Cool Beans Lit - Issue 4, Summer 2024

EXCLUSIVE
EDITION
Cool Beans Lit
2024 by Cool Beans Lit
Reproduction in whole or in part is prohibited,

except by permission of the publisher.
ISSN 2993-9356 (online)

ISSN 2993-9348 (print)
www.coolbeanslit.com
Cool Beans Lit
Volume 1, Issue 4
Summer 2024
EDITOR: Lauren Avedis

ART EDITOR: J.L. Stagner
COVER ART
Octopus Garden by Katie Hughbanks
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Editor’s Note .................................................................................................................. 7
Poetry
SARA EDDY | A Finding Spell .................................................................................... 10
ACE BOGGESS | "Did You Ever Feel Forgotten?" ................................................. 12
JOSHUA BURGAMY | Lenses ..................................................................................... 13
ISAAC JAMES RICHARDS | Pre-Check .....................................................................14
AMANDA HAYDEN | Sligo Bookstore ...................................................................... 15
RUTH MOTA | Courtship of the Cabbage Butterfly ............................................ 16
ALYX CHANDLER | Diagnosis ................................................................................... 17
TYLER MORELLO | Just Desserts ........................................................................... 20
BRANDICE ASKIN | Remnants .................................................................................. 21
LEWIS LEICHER | Nocturne ..................................................................................... 22
WILL NEUENFELDT | Box Office Wine ................................................................ 23
MAUREEN CLARK | A Country Without You ................................................. 26-27
THOMAS RIONS-MAEHREN | Hammer ................................................................ 28
JASON CLEMMONS | the last time you gasped .................................................. 30
Fiction
JAMES RODERICK BURNS | Life of Issa .......................................................... 32-33
LUBA BURTYK | 100% Pure ................................................................................ 34-39
TARA PYFROM | Calm ......................................................................................... 40-43
Creative Nonfiction
KENNETH CUPP | Yellow Hell ............................................................................48-53
AMELIA CLARE WRIGHT | body gold, oh wonder......................................... 55-58
RACHEL REH | Do you want to date my roommate? .................................. 59-60
TABLE OF CONTENTS (continued)
Visual Art
ROBB KUNZ | Bloom ....................................................................................................... 11
DAVID A. GOODRUM | Molten Water #6 ................................................................. 18
DAVID A. GOODRUM | Future Unknown .................................................................. 19
KATIE HUGHBANKS | Sunshine Takes a Dip .......................................................... 24
KATIE HUGHBANKS | Fragile Fierceness ................................................................ 25
AMALIA CASTOLDI | Op. 7 n. 22 ................................................................................. 29
EDWARD LEE | Ahead of All ......................................................................................... 47
VICTORIA MULLEN | Amethyst Geode .................................................................... 54
Contributor Bios ...................................................................................................... 62-65

Editor's Note Summer 2024
Welcome to the fourth issue of Cool Beans Lit.
We are proud to close out our first full volume with this very special issue.
It's been a year since we initially embarked on this literary magazine quest,
and we look forward to continuing to explore new terrain with fresh themes
and formats to come in future volumes.
We are grateful to all of the writers and artists who have entrusted us with
their art and sharing it with the entire literary arts community. We feel
honored and fortunate to be able to publish their work.
Enjoy the beautiful words and images contained in these pages. We are from
all walks of life and in different stages at varying times, but we are all
interconnected through the human spirit as vividly expressed through art,
music, poetry and films. As such, while you continue to creatively pour your
soul into the world, we will always be here willing to explore it with a deep
dive.
Let's go!
Lauren Avedis J.L. Stagner

Editor-in-Chief Art Editor
7
9
SARA EDDY
A Finding Spell
Getting older you forget things.
Something drops out–the other glove,
a dinner party, your father’s
voice. Whisked away, they gather
in tree tops, at the bottom of the ocean.

Ask: where did I have them last?
Retrace your steps, walk toe-to-heel,
put your back to the future.
Chant your name upside-down three times,

empty your mind of itself
and everything important. Let go
of even wanting these things.
en, like a bumblebee crawling out

from the amethyst folds of the iris
they reveal themselves–the glove
in the garden, the company at table,
your father’s deep voice nding you in a dream.
10
ROBB KUNZ
Bloom
11
ACE BOGGESS
"Did You Ever Feel Forgotten?"

question asked by Sarena Fox
Five years scab over

as if a single wound, a day.
eir lives—those others
who knew the me of me,
as those who know the you of you—
continue as if climbing stairs,
while I, you, we
wait with broken ankles
at the base, watch friends
march away, appearing smaller,
although it is we
who have grown small.
In another version of our lives,

we work steady jobs,
begin the process
of erasing the unburied dead.
e crowd scatters from an infant’s cry
the same as from a gunshot.
We center an exodus.
We have le those who leave us,
embracing disappearances
as a wineglass feels both empty &
lighter than air.
12
OSHUA BURGAMY
Lenses
We used to see each other.
In the esh. Out in the open.
e human you. e complete you.
e nuanced you. Your well cra ed personality.
What you have worked towards.
Now it’s through lters.
Ones and zeros.

A facsimile of connection.
A reproduction. A conjuration of the ghost in the machine.
Do you even recognize yourself now?
A false memory. A silicone dream. A ber optic b.
Your best life our best lie. Keep looking though.
Maybe, we can see each other again one day.
13
ISAAC AMES RICHARDS
Pre-Check
Do you have a purpose, a reason for living?
Good. What is it? Is it in your checked bag
or your carry-on? Some purposes are too
dangerous to bring aboard. And how about
meaning? Got plenty of that? Meaning must
be removed and placed in a bin of its own.
You’ve got a body, I see, but where’s your
soul? I’m sorry sir, I’m just following orders,
protocol. Yes, I’m re uired to ask about your
soul. Do you have one? Please place it in
front of the scanner. Hm, looks like your soul
is out of date. We are accepting only veri ed
souls these days. Since when? Since 2001.
You can line up over there to get a new soul.
Next please. I’m sorry ma'am, your happiness
showed up on the x-ray. I’m going to need to
pat you down. Rare that we see abnormally
large amounts of happiness. Just need to make
sure you secured it through legal methods.
ank you, move along. Your suitcase?
Oh, you won’t need it. Not where you’re going.
Anything you can carry with you—grief, loss—
anything you can give to someone else (e.g. love)
is already waiting there, can be found anywhere.
e stu inside you is what counts, like trauma.
Plus, people usually sleep for most of the ight.
But if you’re awake, we will bring you some
refreshments as consolation. ey’ll ask: would
you prefer music, movie, or memoir? Should be
more than enough to distract from the turbulence.
14
AMANDA HAYDEN
Sligo Bookstore
a ua blue doorframes sew borders
around the tiny book market closet,
creaky stairs, book nook diorama
complete with ginger sleeved vinyl
dusty cobweb shelves, small towers
of adventures winding to my shoulders,
paper air, paper nostrils, paper lungs
and a smiling, skinny store owner
who piles one thin sliced poetry book
on top of another in my upturned hands,
mound of mattress pages lled with peas
like magpie, meadowswee ,
*drumlin, trawl, windbitten,
*boondock, buttonhole, *slio an
paper words beanstalk stacked
and I close my eyes
until I am a tower too
until I am ink and wood’s dust
swirling up s ueaking stairs
a cobweb curiosity
settling in Sligo sunlight
*drumlin – small hills

*boondock – remote, isolated area
*slio an – hurling ball
15
RUTH MOTA
Courtship of the Cabbage Butter y

He hovered like a white- amed metronome.
Fluttered back and forth, measuring time
beside our garden hedge. She perched, obscured -
a tiny trembling sail behind a leafy curtain - until
in streak of light, she ew, spiraled upward, he in hot pursuit.
eir luminescent wings wove a glittered braid
across the bright blue canvas of an autumn sky.
Round they whirled, a maypole dance reversed

that ribboned upward. But never once a touch.
An enticing courtship ritual, but did I miss the sex?
Confused, I had to learn the meaning of this tumble.
Get this! Turns out the act itself provides a duller show.
While still earthbound, he wraps his wings around her closed ones
and seconds later, when he’s done, he drags her o , then drops her.
e glorious dance I witnessed - a rejection ight.

A lo y no, rarer than the act. What made it so?
His scent, his moves, dark markings ugly to her taste?
Her motive for rejection may not be understood
any more than mine, of men who’ve marked my time.
You might say, in her case, instinct ruled, not a reasoned voice
but still you must agree, this lady made a choice.
16
ALYX CHANDLER
Diagnosis
It’s always there, hula hooping down the street.
On a bright day, in the driveway.

Bare feet in chalk smeared from rain. Small-hipped, smiling.
At 5, my mom said I was bewildered

each morning, not understanding what I saw.
It was like stepping on glass the size of a ngernail,
pulling the shard out, lodging it in my skull. Feeling relief.
Opening up the door, forming an orb.
Cracking it in two. I loved its shatter.
Here I am, so many years later:

missing the monster.
I join it once more, unhinging myself on the lawn,

twisting my torso in tight circles under pinched sky,
braiding my brain in calculated movement,
short-term relief, circular severity. It tells me
take the fact and fold it.

First in halves, then in fourths. Over time,
it becomes smaller. On a bright day,
it’s barely a shape.
17
DAVID A. GOODRUM
Molten Water #6
18
DAVID A. GOODRUM
Future Unknown
19
TYLER MORELLO
Just Desserts
Longing for the times when I longed for the times.
Nostalgia folding in on itself
like a bittersweet layer cake,
a phyllo dough philosophy.
I can only look back with glazed eyes.
Such sweet times they must have been,

for I remember loving them!
Just barely, as though they’ve been
frosted and piped over.
Taste buds have lost the memory of the avor.
e drought from o my tongue expands
and leaves my mind deserted.
Such a time lies baked into my mind

when I would gorge myself on life
with the sugar rush fervor of kids on candy,
and inevitably I’d make myself sick of it.
If nostalgia is a treacherous treat,
then I suppose this sweet tooth is terminal.
Dental cavities and mental gravity
curse me with the room for one more course,
my “just desserts.”
20
BRANDICE ASKIN
Remnants
You were here once.
I know it from your smell,
impressions of you preserved in light.
You le gi s to discover--
your last painting: a watercolor of my home,
“All Out Of Love” by Air Supply,
your CD in the player.
In dishwashers, cars, and freezers

where your spirit burrowed,
your maniacal mind and joyful laugh
corroded appliances, blocked gears,
waiting until we noticed
before going to the other side.
en you bent backwards,

sank lower
until only the ground held you,
no more spark in the air.
Now, you carouse
on a cloudy balcony--
throwing objects,
hiding nickels,
spilling time.
One more spirit for mischief --

you entered the mega-multiplex
of God hands
and mini-movies with twilight shows.
One more spirit for laughter --
you wait there idly,
cheeks lled with rainbows,
spirit aglow.
Don’t forget me.

