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Darren C. Demaree’s poems have appeared, or are scheduled to appear in numerous magazines/journals, including Hotel Amerika, Diode, North American Review, New Letters, Diagram, and the Colorado Review. He is the author of twenty-three poetry collections, most recently ‘So Much More’ (November 2024, Harbor Editions). He is the Editor in Chief of the Best of the Net Anthology and Managing Editor of Ovenbird Poetry. He is currently living and writing in Columbus, Ohio with his wife and children.
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Milly is eight, x1=8, she grips my hand as she skips along, delighted I am taking her to school, a rare occasion for us both. One for her to celebrate and for me to pretend everything is normal. As they touch the ground, I hope my shoes produce roots snaking down into the cracks between the eight, x2=16 paving stones. I’m certain I will crack through into the earth below, to slow down the inevitable, but we walk unhindered, each step of my reluctant elephant-weight legs taking me nearer to school.
Mrs Wilson has requested to see me. It’ll be a rush to get to work, for me to start the day disgruntled after an audience with the Headmistress.
The bubble in my stomach grows; I swallow it down, push it from my thoughts. I made sure my bladder was empty before we set out and forsook my usual large cup of coffee, eight, x 3=24 fluid ounces for a slurp of water.
I was eight, and Mrs Wilson, eight, x4 =32 then, when she made the bubble burst and the hot spurt ran down my goose-pimpled leg, the yellow stripe of shame on my knee-length white sock.
My mortification flickers, replaying unbidden in stress. It pounds its way into my elephant steps, when I should be enjoying taking Milly to school as she dances on gazelle legs and embracing her chatter about unicorns and Barbies.
Every day, the itch of disgrace squirms in my head. Dishonour waits for me at work and segues into reports; it hides under folders and pops up in coffee breaks.
Eight then, x5= forty now.
I leave Milly with her friends in the playground to await the bell and climb the eight, x6=48, steps up the visitor’s entrance to the head’s office. The weight of my elephant feet thunders down on the sandstone steps, hollowed by time and weeping. My heavy legs don’t stop me, no matter how much I will them to. I want there to be more steps, everlasting steps like the Stairmaster.
Mrs Wilson appears at the door. She welcomes me by name and I listen to her eight, x7=56 words, but they don’t sink in. The walls of my bladder ripple and nerves sing as I clench my pelvic floor.
She looks as old as she did then. She must be eight x8= sixty-four now. How can she be shorter than me when she was once a Siberian tiger towering over my humiliation?
Don’t ask me to recite it, don’t ask me, don’t ask me.
Yes, she says, a joy to teach, absorbing every number.
My voice shakes as I repeat her words, learning them by rote, eight, x9=72.
She looks at me with her feral cat-eyes, her carnivore breath releasing in puffs through her fangs.
Mrs Wilson knows I struggled; she knows it; she knows it.
Eight, x10=80. I consume her words, keeping them inside—pushing them up against my wall of hurt.
We have a special advanced class we want her to join. Milly, she will not have my fate.
Breathe in slowly for eight, x11=88 times table. She shakes my hand and I absorb the chalk dust deep inside her, powder-dry, stained with the smell of school dinners. The cabbage rotting below the surface, with an aftertaste of sweet custard.
Bells ring, the shriek of children crescendos, then the white noise of times tables chants in my ears. Plimsole rubber corridors surrounded by boxes of sound, humming and promising futures.
I am dismissed; I am dismissed; I am dismissed.
Outside her office, a line of unruly chairs waits, a faint touch of urine and vomit in the air. I pause to still my quivering hands and to keep my bladder under control.
Hold on, hold on, hold on.
Eight, x12=96, minutes to get to work. I use my gazelle legs to get away.
Joyce Bingham is a Scottish writer, living in the North-West of England, whose work has appeared in publications such as Flash Frog, WestWord, Molotov Cocktail, Bending Genres, and Ghost Parachute. When she’s not writing, she puts her green fingers to use as a plant whisperer and Venus fly trap wrangler.
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On what epidemiologists would later mark as the single deadliest day of the early 21st Century in America, Sophie was drinking gin and tonics and dozing off by the pool at the place in the Poconos she was housesitting for three nights for three hundred bucks. It had six bedrooms and three bathrooms. The couple who owned it had left Sophie a fully stocked bar and fridge. No pets to care for. A security system. All the entertainment subscriptions. A hundred-dollar Visa gift card to order takeout, plus a chest freezer in the garage with pizza, ice cream, mac ’n cheese, and dumplings.
