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I buried my mom last week, and her first leaf emerged this morning. The green limb blinked out of the dirt bed. The directions on her packaging dictated the watering routine. In an auburn pot, I interred into the dirt a single seed, sort of a kidney bean or fetus, which was not the typical size, but bigger. Correct soil and proper pH gathered in this earth womb, my grow-light adjusted to the optimal distance (10 inches as per my 30-watt bulb) from the tentative green tendril. I hadn’t cried when my mom passed. My family chalked it up to shock. True, her death diverged from the way I anticipated. Too soon, fast, and not enough weepy, hospital-sentimental hand-holding. Scientific advancements proved literally fruitful for this issue. I enfolded a sample of my mother’s DNA, a lock of hair and 1-centimetre square of skin salvaged from the corpse, and mailed it to Morsanito™. Within a month the seed arrived in a bubbled pouch in the post. She germinated in a baggie with a moistened paper towel while I sculpted her nest. I watered my mom twice a day and sat each morning with a steaming tea watching the baby leaf wobble gently. Thin green fingers pointed up and leaves stretched out and branched into elephant ears. Yellow flowers yawned on the vines between the leafy continents. The fruit grew resembling a melon-sized bean, and kept going. When my siblings came and saw the thing coming from the pot on the table they said what the fuck, and I observed yes, I know I need a larger table. The fruit and the vine of the mother-plant grew too fast, and I didn’t think I wanted to put her on the floor. I wouldn’t have felt comfortable with that. The enormous mother of baby fruit took up most of the dining table. The DNA was good and the face forming beneath the phylo-film resembled not a child, but my dear mother as I remember her from faded photos of her youth. The organic bag around the GMO baby then sucked directly to her veggie flesh, adhering to her and becoming her skin. When her skin started to go pink, her eyes opened. She didn’t cry. Wastefully, though, I had to reject that one. She had no hands and a blunted nose. You know how when you grow produce, some will go to the chickens or compost because of lumps? The first couple mom-children went that way—my mom but wonky, like a Roma tomato with bruises, warts and blotches. I didn’t have chickens. I knew others with veggie kids that came out lousy. They leaked and smelled bad after a while. Some grew a fine fuzz. Cheeks too large, eyes too tiny, arms a funny length. I composted each until I got a pristine mom, receiving packages and trying again, again. I raised this young girl, who was my mom, but I couldn’t wait for her to be my mom. I needed her advice—should I buy or rent? Should I get married to him ? Should my taxes go into the interest-free saving account, or something? So I told the young girl all the things I remembered my mom telling me, because then she would be on the same page when she finally was mom-age to give me advice. Her skin glowed a greenish undertone. Her voice sounded like wind through the leaves of trees. Her eyes were wrong, but with too many moms composted already, all fermenting into fertilizer, I kept her. The bright, cold green orbs departed from the warm tree bark hue of my mother’s eyes. This one’s resemblance to my mother, and, I guess, by extension, me, was otherwise perfect. She grew with leaves on her head, which needed plenty of sunshine. They were thick and veined. She enjoyed sitting and soaking in the warm rays, and I read her favorite books to her, American Dirt, Where the Crawdads Sing and All My Puny Sorrows. She asked me for paints, and I told her no. My mother never painted, in fact, she held painters in contempt, preferring musicians. My new mom nodded. She nodded. I woke up on a Wednesday, saw the dull sun on the floor, and I finally felt her death. That woman who died, who fell one day, she  was my mother. The plant mom in my kitchen, watching as I taught her how she used to cook Kraft Dinner exactly the way I liked, that was someone else. None of the experiences my mom actually lived through would be contained in this young girl. She couldn’t be the star piano player at school; she couldn’t meet my dad, John Mackenzie, in 2015; I couldn’t put her through the pandemic as a teenager. The logistics would be impossible. My mom was dead. I laid on the couch watching plant-mom. She held the umbilical vine, connected to her belly button. Her long hair clung, creeping on her shoulders. She would soon be the age she died. Crows-feet dabbled about the corners of her eyes, and her lips pursed like two raisins. But this creature was too quiet, too uninterested in celebrity gossip, apathetic to my poor dating choices, bored by Deepak Chopra and the divine feminine. I winced and I winced again. I kept wincing. I took a shower and I got out hot and relaxed, but the next moment my head throbbed a dull pain like a church bell. Was I on the ground? I had fallen. I saw my mom looming over me mouthing words. My name? Her lips pressed into an M and opened and then again closed to another M. She cut the vine with a pair of shears. The ceiling changed colours and the sun spun fast making all the shadows whirl. I got out of the hospital with my mom holding my hand. The next couple weeks I couldn’t do anything. My mom turned out great at motherhood—she came into herself again, a new harvest. Vegetable mom wasn’t meat mom, but she brought me food. I couldn’t get up much. How wrinkled, shriveled and rotten I had become. I checked the mirror, like surveying the fridge. Week-old produce dripping and shrinking. But mom takes care of me. She brings meals. With dumb serenity, she brought me to bed. Mom tucked me in with studied action, a perfect reenactment of when I was a child. She stood at the door frame, looking at me, silhouetted against the light of the hallway. She held the frame. She was like a child holding the hem of her parent’s coat. Then she left, and the light flicked off. Florence Bews [she/they] is a trans writer from Treaty 7 land, near Longview, Alberta. She grew up a rancher, got an MA from the University of Calgary in English literature, and works at a bookshop. She’s reading “The Collected Stories of Lydia Davis” by Lydia Davis, and is online as @catmilkremedies

Remember Charlie Bischman? Ponytail science geek, used to watch us from the bleachers? Well, Stacie, guess who drunk-dialed me in August? And know what’s weird? I thought he was dead! Didn’t someone tell us that? Drove his Vespa off a cliff or into a tree or something? Anyway, it’s like 3 a.m. and I’m thinking I’m talking to a ghost, saying, Wow, Charlie , how are you? and he’s like, Stacey I ’ ve worshipped you since high school even though you were so cruel to me - and he’s completely wasted, right?  And then he says, So would you, like, have my baby?  I had to teach a Comp. Lit. section at 9 a.m., so I say, Gosh Charlie, that ’ s sweet—let ’ s sleep on it and you call me sometime, ‘K?  Next night he actually calls back—totally sober—and gives me this crazy pitch!  Turns out little not-so-dead Charlie is doing quite well for himself, and he says if I go through with this, I get a hundred and fifty grand plus medical expenses, no strings. So now I’m listening, right? He’s going on about options and contingencies, and I’m Googling him to see if he’s for real. No kidding, Charlie Bischman is totally famous! He patented these robotic surgical micro-tweezer things and now the guy’s loaded! I know! And how ’ re you planning to explain to people how you suddenly have a baby?  I say, kinda stalling for time ‘cuz my mind is really jammed up over this. And all business-casual, like he’s already thought of everything, he says, Oh, I ’ ll say I hooked up with a beautiful mysterious lady at a bar, we had consensual sex, and unbeknownst to me she got pregnant. One day I go out to my Tesla and there ’ s this baby strapped in the passenger seat, with a note, and so of course I do the right thing and raise it as my own.  Smart, right?  And I tell you, it started making sense—like, dollars and sense, you know? Hey, my thesis is totally stalled out—my advisor barely remembers my name, and how am I supposed to get a teaching job without his stupid recommendation? A hundred and fifty grand could even shut my parents up; What ’ s that Dad? What was I doing all year? I was growing a rich man ’ s child in my womb, Dad, that ’ s what!  Two nights later we’re having dinner at Charlie’s mansion, drinking this really nice merlot, and next thing I know we’re going at it in his ginormous bed! He looks so much better, by the way—the ponytail kind of suits him now—very entrepreneurial. And he definitely  got a personal trainer. And those teeth of his? They’re like, perfect now. Fertile Myrtle here gets knocked up on the first round!  Then a couple of weeks ago, at my eight-month check-up with the OB Charlie’s having me go to, who waddles into the waiting room but the rest of the Cooperville cheerleading squad! I hadn’t seen them in like twelve years, and suddenly there’s Marnie, Brenda, Haley and Francie, coming at me like a bunch of Bosu Balls, and we’re all, What the fuck?  The receptionist hands out fat new legal contracts—the original ones were just downloaded from LegalZoom, apparently—and takes us to this room where Charlie’s Zooming in on this huge screen. He reveals he’s making us each the same deal: the hundred and fifty grand tax free, but only one of the babies gets to be his heir. He’ll choose based on its Apgar score, cuteness potential and his own “visceral reaction” to its cry. The mom of the chosen kid gets a bonus hundred grand, a fat monthly stipend, and the suggested option of becoming Mrs. Charlie Bischman. Losers keep the babies, and a consolation trust fund, unless they opt for the lump sum buyout.  So I’m super pumped, because Marnie just had these scrawny little twins, which disqualified her (the contract excludes multiples-duh), and honestly, Brenda and Haley’s babies were pretty, well, meh. Francie is due any day, but with her weight gain, it’s gonna come stomping outta her like Big Foot. So I’m thinking I’m about to be a gazillionaire, and both Dad and my advisor can bite me.  And honestly, Stacie, I don’t know if I’ll marry Charlie. I mean, get real— he’s such a geeky little twerp, right? I do have standards for fuck’s sake.  R. C. Barajas’ writing and photography have appeared in such places as The Washington Post, Cleaver Magazine, Fatal Flaw, and Hole in the Head Review. She was thrilled to be a finalist in the Not Quite Write and Bath Flash Fiction contests. One of her favorite places on earth is a darkroom. But she likes the ocean, too. Especially the Pacific. R. C. is a Californian by birth and temperament, and a Virginian through transplant. She lives with her husband and two loopy dogs.

I’m five, holding my scooter in position at the front of our house. I’m staring down the driveway that stretches to the gate near the street when I hear the boom buzz of an airplane taking off. A new race begins. I push off the concrete and go, go, go . The wheels rumble over crackling leaves as the wind sends my hair flying behind me like a cape. I scream past scarlet flowers as I look up at the sky then back at the pavement – I’ve still got the lead. Push, breathe, push, breathe . I’m more than halfway when I glance up and watch the plane soar past me and I know I’ve lost. I screech to a stop. My heart kicks as I gulp down air. Then I turn around, walk the scooter back to the house, and ready myself for the next round. I will never tire of this game, even though I’ll never win. * I’m forty-one, sitting at my computer as I type the street name into Google Maps. I find Santa Monica Airport and I know I’m in the right area. I scroll left and right searching the virtual neighborhood until I find the fairytale house we all bought into. The Tudor construction of pointy roofs, dark frames, and white panels. The turreted column of windows along one side that spanned three stories – the mysterious attic at the top I was never allowed into, the second-floor bedroom where my parents slept next to an altar to foreign gurus, and the downstairs living room where my father sat in his cloth-bound recliner, a brown hooded robe draped around his body as he wolfed down the business section before work. I think of other memories. When I got a packet of carrot seeds in my McDonald’s Happy Meal and poured all of them into one hole I’d dug into the grass. I wondered for weeks why nothing ever sprouted. Or when I got roller skates from Santa, but spent most of the time breaking in my wrist guards as I crashed onto the pavement over and over. Or the evening Mom asked me to collect flowers for the dinner table, and I clipped some fuchsia blossoms from the bougainvillea bush that turned out to be all color but no fragrance. I’m trying to make this house about something other than that morning in March when Mom and I carried our suitcases down the driveway after a weekend trip up north. We opened the front door to a hollow echo. Stay here , Mom said in the entryway as she flicked on the lights one by one, the clack of her boots and swoosh of her skirt the only sounds piercing the thick quiet of the house. I remained frozen as instructed, but curiosity lured my eyes left into the living room. That’s when I noticed things were missing: the rosewood coffee table where I ate cereal before school, the Persian rug where I cuddled our Siamese cat until she was hissing to get away. And in the far corner, by the window next to the lamp, four tiny carpet indentations marked the place where my father’s recliner no longer stood. * I toggle back and forth around the front gate on the screen. I can’t access an angle to view the driveway. But in my mind I see the stretch of pavement, the curve right and then left, the side-lawn of flowers with no scent. And I imagine I’m there skating in circles and pulling up carrots because we didn’t move out in May, and my father stayed, and I won the race against the planes. Becs Tetley is a nonfiction writer and editor in Wellington, New Zealand. Her personal essays have appeared in The Spinoff, Reckon Review, Vagabond City Lit, Headland, and elsewhere. She is a member of the New Zealand Society of Authors and holds an MA in Creative Writing from Auckland University of Technology. She can be found online: @BecsTetley.

