A Poem by Rex Wilder

     Since I was locked up and the key dangled 
Like a body from each nurse’s neck,
This gray matter has lost the privilege of shades

And the world is black and white. 
Either I was fucked or it’s just a phase. 
Either you climb from the wreck

     Or you burn in the tangle of the metal.
Only so many flames can fit in a forest,
Have you ever thought about that?

I was hit at 5, at 50, hated, emasculated, 
Locked in/out but low-grade, first-world, 
Not worth moving heaven and earth for

     And if I walked into the sea, the drowning 
Wouldn’t make waves. Abuse gets used
Up, no matter how much hurt’s rained down.

My wife used to spit
On me so who needed tears? Hats off
To Lady Saliva and the horse she rode in on.

     Whether I’ll be back is a matter of fate
But where I’m going is so big and gorgeous 
There’s room enough to recover,

Like the open road of summer
When I was 18, like Georgia, wildflowers 
Bent at the waist like a retinue.

Rex Wilder was a misfit from the good old days whose mind finally forced the issue in 2018 — a nervous breakdown, hospital lockup, the full Sylvia Plath. Before and after that, three books of his have been published, and he has poems in TLSPoetry IrelandPoetryPloughshares, The New CriterionThe NationNational ReviewYale ReviewHarvard Review, and many anthologies, including the celebrated Together in a Sudden Strangeness from Knopf. This poem is from his new book, Faces Around a Room.

A Prose Poem by Sabrina Bustamante

I want to write about history. I want to stop fearing genre, and I want time to collapse so that I can write about the past while writing about myself. I want to be less narcissistic. I want to make sweeping statements about causation, and I want to be right. I want to find names and places, drawn from the past, green from mis-remembrance, and then I want to exalt them, even though I reject sainthood.  I want to know how to read history textbooks without being bored. I want to make a story of neoliberalism’s false promise, but I do not want to use the word economics. I want the ruse to fail in the third chapter, die quickly of a fever.

I want to have access to a university library, but that right was revoked months ago. I want to be a fishhook, get caught on the abdomen of something big. I want to be deft and formless, and I don’t want to use citations. I want to pour history out into a feeling –  less about fact than about feeling over time, a pileup of the dead. Then a keening from the soil, a compulsion to hold the words in your hands and see how they taste, so you will never forget. Tales that you never can un-swallow, (so chew hard, and go slow). But poetry was never my genre. What form can a warning song take?

Sabrina Bustamante is an emerging writer who studied creative writing and history as an undergraduate at Yale University, where her non-fiction essay won the Henry P. Wright prize. She has a work of creative non-fiction forthcoming in Bending Genres Journal. She lives in Washington, D.C.

A Flash Fiction by Julie Benesh

Publish or perish. Last year, quarantining, should have been the perfect time to work on my research and avoid the fate of the Permanent Visitor. But working at home during quarantine, I got so anxious and distracted, everything blurring into mush. Sometimes you have to …get away. Business people decided the word “retreat,” describing a corporate junket, sounded cowardly, briefly relabeling them “advances,” betraying gender bias and, ultimately, #MeToo connotations. But, I’m a woman and a professor of business psychology, specialization in Jungian organizational interventions. I know my yin and yang. So, after the blessed vaccine percolated through my body the requisite amount of time, I flew to my favorite Santa Barbara resort– retreating, if you will, to advance my research and hopefully maintain my employment.

I stayed in my favorite oceanfront room, and I was getting my mojo back, until my third day there. I was awakened from a restorative sleep by a knock at my door, where, inexplicably, stood my mom, my dad, and a man resembling character actor J.K. Simmons. I figured he was either my mom’s latest boyfriend and/or my dad’s personal trainer/life coach because Dad looked fit and fab, like he lived in Santa Barbara himself. He had a classic tennis cardigan, sleeves knotted over an anchor-patterned polo shirt, and slender cut taupe pants discreetly hugging his toned glutes and legs. The only familiar item part of his ensemble was the deck shoes, which looked entirely different without their usual Iowa Hawkeye hoodie and stained sweatpant teammates.

Out of habit and an abundance of caution, we all refrained from hugging or handshakes.

“We didn’t want to just call you up. We wanted to tell you in person,” my mother was saying, her tone apologetic, as ever. My nose itched, and I felt queasy. Was my mother engaged to J.K. Simmons, and, if so, what did my dad have to do with it? They’d been apart for more than a decade.

I remembered how my mother cried when she saw Dad’s black and white retirement party pictures. He was only 59 at the time but, in the pictures, he looked 75, with deep lines and shadows. “That photographer was too good,” he had said. In retrospect, his retirement was the beginning of the end. They drifted apart, separated, and eventually divorced.

Now I looked at my dad, and he smiled reassuringly. That’s when I noticed his teeth, all in place like in his old portrait in his officer uniform, before the painful army dental work and subsequent dentistry phobia and alcohol anesthesia whose vicious cycle left him toothless. I ran my tongue over my own teeth—I had them cleaned and whitened four times a year.

“Are you a dentist?” I asked J.K.Simmons, and he frowned in response.

“He’s a grief counselor from the insurance,” said my mom. “He’s here to help us say goodbye to your dad.” Her voice got lower. “He passed away yesterday.”

Oh, god. Every time I saw my dad, I knew it could be the last. So hearing he had died was not as shocking as seeing him all tricked out in my room, despite it being so much sadder.

“That’s so nice…” I began “…I mean, so nice of you to come all this way to tell me. But I don’t quite understand how Dad can be here and…there… at the same time.”  My voice caught on the “there” and I could feel a welling behind my eyes and in my chest.

My best friend had a thing for angels—she collected them. Beautiful as he was, Dad didn’t look like one; no wings or flowing hair or musical instruments. I didn’t say the word “ghost” but it also hovered in the air like, well…you know. And I’d read about bardos, those Buddhist afterlife jails, and I wondered if my dad were in one, trying to move on, and, if so, were the rest of us even for real, or just cosmic props? I pinched my arm and it reddened and hurt, but I didn’t wake.

Dad ran his hand over his silver mane and my mother gazed at him, glared at JK and glanced toward me. He was too solid to be a hologram, then I remembered the documentary about the Japanese customer service robots and it struck me as the only thing that made any sense at all. Dad 2.0, as memento.

Everything had been so crazy the past year, and mostly crazy-bad, but within the crazy-badness had been, hints of progress, of betterment, renewal. Techno-fixes.

“Can I…umm…keep him?”

J.K. Simmons, suddenly seeming utterly miscast as a grief counselor, pursed his lips just like they always pay him to do, and said, “Do you really have that kind of plastic to burn through?”

I imagined acrid, toxic smoke, then realized that he meant money, like he had flubbed his lines which probably read “dough” or “coin,” or he was improvising, trying to twist a cliché into a fresh metaphor, (though why not “Bitcoin”?) and that Android Dad (Andrad?) was a demo, like a free sample test-drive, and J.K. deploying the reverse psychology of the neg. My promotion, once I got it, would net me a 7% increase–my dad had always lauded my ambition, saying all he ever tried to do was get by– but I sensed even that might yet be insufficient.

Reaching for my phone, I realized its camera could never do this moment justice, and a more advanced app for recording would no doubt be proprietary. I set it down.

Perhaps I could rely on my own mind to remember him this way, new and improved, or perhaps merely restored, the exact way he was meant to have been all along.

Or not.

Probably not; none of the above.

I supposed I would have to manage to live with that, too.

An alum of Warren Wilson College’s MFA Program for Writers, Julie Benesh is the recipient of an Illinois Arts Council Grant. Her writing can be found in Bestial Noise: A Tin House Fiction Reader, Tin House Magazine (print), Crab Orchard Review, Florida Review, Gulf Stream, Cleaver, Journal of Compressed Creative Arts, New World Writing, and many other places and is forthcoming in Hobart and Drunk Monkeys.

A Flash Fiction by Ronald McGuire

I looked up from my book, then looked again after a pause, and that’s when I saw him walking down the sidewalk. I turned back to my book, hiding shame from some unknown witness.

Yes, I felt ashamed to want him. But it was more than that. I felt ashamed even to see him or, I suppose, to be caught looking at him.

His schedule had become irregular and tortuous, twisting me into knots as I tried to time my reading with his arrival. I often spent extra hours on the hard, stone steps that rose to my family’s brownstone, trying to focus and not focus on whatever book I pretended to read.

Yet there I sat, day after day, waiting.

He was not entirely handsome, yet somehow he appealed to my most entrenched desires. Not terribly tall, but tall enough. Not slender or slight, but built just so, somewhere between beautiful and frightening. Athletic, to be sure, but a bit grotesque with his cauliflower ears.

I imagined him walking to me, not by me. In my mind, he saw me as I saw him. Not in exactly the same way, given my condition, but in the moment. Seeing each other, his movement, my stillness.

That day, he did see me. He looked right at me.

He stopped where I sat atop the rampart of my family fortress. Perhaps I only imagined the rays of sunlight splashing around his shoulders, reflecting a black sheen off his glossy cropped hair. If I did, it was a sweet dream of a moment. If I did not, then it was a glorious thing to know.

His eyes were darker than I expected and, when he smiled, my inner world shattered. He looked up and said, “You’re Tommy’s little brother, right?”

I’d spent innumerable hours imagining our first conversation, playing out in my mind how it might happen, how I would impress and enthrall him with my genius, my erudite wit. When the time came, all I could say was, “Yeah, he’s my brother. He’s a jerk.”

I cringed at my utter failure, knew all my dreams had just been ruined, felt my soul caving into nothing, blood rushed to my face and I was about to bolt into the refuge of our castle until he said, “Yep, that’s Tommy alright,” a smile filled with knowing writ large across his face.

“So,” he went on, “watch ya doin?”

I held up my book, Moby Dick, for him to see.

“Oh, yeah, guess I shoulda known, book in ya hand an all,” and now he was blushing.

In that moment, everything changed, a little. The universe shifted to one direction just a fraction of an inch and I knew he was just like me. Nervous and hopeful and wanting.

“Where ya goin?” I asked, as if I didn’t know.

“I’m goin for a swim, down at L Street, wanna come with?”

“What,” I say to give my heart a chance to slow, “you got a membership down there?”

“Well yeah, my pops does. I wouldn’t be goin if I didn’t,” he tells me and I feel my face burn again.

“Cm’on,” he says, “I get to bring a pal anytime, whatdya say?”

Faced with the realization of a dream come true, I had to acknowledge one simple truth, “I don’t have no suit.”

“Don’t need one down L Street, it’s all fellas, everybody goes skinny.”

I set free my desire so it could crush my fear and said, with the casual effect of someone caught stealing, “Okay, sure.”

“Let’s go then buddy, the free sodas ain’t gonna last long so we gotta get a move on.”

He swept one arm out southward toward the water and I stood, leaving my book on the stoop, fluttering in the breeze. I stepped down and rejoiced to find that we were almost the same height, me just a tad shorter.

He threw his arm across my shoulders bringing heaven down upon me and we walked south together as he told me all about the L Street Swimming club and how we’ll have so much fun and the sodas are free and I am already there before we reach the next block.

It was early summer, and my life had just begun.

Ronald McGuire is a novelist, poet, scriptwriter and journalist. His work has appeared in Catalyst Magazine (Athens, GA), Flash Fiction Magazine (April 2, 2021), and on CNN.com. Ronald holds degrees in Comparative Literature and in Journalism from the University of Georgia. In previous lives he was a bartender, bookstore owner, and inventor.

Thanks for your patience! I *think* all author bios have been added now. If you are a TDR contributor, either Issues or TDR Daily, your name should be listed. If you don’t see your name (or if there is an error), please send me an email: thedillydounreview@gmail.com.

Also, please feel free to email with updates, future successes, and new publications! I’d love to keep in touch with you and am happy to make future changes.

Author Information

Join The Dillydoun Review in celebrating National Poetry Month with

A Poem by Effie Pasagiannis

I like the way we are together now –
compatriots, companions,
clandestine lovers exchanging recipes,
searching for yeast to create

Kneading and breaking bread
in doughy goodness,
we are shattering the silence of our fast
letting our buttered selves slip
through gloved hands
into a new kind of comforting

Is this why I have always loved the rain?
Pelting of glass, windowed song with
blinds open, curtains drawn
for a knowledge that we bathe in it together,
and in this knowing, this being,
a most precious stasis shared,
the NOW that is most certain and
all we will ever have

In this splendor
of exchanging recipes,
we exhaust the noise of all else,
we concentrate while
kneading and breaking bread –
knowing safety in the present
humming our favorite rain day tune,
watching creation rise,
breathing it in.


Effie Pasagiannis is a NYC lawyer, writer & curator. Her poetry has appeared in journals & anthologies, notably in Mantis, Stanford University’s poetry journal (2019). Her first poetry book Anagnorisis was published by Dancing Girl Press in January 2020. Effie is working on a chapbook of villanelles and a short story collection. One of these short stories is being adapted into a feature-length film by Nomadis Images (production slated for Spring 2021). As a curator, Effie brings together artist and writers to collaborate and showcase their work. She looks forward to many more events and readings post-pandemic.

Join The Dillydoun Review in celebrating National Poetry Month with

A Poem by Jonathan Koven

Something blossoming, a star!
For all I see, in stolid smoke
and shadow, weaves
universes all their own.

When I wake from a dream within a dream,
doctors scale my reach,
whispering, to peel
the sky’s clouds like petals.

I love you, I love you not, until only blue.
In wake, feel part of a poem unfurling
that no one reads. I am its metaphor
which mixes, in the end.

Drain the moon its silver; inside wilts a rose
I could watch die, or instead water it
to life, or something beautiful beyond death,
for God knows the moon keeps a greater soul.

I was standing still, with hopeless descent
of the mind, to remember my inner child,
he who remembers my imagined future,
older than anything at all.

Still, our hearts break to recapture under-earth
as constellation, to paint a lake to drown
my sorrows, and maybe someone else’s. I know
not everyone will know what I hope I know.

There is nothing sordid about this scream.
Glory’s demand from outside heaven’s gate
still serenades: You are there
and I are here.

I want to believe this rips out
our roots, to before the dream began.
I finally see the end is the light, the light at the end
of all the walking toward the end of the light.

I have walked longer
than I can remember, agaze
at smoke and shadows, weaving
universes all their own.


Jonathan Koven grew up on Long Island, NY, embraced by tree-speak, tide’s rush, and the love and support of his family. He holds a BA in English and Creative Writing from American University, works as a technical writer, and is Toho Journal’s head fiction editor and workshop coordinator. He lives in Philadelphia with his best friend and future wife Delana, and cats Peanut Butter and Keebler. Read his fiction and poetry at Lindenwood Review, Night Picnic, Iris Literary, and more. His debut chapbook Palm Lines is available now from Toho Publishing.

Join The Dillydoun Review in celebrating National Poetry Month with

A Poem by W. F. Althaus

We walked into this bar
A bit too fancy for four dudes
Looking to put a couple away
Before watching Mad Max in IMAX
But a beer’s a beer, right?

Dark-stained hardwood throughout
Not even a scuff on the floor
The bartenders and waitress
Wear black slacks and ties
Over white shirts, sleeves rolled.

We sat at the bar, cellos rolling
Out vintage harmonies
From hidden speakers and
The woman back there handed
Us the beer list—

A leather-bound volume
With gilded brass at the corners
Listing ales with fancy names,
Leading me to assume they came
From the furthest regions of the Earth,
And man’s experience on it, like all of our
Collective consciousness was brewed
In austere and unknowable locales
Then assembled there for us to tap into,
Assimilate with the rest of history
In one swig—

The King Tut from Egypt
Or the German König Pilsener.
They all found something they wanted
Right away.
“One minute,” I told her.

Something Dutch? A Japanese Sapporo?
My friends watched me, my face red with
Frustration and humiliation and
None of those fancy-lettered titles
Meant a damn thing to me anymore.

I’d drank Sapporo in Sapporo and
Downed pints in Huntingdon and Oslo, but
I don’t know if I would revisit them just then,
Given the chance.

I wanted to walk across a field
Toward a lake, a lost love
The connection to a time
Where everything was clear
When everything was about her
When the cosmos seemed aligned
And alighted to her

You could run all over the world
Looking for something
And find it where you began.

“Excuse me?” I asked the bartender,
And declared what I wanted.
A smirk curled on her lips and she looked
At my friends to see if it was a joke
Then looked at her watch.

“It took you seven-and-a-half minutes
To figure out you wanted Bud Light?”
I only shrugged and my friend explained
That it had taken me a hell of a lot longer to
Figure out much more important things.

“Waiting for him to sort things out is like
Watching a hamster sleep on a wheel.”


W. F. Althaus earned his BA in English (Creative Writing) in 2008 from Wright-State University, and currently lives and works near Colorado Springs with his wife, three kids, dog, cat, and his daughter’s rabbits. His poems have been published in Deadly Writers Patrol, East by Northeast and The Penwood Review.