Two years later, alone in her small West Philly apartment with long Covid, which her health insurer wouldn’t acknowledge as a real thing, eating eighty-four cent ramen that used to cost thirty-two, hoping her shitty older brother who lived across the city in their dead parents’ house was, at the very least, worried about her sometimes, Sophie remembered what the tan handsome husband had said years ago outside that huge empty house the day he and his wife got back from one of their many pandemic getaways: “We have a such a beautiful country! It’s important for us all to get out and see it, you know? I really hope you get to someday, when you’ve earned this kind of freedom for yourself.”
Alight, Astray
The six of us skipped school and found ourselves tip-toeing east on the sidewalk trash like each bit was a stepping stone. Downtown we observed Mr. Tuesday trying to witch someone’s finances with angry moths and diseased cats, saw him batting at smoke-and-mirror joy with tentacles and tongs, gnashing despair between his teeth. It was hard not to stare as he let the day flog him and his colleagues chained to the feet of another Tuesday, those who live to keep the wealth-floated buoyant, who walk backwards slowly each morning to the elevator the chair and desk to present face present teeth present the daily stagecraft of the unspoken echoing within. We stole a fancy lunch and saw the sky not wondering at all if a thing like Tuesday was happening, or if paths lead into parking garage shadows, the salvation of sleep, or the families in apartments all day together chewing one another’s loneliness. My skin sucked no emotion from what we saw, but as we escaped it, like tourists, I felt absolutely elated to know none of us would ever work downtown. The wind left more trash behind us. We collapsed on our front steps. Someone smashed the last bottle. Everyone cheered. I dropped a cigarette to burn the path we’d taken.
Matthew Jakubowski is a multi-genre writer based in West Philadelphia. His work is forthcoming from Doric Literary and his flash fiction appears in Gone Lawn, Scaffold Lit, JAKE, Variant Lit, and the Best Microfiction anthology. He’s online at www.mattjakubowski.com/about.
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And Now, for the Final Act, Watch Him Choose the Circus
Sometimes, Trista likes to say last year, when I was seven, my father ran away with the circus. She enjoys the bald harshness of this statement, the discomfort it causes, the clumsy grasping for a suitable response. Of course, she knows it sounds like he’s a performer, not just the person who travels ahead of the circus, putting up posters in shop windows; his days of daring bicycle stunts under the big top are long past. The sting of his leaving has almost scabbed over now, crusted layers of hurt sloughing from shiny pink skin underneath.
* * * * *
Two weeks after her fifth birthday, Trista brings home her kindergarten class photo, rows of gappy smiles beaming at an unseen photographer. She remembers how they’d been told to yell out stinky feet, giggling and pulling faces until their teacher said that’s enough now, this isn’t a zoo! In the picture, her own feet are clad in cheap brown sneakers, nestled amongst the other girls’ candy-pink ones, unmistakeably wrong, as though someone has placed a puzzle piece upside down between the right-side-up ones. Even at five, Trista forgives her father, understanding he simply chose shoes that wouldn’t show the dirt.
* * * * *
Hospital tags swinging around bird-bone wrists, Trista curls inward as her father boasts about her exam results. She wishes he wouldn’t; Year 9 doesn’t even matter, does it? Nothing does, not when she’s wearing this new body she doesn’t recognise: torso puffy, limbs dangling like toothpicks, an ugly doll whose stuffing has been forced back into all the wrong places. Trista will return to the hospital tomorrow; this is just weekend leave to visit her father. A test, the psychiatrist had said, to see if you can eat in a stressful environment. As she watches her father spin the tags on her wrists so only the band is visible, shame wraps iron fingers around her ribs.
* * * * *
It’s Christmas season, and that means pfeffernüsse and chocolate-covered marzipan and plump cherries from roadside fruit-sellers. Trista’s tiny, dimpled fists swing at her sides as she toddles after her father and his treats; she imagines herself following breadcrumb trails in a gingerbread forest, like in the stories he reads to her. (In fairy tales, Christmas is always in the wintertime, so different to their Australian Christmases). A plate of festive snacks between them, Trista’s father speaks about his boyhood in a faraway land with topsy-turvy seasons, how he’d begun to learn circus tricks, balancing chairs and tables, and—eventually—riding a bicycle around the inner surface of a giant wooden sphere.