I’m eleven. Kneeling beside my bed, hands clasped. “Uncle Brendan? Are you up there? Sister Claire says now that you’re in heaven you can be my guardian angel.” I’m pretty sure it was drunk driving that sent Uncle Brendan to heaven, but I did not tell Sister Claire that part.  I go, “Sister Claire says you can look down and see all.” Which I think about every time I go to the bathroom.  “I have a birthday coming up. I’ve been pretty good lately. You may have noticed last Christmas I let the poor kids have the toys I didn’t want anymore.” I unclasp my hands. I get up off my knees. I suspect the angels, drunk or otherwise, never hear the likes of me. I yell downstairs, “Pop! Pop! For my birthday…? Do you think I’ll get a new G.I. Joe? With lifelike fuzzy hair?” Pop yells upstairs, “It’s nice to want things. Now go to bed, Bobby.” It’s nice  to want  things?  *** For my birthday, I get, a  slinky. A spaldeen. A board game called Diplomacy. Diplomacy ? You know what I think? I think we should give this  crap to the poor kids. Ma and Pop study my face. For reasons I cannot fathom, they did not expect me to be disappointed. I say, “But what about the new G.I. Joe? With lifelike fuzzy hair…? and a beard…? and kung fu grip?” Ma says, “G.I. Joe glorifies war.” “But on the box at Roy’s Toyland, it says G.I. Joe can go on scuba missions, jungle missions, he can climb the mountains of Nepal.” I pronounce it Nepple. ” “It also says only four dollars and ninety-nine cents.” Pop says, “If you really, really want one…” If ? “… you can earn  it.” Earn it? I know what that  means…  *** Scrubbing the toilet. Ma hands me a big fuzzy brush. I’m scrubbing that toilet bowl good when my little sister Maggie sticks her head into the bathroom. She goes, “I wanna help!” “Scrubbing the toilet is for smart  people!” “I’m smart!” “Scrubbing the toilet is for big  people!” “I‘m big!” “No, you are not ! I will always  be bigger than you and you will never be a man !” *** Two weeks later. I got a pocketful of quarters. Roy’s Toyland opens at 9. G.I. Joe waits on the shelf.  Lifelike fuzzy hair. And a beard. So he cannot possibly be mistaken for Ken. I grab the box and float up the aisle to the register, Roy accepts my pile of quarters, and I float back home, the boy who invented the world. That morning is a blur of scuba missions, jungle missions… kung fu grip… A quick break for Fluffernutters… But after Fluffernutters… I look for G.I. Joe. He’s not on top of my dresser, he’s not anywhere in my room, he’s not anywhere upstairs, he’s not anywhere downstairs…  “Maggie! Maggie!” She hollers, “I’m doing my chore!” “Where?” “The bathroom!” I walk down the stairs and down the hall and the closer I get to the bathroom…  I hear scrubbing.  I hear Maggie singing, “He’s got the whole world in his hands…” She’s on her knees in front of that filthy toilet. “He’s got the whole world in his hands…” She’s scrubbing. “He’s got the whole world…” She’s clutching G.I. Joe by his legs, scrubbing the toilet bowl with G.I. Joe’s lifelike fuzzy hair. I reach for G.I. Joe. and I guess I scream because now I’m being restrained and Ma tries to pry G.I. Joe out of my kung fu grip and then I’m writhing on the bathroom floor watching Ma deposit my beautiful brand-new hard-earned shit-covered G.I. Joe into the garbage.  I go, “Ma? I think I’m having a nightmare. Like that time I dreamed my dead turtle rose from the grave and tried to bite off my tinkle?” Maggie stands there looking down at me.  I go, “Maggie? I want you to know something. My life was much better before you were born. Every Saturday morning Pop used to walk me to the bakery to buy crumb buns. The day you entered this world, the crumb bun buying came to an end.” It crosses my mind that Uncle Brendan may be seeing all. But if Uncle Brendan has the power to intervene in human affairs, he’s clearly chosen not to. I open the garbage can, and take one last look. The lid slams shut. *** Ma says, “Bobby? We have a surprise for you!” “A surprise?” “Your godmother is here to sit for you. You always have fun with fun Cousin Mamie.” My godmother is anywheres between thirty-five and sixty. Fun ? I go, “I thought Cousin Mamie got married.” Ma says, “Hush now, Bobby.” “I thought Cousin Mamie sailed to Ireland.” “ Hush  now.” “I saw  Cousin Mamie get on a ship and sail away. We waved goodbye to her.” “We don’t talk  about that.” Now my godmother appears. She bellows, “Raaaaaahbit…” Don’t ask me why but that’s how she pronounces Robert . “Remember me? Fun Cousin Mamie?” We especially don’t talk about the fact that ever since fun Cousin Mamie sailed back  from Ireland, her head tilts all the way to one side. She says, “Your mommy says you lost your wee dollie.” I go, “He was more of an action figure…” “Well, you are lucky your godmother is here.” She’s got a big bag slung over her shoulder. She slaps that bag. “We are going to make  a wee dollie.” “That’s really  not necessary.” But now Cousin Mamie is sitting cross legged on the living room carpet, unpacking her bag. What can I do? I join her. Yarn. “Cousin Mamie, did you happen to bring this yarn back from Ireland?” “Who says I’ve been to Ireland?” “Nobody. Actually everybody . Scissors.  “Cousin Mamie, did you get married? “Who’d marry me ?” Thread.  “What happened to your neck?” “Never mind my neck. My neck’s always been like this.” “No it has not . Why would you even say that?” Scraps of cloth.  After a while, she says, “Now I  have a question for you . Do you know how to handle a bully?” “Do I know how to handle a bully?” “I’ll tell you how to handle a bully.” Stuffing.  “How do you handle a bully? “Kick him in the hiney.” “Kick him in the hiney?” “In the hiney. Fast. And hard. They never see it coming. And it can do a great deal of damage. Never forget that.” I will never  forget that. Between the two of us, me being eleven and Cousin Mamie with her crooked neck, it’s a miracle my rag doll looks anything remotely like a human being.  Buttons for eyes. Paint.  Cousin Mamie paints my rag doll a little smile. She paints a heart on his chest.  She says, “When you see that rag doll heart, you’ll always think of your godmother. And you’ll always remember the best  day.” The best day? She says, “Bobby? What shall we call him?” “Whatever.” She raises the rag doll’s arm, like he’s saluting. She says, “G.I. Patrick, reporting for duty.” *** I take the ugly thing outside. And God forbid any boy in the neighborhood walks by our front yard to witness this. G.I. Patrick. Climbing the mountains of Nepal on the front stoop. After a while, Cousin Mamie calls, “Raaaaaahbit…? Soda bread fresh out of the oven!” I bolt up the stoop to the kitchen and demolish a plate of warm buttered soda bread that Cousin Mamie may  have learned to bake from the family of her apparently vicious ex-husband in Ireland but that’s pure conjecture. But when I get back outside, here comes this older boy up the block. He’s got a long, pointy stick. He gets to our mailbox and smacks it a good one, then he stops. He spies G.I. Patrick lying in the front yard. Then he does something so strange that I still think about it. He takes that stick and stabs G.I. Patrick through his heart. He picks up G.I. Patrick and parades up the block, my rag doll on the end of a stick. When I’m pretty sure he’s out of earshot, I holler, “You’re a rat!” Cousin Mamie steps out on the stoop. “Robert, what are you screaming about?” “An older boy stoled my rag doll and he stabbed him through the heart with a stick and walked away with him and he is a rat !” “An older boy? Who was it?” I think about that. “Raahbit? Who was it?” “I think it was…” “Who?” “I think it was Jimmy Gannon.” Cousin Mamie whistles like Pop whistles when I tell him the Mets are down ten to nothing in the bottom of the ninth. “Jimmy Gannon? Of the thick-headed omadhaun Gannons up the block? Robert, are you sure?” Am  I sure? Word around the neighborhood is don’t mess with Jimmy Gannon. I go, “Yes.” Now Cousin Mamie is strutting up the block. Apparently she’s gonna mess with Jimmy Gannon. *** By the time I reach Jimmy Gannon’s house, Cousin Mamie is having a little chat with Mr. Gannon. Mr. Gannon goes, “You mean to say…” Cousin Mamie goes, “I don’t mean  to say. I’m telling  you what your Jimmy did.” “Jimmy don’t steal little boys’ dollies. Your little boy’s got a sweet little imagination.” Cousin Mamie is waving a fist in Mr. Gannon’s face. “I’ll show you  a sweet little imagination.” “It’s threats, is it?” “It’s promises.” Mr. Gannon hollers, “Jimmy! Get over here!” Jimmy Gannon appears out of nowhere. Jimmy goes, “Yo, what’s up?” Mr. Gannon says, “Lemme ask you something. What did you do with this little boy’s dollie?” Jimmy’s looking at me. He goes, “Bobby’s dollie?” I go, “It was my sister’s  doll, Jimmy. It was my sister’s  doll.” Jimmy goes, “Bobby, what are you talking about?” Cousin Mamie is waving that fist again. “What did you do with the wee dollie, you thick-headed omadhaun?” Jimmy’s all cool. “I didn’t do nothing. I don’t even know what you’re talking about.” Now Mr. Gannon is waving a fist. “Jimmy, if you’re lying…” “Why would I lie about something so stupid? Word around the neighborhood is don’t mess with me. I don’t need to steal little girls’ dollies.” I go, “Jimmy, you know what you did.” “I don’t  know what I did. I swear to God, Bobby. I didn’t do nothing .” “You’ll go to hell for this.” I wish my voice wasn’t trembling. Mr. Gannon comes for me with that fist in the air. “Don’t be prancing around my house saying my Jimmy is gonna go to… Uuuuuuuugh. ” Mr. Gannon drops to the sidewalk. Apparently Cousin Mamie kicked Mr. Gannon in the hiney. He’s lying on the pavement. “ Uuuuuuuugh. ” Mr. Gannon stands up, slow, Jimmy hauling on his arm, Mr. Gannon all hunched over.  He limps up the front stoop into the house. “ Uuuuuuuugh. ” Jimmy gives me a look. The walk back to my house is ridiculous. I look for my rag doll on the sidewalk, in the gutters, in everybody’s front yards, I open garbage cans. He isn’t anywhere . Cousin Mamie says, “Raahbit, are you sure it was Jimmy Gannon?” Then I’m not  sure. I see the older boy’s face and it isn’t Jimmy. It’s some other boy stabbing my rag doll. *** That night. Kneeling beside my bed, hands clasped. “Uncle Brendan? Are you still drunk driving up there?” I climb into bed, close my eyes. But all night long, rag doll commandos invade my room — they pour through the window, march across my floor, scale the side of my bed, whisper in my ear, “It was my sister’s  doll, Jimmy. It was my sister’s  doll.” *** Morning. I know what I have to do. Even if it means getting punched in the face, which it probably will. I walk to Jimmy Gannon’s house. Here’s Jimmy sitting on the front stoop, like he’s waiting for me. But when I get closer, I see Jimmy’s cheeks are wet. He goes, “I’m gonna kill  you!” “Jimmy, what’s the matter?” “My mommy and daddy just left in an ambulance. It’s my daddy’s hiney. He can’t stand up straight.” Jimmy reaches into his pocket. Now he’s got something in his hand. “Jimmy, where’d you get a switchblade ?” “What? Why wouldn’t  I have a switchblade? You think I don’t know switchblade people?” “I was just making polite conversation.” “‘Jimmy, where’d you get a switchblade?’ is polite conversation? You think I’m a thick-headed omadhaun?” The blade flicks open. “No, Jimmy. Only an omadhaun would be a big enough omadhaun to call another omadhaun an omadhaun.” “That sentence had the word omadhaun  in it like five times.” “Actually, I think it was more like four.” “That lady who kicked my daddy in the hiney called me a thick-headed omadhaun.” “Jimmy, that’s actually why I’m here. I want to apologize. For three things. And number three is the most important.” “Okay. Number one?” “Number one. I’m sorry I accused you of stealing. I know you didn’t take the doll.” “Thank you, Bobby. I swear to God I didn’t. Number two?” “Number two. Who would’ve thought somebody as little as Cousin Mamie could kick somebody as big as your daddy in the hiney so hard he’d have to go to the hospital?” “Is that an apology?” “Yes. People can’t be going around kicking other people in their hineys.” “Thank you, Bobby.” “No problem.” I start backing away. “Yo, Jimmy, I’ll say a novena for your daddy.” “You said there were three  things.” “No, just two.” “You said number three was the most important.” “Well. If you must know. Number three. It wasn’t Maggie’s rag doll. It was…” I sniff the air. “Jimmy, do you smell something?” “I don’t smell anything. What’s number three?” “Number three. It wasn’t Maggie‘s rag doll. It was…” I sniff. I sniff again. By“Jimmy, are you sure you don’t smell something?” “I don’t smell anything.” “I think I smell smoke. I think I smell smoke coming from your backyard.” We run around back, and here’s the Gannon family’s rusty old barbecue.  My rag doll lying on the grill.  Smoke.  Flames. “Jimmy. What. The…” He goes, “I want my daddy  back!”  That switchblade glistening in the morning sun. He goes, “I want  my daddy  back!” Our eyes meet. We stand there. I go, “Jimmy, sometimes, when I’m having a bad day, I remember something Pop once said to me. It’s nice to want  things.” “What did you just say to me?” “I said, sometimes, when I’m having a bad day—” “No! Not that  part. I heard that  part. The part at the end.” “It’s nice to want things, Jimmy. It’s nice  to want  things.” We stand there. Jimmy wipes a tear from his cheek. “Thank you, Bobby. It is  nice to want things, isn’t it?” Jimmy flicks his switchblade shut. “Yes, Jimmy. It is  nice to want things.” We stand there for a long time watching the smoldering remains of G.I. Patrick. Button eyes. Painted smile. Rag doll heart. Smoke curls up, up, up into the morning sky. Robert Firpo-Cappiello (@RobFirpCapp) is a two-time Emmy nominee (for Outstanding Achievement in Music Direction and Composition for a Drama Series) and a Folio-award-winning magazine editor focusing on travel, hospitality, and health. His creative writing has appeared in Roi Fainéant and Cowboy Jamboree Press, and he has performed his short stories, novels, and songs at Rockwood Music Hall, St Lou Fringe, Dixon Place, Irvington Theater, Spark Theatre Festival NYC, Urban Stages, and Bad Theater Fest. Robert holds a Master of Music degree in composition from the San Francisco Conservatory, a BA in English from Colgate University (where his mentor was novelist Frederick Busch), and he made his show-business debut at the age of five on WOR-TV’s Romper Room. Robert is represented by Jill Marr, at Sandra Dijkstra Literary Agency.

