McCaela Prentice

AS I HEARD IT

one morning I walked here
half how I dreamed it
 
aisles of sourdough bread
and fruits before their season
 
I was becoming all at once
a sleepwalker and he
 
idling in some smaller horror
the wasps that die in figs
 
presses thumbs to my heavy eyelids
ferries me far as coin
 
my skin all purple and pith;
my heart like a plum skinned
 
plenty to fill aching hands-
to soften hunger and it’s just
 
as I heard it: six seeds
and a spring with no thaw
 
as I heard it: a mouthful of want
and a season to swallow it all.
 
it’s morning still but I could
make time for pulling the blinds;
 
do the laundry another day.
I want rest like when
 
I lay my head on his chest;
to sink like an aging peach to its pit
 
the fever that is waking
into the same day twice-
 
to wring sleep from each other
meaning nothing by it
 
and the sheets are soaked through;
and the street lights come on.

---

McCaela Prentice is a Maine Writer and graduate of St. Lawrence University.  She is currently living/writing in New York City and working in healthcare. Her poetry has previously been featured in Mineral Lit Mag, Lammergeier Magazine, and Honey & Lime Literary Magazine. McCaela was also an honorable mention in the 2019 Small Orange Emerging Woman Poet Honor.

Linda M. Crate

greed shouldn't drive us

most people have days off,
but i am one of the ones that does not;
my job is considered essential
and corporate is too greedy
to shut down the store and leave the
pumps up for anyone who
may need gas—
they told us we could take two weeks
off if we were scared,
and they would take it out of our vacation;
instead of doing the right thing and closing
down the store and paying us for
two weeks—
i will forever remember their greed,
and how they chose to profit off a pandemic;
how they used me as a sacrificial lamb
so they could fleece more money out of the pockets
of those that don't know well enough to take care of
themselves—
profits before people
that's their credo,
and should i be harmed by this virus or anyone i love
let their blood be the damned spot on their hands they cannot
wash out;
because greed shouldn't be the driving force of america.

---

Linda M. Crate is a Pennsylvanian native born in Pittsburgh yet raised in the rural town of Conneautville. Her poetry, short stories, articles, and reviews have been published in a myriad of magazines both online and in print. She has five published chapbooks A Mermaid Crashing Into Dawn (Fowlpox Press - June 2013), Less Than A Man (The Camel Saloon - January 2014), If Tomorrow Never Comes (Scars Publications, August 2016), My Wings Were Made to Fly (Flutter Press, September 2017), and splintered with terror (Scars Publications, January 2018), and one micro-chapbook Heaven Instead (Origami Poems Project, May 2018).

Adedayo Adeyemi Agarau

The Final Plague

Lift up your heads, O ye gates
— Psalm 24:7

Have you tasted of your god’s anger?
Seraphs leaning into the morning with
swords, we name our house by the blood
of lambs, god’s children hiding the light
of someone’s son under their bed. Am i
still kind, or a long lost mirage of rust?
Pharoah’s disobedience blooming in God’s wrath.
I come from a lineage of rebels. Men
whose wives were queens in their dreams,
whose firstborns are god’s dinner. I bless
my father’s courage, the frog in his throat,
I bless his croak voice, the music of anguish
musing the morning on mourning, the silence
that folds his mouth as someone’s boy dies. 
The lamb does not remember the house of its shepherd.
Moses, is this the price of freedom or God’s anger 
when he thinks of the coming death of his Son?
My childhood of twilight is caught in this moment. 
As a first son, the olive withers and kisses me goodbye.

---

Adedayo Adeyemi Agarau is a human nutritionist, documentary photographer, and author of The Arrival of Rain. Adedayo was shortlisted for the Babishai Niwe Poetry Prize in 2018, Runner up of the Sehvage Poetry Prize, 2019. He was the runner-up of the Eriata Oribhabor Poetry Prize 2017. Adedayo is the Assistant Editor for Poetry at Animal Heart Press, the Contributing Editor for Poetry at Barren Magazine. His works have appeared or are forthcoming on Gaze, Glass, Jalada Africa, 8 Poems, Hellebore, Headway Lit, Nitrogen House and elsewhere. Adedayo is the Editor of Memento: An Anthology of Contemporary Nigerian Poetry. His chapbook, Origin of Names, was selected by Chris Abani and Kwame Dawes for New Generation African Poet (African Poetry Book Fund), 2020.

