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underdog they say timing is everything, the kids right now they can’t appreciate how we would make fun where there was none we had world war vets that built   our slides our swing sets, twelve-feet tall  and galvanized, heavy chain all browned by use and oxidation  kids would swing in great parabolas, ample space for  kids to race below that’s how it’d go  to lay in wait the backswing, steppin’ lively when it’s time to run like hell knowing full well like something’s chasing close behind, underdog is what we called it is what  we screamed when  we ran, until the dog gets caught and so i was that day  that johnson kid, they didn’t try to miss me tripping, caught me square  where all went slipping, falling breathless far beyond  where child and earth converged oh dolores please excuse me i’m so sorry i overstay i overshare i spillover over and over everywhere were you born in a barn she barked at me, i thought maybe was raised by wolves, that joke you know, he walked into a bar another round was bought of homemade for the baying, broke disciples at the door, ajar J. R. Wilkerson is a DC-area resident by way of Lawrenceburg, Missouri.

Photo by Sarah Skinner Lori waited outside the HR office of Symtek Call Center. Her fingers turned pale as she squeezed the portfolio. She adjusted the sleeves of her ill-fitting suit jacket and regretted keeping the massive shoulder pads. What am I thinking?  she snapped at herself. She could never alter her grandmother's jacket. Was she wearing the heirloom for good luck or because it was the only professional attire she owned? Two things could be true. Several other sweaty applicants filled up the chairs in the cramped waiting room. She wished more than anything to finish her interview and escape but dreaded the idea of being next. She also dreaded the idea of becoming a call assistant. There was dread in every direction. This happened every time. With this being the sixth interview, she thought she would feel comfortable doing this, but six rejections only put more pressure on this one. She had been told it would be easy to land a job doing basic mindless work, but despite her widespread applications, it had not been “easy.” The door opened. Another interviewee marched out of the office with a smug grin on his face. The balding man behind him, adorned in a blue shirt and jeans, propped open the HR office door as the applicant left. He tapped his clipboard with his pen. “Lori Baker?” he read. Lori shot out of her chair and almost dropped her portfolio. She followed him into the office full of stale air. Once she sat down, Lori opened her portfolio and removed a resume. “I have a copy of my resume if you need one.” Without looking up, Toby Hoover—as his nametag dictated—waved his hand in the air. “I got one.” Sweating, Lori shoved the paper into the portfolio, accidentally crumpling it up. He slumped into his chair while frowning at his clipboard. “I see a lot of fast food here,” he mumbled. “I’ve had to move a lot for school,” Lori recited. “As a cashier, I gained a lot of customer service experience.” “It says here that you graduated three years ago.” Lori forced a chuckle. “Yes, I took a break from school and work after I graduated.” Was it an intentional break? No, not really. “Hmph…” he grumbled. “I see your death date here listed as ‘not applicable.’ Did you mean to write ‘five plus’?” “No, I don’t have a death date certificate.” “Do you really expect someone to hire you if they don’t know how long you can reliably commit to their company?” Lori took a deep breath. Sure, other interviewers asked about the missing death date, but they had not been so direct. “I am a Necroignorancer. We live not knowing how we die,” Lori recited. Toby shrugged. “I didn’t say how  you die; I said when  you die. You don’t have to know how . That’s optional on the new machines.” Her blood was bubbling, and not because of the hot, stifling air. “Not knowing my death date is an integral part of my culture,” Lori said with confidence. “You cannot discriminate against me for not having my death date listed.” Toby rolled his eyes. “Sure, sure. Next question: What qualities do you value…” She understood Toby had to finish the interview so the company couldn’t be sued for religious discrimination. It was 2021, after all. Lori couldn’t afford it, anyway. For the rest of the interview, Lori sat with a stiff spine and answered the rest of the mandated questions through gritted teeth. On the way home, Lori sat on the bus, arms crossed, stewing over the experience. Why was everyone so obsessed with knowing their death date? Why did no one like to live with hope anymore?  The machines only gave a death date within five years, so there was some mystery. Most of her high school friends had gotten their death date certificates. Some were fine… others were not. If your death date was on that slip, say goodbye to any hope of a career or solid job. Only the city would hire near-deathers. They had designated positions in the sewage and waste department for those people… Or you might pick up garbage in the parks. Some mining companies only hired near-deathers. Lori couldn’t afford her modest apartment with those salaries… Though she couldn’t afford it with no salary either. The bus screeched to a halt outside her apartment building, but despite the convenient stop, crossing the four-way intersection was a perilous journey. After five cars refused to stop at the crosswalk, Lori sprinted across. Despite there being flashing lights for the pedestrians, cars still zipped through the intersection toward her, only to come to a harsh halt in the middle, causing a crescendo of honks and shouting. Her heart raced every time the tires squealed to stop just in front of her. The fear of getting hit shook her out of her rage. When she finally reached her studio apartment, she marched to the window and peered down at the intersection. On the corner opposite, it waited. Despite their life-altering results, the death-calculating machines sat innocently outside every post office. The kiosk looked harmless enough. Like a digital lottery machine, the “Fate-Mate” had a large screen and a stool chained to it. Upon the recession, the city had installed twenty-four-hour Fate-Mates city-wide so that there were no barriers for the unemployed. She tore herself away from the window and collapsed on her bed. No , she told herself. It wasn’t over yet. Someone would hire her. Someone forward-thinking and open-minded. She just had to look for the right company. Everything was going to be okay. # A week later, Lori waved goodbye to her friend as they dropped her off. “I’ll Venmo you later for the drinks,” Lori assured, shooting finger guns at them through the open car window. She intended to pay her friend back, but “later” might be a tad longer than anyone wanted. “Let’s do this