My father knew how the system worked; how it fed its subjects and ground their bones. He saw himself as a practical philosopher of the cold, hard world. To save me, he taught the choreography of survival: the proper tilt of the chin, the measured depth of a nod. "Refrain from using venomous words," he'd say. "They poison the air where beauty still breathes." He wanted me to move within the invisible lines. I tried to absorb his wisdom, but my spirit wouldn't settle. I stayed

The Set Of All Things contains the Ocean, and perhaps that is the only set large enough. Or so it appears sitting out here on the boat, the water empty from horizon to horizon. The wind tugs at the sail, just enough to keep way on. Daniela’s at the stern of the boat, keeping an eye on the wheel, and I’m at the prow, looking out. As far from each other as we can get on the boat. Not because we’ve argued, but to take a bit of time. Before we get sick of each other. We’ll talk a

We ate them on a muggy Spring afternoon. I skipped out from work saying I had a legal appointment, not entirely untrue. Sweat trickled down my belly and tickled my underarms during the two-block walk. I hoped I didn’t smell. Stepping through the door was like entering another era. White tiled walls gleamed, a long bar with men shucking oysters stretched down one side of the front room, and a row of small tables ran the length of the other. One table, strewn with crumpled na

Sprung Uncles “Oh shit, Uncle Cal. What’s the emergency?? Is my mom ok?” The kid has a permanently dazed look, like he’s high or he was dropped on his head. Dropped on his head is more likely given his parental situation. Still, he’s gullible enough, which is all I need for today. I tell Tyler it’s nothing to worry about, just a fun little adventure I thought he wouldn’t want to miss. “That’s a relief. I figured you might have come ‘cause someone died.” It’s spooky how t

We’re seated at a round table so I can’t escape my sister-in-law’s sightline, can’t lean back in my chair so I disappear between two cousins, there’s no bad seat in the house my father-in-law would say; I contemplate a posture that most closely mimics invisibility, staving off the inevitable until everyone else has answered Carol’s how’ve you been like air released from overblown balloons. Like an ill-timed waitress she comes around to me while my face is stuffed with fried c

In the club, everyone’s mouths open at the same time. The bass drops and words fall out — slick, unclaimed — pooling around my boots. Someone says beautiful mama, and the phrase sticks to my skin, glowing faintly, northern, like a bruise that refuses to thaw. I press my palm to my stomach, a reflex I don’t notice until I’ve already done it. Inside me, the baby shifts, slow and buoyant, the way something swims when it isn’t afraid. My body feels anchored, weighted correctly. A

Melinda screamed, hot, forceful breath scraping her teeth. She was doing what she was supposed to, that’s how aggrieved mothers behaved. “You want your baby to die, asshole?!” The voice on the other end of the call was deep, distorted–a deadbeat Darth Vader. Offended, Melinda wanted to scold Scott for taking things too far, his inclusion of “asshole,” but much like her screaming, there was a protocol to follow; he was just doing his part. A “fuck” would most certainly be co

A fog does not roll in. Rain does not fall, does not soak the earth until suffocating worms rise, blind and glistening, to be met by opportunistic birds. When she opens the door, it does not creak. The air is very still. Dust does not rise. As she steps inside, the floorboards do not groan. Nothing moves. The house is so well behaved. Walking through the old, empty hallways of her childhood, she feels no cold spots. It's amazing, really. You wouldn't know this place was

My smartwatch says ‘unknown number,’ but I know who it is. ‘Good afternoon, Lydia Charles,’ I say, reciting the manual. ‘Tracey, Pete here, time for a quickie?’ I look around the train carriage. It’s silent. There are eyes in books, eyes out the window, and, now, eyes on me. ‘Sure,’ I say. ‘Sure?’ Pete says. The manual outlaws ambiguity. ‘Of course, Pete,’ I say. ‘What you wearing?’ He says. ‘Office clothes,’ I whisper. The bespectacled old man in front of me looks u

If you decide this story is incoherent, I want the world to know I have a constellation of three freckles under my wrist from when I had anorexia. Are three stars even a constellation? I want to say so. All of the daily shots made a discoloration, where it used to be calm, fragile, and new under there. Maybe it’s incorrect that the freckles came from illness, which changed my body forensically, but when I look back, I want someone to know I find it true. & so, it is a tale a

