Washington Square Review, among others.

 

Jianan Qian and Alyssa Asquith are graduates of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop with an MFA in Fiction. Jianan is a staff writer at The Millions, and her work has appeared in Granta, Guernica, The Los Angeles Times, and The New York Times, among others. Alyssa lives and works Iowa City, and her stories have appeared in The Adroit Journal, The Atticus Review, The Molotov Cocktail, X-R-A-Y Lit Mag, and elsewhere.

Link to PDF: Screenland by Jacques Debrot

 

Jacques Debrot’s short stories have appeared in The Rupture, Hobart, the Fanzine, Maudlin House, Short Fiction, and elsewhere. He has also been nominated twice for a Pushcart Prize, and has won The Thorn Prize in Fiction and the Tusculum Review Fiction Prize.