Issue #111
Amira Sain
Rival Male Hummers* with Forgotten Tree
(after Greg Williamson’s Double Exposures)
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These tiny Anna’s hummingbirds alight On sapling grown too tall for its cramped case both tired, fatigued from their respective heights; pale leaves flit against each wooden face and hide poinsettia plumes for moments’ breath. With the search for well-lit space to flourish paused, do they wonder if effort wanes to death stunted, sans soil where root can be nourished, if nature’s weighty forces won’t abate? Still, veins pump relentless through limbs sinewed On nearby twig, the watching female waits. in survival’s high drama continued. |
* The courtship display of male Anna’s hummingbirds includes 40–60 mph dives from up to 131 feet above their target. At the bottom of the U or J, they also flash their reflective gorget colors. A male pulling up from a display dive may experience forces around nine Gs.
Amira Sain is an emerging poet and copyeditor who’s currently helping launch an online branch of her university journal, Pelican’s Plume. Her poems (and occasional prose) often explore wonder, empathy, perseverance, and introspective angst. She’s been published in the Plume, the Poetry in a Test Tube contest, and Summation 2023–24.
Patrick Deeley
SID WAS HERE
So were Skoz and Estrelle, busy
scratching their itch. Look
how they make a spectacle of looking,
a head spin, a tumbling tub
of tag lettering. Trash, surely,
no ‘plainchant for the damned’,
no ‘counter to derelict
concrete geometrics’, no ‘antidote
to the ad-maker’s smooth,
consumptive sell’? Oh, if critics
class them as ‘idle wasters’,
dismiss their works as trifling
or slipshod in comparison,
say, with cave paintings
spellbinding the walls of Altamira
and Lascaux, I suspect
Sid was there, too, with Estrelle
and Skoz gabbing at his
either elbow, trying to shock
the world, or their own existence,
out of tedium by using
such pigments as they could lay
hands on, such slogans
as occurred to them, with what
passed for the moment’s
equivalent of a cause or a spray-can.
Patrick Deeley is a poet, memoirist and children’s writer from Loughrea. He is the recipient of many awards, including the Lawrence O’Shaughnessy Award, the Dermot Healy Prize, and the Eilis Dillon Book of the Year Award. Keepsake, published by Dedalus in 2024, is the latest of his ten collections.
Jack B. Bedell
Letiche
What does outcast even mean
to her when this place she’s been
cast into suits her so well? Everything
in this swamp welcomes her. Humidity
swallows her whole every night.
The mud along the bank kisses
the scales running down her back
to keep them supple when the sun’s
high overhead. Even the oldest alligators
floating in this water hold her as kin
whenever they brush near. No stares,
no pain, no names even in this here,
this now, so far from town with its
stores and its meanness, and its
sickening smells of wash soap and
godliness, its indoor taste. Time
is slow here, if it’s at all. Night brings
hunting. Heat brings rest. Bounty
spills itself at her feet, and then some.
Jack B. Bedell is Professor of English at Southeastern Louisiana University where he also edits Louisiana Literature and directs the Louisiana Literature Press. Jack’s work has been selected for inclusion in Best Microfiction and Best Spiritual Literature. His latest collection is Fight Nights (Blue Horse Press, 2025). He served as Louisiana Poet Laureate 2017-2019.
Eva Hadjiyani
Fishing
It’s 6:34 am, and we’re rushing to clock in,
crisp morning air swallowed by the rancid mix
of cardboard, plastic, and sweat. Nobody looks up
at the words painted above the blue turnstile doors:
WORK HARD. HAVE FUN. MAKE HISTORY.
Five minutes later, yellow pods dance
across the floor toward my station. One arrives,
and the screen instructs me to pick a black dress
from the bottom shelf. I find it stuffed between
a piggy bank and a shoe box. The pod whirls away,
replaced by another. Next is cat food, then socks,
Gatorade, plastic flowers, a paper crown, lingerie.
There’s a second screen at each station with games.
I play the fishing one. The faster I pick, the more
fish I catch. I hate that I care enough to check.
Already, I’ve fallen to 85th out of 109 workers,
so I speed up—picking a plunger, pretzels, phone cases,
duct tape, a vibrator, caffeine pills. I catch a catfish.
Eyeliners, a ukulele, napkins, earbuds, shampoo, Crocs…
When my shift ends, I won’t remember any of the things
passing through my hands, they’ll blur into a vague impression
of colorful plastic, sore feet, and fake fish.
Eva Hadjiyanis is a writer based in Minneapolis, Minnesota whose work has appeared in Months to Years. They focus on what care looks like within inhuman systems and impossible situations.
Obiotika Wilfred Toochukwu
FESTIVITY OF THE EYES
The first time I saw the Okacha masquerade,
I thought the ancestors had stepped out of dust
to greet us.
Its costume shimmered —
mirrors stitched across the chest,
cowries fanned along the shoulders,
wool thick as harmattan fog.
Children squealed.
Women shaded their eyes.
Even the men pretended
they were not impressed.
The drummers came first —
palms soft, rhythm hard —
then the flutist, breathing a thin ribbon of sound
into the afternoon air.