I know you won’t:
your love was always bi er than mine.
Your love burned us,
and ignited a few more lives gladly --
a rebolt of existence.
It was never your time.
21
LEWIS LEICHER
Nocturne
I hate it when my house makes strange noises
late at night. I’m too old for random sounds
to make my heart race – it’s the ghost stories
about possible causes that bother me:
burglars trying to pry a ground- oor window;
the initial twitch before a uake hits;
a rodent checking in at the Front Desk.
en I’m pushed beyond the rules we all use
to stay safe without much conscious e ort.
When Death comes to my door, whether tonight

or some tomorrow, I’ll o er Him sweet tea
and talk about my family history
(giving me time to tidy up before I go).
Some people believe they’d prefer if He
snuck up on them. But for me, that would mean
I just wasn’t listening carefully enough.
22
WILL NEUENFELDT
Box O ce Wine
Tuesdays a er school, Mom drove me and my sister to the nearby
Video Update where the ta-dum from the doorbell
red o our race down the labyrinth of red carpet
so she could re-rent those direct-to-video Barbie movies
and I could rewind the 1987 season for the Minnesota Twins.
We’d meet mom at the register with our clamshells in hand
but when setting down the tapes they slosh li uid as the clerk
asks for my ID instead of a dollar for two-movie Tuesdays.
Candy bars are now cartons avored with menthol and 100
while the Runts machine has fruits that can only be scratched.
Out the door gripping my brown bag, it’s nice to rewind
the tape on those Tuesdays until looking back at the sign
for Top Ten Li uors lit up with streams of neon red.
23
KATIE HUGHBANKS
Sunshine Takes a Dip
24
KATIE HUGHBANKS
Fragile Fierceness
25
MAUREEN CLARK
A Country Without You

for my ather
I.
then one day you didn’t recognize me
anymore and it set o an erasure a whiteout
what kind of disease ends with such meanness?
both our lives gone in a sudden whiplash
that leaves me spinning solo in an empty ballroom and

o balance no one to bring solace
or hope it’s spring planting time again
but dad you’ve lost the ability to see the seasons
to plant rows of corn patches of tomatoes

you don’t hear the music of soil and seeds the wet glissando
of water in the ditch all these touchstones
gone no pumpkin seeds no broom corn golden
long a er you’ve gone we will pick apples

from the trees you planted in the back acre
II.
we sat together in a boat on the glassy surface
of the lake and waited for whatever sh
might be lurking in the deep slime
beneath the surface of the watery frame
you and me in the purple bruise of morning sunrise

baiting our hooks and casting our lines
to catch perhaps rainbow trout before the midday sun
pushed us to shore with only sunburn to show for the hours
memory of an August at Flaming Gorge my skinny

form jumping ashore docking the boat
a little piece of me connected to you and the strand
of that one perfect day those red fantastic neurons born
like hallowed jewels by boat and sh caught in bright amazement

of childhood and though you don’t remember it dad the awe
26
MAUREEN CLARK
III.
you bent my ear to stillness to the deep melody
of the Milky Way and camp res turning to ash
the spiral galaxies the star clusters almost more
than I could take in the dark adagio
of constellations and planets overhead and we were part

of it all that dark harmony of space
the stars that made Ursa major and Ursa minor planets
and moons the star dust that made us and I was silent
in the presence of that beautiful noise

and the hum of the voices lling the meadow
our family that I thought would never
not be just like this around a dying camp re’s majesty
a spell so temporary it would change before the next full moon into ache
even the pines were ephemeral the loss of magic acute
IV.
tomorrow is a country without a string
to tether me to you but I refuse to believe
the lines are cut completely how could heaven sling
us out for good? when I wave at you dad you still wave back
and smile that shy boy smile from the photo of you and Don
on the front steps of the old house the two of you grinning
you are no more than three ra ed overalls and Don
is holding you by the shoulders gently
without you I would never ascend the red rock cli

at Lake Powell put my toes and ngers in the sandstone
ladder you talked down my fear helped me climb
high above the water into the Anasazi dwelling to see
from their windows the world and you

and now I can see that there is also a country without you
27
THOMAS RIONS MAEHREN
Hammer
how can you curse your luck
when every time you see yourself
in a mirror, you smash the glass
with a hammer. you’re Hephaestus,

the ugliest of the divine, banging
blank pages with a mallet, shocked
that your torn paper doesn’t shine
like Achilles’ shield. you
drive down railroad ties

in the places you used to
thrive, as if you could nd a train
to take you to the past. a smoke-
storm, and you’re out in the crimson haze

swinging that hammer, saying that
you’re building yourself a home. you bash
down walls and then try to hide,

crumble the concrete foundations
on which you wish to stand. clanking metal
memories; steel puncturing your soul.

they tell you to keep pounding,
your vanity whi ng through the ethereal starlight,
your nude feet bleeding on rubble, rusted nails
and shattered diamonds.
28
AMALIA CASTOLDI
Op. 7 n. 22
29
ASON CLEMMONS
the last time you gasped

for air,
do you remember
someone kneeling on your

anthem
neck s ueezed brittle crack of

pronouns
breathing split into a thousand

rainbows?
was the dog in your belly

barking
for ancestors named and

nameless
di ing up their bones to show the

children
who only need to see

you
who only need to see you

live?
30
31
AMES RODERICK BURNS
Life of Issa
1
HAIKU POETS, THOUGHT Master Issa, were rather peculiar animals: poised, ink-brush on
hand, beside lake and chestnut tree, moon-viewing platform, dusty summer road. Blossom-
brief, delicate as wind-blown reeds – ever seeking a life of resonant loneliness.
And yet!
Here s uats the priest in a pristine winter eld; here, house ies make love when the poet
leaves the room!
2
Motherless at three, step-mothered at seven, catapulted by een from mountain village to
capital. But from this barrel of ashes he drew feathers, a beak, shaky wings. At twenty, a
workshop apprentice, he leapt the rungs far past his master, burst into sun with glittering
sides.
3
Helping monks with their verses was pleasant enough, but beyond the door was a pepper-tree,
and beyond the pepper-tree, the world. Surely cuckoo and cra y shore were calling!
He packed a satchel with two paper-robes, a ne lice-comb, then walked into the rst of
seven travelling summers.
4
"Rice, master?"
"My horse will recross the plain."
" e shrine? is way."
All along, lawyers fought over his father’s house.
No matter.
e peony, mild-pink, emerged from its green corona. Hot-spring monkeys knocked o caps
of snow.
5
Barely had he returned when the village pricked his skin. Only a poem could relieve such
irritation.
In my home
even the eas aren’t afraid
to bite a big man
32
AMES RODERICK BURNS Life of Issa
6
Split-houses still had room for growth: a wife, daughter, bursting like seed-pods with life.
Second fruit, third – each sweeter, briefer, than the last. At ve decades’ close he married
again, lost again; married over. At six, burned through timbers, paper walls, like a breeze-
lo ed ember.
In the end, only thoughts: anthology strokes, charcoal-sketchbooks, twenty thousand