Richelle Kota

July 4, 2009

Henry is just alright. He’s a lawyer. He doesn’t hold me like my husband does or talk to me about anything of substance, but that laugh lights a flame in me. Anyways, it’s the same every time. We pretend to watch a movie. He fucks me and I take the train back home.  

On the train, I am unloading it all. The past few months have stacked emotions inside of me, I haven’t been able to let out. I open my wallet and the small photo the agency gave us falls onto the floor. I pick it up. The tears flood as we begin to  slant on. How do I miss someone I’ve never met? I drag my feet on the platform. It’s the same every time. 

In January, my husband would sometimes fall asleep on the floor of the nursery and when I got home I would see him there, in his work clothes, and hope the floor would open up. He would fall through with that goddamn room and I wouldn’t be such a shooting star anymore.

But I would rouse him to crawl into bed and when I would wake to find he has left me coffee and a note on the bedside table, I cross my heart and anxiously tell God:

i’m sorry! I’m sorry!

But it made me start seeing Henry more and more. I drank in his laugh. I took the train. Is it the train’s fault that it goes? That all of the passengers yearn for security in the slanting noise the train makes on the track?

I took my husband out for dinner tonight. I told him I had a surprise. We sat down for dinner, and a woman behind us at another table rattled on about seeing fireworks over the hill.

---

Richelle Kota is an immigrant, writer, nature enthusiast and educator living in Philadelphia. Her work has been published by Calyx Press, Yes Poetry, Peach Mag, and Hidden City Daily amongst others. She aspires to live a very simple life on a farm with pigs, goats, and dogs. You can follow her on Instagram @richelle.work and visit her website at www.richelle.work.

Raphael Maurice

AMERICAN STANDARD

April Fool’s falls on Easter this year:

I just thought you’d like to take that in      here

once   I almost   had a scorpion   for my pet

its curious tail    struck out    small flame

from summer’s humid porch     & long ago winter

had left    but when those snows —

so many falling rooms    silent on walks    for the cows’

bells scraping  the white air   white fences   O, when the snow disappeared —

my father trapped     the creature  in a mason jar

flushed the body    its deadly thorn far   far down

into our   American Standard    it swam

pointlessly back           to a desert    April Fool’s

falls on Easter    it’s all coming soon

I am alive          & straddle this world      beneath the moon’s

damaged face       it is a golden coin    I must give back

to America      through her economic plumbing      I will

hurry it    to the hunger-stream    I will      give the night

gold that vanishes      its worth stripped away    tarnished

peeled back      humiliated   I celebrate this fool   this mission.

---

Raphael Maurice is co-editor at U City Review, a poet, translator, and reader.  He resides in Washington, MO where the river keeps its secrets.

Julian Day

Twillingate, 2

The trip would eventually end
in St. John’s, but if we’re being honest
the terminus was here
 
in the far north-east, this land
of bushes and sparse trees,
where we slant-rhymed the ocean
with hope and slow
 
and in the long hours of the evening
watched whales navigate the coastline,
those phantoms fading
 
deep into the night, until the two of us
lost count of the hours sheltered there,
shivering under gulls and guillemots,
still together, and alone
 
in the strange beauty of moss and rock,
the water’s whisper, enough,
enough.

---

Julian Day lives in Winnipeg, Canada. His work has recently appeared in Juniper and periodicities, and his debut chapbook will be published by Anstruther Press in early 2021.

Kevin Casey

Location Sharing Sonnet

My dear, that round locket you shared before
your trip across the county has gone gray, 
and your location hasn’t updated
on my cell phone’s map for over half a day.
I had taken some solace since you left
tracing the movement of your pretty face
as it slipped from hotel to restaurant
and back through the streets of that foreign place. 
No time to call or text except at night,
glancing at my phone was reassuring
with your seminar’s schedule so tight,
your cameo bound within my cell phone’s screen.
But now it would seem there’s no app to chart
the meanderings that define the heart.

---

Kevin Casey is the author of Ways to Make a Halo (Aldrich Press, 2018) and American Lotus, winner of the 2017 Kithara Prize (Glass Lyre Press, 2018). And Waking... was published by Bottom Dog Press in 2016. His poems have appeared in Rust+Moth, Valparaiso Poetry Review, Connotation Press, Pretty Owl Poetry, Poet Lore and Ted Kooser's syndicated column ‘American Life in Poetry.’ For more, visit andwaking.com.