* * * * *
Trista is twenty-five when her father falls ill, his body finally failing him at a time when she is reluctantly beginning to take care of her own. Every few weeks, she brings her little girl on the four-hour bus ride to his home, where she speaks gently with his new wife, feeds him small bites of soft-boiled egg. The storm-grey of his eyes has leached away, irises filling with liquid from the sea’s edges, barely a colour at all. Later, they bathe his limbs, terry‑towelling strokes as careful as a whispered conversation. Oddly, his fading is a damp stone in her lungs; surely, she should feel relieved to know he is leaving her for the last time? He dozes fitfully while his granddaughter skips around a living-room she won’t remember.
* * * * *
Next to Trista’s bed, there is always a lopsided tower of books. She wanders through many stories at once, narratives weaving and twirling, yet magically distinct in her six-year-old mind. Sometimes, upon waking, she finds her father unexpectedly home, after months of travelling with the circus. Trista shows him her bedside stack, and he laughs, so proud because he, too, is a voracious reader. Despite their firm corners, her beloved books wrap her in the tender embrace of well-worn pages (even later, when he chooses the circus after all).
Karen Baumgart lives in Australia and adores beautiful quotes, pink things, cats, and chai lattes. She loves working in human services policy, especially when it enables marginalised people to have a voice. Karen used to be an English teacher and is quite certain that writing is, indeed, the best therapy.
Instagram: @miss.cake.girl
Bluesky: @cake-girl.bsky.social
Twitter / X: @cake_girl__
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The houses on Sixth Street are identical, white teeth in a jaw that never closes. Their lawns are shaved to the same length, sprinklers hissing like snakes. Windows stay shut, blinds tilted just enough to catch light, never enough to reveal who is watching.
The cars feed first. Four-wheeled monsters, they roar down the pavement, chewing asphalt, spilling their drivers into the waiting mouths of houses. Doors slam, lights extinguish, and the street swallows them whole. By morning, only silence remains.
The world shifts outside, but Sixth Street does not. It runs in circles, refusing to escape. Neighbors pass one another with blurred faces, as if erased by the same hand that drew the cul-de-sac. Sometimes a door shrieks. Sometimes a window cracks. But most days the silence grows fat and heavy, pressing against every ribcage.
Inside, the storm builds. It pounds to get out, but rebellion here is devoured as quickly as it appears. A glass shattered on the driveway is gone by morning, ground into gravel by the street’s slow tongue. A porchlight left burning too late is swallowed by dawn. Slammed doors are absorbed into the endless hum of siding and shingles.
Only human connections resist for a moment. A hand brushing a cheek in the dark. A smile across a crowded room. A knee pressed against another knee beneath the table. These small gestures glow like embers.
Every touch is rebellion.
Betty Stanton (she/her) is a Pushcart nominated writer who lives and works in Tulsa, Oklahoma. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in various journals and collections and has been included in various anthologies. She is currently on the editorial board of Ivo Review. @fadingbetty.bsky.social
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Is actually getting to the car, because even though the car is right there, that’s not the way we usually walk to the car, so we’ve got to go back to where we would have normally started from. And then we’ve got to count the steps. And we’ve also got to count the number of carriages on the train going past, and then we’ve got to decide whether the weed growing from the crack between the footpath and the building is a dandelion flower or not, and is that your favourite yellow, Amma, or is it a different yellow?
And saying we’ll be late for the next thing is not an answer to the yellow question, so we might have to look up shades of yellow on the phone just to check.
And we might have to just walk back a bit, not the whole way, because Amma you know you aren’t supposed to touch the car first, so we have to walk back just a bit.
And we might have to get the snack and drink bottle from the boot of the car, but that’s okay Amma, I can just reach into the boot over the back seat and grab it, but you’ve got to stop moving the car because that would be dangerous.
And we might have to stop at the shop because we bought the wrong brand of crackers, and these ones taste all wrong, the barbecue flavour is a bit too spicy on these ones and that makes them gross, Amma.
