2026 Contributor
Poetry
Emotions of Sin
Red
Fury, sizzling on your behalf
for your parents, your community, and our world.
Covering everything in this dusty room
carpets, tapestries, leather bond books, and cushions.
My lips that bring
shallow friendliness, barely hiding the
loath and disapproval.
Orange
Worry, for your future
who’s afraid—you or me—both of us?
What will become of you?
Disowned, excommunicated, discriminated,
or murdered?
Alone and ill?
Unwed
because of the government or your community?
Because of me? Or because of you?
I don’t know, do you?
But the wood of pews and bowls of tithing
answers those worries, don’t they?
Yellow
Delight, for the enchantress that is you and your culture—
the small smile on your lips as you look around
your not quite home
the details of candle holders and halos and crosses
of wings and flames and robes
of the gold of greed, that’s supposed to be sin
of streaks of my hair that mark me of being
not your parents, but yours
the start whispers of devotees that mutter
“Maybe he won’t burn”
“Maybe he still will”
“He is forgiving”—
Green
Disgust, from the moment you asked me.
“Please kneel by me.
Even if belief isn’t there.”
But yet, here I am.
with my knees to the floor.
Biting back bail at the whispers of air.
Eyes of wolf woolen forgiveness.
Sin-soaked followers.
So my mind stays busy.
Looking at glass.
Panels of stories.
Of Angels and God.
And of Eve with her apple.
With her tree and her snake.
Blue
Sorrowful, when I catch the shake of your shoulders…
when your eyes shine from passages…
stabbing my heart from flickering knives…
aimed when the voice echoes…
“Man shall not lay with man…”
The crack in the glass…
left unfixed for new details…
new plates of metal or Heaven white robes…
How handy you’d be…
to fix the broken stories…
if they would just ask…
Indigo
Admiring, of the parts of your religion
of the statues and stones and stories
of the pendants and paintings and glass
on the walls.
Of the language on your tongue
that I cannot speak
and my ears cannot understand.
Of the jewelry of woman
and the neatness of men
and of the calm laced on your skin.
Violet
Peace, when flowers of spring welcome us,
back across the yard and through the maze of asphalt,
the promise of home and safety and shields,
of your father’s tie being pulled,
and your mother’s dress flowing with winds,
made by your God,
even I can see how unwise people are,
can’t they see those who don’t love are sinners,
but still they say your heart is of sin.
The Terror of Sleep
“I don’t dream”
a sentence I’ve repeated too almost everyone
anytime conversations about sleep
slip into conversations about dreams.
But that’s not true, in a sense,
I do dream.
I dream of my blood spilling at the hands of a man,
of my siblings dying because of my absence,
scenes that include knives, broken bones, guns, kidnappings,
murders, death, and rape.
Horror that would fit snuggling in a King’s mind.
Demons and fallen angels, monsters and men
but what’s the difference between the last two?
Nothing and everything, depending on the man.
Nothing stops the Darkness from slipping in,
not properly, anyway.
Melatonin makes my body numb—
a puppet on strings and panic—
when Father Time beats me by hours instead of minutes.
Alcohol that feels sweet on my tongue and warm in my veins,
but leaves me with aches in the morning,
and keeps my skin feeling filthy
and my Lover unhappy
and my family illness continued.
What does help?
Torturing my body instead of my mind.
Four hours instead of six or seven or eight
keeps my unconscious too busy
trying to cram its work into a small window
instead of allowing Darkness to dance through my memories
and fears.
So, when people ask What do you dream about?
I say I don’t
because it’s easier than explaining
if I sleep just a little more,
Darkness kisses my forehead,
before chasing my dreams away
so he can feed off
my tears, my heartbeat, my screams, and my pleas
for just one night without him.
Prose
Eight Lessons of Life
Having a Plan B is always necessary, even during the happiest parts of your life. Whether that plan is an emergency fund in case of unplanned issues or a step-by-step plan to escape. Without it, I wouldn’t have anything besides the clothes on my back. That’s a lesson taught by Mom.
Fatherhood is an illusion of a brave man who’ll always protect you, love you, support you. Illusions are broken when you try to interact with them. Protection is nothing more than a sword made of wood. Love can be conditional—only present when the ones you love need you. “I’m here if you need anything” are just words if actions don’t support them. That’s a lesson taught by Dad.
Victims only believe each other when it’s convenient, even if they survived the same terror from the same person. The boy who cried wolf was more believed than I was. Do you think his fellow fibbers pointed and called him a lair like the crowd? Do you think his fellow lairs finally believed him when the village left them? Do you think the boy’s father reminds him of his lies every time they fight? Do you think the boy wakes up in terror when he’s reminded of it? Who cares? At the end of the day, the village would never believe him. That’s a lesson taught by Gonzalo.