Join The Dillydoun Review in celebrating National Poetry Month with

A Poem by Michael Lee Johnson

I’m a juice box girl,
squeeze me, play me
like an accordion,
box-shaped, but gagged edges.
Breathe me inside out,
I’m nude, fruity, fractured,
strawberry melon,
nightshade wine.
Chicago, 3:00 a.m.
somewhere stranded
someone’s balcony
memories undefined,
you will find me there
stretched naked, doing
the Electric Slide,
taking morning selfies
upward morning into the sun
then in shutters
closeout pictures
Chiquita bananas,
those Greek lovers
running late,
Little Village, Greektown
so many men’s night faces fading out.
Wash cleanse in me.
I’m no Sylvia Plath
in an oven image of death
I resuscitate; I’m still alive.


Michael Lee Johnson lived 10 years in Canada during the Vietnam era and is a dual citizen of the United States and Canada. Today he is a poet, freelance writer, amateur photographer, and small business owner in Itasca, Illinois.  Mr. Johnson published in more than 1092 new publications, his poems have appeared in 38 countries, he edits, publishes 10 poetry sites.  Michael Lee Johnson, has been nominated for 2 Pushcart Prize awards poetry 2015/1 Best of the Net 2016/2 Best of the Net 2017, 2 Best of the Net 2018. 194 poetry videos are now on YouTube . Editor-in-chief poetry anthology, Moonlight Dreamers of Yellow Haze; editor-in-chief poetry anthology, Dandelion in a Vase of Roses. Editor-in-chief Warriors with Wings:  the Best in Contemporary Poetry.

Join The Dillydoun Review in celebrating National Poetry Month with

A Poem by Kelsey Erin Shipman

I’ll say to you
what no one ever did:
This is not your fault.

Yes, you pocketed those Tic Tacs while
your mother spoke with the cashier,
and you let slip a lie about your father’s
fortune to those kids at school.

And when your little sister asked
for a drink, you poured hot sauce in her Coke
then laughed as if it were April Fools’ Day
though it was only March.

Sure, you fingered your father’s quarters and
snuck a few in your backpack, like the day
you took another classmate’s foreign coin collection,
just the islands as proof of a larger world.

All lessons in regret —
attempts to right an injustice
you could not yet name.


Kelsey Erin Shipman is a writer and educator. She earned her MFA at Texas State University and is the founder of The Freehand Arts Project, a non-profit that brings creative writing classes Texas jails and prisons. Her work has been widely published in places such as The African American Review, The Austin Chronicle, Sagebrush Review, and Borderlands: Texas Poetry Review. She served as the 2013-2014 Writer-In-Residence at the Katherine Anne Porter Literary Center, and was the recipient of the 2007 San Jacinto & Althean Literary Societies’ Grand Prize in Poetry. A native Texan, she loves big dogs and breakfast tacos.

Join The Dillydoun Review in celebrating National Poetry Month with

A Poem by David Rogers

I appeared on Lakeshore Michigan naked and pure
Borne on a golden palanquin by an obedient horde
Of zebra mussels, mumbling their hymn of praise.

Found by South Side maenads, dancing at night in
Empty lots of junk, my slight ethereal size seized them
To rush me to the hospital, ravaged by pre-birth reaving.

Cosseted solo in warm plastic, single blanket, I survived.

Earlier in the world, my mother drank and smoked in secret,
Unsure of this thing growing inside, what responsibilities
Lay on her now, whether it was what she wanted
at all.


First published with a second place in the 2017 Heroes’ Voices National Veterans Poetry Contest, David Rogers has also placed poems in Metonym Literary Journal and Voices de la Luna. A memoir of his time in the anti-war movement while being active duty in the military, “Peaceful Meridian: Sailing Into War, Protesting At Home,” was published in 2020. He lives outside Denver, Colorado.

Join The Dillydoun Review in celebrating National Poetry Month with

A Poem by Nathan Robert Cox

She heard him sing by the water,
Not knowing that the songs he sang were his own;
He sang of the river, its torments, its dark allure;
And what he sang came to pass.

These days
No one dares say his name:
That boy who drowned,
That tramp,
That filthy lad,
The one who stole and swore and spat.
Stolid aldermen shake their heads—
Now just as then—
And yet there are men who gather beside the rough waters
Trying not to remember him
Whose corpse still floats so near their feet.
Brambled crowns weaved in their flaxen hair—
In lieu of laurel’d orbit—
For there are no triumphal days along these muddy banks.
Trembling hands
Pocketed away in shame
Because
At first, they could not hold the ropes;
At last, because they could.

A feral cry
Silences the forest—
The girl remembers him as he once was,
Naked at dusk,
By the river,
Launching his boat,
Which looked like paper in the twilight,
As it slipped into the current…

In the gloaming,
A flock flies
As shadows pour down
And fill the spaces
From which they
Alighted.
She closes her eyes,
Sighs,
And whistles a plaintive song,

A song she learnt from him
So many years ago,
Concealed in the penumbra of these woods,
Riverside.


Nathan Robert Cox lives in Knoxville, Tennessee. He is an adjunct professor of philosophy. He received his B.A. in philosophy at the University of Tennessee and both his M.A. & Ph.D. at the University of Kansas. His specialty is early modern philosophy, especially the work of David Hume, Spinoza, and Kant. He teaches at Pellissippi State Community College and Thomas Edison State University.

Join The Dillydoun Review in celebrating National Poetry Month with

A Poem by Brigidh Duffey

She took junk shop treasures home to me
like a crow stealing buttons for someone kind:
A porcelain doll in a sunflower apron,
A wicker basket full of miniature linen geese,
A short-sleeved t-shirt with a red hood.
It was an autumn habit—storing up garbage
for a long, long winter at home.
But little girls cannot eat garbage.

Most of the crows died after West Nile,
a consequence of life in swampland.
In summer, the floodwaters would pool up
in the basement past my ankles.
She used to sleep down there, a bed in the corner
by the washing machine. She tacked postcards
to the exposed two-by-fours in the walls
and did loads of laundry poorly.

There’s no one left now to do grandmotherly things;
No constant percolation of foul coffee,
mixed light and sweet with Splenda and half-and-half.
No frightening tins of tiny dead fish in the cupboard.
No slow, lotiony hands with long fingers
to braid the scent of Vicks VapoRub into my hair.
These are small ways to work on a small heart
and they go into the cremation oven with everything else.

I don’t know how much time has to pass
for someone to become long dead.
But it had been years, anyway,
since I had let her touch my arm or feed me a soup
accidentally seasoned with white sugar—
so I don’t know when to start counting, but
now and then I do see the great-great-granddaughter
of a bird who got better.

Brigidh Duffey lives in Brooklyn with two ill-mannered cats. She studied Anthropology and Gender Studies at Mount Holyoke College. Her poetry explores gender, spirit, and identity. Her work has appeared in Panoply, The Blood Pudding, and From Whispers to Roars.

Join The Dillydoun Review in celebrating National Poetry Month with

A Poem by Annie Woods

I often think dying is
annoying, like a grade school bully
boinging my curls. And dying is
inappropriate, like laughing in church
when laughter knows there’s a time,
and a place, and it’s not in God’s face.
Mostly I think dying is
embarrassing
because humiliation knows no vessel
like the human body in decline
and when I clutch my chest in
cardiac arrest, I am reminded of
the blood
seeping through my shorts
sophomore year of marching band,
knotting a hoodie around my waist
to conceal my biology.
I think dying is, above all,
a waste of time. I sat, dumb in the limbo
of the living and the dead,
and the waiting, and the pity,
and the looks. Dying is
a desert
where people expect you to swim
and the sand is heavy
and the air is hot
and just when you think
it’s the last breath you’ll take
it’s cruelly followed by another.

Annie Woods is a recipient of the Stephen C. Barr fellowship for Creative Writing from Wichita State University. Her work can be found in Gigantic Sequins, Hobart, A VELVET GIANT, and great weather for media. Her manuscript was accepted to the Tin House 2020 Nonfiction Winter Workshop under Esmé Weijun Wang. Annie is from the heart of Texas; she often writes about illness visibility. In her free time, she likes to wear lipstick and spin in circles.

Join The Dillydoun Review in celebrating National Poetry Month with

A Poem by Nneka Joyce Duru

Work oh work!
Here I lie
Prostrate on my sofa
Tired and all spent
My face,
A freeze of drained energy
My mind billowing in heaviness
Of grief and pain and sorrow
My black purse stare blankly at me
And I wonder when
I shall ever be free
To smile outside this scorching heat
African sun,
O quench your fire!
When will I find succor from this strain
In my spirit?
How can one work
Yet has no reward?
Oh, I look on in hope
That one bright sunny day
I shall smile, smile and smile
And give thanks to you
Dear work!

Nneka Joyce Duru is a wife, mother and a member of the Association of Nigerian Authors, Rivers State branch, Nigeria. She is currently the winner of the 2020 AWA Award in Poetry in Africa. She is a prolific writer, a teacher and an advocate of African women and children’s rights.

We Have Reopened the Fast Track Feedback Option!

The Dillydoun Review never charges a fee for reading regular submissions but
we do offer a Fast Track / Feedback option for those who wish to
receive a response within 24 hours for fiction and nonfiction.

We also offer a Fast Track option for poetry but we do not offer feedback.
When you submit poetry via the Fast Track option, you will receive
a response within 24 hours sans feedback.


FICTION: Fast Track / Feedback
Response in 24 Hours – $15

OR

NONFICTION: Fast Track / Feedback
Response in 24 Hours – $15

OR

Poetry: Fast Track
Response in 24 Hours – $15


The idea is this… when a submission is made through Fast Track / Feedback, a fee of $15 is applied. TDR then reads your work and provides detailed feedback, whether the submission is accepted or declined, all within 24 hours.

It’s not a guarantee that work will be accepted. But it is a kind, generous way to support TDR while at the same time affording us an opportunity to spend more time with your work. Not to mention, it’s a unique opportunity to receive unbiased, professional, and quick feedback.

We offer our honest opinion and constructive criticism.

Check it out if you think it’s right for you. We look forward to reading your work.

Join The Dillydoun Review in celebrating National Poetry Month with

A Poem by Destiny Bookman

last time I let the sun kiss my skin I was stung
smooth quick and aggressively
my flesh shrieked; acidic Venom spread across my face
the Venom boiled away at the arrival of anger and humiliation
to be stung in private where only walls and dust balls could observe was purgatory
to be stung in public where eyes looked past you, but sympathetically glared at your back was hell

I was stung the last time I let the sun kiss my skin
hot pins and needles itched my cheek, the sun blurred away
anaphylaxis settled in me
my stomach churned restlessly; ears rung into oblivion
underlying rage burned in my biceps down to the very tip of my fingers
twitching with an eagerness I was orchestrated to suppress to avoid being stung again

I stung back for the first time —

my stinger seemed to be much better equipped for retaliation
disastrous cold had returned, low gray clouds buried the defeated yellow jacket
healing skin and revived senses rejoiced
hibernating through the new cold, I prepared for the return of the warm,
prepared with not embarrassment for myself, but with excitement for the sun
I had been stung by a yellow jacket for the last time, I can let the sun kiss my skin

Destiny Bookman is a sophomore college student from Philadelphia. She wants to be a child therapist because children are great and deserve support. Her primary interests are writing, pretty rocks, underrated animated shows, and listening to years old albums she should have listened to sooner. Destiny writes a little of everything. She hates bugs but, when needed, uses them as inspiration to escape writer’s block.

Join The Dillydoun Review in celebrating National Poetry Month with

A Poem by Matthew James Babcock

The people who really impress me

are those transcendents who burn
themselves alive for a cause.
Which locks your lungs? Elfin daredevil
tightroping with Jesus across
the incandescent bowl of a volcano
on prime time, or mild monk
who torches himself on the marble porch
of the emperor’s palace, sealing history
with the melted red wax of his soul?
Tally all test pilots who land
book deals. Count the black-and-white
busloads of social activists
who didn’t end austere careers
couch surfing. Heavyweight champs,
sopranos with golden throats,
laureates with proletarian codes
tattooed in coal dust down both forearms,
the tycoon grinning philanthropy
at the chattering clash of cameras,
Brazilian bull riders, the jailed saint,
princess vowing poverty, hunger strikers—
guys like Gandhi—none compares
in absolute purity of purpose
to the fed-up Tunisian fruit vendor,
obscure Canadian novelist decrying
the wanton destruction of beauty,
the female Iranian soccer buff,
bankrupt Greeks, sad Japanese Esperantists,
the Amherst substitute teacher abhorring
The Gulf War, estranged Czechs
combusting in the city square
to commemorate the fiftieth anniversary
of other Czechs who roasted there,
Rajput concubines under siege,
tyrannized Tibetans blazing
like hundreds of fiery middle fingers
flipped at China, lithe Lithuanian teens
not keen on Soviets, Hindus not cool
with speaking Tamil, grieving Russian
Old Believers, entrenched French Jesuits,
the young Australian heiress
opposed to her family fortune,
Quaker dad on a day trip from Baltimore
with the kids, barbecued below
Bob McNamara’s Pentagon suite,
all ascending in hot apotheosis
with Thich Quang Duc and Kathy Change
in an uproar of kerosene dreams,
the crackling columns of fire and smoke
swabbing the heavens, the frantic mobs
swarming to warm wilting hands
and sing the songs of astonishment
around the human bonfires
in silence and screams. I burned
at sixteen, shirtless in skimpy
orange track shorts, clocking dogged
country miles of bloody dusk
and charred ditchbank weeds,
my body a smoldering sun rising
to singe through the horizons
of clouded mountains in my drowsy
northwestern town of two thousand,
my young revolutions cooling
soon to resolutions of ash.
Now: What icy injustice could make me
touch the final spark to the fuse
of my heart? What wrong
would stake me, the raging candle,
on my deathday cake? Will the sorrows
of tomorrow find me on market day,
smoking a hand-rolled cigarette
in lotus position atop a sawdust pile
soaked in soybean oil, seconds
before the doleful oxcart rumble
and bored hellos erupt in shrieks of horror?
If I charbroiled myself, it would be
to end martyrdom. At the Founder’s Day
summer fundraiser and cookout
in Memorial Park, I would mount
the gazebo—cutting off the mayor’s welcome,
squelching the brass band of veterans
raising a rumpus with “Bill Bailey”—
and, to the rush of relieved sighs,
toss aside my empty gas can
and soggy matchbook, offering not
the terror of my black skeleton
like a scorched scarecrow flailing away
in a jumping-jack inferno,
but a new vision of the world:
our planet covered, as it is, with billions
of troubled pagodas, each housing
a small blue flame that refuses to go out.


Idahoan. Writer. Failed breakdancer.

Join The Dillydoun Review in celebrating National Poetry Month with

A Poem by Anita Nahal




“Meet Jessica Ailith (Ailith means seasoned warrior)”
Says, poet, writer, painter, sculptor, Australian, Elizabeth ‘Lish’ Škec

Petals adorn my broken self and like our Native ancestors I search for the tale in each. Seeking the shadows of animals that stood with us. Seeking the brothers and sisters that fought with us. The crackling of winter fires that sheltered us. Some have roamed the world, seeing, sprouting, waning and passing into dimensions inside us where we go when others treat us different. Don’t shake your head and offer pity over my amputated legs. Ask instead, what, where, why they walked, kicked, dragged and slumped upon. How a warrior I was born. Don’t nod in understanding without looking straight into my eyes which still sparkle in my guillotined head on the butcher block. How a warrior I was re born. Don’t put your arms around mine without feeling the compacted air that extends beyond my shredded joints. How a warrior I was born, again and again and again.

Don’t offer to cover me up with your tainted blanket. With your prude coat. With your carefully sculpted sentences pulling a spoof that you are wise. Don’t smirk at distances between loves. Don’t try walking on my footprint’s ashes still smoldering. Don’t look for my hands to clasp to tell a joint story. Don’t. Don’t. Just watch. Just watch as my remaining petals keep disappearing. Watch the air around you solidify. Watch the ground beneath you harden like metamorphic rocks. Watch till I become a whisper at the end of the last drop of water. And then, you can scream.


Anita Nahal, Ph.D., CDP is a professor, poet, short story writer, and children’s writer. She teaches at the University of the District of Columbia, Washington DC. Anita has two books of poetry, one of flash fictions, four for children and two edited poetry anthologies and one edited nursery rhymes anthology. Her third book of poetry is set for release in December 2021 by Kelsay Books. Originally from New Delhi, India, she is the daughter of novelist Chaman Nahal and educationist Sudarshan Nahal. She lives in the US with her son, daughter-in-law and golden doodle. For more: https://anitanahal.wixsite.com/anitanahal

Join The Dillydoun Review in celebrating National Poetry Month with

A Poem by Chinedu Nzere

i deep me in the shallow waters of your heart
it is a familiar sacrament
the one which our bodies are cremated into fine ash
& scattered atop this outer sign
grace is cliché, it is how my name melts like caramel on your tongue
each time you call me from a distance
it reminds me of growing up
of street debris
of little feet on seashores
washed away by the water of our baptism


Chinedu Nzere is a lone writer from the broken streets of Lagos where he picks words off sidewalks and people’s lives. He is pursuing his first degree in Accounting at the National Open University, hoping he doesn’t fill poetry into Balance Sheets. He has his works published in Prose and Poetry Hood Valentine Poetry Competition, Writers Space Africa Magazine where he won the Editor’s Choice, The Dillydoun Review… His works have also appeared or are forthcoming in Virginia Quarterly Review, Origami Poems Project, The Offing, POETRY Magazine and elsewhere.

