Search Results

Vanessa logged out and picked up her keys. Garrett, a “team leader” was leaning into the next cubicle and his lower body was blocking her exit from her own.. He was talking to a woman named Marcia in the next cubicle over. Marcia was twenty-four and devoted to Crossfit. On casual Fridays she always wore yoga pants. Garrett was talking in that kind-of sort-of maybe this-or-that manner about the impending weekend, hoping Marcia would offer up the tiniest affirmation of her own weekend plans so that he might impose his own thereby. Marcia, too smart for Garrett by half, offered nothing. “Ahem.” Vanessa had to clear her throat to get Garrett to stand up to let her pass. “Hey” he said, without ever looking away from Marcia, straightening up to let Vanessa by. Alone in the elevator Vanessa spoke out loud to herself: “I am invisible . I am forty-five years old and invisible . This should not have happened yet.” Who said that first, she wondered. Vanessa had a son in high school and a father in assisted care. Two men to whom she was visible, the former more so than the latter. To all others it might as well be as if she never were. She left work at two o’clock on a Thursday afternoon. “Where are you going V?” her boss asked. “Meeting with my son’s school,’ Vanessa said. “I asked you this morning, remember?” “No, but alright,” he said. “Hey, can you come on Saturday?” I’m going to need you to come in if you can.” “I’m going to need to come in on Monday,” Vanessa said. “Thanks Val,” Tom said. “I knew I could count on you.” Ten years here and he still gets my name wrong half the time, she thought. She was ten minutes late leaving for the meeting with the school and by the time she arrived, she was fifteen minutes late. Scott was suspended from school for one week. The principal and the drama teacher had set the meeting with her after school had let out to explain their decision. He was being suspended for a short-film he created along with another student– a “student-led” project. It was supposed to be a section of dialogue from “Waiting for Godot” and that’s what they had presented to the drama teacher, who had approval. What they had done was present a satire of the Harry Potter movies in which Professor Snape attempts to seduce young Potter. They had, of course, filmed this on the sly and had most definitely not presented it for any approval save for the roars of laughter from the class when it was shown. The principal loaded the file on his monitor and turned it around for Vanessa to see. The video began with Scott dressed in some sort of a dark robe, with a long black wig on, standing in front of another boy whom she recognized as a boy surnamed Jensen. She thought him the sort that might start fires when no one else was around. The little arsonist was seated at a desk, wearing a similar dark smock to her son’s and wearing thick-rimmed black glasses without lenses. The presentation’s dialogue started immediately, with Scott (as Snape) telling the Jensen kid (as Harry Potter) that “The love between Slytherin Master and Gryffindor apprentice was the purest love of all” and ended with Scott (as Snape) telling the Jensen kid “Don’t be fragile like your friend Weasley now, this is a ‘sorting’ of a different sort, and you don’t want to be a thumb-sucking bed-wetter like him. He cries himself to sleep every night.” There was much in between, all of it wildly inappropriate, and every time Scott (as Snape) said “but” the Jensen kid responded with “heh-heh, you said “Butt.” The video ended and the conversation started: “You see,” said the principal, “We can’t have that. So, we are suspending him for one week effective today. He can return to classes next Friday, 8:20am sharp. We hope nothing like this ever happens again.” Vanessa turned to the drama teacher; a short, thick woman named Greene. Greene had on the same kind of thick-rimmed glasses the Jensen kid (the arsonist) was wearing in the video, only with lenses in them – progressives by the look of it. “Is it the content you object to or the costuming?” Greene was very quick to respond. “The patriarchy institutionalizes indifference to other people’s suffering - particularly women’s and children’s - by mocking it. I won’t stand for it.” “No points for originality?” Vanessa asked, resigned to the suspension now. “Costumes? Set design?” “Ma’am,” Greene said, “Conflating pedophilia with the Harry Potter Franchise is hardly original. It started fifteen minutes after the first film. It’s the same with Dora the Explorer or Power Rangers or any franchise you can think of. I do not want to tell you what I’ve seen in regards to Twilight. I warn everyone in advance. I also warn about scatological interpretations, but scatology only gets you an “F” on one assignment. Pedophilia gets you one “F” and one “suspended.” Vanessa turned to the principal, who had nodded emphatically at the Twilight reference. “What about the other kid? That Jensen boy?” What about Greene here calling me “Ma’am” she thought, but did not say. “He’s gone too,” the principal said. “One week, same as Scott. In fact, you may want to suggest to Scott that he be more careful of the company he keeps. That Jensen kid is a real shit-starter, if you’ll excuse my French.” Greene walked Vanessa out. “Please take it seriously,” said Greene. “Whatever you say to him the first thing Scott will ask you is if you laughed. If you say even ‘a little’ the Patriarchy wins. That’s all they are looking for. They do these things and for them ‘a little’ is like being valedictorian for a day.” “Well,” Vanessa said. “It was a little funny.” “Sure, it is,” said Greene. “But that’s all they aim for. A little. They practice a kind of deliberate and unrefined callousness in the hopes of getting hits on YouTube - and the video is on YouTube already. So, they think ‘Whoo Hoo - I win.’ But anyone with a cell phone can post a video to any number of social media on the internet. These boys, these ‘ballers’ and ‘bros,’ they come into my class thinking it’s easy credits, and where once they recited Shakespeare, now they incite reaction to the lowest common denominator they can imagine. They are going for cheap laughs, and all my girls who dream of the stage are afraid to get laughed at, so no one does anything.” “I work in a cubicle, Ms. Greene,” Val said, “I get up with caffeine and go to bed with two-buck Chuck. If I can do that, why can’t some kids get through your drama class after seeing one silly video? I thought it was a little funny and a lot stupid, but not worth a week’s suspension and certainly not worth my time to come here about it. It is most definitely not worth the condescension your facial expression tells me you are about to express. Tell me Greene, what did the principal tell the Jensen kid-who-probably-instigated-this’s mother?” “Not to hang out with Scott.” Greene said. "I thought so.” She left the school and didn’t look back at Greene standing there, her arms folded across her chest, eight minutes away from posting to social media herself about the need to forgive those who refuse your wise counsel, forgive honestly and without expectation, and about how the patriarchy is made up of all genders. # Vanessa got home and walked in to the living room without taking her shoes off. “One week, smartass,” she said to her son, “do you have anything to say?” “Did you at least laugh at the video?” “How about, ‘I’m sorry mom. It was a stupid thing to do, mom. I’m very, very sorry I embarrassed you and got suspended from school for a week, and nothing like this will ever happen again, mom’.” “That too,” he said, “did you at least laugh?” “It wasn’t that funny,” she said. “But a one-week suspension? Unfair. I bet nothing like that ever happened when you were in high school .” “No, it didn’t,” she said, “but only because it hadn’t been thought of. In my day boys used to snap our bra straps and nothing at all was done about it. Just ‘boys being boys’ they said.” “If anyone did that now they’d get their ass kicked” Scott said, “By me.” He unconsciously assumed the posture of a man about to sit down to a video game to kick no one’s ass, ever. “Well, that would be your father’s ass then,” Vanessa said, “Because he did exactly that, many times, and I married him anyway.” Scott had turned back to the video game muttering “I’ll kick everyone’s asses,” and had not heard Vanessa’s comment about his paternal parent, far enough away now and so removed from Scott that she hadn’t even bothered to call him or email him about the suspension. There were two voice-mails waiting for her. One from the assisted care facility where her father was living saying that there had been an issue with her father and that she needed to get in touch with the facility promptly, the other from her brother Dan saying he’d received a voice mail from the assisted care facility saying that there had been a problem with their father and that she needed to get in touch with the facility promptly, and then to let him know if she needed any help. She called Endless Vista Village, identified herself, and was told that her father had been seen having a “physical relationship” with another resident that appeared to also involve marijuana use, and that it would be better to discuss this in person. Could she be there at ten the next morning? They would say nothing further over the phone. She made the appointment for two the next day and phoned Dan. “Dan, the Endless Vista people called and said Dad has been having a “physical relationship” with another resident and that there is marijuana somehow involved. They want to meet us tomorrow at two in the afternoon. I already took off early today to go see the school about Scott’s video. Can you do the meeting with them?” “ I saw Scott’s video on YouTube,” Dan said, “Funny stuff. I can’t do the meeting though. Can you just go and then give me the scoop when you have time?” “Why can’t you go?” Vanessa asked. “Well, two reasons. One is that I don’t do those kinds of meetings well. I’m a numbers guy, and not a people person. Two is I can’t book off on a Friday on short notice. I don’t have that kind of a job.” “Dan, you are an accountant in a one-man shop. You work for yourself. It’s not even tax season.” “Hey, when you work for yourself, you don’t own the business - the business owns you,” Dan said. “I’m chief cook and bottle washer and all positions in between. Just do the meeting and let me know if you need anything from me. Remember to tell Scott not to get too down. His video was some funny stuff. Real funny. The school needs to grab a Xanax or two and a cold beer and chill out a little.” “It wasn’t that funny” she said, but Dan said his good-byes over her and hung up. Later that night she sat down with a glass of wine courtesy three dollars and Mr. Charles Shaw. Even Charles’ company cost more than it used to too. She sipped and watched some real-life unsolved murder cases expertly edited and presented on TV so as to inculcate a kind of creeping paranoia in the viewer that stayed through sleep and followed them upon arising, imbuing them with a pessimistic sense of the world’s wrongness in place of any optimism that otherwise might be found. In her own twilight hour, half asleep in her bathrobe on her couch with the solid value taste of Mr. Charles Shaw, Esq. on her lips, and his fairly-priced after-scent in her nostrils, she had a vision somewhere between dream and prophecy, of Marcia at work. In the dream Marcia was older now with grey in her hair. She was still wearing her black yoga pants, only now they were starting to pill. Marcia got up and had to edge past Garrett, who looked the same as he always looked. He was talking animatedly to a woman Vanessa could not see but could hear in a cubicle next to Marcia’s. Garrett murmured incoherently and the unseen woman laughed and Marcia had to say “Excuse me” twice before Garrett stood up straight to let her past. He did this without looking back at her. Marcia turned to Vanessa