Tulips on Mars I. Closing Me and Kiefer were closing the shop when Bossman called to say we better clean up extra good since Aero Puffs was coming in for a promo the next day. “No fingerprints on the bong case,” he said. “And set up a dabbing station.” Usually, I would be annoyed with his tone, but we were all stoked to host the hip-hop legend. Everything needed to be just right. When we finished cleaning and counting the tills and drooling over top-shelf tulips, we locked up and hopped the Mars rail to the barracks. I shared a B-Pod with a couple of sanitation workers and was pretty sure they’d still be up drinking, so I took a detour and stopped off at the view park. I sat on a patch of AstroTurf and looked out into space, homesickness waxing with each breath of pumped-in air. A lot of us working-class colonists tried to forget about Earth. About our choice to settle.  I smoked a gram-joint of Purple Peony, my go-to strain for spacing out to the nothingness, Aero Puffs lyrics running through my mind:  T-t-t-tip toe, Tulips on Mars So high, so far  I’m t-t-t-tip toein’  Tulips on Mars II. Opening Even though it meant I couldn’t sleep in, I signed up for the opening shift so I could be here when Aero Puffs came in. I put on my collared shirt with the zig-zag pattern of tulip buds and glittery smoke tendrils, the shop’s Tulip Town logo embroidered over my heart like a badge of honor.  Besides all the colonial brainwashing, slinging Martian Tulips was a decent gig. I’d been a weed head back on Earth and had more than a passing appreciation for these space hallucinogens. I felt like I was doing some good out here.  When Aero’s new single dropped it went double-platinum on Earth and was on repeat throughout the colony. Across the forty-acre settlement, colonists were humming the catchy hook and attempting the overly-auto-tuned effect on the chorus. It was like free advertising. I got to the shop ten minutes early, enough time to spark up with Kiefer. He was wearing the same shirt as me, but he had put his lip ring back in. “Dude,” I said. “Bossman’s going to make you take that out.” “Nah,” said Keifer, passing me the jay. “Not on Aero Puffs Day.” Maybe he was right, I was thinking. Maybe the song had some truth to it: F-f-f-freedom on Mars High among the stars No earthly bounds Just that sweet sound Freedom on Mars III. Meeting Your Heroes It got time for my lunch break and we were still waiting for Aero Puffs. I ate my colonial-issued box meal and hurried back to my station, not wanting to miss out. Customers kept asking stupid questions. Not that I wasn’t used to answering them, it’s just that the visitors to Tulip Town were out of touch with Tulip culture and reality itself. A middle-aged woman in head-to-toe gold lamé wanted to know if she could over-night a dozen Tulips to her daughter in Jersey. And a spoiled man-boy insisted on sampling thirteen different strains before deciding he would rather have a Space Beer down the street. Someone I thought was Aero Puffs turned out to be a tourist who was only here to snap a photo as proof he had been to the first and only Tulip dispensary on Mars.  Everything on Mars is the first and only , I was thinking. What is the point? Even though Aero Puffs was running late, the store stayed busy. I felt comforted by the shop’s four walls and the bright buds glowing behind the glass case. I marveled at the variety of Martian Tulip products, all priced for the uber-wealthy space tourists. Without my employee discount, I couldn’t afford a measly gram of the stuff.  “Never meet your heroes,” Keifer was saying under his breath as he walked by with an armload of Martian Garden edibles.  I saw him then: Aero Puffs. Walking through the front door, decked in designer labels and flashing a diamond-encrusted grill. Folks swarmed the star, arms outstretched for a touch. I kept my cool with the aid of the Peonies, my mind mellow and my pulse regulated. When Aero came around the counter, I thought he smiled at me, so I smiled back, offered my hand. He must have been distracted by all the fanfare. He barreled past me and into the breakroom, his voice booming above his own hit single pumping overhead.  “Yo, I’m about done with this space schtick,” he was saying. “Somebody get me a blunt of that good old Earth Weed.” I must have been up here too long by that point. Must have been as disillusioned as Kiefer even though I didn’t know until that moment. All I could think when I saw the living legend was that he wasn’t all that special. So what if he wrote the line: Rags to riches,  Bitches and cars,  Gonna get me as far  as Tulips on Mars. Uncommon Toil As he prepared for the hunt that morning, he thought of the way his family looked at him each time he came home tired with nothing to show, and he resolved not to return empty-handed again. He had woken before the sun or his children had risen, but not before his wife. She was sitting in the rocking chair on the porch. Every morning she bid him farewell with a smile.  “Good luck,” she said. “I believe in you.” He reached the forest by sunup. He’d been tracking the beast’s movements for months and would follow his worn trail as far as the birch grove where he planned to veer north. There had been nothing toward the south but a set of fading footprints that led to an abandoned den and bovine bones.  Reaching the birch grove, he was emboldened by a new feeling of hope. The patchy white trunks were a break from the blur of green. He sat on a nurse log, host to a clump of huckleberry bushes, and set his satchel on the forest floor amid crawling insects and banana slugs. His wife had been teaching the children her ways of making strained resources go further and ingredients stretch and had packed baked goods for his journey. He had grown used to odd combinations: rosemary-mint rolls, apple-potato fritters.  Today’s savory morsel was his daughter’s invention. She had leapt toward him the night before, carrying a basketful of hand pies, her cheeks rosy and hair tousled from a day of culinary play.   “For you, Daddy,” she had proclaimed.  As he chewed, he swelled with her love and yearned to return the favor. The feeling of being loved through being provided for. Guilt crept up his throat at the thought. What kind of father could not catch a beast for his family’s well-being?  He had brought the bow and poisoned arrows, doses strong enough to stun a black bear. This beast—he had seen it before—stood eight feet tall and weighed four-fifty; a single shot could do the trick. His colleagues laughed when he shared his plan. Their full bellies rippled with amusement. None believed he would succeed as none believed in the very beast he sought.  Spend your time working, they’d said. Not chasing this so-called beast. No one can subsist on imaginary meat.  He had tried to explain that he did not plan to eat the beast. But the concept was one they could not comprehend, their imaginations gone dormant from the dullness of common toil. For the men who worked their lives away for others—bodies laboring in fields—there was no understanding his impossible dream.  He kept an image of the beast in his mind’s eye as he trekked onward. The trail gained in elevation, switching back through old growth and fernery. Flickers chattered overhead as though reporting the man’s advancement through the woods. He spotted a grouping of bent-over saplings and picked up speed, his heart thumping with hope. A musky, overpowering odor traveled the breeze, coming from the north—he was right to have changed direction.  A rock flew across his path, eye-level. Then another. He pulled his collar up around his neck, as though it were a viable defense, and yelled out. It was a yell he’d practiced—a beast call—to the shock of neighbors and his own wife, who, though she supported his endeavors, did have limits. That howl was beyond them.  He had felt bad that day months back when he came into the house from the yard after having nailed the call perfectly. She had dropped their dinner on the linoleum floor, the dog licking up the labored-over meal of potatoes and carrots and a roast of whatever meat she’d managed to talk the butcher into giving her at half-price—her husband was a hero after all, sacrificing for the community to achieve this discovery. To solve the mystery of the murdered cattle. A rock thudded against his shoulder, the sound a satisfaction, the pain a promise. He sped toward the rock’s origin. A squirrel scurried above, and fir needles rained down like nature’s confetti. His mind was racing with scenes of triumph. Of vindication for the naysaying he’d endured.  He pumped his aging knees, creaking with every lunge as he navigated the forest floor, avoiding roots and rocks, leaping over logs. He readied his bow and arrow, anticipating that magic moment of opportunity. He wasn’t looking where he was going; he didn’t have to. He’d been plodding toward that destination his entire life. Now, here he was, about to achieve his dream of capturing the beast. He tripped on a root then, tumbling to the ground. He felt a sharp stab in his side as an arrow pierced his body, poison rushing into his veins. The sleepiness was instant. His reflexes dulled, then ceased, and though he saw the ledge approaching, there was nothing he could do to stop the force of inertia, the weight of gravity.  His limp body fell into the ravine, landing with an underwhelming thud. The beast hovered over him, all matted fur and cow-flesh-breath for no one to witness. For no one to capture.  Perhaps the beast felt guilty then for the man’s unnecessary death. There wasn’t all that much difference between them, but for the hairlessness and weaker constitution. What a soft species , the beast thought. Hiding behind walls and fearing life’s meaning . Still, he would honor the man. He would carry the body home and find his own vindication among the other beasts in the forest. They would forget about the night he found the cows but left his footprints for the man to discover. They would forget his failures and call him the pejorative Bigfoot  no more. September Woods Garland hails from the Pacific Northwest where she enjoys taking long, romantic walks through haunted houses and feeding Bigfoot peanut butter & seaweed sandwiches. She works as a freelance book editor and serves as editor-in-chief at Weird Lit Magazine. September’s work has appeared in The Sprawl Mag, Idle Ink, Black Sheep Magazine, and elsewhere. www.septemberwoodsgarland.com

The first time Audrey flies a kite     from a tweet by Audrey Burges                                  Across a tract  of wireless sky  she and her son have lofted it together. It’s like walking a dog who flies! he says, offering up this  brilliant, seedling truth there along the shifting edge of land and sea. In its jig of freedom and restraint the kite throws itself against the concave clouds. She grasps  its cord, feels it tug against her, can almost hear it, crying free me, set me loose, let’s find out how much farther we can be apart from each other She holds tight, the sun comes down to earth and is polarized, the blowing sand drifts around  plastic pails and lifeguard stands, flies out over the ocean. Face framed between her hair’s wind-whipped strands, Audrey looks high up into the lenticular sky and she is as unprepared as we all were for the joy.  Last night                                                                               when she fell asleep she lay there with her thumb traced up against the line of  my jaw with her fingers resting across my throat, like they would on a trumpet’s valves, rising and falling with my every swallow and breath. And then the hooded cat is there, throaty, insistent, pawing at my hip until I reach across to take her head in my palm, cup her ears, mold my fist almost all the way around her neck,  so that then we were three of us, grappling there in the slender light. The first time your first child bleeds                                         End of the day, and the thin strip of hallway light  has fallen across his closed lids.  Underneath them, though, the restlessness  in his eyes has become mine, remembering again that he bled today. Blood, thin, trickling line of it, from the lip, thought I was so familiar with his  each and every small trauma, everything I’d prepared myself for, but not this. Bled, and I was partner in something that could actually bleed. Bled, and the flow was like my own, that I had to stem, bleeding from across the room, I have never bled this way before. Brian Baker (he/him) is a London, Ontario poet who began writing back in the late eighties, publishing in such literary print journals as The Lyric, Canadian Author & Bookman, the University of Windsor Review, Dandelion, and The Antigonish Review. Now, in his first re-imagining, he is back to writing, with work published or forthcoming in such online and print journals as Cathexis Northwest Press, Synaeresis, Sledgehammer Lit,  High Shelf Press, Roi Fainéant Press, Vast Chasm Magazine, and Stanchion Zine. As well, he is a two-time winner of the Antler River Poetry (fka Poetry London) Contest.

