PARALYSIS IN PERPETUUM

A codependency in fifteen minutes or less 

By William Reymann  

CHARACTERS 

DEVIN- A self-centered, histrionic homosexual. Not old, but not what young people would call young anymore. A good swimmer, choosing to drown. 

MAGGIE- A people-pleasing, purpose-seeking, somewhat-lonely Jewish woman of the same age. Secretly terrified that life might be meaningless and clinging to the edge of the pool. 

One cannot survive without the other, yet they cannot exist together without each destroying both. 

NOTE: The audio monologue in the beginning should be pre-recorded and can come from anyone, as long as it doesn’t sound like Devin or Maggie. 

SETTING 

Devin’s inherited, rent-controlled apartment in the East Village. The place is a SHITHOLE of Devin’s own making. The actual apartment underneath the pizza boxes, papers, tissues, dirty clothes, etc. is probably rather nice. Do with this what you will. It need not be detailed, realistic, expensive, or even expensive-looking! 

(Darkness. Throughout the following PSA, a smoke alarm starts going off, a neighbor’s baby starts wailing, a phone starts ringing, a distant siren is heard, a church choir starts singing, and some dirty blues starts playing.) 

AUDIO 

Unlike in Hollywood, the person suffering from Instinctive Drowning Response will likely -not- be able to call for help. We commonly see the mouth either at the water line or below it and the arms outstretched horizontally, parallel to the water, preventing the individual from wiping hair and water from the face and eyes, which is an immediate indicator of IDR. The arms will be essentially locked in this position for the entire 30-40 second time frame before drowning. 

DEVIN 

Cigarettes are the best way to go. Both of us destroying the other- that’s dignity. The fag by fire and the faggot by smoke. Or it’s companionship, at least. Mutually assured destruction with a cellulose acetate filter.  

AUDIO (we should hear this part) 

The person drowning will not be in control of their own body and will instinctually push a rescuer underwater for their own access to air. 

(Lights up. The sounds cut out. DEVIN is lounging and smoking a cigarette while he laments. MAGGIE is actively cleaning his apartment, diligently fixing and organizing.) 

DEVIN 

Mutual destruction Maggie! Are you even listening? Would you just stop that?? Okay? Please?? You’re wasting your time, I’m just gonna stick my head in the oven anyway. 

(MAGGIE takes his cigarette and places it in an ashtray. She replaces it with a thingy of milk and puts the straw in DEVIN’s mouth. The second she steps away, he swaps them back.) 

DEVIN 

I’m not joking. 

MAGGIE 

I’m not laughing. We all wish we could live our lives moping, Devin, we do, but at a certain point, we have to pack it up and move on. 

DEVIN (actual air quotes strictly prohibited) 

“Move on.” You clearly understand very little about heartbreak. 

MAGGIE 

Devin, he- whatever. 

DEVIN 

No Maggie, go. Speak on your convictions. 

MAGGIE 

It’s nothing. 

DEVIN 

Violet Gibson was born in 1876 in Ireland, and everyone thought she was one sandwich short of a picnic her entire life. Barking mad, Maggie, mad. In Rome in 1926, she shot Mussolini at point blank range. And missed. Then, Mussolini- Benito Mussolini- for the one fiber of mercilini in his heart, instead of executing her then and there, sends her to be imprisoned for life in England. And the story takes off, Mussolini soars in popularity, allies with Hitler and kills 7,500 Italian jews before being killed in 1945 any way. And now nobody even knows who Violet Gibson is and it’s fucked up and as a wise Lin Manuel Miranda tote bag once said, don’t throw away your shot, Mags. 

(Just to be sure, he knocks over some papers or clothes, generally wrecks a pile she just built up.) 

MAGGIE 

Jesus christ, Dev! 

DEVIN 

No, just us girls.  

MAGGIE 

For fuck’s sake, your sugar daddy dropped you! You didn’t get your heart broken, you got cock-blocked by a man old enough to be your father! 

DEVIN 

Ohhhhh! Oh. Okay, the truth at last! I’m so glad it’s that- it’s so simple! I’m so glad my life is so simple. I’m so glad my pain is this easy for you to categorize and clean up, but picture this, Maggie. Virgin. Virgin Maggie- picture this. My heart- yes, my lizard heart- snapped in two when Marcus stopped calling! You might be floored to hear it, but I feel love Maggie! I have warm and moving blood in my veins! And you think I’m just some whore- some dandy fag who hangs himself up on every man in alphabet city! It’s not my fault you were raised Hasidic, Maggie! It’s not my fault there’s no version of me that fits into a version of propriety you can get behind! If unconventional love is something you don’t understand, take it to your therapist, don’t shit it out on me! There is a wilderness of love and devastation beyond the confines of anything your squirrel brain can imagine! And you hate the idea that the turning world might leave you in the dust! But you know what, it should and it will! 

MAGGIE 

Oh fuck you! You know what, go ahead and throw your life away! You are a fucking sinkhole Devin, you are a selfish, miserable sinkhole of a friend and I fucking hate knowing you! I dropped everything when Kyle blocked you last year! My grandfather was in hospice and you never even said thank you- ever! People like you are honestly better off dead! You don’t even know five things about me that don’t directly pertain to you! Your- Ego! Is astronomical! I bend over backwards! I put in the work! Check your fucking privilege you hedonistic shitheel! There is a frontier of reality outside of your own self-inflated gravity! You just hate the idea that the whirling globe doesn’t spin on the tip of your dick! But you know what, it’s not my fucking problem! 

(They end up face to face. DEVIN tries to kiss MAGGIE.) 

MAGGIE 

Uh! Devin? What the fuck? 

DEVIN 

Uh yeah what the fuck, you just tried to kiss me! 

MAGGIE 

What? What?? No, YOU tried to kiss ME! 

DEVIN 

You’re saying: I? Tried to kiss: you? Hm. No, that just doesn't make sense. Look Maggie, this whole weird shouting thing? It really isn’t healthy. You have a family history of high blood pressure and I can’t be any more stressed right now or I’m gonna start breaking out— two very serious reasons we have got to stop screaming at each other. 

MAGGIE 

And what? Start groping each other instead?? Do you even hear yourself right now?? I mean, holy shit Devin! Holy shit. Healthy? Look around you!!! This! Is not healthy! Any of this! I mean! God! Is this seriously how you want to live? You wake up, you cry, you smoke cigarettes, you eat days -ld pizza off the goddamn carpet like an animal, you cry again, and then you go back to sleep. It’s pa-the-tic!! 

(DEVIN starts to cry like a baby.) 

DEVIN 

I-I-I- I’m sorry Maggie, I- please please please don’t go! I-I kiss people- I kiss people when they get mad at me! I’m sorry, but I-I can’t help it! I can’t help it- I mean- Marcus- my boss- my dad- the cat- I just- I just- You’re right, I’m a mess, I’m… a worthless shit! 

(He cries. MAGGIE hugs him.) 

MAGGIE 

Woah, hey. Hey. You’re not worthless. You’re not shit. You are so so strong. And so so special. Devin? You are. I’m sorry. I don’t know where that came from. I didn’t mean it. 

DEVIN 

You’re not mad? 

MAGGIE 

I’m not. 

DEVIN 

You’re gonna stay? 

MAGGIE 

…Yes. I’ll stay. 

(A knock on the door.) 

MAGGIE 

Who is that? 

DEVIN 

I don’t know. 

MAGGIE 

Is that Marcus? 
 
DEVIN 

I said I don’t know. 

MAGGIE 

Maybe he'll just lea- 

(More knocking. DEVIN reaches for the knob.) 

MAGGIE 

Well, hold on. That could be anyone, right? You’re not just gonna invite them in? 

DEVIN 

He’s knocking on the door Mags, he’s clearly looking for at least one of us. 

MAGGIE 

Looking to murder us maybe. Devin, we’re attractive people, we’re ripe for that sort of thing- ripe. And you, you’re in a vulnerable place right now. 

DEVIN 

Ugh, right? You do not know how validating it is to hear that. Maggie, you just- get me! It’s like why were we even fighting? 

MAGGIE 

… …Yeah! It is… like that! 

(More knocking.) 

MAGGIE 

Jesus christ, who does this guy think he is? 

DEVIN 

Right? It’s like you knocked twice already, we’re clearly busy or not here. We’re not here!! 

(More. It continues intermittently for the rest of the scene.) 

DEVIN 

Fucking asshole. 

 MAGGIE 

Asshole, oh my god. 

(MAGGIE resumes cleaning up the place. DEVIN watches her do so for a beat.) 

DEVIN 
Uhhh, Maggie? Maggiebabes, what are you doing? …Maggie? 

MAGGIE 

Yeah? Oh. I’m just cleaning up a little. Before dinner? 

DEVIN (passive aggressive) 

Huh. Maggie? Remember when I asked you to come here and stay here and clean and cook and do everything for me? Oh yeah, no, neither do I because, hahahahaaaaa I never did- In fact, I have begged you! To stop. Maggie? STOP. If you try to make me dinner if- if- if you pick up one more sock, I- I swear…!! Maggie, for the love of god put that shit down! 

(MAGGIE resumes calmly cleaning, she speaks calmly and evenly too, until she doesn’t.) 

MAGGIE 

You wanna know something Dev? If I walked out that door right now, you would be dead. There’s obviously a crazed murderer on the other side- we’ve established that- but murderer or not, I’d give you… ten minutes max without me chewing your food and wiping your ass, that’s how utterly useless you are. I’ve seen you break down and cry over a spider in the bathroom, Dev. Now, who took the driver’s seat when we got pulled over in Vancouver? Who ended up getting stitches after that guy tried to mug you in Washington Square? Who scattered your mother’s ashes, Dev?? It wasn’t you!! 

DEVIN 

And do you know what the miraculous thing is? Not once, not once! Did I ask for it! For any of it, Maggie! 

MAGGIE 

Well, fuck me sideways, it’s almost as if I’m a good friend!! 

DEVIN 

No, no, no, no, no. Good friends call. Good friends text: I’m sorry Devin, whatever you need Devin, I’m here for you blah blah, all that sentimental shit. Good friends! Do not show up within the hour and start doing housework- that’s what you did! I told you Marcus went nuclear and you started doing housework! Like a- like a- like a psychotic Phyllis Schlafly! Do you even have a job any more?? Do have any single other friend?? You have been here for forty days and forty nights, Maggie- I hate it! Leave! Leave and go home! Go down to Kokomo- I don’t care! I don’t care if I die, I don’t care if we both die! It’s better than being slowly suffocated by you!  

