Search Results

His first big mistake was telling me. You gotta love over-sharing in the office. Left himself wide open, Gaz did. Never let a chance go by, one of my life rules. So many things to get even for. I am sure Garry is the one who nicks food from the lunchroom fridge, even though clearly labelled. I even use recognisable containers, seen nesting in Garry’s waste bin, empty of course. Once I pulled them out, but Garry kept right on working, said nothing. Fancy trying to read The Exorcist on the train, what was he thinking? Then complaining about being so engrossed he missed his station. ‘Bloody had to cross the line; wait for the next service…’ Garry announced. Change of scenery, more time to read, I thought. On the inward journey, Garry arrived at work in a lather of nervous tension, sweaty, with a face like a rabbit stuck in the headlights. ‘Latest stock figures?’ I’d reminded. Eventually, the book-induced haze lifted and he grasped an employment-induced haze, somewhere around his second tour through the kitchen and fridge check. Still, Gary insisted on reading The Exorcist, on the train too, no matter how much I tried to tell him, ‘not a good plan, mate.’ ‘Can’t read it alone in my flat, at night.’ Garry used to sneak about during break time; change screen saver images, alter file names, I’d think, on to you - you sicko. Especially when a semi-clad sports model image came up on my screen next time I logged on. Then I heard him saying, ‘So she fronts up to me and says…Sir, you left your book… fucken Good Samaritan. I actually tried to leave the bloody thing on the train.’ At the time I wondered why he might force a random stranger to be a victim of the dry-mouthed panic and skin-crawling repulsion those pages evoked? ‘Was I wrong? No one reads on the train, anymore.’ Garry continued. I, for one, am so sick of hearing Garry’s opinions for his fellow travelers, ‘Everyone is so intent on screens…’ Never could get Garry to notice how many of us, who also caught trains and relished quiet journey moments. So, Gazza, if everyone commuting is in their own screen-bubble, how do you explain one of your fellow passengers noticed your attempts to leave The Exorcist behind? Not to be deterred, Garry tried again to jettison the book. This time left where he thought no one would notice, shoved down between slats of the waiting room bench. ‘I figured no one would see it until I was at least three stations away.’ But still, a well-meaning school student, morning fresh faced in pristine, checked pinafore tapped him on the shoulder just short of vanishing in the exit gate crowd, ‘Sir, you left your book.’ A see-young-people-do-the-right-thing expression on her metal chained, soon to be straight teeth, hardly a whisker of embarrassed blush to fill out gaps between fresh crops of cheek pimples. ‘I looked down into that face and just couldn’t tell her, don’t want it, you keep it… So sure, I’d be able to leave the damn thing behind. By doing one of those set-the-book free things’, Garry continued. Am I the only one who notices Garry scratching his balls, in public? ‘Let someone else fall under its spell. Didn’t figure on a school kid.’ ‘Can’t take it anymore, this book is truly evil.’ Gary told the whole office, over and over, often while he stared at the cover as if contemplating how to bring the government fiscal balance into surplus. Yet he kept reading. His piece-de-resistance was taking the book out one lunch time. Walked down as far as the bridge. You’d think hurling the volume out mid Sydney Harbour Bridge into the swirling azure below was enough to condemn The Exorcist to the deep. Bragged big time about finally getting rid of his nightmare. Amazing to hear this recount. If true, this is THE most exercise Gaz ever took. As I already said, his first big mistake is telling us stuff. Took myself off to the bookshop, brought another copy. Wasn’t too hard to find. The book seller gave me a creepy grin as he took my money. But my ruse needs more. So I ran the book under a tap. Bear with me, there is a reason for all this - even though putting any book through this type of torture seems sacrilegious. Who the hell ruins a brand-new book with tap water? Then I dried The Exorcist off overnight, but only mostly. A little moisture is essential. I caught an early train to be in the office before anyone else. Then I located his top-drawer key where he always left it – under the cookie jar, from which Gary never, ever shares. Then I left the reincarnated, risen from the deep, The Exorcist hidden in plain sight. Well, the sight of his face, pale isn’t good enough, deathly pallor, might be closer. Hewn from alabaster, yes, that’s it. Of course, I made sure to maximize the audience concept. Letting everyone know I planned to ask for bull-dog clips which I knew Garry kept in his top drawer. He’s like Gollum, clips – my precious. He began to gobble for words, office spaces rife with stifled giggles. The book fell from his grip as Garry’s hands shook. He still thinks The Exorcist has power. No one has told him the truth, yet. You need to remember this man responsible for hiding all the rolls of paper hand towels. Yes, he removed them, not only from the toilets, but also from the tea-room. Fair’s fair I say. He’s not even twigged, I am responsible. Just to add to the impact I posted a potted version of this tale on Facebook. Such a classic: hasn’t stopped Garry’s over-sharing. How many times have I said The Exorcist… Brings on a twinge, like saying Voldermort or Beetlejuice too often? Karen Lethlean is a trying to be retired English teacher at a Senior College. Ever Present Predator is being published by Pareidolia Volume 2 Wanderkammer as part of their memoir section. San Antonio Review will publish In Isolation. She has won awards for her writing, Bum Joke was awarded a comedy writing award. She is currently writing of military services 1972-76. In another life she is a triathlete and has competed at Hawaii Ironman world championships twice.