dragon ies li ing out of sight.
7
At last – light.
In a ash
the lake is lled
with reworks!
33
LUBA BURTYK
100% Pure
I immediately recognize the kind of place this is. Every city has a few of them. Usually, they’re
tucked away in some worn part of town, hidden in the shadow of a highway pylon, shrouded in the
smoky discharge of a factory. ey’re never very large -- a shadowy room with a bar at one end. No
more than that. Unmarked. No one would expect an outsider like me to seek them out. But the local
workmen know them. Pressed shoulder to shoulder, they ll every inch of space with the clamor of
their appetite.
I turn to walk away. Places like this are not a part of my life anymore. Not sinceMonica, anyway.
But I hesitate. Stop. Rub my numb hands on my jeans.
“Damn you, Douglas,” I say aloud, the words mu ed by a sudden uproar of wind.
It’s because of Douglas that I’ve ended up here.
As always, he’s my roommate for the tour. Fi een cities, six weeks. Not an unusual gig for us.
“You have to room with him,” the other dancers tell me. “You’re the only one who can handle him.”
Not so secretly, they believe that Douglas and I deserve each other -- two health fanatics.
We aren’t. Not exactly. Douglas is a dancer with a dancer’s preoccupation with the body --
admittedly, carried to an extreme at times. Like when he is stressed, which he is on tour. We all are.
But only Douglas feels and catches dra s in rooms where no air moves. He is never without
earmu s, scarves, and gloves, no matter what the season. All day he puts on and takes o layers of
sweaters, sweats, leotards and socks to adjust for the vagaries of local weather, and the temperature
of our rehearsal studios and dressing rooms.
Despite these precautions and he y doses of vitamins and antioxidants, Douglas always comes
down with mysterious ailments that no one else catches. His symptoms are vague and unremitting.
He describes them in lengthy solilo uies delivered to the whole company as we sit backstage
applying makeup. A few of the dancers roll their eyes, but say nothing.
Douglas blames his condition on the local water and the unsanitary handling of the hotel food,
which we subsist on. He doesn’t feel safe until he’s found a sympathetic, local citizen – preferably, a
woman -- to take him into her home and cook for him. Invariably, one turns up -- someone who is
only too happy to feed the leading dancer of a world-famous dance company exactly what he is used
to eating at home.
My own dietary preferences -- strict ovo-lacto vegetarian -- have nothing in common with the
germ phobia that drives Douglas’s eating habits. I ll my suitcase with staples from home only
because there isn’t much opportunity to hunt out the local vegan restaurants in the brief intervals
between rehearsals and performances.
34
LUBA BURTYK 100% Pure
Douglas’s pursuit of home cooking usually leaves me with the hotel room all to myself, an
arrangement I like uite a lot, except when Sheila, his live-in girlfriend of half a decade, calls me.
Which she does -- two, three, four times a week, or even a dozen times a day, if she can’t reach him.
I have spent many a four a.m. talking her out of hopping the next plane out to wherever in the
world we are to check on him.
He’s in rehearsal. . . a press conference. . . out taking a walk, I wind up telling her even though I
don’t like lying. As Monica would say, it makes for bad karma. Repeatedly, I promise Sheila to take
good care of Douglas, which consists mainly of reminding him of home, and telling him how lucky
he is to have Sheila waiting for his return. I gure that’s what she really has in mind.
Unlike the rest of the dancers, who pretty much consider her a joke, I feel for Sheila. A beetlish
bit of woman, unfailingly decked out in black, she says she is an actress, always and forever just on
the brink of the call-back of her life. Truth is, she lives to serve Douglas. When we are not on the
road, she is forever scurrying into our rehearsals with a hot macrobiotic lunch in stacked Chinese
pots, or a homemade sweet, a sweater, an umbrella. Douglas tolerates her attentions with the
embarrassed resignation of a boy being urged into galoshes by his mother.
Most of the time, I don’t mind dealing with Sheila, but tonight I wasn’t up for one of her crying
jags. Douglas was already out. I was lying on the hotel bed missing Monica and wishing I were in
her arms. So when Sheila called my cell, I let it go to voicemail, and when the hotel room phone
rang, I covered it with a pillow and let it ring.
It rang, and rang, and went on ringing – meaning that Douglas had turned o his cell, and
Sheila was probably going to do an all-nighter of trying to reach him and driving me crazy while
Douglas enjoyed a homemade meal.
e image of Douglas at some adoring woman’s table savoring a local delicacy, made me
suddenly ravenous. I pawed through my suitcase. Unsalted, unsweetened, preservative-free peanut
butter, dried, un-sulphured fruit, seeds and nuts were just not going to do it for me. I wanted
something fresh, something with some juice. But it was late -- too late to go looking for a decent
place to eat.
I sat on the edge of the bed and considered forcing myself to go to sleep. e phone hadn’t stop
ringing, and didn’t seem like it ever would. I decided to go out.
I walked for a long time -- randomly, at rst. Or so I thought. But a er a while, I noticed that I
was following someone, a man barely visible in the darkness. A stranger. He was smoking a
cigarette. e cold made the smoke congeal in long lines in the crisp air, and I found myself
sucking them down like a teenager copping a cigarette in the school bathroom. I lled my lungs
with the smoke as though I’ve never had a thought in my head about cancer, never heard the ugly
facts that Monica read to me out of her nursing textbook -- like how smoking nukes the little
brush cells in your airways which are supposed to sweep your lungs clean. Without them, the lungs
become as ba y as an old leotard. I held on to that smoke, followed the long, slow trail of it like a
trolled sh, until I ended up at this thick and studded door.
35
Above my head, a gull makes its shill for water, earth, sky. Faint, unmistakable. e stink of a
tidal mud at brushes up against my face on the wind -- the reek of life forming and unforming. I
conclude that the harbor I saw marked on a map of the city must be nearby. I could walk along
the water’s edge with the suck and slap of the mud against my sneakers, follow the harbor back to
the other side of the city, up into the hills. I’d be back in my hotel room in less than an hour.
But there’s another smell -- the high close funk of esh -- that seeps out from under the door
and makes me want to sink by face in it. It’s been such a long time.
I check the street again. Not a single familiar face. ere’s nothing le to do but go in. I’ve
thought about it o en enough -- the temptation gets hold of me as soon as I leave home. A lapse,
an unfortunate but understandable conse uence of being out on the road.
I take a deep breath and with my whole weight push open the door.
e place is bi er than I expected. Probably it’s the emptiness that makes it seem so. e
regulars -- muscular men with tightly rolled shirt sleeves, who come here to shout, drink, and
feed a hearty hunger -- are gone. No doubt they were here earlier, right a er their work shi
ended.
It’s a mistake to come so late in the day, I see that now. I should go, get the hell out of there,
but the smell hits me again and holds me there like an unseen hand.
“Can I help you?” A woman -- a girl, when I look more closely -- has materialized out of
nowhere and stands before me. She seems too young to be working here. I expect someone with
penciled in brows and skin like a mask. “What is your pleasure,” she asks.
I try to answer her in the words I’ve memorized out of a phrase book.
She doesn’t understand.
“Please,” she says, pointing at a nearby table. “You sit?” she adds in English.
I explain again. She smiles. Shakes her head. “You must to look. See what we o er.”
She motions me to follow her to the front of the room where newly raked coals are, and
steam rises in a scrim to the ceiling.
“What you like?” She smiles encouragement.
I want it all -- the loins, seared and running with juices, the trussed anks slowly spinning on
the spit, everything that lies sizzling on the grill. I swallow hard to push down my hunger.
She murmurs something that I take to be a recommendation. I nod.
“Yes. Very good,” she tells me, writing uickly on her order pad. e look on her face needs no
translation.
36
I go to sit down. e pop and hiss of the drippings hitting the coals echo loudly in the empty
room and ll me with regret. I look for the girl so that I can cancel my order. She seems to have
vanished.
If I stay, I will wake up feeling polluted. Leaden. My performance will su er. It will take
weeks to get all the toxins out -- the chemicals, hormones, the antibiotics.
Monica can tell what I’ve eaten from the smell of me. I’m glad that I’ll have time to get clean
before I’m with her again. Not that she’s some “meat-is-murder, total-vegan-or-die,” harridan.
She never presses. But by her example, she invites emulation.
I button my jacket to leave. It’s the right thing to do. Just then, the girl arrives with my
order.
e meat is steaming. It is burnished crisp on the outside. e esh falls away from the bone
-- pink as a tongue on the inside and wet with juices.
Saliva collects in my mouth, and my stomach feels like an empty maw, but I can’t bring
myself to take the meat into my mouth. e room is too brightly lit. I feel too conspicuous, too
exposed to savor the dish. I call for the girl.
“Something is wrong? You are not pleased,” she says.
“No,” I murmur. “On the contrary.” I paste together a phrase that includes the words hurry
and leave. I ask to have the dish wrapped. “To carry away,” I tell her.
e girl gives me a peculiar look, then shrugs and clears the table.
I wait for her to return. I fold my hands like a penitent. e surface of the table is sticky
with the remains of other meals. e gluey glaze of old grease against my skin makes me feel
faintly sick to my stomach. I notice that the table is not of wood as I rst thought, and neither
is the bench. All plastic. is observation lls me with an unnamable despair.
I push away from the table only to discover that the bench is bolted to the oor. e table
too. I lean against the back of the bench. e knobs of my spine press painfully into my skin. I
lean forward again.
e uorescent lights buzz above me like ies. I have a headache. I should have eaten back at
the hotel, stuck to the food I had in my suitcase.
e girl returns. She hands me a bright yellow Styrofoam box, a box that will never, ever
biodegrade. Not in my lifetime, anyway. I take it from her, chagrined at the way that one small
error -- my misstep in coming here -- is now compounded. Not only do I pollute myself, but I
pollute the earth. I promise myself that I will throw away the box and everything in it the
moment I get out of this place. uickly I push a mound of brightly colored bills and heavy coins
toward the girl. I hope that they are su cient thanks for her trouble. She gives me a wide smile.
37
I hurry out with the box pressed against me. e Styrofoam makes s ueaking sounds like a
small animal. I grip it tighter in an e ort to silence it. e box is warm against my bare hands.
I am grateful for the heat because the wind has turned sharply colder, and the damp air sucks at
my inade uate jacket.
I am, in fact, more than grateful. Chilled and shaking, I crave the heat. I want to wolf down
every morsel in the box, make the heat, my heat. Any ualms I might have had about eating the
meat seem suddenly ridiculous.
e wisdom of the body. Perhaps my desire for esh, my succumbing to it, is not some failure
of will, or a weakness of spirit. Perhaps a residual gene that once favored the survival of claw and
fang is calling out in me, dictating to me that this esh, this blood is necessary. In partaking of
it, do I not incorporate it? Make it live in me. Do as my ancestors did -- eat of the deer to
become eet and fast of foot, eat of the bear to become mighty.
I come to a dark strip of park. I head for a bench tucked in a stand of trees, away from the
light. I look around. No one. Nothing. Just the raw smell of earth, and the cool damp rising from
the frozen grass, and the sound of the trees rubbing one against the other in the wind. I pull at
the box. My ngers are clumsy. e lid yields with a short screech, and then the box lies at,
splayed against the wood slats of the bench.
I touch my nger to the juice pooled in a corner of the box. It clings to me like warm syrup,
but tastes salty, smoky against my tongue. A momentary pungency of rosemary pricks at the roof
of my mouth as the juice slides smoothly down my throat. My lips tingle. Bending over the box, I
inhale deeply. rough the redolence of rosemary, I make out the faintly ammonia smell of
blood. Racked by an unspeakable hunger, I tear with my hands, my teeth through the glazed skin
encrusted with herbs and the thin layer of fat to the heart of the meat.
A er the rst mouthful, I try to restrain myself. I want this to last.
Suddenly, I sense rather than hear someone coming. I cannot bear to be found like this.
Abandoning everything, I press myself deeper into the shadows. I wait. Listen.
A man’s voice, a woman’s. ey’re singing. Laughing. e man’s voice seems familiar.
I press myself against the cold bark of a tree and wait for the couple to pass. Shame makes me
shiver. My teeth chatter. Molar grinds against molar, dislodging the gristly remains of what I’ve
eaten from between my teeth. Strings of sinew slide out onto my tongue.
I spit out the eshy globule. I am relieved and disgusted in a way I never imagined possible.
e spit freezes the instant that it hits the ground.
e singing couple is weaving nearer. I see the orange circle are of a cigarette, the glint of a
bottle the two of them are passing between them. ey stop, take a guzzle. I don’t know the
woman, but the man -- wearing a tall fur hat suitable for winters in Moscow -- is unmistakable.
Douglas.
38
I am surprised to see that his fear of contagion doesn’t extend to the slobber of saliva on the
lip of a bottle. He embraces the woman. No fear of sexual contagion either, I guess. How o en
has he sworn to me, to Sheila, that his friendships on the road are just that -- friendships,
merely platonic?
My palm itches for a stone to hurl at him. But I don’t move, don’t even breathe because for a
long moment it seems to me that Douglas is looking straight at me. Can see me. I stare at the
frozen ground. When I look up, Douglas and his friend are gone.
I consider throwing up, then realize that it’s too late. e toxins from the meat are already
in my circulation. I am grateful that I have a few more weeks before I have to face Monica.
Monica, whose hair is redolent of vines and apples, whose eyes are clear as tropical waters,
whose smooth belly and breasts smell of new mown grass heaped up with owers. . .
I go back to the bench. In the ltered light of the park lamp, what’s le of the meat in the
box looks naked and small as a stillborn. I decide to bury it. Bury it deep, away from rooting
animals. e earth will cover it, will clean the esh from the twigs of bone and join it with
eternal things -- rocks and stones and trees.
I poke at the hard ground with a stick. e stick breaks. e heel of my sneaker is e ually
useless. I nd a stone full of mica that glimmers in the lamplight. Using the stone and my bare
hands, I manage a shallow hole. As I dig, I choke back tears and curse Monica, a world away,
asleep in our bed on unbleached, 100% pure cotton sheets.
39
TARA PYFROM
Calm
is story con ains references to attempted suicide, domestic abuse, and drowning.
Please use discretion when reading.
She didn’t want to drown, but she didn’t want to breathe anymore either. What was the point of
breathing? Continuing to breathe hurt too much. Forcing air into her lungs 15 times per minute
every single minute of every hour for the rest of her miserable life seemed like an eternity of
endless torture. Wouldn’t it just be easier to drown?
Melissa had done her research. She knew that the average person could only hold their breath for
around a minute or two without lots of practice. She watched a documentary about free diving
once on Net ix and knew that the folks who practiced the sport could manage several minutes
without breathing as they descended to the ocean's depths. It seemed like an insane thing to do.
Yet as Melissa watched the best in the sport succumb to the carbon dioxide that built up in their
bloodstream and eventually pass out below the surface, she thought only of the calm there must
be in those nal seconds: the freedom in abandoning the stru le for breath.
Before she could talk herself out of her plan, Melissa jumped, feet rst, into the cool water of her
backyard swimming pool. As her bare feet hit the water, there was a whoosh of air in her ears
and then an explosive rush of water as her head slipped below the surface. Air bubbles rushed
around her body, tinkling her bare arms and legs, as her body sank seamlessly to the bottom of
the breglass shell only seven feet down. As her feet hit the bottom gently, she allowed her knees
to buckle smoothly beneath her so that her butt brushed the white surface brie y before
her body’s natural buoyancy tried to take over.
For a moment, she sat suspended in a state of weightless wonder. e bubbles produced by her
jump into the crystal-clear water reached the pool’s surface above her head. Melissa did not open
her eyes. She simply sat, legs loosely crossed beneath her defying the laws of gravity, hanging in
the chlorinated world.
She had spent her whole life at the bottom of a swimming pool. She had learned to swim at
three, or so she had been told. She didn’t have a memory of ever not being able to swim, just as
she didn’t remember ever not being able to walk. Everyone learns things so early on that our
brains don’t bother to retain the memory of what it was like before. As a young girl, she spent
hours in the family swimming pool, occasionally alone, but most o en with her siblings, playing
and splashing for hours.
Extended summer swimming hours turned into fall days when her brothers refused to swim as
the temperatures plummeted, but still, Melissa would swim.
“She’s going to freeze to death,” her paranoid mother would moan to her father when he refused
to close the family pool as late fall turned into winter and snow began to fall.
When her father nally insisted that he had to winterize the pool or risk damaging it with the
below-freezing temperatures, Melissa would reluctantly concede and allow him to seal the
40
TARA PYFROM Calm
swimming pool in mid-December. With snow blanketing the landscape, Melissa would beg her
parents to drive her to the YMCA at every opportunity so she could swim.
As Melissa got older, family, relatives and friends insisted she should swim competitively, such
was her obvious love of swimming pools and the water. However, for Melissa, swimming was
never about laps or competition. It was about pure joy and the calm she felt under the surface.
Well into her late teens, Melissa imagined herself to be a mermaid or a dolphin: content to live
below the surface permanently. e trouble was she needed to breathe.
In her mid-20s, Melissa began experimenting with her ability to hold her breath for longer and
longer periods. She read books on the subject and without ever having proper training, managed
to reach a personal best of three minutes. Her friends thought her hobby was ridiculous and so
a er several attempts to share her excitement about the achievement, Melissa gave up and
enjoyed her silly hobby of holding her breath alone.
en life happened. Relationships. A career. Responsibilities. ere was less and less time for
swimming and no time for silly hobbies. As the weight of adulthood settled on her shoulders,
Melissa gave up swimming altogether. She hadn’t intended to; hadn’t planned to stop doing the
thing that brought her so much joy. She let her YMCA membership lapse, and she stopped taking
sunny vacations.
Now, as she sat at the bottom of the pool, eyes still closed, Melissa wondered if she had kept
swimming if her life would’ve been better. Would it have been enough to keep her from getting
to where she was right now? Maybe the depression that had been her constant companion now
for so long might have been easier to bear with a weekly swim.
But that didn’t matter now. ere was no point running through what-if scenarios in the last few
seconds of her hopeless life. Melissa knew she couldn’t change the past. She knew that from
personal experience. She had tried so hard, for years now, to make peace with all that had
happened, with all the pain. ere was no going back and there was no going forward.
ere was just the beautiful, weightless silence at the bottom of the swimming pool. Still, she
kept her eyes closed tightly. She needed to keep reality at bay. She was scared to open her eyes
to see the white walls around her and the surface of the water above her rippling gracefully. If
her eyes were closed, she could pretend she was calm. Free. Untethered. Immortal.
Melissa’s body sent its rst mayday signal to her brain a er 30 seconds of her tightly constricted
windpipe and clenched eye muscles. You need to breathe, her body insisted.
NO, I DON’T!
Melissa ignored the burn in her brain and neurons red o more urgent demands again and
again. Demands to inhale. Demands to move to the surface. Demands to open her eyes. But she
wasn’t listening to the demands of her body and mind. She was done su ering the stings and
bites and slaps and pinches. She was no longer willing to feel the sadness, hopelessness,
melancholy, and rage. She was ready to be nished.
41
TARA PYFROM Calm
Not breathing was going to hurt less, she reminded herself. Constant calm. at was the goal.
at was the nish line at the end of the marathon of burdened labour that was her life. She had
craved it for so long now that it had become her mantra, her obsession. She was not going to give
up on her uest to attain it. Not when she was nally so close: as close as she had ever been in
her entire life.
As each precious second ticked by, Melissa saw a new ash of the pain that kept her motivated
to rage against her need to breathe. First her older brothers and their constant need to be the best
at everything. en her mother’s fre uent extended absence from her life. A rough go at high
school with a miserable, soul-crashing teacher in 9th grade. More than one dream chased and lost
in her early 20s and a realization that she just wasn’t good enough. en there was Jerry.
Her lungs burned in her chest. ere was a white, hot re there now. e kind that melts steel,
and souls. She didn’t know if the painful burning was real anymore. Maybe it was just another
night terror. Her thoughts were growing distant, like watching her life through a cardboard tube.
Jerry. Jerry was real. As much as she wanted him to be a nightmare, he was very real. More
ashes came but now they were fuzzy around the edges and in sepia tones.
More seconds slipped away. e last few grains of sand slipped down the narrow tube. e
bottom half of the hourglass was almost full. en he grabbed the bejewelled case surrounding
the glass from the shelf, a prized possession of Melissa’s, and hurled it at their plate glass door.
e room imploded with a scream and Melissa’s eyes ew open. She could no longer battle her
body’s anger at being denied the oxygen it so desperately craved.
Now came the part she knew to expect: the last ght against the pain to nd absolute calm on
the other side. is was where she needed the most strength. She knew it would be. She was so
sure that she would give up at this point that she had planned a failsafe. An anchor to keep her
tethered to her goal. uite literally. Melissa shi ed her body slightly and felt the pull of the
metal boat anchor knotted with rope around her le ankle. She felt dizzy. Drunk even. But it was
the bad kind of drunk. e Jerry-kind of drunk.
e blackness was closing in. e re in her chest was dull now, much easier to ignore. She knew
the nal calm was only seconds away. Sleep was calling her. A sweet, long, peaceful sleep with no
more pain. She only had to wait a few more seconds.
And then she looked up for the rst time since plunging in. Her head lolled backward as
consciousness began to fade. e scene above her was fuzzy. e pool’s surface refracted the
sunshine above as it penetrated her silent cocoon. e movement of the gentle wind above sent
radiant swirls of shapes, pictures even, in the screen of life that danced a few feet above her head.
It was spectacularly beautiful. Beautiful in a way that Melissa could never remember experiencing
before.
e shapes moved and spoke to her. ey evoked long-held memories of summers spent as a
mermaid, endless days of sunsets, and kindnesses granted to her by friends and strangers alike
throughout her life. ey were glimmers. Glimmers of moments that made her life meaningful
even when the pain was impossible to bear. ey were her reason.
42
TARA PYFROM Calm
en suddenly she fought. She fought with more strength than she had ever had, with more
power and speed than her muscles seemed capable of. Melissa’s brain ignited like a powder keg
as her lungs suddenly burned white hot again. With no exhaling to get rid of the gas, the CO2 in
her bloodstream had built up to a toxic level in the 60 seconds she had been holding her breath.
e lack of oxygen to her muscles and the weight of the pool water pressing down on her made
her movements agonizingly slow. Melissa reached both of her hands down around her ankle and
fumbled with the rope she had tied there.
Two or three more precious seconds slipped by as Melissa’s ngers refused to comply with the
fuzzy signals being sent from her brain. It’s too late, Melissa thought, as the blackness closed in.
e ashes of memories, originally bright like reworks, were now just a faded blur of black
and white, seen as though she was looking through a tunnel. I need to breathe, she thought.
And in the millisecond before defeat, before she nally gave in to the hopelessness sadness and
fear, Melissa’s brain red o one last burst of instruction from her brain to her le ankle. KICK!
As both her legs moved with the very last bit of ght le , Melissa suddenly realized that
beautiful swirls above her were now closer. But it was too late. Unable to hold her breath any
longer, Melissa inhaled the chlorinated water sharply through her nose and mouth. Instantly her
body convulsed, rejecting the li uid that entered where her body demanded air.
As she stru led to expel the water entering her airways, she kicked again and fought, dra ing
her arms franticly through the water. No longer calm. No longer at peace. Now the bottom of the
swimming pool was a war zone. e place to do battle with demons. A place to rage against the
pain that she had grown so complacent toward. Suddenly calm was not what Melissa wanted at
all. She wanted the pain. She wanted the screaming. She wanted the tears. She wanted air!
en, only barely conscious, her head broke through the tremendous swirls of light above her
head. She coughed and retched as her body forcibly removed the water from her windpipe and
lungs. Her chest hurt and her head was spiralling as rush a er rush of oxygen reached her lungs,
then her starved brain. A er minutes of spasmodic body movements brought her consciousness
back in doses, she felt her feet touch the hard bottom of the breglass. Without realizing it,
Melissa had managed to move her body to the shallow end of the pool.
Her arms and legs stopped ghting. She breathed in and out in erratic waves to match the ones
now bouncing animatedly back and forth against the edges of the pool. And inside the house, she
could hear the baby crying.
43
45
EDWARD LEE
Ahead of All
47
KENNETH CUPP
Yellow Hell
1981
Twelve Years Old
A pair of years slipped by since braving the Yellow Hell, a name birthed from fear and loathing
for that glaring monstrous commuter. e school bus more than a mere transporter of bodies, but
a gallery of worst nightmares, with its riders cloaked in the guises of my peers.
Every rattle of its metal bones, a signal of impending doom. Every jostle against its cold
window, a reminder of an outsider.
e smell of erasers and crayons, the pungent scent of kids farts, the prickle of worn-out seats
against my trembling hands; these were few sensory markers of my torment.
My heart raced ahead the steady throb of the diesel engine; every beat echoed the slow
torturous journey that lay ahead.
At ten, ditched the school bus all together. Cra ed a mask, an illusion for my dear mother,
upholding the pretense of my daily travels on that maligned yellow beast. But in truth, ventured a
power-walk towards my education.
e distance was nothing compared to the legendary stories of Mississippi elders' long
barefooted treks. My route was a humble one, less than a mile. Yet, demanded skill to cross the
spindly crop elds that lay in my path.
Despite the gru ness of the terrain, its wet and cold winters and wet and hot summers, it was
favored over the harsh barbs and rough battering.
e last time riding the bus a girl spat her chewing gum in hair. My mother tried to freeze it,
lube it, and peanut-butter it; but eventually she scalped a half-dollar-sized section, which of
course led to numerous heckles for weeks to come.
On that same day, a boy snatched my homework and ung it out of the moving bus's window,
where it spiraled through the air landing in the passing elds.
Yeah, daily scrolls to school with my gaze on guard, making sure none of them would see the
fear lurking within; embarrassment, truly.
In pursuit to evade the Yellow Hell, Max, my faithful ally in this silent stru le followed close.
For a German Shepard, his eyes, deep wells of empathy, possessed a human-like depth that seemed
to understand my tortured existence.
Tardiness was a curse, casting me in the merciless spotlight of the bus's approach. Our home,
perched on a hill, came on the monster’s route before winding down the road towards school. If
caught, my solitary hope rested in blending into the hill's embankment, lying motionless as a husk
discarded by life, camou aged by the shallow dri of the hill's contours.
48
KENNETH CUPP Yellow Hell
e wind could whistle its mournful tune, the soil could press its ja ed ice, but hidden
in borrowed invisibility never to budge; desperate for survival, willing myself undetected.
Otherwise, in this harsh landscape the movement of a phantom was mirrored; seeking
shelter behind sparse trees, houses, or secluded nooks that o ered brief respite. Each step
plotted with precision, breath held, as if the mere act of breathing could betray my presence.
Venturing out earlier than normal, a wild storm had already claimed the world outside. e
heavens bellowed with thunder, as lighting ripped across the sky in a concert of electrifying
power. A ctive wind blew the rain sideways, each drop a tiny bullet whipping each tree, each
blade of grass, with me s uirming under a meager umbrella.
Amidst this frenzy, a bold decision took place—to turn back and confront my deepest fear—
the bright lemony school bus.
To most, the color represented the warmth of a sunbeam, a symbol of joy, laughter. But to
me, its ostentatious vibrancy masked the horror that lived within. It was a yellow demon, its
gaping pit waiting to swallow me whole into its belly of torture. Every creak of its doors, every
hiss of its brakes, sent chills down my spine. Each day a new chapter of horrors.
No less di erent that day, as the bus rolled into view around the bend, charging a memory
of deep trepidation: A mere six, maybe seven, entirely unprepared for the savagery.
A sudden shove from behind, sharp and unexpected, pushed me o balance ailing for a
hold that wasn't there. A cruel chuckle echoed in my ears, turning my head to see the
perpetrator behind me with a grotes ue smile and his eyes gleaming with unholy joy.
With each blink, time slowed. ere was just me and the yawning chasm of space beneath
me as I stumbled o the threshold of the rickety bus. e world turned lazy circles in my vision,
and the ground below seeped into view like the creeping tide.
My heart rattled in my chest, a wild drum against my ribs, as the inevitability of my