The village vibrated,
a single lung inhaling excitement.
Okacha moved as if the ground owed it something —
hips bending, feet tapping,
a measured sway
holding both danger and beauty.
I did not know its lineage then,
only that it felt older than our worries,
older than every promise
that had failed us.
In its dance, I saw our contradictions:
poverty wrapped in colour,
sorrow hidden beneath celebration,
that stubborn joy
that refuses to die.
A man stretched out his hand —
money folded between his fingers —
a greeting the masquerade understood.
People pressed closer,
faces tightened with awe,
eyes drunk on spectacle.
But that day, watching Okacha whirl through dust,
I felt no fear —
only a quiet assurance
that even in a world
forever on the brink of breaking,
beauty still arrives —
uninvited, unreasonable —
to remind us
we are alive.
Obiotika Wilfred Toochukwu is a Nigerian creative writer, thought leader and teacher. His work appears or is forthcoming in Poetry Wales, Confetti, Amsterdam Quarterly, Ojuju Mag, Oriire Journal, Flora fiction, Shot Glass Journal, and North of Oxford, and he was the first runner-up for the 2025 Eriata Orhibhor Poetry competition.
Tracy Royce
During Your Medical Exam (an erasure)
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What to expect during a routine sensitive exam Frequently asked questions We’re here for you At UCLA Health, we know some medical exams and procedures are more sensitive than others. We want you to be comfortable during all exams and procedures. We have trained chaperones to help make sure sensitive exams and procedures are done in a safe, comfortable and professional way . If you ever feel uneasy or you need more information about what will Happen during your exam , please ask us. We are here to help. What is considered a sensitive exam or procedure? Any physical exam of the male or female genitals or rectum or female breasts is considered “sensitive.” These include exams of: female breasts public groin region (for a hernia) vulva and vagina penis and scrotum rectum What does the chaperone do? The chaperone is a specially trained member of the UCLA Health team. Their job is to ensure patient and provider comfort, safety, privacy, security and dignity during these exams or procedures. The chaperone will stand in a location where he or she can observe what is going on and assist as needed. Can I request a chaperone for exams that are not sensitive in nature? Yes. You can request a chaperone for any type of exam. Can I decline to have a chaperone present during my exam or procedure? Yes . Adults and patients who are 12 years and older and can make their own medical decisions can decline a chaperone. Patients can opt out when they arrive at their appointment. For children 8 or younger, the parent or guardian may act as the chaperone and stay in the room. For all patients older than 8, a UCLA chaperone must serve in that role. However, The child’s guardian may decline the presence of the chaperone for a child older than 8 and younger than 12. The health care provider may also decide not to perform an exam or procedure unless a chaperone is present. Can I request a chaperone of a specific gender? Yes. If you prefer a chaperone of a specific gender, let us know when you arrive for your appointment. We will do our best to honor your request. If you have any questions or concerns, please speak to the clinic manager . We value your privacy and respect your right to dignity during all exams. As a patient at UCLA Health, you should expect: 1. The door will be closed during your exam. Only the people involved in your exam should be present during your care. 2. The provider and/or staff member will wash their hands or use hand sanitizer before and after delivering care. Gloves will be worn whenever there is a chance to come into contact with open wounds, blood and/or bodily fluids. Gloves are not required for touching skin only. 3. The provider and/or staff member will explain the exam or procedure to you. They may ask questions about your medical history that are related to the exam or procedure. 4. The provider and/or staff member will ask permission prior to touching you. They will explain what to expect during your visit. 5. A medical chaperone will be provided for all sensitive exams and procedures, and if requested. Please speak up if you feel uncomfortable or notice any odd behavior during your exam or procedure . Sensitive exams Sensitive exams involve the breasts (in female patients), rectum and/or genitals in any patient. They should always be done in a serious and private way. If you feel uneasy at any time, speak up. For ALL sensitive exams, you should expect: An explanation of the exam, including why it is needed, what the provider will do, and what it may feel like. Privacy to undress. You should NOT be asked to undress in front of a provider or other staff member. You should be offered a covering (gown or sheet/drape) if your body is exposed. The provider should NEVER make sexual remarks, hints or jokes. You have the right to refuse any portion of an exam or stop it at any time. You are in charge of your body. Below are more detailed descriptions of what to expect during each of the sensitive exams. Breast exam A clinical breast exam is done to evaluate the breasts for changes or problems. The provider will first look at your breasts and then feel your breasts, your underarm area, and the area below your breast bone as part of the exam. At times, a provider may need to squeeze your nipple to check for discharge. Expect an explanation before all breast exams. Unless a medical condition or concern exists, it is not appropriate for a provider to comment on the aesthetic appearance of breasts . Patients only need to undress from the waist up for a breast exam. Providers do NOT need to wear gloves for a breast exam. A provider may need to move your hair behind your shoulders or move a necklace to the back to better see your breasts. These gestures should be explained to you. You have the right to refuse any portion of an exam or stop it at any time. You are in charge of your body. Exam of the vulva and vagina (pelvic exam) An exam of the vulva and vagina is often called a pelvic exam. It may involve both an external and internal inspection as well as touching. Pelvic exams are used to help diagnose if there is bleeding, pain or other symptoms. Expect an explanation before all pelvic exams. Unless there is a medical condition or concern, it is not appropriate for a provider to comment on the aesthetic appearance of a patient’s vulva or vagina . The provider will wear gloves. |
Tracy Royce is a poet and writer with work appearing in 100 Word Story, Hot Flash Literary, MacQueen’s Quinterly, ONE ART and Best Microfiction (2026). Her work has been nominated for Best Small Fictions and a Pushcart Prize. You can find her on Bluesky.