Join The Dillydoun Review in celebrating National Poetry Month with

A Poem by Maria Berardi

For Soo

The precise day everything wakes up:
the sunshine bright and warm, the breeze cold,
the skin unaccustomed to feeling air again.

Four childrens’ muddy hands
entwined with four garter snakes,
all eight of them stooped over a low-lying creek,

the kids huddled in curiosity,
the snakes dipping and swerving
with yearning for freedom.

They are released simultaneously,
a race of S-es across the surface
of the thin water,

still sleepy with cold,
still dull with burrow-dirt,
but pumping along the bright wet,

all four aimed for the other side
and a rock on which
to curl and bask.

The children are delighted,
proud, dirty, and bright-haired.
It is Sunday afternoon and this is just the beginning.


Maria Berardi‘s poems have appeared online, in print, in university literary journals, meditation magazines, and at the Arvada Center for the Arts and Humanities. Her first book, Cassandra Gifts, was published in 2013 by Turkey Buzzard Press, and she is currently at work on her second, Pagan, from which these poems are excerpted. She lives in Colorado at precisely 8,888 feet above sea level. Her process is one of listening for transmissions and trying to catch them on paper before they dissipate: the glimpse, the complicated knowledge.

Join The Dillydoun Review in celebrating National Poetry Month with

A Poem by Tim Suermondt

Walking there, my wife and I
talk about writing, the intelligence
of dogs, riding the Orient Express
and what we’ll do for the season,

maintaining our original focus on
the chicken we’ll bring back to fry
Southern style and every ingredient
involved in the tasty project, those

thighs, breasts and legs reminding us
that not everything should be political,
the Congress today will have to carry
on without our participation, if they can.


Tim Suermondt’s sixth full-length book of poems “A Doughnut And The Great Beauty Of The World” will be forthcoming from MadHat Press in 2021. He has published in Poetry, Ploughshares, Prairie Schooner, The Georgia Review, Bellevue Literary Review, Stand Magazine, december magazine, On the Seawall, Poet Lore and Plume, among many others. He lives in Cambridge (MA) with his wife, the poet Pui Ying Wong.

Join The Dillydoun Review in celebrating National Poetry Month with

A Poem by Susan J. Wurtzburg

Objects associated with my mother: hair pins,
            dish gloves, a pink flamingo.
The plush bird, a humorous birthday gift
            from her crazy daughter.
Hawaii-visit detritus placed in orderly rows,
            top drawer of the dresser.

Handles pulled, a glimpse inside, amusing
            reminders of her presence.
Mixed with heart pulls, muscle memory
            of farm days by her side.
Clasped hands and hugs with my mother,
            across the ocean now.

The only bridge, a telephone cable runs
            deep beneath the sea.
Down the line, breathe and laughter,
            but longing for contact.
A touch of the hand, a walk, shared
            laughter and observations.


Susan J. Wurtzburg is a retired academic, and lives in Hawai‘i. She writes and runs her editing business (Sandy Dog Books LLC), in between water sports, hiking, walking her dog, and socializing online, while she waits for the pandemic to diminish, allowing life to resume.

Join The Dillydoun Review in celebrating National Poetry Month with

A Poem by M. Cornell

I could feel the sidewalk through my
white canvas sneakers, as I paced
in front of the B Green Line station.
The train was going to stop running soon.
I was torn
by visceral feeling and rational thought.
                  He was surprised I waited so long
                  to meet him after work.
We went to a still-open-late Korean place,
and in between soju drowned in beers, we got acquainted
                  It was the least we do could do
                  before sleeping together.
Negra,
he whispered in my ear as his hand smoothed it’s way down my back.
Afterwards, between cigarettes
he told me how his nanny took
his innocence when he was fourteen
and since then
                  (he told me I should know)
he’s not the greatest for any woman.
I stared at his profile and took a long drag
from my cigarette.
                  The next morning I found out he had a girlfriend.
                  I was just another night.

M. Cornell is a 31 year old poet from the Connecticut area. Formerly from New York City, M. Cornell was born in Queens and raised in the Bronx. Her poetry centers around trauma, trauma recovery, general observations of the world, her intense love of New York City, and finding the profound within the mundane.

Join The Dillydoun Review in celebrating National Poetry Month with

A Poem by Patrick Dunn

We stayed inside and scribbled down our thoughts
in lines of verse as strident as politics, as cruel
as children sensing a weakness in their prey.
That was how we passed the time: mostly alone.

In lines of verse, as strident as politics, and cruel,
We made up little songs, to sing in the shower:
That was how we passed the time, mostly alone,
or staring at a screen until the light burned our eyes.

We made up little songs to sing in the shower,
like a kind of lonely concert, better than silence
or staring at a screen until the light burned our eyes.
That’s the way the pandemic went, until it ended,

like a kind of lonely concert, breaking the silence
ringing an alarm in our brains, over and over:
That’s the way the pandemic went, until it ended.
A steady march from day to day, each the same.

Ringing an alarm in our brains, over and over:
like children sensing a weakness in their prey.
A steady march from day to day, each the same,
We stayed inside and scribbled down our thoughts.

Patrick Dunn is a professor at Aurora University, where he teaches linguistics, literature, composition, and creative writing. His poetry has been published in Poetry Sky and Fifth Wednesday Journal, among other places, and his book of poetry, Second Person, was published by Finishing Line Press. His writing has been translated into several languages, including Chinese, Russian, and Slovak. He lives in the Chicago suburbs, in a small house surrounded by an unkempt lawn, where he plays the piano (poorly but with great feeling) and cooks (reasonably well and with tremendous gusto).

Join The Dillydoun Review in celebrating National Poetry Month with

A Poem by Maryann Lawrence

(she says)
Ah, but love you’ve forgotten the cool nights on the hot streets
when Nightingale Rose kept us rapt with her cooing,
and Bella Jo drivin’ us all to pieces with her red satin
swishing on the dance floor

’til there wasn’t room for no one but you and her
lighting up the room and your feet moving near as fast
as my heartbeat.

But then you saw me standing with Bluesy and
you asked me to dance, but Farm Boy Willy threw down his straw hat
and grabbed my arm before I could say yes.

You’ve forgotten the old Captain, too,
when he called on you to help him when his bed catched fire
and you came with ten buckets on your head.

He lost all his best Sunday clothes and you let him have half yours
and your best pair of shoes, too. But Minnie she just complained
they didn’t fit right knowing
she didn’t have no clothes half as good
fearing he would leave her for
a woman in satin.

Man, you forget your people who never lost faith in you
and singing your praises like a Hallelujah when Darvin Red
accused you of cheating at pool that Friday
when we all went down to Jay’s ‘cuz the streets was too hot
and you cooled him off with a tenner and never looked back.

Them was sour times, and sweet, too,
and both mixed up with each other
and there is no one knows you like me
and I says they got you all wrong
and I’ll stand here ‘til the
Nightingale sings through my bones.

Maryann Lawrence is a sales professional, solopreneur, antique collector and writer in Southeast Michigan. To wit, she makes ends meet. She has been published in Literary Mama, Vine Leaves Press, Light & Dark and Foliate Oak. Read her essays, poems, short stories and children’s lit at MaryannLawrence.net.

Join The Dillydoun Review in celebrating National Poetry Month with

A Poem by Raymond P. Hammond

for those believers who believe their belief trumps truth

it seeped deep into their bones:
unadulterated capitalism
filled the bone marrow chasms
and bled hatred and disgust
and disdain until it oozed
out for everyone to see
christians, patriots, fascists
all were all consumed by this
thing called capitalism
which, once unfettered and loosed
by a slack of religion
then married to religion
was manifested as greed,
pure selfishness, treachery,
and murder

moloch loosed upon masses
by simple utterances
and grumblings—demonic
politicians created
from nothing by mere wishes;
a malcontent collected
by a semi-consciousness
of wills

those who had created them
then withdrew into their own
shells of safety behind walls
of disrespect and god damned
ignorance of all others—
they then only understood
their own needs and knew their own
imagined fears told to them
repeatedly in shadow
puppet shows run by puppet
masters who freely pulled their
puppet strings

the garrote of godliness
tightened tightly around necks
of the faithless believers
strangling any spiritual
understanding until they
relented to ignorance
or choked on mouths filled with hosts
of religious intentions
the rationalization
to believe—to beg for faith,
to have some measure of hope,
but hope only came in their
own damned selves and even more
damnable myths forgetting
science and facts and choosing
rather to solely believe
an excuse to not hear, see,
speak, or apply critical
thinking

belief is not faith, belief
is hope without foundation
faith is knowing beyond doubt,
and while belief reigned supreme,
discernment of faith became
as dead as isaac would have
been under abraham’s blade
had abraham’s faith been found
as equally ill-equipped
and godless and believed
only in the lamb and not
had true faith

god’s not a lamb in the bush
god is that last hope-filled glance
god is thought, an idea,
a gleam in the artists’ eye;
words, sound in the poets’ mind;
the mind’s eye; the consciousness
found in every person—
without consciousness there is
no god

so then,
if thought is dead, and reason also dead
all we have is a thoughtless, self-righteous
world view with self-sanctifying belief
in self-fulfilling prophecies, in myths
of our making, then the collective weight
of humankind’s own ignorance, hubris,
and struggle to replace faith with belief;
god with religion, capitalism,
competition, hate and fear mongering
will be that belief and those who believe
will have served to faithfully kill god dead.

Raymond P. Hammond is the editor-in-chief of both The New York Quarterly and NYQ Books. He holds an MA in American Poetry from NYU’s Gallatin School and is the author of Poetic Amusement, a book of literary criticism. He lives in Beacon, NY with his wife, the poet Amanda J. Bradley, and their dog Hank.

Join The Dillydoun Review in celebrating National Poetry Month with

A Poem by Mateo Perez Lara

When it was easier to hide in the haze of my youth
Not yet accepting of the bright hot sun
on my back in retreat of lesser gods, men
evoking rituals on the soft body, reviving
little ceremonies of distrust, I knew
hiding was verb and noun, the act
and the person. A hiding. Is hiding.
In him. On him. Inside him. Them.
Before I carved the binary out of my bone
Before I could look at myself and sweet-kiss it.

Mateo Perez Lara is a queer, brown, non-binary, Latinx poet from California. They received their M.F.A. in Poetry as part of the first cohort to graduate from Randolph College’s Creative Writing Program. They are an editor for RabidOak Online Literary Journal. They have a chapbook, Glitter Gods, published with Thirty West Publishing House. Their poems have been published in EOAGH, The Maine Review, and elsewhere.

Join The Dillydoun Review in celebrating National Poetry Month with

A Poem by Orey Wilson Dayne

It rises like a shark fin
from the coughing soil
in my lost backyard.

I look around, over each shoulder.
No neighbors to peer through windows.
Dry grass scratching beneath my shoes.

Just a stump now,

the rest had been cut away.
Clean bites of a chainsaw gleam,
from sometime before the end.

Maybe someone would’ve eaten
from it now, instead of watching
the sickly fruit pile on the ground

to rot like I used to.

Those absent branches hold
no answers, no direction,
they point me nowhere.

So, I lie down with it for a moment,
resting my limbs on forlorn roots
and, looking up, feast upon the sky’s song,

an aubade I haven’t yet named.

Orey Wilson Dayne was born and raised in Nevada, Ohio. He earned his bachelor’s degree in English at Otterbein University. He received his MFA in Creative Writing at Rosemont College in Philadelphia. He resides in Columbus, Ohio where he hangs out in his hammock, drinks whiskey, and leads tabletop RPGs.

Join The Dillydoun Review in celebrating National Poetry Month with

A Poem by Nancy White

girls sit down
                           between the rest
we look first
                           one way then
the other did
                           you raise your
hand did you
                           lose your place
did you do
                           good then did
this silence
                           this face go
silent upon
                           a subject silent

Nancy White is the author of three poetry collections: Sun, Moon, Salt (winner of the Washington Prize), Detour, and Ask Again Later. Her poems have appeared in Beloit Poetry Review, FIELD, New England Review, Ploughshares, Rhino, and many others. She serves as editor-in-chief at The Word Works in Washington, D. C. and teaches at SUNY Adirondack.

Join The Dillydoun Review in celebrating National Poetry Month with

A Poem by Eve Chilali

I feel a film
not washed off after all these showers
a filth, a bruise I don’t want anyone to see
a consciousness of being
not enough
smart pretty tough
not enough

What do you want, I don’t hit you, do I?
fists up, baby on the seat

Cowering tower not believing
in the bad the evil the lying side
hoping in the wash of good side I saw when we met
the better self you put forward
a hooked soul waiting to be let out
if someone could unlock the purgatory

I don’t care if my father died yesterday,
we’re havin’ a pahty . . .

the day he died you drank yourself to sleep
though you barely knew him
cycle begins again

Believing, believing
you’re not doing dope
didn’t say bad things about me
demanding wife
ball and chain
neck drop lagging up your high

“. . . it’s too bad she has to put up with him
at least he doesn’t hit her . . .”

The essence of the film
the icky lie
that you don’t hit me with words
shake fists
anger disintegrates
my ‘front’
inch inch take
the wall down

each morning before I leave
baby bag packed briefcase over shoulder
baby draped in my arms
out the door off to work
you tear at my self
façade I set to make it
through the days
anything to ruin my
to make damn sure
that icky film stays on

Eve Chilali is a poet and writer living in the Greater New York City area. This poem is part of a forthcoming collection, Some Other Perfect.

Join The Dillydoun Review in celebrating National Poetry Month with

A Poem by Marjorie Levine

You with your constant smell of indifference
And I so hungry for even a sweet side glance.

But it was not to happen.
Maybe it was fate on the snowy evening I sailed
Away from you:
The last night I entered that ferry
The same ferry that always took me back to you
Because I was seduced by silly things
That never mattered.

I must have looked so crumbled, so forlorn,
That a nun stopped reading the Bible and moved
To sit closer to me, to give me comfort
And solace… and she did.

As I drifted the waters to reach my home
You disappeared and grew smaller in every way
Possible, so in many of my later years you
Became a blurred washed memory.

And after a great time, when my forgotten passion
Surfaced and took hold of me,
When the longing that once lived inside of me
Cornered my thoughts and turned you into a rumination,
I tried to find you.

But you were gone.
Really gone.
And there was a heavy stillness in my place.
On cold nights, I remembered the ferry and
All I could hear was the nun,
The nun who so many years ago told me:
“You will still be here
In the morning.”

Marjorie Levine was a teacher for 35 years and she is now 74 years old and retired. In 2009, she was the 1st place winner, in a Beat Poetry Contest, for her poem, “What Way to Go Today”. Her poem, “Coda”, was published in Pinky Thinker Press in February 2021. 

Join The Dillydoun Review in celebrating National Poetry Month with

A Poem by Brett Thompson

My children, I never taught you to destroy; my yearnings are of love.  So what is it to be confronted, to embrace such a deep canary? What is it when you pick yourself apart for a promise, petal by terrible petal?  My desire runs with the heaviest stones in the river.  My desire is a wet leaf carried by the wind.  For the sake of a promise, would you break the root over your chest, would you devour the light and the rain until you yourself were devoured?

Brett Thompson has been writing poetry since his graduate days at the University of New Hampshire where he earned a M.A. in English Writing with a concentration in poetry. He has been published in various journals, including Plainsongs, Tilde, District Lit, The Literary Nest, and the Cobalt Review. He teaches and lives in New Hampshire with his wife and two young daughters.

Join The Dillydoun Review in celebrating National Poetry Month with

A Poem by F. Cade Swanson

“You’re a pretty big wheel, ain’t you?”
my grandfather asks.
Words tossed my way
from a green armchair
in the dark corner of the front room
of his Appalachian home.

It’s like an impromptu game of catch,
his words propelled with disdain
(bewilderment?)
at the soft boy standing in his home.

Maybe it’s my dad’s fault.
Surely it’s my dad’s fault.
Mom has told me it’s my dad’s fault.
Mom uses heavy, sticky words like grandpa does.
This was her dad.

I was nothing like the men my grandfather knew:
strong, dominant brutes with calloused hands
whose days were spent underground
in the dark coal mines of Kentucky,
where the beauty of my grandfather’s otherworldly ice blue eyes
went mercifully unnoticed.

The men he knew lived in perpetual darkness,
entering the mines in the morning before dawn
and exiting at dusk,
the blackness seeping into their lungs
and slowly, painfully robbing them of air.
These men didn’t waste their breath
on unnecessary words.

My dad, the man my mother chose,
relishes the light,
his sensitive hazel eyes perpetually watery from being outside.
His hands are soft,
in spite of years of janitorial work before he joined the military,
reflections of his days working retail
and the brief time he taught high school history.
His words are too plentiful to be heavy or sharp,
like a constant barrage of ping pong balls that,
while irritating if beamed in your direction,
are never dense enough to leave a scar or sting when they hit you.

