Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
High noon this winter day
and blackbirds fill
the bare branches

of my dead neighbor's tree.
Max would have loved these birds;
they're as raucous as he was,

bobbing and clucking
as if they're debating
where to fly next.

Suddenly they know
and shoot from the tree.
They're gone but I shout

"Godspeed!" anyway
on behalf of old Max,
immigrant from Auschwitz.

He may be dead but
the numbers on his forearm
glow in my dreams.


- - -
Nominated for Best of the Net and Pushcart prizes, Donal Mahoney has had work published in print and electronic publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa.

Contributor: Judy Moskowitz

- -
Suits and ties
Lipsticks and purses
Anxiously waiting for the 7:20 a.m. train
Taking them away from the suburbs to Cemented indiscretions and misdemeanors
Hiding inside their zip codes
The pigment of a base coat
Knows its color
Slums living inside brown watered lies
All it takes is one note
Out of syncopation
And the song dies


- - -
I am a professional jazz musician from N.Y.C. and now residing in Florida. I started writing poetry three years ago. Music lives in m veins along side poetry

Contributor: Cattail Jester

- -
We gather in the lingering
light of a dying third sun
to bask in semi-sweet what
might have been

We walk the dog
who no longer needs walking
sit on the curb
no cars passing by

Our world used to be full
of static voices, nitrates,
salespeople

Now there is only
a distant clock sound
and sea wash roaring.


- - -

Contributor: Gianna Annunzio

- -
This place is cool
A late summer evening
Pet white rat perched
“This is the final destination.”
He scans the shelves, books. Punk clubs.
“Anything with the word ‘truth’ in it.”
Garage-rock, elegantly wasted, New York cool.
Self aware, smile.
“A charming, larger-than-life guy.”
Musically dense, politically charged.
Private school background, teenaged rebelliousness
Avoid traps and cliché
“You think it’s like truth serum.”
A grief that echoes, a perfect buzz.
Sweltering heat of the room.
“I’m brave
and crazy,
and I can drink.”
Shut us off
Become famous as the deadpan
A far cry, tough on junk art
“Keeping the peace.”


- - -
Hopeful creative writer, sometimes poet, full time Beatles historian. You've never heard of me.

Contributor: Kian Farsany

- -
Land of memories
People’s faces flying by
Foggy and clouded

Sunrise breaks the fog
Muffled sounds soon become clear
Frost begins to melt

Houses are emptied
As the temperature climbs
And lives move forward

Before we know it,
The moon replaces the sun
And the fog returns


- - -
Kian Farsany is currently living in Cerritos, California. He recently has been begging his newborn niece and nephew to stop crying so he can sleep. On Sundays, he yells at the television screen while watching football.

Contributor: Ken Allan Dronsfield

- -
Death moves along
with a fiendish gait;
as destiny stalks all
whilst planning your fate.
Time draws near
for the scythe to appear;
Hear the wailing yowl
while trembling with fear.
Absolve your loss through
a blackened shadowed cross.
You cherish all the hate;
then cheapen the wait;
adrift within delusional lies
and distorted pious faith.
The Reaper awaits his prize
just beyond your frantic cries.


- - -
Ken Allan Dronsfield is a Published Poet from New Hampshire. He enjoys writing from the dark side. His published work can be found at numerous print venues.

Contributor: Richard Schnap

- -
He found meaning
In places
Where others dare not look

A blank frame
On a theater
With a sign saying “Coming Soon”

Mannequins
In a window
Wearing hundred dollar bills

A milk crate
On a sidewalk
By an empty plastic cup

A fortune cookie
Cracked open
Without anything inside

And his face
On his license
Looking like someone he’d avoid


- - -
Richard Schnap is a poet, songwriter and collagist living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. His poems have most recently appeared locally, nationally and overseas in a variety of print and online publications.

Contributor: James Robert Rudolph

- -
Horatio, they call me Horatio,
loyal, lender of hands,
I bleed blue
because I’m true.

Pieces of hearts
cup in my hands
knit in my warmth.
I cannot break hearts
just remake hearts.

A lover’s deep shivving
brought you here to
my workshop of salves,
cuts from the desired
worth the wound,
a paraclete’s to restore
but nothing more.


