José Being Himself

January 2025 | fiction

When I entered the parking, there was a problem. A BMW SUV with a Connecticut license plate was parked right in the middle, blocking access to the specialty food store. I was angry. Why the fuck couldn’t that dumb bastard park in one of the nearby spaces, instead of in the middle of the lot?

I entered the fish store to get a sandwich. When I finished, I walked over to the specialty food store.

Perhaps someone had a problem. The temperature outside was below zero, so I thought — having cooled down while eating my fried chicken sandwich in the fish store. Perhaps some poor slob had a car issue and might need assistance — like a tow truck.

On entering the store I saw an aging, grey-haired man in a Brooks Brothers overcoat and tyrolean hat who was pawing the lettuce.

“Yeah, that’s my car; what of it,” he said, checking each head carefully as if he might find gold under one of them.

“Does your car have a problem?” I asked, noting not to buy lettuce.

“Not that I am aware of,” he replied, continuing to pick amongst the lettuces, probably to find the largest head.

“Well, it’s blocking the entrance to this store,” I told him, now getting a little annoyed.

“So what?” he said, finally choosing a head and putting it in his basket.

“Well, it’s inconsiderate,” I told him, following him as he walked over to the cashier.

“Says who?” he said.

“Listen, mister, you’re blocking the entrance to this store. Why don’t you move your car?” I asked, politely.

“I don’t give a shit, sonny, let me handle this first.”

“Who the fuck do you think you are, asshole?”

“Listen, sister,” the man said, “don’t play games with me.”

“Are you going to move your fuckin’ car? Why don’t you just move your fuckin’ car, asshole,” I said as politely as any Cuban could, gesticulating with my arms in his face — for emphasis.

“Listen bitch,” he said to me as he turned around, “why don’t you mind your business and let me mind mine.”

“Who’re you calling a bitch, fuckin’ asshole?”

“Bitch, go suck tit. Can’t you see I’m fuckin’ busy?” the asshole said.

I wasn’t going to let anyone — especially someone from the city — mess with me.

“Asshole, just because you come from the city you think you own the place; you’re our guest, so fuck off and move your fuckin’ car.” I had become so mad, and when a Cuban becomes mad his arms move so that the other person knows what he’s talking about.

“Bitch, as soon as I’m finished ….”

At this moment Jesse, the store manager, appeared from the back room.

“What’s going on?” he asked.

“Oh, José’s been talking to himself, —you know, just being himself,” Mariah told the store manager.

 

E.P. Lande

E.P. Lande was born in Montreal but has lived most of his life in the south of France and Vermont, where he now lives with his partner, writing and caring for more than 100 animals, many of which are rescues. Previously, he taught at l’Université d’Ottawa, where he served as Vice-Dean of his faculty, and he has owned and managed country inns and free-standing restaurants. Since submitting two years ago, his stories have been accepted by publications in countries on five continents. His story “Expecting” has been nominated for Best of the Net.

needle blight

January 2025 | poetry

it is human nature to want to build something

substantial and wonder why our bridges fall

 

like fever. upon conversion from spruce to roof,

the eastern hemlock remains square-shouldered

 

unhungry for sun. a hospital falls in the forest

and everyone can hear it, but you wouldn’t know.

 

the frame of my first home, a place to dream

walls onto bones; in the backyard: three pine trees

 

as surrogate mothers searching for their children

searching for their limbs. books of aftermath

 

on classroom shelves full of featureless figures

drumlined over rockets, ships, blimps, then me,

 

reluctant survivor stretching fingers across

the gray victims, too young to picture their faces

 

too safe to see the size of their crowd. learning

eventually every echo goes unanswered

 

somewhere in the world. the day we move i bury

the woody wedge of a pinecone beside the porch

 

since i believe everyone’s intent is to be good,

unaware mulch and soil boast different creators

 

unaware the sun can’t reach the seeds still at home

in their husk, unaware that no amount of protection

 

will ever grow into a stalwart tree that refuses

to abandon its spire and survive the winter alone.

 

Amanda Nicole Corbin

Amanda Nicole Corbin is an Ohio-based poet who has had her work published in The London Magazine, Door is a Jar, Pile Press, Gone Lawn, the Notre Dame Review, and more. Her debut full-length collection, addiction is a sweet dark room, (Another New Calligraphy, 2024) focuses largely on her journey and struggles with mental health and addiction. Find her on Threads and Instagram at @ancpoet or www.amandanicolecorbin.com.

Spencer Jones Ate the Last Dodo

January 2025 | nonfiction, Pushcart nominee

CNN: American reality show contestant kills, eats protected bird in New Zealand

Clad in their best, their most expensive, Lululemon, Nike, P.E. Nation, Versace, or Adidas, flexing their abs on national TV, traipsing all over and screwing up the last protected wild places on this planet. A so-called reality show, and it makes a hell of a lot of money. What can they tell you about the amur leopard, the western lowland gorilla, the vaquita, the Sumatran elephant, box turtles, orang utan, the black rhino?

Blond, somewhat unkempt locks curl from under an expensive baseball cap, carefully trimmed three-day beard, blue mirror sunglasses. I HAD to Google the man: Spencer ‘Corry’ Jones, an American white water river guide.

An iconic, large, flightless bird, the weka, is famous for its ‘feisty and curious personality’. It has become virtually extinct over large tracts of the mainland because of changing climatic conditions and rising predator numbers. The predators, a species until recently unknown: the second-hand Kardashians and those who would love to be as famous and as rich. The show is called “Race to Survive” no less.

Spencer Jones said he was hungry.

Rose Mary Boehm

Rose Mary Boehm is a German-born British national living and writing in Lima, Peru, and the author of two novels and eight poetry collections. Her poetry has been published widely in mostly US poetry reviews (online and print). She is a ‘Pushcart’ and ‘Best of Net’ nominee. The most recent poetry collections: Do Oceans Have Underwater Borders? (Kelsay Books July 2022), Whistling in the Dark (Cyberwit July 2022), Saudade (December 2022), and Life Stuff (Kelsay Books November 2023) are available on Amazon. A new MS is brewing. https://www.rose-mary-boehm-poet.com/

Yeobin Park

January 2025 | visual art

Ambiguity

White Flower

 

Yeobin Park is a junior at BC Collegiate. She is the founder of Point of View Productions, her school’s first film club. She has had her films nominated and screened in numerous film festivals, including the All-American High School Film Festival. She plans to continue making films about genuine human connections.

Lost Places

January 2025 | poetry

There were orchards here once

and creeks that ran all the way to July.

 

In those days, we could cross one on foot

and up the embankment on the other side,

just below the walnut grove, long gone,

as well as deer who lay in the tall grass

and flew at our scent.

 

We walked then on land

not usually used for grazing,

the windy side of a knoll,

where fog settled into folds and stayed

under the spreading of an oak or laurel.

 

In outcroppings of granite, slid

between hard shapes

and stood in the silence,

pondering the unspoken questions, listening

for their stony answers.

 

Jerome Gagnon

Jerome Gagnon is the author of the recent collection Refuge for Cranes: Praise Poems from the Anthropocene and Rumors of Wisdom. His poetry has appeared in a variety of publications, including Spiritus, Poet Lore, and Modern Haiku. A former teacher and tutor, he lives in California in the San Francisco Bay Area. www.jeromegagnonblog.wordpress.com