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She pushes her hip against his. Slender teenage hips, denim-clad and barely there. She can feel a burn beneath the fabric, chafing on her knicker line. She imagines the new ink spreading; bleeding and vivid, leeching and settling into her skin before becoming permanent. Becoming part of her, another new part, a part she can’t erase. Becoming part of them. The last thought makes her smile, makes her lean further and press deeper into the pain. She is trying to angle herself so her throbbing, clingfilm-covered spot is touching his exactly. She is trying to track the identical place that has made them one. Made them whole. It’s hot here under the pier, hidden from the tourists and the brightest part of the day. And as she clings a bit harder, nudges a bit closer, she thinks she feels him shift. Feels him start to pull away. She chooses to ignore it just like she ignores the pull and tingle of her skin. And his slight impatient sigh, as he fumbles for a fag. Instead, she closes her eyes and makes herself retrace their steps along the pier. Drifts back to the neon lights and thudding bass, back to the pierced, bearded man who flashed his surprisingly white teeth and asked, ‘You ready then?’ And then looked away with a wink when she handed over his sister’s ID. It makes her glow to know they’ve done it together, on the same day, in the same space. Same design. Even if was a choice made by money, by time. By him. She shakes that thought away. He has pulled away now, his arm hanging loose on her shoulders, as he blows curls of blue smoke up to the boardwalk above them. She turns away and tries not to breathe. Instead she looks at the rubbish collected by the breakwater. Things washed up, things abandoned and thrown away. Suddenly that thing she read is in her head again; about how pathologists use tattoo ink to identify bodies with missing limbs. How the ink tracks through the skin and pools in the lymph nodes, creating a rainbow that runs through your body forever. And something in her shifts. And she thinks whatever happens now, they are joined. These colours in their flesh. Forever. Tomorrow then, tomorrow she will tell him about the other two inky straight lines. Parallel and blue. Their other creation. And that butterfly stamped on his shoulder. Maybe that will fly away. Rachel Canwell is a reader, writer, teacher and blogger but not necessarily in that order. She is currently working on her first novel and falling in love with flash fiction a little bit more each day. You can find her on Twitter @bookbound2019

Chemical Pregnancies Dear Diary, I was late for my period so I took a home pregnancy test. Could I just be imagining the second line on the test kit because I want it so badly? It’s never as dark as the first line, in fact, it’s light, but it’s there. I saw it. It was real. It was a positive result. Two lines equal pregnant. There were two lines. I was pregnant. The test said so. The same thing happened last month. Have you heard of a chemical pregnancy? It’s apparently a thing that’s happening to me now. Chemical sounds so fake and manufactured, like plastic. Like some sort of pseudo version of pregnancy that doesn’t actually count because it’s not real. When I went to the doctor to confirm, the pregnancy test they gave me was negative. I told the nurse that can’t be right, it must be a mistake because I’m late for my period and I got a positive home test. The nurse said the sperm met the egg but the pair of them could not implant in my uterus. Why would my uterus reject a pregnancy? She told me it sounded to her like my pregnancies are only chemical. A pregnancy that starts, but doesn’t take. A fake. I don’t have what it takes. It’s not the first time, I told her. How many of these do I have to have? How much do I have to go through to get one to take? She said I could go to a fertility specialist and have tests done to find out why it’s happening. She said it’s good that at least I know I can get pregnant. The problem is that I just can’t stay that way. I don’t get to carry it, because it’s only chemical. It’s there and then it’s gone. Why is my body rejecting pregnancy? Didn’t it get the memo? All these years I have spent trying not to get pregnant and now that I want to, I can’t. When I left the doctor, I hoped the nurse was wrong. Yesterday I was pregnant. Yesterday I was finally going to be a mother. Yesterday I was going to have a baby. When I got home, I started to bleed. It feels like my body is failing me. Like I have lost control of everything. Nurse Marge On a last resort phone call, I’m pacing the sidewalk in front of my house in my rural Ohio subdivision. It’s summer, I’m barefoot, and the concrete is as hot as the forgotten cookies burning in my oven. No longer able to be positive and professional, I’m crying into my phone. I have reached a pediatric neurology nurse named Marge. Her starch stern but patient voice makes me picture her in a crisp white nurse cap, holding a clipboard. I can feel her listening to me. Nurse Marge wants the facts and through my sobs, I’m trying to give them to her. No one will give me an appointment for three months but my son needs help now. He’s in trouble now. We can’t live like this for one more day, let alone three more months! The words that tumble out of me next are the words I have not wanted to say out loud because I do not want them to be true. My little boy isn’t eating. He’s not sleeping. He’s miserable. We’re scared. Nurse Marge waits a beat to make sure I’m done. Ok, she says, I’ll see what I can do. I’ll have to call you back. I whisper thank you into the phone and collapse, criss-cross applesauce, onto my front lawn. I stare at my phone balanced on my knee and wonder if she will call back. So many of the schedulers, social workers, and receptionists I have tried have not called back. Being ineligible for pediatric psychiatric help until it is too late for it to actually be helpful seems to be the status quo where I live. I guess no pediatric psychiatrists want to live in the middle of nowhere, Ohio. I guess I can’t blame them. There are no appointments until October, is all anyone I can get through to, will tell me. What I hear - there is no help for your child who is falling apart until he has already fallen beyond repair. I realize that these thoughts are actually coming out of my mouth as audible words while I search the long-neglected grass around me, out of habit, for a four-leaf clover. I have never needed the luck of the Irish the way I do now. It doesn’t occur to me to wonder what I might look like at this moment to my neighbors. I’m desperate like in the dream where all your teeth are inexplicably falling out and you can’t stop it or get them to go back in. And I look like it. I haven’t showered, changed out of the clothes I slept in, or brushed my hair today. I’m wearing hole filled yoga pants and a stained t-shirt, sans bra. My fair Celtic complexion means red blotches from crying cover my face. My phone vibrates on my knee, interrupting my conversation with myself, and I jump up to resume my sidewalk pace. Nurse Marge is not one for small talk. She asks me, can you be in downtown Cleveland tomorrow morning at 8:30? Yes! I can do that. I feel like I have just found my four leaf clover. The impossible is now possible because Nurse Marge has pulled magic Nurse Marge strings for me. This is only the beginning, she warns me. She has felt my climb from desperation to elation and she’s trying to bring me down a rung. They won’t do anything but get background information, but then you’ll be in the system. I know this but I also know that starting now and not three months from now could make all the difference. I can go back in the house now to face the rest of the day, clean myself up, make a plan for getting us to Cleveland bright and early, and start on a new batch of cookies. Nurse Marge told me to call her again if I ever needed anything else. I’ve kept her number in my phone - First Name: Nurse, Last Name: Marge and I did call on her for help again. So many years, ups and downs, appointments and specialists later, I still think about her. She may have thought what she did that day was a small thing that was part of her job, but it changed our lives forever. Beth Mulcahy (she/her), a Gen X-er from Michigan, lives in Ohio with her husband, two kids and loyal Havanese dog sidekick. Beth works for a company that provides technology to people without natural speech. She writes poetry, fiction, memoir, and dreams about visiting Scotland. Her work has appeared in various journals and she has been nominated for a Pushcart prize. Check out her latest publications at https://linktr.ee/mulcahea