and rolled her eyes. Vanessa shrugged. Marcia walked into the elevator but Vanessa did not follow, instead waiting for another elevator so that she might go alone. She was sure, very sure, with the strange logic of dreams that Marcia was walking into that elevator only to be murdered within minutes of exiting it, and that the case would never be solved. In the documentary about the case Vanessa was sure to be interviewed, so she had to think about what she should wear, and what she should say. She woke from this somnambulant vision and picked up the empty glass. “What’s next Chuck?” she asked herself. “What could possibly happen next?” “Menopause.” She imagined Chuck whispering, and then, “Soon enough. You can count on it. But hey - I am here for you baby, always and forever. You can count on me too.” She set the glass in the sink to wait for the next day. # Friday morning with drive-through coffee running through her arteries to animate her soul she stopped by Tom’s office before anything else. “Tom, there’s some kind of emergency with my father at the assisted care facility. There is a meeting at two this afternoon. I have to go so I’ll be out this afternoon.” Tom looked up over the edge of his glasses, progressives by the look of it, although his manner suggested he’d never adapted to use them as intended. “Sure thing, Vicki, he said, “I understand these things. Let me tell you about my own dad sometime. Circling the drain, prays for death every day, but still hangs in there. I think that in a strange way it feels like an accomplishment to him. He now spites even himself. But whatever, you take all the time you need, and hey – while I’ve got you here shut the door and grab a seat, there is something I need to discuss with you.” Vanessa shut the door as directed and sat down. "Look Tom,” she said, “Before you start, I want to say that I have been here a long time, there has never been a complaint, and that two family emergencies in one week could hardly be predicted. It won’t happen again.” “What are you talking about?” Tom said. “This isn’t about you. You are safe. You are a fixture here, like the furniture. If you go, I go, and that’s all there is to it. No – this is about Garrett. To make a long story short there’s been some complaints, so we’re going to transfer him out of customer service and into analytics. We’d like you to take over his team and be the new “Team Lead” for us. Will you do that?” “What happened?” She asked. “I mean, I know Garrett could be a little overbearing with some of the team members, the ladies especially, but ...” "What?” Tom interrupted. “Nothing like that, it was the customers. Garrett just doesn’t return calls promptly, or sometimes, at all. I asked him about it and all he said was ‘I won’t babysit clients, Tom; we’re all supposed to be adults now.’ But client service is one of our core values, and that means babysitting. The upshot of all of this is that he will move into analytics, and you’ll take over his team, if you are willing. “Money?” Vanessa asked. “Well, the wage freeze is still on, so not at first. However, I hear rumors from the higher-ups that they may remove it in eighteen months or so. You should be in good shape for a raise then. Also, we’re taking on a couple of interns. They don’t get paid of course but you and the other team leaders can share the interns to chase files, take messages, do anything you think they can do in the six months that they are here and we aren’t paying them. Maybe the hiring freeze will end before the wage freeze, but I have not heard anything at all about that.” Vanessa got up to leave. “Well alright then, I guess it’s decided.” “Thanks Vi,” Tom said. “I knew I could count on you. You’re still coming on Saturday, right? We have to play a little catch-up on some of Garrett’s stuff. Mostly unreturned calls/complaints and that kind of thing. Going to have to kiss a little customer's ass.” “I’m coming in on Monday, like usual, for the same money as I did this week,” Vanessa said, walking out, but Tom had already picked up the phone. # At the assisted living facility, she was ushered into the Client Care Manager’s office along with a sturdy looking woman in pink scrubs and crocs she introduced as “Grace, one of our client care specialists. The office was tiny, almost too small for three adult women. The client care manager, whose last name was Van Buren, spoke first. “I believe it best to be direct. Your father has been having a sexual relationship with another of our clients, and the two have also been using marijuana. Both are grounds for terminating our contract of care with them, but we’ll just say that this is the one warning we’ll give. If it happens again, he’s out, and you’ll have forty-eight hours to remove him.” “Do you have proof?” Vanessa asked. Van Buren turned her monitor around. It was immense, twenty-two inches at least. Vanessa had been raised on smaller televisions. “We have security camera video, and I’m afraid I have to warn you, it can be disturbing.” Where had Vanessa heard that phrase? Yes - on the unsolved murder documentaries. At least a hundred times, if not a thousand. “Sweet merciful Jesus,” she said under her breath, “not another fucking video.” “Pardon?’ said Van Buren. “Let ‘er rip” said Vanessa. She leaned forward. There were two videos. In the first, her father, naked except for a pair of thigh-high red vinyl boots with three-inch steel heels, walked with admirable ease arm-in-arm with a tall woman with short white hair who wore only a stiff looking set of white panties, panties that Vanessa quickly realized were adult diapers. The woman leaned her head on his shoulder and they looked like any other couple, walking in any other place, except they weren’t. They were decrepit, and here in an assisted care facility, and dressed as if for a fetish party no one should ever imagine, let alone see. In the second video the white-haired woman was totally naked and straddling her father on a bench in the open-air atrium between the wings of the facility. She rose up off of him and sat at his side, her head on his shoulder and he looked down at her and she looked up at him and they kissed softly and slowly and held the kiss for a long time. He then produced a small joint from inside the cuff of his red vinyl thigh-highs, and then a lighter and they lit it up, each puff-puff-passing adroitly. Her father leaned back on the bench, stretching out the length of his lanky body and crossing his ankles and Vanessa thought that she too lay like that, lay when watching TV. The short haired women settled in against his shoulder and they were sublimated into one another, a moment not stolen but taken, even though it was now owned by security cameras and some portion of their children’s sense of shame. “Can you put a black dot on that or something,” Vanessa asked. “I can’t look at my dad’s junk.” “I’m sorry” Van Buren said, and she reached out to place the tip of her finger on the screen over the offending aged genitalia. Without prompting, Grace placed the tips of two fingers over the short-haired woman’s breasts, adjacent to without actually abutting, her navel. “Enough,” said Vanessa. I understand. “We’d like you to speak to your father,” Van Buren said. “We already have, and he knows the deal. But it would be best if you reaffirmed our position. We all need to be on the same page on things like this.” Grace walked Vanessa to her father’s room. “You father is one of my favorites,” she said. “Never a problem. You know ma’am, it’s like this: If our male clients get up to a little something, the families roll their eyes and look away. “Boys will be Boys’ they say, whether the boys are nineteen or ninety. With our female clients well now, that’s a different thing. Some people don’t mind mom having a little fun too, but some are unhappy. And unhappy children sue. And truth be known, I don’t care if he, or any of our clients, indulges in a little weed, here and there. If they can stay mellow it makes all of our jobs that much easier. It’s better than the prescription medications they all take. That stuff is what makes ‘em crazy.” “Where do they get the weed?” Vanessa asked. “Family members mostly,” Grace said. “Or some staff. Some will sell it to the clients to supplement their income. I don’t hold with that, no one does it with good intentions; they do it because they can charge more for it than they can out on the street. This is the long goodnight of generation weed, and they have to have it, have to have it, and they’ll pay. I don’t care if your dad, or any of our clients, indulges in a little herbal therapy, here and there. If they can stay mellow it’s better for everyone.” “Good to know,” said Vanessa, and walked in to see her father. She refused to ask about how her father had acquired the kinky boots, and Grace was very kind not to bring it up. Grace shut the door behind her and Vanessa could hear Grace walking away and moving down the hall. “Hey buttercup,” her dad said. He sat in a chair watching TV with the sound off, oddly upright compared to his, and Vanessa’s, usual posture of slouching back to watch TV with their chins on their chests. “Hey, dad.” They sat in silence for a while. “Well?” Vanessa finally spoke. “I thought you were a goddamn Republican.” “I still believe in fiscal responsibility, if that’s what you mean,” he said, without looking at her. Vanessa sat in silence. “Don’t worry, buttercup. I know I’ve gone and shit on my dinner plate. It won’t happen again,” he said. “That’s all I need to hear.” “I miss your mother,” he said. “Terribly. You too. Dan sure, but in a different way. How is Scotty? It’s been a while since he’s stopped by. I miss him too.” “Scott is doing fine,” Vanessa said. “He’s been making videos for a drama class. Playing his video games. He’s looking for a summer job at the mall. Busy with his own life these days.” “I no longer remember dates and times like I used to,” her father said, “but I do remember that after your mother died, I spent months alone in the house. I would not, could not, go out. One day I saw a commercial for a movie on TV and thought it looked good. I remember taking Scotty to a matinee to see that movie and he loved it. Really loved it. Something about a boy wizard. It seems like a long time ago but of course it can’t be - it’s just how I remember things.” “I know the movie dad, and Scott loved it too.” They spoke then of nothing, of weather and documentaries, of old family dogs long since running unfettered by door and fence and gone to dog heaven on four flying feet, and of the week’s coming weather. She sat with him until five, the same time she would have normally left work at, before she left to return to her place and to Scott and Charles Shaw. That night, with Scott out to a movie with friends, and with Charles Shaw at her side, she watched the unsolved-murder-meant-for-you channel and she lay on the couch with her head back against the back and her chin on her chest and with her eyes half-closed she understood that the narrator of the documentary was the real Charles Shaw, Sir Charles Shaw, guiding hand and ancient oracle, keeper of murderer’s secrets, behind the documentary. He now spoke of the murder of a quiet high school drama teacher, one Ms. Green, who vanished after walking across the high school parking lot after a student reenactment of Waiting for Godot, and all that was found of her were her glasses, lenses missing, a pair of black yoga pants, well-worn and starting to pill, and a pair thigh-high red vinyl boots. She awoke in her room the next day, up with the sun, dressed and drove to get a drive-through coffee, large, with three cream and three sugar, and went into the office to put in a few hours catching up on Garrett’s problems. Dan had texted her during the ride - a single “?” - but she did not reply. She’d made up her mind to tell him something he could handle, after work, when she, in the voice of Sir Charles, had time to compose it for him, just so.