Wes Anderson’s leaning forlornly at the edge of a deserted gravel road, but instead of doing anything about it, Josh is getting his drone ready to fly. I’m fixing my hair and refreshing my makeup. Dark clouds are building and one of our sponsors gave me some waterproof mascara. This might be a good time for a Josh & Siobhan Sponsor Showcase. Josh calls out over his shoulder: “Maybe get those new Arc’teryx jackets. Looks like a chance to give them a plug.” Great minds, right? On the one hand, this is the challenge of travel vlogging. It’s bad enough that you’re stuck with a flat tire in the emptiest part of Saskatchewan when you’d expected to be soaking in the vibes on a butte in Grasslands National Park. But before you can fix the tire, you have to record it all for the vlog. Hence the drone, which admittedly does add a certain high-production-value gloss to our content. That shot of poor, disabled Wes Anderson surrounded by a sea of grass will look great.  Mind you, if Josh hadn’t bought the drone we could have picked up a set of new tires. Or maybe bought a better van than a 20-year-old Westfalia, which Josh named for his favourite director. As I’m digging out the new rain jackets, Josh climbs inside. He’s got the drone airborne, and he’s getting some establishing shots of the stranded van and the lonesome prairie as the drone circles like a vulture. “Do you think maybe you’ve got enough? You can start changing the flat?” He’s focused on landing the drone. “Be better if you  changed it.” “What?” He turns to me. “It’d be more on-brand for you. Female empowerment.” Sure, I talk about empowerment on our vlog, but usually, when I’m doing yoga at some carefully selected scenic viewpoint. I consider refusing, but I realize that I’m not certain that Josh knows how to change a flat. I put my hair in a ponytail and step outside while Josh digs out the jack and tools. He places them by the flat and peers underneath the back bumper. I don’t like the puzzled look on his face. “You don’t know where the spare is?” “I’ll look it up.” He pulls out his phone to reveal what I already knew – there’s no service here. “I’m sure they said it was under the van.” He checks under the front and calls out in triumph. “Bingo! Over here.” I get there and he hands me a wrench. “You just loosen a couple of bolts and the spare drops down. I’ll get the camera.” I’m not going to lie on my back on gravel just so he can capture all the excitement for our followers. I tell him I’ll change the tire, but crawling underneath the van is his job. He replies that we want to show a strong, resourceful woman who can do things for herself. It would be dishonest for him to do part of the job. And he refuses to be a dishonest filmmaker. I point out that he’s a vlogger, not a filmmaker. Then I remind him of the times we arrived at a destination too late for sunset, so we just shot at dawn and pretended the sun was going down. So don’t give me that “honesty in filmmaking” crap. Once again, we’re beset by artistic differences. With a mighty sigh, he hands me the camera. He rolls onto his back and I hear grunts and heavy breathing and the sound of metal on metal and Josh cursing Wes Anderson and the German factory workers who built him and the engineers who designed the spare tire assembly. But eventually, he eases out from underneath, and I see that he’s managed to free the spare. He holds his hands out to show me a thin trickle of blood, and I realize I’m expected to play nurse. I get out the first aid kit and take an alcohol wipe to the cut. It’s more of a scrape, really, along his knuckles. “Is my tetanus shot up to date?” I hope this is a rhetorical question. We’re not at the keeping-track-of-one-another’s-vaccinations stage of this relationship.  After I wrap a bandage around his hand, Josh tentatively practises opening and closing his fingers and I notice that we’ve got company. A pickup with a truck camper is approaching, and in the cloud of dust it throws up, I can see at least one other vehicle. As they pull over about ten metres from Wes Anderson, I notice Quebec licence plates. “This is great,” I tell Josh. “Maybe they can help.” “What about empowerment?” “Sometimes, Josh, expressing your vulnerability is the greatest form of empowerment.” I think that’s from Brené Brown; Josh said I should quote her on the vlog to boost engagement. I wave as the first driver steps out of his truck. “Is everything okay?” he asks. “We had a blowout,” I say. “I think we hit a pothole too fast.” In a chorus of door openings and closings, the first driver is joined by two others. They all approach the right rear tire, and the first driver squats to get a closer look. “She’s dead, this one,” he says, working a finger into the rip in the rubber. The others agree that it’s beyond patching. “You have a spare tire?” “We were just going to put it on,” Josh says, launching into a long explanation about capturing all the experiences of travel, the good and the bad, on our vlog. “Vuh-log?” one of the men says. Josh starts to explain, but they’re not listening. One of the three brings the spare over, while another places the jack in front of the flat tire and begins to turn the handle. “Get in there, Siobhan,” Josh says, placing the camera to his eye. As the other two get started, the first driver introduces himself and his group. They’re brothers travelling with their wives on a cross-Canada trip to see the mountains and the Pacific. I look back at their vehicles and see three women setting up lawn chairs. They smile and wave, and I wave back. “I said last Christmas, Helene and me, we go west this summer and Marc says he want to go too. And then Gaetan says ‘me too!’” Gaetan, the brother with the jack, turns his head at this and smiles. “I work on the oil rigs a long time ago. I tell André and Marc I want to see the mountains again. So we do a big family trip.” Gaetan gestures for me to watch what he’s doing. “See where I put the jack? So it’s lifting the van by the frame, eh? Remember that. Now, you turn the handle; feel how the jack helps you lift.” I give it a few turns. It’s surprisingly satisfying. “Okay. Now before we get the tire off the ground, we loosen the bolts. Here, you try. It might be hard.” I place the tire iron on one of the bolts and turn. Nothing happens. I put more weight into it. Still nothing. “She’s tight,” André observes from above us. Gaetan takes a turn. I see his muscles flex and the cords of his neck stand out with the effort. He puts the iron down and heads off toward the convoy of Quebecois vehicles. Marc picks up the iron. “Maybe he loosen it for me,” he says, with a wink. It doesn’t budge for Marc either. André turns his attention to Josh. “When is the last time you change the tires?” “These tires were already on when I got it in the spring.” “You want maybe a whole new set.” He puts a hand on Josh’s shoulder and leads him on an inspection tour of the other three. Gaetan comes back with a bottle, which he explains contains penetrating oil. He sprays it on all the nuts. “Now we wait.” He rises and wipes the dust from his pants. “Come, I introduce you to my wife.” Gaetan, Marc and I walk back to the convoy. I notice that the women have set up a table with cheese and crackers and one of them is pouring wine. As Gaetan and Marc are introducing their wives – Jocelyn and Nathalie – a plastic goblet is placed in my hand by the third woman. “And I’m Helene, André’s wife. I look at all the work you’re doing, and I think you might need a drink.” Gaetan and Marc leave us and head over to the back of the pickup truck. The women tell me in brief about their trip west and their lives and grown children.  They ask about me and Josh, and I tell them we’ve been together for two years, and this year when I started to tell him I wanted to break up, he told me he had bought a van and wanted to take me on the road for a new adventurous life where we’d live fully every moment. It’s more than I intend to say. I insist that I enjoy making videos about our travels and finish my wine as Marc and Gaetan return, heavily loaded with tools. Marc has a four-foot metal rod in his hand. “In case the oil doesn’t work, eh?” Soon, I’m down on my knees beside Gaetan, holding a long-handled socket wrench in place on the rusted nut while Marc slips the extension rod on the end. The more exertion it takes, the more Quebecois the brothers sound. As Gaetan struggles to hold the socket wrench in place, I hear a “tabarnac” slip from his lips. It’s still not budging, so André helps Marc balance on the extension rod to put his body weight into the task. Marc looks worried, as if any moment he’ll snap the bolt right off and plummet to the ground. “Esti de calice de marde,” he grunts. Finally, with a blast like an out-of-tune trumpet, the nut moves a half turn. I squirt another shot of penetrating oil on that nut, and the guys repeat the procedure with one of the others. By this point, I’ve realized I’m just getting in the way. They get each nut moving, then hand the tire iron back to me to finish the job. Under Gaetan’s guidance, I remove the old tire and slip the spare into place, tighten the nuts until they’re all snug and lower the jack. The brothers are laughing and patting me on the back when Josh interrupts to ask them to sign waivers so that we can use the video he’s shot.  “It’s going to look great,” he says.  Gaetan looks at me, and I say, “please, if you don’t mind” and he shrugs, and the three of them sign. The wives are packing up their picnic and I accompany the men to say my farewells. “I’m sorry about interrupting your travel today. I hope you aren’t too delayed.” “The boys had fun,” Jocelyn says. “They all get a little nervous without tools in their hands.” They all kiss me on the cheek and wish me well. Helene writes down our website address and Twitter handle and promises to watch. I wave as they depart and Josh keeps shooting as they disappear in a cloud of dust. “Damn. Wish I’d got the drone back up for that exit.” We continue to Grasslands and drive straight to a hiking trail so I can walk up a hill and do tree pose while the evening sun sets the grass on fire. I’ve been standing on one leg for a couple of minutes when Josh comes in for a close-up.  “What’s a pose that says gratitude?” he asks. “What?” “Like maybe, the lesson should be about gratitude, not empowerment. So, what’s a gratitude pose?” I try sitting with my eyes closed and my hands together at heart centre and I hear Josh say “perfect.” I hear the wind in the grass and prairie birds call and the sound of Josh walking around me to do a 360-degree pan and then he breaks into a closing narration. “When you’re living on the road, you’re living off the goodwill of others. You have to learn to accept gifts of food or drink, of information or assistance. In a spirit of humility, you accept the gifts bestowed on you by the universe. Today, three beautiful souls from Quebec helped us get to Grasslands National Park in time for this spectacular sunset. We joyfully accept and honour their generosity. And who knows, maybe tomorrow we can give back to somebody else. Keep watching Vanlife with Josh and Siobhan to find out.” He lets out a breath that tells me he’s finished. I open my eyes. We’re losing the light. “Tomorrow we’re buying a replacement spare,” I say. “What?” “You said we might do something generous tomorrow for somebody else. Tomorrow we need to find a tire shop where we can get a new spare – otherwise, if we blow another tire, we’re fucked.” “I’ve got a better idea,” Josh says, packing up his camera and tripod. “Tomorrow, we find a place with cell service, and I find us a tire company as a sponsor and we get a set of all-season radials.” We head to the campground and cook up Kraft Dinner with salami chunks. The fridge has been acting up, so we don’t chance it with anything that needs to be kept cool. The rain that was threatening on the road hits so we have to eat in the van, windows shut tight. Six weeks of van life and Wes Anderson is getting pretty stinky. What Wes will be like when we get to our wintering grounds in Southern California, I don’t want to know. It’s raining too hard to go to the washroom, so before bed I make Josh turn his back and I use my pee bucket. Something else the video never captures. It’s been a long and exhausting day, and Josh is soon snoring beside me, but I can’t sleep. I’m thinking of Josh’s meditation on gratitude. Then it dawns me. I nudge Josh’s shoulder. When that doesn’t wake him, I elbow him in the back. “Huh? Wha?” “The three guys today, what were their names?” “Their names?” “Their names.” “André.” I nod. That’s one. “René? Pierre?” I roll over and close my eyes. Josh is asking if he’s close. “Can you give me a hint? Do they share names with politicians? Hockey players?” I make a mental checklist for the next few days. Tomorrow, we get a new spare tire. If it’s sunny, we set up a clothesline and air everything out. We buy ice for the cooler, so we can eat something other than Kraft Dinner. And we get data service somewhere so Josh can look for a tire sponsor and I can check flights home.   Bob Armstrong is a novelist, speechwriter and occasional comedian from Winnipeg, Canada. His novel Prodigies (Five Star/Gale) won the Margaret Laurence Prize for Fiction in the 2022 Manitoba Book Awards. Find his travel misadventures on Substack @wanderingwriterbobarmstrong.