descent seized me. Cruel laughter, with mocking resonance at my tail. e gravel road, a erce
and indi erent hellscape, waited with open arms.
As I collided with the road, shards of rock and stone carved their ruthless signature across
my hands and knees. A ery pain bloomed a wild ower of agony in the garden of my senses, as
the brutal kiss of the earth greeted me. Each pebble was an unforgiving jigsaw, embedding itself
into my esh. Each breath, every attempt to rise, was a bare-knuckle ght against the relentless
pain of the gravel's embrace.
And the taste of tears? Tears, salty and bitter, stung my lips lying there. My dignity
trampled under the weight of their laughter, a ghastly theatre of pain and humiliation.
All of this, my body, my heart, my soul, and my crux recalled that moment as the Yellow
Hell arrived at my feet on that stormiest of days. e doors opened wide like a hideous grin.
49
And with heavy heart, ascension into the looming beast with jaws agape and ready to
swallow me whole. It is a rip from heaven itself, wrenching me away from Max, my lone bastion
in this insu erable war.
Wrestling further into the snare of the aisle, taunts whistled through the stagnant air from
the furthest reaches at the back bus. Each word, a cruelly cra ed dart, aimed with ruthless
accuracy that belied their age.
" ere goes the sssssissy," slithered out from Billy, loaded with venom.
"I bet his momma still dresses him," shrilled Jamie, laced with acidic sweetness.
More voices chimed in, each one adding layers to the chorus of mockery. eir words
formed a grotes ue symphony of spite and revulsion.
Derogatory labels, 'weirdo', 'freak', ‘mama’s boy’ seemed to grow wings as they uttered,
transforming into monstrous creatures of abuse; their fangs glistening in anticipation.
“Find a seat,” shouted the Driver. His stern command a stark reminder of the unyielding
rules of this rolling blockhouse.
Surveying the rows, my eyes locked with the hawk-like stare of the demons who ruled
this hellish kingdom. Perched on their seats like vultures ready for the kill, their smirks hidden
behind a mask of pretended innocence.
Ouch! A crumpled projectile of paper ung with precision hit my eye. Reading, the word
'sissy' scrawled in a snickering delight.
Heat ushed my cheeks as I crushed the paper with force.
Trudging on, every step a stru le against the imposing necessitate of their derision. My
usual seat occupied by a devil with an angel's face, grinning at my obvious discomfort.
Turning away, despair dra ing at my shoulders.
Instead, halfway down sat an exceptionally lonely girl in a seat on a crowded bus. e
girl, like myself, an outsider. Might we find some schmooze in our shared exile? A beacon of
accep ance in a vast of contempt? “I have to sit here,” telling her.
She stared at me, blanketed, as if some alien was running about her planet. When she
nally deigned to speak, it was nothing like the a able overture anticipated from such a
detestable, vapid girl.
A er all, Marylou Donahue was notorious for her rather unsavory reputation. To put it
plainly, most folks kept as far away from Marylou as they would leprosy; which, although
curable, was still feared by many. It was widely whispered that she and her whole clan were
infested with lice, showing no inclination to rid themselves of the pesky critters.
50
And while this fact distressed me greatly, the pressing need to sit, to escape the piercing
stares forced me to set aside my discomfort. e relentless scrutiny was soul-crushing, to
understate it. And to my surprise as it became evident, Marylou demonstrated the same degree of
hospitality as the cruelest schoolyard bully. In reality, she was downright mean.
“You have cooties,” she shouted, so that everyone could hear.
I was morti ed by her comment, and somewhat confused.
“I do not,” I protested, “but you do. And you have no right to keep me from a seat.”
“You do have cooties. Everyone says so. Go away!”
“ at’s you they’re talking about. It’s not me!”
As she took over the full breadth of the seat with both legs now; we found ourselves
locked in a silent battle. Each second was a drawn-out, heavy weight, as the bus driver's gru
mandated, "Find a seat, son. We won't budge until you do."
A feeling of defeat began to pull me under, my head sinking in uiet capitulation.
Just as I was on the brink of succumbing to despair, an unexpected interruption came

