by Eve Devera at mississippi baptist there’s a boy with long eyelashes.when you pass him the offering bucket,his fingers linger on yours. he’s the preacher’s boy,but he leaves the pew early and his shadow hangsin the hot air like breath in prayer against your neck.you hold a post-service picnic by the dumpsterwhere sin has never been so sweet, and he calls you his choir boyin the drawl of lazy summer air. you want to make him smile,so you steal the grape juice, set the jug to his lips,watch him bare his throat and drink it down. now, choir boy, don’t lose yourself in the revelsof another smooth-talking pastor’s son. the sunwill always set, and this lesson is one you’ve learned,but soon the sky darkens and you’re late to dinner.the table is empty and daddy waits at the door.he’s a man of his word with brimstone in his back pocket.he’s a snake crusher in a pair of steel-toes.he’s a bible thumper who doles out beatingswith an arm that doesn’t tire till you see jesus,and you see him every sunday. do not lie to a man,or his belt will rain thunder down your back. sing, choir boy, let them hear you repent.let them hear your hymns and let your father forgive you.tear leviticus out in sheets, lie on the pages so the inkwill stain your skin and soothe the welts. do thisbut know that your eye will forever be drawnto the beautiful boy with the forbidden mouth.he eats an apple before the next sermonand winks when you see him in the foyer,nods an invite to the back lot garden to feast on figsand sit in the shadows of the trees of eden. remember, choir boy, jesus didn’t flinch at the soundof those footsteps. but this patch of weeds is godless,so it’s a last kiss on the cheek as the lights of the mobcome bobbing behind the church. judas lopes away,but your feet tangle in the threads of transgressionand you stumble. they’re on you like stonesand there’s no one to draw in the sand for you,choir boy, only the marks that your thrashing and wailingleave scuffed in the dirt. they used to call you angelicwhen you warbled your tunes, but now your body’s in the ditchwith angel robes stained bloody at the hem. oh, choir boy, sing a little longer.spread your wings and fly past the dregsof mississippi to a place where they’ll look upto hear your song trickle through the clouds.one more hymn, choir boy, one more hymnfor all the boys with broken haloswho find themselves face-down in the mud. Eve Devera is an undergraduate writer from Charleston, South Carolina studying Management at Charleston Southern University. She enjoys crafting poetry that balances sound and rhythm with vivid storytelling, right down to the particulars. Her work can be found in Olive & Ash, for which she also currently serves as Editor-in-Chief. 

by Isabella Ayers i love a man who takes what he wants,i leave my body so you can use it.have your fun. I’m listening to the cicadasand trying not to taste you.i’m making constellationsin the popcorn ceilingand waiting for my cigarette.i’ll be okay. if not now, soon.i just have to wait until winter,wait for snow. maybe that night you will taste like magicand my doubt will drainlike blood from a stone. make me cleanas the white sheets that do notyet hold our footprints. for tonight, the air is too humid for you to hold me.the power is out, the fireflies waltzin the absence of street lamps.we do not watch. Isabella Ayers is a biochemistry major at Charleston Southern University seeking to pursue a poetry MFA upon graduation. She is highly involved in creative writing communities on campus as an editor for Olive & Ash magazine and a board member of Writer’s Guild. She has been published multiple times in Olive & Ash and received the annual Gilmore Creative Writing award for her work. In her spare time, she sings in an Orthodox church choir, wanders aimlessly in dense forests at night, and collects the bones of dead animals. 

by Patrick Adkins it turned me bitter to the taste of lakewater,flattened my love for even weather,killed Charlie Hall and left his ghostwandering the green screen,while the meteorologist lieswith the same face he used in church. Charleston is a mean trick:made me despise Maryland crab cakesjust to come crawling backfor a cracked blue shell,the soft molted ones,the delicate, defenseless oneswhose backs burst like promises—offered up to the river gods of Wando,those scaled oracles,who return the favorby curling their tailsinto fry baskets,feeding the low-country faithfullike communion. I hate how Charleston taught menot to fear the wilderness,how to dance with a hurricane—pressed to the sheetrock,while God, that old carnie,grins and slaps the buttonon the Gravitron of the mid-Atlantic. It confused my body into longing:for salt behind the ears,for pluff mud cakedbeneath the nails,between the toes,a perfume of mildew and memory. andBushee Park,where the Cooper splits clean through—a delta of blood,of runoff and regret. I hate how everybody loves shrimp and grits now.I hate how they shut down Justine’s.I won’t touch another pecanuntil I taste her chicken again. Patrick Adkins was born and raised in Charleston, South Carolina. He now lives in Aiken, South Carolina with his wife, Dr. Chloe Adkins, and their son, Ambrose. His writing often blends the familiar and the surreal, exploring the strange edges of ordinary life.