I am in the church hall when those first notes begin. Like crystallised raindrops landing in a pail. Your song. Familiar, unexpected, beautiful and pulsing with pain. On stage, just feet away, the girl with curled hair and teetering, uncertain voice is singing your song. Our song. The song. The room spins away. And just like the movies I am flying through space. My heart, beating and banging in a million rhythms, in a million places. I am here, but I am not, I am in a basement disco; drinking, wearing neons, screaming this song. On a bus; one ear phone each. School skirt rolled up, socks rolled down. In a doorway doubled over, both of us sweating and praying and puking. Engagement rings, wedding days, antique lace, peeing on sticks, late night calls. White rooms, clutching hands, sick jokes and promises. In a chapel. Alone. I am in all these places, just me and those notes. Just me and your song. And inside I am laughing. And screaming. And dancing. And crying. And bleeding And dying. But still that girl sings. She sings, even though right here, here on the front row my heart, my soul, my gut have all fractured. Split into a million jagged pieces ready to be thrown across the four corners of this dusty hall and the world beyond. Suddenly I can smell cider, suntan lotion, White Musk, chips, vomit, hospitals, Ash. I am overwhelmed by every shade and scent of you. Dizzy with anger and dizzy with joy; I want to stand up and shout, to shine like a beacon in this room full of toddlers, mothers, grandfathers, next door neighbours. I want to break through their proud thoughts, their lists of festive things yet to do, their badly disguised boredom and scream. ‘This song, it doesn’t belong to any of you.’ can’t breathe but I can’t leave. So instead I wrap myself in this bittersweet gift of your song. Consumed by the first Christmas without you Rachel Canwell is a reader, writer, teacher and blogger but not necessarily in that order. She is currently working on her first novel and looking for a home for her flash collection, inspired by the sea. You can find her on Twitter @bookbound2019

NARRATOR: Good evening, I’m Bartleby Zane and you’re watching the Cracks of Time where we examine historical moments that might have fallen through the cracks. Tonight we share with you a small, but important scene in real-estate history. The year is 1797. Beacon Hill is an affluent neighborhood of brownstones built around a small, common square park in Boston Massachusetts. The residents have agreed to have a meeting to address several ongoing concerns of the neighborhood. We flashback to a colonial meeting hall. CHARLES: All right, thank you all for joining together tonight for the first meeting of the Home Owner’s Association of Beacon Hill, Boston. On this the 23rd of July, year of our lord 1797. And might I add, this is the first of any such meeting in our young nation! (Polite applause from the crowd) CHARLES: Yes, unlike the unwashed masses of Philadelphia or New York, we have decided to come together as a community to create rules and governing operations for our shared land rather than leaving it to the lowest common denominator, we shall hold each other to certain standards in order to keep our living spaces pristine. ALL: Here, here! SULLY: FUCK PHILLY! GO SOX. CHARLES: Yes, thank you, Sully. If we could please only speak when called upon. SULLY: Sorry, Charles. Take it away. CHARLES: And let’s try to keep the anachronisms to a minimum, yes? SULLY: Sure thing. (Sully pulls out a Dunkin’ Donuts iced coffee) CHARLES: (sighs deeply) Right, our first order of business is a point of concern from Mr. William Blaxton. William, I yield you the floor. WILLIAM: Good evening, friends, neighbors. I arose early yesterday morning to the sounds of cardinals chirping outside my window. SULLY: FUCK THE CARDINALS, GO SOX! CHARLES: SULLY! William has the floor! SULLY: My bad, sorry Bill, go ahead. WILLIAM: As I ventured from my front door to take in this revelry, my boot sunk into a pyramid of feces, the likes of which I have never seen. (The crowd reacts with disgust.) LADY BLAXTON: In his new boots, to