from the metallic screech of the bus doors swinging closed.
In the midst of chaos, Max's arrival was a soothing balm; his ru ed frame, an unyielding
monolith of canine loyalty in the tumultuous maelstrom. Navigating the aisle with purpose, his
eyes locked onto mine, bolting my way, reverberating through the commotion, as if to say:
You're not alone. You have me.
is lifeline of comfort was a stark contrast to the reality that was about to unfurl, as an
ominous silence cloaked the bus as it shuddered, and the world outside blurred into a terrorizing
whirl of wind and debris.
We were oating!
Somehow detached from the rm and reliable grasp of Earth we were oating. e bus,
our mundane commute, had become a helpless vessel in the merciless grasp of the storm. e
ordinary overtaken by an event that de ed comprehension. e large metallic structure reduced
to a imsy tin can, bu eted by a storm that seemed to laugh at our fragility.
e world outside spun in a furious circle of disorder. e storm, a raging beast, showed
its might, pulling roofs from houses as the wind roared like a thousand angry voices.
Tornadoes, each a devil of its own, spiraled in the sky, their sub vortices twisting
violently, consuming everything in their paths.
e sight was a haunting spectacle, a cruel ballet of destruction.
A bicycle, seemingly untouched by the storm's wrath, hung in the air performing a
macabre solo; while a crow, feathers rippling against the wind, fought the tempest in vain
de ance. Pieces of a car tire, a ag, scattered leaves and other debris spun in a mad whirl.
51
e faces inside mirrored the catastrophe unfolding; every mien a picture of fear underscored by the
brute force of nature.
Panic-induced screams punctured the uiet, their vicious laughter replaced by untamed fear. ose
who had once towered over me as commanding subordinates, now were merely children, crying and
be ing for mercy from an unfeeling force of nature.
Caught in the calamity's core, the bus bucked and shuddered. Metal groaned, rebelling against the
tornado's ruthless pull. A small boy, a petite gure, wide eyes lled with terror, stared towards me,
desperate for a savior. e tears streaming down his cheeks seemed as harsh as the lashing rain on my
skin.
With the boy in sight, the storm's onslaught was braved. Each step taken felt heavy, every breath a
erce battle against the wind’s cruelty. Yet, in that moment, the storm held no sway over me. All that
could be seen was his face, a shield of fear.
His terror, his desperation, echoed within my core, drawing me towards him, against the storm's fury.
e storm's rage muted to a distant drone. All that mattered was the scared child in the bus, his wide,
fearful eyes locked onto mine.
“Look at me,” I mouthed. e roar was overpowering, yet my message appeared to cross the noisy
barrier. His wails dwindled, exchanged for so , tremulous breaths. His tiny hand found shelter in mine,
providing an anchor in the storm-ridden journey.
In the corner of my sight, they emerged, the bullies. eir eyes typically brimming with intimidation,
were now shocked circles. ey watched as I began humming a melody, a hushed counterpoint to the
storm's deafening bellow that lled the bus.
e frightened boy’s eyes mellowed, his grasp on my hand transformed from despair to expectation.
e world outside was a whirlwind of chaos, but within the bus, I had formed a haven of tran uility for
the terri ed boy.
But it is all over when the violence throws me to the back, my body colliding with a warm, known
presence, Max. He had been hurled about as I had, but he had managed to nd his footing, pressing his
nose against me, growling at the air; a soothing balm amidst pandemonium, calming the frantic pulse of
my heart. Max barked ercely, trying to assert some semblance of control amidst the chaos.
Clinging desperately to the seat, my knuckles were white against the worn faux-leather, as the
windows shattered and rain invaded, soaking all in its course.
Every lurch of the bus was a promise of an impending nightmare; a racket of s ueaking metal,
screams, and the deafening howl of the storm.
e bus was a spinning, a vertical behemoth, a child's toy whirled by unseen hands. e raw strength
of our spin was enough to skew the fabric of reality, to tip the world onto its side. Where we had once
been scattered like strewn seeds, we were now a harrowed harvest, crowded together at the rear of the
bus. Our bodies, no longer separate entities, but a jigsaw of limbs, a hive of shared warmth under
relentless downpours.
en, with the abruptness of a snake’s strike, our precarious jaunt halted. e bus met earth's
resistance, a force so potent it jostled our cores.
52
We were tossed about, our bodies an intricate knot of distorted limbs. e line between
individual and collective blurred, dissolving in the shared experience of fear and confusion.
Drawing from a wellspring of fortitude within me, I maneuvered through the tangle of limbs
and bodies', a grim labyrinth of esh and fear. Each pulled body served as a stark reminder of the
yellow beast that had entrapped us. It was a brute of a barrier, yet not entirely insurmountable,
pulling myself above the mound, until my eyes met with Marylou.
Injured, but determined, Marylou and myself solidi ed our bond in survival. Our reliance
on one another was the torch that lit our way, guiding us over the twisted metal, over the lifeless
forms, over the consumption of death. A shattered window became our portal to freedom, its
shards surrendering to the strength of our resolve.
We emerged, reborn from the wreckage of the Yellow Hell, a testament to human
resilience woven into one solid scrap.
As the storm relin uished its grip, we stumbled, dazed, from the maw of the monstrous bus,
stepping foot into the a ermath. e landscape was a portrait of chaos, a sketch of upturned
trees, decimated houses and scattered remnants of the life that was. e scene bore the hallmarks
of a cinema horror, a nightmare brought to life.
e commotion over, le me searching for Max, my unwavering protector, my sanctuary in this