When we arrived in Paris, and before driving to our home in Saint Jeannet on the Côte d’Azur, I thought we would enjoy a couple of days in the city, as I wanted to see the Francis Bacon exhibition at the Grand Palais. “Since when do you like his work?” Jane asked. “I believe we should expose ourselves ....” “Even if we don't particularly like Bacon?” “Yes, Jane. I hadn't thought much about Rothko before I accompanied Robert in the MoMA.” “And, did that exposure convert you?” “No, but at least I have a basis for whatever opinion I now have about his work. So, I say we should go.” The following day we went to the Grand Palais to view the retrospective exhibition of the paintings of Francis Bacon. “I can’t say I really like his work,” Jane said when we were standing in front of a large canvas whose subject was Pope Innocent X. “It says here in the catalogue that Bacon painted the portrait after one by Velázquez. Look, Jane, there’s an illustration of the one painted by Velázquez,” and I handed the catalogue to Jane. “I don’t like it either,” Jane said, handing the catalogue back. “I don’t understand what Bacon is doing. Why the distortion? To me, it doesn’t make any sense.” “I’ll read you from the catalogue. ‘At the time (when Bacon was painting the portrait) Bacon was coming to terms with the death of a cold, disciplinarian father, his early illicit sexual encounters, and a very destructive sadomasochistic approach to sex.’ ” “And that is supposed to explain why he painted the pope the way he did? Perhaps he should have seen a psychoanalyst first, and then painted the pope.” “Had he, we probably wouldn’t be standing in front of this painting,” I told her. “I have learned — and not from our friend Irmgard who would probably disagree with what I am about to say — is that in all the arts — writing, music, architecture, as well as painting and sculpture — one should separate the artist from the work, and not judge the work prejudiced by one’s knowledge of the personal life of the artist.” “Are you saying that what you just read to me from the catalogue should not influence my opinion of Bacon’s paintings, like this one here?” “Yes. Forget about what I just read, and look at the painting itself. Then decide whether or not you like it and ask yourself, why?” “Eric, I said I disliked it before you told me about Bacon’s personal life … and I still dislike it. To me, it’s a distortion of reality that I don’t understand nor appreciate.”             *** As we were driving down A7, Jane turned to me. “Why don't we stop at Beau Rivage, in Condrieu?” The restaurant/hotel was part of the Relais et Châteaux association, and whenever possible, we stayed — and ate — at hotels in the group. “Did you enjoy the exhibition?” Jane asked when we were seated at a table on the terrace overlooking the river flowing by. For dinner, we both ordered grilled loup de mer and drank a local wine from the vineyards surrounding the town. “Yes and no,” I told her. “Bacon's technique is unusual and unique, and I can appreciate the mental activity going on to paint the way he does ....” “But?” “... but they remind me of looking out of an eye affected by wet macular degeneration, and do I want to see the world blurred and distorted?” “How do  you want to see the world?” “You mean, which contemporary artists' vision excites me and makes my heart beat faster? The Fauves, for the most part. Remember the Derain view of the Parliament buildings in London?” “And his other London paintings. It was as though the paint came off the canvasses. They were pulsating.” “That's what I mean. A painting can't be simply unique or different ....” “Chagall is different,” Jane said. “Yes, but he's also possibly the foremost colorist since the Fauves, and his subjects take you into the supernatural. Whenever we go to their home, I hope Vava asks to sit on the couch under his painting Les Maries de la Tour Eiffel , because as I enter their living room, I feel my eyes glued to that painting, so by sitting under it, it can’t distract me and I can partake of the conversation.” I smiled when saying this. “I never tire of looking at a Chagall.”             *** “Bonjour, bonjour,” Vava greeted us at the door of La Colline. “Marc will join us in a few moments,” and she led us into the now familiar living room. “You've been in Paris?” she asked. “Marc will be interested to know what you did. Ah, here he is now.” “Bonjour, mes enfants,” the artist smiled as he walked in from his studio. “Jane, assois-toi ici,” and he took Jane by the arm and brought her to sit beside him on the couch. “Et bien, tu étais à Paris? Qu'est ce que tu as vu là-bas?”  Jane told him we had been to the Francis Bacon exhibition at the Grand Palais. Chagall's expression, on hearing the name of the artist, resembled a question mark: arched eyebrows, mouth turned down. He did not look at all interested. He shrugged his shoulders, and finally said, “English painting.” E.P. Lande was born in Montreal, but has lived most of his life in the south of France and Vermont, where he now lives with his partner, writing and caring for more than 100 animals, many of which are rescues. Previously, he taught at l’Université d’Ottawa where he served as Vice-Dean of his faculty, and he has owned and managed country inns and free-standing restaurants. Since submitting less than two years ago, 48 of his stories have been accepted by publications in countries on five continents.

You wake to your husband’s fingernails digging into your shoulder blade. Swallow a wince as Jimmy squeezes the skin on your back. He grunts, pinching harder, before flourishing a black and white feather in your face. Lays it on top of the pillows stacked between you in bed. As you stare at the feather, the alarm clock starts to scream and scream until the baby wails from her crib and the kids bang at your bedroom door begging you to turn it all off.    What the fuck , Jimmy says . You grew another penguin feather. Same like the one I pulled out yesterday. Gross.  You twist your arm behind your back. Rub your fingers against your shoulder blades. But you can’t feel any feathers growing in your skin.  Don’t joke, Jimmy. Jimmy shrugs. He slaps the pillow hard.   The penguin feather rises into a high patch of sunlight just out of your reach. Floats down to land on your belly.  Jimmy’s been throwing  What the fucks  at your outfits, your cooking, your books, more than usual. Ever since he tagged along with you and the baby on last month’s trip to Costco. As you’d lifted the carton of 48 Great Value Skipjack Chunk Tuna  onto the check-out counter, the cashier winked at you. Hey! How’s it going? Still enjoying that tuna, I see.    What the fuck ?  That’s my wife , Jimmy told the cashier, his words six icicles. When the young man's eyes dropped to the floor, you picked them u p.  Sorry , you whispered  as you leaned across the counter to slip him his eyes before Jimmy noticed. On the car ride home, Jimmy’s tone was accusing.  Dude was staring at your boobs. They look ginormous in that breastfeeding shirt.  Jimmy turns off the alarm clock on your side-table. Your phone rings softly. It’s your old school-friend Violet calling again. The only one who still does. You can’t answer. Not since Violet had come to the house while you were out to try to sleep with Jimmy, stripping down to a pink thong in the living room, telling Jimmy she wanted to fuck him. Jimmy of course kicked her ass to the curb. Says he’s known plenty of women like Violet. It’s hard to believe your best friend would do that. You thought Violet hated Jimmy. Tried to convince you to leave him last year. But she’s been going through her own stuff since her husband got sick. Maybe she’s lonely. Jimmy’s always been easy on the eyes. Fighting off the ladies all night again , he laughs when he rolls in from The Crafty Drake every Saturday at 2am. The kids are outside the bedroom door whining for their morning cuddles. Jimmy heaves up to unlock the door and let them in. Waggling his eyebrows, he shows them the penguin feather he plucked from your back. Gets them to line up so they can run their fingers over its smoothness. Their eyes widen when he shows them a speckle of pink at the feather’s base. That’s   Mommy’s blood , he tells them. I had to yank like crazy to get that sucker out. The baby starts crying again and you want to escape with her for some fresh air but you stopped going for strolls when Jimmy said the neighbors were complaining. They say you look like a homeless person , waddling around. They’re such snobs with their precious manicured lawns .  Jimmy is trying to help. Explains it’s not your fault you haven’t lost the baby weight. Or that you smell like sour milk and sweat because there’s barely time to shower. He still loves you and doesn’t care if you’re fat and stinky. Says don’t worry what the stupid fucking nosey neighbors say. To just stay inside from now on. Stop accepting meal drop-offs from your so-called friends.   Jimmy gets the baby from her crib and gently places her on your breast where she stops crying. The other kids pile onto the bed. Jimmy stands at the foot of the bed grinning and clapping to get attention. Throws his arms up like a circus master, startling the baby off her latch to stare up at him. Guess   what kids.   Mommy’s turning into….a penguin! , he announces, as if surprising them with a trip to Disney World. We’ll move to that Galapagos place with the other penguins. Just our family.   No-one will laugh at us there . I’m so goddamn sick of everyone judging us . You know you can’t be a penguin. But the baby hormones are messing up your brain. Sometimes you can’t tell if you’re dreaming or awake. You’ve been scratching yourself raw ever since Jimmy told you that Violet tried to sleep with him. There’s a stirring beneath your skin, like an egg cracking open and spilling through your blood.  The kids giggle at Jimmy’s words and the oldest boy leads the others in a chant, Penguin Mama !  Penguin Mama ! He pumps his fist in the air as he chants and the others follow along, pointing at you. Jimmy joins in. Their laughter rises into the storm clouds forming in the bedroom. Freezes into hailstones. Falls hard, piercing your skin. Jimmy opens the window and a gust of icy wind blows in. You gather up the downy bed blankets. Pull them around your shoulders like a cloak of feathers. Hunching over your penguin chick, you use your body to shield her from the sudden cold.  Lisa Alletson was raised in South Africa and the UK, and now lives in Canada. Her writing is published in Roi Fainéant Press, New Ohio Review, Gone Lawn, Atticus Review, Pithead Chapel, Gone Lawn, Bending Genres, Milk Candy Review, among other journals She has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Best Small Fictions, Best of the Net, and Best MicroFiction, and appeared on the Wigleaf Top 50 Longest. Her debut chapbook, Good Mother Lizard, won the 2022 Headlight Review poetry contest. She’s on Twitter @LotusTongue  and Bluesky @LisaAlletson . You can find her published work at www.lisaalletson.com .

Rough grass tickled the backs of her bare legs as Naseem lay on her back, watching the chinar leaves dance in the zephyr.  Aslam lay next to her, whistling tunelessly. Suddenly, Aslam said, “Close your eyes!”  “Why?” “I want to give you something.” “What?” “Close your eyes first!” Smiling, Naseem followed Aslam's instructions.  Lifting her hand, Aslam placed something round and cold on her palm.  Naseem opened her eyes to see a polished black stone.  Answering her look of surprise, Aslam gave her a gap-toothed grin.   “So that you never forget me,” he said. Naseem rolled her eyes. “Where are you going? You are my brother. We will always be together, lying under the chinar tree, watching the leaves dance.”  ****   Naseem carefully wrapped the hijab around her head, making sure no wisps of hair were visible. Securing the loose end with a pin, she stepped back to check her reflection. A shapeless form covered from head to toe in black blinked back. She turned away to pick up her bag when her eyes fell on the black, polished stone on the windowsill. Her eyes lingered on the stone for a few minutes before she walked out of the room into the living room.  The bright threads of Kashida embroidery cushions contrasted with the dark of the walnut wood walls. But Naseem was oblivious to the beauty of the room. Her eyes were on the woman. Wearing a brown wollen  pheran , her grey hair covered with a  daejj , the woman knelt on the cushions, staring out of the bank of windows that covered one wall.  How many women like her , Naseem wondered,  stare out of windows in Kashmir, waiting eternally? Naseem walked across the room on the floor covered with soft, woolen carpet. She lightly touched the shoulder of the woman and waited as the woman turned away from the window. The woman's eyes slowly lost their faraway look as they focussed on Naseem.  “Naseem?” she asked, her voice soft. Naseem nodded.  Once, Zeenat had been a strapping, ruddy-cheeked woman whose laughter had boomed through the house. Now, a shadow of her former self, like a waif, she would spend hours staring out the window, waiting for Aslam. Some days, even the fact that Naseem was her daughter would slip from her mind.  “I am leaving for school. There is  haak  and rice in the kitchen for lunch. I will be back by four.” Zeenat gave a slight smile, acknowledging she had heard Naseem before turning back to the window. Dropping a kiss on Zeenat’s head, Naseem walked away. Locking the front door from outside, she walked down the narrow stairs to hand over the keys to Khan Chacha, the owner of the  kandur  downstairs.  “Beti, I think you should hire a caretaker for Zeenat Bibi,” Khan Chacha advised, taking the keys.  “Chacha, you know how difficult it was to get this job. The salary is barely enough for necessities. A caretaker is beyond my pocket. But after last week, when Ammi wandered off into the forest looking for Aslam, I can’t take another chance and leave her alone,” replied Naseem.  He sighed in reply. “Aslam should not have taken the wrong path, putting all the burden on your shoulders.” Naseem flushed at the censure and pity in Khan Chacha's words. Without replying, she walked towards the taxi stand.  Boarding the shared taxi to Lal Chowk, she swallowed a sob as memories of Aslam, which she kept caged in a box in her heart, threatened to break free.  Aslam, with his cheeky grin and a permanent twinkle in the eye. Aslam, with an idealistic streak everyone had been unaware of. Aslam who, unable to understand why his beloved valley was changing, slowly grew morose. Aslam, who one day disappeared from their lives forever.  Later that afternoon, Naseem walked through Lal Chowk to board the taxi back home, lethargy making her steps slow. She was exhausted after struggling with high school students the whole day. Today, once again, more than half of the children were absent. The ones who did come to school were angry and uninterested. They did not want to learn about Shakespeare when there was no future to look forward to. Jostling for space inside the taxi, she wondered if the children of the valley would ever have a normal adolescence.  As the taxi careened past Nishat Bagh towards home, Naseem remembered the simpler times when the whole family would go for picnics there. Laughter was a constant in those days. Like how fear was now. Lost in her thoughts, Naseem didn’t notice the taxi slowing down before coming to a stop.  A soldier was dragging a roll of barbed wire to block the road.  