boot. WILLIAM: Thank you, dear. The warm muck was so thick, I well nigh- lost my boot. I humbly ask this group that we immediately and forthwith institute a mandate that if one’s horse is out of stable and defecates on a neighbor’s lawn, it shall be the owner of said horse who must dispose of said feces from the property in question. The Widow Kent and I have designed a receptacle for future horse droppings (they hold up a burlap sack proudly) and these will be strategically placed around the square for ease of care. We only ask that if you take one, leave one. (Enthusiastic applause from the group. A few “here, here’s”) THE WIDOW KENT: Instead of a gunny sack, we’re calling it a runny sack for when your horse gets the runs, you see. CHARLES: Excellent points! All in favor… SULLY: Just to be clear, if we deuce in a neighbor’s yard we gotta clean it up, but numba 1’s are still okay, right? (Charles glares at Sully and continues without addressing the question.) CHARLES: All in favor… (Ayes and nays) CHARLES: The Ayes have it! The motion is approved! (Applause from the aye voters. The nays pout. Roger raises his hand.) CHARLES: (Annoyed) The chair recognizes Mr. Rodger Crumperdin. ROGER: Well, I just find it rather amusing that the crowd so obsessed with “Freedom” is mandating where a creature of the wild can and can not defecate. ELOUISE: Excuse me, Charles, but if I might have the floor, my issue actually concerns Mr. Rodger Crumperdin. CHARLES: The floor is yours Ms. Minuet. ELOUISE: I have the great misfortune of having a clear view into Mr. Crumperdin’s dooryard and he has recently erected a sign stating, “Make Britain Great Again.” What is most offensive is that the sign first appeared on the anniversary of our great nation’s independence day, July 4th. Gasps and hubbub. ELOUISE: Furthermore, when I confronted Mr. Crumperdin on the matter, he insisted that George the III was still the right ruler of America and none of our stately laws bind him. CHARLES: Roger, is this true? ROGER: Yes! There are many of us who know who our true sovereign is! MBGA! (It’s awkward to say, so he tries again) MBGA! SULLY: Hey Charles, you want I should kick this guy’s ass or what? CHARLES: No, Sully, we are here for intelligent discourse, not showcasing brute strength. I’m sure we will be able to settle the matter with reason and shared common values. ROGER: George Washington is a false god. Those of you who worship him as such will be smote by the almighty himself and I will put that on a flag to fly in my dooryard. WIDOW KENT: Can you even put that on a flag? SULLY: Oh, you can put anything on a flag, waddya need? I got a flag guy. My cousin, Stevie. ELOUISE: Do you see what I’m subjected to? The ravings of a madman! When I asked him to remove the sign he threatened my very life. And with my husband passed, God rest his soul, I find myself frightened to lay my head at night. SULLY: Whoa, you came for an old lady, bro? ROGER: You are all charlatans and snakes! You will be dealt with in due time. The red tide shall rise up once again and engross these tyrannous banks and the loyal shall rule once more! RED COAT LIVES MATTER! SULLY: Charles, all due respect, this guy’s a fucking asshole. I beg of you, let me punch him in the throat. WIDOW KENT: Let the morons fight! WILLIAM: FOR THE GOOD OF OUR NATION! CHARLES: Ladies and gentlemen, please, I beg of you to be civil! This man is clearly not well, he means not what he says. ROGER: CHARLES MATTHEWS IS A SYSTEM OF SERPENTS PILOTING HUMAN SKIN. You all are witches who feed off the blood of children. You filthy Yankees will never take me! SULLY: NORMALLY I WOULD SAY FUCK THE YANKEES HERE, BUT IN THIS INSTANCE, (Sully looks around)..LET’S GO YANKEES. LET’S GET THIS DOUCHE! CHARLES: FUCKING- A, SULLY! (Charles and Sully chest bump. The crowd cheers and tackles Rodger to the ground. They start singing “SWEET CAROLINE” on “BA BA BAAAAA” they kick Rodger in rhythm with the song. They freeze when the Narrator takes center stage. ) NARRATOR: And with that, the residents of Beacon Hill bonded together over a shared sense of decency despite their differences. Although there were some initial hiccups, the HOA of Beacon hill continued to meet and provided a blueprint for other such communities. Roger Crumperdin built a brick wall around his house to keep his neighbors out and starved himself to death out of spite and insanity. His home was eventually demolished and a horse park put in its place. I’m Bartleby Zane, and this has been Cracks in History. BLACKOUT