(Knock knock knock.) 

MAGGIE & DEVIN 

FUCK OFF WE’RE NOT HOME!!! 

MAGGIE  

Suffocation?? Do you want to know suffocation? Fine. I’ll give you suffocation! I’ll give you twenty-five fucking years of being muted, abused, and ignored- let’s see!!  

(She starts throwing more and more shit at DEVIN. The occasional “ow!”, “Hey!”, “Stop!” from DEVIN.) 

MAGGIE 

Thank you Maggie! Thank you for cleaning the dishes! Thank you for handling the garbage! Thank you for the vacuuming! Thank you for the casserole! Thank you for the rent! And the groceries! Thank you for your time and your energy and your blood and your sweat and your tears! Maggie! Your tears! You’re a good person Maggie! A good friend! And one good goddamn jew! I’m a pathetic worm and I love you Maggie! And I am sorry Maggie! I’m sorry I missed your bat mitzvah! I’m sorry for all the bullshit excuses! And I’m sorry for the fucking mind games and the emotional gunpoint! And I’m sorry your gorgon parents put you through hell for twenty years! I’m sorry I only think about myself! I’m sorry I never call first! I’m sorry I rarely answer the phone! I’m sorry I have drained you and depleted you! I’m sorry I had to date you in high school to learn women’s bodies repulse me! I’m sorry Kayla got the promotion and I’m sorry I abandoned you when Whiskers died! I’m sorry for never listening Maggie! I’m sorry for -always- interrupting! I’m sorry that I never flush the fucking toilet! Sorry! Sorry! Sorry! Sorry! Sorry! SORRY I tried to KISS you to get out of an argument just now!! Do you have A N Y idea how predatory- how dismissive! How reductive!! That was?? 

DEVIN 

I kiss people when they get mad at me!! You know that! 

MAGGIE 

Enough! That is enough! I am tired of…! God fucking- I don’t even know what this is any more, I am just tired! I love you Devin, I do, but it is the most excruciating and exhausting job on earth! And… I do not know how to do it anymore! (Beat.) I’m sorry I can’t be more like… like Violet Gibson, but I’m just… I’m not. You know? I’m not someone who pulls the trigger. I’m not someone who goes down with the ship. I guess I’m… a coward! Maybe. but. I don’t know! I just. I don’t want to drown. I’m not oxygen, Devin. 

(MAGGIE goes to the door. She reaches for the knob but then:) 

DEVIN 

Maggie, come on. Look, just- come on! Look don't- don’t open the door. Nobody has to do anything crazy now, nobody has to go opening doors. We’re golden in here. Like Schrodinger’s cat, Mags! We’re like Schrodinger’s cat! I’ll clean up, come on. 

(DEVIN starts to clean up. As he continues speaking, MAGGIE opens the door unnoticed. There is no murderer outside, only a delivery of milk. Maggie places it inside, exits.) 

DEVIN 
Ok, ummmm socks? Can go over here. The clean ones I’ll take in my room... There we go. Bottles and cans… I’ll put in a bag to go down for recycling… mmmmm here, we’ve got trash bags… I’ll recycle all this paper. Well, I’ll sort the bills into their own… pile first, that’ll be… it’s own thing- Pizza boxes… with grease go into the trash, painting stuff I’ll put back under my bed?... Pants right here. Um… Underwear in this pile- not bad! See? Shirts, uh, towels… oh and don’t even worry about the stains, I’m gonna steam and vacuum before going to bed. I’ll do the dishes too. And don’t even worry about dinner. How’s that for useless, Mags! Maggie? 

(DEVIN realizes he’s all alone. He sees the milk. He sees the mess. He sees his own solitude. He takes it in. We sit here for some time. He puts out what’s left of the cigarette. Life goes on.  

END OF PLAY.) 

Little Me

by Priya Grace

Speaks in broken sentences or doesn’t speak 

at all, and certainly not to the crossing guard with the  

moon face. Sits on the floor of the hallway  

and mashes glossy black beans that bleed between her baby teeth 

like aphids swollen with citrus. She is seven 

and likes the smell of malt—tugged on my sleeve 

when I tried Corona Refresca Guava Lime. Not  

too much …  Little one has sick reflexes! Can  

swerve a size twelve sneaker like  

she’s D1 for dodgeball. I don’t want you here,  

I tell her, and she puffs her bottom lip. Goes  

back to her wooden horse. 

The next time I see her, she’s floating above our old bed, banking on the fact that  

her Caliban can’t fly. Dude is bug-eyed but earthbound, with a mouth like 

Brandy’s sailor.  

I cannot be touched because touch has an end. 

Somewhere, everywhere, night lights flicker on.  

Books replace themselves on the shelves 

and this time, when she comes, I rock her to sleep.  

Dawn in Avalon

by Katherine Goldblatt

A contraption decorated with gold plating 

hovers briefly above our boat, brilliant to 

our bashful blinking. The waves are copper; 

the sky, vermillion and peach, out of reach 

of our outstretched hands, slinking into 

shadows and back to the sun, but not 

grasping or holding the prize we see through 

our bashful blinking. No lands are conquered 

from our expeditions. We only seek to 

broaden our horizons and sail straight to 

them. Despite our bashful blinking, the 

future is mapped, inked, and signed for. 

And though we seek the tangible tranquility, 

we are only met with bashful blinking. But 

even this is a triumph. For who else views 

this contraption with gold plating but us? 

We are the chosen ones. Blessed may 

we be, bashful and blinking. 

A New Shell

by Leeza Pantano

I’m home this weekend, and the anxiety that comes with tugging on and zipping up an old skin has been refamiliarizing itself with me all afternoon. Last night, as my father drove me home, the atmosphere had stayed light, and our conversation never strayed past fun, so I had hoped the rest of the weekend would stay that way; it absolutely would not. There is tension in my house; it’s only a matter of which mine in the field is stepped on.

Water is slowly coming to a boil in the red electric kettle my mother bought in Kentucky on our last road trip. She is enamored with all red things, red metal things to be exact. For the rest of us, it means every time a red metal item crosses our path, it must be bought. There’s a small, red, metal antique tractor on the shelf near the TV, and a small, red, metal rocking chair on the shelf with the photo albums. A mini red grand piano that holds jewelry in its belly lives on a wooden square of the shelf nearby.  A red Kitchen Aid and espresso machine sit in our kitchen. She always tells me it’s because she likes the color, but I know my mother, and she is a stubborn, superstitious woman. An old Soviet tale claims carrying a red wallet will lead you to more money, and my mothers had her red wallets for as long as I can remember.

She has one open now on the table before me. Cards are piling up on the tabletop as she rifles through its many slim, hard to pry pockets. I think she’s looking for her ID; my parents are going out tonight, and places in the city card.

 “Лиза, ты видела мой ID?”

Right on schedule. I nod and walk up the stairs and into her bedroom. The ID is sitting under a red wallet my mother retired two years ago, right where I knew it’d be. I saw it there last night when we talked about what we (I) would be cleaning in preparation for my grandparents visit. One of the best things about being part of an “old school” family was that only I, as a woman, was allowed to touch and use cleaning supplies. Awesome, right? I used to try and argue, but there’s no parenting your parents, I’ve come to find; they’re far less malleable than you ever expect. I knew the old spiel backwards and forwards, could give it myself, so as she talked, I had let my eyes roam. I spotted her ID there but didn’t say anything, knowing that at some point I would be called upon to locate it, and praise always awaited the hero. Now, I grab it and leave the room, closing the door as I go.

On my way back down the stairs, I hear the kettle click off; the water has boiled. I hand my mother her ID, Cпасибо, моя сладкая, and go over to the kettle. I grab the red mug my mother bought at Disneyland a few months ago; it has an attachable lid, and a convenient hole for straws.

“Мама, ты будешь чаи?̆ ”, I ask her.

She shakes her head no, adding that she has just finished her cup and that my dad was almost here to pick her up. He was driving my brother back from his two-hour piano lesson; he has a performance coming up, so all his lessons run long and late in the evening. We’re all excited to see him play again.

My mother starts to remind me of where they’re going, but I’ve already been debriefed a few times, so I can’t help but feel annoyed. Why would I forget? It’s my dad’s birthday, and there’s a surprise waiting for him at the Italian restaurant in the city. The clasp on my mother’s red bag blinds me as she turns around, and I blink to reset my vision. 

I place the earl grey teabag in my cup as she talks, paying attention to her tone. Steam rises from the water I pour into the mug. I walk over to the fridge to grab milk; Downton Abbey has reminded me of milk tea.  

Usually, being able to read my mother’s moods is a gift that keeps on giving. I am, after all, her biggest champion. Recently though, it has been a curse. I know a tsk is on the way even before I make it back to the tea.

“Зачем ты кладешь молоко в чаи?̆”

The red mug in my hands reminds me all too suddenly that the color has also stood for all too many dictatorships. My mother has been on a new diet recently, and it’s working well. I’m happy she’s happy, and so is the rest of my family, but that’s not enough. To her, it means everyone should be guilt-tripped into it. Normally, I wouldn’t have even gotten the milk, but my time away has made me less inhibited. But really, I should have known better.

In this house, I’m forever seventeen; I itch under my old skin.

I take my time adding honey to the black tea, letting her question hang in the air. The milk carton stands on the counter in front of me. I look past it, at her accusing eyes.

“I want milk tea, mama. Is that okay? Can I do that?”

They are ridiculous questions, and I feel dumb asking them, but I see no other way around a lecture.

She stares at me, disappointed, but mostly annoyed. I understand– after all, I get my control issues from her. I hate that they’re what still fit after all this time.

I pick up the carton and pour milk into my tea, but its less than I normally would. It appears she’s won this round, but she’ll never know my sacrifice. I’m inflamed under my old skin; it really doesn’t fit anymore, but even though my sides are forming blisters from the friction, I cannot bring myself to take it off.

If I was truly a crab like my zodiac says, I wouldn’t still be this. My home would have changed long ago, when I truly outgrew it. I wouldn’t be as I am now, still trying to fit into last year’s armor.