- - -
James Robert Rudolph is a retired psychologist and teacher having returned to old haunts in northern New Mexico after a busy career in Minneapolis. He believes in old-style magical realism, that inspired by the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, the high desert, and the deep, broad sky of the American mountain west. Recent poems have appeared in The Artistic Muse, Mad Swirl, and Bewildering Stories, among others.

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
When Normal Norman takes his seat
in Room 220 in Dumbach Hall
to hear the eminent Dr. Engelhardt

recite Beowulf again,
Norman knows that he can suck
the boredom from the hour

if he can write a poem for his wife
better than the one he gave her yesterday.
This time, however, no poem comes

and so he knows that he must choose
one of the tricks he's used before
to drown out Beowulf again--to wit,

he can say the rosary till the bell rings,
sketch his wife's magnificent ass
or write something strange like this.


- - -
Nominated for Best of the Net and Pushcart prizes, Donal Mahoney has had work published in print and electronic publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa.

Contributor: Ysabel Hilado

- -
The chunky scarf wrapped
around my neck, a warming
beanie to my head

Floral cotton dress
Light and flowing with the breeze
Movement-swift and free

Bikini tops and
cover ups worn underneath
the heat of the sun

Fleece knit cardigan
feels soft and furry within,
as the leaves descend


- - -
Ysabel Hilado resides in Artesia, California. Her work has been published in various magazines including Creative Communication. She is a streetwear fashion designer and seamstress who could be found on her website, atlofysabel.blogspot.com.

Contributor: Merecat Mogenblat

- -
How can you trust
how can you ever truly trust anyone again
when your mind is full of memories
of smiling, of loving faces
of joyful tears streaming down cheeks
of words said with so much passion
said with so much pleading
that all led
to nothing
that all led to lies
to faces breathing words
"I love you"
said to you
and said to another
and all a mere breath apart

How can you trust
what anyone says
when so many have said
so much more
and left all the same


- - -

Contributor: Perry L. Powell

- -
Can I stand just on my rhetoric
or watch the pile of oak leaves turn
to brown mush like dead hands sinking
back into the stillness of autumn?
I am too old to climb the stairs now.
All the sweet skins I have known are gone.
My brain, like a ground squirrel, burrows
into its skull to wait for winter.

If this is a journey I must take,
no daylight can accompany me.
Like you, I will go to nowhere plain
and those who remember will remember
for just a while, for long enough that
the leaves will lose all their last shapes.


- - -
Perry L. Powell lives near Atlanta, and spends evenings wishing things had been different. Because they aren't, he writes various poems and prose, some of which have appeared in Aphelion, Atavic Poetry, Frogpond, Futures Trading, Mobius, and Modern Haiku.

Contributor: Cattail Jester

- -
A tank
wrapped around me
could not guard me

from the thistle
of a glance
buried biting
in my hollow side

A fort
built in my head
could not resolve

the tangled and
cursed roots
of my thinking.


- - -

Contributor: Debra Sasak Ross

- -
I walked through the forest in the moonlight
And I cast a magical spell.
I threw three pennies in the water
Straight down the old wishing well.
A voice told me to lie down and dream
A magical mystical dream.
I would travel to a kingdom of wonder,
Where nothing is as it seems.
I was told I would find a great treasure,
And seek to smuggle it home,
Where I could keep it forever,
And never again be alone.


- - -
Debra Sasak Ross has been writing songs and poetry since she was seven. She is a mother of four and resides in Des Moines, Iowa.

Contributor: E.S. Wynn

- -
What poems will I write for you
when I know you
when the sweet syllables of your name
run succulent and honeyed
along my tongue

What words
will I rhyme and tie
to the allusions that bring the mind
to the color of your hair
the mind behind
your eyes

I wish I could see you now
in perfect clarity
I wish I could know you now
leave little musings like these
inked on sweet-scented paper
each hand-delivered
to your doorway

or tucked gently under the wiper
on the windshield of your car

I wish I could do more than wish
wait and wonder
I wish I could compose something
more suited
more substantial
but we both must wait
until the days
we'll spend together
can coalesce into sacred moments
full of details
ripe for the pursuit of poetry
ripe for the pages
of a book we'll write
together.