Women will never be more than mothers with the way the world is going. Even if a woman rears four girls, even if she insists that she doesn’t want it, even if she explains her textbook-of-reasons why, those around her will insist that she will want it, one day. It’s empowering—knowing what you don’t want just as well as you know what you do want. The world doesn’t care though. Women are either mothers or they’re wasting their lives. That’s a lesson taught by Cris.
You’ll never be more important than those before you. Your mother could be the worst person alive, and people will still choose her over you. They’ll still insist that you forgive her for all her wrongs. They’ll still push for you to talk to her, and when you don’t, the whole church will be told to shun you for not honoring thy mother. That was a lesson taught by Grandma.
Thanatos doesn’t care about promises, especially when you know, down to your soul, that they’ll never be fulfilled. You’ll never be alone, death doesn’t care. You’ll always be loved, time doesn’t care. We’ll go to the shop tomorrow, your lungs don’t care. I’ll teach you how to drive stick shift, illness doesn’t care. I’ll see you in your Homecoming dress, your heart doesn’t care. I’ll walk you down the aisle, once you find someone I like, but you won’t be here, because Thanatos doesn’t care. That was a lesson taught by Poppy.
Jack Russells are the worst dog to have. They’re the chatter boxes of the dog world, constantly barking just to hear themselves. They’ll fight with any dog or person just for existing. They’re territorial, refusing to leave the side of their person no matter how annoyed or sad they are. They’re high energy, their tails never not wagging when they see you. You become a Goddess, receiving nothing but unconditional love from them. That was a lesson taught by Maximus.
The Sun has always loved the Moon even though it’s littered in craters crafted over years of being hit by everything the universe has thrown at it. Authors love the relationship between the Sun and the Moon, even if they can’t agree on the relationship they hold. I believe they hold dynasties of platonic love, written in the gaps between the stars. I also believe that platonic relationships are the most important in our lives. The love is just as strong, the support is just as present, and the future is just as promised. That was a lesson taught by Matt.
But of course it was. He’s the only person, after all, that I haven’t needed a Plan B for.
Memoir
Coins of Panic
It’s weird isn’t it, how the world is measured by units? Measured by pounds, flashing in their neon color on the scale. Measured by Fahrenheit, the temperature of the world clinging to my skin. Measured by miles, showing me how fast I’m going or how many I have left until I’m in the parking lot. Measured by money, the green fabric flicking though my fingers as I flip them in the same direction, the mix of silver dotted with browns as I divide the coins, the separation of it all as I slide them into their cubes, the units doing nothing but waiting to be spent. Five hundred dollars.
“Good morning,” Vera calls, her voice chalky as it starts the airing out of the day. Her lion’s mane bounces as she nods at me, the curls as tan as the grass of the Savannah and just as wild.
“Good morning.” A penny leaves my till.
“Do you need the safe opened?”
“No, thank you though.” Another penny spent.
The rest of my morning isn’t as simple. The lottery exchange is off, with no explanation to be found, five dollars down the drain. Self-checkout didn’t ink any of it’s checks, another dollar wasted. My groomer greets me a goodnight, along with the other two overnight staff. A quarter stolen from me and a penny spent, before quickly being replaced by Peter’s tired but shining smile. The registers turn on easily, the money keeper runs like normal, the rest of my paperwork ends up equal, my reports aren’t so kind. Unexplained voids and refunds spill out across the pages with no trace of reasoning or proof of existence other than my reports. Another dollar burned. The checks deposit without any unusual issues. Western Union, Billpays, Money Orders, and Coinstars all add up to where they need to be. Not the worst of mornings, aside from the lottery that’s going to push us even shorter this week. Is it two hundred or three hundred dollars that needs to be emailed about? Should I text Bonnie or leave it be? I guess I’ll wait for Dakota and see what he says. My drawer is another dollar short.
“Good morning,” another greeting is spoken as I reach into the cooler, pulling out the same shining white energy drink that fights off my tiredness every day.
“Good morning,” I respond without looking up, another pen –
“What’s wrong?” – quarter spent.
“Why do you think something’s wrong, Jasper?” I ask, not bothering to glance at the person speaking. I know it’s him, he’s the only one that asks that question, constantly.
“I don’t know,” He mumbles, looking everywhere but me, another thing I don’t have to stare at him to know. “I’m going to open my drawer now.”
“You can’t work off the clock, it’s against contract.” The drink in my hand is cold, a needed difference from the warmth twirling around the bottom of my spine.