Lucky Reincarnation or the blue hope of heaven carry no promise. Maybe I will lay in my shell, and drift away slowly or be suddenly ripped from the story on my way to the grocery store a mere two blocks from home. Will I close my eyes or keep them open? It doesn’t matter to the dark that comes either way, with or without express written consent. Maybe the line between my body and mind, that I worked so hard in my mediation practices to erase, will. No need for these feet and hands or the doing and undoing of knots real and perceived. will the long last exhale where the colors and shapes that I recognize as reality will be just that, before they are forgotten completely? But sure as shit, my last electric thought will be how lucky I am to have had this one chance, this one life, with my one beating heart, and you. Postponed All those times you prayed for cancellation. All those paragraphs you read halfway through, life being too short For bad poetry. The forwards, the afterwords skipped in patiently Are all penciled into your day planner. Goddamn the year of the wild lies and the terrified other. Goddamn the bloodline so disappointing you deny them, Like Jesus understood, alone and trembling in the garden, with the truth surrounding you like a sickness. The contents of your china cabinet are in the basement on a card table waiting to be sorted out into the wanted and unnecessary. Those things you purposely kept because “who knows”. That was your tenuous grasp on the unexpected. Your backward way of ‘letting go’ of control. But the changes came in the form of subtraction, not addition. Now those extra things, they need to go. Self-improvement is the order of the day and we are ashamed. You will get to know yourself better in the dirt in the corners of your home. Another update Another reason to cry How in the world? What the FUCK! You don’t know anything or anyone, you can’t. Searching your soul with a magnifying glass For a pinprick of a silver lining. Could you forget where you are? Could you laugh with a stranger? Relish the color of the leaves? Count your blessings? Roll a joint? Through your dirty windshield As you wait for the groceries to be delivered to your trunk You see a red hat. You can’t read it through the swaths of grime But it makes you sick all the same. You image yourself tearing out the throat of the person wearing it with your teeth. But look, here come your groceries. You push the thought aside, put on your mask And pencil that in too. Maybe next year. Canidae Had I noticed the dark gray of the heavily trafficked floor as I stepped off the elevator? Winter inside, winter out. I had left work and headed straight to the hospital. He was waiting for me. I remember his voice choking as he said, “Yeah, yeah…” when I tried to console him over the phone. You have been gone for about an hour, they were letting the family say their goodbyes. They waited for the granddaughters to arrive. They waited for me. I didn’t stop very far into that doorway. I skulked around the edges. That tiny crumb of panic in my condolences. I remember that my son did this after his baby brother was born. He stopped dead coming into the hospital room and had to be ushered in with a stiff hand by his grandmother. Tears hanging on the sills of his eyes. So terrified to disrupt the order, To hear the cries and not understand why. Terrified to feel too deeply. Trying to disappear like a fox and a den. Eyes gleaming and frightened and selfish. A different sort of birth now, but a similar terror. I could see your shell on the bed. You were gone into the ether. Absorbed was your last breath, Into the lungs of your children as they stepped all over each other recounting your last minutes on earth, overly detailed as your children tend to be when telling a story. No one quite had the timeline right Even though only moments had passed. It was fortunate no one was paying attention to the other so they all kept their truth. I drifted, unable to hold my attention still. I inverted my eyes checked my phone. A comically huge clock hung on the wall, showing me time left; times up. More stories about you, some laughter. There is something so funny about someone who thinks it isn’t. The ritual of looking back at where you once were took half an hour. Finally we hoisted our purses and wrapped our necks with scarves. Like yesterday, like tomorrow. I took a deep breath, relieved to be standing So close to the door. Outside the snow fell hard. Our conversation turned blessedly back to the weather as it always does in the place you were born We have to drive home in it. We have to go on living and thinking and doing. We have children to raise and deadlines to meet. And I have a cold den in my heart to return to, before it’s too late.

I laid it out very carefully this time. I didn’t want to lose any pieces, just in case everyone turned up. Last time, there was only me and Benny, and Benny started eating the board. Before he could devour the fungus or goose, I snatched them from him. I told him he was welcome to the stone, knowing he wouldn’t want it. ‘I can’t abide stones in my tummy,’ he said, slinking off with a corner of the board and a pair of trousers. I’m pretty sure I saw some crumbs fall out of the pocket as he threw them over his shoulder, eating a whole sponge cake I’d inadvertently left on the side. Anyway, Benny didn’t turn up. This time it was Georgette and her pal Maisy. I’d never met Maisy and she got a bit uppity when she didn’t understand the rules I’d carefully typed out in font size 6. I can’t be responsible for other people’s myopia so I told her she’d get the hang of it eventually. I lied. It’s a bloody impossible game if you play it right. I pounced on the goose because I knew, being pescatarian, I wouldn’t eat it, and besides, it’s frisky and needs a firm hand, but it can run around the board. Admittedly it tends to knock into the other pieces, squash the fungus, trip over the stone – and the poor fireflies don’t stand a chance. But all’s fair in love and games. I threw a six straight away. A word from the author: I am based in Greater Manchester, where I write all sorts of things from shopping lists and emails to textbooks through novels and memoirs. But I absolutely love the flash form. It helps me feel contained, having a small space to play in. This quirky piece was originally drafted in a hermit crab flash fiction workshop run by Jude Higgins (@judewriter), to whom I am eternally grateful.