Murmurs of dismay filled the vehicle as Naseem felt her heartbeat grow faster.  One would have imagined that after so many years surrounded by violence, guns and barbed wires, she would be used to seeing soldiers in army fatigues. But who gets used to violence and bloodshed? An army officer came to talk to the driver. Naseem, seated just behind the driver, leaned forward. A roadblock could mean a delay of a few minutes or hours. Worried about Zeenat locked alone in the house, she tried to eavesdrop on their conversation.  Noticing her actions, the officer raised an eyebrow. Flushing, Naseem looked away. She knew officers usually had a short fuse. She couldn’t afford to get into trouble with them. She had to think of Zeenat first. Always.  The officer stood by the taxi as a convoy of army trucks passed them on the other side of the road. Full of soldiers dressed in fatigues, they looked menacing with machine guns cradled in their arms, their eyes expressionless. When the last of the trucks had passed, the officer walked away. Noticing his swagger, Naseem couldn’t help but feel a spark of resentment. How would it feel to have power?  she wondered, before chuckling to herself. As a Kashmiri woman, power and peace were two things she had no experience of. The taxi moved again, and everyone sighed in relief.  “Thank God, it was a brief delay,” said a young woman, bouncing a plump baby in her lap. “This one is going to get hungry soon,” she said, grinning at Naseem. Naseem gave a polite smile in reply. After so many years of fending for herself, she had forgotten the art of making inane conversation.  The clock hands showed six when Naseem unlocked the door to the house. Zeenat was still sitting on the same cushion, looking out from the window on the darkening street below.  “Ammi, I am back,” she called out, bolting the door and sliding the safety chain in. There was no answer or movement from Zeenat. She continued to look out, softly humming to herself.  Naseem sighed. Sometimes she wondered how Zeenat would have behaved if instead of Aslam, Naseem had disappeared. She scoffed. What a fanciful thought. Where would Naseem disappear? Her dream had been to marry and raise children. She had no wars to fight.  War was for men, who had the freedom and luxury to fight for ideals. For women, surviving was more important. Her musings were interrupted by a knock on the door. Naseem frowned.  It was too late for someone to be visiting them.  Feeling uneasy, she peeked through the peephole. It was Aslam’s former best friend, Afroz.   **** “ Kahwa ?” she said, offering a cup to Afroz, who sat next to Zeenat, trying to converse with her. Zeenat continued to ignore him. “ Shukriya ,” he replied, his hands brushing against Naseem’s.  Looking him, she realised that the touch had been deliberate. She fought the urge to wipe away her hand as she sat as far away as possible from him.  “I am glad you followed my advice about hijab,” Afroz said, his eyes lingering on her.  Seeing the blatant desire in his eyes, Naseem nodded despite the shiver of revulsion.  “How are you, Naseem? I came to check on Zeenat  Khala ,” he said. Naseem noted he no longer added aapa  after her name as he used to when they were young. Naseem shrugged. “She has good days and bad.” “I heard about her being lost in the forest. I wish you would stop being stubborn and take help from us. She needs a caretaker,” Afroz said. Naseem wanted to scream, “She deserves the son she doted on. But you filled poison in Aslam's mind by showing him videos and giving him incendiary literature. You subtly pressurized my sensitive brother to join the rebels. You are the reason she is alone in her old age. You are the one responsible for our suffering.” But she didn’t. Lowering her eyes, she sipped her kahwa. “She is the mother of a  shaheed . You know we want to help,” he insisted. Trying to keep her tone even, she prevaricated, “Aslam’s actions made it very difficult for us to survive. I got a government schoolteacher job only because the principal was Baba’s friend. If I take help from you, the government will suspect me.” “Aslam gave his life for the cause. Please don’t be called a collaborator,” Afroz replied.  Naseem felt fear run up her spine when she heard the underlying menace in Afroz's words. She glanced towards him. His eyes reminded her of the snake she had seen once in the forest. Hooded, they were waiting for the correct moment to strike. Naseem knew she couldn’t afford to make an enemy out of him, not if she wanted to survive in Kashmir.  She nodded once before bowing her head again.  “I will ask if we need anything,” she said softly, hoping her submissive action would placate Afroz.   “Aren’t you Afroz, Aslam’s friend? Is Aslam at your home? Tell him I am waiting for him,” Zeenat spoke, startling them both. Naseem rushed to Zeenat’s side. “No, Ammi, Aslam is not there. He will come in the morning,” she soothed. Realising further conversation with Naseem was not possible with Zeenat in this state, Afroz left. Re-bolting the door, Naseem felt her shoulders slump. The roadblock and mental games with Afroz had exhausted her. She lay down on the cushion next to Zeenat, who had turned back to look out of the window into the darkness again.  She waited a long time for Zeenat’s hand to caress her hair like she used to when Naseem was a young girl. When a caress from Zeenat's hand would make her troubles disappear. But Zeenat kept whispering, “Aslam, Aslam.” Naseem swallowed a sob, her chest threatening to burst with unshed tears. Slowly, Naseem got up and walked to her room. Taking off the abaya, she threw it on the floor, resisting the urge to stamp on it. She started unwinding the hijab, her chestnut tresses sighing in relief at the freedom. With her fingertips she massaged her scalp, hoping to soothe the headache that had started throbbing between her eyebrows, when her eyes once again, fell on the polished stone.  She picked it up. It felt heavy and cold in her hand, just like her heart. She wanted to scream and hurl it through the window. But she did neither. She placed it back on the windowsill.  Turning she bent down to pick up the abaya from the floor where she had flung it when the sounds of boots stomping on the cobbled streets reached her.  She rushed to the window to see soldiers marching into their street.  No! Not today!  Her mind screamed. She just wasn't strong enough today.  A few minutes later, there was a peremptory knock on the door.  Hastily re-draping the hijab, Naseem ran to unbolt the door.  A group of men in army fatigues stood outside.  “Please be seated for search operations,” a soldier instructed, gesturing for Naseem to sit next to Zeenat on the cushions. Zeenat looked wide-eyed at the men who filled their small room as they rifled through closets, emptied tins, and upended mattresses.  None of this was new. As Kashmiris, they were used to such violations of their privacy. But Afroz’s visit had agitated Zeenat. She stared at the soldiers, muttering under her breath. Naseem rubbed Zeenat’s back, trying to calm her, but it was futile. Seeing a soldier, lift and throw the floor cushions, Zeenat shouted. She started raining curses on the soldiers. Pointing to their muddy boots on the carpet, she demanded if their mother hadn’t taught them shoes had to be removed before walking indoors. Naseem wrapped her arms around Zeenat trying to control her. But fueled by fury, Zeenat wrenched herself free. She launched herself at a soldier, her frail hands beating a tattoo on his chest as she called him Aslam's murderer. “No!” shouted Naseem, trying to help Zeenat, but another soldier held her back.  The first soldier caught hold of Zeenat’s wrists in one hand, raising his arm to control her. “Please,” Naseem pleaded, struggling to break free from the soldier who held her. “She is mentally not well.” Oblivious to the surrounding drama, Zeenat continued to rain curses. Finally, just as suddenly, her energy ran out.  “Aslam’s murderer!” she shouted one last time before her eyes rolled back, and she slumped on the floor.  Her breath coming in shallow pants, Naseem stared at the soldier as he picked up Zeenat’s frail body and placed her on the cushions.  He stood staring at her impassively before his body softened infinitesimally. His finger touched Zeenat's cheek before he looked towards Naseem who stared at him, fear burning in her eyes.  He gave her a curt nod, half-raising his hand in salaam before gesturing to the other soldiers.  The wooden floor thundered as the soldiers marched out of the house, leaving a stunned Naseem alone with Zeenat.  Amidst their belongings strewn throughout the room, Naseem kept a vigil through the long night, whispering  dua’s  for God to spare Zeenat’s life. The sky was turning orange when Zeenat’s eyelids fluttered open. She looked around the devastated room and then at Naseem. “Naseem?” she asked, her voice hoarse. “Yes Ammi,” said Naseem, kissing Zeenat’s hand. “Can I have some  chai  and  roth ? I am hungry.” Naseem gave tremulous smile. Later, as she sipped her tea, Zeenat asked, “Why is the room messy? Did Aslam come home?” Naseem ignored the pain in her heart as she replied, “No ammi .” “Maybe he is studying in the library. That boy loves his books,” she said, taking a delicate bite of the  roth . Ignoring Zeenat's words, Naseem asked, “Would you like to go for a picnic to Nishat Bagh?” Without replying, Zeenat turned to look out of the window. Naseem felt the clouds gather around her again. Shoulders slumped, she gathered the teacups. She had almost reached the kitchen when Zeenat said, “I want to wear my red pheran  for Nishat Bagh.” Naseem smiled. **** The rough grass tickled their bare feet as Zeenat and Naseem lay next to each other under a chinar tree. Naseem lightly held Zeenat’s hand in her right hand. Clutched in the left hand was the polished black stone, its smoothness contrasting with the fragility of Zeenat’s skin.  Nearby, a teenager strummed his guitar, crooning, “ashtyan any ti gatshun gatsey Pakun gatshey dyanm kyov raath.” (Ceaselessly we come to ceaselessly go, Relentlessly moving on is all we can do. )* Naseem let out a soft sigh.  Naseem was a simple woman caught, between two sides of a conflict, trying to survive each day in a world full of senseless violence.  But today, under the chinar tree, with Zeenat by her side and the stone clasped in her hand, watching the Chinar leaves dance in the zephyr, for a few minutes, Naseem was at peace.      ***** Glossary    Pheran:  A long dress, like a kameez worn by Kashmiris Kashida:  Kashmiri embroidery Daejj:  A plain white headscarf  Haak:  Collard greens Kandur : Bakery Shukriy a: Thank you Khala : Aunt Aapa : Sister Shaheed : Martyr Dua : Blessing/Prayer Kahwa and Chai:  Traditional Kashmiri teas Roth: Sweet Bread   * A verse by Lalla Dyad ( Lal Ded), fifteenth century Kashmiri Sufi and mystic. The translation has been taken from “Lalla Dyad, The Mystic Kashmiri Poetess”, By Shafi Shauq. Harshita Nanda is an author, blogger and book reviewer based in Dubai, UAE. She trained as an engineer before changing tracks to become a full-time writer. Her stories have a strong emotional quotient with a streak of feminism. Avoiding unnecessary drama, she focuses on the universal appeal of human emotions. Her stories, Rain and Anoymous were a part of the flash flood in 2023 and 2024.

waiting on the train. i missed my stop on the metro about five exits ago,  somewhere between Pentagon City and King St., but i have no desire to return home. i’ve been finding companionship in the proximity of strangers recently. people who will never know me or recall me-  yet will live inside me, momentarily, as emotional relief.  i can just stay here.  let the stations greet me,  and wave goodbye- and in gentle warmth, i can let myself  relax into the scenery- submerge into the cushions as if i’ve always been part of them, tuck myself- in inner silence— i imagine on the train,  i am the passerby of many lifetimes, including, my own. like a loose shadow, blended, but not yet faded, i spectate the fleeting guests, the quick sights of the underground, their muddy textures, rocky lines— but if i look too long, mindlessly stay, i risk every station, feeling the same- i’ll lose track of where i’m going, and the distances too- i’ve begun to learn, absence doesn’t feel  the same as escape, and often, the clock can make the distance and reality conflate. though, it still tends to lapse on the train, and in my mind, i’m always timelines away- head rested upon the windowsill, eyes, hauntingly returning my gaze, still conscious enough for comfort, but far enough way, to teeter the lines- of rumination and introspection. i often sit and think, it’s somewhat counterintuitive to find solace on a bustling train- a train decorated with seats discolored  like flour-stained T’s, tracks as loud as locusts, and rides against airs with the pressures,  of neptunian winds. but the noise, is much better, than the  intrusiveness of loneliness.  i can’t bear the quiet.  these days i’m not sure if  the silence is talking to me, or if i have begun talking to it. the travel allows me to escape- and on the metro, i look with certainty, there’s someone here who feels the same— someone who has probably  sat through just as many stops, passed by just as many people, found just as much solace, confronted just as much pain.  just one more stop, and i’ll pen this day.  i was lonely until i felt your warmth beside me,  and i don’t know when i’ll ever find my comfort being alone,  but until then, i will hold on, to those distant faces  passing torches to their replacements as they go home.  ——- saudade. city lights cascade the night, strong aromas of booze savor the winds as they drift away- but soon, they resurrect from our breaths- our mouths vials of liquid poisons- parties behind alleys, bleached blonde brows, cat eyes, glitter streaks, studded boots, and sweat like moisturizer glossing each face- raves in backyards, flashing strobe lights, a rainbow collecting souls, and we dissect, into rows of ultraviolet rays- - there’s a boy, lit in indigo- peering towards me- distant, but close. he reminds me of him . his manners reminiscent- and in a dance, bodies syncing like waves, i submerge into him. his kiss on my lips, press a secret- he confesses he’s lonely and has lost his way- i tell him- i feel the same. and in silent agreement, we proclaim, affection for a night, is all we need to quench the thirsts of yearning. and we, ring out lust in a stranger’s home. every touch a desire for a past love,  a fantasy of replication. but in the heat of the moment, i remember he is a mystery too, and our names, pseudonyms, hide our shame. broken for different reasons, we align, before we separate, and once again, we search for the next wilting leaf trying to turn a night into sufficiency. and i, in my chaos, plant myself in misery, too dependent on escapism for sanity. at my best, i’d declare tonight is the finale- and with the strength of goliath, move forward- but i have not yet dodged that stone. each sorrowful release, a vapid seamstress to heal my needs, bandage my vulnerability. so my eyes wander- they contemplate escape- but when the lights return, blue chooses my face- and once again, so does his . Arlo Arctia (they/them) is a 22-year-old poet and English major living in Washington DC. Informed by introspection and life experiences, Arctia finds their insight through emotional exploration and the unknowns. Through their Instagram poetry account and Substack, @arloarctia, you can find their personal works and conversations.

