21

March 2025

Hick semper tyrannis.

JEREMY ERIC TENENBAUM, FOUNDING EDITORwith ALEC CALDER JOHNSSON, ANDREW KIDD, ARIA BRASWELL, EMILY ZIDO,
FIONNA FARRELL, AND KELLY RALABATE.

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From PHILADELPHIA, the WORDSHOP of the WORLD

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Cover Image: "Bored Hangman With Guillotine, French Revolution," Source Unknown

Andrew Zhou
“Competition Beast”

Boston stumbled on the men and their device mere days after waking from his long sleep. The remnants of winter clung to each step, slush melting between his claws.Few creatures frequented this corner of the forest. They avoided Boston, even when he tried to approach with his ears flattened. Mostly, they feared his hulking size, but when the more daunting creatures turned away -- the great wolverines, the regal mountain lions -- it was as if they knew his nature. No easy prey, but no worthy predator either. Always the youngest of three siblings, always cowering in a ditch filled with blood.Caught between branches, the setting sun flared pink, and in the middle of a clearing Boston knew well, a blue tent stood lonely and tall. Boston recognized it as a sign of humanity. He was not so familiar with the black, square device placed on a rock facing the clearing.Two men exited the tent, and Boston dove behind a tree. He knew it should be the other way around, the defenseless man cowering to the great bear, but hiding came to him as naturally as cruelty to the coyote, and he quivered as the men settled in a patch of snow and the device lit up like the sun.From this tiny, Malaysian fishing village, these sixteen Americans are beginning the adventure of a lifetime. The device spoke, spilling light. Its front surface opened a door to ocean waves, a spinning island, and a man with brown hair who stared straight through Boston, like he had been spotted. The men in the snow leaned into each other and faced the image. They have volunteered to be marooned for thirty-nine days on mysterious Borneo. This is their story. This is Survivor.

#

Boston entered the world after two sisters, but he was the only of his litter to survive the wolves, only because he was different from his siblings; he always knew he was different, that he was an animal and his sisters were savages.The three children were separated from their mother one rainy afternoon, and a yellow-eyed creature, a set of fangs wearing fur, rushed from behind.But Boston's siblings were quick. They had even beaten him to the world. First leapt his oldest sister -- born days before him -- followed by the second sister -- only hours before. They both sunk into the wolf's flesh with fledgling claws, the poor creature yelping before going quiet, but Boston fled before its last breath. Boston's mother found him shuddering in a ditch yards away, his brown fur spattered red and his head buried between his paws.Five seasons later, Boston stumbled upon the feast that became of his family. He would never know if the grinning wolves standing over his mother were related to the one they had taken down and eaten all that time ago, if these villains were revenge wearing fur. It had torn his mother in two, her organ-soup spilling into the dirt. Boston never found his sister's bodies; they were gone.From behind a row of hemlocks, Boston watched. His sisters would have leapt to action, either tearing the wolves apart or dying in the effort, but Boston waited until the monsters loped off, satiated. His mother's body was cold and dry by then: guts half-chewed, eyes ice-still. When Boston left the body behind, the moon was halfway through replacing the sun.He washed himself in a river, the one that bled salmon like an artery. The water flowed at nearly a trickle, slow enough for him to see his own reflection in the water. His dark snout. His soft, round eyes. Boston bared his teeth at the water. A beast, he tried to convince himself, although he didn't yet know the word.In this river swam the greatest of beasts.

#

Boston returned day after day, peering from behind his tree. Every day as the sun started its journey toward the horizon, the men faced the device and inhaled two full stories, or episodes, before returning to their tent for the night. Sometimes, they spent the whole day hiking through the woods, and Boston made the long trek back to his den empty-skulled, willing the hours to turn into seconds. Sometimes, the men turned on an episode and fell asleep halfway through, melted into each other. These nights were the best. No distractions from the device's dazzle of colors, from the feeling of summer gathering heat.Survivor was a TV show, Boston gathered.First he learned the words together, then he learned to take them apart. The device was the TV, and it transported a story from far away: the show. Sixteen humans traveled to an island far from home and played a month-long game, scheming and deceiving -- Boston liked the music of that wording, scheming and deceiving -- to vote each other off the island until only a single human remained, who then won the prize of one million dollars. When somebody won, sixteen new humans were chosen to start all over again.Much of what Boston learned came directly from the men who brought the TV into the wild. He gathered much from the show itself, but the men loved to talk over the stories. At first, their combined voices formed mere melodies, like the notes the song sparrows answered the morning light with. Over time, the songs resolved into meaning, and soon words strung into phrases, into sentences. Boston had encountered humans in the past tracing paths between the trees, but only heard snatches of communication then. Nothing like this flood of information.The ideas that were more familiar to Boston came quickest to him as language: winning, survival, islands. The word lying came especially swift, the letters crystallizing into sugar in his mouth. It took Boston longer to grasp _voting _and months and cameras. Even after so many sun-ups and sundowns of watching, he still didn't understand what one million dollars referred to, other than some kind of beloved object -- an item of glory. He imagined a pearl extracted from its oyster, then imagined one million of them piled high.More images came, never stymied, and Boston's world expanded. Just like his sisters knew to go for the neck from the moment they could stand, Boston instantly understood the difference between a party and a library, the similarity between a revelation and a disappointment. It was as if English had lay hibernating in him all this time, its endless winter finally thawed.

#

The wind let out its fury on the day of the men's departure. Boston watched from his usual spot as the men struggled against the Earth's breath to reduce their tent and place it in a bag, as they grabbed the TV and headed back into the trees. With them, the men took something precious. They had shown Boston a thing called a door and then snapped off the thing called a handle without a second thought.But Boston only had himself to blame for forgetting. They were men, and he was a bear. They had each other, and he would have nobody.Once they vanished into thicket, only a piece of plastic remained as evidence of the men's existence. One of them forgot it on the ground, and slush half-buried the item overnight. When Boston approached, he recognized letters written across the flat surface. Most weren't recognizable, but his gaze fell on a single word: California. That had appeared as a subtitle on Survivor more than once. Some of the humans called that land home.As the last rays of light flickered across the plastic, Boston realized he was looking at a map. One of the men had mentioned being an expert at reading these things; Boston resolved to be even better. With enough time, he knew he could learn to decipher the green from the blue, unravel the secret of the symbols.Like those humans on Survivor sparking a flame with flint, one of the TV men's conversations bloomed in Boston's mind."What if you went on the show? You'd be good at it," one said. Frost gathered in his hair. The two men linked elbows."The survival stuff, maybe. Not the social part. And I'm no good on camera.""The casting call's out toward Palm Springs, right? That crowd next month is going to be insane.""Marcie said she's auditioning. Everybody's going to love her."The words revolved in Boston's mind. As the sky colored black, Boston returned to his den with a piece of plastic in his mouth and an idea spinning in his head, the stars in the sky nothing but a blanket of distant TVs lighting a path toward glory.

#

Boston chafed against his striped bowtie, the one he fished out of a dumpster in the parking lot the night before along with a pair of silver glasses. It had seemed like a sign at the time: Bob from Survivor wore both of those items, and he won the whole show.The bowtie smelled like fish and rotten fruit at first, so Boston had found a spot along the beach where the crowds thinned and swirled the fabric in the ocean. The dripping white stripes reminded him of the clouds that hung low over the mountains, spitting rain onto the forest below.Boston chose a seat in the corner of the waiting area. If anybody strayed too close, they might brush against his fur or notice the musk of earth clinging to him, and it would all be over. He took in the sounds, less overwhelming than those of the city at large, but just as novel: shoes tapping on tile, doors swinging open and clicking closed. At random intervals, a man spoke an auditionee's number into a voice-multiplying device, and each disappeared behind a white door.The journey here had been long -- the longest of Boston's life, but no obstacle for a creature such as him. Sometimes, he wondered if he owned the heart of a hare, some leftover meal in his mother's stomach absorbed into her womb. He was supposed to be strong, but had instead been born swift.At the edge where his forest met the main road, which expanded into something called a freeway miles down, he had turned back and stared into the deep lush that defined his life. He imagined every animal he ever met watching him go, rabbit whiskers and frog chins and glorious, cracked antlers hiding among the branches. Boston hoped they were asking him to stay, but he knew they would only come to make sure he left.When he reached the world of lightning-signs and glass monuments, an early sprig of hope bloomed in Boston's chest. The lights, the thrum -- it rendered him anonymous, an ant in a forest who expected nothing of the world and received no expectations back. Even when he ducked into an alleyway and hid, the crowds soldiered on. They called him in, like a macaw signaling scarlet.When Boston's number was finally called -- after a half-day of waiting -- he wanted to run to the door, but restrained himself to prevent his glasses from falling off his snout. He had spent half an hour balancing them on his face in the bathroom and wouldn't break them now. Each step was a triumph; he only mastered the art of walking on his hind legs a week ago when he used his first crosswalk.The room behind the door featured a metallic chair set up in front of a_ camera_, caged lights buzzing overhead. Boston marveled at the staring device, the curved lens that looked like the skin of an eye.A standing woman looked up from a hand-sized book as Boston entered the room. "Wow. You're a big one, aren't you?"Boston froze. The bowtie and the glasses and the walking wouldn't suffice, wouldn't fool this woman. Any moment she would understand that she was looking at a bear playing at personhood, a beast trying to enter a world of domesticity. Wild instinct threatened to overtake Boston, but he forced his teeth behind his jaw. No, he had worked harder than any animal could. He would not shirk from the prize now.Boston lumbered to take the empty seat, and the metal groaned under his weight. The woman described how this first-round audition would work, how Boston had minutes to express himself. Simple commands: be concise, be confident, be yourself. The last one was a mystery. If men were allowed to be something other than themselves, wouldn't the world be filled with nothing but lions and sharks?"Name?" the woman asked, and the camera opened a discerning red eye.Names were new to Boston, and he thought of his favorite, most dominant humans from the show. One called himself Boston Rob. A good, human name.He told her his name."Boston, why do you want to be on the show?"Boston was confused. He thought of the men in the woods intertwined at the altar of their TV, leaping to their feet blue-skinned as another blindside sent home another big player.Humanity at its most raw, its most beloved. Didn't everybody want to be that?