“It’s fine.” Five dollars drained.
The machine buzzes as it spits out my receipt, which is quickly wrapped around the can and stickered in place. The buzzing sound is replaced by the slam of my broken door, a constant test on the remaining wood as it tries to click back into place. A dime drops. A plastic white binder of anxiety awaits me by the computer, taunting me with the mistakes of my coworkers, their stupidity inked on the pages by my pens they constantly steal or misplace. A nickel gone.
The computer boots up slower than Vera’s voice, giving me time to scoop out the depth of denseness left over from yesterday. Three sign in screens, sixty-three timecards, a seven o’clock alarm, humidity stuck doors, twenty-four foolish people, thirty-seven mistakes, seven greetings, and a late manager. Seventeen dollars, within thirty minutes. Today is going to be an expensive one.
“The store opens at seven, not seven thirty-three.” My answer is automatic, like a motion sensor set to call out those who haven’t figured out what an alarm is. My eyes burn from the glow of the screen, my irises busy double-checking Bethany’s work of the weekend. The last thing we need is a mishap with the schedule. Nothing makes a day worse than too many cashiers with nothing to do or too few baggers with too much to do. My packet of reports hangs from my fingertips, threatening to tumble from my hold because of the added weight of my pen pinned to the stack.
“I know. I’m sorry,” Dakota rushes out, snatching the papers from me. My hand is left empty, as empty as his apology. What’s the price of an empty apology to you? For me it’s five cents, because it’ll happen again tomorrow, and the next day, and then the day after that. “How far off are we?”
“Two hundred and three dollars, and fifty-one cents.”
“Are you going to email Jenny?”
“With what email?”
“You don’t have an email?”
Don’t let Dakota’s wide eyes or hanging mouth surprise you. We’ve had this same conversation, every week, for the last four months. Ten cents melted. “No, I don’t have a work email.”
“Oh… I’ll email her.” With that, my report is tossed aside, and his keys jingle up the stairs as he disappears into his office.
My eyes slide toward my till, giving them a rest from the harsh blues of the screens. The lack of a focus item lets my thoughts run wild with my never ending to do list. Fill and order lottery, print schedules and pass them out, paperwork for tomorrow, two drawers need to be opened, Robert’s shifts need to be covered for the next two weeks, and about a billion other things that haven’t come to mind yet.
As I shift my focus back towards the screen, the red digits of my drawer settle in the corner of my eye. Four hundred and forty-seven dollars.
“I’m sorry, Ma’am,” I repeat like a broken record, the scratches on the disk poking out in my voice. “But there’s nothing I can do for you.”
“I bought it here!” She screams the constant answer to my apology. “You should be able to cash it!”
“As I said before, your ticket has already been cashed. I can’t cash a redeemed -”
“I didn’t redeem it!” From the shriek she lets out, I half expect her to burst into a ball of feathers, topped off with the talons of a hawk. But I’m not that lucky. “I won a hundred dollars, give me my money!”
“I’m sorry, Ma’am but I can’t -”
“Screw you, you dumb -” The rest of her insult is cut off by the thin cardboard of addiction being thrown into my face, the edges of it cutting into a section of my cheek just below my eye. How I wish it would have cut my eye, I could use a day off, but probably not the medical bill.
Her voice carries as she storms out of the store, screaming toward anyone that dares to watch her tantrum. Twenty dollars blow away on the breeze of my sigh, thrown away along side the already redeemed lottery ticket. My fingers trace the section of my skin within the time it takes me to turn back around. No blood coats my fingers, but a shallow smile does coat my face. Kindness isn’t free, it costs a nickel. “Hello, how are you?” I take that back, kindness costs six cents.
“You could have just given her the money,” My next customer answers, swatting my greeting away like a fly. “I need to send a Western Union.”
“Alright, can I have your ID?”
“Why do you need my ID?” The same reason I needed it last week, and last month, and last year. Which you should know, because you send money every week.
My smile is weighed down by the pennies quickly being spent. “You can’t send money without an ID, Sir. I need it in order to prove your information, and Western Union needs it to keep track of the money coming in and out of their services for or from their customers.”
“That’s stupid,” He grumbles, ripping his wallet out of his pocket. I step back, ready for him to throw the plastic card across the table at me. Unlike the lady before, I’ve done this dance with him quite a few times. And yet, every time he throws it harder, further, like it wasn’t enough that he watched me get slapped with a scratcher a minute before. “You should change that policy.”
“I don’t have control over Western Union’s policies. I’d be more than happy to give you their customer service number if you wish to file a compliment.” The answer is robotic, overused from the endless times I’ve said the same thing to him.