(TW - Sexual Misconduct) Amma narrates the legend of Honamma for the millionth time as you make your way to the temple. Last week, a sharp ringing of a bicycle bell interrupted the tale as a man in a tattered turban ran his rusty vehicle into a mould of freshly laid dung. “Chi!” Amma pointed to the slush on her feet. The man flashed dirty dung between his legs. Your hands froze, your heart sank to your pit, you even forgot the Sanskrit mantras. You looked for gorges,

She is doing the Subathon. Only a little cleavage when the timer gets low. And if that donator asks for those pictures, she shares them just for him. But the timer is getting low very often now. The V-necks become deep V cuts. The push-up bra, already doubled. She hates the ones who watch. Not earlier, when she played video games instead of staring at a camera, watching videos on YouTube she actually liked, instead of following her community. Growing dumber by the year, she t

Glossy acrylic latex paint Glossy acrylic latex paint. Oil-based primer. Glossy acrylic latex paint. Oil-based primer. I say this twice more driving into Dove Meadow Retail Complex. No way I’m going to get mugged off by the guy in Paint Passion or, more importantly, let him know I’m the type of person that doesn’t know anything about paints and, ergo, am not very handy or outdoorsy and probably just some soft-fingered digital nomad that writes marketing copy all day. Which

I was told to walk deliberately, rehearsed. One careful step at a time, so the click of my stilettos wouldn’t pollute the silence or intrude on anyone’s thoughts. Not to turn my head, show a grimace, or even shift the curve of my lips or brows when commented on. Not to flinch or stir, not even at an obvious brush, a shove, or under the weight of a fixed gaze. That’s how you avoid a dog. You can’t outrun a dog. He’ll chase you down and tear you apart. You can’t ask for help.

Jolowat dug through the box of half-priced items, pulling out a glass-fronted rectangular object. “What’s this?” she asked the Elder running the sale. “It’s called a cell phone,” he replied. “They were used for communication—I found loads of them when I arrived here with the first settlement group. It hasn’t worked in ages, but would make an interesting conversation piece.” Jolowat nodded and walked over to pay him, reaching down to pat the tiny-headed human lying at the Eld

Ma says I was a picky eater from birth. Wouldn’t drink the expensive formula she bought with clenched teeth. Ahma came, mixed porridge water with sugar, forced it down like medicine. Wouldn’t eat rice cereal. When they went to work in the orchard, they set me in a big bathtub with a bowl of plain porridge, my sister ordered to watch. Porridge smeared my face, neck, collar, sticky on my skin. Vegetables? Refused. Only rice with soy sauce. Not far from the mud house was a dump.

Why Sex Therapists Hate The Simpsons You’d think being a sex therapist would be stimulating. (Pun intended. I long to be a writer.) But it’s soooo boring. Same old, same old. Infidelity. Fear of sexual intimacy—yes, ex-husband #1, that’s you with your computer and spreadsheets after making love—difficulties achieving orgasm, mismatched libidos; now you’re up, ex-husband # 2. As a Scorpio you should have b

The great horned owl is depressed. Those dark feathers over his amber eyes may give him an aura of stern anger, but I know his double- whoos are thick with sadness. Sitting high on an abandoned limb, blending into the grays and browns of the leafless trees that sway together beyond my backyard, he calls out every night. I can hear him as I'm settling into my own warm bed, alone save for the quiet dog at my feet. Whoo-whoo , he cries, as the moon rises full and happy. The ow

She keeps setting a fourth plate at the table. No one comments anymore. Her mother clears it like clockwork. Her father eats in silence. Her sister rolls her eyes but never removes it. Even the dog sits by that chair, tail still. It started a year ago. After the accident. After the quiet ambulance. After the unlit candle at the funeral. She set the plate the next morning, and the chair exhaled, not a creak, but something deeper. Like memory stretching. At first, she tried to

The government is replacing people with Replicants. They got to Carter a couple nights ago—when I woke up, I knew it wasn’t my fiancé lying beside me, even though it looked just like him. I wondered whether they’d programmed the thing to think it was really him before I slid my gun out from under the pillow and blew half its head off. That’s how I discovered that Replicants are organic. Fake Carter looked human, right down to the blood and brain. I didn’t cry because I knew