Walter's Eighth Hypothesis Although it may be true that one may avoid some nagging when one's mother leaves, it would be disingenuous to pretend that these benefits outweigh the costs of her absence. "Walter, are you kidding? 'Disingenuous? Benefits outweigh the costs ...?' What kind of weirdo writes this way? Or even thinks this way? Mom doesn't live here. You see her every other Sunday. Get over it. And you want me to 'set you up' with one of my friends? You're crazy. No junior friend of mine wants to go out with a freshman who, when he's not masturbating - yeah, I can hear you in there - spends his time composing a book of absurd hypotheses. I love you, but, Jesus, can't you just be a little more normal?" Claire has a point. Maybe I should slow down on the masturbation and the book of hypotheses. But it does suck that all the girls at school are snobs, that Mom left, and that my best friend is my sister. Well, okay, that last part doesn't suck. Claire is awesome. Walter's Tenth Hypothesis What we complain about the most is what we are drawn to the most. Claire, you must secretly like this book. If not, then why are you reading it now? I left it out for a week and Dad never even picked it up, but you are always railing at me concerning its weirdness. Ergo, you are reading it. "Look, Claire, we've had this conversation more than once, but would you please go see your mother. I know you think you're supporting me but let it go. It's for us to figure out. She's your mother. Please take Walter this weekend. You can have the car for the whole day." Unbelievable. My father is trying to bribe me with the car to see my mother. I don't want to see her. I'm not going to see her. He is fucking pathetic. Walter sure gets it honest. Walter's First Hypothesis Your parents always say that you can talk to them about anything, but that is not the case. For example, I would like to talk to my dad about sex. Not the technical stuff, but what it really feels like. But then he would have to talk about him and mom, and that would be too weird. QED. (I love writing that). I hear Claire and Dad arguing again. I know he wants her to take me to see Mom tomorrow. It's ironic that they're fighting over her taking his side. I am not sure if I want Claire to go. I think it would stress Mom out and she seems to be getting better. We have fun. "Walter, for a guy who loves to write 'QED', you could at least have the decency to be a math nerd. I can't believe you still haven't figured out how to factor polynomials. Shit, I have homework too you know." Walter has to be the strangest creature ever. He thinks like a complete nerd, yet he's good-looking and inept at math. I actually had to imply to Brianna that he might be gay so she wouldn't force the issue of me getting them together. If she were to find out how he really is, I'd never hear the end of it. Of course, she's kind of a bitch so it might serve her right. Walter's Fourth Hypothesis If 50% of marriages end in divorce, then there really is no point in wedding vows unless they're predicated with a disclaimer. Something like: "We say these vows in the hopes that our marriage will be in the half that make it. If it's not, then you can ignore what we're about to say." "Mom, I thought about lying to you and telling you that Claire wanted to come this week but she had too much homework. That's not true. She is still very mad at you." These every-other-Sundays with Walter are both sweet and torturous. Jesus, I miss my family, but I have to stay away. Michael can't understand, blames himself. Claire is sure there is someone else and thinks I'm a slut. And Walter. Sweet Walter. I'm sure he has several hypotheses on the subject, but I told him I'm not ready to read that book yet. Walter's Eleventh Hypothesis Football cannot be a sport that requires much skill. Yesterday Coach Kelly asked me if I wanted to go out for the team next fall. I told him that other than throwing a ball around with my Dad years ago I'd never played, but he said that any kid my size (6' 1 3/4" and 178 lbs) can learn to play. I told him I'd think about it, which I meant, but the thinking didn't take long. I'm going to stick to cross country. Coach Warren says I've improved and maybe will place next season. I’m a cliché. An accountant whose wife up and left, and I have no idea why. There's nothing about it in any of my spreadsheets. I know what Claire thinks, but I don't think that's it. If it was, how? Since my episode a few years ago, I don't like to drive and I've been mostly working from home. Could Grace have been that sneaky? Johann says I should join his men's group. What would I do there? I'm exhausted all the time. Meaghan says I have a low form of PTSD because of everything I've had to deal with since Mom left. I told her that she might as well open her MD practice right away if she can already come up with bullshit diagnoses. I should probably drop the yearbook committee, but I know my presence is the only thing that guarantees some artistic flavor to the final product. Freshman year I spent $80 on a book filled with pictures of cheerleaders and the football team. Walter's Third Hypothesis (Part I) Sex with a partner is probably great, but a solo endeavor (ie masturbation) presents distinct advantages in the areas of access and communication. (Part II) Masturbation must be a male biological need as every boy I know does it. It's a skewed sample being only the cross-country team, but a unanimous vote is always impressive. (Part III) Are men and women so different that masturbation is not a biological need for girls? Assuming not, why haven't I heard Claire do it? She's heard me. Maybe I should listen at her door. Even in the name of science, that would make me a creep. "Walter, how was your visit with Mom? Is she still staying in that awful hotel? There's no way to cook there. Did she eat? How does she seem to you?" It's sad how much Dad misses Mom. He seems so lost. I never know what to tell him. I know I can't lie, but it's hard to tell him she's smiling more and finished a whole plate of spaghetti. I probably shouldn't ask Walter these questions. Claire has made clear that I'm pathetic, but Grace still won't take my calls. How can you live with someone for almost 20 years and just stop talking to them? Walter's Seventh Hypothesis (Part I) I don't believe that there is "one special person" for everyone. If that were true, and my person was in Sri Lanka, how would we meet? This can't be the case since we only come into contact with a tiny fraction of the overall population. The odds of that person being in our contact sphere would be very small. (Part II) People mistake convenience for love. It's easier to fall in love with the girl next door than someone who you have to make an effort just to find. (Part III) Internet dating may be a means of nullifying the preceding two hypotheses. With the internet, we can cast our net much wider in hopes of finding that special person. Still what if my special person chooses not to go online? Further reflection needed. I can't believe the shit I get for being a virgin. I'm not a prude, but I don't feel like putting out or going down on a guy just because he treats me to the movies. I think I'm ready, but I have to at least care about and be turned on by the guy, even if it's not Walter's version of true love. I hate it when I hear guys talking about sluts, but if what I hear in the locker room is true, then that word describes half the team. "Move your feet, Claire, keep them moving. Great steal! Look for the outlet. Nice pass! Yes, that's my daughter. Thanks, but no, I have two left feet. She gets it from her mom." Walter's Fourteenth Hypothesis It is hardest to see what's right in front of us. I should have known what was going on with Mom. Everyone complimented her on the weight loss, but it was because she stopped eating. And she had stopped working out. How could I have missed it? Maybe I'm not a good son. "Walter, this is bullshit. You were not responsible for their marriage