And saying we’ll be late to the next thing is not an answer to the cracker question, so we might have to stop at the shops just to sort that one out.
And while we’re at the shops, we could also get a large bag of food colouring, sugar and E numbers for an alternative snack because actually I don’t feel like crackers anymore.
And well, if we’re not getting lollies then you’re not getting any TV tonight, Amma, because that’s what happens when you say no to something I want you to do.
And you can’t just walk off and leave me in the shop, Amma, because that’s abandoning your child.
And saying we’ll be late to the next thing is not an answer to the lolly question, and anyway, I don’t care about the next thing even though I begged you to book me in for a whole week.
And the floor of the supermarket is actually quite cool, and the noises aren’t as loud, and the lights are not as bright, so maybe we can hang here for a bit looking at the muesli bars.
And yes, Amma, I am a bit nervous about the next thing because it is new and I don’t like new things.
And yes, Amma, I guess we could get a muesli bar for a snack and we could drive there now, and it might be okay if you come in with me.
And the car is cool, and quiet, and we pick “Sounds of Nature” and listen to the wind and the rain, and breathe in and breathe out. And we drive to the next thing.
Sumitra Singam is a queer, neurodiverse Malaysian-Indian-Australian coconut who writes in Naarm/Melbourne. Her work has been published widely, nominated for a number of Best Of anthologies, and was selected for BSF 2025. She works as a psychiatrist and trauma therapist and runs workshops on how to write trauma safely, and the Yeah Nah reading series. She’ll be the one in the kitchen making chai (where’s your cardamom?). You can find her and her other publication credits on Bluesky: @pleomorphic2 & sumitrasingam.squarespace.com
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Kevin A. Risner is a product of Ohio. He is the author of Do Us a Favor (Variant Literature, 2021). He has two collections forthcoming: It’s Easy To Lose Your Breath (Match Factory Editions, 2026) and There’s No Future Where We Don’t Have Fire (Unsolicited Press, 2027). His work has been published by multiple journals, online and in print.
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Monday Morning, 9:05am Outside Reproductive Choices, South London
Edith unfolded her garden chair and settled in. She had her Thermos, raincoat and book – it might be a long day.
The first woman hurried inside alone, head down, heels rat-a-tatting. Edith’s fingers twitched on the paperback, but she stilled, knowing she wasn’t needed yet.
A few minutes later another woman appeared, tear creased, leaning on a man. Edith waited.
The door was swinging shut when they turned up, with their filthy placards and Virgin Mary, like she wasn’t a sexual assault victim.
Behind them lurked a lone girl, slowing, glancing from the protestors to the clinic door, her face frozen. She couldn’t be more than twenty. Edith stood, the chair creaking as loud as her knees.
“Murderer,” one protestor shouted at the girl.
“Mummy,” another called, high pitched.
The girl looked like she might turn and run.
Edith hurried over, as fast as she could with her arthritic hip. The girl flinched, but Edith made a shooing motion at the protestors. The two women fell into step together. Edith tried to stay calm, despite the hitch of the girl’s sobs and the insults flung as casually as firecrackers.
When it was too hard Edith thought of her son, Callum, forced into her then snatched away, red faced and squalling, without her having any say.
Who knew what had happened to him.
And this poor girl. Who knew what had happened to her.
A Pushcart Prize-nominated author, Madeleine has won the Hammond House short story prize, and been published in mags including Bunker Squirrel, Hooghly Review, Literary Garage, Micromance, Punk Noir, Trash Cat, Underbelly, Waffle Fried and WestWord. She’s a journalist and runner, and lives in London. Twitter/X @Madeleine_write; Bluesky @madeleinewrite.bsky.social
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The whole town was at the tracks. Men, women, children, dogs. The rules were simple. The more you bet, the better the horse. A thousand dollars bought you a thoroughbred. A hundred dollars bought you a nag. Ten dollars bought you the bay. Legs bent. Coat dull. Every wrinkle counted years of slog. The man on him, thin, sun-darkened, old.
The rich came in bright cars. They bet thousands on stallions. The poor came on foot. They pooled their coins. Ten bucks.
The mayor spoke. Said every man risked what he could afford. Fair. Maybe this would be the day. The people clapped. The gun went off.