again!” her friend insisted but was cut off by angry honking. There were no parking spaces next to the narrow, broken sidewalk, so her friend was in the lane holding up traffic. Many swerved around the stopped car, almost hitting traffic coming in the opposite direction. Her friend haphazardly rejoined traffic. Though four-ways had rules, no driver seemed to know them at that intersection. As she turned toward her building, Lori was relieved she didn’t have a car, though not having a reliable mode of transportation did not fare well for her applications. When she stepped through her apartment doorway, she kicked an envelope lying on her doormat. The big stamped letters in red “NOTICE” did not fill Lori with hope. Before she picked it up, she took a deep breath. Calmly, she placed the letter back in the envelope and set it on the floor. She slumped onto her bed. This was it. There was no more of her inheritance to keep her afloat. Lori had promised herself that if she used her grandmother’s money, that she would adhere to the old woman’s conviction: Live every day as if it’s your last . But there was no money left, so what conviction was there? Lori buried her face in her pillow and shut out that thought. In the morning, Lori worked over her wobbly ironing board at the window. She overlooked the madness below. No one ever stopped at the intersection anymore. They only stopped when someone was about to hit another car. The screech of the tires was deafening but harmonious with the honking. Lori supposed the terrible driving was another side effect of the death machines. If people knew their death, why drive carefully? Were they concerned about killing others or getting injured? Apparently not. With the technology, one would think the government could find the murderers, but the death machines never give who, only when and how. Murdered. Hit and run. To the Justice Department’s dismay, the machines couldn’t say who. When a burning smell hit her nostrils, Lori’s attention snapped back to what she was doing. She flicked off the iron and uncovered her half-crinkled resume that now featured a large browned iron-shaped splotch. After tossing the resume in the bin, Lori pulled on a sweater and grabbed her keys. Time to take fate into your own hands, I guess , she thought. In her loafers and sweats, she dragged herself to the machine on the corner and slumped onto the little graffitied stool in front of it. The post office was busy that Saturday morning, though she was not the only one in pajamas. Above the screen, peeling letters said, “Fate-Mate: Know your date!” She rolled her eyes at the message and tried to tune out the honking and screeching behind her as she began the instructions on the screen. The first instruction, of course, was to insert payment. She inserted the waiver given to her by the unemployment help center. They had given her the waiver and refused to help any further until she had used it. She scanned her ID. “Welcome, Lori Baker,” it displayed on the screen. Next, a small package tumbled into the dispenser below. It was a single-use needle set. The lancing device stung a lot more than the screen promised, but she retrieved a blood sample. She would have put a bandaid on her arm, but the kit's provided one ripped apart when she picked it up. The last instruction was to insert the sample in the upper-right slot. She hesitated and pondered about the people who had their results. She speculated on the conspiracies on the internet that said the government was using the death-calculation machines to steal and record everyone’s blood… Lori blinked and refocused. If this is what I have to do, she told herself, then I’ll live with it. # She inserted the sample into the machine. Two options appeared. “Minimal Result” and “Full Result”. She selected “Minimal”. The screen on the machine switched to a picture of a circular loading bar. Lori waited. She kicked her feet. She checked her wristwatch. 9:15. Lori waited, holding her breath. Her friend had said that it calculated their death in less than thirty seconds. Why was it taking so long? She checked the time again. 9:20 a.m. Sighing, she crossed her arms. She would give it five more minutes before leaving. Five minutes passed. Lori slumped out of the little stool and stretched. The screen flashed and printed out a waxy paper. Lori ripped it off the machine. The waxy picture had her name and a terrible copy of her id picture and a date below it. It wasn’t her birthdate. The date not only said the day, but the hour, minute, and second. The date on the receipt was September 19, 2021. She held up her wristwatch again. It read “9-19-21”. Lori was more confused than anything else as she sat on that street corner. There must be some mistake. She read the time that the death date stated: “09:25”… exactly what was on her watch. Lori checked the last number on the death date, the seconds. The second was fifty-three. She looked back at the watch. Forty-five, forty-six, forty-seven… Suddenly, Lori was deafened by the sound of crunching metal behind her. She turned and saw the disfigured nose of an SUV as it mounted the sidewalk, pummeling toward her. Frozen in her stance as she stared down the headlights, she had one final thought: You have got to be kidding— A word from the author: I'm a physics graduate student that occasionally finds time for a creative outlet.

Smile  uneasily while being dismayed that they’re all middle-aged Remember , with profound disappointment, that you’re nearly thirty-nine Swing  between thinking you’re too cool and feeling distinctly un-hipster-y Mount  your borrowed bike, noticing too late that your saddle is tricycle-low Regret  the Tesco activewear Consider  – as sweat trickles down your crack – how life got so far off-track Mourn  the demise of your marriage (even though you’re better off alone) Grapple  with unfamiliar gears as your knees and elbows play pat-a-cake Mutter  a prayer for the drowning aphid sliding around your eyeball Detect  the scent of overboiled bratwurst… Realise  it’s your polyester-mix armpits Study  the perfect behind of the woman in front Visualise  a blazing pyre for the Tesco activewear Waffle  about your absent son while trying not to cry… Concede  that Liv’s kids are obviously waaay more interesting Skid  on wet leaves into thick, nettly brambles while shrieking attractively Grasp  the clumsy hand of the Hot Nerd in Excellent Trainers Retreat  to unsniffable distance whilst complimenting his actually-not-gross activewear Attempt , with nonchalance, to yank up your knee-high-to-a-salamander cycle seat Sigh  your relief when Hot Nerd timidly waggles his hex keys at you Duck  too late when he misjudges the trajectory of his toss Cradle  your throbbing eyeball while saying it’s fine Smile  genuinely and without dismay Accept  an invite to apology coffee Settle  yourself back in the saddle Hold on  Let go.