“You don’t have to be a smartass,” he hisses, his glare flickering off my face as soon as his phone starts to ring.
The rest of the interaction is as silent as can be, the seconds of peace only interrupted by the questions not answered by his ID card. Of course, each question is answered with spit and a paired eye roll, as if I’m the one that set up the system. When his transaction is cashed out and signed for, I’m not a single thought in his mind, my goodbye just as ignored as my greeting, but of course it was. This job is seen as low class, my younger age is seen as less than, my bright purple hair seen as trashy. It’s not a new interaction, just a different dancing partner.
“Can we talk?” Dakota asks as soon as the signed paper is stashed away. I knew he was there from the jingle of his keys, I knew the phone rang from the blaring sound of it, and I know it was the lottery lady from the way Jasper kept glancing at me.
“If I say no, will you go away?”
His smile is small, and his eyes are sad like he doesn’t want to lecture me as much as I don’t want him to lecture me. “No.”
“Can I quit?”
His smile widens because of my sharp tongue, a chuckle rumbling out of him like boulders sliding over the side of a cliff, set to shake the walls with the volume of their slams. “You can try, but I’ll just shred your resignation.”
“What are you guys going to do when I do finally leave?” My chest feels less hollow, like a piggy bank being filled with pennies for the future.
“We’d be fine without you.” His smile is still wide, his face shining with humor. Humor that I don’t return because he just smashed my piggy bank to pieces.
“I’m going outside for a smoke break. If you’re going to follow, I’m not going to clock out.”
“That’s time theft.”
“What are you going to do? Fire me?” There’s more venom in my voice then I meant there to be. Definitely more venom then appropriate while speaking to your boss, but it’s hard to see someone like him as my boss. Someone’s that’s careless with his time, with his words, with the money in my till.
Careless people shouldn’t be in charge. Careless people shouldn’t reprimand people for following policies. But careless people do follow me outside for a smoke break, his Newport stick already poking out of his mouth, eagerly waiting for him to cross through the door so he can light it.
“You should have called me when she started yelling.” The sentence is finished with the click of his lighter and the crackle of the paper and tobacco burning.
“I did.” My hand slides into the material of my jeans, parting the pocket from the rest of it like I’m Noah – or was it Moses that parted the Red Sea? I don’t remember, I’ll have to ask Matt, or I could ask his mom, lighten her day by pretending I care about religion still. The thought of doing so costs more than I’d like to admit.
“Did you?” He asks, his awareness of his pages as careless as the rest of him.
I choose to put off my answer, filling the gap of time with a deep inhale of my vape, the cloud of exhale filling the air. It’s poetic almost, how the nicotine filling the sky is a living example of my thoughts constantly filling and expanding in my mind. That thought costs a lot too.
“Ya, I did.”
“Oh… Well, if I don’t answer you should do whatever will satisfy the customer. After all, our main focus here is -”
“And what would the email to Jenny say tomorrow? ‘We gave a customer a hundred dollars to satisfy her and that’s why we’re short’ wouldn’t have been an expectable answer. Then, we’d be having a conversation about how I shouldn’t have given her the money.”
“But that’s not what happened -”
“But if it was -”
“But it’s not,” Dakota barks at me, the end of his cigarette now a glowing ball of his anger. “What happened was -”
His voice is quickly tuned out, nothing more than the sound of coins being dropped on top of each other, being spent quicker than I can replace them.
Clink, clink, clink.
“The way you handled the situation was completely unprofessional.”
Clank, clank, clank.
“If you didn’t know how to satisfy her, you should have paged me again.”
Clink, clink, clink.
“Bad reviews lead to a downturn in business. If we don’t have business, you don’t have a job.”
Clank, clank, clank.
When he stands up, I’m left alone on the chilled bench outside. My mind is empty, the thoughts finally turned off, for the time being at least. My chest feels like a beach, right before a storm. The sand is left empty, with nothing and no one besides itself. The water is still, waiting for the first gust of wind to start the spiral it’ll be turned into. The birds are silent, the fish have ducked deep underwater, and the snails have curled into their shells.
With one more deep breath, the tiny machine in my hand cackling and my lungs burning with disapproval, I push myself onto my feet, the only thing left in my spot being the start of the trail of clouds escaping my lungs. Two more hours. That’s all I have left before my shift is over. Plenty of people have escaped a hurricane with only two hours left, so I can too. I got this. I got this.
A smile is back on my face as I slide between the glass doors, the itchy feeling in my throat being nothing more than the left-over burn of my nicotine addiction. I got this.