- - -
E.S. Wynn is the author of over sixty books in print and is the chief editor of Thunderune Publishing. This poem is one of many featured in the book titled "What Will Be"

Contributor: Gianna Annunzio

- -
Her hands lift to the sky, caressing constellations
Sweeping night to day
She borrows light for her own insides.
Taking and not returning, she has stolen
All her lonesome life
She’s dark until she takes the night
Gowns of galaxies, Bedouin in beauty
Her heat is rotting, color wakes the dying inside
Wandering through dawn without her hands
Drowned in nebulae, idly
Until she pours the world from her fingertips
When the sun rises overhead, dreaming of day
She goes away as light slips through
A misplaced galaxy


- - -
Hopeful creative writer, sometimes poet, full time Beatles historian. You've never heard of me.

Contributor: Judy Moskowitz

- -
I'm a reactionary woman
Wearing it in my jiggle
Hidden in the cleavage
of my past
Misunderstood flow
Not recognized as 925 Sterling
If you'd shine on me just a little
I would never have to lower my eyes
Shrink inside
I'd climb a high wire with perfect balance
If you'd shine on me just a little
I'd read all the classics
Becoming my own intellectual property
Play Stravinsky
Sing "Nesun Dorma"
If you'd shine on me just a little
I'd never need a polishing cloth


- - -
I am a professional jazz musician from N.Y.C. and now residing in Florida. I started writing poetry three years ago. Music lives in m veins along side poetry

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
It's hot in our bedroom this midnight in June.
The air conditioner died but my wife sleeps on.
She spent the day weeding the garden.
I finally decide to open a window
and pray for a breeze.

No breeze but I hear roses and lilies
arguing about which is the prettier,
which of them deserves more space
in the garden to unfurl their beauty,
petal by petal, like Gypsy Rose Lee.

The peonies mock the roses and lilies,
claiming peonies are the prettiest of all.
The petunias along the borders yell
not to ignore them because they're not tall.
Suddenly there's a ruckus among the hibiscus.
They, too, claim they're the most beautiful.
They want more space, as do the hydrangeas.

The roses decide to offer a compromise.
Tomorrow they promise to count
which flower in the garden attracts
the most butterflies and honeybees.
The flower that attracts the most
will be named the most beautiful
and be given more space in the garden
and won't lose a bloom to bouquets.

The other flowers discuss in a whisper
the compromise offered by the roses.
They take a vote and agree to comply.
Finally, silence returns to the garden.

I tell my wife in the morning to hide out
in the yard with a clipboard to confirm
which flower attracts the most
butterflies and honeybees.
We can't trust the roses, I tell her.
They'll cheat on the final results.

I ask her to keep an eye on the sunflowers
since they didn't join the furor at midnight
over which flower's the most beautiful.
I tell her more butterflies and bees
will visit the sunflowers tomorrow
than any of the others because
sunflowers at noon leap in the air
and kiss every cloud in the sky.


- - -
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

Contributor: Thomas Piekarski

- -
I

The day having wasted away, he slumps
in an easy chair, his labors seemingly
amounted to rubbish. Tonight he feels
subdued, quite pooped as he cowers under
the big shadow of corporate compliance.
He kicks back and pops open a beer,
lifts calloused feet onto the ottoman,
relaxes, and yawns as the moment rises
and then falls without notice.
His wife lurking in the living room
watches sitcoms she doesn’t care for,
afraid the lazy bum may get canned,
and then what would they amount to?
Their souls may tell them it will be alright,
but when the money runs out hopes expire.

II

He’s certain that out there possums
are mating on white sands of finality.
He shuts his eyes in order to connect
with fond memories of their wedding dance.
It was a time before the fire between them
was extinguished, their problems still solvable.
Cherubs chirped then, and church bells rang.
Lollipops tasted dandy, and cracked sidewalks
seemed smooth as maple syrup on pancakes.
Now they both suffer from indigestion,
the mortgage is way overdue, and his beer
has gone flat sitting on the coffee table.
Meanwhile she’s run out of channels to surf,
and neither is a candidate to accomplish much.