or telling the future. You visit her every other week. She left us - remember. She's lucky to have you. Stop writing this crap. You have too much talent to waste on this. Write something real.” My family is really too much. An absent, cheating mother (I've stopped using the word slut), a father who walks around like a bride who got ditched at the altar, and a brother who talks to dead playwrights. Walter's Twentieth Hypothesis It's not true that someone is either a "math person" or "not a math person". I still can't add rational expressions but think it's amazing that the irrational numbers are uncountable. I'm going to write a play. It's about a famous mathematician who gets knocked unconscious by a petty thief while standing in line waiting to buy a bag of potato chips at a 7-11. The thief was running away after having stolen three packs of Marlboro Lights. Anyway, when the mathematician comes to, he discovers that he has dyscalculia which is like dyslexia except with numbers. He goes to several brain specialists and finds out that there is no way to reverse it, so he spends the rest of the play talking to complete strangers about what to do with his life. Dad thinks it has potential, and Claire is just glad I'm writing something other than the book of hypotheses. My therapist says that my condition, which she claims involves losing myself amidst the lives of others, is quite common for women who play the central role in their families. She supports the notion that I need time away to rediscover myself. I want it to make sense, and I know I can't see Michael right now, but there's still this voice in my head saying "Bullshit Chen, Bullshit Chen". And it sounds just like Coach Abrams. I can still hear his voice. "Toughen up, Chen. Run harder. You think it's easy being an All-American?" Walter's Ninth Hypothesis It is impossible to know if you have any friends in high school. Everyone is friends with everyone on Facebook, but in person, it’s a different story. Status trumps friendship every time. “Claire, I'd like to go away this weekend to a men’s meditation retreat. I know I’ve been struggling since your Mom left and I need to try and get it together. It'll be better for all of us. I can get a ride with Johann so you can have the car. I hope you and Walter will be able to coordinate schedules. I'll be back late Sunday." Meditation? Is he kidding? He does the tax return for some new-age yogi type, starts meditating thirty minutes each morning, and now he's signed up for the program? I can’t see Dad meditating. Shit, and this weekend, I have a million things to do. Maybe Walter will just stay home and write. Walter's Second Hypothesis There must be a human need to pigeonhole other humans. An Irish-Chinese American kid, I find that everyone wants to put a label on me. I’m supposed to be good at math, tell funny jokes, and grow up to drink lots of whiskey. “I can take you to the park but we need to leave now. I've got practice from 8-10 and right after I've got to go over yearbook proofs with Kelly. I need to pick you up at noon sharp. I'm spending the whole afternoon at Meaghan’s house; we've got to work on our junior year partner exhibition. Why are you wearing a nice shirt? And you combed your hair? Is that girl going? Yeah, her, the one you probably think is interesting because she has greasy hair and only wears black.” I admire Claire but I could never be like her. Her schedule is crazy. How does she get by without time to think about things? Is this why she gave up wanting to direct movies? Walter's Sixteenth Hypothesis Daydreaming is extremely undervalued. I don’t understand why teachers say, “Stop daydreaming, pay attention.” I do my best thinking while daydreaming. Where is he? And what’s with the cop cars? I can’t believe he’s not here. I told him noon sharp. He’s such a flake. Shit, I have to park and get out. These weekends by myself are hard. Walter’s visits really keep me going. I know Michael can’t understand my desertion. He must think I’m a heartless bitch. And Claire … . There was the time when she was nine and we bought matching dresses and shoes. That seems like several lifetimes ago. Fuck. Stop thinking, Chen. Stop thinking. Walter's Fifth Hypothesis If you are able to help someone, you should. Holy shit, what’s going on? A jumper? Why are there so many cops? Where’s Walter? The Falls. A jumper. Oh God. “Excuse me, excuse me. Move, I have to get through. My brother …” Walter's Eighteenth Hypothesis In literature, orgasm has been equated with mini-death. If this is true, then our whole lives must just be foreplay leading up to the ultimate climax. Pick up. Pick up. Fuck Dad. Please Pick up. Please. Fuck, fuck, fuck. “Mom. I’m at the park. Get here now. Walter is at the top of the Falls with that girl I think he likes. Yes, some strange girl from school. There are cops everywhere. They say he’s going to jump, and they won’t let me through. Those Falls. I don’t know. Some stupid community service project. Who the fuck cares? Do you hear me? Dad? He’s meditating. Yes, meditating. At a retreat two hours away. Fuck Mom, just get here.” I wonder what the kids are doing. Stop, stop. Back to meditation. Here I am in the woods with only the sounds of the birds and wind whooshing through the pines, yet clearing my mind seems so hard. Claire is probably out and Walter must be in his room writing. Let go, let go … . “That’s my brother. On the ledge. I need to talk to him. Professionals? He’s not going to talk to a fucking professional. He needs his sister. Me, I’m his sister. Let me through dammit!” Where are the keys? Walter at the top of the Falls? That’s impossible. He seemed fine last week. God, that's a long way up. Shit, the keys, the keys. I can’t believe this is happening. I knew something was wrong with that girl. Letting herself go wasn’t a fashion statement. How did he hook up with her? What is this, some sort of demented suicide pact? I wouldn’t put it past him. How did they get up there anyway? Why was I so hard on him about that fucking book? Dammit. And Mom, fucking Mom. Walter's Sixth Hypothesis "Be your own man" is highly overrated. I've been given that advice, but in reality, conformity is valued far above individuality. “Mom, are you here? You won’t believe it. He’s coming down. He’s leading that girl by the hand. Yes, coming down I said. The girl. The one he's been talking about; I think he's got a crush on her. He’s leading her down. That’s it. The rescuers have them. They’re safe. People are saying he’s a hero. A hero. Walter’s a hero.” A word from the author: This story turned into a book which my late father, a literature professor, read. When he finished, he looked at me and said, "So, you've had these characters in your head for years now?" "Yup." Miss and love you Dad.

At first, He was charming and kind. Then things started to happen, That made me think, He’s not right in the head. He was becoming obsessive. Mum was hiding inside. I was at the gate. It was one of those metal barricades, Bars like a prison door. I said mum didn’t want to see him. My kitten walked through the bars Onto the footpath. He grabbed the cat like this! See! Like this! Snapped its neck. Testosterone is a strange energy, hey? I was completely infatuated with her. I’d never felt that way about anyone. I went to hundreds of psychics and mystics, They all told me the same thing, She’d been my mother in a past life. I’ve been dreaming about her a bit. I think she’s passed. I gifted her some pottery years ago, Wrapped it in a scarf. I dreamt she sent me a parcel. Inside was the scarf. Just the scarf. I felt almost nothing, Which was a relief to me. He dragged me by the hair one night. I had never been scared of him physically. It was the emotional stuff that got to me. He pulled me down the hall. I let out this roar, from deep inside me. Guttural. The sound was completely primal. There was a hammer on the table. I thought I might bash his head in. He looked at me, Looked at the hammer, Took it off the table, And left.