wasteland of torment, was gone. A cold dread blossomed, robbing me of breath as the harsh reality
of his absence fully set in. His absence, more punishing than any bully dealt.
Yet, amidst the wreckage of this world, a beacon of hope pierced the gloom – Marylou points
towards the unmistakable sound of Max's bark from behind a toppled tree.
Tears blurring my vision, sprinting towards the sound with arms ung wide, my heart exposed
with relief. My Max, his tongue lapping at my face, tail wa ing in free-range joy.
In the a ermath arose a new day, shedding the darkness of the storm that once held a captive.
e wreckage, a grotes ue testament to torment, lay in the past.
A profound and startling transformation sprouted from the raindrops of trials.
Gone was the timid boy, cornered and defeated day by day. Change had happened, evolution
had occurred. e fragile kid who had stepped onto the bus was a memory. Here stood a con ueror.
Here was the boy who had weathered the storm and emerged victorious.
e monstrous Yellow Hell, that dreadful bus that had been the theater of my shame, is no
longer a stage for my daily trials. It has morphed into the backdrop of my triumphs, has evolved
into something more inspiring, etching not just emotional, but physical marks of bravery that
pierced my soul.
As the tempest's rage so ened into a gentle whimper, a melody born of resilience, let it be a
testament to the saga of grit and survival.
e echoes of the storm sing from the mouth of fear, to the shore of courage.
53
VICTORIA MULLEN
Amethyst Geode
54
AMELIA CLARE WRIGHT
body gold, oh wonder

During my freshman and sophomore years of college, I lived 0.7 miles away from the
Charles River Esplanade. I ambled through the Boston Common, through the Public Garden,
across the winding bridge over the highway, to the dock overlooking the river, Cambridge’s soul
bared before my eyes. I did this religiously, like my prayer; I made this trip before sunset, a er
midnight, and in the morning—I didn’t have to think about it; my body just took me.
I saw my rst constellations with my spine pressing into the wooden dock. When
temperatures dipped below freezing, I was still there in my signature fuzzy, pale pink blanket,
wrapped up from shoulders to toes, letting the cold take my head away. at was the whole
point. I was all body on the esplanade. All frigid limbs and numb lips and back of my head
against wet wood.
Isabel and I met in middle school when our English teacher couldn’t tell us apart—thin frame
and blonde hair and light eyes. We were stitched together throughout high school, making blood
pacts and spirit bonds. I got drunk for the rst time on her living room oor. I nished my rst
journal under her comforter. Isabel met me where I was. She has never asked me for anything
except to give all of myself and to take her in return, which I do un uestioningly every day. Still.
During those rst two years, I lived 1.9 miles away from Isabel’s Boston University dorm
room. e trip between mine and hers, too, moved into my bones, built home in my muscles,
dra ed my feet across pavement without thought; only once did I take the train. Sometimes she
came to my side of the esplanade, and we sat in the dark together and shared thoughts that felt
like they wouldn’t make sense to anyone else. She said I didn’t value myself unless I was on the
verge of losing myself. I said she couldn’t nd a healthy relationship because she was looking for
validation, not love. We said we were only surviving college because we held each other.
When I committed to Emerson College, my mom, who understands me, who is me, told me I
was going to love Boston. Teachers told me, too. Friends, neighbors. I was going to absolutely love
Boston.
I hated it.
I still hate it.
I could say it’s because everything closes too early for a proper city or because it’s windier
than my own personal hell or because all of their sports fans are downright mean. And while
those are all good (and true) reasons, the hatred at its core stems from the public transportation.
e trains in Boston are like a crack in the ceiling, lines festering out of the center of the city,
making it next to impossible to get from edge to edge without going back in, retracing places
you’ve already been. ey’re old and they leak. I regularly wait twenty minutes for a bus that was
scheduled to leave in ve. I am always late. I can’t get anywhere.
55
AMELIA CLARE WRIGHT body gold, oh wonder
One night in my sophomore year, I was overwhelmed by a frenzy of anxious self-destruction

and a t of the walls closing in. My chest was tight, my heart rapid, and the thoughts in my head
were dangerous. When you live with mental illness, these nights stop taking you by surprise, and
you uncover little ways to make yourself feel less crazy. You get to know yourself and the things
that you need to feel better.
I knew I needed movement, and I needed Isabel to hold me somewhere along the way, even if
only for seconds. She told me she had homework; I told her I was on my way. She was the
direction my body pulled me, a gravitation my toes never forgot.
I pulled on my heaviest sweater, stashed my notebook in the pocket of my jacket, body of

camera pressed against body of mine, and roamed into a 10pm lit by streetlamps and headlights.
Mist and fog blinding September, a world damp with the memory of a melted sky. My body
knew the route, so my mind was free to ramble, thoughts tumbling over one another in a frenzy,
disappearing or resolving as uickly as they came.
e bridge overlooking the highway: I created chaos with my camera, the lights of vehicles
coming and going turning into some abstraction of my mind.
e playground just over the bridge: I climbed to the top of the rope jungle gym to see a world
calmer from far away, spun on my back on the roundabout and watched the crescent moon
join me in the fury of movement.
e path in between the river and the stream: I touched the trees that still looked fake, two
dimensional, le overs from the time Isabel and I did shrooms and found faces in the bark.
Along the path of the esplanade, a tree grows tall and thick and bends itself to the pleasure of
those who pass. e trunk is split—half rises tall and breaks up into branches, half curves its way
up and around and down, back towards the ground, making an arch to crawl up. Sitting on one
trunk and leaning against the other, the wood is snug.
is tree was exactly halfway between Isabel’s dorm and my dorm. It was our tree. We met
each other there, 2pm, 10pm, 3am. Wind throwing us around or ice canvasing the trunk, we were
there. I would say that the trees didn’t look so friendly when the sun went down. She would say
that we make things too complicated, that not everything has to happen in one speci c way. We
would say that so much had happened but nothing had changed. at night, I curled my body into
the wood of it and watched as my limbs turned barky and damp to match. I could have slept
there, nestled between nicks in the oak. Frozen ngers nally drove me away.
I knew I was getting close to Isabel’s dorm when I ducked under the bridge marked by green
uorescents stinging eyes, and spider webs lining the rail, the wall, my feet; I felt them crawling
up my spine, inside my shoes, down my throat. It is the only place in the two-mile stretch that I
regularly moved out of instead of into. It held me that night, though, and I breathed in dis uiet.
At Isabel’s, I sat on her oor and watched her transcribe notes in the painstakingly aesthetic
way she does. e lights were dim and the walls were cinder and her eyes were so and knowing,
56
cradling me warm and syrupy—but immobility is not my strong suit. A er a breath and a
s ueeze, a uick defrosting of my toes, I set out into midnight this time.
I tried trudging back to my dorm, but two miles wasn’t enough time or enough di erent. I
came across the Mass Ave bridge (apparently actually called the Harvard Bridge), which crosses
the Charles and deposits you in Cambridge. I thought maybe this place I couldn’t stand would
look better from the other side.
e bridge was windy and frigid, but I pressed on, cars whizzing by on my le , the whole
bridge shaking with their movement. But the journey across was uicker than I thought it would
be, and sooner than expected I was on the other side of the river.
e path in Cambridge was not paved like on our side of the esplanade. It was hardened dirt
and orange cones warning me not to go to the places I did. I wandered still. ere was nowhere
to sit, so I stood and stared into the blinking lights of the city I was supposed to be calling home.
Nothing. I tried taking a picture, knowing that I had turned much uglier things into beauty
before. Still nothing. Nothing but silent, seething hatred and desperate apathy.
e Cambridge side of the esplanade terminates in a labyrinth of roads and the sight of
Longfellow Bridge, which, as it turns out, is really fucking hard to nd the entrance to. Phone
corpse in my pocket, I wandered the same streets over and over, thinking I was getting
somewhere new. Tried not to nd metaphor in that.
Eventually I found the entrance to the bridge. Halfway across, I stopped—Boston e ually as
far as Cambridge, both of them the wrong direction, both just as unfamiliar and undesirable and
not home. And down below me the murky, frigid water of the Charles River. It would be frozen
over in a little more than a month.
I imagined:
I remove my camera from around my neck and place it on the sidewalk for someone lucky.
My body is sti with cold as I clamber onto the wall of the bridge. e air whips my hair into
knots; I close my eyes. e fall towards the water is longer than it looks, every inch of my body
and mind braced for the smack of water. It hits me hard. No. I barely feel it. I am instantly and
uietly submerged, my body heavy with the weight of my winter coat, clementine peels and
balled up receipts oating up out of the pockets, current rolling me over, imaginary creatures
dri ing past me like the horror of fantasy, and I try not to gasp for air, try to let my body sink
below the bubbles of chaos I conjure with my entry and exhale, until the lights from the city
become wavy and distorted and my sightline goes nally black.
I played that scene out in my head for a few minutes, wondered if it was the cold or the
current that would kill me, but gured I’d probably just end up alive and wet. Instead, I turned
the volume on my headphones all the way up and kept moving. I went home. I put on so
underwear and knee high socks and wrapped my skin in the gentle embrace of my signature
fuzzy, pale pink blanket. Dri ed to sleep in daydream and open windowed mist.
57
Isabel said once, towards the end of a particularly cold acid trip (right at the point where
the walls had stopped being li uid but our thoughts remained profound) that I spend my
entire life running away from the feeling of being trapped.
My teeth fell down my throat.
She revealed me, unearthed a truth I hadn’t recognized. A deep-seated, don’t-