I smell lily of the valley scent—mamas’ perfume — from the flower bouquets in the dayroom. We sit in washable armchairs wearing our spotless bibs. Here comes something white and round with flickering candles. A nurse pounds out ‘happy birthday’, off-key on the old piano. A man comes up to me; holding out flowers and says, “Happy eightieth birthday Mom, I’m Peter, your son.” But he isn’t. My thoughts balloon and shrivel like the echoes of mama’s laughter. On my seventh birthday, I remember gift-wrapped paper, bound with rainbow twine, ripped off presents by my impatient tiny fingers. Our Billy shot sparks with his dart gun, and Dandy, the white terrier, dived with fright under the long tablecloth. Granny Edna sat corseted, sipped Earl Grey tea, tut-tutted, and nibbled finger sandwiches of spam and cucumber. The box camera steadied in daddy’s hands to make smiles and memories. I call mama’s name again and again and again. The nurse advances with the drug trolley. Why doesn’t she give me a hug instead and ask me about her? “Your mama died, shush now dear,” she says. The nurse wants to make me cry again. My debs’ ball,- decked out in my cerise -pink ball gown, and a corsage of orchid pink roses, pinned to my waspish waist. Waltzed in a cloud of pink yearning. The time I saw my Frank — the moment our eyes met — our souls spoke. Sixty years together, till cancer took him. Our son Peter, aged seven……………. “Be calm, dear,” the nurse says. I try to rise, but I am harnessed to my chair. I cry. They wheel me to my room and tuck me up in bed, securing the bedclothes underneath the mattress. I rattle the cot sides; I try to get free— I hate tight spaces. Mary Anne Mc Enery is an Irish and Dutch citizen, a senior—who does not act her age— living in The Hague, The Nederlands. She has fun writing micro, flash fiction, and longer short stories. Some of her words can be found on the Friday Flash Fiction and Roi Faineant websites.

*This poem references Plaint of the Poet in an Ignorant Age, by Carolyn Kizer (1959). On a late summer morning, I ventured into Rocky Narrows as the sun peaked the horizon. Flora’s cool darkening crowded the trail, and deeper, I pushed. In the shade, dewy ferns overreached to deposit deer ticks onto my tall socks— stopping to sweep them away, a bird I’ve never heard squawked a song from the treetops. It was then I thought of dear Ms. Kizer— slinking about in a jazzy housecoat, perplexed and sucking on a green olive— trying to wake those dozing metaphors. And I would I were a botany-boy or a bug-boy with a backpack full of books, but no. I am, at thirty-nine, a poetry-man with little time to learn. So I forgot the no-bird singing in the no-name tree and stomped my way down the path, scaring squirrels and kicking pine cones— bruising my arches on paunchy acorns. A link to an audio recording of Plaint of the Poet in an Ignorant Age by Carolyn Kizer - https://t.co/tFqQGBxIak?ssr=true

Blue at sunrise I set down that portion of me and whisper to the room “Not yet,” and this is how it is for at least the long length of another day or two I remain, knotted up against desire— the thread-pull of leaving Int[e]r[l]ude The machine sputters to silence; black coffee steams cupped anticipation, and it has taken long sips of this early morning to be, completely, here, turning before the brightening day, burning, and then to remember (it shrieks itself into being –a hard start) that it is not the dead but the buried who slip backwards into the cold smallness of hard shapes (I come back into being) and the morning’s warm quiet sharpens to jagged half-light, emptying-grey, and waits… and stays… (and who is it that has fallen away?) The morning unanswered; The coffee undrunk. Endings By evening, we’ve already forgotten. What needs saying waits with its wings tucked under. Beneath the field of heartlong glances a speckled silence grows. And the lightning bugs remind of summers lost, remind of the when past why of this all. Night words, dusted with gold and crackling, remind of a future—time beyond reach. And the lightning bugs— (I think I can catch the sweep of their frenzy behind my eyelids. I think I can keep something for once.) Mothers/Daughters You are in the den starching linen. I am six years old, your girl, come in to prove myself. Backyard birds warble in time to your belt. Later, you stand astride the front lawn, brick in hand, and cigarette, his new car careening backwards down the drive. I must prove myself. I am fourteen, or twelve, or six, shaking the birds from their branches. You are here and there a lifetime. We never get too far from one another. I love colliding with you. The tumor spreads its fingers around your throat and I am six years old again. I must prove myself. The birds won’t leave their perches. There are no birds or branches. There is only you, now, disappearing beneath the white waves of your deathbed. You are gone. The sea is roaring quiet. Those birds are far off now. Those birds and their sturdy branches. Passages I am going north, I say to her— It is like a little code between us. Me, with my ungainly heart, and she, full settled and circumspect. I imagine she grants to us every cliché of young and stupid love, unknowing, as she does, the way our minds catch fire with each crackling cut. The way the evening meetings of our bodies bloom like brief flowers. Abigail Weathers is a teacher and copy editor living in Beijing, China. A member of the Spittoon Literary Collective, she facilitates the Spittoon Poetry Workshop and is a poetry editor for Spittoon Monthly. Her work appears in A Shanghai Poetry Zine, Sky Island Journal, SAGINAW, Trouvaille Review, and Identity Theory.

Ly Faulk has loved reading and writing for as long as they could read and write. They still believe in the power of the written word to change lives.

7,000 acres of incinerated forest suns burn through holes in my eyes fingers rake light through my skin of leaves every moment scalds inside with my mouth sewn shut by your hands wielding centipede thread and needles of luminous flame. juno, soaring summer cups my back with warm hands, like yours. my heart is fishing line pulled by your tides lay between my flowers and purr again. drown out drone echoing through the dark halls inside me. Síofra is an artist and worker from the mid-Atlantic. She can be found on Twitter or her website, https://eelchamber.neocities.org/

Albert grunted as he rowed the last hundred feet towards the blank shore. It wouldn’t be blank for long. Soon it’d be teeming with more life than beads of sweat on Albert’s body. At least he was working off the cheeseburger. The water grew shallow and the oars buried themselves in sand with each stroke. Finally—and with the crunch of sand against the bow—he arrived. Albert slung his bag across his shoulder and planted his feet on the shore. Barren island stretched out ahead. He peeled open the bag, searching for his notebook, spiral-bound and pristine. His fingers met its spine and sharp corners instantly. Transcribed in Albert’s own neat handwriting were the Planner’s specs: Beachgrass, scattered palms, deciduous trees, small animals. NO PREDATORS. Satisfied, he hung the notebook from his belt. This would be his first gig, thanks to his fellow Placer and mentor—Howard—after another arduous training session and the customarily boozy lunch which followed. # Training with Howard was grueling. He’d ask for a kiwi and grow upset when Albert produced a kiwi, chiding him over how he wanted the one with the tiny wings, not the more edible kind. “Hey! Would He screw this up? Why should us Placers be any different?” Howard took the kiwi from Albert and took a bite. “Sure we’re taking over for Him, a lot of stuff on His plate recently, but it doesn’t give us the right to be sloppy.” Howard sighed. “Okay, here’s a hint: six dots.” It took a few moments for Albert to put three and three together. He opened the bag again and deftly found the bird pocket without ever needing to take his eyes off Howard’s leering grin. It still impressed him how each pocket expanded, how the tiny pouches inside with their studded flaps stretched well beyond the limits of each pocket that held them and the bag that held the pockets. Albert had learned not to question the why or the how of it, just accept that it was part of His design. The studs on the flaps told him what each minuscule pouch contained, and he spent months memorizing patterns. Eventually—and through much trial and error—the dots sank in and Albert had earned his Pouch Identification Proficiency certification. He’d hung the plaque over his collection of rulers. He produced the confused bird for Howard’s inspection. Howard nodded, complained about his feet getting tired, and suggested they go to the Eastern for lunch. Albert stooped down to let the kiwi hop off his palm. It scurried away into a patch of tall reeds. A few wooden tables were scattered around the pub. Placers and Planners clustered in cliques. Howard changed to his off-duty attire: jeans and a graphic tee stating that IF IT AIN’T PLACED IT AIN’T LIVING. “A little out of the way, but we need it done soon to meet deadline,” Howard told him between bites of stew. A little piece of carrot clung to his two-week beard. Albert resisted the urge to wipe it from his chin. “Otherwise it’s pretty standard fare. I’d pick it up myself if I didn’t have so much else on my…bowl!” Howard ripped into a loud guffaw and clapped Albert on the shoulder, sending his fries flying. “I wish you’d laugh, heck I’ll take a smile. Even once. All those gotchas I threw your way and not even a chuckle!” “I’ll laugh when you say something funny,” said Albert. He took another bite of his burger. The tomato slid out and plopped onto his plate with an unappetizing splat. Why couldn’t He have made the tomato so it didn’t slide all over the place? Howard grinned with fleshy cheeks. “That’s the Albert I know, all right.” He waved his hand and Sophie came by. Albert straightened himself out in his seat, throwing back his shoulders to make himself seem taller than he already was. He kept coming to the Eastern in the hopes that someday he would find the courage to ask Sophie out. In the process of finding that courage he became a regular. Albert caught Howard catching the plunge of her neckline. Sophie caught Howard as well, sighing as her tunic expanded across her chest. Somewhere in the pub a groan resounded. “Another ale, then? If He hadn’t forbid cannibalism, I’d offer you some bacon.” She rubbed the same spot of her chin where the carrot had nested itself in Howard’s beard. The morsel dislodged itself, plopping into Howard’s beer. It drowned in a ring of bubbles. “Guess I’ll need another now, won’t I?” “As long as He approves.” She pointed a finger out the door. Technically, she should have pointed just a little bit to the left, past the pinball table in the corner. Beyond that was His house, perched upon the first hill He had ever made as a child. “He doesn’t need to worry,” Howard replied, “because Albert here is taking the job. His first solo one, too. I can drink ’til I puke.” Sophie beamed at Albert. “That’s great!” She looked like she was going to hug him. Maybe after this job she would. Her smile turned flat as she turned to Howard. “Sometimes I wish you would spew. Then maybe finally He would toss you out like the bum you are.” Howard shrugged and killed his beer, swallowing the chunk of carrot whole. It was going to be Albert’s first real job as a Placer, and he was feeling fine. # Currently, he felt a little less fine. The island held no companionship except for his notes and his thoughts. Still, it was a job to do and Albert wanted to do it well. Further up the beach the sand rose into a small dune. As good a place to start as any, he thought. As Albert climbed the dune the squish of his water-logged socks made him wonder why he thought sneakers would be a smart choice. He made a mental note to wear sandals for his next beach job. The whole of the island stretched out in front of him, nothing but sand and rocks for now. He was after Beachgrass: three dots—two aligned horizontally, one just below and to the right. He found it in a few seconds. After plucking just a single seed from within he smiled and felt its oblong shape between his finger and thumb. He continued to worry at the seed, feeling it multiply until they overflowed in his palm. Albert sprinkled the wad of seeds in his hand with