#

For the rest of the month, Boston took shelter behind the casting location -- a casino -- in an alcove between two dumpsters. On Monday, he found the public library and took half an hour to turn on one of the computer-machines. On Wednesday, he labored from sunrise to sunset to create an email address and prove he wasn't a robot. By Friday, he had sent two thank-you messages to the casting producers.The following rounds of auditioning were simple. A small woman asked Boston about his family. He told her and another camera that his mother had been killed years ago, but he still remembered the best version of her wading through streams running rainbow with trout. The woman reacted with great surprise -- Boston hoped that full-moon expression was a good sign. A row of producers asked what he would do with a million dollars; he asked how long it would take to eat a million dollars. Everybody laughed. They loved when he asked questions. In the hallway, an assistant called him quirky.Two skinny men in fat ties stopped Boston as he exited the casting office for the last time. They started with questions, but Boston didn't understand most of the words, which sounded nothing like the ones uttered on Survivor. One held out a book wrapped in animal skin: that thing called a Bible. Boston shook his head -- he remained an amateur at reading -- but the men insisted, pushed the animal hide toward him. When he tried to speak, the men trampled over his molasses voice.Finally, the ancient flame inside him leapt. It erupted from his mouth as a growl and ripped through his paws as electricity. Pure wilderness. Boston batted the men's arms away, his claws ripping through one of their jacket sleeves.The men's eyes nearly burst upon spotting Boston's weaponry. Twin screams ripped through the world as he dashed down the street, all four paws pounding the ground. His bowtie snagged on a light pole and nearly ripped in half. With a city rushing through his fur, Boston thought of the family visits from Survivor, those episodes when the humans' relatives from outside the TV screen would land on the island so they could all hold each other and shake.No animal knew such frailty, but Boston finally understood the weakness. He wanted the glow.Back in his alcove, Boston imagined his oldest sister's face on the side of a dumpster. He told her about the Bible men. She wouldn't understand words, but he needed the practice. He told her about cars and burgers and how glasses pinch the snout. The dumpster didn't respond, so Boston only felt a half-glow, an ember. Would time fan the feeling? All night, he waited against the dumpster, his heart open to anything that wished to enter.

#

Boston and the other contestants weren't allowed to speak on the plane ride out to the island. He didn't mind; words beyond the show had no use to him. When he looked out the window, it seemed the entire world had shrunk to fit the frame: lakes into puddles, mountains into anthills. Boston's heart fluttered, and he wondered whether he would have enjoyed life as a bird. Everything below him, everything smaller than him.But there was nothing like being a man. Birds knew nothing of immunity idols, and bears never figured out how to form alliances. Only humans would understand the lavender sigh that rushed through Boston when he read his acceptance email at the library. A woman handed him a blanket, smiling all the way down the aisle, and he grasped the gulf between a world and a forest for the first time.An entire crew greeted the contestants upon landing. Strange machinery dotted the main beach. As Boston soaked up the exotic heat, he wondered if the sun above was different from the one that blazed over his entire childhood. This one scratched at his wild need to dash through the sand, allow his disguise to wash away with the tide. As the sun rose to its height, Boston glowed. Maybe he was a sun, too.Los Angeles hadn't been what Boston expected, not like Survivor at all. Nobody talked about a million dollars. Nobody orchestrated vote splits. On this island, things would be different. All deceivers, all strugglers, but none so expert as Boston. He imagined himself at the end of it all, the sole survivor, as the crowd embraced him from all sides to congratulate the human that beat them all: the supreme pretender wrapped in fur wrapped in skin, each city-forest disappointment washing away in the storm of applause.He hoped the TVs would make him look smaller.

#

The first challenge hadn't gone well. The teams were tasked with swimming out to floating platforms to retrieve puzzle pieces that had to be assembled back on land. In the water, Boston was a weapon. The waves parted across his fur, his body a lightning strike cleaving pine trees in two. If only his teammates were so proficient with their fingers and minds. Boston panted as they fumbled the pieces and replaced one incorrect block with another. When one of his teammates dropped a piece back into the water, an image coursed through Boston -- his eyes red-shot and his mouth clamped around the woman's soft neck, her head ripped gaping from her shoulders -- but he shook his head until the image came loose.Before the first vote, everyone assured Boston they wouldn't write his name down. His showing in the challenge would see to that."Don't worry," they all said. "We need you. You're a competition beast."Boston nodded in response, more worried than ever he would mispronounce a word and drop his glasses and the humans who hunted bears would descend upon the island. But his body shivered with the unexpected truth.A beast, he considered. He recalled his own shimmering face and tried on the words. A_ competition beast._An hour before tribal council, Boston ventured into the forest at the center of the island, alone. The trees breathed. When he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine home, his sisters and his mother returning any moment from a jaunt with rabbit piled in their mouths, him ready to devour the savagery without carrying it out.Boston noticed a lone ladybug marching across the dirt. His memory told him to squish the tiny thing. His mother often snuffed defenseless things out of hunger; he had seen humans do the same out of disgust. It would be natural, like letting out a breath after taking it.Boston moved to crush the bug, then hesitated. The disgust, the mindless hunger -- he felt neither. He tried to pick one, but with nobody watching and no need to please, he couldn't feel the truth in either decision. He wasn't sure if he had ever felt truth in his entire life.By the time Boston shook himself from his thoughts, the insect had disappeared into the brush.

#

Four red eyes glowed at tribal council, the team's images beamed out into the world. One by one, everybody voted. Boston wrote down Samantha's name, who everybody told him to vote out. He had practiced writing the letters all night in the sand. From watching the show, he knew it was never a good idea to play aggressive early, to let the others know that one had a brain hidden between their ears. So he would write down Samantha, she would go home, and he would propose plans another day.When everybody finished voting, the host -- Jeff -- took each piece of paper out of a box and read the results. Boston always liked Jeff. He seemed older in person, but his voice still rang clear, just like it did through the TV.The first piece of paper in Jeff's hands. "First vote: Samantha."Samantha's face didn't move. A tightness ran through the air, the kind that catches a mosquito just before the venus flytrap snaps shut. Jeff reached into the box and read the next vote."Boston. That's one vote Samantha, one vote Boston."That would be from Samantha. They hadn't spoken much, so Boston expected her vote to be thrown his way. Jeff fished out another piece of paper and presented it to the group.Boston again. Two votes Boston, one vote Samantha.That wasn't right.The next piece of paper: Boston once more. Three votes Boston, one vote Samantha.Boston remembered laying eyes on what remained of his mother's body, and the same dull shock rushed to crevices of his brain. As Jeff revealed each vote, the cameras' flashing irises turned to catch Boston's face. He searched for words that would stop the procession; nothing came. Given all the time in the world, he might have landed on but I thought you liked liars."The first player eliminated is Boston."Everybody turned and stared. Balancing on a seat not built for his mass, he felt like a joke. He had hidden the animal of himself, but not well enough. They would take him away on the plane, and he would trek back to his den without a million dollars, and he would be alone again.Boston had tried. He had tried harder than he knew an animal could, and it wasn't enough.He dropped to all fours like he was dropping into his own flesh. Boston hadn't yet mastered reading the pesky emotions that rose to the surface of human faces like bubbles over hot springs, but even he couldn't mistake the terror washing over the group. Quicksilver brightened in Boston's blood. Like the striking rattlesnake or the diving falcon, he rushed toward his prey. He was always faster than a bear should be.As Boston bit down on Jeff's arm, his teeth sinking into elbow softness, a carnivore legacy broke free. His mother sliding down a cliff face, landing on her paws and slashing open the throat of a deer, its insides blooming like a flower into sunlight. His grandfather gripping two fish in his mouth, two skeletons cracking at once. A claw splitting the head of a rodent. A caribou stomach, an elk's left eye.A human shriek.Boston shut out the collective horror that gashed the air when he whipped his head back and tore Jeff's arm clean from his body. The man crumpled. Boston's taste buds activated with every color, and blood coated the back of his throat. In their panic, the humans overturned the cameras -- footprint trails fleeing in all directions, red eyes watching sand.The rage eased. Boston started like he had been woken from a dream, and he let the detached arm fall to the ground, its open end leaking into the sand. Jeff made eye contact with Boston from the ground. He thought about apologizing. Remorse had been one of the most difficult words for Boston to learn, but among the most beautiful once it took.Then Jeff pointed one of his remaining fingers at Boston's face and screamed. No sound compared. Not the spasms of a rodent, not the tearing of feathers, not the wet give of teeth entering his mother's flesh -- none of it prepared Boston for the siren escaping Jeff's mouth.Boston's body remembered what it did best and fled into the woods.

#

At the heart of the island, creatures scattered. Just like the ones back home, they took one look at Boston's form and bolted for their lives. Boston stumbled into trees, trampled budding greenery in his mad dash. He yelled the name Samantha at a family of lizards in his path, but nothing so small understood human speech, and into the dark they vanished. Blood dripped from his mouth, and he wondered how long it would take to love the melted-iron taste.Boston only stopped fleeing when he reached a small lake hidden behind a stack of boulders. He drank deep, purified, and the world breathed again. In the water, his bare reflection swam. His features blurred, as if covered by a sheet of ice -- Boston's tie and glasses were missing. He must have dropped them in the confusion, but the world had never seemed so grainy before, so difficult to parse. Boston wondered whether he had always needed those glasses or simply gotten used to them after all this time disguised.A bush rustled. When Boston turned, he found a predator staring back with glass-black eyes: a wolf draped in gray. The creature could not be more than a few years old, a child separated from its mother by death or distance. It froze between two trees. In the outline of its ribs pushing through flesh, Boston saw weeks, years of starvation -- the shameful kind only suffered by predators unfit for their single duty.Boston opened his mouth to speak. At the sight of his bloodied teeth, the young wolf dove back into the shadows.

James Croal Jackson
Three Poems

“Hermes The Messenger Dog”

when we heard the yelp
from the corner of Friendship
and a darker intersection
the black dog
came by to tell us
..................................our owners don’t pet us
Hermes the messenger
does not bark
he cries
the other night you said I
cry too much.........OK
.................................I will toughen up
.................................and yelp

“Tiny Needles”

Lying in the blue room
underneath spinning sunfloweryour lips I can’t remember
the whoosh of its closing book.A lost text for the wanting
civilization. Tower ofpower all grass
tickles when youremember
in winda bed of acupuncture.