Pump Station The sound of the clock Becomes the sound of the water This fluid moves like Color through the brain This hour’s cruel and Fine hydraulics press your Bygone days into tomorrows — Rusted lever, seal and lock The sound of the water Becomes the sound of the clock. Sigil for Permanence this night i sit and defend a little fortress of Time drawn about my still figure a schema, clear stars, unpassing cars, door that wants to Lock behind me it can’t touch me here, the diffuse sadness seeping into all the Parts of our lives here a line is drawn through my middle, here i am under the Protection of the squared circle (waiting while the night sounds Fall away) Invisible Boogie After Twin Peaks in a hotel room Someone has imagined me A hotel lobby In the winter Morning dark They manifested me A lonely staircase, Frost-touch window Overlooks a park This troubled dreamer Sees me, shifting Past the tight-shut Formal dining room They feed me well Conditioned atmosphere, A basement door half-open, Handle made of chrome I sing a song To be forgotten when the Curtain seizes up Against the sun I slow-walk backwards Down the hallway, I unfold When morning comes. Waypoint Travelogue I must be something like The hundred billionth primitive idler To witness this Annual assay of the geese Southbound following the Turning earth’s body heat (Dim eye for their returning Weak voice for their retelling) Honking, they draw the circle, They make a disciplined arrow, And the forces of nature move with them — And all that spell needs Is our crossroads at the center, Fly in the web, Lamb softening again, Or the slow drip Of that dear blood, oh flock, Forever. Open Field Cosmology The day I found myself adrift in the tall grasses: landscape let and laid across a grand swath of memory Running fingers stately up the stalks, I have brushed aside the wholeness of any city and its numbing sunset lights (Me on my father’s shoulders, all this grass a stillness, shallow water washing gently across time) A southbound wind closes every distance Look across me, familiar face of the golding harvest, what goes there, there beyond the trees? Jesse Miksic is a graphic designer and writer living in the suburbs of Philadelphia. He spends his life writing poetry, scribbling in notebooks by the fireplace, and having adventures with his wonderful wife and two children. Recent placements include Drunk Monkeys, Green Ink Poetry, and Pink Plastic House.

Summer Bonfire The smell of wood smoke pops the air, Engulfing the late summer evening in bursts. I watch the sparks of fire soaring, darting; Imagine them along the paths we trod, Past the trees we climbed, hovering at the gate We shut tight, and finally stamped out by the Riverside reeds where we played. Now the halo of the fire grows brighter, And only then does the evening draw the shutters on the day. A Space I Cannot Fill The empty chair, The hour on Sunday when I’d phone, The question I want to ask, The bare coat peg, The distant hum instead of the ticking clock, The bookmark loose on the table, The closed glasses case, This space I cannot fill. Unsure how to greet it, I walk around it, I sulk, then rage until I allow the space to frame me, Shifting and settling like your old cardigan That even now still keeps me warm. Helen Openshaw is a Drama and English teacher, from Cumbria. She enjoys writing poetry and plays and inspiring her students to write. Helen has had a short monologue commissioned by Knock and Nash productions. Recently published and upcoming poetry work in Secret Chords by Folklore publishing, Green Ink Poetry magazine, Words and Whispers magazine, The Madrigal, Fragmented Voices, Loft Books and The Dirigible Balloon magazine.