The fine horses broke like arrows. Rising dust. The bay dragged slowly. Broken trot. Children laughed. A man shouted to pull him off. The jockey hit him. Once. Then another. Then three more. The whip cracked across his face. It caught one eye. Blood.
The bay screamed. He reared. Struck the man on his back. Tried to throw him off. Tried to throw the world off. Blood ran from his eye in thick lines. He ran. Full-speed gallop. Every step a hammer. Every breath fire. The crowd went mute. The bay passed one horse. Then another. Then three more. The rich stood pale. The jockey crouched.
The favorite stayed ahead, foaming. The bay surged. Fury given legs. His neck stretched long. His hooves barely touched ground.
The referee raised his pistol for the finish. The shot cracked.
The mayor spoke about justice. About fairness. The jockey stayed beside the bay, watching the blood soak into the earth. The bay kept moving. Running on his side in the dirt. Hooves churning dust, neck stretched forward, one good eye fixed ahead. Another shot.
Mario Senzale is a South American writer and researcher currently living in Indianapolis, Indiana, USA. His latest pieces have been accepted for publication in Expat Press, Lovecraftiana, Cryptic Frog Magazine, and The Journal of Experimental Fiction.
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Are you ready for resurgence
/in ResurgencePoetry by Darren C. Demaree
/in Resurgence5/28/25
In this case
alienation means there
is only one American
& he is a boy
in a failing man’s body
& that means
we are all vulnerable
when he focuses
his attention on us.
Flash fiction by Joyce Bingham
/in ResurgenceEight Times Table
Milly is eight, x1=8, she grips my hand as she skips along, delighted I am taking her to school, a rare occasion for us both. One for her to celebrate and for me to pretend everything is normal. As they touch the ground, I hope my shoes produce roots snaking down into the cracks between the eight, x2=16 paving stones. I’m certain I will crack through into the earth below, to slow down the inevitable, but we walk unhindered, each step of my reluctant elephant-weight legs taking me nearer to school.
Mrs Wilson has requested to see me. It’ll be a rush to get to work, for me to start the day disgruntled after an audience with the Headmistress.
The bubble in my stomach grows; I swallow it down, push it from my thoughts. I made sure my bladder was empty before we set out and forsook my usual large cup of coffee, eight, x 3=24 fluid ounces for a slurp of water.
I was eight, and Mrs Wilson, eight, x4 =32 then, when she made the bubble burst and the hot spurt ran down my goose-pimpled leg, the yellow stripe of shame on my knee-length white sock.
My mortification flickers, replaying unbidden in stress. It pounds its way into my elephant steps, when I should be enjoying taking Milly to school as she dances on gazelle legs and embracing her chatter about unicorns and Barbies.
Every day, the itch of disgrace squirms in my head. Dishonour waits for me at work and segues into reports; it hides under folders and pops up in coffee breaks.
Eight then, x5= forty now.
I leave Milly with her friends in the playground to await the bell and climb the eight, x6=48, steps up the visitor’s entrance to the head’s office. The weight of my elephant feet thunders down on the sandstone steps, hollowed by time and weeping. My heavy legs don’t stop me, no matter how much I will them to. I want there to be more steps, everlasting steps like the Stairmaster.
Mrs Wilson appears at the door. She welcomes me by name and I listen to her eight, x7=56 words, but they don’t sink in. The walls of my bladder ripple and nerves sing as I clench my pelvic floor.
She looks as old as she did then. She must be eight x8= sixty-four now. How can she be shorter than me when she was once a Siberian tiger towering over my humiliation?
Don’t ask me to recite it, don’t ask me, don’t ask me.
Yes, she says, a joy to teach, absorbing every number.
My voice shakes as I repeat her words, learning them by rote, eight, x9=72.
She looks at me with her feral cat-eyes, her carnivore breath releasing in puffs through her fangs.
Mrs Wilson knows I struggled; she knows it; she knows it.
Eight, x10=80. I consume her words, keeping them inside—pushing them up against my wall of hurt.
We have a special advanced class we want her to join. Milly, she will not have my fate.
Breathe in slowly for eight, x11=88 times table. She shakes my hand and I absorb the chalk dust deep inside her, powder-dry, stained with the smell of school dinners. The cabbage rotting below the surface, with an aftertaste of sweet custard.
Bells ring, the shriek of children crescendos, then the white noise of times tables chants in my ears. Plimsole rubber corridors surrounded by boxes of sound, humming and promising futures.