“Slugs & Love, Baby”

The second time I dropped you off,
after a date of tacos & games,
we hugged & there was a big slug
on the ground you shined your flashlight
on. You said come here, I gotta show you this slug
& then you showed me this slug & you laughed
& said I don't know why I had to show you that.Yesterday, when bringing you home from the film
where we held hands the whole time,
there were two slugs defying physics on the wall
of your garage & you said they're kissing.
We squeezed each other then, sweaty from September
humidity & my car's broken A/C & kissed.
After, you poured a little bit of water on them–
a blessing.

Lance Newman
Four Poems

“Iffy Winter Quarters”

You’ve always swallowed your vowels.
Simon says redial and leave
me another hollow voicemail.You’ll find me in Isleta
nibbling room-service rellenos
in the high-rise adobe casino.The earnest droid calling keno
wears its pink flannel knotted
to bare a strip of chrome midriff.I’m frumpy and daft as a pigeon,
holed up behind a kissy-face hang tag
that reads, Shhh… Do Not Disturb.I can’t see zilch in satellite view
except the new intermodal
terminal by Spaghetti Bowl.Driverless vans haul stackable cubes,
cheese rasps, and tea caddies
to the smart kitchens of the West Mesa.Pillows tangled in flood-wrack.
Bottles half sunk in caliche.
Glass-packs on the interstate.Some contractor even installed
postcard palo verdes in red cinders.
Hold the porch-swing epiphanies, please.

“Post-Acute Guessing Game”

Now I’m a prairie-school grampa
crooning about madrones and mice.
Longhand is my signature gimmick
as I dredge for stout vessels:yarrow in the rusty washtub,
mangle rollers shaggy with moss,
garlic scapes by the pallet fence,There is a hard bottom to hit:
my nauseating unbelief,
my vote for a jumpy hustler
with his palm on the detonator.I just ODed on images of olde times:
A basket of subway tokens. Grove heaters.
Oiled shell roads and stamped steel fenders.You’re lolling in a knot of sheets,
noodly arms and pinkish drool,
a weepy ladder where you got split.My new headphones won’t cancel
gasps or the buzz of drone swarms
so I’ll stalk trolls in my dad socials
and faff with this stack of talk poems.
Maybe you’ll call it a puckish opus.

“Sifting The Elements”

Tornadoes and rhetorical killings
have eclipsed the strawberry fields
and the stars so few of us remember.I salvaged some cast-offs today:
eyeglasses, stretchy band, novel,
nasal canula and travel tank.Sun will peel the wall open in time
but not before it scissors
the fabric of our home ground.My father used to scourge my ears
like a drunken judge braying
his crimes to a wee tyke.He probed his sadness like a bruise.
Two made one which evoked nil
which still strikes me as a little extreme.Outside everyone’s in crisis
at the moment. There is that.
But every day is transferable.In a house with gumwood molding,
hand-me-down couches, and an elusive whine,
handheld shots lose too much information.I’ve worked it all through the sieve
and sealed my texts into a tidy parcel.A door on the cosmos opens
but the motion lights are broken.Something about the illness of living
through the injury of silent hours.

“Nil, Null, Nothing”

My memory chimed
when I crossed the culvert.The quiet of the desert
was littered with info:ruts in the crust, charred rocks,
a drift of mast against the berm.I’m telling your name
like the Rosaryand I grandmother
myself in the mirror:Don’t talk so common.
Time was, you knew why.Our stairwell is still a museum
of broken clocks and missed cues.I’m working the sandglass,
draining a few moredurable seconds
into the reservoir.

Kelly Piggott
“Hoarder”

Auburn collected her first jar when she was six. She meant to cry to her mother about how badly her knee hurt when a boy tripped her on the bus, leading to a sprained knee. Ripped skin bled all the way down her shin and crusted into the ribs of her socks. Her mother was bent over piles of paperwork from the divorce lawyers at the kitchen table. Her wine glass was half full, the rim stained with pale lipstick. It was three PM. Auburn went to her mother, her knee scraped, bloody and throbbing, and hugged her."You're such a good girl," said her mother, brushing her damp hair. "Make sure you stay this good forever, promise?"Her mother seemed happier, though she was still crying: a weight lifted off of her, the smell of cabernet grapes faded.Auburn's stomach filled."I promise, Mommy."She went upstairs to her window, let out a butterfly she'd caught in a jar, and threw up her knee into the glass. She put it in the back of her closet, cleaned up the blood, and went downstairs to sit with her mother as she practiced fractions.Auburn ate from her mother for ten years.

#

Auburn flew six feet in the air from the impact of the Mustang, sat up on the gravel where she landed, picked up her missing left shoe that'd landed in a biker's basket, and put her broken femur back in place. Merging her shattered spine back into the bone-link chain, Auburn shifted her nose, cartilage melting into shape. Blood pooled into the hairs of her upper lip, sticking and curling down her mouth: she licked it off. Her pelvis snapped into formation.Smiling, she waved at the driver, "Sorry for getting in your way! I'm fine. Looks like your car is okay. No need to call the cops."Auburn ignored the gawking commuters and pedestrians shouting at her in misplaced concern. There was no limp, no sway to her gait, no flinch as she walked into the alley below Kylie's apartment. She took an empty square tupper-ware box out of her messenger bag and vomited out her concussion, scraped hands and elbows, and all of the bruises on her face and body into the container. She put the box away, rang the doorbell, and swept inside."So," Auburn said, taking Kylie's hands in her own. They were sticky from mucus and nostril fluid. Oily from Kylie's eucalyptus-scented Kleenex. "What did she do this time?"Auburn listened to Kylie half-choked complaints of a girlfriend who opposed the very word, 'girlfriend.' She wanted to flirt with other girls but got angry when Kylie suggested that maybe she could flirt with another girl, too. Auburn held her until Kylie was red, puffy, and stuffed enough to drink wine and fall asleep. Auburn put Kylie's frustration in her wine glass and drank.She tucked Kylie into bed, put a thermos of cold water on the nightstand, and left while Auburn took the leftovers of Kylie's anguish.At home, she put Kylie's glass container onto her glass shelf and put her own concussion in the closet, right next to her broken nose when she tripped down the stairs of her apartment building two years ago. Shoved behind her coats, dresses and dress pants, Auburn closed her closet. She returned to the living room, opened the door to the glass case in her living room and stuck her head in. She took a drag and breathed out.Her broken shoulder blades slid into their proper slots. The bruises on her shins faded.

#

Landlords letting rats infest the walls of apartments to renovate them into becoming shitty short-term rentals. The dreaded straight girl trying out heteroflexiblity. Car batteries dying on the side of the road on a cold morning just half an hour before work. Family reunions spitting venom across breadsticks and wine. Untouched resumes. Job interviews going nowhere. Career stalls. Bad sex. Breakups. Affairs: the victimized and victimizers. Tense subway rides with men who got too handsy during rush hour. Inner-group tensions. Depression fogs. Bedridden illness. Carpal tunnel. A bad day where nothing seemed to go right. Disappointments, heartbreaks, annoyances and flints of anger.Auburn collected them all in her glass cabinets as her grandmother would the fine China that never saw the light of day. Nyx often pawed at the glass doors, tempted by the smells, and Auburn would nudge her cat away by the ankle and secure the lock. The closet door always remained shut. No matter what she was already in the middle of doing, she stood up at the light of her phone and attended to whoever was in need of her, took a jar, and collected their pains.There would always be a fresh supply just when she started to feel pangs of hunger.When the cabinet crowded, Auburn opened the glass doors and ate two shelves full, eating until her stomach swelled, her jaw aching and burning from too much sustenance.

#

Laying on the rug of her apartment, belly straining, Auburn heard her phone vibrate. She reached for it, wincing at the slosh of her stomach. The taste of a cousin's dead patient lingered in the back of her mouth. Nyx pawed at her phone before Auburn took it from her.Liz -- a vet tech with rose tattoos sprawled around her wrists and three skittish but sweet cats. Liz's abusive mother was on the top shelf of her glass cabinet: small bites taken once a week since their first date five months back. Auburn collected the trauma of the vet school grind two weeks ago on their last date. She hadn't eaten from it yet: Auburn had been waiting to hear when she'd be free for a bowling date with Kylie and her new maybe-boo. She opened the message.Hey. Listen, I think you're really sweet and everything, and seriously I've never thought I could spill my guts out to anyone, and I really love all the time we've spent together --Auburn's thumb shook against the screen.-- But I don't know if this is going to work out in the long run. I'm just going through a lot right now, and I don't know if I have the time or space to be in a relationship right now.Case door left ajar, she rose on steady feet and walked into the bathroom. Auburn stuck her fingers in her mouth, tugged on her tonsil, pressed against the back of her tongue, and vomited. She punched her abdomen against the edge of marble, jamming her hips to upset her stomach, and hurled up into the basin. A mason jar pressed against her knee.I'm sorry. Can we still be friends?It was exactly ten minutes before Auburn replied.Of course! I'm just happy to still be friends with you if that's what you want :) I know you'll find who're you're really looking for one day. No need to apologize.Auburn fell asleep in the bathtub, cheek digging into the rim. Nyx nipping her wrist for breakfast, hand dangling over the side, woke her. She dressed for work with acid filming the roof of her mouth and she smiled with her lips closed when each patient came up to inform her of their therapy appointment. No time to brush her teeth: she'd had twenty minutes to get ready.

#

Auburn had been hit by cyclists, motor scooters, car doors slammed into her fingers hard enough to draw blood, and she could walk away without a thought because there was her mother crying into her wine glass, her brother's fights with the father Auburn never saw, her friends who were getting older, falling in love, hating their bodies, themselves, each other, their boyfriends, girlfriends, their lovers and frustrations and Auburn's stomach tensed with hunger at their need to be held, heard, cared for.Her collection grew in glass cases, kitchen cabinets for emergencies, and in the freezer for long hauls. She kept her pains in the closet: wall to wall, covered with her clothes, boxes of shoes and old jewelry from her grandmother. Jars and tupperware towered from floor to ceiling. Auburn brought two jars or plastic boxes with her wherever she went.Auburn always made herself available and she always left with a full stomach.