acknowledge-it, perception-changing kind of truth.
For years, I walked because I was afraid of getting stuck where I was, here, somewhere I
hated. I walked because as long as I was moving, I wasn’t really here, in this city that didn’t
know me, that was crooked and wrong, that held me hostage.
But this is the magical thing about walking with your stru le: it works. at night, I
spent three hours traveling 6.4 miles because I could feel myself slowly su ocating. I saw the
river move, and I moved, was moved with it. I cried at the saddest song I’d ever heard and
nobody knew, the dark and the mist and the emptiness carrying my drama for me, shielding
me. I got excited about things— slow shutter speeds, and the way my writing changes
depending on what I’m reading – (how amazing it is that things change so easily) – and
corporeality, and mercury and the moon. I found solace in a soul mate, in being truly seen by
the only other person I’ve met who understands roaming under frigid skies to be a cure for
bitter misery. I sang to myself, for myself, stepped through leaves and ducked under branches
and touched spider webs and earth. I held myself tall, feet planted on the ground, and found
that as long as there was another step forward, there was no need to jump o of bridges or
hold knives to my wrists. Moving is not a running from; it is a si ing through, a meditation
on being with.
58
RACHEL REH
Do you want to date my roommate?

Todd lives in the basement and has a lot of secrets. He’s of average build, with a mop of
brown hair he cuts himself, dark eyes, and a shadow of a beard that trails down his chin. In fact,
he looks like a Todd, the way some people t into their names like a well-worn shoe. He does
something in the medical marijuana industry—what, I don’t know—and moonlights as a standup
comic on weekends where he is well known in local circles for being “actually funny.”
e day I moved in, he was making pancakes with a tiny girl in athleisure who tried and
failed to guess my zodiac sign when she saw me. Todd introduced me to his yoga-teaching, tarot-
reading girlfriend and asked if I needed help with the boxes. at was the rst and last time he
ever o ered me a favor, but it made a good enough impression that I let the shared burden of our
household chores slide for a while, mistaking his laziness for mysti ue.
But it didn’t bother me. e place was great and the rent was a steal. And Todd, I realized,
was a decent roommate in the sense that he didn’t do dishes but was hardly ever outside his
bedroom, so it kind of evened out.
I learn most things about him through the other housemates: He used to cultivate tomatoes
on a farm in Virginia, man a food truck in the Caribbean, and work as a cellar hand in wineries
up and down the Blue Ridge Parkway before he moved back to DC. I have done maybe two
things in my professional career, so this nomadic trajectory o Todd’s life fascinated me.
But he divulged nothing. I probed with innocuous uestions: tips for growing nightshades
on our deck, a proposal to split the cost of e s, what he’s doing this weekend. Every in uiry
was met with the most acrobatic verbal gymnastics, somersaulting from uestions to jokes so he
could turn our conversation into a comedic bit and retreat to the basement.
I began to study him, like a specimen. Todd owns a car but rarely drives it. He has a
penchant for mango vape pens and e Strokes. He plays a lot of bootleg video games. For
someone who was once a line cook, he avoids the kitchen and only eats one meal a day. He is
also utterly ambivalent about his environment: When my boyfriend moved in, I asked if we
could buy new furniture, reorganize the kitchen cabinets, and paint the scu ed walls to rid the
place of its group house vibe. He said, with full candor, “I do not care how you redecorate.”
Todd might like me as a person, but he does not want to be my friend. If you amassed all
the hours we spent together, maybe a uarter would involve speaking to one another. I thought
this dynamic might improve over the pandemic, but if anything, we’ve grown more comfortable
in silence, puttering around the kitchen, saying nothing more than an initial greeting.
“Your roommate is cute,” my friend points out one day at a cocktail bar, unprompted. I stare
at her, thinking I’ve misheard.
"Todd?”
59
RACHEL REH Do you want to date my roommate?
“Yeah,” she laughs, as if I’m being dense. My friend is pretty, salaried, rarely single. I imagine her
in our basement. I imagine her picking up his protein powder, sitting shotgun in his 2006 Hyundai
with the windows down. “Is he still seeing that girl?”
No, I tell her, and this onset of bachelorhood has made his life rote and a little sad. It’s winter,
and he is dressing like the main character of a cartoon, sporting the same sweatshirt with orange
block lettering and a backwards hat he keeps on even indoors. I know his habits by now: he emerges
at noon on weekdays and lights up on the porch before sunset. Sometimes, if I run into him on his
way out, I’ll ask where he’s going, and sometimes, he’ll respond.
“Where ya o to?” I say one Friday a er we cross paths in the front door, keys jamming the lock.
“Got a show at Hopscotch.”
He answers all my uestions in this uick, amicable way like he’s trying to gently be rid of me.
“Can I come?” I ask, knowing I was crossing some unspoken boundary, but curious to see if he
would say no to my face.
He doesn’t, and I go, inviting my friend. It’s cold out and the comedy club is a welcome, humid
reprieve. On stage, Todd is nervous but not crippling so, running through jokes and mumbling the
punchline. ey manage to land more o en than not, the crowd gi ling in short little spurts like
they’re surprised to nd themselves laughing.
I watch my friend watch him. She is wearing the blue top I know she only wears on dates and
her eyes are carefully lined and smokey. She holds her beer like a prop, smile wide and bright like
she’s posing. Flirting? When his set is over, she claps the loudest.
“Do you want to date my roommate?” I ask in the din of applause.
I don’t really want her to. I don’t want to see this version of her in my home, using my cereal
bowls, watching a movie in the living room, neglecting to re ll the Brita. But she could be my
Todd-whisperer, the envoy of the catacombs.
She shrugs. Frowns but also nods, like she’s open to something distasteful for the novelty of it.
Todd ambles o stage. He gets a lot of back claps and handshakes. I assume he will come over to our
table and watch the rest of the lineup. But he starts for the stairs, aiming again for his escape.
“Hey,” I call out to him while they’re announcing the next comic. “Todd, my friend—”
“Uber’s outside,” he says.
He doesn’t even look up from the steps. Next to me, my friend laughs for real.
60
CONTRIBUTOR BIOS
COVER ART:
Our cover image is Octopus Garden by Katie Hughbanks.
Katie Hughbanks’ photography and writing have been