III

He feels somewhat like the event horizon
of a black hole from which there is no return.
He mumbles a few sentences to her as he reads
the daily paper, but she doesn’t listen,
distracted by post menstrual syndrome.
At times their thoughts are dead on arrival,
and indecision regularly alternates
with systemic anxieties. Their ambitions like
seeds planted in salty earth refuse to sprout.
They wear blue jeans with holes in them
and drive a car with worn-down engine parts.
They can’t come up with any other choice
but to slog ahead, non-participants in their
doleful indifference, any truth beyond what
they can touch and taste way out of reach.

IV

Suicidal tendencies appear on a daily basis.
And it’s not as if they’re on some noble quest
to free Palestine, wearing belts with bombs.
Manifestoes like eating, sleeping and talking
don’t make much sense. They act as though
magicians are playing peekaboo with them,
taunting their psyches. His inner voice says
take ten paces to the left and reach eternity,
which would doubtless dampen the sting
of those issues that plague him the most.
But he’ll never approach this elusive eternity.
She embraces pragmatism, somewhat inclined
to advocate a constructive end. For in the end
the beginning, or so she thinks Robert Frost
said. Upward to darkness, downward light.

V

They cannot defuse shrill voices that cry out
in the night. She dreams dancing a fandango
on a giant polished iridium mirror, romancing
a throng gathered at the crown of creation.
He struggles to exterminate those visions
of heaven that he concludes must be spurious.
They both fantasize cosmic factories wherein
stupefying monsters are pumped out in droves.
Their attempts at sex are about as satisfying
as paying income taxes. His ego is on sabbatical,
and hers continually probes the caverns of death.
A ship at anchor is battered by a stormy sea,
their weightless spirits pacing upon its deck.
An unexpected quietus arrives as they walk
their slinkies down steps to the basement.


VI

He deduces there must be a lion awakening
while a purple satyr serenades him outside
his bedroom window, dancing in the shadow
of a black sun, perhaps product of a quasar.
She nods on and off while listening to AM
radio and darning socks. He projects himself
collecting galaxies in a tote bag. She might
be accused of welcoming her grim demise
when one takes into account such lethargy.
No-one should be surprised that feral ghosts
attack their minds like lightning, or that
the holy grail seems to them a dead myth.
Having faith would only get in the way,
he reasons, so refuses to read the Koran.
And if he did it wouldn’t make an impact.

VII

For him the simplest of activities are enough.
The lighting of a cigar, hogging the couch,
surviving a nightmare to wake into the light
are his rewards for toughing it out. Otherwise
he might as well go ahead and end it all. She
not to dwell on such boring topics as mortality
will mope around in a moo moo, stuff her face
with savory pies, play pinochle with herself.
When he walks crowded city streets or peruses
stores at the shopping mall flat broke, he feels
totally anonymous, shunned like a download
containing a virus. And to think in their youth
people would remark at what a lovely couple.
He’s become bald and arthritic, and she flabby,
perhaps all there is to what’s called destiny.

VIII

They remain incorruptible in the eyes of their
peers, which isn’t saying much because those
whose hopes and dreams are so sparse are in
denial that humanity is purposeful. Even though
magnificent echelons of joy, pride and ecstasy
loom within the grasp of anyone who would seek
them, they remain resigned to a fate in which they
view themselves as victims of a massive disaster.
Although their cute kitten rolls a ball across
the kitchen linoleum, it offers scant solace.
There is enough pressure built up inside
these two to make them explode like a boiler.
One day their ship may come in, but don’t
hold your breath because you’ll turn blue
as they contemplate returning to the womb.


- - -
I am a former editor of the California State Poetry Quarterly

Contributor: Shirley Smothers

- -
A ghostly image of a soldier
stood in the background,
as a mother with a babe in her
arms stood by a grave site.
She lowly whispered, "Father
this is your son. Son this is your
father. He gave his life so that
others might live."
Now she is alone, but she
will survive. She will raise
this child without the aid
of others. This child will
grow to be a strong man,
because his mother was strong.


- - -

Contributor: Ken Allan Dronsfield

- -
Awakened by a jolt
misty queried fantasy
cold strangled soul
icy grip on the marrow.
Seething under ground
crispy labored breaths
buried alive it seems,
a vessel of silent death.
Life bequeaths a poison,
coolish Vampire decree
I was hated in my day but...
Now, everyone loves me.


- - -
Ken Allan Dronsfield is a Published Poet from New Hampshire. He enjoys writing from the dark side. His published work can be found at numerous print venues.