#

Auburn paused mid-Facetime with her sister-in-law at the sound of harsh retching. Nyx heaved in a way she hadn't seen before: her body curling into a C, fur raised. Panting, black fur rippling as if she were trying to crawl out of her flesh. Blood in her vomit."I'm sorry, but can I call you back later?"Her sister-in-law blinked, surprised and disappointed at being cut off mid-sentence. Auburn's stomach lurched: she hadn't been paying as much attention as usual."Yeah, sure. I'll talk to you later, Auburn."Auburn grabbed her cat carrier, scooped up her hacking, wheezing cat, and ran out the door. Nyx meowed pitifully, a reedy yowl as she shook. Auburn slipped a finger inside between the bars to pet her chin, murmuring, "I know, I know, Nyxie, we're almost there," as the elevator descended. Too slow.She was nauseous the entire twenty minute run to the vet. She felt no better when she left Nyx overnight for observation, her stomach being pumped for whatever was trying to kill her.Auburn hugged her stomach and paced outside the clinic, racking her brain for whatever it was Nyx could've gotten into -- she hadn't changed her food, all her plants were cat friendly, so what did it -- Her phone vibrated.sorry this is so last minute, but do you have time to meet up for lunch?Kylie.Hand clenched around the phone, she imagined glass and plastic shattering as she smashed it on the concrete.Fuck off fuck off fuck off fuck off-Of course!

#

Pork, balsamic vinegar and garlic was normally a taste Auburn would indulge in, but the aromatics were so intense it took clenched knuckles to keep from throwing the dish off of the table. Kylie was talking, and Auburn looked at her, but she couldn't hear what she was saying."Hmm. Yeah. Mmhmm. Of course. Oh yeah, definitely. I feel that."Her mouth auto-filled with mindless sounds and words she'd used so many times it was its own language; the words everyone always wanted to hear. They suckled on her monosyllable vowels, hums and the occasional half-sentence and it was a mother's milk, soothing their colicky nerves. Her brother would call and she'd put him on speaker, Nyx in her lap and he'd talk, talk, talk, and she'd listen and hum, knowing it was what he wanted to hear, agreement about how terrible their father was, how his wife seemed disinterested in everything, and he was thinking of a career change out of soul-sucking pharmacy. Her hums filled in whatever they believed would validate their frustrations, fears and grievances and they would be healed.She twisted her fingers, cracking her knuckles. There was something she'd forgotten to do. What was it?"Aub, are you listening?"The dig of nails into her elbow snapped Auburn back to their lunch table and the arepa she'd barely touched. Kylie was half-finished with her passion fruit juice. Auburn could smell its sweetness. Hot bile pooled in her throat."Yeah, I am. Like I was saying, I totally feel that," she smiled.Kylie frowned."I was asking you how Liz was doing."Auburn blinked. "You were?"Kylie pushed her drink aside and leaned forward, brows set. "Well, yeah, you've barely talked about her lately, and I just wanted to check in. She's been weird on her Instagram stories.""Oh, she's good!""Huh, really?"
"Yeah, she just broke up with me the other day, so she's doing fine!"Kylie started. "She what?"Nails dug into Auburn's arm, breaking skin."But it's fine! We're still friends, so it's all good.""I thought you really liked her.""I did, but it's chill.""It's not chill. What happened?""I can show you the text message if you really want, but trust me, it's fine!""She broke up with you over a text message?" Kylie voice rose a pitch Auburn had never heard. Her face coiled, red. "Oh, I'll kill her.""Kylie, it's okay," she said, quickly, stomach churning."No, it's not! It's a shitty thing to do-"
"Enough about me," Auburn snapped her teeth. Her stomach was so tightly wound and the bile so hot in her mouth, her vision was starting to blur. She blinked to stay lucid. "This was supposed to be about you."Kylie leaned back, brows knit. Her mouth opened and closed, then she leaned forward. "No, it wasn't. I wanted to talk to you, half because Liz keeps texting me about you not returning her calls or texts and half because I wanted to just, you know, hang out. Why did you think this was about me?""Something is always going on with you whenever we hang out. You tell me, I listen. Right?"Hurt colored Kylie's face."Do you really feel that way? That I just hang out with you to vent at you?""That's not a bad thing," said Auburn, the bottom of her tongue slick with saliva. "I love that you feel safe enough to come talk to me."Heat stabbed into her sternum and it crept into her ribcage like a geyser of bodily fluid and sewage trying to slough up a blocked pipe. The smell of vinegar was so thick, Auburn would never touch anything with vinegar again.What had she forgotten?"Aub, you just said that I only talk to you when I need something from you, or just to vent at you.""I didn't say that." Spittle gurgled on the corner of her mouth."Yes, you did, just without saying it directly!""That's not what I meant," Auburn said, gripping her fork so tight the metal dug into her hand. She could feel eyes on her. Other customers, commuters and walkers on the sidewalk, two young girls in roller-skates on the other side of the street, and a biker waiting for their turn to cross. She hadn't meant for her voice to raise. She'd practiced her affirmations five minutes every day and kept her voice level, calm, warm and as soft as a throw blanket since she was eighteen. Her voice cracked for the first time in over a decade."Well, what did you mean, then! What's going on with you?"The glass cabinet door. Had she locked it?"Nothing, it's just -- "Her closet. Nyx would try to nest in there if she didn't keep it shut."I barely know anything that's happening with you, it can't be nothing."What did she forget?"If you'd just listen-"Auburn hunched over and pale yellow bile spit out between her fingertips. Her eyes watered. She clenched them hard. She heard a distant, Auburn? Auburn! Auburn are you okay!? as her ears rang. Her phone vibrated in her pocket. If it was the vet, she didn't get a chance to look: her stomach lurched, shards of her pelvis stabbing into her intestines. The metallic taste of blood swelled in her gums.The closet door.She held it in for two minutes. She rushed behind the building to throw up her poisoned and possibly dead cat, the dark bruises -- angry green and hellish purple dotting her lower body -- from the car accident and Liz's text messages turning more and more infrequent over the past three weeks, all over the back pavement and herself. She hurled until she was left coughing, mouth stinging, face sticky with sweat, vinegar, snot and stomach acid."Where is it, where is it," she hissed, voice hoarse as she rifled through her bag. No water. Nothing for her to fill up her empty stomach. Her skull throbbed. Bone squeezed against her skin, tight as a bungee cord. Sweaty fingers slipped on chapstick, credit cards, gift cards, a tampon and pad wrapper, breath mint, and a spare toothbrush as she pushed her wallet aside in her bag. Nothing.Staggering to her feet, Auburn spat out a thick wad of bile and saliva. The front of her shirt was a complete mess. Bits of her hair stuck together, thickened with the smell of vomit. No food. Auburn rarely ate much outside of her jars.Her phone vibrated. The vet. Two missed calls.Twelve unread messages from Liz. Half a dozen more from friends, acquaintances, her mother, her brother, sister-in-law, a DM from an ex who swung between calling her cold, distant and unfeeling, then missing her on lonely nights. Her phone was lit with red notifications. Her stomach emptied out."Holy shit, Auburn, are you okay?"She turned and Kylie stood there, witness to the carnage.Auburn smiled. Her vocal cords strained against her lips and she hummed, the inflamed muscle threatening to tear."I'm fine," she tried to say. The brown sludge of a furious client spitting in her face two weeks before leaked out, bits of black fur mixed inside. Her stomach tightened with hunger. Auburn laughed, a mix of wet and dry. Her throat cut itself on acid.Something hard wedged in the back of her throat. Hunching over, Auburn coughed. She spat. Her phone vibrated in her back pocket. A hand grasped onto her elbow, curling on the edge of skin where a broken glass pan cut her while washing dishes a month ago."Auburn?"There was no pain in Kylie to feed on. The concern and worry was not something Auburn could stomach: the organ churned with a need and there was nothing inside. Congealed with blood, sputum and green mucus, a piece of her spine clung to the concrete."No, I'm not."

Horia Alexandru Pop
Four Photographs

“The Perfect Mother And Her Three Nice Lollipops-Children”

“Shoe Model N°667”

“The Tricycle”

“Windows and Fantasies”

Chad Foret
Five Poems

“Revenge Machine”

Bull Moose Gets Revenge
is a documentary about
how orcas hunt for bull
moose in the shallowssometimes, but finally
a bull moose is getting
revenge. He meditatesdramatically in a clearing
& waits inside a fake rock
& lunges out at the orcaswhile you watch from
a safe distance waiting
to be interviewed about
your feelings on the bull
moose, & when you viewthe final cut, the moose
& orcas barely appear,
& it has become about
the people living nearby
& their hilarious sadness,& the movie adaptation
will begin filming soon
& that won’t mention
orcas or moose at all,& a letter arrives
from the moose:
I am still here,inside a false stone,
alive on hate alone.

“Ever The Auteur”

1

I descend from a long line of auteurs, so I know
how to emaciate a muse, blame her body. Beforethe camera cuts, leave all your hair behind or
we’re going again: I want to wade through itlike water: I want you up before sunrise, sobbing
into your cereal. I headbutt best boys to see whichgaffers flinch. I fill the bathrooms with cement:
piss where you stand or starve. I move from setsto shrines, phonebooths filled with fear & photo-
graphs of feet. I just have the one dream, to knowthe joy, even in exile, of sacrificing someone to a scene.
If the crew does not survive, we’ve made a masterpiece.I’d be the last one alive, seated among my admirers.
I’d see my name materialize, smile & begin to stink.

2

I feel terrible about my reputation as an auteur.
From now on, I will be a genius of generosity.I’ll hand-deliver lilies to whoever
I hurt with such intense sinceritythat I’m forgiven even from the grave,
then I will go to be alone in my budgetcuddy boat, just me & the empty
vintages crying out in the cabinbelow. Yes, horses in ribbons
& bells parade down stone roadsstained by flowers & rain,
& I barely listen whenthey sing my name, I’ve
put my pride so far aside.

“Deep Blue Séance”

Eight teens misdial the dead, mistakenly
summon the spirit of a great white shark,
which can swim through carpet, popcornceilings. They should have suspected:
the planchette shaped like a surfboard
slipping slowly into fin, a coastal fogthickening more with every inquiry,
the credits slowly crawling to a title:
Chums. You can see through its side,so their agony is extra obvious,
from the first bite of back tattoo
to the glossy soup in its stomachwhere a little moonlight lingers
from the first mistaken taste:
a midnight dipper passingfor a porpoise. The shark can even
enter objects, like a toaster feasting
hands-first while the stoners escapeinto the garage, & what awaits when
fluorescent tube lights flicker on but
a floor-to-ceiling shark esophagus?Liquid groans the whole house,
windows surrendering to mem-
brane, aching into opalescence.In the movie room, kids are folded
up in leather fangs, their faces green
from the Dread Herring menu screen.The lovers it leaves for last, lunging
as they reach, like a Michelangelo,
through cracks across creation.

