"Less Than I’d Hoped For / More Than I Cared For", "Passing Through the Eye of a Snowflake", and "Rain and Then" by Jason Ryberg"

Less Than I’d Hoped For / More Than I Cared For

So

far,

things have

turned out a

little differently

than I thought they would: no real, huge

complaints (I’ve been weirdly lucky, I guess), probably

the usual – less than you’d hoped for / more than

you cared for – maybe a little bit more

of what some guys get and a lot less of what gets left

behind when they’re done picking through

the choicest cuts, but

hey, we’re not

here to

get

down

in

the

mud of

covetous-

ness and resentment

or stir up any trouble that

doesn’t need stirring, so let’s just take stock in what we

have, count our blessings, be thankful and all that

crap and get back to work, people.

Passing Through the Eye

of a Snowflake

They say to reach the

calm at the center of the

hurricane, first you

must pass through the eye of a

snowflake (or something like that).

Rain and Then

Rain

on a tin roof

(down by

the river),

and then

it turns to hail,

which in-turn

makes sleeping hell.

Like headbones knockin,’

knucklebones poppin,’

footbones hoppin.’

And what was it

Brother Leghorn

used to tell the kids—

I say, I say,

more noise

than a couple o’ skeletons

pitchin’ a fit

on a tin roof

that is

the rain

the hail

on a tin roof

(that is).

"Village Life of the Formerly Damned" and "dowsing for promotion" by Zoë Davis

Village Life of the Formerly Damned

Dracula went for fish ‘n’ chips when the sun set, rising from uneasy slumber to mist his way

through rain-steamed village where he now existed.

It was only small. A seagull framed stretch of coast boasting a barnacled pier and sand, in one square foot, but mostly pebbles.

Some nights he could be seen skimming stones across the bay, taking chunks out of boats

cursing, then scurrying away.

All the locals knew him. He always asked for scraps with extra chips, soaking them in vinegar, a squirt of ketchup. Salt, he kept well away from.

He’d cradle supper against his chest, soaking up its warmth, oil-stains greasing his cape.

No one asked.

It was his thing, a reflective thing, as he studied the horizon, star-swept and vast, far from home yet willing to absorb the traditions of others.

Often, he’d leave his meal in the hands of strangers, pulling their crooked backs from waste bins,telling them to feed, consume.

Dead inside, he lived through them. Safe in harbour, he was tame but out there a piece of

himself, adrift, he hoped they’d never see.

Sated, he returned to his castle, one bed apartment on King's Street. Before sinking into hiscoffin he paused, wiped beef dripping, good deeds, from pale hands and prayed the moon

goodnight.

dowsing for promotion

soiled hands offer a divination of prayer

here between mouse &amp keyboard see me

waiting for Hermes

windows/ceilings

there to break with cunning palmistry

let me claim territory between your fingerprints

within cracks of this century’s improprieties

able tongue sniping

hawthorn stilettos scarring mahogany

bloody as I lay still

magic in these secretarial fingers

I thank you

you don’t thank me

for reading between lines of tea

so may it be

another broom

broom dust dancing

cha-cha-cha

so may it be

with these hands

I reap/cast/sow

my own reward

Bio: Zoë Davis is an emerging writer from Sheffield, England. She's a stubborn FND sufferer and fights what her body says she can't do by playing wheelchair rugby league. In her free time she writes poetry and prose, and especially enjoys exploring the interaction between the fantastical and the mundane, with a deeply personal edge to her work. You can find her words in publications such as: Ink Sweat & Tears, Strix, Roi Fainéant, Dust and Red Ogre Review. You can also follow her on X @MeanerHarker where she's always happy to have a virtual coffee and a chat.

"Rottingham Mayor cancels Halloween attraction" by Kayleigh Kitt

Rottingham Mayor cancels Halloween attraction

CW – Cultural bias, entitlement and superstition – (based on a writing prompt creepy carnival

v freak show)

Bellina Tranche (Miss)

13 Raven Lane

Rottingham

11th October

Dear Mr Mayor

Having read in the local press the Council resolved to cancel Halloween, I entreat you for the

matter to be urgently revisited at the next Full Council, allowing the Freak Show to exhibit.

Voters are being denied the liberty of gazing upon a human skeleton or watching the strongest

man. It would be a missed opportunity not to be able to converse with the bearded lady or

wonder at the unnatural contortionist bowing her body into shapes that defy human

physiology.

Notwithstanding, after Joshua Lacey fell into the river, in the year past, rescued by the

mermaid predicting his death the following day, you will recall it reached the front page of

the press, with eyewitnesses reporting he stepped into the road without checking for traffic,

for which I’m sure you’ll agree is a danger of our times.

Furthermore, when Mr & Mrs Ernest Ratherham were kidnapped and forced to work with the

show at the next town, Mr Ratherham’s webbed feet were exposed, attracting much attention,

and I am sure compensation.  It was, I concede, unfortunate that Mrs only presented for a

short while in one of those scandalously delicious sequinned costumes, falling to her death

during her first tightrope performance.

Of course, it is public knowledge that doctors are still unable to diagnose why Robina

Falstead’s blood became black following a revelation with the all-seeing eye. Her screaming

on receiving that information was said to be heard at the Church. I assert that it was

coincidental she panicked running in circles, colliding with a caravan, resulting in a short

period of unconsciousness, and a nasal fracture.

And I pose the question; after young Alex Foster volunteered to assist the serpent woman and

was never seen again, could he not simply have absconded? There were rumours that his

father liked the demon drink.

Moreover, you may remember Mick Morris’ delusive rouse, proclaiming he was able to

locate his cat after dark due to its bizarre luminous coat appearing after the Freak Show

departed.

I also posture it is coincidental that Ada Taylor’s tale of sleeping out in Blackpole Forest

when the Freak Show was in residence, was the beginning of a period of insanity. My sources

have revealed she reported finding a box of strange items, only to be shot at when she opened it. Her insistence something struck her, trapping her in a pod inside a tree is a fallacy which of course earned her a long-term residency at the local asylum, which in my opinion speaks for itself.  I am led to believe Ada still maintains she met an evil doll called Alice during the incident.

In conclusion, I am sure you will agree that excluding even the poorest Rottingham electorate

from their right to visit the Freak Show would be depriving voters and their offspring of this

educational spectacle and urge the Council to reconsider their decision.

Yours

Bellina Tranche (Miss)

Bio:  Kayleigh Kitt lives in Shropshire, UK with her husband and an ageing cat who thinks it’s a dog. She’s had work published in Bangor Literary Journal, Hooghly Review, Witcraft, Scifansat, Bakuanawa Press, Suddenly & Without Warning, Dark Winter Lit, Mr Bull, R U Joking & CNF in Across the Margin & Entrails.