All four windows down, burlap mullet in the wind. Sun-sweat glimmering across your paperback skin. Face like motel heaven, lips a bright strawberry storm — rioting to the radio, louder than the day you were born. You say “this trick’s real easy,” like skating full-speed with no rain. But after hitting hills in Frisco, I only see through cellophane. Misty in the mountains, girlhood blurred by ginny dreams — the toe stop couldn’t catch me screaming; I got smashed to smithereens. “Diff ’rent worry from a diff ’rent season,” you say, tapping scraped-up knees. “You can make a house a home, y’know, in any place you please.” Hillbilly prophet, I know you’re right — you tell me, “Just keep drivin’ straight.” Onward, not upward, here is good: My great escape on the interstate. Alana Greene is an American writer living in London. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in the minison zine, cool rock repository, Fish Barrel Review, and HELL IS REAL: A Midwest Gothic Anthology.

Ode to Rosalind Franklin I have three letters D, N and A I believe in them but there is more than flat symbol acronyms and chemicals there was more to life I was more of life I was both atoms and window eaves I was both pattern and matrix but I was more sill than cell more fascicle than fascia I believe in particles colliding strains, mosaics, spirals It can be like a mother hamster eating its own small pink babies I believe science has some sums, and a little of the authority that wrests in truth but you can’t begin explanation hypothesis, method without words And are words true? We make ourselves with them despite not anything Origin I begin in the cervical atlas (when it’s all ending) my selves assemble involuntarily days were splitting merging, reforming like cells multiplying to malignancy shedding off death skin the alphabet biology began my next words made a little girl buskers snatched and dragged her to a dragon tail swinging, a crowd looked on as she screamed, I am in the third womb world, the womb swimming words are red, read again misspelled, immersed in water the headwaters of time time was made of swimming tests floating through her grandmother's house the rafters filled with cartoon faces flooded to the brim who are we, these little girls? the cervical axis, sequences made rearranged around her mirror twin, someone else lives in her books now (but sunflowers are still in the alley) Head Lines I spend my time sewing word order into salad days and circling turns of phrase in already read yellowed newspapers in the third womb I learned to read black, white, red above the fold the tempo of the once new news is forgotten daily my next-door neighbor died after I slept walked to his front door he was reading a newspaper every time I saw him the markings embedded on my face: who, what, when, where, and why Lily Rose Kosmicki is a person, beekeeper, and librarian at the public library and by night she is a collector of dreams. Her zine Dream Zine won a Broken Pencil Zine Award for Best Art Zine 2018. Her work appears in The Raw Art Review, Bombay Gin, Interim, Seisma Magazine, and elsewhere. Her chapbook The Eyelash Atlas is forthcoming from Francis House.

Flight delayed. Just kidding I’m at the Marriott. There is this dad who looks like Cat Stevens with AUD who has two teenage sons and the sons are both on their phones and the dad is using a straw to water the little cactus on the table the way you put your finger on the top, dip, release, he’s on his fourth G&T, god bless the dark. Awake on the fourth night, I want to find and strangle the grandma who was short with her grandson on the playground of the resort. She came over to us because he was being “too loud” and she called him queer in front of us. He was fat and must have been eight years old. They were from the Carolinas. He didn’t stand a chance. He’ll kill a classmate, I thought. I’ll never forgive that blackguard witch grandma of his, and will remember her mortal coil always. I finished The Moon Down to Earth by the inimitable. I left it by the pool, the humidity of the air already giving it a bend. Second to last night I watched its author drown a paperback copy of a Sparks' novel in his sink, and now I want to ————————-. This is Orlando. I love it. But goodbye. Adam Johnson lives in Minneapolis. His first poetry collection, What Are You Doing Out Here Alone, Away From Everyone? was recently released through HASH Press. His second collection, White Paint Falling Through a Filtered Shaft is forthcoming through Anxiety Press.