deliberate nonchalance across the dune. He waited. After a few short moments spurts of green emerged from the sand, pointed optimistically towards the sky. Albert nodded and continued. He remembered his first time he had ever Placed something under supervision. Howard clucked his tongue. Though Albert had a few inches on Howard he always felt a bit shorter when Howard went on one of his rants. “You forget? You dummy. Plants can’t grow on rocks. Not this one, anyway. You know how much paperwork your mistake is gonna land me? Two forms for the Planners. Not one, two. One for why this choice was made despite common knowledge that hydrangeas don’t grow on rocks and another for why the hydrangea need unPlacing. Never mind the fact that I still have a strike from that poodle incident! He’ll send me to mandatory Hydrangea Placing Awareness now and…” Albert got the point. While he didn’t have to go to Howard’s training, simply hearing about it was enough—a forty-minute seminar by a man who chose to be balding, claiming it made him look like a thinker. The island was one of the most remote remaining. The Planners left it until the end, citing its remoteness and sheer boringness. Even if He came down from His house on the hill for a white-glove inspection, He wouldn’t give this island more than half a glance. So, why bother? Albert ran through his Fifty-Two Creeds. They were the reasons he needed to do the best job he could and do it as often as possible. He created the first fourteen while sitting alone in bed one quiet night, and the rest followed over time. He repeated them every morning since, whenever he was unsure of a choice which needed to be made. Should he Place a Fir or Spruce? Run through the Fifty-Two. Soup or Salad? Fifty-Two. A good spot for a Water Oak appeared. Three dots across and one beneath. He stooped and placed the seed on a small mound of dirt. A little splotch of green emerged instantly. These Placed florae grew faster than their offspring would—another way that He made things easier on the Placers. It beat standing around for twenty years, not that Albert couldn’t do that if he wanted to. Feeling a little daring, he groped a little further down his bag and found the animal pocket. His instructions had been very clear: NO PREDATORS. He sat on a rock, and continued walking his fingers down the flaps until he found what he was looking for. He felt the warmth of short fur beneath his fingertips, the minute twitches of muscle. Gently hoisting it from his bag he inspected it for a few moments. The squirrel held curiously still, sniffing at his fingers. The squirrel’s coat was full, no bald patches anywhere. The last thing Albert wanted was a defective squirrel running around. He let it go. It landed on all fours and sniffed the dirt beneath its feet. Hearing some nonexistent noise off in the distance, it bolted for the shrubbery Albert had planted. He smiled, brought out a few more squirrels, and started his first lap around the island—sprinkling squirrels as he went. It had been a few millennia ago when He began on his first uneasy foray into creation, one which ended with a particularly troublesome species making their planet too hot of all things. Upon His return He found a hot, lonely, smelly wreck of a planet, completely devoid of life. He discontinued Placing the species responsible and sent out a memo shortly thereafter. Until further notice, bovine were to be relegated to cheeseburger-related purposes only. Albert finished his lap around the island, sowing trees and brushes and flowers along the supple earth bordering the sand. Soon he had some shade he could rest beneath. The rest of the island couldn’t take more than a few hours to finish so he plopped himself on a rock (no hydrangeas here) near the water. He removed his shoes, luxuriating in the feel of wet sand and cool water sloshing between his toes. He couldn’t be sure how many minutes had passed, when a voice came from behind. # “Enjoying the breeze?” Sophie stood behind him, silhouetted by the sun. “Oh, Sophie, you…you’re down here.” “Can I sit?” Albert said nothing and Sophie took that as a yes. She wore sandals with a pastel floral pattern on the soles. “Should’ve brought something better than those things,” she said, pointing at the sandy sneakers leaning against Albert’s rock. “You knew this was an island, right?” “They’re better for walking around than sandals.” “That may be, but can you really put your feet on the ground? Feel life spring between your toes and kiss your ankles? And can you do all that without getting animal crud all over your feet?” Albert chuckled. “You might be right. What brings you down here anyway? How did you even get down here?” “Nothing really, just wanted to see how you were getting along. Here, let me get those for you.” Sophie twisted her face a bit. Albert’s sneakers were now on his feet, letting in more water than they should. When Albert looked down he realized that they had turned into sandals. They had the same dancing flowers as Sophie’s pair. “Isn’t that better?” Sophie asked. “Yes, but how did you didn’t answer my seco—“ “So,” she continued, “what’s in that magic sack of yours?” “Just the usual. Some plants and animals needing Placing. It’s pretty standard.” Albert hoped he sounded just the right amount of casual. “Got the Planner’s specs and I’m gonna get started—really started—here in a minute.” “I’d love to see you work your magic, if you’re not shy about it.” “There’s not much to see. You’ll get bored in a minute.” “Not with you around.” Sophie stood, brushed the sand clinging to her pants. “Oh, you’ve got something on your shirt.” Albert followed her finger towards the hem of his white shirt. A few dried tomato seeds clung like burs. Tomatoes strike again, he thought. Even after they were brushed away the seeds left a few reddish blots on Albert’s otherwise pristine shirt. They talked as they made a lap around the island. Albert didn’t bother slinging the bag around his shoulder again, carrying it loosely by its strap. Worried that he was boring her, he asked how things were at the Eastern. “Oh you know, about the same. Gets kind of boring serving you Placers all the time but it is what it is, I guess. Howard’s kind of a prick though.” “He can be.” Albert rummaged through his bag again, found a few more seeds. He was about to Place them, but had another thought. A better idea. But was this really a smart choice? Run through the Fifty-Two. The Fifty-Two came back with a big thumbs up. No way they would fail him now. He put the seeds in Sophie’s hand instead. “Want to do a few?” “Only if I’m allowed. Is it okay?” Sophie tossed some around without waiting for Albert to respond. A swell of green appeared on top of a small mound of dirt. It flourished and a few yellow flowers stood bravely against the barren soil. One came dangerously close to a rock. It wasn’t a hydrangea, sure, but Albert was fairly certain that most other plants couldn’t grow on rocks. He’d have to ask Howard when he got back. “Ohhh that was fun! I want to do some more!” “No, I think that’s enough for right now.” “Don’t be such a downer!” Sophie swiped at his bag. She got a hold of the strap, while Albert’s hand wrapped around the other side. The piece of leather, tested to withstand ten-thousand snags and pulls, had just encountered its ten-thousandth and first. The strap tore and the bag went sailing. A seed flew beneath a rock. An elm emerged from beneath, splitting the rock in two and spurting fiercely towards the sky. A sparrow shot out from the bag. It circled confusedly until it decided on a direction and darted. Just as the tree rose above Albert’s shoulders, the sparrow collided and exploded into a poof. Brown and white feathers fell gently to the ground—a stark contrast to the chaos of ferns and fish, petunias and pill bugs. Albert grazed the flap of the bag with his fingertips, barely missing a firm grip. Something felt off—the way the canvas moved. It was too late when he noticed. It hadn’t been latched. The bag pitched forward and yawned. As it hit the hard clay the little pouches inside began spewing their contents. “No!” Albert shouted at the seeds and animals. Some childish part of him hoped they would heed his words, go back to their homes and stay there until plucked. Instead they scattered. A whole ecosystem in microcosm began to spring forth around them. Soon it’d be a forest contained in the space the size of Albert’s modest broom closet. Sophie shrieked as dozens of rodents scurried between her legs. For a moment he thought of asking Sophie how her sandals were holding up now, thought better of it. The fish took priority. They were the easiest to grab hold of as they spasmed, gasping for water. They went back in easy. “Come help me!” Albert shouted. Sophie obeyed, and together they grabbed fish by their tails and shoved them back into the bag. Albert, struggling to keep a rainbow trout from escaping his grasp, stood directly over the bag and stretched the mouth of the sack open. A brilliantly white claw shot out. Albert yelped at the immense limb which followed, as thick as a trunk and covered in a substance he’d not seen before. The thick, viscous texture reminded him of hundreds of over-snotted handkerchiefs wrung out into a jar. He dropped the trout in surprise. It flopped on the ground, helplessly seeking water. In one of its spasms, it brushed against the limb he could only assume was a forearm. The trout didn’t bounce away, instead clinging in place like a refrigerator magnet. In one swift motion the thing in the bag swept the fish inside. Soft smacking noises and content growls came from within, twisting Albert’s guts into a knot of terror and nausea. The arm shot out again, feeling around for more snacks. Bits of sand stuck to its secretions. A long, pink, uncomfortably articulate tongue followed. It swept the arms and gathered up the sand. The creature Albert straddled made a discontent noise, and the maw of the bag widened. This would be a Bad Thing. Very Bad. If the bag burst then all the plants and animals within would be scattered about the island, something the Planners would not excuse, something which would doom that project, requiring a full reset and reconsideration of the budget. These things didn’t grow on trees, after all. Even the trees had to be manufactured. Sophie shrank into the background. Albert had to do something with this sticky, snotty beast, but what? Think, Albert, think! He had it. “Sophie! Move my shoes like you did before! To my hands!” “What in His name are you doing?” Sophie shouted. “Taking him out!” Albert considered this. “Of the bag. No way to put him back in now!” Sophie considered this request. It was like he’d asked her to put a scoop of ice cream on his steak. She shrugged, wriggled her eyebrows, and put Albert’s sneakers (now sandals) on his hands. A circular mouth, lined with concentric, threatening teeth, emerged from the bag. Two muscular, gooey arms pulled the drawstring taut. Albert used the makeshift gloves to wrench the arms free. The rubber soles sunk in, but were not consumed. Good so far, Albert thought. He straddled the bag and pushed his welterweight strength to its limit. Soon a pair of white beady eyes followed. It was coming out. The seams were at their limits, bulging between each stitch. “Take it easy, don’t force it out,” Sophie said, her voice cool. “If you do it’ll just get angry.” He knew that already, remembering his training course on Removing Large Predators from Tiny Bags. Now the chokepoint was around its neck, if such a beefy creature could even have a neck. “Come on!” Like yelling at it would help. But, oddly, it did. Whether through circumstance or skill or something else the beast seemed to understand. It wiggled through the opening, slowly shifting left to right. There was little he could help with. It emerged from Albert’s sack on its own. As the greatest part of its bulk exited, it lifted Albert into the air. He grabbed whatever goopy love handles he could find. His forearms and legs stuck to the beast, but he kept his torso aloft, looking like a koala bear straddling a Eucalyptus tree. Aside from the whipping pink tongue brushing Albert’s arms, the beast plodded along as if nothing had happened. A few insects inched out, curiously, only to be snatched up and ground into a paste with startling efficiency. Sophie sprang forward, pulling the string shut and latching the bag. Nothing