Finding Deepstaria

I found her in the rust climbing over shower tiles, red-brown on sea-green. She began as spots, then shapes—a rabbit? A snail? A man, then a woman. She was a mermaid with me for five years, singing pirate songs of lost souls in fishbowls and other Pink things; then she grew out of her skin, became an unnamed creature, alive without lines, her hair like fire. Now only one wisp of her tail holds on to the faucet, for me. She floats free in the glossy turquoise beyond, laughing above the rusty piles of what she used to be.

From Guest Contributor Brook Bhagat

Brook Bhagat’s poetry, fiction, non-fiction, and humor have appeared in Monkeybicycle, Empty Mirror Magazine, Harbinger Asylum, Little India, Rat’s Ass Review, Anthem: A Tribute to Leonard Cohen, and other journals and anthologies. She and her husband Gaurav created Blue Planet Journal, which she edits and writes for. She holds an MFA from Lindenwood University, is an assistant professor of English at a community college, and is writing a novel. Her poetry collection, Only Flying, is due out Nov. 16, 2021 from Unsolicited Press. See more at brook-bhagat.com.

Thanks

I cannot thank you,little cat with serious eyes,for your gift of a dead mouse.

I flee from remindersof killing. I am a vegan, and it wouldbe easier if you were too.

But then I would loseyour playfulness and pounce, and turnyou into a timid, nibbling rabbit.

I love you for those things,for your wish to feed me, and foryour love for me, strange as

I must appear to you: so huge,so hairless, so hopeless a hunter. I am thankfulfor what I cannot understand, this strangelove than can span species.

From Guest Contributor Cheryl Caesar

Cheryl lived in Paris, Tuscany and Sligo for 25 years; she earned her doctorate in comparative literature at the Sorbonne and taught literature and phonetics. She now teaches writing at Michigan State University. Last year she published over a hundred poems in the U.S., Germany, India, Bangladesh, Yemen, and Zimbabwe, and won third prize in the Singapore Poetry Contest for her poem on global warming. Her chapbook Flatman: Poems of Protest in the Trump Era is now available from Amazon and Goodreads.

Gravity

A panhandler with the woeful face of a Christian martyr in a medieval painting stops me outside the discount liquor store. He says he needs two more bucks to get a bottle. Marlene, he adds as if I know her, is resting with a beer and the dude that shot her whose nickname is Rabbit. Has anyone asked us how we see things? No! We’re all on the road. But now it’s really getting fun. I dig some change out of my pocket. There are only so many opportunities to take maximum advantage of gravity’s pull on people and objects.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Harvey Speaks

This guy keeps introducing me to people, which is really embarrassing because none of them can see me, and he says I’m a rabbit, which is a load of bullshit because I’m well, I’d rather not say, but I guess he’s ashamed to be hanging out with a rather-not-say, and if he did tell the truth, they’d just think he was crazy for thinking there was such a thing as a rather-not-say, which they do anyway because no one can see me, but if they could somehow escape their blindness, they’d know I can pass pretty well for a rabbit.

From Guest Contributor Max Harris

The Way Things Played Out

We looked around at each other and it was clear that we all shared the same sense of panic. We'd all been shrunk down to a few inches tall, and what had once been a rather shaggy lawn was now a thick forest. Our pet rabbit, Olive, was one hop away from killing us all.

If this were a Disney movie, my siblings and I would have set aside our differences and we would have worked together to overcome a string of comical obstacles before returning to normal height.

This played out more as a Lord Of The Flies scenario.