The slam of the broken door booms like lightning, not that I notice, because I got this. My fingers shake like a flag in the midst of a whirlwind, the shaking only getting worse as I lift them up and typed my password into the register. But I don’t notice because I got this. My eyes jerk to the side, double checking the amount left in my till for the day. Three blaring red circles burn into me, imprinting themselves on my soul. Zeros, across the board. Not a cent left in my drawer for the day. Wind whips through my rib change, the water in my stomach quickly spinning itself into a cyclone as the banging of the door echoes in my ears. I don’t got this.
Beating of the Goose
The first time I realized I was alone was a few weeks after moving into the new house. The new to me house, not a new to us house. They had lived there for a while awhile, but I hadn’t. The seasons hadn’t changed, my clothes weren’t worn yet, and the dog still barked when I walked through the door.
The house was huge, big enough for a five-year-old to believe she was a princess. That she was living a real Cinderella story. And I truly had, for those first few weeks. I went from a one-bedroom, single mother household to a two story, double parent “home”. It was a huge house, in my eyes, and beautiful. Still was beautiful, the last time I remember seeing it.
The Daughter’s cousin, not my cousin, had come to stay the night. She slept upstairs in the bedroom we shared, cuddled between the master suit and the toy room they had set up. There was this rule they had, that the children weren’t allowed to leave their room unless a parent was awake and, on the mornings, we woke before them, most mornings if we’re being honest, we didn’t dare to wake either of them, but especially the Dad.
Dad was an angry man. The iron fist of the house, the money maker, the disciplinary, the king, and the reason I was there. Despite the fact that he was “the mean” parent, I drifted towards him instead of his wife. She seemed like a caring Mom. Beautiful, sweet, nurturing, submissive, and obedient. Everything a husband could want in a wife and everything a man could want from the mother of his children. It wasn’t until years later that I realized why I held a distaste for her, even from the very beginning.
This morning, the morning after the sleepover, the three of us woke before the parents, as it would always happen. We were left to our own; to lay in our beds or look through the picture books meant for bedtime readings.
This was unusual for the Cousin. Why would we stay in the bedroom when there was a treasury of toys next door?
Of course, being new, as I assumed the Cousin was as well, I explained this unusual rule. We stay in the bedroom until the parents come to get us for breakfast.
But children are easily impressionable, especially by their peers. It didn’t take long for the Daughter and Cousin to convince me of their plan. To trick me into breaking the morning rules.
My Mom and Dad won’t be mad.
We won’t get in trouble.
We don’t have to follow the rules when visitors are over.
How silly it is to think about now, but it made sense then. If the Daughter was saying this, of course it had to be true. This was her house, with her parents, and her toys, surely, she knows when and when not to follow the rules. She’d know better than anyone else. So, I gave in.
We tiptoed out of the room like clumsy geese, two with feathers of gold and one of onyx. Our honking and flapping didn’t stop once we got to our treasure, of course not! They got louder, framed by the sounds of toys moving, radios singing, and giggles of happily playing children.
In a matter of moments, the parents were woken by the noises of their goslings hooting and hollering, but the joy didn’t stay in their noises. No, it was quickly replaced by fear and attempted chances of explanation, none of which did anything to soothe Dad’s anger. It was loaded and ready to find a target to release its tension on.
Of course, it couldn’t be released on Cousin. That wasn’t his child, which meant his hands couldn’t touch her, so she was quickly excused from the punishment. After all, she’s a guest, she doesn’t know the rules.
Daughter was the next to be pardoned, all thanks to Mom. Mom, who reasoned with Dad, explained that she’s just an excited child, one that wanted to play with her Cousin, and how she didn’t start acting up until you brought Her into our home. So, she was excused too.
But I wasn’t. There was no excuse for me, no one to reason on my behalf. I was the oldest, the most mature, even if Daughter was only a few weeks younger than me. Even though this was Daughter’s home, filled with her parents’ anger because we played with her toys before they awoke. Even though the leaves hadn’t changed yet, and my clothes were still new, and the dog hadn’t stopped barking at me.
I was the one punished. The one blamed for the broken rules and the loud noises and the mess of toys on the floor and the early rise of the parents. I was the one cuffed around the arm, pulled back into the bedroom, and laid across Dad’s knee. I was the one with tears on my cheeks and a stinging behind. I was the one degraded and barked at for the mistake.
All while Daughter was held by Mom, comforted from my screams of pain. Her shining golden feathers petted by her Mom, her ears filled with whispers of comfort, and her safety protected from her Dad’s anger.
When breakfast was served, threats had scared the remainder of my tears somewhere deep inside myself. But not Daughter’s. Hers were still on her cheeks, being kissed away by loving lips and apologizes for scaring her.