more sprang out. The bag was sealed once again. Albert wanted to throw a fist towards the sky and whoop and holler until his throat grew sore. But his arms were glued, and he’d never been much for celebrating. Maybe a pint at the Eastern, but nothing more. “Well, what do you think?” Albert asked. Sophie cocked a grin. “You did pretty good,” she said, rubbing the side of the animal. She looked at her hand in disgust and wiped the mucus on her sleeve. The fabric of her shirt doubled in on itself. Shouldn’t she be glued to it? Like I am right now? “Lemme ask you something. Do you remember the specs of this island? What the Planners wanted you guys to do.” He thought back. Assortments of deciduous trees in the center, nothing too fancy in terms of animals. NO PREDATORS. His stomach dropped. How would he explain this one? How would he explain the other predators? The huge influx of life on this tiny island? Would they buy it? Should he try to cram the creature back in the bag? He looked down at the loping figure, felt the shoulder blades move beneath his thighs. No way it would go along with that plan. The Fifty-Two, the crux of his decision to let Sophie try this at all, had failed him. He’d have to come up with a new rule. When a woman you’re interested in asks if she can try Placing seeds, don’t let her. You might screw everything up, nearly spill millions of plants and animals on a tiny island, and wind up riding a snot monster along the beach. He turned to ask her if she wanted to hop on. But when he looked back Sophie was gone. # Albert blinked. In her place stood Him. Him in his stereotypical chastity-white robes, flowing as gracefully as His chest-length beard. Him with His unusual gait, now floating alongside Albert, Him in all the training videos and the photoshoots, Him which never left His house, not even for a beer with the working fellas, Him alone in His high castle. Albert’s throat went dry. He made all the rules and He held public shaming for all the Placers who had screwed up. He made them walk laps around His hill as Placers threw whatever rotten fruit they could get their hands on. Albert remembered Howard bragging about how he hit a Placer who had screwed up bad right between the eyes with an overripe borojó and how he didn’t even know what hit him. “Don’t worry about the Grignax. I think he likes you,” He said. Albert wasn’t worried about that. It was the impending punishment that made him sweat. Could Grignaxes (Grignaxi?) smell fear? “So you didn’t quite follow instructions on this, did you?” He asked. Albert could do nothing but stammer. “I’m not even mad about the Grignax, more that a Placer dropped their bag like that. Isn’t that what the latch is for? And before you say anything else—yes, I do this to all the rookies so hush, please. Can’t let this get out to the other scrubs. Sorry, but you’ll have to go through some of those horrible training videos. Nearly put me to sleep watching them myself. Anyway, let’s just enjoy this walk, shall we? I don’t get out enough.” “Wait, so I’m not getting punished?” “Oh, you’re getting punished for this, believe you me. Probably not the walk of shame, not for a first offense, but all this needs to get cleaned up, unPlaced. Let’s just walk for a bit for now, shall we? I don’t get out much these days.” So they walked in silence for a while, listening to the waves hit the shore and the gentle gurgles and snorts of the Grignax. Albert thought of asking Him why tomatoes were so slippery, but decided against it. The sky turned a hazy orange. As they walked past a rock, He noticed a fish flopping helplessly against its side. With a quick motion He swept up the fish and tossed it` into a mouth as wide as Albert’s arm was long. The Grignax chomped down on it graciously. Albert felt the creature’s muscles working to digest its latest treat. He’d do without dinner tonight. “So was that also you at the Eastern, serving us drinks?” Albert asked. He nodded. “So Howard was ogling you, then.” He sighed. “Yeah, he was. What a prick.” They were silent for some time, instead doing laps around the beach and tossing seeds haphazardly left and right. He didn’t mind, in fact He encouraged it by flinging a few towards the center of the island. A hydrangea seed bounced against a rock and started to sprout around it. He chuckled. “That brings me back to that stupid ‘no hydrangeas on rocks’ rule I came up with. What was I thinking with that one?” Albert still wasn’t sure why that could be. Eventually He started to complain about his feet cramping up. The sun touched the horizon. “Well, I guess it’s time to go. I need to give my feet an ice bath after all this walking around,” He said. “I guess I’ll see you around then, Albert?” “Uh, I’m kind of stuck to this thing, sir.” “Oh! Sorry about that. I’m still working on him. He’s not ready for prime time yet.” He made a noise somewhere between a groan and gargle, and the Grignax’s skin turned to glass. Albert climbed off easily. “Thanks. Guess I’ll see you around?” Albert said. “Good, that’s the…spirit! Get it?” He ripped off into a loud guffaw, then He was gone. Albert asked the Fifty-Three one last time whether he should bring this up to anyone. The Fifty-Three remained silent, and so did he. Tim Brown has been writing for a few years in a variety of genres. When he’s not writing he can be found tending to his plants, kowtowing to his cats, and attempting to clear his backlog of books and video games. Tim currently lives in Queens, NY.

I think of her when I enter my kitchen. I think of her when I see fresh beets, used ashtrays, gleaming Oldsmobiles, or bright red hair dye. I think of her when I see myself in the mirror or hear Russian spoken in passing. I miss her daily, but I won’t ever get the closure I truly need to lay my grandmother, Zayne, to rest. She was the original unapologetic, Grade-A, Bad-Ass Bitch in my life. Standing less than 5 feet tall, my grandmother was the first person I ever knew who traveled abroad and who picked up a foreign language as a hobby. She enchanted new people, made easy friends, and kept a steady job. As difficult as she was, I loved her. Like the adage says, I miss her more than ever knowing I will never get another chance to talk to her again. Despite her tendency to berate anyone who didn’t fit into a size 6 dress or “loudmouths,” during her life, my grandmother was remarkably helpful to others. Following her death, I learned that she had helped several families by sponsoring and petitioning for their citizenship. She tutored people in her community and taught numerous people how to read. My elderly grandmother swung a hammer many times building homes with Habitat for Humanity. Rumor has it that she even swung her manicured fist at her family members on more than one occasion. I don’t doubt the stories. I am just grateful it was never directed at me. So how can it be that this mish-mash of qualities also drove me absolutely nuts? That Zayne alienated caregivers, family members, and restaurant workers more than she enchanted them? How could this tiny little lady in a size 5 shoe have caused grown men to cower? And how could she literally, this year after she passed, come to haunt me too? Families are like that, I suppose. Or are they? When I received the final death certificate, one bold word stood out to me: Schizophrenia. That her illusions of grandeur were maybe not just visible to me, but to her also. The boldness of her actions and voice amplified by unseen forces governing her mind. And sadly, this diagnosis wasn’t something I was aware of prior to her passing. The word hit me with fierceness. I knew of dark depression, looming memories, violence, sadness, yes. But to have one’s memories or mind betray them entirely? This was news to me. Alone in the dark of the night with my son, I often reflect on what my children will inherit from me. Zayne’s exciting yet compulsive behavior? Her off-putting racism directed towards others? Or her generosity? Her ease in crowds or museums? The truth is that I don’t know the entirety of her legacy quite yet. My baby, suckling in my exhausted arms, points at her paintings hanging in my kitchen. I affirm his growing curiosity with my own hope. Maybe our legacy isn’t mental illness. Maybe our legacy is something more, something pure. “Yes baby,” I find myself saying. “I miss her too. Aren’t those colors pretty?” I turn to the pantry and think of her. I think of the unopened box of Chex that will perpetually remain on my shelf--a testament to the staying power of my grandmother. Melissa Wabnitz Pumayugra is a Texas writer and photographer. She began her career as a small-town journalist and has recently dabbled in poetry, memoirs, and creative fiction. Her writing and photography can be found in Emergent Lit, Emerson Review,Roi Faineant Press,Hobart Pulp, Vox Poetica, Oklahoma Today as well as in print publications throughout the United States.

The Middle Distance Inside yesterday, we walked through a skeleton forest. The sun burned the sky to halfway between winter and spring, and we wanted to melt into the earth, then bloom back to being some months later as crocuses or tulips. Instead we took several thousand steps, until we stood on the edge of the frozen lake. Halfway between young and old, we heard clear water trickle through cracking ice, and wondered how far we could venture before the sheet of glass collapsed. Hawks and sea gulls circled from clouds, searching for small creatures scurrying in the woods. A rotting fish glistened on the snow-covered beach, and we winced at the harshness of a nature so cruel, so bent on that terrible balance, halfway between life and death. We stood silent, hesitant to move forward or back, reluctant to become predator or prey. Two points on a map halfway between misery and bliss, we turned and headed back to where we came from. A Shipwreck We are floating in the middle of a vast ocean, aboard a derelict vessel headed straight for the rocks. We have travelled from the past to reach the future, or perhaps it’s the other way around. Time is a construct, and it’s difficult to think in linear terms when waves crash incessantly against us. The ship is obliterated like a smashed porcelain doll, the crew separates, adrift and flailing. I swim to shore, an unlikely survivor, and forage for some unknown thing. I open my mouth to call out, but a stream of water pours from my throat, and a glittering orange fish lands in the sand. He blinks and tells me that I swallowed him whole while I’d been submerged, that I drew him in to my own body of water. A solemn wonder descends over the island, and I understand we exist on the inside of a tear. I place the creature in the shallow crests, and he darts about my ankles. Tells me of secrets from the depths of the sea, of wonders of the stars overheard by his avian friends the pelicans, herons and gulls. Instinct impels me to eat the fish. Or to hold him in my hands and keep him always, like some pirate’s favored treasure. I settle on watching as his bright scales race to the horizon, slicing sunlight in his wake. Back on the beach I hover at the edge of a dark jungle, precognitive warnings of poisonous snakes and great wild cats ride on the wind. My limbs solidify and root down through the mire, burrowing to find purchase until I lose my breath. In a daze I travel from sleep to wakefulness, or perhaps it’s the other way around. Reality is an illusion, and it’s impossible to think in dimensional terms when shifting between myriad states of existence. In My Hometown, We Had a Scene We were the musicians, the writers, the artists. We smoked and drank and talked all night about making it big, we stapled hand-drawn posters to telephone poles, and lied about our age to play gigs in dive bars. We attended poetry readings in the upper rooms of downtown thrift shops, then loitered in alleyways discussing summer festivals. We ripped up our clothes and dyed our hair all the colours of the rainbow, but there wasn’t enough room in the sky for all us stars. One by one we crashed down to earth to work in factories and hair salons and offices, to get married and to get divorced, to lose ourselves and each other in our lives, and if I could meet up with the girl I was then, if I could run into her standing with her friends at the bus stop, guitar strapped to her back and certainty stamped on her painted lips, I don’t think she’d believe what has become of us all.