She looks spent. The coldness of the light has saturated her skin and her eyes and even her hair. They look dull and flat and hard like the wax rind of a cheese rolled between palm and thumb, so that at first it seems impossible that she would be alive. Even her movements are of a kind you would expect of the weary dead: Quick. Shallow. Impatient to be done. Exactly as you might imagine your own last breath if you have ever imagined such a thing.  She doesn’t notice the beeps or pings or even the people much anymore. If they are in scrubs, she refers them to a son who sits tired and quietly beside himself by her headboard in a chair he had brought himself so they could not take it. He will be gone by seven. If they are a friend or a grandchild she smiles faintly, and pats a head or squeezes a hand as if to say it is fine that they are here, and she will always love them, but for herself, she is already somewhere else. What could they possibly speak of? She would spare them that. And so she does. She is dying, and she knows it and they know it and there is nothing she would do about it, even if she could. ‘Yes dear, that’s fine.’ ‘ … That’s fine.’ The whole time, she is somewhere deep behind her eyes with Serenity. Fretting. Going back and forth in her mind like the play of new yarn twisting off the edge of a whorl.  Remembering ...  She had spotted Serenity under a bridge.  The bridge.  She had chosen it for its height and for the raw speed of the rush underneath. The distance from bank to bank. She could not swim.  No mistakes.  She was not sure what was meant by ‘dignity,’ at least not the way she heard people speak of it, but she knew she could never be one of the pathetic wretches that got pulled out, vomiting cold river water over and over on the bankside for the cameras. It had to be clean. The water’s only clammy if you come out, she told herself, and then it’s more of life and one percent worse. Even the screaming in her head shuddered at that, and it blanched at nothing.  DO IT! DO IT! DOITDOITDOIT! NOW! DOITNOW!! She screwed herself up, trembling, and looked down, the voice growing more and more insistent in her mind, rising, excited, like it could feel the tipping point a’coming, that heartbeat when the leaf folds under the weight of the snow and you can see it, still hanging in the air but falling, falling—one more push and … There was Serenity, or at least what would become Serenity.  It was almost nothing now, a shivering bag of skin and bone, twitching and jerking its head round on a swivel so she could imagine (from the distance) it might make a soft pop like a spring going off, but she could see from the broad wedge of its face and the set of it shoulders that the dog had been something once, something beautiful.   YOU LITTLE SH—, STOP LOOKING AT THAT F— DOG AND DO IT! NOW! WHAT ARE YOU DOING?  The voice felt the catch, growled in irritation, then collected itself, coiled like a snake or a cunningly arched brow. It whispered now, for her ear alone, soft and smooth and secretly scornful as the wicked mother from a fairytale. Another tack. But aren’t you tired yet? I know you are. I know just how tired we both are. And didn’t I tell you there would always  be a distraction, always some branch to hold onto, and then you come out. I told you. You knew. And here we are. Come on ... Why can’t you even get this right?  It smirked, and she tightened her grip on the rail, tensed for a vault. She could feel, deep down, that the voice knew, it just knew  it was impossible that she simply walk off the bridge. It would not let her. She could feel its pleasure in it, its ecstasy like it was biting its lip to savor the blood. Then she tasted blood herself and found it was she who was doing the biting. Yet she just stood there, trembling all over like a bird in a net, trembling so violently she feared she might retch over the side, her eyes fixed on the dog where it lay splayed under the bridge, wallowing in misery and neglect and caked in a roughcast of filth and flies and open sores. She could see it was also trembling.  Just like her. That is what I must look like, she thought to herself.  That is what I’ve become. Broken.  No place to go but under the bridge. No silence except under the water.  She imagined the dog looking up from under the current. Seeing the world, but outside of it, forever without the heat of doing or thinking or hearing. Quiet at last. Well beyond trembling. It was hard not to think of the dog as Serenity now, in the remembering, but she knows it wasn’t Serenity yet—just a private pain, quivering under a bridge, and she had felt … sad. To look at that dog.  Yes, that was it, sad .  She could feel the cut of it, real and deep and sweet. Even the relief of it. She had to mouth the word to herself under her breath; she had almost forgotten what it meant.  When was it then? How many years since she’d felt it? How long since she had been anything but afraid?  And it just poured over her, over and over again in waves, and she sobbed and sobbed, clutching the rail and staring down.  She knew she had to do something about that dog.  She  was that dog, somehow, under her skin. Afraid. Alone. Already under the water and beyond reach.  Just trembling. Slowly, she stumbled down the far end of the bridge into the shamble of gravel and weeds under the truss, tripping and bawling and guiding herself along with her hands as if the old age she had never figured to see had caught her up in a moment. The voice was screaming again, bludgeoning her, swearing and breaking into the obscene and strident cacophony it reserved as a fallback when it didn’t want her to think. Something not entirely human, but entirely too human to hear without recoil. Another tack. Another tack. Yet another tack. It went back to screaming, then pleading, then threatening, then screaming again. Anything, really. When she got close enough, she kneeled in front of it like a fractured annunciation, hands apart. The dog laid back its ears and showed her its teeth and the whites of its eyes, but it was almost silent. She had to strain to feel the growl. It must be almost spent. She reached out a hand, tentative, and it snapped at her. She pulled back, then tried again, coaxing this time with a thin, trembling thread of sweet and friendly nonsense. It snapped again. And again.  But it was very weak. Too weak, she found, to give more than a wicked pinch, so she took a deep breath and lunged for its neck, dragging it bodily away to her car, kicking and snarling.  The voice screamed at her again, spitting with rage, but she just shrugged it off and tightened her grip. WHAT THE H— DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING, YOU DUMBA— B—? LEGGO! The whole way back to the car she talked and sobbed and talked again—pleading with it, cajoling, tutting, trying to calm it down even after she had shoved it into the back seat—but she could do nothing with it. The dog was clearly insane, curled up in the back with its lip and hackles up, red eyes rolling blind in its head, snarling so she could feel the tremor of it in her chest. It tried to heave itself up to bite her over and over but it couldn’t. Eventually, it gave over and loosed its bowels all over the back seat while she cried into the wheel and apologized and told it she knew what it wanted, she knew—to be left to suffer in peace under the bridge, to die on its own terms—but she just couldn’t. She couldn’t, she had to do something. She put the car into gear and drove home.  All that night it squealed and growled like a thing possessed. She had gotten it food and a leash and collar on the way home, but it wouldn’t eat until after she left the room. When she came back, it started lunging at her again, fangs out, back to the wall. It was stronger now, and it frightened her.  She had to collar it by force and muzzle it, first with a makeshift twist of the leash and then with a proper one, and though she had won out in the end, the dog still raged and twisted and tried to bite even with its mouth lashed shut, and she had had to scrub out and bandage her arms where its teeth had found her wrists in the struggle. She was exhausted; her breath drew ragged and heavy, and she could feel the shape of the punctures in her wrists and forearms aching against the bandages. Still, she kept talking to it, touching it gently, wheedling, offering it treats.  Nothing.  The dog raved harder and longer the more it recovered. She tried everything she could think of: baby talk, shushing, bribery, collaring, threats. Nothing worked. Finally, she screamed. “Stop it! STOP! I’m trying to help!!” The dog wouldn’t stop, and the voice laughed and whispered ugly things she ought to do to it behind her ears .  Didn’t I tell, you? Don’t I always tell you? It had murmured,  After all,   when have you ever been able to curb even my anger? When have you ever been able to spare yourself? Only ever by force. And then only a little. Wouldn’t it be better to end it? Easier? Nicer? Who knows, maybe you’ll even be free of me after …   She caught the dog’s face in both hands by the sides of the muzzle and heaved it scant inches from her own. She shook it, and though it growled and pulled she wouldn’t let it go.  ‘Stop it! I know this isn’t you. I know you have to be in there somewhere. Stop it!’  And the dog growled at her all the more, pressing its ears to its skull, staring her down, neck working back and forth like a piston. She screamed and shoved it away and screamed again and collapsed in the corner crying while the dog escaped to another room, and the voice laughed and whispered it had told her so, that no one can be saved, and she gave over for a time, huddled in on herself, how long she could not remember. At length, she pulled herself together enough to google canine aggression and found the number for a specialist. “Have you named it?”   “Yes. Serenity.” He clucked. “Hmm ... That’s aspirational.” “I guess.” He paused for a second and looked at the dog like maybe this time he’d see something different. The dog growled, low in its chest, its ears back, just as it had been ever since it entered the room, and she sat there strained upright, trying not to blink every time the voice rang her head like a temple gong. It had fallen into repeating every word of the conversation in tandem, word for word, like it was reading a script, but with a snide undertone that seemed to leach itself into the original. He rubbed his hands.  “I’m sorry, but this dog has got to be in the worst shape I have ever seen. You need to get rid of it.” “What do you mean?” “Put it down.” “What?” “Euthanize it. Trust me, I don’t like it any more than you do.” “Then don’t.” “Nice. Normally, I’d agree, say ‘every dog’s a good dog,’ but that isn’t a dog. An animal like this’s been scared so long it doesn’t even know how to be a dog anymore. Sure, it looks like one, but really it’s just a nasty knot of fear and neurosis with teeth on one end. There’s no way to do anything with an animal like that, and if you help it get strong again, it will kill somebody. Guaranteed. Probably you. Where did you say you got it?”  “Under a bridge.” “Under a bridge. Figures.” “Please. I have to do this.” “Have to? No one has to  do anything and to be honest, it may not even be possible. I’m not sure even I could, even if I had the time.”  “So maybe  you   could?” “No. That’s not what I said.” “But maybe.” “Look, I know this isn’t any of my business, but you look like you’ve had pretty a rough time yourself. If I let you go and do this, someone might get hurt. And then that’s on me.” “I’m fine. I can do it.” “Really? You’re fine?” He stared hard at her and she tugged her sleeves over her wrists. The voice swore, told her to KILL THAT LITTLE F—.  She squirmed.  “I’m fine.” “You are fine … and you found it under a bridge … Look at yourself. I can’t help you if you’re just going to lie to me, and I’m telling you, you do this and someone’s going to get hurt.”  “I’m fine.” She heard the bald defiance in her own voice but let it stay where it was.  “The dog’s just been hard. She didn’t want to be collared.”  He raised his hands and nodded. “Alright. Alright. No need to get your back up … and that’s exactly what I’m talking about. I’m telling you, put Serenity down. It’s the nicest thing you could do for her.” “I don’t believe you. The dog’s still here. There’s got to be a way I can reach her, teach her how to be a dog. There has to.” He covered his eyes with his hand and sighed deeply, didn’t speak for a minute. “Why do you want to do this, anyway? What does the dog mean to you?” “I don’t know. I guess I just have to believe there is a heart in there somewhere, and that it’s worth finding, that it’s worth the work and the patience.” “Hmm … interesting ... Tell me then, is this about you or the dog?” “I don’t know.” “You don’t know. Probably better that way.” He sits there, considering, and all she can hear is the voice ranting in her head and the sound of the dog under her chair, threatening in unison.  “Look, I know I shouldn’t tell you this, but I’m going to. Only, you need to promise me that if you are going to do this, you’re gonna do it all the way.” “I promise.” “Swear it.” “What?” “I mean it.” “Yeah, I swear it. Ok?” “Ok. You have to understand that you have to be with this dog all the time. That’s the commitment. This dog is alive all the time, and she doesn’t know how to do anything right. You’ll have to teach her everything, starting from zero. You can’t let her regress, not even for a second. No matter how tired or bored or fed up you get. You’re going to have to change everything there is about this dog. It took years for her to get this way, and it may take something like that to rehabilitate her. Do you get what I’m telling you?” “Yes.” “What am I saying, then?” “I have to focus on the dog. I have to be patient with her.” “Wrong. This dog has got to be your life. Your whole life. If you can’t do that, you have got to put her down.” “I can do it. My whole life.” He looked at her hard. “You think you can do that. Now. But you won’t know for sure until it gets tough. Really tough. If you find you can’t, you have to bring her back. Promise?” “Promise.” “Okay.” The first thing, he said, was to control the dog’s environment and remove any stressors. She needed a sense of normalcy, he had said. Something she was used to. So she did. The first few days, she didn’t interact with Serenity at all, just penned the dog up in one half of a dark mudroom by the door, everything stripped antiseptically down to the baseboards and carpets like a field hospital. Nothing to be afraid of. That was Serenity’s world, and there she stayed, scratching and whining until she got used to things. She made a schedule and a little ceremony for Serenity’s meal times, which, she had learned, must be unalterable: Twice a day, she’d ring a bell to let the dog know the door was going to open, then she’d open the back door from over the fence and walk away. There would be food and water out in the yard, and she would come back and close the door afterthe dog went back in. This went on until the dog stopped growling when she was alone in the house. That was the cue for the real work to begin.  