Mariel Fechik

Untitled

Sometimes I imagine the morning that you died. Although it wasn’t morning,
it was evening in a dark room. We stood around you like hunters around a deer,
waiting for your last breath. But sometimes I like to imagine it was morning, the
sky a blue brick through the window, the light cresting the tops of your knuckles.
Maybe I was singing, far away and quiet, or maybe I was just watching the glass
turn opaque in the glare and clear again. I like to imagine that you had opened
your eyes to the sound of the single bird sitting on the sill, the two of us still for
just that moment.

---

Mariel Fechik lives in Chicago, IL and works in a library. She sings for the bands Fay Ray and Tara Terra, and writes music reviews for Atwood Magazine. Her work has been nominated for Best of the Net and Bettering American Poetry, and has appeared in Hobart, Tinderbox Poetry Journal, Cream City Review, Barren Magazine, and others. She is the author of Millicent (Ghost City Press, 2019) and An Encyclopedia of Everything We've Touched (Ghost City Press, 2018).  

Ian Brunner

Dreams of Lives that Never Happened #1

In my mind, we are in a too small apartment.
It is a hot summer day. The kind that makes children wilt and ice cream melt before it can be tasted.

I am smoking cigarettes and writing poetry. You are strumming a guitar in a way that is poetry.
 
Somewhere, far below, the sounds of life drift in through the open window.
Cars honk, people yell, and a broken fan turns lazily.
 
We share cigarettes and talk about Frank O’Hara as Chet Baker plays on an old vinyl.
 
Your left shoulder is exposed as your silk robe hangs off your shoulder and I think about how sometimes, not knowing is better.
 
You muddle your way through a jazz progression and I drum in time on the rim of mason jars.
 
We talk and it is poetry.
We philosophize about the universe and the cosmos and the way our skin sticks together
on days like this, when it is too hot
but everything moves slow.
 
The sun never quite dips below three o’clock and we’re at that point where we probably should stop drinking whisky,
but what else is there to do but love the day and love you?

---

Ian Brunner is a fiction writer and poet from Buffalo, New York who is currently residing in Atlanta, Georgia. His work has been featured in eight journals and zines. He is the author of the chapbook, Ruminations (CWP 2017).

Bethany Lewis

CLUMP/ BEAT

i want to roleplay.
you are the tissue
heavy with snot. 
i’m the ozone layer, 
sucking at a pliable 
section of skin between my 
pointer and thumb. 
together we
gargle salt water for at
least thirty seconds each, then 
down the basin it goes.
my smoggy body  
shuffling through 
its golden years.   

---

Bethany Lewis recently received their BFA from the Art Academy of Cincinnati. Their work has been published by pitymilk press, and Forklift, Ohio. You can find more of them, their process and experiments on Instagram @nonmetrical.

Chris Prewitt

You Ever Wonder How the Fuck It Came to This?

The man who nearly hit me
in the drive thru at McDonald’s
had a dreamcatcher
hanging from his rearview.
A fellow traveler,
I said to myself, and turned
my chainsaw upon my heart.
You don’t have to tell me.
I’m like anyone else: a snowflake
landing upon the shoulder of a statue
crying blood.
Wise women once advised
don’t go chasing waterfalls.
Let’s add to that, don’t be distracted
on your backyard yellow tarp waterslide.
Don’t be in such a hurry to consume
that you forget what matters,
so you go through life calling yourself
a foreboding cloud when you are
cotton glued to a paper plate.
I remind myself when I can
be bothered to remember how
everyone was so kind to me
in the Roanoke, Virginia mall,
when I wore my black suit
for an interview to be a photographer.
We were all interviewed as one
then subjected to examination,
to treat a stuffed monkey as a child
to be photographed with invisible cameras.
You ever wonder how the fuck it came to this
the way the archangels do
as they vape in metallic blue
Hondas floating erratically in heaven?
No, just me? Okay.
In any event,
may your path to eternal love be
not impeded by youth
community basketball games
you’re forced to attend
with your father.
Or if it cannot be
avoided, stick up for your kid brother,
who’s fighting for breath
as he jogs up the court,
with bold language
knowing that your father will
take you by the throat
every time.