But the heavy sticky words my grandfather threw at me?
My mom taught me to catch them all
in my small, soft hands,
and not let them fall.
Hold some in my heart.
Hold some in my head.
Hold the weight of others like a hammer or pickaxe,
feel their burn like flares from a stick of dynamite
until my hands, too, became calloused.

I stare at him awkwardly, waiting for direction.
My mother is nowhere to be found
but also deeply present.

I respond to him like my father would.

“I guess I am, Grandpa. I guess I am a pretty big wheel.”

He glares at me,
those blue eyes glowing in the dark corner of the room.
He raises his strong, thick hand
like he’s going to strike me.
Watches me to see if I flinch.
Waits for me to retreat.
Waits for me to fall.

He reaches out, squeezes my shoulder hard,
and expels a deep disappointed sigh
(my mother learned that from him, as well)
as I turn and walk away.

F Cade Swanson is a queer dad who grew up in Southeast Virginia. He runs a community center in Seattle, Washington and his work has appeared in Soliloquies Anthology, Nine Cloud Journal, Snapdragon: A Journal of Art & Healing, Day Without Art 30, Ailment: Chronicles of Illness Narratives, HIV Here & Now from Indolent Books, and Stonewall’s Legacy Anthology. Check out some of his published works at fcadeswanson.com

Join The Dillydoun Review in celebrating National Poetry Month with

A Poem by Emerson Kurdi

Eunice, MN

deposits her seeds each fall
among barren fields, eager
the sticky cotton coating and crude oil
will fertilize her children better than the
beer and liquid meth mixture she’s
been manufacturing for years.

This May on graduation day,
goddammit, the crop is greasy
rooted, shriveled – again.
So, once more, the black-robed children
beam across the makeshift gymnasium
stage, and she bestows freedom
with a yellow-toothed smile,
and cheap diploma cardstock.


Before my brother and I disappeared,
Eunice whispered about the inhabitants
of old Nancy’s Salon. My mother
tried to color its grey roots
and trim the ends into a home,
but the bristly and rasping doormats
she chose for living room carpet
skinned more knees
than she ever kissed.

The neglect looked like dead
guinea pig crosses
guarding the front lawn,
and an abandoned Bowflex jungle
gym in the bedroom corner
that watched us sweat
out innocence in our sleep.


Each night before we left, Eunice breathed
tension into the midnight fog,
which lowered like a wet blanket
onto the squeaking whines and snarls
from the neighbor’s pit bulls.
Across the fence and the porch,
the dog man’s crooked teeth, illuminated
only by a lit cigarette,
was the only supervisor to our night games.
My baby brother and I blew
away from the Autumn swill
with the wind and germinated
elsewhere. But, our hometown
blood is still oil-slick,
and our teeth still rot
in our dreams.

Emerson Kurdi is a Master’s Student at Texas Tech University, studying Poetry. He is originally from Allen, Texas and spends his time training his dogs, playing guitar, or hanging out with his friends on a restaurant patio.

Join The Dillydoun Review in celebrating National Poetry Month with

A Poem by Nick Trelstad

From the window of my office
I watch her plump brown body
emerge from the snowy underbrush –
carried on legs thin as saplings.
Her’s is a gentle step too soft
to disturb the budless willow branches
frosted from the first snow.

And I, from my office, want nothing
but to step out those doors
and join her there beyond
that border only wild things can cross.
A threshold we carry in our lives
of which we know nothing.

As I watch her disappear just as quick
as she arrived – unexpected, unbound
back into the snow burdened boughs,
I too have something to expiate:
not a pettiness, but a longing.

Nick Trelstad is a poet based out of Northern Minnesota. He was a 2020 Pushcart Prize nominee, and his poems have appeared in literary magazines including Sink Hollow Journal, The Blue Marble Review, and The Scriblerus Review.

A Short Story by Maria Diaz

If my brother found out that I was sleeping with one of the Beltrez boys, he would kill me. We had to be really secretive about it — sneaking out when the entire campo was at church, pretending we were arranging community meals so that we could be in the same house. I regularly invited Teofilo over when he was headed to New York, dizque pa’ mandarle algo a mi hermano. I knew they never saw each other, but the effort kept the bochinchosos from opening their big mouths. Teofilo had a wife and kids in New York and a wife and kids right here, in Sabana Iglesia. I wasn’t his wife. I didn’t want to marry him, anyway.

In a few months, I would also be in New York, rich like my brother. The entire campo chased him every time he came back with his wife, whose beautiful blue eyes could only temporarily distract my neighbors from my brother’s good fortune. He bought a house in Queens, big enough for all of us, he said.

Teofilo lived in Manhattan.

“That’s where the real Dominicans live, mami,” he said to me, “how will the kids know what it means to be Dominican?”

Teofilo liked to pretend that we could one day live together, as if he did not already have several beds to keep warm and mouths to feed, as if I was not the biggest secret he kept. I knew there was no world in which we could coexist. He was actively a Trujillista, a believer in the dead dictator’s policies who had upended the life of so many Dominicans.

My family fought to save us from that reality; my brother was a very vocal opponent and protestor against the dictator’s hateful rhetoric. He moved to New York in fear that he might one day be arrested for his public dissent. I stayed in Sabana Iglesia as proof that we were not traitors. I had a visa. I could have left.

Teofilo entered my house and took one look at me before commenting, “Tu si ‘ta gorda,” as he rushed towards my bedroom. He didn’t kiss me; he didn’t hug me. He didn’t bother to ask how I was. He noticed the weight I had gained, and he made it a point to comment on how fat I was getting.

He had been gone for four months, and in that time, I had learned that I was pregnant. Teofilo was the only man I had been with in two years, so it was definitely his baby, but I knew that telling him meant risking losing him. Money and land were sacred in Sabana Iglesia, and babies guaranteed access to both.

“I’m pregnant,” I blurted out, as he undressed himself in my bedroom. He looked at me with a puzzled expression.

“It can’t be mine. I’ve been gone for months,” he said.

Teofilo thought I wanted his money. That’s what all DominicanYork men think the side chick they keep hidden away in el campo want. But I didn’t need any of his money. Our family had our own.

I wanted to hear three words I had never heard from him in the six years we had been doing this: I love you.

Teofilo kept coming back for a healthy release throughout the pregnancy and wrote me letters while he was in New York. He signed every letter, con amor, but he never once told me he loved me. In the last letter before Robert’s birth, he told me that his New York wife was due in October and that his Sabana Iglesia wife had just given birth to a baby boy months before.

Teofilo’s visits became sporadic after Robert’s birth. He sent me a total of $5000 to keep quiet about the paternity of the baby, but there was no denying who his father was. Robert had his father’s white face, his very round brown eyes and his coarse, curly hair.  He did not take after my side of the family.

I gave that money to my brother, to help him pay the mortgage on the Corona house that would soon be mine as well — a home I hoped would one day house my grandchildren and their grandchildren, a little piece of New York that could be ours. How would my children know they were Dominican? How could they deny what ran so prominently through their blood?

I left Sabana Iglesia in 1965, months after having Teofilo’s second child, who I left with his big brother, in el campo with my younger sister. I trusted that my boys were safe in Sabana Iglesia and I knew that this sacrifice — this temporary separation — was for our collective benefit.

Corona, Queens was unapologetically racist — we were among the first Dominicans to settle in the neighborhood, and when asked if we were Cuban, we often answered, “Yes,” though we knew the answer was wrong.

We thought people were asking if we knew Spanish, trying to find an easier way to communicate with us, but they were using Cuban as a substitute for communist, and every “yes” was an admission of guilt. We had not yet figured out how to navigate this new world where politics intersected with racial identity. Our light complexion, it turns out, told a particular story about our heritage that was neither true nor relatable in the Corona context. To our neighbors, we would be Cuban until at least the 1980s, when a mass migration of Dominicans made our story easier to understand.

I spent the first few years in Corona watching what was happening in the neighborhood through the curtains in the windows and calling las vecinas pa’ bochinchar, to tell them whose husbands I saw entering single women’s homes, spying on my brother, who developed a gambling addiction since arriving in the states, and cooking dinner for all of the Sabana Iglesia transplants who had settled in the neighborhood. I went to church not because I was a devout Catholic, but because that was the best place to get the latest chisme, pa’ saber que pasaba.

The prayer group of Cubans, Puerto Ricans, and Dominicans that came to my house on Saturday nights actually came over to play Bingo — we didn’t pray at all, except to pray that we took the most money home that night. I often cheated, making sure that the house always won.

I thought about Teofilo often, wondering what he was up to in his big Manhattan four bedroom apartment, curious about the daughter who was about the same age as our son. He was my past now, with whom I shared nothing but memories of sins of adultery and two beautiful boys who lived in the Dominican Republic, waiting to be reunited with their mom and stepfather.

Robert could come at any time, but we were waiting. I wasn’t sure what we were waiting for, exactly. He would have a house with a big backyard, a garden, and his own bedroom. Nelson had to wait because he was younger, and he was struggling to learn to read and write. I felt like it was my fault. I abandoned my children and the younger one, the one I had spent less time with, could hardly write his own name.

Right after we came back from visiting my kids in December 1971, I came back to my Corona home to a brand new television in my bedroom; my brother and my husband had banded together to get me one because they knew I liked my bochinche. I watched Univision every night at 6:00 and 11:00, sure to write down any time they mentioned a Dominican last name I recognized from el campo: Diaz, Rodriguez, Collado, Nuñez, Beltrez, Valerio, Fernandez, Hernandez, Vargas, Franco.

The news stories usually repeated themselves between 6:00 pm and 11:00 pm, so I did not expect the variation on January 2, 1972. I did not get a warning. Nobody called me to tell me.

The newscaster said that a man entered his four bedroom apartment in Manhattan, where he lived with his wife and his daughter, when he was approached by his angry wife, who met him at the door with a butcher’s knife.

Someone called her from Sabana Iglesia, to tell her that they saw a boy, about ten years old, who was identical to her husband, which meant he had to have been cheating on her. They had been married thirteen years at that point. She stabbed him seventeen times in the back. The life-threatening injuries took his life.

“Teofilo Beltrez, de Sabana Iglesia, Santiago de los Caballeros, murió en su apartamento en Manhattan.” Teofilo died in his Manhattan apartment, after his wife found out he had cheated on her.

After someone in Sabana Iglesia went to my house, took a picture of Robert, and sent it to her.

I called the boys that night to tell them.

I couldn’t mourn his death publicly. I was not his widow. I was married to a man who loved me, and I was expecting a baby.

I dressed in black for a week, stayed in my house, and did not bother staring out the window.

Robert would be flying to New York for his father’s funeral and I knew that in short time, I would be bochinche, not just for the Sabana Iglesia transplants, but for all Dominicans who live near — and for the Cubans and Puerto Ricans who make it a habit to spend Saturday night at my house.

When my son came, I held him over his father’s casket and said, “This is your father. He died in a car accident.”

Other mourners stared at Robert, whose face was identical to his father’s. They heard my lie, shook their head, and they did not have to say what I knew they were thinking.

His wife killed him.

But I caused his death.

Maria Diaz is an educational consultant living originally from Queens, New York, where she currently lives, though she has left parts of her heart in Cambridge and Palo Alto. She graduated from Mount Holyoke College, The City College of New York, and Harvard Graduate School of Education.

A Flash Fiction by Logan Cox

I’m enraptured the precise moment your fingers first touch the keys. It’s happened every time I’ve come into this place to write and focus, but I can’t seem to do either when you begin to play that infernal piano, so it’s really just two hours of pretending not to watch you.

I stayed longer than normal, just once. I waited until everyone had left the hotel bar.

I laughed to myself, that I’d come all the way to New York to find inspiration, and what I really ended up wanting to write about was you and your delicately applied but abundantly clear passion for your music. You, who existed in the hotel bar. I came all the way to the city, just to find what I needed in the hotel.

You didn’t have a name yet in my story, I didn’t even make one up for you in my head like I usually do. I became convinced that whatever fiction I came up with the satisfy my own curiosity would be utterly disappointing compared with the truth.

When the bar was finally empty, you started to pack up your sheet music. You saw me, and I almost made eye contact with you, but I managed to turn a page in my notebook instead. You froze, and made a different decision.

I tried not to breathe too noticeably, or do anything noticeable at all for that matter, as she sat back down.

She began to play a piece I recognized but could not name. I was never the musician that I wanted to be, but I could recognize beauty anywhere, because I was the writer I needed to be.

This piece had been played here before, every night I had been here, I was sure of it. Somehow, this was completely different. The way she rose and fell, chasing herself where she should pause. The ebb and flow, everything about her became less mechanical and turned emotional.

The music, it was inexplicable. What is the difference between classy and lovely? I have no qualms about my inability to define the separation, for I can always draw upon this memory to satisfy my mind when I ponder it.

The notes were the same. The piano was the same piano it had always been, but the woman, she was no longer a worker, she was who she wanted to be.

My shoulders tensed and my eyes would involuntarily shut when she reached forte, and my heart rate would slow again when the atmosphere calmed.

When the room fell silent and she departed from her platform, she began to walk towards me. I waited longer than normal to look up, I had to be sure she was really walking this way. When it was certain, I placed my glasses on the table and closed my notebook in preparation for conversation.

“Hi, did you enjoy my performance tonight?” She asked with a shaky voice, leaning backward timidly.

“Of course, everyone who came in seemed to love you. I heard many compliments.”

“Not that one,” she clarified, slowly. “The last one. For you.”

“That was for me?” I asked, acting as though I wasn’t here only for her.

“Yes,” she answered. “I noticed you stayed.”

“I did,” I confessed. “To be honest, you’ve been the best part about New York so far.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” she deflected, smiling.

“It is,” I said, not forcefully, but truthfully, so she knew it wasn’t just a flattery.

“Thank you, really. You’re the only one that’s come here just for me. Most come to drink.”

“Unfortunate reality, working in a bar, even an elegant one.”

“I wanted to give you something,” she said, shuffling her papers. “Here.”

In my hands I held a well cared for binding of sheet music that bore the name of a composer I didn’t know and a piece I couldn’t read. I began to thank her politely before I read it, but as I leafed through, my words trailed off. I was reading her personal notes, clearly written in pencil.

His Favorite was written at the top, near the title.

She started to get nervous when she could tell I was reading her notes, even though she’d intended for me to do so.

Other notes like He jumps and He tries not to look up were written throughout, making me laugh out loud.

“I’m sorry, this is probably really creepy,” she apologized.

“No, of course not,” I said. “I’ve been writing about you for the past few nights anyway.”

“I thought maybe you were,” she told me.

We both laughed, finally feeling more at ease. When the silence returned, the tension came with it, though she was quick to break it once again.

“I wonder what we’d both be like, if we knew for a fact that we were watching each other,”

“New York is the perfect place to explore wonders,” I pointed out.

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

Logan Cox is a young writer currently living in the south of Spain. His work currently appears in the online journals Flash Fiction Magazine and Maudlin House, with forthcoming work set to appear in Beyond Words Literary Magazine. He can most often be found among his family, arguing the rules of in-home game show play.

A Poem by Kari Villanueva

My thoughts carve me hollow like a stream
against limestone. West coast valleys between
my breasts, a highway of mountains down
my spine. There’s a grand canyon forming
in my mind, water licks grains of sand.

It’s persistent, it’s slow like the rain that
gently knocks against my window pane– don’t
ask me when I opened it, but there’s mold on my
walls and beetles in the carpet. I wonder how
Noah liked the rain. Droplets plink the glass

like a broken piano, ivory yellowed and ebony
chipped. I want to love its song like a pianist. I
want to love the world like a doe loves its fawn–
unconditional. I shut the window.

Kari Villanueva is an undergraduate at the University of Pittsburgh studying English Writing and Public and Professional Writing. Kari has been published once before in Forbes and Fifth Magazine.

An Essay by Gabriel Tronson

I didn’t see her, and now, when I look at my dog before leaving for work, I think of my grandmother quarantined in the hospital. My grandfather got moved away, headed to Hopkins for physical therapy after some recovery. Her only company was strangers. I imagine, because of her deteriorating gray matter, she might’ve forgotten about the pandemic and wondered why no family members were visiting during her days on Earth.

She’d hold the same bewildered expression as my husky when I get ready for work: why am I being abandoned?

I didn’t see her, and now I think about the wicked trip one of my friends had on shrooms. He’d told me the story of how he took a handful of shrooms because he was bored on a Thursday afternoon and proceeded to have the worst four hours of his life. He described it as real suffering, something your average person in the middle class would never experience. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw evil. All of his emotions felt like they were vacuum sealed and stowed away, replaced with terror as he realized the psychedelics were trying to tell him something, some forbidden knowledge lurking behind the curtain of reality. My friend sat for hours trying not to think of this horrible knowledge because he was sure if he let the psychedelics tell it to him, he’d go insane.

I wonder about the veracity of this experience, if there is some brutal truth behind the surface of our existence, hidden out of necessity by ego. These thoughts keep me up at night while I stare at the ceiling and listen to a distant train’s bellow roll through the trees outside.