This, he’d said, is what would tax her ‘unbreakable resolve,’ because everything the dog knew to do was wrong. She could not let Serenity do a solitary thing without her express permission. Not even eat. The dog had to work for her privileges, every time, and if Serenity didn’t comply, well, she didn’t get anything. The dog needed to know what to expect. And so, she worked out exactly  how close Serenity would let her approach before reacting, measured out in inches, and she sat just outside the limit and tossed the dog little pieces of kibble one by one and talked to her. The moment the dog growled or so much as raised a hackle, she would pack away the food with a predetermined vocal cue, back a little further off, then try again, hour after hour, always taking in the dog’s tenor to see where she was in her mind, always adjusting, rewarding, redirecting, slowly culling the growls and retreats down to nothing.  She could see now what the trainer had meant. It took more time than she had imagined; much more. It was weeks before the dog could tolerate even standing next to her, but she persisted. Almost, she fancied, like a voice in the dog’s head, closing the distance in inches, testing the limits, and starting over: talk, treat, growl, wait, talk again, and so forth.  Even so, she could not touch Serenity for another month. Every day she would probe the trammels again, seeking the slightest sensitivity like a leadsman heaving the plummet into the depths, cueing a treat and touching the dog’s flank lightly with a fingertip and then drawing away if she reacted, feeding her again and again from her hand with each new compliance and always talking and cajoling in one long, single and continuous thread like the unraveling in one piece of an infinite sweater, until finally, she could stroke her dog gently anywhere on herbody without a growl. From that point, she knew it could be done. She was confident now, teaching her dog to eat inside the house, to eat without protecting the bowl, to tolerate a harness and leash, to walk on a lead, to obey commands, and to tolerate visitors and other dogs. Serenity learned, and each time she did, it was a bit easier to ignore the voice screaming at her to   stop, to shut up , telling her you can’t do this, and why don’t we all just make our way back to that bridge?   Then, twelve months in, she came home to Serenity waiting for her at the door. Had her dog done that before? She couldn’t remember. Maybe she had. It had been a long while since her ears had stopped following her around the house. She smiled and reached down and stroked her huge, wedge-shaped head, and Serenity began to wag her tail.  That was definitely a first.  She kneeled and pulled Serenity’s face into her own, laughing and talking away just as she had all the past year and her dog didn’t pull away. Serenity looked back almost like she was smiling too, eyes soft and liquid. She began to cry.  “Good girl, Serenity. Good dog! So this is you, isn’t it, Serenity? Pleased to meet you! Aren’t you glad I found you? And weren’t you worth the wait?” As soon as she’d said it, the voice began to cavil at her, ranting and writhing and crawling around in her head:  No, no, it’s a LIE! The dog’s still the SAME, just afraid of you, can’t you see? OPEN YOUR EYES! Didn’t I tell you how it would happen? Didn’t I? You haven’t done anything, you’ve never done anything, and you never will . You are so naïve. How could you be so naïve? But she didn’t listen; in fact, she swore she would never listen again, and as she savored that thought, she could feel something change in the voice, like the closing of a door, and the breath caught in her chest, for though the voice raged on as rabid as ever, she could hear that all the words were gone. It wasn’t a voice at all anymore, just the howl of a broken dog dying under a bridge, and in her heart, she knew it always had been. A dog so afraid it didn’t know how to be a dog anymore, who bit harder the more she tried to feed it.  At that moment, she felt her whole world change in a flood, whirling and clicking into place like words and dates spun out on a split-flap board when a train comes in, and she would watch them not for what they said but for what they’d dance and become.  Serenity.  She saw it clearly now. She would name the voice Serenity, just like the dog, and she would watch it close and spin out that long, everlasting thread of talk and laughter just as she had all the past year, and deny it every little thing it screamed for until it had her permission, and it too would learn to be a person. She would tame it to her touch. The dog mellowed into a sweet, companionable animal, her first real friend. She was glad for it. She often relied on the warmth of Serenity under her palm or the rough insistence of her tongue to brace her as she tackled that other Serenity. The voice was stubborn, ten times as wild and willful as the dog had ever been, but that didn’t bother her now. She already knew what was going to happen. She had proof—she could see it in the dog walking beside her, day by day. After all, the voice didn’t know how to do anything right, and she would have to teach it. It had taken years for that voice to become what it was, and it would take years yet for it to figure itself out.  All that time the other Serenity kicked and bucked and howled, and all the while she would talk to it, sweet and cajoling in one, long unraveling thread in the back of her mind, never taking her eyes off it for a second, backing off when it acted out, but always, always letting it know she was there and thinking of it. Slowly, ever so slowly, like rain fading so you couldn’t really put a finger on when it slacked, Serenity gave up railing and threatening and mostly sat in the back of her mind like a cat, licking and grumbling to itself. And that was that. For the first time in years, she found that she could think out loud and keep friends and hold down a regular job. She was even in contact with family again. And life was good, or at least better than it had been. She waited for the feeling to break as it always had, for the other foot to fall, but it never did.  The mood persisted for weeks and then on into months, until late one night, as she lay sprawled lazily over the arm of her couch like some languid sketch of an odalisque, enjoying the indulgence of it, slurping up ice cream and scratching luxuriously and nemine contradicente . She was in just a shirt, an oversized one, maybe from her brother, maybe from Goodwill, she couldn’t remember, and she couldn’t help lifting her fingers from time to time to admire her long and bright-polished nails, heady with the freedom of having them at all without fear of picking or cutting and wondering how long this freedom might last, the freedom to simply be, hoping beyond hope it was there to stay.  Serenity had roused itself at the thought and made a listless little foray, but she was too contented to pay it any mind when there was ice cream and a movie to be enjoyed, and in a minute it trailed off and began weeping, gently, out of sight in the back of her head. Serenity felt so sad in that moment—its grief bubbling up from someplace as hidden and unacknowledged as the wellspring of a river—that it pierced her to the quick, like her own first tears for her dog under the bridge. She stopped short a moment, straightened up, and sent pink bubbles across the space between them, spoke reassuringly, wanting to make peace, telling Serenity how sorry she was for all of the things that they had been through together—she knew it had been a lot—and Serenity bawled and spilled its guts like a child caught in fault, pointing a finger at every breast but its own: Do you really think that I wanted to be this way? But what could I do? You … you were such a coward, you ran away from everything. You were so afraid of everything. We would have died. DIED! We would have fallen to pieces. Someone had to be strong for the both of us. It’s not my fault. You did this to me! You! You!! And the voice went on, but softly now, in a litany of offenses, real and imagined, like it had them scribed secretly on the palm of its hand, never again to be opened—everything it had held against her, every broken and scandalized feeling of its heart—and she listened as she had grown accustomed to listening to the dog, and thanked it one by one for everything it had taken on for her, for the both of them, because she hadn’t been strong enough at the time. Serenity was too sad for her to feel any anger, whatever she felt about what it said.  It must have been hard, she said, so hard, and I hated you for it all the while. I am sorry. I am so sorry.  And she stroked Serenity with her words until it fell quiet for a good long while. And then finally: Thank you. Yes, it has been hard.  She blinked.  “Of course. I’m so sorry, Serenity.” Call Robert. Now. What did it mean? Robert was a client, of course. There was no other Robert. One she fretted about flying the coop. It was a big account. She didn’t know if she’d keep her job if it closed. “Call Robert? Why?” Call Robert. His daughter’s birthday. Remember? He called out last year. He had lost her just a little before. Her name was Kayla. Call Robert. Now.  She paused and looked at the clock. It was late, probably too late for a call. She put the thought to rest. But Serenity kept nudge, nudge, nudging her until she found that she had dialed his number in spite of herself, not even knowing what to say. She was terrified. The gravity of it threatened to choke her: What was she playing at with this man’s sorrows?  What might it seem like?  She knew what it felt to want to strike a commiserating face. But she didn’t hang up. “Hello?” “Hi, Robert. I know, I’m sorry it’s so late, but I was thinking of Kayla, I remembered it was her birthday, and just had to check in. I had to let you know I was thinking of you, of her.” Then a pause. “How are you holding up?” And he just stood on the other end of the line and sobbed, like a levee strained, then finally overwhelmed by the river and its need to follow an older course, and she apologized and he said, no, it was ok, she was the only one who had remembered, that even his business partner had asked why he had wanted to take the day off and so he hadn’t, rather than make a scene. She listened, listened like she always had with her dog and later with Serenity, and let him talk himself out, nodding and crying a little with him when he needed it. “Thank you.” “Yeah. I’m sorry … and Robert, I know there isn’t much I can do … just know I’m here for you if you need it, OK?” I guess you aren’t such a coward, after all. I guess you can do some things. Maybe I can trust you. Maybe … She hung up the phone and cried and Serenity shushed her, not urgently. And that was that. She kept the client and the job, and it was Serenity, still snarky, but now often amusing, that got her through the hard days and reminded her of the good. It was Serenity who talked her off the ledge the first time a boy she liked asked her out. It was a thing so far afield of what she’d expected for herself that she had freaked out, both before and again after the date, but there was Serenity, laughing and poking fun and calming her fears, and it was Serenity that did it again and again as she and the boy laughed and fought and made up until he eventually screwed up the courage to ask if they shouldn’t take up housekeeping. It was Serenity who watched and laughed at her favorite shows, the ones she couldn’t get anyone else to watch, who found keys and old recipes she had misplaced, and it was Serenity who whispered the words of a long-forgotten lullaby in her ear as she rocked gently in the dark, nursing a colicky child, and last of all it had been Serenity that had held her hand and cried with her through the long, cold nights after her husband had died.  Serenity was her own little secret, her loose board under the closet where she could guard every treasure no one suspected she could have, and they shared everything, everything, everything, and the thread of their conversation never drew out. She is crying now, in that tiny bed where she can neither sit up nor lie down. The Doctors keep clicking their tongues and saying she is dying, that she must die, that she should have died last Tuesday, and then again Friday, and she can almost feel them tapping their feet, telling her it is time to go. Even the beep and pings sound impatient now as if to say,  “Well, what are you waiting for? Haven’t you been through enough?”  And yet she still holds on, fiercely, blindly, like she clung to the scruff of that dog’s neck so many years ago, though this time, it’s not on her own account. She is not at all afraid for herself. She had not even been afraid then, standing on that bridge before she spied Serenity. Yet here she is, tossing, fretting herself to hysterics. Thinking, over and over,  But what about Serenity? She knows what will happen to her  when the time comes. She has known it for a long time and does not doubt what she will see and what she will become.  But what of Serenity? What place will there be for her?  The children will weep for her, and her for them, but they will go on. In her heart, she almost laughs at them, though she would never tell them why. They will always be with her, and even if they aren’t, they will always have themselves. But who will have Serenity when she is gone? Will there even be a Serenity, or will Serenity simply cease, like the light of a candle left out in a hurricane, or worse yet, like the light of a candle that has never been lit? The anguish of it tears at her: that this voice she wrestled and loved and brought into being more surely than her own children would be lost, lost, or more agonizing still, never have been. She knows it is time, but she cannot let it go like that, with a whimper. She cannot let Serenity go at all, and through her mind runs an endless train of moments, tender and cruel, that they have passed through together, until at the end of line she stands high atop a bridge, looking down on the rushing cataract and at the form of Serenity, broken and brought to life again in the shambles at the far end. And she must go to her. Pain blossoms exquisitely before her eyes as she tries to rise and follow, and she subsides, but she must not let it go. The room is growing dark and everyone is standing up around her, talking and talking to her all at once, but she cannot hear what they are saying. It is hard to breathe, but it does not hurt like she would have imagined. She can feel something warm, like a hand holding hers, and Serenity is there, talking to her, talking in one long, golden thread like she herself used to talk to her dog in the dark mudroom in that beginning. Sweetly, cajoling, imploring her not to fret almost like a mother holding a damp towel to the head of a sick child and her refusing it, fighting it, yet Serenity goes on all the same, whispering in her ear that she will be fine, they both would be fine and to just let go, just let it happen, that it is time for her to find her own way, and she cries and begs forgiveness that she does not have the strength to carry her back to the car anymore, tells her that she does not want to be on her own after all, pleads that she never, never let go of her hand, and she feels the murmur of a soft laugh and a gentle kiss on her forehead and the thread runs out. Micah Muldowney is the author of the collection Q-Drive and Other Poems (Finishing Line Press, 2022). His short fiction and poetry have been featured in The New England Review, Cleaver Magazine, Descant, West Trade Review, and many others. He currently lives in greater Philadelphia where he is working on a novel.