---

Chris Prewitt is the author of Paradise Hammer (SurVision Books), winner of the 2018 James Tate Poetry Prize. Chris has also been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and the Best of the Net. Twitter correspondence welcome:@poetcprewitt.

Pitambar Naik

Sunday Sermon

Sometimes a sting of gossiping
                     is spirituality. Just
                                       observed
a mutilation, and memory verse 
                        and the lost history  
of insulin, calligraphy in the street
of Galilee overlap      
while wearing the robe
          of a silver hypocrisy of a sect
the ventilator of the Eden
                               had a rapture.
The ventricles, the nerdy tongues
lick your sins thenceforth  
                                 with a prayer
dipping in the Jordan. 
Even Jezebel tried to raise her
godliness, the serrated dagger
                                 in her bosom
in the sheath of night
                       and Cain’s futility
what would you call it?
                               
And Sunday sermons are
                            like balloons
alongside puffed rice almost
take a glance at the nutrition level
hurray,                     a camel passes
through the           eye of a needle!
Those               cuckoos are gullible,
to be                           in a cocoon.

---

Pitambar Naik grew up in Odisha in India. He’s an award-winning poet and the author of a book of poetry, The Anatomy of Solitude (Hawakal Publishers). His work is forthcoming in The Indian Quarterly and has appeared across 10 countries in The World Belongs To Us (Anthology): HarperCollins India, Eunoia Review, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Cha: An Asian Literary Journal, Formercactus, Occulum, Vayavya, Dream Noir Magazine, Literary Orphans, Joao Roque Literary Journal, and Hakara among others.

CD Eskilson

Becoming Poltergeist

Promise it won’t happen:
worry’s pass into possession, the dybbuk’s
multiplying.
 
Promise the impossible. 
 
            Kindled fingers at the sink,
the stovetop, smoke rising off the tested locks
 
as you speak to rattled doors
            but don’t expect an answer.
 
Don’t linger when a lover crumples
            at the haunt you’ve left 
            the living room:
 
the twice-cleaned sofa, lysol ooze, new layout everyday:
 
            home is spotless tomb is afterlife is burial.
 
Think about the snarl pressed
to your neckbone after mourning
some future death,
 
            how obsession is a murder
of crows, their curved beaks
            scraping bone. The anxious
 
pick and scrape of chin,
the chain felt dropping in the throat:
 
always tongue the panic 
to the quick and turn the panic
            into wailing.
 
Ghost is starched sheet is intrusion
            is never find a resting place.

---

CD Eskilson is a queer nonbinary poet, editor, and educator. Their work appears or is forthcoming in the Cortland Review, Redivider, Peach Mag, Yes Poetry, and Moonchild Magazine, among others. CD is Poetry Editor of Exposition Review and a reader for Split Lip Magazine. They live in Los Angeles.

Brittany Lisa Carey

Goodbar

We are
Shoe string astronauts 
Tying shoes together
Shoes to table 
Shoes to pants
Whispers on launch pad 
Moments from lift off 
 
We are
Earthworms 
Navigating all things concrete 
The cold between us 
A simple shiver.

We are 
Engineers
A pile of legs and laughter 
I have become less tea kettle 
More bubble machine
 
We are
A blackhole coffin
You, Zia, 
I, Mikaul
This conversation 
A lover’s beach
Only to be washed away

The merry go round 
Of our friendship
Slowing to a halt 
The only coins remaining
Foreign 

Is it worth the exchange 
To start again? 

When you blink 
This will all have been 
another mistake 

I wonder:
What makes this bar 
A good bar 

What bits of us 
Splattered on the pavement 
Are stains

What words 
Stuck in the sidewalk cracks 
Are left moaning in the cold 

If you could still hear me
If you even want to 

If I have always been 
The wrong door to knock on 

If you have been the spray paint this whole time
Maybe the flowers were the most important part 

We are:
A room full of hospital lights 
Both beds are empty
But there’s blood on the floor 

I wonder 
What we are now 

I wonder 
Where you went.

I wonder enough 
to know the difference 
Between a daydream 
And a car horn 
And you are still sleeping

I wonder
When you’ll wake up.