I didn’t see her, and now, whenever I’m at a store, and I see someone not wearing a mask, a volcanic emotion bubbles inside me. I feel I’m going to squirm from the inside out like another person is living inside me, capable of unthinkable intentions. The anti-maskers have such defiance in their eyes as they browse like they’re daring someone to try and force them to show compassion for their fellow human. I guess putting a piece of cloth across their face is too much of a bother. In my eyes, these people are unsalvageable, self-centered, malignant creatures a step away from humanity because intelligent creatures void of empathy are an enigma to me. If given a choice between doing something to hurt others or doing something to helps others, why not help others? Why not use your miraculous self-awareness to spread love instead of hate? The majority of humanity takes its free will for granted.

This newfound rage doesn’t seem like my own. It’s too much for a human mind to accommodate.

If there is a God, who’s to say they’re perfect? What if, in their realm of existence, they’re a middle-class God who’s putting in just enough hours to keep our totality running. Maybe this rage belongs to the universe, and it’s angry self-aware creatures in such an awe-inspiring, three-dimensional reality can be so self-centered.

I hadn’t seen her for months before I got a text from my father that said the doctors didn’t sound too hopeful about her condition, and I got to thinking hope is just a worm stuck to a sharp hook. Hope is the happiness dangling just out of reach, promising everything will work out as we chase the bait into the trap. We all need something to hope for. Otherwise, there’s no point in pushing onwards through the grinder.

I can’t help but ask, what is there to hope for? An end to the devious monotony of the 40-hour workweek after a blur of middle-age that stops being painful only to turn dull, which is somehow worse, then to retire into a life of bodily pains. Loved ones get plucked from the Earth in front of you like you’re strapped into some device inspired by Clockwork Orange. You get abandoned in a retirement home and rarely visited by your family because they’re too busy or too tired or too bewildered to see you, but you know it’s an excuse. They could’ve made time to see you if they wanted to.

Maybe this is the gruesome secret: hope is our greatest tormenter.

I didn’t see her, and now I get waves of encompassing despair, which make me acutely aware of my skin, sexuality, and gender and how these surround me in a puffy cloud of privilege. I wonder how someone like me, who has it easy, can feel such despondency. I think about my friend who had a bad shroom trip and described it as real suffering. I think about how I’ve never suffered, just had inconveniences. My thoughts go to minorities and everything they have to face. I’ve never had to experience racism, poverty, or police brutality. It makes me feel ashamed. It makes me feel weak. It makes me want to be better.

I didn’t see her, and now I’ve done more prep than usual for my next acid trip because I fear she might speak to me. I’ve never had an immediate family member die. I don’t know the underlying repercussions rippling through me.

In my prep, I’ve explored many stories of other people’s acid trips, mostly through Reddit, and came across one user who said they stared into a mirror for an hour during the peak of the trip before coming to the conclusion they were face to face with their god. With this came a strong sense of Deja Vu and the positivity they were dead, and the brain’s only way to cope with death was to relive the same life on repeat for the rest of eternity.

Maybe it’s the horrible secret: eternal recurrence is our reality. I’ve been dead for millions of years, reliving the same life in an endless cycle because the brain can’t comprehend non-existence and can only replay the only thing it knows: its life. That would mean you, reading this, are also dead. Sorry you had to hear it this way.

I didn’t see her, and then it was too late; I couldn’t see her because of a virus prying us apart. People still refuse masks. One of my coworkers told me it was bullshit, and everybody dies. Another of my coworkers said we’re weeding out the weak. My friend, with his lousy shroom trip, has vowed never to retake psychedelics. He said they brought him too close to the truth. My hope is a pain I carry with me, and my privilege is a weakness. I used my grandmother’s death as an excuse to smoke weed despite trying to quit for the eleventh time, but she is more than an excuse, and it’s time I become more than a white man with a comfortable life ignoring the turbulence around me. It’s time I accept I’m weak.

I loved her, and I didn’t get to see her when it mattered. The pain this presents reassures me I am alive; this life is not on repeat.

The pain helps motivate me to celebrate my grandmother’s journey instead of focusing on her absence. Its possible death is beautiful on the other side, dissolution of ego and a return to universal consciousness. Though, I often wonder where my grandmother is now and what she’s experiencing, if it’s nothing but darkness akin to that before she was born, or if she still has some level of consciousness without the boundaries of being a physical being in a three-dimensional reality.

Or maybe the horrible secret is there’s no reality. We make a reality in our heads, which means that we are face-to-face with our god when we look into the mirror.

Edit post-acid trip: my grandmother did not speak to me, though I did have a dream of her the night before. We were in the kitchen of the senior living apartment where she’d spent the last year of her life, and she was looking at me with her face folded into an expression of worry as I smoked a cigarette. I’ve never smoked a cigarette before in my life, yet somehow my sleeping mind produced the sensation. I remember tasting the melancholy that rolled off her.

The acid trip was intense. There are a few distinct moments that stick out in my memory like pins.

First: there was a point during the peak when I looked into the mirror and watched my right eye melt and slide down my face. It shocked me away from the mirror for the rest of the trip and much of the next day.

Second: my husky was frightened of me while I was tripping as if she knew. My friend, who had the shitty shroom trip, once told me his cats oddly looked at him during psychedelic trips—just an interesting notion.

Third: I may have figured out the horrible secret. I had an epiphany while I was in the shower watching the ceiling crystalize. We, as a species, are nothing. Even if we destroy Earth with our parasitic consumption, the universe is vaster than we can comprehend and will continue onwards without us for eternity. We’ll never know why we’re here unless death holds some form of an answer. In this case, my grandmother might already know the secrets of existence. It amazes me to think she’s already experienced one of the most terrifying parts of being alive: the ending.

Gabriel Tronson lives in Minnesota with his girlfriend where he has a warehouse job and spends most of his monotonous working hours thinking up stories. He received an AFA in creative writing from Anoka-Ramsey College and published work in the Havik Literary Anthology and Stoneboat Fiction.

A Flash Fiction by Chiara Vascotto

“So, this boyfriend of yours…is he tall? Because…”.

“I know, grandad, altezza mezza bellezza”.

‘Height is beauty’ is one of grandad’s quirky mantras. He insists it’s a proverb, but I only ever heard it from him.

A year later, and I am at his funeral. He never got to meet my tall boyfriend, or to learn about the baby that was, and then wasn’t. The emptiness I feel is endless. Grandad lies in his good suit, his Partisan scarf carefully arranged round his neck.

In comes my father and, hooked on his arm, his wife. She’s clad in black lace, sobbing. A poor man’s Sofia Loren, who hardly knew him.  I look at what remains of this tall tribe, and I see no beauty, only loss.

Grandad’s last act of defiance was to dodge the religious rite; but there is no escaping the cemetery.

The pallbearers’ step on the gravel, their sombre rhythm suddenly halting. A ripple of hushed whispers and gasps: “it won’t fit”. If the casket had been made to measure, the hearse could not. Grandad will stand out, to the very end.

The men shuffle tentatively. They tilt, they crouch, their faces battling exertion and the need for composure. Trial, and error. Trial, and error. One more nudge, and the boot finally closes.

“He would have found it hilarious”, I want to say to dad, when he mumbles: “I’ll have the same problem, me”.

Altezza mezza bellezza. And a whole lot of trouble. 

Chiara Vascotto works in brand development and consumer research, and has a strong interest in creative writing. She hails from Italy, is a life-long student of dance and lives in London.

A Short Story by E. P. Tuazon
or Mamamalengke Ako

Los Angeles, California, May 31, 2020.

In the Island Pacific market, overcome by hunger, Jess cannot take it anymore. She draws an Asian pear from the fruit section. It is a little bruised but otherwise edible without washing. She takes a glance at the lola picking up and putting down Filipino sweat sausages in the meat section and the woman in the hijab preoccupied with trying to find the crease to open her plastic produce bag in front of the eggplant. Once she confirms they are not looking, she pulls down her mask and makes quick work of it. The juices of the pear run all over her face and make dark lines on her black mask. Its refreshing, sweet taste is short-lived and she plants its seed-peppered core at the foot of the display before wiping her face with her shirt and limps her way to the seafood section unnoticed. 

Pulling up her mask, she exhales and takes in the fruity fragrance of the pear mixed with the Dewar’s still sitting in her throat from last night. She is trying to get over the fact that she was hit by a truck in Hollywood just a couple of hours ago. She had joined the protest there, but once the looting happened, she started to trot off shakily with the rest of those like herself who lingered long after the more organized groups of protestors had left.

She headed in the direction of the metro station when she witnessed five masked men drag out an ATM machine from a nail salon and load it into a truck. Deciding it was none of her business, Jess proceeded to walk to the opposite sidewalk to avoid the growing mass of looters flooding broken windows and doors. However, once her feet made it to the asphalt, the truck screeched into drive and clipped her foot. She spun onto the ground and met the sharp smell of tear gas and weed.  The drone of cheers, sirens, helicopters and her own blood pulsing above her eyes accompanied the cold ache in her cheek and foot. One passerby coming out of a raided anime store stood beside her in awe.

“Bro, I saw the whole thing! I wish I got it on camera.” The man had on science goggles and a Messi jersey wrapped around his head and face. Despite all these things covering him up, she knew he was Filipino too. Under one arm was a giant Totoro. Under the other was a body pillow with an anime girl on it. Jess couldn’t help but laugh. Why did she think to come alone?

“Bro, you hit your head or something?”

“No, it’s just my foot.” She wiggled her toe, but she couldn’t tell if she was actually doing it or imagining it. She couldn’t be fine, she thought. You don’t come out of things like this being able to wiggle your toe without something else happening.

“Those guys are lucky. They got that whole thing. Fuck the police!”

Jess thought of the nail salon. Scattered among the glass were the signs that read “Reopen June 1st” followed by something hand-written in red and Thai.

“Yeah, fuck twelve.” Jess said, reading the graffiti that was everywhere now.

“What?”

“Fuck twelve.” She said and pointed at the boarded-up windows across the street, eyeing the restaurant signs and the billboards. They were all covered in the words.

“Bro, fuck the police.” The man said and proceeded on his way, walking off to the smoke in the distance, the glow of destruction reflected off his goggles as if he was participating in an experiment.

“It means the same thing!” Jess explained although the man was gone by then, his exit expediated by the sound of sirens in the distance, the lack of things to take left in the vicinity.

And, somehow, Jess was able to get up and walk. Somehow, she made it to her stop and the metro came and her foot could push the pedals down in her car and she was able to go home to her one-bedroom apartment in Canyon Country, far from it all. Somehow, she was able to pour herself a drink and another drink and swipe through all the news on her phone trying to find news about what just happened until she passed out. Somehow, there was nothing about her. Somehow, she hadn’t let the pain bother her until now, in the market, her insides empty, her foot throbbing. And, somehow, it all came with a question; while she lay on the ground, trying to explain what meaning things had, she did not know what meaning there was for herself. Why did she go to the protest in the first place?

She is trying to skip over the fact that she was hit by a truck a couple of hours ago, but her body cannot help but remember. Her shoulder hurts, her face hurts, her legs hurt, her foot hurts. She finds the aisle for beauty supplies and, below the malunggay supplements and kalamansi oil, she plucks a small bottle of Aspirin from its place. She presses the bottle open, pours a couple into her palm, then launches them into her mouth. To wash them down, she throws in a few gummy vitamins straight out the bottle. She chews on them and lets her mouth flood with saliva and their sweet-sour taste while she counts the number of pixels that make up the blown-up, low-quality picture of fruits on the label. She swallows them and cruises up the aisle thinking about what kind of thinking terribly made labels came from. If you had to do a label but couldn’t afford to give it a good finish, why even try to do something with color in the first place? Why not keep it simple, like black and white? Surely people would trust to buy what you’re selling that way. But that was the problem, wasn’t it, she thought, tasting the vitamins come up and mix with the Aspirin, the Asian pear, and the Dewar’s. The label could never live up to what was expected inside, what the inside could offer.

She feels like she nearly reaches an epiphany but, at the end of her aisle, there is a young Filipina her age crying into her phone in the seafood section, disturbing Jess from her reflection. She sees her move from the iced squid to the blue crab. She watches, wondering if it is a problem with allergies, the Corona virus, or if she is genuinely weeping. One has to be skeptical these days. She had marveled at the possibility of the thought going away, and with the protests and reopenings, she nearly convinced herself that it had. However, here it was, the awareness, the mistrust.

Jess throws the open bottles of aspirin and gummy vitamins into her cart and rolls it towards the woman until it is between them.

“Excuse me? Are you ok?”

“Ew, don’t fucking talk to me.” The woman says, not even looking at her. She puts her back to Jess and continues to look down at her phone, over the red snapper.

Jess immediately regrets being concerned but does not have enough strength to fight her pride. “Sorry, I just noticed you crying from the beauty section.”

“Six feet! Privacy!” The woman says, still not turning around.

The butcher several displays away notices the woman raise her voice but doesn’t look alarmed behind his mask. He looks back down at his work and forgets Jess and the woman are there again.

Jess shakes the handle of her cart. “The cart’s six feet and we’re wearing masks.”

“What? Are you a doctor or something? You going to point a temperature gun at my head and shoot? Get away from me. I saw you limping from a mile away. You’re making me feel uncomfortable.”

The word “limp” hits a nerve with Jess, but she is still too weak to retaliate and continues her crusade. “I’m sorry. I got hit by a truck yesterday.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I was at the protest last night. Some truck dinged my foot.”

This makes the woman turn and Jess cannot help but feel a pang of shame for having to stoop so low as to have to mention it.

“Oh my God. Those racist assholes!”

Jess doesn’t correct her. She looks down at the woman’s phone and there is a feed of posts from the protest last night. She recognizes some of the people and moments from yesterday. She sees the protestors, the police, the store owners, and rioters. She sees the chanting, the praying, the marching, the beauty, the bricks, the broken glass, the looting, the police brutality, and the fires. They collage on her tiny screen in sharp tiny boxes.   

“Did you go to the hospital?” The woman says, dabbing at her eyes with the cuff of her sweater. Jess could tell she is not wearing makeup. She is not either. It is too early and too late.

“No, I’m all right. It’s just sore is all.” Jess says, still looking at the woman’s phone.

The woman notices Jess looking, and she swipes the screen with her finger, the squares rolling down it like a slot machine. “Wasn’t it terrible what happened last night?”

“Actually, it was great.” Jess says, her pride going strong, her legs and knees remembering the march, the kneeling, the trek all over Hollywood and its uneven streets.

“But what about the police? What were those jerks thinking?” The woman says, her cheeks tender but the tears gone.

“Yeah, they were shooting smoke bombs and rubber bullets at everyone.”

“Oh my God, did you get shot?”

“No, just hit by a truck.”

“Oh my God!” The woman exclaims, as if she forgot she heard it the first time.

Jess winces as the guilt wells. “So, was that what you were crying about?”

“Yeah, that and I read that they’re putting a curfew on us tonight.”

“A curfew? Like we’re a bunch of children? Jesus Christ. I can’t believe they’re doing this.”

“Only a tyrant makes curfews.”

“Well, it did get pretty bad out there.” Jess remembers the awning to the anime store tattered and shredded, the Hello Kitty painted on it covered in soot. The torsos and legs of broken action figures strewn together with the glass on the sidewalk.

“I know. The police brutality was terrible. What happened to George Floyd was terrible. Everything needs to change. We need to be better. I can’t believe we did this.”

“I know,” Jess says, and, after thinking about the woman’s words for a second, continues, “What do you mean we did this?”

“Oh my God, yeah. It’s all of our faults. We allow this to happen every day. With our president, our American culture, and institutions of racism that keep minorities out of power. But what really gets me miffed, and I don’t get miffed about just anything, but what really gets me miffed is us. Asians. Filipinos.”

Jess feels the regret already resurface at the word “miffed”, the question she had applied to last night beginning to apply to the now. “You think we’re the problem?”

“Yeah! The model-minority. The silent panderer. We’re in league with the problem: the Whites of America.”

“What?”

“Think about it? Think of your parents. Weren’t they racist? Didn’t they say racist things like you shouldn’t hang out with those Mexicans? Stay away from that Black boy? Don’t lend that Bumbay that five dollars? My parents said things like that all the time. Don’t tell me yours didn’t.”

“Bumbay?”

“It’s what Filipinos call people from India.”

Jess thinks of her sweet old parents. They are living in Porter Ranch in a predominantly Filipino community. She had heard her fair share of off-hand ignorant things from them but never saw them as the problem. Should she?   

“We’re just as guilty as the Whites. We’re friends with them. We do everything they say. We date and marry their kind. We’re the lookouts while the White man murders all the other minorities who don’t step in line. We need to change. We need to fight back. We need to undo the conditioning and return to our roots and reconnect with our diaspora.”

And there it is, Jess thinks. She couldn’t figure it out until now, the feeling that had led her to the protest, that had led her to the girl. She feels it swell with the pain in her body. “I’m sorry, I have to go.”

“You have to continue fighting! Thank you for what you’re doing!” The woman says and Jess makes the mistake of looking back and catching the tears well in her eyes again. Jess cannot take it; it is humiliating to her to hear her talk about things like “diaspora” and mean it. It is embarrassing to Jess that this woman believes—actually, whole-heartedly, believes—in what she is feeling more than Jess believes in the same feelings in herself. It distresses Jess that this woman, this Filipina like herself, feels confident enough to scream it out loud in front of the dead fish and bound crab.