Torso Miletus, marble sculpture circa 480 B.C. Photograph by Marie-Lan Nguyen (France). 2006. Archaic Torso of Apollo   He’s got no nipples. He’s the perfect man minus that leg and the arms and head (and the man-bits snapped clean off)—but what’s he been missing for millennia? When that young Greek sat down one morning and said, “Today I’m going to make the perfect man,” he decided: “My love will have no nipples.”   My perfect man’s got nipples, & a handlebar mustache, & a great big overcoat he drapes across my shoulders as we wait for the next train downtown, & two eyes cut from clouds, & two soft lips pulsing warm on my cheek.   In a hundred years, the nipple-less body of our great god of Art will gleam hard under pale museum light. My love will have no lips. But he will exist as the smoothness of this page, the blackness of this ink, the warmth you still feel from his great big overcoat.   On Trees:   I.   If trees grew upside down you'd need a shovel to climb them. Children would not be allowed to climb trees. Their parents would say, “You’re too young. Leave tree climbing to the experts. You can try again when you’re older.” They’d dig in their backyards near a tangle of roots hoping to find a tree and plod back inside, shovels dragging behind them, upon unearthing a bush.   The redwoods of California would need teams of expert engineers to drill through the earth and the rock winding down for days through tunnels with only spelunking lights to guide them before they’d reach the leafy tops perfectly preserved in bedrock glowing green the only color for miles.   It would be a holy experience to see something no human should. They’d thank their own wit and ambition and take a leaf for themselves to press between some wax paper and frame for their living rooms so they could brag with a wave to whoever came along:   I was there. I climbed a tree.   II.   I love this space on the water: the space between the hanging branch of a young willow and the surface of the pond. The branch sprouts low and arcs, twisted and rambling, before wood gives way to fresh summer leaves, tips dipping low to caress the surface.   I’ve been here before, watching the ducks with Lucy, asking her to name the flowers. Sometimes she knows; sometimes she doesn’t. Her mother has a garden, so she’s picked up some things, but not everything.   My mother has a thirty-year-old pothos and an affinity for violets, but most flowers make her sneeze. The plants growing in her yard arrived through other means—a previous owner (we’ve moved many times), or the natural flowering and seeding of things. I don’t think my mother has purposely put a plant in the ground in her life. She prefers to see what springs up on its own—uncared for, but beautiful.   Today I walked by myself around the university lawn to stretch my legs in the wet warmth of early summer. I saw a slender woman in a black sundress, hair cropped above her ears, cheekbones sharp, shoulders sharper, much the way I look when I’m thin. Probably the way I look right now. I thought, “How beautiful.”   I saw her stop on the path and look to her right, smiling. When she left, I followed her gaze and found a gray-haired woman kneeling on the concrete edge of the pond. I followed the tilt of her camera and saw a young family of ducks: a mother and six or so ducklings.   The group was swimming, quacking, bobbing beneath the willow branch in the curve of the shelter, in the space before the leaves brush the water.   As I watched, the ducks swam to another part of the pond. The photographer left. The slender woman in the black sundress left. Lucy is not here, nor her mother, nor my mother.   I photographed the shaded area, even though the ducks are gone. I sat where the photographer sat. I am here.   III.   I’ve never climbed a tree. I wanted to climb one by the Mennonite church when I was six, like the big kids, the tall kids, the ones whose hearts did not keep them small. I wanted to climb the pine in the field and I would have— I told myself I would have— but the next Sunday some adult had shaved off every branch I could have reached. My mother said, “To keep you safe.”   I wanted to climb one when I was ten, and I did try while Millicent sat in the highest branches with her cropped hair and cargo pants, she who taught me what a lesbian was— a whispered word, a shame— and I tried to follow her, but the bark scraped my hands, and my arms never really were that strong and I was afraid—of splinters, of falling, of feeling so much air— so I remained with the roots while the leaves brushed her hair, her face arched toward the sun.   There is a tree by the window of the apartment I share with my husband, the man I met ten days after I turned twenty. Owned by the city, branches kept pruned (enough to provide shade without attracting the ambitions of children and small women). I rest my head in the divot of his chest, dogs sleeping at our side, and he tells me that he has never climbed a tree.   And I think—if I had asked my mother, that Sunday at church— She would have lifted me into the tree And stood below. I can see her as she was then, or maybe as I am now, or will be, her face my face our face melding. I see her favorite blue-speckled dress. I see my mother hoisting me with an oof and hovering below with the look she always gets when we break the rules: eyebrows up, a glance over a shoulder, a grin. And the vision pauses, and that is all I see: my mother, her eyebrows, her smile. Gwen Lemley is a Chicago-based writer of fiction and poetry. You can find her on Twitter at @gwendolyn_lem  and on Bluesky at @ gwen1.bsky.social .