“The Last Great Horse Dance Of The Year”

I had too much barn punch
..& lilypad Thai at the lastannual horse dance. Outside,leaf shadows stained the street
....in shapes like a long foalscrum. I went straight to sleep.....I dreamed I was stuck
in a wicker bathroom stall.To keep from wetting myselfin the world I often return to,
.....I pissed curiosities, likea box of cigars & a big diamond....I examined with an expert’s eye,
the magnifying visor that makes youmake a face. When I woke up, I wouldbe in a boat that’s always waiting
in a peach & fuchsia marsh. Birdswould burst out of every door I open,......not just the junk cars sinking
with their lights on like they knowme. I didn’t get a single vote for MostLikely to Remain a Horse,
....so I’ll be human soon& drift from room to room.

Chris Klassen
“Orientation”

The intern was quite young, old enough for the position, of course, dressed in her work uniform that was conservative and tidy and official. It was all blue. Her skirt and blouse and even her shoes were blue. They should be red, the man decided quickly when he first saw her. Soon they'll have to be red. But the intern, she was young and friendly and probably innocent and he liked that. He listened politely with a smile as she presented."This is your new office," she said, gesturing with her arm and pointing around her."It's big," the man replied with a grin. "I like big."The walls were mahogany and there were multiple windows that looked out over different parts of the property and there were multiple cabinets and full bookshelves and one rectangular table and two smaller round tables and an ornate couch and a few chairs and a very large desk. The man approached the desk and ran his finger over its smooth surface and around the documents and random papers that he didn't yet understand."It's an antique desk," the intern said. "Over two hundred years old and designed specifically for this room. I believe it came from Britain.""And I can sit at this desk as much as I want?""Yes sir, of course."He walked around the desk and maneuvered the large wooden chair, pulling it back so that he could set his girth into it. The chair was plush and comfortable and had a high back, throne-like. On the far wall opposite was a television screen. He pulled open the drawers of the desk and glanced quickly in each and saw pens and stamps and notepads and, finally, a converter which he removed and held tightly."This works?" he asked."I assume so, sir," the intern answered."There's a lot of buttons. Do I get all the channels?""I assume so.""Even sports? I want all the sports channels.""I don't know about sports, sir. I really wasn't instructed about the television. I know you get all the international news channels though. But really, my job is just to introduce you to the office itself.""I need to know about the sports channels," he continued seriously. "Especially golf. I really like golf. You can find out for me.""Of course sir."The intern walked away from the desk and towards the bookcase that was built into the left wall. It was completely filled with leather-bound historical volumes. The man stood up and walked over to her, uninvited, but he could do that if he wanted. He turned his head sideways and briefly tried to read some of the titles, then straightened up so that he was comfortable again. Some of the words were very long."I don't have to read these, do I?" he asked."No sir, you don't have to. I know that previous occupants of this office have been extremely interested in what they say, though, and they spent much time familiarizing themselves with the contents. The books are collections of very important documents and recollections of what has occurred in this office throughout its history, the decisions and debates and consultations and policies that were recorded for posterity. And this is only a small sample. There are many more in various other libraries. I will gladly provide you with information on those too if you desire."The man walked back to the desk and sat down. The chair swiveled. He pushed himself around in a complete circle and then stopped and looked at the intern again and smiled."No, that won't be necessary," he said. "I'm not really much of a reader. I can get someone else to read them for me, right? If I want to know what's in them?""I guess so sir, if that's your wish."A silver tea set sat on top of one of the round tables and the man pointed at it. "Is that old?" he asked."It's antique, yes.""It's for tea, right?""Yes, I believe it was a gift from a European aristocrat many years ago.""Do I have to use it?""It is completely up to you, sir.""If I do use it, do I have to have tea?""I assume that has been the protocol, sir.""Can I fill it with soda? I don't like tea, I like soda."The intern smiled a disrespectful smile instinctively but the man didn't recognize it. He saw that she smiled and that pleased him because it meant to him that he was in control. He knew he could make her frown too, if he wanted."I would imagine you can have soda, sir, if that is your preference.""Excellent. And I can eat here too, right? This isn't just an office for working, right?""You can order food and it will be brought to you, yes sir.""Can I eat over there?" The man pointed at a fireplace and the two chairs that sat in front of it. He left his desk and walked across the floor. "I can eat here?""I assume you can eat wherever you like sir. It is your office after all," the intern said."That's great. I like hamburgers. I'm going to get hamburgers and then someone can light a fire for me in the fireplace and then I'll eat them in front of the fire. Maybe I'll invite some friends. Can I get more chairs for my friends?""Well, sir, I think this office is supposed to be quite official. Others may disapprove if you invite your friends to eat here.""Well that's easy then," the man countered. "I'll just give my friends official things to do and then I'll get more chairs and they can eat here with me and no one will be able to do anything about it. I'll give them positions and titles." He chuckled satisfactorily to himself. "There are a lot of official things to do, right?"The intern nodded without commitment and stayed momentarily quiet and watched the man scan the room and then she changed the subject. "The art on the walls, sir, was selected by previous occupants. As you can see, there is an attractive array of both landscapes and portraits. All are original and quite valuable.""They're boring though." The man looked at them and frowned. "I will change them." He thought for a minute and stared at the intern who looked back trying to stay composed. "You know what I'd like? Posters. I want posters. Of movies and athletes. I'm friends with all the actors and all the athletes. So you can do that for me? Get me posters?""Not me personally, sir, no.""I'll do it myself then," the man snapped. "I'm getting a bit aggravated." He walked back to his large desk and sat down and swiveled in his chair and spun around several times. The intern watched and felt a growing anxiety, then continued as best she could with her assigned task."The floor coverings, sir," she began, slightly less enthusiastically, "have varied over the years. For a time, they were hardwood decorated with a collection of beautiful and valuable rugs from all over the world. Then it was changed to plush and intricately designed carpeting, which is what you see now. And this image here in the center," she pointed at a multi-colored circular impression, "is our official emblem." She looked up at the man. It seemed he wasn't listening."What's that door over there?" he asked. "Where does it go?""It leads to the attached boardroom, sir. It's for official meetings when there is a substantial number of people.""Can't they just come here? So I can sit at my desk?""They may not all be able to fit, sir. Plus there will be reports that they present so they will need to use the large boardroom table. Everyone will have dossiers and documents in front of them. And I know that there are phone lines too so any national or international calls can be made at any time. But that's not really my area of expertise, sir."The man shook his head. "I want the meetings in here. We can use our own phones. And I'll just invite less people so they will fit. Plus people can stand if they have to. It's fine.""I guess it's at your discretion, sir," the intern responded. The man didn't acknowledge her comment. He was searching through the desk drawers again, ruffling through the contents, removing some and dropping them on the floor next to his chair."Where are the buttons?" he asked gruffly."Excuse me, sir? I don't understand your question?""Aren't there supposed to be secret buttons somewhere? That I can press if I want to destroy something? When I was a kid I was told there were secret buttons that, if you pressed them, they would allow you to destroy evil things? So where are they?" His voice was angry and his face was flushed. "They have to be in here somewhere. I think they're supposed to be red. The buttons are red. That's what I learned when I was a kid.""I don't know anything about that, sir," the intern answered quietly."Well I know I'm right," the man snapped back. "I even saw it in a movie once. I saw the buttons in a movie. They pressed the buttons and then things far away got destroyed. I want that.""I'm sorry, sir, I don't know. Perhaps one of your assistants will be able to assist with that.""Aren't you my assistant?""No sir. I'm just an intern. I just welcome you to your office and tell you a bit about its decor and history, that's all. I just provide a pleasant introduction to your new space." She stopped speaking and forced a pleasant smile and waited for a response but there was none. After an uncomfortable silence, she continued. "There are a few more details I can point out for you if you desire, sir. Would you like to know about the ceiling chandelier? It has a very interesting history. Or perhaps about the lamps on the side tables? They have ties to a European monarchy.""I don't really care about that," the man muttered."Will there be anything else then, sir? Would you like to ask me anything further?""No.""Well, all the best then, sir. I hope you enjoy your new office." The intern remained motionless briefly and waited unsuccessfully for a response, then walked to the door and left quietly.The man picked up the television converter that he had discovered earlier and stood and shuffled across the floor and stopped in front of the large screen and turned it on and started flipping through the channels until he found some golf and that made him happy.

Sheree Shatsky
Two Short Fictions

“Ketchup”

A flat boy shares a flat with a horse named Pal. The horse runs to the corner cafe every morning and picks up baguettes and coffee. Often, the cook gifts the horse a bottle of wine. Pal once ran in the evening with a girl who never returned. The cook's wife heard the girl ran all the way to Berlin. Some say she is a blonde in a French movie. Pal whinnies hard for the girl after a couple snorts of wine. The flat boy buries his face in his pal's yellow mane and only then, does he feel dimension.

#

The running girl puns past fish arguing politics at a cafe. "Tuna it down," she says and runs to the circus. Her t-shirt reads I'm a pacifish. She runs the bleachers leaping over captive children watching a goat with one leg throw knives at their future. "Goat to go!" And she's off, in chase of a tuxedo cat dancing a tree of children to the river. She runs past a guard station and thuds huge pavers of off balance. The square ends blocked by a long concrete wall of division. She slows. Stops. Reads a smear of red letters. RUN

#

Of horse, no one looks for the boy. No one knows the boy is missing. He is hiding. Sometimes, the boy's flat self plays backgammon with his hidden self. He misses his father, a banker with a yellow star. He walked an optical illusion and disappeared two blocks south of perspective. The nowhere girl misses the flat hidden boy not at all. His palomino pal kicks up yellow dust loose in her brain.

“Dogma”

Her favorite blouse is on strike against stripes.The buttons hiss an advance. "Resist!"The buttons unbutton the buttons she buttons. The buttonholes stitch their open mouths closed with threads off the placket line. The double starched collar stands starch raving mad and stab her ears with stiff political points.The EEK monogram shouts the grievance. "Stripes in society hold no vertical appeal!"The stripes protest the claim. "A rebellious yarn spun by aging ballerinas!" They walk off the blouse and cuff the woman to her cheetah dog for the morning walk to the cafe.