I am dismissed; I am dismissed; I am dismissed.
Outside her office, a line of unruly chairs waits, a faint touch of urine and vomit in the air. I pause to still my quivering hands and to keep my bladder under control.
Hold on, hold on, hold on.
Eight, x12=96, minutes to get to work. I use my gazelle legs to get away.
Two micro fictions by Matthew Jakubowski
/in ResurgenceThis kind of freedom
On what epidemiologists would later mark as the single deadliest day of the early 21st Century in America, Sophie was drinking gin and tonics and dozing off by the pool at the place in the Poconos she was housesitting for three nights for three hundred bucks. It had six bedrooms and three bathrooms. The couple who owned it had left Sophie a fully stocked bar and fridge. No pets to care for. A security system. All the entertainment subscriptions. A hundred-dollar Visa gift card to order takeout, plus a chest freezer in the garage with pizza, ice cream, mac ’n cheese, and dumplings.
Two years later, alone in her small West Philly apartment with long Covid, which her health insurer wouldn’t acknowledge as a real thing, eating eighty-four cent ramen that used to cost thirty-two, hoping her shitty older brother who lived across the city in their dead parents’ house was, at the very least, worried about her sometimes, Sophie remembered what the tan handsome husband had said years ago outside that huge empty house the day he and his wife got back from one of their many pandemic getaways: “We have a such a beautiful country! It’s important for us all to get out and see it, you know? I really hope you get to someday, when you’ve earned this kind of freedom for yourself.”
Alight, Astray
The six of us skipped school and found ourselves tip-toeing east on the sidewalk trash like each bit was a stepping stone. Downtown we observed Mr. Tuesday trying to witch someone’s finances with angry moths and diseased cats, saw him batting at smoke-and-mirror joy with tentacles and tongs, gnashing despair between his teeth. It was hard not to stare as he let the day flog him and his colleagues chained to the feet of another Tuesday, those who live to keep the wealth-floated buoyant, who walk backwards slowly each morning to the elevator the chair and desk to present face present teeth present the daily stagecraft of the unspoken echoing within. We stole a fancy lunch and saw the sky not wondering at all if a thing like Tuesday was happening, or if paths lead into parking garage shadows, the salvation of sleep, or the families in apartments all day together chewing one another’s loneliness. My skin sucked no emotion from what we saw, but as we escaped it, like tourists, I felt absolutely elated to know none of us would ever work downtown. The wind left more trash behind us. We collapsed on our front steps. Someone smashed the last bottle. Everyone cheered. I dropped a cigarette to burn the path we’d taken.
Creative nonfiction by Karen Baumgart
/in ResurgenceAnd Now, for the Final Act, Watch Him Choose the Circus
Sometimes, Trista likes to say last year, when I was seven, my father ran away with the circus. She enjoys the bald harshness of this statement, the discomfort it causes, the clumsy grasping for a suitable response. Of course, she knows it sounds like he’s a performer, not just the person who travels ahead of the circus, putting up posters in shop windows; his days of daring bicycle stunts under the big top are long past. The sting of his leaving has almost scabbed over now, crusted layers of hurt sloughing from shiny pink skin underneath.
* * * * *
Two weeks after her fifth birthday, Trista brings home her kindergarten class photo, rows of gappy smiles beaming at an unseen photographer. She remembers how they’d been told to yell out stinky feet, giggling and pulling faces until their teacher said that’s enough now, this isn’t a zoo! In the picture, her own feet are clad in cheap brown sneakers, nestled amongst the other girls’ candy-pink ones, unmistakeably wrong, as though someone has placed a puzzle piece upside down between the right-side-up ones. Even at five, Trista forgives her father, understanding he simply chose shoes that wouldn’t show the dirt.
* * * * *
Hospital tags swinging around bird-bone wrists, Trista curls inward as her father boasts about her exam results. She wishes he wouldn’t; Year 9 doesn’t even matter, does it? Nothing does, not when she’s wearing this new body she doesn’t recognise: torso puffy, limbs dangling like toothpicks, an ugly doll whose stuffing has been forced back into all the wrong places. Trista will return to the hospital tomorrow; this is just weekend leave to visit her father. A test, the psychiatrist had said, to see if you can eat in a stressful environment. As she watches her father spin the tags on her wrists so only the band is visible, shame wraps iron fingers around her ribs.