How do I look darling? Everybody is a drag queen in life manicured in silky garbs or wax museum faces to suffocate their inner skin. On the morning train you carry an empty leather briefcase crammed to overflow with lies sat next to other men with heads hung low. The smell of your lunchbox makes you wretch as you unwrap another white bread sandwich- canned pig hiding under shotgun cheese- spill that crumb trail to your place in life. Screwed up New Year’s resolutions in the breast pocket of your dinner suit that hasn’t been worn for years, and doesn’t fit unless you squeeze out like pus. Seed already spread before you’re dead so you can smile watching reality TV- call the premium number and vote vicarious. Reduced to yelling from the sidelines at football games and strip bar shenanigans. Have another shot, adjust your makeup. To kill a mockingbird I tried to walk on water for you. My feet made star-shaped ripples as I started to sink. You spent the entire time smirking and scrolling on your phone. You didn’t even raise your head when I stopped my hearts beat to create suspense like an orchestra; My only attention was a grasshopper on a single green blade rubbing his legs together in anticipation, but his love song was for another. The male mockingbird is a more prolific singer. It yearns for attention, mimicking the sound of anything. Somebody look at me. Damien Posterino (he/him) is a Melbourne-born poet writing in Mexico. His poetry explores themes of characters, commentary, and capturing moments in time. He has been published in recent editions of Fiery Scribe, Neuro Logical, Analogies & Allegories Literary Magazine, Abergavenny Small Press, BOMBFIRE, Jupiter Review, Fairy Piece, Poetic Sun Journal, Green Ink, Zero Readers, Melbourne Culture Corner, Sledgehammer Lit, and Rough Diamond. You can find him on Twitter @damienposterino

Live gold macro offensive line crowded swelt numbskull sit branch seek letter underwhelm harbinger of horizontal mania ironing t-shirt necklace back brace a hero’s welcome tho a bee in ritual Crimea & knowledge trials an ordeal courtly leg up against aghast harpsichord an ocean brittle to defeat besieged, a trapped mattress fer-de-lance consummates taxable mortar without uttering knife’s blade artifact filled to the top breaking point shuttered intact Inca ghost town but still preserving photography demonstrated stone popularizes a thaw as work submarines scorpion we request feuding most shocking captured in organic expedited hull emerging draped b/t two miles all allows stalactites to eat iron as a bacteria researches collapse to a mortally nicked superlative indisputable reduction largest alliance embittered onward vocal technocratic pamphlets printing deficit deal skimmed issue tones domestic loan circulate abroad silver a de facto water from export wine feast value agricultural meanness reacts unsavory minister told light striking common evident profile emerge scope tactician edifice errors haunting fault lines certain examination deficiency context traded boom flows sectors studied risk force borrow a fluctuation normalize a benchmark absolute a core interest a publicity liquidate a relativity secondary nadir basic peak since per capita Bird is shining You once wire willow tiptoe tipped tooth a crowned hollow plaything housed behind aquarium fuzzy— scoffed grinning growl made out to moan through braille—. Last you uttered pursued bigfoot jazz hands latitude a marble patch stranded near oceanic peeling skin cramp tug of war. Expose cloudless not curvaceous pointedly caressing effective labor movement momentum only provides fundamentally popcorn making writing opaquely mysterious captivating guided empire of senseless scales rooted platform for physical sublimations strikingly perverse tonal mocking context provide a civilization present an illumination protestations warn bubbles concentrated confidential warped media mind distorted veil experiments to third degree levels papered over bus terminal window harpoon house from beginning to secret Joshua Martin is a Philadelphia based writer and filmmaker, who currently works in a library. He is the author of the books combustible panoramic twists (Trainwreck Press), Pointillistic Venetian Blinds (Alien Buddha Press) and Vagabond fragments of a hole (Schism Neuronics). He has had numerous pieces published in various journals including Otoliths, M58, The Sparrow’s Trombone, Coven, Scud, Ygdrasil, RASPUTIN, Ink Pantry, and Synchronized Chaos. You can find links to his published work at joshuamartinwriting.blogspot.com

Dash Shaw’s sophomore effort is a hallucinatory environmental and anti-war romp through a cryptid-covered world eerily like our own! Austin stands outside the theater holding a metal bowl of popcorn and a vape pen with fat odorless clouds rolling from their nose and mouth, maybe their ears. It’s unclear. Behind Austin, a Cryptozoo poster shows a woman descending on a pegasus from an orange sky, volume to her brown hair pulled back tight around a face with anger along the brow and fierce lips swollen into a red oval. It is lit up by movie theater bulbs and wildfire sunset. The sky here is orange too. I order popcorn with lots of butter and salt and a tallboy. There are two others in the theater, and they are alone. No judgment. I watched Miyazaki’s The Wind Rises alone in the theater, dazzled and undistracted, thinking about passion and violence as I ate Sour Patch Kids and Reese’s Pieces passionately by the handful. On-screen, two hippies walk naked through the forest saying hippie shit, and some creature sucks nightmares from a woman’s head. Everything is patched together in an undulating collage, a tillage of childishness tainted by an underlying depravity. There is a blood bath happening as a unicorn moves frantic across the screen goring and bucking, while humans die invoking the mystical, tempting the natural. It’s a horse with a horn and it’s considered magical. If unicorns are magical then every plant and animal and living thing is magical. Mystical shit has been running through my head all day. I’ve lit incense, blood let, and chanted in rituals where weird things happen—telepathy, snake gods, merging with the infinite—but I don’t know what it means. Twice I watched a green fireball creep slowly through the sky, five years apart, and I believe completely that it was something extraterrestrial or interdimensional. The first time, I sat in dried moss next to my ex who drained all the magic from the world. She said it was just a piece of space debris, a defunct satellite or a dead astronaut. She was wrong. It’s a UFO studied by Dr. Lincoln La Paz, an astronomer who declared the fireballs did not move like a natural thing and must be of alien origin. I didn’t tell her because I thought she’d lose her cool. Her temper was short—she harnessed unparalleled brutality toward those around her and toward herself. I’ve seen signs of witches and ghosts and fairies too around rural lakes and attics, but my senses aren’t enough to explain it. The woman in the film is a cryptozoologist not due to her passion for science or knowledge necessarily, but because of her love for cryptids. My girlfriend has spent the last four summers in the wilderness tracking bears so we can know what is left, what we can still protect as humans continue to thin out predators—wolves, bears, and mountain lions. I tear up thinking about the rate of extinction. The Sixth Mass Extinction. The Holocene Extinction. It’s unnatural. Paranormal. I didn’t cry