My secret language is a cum scribbled code more immediate than a dream, but perhaps we can move past our cycles; reading Henry Miller. Where then? In my room smoking a mango vape, 8% beer, listening to an ambient album with a cover that looks like a Mario 64 desert level. Earlier tonight I went to a concert and I swear I can vouch for a generation. Hoping for something magical to occur. I had an awkward encounter because I didn’t press x fast enough; you told me something similar happened to you. We ran into a few people who I didn’t want to see, the universe spits them out. Up and down, at the club, up, down and around; who cares. Not like the trees, but like my perception of artwork, you asked me if I wanted to leave and the answer was no. Why stay? Lose Touch Completely is a 25 year old writer who resides in Canada. This poem is about going out.

Dictionary Definitions I took the book you gave me for my birthday, and smashed it across my skull, the Concise Oxford Dictionary. It was reassuringly heavy and full in my hands, a New Edition for the ‘90s, one thousand four hundred and sixty-four pages. It was the only thing I had to hand to slam etymologies of sense into me. No words were harmed during this violent act of self-punishment and release, they remained safe inside their hardback cover. No words escape from me either still, thirty years later, as I bludgeon my brain to find a way to express what you did to me. London’s Daughter These walled streets through which I walk, Remind me of where I’m coming from, Resign me to where I’m going to. Discreetly, concretely, I beseech thee to Let me through, I am London’s daughter. Wattle and daub, bricks and mortar. These sunken ships on which I sail, All aboard for the city. Newspapered professionals sitting pretty Self-made all in a row. Let me pass, I am here at last, where Lectricity and scalators build subterranean skyscrapers. Flesh and bone, blood and water Lead me home, I am London’s daughter. An audio version of this poem is available here: https://jpseabright.com/visual-audio/ Bio: JP Seabright (she/they) is a queer writer living in London. They have three pamphlets published: Fragments from Before the Fall: An Anthology in Post-Anthropocene Poetry by Beir Bua Press; the erotic memoir NO HOLDS BARRED by Lupercalia Press, and GenderFux, a collaborative poetry pamphlet, by Nine Pens Press. More info at https://jpseabright.com and via Twitter @errormessage.

I dress in the dark every morning for school. I don't want to wake up Lanny, who makes his own schedule for his marketing business that starts much later in the afternoon. I'm supposed to get to the high school where I work around 7:00 am every morning, but I usually wake up around 5:00 am so I can stop and get coffee and then sit in the office and try to figure out my plan for the day. Some teachers stay after school to do that sort of thing, but I prefer to be out of the house as soon as I can, before my brain can catch up to my body and recognize that I'm still here in this situation. I remember the night I moved my stuff into Lanny’s two-bedroom apartment. We sat at the table and wrote a list of all the goals we had for each other, a list of promises. It had been his idea to make the list, and we read them aloud and ate spaghetti and garlic bread he picked up from The Olive Garden. There was so much hope bursting inside of me, I almost believed it. Since I'm first to arrive at work, I flip on all the lights. I set down my things; a hot caramel macchiato with 2% milk, my two tote bags filled with binders and books, and the keys to the classroom. I hold onto my cell phone that I’ve become obsessed with lately. I read somewhere that our devices have actually become part of our human form, an extension of our bodies. I turn on the desktop that is a no-fail computer, one of the only ones in the room that is definitely connected to the printer and won’t crap out on me since I have to print today. I use a different key to open a drawer in an industrial metal grey filing cabinet and take out a stack of blank paper that I’ve hoarded. We’re not really supposed to do that, but if we run out of paper, we have to walk all the way to the front office and request more. Before I can even get anything done, Gerald walks in. Gerald is my age, twenty-seven, and a history teacher. He’s been here since he graduated college and it’s his dream to become dean of the school someday. He wears a suit every single day and has one of those beautiful leather briefcase satchels that opens like an accordion. He wears tortoiseshell Ray Bans and doesn’t take them off when he steps inside the faculty lounge. “Oh man,” he says to the room. “I don’t even know why I walked in here, I'm gonna head up to my room. You want some coffee?” Gerald might be in love with me. When he found out I was a writer, most likely from reading my bio on the school’s website, he asked if we could exchange stories. I said I wasn’t working on anything at the moment, but that he could feel free to send something my way. I was trying to be nice and I knew Gerald had big pull at the school, having gone to the school as a student himself and working his way up the ranks. He’d done his prerequisite student teaching hours on campus and finally made it to full-time staff. I thought maybe he could help me somehow, that I should try to make friends here. He had given me a story to read in a manila envelope that he had typed on his typewriter at home. The edges of the pages were crinkled, having been wet and dried, and he apologized as I looked it over, saying he liked to drink whiskey while he wrote fiction. The story was about a man who is an average man working in an office but who moonlights as a James Bond sort of character, but it wasn’t clear exactly what kind of do-gooding he did. He had weapons and a nice car and always wore stylish suits, but it seemed more like a character portrait than a story. It was unfinished, and rather than hurt his feelings, I just told him to let me read more when he was done. But I knew types like him. He wasn’t willing to do the work to revise. It was more the title, the being a writer than the act of writing itself. “Already have some, but thanks,” I say and continue to log into the computer and pull up a reading packet for The Great Gatsby. “Starbucks is shit,” he says. “I’ve got a hazelnut blend anytime you want some.” I nod and Gerald walks out. I'm alone for another forty-five minutes or so until the other teachers arrive. Most of the female teachers wear blouses printed with elephants or butterflies and a loose-fitting cargo pant with sensible shoes. I wear jeans every day and a white t-shirt tucked in with a blazer, despite the perpetual humidity in South Florida. I wear sneakers with insoles because of a slow growing genetic bunion. I staple my packets one by one for the hundred and twenty-five students I have and Jessica, the poetry teacher, reminds me that I can make the copy machine staple for me. I resent her because she got the job I applied for. I’d interviewed to be in the Creative Writing department, but ended up in AP English Language and Composition. I’d imagined days entering the room in long coats and sucking on caramel candies and talking to my students about the form and structure of poetry, the great poets and their historical context, the work my students would turn in—beautiful, original, bold. But now I make copies of packets for books I’d read and hated in high school. Now I give weekly multiple-choice tests where I can’t even get the all the answers right. Jessica is skinny and wears black leggings with combat boots and a baggy sweater. Her hair is in a messy bun and she wears too much eyeliner. I can’t even remember the last time I wore makeup. My phone buzzes in my blazer pocket and it’s Lanny asking if we’re out of cinnamon. “It’s on the counter,” I remind him, since he likes it in his drip coffee he makes at home. I leave it out for him each day, but he always forgets. I see that I have fifteen minutes until first period starts and I head over to my room on the other side of campus. Veteran teachers have their proper homerooms, but since it’s my first year I have to migrate throughout the day to a different classroom each period. My first period room belongs to a math teacher, Katy, who has posters of cats doing mathematics all over the walls and photographs of her and her long-term boyfriend all over her desk. When I step into her room she’s always upset, like my presence is a huge inconvenience to her, which it probably is. She always asks if I’ll need the white board, which is already filled with equations and notes for the day, so I shake my head no and pull down the screen for the projector. It’s easier for me to have digital presentations and my own handouts so that I never have to mess with another teacher’s room. There are no kids present yet and I awkwardly stand next to her desk until she gets up and we switch places. I log into her computer and she lingers with her coffee tumbler and cell phone. “I think Brad’s going to propose really soon,” she says. She can never go too long without talking about her very serious boyfriend, Brad. “That’s great,” I say and pull up my presentation. “I wish he’d wait until after Christmas.” “Why?” I ask, simultaneously finding a spelling error in my presentation and wondering if the students will even notice. “I just love Christmas so much and don’t want to be engaged and have it be a holiday. Like, he should just let me have Christmas and then he can propose after. But then again it might be nice to have a big shiny ring against the backdrop of our tree, you know?” “For sure.” “What about you?” She asks, and I'm not sure what the question is. “I'm Jewish,” I say. “So no tree for me.” “Silly! I meant your boyfriend, Leonard? Is he going to pop the big question anytime soon?” “Lanny,” I say, defensively. I recall our fight the other night. I had asked Lanny to kill a spider that was crawling above my head in bed and he refused, saying he didn’t want to disturb the natural environment of our apartment, so I used a Swiffer to kill the bug against the wall and it left a huge blood stain. I then got out cleaning supplies and tried to erase the stain from our wall and Lanny said the chemical smells were giving him a headache so he went outside to the porch and listened to a podcast and didn’t come to bed until hours later. He had woken me up when he came in. I had been dreaming that I was on a plane taking off but we couldn’t get high enough in the air and we crashed. I managed to survive and walked back to the airport and tried to find another flight. I couldn’t read any of the signs at the ticket counter and was about to ask an attendant for help when Lanny’s rustling prodded me awake. Thus, initiating another round of me reiterating that I have to be up early and him calling me selfish, until we both turned opposite ways and fell back asleep. “Oh, maybe,” I say. “Well, I'm sure he will,” Katy says. “I have a second sense about these things.” Katy leaves and I open the Facebook App in my phone. I’ve had a profile online since college but don’t really post much anymore. I mainly use it to stalk people from my past and see what everyone is up to. There’s a guy I went to elementary school with, Zak Davidson, who was my first real crush. I remember how he sucked on the Great White Shark ice pops and how his head was shaped like a big beautiful egg. I once asked him if he wanted to kiss me in first grade. He said kissing was gross and ran away, but years later and thousands of miles apart, he accepted my friend request. I scroll through pictures of his latest trip to the Cayman Islands. He’s always with his family, never a girlfriend, and I imagine myself with him on the island snorkeling and drinking Mai Tais. Students begin to arrive just minutes before the starting bell. They convene among each other and I slip my phone into my blazer pocket. I walk around the room and hand out the papers I’ve copied. The kids don’t bother to make eye contact with me or say “thank you.” They don’t ask me about my weekend and I think maybe it’s better this way. They don’t know about Lanny or my life outside of school, really. I had wanted to be one of those teachers who beamed into the room and captivated her students with charisma and knowledge, but I soon realized how impossible it was. I thought maybe I should just show up, do the work, and go home; be a cog