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“An Ethereal Tethering” by Stephen Wack

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Art by Moriah M. Mylod

 

. . . something about a man and his dog (in the grand, non-linear scheme of reincarnation) as being one in the same. Soul, that is. Ethereal transient dweller, is another. Here now, there they are: Situated between two distinct, bloody meat husks, between two separate states of existent being — at once, under one roof, simultaneously — with one foot in man, the other, a dachshund-terrier mix. 

 

 

 

. . . is comprised of both end and endless, singular and infinite, of omniscient oblivion, bright-dark heavy-light, of both shape and void, each with their own distinct name. As a man: Brandon. In dog form, she is Mocha, among countless others (i.e., Mochi, Mookie, Monkey, Chunky, Chubbers, Chunkmonster. . . ). As mutual entity, root identity, as timeless core incarnate, a loose translation: Daielaareux. 

 

 

. . . will spend seven months at the shelter, gone unadopted longer than any other dog, before rejoining herself again. Meanwhile, she cries her jaw off. Starves herself down to a coffee-boned silhouette. Even draws blood from the hand of a guileless child, to make clear the message: I will never be yours. She waits patiently for what she already knows will eventually be.

 

. . . remembers what, on pure impulse, will drive him to the shelter in this manic grasping for purpose, going on six days without medication. He will come upon himself, caged separate. His ovaries scooped clean. Groggy with shots to keep him quiet, stagnant, alive. Not even finding himself to be particularly cute, or unique, or enthralling, yet feeling instantly connected, just the same. Might he’ve recognized then, in those muted eyes, himself? She knows the next years ahead of them together will be nothing so glorious — that they are in no way ready or responsible enough to take adequate care of themselves. They will ingest things that will make them violently ill. They will be too poor, too careless, to seek medical help. Will endure vast chunks of boredom, chewing holes through themselves, incapable to leave the house. Will watch themselves from the foot of the bed sulk and rot away for days on end, treading the grey wash of their skull, directionless, besides down. Will be the only life force to keep them afloat, strong enough to pull themselves upwards, and eventually, out.  

 

 

 

. . . yanks on their leash in unruly directions, and, out of sheer spite, he tugs them back the opposite way. Each will struggle to tell themselves what to do. He instructs her to obey: Sit. Heel. Eat. Fetch. Up on the couch. Now, off. But she refuses to listen. Years later, their heart crushed by a lasting love, lost — the one who used to (she now learns) smack them in private, but still loves her, despite the abuse — two months out, having still not washed the pillows or sheets, incubated with the tortuous scent of their ex’s shampoo, she has no other choice than to piss on the bed. She instructs him to: Be calm. Go for a walk. Know your self-worth. Move on. But he refuses to listen. He tells himself: No. He calls herself: Bad girl. They scream as themselves: Shut up shut up shut up. 

 

 

 

. . . Daielaareux, in countless other forms: A bridge in New Zealand. A strip mall in Detroit. An unbuttered croissant. A great big pile of leaves. A spanned lineage of prehistoric, neon-colored crabs. A comfortable silence. An impossible dream. The 37th Annual Miss America pageant. A one-hit wonder. An impotent king. A fortuitous accident, recognized only in hindsight. The Divine Mouth taking the earth like a vitamin. A newborn horse’s first step. Another one biting the dust. 

 

 

 

. . . forever amounts to, returns back to, self-love. 

 

 

 

. . . just seconds before the New Year, 2018. Time hibernates. Thoughts shuffle like a deck of cards. Head loud. Skull turned inside out on psychedelics. A blubbery, sunken, self-contained mess of fleshy slop packed inside a transient shell. A dark stain on the carpet, on a mother’s pelvic floor. He rushes to the bathroom, convinced an empty bladder will cure him. It does, then doesn’t. Grime sits in every wrinkle. Gravity’s tandem held hand lets go. The universe’s veil pulled down like a shower curtain, their many forms spilling out over the linoleum floor. On their knees, hands, back, she perches on his chest and he catches it — a quick glimpse, the uncanny resemblance, atoms stacked like dodged shoved in a cage. He holds herself behind the ears, kisses himself on their wet, hot stinking teeth. Noticing it fully, this tethering between them — an ethereal cord, conjoined. He she they them are all was once will have had we become continuous as one day slips seamlessly into the next without a clock, as the crackling bursts of fireworks resound from outside, at last. They have made it, for now. 