* * * * *
It’s Christmas season, and that means pfeffernüsse and chocolate-covered marzipan and plump cherries from roadside fruit-sellers. Trista’s tiny, dimpled fists swing at her sides as she toddles after her father and his treats; she imagines herself following breadcrumb trails in a gingerbread forest, like in the stories he reads to her. (In fairy tales, Christmas is always in the wintertime, so different to their Australian Christmases). A plate of festive snacks between them, Trista’s father speaks about his boyhood in a faraway land with topsy-turvy seasons, how he’d begun to learn circus tricks, balancing chairs and tables, and—eventually—riding a bicycle around the inner surface of a giant wooden sphere.
* * * * *
Trista is twenty-five when her father falls ill, his body finally failing him at a time when she is reluctantly beginning to take care of her own. Every few weeks, she brings her little girl on the four-hour bus ride to his home, where she speaks gently with his new wife, feeds him small bites of soft-boiled egg. The storm-grey of his eyes has leached away, irises filling with liquid from the sea’s edges, barely a colour at all. Later, they bathe his limbs, terry‑towelling strokes as careful as a whispered conversation. Oddly, his fading is a damp stone in her lungs; surely, she should feel relieved to know he is leaving her for the last time? He dozes fitfully while his granddaughter skips around a living-room she won’t remember.
* * * * *
Next to Trista’s bed, there is always a lopsided tower of books. She wanders through many stories at once, narratives weaving and twirling, yet magically distinct in her six-year-old mind. Sometimes, upon waking, she finds her father unexpectedly home, after months of travelling with the circus. Trista shows him her bedside stack, and he laughs, so proud because he, too, is a voracious reader. Despite their firm corners, her beloved books wrap her in the tender embrace of well-worn pages (even later, when he chooses the circus after all).
Resurgence (2)
/in ResurgenceMicro fiction by Betty Stanton
/in ResurgenceSixth Street
The houses on Sixth Street are identical, white teeth in a jaw that never closes. Their lawns are shaved to the same length, sprinklers hissing like snakes. Windows stay shut, blinds tilted just enough to catch light, never enough to reveal who is watching.
The cars feed first. Four-wheeled monsters, they roar down the pavement, chewing asphalt, spilling their drivers into the waiting mouths of houses. Doors slam, lights extinguish, and the street swallows them whole. By morning, only silence remains.
The world shifts outside, but Sixth Street does not. It runs in circles, refusing to escape. Neighbors pass one another with blurred faces, as if erased by the same hand that drew the cul-de-sac. Sometimes a door shrieks. Sometimes a window cracks. But most days the silence grows fat and heavy, pressing against every ribcage.
Inside, the storm builds. It pounds to get out, but rebellion here is devoured as quickly as it appears. A glass shattered on the driveway is gone by morning, ground into gravel by the street’s slow tongue. A porchlight left burning too late is swallowed by dawn. Slammed doors are absorbed into the endless hum of siding and shingles.
Only human connections resist for a moment. A hand brushing a cheek in the dark. A smile across a crowded room. A knee pressed against another knee beneath the table. These small gestures glow like embers.
Every touch is rebellion.
Creative nonfiction by Sumitra Singam
/in ResurgenceDriving To the Next Thing While Neurodiverse
Is actually getting to the car, because even though the car is right there, that’s not the way we usually walk to the car, so we’ve got to go back to where we would have normally started from. And then we’ve got to count the steps. And we’ve also got to count the number of carriages on the train going past, and then we’ve got to decide whether the weed growing from the crack between the footpath and the building is a dandelion flower or not, and is that your favourite yellow, Amma, or is it a different yellow?
And saying we’ll be late for the next thing is not an answer to the yellow question, so we might have to look up shades of yellow on the phone just to check.
And we might have to just walk back a bit, not the whole way, because Amma you know you aren’t supposed to touch the car first, so we have to walk back just a bit.
And we might have to get the snack and drink bottle from the boot of the car, but that’s okay Amma, I can just reach into the boot over the back seat and grab it, but you’ve got to stop moving the car because that would be dangerous.