Juno Steele Gray
Nail Biter
My dreams are haunted by pierced
stomachs and esophagi. Every nail I ever
bit or ever would bite, lodged
in the dark like a thousand barbs
or tendrils, waiting to see what will come
next. My mother’s first husband
doused my fingertips in hot sauce and bitter polish.
No deterrent can withstand my mother’s
child, but I have never had the luxury
of dirt beneath my nails. In my dreams
keratin crescent moons burst forth from my
stomach, esophagus, intestines, my spine
and all crevices in between. Ten thousand
barbs or tendrils all exploring all the itches
they never reached and the oranges they never
peeled. Stickers and soda can tabs, two
pages stuck together, shoelace knots. Little
flat things on the floor like sewing needles
and paper scraps and sticker backs and hair,
in the cool dirt with the salamanders and worms.
Juno Steele Gray is a writer and artist originally from coastal Virginia. Their work has previously appeared in or is forthcoming from Pine Hills Review, Gone Lawn, JAKE, and elsewhere. They have never denied the wild horse in themself.
James F. Wurtz
Relocation
Every so often, a weak cry escapes
and I reply “it’s ok,” though I doubt
it’s reassuring to the cat, drugged,
interned in her travel carrier
and jammed behind me in the Highlander
for the fifteen-and-a-half-hour drive.
Traffic slows on I-30 in Arkansas
somewhere outside of Hope
and Jessie begins to yowl for real.
High-pitched, screeching, plaintively querulous
the movers’ semi in front of us brakes,
breaking the hold of highway hypnosis.
The green sign ahead announces Hope 4
Texarkana 35 and I do
what I can to decelerate smoothly,
this strange country sliding by my windows
not becoming any more familiar
for the slow abruptness of our halting.
Like a pre-awareness of déjà vu,
an epistemological impasse
on this interstitial interstate,
language seems to become insufficient,
become bleary, like a rainbow crosswalk
that can never quite be washed off the street,
pooling in words like “sanctuary” or “camp.”
More has changed than simple geography.
“I get it,” I tell the cat, “we’ll be fine,”
though I know I can no longer recognize
all the different words for “home.”
James F. Wurtz’s most recent poem appeared in 3Elements Review. After 26 years in Indiana, he now lives outside of Austin TX with his family and four cats.
Yoda Olinyk
Cheat Sheet
The red sand beach is the turnpike
where I imagined plunging my car
into the Atlantic. The coastline
is always five paces from grief.
The wind is the only thing I let
hold me that summer. Our grief
counsellor’s couch is the ocean
where both of us learn to swim.
Peppercorns & blueberries
are the size of my motherhood.
An ultrasound wand will show
me what I’m made of. What
I’m made of is fairy dust & make
believe. Blue is the colour of my fear.
Sky is part sparkle, part unicorn.
Sky is seven years old & the brightest
blue. My mother is never a rose
quartz. Bergamot is a clump of
prayers. If you hear me mention
water, I’m talking about love.
Yoda Olinyk (she/her) is a writer, editor, and workshop guide from Canada. Her work has appeared in many beloved journals, including Rattle and The Shore. She has published a memoir about restaurant life and is working on her next book.
Ella Betz
Anything but Swallow
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At dinner you aren’t allowed to put your fork down. You aren’t allowed to do anything but swallow or cry trying. You, a castaway in a sea of dark, pock-marked wood ever-growing as everything else is cleared away. There will be no rescue mission from your placemat island. At school, you burn under your mother’s watchful gaze. Your third grade teacher’s classroom is a barren, hostile shadow of the cafeteria full of friends you are no longer trusted to inhabit. Mouth a desert of neon orange peanut butter crackers, bite after bite between unwilling jaws. At snack time, under the guise of kindness, you give your friend your goldfish crackers. You lie to your parents. Something bold or sick multiplies inside you. It might be the nausea boiling in your belly or humiliation scraping bloodred fingers across your pallor quick as rot. Shame spreads to every extremity—through your chest, up your face, into your hairline— varicose, gangrenous weaving into your tissues so it cannot be extricated without killing some essential part of yourself. You aren’t allowed to do anything but swallow, the taste of zinc blooming from your bitten tongue. |
Ella Betz (she/her) is a poet from Kalamazoo, Michigan. Her work is forthcoming with Thimble Literary Magazine and FlowerSong Press. She is a member of the Kalamazoo Writers’ Circle and the Portage District Library’s writers’ group. Ella is currently pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing at Cedar Crest College.