The Unfilled Branch My father tells me that there was an Indigenous woman who married into my family back when my family was divided based on the spelling of our Irish surname, back when one of my grandfathers named a farming community in Michigan after the Garden of Eden. I do not know her name. I do not know her tribe. That information was left out of the three-ringed binder passed around at my grandmother’s funeral. I do not know if she walked through the woods owned by my grandfather, if she braided her hair while sitting on a fallen log, if she collected acorns, pebbles, or feathers she found along the path. I do not know how her hair reflected the sunlight that peered through the trees of if the sounds of the creek gave her a respite from the sounds of the white men harvesting nearby. I know she is a part of my life and the lives of my siblings, cousins, aunts, grandfather, and my father. I know she probably cooked for her children and sang them songs to help them fall asleep on cold winter nights. I know she once lived on this earth, even if she’s now spread out through those woods like my grandfather’s ashes. I know she’s out there. I just wish I could find her. Then I could slip a page about her into that binder the next time it’s passed around. After Joy Harjo You In the Pond I stare at the water’s surface and wait for you to emerge, your skin pulling you deeper into yourself. I imagine the lines form curves like your signature on the last letter you sent to me before you went into the depth. I toss a rock into the pond, hoping to stir you from the sand you blanket yourself in. I imagine what you dream about as you sleep down there. Maybe it was the moment you sank, or of what you hoped to do once you stepped back onto the shore. It will take hundreds, if not thousands, if not millions, if not billions of years for the body to swallow me from my post on the shoreline bringing us face to face, vision marred. I imagine I’ll see you then, but I’ll stare until your flesh, white as the full moon’s reflection on the mirror above breaks apart and becomes part of the body’s ecosystem, until I’m left alone with bubbles for company. Then, I can confront what I caused and allow myself to be chained to the bottom as well. After Rita Banerjee

Discovering that most supermarket, free-range turkeys primarily congregate in overcrowded, dirty sheds, Evie bought herself a free-range bird from a local organic turkey farmer, who she believed provided her turkey with a few good daily meals and a hygienic semi-private coop. After mentally patting herself on the back for a more humane purchase, Evie moved her turkey to her kitchen sink. The bird’s featherless body, covered in pink pimply skin, filled up the entire basin. As she opened the wrapping, Evie smelled raw turkey, and she started to gag. Stored in the turkey’s cavity were its neck and giblets, wrapped up in a disturbing-looking parchment package that she struggled to yank out. Finding all of the dead parts nauseating, Evie felt the acid churning in her stomach, rising up into her throat. Evie quickly pulled herself together and moved the turkey to the countertop, where she began the process of dominating its headless body, tying together its lifeless legs and tucking back its wings. She grew increasingly hysterical from the sadistic nature of her task as she molested the bird further, stuffing crumbled bread, sausage, sage, and mushroom through what was once its ass and up into its throat. Finally, the job completed, Evie got quiet as she stared at her turkey display, trying to recall how she had ended up wrestling this bird in her kitchen. But then she reminded herself, her mother had traveled across the country to visit her sick, elderly aunt. So, it was up to Evie to prepare a Thanksgiving meal for her dying father. Evie assumed the local organic farmer provided a balanced diet of high-quality feed, full of protein and nutrients to ensure his turkeys were healthy. But, up until this moment, Evie never considered that the farmer’s delicate treatment of his flock was intended solely for high-end consumption. Evie wondered if the farmer succumbed to industry pressure and debeaked this turkey, a barbaric attempt at decreasing acts of cannibalism among his feathered gang. But Evie guessed that bit of irony was lost on the farmer as he held her bird upside down by its wiry legs, waiting for blood to flow to its head, leaving the turkey weak and defenseless, ready for the farmer’s chopping block. Finally, Evie speculated whether or not the farmer experienced regret as he stared into this turkey’s tiny black pupils, knowingly selecting him for her table. Probably not, Evie thought sadly and then felt a slight pang of shame bubbling up as she continued her preparations for what might be her ailing father’s last Thanksgiving dinner. The smell of death surrounded her, and Evie began feeling queasy. But then, thinking of her father in the next room, whose cancer had insidiously spread, Evie took a deep breath and began vigorously rubbing butter all over the body of her bird, ensuring a tasty, crispy coat. Finished, Evie placed her fully dressed bird into the oven and closed the door. And soon after, she walked into the living room and took her father’s hand, helping him into the bathroom. Evie’s mother had left her with clear instructions and ample supplies for her to help her weakening father complete his business. After returning from the bathroom, Evie and her father sat quietly in the living room, watching football while they awaited their bird slowly roasting in the nearby room. The doctor said it could be months, perhaps a year; there was no way to know for sure. Evie’s father, once a round-bellied, broad-shouldered man with a loud voice who was always ready for a laugh, was now but a shell of his former self. Cancer pecked away at him, slowly eating away little pieces of his mind and body until eventually there would be nothing left of him but hanging flesh and bones. Evie’s mouth watered as the smell of roasted turkey filled up the room; her earlier repulsion and nausea were suddenly forgotten. Evie’s father still managed small meals, but only if the food was cut up into little pieces and the texture soft for chewing. So, Evie lovingly prepared her father two side dishes, consisting of mashed potatoes and a sweet yam casserole. And then, thinking of the dead parts around her, Evie made a mental note to slow boil the picked apart turkey carcass after dinner for her father’s soup. Margo Griffin is a Boston, MA area public school educator and has worked in urban education for over thirty years. She is the mother of two amazing daughters and to the love of her life and best rescue dog ever, Harley.