 

 

 

. . . in the same windowed timeline, will cease just as abruptly as its start: The man, at the tender age of fifty-six, from an untreated pulmonary obstruction; as a dog, age nine, a pack of stale Oreos left accessible at the top of the trash. And yet, both still remain incapable of saving each other, themselves, from what must be in order to happen again.

 

 

 

Stephen Wack is an Atlanta-based writer. He earned an undergraduate degree in Neuroscience from the University of Georgia, where he briefly interned at the college’s literary magazine, The Georgia Review. His work has previously appeared in Five:2:One, Rougarou, and Cleaver Magazine, and is forthcoming in The Hunger and New Flash Fiction Review.

The Tao of “Howl” by KB Baltz

I
She said her name was Billie.  Her mama called her Billie-Jean when she called her anything at all.  At fourteen she was all angles and knees and steel-blue eyes. We sat in the doorway of my 1970’s shit-brown RV, the orange shag rug faded to something between mustard and burnt sienna.  Dirt had settled so deeply into it that it was hard to tell the difference between the ground and floor. Continue reading “The Tao of “Howl” by KB Baltz”

“Seven Women: Details of a Generational Curse” Fiction by M. R. Massey

Venus:

You are well aware of how to procure an accurate prophecy. You’ve been doing it for years and this year is no different. 

You cycle into outer space. It is a warm June night in England and a cold, unnamed never-time everywhere else in the universe. When you find the prophecy, it has been circling a distant sun for a millennia. It looks like gold and feels warm, the temperature of skin. You tuck it under your tongue and it tastes like raw egg yolk. 

Continue reading ““Seven Women: Details of a Generational Curse” Fiction by M. R. Massey”

A short story by Meryl Baer

Continue reading “A short story by Meryl Baer”

A Short Story by Fortunate Jwara

(Image: caterina_renaux, rebeca )
Continue reading “A Short Story by Fortunate Jwara”

‘to hold a city’ by Thandi Loewenson

Continue reading “‘to hold a city’ by Thandi Loewenson”

Letter To Otherworld — bibles

bibles is the author of ‘Better Face of Facism’ find him @appropouture.

Building Better Worlds — Alexander Kattke

Alexander Kattke is a long time writer and film buff who has been writing for over fifteen years. He has published two works: Witness to a Recurring Galaxy and Musings. He is working on a third. Twitter: https://twitter.com/SongsofMaldoror

the hidden smile is a tear — Irsida Bejo

Continue reading “the hidden smile is a tear — Irsida Bejo”

Excerpt from Notes for a Letter to the Daemon — John Trefry

Continue reading “Excerpt from Notes for a Letter to the Daemon — John Trefry”

endless shores — Teresa Elizabeth Lobos

Continue reading “endless shores — Teresa Elizabeth Lobos”

Suffocating in an Empyrean Trance — Damien Ark

Continue reading “Suffocating in an Empyrean Trance — Damien Ark”

Hgulx – Matt Kinlin

Continue reading “Hgulx – Matt Kinlin”

Medusa, Bound | Lovestruck (Leda) — Tony Eddicott

Continue reading “Medusa, Bound | Lovestruck (Leda) — Tony Eddicott”

For Either M or K, Never Ago — AGASI

Continue reading “For Either M or K, Never Ago — AGASI”

Letter To Mythrax — Durban Moffer

Continue reading “Letter To Mythrax — Durban Moffer”

MetaLibraries — ReVerse Butcher

Continue reading “MetaLibraries — ReVerse Butcher”

lost letters of the apocalypse — Bobbi Lurie

Bobbi Lurie is the author of “The Book I Never Read,” “Letter from the Lawn,” “Grief Suite,” and “the morphine poems.” Twitter: @BobbiLurie

Postcards to Body of Color — Whiskey Radish

Continue reading “Postcards to Body of Color — Whiskey Radish”

As We Extend To More Than Just Our Bodies — Christina Tudor-Sideri

Christina Tudor-Sideri lives and writes between Bucharest and Valletta. Twitter: @dreamsofbeing_

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