#

The woman sits at a table. A pixie in profile. She is all eyes. She nods at walking trench coats departing mass transit. People heel past a tall stripe of a man watching from a parked sportscar. He joins the pixie for a cafe creme. The two talk a space between the teeth. He digs his pocket for keys and finds a cane. The door of his apartment has a fancy lock.

#

A boy breaks into a closed cafe. Slices of cheese hang ragged from a dish rack. It's late. He steals a bottle of wine and smokes a playbill. He walks to the cinema hoppy. He listens to women talk the street wearing tiny polka dot tap pants. People smoke plants hidden sallow by the pale brown bulbs of the marquee. The boy lets a cheetah dog in through the exit door and shares a pink smoosh ice cream. Across town, his father smells something burning.

Azure Brandi
“Magnet Self”

Yasmina Reza's play "Art" shows the unraveling of a friendship over a petty contradiction in sensibility: Serge purchases an expensive painting of a white canvas; his friend Marc deems it meaningless. This seemingly trivial conflict becomes the catalyst for subsequent arguments between the two, straining their friendship. The pair reconcile their differences only after Serge permits Marc to deface the work by drawing a skier on it with a marker, ironically enabling Marc to ascertain a semblance of meaning in it. In "Art and Friendship" Noel Carroll examines how we view friends as "mirror-selves" based on shared sensibilities (our reactions towards art, politics, and the world at large), which gives them the power to guide our behavior (271). When a sensibility is no longer shared, the contradiction offers us the opportunity to better ourselves by reconceiving the world in an alternative lens, possibly altering how we think and act (275). According to Carroll, the objective of friendship is to be surrounded by people "of the highest sort" so that any confrontation that arises between friends becomes a vehicle for self-examination and reconception of the world, making us better versions of ourselves (271). It's the Ancient Greek idea of devoting one's life to self-improvement. In this pursuit, friends help us confront our vices and bring us closer to ideal behavior.In Serge and Marc's main confrontation they call out caustic truths about each other, which would seem to irrevocably threaten the friendship but instead enables them to acknowledge their personal flaws. Marc criticizes how Serge uses pretentious language and tries to confirm his status with inane purchases, implying he's lost touch with reality. Serge calls out Marc's self-centeredness and inability to love people for themselves, slighting Marc's criticism about the painting purchase (Reza 48-49). Although the two are initially defensive about each other's frankness, their shortcomings slowly resonate. Serge hands Marc a pen, giving him permission to mark up the painting, resigning his overly precious attitude about it. Marc then incorporates the aforementioned skier into it (Reza 54-58); the drawing is not an act of rageful destruction but more so a soft gesture that values the inherent whiteness of the painting that Serge was besotted by in the first place. Through confrontation with each other, they're able to have an inner parallel confrontation with their own vices - namely rage and condescension - and express a newfound tenderness for each other, salvaging their friendship.Conversely, Paul Thomas Anderson's Phantom Thread explores how confrontation with the people we're closest to isn't so much an opportunity to correct the self, it's about being at peace with one's inner nature, irrespective of its virtue. Early in the film, Daniel Day-Lewis' Reynolds Woodcock, a respected dressmaker, proclaims: "I cannot take up space for confrontation" (Phantom 5:25-5:45). Vicky Krieps' Alma changes that, although her initial demeanor is anything but confrontational: when they first meet, she serves him breakfast at a cafe, tripping over her feet, cheeks flushed (12:43-15:50). However, when she moves into his home/workhouse as his muse soon after, her deference begins to uncoil through seemingly harmless confrontations. (It's interestingly a little counter-intuitive that a "muse" would be more confrontational; their presence is meant to inspire generative work, not stall it with disruption.) It shows up in quotidian ways: Alma disrupts his monastic breakfast routine, loudly buttering toast, telling him he's too easily distracted; Reynolds leaves from the table, aggravated (37:18-39:35). But her opinions also seep into their working relationship, like when she dislikes the fabric he picks and a mildly contentious back-and-forth ensues (34:51-35:50).Alma's challenges to Reynolds are, albeit minor, often directed towards Reynolds' sensibility as it relates to his work and are, thus, perceived as personal affronts to him. Marc's insults towards the painting in "Art" affect Serge less because he's uninvolved with the creation of it, but Alma's blows target Reynolds' artistry, causing him to undergo a personal reckoning. He confides to his sister: "I can't work… I have no confidence. [Alma is] turning me inside out. Her arrival has cast a very long shadow on this house" (1:10:05-1:11:18). His sensibilities are questioned; he's no longer able to maneuver his work, his life, without confrontation. He becomes more vulnerable, less certain. When he finds out a client changed dressmakers because she disliked his taste, he cedes: "[She wanted] fucking chic? It hurts my feelings." (1:08:11-1:09:32).Reynolds can no longer feign a disaffected demeanor because the deepest part of himself, his sensibility - that which, in Carroll's words, is "unpremeditated and barely cognitive" (273) – is questioned. In "Art", Serge and Marc's sensibilities are wounded, but it seems less piercing because sensibility doesn't play as big of a role in their lives as it does for Reynolds in Phantom, whose identity is inseparable from his art. Under normal circumstances, art facilitates an environment in which, as Carroll says, we "discover one another's sensibility and temperament" (272) because it acts as "a locus of intimacy" between two people (273), as is the case for Serge and Marc. However, Phantom delves into the nature of this tension with more nuance and complexity: Alma, as Reynolds' muse, becomes almost like a character within his dresses, actuating a possessiveness that makes it difficult for her to wholly reject his creations - unlikeMarc's easy aversion to the painting Serge simply bought. For example, when a woman drunkenly passes out at a public event in one of his dresses, Alma and Reynolds go to her hotel room to retrieve his creation. Alma wrangles the dress off the woman's body in a primal disgust (52:52-55:50). Her possessiveness, however, shifts from his work to Reynolds himself, straining their relationship. When Reynolds focuses on a young new client, Alma surprises him with dinner to reclaim time with him. Yet, he quickly notices she's used butter instead of oil and insists that she's intentionally neglecting his preferences. Alma calls him out: "Don't act so tough. I know you are not." He's easily triggered: "Are you here to kill me?" (65:20-70:40). Here, as Carroll noticed in "Art", "even a minor disagreement at a lower order of taste" causes the "fabric" of their dynamic to further deteriorate (274).In spite of such tension, Reynolds eventually puts ego and sensibility aside, as Marc does in "Art", and admits to Alma: "There are things I simply cannot do without you… A house that doesn't change is a dead house." (92:30-93:48). Her challenges towards Reynolds enable him to recognize his stubbornness as a self-imposed hindrance, hearkening back to Carroll's suggestion that others prompt us "to find value" where cynicism once blinded us (274-275). Marc's reconception of the painting enables him to notice value in it; similarly, Reynolds sees that Alma's pestering has awakened him to the changing sensibilities of the times (how his tastes might be a bit antiquated and, thus, less in demand). This renewed conception of Reynolds' life is not, however, so much a turning point for him to self-correct, as Carroll argues is ideally the achieved end result of confrontation (271, 275), but instead allows him to accept personal weakness - with which, up until this point, he's had an odd relationship. The night he first meetsAlma foreshadows this: although he insists he's not weak, she advises him not to appear strong for her (23:20-23:48). While sick, he fears he'll never regain strength (81:50-82:15). Although he's unaware, his bouts of illness are Alma's doing - courtesy of poisonous mushrooms – because she senses he needs to come down from his work in order to open up (45:21-45:56). Alma assumes the role of pseudo-nurturer before he notices he wants it. When Reynolds eventually realizes what she's doing by the end of the film, he nonetheless submits and eats the poisoned meal, revealing a desire to relinquish power through Alma. She then shows her own inner nature to him: "I want you… helpless, tender, open, with only me to help. And then I want you strong again." He then kisses her in perverse relief (1:13:35-1:19:41). They bring out each other's primal instincts, previously suppressed: her possessiveness, his need to feel powerless. Thus, Phantom explores a more regressive idea of partnership as the means through which individuals confront their primal tendencies rather than try to suppress or change them for personal betterment.Self-correction puts us at war with our primal nature, while being an ally towards it offers us self-expansion. Carroll's idea of friendship, echoing Aristotle's, is one in which we do everything in our will to elevate ourselves to peak standards of excellence for fear of ostracization by friends/society. Phantom is more about relinquishing power, no longer living beholden to virtuous ideals and, most importantly, finding someone with whom you can comfortably reject such. Carroll suggests that, especially when a relationship's built on a shared experience of art, people can change each other through confrontation (275), but Phantom hints that Alma didn't really change Reynolds, she just activated his inner nature. So are we just magnets for others to retrieve some primal force within themselves that's normally suppressed? Depending on who we're environed by, we're constantly toggling with the visibility of our primitive nature and persona of virtue. Perhaps the point of partnership, then, is to be around someone whose presence is magnet-like in bringing their counterpart's primal nature to the surface of their behavior irrespective of goodness. To live in accordance with unencumbered vulnerability and desire rather than sole virtue can be a freeing, albeit selfish, endeavor. Maybe it's a mirror self we think we need in order to elevate ourselves to society's standards of excellence, but it's a magnet self we're subconsciously after: someone whose presence frees us from concealing all the vulnerability and ferocity in our core, with whom all instincts are explored, nothing's suppressed.
…
…
…
Works CitedCarroll, Noel. "Art and Friendship." Minerva's Night Out: Philosophy, Pop Culture, and Moving Pictures, First Edition. 2013 Blackwell Publishing Ltd. Published 2013 by Blackwell Publishing Ltd., pp. 269-275.Phantom Thread. Directed by Paul Thomas Anderson, performances by Daniel Day-Lewis, Vicky Krieps, and Lesley Manville, director's cut, Focus Features, 2017.Reza, Yasmina. "Art". Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1997, Scribd PDF,www.scribd.com/document/269038067/Art-The-Play-Yasmina-Reza-English-pdf.