And we might have to stop at the shop because we bought the wrong brand of crackers, and these ones taste all wrong, the barbecue flavour is a bit too spicy on these ones and that makes them gross, Amma.
And saying we’ll be late to the next thing is not an answer to the cracker question, so we might have to stop at the shops just to sort that one out.
And while we’re at the shops, we could also get a large bag of food colouring, sugar and E numbers for an alternative snack because actually I don’t feel like crackers anymore.
And well, if we’re not getting lollies then you’re not getting any TV tonight, Amma, because that’s what happens when you say no to something I want you to do.
And you can’t just walk off and leave me in the shop, Amma, because that’s abandoning your child.
And saying we’ll be late to the next thing is not an answer to the lolly question, and anyway, I don’t care about the next thing even though I begged you to book me in for a whole week.
And the floor of the supermarket is actually quite cool, and the noises aren’t as loud, and the lights are not as bright, so maybe we can hang here for a bit looking at the muesli bars.
And yes, Amma, I am a bit nervous about the next thing because it is new and I don’t like new things.
And yes, Amma, I guess we could get a muesli bar for a snack and we could drive there now, and it might be okay if you come in with me.
And the car is cool, and quiet, and we pick “Sounds of Nature” and listen to the wind and the rain, and breathe in and breathe out. And we drive to the next thing.
Poetry by Kevin A. Risner
/in ResurgenceFlash fiction by Madeleine Armstrong
/in ResurgenceMonday Morning, 9:05am Outside Reproductive Choices, South London
Edith unfolded her garden chair and settled in. She had her Thermos, raincoat and book – it might be a long day.
The first woman hurried inside alone, head down, heels rat-a-tatting. Edith’s fingers twitched on the paperback, but she stilled, knowing she wasn’t needed yet.
A few minutes later another woman appeared, tear creased, leaning on a man. Edith waited.
The door was swinging shut when they turned up, with their filthy placards and Virgin Mary, like she wasn’t a sexual assault victim.
Behind them lurked a lone girl, slowing, glancing from the protestors to the clinic door, her face frozen. She couldn’t be more than twenty. Edith stood, the chair creaking as loud as her knees.
“Murderer,” one protestor shouted at the girl.
“Mummy,” another called, high pitched.
The girl looked like she might turn and run.
Edith hurried over, as fast as she could with her arthritic hip. The girl flinched, but Edith made a shooing motion at the protestors. The two women fell into step together. Edith tried to stay calm, despite the hitch of the girl’s sobs and the insults flung as casually as firecrackers.
When it was too hard Edith thought of her son, Callum, forced into her then snatched away, red faced and squalling, without her having any say.
Who knew what had happened to him.
And this poor girl. Who knew what had happened to her.
Resurgence (3)
/in ResurgenceFlash fiction by Mario Senzale
/in ResurgenceThe bay
The whole town was at the tracks. Men, women, children, dogs. The rules were simple. The more you bet, the better the horse. A thousand dollars bought you a thoroughbred. A hundred dollars bought you a nag. Ten dollars bought you the bay. Legs bent. Coat dull. Every wrinkle counted years of slog. The man on him, thin, sun-darkened, old.
The rich came in bright cars. They bet thousands on stallions. The poor came on foot. They pooled their coins. Ten bucks.
The mayor spoke. Said every man risked what he could afford. Fair. Maybe this would be the day. The people clapped. The gun went off.
The fine horses broke like arrows. Rising dust. The bay dragged slowly. Broken trot. Children laughed. A man shouted to pull him off. The jockey hit him. Once. Then another. Then three more. The whip cracked across his face. It caught one eye. Blood.
The bay screamed. He reared. Struck the man on his back. Tried to throw him off. Tried to throw the world off. Blood ran from his eye in thick lines. He ran. Full-speed gallop. Every step a hammer. Every breath fire. The crowd went mute. The bay passed one horse. Then another. Then three more. The rich stood pale. The jockey crouched.
The favorite stayed ahead, foaming. The bay surged. Fury given legs. His neck stretched long. His hooves barely touched ground.
The referee raised his pistol for the finish. The shot cracked.
The mayor spoke about justice. About fairness. The jockey stayed beside the bay, watching the blood soak into the earth. The bay kept moving. Running on his side in the dirt. Hooves churning dust, neck stretched forward, one good eye fixed ahead. Another shot.