“I’m trying. I’m just someone trying to fight everything.” Jess says, remembering the lights of the truck turn on, the shadow she made on the street. She stretches out, wide on the pavement, but, she herself is so small in the light.

The woman’s face is covered in tears and a pure sheen of sincerity, but it does not understand her, Jess thinks. It only knows the answer to Jess’s question as much as Jess does. “Oh my God,” the girl says through the aisle Jess escapes, “don’t try too hard—you might get yourself killed.”

Outside, with her bag of opened aspirin and gummy vitamins, she is feeling the night beginning to wear off and the need to do something, anything, to satisfy herself again, to tell her she is doing the right thing. The thought of the woman, the man with the Totoro, and the pounding in her head like the chants and explosions from last night. She faces forward, looking beyond the parking lot, thinking about them, and—boom—Jess is hit by a car accelerating past the front of the store.  Jess spins to the ground and an all-to-familiar feeling buzzes at her foot again. She lies dazed at the front wheel, driver-side.

The woman who hit her leans out and yells, maskless. She is the same woman, the Filipina from the store. “Are you fucking crazy, lady?”

People gather. “Is anything broken?” someone asks.

She struggles to stand. She thinks she sees the feet of the man in front of the anime store running off into the chaos.

“Don’t move.” Someone else says.

“Let’s call the police.” Another says.

“Oh, Fuck. Thanks a lot, bitch.” The woman who hit her says, getting out of her car.

“Do you want the number of my lawyer? Just let her know it’s me and she’ll do it pro bono.” A woman younger than Jess scribbles a number on her receipt and gives it to her. At first, she thinks it will say something like “fuck 12” but there are just numbers and totals and items purchased. A bag of rice for $12.99. Two pounds of ox tail for $8.37.

“Fuck you, lady. I just tapped her.”

Pakikiramay! Show ng ilang empathy!” an old man says coming out from the Island Pacific. He has more bags in his hands than he looks like he can carry but he does not run. Not like last night.

“Let me help you with those, lolo.” Someone who is not Filipino says. The old man lets him.

“What were you doing? How would you expect me to see you? Who do you think you are?”

“I was leaving.”

“Why didn’t you wait and look like people are supposed to?”

“You ran me over.” Jess says.

“I’m a mother. You ruined my day!” She says.

The woman gets on her phone while more people come to Jess’s aid. Some are wearing masks. Some aren’t. Someone brings her some coconut juice with pulp. Another one, a Lakers cushion. “Benny. I had an accident. I was getting out of the market and someone got in front of my car. She’s giving me a hard time. I hate people like that. People who think it’s other people’s fault for things that happen to them.” She stops talking to her phone to ask Jess, “Do I have to wait until the police come? I have things to do, you know?”

A worker from the Island Pacific comes with a package of lumpia and puts it on her foot at the point of impact. Jess winces. It’s cold. The worker uses a roll of duct tape patterned with the words Balikbayan on them to bind the eggrolls to her foot. “I’m training to be a medic,” he says with an acne smile, “in the Reserves.”

“What do I owe you?” Jess asks the man.

“You don’t owe us anything. Just promise not to let these go to waste.”

Jess forces herself to stand; the crowd applauds as she crawls to her feet. “Thank you. Thank you very much.” She says and takes a bow. 

E. P. Tuazon is a Filipinx-American writer from Los Angeles. He has published his works in several publications, most recently Five South, Peatsmoke Journal, Third Point Press, 3Element Review, Allegory Ridge, Adelaide Magazine,  and  a Forthcoming piece in The Rumpus. He has two books, The Superlative Horse and The Last of The Lupins: Nine Stories and The Comforters. He is currently a member of Advintage Press and The Blank Page Writing Club. In his spare time, he likes to wander the seafood section of Filipinx markets to gossip with the crabs.

A Flash Fiction by Olag Motobuchi

“Uh, ‘scuse me. Mr. Donkey-Dick?” Tony blurts, “the giant cock section’s back here.” He grins.

His voice blows a melody into Darrel’s ears, even beyond the choir of moaning TVs. Darrel jolts his head around. “T-Tony?”

“Ohhhh! Look who actually remembers me.”

Darrel raises his voice. “Wow. Tony? Quinones? Course, I remember. Weird running into you now. And of all places…”

“Can you stand how fucking cute we are? I’m not even sure how this trash-can of a bookstore is still open. Essential business, my ass.”

“Yeah…Doesn’t all this remind you of the nineties a little? All the paranoia? The cruising? The seediness?”

“Leave it to the gays, right? We’ll find a hole in any system.”

“Guess so. It’s good to see you. You know, I was thinking of you the other—”

“Ha! Aww… Good one, Darrel. How is what’s-his-name? Ky-Kyle?

“Kye.”

“Oh, right. Not Kyle. Kye. How’s Kye?”

“Ya know, we’re…we’re good. We’re actually…pretty great! We just, uh, moved uptown? It’s…nice.”

“Niiice. Sure sounds like it. He here with you?” Tony reduces to a whisper. “Should I go scare him too?”

“No…he’s…not here.”

“Oh. Huh.”

Groups of men on TV compete for the most dramatic exclamations of pleasure. A rupture of whimpers accompanies a rapid clapping. For a second, it sounds like an applause.

Thwap-thwap-thwap-thwap! Squiiiiish.

Darrel starts again. “So, uh…” On the nearest monitor, a droplet of perspiration slides down a yelping face. Darrel hardly notices, but he breaks a sweat of his own while Tony watches.

“What is it?” Tony asks, sensing Darrel’s struggling words.

“So,” he clears his throat a little. “You um…you still riding?”

“Pfffffft. Nah, man. Didn’t you hear?” Tony rubs his chin with curled knuckles. “My sis sold my Kawasaki to cover the hospital bills.”

“Oh, right. Sorry… Didn’t mean to…bring that up. I’m sorry.”

“Fuck, you know I didn’t mean it like—“

“You know how much guilt I had to climb out of, Tony? How much time I spent? Years. A decade! I dunno!? Maybe it’s been worth it. God, I fucking hope so.”

“Ch’yeah. Well, I get to live forever as Ricki Riley. Shit. Couldn’t I’ve picked another name? ‘Ricki Riley,’ they’re always saying. ‘Remember him?’ Well…The real me? I, like, never existed. Tony Quinones died a long, long time ago. And you. You coulda said, ‘adiós,’ Darrel…”

“Tony. I don’t know what to—” The air sucks the heat right out of Darrel’s cheeks.

The two hang back while a single TV bursts with a falsetto. Some limit is reached during a percussion of drenched slapping.

Slap slap slap. Slap slap.

“Yeah. Well. Parts of that movie are worth remembering. Right, Darrel? Goddamn. How can I forget how much you and that bike destroyed my back. Cheesh!” Tony smirks, squeezing his lips into a simper.

“Haaaaaaah. Ya know, there was a point where I told everyone I’d just tattoo Crotch Rocket 3 on my face.”

“Right? Who knew you’d catch that many eyes, Darrel. If you ask me, I think it’s that big, old bush you got. Ya fucker. Then you had to get all popular and run away to New York. Right when the gay cancer found—”

“Listen. We were young. It wasn’t anyone’s fault.”

A moment passes. Tony speaks up. “What kinda night ya having here, big guy? Hot date with…Hairy Potter and the…who—?”

Darrel chuckles. “Don’t be a creep.”

“A creep? In this place? Isn’t that what the kids call hate speech nowadays?”

“Hmp-hmph. Nice one, asshole. Hey. Did you…look to see if they have it?”

“Have what? You mean Crotch Ro—?

Darrel assumes his porn octave. “Oh-h-h-ho. Fuck yeah, man.”

“¡Dios mío! What a sap.” A few seconds of eye contact, then Tony rolls his eyes.

Darrel steps backwards, and starts for the register. “Hi, sir. I was wondering. Do you have a movie called Crotch Rocket 3? From like, 1992?” He flashes his smile.

Cashier tries to contain a chuckle, looking at The One-And-Only. It is him. He’s been gawking at Darrel this whole time. “Oh, sure we do. He-he-he. Extreme sports. Back between Vintage and Water Sports.

Twenty feet away, and there it sits—just a DVD on some dusty shelf. On its laminate cover, Tony and Darrel look wide-eyed. While frozen in embrace, the Moto gear hangs from their teenage bodies. Both share the hoist of their emerald throne, a hazard-green Kawasaki. Darrel scoops the DVD in his careful hands. “Damn. Look at us.”

“Wow. I look…”

“You look healthy…”

“My eyebrows didn’t. Can you even see ‘em down there?”

“You look healthy here, Tony…”

“Hey. If you could make it through that, don’t you think you’ll make it through this new virus?”

For a minute, Darrel holds a pause. “This one might be worse though, Tony.”

“You ever think you’ll get out of here? Out of Crotch Rocket 3?

“I don’t know. You know, I don’t really come here that often.”

“Uh-huh. Sure ya don’t.”

With one trembling finger, Darrel wipes some dust from the waxy print of Tony’s face. His brows carve perfect ovals around those burnt caramel eyes. Behind him, his younger self holds on tight. To Tony. Both erections point up to the illustrated title: Crotch Rocket 3.

“Listen. It was nice seeing you, Tony.” Darrel parks the DVD back on its shelf, feeling just one more time a little heat from that engine. “Seriously. Was real nice. But uh…Kye is probably wondering where I am.”

Olag Motobuchi is an emerging writer exploring identity, trauma, and queerness. In the storms of 2020, they began publishing their work. Find more of their flash fiction in Typishly and Button Eye Review.

An Essay by Linda S. Gunther

An Essay by Linda S. Gunther

We were underground in the basement of an old stone church in Leningrad, attending a non-sanctioned concert, which meant it was considered illegal by the Soviet government to attend such an event. Six rock musicians were on stage, clad in black, all wearing gas masks. They played electric guitars and performed in a punk-rock style. One musician banged staccato on the piano, often using his bare feet.

I was one of seven Americans from California sitting on folding chairs in the front row. We were accompanied by four Russians: a newspaper photographer, a journalist and two young artists. The church basement was full of about a hundred young Russians smoking cigarettes and shouting with excitement. Our study group of about ten Americans had traveled to learn the fine art of portrait photography from professionals across six Soviet cities over a two-month period. I had taken an approved leave of absence from my corporate Human Resources job to take advantage of the unique travel-study experience.

Leningrad was our second stop after Moscow where we had been carefully escorted by government officials. This city felt less formal than Moscow as we were permitted to roam freely when not in class.

Zazou, the Russian TASS photographer, who accompanied our group to the underground concert stood up near the stage, taking close-ups with his 35 mm camera and telephoto lens. We clapped and cheered during each song along with the Russians.

The KGB came in fast and violent, five men, appearing to ignore the Americans sitting in the front row. One of them pushed Zazou, the photographer, up against the stage. He stumbled, his camera almost falling to the floor but was able to catch it. The music on stage stopped. The musicians froze in place. The KGB wore disheveled tan raincoats, and held metal badges out at arms-length. I felt anxious, scared, and bewildered all at the same time. But it was also exhilarating, as if I were in the middle of a James Bond movie.

Would our Soviet friends be arrested? Would we be in trouble?

I sat between Davide and Afrika; one, a Russian artist who painted wondrous art pieces on paper plates and napkins, the other an artist who painted on pieces of metal, both of them in their mid-twenties. When the taller KGB man grabbed both by their shirts from their seats, I jumped. He pushed each young man onto the floor close to where the journalist stood. A husky KGB with a large bald spot and a scowl on his face appeared to demand something. Davide and Africa scrambled inside their pockets. Each pulled out a small white card from their wallet and held it out to the man.

The shortest KGB man bellowed some words in Russian. Afrika and Davide turned flat on their stomachs, their hands clasped behind their backs. One of the other tan raincoats inspected the two white cards, made some notes on a pad and then motioned for Davide and Afrika to go. They rushed out towards the back of the room. Another KGB grabbed Zazou, our journalist friend, by the sleeve and pulled him up from the floor, kicked him in the shin and shooed him to leave.

The audience started to clamor out of the church, up the cracked stone steps from the church basement and out onto the street. It was a frenzied scene. We were the last to exit the back door to the church and noticed the KGB men were gone.

We did shots of vodka into the night at Zazou’s apartment a few blocks from the old church. Davide and Africa talked non-stop until after midnight. “We’re now officially fingered by the KGB,” Davide cried through vodka tears. Tears streamed down his face. His fears seemed to get worse as he drank more.

The next day, on the streets of Leningrad we saw no sign of the KGB. Teenage boys flogged American jeans on street corners. “Levi’s, you want nice jeans?” a boy yelled as my classmate and I walked past him. He held a pair of jeans close to my face. “Cheap price for you, Miss.” Damn near every corner featured a black-market extravaganza: chocolates, fur hats, amber jewelry, toys for sale. Some vendors followed us for several streets, pleading to sell us something in exchange for American dollars. We had been warned to use our American dollars only in government-approved beryozkas, shops reserved exclusively for tourists, where Russians were not allowed.

All Photographs by Linda S. Gunther

Cameras hung from the straps around our necks. We moved through the streets clicking; capturing smiles, a child crying, kids playing tag, a young couple arguing, a string of angry swear words from an elderly woman disgruntled with our photographic shenanigans. Long lines of people stood outside bakeries and food markets, scanty offerings on display in shop windows. On one street corner, we witnessed a citizens’ demonstration taking place outside a church.  Police watched the small gathering of people who held up wooden protest signs, paced in a circle and chanted in Russian. The uniformed men stood back, batons in hand, poised to take action if needed. Most people on the street went about their business, heads down but occasionally I saw a man or woman steal a quick glance at the protestors. I captured a few shots and was surprised that I wasn’t stopped by the policemen. It was 1987, and the country was about to snap, crackle and pop. I could feel the blend of normal life and tension all around us.

We went back to the hotel. I requested my room key from the floor lady who kept close watch on our passports and matched room keys, a mini-KGB of sorts. I opened the door to my extravagantly velvet draped yet sparsely furnished hotel room. A stout ruby-cheeked woman in her fifties, her hair tied up in a scarf, some strands of gray hanging down her face, was knelt down in the bathroom. She turned to me. At first, she seemed embarrassed but then burst into a broad electric smile. She sprung up from the floor, took my hands, jubilantly danced me across the room, inviting me with her eyes to join in with her every movement. “I love America. I love Americans,” she sang out. “We love your president.”

Oh my god, do they really feel this way?

The woman kissed the palm of my hand, snatched up her cleaning bucket and turned to leave the room, laughing and waving to me before closing the door behind her.

As I pulled back the heavy drapes, glanced out the window and looked across the Neva River, I saw dozens of pigeons fleeing from a rooftop. A man was letting each one go, about two or three seconds apart, whooshing them one by one up into the air with his arms. I grabbed my camera, attached the telephoto lens and snapped away. He seemed to bid each bird to be free, perform their deed well, and return to him.

That night, the Russian journalists and photographers, and Americans came together again in a suburb at an old house not too far from the center of the city. More stories, ugly stories from the Russians. A lot more vodka shots. There was extreme hatred for ‘all things’ government, passionate cries for revolutionary reform. Yet, they seemed to have an unrelenting hope for their country, a blend of disgust on one hand and cultural pride on the other. Africa and Davide appeared still shaken from the night before. Both spoke of genuine fear for the safety of their families.

It was May Day when I awoke the next morning, our last day in Leningrad before we flew to Odessa and then on to Tblisi, Georgia. Thousands of people, families, men in uniforms with medals hanging from their jackets, filled the streets along the Neva River. It was a photographic smorgasbord. Marching, singing, celebrating, band music, tulips everywhere in the hands of Leningrad’s young and old. Enormous pride beamed from the faces around us. Elderly men wearing their military uniforms hugged grandchildren. I snapped candid shots of babies, toddlers, teens, seniors, many eager to be immortalized on film. Their faces lit up as I handed each subject their individual polaroid. “For you, for you,” I said smiling. I took double shots, one with my 35-millimeter Canon and one with a polaroid camera. Some people embraced me. Others smiled and stared in wonder at their Polaroid picture. The crowd was dense as we made our way. My elbow jerked my camera. The thin color filter I like using fell from my lens onto the pavement. A waif of a small girl with long pigtails and a white-brimmed straw hat picked it up. She smiled up at me, a front tooth missing, the small filter in the palm of her hand.

“Spasibo,” I said.

She held out a long-stemmed red tulip for me to take. When I placed the Polaroid photo in her hand, her green eyes seemed to double in size. She giggled and hugged my waist. Her mom stood by her side and within a moment they both disappeared into the crowd. Vestiges of the impassioned conversations from the night before jostled through my mind. Ambiguity. They live in a cyclone of ambiguity just like us, I stood there thinking.

When I returned to California, I had dozens of my photographs printed and mounted on foam boards. I also assembled a slide show and presentation on Russia for the aerospace company I worked for. The faces I featured on the large screen, each one offering a unique window into Soviet life, seemed to move my audience of co-workers and executives. Americans are a curious people and so there were a lot of questions for me.