in the wheel. But a part of me still wanted to connect with them, to get them to feel something, to realize that high school was a temporary place but their contribution to the world could, would, last forever. And then I thought, Who was I kidding? I make my way back to my desk and turn on the TV for the morning news announcements. It’s usually a bunch of bullshit; self-important kids who want to mess around each morning making dumb announcements about school dances and themed dress-up days for Homecoming. Things I probably cared about when I was that age, but now I couldn’t care less. The students stand at the end of the program for the Pledge of Allegiance and I sit, defiantly. On the first day I’d asked them if they knew what they were standing for, putting their hands over their hearts, swearing an oath to God, what for? They had no answer and I told them in my room the Pledge would be optional, but they all stand and do it anyway out of habit. * Lanny’s got his headset on and is on the phone when I get home. I stopped at the grocery store and bought boneless, skinless chicken breasts that I’ll slather in premade BBQ sauce and throw in the oven for a half hour with some shredded cheese. He’s always fine with things like that, things that come together easily and in one pan. He catches my eye and sees me fumbling with the bags. He lifts up his arms like he’s holding two invisible pizzas and then points to his headset, signaling he can’t get off the call, it’s important. I change into my after-school-and-finally-home outfit of old raggedy shorts and a big t-shirt and my glasses and get started with dinner. Lanny closes the door to his office and I'm grateful we live in the two-bedroom for this reason, that he can separate himself from me when he needs to. It’d be a nightmare if we only had one room. I’d met Lanny when we both studied creative writing in graduate school, a school that we can see from our apartment’s balcony. He’d been living in the same apartment with a friend who moved out to live with his girlfriend. It had been a time of everyone moving out to further their romantic relationships, and so Lanny must have felt the pressure of inviting me to take over for half of the lease, which still remained in his name. I Venmo’d him half the rent each month with a cute little emoji of a swan or a bucket of popcorn or something dumb to try and show passive aggressively that I wished things were different. I wished Lanny could front all the money for our bills. I wished I didn't have to work at a high school where I swore I’d never work. I wanted to see the world and travel and write. I wanted a big life, not the small life I had in the city whose name literally translated to “The Mouth of the Rat.” Lanny had treated me well, though. He had been there when my workshop pieces got reamed by the other participants. He’d driven me home from too-late nights spent at the local dive bar after our night classes. He’d helped me with my syllabus for my first class as a teaching assistant. He’d shared his textbooks with me, edited my papers, that kind of thing. He’d also been there when my older brother was struggling with drinking and my parents had to forcibly put him in rehab. Lanny’s dad was an alcoholic and he started taking me to these meetings where people stood in front of the room and told stories about their families; how their parents stole money from them to drink, how their kids ran away from home and slept in bus stations, how their husbands and wives blacked out every night and sometimes most of the days too. Lanny’s dad lived in Croatia now and had left his mom to become an evangelical pastor. Lanny’s mom was sweet though and kept to herself. She was a teacher too, so we had that in common. I end up eating dinner alone and making Lanny a plate he can warm up later. As I eat my chicken, I look at pictures of Zak Davidson online. On a whim, I message him, “Hey, it’s Annie. do you remember me?” Lanny walks out to the living room and turns on the TV. I turn my phone off and push most of the sauce off of my chicken so it creates a stagnant puddle on the side of my plate. Lanny doesn’t bother to microwave his dinner and starts eating while watching football. “Sorry about that,” he says, referring to the long work call. “This chicken is great!” * I like to physically go inside the Starbucks every morning instead of doing the drive-thru. I like for people to know I'm doing something with my life, that I need coffee because I have something to go do, somewhere to be. I head inside and wait my turn in line. I order the same caramel macchiato, a drink I had regularly in grad school because it was sweet and caffeinated and never lost flavor no matter how many times I microwaved it. I stand off to the side and wait for my name to be called and collect my drink. “That’s a nice dress,” a man says to me and I turn to see he’s wearing sunglasses inside. I'm wearing a black peplum dress with pink and orange flowers and black pumps. I'm not sure if the shoes quite match, but they’re the only heels I own and dressing in the dark isn’t easy. I’d woken up with an itch to dress up today, a feeling that maybe changing my wardrobe would change my attitude, or something. The man is balding a bit, but looks to be no older than forty-five. He’s wearing a suit and sitting down in a chair with a side table and an empty chair next to him. He motions for me to come sit down with him. “Thanks, but I have to get to work,” I say. “What do you do?” he asks. “I'm a teacher,” I say, and “Annie” is called, my drink is ready. I swipe it from the counter and smile at the man before I walk toward the door. “Come on, Annie, just talk to me for five minutes,” he says and I stop. I know he’s hitting on me, that he wants something from me that I'm not going to be able to offer him, but it feels bad to be rude to someone who complimented me. I turn to face him and notice a big, blue Alcoholics Anonymous book underneath his open cup of coffee. I look at the time on my phone, which I am now balancing underneath my hot drink. I have plenty of time to make it to school. I sit down in the open chair and put my bag on the floor. “A lady should never put her nice bag on the floor,” he says. “It’s just a shitty old tote, it’s fine,” I say. “Hey, watch the language,” he says and motions to the high school kids in their prep school uniforms ordering iced lattes and twirling their enormous car key rings around their fingers, annoyed, waiting for their lives to be over. “I'm Roger,” he says and takes off his sunglasses. He has light blue eyes, aquamarine. I remember my best friend growing up had earrings that color because it was her birthstone. I always disliked my own birthstone, ruby, and never owned any jewelry to promote my birth month. “And you’re Annie,” Roger says, “with the caramel macchiato!” “Yes, that's me. So, what do you do, Roger?” I ask, wondering if he works, if he’s rich, why he gets to hang out at Starbucks while I have to go to work. “I'm sort of in between things, but that’s why I come here every day, to market myself, to network, to see what’s up, you know?” He catches me eyeing the big, blue book. “… There’s also a meeting I go to around here,” Roger shrugs. “My brother is in AA,” I tell him. “Well, you’ve gone and broken our first rule then,” he laughs. “No,” I say. “I haven’t told you his name.” “Smart girl. What do you teach?” “Advanced Placement English Language and Composition.” “Wow! Very smart girl. Do you see yourself always teaching as a career?” “I hope not. I really just want to write.” “Oh, I think I’d have a book you’d love. I’ll bring it for you tomorrow if you’ll promise me to come here again and have coffee with me. I’ll buy.” “I do have to get to work, but it was nice meeting you. Good luck with your… networking.” “Annie, I mean it. Come back tomorrow and I’ll have that book for you.” I walk out of Starbucks and feel a pang of nausea. I hadn’t said anything to Roger about Lanny. I didn't give Roger my number, but it still feels like a trespass. I wonder if I told Roger too much, gave out too much information too soon about my brother, my job, to essentially a stranger. But I wanted to tell him even more because I knew he would listen to me, maybe even say something back, something helpful. I text Lanny to have a nice day, but he doesn’t respond until hours later. His only response is an emoji of a giraffe, and I'm not sure what it means. * “The eyes of Dr. T.J. Eckleburg represent the eyes of God,” I say to my class. I'm in my third period room, which is meant to be a science lab, and the kids sit at tables of four on stools instead of desks. The board is cluttered with a lab assignment for the week, so I'm using the projector and showing a PowerPoint. The lights are dimmed and I walk while I talk, my feet burning in my shoes. “God is always watching over the characters, judging society as a moral wasteland. Gatsby is, in a way, his own God. Same with Daisy, and Nick Carraway is just another man, looking for a master…” “Wait, what eyes?” a student asks without raising her hand. “The eyes on the billboard,” another student says back. He looks annoyed and I sort of appreciate his protectiveness over me. “What are you, an idiot?” “Oh my God!” the girl shrieks. “You can't say that to me!” “Well, it's like,” the student says. “Pay attention. Just, do the reading, or whatever.” “I did read!” the girl shouts. “I just forgot about the eyes.” “Class,” I say and a headache starts to build. I know I need to diffuse the situation, but by some grace, the bell rings and everyone exits. I log out of the system and pack up my bags. The male student has lagged behind. “Am I in trouble?” he says, and I can’t for the life of me remember if his name is Johnny or David or Henry. “No,” I say, “It’s freedom of speech. But, probably not the kindest thing to say,” and he leaves confused, but I imagine, relieved. * I'm grading papers in my free period when Megan, one of my students from fifth hour, knocks on the glass window to the teacher’s lounge. Students are only allowed in if they are invited, and I move to the door and let her in. I know her well because she always arrives to class early and makes it a point to ask me how I'm doing. I never have any exciting things to say, but it’s usually just a segue for her to talk about herself, which is fine. She has a boyfriend who doesn’t go to our school, but she’s Christian and her parents are very strict about the time they spend together. His name is Hector and he’s very “fast,” but he loves her, deeply. They met on an app called Snapchat that Megan had to explain and show me how to use afterwards. She loves him, and I don't really see what the problem is, but she is always in the throes of an internal crisis. She has not turned in any of her work, but she promises to make it up soon. “Do you have some assignments for me?” I ask, motioning to the stack I'm currently grading, which happens to be from her period’s work. “Hector wants me to lie to my parents so I can go to his house and sleep over,” Megan says. She wears baggy jeans and has rubber bracelets in a crisscross pattern all up both her arms. “My mom let me have co-ed sleepovers in high school, but I think it was because she wanted to be my friend more than my parent.” I always hope that Megan’s obvious reverence for me is enough reason for her not to share anything we speak about in private. “Lucky. We’re not going to, like, do anything, but it would just be nice to cuddle…” “You can’t go over there if you think all he wants is to cuddle. You guys are teenagers. But if you love him, do what you think is right.” “Do you love Leonard?” Megan asks, and I pause but then realize I’ve told her about him for some reason. “There is love between us, yes.” “I can’t wait to grow up and be like you.” I want to tell Megan how depressing being an adult can be, but that the depression I had in high school was way more overwhelming than the depression I have now, which is more of a constant malaise. I look forward to days off, to seeing movies, to trying new restaurants. But nothing is really new anymore. Everything has been done. “I liked what you said about the eyes today,” Megan says. “It was comforting, knowing we’re not alone.” “The eyes are judging though. They are the universal arbiter we all fear.” “In perfect love there is no fear,” Megan says, and I give her a dollar and tell her to go get a slice of pizza and have a nice