---

Brittany Lisa Carey is a Buffalo born poet, fiction writer and the host of Ambedo Poetry.  She graduated with a Bachelors degree in English from Hilbert College in 2017 and has since continued her learning journey on a more social level in the local art community. She has one published chapbook, Sutures & Mortar, through CWP (now Dark Particle) and her piece "Suicide" appeared in the January 2019 edition of Ghost City Review. You can follow Ambedo Poetry on Facebook & Instagram.

Samuel Swauger

Cielo

To Cielo Davila

I cry like an airplane, they tell me,
but I just love to sing. And I smile
at funny faces, and the green ocean.
I wear berets, I write in cursive,
and I love to bite my lip when
I’m thinking about the Greeks.
I’m never ever not thinking.
Someday I might love myself, but
I think I’ll be alone for a bit longer.

---

Samuel Swauger is a poet from Baltimore, MD. His writing appears in Tilde, Third Wednesday, and Front Porch Review, among other publications. His Twitter is @samuelswauger.

Popemodernist

[sewer water never smelled so sweet]

The patch of poison ivy where I smoked my first cigarette
I don’t think I ever told you,
but you sense
the railroad bridge and stream
are special so you dip your bare
feet in sewer water, crawl
along spiny branches
stripped of leaves by careless
hands holding on
 
We are better than these unknown predecessors
all we need is whispering
moss under curled toes
like rows + rows
of cream corn
courage
& shit soaked french fries
 
*
 
the wildflower on the bridge stares at me now
I am more
afraid of spiders than its little burrs    I am less
of everything, less
likely to bare-knuckle catch
air & squeeze out its
ache like firefly juice
let some sort of false incandescence illuminate my wrinkles
everybody has it
I just have nothing more to offer once i smear this sweet
nectar across the tip of your nose                   apparent, possession 
diminuendo in the cramp between brows
diminuendo my brows
places everyone, places, let’s get
on with it. You’ll rot in the bathtub
if anyone lets you but I feel like a piece of    glue
when I sit still all those porch lamps
obstruct goldenrod
for which we were never
necessarily searching
 
*
 
I am just anger i am just anger i am just
I’m going to bed I say
 
write me something pretty before you fall
asleep you say
i don’t, I
 
say, you
say it like that
blank concrete slab
that empty yellow
drainage pipe 
 
its train-horn
dullness

---

One day as a young pope, Popemodernist spotted a split ear of corn in the dirt. Two halves still smoking. The fruit of my labor is empty, they thought, watching smoke curl from the spongy mass. So they left the church. But there are still questions. 

Popemodernist is one such question, asked in answer, dissonant, crossing arbitrary lines of genre, gender, and medium, hopefully a spooky diversion for y’all, hopefully not taking themself Too Seriously, etc.

Jean Gaffney

I’m Washing the Dishes at My Kitchen Sink

after my friend has left my place
and my hands are shaking. Making me drop the pots
and pans. They bang in the sink
and the clink is broken.
 
I’m washing the dishes at my kitchen sink
and I’m thinking about how this time is different
because my friend said this time she tried.
 
I’m washing the dishes at my kitchen sink
and all I want is for something to be clean.
  
I’m washing the dishes at my kitchen sink
and even the water that streams from the faucet
feels dirty, cleanliness is
unattainable––leaving me
hopeless. The feeling splashes over me
and consumes my soul
that I’m not convinced is real.
 
I’m washing the dishes at my kitchen sink
and her words are ringing like the broken clink:
I tried to kill myself last week.
 
I’m washing the dishes at my kitchen sink
and I’m meditating on my friend telling me 
not to look so sad for her. She told me––only me
because she wanted stability. 
 
I’m washing the dishes at my kitchen sink 
and I’m thinking of all the tears I couldn’t shed 
in front of her, for her––sadness contained
like the basin of a sink
drain stopped 
and filling the empty space between.  
 
I’m washing the dishes at my kitchen sink
and I throw the wine glass to the tiles beneath
and it breaks with a more melodic clink
and I finally let my body break 
on the tile floor shaking 
and sobbing surrounded by
broken glass, so fragile 
and still jagged

---

Jean Gaffney is an undergraduate at Albion College, studying Literature and Environmental Policy. When they're not studying, they like to pet pugs, drink coffee, and read.