Glasnost was announced a few months after my return to the states. American TV, radio, and newspapers shouted the news. It was a big deal. Gorbachev described it as the government’s commitment to allow Soviet citizens to discuss publicly the problems of their system as well as offer potential solutions. He said that he wanted two-way conversation, a break-through in the Soviet culture.

I felt euphoric. What would this historic pivot mean for the Russians and for the rest of the world?

In 2021, I’m noticing how the pendulum has swung back and forth over the years since the 1980’s, not only in Russia but also in the United States. Can we learn and move forward without having to take giant steps backwards? I ask myself this question today.

Linda S. Gunther has written five novels: Ten Steps From The Hotel Inglaterra, Endangered Witness, Lost In The Wake, Finding Sandy Stonemeyer, and Dream Beach. She grew up in New York City. Linda’s passion for travel and continuous learning fuels her fire to create vivid fictional characters and unforgettable story lines.

A Poem by Kelli Allen

It’s a hidden, lungless stone, this waiting.
Whitebait might be emblematic of an immaturity

you still carry in the bulge of your knees, the way
you swallow after speaking, after nodding in agreement.

Tell me, iron smith, man of coals and grinding,
what did you expect after I took you in, closed

your thin waist with the parenthesis of my thighs?
The reflection between my legs ate you right on up.

We still tell each other into flatness, into a stream
populated with sleeping trout. I am sending you away

with a quilt, a goat’s pure stomach, and rough lapis.
The corpse of our longing gets fed after shutting the door.

Kelli Allen’s work has appeared in numerous journals/anthologies in the US and internationally. Allen is the founding editor of Book of Matches Literary Journal. Allen’s new collection, Banjo’s Inside Coyote, arrived from C&R Press March, 2019.

A Short Story by Shae Krispinsky

At Rhythm & Brews Lounge, the pours would always be watered down, the bartenders surly, the jukebox programed to loop the same two dozen modern country songs, the dance floor empty. It was a place for people to come and be lonely together, and little had ever changed there in the all the years Natch had been going.

Except tonight when he’d pulled in, the parking lot had been full, unusual for the Monday-through-Thursday stretch that was the doldrums of life. Inside, some digital recording of a wannabe cowboy wasn’t warbling about a honky tonk badonkadonk; there was a long-haired pretty boy up on the small stage, wearing ratty clothes that looked pulled from a dumpster and playing a $4000 guitar. A gaggle of women swayed before him, transfixed, sucking on their Smirnoff Ices.

And then there she was, the most obvious change of all, seated in the far corner booth with a bowl of peanuts in front of her. By the way she held herself, back straight, not touching the red vinyl cushion, alert but not alarmed, Natch knew the loneliness he saw in her was a familiar feeling. The Busch Beer stained-glass lamp hanging above her table gave off a cool glow that highlighted her cheekbones and her sandy hair that hung in a long tangle over her shoulder. Natch wasn’t the only one who noticed. He was, however, the one who approached, offering to buy her a drink. He would have done the same even if she hadn’t been so beautiful; he felt it his duty to be welcoming. The beauty didn’t hurt.

“Thank you,” she said, “but I don’t.”

“Nothing?” Natch asked. “Coffee? It’s not bad here. I mean, it doesn’t melt the spoon.”

“Any chance they have green tea?”

“Sweet tea, maybe.”

She settled for a club soda with lime, which Natch retrieved along with a beer for himself. “Name’s Tod, but everyone calls me Natch.”

She squeezed her lime into her soda, then dropped the spent wedge on a napkin. “As in naturally?”

“As in Natchez, Mississippi. Where I was born.”

Her name was Hanlon and she had, she shared, been born right there in Marville, a fact he found hard to believe. With the green tea and the posture, he had taken her for a city girl. Turned out he was partially correct—she had gone to grad school at NYU. After that, she had spent a few years wandering around before settling for a while in Savannah. As she spoke, Natch noticed the way the sundress she wore dipped slightly in the front, revealing she had nothing on underneath. Natch forced himself to stare at his beer, his head cocked, as though straining to hear over the live music.

“What brings you back?” he asked.

“My mother died.” Hanlon said this as though she were commenting on Natch’s shirt. “Twice, really. First when she left me and my father, and then again last year.” She shrugged. “I got a house here out of it.”

At this turn of the conversation, Natch reached for his Mich Ultra, took a deep, distancing quaff, and considered getting up for a whiskey neat. She leaned in across the table, her hair catching in the front of her dress, and said she didn’t mean to make him uncomfortable. Natch forgot about his thirst.

She turned her attention to the stage, where the pretty boy was switching out harmonicas in the holder around his neck. The women on the dance floor continued swaying, even as the pretty boy adjusted his capo and told some story about growing up in Memphis. Pretty Memphis Boy began intricately fingerpicking and Natch had to admit, he could play.

Music was the fastest way to earn Natch’s respect. He spent so much time on the road that music was what kept him awake and focused. He liked to say he owed his life to the songs. Pretty Memphis Boy started in on a harrowing cover of “Pancho and Lefty” that brought a palpable change upon the bar. No one wanted to face that kind of emotion at Rhythm & Brews. They came to forget their troubles; the wood-paneled walls, thankfully, did not reflect their darkest selves and never would. Conversation on the periphery drowned out his singing, but Pretty Memphis Boy took it in stride. A few women at his feet took this time to refresh their drinks, but the majority stayed: he was pretty whether he sang sad or not. But then he doubled down, playing “Waiting Around to Die,” and the floor cleared. Natch admired his conviction and whistled when the song ended, the only one to acknowledge Pretty Memphis Boy’s detour from his set of bluesy originals.

“That was remarkable,” Natch said, turning back to Hanlon.

She stopped playing with the lime wedge. “I prefer not to dwell on sadness,” she said and slid from the booth. “Time to call it a night.”

Natch stood. “Let me walk you out.”

In the parking lot, the transition from sad songs to a symphony of cicadas felt almost violent, the rending of two distinct realities. Natch shifted uncomfortably.

“You noticed that, too,” Hanlon said. “You sense things others don’t.” She put her hand on his arm, down near the wrist. “I could tell you saw me when you walked in tonight. No one else did.”

“Every guy in there was looking at you,” Natch said, his attention fixed on her hand, the heat pooling there. “Some of the women, too.”

“But they didn’t see me.”

Though she was tall, she had to stretch up to kiss Natch on the cheek. He could feel himself blushing as he watched her cross the gravel lot.

Returning inside, Natch found Pretty Memphis Boy posted up at the bar, staring at his phone, his set over. Women milled around, trying to get his attention.

Natch, cutting through the crowd, joined him. “That’s the first time Townes Van Zandt has been played in Rhythm & Brews. It was a welcome change.”

“Hey, thanks, man,” Pretty Memphis Boy said. He turned, offering his hand. “Seamus.”

Natch shook and introduced himself.

“So, Natch, how do you know about Townes?” Seamus asked, pulling a pack of Marlboro Reds out of his pocket.

“My mama.”

“Yeah, me too,” Seamus said, lipping his cigarette. Three beers and one stop at the package store later, Natch and Seamus were down at the creek, skipping stones and passing a paper-bagged bottle back and forth. Night smells rose off the water and the silence around them seemed to hold up the moon. As the liquor settled in, they climbed the embankment leading to the train tracks abandoned when Marville began fading from the map. A quarter mile up was a bridge leading toward Missouri and there the two men sat, staining their hands with rust and kicking their feet, sharing stories until they caught dawn eavesdropping. Before going their separate ways, they made plans to grab a beer later in the week, the bond between them set.


The nearest grocery store was down in Union City, across the Tennessee line. Natch, amid his bi-weekly run, rounded an end display and found Hanlon studying a package of bulgur wheat. She smiled when she saw him and put the cereal back on the shelf. “I hate grocery shopping,” she said. “Let’s go explore the city instead.”

There was something about Hanlon beyond her beauty that made Natch want to go wherever she led. He left his buggy in the aisle next to hers and followed her out into the bright warmth of a Tennessee spring morning. Natch heard the day singing with possibility.

Downtown, they walked the length of the storefronts then talked over Mexican food. Her knowledge of music was slim; of art, vast. She told him she had moved to Savannah to study under Lenka Vargas, a world-renowned performance artist. Natch found the name vaguely familiar but couldn’t place it until Hanlon mentioned Vargas’s most famous work, stripping bare and hiking across Siberia alone. He had heard about that on the television.

“Is that what you do?” he asked, wondering if she, like her mentor, worked naked, and then chided himself for such a crass thought.

Hanlon shook her head. “I do endurance work, like Lenka, but her focus was on the physical limits of the body. Mine is more psychological. I test myself when faced with the quotidian.”

“Meaning what, exactly?”

“Boredom is what I work with,” she said. “It’s the one thing that challenges me.”

“Well, I hope you’re not currently being challenged,” he said.

“No,” she said, lowering her eyes. “I’m not working now.”

“If I recall,” he said, nudging the conversation back to Hanlon’s mentor, “Fox News called her a witch. They said it was the only way she could have survived that trek.”

Hanlon sucked in her breath. “Please don’t tell me you watch that.”

Natch sprinkled hot sauce on his rice. “Not on my own,” he explained, “but stop in any ten diners from here to Tucumcari and eight of them’ll have it on behind the counter.”

Breaking a tortilla chip into pieces, she said, “You spend a lot of time in diners?”

“A trucker’s life,” he said.

“It sounds lonely. Like being an artist.”

Natch couldn’t fathom how someone like Hanlon could ever come to be lonely. It was a cruel world in which that could be the case. He tended to believe the cosmic baseline was lawful neutral and it was his aim to keep things on the right side of good. If it was meant for him to ease her loneliness—well, he was willing to shoulder that burden.

Back at the grocery store parking lot they stood at Hanlon’s car, not ready to say goodbye. He wanted to hear more about her life, so vastly different from his of making time, getting the next load, seeing dozens of states and experiencing none of them. Hers was spent chasing some spark, an inner calling, the vagaries of the muse. He found her interesting and got the feeling she felt the same about him. How that was possible, he didn’t question.

Natch’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He checked out of habit, expecting work. Instead, a text from Seamus. He had forgotten he promised to help change the drive belt on Seamus’s motorcycle. Natch knew the only way for one’s word to mean anything was to stand by it. “I should get back,” he apologized.

“You could ask for my number while you have that out,” Hanlon said, nodding toward his phone. Natch punched in the digits as she spoke them. “Don’t be afraid to use it.” She looped her arms around his neck and pulled him in close enough to smell her lilac perfume.


Seamus was parked in Natch’s driveway, lying supine on the seat of his motorcycle, his feet kicked up over the handlebars.

“Thought you needed my help with that thing,” Natch said, climbing out of his truck.

Seamus sat up, straddling the bike, a pristine Triumph Bonneville. “It was easy,” he said. “Figured maybe you’d want to take her out.”

“It’s been years since I’ve been on one,” Natch said.

Dismounting, Seamus said, “It’s like riding a bicycle. And easier than driving your rig.” He passed Natch his helmet, his leather jacket.

“Wanna ride bitch?” Natch asked, grinning, zipping up the jacket.

“You know damn well I don’t,” Seamus said, holding up his bottle of whiskey. “My date and I are going to sit on your porch and enjoy this weather till you return.”

Natch took it slow through Marville’s serpentine hills but then gunned it back to Union City. He pulled off at the gas station next to the Mexican restaurant and bought a lottery ticket, feeling lucky. He scratched it, matching three, winning five dollars, not worth cashing out. He’d keep the ticket, a token of the day. He zipped it in Seamus’s jacket pocket and headed back.

Seamus had moved from the porch to the bed of Natch’s truck, where he leaned against the rear window, listening to music on his phone. “This small-town living,” he said, after Natch parked the motorcycle and joined him. “There’s not a single fucking thing to do. It’s wonderful.” He was at the point in the bottle where he turned giddy, loquacious. “Any new conquests?”

Cordial and confident, Natch felt secure knowing he could date if he chose, though he rarely did. It was unfair to pursue something when he could have to hit the road for days at a time, and when he explained this, Seamus went into a bit about sowing seeds, carpe noctem. Natch asked why Seamus wasn’t doing as he preached. Seamus held up his left hand, showing off a simple silver band on the ring finger. “Those days are over, my friend.”

Natch strained to articulate the morning. A part of him didn’t want to present the date—was it a date?—for Seamus’s judgment. To someone like Seamus, who had gigged across America, leaving countless beautiful, heartbroken women in his wake, enchiladas and discussing art wasn’t all that exciting, even if Natch felt his pulse quickening thinking about it. He asked instead about Seamus’s wife.

“With her, sometimes I feel like the luckiest sonovabitch on the planet,” Seamus said, lighting a cigarette, taking a drag, then passing it to Natch. “Then sometimes it feels like I could be on fire and she would just sit there, letting me burn, like she doesn’t even see. And I know this makes me sound like an insufferable prick, but being ignored by women? Not something I’m used to. Maybe that’s why she does it, to keep me in my place—I like that.” He laced his fingers behind his head and stared up beyond the trees lining Natch’s yard. “I never thought it’d be for me, but there’s something about marriage, man, something about making something real, something lasting, out of love, that’s pretty fucking special.

None of that sounded like love to Natch, but he kept his opinion to himself. He thought of the way Hanlon had sat across from him, both earlier that day and on that night at Rhythm & Brews, with her attention focused, her interest apparent. He felt sad for his friend and decided he would call Hanlon to ask her on a proper date as soon as Seamus left.


Hanlon accepted Natch’s invitation to dinner and a movie a few evenings later. A storm had loomed in the distance most of the day, and as Natch pulled in front of Hanlon’s house, the sky let loose a spate of rain. She motioned for him to wait and disappeared back inside, reemerging with a leather jacket thrown over her long floral sundress. At dinner, she talked about her art, which still made no sense to Natch. She said she had been working on a performance for a while but feared she wasn’t strong enough to complete it as planned. Natch asked what the performance entailed, and she mentioned domesticity and countering the matriarchal paradigm of her youth. When Natch asked what that meant by that, she said, “Not turning into my mother.”

“I thought your work was about boredom,” he said.

“It’s one and the same,” she said, exasperation in her voice. During the movie Hanlon kept her arms crossed and her legs tucked up beneath her and Natch thought he had made her mad but afterward she suggested he take her back to his place. He asked if she was sure, and she told him never to question a woman about such things.

In his kitchen, he offered her a water, apologizing that it was all he had beside beer. “I don’t do this much,” he said. “Have company.”

“Why is that?” she asked.

“It’s hard to connect when you’re always leaving again.” Natch uncapped a beer but held it without drinking.

“Yet here I am,” she said, with a small smile. “Don’t worry, I won’t get too attached.”

Natch set his bottle down on the table and pulled Hanlon into a fervent kiss. She shrugged off her jacket and worked first the buttons of his shirt, then his belt buckle. They made their way to Natch’s bedroom and afterward, Hanlon dozed with her head on his chest. As he lay listening to her breathe, he considered if this was why he had remained single for so long, to leave himself open for the right person, who arrived in Marville like a miracle. Hanlon was willful and independent and occupied with her art; he didn’t see her getting teary and begging him to stay when she knew he had to go. It was a match like a hand in a glove.

Lightning flashed outside the window, followed by a thunderclap so loud it rattled the glass and woke Hanlon. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—” she said, sitting up and smoothing her hair. She glanced at the clock on Natch’s side table. Its face was blank. “Did the power go out? What time is it?”

Natch leaned over the side of the bed and retrieved his phone from his jeans. He held it up for her to see. “Not too late.”

She burrowed back under Natch’s blanket. “I hate being in the dark during a storm,” she said. “It makes me feel so powerless.”

“I’ve got some candles in the pantry,” he said, “but I’m not sure about matches. I’ll look.” He slipped on his jeans and headed to the kitchen, using his phone as a flashlight.

“Check my jacket. There might be a lighter in the pocket,” she called after him.

Natch found the candles, then picked Hanlon’s jacket up off the floor. He had never seen her smoke and wondered why she would have a lighter, but there it was. Something else, thick paper like a business card, was in the pocket. Curiosity getting the better of him, Natch fished it out and struck the cheap Bic to inspect. His heart sank. The lottery ticket, matching three, winning five dollars, that he had forgotten to take before giving Seamus back his jacket.

He stood there staring at ticket, piecing together what it meant, until the metal lip of the lighter grew too hot and bit at his thumb. He cursed under his breath as it clattered to the floor.

“Everything okay?” Hanlon asked, coming up behind him, wrapped in the bed sheet. “What were you looking at?”

“Just an old scratch off,” he said.

“Win anything?”

He crumpled the ticket into a ball and lobbed it into the sink. “No.”

The few citronella candle tins, once lit, cast angry shadows across the cabinets. Glancing around, Hanlon said, “It’s nice like this.”

If he feigned ignorance, he could keep the night going on his preferred trajectory. Carpe noctem, right? Seamus’s own dictum. Lead her back to his room for a reprise kept going till dawn. Her skin against his, the scent of her hair permeating his pillow. Instead he slipped the lighter back into the pocket, zipped it shut, and handed the jacket to Hanlon. “This is Seamus’s,” he said. When Hanlon didn’t respond, he added, “He’s married.”