at Grandma’s funeral, because I don’t cry at appropriate times. I cry about existence when it is inappropriate. A faun named Gustav sits cross-legged on screen, smoking a large pipe, the smoke lingering a long time as he oversees a moist, bodily orgy. I think of Pan, god of the forest and the fields and the mountains, purveyor of those fantastic and depraved pleasures bound by flesh, expansive and touching the hallucinatory. Austin is into woo woo shit—astrology, chaos magic, divination. That kind of thing. We get along. After the movie, I ask them, “If we were more connected to our bodies could we stop ecocide?” I mention Élisée Reclus who said, Humanity is nature becoming self-conscious, but I don’t like debating philosophers and theory. I just enjoy shooting the shit about ideas. Austin says something like, “Our bodies are suffering because they are embedded in this ecological mess. We aren’t separate from it, know what I’m saying? My lungs and eyes are burning like a motherfucker because of this wildfire. Don’t get me wrong. Even before we started wrecking the Earth, we still felt the pain of existence and embodiment. But it’s always an indicator of something. All this pain tells us something is wrong.” I say, “I’ve been meditating. I suck at it, but I put in fifteen minutes when I can, and it’s like I’m more aware of the world and the feeling that the planet is suffering, more and more. It’s hard to ignore. Gives me this fatalist anxiety.” Austin says, “We’re hurt by progress either way. Even if we don’t say, ‘Ouch, this hurts.’ It’s slow violence.” There’s a stint of silence. Austin says, “This is gonna sound cheesy, but it’s a psychic attack because of this, like, uh, consciousness that moves through shit. Pan-psychism, I guess? I don’t really separate mind and body like that… I dunno…” I guess it seems pretentious now that I’m writing it, but that’s what we were talking about and that’s what I was thinking about after watching Cryptozoo as we walked over the river listening to the water on the rocks, gurgling black heaven at twilight, and through town listening to the tires on the streets—scattered shouts from the ruptured throats of crust punks laying sidelong across the walkways. We sit down at this burger joint that everybody tells me has the best burgers. I order a tallboy. It is a wet ass burger, like a burger meets a sloppy joe. I like burgers, and I like sloppy joes, but I’m not into sloppy joe burgers. It sits in its own muck and my muck, merging then indistinguishable from my spit as soon as it touches the tongue. For a moment that stretches through me, I am the burger. The wet burger. The fries are on-point, though, balancing the sog and the crunch down the length of each fry, perhaps oversalted but well-seasoned. Still, I’m feeling underwhelmed with the meal when Kirsten walks by waving, arm-in-arm with her fiancé, Steve, and a friend from Ann Arbor. “Yo, what’s up? You get a burger here? Aren’t they bomb as fuck?” “Eh, yeah, it’s fine.” Austin is fidgeting. They are in that weird space where two people have met and they recognize each other, but neither is sure that the other recognizes them, so no one says anything, and they just sit and sweat a little in silence. I don’t reintroduce them. Kirsten says, “This is my friend Aaron from Michigan. We did a forty-mile bike race this morning. So. Much. Fucking. Incline. Dude, it was redonk.” She points back. “Aaron finished 148th out of 150.” She laughs. “I kept telling him to prepare. Get in shape and shit. But this motherfucker didn’t listen. He was huffing and puffing. I had to leave his ass behind.” Aaron says, “I tried to tell you that I wanted to drop out this fucking morning. We biked up that hill from our campsite and I was like ‘fuck this,’ but you insisted and now you’re talking shit. I knew you were gonna talk shit. I thought about all the shit you were gonna talk for forty fucking miles.” Kirsten keeps talking shit, and I zone out a little bit. I’m getting tired. “What’s the deal? You look tired,” Kirsten says. “Yeah, I am tired.” “Well, we’ll let y’all finish dinner. Enjoy that bomb ass burger!” “Sure, yeah. Have a good night!” They walk away and Austin gets right back to talking Rosicrucianism. I’m zoning out. This underwhelming hamburger has me all fucked up. We finish our food and walk toward the bridge. I swing by the corner store to snag a tallboy. The fresh air is stilted by the smell of burning wood. Everything smells like fire. I cannot see the stars to imagine the things that might live up there, gazing toward the weight of empty space. I stare inward and see little things like atoms and anxieties. I hold them in the same way. The bridge is lit up and the lights are reflecting off the water flowing slowly because rainfall is scarce, and I wonder where all that water goes and where it comes from, and I’m pissy, angry about the drought. I get this pain in my left side when I drink heavily. My body is telling me something is wrong, because a river runs through me—a river of beer and Wild Turkey. When it comes to excess, I never listen to my body. I continue to live excessively. Yet, a river still flows beneath me too, a river that has carried me and quenched my midnight thirst. Frozen then thawed in spring, ice from winter’s last throes floating through Noxon and Cabinet and Heron. A 12-point buck drinks from the river as we stand focusing our slack vision, watching for a while; its spine crooked, unconcerned through the skittishness shaped at the tip of evolution. I stare at it and wonder if there is any way to imagine a creature that is truly unique without conjuring visions of animals we already know. They must exist out there, but a pegasus and a unicorn are just horses with extra parts. Every creature in Cryptozoo looked like something that already exists—a hairier primate that walks on two legs or a giant, slithering megasnake. Even the xenomorph in Alien resembles a slobbery praying mantis. I believe in mystical things—aliens and witches and interdimensional fairies—but even without them the world feels magical to me. There is a deer on the riverside. Overall, Cryptozoo is a film that stands on two legs with a message of ecological compassion for the non-human world through a collage of psychedelic visuals and animal liberation. Yeeeaaah, man. 3.5/5 Mason Parker is an Okie-born, Montana-based writer. His work has been featured in or is forthcoming from X-R-A-Y, Cowboy Jamboree, and BULL, among others. He recently won the Bear Creek Gazette writing competition for his short story My Child, Leviathan. In his free time he enjoys exploring the Absaroka-Beartooth Wilderness with his partner and two dogs.

His frail hands are pale like the full moon and I can trace the intricate pattern of deep veins beneath the surface, like a leaf from one of his old bouquets. He used to pick wildflowers on long walks, and point out peculiar insects that were crawling up his arm, while I skipped by his side – searching for animals with my pockets full of pinecones and interesting fur. His bouquets always ended up on the kitchen table, where they would sit in their little vases until the flowers slowly wilted and the delicate leaves, with all those deep veins, finally curled and fell softly to the earth. Molly Greer lives in Maryland with her husband and two children. Recent work has appeared or is forthcoming in The American Journal of Poetry, 34 Orchard, Sledgehammer Lit, and Outcast Press Poetry. You can find her on Twitter: @MKGreerPoetry.