Pulkita Anand
Three Poems

“Everything is same”

Everything is same
You
The river with its pollution, the road with its traffic
The bitter-sweet raisins
My place of birth
The game we played, today here, next day at the square
The same dance of drunkards with their toys
The same forgetting of the crime, people and place
The same salt in the eyes from hungry nights
The same warmth of the winter sun from dew-drenched mornings
The same love with the same desire to unite
The same bribe in the institutions of nation-building
The same drab political promises
The same satire in poems

“Lingering”

*
The ceiling of my house is low.
My poems are not able to walk with
Upright head.
The street of love is narrow.
You have come so late,
I can’t teach you to walk here.
*
The putrid stench of poems
Linger long at twilight
The unanswered questions
Still chime with the turning of clouds
You unpacked the box of elegies, and
The exchange of unread books
With the sense of understanding fogged the mind.
Life is melting and falling like glaciers
The dried promises carried by ad flyers
Sitting on the bench of declining time
You showed me your stifling dreams
*
Between you and me there was a gap
Oh! Let’s not talk about the gap
Let’s talk about closeness
Close as unfulfilled dreams
Like words that ripped the heart
Closeness as a key inserted in a junk car
Like you said and meant nothing and
I understood everything
As nothing has become everything

“This is a strange time”

This is a strange time my love.
Don’t say love, please.
They’ll flog love
Don’t voice your thought
This is a strange time
They mouthed gun
We must bury love in the backyard
This is a strange time, my sweet
They shot poets and burned poems
The letter I sent you yesterday is behind bars
This is a strange time, my heart
The number means dead and wounded
The promise I gave you lost its way
Among silent empty streets
This is a strange time, my life
Hunger is imported and peace is exported
Drunk with power, they paraded
This is a strange time, my breath
Grief is distributed and suffering is resting
This is a strange…..time

Contributors

ANDREW ZHOU is a queer Chinese writer and medical device engineer who grew up in the Minneapolis area but currently resides in Boston. He holds a bachelor's degree in chemical engineering from the University of Minnesota and a master's degree in biomedical engineering from Columbia University. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Quarterly West, The Pinch, Bourbon Penn, Chestnut Review, Jabberwock Review, and elsewhere. Find him at zhouandrew.com.AZURE BRANDI graduated from New York University’s Tisch School of the Arts in 2023, where she studied drama and creative writing. She has been published in New Croton Reviews, October Hill Magazines, Virgo Venus Presss, The Undergrounds, Afterimagess, Alien Buddha Zines, Bending Genres Journals, Stick Figure Poetrys, Soup Can Magazines, Flapper Press, and Basset Hound Press.CHAD FORET is a writer and editor from southeast Louisiana. Recent work appears or is forthcoming in december, Fairy Tale Review, Barrelhouse, EarShrub, and other publications and musical compositions. He is the author of Scenes from a Rain Country (Lavender Ink) and Lost Films (Osmanthus). Visit chadforet.com or follow @chad4a for info and updates.CHRIS KLASSEN lives and writes in Toronto, Canada. After graduating from the University of Toronto and living for a year in France and England, he returned home and worked the majority of his career in print media. He is now writing exclusively. His stories have been published in numerous Canadian, American, and British journals including SORTES, Unlikely Stories, Fleas on the Dog, Literally Stories, Vagabond City, Dark Winter, Ghost City Review, The Raven Review, The Coachella Review, Amethyst Magazine, Toasted Cheese, Mobius, and The Bookends Review, among others. His first novel, An Individual, is available through Dark Winter Press.HORIA ALEXANDRU POP was born in Romania in 1984. Ever since he’s lived in France, with some years abroad in Germany, England, and Australia. Horia writes poems, short stories, (some published in US magazines), and scripts. Now, he’s looking for a producer to help finance his first long feature: a funny autobiographical road movie titled The Unbelievable Adventures of the Tramp Samuel Kramer, which is one of the reasons he moved to Cannes. He’s just had an official press pack released from French distribution company Cinestrib for his movie 45850. Whatever the issue, Horia loves to be behind a camera, alone or with a crew.JAMES CROAL JACKSON is a Filipino-American poet working in film production. His latest chapbook is A God You Believed In (Pinhole Poetry, 2023). Recent poems are in ITERANT, Skipjack Review, and The Indianapolis Review. He edits The Mantle Poetry from Nashville. For more on James and his work, see jamescroaljackson.com.KELLY PIGGOTT is a born and raised Midwestern transplant currently based in Atlanta, plus writer and professor of English and writing. Her work has been published with If There's Anyone Left, Eclectica Magazine, the /temz/ review, and elsewhere. Her prose poem "The Werewolf" has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.LANCE NEWMAN’s poems have appeared in print and web magazines in the US, UK, and Australia, including 1913, Action/Spectacle, Blazevox, Dusie, otoliths, No Tell Motel, Stride, and Zyzzyva. He has published two chapbooks: Come Kanab (Dusi-e/chaps Kollectiv) and 3by3by3 (Beard of Bees). His first full-length collection, Proverbs of Earth, is forthcoming from Spuyten Duyvil Press. Newman teaches at Westminster University in Salt Lake City, Utah. For more information, see lancenewman.org.PULKITA ANAND is an avid reader of poetry. Author of two children’s e-books, her eco-poetry collection is we were not born to be erased. Her creative works have been published in Shortstory Kids, Winc Magazine, Stanza Cannon, Superpresent, Muse, Madwomen in the Attic, Poetica, NCTE, The Uglywriters, Impspired, redsoethorns Journal, Kritya, The Amazine, Carmina Magazine, Origami Press, Asiatic, Inanna Publication, Bronze Bird Books, New Verse News, Hakara Journal, Madras Courier, Green Verse, Comparative Women, State of Matter, Earth and Altar, Convergence Anthology, MAI, and elsewhere.SHEREE SHATSKY is the author of the novella-in-flash Summer 1969 (Ad Hoc Fiction 2023). Her work has appeared in a variety of journals. She is a contributor to MAINTENANT 18: A Journal of Contemporary Dada Writing and Art: ‘PLUTOCRAZY’ (Three Rooms Press 2024). She writes “Shared Madness” at Substack. Sheree calls Florida home and is a Tom Petty fan.

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SORTES is?

SORTES is a spinning collection of stories, poems, songs, and illustrations to help while away the wintery June nights. It’s an oddball grabbag wunderkammer mixtape offering distraction and refreshment.We have neither theme nor scene. Each issue is its own creature. We publish both the sufficiently strange and insufficiently boring: swart stories, hoity poetry, magical surrealism, beatnik travelogues, hard modern haiku, pulp, fantasia, antibiography, crooning balladeering, experimental sentimentalism, and grainy sideways photography.We also host online readings, old time radio performances, and other beloved gimmicks as they occur to us. Previous issues are available via the site’s Archive link.

Submitting

SORTES considers unsolicited submissions of poetry, prose, illustration, music, videos, and anything else you think may fit our format. Feel free to poke us; we’d love to find a way to publish dance, sculpture, puzzles, and other un-literary modalities.SORTES is published quarterly. Each issue includes approximately ten works of lit, visual, or performance art. We like a small number of works per issue: artists and readers should have a chance to get to know each other.SORTES, you’ll notice, is primarily a black-and-white publication, and we like to play with that (by featuring monochrome videos and photography, for example), but we’ll happily consider your polychrome submission.Submissions are ongoing throughout the year. We consider artists with both extensive and limited publishing experience. We accept simultaneous submissions but please inform us if your work has been accepted elsewhere. We publish translations and reprints on a case-by-case basis; please send us a note describing your interest. And while there's no restriction on the number of pieces you can submit, please have a heart.There’s no need for an extensive cover letter or publication history but please tell us who you are, what kind of writing or art you do, and a bit about what you’re sending us. There are no formatting requirements for text submissions. There is no fee to submit. Please send submissions as email attachments whenever possible; multimedia submissions may be sent as links.

Rights

You asked and we provide: what's up with publication rights and ownership?Simple: When you publish with us, you give SORTES one-time publication right for your work. You retain all right to your work after publication. Work published with SORTES will remain available via our online Archive.While SORTES retains the right to link to or excerpt your published work, we do not have the right to publish your work in new formats (including print). If we would like to pursue publication of your work in new formats, we'll ask you and hopefully agree to terms.

Mahoffs

SORTES was created by founding editor Jeremy Eric Tenenbaum and emeritus editor Kevin Travers. Current editors are listed in our masthead, Many of us live in Philadelphia, some luckily do not, but we invite writers and artists everywhere to live the SORTES fantasia.

Events

SORTES regularly offers readings and performances. For upcoming events, please check here and our Facebook page.

Coming Soon Enough

The SORTES 21 Reading

Sunday, April 6, 2025
7pm

Join us for the storming of the SORTES 21 zoom reading!It will feature all or nearly all or certainly some of our ad hoc freedom fighters:Andrew Zhou
Azure Brandi
Chad Foret
Chris Klassen
Horia Alexandru Pop
James Croal Jackson
Kelly Piggott
Lance Newman
Pulkita Anand
Sheree ShatskyEditor Jeremy Eric Tenenbaum will play fife. Come one drum all, free lit and free people.

• Zoom Link

Meeting ID: 863 0795 0806
Passcode: 487732
Call in: https://us02web.zoom.us/u/kPYY1N7PT

• Facebook Event

Radio SORTES

Archive

A Suspense-Full Halloween, October 29, 2023

On October 29, 2023, Radio SORTES presented A Suspense-Full Halloween -- live performance of two old time radio Suspense episodes -- "The Screaming Woman" and "Ghost Hunt" -- each dripping with period music and sound effects.From 1940 through 1962, Suspense, "radio's outstanding theater of thrills," terrified radio listeners with macabre true crime and supernatural horrors.Our production was reanimated by the electrifying Radio SORTES Players: Alyssa Shea, Betsy Herbert, Dan DiFranco, Demree McGhee, Eliot Duhan, Emily Zido, Fionna Farrell, Iris Johnston, Kelly Ralabate, Lino, and Nick Perilli. The performance was adapted by Jeremy Eric Tenenbaum and Aria Braswell, with direction and sound by Jeremy Eric Tenenbaum.