My mom gets up to leave, a text from my father on her phone. We say goodbye. Пока, мама, have fun, I dutifully say as I close the door behind her.

My tea is forgotten in the kitchen. I end up pouring it down the drain anyway; the milk had curdled, and was floating in meaty chunks at the top of my drink.

Accountants Get Married, Too

by Cailin Rogers

 The funeral is in the desert, where her mother was born and raised. They had not seen each other for nearly two decades. Things ended poorly, as they always do, with the slamming of doors, the shouting of bitter promises, and a silence punctuated by incessant undead emotions. Her brother had called to invite her to the service and she waited three days before calling him back. 

 Now it is all done and the woman heads back towards the airport without turning the radio on. The sun is like the clean end of a new piece of chalk. At some point, the hypnosis of flat, brown earth like the palm of God’s hand catches up to her. The car she rented is out of gas and coughs to a halt on the side of the road. As the woman looks around, she sees nothing but highway like one black vein running through endless sands. The car’s battered corpse seems to sink lower into the tires. She kicks the stupid fucking thing and, map in hand, walks towards the nearest exit, just a couple miles away. 

It’s ridiculous, the way things die and leave you here alone. It’s disgusting how simple your life is before you even know what that means. You spend the first few years of existence beloved, cloaked in someone’s warm arms, neck-deep in enamored stares. That time passes before your little blueberry brain learns how to cherish things. Eventually you end up reaching through a hole in the wall of your mind, arm thrusting into who-knows-what, pressed from tear-stained cheek to aching shoulder against cold concrete. Grasping into the dark for something you cannot even remember anymore. The best of your life is in someone else’s recall.

A teardrop hits the flesh-colored sand and sizzles back into the air. When the woman wipes her face, the slick of anguish makes her world too real, too bare, too dead. She chokes and doubles over, weeping. 

There is a high whine floating through the dancing waves of heat. It sharpens erratically– tortured, strained. The woman swallows her own groaning to trace the noise. Louder now, it screeches like metal being forced from metal. The woman squints against the sun to find the source, but between the sands and the sky, the desert is like being trapped in a box of mirrors. There’s motion on the horizon. A black smudge thunders towards her, taking shape limb by limb. A horse. Foam flies off of its loose jaws as it screams. Closer and closer, it approaches at full tilt. Something rises from it, around it– the horse is bathed in flames. The woman is trapped in her feet. The creature bucks up onto its hind legs, a futile effort to escape the violent shroud. Flesh slips from bones like liquid soap. The horse kicks and thrashes. Screaming, screaming, screaming. It throws its head in agony. It jumps again, but buckles when it lands, and crashes to the earth in a twitching heap. The horse is silent but the flames shout and curse. 

The woman rubs her hand over her face. The asphalt underneath her cooks the soles of her shoes. The heat of the fire has dried the inside of her open mouth. She sobs once, a strangled, low yell of a sound. She turns and a tall man is standing two paces behind her. He steps forward.

“Would you like to buy a brochure?” he asks. The woman stares at him. His khaki vest is adorned with dozens of travel brochures, strung together and draped down his front. “I have at least one for every state in the country; I have six for this state alone.” She slowly glances at the horse without moving her head. The flames are almost gone. Fat bubbles on charred bones.

“What’s your name?” The man says. He wears a shapeless ochre smile. The woman clears her throat.

“Claire,” she chokes out. He squints his eyes. The white sun melts onto the bald spot in the center of his head, but he does not seem to notice. He says nothing. The desert feels simultaneously shrunken, like a dollhouse, and endless. Inescapable. “Claire.” 

“Okay,” he says. That smile does not move. He drops his voice so low that she almost leans in to hear him. “I have more than brochures.” She knows her eyes are frozen like moons, like a cow in transport to a slaughterhouse. Wide open, as if there is a way out of this if she just looks hard enough. Wide open, and the rich, greasy smell of the horse is taking thick, plodding steps across the highway. The sweet cologne of death hits the back of her throat. She yawps and retches drool into the sand. 

“Take a look,” the man says, and opens his vest. Baubles gleam like little stars. He traces the outline of one shaped like an angel. “Would you like to buy one? I’ll sell it to you for cheap.” His breaths are so steady. His eyes never lose her, even when he looks down.

She went to the city zoo on her eighth birthday. Her hands were flat against the glass of the tiger exhibit. A ten-foot-long beast built to kill, now confined to a cement room, condemned to endure people staring and pointing and pounding. She remembers the caged tiger’s eyes. This man has those eyes. There is something pacing behind them and it is powerful. 

“What’s your name?” he asks again. Tears slide down her face. She can’t remember what she told him last time. Saliva pools in her mouth. 

“Anna,” she mumbles. His smile saunters across his face. 

“Anna,” he sing-songs. “Why are you all alone out here?”

“My car… My car is broken. It- it’s broken down.” She points down the highway at the speck on the horizon. The map in her hand is rippling, soaked in sweat. The fork in the road is just a few hundred feet away. The man moseys around her until he stands between her and the exit. The baubles inside his vest jingle and chime.

“Why don’t you buy one of these? You need it.” He is speaking quietly, but not gently. Her mind pieces it together, run run run run run. But her limbs just sag and dangle off her body. Her stomach turns like a rotisserie chicken. 

“I don’t have any cash on me right now,” the woman says, speaking each word one by one. He clicks his tongue and sighs.

“What’s your name?”

She gags and she is fully sobbing now– chest shaking, lips twitching. She is about to answer, about to give him a third name, but he goes pale. White. His sloppy mouth falls into half a frown. He inhales and she can hear his chest rattle. Then he walks back in the direction of her rental car with huge heel-to-toe strides, moving quickly into the shimmering heat rising off the earth. She looks at the horse, still crumpled and stinking, and when she looks again down the highway, she cannot even see the man anymore. She exhales with a laugh. She takes a few deep breaths and lets the sun warm her face. Then the woman turns off of the highway, and wanders down the exit into the town.

There is a gas station. A truck is parked at one of the pumps, and a new sedan sunbathes in the small parking lot. The woman smoothes her hair down with her damp hands as she approaches. She steps onto the platform of the station and the air shifts. The world is noiseless– no birds, no roar of summer insects. Stillness. No wind. No movement at all. She pauses. It’s like being inside a refrigerator. Above the gas station, something huge coasts through the air. It is incomparable to an airplane; it looks more like an aluminum shopping mall. The ship casts no shadow as it moves over the earth with purpose, methodically, projecting a thin yellow beam down to the ground. The beam hits a mangy desert tree. The roots explode out of the ground and the entire object hurtles through the air, up into the underside of the ship. The beam continues sweeping. A feral cat scampers across the gas station platform, into the path of the light. Its mouth opens to scream but nothing escapes. It meets the same fate as the tree. 

The woman backs up, one foot at a time, as the ship approaches. She begs the barren terrain for a place to hide. The lightbeam stretches over the new car, but it reflects off of the grille and the ship moves quickly past it. The car remains where it was parked. The woman gasps. She searches herself for jewelry, zippers, a belt buckle– but her efforts are not enough. The yellow beam is inches from her toes. She screams and turns to run. Before her feet can hit the earth, she is flying towards the ship. 

All the Things You (Don’t) Owe Me

by Paloma Rosario Estess

I’m starting to think that we don’t owe each other anything. I mean we were only in each other’s lives for about a month. We were in that phase of getting to know one another through the things we saw. I learned that you loved to cook from all the healed burns and cuts on your hands and forearms. You learned that I was a bit impulsive from the remnants of bleached hair pulled back in my tight bun. And we learned from the things we heard. You learned that I loved country music from the way I belted it in the car. And I learned that you were raised with a soft touch, from how softly you spoke around me. But most of all, we learned from the way we seemed to feel around each other. Like the way I’d look directly into your eyes when we talked. And the way you pulled me in close when we didn’t.

Even though we had only gone out a hand full of times, every time we did, neither of us ever talked about how late it was getting. Maybe we were both scared that if we did, we’d think it was a hint for the other to go home. But I didn’t want that and neither did you. Like that time, you took me home by all the backroads and we listened to the radio and laughed about how bad I was at giving directions. I guess there’s nothing to lose now by telling you I got us lost on purpose. My town is small and there are only so many ways to get back from where you came. But you put your hand on my leg and so I let you turn right at the old gas station which I knew would lead us to a dead end. But you didn’t mind. Because it gave me enough time to reach over and run my hands through your hair. This is when I learned just how much product you used. Way too much if you ask me. But a couple weeks after, when you stayed over for the first time, and you had to wake up early and do your hair in my fogged bathroom mirror, I noticed how meticulous you were with each strand, how intensely you stared in the mirror, how you hadn’t noticed how intensely I stared at you. I learned that any excess product reflected the impatience you had for yourself.  

As time went on, I hoped you would start trusting me with more of you. I’d ask what you were thinking any time I felt your eyes linger on mine, or your hand gripped mine tighter or your voice trailed off in the middle of a thought. With every passing second, minute, hour, day, week of silence, I wondered what kept you from trusting me with all your noise. What would you have been afraid to tell me? Maybe you were afraid we were moving too quickly. Maybe you were afraid that if you asked to slow things down that I would have preferred to end things. Or maybe you wanted to move faster but worried I wasn’t ready. And maybe I wasn’t. Maybe I wouldn’t have been ready for what it was you wanted. But you never asked. Your eyes would continue to linger. And your hand grasped mine a bit tighter. And your silence lingered. And so, I did the only thing I could. I waited. And I trusted that with time, you would fill the silence. I thought that trust was guaranteed with time and that noise was guaranteed by trust. And now I’m sat here, wondering if I was ever owed such a guarantee.

Maybe I was wrong to believe any of that was owed to me. Not your noise, and certainly not your future. Maybe you didn’t owe me one more hello or a final goodbye. And maybe you never owed me an explanation of why you left. Maybe you still don’t. Because the notion that you owed me anything assumes that at some point, some part of you belonged to me and that’s just not true. I didn’t own your touch, your voice, your laugh, your smile. Just like you didn’t own mine.  

I guess the only thing we can do is hope people will choose to stick around. We hope people will say the things we need to hear. We hope people will see themselves as honestly and vulnerably as we do. And we hope that the expectations people have of us aren’t nearly as impossible as the ones we have for ourselves. All we have is hope. We have hope that even though the voice, laugh, touch and trust of the ones we love doesn’t belong to us and isn’t owed to us, that they will give them to us all the same.