He says we’re stressed, exhausted, I say that’s true but that’s life, he ponders, I don’t like life, he says, while he loves life, but not this life, the life we live, I tell him about hygge, where do we buy it? he asks, you don’t buy hygge I say, he seems relieved but also suspicious, I google it and it says hygge costs nothing but a minor effort, so we start by cleaning the house, to make it hyggelit, no time to hygge this time, and we need candles, so we go shopping, buy some cheap candles, which smell like the house’s on fire, we throw them away, go back to the store, buy an ocean smelling candle, that hygge thing ain’t cheap, he says, we sit on the floor, try to relax and hygge, dive into the moment, but the floor is cold, we need soft carpets, he says, we can’t afford them, I say, we look at each other, we think, think, so we work overtime, save and starve, let’s go buy hygge, I say, and we buy that fucking carpet, we clean again, how do they do it? he asks, we may be too stupid, I say, or too poor, he says, let’s give it a try, just this once I mean, cause we know we’ll never be those who renovate bathrooms and display them and show off, those who have time to cook fancy meals, or travel to favorite getaways when bored. The floor is shiny, the candles lit up, we order a pizza, we don’t argue, don’t even speak, we play it safe, we’ll watch a movie, we’ll chill, and finally we’ll hygge, the way to hygge is to not try to hygge, to not think about it, only we’re too tired to hygge properly, we fall asleep, we dream of hygge, which is the most hygge thing we’ve done so far, but then again dreaming of hygge is easier than the real thing and probably the closest we’ll ever get to hygge at all.

Photograph by Amy Bassin The 8:22 a.m. Kennedy Boulevard bus paused at the red light on the corner of Bentley. While staring at the line of idling cars in front of him, and without turning his head, the driver honked his horn and threw a mechanical wave. This gesture of recognition was directed at an old man making his way down the street. As the light turned green the bus operator glanced in the old man’s direction. The driver smiled and shook his head. For the past six years, at precisely this time, the senior citizen always appeared. It amazed the driver since it was obvious the old man had suffered a stroke. He moved as though his ankles were bound by shackles. As the bus zoomed past, the old man halted. By the time he had lifted his head he was waving his walking stick in a cloud of black exhaust fumes. Coughing seized him for a few moments, but he was pleased by the driver’s show of camaraderie. A thick blanket of humidity flattened Jersey City. In retaliation, the old man loosened his tie and unbuttoned the vest concealed under the stained sports jacket. He pushed forward. After a few minutes, he succeeded in reaching the end of the block. Checking vigilantly before crossing, he decided to make his move. Everything seemed to be in order: the light was still green, but more importantly, the DO NOT WALK sign was not flashing underneath it. He had at least sixty seconds to execute the crossing. In the past the old man had this street crossing down to fifty-six seconds. Now the government had decreased his time by making it legal for cars to turn right on red lights. This called for more caution. Since his retirement nineteen years earlier, he learned car horns replace brakes when drivers compete with pedestrians for space. Halfway across the street he panicked. The light clicked amber. Horns screamed. The old man froze. Directly in front of his outstretched walking stick (a cane was for old geezers), a battered Lexus screeched past. “Get the hell outta the way, ya old fart!” A young head popped out of the back window. “Why don’t you die?” it shouted before disappearing into traffic. Three other cars whizzed by him. A fourth car released him by stopping long enough for him to arrive at the opposite corner. Smiling at the driver, he did a playful hop over the curb. The old man felt good. At least a half-dozen would pass before permitting him to proceed. It was not unusual for him to be trapped in the street until the light once again turned a comforting green. What disturbed the old man most about his daily journey was the block on which Martinez & Sons Glassware Company was located. The store took up nearly half a block with mirrors lining their storefront windows. No matter how hard he fought the temptation, it was impossible not to glance at his image as he crept along. His reflection was an obscenity to him. The day was really looking up. The store, which usually opened promptly at 9 a.m., was closed. This pleased the old man because the iron gate was strung across the huge display windows. He looked at his reflection and giggled. His likeness looked as though it had been captured and jailed, peering back at him through thick metal bars. The old man threw back his shoulders, disregarding the ache. Picking up his pace, he reminded the reflection that his birthdate fell in the same year as Robert Redford’s. “That’s right. 1936. Good Lord, the girls knew it, too.” He pointed an accusing finger at the gated mirror. “Maybe I forget the exact day, but I’ll never forget all those women.” The old man took a seat on a bench; overhead hung a sign, BUS STOP. On the end of the bench sat a young girl dressed in frayed blue jean cutoffs and a tee shirt that read ‘Shit Show Supervisor.’ “Mister,” she asked, “can you lend me a dollar so I can catch the bus?” No reply. “Excuse me, sir, do you have a dollar I can borrow?” The old man reached into his pocket and produced a fistful of change that he dropped into her hand. The young lady leaped off the bench. “Gee, thanks! Wow!” Seconds later she disappeared down the street into a candy store. The old man checked his watch. He was fifteen minutes behind schedule. “Oh my God, I’m going to be late.”’ After pulling himself up from the bench, he cursed the once strong arms that had made him New York Local 638’s number one steamfitter. After conquering four more blocks he arrived at his destination. It made him feel good to watch the busy activity associated with the morning opening of the Post Office. He looked up at the flag dangling limply from the mast, as if suffocated from a lack of breeze Inside the building were the usual hoard of people in lines, mostly immigrants and mothers with young children. The passport section was mobbed. Twenty minutes late, he feared the worst. Gradually he inched towards the wall lined with post office boxes. “Why, Mr. Goldshlager, I was worried. I thought something terrible happened.” “No, Ma’am. I guess this humidity took more from me than I had anticipated giving. Kind of you to wait, though.” The aged woman who reminded him so much of Colleen, the wife he buried shortly after his retirement. “Well, after all, Mr. Goldschlager, today’s my turn to buy the coffee...” “And I the donuts.” “Correct.” “Have you received your check yet, Mildred?” “Yes. I saw them put yours in, too.” The old man went over to his mailbox and withdrew the envelope. “Life sure plays some strange games on us, Mildred. Funny how we both decided, on the very same day, mind you, to put an end to all those stolen checks every month. Scary how accustomed we had become to missing them.” Mildred nodded. “And you can’t trust direct deposit because the banks are all so corrupt.” “You know something? Losing those checks is the best thing that’s happened to me in six years.” Mildred pretended to dismiss the flattery, but the added wrinkles at the corner of her lips gave her away. “Colleen always thought I was too angry with banks. I can hear her now, saying, ‘Horace, you shouldn’t resent what happened in the past. It’s dangerous.’ She was some woman, my Colleen.” “She certainly must have been, Mr. Goldschlager.” Strolling around the corner to the diner gave the old man a thrill, as it had most mornings. It felt good, it felt natural, to be with a woman. The few times Mildred hadn’t shown up it always made the rest of the day melancholic. The small table to the left of the grill was reserved for the elderly couple. Josh, the proprietor, issued strict orders not to seat anyone there until after nine-thirty. As they were led to their seats Horace contemplated Mildred’s appearance. She wore bright red lipstick which showed telltale signs of extended coloring past the outline of her lips. In fact, it reminded the old man of the happy smiles painted around the mouths of circus clowns. The red lipstick made a striking contrast to the black hat pinned to a thin crop of platinum curls. Her eyes were a sparkling gray. Those eyes reminded the old man of something his father had once told him about his great-Aunt Kathleen: “Horace, whenever you meet an old woman, say like your Aunt, never forget that despite the years she’s still got a young girl’s vanity. I know it’s hard and I brought you up not to lie, but listen, the one safe thing you can compliment them on is their eyes. Leave the wrinkled skin around them alone. Just tell them how beautiful, or lively, or even better, how sparkling their optics are.” There was no need to falsely charm Mildred, or her eyes. What an attractive woman she must have been, mused the old man. Her face, now caked with powder, was probably as smooth and clear as Colleen’s. During their coffee and donuts each spent about a half-hour bringing her husband Ted and his Colleen back to life. Neither one would pay much attention to the other; after six years of repetition, it didn’t matter. Yet missing these weekday interludes was unthinkable. The old man loved the chance to relive his youth. While talking (or listening), a vivid portrait of himself and his wife materialized. Horace had to think seriously about settling down and raising a family when he was younger. This was a tougher decision than most fellows were faced with since young Horace was engaged to two girls at the same time. One of his fiancées lived in Hoboken, and the other was a burlesque dancer in Union City. While mulling over the choices before him at his favorite Brooklyn bar, in walked the bartender for the upcoming shift with his handsome daughter. It was lust, later love, at first sight. Colleen’s nut-brown hair offset a cute turned-up nose. Her pale green eyes sent an inviting message over to his stool. Such a petite figure who filled a sweater rather nicely. “And Ted would pick me up and throw me into the pool right in front of all the children. I pretended to be angry but I loved it!” The old man took his last gulp of chilled coffee and signaled for the check. “Would you like anything else, Mildred?” “No thank you, Horace.” She watched his eyes following the progress of the waiter. “I really enjoyed myself this morning, dear.” The old man nodded. “Yes, but it’s so hard to keep track of time these days. So much to be done. Isn’t that so?” Mildred smiled. “Don’t I know, Mr. Goldschlager! I detest all the running around I’m forced to do in order to keep up with this crazy world. I get exhausted just thinking about it.” With this last remark they concluded their visit and returned to their respective schedules: she to a park bench in nearby Bayonne, he to the bus stop across the street. When the bus arrived, the old man was visibly upset. Hector was not driving. The doors flung open and the old man was shoved aside by boarding passengers. After everyone had paid their fare and secured a seat, the driver waited impatiently for the old man to complete his attack of the high steps leading to the fare box. As the old man strained to maintain his balance via the walking stick, two thoughts flashed. One was to fall forward should his legs fail him. The second was how differently he was treated when Hector was behind the wheel. Hector made sure no one pushed him around and always helped him up the steep steps. On reaching the top step the old man fumbled for the Senior’s discount pass inside his sports jacket. As he turned to find a seat a swarm of indignant glances greeted him. He gave pleading looks to the men seated directly behind the driver. They in turn, almost as if on cue, rotated their heads and fixed their eyes on some object outside the window. The bus lurched forward before the old man could get a firm grip on the overhead strap. He was flung to the other side of the bus. His back smashed into the knees and packages of a pair of horrified women shoppers. Unable to control himself, the old man let out a cry. It was a soft cry, but it lingered. Upon the scolding of the women shoppers, two men raised up the old man. One sacrificed his seat. Laughter broke out from the rear of the bus. Perspiration beaded on the old man’s bald spot. It dripped onto his sports jacket as he tucked his chin into his chest. Once again, he drifted off to that first encounter with Colleen. Outside his apartment building children were jumping rope and an impromptu soccer game was in progress. “Hi ya, Mr. Goldschlager! Wanna play with us?” “Sorry, kids. I’ve had a rough day. I think I’ll go rest these tired old bones, if you don’t mind?” The children giggled. The old man enjoyed children and children liked him. But he knew how defensive most parents were these days, and he was embarrassed by their reactions whenever he stopped to speak to their kids. The old man was appalled by the fear he generated whenever he spoke with kids at the playground. Or stopped a young couple to congratulate them on producing the beautiful child they were wheeling in their stroller. His attempts to shake an infant’s hand or stroke underneath a baby’s chin with his finger usually made the parents irritable, and they would quicken their pace. Being around children began to make him feel dangerous and dirty and he hated that feeling. He comforted himself by imagining that one day these parents would understand the desire of the elderly to once again feel the smooth flesh of youth. Touch was a superior memory to any childhood photograph. The old man refused to stop his attempts at making contact with fresh life. Yet despite the humiliation of parental disgust and annoyance, he would always mouth a silent prayer that none of these parents would ever experience his horror of outliving his child. The elevator ride to his eleventh-floor apartment was noisy, slow and as frightening as always. It took him a few minutes of fumbling with his keys, but eventually he gained entrance to his home of forty-seven years. The odor of stale air escaped into the hallway as the door closed behind him. The first thing he did was throw off his sports jacket and switch on the television. He surveyed the apartment. It was filthy. “I will give you a good going over this weekend,” he promised the living room. The old man hobbled into the kitchen to prepare his daily staple of cornflakes and milk with fresh fruit. After eating, he left the dishes on the table next to yesterday’s plates and lunged for the bottle of cognac propped up on the kitchen counter. He shook it and was upset. “Did I drink that much last night?” The old man phoned the liquor store around the corner to order another. The shopkeeper refused to send it until the previous bills were paid in full. Horace apologized and promised to pay when his overdue pension checks arrived. The ploy did not work. Clutching the cognac, he passed from the kitchen through the living room to his bedroom. He paused to raise the volume of his television set. Although he disliked watching it, its voices replaced the music that once echoed through his apartment before the radio shorted out. The babble was comforting. The old man balanced the bottle of cognac on a dusty night table and walked over to a closet. He pulled out a large cardboard box and dragged it to the bed. The old man was surprised at how light the box was becoming. He dipped his hands inside the cardboard box. The clinking of glass accompanied his search. When his fingers locked around a heavy piece of crystal he smiled and pulled up a large, ornate goblet. The old man carefully poured cognac into the crystal goblet. He swallowed it and poured another. And then another until he drained the cognac. He dropped the empty bottle on the floor and it rolled under the bed. Horace stared at the fancy goblet and fingered its engraved designs. When he realized he had no more cognac to pour into it he tried to soothe himself by pressing the cool crystal against his cheek. Sorrow gave way to anger and he heaved the heirloom with all his strength. It crashed into the wall, splintering into pieces of jagged, dangerous glass. About forty minutes ahead of schedule, the old man passed out. Mark Blickley grew up within walking distance of the Bronx Zoo. He is a proud member of the Dramatists Guild and PEN American Center.