Contributor: James Robert Rudolph

- -
We look into each other’s eyes.
she sees my brother, my great grandfather, others,
sometimes me.
I see her eyes sparkle
and I’m reminded of the rotating dome
of a planetarium,
slowly spinning, a beautiful sham.

She shuffles along, hand in mine,
small careful steps, like Japanese cloud walking,
but less poetic. Hunched over,
a back packer without a pack,
up and down these corridors, up and down,
down and up and back again,
stalled wheelchairs and old people,
a still life no one will paint.

But she’s a coquette, my mother,
with all sorts of improbable beaux,
she flirts, a starlet here,
a burlesque of hearing aids and
bad eyes and scrambled talk.

And so she dies out,
like the music from a car radio
slowly driving off, windows down,
it’s summer, a favorite song lingering
till it’s gone. Then you hum,
making it last, until the vitality ebbs
from it and you.


- - -
James Robert Rudolph is a retired psychologist and teacher having returned to old haunts in northern New Mexico after a busy career in Minneapolis. He believes in old-style magical realism, that inspired by the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, the high desert, and the deep, broad sky of the American mountain west. Recent poems have appeared in The Artistic Muse, Mad Swirl, and Bewildering Stories, among others.

Contributor: Cattail Jester

- -
I was anything
but the match she
wanted, anything but
the jousting rebel
she longed for, my life
was anything but
the dragon search she
dreamed of, filled with
old socks, regrets about
other people's games,
problems with urination,
not wall-scaling revelry
or wise counsel seeking,
not the armor she
wanted her steed to wear.


- - -

Contributor: Rebecca Weber

- -
Taking a nap at the bottom of a swimming pool.
When I resurface
I will apologize to you with a heavy heart and heavy eyes,
I'm sorry, I was tired.
You must know:
There is a constant aching in my chest,
and I have learned to grow fond of it-
It's the only thing that's never gone away.
I know you've noticed by now that the only time
I feel anything is when I'm an inch from the edge.
It's not what I chose, it's
just what oversleeping and underachieving have made of me .
I'm working on it.


- - -
Rebecca Weber is a poet from Long Branch, NJ and a headliner in the NJ Poetry Scene. Her debut chapbook, Beauty School Dropout, is forthcoming from Indigent Press Fall 2016. She is an expert at hiding from people behind garbage cans.

Contributor: Jane Blanchard

- -
Son arrives for a tour
of dad’s new house
with dad’s new wife.

In the master bedroom
everything gets
more awkward.

Son points to the light
attached to the fan
suspended from the ceiling.

“What’s that?” he asks.

Dad tries to look blank
and says nothing
as the pause gets pregnant.

Wife infers, not ignorance,
but rejection, even ridicule,
in a former setting.

Son is left to wonder
about the power
of a woman on a man.


- - -
Jane Blanchard lives and writes in Georgia. Her chapbook Unloosed is forthcoming from White Violet Press.

Contributor: Donal Mahoney

- -
Chinese Laundry, Chicago


In a storefront laundry
on North Clark Street
brown draperies release
this quiet man

who has my shirts.
He smiles and bows--
how carefully
he wraps them.

Before the draperies
fall back, I see,
for a moment,
in a circle swirling

almost out of sight
three kerchiefed women,
glistening black,
bending, grabbing, sorting.


- - -
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

Contributor: Wayne Scheer

- -
Twenty Years

Twenty years have gone by,
two failed marriages,
two sons who barely know me,
yet I recognize you,
entering this restaurant, happy,
part of a small group.

I, alone, at the bar.

I see the the space between your front teeth
as you smile,
not at me.
Memories gather,
like birds searching for crumbs.

I squint to see if there's a ring on your finger.
Is there a man nearby
who loves you more than I ever could,
who vows to never disappoint you,
who possesses the strength
to keep his word?

I could blame my failings on youth,
on the seductive powers of another,
but that would be a lie
and I'm sick of lies,
sick of lying.

You look my way,
see me without recognition,
without a trace of curiosity.
You turn and offer a gap-toothed smile
to a man grayer than I, rounder,
a comfortable man.

I turn towards a redhead
half my age
and ask if she'd like a drink.