Was I foolish to have hope? Was I being naïve? I don’t think so. Not when I consider where the hope came from. Mine came from all the hours and days and weeks spent together. From waking up to photos of that morning’s sunrise. From glasses of wine (that I pretended to like) and homemade apple pie. From meals together in the front seat and making out in the backseat. It came from sleeping wrapped in your arms and waking up to your eyes locked on mine. It came from the way you made me feel— like I didn’t have to ask to feel safe or heard. It came from the way you helped me realize I deserved to feel this way. And so, I began to put all these expectations on you, a person that didn’t owe me anything, because of all the times you showed me you wanted to be accountable to me. I guess I just never considered the possibility of you not staying.

Now bear with me as I digress for just a moment. You see, there is always an explanation for why things happen. The universe functions on the principal of cause and effect. On my first day of university, my professor stood at the front of the room, held up a tennis ball, and asked what we predicted would happen if she were to let it go. Of course, the immediate response of any student when asked a question with a seemingly obvious answer is to assume they are wrong. And so, we remained silent. We sat there, staring at the ball in her hand, second guessing everything we thought we knew about the elementary laws of physics. Until one brave soul broke the silence and shared with the masses what everyone was thinking. If the ball was dropped, it would fall to the ground. To all of our relief, this was in fact what we observed. But then she asked another question. What if when the ball dropped, it remained suspended? What if our expectations were wrong?

To be clear, I nor my professor are under the impression that the uncertainty surrounding the theory of gravity is in any way significant. In fact, my professor went on to tell us that it is far more likely that there are other forces resisting the effects of gravity. Sources of uncertainty do not always point to your perceptions being false, just incomplete. You see, gravity doesn’t owe us anything. Although it will always be there, there are other forces at play. Other forces we may have not anticipated. As much as we would like to think that the ball will fall each time we let it drop, the only way to know for certain, is to observe what happens when we do.

I say all this as a way of explaining to you and to myself that I know there is a reason why you left, why you chose the moment you did to be the end. Even if you don’t know the answer yourself, It’s ok. It is not true that we always know why we think the things we do, say the things we do, do the things we do. It may take you some time to understand why you chose that moment to be our last. And it’s very likely that if and when you ever do, I won’t be there to listen. And that’s ok. I am ok if you wish not to drop the ball. I can trust the way I felt around you and about you. I can trust in the way you looked at me and laughed with me. The way you touched me, kissed me, held me. I can trust it all. I can still trust that gravity is acting on the ball, even if it doesn’t fall to the ground.

Nevertheless, I miss you. And maybe you feel the same and maybe you don’t. I guess I just wanted you to know that I’m not mad that you left. I’m not mad if you don’t know why or that you do and you just couldn’t tell me. Because it’s part of you. Your reason for leaving me. And you don’t owe me that.

So, I can be ok with letting you go. I can be ok with never seeing you again. I can be ok with never calling out your name or hearing you call out mine. I can be ok without your laugh, your touch, your smile. I can be ok without late night drives and endless games of scrabble and photos of sunrays in the morning. I can be ok without early morning whispers while the other lay sleeping. I can be ok without loud conversations over even louder music or busy roads. And I can be ok with a tomorrow without you in it. I can be ok without you being here next week, or next year.

And more than anything, I am ok to sit alone with my thoughts. I am ok with all the things you left behind: Your shoes, and fortune cookie and lessons. Lessons of self-worth and self-respect. I am ok to ask questions I’ll likely never get the answer to. I am ok if the only person we owe anything to is ourselves. I am ok with that. Are you?

Nowhere, Somewhere

by Raine Ferrara

Your great, great uncle Milton- air force jacket rubbed clean

Your great aunt Fanny- she was always so fashionable

Your grandpa- he looked just like you as a baby

They all stand smiling in a rubbed silver vintage frame

In an ink-stained, finger-worn portrait

This is a relic of your past, my dear-memory is all we have left

Few people still live who remember

Their faces, their names, struck from the record like an old shame.

Their silver, their gold, piled on trains headed nowhere.

Their ashes scatter like smoke in the Warsaw wind.

I’m sure there’s a portrait like this somewhere

Somewhere

Somewhere, but not here.

Not in this new land of milk and honey.

Where we can’t keep it, it’s too heavy

Where we can’t afford portraits like this one.

Where we tell our children of men with no faces

And women with no names.

When they take your history, store-bought frames are fine.

Your grandpa Emmanuel-you don’t remember, but he loved you when you were a baby

Your great grandma Channa- her name is different on all the papers

Your great great uncle- who pinched pennies until they bled

Memory is all we have left

It has to rest somewhere

Somewhere.

Next to You

by Carlin Feck

Laura enters. Nina is on the couch.  

Laura flops down next to her.  

NINA: Bad? 

LAURA: Not bad. Good, honestly. Which is, like, worse.  

NINA: It’s not worse.  

LAURA: It’s worse. If we hated each other, it would be easier.  

NINA: No, it wouldn’t.  

LAURA: Yes, it would. I wouldn’t be so upset.  

NINA: You wouldn’t be so upset if you were on bad terms? What are you saying? 

LAURA: I’ll always care about him.  

NINA: And he’ll always care about you.  

LAURA: Exactly.  

NINA: That sounds kind of. I don’t know. Nice.  

LAURA: We talked about everything we’d missed in the last few months. I told him about Mom’s surgery and stuff. And Dad’s job. And where you’re going to college.  

NINA: What were his updates? 

LAURA: Oh, um.  

NINA: What’s he been up to since September? 

LAURA: Uhh.  

NINA: Laura, you were gone for two hours. He must have said something.  

LAURA: No, yeah. He definitely did. I just.  

NINA: Well it wasn’t memorable, whatever it was.  

LAURA: I guess so.  

NINA: But it’s done now. The loop is closed. I’m happy for you.  

LAURA: He asked me if I’d been with anyone else yet.   

NINA: Wow. That’s a little…  

LAURA: Out of character.  

NINA: Yeah. What did you say? 

LAURA: I said, “you probably don’t want to know the answer to that.” 

NINA: So, yes.  

LAURA: What? 

NINA: So you said yes.  

Silence.  

Laura gets up to pour a glass of water.  

LAURA: I don’t know. I feel like we should talk again.

NINA: Again? Really?

LAURA: I don’t know. Now that we’re exes, the next step is being friends again.

NINA: Is it?

LAURA: Yeah. I mean, that’s where I want to end up. As friends.

NINA: Does he want to be your friend?

LAURA: No, I’m saying I want to be his friend.

NINA: Friendship is usually a—

LAURA: A what?

NINA: A mutual thing, I don’t know.

LAURA: Honestly, I’d really like to meet again and recap the whole relationship from beginning to end.

NINA: Why?

LAURA: I think it would be beneficial. Say what worked, what didn’t, what we could have done better.

NINA: You really think he’d want to do that?

LAURA: I don’t see why not.

NINA: Laura, you dumped him.

LAURA: I know.

NINA: You think he wants to get together and talk about why you dumped him?

LAURA: If I ask him to, he will.

NINA: Yeah. I think that’s the problem.

Silence again.

Are we getting annoyed at each other?

LAURA: The problem?

NINA: Laura, what did you say to me in September?

LAURA: I don’t know, a lot of stuff.

NINA: You said you wish he’d argue with you.

LAURA: I didn’t say that.

NINA: You said you wish he’d fight back.

LAURA: We were having a fight. We were in an argument, that’s all.

NINA: Were you? I don’t know. From where I’m sitting, I don’t think you ever had an argument. I think you got upset a few times over the last three years, sure, but he never got upset back.

LAURA: He’s really understanding.

NINA: Understanding.

LAURA: Yeah.

NINA: Okay.

LAURA: Which is why I think he’d want to meet with me again.

NINA: Okay.

LAURA: And I think that’s a valid thing for me to want.

NINA: Okay.

LAURA: “Okay, okay, okay,” what the fuck?

NINA: What?

LAURA: You’re okaying me.

NINA: Oh, sorry. I thought you liked it.

Oh. We’re arguing. Let’s try to stop.

NINA: How is his Master’s coming?

LAURA: Good, I think. We didn’t talk about school stuff much.

NINA: You didn’t mention your thesis project?

LAURA: Well. We talked about

NINA: Your school stuff.

LAURA: Yeah.

Laura sits back down next to Nina.

LAURA: I was a good girlfriend.

NINA: You were.

LAURA: And he was a perfect boyfriend. Literally perfect.

NINA: Yeah. But that’s not.

LAURA: Sustainable.

NINA: I was gonna say realistic. But it’s not sustainable, either.

LAURA: I could ask him to talk again.

NINA: You could ask him to talk every Saturday for the rest of time. You could ask him to get back together. He’d do all of it. Any of it. For you.

LAURA: I. I’m really lucky. For that. I don’t know why I don’t feel luckier.

NINA: Luck’s got nothing to do with it.

LAURA: Maybe I shouldn’t have broken up with him.

Good. We’re not mad.

NINA: You don’t mean that.

LAURA: It was good enough. It was so good enough.

NINA: Good enough for what?

LAURA: Good enough for like. That to be it.

NINA: Like marriage?

LAURA: I guess so, yeah. Mom and Dad had already started dating when they were my age.

NINA: If it were good enough it would’ve been just that.

LAURA: Just what?

NINA: Good enough.

Laura moves in closer to Nina. They take the same deep breath.

NINA: Was it hard?

LAURA: It was really hard. It didn’t feel hard when we were there. We caught up, we fell back in our old rhythm, whatever. It felt harder when it was time to leave. And he’d walked to the coffee shop, I guess, so I offered him a ride home. And I tried to be funny. Like, you know, “I know where you live,” but it didn’t land. Actually, he didn’t want me to drive him home at first. And I didn’t know if it was the thing to do. Like, if we should’ve parted ways at the end. Literally. But I just asked.

NINA: And he let you.

LAURA: And he let me, yeah.

NINA: I don’t want you to think I’m being critical of you.

LAURA: Okay.

NINA: But don’t get back together with him.

LAURA: I won’t.

That was not nearly convincing enough.

LAURA: It would be easy.

NINA: Yeah.

LAURA: Forever. It would be easy and nice forever.

