Jeff

By Joey Hedger

My name is Jeff and so is his, the guy who sells tomatoes at the farmer’s market, as well as his and hers, though he spells it Geoff and she goes by Tina, and that guy’s name is also Jeff, who’s over in the corner wearing a tuxedo, and so is the guy’s we call Jefe because he’s the man, and so is my manager’s at work who we normally call Manager O’Neill but who’ll sometimes let it slip, and so is everybody’s at the office, actually, and the Uber driver’s that I had coming over and the person’s who lives next door, and I have a cousin named Jeff and an uncle named Jeff too, and you know, there’s a lot of Jeffs in my life, because my dad is named Jeff and so is my mom and so is the mailman and all the guys who empty the recycling bins on my street, and there’s more Jeffs being born each minute, and more Jeffs dying too, dying from car accidents, cancers, and other Jeffs; there’s Jeffs everywhere you look, here, there, and there, and Jeff is what I call my friends when we’re having fun, and Jeff is what I call baristas and bartenders when they make me my drinks, and Jeff is what I call my wife when I dial her phone on the way home and what I’ll name my kids if I ever have them and the characters I’ll write about in books, and Jeff is what I call God, what I call Mister President, what I call the people on TV—hell, I’ve never met someone who isn’t Jeff, someone who isn’t already me.

Joey Hedger lives in Alexandria, Virginia, and writes from a fire-damaged apartment on a hill overlooking the train tracks.

Photo by Joey Hedger.

Why Aren't You Calling 911?

By Zoé Mahfouz

My mom and I decided to go to the countryside for vacation to get a breath of fresh air, since exposure to air pollution can cause stroke, ischemic heart disease, chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, lung cancer, pneumonia, and cataracts, and everything went just as planned: the tourist attractions we wanted to visit were closed until summer, which isn’t such a bad thing considering that’s where people usually put their unwashed hands, spreading cold and flu viruses, a mechanic told us the wheels of our car were assembled in the wrong order, which I’m pretty sure isn’t true, but I wasn’t about to accuse him of having dyscalculia, especially knowing his constant exposure to carcinogenic dust could cause him respiratory complications like lung cancer and mesothelioma, a group of partner-swappers invited us to join in while we were eating pizza, as if we were tempted to catch human papillomavirus, chlamydia, gonorrhea, syphilis, herpes, trichomoniasis, or HIV, an old man tried to steal my mother’s purse in the middle of a bakery, which really triggered my hypertension, especially when I realized he peed his pants in the process and could transmit leptospirosis if he got too close, a random guy who shared the communal pool at the spa with us smelled like he hadn’t showered in months, which usually leads to dermatitis neglecta, my mother accidentally swallowed the communal pool’s water, the vaccination center was fully booked for cholera shots, the pharmacies told us that drinking Betadine "preventively" was not a thing, the emergency room made us eat charcoal even though we are obviously not barbecue appliances, social security refused to reimburse us, I’m almost certain my moles multiplied in the meantime, and on the way back, not only did I see a tiger mosquito drink my blood, but a feisty field mouse also bit me when I dropped a fry at a motorway rest area, and I swear I heard her whisper a list of global diseases and threats in alphabetical order before handing me a tiny knife and telling me to go back in time to kill baby Hitler, so I’m pretty sure my days are numbered.

Zoé Mahfouz is a French actress, screenwriter, writer, and content creator, author of ADHD in D Minor (North Meridian Press, 2026) and Borges Must Be Rolling in His Grave (Dancing Girl Press, 2025).

Art by Jay Baker, an artist from Colorado living in Oregon, by way of New Mexico; he records music as Tom Foe.

Ritual / Habit

By Dee Mohammed

My bi-annual check-up on my elementary school crush goes how I expect it to, with me frowning at the scraggly mustache that sprouts unattractively from his upper lip and the thick, American traditional tattoos sleeving down his arms, “US Navy” in his bio and “college dropout” in the subtext, all the makings of someone who, a decade down the line, would raise his children to call him “sir,” children conceived with a girl who is a petite shade of his mother, because he doesn’t follow his sisters on Instagram, but he follows his mom and a handful of swimsuit models who could very well be his mom’s age—regardless, he’d be known around the neighborhood as a stand-up guy who faithfully attends his kids’ basketball and football and baseball games, never mind that he arrives for only the last ten minutes of his daughter’s kindergarten performance of The Nutcracker, and his shirt is always tucked smartly into his Levi jeans, smooth down strong legs as the other dads call him "sport" and "man," even though the natural curl of his dark lashes and owlish set of his eyes belie a strange and fidgeting girlishness in him, one that I’d liked in third grade when I solemnly told him he had the prettiest eyes I’d ever seen sit on a boy’s face; this was before kissing his cheek and running off, though that was then, when he used to smile with all his teeth, and this is now, so I let myself linger on the semi-familiar face of a stranger who knows the shape of my mouth against skin before I close the tab, memory settling like sediment until, inevitably, it becomes disturbed again.

Dee Mohammed is a very tired, very hungry student at Texas A&M University, and her works appear in a handful of literary magazines from over the years.

Art by Jay Baker, an artist from Colorado living in Oregon, by way of New Mexico; he records music as Tom Foe.