For their fifth anniversary, Melinda suggests she and her husband, Martin, spice things up by parking in a secluded lane by the lake. The couple’s heating up in the back seat when a light shines through the window, and the door is yanked open. Someone in a ski mask and holding a pistol demands Martin’s wallet. Martin fumbles it out of his pants pocket, which is down around his ankles.  The thief snatches the billfold from Martin’s hand. “Take the cash and leave my credit cards,” Martin says. “I’ll cancel them before you can—” “Shut up. What’s that sparkling on your finger, honey?” the thief says. Melinda shields her diamond ring with her right hand. “You’ve got my husband’s wallet. Leave us alone.” “Don’t make me get rough.” Melinda hands the ring to the man. “You,” he says waving the gun toward Martin. “Out of the car.” “What? Why? You—”  “I said out.” Melinda whimpers as Martin pulls up his pants and gets out. The two men walk to a picnic area by the lake.  “How was that?” the man says when they’re hidden from Melinda’s sight. He puts the toy gun in his pocket and gives back the wallet and the ring. “So far, so good.” Martin hands the other man the agreed payment. “Tell me again.” The phony thief shoves the money in his pocket. “Follow this trail to the other side of the lake. Parking lot BB. He’ll be waiting.” The two leave in opposite directions, Martin holding a small flashlight to show his way. When he gets to the parking lot, Martin goes to a small, flickering flame. “You got the rock?” a man says.  The moon emerges from behind clouds, and Martin, seeing the man has a crooked goatee, wonders if he himself should have worn a mask or something. He decides to scrunch up his face as a makeshift disguise. “You got the dough?”  The man removes a wad of bills from his pocket. After the two men complete the exchange, Martin starts to turn heel then stops. “Wait.” He puts the small flashlight in his mouth and counts the cash. He says “OK,” forgetting about the flashlight, and it falls to the asphalt and breaks. “Crap.” He leaves. The man with the goatee stays put.  After a few minutes, the tall, slender man who pretended to be a thief approaches. “All according to plan?” The man with the goatee gives the other guy the ring. “No problem. He took the counterfeit cash and scurried off like a rat. He holds out his hand.  The taller man pays him, and the two walk off in opposite directions.  Meanwhile, while Martin is walking back around the lake, clouds hide the moon, and he nearly steps on a sleeping goose. The honking and flapping nearly give him a heart attack. As he approaches his car, he rips his shirt, musses up his hair and rubs dirt on his face.  … Melinda whimpers when Martin gets back in the car. “Thank goodness you’re safe. What did he want?” “No idea. I kicked him in the groin and ran off. Let’s get out of here and report this.” … At the police station, they meet with Detective Spencer. Martin says the thief was short and heavy set. Melinda agrees.  The next day, Martin files a loss claim with his insurance agent. He tells himself he should have enough money left over after paying off his gambling debt to buy his girlfriend a necklace.  That same day, goatee man meets Melinda in the alley behind the non-profit where she works as a project manager. They go to a secluded area. The man smiles and points to his fake beard.  “Nice touch. From our play,” Melinda says … “Well?” “Just like you said. By the way, does Martin have some kind of tic?” He scrunches his face.  “Come with me. Now we go to the police.” Melinda grabs Jamison’s arm. “You’re forgetting something. I’m not doing this because I like you.” He strokes Melinda’s hair. “But you know I do.” Melinda pushes his hand away. “Here’s half.” She gives the man $100. … Melinda and Jamison meet with a Detective Spencer. After they leave the station, Melinda gives Jamison another $100 for agreeing to tell the detective that the tall, slender man was short and heavy.   Later in the day, Detective Spencer arrests Martin.  That evening, the tall, slender man and Melinda meet at the picnic grounds by the lake. The man smiles and holds up a wad of cash he says he got from selling the diamond ring to a real fence.  “The main thing is that I got my cheating bastard husband.” Melinda holds out her hand. “I’ll count out your share.” “My plan worked perfectly,” the man says.   “ Your  plan? You tipped me off to what Martin was scheming, but everything else was my  doing.” As soon as the words are out of her mouth, Detective Spencer steps from behind a tree and arrests her. He pockets the wad of counterfeit cash.   That evening, after Melinda is locked up, the detective and the tall, slender man splurge on dinner at a fancy restaurant where they toast the success of their scheme and their one-month anniversary of being together. The tall, slender man removes the diamond ring from his pocket. “Ought to fetch a tidy sum.” When the detective excuses himself, as he usually does at least once during dinner, and goes to the bathroom, the tall, slender man nods to a woman sitting alone at a nearby table, and the two walk out. “Your plan was brilliant,” he says.  “As a diamond,” she replies.  David Henson and his wife have lived in Brussels and Hong Kong and now reside in Illinois. His work has been nominated for four Pushcart Prizes, Best of the Net and two Best Small Fictions and has appeared in various journals including Maudlin House, Gastropoda, Literally Stories, Pithead Chapel, Gone Lawn, and Moonpark Review. His website is  http://writings217.wordpress.com . His Twitter is @annalou8 .