NINA: I think…

LAURA: What.

NINA: I think you deserve better than easy.

The girls are almost frozen. They never look at each other.

LAURA: What about you, huh?

NINA: What?

LAURA: Are you finishing high school without your first kiss?

NINA: Jesus…

LAURA: I’m just saying. You gotta get out there, Neen.

NINA: I’m just gonna watch you fuck up a bunch first. Then I’ll know what not to do.

LAURA: So unfair.

NINA: Well. First pancake.

LAURA: What?

NINA: That’s what Mom and Dad call you. The first pancake.

LAURA: Why?

NINA: Cause the first one’s always a little fucked up. But then, you know. They get better.

They’re slouched now, almost laying. Like sisters do.

LAURA: I don’t actually think I’m gonna ask him to talk again.

NINA: No?

LAURA: No.

NINA: Good. I think that’s good.

LAURA: He’d do anything for me.

NINA: I know.

LAURA: He’d go anywhere.

NINA: Yeah. But he’d follow you anywhere. That’s different from going anywhere.

LAURA: Yeah?

NINA: He’d walk behind you. You need someone who can walk next to you.

Laura moves to rest her head on Nina’s shoulder.

End of scene.

Charnel Ground

by Alex MacDonald

Squirrels scrap over dried Jif in Havahart traps by the Buddha. 

My jailor fries beef strips, roux, crinkle-cut potato, 

puffs funeral pyres. Tobacco smoke stains hanging thangkas. 

She growls mantras past her pipe, she  

stomps! and squirrel middens shake like maracas in the ceiling. 

She waits till I return from dinner with mom,  

pushes poutine on me, 

tugs my belt, she 

stomps! Her pupils blur in IPA when I renege, 

the squirrels frenzy in the haze. 

May I be excused! 

I down black coffee on the rocks, 

beef heart tacos, pat the pit bull next door. 

Frank Zappa tells me to rub piss snow in your eyes. 

Try me, motherfucker! 

I am midnight blue Kali, deep space dancer I shit fiyah! 

Human fat and ashes smear my chin and forehead. 

Blood dots my cheeks, breasts, tongue wags 

in cool groves mutts scrap over ribs, 

my funeral pyres sear devoted wives. I 

stomp! I trample her corpse,   

her poutine into the polyester rug. 

My hips sway to caged squirrel rattles, 

acorn, walnut midden maracas. 

My jailor and I scrap over undone belts in pyre incense clouds. 

Sightseer

by Iris Skye Veasey 

When I come to, my legs are tangled between heavy blankets. I’m flushed and damp with sweat and my throat is dry. Last night’s rain has ceased and sunlight pours through the open window. The glare summons small sparks to the forefront of my vision and causes tiny diamonds of light to dance unbidden around me. I squeeze my eyes shut in resistance.  

Under the cloak of night, my friends have drawn closer and curled themselves against my frame where they now rest. Insecurity slithers below my toes and Anxiety’s sharp paws jab into the space between my ribs. Silence and Disappointment are distributed warmly across my midsection and the soothing weight tempts me back into the throes of sleep. Just as I begin to sink deeper into the solace of my dreams, I’m jarred back into the realm of wakefulness by a jostling near my feet.   

I groan. “Stop moving.”  

“Somebody’s sick,” Insecurity chuckles.  

“Somebody’s awake,” Rage snarks.  

“Somebody’s stating the obvious,” I shoot back.  

I dislodge Silence from his resting place on the pit of my stomach and stand, stretching my arms above my head. I exhale and grimace at the scent of my own breath. I must have been sick some time in the night and my mouth tastes like vodka and vomit. Sure enough, as I turn my head, I catch sight of a small pile of puke only inches from my makeshift bed.  

“Gross,” I mumble.  

“No kidding,” Disappointment cackles. His long, arched form stretches lithely as he slinks around the perimeters of the room, avoiding the vomit with abject disapproval.  

I rummage through my backpack and dig absently for my phone. I groan when I retrieve it. Endless notifications flash across the screen as Billie’s name irritably lights up the glass interface.  

She’ll lecture, I’m sure, on the parameters of her position and the boundaries of our relationship. And I suppose she’ll be right, much as she usually is. Assistants are typically limited to the role of assisting.  

Billie takes on much more than she ought to and lets me with minimal complaint pile on responsibilities that were never hers to begin with. Her personality is easier to swallow than mine for clients and townies alike. It may not be in her best interests to serve as the face of Hollow Bone Investigations but she certainly adds up to be a damn pretty one.  

I throw my belongings haphazardly into my bag and tuck my phone into my skirt pockets. I drag my fingers through my gnarled, greasy hair and brush the dust as best I can off my clothes. It’s likely for the best that I don't show up to my own company looking completely unhinged. After thoroughly inspecting myself in the half-reflection of the window, I turn back towards the door and instruct my friends to follow.  

# 

When I arrive at the bank, the sun is heavy in the sky. The day is still cold despite the glaring yellow orb beating down upon us and I shiver slightly in the breeze.  

I rap my knuckles hard against the cold iron door to our home. No response. I pound harder with desperation, but Billie doesn’t exactly come rushing to my rescue. I swear beneath my breath. I didn’t have the fortitude of mind last night to remember to bring the keys with me. 

“Billie,” I shout. “Billie!”  

She opens the door at last. Locks of her silvery hair drape gently over the clear frames that decorate her pale face. She’s donned in dark leggings and a faded, oversized sweatshirt that bears a university logo that has long since become illegible.  

“You know what time it is?”  

“Yes.” I push past her and into the lobby. 

It’s a small room. The bank wasn’t large in its prime and it’s far past that now. Hollow Bone is ridiculously tiny, the kind of small town I used to believe only existed in nostalgic television shows and movies that romanticize an era we’ve passed.  

It is a place frozen in time that struggles fruitlessly against the call of the modern age but progress can only be delayed for so long. The bank fought for decades to compete with the allure of corporate chains before finally waving a white flag of surrender and shutting down entirely. For the last ten years, the building has been rented out to prospective businesses. For the last two years, it’s been mine. 

In the bones of what once was a bank lobby, we’ve set up shop and a living room. Photographs of homes past their prime and decaying stores line the walls; the images lit by a sole yellowed lamp and a handful of tea lights. Billie and I share a preference for the dark.  

There is a walnut-toned leather couch propped against the right wall. Draped over it are chunky, hand-knitted throws and thin fleece blankets. 

Our kitchen isn’t much to speak of; just an eclectic assortment of convenient appliances. On the cabinet next to our kettle resides the tools of our trade. Glass jars of salt and satchels of herbs are precisely stacked next to sparsely littered metal bells. Plants clutter the floor throughout the room; lush and green despite the noted absence of sunlight from the heavily curtained windows. Secreted in the corner lies the only other door in the room; the entrance to the vault where we make our bed.  

“You were supposed to be here hours ago.” She props her hands low on her hips and fixes me with a stern glare. “At nine. Explain.” 

“I know.” I turn to face her. “And I’m sorry.”  

“Reason?” She prompts. 

“I got caught up.”  

“With what?”  

Disappointment interjects. “Getting wasted in an abandoned museum.”  

“Work,” I say.  

“Well, that’s enlightenin’. Anybody else care to tell me?”  

“Somebody already did.” I smile tentatively and relief rushes in when she smiles back.  

“Come on,” she sighs. “I’ll make eggs.” She turns towards our kitchenette.  

“I’ll do with a coffee.”  

“Bad habit,” she replies. She makes me one nonetheless and absently tries it for me. Her nose wrinkles in disgust. The coffee I like has never been to her taste.  

She passes me the mug and I try it next. It’s perfect. “Thank you, love.”  

“Welcome.” She props herself beside me on the arm of the sofa.  

“Did I miss anything while I was out?”  

“Not much,” she hums. “Mr. Banks stopped in this mornin’.”  

“What did he want?”  

“He was goin’ on about his house. He talked for an hour about ghosts. I told him we don’t handle things of that nature but he just stared at me like I grew a second head.”  

“I suppose that line isn’t particularly believable when your partner’s whole schtick is being the ‘girl who hears ghosts.’” 

“Or when that’s most of what we do, formally or otherwise.” She directs a frown my way. “Or when we’ve done it for him before.”  

“Ghosts find me, Billie. I don’t find them.”  

“They aren’t ghosts. Are you?” She asks. It’s funny that she’s fallen to the level of addressing beings she can’t even see.  

“Not ghosts,” my friends reply in disconcerting unison.  

“Anyone else come by?”  

“Nobody you’d find interesting. Mrs. Debbie stopped by about an hour ago. Thinks Jack is cheatin’ on her and wants us to follow him.”  

“For a ridiculously low fee, I’m sure. What’d you tell her?”  

“Said we’d consider it.”  

“We won’t.”  

“I know.” She pushes the coffee towards me and I drain the dregs of it. “So we’re chasin’ ghosts for Mr. Banks, then?”  

“I suppose so.” 

# 

Robert Banks lives, kindly put, in the middle of the fucking wilderness. It’s honestly impressive considering the entirety of Hollow Bone is secreted out on the edges of a midwestern forest. Robert has somehow managed to find the fringe among the fringe and that’s admirable in a demented sort of way. He’s an outcast even among fellow stragglers and heretics. 

The first impression guests are greeted with as they step out to his home is less than welcoming. The slice of land Rob might graciously describe to be his lawn is littered with junk and I have to kick bits of it away as we trudge towards the front steps. Slivers of metal and stacks of paper branch out from his rotting porch to the outskirts of his property.  

His home has the air of a place that was once impressive. It is constructed of solid gray cobblestone and planks of rich, white wood. The stone has held up nicely but the painted wood has weathered and peeled at the hands of nature and time. The windows, which were once bright and expansive, have been clumsily sealed with planks and duct tape.  

The shingles on his roof are in a state of disrepair. As we step up to the tattered screen door, I notice pieces of the roof have cracked and fallen entirely and lay in piles upon the floor.  

We don’t knock. Rob’s chihuahua is already yapping its fragile little head off as he senses our approach. I can hear Rob blundering through his home, hushing his little rat dog and shouldering his way to us. He flings the screen door open and scowls.  

“Finally takin’ me serious, eh?”  

“Of course, Mr. Banks,” Billie consoles. She extends her hand, which he shakes, and I firmly refuse to reciprocate the gesture.  