I feel like Pluto. That is to say I feel for it. Amidst days that have been like a sore, numb limb, I have only experienced a sensation of sympathy for an outcast planet. Only because I happened to read a poem about it. Although I am afraid my relatability to it may just be an exercise in self-pity. I have been wishing for an asteroid to strike this dinner table at this very moment and wipe all of us lunatics out in an instant. They’re not bad people, it’s only because I am tired and I need a permanent occasion of rest. Plus, dear god, this is getting boring. Here’s how I am. Body discomfort incarnate, but the hair looks neat. Nails are chipped. My hands are fidgeting, acting on the constant need to scratch my neck. My stomach’s a little upset but that’s because I didn’t shit well in the morning. I look at the guy sitting across from me to confirm if I look nice. It makes me sick. I think I need more ice in my drink. Nobody has asked me a question about the particulars of my life yet, I hope they don’t. Meanwhile I am thinking about writing a note for the instance of my sudden death, just in celebration of its unpredictability. Something nice to leave behind because there can be no possible relics to my life. Last night, I dreamt of a graveyard underwater. I was breathlessly submerged by engraved proofs of endings. I wasn’t afraid when I woke up. I had been reading the suicide letters of famous people before going to bed. In an effort to make myself feel things, I tried to imagine how broken her letter must have left Leonard Woolf, as he held the final remnant of her departure. I don’t imagine the tenants of this table would like to hear how I didn’t cry at the thought of the rocks that she put in her pockets. Or my dream, in which I too was drowning. They didn’t appreciate the joke I made about my best friend’s funeral either. It’s been three months now, unclench a little. Jesus. The chair beside me has just gotten empty. And there it is. Another reminder of absence. Listen, listen, listen… but all echoes are left in vacuum. The table, like my life with one chair now vacant, emptied after contacting a life and a burial. It’s fine, I am telling myself again. It’s just like we’ve had one big fight and we won’t be talking for weeks. Which is why I remember her contact but have removed it from my phone. I have put all her things in my bedside drawer, except my sadness which refused to fit in. I beg it, please let me forget. But memory’s persistence is frustrating. When she had lost her pet, bawling she had said, “the evidence of love has to always turn into grief, at least once and sometimes twice and many times over. The universe demands it.” There is no other explanation of death except the universe's sadism. It feeds off the love we have nowhere left to give. I’m thinking of adopting a cat and calling it Fish. She would have found it amusing. The asteroid has kept me waiting, but that betrayal isn’t new. I am feeling a little fuzzy, so the night doesn’t feel half bad now. Maybe I’ll ask that guy to drive me home. Listen, listen, listen… Tonight, like so many others, again became about you. But all these thoughts are just to say that I am looking at the empty space you’ve left behind, trying to fill it up, only to find it staring right back at me. It makes me miss your kindness.