day. * I resolve to not speak to Roger the next day. But when I see him the next day at Starbucks, I walk towards him. He sticks to his promise and buys me my caramel macchiato. I had trouble deciding what to wear, more trouble than usual, and had decided on a simple silk skirt and a sweater. It was too hot for the outfit, but I wanted to look less sexual. Roger tells me he has fifteen years sober and I tell him about my brother, about Lanny, about my parents who I no longer speak to because of how they enable my brother, about how I hate my job, about everything. It pours out of me and I feel better after, but there’s still a twinge of regret, the feeling I might be cheating somehow. When it’s time to go, Roger gives me a huge workbook with the title Codependent No More.. “Ignore my writing in it,” he says, “but I think you’ll really enjoy it.” I put the book in my trunk and leave it there for a week, as if letting it rest will somehow erase the guilt I feel of having it. Also, I'm hiding it from Lanny. * That night, I dream I'm inside of a burning building. It appears to be the campus where Lanny and I attended grad school. The building is on fire and collapsing but when I run through the halls to warn everyone, no one believes me. I can’t find Lanny, and only run into my thesis chair who finally recognizes me and guides me to the window and tells me to jump. The city outside looks unfamiliar and I ask her if everything will be okay. “God no,” she says, and I wake up. Lanny isn’t in bed. I can see light coming from under the bedroom door and know he must be up late working. I grab for my phone on the nightstand and see that Zak Davidson has responded to my message with one word, “no.” * Jessica, the poetry teacher, is sobbing in the teacher’s lounge after lunch. Some of the other female teachers surround her in a circle, including Katy. From what I gather, her long-term boyfriend has broken up with her. Her eyeliner is running down her face and I wonder if she’ll quit and I can take her position. “Did he give you a good reason?” Katy asks, holding her tumbler in one hand and rubbing Jessica’s back with the other. All the women are in animal print blouses except for Jessica who wears a black crew neck sweatshirt and leggings. She looks so small, like she could be a student. “He just said it wasn’t working anymore,” Jessica says. “He doesn’t love me anymore.” “What an idiot,” Katy says. “He’ll be crawling back in a week!” “I don't know what we’re going to do about Rascal and Bandit.” “I'm sorry?” another woman asks. “Our cats,” Jessica explains. “We got them together when we were in college. It’s all a mess!” Jessica calms down a bit and begins packing up her things. I feel weird that I haven’t said anything to her, so I walk over and try to be comforting. “Do you need help with anything?” I ask. “Do you think you could cover my fourth hour? You’ve got a grading hour then, right?” “Sure. Just give me the room number and I’ll be there,” I smile. Jessica fishes in her bag and hands me a folder with a hodgepodge of papers inside. “You’re so lucky,” she says and blots her eyes with a tissue. “Your classes actually help these kids, while I'm here just reading them poetry and who knows what they even retain.” “I hope you feel better,” I say and Jessica exits into the afternoon heat. We’ve got ten minutes until class starts, so I grab the poem on top of the pile and make copies. It turns out to be a poem I’ve never read before, William Blake’s “Auguries of Innocence.” I figure it might have been something assigned in a poetry workshop in grad school that I just never read or took the time to care about. I hurry to Jessica’s room, which is her very own room decorated with famous Edgar Allen Poe lines and cut-outs of famous poet’s heads. A stuffed little black raven rests on her desk. The class files in and I explain that I’ll be subbing today. None of the kids know who I am. I have students play a game called “popcorn” where they read the poem until they get tired, so they shift their lines to another student by saying “popcorn” and the student’s name. It’s a game about paying attention and following along. I listen to them read the poem and try to make sense of it myself so I can be ready for discussion. “To see a world in a grain of sand, and a heaven in a wild flower, popcorn, Nina!” “…A robin red breast in a cage, puts all heaven in a rage, popcorn, Steven!” “…Every night and every morn, some to misery are born, popcorn, Gary!” “…God appears and God is light…” The students finish the poem and we have a discussion about the themes, the symbolism, the message. One student brings up an interesting idea of the poem as an omen, a sign of what will happen in the future. The minutes on the clock pass by too quickly and before I know it, the bell rings. But no one rushes out. No one had started packing, the zip of zippers zipping prematurely, the legs moving to one side of the desk to anticipate an exit. Instead, they rise slowly and thank me for the class. I pack up my things and leave the room, almost forgetting the room wasn’t my own. * At home, Lanny is working on creating a website for a client, so I sneak to my car and get the workbook from my trunk. I start reading a little bit each night and hiding it under the bed. The book is all about how to overcome codependency with exercises, mind maps, and longwinded readings. I find it insulting that Roger would think I’d enjoy such a book, that he assumes I'm codependent, that from only one time of meeting me I’d need such a book in my life to guide me, help me to find my path to a free life, free from the chains of whatever he thought I was chained to. As I push the book under my side of the bed, I drop my cell phone and move to the floor to pick it up. The phone’s screen illuminates and I see a small red box underneath Lanny’s side of the bed. I check to see if he’s still working and he is, so I crawl around to the other side and pick up the box. I know before I open it that it’s a ring, but when I pry the box open to reveal an oval shaped diamond on a gold band, I lose my breath. I wonder how long it’s been there, when he plans on asking, and a small part of me questions if it’s really for me, if I'm the one he’ll be asking. But yes, it’s for me. I'm his girlfriend. I live here. * “I want my book back,” Roger says the next morning at Starbucks. “It was a mistake to give it to you. I need it back now.” “I'm sorry. I didn't bring it with me. It’s at home. I can bring it tomorrow.” “I need it right now. Go home and bring it back. Now.” “Roger, I have to go to work.” “Don’t ever say my name again.” “What the fuck?” “My wife and I are getting back together. Just bring the book back and you’ll never see me again.” * I find myself walking to Gerald’s room. I knock and he motions for me to enter. His jacket is on the back of his chair and I smell the coffee brewing, sharp and nutty. “Well, well, well,” Gerald says and smiles. “What brings you in?” “You were right,” I say. “Starbucks is shit. Could I have a cup of coffee?” “I knew this day would come. Why are women always chasing after the wrong men? Why, why, why? But then, they always see clearly in the end…” “Gerald?” “I knew it wasn’t working with your boyfriend,” Gerald starts. “Gerald, that’s not why I'm here. I genuinely just wanted some coffee.” “Come on, Annie. You want this too. I know you do.” Gerald has been slowly moving towards me this whole time and is now only a foot away. “Lanny is going to ask me to marry him,” I blurt out. “He has a ring.” “Oh,” Gerald says and backs away. “Congratulations then, I suppose.” “Listen, I don't know why I'm here. I want coffee, but I don't know if I want to get married. I have no idea what I want. I read this book and it talked about having unconditional positive regard for myself, and I don't have that. See, I hate myself. It’s just negative thoughts, spiraling, all the fucking time. I have no idea how to be or what to do. I don't even like working here. I hate this job. I'm a writer. This is just a big joke. I feel like I need to snap my fingers or something. Gerald, can you please just…tell me what’s wrong with me?” “Why are you asking me this?” Gerald says raising his voice now. “Why don’t you just go and ask your fiancé?” I leave without coffee. * When I take out the trash that night, I put the codependency workbook inside too. Back in the apartment, I start to feel a pain in my chest. It’s a tightness hovering over my heart, and I panic. I call Lanny into the bedroom and tell him what’s wrong. He leaves and comes back with a glass of milk, tells me to drink it down in one gulp. I do what he says. He leans down beside me in bed, gently takes the phone from my hand and shuts it off, places it down. “I used to get those kinds of pains all the time as a kid,” Lanny says and takes my hand, rubs it. The pain starts to dissipate and I imagine it like little red arrows moving down and away from my heart. “…and my mom always gave me a glass of milk…” “I think it’s working,” I say. “Annie, you know I love you, right? I just…I fall short, you know? I'm not perfect, but I love you, I love our life. I don’t want anyone else.” I'm suddenly tired. Lanny senses it, kisses my forehead and shuts the light. I fall asleep and dream that I am naked swimming in a river. I am moving my arms and legs in ways I didn't know possible, my body free and liquid-like. I swim and swim and notice a waterfall ahead. I turn around and try to swim back against the current. I become aware that there are people watching from the side of the river and they point at me but don't dive in to help. I know I won’t make it, but I swim anyway, as hard and as fast as I can. * I take some of Lanny’s terrible coffee in a tumbler with our grad school’s logo on it to work. When I sign into the school computer, I have an email from the head of my department notifying me that Jessica did in fact quit and they want to know if I’ll take over her classes. I'm the only other person on staff with a creative writing degree. They say they can easily replace my AP classes, or get a sub for the time being. I accept the offer and will take my new spot on Monday. It’s a Friday and there’s another email about an assembly today, something about anti-bullying. It’ll take place in first period, right after the bell. I walk my kids over to the auditorium and let them sit wherever they want. Some teachers make their students sit in adjacent rows, but I just let them go, tell them to enjoy. I see Megan with some other students preparing to sing for the choir. I had no idea she was even a part of the choir. She waves at me and I wave back. There are so many moments that you want to give up and walk out of the room, that you want to scream, cry, make yourself seen and heard. But these moments pass and you find yourself walking down the halls again, returning to your car at the end of the day, printing papers, making copies, talking to the people who you curse in your head. Sometimes they surprise you; mostly they are disappointing. But they are your people, and you must learn to get along, somehow. The choir opens up the assembly with a song the director has made a big deal about because she wrote it herself. It’s called “On Eagles Wings,” since our school’s mascot is an eagle. “As we fly on eagles wings, we fly so high, straight and true…” the choir sings. For a moment, I am moved by their voices, the way the sound floats up and around the auditorium, how everyone is listening to them, or pretending to listen, but how we all feel the vibration of each note they sing. I get a chill and cross my arms. I rub them slowly as if someone else is doing it, comforting me, holding me tight. Brittany Ackerman is a writer from Riverdale, New York. She earned her BA in English from Indiana University and an MFA in Creative Writing from Florida Atlantic University. She has led workshops for UCLA’s Extension program, Catapult, HerStry, Write or Die Tribe, and forthcoming for Lighthouse Writers. She currently teaches writing at Vanderbilt University in the English Department. She is a 2x Pushcart Prize Nominee and her work has been featured in Electric Literature, Jewish Book Council, Lit Hub, The Los Angeles Review, No Tokens, Hobart, and more. Her first collection of essays entitled The Perpetual Motion Machine was published with Red Hen Press in 2018, and her debut novel The Brittanys is out now with Vintage. She lives in Nashville, Tennessee.