“Yeah, Rob,” I say. “Let’s take a look.”  

We step into his foyer. I toe stacks of battered books and torn newspapers out of my way as we journey towards the living room. Disappointment peers his head out from my tote bag and rears back in disgust. He tucks himself away again, safely concealing himself from the mess he so fervently disapproves of.  

Rob leads us past the living area and towards a creaky set of bare wooden stairs that spiral into darkness. As we travel upwards, he grapples along the walls searching for a light switch. He finds one and a sole bulb flickers on at the top of the steps. We walk towards the light.  

“So, Mr. Banks,” Billie prompts. “Could you explain further about what’s been goin’ on?”  

“The hauntings, ya mean?” Rob asks.  

My feet hit the landing. “Not hauntings.” Anxiety peeks out from my bag. “Not ghosts.”  

I hum quietly in agreement and glance down the foreboding hall. Rob guides us through a narrow maze occupied by crowded, numbered wooden doors. We pass six of them before rearing to a halt in front of the seventh. It is identical to its counterparts and made of durable, darkened oak that bears a steel nameplate with the designation seven.  

“It’s been goin’ on for the last few weeks. It’s been quiet since the last time I had y’all o’er a year back. But lately when I go up here, I notice things ain’t right,” Rob informs Billie.  

“Have you seen anything?” I ask. I teeter towards the door and inspect it carefully.  

“No, not seen nothin’,” he replies. “But felt things.”  

“Care to elaborate?” 

“You can feel for yourself.”  

He pulls a chain of rusted keys from his pockets and rummages through them. He finds a thick wrought iron key engraved with the number seven and inserts it into the lock.  

As soon as he pushes open the door, it’s clear what he meant. My friends shift in agitation in my pockets, coat, and bag. A feeling of despair hangs heavy in the musty oxygen around us. It coats every surface and dulls every sense. As I cross the threshold, my head becomes heavy and my legs abruptly turn weak. The desire to collapse runs through me in waves.  

“What is that?” 

Billie’s voice jars me in the face of the feeling. I glance back and notice my companions have made a wary and hasty retreat. I hum in noncommittal response and turn back to the room.  

Through the haze of emotion, I catalog the space. The room was once living quarters. It is decked with a plush bed and boarded windows but has since been converted into a makeshift library, as much of Rob’s house has. Bookshelves line the walls in dissonant arrays. The colors of the wooden frames range from painted whites to yellowed pine to rich chestnut shades. A few plastic shelving units are thrown in for good measure. The bed is still dressed but is coated in a thin layer of grime and stacked with water-stained paperback novels. Hard textbooks are assembled in precarious piles across the floor.  

I catch a fleeting glimpse of mist as it slides past me and turn towards it. Sure enough, a friend beckons to me from the ceiling. It has secreted itself into a corner and rests above a cluttered bookcase. Its eight long, wispy limbs hang over the entirety of the room and envelop books and I alike. I turn back to the door.  

“Rob,” I call. “Go downstairs.”  

“What’d’ya mean? I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”  

I resist the urge to lull my eyes into the back of my head and fix a glance at Billie instead.  

“Mr. Banks,” she appeases. “It’s best to leave us to the process.”  

Rob grumbles but submits. He follows Billie’s guiding hand back down the hall. We watch his retreat in silence and as soon as he is swallowed back into the darkness of the stairway, Billie turns to me.  

“Is it a friend?”  

“Yep,” I sigh. “Suppose the old man is actually haunted this time.”  

“Hesty,” she warns.  

“Billie,” I parrot.  

“What are we goin’ to do?”  

“There isn’t much to do,” I reply.  

“Well, we can’t just leave him here with it!” 

“Why not?”  

“Hesty.” 

I scrutinize the righteous indignation in her eyes.  

“Alright,” I concede. “I’ll try to talk to it.”  

She hesitantly sets foot into the room with me. I keep my eyes locked on the friend. Its form isn’t stable. Its physique is thin, sheer, and composed entirely of gas. It fails to resemble anything similar to the friends that clutch fearfully onto my person. The friend cycles through pale shades across the color spectrum and occasionally becomes opaque before quietly thinning again. It makes no sound or attempt at speech. I clear my throat and step forwards, keeping my neck craned upwards at the roof. 

“Hello,” I call. It elicits no reaction.  

I step nearer and try yet again to no avail.  

“What do you think?” I address my friends at large.  

Anxiety whimpers. “Not good, not good at all—”  

“He’s right,” Disappointment interjects. “That one’s bad news.” 

“Nothing we can’t handle,” Insecurity slurs. “But nothing that can be helped either.”  

“Great,” I say.  

The cloud of mist emits a sole hissing noise. It calls to mind the sound of a slowly deflating balloon and I step back quickly. 

“What’s it doing?” Billie whispers.  

“Hissing?” I answer.  

“Well,” she lowers her voice further. “Do you think we can coax it out?” 

“We can’t do shit. It’s stationary and massive.”  

“So seal it in, then?” 

“I suppose it’s our best option.” 

# 

We board up the seventh door to the best of our capacities. I sprinkle salt carefully along the inner and outer perimeters of the room and pin wooden planks to the door frame with heavy iron nails. Billie wedges satchels of dried rowan and clover underneath the crack of the door and hangs one on the doorknob for good measure. I place an iron bell beside the entrance.  

“Done,” I announce. My friends have been studiously avoiding us for much of the process. They’re far too hardy for the measures to have any true deterrent effect but they dislike it all the same.  

“Well,” I say. “That should at least keep it from drifting out and any fools from drifting in.”  

“Good.” 

“Let’s go get our money,” I sing and head back downstairs.  

Rob waits in the kitchen. He is seated in a rickety wooden dining chair. His rat dog lies at his feet, nosing gently at his worn leather boots. A glass of dark liquid and ice rests before him and lightly perspires. His glasses have slipped down the bridge of his nose as he peers intently at the article he’s reading.  

I relax into the chair opposite him uninvited. It doesn’t match his chair or any of the others cluttered around the table. Rob has taken a rather eclectic approach when it comes to his furnishings. Though, I suppose I’m not one to criticize considering I don’t believe in kitchens proper.  

“We took care of it,” I inform him.  

“Eh?” He asks. “So the ghost is gone?” 

“More or less,” I reply. “Leave it be. Don't go in the room. Don’t disturb anything we’ve left there. Might be best if you just forget it’s part of your house entirely.”  

Rob sighs. “Well, guess I had best pay y’all.”  

He rummages through his dirty jeans and pulls out a torn leather wallet. He grabs a handful of crumpled twenties and extends them towards Billie.  

“Thank you, Mr. Banks.” Billie is cheerful when paid. She pockets the cash.  

“Alrighty,” I say and turn on my heel. “Try not to need us again.” 

With my parting words, we leave the home of Robert Banks.   

Stolen Sands

by Nicole Wasylak

They tell you not to be a thief, but I tell you, they are wrong.

For thieves are conniving, cunning, and crafty,

And when the thief has nothing, she takes from those who are rich in treasure

But treasure is broad, and surely you already knew that.

For riches do not just bear the shape of coin, no, they come in many disguises

And time!

The needles that you should truly fear are the ones the clock bears, so I say, be a thief!

Be a thief, and steal from the clock, hoard all of the hours you can so you may use them to get drunk off the dangerously intoxicating potions the morning offers you!

Wrap yourself in a cloak of night and be as clandestine as time itself, which seems to have a habit of sneaking up on us the most

Go on, go ahead — rob the clock, the watch, the timer, anything and everything that ticks,

Put it in your pockets and abscond to where it cannot find you.

Your hours are more precious than the king’s silver and gold, so go, traveler, and be a thief of time!

May you steal the sands so you can one day bury the treasure of your life deep below its surface

Introduction to “Flecks of Light” by Joe Stimmel

by Joe Stimmel

Hello, I am Joe Stimmel.  I would like to give thanks to whatever energy led you to reading my book, Flecks of Light.  If the energy that led you here was you, thank you.  If the energy that led you here was some other force, such as a professor making you read a book (or a passage) for a college course, I feel that it is fair that I thank what led you to read it, rather than you just reading it.  

I thought that it would be appropriate to be gracious, as this is my first novel (and very well could be my last) so I wanted to get the thanks out of the way.  Enough of my semantics, let’s talk a little bit about my work.  

The story takes place on Earth, in New York, during the lovely year of 2018.  We follow the characters of Spruce (the protagonist, best friend of Greg), Greg (the antagonist, best friend of Spruce), and Heather (a woman)[1].  That’s all I want to say for now because I really want to talk about my thought process about a certain character (potentially spoilers?).

At the end of this book, I plan on killing Greg.  I don’t know how yet, or if I’ll even go through with it, but I’m about 70/30 that Greg is going to die.  He is pretty charismatic (as I made him that way) so there is still time for that big teddy bear to win me over.

I won’t kill him myself, of course, I’m just the author.  The characters around Greg are the candidates for who might kill him.  It could even be a character that I haven’t mentioned yet… but it would be weird if a not main character killed the second-billed guy… 

The environment too, I suppose, could also be what kills Greg.  The environment.       

Does Greg deserve to die?  Clearly, I am leaning towards yes, but, I think there is an argument for no.  I do think that I am putting enough in the story for you to draw a conclusion, but I’ll give you some information on Greg to see if you think he should die[2].

In preschool, Greg made fun of kids (literally behind their backs) when their pants sagged down and you could see their underwear.

Greg has six people in his life, other than family, that he frequently tells that he loves them.  The feeling is mutual for five of these people.  The one who doesn’t love him used to love him, and even said it first, but doesn’t love him anymore.  

Greg cooks in large portions so that the people he lives with always have the option of having some food without feeling like they’re taking all of his food.

Greg has only watched “The Office” because he wanted to impress his crush.  He did not end up dating this girl.

Greg is a very talented singer.  He has won the Henderson award, been an ISAN finalist twice, and performed at the Bellegrounds Ballroom on several occasions (these accolades are not real in our world, but very real in this world).

Greg is frequently the shoulder that Spruce leans on when he is going through a difficult time.  Greg is more than happy to be there.

Greg yawns loudly.  Makes a real fuckin’ meal out of yawning.  Just lets that baby ride for everyone to hear.  Stop what you’re doing guys, Greg has to yawn[3]!