Scary SORTESies To Tell In The Dark, October 30, 2022

On October 30, 2022, Radio SORTES presented three ghastly and unnerving old time radio stories, including original adaptations of Arch Oboler's "The Dark," Ray Bradbury's "There Will Come Soft Rains," and Oscar Wilde's “The Canterville Ghost,” plus poetry from "Weird Tales" magazine.Our infernal Radio SORTES Players included Betsy Herbert • Brenna Dinon • Christina Rosso • Demree McGhee • Emily Zido • Evan Myers • Iris Johnston • Kelly Ralabate • Lino • Luke Condzal • and Rosanna Lee Byrnes. The performance was written, produced, and scored by Jeremy Eric Tenenbaum.Radio SORTES is an unnatural extracurricular extension of SORTES magazine, whose events and readings are always free, open to all, and ideally less than two hours. See SORTES.co for inexpressibly brilliant literature, art, and upcoming events.

1950s Western / Sci-Fi Double-Feature, February 25, 2022

The talented Radio SORTES Players performed two old time radio episodes broadcast live via ethereal wireless right to our audience's home receivers.We galloped into the unknown with a 1950s western / sci-fi double-feature: The Six Shooter episode “Battle at Tower Rock” and the Dimension X episode “A Logic Named Joe” -- each with music and convincing sound effects.The all-star Radio SORTES players were: Abbey Minor • Betsy Herbert • Brenna Dinon • Brian Maloney • Britny Brooks • Daniel DiFranco • Dwight Evan Young • Emily Zido • Evan Myers • Iris Johnston • Jeremy Eric Tenenbaum • Kailey Tedesco • Kelly Ralabate • Kevin Travers • Luke Condzal • Nicholas Perilli • Rachel Specht • Rosanna Byrnes • and Victoria Mier.Radio SORTES -- an unnatural extracurricular extension of SORTES magazine -- was produced and directed by Kevin Travers and Jeremy Eric Tenenbaum. Radio SORTES is always free, open to all, and less than two hours. See SORTES.co for upcoming events.

The 39 Steps, February 19, 2021

The Radio SORTES Players performed this classic adventure story, written by John Buchan and adapted by Jeremy Eric Tenenbaum from Hitchcock's 1935 film and the 1937 Lux Radio production. It starred Brenna Dinon • Heather Bowlan • Rosanna Byrnes • Betsy Herbert • Iris Johnston • Warren Longmire • Brian Maloney • Britny Brooks • Nicholas Perilli • Kelly Ralabate • Dwight Evan Young • Emily Zido • Victoria Mier • Jeremy Eric Tenenbaum • and Kevin Travers.

Halloween Eve Special, October 30, 2020

Introduction

Suspense, "The House in Cypress Canyon"

Commercial

Inner Sanctum Mysteries, "Voice on the Wire"

The Radio SORTES players presented a live Halloween Eve special: two programs of classic old time radio horrors. The shows -- including dialogues, music, and sound effects -- were performed for a live Zoom audience.The Suspense episode “The House in Cypress Canyon” was originally broadcast December 5, 1946 and the Inner Sanctum Mysteries episode “Voice on the Wire” was originally broadcast November 29, 1944. Both programs were performed by Kevin Travers • Sean Finn • Britny Perilli • Don Deeley • Brian Maloney • Betsy Herbert • Kyle Brown Watson • Nicholas Perilli • Emma Pike • Susan Clarke • and Jeremy Eric Tenenbaum. Between episodes, we presented an original commercial in period style written and performed by Kevin Travers.

Odd Lots

A Proper Mast-Lashing

We Have Met The Enemy And It Is U.S.

Monarchy has one or two tyrants while greedy democracy has millions. In 2025, America has both.We are at war, albeit a too-civil war. In less polite times, civil wars had color, sound, uniforms, chutzpah. You would wake each day wondering if you were alive! Now each morning Americans sadly acknowledge we are. (Many are so busy with poverty they can't enjoy our civil war. Oh, some are scapegoated or deported or disappeared but they're not us yet.) America is conducting a tired privileged war. We give much business to AI censors and therapists but none to coffin-builders.America, which abhors class and class consciousness, is perhaps the most rigidly classist society in history. We are so devoted to class-blindness that we oppose any help on the basis of our class. Anyone fighting for the poor or middle class will find that no one admits to belonging to those groups.Or rather, we all identify with one class: the wealthy. John Steinbeck supposedly said "socialism never took root in America because the poor see themselves not as an exploited proletariat but as temporarily embarrassed millionaires."Even these political terms rankle in the American ear: "I don't talk politics" has always been an American point of pride, akin to "I have no debt." And what could an oppressor admire more than oppressed who smother themselves? (From where did the American thirst for class-blindness come?)This wandering screed was going to come out eventually, and I doubt I've written anything you haven't thought. Go to Philadelphia's Wooden Shoe and you'll find books rife with finer political insight, many outlining America's political neurosis in far more trenchant terms -- and all eulogies.But now, with embarrassment, Americans at last begin having these conversations. Huddled in our christian caverns, we ask: "Is this normal?" The answer, of course, is yes.Meanwhile, you must have noticed, I haven't begun to mention current wars in Colombia, Ethiopia, Gaza, Haiti, Lebanon, Myanmar, The Sahel, Somalia, Sudan, Syria, and Ukraine. There you wake each day wondering if you're alive and you're not. Or you wake and sleep starving. Americans, and I, can't imagine the world -- and can hardly imagine America.Meanwhile, in this café, all I can ask (like Wyndham Lewis) is, "Why hasn't this American war produced any fine poetry?"
.
.
Jeremy Eric Tenenbaum
Editor
March 21, 2025

Correspondence

Title

“Text.”

Name, Date

SORTES Riposte

Archive

• 1: “SORTES” (April 2020)

• 2: “The Distract” (June 2020)

• 3: “The Mysterious Hammer” (September 2020)

• 4: “I Want To Be Your Peggy Guggenheim” (December 2020)

• 5: “The Audacity of the Seagull” (March 2021)

• Reading (March 26, 2021)

• 6: “A Thorough Enemy of Fortune”

• Reading (June 25, 2021)

• 7: “The Man Going Before Me, Who Led Me Away” (September 2021)

• Reading (October 1, 2021)

• 8: “That Famous Mosaic Table” (December 2021)

• Reading (December 10, 2021)

• 9: “Pub Time For A Book In Jeopardy” (March 2022)

• Reading (April 1, 2022)

• 10: “It Seems Like A Kind Of Trap Laid Especially For Me” (June 2022)

• Reading (June 24, 2022)

• 11: “Rum Lot” (September 2022)

• Reading (September 30, 2022)

• 12: “Up With The Yardkeeper” (December 2022)

• Reading (January 8, 2023)

• 13: “You And I Should Own A Copper Mine” (March 2023)

• Reading (April 16, 2023)

• 14: “At First We Felt A Little Nervous About This Leprosy Business” (June 2023)

• Reading (June 26, 2023)

• 15: “Sticky Marmalade; Opposite Direction” (September 15, 2023)

• Reading (September 24, 2023)

• 16: “Rimbaud’s Heart (Hollow As A Bamboo)” (December 15, 2023)

• Reading (January 14, 2024)

• 17: “Quiet! Quiet!” (March 15, 2024)

• Reading (April 7, 2024)

• 18: “Teddy Lingers On” (June 14, 2024)

• Reading (July 7, 2024)

• 19: “The Castle, The Laboratory, The Money” (September 13, 2024)

• Reading (September 22, 2024)

• 20: “The Patent Cosmo-Opticon or Theatrum Mundi in More-Or-Less Working Order” (December 13, 2024)

• Reading (January 12, 2025)

• 21: “Dean Of Lush Workers” (March 21, 2025)

• Reading (April 6, 2025)

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SORTES is a mostly online journal, as you know, but every so often we can't resist existing.

Annual 2024

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My god, it's the SORTES 2024 SPECTRAL WINTER ANNUAL! In revolutionary POSTCARD form!Here are four ghastly cards celebrating the tradition of sharing ghost stories at the end of the year. Each card features original eerie illustrations and newly-commissioned horror stories:-- Irina Tall's illustrations
-- Kailey Tedesco's poetry
-- Luke Condzal's historical existential story
-- Nick Perilli's familial ghost warmer, and
-- Jeremy Eric Tenenbaum's fraternal horror.Keep them, mail them, trade them, resell them once supplies inevitably exhaust.The SORTES 2024 Spectral Winter Annual is the ideal heart-stopping gift for the rich relative who has just written you into the will. Also friends, co-workers, babies.So NOW (this very moment) is the right time to order your SORTES Spectral Winter Annuals. We're shipping vigorously!

Annual 2023

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The SORTES Spectral Winter Annual 2023 revives the tradition of haunted holiday fiction. This beautifully crafted 44-page paperback anthology features ghastly short stories showcasing a dead man’s special deliveries, a judgmental seaside specter, the pains of an aging table-rapper, the heartwarming war on the poor, and the electrifying end of the year / world, as well as poems celebrating the Jersey Devil's unsung siblings. Authors include Daniel DiFranco, Jean Zurbach, Kailey Tedesco, Max D. Stanton, Mordecai Martin, and Nick Perilli. The Annual makes an ideal holiday present for any dear friend or family member who loathes the living.

SORTES Sampler 2

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A SORTES Sampler 2 is a slender tasty book collecting weird fiction by Max D. Stanton, surrealist collage art by Danielle Gatto Hirano, and a poetry cycle by Uri Rosenshine. It’s a handsomely designed but affordable little snack of a book. We have incredibly limited copies on hand, and every day they become incredibly more limited, so leap today.

SORTES Sampler 1

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A SORTES Sampler 1 was our first attempt to make the ephemeral real. It contains a dystopian farmstead fantasy by Iris Johnston, paper cutout art by Abi Whitehead, and a Coney Island noir by Mordecai Martin.

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SORTES is dedicated to free: every online issue is lovingly brought to you for zero dollars while each Radio SORTES entertainment is beamed gratis to your Zoom dial. Our masochistic editors tell me they’re delighted to put in hundreds of hours for no money and paltry recognition.However, the rest of the chilly world is less dedicated to free and much the opposite: our website, our Zoom, our physical publications, and so many other digital nickels and dimes sap us more each year.We must fight back – and we need you to help us! Every dollar supporting SORTES goes to creating a strange literary world in which you’re a citizen. To delight you, we’re dancing in our red shoes down to our nubs.Why don’t we accept advertising? Because we hate it and it seems like too much work anyway. It blocks the bucolic view. It spoils the fine pleats in our website.So we turn to solicitation, which is much more up our alley. Patreon revives a tradition old as Roman poetry and frumpy chapel ceilings.

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