Anna Teresa Slater

Coffee, No Sugar

You ask me how I am.
I say 3809. I didn’t use to
answer that question
with the number of people dead.
I apologize.
These are different times.
Now how are you means
you’re alive so any response
will suffice.     When I count sheep
to sleep at night
I get to 265. It’s a matter of survival.
How are you?
Remember the time
we went for a drive, a truck swerved
and we almost turned over. We thought
we would die. In the middle
of that brimstone highway
our eyes screamed
How are you?
Once upon a time
I didn’t tally everything in the news
during my morning brew.
Over 22,000 from drugs or the police.
A billion creatures from forest fires.
Ask me again how I am.

---

Anna Teresa Slater is a high school teacher from Iloilo, Philippines, and a postgraduate student in Creative Writing at Lancaster University. Her poems have been published or are forthcoming in Channel Lit Mag, Shot Glass Journal, The Literary Nest, Door is a Jar, Nightingale & Sparrow, and more, as well as in anthologies by Kasingkasing Press and Hedgehog Poetry Press. 

Kristin Garth

One Day Your Abusers Grow Old

and though in childhood you were told and taught
to keep a year’s supply of food at all
times — why your mother’s walk-in closet
there was half clothes/ half food in jars, a wall
of rainbow vegetables she canned and
never even served except the pickles, bread
and butter which went fast.  Rest lasts, hand
canned potatoes because the prophet said.
One Mormon edict you strangely uphold,
emergency pantry, paper products
so when coronavirus hits, parents, old,
forgetful of their own religion, stuck
home, beg toilet paper from a child they beat,
an atheist can turn the other cheek.

---

Kristin Garth is a Pushcart, Best of the Net & Rhysling nominated sonnet stalker. Her sonnets have stalked journals like Glass, Yes, Five:2:One, Luna Luna and more. She is the author of fifteen books of poetry including Pink Plastic House and Shut Your Eyes, Succubi (Maverick Duck Press), Crow Carriage and Candy Cigarette Womanchild Noir (The Hedgehog Poetry Press), Flutter: Southern Gothic Fever Dream (TwistiT Press) and The Meadow (APEP Publications). She is the founder of Pink Plastic House a tiny journal and co-founder of Performance Anxiety, an online poetry reading series. Follow her on Twitter: (@lolaandjolie) and her website kristingarth.com.

Rycheigh Allan

Uppercut from the Sun

I once saw the White
And the Red
It was when
the orange crashed into
the blue of the sky
The pinks and the violets
And all of their violence against
The veil hiding us from the stars
It was a war before the clouds
 
West on I-90
The morning after my grandfather died
I look to my left
And it's there I find
the White
The warning
The retreat
The many bright lights of wonder
of things still unanswered
of the path less traveled
I wonder to myself
just what it is they're running from
 
At my front
Leading the morning traffic stampede
I find the Red
The beckoning
the call
The gas pedal, the brake pedal
The slight adjustment of either to end it all
The urge
The temptation
the race to be swallowed up into the gray
Before us
I wonder just what it is we're running towards
 
My grandfather
Was the kind of man
That could punch the sky
and leave a bruise
So on that early morning
I knew it was him peeking over the horizon at me
Bruising the sky as he always had
As he always could have
 
I was told
That at his passing
Our family adorned the room he lay in
My grandmother, as described to me
A heap of hysterics inconsolable beyond comprehension
You don't know sadness
You don't know heart break
until you've seen it in an 80 year old spanish woman unwillingly thrust into sudden widowhood
 
As I dip my toes into this
I steal a look into my rear view mirror
And here, again, I see
The White
advancing steadily behind me
In my driver side mirror, the Red
disappearing into the distance
heading east bound
 
We have been each other these fleeting moments
We have always been each other
Just low beams and brake lights
Passing by one another
I wonder if, maybe,
one of their grandfather's died too
 
I know this will pass
As will this moment
As all things do
So I guess
I'll just keep driving
Home

---

Rycheigh Allan is an actor and poet currently residing in Jamestown, NY. Although born in northern California, he considers himself a chip right off the shoulders of the Rocky Mountains that somehow rolled from Colorado all the way to Western NY. He is 27 years old and has a cat named Smore, who remains a permanent fixture in his lap on any given day. You can find him most often sauntering the streets of downtown in search of a place to call home. Find more of his poetry at ‪facebook.com/7Vagabond2 or on his Instagram @rycheighallan.