recognized internationally, including two honors from the
London Photo Festival. Her photos appear in various
publications, including in Peatsmoke Journal, In Parentheses,
L'Esprit Literary Review, New Feathers Anthology, Glassworks
Magazine, Black Fork Review, and a dozen other journals. She
teaches English and Creative Writing in Louisville, Kentucky.
CONTENT:
Brandice Askin writes poetry and ction to help her sleep at night. A cat can o en be found
obstructing her keyboard. She is a past winner of the Suncoast Writers Conference Short
Fiction Contest. She currently lives in St. Petersburg, Florida, but has also called Oregon and
California home.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ace Bo ess is the author of six books of poetry, most recently Escape Envy. His writing has
appeared in Indiana Review, Michigan uarterly Review, Notre Dame Review, Hanging Loose,
and other journals. An ex-con, he lives in Charleston, West Virginia, where he writes and tries
to stay out of trouble.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Joshua Burgamy is on an overdue journey of healing through writing. is is his rst published
piece with many more to follow. He is currently putting the nishing touches on his
forthcoming chapbook. Joshua will join Rosemary’s House writing retreat this fall with the
intention of completing a larger manuscript. He is an eternal optimist. He writes, he hopes,
and he loves. Self, family, humanity.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
James Roderick Burns is the author of one ash ction collection, To Say Nothing of the Dog,
and ve collections of short-form poetry (most recently Crows at Dusk, Red Moon Press, 2023).
A collection of four novellas, e Unregulated Heart, is forthcoming in summer 2024. His
stories have twice been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, and he serves as Sta Reader in
Poetry for Ploughshares. His newsletter ‘A Bunch of Fives’ o ers one free, published story a
fortnight (abuncho ves.substack.com). He can be found on Twitter: @JamesRoderickB
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Luba Burtyk holds a MFA from Brooklyn College and has completed two novels Solstice
(thesis), and Spontaneous Combustion. Losing It, a short story collection, was a Bellingham
Review Tobias Wol Award nalist and a semi- nalist in the St. Lawrence Book Award.
Several stories from the collection have been nalists in literary contests including Mississippi
Review and Glimmer Train. A native New Yorker, she can o en be found walking with her
Boston terrier, Blue.
62
CONTRIBUTOR BIOS (continued)
Amalia Castoldi is an Italian painter specialized in oil on canvas, with a distinct focus on
surrealistic horror themes. As both a pianist and painter, she doesn’t assign titles to her artworks,
preferring to classify them with opus numbers like music pieces. She believes her gurative
paintings transcend representation, expressing emotions through shapes and colors. Born in Milan
(Italy) in 1997, Amalia Castoldi resides and works in her birth city. She has participated in
national and international exhibitions, showcasing her distinctive style and thematic approach.
With a Bachelor's degree in Piano from Civica Abbado, Amalia is currently completing a Master's
degree at the Conservatory of Como (2024) while pursuing further studies in contemporary music
at the Academy of Pinerolo with Emanuele Arciuli. She has been playing as soloist in classical
music festivals across Italy. In 2022, she recorded a commercial for DHL.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Alyx Chandler (she/her) is a writer from the South who received her MFA in poetry at the
University of Montana, where she was a Richard Hugo Fellow and taught composition and poetry.
Her poetry can be found in the Southern Poetry Anthology, Cordella Magazine, Greensboro
Review, SWWIM, Anatolios Magazine, Sweet Tree Review, and elsewhere at alyxchandler.com.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Maureen Clark is retired from the University of Utah where she taught writing for 20 years. She
was the director of the University Writing Center from 2010-2014. She was the president of
Writers @ Work 1999-2001. Her poems have appeared in Colorado Review, Alaska Review, e
Southeast Review, and Gettysburg Review among others. Her rst book is Insatiable August
was released by Signature Books in February 2024.
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Jason Clemmons is a Tar Heel poet and long-time university administrator with works appearing
in Slippery Elm, Havik, Fi h Wheel Press, new words {press}, and Sheila-Na-Gig. His writing
re ects his experience as a gay man in the US South, o en touching on themes of memory, family,
and resiliency. Jason lives in central North Carolina with his husband Peter.
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Kenneth Cupp is a native Mississippian and openly-gay author. His novel Men are from
Mississippi was birthed in 2018. Titles like e parTyman (2020) and Cut & Dye (June 2023)
showcased his evolving cra in various media. His labor of love and experimental side is his only
current project online @Amazon: Timbria and the Magical Meadow, a children's book he wrote
and illustrated.
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Sara Eddy's full-length collection, Ordinary Fissures, has just been released by Kelsay Books in
May 2024. She is also author of two chapbooks, Tell the Bees (A3 Press, 2019) and Full Mouth
(Finishing Line, 2020), and has published widely in literary journals, including reepenny
Review, Baltimore Review, and Sky Island. She is Assistant Director of the writing center at Smith
College and lives in Amherst, Massachusetts, in a house built by Emily Dickinson’s cousin.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
David A. Goodrum, photographer/writer, lives in Corvallis, Oregon. His photography has graced
the covers of several art and literature magazines, most recently Cir ue Journal, Willows Wept
Review, Blue Mesa Review, Ilanot Review, Red Rock Review, e Moving Force Journal,
Snapdragon Journal, and Vita Poetica and has appeared in many others. His artistic vision has
always been to create a visual eld that momentarily transports you away from hectic daily events
and into a place that delights in an intimate view of the world. See additional work, both photos
and poems, at www.davidgoodrum.com.
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Amanda Hayden is a Poet Laureate and award-winning Humanities Professor. Over forty of her
poems have been featured in journals and anthologies. Her debut collection, American Saunter, is
forthcoming (FlowerSong Press, 2024) with her second collection, Old World Wings following
(Wild Ink Publishing, 2025). She recently won the 2023 River Heron Editor's Choice Poetry Prize
for her poem, " e Faery Bridges." She lives with her family and many furry rescue babies,
including their very special blind three-le ed pup named Vinny Valentine.
63
Katie Hughbanks’ photography and writing have been recognized internationally, including two
honors from the London Photo Festival. Her photos appear in various publications, including in
Peatsmoke Journal, In Parentheses, L'Esprit Literary Review, New Feathers Anthology,
Glassworks Magazine, Black Fork Review, and a dozen other journals. She teaches English and
Creative Writing in Louisville, Kentucky.
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Robb Kunz hails from Teton Valley, Idaho. He received his MFA in creative writing from the
University of Idaho. He currently teaches writing at Utah State University and is the Art and
Design Faculty Advisor of Sink Hollow: An Undergraduate Literary Journal. His art has been
published in Peatsmoke Journal, Hole in the Head Review and Fatal Flaw Literary Magazine. His
art is upcoming in New Delta Review, Closed Eye Open, Glassworks Magazine, and Red Ogre
Review.
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Edward Lee is an artist and writer from Ireland. His paintings and photography have been
exhibited widely, while his poetry, short stories, non- ction have been published in magazines in
Ireland, England and America, including e Stinging Fly, Skylight 47, Acumen and Smiths
Knoll. His poetry collections are Playing Poohsticks On Ha’Penny Bridge, e Madness Of
werty, A Foetal Heart and Bones Speaking With Hard Tongues. He also makes musical noise
under the names Ayahuasca Collective, Orson Carroll, Lego Figures Fighting, and Pale Blond
Boy. His blog/website can be found at https://edwardmlee.wordpress.com
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Lewis Leicher has returned to Poetry now that he has retired a er an almost 40-year break (for
which Poetry has not yet forgiven him). During that break, he worked as an attorney, including
for almost 20 years as a member o WebMD's Legal Department. He has lived in San Diego since
2001 and, before that, lived in and around New York City for most of his life.
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Tyler Morello is a poet and a junior in the English Education program at Central Washington
University in Ellensburg, Washington. As a future teacher, Morello aims to inspire a love of
lyricism and creativity in his students. Morello’s poems o en center around social belonging,
complex self-image, and the split between the idealized life and the actual. With a manuscript
nished, Morello has his sights set on publishing a debut poetry collection titled Kid Orchid &
e Everlasting A erparty.
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Ruth Mota lives in the Santa Cruz Mountains of California where, a er a career as an
international health trainer, she has settled to write poetry. Over y of her poems are featured
in online and print magazines, including e Atlanta Review, Gyroscope Review, Duo and
Terrapin Books.
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Victoria Mullen is a dual US Greek citizen who lives in Grand Rapids, Michigan. She enjoys
writing, photography, mixed-media arts, and acting. She attributes her creative passions to her
Greek heritage and the Nine Muses, who played, sang, danced, and inspired others to do the
same. Victoria balances her creative spirit with the discipline and insights into human nature
ac uired as an attorney. Her photography will be featured in upcoming issues of Beyond Words
and e Word's Faire (THE FEAST print publication). See her work on her website at
catboycafe.com and on Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/vmullen7/.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Will Neuenfeldt (he/him) studied English at Gustavus Adolphus College and his poems are
published in Capsule Stories, Months to Years, and Red Flag Poetry. He lives in Cottage Grove,
MN, home of the dude who played Steven Sti er in those American Pie movies and a house
Teddy Roosevelt slept in. Instagram.com/wjnpoems.
64
Tara Pyfrom (she/her) is an LGBT A+ freelance writer and memoir author, born and raised as
an island girl in the beautiful Bahamas. Her previous article publications include CBC News,
Gay Parent Magazine, Canadian Immigrant Magazine, and UNILAD. Her true story of survival
from a monster category 5 hurricane has been featured in podcasts and is the topic of her
upcoming memoir, e Ocean in Our Blood. Tara lives in New Brunswick, Canada, with her
wife, daughter, and two dachshunds. When not writing, she can usually be found plotting her
next far-o adventure with her family.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Rachel Reh is a writer and communications professional living in Washington, DC. She has been
a featured reader for e Inner Loop and a participant of the Jenny McKean Moore writing
workshop. You may nd her work at www.rachelreh.com and her babbling on Twitter:
@rachelreh
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Isaac James Richards is a reader for Fourth Genre, a contributing editor at Wayfare, and a
Pushcart Prize nominee. His poems have appeared in Amethyst Review, Constellations, Red
Ogre Review, Stoneboat, and several other venues. His most recent work is forthcoming in
Oxford Magazine. In the fall, he will begin a PhD at the Pennsylvania State University. Find him
online at https://www.isaacrichards.com
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
omas Rions-Maehren, along with being a new editor at Open Expression Journal, is a
bilingual poet, novelist, and chemist. His scienti c research has been published in ACS Nano,
and examples of his Spanish-language prose can be found in his published short stories and in his
novel En las Manos de Satanás (Ápeiron Ediciones, 2022). More of his poetry in both languages
can be found in a number of journals, such as e Elevation and Welter, at his blog
(tommaehrenpoetry.blogspot.com), and at his website (thomasrionsmaehren.com).
He is on X and Instagram: @MaehrenTom
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Amelia Clare Wright is a recent graduate of Columbia's MFA program in non ction creative
writing. She has work appearing in Oyster River Pages, Variant, and e Hunger Journal among
others. She grew up in Baltimore City and now lives in Los Angeles. She is currently working on
a memoir about pain and trying to decide if she wants to be a coral reef or a tree when she dies.
65
Follow us for updates on future magazine issues or
to submit your work for consideration:
Twitter (X): @coolbeanslit
Instagram: @coolbeanslit
Facebook: @coolbeanslit
Website: http://www.coolbeanslit.com
Cool Beans Lit is a uarterly publication that is listed with

Chill Subs, CLMP.org, Duotrope, NewPages and Poets & Writers.
2024 by Cool Beans Lit
ISSN 2993-9356 (online)

ISSN 2993-9348 (print)

Cool Beans Lit - Issue 4, Summer 2024

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ISSN 2993-9356 (online)

EDITOR: Lauren Avedis

DAVID A. GOODRUM | Molten Water #6 ................................................................. 18

DAVID A. GOODRUM | Future Unknown .................................................................. 19

KATIE HUGHBANKS | Sunshine Takes a Dip .......................................................... 24

KATIE HUGHBANKS | Fragile Fierceness ................................................................ 25

AMALIA CASTOLDI | Op. 7 n. 22 ................................................................................. 29

EDWARD LEE | Ahead of All ......................................................................................... 47

VICTORIA MULLEN | Amethyst Geode .................................................................... 54

Contributor Bios ...................................................................................................... 62-65

Welcome to the fourth issue of Cool Beans Lit.

Lauren Avedis J.L. Stagner

in tree tops, at the bottom of the ocean.

Chant your name upside-down three times,

en, like a bumblebee crawling out

your father’s deep voice nding you in a dream.

"Did You Ever Feel Forgotten?"

Five years scab over

In another version of our lives,

Now it’s through lters.

Ones and zeros.

*drumlin – small hills

Courtship of the Cabbage Butter y

Round they whirled, a maypole dance reversed

e glorious dance I witnessed - a rejection ight.

On a bright day, in the driveway.

At 5, my mom said I was bewildered

Here I am, so many years later:

I join it once more, unhinging myself on the lawn,

take the fact and fold it.

Such sweet times they must have been,

Such a time lies baked into my mind

In dishwashers, cars, and freezers

en you bent backwards,

One more spirit for mischief --

Don’t forget me.

When Death comes to my door, whether tonight

Sunshine Takes a Dip

A Country Without You

that leaves me spinning solo in an empty ballroom and

to plant rows of corn patches of tomatoes

long a er you’ve gone we will pick apples

you and me in the purple bruise of morning sunrise

memory of an August at Flaming Gorge my skinny

like hallowed jewels by boat and sh caught in bright amazement

of constellations and planets overhead and we were part

in the presence of that beautiful noise

without you I would never ascend the red rock cli

from their windows the world and you

with a hammer. you’re Hephaestus,

drive down railroad ties

storm, and you’re out in the crimson haze

down walls and then try to hide,

memories; steel puncturing your soul.

the last time you gasped

someone kneeling on your

neck s ueezed brittle crack of