“It’s perfect!” Johnny Hurley and Robbie Decker stood in front of a small, rundown house that was surrounded by overgrown weeds and enough rusty junk to warrant a healthy fear of tetanus. Johnny stood with one hand on his hip and held a cardboard cup holder with two coffees in the other. He looked like he was offering the hot beverages to the house rather than Robbie.  “That’s…one way to put it,” Robbie said. He stared at the broken shutters and missing shingles, preparing himself for both the amount of work ahead and Johnny’s exhausting exuberance.  “Oh come on,” Johnny thrust the cup holder into Robbie’s hand. He mounted the front steps and posed, a grin of practiced perfection now plastered on his face. “Take a picture. We need some great before shots.” Robbie sighed, pulled out his phone, and snapped some photos.  He swiped through the images. They looked more like stock photos from a D-list horror movie than anything worthy of a press release. He lingered on the last photo, bringing the phone closer to his face. In the image, Johnny’s head was haloed in hazy shadow.  “You coming?” Johnny called, his voice now distant. Robbie looked up to see the front door wide open and Johnny nowhere to be seen.  “Damn it,” Robbie muttered. He crammed his phone into his pocket and hurried to find Johnny.  Robbie needed this campaign manager job if he was ever going to make it in the larger political arena. He doubted his budding career would survive if he let his first candidate kill himself by falling through the floor of a rotten house.   Robbie found Johnny in the front living room. He was busy trying to scrub a spray-painted pentagram from the wall with a dirty rag but had only managed to smear dirt and paint into an out-of-focus smudge.  “You really think this is a good idea?” Robbie asked.  “Stop worrying,” Johnny left the pentagram and placed his hands on Robbie’s shoulders. “It’ll be great. I’ll turn the town’s biggest eyesore into my campaign headquarters. What better way to make a local impression?”  Robbie eyed Johnny’s dirt-covered hands. He sighed and shrugged them off.  “I guess you do need a way to recover from the senior center incident…” “Hey, it’s not my fault for thinking ‘senior’ meant high school students,” Johnny said.  “Yeah…your TikTok dance to ‘I’m just a Bill’ didn’t quite land with the 65+ crowd,” Robbie smirked. Johnny ignored him and headed deeper into the house.  “Come on,” he called. “Let’s see what else this place is hiding.”   Johnny ran off to explore the upper floor, while Robbie photographed the first floor. Eventually, Robbie found his boss in a small bedroom at the end of the upstairs hall.  “Do you want your coffee?” Robbie asked as he entered the room. He was still carrying the tray with now lukewarm cups. Johnny ignored the question.  “What’s with all the pentagrams?” he said, stepping back from another rust-colored demonic symbol. “This is the fifth one I’ve found.” “And is this the fifth one you’ve tried to scrub off with nothing but a dirty rag?” Johnny looked at Robbie and then down at the rag in his hand. He dropped the cloth to the floor.  “New plan! Let’s-”  Robbie never heard Johnny’s new plan. Instead, a low rumbling sound cascaded through the house as the pentagram turned from rusty red to glowing orange. Johnny wheeled around.  “What the-” Johnny was cut off for the second time as thick black smoke oozed from the symbol and pooled at his feet. The two men watched as the roiling shadow materialized into the undulating outline of a human.  Robbie was glued to where he stood, while Johnny regarded the new arrival with seemingly oblivious curiosity. Johnny raised his hand and watched as the shadow mirrored his movement. Johnny cocked his head and his living shadow did the same. A grin snaked across his face, the expression hungrier than in the posed pictures on Robbie’s phone.  “Well this is interesting…” Johnny stared at the smoky figure. “How might we use you ?” “Johnny, what the hell are you doing?” Robbie’s voice was a harsh whisper.  “Oh come on, Robbie,” Johnny turned. “Don’t look so dismissive. What did I tell you when we first met?” Robbie’s mouth gaped, more due to Johnny’s idiocy than the supernatural figure before them. “We must consider every opportunity that comes our way. After all, politics are all about who you know.”  The shadow behind Johnny was growing, but he didn’t seem to notice. Robbie raised a hand to stop him, but Johnny turned and the shadow lunged. His head tilted back as thick smoke poured into his eyes, nose, and mouth. He barely made a sound.  As it turns out, being possessed by a demonic force is a relatively quick procedure. After only a few seconds, the shadow was gone. Johnny remained, head still tilted backwards. He heaved a long wet breath, then righted himself. Johnny met Robbie’s gaze, his eyes blinking methodically.  “Hello,” the voice emanating from Johnny’s lips was deep and raspy. Robbie stared, considering his options. He caught sight of the cardboard tray in his hands.  “Uh…coffee?” Robbie asked, holding the tray out in front of him.  “No thanks,” the demon growled from Johnny’s body. “I only drink iced.” Robbie nodded and placed the coffees on a nearby nightstand.  “Well,” Robbie brushed off his shirt and regarded his new boss. “How do you feel about politics?”  Quote from the front page of the Political Post, November 5, 2036:  “The White House is Hurley’s House! Lauded for his silver tongue and no-nonsense diplomacy, Hurley’s victory speech was the capstone to a nearly flawless campaign. Many attribute Hurley’s win to his trusted campaign manager, Robbie Decker, a relatively unknown who turned out to be a political mastermind. It’s safe to say the Hurley-Decker team is a force to be reckoned with.”  M. Rose Seaboldt (she/her) is a writer and fire protection engineer in eastern Massachusetts. She was a finalist in NYC Midnight’s 2023 microfiction competition and has been published previously by Roi Fainéant Press. Find her on twitter @boldtsea.

I can’t remember a time I didn’t keep Aunt Rose from killing someone. Me first memory happened when I was still a moppet. Me mum left Aunt Rose home alone one cold winter morning. I was tight about leaving her, but I had to get to school, or the nuns would clip me ears. It took me an hour to get to that bloody school. I trekked a half mile across rocky terrain and unpaved roads, stumbling over pebbles and cursing me way into potholes. The nuns cared a fig’s fart what happened to me; the old bitches smashed me hands with a ruler if I was even a minute late. Fuckin’ school!  Aunt Rose wrapped herself in a stained, beige quilt stinking of dog piss. Her High and Mighty Madness wore it as if it was the Queen’s robe, and with the airs she put on you might think so. She rifled through a kitchen drawer like hell’s three hounds were chasing her hind end. I sat and watched, eating me brekkie.  She didn’t find her fool’s gold; she snarled and ripped the drawer out, hurling it across the kitchen. It almost took me damned head off. I ducked hard and cursed at her, then I sat up and kept eating. Aunt Rose found her stinking treasure, a bottle cap, a girl’s plastic ring, or some worthless bit.  