“Yes,” she said slowly. “To me.” Her face hardened. “I thought you knew.”

 Anger hit Natch so swiftly he had to steady himself by grabbing hold of the table. “How would I have? What are you doing here?”

“And here I was impressed by your nerve,” she said.

The microwave beeped and the overhead lights flashed back on. Hanlon blinked up at Natch. “I never wanted to get married and do that whole thing. Neither did my mother,” she explained. “That’s why she left. She couldn’t stand it, the honoring and obeying. I wanted to prove that I was stronger than her, that I could do what she couldn’t, that I could make a commitment and stay. And it would be the ultimate performance, something more brutal and numbing than crossing Siberia because even in Siberia, the scenery changes. Sleeping next to the same person night after night—no one talks about how difficult that is. No one talks about how boring it is, being a wife, or how lonely. Or how strong you have to be. How do you prepare for that? How can you? I thought I could.” She clasped Seamus’s jacket to her chest and dropped her head. “I’m just as weak as she was.”

Natch held Hanlon’s gaze as he said, “She left, and so should you.” It was a hit below the belt, and it felt good to land it.


To avoid the conversation he was not yet ready to have, Natch waited until Seamus would be gone before heading to Rhythm & Brews. After ordering his whiskey neat, he fed a twenty into the jukebox and searched the digital database until he found the song he wanted, setting it to play ten times in a row. A voice like well-oiled leather began to sing about a woman leading him down through misery and leaving him as low as low could be. Natch didn’t want the music to save him tonight. He wanted it to sear the pain so deeply into his chest that the next time he saw a beautiful, beguiling woman across the bar, he would remember that hurt, and he would wince, and he would walk away.

Shae Krispinsky lives in Tampa, FL, where she fronts the indie rock band, Navin Ave. Her short fiction and creative non-fiction have appeared in Drunk Monkeys, Vending Machine Press, Connotation Press, The Citron Review, Thought Catalog, and more. She is currently at work on two novels and finishing up her band’s first album.

An Essay by Miniature Malekpour

Surrealism can be described as a vortex of free-thinking, a world that dives into the unconscious, discovering “the uncanny,” all while instilling political esthetics into art and other activities. Andre Bréton and the Surrealist Movement in the early 1920s studied the discourse of “the uncanny” through subconscious thoughts, fantasies, and dreams. The Surrealist philosophy was to explore the human condition and the liberation of the mind—with the purpose of combating capitalism. Oblique, intellectual, and breathtakingly creative, Surrealists were nevertheless far from perfect when it came to how they treated their muses, that is, the women in their lives including lovers and associates. In a word, in one form or another, they were misogynists. This movement that encouraged adherents to “liberate their minds” also exploited women. One cannot help but consider feminist theorist Laura Mulvey’s theory of the male gaze; the Surrealists had an extreme, wild obsession with women as sexual objects and putting their own sexuality on display, something which Andre Bréton called “moral exhibitionism.” For example, in Bréton’s 1928 semi-autobiographical 1928 book Nadja, he represents the female character as a mentally ill woman, when in fact it was Bréton who suffered from his own narcissistic ideologies, imperiling Nadja (whom he was romantically involved with) by treating her as simply an insane prop, and exposing her sexuality for personal artistic practice which focused on capturing his own ideologies. This then created a relationship between the experience of both fantasy and the expurgation of the female subject- opening a discussion that concerned both the Surrealist movement and Feminist theory. Was the experience and theory relevant to the movement? Yes, for there were quite a few female Surrealists that existed as the movement tracted movement, and this turned the misogynistic scene created by the men on its head. These women were seen as feminists for defying the ideologies of the Surrealist Movement. Two of these women were Leonora Carrington and Claude Cahun.

Claude Cahun was a French Surrealist photographer, a Marxist enthusiast, and a psychoanalytic aficionado. Cahun raised the bar for other Surrealist women who followed her footsteps into the sphere of the unconscious, such as painter Leonor Fini, artist Edith Rimmington, and fashion designer Rei Kawakubo who was inspired by Cahun’s exploration of the critical voice of gender and the Surrealist’s intoxicating art. Cahun’s fierce participation in Surrealism included exploring the labyrinth of homosexuality (which at the time was a confusing dichotomy between homosexual desires that were acted up or simply being attracted to the same sex with). This was because the movement not only defended Bréton’s heterosexist lucidity of connubiality, for Breton’s concept of purified heterosexuality relied on the notion of purity- basically establishing his homophobic nature. Furthermore, male homosexuality was denounced multiple times by Bréton in published sessions of the male-only meetings of the movement. Cahun’s exploration of the lesbian subject in her work was not only an act of disobedience to Bréton’s homophobic naïveté or even ignorance of the hetero during those closeted years of the 1920s and 1930s, but opened the door for female sexuality to be explored outside the misogynistic box. Yet, she was highly admired and respected by many, including Bréton. Her work, a series of self-portraits that tip-toed along the axis of gender positioning in the late 1930s, saw Cahun combine feminine and masculine guises. This created the precincts between the fantasy of the self and outward identity, as Cahun exercised her photographic work to process the crisis of the definition of terms around sex and gender and the “photographic image”; writer and political activist Susan Sontag defined Cahun’s portraits as “fantastic disclosures of the subject” (1977). Her work became the backbone of feminism in the Surrealist context and the center stage of the historical restrictions on Surrealism’s discourse of sexuality, which strongly retained itself exclusively in the esoteric periphery of Surrealist politics, shaken and transformed into a gender-bearing snapshot. These self-portraits not only inspired the strength of female sexuality but rejected the negative view of homosexuality and cross-dressing. Cahun’s exploration of this gender-bending paved the way for fashion designers such as Yves Saint Laurent and Rei Kawakubo to apply the same esthetic, in the 1960s and the 1990s, respectively.

Cahun’s self-portraits exposed the complexity of the unconscious. The leitmotif of her work was what became known as “The Snapshot”—self-portrait as masquerade. Decades later, selfies evolved as an adaptation of Cahun’s feminist Surrealist self-portraits, but masked her axis of the true and the self. By adding her desire-machine, traveling along the yellow brick road of sexual and gender fluidity, her ideologies behind the discourse of sexuality in Surrealism encouraged designers like Saint Laurent, whose designs preserve “snapshots” like those Cahun created—such as “Le Smoking,” in which women dressed as men. His plans uncovered the elucidating paradoxes of everyday life—a contradiction we see in runway shows and (not hating on Anna Wintour but) the Met Gala, where “surrealism” is found in all kinds of outfits worn by celebrities—but Saint Laurent played with the gender-bending snapshot for intellectual reasons, in-framing a political aesthetic behind his work.

Claude Cahun’s Self-Portrait (1930s) Source: http://www.timeline.com
Yves Saint Laurent—Le Smoking (1960s) Source: http://www.crfashionbook.com

For example, back in 1999, Brad Pitt and Rolling Stone produced a “scandalous” photoshoot in which Pitt wore a blue-sequined dress. Most recently, the controversial Harry Styles Vogue cover shoot faced backlash, with a side of malicious comments for literally just wearing clothing which belongs to women (mostly coming from the right-wingers). Thus, even popular celebrities are playing with fire when crossdressing. In this way, we fall back into the same old structure that has always been implored by the conservatives, the right-wing, the communists, the faux bourgeois, or those who just call this kind of gender play a cry for attention or a publicity stunt.

Brad Pitt for Rolling Stone (1999)
Harry Styles Vogue Cover (2020)

Going back to the 1930s, fashion and Surrealism played a large part in the cultural revolution of the decade, spreading beauty when the Great Depression was taking Europe by its “Seroquel-ity.” One designer who stood out and shocked the male-dominated fashion world was an Italian, Elsa Schiaparelli, whose shocking, confrontational, and yet enticing malformed style, showing a clear Surrealist influence, secured her place in fashion history. As a provocateur, her attitude towards exploring feminine identity was seen in her eccentric designs, overshadowing more conventional designers such as Coco Chanel, her bitter rival. Schiaparelli’s Surrealistic touch not only provoked the society she was engaging with; her avant-garde designs gave life to the desaturated lives of women who would take care of the men who had returned from the first World War, working in factories to support them. By looking at her designs, a sense of beauty was injected into the lives of these worn-down women, even if shocking at times. To this day, her work still has the power to shock those who see it, but it has also pushed other designers toward the outrageous, such as Lady Gaga’s super-controversial “Meat Dress” at the 2010 MTV Video Music Awards. Schiaparelli’s collaboration with “madman genius” Salvador Dali led to the famous “Skeleton Dress” is just one of the many examples of this eccentric attitude, which has some resemblance to the madness of Franc Fernandez who designed the infamous “Meat Dress.”

Lady Gaga—Meat Dress (2010) at the MTV Music Video Awards. Source: http://www.cosmopolitan.com
Elsa Schiaparelli and Salvador Dali’s “Skeleton Dress” (1938). Source: http://www.artsy.net

You can see the Skeleton Dress’s spirit of the avant-garde and the uncanny in the outfits of modern-day celebrities, as exemplified by Lady Gaga. Schiaparelli’s shocking and wildly fantastic designs combined with her attitude toward feminine identity and the ideology of creating beauty not for money but to show how powerful women can be, especially during the Great Depression. Unfortunately, after both World Wars, the alienation of culture—due to the rise of capitalism, saw workers lose control over their product—which caused or influenced Schiaparelli to make the decision to stop making her spectacular creations, which nevertheless continue to influence many.

However, it does trigger the question of the difference between avant-garde cultural fashion and the “fake plastic trees” in fashion we see today. In 2021, selfies do not necessarily engage any of the ideological stances of the Surrealist Feminists. Likes on Instagram are now based on the rubric of otherness—the more insane, deviant, strange and of course, nude, the more likes. This does not apply to every Instagram/Twitter influencer. Artists such as the cacophony of Diamanda Galas, or the disturbed abjection of the Viennese Actionists, even the dada nihilism of Tristan Tzara are the total opposites to “the fake plastic trees” culture. But, this culture does unfortunately heavily lean towards a plastic charade of the selfie culture, which leads us to question the motives of what is for show and what is for pay. What is the political, esthetic investment of desire in these selfies we see daily? Cahun’s “Snapshot” or, in other words, the self-portrait, (re-invented as the anti-feminist selfie most of the times) has now become ravished in this system of inflections, by use of filters and tons of makeup, harnessing the attractive, explosive force of patriarchy, the libidinal pull of an object to be possessed, fucked, consumed or somehow inhabited and “turned into” at the expense of oneself. Once the makeup is removed, the selfie generation retreat back into their cave of insecurity and anxiety, beset by mental health issues and body-shaming aimed at them by men and women.

Take late designer Karl Lagerfeld, famously a misogynist. He only used the skinny and conventionally beautiful as his muses, and shamed women who did not fit the ideal “model size,” saying in 2012 about singer Adele that “she is a little too fat.” Lagerfeld recognized society’s mask but also what lies beneath it well enough to promote his work (which does not redeem him). In his own words: “I am a caricature of myself, and I like that…It is like a mask. And for me, the Carnival of Venice lasts all year long.” Fashion is a hybrid of feminism, misogyny, and the remains of Surrealistic motifs. Thus, anxiety has become an enormous issue in the younger generation due to modern technology and social media pressure.

Masking one’s identity contributes to the fluctuating spirit of the “plastics,” the social media fiends, who seek the liberation of desire, fame, and attention, or to keep it short, “The Plastic Movement.” The plastic trajectory all comes down to the masquerade—plastic surgery is the anti-feminist gender-masking strategy of the plastics. A whole industry benefiting from the fake and the hunt for clout—more and more so of late with the advent of social media; this mask has become a societal condition. However, this condition goes back to the Surrealist Movement; the perfect example one can offer is “The Debutante” (“La Dame Ovale”), written in 1939. The short narrative revolves around a debutante who does not want to attend the opening Debutante ball of the season. She seeks comfort at a zoo, which she frequents regularly, as her friends are animals instead of girls her own age; she identifies with the animal rather than the human. While conversing with her friend, Hyena, she convinces Hyena to attend the ball, in disguise, in her place. They go back to the debutante’s room, and after coming up with an elaborate plan, Hyena kills the maid of the house and chews off the edges of the maid’s face to use it as a mask. She devours the rest of the maid but keeps a few bones that she places in her fleur-de-lis bag for when she gets hungry at the ball. She is finally exposed at the ball due to the smell of the bones. Even though she is wearing a disguise and her true outside identity is then revealed, she must face the social hierarchy’s looks and gossip. The moral of the story is, even though Hyena wore a mask, she was still belittled by the guests, and there was no need for a mask, for she was content being herself.

Carrington’s satirical take on English upper-class rituals is a great example of what patriarchal systems want women to conform to. Rituals such as the one in “The Debutante” or the “selfie ritual” embody the same patriarchal class system’s ownership of women and their bodies. “The Debutante” has motifs that fit well in the social media world. Gen Z (a specific subset) is confined by absurd and violent codes, and the pressure of beauty and gaining followers leads to murder, suicides, and mental health disorders. Women’s minds and bodies suffer from the expectation that they will be violated and put on display.

Social media platforms provide users with various filters, a variety of masks, an assortment of disguises for the “debutante” or the Hyena. Unfortunately, this shatters the illusion of what is real and what is not. This situation stands to brainwash the youth and turn them into “plastics” that might be recycled for generations to come, within the same esthetics and ideologies, masking real femininity. The “Plastic Movement” includes famous cyber-fashionistas, highly superficial influencers, bloggers, and clout-chasers; however, not all of the above are the same—we are not throwing every single social media influencer into the same Hansel and Gretel oven together. With the pressure on teenage girls and young women to use cosmetics at such an early age, perhaps an injection of healthy mind and soul is the cure women genuinely need to break free and be themselves. “The Plastics” are the modern muses of money-seeking companies and brands; but perhaps the “Plastic Movement” has always existed, especially within the Surrealist context, except they were called something else: the muse. They are both passive in the fact that they feel obliged to pose, but the Surrealist muse did not seek the clout, the Surrealist men did. The plastic masquerade has outlived its original founder, still causing concern for the Feminists of today.

In this light, a battle between the plastics of “The Plastic Movement” and the artistic intelligentsia (and protest movements) is taking place. They interact down the valley of the selfie culture—cheered on by social media platforms. The turf of the superficial must be protected, but how? And will it only just get worse?

Miniature Malekpour is a current Ph.D. candidate at the Australian National University. Her work has been published in multiple international Peer-Reviewed Academic Journals and Magazines. She is currently a contributing writer for Diabolique Magazine. She prefers to write under a pseudonym, Seven Autumns, for fiction. Twitter handle: @minamalekpour

A Prose Poem by Stephanie DeCicco

The rain came down like shards of glass. It stung my face, my arms, my legs. I wandered on, heading nowhere with a mission. As the drops fell to the ground, they shattered into indefinite particles of nothing. The sky was black and full of gloom, a streak of bright green acid breaking through to pelt the rain upon us. I smiled as I passed you. You gazed into me like I was leprosy. I opened my eyes a bit wider, for everything seems so much brighter this way, and I saw the truth. I squinted again. The darkness of the day swept on into the night. I never really knew the difference; playing tricks with my sight. I sat alone, staring off into cyberspace, my hands began to shake. They always do that, though. I opened a can and sat back down. I could feel my bones. Silence interrupted my daze and I woke up in a haze. I began again. I’m always trying to begin again. First I drowned the silence. I turned to the television, watched my reflection for a moment or two and continued on this journey of life, my life, the story inside my mind. This face seems so normal, I act just like you. Step inside and take a tour. They always come out screaming.

Stephanie DeCicco resides in Pennsylvania with her three cats. She enjoys writing, video games and reading. Some of her favorite authors include David Wong, Joyce Carol Oates and Neil Gaiman. Follow her on Instagram on the handle @stephwritesprose.

A Prose Poem by Matthew Dettmer

I’m visiting the suburbs it’s twenty-five minutes from my apartment to tom’s house along the lake the drive was stunning changing leaves the lake bright blue under the sky I drove slurping coffee from a mug balancing it against the turns on and off the highway now

we’re outside in the backyard trapping and passing a junior sized soccer ball my friend tom who met me and his now-wife tracy in college a hundred years ago they got married and raise two kids who aren’t as interested in the ball the younger one

timmy has trouble sitting still during zoom preschool now he’s hurtling across the yard while tom and I talk the election with resignation and fantasy football resignedly I can feel the moist earth under my feet and the sweat turning the underarms of my shirt darker black and then

timmy starts carrying a football while he lurches over the lawn his dad and I joke how he’s a north south runner needs to improve his lateral quickness at one point he stops and holds the ball out like he wants it thrown to him but

timmy doesn’t understand why we can’t play catch this year even though it’s such a great afternoon for it October in America the thick backyard grass the sky stretched out blue the trees everywhere turning green to gold and gold to bare. 

Matthew Dettmer is a physician, writer, and musician in Cleveland, OH. His work has been previously published in the Hybrid Harpy Review and in Neighborhood Voices, a literary anthology presented by Literary Cleveland.  Check out his band The Dole at https://thedole.bandcamp.com.