My neck aches from gazing at the clear glass ceiling in the Grand Gallery but I don’t know what else to do. I’ve studied every detail of every painting on the teal walls and still I wait. The smell changes from antique polish to vanilla-musk, heralding the entrance of the cutting-edge make-up team. Futuristic goddesses with angled hairstyles, straight faces and clean monochrome lines, they are alien to anything I’ve seen. Walking straight by me to the foot of the stairs, they begin the liberation of their cosmetics from their Tardis-like Samsonite cases. A carnival of dresses enters from the left, wheeled by four animated women, who laugh and chat. I’m relieved to see embroidered screens being erected and hope I can change behind them. This is my first time. The theme for today’s photoshoot is Vintage Hollywood, and every colour, shape and fabric of dress is here, along with a myriad of underskirts, shoes and bags. As the hairstylists join us and search for sockets for their equipment, I think how different this is from my everyday life - a life where sales assistants grimace when I ask for a garment in my size, or point me to dull clothing designed to cover and never to dazzle. I thought decent plus-size fashion didn’t exist, but it does and with the average Irish woman taking a size 16, here they call it real-size. I like that. A young man approaches me with intent, his jet-black eyebrows and beard manicured, his velvet purple suit moulded to his narrow physique. He click-clicks across the mosaic floor, his Lego-hairdo firmly fixed. “Well, hello beautiful! I’m Marc with a C and you must be my lady from Real Agency?” He’s already walking so I follow him. He turns and examines my face too closely. I feel myself reddening and divert my gaze but he raises my chin so I have no choice but to look into his dark eyes. “Stunning,” he declares. “What is your name, mysterious one?” Orla Maguire, I tell Marc with a C and he clicks his fingers. A tall ice-blonde instantly appears at his side. “Look at her, Tegan babes. Can you see it? Tell me you can see it,” he pleads and she studies me through the fringe of her sharp bob. “Jane Russell?” she asks. He claps and smiles widely, displaying perfect teeth. I run my tongue over my own. Summoning the beauty team, Tegan directs in a language I don’t understand. I’m crowd-surfed into a high chair and plonked in front of a mirror surrounded by bulbs. Then, I’m turned 180 degrees to face a painting of an ample woman with a young girl on her lap. Lady and Child by Stephen Slaughter, the description says. I drift into the painting as the team work away, wondering when a fuller figure stopped being sexy. I remember my last weight-loss class. The leader, Shirley, put a grey plastic chair in the centre of the room and invited us to think back to when we first felt ashamed of our weight. After a few moments, she asked how many of us were children. We all raised our hands. “Imagine that child is sitting in this chair,” she said. The lady in the painting has a dour expression and reminds me of Aunt Eithne’s face when she first saw me after Mammy died. “You’re awful fat. We’ll have to get you on a diet before you burst,” she’d exclaimed, hauling me off to a seamstress to let out my school uniform. Standing in my cotton vest and knickers, I tried to hide my thighs and little pot belly as they whispered about me. I was nine years old. “What terrible things do we say to ourselves?” Shirley asked. Orla the Orca, the size of Majorca. “Now, say those things to the child in the chair.” I jolted. “You can’t, can you? If you wouldn’t say it to a child, you shouldn’t say it to yourself. Now, travel back in time to meet your younger selves. Go to the chair and tell that little girl what you wish you’d been told back then.” Women approached the chair, some crying silently while others hugged. I didn’t move. I remember myself, a child who never knew her father and had just lost her beloved mother. A child, confused and alone, in need of love, not judgment. My heart breaks for the life that followed and the innocence that was lost forever. “Hon, are you alright?” Tegan asks, dabbing my eye. “I’m so sorry I’m probably ruining your make-up,” I say, wiping a tear. “Not at all love, we’re just finished anyway. Take a look.” She spins me around to face the mirror and my mouth falls open. The whole team surrounds me and claps. I feel the tears coming again and Tegan smiles, squeezing my hand and I cherish her touch. “Thank you,'' I say. “Thank you for making me look like this.” “Our job was easy Hon, sure you’re stunning,” she replies and I look for hidden cameras. That’s twice I’ve been called stunning since I arrived, a word I’m not used to hearing. But she’s not joking. I stare at my reflection. I am stunning. I look back at the painting and see the child is holding the hands of the woman and I feel my mother with me, embracing me. It’s time to love myself as I am, as I was - Lady and child. A word from the author: I live in Mullingar, Co. Westmeath. Wife to Brendan, mother to Eva, Ben and Anna and committee member of Our New Ears charity group. I have written three novels and countless published articles. I am working with a publisher on my last novel Listen, which I hope will be published this year.