Stepping over the carnage, she stomped outside in her bare feet, making her way to the shed. I got up from the table and stood at the door, watching her through a windowpane. Open-mouthed I breathed on the windowpane, drew little bits and bobs in the fog, then wiped it away with me hand. I watched as Aunt Rose squatted in the frost like an old toad and held out a bloody book of matches. I rushed outside wearing only t-shirt and shorts. It was fuckin brass monkeys. “Stay back Billy!” her dark eyes flashed as she lit a match.  “Auntie, what are you doing?” I cupped me hands and blew into them. “I’m burning meself alive, Billy.” She might have been planting petunias. “Why Auntie?”  “I hate your mother and father and uncle. I hate you, Billy.” “Give me the matches Auntie. Come back in and watch telly.”  “Let me go, Billy.” “No, Auntie.” I jumped from one skinny foot to the other. Aunt Rose watched me and giggled. She put her hands on either side of her head and held up her second fingers like a bloody rabbit. “Hop! Hop! Little Billy bunny!” “Give me the matches Auntie.” I shivered so hard me teeth clattered in me head.  I held out a  shaking hand for the matches and got ready to jump back. Last time I reached at her, the dumb eijit nearly bit me small finger off and the doctor had to patch me up.  Aunt Rose dropped the matches into me hand and curled into herself, rocking back and forth. She mumbled, “deliver me Lord. Deliver me.” “Come on Auntie.” Me fingertips were blue.  Aunt Rose raised her arm as if it held a thousand years of grief. Her hand was bony and brittle with skin like a spider’s web. I could see every vein. I led her back inside the house and settled her into a red plaid chesterfield that sagged in the middle from years of fucking and farting.  “I’ll get you elevenses then I’ll be off, Auntie,” I said, hugging the radiator. Aunt Rose stared at the television in a fog. I could turn it off and the eijit wouldn’t know better. * A week later I stirred in  bed, thinking I farted meself awake but there was no stink. I stepped into the hallway and heard Aunt Rose’s ragged breathing. She’d gone peculiar again. She pushed open the door to me uncle’s bedroom. There as a flash of silver from a butcher’s knife as Aunt Rose rushed him. I jumped on her, tightening me toothpick arms around her neck.  She twisted backward braying like a donkey and threw me onto the floor, a miserable pile of shit rags. Her eyes blazed with her demons. “Burn in hell you scrawny boor!”   She kicked me full-on in me sandbag. I howled and puked me guts onto the floor. Me uncle bolted up and grabbed her with arms the size of bloody tree trunks.  “Leave the lad be Rosie!”  “I’m riding an ass to prayer meeting tonight!’ Aunt Rose screamed and dug her teeth into one of me uncle’s arms. He didn’t flinch. Me old man and mum came running. The old man smashed on the light, and there stood a madwoman laughing and drooling, clawing out clumps of her hair. Aunt Rose saw us. She quieted.  “Let go of me, you crazy bastard!” She shoved me uncle off her. “I’ve a mind to lock you up!” Me uncle sat on his bed, his shoulders sinking. “Come to bed Rosie,” he stared at the floor, his voice barely a whisper.  Aunt Rose smoothed her frizzed, gnarled hair. “Out of bed this fucking hour, Billy. Who needs a daftie like you? Don’t teach your grandmother to suck eggs!” I pulled meself off the floor, shards of lightning shooting from me pouch.  Mum kissed me on me head, her eyes glistening. I knew she’d curl up in me father’s arms later and bawl.   Come the morning, it would be Saturday and there’d be peace and grub. The noise of footsteps, and the smell of bangers and mash would wake me. I wouldn’t have to walk the bloody mile to school. Lisa Lahey is an Associate Acquisitions Editor for After Dinner Conversation Magazine. She is a reader for Short Edition Magazine. She has been published in 34th Parallel Magazine, Spaceports and Spidersilk, Why Vandalism?, Suddenly, Without Warning, and she will soon be published in upcoming issues of  Literally Stories, Spadina Literary Review, Five on the Fifth, and Epater Magazine.

chlorine blonde walking on the edges of my feet along the edges of pools filled with welcomed bodies my way is dappled with splashes from the games I’ll never play  their performance of pity makes a mocking echo following as I edge forward my feet are cracked with desperation treading cold concrete for years until I’m left standing alone in my own pool of blood a receipt found under the wardrobe plastic bags bound for the bin containing a person who so offended she threw herself away Rachel B Velebny is a writer and poet currently living in Barcelona. She has been published in A Thin Slice of Anxiety, and you can find her on socials @hot_mushrooms.

After listening to a speech on injustice, Cannon Fodder decided to petition the Council to turn him back into young people. He went to see Pacifism and Literature, friends and natural allies, to find out how to pull it off. “No sweat,” said Pacifism, “we will present it as a proposal at tomorrow’s Council meeting. All it takes is a simple vote, and if the majority supports it you’re going to be turned back into young people. Contemporary Society has veto power but I wouldn’t lose sleep over it. I’ve heard it myself and also from several other members that Contemporary Society keeps bitching to anyone who’d listen that there’s labor shortage. We don’t have enough skilled workers, teachers, scientists and health-care professionals.” The next day, when Pacifism and Literature returned with somber faces, Cannon Fodder knew the case was kaput. What happened? Pacifism, his face purple-red, was still so angry he could only wave indicating he didn’t want to talk. Literature explained instead, “Almost the entire Council was supportive of your case, and  Contemporary Society was especially enthusiastic. But then Proper Thinking and Finance managed to persuade Contemporary Society to veto, because after the experience of being Cannon Fodder, there’s no telling how those young people would fit back in. High risk, questionable benefit.” After looking around carefully, Literature added, “Frankly, I am kind of worried about my own position too. Call me paranoid but I believe Proper Thinking repeatedly gave me the evil eye yesterday.” John Szamosi is a wordsmith and peace activist who has published over one hundred short stories, satires and poems.