*

Twenty years, a lifetime lost.
Has so much life and love transpired
for you that I've been reduced
to a shadow, a vague memory,
a stranger across the room
you don't even recognize?

Or is this a game of cat and mouse?
Am I expected to make the first move?
Do I extend my hand and risk a blank,
“Sorry? Do I know you?”

I deserve the humiliation
after the way we ended,
me in the arms of another
and you in tears.
You deserve your revenge.
I owe you that much.

*

I small talk the redhead
who smiles and nods,
while her eyes tell me
she wonders how long she has to be polite
to this old man
before she can excuse herself.

*

I catch you glancing my way again.
You narrow your eyes and tighten your lips,
a look of contempt
all too familiar.

Is it general scorn for a man with a graying beard
trying to impress a babe
or a long suppressed memory
of a stupid boy you once knew?

To my surprise,
I say goodnight
to Ms. Redhead.
I turn to leave
and offer you a slight nod.

I think you nod back.


- - -
Wayne Scheer has been nominated for four Pushcart Prizes and a Best of the Net. He's published numerous stories, poems and essays in print and online, including Revealing Moments, a collection of flash stories. (http://issuu.com/noir/docs/revealing_momentspear). His short story, “Zen and the Art of House Painting” has been made into a short film (https://vimeo.com/27132239). Wayne lives in Atlanta with his wife.

Contributor: Richard Schnap

- -
In the apartment above me
I hear workmen erasing
The signs of its previous tenant

Ripping up the carpet
Where he paced on nights
When he woke from uneasy dreams

Replacing the faucets
Of the kitchen in which he
Made meals he would eat alone

Painting the plaster
Stained with the outlines
Of portraits of those he loved

And soon it will seem
Like he never had lived there
As it waits for the next to come

To make it their own
For a temporary time
As the seasons pass swiftly by


- - -
Richard Schnap is a poet, songwriter and collagist living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. His poems have most recently appeared locally, nationally and overseas in a variety of print and online publications.

Contributor: E.S. Wynn

- -
There will be days
when you will scream
when you will break
when you will sneer and snarl
and want to give it all up
want to walk away
from everything
but I will still take your hand
but I will stay
I will stand beside you
because I am loyal
because I believe.

There will be days
when you will howl
when you will sob
when you will quiver, paralyzed
and close your eyes
and wish, wish for everything to fall away
for everything to end
but I will still take your hand
but I will stay
I will stand beside you
because I am loyal
because I believe.

There will be days
when you will dance
and laugh and sing
when you will stare
blankly, dumbstruck
when you will blush
when you will smile
and I will still take your hand
I will lift you up
I will stand smiling beside you
because I am loyal
because I believe.


- - -
E.S. Wynn is the author of over sixty books in print and is the chief editor of Thunderune Publishing. This poem is one of many featured in the book titled "What Will Be"

Contributor: Ken Allan Dronsfield

- -
Streams of ethereal dreams
while lost in the crimson bayou
a weeping willow serenades
an ominous decrepit mansion.
Cartwheeling through Hell,
or cowering under a mangrove
in the old voodoo swamps
of misty heartless sanction.
Quaking within the freeze
or perhaps a new disease,
left shirtless and bereft
in the cold without ration.
Stuck within the embrace
of a shadowy woman's arms;
ghostly visions sing loud of
shattered pious abdication.
Waking within a fantasy,
still reeling from the reality
whispered from fractured doors
and deeds of lesser temptation.
Casting glances are bestowed
ringing down the singing hallway.
Marie Laveau dances in peace to
a sonnet of high righteous inflection.


- - -
Ken Allan Dronsfield is a Published Poet from New Hampshire. He enjoys writing from the dark side. His published work can be found at numerous print venues.

Contributor: Lindsay McLeod

- -
It’s not a fear it’s a know,
we won’t be able to resist

as it begins with a kiss
all tongues lips and hips

but just like the rest
we’ll both add to our lists

with a lopsided smile
and a flick of the wrist and

you’ll want me to say sorry
for blunting your knife

with my back. So…
thanks but no thanks.


- - -
Lindsay McLeod trips over the horizon every morning. He has won several prizes and awards and stuff for poetry and short fiction and published his first co-authored poetry collection, My Almost Heart, in 2015. He currently writes on the sandy Southern edge of the world.