So what do you think?  Should I kill Greg?  Of course you can think whatever you want to think about the situation, but I hope that wasn’t enough to make you think his death would be ok.  I mean, I gave you no context for any of that!  Some of the nice sounding stuff may be sinister, some of the bad sounding stuff may be completely justified, what do you know!?  Even with all of that information, you know next to nothing about Greg!  Haven’t you been reading the footnotes[4]?

As of writing this, I don’t know if Greg dies so we’re rocking in the same boat.  Perhaps you, the incredibly intelligent person you are, could build a time machine and come to my present and we can talk about what we think should happen.  I am self-assured with all of my ideas, but I’d be willing to hear out the thoughts of a time traveler.

Well, that’s all I feel like saying.  My publisher told me I should have at least three pages of the introduction, but I’d rather not force it[5].  So… yeah… that’s it.  I hope you enjoy, let me know on Instagram @joe_stimz, or say it to my face if you see me.  See you at the epilogue! 

[1]  In the context of the story, the protagonist’s name is Spruce because his real name is Bruce and he really likes plants (get it?).  Spruce thinks this a dumb reason for a nickname, but he likes the sound of it.  In the context of me being the author, I looked up shades of blue and there was a gray/blue color that was kinda ugly called, “spruce”.  I didn’t know it was a color until I looked this up, but I thought it was a cool name for a protagonist.  The other two do not have a fun reason for why they are called what they are called, in the story or in real life.  We don’t hate the names, that’s why the parents of the character’s and I picked them.  Yes, this was interesting enough for a footnote.

[2]  I am not putting every detail about Greg in this story, as that would make for a boring story (trust me, I created him).  Keep in mind I know more than you ever will about the character of Greg when deciding if he should die.  

[3]  I apologize for cursing in the introduction, but this was the only way I could convey my anger for Greg’s fucking yawning.

[4] I apologize for yelling at you, that was not in character for me.  I promise not to yell at you again.

[5] Suck it Dave.

The Apocalypse is Scientific

by Gabrielle DiMura

So many monks and friars, dead with not an answer 

to just how long the world would live on without  

them; Anabaptist mothers shaken up for nothing,  

nearly nine hundred lifetimes passed with little 

a drip of wax; Their gavels struck the stars, not suns, 

their guesses grand and mighty but ever unknowable; 

A different branding scorches now, larger than God 

and all His wrath; Who claims the power held  

by some unmoving beast to be grander than measured 

systems, charts and numbers forever omnipresent? 

Ask what realer fates will come, a battle built  

in wandering skies or the human touch of death; 

Are certain deeds unforgiven? The details lie in fallen 

angels, trenches dug for evil biddings, churning evermore; 

These, our deeds, our man's destruction whipping  

bone from bone, have surpassed apocalyptic tears  

of older folktale peasants; The kill is greater now, its timing  

ticks on quicker than the sun, which burns and burns and burns.  

Pinkest Pink

by Earl Thomasson

for Christmas, I bought my semi-artist friend 

a bottle of the pinkest pink paint. 

it's made by the creator of Vantablack, 

a color so dark it absorbs all light and is a void in space. 

Pinkest Pink is the opposite- 

it wants to overflow its boundaries  

and the sight of it brings sweetness to your tongue. 

it is a color untranslatable into words. 

seeing it through a screen is an injustice to its pinkness. 

anyone living in the brightly colored modern world could imagine their  

perfect pink 

and it still wouldn't be pink enough. 

it is the archetype every pink is based on. 

every use of pink in the past wishes they were this pink. 

it is the taste of bubble gum pink, 

the feeling of watching an ad pink, 

Valentine's Day love kind of pink 

(the word 'pink' is becoming oversaturated,  

isn't it? now you're getting it!). 

the Himba language has 'grue', not green or blue, 

but they describe color vividly with sensations, light, purpose. 

someday soon pink will not just be 'pink'. 

something new will be uttered to let you know  

how pink the pinkest pink is. 

this paint is a warning of how hyper we are making things, 

how we must give a fuck about everything, 

how our gumballs must be the *essence* of pink.

Fine, Art

by Cori Spillane

I knew I couldn't afford the painting. Even with the power (strong word) of all my bank accounts combined, plus next month’s rent (that’s next month’s problem), plus the emergency twenty in my glove box, plus a doe-eyed request through blinking sweetness (such a false mask on me, how do I ever get away with it) for my husband to chip in a couple hundred, I’d just be scraping together that sticker price. Even if I cobbled together enough, the next steps loomed large. How could I ever shove this $3500 masterpiece into the dog hair-ridden trunk of a Subaru worth half as much? A thin sheen of sweat arrived to discourage any comfort I’d been enjoying in my own skin as I envisioned the possibility that someone from the gallery might offer to help carry it out and I’d have to play that part where I rush ahead of them to begin battle with the trunk latch and announce over my shoulder that it’ll open any second, it almost always works eventually. Even if I got past all these obstacles, there was still the threat that someone from Navient Student Loans would be waiting at my front door, arms crossed, head cocked slightly to the side, not exactly mad but definitely disappointed. No, me and this painting, we could never be. We were from two different sides of the tracks. 

+

The moment I met that apocalyptic beauty was my first experience with love at first sight. In an instant I went from knowing absolutely nothing about painting and aesthetic judgements to, well, still absolutely nothing about these things. What I did know was that this painting took me in, swallowed me whole and never spit me back out. This was an “Enter Only” door, no gravity type situation. The instant I saw it I was locked, sold, irrevocably connected. The ringing buzz of gallery-goers dropped away; I could only hear its soft story whispered. I knew that the beauty before me was inexhaustible. Every color was exactly right to pull me into the ether, it was endless. I navigated the shapeless splendor with ease, I understood all the joyous parts and the tender parts, sweet and nebulous, somewhere between pastel and bright but always right. I spent a while in the dark part- I know that part, too, painting. I remember every moment and measure of this painting, the only thing I can’t remember is walking away from it.

+

I knew someone else would buy it. Someone rich. Someone who didn’t love it the way I do, or see it eye to eye and know this is the only perfect thing they’d ever come across or ever will again. Someone who belonged at this gallery and didn’t just stumble in for the free wine. Someone who wasn’t wondering if they’d need to pull down their glow-in-the-dark plastic skeleton and some of the bird’s nests they’d hung with nails left by the previous tenant in order to make room for it. Sure, they’d treat it alright, and hang it in the foyer where other rich people can ignore it and not understand it the way I do. They probably wouldn’t even need to consider transporting it in their own car, perfectly functioning Range Rover door handles be damned, they’d just scrape down their address without concern and expect delivery, no severed umbilical cord involved as they leave the gallery, no eyes darting around in the car on the way home as they wonder what have I done.

+

I snapped a picture of it with my phone and enjoyed it to the extent that I could afford to, but so much was lost in that pixelated translation. On that tiny screen I couldn’t be absorbed and transported into that endless galaxy. It just served to remind me how far apart we were. For a few days after the gallery, I looked around to see if the artist had any online presence and was maybe offering up the painting for $85 so long as the buyer could prove their love through a series of tests or something. I could never find the artist or any sign-ups to participate in a duel, and the gallery was reachable only by phone with hours that were, if I recall correctly, 10 am to 10:17 am every Tuesday that the moon is right. It never mattered anyway, I never had $3500 for a painting. Anytime I get close to that kind of flex my car or one of my stupid teeth decides to break and I am reminded that the free wine was in fact the only thing in that gallery meant for me.

+

The feeling never went away, I can still close my eyes and jump off the edge of the rock into the reservoir and on the way down we’re together again. I’ve seen other paintings since, I even bought a piece of patchwork fabric art I saw hanging for sale at a diner that suits me. It is called “Solar Bunny” and it has glow-in-the-dark stitching that fits perfectly next to the skeleton and bird’s nests. It doesn’t fill the hollow aching that runs from my throat to the bottom of my ribs when I think about it, but I love it in its own way. What we have is easy, simple, logical. The Navient guy doesn’t even know about it.

+

Maybe it's good I can't have it. The hope lives on that one day after my poetry makes me a millionaire, I come across it again at some estate sale (do millionaires go to estate sales? I'll figure it out) where no one else bothers to move aside the ridiculous family portrait painting to see what hides behind it, but I know it in a lightning bolt instant from the half inch peeking out, I know we're reunited.

Genesis of an Idiot

by John Alexander

Then the Lord God formed a man from the dust of the marijuana grounds and breathed into his nostrils a puff of smoke, and the man became a living being. Now the Lord God had planted a garden and bench at the Gunk of Eden in the mythical land of New Paltz; and there he put the man he had formed. In the middle of the garden bench was the backpack of knowledge of good and evil. And the Lord God commanded the man, “You are free to smoke from any weed found in the garden; but you must not smoke from the backpack of good and evil, for when you smoke from it you will certainly pay the price.” The Lord God said, “It is not good for the man to be alone. I will make a sister suitable for him.” So the Lord God caused the man to fall into a deep sleep, induced by the indica blend he had fashioned for him; and while he was sleeping, he took one of the man’s lungs and then closed up the place with flesh. Then the Lord God made a woman from the lung he had taken out of the man, and he brought her to the man. He named the man John and the woman Angie.

The two lived in harmony at the Gunk of Eden for many days and many nights, leaving the backpack of knowledge of good and evil untouched while they galivanted through the gardens and the cool pond. Of all the animals the Lord God made to keep the pair company, the serpent the craftiest and slyest of them all, though they spent a long time trying to convince the ducks to speak back to them. John said to the serpent, who was coiled around the backpack of knowledge of good and evil, “We may smoke from the weed in the garden, but God did say, ‘You must not smoke from the backpack that is in the middle of the garden, and you must not touch it, or you will pay the price.’” The serpent responded to the man, “You will not certainly pay the price, for God knows that when you smoke from it, you will become like him. And he doesn’t want that.”

When the man rummaged through the formerly untouchable backpack and realized that it contained everything one would need for a smoke session, including a small baggie of weed, he pondered for a while. Should he follow God’s directions and leave it on the bench? The serpent told him to take it, and Angie supported that choice – she wanted to try some for herself, after all. He took some of the forbidden fruit and smoked it. He looked around for signs of God’s disapproval, waited for the Heavens and the universe to punish him for what he had done. No such signs came. After all, he left everything else behind in the backpack – the papers, the pipe, and the lighter. He felt he was in the clear. He had gotten away with it, just how God would.