The Westwood Crochet Club had been running in the town of Newbattle Hove for decades. The three founding members had done no more than drink wine and made that one semi-naked calendar for charity. Over the years, two by two, they left, choosing Hardy’s wine bar instead. New people took their place and made the club their own.  One such member was Dr Brenda Martin a woman who knew her crochet-square coasters from her tea cosies. In Brenda’s opinion, most of the other members didn’t know their rooibos from their elbow, and that was a fact. But she did love to crochet and was happy to leave the sermons of home. So every week, she mothered the youth, provided scones, gave them no excuse to leave and made sure, once they were in, they stayed in. She held the keys and sub payments were sub payments, after all. Brenda was excited, tonight, they were getting their first new member in ages, a man by the name of Thor. When the swing doors creaked Brenda’s mouth hung open.  “Hello dear, you must be Thor?” she said, over her heartbeat. “Eh, yeah, hi,” he said, Diet Coke seeping off him. Before he could say more, Brenda interjected; “What’s the hammer for, Son?” drawing as youthful a smile as possible around her 70-year-old eyes. “It’s not a hammer, it’s a—” and then, suddenly, Thor realized his mistake. This here was not Westwood Croquet Club after all, but something else. Before he could leave he found himself on a chair, scone in hand, the most detailed coaster under his cup of scalding hot tea. Three elderly ladies perched by his side. And before him, Brenda slid, holding out a needle, which, clearly, he was expected to take.  Laura Cooney is a writer from Edinburgh with work published in print and online. She is seeking representation. Her second chapbook; No Trauma/No Drama is due August 24, courtesy of Backroom Poetry. When she's not writing, she'll be found with her daughters, as close to the sea as possible, seeking shells. There will be ice-cream!

Are you going to ignore my advice? Then, do so at your peril. As a matron, I will dispense some anyway. You might have already known the disappointment of your parents at your birth. You saw it sneaking out and pouncing on you in their unguarded moments. Or you might have been openly told how unwanted you were. Either way, you floated in that amniotic fluid of rejection for some time. If you let it seep into your heart, it will tear you apart. So, swim out of it as soon as you can.   You will get some education. Either at school or home or wherever you set your foot in; constantly overseen by someone, likely capable of pulling, deflecting, and nullifying the molecules around you. While you receive education under such able custodians, the tales of others who are not so lucky shall be made known to you--just in case you are planning to rebel. Don’t believe every such tale, though some of them might be true. More importantly, don’t let that template take root in your mind. Instead, trust your senses. Train them to grab the truth before the molecules are made chaotic.  As your hips start widening and you start receiving admiring gazes, you might want to discard your mind. After all, it was never deemed to be of much value, anyway. It’s okay to enjoy the attention, dear. But don’t hurry posthaste to live. The sweetness that you feel is great, but you recognise it for what it is; it is a flower that needs to be nurtured and not a tool to be wielded for the business of living. Those tools: you need to develop with the education you got or didn’t. That life: you need to work with those tools to build it. You work with all your tools, your mind, your heart. And fail. Then you hear the thunderous reverberations of all those tales crashing around you; reiterating all the things you shouldn’t, couldn’t, and wouldn’t be able to do because of your chromosome condition. As I said before, some of them are true. But most of them are not. The tale that tells you get only one chance to fail at doing things you love but are not yet good enough at, is not. Another tale that makes you believe it's unfeminine to keep sharpening your tools and keep working to manifest your destiny, most certainly not. If you make it up to this point in your journey, I have good reason to hope you ferried a few fellow travellers along with you. In doing so, you have made this guide a little less relevant to many who will come after you.  What more can I ask for? Suma Jayachandar: Wanderer. Seeker. Teacher. Writer

I’d felt its eyes on me again— that slight prickle at the nape of the neck. Surely it was still wet (I’d only used it an hour ago). It must have sat glittering beside the sink, watching me when I hung up the phone. I could feel it. Similar to when a man sees you across the room— you don’t see him necessarily, but you feel him: natural prey and predator instincts.  Unknowingly sealing my fate, I’d ordered it online three months ago. Fate, like the Sonicare toothbrush, (and certain kinds of men), can be very controlling. So then, there I was, headed on a trajectory I may never escape. (A harsh truism that I feel I must accept). My mother has mentioned a time or two my terrible taste in men. Now we can add “toothbrushes” to the list of my blind spots, too.  The first time it happened I didn’t think anything of it. I opened my eyes one night to see the toothbrush on the pillow beside me. It had been laying bristles up. Its gaze was steadily fixed towards the ceiling, motionless. It wasn’t my first thought that the brush had moved itself, or even the second. Truthfully, I was uneasy that someone had been in my home. It was placed so gingerly and centered.  By the second time I found that ghoul on my pillow, feeling skittish, I circulated my house, checking all the locks and windows. Locked—everything. Certainly, my mind was playing tricks on itself.  It should have been enough to pacify me, like a frog in a cool creek, but I still felt strange. There was a presence in the air that I couldn’t place. By the third instance, I was made aware of the culprit. I was awoken by a tickle in my nose. I opened my eyes slowly, fearful of what I might see. The brush was front and center so that my eyes crossed. I screamed as it switched on and began buzzing against my face. My arms flailed frantically as I grappled with the very strong toothbrush. Finally, I gained leverage. I grabbed the plastic freak and chucked it across the room where it hit the wall. It stopped buzzing.  The late-night cars had stopped zooming by my window. I could hear the cold trickle of a creek down the street. I set the phone in place and hit record. I switched the lights out. I heard frogs croak in broken unison. To this, I fell asleep. The following morning I woke alone. I had slept still in the darkness, never tossing even once.  The footage showed a Frankenstein Brush. It threw itself from the sink (it was expensive!) landing with a loud clang, and rolling across the tile. Down it brought two poorly screwed-shut medications, scattering across the floor. My hands shook as I watched the macabre Toy Story in horror: The toothbrush slowly, loudly, clanged over the small white doses of reality, somehow putting enough force on them to turn them to dust as it went. I watched my toothbrush’s hair tickle the floor as it rolled across the white tile. I thought of my lips wrapped around its base and wasn’t sure who I was more embarrassed for: it or me.  I paused the footage where the toothbrush had stopped to see, in real-time, it was no longer there. I rose to the bathroom to find it sitting on the sink, dry, ready. Mortified with myself, I turned the sink on and held the brush beneath the running water. I applied mint toothpaste and put it into my mouth. I began to gag. In turn, the brush clicked on, buzzing. The next night, I lay witness and awake to the toothbrush’s journey to find me. This time, it dove off the counter head-first. It rolled across the tile over what was left of the crushed pills. Unlike the night before, it made it to the carpet in my room. It angled itself against the wall and began to knock itself, over and over again. Revving itself up it clanged and smashed. Finally, it hit hard enough against the crown molding to gain correct leverage. It smacked itself upright, glistening in the darkness. I sat up in bed, shaking. It was unrelenting. The toothbrush loomed in my silent and dark room before beginning to buzz, its bristles shivering at me. I started to cry. I may have even pleaded. The buzzing sound increased. It reached a shrill timber that resembled a drilling. It made me think of a strange man’s hand in my mouth. The dentist’s maybe.   After the night I took the video, the toothbrush became emboldened. Some mornings, it would position itself an inch from my face so I’d awaken to the now putrid smell of mint. I’d go cross-eyed to its bleach-white bristles when I opened my eyes. Other times it’d scrape its wet whiskers against my cheeks until I began to bleed. My face was red and blistering. I dreamt of beheading it and throwing it out the window. But every morning and every night I’d wet it, lube it with mint toothpaste, and put it back into my mouth. I tried locking the bathroom door. It seemed unlikely it could finagle itself from that with any finesse/success. I drifted to sleep feeling pleased until I came into consciousness to the sound of frogs belching, cool in the creek nearby. And something else constant and nearer. It was the buzzing. It was coming from under the covers. I lifted my comforter and felt the toothbrush’s control thicken alongside my fear. I leaped from my bed and ran down the two stories of my apartment, out the back door, straight to the dumpster. Slightly wet and resolute, I trashed it.  When the toothbrush painstakingly re-entered my apartment a week later, it smelled god-awful. I’d opened my door to a light knocking and found it at my feet. We both were a sight for sore eyes. In the week it had been gone, I hadn’t replaced it. The fear I had! A toothbrush had always just been a toothbrush until one came along and tried to own me. Now, there was no predicting what a toothbrush was capable of. I spent the week destitute with the breath of a walrus. There was an honest and small relief at the toothbrush’s return.  But it looked disgusting. The dumpster I’d discarded it in must have had someone else’s scrapped dinner. No matter how much I soaked and scrubbed it, the toothbrush’s head was now a washed-out ketchup red. It had banged itself so many times up the two flights of stairs that its battery case had been broken. It no longer took a charge or buzzed against me. There was a small part of me that felt bad for the brush. Initially, I’d wanted us to work as well.  But the brush’s disposition towards me had grown to match its reddened face. It no longer trusted me. It would sooner break off its own head and leave it jammed down my throat than let me go. The toothbrush said I had chosen it, citing its barcode number. ‘And why do you want me?’ I often pleaded. It told me if it was going to own someone, it might as well be me. I supposed that was true.  I carried it to its pillow beside my head each night. The haggard and uncharged brush no longer shined my teeth so I tried not to smile so often. It left markings on my face that my makeup began to infect and I began to get fevers here and there. My coworkers began to comment on my appearance. The sight of my face was upsetting to people. I told them I had a nervous condition that made me do this to myself. I told them I used my toothbrush.  After my long conversation with HR, I decided I’d try to escape its wrath once more. I would create my own fate and then let its beastly nature commit itself to the rest. Old, decrepit, and lacking any battery, I settled on a duel. I armed myself with a new Sonicare toothbrush to protect me. I charged the new brush in the bathroom while my old one sat dead beneath the sink. I cracked the cabinet to ensure the old brush could get out; I was certain it would enact violence against the new threat. I fell asleep to the sound of frogs, sure I’d reset my fate.  I awoke the next morning to find the new Sonicare brush drowned in the toilet. Water covered the floor and spattered against the toilet seat. The old battered brush glistened on the ground, its faded red bristles giving it the look of a soldier after battle. I, the wartime nurse, fetched it and ran some hot water. I massaged my thumb lovingly along its bristles under the warmth as it began to get hotter.  There was a softness in its savagery that suddenly felt familiar. Its ownership felt less like a cage and more like a home. I turned off the running water and smeared mint toothpaste against its face before gently placing it in my mouth.  My mother called on the home phone to tell me my ex-husband had been released from jail. Her voice was quivering and she asked why I was so calm. She scolded me to take myself more seriously. She’d always called me a frog in a pot of boiling water when I was with him.  “You’re making bad choices,” she’d said when we first were married. “He’ll kill you.”  Today on the phone she said, “You’ll probably have to move again. You know if you stay there he’ll find you.” I tried to quell her but she had worked herself up. “You’re a sitting duck! No, no what you are — you know what they say about frogs in boiling water–” I cut her off but she kept talking over me until I stopped talking.  She continued: “...They let themselves die. They don’t jump out of the water and it gets hotter until it's boiling. They just adjust to the water.” I didn’t say anything in return. “It’s not your fault,” she quickly followed. “You just have to trust yourself." I wasn’t sure if it was myself, fate, or a certain kind of man, but it felt beside the point. It was exactly what it was, anyway.    “You should get a new phone number. Just in case.” She urged me. “It’s so frustrating that you won’t get a cell phone,” she said. “Anyways, how has your mental health been—”  “Then how did I get that footage?” I interrupted her. She wasn’t making any sense. I had a cellphone. Didn’t I? She seemed confused “Darling, which footage?”   “The footage. Of the toothbrush—,” I heard her begin shuffling and her breath quickened. “Honey, are you alright? Is someone there with you?” I looked at my toothbrush, which sat proudly next to the sink. Glittering. I heard a frog croak nearby and hung up.