Then the Lord God said to the man, “What is this you have done?” The man said, “The serpent deceived me, and I smoked.” To John he said, “Because you listened to the serpent and smoked from the tree about which I commanded you, cursed is the ground because of you, through painful toil you will walk as if it was leg day every day, and by the sweat of your brow, you will search for your AirPods until you return to the ground, since from it you were taken. Finally, you will fall victim to your own stupidity, puny human.”

John was too stoned to care. He just thought the big man in the sky was bluffing. He wasn’t.

So the Lord God banished him from the Gunk of Eden. The Lord God took the man away from the paradise he was born into and placed him in a purgatory like no other, College Hall. While sitting at a desk too short for his legs and too tiny for his notebook and coffee, the Lord God began his series of punishments on the man. First, the Lord God commanded the professor of the class to kick John’s cup of coffee like a soccer ball all over his brand-new backpack and notebooks. The man had to miss an important lesson on the bass clef and ledger lines so he could hobble to find paper towels that only ultimately spread the mess further under his seat and into his backpack. Each step grew worse and his pain was excruciating, he didn’t know how he would stand back up from the floor.

The Lord God made sure that the man would frantically search through every pocket, every zipper, and every crevice before finally finding his headphones. The Lord God would hide them in different places each time he went to look, forcing him to retrace his painful steps around the hellishly cold campus only to find them again somewhere on his person. It was like a game for the Lord God, every time the man reached for relief through music, he wouldn’t be allowed to have it and would fear losing that privilege permanently.

At the end of the day, the man thought that he was finally finished with all of the Lord God’s punishments for the night and retired to his bedroom. The Lord God knew what a tough day John had just been through, so he decided to encourage all the man’s friends to squeeze into his cramped room to keep him company after his long day of torment. Something in the back of the man’s head, presumably the cunning Lord God, told him that the torment was not over just yet. The Lord God bestowed a gift upon the man; finally, something positive. Still, a test all the same.

The Lord God chuckled in the sky as he waited until the next day to tell the supposed patient zero that his results were a year old.

Winter’s Nest

by Emily Gormley 

through the foggy car window

smudged with years of excited and bored fingers 

pointing out landmarks in awe, or languidly drawing shapes, 

i see a tree in the painted sunset sky. 

the tree is bare; it is winter. 

where the leaves once were, 

and will be again, 

i see a window to space through an intricately patterned curtain. 

in fragmented segments 

cut up by thin lines of bark 

i can see a universe of colors 

like a stained glass window. 

the delicate lace of the bare tree 

vulnerable and cold 

like the bodice of a lover just beyond grasp 

exposes a nervous system in the branches of the branches. 

i could take it in my hands and caress it softly 

protecting the fragile tendrils from any harm. 

through the seasons of loneliness, we give each other comfort 

until the leaves come back to hug their steadfast friend. 

it is a winter evening, 

the sun has kissed the tops of the trees goodnight 

and has left a pink-orange glow 

with the promise to return tomorrow. 

Lessons Through You

by Sara Jean Hotz

Life is about freedom

Freedom, to be yourself

Cultivate experiences worth savoring

Savor, the foods that make you hum with each bite

Speak your truth

Truth, is in those who trust themselves

Get lost in what makes your soul dance

Dance, simply because it is joyful

Indulge in what nourishes your mind

Mind, only those who are dear

Hold close, the ones who make you feel understood

Understand, the rarity you have to offer

Hope can be found even through loss

Loss, makes room for new growth

There will be heartbreak, tragedy

Tragic, to believe you are to bear it alone

Life is demanding, but we do not have to suffer

Suffering, is in our interpretation

The devastation we all face is a reflection of the beauty

Beauty, balances our pain

Embrace what gives your body love

Love, lives within you

Find positivity even if just a glimmer

Glimmering, eyes will lead you

and your eyes,

have been my muse

Ode to the Bedroom Window

by CJ Calamari

The paint comes off in rows and sings like blades

              of sunlight cutting into skin; bleed out

and stain the molding wood as it’s displayed

              from under cracks your mother cried about.

Bugs tiptoe through the window screen half-down

              but wind will force the curtains in; you pull

         them off and wrap them ‘round you like the dress

                   your mother had as her communion gown.

         A Dylan record pulses past in full,

                        celestial waves for neighbors less obsessed.

No guest can pull the curtains back or look

              where birds have made their unloved nest. Uphold

your mother’s front; keep close how she mistook

              the pattern in the shattered glass as gold.

Feign reverie as rain draws trails and paths

              like roads to Naples. Hear cicadas stroke

         their wings with yawns and let them cry in vain.

                   We left the windows open; feel their wrath.

              To listen in the day is but a joke

                        ’til fireflies declare the night their reign.

Succumb to winds that cradle cheeks: cold touch

              that’s calloused, rough, but tenderhearted. Homes

are hand-me-downs, like frames with names—so much

              that once felt leaden still reads like a poem.

Your mother points them out and jokes of times

              where these few names were everything to her.

         And in your father’s native tongue, so loud,

                   so fright’ning Gods will think the bells have chimed,

              call out to stars and worlds alike and slur

                        your words. Make them aware. Make old man proud.

The paint comes off like roads behind your house,

              and children eat the chips to kill themselves

when they're condemned through cursèd vows

              of Saviors, Martyrs—lies that overwhelm.

Indulge yourself with myths of Saturn’s rings

              and press your nose against the screen to see

         if lies can be enough to make you sleep.

                   Twist screws out of the frame so Gods and Kings

              can watch the coward whom you love retreat.

                        And sneak back in to pray your soul to keep.

At First

By Emma Zwickel

It would be soft at first, the kind of sweetness you would expect from a honeysuckle pleading harvest, the knuckle of candied fruit. And he would be soft at first too. He, with his indigo eyes, bleeding blue, the swallow of the most seasoned skies. He, with his skin, velvet to her touch, unfathomably sensitive. And he, with his hurt, impenetrable. Unbreakable. She would try to break through her doubt with pretended aptitude, forcing herself to lie beneath him, perform for him, hold the weight of his hunger and rage. But soon, she would loosen her grip, and all that should have come naturally would dull away.

It would be warm at first. And she would try to pretend he would always be a hot summer’s night to fall back into. She would remember her parents, those six years stationed in Alaska where there was never enough warmth to sustain the winter ice. Hand in hand, there would be Gospel on Sunday and early Monday coffee stalemates with harsh realities and hell-raised fists. One by one, the days would drift away and one day, she would find herself already half-gone. She would watch through fogged eyes as he whisked her off to sunny San Diego, as they’d feign joy and solace and all dawns beautiful. But as she’d become mellow, he’d grow cold. And there wouldn’t be room for comfort anymore. There would simply not be room. 

It would be childsplay at first, a combination of a boy-meets-girl-meets-universe and an assortment of myths impossible to decipher. Back when hell was a bad word and storks brought babies to her neighbors' door. She would finger the pages of her roughed-up King James Bible, massaging each verse as if she could squeeze out its mysteries. Is it a sin to want? One Sunday, she would realize the fullness in her breasts and a subtle protruding of her stomach. Then, too many Sundays later, she would be pushing, pushing for a reason to go on and give somebody else life, a better life than her own.  One night she’d dream of a flock of storks who’d mouth-carry wide-eyed newborns to her hospital bed. But she would awake the next morning, rubies splashing up and down her thighs, and there would be no sign of anybody ever having lived within her.

It would be easy at first, bodies soothed by the dim candlelight of oh my God, forever could finally be a possibility if only we can hold on long enough to savor this moment. She would imagine herself associating those words with a woman. Again, and again. Like a spell that would stink to the innermost grievances of her conscience. Her parents would consider it a curse. At first, they would. But someday, they would forgive, would reconcile, and give her their blessing. She and her lover would twirl in the moonlight, hands caressing each other’s waists. It would be only in the darkness that they could touch but it would be enough. The message would be passed along, offered on a silver platter until it was finally understood I love you like the stale crunch of childhood when the sign of the cross never felt ugly and I knew which corner of the chapel you sat in with your grandparents. I love you like all of God’s rainbows could never compare to the cascade of colors we have created here inside our own sanctuary. I love you like you never left. I love you like His tears never mattered to me if you were the one crying. In all the ways you tell me you could never love me, I love you.

She held onto estimated facts and figures. Her hope was like a boomerang flung into artificial lamplight. 

It would be new again at first and she’d recall how his mother stood in the uppermost pew in the left aisle, weeping until the tears wasted her away. She would wear white, something borrowed, something blue, and something melted in the reflection of his smile as they’d spin the night away. They would have two children, a boy, and a girl. A picket fence. All the works. The four of them would live happily ever after, perhaps in a mansion, perhaps in a quaint cottage splattered in cobwebs. “As long as they were happy,” he would tell her. As long as they were happy. Five years later, she would ask herself, “Am I really happy?”

#

I was unscathed at first, and then I found my history. It was my blood bound in ropes and my spirit shoved into the sunshine and myself whom I blame for my hardened shell and demand for constraint. I have imagined locking lips with men who love me only for my edges and have slept beside women who were not able to flesh out the idents of my curves. Every day, I am reminded of my bloodline and how it pricks at me, winks from the hidden shadows of alleyways and broken streetlights. Daring me and the rest of our descendants. Betray the natural order of His Kingdom.

 I have come to learn that love is not meant to be loved. It swerves and it dips in and out of phases, swooning beside dusk and ducking behind heaps of gold. Sometimes I think love is not meant to be mine. In the closet, I’ve avoided the infinite possible pathways of my past, turned away schoolboys who courted me with strawberries dipped in chocolate and grocery store carnations. Somewhere they are men now— alcoholics, ice fishermen, priests, and deadbeat fathers. By now, they have forgotten their boyhoods; they know no better than to. But I cannot. I remember who I have arisen from. My eyes bleed blue, and I picture what my future could look like: California Christmases, the gift of life delivered to my front porch, the first rainy rainbow ever smiled beneath. It all comes down to now. At last, I close my eyes and see the name lesbian painted across my body, a name never before proposed to me. I think that before I simmer to nothing, I must learn to love that name with everything I am. With every misstep that in walking the paths of my foremothers and forefathers, I would have taken.